riQARK'S LIBRA -^ .1 \^ I THE ' I m U^^i^JT10>: WITH Jj [BOA S ^ KIDrjEKMIN.ST>:;K. ^ »**^»« Ij SuBocriptiorr, 21o., per c .cnunt. Si girdlsfR}[5]f5[S p[5i i ^[5Tizl[5ijH][5irg SINGLE V< « W£' ' : First Class, 3d. Srcond Ct0«^;«, SI •« / MARK'S LIBRARY, HIQH STREET, KIDDERMINSTER. -*i-08C-««- The charge to Non-Subscribers for reading this Book is TWOPENCE per Volume per week or part of a week, counting from the last date appearing below. I L I B RARY OF THL UN IVER.51TY or ILLINOIS V.I <^' 6 GOD AND THE MAN VOL. I. MR. BUCHANAN'S ROMANCES. Fifth and Cheaper Edition, price 2s. 6d. THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD. 'The finest descriptive writing of which any Enghsh writer is capable.' — Nonconformist, 'A tragedy after the Greek.' — Globe. ' No summary can give any idea of the depth of meaning and power of this book.' — British Quarterly Review. Fifth Edition, price 6s. WHITE ROSE AND RED: A Love Story [in Verse). 'A wonderful poem.' — Nonconformist. ' Painted with the hand of a master.' — Daily News. 'Will secure for itself a permanent name, and a long succession of readers.' — Spectator. STRAHAN & CO., 34 Paternoster Row. Fourth and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo. cloth extra, -^s. 6d. A CHILD OF NATURE. 'The work of a genius and of a poet.' — Spectator. ' Buchanan is the most faithful poet of Nature among the new men. He is her familiar. Like no British poet save himself, he knows her.' — Sted- man's Victorian Poets. Also, in preparation, in 3 vols, crown 8vo. THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly, W. ' Facing the fire, and the great Yule log^ sits the old man. Christian Christiansen, of the Fen.'' GOD AND THE MAN A ROMANCE BY ROBERT BUCHANAN AUTHOR OF 'a CHILD OF NATURE' ' THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD ' •the great god casteth away no man IN THREE VOLUMES— VOL. L Jonbon CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1881 {All rights reserved^ LONDON : PRINTED BY SHOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET u^ V.I pcbtcattoit. TO AN OLD ENEMY. I luotdd have S7iatch\i a bay leaf from thy brozu^ Wronging the chaplet on an honoured head ; In peace a?id charity I bring thee now A lily flower instead. Pure as thy purpose^ blameless as thy song^ Sweet as thy spirit, may this offering be : Forget the bitter bhwie that did thee wrongs ^ A7id take the gift fro7n me I R. B. ♦ * * This romance is the third ivork of prose fiction from the writer'' s pen. In each of these works, a subject has been taken, which, though poetical in itself involved a treat7nent transcetiding the exact limits of verse. ' A Child of Nature^ written in 1870, though not published till nine years after, was the first of the series j the ' Shadow of the Sword ' was written and published in 1875/ the presefit work, a?zd the ' Martyrdom of Made- line^ which will follow it immediately, were planned together and written iji close sequence. Each of the last three wo7'ks has a particular ' idea ' or purpose, and de- scettds to what some critics call the heresy of instruction. The ' Shadow of the Sword'' is a poetical polemic against public War J ' God and the Man ' is a study of the vanity and folly of i?tdividual Hate j the '-Martyrdom of Made- line ' has for its the?ne the social co?tspiracy against Woma7ikind. R. B. \ CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTER PAGE I PROEM I. A Winter Night's Prologue. II. The Years roll Back : a Death-bed III. Shadows at the Fen Farm . IV. Sowing the Black Seed V. Enter Priscilla .... VI. Father and Daughter VII. A Disaffected Spirit VIII. Clouds in the Sky IX. The Enemy in the Path X. Up at 'The Willows'. XI. Another Love Scene 5 35 63 84 107 130 158 178 201 235 260 ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I ' Facing the Fire, sits Christian Christian- V SON OF THE Fen' . . . . Fro?itispiecc 'All Men, each one, beneath the Sun' to face p. i '" Help !" SHRIEKED THE Boy'. . . „ „ 98 'He LIFTED His Eyes' . . . . „ „ 161 "'You SHALL not GO," CRIED THE GiRL ' „ „ 245 GOD AND THE MAN. PROEM. * All men, each one, beneath the sun, I hate, shall hate, till life is done, But of all men one, till my race is run. And all the rest for the sake of one ! ' If God stood there, revealed full bare, I would laugh to scorn His love or care, — Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer Which He needs must grant — if a God He were ! * And the prayer would be, "Yield up to me This man alone of all men that see ! Give him to me^ and to misery ! Give me this man, if a God thou be ! " ' • ••••• Shape on the headland in the night. Gaunt, ghastly, kneeling on his knee. He prays ; his baffled prayers take flight, Like screaming sea-birds, thro' the light That streams across the sleeping sea. VOL. I. B GOD AND THE MAN. From the black depths of man's despair Rose ever so accurst a prayer ? His hands clench and his eyeballs roll, Hate's famine sickens in his soul. Meantime the windless waves intone Their peaceful answer to his moan, The soft clouds one another chase, The moon -rays flash upon his face, The mighty deep is calm ; but see ! This man is as a storm-swept tree. And, silvern-sandall'd, still as death, The white moon in her own pure breath Walks yonder. Doth he see her pass Over the glimmering water-glass ? Sees he the stars that softly swing Like lamps around her wandering. Sown thick as early snowdrops now In the dark furrows of the Plough ? Hears he the sad, still, rhythmic throb Of the dark ocean where he stands, — The great strong voice still'd to a sob, Near darken'd capes and glimmering sands ? Nay, nay ; but, even as a wight Who on a mirror fixeth sight, And screams at his own face of dread Within the dimness pictured. He useth God's great sleeping sea To image hate and agony. PROEM. He kneels, he prays, — nay, call it not A prayer, that riseth in his throat ; 'Tis but a curse this mortal cries, Like one who curses God and dies. ' Yield up to me, to hate and me, One man alone of all men that see ! Give him to me, and to misery ! Give me this man if a God thou be ! ' But the cruel heavens all open lie, No God doth reign o'er the sea or sky, The earth is dark and the clouds go by. But there is no God, to hear me cry ! ' There is no God, none, to abolish one Of the foul things thought and dreamed and done ! Wherefore I hate, till my race is run, All living men beneath the sun ! ' To-night he rose when all was still, Left like a thief his darkened door. And down the dale, and o'er the hill, He flew, till here upon the shore Shivering he came ; and here he trod Hour after hour the glooms of God, Nursing his hate in fierce unrest, Like an elfin babe upon the breast ! B 2 GOD AND THE MAN. And all his hunger and his thirst Was vengeance on the man he cursed ! ' O Lord my God, if a God there be, Give up the man I hate to me ! On his living heart let my vengeance feed, And I shall know Thou art God indeed ! ' Again rings out that bitter cry Between the dark seas and the sky — Then all is hush'd, while quivering. With teeth and claws prepared to spring, He crouches beast-like . . . Hark, O hark ! What solemn murmur fills the dark ? What shadows come and go up there. Through the azure voids of the starry air ? The night is still ; the waters sleep ; the skies Gaze down with bright innumerable eyes ; A voice comes out of heaven and o'er the sea : ' I AM ; AND I WILL GIVE THIS MAN TO THEE ! ' CHAPTER I. A WINTER night's PROLOGUE. ' Granddad, granddad ! look up ! — it Is Marjorle. Have you forgotten your niece, Marjorle Wells ? And this is little Edgar, Marjorie's son! Speak to him, Edgar, speak to granddad. Alack, this is one of his dark days, and he knoweth no one.' In the arm-chair of carven oak, stained black as ebony by the smokes of many years, and placed in the great hall where the Yule log is burning, the old man sits as he has sat every day since last winter ; speechless, to all seeming sightless; faintly smiling and nodding from time to time when well shaken Into consciousness by 6 GOD AND THE MAN, some kindly hand, and then relapsing into stupor. He is paralysed from the waist downwards. His deeply wrinkled face Is ashen gray and perfectly bloodless, set in its frame of snow-white hair ; hair that has once been curly and light, and still falls in thin white ringlets on the stooping shoul- ders ; his hands are shrivelled to thinnest bone and parchment ; his eyes, sunken deep beneath the brows, give forth little or no glimmer of the fire of life. Ninety years old. The ruin, or wreck, of what has once been a gigantic man. The frame is still gigantic, and shows the mighty mould in which the man was made; the great head, with its broad over- hanging brows and square powerful jaw, is like the head of an aged Hon of Africa, toothless and gray with time. Kick the great log, and as the sparks fly up the chimney thick as bees from out A WINTER NIGHrS PROLOGUE. 7 a hive, his eyes open a little, and he seems faintly conscious of the flame. Flash the lamp Into his sunken eyes, and as he mutters curiously to himself, and fumbles with thin hands upon his knees, a faint flash of con- sciousness comes from the smoulderlnof brand of brain within. He Is not always so Inert as now. This, as the grave matron who Is bending over him says, is one of his dark days. Sometimes he will look around and talk feebly to his children's children, and seem to listen as some one reads out of the great family Bible which stands ever near his elbow; and the gray old face will smile gently, and the thin worn hand lie lightly as a leaf on some flaxen head. But to-night, though it is Christmas Eve, and all the kinsfolk of the house are gathered together, he knows no one, and sees and hears nothing. He breathes, and that is all. 8 GOD AND THE MAN. All round the upland hall the snow is lying, but over it, since last night, have fallen, in black tree-like shadows, the trails of the thaw. The woods are bare. The great horse-chestnut on the hill-top has long since shed its sevenfold fans, intermingled with jagged brown buds bursting open to show the glossy nuts within. Bare even is the ash, which keeps a goodly portion of its leaves so long, and stands scarcely half stript, darkening in the chill autumnal wind. All the landscape round looks dark and ominous ; the shadow of winter is seen visibly upon the shivering world. * Put a drop to his lips — perhaps he'd know us then.' The speaker, a tall, handsome widow of fifty, with grim, weather-beaten face, holds by the hand a dark-eyed boy of ten, swarthy as a quadroon. Friends and kins- men of the family — of both sexes and all A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 9 t ages — gather round. It Is a festival, and all are more or less gorgeously clad, brlght- ribbon'd caps and gorgeous silk gowns being predominant among the women, and blue swallow-tail'd coats and knee-breeches among the men. Next to the centenarian, the chief centre of interest is the handsome widow and her little boy. She has been long absent from England, having married a West Indian planter, and long ago settled down in Barbadoes. A widow with one child, she has at last returned to the vil- lage where she was born, and though she has been some months at home, the no- velty of her presence has by no means worn away. * Put a drop to his lips,' she repeats, * and speak up to grandfather.' ' Grandfather!' cries the boy, taking one of the cold bony hands. No stir — no sign. lo GOD AND THE MAN. ' It's no use, Marjorle/ observes the good matron with a dolorous shake of the head. 'When he goes Hke this, he is stone deaf and bhnd. Some of these days, doctor says, he'll never wake up at all, but go out like a spark, as quiet as you see him now.' ' And no wonder,' returns the widow. The Book says three score and ten, and he is over a score beyond.' ' Four score and ten, and seven weeks/ pipes a thin voice from the background. 'Ah, it be a powerful age.' He who speaks is himself an old man, very thin and very feeble, with a senile smile and purblind eyes ; yet, gazing upon the figure in the arm-chair he assumes an appearance of ghastly youth, and feels quite fresh and boylike. ' Four score and ten, and seven weeks,' he repeats, ' and the master was a man A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. ir growed before I was born. He puts me in mind of the great oak by Dingleby Waste, for It stood many a hundred year before It fell, and now, though It be fallen with Its roots out o' the ground, its boughs do put out every summer a little patch of green, just to show there be a spark of life r the old stump yet/ The members of the family group gaze open-mouthed at the speaker, and then, with mouths still wider open, at the tenant of the arm-chair ; one and all with a curi- ous air of belono["inof to another and less mortal species, and having nothing In common with a thinsf so fallen and so perishable. And still the old man does not stir. Lying thus, he does indeed seem like some mighty tree of the forest, gnarled and weather-beaten and bare, uprooted and cast down, with scarcely a sign to show that It has once gloried In the splendour 12 GOD AND THE MAN. of innumerable leaves, and stood erect in its strength against the crimson shafts of sunset and of dawn. All the long winter evening there has been mirth-making around him. The hall is hung with holly, green leaf and red berry ; and from the quaint old lamp that swings from the centre beam, is pendent a bunch of whitest-berried mistletoe. Fid- dles and flutes and pipes have been play- ing, and nimble feet have beaten merry time on the polished oaken floor. And throughout it all grandfather has kept his silent seat on the ingle, and hardly seemed to hear or see. It is a grand old hall, fit to be a portion of some grand manorial abode ; and such indeed it was once upon a time, before the old manor-house fell into decay, and became the home of the Christiansons. Facing the great ingle is a large double A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE, 13 entrance door, studded with great nails and brazen bars like a prison gate ; and whenever this door — or rather one half of it — is swung open, you see the snow whirling outside, and can hear a roar like the far-off murmur of the sea. The hall is long and broad, and at one end there is a wide staircase of carven oak, leading to a gallery, which in turn communicates with the upper rooms of the house. In the gallery sit the musicians, led by the little old cripple, Myles JMiddlemass, the parish clerk. Great black beams, like polished ebony, support the ceiling. The fireplace is broad and high, with fixed oaken forms on either side, and projecting thence, two sphynx-like forms of well- burnished brass ; while facing the fire and the great yule-log, sits, in his arm-chair of polished oak, the old man, Christian Christianson, of the Fen. 14 GOD AND THE MAN. The music begins anew, and the folk begin a country dance. Farm maidens and farm labourers lounge in from the kitchen, gathering like sheep at one end of the hall, close to the kitchen door. Then Farmer Thorpe, who is master of the house, which came to him with Mary Christlanson, the old man's daughter, leads off the dance with Mistress Marjorie, his grim kinswoman from Barbadoes. The others follow, young and old, and the oldest as merrily as the youngest. Loud cries and laughter rise ringing to the rafters ; there is struggling in corners, girlish laughter, patter of light and peal of heavy feet ; and the louder the mirth sounds within, the louder roars the winter wind without. But old Christian sits moveless, with his blank eyes, half-closed, fixed on the fire. Like a fallen tree, did we say ? Rather like some gray pillar of A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOCVE. 15 granite rising grimly out of the sea ; with the innumerable laughter of ocean around it, and flight of white wings around it, and brightness above It ; dead, dead to all the washinor of the waves of life, and blind to all the shining of the sun. As he sits there, some look at him in awe, and whisper to each other of his past, and shakp the head ominously as they think of his strange adventures sailing up and down the world. For he has lived much of his life in foreign lands, a wanderer for many years without a place whereon to rest his feet ; he has been a master mariner, and a trader, and an owner of sailing ships ; and far away, long ago, he gathered wealth in some myste- rious fashion, and brought it back with him to buy the ancestral acres that his father's father lost. A stormy life and a terrible, say the gossips ; not without i6 ' GOD AND THE MAN. blood's sin and such crimes as, twice told, lift the hair and shake the soul ; for if they speak sooth, he has sailed under the black flag on the Indian seas, and taken his share in the traffic of human life. Those who are oldest remember dimly the days of his passion and his pride — days when his hand was against every man, and when his very name was a synonym for hate and wrath. The women-folk speak, more- over, of his strength and beauty, when his white locks were golden as a lion's mane, and his gray eyes bright with the light of the Viking race from whom he drew his fiery blood. While the mirth is loudest, pass out through the hall door into the night. The great door closes with a clang ; the bright- ness fades into the murmuring darknes^ of the storm. Stand on the lonely upland, and see the white flakes driving tumul- A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. 17 tuously from the sea ; far across the great marsh with Herndale Mere glistening in its centre like a great shield, and beyond the dark sandhills which stretch yonder like tossing billows for miles and miles beyond, the sea itself is tossing and gleaming, and crashing on the hard and ribbed sand of the lonely shore. The heavens are dark, and neither moon nor star is visible ; but the air is full of a faint mysterious light — like moonshine, like starshine, like the light that is in the filmy falling flakes. In this faint phosphor- escence the frozen mere flashes by fits, and the distant sandhills loom dimly in the distance, and on every side gathers the whiteness of the fallen sheets of snow. Behind the great farm, with Its win- dows flashing out like bloodshot eyes, and its shadows coming or going on the crim- son blinds, stretch the upland fields, deep VOL. I. c 1 8 GOD AND THE MAN. in drift of mingled snow and sand ; and inland, here and there, glance the lights from clustering homesteads and solitary farms. A lamp is burning in every home to-nieht, for all the folk are awake, and the coming of the Christ is close at hand. A long lane, deep with many a waggon rut, and closed on either side by black- thorn hedges, leads from the upland, across fields and meadows, to the highway, only a mile along which is the village, and the quaint old village church. Listen closely, and the faint peal of bells comes to your ear in the very teeth of the wind ! —and look, even as you listen, lights are creeping up the lane, and soon, shadows of human forms loom behind the lights, and you see the carol singers, with Wil- liam Ostler from the Rose and Crown at their head, coming along, lanthorns in hand, to sing at the farm door. A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE, 19 William Ostler staggers as he comes, and tumbles sprawling into the snow ; whereat there is loud laughter, and scuffling of heavy hobnailed feet. Young men in heavy w^oollen coats, and girls In red cloaks with warm hoods, and little boys and girls following behind, come trooping along the lane. Now they meet the bitter blast upon the upland, and the lanthorns are blown out, but with the light from the farm windows to guide them, they come stamping along, and, facing the hall door, range themselves in a row. Then William with a tipsy hiccough, gives out the word, and the voices rins: out loud and clear. Scarcely has the carol begun, when all sounds cease within the farm ; the dance has ceased, and all are standing still to listen. As the last note dies away, the door swings open, and Farmer Thorpe, c 2 20 GOD AND THE MAN. with face like a ribstone pippin, and white hair blowing in the wind, stands on the threshold, with shining faces peeping out behind him in a blaze of rosy light. * Come in, come in ! ' he cries, cheerily. ' Welcome all ! ' Stamping the snow from their boots, shaking it from their garments, they troop in and gather together at the kitchen end of the hall, where warm spiced ale is poured for them, and chucks of home- made cake put into their chilly hands. Left outside in the dark, the village chil- dren pelt each other with snowballs, and run races in the snow, and shout shrilly in through the keyhole, and beat with tiny mittened hands on the mighty door. It is close on midnight now. The carol-singers have gone their ways, to make their music elsewhere, and get good entertainment for their pains. The house A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE, 21 is full of the pleasant smell of meat and drink. But the great hall Is empty ; empty, that Is to say, save for the old form sit- ting before the fire. There he crouches still, conscious of little save the pleasant warmth ; breathing faintly, otherwise not stirring hand or limb. The musicians, the labourers, the farm maidens, are busy feasting in the kitchen ; whence comes, through the half-closed doors, the sound of loud guffaws, of clat- tering dishes and jingling glasses, of busy, shuffling feet. There is plenty of rough fare, with libations of strong beer and cider and ginger- ale. In the low-roofed dining-room, which opens out up three oaken steps at the other end of the hall, the genteeler portion of the company sit round the supper board, — a snow-white cloth of linen, piled with roast and boiled 22 GOD AND THE MAN. meats, fat capons, knuckles of ham and veal, Christmas cakes and puddings, great rosy-cheeked apples, foaming jugs of ale, flasks of ruby-coloured rum, and black bottles of foreign vintage. Farmer Thorpe heads the table, in his swallow-tailed coat of bottle-green, his long buff waistcoat with snowy cambric at the breast and throat, his great silver chain with dangling charms and seals ; and facing him, at the other end. Is Mary his good dame, splendid in silk and flowered brocade, with a cap, to crown all, that is the envy and admiration of every matron In the happy group. On either side are ranged the guests in their 'degree, — Squire Orchardson of the Wil- lows, a spare thin-visaged man in deep mourning, having the place of honour at the farmer's right hand, and pretty Mabel Orchardson, the squire's only daughter, blushing not far away, with young Harry A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 23 Thorpe, a tall yeoman of twenty-one, to ply her with sweet things and sweeter looks, and to whisper tender nothings in her ear. The light of swinging-lamps and country-made candles gleams all round upon happy faces, red and bright, with fine shadows behind of oaken furniture and wainscoted w^alls. The mirth is real, though solemn ; for the wine has not yet had time to tell its tale. The old folks pledge each other in old-fashioned style ; healths go round ; pretty maidens sip out of the glasses of their cousins and lovers, while fond feet meet, and knees touch, under the table. There is a clatter of dishes and knives and forks, a murmur of voices, which only ceases at Intervals, when the wind shakes the house and causes the roof and walls to quake again. But all at once, above the crying of the wind and above all the noise of the feast, 24 GOD AND THE MAN. rises a sound so shrill and terrible that all mirth ceases, and the company listen in terror. It sounds like a human shriek, coming through the half- closed door that leads to the hall — a human shriek, or something superhuman, so strangely does it ring through the merry house. Hark, again ! There can be no doubt now. It is the shriek of a man's voice, sharp, fierce, and terrible. The more timid among the company — both men and women — keep their seats, shiver, and look at one another ; the braver spirits, headed by Farmer Thorpe, push through the open door, and gather on the steps leading down into the hall. In the middle of the hall stands, ghastly pale now, and terrified, the swarthy boy from Barbadoes, his hands clenched, his eyes staring, every fibre of him trembling with terror. Near to him is another boy, A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. 25 Stronger and bigger, of coarser make and breed ; young Walter Thorpe, the farmer s nephew, whose father Hves down at the Warren. A little way off their little cousin, Mary Farrlngford, crouches dumb with terror, her large blue eyes dilated and misty with timid tears. All the three children gaze one way — the dark boy fascinated, like a murderer caught In the act, with the murderous look of hate and venom found by fear upon his face and frozen there ; young Walter a little frightened too, but pre- serving a certain loutish stolidity ; little Mary quivering like a reed. All gaze towards the great fireplace, for there, still fixed In his chair, but with head erect, eyes dilating, and skinny finger pointing, sits the old man, awake at last indeed ! His mouth is still open, panting, and it is clear now that the shriek which startled 26 GOD AND THE MAN. the company came from his throat. His finger points to the dark boy, who recoils in dread ; but his eyes are fixed, not on the boy's face, but on a gUttering object which hes upon the floor, close to the boy's feet. An open clasp-knife, with dagger-like blade and steel spring, the kind of knife that seamen use, too often, upon one another. Farmer Thorpe steps into the hall, with the wondering company behind him. ' What is the matter ? ' he exclaims. * Who was it that screamed out ? ' Walter Thorpe, who has recovered his composure, shuffles his feet, grins stupidly, and jerks his thumb at the old man. * Hi77i ! ' he replies with characteristic indifference to grammar. ^ And what — what's this '^. ' cries the farmer, following the old man's eyes and A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 27 looking at the knife. *Eh, eh, whose knife is this ? ' ' His ! ' replies Walter again, nodding his head at the other boy. ' Edgar's ! ' exclaims the voice of the widow Marjorie Wells ; and as she speaks she comes forward very pale, and touches her son with an angry hand. ' Edgar, what does it mean ? ' He scowls, and makes no answ^er. ' Have you been quarrelling ? ' she continues sternly. * How dare you quarrel, you wicked boy ? ' ' He struck me,' pants Edgar, still with the murderous look in his face. ' No, I didn't,' cries Walter. * Yes you did.' ' I didn't — leastways till you pushed me against little Mary and threw her down. Then when I slapt your face, you pulled out that knife, and tried to stick me like a pig ! ' 28 GOD AND THE MAN. A murmur of horror runs through the company. ' You hear, madam ? ' says Father Thorpe, sharply. ' I think your boy s to blame, and if he was my son, I'd give him a sound thrashing. Fancy the young Imp carrying a knife like that, and trying to use it too.' ' Edgar is passionate,* says the widow, haughtily ; ' but I daresay he was pro- voked.' * He said that I was black,' cries Edgar, looking up at his mother with his great eyes, ' and that when I was a man I ought to marry a black woman — and cousin Mary laughed — and so I pushed him ; and when he struck me, I pulled out my knife, and I wozcld have stabbed him, If grandfather had not screeched out.' ' Fine doings o' Christmastide,' ex- claims Farmer Thorpe, shaking his head A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 29 grimly ; ' and look you now at father,' he continues, passing across to the old man, who still keeps the same position, with eyes staring and finger pointing. ' How goes it, father ? Come, come, what ails you now ? ' At the voice of his son, the old man drops his outstretched arm, and begins to mutter quietly to himself. * Eh ? ' says Farmer Thorpe, putting down his ear to listen. ' Speak up, father.' The words are faint and feeble ex- ceedingly, but they are just intelligible : ' Take — away — the knife ! ' At a signal from the farmer, one of the neighbours lifts the knife from the floor, touches the spring, closes it, and hands it over to the farmer, who forthwith consigns it to the lowest depths of his breeches' pocket. All the company look on, breath- 30 GOD AND THE MAN. less, as if upon a veritable miracle — the dead coming back to life. There is a pause. Then again the feeble voice comes from the worn-out frame, ' My son John/ ' Here, father/ ' Call them ! — call the children ! ' . For a moment the farmer is puzzled, but seeing the old man's eyes again wander towards young Edgar Wells, he begins to comprehend. ' Come here,' he says sharply ; * grand- father wants you.' The boy at first shrinks back, then, with natural courage, forces a smile of bravado, and comes boldly forward. As he passes into the crimson firelight, the old man's eyes perceive him, and the wrinkled face lightens. But the next A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 31 Instant the feeble eyes look round dis- appointed. ' Both,' he murmurs — ' both my chil- dren.' Again the farmer Is puzzled, but his good dame, with woman's wit, hits the mark at once. ' I think he wants our nephew Walter,* she says softly. ' Go to him, Walter.' With a sheepish grin, Walter Thorpe steps forward, and so the two boys stand face-to-face close to the old man's knee. As his feeble gaze falls upon them, his lips tremble, and he gazes vacantly from one to the other from beneath his rheumy lids. Then suddenly reaching out one hand, he holds Walter by the jacket-sleeve, and with the other, which trembles like a leaf, tries to clutch at Edo^ar. But Edear, startled by the sudden movement, has shrunk back afraid. 32 GOD AND THE MAN, ' What doth he mean ? * whispers a neighbour. * Now, God be praised ! ' says Dame Thorpe, ' I think he means the lads to make friends. See, Marjorie, how he feels out to touch your boy ; and hark, what is he saying ? ' They listen closely, and at last they catch the words : * The children — put their hands into mine.' At a look from the farmer, Walter puts his coarse brown hand between the old man's trembling fingers, which close over it and clutch it convulsively. But Edgar scowls and hangs aloof, till his mother comes forward and touches him. * Put out your hand — at once ! ' Thus urged, the boy partly stretches out his arm, when the widow takes his hand and places it, like the other's, be- A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. ZZ tween the old man's fingers. As the hands of the two boys touch in that sinewy cage, which now holds them firm as iron, their eyes meet with a momentary gleam of defiance, then fall. ' Hush ! ' murmurs Dame Thorpe, softly ; and there is a long silence. The old man's lips move, but no sound comes from them. His eyes no longer seek the faces around him, but are half-closed, as if in prayer. Presently there is a faint murmur. The farmer bends down his ear, and catches the words, murmured very feebly, . . . * Love one another.' . . . Deeper stillness follows, and a solemn awe fills the hearts of all the company. Presently the old man's hands relax, and with a quiet sigh, he leans back smiling in his chair. His dim eyes open and look round, his lips begin to move quietly again. VOL. I. D 34 GOD AND THE MAN. * When I was a boy . . / They catch no more, for the words die away, and he seems to fall into a doze, perhaps into a dream of the days that once have been. While he thus lies, and while the company return with spirits solemnised to table, let us stay by him in the lonely hall, and with eyes fixed upon the fire, re- call the troubled memories of his life. 35 CHAPTER II. THE YEARS ROLL BACK I A DEATH-BED. As far back as he could remember, — when, though his body was a useless log, and his eyes dim w4th dust of age, his memory was still green, — the Christiansons had hated the Orchardsons, and the Orchard- sons had returned the hate with interest. The two families were heat and frost, fire and water, peace and war ; their spirits could never cross each other without pain. Physically, even, they were as unlike as tall stalwart trees of the forest and creeping shrubs of the common : the male Christian- sons, tall, stalwart yeomen of six foot up- wards ; the Orchardsons narrow-chested, stooping figures, below the middle height. D 2 36 GOD AND THE MAN. There was, moreover, this great differ- ence between them : good luck was ever on the one ' side, while the other seldom throve. A shilling in the pocket of an Orchardson multiplied itself to a pound, and the pound to ten, and the ten to a hun- dred ; while in the pockets of a Christian- son, hundreds melted like withered leaves, like the cheating pieces given to foolish folk by the fairies. The Christiansons never could keep money ; the Orchardsons never could let it go. For all this, and for a thousand other reasons, they hated each other the more. It was such an old hate, such a settled feud, that no one quite knew when or how it began ; indeed, there was a general dis- position in the neighbourhood to trace it back to a mythical period, somewhat further back than the Conquest. But cer- tain it was, that even in the times of the THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED, 37 great Civil Wars, the two families were on different sides — cavalier Orchardsons hunted down by roundhead Christiansens, and being hunted down in turn when at last, with the Merry Monarch, came time and opportunity. Mention a Christianson to an Orchard- son, and the latter would look evil, shrug shoulders, and show a certain sort of easy hate tempered with proud contempt. Name an Orchardson to a Christianson, and it was a very different matter ; the blood in his veins would turn to gall, his gorge would rise, and he would feel his strong frame con- vulsed with wrath, while his hands were clenched for a blow. The Orchardsons were more than shadows on the lives of the Christiansons; the very thought of them lay like lead upon the breast, choking the wholesome breath. As years went on, and milder influences 38 GOD AND THE MAN. supervened, the fierceness of the vendetta between the two families died away, leaving only a great frosty chill, in which the families, without any active hostility, fell farther and farther asunder. The Or- chardsons remained at the old manor- house, ever increasing their substance both in money and land. The Christiansons kept tight hold of their farms down to- wards Herndale Mere and the sea, but it was whispered in more than one wise quarter that they were deeply involved, and that when Robert Christianson, the reigning head of the house, went the way of all flesh, there would be revela- tions. One evening, late in the autumn, as young Tom Rudyard, the doctor's assistant, sat quietly smoking a pipe in the bar- parlour of the Rose and Crown, with pretty Nancy Parkinson by his side, and THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 39 buxom Mrs. Parkinson looking on with a smile, he received an unexpected summons. A tall young lad of about fourteen, clad in rough yeoman costume, and carrying a riding switch, came bolt into the room. Tom started up guiltily, for he knew that to enter that bar-parlour was for- bidden to Dr. jMarshman's assistants (all of whom had in succession ' gone wrong ' through a too great love of festivity), and then, recognising the new-comer, grinned, and gave a hoarse laugh. Standing thus erect, the young doctor showed a very long spare body and attenuated legs, clad in a costume rather too loud for that of a regular practitioner, and encroaching in- deed on the privileged style of the jaunty veterinary surgeon. ' What, Master Christian, is it you ? ' cried Nancy, with a smile ; then, seeing at once by the boy's pale face that something 40 GOD AND THE MAN. was wrong, she added, ' Is anything the matter ? ' ^ Yes,' answered the lad with quivering lips. * The doctor's wanted at once up to the farm. Father's taken bad.' One cry of commiseration rose from the two women. * What is it ? ' asked Tom, reaching up for his beaver hat, which hung on a hook behind the door. ' Not a fit, I hope ? At his time of Hfe ' * Don't waste time talking,' said the boy, ' but come along. Mother sent for the old doctor, but he's out and away at Deepdale; so I came to look after ^^^^.* Although he was only a boy, he spoke with a certain authority, and through his great height and powerful frame, looked almost a man ; certainly a man In strength, though his form was as yet shapeless and awkward, and his hands and feet too large. ^ THE YEARS ROLL BACK : A DEATH-BED, 41 That he was greatly troubled and alarmed was shown by his bloodless face and the pale, dry lips, which he moistened every moment with the tip of his tongue. * It's a goodish stretch up to the farm/ said the young doctor, with a rueful glance at the cosy fire. ' I shall want a horse.' ' Take my mare,' returned the lad, * she's standing at the door, and she'll carry you up at a gallop.' ' I dare say, and break my neck on the road. I don't know a yard of the way.' ' But the mare does ; give her her head, and she'll go home straight as a shot.' Doctor Tom still looked doubtful. ' I shall want my instruments, maybe.' * Then do you ride on, while I go to the surgery, and bring them after you. I'll take the short cut across the marsh, and be there nigh as soon as you.' 42 GOD AND THE MAN. Walking out to the front door of the inn, they saw the Hght from the porch flashing against a great wall of rainy black- ness. It was a wild night of wind and rain. The sign was shrieking and tossing like a corpse in chains, and the air was full of a rushing hiss of water. In front of the door, just discernible in the darkness, stood a dripping horse, or pony, held by a ragged stable-boy. * Lord, what a night ! ' cried the doctor, with a shiver, and an inward imprecation on the inconsiderate people who were taken ill in such weather. ' Quick ! quick ! ' said young Master Christianson, impatiently- * Mount the pony.' * Is he quiet ? ' * As a lamb — only mind to give him his head.' Quiet as a lamb he indeed seemed, THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 43 Standing drawn together in the rain, per- fectly still ; but no sooner were the young doctor's long legs thrown over him, than he was off at a bound. The rider had only just time to clutch the bridle, and to utter a startled yell — then darkness swal- lowed him up. Good Mistress Parkinson stood at the inn door, with her daughter at her side. ' Master Christianson,' she cried, as the lad moved away ; adding as he turned his head, ' let me get you a drop of warm ale, or a posset. You be soaking through.' The lad shook his head, and buttoning his coat tight round his throat, ran swiftly from the inn door, leaving the good women full of perplexity and simple pity. For Christian, though a wild and headstrong lad, or rather just because he was head- strong and wild, was a prime favourite in all that neighbourhood. ' The true Chris- 44 GOD AND THE MAN. tianson breed/ all admitted, with wise shakes of the head and secret admiration — quarrelsome, irritable, fierce and fiery, yet withal forgiving and open-handed ; proud, like his father and mother before him, of the old name and of the typical family strength ; so strong and handsome, that young maids, much his elders, had already been known to cast tender looks at him ; yet so simple and boy-like, that he preferred snaring a rabbit or setting a woodcock spring to the brightest pair of eyes in Christendom. Swift as a deerhound, he ran up through the village, setting his right shoulder against the slanting rain, until he reached the old doctors cottage, and knocked sharply at the little low door. An old woman opened, and with scarcely a word to her, he ran into the parlour, or * surgery,' looking for the doctor's case of THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 45 instruments, and for such simple remedies as might be needed. As he searched, he rapidly explained to the old dame, who knew him well, the state of affairs ; and then, having secured what he wanted, and buttoned them tight under his coat, he ran out again into the rain. Swiftly still he ran along the dark road, not losing breath, though it was rough and steep ; presently, with one bound, he leapt a hedge and alighted in a field of rainy stubble. Though he seemed to be in pitch darkness, It was clear that he knew every inch of the way, as, crossing a field, he came out upon an open common or waste, covered with dark rainy pools. Across the common, and up a miry lane ; then he saw flashing on a hillside before him the lights of a farm. When he reached the farm door, he found it standing open, and Doctor Tom, 46 GOD AND THE MAN, splashed from top to toe, on the point of entering, while the little mare, which he had ridden in fear and desperation, was standing with head down, quiet as a lamb. * How's father ? ' asked the lad in a whisper, as he followed the doctor into the hall. A shock-headed farm-maiden answered something in a whisper, and Christian led the way upstairs. Passing up a broad oaken staircase, he reached an open corri- dor, out of which opened several doors ; approaching one of which, he knocked softly. The door was immediately opened by a young girl, about a year older than him- self She put her finger on her lips, as he was about to speak, and beckoned the doctor, who quietly approached. In a large old-fashioned bedroom, with a polished floor of slippery black oak, THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 47 and a low ceiling close to the black rafters of the roof, was a large wooden bedstead, on which lay the figure of a man, a great gaunt yeoman, with iron-grey hair and clean shaven face. Some of his clothes had been hastily thrown off, and by the bedside were his high riding boots ; but he still wore his shirt and waistcoat, the former torn open to free the powerful workings of the throat. His eyes were closed, his face ghastly pale, his whole attitude that of exhaustion and semi- stupor, and his breathing was very heavy and hard. By the bedside stood a tall, pale matron, some few years his senior, and close to her, on a chair, was an open Bible. Doctor Tom came in on tiptoe, and standing by the bedside, sucked the knob of his stick, and gazed with rather 48 GOD AND THE MAN. vacant eyes at the man ; then, reaching down his coarse red hand, felt the pulse, and found it very jerky and feeble. ' Brandy — have you given him brandy, mistress ? ' he asked. In a hoarse whisper. The matron nodded her head. 'Well, give him some more, at once, please ; 'tis the only thing to keep life in him. How did it beofln? What doth he complain of most ? ' In a low voice, the matron explained that her husband had been seized, while sitting at supper, with a violent pain in the region of the heart. He had come in very wet and weary from a long ride to the neighbouring market town, and he had been fasting all day. He had been a good deal troubled, too, she said, and that made him neglect his food. When he was first seized with pain, she thought he would die at once, but when he had THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 49 drank some spirits boiling hot, he got a little relief. Presently another attack of pain came on, and then they got him to bed, and put warm bottles to his feet ; since then he had been easier, and had seemed as if he were asleep. As the two stood whispering together, the sick man suddenly opened his eyes. ' Who's that ? ' he said, feebly. ' Be it the doctor ? ' * Yes,' said his wife, ' young Mr. Tom.' * Tell him I don't want no doctor's stuff; I shall be all right i' the morning.' * How's the pain, master } ' asked the doctor. * Middling — middling bad,' answered the patient ; then with a groan he put his hand upon his chest. ' There be a weight here like a millstone, right down upon my heart' VOL. I. E 50 GOD AND THE MAN. ' Doth It pain you when you breathe, master ? ' ' Ay, surely ! like a knife a-cutting me In twain. But I don't want no physic — no, no ! ' He closed his eyes, moaning, and seemed to sink Into a doze. Doctor Tom led the matron aside. ' Your good man's powerful bad, mis- tress. He'll have to be bled straight away.' ' Is he In danger, think you ? ' ' Maybe yes, maybe no. If the blood flows free, it may ease his heart a bit ; his viscera be gorged with black blood, mistress, and his heart doth not get room to beat' So without more conversation or de- lay, the young leech opened a vein in the farmer's arm. The dark blood came freely but feebly, and as It flowed, he THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 51 really seemed to breathe with greater ease. When about an ounce of blood had been taken away, and the artery carefully bound up, he seemed to He In comfortable sleep. ' He'll do now/ said Dr. Tom. 'We'll look round In the morning, and see how he thrives.' The matron, who had exhibited rare nerve during the blood-letting, and had herself assisted without a word, now looked wildly up In the doctor's face. ' Will my man live .^ ' * Why not, mistress ? See how easy he do breathe, now ! Ay, he'll live, I hope, for many a long year ! ' Down the great stairs slipped Doctor Tom, followed by young Christian. He was well satisfied with himself, and quite unaware that, in the true spirit of the science (or nescience) of those days, he E 2 LIBRARY IINIVFf^<;iTY OF IIIINOIS 52 GOD AND THE MAN. had finished his man, and drawn from an exhausted arterial system its last chance of recovering Its shattered strength. * Will you ride back ? ' asked the boy. * On the back of that brimstone mare ^. — not I. I'd rather walk barefoot, young master. Good-night.' The lad did not offer to escort him beyond the door ; but leaving him to wander home as he might along the dark roads, returned to the room up- stairs, and rejoined his mother and sister. That night none of the three retired to rest. The mother sat watching by the bedside, while the girl and lad sat upon the hearth, w^aitlng and listening. Not a sound broke the silence but the monoto- nous breathing of the sick man, and a faint murmur from the lips of the mother, as, with horn-rimmed spectacles upon her THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 53 nose, and the old Bible upon her knee, she read softly to herself. The room was dimly illumined by the faint rays of a wood fire, and by the light of a small oil-lamip, which was fastened against the wall over the chimney-piece. Seen even thus, the boy and girl seemed made in very different moulds : he, strong, herculean, rough, with blue eyes, and curly flaxen hair ; she, tall, thin, and deli- cate, with swarthy skin, dark eyes, and chestnut hair. The boy, in his build and complexion, resembled the figure on the bed. The girl resembled the wan woman who sat reading by the bedside. Christian Christianson was scarce four- teen years old ; his sister Kate was rather more than a year older. Their parents had married somewhat late in life, and the two children were the only living issue of the match. 54 GOD AND THE MAN. Both in name and frame did the rough lad show his Scandinavian origin, his con- nection with those far-off ancestors of his who swept down from the north in the old times, harried the seas and the sea-coasts, and scattered their seed far and wide on those tracts of territory which pleased them best. Nothing foreign seemed to have entered the light current of his blood. While he lay there, rough and awkward as a lion's cub, he might have been taken for the heir of some old viking, bespattered from his cradle with the salt sea foam. But young Christian was heir to little save the surname of his father and the monopoly of certain fruitless feuds. His father and his father s father had farmed the lands verging on the great sandhills, and within hearing of the sea ; and it was to be supposed that he would farm them also, when his turn came. His father's THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 55 father had died in debt, and his father had been more or less in debt when he was born, and the shadow of mysterious. obH- eations had been over the house ever since he could remember. He had been brought up to no profession, and with no particular occupation ; but by looking on and using his wits, as boys can, he had learned a little of farming, and the value of farm stock. His education had been rough-and-ready enough. While his sister could play a little on the harpsichord, and sew a fine sampler, besides being able to read and write fairly, he possessed no accomplishments, save, of course, those which he had acquired by sheer force of physical courage and perseverance. He could sit any horse barebacked, he knew every beast of the field and fowl of the air, he could wrestle and swim, and he was an excellent shot at birds on the wing — 56 GOD AND THE MAN. this last being a much rarer accompHshment in those days than we, with our modern notions, might imagine. But he had little or no taste for books, and beyond a good ear for a tune, and a good deep voice, which might have made him a fair singer, little capacity for any of the arts. As he sat before the fire, his eyes were lifted ever and again to the pallid face of his mother, who read on monotonously to herself. Kate Christianson sat with her hands in her lap, gazing at the fire. So hour after hour passed, until it was past midnight ; and then, all at once, the invalid's sleep began to grow disturbed. He tossed upon his pillow, and clutched the counterpane with his strong hand, muttering half-articulate sounds. Suddenly his wife started as if stung, for she heard the sound of a hated name. * Five thousand five hundred pounds THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 57 . . . five per cent, per annum . . . Richard Orchardson, his heirs and assigns . . . witness . . .' Here his words became inarticulate, until he added, gasping, his own name, ' Robert Christianson, of the Fen.' Young Christian heard, and looked up with a strange darkness on his fair face. * Mother,' he whispered, ' did you hear ? ' * Hush!' cried the matron with uplifted finger ; for her husband's eyes had opened again, fixing themselves strangely upon hers. They watched for a few moments, then with a low cry, the man started up and tried to spring out of bed. * Father ! father ! ' cried Mistress Chris- tianson, rising and pushing him back. * What ails you, father ? Christian, come — help to hold him down.' The lad sprang up, and putting his 58 GOD AND THE MAN. Strong arms gently round his father, tried to soothe him ; for It was clear that his wits were wandering. * Who's that ? My son Christian ? ' • * Yes, father.' * Get me my hat and staff, lad. I be going out' ' Not to-night, father.' ^ Ay, to-night. Tell thy mother not to sit up, for I shall be late.' ' Speak to him, mother ! ' * Father, don't you know me ? ' cried his wife. *Ay, ay, dame, I know thee well enough, but I cannot stay talking. I be going out.' * Where are you going ? ' ' Down to the Willows. I must see Dick Orchardson, and tell him my mind.' The listeners looked at one another aghast. The very mention of the name THE YEARS ROLLBACK : A DEATH-BED. 59 of an Orchardson sounded strange on those lips, but to hear one of the hated brood named so gHbly, as a being with whom it was possible under any circum- stances to have human intercourse, was positively startling. * God help him ! ' cried his wife with a cold shiver. Exhausted by his efforts to rise, the farmer sank back upon his pillow. His breathing was now very difficult, and his face was convulsed as if with acute pain. They moistened his lips with brandy, and chafed his trembling hands. * Father ! ' cried Christian, trembling ; and Kate, standing close 'to him, echoed his tender cry. The farmer opened his eyes again, and looked round. * Who's there? Is that my boy Christian ? ' 6o GOD AND THE MAN. ' Yes, father/ * Come closer, lad, and take my hand. Where's thy mother ? ' * Here, father,' said Mistress Chrlstlan- son. * Oh, Christian, thy father's dying ! ' * No, no, mother,' cried the boy. * Tell Dick Orchardson ' So far the farmer spoke, then paused again. Again that hated name. There was a long pause. The farmer lay with eyes wide open, looking upward, and muttering to himself. They could make nothing now of his words, and a dreadful awe was upon them, for the shadow of the coming angel was already upon his face. Kate Christlanson cast herself down by the bedside, hiding her face and sobbing wildly. The mother stood gaunt and pale, her dim eyes on the man who had been her loving companion so many long years. The lad, clutching THE YEARS ROLLBACK : A DEATH-BED. 6i his father's chilly hand, was trembling like a leaf. So they waited, and it seemed, in that solemn moment, that the chamber grew dark. Oh that dreadful silence of the chamber of death ! The poet speaks of * darkness visible ;' tJiis is silence heard — a silence ominous and strange, in which the very beating of the heart is audible, and we feel the stirring motion of the unconscious life within. They listened and waited on. At last a few faint words were audible. * Down by the four-acre mere. Is that Dick Orchardson ? Tell him. . . Get me a light, lad, I cannot see the letters, I cannot read. . . Ask thy mother, forgive, forgive . . .' One last faint cry, and the voice was for ever still. Of what was a living face 62 GOD AND THE MAN. but a few minutes before, only a marble mask remained. All knelt and prayed, for the shadow which follows all men was in the room. 63 CHAPTER III. SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. When Robert Christlanson was dead and buried, there came at last the revelations that had long been predicted. First of all, it was discovered in a general way that he was far more heavily in debt than any one had guessed ; that, indeed, his affairs were a ravelled skein which it w^ould take all the ingenuity of the law or all Its cruelty to disentangle. Then, when the various threads of obligation were separated from each other, and the widow and her children thought that the coast was clear, came a letter, like a thunderbolt, announcing that the freehold of the greater part of the 64 GOD AND THE MAN, farm lands was under a mortgage, that the interest was long in arrear, and that, to crown all, the holder of the fatal mortgage was their hereditary enemy, Richard Orchardson of the Willows. At first it was too horrible for belief. The very thought was an outrage on the beloved dead. The widow sat with stern sceptical face, while the boy Christian was loud in his expression of indignation. But confirmation quickly came. It was made only too clear that the deceased farmer, in the extremity of his distress, had accepted assistance from the enemy of his father and his father's father, and had given as substantial security the mortgage upon the choicest of the farm lands. Bitterer even than death itself came the humiliating discovery ; bitterer, because for the moment it killed all reverence and respect for the poor dead, and showed him SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 65 as a man yielding, forgetful, and barren of pride. Better to have starved, thought the widow, than have sought or taken succour from that quarter. Alas ! she little knew how long and terrible had been the farmer's struggle before he did yield, how cruel the pang had been, and how the pain of the secret had preyed upon the poor man's heart, until it broke in shame. When all was thought that could be thought, the mother and son spoke out by the fireside, while Kate looked sadly on. * 'Twas a trap for thy poor father,' said the widow, ' be sure of that. Dick Orchardson set it many a long year, and at last thy father, poor man, was caught. Ah, if he had only come home to me and told me of his trouble ! This comes of having secrets out-o'-doors.' VOL. I. F 66 GOD AND THE MAN. * What shall we do, mother ? ' asked Christian. ' Can we pay the money ? * * Nay, my boy.' * And Lawyer Jeffries hath given notice that we must pay up or yield the land.' ' One or other, Christian.' The lad clenched his hands and uttered a fierce cry. * They shan't take the land away from thee, mother. Let them try it ! I'll go down to the Willows, and make old Dick Orchardson own it was all a cheat, and if he denieth it ' The boy paused, livid with hate and rage. As he did so, his sister Kate, who had been looking on in terror, interposed tearfully. * Nay, who knows,' she said, * but the squire is more kindly than folk say ? Why did he lend our father the money, SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 67 and help him out of his trouble, if he hated him so much ? ' ' Hear her, mother ! ' cried Christian, ' hear the foolish wench ! And yet she hath heard the preacher say that figs grow not on thistles, and roses spring not from thorns. An Orchardson kindly ! Mother, do you hear ? ' * Kate is a girl,' returned the widow, grimly, * she cannot understand. It began long since.* * What began, mother ? ' asked Kate. ' The trouble between our houses. If there had ne'er been any Orchardsons, we should be rich folk now. They robbed thy father's father, a hundred years ago.' ' But, mother ' * 'Tis something in the blood,' cried the widow. ' A fox is a fox, and a kestrel a kestrel, and an Orchardson is an Orchardson, till the world doth end. F 2 68 GOD AND THE MAN. The wicked breed ! If God would blot it out.' ' Amen, mother/ cried Christian ; and Kate, knowing their temper, did not dare to say another word. So it remained in their minds as a settled thing that Robert Christianson had, by some kind of devilish malignity, been beguiled into taking help of the Orchardsons, whose sole desire had been to crush the hapless family, and perchance close the mortgage. They waited a little time in great dread and anger ; but no more word came from the lawyers, and their whole lives, were poisoned by the suspense. That portion of the freehold embraced in the mortgage included the best and richest part of the farm lands, leaving untouched only some ninety acres and the old farm-house, which latter had fallen SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 69 into great dilapidation, and stood, quite solitary, over against the sandhills, with its face from the sea, which formed a broad estuary two miles away. Inland before it stretched the farm fields, in a great hollow which had once been a fen, and still bore that name, but sloping gradually to rich pastures and clumps of cheerful wood. Over these pastures and woods peeped the village spire — the glistening of which, in all kinds of weather, was a cheerful and comfortable sight to the inmates of the farm. The very solitude of the situation gave to the owners of the Fen Farm a feeline of possession and mastery. Standing at his own door, a Christianson was monarch of all he surveyed — of the broad and com- paratively barren acres of the old fen ; of the narrow osier-fringed stream which wound through these acres and then, 70 GOD AND THE MAN. curving suddenly, ran In among the sand- hills towards the sea ; of the rich slopes beyond, where crops waved green and yellow, or frosty stubble glittered, through the various seasons of the year. There was only the spire to remind him of the world of men beyond, of the red-tiled village hidden from his sight, and of the heaven above. Then the sandhills be- hind the house were his ; and these, though comparatively worthless and only affording combes of arid pasture for cattle here and there, were large In extent, and gave a lordly sense of territorial sway. And among the sandhills was the rabbit warren, let to a cousin of the family, on profitable terms. With the ancient freehold of the Fen Farm went, by right immemorial, the privilege of coursing and shooting. Every boy Christianson might run a hound, or SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 71 handle a gun, on his own acres. Not only did rabbits swarm In the sandhills, but the sands were the resort, at certain seasons, of the hare, which would seek deserted rabbit-burrows and lie there till discovered perdu, and hunted out, by man or dog. Small wonder, then, if the Christian- sons loved the place, and clung to every inch of the soil. Even the house, though a rambling tenement and scarcely weather- proof, with cheerless rooms and rat-haunted wainscots, was very dear to them for the sake of the generations which had lived and died within. In summer time, w^ith its red front covered with creepers and wild roses, its dove-cot on the red-tiled roof, and the white doves wheeling and settling in the sunlight, it looked quite pretty and bright. There was an ancient orchard, too, with broken-down walls, and trees so old and gnarled they yielded 72 GOD AND THE MAN. little fruit, and grass as thick and deep as the grass that grows on graves. But if the cruel debt of the mortgage was not paid, what remained ? Only the old house, and the sand pasturages, and the arid acres of the old fen ; only, in other words, a barren stretch of soil, not to be farmed with profit by any but a man of means. The pasturages and combes of the upland slope, which ever filled the eye with a certain sense of prosperity — the woods where the nightingale sang in sum- mer and the woodcock was flushed in the frost — the rich fields which grew the best grain — all these would surely go. It was an ugly thought. To stand at the farm door, and know that possession ceased at the stream, and that the cattle grazing on the slopes beyond belonged to another, would be almost too much to bear. A few days after mother and son had SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 7^ discussed that cruel business of the mort- gage, and come to the conclusion that devilry had been at work, young Christian was rambling among the sandhills with his greyhound Luke — an English dog, with a cross of the coarser Irish breed. Not far from the farm, he came upon the track of a hare, printed with filigree delicacy in the sand. The marks were confused and mingled, crossing and re- crossing one another, for poor Puss had been obviously 'running races in the mirth ' through the morning dew, but at last the lad hit upon the true trail. It led him a good mile between the sandhills. On the top of each sandhill or mound grew thick coarse cotton grass and grassy weeds, and whenever the track led thither he set the dog's nose to work. Presently, reachino^ the summit of one of the highest of these sandhills, he came in sic^ht of the 74 GOD AND THE MAN. long flat Stretch of black sand and mud fringed by the waters of the sea. He stood for a time and gazed. The sea was quite calm, in the grey silver light of a still November day, with quiet clouds piled upon the horizon like a range of hills. A lobster-boat, with flapping brown sails, was crawling along by means of sweeps towards the distant fishing beds. On one spot of the sands, close to the sea, was a white swarm of gulls, sitting perfectly moveless, save when now and then a solitary bird would rise with sleepy waft of wing, fly a few yards, and settle again. All was very still, but from a sea-creek not far distant he could hear from time to time the cry of the curlew. While he stood, he saw sailing towards him, slowly, methodically, hovering always at the same distance from the earth, a large raven, followed at a distance of SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 75 about fifty yards by another bird, the female. They came slowly, for each In turn, hovering over each sandhill, on the grassy summit of which something edible might hide, searched the grass for prey. From time to time the foremost bird uttered a thoughtful croak or chuckle, which the hindmost bird echoed after an interval. Christian knew the two birds well. Once, indeed, he had shot at the male bird at very short range, eliciting no other result than a defiant croak and a few falling feathers. Since then, he had let the birds alone. They too had a free- hold of the place, and had used it for a hunting-ground years before he was born. He watched the birds carelessly, till they passed in succession over his head, greeting him with a croak of sublime in- difference, and then, poised slanted in the air, glided more rapidly away. Turning 76 GOD AND THE MAN, his eyes to the sea, he saw that the swarm of gulls had risen and were hovering in the air, their cries, made faint by distance, reaching him where he stood. Riding along the sands, at a trot, was a horseman, whom, in the distance, he did not recognise. Idle, and tired of hunting the hare, he sat down and watched the rider till he dis- appeared behind the sandhills, and the flock of gulls settled again on the fringe of the sea. Then, after a little time, Christian rose and walked down the side of the sandhill. In the smooth hollows between the mounds, it was impossible to see or be seen for many yards away ; and presently, as he turned round a sandy corner, he came full in view of a gentle- man on horseback — doubtless the same he had seen approaching by the side of the sea. SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 77 A man of about forty years of age, dressed in velvet riding-coat, breeches, hi eh boots, and low-crowned beaver hat. He was portly, but somewhat unhealthy- looking, his skin being deeply marked with the small-pox, his eyes being some- what shrunken and inflamed, and his hair and short-cropt whiskers of deep black. He was not alone. By his side, upon a small Welsh pony, rode a boy of about twelve years of age, evidently his son, for he had his father's eyes and complexion without their disfigurements. At a first glance, he struck one as a disagreeable boy, with a supercilious expression, and a peculiar look of lying-in-wait. As he was riding, he did not exhibit his chief physical deformity. Though scarcely a cripple, he was lame. One limb had never grown rightly, and though he could walk toler- 78 GOD AND THE MAN. ably and comfortably, he could do so with neither ease nor grace. At sight of these two figures, Christian turned red as crimson, for he knew them well. The gentleman was his fathers enemy. Squire Orchardson of the Wil- lows ; the boy was Richard Orchardson, the squire's only son. To his surprise, the squire rode right up to him along the sands, and then drew rein. *You are young Christianson of the Fen ? ' he asked In a sharp authoritative voice. Christian stood scowling, but made no answer. * Have you no tongue, sirrah ? I was just coming to see your mother.' Christian started as If stung, and went from red to pale. Meanwhile his grey- hound, seized by a fit of excitement, began ■SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 79 to bark furiously at the heels of the boy's pony, which pranced and plunged, causing its rider to utter a timid cry. ' Call up your dog ! ' cried the squire. ' See you not 'tis frightening m}^ son's pony ? ' Christian turned towards the dosf and called It to him, with such a scowling sneer upon his face as was Irritating be- yond measure. ' Come, Luke,* he said, and turned away. ' Stay ! ' cried Mr. Orchardson, in- voluntarily raising his rldlng-whip. ' Is your mother at home, boy ? ' No reply. * A Chrlstlanson all over,^ muttered the squire. * A cub of the old breed. Come, Dick.' So saying, he trotted off, with his son following ; the latter, as he urged his pony away, greeting Christian with a mocking 8o GOD AND THE MAN. grimace. Christian clenched his fists, while, with a shrill contemptuous laugh, the boy disappeared. His blood boiling with rage, Christian stood for some minutes ; then, remember- ing the squire's question, he began to hasten homeward. Was it possible that the squire meant to insult his mother by darkening her door during her affliction. If so, let him take care. He would at least warn his mother. Excited beyond measure, he ran among the sandhills, till, emerging from them, he came in full view of the farm. He was too late. The squire and his son were sitting on horseback before the farm door ; the squire was talking and gesticulating loudly, and on the threshold, as if pointing them from it, was Mistress Christianson, stern, and pale as death. SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 8i Christian strode up to the door and joined the group, just in time to hear the last few words of their conversation. * I am sorry you are so bitter, dame,' the squire was saying, ' God knoweth, I have no wish to be hard upon you, and I will gladly grant you grace/ *We want no grace from an Orchard- son,' answered the dame ; ' I pray you, sir, quit my door.' * Yes, quit our door ! ' echoed Christian, coming up at this moment. * Like cub, like vixen,' muttered the man to himself ; then, turning to his son, who sat smiling upon his pony, he added, * Come, Dick, we are not wanted here.' The boy laughed, and said something in a whisper, which brought a dark smile to his father's cheek. At the whisper and the look. Christian felt sick with mingled hate VOL. I. G 82 GOD AND THE MAN. and rage ; and he made a movement with clenched hands as If to advance upon the pair, when his mother put her hand upon his arm to command him back. So the two Orchardsons, father and son, rode slowly from the door, the boy pausing a moment at the gate to give a wicked laugh and sneer, before he cantered away by his father's side. * Mother, what did they want ? ' asked Christian, trembling. The dame did not reply ; she was too busy with her own gloomy thoughts. Turning back into the house, and entering the dark wainscoted parlour, she took down the old Bible from its niche, put on her horn spectacles, and began to read, as was invariably her custom when her dark hour was upon her. Rocked upon the dreary billows of her favourite 'Psalms,' she felt with David the terror and the SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM, 83 tumult of a wild unrest. In imagination, at least, her enemies were now scattered and smitten hip and thigh, and her soul went up in gloomy thankfulness to God. c 2 84 GOD AND THE MAN, CHAPTER IV. SOWING THE BLACK SEED. Emerging from her trance of wrathful prayer, Mistress Chris tianson gradually- led her children to understand the real facts of the interview between herself and Richard Orchardson. The heredi- tary enemy of her husband and her family had, it appeared, made overtures of a seemingly friendly nature, and had offered, if the dame wished it, to withdraw all pressure for the payment of the mortgage money. He had no wish, he said, to be too hard on a helpless woman, or to visit the husband's folly and improvidence on the head of his widow. At this first allu- SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 85 sion to the dead, she had been unable to restrain her indignation, and in a few- fierce words she had launched her life- long hate at her enemy's head, demanding that he should cease to darken her door. 'Why did he come to the house he hath made desolate ? ' she now cried angrily. ' To lay some other trap, sure, for the folk he hath destroyed. I knew when he rode up, with that fox-smile upon his face, and the boy grinning by his side, that he meant some hidden mischief; so that, when he spoke of kindness, my soul went sick.' * And mine too,' said Christian, ^ when I met them i' the sands.' Days passed, and the Christiansons heard no more of the Orchardsons. They waited and waited, in hourly dread and ex- pectation of the fatal missive which should announce to them that the mortgage would 86 GOD AND THE MAN. be closed, and the money due realised on the land. But the missive did not come ; instead of it, there was an ominous silence. At last, however, some weeks after the interview at the farm-door, came another letter from Lawyer Jeffries, on behalf of Richard Orchardson, requesting in formal terms, but polite, the payment of the moneys due. To this the dame replied curtly, saying that payment was impos- sible, and that, to make an end, the mort- gagee was at liberty to take what course he pleased. This brought over Lawyer Jeffries in person — a little, hard, dry, but good-natured man of business, who drove down in his gig from the neighbouring town, ten miles away. He was closeted with the dame for hours, and Christian, listening at the door, could hear high words from his mother, and soft persuasive periods from the visitor. SOWING THE BLACK SEED. Sj Lawyer Jeffries strongly advised a policy of conciliation. His client, he avowed, had no wish to press hard upon the widow, though she was entirely in his power, and he himself was sure that, If she only asked respectfully for time and consideration, both would be given. It was throwing words away, however. The good dame was obstinately resolved never to ask any favour from the man who, she devoutly believed, had planned her hus- band's ruin. The little lawyer rode away In despair ; but being, as we have said, a good-natured man, and kind-hearted withal, he carried to the squire such a message as seemed conciliatory enough, and Orchardson, who had just then no mind for harsh measures, instructed him to let the matter stand. So weeks passed away, and though the Chrlstiansons were still In constant antici- 88 GOD AND THE MAN. pation of a notice of ejectment from the rich Fen lands, nothing more was said or done. The doubtful peace thus attained be- tween the two houses might have lasted long but for one of those events, trifling in themselves but often fatal in their issues, which so often complicate the relations of human beings. One day in December, Christian took his gun, and, followed by his sister, strolled out over the Fen lands. Their larder was empty, and he was looking for a hare. Though it was winter, the weather was almost spring-like. The mist had lifted like a night-cap from the fens, and from the clear patches in the sky the sun sent down revivifying rays, as if to inspire new joy and bring fresh hope to the heart of every man, now Christmas-tide was nigh. It brought cheer at least to young Christian Christianson, who, strolling along over the SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 89 fen, with his gun flung across his shoulder, had probably never felt more magnanimous in his life. The mingled feelings of stern pride and bitter hatred, which had been handed down to him as the woeful Inheritance of his house, and had taken their place only too firmly In his heart, seemed to fade temporarily before the beneficent light of the sky. The words which his dying father had uttered came back to him, and re- sounded again and again In his ears like a wail of admonishment and pain. ' Forgive — forgive ! ' — Yes, those had been the last words on the lips of the poor worn-out man, and no one had heard them but the family whose souls, warped with hatred, sick with pain, were only too ready to forget that dying prayer. Christian, at any rate, had not quite forgiven even his father ; and as for the Orchardsons, he had 90 GOD AND THE MAN. met hate with hate, scorn with scorn ; and while standing up, as he thought, In manly defence of his house, he had plunged Into the blackest gloom of a mad Inferno. But to-day, boy though he was, he asked him- self why should these things be ? why not bury the past, as generations of men are burled, and with the help of God look forward to bright and happy - days to come ? Forgive ? nay, he did not feel even yet that he could forgive — that he pos- sessed sufficient streno^th to reach forth his hand In friendship to human beings who had so often and so cruelly stung him and his. Forgiveness such as that would be unnatural, would demand super- human strength and kindliness. The utmost he could do was what he then resolved to do : bury the Orchard- sons deep down amid the ruins of the SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 91 sad and bitter past ; and with all memory of their existence blotted from his soul, try to live a new life. He paused, and turned to his sister Kate, who was walking- quietly beside him. * Kate,' he cried, * think you, when our father lay a-dying, and said, '' Forgive — forgive," he meant that devil's brood up at the Hall ? ' 'Nay, I know not,' answered Kate, timidly, for she feared the theme. * I think rather he meant mother to forgive him for ever having taken aid from the enemies of our house. His conscience pricked him sore for that misdeed.' ' Poor father ! ' ' But he was to blame. Small wonder his conscience stung him.' 'Alas!' * How now, Kate?' 92 GOD AND THE MAN. * Perchance Squire Orchardson* meant kindly — perchance he will be kindly still — nay, did he not say as much ? It is mad to cross him ; will you not forget old troubles, and give the Orchardsons your hand, and speak to mother, and then — and then ' She paused trembling, for Christians face was dark with passion. Poor Kate was a gentle girl, with more of her father's softness than her mother's determination. She was utterly incapable of feeling a life-long hatred for the Orchardsons, not perhaps because she was usually more tender-hearted than her brother, but be- cause her memory was imperfect and her feelings evanescent. She would forget a benefit as easily as an injury, while her brother was capable of keenly remember- ing both. And he did remember them as SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 93 he listened to his sister's words — he re- membered also the feelings of gladness and hope which had filled his soul only a few minutes before. He remembered also his father s dying words, and he struggled to say ' I will forgive/ but his lips would not utter the words. * Kate,' he said, ' I can never forgive, but I'll try, if I can, to forget ! ' *Nay, Christian, say not so,' pleaded Kate, quietly. *What doth the Bible say.^ — why, that we should forgive our enemies, ay, seventy times seven ! ' She paused, but her brother did not reply. His eyes were fixed with gloomy distrust upon an object close at hand. She turned, and beheld standing only a few paces off young Richard Orchardson of the Willows. He had evidently heard every word of the conversation, for on his pak; pinched 94 GOD AND THE MAN. face there was a quiet sneer. If looks of bitterness and hatred could kill, young Christian had at that moment lain dead at his feet. Kate, seeing with terribly sink- ing heart the dangerous looks on the faces of the two lads, endeavoured to become peacemaker. She laid her trembling hand on her brother's arm. ' Come, Christian,' she said, eagerly, * we'll get home.* The youth, almost frightened at him- self, was yielding to her influence, and would have Avalked silently away, but young Orchardson stopped them. ' Give me that gun,' he said, ' or you shall answer for carrying it on my father's land ! ' Christian flushed up angrily. A hot reply came to his lips, but with an effort he suppressed it. ' Nay, not so fast, young sir,' he said. SOWIXG THE BLACK SEED. 95 ' The Fen Farm belongs to the Christian- sons to-day, If It goeth to the Orchardsons to-morrow. 'TIs you that are a-trespass- ing, not I ; I be on our own land ! ' ' You He/ returned the other ; * the land Is ours — my father paid for It to keep you folks from starving. 'TIs like a Chrlstlanson to hate the hand that fed him ! ' Christian again controlled himself with a mighty effort. *Nay, I'll not talk with thee/ he muttered. ' Come, Kate.' But the boy Interposed. ' You shall not go ! ' he cried. ' Give me that gun, or I will take it from you.' Christian smiled grimly, amused to see the puny thing stand before him, pale and tremulous with passion, to hear him talk of using force to one who could have bent 96 GOD AND THE MAN. him like a reed at one touch of a strong hand. Kate turned to young Richard with outstretched hands. * Do not provoke my brother. He is strong, and you are so weak ; I know he would not wish to hurt you, but you say such wicked things.' ' My father is too soft/ cried the boy with a sneer. ' Had I my will, I would rid the fields of such vermin.' Then he cried more angrily, ' Why did you set your cur at my pony's heels yesterday ? It is a foul brute, and Aaron Hart saith it has been seen poaching on our land. Yes, had I my will, I would serve the master like his dog ! Christian was silent ; for at this moment his attention was drawn from the speaker by an incident more terrible to him than any that had yet happened In his SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 97 life. The dog Luke, which had been gambolling freely all the morning about the Fen, now crawled slowly up to its master's feet. Every muscle In its poor body was contracted with intense pain, its eyes, wild and bloodshot, seemed to be starting from their sockets, its mouth was covered with foam, and with low piteous moans it tried to lick and touch its master. With a sharp cry Christian fell on his knees beside the poor agonised creature, while Kate, trembling with fear, pity, and anguish, burst into passionate tears. The dog, after experiencing a minute or two of intense agony, seemed suddenly to become bereft of its senses, and with one or two wild cries, and a terrible gnashing of teeth, fell back upon the fen land, dead. A minute later, when Christian raised his head, he looked straight into the cruel eyes of his enemy. VOL. I. H c)8 GOD AND THE MAN. For the moment young Orchardson seemed frightened ; his cheeks were ghastly pale, and he tried to turn away. * Devil ! ' cried Christian, gripping him. ' You have poisoned my dog.' * 'Tis false ! ' cried Richard, with a guilty shiver. ' I — I did not touch him.' ' There he lieth dead. To your knees — confess it — ere I strangle you ! ' * Help ! ' shrieked the boy, writhing In the other's powerful grasp ; and Kate, tempted beyond measure, cried * Help ! ' too. Beside himself with rage, Christian swung the boy round and flung him from him with one wild push and blow. He staggered, screaming, and then fell prone upon the ground. There he lay as if sense- less, while Christian, affrighted at his own violence, stood paralysed, gazing down upon him. * Oh, you have killed him ! ' cried \^ ^^v-^ ^ * " Help ! " shrieked the boy, -writhing in the other's pmuerjid grasp. ' SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 99 Kate, bending above him, and chafing his hand. As she spoke the boy Hfted his head, and showed his forehead bloody where It had struck upon a stone. With the blood trickling down his face, he staggered to his feet ; then, seeing the blood on his hands, he began to cry piteously. ' Stop ! ' cried Christian, as he turned to go. * Tell me you did not harm the poor hound, and I will ask your pardon ! ' Young Orchardson made no reply, but, sobbing still, cast one look at the dead dog, and made a movement as If to spurn it with his foot ; then, with a blood- stained face, rushed rapidly up the hill Kate, still sobbing, wrung her hands. ' We are undone, we are undone ! ' she moaned. 'What will Squire Orchardson say when he hears that you struck his son ?* H 2 loo GOD AND THE MAN. But this time her brother did not heed her, or scarcely seemed to hear. No furious flame of ansfer now burnt in his heart, but on his face there was a fixed look of horrible pity and pain. In weary sorrow he raised his eyes to the still smiling sky. * Forgive ! ' he murmured ; ' nay, father, I can never forgive now. Since there is a God above us, why doth He let such things be ? ' He raised the poor stiffening body of his dog, and carried it tenderly homewards in his arms, choking down his tears as he went. As he passed the house door his mother came out to question him, and he told her what had passed. She went very pale, but said little ; she did not even chide her son for his violence. Christian laid the poor hound tenderly SOWING THE BLACK SEED. loi in the porch, and then all went into the house together. An hour later, there came a great rapping at the door. Anticipating evil, they went and threw the door open, and there stood Squire Orchardson, mounted on his black horse, and shaking his heavy whip at them all. He was livid with passion, and the moment he saw Christian, shrieked aloud, * Where is he that struck my boy ? Where is the coward that smote a poor lame lad ? Come out, you dog ! come out ! that I may punish you as you deserve ! ' Christian was about to leap out and face the speaker, when his mother, grim as death, ordered him to keep back. Ac- customed to obey her, he paused. *My son did not strike your son,' answered the dame coldly ; * he fell, and so was hurt.* 102 GOD AND THE MAN. *'Tis a He!' cried the squire. 'He struck him ! My boy never lies, and he hath told me all/ * Your son is the liar, sir,' said Chris- tian, ' if he saith I struck him. I gave him a push in anger, and he fell upon a stone. But he poisoned my dog ! ' * And if he did, what is the life of your wretched cur to a scratch upon my son ? Your dog poached upon our preserves, and had I seen it, I would have shot It with my own hand. My boy did well. Had he poisoned the whole of your wicked brood he would have done better still.' * You are a brave man,' returned the widow, with a cold smile, ' to talk thus to a lonely woman. Had my man been living, he would have reckoned with the father as his son did reckon with the son.' * Enough, woman ! ' cried the squire, madly. ' If there is law or justice in the SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 103 land, you shall all moan for this. Beggars that you are ! I will be even with you now. No more mercy — no, no ! I'll grind you down to dust ! ' * Begone, sir ! you darken our door.' And without another word, she closed the heavy door In his face. Listening within, they heard him muttering and cursing aloud, and striking on the door with his whip ; then, with a loud threaten- ing oath, he galloped away. They had not to wait long for the Issue of that sad dispute. The very next day came the legal Intimation that the mort- gage money was to be realised to the last penny, and that If they could not pay up both principal and Interest, they must yield the well-loved land. Thus the thunderbolt fell not quite unexpectedly, and they looked at one another with stupefied faces. 104 GOD AND THE MAN. Kate was the first to speak, and her r words were characteristic. * Mother, mother ! do not let us be un- done. Let me go to Mr. Richard. Let me tell him that we beg his pardon, let me sue for pity. I know he will listen to me, if I plead humbly enough.' * Silence ! ' cried Christian. ' How dare you think of it ? Your father's blood flows between you, and ' He paused, for Kate was kneeling on the floor and sobbing, and the dame was standing over her like a ghost, pointing at her with a lean forefinger, and trembling as a leaf. * Christian ! ' cried the girl. * Speak for me ! Mother ! ' Christian put his hand upon his mother's arm. For a moment the dame did not speak ; her lips moved, but she was too troubled to find words. It was SOWING THE BLACK SEED, 105 terrible to see her white stony face, with its wrathful eyes. At last she gasped, pointing to the great Bible w^hich stood open upon the sideboard, ' Give me the Book ! ' Christian placed it upon the table near her. Stooping, she seized Kate's cold hand and placed it among the leaves. Poor Kate shivered and moaned, and tried to draw her hand away, as if she feared the touch might do her harm. ' Now, swear ! ' said the mother. Kate only sobbed aloud. ' Swear on the Book, that you will never again willingly exchange words with any of that name or that blood ; swear that in sickness and in health, as long as life lasts, you will never take the hand of an Orchardson or knowingly worship under the same roof with any of that blood or io6 GOD AND THE MAN. name ; swear that your prayers shall rise nightly against them, wherever you may be.* Kate seemed overcome with terror. ' I promise, mother — do not ask me to swear ! ' * Swear on the Book ! ' Thus urged, Kate Chris tianson took the oath. The dame turned suddenly to her son. * You shall swear too ! ' she said sharply. The boy swore right eagerly. Then he stooped and caught his sister In his arms, just as she was swooning away. I07 CHAPTER V. ENTER PRISCILLA. So it came to pass, through the issue of ill-blood between mere children, and be tween men and women who were as chil- dren in their foolish passions, that the breach between the two houses widened into a gulf as deep as hell. On the one side of this gulf of hate and darkness, sat the Orchardsons, rich, jorosperous, in the full sunshine of fat meadow and plenteous vineyard. On the other side crouched the Christiansons, a beggared family, bitter at heart, ever waiting for the evil hour which might bring vengeance. The mortgage was closed. The fat Fen lands passed io8 GOD AND THE MAN. into the hands of their hereditary foes ; and all remaining to them now were the old house, fast falling into decay, and the barren hills and burrows of sea-lying sand. Well, there are compensations even in the deepest shadows of trouble. It was something at least to have the old house, and not to be turned out by the bailiffs, like conies by the ferret, into the open cold ; something more, to possess the an- cestral sandhills, barren and desolate as they were. At a pinch, they could at least exist, though no human soul but themselves knew how sore at times the pinch became. Fortunately, they had never been free livers, and even in their days of prosperity had known little but homely fare. With keen thrift, now, they contrived to pre- serve a decent appearance before the world. ENTER PRISCILLA. 109 Widow and daughter kept their needles busy, and their spinning-wheels as well ; so that Christian, who had a rough boy's knack of destroying apparel, never went otherwise than neatly clad. And the boy, who was the idol of both, had his luxuries too. Many a time the two lonely women went without common necessaries themselves in order that the head and hope of the house might have gentlefolk's fare. In this sad season of poverty and social disgrace, it is hard to say what would have become of young Christian Christianson if he had not relieved his angry moods by that free physical exer- cise of which he had ever been so fond. The women had their Bible, their constant means of communication with some strange far-off Divine sympathy ; his, on the con- trary, was not a religious nature, and in no GOD AND THE MAN. more respects than one he beHed his name. For weeks and months the shame and outrage of that cruel legal revenge dwelt within him, poisoning every thought and feeling, distorting every hope and dream. At first, but for the piteous pleading of his sister and the sad command of his mother, he would certainly have gone off and committed murder. For weeks after- wards he was in the mood, had either father or son crossed his path, to have shot him dead, or to have sprung upon him and tried to tear him limb from limb. Fortunately, his mad rage was suffered to consume itself, and to die away, without receiving any fresh fuel from without. So the boy went and came, somewhat more dark and sullen than before, but to all outward seeming, little changed. Years passed on, and the bitterness of ENTER PRISCILLA. in seeing others In possession of the ancestral land, which stretched rich and plenteous be- fore the very door, had begun to wear away. Poverty was so familiar that it no longer seemed very unfriendly or quite unkind. The w^Idow had accepted her cross pati- ently, and by dint of strict parsimony, had saved a trifle. At all events, affairs could grow no worse, — unless the very roof fell in upon their heads, a not altogether un- likely contingency, taking Into considera- tion the state of the farm-repairs. It Is to be feared that, In one particu- lar respect. Christian had suffered seve- rely. His education had been unduly neglected. It is doubtful, however, if much more attention would have been given to his training, even had the family not fallen on evil days. In those times, many a wealthy farmer was too Illiterate even to write his own name, and book- 112 COD AND THE MAN. learning was generally regarded as so much vanity, not to be Indulged in by sensible folk whose lives were occupied in tilling the land and accumulating gold. What he lacked in knowledge, Chris- tian Christianson gained in manly strength and beauty. At twenty years of age, he might have sat to a painter for a youthful Thor. His short clustering ringlets, his firmly- chiselled face with Its grave blue eyes and splendid chin, his strong yet shapely neck, his perfectly-moulded arms and limbs, were all in keeping. Though of great height, he had none of the unwieldiness of giants. His only defect was a peculiar stoop in the shoulders, a not unusual characteristic, I have noticed, of brooding and determined men. For the rest, his disposition, it is to be feared, was sullen and stern. He had ENTER PRISCILLA. 113 Strong and stirring passions, as we have seen, but they had been subdued to a gloomy sense of wrong. Brave, honest, incapable of meanness or treachery, he yet conveyed in his manner a certain feel- ing of dangerous repression. His bitter- ness against the world had been fostered by constant loneliness ; for the family had now few friends. It was his twentieth birthday, and the day, a clear June day of unusual bright- ness, broke with warmth and splendour over the sandhills and the sea. He had risen early, and gone down to the sea for a swim. Emerging from the water, light and glistening as a naked god, and happy for the time in the glowing consciousness of life, he cast on his clothes, and turning inland, he threw himself on one of the hot sandhills, to bask in the sun. All was perfectly still — the clear heaven, I 114 ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ MAN, the calm throbbing ocean, the long flat sands still wet from the receding tide : not a sound broke the summer silence. All at once, however, the stillness was broken by the sound of a voice, sing- ing. So suddenly did It rise, and so near at hand, that he was quite startled. Half- rising he listened. Yes, there could be no doubt whatever; some one was singing close by. A clear silvery voice, like that of a woman. Stranger still, the words seemed merry and foreign, belonging to some language he did not understand. It seemed like witchcraft, and Christian, who was not without his superstitions, felt a trembling thrill run through his frame. This lasted only for a minute ; then, rising to his feet, he moved over the sandhills in the direction of the voice. ENTER PRISCILLA. 115 A few quick strides brought him within siofht of the sino[-er. o Down beneath him, in a green space between the sandhills, sprinkled with canna-grass and yellow flowers, a young girl was walking, singing clearly to herself as she moved and sang in the summer sun- shine. She was dressed in black, without one trace of any ornament. Even her bonnet was black, which she had taken off and was swinging by the strings. The con- trast between her gloomy dress and her bright face set in golden hair was suffi- ciently startling ; but equally as great was the contrast between that dress and the clear gay trill of her girlish voice. Christian stood looking on in wonder. He was used to country maidens, but this apparition seemed something quite differ- ent. She wore dainty boots and gauntlet I 2 il6 god and the man. gloves, and her attire, though so sombre in colour, was of fine material and elegant in form. As he gazed she ceased to sing, and stooping down gathered one or two of the yellow flowers ; these she fastened to her bosom, and as she did so, gave a silvery- laugh. Christian was fascinated. He had never seen a human being so completely at ease with herself and with the world. In her complete contentedness with her own company and thoughts, she realised Wordsworth's lines : — Solitude to her Is sweet society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary song. He looked on in wonder. Presently the girl resumed her walk, and her voice rose again. This time the tune was even gayer, though the words ENTER PRISCILLA. 117 were still foreign and strange. Then, finishing a verse, she laughed again, out of sheer delight of heart. It seemed hardly fair and honest to play the spy in that fashion, without letting the , young lady know that she was not unobserved ; so Christian, though he felt bashful for the first time in his life, gave a cough to attract her attention. She looked up at once, and to his astonishment, smiled and beckoned. Scarcely knowing what he did, he walked down towards her, and soon encountered the full fire of a pair of blue eyes, directed right into his own. Then came a point-blank question. ' How long have you been listening, If you please ? ' Christian stammered, blushed, and looked confused. Before he could find an answer, came another question. ii8 GOD AND THE MAN, ' Do you belong to this place ? ' * Yes,' he said. * Then perhaps you can help me. I have lost my way.' * Lost your way,' said the yOung man, looking puzzled. * Why ' He was about to ask the question which she at once, without hearing him, answered offhand. * I was wandering along the sea-shore, and I turned off among the sandhills ; and each Is so like the other that I got lost amonof them.' * You did not seem to mind.' * Nay, but I was singing to keep my courage up. You heard me ? ' ' Yes.' * Did you think I was singing a hymn ? ' Christian stared, and involuntarily shook his head. ENTER PRISCILLA. 119 ' Since it was in French, perchance you could not tell,' she added, smiling, seeing the shadow of a smile on Christian's face. 'Well, perchance it was not a hymn at all, but a chanson I learned over in France.' There was something so frank and artless in the girl's manner, something so utterly different from the self-conscious timidity and blushing stupidity of country maidens, that Christian was perfectly be- wildered. To be addressed so fearlessly and carelessly by a complete stranger was in itself a novelty. He felt for the time like an awkward lout, tackled for the first time by a fairy of the wood or sea. ' Do you — live here '^. Nay, in the neighbourhood, I mean ? ' ' I am staying with my father, over in Brightlinghead.* I20 GOD AND THE MAN. Brightlinghead was a small fishing village, situated some miles away, upon the sea-shore. . * And you ? ' she asked. * I live at the Fen Farm, in yonder.' * What is your name ? ' * Christian Christianson.' She looked at him from top to toe, with the frank yet modest look that was peculiar to her. ' You must be a good Christian, in sooth, if you are like your name.' Christian coloured up, and said awk- wardly, * What is your father ? Not of these parts ? ' ^ Nay,' she replied, * he is a stranger. He hath come down hither to preach God's Word.' Christian wondered again ; to his simple sense, there seemed something ENTER PRISCILLA. 121 most Inconsistent between gospel-preach- ing and a vision so bright and sweet. * Your father Is a parson, then ? ' The girl shook her head. ' Nay, he is not in holy orders, though he hath had a call. Since he heard good Mr. Wesley preach, the Spirit hath moved him to discourse for poor folks' conversion.' Another change. She spoke now with a quite different intonation, recalling the prim phrases of the dissenting chapel. Her eyelids drooped demurely, and the edges of her pretty mouth were just turned down — like a roseleaf folding. While speaking, they had moved on quietly towards an opening In the sand- hills, and they were now within view of the open sea sands. ' I shall know my way now,' she said, quietly. ' Good day, friend.' But Christian, with the fascination of 122 GOD AND THE MAN, her presence strong upon him, was not to be parted with so easily. He kept by her side, saying : * If you will suffer me, I can show you a short cut back to your village. 'TIs but going round yonder by the skirts of .the water-meadow, Instead of winding along the curves of the sea/ ' Point me the path, prithee, and I will take it/ 'Nay, I will go with you a piece of the way.' The girl smiled, and looked at him again with her bright eyes. 'A good Christian, as I said! Come, then, good Christian ! ' And she tript along with happy un- concern, he following. As they went, he had a better oppor- tunity of observing her, and the more he looked, the more his wonder grew. She ENTER PRISCILLA. 123 could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and yet her manner had the perfect repose of a mature woman. Her complexion was very pale, yet clear, her eyes matchlessly bright, her eyebrows dark, yet her hair the lightest of gold. He noted, too, that she had tiny hands and feet. Her figure was slight, yet very graceful, and she walked with a light elastic tread. By this time she had put on her bent bonnet, a structure of the then fashionable coal-scuttle shape, yet wondrously becom- ing to a plump and pretty face. Christian had seen few women save his own mother and sister, and such rustic beauties as he knew were of the red- cheeked, not to say red-elbowed, order. Of ladies proper he knew little or nothing. There was the vicar's wife, who might have once been comely, but was now sedately grim ; and her daughters — young 124 GOD AND THE MAN. ladles with shrill voices and high waists. Lawyer Jeffries' daughter was a bold- looking, handsome girl, and so were many of the farmers' daughters round about. But the one invariable characteristic of all these persons, plain or fair, was that they had two distinct manners — the * stand off' manner and the * come on ' manner — when- ever they were in company with a person of the other sex. In one word, they were either flirts or prudes : in either case ridicu- lously conscious of the sexual distinction. Now, the curious charm about this pretty stranger w^as her complete uncon- sciousness of anything of the sort. She spoke to Christian as frankly as one young man might talk to another, with perfect modesty, perfect unconscious- ness, and perfect ease. She took him at once, as it were. Into her confidence, as a human being, and yet, all the time, she ENTER PRISCILLA. 125 preserved a certain pretty virginal dignity, which warned him that it would be a dano[-erous thlnof to encroach. So he followed her as a do:^ mlcrht follow its mistress, happy, yet conscious of the command of a superior spirit. They passed along the sea-shore, along the border of the water-meadow, and then, crossing a field, found themselves In a dusty country road deeply furrowed with old cart-ruts, yet thickly sprinkled with growing grass. The hedges were high, and the grass all under them was thickly sprinkled with speedwells and dog-violets. The thick hedge shut out the distant sea, and it seemed like walking in a wood. Presently the maiden paused. * You must not come any further — I am quite right now.' ' 'Tis but a short step further,' returned Christian, 'and I will not leave you yet. 126 GOD AND THE MAN. Perchance before I go/ he said, ^you will tell me your name.' * Did I not tell you, friend ? It is Priscllla.' * Mistress Priscllla ' * Priscllla Sefton, at your service/ she cried, smiling and dropping a little curtsey; ' and now, since you have proved yourself good Samaritan as well as good Christian, I prithee come no further/ The young man tingled and blushed each time she played upon his name. * I have naught to occupy me, and I am going your way,' he replied. * Naught to occupy you ? ' she cried, with a smile. ' Know you not the rhyme, " Satan doth find some mischief still, for idle hands to do "^? But there, since you are so willing, come along.' So they went side by side. Presently they came to a little bridge, arched like a ENTER PRISCILLA. 127 maiden's foot, spanning a bright brook, that went leaping down to the sea. Priscilla paused, and leant over, looking at the sparkling water. Just below the bridge, it made a pool, fringed deep with sedge and reeds, and in among the reeds white water-lilies were just unfolding, each with a pinch of gold in Its heart, and on the banks hung wild rose-bushes, with pink flowers fluttering open to see their Images in the water beneath. Just then, a bright little bird, in gorgeous summer clothing of red, blue, and gold, darted through the arch of the bridge, paused as If to alight on an outreaching twig of the rose-bushes, and then, seeing Priscilla, flew on rapidly with a sharp cry, keeping very close to the water, and following with rapid precision every w^inding of the brook. * What a beautiful bird ! ' cried the eirl. ' Do you know Its name ? ' 128 GOD AND THE MAN. ' 'Tis a kingfisher/ * And look — there Is another ! ' On a stone in the middle of the pool was a little bird with a snow-white breast, dip-dipping In rapid motion as It stood, with its head cocked on one side, and its sharp eye so intent on the water that It did not see the human forms above it. As Priscilla spoke, it quietly slipt into the water and disappeared from sight. ' That Is a water-ouzel,' exclaimed Christian. The little bird re-emerged, stood on the stone again dip-dipping, and then, startled, flew off after the kingfisher, down the stream. * How nice to be a country lad,' said Priscilla, * and to know all the pretty birds and flowers. 'Tis almost my first visit to the green fields. I have lived all my life In smoky towns.' ENTER PRISCILLA. 129 ' London born, perchance ? ' queried Christian. * Yes ; but since I was twelve years old, I have dwelt with my good Aunt Dorcas in Liege. It was pleasant there, but I love our England best.' VOL. I. K I30 GOD AND THE MAN. CHAPTER VI. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. As they lingered there, leaning over the keystone of the little bridge, they formed a fine contrast ; he, so mightily and grandly made, with his sunburnt cheeks and air of Arcadian simplicity ; she, so delicate and fairy-like, in her tight-fitting dress of black, with her little gloved hands and fairy feet. Down below them In the shadows the gnats swarmed, and the min- nows sparkled, and the trout leapt ; birds were singing on every side ; In heaven, there was full sunshine ; on earth, perfect fruition of the summer tide. Delicious was the birds' song, delicious the cool FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 131 trickling sound of the running brook. Like a child delighted, Priscilla listened, and her pure face reflected the joy of aD the happy things around her. Young Christian looked and gladdened. He did not know it yet, for he was a boy, but the divine hour had come : the hour which does not come to all (for to some men capable of infinite affection it never comes at all), but which, when it does come, means transfiguration. This deli- cate being, bringing with her the perfume and the beauty of some unknown world, this dainty stranger, who talked with him already as frankly as if he were an old friend, held him spell-bound. Yet, strange to say, he was not tongue-tied ; to his own astonishment, he found himself catchine the contagion of her frankness, and talk- ing with a freedom unusual to him. ' This is Thornley Beck,' he said ; K 2 132 GOD AND THE MAN. *down yonder, a mile away, it runneth into the sea. I have seen the white trout trying to dimb it in autumn floods, but they cannot pass the bridge, and there are no pools, so they cannot stay. Down close to the sands, there be silver mullet in hun- dreds, and the fishermen take them in the net.' Christian spoke as a country lad, loving sport better than sentiment. To him, the fishing possibilities of the beach were of infinitely more consequence than its natu- ral beauties, for the artistic sense had never been born within him. * Had I my will,' said Priscilla, thought- fully, ' none should snare the pretty fish. 'Tis a sin to slay what the good God made.' The lad stared, for such talk was to him incomprehensible. * God made the fish for food,' he an- FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 133 swered, ' and the beasts, and the birds of the air. Our Lord Himself did go a-fish- ing once.' * Nay, 'tvvas a miracle,' answered the maiden, * and these things are hard to understand. God meant it for a merry world, but our sin hath transformed it. Had you seen what I have seen, in the wicked city, you would be sad.' * What have you seen } ' * Human folk dwelling in places dark and foul ; men and women pining away for lack of the sweet air; little babes starving at the breast ; and I have heard cursing and gnashing of teeth, such as the good pilgrim your namesake heard when he lay him down in a den.* ' What took you into such evil places ? ' asked Christian in surprise. * I went with my father, to save souls.' ^How?' 134 GOD AND THE MAN. * By reading to them out of the Blessed Book, and by telhng them of Him that loved them and laid down His life for their sakes. I have stood by and sung sweet hymns to them, while they smiled and died.' The lad's wonder deepened. The girls words were so sad and terrible, and yet her face remained so bright and simple. Here and there in her intonation he seemed to catch the twanof of the preacher, but the manner was so different, so calm and innocently assured. A sudden question occurred to him, and he uttered it at once. * You wear black, — you are in mourn- ing perchance ? ' She shook her head. * My mother died long ago, when I was a babe ; but my father doth not think light colours seemly, nor do any of our folk.' FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 135 ' Your folk ? ' *We are of good INIaster Wesley's flock, and he himself hath sent my father hither/ Now Christian had heard of the great preacher, as of one malignant in all re- spects, disaffected to Church and State and King ; and he had heard of his people, as of people to be avoided and distrusted by all good subjects. Nay, in his own dis- trict there w^ere sprinkled a few infected individuals, who were at war with the parson and exiled from society in general. Notably, there was one Elijah Marvel., a shoemaker of grim and forbidding aspect, who would bandy words with the vicar himself, and had in consequence lost all custom, fallen on evil days, and alas ! taken to strong ale — fortified by which, he be- came even more malignant than before. His mother, he knew, often spoke of Mr. 136 GOD AND THE MAN. Wesley with a certain respect, but she had never openly fallen away from the Church, and had sent her children to church and Sunday-school, and had a stately welcome for the pastor of the parish whenever he paid her an official visit. Altogether, Christian shared to the full the popular prejudice against dissenters of all kinds ; for he had not learned to think for himself on religious subjects, and took his religion as it came to him, with the other traditions of his race and blood. ' Priscilla noticed his astonishment, and looked at him with grave thoughtfulness. * You are not of my father's persua- sion ? ' ' Nay,' cried Christian quickly, ' I am for the King.' Priscilla's face blossomed into an amused smile. ; * And so are we all ! ' FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 137 * Nay, I thought- * Well, good Christian ? ' ' — That Master Wesley was a Preten- der's man, and an enemy to all good sub- jects.' * Master Wesley is for the Lord Jesus, the King of kings,' she replied simply, ' and I fear you have heard him belied like his Master before him. I would you could hear him preach : he is so terrible, yet he can be so gentle when he lists. His voice is as the sounding of trumpets, yet his smile is " kindly as the sunshine upon the sea. Though he cometh to call sinners to repentance, he is sorest of all upon himself So speaking, in her natural tones, as if she were uttering mere matter-of-fact, she walked on. The language of the con- venticle had grown so familiar to her, that it came to her lips as naturally as girlish 138 GOD AND THE MAN. laughter. She seemed a strange contra- diction ; so bright and fearless, and yet so full of grave discourse ; so sweet in her manner, yet in her matter so solemn and even sad ; so pious-minded, yet so happy. Now, Christian knew, even in his little experience, that the Methodist people in- clined more to the dark than to the sunny view of human affairs. Cobbler Marvel had once roundly rated the vicar himself for cooking hot dinners on the Sabbath, and for over-finery of personal attire. His talk was much of Armageddon, and of brimstone, and of the pit. Moreover, once or twice Christian had got a peep at certain forbidden gatherings in the open air, where common men gathered together and spake as the Spirit moved them ; and he had thought their discourse the very reverse of cheerful, nay, gloomy and dull exceedingly. Such, in his simple eyes. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 139 were Methodists — fate-haunted and dis- tracted men. Yet here was something so different, under the same name : a sun- beam of a maiden, happy in a sinful world. Her piety was like her black dress ; it only showed her brightness to more ad- vantage. He had read few books, but one of them was the * Pilgrim's Progress ; * and already he felt that Priscllla was like one of those shiningly- vestured beings, who talked to that other Christian and en- couraged him upon his way. And now, leaving the brook behind them, they passed along the hot lane, and coming to the brow of a hill, saw again the sea glittering before them ; and be- tween them and the sea was the fishing- village of Brightllnghead, clustering with red-tiled houses, and brown sails, and dry- ing nets upon the sea-beach. Priscllla led the way, followed by her I40 GOD AND THE MAN. new acquaintance, and paused near a tiny cottage, with a narrow patch of front gar- den, upon the roadside. Inside the garden gate stood two men, seemingly In angry conversation. One was a short, squat, bullet-headed man in black, who wore a clerical hat and carried a cane, and who was obviously In holy orders. The other was a tall, thin man, with a countenance of ghastly pallor, and large blue eyes full of a somewhat wandering light. He did not seem more than fifty years of age, but his hair was as white as snow. ' Now mark me,* said the clergyman, shaking his cane, ' I will have no malig- nant and disaffected wanderers — whom no man knows, and who have no authority from God or man — meddling with my people. 'Tis my care to look after the souls of this parish, and I want no med- FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 141 dlers. I warn you, therefore, to quit the place, or to let my people be.' The person whom he addressed an- swered him, with a curious far-off look In his eyes, * Nevertheless, I must do my Master's bidding.' * At your peril ! I have but to give the word, and they would duck you In the horsepond, or stone you from the town.' ' For what ? ' gently said the white- haired man. ' For telling simple folk the v/ay to God's mercy ? F'or warning them to save their souls alive, ere yet they fall to the place where the worm never dieth } ' The clergyman, a very hot-tempered little man, gave a grunt of complete disgust. * I know the canting jargon, Master Methodist, but it won't do down here. My people have been taught that the best 142 GOD AND THE MAN. way to save their souls is to do as I bid them, to work hard for daily bread, not to meddle with themes they cannot under- stand, and to honour the King and the clergy. There, go to! You have come to the wrong place, that is all, and the sooner you depart as you came the better we shall all be pleased/ With these words the indignant clergy- man bustled through the garden gate, cast one sharp look at Priscilla, who was enter- ing in, and walked rapidly away. Approaching the white-haired man with an anxious look, the maiden touched him on the arm. Strange to say, he did not turn his eyes upon her, but still pre- served in them the curious far-off look we have already described. * Priscilla ! ' ' Yes, father, it is I. What hath been the matter ? ' FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 143 ' The good pastor of the parish is angry that I have been preaching to his flock. I am grieved in sooth to have offended him, but I cannot serve two masters, and the good seed must be sown/ ' Verily, father ; but come, some one wants to speak with you. To-day I have lost my way, and found a friend/ So saying, she took the old man's hand and drew him towards the gate, where Christian still stood wondering. When they were quite close, she beckoned to .him with a smile. ' Will you speak to my father ? ' she said. ' Father, this is a young man who showed me the way home. His name is Christian Christianson.' ' A good name, at all events,' said the man, with the glint of a smile upon his wan cheeks, ' and I trust a fitting one. Youncf man, you are very welcome.' 144 GOD AND THE MAN, As he spoke he reached out a thin white hand, and Christian now perceived for the first time that he was bHnd — stricken by the species of disease of which Milton so pathetically yet patiently com- plained. The gutta serejta, or ' thick drop serene,' had invaded both orbs, and left him In perpetual night. Christian shrank back, but both father and daughter invited him to enter the cottage, and though bashfulness had now fallen upon him like an uncomfortable gar- ment, curiosity made him assent. He fol- lowed the strange pair into a low-roofed parlour, with black rafters and white- washed walls. The only furniture was a plain deal table and some chairs. The floor was of deal, with no carpet. All would have seemed squalid indeed, but upon the table there was a plate of water, with fresh-culled pansies from the garden, FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 145 close to an open Bible, very stained and old. The man sat down, and Priscilla mo- tioned their guest to do likewise. * Nay, I cannot linger,' he murmured, flushing ; ' I will depart now, and ' ' Stay a short space,' said the blind man. * Priscilla, get Mr. Christian some refreshment. Perchance, when he hath broken bread with us he will remain and offer up thanks with us to the Giver of all mercies.' A sweet look from the maiden's eyes did more to persuade the lad to remain than any prospect of praise or thanks- giving. So he kept his seat, and tripping forth to the kitchen, she brought him plain brown bread and new milk, w^hich he made pretence, for courtesy's sake, to taste. Meantime, his eyes sought the face VOL. I. L 146 GOD AND THE MAN. and figure of the blind man ; and he was surprised to find in one so afflicted so complete a calm. Looking closer, he no- ticed that, though the man's dress was plain, it was of excellent material, that he wore wondrously fine linen, that his hands were white and delicate, and had never been used in any manual labour. This puzzled him more ; for all the Wesleyans whom he had seen, or of whom he had heard, were common handicraftsmen or labourers in the fields. There was, more- over, in the man's manner a curious state- liness and grandeur. He spoke with an accent of extreme refinement, which even Christian, though country-born, could not fail to perceive. As they sat, there was a tap at the door, and a grim-looking man, clad in fisherman^s style, quietly slouched in. He was followed almost immediately FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 147 by another younger man, then by an elderly woman leading a child, and lastly by a good-humoured-looking blacksmith, fresh from the forge, in his leather apron. Some of these people were evidently ex- pected ; for at the sound of their entrance the blind man rose to his feet and gave them welcome. * Good even, master,' said the black- smith, cheerily. * I hear thou'st had a visit from t' parson. Well, never heed Jiim, for he be an old wife.' * What is your name, friend ? ' asked the blind man. * Seth Smith, master,' was the reply. * Have you come of your own will to join our circle In prayer ? * *Ay, if you please, and I will tell you why. Because parson he did dare me to come and pray wl' Wesleyans. "Mind thy own soul," said I, ** and I'll mind L 2 148 GOD AND THE MAN. mine," and off I came — for I'll pray in what company I please.' * Be seated, friend,' said the blind man, quietly. * And I'll tell thee more, master,' cried the smith, who was both garrulous and aggressive. ' They say thou'rt one o' the right sort — a rich man who has divided all his riches among poor folk. Now, t' parson he gives nought, but is a swaggerer in gen- try's company, and cares only for 's tithes. So I be come to listen, and if I like thy ways I'll come again ; and if I like not thy ways, I'll stay at home.* This at least was frank, and the stout smith took his seat like a man who did not mean to be imposed upon, but was determined to criticise, boldly yet honestly, the proceedings which were to follow. Christian rose to depart, but at an eager sign from Priscilla, he remained. FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 149 Then he beheld, and Indeed took a part in, the simple ceremonies of his new ac- quaintances. The proceedings were opened with a short prayer by the blind man, whose face as he prayed shone with a soft beatified light. Then Priscilla, who was seated by his side, gave out the words of a simple hymn ; and afterwards, in a clear beautiful voice, led the singing. How sweet yet solemn seemed the tones ! Could this be the same voice that he had heard, but a little time before, trilling out the gay cadence of that incomprehensible French song ? Yes, it was the same, but the ef- fect was so different, so holy and so grave. He raised his eyes and peeped at her face. A deep shadow lay upon it, and though the eyes were still clear, they seemed full of the sadness of recent tears. Then the blind man began a short I50 GOD AND THE MAN. discourse, taking for his text the terrible words, ' I am he that Hveth, and was dead ; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen ; and have the keys of hell and of death.' Commencing in a low and some- what feeble voice, the blind man spoke of Christ's life on earth, its pains and tribula- tions, its temptations — which come likewise to every man ; then of His terrible death, rendered necessary by the iniquities of the world He came to save. A deep awe fell upon those who listened ; with dark Imagi- nation, the speaker reproduced for them the picture of that night of Calvary, which was only a colossal likeness, he said, of the crisis which must occur in miniature to every soul before it can be saved. Raising his voice, he passed on to speak of the ever-living God, to whom the keys of hell and of death belong. His hearers trembled, for it seemed as If the very FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 151 spirit of earthquake shook beneath them. The country\voman moaned and clutched her child ; and on the smith's hard- hammered face the perspiration stood In great beads, while his breath came and went like the sound of the forge bellows. Christian, not unmoved himself, looked again at Priscilla. She seemed listening, but none of the trouble seemed to touch her. To what can we compare her ? To a sunbeam on a graveyard ; to a white dove floating over stormy waters. Her eye was fixed on vacancy, and her face was quite bright. Perhaps, after all, her thoughts were far away. Suddenly the smith gave a great groan and threw up his hands, crying, * Lord, what a miserable sinner I be ! Lord, Lord, have mercy upon me ! ' And the others fervently cried ' Amen ! ' At this moment Christian became conscious of an 152 GOD AND THE MAN. Ugly face, surmounted with a head of shock hair, gazing In through the latticed window. 'Yaw! Methody! Methody!' shrieked a voice ; and Immediately came a loud howling and hooting from many voices around. But the blind man made no sign, and continued his discourse as If he heard nothing. Then some one outside mimicked the howling of a dog, and there was loud applause. Ceasing solemnly, the blind man made a sign to Priscilla, and again she gave forth the words of a simple hymn, and her- self led the singing as before. At the sound of the music, the noise without increased tenfold — howls and catcalls and savage laughter arose — and finally, a heavy stone, hurled by some cowardly hand, struck the window and broke several of the diamond-shaped panes. FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 153 Notwithstanding this interruption, no one stirred ; it seemed as if all were pre- pared for such interference. Priscilla finished the hymn with perfect calm and gravity, and after another short prayer, the service concluded. The smith strode over to the blind man, and reached out his hand. * Give me thy hand, master ! Thee hast made me see what a poor lost wretch I be ! I like thee, and I'll come again! and if any man molests thee, I'll take thy part.' Then he shook hands with Priscilla and patted her kindly on the head, for he had a daughter of his own, he said. Christian followed suit, and said good- bye to father and daughter. The latter seemed almost to have forgotten his pre- sence, for now the service was done, she was talking anxiously to her father ; 154 GOD AND THE MAN. but she gave him her hand civilly, and he thrilled at the touch. Passing out to the road, he found a eatherinof of some twelve or fifteen men and boys, blocking up the way, some scowling, some grinning. The smith went first, with little ceremou)^, and they cleared the way for him quickly enough ; but at sight of Christian, they murmured loudly. 'Yaw! Methody ! ' cried the same voice he had heard before. Christian smiled, rather amused than otherwise. This they took as a sign that they might encroach, and gathered round him ; but a closer look at his square jaw and powerful frame kept them from laying hands upon him. He walked through them, and away from them. There was a wild yell, but he did not turn. Suddenly a stone whizzed past his ear, FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 155 and another fell at his feet. He turned quickly, and saw, in advance of the rest, the thrower — a great hulking fellow of four- or five-and-twenty, ostler at one of the inns. Christian strode back, and before the other could stir they were face to face. * Did you throw that stone ? * The fellow grinned savagely, and made no reply ; but the others hooted. 'Answer me,' cried Christian, 'or I'll wring your ugly neck ! ' ' Best try ! ' snarled the other ; then he uttered a terrified yell, for Christian had him by the throat. There was a quick struggle, a cry of voices, and in another minute the ostler lay like a log on the road, with bruised body and bleeding nose. Christian stood panting, and faced the shrieking group. At this moment, the group parted, and 156 GOD AND THE MAN. there appeared the same clergyman whom Christian had seen before in conversation with the bHnd man. ' What's this ? what's this ? How dare you strike one of my people ? ' * He stoned me first,' answered Chris- tian, 'and he hath only got what he de- serves/ * Who are you, boy ? What's your name ? ' demanded the clergyman, sharply. ' My name is Christian Christianson, and I dwell away yonder, at the Fen Farm.' ' I have heard of you ; and to no good, I promise you. Squire Orchardson of the Willows knoweth you and yours only too well.' * As the thief knoweth those he hath robbed ! ' retorted Christian, turning fiercely on his heel. As he did so, he saw, standing at the FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 157 cottage door, the figure of Priscllla Sefton. She was looking at him, with a face full of admiring sympathy and terror. He smiled and waved his hand to her ; then he walked away along the road, with all his young spirit troubled, his body flushed with victory, and his heart trembling (though he scarcely knew it) with the new-born flame of love. 158 GOD AND THE MAN. CHAPTER VII. A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. A FEW days after the first meeting of Christian Christiansen and Priscilla Sefton, Cobbler Marvel stood leaning over his garden gate, and looking moodily at va- cancy. His hymn-book was in his hand, his red cotton nightcap was on his head, and he was in his shirt-sleeves. Never- theless, the church bells were ringing, and it was Sunday. Cobbler Marvel's only recognition of the day was significant, though peculiarly simple : he had washed his face. He was a gaunt, grim-looking man of about sixty, with grey hair and beard, A DISAFFECTED SPIRFF. 159 a copper-coloured nose, and a weather- beaten complexion. His long legs were cased in rusty brown small-clothes and torn stocklnes ; his shirt was of red wool ; his waistcoat, which he wore unbuttoned, for coolness, of brown cloth. His night- cap was cocked somewhat fiercely over the only eye he had — the right one — and he had altogether the appearance of a person who would stand no nonsense. It was a golden summer morning, and the sound of the bells fell sweetly on the Sabbath air, but Cobbler Marvel was the very reverse of amiable. * You may ring, and you may ring,' he muttered to himself, as he listened ; ' but I've heerd as fine music as that played on Satan's fiddle ; and parson may pray and preach sarmon, but I'd as lief hear the howlinc: of the Beast. And he'll gang home to 's roast and boiled and fine i6o GOD AND THE MAN. company, and drink his port wine wi' Old Nick at his elbow, and a wail of weeping and gnashing of teeth all round. Well, the Lord's above, and hell's below, and Adam's fall Doth doom us all Until the Judgment Day.' It was a gloomy view of the world to take for one who, despite his appearance, was a not entirely unprosperous person. For Cobbler Marvel stood in his own garden, or orchard, a full acre in size ; in one corner of it there were bee-hives, with gold-thighed swarms hovering near them ; and amid the trees stood the little red-brick cottage — small, but weather- worthy, with a bench of stone in front for the cobbler to cobble upon in fine weather, when he was tired of gardening and keeping his bees in order. But Cobbler Marvel was misanthropical by • He lifted his eyes, and encountered the vision of a fresh young face: A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. i6i nature, and what was worse, a woman- hater to boot, although a married man. As the country people past, dressed gaily in their Sabbath best, he paused, frown- ing and sniffing, more especially at the women. He had not forgiven the fair sex its original participation in the col- lapse of human nature. The church bells ceased, the country people disappeared, and Cobbler Marvel was still scowling at the country, when a voice startled him. He lifted his eyes, and encountered the vision of a fresh young face, gazing at him with frank and peaceful eyes. * Good-morrow, friend,' said the voice, with a ring as sweet and clear as that of the bells. The cobbler screwed up his eye, looked the speaker from head to foot, and then, failing to recognise in her any VOL. I. M 1 62 GOD AND THE MAN, of his acquaintances or foes in the village, grunted defiantly. * And why good-morrow, young mis- tress ? why good-morrow, eh ? ' he de- manded. * Because it is fair weather, and the sun shines, and it is the Lord's Day,' was the quiet reply. ' So it is good-morrow indeed.' This time Cobbler Marvel did not deign to respond, but hunching up his shoulders scowled again at vacancy, wait- ing to be left alone. But Priscilla — for it was no other than she — persisted. ' What may be your name, good man ? ' * What be that to thee ? ' answered the misogynist, still averting his one eye, muttering to himself, in the words of an obscure but pious poet, A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 163 ' And Eve she came a-questioning, And caused our father's fall.' Priscllla smiled, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, a trick she had learned across Channel. * Be not afraid, good man,' she cried ; * I am only a simple maiden, and a stran- ger — and you need not fear me.' * I fear no man,' growled the cobbler ; * nor no woman.' ' Then you mislike them, which Is next to fear, and that, good man, is wicked, and unseemly for a true Christian — which I hope you are.' Something in the calm, cool, matter- of-fact tone startled Marvel, and he turned his head round to glare at Pris- cllla. Then he looked the pretty figure from head to foot as^ain. He was not in the habit of being tackled so quietly. Most of the neisrhbours avoided him and M 2 i64 GOD AND THE MAN. feared his tongue, and even with his in- veterate adversary the parson, he was able to hold his own. * And who may you be that talks so pert ? No good, mayhap ! Get thee out o' the way, I be thinking o' solemn things ! * * I have heard Master Wesley say * ' Eh ? ' interposed the cobbler, with a start at the name. * — That none was so solemn as Tom Fool, and that Tom Fool, with himself for company, was as good as two fools in a show.' Elijah Marvel started and gasped. The words were not spoken rudely, but with the quiet precision of one making a true but apposite quotation. Before he could speak again, the girl proceeded. A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 165 ' I think I can tell your name now, good man. It is Elijah Marvel.' ' How learned you that ? ' said the other sharply. ' I was bidden to seek the surliest man in the village, and, by that token, you are he.' The cobbler uttered an exclamation which, on less profane lips, would have sounded like an oath. The sweat stood on his forehead, and the light in his eye grew positively baleful. But something in the sweet superiority of the maiden awed even him. As he stood panting and hesitating, Priscilla came nearer. * What a pretty garden you have ! ' (A grunt from Marvel.) * And what fine trees, full of fair fruit' (Another grunt.) * And you keep bees to make you honey — I see the yellow hives, and I can hear the busy insects humming all about.' i66 GOD AND THE MAN, (Another grunt.) ' I must bring my father to hear your bees, good man, for he loves the sound ; and, Hke good Master Wesley, holds the simple bees a pattern set by God for human folk/ Cobbler Marvel had started again at the mention of the preacher's name. He took off his nightcap, and mopped his brow. His manner momently grew more and more respectful. * And who may your father be, young mistress ? ' he inquired, in a subdued voice. * He is Master Sefton.' * From London ? * * Yes.' In a moment the man's manner changed. His grim features broke into the semblance of a smile. ' Lord, lord, what a goose I be ! I might ha' known you were from none o' A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 167 these parts, you do speak so bold. And you be Master Sefton's daughter from London ? I heerd he were coming to these parts, for to spread the good tidings, and save folks' souls alive from flaming fire.' ' Yes ; and he has come.' * Praised be the Lord ! There be plenty of brands here for to pluck from hell's burning, for the parson, he be a Pope's man, and his flock be like the flock o' swine that were drowndead through entering of devils. Where be thy father staying ? ' ' Over at Brightlinghead,' answered Priscilla, ' but we have walked over to-day, and he is resting at the foot of the hill.' ' Nay, then, I'll come to him at once,' cried the cobbler, Priscilla looked at him quietly, and smiled. i68 GOD AND THE MAN. ' First get thy coat, good man ; my father does not commend vanity of attire, but he loves neatness and seemliness, m'ost of all on the Lord's Day.' Cobbler Marvel went very red, and, for the first time in his life, felt ashamed of his defiant deshabillL * I've heerd tell as Master Sefton is blind,' he muttered irritably, * and if so be ' * Nay, good man,' cried Priscilla, ' what the sun can see, God can see, and a good Christian should be seemly clad,' The cobbler grunted disapproval, and muttered something about the vanity of personal adornment, and the necessity of every man despising vanity for the sake of his precious soul. But the grace and ease of Priscilla had quite mastered him, and after a moment's hesitation he stalked into his cottage, and in a few minutes A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 169 re-emerged, looking, for him, exceedingly spick-and-span. Then Priscilla tript down the road, and the cobbler stalked after her ; and on a stile leading into a green field just on the skirts of the village they found the blind gentleman sitting, mur- muring quietly to himself, with the sun- shine on his snow-white hair. The cobbler looked upon him with no little respect, and when introduced to him by name, saluted him with great reverence. For even over the aggres- sive mind of Cobbler Marvel the serene self-possession and refinement of Sefton exercised an immediately subduing Influ- ence. After a little conversation on gene- ral subjects, Sefton said, * And where do our people meet to- day?' * In my poor cottage, master,' was the reply ; ' and 'tis nigh upon the hour. I70 GOD AND THE MAN. Will you join us, master ? or if so be you be too weary, I'll fetch them along, and we'll worship out in the open air/ The blind man rose, and smiled as he answered, ' I am never weary when about my Masters work. Lead the way, and we will come to your house. Priscilla, let me lean upon your arm.' * Nay, master, lean on mine,' cried the cobbler, ' I be the stronger.' Sefton thanked him, and took his arm, and they walked slowly up the hill. Priscilla followed quietly. As they went it seemed as if all the shadow went with them — with the grim old tatterde- malion and the afflicted gentleman, while all the sunshine remained behind with the girl. She moved on lightly, with a full enjoyment of the fair prospect, the golden weather, the azure sky. Of these A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 171 wonderful revelations of an Almighty Love the men saw nothing — the one because he was physically, the other because he was mentally, blind ; but the maiden, in her sweet unconsciousness and content, was at one with Nature. Her somewhat gloomy creed, like her de- mure dress, could not touch the bril- liancy and purity of her young life. Indeed, she scarcely realised its gloom, though, from early habit, she was so familiar with its vocabulary. In a few minutes they were again close to the cobbler's garden gate, which they entered, and passing through the rows of heavily-laden fruit-trees, approached the cottage door. Here they encountered an interruption, which made the moody cob- bler look exceedingly uncomfortable for the time being. On the threshold stood a middle-aged and rather good-looking 172 GOD AND THE MAN. woman, dressed In a Sunday bonnet and bright-coloured gown, and gazing at the cobbler, and from the cobbler to his com- panions, with impatience and irritation depicted in every lineament of her face. This, if the sad truth must be admitted, was Marvel's wife, the only person in the village who was in any sense of the word a match for him. Much of his hatred for the female sex might be traced, possibly, to the discomforts and incompatibilities of his wedded lot. The woman was many years his junior, and a sturdy opponent of all innovations in Church, State, or domestic institutions. She attended the parish church regularly, and in matters of doctrine was in close league with the parson against her husband. On seeing the strangers, she drew back with a bound and disappeared into some mysterious part of the cottage. A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 17^ With a low groan, expressive of com- miseration for her or his own forlorn condition, the cobbler led the way across the threshold. Entering the parlour, which was quite empty, the cobbler assisted Sefton to a chair, while Priscilla walked up to the window, where sweet-smelling musk plants were flowering in great profusion, and fixed her large eyes longingly on the sunny garden. All was so dark and quiet one could hear distinctly the buzzing of the flies amidst the musk plants — the mono- tonous drone of the bees in the tea-tree outside. But presently a rap on the front door announced visitors ; and Cobbler Marvel, trotting off, soon ushered the new-comers into the room. They consisted of three or four very weather-beaten figures in wide-awake hats and rough suits, half rustic, half nautical. 174 GOD AND THE MAN. They entered In single file, hat In hand, and looked around them with the vacant look peculiar to persons entering church or chapel. In a few minutes all the men were on their knees, and Cobbler Marvel delivered an extempore prayer of no little length and with one chief fault, that It touched rather on the eloom than the cheerfulness of the life of man, and dealt somewhat unmerci- fully with sin and sinners. Then the men stood up, and one of them began a hymn, in which all the others gruffly joined. After this Mr. Sefton rose, and In a few touching words, contrasting favourably in matter and manner with those of the local leader, touched on some points of his own simple spiritual experience. After a few words of a similar kind from a country character with a very rubicund face and a very faint far-away voice, A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 175 and another hymn, the proceedings termi- nated. No sooner had the company departed than the kitchen door opened violently, and Mrs. Marvel, still in her Sunday finery, sailed into the parlour. ' It don't become thee, Elijah Marvel,' she cried, ' to turn my house into a meet- ing-house, and set all the neighbours scorning us, and ha' parson preaching agin' us out o' pulpit, driving away thy custom and breaking thy dame's heart ! If thou must pray, pray like a decent man among decent folk, and live cleanly. They do say you be plotting wicked things agin' Church and King, and soon or late thou wilt come to be hunof on eallows- tree.' * Nay, dame,' interposed the blind man gently, ' you speak of things you do not understand. Thy good man is no plotter. 176 GOD AND THE MAN, nor are we who are to-day his guests. We are only grievous sinners like yourself, seeking to save our souls.' * And who may you be, kind sir ? ' asked the housewife, with some asperity ; adding as she turned to Priscilla, *and you, young madam ? ' * The gentleman is my father,' replied Priscilla ; ' and we are strangers. But come, father, it is time to go.' Appeased and subdued by the appear- ance and manner of the speaker, Dame Marvel gave a courtesy, and became apolo- getical. * Your pardon if I ha' spoken sharp, young madam, but Cobbler Marvel he would fret a saint. Since you be gentle- folk, as indeed we may plainly see, you are kindly welcome. Maybe you'll rest a bit, and taste a glass of my cowslip wine ? ' * Nay, dame, we must depart,' said A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 177 Mr. Sefton, ' though I thank you all the same.* Leaning on his daughter's arm, he moved to the door, while the dame, with another great courtesy, made way for him to pass. Cobbler Marvel hobbled after them, with a fierce scowl at his wife, who answered him with a defiant toss of the head. So they crossed the garden, and after bidding the moody cobbler farewell, and bidding him join them at their gather- ings in the neighbouring village, passed quietly across the green fields towards Brightlinghead. VOL. I. N 178 GOD AND THE MAN. CHAPTER VIII. CLOUDS IN THE SKY. Several weeks had passed away since Christian Christiansen and Priscilla Sefton had met accidentally on the sands, and since that day the two had scarcely been alone in each other's company. True, they had met ; for was not Christian now a constant attendant at the religious ser- vices held In the cottage at Brightllng- head ? Indeed, so absorbed had he become In religious fervour that he com- pletely forgot to watch how affairs were going on at home. It seemed to him now that he was continually sitting In the little cottage listening to the beautiful CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 179 voice of the girl as she sang the quaint new hymns, or watching her beautiful bowed head as she joined her father in prayer. Then when the service was over, he, longing yet dreading to stay, walked out with his brother worshippers and strode moody and dissatisfied towards his home. But one night, when he rose as usual to take his departure, Priscilla motioned to him to stay, and having bowed a sweet good-night to her father's fellow- wor- shippers, passed with Christian out into the garden. It was one of those calm, still summer nights, which are rendered even more beautiful by their promise of a golden morrow. On emerging from the house, Priscilla looked round her with a sigh of pleasure ; then she turned to Christian. He had been looking full at her ; as soon N 2 i8o GOD AND THE MAN. as their eyes met his dropped, and he turned his head away. ' Nay, friend, you have no need to turn away,' said the girl, laying her slender hand upon his sleeve. ' Do you know, good Christian, of what I v/as thinking when I looked at you to-night ?' At these words Christian felt his whole frame tremble, and an unaccountable feel- ing of joy fill his heart, but he answered quietly enough, ' Nay, Mistress Priscilla.' ' This — you will become the best Christian In Brlo^htllno-head ! ' The young man started, looked into the eyes that were gazing so fearlessly up at him, and answered confusedly enough, ' Nay, Mistress Priscilla.' ' But I say yea, good Christian Chris- tianson ; for you are good, I aver, be- cause, although you have youth and CLOUDS IN THE SKY. i8i manly strength, and plenty of carnal temptations, you withstand them all, and while improving yourself set a good ex- ample to others/ ' Verily, Mistress Priscllla,' returned Christian aghast, 'how do you guess all this ? ' * I do not guess it, I know it,' returned the girl, quietly ; ' why else should you come so often to the cottage to the old blind man and his daughter ? Ah ! do not think, because I have not spoken, I have not watched you well. I have, and approved you ; therefore I have come out to-night to shake hands with you in a brave new light of hope.' So speaking, with more than her usual quaintness of phraseology, she held out her small white hand ; Christian took it, but he did not speak a word. Somehow the girl's laudatory words did not bring i82 GOD AND THE MAN. with them that degree of pleasure which he felt they should have done. He knew that most of what she had said was true ; he knew that he had braved the elements and renounced many daily pleasures merely for the sake of attending the religious meetings at Brightlinghead ; but he was not so sure that the fervent preach- ing of the aged missionary had been such a lodestone as the face of his beautiful daughter. What would those meetings have been to him without Priscilla ? Alas ! the world without the sun. For a time they stood at the gate in silence ; again Priscilla was the first to speak. ' Good-night, Christian/ she said, quietly. 'You have a mother, you sayi^.' * Yes, and a sister.' * Happy mother, and happy sister ! ' returned the girl quietly. ' Well, I have CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 183 a father for my share. I must not Hnger longer here, so again good-night ! • This time she returned to the house, and Christian strode homewards. For full seven days from that night Christian Christianson did not attend the religious meetings at Brightlinghead. Not that he was over busy at home, but an un- comfortable sense of shame made him shrink again from meeting Priscllla. Yet he longed to meet her, daily and hourly he thought of her ; the whole air seemed to be ringing with the echo of her name. His disposition was undergoing a trans- formation which he himself could hardly understand. Priscllla had come ; and as a flower unfolds Its petals before the sun- shine, his whole nature was expanding under the mysterious light of a woman's eyes. His temper grew fretful and strange, i84 GOD AND THE MAN. but every morning the world, In his eyes, grew brighter ; it seemed to him that he had never Hved before that day when he met the sweet figure on the sands ; the past with all its sorrow seemed to fade from his mind, like the blackest night before the brightening of dawn. And Priscilla ? Was her day dawn- ing — her night fading away ? He thought of her face when they had first met on the sands ; thought of it as he had seen it night after night during the hours of prayer ; thought of it as he had seen it that night at the garden gate, smilingly upraised to his. And as he did so he dared to hope that this little pale, prim girl had come to be to him what the sun is to the earth, the moon to the sea. ' Yes,' he thought, * her rare sweet love would make amends for half a century of sorrow. Sure 'tis such good fortune as CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 185 that which makes this Hfe worth Hving. I will try to deserve all that she thinks of me : with the help of God I will live a brave life and become a Christian man ! ' During all this time, as we have said, he kept away from the cottage, because he felt that in going thither he was playing a double part. He longed to meet Priscilla again alone. At the end of the weary week he did so. He came upon her again walking on the sands by the sea ; she was singing very cheerfully to herself, but as soon as she saw Christian she ceased, and hurried forward with outstretched hand. * I am fortunate to-day,' she said, look- ing steadily into the young mans face. * I came to seek you and I have found you ! You came to seek me ! ' was all that \ 1 86 GOD AND THE MAN. Christian could reply, for there was some- thing in Priscilla's blunt speech which completely puzzled and confounded him. ' Yes,' returned the girl, quietly smil- ing, * I came to seek thee, friend Christian ! You know the heathen story of Mahomet and the mountain ? ' she added, with a still brighter smile ; ' well, my good Chris- tian has of late become the mountain, and to-day I am Mahomet ! ' This time Christian did not reply ; indeed he hardly seemed to hear. He was conscious of standing upon a sheet of golden sand ; he knew that the glorious golden sun-rays were falling all around him, that the sea was murmuring musically in his ears, that a slender figure clad in black was standing before him, with a face like that of an angel turned smilingly to his ! ' How lonor he stood thus he did not CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 187 know ; his slumbering senses were aroused by the sound of the voice which ever thrilled him to the soul. * What hath come to you, good friend ? you are changing ; tell me, then, what is the matter ? ' Here was a chance for Christian Chris- tianson to speak. In a moment a burning desire possessed him to take the girl's hand in his and say, 'Yes, Priscilla, I am changed, for you have changed me. I love you — say that you love me too ! ' He turned towards her, he half stretched forth his hand, he looked down into her eyes, but before he could open his lips to speak, Priscilla had turned away. * I did not come with the intention of idling away the day,' said Priscilla, quietly. ' My father is in ill cheer to-day, and would gladly see yoii. Will you come, good Christian } ' 1 88 GOD AND THE MAN. To all outward perception Priscilla's manner was the same as it had ever been ; nevertheless, there was something in the tone of her sweet voice which completely dispelled the young man's dream, and brought him back to himself again. Once more, for the second time in his life, he was walking along the road to- wards Brightlinghead, Priscilla Sefton by his side — with the sunlight falling all around them and the sky smiling its brightest above. They walked along in silence, and Christian was again falling into that delicious trance which had mes- merised his senses on the sands, when he was again aroused by the sound of his companion's voice. * You have lived here all your life, have you not ? ' it said. 'Yes, I and my folk for generations CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 189 back. I was born at the Fen Farm yonder, and 'tis there I hope to die ! ' * In truth,' cried the girl, with a smile, and reofainlnof somethlnof of her former ease of manner ; ' I trust there Is yet time for you to find a place to die in ! But since you have dwelt here so long you know all the country-folk around, per- chance ? ' ' Most all.' ' And among them young Squire Orchardson of the Willows ? A fair young man, of a goodly disposition ! ' The girl had spoken innocently enough, with no thought or wish to wound or anger her companion : yet the young man's face turned from white to red in very rapid transitions, a dangerous light kindled in his eyes, his powerful hand clenched firmly as if for a blow. For a time he stood I90 GOD AND THE MAN. Speechless ; when he did speak It was to answer her question by another. *What know you of young Squire Orchardson of the Willows ? ' Priscilla looked up quickly, the change in his voice was so marked that it startled her. And how his face had changed ! The frank, open, manly look had gone ; there was an ugly light in his eyes which she had never seen before. 'What know you of young Squire Orchardson?' he asked again, this time almost roughly. Priscilla grew reserved. * In sooth, good friend,' said she, ' I know as little of Squire Orchardson as I know of you. Up till a few weeks ago you were both strangers to me, but he, like you, has been good Christian enough to come to Brightlinghead of an evening and join our circle in prayer ! ' CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 191 ' He has come ; and yo2t — you have welcomed him ' * In verity,' said Priscllla, coldly; *when we open our doors to do the work of the Lord we make all welcome ! ' Precisely in the same way Priscilla had spoken to him before, and had made his heart leap up for joy. ' Come, good Christian,' she had said, 'when we open the doors in the name of the Lord we make ^2// welcome ! ' How blissful those words had sounded to him then ; they seemed to say, You are welcome to come as often as you please and gladden in the sunshine of my presence ; but how dif- ferent it all seemed now ! With those self-same words she had criven a welcome to his bitterest foe. The two walked on in silence till they came to the bridge which spanned the 192 GOD AND THE MAN. narrow part of Thornley Beck. Here Christian paused, and held out his hand. * Good-bye, Prlscilla,' he said. The girl looked surprised. * Good-bye ? and wherefore good-bye ?* she said ; ' did I not ask you to come to Brightlinghead ? and you said yes ! ' * I am In no mood to meet Master Sefton to-night ! ' ' Then your mood has changed since we started from the sands ! ' * It hath ! ' The young man turned away, leaned over the parapet of the bridge, and looked gloomily down into the water. The girl watched him for a moment ; then she ap- proached him quietly and laid her gentle hand upon his arm. ' Christian ! ' 'Well?' * What ails you ? Have I done aught CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 193 that angers you ? If so, speak freely, friend ! ' Christian turned, took both her hands and looked into her eyes. Again here was his chance to utter everything ! but the tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and ere he could recover himself, the girl spoke again. ' Hath anything occurred between you and young Mr. Orchardson ? ' she said. A groan from Christian. The hands were dropped, and again he turned away. By this time the girl had grown quite interested : again she approached the young man and laid her hand gently upon his arm. * What is it ? ' she said. * Why do you ask ? ' he said. * Because it may be in my power to help you — nay, do not shake your head ; VOL. I. o 194 GOD AND THE MAN, tell me your grievance, and the burden may be lighter for you to bear ! ' Thus urged, Christian told her all : of the many bitter wrongs endured by him and his, of his undying hatred, and long- cherished hope of revenge ; and to all his passionate outburst the girl listened quietly with that calm, serene look In her eyes. ' Now tell me/ he said, as she turned away, ' have I not good cause to hate this man, and every one of his name ? ' She shook her head firmly. ' If you are a good Christian, you have no cause to hate him, or any man alive. Our Lord tells us to forgive our enemies, even seventy times seven ! ' ' Priscllla, it is not possible for a mere man to walk in the footsteps of our Lord !' * If he doth not try to do so, he should not profess to be one of our Lord's fol- lowers ! ' CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 195 ' I have tried — God knows I have.' * And because you have found diffi- culties, you have never hoped to surmount them.' He looked at her with a certain savage passion and laughed. * What would you wish me to do ? Go to young Orchardson, perchance, and stretch forth my hand ? ' He spoke bitterly, but Priscilla an- swered quietly and composedly enough : ' Ay, my good friend, that is just what I would have thee do ! ' ' Then I tell you I would sooner my hand should rot from my arm, than be clasped with his in loving kind- ness ! ' Priscilla turned quietly away. * In good sooth, I had thought better of you,' she said. ' Good-night.* And she walked away, leaving him on o 2 196 GOD AND THE MAN. the bridge alone. He did not attempt to follow her, his heart was too bitter, and he stood leaning moodily on the bridge, watching the slim black figure as it faded slowly away. His hatred towards the Orchardsons was stronger at that moment than it had ever been before. Priscilla had praised them ; she had hinted that they might be right while he was wrong ; and the thought of this turned the one drop of human kind- ness in his heart to gall. Were these people, who for generations had been like black shadows upon the lives of him and his, destined now to cast from his lips the only cup of happiness which he had dared to raise ? * O God ! ' he cried, ' it cannot be. What have I got in all the world but Priscilla ? What happiness did I ever know until she came ? Sooner than he CLOUDS IN THE SKY, 197 should come between us, I would kill him with my own hand ! ' He remained for a time on the bridge, wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts ; then he turned towards his home. It was growing late ; daylight w^as fading fast. After a while Christian left the high- road and took a shorter route across the fields. It was very quiet here, no one seemed abroad, and Christian walked silently along, still thinking of his inter- view with Priscilla. Presently he paused, gave one quick glance around ; then stood as if listening ; a man passed by on the other side of the hedge, and disappeared ; then a woman came hurriedly from the same spot, paused within a few yards of where Christian stood, and on looking into his face, uttered a half-terrified cry. ' Kate ! ' 198 GOD AND THE MAN. ' Christian ! ' Then the two paused in embarrassed amazement. Christian's face darkened terribly. He recalled the man whom he had seen moving stealthily from the spot whence his sister had issued. He turned upon her with a murderous look in his eyes. * You have been talking with young Richard Orchardson ! ' he said. Kate did not reply, but she turned away her head and burst into tears, while her brother, still smarting under the wounds inflicted by Priscilla, still mad with his own bitter wrongs, poured upon her head a torrent of passionate upbraidings. ' 'Tis the women, the cursed women, who bring bitterness to every house ! What will thy mother say, I wonder, when she knows you have spoken with an Orchardson, and met him secretly in the Fen Fields at sunset '^. ' CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 199 ' Christian, for the love of God, do not tell my mother ! ' 'Not tell her?' * She would hate me. She would never forgive me, — she would turn me from her door ! ' ' You knew all this before.' ' Oh forgive me, brother, forgive me ! I meant no harm.- I cannot hate as you, — all this bitter feud doth almost break my heart ! ' And Kate cried so sorely and pleaded so hard, that out of pity her brother at last granted her prayer. When they reached home Kate went immediately to her room. Having got there she fell on her knees in passionate tears. ' If he knew ! if he knew ! ' she cried. ' O Jesus, help me, I am a woeful woman!' For several days Christian scarcely 200 GOD AND THE MAN. Stirred abroad, but at length, solitude becoming too much for him, he resolved to go to Brightlinghead and make his peace with Priscilla. This resolution put him In a better frame of mind ; when he entered the cottage garden it was with the full determination to confess his love for her and ask for hers in return. The cottage door stood open, he tapped gently, and receiving no answer walked in. Two . people sat alone in the parlour, Priscilla Sefton and young Richard Orchardson of the Willows. 20I CHAPTER IX. THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. Christian started back as if stung, and in a moment his face turned from crimson to deadly white. ' Come in, Christian,' cried Priscilla, quite unconcerned at his appearance, and not rising from her seat ; while Richard Orchardson, now a pale, thoughtful-look- ing young man, plainly but richly drest, looked quietly up, with the supercilious smile that Christian knew so well, and hated so much. They were seated close to each other in the recess of the old-fashioned cottage window, which, although wide open, was 202 GOD AND THE MAN. completely smothered in creepers and red and white roses. The room was shadowy and cool, but the humming of bees came with a pleasant sense of sultriness from without. Christian's head swam, and he turned away. Staggering out of the door he reached the garden, and was moving away, when he felt a touch upon his arm. ' What is the matter ? ' asked Priscilla, who had risen and followed him. 'Why are you going away ? ' He looked at her as if stupefied, but made no reply. It seemed like witch- craft, and for the moment he resisted, with all the force of his soul, her tender spell upon him. Just then, to complete his confusion, the figure of Richard Orch- ardson appeared on the threshold. Stand- ing up, young Richard appeared to much THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 203 less advantage than when sitting down ; for one leg was much shrunken from the old lameness, and by reason of the con- traction in the limb, the body was some- what bent. But no one, looking at the young man, could doubt his gentle breed. It appeared in the small white hands and neatly-turned foot, no less than in the pallid^ handsome face. Sick and shaking, Christian walked on to the gate. Priscilla followed. * Why are you angry, friend .^ ' she demanded. * I am not angry.' * That is not true,' she returned simply. ' And if I am angry ? ' ' Then you are to blame,' she said. ' Wherein have I given you offence .^ ' Trembling from head to foot, and scarcely able to articulate from excitement. Christian pointed at young Richard, who 204 GOD AND THE MAN. Still stood just out of hearing. The girls gentle forehead contracted, and she looked distressed. * I remember now what you said/ she said ; * and indeed Mr. Richard himself has told me something of the feud between your families. Yet he freely forgives you the wrong you once did him.' * The wrong / did him ! ' gasped Christian. * Yes. You struck him a cruel blow when you were boys. He was weak and you were strong, and you were to blame.' Christian grew livid. On this subject, of all others in the world, he could not speak with ordinary gentleness even to her ; nay, he could not discuss it or enter- tain it at all, so terribly did it disturb his soul. . The dark passion covered his face like a cloud, and shocked her. * Then alas ! what he said was true/ THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 205 she cried, looking at him with angry grief. * I am sorry for it/ She turned with a sigh, but he touched her and detained her. * What did he say ? What did he dare to say ? ' * That you were cruel and unbending, — more like a wild beast than a Christian man.* Christian uttered a harsh laugh. In his present temper he was not displeased with his enemy's estimate and description of him ; for he felt like a wild beast, and he wished his enemy to believe that his hate was as unreasoning and complete. * For his own part,' continued the maiden, ' Master Richard is content to let bygones be bygones. He forgives the wrong you did him long ago, and is ready to take your hand. Come to him, — let 7ne be peacemaker ! ' 2o6 GOD AND THE MAN. As she spoke she placed her little hand lightly on his shoulder, and looked up into his face with a smile so sad, so winning, that it would have melted any heart save one where jealousy and hate were contending. Yes, jealousy ; though he scarcely knew it. His cup of hate had been full before, but it lacked until that day the poisonous wormwood of the most miserable of all the passions. Half- un- consciously he glanced towards the cottage door. There his enemy still remained, with an expression upon his face which seemed more like insolent contempt than Christian forgiveness. * Come and take his hand,' cried Priscilla imploringly. His only answer was a look of fright- ful agony. Without uttering another syllable, he flung himself through the gate, and walked wildly and rapidly away. THE ENEMY IN THE PATH, 207 Prlscllla stood gazing after him, lost in sorrowful thought. When his figure had quite disappeared in the direction of the sea, she heard a voice at her elbow. ' Did I not tell you so ? ' said young Richard in his blandest tones. ' The young cub is like the old she-wolf; he would like to have his fangs in my throat.' She did not reply immediately ; and he stood gazing at her in unmistakable admiration. Standing thus, his slight form would have offered a strange con- trast to the yeoman-like proportions of his enemy. His face was very handsome and clear-cut, though its expression was irritating and at times mystifying ; his form and limbs, but for the deformity of the one foot and the stoop occasioned by it, were elegant and shapely ; while his whole manner bespoke the gentleman of luxury and education. He was clad in a 2oS GOD AND THE MAN. rich dress of velvet, with front and cuffs of the finest cambric, and on his white finofers he wore rinses. ' I asked him to shake hands wath you,' said Priscilla after a pause. ' I wished to make peace betw^een you/ * And he refused ? ' asked Richard, with an airy shrug of the shoulders. ' Did I not say that you would w^aste your time ? ' 'It is terrible to see such wacked hate between Christian folk. Ah ! had you seen his face ! ' ' I know the Christlanson expression,' returned Richard contemptuously ; ' some- thing between the look of a trapt weasel and the glare of an otter at bay.' ' He hates you so much ! And you ? ' * And I despise him infinitely.' * To despise is almost as wicked as to hate,' replied Priscilla, looking steadfastly at Richard. THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 209 ' How then shall I express it ? ' ex- claimed the young man, with the ease peculiar to him. ' I am, I hope, a fair Christian — at least, with your good coun- sel, I am in a fair way of becoming one — and I have almost succeeded in forgetting that yonder clumsy fellow once struck me ; that is to say, I have not forgotten, since my looking-glass reminds me every morn- ing that he has marked me for life.' Here he pointed to his fair forehead, where indeed the trace of his early injury- was still to be seen, in one faint but in- effaceable mark. ' But what is done is done, and, after all, we were boys. I therefore bear no malice, and would take the fellow's hand ; only Heaven keep me from being long in his company, for he is a clown. I shall never go out of my way to do him any harm ; should he attempt to injure me, I shall crush him, if possible, VOL. I. p 2IO GOD AND THE MAN. just as I would crush an adder that tried to sting me, or a venomous insect that settled on my hand. You look shocked, Miss Priscilla. Well, instruct me where I am wrong, and I will promise to obey your counsel/ ' You are wrong to despise one of your fellow-creatures. ' * How can I help it ? ^ said Richard, with a smile. ' Frankly, though, such a fellow would be amusing if he were not so monotonously dull.' * Why did he strike you ? ' demanded Priscilla, quickly. 'You must have pro- voked him sorely.' Richard coloured violently, and for the moment, under her clear gaze, lost his usual self-possession. * A boy's quarrel, as I told you,' he answered ; * I forget how it began, but how it ended I know full well, for I was THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 21 r the weaker, and down I went. For the rest, the feud between our houses is- tra- ditional ; there never was a time when our folk were on speaking terms with these yeomen of the Fen. 'Tis all very tiresome and very stupid, I grant you, and for my own part I can't afford to have an enemy, since 'tis only a source of irritation. Only in one event should I think it my duty to assert myself and become the aggressor.' ' What event ? ' said Priscilla, startled by the peculiar emphasis in the speaker's last words, no less than by the peculiar look of warmth that accompanied them. ' In the event of his crossing my purpose In one of those affairs which de- termine a man's happiness on earth, and perchance his qualification for Heaven.' His look was unmistakable, and she at once understood him ; but without a blush, p 2 212 GOD AND THE MAN. without the shghtest sign of self-conscious- ness, she frankly met his eyes. This frankness and fearlessness embarrassed him not a little. Had she coquetted or blushed, or drooped her eyes in bashful fear, then and there would his bold lips have made a confession of love ; but Richard Orchardson, despite his slight physical deformity, had no little knowledge of the fair sex, and he knew that the time was not ripe. * But come,' he cried, * let us change the theme. When yonder fellow entered, you were speaking to me of your father's plans for the future. Can you not per- suade him to forsake this vagrant life — so unsuited to one of his gentle breeding ? ' * Nay, sir ; nor would I attempt it.' * Why not ? ' ' Is it not a blessed thing to go about on the Lord's work ? ' THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 213 ' Doubtless ; and your father, I grant you, is as noble as one of the apostles of old. But alas ! he has fallen on adverse times. Everyone who disregards the supreme authority of the Church is baited by the parsons as either an infidel, or, what is worse, a political malignant ; and for proselytes you have, in most villages, only the same. Where you strive to do most good, you succeed often in only setting folk by the ears. Look not angry — have I not proved myself your friend ? But I cannot help bethinking me of a homely proverb of my father's — " Would you lead a life of peace and hearts content, keep friends with the parson of the parish ! " ' * Alas ! the parsons chide us sorely, wherever we eo.' * Because you meddle with the work they are paid to do. They would fain 214 GOD AND THE MAN. drive their sheep to Heaven through the Church door, and when they find you urging them in another direction, they are naturally angry. In sooth, most folk are so foolish and old-fashioned that they can be saved on no other conditions, and in no newer way, than were their fathers before them ; and such are the folk in these villages. For my own part, I should deem most of the louts scarce worth saving at all, were I not instructed to the contrary by the creed you teach so well.' ' There is no human being,' answered Priscilla quietly, ' but is worthy to be plucked from the burning. So my father saith.' ' Even at the risk of burning one's own members ! Ah, but your father is super- humanly good, as I always tell you. Well, to return to what I was saying. You cannot live this wandering life for ever ? ' , THE ENEMY IN THE PATH, 215 ' For ever ? ' ' I mean that your martyrdom will end some day, and perchance you will — marry ? ' He watched her closely, but her face did not change. She moved over to a rose-bush, plucked a rose, and divided It thoughtfully, petal by petal. Then she spoke, as If discussing a subject of the simplest Interest. * I do not think I shall marry. I shall remain with my father all my life.' * But he Is old, and — nay, do not think I speak out of little feeling — in the nature of things will pass away long before your- self. Then you will be alone.' She shook her head, and looked quietly upward. * I shall never be alone,' she said. The young man looked at her in deepening wonder and admiration. 2i6 GOD AND THE MAN. Though there was something in her perfect purity and simpHcity of character far beyond his comprehension, he could at least feel the spell of her beauty and the charm of her heavenly disposition. At that moment he did not dare to speak of love ; he was too certain that her feelings towards him, and possibly towards all other men, were perfectly passionless ; but his eye burned and his face flushed, with a baser and less spiritual emotion. A physiognomist, observing him, would have traced in his fine face the taint of an underlying sensuality, which indeed was inseparable from his nature. ' It is an ill world,' he persisted, ' and you may one day feel its cruelty. Even in your father's company, you are fre- quently exposed to danger. Yester night, had I not been of your company, the folk here would have used you both roughly — THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 217 and wherever you go, you meet with enemies who are very pitiless. It pains me sorely to see one so fair amidst such sorry scenes. You should be a lady, leading a lady's life — not a homeless wanderer from place to place.' 'You would have me idle,' answered Priscllla, *or playing pretty tunes on the harpsichord, or doing foolish embroidery, or dancing in fine raiment. Such vanities are not for me, good friend ; I am happier as I am.' So saying, she walked back to the cottage door, where, after a few minutes, Richard Orchardson bade her farewell. How the young man became so fa- miliar a guest In the cottage, Is easily told. He had the keenest of senses for a pretty face, and one day, as he rode by, he had seen Priscllla standing at the gate. In all her youthful prettiness and seemllness. A 21 8 GOD AND THE MAN. few Inquiries at the nearest house of enter- tainment informed him who she was ; and soon, with characteristic assurance, he joined the little gatherings over which her father presided. All formalities being dis- pensed with by these simple people, he soon found himself on terms of easy In- timacy ; and under the pretence of being moved by a spirit of pious repentance, he had endless opportunities of communing with the object of his admiration. Quitting the cottage, he walked down to the village inn, where his horse (for owing to his infirmity he seldom walked far) awaited him, and he was soon upon the road towards the Willows. He did not ride straight homeward, however. Leaving the country road on which Chris- tian and Priscilla had lingered that bright morning when they first met, he rode down to the sea-sands ; and seeking the THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 219 very edge of the water, where the sands are ever hardest and firmest, put spur to his horse and galloped. After a good mile's gallop, he drew rein, and walked his steed in deep thought. His pale cheek was flushed with exercise, and his eye burned brightly. At last, he turned his horse's head up towards the sandhills, taking much the same way that his father and he had taken, many years ago, when they en- countered young Christian among the knolls. He had left the sea-sands, and was proceeding slowly along the arid fields which stretched just above them, when he saw, almost blocking his path, the figure of Christian Christianson. Christian had been seated in dark thought on a great stone when the ap- proach of Richard disturbed him. He sprang up, and for the instant the other 220 GOD AND THE MAN. thought he contemplated personal mis- chief. So Richard went very pale, and with a sharp pull at the rein drew his horse on one side, and passed. Christian glared at him, and their eyes met. The horseman nervously clutched his riding whip, in expectation of an attack ; for indeed the face of Christian looked omi- nous, in its mad expression of frenzied dislike. But he was suffered to pass un- touched, and had no sooner done vSO than he quickened his horse's pace into a trot. Not until he was several hundred yards away did he draw rein, and look round. Christian stood on the same spot, almost in the same attitude, like a shape of stone. That day, perhaps for the first time. Christian Christianson knew his heart. He was realising in its full intensity the THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 221 horror of that terrible line of the rehmous poet, Young : — The jealous are the dajnned. And by the measure of his black jealousy he was able to mete his love. The shock of seeing Priscllla In the company of his hereditary enemy, of the being whose merest breath had the power to poison the sweet air and make life hideous and un- bearable, had revealed to him the full intensity of his personal passion. He felt now that to see her talking confidentially with any other youthful man would cause a sickening sense of envy and dislike ; but to have seen her so close with what he most abhorred, was stupefying and over- whelming. He had rushed down to the sea-sands, and had his dark hour alone. He had spoken out his mad thought to the sea, as so many a poor soul has done, in default 222 GOD AND THE MAN. of a better listener. He had raofed and stormed, with no Hving thing to heed him, and still his soirlt was overburdened. Grown a little calmer, he had taken his staff, and In a kind of dream, had written with It on the sands, In large round cha- racters, her name, — * Priscilla.' Then, taken by a sudden fancy, he had added another to It — ' Priscilla Christl\xson.' Again and again he wrote It, hurriedly blotting it out afterwards with his foot, for fear it might be read by eyes profane. But the last time he wrote It thus, defiance held him, and he let the bold words stand. Yes, he cared not who read them — If they were read by her, by all the world ! He loved her, he would possess 772^^ ENEMY IN THE PATH. 223 her, he would make her his wife ! She should be Priscilla Christianson in eood deed. And yet, how hopeless it all seemed ! He felt that, even as he toyed with the sweet thought of possession. She was so far above him. He was so common, she so pure and fair. He hated his rude strength, his strong hands, his coarse breeding. Oh, why had he not been born gentle, like — like Richard Orchardson, his foe ! Well, happen what might, no Orchard- son should possess her — that he swore to himself over and over again ; and as he did so the murderous devil which filled the heart of Cain crept Into his. His thought travelled back to the sad mornino-, lone" before, when the boy Richard lay bleed- ing on the ground before him ; and oh ! he thought to himself, \[ his enemy had never risen again to cross his path ! 224 GOD AND THE MAN. He walked wildly away, leaving the name, * Priscilla Christianson/ written large on the sands. A little later Richard Orchardson rode over that very spot, and had he looked down might have read the words. As he passed they were obliterated by his horse's hoofs. That night, and the day which followed it, were hours of fierce torture for Chris- tian ; the fiercer because he dared not, or rather would not, show it to either mother or sister. His mother was now very in- firm, and seldom left her chair, an ancient piece of furniture of black oak, with high straight back, like that of a prie-Dieu. Much sorrow and deep suppressed passion had told terribly upon her senses, which were fast beginning to fail ; but her Bible was ever at her right hand as of old. As for gentle Kate, she also had greatly THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 225 changed, constantly avoiding her brother's presence, and when within his gaze, seem- ing highly nervous and distraught. On the morning of the second day, as Christian stood at the door preparing to go forth, a vision came before his eyes. Priscilla herself was tripping up to the gloomy house, with her brightest look upon her. Directly she saw him she waved her hand, and cried, * May I enter, good Christian ? ' He ran forward, and took her little hand in both of his. ' And welcome ! ' he said, trembling. ' Why did you come ? ' ' To see your good mother.' ' My mother ! ' * Yes. I have heard that she is sick and ailing, and perhaps I may bring her a VOL. I. Q 226 GOD AND THE MAN, little cheer. Your pretty sister, too — I wish to see her.' ' Come In,' said Christian, scarcely knowinof what he said. He led her gently into the dark par- lour, where the old dame sat erect, with the film of years upon her eyes. She did not see them till they came quite near and spoke her name. Then Christian told her who the stranger was, and why she had come. ' She is welcome,' said the dame, gloomily. With the sweetness peculiar to her, Priscilla took her place by the dame's side, and soon beguiled her into conversation ; so that presently she brightened a little, and relaxed her look of gloom. Then the maiden opened the Bible, and read a chapter in her musical voice, to which the dame listened well content, though the THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 227 chapter chosen contained Httle of the thunder In which she dehghted. Finally, at Christian's request, she sang a simple hymn, so sweetly and so simply that Chris- tian, though he knew her gift of song so well, was spell-bound. As she ended, Kate Chrlstlanson came in, and fixed her great sad eyes upon her with timid wonder. The contrast was strange between Kate's soft, wistful, scared- looking face, and the perfectly peaceful lineaments of Priscilla. ' Your sister,' said Priscilla, and kissed her. Then she fixed upon her one of her steadfast, truthful, questioning looks ; for something in Kate's expression touched her to the heart. A little later, when she rose to o-o. having left sunshine in every part of the house she had entered, Christian followed Q 2 228 GOD AND THE MAN. her. They walked out of the old house together. * Your sister seems sorrowful/ said Priscilla. ' Hath she had any trouble ? * * All our folk have had trouble,' an- swered Christian. * But any great trouble ? She looks like one whose heart failed her, and who sought a friend.' * A friend ? ' * Yes, — to speak her sorrows to, and be relieved.' *■ She has my mother.' ' Ah, that is different,' returned Priscilla, thoughtfully; and she walked along in silence. She had a message up to the village, she said, and she was going there straight- way. Might he walk with her a portion of the way ? She assented with a smile, and he remained by her side. THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 229 For the time being he had almost for- gotten the existence of Richard Orchard- son, or of any possible rival or opponent. He was too happy In her mere presence, in the light of her face. In the sound of her voice. He felt, as before, like the men who walked with angels towards some shining Land. At last she paused and held out her hand. * You must come no farther,' she said, smiling. * Wherefore not ? * * I do not wish it, that is all.' Christian bent his head in immediate assent, for he loved, in his strength, to feel her mastery over him. * That is enough. What yott wish, / shall do.' * Everything ? ' * Yes, everything ; except ' 230 GOD AND THE MAN. He paused reddening, for he remem- bered how she had besought him to take Richard Orchardson by the hand. * Except forgive your enemy/ she said sadly, finishing the sentence for him. ' Ah well, the day may come when you will not refuse me even that ! ' He turned back, leaving her to pro- ceed upon her way. Scarcely had he done so, than the evil spirit which Is ever at the ear of the jealous began to ask, 'Why hath she dismissed me ? To whom Is she telling her message ? ' Sick with the fear w^hich these questions awakened, he followed her at a distance, keeping well from view. She passed through the village, nod- ding to Cobbler Marvel, who stood in his usual ddshabilld at his garden gate ; she passed the church, the village school ; then reaching the further side of the village, she came to a green lane. THE ENEMY IN THE PATH, 231 All was very quiet and lonely here, though human habitations were so close. Entering the lane she walked more slowly, loitered and waited, and once or twice looked round. Then Christian slunk back behind a friendly hedge and waited. Presently she hastened her steps ; and looking out, Christian saw a figure ap- proaching along the lane. She stood and waved her handkerchief; the figure waved in return. It was the figure of a man. Christian's head swam — he could scarcely see. The two figures met, and as they did so, Christian recognised in Priscilla's com- panion the man he most hated to behold. Christian stood rooted to the ground, watching the meeting of the two figures. Anyone seeing his livid, distorted face just then would have been startled by its terri- 232 GOD AND THE MAN. ble expression. If, as Swedenborg and other supreme mystics have laboriously proved, the face Is the index of the soul, and by the face alone an 'angel' or a 'devil' (according to the Swedenborglan termin- ology, with its occult meanings) may be recognised, then surely, at that moment, Christian stood In the category of evil spirits. All the forward-looking lightness, all the dreamy hope and fear, of early and noble manhood, had faded from his coun- tenance, leaving only In their place the black shadow of ignoble passion. Such a look, indeed, might Cain have worn, when he saw his beautiful altar overthrown, and the lightning of heaven playing scornfully upon his sacrifice. After a minute of rapid conversation, the two figures moved slowly on side by side, along the green lane. Slipping from his shelter, and keeping as well as possible THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 233 from view, he followed, with his eyes fixed upon them, watching their sHghtest move- ment. When they paused, as they did from time to time, he paused too, sHppIng into the shadow of the green hedge. But they did not once look back. That their talk was animated every gesture proved ; and that It was pleasant talk he also knew, for once or twice she laughed merrily, and turned a bright face upon the face of her companion. Never before in his life had he felt such a sickening sense of moral meanness. To play the spy as he was doing was foreign to his nature ; he hated them, he hated and despised himself ; yet the dark spirit of jealousy had him by the hair, and he felt powerless to resist Its cruel hold. So he watched and followed, look by look, and step by step. The lane passed under a canopy of boughs, made by tall ash-trees Inter- 234 GOD AND THE MAN. • mingling their branches overhead ; at Its further end stood the gate of a little old- fashioned lodge, untenanted and fallen into decay. This Christian knew well ; it was one of the lodge entrances to the many-gabled ancestral dwelling where his enemies dwelt — the Willows. He saw Richard Orchardson swing the gate open, while she passed in. Some- thing merry passed between them, and he saw their faces turn ao^aln to each other in the sunshine ; then they passed Into the shadow of trees beyond and disappeared. He felt that he could follow no further. Duped and baffled, like the evil spirit in the play when he saw the sign of the pentagram on Faust's threshold, he shrank back, and turned his weary footsteps home. 235 CHAPTER X. UP AT ' THE WILLOWS. > Richard Orchardsox and Priscllla walked on side by side beneath the trees, a strag- gling colonnade of ash, planted many a long year before ; and emerging thence, came out upon an open space of green, In the centre of which was a large tarn or pond, surrounded on every side by water- willows, with silver tresses dangling and dipping upon the water's brim. Fronting the tarn was the house, a quaint Eliza- bethan structure of red brick, with a terrace, where once upon a time (If tradi- tions w^ere true) Queen Bess herself had walked and mused, one night when she 236 GOD AND THE MAN. had rested, a stately guest, beneath that roof. It was a quaint and lonely habita- tion, only partly tenable, for the Orchard- sons were ever a small family, and used few of its many rooms. Approaching the terrace, they ascended to It by a broad flight of crumbling steps, and came upon a semicircular space. In the centre of which was a sun-dial surrounded by flowers, and not far from the dial a rustic seat. * How beautiful ! ' exclaimed the maiden ; and she added, looking at the dial, ' And what is this ? ' * 'TIs our sun-dial,' answered Richard smilingly. ' To tell the hour by ? ' * Certainly, when there Is sufficient sunshine.' ' I have heard of such pretty devices ; UP AT 'THE willows: 237 and see, here are the hours graven letter by letter. Teach me to read it now.' ' Look where the shadow falls, slanting from the index. It is past twelve o' the clock, or rather o' the dial, as you may see.' ' 'Tis so indeed/ cried Priscilla, watch- ing the moveless shadow with earnest eyes. ' But when there is no sun, how do you reckon then ? ' ' Then we go within, and look at the clock ! ' ' See the flowers, how they climb around, as if they would cover the dial's shining face. 'Tis a sweet thought, to measure our days by the sunlight, among leaves and flowers. I have heard my father say that in old times they reckoned time with dripping water, as they do still with slipping sand in the hour-glass.' ' Yes ; they had the water-clock, in- 238 GOD AND THE MAN. vented by one of their wise men. But sit here, I prithee, and look at the prospect ; is it not fair ? And look on what side you will, far as you please, the land Is ours/ Priscilla sat upon the garden-seat, and looked around as he desired. On all sides stretched flowery walks, green plantations, meadows, and fields of grain. Even as she gazed, a thought came to her, troubling her bright expression ; she lifted her eyes to his, and said quietly and slowly, * Since you had so much, why did you seek more ? ' ' I do not understand,' he exclaimed, smiling down upon her. ' Christian has told me,' she said simply. * Your father coveted his land, and took it from his father.' Richard s face blackened ; the very name of his foe came like a stinsf. But he UP AT 'THE willows: 239 conquered his annoyance In a moment, and replied with well-assumed quiet and in- difference : ' If Master Christian has told you that old tale, I hope he hath told It truly. My father loaned to his father large sums of money, and even when these sums were not returned, nor the fair Interest paid, my father In pity forbore his lawful claim. 'Twas not till the Chrlstlansons were wickedly ungrateful, till they did us grievous injury passing patience, that we seized our own.' As he spoke, Richard saw his father approaching — a tall, stooping figure, with something of his own delicacy of feature, but a harsher and less refined expression. The squire expressed no surprise either in word or look on seeinof his son's com- panion, but coming up, took off his hat with an old-fashioned bow. 240 GOD AND THE MAN. 'This is young Mistress Sefton/ said Richard, * of whom I have spoken to you/ Priscilla rose and curtsied ; the squire bowed again. ' The young lady is right welcome . . . I have heard of your father from others, and my son, as he saith, has spoken to me much of you.' The squire did not add that he had heard of Mr. Sefton as a half-crazy fanatic, with most preposterous notions concerning religion. Under ordinary circumstances, Mr. Orchardson, who was a staunch Churchman, more from political than spiritual motives, would certainly not have received a person of ' malignant ' connec- tions with so much urbanity ; but in this case he had particular reasons (which he had not explained even to his son, but which will presently be apparent) for being UP AT 'THE willows: 241 civil to his pretty visitor. Urged by the same reasons, he had Interposed no objec- tion, uttered no admonition, when he had first heard of his son's acquaintance with the Seftons, but had, on the contrar}^ quietly encouraged a friendship which, common experience told him, might readily ripen into love. After some minutes' desultory conver- sation, throughout which he continued to treat Priscilla with a courtliness unusual to him, he led the way Into the house, pass- ing through an open glass folding-door Into a great chilly drawing-room, the old fashioned furniture of which was carefully mummied up in holland cloth. Here he summoned his housekeeper, and ordered tea, which was served very strong, in tiny cups of the rarest china. ' And how fares your father ? ' he de- manded kindly, as Priscilla sat and sipt VOL. I. R 242 GOD AND THE MAN. the pleasant beverage. 'He is a frail man to wander from place to place alone.' ' Not alone,' answered Priscilla, ' since we go everywhere together.' ' Nay, but pardon me, you yourself are but a child. It concerns me to think that you and he, who might be dwelling in comfort like the gentlefolk you are, should be as houseless wanderers upon the earth. 'Tis a strange life, for both.' ' So we are often told,' said Priscilla quietly, ' and so were the apostles told, long ago.' Richard glanced at his father, deprecat- ing any controversy, and the squire, with a smile and a nod, turned the talk into other channels ; showed the maiden his pictures, and his few books ; told her carelessly some of the old legends of the house, which were many ; and alto- gether proved himself so agreeable and UP AT 'THE willows: 243 charming a host that even his son was astonished. An hour later, Richard accompanied Priscllla back to the village, where her father was staying that night under the roof of Cobbler Marvel. Returning thence, after a pleasant parting and a warm hand- shake, he entered the lodge gate and walked slowly up the shadowy avenue, — his eyes still full of Priscllla's loveliness, his heart beating high with the dream of possible possession. Suddenly he started and stood still, as a figure emerged from the shadow of the trees and stood before him : the figure of a woman cloaked and hooded. ' Richard ! ' ' Kate ! ' The hood fell back, and showed, in the dim light, the pallid face of Kate Christianson. R 2 244 GOD AND THE MAN. ' I have been waiting for you/ cried Kate quickly ; ' thank God you're come at last ! ' * What do you seek with me ? ' re- turned the other Irritably. ' You came upon me like a ghost, and — well, well, what is it ? ' She gazed at him with great tearful eyes, and without replying, began to sob bitterly, and wring her hands. He uttered an angry exclamation, and turned on his heel. * Go home ; we shall be seen.' ' Nay, if we are, I heed not. Things have gone too far between us to let us part so, and I care not now if the whole world know how cruel you have been to me. Richard ! for the love of God, be not so hard ; speak kindly, Richard, and I will try to forgive you still.' *You are talking folly,' answered the ' " You shall not go,'' cried the girl wildly, holding him with trunblin^ hands. ' UP AT 'THE willows: 245 young man. ' What have you to forgive ? Good Kate, I prithee let us talk some other time ; to-night I am in haste.' * You shall not go,' cried the girl wildly, holding him with trembling hands, ' No, not yet ! ' * Are you mad ? Kate, as you love me ' ' God help me, methinks 'tis more like hate than love that fills my poor heart. Who is she you have been walking with so long ? ' He looked at her, and smiled without replying. ' Will you not answer me ? Nay, you need not, for I know her. She is the blind preacher's daughter from Brightling- head, and you have gone a-courting her as you did come a-courting me ; and I have watched you, Richard, and seen you smile upon her as you used to smile on me ; but 246 GOD AND THE MAN. take heed, for more than one has been a-watching, and if I spoke the word ' ' What do you mean ? ' he cried sharply, shaking off her hold upon him, and seizing her arm in his turn. * Never mind,' she answered, meeting his eyes with a curious look. ' Hark you, Kate Christianson, I am getting tired of your weary words and peevish ways. You used to be pleasant company, but now ' ' But now, since you are tired of my company, you seek another's.' ' And if I do, who can prevent me ? ' She uttered a low cry, and raised her hand threateningly. ' I can ! Nay, Richard, you need not laugh. I can ; and I will ! ' * You I ' ' I have but to speak one word ' * Speak ! — to whom, prithee ? ' UP AT 'THE willows: 247 ' To Christian, my brother.' He flunof her arm from him with a gesture of complete contempt, but for all that he trembled, for he knew well that the threat was not altogether a vain one, and the memory of that never-forgotten day, when he lay bleeding upon the ground, and Christian stood frowning over him, passed darkly across his soul. * I care neither for him nor you. If he dares to cross my path, I will crush him as I would crush a toad. So threaten no more, but let me go.' ' Richard, for God s sake listen ! ' cried the girl, suddenly changing her angry tone to one of despairing entreaty. ' I did not mean to threaten — in good deed I did not ; but you are so cold, so cruel — you do make me mad. 'Twas for your sake I came hither to-night — to warn you against my brother.' 248 GOD AND THE MAN. ' What ! ' ' He hath been watching too.' ' Watching ? ' ' He followed the preacher maiden until she met you, and then he followed again till you entered the lodge gate In her company.' ' And what then ? ' ' He loves her, Richard, and if you come between him and her ' ^Well?' ' He will kill you, Richard ! ' Richard grew very pale, but instantly recovering his self-possession covered his real trepidation with an educated sneer. * 'TIs like your brother's impudence to raise his eyes to yonder maiden, who is a lady born. Do you know, good Kate, your brother is a boor, and is better placed at the ploughtail than at a gentlewoman's elbow ? I do not think you can be UP AT 'THE willows: i^c^ serious when you speak of his loving Mistress Sefton.' Now, poor Kate loved her brother, and though she was naturally of a weak and timid nature, she loved him too well to hear him slighted of; moreover, in this tender question she had double interest at stake, for if Christian was Richard's rival, Priscilla w^as, by the same token, hers. So she replied bravely, without the least hesitation, ' My brother is as good a man as you, and fit for any lady in the land.' ' Bah ! your brother is a clown.' * If he were nigh, you would not dare to say so,' responded Kate, while Richard's face grew paler still, and his lip quivered. * If I were to go to him this night, and tell him what hath past between us, do you think he would spare you 1 — And he sus- pects, remember that ! ' 250 GOD AND THE MAN, ' What do you mean ? ' cried Richard eagerly. * He witnessed our parting one night near the four-acre mere, and he taxed me fiercely with meeting an Orchardson. Alack ! had he guessed how often we had met, how I had given my heart to the enemy of our house, what would he have said ? I dread his wrath and my mother's ; she would curse me, for I have broken my oath upon the Book. And they micst know full soon ! Listen, Richard — there is something more I came to tell you — it is terrible, but 'tis time that you should know.' She put her lips to his ear, and whis- pered ; he started as if he had been stung by some venomous snake, and uttered an oath. 'No!' * God help me, it is true.' UP AT 'THE willows: 251 * I tell you it is impossible, — you are a fool, and you are deceiving yourself. No, I'll not believe it/ ' Alas ! the day is nigh when you miLst believe it, and all the world too. But I shall not live to see that day — no, for my heart will be broken, and I shall die.' She hid her face in her hands, crying bitterly, while he stood gazing at her in gloomy dislike and irritation. Night had now fallen, but the skies above were full of a faint palpitating starlight, like the ghost of day. At last Kate looked up and dried her tearful eyes. * Richard,' she said, ' I have thought it all over, and there is only one way. When we are married * As she spoke the word, he started, and frowned darkly. 252 GOD AND THE MAN. * When we are married, we will go to my brother and ask his forgiveness. He will be angry at first perchance, but seeing 'tis too late, he will work round in time. Dear Richard, let us speak to the parson, and when we are wedded man and woman before God, perchance we may be for- given/ The young man looked at her in grow- ing dislike and dread, and after a brief silence replied : * Listen Kate ! — Let there be an end to this folly between us twain. I am in no mood to marry, and if I were, I could never marry one of your house. Nay ! ' he con- tinued, as she wrung her hands with a low wail, ' 'tis no use to cry and plead. Be a wise woman, Kate. Keep our secret, and when you marry some honest yeoman, as you may, I will take care you shall not lack for dower.' UP AT 'THE willows: 253 * Oh, Richard, speak not so ! You will keep your promise ! ' ' What promise ? ' * To make me your wedded wife.' ' I never promised, and if I did I repent me. Our two houses can never be united ; but what we know, no other living soul need know, if you are wise.' * No, no ! I will speak to my brother ! I will tell him.' * You will tell him nothing, good Kate ; you love your honest name too well. And if you did, what then ? Do you think I fear him ? Now, kiss me, and be sure that I remain your friend.' * Do not touch me ! Oh, Richard, you have broken my heart ! ' ' Not I ! — Give me your hand, and swear.' * I will drown myself this night ! ' * You will do no such foolish thing.' 254 GOD AND THE MAN. * What have I left to live for ? My brother's hate, my mother's curse. 'Twas an evil day when I was born ; most evil day of all, when I trusted an Orchardson. Let me go ! 'TIs all over now for ever and ever ! ' He tried to hold her in his arms, but she tore herself free with a wild cry, and ran from him into the darkness. For a moment he seemed about to follow her, but refrained, and stood listening to her retreating footsteps. In good truth, he placed little value upon her threats and passionate words, for he was used to such scenes. Again and again, of late, her manner and language had been violent to desperation ; again and again she had threatened to let the world know of the relations between them ; but nothing had come of it hitherto, and he did not seriously believe that anything would come of it UP AT '-THE willows: 255 now. At the same time, he could not help reflecting, with a nervous shudder, on the dangerous character of his hereditary foe, who, If seriously provoked, would cer- tainly not hesitate before taking some desperate revenge. ' The fellow Is a wild beast In my path,* he reflected, as he walked slowly towards the Willows ; ' as long as he breathes the same air, I shall never be quite safe. Can it be possible that the wench was right, and that he presumes to raise his eyes to Priscilla ? — And Priscilla ? She is so ten- der of heart, that she would smile upon the meanest thing In her path ; but her smiles mean nothing — she would never cast her thoughts so low. Well, be that as It may, I wish the clown were buried in the churchyard, or lying twenty fathoms deep In the salt sea.' So musing, and muttering to himself, 256 GOD AND THE MAN. Richard Orchardson returned to the house, and found his father awaiting him in the / large apartment, half parlour, half lumber- room, which was known as the gun cham- ber. The walls were hung with sporting pictures, fowling-pieces and pistols, and trophies of the chase. The squire was reading an old book on hunting, but looked up with a smile. ' Well ? ' ' Well, father ? ' * Did you see her to her home ? A pretty maiden, and gently reared. I am glad you brought her to me, and I hope she will come again. Did you see the afflicted man, her father ? ' * Not to-night. We parted at Cobbler Marvel's door/ * What a place to shelter one so fair ! ' * All roofs are alike to them — the richest or the meanest.* UP AT 'THE willows: 257 The squire rose and stood facing his son, with a curious expression upon his face. * And yet, Richard, this blind preacher, who goes about almost as a beggar, and who has scarcely a roof to cover his head. Is a richer man than I, your father, and might If he chose be holding up his head among the grandest folk in London.' * Is it possible?' cried Richard, in no little surprise. * It Is certain,' said Mr. Orchardson ; ' and If he were to die suddenly to-morrow, yonder pretty maiden would be an heiress." * I thought he had given away his sub- stance In charity, and lived only upon a pittance reserved to him.' *'TIs not quite so bad as that,' answered the squire, still smiling. ' The poor fool hath squandered much in so-called alms- giving and missionary work, but the bulk VOL. I. S 258 GOD AND THE MAN, remains, and much of that he cannot even touch — which is a mercy, for the sake of the young dame, whom he might beggar.' ' How learned you this, father ? ' * From one in London, w^ho knows him well, and whose knowledge has never yet played me false. The pretty maiden herself knows not of her good fortune, or only dimly guesses it ; for her father enacts every day and hour the comedy of being apostolically poor. So now, son Richard, that you see which way the hare is run- ning, and know where her cover lies, will you gallop still ? ' ' What do you mean, father ? ' The squire laughed, and placed his hand on his son's shoulder. * Do you think I know not, lad, when young folk favour one another } Well, win her ; I tell you she is worth the win- ning. Think you I would have suffered UP AT 'THE willows: 259 you to go a-psalm-slnging so long, in such company, had I not been warned that all was well ? ' There was a long silence. Richard sat in a chair, gazing thoughtfully down, while his father kept his keen eyes fixed upon his flushed face, well pleased. At last the young man looked up. * Father, I shall do my best, for indeed I love the girl ; but one stands in my way.* * Who, lad, who ? ' Richard pointed to his forehead, with a venomous smile. * He who marked me for life. Christian Christianson.' s 2 26o GOD AND THE MAN, CHAPTER XL ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. Meantime Christian was once more having his dark hour alone; wandering sea- ward with mad jealousy In his heart, and the shadow of mortal hate upon his face ; raging, fretting, planning ; darkly, deso- lately, driven by the wind of his own pas- sion, like a cloud In the wind of Its own speed. Had he known the full truth that day, had Kate found him then and told him of the evil wrought by her own feebleness, and the baseness of his rival, he would have flown like a wild beast to avenge his house's Injury, and expend his own dark desire ; and the hours of his enemy would ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 261 surely have been numbered. But he felt as yet in his own heart, despite his jealous fury, that he had no righteous cause for violence. The woman he loved had her right, as well as he, and if she chose to seek Richard Orchardson's company, he had no claim to control her liberty of choosing. Nothing had passed between them that would justify his interference ; and although he felt mad with her for her pertinacity and her indifference to his per- sonal dislikes and hates, he was in no sense master of her life. It seemed to him, indeed, at that time, that all was ended between them. She had come like a beautiful spirit on his life, stirring its deepest fountains with a new revivifying light ; but now it was over. As calmly and as freely as she came to him — nay, as it seemed, with a kinder touch, and a tenderer smile — she had 262 GOD AND THE MAN, gone, would daily go, to the man he hated most. He had no power to control her. Bitter as It was to bear, he knew It was hopeless to protest, unless she herself should change of her own free will. With one so pure, so passionless, violent entreaty- was of no avail. She was the stronger spirit still, his mistress and his superior — that he felt most keenly ; and his baffled anger kept him In despair. Was it true, then, that she loved Richard Orchardson? Was it fated that, even In love itself, his enemy should wreck his life and darken his dreams ? Yes, it was possible. Even amidst the storm of his unreasoning hate, he felt the superiority of Richard Orchardson in all those gifts which are dear to women-folk : In delicacy of nurture, in gentleness of breeding and education, in fairness of feature and courtliness of mien. Priscllla, ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 263 herself, was a town lady, while he was country bred. In his own sight he was coarse, clumsy, ungainly, while she was delicacy itself. Could so rough a hand as his be suffered to pluck so pretty a blossom ? No, he felt that he was fated to lose her, and his anguish was, that what he lost, the enemy of his house might gain. Had Christian been able to see deeper into the heart of Priscilla Sefton, he might have been a happier and a calmer man. In her eyes, his very wildness and strength had a fascination. Though she rebuked his violent passions, observing them and rising above them with her characteristic serenity, she did not dislike him for them, — any more than she disliked the sea for being turbulent, or the clouds for breaking into sullen thunder. Rather, it was a charm to her to encounter such a nature for the first time, as it was a charm to 264 GOD AND THE MAN. Stand under the clouds and to look upon the sea. Nor could one with eyes so susceptible to natural impressions be blind to Christian's striking physical beauty. He was pre-eminently a handsome man, thouQ^h his handsomeness was that of a Heracles, perfect in strength and man- hood ; and his face had the splendour of perfect sincerity and truthfulness, even when shadowed by unreasoning passion. That her Heracles was submissive to her slightest wish or whim, and would at her bidding have cheerfully sat down to the distaff, like Heracles of old, was still no disparagement In her eyes ; for his obe- dience was that of a strong will voluntarily bending to a charm, rather than that of a weak will to be conquered by the nobler and the stronger. F'ortunately for Christian's peace of mind, they met again by accident that ANOTHER LOVE SCE.WE. 265 very afternoon. As he walked In his favourite haunt among the sandhills, he saw her passing below him towards the sea. She looked up and saw him, and beckoned, smiling. He walked down to her rapidly, scarcely knowing what he did. ' I am going down to the shore,' she said, ' to gather green sea-moss for my father's eyes. Will you come with me ? ' He gazed at her as if in a dream, and made no reply ; but as she moved on he followed close behind her. She talked on, with her happy uncon sciousness of manner. * Dame Marvel tells me that the sea- moss, boiled till it makes a jelly, Is good for healing soreness of sight, and my fathers eyes are very tender. Will you tell me where to find it ? ' * Yes,' said Christian, in a low voice ; * but the moss you seek grows on the 266 GOD AND THE MAN. shiny pebbles below high tide mark, and you cannot gather it now. You will see it in great patches like stains upon the sand ; the gray plover feed upon it in winter, and the black brent geese swim in to seek it, from the open sea.' He hardly knew what he was saying, but he spoke out of the fulness of his country knowledge, and the words came. She looked at him curiously, with a certain admiration. * You know everything, go.od Christian,' she cried smiling; *all the flowers that grow, and all the fowl of the air, and even the virtues of the herbs of the sea. Will you gather some for me to-morrow, and bring it to me, or shall I come again ? ' * I will bring It to you. If you please.' * We sleep to-night at Cobbler Marvel's. Brino: it there.' She turned as if about to leave him. ANOTHER LOVE SCENE, 267 but he reached out his hands to detain her. Surprised at the touch, and even more by his sudden change of manner, she flushed a Httle, and her smile faded. * Do not go yet,' he exclaimed. She raised her eyes to his face, and saw it burning. For the first time during their acquaintance she trembled, and partly lost her self-possession. * Well, good Christian ? ' she said, forcing another smile. 'When we parted to-day, I followed you ; yes, I suspected something, and I followed to watch — and I saw you meet with him. You met him, and you walked with him upon his father's lands, perchance into his father's house. Nay, do not deny it, for I saw it with mine own eyes ! I watched you, till I could watch no more, and came away.* The words came rapidly without pre- 268 GOD AND THE MAN. meditation, and before he knew it he found himself arrogating a power over her which he knew she must resent. But he was desperate. He scarcely cared what he said, or what might be the consequences of his words. He felt a wild desire to come to open quarrel with her, and so ease his choking thoughts — even if he should afterwards have to fall upon his knees and crave her pardon. She looked at him in surprise and pain ; when he ceased, she looked at him still, but kept silence. Then he went on : ' When I first knew you, I thought you were kind and good, too good and kind to give me pain ; those first days were the happiest of my life ; I worshipped you — nay, the very ground you trod on, for I thought you something so far above me. But since he hath come t)etween us, you have been different. You have not ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 269 seemed to care, and when I have warned you, you have seemed to think better of him than me. Let there be an end to it all this day. Tell me with your own lips that you love him, and I will never trouble you again.' The words were strange, coming from one who had never, save in the most far- off hints and looks, revealed his heart before. She seemed greatly surprised, nor was her surprise without a certain tinge of indignation. * What do you mean ? ' she said. ' Love him ? — love whom ? ' ' Hiiii — the very name chokes me : the man you kept tryst with to-day.' * Mr. Orchardson } ' * Yes. Is it true ? Speak ! ' ' You are asking a foolish question. If I loved any man — even if it were true, I mean — do you think I should reply } ' 270 GOD AND THE MAN, * Then you do not deny it ? * * You have no right to ask me.* He leaned his face close to hers, and she felt his breath upon her cheek. ' I have this right, Priscilla — that I am mad with love for you myself; that my love is torturing me, killing me; that I would die if I knew for certain that you loved that man.* * You know not what you say,* she cried quickly. ' You are a boy, and you talk without thinking. If I did not think that, I should be angry.' Before she could say another word, or move away, he was on his knees before her, holding her by both hands. ' For God's sake, pity me. I love you, Priscilla ! * A warm flush suffused her cheek, but she retained her self-possession. She tried to release herself, but finding herself ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 271 helpless In his strong hold, struggled no more. Gazing Intently Into his upturned face, and meeting his ardent and reckless gaze, she said firmly, ' You must not speak to me like that. No man has ever done so before, and I will not suffer It.' ^ ' Then you hate me, and you love him ? ' * I do neither.' * Tell me the truth — I can bear It ! ' * I will tell you nothing. Release me, sir ! But he had gone too far now to re- treat. Having once broken the Ice, he persisted in passionate confession. In a torrent of burning speech, he spoke of his wild adoration. Despair made him eloquent, and, though usually reticent, he found no lack of words. * I am so 6orry,' she cried, when he 272 GOD AND THE MAN. paused in agitation. ' I thought you a true friend, and now, it is all different. Why do you speak of such things ? We are both too young.' He sprang to his feet, with trembling outstretched arms. * I am a better man than he,' he said. ' Put us face to face, and let the bravest win : unless — unless you are like all the rest, and choose him who has the most of land and gold.' * I choose no one. I shall never marry, and if I did ' * You cannot always bide alone. I will work for you, slave and toll for you. Tell me that I may perchance win you if I prove myself worthy, and I shall be content. Promise me.' * I will promise nothing. It is wicked to vex me so. Let us be friends. Be my good Christian still, and I will try to ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 273 forget that you have spoken what it is unmaidenly to hear.' ' You can Hsten cheerfully enough when he speaks.' * He has never spoken as you speak/ she replied sorrowfully ; ' he is gentle, and would not so distress me.' * But you know he loves you.' ' Nay, I do not know it.' ' He loves you, Priscilla, and v/ho would not ? But bethink yourself — he will never feel for you as I feel, never ! You are more to me than the lieht of the sun, than the breath of my nostrils, than my immortal soul. Without you 1 cannot live ; with you, I should be a happy man — the happiest in all God's world ! ' It was not in Priscilla's gentle nature to be unmoved by such an appeal, spoken with so intense and spirit-stirring a sin- VOL. I. T 274 GOD AND THE MAN. cerity. As she listened on, she sighed deeply, and finally, reaching out her little hand, she said In a voice broken by quiet tears : ' Good Master Christian, how can I answer you ? I am sure you speak out of your heart, and would not willingly give me offence ; but what can I say now, further than I have said ? Only this, that I would you cared for some better and worthier woman — one who would make you a fitting wife and helpmate, and love you as you deserve. For myself, what am I but a simple maiden, neither thinking nor dreaming yet of wedlock ? My place is with my father ; where he goes, I follow ; and soon, perchance, we shall be far from here.' * You are not going away ! ' cried Christian, with a sickening sense of dread. * I cannot tell,' was the reply. ' My ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 275 father hath done all he can do In these parts, and he hath man}^ calls to other places; ' And if you go, what will become of me ? Priscllla, I cannot live without you.' She shook her head sadly. * We are like two ships in the sea ; we have spoken with each other, that Is all, and the world Is wide. When I am eone, you will be as you wxre before I came. Bethink you, it is only a few short weeks since first we met. You were well content before I came, and w^hen I eo ' * No, no!' exclaimed Christian. 'All is changed for me ; I myself am changed. I am another man, In another w^orld. I cannot live without you.' * Nay, we have both work to do,' answered Priscilla ; ' you in your place, I In mine. I shall always remember you, and this fair country place ; and I think. T 2 2 76 GOD AND THE MAN. good Christian, you will remember me. Shake hands upon it ! ' He took her hand, and pressing it to his lips, kissed it passionately. ' I will follow you to the world's end ! ' he cried. * You will do better,' said the maiden, withdrawing her hand gently. ' You will try to become a better man, for my poor sake.' ' A better man ! ' ' Yes, Christian. Since you have said so much, may I be frank with you in turn ? Even if it could be, even if I willed to marry, I should fear your violent disposition.' * Priscilla ! ' ' Nay, hear me out. Your love and your hate are both so mad, so wild. You cherish such strange animosities.' * Only against one man in all the world.' ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 277 'And to hate one man Is hate enough,' said Priscllla, firmly. ' Sometimes, when I have Hstened to you, when I have heard your stormy words, I have been in terror lest some day you should do some dreadful deed.' * God help me, and so I might If my love were cast away. You can save me from that, you can make me worthy in God's sight.' * Nay, Christian, only your heart can do so much. You must learn to chasten It ; you must learn that all hate Is evil ; and when you have learned that, you will be able to bear your cross, as our Lord did, as any soul on earth may do.' She turned away and walked a few paces from him ; then pausing, reached out her hand again, with her old smile. * Let us part now for to-day,' she said. * To-morrow ' 278 GOD AND THE MAN. ' To-morrow I will bring you the moss for your father's eyes ! * ' And so you shall/ she cried ; and still smiling, she walked aw^ay. She left him happy. Something peace- ful came upon him, out of her gentle looks and words. He watched her with adoring eyes till she passed from sight ; then with a low cry, he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed. Not in sorrow now. The tears came welling up from his overburthened heart ; for he felt she pitied him, and knowing her heavenly pity, he did not feel wholly cast away. There was a comfort, too, in the fact that he had spoken ; that thence- forth, whatever might happen, she could not fail to understand him. So he looked round on the earth, and on the sea, and up to the peaceful heaven ; and he blessed, in the name of all these, the maiden who ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 279 had come to make them clearer, to put new hght and colour Into their ever- changeful hues, as well as into the tangled thread of life. When the sun had set, he wandered home, and entering the house found his mother sittincr alone In the dark room. ' Where is Kate ? ' she asked. ' I have called for her, but she does not come.' Christian called his sister s name aloud, and then, as she did not answer, he went to seek her. He passed from room to room, but could not find her. This seemed strange, for Kate was a home- loving girl, and seldom absent from the house. He returned to his mother, bear- ing a light with him for the room. ' I cannot find her,' he said. ' Belike she has gone on some errand up to the village, and will soon return.' 28o GOD AND THE MAN. The dame looked pale and astonished ; after a pause she said :* * When did you see her last, my son ? ' * Not since before noontide. I left her then in the house.' * She went forth soon after thyself, promising to be back within an hour. Have you searched in her room ? ' Yes, mother.' ' Then go forth and look for her. 'Tis time she was come home.' Accustomed by habit to obey his mother's slightest wish. Christian did not hesitate a moment, but ran forth ; searched all the outbuildings, looked up and down the farm-fields ; shouted his sister's name aloud, without eliciting any reply. It was now quite dark, and he began to be seriously alarmed ; for Kate, as we have said, was home-loving, and little likely to gad about after nightfall. Returning into ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 281 the house, he told his mother the state of aftairs, and was at once bidden to go up to the village and make inquiries. This he did, but to little avail. Kate was nowhere in the village. Thinofs now looked ominous. No one had seen the girl since early in the after- noon ; and the person who had met her last, an old labourer, had seen her hasten- ing homeward, by the path which wound along the side of the four-acre mere. Could any accident have happened to the girl ? When the moon rose, Christian stood by the mere side, and looked at the black palpitating water with a fearful heart. Could his poor sister be lying there ? As he gazed and gazed, a vision rose before him of the girl's pale face, as he had often seen it lately. He had been too much absorbed in his own new dreams to 282 GOD AND THE MAN. take much heed of It at the time ; but he remembered now, with a twinge of pain, how changed she had been. Then came across his brain the memory of her encounter that night with Richard Orchardson. Was It possible that they had encountered at other times, or that Orchardson was In any way, however remotely, connected with the fact of her disappearance ? No, he could scarcely believe It. He would not wrong his sister so much as even to entertain the suspicion for a moment. She had sworn her oath upon the Book, and she could never have broken It so desperately. That night, Kate Chrlstlanson did not return home ; nor the next, nor the next a^aln. Thouo^h Christian searched hlo^h o o o and low, he could gain no clue to the cause of her disappearance. On the third day they dragged the four-acre mere, but found nothing there. ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 283 Pale and terrible in grief, the mother kept her eyes on her Bible, as If the end of the search was to be found within It. But Kate did not come, and a shadow worse than death remained In the lonely house. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. LONDON : PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET o CO a JH 4-» Vh o MH a o •»— 1 4-> o a; ■M O u On t— 1 c3 • »— I o (L> Oh W a 0) > • • b/) ^ o C/3 »— 1 • »— 1 — ( • 1—1 ^ ^ ^ o o o ;3 O i=3 (-< c Qh o OS -t-J u* rt bjO • 1— ( o O o ■+-> C/) ^ C/) <; <