CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

BOOK III.

PROLOGUE.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

EPILOGUE.

BOOK I.

PROLOGUE.

"For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world

and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for

his soul?"

At Surat, by a window of his private office in the East India

Company's factory, a middle-aged man stared out upon the broad river

and the wharves below. Business in the factory had ceased for the

day: clerks and porters had gone about their own affairs, and had

left the great building strangely cool and empty and silent.

The wharves, too, were deserted--all but one, where a Hindu sat in

the shade of a pile of luggage, and the top of a boat's mast wavered

like the index of a balance above the edge of the landing-stairs.

The luggage belonged to the middle-aged man at the window: the boat

was to carry him down the river to the _Albemarle_, East Indiaman,

anchored in the roads with her Surat cargo aboard. She would sail

that night for Bombay and thence away for England.

He was ready; dressed for his journey in a loose white suit, which,

though designed for the East, was almost aggressively British.

A Cheapside tailor had cut it, and, had it been black or gray or

snuff-coloured instead of white, its wearer might have passed all the

way from the Docks to Temple Bar for a solid merchant on 'Change--a

self-respecting man, too, careless of dress for appearance' sake, but

careful of it for his own, and as part of a habit of neatness.

He wore no wig (though the date was 1723), but his own gray hair,

brushed smoothly back from a sufficiently handsome forehead and tied

behind with a fresh black ribbon. In his right hand he held a straw

hat, broad-brimmed like a Quaker's, and a white umbrella with a green

lining. His left fingered his clean-shaven chin as he gazed on the

river.

The ceremonies of leave-taking were done with and dismissed; so far

as he could, he had avoided them. He had ever been a hard man and

knew well enough that the clerks disliked him. He hated humbug.

He had come to India, almost forty years ago, not to make friends,

but to make a fortune. And now the fortune was made, and the room

behind him stood ready, spick and span, for the Scotsman who would

take his chair to-morrow. Drawers had been emptied and dusted, loose

papers and memoranda sorted and either burnt or arranged and

docketed, ledgers entered up to the last item in his firm

handwriting, and finally closed. The history of his manhood lay shut

between their covers, written in figures terser than a Roman classic:

his grand _coup_ in Nunsasee goods, Abdul Guffere's debt commuted for

500,000 rupees, the salvage of the _Ramillies_ wreck, his commercial

duel with Viltul Parrak . . . And the record had no loose ends.

He owed no man a farthing.

The door behind him opened softly and a small gray-headed man peered

into the room.

"Mr. Annesley, if I might take the liberty--"

"Ah, MacNab?" Samuel Annesley swung round promptly.

"I trust, sir, I do not intrude?"

"'Intrude,' man? Why?"

"Oh, nothing, sir," answered the little man vaguely, with a dubious

glance at Mr. Annesley's eyes. "Only I thought perhaps--at such a

moment--old scenes, old associations--and you leaving us for ever,

sir!"

"Tut, nonsense! You have something to say to me. Anything

forgotten?"

"Nothing in the way of business, sir. But it occurred to me--"

Mr. MacNab lowered his voice, "--Your good lady, up at the

burial-ground. You will excuse me--at such a time: but it may be

years before I am spared to return home, and if I can do anything in

the way of looking after the grave, I shall be proud. Oh no--" he

went on hurriedly with a flushed face: "for _love_, sir; for love, of

course: or, as I should rather say, for old sake's sake, if that's

not too bold. It would be a privilege, Mr. Annesley."

Samuel Annesley stood considering his late confidential clerk with

bent brows. "I am much obliged to you, MacNab; but in this matter

you must do as you please. You are right in supposing that I was

sincerely attached to my wife--"

"Indeed yes, sir."

"But I have none of the sentiment you give me credit for. 'Let the

dead bury the dead'--that is a text to which I have given some

attention of late, and I hope to profit by it in--in the future."

"Well, God bless you, Mr. Annesley!"

"I thank you. We are delaying the boat, I fear. No"--as Mr. MacNab

made an offer to accompany him--"I prefer to go alone. We have

shaken hands already. The room is ready for Mr. Menzies, when he

comes to-morrow. Good-bye."

A minute later Mr. MacNab, lingering by the window, saw him cross the

road to the landing-stage and stand for a moment in talk with the

Hindu, Bhagwan Dass. Then his straw hat disappeared down the steps.

The boat was pushed off; and Bhagwan Dass, after watching it for a

while, turned without emotion and came strolling across to the

factory.

On board the _Albemarle_ Mr. Annesley found the best cabin prepared

for him, as became his importance. He went below at once and was

only seen at meal-times during the short voyage to Bombay, a town

that of late years had almost eclipsed Surat in trade and importance.

Here Captain Bewes was to take in the bulk of his passengers and

cargo, and brought his vessel close alongside the Bund. During the

three days occupied in lading and stowing little order was

maintained, and the decks lay open to a promiscuous crowd of coolies

and porters, waterside loafers, beggars and thieves. The officers

kept an eye open for these last: the rest they tolerated until the

moment came for warping out, when the custom was to pipe all hands

and clear the ship of intruders by a general rush.

The first two days Mr. Annesley spent upon the poop, watching the mob

with a certain scornful interest. On the third he did not appear,

but was served with _tiffin_ in his cabin. At about six o'clock, the

second mate--a Mr. Orchard--sought the captain to report that all

was ready and waiting the word to cast off. His way led past

Mr. Annesley's cabin, and there he came upon an old mendicant

stooping over the door handle and making as if to enter and beg; whom

he clouted across the shoulders and cuffed up the companion-ladder.

Mr. Orchard afterwards remembered to have seen this same beggar man,

or the image of him, off and on during the two previous days, seated

asquat against a post on the Bund, and watching the _Albemarle_,

with his crutch and bowl beside him.

When the rush came, this old man, bent and blear-eyed, was swept

along the gangway like a chip on the tide. In pure lightness of

heart a sailor, posted at the head of the plank, expedited him with a

kick. "That'll do for good-bye to India," said he, grinning.

The old man showed no resentment, but was borne along bewildered,

gripping his bowl to his breast. On the quay's edge he seemed to

find his feet, and shuffled off towards the town, without once

looking back at the ship.

CHAPTER I.

"MILL--mill! A mill!"

At the entrance of Dean's Yard, Westminster, a small King's Scholar,

waving his gown and yelling, collided with an old gentleman hobbling

round the corner, and sat down suddenly in the gutter with a squeal,

as a bagpipe collapses. The old gentleman rotated on one leg like a

dervish, made an ineffectual stoop to clutch his gouty toe and wound

up by bringing his rattan cane smartly down on the boy's shoulders.

"Owgh! Owgh! Stand up, you young villain! My temper's hasty, and

here's a shilling-piece to cry quits. Stand up and tell me now--is

it Fire, Robbery, or Murder?"

The youngster pounced at the shilling, shook off the hand on his

collar, and darted down Little College Street to Hutton's Boarding

House, under the windows of which he pulled up and executed a

derisive war-dance.

"Hutton's, Hutton's,

Put up your buttons,

Hutton's are rottenly Whigs--"

"Mill--mill! Come out and carry home your Butcher Randall!

You'll be wanted when Wesley has done with him."

He was speeding back by this time, and flung this last taunt from a

safe distance. The old gentleman collared him again by the entry.

"Stop, my friend--here, hold hard for a moment! A fight, you said:

and Wesley--was it Wesley?"

The boy nodded.

"Charles Wesley?"

"Well, it wouldn't be Samuel--at _his_ age: now would it?" The boy

grinned. The Reverend Samuel Wesley was the respected Head Usher of

Westminster School.

"And what will Charles Wesley be fighting about?"

"How should I know? Because he wants to, belike. But I was told it

began up school, with Randall's flinging a book at young Murray for a

lousy Scotch Jacobite."

"H'm: and where will it be?"

The boy dropped his voice to a drawl. "In Fighting-green, I believe,

sir: they told me Poets' Corner was already bespoke for a turn-up

between the Dean and Sall the charwoman, with the Head Verger for

bottle-holder--"

"Now, look here, young jackanapes--" But young jackanapes, catching

sight of half a dozen boys--the vanguard of Hutton's--at the street

corner, ducked himself free and raced from vengeance across the yard.

The old gentleman followed; and the crowd from Hutton's, surging

past, showed him the way to Fighting-green where a knot of King's

Scholars politely made room for him, perceiving that in spite of his

small stature, his rusty wig and countrified brown suit, he was a

person of some dignity and no little force of character. They read

it perhaps in the set of his mouth, perhaps in the high aquiline arch

of his nose, which he fed with snuff as he gazed round the ring while

the fighters rested, each in his corner, after the first round: for a

mill at Westminster was a ceremonious business, and the Head Master

had been known to adjourn school for one.

"H'm," said the newcomer; "no need to ask which is Wesley."

His eyes set deep beneath brows bristling like a wire-haired

terrier's--were on the boy in the farther corner, who sat on his

backer's knee, shoeless, stripped to the buff, with an angry red mark

on the right breast below the collar-bone; a slight boy and a trifle

undersized, but lithe, clear-skinned, and in the pink of condition; a

handsome boy, too. By his height you might have guessed him under

sixteen, but his face set you doubting. There are faces almost

uncannily good-looking: they charm so confidently that you shrink

from predicting the good fortune they claim, and bethink you that the

gods' favourites are said to die young: and Charles Wesley's was such

a face. He tightened the braces about his waist and stepped forward

for the second round with a sweet and serious smile. Yet his mouth

meant business.

Master Randall--who stood near three inches taller--though nicknamed

"Butcher," was merely a dull heavy-shouldered Briton, dogged, hard to

beat; the son of a South Sea merchant, retired and living at Barnet,

who swore by Walpole and King George. But at Westminster these

convictions--and, confound it! they were the convictions of England,

after all--met with scurrilous derision; and here Master Randall

nursed a dull and inarticulate resentment in a world out of joint,

where the winning side was a butt for epigrams. To win, and be

laughed at! To have the account reopened in lampoons and witticisms,

contemptible but irritating, when it should be closed by the mere act

of winning! It puzzled him, and he brooded over it, turning sulky in

the end, not vicious. It was in no viciousness that he had flung a

book at young Murray's head and called him a lousy Jacobite, but

simply to provoke Wesley and get his grievance settled by

intelligible weapons, such as fists.

He knew his to be the unpopular side, and that even Freind, the Head

Master, would chuckle over the defeat of a Whig. Outside of

Hutton's, who cheered him for the honour of their house, he had few

well-wishers; but among them was a sprinkling of boys bearing the

great Whig names--Cowpers, Sackvilles, Osborns--for whose sake and

for its own tradition the ring would give him fair play.

The second round began warily, Wesley sparring for an opening,

Randall defensive, facing round and round, much as a bullock fronts a

terrier. He knew his game; to keep up his guard and wait for a

chance to get in with his long left. He was cunning, too; appeared

slower than he was, tempting the other to take liberties, and,

towards the end of the round, to step in a shade too closely. It was

but a shade. Wesley, watching his eye, caught an instant's warning,

flung his head far back and sprang away--not quickly enough to avoid

a thud on the ribs. It rattled him, but did no damage, and it taught

him his lesson.

Round 3. Tempted in turn by his slight success, Randall shammed slow

again. But once bitten is twice shy, and this time he overreached

himself, in two senses. His lunge, falling short, let in the little

one, who dealt him a double knock--rap, rap, on either side of the

jaw--before breaking away. Stung out of caution he rushed and

managed to close, but took a third rap which cut his upper lip.

First blood to Wesley. The pair went to grass together, Randall on

top. But it was the Tories who cheered.

Round 4. Randall, having bought his experience, went back to sound

tactics. This and the next two rounds were uninteresting and quite

indecisive, though at the end of them Wesley had a promising black

eye and Randall was bleeding at mouth and nose. The old gentleman

rubbed his chin and took snuff. This Fabian fighting was all against

the lighter weight, who must tire in time.

Yet he did not look like tiring, but stepped out for Round 7 with the

same inscrutable smile. Randall met it with a shame-faced grin--

really a highly creditable, good-natured grin, though the blood about

his mouth did its meaning some injustice. And with this there

happened that which dismayed many and puzzled all. Wesley's fists

went up, but hung, as it were impotent for the moment, while his eyes

glanced aside from his adversary's and rested, with a stiffening of

surprise, on the corner of the ring where the old gentleman stood.

A cry went up from the King's Scholars--a groan and a warning.

At the sound he flung back his head instinctively--as Randall's left

shot out, caught him on the apple of the throat, and drove him

staggering back across the green.

The old gentleman snapped down the lid of his snuffbox, and at the

same moment felt a hand gripping him by the elbow. "Now, how the--"

he began, turning as he supposed to address a Westminster boy, and

found himself staring into the face of a lady.

He had no time to take stock of her. And although her fingers

pinched his arm, her eyes were all for the fight.

It had been almost a knock-down; but young Wesley just saved himself

by touching the turf with his fingertips and, resting so, crouched

for a spring. What is more, he timed it beautifully; helped by

Randall himself, who followed up at random, demoralised by the happy

fluke and encouraged by the shouts of Hutton's to "finish him off."

In the fall Wesley had most of his remaining breath thumped out of

him; but this did not matter. He had saved the round.

The old gentleman nodded. "Well recovered: very pretty--very pretty

indeed!" He turned to the lady. "I beg your pardon, madam--"

"I beg yours, sir." She withdrew her hand from his arm.

"If he can swallow that down, he may win yet."

"Please God!"

She stood almost a head taller than he, and he gazed up into a

singularly noble face, proud and strong, somewhat pinched about the

lips, but having such eyes and brows as belong to the few accustomed

to confront great thoughts. It gave her the ineffable touch of

greatness which more than redeemed her shabby black gown and antique

bonnet; and, on an afterthought, the old gentleman decided that it

must have been beautiful in its day. Just now it was pale, and one

hand clutched the silk shawl crossed upon her bosom. He noted, too,

that the hand was shapely, though roughened with housework where the

mitten did not hide it.

She had scarcely glanced at him, and after a while he dropped his

scrutiny and gazed with her across the ring.

"H'm," said he, "dander up, this time!"

"Yes," the lady answered, "I know that look, sir, though I have never

seen it on _him_. And I trust to see him wear it, one day, in a

better cause."

"Tut, madam, the cause is good enough. You don't tell me I'm talking

to a Whig?--not that I'd dispute with a lady, Whig or Tory."

"A Whig?" She fetched up a smile: she had evidently a reserve of

mirth. "Indeed, no: but I was thinking, sir, of the cause of

Christ."

"Oh!" said the old gentleman shortly, and took snuff.

They were right. Young Wesley stepped out this time with a honeyed

smile, but with a new-born light in his hazel eyes--a demoniac light,

lambent and almost playful. Master Randall, caressed by them, read

the danger signal a thought too late. A swift and apparently

reckless feint drew another of his slogging strokes, and in a flash

the enemy was under his guard. Even so, for the fraction of a

second, victory lay in his arms, a clear gift to be embraced: a quick

crook of the elbow, and Master Wesley's head and neck would be snugly

in Chancery. Master Wesley knew it--knew, further, that there was no

retreat, and that his one chance hung on getting in his blow first

and disabling with it. He jabbed it home with his right, a little

below the heart: and in a second the inclosing fore-arm dragged limp

across his neck. He pressed on, aiming for the point of the jaw; but

slowly lowered his hands as Randall tottered back two steps with a

face of agony, dropped upon one knee, clutching at his breast, and so

to the turf, where he writhed for a moment and fainted.

As the ring broke up, cheering, and surged across the green, the old

gentleman took snuff again and snapped down the lid of his box.

"Good!" said he; then to the lady, "Are you a relative of his?"

"I am his mother, sir."

CHAPTER II.

She moved across the green to the corner where Charles was coolly

sponging his face and chest over a basin. "In a moment, ma'am!" said

he, looking up with a twinkle in his eye as the boys made way for

her.

She read the meaning of it and smiled at her own mistake as she drew

back the hand she had put out to take the sponge from him. He was

her youngest, and she had seen him but twice since, at the age of

eight, he had left home for Westminster School. In spite of the

evidence of her eyes he was a small child still--until his voice

warned her.

She drew back her hand at once. Boys scorn any show of feeling, even

between mother and son; and Charles should not be ridiculed on her

account. So he sponged away and she waited, remembering how she had

taught him, when turned a year old, to cry softly after a whipping.

Ten children she had brought up in a far Lincolnshire parsonage, and

without sparing the rod; but none had been allowed to disturb their

father in his study where he sat annotating the Scriptures or turning

an heroic couplet or adding up his tangled household accounts.

A boy pushed through the group around the basin, with news that

Butcher Randall had come-to from his swoon and wished to shake hands:

and almost before Charles could pick up a towel and dry himself the

fallen champion appeared with a somewhat battered grin.

"No malice," he mumbled: "nasty knock--better luck next time."

"Come, I say!" protested Charles, shaking hands and pulling a mock

face, "Is there going to be a next time?"

"Well, you don't suppose I'm _convinced_--" Randall began: but Mrs.

Wesley broke in with a laugh.

"There's old England for you!" She brought her mittened palms

together as if to clap them, but they rested together in the very

gesture of prayer. "'Won't be convinced,' you say? but oh, when it's

done you are worth it! Nay--don't hide your face, sir! Wounds for

an honest belief are not shameful, and I can only hope that in your

place my son would have shown so fair a temper."

"Whe-ew!" one of the taller boys whistled. "It's Wesley's mother!"

"She was watching, too: the last two rounds at any rate. I saw her."

"And I."

"--And so cool it might have been a dog-fight in Tuttle Fields.

Your servant, ma'am!" The speaker made her a boyish bow and lifted

his voice: "Three cheers for Mrs. Wesley!"

They were given--the first two with a will. The third tailed off;

and Mrs. Wesley, looking about her, laughed again as the boys,

suddenly turned shy or overtaken by a sense of delicacy, backed away

sheepishly and left her alone with her son.

"Put on your shirt," said she, and again her hand went out to help

him. "I want you to take a walk with me."

Charles nodded. "Have you seen Sam?"

"Yes. You may kiss me now, dear--there's nobody looking. I left him

almost an hour ago: his leg is mending, but he cannot walk with us.

He promises, though, to come to Johnson's Court this evening--I

suppose, in a sedan-chair--and greet your uncle Annesley, whom I have

engaged to take back to supper. You knew, of course, that I should

be lodging there?"

"Sammy--we call him Sammy--told me on Sunday, but could not say when

you would be arriving here."

"I reached London last night, and this morning your uncle Matthew

came to my door with word that the _Albemarle_ had entered the river.

I think you are well enough to walk to the Docks with me."

"Well enough? Of course I am. But why not take a waterman from the

stairs here?"

"'Twill cost less to walk and hire a boat at Blackwall, if necessary.

Your father could give me very little money, Charles. We seem to be

as poorly off as ever."

"And this uncle Annesley--" he began, but paused with a glance at his

mother, whose face had suddenly grown hot. "What sort of a man is

he?"

"My boy," she said with an effort, "I must not be ashamed to tell my

child what I am not ashamed to hope. He is rich: he once promised to

do much for Emmy and Sukey, and these promises came to nothing.

But now that his wife is dead and he comes home with neither chick

nor child, I see no harm in praying that his heart may be moved

towards his sister's children. At least I shall be frank with him

and hide not my hope, let him treat it as he will." She was silent

for a moment. "Are _all_ women unscrupulous when they fight for

their children? They cannot all be certain, as I am, that their

children were born for greatness: and yet, I wonder sometimes--"

She wound up with a smile which held something of a playful irony,

but more of sadness.

"Jacky could not come with you?"

"No, and he writes bitterly about it. He is tied to Oxford--by lack

of pence, again."

By this time Charles had slipped on his jacket, and the pair stepped

out into the streets and set their faces eastward. Mrs. Wesley was

cockney-bred and delighted in the stir and rush of life. She, the

mother of many children, kept a well-poised figure and walked with

the elastic step of a maid; and as she went she chatted, asking a

score of shrewd questions about Westminster--the masters, the food,

the old dormitory in which Charles slept, the new one then rising to

replace it; breaking off to recognise some famous building, or to

pause and gaze after a company of his Majesty's guards. Her own

masterful carriage and unembarrassed mode of speech--"as if all

London belonged to her," Charles afterwards described it--drew the

stares of the passers-by; stares which she misinterpreted, for in the

gut of the Strand, a few paces beyond Somerset House, she suddenly

twirled the lad about and "Bless us, child, your eye's enough to

frighten the town! 'Tis to be hoped brother Sam has not turned

Quaker in India; or that Sally the cook-maid has a beefsteak handy."

Mr. Matthew Wesley, apothecary and by courtesy "surgeon," to whose

house in Johnson's Court, Fleet Street, they presently swerved aside,

had not returned from his morning's round of visits. He was a

widower and took his meals irregularly. But Sally had two covers

laid, with a pot of freshly drawn porter beside each; and here, after

Charles's eye had been attended to and the swelling reduced, they ate

and drank and rested for half an hour before resuming their walk.

So far, and until they reached the Tower, their road was familiar

enough; but from Smithfield onwards they had to halt and inquire

their way again and again in intervals of threading the traffic which

poured out of cross-streets and to and from the docks on their

right--wagons empty, wagons laden with hides, jute, scrap-iron,

tallow, indigo, woollen bales, ochre, sugar; trollies and

pack-horses; here and there a cordon of porters and warehousemen

trundling barrels as nonchalantly as a child his hoop. The business

of piloting his mother through these cross-tides left Charles little

time for observation; but one incident of that walk he never forgot.

They were passing Shadwell when they came on a knot of people and two

watchmen posted at the corner of a street across which a reek of

smoke mingled with clouds of gritty dust. Twice or thrice they heard

a crash or dull rumble of falling masonry. A distillery had been

blazing there all night and a gang of workmen was now clearing the

ruins. But as Charles and his mother came by the corner, the knot of

people parted and gave passage to a line of stretchers--six

stretchers in all, and on each a body, which the bearers had not

taken the trouble to cover from view. A bystander said that these

were men who had run back into the building to drink the flaming

spirit, and had dropped insensible, and been crushed when the walls

fell in. The boy had never seen death before; and at the sight of it

thrust upon him in this brutal form, he put out a hand towards his

mother to find that she too was swaying.

"Hallo!" cried the same bystander, "look out there! the lady's

fainting."

But Mrs. Wesley steadied herself. "'Tis not _that_," she gasped,

at the same time waving him off; "'tis the fire--the fire!"

And stepping by the crossing she fled along the street with Charles

at her heels, nor ceased running for another hundred yards.

"You do not remember," she began, turning at length; "no, of course

you do not. You were a babe, not two years old; nurse snatched you

out of bed--"

The odd thing was that, despite the impossibility, Charles seemed to

remember quite clearly. As a child he had heard his sisters talk so

often of the fire at Epworth Rectory that the very scene--and

especially Jacky's escape--was bitten on the blank early pages as a

real memory. He had half a mind now to question his mother about it

and startle her with details, but her face forbade him.

She recovered her colour in bargaining with a waterman at Blackwall

Stairs. Two stately Indiamen lay out on the river below, almost

flank by flank; and, as it happened, the farther one was at that

moment weighing her anchor, indeed had it tripped on the cathead.

A cloud of boats hung about her, trailing astern as her head-sails

drew and she began to gather way on the falling tide.

The waterman, a weedy loafer with a bottle nose and watery blue eyes,

agreed to pull across for threepence; but no sooner were they

embarked and on the tide-way, than he lay on his oars and jerked his

thumb towards the moving ship. "Make it a crown, ma'am, and I'll

overhaul her," he hiccupped.

Mrs. Wesley glanced towards the two ships and counted down threepence

deliberately upon the thwart facing her, at the same time pursing up

her lips to hide a smile. For the one ship lay moored stem and stern

with her bows pointed up the river, and the other, drifting past, at

this moment swung her tall poop into view with her windows flashing

against the afternoon sun, and beneath them her name, the _Josiah

Childs_, in tall gilt letters.

"Better make it a crown, ma'am," the waterman repeated with a drunken

chuckle.

Mrs. Wesley rose in her seat. Her hand went up, and Charles made

sure she meant to box the man's ears. He could not see the look on

her face, but whatever it was it cowed the fellow, who seized his

oars again and began to pull for dear life, as she sat back and laid

her hand on the tiller.

"Easy, now," she commanded, after twenty strokes or so. "Easy, and

ship your oar, unless you want it broken!" But for answer he merely

stared at her, and a moment later his starboard oar snapped its

tholepin like a carrot, and hurled him back over his thwart as the

boat ran alongside the _Albemarle's_ ladder.

"My friend," said Mrs. Wesley coolly, "you have a pestilent habit of

not listening. I hired you to row me to the _Albemarle_, and this, I

believe, is she." Then, with a glance up at the half-dozen grinning

faces above the bulwarks, "Can I see Captain Bewes?"

"Your servant, ma'am." The captain appeared at the head of the

ladder; a red apple-cheeked man in shirt-sleeves and clean white

nankeen breeches, who looked like nothing so much as an overgrown

schoolboy.

"Is Mr. Samuel Annesley on board?"

Captain Bewes rubbed his chin. He had grown suddenly grave. "I beg

your pardon," said he, "but are you a kinswoman of Mr. Annesley's?"

"I am his sister, sir."

"Then I'll have to ask you to step on board, ma'am. You may dismiss

that rascal, and one of my boats shall put you ashore."

He stepped some way down the ladder to meet her and she took his hand

with trepidation, while the _Albemarle's_ crew leaned over and

taunted the cursing waterman.

"There--that will do, my man. I don't allow swearing here.

Steady, ma'am, that's right; and now give us a hand, youngster."

"Is--is he ill?" Mrs. Wesley stammered.

"Who? Mr. Annesley? Not to my knowledge, ma'am."

"Then he is on board? We heard he had taken passage with you."

"Why, so he did; and, what's more, to the best of my knowledge, he

sailed. It's a serious matter, ma'am, and we're all at our wits'

ends over it; but the fact is--Mr. Annesley has disappeared."

CHAPTER III.

That same evening, in Mr. Matthew Wesley's parlour, Johnson's Court,

Captain Bewes told the whole story--or so much of it as he knew.

The disappearance from on board his ship of a person so important as

Mr. Samuel Annesley touched his prospects in the Company's service,

and he did not conceal it. He had already reported the affair at the

East India House and was looking forward to a highly uncomfortable

interview with the Board of Governors: but he was concerned, too, as

an honest man; and had jumped at Mrs. Wesley's invitation to sup with

her in Johnson's Court and tell what he could.

Mr. Matthew Wesley, as host, sat at the head of his table and puffed

at a churchwarden pipe; a small, narrow-featured man, in a

chocolate-coloured suit, with steel buttons, and a wig of

professional amplitude. On his right sat his sister-in-law, her

bonnet replaced by a tall white cap: on his left the Captain in his

shore-going clothes. He and the apothecary had mixed themselves a

glass apiece of Jamaica rum, hot, with sugar and lemon-peel.

At the foot of the table, with his injured leg supported on a

cushion, reclined the Reverend Samuel Wesley, Junior, Usher of

Westminster School, his gaunt cheeks (he was the plainest-featured of

the Wesleys) wan with recent illness, and his eyes fixed on Captain

Bewes's chubby face.

"Well, as I told you, Mr. Annesley's cabin lay beside my state-room,

with a window next to mine in the stern: and, as I showed Mrs. Wesley

to-day, my stateroom opens on the 'captain's cabin' (as they call

it), where I have dined as many as two dozen before now, and where I

do the most of my work. This has three windows directly under the

big poop-lantern. I was sitting, that afternoon, at the head of the

mahogany swing table (just as you might be sitting now, sir) with my

back to the light and the midmost of the three windows wide open

behind me, for air. I had the ship's chart spread before me when my

second mate, Mr. Orchard, knocked at the door with word that all was

ready to cast off. I asked him a few necessary questions, and while

he stood there chatting I heard a splash just under my window.

Well, that might have been anything--a warp cast off and the slack of

it striking the water, we'll say. Whatever it was, I heard it,

turned about, and with one knee on the window-locker (I remember it

perfectly) took a glance out astern. I saw nothing to account for

the sound: but I knew of a dozen things which might account for it--

anything, in fact, down to some lazy cabin-boy heaving the

dinner-scraps overboard: and having, as you'll understand, a dozen

matters on my mind at the moment, I thought no more of it, but turned

to Mr. Orchard again and picked up our talk. To this day I don't

know that there was anything in the sound, but 'tis fair to tell you

all I can."--Captain Bewes took a sip at his grog, and over the rim

looked down the table towards Samuel, who nodded.

The Captain nodded back, set down his glass, and resumed. "Quite so.

The next thing is that Mr. Orchard, returning to deck two minutes

later and having to pass the door of Mr. Annesley's cabin on his way,

ran against an old Hindu beggar crouching there, fingering the

door-handle and about to enter--or so Orchard supposed, and kicked

him up the companion. He told me about it himself, next day, when we

found the cabin empty and I began to make inquiries. 'Now here,'

says you, 'here's a clue,' and I'm not denying but it may be one.

Only when you look into it, what does it amount to? Mr. Annesley--

saving your presence--was known for a stern man: you may take it for

certain he'd made enemies over there, and these Hindus are the devil

(saving your presence again, ma'am) for nursing a grudge. 'Keep a

stone in your pocket seven years: turn it, keep it for another seven;

'twill be ready at hand for your enemy'--that's their way. But, to

begin with, an old _jogi_ is nothing strange to meet on a ship before

she clears. These beggars in the East will creep in anywhere.

And, next, you'll hardly maintain that an old beggarman ('seventy

years old if a day,' said Orchard) was going to take an active man

like Mr. Annesley and cram him bodily through a cabin window?

'Tis out of nature. And yet when we broke into his cabin,

twenty-four hours later, there was not a trace of him: only his boxes

neatly packed, his watch hanging to the beam and just running down, a

handful of gold and silver tossed on to the bunk--just as he might

have emptied it from his pockets--nothing else, and the whole cabin

neat as a pin."

"But," objected Mr. Matthew Wesley, "if this _jogi_--or whatever you

call him--had entered the cabin for no good, he would hardly have

missed the money lying on the bunk."

"Sir, you must not judge these eastern mendicants by your London

beggars. They are not thieves, nor avaricious, but religious men

practising self-denial, who collect alms merely to support life, and

believe that money so bestowed blesses the giver."

"A singularly perverted race!" was the apothecary's comment.

Captain Bewes turned towards Mr. Samuel, who next spoke from the

penumbra at the far end of the table. "I believe, Captain," said he,

"that these mendicants are as a rule the most harmless of men?"

"Wouldn't hurt a fly, sir. I have known some whose charity extended

to the vermin on their own bodies."

Mrs. Wesley sat tapping the mahogany gently with her finger-tips.

"To my thinking, the key of this mystery, if there be one, lies at

Surat. My brother had powerful enemies: his letters make that clear.

We must inquire into _them_--their numbers and the particular grudge

they bore him--and also into the state of his mind. He was not the

sort of person to be kidnapped in open day."

--"By a Thames waterman, for instance, madam?" said Captain Bewes,

jocularly, but instantly changed his tone. "You suggest that he may

have disappeared on his own account? To avoid his enemies, you

mean?"

"As to his motives, sir, I say nothing: but it certainly looks to me

as if he had planned to give you the slip."

"Tut-tut!" exclaimed Matthew. "And left his money behind?

Not likely!"

"We have still his boxes to search--"

"Under power of attorney," Sam suggested. "We must see about getting

it to-morrow."

"Well, madam"--Captain Bewes knocked out his pipe, drained his glass,

and rose--"the boxes shall be delivered up as soon as you bring me

authority: and I trust, for my own sake as well as yours, the

contents will clear up this mystery for us. I shall be tied to my

ship for the next three days, possibly for another week--"

He was holding out his hand to Mrs. Wesley when the door opened

behind him, and Sally appeared.

"If you please," she announced, "there's a gentleman without, wishes

to see the company. He calls himself Mr. Wesley."

"It cannot be Charles?" Mrs. Wesley turned towards her son Sam.

"But Charles must be at Westminster and in bed these two hours!"

"Surely," said he.

"'Tis not young Master Charles, ma'am, nor anyone like him: but a

badger-faced old gentleman who snaps up a word before 'tis out of

your mouth."

"Show him in," commanded Matthew: and the words were scarcely out

before the visitor stood in the doorway. Mrs. Wesley recognised him

at once as the old gentleman who had stood beside her that morning

and watched the fight.

"Good evening, ma'am. I learned your address at Westminster: or, to

be precise, at the Reverend Samuel Wesley's. You are he, I

suppose?"--here he swung round upon Sam--"Your amiable wife told me I

should find you here: and so much the better, my visit being on

family business. Eh? What? I hope I'm not turning out this

gentleman?"--indicating Captain Bewes--"No? Well, if you were

leaving, sir, I won't detain you: since, as I say, mine is family

business. Mr. Matthew Wesley, I presume?"--with a quick turn towards

his host as Captain Bewes slipped away--"And brother of this lady's

husband? Quite so. No, I thank you, I do not smoke; but will take

snuff, if the company allows. I have heard reports of your skill,

sir. My name is Wesley also: Garrett Wesley, of Dangan, County

Meath, in Ireland: I sit for my county in Parliament and pass in this

world for a respectable person. You'll excuse these details, ma'am;

but when a man breaks in upon a family party at this hour of the

night, he ought to give some account of himself."

Mrs. Wesley rose from her chair and dropped him a stately curtsey.

"The name suffices for us, sir. I make my compliments to one of my

husband's family."

"I'm obliged to you, ma'am, and pleased to hear the kinship

acknowledged. A good family, as families go, though I say it.

We have held on to Dangan since Harry Fifth's time; and to our name

since Guy of Welswe was made a thane by Athelstan. We have a knack,

ma'am, of staying the course: small in the build but sound in the

wind. It did me good, to-day, to see that son of yours step out for

the last round."

"Excuse me--" put in Samuel, pushing a candle aside and craning

forward (he was short-sighted) for a better look at the visitor.

"Ha? You have not heard? Well, well--oughtn't to tell tales out of

school, and certainly not to the Usher: but your mother and I, sir,

had the fortune, this morning, to witness a bout of fisticuffs--Whig

against Tory--and perhaps it will not altogether distress you to

learn that the Whig took a whipping. I like that boy of yours,

ma'am: he has breed. I do not forget"--with another bow--"his

mother's descent from the Annesleys of Anglesea and Valentia: but she

will forgive me that, while watching him, I thought rather of his

blood derived from my own great-great-grandfather Robert, and of our

common ancestors--Walter, the king's standard-bearer, Edward, who

carried the heart of the Bruce to Palestine--but I weary Mr. Matthew

perhaps?"

"Not at all, sir," the apothecary protested: rubbing a lump of sugar

on the rind of a lemon. "You will suffer me to mix you a glass of

punch while I listen? I am a practical man, who has been forced to

make his own way in the world, and has made it, I thank God. I never

found these ancestors of any use to me; but if one of them had time

and leisure to carry the heart of the Bruce to Jerusalem I hope I

have the leisure to hear about it. Did he return, may I ask?"

"He did not, sir. The Saracens slew him before the Holy Sepulchre,

and in fact the undertaking was, as you would regard it,

unprofitable. But it gave us the palmer-shells on our coat of arms--

argent, a cross sable, in each corner three escallops of the last.

I believe, ma'am, the coat differs somewhat in your husband's branch

of the family?" He spread a hand on the table so that the

candle-light fell on his signet ring.

Mrs. Wesley smiled. "We keep the scallops, sir."

"Scallops!" grunted the apothecary. "Better for you, Susanna, if

your husband had ever found the oyster!"

Garrett Wesley glanced at him from under his badger-gray brows.

"We may be coming to the oyster, sir, if you have patience. Crest, a

wivern proper: motto, 'God is love.' I am thinking, ma'am, a child

of yours might find some use for that motto, since children of my own

I have none."

"There could be none nobler, sir," Mrs. Wesley answered.

"'Tis his then, ma'am, if you can spare me your son Charles."

The lump of sugar dropped from old Matthew's fingers and splashed

into the tumbler, and with that there fell a silence on the room.

Samuel half rose from his couch and passed a nervous hand over his

thick black hair. His purblind eyes sought his mother's; hers were

fastened on this eccentric kinsman, but with a look that passed

beyond him. Her lips were parted.

"God is love," she repeated it, soft and low, but with a thrill at

which Garrett Wesley raised his head. "If ever I had distrusted it,

that love is manifested here to-night. There was a kinsman, sir,

from whom I hoped much for my son; to-day I learn that he is lost--

dead, most like--and those hopes with him. He was my brother, and

God--who understands mothers, and knows, moreover, how small was ever

Samuel Annesley's kindness--must forgive me that I grieved less for

him than for Charles's sake. The tale was brought us by the honest

man who has just left, and it is scarcely told when another kinsman

enters and lays his fortune in Charles's hands. Therefore I thank

God for His goodness and"--her voice wavered and she ended with a

frank laugh at her own expense--"you, on your part, may read the

quality of the gratitude to expect from me. At least I have been

honest, sir."

"Ma'am, I have lived long enough to value honesty above gratitude.

I make this offer to please myself. The point is, Do I understand

that you accept?"

"As for that," she answered deliberately--and Sam leaned forward

again--"as for that, I am a married woman, and have learnt to submit

to my husband's judgment. To be sure I have acquired some skill in

guessing at it." She smiled again. "My husband is no ordinary man

to jump at this offer. He has three sons, besides his women folk--"

"Whom he neglects," put in Matthew.

"His dearest ambition is to see each of these three an accredited

servant of Christ. He desires learning for them, and the priest's

habit, and the living God in their hearts. It will appear strange to

you that he should rate these above wealth and a castle in Ireland

and a seat in Parliament; but in fact he would. I know him. Think

what you will of his ambition, it has this much of sincerity, that he

is willing to pinch and starve for it. This, too, I have proved."

"You might add, mother," interposed Sam, "that he would like all

these the better with a little success to season them."

"No, I will add that he has perhaps enough respect for me to listen

to my entreaties and allow Charles to choose for himself. And this

for the moment, sir, is all I can promise, though I thank you from

the bottom of my heart."

"Tut, woman!" snapped the apothecary. "Close with the offer and

don't be a fool. My brother, sir, may be pig-headed--sit down,

Susanna!"

"You and I, sir," said Garrett Wesley, "as childless men, are in no

position to judge a parent's feelings."

"Children? Let me tell you that I had a son, sir, and he broke my

heart. He is in India now, I believe; a middle-aged rake. I give

you leave to find and adopt _him_, so long as you don't ask me to see

his face again. One was too many for me, and here's a woman with ten

children alive--Heaven knows how many she's buried--ten children

alive and half-clothed, and herself the youngest of twenty-five!"

He broke off and chuckled. "Did you ever hear tell, sir, what old

Dr. Martin said after baptizing Susanna here? Someone asked him

'How many children had Dr. Annesley?' 'I forget for the moment,'

said the doctor, but 'tis either two dozen or a quarter of a

hundred.' And here's a woman, sir, with such a sense of her

offspring's importance that she higgles over accepting a fortune for

one of 'em!"

"Can you suffer this, ma'am?" Garrett Wesley began. But the

apothecary for the moment was neither to hold nor to bind.

"Sam! _You_ have a grain of sense in your head. Don't sit there

mum-chance, man! Speak up and tell your mother not to be a fool.

You are no child; you know your father, and that, if given one chance

in a hundred to act perversely, he'll take it as sure as fate.

For heaven's sake persuade your mother to use common caution and keep

his finger out of this pie!"

"Nay, sir," answered Sam, "I think she has the right of it, that my

father ought to be told; and that the chances are he will leave it to

Charles to decide."

Matthew Wesley flung up his hands. "'Tis a conspiracy of folly!

Upon my professional word, you ought all to be strait-waistcoated!"

He glared around, found speech again, and pounced upon Sam.

"A pretty success _you've_ made of your father's ambitions--you, with

your infatuation for that rogue Atterbury, and your born gift of

choosing the cold side of favour! You might have been Freind's

successor, Head Master of Westminster School! Where's your

chance now? You'll not even get the under-mastership, I doubt.

Some country grammar school is your fate--I see it; and all for lack

of sense. If you lacked learning, lacked piety, lacked--"

"Excuse me, sir, but these are matters I have no mind to discuss with

you. When Freind retires Nicoll will succeed him, and Nicoll

deserves it. Whether I get Nicoll's place or no, God will decide,

who knows if I deserve it. Let it rest in His hands. But when you

speak of Bishop Atterbury, and when I think of that great heart

breaking in exile, why then, sir, you defeat yourself and steel me

against my little destinies by the example of a martyr."

He said it awkwardly, pulling the while at his bony knuckles; but he

said it with a passion which cowed his uncle for the moment, and drew

from his mother a startled, almost expectant, look. Yet she knew

that Sam's eyes could never hold (for her joy and terror) the

underlying fire which had shone in her youngest boy's that morning,

and which mastered her--strong woman though she was--in her

husband's. And this was the tragic note in her love for Sam--the

more tragic because never sounded. Sam had learning, diligence,

piety, a completely honest mind; he had never caused her an hour's

reasonable anxiety; only--to this eldest son she had not transmitted

his father's genius, that one divine spark which the Epworth

household claimed for its sons as a birthright. An exorbitant, a

colossal claim! Yet these Wesleys made it as a matter of course.

Did the father know that one of his sons had disappointed it?

Sam knew, at any rate; and Sam's mother knew; and each, aware of the

other's knowledge, tried pitifully to ignore it.

Matthew Wesley bounced from his chair, unlocked the glazed doors of a

bookcase behind him and pulled forth a small volume.

"Here you have it, sir, '_Maggots: by a Scholar_'--that's my brother.

'_Poems on Several Subjects never before Handled,_'--that's the man

all over. You may wager that if any man of sense had ever hit on

these subjects, my brother had never come within a mile of 'em.

Listen: 'The Grunting of a Hog,' 'To my Gingerbread Mistress,'

'A Box like an Egg,' 'Two Soldiers killing one another for a Groat,'

'A Pair of Breeches,' 'A Cow's Tail'--there's titles for you!

Cow's tail, indeed! And here, look you, is the author's portrait for

a frontispiece, with a laurel-wreath in his hair and a maggot in

place of a parting! 'Maggots'! He began with 'em and he'll end with

'em. Maggots!" He slammed the two covers of the book together and

tossed it across the table.

Mr. Garrett Wesley, during this tirade, had fallen back upon the

attitude of a well-bred man who has dropped in upon a painful family

quarrel and cannot well escape. He had taken his hat and stood with

his gaze for the most part fastened on the carpet, but lifted now and

then when directly challenged by the apothecary's harangue.

The contemned volume skimmed across the table and toppled over at his

feet. With much gravity he stooped and picked it up; and as he did

so, heard Mrs. Wesley addressing him.

"And the curious part of it is," she was saying calmly, "that my

brother-in-law means all this in kindness!"

"No, I don't," snapped Matthew; and in the next breath, "well, yes, I

do then. Susanna, I beg your pardon, but you'd provoke a saint."

He dropped into his chair. "You know well enough that if I lose my

temper, 'tis for your sake and the girls'."

"I know," she said softly, covering his hand with hers. "But you

must e'en let us go our feckless way. Sir,"--she looked up--

"must this decision be made to-night?"

"Not at all, ma'am, not at all. The lad, if you will, may choose

when he comes of age; I have another string to my bow, should he

refuse the offer. But meantime, and while 'tis uncertain to which of

us he'll end by belonging, I hope I may bear my part in his school

fees."

"But that, to some extent, must bind him."

"No: for I propose to keep my share of it dark, with your leave.

But you shall hear further of this by letter. May I say, that if I

chose his father's son, I have come to-day to set my heart on his

mother's? I wish you good night, ma'am! Good night, sirs!"

CHAPTER IV.

In a corner of the Isle of Axholme, in Lincolnshire, and on the

eastern slope of a knoll a few feet above the desolate fenland, six

sisters were seated. The eldest, a woman of thirty-three, held a

book open in her lap and was reading aloud from it; reading with

admirable expression and a voice almost masculine, rich as a

deep-mouthed bell. And, while she read, the glory of the verse

seemed to pass into her handsome, peevish face.

Her listeners heard her contentedly--all but one, who rested a little

lower on the slope, with one knee drawn up, her hands clasped about

it, and her brows bent in a frown as she gazed from under her

sun-bonnet across the level landscape to the roofs and church-tower

of Epworth, five miles away, set on a rise and facing the evening

sun. Across the field below, hemmed about and intersected with dykes

of sluggish water, two wagons moved slowly, each with a group of

labourers about it: for to-night was the end of the oat-harvest, and

they were carrying the last sheaves of Wroote glebe. After the

carrying would come supper, and the worn-out cart-horse which had

brought it afield from the Parsonage stood at the foot of the knoll

among the unladen kegs and baskets, patiently whisking his tail to

keep off the flies, and serenely indifferent that a lean and lanky

youth, seated a few yards away with a drawing-board on his knee, was

attempting his portrait.

The girl frowned as she gazed over this group, over the harvesters,

the fens, the dykes, and away toward Epworth: and even her frown

became her mightily. Her favourite sister, Molly, seated beside her,

and glancing now and again at her face, believed that the whole world

contained nothing so beautiful. But this was a fixed belief of

Molly's. She was a cripple, and in spite of features made almost

angelic by the ineffable touch of goodness, the family as a rule

despised her, teased her, sometimes went near to torment her; for the

Wesleys, like many other people of iron constitution, had a healthy

impatience of deformity and weakness. Hetty alone treated her always

gently and made much of her, not as one who would soften a defect,

but as seeing none; Hetty of the high spirits, the clear eye, the

springing gait; Hetty, the wittiest, cleverest, mirthfullest of them

all; Hetty, glorious to look upon.

All the six were handsome. Here they are in their order: Emilia,

aged thirty-three (it was she who held the book); Molly,

twenty-eight; Hetty, twenty-seven; Nancy, twenty-two, lusty,

fresh-complexioned, and the least bit stupid; Patty, nearing

eighteen, dark-skinned and serious, the one of the Wesleys who could

never be persuaded to see a joke; and Kezzy, a lean child of fifteen,

who had outgrown her strength. By baptism, Molly was Mary; Hetty,

Mehetabel; Nancy, Anne; Patty, Martha; and Kezzy, Kezia. But the

register recording most of these names had perished at Epworth in the

Parsonage fire, so let us keep the familiar ones. Grown women and

girls, all the six were handsome. They had an air of resting there

aloof; with a little fancy you might have taken them, in their plain

print frocks, for six goddesses reclining on the knoll and watching

the harvesters at work on the plain below--poor drudging mortals and

unmannerly:

"High births and virtue equally they scorn,

As asses dull, on dunghills born;

Impervious as the stones their heads are found,

Their rage and hatred steadfast as the ground."

(The lines were Hetty's.) When the Wesleys descended and walked among

these churls, it was as beings of another race; imperious in pride

and strength of will. They meant kindly. But the country-folk came

of an obstinate stock, fierce to resent what they could not

understand. Half a century before, a Dutchman, Cornelius Vermuyden

by name, had arrived and drained their country for them; in return

they had cursed him, fired his crops, and tried to drown out his

settlers and workmen by smashing the dams and laying the land under

water. Fierce as they were, these fenmen read in the Wesleys a will

to match their own and beat it; a scorn, too, which cowed, but at the

same time turned them sullen. Parson Wesley they frankly hated.

Thrice they had flooded his crops and twice burnt the roof over his

head.

If the six sisters were handsome, Hetty was glorious. Her hair,

something browner than auburn, put Emilia's in the shade; her brows,

darker even than dark Patty's, were broader and more nobly arched;

her transparent skin, her colour--she defied the sunrays carelessly,

and her cheeks drank them in as potable gold clarifying their blood--

made Nancy's seem but a dairymaid's complexion. Add that this

colouring kept an April freshness; add, too, her mother's height and

more than her mother's grace of movement, an outline virginally

severe yet flexuous as a palm-willow in April winds; and you have

Hetty Wesley at twenty-seven--a queen in a country frock and cobbled

shoes; a scholar, a lady, amongst hinds; above all, a woman made for

love and growing towards love surely, though repressed and thwarted.

Emilia read:

"So spake our general mother, and, with eyes

Of conjugal attraction unreproved,

And meek surrender, half-embracing leaned

On our first father; half her swelling breast

Naked met his, under the flowing gold

Of her loose tresses hid; he, in delight

Both of her beauty and submissive charms,

Smiled with superior love (as Jupiter

On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds

That shed May flowers), and pressed her matron lip

With kisses pure. Aside the Devil turned

For envy, yet with jealous leer malign

Eyed them askance; and to himself thus plained:--

'Sight hateful, sight tormenting!' . . ."

Molly interrupted with a cry; so fiercely Hetty had gripped her wrist

of a sudden. Emily broke off:

"What on earth's the matter, child?"

"Is it an adder?" asked Patty, whose mind was ever practical.

"Johnny Whitelamb warned us--"

"An adder?" Hetty answered her, cool in a moment and deliberate.

"Nothing like it, my dear; 'tis the old genuine Serpent."

"What do you mean, Hetty? Where is it?"

"Sit down, child, and don't distress yourself. Having rendered

everybody profoundly uncomfortable within a circuit of two miles and

almost worried itself to a sun-stroke, it has now gone into the house

to write at a commentary on the Book of Job, to be illustrated with

cuts, for one of which--to wit, the War-horse which saith, 'Ha, ha,'

among the trumpets--you observe Johnny Whitelamb making a study at

this moment."

"I think you must mean papa," said Patty; "and I call it very

disrespectful to compare him with Satan; for 'twas Satan sister Emmy

was reading about."

"So she was: but if you had read Plutarch every morning with papa, as

I have, you would know that the best authors (whom I imitate)

sometimes use comparisons for the sake of contrast. Satan, you

heard, eyed our first parents askance: papa would have stepped in

earlier and forbidden Adam the house. Proceed, Emilia! How goes

Milton on?--

"Adam and Eve and Pinch-me

Went to the river to bathe:

Adam and Eve were drown'd,

And who do you think was saved? . . ."

Molly drew her wrist away hurriedly. "Hetty!" she cried, as Emilia

withdrew into her book in dudgeon. "Hetty, dear! I cannot bear you

to be flippant. It hurts me, it is so unworthy of you."

"Hurts you, my mouse?"--this was one of Hetty's tender, fantastic

names for her. "Why then, I ask your pardon and must try to amend.

You are right. I _was_ flippant; you might even have said vulgar.

Proceed, Emilia,--do you hear? I beg your pardon. Tell us more of

the Arch-Rebel--

"And courage never to submit or yield

And what is else not to be overcome . . ."

Say it over in your great voice, Emmy, and purge us poor rebels of

vulgarity."

"Pardon me," Emilia answered icily, "I am not conscious of being a

rebel--nor of any temptation to be vulgar."

Molly shot an imploring glance at Hetty: but it was too late, and she

knew it.

"Hoity-toity! So we are not rebellious--not even Emilia when she

thinks of her Leybourne!" Emilia bit her lip. "Nor Patty when she

thinks of Johnny Romley? And we are never vulgar? Ah, but forgive

your poor sister, who goes into service next week! You must allow

her to practise the accomplishments which will endear her to the

servants' hall, and which Mr. Grantham will pay for and expect.

Indeed--since Milton is denied us--I have some lines here; a petition

to be handed to mother to-night when she returns. She may not grant

it, but she must at least commend her daughter's attempt to catch the

tone." And drawing a folded paper from her waistband, she drawled

the following, in the broadest Lincolnshire accent:

"_Hetty the Serving-maid's Petition to her Mother._"

"Dear mother, you were once in the ew'n [oven],

As by us cakes is plainly shewn,

Who else had ne'er come arter:

Pray speak a word in time of need,

And with my sour-looked father plead

For your distressed darter!"

Nancy and Kezzy laughed; the younger at the absurd drawl, which hit

off the Wroote dialect to a hair; Nancy indulgently--she was safely

betrothed to one John Lambert, an honest land-surveyor, and Mr.

Wesley's tyranny towards suitors troubled her no longer. But the

others were silent, and a tear dropped on the back of poor Molly's

hand.

As Hetty took it penitently, Patty spoke again. "You are wrong, at

all events," she persisted, "about papa's being in the house, for I

saw him leave it, more than half an hour ago, and walk off on the

Bawtry road."

"He has gone to meet mother, then," said Kezzy, "and poor Sander will

have to trudge the last two miles."

"Pray Heaven, then, they do not quarrel!" sighed Emilia, shutting the

book.

"My dear!" Hetty assured her, "that is past praying for. She will be

weary to death; and he, as you know, is in a mood to-day! Though you

thought it unfeeling, I rejoiced when he announced he was not riding

to Bawtry to meet her but would send Sander instead: for whatever

news she brought he would have picked holes in it and wrangled all

the way home. But this is his masterpiece. It contrives to get the

most annoyance out of both plans. I often wonder"--here Hetty

clasped her knee again, and, leaning back against the turf, let her

eyes wander over the darkening landscape--"if our father and mother

love each other the better for living together in one perpetual rasp

of temper?"

"What is the hour?" asked Emilia.

Hetty glanced at the sun.

"Six, or a few minutes past."

"She cannot be here before half-past seven, and by then the moon will

be rising. We will give her a regal harvest-supper, and enthrone her

on the last sheaf. I have sent word to have it saved. And there

shall be a fire, and baked potatoes."

Kitty clapped her hands.

"And," Hetty took up the tale, "she shall sit by the embers and tell

us all her wanderings, like Aeneas, till the break of morning.

But before we bid Johnny Whitelamb desist from drawing and build a

fire, let us be six princesses here and choose the gifts our mother

shall bring home from town."

"You know well enough she has no money to buy gifts," objected Patty.

"Be frugal, then, in wishing, dear Pat. For my part, I demand only a

rich Indian uncle: but he must be of solid gold. He should come to

us along the Bawtry road in a palanquin with bells jingling at the

fringes. Ann, sister Ann, run you to the top of the mound and say if

you see such an uncle coming. Moll, dear, 'tis your turn to wish."

"I wish," said Molly, "for a magic mirror." Hetty gave a start,

thinking she spoke of a glass which should hide her deformity.

But Molly went on gravely. "I should call it my Why Mirror, for it

would show us why we live as we do, and why mother goes ill-clothed

and sometimes hungry. No, I am not grumbling; but sometimes I wish

to _know_--only to _know!_ I think my mirror would tell me something

about my brothers, and what they are to do in the world. And I am

sure it would tell me that God is ordering this for some great end.

But I am weak and impatient, and, if I knew, I could be so much

braver!" She ended abruptly, and for a moment or two all the sisters

were silent.

"Come, Nancy," said Hetty at length. "Patty will wish for a harp,

for certain"--Patty's burning desire to possess one was as notorious

in the family as her absolute lack of ear for music--"and Emmy will

ask for a new pair of shoes, if she is wise." Emilia tucked a foot

out of sight under her skirt.

"But I don't understand this game," put in Kezzy. "A moment ago it

was _Blue Beard_, and now it seems to be _Beauty and the Beast_.

Which is it?"

"We may need Molly's mirror to tell us," Hetty answered lightly: and

with that she glanced up as a shadow darkened the golden sky above

the mound, and a voice addressed the sisters all. "Good evening,

young ladies!"

CHAPTER V.

A broad-shouldered man looked down on them from the summit of the

knoll, which he had climbed on its westward side; a tradesman to all

appearance, clad in a dusty, ill-fitting suit. So far as they could

judge--for he stood with the waning light at his back--he was not

ill-featured; but, by his manner of mopping his brow, he was most

ungracefully hot, and Molly declared ever afterwards that his thick

worsted stockings, seen against the ball of the sun, gave his calves

a hideous hairiness. She used to add that he was more than half

drunk. His manner of accosting them--half uneasy, half familiar--

froze the Wesley sisters.

"Good evening, young ladies! And nice and cool you look, I will say.

Can any of you tell me if Parson Wesley's at home?"

"He is not," Emilia answered. "He has gone towards Bawtry."

"Well now, that's what the maid told me at the parsonage: but I

thought, maybe, 'twas a trick--a sort of slip-out-by-the-back and

not-at-home to a creditor. I've heard of parsons playing that game,

and no harm to their conscience, because no lie told."

"Sir!" Emilia rose and faced him.

"Oh, no offence, miss! I believe _you_; and for that matter the

wench seemed fair-spoken enough, and gave me a drink of cider.

'Tis the matter of a debt, you see." He drew a scrap of dirty

paper from his pocket. "Twelve-seventeen-six, for repairs done to

Wroote Parsonage; new larder, fifteen; lead for window-casements,

eight-six; new fireplace to parlour, one-four-six: ancettera.

I'm a plumber by trade--plumber and glazier--and in business at

Lincoln. William Wright's my name, and Right by nature." Here he

grinned. "Your father would have everything of the best; Epworth

tradesman not worth a damn, excuse me, and meaning no offence.

So he said, or words to that effect. A very particular gentleman,

and his nose at the time into everything. But a man likes to be

paid, you understand? So, having a job down Owston way, I thought

I'd walk over and jog his reverence's memory."

"The money will be paid, sir, in due course, I make no doubt," said

Emilia bravely. Some of her sisters were white in the face.

Hetty alone seemed to ignore the man's presence, and gazed over the

fields towards Epworth.

"Ah, 'in due course!' Let me tell you, miss, that if all the money

owing to me was paid, I'd--I'd--" He broke off. "I have ambitions,

_I_ have: and a head on my shoulders. London's the only place for a

man like me. Gad, if _these_ were only full"--he slapped his

pockets--"there's no saying I wouldn't up and ask one of you to come

along o' me! There's that beauty, yonder," he jerked his thumb at

Hetty. "She's the pick. My word, and you _are_ a beauty, bridling

to yourself there, and thinking dirt of me. Go on, I like you for

it: you can't show too much spirit for William Wright." Molly's hand

closed over Hetty's two, clasped and lying in her lap: Hetty sat

motionless as a statue. "If only your father would trade you off

against an honest debt--But you're gentry: I knows the sort.

Well, well, 'tis a long tramp back to Owston: so here's wishing you

good night, missies all. If I take back no money, and no pay but a

pint of sour cider, I've seen the prettiest picter in all

Lincolnshire; so we'll count it a holiday."

He was gone. With the dropping of the sun a chilly shadow had fallen

on the mound, and for some moments the sisters remained motionless,

agonised, each in her own way distraught.

"The brute!" said Kezzy at length, drawing a long breath.

Hetty rose deliberately. "Child," she said, and her voice was hard,

"don't be a goose! The poor creature came for his money. He had the

right to insult us."

She smoothed the dew from her skirt and walked swiftly down the

slope.

At the foot of it Johnny Whitelamb had risen and was holding his

drawing aslant, in some hope, perhaps, that the angle might correct

the perspective of old Mettle's portrait. Certainly it was a

villainous portrait, as he acknowledged to himself with a sigh.

Parts of it must be rubbed out, and his right hand rummaged in his

pocket and found a crust. But Johnny, among other afflictions,

suffered from an unconscionable appetite. While he doubted where to

begin, his teeth met in the bread, and he started guiltily, for it

was more than half eaten when Hetty swooped down on him.

"Quick, Johnny! run you to the woodstack while I unpack the baskets.

Mother will be arriving in an hour, and we are to give her supper out

here, with baked potatoes. Run, that's a good soul: and on your way

get Jane to give you a tin of oatmeal--tell her I must have it if she

has to scrape the bottom of the bin; _and_ a gridiron, _and_ a

rolling-pin. We will have griddle-cakes. Run--and whatever you do,

don't forget the rolling-pin!"

Johnny ran with long ungainly strides, his coat-tails flapping like a

scarecrow's. The coat, in fact, was a cast-off one of Mr. Wesley's,

narrow in the chest, short in the sleeves, but inordinately full in

the skirts. The Rector had found and taken Johnny from the Charity

School at Wroote to help him with the maps and drawings for his great

work, the _Dissertationes in Librum Jobi_, and in return the lad

found board and lodging and picked up what scraps he could of Greek

and Latin. He wrote a neat hand and transcribed carefully; his

drawings were atrocious, and he never attempted a woodcut without

gashing himself. But he kept a humble heart, and for all the family

a devotion almost canine. To him the Rector, with his shovel-hat and

stores of scholarship, was a god-like man; with his air, too, of

apostolical authority--for Johnny, whom all Epworth set down as good

for nothing, reflected the Wesley notions of the Church's majesty.

In his dreams--but only in his dreams--he saw himself such a man, an

Oxford scholar, treading that beatific city of which the Rector

disclosed a glimpse at times; his brows bathed by her ineffable aura,

and he--he, Johnny Whitelamb--baptized into her mysteries, a

participant with the Rector's second son John, now at Christ Church--

of whom (he noted) the family spoke but seldom and with a constraint

which hinted at hopes too dear to be other than fearful. Meanwhile

he did his poor tasks, stayed his stomach when he could, and rewarded

his employers with love.

He loved them all: but Hetty he worshipped.

He knew his place. For an hour past he had been sitting, as became a

servant, beyond earshot of the sisters' talk, yet within call, should

they summon him. Now the goddess had descended from her mountain

with a command, and he ran toward the woodstack as he would have run

and plunged into the water-dyke, had she bidden him.

He returned to find her waiting with her sleeves tucked above her

elbows.

"Oh, Johnny--I forgot the tinder-box!" she cried.

He dropped his burdens and produced it triumphantly from his tail

pocket.

"I thought of that!"

"But you must not!"--as he dropped on his knees and began to unbind

and break up the sticks. "This is my business. I am going into

service, in ten days--at Kelstein: and you must watch and tell me

what I do amiss."

She pulled the faggot towards her, broke up the sticks, and built the

fragments daintily into a heap, with a handful of dry leaves as

basis. The twilight deepened around them as she built. Next she

struck flint on steel, caught the spark on tinder, and blew.

Johnny watched the glow on her cheeks wakening and fading, and,

watching, fell into a brown study.

"There!" she exclaimed, straightening herself upon her knees as the

blaze caught. "Is that a good omen for Kelstein?"

Her eyes were on the sticks, and in their crackling she did not

listen for his answer, but commanded him to take a pitcher of water

and pour, while she mixed and kneaded the meal. To the making of

bread, cakes, pastry, Hetty brought a born gift; a hand so light,

quick, and cool, that Johnny could have groaned for his own fumbling

fingers. A dozen cakes were finished and banked in the wood-ashes as

the fire died down to a steadily glowing mass. By this time the

landscape about them lay flat to the eye and gray, touched with the

faint gold of moonrise, and just then Emilia called down from the

mound that the travellers were in sight on the Bawtry road.

The others ran to meet them: but Hetty remained by her task, silent,

and Johnny silent beside her. Together they spread the two meals,

one beside the fire for the family, the other some fifty yards off

for the harvesters, now moving towards the rick-yard with the last

load.

Hetty was not her mother's favourite. Emilia and Patty divided that

honour by consent, though the balance appeared now and then to

incline towards Patty. But between Mrs. Wesley and her fairest

daughter there rested always a shadow of restraint, curious enough in

its origin, which was that they knew each other better than the rest.

Often and quite casually Hetty would guess some thought in her

mother's mind hidden from her sisters. She made no parade of this

insight, set up no claim upon it; merely gave proof of it in passing,

and fell back on her attitude of guarded affection. And Mrs. Wesley

seemed to draw back uneasily from these reflections of herself, and

take refuge in Patty, who, of all her children, understood her the

least.

So now when the others brought their mother to the feast in triumph,

Hetty swept her a curtsey with skirt held wide, then went straight

and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Ah, what a dear truant 'tis! and how good 'tis to have her home

again!"

She did not ask (as Nancy or Patty would assuredly have asked) what

had become of her father. She noted, even in the half-light, a flush

on her mother's temples, and guessed at once that there had been a

duel of tempers on the road, and that, likely enough, papa had

bounced into the house in a huff. The others had, in fact, witnessed

this exit. Hetty, who divined it, went the swiftest way to efface

the memory. She alone, on occasion, could treat her mother

playfully, as an equal in years; and she did so now, taking her by

the hand, and conducting her with mock solemnity to the seat of

honour.

"It _is_ good to be home," Mrs. Wesley admitted as they seated her,

dusted her worn shoes, and plied her with milk and hot griddle-cakes,

potatoes slit and sprinkled with salt upon appetising lumps of

butter. She forgot her vexation. Even the Wroote labourers seemed

less surly than usual. One or two, as they gathered, stepped forward

to welcome her and wish her health before ranging themselves at their

separate meal: and soon a pleasant murmur of voices went up from

either group at supper in the broad meadow under the moon.

"But where have you left uncle Annesley?" asked Kezzy. "And are we

all to be rich and live in comfort at last?"

Mrs. Wesley shook her head. "He was not on board the _Albemarle_."

She told of her visit to the ship and the captain's story; adding

that their uncle's boxes, when handed over and examined, contained no

papers at all, no will, no bonds, not so much as a scrap to throw

light on the mystery. And as they sat silent in dismay, she went on

to tell of Garrett Wesley and the fortune unexpectedly laid at

Charles's feet.

Emilia was the first to find speech. "So," she commented bitterly

"yet another of our brothers is in luck's way. Always our brothers!

Westminster and Oxford for them, and afterwards, it seems, a fortune:

while we sit at home in rags, or drudge and eat the bread of service.

Oh, why, mother? You and we suffer together--do you believe it can

be God's will?"

Hetty drew a long breath. "Perhaps," she said drearily, "Charles

will clothe us when he gets this money. Perhaps he will even find us

wooers in place of those to whom papa has shown the door."

"I am not sure your father will allow Charles to accept," said Mrs.

Wesley gently; "though I may persuade him to let the lad decide for

himself when he comes of age. Until then the offer stands open."

"I sometimes wonder," Emilia mused, "if our father be not staring

mad."

"Hush, child! That is neither for you to say nor for me to hear.

You know it has been almost a vow with him to dedicate your three

brothers to God's service."

"Charles might inherit Dangan Castle and serve God too. There is no

law that an Irish squire must spend all his time cock-fighting."

"These vows!" murmured Hetty, flinging herself back in her favourite

attitude and nursing her knee. "If folks will not obey Christ's

command and swear not at all, they might at least choose a vow which

only hurts themselves. Now, papa"--Hetty shot a glance at her

mother, who felt it, even in the dusk, and bent her eyes on the

smouldering fire. The girl had heard (for it was kitchen gossip)

that Mr. Wesley had once quarrelled with his wife over politics, and

left Epworth rectory vowing never to return to her until she

acknowledged William III. for her rightful king; nor indeed had

returned until William's death made the vow idle and released him.

"Now, papa"--after a pause--"has an unfortunate habit, like Jephthah,

of swearing to another's hurt. For instance, since Sukey married

Dick Ellison, he seems to have vowed that none of us shall have a

lover; and, so, dear mother, you might have found us just now, like

six daughters of Jephthah, bewailing our fates upon a hill."

"He has no fault to find with my John Lambert," put in Nancy.

Hetty did not heed. "I have no patience with these swearers. A man,

or a woman for that matter, should have the courage to outbrave an

oath when it hurts the innocent. Did God require the blood of

Jephthah's daughter? or of the sons of Rizpah? Think, mother, if

this fire were lit in the fields here, and you sitting by it to scare

the beasts from your three sons! I cannot like that David.

Saul, now, was a man and a king, every inch of him, even in his dark

hours. David had no breeding--a pretty, florid man, with his curls

and pink cheeks; one moment dancing and singing, and the next weeping

on his bed. Some women like that kind of man: but his complexion

wears off. In the end he grows nasty, and from the first he is

disgustingly underbred."

"Hetty!"

"I cannot help it, mother. Had I been Michal, and Saul's daughter,

and had seen that man capering before the ark, I should have scorned

him as she did."

And Hetty stood up and strode away into the darkness.

In the darkness, almost an hour later, Molly found her by the edge of

a dyke. She had a handkerchief twisted between her fingers, and kept

wringing it as she paced to and fro. Why had she given way to

passion? Why, on this night of all nights, had she saddened her

mother? And why by an outburst against David, of all people in the

world?

She could not tell. When the temper is overcharged it overflows,

nine times out of ten, into a channel absurdly irrelevant.

What on earth had David to do with it? She halted and laughed while

Molly entreated her. In the dyke the black water crawled at her

feet, and upon it a star shone.

"Star Mary--_stella maris_, if only you will shine steadily and guide

me! Kiss me now, and hear that I am sorry."

But it was Molly who, later that night, put out both arms in the bed

where they slept together: and with a wail which lasted until Hetty

enfolded her and held her close.

"I was dreaming," she muttered. "I dreamt--of that man."

CHAPTER VI.

For six months of the year, sometimes for longer, the thatched

parsonage at Wroote rose out of a world of waters, forlorn as a

cornstack in a flood, and the Rector of Epworth journeyed between his

two parishes by boat, often in soaked breeches, and sometimes with a

napkin tied over his hat and wig. But in this harvest weather, while

the sun shone and the meadow-breezes overcame the odours of damp

walls and woodwork, of the pig-sty at the back and of rotting weed

beyond, the Wesley household lived cheerfully enough, albeit pinched

for room; more cheerfully than at Epworth, where the more spacious

rectory, rebuilt by Mr. Wesley at a cost of 400 pounds, remained

half-furnished after fourteen years--a perpetual reminder of debt.

Here at any rate, although Wroote tithe brought in a bare 50 pounds a

year, they could manage to live and pay their way, and feel meanwhile

that they were lessening the burden. For Dick Ellison, Sukey's

husband, had undertaken to finance Epworth tithe, and was renting the

rectory for a while with the purpose of bringing his father-in-law's

affairs to order--a filial offer which Mr. Wesley perforce accepted

while hating Dick from the bottom of his heart, and the deeper

because of this necessity.

Dick was his "wen," "more unpleasant to him than all his physic"--a

red-faced, uneducated squireen, with money in his pockets (as yet), a

swaggering manner due to want of sense rather than deliberate

offensiveness, and a loud patronising laugh which drove the Rector

mad. Comedy presided over their encounters; but such comedy as only

the ill-natured can enjoy. And the Rector, splenetic, exacting,

jealous of authority, after writhing for a time under Dick's candid

treatment of him as a child, usually cut short the scene by bouncing

off to his library and slamming the door behind him.

Even Mrs. Wesley detested her son-in-law, and called him "a coarse,

vulgar, immoral man "; but confessed (in his absence) that they were

all the better off for his help. Ease from debt she had never known;

but here at Wroote the clouds seemed to be breaking. Duns had been

fewer of late. With her poultry-yard and small dairy she was earning

a few pounds, and this gave her a sense of helpfulness she had not

known at Epworth; a pound saved may be a pound gained, but a pound

earned can be held in the hand, and the touch makes a wonderful

difference. The girls had flung themselves heartily into the

farm-work: they talked of it, at night, around the kitchen hearth

(for of the two sitting-rooms one had been given up to their father

for his library, and the other Hetty vowed to be "too grand for the

likes of dairy-women." Also the marsh-vapours in the Isle of Axholme

can be agueish after sunset, even in summer, and they found the fire

a comfort). Hetty had described these rural economies in a long

letter to Samuel at Westminster, and been answered by an "Heroick

Poem," pleasantly facetious:

"The spacious glebe around the house

Affords full pasture to the cows,

Whence largely milky nectar flows,

O sweet and cleanly dairy!"

"Unless or Moll, or Anne, or you,

Your duty should neglect to do,

And then 'ware haunches black and blue

By pinching of a fairy."

--With much in the same easy vein about "sows and pigs and porkets,"

and the sisters' housewifely duties:

"Or lusty Anne, or feeble Moll,

Sage Pat or sober Hetty."

And the sisters were amused by the lines and committed them to heart.

They had learnt of the pleasures of life mainly through books; and

now their simple enjoyment was, as it were, more real to them because

it could be translated into verse. In circumstances, then, they were

happier than they had been for many years: nor was poverty the real

reason for Hetty's going into service at Kelstein; since Emilia had

been fetched home from Lincoln (where for five years she had been

earning her livelihood as teacher in a boarding-school) expressly to

enjoy the family's easier fortune, and with a promise of pleasant

company to be met in Bawtry, Doncaster and the country around Wroote.

This promise had not been fulfilled, and Emilia's temper had soured

in consequence. Nor had the Rector's debts melted at the rate

expected. The weight of them still oppressed him and all the

household: but Mrs. Wesley knew in her heart that, were poverty the

only reason, Hetty need not go. Hetty knew it, too, and rebelled.

She was happy at Wroote; happier at least than she would be at

Kelstein. She did not wish to be selfish: she would go, if one of

the sisters must. But why need any of them go?

She asked her mother this, and Mrs. Wesley fenced with the question

while hardening her heart. In truth she feared what might happen if

Hetty stayed. They had made some new acquaintances at Wroote and at

Bawtry there was a lover, a young lawyer . . . a personable young

man, reputed to be clever in his profession. . . . Mrs. Wesley knew

nothing to his discredit . . . and sure, Hetty's face might attract

any lover. So her thoughts ran, without blaming the girl, whose

heart she believed to be engaged, though she could not tell how

deeply. But the Rector must be considered, and he had taken an

instant and almost frantic dislike for the youth. There was nothing

unusual in this: for, like many another uxorious man (with all his

faults of temper he was uxorious), Mr. Wesley hated that anyone

should offer love to his daughters. This antipathy of his had been a

nuisance for ten years past; since the girls were, when all was said,

honest healthy girls with an instinct for mating, and not to be

blamed for making their best of the suitors which Epworth and its

neighbourhood provided. But since Sukey's marriage it had deepened

into something like a mania, and now, in Hetty's case, flared up with

a passion incomprehensible if not quite insane. He declared his

hatred of lawyers--and certainly he had suffered at their hands: he

forbade the young man to visit the house, to correspond with Hetty,

even to see her.

Mrs. Wesley watched her daughter and was troubled. The Rector's veto

had been effective enough once or twice with Hetty's sisters.

Emilia, on a visit with her uncle Matthew in London, had fallen

passionately in love with a young Oxonian named Leybourne. But Sam's

wife had discovered something to his discredit and had spoken to Sam,

and Sam to the Rector. The match was broken off, and Emilia

renounced her love, though she never forgave the mischief-maker.

Patty again had formed an attachment for John Romley, who had been a

pupil of Sam's, had afterwards graduated at Lincoln College, Oxford,

and was now the ambitious young master of the Free School at Epworth.

Again the Rector interfered, and Patty sighed and renounced her

romance. Would Hetty, too, renounce and acquiesce? Mrs. Wesley

doubted: nay, was even afraid. Hetty alone had never been overawed

by her father, had never acknowledged the _patria potestas_ with all

its exorbitant claims. She had never actually revolted, but she

defied, somehow, the spell he had cast upon the others: and somehow--

here was the marvel--Mrs. Wesley, who more than any other of the

family had yielded to the illusion and fostered it, understood Hetty

the better for her independence. The others, under various kinds of

pressure, had submitted: but here was the very woman she might have

been, but for her own submission! And she feared for that woman.

Hetty must leave Wroote, or there was no knowing how it might end.

"Mother, I believe you are afraid of what I may do."

Mrs. Wesley, incapable of a lie or anything resembling it, bent her

head. "I have been afraid, once or twice," she said.

"So you send me away? That seems to me neither very brave nor very

wise. Will there be less danger at Kelstein?"

Her mother started. "Does _he_ know of your going? You don't tell

me he means to visit you there?"

"Forgive me, dearest mother, but your first question is a little

foolish--eh?" Hetty laughed and quoted:

"But if she whom Love doth honour

Be conceal'd from the day--

Set a thousand guards upon her,

Love will find out the way."

She put up her chin defiantly.

"I wish, child, you would tell me if--if this is much to you," said

Mrs. Wesley wistfully, with a sudden craving to put her arms around

her daughter and have her confidence.

Hetty hesitated for a fatal moment, then laughed again. "I am not a

child precisely; and we read one another, dear, much better than we

allow. Your second question you have no right to ask. You are

sending me away--"

"No right, Hetty?"

"You are sending me away," Hetty repeated, and seemed to be

considering. After a pause she added slowly: "You others are all

under papa's thumb, and you make me a coward. But I will promise you

this"--here her words began to drag--"and to strengthen me no less

than to ease your fears, I promise it, mother. If the worst come to

the worst, it shall not be at Kelstein that I choose it, but here

among you all. I think you will gain little by sending me to

Kelstein, mother: but you need not be afraid for me there."

"You speak in enigmas."

"And my tone, you would say, is something too theatrical for your

taste? Well, well, dear mother, 'tis the privilege of a house with a

doom upon it to talk tragedy: for, you know, Molly declares we have a

doom upon us, though we cannot agree what 'tis. I uphold it to be

debt, or papa's tantrums, or perhaps Old Jeffrey [apparently the

Wesley family ghost] but she will have it to be something deeper, and

that one day we shall awake and see that it includes all three."

"It appears to be my doom," said Mrs. Wesley, her face relaxing, "to

listen to a deal of nonsense from my daughters."

"And who's to blame, dear? You chose to marry at twenty, and here

you have a daughter unmarried at seven and twenty. Now I respect and

love you, as you well know: but every now and then reason steps in

and proves to me that I am seven years your senior--which is absurd,

and the absurder for the grave wise face you put upon it. So come

along, sweet-and-twenty, and help me pack my buskins." Hetty led the

way upstairs humming an air which (though her mother did not

recognise it) was Purcell's setting of a song in _Twelfth Night_:

"Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know."

CHAPTER VII.

On the day fixed, and at nine in the morning, Dick Ellison, who had

promised to drive Hetty over to Kelstein, arrived with his gig.

Sukey accompanied him, to join in the farewells and spend a few hours

at the parsonage pending his return.

Now these visits of Sukey's were a trial to her no less than to her

mother and sisters. She knew that they detested her husband, and

(what was worse) she had enough of the Wesley in her to perceive why

and how: nevertheless, being a Wesley, she kept a steady face on her

pain. Stung at times to echo Dick's sentiments and opinions, as it

were in self-defence, she tried to soften them down and present them

in a form at least tolerable to her family. It was heroic, but

uncomfortable; and they set aside the best parlour for it.

Sukey would have preferred the kitchen. In person she was short and

plump, and her face expressed a desire to be cheerful. She had

little or none of that grace by which her sisters walked in the

commonest cotton frocks as queens. In childhood she had been noted

for her carelessness in attire, and now obediently flaunted her

husband's taste in bonnets.

Her headdress to-day had a dreadful coquettishness. Dick had found

it at Lincoln and called on the company to admire. It consisted of

three large mock water-lilies on a little mat of muslin, and was

perched on her piled hair so high aloft that their gaze, as they

scanned it, seemed to pass far over her head. She longed to tear it

down, cast it on the floor, and be the Sukey they knew.

The plate of cake and biscuits on the table gave the parlour a last

funereal touch. Dick was boisterously talkative. The others

scarcely spoke. At length Hetty, who had been struggling to swallow

a biscuit, and well-nigh choking over it, rose abruptly, kissed her

mother, and went straight to her father's room.

He sat at his writing-table, busy as usual with his commentary upon

the Book of Job. At another table by the window Johnny Whitelamb

bent over a map, with his back to the light. He glanced up as she

entered: she could not well read his eyes for the shadow, and perhaps

for some dimness in her own: but he rose, gathered his papers

together, and slipped from the room.

"Papa, Dick Ellison is in the parlour."

"So my ears inform me."

"He wishes to see you."

"Then you may take him my compliments and assure him that he will

not."

"But, papa, the gig is at the door. I have come to say good-bye."

"Ah, in that case I will step out to the door and see you off; but I

will not be button-holed by Dick Ellison." He rose and stood eyeing

her, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger. "You have

something to say to me, I suspect."

"I am going to Kelstein," Hetty began firmly. "I would like to obey

you there, sir, as the others do at home. I do not mean outwardly:

but to feel, while I am absent, that I am earning--" She paused and

cast about for a word.

"You will be earning, of course. There is always satisfaction in

that."

"I am not thinking of money."

"Of my approval, then? Your employer, Mr. Grantham, is an honest

gentleman: I shall trust his report of you."

"Papa, I came to beg you for more than that. Will you not let me

feel that I am earning something more?--that if, as times goes on, my

conduct pleases you, you will be more disposed to consider--to grant

me--"

"Mehetabel!"

"I love him, papa! I cannot help it. Sir--!"

She put out both hands to him, her eyes welling. But he had turned

sharply away from her cry, and strode across the room in his

irritation. Her hands fell, and one caught at the edge of the table

for support while she leaned, bowing her head.

He came abruptly back. "Are you aware, Mehetabel, that you have

proposed a bargain to me? I do not bargain with my children:

I expect obedience. Nor as a father am I obliged to give my reasons.

But since you are leaving us, and I would not dismiss you harshly,

let me say that I have studied this man for whom you avow a fondness;

and apart from his calling--which I detest--I find him vain, foppish,

insincere. He has _levitas_ with _levitas_: I believe his heart to

be as shallow as his head. I know him to be no fit mate for one of

my daughters; least of all for you who have gifts above your

sisters--gifts which I have recognised and tried to improve.

Child, summon your pride to you, and let it help your obedience."

He broke off and gazed out of the window. "If," said he more softly,

"our fate be not offered to us, we must make it. If, while our true

fate delays, there come to us unworthy phantoms simulating it, we

should test them; lest impatient we run to embrace vanity, and

betray, not our hopes alone, but the purpose God had in mind for us

from the beginning."

Hetty looked up. She might have thought that she was twenty-seven,

and asked herself how long was it likely to be before a prince came

across those dreary fields to the thatched parsonage, seeking her.

But her heart was full of the man she loved, and she thought only

that her father did him bitter injustice.

She shivered and lifted her face. "Good-bye, papa," she said coldly.

He kissed her on the cheek, and took a step to follow her to the

door; but thought better of it and returned to the window. He heard

the door close upon her, and five minutes later saw her whisked away

in the gig by Dick Ellison's side.

CHAPTER VIII.

He continued to stare out of the window long after the gig had

disappeared over the low horizon: a small, nervous, indomitable

figure of a man close upon his sixty-second birthday, standing for a

while with his back turned upon his unwieldy manuscripts and his jaw

thrust forward obstinately as he surveyed the blank landscape.

He had the scholar's stoop, but this thrust of the jaw was habitual

and lifted his face at an angle which gave an "up-sighted" expression

to his small eyes, set somewhat closely together above a long

straight nose. Nose, eyes, jaw announced obstinacy, and the eyes,

quick and fiery, warned you that it was of the aggressive kind which

not only holds to its purpose, but never ceases nagging until it be

attained. In build he was lean and wiry: in carriage amazingly

dignified for one who (to be precise) stood but 5 feet 5 and a half

inches high.

His father had been a non-juring clergyman, one of the many ejected

from their livings on St. Bartholomew's Day, 1662; and he himself had

been educated as a Nonconformist at Mr. Morton's famous academy on

Newington Green, where Daniel Defoe had preceded him as a pupil, and

where he had heard John Bunyan preach. At the conclusion of his

training there he was pitched upon to answer some pamphlets levelled

against the Dissenters, and this set him on a course of reading which

produced an effect he was far from intending: for instead of writing

the answer he determined to renounce Dissent and attach himself to

the Established Church. He dwelt at that time with his mother and an

old aunt, themselves ardent Dissenters, to whom he could not tell his

design. So he arose before daybreak one morning, tramped sixty miles

to Oxford, and entered himself at Exeter College as a poor scholar.

This was in August, 1683.

He took up his residence in Oxford with forty-five shillings in his

pocket. He studied there five years, and during that time received

from his family and friends just five shillings; obtained his

Bachelor's degree, and departed seven pounds and fifteen shillings

richer than when he entered the University. The winter of 1683 was a

hard beginning for a scholar too poor to buy fuel, the cold being so

severe in the Thames valley that coaches plied as freely on the river

from the Temple to Westminster as if they had gone upon the land.

Yet "I tarried," he afterwards wrote, "in Exeter College, though I

met with some hardships I had before been unacquainted with, till I

was of standing sufficient to take my Bachelor's degree; and not

being able to subsist there afterwards, I came to London during the

time of my Lord Bishop of London's suspension by the High Commission,

and was instituted into deacon's orders by my Lord Bishop of

Rochester, at his palace at Bromley, August 7th, 1688."

He had maintained himself by instructing wealthier undergraduates and

writing their exercises for them (as a servitor he had to black their

boots and run their errands); also by scribbling for John Dunton, the

famous London bookseller, whose acquaintance he had made during his

last year at Mr. Morton's. With all this he found time and the will

to be charitable, and had visited the poor creatures imprisoned in

the Castle at Oxford--many for debt. He lived to take the measure of

this kindness, and to see it repeated by his sons.

_Maggots: or Poems on Several Subjects never before Handled_ was no

very marketable book of rhymes. Yet it served its purpose and helped

him, through Dunton, to become acquainted with a few men of letters

and learning. He had something better, too, to cheer his start in

London. Dunton in 1682 had married Elizabeth, one of the many

daughters of Dr. Samuel Annesley, the famous Dissenter, then

preaching at a Nonconformist church which he had opened in Little St.

Helen's, Bishopsgate. Young Wesley, a student at Newington Green,

had been present at the wedding, with a copy of verses in his pocket:

and there, in a corner of the Doctor's gloomy house in Spital Yard,

he came on the Doctor's youngest daughter, a slight girl of fourteen,

seated and watching the guests.

She was but a child, and just then an unhappy one, though with no

childish trouble. Minds ripened early in Annesley House, where

scholars and divines resorted to discuss the battle raging between

Church and Dissent. Susanna Annesley had listened and brooded upon

what she heard; and now her convictions troubled her, for she saw, or

thought she saw, the Church to be in the right, and herself an alien

in her father's house, secretly rebellious against those she loved

and preparing to disappoint them cruelly. She knew her father's

beliefs to be as strong and deep as they were temperately expressed.

So it happened that Samuel Wesley, halting awkwardly (as a

hobbledehoy will) before this slip of a girl and stammering some

words meant to comfort her for losing her sister, presently found

himself answering strange questions, staring into young eyes which

had somehow surprised his own doubts of Dissent, and beyond them into

a mind which had come to its own decision and quietly, firmly,

invited him to follow. It startled him so that love dawned at the

same moment with a lesser shock. He seated himself on the window

cushion beside her, and after this they talked a very little, but

watched the guests, feeling like two conspirators in the crowd,

feeling also that the world was suddenly changed for them both.

And thus it came about that Samuel Wesley dropped his pen, packed his

books, and tramped off to Oxford. He was back again now, after five

years, with his degree, but no money as yet to marry on. He started

with a curacy at 28 pounds a year; was appointed chaplain on board a

man-of-war, when his income rose to 70 pounds; and began an epic poem

on the Life of Christ, scribbling (since he had leisure) at the rate

of two hundred couplets a day; but soon returned to London, where he

obtained a second curacy and 30 pounds year. His pen earned him

another 30 pounds, and on this he decided to marry.

Between him and Susanna Annesley there had been little talk of love,

but no doubt at all. She was now close upon twenty, and ready to

marry him when he named the day. So married they were, in 1689.

Less than a year later their first child, Samuel, was born in their

London lodgings, and soon after came an offer, from the Massingberd

family, through the Marquis of Normanby, of the living of South

Ormsby in Lincolnshire. Thither accordingly they journeyed on

Midsummer Day, 1690, and there resided until the spring of 1697 in a

vicarage little better than a mud-built hut. There Mrs. Wesley bare

Emilia, Susannah and Molly, besides other children who died in

infancy, and there the Rector put forth his _Life of our Blessed Lord

and Saviour Jesus Christ. A heroic poem in ten books_: besides such

trifles as "The Young Student's Library: containing Extracts and

Abridgments of the most Valuable Books printed in England and in the

Foreign Journals from the year '65 to this time. To which is added

A New Essay upon all sorts of Learning."

Close by the parish church stood the Hall, the great house of the

Lord Marquis of Normanby who in 1694 made Mr. Wesley his domestic

chaplain. The Marquis was a rake, and he and his mistresses gave the

poor clergyman many searchings of heart. There was one who took

a fancy to Mrs. Wesley and would be intimate with her. Coming home

one day and finding this visitor seated with his wife, Mr. Wesley

went up to her, took her by the hand and very fairly handed her out.

It cost him his living: but the Marquis, being what is called a good

fellow in the main, bore him no grudge; nay, rather liked his spirit,

and afterwards showed himself a good friend to the amount of twenty

guineas, to which the Marchioness (but this is more explicable) added

five from her own purse.

By good fortune the living of Epworth fell vacant just then, and in

accordance with some wish or promise of the late Queen Mary, to whom

he had dedicated his _Life of Christ_, Mr. Wesley was presented to

it, a decent preferment, worth about 200 pounds a year in the

currency of those times. But by this time his family was large; he

was in debt; the fees to be paid before taking up the living ate

farther into his credit; a larger house had to be maintained, with

three acres of garden and farm-buildings; and his new parishioners

hated his politics and made life as miserable for him as they could.

They were savage fighters, but they found their match. In 1702 they

set fire secretly to the parsonage-house, and burned down two-thirds

of it. In the winter of 1704 they destroyed a great part of his crop

of flax. This was the year of Blenheim, and upon news of the victory

Mr. Wesley sat down to commemorate it in heroic verse. The poem

(published in the early days of 1705), if inferior to Mr. Addison's

on the same occasion, ran to five hundred and ninety-four lines, and

contained compliments enough to please the great Duke of

Marlborough, who sent for its author, rewarded him with the

chaplaincy of Colonel Lepelle's regiment, and promised him a

prebend's stall. The Dissenters, who (with some excuse, perhaps)

looked upon Mr. Wesley as that worst of foes, a deserter from their

own ranks, using their influence in Parliament and at Court, had him

deprived of his regiment and denied the stall. In April Queen Anne

dissolved Parliament, and in May the late Tory members for the county

of Lincoln, Sir John Thorold--and the Dymoke who then held--as his

descendant holds to-day--the dignity of Royal Champion, fought and

lost an election with the Whig candidates, Colonel Whichcott and

Mr. Albert Bertie. The Dissenters of course supported these; and

Mr. Wesley, scorning insults and worse, the unpopular side: with what

results we may read in these extracts from letters to the Archbishop

of York.

Epworth, June 7th, 1705.

I went to Lincoln on Tuesday night, May 29th, and the election

began on Wednesday, 30th. A great part of the night our Isle

people kept drumming, shouting, and firing of pistols and guns

under the window where my wife lay, who had been brought to bed

not three weeks. I had put the child to nurse over against my

own house; the noise kept his nurse waking till one or two in

the morning. Then they left off, and the nurse being heavy with

sleep, overlaid the child. She waked, and finding it dead, ran

over with it to my house almost distracted, and calling my

servants, threw it into their arms. They, as wise as she, ran

up with it to my wife and, before she was well awake, threw it

cold and dead into hers. She composed herself as well as she

could, and that day got it buried.

A clergyman met me in the castle yard and told me to withdraw,

for the Isle men intended me a mischief. Another told me he had

heard near twenty of them say, "if they got me in the castle

yard, they would squeeze my guts out." My servant had the same

advice. I went by Gainsbro', and God preserved me.

When they knew I was got home, they sent the drum and mob, with

guns etc. as usual, to compliment me till after midnight.

One of them, passing by on Friday evening and seeing my children

in the yard, cried out "O ye devils! We will come and turn ye

all out of doors a-begging shortly." God convert them, and

forgive them!

All this, thank God, does not in the least sink my wife's

spirits. For my own, I feel them disturbed and

disordered. . . .

The rebuilding of the parsonage and some unhappy essays in farming

his glebe had run the Rector still farther in debt: and now, not

satisfied with winning the election, his enemies struck at him

privily. His next letter is dated not three weeks later from the

debtors' ward in Lincoln.

Lincoln Castle, June 25th, 1705.

My Lord,--Now I am at rest, for I am come to the haven where I

have long expected to be. On Friday last (June 23rd), when I

had been, in christening a child, at Epworth, I was arrested in

my churchyard by one who had been my servant, and gathered my

tithe last year, at the suit of one of Mr. Whichcott's relations

and zealous friends (Mr Pinder) according to their promise when

they were in the Isle before the election. The sum was not

thirty pounds, but it was as good as five hundred. Now they

knew the burning of my flax, my London journey, and their

throwing me out of my regiment had both sunk my credit and

exhausted my money. My adversary was sent to, when I was on the

road, to meet me, that I might make some proposals to him.

But all his answer was that 'I must immediately pay the whole

sum, or go to prison.' Thither I went, with no great concern to

myself: and find much more civility and satisfaction here than

_in brevibus gyaris_ of my own Epworth. I thank God, my wife

was pretty well recovered and churched some days before I was

taken from her; and hope she'll be able to look to my family, if

they don't turn them out of doors as they have often threatened

to do. One of my biggest concerns was my being forced to leave

my poor lambs in the midst of so many wolves. But the great

Shepherd is able to provide for them and to preserve them.

My wife bears it with that courage which becomes her, and which

I expected from her.

I don't despair of doing some good here (and so I sha'n't quite

lose the end of living), and it may be, do more in this new

parish than in my old one: for I have leave to read prayers

every morning and afternoon here in the prison, and to preach

once a Sunday, which I choose to do in the afternoon when there

is no sermon at the minster. And I'm getting acquainted with my

brother jail-birds as fast as I can; and shall write to London

next post, to the Society for propagating Christian Knowledge,

who, I hope, will send me some books to distribute among

them. . . .

The next letter, dated from prison on September 12th, proves that he

had reasons only too good to be fearful.

The other matter is concerning the stabbing of my cows in the

night since I came hither, but a few weeks ago; and endeavouring

thereby to starve my forlorn family in my absence; my cows being

all dried by it, which was their chief subsistence; though I

hope they had not the power to kill any of them outright. . . .

The same night the iron latch of my door was twined off, and the

wood hacked in order to shoot back the lock, which nobody will

think was with an intention to rob my family. My housedog, who

made a huge noise within doors, was sufficiently punished for

his want of politics and _moderation_, for the next day but one

his leg was almost chopped off by an unknown hand. 'Tis not

every one could bear these things; but, I bless God, my wife is

less concerned with suffering them that I am in the writing, or

than I believe your Grace will be in reading them. . . . Oh, my

lord! I once more repeat it, that I shall some time have a more

equal Judge than any in this world.

Most of my friends advise me to leave Epworth, if e'er I should

get from hence. I confess I am not of that mind, because I may

yet do good there; and 'tis like a coward to desert my post

because the enemy fire thick upon me. They have only wounded me

yet and, I believe, _can't_ kill me. I hope to be home by

Xmass. God help my poor family! . . .

By the end of the year (the Archbishop and other friends assisting) a

good part of his debts had been paid and Mr. Wesley was at home

again. From Epworth he refused to budge; and there, for three years

and more, the rage of his enemies slumbered and his affairs grew

easier. John (if we do not count the poor infant overlaid) had been

the last child born before his imprisonment. Now arrived Patty, in

the autumn of 1706, and Charles, in December, 1707. A third was

expected, and shortly, when in the night of February 9th, 1709, the

parsonage took fire again and burned to the ground in fifteen

minutes.

On Wednesday last, at half an hour after eleven at night, in a

quarter of an hour's time or less, my house at Epworth was

burned down to the ground--I hope by accident; but God knows

all. We had been brewing, but had done all; every spark of fire

quenched before five o'clock that evening--at least six hours

before the house was on fire. Perhaps the chimney above might

take fire (though it had been swept not long since) and break

through into the thatch. Yet it is strange I should neither see

nor smell anything of it, having been in my study in that part

of the house till above half an hour after ten. Then I locked

the doors of that part of the house where my wheat and other

corn lay, and went to bed.

The servants had not been in bed a quarter of an hour when the

fire began. My wife being near her time, and very weak, I lay

in the next chamber. A little after eleven I heard "Fire!"

cried in the street, next to which I lay. If I had been in my

own chamber, as usual, we had all been lost. I threw myself out

of bed, got on my waistcoat and nightgown, and looked out of

window; saw the reflection of the flame, but knew not where it

was; ran to my wife's chamber with one stocking on and my

breeches in my hand; would have broken open the door, which was

bolted within, but could not. My two eldest children were with

her. They rose, and ran towards the staircase, to raise the

rest of the house. There I saw it was my own house, all in a

light blaze, and nothing but a door between the flame and the

staircase.

I ran back to my wife, who by this time had got out of bed,

naked, and opened the door. I bade her fly for her life.

We had a little silver and some gold--about 20 pounds.

She would have stayed for it, but I pushed her out; got her and

my two eldest children downstairs (where two of the servant were

now got), and asked for the keys. They knew nothing of them.

I ran upstairs and found them, came down, and opened the street

door. The thatch was fallen in all on fire. The north-east

wind drove all the sheets of flame in my face, as if

reverberated in a lamp. I got twice to the step and was drove

down again. I ran to the garden door and opened it. The fire

there was more moderate. I bade them all follow, but found only

two with me, and the maid with another in her arms that cannot

go; but all naked. I ran with them to an outhouse in the

garden, out of the reach of the flames; put the least in the

other's lap; and not finding my wife follow me, ran back into

the house to seek her, but could not find her. The servants and

two of the children were got out at the window. In the kitchen

I found my eldest daughter, naked, and asked her for her mother.

She could not tell me where she was. I took her up and carried

her to the rest in the garden; came in the second time and ran

upstairs, the flame breaking through the wall at the staircase;

thought all my children were safe, and hoped my wife was some

way got out. I then remembered my books, and felt in my pocket

for the key of the chamber which led to my study. I could not

find the key, though I searched a second time. Had I opened

that door, I must have perished.

I ran down and went to my children in the garden, to help them

over the wall. When I was without, I heard one of my poor

lambs, left still above-stairs, about six years old, cry out,

dismally, "Help me!" I ran in again, to go upstairs, but the

staircase was now all afire. I tried to force up through it a

second time, holding my breeches over my head, but the stream of

fire beat me down. I thought I had done my duty; went out of

the house to that part of my family I had saved, in the garden,

with the killing cry of my child in my ears. I made them all

kneel down, and we prayed to God to receive his soul.

I tried to break down the pales, and get my children over into

the street, but could not; then went under the flame and got

them over the wall. Now I put on my breeches and leaped after

them. One of my maidservants that had brought out the least

child, got out much at the same time. She was saluted with a

hearty curse by one of the neighbours, and told that we had

fired the house ourselves, the second time, on purpose! I ran

about inquiring for my wife and other children; met the chief

man and chief constable of the town going from my house, not

towards it to help me. I took him by the hand and said "God's

will be done!" His answer was, "Will you never have done your

tricks? You fired your house once before; did you not get

enough by it then, that you have done it again?" This was cold

comfort. I said, "God forgive you! I find you are chief man

still." But I had a little better soon after, hearing that my

wife was saved; and then I fell on mother earth and blessed God.

I went to her. She was alive, and could just speak.

She thought I had perished, and so did all the rest, not having

seen me nor any share of eight children for a quarter of an

hour; and by this time all the chambers and everything was

consumed to ashes, for the fire was stronger than a furnace, the

violent wind beating it down on the house. She told me

afterwards how she escaped. When I went first to open the

back-door, she endeavoured to force through the fire at the

fore-door, but was struck back twice to the ground. She thought

to have died there, but prayed to Christ to help her. She found

new strength, got up alone and waded through two or three yards

of flame, the fire on the ground being up to her knees. She had

nothing on but her shoes and a wrapping gown, and one coat on

her arm. This she wrapped about her breast, and got through

safe into the yard, but no soul yet to help her. She never

looked up or spake till I came; only when they brought her last

child to her, bade them lay it on the bed. This was the lad

whom I heard cry in the house, but God saved him almost by a

miracle. He only was forgot by the servants, in the hurry.

He ran to the window towards the yard, stood upon a chair and

cried for help. There were now a few people gathered, one of

whom, who loves me, helped up another to the window. The child

seeing a man come into the window, was frightened, and ran away

to get to his mother's chamber. He could not open the door, so

ran back again. The man was fallen down from the window, and

all the bed and hangings in the room where he was were blazing.

They helped up the man a second time, and poor Jacky leaped into

his arms and was saved. I could not believe it till I had

kissed him two or three times. My wife then said unto me,

"Are your books safe?" I told her it was not much, now she and

all the rest were preserved. . . .

Mr. Smith of Gainsborough, and others, have sent for some of my

children. . . . I want nothing, having above half my barley

saved in my barns unthreshed. I had finished my alterations in

the _Life of Christ_ a little while since, and transcribed three

copies of it. But all is lost. God be praised!

I hope my wife will recover, and not miscarry, but God will give

me my nineteenth child. She has burnt her legs, but they mend.

When I came to her, her lips were black. I did not know her.

Some of the children are a little burnt, but not hurt or

disfigured. I only got a small blister on my hand.

The neighbours send us clothes, for it is cold without them.

The child (Kezzy) was born and lived. The Rectory was rebuilt within

a year, at a cost of 400 pounds. The day after the fire, as he

groped among the ruins in the garden, Mr. Wesley had picked up a torn

leaf of his Polyglot Bible, on which these words alone were legible:

_Vade; vende omnia quot habes; et attolle crucem, et sequere me_.

He had come to Epworth a poor man: and now, after fifteen years, he

stood as poor as then; poorer, perhaps. He had served his

parishioners only to earn their detestation. But he stood unbeaten:

and as he stared out of his window there gripped him--not for the

first time--a fierce ironical affection for the hard landscape, the

fields of his striving, even the folk who had proved such good

haters. _Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and

thou shalt eat the herb of the field_--ay, and learn to relish it as

no other food. _In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till

thou return unto the ground_. Ah, but to go and surrender that

ground to others--there lay the sting! With him, as with many

another true man disappointed in his fate, his hopes passed from

himself to fasten the more eagerly on his sons. He wanted them to be

great and eminent soldiers of Christ, and he divined already that, if

for one above the others, this eminence was reserved for John.

But he wanted also a son of his loins to succeed him at Epworth, to

hold and improve what painful inches he had gained; and again he

could only think of John. Could a man devote his life to this

forsaken parish and yet be a light set on a hill for the world?

Had not his own life taught the folly of that hope?

He sighed and turned from the window. He had quite forgotten Hetty.

He stepped to the door to summon Johnny Whitelamb: but the sound of

voices drew him across the passage to the best parlour, and there at

the threshold his eyes fell on Sukey's headdress.

"Susannah!"

"Yes, father." Sukey stepped forward to be kissed.

"Take off that--that _thing_!"

"Yes, father." She untied the strings obediently.

"If your husband chooses to dress and carry you about the country

like a figure of fun, I cannot prevent him. But in my house remember

that I am your father, and take my assurance that, although Jezebel

tired her head, she had the saving grace of not looking like a fool."

Mr. Wesley turned on his heel and strode back to his books.

"Why don't you stand up to him?" asked Mr. Dick Ellison suddenly, on

the road to Kelstein.

"To father?" Hetty came out of her day-dreams with a start.

"Yes: you've been having a tiff this morning, anyone can see.

Young man is poison to him, hey? Why don't you take a leaf out of my

book? 'Paternal authority'--and a successor of the apostles into the

bargain--that's his ground. Well, I don't allow him to take it.

'Beggars can't be choosers' is mine, and I pin him to it. Oh, yes,

_I'm_ poison to him, but it does him good. 'That cock won't crow,'

I say. He's game enough on his own dunghill, but a high-blooded lass

like you ought to be his master by this time. Hint that you'll cut

the painter, kick over the traces--you needn't _do_ it, y'know.

Threaten you'll run and join the stage--nothing unlikely in that--

and, by George, it'd bring him up with a clove hitch! Where's your

invention?"

Hetty gazed at the horse's ears and considered. "It's easy for you,

Dick, who have nothing in common with him, not even affection."

"Oh, I like the old fellow well enough, for all his airs with me,"

said Mr. Dick Ellison graciously.

"If they annoyed you more, you might understand him better--and me,"

replied Hetty.

Silence fell between them again and the gig bowled on.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

The frozen canal ran straight towards the sunset, into a flooded

country where only a line of pollard willows, with here and there an

alder, marked the course of its left bank. But where Hetty waited

the banks were higher, and the red ball on the horizon sent a level

shaft down the lane between them.

She was alone. Indeed, the only living creature within sight was a

red-breast, hunched into a ball and watching her from a wintry willow

bough; the only moving object a windmill half a mile away across the

level, turning its sails against the steel-gray sky--so listlessly,

they seemed to be numbed.

She had strapped on a pair of skates--clumsy homemade things, and a

birthday present from Johnny Whitelamb, who had fashioned them with

pains, the Epworth blacksmith helping. Hetty skated excellently

well--in days, be it understood, before the cutting of figures had

been advanced to an art with rules and text-books. But as the poise

and balanced impetus came natural to her, so in idle moments and

casually she had struck out figures of her own, and she practised

them now with the red-breast for spectator. She was happy--her

bosom's lord sitting lightly on his throne--and all because of two

letters she pulled from her pocket and re-read in the pauses of her

skating.

The first was from her mother at Wroote, and told her that to-day or

to-morrow her father would be arriving at Kelstein with her sister

Patty. Hetty had been expecting this for some weeks. At Christmas

(it was now mid-January) the Granthams had written praising her, and

this had given Mr. Wesley the notion of proffering yet another of his

daughters. Two days after receiving the letter he had ridden over to

Kelstein with the proposal. Patty was the one chosen (Hetty could

guess why), and poor Patty knew nothing of it at the time: but Mrs.

Grantham had accepted almost effusively, and she was to come.

In what capacity? Hetty wondered. She herself taught the children,

and she could think of no other post in the household not absolutely

menial. Was it selfish of her to be so glad? For one thing Patty had

fewer whimsies than the rest of her sisters and, likely enough, would

accept her lot as a matter of course. She seldom wept or grumbled:

indeed Hetty, before now, had found her patience irritating. But to

have Patty's company now seemed the most delightful thing in the

world; to fling her arms around somebody who came from home!

The most delightful? Hetty turned to the second letter--and with

that looked up swiftly as her ear caught the ringing sound of skates,

and a young man descended, as it were, out of the sun's disc and came

flying down the long alley on its ray. She put out both hands.

He swooped around her in a long curve and caught them and kissed her

as he came to a standstill, panting, with a flush on each handsome

cheek.

"Hetty!"

No answer to this but a sound like a coo of rapture. He is, as we

should think, a personable young fellow, frank, and taking to the

eye, though his easy air of mastery provokes another look at Hetty,

who is worth ten of him. But to her he is a young god above whom the

stars dance. Splendid creature though she be, she must comply with

her sex which commands her to be passive, to be loved. With his arm

about her she shuts her eyes and drinks delicious weakness; with a

sense of sinking through space supported by that arm--not wholly

relying on him as yet, but holding her own strength in reserve, if he

should fail her.

"I have raced."

She laughed. "I bargained for that. We have so little time!"

"How long?"

"Mrs. Grantham expects me back in an hour at latest. Father and

Patty will be arriving before supper, and there are the children to

be put to bed."

"Let us go up the canal, then. I have a surprise for you."

They took hands--both her hands in his, their arms held crosswise to

their bodies--and struck out, stroke for stroke. By the third stroke

they were swinging forward in perfect rhythm, each onrush held long

and level on the outside edge and curving only as it slackened.

The air began to sing by Hetty's temples; her skates kept a humming

tune with her lover's. The back of his hand rested warm against her

bosom.

"You skate divinely."

She scarcely heard. The world slipped past and behind her with the

racing trees: she was a bird mated and flying into the sunset.

Ah, here was bliss! Awhile ago she had been faint with love, as

though a cord were being tightened around her heart: it had been hard

for her to speak, hard even to draw breath. Now her lungs opened,

the cord snapped and broke with a sob; and, as the sun's rim dipped,

she flew faster, urgent to overtake and hold it there, to stay its

red glint between the reed-beds, its bloom of brown and purple on the

withered grasses. The wind of her skirt caught up the dead leaves

freshly scattered on the ice and swept them along with her, whirling,

like a train of birds. But, race as she would, the sun sank and the

shadow of the world crept higher behind her shoulder. The last gleam

died; and, lifting her eyes, Hetty saw over its grave, poised in a

clear space of sky, the sickle moon.

She tried to disengage her hand, to point to it: but as his eyes

sought hers with a question, she let it lie and nodded upwards

instead. He saw and understood, and with their faces raised to it

they held on their flight in silence: for lovers may wish with the

new moon, but the first to speak will have wished in vain.

A tapping, as of someone hammering upon metal, sounded from a clump

of willows ahead and upon their right. A woman's voice joined in

scolding. This broke the spell; and with a laugh they disengaged

hands, separated, and let their speed bear them on side by side till

it slackened and they ran to a halt beside the trees.

A barge lay here, hopelessly frozen on its way up the canal. On its

deck a woman, with arms akimbo, stood over a man seated and tinkering

at a kettle. She nodded as they approached.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir--you and the lady."

Hetty looked at her lover.

"It's all right," he explained: "only a surprise of mine, which seems

to have missed fire. I had planned a small picnic here and this good

woman was to have had a dish of tea ready for you--"

"How was I to know that man of mine had been fool enough to fill the

kettle before tramping off to the 'Ring of Bells'?" the good woman

broke in. "Lord knows 'tisn' his way to be thoughtful, and when he

tries it there's always a breakage. When I'd melted the ice, the

thing began to leak like a sieve; and if this tinker fellow hadn't

come along--by Providence, as you may call it--though I'd ha' been

obliged to Providence for a quicker workman--"

Hetty was not listening. Her eyes had caught the tinker's, and the

warm blood had run back from her face: for he was the man who had

startled the sisters on the knoll, that harvest evening.

He nodded to her now with an impudent grin. "Good evening, missy!

If I'd known the job was for Miss Wesley, I'd ha' put best speed into

it: best work there is already."

"Hallo! Do you know this fellow?" her lover demanded.

"'Fellow'--and a moment back 'twas 'tinker'! Well, well, a man must

look low and pick up what he can in these times, 'specially when his

larger debtors be so backward--hey, miss? Why, to be sure I know

Miss Wesley: a man don't forget a face like hers in a hurry. Glad to

meet her, likewise, enjoyin' herself so free and easy. Shall I tell

the old Rector, miss, next time I call, how well you was lookin', and

in what company?"

Hetty saw her lover ruffling and laid a hand on his arm.

"Tuppence if you please, ma'am, and I'll be going. William Wright

was never one to spoil sport: but some has luck in this world and

some hasn't, and that's a fact." He grinned again as he pocketed the

money.

"If you don't take your impudent face out of this, I'll smash it for

you," spoke up the young man hotly.

The plumber's grin widened as, slinging his bag of tools over his

shoulder, he stepped on to the frozen towpath. "Ah, you're a

bruiser, I dare say: for I've seen you outside the booth at Lincoln

Fair, hail-fellow with the boxing-men on the platform. And a buck

you was too, with a girl on each arm; and might pass, that far from

home, for one of the gentry, the way you stood treat. But you're

not: and if missy ain't more particular in her bucks, she'd do better

with a respectable tradesman like me. As for smashing of faces, two

can play at that game, belike: but William Wright chooses his time."

He was lurching away with a guffaw; for the tow-path here ran within

two furlongs of the high road, and a man upon skates cannot pursue

across _terra firma_.

But he had reckoned without Hetty, who had seated herself on the edge

of the barge and who now shook her feet free of Johnny Whitelamb's

rough clamps, and, springing from the deck to the towpath, took him

by the collar as he turned.

"Go!" she cried, and with her open palm dealt him a stinging slap

across the cheek. "Go!"

The man put up his hand, fell back a moment with a dazed face, and

then without a word ran for the highway, his bag of tools rattling

behind him.

Never was route more ludicrously sudden. Even in her wrath Hetty

looked at her lover and broke into a laugh.

"Let me skate up the canal and head him off," said he. "Half a mile

will give me lead enough to slip out of these things and collar him

on the highway."

"He is not worth it. Besides, he may not be going towards Kelstein:

in this light we cannot see the road or what direction he takes.

Let him be, dear," Hetty persuaded, as the old woman called out from

her cabin that the kettle boiled. "Our time is too precious."

Then, while he yet fumed, she suddenly grew grave.

"Was it truth he was telling?"

"Truth?" he echoed.

"Yes: about Lincoln Fair?"

"Oh, the boxing-booth, you mean? Well, my dear, there was something

in it, to be sure. You wouldn't have me be a milksop, would you?"

"No-o," she mused. "But I meant what he said about--about those

women. Was that true?"

He was on the point of answering with a lie; but while he hesitated

she helped him by adding, "I am not a child, dear. I am

twenty-seven, and older than you. Please be honest with me, always."

He was young, but had an instinct for understanding women.

He revised the first lie and rejected it for a more cunning one.

"It was before I met you," he said humbly. "He made the worst of it,

of course, but I had rather you knew the truth. You are angry?"

Hetty sighed. "I am sorry. It seems to make our--our love--

different somehow."

The bargewoman brought out their tea. She had heard nothing of the

scrimmage on the bank, so swiftly had it happened and with so few

words spoken.

"Halloa--is the tinker gone? And I'd cut off a crust for him.

Well, I can eat it myself, I suppose; and after all he was low

company for the likes of you, though any company comes well to folks

that can't pick and choose." In the act of setting herself on the

cabin top she sat up stiffly and listened.

"There's a horse upon the high road," she announced.

"A highwayman, perhaps, if all company's welcome to you."

"He won't come this way," said the woman placidly. "I loves to lie

close to the road like this and see the wagons and coaches rolling by

all day: for 'tis a dull life, always on the water. Now you wouldn't

believe what a pleasure it gives me, to have you two here a-lovering,

nor how many questions I'd put if you'd let me. When is it to be, my

dear?"--addressing Hetty--"But you won't answer me, I know.

You're wishing me farther, and go I will as soon as you've drunk your

tay. Well, sir, I hope you'll take care of her: for the pretty she

is, I could kiss her myself. May I?" she asked suddenly, taking

Hetty's empty cup; and Hetty blushed and let her. "God send you

children, you beauty!"

She paused with a cup in either hand, and in the act of squeezing

herself backwards through the small cabin-door. "La, the red you've

gone! I can see it with no help more than the bit of moon. 'Tis a

terrible thing to be childless, and for that you can take my word."

Wagging her head she vanished.

Left to themselves the two sat silent. The sound of the horse's

hoofs died away down the road towards Kelstein. Had Hetty known, her

father was the horseman, with Patty riding pillion behind him.

Over the frozen floods came the note of a church clock, borne on the

almost windless air.

"Five o'clock?" Hetty sprang up. "Time to be going, and past."

"You have not forgiven me," he murmured.

"Indeed, yes." She was, after all, a girl of robust good sense, and

could smile bravely as she put an illusion by. "To be loved is

marvellous and seems to make all marvels possible: but I was wrong to

expect--this one. And if, since knowing me--"

"You have taught me all better things." He knelt on the ice at her

feet and began to fasten her skates. "Let me still be your pupil and

look up to you, as I am looking now."

"Ah!" she pressed her palms together, "but that is just what I need--

to know that we are both better for loving. I want to be sure of

that, for it makes me brave when I think of father. While he forbids

us, I cannot help doubting at times: and then I look into myself and

see that all the world is brighter, all the world is better since I

knew you. O my love, if we trust our love, and help one another!--"

Her rich voice thrilled and broke as she leaned forward and laid a

hand on his forehead.

"See me at your feet," he whispered, looking up into eyes divinely

dewy. "I am yours to teach: teach me, if you will, to be good."

They rose to their feet together--he but an inch or so the taller--

and for a moment, as he took her in his arms, she held back, her

palms against his shoulders, her eyes passionately seeking the truth

in his. Then with a sob she kissed him and was gone.

For a moment she skated nervelessly, with hanging arms. But,

watching, he saw her summon up her strength and shoot down the

glimmering ice-way like a swallow let loose from his hand. So swift

was her flight that, all unknowing, she overtook and passed the

travellers jogging parallel with her on the high road; and had

reached Kelstein and was putting her two small charges to bed, when

her father's knock sounded below stairs.

Mr. and Mrs. Grantham, though pompous, were a kindly pair: and Mrs.

Grantham, entering the library where Mr. Wesley and his daughter

awaited her, and observing that the girl seemed frightened or

depressed (she could not determine which), rang the bell at once and

sent a maid upstairs for Hetty.

Hetty entered with cheeks still glowing and eyes sparkling; went at

once to her father and kissed him, and running, threw her arms around

Patty, who responded listlessly.

"She needs Kelstein air," explained Mr. Wesley. "I protest it seems

to agree with _you_, Mehetabel."

"But tell me all the news, father," Hetty demanded, with an arm about

her sister's waist and a glance at Mrs. Grantham, which asked pardon

for her freedom.

"Your sister shall tell it, my dear," answered that good woman,

"while I am persuading your father to sup with us. I have given them

a room together," she explained to Mr. Wesley. "I thought it would

be pleasanter for them."

"You are kindness itself, madam."

Hetty led the way upstairs. "It is all strange at first, dear: I

know the feeling. But see how cosy we shall be." She threw the door

open, and showed a room far more comfortably furnished than any at

Wroote or Epworth. The housemaid, who adored Hetty, had even lit a

fire in the grate. Two beds with white coverlets, coarse but

exquisitely clean, stood side by side--"Though we won't use them

both. I must have you in my arms, and drink in every word you have

to tell me till you drop off to sleep in spite of me, and hold you

even then. Oh, Patty, it is good to have you here!"

But Patty, having untied the strings of her hat, tossed it on to the

edge of her bed and collapsed beside it.

"I wish I was dead!" she announced.

CHAPTER II.

John Romley was the cause of her exile. This young man had been a

pupil of the Rector's, and studied divinity with him for a while

before matriculating at Lincoln College, Oxford; where in due course

he took his degree, and whence he returned, in deacon's orders, to

take charge of the endowed school at Epworth and to help in the

spiritual work of the parish. Mr. Wesley's experience of curates had

been far from happy, but Romley promised to be the bright exception

in a long list of failures. (It was he who discovered and introduced

Johnny Whitelamb to the household.) He was sociable; had pleasant

manners, a rotund figure not yet inclining to coarseness, a pink and

white complexion, and a mellifluous tenor voice. To his voice, alas!

he owed most of his misfortunes in life.

The Rector had no high opinion of his brains: but tolerated him, and

at first looked on leniently enough when he began to pay his

addresses to Patty. Indeed the courtship proceeded to the gentle

envy of her sisters until one fatal night when Romley, in the rectory

parlour at Wroote, attuned his voice to sing the _Vicar of Bray_.

In his study Mr. Wesley heard it. He, of all men, was no Vicar of

Bray, albeit he had abjured Dissent: but he felt his cloth insulted,

and by this fribble of his own order. It was treason in short, and

he bounced into the parlour as Mr. Romley carolled:

"When gracious Anne became our Queen,

The Church of England's glory,

Another face of things was seen,

And I became a Tory;

Occasional Conformists base--"

There was a scene, and it ended in Romley being shown the door and

Patty forbidden to have speech with him. Actually she had not set

eyes on him since that night: but the Rector unaccountably omitted to

forbid their corresponding. Now Patty, the most literally minded of

her sex, had a niggling obstinacy in pursuit of her ends. She would

obey to a hair's breadth: but, nothing having been said about

letters, letters passed. Piecing the truth together from her

incoherent railings, Hetty learned that the Rector had happened upon

a scrap of Romley's handwriting, had lost his temper furiously and

given sentence of banishment.

Patty in love showed none of her sister's glorious fervour: but

stared obtusely, even sulkily, when Hetty hinted at her own secret

and, pressing her waist, spoke of love with fearless elation, yet as

of a sacred thing.

"Oh, you're too poetical for me!" she interrupted.

This was depressing.

"And I wish I was in my grave," added Patty, looking like a martyr in

a wet blanket.

Thinking to put spirit into her, Hetty became more explicit and

proved that love might find out a way between Epworth and Kelstein--

nay, even spoke of her own clandestine meeting that very afternoon.

Her cheeks glowed. Nor for a minute did she observe that Patty,

listless at the beginning of the tale, was staring at her with round

eyes.

"You mean to tell me that you meet him!"

"Why, of course I do."

"But father forbade it!"

"To be sure he did."

"Then all I can say is"--Patty rose to her feet in the strength of

her disapproval--"that I call it disgraceful, and I'm perfectly

ashamed of you!"

"But, good Heavens! he forbade you to see Romley."

"But not to write."

"O-o!" Hetty mused with her pretty mouth shaped to the letter.

"And now, I suppose, he has forbidden that too?"

"Of course he has."

"And are you going to obey?"

"Of course I am."

It was Hetty's turn to stare wide-eyed. "You are going to give

Romley up?" she asked very slowly.

"Yes, yes, yes--and I wish I was in my grave!" Patty collapsed again

dismally, but sat upright after a moment. "As for your behaviour,

'tis positively wicked, and I think father ought to be told of it!"

Hetty put out both hands; but instead of shaking her sister (as she

was minded to do) she let the open palms fall gently upon her

shoulders and looked her in the face.

"Then I advise you not to tell him, dear. For in the first place it

would do no good."

"Do no good?"

"Well, then, it would make no difference."

"You mean to--run away--with him?" gasped Patty, her eyes

involuntarily turning towards the window.

The glance set Hetty's laughter rippling. "Pat--Pat! don't be a

goose. I shall not run away with him from this house. I promised

mother."

"You--promised--mother!" Patty was reduced to stammering echoes.

"Dear me, yes. You must not suppose yourself the only one of her

children she understands." Hetty, being human, could not forgo this

little slap. "Now wash your face, like a good girl, and come down to

supper: and afterwards you shall tell me all the news of home.

There's one thing"--and she eyed Patty drolly--"I can trust you to be

accurate."

"Do you mean to tell me that you can look father in the face--"

But here Patty broke off, at the sound of hoofs on the gravel below.

"There will be no need," said Hetty quietly, "if, as I think, he is

mounting Bounce to ride home."

"Bounce? How did you know that Bounce brought us?"--for Bounce was

Mrs. Wesley's nag, and the Rector usually rode an old gray named

Mettle, but had taken of late to a filly of his own breeding.

"I ought to remember Bounce's shuffle," answered Hetty. "Nay, I

should have recognised it on the road two miles back if--if I hadn't

been--"

She came to a full stop, in some confusion. Nevertheless she was

right; and the girls arrived downstairs to learn from Mrs. Grantham

that their father had ridden off, declining her offer of supper and

scoffing at her fears of highwaymen.

And the days went by. Hetty could not help telling herself that

Patty was a disappointment. But she was saved from reflecting on it

overmuch: for Mrs. Grantham (after forty years of comfort without

one) had conceived a desire to be waited on and have her hair dressed

by a maid, and between Mrs. Grantham's inability to discover

precisely what she wanted done by Patty, and Patty's unhandiness in

doing it, and Mrs. Grantham's anxiety to fill up Patty's time, and

Patty's lack of inventiveness, the pair kept Hetty pretty constantly

near her wit's end.

Concerning her lover she attempted no more confidences. But, alone,

she pondered much on Patty's reproof, which set her arguing out the

whole case afresh. For, absurd though its logic was, it had touched

her conscience. Was it conscience (she asked herself) or but the old

habit of trembling at her father's word, which kept her so uneasy in

disobeying him?

She came to no new conclusion; for a sense of injustice gave a twist

to her thinking from the start. All his daughters held Mr. Wesley in

awe: they never dreamed, for instance, of comparing their lovers with

him in respect of dignity or greatness. They assumed that their

brothers inherited some portion of that greatness, but they required

none in the men to whom they were ready to give their hands; nay,

perhaps unconsciously rejoiced in the lack of it, having lived with

it at home and found it uncomfortable.

They were proud of it, of course, and knew that they themselves had

some touch of it, if but a lunar glow. They read the assurance in

their mother's speech, in her looks; and, moving among the Epworth

folk as neighbours, yet apart, they had acquired a high pride of

family which derived nothing from vulgar chatter about titled, rich

and far-off relatives; but, taking ancestry for granted, found

sustenance enough in the daily life at the parsonage and the letters

from Westminster and Oxford. Aware of some worth in themselves, they

saw themselves pinched of food, exiled from many companions, shut out

from social gatherings for want of pocket-money and decent attire,

while amid all the muddle of his affairs their father could tramp for

miles and pledge the last ounce of his credit to scrape a few pounds

for John or Charles. They divined his purpose: but they felt the

present injustice.

They never regarded him as just. And this was mainly his own fault,

or at least the fault of his theory that women, especially daughters,

were not to be reasoned with but commanded. Hetty, for example, had

an infinite capacity for self-sacrifice. At an appeal from him she

would have surrendered, not small vanities only, but desires more

than trivial, for the brothers whom in her heart she loved to

fondness. But the sacrifice was ever exacted, not left to her

good-nature; the right word never spoken.

And now, under the same numbing deference, her mother had failed her

at a moment when all her heart cried out in its need. Hetty loved

her lover. Perhaps, if allowed to fare abroad, consort with other

girls, and learn, with responsibility, to choose better, she had

never chosen this man. She had chosen him now. Poor Hetty!

But that she did wrong to meet him secretly her conscience accused

her. She had been trained religiously. Had she no religion, then,

upon which to stay her sense of duty?

Where a mother has failed, even the Bible may fail. Hetty read her

Bible: but just because its austerer teaching had been bound too

harshly upon her at home, she turned by instinct to the gentler side

which reveals Christ's loving-kindness, His pity, His indulgence.

All generous natures lean towards this side, and to their honour, but

at times also to their very great danger. For the austerity is meant

for them who most need it. Also the austere rules are more definite,

which makes them a surer guide for the soul desiring goodness, but

passionately astray. It spurns them, demanding loving-kindness; and

discovers too late that loving-kindness dictated them.

CHAPTER III.

Two mornings after Patty's arrival, Hetty sat in the schoolroom

telling a Bible story to her pupils, George Grantham and small

Rebecca; the one aged eight, the other barely five. They were by no

means clever children; but they knew a good story when they heard

one, and Hetty held them to the adventures of Joseph and his

Brethren, although great masses of snow were sliding off the roof,

and every now and then toppling down past the window with a rush--

which every child knows to be fascinating. For the black frost had

broken up at last in a twelve hours' downfall of snow, and this in

turn had yielded to a soft southerly wind. The morning sunshine

poured in through the school-room window and took all colour out of

the sea-coal fire.

"One night Joseph dreamed a dream which he told next morning to his

brothers. And his dream was that they were all in the harvest-field,

binding sheaves: and when Joseph had bound his sheaf, it stood

upright, but the other sheaves around slid and fell flat, as if they

were bowing on their faces before it. When he told this, it made his

brothers angry, because it seemed to mean that he would be a greater

man than any of them."

"I don't wonder they were angry," broke in George, who was the

Granthams' son and heir, and had a baby brother of whom he tried hard

not to be jealous. "Joseph wasn't the oldest, was he?"

"No: he was the youngest of all, except Benjamin."

"And even if he dreamed it, he needn't have gone about bragging.

It was bad enough, his having that coat of many colours. I say, Miss

Wesley--you're not a boy, of course--but how would _you_ feel if your

father made everything of one of your brothers?"

"I wonder if he dreamed it on a Friday?" piped Rebecca.

"Why, child?"

"Because Martha says"--Martha was the Granthams' cook--"that Friday's

dream on Saturday told is bound to come true before you are old."

"We shall find out if it came true. Go on, Miss Wesley."

"But if it _was_ Friday's dream," Rebecca persisted, "and he wanted

it to come true, he couldn't help telling it."

"Couldn't help being a sneak, I suppose you mean!"

A sound outside the window cut short this argument. All glanced up:

but it came this time from no avalanche of snow. Someone had planted

a ladder against the house, and the top of the ladder was scraping

against the window-sill.

"Too short by six feet," Hetty heard a voice say, and held her

breath. The ladder was joggled a little and fixed again. Footsteps

began to ascend it. A face and a pair of broad shoulders rose into

sight over the sill. They belonged to William Wright.

"I--I think, dears, we had better find some other room."

Hetty had sprung up and felt herself shaking from head to foot.

For the moment he was not looking in, but stood at the top of the

ladder with his head thrown back, craning for a view of the

water-trough under the eaves.

"About two feet to the right," he called to someone below. "No use

shifting the ladder; 'twon't reach. Stay a minute, though--I don't

believe 'tis a leak at all. Here--"

He felt the closed window with the palm of his hand, then peered

through it into the room; and his eyes and Hetty's met.

"Well, I do declare! Good morning, miss: 'tis like fate, the way I

keep running across you. Now would you be so kind as to lift the

latch on your side and push the window gently? The frame opens

outwards and I want to steady myself by it."

She obeyed, and was turning haughtily to follow the children when

George, who loitered in the doorway watching, called out:

"Is he coming into the room, Miss Wesley?"

She glanced over her shoulder and halted. The man clearly did not

mean to enter, but had scrambled up to the sill, and balanced himself

there gripping the window-frame and leaning outwards at an angle

which made her giddy. The sill was narrow, too, and sloping.

She caught her breath, not daring to move.

He seemed to hear her, for he answered jocularly: "'Tis to be hoped

the hinges are strong--eh, missy?--or there's an end of William

Wright."

"Do, please, be careful!"

"What's that to you? You hate me bad enough. Look here--send the

child out of the room and give me a push: a little one'd do, and

you'll never get a better chance."

Still she held her breath; and he went on, gazing upwards and

apparently speaking to the eaves.

"Not worth it, I suppose you'll say?--Don't you make too sure.

Now if I can get my fingers over the launder, here--" He worked his

way to the right, to the very edge of the sill, and reached sideways

and upwards, raising himself higher and higher on tip-toe. Hetty

heard a warning grunted from below.

"No use," he announced. "I can't reach it by six inches."

"What are you trying to do?" Hetty asked in a low voice, with a hand

over her heart.

"Why, there's a choke here--dead leaves or something--and the

roof-water's running down the side of the house."

She glanced hurriedly about the room, stepped to the fireplace and

picked up a poker--a small one with a crook at the end. "Will this

help?" she asked, passing it out.

"Eh? the very thing!" He took it, and presently she heard it

scraping on the pipe in search of the obstruction. "Cleared it, by

Jingo! and that's famous." He lowered himself upon the flat of his

broad soles. "You ought to ha' been a plumber's wife. My! if I had

a headpiece like that to think for me--let alone to look at!"

"Give me back the poker, please."

"No tricks, now!" He handed it back, chuckled, and lowering himself

back to the topmost rung of the ladder, stood in safety. "You're as

white as a sheet. Was you scared I'd fall? Lord, I like to see you

look like that! it a'most makes me want to do it again. Look here--"

"For pity's sake--"

Was the man mad? And how was it he held her listening to his

intolerable talk? He was actually scrambling up to the sill again,

but paused with his eyes on hers. "It hurts you? Very well, then, I

won't: but I owe you something for that slap in the face, you know."

"You deserved it!" Hetty exclaimed, flushing as she recoiled from

terror to unreasonable wrath, and at the same moment hating herself

for arguing with him.

"Did I? Well, I bear ye no malice. Go slow, and overlook offences--

that's William Wright's way, and I've no pride, so I gets it in the

end. Now some men, after being treated like that, would have sat

down and wrote a letter to your father about your goings-on.

I thought of it. Says I, 'It don't take more than a line from me,

and the fat's in the fire.' Mind, I don't say that I won't, but I

ha'n't done it yet. And look here--I'm a journeyman, as you know,

and on the tramp for jobs. I push on for Lincoln this afternoon; and

what I say to you before leaving is this--you're a lady, every inch.

Don't you go and make yourself too cheap with that fella. He's a

pretty man enough, but there ain't no honesty in him."

He was gone. Hetty drew a long breath. Then, having waited while

the ladder too was withdrawn, she fetched back the children and set

them before their copy-books.

"_Honesty is the best policy_."--She saw Master George fairly started

on this text, with his head on one side and his tongue working in the

corner of his mouth; and drawing out paper and ink began to write a

letter home.

"Dear Mother--," she wrote, glanced at George's copy-book, then at

the window. Five minutes passed. She started and thrust pen and

paper back into the drawer. Patty must write.

CHAPTER IV.

1. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John, at Christ Church,

Oxford.

Wroote, January 5, 1725.

Dear Son,--Your brother will receive 5 pounds for you next

Saturday, if Mr. S. is paid the 10 pounds he lent you; if not, I

must go to H. But I promise you I shan't forget that you are my

son, if you do not that I am:

Your affectionate father,

Samuel Wesley.

2. From the same to the same.

Wroote, January 26, 1725.

Dear Son,--I am so well pleased with your decent behaviour, or

at least with your letters, that I hope I shall not have

occasion to remember any more some things that are past; and

since you have now for some time bit upon the bridle, I'll take

care hereafter to put a little honey upon it as oft as I am

able. But then it shall be of my own _mero motu_, as the last

5 pound was; for I will bear no rivals in my kingdom.

I did not forget you with Dr. Morley, but have moved that way as

much as possible; though I must confess, hitherto, with no great

prospect or hopes of success. As for what you mention of

entering into Holy Orders, it is indeed a great work; and I am

pleased to find you think it so, as well as that you do not

admire a callow clergyman any more than I do.

And now the providence of God (I hope it was) has engaged me in

such a work wherein you may be very assistant to me, I trust

promote His glory and at the same time notably forward your own

studies; for I have some time since designed an edition of the

Holy Bible, in octavo, in the Hebrew, Chaldee, Septuagint and

Vulgar Latin, and have made some progress in it: the whole

scheme whereof I have not time at present to give you, of which

scarce any soul yet knows except your brother Sam.

What I desire of you in this article is, firstly, that you would

immediately fall to work, read diligently the Hebrew text in the

Polyglot, and collate it exactly with the Vulgar Latin, which is

in the second column, writing down all (even the least)

variations or differences between them. To these I would have

you add the Samaritan text in the last column but one, which is

the very same with the Hebrew, except in some very few places,

only differing in the Samaritan character (I think the true old

Hebrew), the alphabet whereof you may learn in a day's time,

either from the Prolegomena in Walton's Polyglot, or from his

grammar. In a twelvemonth's time, sticking close to it in the

forenoons, you will get twice through the Pentateuch; for I have

done it four times the last year, and am going over it the

fifth, collating the Hebrew and two Greek, the Alexandrian and

the Vatican, with what I can get of Symmachus and Theodotian,

etc. Nor shall you lose your reward for it, either in this or

the other world.

In the afternoon read what you will, and be sure to walk an

hour, if fair, in the fields. Get Thirlby's Chrysostom

_De Sacerdotio_; master it--digest it. I like your verses on

Psalm lxxxv., and would not have you bury your talent. All are

well and send duties.

Work and write while you can. You see Time has shaken me by the

hand, and Death is but a little behind him. My eyes and heart

are now almost all I have left; and bless God for them. I am

not for your going over-hastily into Orders. When I am for your

taking them, you shall know it.

Your affectionate father,

Sam. Wesley.

3. From Mrs. Wesley to her son John.

February 25th, 1725.

Dear Jackey,--I was much pleased with your letter to your father

about taking Orders, and like the proposal well; but it is an

unhappiness almost peculiar to our family that your father and I

seldom think alike. I approve the disposition of your mind and

think the sooner you are a deacon the better, because it may be

an inducement to greater application in the study of practical

divinity, which I humbly conceive is the best study for

candidates for Orders. Mr. Wesley differs from me, and would

engage you (I believe) in critical learning; which, though

accidentally of use, is in no wise preferable to the other.

I dare advise nothing: God Almighty direct and bless you!

I long to see you. We hear nothing of Hetty, which gives us

some uneasiness. We have all writ, but can get no answer.

I wish all be well. Adieu.

Susanna Wesley.

4. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John.

Wroote, March 13, 1724-5.

Dear Son,--I have both yours, and have changed my mind since my

last. I now incline to your going this summer into Orders.

But in the first place, if you love yourself or me, pray

heartily. I will struggle hard but I will get money for your

Orders, and something more. Mr. Downes has spoken to Mr. Morley

about you, who says he will inquire of your character.

"Trust in the Lord, and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed."

This, with blessing, from your loving father,

Samuel Wesley.

5. From Emilia Wesley to her brother John.

Wroote, April 7th, 1725.

Dear Brother,--Yours of March 7th I received, and thank you for

your care in despatching so speedily the business I desired you

to do. It is the last of that kind I shall trouble you with.

No more shall I write or receive letters to and from that

person. But lest you should run into a mistake and think we

have quarrelled, I assure you we are perfect friends; we think,

wish and judge alike, but what avails it? We are both

miserable. He has not differed with my mother, but she loves

him not, because she esteems him the unlucky cause of a deep

melancholy in a beloved child. For his own sake it is that I

cease writing, because it is now his interest to forget me.

Whether you will be engaged before thirty or not, I cannot

determine; but if my advice be worth listening to, never engage

your affections before your worldly affairs are in such a

position that you may marry very soon. The contrary practice

has proved very pernicious in our family; and were I to live my

time over again, and had the same experience as I have now, were

it for the best man in England, I would not wait one year.

I know you are a young man, encompassed with difficulties, that

has passed through many hardships already, and probably must

pass through many more before you are easy in the world; but,

believe me, if ever you come to suffer the torment of a hopeless

love, all other afflictions will seem small in comparison of it.

And that you may not think I speak at random, take some account

of my past life, more than ever I spoke to anyone.

After the fire, when I was seventeen years old, I was left alone

with my mother, and lived easy for one year, having most

necessaries, though few diversions, and never going abroad.

Yet after working all day I read some pleasant book at night,

and was contented enough; but after we were gotten into our

house, and all the family were settled, in about a year's time I

began to find out that we were ruined. Then came on London

journeys, Convocations of blessed memory, that for seven years

my father was at London, and we at home in intolerable want and

affliction. Then I learnt what it was to seek money for bread,

seldom having any without such hardships in getting it that much

abated the pleasure of it. Thus we went on, growing worse and

worse; all us children in scandalous want of necessaries for

years together; vast income, but no comfort or credit with it.

Then I went to London with design to get into some service,

failed of that, and grew acquainted with Leybourne. Ever after

that I lived in close correspondence with him. When anything

grieved me, he was my comforter; and what though our affairs

grew no better, yet I was tolerably easy, thinking his love

sufficient recompense for the absence of all other worldly

comforts. Then ill fate, in the shape of a near relation, laid

the groundwork of my misery, and--joined with my mother's

command and my own indiscretion-broke the correspondence between

him and I [_sic_].

That dismal winter I shall ever remember; my mother was sick,

confined even to her bed, my father in danger of arrests every

day. I had a large family to keep, and a small sum to keep it

on; and yet in all this care the loss of Leybourne was heaviest.

For nearly half a year I never slept half a night, and now,

provoked at all my relations, resolved never to marry.

Wishing to be out of their sight, I began first to think of

going into the world. A vacancy happening in Lincoln boarding

school, I went thither; and though I had never so much as seen

one before, I fell readily into that way of life; and I was so

pleased to see myself in good clothes, with money in my pocket,

and respected in a strange manner by everyone, that I seemed

gotten into another world.

Here I lived five years and should have done longer, but the

school broke up; and my father having got Wroote living, my

mother was earnest for my return. I was told what pleasant

company was at Bawtry, Doncaster, etc., and that this addition

to my father, with God's ordinary blessing, would make him a

rich man in a few years. I came home again, in an evil hour for

me. I was well clothed, and, while I wanted nothing, was easy

enough. But this winter, when my own necessaries began to decay

and my money was most of it spent, I found what a condition I

was in--every trifling want was either not supplied, or I had

more trouble to procure it than it was worth.

I know not when we have had so good a year, both at Wroote and

Epworth, as this year; but instead of saving anything to clothe

my sister or myself, we are just where we were. A noble crop

has almost all gone, beside Epworth living, to pay some part of

those infinite debts my father has run into, which are so many

(as I have lately found out) that were he to save 50 pounds a

year he would not be clear in the world this seven years.

One thing I warn you of: let not my giving you this account be

any hindrance to your affairs. If you want assistance in any

case, my father is as able to give it now as any time these last

ten years; nor shall we be ever the poorer for it. We enjoy

many comforts. We have plenty of good meat and drink, fuel,

etc.; have no duns, nor any of that tormenting care to provide

bread which we had at Epworth. In short, could I lay aside all

thoughts of the future, and be content with three things, money,

liberty, and clothes, I might live very comfortably. While my

mother lives I am inclined to stay with her; she is so very good

to me, and has so little comfort in the world beside, that I

think it barbarous to abandon her. As soon as she is in heaven,

or perhaps sooner if I am quite tired out, I have fully fixed on

a state of life; a way indeed that my parents may disapprove,

but that I do not regard. And now:

"Let Emma's hapless case be falsely told

By the rash young, or the ill-natured old."

You, that know my hard fortune, I hope will never hastily

condemn me for anything I shall be driven to do by stress of

fortune that is not directly sinful. As for Hetty, we have

heard nothing of her these three months past. Mr. Grantham, I

hear, has behaved himself very honourably towards her, _but

there are more gentlemen besides him in the world_.

I have quite tired you now. Pray be faithful to me. Let me

have one relation I can trust: never give any hint to anyone of

aught I write to you: and continue to love,

Your unhappy but affectionate sister,

Emilia Wesley.

6. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John.

Wroote, May 10, 1725.

Dear Son,--Your brother Samuel, with his wife and child, are

here. I did what I could that you might have been in Orders

this Trinity; but I doubt your brother's journey hither has, for

the present, disconcerted our plans, though you will have more

time to prepare yourself for Ordination, which I pray God you

may, as I am your loving father,

Samuel Wesley.

7. From Mrs. Wesley to her son John.

Wroote, June 8th, 1725.

Dear Son,--I have Kempis by me; but have not read him lately.

I cannot recollect the passages you mention; but believing you

do him justice, I do positively aver that he is extremely wrong

in that impious, I was about to say blasphemous, suggestion that

God, by an irreversible decree, has determined any man to be

miserable, even in this world. His intentions, as Himself, are

holy, just and good; and all the miseries incident to men here

or thereafter spring from themselves.

Your brother has brought us a heavy reckoning for you and

Charles. God be merciful to us all! Dear Jack, I earnestly

beseech Almighty God to bless you. Adieu.

Susanna Wesley.

8. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John.

Bawtry, September 1st, 1725.

Dear Son,--I came hither to-day because I cannot be at rest till

I make you easier. I could not possibly manufacture any money

for you here sooner than next Saturday. On Monday I design to

wait on Dr. Morley, and will try to prevail with your brother to

return you 8 pounds with interest. I will assist you in the

charges for Ordination, though I am just now struggling for

life. This 8 pounds you may depend on the next week, or the

week after.

S. Wesley.

9. From the same to the same.

Gainsborough, Sept. 7th, 1725.

Dear Son John,--With much ado, you see I am for once as good as

my word. Carry Dr. Morley's note to the bursar. I hope to send

you more, and, I believe, by the same hand. God fit you for

your great work. Fast--watch--pray--endure--be happy; towards

which you shall never want the ardent prayers of your

affectionate father,

S. Wesley.

On Sunday, September 19th, 1725, John Wesley, being twenty-two years

old, was ordained deacon by Dr. John Potter, Bishop of Oxford, in

Christ Church Cathedral.

CHAPTER V.

Of the letters received from home by him during the struggle to raise

money for his Ordination fees, the above are but extracts. Let us go

back to the month of May, and to Kelstein.

"Patty dear," asked Hetty one morning, "have you heard lately of John

Romley?"

She was sitting up in bed with a letter in her hand. It had come

yesterday; and Patty, brushing her hair before the glass, guessed

from whom. She did not answer.

"He is at Lincoln; he has gone to try for the precentorship of the

cathedral," Hetty announced.

"You know perfectly well that we do not correspond. I have too much

principle."

"I know, dear," sighed Hetty, with her eyes fixed meditatively upon

her sister's somewhat angular back. "I hope he is none the worse for

it: for I have my reasons for wishing to think of him as a good man."

Patty paused with brush in air, her eyes on Hetty's image in the

glass; but Hetty went on inconsequently: "But surely you get word of

him, now and then, in those letters from home which you hide from me?

Patty, I am a stronger woman than you: and you may think yourself

lucky I haven't put you through the door before this, laid violent

hands on the whole budget, and read them through at my leisure.

You invite it, too, by locking them up; which against a determined

person would avail nothing and is therefore merely an insult, my

dear."

"You know perfectly well why I do not show you my letters. They are

all crying out for news of you--mother, and Emmy and Molly: even poor

honest Nan breaks off writing about John Lambert and when the wedding

is to be and what she is to wear, and begs to hear if there be

anything wrong. And all I can answer is, that you are well, with a

line or two about the children. They must think me a fool, and it

has kept me miserable ever since I came. But more I _will_ not say.

At least--" She seemed about to correct herself, but came to an

abrupt halt and began brushing vigorously. Hetty could not see the

flush on her sallow face.

"Dear old Molly!" Hetty murmured the name of her favourite sister.

"But I could not write without telling her and loading her poor

conscience."

"Much you think of conscience, with a letter from him in your hand at

this minute!"

"But I do think of conscience. And the best proof of it is, I am

going home."

"Going home!" Patty faced about now, and with a scared face.

"Yes." Hetty put her feet out of bed and sat for a moment on the

edge of it. "Mrs. Grantham paid me my wages yesterday, and now I

have three pounds in my pocket. I am going home--to tell them."

"You mean to tell them!"

"Not a doubt of it. But why look as if you had seen a ghost?"

"And what do you suppose will happen?"

"Mother and Molly will cry, and Emmy will make an oration which I

shall interrupt, and Kezzy will open her eyes at such a monster, and

father will want to horsewhip me, but restrain himself and turn me

from the door. Or perhaps he will lock me up--oh Patty, cannot you

see that I'm weeping, not joking? But it has to be done, and I am

going to be brave and do it."

"Very well, then. Now listen to me.--You cannot."

"Cannot? Why?"

"There's no room, to begin with--not a bed in the house. Sam and his

wife are there, and the child, on a visit."

"Sam there! And you never told me.--Oh, Pat, Pat, and I might have

missed him!" She sprang up from the bed and began her dressing in a

fever of haste.

"But what will you do?"

"Go home and find Sam, of course."

"I don't see how Sam can help you. He did not help Emmy much: and

his wife will be there, remember."

There was no love lost between Sam's sisters and Sam's wife--a

practical little woman with a sharp tongue and a settled conviction

that her husband's relatives were little better than lunatics.

She understood the Rectory's strict rules of conduct as little as its

feckless poverty (for so she called it). That a household which held

its head so high should be content with a parlour furnished like a

barn, sit down to meals scarcely better than the day-labourers' about

them, and rest ignored by families of decent position in the

neighbourhood, puzzled and irritated her. "Better he paid his debts

and fed his children," was her answer when Sam put in a word for his

father's spiritual ambitions. Her slight awe of the Wesleys'

abilities--even _she_ could not deny them brains--only drove her to

entrench herself more strongly behind her practical wisdom; and she

never abandoned her position (which had saved her in a thousand

domestic arguments) that her sisters-in-law had been trained as

savages in the wilds. She had a habit of addressing them as

children: and her interference, some years before, between Emilia and

young Leybourne, had been conducted by letter addressed to Mr. and

Mrs. Wesley and without pretence of consulting Emilia's feelings.

Hetty pondered this for a moment, but without pausing in her

dressing.

"Besides," urged Patty, "they may be gone by this time. Mother did

not say how long the visit was to last; only that Sam had brought his

bill for Jacky and Charles, and it is enormous. Father will be in

the worst possible temper."

"Of all the wet blankets--" began Hetty, but was interrupted by the

ringing of a bell in the corner above her bed. It summoned her to

run and dress Rebecca, who slept in a small room opening out of Mrs.

Grantham's.

Hetty departed in a whirl. Patty stood considering. "She never

would! 'Tis a mercy sometimes she doesn't mean all she says."

But this time Hetty meant precisely what she said. Having dressed

Rebecca, she suddenly faced upon Mrs. Grantham, who stood watching

her as she turned back the bed-clothes to air, and folded the child's

nightdress.

"With your leave, madam, I wish to go home to-day."

"Bless my soul!" ejaculated Mrs. Grantham. "You must be mad."

"I know how singular you must think it: and indeed I am very sorry to

put you out. Yet I have a particular reason for asking."

"Quite impossible, Miss Wesley."

But, as Mr. Grantham had afterwards to tell her, a householder has no

means in free England of coercing a grown woman determined to quit

the shelter of his roof and within an hour. The poor lady was

nonplussed. She had not dreamed that life's tranquil journey lay

exposed to a surprise at once so simple and so disconcerting, and in

her vexation she came near to hysterics.

"What to make of your sister, I know not," she cried, twenty minutes

later, seating herself to have her hair dressed by Patty.

"Her temper was always a little uncertain," said Patty sagely.

"I think father spoilt her by teaching her Greek and poetry and such

things."

"Greek! You don't tell me that Greek makes a person want to walk out

of a comfortable house at a moment's notice and leave my poor

darlings on the stream!"

"Oh, no," agreed Patty. "You will not allow it, of course?"

"Perhaps you'll tell me how to prevent it? In all my life I don't

remember being so much annoyed."

So Hetty had her way, packed a small bundle, and was ready at the

gate for the passing of the carrier's van which would set her down

within a mile of home. She had acted on an impulse, unreasoning, but

not to be resisted. She felt the crisis of her life approaching and

had urgent need, before it came on her, to make confession and

cleanse her soul. She knew she was hurrying towards a tempest; but,

whatever it might wreck, she panted for the clear sky beyond. In her

fever the van seemed to crawl and the miles to drag themselves out

interminably.

She was within a mile of her journey's end when a horseman met and

passed the van at a jog-trot. Hetty glanced after him, wrenched open

the door and sprang out upon the road with a cry--

"Father!"

Mr. Wesley heard her and turned his head; then reined up the filly

and came slowly back. The van was at a standstill, the driver

craning his head and staring aft in wholly ludicrous bewilderment.

"Dropped anything?" he asked, as Hetty ran to him. She thrust the

fare into his hand without answering and faced around again to meet

her father.

He came slowly, with set jaws. He offered no greeting.

"I was expecting this," he said. "Indeed, I was riding to Kelstein

to fetch you home."

"But--but why?" she stammered.

"Why?" A short savage laugh broke from him, almost like a dog's

bark; but he held his temper down. "Because I do not choose to have

a decent household infected by a daughter of mine. Because, if

sisters of yours must needs be exposed to the infection, it shall be

where I am present to watch them and control you. I have received a

letter--"

She stared at him dismayed, remembering the man Wright and his

threat.

"And upon that you judge me, without a hearing?" She let her arms

drop beside her.

"Will you deny it? Will you deny you have been in the habit of

meeting--no, I see you will not. Apparently Mrs. Grantham has

dismissed you."

"Sir, Mrs. Grantham has not dismissed me. I came away against her

wish, because--"

"Well?" he waited, chewing his wrath.

It was idle now to say she had come meaning to confess. That chance

had gone.

"I ask you to remember, sir, that I never promised not to meet him."

Since a fight it must be, she picked up all her courage for it.

"I had no right to promise it."

His mouth opened, but shut again like a trap. He had the

self-control to postpone battle. "We will see about that," he said

grimly. "Meanwhile, please you mount behind me and ride."

As they jogged towards Wroote, Hetty, holding on by her father's

coat, seemed to feel in her finger-tips the wrath pent up and working

in his small body. She was profoundly dejected; so profoundly that

she almost forgot to be indignant with William Wright; but she had no

thought of striking her colours. She built some hope upon Sam, too.

Sam might not take her part openly, but he at least had always been

kind to her.

"Does Sam know?" she took heart to ask as they came in sight of the

parsonage.

"Sam?"

"Patty tells me he is here with his wife and little Philly."

"I am glad to say that Patty is mistaken. They took their departure

yesterday."

CHAPTER VI.

"Oh, Hetty!" was all Molly could find to say, rushing into the back

garret where Hetty stood alone, and clinging to her with a long kiss.

Hetty held the dear deformed body against her bosom for a while, then

relaxing her arms, turned towards the small window in the eaves.

"My dear," she answered with a wry smile, "it had to come, you see,

and now we must go through with it."

"But who could have written that wicked letter? Mother will not tell

us--even if she knows, which I doubt."

"I fancy I know. And you must not exaggerate, even in your love for

me. I don't suppose the letter was wicked, though it may have been

spiteful."

"It accused you of the most dreadful things."

"If it be dreadful to meet the man you love, and in secret, then I

have been behaving dreadfully."

"O-oh!"

"And that is just what I came home to confess." She paused at the

sight of Molly's face. "What! are you against me too? Then I must

fight this out alone, it seems."

"Darling Hetty, you must not--ah, don't look so at me!"

But Hetty turned her back. "Please leave me."

"If you had only written--"

"That would take long to explain. I am tired, and it is not worth

while; please leave me."

"But you do not understand. I had to come, although for the time

father has forbidden us to speak with you--"

Hetty stepped to the door and held it open. "Then one of his

daughters at any rate shall be dutiful," she said.

Molly flung her an imploring look and walked out, sobbing.

"Is Hetty not coming down to supper?" Emilia asked in the kitchen

that evening. Mrs. Wesley with her daughters and Johnny Whitelamb

supped there as a rule when not entertaining visitors. The Rector

took his meals alone, in the parlour.

"Your father has locked her in. Until to-morrow he forbids her to

have anything but bread and water," answered Mrs. Wesley.

"And she is twenty-seven years old," added Molly.

All looked at her; even Johnny Whitelamb looked, with a face as long

as a fiddle. The comment was quiet, but the note of scorn in it

could not be mistaken. Molly in revolt! Molly, of all persons!

Molly sat trembling. She knew that among them all Johnny was her one

ally--and a hopelessly distressed and ineffective one. He had turned

his head quickly and leaned forward, blinking and spreading his

hands--though the season was high summer--to the cold embers of the

kitchen fire; his heart torn between adoration of Hetty and the old

dog-like worship of his master.

"Molly dear, she has deceived him and us all," was Mrs. Wesley's

reproof, unexpectedly gentle.

"For my part," put in Nancy comfortably, "I don't suppose she would

care to come down. And 'tis cosy to be back in the kitchen again,

after ten days of the parlour and Mrs. Sam. Emmy agrees, I know."

But Emmy with fine composure put aside this allusion to her pet foe.

"Molly and Johnny should make a match of it," she sneered.

"They might set up house on their belief in Hetty, and even take her

to lodge with them."

John Whitelamb sprang up as if stung; stood for a moment, still with

his face averted upon the fire; then, while all stared at him, let

drop the arm he had half-lifted towards the mantel-shelf and relapsed

into his chair. He had not uttered a sound.

Mrs. Wesley had a reproof upon her tongue, and this time a sharp one.

She was prevented, however, by Molly, who rose to her feet, tottered

to the door as if wounded, and escaped from the kitchen.

Molly mounted the stairs with bowed head, dragging herself at each

step by the handrail. Reaching the garrets, she paused by Hetty's

door to listen. No light pierced the chinks; within was silence.

She crept away to her room, undressed, and lay down, sobbing quietly.

Her sobs ceased, but she could not sleep. A full moon strained its

rays through the tattered curtain, and as it climbed, she watched the

panel of light on the wall opposite steal down past a text above the

washstand, past the washstand itself, to the bare flooring. "God is

love" said the text, and Molly had paid a pedlar twopence for it,

years before, at Epworth fair--quite unaware that she was purchasing

the Wesley family motto. She heard her mother and sisters below bid

one another good night and mount to their rooms. An hour later her

father went his round, locking up. Then came silence.

Suddenly she sat up in her bed. She had heard--yes, surely--Hetty's

voice. It seemed to come from outside, close below her window--

Hetty's ordinary voice, with no distress in it, speaking some words

she could not catch. She listened. Actual sound or illusion, it was

not repeated. She climbed out of bed and drew the curtain aside.

Bright moonlight lay spread all about the house and, beyond, the

fenland faded away to an unseen horizon as through veils of gold and

silver, asleep, no creature stirring on the face of it.

She let drop the corner of the curtain and on the instant caught it

back again. A dark form, quick and noiseless, slipped past the

shadow by the yard-gate. It was Rag the mastiff, left unchained at

night: and as he padded across the yard in the full moonlight, Molly

saw that he was wagging his tail.

She watched him to his kennel; stepped to her door, lifted the latch

cautiously and stole once more along the passage to Hetty's room.

"Hetty!" she whispered. "Hetty dear! Were you calling? Is anything

wrong?" She shook the door gently. No answer came. Mr. Wesley had

left the key in the lock after turning it on the outside: and still

whispering to her sister, Molly wrenched it round, little by little.

No one stirred below-stairs: no one answered within. She pushed the

door open an inch or two, then wider, pausing as it creaked.

A draught of the warm night wind met her as she slipped into the

room, and--her fingers trembling and missing their hold--the door

fell to behind her, almost with a slam.

She stood still, her heart in her mouth. In her ears the noise was

loud enough to awake the house. But as the seconds dragged by and

still no sound came from her father's room, "Hetty!" she whispered

again.

Her eyes were on the bed as she whispered it, and in the pale light

the bed was patently empty. Still she did not comprehend. Her eyes

wandered from it to the open window.

When she spoke again it was with the same low whisper, but a whisper

which broke as she breathed it to follow where it might not reach.

"What have they done to you? My darling, God watch over you now!"

She crept back to her room and lay shivering, waiting for the dawn.

BOOK III.

PROLOGUE.

In a chilly dawn, high among the mountains to the north of Berar, two

Britons were wandering with an Indian attendant. They came like

spectres, in curling wreaths of mist that magnified their stature;

and daylight cowed each with the first glimpse of his comrade's face,

yellow with hunger and glassy-eyed with lack of sleep. They were, in

fact, hopelessly lost. They had spent the night huddled together on

a narrow ledge, listening hour by hour to the sound of water tumbling

over unknown precipices; and now they moved with painful cramped

limbs, yet listlessly, being past hope to escape or to see another

dawn.

The elder Briton was a Scotsman, aged fifty or thereabouts, a clerk

of the H.E.I.C.; the younger an Englishman barely turned twenty, an

officer in the same company's service. They hailed from Surat, and

had arrived in Berar on a trade mission with an escort of fifty men,

of whom their present attendant, Bhagwan Dass, was the solitary

survivor; and this came of believing that a "protection" from the

Nizam would carry them anywhere in the Nizam's supposed dominions,

whereas the _de facto_ rulers of Berar were certain Mahratta

chieftains who collected its taxes and who had politely forwarded the

mission into the fastnesses of the mountains. There, at the ripe

moment, the massacre had taken place, Mr. Menzies and young Prior

escaping on their hill-ponies, with Bhagwan Dass clutching at Prior's

stirrup-leather. The massacre having been timed a little before

nightfall, darkness helped them to get clear away; but Menzies, by

over-riding his little mare, flung her, an hour later, with a broken

fetlock, and Prior's pony being all but dead-beat, they abandoned the

poor brutes on the mountain-side, took to their feet and stumbled on

until the setting of the young moon. With the first light of dawn

they had roused themselves to start anew, lingering out the agony:

for the slopes below swarmed with enemies in chase, and even if a

village lurked in these heights the inhabitants would give no help,

being afraid of their Mahratta masters.

They had crossed a gully through which a mountain runlet descended,

unrolling a ribbon of green mossy herbage on its way, and slipping

out of sight over the edge of a precipice of two hundred feet or so.

Beyond this the eye saw nothing but clouds of mist heaving and

smoking to the very lip of the fall. Young Prior halted for a moment

on the farther slope to take breath, and precisely at that moment

something happened which he lived to relate a hundred times and

always with wonder. For as his eye fell on these clouds of mist, a

beam of light came travelling swiftly down the mountain and pierced

them, turning them to a fierce blood-red; next, almost with an

audible rush, the sun leapt into view over the eastern spurs: and

while he stared down upon the vapours writhing and bleeding under

this lance-thrust of dawn--while they shook themselves loose and

trailed away in wreaths of crimson and gold and violet, and deep in

the chasms between them shone the plain with its tilled fields and

villages--a cry from Bhagwan Dass fetched him round sharply, and he

beheld, a few yards above him on the slope, a man.

The man sat, naked to the waist, at the entrance of a low cave or

opening in the hillside. He seemed to be of great age, with a calm

and almost unwrinkled face and gray locks falling to his shoulders,

around which hung a rosary of black beads, very highly polished and

flashing against the sun. From the waist down he was wrapped in a

bright yellow shawl, and beside him lay a crutch and a wooden bowl

heaped with rice and conserves.

Before the two Britons could master their dismay, Bhagwan Dass had

run towards the cave and was imploring the holy man to give them

shelter and hiding. For a while he listened merely, and his first

response was to lift the bowl and invite them with a gesture to stay

their hunger. Famished though they were, they hesitated, and reading

the reason in their eyes, he spoke for the first time.

"It will not harm you," said he in Hindustani: "and the villagers

below bring me more than I can eat."

From the moment of setting eyes on him--Prior used to declare--a

blessed sense of protection fell upon the party; a feeling that in

the hour of extreme need God had suddenly put out a shield, under the

shadow of which they might rest in perfect confidence. And indeed,

though they knew the mountain to be swarming with their enemies, they

entered the cave and slept all that day like children. Whether or no

meanwhile their enemies drew near they never discovered: but Prior,

awaking towards nightfall, saw the hermit still seated at the

entrance as they had found him, and lay for a while listening to the

click of his rosary as he told bead after bead.

He must, however, have held some communication with the unseen

village in the valley: for three bowls of milk and rice stood ready

for them. They supped, forbearing--upon Bhagwan Dass's advice--to

question him, though eager to know if he had a mind to help them

further, and how he might contrive it. Until moonrise he gave no

sign at all; then rising gravely, crutch and bowl in hand, stepped a

pace or two beyond the entrance and whistled twice--as they supposed

for a guide. But the only guides that answered were two small

mountain foxes--a vixen and her half-grown cub--that came bounding

around an angle of the rock and fawned about his feet while he

caressed them and spoke to them softly in a tongue which none of the

party understood. And so they all set out, turning their faces

westward and keeping to the upper ridges; the foxes trotting always a

few paces ahead and showing the way.

All that night they walked as in a dream, and came at daybreak to a

ledge with a shrine upon it, and in the shrine a stone figure of a

goddess, and below the ledge--perhaps half a mile below it--a village

clinging dizzily to the mountain-side.--There was no food in the

shrine, only a few withered wreaths of marigolds: but the holy man

must have spoken to his foxes, for at dawn a priest came toiling up

the slope with a filled bowl so ample that his two arms scarcely

embraced it. The priest set down the food, took the hermit's

blessing and departed in silence: and this was the only human

creature they saw on their journey. Not for all their solicitation

would the hermit join them in eating: and at this they marvelled most

of all: for he had walked far and moderately fast, yet seemed to feel

less fatigue than any of them. That night, as soon as the moon rose,

he started afresh with the same long easy stride, and the foxes led

the way as before.

The dawn rose, but this time he gave no signal for halting: and the

cool of morning was almost ended when he led them out through the

last broken crests of the ridge and, pointing to a broad plain at

their feet, told them that henceforward they might fare in safety.

A broad road traversed the plain, and beside it, some ten to twelve

miles from the base of the foothills, twinkled the white walls of a

rest-house.

"There," said he, pointing, "either to-day or to-morrow will pass the

trader Afzul Khan: and if indeed ye come from Surat--"

His mild eyes, as he pointed, were turned upon Menzies, who broke out

in amazement: "For certain Afzul Khan is known to us, as debtor

should be to creditor. But how knowest _thou_ either that he passes

this way or that we come from Surat?"

"It is enough that I know."

"Either come with us then," Menzies pressed him, "and at the

rest-house Afzul Khan shall fill thy bowl with gold-dust; or remain

here, and I will send him."

"Why should he do aught so witless?"

Menzies laughed awkwardly. "Though money be useless to thee, holy

man, I dare say thy villagers might be the gladder for it."

The hermit shook his head.

"Anyhow," broke in Prior, addressing Menzies in English, "we must do

_something_ for him, if only in justice to some folks who will be

glad enough to see us back alive."

"My friend here," Menzies interpreted, "has parents living, and is

their only son. For me, I have a wife and three children. For their

sakes, therefore--"

But the hermit put up a hand. "Something I did for their sakes,

giving you back to the chains they will hang upon you. It was

weakness in me, and no cause for thanks." He turned his begging bowl

so that it shone in the sun: an ant clung to it, crawling on its

polished side. "If ye have sons, I may live belike to see them pass

my way."

"That is not likely."

"Who knows?" The old man's eyes rested on Bhagwan Dass.

"Unlikelier things have befallen me while I sat yonder. See--" he

turned the bowl in his hand and nodded towards the ant running hither

and thither upon it. "What happens to him that would not likewise

happen if he stood still?"

"There is food at the rest-house," Menzies persisted; "but I take it

you can find food on your way back, even though since starting we

have seen none pass your lips: and that is two days."

"It will be yet two days before I feast again: for I drink not save

of the spring by which you found me, and I eat no food the taste of

which I cannot wash from me in its water."

Menzies and Prior eyed one another. "Cracked as an old bell!" said

the younger man in English, and laughed.

"Is it a vow?" Menzies asked.

"It is a vow."

"But tell me," put in Prior, "does the water of your spring differ

from that of a thousand others on these hills?"

"The younger sahib," answered the hermit, "understands not the

meaning of a vow; which a man makes to his own hurt, perhaps, or to

the hurt of another, or it may even be quite foolishly; but thereby

he stablishes his life, while the days of other men go by in a flux

of business. As for the water of my hillside," he went on with a

sharp change of voice and speaking, to their amazement, in English,

"have not your countrymen, O sahibs, their particular springs?

Churchman and Dissenter, Presbyterian and Baptist--count they not

every Jordan above Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus?"

He turned and walked swiftly from them, mounting the slope with swift

loose strides. But while they stared, Bhagwan Dass broke from them

and ran in pursuit.

"Not without thy blessing! O Annesley sahib, go not before thou hast

blessed me!"

Two days later, at sunset, a child watching a little below the

hermit's spring saw him limp back to it and drink and seat himself

again at the entrance of the cave; and pelted down to the village

with the news. And the hill-people, who had supposed him gone for

ever, swarmed up and about the cave to assure themselves.

"Alas!" said the holy man, gazing out upon the twilight when at

length all had departed, leaving him in peace. "Cannot a man be

anywhere alone with God? And yet," he added, "I was something

wistful for their love."

CHAPTER I.

"_To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgiveness, though we have

rebelled against him: neither have we obeyed the voice of the Lord

our God, to walk in his laws which he set before us. O Lord, correct

me, but with judgment; not in thine anger, lest thou bring me to

nothing_."

The voice travelled down the great nave of Lincoln Cathedral, and, as

it came, the few morning worshippers--it was a week-day--inclined

their faces upwards: for it seemed to pause and float overhead and

again be carried forward by its own impulse, a pure column of sound

wavering awhile before it broke and spread and dissolved into

whispers among the multitudinous arches. To a woman still kneeling

by a pillar close within the western doorway it was as the voice of a

seraph speaking with the dawn, fresh from his night-watch over earth.

She had been kneeling for minutes, and still knelt, but she could not

pray. She had no business to be there. To her the sentences carried

no message; but the voice smiting, pure and cold, across the hot

confusion in her brain, steadied her while it terrified.

Yet she knew the voice well enough. It was but John Romley's.

The Dean and Chapter wanted a precentor, and among a score of

candidates had selected Romley and two others for further trial.

This was his chance and he was using it; making the most of it, too,

to the mingled admiration and disgust of his rivals listening in the

choir beside him.

And she had dressed early and climbed to the cathedral, not to pray,

but to seek Romley because she had instant need of him; because,

though she respected his character very little, he was the one man in

the world who could help her. She had missed him at the door.

Entering, she learned from a verger that he was already robing.

Then the great organ sounded, and from habit she dropped on her

knees.

John Romley, unseen in the choir, was something very different from

John Romley in private life with his loose face and flabby handshake.

Old Mr. Wesley had once dismissed him contemptuously as _vox et

praeterea nihil_: but disembodied thus, almost a thing celestial, yet

subtly recalling home to her and ties renounced, the voice shook

Hetty's soul. For it came on her as the second shock of an ambush.

She had climbed to the cathedral with but half of her senses awake,

drowsed by love, by the long ride in the languorous night wind, by

the exhaustion of a long struggle ended, by her wondering

helplessness on arriving--the chill sunlight, the deserted street,

the strange voice behind the lodging-house door, the unfamiliar

passage and stairs. She had lived a lifetime in those hours, and for

the while Wroote Parsonage lay remote as a painful daily round from

the dream which follows it. Only the practical instinct, as it were

a nerve in the centre of her brain, awake and refusing to be drugged,

had kept sounding its alarm to rise and seek Romley; and though at

length she obeyed in a panic, she went as one walking in sleep.

The front of the cathedral, as she came beneath its shadow, overhung

her as a phantom drawn upon the morning sky, its tall towers

unsubstantial, trembling against the light, but harmless even should

they fall upon her. She entered as one might pass through a paper

screen.

The first shock came upon her then. She passed not out of sunlight

into sunlight, but out of sunlight into a vast far-reaching,

high-arching gloom, which was another world and another life; the

solemn twilight which her upbringing had taught her to associate with

God. Once before in her life, and once only, she had stood within

the minster--on her confirmation day, when she had entered with her

hand in her mother's. Her eyes sought and found the very place where

she had sat then among the crowd of girl-candidates, and a ghost in a

white frock sat there still with bowed head. She remembered the very

texture and scent of that white frock: they came back with the awe,

the fervour, the passionate desire to be good; and these memories

cried all in her ears, "What have you to do with that child?

Which of you is Hetty? You cannot both be real."

They sang in her ears while she questioned the verger about Romley.

He had to repeat his answers before she thanked him and turned

towards one of the lowest seats. She did not repent: she was not

thinking of repentance. She loved, she had given all for love, and

life was fuller of beautifying joy than ever it had been even on that

day of confirmation: but beneath the joy awoke a small ache, and with

the ache a certain knowledge that she might never sit beside the

child in white, never so close as to touch her frock; that their

places in this building, God's habitation, were eternally separate.

Then the organ ceased, and the voice began to speak. And the voice

uttered promise of pardon, but Hetty heard nothing of the words--only

the notes.

"_And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in

the cool of the day: and A dam and his wife hid themselves from the

presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden_."

Less terrible this voice was; a seraph's rather, at the lodge-gate,

welcoming the morn. Yet Hetty crouched by her pillar, afraid.

For the day he welcomed was not _her_ day, the worship he offered was

not _her_ worship; for _her_ a sword lay across the gate.

Her terror passed, and she straightened herself. After all, she did

not repent. Why should she repent? She was loved; she loved in

return, utterly and without guile, with a love which, centred upon

one, yet embraced all living creatures. Nay, it embraced Heaven, if

Heaven would accept it. And why not?

"_Wherefore let us beseech him_," said the voice, "_to grant us true

repentance and his Holy Spirit, that those things may please him

which we do at this present; and that the rest of our life hereafter

may be pure and holy_ . . ."

"Pure and holy"--but she desired no less, and out of her love.

She wanted to be friends with all at home, to go to them fearlessly

and make them understand her as she understood them, and to be good

all the days of her life. "True repentance"? Why repent? . . .

Ah, yes, of course: but God was no haggler over hours. In an hour or

two . . . "That those things may please him which we do at this

present--" She caught at her heart now as the terror--a practical

terror this time--returned upon it. At all costs she must find John

Romley after service, though indeed there was little danger of

missing him, for he, no doubt, would be seeking her.

Her mind was clear now.

She lay in wait for him as he stepped out under the great porch, with

a clean surplice on his arm. He paused there with a smile on his

face, glanced up at the blue sky, clapped on his hat, and descended

the steps gaily, whistling a phrase from the _Venite exultemus_; too

far preoccupied to recognise Hetty, until she stepped forward and

almost laid a hand on his arm.

"Miss Mehetabel!"

Plainly, then, he was not seeking her.

"You in Lincoln? This is a surprise--a pleasant surprise, indeed!"

"But I came in search of you. I have been waiting--" She nodded her

head towards the porch.

"Eh? You heard? 'Twas not altogether a breakdown, I hope? You must

allow for some nervousness--did you detect it? No? Well, I don't

mind owning to you I was nervous as a cat: but there, if you didn't

detect it I shall flatter myself I did passably." He laughed,

evidently on the best terms with himself. His breath smelt of beer.

"The Rector is with you, of course?"

"My father? But, Mr. Romley, I don't think you understand--"

"I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on him this morning.

Nothing could have happened better, and I'm in luck's way to-day, for

certain. It seems the Dean and Chapter require a certificate from

him--a testimonial--just a line or two, to say that I'm a decent

respectable fellow. We have not been friends of late--I hope Miss

Patty keeps pretty well, by the way--but he won't deny me that small

favour. You were not seeking me on her account?" he added, by an

afterthought. "Patty?" She uttered her sister's name to gain time,

for in truth she was bewildered, alarmed.

He nodded. "We are not allowed to correspond, as you know. But she

must keep up her heart: your father will come round when he sees me

precentor. 'Tis a good opening. We must allow for the Rector's

crotchets (you'll excuse me, I feel sure): but give him time, I say--

give him time, and he'll come round right and tight."

"My father is not with me. Oh, Mr. Romley, you have heard, surely? I

was told--but there, you have the licence."

"The licence! What licence?" He stared at her.

Her heart sank. Here was some horrible mistake. She bethought

herself of his careless habits, which indeed were notorious enough in

and about Wroote and Epworth. "It must be among your letters--have

you neglected them lately? Ah, think--think, my friend: for to me

this means all the world."

"Upon my word of honour, Miss Hetty, I don't understand one word

you're saying. Come, let us have it clear. What brings you to

Lincoln? The Rector is not with you. Who, then?"

"We came here last night--early this morning, rather--"

"'We'?"

"I have left home. You know what we intended? But my father locked

me up. I had tried to be open with him, and he would listen to

nothing. So--as everything was ready--and you here with the

licence--"

John Romley stepped back a pace. It is doubtful if he heard the last

words. His eyes were round in his head.

"You are here--with--_him_!" He gasped it in an incredulous whisper.

For a moment in her earnestness she met his stare. Then her hands

went up to her face. "You? You?" he repeated slowly. His eyes

shrank from her face and wandered helplessly over the smoke, over the

red roofs of the town below them.

"But we came to get married!" She plucked her hands away from her

face and stepped close to him, forcing his reluctant eyes to meet

hers. Her cheeks flamed: he groaned at the sight of her beauty.

"But we came to get married! John, there is nothing--surely

nothing?--that with your help cannot be set right? Ah, I forget--by

marrying us you will offend father, and you find now that you want

this favour of him. John, it cannot be _that_--you cannot be playing

so cruel a trick for _that_--and after your promise? Forgive me if I

am selfish: but think what I am fighting for!"

"It will cost me the precentorship," answered he slowly, "but I

hadn't given a thought to that."

"It shall cost you nothing of the kind. After all, father is juster

to others than to me. I will write--we will both write: I will tell

him what you risked to save his daughter. Or, stay: any clergyman

will do, will he not? We need only the licence. You shall risk

nothing: give me only the licence and I will run and find one."

"Dear Miss Hetty, I made no promise. I have no licence. None has

reached me, nor word of one."

"Then he must have it! He told me--that is, I understood--"

She broke off with a laugh most pitiful in John's ears, though it

seemed to reassure her. "But how foolish of me! Of _course_ he must

have it. And you will come with me, at once? At the least you are

willing to come?"

"Surely I will come." John's face was gloomy. "Where are the

lodgings?"

"I cannot tell you the name of the street, but I can find them.

John, you are an angel! And afterwards I will sit and tell you about

Patty to your heart's content. We can be married in the parlour, I

suppose? Or must it be in church? I had rather--far rather--it were

in church if you could manage that for us: but not to lose time.

Perhaps we can find a church later in the day and get permission to

go through the service again. I daresay, though, he has it all

arranged--he said I might leave it to him. You won't tell him, John,

what a fright I have given myself?"

So her tongue ran on as they descended the hill together.

John Romley walked beside her stupidly, wondering if she were in

truth reassured or chattering thus to keep up her hopes. They might,

after all, be justified: but his forebodings weighed on his tongue.

Also the shock had stunned him and all his wits seemed to be buzzing

loose in his head.

They did not notice, although they passed it close, a certain

signboard over a low-browed shop half-way down the street.

Afterwards Hetty remembered passing the shop, and that its one window

was caked with mud and grimed with dust on top of the mud. She did

not see a broad-shouldered man in a dirty baize apron seated at his

work-bench behind the pane. Nor after passing the shop did she turn

her head: but walked on unaware of an ill-shaven face thrust out of

its doorway and staring after her.

William Wright sat at his bench that morning, fitting a leather

washer in a leaky brass tap. In the darkest corner at the back of

the shop his father--a peevish old man, well past seventy--stooped

over a desk, engaged as usual in calculating his book-debts, an

occupation which brought him no comfort but merely ingrained his bad

opinion of mankind. Having drunk his trade into a decline, and being

now superannuated, he nagged over his ledgers from morning to night

and snatched a fearful joy in goading William to the last limit of

forbearance. William, who had made himself responsible for the old

man's debts, endured him on the whole very creditably. "Here's a bad

'un," "Here's a bad 'un," piped the voice from time to time.

William trimmed away at his washer.

"Hello! Who's been putting this in the ledger?" The old man held up a

thin strip of leather. "Oh, Willum, here's a very bad 'un!"

"What name?" asked William indifferently, without turning his head.

"Wesley, Reverend Samuel--Wroote and Epworth Rectory--

twelve-seventeen-six. Two years owing, and not a stiver on account.

Oh, a poisonous bad 'un!"

"That's all right!"

"Not a stiver on account!"

"All right, I tell you. There won't be any paying on account with

that bill: it'll be all or nothing. All, perhaps; and, if so,

something more than all"--he laid down his clasp-knife and almost

involuntarily put a hand up to his cheek--"but nothing, most like.

I put that slip of leather there to remind me, but I don't need it.

'Twelve-seventeen-six'--better scratch it off."

"'Scratch it off'? Scratch off twelve-seventeen-six!" Old Wright

spun round on his stool. But William sat gazing out of the window.

He had picked up his knife again, but did not at once resume work.

The next thing old Wright heard was the clatter of a knife on the

bench. William sprang up as it dropped, crept swiftly to the shop

door, and stood there craning his head into the street and fumbling

with his apron.

"What's the matter? Cut yourself? It don't want a doctor, do it?"

William did not answer: suddenly he plucked off his apron, flung it

backwards into the shop, and disappeared into the street. The old

man tottered forward, picked it off the floor and stood examining it,

his mouth opening and shutting like a fish's.