CHAPTER XVI.

Late in September, having been chosen to preach on St. Michael's Day

in St. Michael's Church the sermon annually delivered by a Fellow of

Lincoln, John travelled up to Oxford, whither Charles followed him a

week or two later, to take up his residence in Christ Church, and be

matriculated on the first day of the October term.

John had deferred his journey to the last moment, in order to stand

godfather to Nancy's healthy firstborn. John Lambert--honest man and

proud father--had honoured the event with a dinner, and very nearly

wrecked his own domestic peace by sending out the invitations in his

own hand and including Mr. and Mrs. Wright. For weeks after, Nancy

shuddered to think what might have happened if Hetty and her father

had come face to face at the ceremony or the feast. By good luck--or

rather by using her common sense and divining the mistake--Hetty

refused. Her husband, however, insisted on attending, and she let

him go. With _his_ presence the Rector could not decently quarrel.

"But look here," said he, "I am getting tired of the line the old man

takes. It wasn't in our bond: he waited to spring it on me after the

wedding. If I can overlook things, he should be able to, and I've a

mind to tell him so." He urged her to come. But Hetty pleaded that

she could not; it was now past the middle of September, and her baby

would be born early in the new year. "Well, well," he grumbled, "but

'tis hard to have married a lady, and a beauty to boot, and never a

chance to show her." The speech was gracious after his fashion, as

well as honest: but she shivered inwardly. For as time wore on, she

perceived this desire growing in him, to take her abroad and display

her with pride. Failing this, he had once or twice brought his own

cronies home, to sit and smoke with him while he watched their uneasy

admiration and enjoyed the tribute. She blamed herself that she had

not been more genial on those occasions; but in truth she dreaded

them horribly. By sheer force of will she had managed hitherto, and

with fair success, to view her husband as a good honest man, and

overlook his defects of breeding. In her happiest moods she almost

believed in the colours with which (poor soul, how eagerly!) she

decked him. But she could not extend the illusion to his friends.

"You shall show _him_ off," she pleaded, meaning the unborn babe.

"We will show him off together." But her face was white.

So William Wright had gone alone to the christening feast, and there

John Wesley had met him for the first time, and talked with him, and

afterwards walked home full of thought. For, in truth, Hetty's

husband had drunk more of John Lambert's wine than agreed with him,

and had asserted himself huskily, if not aggressively, under the cold

eye of Mr. Wesley senior. John, as godfather, had been called upon

for a speech, and his brother-in-law's "Hear, hear" had been so

vociferous that while his kinsfolk stole glances at one another as

who should say, "But what can one expect?" the Rector put out a hand

with grim mock apprehension and felt the leaded window casements.

"I'll mend all I break, and for nothing," shouted Mr. Wright

heartily: and amid a scandalised silence Charles exploded in merry

laughter, and saved the situation.

For a fortnight after his return to Oxford, college work absorbed all

John's leisure: but he found time as a matter of course to meet

Charles on his arrival at the Angel Inn, and took him straight off to

Christ Church to present him to the Senior Censor. Next day he

called to find his brother installed in Peckwater, on the topmost

floor, but in rooms very much more cheerful than the garret suggested

by Mr. Sherman. Charles, at any rate, was delighted with them and

his sticks of furniture, and elated--as thousands of undergraduates

have been before his day and since--at exchanging school for college

and qualified liberty and the dignity of housekeeping on one's own

account.

"_Est aliquid quocunque loco, quocunque recessu_," he quoted, and

showed John with triumph the window seat which, lifted, disclosed a

cupboard to contain his wine, if ever he should possess any.

"Are you proposing to become a wine-bibber in your enthusiasm?" asked

John.

Charles closed the lid, seated himself upon it, drew up his legs, and

gazed out across the quadrangle. He had made a friend or two already

among the freshmen, and this life seemed to him very good.

"My dear Jack, you would not have me be a saint all at once!"

John frowned. "You do not forget, I hope, in what hope you have been

helped to Christ Church?"

Charles sat nursing his knees. A small frown puckered his forehead,

but scarcely interfered with the good-tempered smile about his mouth.

"Others beside my father have helped or are willing to help.

See that letter?"--he nodded towards one lying open on the table--

"It is from Ireland. It has been lying in the porter's lodge for a

week, and my scout brought it up this morning."

John picked it up, smiling at his boyish air of importance. "Am I to

read it?"

Charles nodded, and while his brother read, gazed out of window.

The smile still played about his mouth, but queerly.

"It is a handsome offer," said John slowly, and laid the letter down.

"Have you taken any decision?"

"Father leaves it to me, as you know," Charles answered and paused,

musing. "I suppose, now, ninety-nine out of a hundred would jump at

it."

"Assuredly."

"Somehow our family seems to be made up of odd hundredths. You, for

example, do not wish me to accept."

"I have said nothing to influence your choice."

"No, my dear Jack, you have not. Yet I know what you think, fast

enough."

John picked up the letter again and folded it carefully.

"An estate in Ireland; a safe seat in the Irish Parliament; and

money. Jack, that money might help to make many happy. Think of our

mother, often without enough to eat; think of father's debts.

He knows I would pay them," said Charles.

"And yet he has not tried to influence your choice."

"He's a Trojan, Jack; an old warhorse. You have cause to love him,

for he loves you so much above all of us--and you know it--that, had

the choice been offered you, he'd have moved heaven and earth to

prevent your accepting a fortune."

He swung round, dropping his feet to the floor, and eyed his brother

quizzically.

"Upon my word," he went on, "this thing annoys me. I've a mind to--"

Here he dived a hand into his breeches pocket and fished out a

shilling. "We'll settle it here and now, and you shall be witness.

Heads for Dangan Castle and Parliament House; tails for poverty!"

He spun the coin and slapped it down on his knee. His hand still

covered it.

--"Come Jack, stand up and be properly excited."

"Nay," said John; "would you jest with God's purpose for you?"

"I have seen you open the Bible at random and take your omen from the

first words your eyes light on. Yet I never accused you of jesting

with Holy Writ. Cannot God as easily determine the fall of a coin?"

He withdrew his hand, and drew a deep breath. "Tails!" he announced,

and faced his brother, smiling. "I am in earnest," he said.

"But if you prefer the other way--"

He stepped to the shelf, took down his Bible and opened it, not

looking himself, but holding the page under his brother's eyes.

"Well, what does it say?" he asked.

"It says," John answered, "'Let the high praises of God be in their

mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand.'"

Charles closed the Bible and restored it to its shelf; then faced his

brother again, still with his inscrutable smile.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

"I never knew you were such a needlewoman, Hetty. It has been

nothing but stitch-stitch for these two hours--and the same

yesterday, and the day before. See, the kettle's boiling. Lay down

your sewing, that's a dear creature; make me a dish of tea; and while

you're doing it, let me see your eyes and hear your voice."

Hetty dropped her hands on her lap and let them rest there for a

moment, while she looked across at Charles with a smile.

"As for talking," she answered, "it seems to me you have been doing

pretty well without my help."

Charles laughed. "Now you speak of it, I _have_ been rattling on.

But there has been so much to say and so little time to say it in.

Has it occurred to you that we have seen more of each other in these

seven days than in all our lives before?"

Seven days ago, while staying with his brother Sam at Westminster, he

had heard of her arrival in London and had tramped through the slushy

streets at once to seek her out at her address in Crown Court, Dean

Street, Soho. She had welcomed him in this dark little second-floor

room--dwelling-room and bedroom combined--in which she was sitting

alone; for her husband spent most of the day abroad on the business

which had brought them to London, either superintending the

alterations in the unfurnished premises he had hired in Frith Street

for his shop and the lead-works by which he proposed to make his

fortune, or in long discussions at Johnson's Court with Uncle

Matthew, who was helping with money and advice. The lodgings in

Crown Court were narrow enough and shut in by high walls. But Hetty

had not inhabited them two hours before they looked clean and

comfortable and even dainty. Her own presence lent an air of

distinction to the meanest room.

Her face, her voice, her regal manners, her exquisitely tender smile,

came upon Charles with the shock of discovery. These two had not

seen one another for years. The date of this first call was December

22nd: then and there--with a shade of regret that in a few days he

must leave London to pay Wroote a visit before his vacation closed--

Charles resolved that she should not spend her Christmas uncheered.

On Christmas Day he had carried her off with her husband to dine at

Westminster with Mr. and Mrs. Sam Wesley. Mr. Wright had been on his

best behaviour, Mrs. Sam unexpectedly gracious, and the meeting

altogether a great success. Charles had walked home with the guests,

and had called again the next afternoon. He could see that his

visits gave Hetty the purest delight, and now that they must end, he,

too, realised how pleasant they had been, and that he was going to

miss them sorely.

"Only seven days?" he went on, musing. "I can hardly believe it; you

have let me talk at such length--and I have been so happy."

Hetty clapped her hands together--an old girlish trick of hers.

"It's I that have been happy! And not least in knowing that you will

do us all credit." She knit her brows. "You are different from all

the rest of us, Charles; I cannot explain how. But, sure, there's a

Providence in it, that you, who are meant for different fortunes--"

"How different?"

"Why, you will take our kinsman's offer, of course. You will move in

a society far above us--go into Parliament--become a great

statesman--"

"My dear Hetty, what puts that into your head? I have refused."

"Refused!" She set down the kettle and gazed at him. "Is this

John's doing?" she asked slowly.

"Why should it be John's doing?" He was nettled, and showed it.

"I am old enough to make a choice for myself."

She paid no heed to this disclaimer. "They are perfectly ruthless,"

she went on.

"Who are ruthless?"

"Father and John. They would compass heaven and earth to make one

proselyte; and the strange thing to me is that John at least does it

in a cold mechanical way, almost as if his own mind stood outside of

the process. Father is set on his inheriting Wroote and Epworth

cures, John on saving his own soul; let them come to terms or fight

it out between them. But how can it profit Epworth or John's soul

that they should condemn _you_, as they have condemned mother and all

of us, to hopeless poverty? What end have they in view? Or have

they any? For what service, pray, are you held in reserve?"

She paused. "Somehow I think they will not wholly succeed, even

though they have done this thing between them. You will fall on your

feet; your face is one the world will make friends with. You may

serve their purpose, but something of you--your worldly happiness,

belike--will slip and escape from the millstones which have ground

the rest of us to powder."

She picked up the kettle again and turned her back upon him while she

filled the tea-pot at the small table. For the first time in their

talks she had spoken bitterly.

"Nevertheless, I assure you, I refused of my own free will."

"Is there such a thing as free will in our family? I never detected

it. As babes we were yoked to the chariot to drag Jack's soul up to

the doors of salvation. I only rebelled, and--Charles, I am sorry,

but not all penitent."

He ignored these last words. "You are quoting from Molly, I think.

She and Jack seldom agree."

"Because, dear soul, she reads that Jack despises while he uses her.

He looks upon her as the weak one in the team; he doubts she may

break down on the road, and she, too, looks forward to it, though not

with any fear."

"For some reason, father allows her to talk to him as no one else

does--not even mother. Do you know that one day last summer father

and I were discussing Jack and the chance of his ever settling at

Epworth; for this is in the old man's thoughts now, almost day and

night. We were in the study by the window, and Molly at the table

making a fair copy of the morning's work on Job; we did not think she

heard us. All of a sudden she looked up and quoted 'Doth the hawk

fly by _thy_ wisdom and stretch her wings toward the south?'

I supposed she was repeating it aloud from her manuscript, but father

knew better and swung round upon her. 'Do you presume, then, to know

whither or how far Jack will fly?' he demanded. She turned a queer

look upon him, not flinching as I expected, and 'I shall see him,'

she answered, using Balaam's words; 'I shall see him, but not now: I

shall behold him, but not nigh.' And with that she dropped her head

and went on quietly with her writing. As for father, if you'll

believe me, it simply dumbfounded him; he hadn't a word!"

"And I will tell you why. Once on a time that weak darling stood up

for me to his face. She would not tell me what happened. But I

believe that ever since father has been as nearly afraid of her as of

anyone in the world. . . . And now I want a promise. You say you

have been happy in these talks of ours; and heaven knows I have been

happier than for many a long day. Well, I want you to tell Molly

about me--alone, remember--for of them all she only tried to help me,

and believes in me still."

"Why, of course I shall."

"And," Hetty smiled, "they have no poet among them now. You might

send me some of your verses for a keepsake."

Charles grew suddenly red in the face. "Why--who told you?" he

stammered.

"Oh, my dear," she laughed merrily, "one divines it! the more easily

for having known the temptation."

He had set down his tea-cup and was standing up now, in his young

confusion fingering the sewing she had laid aside.

"What is this you are doing?" he asked, with his eyes on the

baby-linen; and though he uttered the first question that came into

his head, and merely to cover his blushes, as he asked it the truth

came to him, and he blushed more redly than ever.

Hetty blushed too. She saw that he had guessed at length, but she

saw him also clothed in a shining innocence. She felt suddenly that,

though she might love him better, there were privacies she could not

discuss with Charles as with John. And for the moment Charles seemed

to her the more distant and mysterious of the two.

What she answered was--"We shall be following you back to

Lincolnshire in a few days. I am to stay at Louth, in the house

where William has found lodgings for his father--who was born at

Louth, you know, and has now determined to end his days there.

William will not be with me at first; he has to wind up the business

at Lincoln and looks for some unpleasantness, as he has made himself

responsible for all the old man's debts. I may even find my way to

Wroote before facing Louth."

"To Wroote?"

"As a moth to the old cruel flame, dear. They will not take me in:

but I know where to find a bedroom. Women have curious fancies at

times; and I feel as if I may die very likely, and I want to see

their faces first."

She stepped to him and kissed him hurriedly, hearing her husband's

step on the stairs. "Remember to speak with Molly!"

CHAPTER II.

EXTRACTED FROM THE WESLEY CORRESPONDENCE.

1. From Charles Wesley at Oxford to his brother John at Stanton in

Gloucestershire.

January 20th, 1727.

Poor Sister Hetty! 'twas but a week before I left London that I

knew she was at it. Little of that time you may be sure, did I

lose, being with her almost continually; I could almost envy

myself the doat of pleasure I had crowded within that small

space. In a little neat room she had hired, did the

good-natured, ingenuous, contented creature watch, and I talk,

over a few short days which we both wished had been longer.

As yet she lives pretty well, having but herself and honest

W. W. to keep, though I fancy there's another a-coming.

Brother Sam and sister are very kind to her, and I hope will

continue so, for I have cautioned her never to contradict my

sister, whom she knows. I'd like to have forgot she begs you'd

write to her, at Mrs. Wakeden's in Crown Court, Dean Street,

near Soho Square.

2. From Mary Wesley (Molly) to her brother Charles at Oxford (same

date).

You were very much mistaken in thinking I took ill your desiring

my sister Emily to knit you another pair of gloves. What I

meant was to my brother Jack, because he gave her charge to look

to my well-doing of his: but I desire you no more to mention

your obligation to me for the gloves, for by your being pleased

with them I am fully paid.

Dear brother, I beg you not to let the present straits you

labour under to narrow your mind, or render you morose or

churlish, but rather resign yourself and all your affairs to Him

who best knows what is fittest for you, and will never fail to

provide for whoever sincerely trusts in Him. I think I may say

I have lived in a state of affliction ever since I was born,

being the ridicule of mankind and reproach of my family; and I

dare not think God deals hardly with me, and though He has set

His mark upon me, I still hope my punishment will not be greater

than I am able to bear; nay, since God is no respecter of

persons, I must and shall be happier in that life than if I had

enjoyed all the advantages of this.

My unhappy sister was at Wroote the week after you left us,

where she stayed two or three days, and returned again to Louth

without seeing my father. Here I must stop, for when I think of

her misfortunes, I may say with Edgar, "O fortune! . . ."

3. From Mary Wesley to her brother John. Sent at the same date and

under the same cover.

Though I have not the good fortune to be one of your favourite

sisters, yet I know you won't grudge the postage now and then,

which, if it can't be afforded, I desire that you will let me

know, that I may trouble you no further. I am sensible nothing

I can say will add either to your pleasure or your profit; and

that you are of the same mind is evidently shown by not writing

when an opportunity offered. But why should I wonder at any

indifference shown to such a despicable person as myself?

I should be glad to find that miracle of nature, a friend which

not all the disadvantages I labour under would hinder from

taking the pains to cultivate and improve my mind; but since God

has cut me off from the pleasurable parts of life, and rendered

me incapable of attracting the love of my relations, I must use

my utmost endeavour to secure an eternal happiness, and He who

is no respecter of persons will require no more than He has

given. You may now think that I am uncharitable in blaming my

relations for want of affection, and I should readily agree with

you had I not convincing reasons to the contrary; one of which

is that I have always been the jest of the family--and it is not

I alone who make this observation, for then it might very well

be attributed to my suspicion--but here I will leave it and tell

you some news.

Mary Owran was married to-day, and we only wanted your company

to make us completely merry; for who can be sad where you are?

Please get Miss Betsy to buy me some silk to knit you another

pair of gloves, and I don't doubt you will doubly like the

colour for the buyer's sake.

My sister Hetty's child is dead, and your godson grows a lovely

boy, and will, I hope, talk to you when he sees you: which I

should be glad to do now.

4. From Martha Wesley (Patty) to her brother John.

Feb. 7th, 1727.

I must confess you had a better opinion of me than I deserved:

for jealousy did indeed suggest that you had very small kindness

for me. When you sent the parcel to my sister Lambert, and

wrote to her and sister Emme, and not to me, I was much worse

grieved than before. Though I cannot possibly be so vain as to

think that I do for my own personal merits deserve more love

than my sisters, yet can you blame me if I sometimes wish I had

been so happy as to have the first place in your heart?

Sister Emme is gone to Lincoln again, of which I'm very glad for

her own sake; for she is weak and our misfortunes daily impair

her health. Sister Kezzy, too, will have a fair chance of

going. I believe if sister Molly stays long at home it will be

because she can't get away. It is likely in a few years' time

our family may be lessened--perhaps none left but your poor

sister Martha, for whose welfare few are concerned.

My father has been at Louth to see sister Wright, who by good

providence was brought to bed two days before he got thither;

which perhaps might prevent his saying what he otherwise might

have said to her; for none that deserves the name of man would

say anything to grieve a woman in a condition where grief is

often present death to them. I fancy you have heard before now

that her child is dead.

Of these letters but a faint echo reached Hetty as she lay in her bed

at Louth--a few words transcribed by Charles from the one (No. 2)

received by him, and sent with his affectionate inquiries. He added

that Molly had also written to Jack, but to what effect he knew not;

only that Jack, after reading it in his presence, had 'pish'd' and

pocketed it in a huff.

She lay in a darkened room, with her own hopes at their darkest--or

rather, their blankest. She had journeyed to Wroote, and from her

humble lodging there had written an honest letter to her father,

begging only to see her mother or Molly, promising to hold no

communication with them if he refused. He had refused, in a curt

note of three lines. From Wroote she returned to Louth, to face her

trouble alone; for the preliminaries of selling the Lincoln business

had brought old Wright's creditors about her husband's ears like a

swarm of wasps. Until then they had waited with fair patience: but

no sooner did he make a perfectly honest move towards paying them off

in a lump than the whole swarm took panic and he was forced to decamp

to London to escape the sponging-house. There Uncle Matthew came to

the rescue, satisfied immediate claims, and guaranteed the rest.

But meanwhile Hetty's child--a boy, as she had prayed--was born, and

died on the third day after birth.

She hardly dared to think of it--of the poor mite and the hopes she

had built on him. As she had told Charles, she was sorry, but not

penitent--at least not wholly penitent. Once she had been wholly

penitent: but the tyrannous compulsion of her marriage had eased or

deadened her sense of responsibility. Henceforth she had no duty but

to make the best of it. So she told herself, and had conscientiously

striven to make the best of it. She had even succeeded, up to a

point; by shutting herself within doors and busily, incessantly,

spinning a life of illusion. She was a penitent--a woman in a book--

redeeming her past by good conduct. The worst of it was that her

husband declined to help the cheat. He was proud of her, honest man!

and had no fancy at all for the _role_ assigned to him, of "all for

love, and the world well lost." That she refused to be shown off he

set down to sulkiness; and went off of an evening to taverns and

returned fuddled. She studied, above all things, to make home bright

for him, and ever met him with a smile: and this was good enough, yet

not (as it slowly grew clear to her) precisely what he wanted.

So she had been driven to build fresh hopes on the unborn babe.

_He_ would make all the difference: would win his father back, or at

worst give her own life a new foundation for hope. Her son should be

a gentleman: she would deny herself and toil and live for him.

And now God had resumed His gift, and her life was blank indeed.

She might have another--and another might die. She had never

supposed that this one could die, and its death gave her a dreadful

feeling of insecurity--as if no child of hers could ever be reared.

What then? The prospect of pardon by continued good conduct seemed

to her shadowy indeed. Something more was needed. Yes, penitence

was needed; _real_ penitence: urgently, she felt the need of it and

yet for the life of her could not desire it as she knew it ought to

be desired.

She turned from the thought and let her mind dwell on the sentence or

two quoted by Charles from Molly's letter. They were peevish

sentences, and she did not doubt that the letter to John had been yet

more peevish. Life had taught her what some never learn, that folks

are not to be divided summarily into good and bad, right and wrong,

pleasant and unpleasant. Men and women are not always refined or

ennobled by unmerited suffering. They are soured often, sometimes

coarsened. Hetty loved Molly far better than she loved John: but in

a flash she saw that, not Molly only, but all her sisters who had

suffered for John's advancement, would exact the price of their

sacrifices in a consuming jealousy to be first in his favour.

She saw it so clearly that she pitied him for what would worry him

incessantly and be met by him with a patient conscientiousness.

He would never understand--could never understand--on what these

jealous sisters of his based their claims.

She saw it the more closely because she had no care of her own to

stand first with him. She smiled and stretched out an arm along the

pillow where the babe was not. Then suddenly she buried her face in

it and wept, and being weak, passed from tears into sleep.

CHAPTER III.

Molly's protest against the tyranny of home had long since passed

into a mere withholding of assent. She went about her daily task

more dutifully than ever. She had always been the household drudge:

but now she not only took over all the clerical work upon the

_Dissertationes in Librum Jobi_ (for the Rector's right hand was

shaken by palsy and the drawings occupied more and more of Johnny

Whitelamb's time); she devised new schemes for eking out the family

income. She bred poultry. With Johnny's help--he was famous with

the spade--she added half an acre to the kitchen garden and planted

it. The summer of 1727 proved one of the rainiest within men's

memory, and floods covered the face of the country almost to the

Parsonage door. "I hope," wrote the Rector to John on June 6th,

"I may be able to serve both my cures this summer, or if not, die

pleasantly in my last dike." On June 21st he could "make shift to

get from Wroote to Epworth by boat." Five days later he was twisted

with rheumatism as a result of his Sunday journey to Epworth and

back, "being lamed with having my breeches too full of water, partly

with a downpour from a thunder-shower, and partly from the wash over

the boat. Yet I thank God I was able to preach here in the

afternoon. I wish the rain had not reached us on this side Lincoln,

but we have it so continual that we have scarce one bank left, and I

can't possibly have one quarter of oats in all the levels; but thanks

be to God the field-barley and rye are good. We can neither go afoot

nor horseback to Epworth, but only by boat as far as Scawsit Bridge

and then walk over the common, though I hope it will soon be better."

That week the floods subsided, and on July 4th he wrote again:

"My hide is tough, and I think no carrion can kill me. I walked

sixteen miles yesterday; and this morning, I thank God, I was not a

penny worse. The occasion of this booted walk was to hire a room for

myself at Epworth, which I think I have done. You will find your

mother much altered. I believe what would kill a cat has almost

killed her. I have observed of late little convulsions in her very

frequently, which I don't like."

This report frightened John, who wrote back urgently for further

particulars. Mrs. Wesley had indeed fallen into a low state of

health, occasioned partly (as Kezzy declared in a letter) by "want of

clothes or convenient meat," partly by the miasma from the floods.

Ague was the commonest of maladies in the Isle of Axholme, and even

the labourers fortified themselves against it with opium.

"Dear son John," replied the Rector sardonically, "we received last

post your compliments of condolence and congratulation to your mother

on the supposition of her near approaching demise, to which your

sister Patty will by no means subscribe; for she says she is not so

good a philosopher as you are, and that she can't spare her mother

yet, if it please God, without great inconveniency. And indeed,

though she has now and then some very sick fits, yet I hope the sight

of you would revive her. However, when you come you will see a new

face of things, my family being now pretty well colonised, and all

perfect harmony--much happier, in no small straits, than perhaps we

ever were in our greatest affluence."

Molly, while she helped to cook the miserable meals which could not

tempt her mother's appetite, or looked abroad upon the desolate

floods, saw with absolute clearness that this apparent peace was but

the peace of exhaustion. Yet it was true that--thanks to her--the

pinch of poverty had relaxed. The larger debts were paid: for some

months she had not opened the door to a dunning tradesman.

The floods, as by a miracle, had spared her crops and she had a

scheme for getting her surplus vegetables conveyed to Epworth market.

Already she had opened up a trade in fowls with a travelling dealer.

"Molly," wrote her father, "miraculously gets money even in Wroote,

and has given the first fruit of her earning to her mother, lending

her money, and presenting her with a new cloak of her own buying and

making, for which God will bless her."

Her secret dissent did not escape the Rector's eye, so alert for

every sign of defiance: but in his expanding sense of success he let

it pass. There was another, however, who divined it and watched it

anxiously day after dreary day, for it answered a trouble in his own

breast.

Johnny Whitelamb was now almost a man grown: but what really

separated him from the Johnny Whitelamb of two years ago was no

increase in stature or in knowledge. That which grew within him, and

still grew, defying all efforts to kill it, was--a doubt. It had

been born in him--no bigger then than a grain of mustard-seed--on the

day when he sought Hetty to send her to the house where William

Wright waited for her answer. Until then the Rector had been to him

a divine man, in wisdom and goodness very little lower than the

angels. And now--

He fought it hard, at first in terror, at length in cold desperation.

But still the doubt grew. And the worst was that Molly guessed his

secret. He feared to meet her eye. It seemed to him that he and she

were bound in some monstrous conspiracy. He spent hours in wrestling

with it. At times he would rise from table on some stammered excuse,

rush off to the fields and there, in a hidden corner, fall on his

knees and pray, or even lie at full length, his face hidden in the

grasses, his body writhing, his ungainly legs twisting and

untwisting. And still the doubt grew.

Everything confirmed it. He saw the suffering by which mother and

daughters were yoked. He noted the insufficient food, the thin

clothing, the wan cheeks, the languid tread. He no longer took these

for granted, but looked into their causes. And the Rector's

blindness to them, or indifference, became a terror to him--a thing

inhuman.

He began to think him mad. Worse, he began to hate him: he, Johnny

Whitelamb, who had taken everything at his hands--food, clothing,

knowledge, even his faith in God! He accused himself for a monster

of ingratitude, whose sins invited the sky to fall and blot him out.

And still he could not meet Molly's eyes; still, in spite of checks

and set-backs, the doubt grew.

It was almost at its worst one morning in late August, when the

Rector invited him to lay by his drawings and walk beside him as far

as Froddingham, where he had business to transact. (It was to pay

over 5 pounds, and meet a note given by him in the spring to keep

Charles in pocket-money.) Had Johnny been in a more charitable mood,

the accent in which the old man proffered the invitation would have

struck him as pathetic. For the Rector it was indeed a rare

confession of weakness. But three weeks before his purblind nag

Mettle had stumbled, flung him, trailed him a few yards on the ground

with one foot in the stirrup, and come to a standstill with one hoof

planted blunderingly on his other foot. It had been a narrow escape,

had caused him excruciating pain, and he limped still. To walk, even

with a stick, was impossible. But the money must be paid at

Froddingham and he would trust no messenger. So he mounted the mare,

Bounce, and set forth at a foot-pace, with Johnny striding alongside

and noting how the white palsied hand shook on the rein.

Johnny noted it without pity: for the doubt was awake and clamorous.

If ever he hated his benefactor, he hated him that morning.

The morning was gray, with a blusterous south-west wind of more than

summer strength; and the floods had subsided, but the Trent, barely

contained within its banks, was running down on a fierce ebb-tide.

They reached Althorpe, and while waiting for the horse-boat to cross

to Burringham, Johnny found time to wonder at the force of two or

three gusts which broke on the lapping water and drove it like white

smoke against the bows of a black keel, wind-bound and anchored in

mid-channel about fifty yards down-stream.

It turned out that the ferryman, who worked the horse-boat with his

eldest son, had himself walked over to Bottesford earlier in the

morning: and Johnny felt some uneasiness at finding his place

supplied by a boy scarcely fourteen. Mr. Wesley, however, seemed in

no apprehension, but coaxed Bounce to embark and stood with her

amidships, holding her bridle, as the boat was pushed off.

Johnny took his seat, fronting the elder lad, who pulled the stern

oar.

They started in a lull of the wind. Johnny's first thought of danger

had never been definite, and he had forgotten it--was busy in fact

with the doubt--when, half-way across, one of the white squalls

swooped down on them and the youngster in the bows, instead of

pulling for dear life, dropped his oar with a face of panic.

Johnny felt the jerk, heard the Rector's cry of warning, and in two

seconds (he never knew how) had leapt over the stern oar, across the

thwarts, past the kicking and terrified Bounce--with whom the Rector

was struggling as she threatened to leap overboard--and reached the

bows in time to snatch the oar as it slipped over the side. But it

had snapped both the thole-pins short off in their sockets and was

useless. The boat's nose fell off and they were swept down towards

the anchored hulk below. Johnny could only wait for the crash, and

he waited: and in those few instants--the doubt being still upon

him--bethought him that likely enough the Rector could not swim, or

would be disabled by his lameness. And . . . was he sorry? He had

not answered this question when the crash came--the ferry-boat

striking the very stem of the keel, her gunwale giving way to it with

a slow grinding noise, then with a bursting crack as the splinters

broke inwards. As it seemed to him, there were two distinct bumps,

and between them the boat filled slowly and the mare slid away into

the water. He heard voices shouting on board the keel. The water

rose to his knees and he sank in it, almost on top of Mr. Wesley.

At once he felt the whirl of the current, but not before he had

gripped the Rector's collar. The other hand he flung up blindly.

By Providence the keel was freighted with sea-coal and low in the

water, and as the pair slid past, Johnny's fingers found and gripped

the bulwark-coaming. So for a half-minute he hung--his body and the

Rector's trailing out almost on the surface with the force of the

water, his arm almost dislocated by the strain--until a couple of

colliers came running to help and hauled them on board, the Rector

first. They had gripped the small boy as the boat sank, and he stood

in the bows scared and dripping, but otherwise nothing the worse.

His brother, it appeared, could swim like a fish and was already a

good hundred yards downstream, not fighting the current, but edging

little by little for the home shore. And astern of him battled the

mare.

The colliers had a light boat on deck, but with it even in calm water

they could have done little to help the poor creature, and on such a

stream it was quite useless. They stood watching and discussing her

as she turned from time to time, either as the tide carried her or in

vain, wild efforts to stem it: the latter, probably, for after some

ten minutes (by which time her head had diminished to a black speck

in the distance) she seemed to learn wisdom from the example of the

swimmer ahead, resisted no longer, and was finally cast ashore and

caught by him more than half a mile below.

Johnny, seated on the grimy deck, heard the colliers discussing her

struggles, but took no concern in them. His eyes were all for the

Rector, who, after the first fit of coughing, lay and panted against

his knees, with gaze fastened on the steel-gray sky above.

He had saved his life. But had he really desired to? The action had

been instinctive merely: and a moment before he had been speculating

on the Rector's death, assenting, almost hoping! Had he translated

that assent into deed--had he been given time to obey the wicked

whisper in his heart--he would now be the blackest criminal under

heaven. God had interposed to save him from this: but was he any the

less a sinner in intent?

How had he come to harbour the thought? For now again it was to him

unthinkable as of old--yet in his madness he had thought it.

There abode the memory, never to be escaped. He looked down on the

venerable face, the water-drops yet trickling from the brow, usually

tinted with exposure to sun and wind but now pale as old ivory.

The old adoration, the old devotion surged back into Johnny's heart,

the tide rose to his eyes and overflowed. "My master!" he groaned,

"my master!" and a tear fell upon Mr. Wesley's hand.

Whether or not this aroused him, the old man sat up at once and

looked about him. He showed no emotion at all.

"Where is the mare?" he asked.

One of the keelmen pointed down-stream, and the little party stared

after her in silence until she staggered up the bank.

"All saved?" asked Mr. Wesley again. "My friends, before you put me

ashore, I will ask you to kneel with me and give thanks for God's

mercy to me a sinner." The men stared at him and at one another, not

a little embarrassed. But seeing the Rector and Johnny already on

their knees in the grime, they pulled off their caps sheepishly and

knelt: and after a moment the frightened youngster in the bows

followed suit.

"Almighty God, who aforetime didst uphold Thy great apostle in

shipwreck and bring him safe to land, and hast now again interposed

an arm to succour two of this company and me, the unworthiest of

Paul's successors; though our merits be as nothing in comparison with

his, and as nothing the usefulness whereto Thou hast preserved us, we

bless Thee that Thy mercy is high and absolute, respecting not

persons; we thank Thee for giving back the imperfect lives Thou

mightest in justice have brought to an end; and we entreat Thee for

grace so to improve the gift as through it to receive more fitly the

greater one of everlasting life, through Jesus Christ, our soul's

Saviour. Amen.".

He knelt for a minute, praying silently; then arose, dusted his knees

and professed himself ready to be rowed ashore. The keelmen slid

their deck-boat overside, and presently all embarked and were tided

back to shore, the boat taking ground about fifty yards above the

bend where Bounce stood shivering, caked in mud to her withers.

The Rector thanked the keelmen in few words while Johnny ran to fetch

the mare. They were pulling back when he returned with her.

The elder lad invited Mr. Wesley to the ferryman's cottage, to sit

and dry his clothes: but he declined.

Johnny helped him to remount. Scarcely a word passed on their

homeward way beyond a comment or two on poor Bounce, who had strained

her near shoulder in her plunging battle for life and was all but

exhausted. At the Parsonage door they parted, still in silence, and

Johnny led the mare off to stable. He did not know if Mr. Wesley had

observed his emotion, and his own heart was too full of love and

remorse for any words.

But an hour later word came to him by Kezzy that her father wished to

speak with him in the study. He went at once, wondering, and found

the Rector seated as usual before his manuscripts, but alone.

"My lad," he began kindly, "you saved my life to-day."

Johnny attempted to speak, but could not.

"I know what you would say. We owe one another something, eh?

But this is a debt which I choose to acknowledge at once. None the

less I wish you to understand that although your conduct to-day

hastens my proposal, it has been in my head for some time.

Whitelamb, would you like to go to Oxford?"

Johnny gasped. "Sir--sir!" he stammered.

Mr. Wesley smiled. "I will speak to Jack. I think it can be managed

if he will take you for his pupil, as no doubt he will. You cannot

well be poorer than I was on the day when I entered my name at Exeter

College. There, go away and think it over! There's no hurry, you

understand: if you are to go, I must first of all hammer some Greek

into you--eh? What is it?"

For Johnny had cast himself on his knees, and was sobbing aloud.

At supper Molly, to whom her mother had whispered the news, announced

it to her sisters, who knew only of the accident and Johnny's hand in

the rescue.

"Yes," said she, "we are all proud of him, and shall be prouder

before long, when he goes to Oxford!"

"Why to Oxford?" asked Patty, not comprehending, and sought her

mother's eyes for the interpretation. Mrs. Wesley smiled.

"Why, to be a great man," Molly went on; "perhaps in time as

great as Jack or Charles." Johnny, in his usual seat by the

chimney-corner, detected the challenge in her tone, but did not look

up.

"Is it true?" persisted Patty. He stared into the fire, blushing

furiously.

"It is true." Mrs. Wesley rose, and stepping to him laid a hand on

his straggling dark hair. "What is more, he has deserved it, not

to-day only but by his goodness over many years. The Lord shall be

his illumination," she said gravely, quoting the motto of the

University which (amazing thought!) was to be _his_ University.

"May the light of His countenance rest upon you, dear son."

She had never called him by that title before. He caught her hand

and for the moment, in the boldness of a great love, clasped it

between his own. Now he could look across at Molly: and she nodded

back at him, her eyes brimful--but behind her tears they gave him

absolution and released him from the doubt.

CHAPTER IV.

This was at the close of August, 1728, and the Rector's letter

entreating his good offices for Johnny Whitelamb reached John Wesley

on the eve of his taking Priest's Orders, for which he was then

preparing at Oxford. He was ordained priest on September 22nd, and a

week later had news from William Wright in London that Hetty's third

child was born--and was dead.

This is how the father announced his loss:

"To the Revd. Mr. John Wesley, Fellow in Christ Church College,

Oxon"

John smiled at the superscription, inaccurate in more ways than one.

"Dear Bro: This comes to Let you know that my wife is brought to

bed and is in a hopefull way of Doing well but the Dear child

Died--the Third day after it was born--which has been of great

concerne to me and my wife She Joyns With me In Love to your

selfe and Bro: Charles. From Your Loveing Bro: to Comnd--

Wm. Wright.

"P.S. I've sen you Sum Verses that my wife maid of Dear Lamb

Let me hear from one or both of you as Soon as you think

Convenient."

And these are Hetty's verses inclosed.

A Mother's Address to Her Dying Infant

"Tender softness, infant mild,

Perfect, purest, brightest Child!

Transient lustre, beauteous clay,

Smiling wonder of a day!

Ere the last convulsive start

Rend thy unresisting heart,

Ere the long-enduring swoon

Weigh thy precious eyelids down,

Ah, regard a mother's moan!

--Anguish deeper than thy own.

"Fairest eyes, whose dawning light

Late with rapture blest my sight,

Ere your orbs extinguish'd be,

Bend their trembling beams on me!

"Drooping sweetness, verdant flower

Blooming, withering in an hour,

Ere thy gentle breast sustain

Latest, fiercest, mortal pain,

Hear a suppliant! Let me be

Partner in thy destiny:

That whene'er the fatal cloud

Must thy radiant temples shroud;

When deadly damps, impending now,

Shall hover round thy destin'd brow,

Diffusive may their influence be,

And with the blossom blast the tree!"

Mr. Wright inclosed these verses complacently enough. Poetry in his

eyes was an elegant accomplishment vaguely connected with scholarship

and gentility: and he took pride in possessing a wife who, as he more

than once assured his cronies in the parlour of the "Turk's Head" at

the end of the street, could sit down and write it by the yard.

To please Hetty he read them through, pronounced them very pretty,

and folded up the paper, remarking, "I'll send it off to your brother

John. He likes this sort of thing, and when he learns 'twas written

in your weak state he'll think it wonderful."

Of the anguish in the closing lines his eye detected, his ear heard,

nothing.

Yet it was an anguish which daily touched despair in Hetty's heart.

God had laid a curse on her, and would not be placated by the good

behaviour on which she had built her hopes. She had borne three

children, and not one had He suffered to live for a week. No matter

how many she might bear, the same fate stood ready for them. Nor was

this all. She saw Him smiting, through these innocent babes, at her

husband's love. Little by little she felt it relaxing and sinking

through carelessness into neglect: and the whole scheme of her

atonement rested on his continuing fondness. She had never loved

him, but his love was, if not infinitely precious, of infinite moment

to her. She needed it to sustain her and keep her in the right way.

She omitted no small attentions which might make home pleasant to

him. She kept the house bright (they had moved into Frith Street and

lived over the shop), and unweariedly coaxed his appetite with her

cookery, in which--and especially in pastry-making--she had a born

gift. The fumes of the lead-works at the back often took her own

appetite away and depressed her spirits, but she never failed to

rouse herself and welcome him with a smile. Also (but this was to

please herself) sometimes by a word of advice in the matter of toilet

or of clothes, oftener by small secret attentions with the needle,

she had gradually reformed his habits of dress until now he might

pass for a London tradesman of the superior class, decently attired,

well shaven and clean in his person. He resigned himself to these

improvements with much good-nature and so passed through his

metamorphosis almost without knowing it. She practised small

economies too; and he owned (though he set it down to his own

industry) that his worldly affairs were more prosperous than ever

they had been before his marriage. But the fumes of the lead-works

affected _his_ appetite, too, and his spirits: and when these flag a

man has an easy and specious remedy in brandy-and-water. By and by

it became a habit with him, when his men ceased work, to stroll down

to the "Turk's Head" for a "stiffener" before his meal. The men he

met there respected him for a flourishing tradesman and flattered

him. He adored his wife still. In his eyes no woman would compare

with her. But there was no denying he felt more at home in company

which allowed him to tell or listen to a coarse story and stretch his

legs and boast at his ease.

He was not aware of any slackening in affection. But Hetty noted it

and fought against it, though with a sinking heart. She had counted

on this babe to draw him back--if not to her, then at least to home.

When told that it was dead, on an impulse she had turned her face at

once to him and with a heart-rending look appealed for his

forgiveness. He did not understand. Yet he behaved well, stroking

her head and saying what he could to comfort her.

She was convinced now that she lay under God's curse, and by and by

her weak thoughts connected this curse with her father's displeasure.

If she could move her father to relent, it might be lifted from her.

And so after many weeks of brooding she found courage to write this

letter:

From Hetty to her Father

Honoured Sir,--Although you have cast me off and I know that a

determination once taken by you is not easily moved, I must tell

you that some word of your forgiving is not only necessary to

me, but would make happier the marriage in which, as you

compelled it, you must still (I think) feel no small concern.

My child, on whose frail help I had counted to make our life

more supportable to my husband and myself, is dead. Should God

give and take away another, I can never escape the thought that

my father's intercession might have prevailed against His wrath,

which I shall then, alas! take to be manifest.

Forgive me, sir, that I make you a party in such happiness (or

unhappiness) as the world generally allows to be, under God, a

portion for two. But as you planted my matrimonial bliss, so

you cannot run away from my prayer when I beseech you to water

it with a little kindness. My brothers will report to you what

they have seen of my way of life and my daily struggle to redeem

the past. But I have come to a point where I feel your

forgiveness to be necessary to me. I beseech you, then, not to

withhold it, and to believe me your obedient daughter,

Mehet. Wright.

The Answer

Daughter,--If you would persuade me that your penitence is more

than feigned, you are going the wrong way to work. I decline to

be made a party to your matrimonial fortunes, as you claim in

what appears to be intended for the flower of your letter; and

in your next, if you would please me, I advise you to display

less wit and more evidence of honest self-examination.

To that--which is the beginning of repentance--you do not appear

to have attained. Yet it would teach you that your troubles, if

you have any, flow from your own sin, and that for any

inconveniences you may find in marriage you are probably as much

to blame (at the very least) as your honest husband.

Your brothers speak well of him, and I shall always think myself

obliged to him for his civilities to you.

But what are your troubles? You do not name them. What hurt

has matrimony done you? I know only that it has given you a

good name. I do not remember that you were used to have so

frightful an idea of it as you have now. Pray be more explicit.

Restrain your wit if you wish to write again, and I will answer

your next if I like it. Your father,

S. Wesley.

On receiving this Hetty could not at once bethink her of having given

any cause of offence. But she had kept a rough copy of her letter,

and on studying it was fairly shocked by its tone, which now seemed

to her almost flippant.

She marvelled at her maladroitness, which was the more singular

because she had really written under strong emotion. She did not

even now guess the secret of her failure; which was, that she had

written entreating forgiveness of one whom she had not wholly

forgiven. Nevertheless she tried again.

Hetty to her Father

Honoured Sir,--Though I was glad, on any terms, of the favour of

a line from you, yet I was concerned at your displeasure on

account of the unfortunate paragraph which you are pleased to

say was meant for the flower of my letter. I wish it had not

gone, since I perceive it gave you some uneasiness.

But since what I said occasioned some queries, which I should be

glad to speak freely about, I earnestly beg that the little I

shall say may not be offensive to you, since I promise to be as

little witty as possible, though I can't help saying you accuse

me of being too much so; especially these late years past I have

been pretty free from that scandal.

You ask me what hurt matrimony has done me, and whether I had

always so frightful an idea of it as I have now?

Home questions, indeed! and I once more beg of you not to be

offended at the least I can say to them, if I say anything.

I had not always such notions of wedlock as now, but thought

that where there was a mutual affection and desire of pleasing,

something near an equality of mind and person, either earthly or

heavenly wisdom, and anything to keep love warm between a young

couple, there was a possibility of happiness in a married state;

but when all, or most of these, were wanting, I ever thought

people could not marry without sinning against God and

themselves.

You are so good to my spouse and me as to say you shall always

think yourself obliged to him for his civilities to me. I hope

he will always continue to use me better than I deserve in one

respect.

_I think exactly the same of my marriage as I did before it

happened_; but though I would have given at least one of my eyes

for the liberty of throwing myself at your feet before I was

married at all, yet, since it is past and matrimonial grievances

are usually irreparable, I hope you will condescend to be so far

of my opinion as to own that, since upon some accounts I am

happier than I deserve, it is best to say little of things quite

past remedy, and endeavour, as I really do, to make myself more

and more contented, though things may not be to my wish.

Though I cannot justify my late indiscreet letter, yet I am not

more than human, and if the calamities of life sometimes wring a

complaint from me, I need tell no one that though I bear I must

feel them. And if you cannot forgive what I have said, I

sincerely promise never more to offend by saying too much; which

(with begging your blessing) is all from your most obedient

daughter,

Mehetabel Wright.

CHAPTER V.

You who can read between the lines of these letters will have

remarked a new accent in Hetty--a hard and bitter accent. She will

suffer her punishment now; but, even though it be sent of God, she

will appeal against it as too heavy for her sin.

Learn now the cause of it and condemn her if you can.

At first when her husband, at the close of his day's work, sidled off

to the "Turk's Head," she pretended not to remark it. Indeed her

fears were long in awaking. In all her life she had never tasted

brandy, and knew nothing of its effects. That Dick Ellison fuddled

himself upon it was notorious, and on her last visit to Wroote she

had heard scandalous tales of John Romley, who had come to haunt the

taverns in and about Epworth, singing songs and soaking with the

riff-raff of the neighbourhood until turned out at midnight to roll

homeward to his lonely lodgings. She connected drunkenness with

uproarious mirth, boon companionship, set orgies. Of secret unsocial

tippling she had as yet no apprehension.

Even before the birth of his second child the tavern had become

necessary to Mr. Wright, not only at the close of work, but in the

morning, between jobs. His workmen began to talk. He suspected them

and slid into foolish, cunning tricks to outwit them, leaving the

shop on false excuses, setting out ostentatiously in the wrong

direction and doubling back on the "Turk's Head" by a side street.

They knew where to find him, however, when a customer dropped in.

"Who sent you here?" he demanded furiously, one day, of the youngest

apprentice, who had come for the second time that week to fetch him

out of the "King's Oak." (He had enlarged his circle of taverns by

this time, and it included one half of Soho.)

"Please you, I wasn't sent here at all," the boy stammered. "I tried

the 'Turk's Head' first and then the 'Three Tuns.'"

"And what should make you suppose I was at either? Look here, young

man, the workshop from Robinson down"--Robinson was the foreman--"is

poking its nose too far into my business. If this goes on, one of

these days Robinson will get his dismissal and you the strap."

"It wasn't Robinson sent me, sir. It was the mistress."

"Eh!" William Wright came to a halt on the pavement and his jaw

dropped.

"Her uncle, Mr. Matthew, has called and wants to see you on

particular business."

The business, as it turned out, was merely to give him quittance of a

loan. The sum first advanced to them by Matthew Wesley had proved

barely sufficient. To furnish the dwelling-rooms in Frith Street he

had lent another 10 pounds and taken a separate bond for it, and

this debt Hetty had discharged out of her household economies,

secretly planning a happy little surprise for her husband; and now in

the hurry of innocent delight she betrayed her sadder secret.

She had as yet no fear of him, though he was afraid of her. But at

sight of him as he entered, all the joy went out of her announcement.

He listened sulkily, took the receipt, and muttered some ungracious

thanks. Old Matthew eyed him queerly, and, catching a whiff of

brandy, pulled out his gold watch. The action may have been

involuntary. The hour was half-past ten in the morning.

"Well, well--I must be going. Excuse me, nephew Wright; with my

experience I ought to have known better than to withdraw a busy man

from his work."

He glanced at Hetty, with a look which as good as asked leave for a

few words with her in private. But Mr. Wright, now thoroughly

suspicious, did not choose to be dismissed in this fashion. So after

a minute or two of uneasy talk the old man pulled out his watch

again, excused himself, and took his departure.

"Look here," began Mr. Wright when he and Hetty were left alone:

"You are taking too much on yourself."

He had never spoken to her quite so harshly.

"I am sorry, William," she answered, keeping her tears well under

control. For months she had been planning her little surprise, and

its failure hurt her cruelly. "I had no thought of displeasing you."

"Oh, I daresay you meant it for the best. But I choose to be master

in my own house, that's all. Another time, if you have more money

than you know what to do with, just come and consult me. I've no

notion of being made to look small before your uncle, and I don't

stomach it."

He turned away growling. He had spoken only of the repaid loan, but

they both knew that this had nothing to do with his ill temper.

At the door he faced round again. "What were you talking about when

I came in?" he asked suspiciously.

"Uncle was congratulating us. He is delighted to know that the

business is doing so well and complains that he seldom gets sight of

you nowadays, your hands are so full."

"And pray what the devil has it to do with him, how I spend my time?"

He pulled himself up on the oath, and seeing her cheek flush, he too

reddened, but went on, if anything, more violently. "You've a trick

in your family of putting your fingers into other folks' pies: you're

known for it. There's that Holy Club I hear about. Your clever

brothers can't be content, any more than your father, to let honest

folks alone, but are for setting right the whole University of

Oxford. I warn you, that won't do with me. 'Live and let live' is

my motto: let me alone and I'll let you alone. You Wesleys think

mightily of yourselves; but you're neither king nor Parlyment, and

that I'll have you learn."

It was not a dignified exit and he knew it: by brooding over it

through the afternoon his temper grew more savage. That evening he

spent at the "Turk's Head" and slouched home at midnight divided

between contrition and bravado.

Hetty was in bed, pretending sleep. Had she known it, a word from

her might have mended matters. Even had he found her in tears there

was enough good nature in the man to have made him relent.

At sight of her beautiful face he felt half-inclined to awake her and

have the quarrel cleared up. But, to begin with, he was not wholly

certain of his sobriety. And she, too, distrusted it. He had

wounded her family pride, to be sure: but what really kept her silent

was the dread of discovering him to be drunk and letting him see that

she had discovered it.

Yet she had great need of tears: for on more than one account she

respected her husband, even liked him, and did most desperately long

to be loved by him. After all, she had borne him children: and since

they had died he was her only stay in the world, her only hope of

redemption. Years after there was found among her papers a

tear-blotted sheet of verses dating from this sorrowful time: and

though the sorrow opens and shows ahead, as in a flash, the contempt

towards which the current is sweeping her, you see her travel down to

it with hands bravely battling, clutching at the weak roots of love

and hope along the shore:

"O thou whom sacred rites design'd

My guide and husband ever kind,

My sovereign master, best of friends,

On whom my earthly bliss depends:

If e'er thou didst in Hetty see

Aught fair or good or dear to thee,

If gentle speech can ever move

The cold remains of former love,

Turn thou at last-my bosom ease,

Or tell me _why_ I fail to please.

"Is it because revolving years,

Heart-breaking sighs, and fruitless tears

Have quite deprived this form of mine

Of all that once thou fancied'st fine?

Ah no! what once allured thy sight

Is still in its meridian height.

Old age and wrinkles in this face

As yet could never find a place;

A youthful grace informs these lines

Where still the purple current shines,

Unless by thy ungentle art

It flies to aid my wretched heart:

Nor does this slighted bosom show

The many hours it spends in woe.

"Or is it that, oppress'd with care,

I stun with loud complaints thine ear,

And make thy home, for quiet meant,

The seat of noise and discontent?

Ah no! Thine absence I lament

When half the weary night is spent,

Yet when the watch, or early morn,

Has brought me hopes of thy return,

I oft have wiped these watchful eyes,

Conceal'd my cares and curb'd my sighs

In spite of grief, to let thee see

I wore an endless smile for thee.

"Had I not practised every art,

To oblige, divert and cheer thy heart,

To make me pleasing in thine eyes,

And turn thy house to paradise,

I had not ask'd 'Why dost thou shun

These faithful arms, and eager run

To some obscure, unclean retreat,

With vile companions glad to meet,

Who, when inspired by beer,

can grin At witless oaths and jests obscene,

Till the most learned of the throng

Begins a tale of ten hours long

To stretch with yawning other jaws,

But thine in rapture of applause?'

"Deprived of freedom, health and ease,

And rivall'd by such _things_ as these,

Soft as I am, I'll make thee see

I will not brook contempt from thee!

I'll give all thoughts of patience o'er

(A gift I never lost before);

Indulge at once my rage and grief

Mourn obstinate, disdain relief,

Till life, on terms severe as these,

Shall ebbing leave my heart at ease;

To thee thy liberty restore

To laugh, when Hetty is no more."

One morning William Wright awoke out of stertorous sleep with a heavy

sense of something amiss, and opened his eyes to find Hetty standing

beside the bed in nightgown and light wrapper, with a tray and pot of

tea which she had stolen downstairs to prepare for him. After a

second or two he remembered, and turned his face to the wall.

"No," said she, "you had better sit up and drink this, and we can

talk honestly. See, I have brought a cup for myself, too."

She drew a small table close to the bed, and a chair, poured out the

tea and seated herself--all with the least possible fuss.

"I suppose you know," she began, "that you struck me last night?"

His hand trembled as he took the cup, and again he turned away his

eyes.

"You were drunk," she went on. "You called me by an evil name, too--

a name I once called myself: but a name you would not have called me

in your sober senses. At least, I think not. Tell me--and remember

that you promised always to answer honestly: you would not have

called me so in your sober senses? You do not think of me so?"

He set down the cup and stretched out a hand.

"My lass"--the words seemed to choke him.

"For I am not _that_. You married me knowing the worst; and ever

since I have been a true wife to you. Well, I see that you are

sorry. And you struck me, on the breast. I have a bruise there;

but," she went on in a level lifeless tone, "there is no child to see

his father's mark. You are sorry for that, too. But I understand,

of course, that you were drunk. Many times now you have come home

drunk, and next morning I pretended not to know it. I must not

pretend now, since now to be clear about it is my only chance of

comfort and your only chance of self-respect."

He groaned.

"Lass, I could cut my hand off for it! When a man gets overtaken--"

"No, no," her voice suddenly grew animated; "for God's sake, William,

don't cry over it! You are not a David." She shivered, as a trick

of memory brought back to her the night in the harvest field when she

had broken out in wrath against her least admired of Biblical

heroes--the same night on which she had first set eyes on this man,

whose ring and whose bruise she wore.

"Do not use cheating words, either," she went on. "You were not

overtaken by liquor; you went out to meet it, as you have gone night

after night. Call it by the straight name. Listen: I like you well

enough, William, to help you, if I can--indeed, I have tried.

But there seems to be something in drink which puts aside help: the

only fighting of any worth must come from the man himself--is it not

so?"

"I have fought, lass."

"Drink up your tea, my man, and fight it again! Come home to me

earlier, and with a firmer step, and each night will be a victory,

better worth than all the cries and sobbings in the world."

He gazed at her stupidly as she put out a hand and laid it gently on

his wrist. He covered his eyes.

"I--struck--you!" he muttered.

She winced. Startled by the sudden withdrawal of her touch, he

lowered his hand and looked at her. Her eyes, though brimming, met

his steadily.

"Tears are for women," she said. "I must cry a little: but see, I am

not afraid."

For some months after this he fought the drink; fought it steadily.

With Christmas came a relapse, through which she nursed him. To her

dismay she found the fit, during the few days that it lasted, more

violent than before, and thought of the house swept and garnished and

the devil returning with others worse than himself. Her consolation

was that at his worst now he seemed to turn to her, and depend on

her--almost to supplicate--for help. The struggle left them both

exhausted: but he had not attempted to beat her this time. She tried

to persuade herself that this meant amendment, and that the outbreaks

would grow rarer and at length cease altogether.

Throughout the spring and summer of 1731 his health improved, and

with it his kindness to her. Indeed, she had not been so near

happiness (or so she told herself) since her wedding day.

Another child was coming. Hope, so often cut down, grew again in her

heart. And then--

One forenoon in the second week of June--a torrid, airless day--he

came home reeling. For the moment a black fear fell on her that she

would be too weak to wrestle with this attack; but she braced herself

to meet it.

The next day her uncle called. He was about to start on a

long-planned journey to Epworth, taking his man with him; and having

lately parted with his housekeeper, he had a proposal to make; that

Hetty should sleep at Johnson's Court and look after the house in his

absence.

She shook her head. Luckily her husband was out, drinking fiercely

at some tavern, as she very well knew; but anything was better than

his encountering Uncle Matthew just now.

"Why not?" the old man urged. "It would save my hiring a carekeeper,

and tide me over until I bring back Patty with me, as I hope to do.

Besides, after travelling in those wilds I shall want to return and

find the house cheerful: and I know I can depend on you for that."

"And I promise that you shall have it. Send me but word of your

coming, and all shall be ready for you that you require."

"But you will not take up your abode there?"

She shook her head again, still smiling: but the smile had lost

connection with her thoughts. She was listening for her husband's

unsteady step and praying God to detain it.

"But why not?" Uncle Matthew persisted. "It is not for lack of good

will, I know. Your husband can spare you for a few days: or for that

matter he might come with you and leave the house at night to young

Ritson." This was Mr. Wright's apprentice, the same that had fetched

him out of the "King's Oak "; an exemplary youth, who slept as a rule

in a garret at the top of the house.

"Tom Ritson is not lodging with us just now: we have found a room for

him two doors away." She had, indeed, packed off the youth at the

first sign of his master's returning madness: but, lest Uncle Matthew

should guess the true reason, she added, "Women in my state take

queer fancies--likes and dislikes."

The old man eyed her for a while, then asked abruptly, "Is your

husband drinking again?"

"How--what makes you--I don't understand," she stammered. Do what

she might she could not prevent the come-and-go of colour in her

face.

"Oh, yes you do. Tut, tut, my dear! I've known it every whit as long

as you. Look here; would you like me to put off my journey for a few

days?"

"On no account. There's not the least reason, I assure you, uncle."

He seemed content with this and talked for a little while of the

journey and his plans. He had warned nobody at Epworth. "I intend

it for a surprise," he explained; "to learn with my own eyes how they

are faring." Emilia and Kezzy were at home now upon a holiday: for

some months they had been earning their livelihood at Lincoln as

teachers in a boarding-school kept by a Mrs. Taylor. He might even

make a trip to Scarborough, to drink the waters there. He was

gravely kind, and promised to deliver all Hetty's messages to her

sisters.

"Well, well," he said as he rose to go, "so you won't come to me?"

"I cannot."

"Nevertheless I shall leave word that the house is to be open to

you--in case of need." He looked at her meaningly, kissed her on the

forehead, and so took his leave.

At the street door he paused. "And that poor soul is childless," he

muttered. "She that should have been a noble mother of soldiers!"

CHAPTER VI.

From Mrs. Wesley to her son John.

Epworth, July 12th, 1731.

My brother Wesley had designed to have surprised us, and had

travelled under a feigned name from London to Gainsborough; but

there, sending his man for guide out to the Isle the next day,

the man told one that keeps our market his master's name, and

that he was going to see his brother, which was the minister at

Epworth. The man he informed met with Molly in the market about

an hour before my brother got thither. She, full of news,

hastened home and told us her uncle Wesley was coming to see us;

but we could hardly believe her. 'Twas odd to observe how all

the town took the alarm and were upon the gaze, as if some great

prince had been about to make his entry. He rode directly to

John Dawson's [this refers to a local inn]: but we had soon

notice of his arrival, and sent John Brown with an invitation to

our house. He expressed some displeasure at his servant for

letting us know of his coming: for he intended to have sent for

Mr. Wesley to dine with him at Dawson's and then come to visit

us in the afternoon. However, he soon followed John home, where

we were all ready to receive him with great satisfaction.

His behaviour among us was perfectly civil and obliging.

He spake little to the children the first day, being employed

(as he afterwards told them) in observing their carriage and

seeing how he liked them: afterwards he was very free, and

expressed great kindness to them all.

He was strangely scandalised at the poverty of our furniture,

and much more at the meanness of the children's habit.

He always talked more freely with your sisters of our

circumstances than with me; and told them he wondered what his

brother had done with his income, for 'twas visible he had not

spent it in furnishing his house, or clothing his family.

We had a little talk together sometimes, but it was not often we

could hold a private conference, and he was very shy of speaking

anything relating to the children before your father, or indeed

of any other matter. I informed him, as far as I handsomely

could, of our losses, etc., for I was afraid that he should

think I was about to beg of him; but the girls, I believe, told

him everything they could think on.

He was particularly pleased with Patty; and one morning, before

Mr. Wesley came down, he asked me if I was willing to let Patty

go and stay a year or two with him at London? "Sister," says

he, "I have endeavoured already to make one of your children

easy while she lives, and if you please to trust Patty with me,

I will endeavour to make her so too." Whatever others may

think, I thought this a generous offer, and the more so, because

he had done so much for Sukey and Hetty. I expressed my

gratitude as well as I could, and would have had him speak with

your father, but he would not himself--he left that to me; nor

did he ever mention it to Mr. Wesley till the evening before he

left us.

He always behaved himself very decently at family prayers, and

in your father's absence said grace for us before and after

meat. Nor did he ever interrupt our privacy, but went into his

own chamber when we went into ours.

He staid from Thursday to the Wednesday after, then he left us

to go to Scarborough, from whence he returned the Saturday

se'nnight, intending to stay with us a few days; but finding

your sisters gone the day before to Lincoln, he would leave us

on Sunday morning, for he said he might see the girls before

they--he and Patty--set forward for London. He overtook them at

Lincoln, and had Mrs. Taylor, Emily, Kezzy, with the rest, to

supper with him at the Angel. On Monday they breakfasted with

him; then they parted, expecting to see him no more till they

came to London, but on Wednesday he sent his man to invite them

to supper at night. On Thursday he invited them to dinner, at

night to supper, and on Friday morning to breakfast, when he

took his leave of them and rode for London. They got into town

on Saturday about noon, and that evening Patty writ me an

account of her journey.

Dear Jackey, I can't stay now to talk about Hetty, but this-I

hope better of her than some others do. I pray God to bless

you. Adieu.

S. W.

Hetty had been warned that her uncle and Patty would arrive on the

Saturday. She did not expect them before evening; nevertheless, in

the forenoon she sallied out, and stopping in the market on her way

to buy a large bunch of roses, walked to Johnson's Court, where the

door was opened to her by her own cook-maid--a fearless, middle-aged

Scotswoman who did not mind inhabiting an empty house, and whom she

had sent to Uncle Matthew on the eve of his departure, as well to get

her out of the way as to relieve him of his search for a carekeeper.

Janet noted that her mistress's face was pale and her eyes

unnaturally bright with want of sleep, but held her tongue, being

ever a woman of few words. Together the two dressed the table and

set out the cold viands in case the travellers should arrive in time

for dinner. The rest of the meal would be sent in at a few minutes'

notice from the tavern at the entrance of the court.

Having seen to these preparations and paid a visit of inspection to

the bedrooms, she set out on her way back to Frith Street just as St.

Dunstan's clock was striking eleven. She left, promising Janet to

return before nightfall.

Night was dusking down upon the narrow court as she entered it again

out of the rattle of Fleet Street. She had lost her springy gait,

and dragged her legs heavily under the burden of the unborn child and

a strain which during the past four or five days had become a

physical torture. She came out of her own thoughts with an effort,

to wonder if the travellers had arrived.

Her eyes went up to the windows of Uncle Matthew's parlour: and,

while they rested there, the room within of a sudden grew bright.

Janet had entered it with a lamp, and, having set it down, came

forward to draw the curtains and close the shutters. At the same

moment in the other window an arm went up to the curtain and the slim

figure of Patty stood dark against the lamplight. She stood for a

moment gazing out upon the court; gazing, as it seemed to Hetty,

straight down upon her. Hetty came to a halt, crouching in the dusk

against the wall. Now that she knew of their arrival she had no wish

to greet either her sister or her uncle: nay, as her own dark shadow

overtook her--the thought of the drunkard at home in the lonely

house--she knew that she could not climb to that lighted room and

kiss and welcome them.

As her sister's hand drew the curtain, she turned and sped back down

the court. She broke into a run. The pedestrians in the dim streets

were as ghosts to her. She ought not to have left him. Heaven alone

knew how long this fit would last; but while it lasted her place was

beside him. Twice, thrice she came to a dead stop, and panted with

one hand at her breast, the other laid flat against a house-wall or

the closed shutters of a shop, and so supporting her. Men peered

into her face, passed on, but turned their heads to stare back at

her, not doubting her a loose woman the worse for drink, but pierced

with wonder, if not with pity, at her extraordinary beauty.

She heeded them not, but always, as soon as she caught her breath

again, ran on.

She turned the corner of Frith Street. Heaven knows what she

expected to see--the house in a blaze, perhaps: but the dingy

thoroughfare lay quiet before her, with a shop here and there casting

a feeble light across the paving-stones. The murmur of the streets,

and with it all sense of human help within call, fell away and were

lost. She must face the horror alone.

The house was dark--all but one window, behind the yellow blind of

which a light shone. She drew out her latchkey and at first fumbled

at the opening with a shaking hand. Then she recalled her courage,

found the latch at once, slipped in the key and pushed the door open.

No sound: the stairs stretched up before her into pitchy darkness.

She held her breath; tried to listen. Still no sound but one in her

ears--the thump-thump of her own overstrained heart. She closed the

door as softly as she could, and mounted the first flight.

Hark! the sound of a step above, followed by a faint glimmer of

light. At the turn of the stairs she looked up and faced him.

He stood on the landing outside their bedroom door, with a candle

held aloft. His eyes were blazing.

He must be met quietly, and quietly she went up. "See how quick I

have been!" she said gaily, and her voice did not shake. She passed

in by the open door. He followed her stupidly and set the candle

down.

"They have arrived," she said, drawing off her mittens. Her eyes

travelled round the room to assure her that no weapon lay handy,

though for her own sake she had no wish to live.

"Come here," he commanded thickly.

"Yes, dear: what is it?"

"Where have you been?"

"Why, to Johnson's Court, as you know."

"Conspiring against me, eh?" He pushed his face close to hers: his

reeking breath sickened her: but she smiled on, expecting him to

strike.

"Come here!"--though she was close already. "Stand up. I'll teach

you to gossip about me. You and your gentry, my fine madam.

I'll teach you--I'll teach you!"

He struck now, blow after blow. She turned her quivering shoulders

to it, shielding the unborn child.

He beat her to her knees. Still she curved her back, holding her

arms stiffly before her, leaving her head and neck exposed.

Would the next blow kill her? She waited.

The table went over with a crash, the light with it. He must have

fallen across it: for, an instant later, she heard the thud of his

head against the floor.

It seemed to her that she crouched there for an endless while,

waiting for him to stir. He lay close beside her foot.

Her heel touched him as she rose. She groped for the tinder-box,

found the candle, lit it, held it over him.

A trickle of blood ran from his right temple, where it had struck

against the bed-post. His eyes were closed. She loosened his

collar, put forth all her strength--her old maiden strength for a

moment restored to her--and lifted him on to the bed.

By and by his lips parted in a sigh. He began to breathe heavily--to

sleep, as she thought. Still the blood trickled slowly from his

temple and on to the pillow. She stepped to the water-jug, dipped

her handkerchief in it, and drawing a chair to the bedside, seated

herself and began to bathe the wound.

When the bleeding stopped, as the touch of cold water appeared to

soothe him, she fetched a towel and pressed it gently about his neck

and behind his ears. He was sleeping now: for he smiled and muttered

something. Almost she thought it was her own name.

Still she sat beside him, her body aching, her heart cold; and

watched him, hour after hour.

CHAPTER VII.

"And my brothers visit her?"

Twilight with invisible veils closed around Epworth, its parsonage,

and the high-walled garden where Molly, staff in hand, limped to and

fro beside Johnny Whitelamb--promoted now to be the Reverend John

Whitelamb, B.A. He had arrived that afternoon, having walked all the

way from Oxford.

--"Whenever they visit London," he answered.

"Charles, you know, upheld her from the first; and John has come to

admit that her sufferings have lifted her above man's judgment.

They talk with her as with their equal in wit--"

"Why, and so she is!"

"No doubt: but it does not follow that John would acknowledge it.

They report their Oxford doings to her, and their plans: and she

listens eagerly and advises. To me the strange thing is, as she

manages it, that her interest does not tie her down to sharing their

opinions. She speaks always as a looker-on, and they recognise this.

She keeps her own mind, just as she has always held to her own view

of her marriage. I have never heard her complain, and to her husband

she is an angel: yet I am sure (without being able to tell you why)

that her heart condemns your father and will always condemn him."

"She knows what her punishment has been: we can only guess. Does the

man drink still?"

"Yes; he drinks: but she is no longer anxious about him. Your Uncle

Matthew told me that in his first attacks he used to be no better

than a madman. Something happened: nobody seems to know precisely

what it was, except that he fell and injured his head. Now the

craving for drink remains, but he soaks harmlessly. No doubt he will

kill himself in time; meanwhile even at his worst he is tractable,

and obeys Hetty like a child. To do the man justice, he was always

fond of her."

"Poor Hetty!"

"John has spoken to her once or twice about her soul, I believe: but

he does not persist."

"H'm," said Molly, "you had better say that he is biding his time.

John always persists."

"That's true," he owned with a laugh: "but I have never known him so

baffled to all appearance. The fact is, she cannot be roused to any

interest in herself. Of others she never ceases to think. It was

she, for instance--when I could not afford to buy myself a gown for

ordination--who started the notion of a subscription in the family."

He was wearing the gown now, and drew it about him with another

laugh. "Hence the majestic figure I cut before you at this moment."

"But we all subscribed, sir. You shall not slight my poor offering--

all made up as it was of dairy-pence."

"Miss Molly, all my life is a patchwork made up of kind deeds and

kind thoughts from one or other of you. You do not believe--"

"Nay, you love us all, John. I know that well enough."

For some reason a silence fell between them. Molly broke it with a

laugh, which nevertheless trembled a little. "Then your gown should

be a patchwork, too?"

"Why to be sure it is," he answered gravely; "and I wish the world

could see it so, quartered out upon me like a herald's coat, and each

quartering assigned--that is Mr. Wesley's, and that your mother's,

and that, again, your brother John's--"

"And the sleeve Miss Molly's: I will be content with a sleeve.

Only it must have the armorial bearings proper to a fourth daughter,

with my simple motto--'Butter and New-laid Eggs.'"

The sound of their merriment reached Mrs. Wesley through an open

window, and in the dim kitchen Mrs. Wesley smiled to herself.

"But," objected he, "the sleeve will not do. I do not wear my heart

upon my sleeve, Molly." She turned her head abruptly. For the first

time in his life he had dared to call her Molly, and was trembling at

his boldness. At first he took the movement for a prompt rebuke:

then, deciding that she had not heard, he was at once relieved and

disappointed.

But be sure she had heard. And she was not angry: only--this was not

the old Johnny Whitelamb, but another man in speech and accent, and

she felt more than a little afraid of him.

"Tell me more of Hetty," she commanded, and resting one hand on her

staff pointed to the south-west, where, over the coping of the wall,

out of a pure green chasm infinitely deep between reddened clouds of

sunset, the evening star looked down.

He knew the meaning of the sudden gesture. Had not Hetty ever been

her Star?

"She is beautiful as ever. You never saw so sad a face: the sadder

because it is never morose."

"I believe, John, you loved her best of us all."

"I worshipped her. To be her servant, or her dog, would have been

enough for me. I never dared to think of her as--as--"

--"As you thought, for example, of her crippled sister, whom you

protected."

"Molly!" He drew back. "Ah, if I dared--if I dared!" she heard him

stammer, and faced him swiftly, with a movement he might have misread

for anger, but for the soul shining in her eyes.

"Dare, then!"

"But I am penniless," said he, a few moments later. For him the

heavens still spun and the earth reeled: but out of their turmoil

this hard truth emerged as a rock from the withdrawing flood.

"God will provide for us. He knows that I cannot wait--and you--you

must forget that I was unmaidenly and wooed you: for I _did_, and

it's useless to deny it. But I have known--known--oh, for ever so

long! And I have a short while to be happy!"

Either he did not hear or he let slip her meaning. His eyes were on

the star, now almost level with the wall's coping.

"And this has come to me: to me--that was once Johnny Whitelamb of

the Charity School!"

"And to me," she murmured; "to me--poor Grizzle, whom even her

parents despised. The stars shine upon all."

"I remember," he said, musing, "at Oxford, one night, walking back to

college with your brother John. We had been visiting the prisoners

in Bocardo. As we turned into the Turl between Exeter and Jesus

colleges there, at the end of the street--it is little more than a

lane--beyond the spire of All Saints' this planet was shining.

John told me its name, and with a sudden accord we stood still for a

moment, watching it. 'Do you believe it inhabited?' I asked.

'Why not?' he said. 'Then why not, as this world, by sinners: and if

by sinners, by souls crying for redemption in Christ?' 'Ay,' said

he,' for aught we know the son of God may pass along the heavens

adding martyrdom to martyrdom, may even at this moment be bound on a

cross in some unseen planet swinging around one in this multitude of

stars. But,' he broke off, 'what have we to do with this folly of

speculation? This world is surely parish enough for a man, and in it

he may be puzzled all his days to save his own soul out of the many

millions.'"

"And father," murmured Molly, "designs him to take Epworth cure!

But why are you telling me this?"

"Because I see now that if God's love reaches up to every star and

down to every poor soul on earth, it must be something vastly simple,

so simple that all dwellers on earth may be assured of it, as all who

have eyes may be assured of the planet yonder; and so vast that all

bargaining is below it, and they may inherit it without considering

their deserts. Is not God's love greater than human? Yet, see, this

earthly love has come to me--Johnny Whitelamb--as to a king. It has

taken no account of my worth, my weakness: in its bounty I am

swallowed up and do not weigh. To dream of it as holding tally with

me is to belittle and drag it down in thought to something scarcely

larger than myself. I share it with kings, as I share this star.

Can I think God's love less magnificent?"

But Molly shrank close to him. "Dear, do not talk of these great

things: they frighten me. I am so small--and we have so short a

while to be happy!"

CHAPTER VIII.

Samuel Wesley to the Lord Chancellor.

Westminster, January 14th, 1733-4.

My Lord,--The small rectory of Wroote, in the diocese and county

of Lincoln, adjoining to the Isle of Axholme, is in the gift of

the Lord Chancellor, and more then seven years since it was

conferred on Samuel Wesley, Rector of Epworth. It lies in our

low levels, and is often overflowed--four or five years since I

have had it; and the people have lost most or all the fruits of

the earth to that degree that it has hardly brought me in fifty

pounds per annum, _omnibus annis_, and some years not enough to

pay my curate there his salary of 30 pounds a year.

This living, by your lordship's permission and favour, I would

gladly resign to one Mr. John Whitelamb, born in the

neighbourhood of Wroote, as his father and grandfather lived in

it, when I took him from among the scholars of a charity school,

founded by one Mr. Travers, an attorney, brought him to my

house, and educated him there, where he was my amanuensis for

four years in transcribing my _Dissertations on the Book of

Job_, now well advanced in the press; and drawing my maps and

figures for it, as well as we could by the light of nature.

After this I sent him to Oxford, to my son John Wesley, Fellow

of Lincoln College, under whom he made such proficiency that he

was the last summer admitted by the Bishop of Oxford into

Deacon's Orders, and placed my curate in Epworth, while I came

up to town to expedite the printing my book.

Since I was here I gave consent to his marrying one of my seven

daughters, and they are married accordingly; and though I can

spare little more with her, yet I would gladly give them a

little glebe land at Wroote, where I am sure they will not want

_springs of water_. But _they_ love the place, though I can get

nobody else to reside on it. If I do not flatter myself, he is

indeed a valuable person, of uncommon brightness, learning,

piety and indefatigable industry; always loyal to the King,

zealous for the Church, and friendly to our Dissenting Brethren;

and for the truth of this character I will be answerable to God

and man. If therefore your lordship will grant me the favour to

let me resign the living unto him, and please to confer it on

him, I shall always remain your lordship's most bounden, most

grateful, and most obedient servant,

Samuel Wesley, Sen.

The Lord Chancellor complied: and so, in February, with an income of

but fifty pounds a year, increased to seventy by Mr. Wesley's

kindness, but in good heart and hope and such love as can only be

between two simple hearts that have proved each other, John

Whitelamb and Molly took possession of the small parsonage.

They were happy: and of their happiness there is no more to be said,

save that it was brief. In the last days of October Molly's child

was born, and died: and a few hours later while the poor man held her

close, refusing to believe, with a sigh Molly's spirit slipped

between his arms and went to God.

To God? It tore the man up by the roots, and the root-soil

of his faith crumbled and fell with the moulds upon her coffin.

He went from her graveside back to the house and closed the door.

Mrs. Wesley had urged him to return with the family to Epworth, and

John, who had ridden from Oxford to preach the funeral sermon, shook

him by the hand and added his persuasions. But the broken husband

thanked him shortly, and strode away. He had sat through the sermon

without listening to a word: and now he went back to a house lonely

even of God.

He and Molly had been too poor to keep a servant: but on the eve of

her illness a labourer's wife had been hired to do the housework and

cook the meals. And seeing his lethargy, this sensible woman,

without asking questions, continued to arrive at seven in the morning

and depart at seven in the evening. He ate the food she set before

him. On Sunday he heard the bell ringing from his church hard by.

But he had prepared no sermon: and after the bell had ceased he sat

in his study before an open book, oblivious.

Yet prayer was read, and a sermon preached, in Wroote Church that

day. John Wesley had walked over from Epworth; and when the bell

ceased ringing, and the minutes passed, and still no rector appeared,

had stepped quietly to the reading-desk.

After service he walked across to the parsonage, knocked gently at

the study door and entered.

"Brother Whitelamb," he said, "you have need of us, I think, and I

know that my father has need of you. To-morrow I return to Oxford,

and I leave a letter with him that he will wish to answer. Death has

shaken him by the hand and it cannot guide a pen: he will be glad to

employ his old amanuensis. What is more, his answer to my letter

will contain much worth your pondering, as well as mine, for it will

be concerned with even such a spiritual charge as you have this day

been neglecting."

"Brother Wesley," answered the widower, looking up, "you have done a

kind deed this morning. But what was your text?"

"My text was, 'Son of man, behold I take from thee the desire of

thine eyes with a stroke: yet shalt thou not mourn or weep, neither

shall thy tears run down.'"

"I love you, brother: you have ever been kind indeed to me. Yet you

put it in my mind at times, that the poor servant with one talent had

some excuse, if a poor defence, who said 'I know thee, that thou art

a hard man.'"

"Do I reap then where I have not sown, and gather where I have not

strewn?"

"I will not say that. But I see that others prepare the way for you

and will do so, as Charles prepared it at Oxford: and finding it

prepared, you take command and march onward. You were born to take

command: the hand of God is evident upon you. But some grow faint by

the way and drop behind, and you have no bowels for these."

Silence fell between them. John Whitelamb broke it. "I can guess

what your father's letter will be--a last appeal to you to succeed

him in Epworth parish. Do you mean to consent?"

"I think not. My reasons--"

"Nay, it is certain you will not. And as for your reasons, they do

not matter: they may be good, but God has better, who decides for

you. Yet deal gently with the old man, for you are denying the

dearest wish of his heart."

"May I tell him that you will come?"

"I will come when he sends for me."

Mr. Wesley's message did not arrive until a good fortnight later,

during which time John Whitelamb had fallen back upon his own sorrow.

He resumed his duties, but with no heart. From the hour of his

wife's death he sank gradually into the rut of a listless parish

priest--a solitary man, careless of his dress as of his duties, loved

by his parishioners for the kindness of his heart. They said that

sorrow had broken him; but the case was worse than this. He had lost

assurance of God's goodness.

He could not, with such a doubt in his heart, go to his wife's family

for comfort. He loved them as ever; but he could not trust their

love to deal tenderly with his infidelity. No Wesley would ever have

let a human sorrow interfere with faith: no Wesley (it seemed to him)

would understand such a disaster. It was upon this thought that he

had called John a hard man. He recognised the truth and that he was

but brittle earthenware beside these hammered vessels of service.

Nevertheless, when in obedience to Mr. Wesley's message he presented

himself at Epworth, he was surprised by the calm everyday air with

which the old man received him. He had expected at least some word

of his grief, some fatherly pressure of the hand. There was none.

He knew, to be sure, that old age deadened sensibility. But, after

all, his dear Molly had been this man's child, if not the

best-beloved.

"Son Whitelamb, my hand is weary, and there is much to write.

Help me to my dearest wish on earth--the only wish now left to me:

help me that Jack may inherit Epworth cure when I am gone. Hear what

he objects: 'The question is not whether I could do more good there

or here in Oxford, _but whether I could do more good to myself_;

seeing wherever I can be most holy myself, there I can most promote

holiness in others. But I can improve myself more at Oxford than at

any other place.' The lad must think I forget my logic. See you, he

juggles me with identical propositions! First it is no question of

doing good to others, but to himself; and anon when he does most good

to himself he will do most good to others. Am I a dead dog, to be

pelted with such sophisms? Son Whitelamb, is your pen ready?"

"Of what avail is it?" John Whitelamb asked himself. "These men,

father and son, decide first, and, having decided, find no lack of

arguments. It is but pride of the mind in which they clothe their

will. Moreover, if there be a God, what a vain conflict am I aiding!

seeing that time with Him is not, and all has been decided from the

beginning."

Yet he took down the answer with his habitual care, glancing up in

the pauses at the old face, gray and intense beneath the dark

skull-cap. The letter ended:

"If you are not indifferent whether the labours of an aged father for

above forty years in God's vineyard be lost, and the fences of it

trodden down and destroyed; if you have any care for our family,

which must be dismally shattered as soon as I am dropped; if you

reflect on the dear love and longing which this dear people has for

you, whereby you will be enabled to do God the more service; and the

plenteousness of the harvest, consisting of near two thousand souls,

whereas you have not many more scholars in the University; you may

perhaps alter your mind, and bend your will to His, who has promised,

if in all our ways we acknowledge Him, He will direct our paths."

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

"Unto him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the

ungodly, his faith is counted to him for righteousness."

All the world has heard how John Wesley rode, eight years later, into

Epworth; and how, his father's pulpit having been denied to him, he

stood outside upon his father's tomb and preached evening after

evening in the warm June weather the gospel of Justification by Faith

to the listening crowd. Visitors are shown the grit slab, now recut

and resting on a handsome structure of stone, but then upon plainest

brickwork; and are bidden to notice, in the blank space below the

words "Their works do follow them," two rough pieces of ironstone

which mark where the preacher's feet rested.

Eight evenings he preached from it, and on the third evening chose

for his text these words: "Unto him that worketh not, but believeth

on Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted to him for

righteousness."

Under a sycamore by the churchyard wall at a little distance from the

crowd a man stood and listened--a clergyman in a worn black gown, a

man not old in years but with a face prematurely old, and shoulders

that already stooped under the burden of life--John Whitelamb.

He watched between fear and hope to be recognised. When the preacher

mounted the slab, stroked back his hair and, turning his face towards

the sycamore, fixed his eyes (as it seemed) upon the figure beneath

it, he felt sure he had been recognised: a moment later he doubted

whether that gaze had passed over him in forgetfulness or contempt.

He felt himself worthy of contempt. They had been too hard for him,

these Wesleys. They had all departed from Epworth, years before, and

left him, who had been their brother, alone with his miserable

doubts. No letters, no message of remembered affection or present

good will, ever came from them. He had been unfaithful to his

religion: they had cast him off. For seven years he had walked and

laboured among the men and women here gathered in the midsummer dusk:

but the faces to which he had turned for comfort were faces of the

past--some dead, others far away.

So the preacher's voice came to him as one rending the sepulchre.

"Son of man, can these bones live?" Yes, the bones of Christ's

warrior beneath the slab--laid there to rest in utter weariness--were

stirring, putting forth strength and a voice that pierced his living

marrow. Ah, how it penetrated, unlocking old wells of tears!

He listened, letting his tears run. Only once did he withdraw his

eyes, and then for a moment they fell on John Romley, loitering too,

on the outskirts of the crowd by the churchyard gate and plainly in

two minds about interfering. Romley was curate of Epworth now,

delegate of an absentee sporting rector: and had in truth set this

ball rolling by denying John Wesley his pulpit. He had miscalculated

his flock; this stubborn English breed, so loyal in enmity, loving

the memory of a foe who had proved himself a man. He watched with a

loose-lipped sneer; too weak to conquer his own curiosity, far too

weak to assert his authority and attempt to clear the churchyard of

that "enthusiasm" which he had denounced in his most florid style

last Sunday, within the church.

John Whitelamb's gaze travelled back to the preacher. Up to this he

had heard the voice only, and the dead man in his grave below

speaking through that voice. Now he listened to the words. If the

dead man spoke through them, what a change had death wrought--what

wisdom had he found in the dust that equals all! What had become of

the old confident righteousness, the old pride of intellect?

They were stripped and flung aside as filthy rags. "Apart from faith

we do not count. We _are_ redeemed: we _are_ saved. Christ has made

with us no bargain at all except to believe that the bargain is

concluded. What are we at the best that He should make distinctions

between us? We are all sinners and our infinitesimal grades of sin

sunk in His magnificent mercy. Only acknowledge your sin: only admit

the mercy; and you are healed, pardoned, made joint heirs with

Christ--not in a fair way to be healed, not going to be pardoned in

some future state; but healed, pardoned, your sins washed away in

Christ's blood, actually, here and now."

He heard men and women--notorious evil-livers, some of them--crying

aloud. Ah, the great simplicity of it was beyond him!--and yet not

perhaps beyond him, could he believe the truth, in the bygone years

never questioned by him, that Jesus Christ was very God.

He waited for the last word and strode back to his lonely home with a

mind unconvinced yet wondering at the power he had witnessed, a heart

bursting with love. He sat down to write at once: but tore up many

letters. With Christ, to believe was to be forgiven. If Christ

could not be tender to doubt, how much less would John Wesley be

tender? It was not until Friday that he found courage to dispatch

the following:

Dear Brother,--I saw you at Epworth on Tuesday evening.

Fain would I have spoken to you, but that I am quite at a loss

to know how to address or behave to you.

Your way of thinking is so extraordinary that your presence

creates an awe, as if you were an inhabitant of another world.

God grant you and your followers may always have entire liberty

of conscience. Will you not allow others the same?

Indeed I cannot think as you do, any more than I can help

honouring and loving you. Dear sir, will you credit me?

I retain the highest veneration and affection for you.

The sight of you moves me strangely. My heart overflows with

gratitude; I feel in a higher degree all that tenderness and

yearning of bowels with which I am affected towards every branch

of Mr. Wesley's family. I cannot refrain from tears when I

reflect, This is the man who at Oxford was more than a father to

me; this is he whom I have heard expound, or dispute publicly,

or preach at St. Mary's, with such applause; and--oh, that I

should ever add--whom I have lately heard preach at Epworth, on

his father's tombstone!

I am quite forgot. None of the family ever honour me with a

line. Have I been ungrateful? I have been passionate, fickle, a

fool; but I hope I never shall be ungrateful.

Dear sir, is it in my power to serve or oblige you in any way?

Glad I should be that you would make use of me. God open all

our eyes and lead us into truth wherever it be!

John Whitelamb.

The answer was delivered to him that same evening. It ran:

Dear Brother,--I take you at your word, if indeed it covers

permission to preach in your church at Wroote on Sunday morning

next. I design to take for text--and God grant it may be

profitable to you and to others!--"Ask, and it shall be given

you."

CHAPTER II.

From Epworth John Wesley rode on to Sheffield, and then southward

through Coventry, Evesham and Painswick to Bristol, preaching as he

went, sometimes thrice a day: from Bristol to Cardiff and back; and

so, on Sunday evening, July 18th, towards London. On Tuesday morning

he dismounted by the door of the Foundry, having left it just two

months before.

To his surprise it was opened by Hetty: but at once he guessed the

reason.

"Mother?"

"Hist! The end is very near--a few hours perhaps." She kissed him.

"I have been with her these five days, taking turns with the others.

They are all here--Emmy and Sukey and Nancy and Pat. Charles cannot

be fetched in time, I fear."

"He was in North Wales when he last wrote."

"Listen!"--a sound of soft singing came down the stairway.

"They are singing his hymn to her: she begs us constantly to sing to

her."

"Jesu, Lover of my soul,

Let me to thy bosom fly

While the nearer waters roll--"

Sang the voices overhead as John followed his sister into the small

sitting-room.

"What do the doctors say?"

"There is nothing to be said. She feels no pain; has no disease.

It is old age, brother, loosening the cords."

"She is happy?"

"Ah, so happy!" Hetty's eyes brimmed with tears and she turned away.

"Sister, that happiness is for you too. Why have you, alone of us,

so far rejected it?"

"No--not now!" she protested. "Speak to me some other time and I

will listen: not now, when my body and heart are aching!"

Her sisters sang:

"Other refuge have I none;

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;

Leave, ah! leave me not alone,

Still support and comfort me!

All my trust on Thee is stay'd,

All my help from Thee I bring:

Cover my defenceless head

With the shadow of Thy wing!"

She stepped to the door with a feeble gesture of the hands. She knew

that, worn as he was with his journey, if she gave him the chance he

would grasp it and pause, even while his mother panted her last, to

wrestle for and win a soul--not because she, Hetty, was his sister;

simply because hers was a soul to be saved. Yes, and she foresaw

that sooner or later he would win: that she would be swept into the

flame of his conquest: yet her poor bruised spirit shrank back from

the flame. She craved only to be let alone, she feared all new

experience, she distrusted even the joy of salvation. Life had been

too hard for Hetty.

He followed her up the stairs to his mother's room, and entering

commanded his sisters with a gesture to sing the hymn to an end.

They did so. Mrs. Wesley lay propped on the pillows, her wasted face

turned to the light, a faint smile on her lips. For a little while

after the hymn ended she lay silent with no change on her face.

They doubted if she saw John or, seeing, had recognised him.

But by and by her lips moved and she murmured his name.

"Jacky!"

He stepped to the bedside, and with his hand covered the transparent

hand with its attenuated marriage ring.

"I like them--to sing to me," she whispered. "When--when I am

released--sing--a psalm of praise to God. Promise me."

He pressed her hand for reply, and her eyes closed peacefully. She

seemed to sleep.

It was not until Friday that the end came. Shortly before eleven

that morning she waked suddenly out of slumber with lips muttering

rapidly. They, bending close, caught the words "Saviour--dear

Saviour--help--at the last." By the time they had summoned John,

though the muttering continued, the words were unintelligible: yet

they knew she was praising God.

In a little while the voice ceased and she lay staring calmly

upwards. From three to four o'clock the last cords were loosening.

Suddenly John arose, and lifting his hand in benediction, spoke the

words of the Commendatory Prayer: "O Almighty God, in whom do live

the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from

their earthly prison; we humbly commend the soul of this Thy servant,

our dear Mother, into Thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful

Creator and most merciful Saviour, most humbly beseeching Thee that

it may be precious in Thy sight. . . ."

It was Hetty who bent low, took the inert hand, and after listening

for a while laid it softly down on the coverlet. All was over: yet

she listened until the voices of the watchers, released by her

signal, rose together--

"Hark! a voice divides the sky--

Happy are the faithful dead

In the Lord who sweetly die--"

She raised her face as if to entreat for yet a moment's respite.

But their faces were radiant, transfigured with the joy of their

faith. And then suddenly, certainly, in their rapture she saw the

purpose and end of all their common sufferings; want, hunger, years

of pinching and striving, a thousand petty daily vexations, all the

hardships that had worn her mother down to this poor corpse upon the

bed, her own sorrowful fate and her sisters' only less sorrowful--all

caught up in the hand of God and blazing as a two-edged sword of

flame. Across the blaze, though he was far away, she saw the

confident eyes of Charles smiling as at a prophecy fulfilled.

But the hand outstretched for the sword was John's, claiming it by

right indefeasible. She, too, had a right indefeasible: and before

the sword descended to cleave the walls of this humble death chamber

and stretch over England, her heart cried and claimed to be pierced

with it. "Let it pierce me and cut deep, for my tears, too, have

tempered it!"

From the Journal of Charles Wesley for the year 1750:

"March 5th. I prayed by my sister Wright, a gracious, tender,

trembling soul; a bruised reed which the Lord will not break.

"March 14th. I found my sister Wright very near the haven"; and

again on Sunday, the 18th: "Yet still in darkness, doubts and

fears, against hope believing in hope.

"March 21St. At four I called on my brother Wright, a few

minutes after her spirit was set at liberty. I had sweet

fellowship with her in explaining at the chapel those solemn

words, 'Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon

withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thy everlasting light,

and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.'

"March 26th. I followed her to her quiet grave, and wept with

them that weep."

EPILOGUE.

Early in December, 1803, in the cool decline of a torrid day, a small

British force--mixed regulars and sepoys--threaded its way among the

mountains of Berar. It moved slowly and with frequent halts, its

pace regulated by the middle of the column, where teams of men panted

and dragged at the six guns which were to batter down the hill

fortress of Gawul Ghur: for roads in this country there were none,

and all the long day ahead of the guns gangs laboured with pick and

shovel to widen the foot-tracks leading up to the passes.

Still farther ahead trudged and halted the 74th regiment, following a

squadron of the 19th Light Dragoons, and now and again the toilers on

the middle slope, taking breath for a new effort and blinking the

sweat from their eyes, would catch sight of a horseman on a ridge far

overhead, silhouetted against the pale blue sky for a moment while he

scanned a plateau or gully unseen by them. Now and again, too, in

such pauses, the clear air pulsed with the tramp of the rearguard in

the lower folds of the hills--sepoys and comrades of the 78th and

94th.

Though with arms, legs and loins strained almost to cracking, the men

worked cheerfully. Their General had ridden forward with his staff:

they knew that close by the head of the pass their camp was already

being marked out for them, and before sleeping they would be fed as

they deserved.

They growled, indeed, but good-humouredly, when, for the tenth time

that day, they came to the edge of a gully into which the track

plunged steeply to mount almost as steeply on the farther side: and

their good humour did them the more credit since the General had

forbidden them to lock the wheels, on the ground that locking shook

and weakened the gun-carriages.

With a couple of drag-ropes then, and a dozen men upon each, digging

heels in the slope, slipping, cursing, back-hauling with all their

weight, the first gun was trailed down and run across the gully.

As the second began its descent a couple of horsemen came riding

slowly back from the advance-guard and drew rein above the farther

slope to watch the operation.

About a third of the way down, the track, which trended at first to

the left, bent abruptly away to the right, from the edge of a low

cliff of rock; and at this corner the men on the drag-ropes must

also fling themselves sharply to the right to check the wheels on

the verge of the fall. They did so, cleverly enough: but almost on

the instant were jerked out of their footholds like puppets.

Amid outcries of terror and warning, the outer wheel of the gun broke

through the crumbling soil on the verge, the ropes flew through their

hands, tearing away the flesh before the flesh could cast off its

grip; and with a clatter of stones the gun somersaulted over the

slope. With it, caught by the left-hand rope before he could spring

clear, went hurling a man. They saw his bent shoulders strike a slab

of rock ripped bare an instant before, and heard the thud as he

disappeared.

As they ran to view the damage, the two riders came cantering across

the gully and joined them. By good fortune, at the base of the rock

there welled a tiny spring and spread itself in a miniature bog

before making up its mind to leap down the mountain-side and feed the

infant waters of the Taptee. Into this plashy soil the gun had

plunged and the carriage lay some yards away up-ended on a broken

wheel, but otherwise uninjured. Beside the carriage, when the

General reached it, an artillery sergeant and three of the team of

No. 2 gun were lifting the injured man.

"Badly hurt?"

The sergeant saluted. "We doubt it's over with him, sir. His back's

broken, seemingly."

The General turned away to examine the face of the cliff, and almost

at once gave vent to a low whistle.

"See here, Ellerton, the rock is caverned and the gun must have

broken through the roof. It doesn't look to me like a natural

cavern, either. Hi! half a dozen of you, clear away this rubbish and

let me have a nearer look."

The men turned to and heaved away the fallen stones under which the

water oozed muddily.

"Just as I thought! Nature never made a hole like this."

An exclamation interrupted him. It came from one of the relief party

who had clambered into the cavern and was spading there in the loose

soil.

"What is it?"

"A skeleton, sir!--stretched here as natural as life."

The General dismounted and clambered to the entrance, followed by his

staff officer. As they reached it, the man stooped again and rose

with something in his hand.

"Eh? A begging-bowl?"

"Not a doubt of it," said the staff officer, as his chief passed it

to him. He examined it, turning it slowly over in his hands.

"It's clear enough, though curious. We have struck the den of some

old hermit of the hills, some holy man--"

"Who pitched his camp here for the sake of the water-spring, no

doubt."

"Queer taste," said the staff officer sagely. "I wonder how the

deuce he picked up his food."

"Oh, the hill-men hereabouts will travel leagues to visit and feed

such a man."

"That doesn't explain why his bones lie unburied."

"No." The General mused for a moment. "Found anything else?" he

demanded sharply.

The searchers reported "Nothing," and wished to know if they should

bring the skeleton out into the light.

"No: cover him up decently, and fall in to limber up the gun!"

He took his horse's bridle and walked back to the group about the

injured man.

"Who is he?"

He was told, a corporal of the 94th who had volunteered for the gun

team two days before. The sergeant who reported this added

diffidently, "He had half a dozen of his religious mates in the team.

He's a Wesleyan Methodist, sir, begging your pardon."

"Are you one?"

The sergeant saluted.

"He was the best man in his company and--and," he added with a touch

of awe, "he was converted by Charles Wesley himself--at Bristol in

'eighty, so he's told us--and him aged but sixteen."

The General bent with sudden interest as the dying man opened his

eyes. After scanning his face for a moment or two he said gently:

"My man, they tell me you knew Charles Wesley."

The corporal painfully bent his brows, on which the last sweat was

gathering. "Is that--the General?" he gasped with a feeble effort to

salute. Then his brain seemed to clear suddenly and he answered, not

as soldier to commanding officer, but as man to man. "He converted

me. Praise be to God!"

"You are going to him. You know?"

The corporal nodded.

"And you may take him a message from me: for he once did me a

handsome turn, too--though not in that way. You may tell him--for I

watched you with the guns to-day--that I pass you for a good soldier.

You may tell him and his brother John that I wish to command no

better followers than theirs. Now, is there anything I can do for

you?"

The man looked up into the eyes of the sergeant bending over him,

muttered a word or two, slowly drew his palm up to his forehead; and

so, with the self-same salute, parted from his earthly captain and

met his eternal Captain in Heaven.

"What did he say?" asked the General.

"He was wishful not to be put away without a hymn, sir," answered the

sergeant, drawing himself erect to "Attention" and answering

respectfully through his captain who had drawn near, having limbered

up his gun.

The General nodded and turned away to watch the lowering of the

remaining guns. A new track had been cut and down it they were

trailed without accident. One by one they crossed the gully.

Then the rear regiments hove in sight with the ambulance. The dead

man was lifted in and his carrying-party, Wesleyans all, fell into

rank behind the light wagon as that, too, moved on.

"Ellerton," said the General suddenly as he gazed after them,

"did you hear what I said to that poor fellow just now?"

"Yes, General, and wondered."

"It was true, though. If it hadn't been for Charles Wesley, I should

never be here commanding these troops. Wesley or Wellesley, sir--

spell the name as you will: the man who adopted my great-grandfather

spelt it Wesley: and he moved heaven and earth to make Charles Wesley

his heir before he condescended to us. The offer stood open for

years, but Charles Wesley refused it. I never heard why."

What--the hymn-man?"

"Even so. Odd story, is it not?"

The man who was to be the great Duke of Wellington stared for a

moment, lost in thought, at his rear-guard mounting the farther slope

of the gully. And as the British guns rolled onward into the dusk,

back from the glimmering pass were borne the words of Wesley,

Handel's music wafting them on its majestic wings:

"Rejoice, the Lord is King!

Your Lord and King adore:

Mortals, give thanks and sing

And triumph evermore.

Lift up your heart, lift up your voice--

Rejoice! again I say, Rejoice!"