Such of the villagers of Usk who met Hugh Owen during the few days
that succeeded this interview spoke to each other with surprise of the
alteration that had taken place in his demeanour. The sober, grave,
young minister, who had seldom smiled, and usually appeared too wrapped
in his own thoughts to take much part in what went on before him, was
now to be seen with a beaming countenance and an animated welcome for
all whom he met.
‘Why, farmer,’ quoth one worthy to Mr Owen, ‘but what’s come to yon lad
of yourn, the minister? Is he going to be elected an elder, or is he
thinking of getting spliced?’
‘Spliced!’ roared the farmer, who, notwithstanding his pride in his
learning and attainments, cherished rather a mean opinion of his
eldest son as a man. ‘_Spliced_! the Lord save us, no! Where would
Hugh get the courage to ask a lass to have him? He can’t so much as
look them in the face; and when his mother or Hetty brings one of the
neighbours’ girls in for a bit of a talk, he sneaks out at the back
door with his tail between his legs, for all the world like a kicked
cur. Married! Hugh will never be married. He wouldn’t know what to do
with a wife if he’d got one, not he. He’s a minister, is Hugh--just
that and nothing more. What makes you ask such a thing, Ben?’
‘Why because I met him near Thomson’s patch this afternoon, with his
mouth one grin, and talking to himself as if he was preaching.
‘“Why minister,” I says, “are you making up your next sermon?” and he
says, “No, Ben,” he says, “I’m trying over a thanksgiving service for
myself.” And he smiled as if someone had left him a fortune.’
‘And yesterday,’ interposed a woman, ‘when my little Nan ran across the
road and fell down, and whimpered a bit, as children will, Hugh he was
after her in a minute, and picked her up, and there he _did_ kiss her
as I never see. Nan, she didn’t know what to make of it, and stopped
crying from sheer surprise, and when I called out, “That’s right,
minister, nothing like getting your hand in for nursing,” he reddened.
Lor’! just like my turkey-cock when the lads throw stones at him.’
‘Well, my woman, you needn’t think he’s going to nurse any of his
own for all that. Hugh is too much of a scholar to bear the noise of
children in the house. If Hetty ever gets any little ones I expect
he’ll find another place for himself. He said the other night that the
old farm would never seem like the same again if there was babies in
it.’
‘He’s up a deal at Panty-cuckoo, I hear,’ said the first speaker.
‘Oh, ay. That’s all in his own line,’ replied the farmer. ‘The poor
lass up there has been mortal bad--nearly dead, by my missus’s
account--and Hugh’s been praying with her and for her, and such like.
And his prayers have been heard, it seems, for my daughter-in-law says
her sister is downstairs again, and in a fair way to mend. I expect she
brought the fever from London town with her. We’re not used to have
such fads in Usk. A young lass stricken down like an old woman. ’Twas
an ugly sight, and I’m main glad, for the Llewellyns’ sake, as she’s
been spared. ’Twould have been a sad coming-home else.’
‘That it would,’ said his friend Ben. ‘And I expect it was thinking
over the prayers he has put up for her as made the minister so smiling
this afternoon. Well, he have cause to be proud, and he do pray
beautiful, to be sure. My old woman say he bawl them so loud, that if
the Lord can’t hear _him_ it’s no manner of use any of us trying for
ourselves. Well, morning to ye, farmer,’ and off went Ben on his own
business.
Hugh Owen would not have been over-pleased could he have heard them
discussing his private feelings after this fashion; but, luckily for
him, he did not hear them. It is lucky for all of us when we do not
hear what our neighbours say of us behind our backs. We should not have
an acquaintance left in the world if we did. But the young minister
went on his way, little dreaming that anyone guessed the sweet, sacred
hope which he was cherishing in his heart of hearts, and which he only
waited for Nell’s complete convalescence to confide to her. The time
for doing so arrived (for him) only too soon, and often afterwards he
wished he had been content to nurse his love for her in secret.
It was one day when she was downstairs again, looking so much older
since her illness that people who had only known her in London would
hardly have recognised her, that Hugh asked Nell if she would grant
him an hour’s conversation. Even then she did not think the request
was made for more than friendship, for she had spoken to Hugh Owen
of her desire to train herself for better things than farm work, that
she might be able, perhaps, to keep a comfortable home for her parents
when they were past labour. This appeared to Nell the only ambition
that could give her any interest in life again--the idea that she would
repay in some measure her father’s and mother’s great love for her.
Hugh might have thought of something, or heard of something, so she
granted him the interview he asked for gladly, and received him with
a kind smile and an outstretched hand, which he grasped eagerly and
detained long.
‘You are quite well again now, Nell,’ he said, as he looked into her
face, which was still so beautiful, though pale and worn.
‘Yes, quite well, Hugh, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I walked across the
Park this morning to see Sir Archibald’s old housekeeper, Mrs Hody,
and had quite a long chat with her. The family is not coming down
for Christmas this year, she tells me, but have put it off till the
cub-hunting begins, and then the Hall will be full. She gave me a
clutch of golden pheasants’ eggs. I am going to set them under one of
our hens. Don’t you like golden pheasants, Hugh? I think they are such
lovely creatures.’
‘I like and admire all God’s creatures, Nell, and cannot understand
anyone doing otherwise. I well remember your love for animals as a
child, and how you smacked my face once for putting your kitten up on
the roof of the stable, where she couldn’t get down.’
‘Did I? That was very rude. But I’m afraid, from what I can remember,
that I always treated you rather badly, poor Hugh, and encroached upon
your kindness to me. You have always been kind to me, and lately most
of all. Mother believes I owe my life to you.’
‘No, no, Nell, you owe it to the dear God, Who would not see us all
plunged into despair by your loss--_I_ most of all. But if you really
think you owe me ever so little, you can return it a hundredfold, if
you will.’
Nell turned towards him eagerly.
‘Oh, Hugh, how? Tell me, and I will do it. Don’t think I have so many
friends that I can afford to undervalue your friendship. I have very
few friends, Hugh--very, _very_ few,’ said the girl, with a quivering
lip.
‘How can you repay me?’ repeated the young man, musingly. ‘Is it
possible you do not guess? Nell, do you know, have you ever thought
why I lead such a lonely life, why I have not married like Will? My
brother is five years younger than myself, and most of the lads in Usk
are thinking of getting a wife as soon as they can make their pound
or thirty shillings a week. I make four times that as a minister,
Nell, and most girls would think me well able to keep them in comfort
and respectability. Yet I have never given a thought to one of
them--_why_?’
‘Because you’re a minister, I suppose,’ replied Nell, ‘and all your
mind is set upon your chapel and sermons and the open-air preaching.
Isn’t that it?’ with a shy glance upwards to see how he took the
suggestion. But Hugh only sighed and turned away.
‘No, no; why should that be it? Because I’m a minister, and want to
do all I can for God whilst I live, am I the less a man with less of
a man’s cravings for love and companionship? No, Nell, there is a
reason for it, but a very different one from what you imagine. The
reason I have never given a thought to marriage yet is because when I
was a lanky, awkward lad, there was a little maid whom I used to call
my sweetheart--who used to let me carry her over the boulders in the
river, to go with her black-berrying, to walk beside her as she went to
and came from church. Though, as we grew up, I was separated from that
little maid, Nell, I never forgot her, and I never shall. No other will
take her place with me.’
‘Oh, don’t say that, Hugh, pray don’t say that!’ cried Nell, with
visible agitation. ‘You mustn’t! It is folly--worse than folly, for
that little maid will never be yours again--never, never!’
She uttered the last words with so deep a sigh that it sounded almost
like a requiem over her departed, innocent childhood. But Hugh would
not accept it as such.
‘But why, dear Nell?’ he questioned. ‘We have met again, and we are
both free. What objection can there be to our marriage, if _you_ have
none? I would not hurry you. You should name your own time, only let
us be engaged. I have told you that I can keep you in comfort, and if
parting with your parents is an obstacle, I’ll consent to anything you
think best. Only don’t send me away without hope. You will take all
the spirit out of my life and work if you do. I think your people like
me--I don’t anticipate any trouble with them, but the word that is to
make me happy must come from _your_ lips, Nell--from yours alone!’
‘It can never come from them,’ answered Nell sadly.
‘Don’t say that, my little sweetheart of olden days. Oh, Nell, if you
only knew, if I could only make you understand how I have kept your
image in my heart all these years, how your face has come between
me and my duties, till I’ve had to drive it away by sheer force of
will. When I found you had come back to Usk, I thought God had sent
you expressly for me. Don’t say now, after all my hopes and longings
to meet you again--after you have come back from the grave to me,
Nell--don’t say, for God’s sake, that it has been all in vain!’
He bowed his head upon his outstretched arm as he spoke, and Nell knew,
though she could not see, that he was weeping.
‘What can I say to you, Hugh,’ she began, after a pause. ‘I _do_ love
you for all your goodness to me, but not in that way. I cannot be your
wife. If you knew me as well as I know myself, you would never ask it,
for I am not fit for it, Hugh. I am not worthy.’
The young man raised his head in astonishment.
‘Not worthy? What do you mean? _You_, who are as far above me as the
stars in heaven. It is _I_ who have no right to aspire to be your
husband--a rough, country clod like me, only, only--I would love you
with the best, Nell, if I could but make you believe it.’
‘I _do_ believe it, Hugh, and I am sorry it should be so, because my
love for you is so different from yours. I regard you as a dear friend.
I have no other love to give you.’
‘You care for some other man,’ said Hugh, with the quick jealousy of
lovers. ‘You are engaged to be married. Oh, why did you not tell me
so before? Why have you let me go on seeing you--talking with you
and longing for you, without giving me one hint that you had bound
yourself to marry another man? It was cruel of you, Nell--very, very
cruel. You might have had more mercy on an unfortunate fellow who has
loved you all his life.’
Nell shook her head.
‘But I’m not bound to marry another man; I shall never marry,’ she said
in a low voice.
‘Then, why are you so hard on me? Tell me the reason, Nell. There
_must_ be a reason for your refusal. You owe me so much for the pain
you’ve made me suffer.’
‘Oh, _how_ can I tell you? What good would it do you to hear?’ she
exclaimed passionately. ‘Cannot you understand that there may be a
hundred things in a girl’s life that make her feel indisposed to marry
the first man who asks her?’
‘Perhaps so,’ he said mournfully; ‘I know so little of girls or their
feelings. But I think you might give me a better reason for your
refusal, than that you are determined not to marry.’
‘Can I trust you with the story of my life?’ she asked. ‘Oh, yes, I’m
sure I can. You are good and faithful, and you would never betray my
confidence to father, or mother, or Hetty, or disgrace me in the eyes
of the world.’
Hugh Owen grew pale at the idea, but he answered,--
‘Disgrace you? How can you think it for a moment? I would sooner
disgrace myself. But how could I do it, Nell? What can you have ever
done to make you speak like that?’
‘I’ve done what the worst woman you’ve ever met has done. Hugh, you
have forced the truth from me. Don’t blame me if it hurts you. I am not
a good girl, like Hetty, or Sarah Kingston, or Rachel Grove. I’m not
fit to speak to any one of them. I have no right to be at Panty-cuckoo
Farm. If father knew all, perhaps he’d turn me out again. I--I--have
_fallen_, Hugh! and now you know the worst!’
The worst seemed very bad for him to know. As the terrible confession
left her, he turned his dark, thoughtful face aside, and bit his lips
till the blood came, but he did not say a word. Nell had told him the
bitter truth almost defiantly, but the utter silence by which it was
succeeded did not please her. What right had this man, who had worried
her into saying what she never said to any other creature, to sit there
and upbraid her by his silence? She felt as if she wanted to shake him.
‘Speak, speak!’ she cried at last, impatiently. ‘Say what you like;
call me all the bad names you have ever heard applied in such cases,
but say something, for goodness’ sake. Have you never heard of such a
thing before? Have none of the girls in Usk ever made a false step in
their lives? Don’t sit there as if the news had turned you to stone, or
you will drive me mad!’
Then he raised his white, strained face, and confronted her,--
‘My poor, dear girl!’ he said, ‘who am I, that I should condemn you? I
am far too conscious of my own besetting sins. But how did this awful
misfortune happen? Who was the man? Has he deserted you? Won’t you tell
me, Nell?’
‘It happened soon after I went to London,’ she answered, in a more
subdued voice. ‘I was very young at the time, you know, Hugh, and very
ignorant of the world and the world’s ways. He--he--was a gentleman,
and I loved him, and he persuaded me. That is the whole story, but it
has broken my heart.’
‘But where is this “gentleman” now? Cannot he be induced to make you
reparation?’ asked Hugh, with set teeth.
‘Reparation! What reparation can he make? Do you mean marriage? What
gentleman would marry a poor girl like me--a common farmer’s daughter?
And if it were likely, do you suppose that I would stoop to become the
wife of a man who did not _want_ to marry me--who did so on compulsion?
You don’t know me, Hugh.’
‘But, Nell, my dear Nell, do you mean to tell me that this inhuman
brute seduced you, and then deserted you? What have you been doing
since, Nell? Where have you been living? I thought you came here from
service at the Earl of Ilfracombe’s?’
‘So I did.’
‘And you were with him for three years?’
‘I was,’ replied Nell, who felt as if her secret were being drawn from
her, bit by bit.
‘Then you had a shelter and a home. Oh, Nell, do you mean to tell me
that you did this thing of your own free will, knowing that it could
not last, nor end lawfully? When you had a refuge and an honourable
service, did you still consent to live in concubinage with this
gentleman--knowing he only kept you as a toy which he could get rid of
whenever the whim suited him?’
‘I did!’ she cried defiantly, ‘if you will have the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth--there it is. I loved him, and I lived
with him of my free consent. It was my heaven to live with him. I never
regretted it. I only regretted when it came to an end.’
‘Oh, Nell,’ he said, ‘I thought higher of you than that.’
His evident misery touched her.
‘Hugh, how can I make you understand?’ she cried. ‘I believed it was
for ever. I knew we could never be married, because he was so much
above me; but I thought--he told me--that we should never part. I
considered myself his wife, I did indeed; and when I was undeceived it
nearly killed me.’
And, breaking down for the first time, Nell burst into tears.
‘There, there, don’t cry,’ said Hugh, wearily. ‘Remember, your mother
might come in at any moment, and ask the reason of your tears. Try
and restrain yourself. Your sad secret is safe with me, rely on that.
Only--only let us consider, is there really no remedy for your trouble?’
‘How can there be? He is married; that is why I am here. For three
years I was the happiest woman under the sun. He is a rich man, and he
gave me more than I ever desired; not that I cared for anything in
comparison with his love. Ah, if he had only left me that, I would have
begged in the streets by his side and been happy. But it all came to
an end. He had gone away for a little while, and I had not the least
idea that he was not coming back again. I was only longing and hoping
for his return; and then one day his lawyer called to tell me that my
darling--I mean that he was going to marry some lady, and I could be
nothing ever to him again. Hugh, it drove me mad. I didn’t know what I
was doing. I rushed out of the house and threw myself into the river.’
‘Merciful God!’ exclaimed the young man, losing all control over
himself.
‘I did. Father and mother think I left service in a regular way; but
they don’t know in London where I’m gone. They never saw me again. I
daresay they think I’m drowned. Was it very wicked, Hugh? I did so long
to die. Isn’t it funny that, first, I should have thrown myself into
the water and been picked out again, and then had this bad illness,
and still I can’t die? Why won’t God let me end it all?’
‘Because He designs you for better things, my poor Nell,’ said her
companion.
‘I don’t think so. Better things are not in my way. I believe I shall
die a violent death after all. I remember some time ago--ah! it was the
races _he_ took me to--a gipsy told my fortune, and she said the same
thing, that I should come to a violent end. It little matters to me, so
long as it gives me forgetfulness and rest.
‘You mustn’t talk like that,’ said Hugh, reprovingly. ‘We must all die
in God’s time, and it is our duty to wait for it. But do you mean to
say that this man has cast you off without a thought, Nell?’
‘Oh, no! he offered, or his lawyer did, to settle money on me, but I
would not take it. What did I want with money without _him_?’
‘You did right to refuse it. Money coming from such a source could have
brought no blessing with it. But surely you do not lament the loss of
this scoundrel who, not content with betraying you, has left you in
this heartless manner for another woman?’
But no true woman ever let another man abuse her lover, however
guilty he might be, without resenting it. Least of all women was Nell
Llewellyn likely to stand such a thing.
‘How _dare_ you call him by such a name?’ she cried angrily. ‘Whatever
he may have done, it is not _your_ place to resent it. I am nothing
to _you_. He is not a scoundrel. There never was a more honourable,
kind-hearted, generous creature born. He would never have deserted me
if it had not been for his lawyer, who was always dinning into his ears
that with such a property it was his duty to marry. And the woman, too,
whom he has married--she inveigled him into it. I know she did. Oh,
Hugh, if I could only kill her how happy I should be. If I could be in
the same room with her for five minutes, with a knife in my hand, and
stab her with it to the very heart, and see her die--die--with pain
and anguish as she has made my heart die, I think I should be happy.’
‘Nell, you shock and terrify me!’ exclaimed the young man. ‘Do you know
what you are saying? Do you know that in harbouring such feelings you
are as guilty as if you had committed the crime itself? What has this
poor lady done to injure you that you should cherish such animosity
against her?’
‘_What has she done?_’ echoed Nell fiercely. ‘Why she has taken my
lover--the man whom I adored--from me. Torn him from my very arms.
She has destroyed my happiness--my life. Made the world a howling
wilderness. Left my heart bare, and striped, and empty. And I would
make her die a thousand deaths for it if I could. I would tear her
false heart from her body and throw it to the dogs to eat.’
Nell’s eyes were flashing. Her head was thrown back defiantly in the
air as she spoke; her teeth were clenched; she looked like a beautiful,
bloodthirsty tigress panting to fasten on her prey. But Hugh Owen saw
no beauty in her attitudes or expression. He rose hastily from his
chair, and moved towards the door. His action arrested her attention.
‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Where are you going? Why do you leave me alone?’
‘Because I cannot bear to listen to you whilst you blaspheme like that,
Nell. Because it is too dreadful to me to hear you railing against the
wisdom of God, who has seen fit to bring you to a sense of the life
you were leading, by wresting it from your grasp. You have called me
your friend. So I am; but it is not the act of a friend to encourage
you in such vindictive feelings. I could remain your friend though I
knew you guilty of every weakness common to human nature, but I dare
not take the hand of a woman who deliberately desires the death of a
fellow-creature. Depend on it, Nell, that this unfortunate lady, who
has married the man who behaved so basely to you, will have enough
trouble without you wishing her more. Were it justifiable to harbour
the thought of vengeance on any one, yours might, with more propriety,
be directed towards him who has probably deceived his wife as much as
he deceived you!’
‘If that is the spirit in which you receive my confidence,’ said Nell
hotly, ‘I wish I had never confided in you. Perhaps the next thing you
will consider it right to do will be to proclaim my antecedents to the
people of Usk. Make them the subject of your next sermon maybe! I am
sure they would form a most edifying discourse on the wickedness of the
world (and London world in particular), especially when the victim is
close at hand to be trotted out in evidence of the truth of what you
say.’
Hugh raised his dark, melancholy eyes to her reproachfully.
‘Have I deserved that of you, Nell?’ he asked.
‘I don’t care whether you have or not. I see very plainly that I have
made a fool of myself. There was no occasion for me to tell you
anything; but I fancied I should have your sympathy, and blurted it
out, and my reward is to be accused of blasphemy. It is my own fault;
but now that you have wrung my secret from me, for pity’s sake keep it.’
‘Oh, Nell, how can you so distrust me? Your secret is as sacred with me
as if you were in your grave. What a brute you must think me to imagine
otherwise.’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered wearily. ‘I have no faith in anybody or
anything now. Why should you behave better to me than the rest of the
world has done? No, don’t touch me,’ as he approached her, holding out
his hand. ‘Your reproaches have turned all my milk of human kindness
into gall. Go away; there’s a good man, and leave me to myself. It is
useless to suppose you could understand my feelings or my heart. You
must have gone through the mill as I have before you do.’
‘At least, Nell, you will let me remain your friend,’ he said in a
voice of pain.
‘No, no, I want no friends--nothing. Leave me with my memories. You
cannot understand them; but they are all that remain to me now. Go on
serving God; devoting all your time and your energies to Him, and wait
till He gives you a blow in the face, like mine, and see what you think
of His loving-kindness then. It’ll come some day; for Heaven doesn’t
appear to spare the white sheep any more than the black ones. We all
get it sooner or later. When you get yours you may think you were a
little hard on me.’
‘I think I have got it already,’ murmured poor Hugh, half to himself.
‘Good-bye, Nell.’
‘Oh, go, do,’ she cried impetuously, ‘and never come here again. After
what you have said to-day your presence can only be an extra pain to
me, and I have enough of that already. Go on with your praying and
preaching, and don’t think of me. I sha’n’t come to hear any more of
it. It does me no good, and it might do me harm. It might make my hand
unsteady,’ she continued, with a significant glance, ‘when the time
comes, _and it has that knife in it_!’
She laughed mockingly in his face as she delivered this parting shot,
and Hugh Owen, with a deep sob in his throat, turned on his heel, and
walked quickly away from Panty-cuckoo Farm.