The country was in its full spring-tide beauty. The hedges were gay
with shepherds’ purse and pimpernel, and merry with the song of birds
rejoicing over their young. The green meadows were dotted over with
the late lambs, skipping like the high hills of Scripture; and as Nell
followed on Hugh Owen’s track, she trod the sweet woodruffe under her
feet. A balmy, south-west wind blew on her heated face, as she ran over
the grassy hill, up which he was slowly wending his way, with his eyes
bent on his book. She had captured him at last. A long stretch of grass
land lay between them yet, but there was no friendly copse or orchard
on the way in which he could take shelter from her. Not that Hugh even
knew of her approach. He had seen her coming up the gravelled walk
that led to the Dale Farm, and slipped out as usual by the back-door,
in order to avoid her. After her last words to him, he thought his
presence must be as objectionable to Nell as hers was distressing to
him. That she should take the trouble to follow him never entered his
head; so he went on slowly, poring over his book, and was more startled
than she could imagine when he heard a voice calling gaspingly after
him,--‘Hugh! Hugh!’ He turned round then, to meet Nell’s beautiful
face, flushed with exertion, as she panted to come up with him.
‘Stop, Hugh! Stop a minute! I want to speak to you,’ she said
breathlessly.
He halted at her appeal, but he did not smile as she reached his side.
‘Oh, Hugh, I have wanted to speak to you for so long,’ said Nell, as
they stood opposite each other. ‘What is the matter with you? Why do
you never come to Panty-cuckoo now?’
He looked at her with grave surprise.
‘Why do I never go to Panty-cuckoo now?’ he repeated after her. ‘I
should have thought you were the last person to ask me that question,
Nell. Have you forgotten the words with which you sent me from you?’
‘Yes. What did I say? Anything very dreadful? How little you must know
of women, to fancy they mean everything they say. You made me angry,
I suppose, and then I resented it. But that is four months ago. It’s
ridiculous to keep up a grudge all that time.’
‘I don’t think you were angry,’ replied Hugh, in his low, sweet
voice. ‘I think you were in earnest, Nell, when you told me to leave
Panty-cuckoo Farm, and never come back again; and that, after what had
passed between us, my presence would be an extra pain to you. Was it
likely, after that, that I could intrude my company on you? You must
know that I didn’t keep away from choice.’
‘No, I didn’t. I thought, perhaps, you considered me altogether too
bad to associate with--that I should contaminate you and make you unfit
for the ministry, and so it was your duty not to come near me any more.
That is what I thought.’
‘How very little you know me,’ said the young man with a sigh.
‘But mother and father are always asking after you,’ continued Nell,
hurriedly, ‘and wondering why you never come near us; and it makes it
rather awkward for me, you know, Hugh. I have told them all kinds of
stories to excuse your absence; but it would be much better if you
could come and see the old people now and then. I would keep out of the
way, if you prefer it, whilst you are there.’
He did not contradict her, only saying,--
‘I should be sorry to vex Mr and Mrs Llewellyn, who have always been
very good to me. I hope they thought it was my duties that kept me
away. I should not like them to know that you and I have quarrelled.’
‘But _have_ we quarrelled?’ said Nell, wistfully. ‘Cannot we be friends
still, Hugh, as we were before--before your last visit, you know?
We are rather sad up at Panty-cuckoo just now. Father seems quite
down-hearted about his farm. Sir Archibald has decided to raise the
rent again, and father says he won’t be able to make the place pay if
he does. Sometimes he talks of emigrating. Fancy his doing that at his
age! and, oftener, the poor old man says he has lived too long, and it
will be a good day when he is carried to Usk churchyard. And, what with
that, and--and--other things, I think sometimes, Hugh, that life is
altogether too hard to bear; and it is a pity mine wasn’t ended when I
tried to end it!’
‘Poor Nell,’ said Hugh. ‘No, don’t say that. If your life had not held
better things in store for you, surely the Lord would not have given
it back to you twice running. But I must come over and talk to your
father, and see if I cannot cheer him up. If the worst comes to the
worst, Nell, I don’t see why he should not try his fortune in another
country. He is not so very old--sixty or thereabouts, I think--and he
will take his experience with him, and sell it, maybe, to other men.
There are countries, as I daresay you have heard--like Canada, for
instance--where Government gives the land away to men who can cultivate
it; and your father must have a good sum of money sunk in his stock and
implements. With a little money in hand, a man with knowledge may do
wonders in Canada or New Zealand, and live out there as long again as
he would have done in England.’
‘Oh, Hugh, you are talking nonsense. How would father and mother
feel, uprooted from the old place where they have spent almost all
their lives, and set down in a strange country, without a friend or
acquaintance near them? They would die. They couldn’t stand it. It
would be too great a wrench.’
‘Would not _you_ go with them?’ asked Hugh dubiously.
‘_I?_ Oh, yes, of course I should. But what good should I be to them?
Only an extra burden. If father had a son it would be different. But he
would require some strong young head and hand to lift the greater part
of the burden off his shoulders.’
‘I agree with you. But don’t stand talking here. You don’t look fit for
that yet, Nell. Surely you should be looking more like your old self
after all these months. Sit down on this turf, it is quite dry, and let
us talk over what you have told me, together.’
He held out his hand to her as he spoke, and Nell availed herself of
his assistance to take a seat on the bank by the side of the field.
‘Oh, Nell!’ he exclaimed as he released it, ‘how hot your hand is, and
how thin! Do you feel weak?’
‘Not over strong,’ replied Nell, laughing as they sat down, side
by side. It was true that she had hardly gained any strength worth
speaking of since her illness. The wild longings she indulged in--the
regrets for her lost position, and the remorse with which she was
occasionally attacked--were all working a great and abiding change
in her constitution. The old people saw her going about as usual,
and never heard her complain; so they thought she was all right, and
attributed any little languor or daintiness on her part to her London
schooling. But Hugh, with a lover’s eye, perceived the change in her
vividly, and noted with grief the hollowness of her eyes and the
attenuation of her hand.
‘My poor girl,’ he said tenderly, as he gazed at her thin face, ‘what
have you been doing to yourself? You’ve been fretting sorely, I’m
afraid, Nell, since I saw you last.’
This direct appeal broke Nell down. No one had given her such sympathy
as this before.
‘Oh, yes, Hugh, yes, I have,’ she cried. ‘I try so hard to forget, but
it seems impossible. I longed so much to come back to Panty-cuckoo.
I thought the beautiful, quiet, peaceful country would heal my sore
wound, and help me to forget. But it seems worse than the town. There,
the rattle and the noise might have shut out other sounds. But here,
in the peaceful silence, I hear voices and see faces that I want to
shut out from my mind for ever. Oh, it is very hard that, when one
tries and wishes to be good and do no wrong, God should let the devil
have such dominion over us. Why is it, Hugh? Why doesn’t He hear our
prayers and let us forget? Sometimes I feel as if I should go mad in
Panty-cuckoo, when I remember the time when I was a little girl and
went black-berrying or nutting with you and the other children, and
remember those happy, innocent days can never, _never_ come over again.
Oh, Hugh, I feel as if I had been in possession of untold wealth, and I
had deliberately thrown it away. Will it always be so? Shall I never
be any better? Am I to go on suffering like this to my life’s end?’
‘I hope not, Nell,’ replied the young man. ‘You are not strong enough
for dairy and farm work, and it leaves your brain too little to do, so
it broods incessantly upon the past. The work you want, Nell, is head
work--something by which you will feel you are benefiting others. That
is the employment to bring peace and forgetfulness in its train. You
should be a missionary, as I am.’
‘A missionary--I? Ah, now, Hugh, you are laughing at me. A preacher
should have no sins to look back upon.’
‘Then there would be no preachers in the world, Nell. I say, on the
contrary, that no one can teach others till he himself has been taught
of God. He cannot relieve suffering, unless he, too, has suffered.
He cannot know the enormity of sin, nor the trouble it brings in its
train, till he himself has sinned as we all have, and if any man says
he has not, he lies before the God who made him.’
‘But not like I have,’ said poor Nell, with her face hidden in her
hands.
‘Don’t you think, Nell,’ said Hugh, ‘when you remember all the
suffering and shame and remorse that your sin has brought you, that you
could speak very forcibly to any girl whom you saw in danger of running
the same risk? Would not you, out of the kindness of your woman’s
heart, warn her not to do as you have done, and point out to her the
pain that must succeed it?’
‘Oh, yes, of course I could and would, Hugh. It would be very cruel not
to do so.’
‘Then, you see, you _are_ fit for a missionary. You said just now that,
if your father had a son to accompany him to a new country, emigration
would be a different thing for him. Well, if he elects to go, _I_ am
willing to accompany him, and to be, as far as in me lies, as a son to
him--aiding him all I can with my strong young arm and head--on one
condition.’
‘What is the condition, Hugh?’ asked Nell.
‘That you will come, too, as my wife and helper. If you consent, I will
show you a way to heal your sore hurt, that shall bring you the utmost
peace at last. I don’t promise you happiness, though I would try hard
to secure you that also; but peace I know you will have, for God will
send it. Come with me, and be my helper and companion. We will go to
some country, so widely different from England that nothing in it shall
ever have the power to remind you of the terrible experience you have
passed through here; and in a warmer climate you will, I hope, regain
the health and strength which you have lost. Do you remember how you
told me long ago that I was cut out for a missionary, and you were
right. The very thought warms my blood. We will go to South Africa, or
anywhere that is considered best for us all, and I will devote my life
to securing the happiness of yours. Will you come?’
Nell turned round and looked at him with astonishment.
‘Will I go to South Africa with you as your wife? Hugh, do you know
what you are asking me?’
‘Exactly. I am asking you the same thing I asked you four months ago,
and you refused.’
‘But you thought I was a different girl then from what you know now. I
have told you all. I--I--am--’
And here she faltered, and looked down at the blades of grass she was
twisting about in her hands.
‘Let there be no misunderstanding between us, Nell. Let me finish the
sentence for you, and don’t be offended at what I say, for I speak
plainly, so that you may be sure that I do not deceive myself any more
than you. I know now that you have parted with the greatest glory of
your unmarried womanhood; that you have, what the world calls, fallen;
that you lived in a state of sin for three long years, knowing it to be
sin, and wished for no better lot; and that even at this moment you
would go back to that condition if you could. Do I speak too plainly,
my dear? Do I hurt you?’
Nell shook her head, but did not answer him in words.
‘Well, then, you see there is no need for you to tell me anything;
and if there were the remotest chance of your being tempted to go
back to that life, or if the man you cared for were in a position to
marry you, I would not dare ask you to share my lot. But there is no
chance of either of these things occurring to you. The only future I
can see before you is, to live in this simple place where you will
have no distraction from your sad thoughts, and where maybe you will
eventually die, from fretting after the impossible, or from remorse
for that which can never be undone again. If you can make up your
mind to leave England with me, I think I can save you much of this. I
think I can lead your thoughts to dwell on something better than your
past life, and renovate your health by diverting them. I think that,
with the help of God and time, I may be able to show you a way out of
all this terrible trouble that bids fair to blight your youth, and
live, perhaps, to hear you acknowledge that it was permitted in mercy
to make you better able to sympathise with the sin and sufferings of
your fellow-creatures. This is what I hope for, Nell; but I may be
presumptuous in hoping it after all.’
‘And you would make _me_ your wife, Hugh; knowing all and hating all,
as you do. Oh, it is impossible. You are too good for me. I am not
worthy to marry you. I told you so from the first.’
‘We need not talk of worthiness or unworthiness to one another,’
answered Hugh. ‘We are man and woman, and I love you. That is quite
enough. The matter lies between ourselves alone. No one else will ever
hear of it.’
‘Ah Hugh, forgive me, but I _don’t_ love you. Therein lies all the
difference. I will not deceive you in the slightest particular. My
heart still clings to, and is wrapped up in this--this--man. I cannot
forget him. I cannot un-love him. For three long happy years he taught
me to regard him as my husband, and the fact that he never married me
in church makes no difference to my affection. I am sorry--I grieve
deeply night and day that he has left me in so cruel a manner, but
still I love him. I am more like a widow than a wicked girl. I suppose
it is part of my wickedness--the greatest part perhaps--that I _cannot_
feel how wicked I have been. I only know that my husband has left me
for another woman, and that he cannot have realised what my love for
him was, or he never would have done it. Is that very wicked?’ said
Nell, as she looked up into the young man’s face.
The answer he made her was very different from what she expected of him.
‘No, Nell, it is not wicked. If I had not known that _that_ was the
way in which you regarded the past I would not have asked you to be
my wife. But the heart that can be so faithful to one man--the man who
has betrayed it--will be as faithful to another when once its tears are
dried for the first. I, too, look on you as a widow, as something far
more to be pitied than a widow. But it is all over now, my poor girl.
You know that without my telling you; so, whether you can forget it or
not, let me try to make the remainder of your life useful and happy.
Will you, Nell?’
‘Oh, Hugh, you are too good. I never knew anyone so good and kind in
all my life before. If--if--we went far away from England and all its
dreadful associations, where we should hardly ever hear its name again,
I think I could be happy, or at least contented with you as my friend.
And if, Hugh, it was some little time before I could think of you in
any other light than that of a friend you would not be angry, would
you? You would be a little patient with me, and remember how much I
have suffered--how hardly I have been used--until I feel as if I could
never trust to a man’s promises again.’
‘If you will come with me to South Africa and help me in my missionary
work, Nell,’ said Hugh, as he took the listless hand hanging down by
her side and pressed it softly, ‘I will never ask you for the affection
nor the duty of a wife till you can tell me that you are ready and
willing to give it me. Will you trust me so far--that if the love I
long for should never spring up in your heart for me I will never
demand it, nor worry you because it is not there, but still do my
utmost to teach you how to lighten your heavy burden by working for God
and God’s creatures? Do you believe me? Will you trust me?’
‘Yes, Hugh, yes. I will trust you through everything. And if father and
mother should elect to emigrate and leave the dear old farm for good
and all, why, I will go with them and you--as your wife.’
And she held out her hand to him as she concluded. Hugh seized it, and
carried it to his lips.
‘You have made me so happy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, Nell, whether as
friends, or as husband and wife, you are _my_ Nell now for evermore,
and I will never let you go again.’