John Wesley sat alone in the room, thinking his thoughts. They were
not unhappy, though tinged with a certain mournfulness at times.
The mournful tinge was due to the reflection that once more he must
reconcile himself to live alone in the world. For a brief space he had
had a hope that it might be given to him to share the homely joys of his
fellow-men. He now saw that it was not to be; and he bowed his head to
the decree of the Will which he knew could not err.
Alone? How could such a reflection have come to him? How could he who
sought to walk through the world with the Divine companionship of the
One to whom he trusted to guide his steps aright feel lonely or alone?
This was the thought that upheld him now. He could feel the hand that he
knew was ever stretched out to him. He touched it now as he had touched
it before, and he heard the voice that said:
“I have called ye friends.”
He was happy--as happy as the true man should be who knows that the
woman whom he loves is going to be made happy. He now perceived that
everything had been ordered for the best, this best being the ultimate
happiness of the woman whom he loved. He now saw that although he might
strive to bring happiness to her, he might never succeed in doing so.
Even if she had loved him her quick intelligence could not fail
to whisper to her what the people around them would be saying out
loud--that John Wesley had married the daughter of a humble fisherman of
Cornwall, and that that was no match for him to make. She would hear
it said that John Wesley, who was ever anxious for the dignity of the
Church to be maintained, had shown himself to be on the level with my
lord's greasy, sottish chaplain, who had showed himself ready to marry
my lady's maid when commanded to do so by his master, when circumstances
had made such an act desirable.
Would such a young woman as Nelly Polwhele be happy when now and again
she should hear these whispers and the consciousness was forced upon her
that John Wesley was believed to have made a fool of himself?
But even to assume what her thoughts would be was to assume that she had
loved him, and this she had never done. He was convinced that she had
never ceased to love the man to whom she had given her promise. To be
sure, she had told him when they had been together on the cliffs that
someone else had come into her life. But that he believed to be only a
passing fancy of hers. It was impossible that such a young woman, having
given her promise to so fine a fellow as Captain Snowdon, should allow
his place in her heart to be taken by anyone else.
He wondered if the Squire had a son as well as daughters. Nelly had
talked to him often enough about the young ladies, but not a word had
she breathed about a young gentleman. If there was a son, would it
be beyond the limits of experience that this village girl should be
captivated by his manners--was it beyond the limits of experience that
the young man might have been fascinated by the beauty of the girl and
so have talked to her as such young men so often did, in a strain of
flattery that flattered the poor things so that they were led to hope
that an offer of marriage was approaching?
He resolved to make enquiry on this point from Nelly herself should she
still maintain that her affection had changed. But meantime----
His lucubrations were interrupted by the sudden return of Captain
Snowdon. He was plainly in a condition of great excitement. His coat was
loose and his neckerchief was flying.
“We are too late, Mr. Wesley,” he cried. “We are too late. The girl has
given both of us the slip. I called at the cottage to fetch her hither.
I did not find her at home. This is what was put into my hand.”
He thrust out a piece of paper with writing upon it.
“_I cannot stay--I dare not stay any longer where I am forced to see you
every day, and am thus reminded of my promise which I know I cannot now
keep. Please try not to follow me; 'twould be of no use. I must be apart
from you before I make up my mind. I am very unhappy, and I know that
I am most unhappy because I have to give pain to one who is the best of
men._
“_Nelly._”
“You have read it?” cried Snowdon. “I had no notion that her whimsies
would carry her so far. Oh, she is but a girl after all--I tell you that
she is no more than a girl.”
“She is a girl, and I think that she is the best that lives, to be a
blessing to a good man's life,” said Wesley, returning the letter to his
trembling hand.
“The best? The best? She has made a fool of the man who would have died
to save her from the least hurt, and you call her the best!” he cried,
walking to and fro excitedly, crumpling up the letter with every stride.
“She is the best,” said Wesley. “Sir, cannot you see that those lines
were written by a woman who is anxious to be true to herself? Cannot you
see that her sole fear is that she may do an injustice to the man who
loves her?”
“You see things, sir, that none other can see; I am but a plain man, Mr.
Wesley, and I can see naught in this letter save the desire of a fickle
young woman to rid herself of a lover of whom she has grown weary. Well,
she has succeeded--she has succeeded! She exhorts me not to follow her.
She need not have been at the trouble to do so: I have no intention of
following her, even if I knew whither she has gone. Have you any guess
as to the direction she has taken? Not that I care--I tell you, sir, I
have no desire to follow her. Who do you suspect is her lover?”
“Mr. Snowdon,” said Wesley, “her lover stands before me in this room.
The poor child has had her doubts, as any true girl must have when she
thinks how serious a step is marriage, and the best way that you can
dissipate such doubts is to show to her that you have none.'Tis left for
you to prove yourself a true man in this matter, Captain Snowdon, and I
know that, being a true man, you will act as a true man should act.”
“I know not what you would suggest, sir, but I can promise you that if
you hint that I should seek to follow her, you make a mistake,” said
Snowdon.
“She may go whithersoever she pleases. I have no mind to be made a fool
of a second time by her. I have some self-respect still remaining, let
me tell you, Mr. Wesley.”
“You may be sure that no advice to sacrifice it will come from me, sir,”
said Wesley. “Oh, Mr. Snowdon, did not you come to me an hour ago to
ask me to be your friend in this matter? Did you not ask me to give my
advice to the young woman of whom we have been speaking? Was not that
because you believed that my advice would be right?”
“I know that it would have been right, Mr. Wesley; but now----”
“If you could trust to me to give her good advice, why cannot you prove
that this was your hope, by hearkening to the advice which I am ready to
give to you?”
The big man, who was standing in the middle of the room, had made
several passionate attempts to speak, but none of them could be called
successful. When Wesley had put his last question, he tried to frame a
reply. He put out an arm with an uplifted forefinger and his lips began
to move. Not a word would come. He looked at Wesley straight in the
face for a long time, and then he suddenly turned away, dropped into the
nearest chair, and bent his head forward until his chin was on his hand,
and he was gazing at the floor.
Wesley let him be. He knew something of men and their feelings, as well
as their failings.
There was a long silence before the man arose and came to him, saying in
a low voice:
“Mr. Wesley, I will trust to your judgment. I will do whatsoever you bid
me.”
Wesley grasped him by the hand.
“I had no doubt of you, my friend,” he said. “I felt that any man whom
Nelly Polwhele loved----”
“Ay, loved--loved!” interjected Snowdon.
“Loves--loves--in love there is no past tense,” said Wesley. “She loved
you, and she loves you still--she will love you forever. You will come
with me, and I know that mine will be the great happiness of bringing
you together. What greater happiness could come to such as I than this
which, by the grace of Heaven, shall be mine?”
“She gave you her confidence? You know whither she has fled?”
Wesley shook his head.
“She told me nothing; remember that I have not seen her since you
returned to her,” he said. “But I think that I can say whither she has
gone.'Tis but six or seven miles from here. Have you heard of Ruthallion
Mill?”
The mariner struck the palm of his left hand with his right fist. The
blow had weight enough in it to make the casements quiver.
“Wherefore could I not have thought of the Mill?” he cried.' “I was fool
enough to let a thought of Squire Trevelyan's Court come into my mind.”
“I have no doubt that we shall find her at the Mill,” said Wesley. “The
miller has been a second father to her, and, besides, he has a daughter.
'Tis to friends such as these that she would go for succour and sympathy
in her hour of trouble.” Captain Snowdon mused for a moment.
“How do I know that they will be on my side, Mr. Wesley?” he asked.
“They may reckon that she has been ill-used--that she has a right to
change her mind and to choose whomsoever she will.”
“Mr. Snowdon,” said Wesley, “it doth not need that one should be
possessed of a judgment beyond that of ordinary people to decide the
right and the wrong of this affair in which we all take a huge interest.
Come, sir, let us prepare for the best and not for the worst. What, are
you a master-mariner and yet have not learned that the best way to stamp
out a mutiny is by a display of promptitude. Let us lose no time over
the discussion of what the result of our action may be--let us act at
once.”
He went to the door..
“Nay, sir; but you are a sick man--how will you make this journey?” said
Snowdon.
“I am no longer a sick man,” said Wesley. “I would not give a second
thought to the setting out upon a journey to the Mill on foot. But there
will be no need for this. Mr. Hartwell will lend us his light cart; it
will hold three.”
“Three? But we are but two, sir.”
“Ay, Mr. Snowdon--only two for the journey to the Mill; but we shall
need an extra seat for our return.”
A few words to Mr. Hartwell and his easy running waggon was at the door.
The drive through the valley of the Lana on this lovely afternoon had
an exhilarating effect upon Captain Snowdon, for Wesley took care that
their conversation should be-on topics far removed from their mission
at this time. He wished to be made acquainted with his companion's views
respecting many matters of the Orient. Was it possible that the Jesuits
had sent missionaries to the Indies and even to China? Had Captain
Snowdon had any opportunity of noting-the result of their labours? Had
Captain Snowdon learned if the Jesuits discountenanced any of the odious
native customs such as the burning of widows--the throwing of infants
into the sacred river of Ganges? Or did the missioners content
themselves with simple preaching?
The journey to the Mill was all too short to allow of Captain Snowdon's
answering more than a few of the questions put to him by the discreet
Mr. Wesley, and it was not until they were turning down the little lane
that the ship-master came to an abrupt end of his replies, and put the
nervous question to his companion:
“Shall we find her here, or have we come on a wild-goose chase?”
In a few minutes they were in her presence--almost in her presence; they
caught sight of her flying through the inner door when they entered the
Mill room.
The miller, in his shirtsleeves and wearing his working apron, gave a
loud laugh and shouted “Stop thief!” but his daughter and her mother
were looking grave and tearful. They moved to the door by which Nelly
had made her escape, but checked themselves and returned to greet Wesley
and Snowdon. They hoped that the sun had not been overwarm during the
drive through the valley, and that Mr. Wesley had fully recovered from
his sickness.
The miller came to the point with his usual directness.
“You have come to carry the girl home with you, I doubt not?” he said;
and forthwith his wife and daughter made for the door.
Captain Snowdon looked ill at ease. He glanced toward the outer door.
“How oft have I not told her that a judgment would fall upon her for
the heartburnings that she brought about--all through her kindness o'
heart?” continued the miller. “Poor daughter! But they all go through
the same course, Captain, of that you may be assured, albeit I doubt not
that you think that so dread a case as yours has never been known i'
the world before. When the marriage day draws nigh, the sweetest and the
surest of them all has a misgiving. Don't be too ready to blame them,
sir. The wonder is that when she sees so many errors hurried into under
the name of marriage, any maid can bring herself to take upon her the
bondage.” Captain Snowdon nodded sideways and looked shyly down.
“Nature is stronger than experience, miller,” said Wesley. “I am
bold enough to think that you could give Mr. Snowdon a pinch of your
experience in your garden, after you have told Nelly that I seek a word
with her here. I am pretty certain that I shall have completed my task
before your experiences as a married man are exhausted.”
“Right, sir,” said the miller. “Captain, I show you the door in no
inhospitable spirit. I'll join you in the turning of a pinion.”
Captain Snowdon seemed pleased to have a chance of retiring, returning
to the open air; he hurried out by one door, while the miller went
through the other and shouted for Nelly. His wife's remonstrance with
him for his unfeeling boisterousness reached Wesley, who was now alone
in the room.
He was not kept long waiting. Nelly entered, the miller leading her by
the hand, and then walking slowly to the outer door..
“My dear, you know why I have come hither,” said Wesley, taking her hand
in both of his own. “You asked for my counsel once, and I gave it to
you. I could only give it to you at that time in a general way. I had
not seen the man to whom you had given your promise; but having seen
him, and knowing what manner of man he is--and I am something of a judge
of a man's character--I feel that I would be lacking in my duty to you,
dear child, if I were to refrain from coming to you to plead for--for
your own happiness.”
“Have I forfeited all your esteem by my behaviour, sir?” she cried,
still holding his hand and looking at him with piteous eyes. “Do you
think of me as a light-minded girl, because I confessed to you--all that
I did confess?”
“I have never ceased to think of you with affection,” he said.
“Ah! the affection of a man who is esteemed by all the world, for a poor
girl who touched the hem of his life, and then passed away never to be
seen by him again.”
She spoke in a curious tone of reproach. He looked at her, asking
himself what she meant.
“Child, child, you little know how I have thought of you,” he said
slowly. “Do you believe that the path of my life has been so gilded with
sunshine that I take no count of such hours as we passed together when
we walked through the valley, side by side--when we sat together on the
cliffs?”
She gave a little cry of joy and caught up his hand and kissed it.
He was startled. He turned his eyes upon her. She was rosy red. Her head
was bowed.
In that instant he read her secret.
There was a long silence. Only occasionally a little sob came from her.
“Child,” he said in a low voice. “Child, you have been very dear to me.”
She looked up with streaming eyes.
“Say those words again--again,” she cried in faltering tones.
“They are true words, my dear,” he said. “The life which it has been
decreed that I shall lead must be one of loneliness--what most men and
all women call loneliness. Such joys of life as love and marriage and a
home can never be for me. I have given myself over body and soul to the
work of my Master, and I look on myself as separate forever from all the
tenderness of life. They are not for me.”
“Why should they not be for you? You have need of them, Mr. Wesley?”
“Why should they not be for me, do you ask?” he cried. “They are not for
me, because I have been set to do a work that cannot be done without
a complete sacrifice of self. Because I have found by the bitterest
experience, that so far as I myself am concerned--I dare not speak for
another--these things war against the Spirit. If I thought it possible
that a woman should be led to love me I would never see her again.”
“Oh, do not say that--do not say that!” she said piteously.
“I do say it,” he cried. “Never--never--never would I do so great an
injustice to a woman as to marry her. I tell you that I would think of
it as a curse and not a blessing. I know that I have been appointed to
do a great work, and I am ready, with God's help, to trample beneath my
feet everything of life that would turn my thoughts from that work. The
words are sounding in my ear day and night--day and night, 'If any man
come to Me and hate not his father and mother and wife and children
and brethren and sisters--yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my
Disciple.'”
He stood away from her, speaking fervently. His face, pale by reason
of his illness, had become paler still: but his resolution had not
faltered, his voice had not broken.
She had kept her eyes fixed upon him. The expression upon her face was
one of awe.
She shuddered when he took a step toward her and held out a thin white
hand to her. She touched it slowly with her own.
“Nelly,” he said, “there is a joy in self-sacrifice beyond any that
the world can give. I look on you as one of my children--one of that
Household of Faith who have told me that they had learned the Truth from
my lips. My child, if you were called on to make any great sacrifice for
the Truth, would you not make it? Although I may seem an austere man to
you, I do not live so far apart from those who are dear to me as to be
incapable of sympathising with them in all matters of their daily life.
I think you knew that or you would not have confessed to me that you
fancied your love had suffered a change.”
She rose from her chair, and passed a hand wearily across her face.
“A fancy--it was a fancy--a dream--oh, the most foolish dream that ever
a maiden had,” she said. “Has it ever been known that a maiden fancied
she loved the shadow of a dream when all the time her heart was given to
a true man?”
“Dear child, have you awakened?” he asked.
“My dreaming time is past,” she replied.
“I may bid Captain Snowdon to enter?” he said.
“Not yet--not yet--I must be alone; I will see him in another hour.”
He kissed her on the forehead, and went with unfaltering feet into the
sunshine.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Love That Prevailed, by Frank Frankfort Moore