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diff --git a/old/63310-0.txt b/old/63310-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 66e511e..0000000 --- a/old/63310-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3781 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Chapel on the Hill, by Alfred Pretor - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Chapel on the Hill - - -Author: Alfred Pretor - - - -Release Date: September 26, 2020 [eBook #63310] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHAPEL ON THE HILL*** - - -Transcribed from the 1904 Deighton Bell & Co. edition by David Price, -email ccx074@pglaf.org - - - - - - THE CHAPEL - ON THE HILL - - - * * * * * - - BY - - ALFRED PRETOR - - FELLOW OF ST. CATHARINE’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE - AUTHOR OF ‘RONALD AND I’ - - * * * * * - - “Some falls are means the happier to arise.” - - —_Cymbeline_, IV. 2 _ad fin_ - - * * * * * - - CAMBRIDGE - DEIGHTON BELL & CO. - LONDON GEORGE BELL & SONS - 1904 - - * * * * * - - CAMBRIDGE - PRINTED BY JONATHAN PALMER - ALEXANDRA STREET - - * * * * * - -_To the_ -_memory of_ -‘_Judy_’ -(_Ob. Aug. 27_, _1904_) - - “A soul she had on earth.” - - —BYRON. - - “The more I learn to know man, the better I like dogs.” - - —GERMAN PHILOSOPHER. - - - - -PREFACE - - -_To those_, _I think a lessening number_, _who may find themselves at -variance with_ “_my Rector’s_” _theology_, _I tender the following -quotation from one of the ablest and deepest thinkers of the past -century_: - - “If, instead of the ‘glad tidings’ that there exists a Being in whom - all the excellences which the highest human mind can conceive exist - in a degree inconceivable to us, I am informed that the world is - ruled by a Being whose attributes are infinite, but what they are we - cannot learn, nor what are the principles of his government, except - that ‘the highest human morality which we are capable of conceiving’ - does not sanction them; convince me of it, and I will bear my fate as - I may. But when I am told that I must believe this, and at the same - time call this Being by the names which express and affirm the - highest human morality, I say in plain terms I will call no being - good who is not what I mean when I apply that epithet to my - fellow-creatures.”—J. S. MILL, _Examination of Sir W. Hamilton’s - Philosophy_, pp. 102, 103 (Criticism of Mansel). - -_I have omitted from the above the author’s peroration_, _which is -couched in language too strong to suit the taste of the present -generation_. - -_That the Bible is our one and only true guide_, _we believe_; _but we -are nowhere instructed to make an idol and a fetish of the form in which -it is presented_. _It was written to suit all times_; _we must read it -in the language of to-day_. - -_In the controversy between the Squire and himself the Rector is by no -means guiltless of plagiarism_. _Ford_, _who knew Spain as intimately as -an Englishman can ever know it_, _advances the self-same arguments in his -comments on the national sport_. - -_A word more and I have done_. _It is reported on good authority that -one of our greatest divines—the author of_ ‘Butler’s Analogy’—_held a -confident belief in the re-existence of animals_. _They share our doom -of suffering and death_: _why not our promise of happiness beyond_? -_They have done nothing to forfeit their reward_. - - _A. P._ - -CAMBRIDGE, - _August_, 1904. - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -RIVERDALE and I—to wit one Harold Stirling by name—had been close friends -almost since life began, at our private school, our public school, and -again at college. And we were meeting now for the last time as -undergraduates in Riverdale’s rooms at Cambridge. For the choice that -comes, once at any rate in a lifetime, to all, had come to us, and we had -chosen divergent, to some it would appear antagonistic, careers. - -To judge from his personal appearance, Riverdale at any rate had chosen -wisely for himself when he elected to become an artist. Smoking at his -ease, in a picturesque environment of flowers and ferns, pictures and -statuettes, he looked like what he was—a well-to-do indolent dreamer, who -might possibly succeed as a painter, but would never make much of life in -any other line. Fortunately for him he had no need to trouble himself -about the future. A kindly fate had settled all this in advance, when -his only surviving relative, an uncle, had made him a comfortable -allowance of a thousand a year, adding the still more comfortable -assurance that the family estate of Riverdale should be his when the time -came that he himself should have no further use for it. - -Study him, as the glow from a reading-lamp falls full on his features, -and you will say that his personality is concentrated in his eyes. -Sapphire blue they would have been called by a casual observer, but it -always seemed to me that they held in them a deeper tint, as of violet or -purple. But whatever their colour, they are about as rare in humanity as -is a blue rose or a green chrysanthemum among the creations of the floral -world. Not that they betoken much character, I think. It is simply -their beauty, and perhaps their rarity, that constitutes the attraction. -At any rate, veiled by long lashes, and set in Italian features, as was -the case with Riverdale, it is impossible to hold them indicative of -energy or activity in life. - -It was a strange coincidence that had made bosom friends of two natures -so antagonistic, to all appearance, as Riverdale’s and mine. But it was -a coincidence that occurs oftener than would at first sight seem -possible. Perhaps it is explicable by the well-known theory that every -character is on the search for its complement. If so, it may well be -that my own sturdy directness found its natural relaxation in the -captivating indifferentism of my friend. Anyhow, the companionship had -begun early at school, where a mutual admiration for one’s opposite is -often the secret of a lifelong friendship. And as Riverdale’s good looks -and careless insouciance had always been found irresistible, it was my -own commonplace personality that was envied by my schoolfellows for the -dignity it had acquired by his friendship. - -And now that I have given you an idea of my friend, let me for once -attempt the impossible and try to describe myself. An athlete I think I -may call myself, for I have raced and rowed and played cricket and -football ever since I was a boy of ten—of the type which is welcomed in -all our schools as the recognised trainer of youth. Not so very plain, I -hope, and certainly well set up in the way of muscles and sinews. But -quite as certainly not in any way striking like Riverdale, and without -the faintest pretension to anything remarkable in the direction of -beauty. Finally, and to complete the portrait, fair in complexion, with -blue eyes and a slight tendency to freckles, which I abominate. In all -respects a worthy foil to Riverdale’s dreamy picturesqueness. - -Left an orphan at an early date, with a comfortable income of £300 a -year, I had never known the want of money, though I had no large balance -to waste on the luxuries that had become necessaries to my friend. -Without any real talent, and notwithstanding my devotion to athletics, I -had taken a fair degree, and learned something of theology under the -guidance of one of the leading minds at Cambridge. Only as yet I had -come to no conclusions outside the main doctrines of our faith; and to -what end my views were shaping themselves I had never paused on my way to -consider. Experience and circumstances, as they developed themselves, -would, I supposed, answer the question, and, having been confronted as -yet by no definite difficulties, I had not troubled to bethink me how I -should meet them. - -“And now tell me, Eric,” I asked, “where are all the Cupids and Psyches -and Fauns to go while you are painting dusky Venetians and the -fair-haired beauties of Genoa?” - -“Oh, I’ve taken a flat, Harold, in a house overlooking Battersea Park, -and they’ll all be transferred there as soon as I am off to-morrow. By -the way, you must look in on them now and then, and see that they are all -right. And you must have that little gladiator I brought from Rome for -yourself. It would never do to separate you, for I’m sure you’d never be -happy without him. Rather like you, I think he is, with his steady -sturdy gaze, as if he knew he had a tough business before him, but -intended to make the best of it, and worry through. Lucky we weren’t -born in each other’s shoes, any way for me, Harold. I couldn’t have -faced life without funds, but should have drifted down and down till I -ended the business with a dose of morphia.” - -“What nonsense, Eric. I do wish you wouldn’t cheapen yourself like that. -You’ve talent enough for both of us, and will be exhibiting in the -Academy while I’m a country curate, and a poor one at that. By the way, -if you don’t mind, I’d sooner have that Antinous than the gladiator. I -don’t particularly want a replica of myself, if it’s all the same to you, -while you might have posed for the Antinous, if you’d been handy; and it -will be better than nothing to have it to look at when I haven’t got the -original on the other side of the table. And now, old friend, good-bye. -It’s past twelve already, and I’ve all my packing to do before the -morning. For I shall be off long before a sybarite like you thinks of -stirring. Let me hear from you now and then, and don’t let the foreign -signoras and Roman models steal all your heart from me.” - -The next day we had parted; he to enjoy life and study art in all the -best galleries on the continent, and I to prepare myself for Ordination -in a quiet village of the West. - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -IT was a cheerful scene on which my eye rested as I looked out upon it -from the Rector’s study, while awaiting my introduction to the Rector -himself. Two large bay windows opened on a terrace, from which a short -flight of steps led down to a lawn, fringed with gaily-coloured flower -beds. Through the open windows streamed into the room a veritable flood -of light and air, creating an atmosphere in which sadness and depression -would have been hopelessly out of place. - -“Impossible,” I murmured, “to write a gloomy Calvinistic sermon in a room -like this, though it’s strange, by the way, that his letters should have -told me nothing of his views.” - -The emerald lawn in the foreground contrasted pleasantly with the violet -haze that rested on the far horizon, and the very air itself seemed -steeped in quiet and repose. Only the song of birds and the mysterious -hum of insect-life broke the stillness of the summer day, to which the -chafing of a trout stream, as it murmured over its rocky bed at the foot -of the Rectory garden, sounded a soft accompaniment. - -And out past the Rectory grounds, past the cheery meadow-land beyond, -where reaping was now in progress, I caught a glimpse of the far off sea -and the Isle of Portland lying on the line of the horizon, with a -delicate veil of summer gauze folded about its head. The charm of it all -wove a spell upon me like a dream. - -“If the Rector is as nice as his Rectory, I shall have a pleasant time of -it,” I said to myself. And the next moment the unspoken thought was -answered in the affirmative, for I felt my hand warmly grasped by the -gentlest-looking and most benevolent of men. And my heart went out to -him on the instant, as to one whose help and guidance I knew would never -fail me, even when my work under him should be ended, and, whether for -good or evil, laid behind me among the retrospects of life. - -“Yes, you’ll do,” he said, after studying me keenly for half-a-minute -with eyes that pierced me through and through. “You look as if you’d -work hard in the right way, and make friends with my villagers and -parishioners. They are a queer lot—to be led, not driven. Above all, -you look as if you had no foolish fads or fancies—the only things I can’t -tolerate when there is so much real work to be done. And you’ll be -content to do it closely on the lines laid down for us all in the Sermon -on the Mount, before Christianity, as Christ left it, had lost its -identity among a crowd of sects and superstitions. By the way, you must -have been surprised, I imagine, that I asked no questions in my letters -as to your opinions, and gave you no hints about my own. - -“The fact is,” he continued, “I care more for what a man does than for -what he thinks, and if you will look after my cottagers, soul and -body—beginning with the body first—you and I will get on well together, -no matter what opinions you hold on all the open questions of the day. -Of course I don’t use the term ‘open’ of anything plainly taught us in -the Gospel narrative and the precepts of our Church. Though even the -latter, as it seems to me, might have been conceived in a somewhat wider -spirit without being wide enough to embrace the Christianity of Christ. -And for this reason I am altogether opposed to commissions and enquiries -of any kind that might impose still further limits and restrictions where -He Himself has made none. What are wanted for the Church are active -energetic workmen, and the wider the doors are thrown open the more of -them we shall get for the work. Think what missionary effort itself -could accomplish if all its labourers were content to waive, one and all -of them, their private specifics, and preach only the clear unquestioned -truths which the Master Himself has sanctioned. - -“On all questions but these you may hold what theories you will—that the -world was created in six days or in six times as many millions of years; -that the Old Testament miracles were literal facts, or allegories for the -suggestion of much-needed truths. And you may hold, if you will, that no -creature that has life will perish. We are told, are we not? that He -‘will save both man and beast,’ which means, if its means anything, that -other creatures besides man will have a portion in the future state. - -“But think well and carefully before you teach an Eternity of Punishment. -The responsibility of doing so is far too grave to be carelessly incurred -in the light of a wider and clearer-sighted knowledge. Almost it seems -that the guess which Charlotte Brontë hazarded in the mouth of one of her -characters will before long have crystallized into doctrine: ‘No; I -cannot believe that. I hold another creed, which no one ever taught me, -and which I never mention, but in which I delight, and to which I cling, -for it extends hope to all; it makes eternity a rest—a mighty home, not a -terror and an abyss.’ - -“Above all things, do not confuse your mind and paralyse your energies -with the question, so all-engrossing now-a-days, of the co-existence of -good and evil, of joy and sorrow, in the world, which is after all no -mystery at all. Or, if there be a mystery, surely it lies in the fact -that anyone should have thought a world of infinite perfection possible. -Why, the fallacy was refuted by Plato himself, to whom it was a -self-evident truth that the creations of The Infinite must needs be -finite and imperfect: in other words, not ‘infinitely’ but only ‘very’ -good. - -“Limitation, imperfection and (by consequence) evil, with their natural -development in sin and suffering and death, were the inevitable portion -of created life, but accompanied (thank heaven!) with a birthright of -possibilities for good, that, rightly used here and hereafter, shall make -us worthy of association, at the last perhaps of union, with the Infinite -Itself. - -“Forgive me if my sermon has wearied you. I can at any rate summarise it -in brief. Teach mainly what has come to us directly from our Master’s -lips—first and foremost, the paramount duty of unselfishness; it embodies -the whole duty of man to man, and a part at least of his duty to his -Creator. And remember that those who came after Him were after all but -men, not exempt from the bias of inclination and judgment, who sometimes -(it is quite possible) may have obscured where they thought to enlighten. -To be followed therefore with all care and caution whenever they defined -or limited what He left wide enough to embrace the world. - -“Of course you will dine with me to-night,” he added cheerily, “and I’ll -try to make amends for the penance I have inflicted on you. Besides, I -want your opinion on the trout from the Rectory stream.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -LIKE his brother at the Manor House hard by, my Rector, Mr. Richardson, -was a widower, having lost his wife only six months before my arrival. -His family was comprised of four children, whose ages descended by even -gradations from Reginald, the eldest, a handsome lad of eighteen whose -school-life had just ended, down to Aggie the youngest, a wild little -maiden of twelve. - -As yet their characters were still unformed, and had been entrusted for -their development to a clever little Belgian, Josephine Armand by name, -who, in addition to the superintendence of their education, managed the -Rector’s household for him, and ruled the domestics with a rod of iron. - -On the day after my arrival I was studying the church and the streets of -the village, which radiated like a fan from the foot of the hill where I -stood, when I was met by Reginald who had dined with us the evening -before. He was to start early the next day for the continent, where he -was to pick up what foreign languages he could before he entered at -Cambridge in the following October. - -By the gate of the churchyard, through which we passed to the Rectory, -stood a time-worn placard requesting visitors not to touch any of the -flowers “excepting those on their own graves.” - -“A remarkable instance of realistic prevision,” said Reggie, “and far too -good to be improved away. Fortunately our villagers are not keenly -appreciative of humour, else the best joke in the county would have been -lost to us long ago. And what are you up to, my children?” he added, -looking in at the window of the Rectory schoolroom, where his sisters -were busily writing at the untidiest of tables, forgetful for once of the -glorious sunshine that blazed down upon the world outside. “Some -mischief, I’ll be bound, else you’d never be so abnormally quiet.” - -“You go on, and don’t disturb us, Reggie,” said Agnes, a lean wiry girl, -with hair much dishevelled under the excitement of composition. “We are -busy preparing verses for the Attar competition prize, the new -dentifrice, you know; you may hear mine if you like. I go in for plain -and simple fact—‘beauty unadorned’ you see: - - ‘Carbolic, camphor, chalk are done; - Attar is all and all in one.’” - -“Admirable, Aggie. Good solid sense, and no foolish striving after the -artistic. And now for yours, Gertie. Being the poetess of the family, -you won’t be content with stern simplicity like that. There’s love and -lovemaking in yours, I’ll be bound.” - -“Well, Reggie, I _have_ tried to add a little romance to it. But somehow -or other the teeth don’t seem to lend themselves readily to the genius of -poetry: - - ‘If Attar you had used in time, - Your teeth would have been white—like mine; - But now my love for you is dead: - Another, ’nother girl I’ll wed.’” - -“Bravo, Gertie! You’re really brilliant. ‘Time’ rhymes admirably with -‘mine,’ and it’s a stroke of true genius to intensify grief by the simple -process of prodelision.” - -“I’m glad you like it, Reggie, though I haven’t the faintest notion of -what ‘prodelision’ means.” - -“And now, Nellie, for yours. I’ve a rooted belief that yours will be the -prize-winner. You’ve a clever head on your shoulders, and can make a -good guess at what will pay.” - -“Well, mine _is_ rather a bold venture, Reggie. I want, you see, to -combine the allied arts of painting and poetry. There’s to be a picture -of King Attar at the top, launching thunderbolts at a crowd of flying -dentists. Off they go in the distance, with their implements of torture -in their hands, and at the bottom of the picture these words are written: - - ‘King Attar and the dentists see; - Choose Attar—and the dentists flee!’ - -But I wish I were handier at drawing. King Attar in his chair of state -is all out of perspective. And the flying dentists look like a lot of -daddy-longlegs; while as for their implements, they might be anything you -please. However, I can easily remedy that by drawing lines to the margin -with an explanation of each particular instrument—‘these are tweezers,’ -‘this is a file’—like Melton Prior does in his war pictures, you know.” - -“Capital! You’ve got everything cut and dried, I see. Though, by the -way, you needn’t talk bad grammar under the stimulus of composition. -Didn’t your governess teach you that ‘like Melton Prior does’ is bad -grammar? If not, she isn’t worth her salt.” - -“It’s our French, Reggie, that troubles her more than our English. At -any rate, when she called us in to dinner yesterday, I said, ‘_Je suis -déjà_,’ meaning, of course, ‘I am all ready,’ and she had just the -faintest suspicion in the world that I intended it for a joke, and boxed -my ears on the chance.” - -“And served you jolly well right for your cheek. But I can’t stop -chattering here. Give me half the prize if you get it, for the -encouragement I’ve given you.” - -As the door closed upon him something suspiciously like the sound of a -kiss was heard in the corridor outside, whereupon the door re-opened and -a laughing face peeped in at the children. - -A dainty little personage she was, to whom her cousin Reggie had long ago -given his heart. And a pretty picture she made in the school-room as the -sunlight fell on her hair from the window opposite, and warmed its ruddy -glow to the famed Venetian tint. Not the very highest type of beauty, -perhaps. At any rate the best masters of antiquity would not have -sanctioned the tip-tilted nose and over-large mouth. Yet even they could -have found no fault with the delicate poise of the head, the shapely -neck, above all, with the tawny hazel eyes and slyly drooping lids; and -you must have gone direct to the Faun of the Capitol if you had wished to -rival the sunny brightness of the face, and the rippling smile that -played about her lips. Almost one expected to catch a glimpse of the -pointed ears which Donatello was supposed to conceal behind his curls. - -“Well, you pickles,” she exclaimed, “and where’s your guardian angel -Josephine gone? Not left you to your own devices if she’s a wise woman.” - -“Oh! she’s off to the garden, Cousin Marion, ‘to cut a cabbage to make an -apple pie,’ as Verdant Green said. I mean she’s gone to dig up all the -weeds and dandelions that lie handy. ‘It must be,’ she said, ‘that I -have herbs—savage herbs—to aid the digestion.’ Only the other day she -half poisoned herself with celandine roots, which she thought looked -promising for the composition of a salad.” - -“She’s as good as another gardener,” put in Gertie, “and does all the -weeding. Besides, she’s so beautifully tidy, and consumes all that she -gets, like a well-regulated bonfire. But do stay a minute and help us, -Marion. We’re making poetry to win the Attar Competition. Do give us a -verse or two; we’ve used up all our ideas.” - -“What I, my child? Why, I never made a line of poetry in my life, and -hardly ever remembered one. See how the very thought of it has made me -fly.” At the door she looked back laughing: - - “‘Reggie, you kissed me just outside the door; - Use Attar, or don’t kiss me any more!’” - -And, laughing still, she fled—fortunately without seeing me, who had -watched the proceedings unobtrusively from the shelter of a friendly -clematis. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -I HAD found lodgings with one Peggy Ransom, whom I soon discovered to be -one of the chief characters in the village, as the Rector had reported -her. A tiny old lady she was, with a small and shrivelled face, like a -Ribston pippin that had survived well on into April, and bright beady -eyes that always reminded me of a squirrel’s. She had, too, something of -the same small creature’s animal vivacity, and talked in a queer little -chirpy strain that suggested its note of satisfaction when it has lighted -upon a particularly fine nut or acorn. - -In dress she was scrupulously neat, though in the dress of some -pre-historic age. For example, she never appeared without a silk -’kerchief bound over her head, because, as she said, you never “knew -where a draught might find you, and prevention was better than cure.” - -On Sundays and holidays she appeared resplendent in a black silk gown, -which, she told me with pride, could “stand of itself in the days when -the Rector gave it her”—how many years before I had never had the -rudeness to enquire. But it was still a fine article of raiment, and had -been preserved with such scrupulous care that even in its old age it -still retained its dignity. - -She was not, I found, a heart-whole admirer of the Rector’s opinions. -“As good and kindly a gentleman,” she said, “as ever trod in shoeleather, -and a real Christian. But takes things a bit too pleasantly, I allow, -and makes out the next world to be a more comfortable place than some of -us, I fear, will find it. Not but what ’tis better that way than to go -about, as some of us do, with faces sad enough to sour the cream, finding -no pleasure in all the gifts the Almighty has showered upon us.” - -She had lost her husband and all her family one by one, and found the joy -of her life in the Rector and the Rectory children, who were always in -and out of the kitchen, worrying her and hindering her work, it seemed to -me, though she would never hear a word from anyone against them. “Bless -their hearts,” she would say, “I’d be a lone and dreary old body without -them, though I do wish that child Aggie would come up the garden path -like a Christian, instead of jumping over the flower-beds and tempting -the cats to play hide-and-seek among my lilies of the valley.” - -But of all the Rectory children Reginald was her first and special -favourite. This was unfortunate for me. Not but what I liked the -lad—what little I had seen of him before he left for the continent. But -it was tedious to be reminded so often of his perfections. Besides, I -had a lively remembrance of the love-scene that had passed between him -and his cousin on the day that followed my arrival, which for some reason -or other I had thought out of place and unseasonable. Though of course I -had no right to begrudge two cousins the pleasure of a cousinly -salutation, and perhaps, if Marion had been old and ill-favoured, I -should have found no temptation to do so. As it was, and for whatever -reason, I was glad that Reggie was for the moment out of the field of my -vision. And I should have tried to forget the liberty, for so I called -it, that he had taken in kissing her, if only Peggy had not so strongly -insisted on the nearness and intimacy of their relations. She was for -ever harping on Reggie’s good looks—he was well enough I admit, but, -after all, nothing to compare with Riverdale—and what a handsome pair -they’d make, and how suitable the match would be. “And Master Reginald -just worships the ground under her feet,” she would add; as if I couldn’t -see that much without Peggy’s interference. And then she would look -slyly at me and say, “I suppose _you_ think her good-looking, don’t you, -sir? The two curates who were here before you both made eyes at -her—really Peggy, I thought, you can be a little vulgar at times—indeed, -I may say it was for that reason they left us, and because they saw they -had no chance against Master Reginald. It is true they were none too -well favoured—short and dark the first was, and the last one thin and -scraggy. Not but what he was beautifully fair in complexion.” - -For a while after this interview Peggy and I were at variance. Every -scrap of her information had been distasteful to me, especially her -reference to the complexion of the curate who had preceded me, in which I -detected, however gratuitously, an allusion to that slight tendency to -freckles which I thought somewhat marred my own completeness. - -But on the whole Peggy and I got on capitally together, and she was in -most respects an ideal landlady for a curate who was new and strange to -his surroundings. She had lived her life in the parish, and knew its -landmarks as no one else knew them. Besides, she amused me with her -gossip, especially when I could draw her on the subject of the Rector and -his theories, which she was never weary of discussing. - -“The worst of it is,” she would say authoritatively, “he’s none too -strict, to my way of thinking, in the matter of church-going. Only the -other day he said to me ‘Yes, Peggy, church-going is good for all of us, -not but what we may have too much of it’—did ever woman hear the like -from her minister?—or rather we may follow it to the exclusion of better -things. To _do_ the thing we ought is better than to _listen to_ it, and -I’d come down easy on any one who stayed away from Church to do a kind -act for a neighbour. Unluckily it’s usually to please ourselves, and not -to help our neighbours, that we fight so shy of our Church.’” - -In her little peculiarities Peggy was wonderfully diverting. For -example, whenever she found herself in difficulties, as when the potatoes -were hard, or the meat overdone, she would take refuge in the platitude, -“I’ve done my best: I can no more,” thus casting all her care upon Fate -as the inscrutable power which had wrought the mischief and must take the -responsibility. She was also a firm believer in the guidance of -astrology, always planting her flowers and vegetables when two benign -planets were in conjunction, and avoiding with scrupulous care the -baleful influence of Mars and Saturn. Only I wish she had abstained more -wisely from words of which she had not mastered the meaning, as when she -told me they had been “hanging a hamlet” in the Rectory garden, or -“keeping the university” of the King’s birthday! - -There was something else by the way that gave Peggy Ransom a special -interest in my eyes. She had been housekeeper at the Manor House in the -days of Marion’s youth, but had left it fifteen years before to form her -own ill-fated marriage. - -It was not much, but I suppose it was better than nothing, for an -incipient lover like myself to learn at first-hand what his lady-love was -like in the days of her infancy. But either Peggy’s memory was failing -her, or her love for the Rectory children had made her forgetful of her -earlier charge, for her reminiscences of Marion at that age were hardly -of absorbing interest, being limited for the most part to a rambling -catalogue of childish illnesses, and the skill with which Peggy had -treated them. But possibly in the very warmest heart it would be -difficult to stimulate raptures by a record of what your lady-love was -doing at the early age of five. - -This afternoon, for example, I had reached the stage at which Marion was -recovering from a vague and mysterious illness called “thrush,” when we -were interrupted by Aggie, who, as usual, made a bee-line towards us in -flying leaps and bounds across the garden beds. “Here’s a letter for -you, Mr. Stirling,” she cried, “from the Manor House. Uncle Edgar wants -you to dine with him this evening at eight. I told him you had no -engagement; besides, Marion who came with him said she was dying to make -your acquaintance. But you must hurry up and dress for it’s past seven -already.” As she spoke, she had pounced on Peggy’s two cats—Toby and -Sambo by name—who were reposing peacefully on the porch above our heads, -and was off again home down the garden with the pair of them close at her -heels, all the three doing their level best to break off as many flowers -as possible in their passage down the garden. - -There were to be only four of us at dinner that evening. In the -ignorance of my heart I rejoiced at Reggie’s absence, little thinking -that, before the evening was over, I should have been glad to welcome his -cousinly attentions to Marion as a far less dangerous rivalry than the -one which was suddenly to burst upon me from a quarter wholly beyond the -range of my vision. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -THE old Manor House was looking its best, as half an hour later I walked -up through the avenue by which it was approached. - -Planted against the south-west side of a hill, the ground gently falling -away in front of it, it caught the evening sun, which burnished the trees -on either side, and called up all the lovely shades of colour that lie -dormant in old red brick, as the fires that are latent in opal and -carbuncle wake up at the touch of light. It is the fashion already to -disparage Ruskin, and to find that we have over-rated him like so many of -our heroes, but at any rate he was right in his devotion to the fine red -brick of Elizabethan architecture. One marvels how any one who has -looked upon Hatfield or Aston can condescend to build in any other -medium. There is much stone, I know—Ham Hill by preference—that takes a -lovely colouring from age, to which lichen and stonecrop and ivy would -seem to have an instinctive affinity. But the setting provided by -Nature, and the requirements of our dull uncongenial atmosphere find -their proper complement, I think, in a brick-dust red, just as surely as -they repudiate its vile twin brother, the white and yellow clay which -time in its progress only makes more and more disreputable. - -That evening, for the first time, I recognised that I was in love with -Marion—a love that must have had in it no steps and no gradations. The -leap must have been taken at a bound on the day that I caught my first -glimpse of her in the Rectory nursery, though I suppose time added fresh -strength to my devotion by developing fresh features of sympathy and -mutual interest. - -Our party, as I have said, was limited to four, and as the Rector and his -brother at once paired off for the evening, Marion was left to my care, -and our acquaintance progressed rapidly. - -Squire Richardson was, in character and even in appearance, a replica of -his brother—a replica with a single difference. The Squire loved -foxhunting with all the devotion of a country gentleman, while to the -Rector it was the one sport above all others of which he was intolerant. -They had hardly sat down to dinner when the question turned up, and it -was nearly over before they had threshed it out without the smallest -advantage to either side. The Rector was the assailant. - -“How, Edgar, you can possibly justify the cruelty of hunting an animal -which you can’t eat, or use for any purpose when you’ve killed it, I -can’t conceive. Talk of a bull-fight—nonsense, why it’s a fair fight by -comparison. The bull is Master of Ceremonies up to the time of its -death, and then it’s killed painlessly by a single blow. And its flesh -serves the best purpose imaginable, for it’s distributed round among the -poor of the city, who, but for the chance, would never taste any meat but -pork from one year’s end to another. Only the other day I had a specimen -of the methods of your sport. A miserable fox that had been kept in -agonies of terror for half-an-hour was hunted out of its shelter behind a -rock, and deliberately torn to pieces in a shallow lake to which it had -taken itself as a last refuge. Justify that, Edgar, if you can.” - -“Nonsense, Walter,” was the Squire’s reply. “The case was one in a -thousand. The sport, man, is the making of the British yeoman—breeds -pluck and manliness and good riders and good fellowship, and a hundred -other virtues. Besides, what of the horses in a bull-fight? Have they -any of the sport which you tell me the bull enjoys?” - -“Well—no. I grant you have me there. Only unluckily it can’t be -avoided, they told me in Spain. There’s no man living, whatever his -skill and courage, who could tackle one of those wild Spanish bulls if it -came fresh and untired to his hand. And the horses are poor wretched -screws whose life is valueless and worse to them. Besides, the bull -kills them at least as painlessly as they would die by neglect or in some -knacker’s yard. Only it’s a sport that does not bear transplanting to -the provinces. You must see it at Seville or Madrid—or nowhere.” And -while the argument between them raged furiously, but in a perfect spirit -of friendliness, Marion and I were left to ourselves—an opportunity of -which I was not slow to avail myself. - -“Butchered to make a British holiday!” shouted the Rector. - -“Rather to give mettle to our horses and manliness to our men!” shouted -back the Squire. - -With a smile of despair, and a nod in my direction that answered my -unspoken query for permission to accompany her, Marion slipt quietly -through the open window out on to the terrace, and I followed her. - -“They’ll go on like that,” she said, “till they’ve finished their wine. -And the best of it is they never lose their temper, but end as amicably -as they began. It’s a really pretty object-lesson in Christian -forbearance.” - -It was a glorious summer evening, soft and still, with a glow in the sky -that might have been a reflection of the noontide glare, as we went down -the steps of the terrace and across the velvet sward of the old -pleasaunce out into the shrubberies beyond. - -“I wonder which side of the question you took at dinner?” I asked, -anxious to find whether the advanced theories of the Rector had found an -echo in herself. - -“Oh, on the question of hunting,” she answered, “I’m with him. It -savours, I think, of torturing. Of course it’s difficult,” she added, -“to see where to draw the line. For I don’t think we were intended to be -vegetarians. We haven’t the proper teeth, have we? And so it seems to -me that his distinction is a tenable one, and that we may kill animals -that are required for our use. If so, one can’t reasonably object to -shooting them. It’s as painless a death as any other, and, for his own -credit, the man who wants to shoot his game will collect the most -experienced hands he can find to do it.” - -“But what about the side-issues,” I slyly asked her, “arising from the -possibility that all these animals will live again? How shall we meet in -the next world the reproachful glances of the creatures we have slain in -this?” - -“The matter doesn’t trouble me at all,” she answered, “it’s too remote. -Perhaps only the ones we loved will take the forms again in which we knew -them. Perhaps that very love itself will be the constraining power that -shapes them to our recognition. And, after all, something of the same -difficulty meets us in our own case. So far as I can make a guess, it -may be a world very like the present one. Only the animals, I hope, will -be nice and gentle, with all their bad qualities eliminated. Anyhow, no -one, certainly not my uncle, would pretend to have a cut-and-dried -formula for mapping out the future world as they plan an undeveloped city -in America. All he says is that life, like matter, is, in all -probability, indestructible. Many persons, I know, regard such -speculations as worse than unprofitable. To me, on the other hand, they -seem elevating and comforting. And no one can say they are -unwarrantable, when we have the account of the so-called Millennium to -guide us.” - -A strange conversation, you will think, for the first evening of our -meeting, and certainly not symptomatic of the love-making I foreshadowed. -But, after all, a sympathy of interests is not a bad substratum for the -growth of love. Already I felt sure that this was no ordinary girl, and -that she was deeply interested in her uncle’s theories. Indeed there was -perhaps just a trifle of subtlety in my suggestion that I was not -disinclined to accept them. - -And so we strolled among the dimly-lighted shrubberies, chatting on less -impracticable subjects, till the light faded out of the sky, and the -shadows fell, and the Squire shouted a summons to us to join them in the -drawing-room. - -The ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ for and against foxhunting having been exhausted -over their wine, the Squire and the Rector were now deep in discussion -over matters affecting the village. Now and again I heard references to -a certain mysterious council, to a meeting of which my attendance had -been requested for the following day. The Rector had only smiled when he -gave me the message, advising me to attend, and adding a promise of -amusement. - -“I wonder why you tolerate that old institution,” said the Squire, “it’s -purely ridiculous, and only brings contempt on the parish.” - -“It’s just because it is old, Edgar, that I tolerate it—and also -absolutely harmless. The fact is I’m fearfully conservative, and never -meddle with old institutions if I can possibly avoid it. Besides, the -members are all of them very old men, who would be sadly at a loss if -they missed their weekly reunion. But they are to elect no new members, -and, as it is, I revise and reverse their resolutions, when necessary. -So it only means they have the pleasure of passing them.” - -Something like the above I heard from time to time in the intervals of -Marion’s singing. But I had little thought to spare on it. My whole -attention was absorbed in a voice and execution that would have held -their own in any London concert-room. - -It was a pure soprano, of the finest quality, that had been splendidly -trained (I heard afterwards) under the best masters of Leipzig and -Dresden. She began with Tosti’s familiar ballad ‘For ever and for -ever’—a song of atrociously bad sentiment, but wedded to music that fits -it ‘like a glove.’ Only one other writer, within my own range of -knowledge, has realised with such pathos the depths of an infinite -despair, and, if only for the closing scenes of ‘Cometh up as a Flower’ -and ‘Good-bye Sweetheart,’ their authoress should stand not very far -lower than the topmost pinnacle of Fame. Then she passed to a higher -class of music and sang Blumenthal’s ‘Message’ and ‘Requital.’ And my -wonder was that even habituation could have rendered the squire and his -brother so insensitive as to prefer the discussion of their parochial -trivialities. - -I was glad that no conversation followed when she had ended. Almost in -silence, which I could see she appreciated better than words, we parted. -It was only as I turned to say good-bye that my eye rested for a moment -on a photograph which stood on a small table in a corner near the music -stand. It was a portrait of Riverdale, and the companion picture stood -always before my eyes on my writing-table at home. So I had gained a -fresh lesson in the disquietudes of love. In my case, at any rate, its -course was not to lie in smooth untroubled waters. - -As soon as we had started on our walk back to the village, I questioned -the Rector concerning my discovery. “What, you know Riverdale?” he -answered, “and well enough to call him your dearest friend? Verily the -world is small indeed, as wiser men than I have said. He’s a distant -cousin of Marion’s, and, as soon as his work on the continent is ended, -this will be one of the first places that will see him. For we are all -devoted to him, and look forward to some faint reflection of his glory -when he shall have become a well-known artist. Besides, he was always -rather taken with Marion—a suitable match—very—supposing it comes off, -and I think, I may almost say I’m sure, it will.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -THE following evening, punctually at eight o’clock, I presented myself at -the door of the Council Chamber. But the comedy which I had been -promised was not forthcoming. To the surprise of all of us, a tragedy -was represented in its place. - -It was only a self-constituted Council of four, and had nothing to do -with roadways and sanitation. And it met in the village inn of -Fleetwater on a Saturday night, as it had met in the same room at the -same time for fifty years previously. It was deliberative rather than -executive in character, for its one ostensible function was to select the -hymns for the Sunday services. And when this was done it resolved itself -into a committee for discussing the affairs of the parish and the nation -at large. - -“’Twill be a privilege for ye, Master Stirling, to mix for onst wi’ men -as be so much older an’ wiser nor yerself. For wi’ all the book-learnin’ -that has been yours at school and college, ’tis nowt but age an’ -experience as gi’es the true wisdom. Life must be well nigh ended afore -as ever we begins to see the drift an’ bearin’ on’t. An’ so the young -can’t never be wise, though, ’tis true, the aged may sometimes be -foolish.” - -You will gather from the above that Joseph Weyman did not begin by -flattering me. - -The Old Inn where we met was a picturesque thatched cottage, that had -crept up beside the churchyard porch, either to shelter itself beneath -the churchyard trees, or to sanctify its reputation by the proximity of -things divine. And as it lay embowered in a valley three miles from our -western shore, it was cheered rather than saddened by a gentle sighing -from the sea, alternating at times with a deep and hollow roar when a -storm was on its way towards the coast. - -Neither was the Council Chamber without a certain picturesqueness of its -own. Bare it undoubtedly was, for it boasted of only one small table, -drawn up cosily across the fire, and flanked on either side by two -settees with panelled arms and backs, designed apparently to accommodate -the number of the Council; or it may have been that the Council -pre-arranged its number to suit the accommodation supplied for it. For -myself, as the visitor of honour, one of those fine old chairs that -surprise one occasionally in the humblest of cottages had been introduced -from the adjoining room. - -Of course the Council could not deliberate without the sustenance of beer -and tobacco. And the smoke of continuous churchwardens (I include both -the man and his pipe) had toned the colouring of the panels into a rich -and tawny brown, from which the quivering firelight was reflected as from -the ebon mirror favoured by Egyptian palmists. - -The proceedings were opened by our drinking the health of the King with -solemn enthusiasm. And then, before the business of the sitting was -begun, a few words of general conversation were held to be admissible. -It was a former Rector who formed the key-note of it, and a strange -character he must have been if all the stories were true that I heard of -him. - -“’Twas a queer christenin’ you had once in this church, Mr. Weyman, or so -at least I’m told.” The speaker was one Ebenezer Higgins, an Evangelical -of the most pronounced type. For though he represented only a minority -of the parish, it was thought right that all phases of belief within the -Church should be represented on the Council. - -“Aye, ’twas that indeed, Mr. Higgins. You see, our old Rector was -gettin’ aged an’ hard o’ hearin’, an’ when Lucy Stone handed ’n the -child, he said in his easy-goin’ pleasant way, ‘An’ what be we to call -’n, Lucy?’ - -“‘Lucy, Sir,’ she whispered—for ’twas her first, ye see, an’ a terrible -shy young ’ooman she were—‘Lucy, Sir—same as me.’ - -“‘Lucifer!’ he cried, ‘’twill never do; ’tis heathenish, an’ wus than -heathenish.’ - -“An’ I had to shout in his ear, while they was a-titterin’ all round, -till I hadn’t no voice left in me to lead the hymn.” - -“Reminds me, it do,” said Samuel Smiley—landlord he was of the Old Inn -where we met—“o’ when we was marryin’ Andrew and Rebecca Blake. Andrew -was a shy man—a very shy man he were, same as Lucy Stone. You remember -’n well, Mr. Strong. An’ when the time came for unitin’ them in one, he -wouldn’t be pushed to the fore, nohow. While his cousin, what was actin’ -for ’n, was that forward that any stranger in the church would ha’ taken -he for the bridegroom. So between the two on ’m Rector were fairly -puzzled, and afore he saw the right on ’t—’tis true as I sit here—he’d -married the wrong man to the wrong ’ooman. ’Twas like to ha’ been a -troublesome business for all on us, for once ye joins a couple, there’s -no man can’t put ’em asunder. An’ they two would never ha’ jogged along -in peace an’ harmony, one with t’ other, as I knows, who’ve lived next -door to Rebecca ever since she was a gal. Howsomever, luck was wi’ us -that day, for ’twas discovered in the vestry as how his cousin, who was a -sailor an’ hadn’t come to Fleetwater not an hour afore, was married -already, an’ had two childern. So back us went into Church agin an’ -wedded the proper couple. An’ rare an’ thankful we was to ’scape so -easily out o’ what might ha’ made a tidy potheration.” - -“Aye, you’ve got the story right enough,” said the Chairman approvingly. -“An’ now to business, if _you_ please. An’ thank ye kindly, Mr. Higgins, -I’ll take another glass afore we begins. It isn’t long that’s left me -for the drinkin’ o’ good ale, seein’ I was eighty-four yesterday, an’ -(thank God) never a drunkard, an’ not much time for it now. As I told my -old gran’mother what died at eighty-six, an’ was real afeard of a -spoonful of brandy to stay her stomach: ‘Don’t ye be frettin’ yerself, my -dear old soul, ’tis they as begins sooner nor you did what has cause to -fear the drink.’” - -All had been peace and amity so far, but the discussion that followed on -the choice of the hymns threatened to be acrimonious. - -“There be seasons,” said the Chairman reflectively, “when marriage bain’t -that satisfaction as it ought to be. ’Twas only just afore I came along -that I said to my wife, ‘Mary Ann,’ says I, ‘I be that downhearted an’ -low-sperrit’d in my mind, for all the world as if I’d met a buryin’. An’ -I see’d a magpie by hisself to-day, an’ I took off my hat to ’n, I did.’ - -“‘Aye, Joseph,’ said she, when what I wanted was cheerin’ an’ cossettin’ -’long of my downheartedness, ‘Aye, Joseph, we be all on us bound to go, -and p’raps ’tis yerself as’ll be the next. ’Tis breakin’ up fast ye be, -an’ no mistake, an’ ye looks terrible rough an’ aged, ye does. I doubt -as how ye’ll be much longer wi’ us.’ An’, to make sure as how I doesn’t -forget it, nowt’ll satisfy her to-morrow but ‘There’s no repentance in -the grave,’ or one o’ they dreary grave-diggin’ tunes as I can’t stomach -no how. She says as how the childern of the parish be gettin’ that -oudacious that nowt won’t turn ’em from their wickedness but one of they -scarin’ terrifyin’ hymns.” - -“An’ right she be, to my way o’ thinkin’,” said Ebenezer Higgins. “’Tis -nowt we hear now a long but o’ the marcy of the Lord—not a word of His -judgments, an’ o’ the fire and brimston’ what’s in store for the wicked. -Where be the sense, I axes, o’ strainin’ an’ strivin’ after the narrer -gate an’ takin’ no part in the sins an’ wickedness o’ this wurld, if ’tis -all one at the end, whether ye’ve been on the Lord’s side or on Satan’s?” - -“No, Mr. Higgins; I can’t go wi’ ye so far,” said Andrew Strong, the -advanced freethinker of the parish. “I don’t hold nowise wi’ scarin’ -souls into the path o’ peace. An’ ’tis queer to my mind, that the ’oomen -of all people, wi’ their tender hearts as wouldn’t hurt a worm, should be -so set on punishin’ wi’ out no end to it. An’ there be wiser men nor we, -an’ our own passon too, as doesn’t find such doctrine written in the -Book, save an’ except you twists an’ turns God’s word to suit yer own -imaginin’s. Bain’t reasonable, it seems to I, not to gi ’us another -chance, an’ may be more nor one, same as you’d gi’ yer own childern if so -be they crossed an’ shamed ye. An’ we be told, bain’t we? as how there’s -preachin’ to the sperrits in the wurld below? Now where be the good o’ -preachin’, I axes, if so be that no good’s to come to ’m along o’ it? -Why, even in this wurld taint no good beatin’ an’ bastin’ yer childern -wi’ out ye throws in a word o’ hope to sweeten it.” - -“I think as how ye be right,” said Samuel Smiley, who was a trimmer by -nature, and felt sure of his way now that he had a majority to follow. -“An’ I gives my vote for ‘O ’twas a joyful sound to hear,’ an’ some o’ -they other lively tunes what leaves ye wi’ an appetite for your vittles -and doesn’t curdle the very food in yer stomach wi’ terror. An’ ye can -tell yer wife, Mr. Weyman, as how we don’t admit no ’oomen on this here -Council, no more nor ’postle Paul allowed ’m to be preachers an’ -busybodies in the Church. Shame on me to say it, but ’tis my hope as how -there’ll be a corner or two in Heaven where th’ ’oomen will ha’ silent -tongues.” - -It was at this point, when feeling began to run high, that the situation -was saved by a remark from the Chairman. - -“Heaven help us!” he said, “an’ who be that, I wonder, starin’ in at us -through the winder, just as if ’twere a raree show or a menagerie? I’m -blessed if it bain’t old Bob (you knows him well, Mr. Smiley) what has a -pension o’ five shillings from the Government—thirteen pound a year it -be—an’ how he lives on ’t no man knows. For ’tis too aged he be for -work, an’ spends his time now-a-long in pickin’ up odds an’ ends what -comes ashore wi’ the tide. ’Tis miles he’ll walk for a few bits of -timber or a coil of old rope as bain’t worth sixpence when he’s got ’em. -An’ ’tis bits of firewood he’s got on his back now by the look on’t—from -the wreck, I allow, what come ashore last week.” - -“No, you are wrong there, Mr. Weyman. ’Tain’t wood from the wreck he’s -got wi’ ’n now. That be all fine clean planks, new as new can be, for -’twas straight from Norway she came, wi’ as fine a lot of timber in her -as ever I see’d in my life. An’ what he’s got on his back be old bits of -blackened wood what’s been floatin’ by the look on ’t for weeks in the -water. Though why he should ha’ been at the pains to gather ’m is more -nor I can say, wi’ all that fine new stuff afore his feet, what’d keep -all the parishes along the coast in firewood for years to come. But wi’ -your permission, Mr. Chairman, we’ll call ’n in an’ axe him. ’Tis a -quiet God-fearin’ old chap he be, wi’ a friendly word for everyone. An’ -’twere sorry I were when he left us an’ went to Bayview.” - -It was Samuel Smiley who left the room in quest of him. “No, he won’t -come in, Mr. Weyman. An’ what’s more, I can’t get speech wi ’n. He’s -gone down along the road towards th’ old church an’ village. But he -turned now an’ agin as if he wanted a word wi’ us. An’ he looks pale an’ -frighted like—or so it seem’d to I in the dim light—same as if he’d had a -scare. May be he _were_ scared to see us all seated so serious, -discussin’ questions o’ the Church and Parish. For he’s a quiet man what -never intrudes hisself, ’cept it be to beg a plug of ’bacca now an’ agin -when he meets one on the shore. Seems as how chewin’ be his sole -satisfaction. Though why he can’t smoke his ’bacca sensible in a pipe -like the rest on us has allus been a puzzle to I. May be he got the -notion in the wars agin old Boney, where he gained his pension.” - -Not sorry to be interrupted in their deliberations, for the question of -the hymns had been practically settled, and discussion could only have -tended to further embitterment, the Council sallied forth, and I followed -in their wake. We found the old man still lingering by the churchyard -porch, but, as soon as he saw we were following him, he turned and -continued his walk in the direction of the village, travelling quietly, -it is true, but still at a steady rate that surprised me in so old a man, -quicker by far than I should have imagined he could walk, especially when -encumbered with so heavy a load. - -“Seems queer an’ strange,” said our Chairman, “why he don’t stop an’ talk -wi’ us, when we’ve been old friends and neighbours time out o’ memory. -An’ ’tis fast he travels for an aged man like he. I be out o’ breath, I -be, wi’ follerin’ ’n, an’ seems as how we don’t get no nigher to ’n for -all our hurry-in’. An’ where on earth be he bound for? One’d fancy he -were makin’ for the shore, unless so be he intends to stop at Widder -Russell’s, for there bain’t no other buildin’ along the road, ’cept the -old church, an’ ’tain’t likely as how he be makin’ for that.” - -But no; it wasn’t Widow Russell’s he was bound for. Past the house he -went, still onwards to the shore, ever and again turning to see that we -still followed him, until he had reached the gate of the old churchyard. - -Of the old church nothing was left but the chancel. The main building -had been swept away by the sea in the hurricane of 1824, and not a stone -remained to show where it had formed a continuation of the chancel. Of -all the eccentricities that accompany the action of water, none of a -surety was ever more surprising than this. Sheared as by a knife from -the rest of the building, the nave had vanished; the chancel still stood, -wreathed from head to foot in a draping of ivy, but without the -displacement of a single stone, and as solid, to all appearance, as on -the day of its erection hundreds of years ago. Our parish services had -long been transferred to the new church, safe out of harm’s way at the -head of the valley. But the old churchyard was—and is to this day—still -used for interments. And though the size of the parish has increased -since then, there is no fear of its being overcrowded yet. - -At the gate of the churchyard he paused, and then turned into it, with a -final look behind him as if to satisfy himself that we had not abandoned -the pursuit. - -“Sakes alive,” said old Weyman, “if he bain’t standin’ nigh the very bit -o’ ground as I’d mapped out in my mind’s eye for our next buryin’. I’m -well nigh scared, I be, by the thought that what we’ve been a-follerin’ -ain’t flesh an’ blood at all, but a sperrit. Else why don’t he say a -word to I, when he sees I be spent an’ weary wi’ all this traipsin’ after -’n? ’Stead of which ’tis speerin’ an’ pointin’ he be to that plot o’ -ground as if to show us ’tis there he be choosin’ a spot for his last -restin’ place.” - -But no; again he passed on and out of the churchyard through another -gate, which opened into the same road, and steadily pursued his way along -an old smuggling lane which led straight downwards to the sea. And when -he had reached the water’s edge he paused—and vanished. - -Yes; the mystery was solved at last—the quest on which he had led us was -ended and explained. For there, in only two feet of water, lay his body, -encumbered as we had seen it with its heavy load of timber, collected, it -must have been, with infinite toil and, as we now realised, at the cost -of his life. - -In default of all certainty, the theory was accepted that he had lost his -life a fortnight previously, but where and how there was no evidence to -show. Probably he had over-balanced himself in reaching for a baulk of -floating timber, and had been drifted by the ebb and flow of each -recurring tide from the place of his death—no one knew where—to the home -of his birth where he had chosen his grave. - -A humble example of the Irony of Fate, which on the day that followed his -death had strewn his path lavishly with the objects of his quest. Only -he was not there to gather them. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -IT was high time, I felt, to reconsider my position in regard to Eric and -Marion. At present the former knew nothing of my residence in the -neighbourhood, or of the acquaintance I had formed with his cousin. His -letters, always few and intermittent, had for some time ceased -altogether. He was no doubt constantly on the move from one place of -interest to another; so I had been unable to write to him the news of my -appointment to Fleetwater, and, in the light of my recent discovery, I -regarded his ignorance of my whereabouts as adding a fresh complication. - -If what the Rector had told me was true, and Riverdale was really -inclined towards Marion, then my own position was about as difficult a -one as could well be imagined. Even a man more conceited (I hope) than -myself might well have paused in the presence of such a rival. The very -points in his personality that had won him my devotion—his beauty and -charm and careless indifference—might well prove equally attractive to -his cousin. Add to which, there was his future and assured position, -both likely to tell with her father, if not with herself, to say nothing -of the chance that he might one day win fame and distinction as a -painter. - -And against all these advantages, what had I to offer in competition? -Nothing, I assured myself repeatedly, nothing, _nothing_. Only a poor -curacy and a moderate competence, while, of personal attraction, in -comparison with Eric, again nothing, _nothing_. But this was the least -of all my difficulties—far worse was the being brought into competition -with my best and earliest friend; in particular, the self-consciousness -that I was a gainer by his absence. When she began to talk of him, as -assuredly she would do, so soon as she knew of our friendship, how was I -to answer her? My own warm love and admiration for his merits would -second and stimulate her own. The temptation, I am thankful to say, was -gone before it was realised. Never, not for one moment, did my heart -fail in its duty to my friend. Never did the thought even enter my mind -of depreciating or disparaging his merits that I might better my own -position. To have entertained the thought as possible would have seemed -to me an act of incomparable baseness. - -However, the thought and self-examination induced by the difficulty ended -by dissipating it. The position, I saw, was for the time being -irremediable, and I ended where I might have begun—by recognising that my -own part must be that of a simple and unprejudiced onlooker, till Fate -should have taken the guidance in her hand, and shown me in which -direction she intended to turn the scales. - -And if my praises of him should help his chances of success—so let it be. -Love is not always given to the most attractive and deserving, while if -he succeeded, better he, I said to myself, than any other. For him, if -for anyone, I could be content, I thought, to stand aside and efface -myself, almost without regret. - -Meantime my own love, I determined, must be a silent and unsuspected one. - -And so, when I met her the day after, I told her frankly of all my love -for Riverdale; how he and I had grown up together with every thought in -common, how he had befriended me at school, and stood by me at College, -and how the first great grief of my life had been our necessity of -parting. - -She was pleased, I could see, with all my praise of him; pleased too, I -thought, that we had discovered this new bond of sympathy between us, and -could discuss his career with a mutual interest in his success. - -“I wonder what it was,” she said one day, “that brought you and Eric so -closely together,”—thereby reproducing the very difficulty that had often -puzzled me. “Your natures are about as far removed as the Antipodes. -Unless I’m much mistaken, yours is a strong and uncommonly decided -character, with the most practical ideas of what life’s work should be. -While he is a dear old indolent dreamer, with all the fascination of -modern Alcibiades, but with none of the energy or ambition that -characterised the splendid young Athenian.” - -“Ah, there you are wrong, believe me, and will have to admit it before -the world has grown much older. He has in him all the fire of the true -artist,—latent it may be for a while. But sooner or later it’s bound to -come to the fore. Even now he’s seeing things on the continent that will -stimulate it into activity, and then he’ll show what’s in him and -surprise us all.” - -I had hardly entered upon this policy of masterly inactivity before I was -tempted to abandon it. On a hot afternoon towards the end of June I was -lazily whipping the Rectory stream on the chance of a trout, when Marion -came down to me from the terrace, clad—or so it seemed to my uneducated -gaze—in a diaphanous cloud of palest lavender, and holding in her hand an -open letter. Then and there I became faithless to my conscience, for -never had she appeared to me in prettier guise. Her dress—and I always -like those confections of cloud-like tulle or gauze under whatever name -they are scientifically known—was in perfect harmony with the cool green -tints of the Rectory garden, while excitement, and she was excited now, -always showed her at her best. It called up the tawny light that slept -in her hazel eyes, and flushed the paleness of her cheeks, while the -faintest breath of a summer wind saw its opportunity and played with the -tangles of her ruddy hair. - -Surely, I thought, I’m hypersensitive, even in respect for a love that -has such claims on me as Eric’s. And after all, a man owes a duty to -himself no less than to his friend. - -“Good news!” she cried, as she floated to me down the steps. “I’m off to -the archery fête, and am late already. But I couldn’t go without telling -you that I’d heard at last from Eric, and, what’s more, we shall see him -soon. He’s been through all the great galleries—Paris, Dresden, -Florence, and Madrid. Since then he has been studying hard at Rome in -one of the best studios. He says his master thinks a lot of him, and -will dismiss him soon as needing only practice and hard work, which he -can manage just as well in England as in Rome. Meantime, he’s having a -really good time of it, making excursions between whiles to all the old -towns, and especially to Aquila and the Abruzzi, where every step an -artist takes gives him a fresh subject. - -“But I must be off now,” she ran on. “Goodbye; I wish you were coming to -the fête. But perhaps you are well out of it—(I thought the reverse)—for -I know you don’t like archery. It’s too statuesque and Apollo-like for -you—would suit Eric better, wouldn’t it? You would like something a -little more real and murderous. By the way, I wonder you didn’t make a -soldier of yourself.” - -She left me almost bewildered by her beauty. And, like a true lover, I -abandoned the Rectory trout to their own devices, while I mused and -dreamed over my lady’s perfections. “Of course,” I said to myself, -“Shakespeare is right, as he always is. Fancy _is_ engendered in the -eye; at least it was in my case; born before I had seen any reasons for -its birth, in fact, in spite of many reasons to the contrary, as I -recalled the well-remembered shock of Reggie’s love-scene. And it may -either die in its cradle, or else turn to love, as mine did. Then how is -it that the unattractive women find their husbands? I suppose there must -be men to whom plainness, and even ugliness, can appear perfection. The -answer is not forthcoming, and I give it up. At any rate, love’s a phase -of feeling and an emotion (often untrue and misleading, by the way), not -a deduction or an inference.” - -And then a trout took my fly, and I left off dreaming dreams and landed -it. - -But her news had left me in a happier frame of mind, and I was already -beginning to look forward to Eric’s arrival with a wistful eagerness, as -certain to determine, in one direction or the other, this wearing period -of anxiety and doubt. As a matter of fact, the issue was nearer than I -anticipated, and events that followed rapidly had practically settled the -decision before he came. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -I HAD now been some months with Mr. Richardson, and had gained a closer -acquaintance with his methods and means of influence. To all sinners and -backsliders who admitted their frailties he was lenity itself; albeit the -sworn enemy, by instinct and persuasion, of those prim respectabilities -who never do a wrong thing or (worse still in his eyes) never a foolish -one. - -For example. To a lad who had lapsed into vice with the hot-headedness -of youth, he was a kindly adviser; but hard as the nether millstone to -the lad’s father, when he found he had ejected the prodigal from house -and home, and then taken credit to himself for having re-adjusted his -household with the wisdom of Solomon. - -Of his boldness in dealing with the difficulties of his creed, I had a -notable experience in the summer days that were with us. - -The evening was an exceptionally warm one, and he and I were lingering -till late on the terrace, watching them carry the last loads of hay from -the glebe that lay beyond the Rectory stream. Everyone was working his -hardest, for it was clear to the least experienced eye that the fine -weather was nearing its end. Thick rain clouds were gathering in the -west, and occasionally dull muffled roars, heralded by distant flashes, -ran round us on the level of the horizon. - -The Rector, I thought, looked perturbed and anxious. At last he spoke. -“I detest more than I can say that new machine which my tenant has -introduced this year.” And he pointed to what looked like a -threshing-machine that was piling the hay from a huge elevator on to the -rick. “Of course it saves labour, but I’m sure it’s most horribly -dangerous. It gives the men not a moment of peace to secure their -footing, which is never too safe. If they stop for an instant, their -work overpowers them. And what with the dust and the noise, and the -hay-cloud in which they are buried, I wonder we’ve got along so far -without an accident. It isn’t fair to ask a man to work under such -conditions. Of course with a threshing-machine it’s different. The -straw delivers itself slowly, giving the men time to place and arrange -it.” - -All at once, and even as he was speaking, the din was suddenly hushed by -the stoppage of the engine, and a silence, all the more palpable for the -tumult that preceded it, fell on the crowd of busy workers. - -The scene of intense unresting energy had been transformed in a moment -into a still picture of arrested life. Like figures that the wand of -some Arabian magician had charmed into statues, each labourer stood rigid -at his post, except in the immediate neighbourhood of the rick where the -nearest of them had gathered and closed round something that lay prone -and motionless on the ground. Only the voice of the engine was heard -through the stillness, where it stood panting under a full head of steam, -as if in protest against the indignity which had so abruptly arrested its -forces. - -“Something of what I feared,” said the Rector, who was already leaving my -side. “Pray God not the worst. Will you wait for me here? Later on you -may be able to help me. But for the moment I had better go to them -alone. As yet, you see, you are a stranger among us, but one, I am sure, -who will soon be a friend.” - -“‘The only son of his mother, and she was a widow,’” I heard him -whispering on his return, “and, what is more, the best of sons.” - -“It was Harry Hayman,” he added aloud, “the lad I loved most in all the -village, a splendid type of what is noblest and manliest in our country -rustics. And the accident has happened precisely as I had expected. The -boy had his station at the edge of the rick where the pressure is keenest -and most dangerous, and at the last it overpowered him. He had called to -them—just one minute too late, and I’m afraid in angry words—to stop the -engine. Another victim to the press and hurry of existence, which counts -a life well lost to save a load of hay. But you and I must see what -comfort we can give to his mother. Thank Heaven, he was a good and -blameless lad, and ‘as the tree falls there it lies,’ which means, I take -it, nothing more than that death has worked no violent change on him, and -that he has started anew with what advantage he had gained from a useful -and unselfish life.” - -The cottage for which we were bound stood at the edge of the village, -midway between the Rectory garden and the scene of the accident. And as -we crossed the Rectory bridge, intermittent flashes from the clouds that -had gathered overhead threw into strong relief the half-completed rick, -the engine that still sent upwards a thin thread of smoke, with the gaunt -elevator at its side, out of which the wind flung casual wisps of hay, as -if in futile effort to continue its arrested task. - -The shadow of the accident was full upon us, and when the door of the -cottage was opened I expected to see a woman bowed and overwhelmed with -grief for a loss that had left her desolate indeed. - -What I saw in reality was a stern hard-visaged woman, who met us with a -clear unflinching gaze, suggesting a spirit that was up in arms against -fate, and with no thought left in her for mourning or for tears. - -“I am glad you be come, passon,” she said, “though ’tis little help you -can give me, I allow. Kind and true-hearted you be to us all, and well -enough we knows it. But even you can’t tell us, wi’ all your new-fangled -notions, that the soul which passes to its God wi’ a curse upon its lips -shall be saved in the Day of Judgment.” - -It was the first and only time I was to see the Rector angry—angry and -yet ‘sinning not.’ - -“Woman,” he said, “the wickedness is yours,” and his voice was hard and -stern. “Stay your words before you utter that of which all the life that -is left you will be too little for repentance. Have you no greater faith -in God’s love and mercy than in your own? Nay—less, far less, for even -you would have pardoned him. An angry word, that dropt from him in great -stress of terror and excitement—is that to weigh against the record of a -life that was a model to all of us in brave unselfish effort? And, -remember, he has left his good name in your keeping.” - -I confess that I thought him hard and unfeeling, hard almost to cruelty. -But he knew—none better—the requirements of the case, and that it is -worse than useless to treat with salves a wound that needs the knife. - -At the door he turned and said, “I will try and do for you what Harry -would have wished, and what he so well began. The lodge at the Manor -House is vacant, and I think I can promise you the post. But never -forget that it is for Harry’s sake I give it you—the lad I loved and -valued most in all the parish.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -THAT same night the change we had been expecting came on us, and a storm -raged furiously till the dawn. Sometimes, but very occasionally, a -summer gale will carry as much weight in it as one of its winter -brethren. And, when this is so, it works far wider damage both by sea -and land. It will catch our seamen, unprepared and unsuspecting, on a -lee shore of dangerous approach, with some headland or cape to windward -that bars their only path to safety. - -Less dangerous it may be to dwellers on the shore, but not less dreaded. -For it destroys, almost in a moment, the wealth of emerald foliage which -Nature in her thriftiness had meant to last for six long months, to -perish gradually in greater glory still of gold and scarlet, orange and -russet-brown. And then one morning she wakes to find her handiwork -destroyed, at a time when it is just too late for her to repair the -damage. Nothing left of all she has been secretly and silently creating -through the long months of winter, except a few torn and tattered leaves, -which she will make all speed she can to discard, seeing that theirs can -only be a discredited old age of uniform withered brown. - -It was over a foreground like this that I looked seawards that morning. - -Under my bedroom window two men were talking. “Aye, she’s done for,” -said one of them; “it won’t be more than half-an-hour before she strikes. -With only a rag of canvas upon her, and one of her masts gone, he’d -better give it up and put her on shore as soon as he can find a quiet -place. Though, for the matter of that, one place is no better than -another, so far as their chance of saving her goes.” - -“That’s just what he’s doing,” his neighbour answered. “Don’t you see -he’s trying to push her along just outside the breakers till he can bring -her about opposite the coastguard station, and then he’ll shove her on -shore. I can see them watching and waiting for her; and they’ve got the -rockets ready on the beach.” And they moved off quickly in the direction -of their gaze. - -Long before our party, which included the Squire and Marion, had reached -the scene of the disaster, the busiest part of the proceedings was over. -When she first struck, a heavy sea had canted her round and laid her -broadside to the shore, where she lay, heaving and groaning like some -living creature, under the weight of the seas as they struck her and then -flung themselves over her in sheets of foam. - -A rocket had carried a guiding rope well across the wreck and into the -hands of the crew. Having secured it to the one remaining mast, they had -attached the travelling cradle, and, as we came upon the scene, were one -by one escaping to the shore. - -Not a minute too soon. For the seas were growing heavier with the rising -of the tide, and as each one struck her, the ship shuddered through all -her length, while jets of foam that burst up through her decks showed -that her timbers were yielding to the strain. Even as we stood watching -her she rose on the top of a huge breaker, and, as she settled down again -upon the bottom, her sole remaining mast cracked and fell, and with it -went the rope and cradle that had wrought the safety of the crew. - -Another moment, and, above the rush of wind and water, the plaintive howl -of a dog reached us from the deck. A large black retriever had been -fastened to the mast, and in the hurry and confusion of their own escape -the crew had forgotten to loose him. He had waited most patiently, poor -beast, while the crew were saving themselves, waited in the belief that -his own turn would come at last. And all the while he had never uttered -a sound, though the seas that swept over the wreck must almost have -drowned or strangled him. - -But now that he felt he was abandoned by the crew, fear had fallen on -him, which became panic when the mast to which he was tethered crashed -down at his side, leaving only the stump standing to which he had been -chained. We could see him struggling violently as the seas swept over -him, while now and again he uttered a piteous howl, looking appealingly -landwards as if to call attention to his despair. His terror wrought -painfully on all our hearts. It was no sight for a woman to see, and I -shuddered to think that Marion was there to see it. - -“Oh! it’s too cruel,” she cried. “Will no one, no one save him? I would -give anything to see him safe.” - -“Anything? really _anything_?” I asked, bending my head to hers, for the -roar of wind and water made speech and hearing difficult. - -She looked me steadily in the face, as if trying to read my meaning in my -eyes. And then her own eyes fell before mine. “Yes, anything,” she -said, and the word came to me like an echo of the question I had asked -her, “anything that friend may claim and I can give.” - -It may be that her answer determined me though I think I should have -tried it, even without the incentive she had given. It was intolerable -to see the poor brute drowning before our eyes without an effort being -made to save him, especially when he had faced the danger so bravely, -while he had watched us rescuing the crew and felt there was still a -chance for him of life. Only, if it was to be done at all, I saw it must -be quickly done. Each sea as it came in was higher than the last, and a -seam that had opened in her side towards us showed us that the ship was -going fast. - -My only chance, I saw, was to follow a spent wave and gain the deck if -possible before the next one broke on her. It was all in my favour that -she lay broadside to the shore, for her bulk acted as a breakwater -against the sea, making it fairly calm water on the side of her that -faced us. This would save me, I saw, from the worst danger of all, that -of being carried out to sea by the retreating wave, though it brought -with it another and almost graver peril in the risk that I might be -caught and crushed against her side by the force of its retreat. - -In any case now, if ever, my muscular training must stand me in good -stead. First of all I wound a rope about me, leaving the shore-end of it -in the hands of the coastguards, as I relied on their help to ensure my -safety in case I should be overpowered by the rush of the retiring wave. -Then I watched and waited my time while one, two, three seas broke over -her; but none of them retreated far enough to serve my purpose. The -fourth was the heaviest of all, and when it had spent itself, retreated -further in proportion. Seizing the opportunity, I dashed through the -lake of foam that lay between us and the wreck, and, grasping a rope that -hung adrift over her side, and which I had long marked as my one hope on -the chance of its being well secured at the further end, I swung myself -by means of it up and on to the deck. - -Only just in time; for as I landed on the deck a plank broke loose at my -feet, through which I saw that her whole side seawards was gone, and that -the cargo had nearly all washed out of her. The next blow, I saw, would -finish her. So, loosing the dog and dropping him over the side, I hung -for a moment while the wave surged round me before I lowered myself. And -on the calm that followed the wave’s retreat the watchers drew me to the -shore. And then, with a crash that echoed high above the storm, she -parted amidships, and the sea poured in volumes through the rent in the -severed hull. - -I walked straight to the place where Marion was sitting with the dog at -her feet. - -A word of thanks—no more. But it satisfied me, for a light had sprung -into her eyes that told me I had won her love. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -PEGGY had come to my study in sore dismay. - -There was to be a break and interlude, it seemed, in the monotony of our -household arrangements, which, for myself, I was inclined to welcome. -Peggy, however, regarded it with extreme displeasure, not unmixed with -anxiety. - -“You see, sir,” she said, “’tis Miss Gertie’s birthday next Tuesday, and -the Rectory’s to be full of the visitors they’ve invited to come for it. -Now, you’d think that woman Josephine would know better,”—Peggy always -had a shy shot at Josephine whom she detested as a foreigner and -interloper—“but no, not she. She’s chosen this very time to invite her -brother—I hope he _is_ her brother—no doubt because she thinks it will be -fine and lively for him with all these rejoicings. And as they can’t -find room for him at the Rectory, what does my lady do but coolly propose -that you and I should take him in? Now, if he were a healthy honest -Englishman I wouldn’t mind. But I can’t abide these foreigners who wont -trouble to talk our language,”—Peggy always premised that to speak -English by intuition was the birthright of every baby both at home and -abroad—“and who live on toads and snails so that one don’t know how to -cook for them.” - -“Now, my dear Peggy, don’t worry yourself and me; I’m just in the middle -of my sermon. Let him come by all means. I know a smattering of French, -and shall be rather glad of a chance of improving my accent. Besides, -I’ll order the dinners and take all the responsibility off your hands.” -Never was heavy charge undertaken with so light a heart. - -So Peggy retired, muttering her discontent in the little querulous tones, -that, as usual, reminded me of a squirrel when it finds that it has been -robbed of its hoard. “I’ll do my best; I can no more; but I’m not going -to cook frogs and snails for any foreigner,” was what I heard more and -more faintly as her voice receded to the kitchen. - -In one respect, at any rate, Peggy was hopelessly astray. Josephine’s -friend was an American, and came from Chicago, so that the hopes I had -formed of furbishing up my French were doomed to disappointment. It was -in a dialect which suggested no possible connection with the French that -he opened the conversation immediately on his arrival. - -“I don’t care what ‘tucker’ you give me, only I must have cereals.” - -So he began. - -In my ignorance I read the word “serials,” and imagined that what he -wanted was intellectual nourishment while he dined, so I promptly offered -him the choice between “Pearson’s” and the “Strand.” “Perhaps,” thought -I, “he wishes to study the statistics—amply supplied by these -periodicals—of how large an animal would be forthcoming if all the oxen -consumed by England in a year were rolled into one.” - -But he wanted nothing of the kind. “It is absurd,” he said, “the way you -Britishers tamper with your digestions, filling yourselves with heavy, -heating food, when all that nature requires is corn and oil and wine—and -the less of the latter the better,” he added as an after-thought. - -I cordially acquiesced, for he was not a man, I saw, to stand -contradiction in any form. But all the while I was troubling myself -anent the dinner I had in store for him. - -He had arrived late in the afternoon, and in my innocence I had ordered -for him a typical English repast—soup, roast beef, and a ‘fondu’ of -cheese. - -He waved the soup aside impatiently. “I never touch soup,” he said, “it -interferes with my digestion.” It was the same with the roast beef. But -the Yorkshire pudding saved me. “I can eat the fat of the beef,” he said -condescendingly—“spread on the pudding, it is highly digestible.” - -“Rich,” I thought, “much too rich for the ordinary stomach.” But I -resigned it to him willingly, yes, all of it—and it was a remarkably fat -sirloin—if only because my own inclination did not lie that way. So we -got on well for the first day. - -But I still had something to learn. I had no idea that “cereals” -comprehended the be-all and end-all of his dietary. So I thought to -tempt him with what was really a very delicate menu. - -A clear soup, red mullet, ptarmigan, with a savoury to follow, was the -not un-appetising fare I set before him. - -The soup he declined as before, with the air of one who refuses to -re-open a question. - -When the mullet followed I felt sure of his approval. Not the veriest -epicure could have resisted the tempting aroma and the sight of the -nut-brown envelopes which enshrouded the “woodcock of the sea.” But no. -“This fish has not been cleaned,” was the objection; “how careless of -your cook.” - -Of course this criticism put him outside the pale. A man who would clean -a red mullet would reject the soft roe of a herring or (on occasion) -murder his mother-in-law. - -“The fact is,” he repeated—this time a little angrily—“I can’t dine -without cereals.” - -My heart sank within me but I said with assumed confidence, “The cereals -will follow later on. You see we outsiders like something a little more -solid to begin with.” But my bravery was all on the surface. For how -was he to sustain nature on one small savoury, even if he sampled the -whole of it? If only I had ordered Peggy to supply the ample rice -pudding or elegant dumplings of nursery tradition! But it was too late -now, for the ptarmigan was already on the table. - -“What, no greens?” he said, “broccoli, or beans, or at any rate cabbage?” - -I represented to him with deference that none of these dainties were -regarded by epicures as the natural concomitants of ptarmigan. - -“More of your silly English customs,” he said, “to reject simple -nourishing food, and heat the blood with these unnatural kickshaws.” - -Whereupon a happy thought struck me, and I commandeered from the kitchen -the vegetables which I knew were even then simmering to perfection for -Peggy’s supper. A noble broccoli was the result—the very largest I ever -saw—and reposing on the very largest dish. How his eyes glistened! It -was transferred bodily to his plate, and, drenched in a bottle of salad -oil, was, he admitted, no bad substitute for the “cereals” of commerce. - -Again I followed up my fortunate idea, and defrauded Peggy of five noble -apple dumplings, four of which he accounted for on the spot, and begged -(with a smile of repletion which comforted me exceedingly) that the -remaining one might be reserved to furnish forth his breakfast table -before he went his way in the morning. But the attempt to reorganise my -kitchen on a system to suit his digestion proved too heavy a problem for -Peggy and me. So for the remainder of his visit he and I went our -separate ways, as far as the meals were concerned. At dinner he seemed -happy with vegetables and puddings, and for the rest of the day he drank -tea unlimited, and refreshed himself at intervals with apples, bananas, -nuts and cakes, with which I was careful to garnish the sideboard during -the remainder of his stay. “Monkey Brand,” I called him, and he did not -resent the title, “being proud,” he said, “to resemble his ancestors.” -For he was a kindly genial fellow, and never took a joke amiss. - -Indeed, his simplicity and cheeriness quite won my heart, and reconciled -me almost to the trouble of catering for him. - -But Peggy was far less amenable, and never became tolerant of his ways. -I believe she persuaded herself to the end that he was a Frenchman, who -for some evil purpose was masquerading as an American, and pretended, -from sheer ‘contrariness’ or worse, to have forgotten his mother-tongue. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -IT was Gertie’s birthday at the Rectory, and there was a sound of -merry-making in the air, but what form it would take was held a secret -from all of us who were not required to take an active part in its -celebration. Only I saw great signs of preparation in progress both at -the Rectory and the Manor House. Peggy’s aid was called in to help in -the cutting and sewing of many mysterious garments. Music, too, I saw -was to be held in requisition, for there was a sound of constant -rehearsals in the Rectory and Manor House drawing-rooms. - -But what puzzled me most was the refurbishing of an enormous array of old -lanterns—not adapted to illumination or calculated to add lustre to the -festivities of the day. No; lanterns these of a past and antiquated -type, resembling in some degree the lanterns of horn which, as -illuminators, have long ago passed out of fashion, and are only to be -found occasionally in some stable or cowshed that has lapsed far behind -the progress of the age. - -Never did I imagine that female tongues—girlish tongues more -especially—could keep a secret so rigidly. Not a word was let slip by -Marion or the Rectory party in explanation of their proceedings, so all I -could do was to possess my soul in patience, thankful that my own -presence was not a necessary part in the due performance of these -mysteries. - -I have told you, I think, something of the position of the Manor House. -But of its greatest, and perhaps unique attraction, I have said nothing. -In olden times a monastery of large dimensions had held possession of the -ground that lay between the Manor House and the Rectory. Of this the -Refectory was the only perfect fragment, a magnificent vaulted building -just visible from the Manor House windows where it lay in the valley -beneath. Built of some fine grey stone that had taken to itself all the -colouring of which lichens are capable, it was tinted now with soft-toned -yellows in every possible gradation, and, in the sunlight of an autumn -evening, literally glowed in the warmth of the reflected rays. Only a -barn now, and the labourers who went in and out of it, to store and stack -the produce of the glebe, never bethought themselves of the glory from -which it had fallen. - -The river that brought us the Rectory trout lower down in its course had -been arrested on its way by the monks, and formed a lake, with a -tree-clad island in the midst, from which they supplied themselves with -Lenten fare. On the ground that rose between the lake and the Manor, -scattered fragments of ruins—here an unsupported arch, hard by a standing -column or fragment of wall—with sarcophagi, at intervals, that had been -removed from their niches and desecrated of their contents, all testified -to the power and wide extent of the original community. These ruins lay -within the precincts of the Manor House. But just outside the boundary, -on the summit of an adjoining hill, there rose into the thin air the -wondrous shape of a tiny chapel, beside the perfection of which even the -Refectory itself looked coarse and material. Coloured by a growth of -lichen of the same soft tones, and with all its delicate tracery -untouched by the lapse of some five hundred years, it seemed the product -of some fairy hand. But the hand must have known its business well, for, -in spite of the delicate workmanship, every needless point and pinnacle -had been rigidly cut down, that the gales which fell full upon it from -the broad Atlantic might find no grip or holding ground. Even the -buttresses and gargoyles had been allowed no useless ornamentation or -finish; all the adornment had wisely been lavished on the interior. It -had been fashioned in one single nave, and the fans which sprang from the -columns on either side gave a lightness and delicacy to the roof that -minuter decoration would have only impaired, while a tiny tower, uprising -at the end that over-looked the sea and pierced by a narrow winding -stair, supplied just what was needed to break the monotony of the -exterior outline. - -It was to this wondrous place, I found, that the birthday festivities -were directed. - -As evening approached, all who were to take part in the ceremonial -assembled at the Refectory. In what took place within, no outsider was -allowed to participate. But at eight o’clock, and just as the moon was -rising, a long procession of robed and cowled monks issued from the -building, and holding, each of them, a lantern in his hand, entered on -the slow and winding ascent that led to the chapel on the hill. And as -they wended their way round and round the grass-clad cone, their voices -came to us in slow and solemn hymns for the sailors on the sea. The -course of time had been reversed, and once again, as in the days when the -chapel was built, we saw re-enacted before us the ritual for which it was -intended. It was difficult even for ourselves, who knew well and -intimately every one of those cowled monks, to believe that we were not -living five centuries before our time, and assisting once again in a -ceremonial that, in the early days of the monastery, must have taken -place again and again when storm and tempest were raging. Only to-night -there was no storm and tempest. The necessities of modern comfort and -convention had so far interfered with the celebration, that it was -re-enacted at a time when the chief requirements for its enactment were -obtrusively wanting. And when the summit of the hill had been reached, -we watched and waited till the final development came. - -On a sudden from the tower that crowned the chapel a light flashed out -and burned steadily from a brazier on its summit. Any sailors who were -voyaging along that calm and moonlit sea must have been startled by a -light that warned them they were approaching a rough and inhospitable -coast, of which, in a brightness that was clear as the day, no ship could -by any possibility have been ignorant, unless the look-out had been -hopelessly and disgracefully incapable. - -The light burned on for an hour, then vanished. - -And the festivities of Gertie’s birthday were ended. - - * * * * * - -I was beginning to descend the hill among the more belated of the -revellers, when a gentle hand was laid on my shoulder, and I turned and -saw Marion. - -“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Harold,” she said, “but in all the -crowd and confusion you were undiscoverable. Birthday festivities for -Gertie, and birthday festivities for you and me, dear—the birthday of our -love.” - -And then we dropped purposely behind the crowd, who were sweeping in all -directions down the hill. - -“Let us go back to the chapel, Harold,” she whispered. “We may never see -the view on such a night again. Even the tropics couldn’t supply a scene -to smile more sweetly on our love.” - -“No, that they couldn’t, dearest. What is it the poet says?— - - ‘Come away! the heavens above - Just have light enough for love.’ - -Well, the heavens have been kinder still to you and me, Marion, and -lighted us a lamp by which I can read every glance in your eye, and every -smile on your lips. And are you really happy, dear, I wonder? I can -never hear you say it too often.” - -“Yes, Harold, happy as I never expected or deserved to be.” And then she -would say no more—only drew closer to my side—for she was new and strange -to the expression of her love. “By the way,” she added, “don’t you -wonder how they got up the turret-stairs to light the lamp? I’ve tried -them again and again and could never manage more than half of them, even -in the daylight. Many of them are gone altogether, and all of them are -crumbling and dangerous.” - -“Ah! that was part of the secret, dear, they kept so well, though I -thought that you at any rate had been entrusted with it. The girls, you -see, wanted a man to manage that for them, and so they condescended to -trust me with the business. There have been carpenters at work in the -tower for days, but always in the late evening and when no one was about. -And they’ve made quite a decent flight of wooden steps. Suppose we try -them. The view from the top will be finer even than this; and, better -still, we shall be alone together for once in the day.” - -We did well to climb the turret, for the panorama all around us was clear -as on the clearest day. - -The chapel hill, on which we stood, rose from the centre of a valley -which was itself encompassed by a ring of distant hills, except on the -side towards the sea, on which two or three small steamers were passing, -like flies across a silver shield. - -All the deep places of the valley were shrouded in a moonlit mist. Only -here and there a tree-top, or some ruined fragment of the monastery -beneath, rose high enough to pierce the silver cloud. In the distance -the hills shone bright and clear, their smooth and regular outline broken -at intervals by rounded tumuli, fit emblems of the Mighty Mother who had -taken her children back again to her bosom for their last sleep. - -On the velvet sward below us lay the form of another chapel, designed, or -so it might have seemed, in ebony or jet. So black and well-defined was -the shadow that it seemed more real and substantial than the fabric on -which we stood. Each point and parapet of the building was reproduced in -clearest silhouette, even to the outline of the hideous gargoyles, of -which our own two figures where we leaned upon the parapet might have -been modern imitations in a less outlandish form. - -At our feet stood the brazier, its weird and slender form reprinted on -the platform of the tower, wherein a few live coals, remnant of the spent -beacon-fire, still showed a dull and lurid glare. In the moonlight they -shone like coloured fruits piled in a basket of ribbed and frosted -silver. - -“It might be the tripod of the Delphic shrine,” I said, “ready prepared -for some solemn incantation. Suppose we try its efficacy, Marion, by -swearing fealty to our love.” And then, with only the solemn hills -around us and the silence of the moonlit night, my love and I crossed -hands above the glowing embers and prayed that the flame of our love -might burn undimmed till the change which men call death should renew it -in another and more perfect form. - - “Love’s pious flame for ever burneth; - From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth,” - -quoted Marion, “which is true enough, though Southey was no poet; else -he’d have put such a pretty idea in more poetic form.” - -“I wonder how you came to love me, Marion,” I said, “especially as I am -sure that Eric was my rival. And you know I’m nothing to him in looks or -prospects or anything.” - -“What, fishing for compliments already, are you? Though perhaps it’s -true. He’s a dear old fellow and I love him almost as much as I do you. -Only, you see, in another way. And perhaps for a husband one wants -something to lean upon—something more manly, it may be, and less -picturesque. You aren’t offended, are you, by the implied compliment? -And there was the wreck, and that settled it. You didn’t give me a -chance. Why, I never look at Bruno,”—this was the name of the dog, for -the captain had given him to her—“without thinking how you risked your -life to please my idle fancy. Though indeed it was no fancy, for I -should always have been dreaming of him if that poor dog had died. And -yet, perhaps—_perhaps_—I cannot tell. Sometimes I think I might have -ended by marrying Eric, if you had stayed away.” - -A footstep sounded on the platform behind us, and there, confronting us -as we turned to go, stood Riverdale himself. He had heard, I felt sure, -Marion’s concluding words. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -I HAD won my mistress, but my mind misgave me that I had lost my friend. -Not from any signs of disappointment on his part, or any token that the -world outside us could have recognised. Even to myself, who had known -his innermost soul for years, there were times when I could cheat myself -into the belief that all was well between us. But, just as there are -times and seasons when Nature’s face and influence seem out of harmony -with our mental and physical being, even so, and quite as surely, it was -borne in upon me that his love for me was gone. - -He had taken the news of my engagement well—too well, or so it seemed to -me. - -Perhaps the greatest charm of our friendship in the good old days had -been the thought that I, alone of all his friends, had gained admission -to his innermost heart. By all the rest of the world his easy-going air -of calm indifference had been accepted for the reality. I alone knew -what deep intensities of passion burned beneath that calm exterior. - -And this, I take it, is the very highest crown and glory of a love—to -feel that you alone have gained admission where no one else may tread. - -Now, something, an indefinite something, had come between us. To all but -me the change was impalpable; only, if possible, an added charm and -courtesy in his relations with Marion and me. Nothing, I think, that she -herself could realise or detect, for his manner towards her had always -held in it a studied gentleness; only the gentleness was accentuated now. - -But between him and me the veil had fallen. To those who did not know -him, it would seem strange, no doubt, that Eric had not long ago declared -his love. That he had never done so, I knew from Marion herself. Most -affectionate, she said, most devoted he had been; but never a word that -bordered upon love. At the last she had begun to doubt whether it really -existed at all, especially when his letters that reached her were so few -and silent on the subject. - -But I, who knew him better than she did, saw in this very self-restraint -and reticence concerning his feelings only an additional indication of -their strength. His, I knew, was a singularly proud temperament, that -would never have ventured to risk the final issue till he had well -assured himself that failure was impossible. And for this assurance he -had been waiting—waiting through all his studentship at Rome, rarely -writing and never allowing an intimation of it to betray him in his -letters. Simply waiting, till the artist-fire within him should have -realised itself in action, and then offering his first great picture, -together with the gift of his love, at Marion’s feet. - -And then, just when he had realised his heart’s desire of fame, and saw -the world’s honours placed within his grasp, he had come home only to -find that he had been forestalled by me, and that he had lost beyond -recall the greater prize of Marion’s love. Truly a test that might -imperil even the friendship of a life. - -I would have given much to prevent him, had it been possible, from -hearing Marion’s last words on the chapel tower. Not that I could blame -myself in any wise. I had acted loyally to him throughout, and should -have continued to do so, had not Fate on a sudden taken the arbitrament -into her own hands, and left me no faintest loophole for deciding -otherwise than I did. But considering that I had satisfied my -conscience, I felt strangely disquieted by the result. Of the reticence -I had imposed on myself through long months, and of my determination to -await his return for the decision of the issue, he could know nothing. -And if he had gained the faintest suspicion that I knew of his love, my -action, I felt sure, must wear the appearance of one who had been -deliberately working to supplant his friend; worse still, had -precipitated the issue so soon as the rumour was forthcoming of his -probable return. Worse, too, than all was the possibility that he had -heard nothing of my residence at Fleetwater or my growing love for -Marion. All this, though wholly unavoidable, as I neither knew nor could -discover his address, must needs in his eye seem the very silence of -premeditation, which had been waiting to make the disclosure till the -result should be irremediable. - -But if he had indeed heard our conversation, of which I could feel no -doubt, he never by a word alluded to it. With the warmth with which we -had parted, with the same he met me again. “He was glad,” he said, “that -his two best friends were to be drawn closer to him still,” and, laughing -in his old frank way, had added that “we two had not been long in -discovering the affinity between us.” This faintest gleam of satire was -the only intimation he allowed himself of the feeling that lay buried in -his heart. - -Eric had hurried his departure from Rome, because the summer heat had set -in earlier than usual that year, and because the work still left for him -to do could be done equally well at home as abroad. Then he entered with -spirit into the history of his travels. And how it was the Museum at -Madrid, and the work of Velasquez in particular, that had fired his -imagination and stimulated his activity to try and do likewise. - -“You should just see his pictures,” he said, “and what that man can do. -Why, his horses and riders come galloping to you out of the canvas! Even -that scoundrel Philip II., perhaps the worst and basest coward that ever -lived in history, gains something of distinction and nobility by the -touch of his pencil. And he can paint you an atmosphere and distance in -which a man can breathe and walk. And what does he do it all with? No -flaming, gorgeous colours like Titian’s and Tintoret’s, but all in quiet -greens and greys and browns that would be dull as ditchwater in any other -hand. Opinions, I know, differ, but to me at any rate he has always -seemed the greatest of Art’s great Trinity—Titian, Rembrandt, and -himself. And to him I owe everything. He it was who read me the lesson -that I have tried to learn—to decide what I wanted to paint, and then go -straight for it, letting all the accessories and inessentials come in at -the end where they can.” - -Yes; it was another and a different Eric who was talking to us now from -the one with whom I had parted nearly two years ago. The indolent -dreamer of those days had been transfigured into the man with a purpose. -And I hoped, as I heard him, that he had made a mistress of his art, and -might find in his devotion to her the happiness which we are told she -always gives to those who worship her with a whole and undivided purpose. - -Three days later he left us, to finish, he told us, the first great -picture he had attempted. It was already too late for the Academy, but -competent judges thought so highly of its merits that he intended to risk -its first appearance in the almost fiercer light of a London show-room. -“Of course,” he added, “you two must be the first to see it.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -IN the general chorus of congratulation that welcomed our engagement I -must include a letter I received from my erstwhile rival, Reggie. We had -found time during his vacations to become fast friends, and he wrote to -me from my old rooms in Trinity, where, by some strange freak of fortune, -he was now installed. - - “Dear Stirling, - - “I congratulate you heartily on your engagement to Marion, and think - you lucky beyond the majority of mankind. If I hadn’t been her - cousin, and much too infantine in years, I would have done my level - best to supplant you. Peggy, I fancy, would have co-operated with - me, as I am sure she believes even now that, if you had only gone the - way of the other curates and left me a fair field, I should have won - easily in a canter. - - “Not only do I congratulate you, but I also send you a - wedding-present, which is unlike ordinary presents of the kind in - that it will be valuable to you while it will cost me nothing. In - fact, I am only presenting to you what is already your own property. - The picture which I forward herewith was found in the cupboard of - your gyp-room. If age is valuable as well as venerable, there is - little doubt that I have been happy in the choice of my - wedding-present. - - “You will forgive me, I hope, for my unseasonable jocularity. It is - intended to comfort your heart by proving to you that my youthful - affections have not been so seriously blighted as at one time you had - cause to imagine. - - “Yours, without envy or uncharitableness, - - “REGGIE.” - -“The young rascal,” I muttered. “He must have known all the time—perhaps -his sisters told him—that I had been a witness of his youthful escapade. -Well, the lad’s got a sense of humour in him at any rate. But I wonder -what picture he means? Oh, no doubt it’s the one that’s been in our -family for a hundred years at least. My grandfather, I think it was, -brought it from Spain, and thought a lot of it too; though why and -wherefore, passes my comprehension. But it’s certainly old and dirty -enough, as Reggie says, to be valuable. I was always intending to have -it re-framed and always forgot it.” - -When the picture arrived a day later, the first thing I did was to carry -out my intention of having it cleaned and re-framed. We had always -supposed it to be the portrait of some cardinal, a faint glow of red -being the only colour that had power in it to pierce the dirt of ages. - -But now at last was revealed a face of marvellous beauty, and (strange to -say) of a pronounced English type. The pale refined features and sunny -hair resembled nothing that one encounters among the native types of -Italy and Spain. - -I should have put him down from his dress as an acolyte or choir boy, or, -it might be, some cardinal’s page. But who he was, or how he found -himself in Spain, or why he should have clothed himself from head to foot -in scarlet, even to his very cap, it was beyond my power to fathom. It -was a remarkable coincidence, too, that he much reminded me of a famous -portrait by Bronzino that had taken my fancy at Madrid, in connection -with which I had been met years before by the self-same difficulty, when -the official catalogue, so far as I remembered, had been equally -incompetent to solve it. - -It was a mystery, furthermore, how my grandfather could have secured so -good a copy. For the possession of the finest gallery in the world has -never tempted the Spaniard of to-day to cultivate art, nor has he -established in his capital city a community of copyists like that which -flourishes at Rome. With such fine traditions of painting to his credit, -he is therewith content, and a copy of real excellence, which this -undoubtedly was, would, I felt sure, be wholly beyond the range of his -capacity. - -With the difficulties of the picture still unsolved, I dismissed it from -my thoughts, merely telling Peggy to hang it in my sitting-room, where it -would find itself in congenial harmony with Eric’s _Antinous_. Peggy, I -could see, resented its introduction altogether, as savouring of Papistry -and the Scarlet Woman, and would have preferred to turn it with its face -to the wall; only I declined to consider her feelings. “I wonder what -Eric would say of the picture? I’ll ask him some day,” I said to Marion, -who was in raptures over the delicate beauty of the portrait. - -My happiness during all this period, but for my anxiety about Riverdale, -would have been whole and unalloyed. No one was more surprised than -myself to find how many friends I had made during my short residence at -Fleetwater. Peggy was the only one who held aloof and was chary of -congratulation. - -Naturally the Rectory girls were wild with delight. Hardly had they -recovered their equanimity after the excitement of Gertie’s birthday, -when, lo and behold, they foresaw in the near distance a vision of other -and greater festivities that promised to outrival even the ceremonial on -Chapel Hill. - -From the first the Rector had shown himself a warm friend, and whenever I -was free of my duties in the parish, the chances were you would have -found me in his company, either helping him to keep down the trout in the -Rectory stream, or taking lessons from him in gardening, whereat Marion -and I formed the students of his class. - -“No arrangement—none, Stirling,” he said, “could have been more in -accordance with my plans for the future. So soon as I am too old for -work—and I’ve had a twinge or two of gout already—you and Marion will -come to the Rectory, while I retire to a little property lower down the -river, where I’ll catch all the trout that you allow to escape you in -their travels past the garden. You know, of course, that the Park and -Manor House are strictly entailed, and will go to a distant cousin. So, -for the present, I shall consider that I only hold the living in keeping -for you.” - -Information privately received from Marion had left me in no fear -concerning the result of my proposed interview with the Squire. From the -first he had shown a warm liking for me—all the warmer, perhaps, because -I was staunch, from his point of view, on the question of fox-hunting; -thinking, as I honestly did, that the Rector was hardly so fair as usual -in his denunciation of the sport. - -I was to dine alone with him that evening, and when Marion had left us to -our wine he came at once to the subject. “I am perfectly satisfied, -Stirling,” he said, “with Marion’s choice. Personally I have a strong -liking for you, and have no ambition whatever that she should make what -is called a great marriage. Though I honestly confess I am somewhat -disappointed that she has thrown over Riverdale, who I am sure is devoted -to her, and would infallibly have proposed later on. Indeed, it’s been a -puzzle to me and to all of us why he’s held back so long. However, all -this is none of our business. I would never prejudice a girl’s -inclination by so much as a word. But, to speak candidly, I could not -have given her to you or to any man who had not a small fortune of his -own to start with. And this, not so much for her sake—she will have -enough and to spare—as her husband’s. There is nothing that places a man -in a more false situation than the fact of his being entirely dependent -on his wife’s property. Indeed, no man of any spirit would accept the -position. - -“There is only one thing more, and then I will dismiss you to join Marion -in the drawing-room. To make your income secure, I would suggest to -you—simply as a friend—that you remove the part of your capital which you -have in the bank—these new concerns are none of them too safe—and place -it in some good security that can be recognised by trustees. And now, -for I know you are longing to join Marion, I’ll only say that I -congratulate you on your success as heartily as I congratulate myself.” - -In the drawing-room Marion sang to me my favourite songs, amongst them, -of course, ‘The Message’ and ‘The Requital.’ Last of all I asked for ‘My -Queen,’ the song which above all others realises the entire -self-abandonment which is the very hall-mark of love. For a love that is -true and worth the name will impose on itself no restrictions and no -limitations, giving itself wholly and unreservedly, without asking the -reason why and wherefore, to the object of its worship. - -And then we wandered out through the gardens and the park down to the -site of the monastery beyond, strolling in and out between the ruined -walls and arches, while a nightingale, who night after night gave a -concert to his mate at the same hour from the same tree, sang to us his -own idea of love. - -Not talking this time, either of us, as to the mysteries or pleasures of -a world to come—too happy, I am afraid, with this one. And certainly -dreaming nothing of a danger that was already drawing nearer and still -nearer with the intent to wreck our happiness. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -MEANWHILE the wreck still lay in shattered fragments on the beach, and -had brought discredit and disaster to at least one family in the village -before it disappeared in another and still heavier gale. - -It was the best-looking young woman in the parish and the best-looking -young man whom I had united to-day in the holy bond of matrimony. And -now the wedding-dance was being held in a room twelve feet by twelve, -while the wedding-feast of light refreshments was spread in the -wash-house adjoining. - -Ned Baker was a young fellow of the pale, refined type, looking younger -even than his years, and they numbered only twenty-four—a type rarely met -with in a country village, with clean and well-cut features, light wavy -hair, and the slim hand and tapering fingers that one assigns to a -musician, and associates not at all with the rough training of a village -carpenter. More fitted, you would say, to stand behind a London counter -and minister yards of drapery to some west-end beauty. Perhaps his -refinement may have been partially due to delicate health since boyhood; -nothing serious his friends would tell you, but just sufficient to unfit -him for out-door labour, and direct the tenor of his life to the -comparative ease of a carpenter’s workshop. - -His wife in all probability, judging from her appearance, would rule the -roost. A woman of the strong, well-bosomed order, outcome oftener of the -village than the town, with the wild westerly breezes and salt sea air of -the Atlantic mantling in her cheek. - -Truth to say, Ned was hardly a popular inmate of what was now his native -village. In appearance and refinement he was far above the tribe of -fishermen who inhabited the scattered hamlet, and won a precarious -livelihood from fishing and boating—sometimes, ’twas said, from the -jetson cast up by the sea beyond, when a wreck, such as still lay in -fragments not one hundred yards from their doors, would strew the shore -for miles and miles with drift of freight and timber. - -It was natural, perhaps, that they should resent a superiority which -contrasted only too strongly with their own rough and rugged natures. -Besides, he was an alien—literally a drift from the sea—cast up and laid -for dead upon the sand some twenty years ago. - -No one knew aught of him—he did not know anything of himself—though his -wavy sun-locks and bright blue eyes might have proclaimed him of the -north, the fragile incarnation of some Viking of the past. But all was -guess-work and mystery, for he was a little lad of three years old when -the sea laid him at their doors, after claiming for its own the ship and -everything, dead or living, that it had carried for its freight. - -Kindly hands had welcomed him. An old fisherman and his wife, without -children or relations of their own, had loved and cherished the boy to -manhood. But they were dead and gone, and for years since he had lived -his life alone, till Arabella Bond, the beauty of the village, had been -won by the very grace and refinement which had made him alien and outcast -from the other villagers. - -Indeed, with the single exception of the couple who had reared him, -Arabella had been his first and only friend. Three or four years older -than himself, she had, as a child, taken him under her special -protection, comforting him in all his troubles, and waging incessant war -with the lads of the village on his behalf. Her strong motherly -instincts, fired as time went on by a warm passion of love, had gone out -in pity to the youth who had been flung, alien and isolated, among a -world of strangers. And her devotion never wavered. Even now her -feeling towards him was rather that of the mother than the wife, and, but -for her, his prayer would have been that the sea might yet reclaim its -gift of life. Nameless and unknown, he was from the first an object of -suspicion to the villagers. Add to which, he had been cast up by the -sea, and the awe which clings round such a one, and the peril that it -foreshadows to his preservers, were for ever present in their minds. - -With a race of men animated by their traditions King Arthur himself, if -he had been cast upon their shore, would never have gained their -confidence. And with Ned’s growth in years the feeling against him had -only become stronger and more accentuated. A high regard for -honour—honour in every word and deed—was the dominant characteristic of -his life, shown in nothing more conspicuously than in his scrupulous -honesty respecting all property recovered from the sea. Such views were -in hopeless antagonism to all the traditions of the neighbourhood, where -the villagers, whose ancestors may have smuggled a little in the days -gone by, held a rooted belief that the sea was their property, placed -where it was by a beneficent Providence to afford them a livelihood, and -sometimes, though not half so often as they wished, to present them with -an unearned increment in the shape of a wreck and the perquisites that -followed from it. - -And, most unfortunately for Ned, no one held this faith with stronger -persistence than Arabella’s mother. To discover, if possible, the owner -of such property, or to report it to the recognised authorities would -have been judged by her a superlative act of folly, a wanton flying in -the face of Providence, which sent them such windfalls, as it did the -mackerel and the herrings—only with less regularity. It may be, I fancy, -that the northern nations, from whom Ned inherited his birthright, are as -punctilious in the practice of honour as southerners are in the -profession of it. - -Anyhow, Ned and his folly were perpetual irritants to Arabella’s mother. -And matters were in no wise improved when he became a suitor for her -daughter’s hand. Even his personal appearance and his love-locks, -“clustering o’er his fair forehead like a girl’s,” came in for her abuse. -“A fine gen’elman you be,” she would say, “to teach us all our duties, -and make out as how we be thieves an’ liars. Why, you bain’t no better -nor a gal—an’ a poor ’un at that—wi’ all your long hair a-danglin’ about -your forehead, an’ no strength in ye to pull an oar or gi’ a hand to the -fishin’-tackle or the lobster-pots. Blest if I can tell what Arabella -sees in ye. But there—there’s no accountin’ for tastes. ’Twas sommat -liker to a man that would ha’ suited I, when I was lookin’ round me for a -husband.” - -Then Arabella would heal the wound and say: “Never ’e mind, Ned. ’Tis -because ye be so much better than they that they hates ye so cruel. Wi’ -yer fine language and looks that shames ’em all every time they meets ye, -no wonder they can’t stomach ye. Not but what you be learnin’ a lot of -our talk now along, and ye clips yer words fine, same a’ most as we does. -May be they’ll think the better of ye by and bye, when you gets a bit -liker to ’em. Not that I wishes it, my dear, never think it. ’Tisn’t I -that would have loved ye so fondly if ye hadn’t been better an’ cleverer -an’ handsomer than all the rest of ’m.” - -But to-day all past animosities were forgotten, and the company who had -been called to the festivities could only bethink themselves of the -arrangements provided for their comfort. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -“’TIS a rare sight this, granfer, for a weddin’. I only wish as how my -old mother what’s bedridden upstairs—her’s ninety, come Thursday—could -crawl down along and glad her aged eyes wi’ it. But that’s more a’most -than we can claim o’ the Almighty, seein’ she’s kept her bed now for nigh -on five years. Not but what she’s rare and hearty still, and can eat her -bread an’ cheese and drain a pot of beer most as well as I can. ’Tis a -wonderful strong and lusty constitution, to _be_ sure. Her eyesight -don’t fail her—only her limbs ain’t so strong as once they was. And no -wonder, what wi’ lyin’ a-bed all this ’ere time, which she thinks more -comferable and gives less trouble. Wi’ her pipe, too, most allus a -goin’, and some day there’ll be the ’ouse o’ fire along o’ it, I’m -afeard. And how cleverly she do hid’ en, to be sure—right under piller -or blanket ’e goes, smokin’ hot—soon as ever she hears passon’s footstep -on the stairs. Talk of good ’bacca hurtin’ a man. They Lunnon doctors -should come and ha’ a look at she, and they’ll see an ole woman what’s -smoked her ounce of shag a day for twenty years to _my_ sure and sartain -knowledge.” - -“Aye, ’tis a grand sight truly this ’ere weddin’, and a credit to the -village and yerself, Michael. Such a company o’ rare young maids and -lusty young fellows I don’t know as ever I see’d congregated together in -one room. And the beer and the sperrits you’ve provided for ’em! I’ve -been into that there wash-house of yourn, and made glad my eyes wi’ as -rare a cask of strong beer—none of your fourpenny ale, I allow—and as -neat a keg o’ sperrits as ever I cast eyes on. The wenches to-night need -have comeliness and grace to tempt the young fellows out o’ that there -shed. For ale and sperrits is better nor beauty, Michael; ’tis so at -least when men be gettin’ in the vale, the likes o’ you and I. And -what’s more, I’ll go and sample it, just that I may tell the others what -’tis like, ’fore as ever the dancin’ begins. Not but what I likes a -funeral better nor a weddin’. ’Tis quieter and more sober-like, and you -takes your vittles more peaceable. None of this ’ere het an’ dust an’ -potheration what comes o’ the dancin’. No, gi’ I a funeral for comfort, -specially when ye be a bit aged. Not but what ’tis disperitin’, and -craves a mortal lot of stimmilent to carry one thro’ wi’ it. An’ some -there be what doesn’t hold wi’ feastin’ on the dead. But ’tis mostly -they of a savin’ sullen nature, what grudges the vittles, an’ finds no -comfort in thanksgivin’ an’ the voice o’ merriment.” - -The fun was at its height, and the ale cask and the spirit keg would have -been valued at one half their original cost, when the company were -startled by two hurriedly-repeated knocks at the door, and a young girl -stood panting in their midst. No wedding guest this—rather a ghost in -all but the strong and youthful grace of budding womanhood. - -“Heaven help us! What’s happened to ’e, Meg? Why on earth do you bust -in upon a house o’ merriment lookin’ like a corpse? Out wi’ it, lass, -and don’t stand gapin’ there, scarin’ us out of our wits, for all the -world like a frighted owl.” - -“’Tis the p’leece!” she cried. - -“Be ye gone stark starin’ mad, you fule of a girl? We ain’t that drunk -and disorderly yet that we need fear to look a p’leeceman in the face. -P’leece indeed—to a decent respectable woman what’s had no dealin’s wi’ -such truck, time out of memory.” - -“’Tain’t the drink—’tis the copper off the ship that was wrecked while -ago on the Rudge. Some of us ha’ been handlin’ it, and they’re a-comin’ -round to every house in the village, wi’ a search-warrant they calls it, -and they’re at top o’ street now, an’ ’ll be punchin’ at your door afore -you can say Jack Robinson.” - -Fear—was it fear for themselves or for others?—had sobered the guests on -the instant. Silent and shamed they slunk away into corners, as if they -prayed for the earth to swallow them, or were assisting at a funeral -instead of a wedding. - -Only the mistress of the house retained her self-possession. With a nod -at her husband to follow her she retreated with him for consultation into -an adjoining room. When they returned—“We’ve been thinkin’ this ’ere -matter over,” she said, “and there’s nowt to be done but a corpse in the -house.” - -“Sakes alive!” cried grandfer, “and whose is the corpse? Not mine, I -tell ’e straight. I be as full o’ life and health as the youngest among -’e. Not but what they tell I that I be nearin’ life’s end. Not a bit of -it, says I; I be younger and lustier, I be, than this time last year, and -lustier then than the year afore. I be intended, I allow, to follow -Methusalum, and show what we can do now-along when we sets ourselves -serious to the job of livin’.” - -“Stop yer silly nonsense, you old fule,” cried the dame, “we’ve no time -to listen to your fulery, and none of us wants yer corpse. Not but what -a corpse we must have—or maybe a dyin’ man’ll do. Then they wont dare -search the house, and we’ll ha’ time to pick up the odds and ends of -copper and bury it in the garden. Bad luck that ever I set eyes on it. -And ’tis young Ned there that must be the dyin’ man. He’s far and away -the most nesh and tender-lookin’ of all of us. And crop his hair short, -and lay him in bed wi’ a bandage full over his face, and no one’ll know -whether he’s dyin’ or dead. And he was allus that weakly and bad in his -breath that we can say he was taken wi’ heart disease, or summat, along -o’ the dancin’, and no one’ll be the wiser. Besides, ’tis he what took -the copper, so ’tis only fair as he should be at the trouble o’ savin’ -on’t. An’ we’ll put ye in Arabella’s room, Ned—sure ’tis no shame to do -so for as how ye be a wedded couple. An’ ’tis safer the copper’ll be, -seein’ it be stored under her bed, the main of it; not but what there’s -two sheets as was flatter nor the rest, an’ they lies ’twixt mattress and -blanket. Rare an’ uncomferable ’twill be for ye to lay on, but ’tis -yourself what made the bed an’ you must lay on’t. An’ we’ll come an’ let -’e out as soon as ever the p’leece be gone, an’ ’twon’t be long as -they’ll stay, soon as ever they hears we’ve dead an’ dyin’ in the house. -Up wi’ ’e, Ned, and we’ll have ’e tucked up afore as ever they come nigh -the place. Sure ’tis no falsity neither, for what wi’ the scare and the -fright ye looks most dead already, so help me, ye does.” - -It was not till the end of this harangue that Ned’s temper broke loose, -though an angry flush that flamed on his delicate cheek had showed he was -nearing the end of his self-control. - -“Shame on ye, woman,” he cried, as the last of the guests filed out of -the room, “shame on ye to belie me thus afore the face of your own -daughter, and her my wedded wife. I’d a’ saved the copper for ye -willingly—rot the stuff—and I’ll save it now if I can. An’ I’ve kept -silence afore all your company rather than let ’em know you was lying. -But I’ll not begin wedded life wi’ disgrace ’twixt me an’ my wife. So I -tell ye, Arabella, where ye stand, and glad I am of the chance, that I -never fingered aught of the copper—only to help ’em in hidin’ it—and -’twas your own father and mother what stript it and stored it, and you -needn’t be afeared but what you’ve wedded an honest man. And now,” -turning to his mother-in-law, “I’m ready to go along wi’ ye. May be I’ll -save your honour; we can’t make worse o’ mine.” - -In ten minute’s time the house that had been ablaze with lights was -shrouded in darkness, and resumed its ordinary well-conditioned aspect. -The blinds were drawn, articles of furniture that had been ousted and -piled to meet the requirements of the dancing had been re-placed in -position. The guests had slunk away, more or less disquieted according -to the state of each man’s inner consciousness, and, to the onlooker from -without, it was as reposeful and undisturbed as any of its neighbours in -the quiet well-ordered street. - -Scarcely had this transformation scene been effected when the expected -summons came. “Sorry to disturb ye, Mrs. Bond, when ye be all arranged -so quiet for the night. But ’tis our bounden duty, ma’am, and we’ve a -very particular reason here (exhibiting the warrant) for wishin’ to look -through your premises, if so be as you has no objection.” - -“Aye, ye can come in, Bob Davis. An’ if I can’t gi’ ye a hearty welcome, -’tis only yerself you has to thank for it. ’Twould ha’ been more -neighbour-like, I’m thinkin’, if ye’d come in open daylight, ’stead o’ -disturbin’ a peaceful family at this hour o’ the night. An’ we wi’ -sickness in the house that’s like to be death afore the mornin’. For -sure as ever Ned sees yer face an’ that great lout you’ve brought in wi’ -ye, ’twill scare the life breath out on ’m. An’ ’tis more nor that scrap -o’ paper you’ll be needin’ then to make yer peace, wi’ murder on yer -soul.” - -“Come, old lady, none of that gammon; it’s too good for us. Don’t we -know that your daughter has been married this very day, and that you was -a-keepin’ the weddin’ wi’ a fiddle and dancin’ till half-an-hour ago? -Besides, there’s a strong suspicion that some of the copper we’re -a-lookin’ for is to be found in this here house—and perhaps that’s why -you shut up so sharp, hearin’ that we were comin’ along to have a look at -ye.” - -But when the search elsewhere was ended, and the door of Arabella’s room -had been opened to admit them, Mrs. Bond enjoyed a short-lived triumph. -Not the most strenuous of officials, urged by the strongest sense of -duty, but would have paused in the presence of what looked like death. - -“No, ma’am—though thank you kindly—we’ll not intrude. We’ve done our -duty, an’ the law itself can’t call on us for more. An’ you’ll look -after that lad of yourn, Mrs. Bond; you’ll excuse me for sayin’ it. ’Tis -close on death he looks, though glad I’d be to be mistaken. An’ if so be -’twill ease your mind, I’ll make time to go an’ fetch the doctor for ye -afore as ever I goes home to-night.” - -But in the bedroom upstairs, as the steps of the officers were heard -retreating down the street, the bride was saying: “Up wi’ you, Ned! -You’ll be glad, I allow, that I be come to release you. ’Tain’t becomin’ -no wise that a bridegroom on the night of his weddin’ should be lyin’ all -stark an’ streaked like a corpse. Not but what you look finer and -grander-like than ever you’ll do in life agin. Up wi’ you, man, though I -be most sorry, that I be, to untie ye.” - -But no voice or sound made answer from the bed. Only the jaw had fallen, -and the eyes stared full on the speaker, and the silence of death—death -itself—was in the room. Fear and excitement had done their work on an -enfeebled heart, and Ned had crossed the narrow borderland—the “space -between the spears” the ancients called it—which separates God’s great -twin armies, the living and the dead. - -The villagers will tell you that Death came to him in anger, because of -the jest that travestied his grim prerogative. Rather, I think, it was -in pity for the lad, and to save him from disillusions sadder still, that - - “God’s finger touched him, and he slept.” - -So the marriage was followed by a death, and the lighter refreshments of -the dance were merged in the splendours of a funeral feast. And the soul -of granfer Wiseman was satisfied withal. - -The Rector was sorely troubled by the disaster that had taken from him -another of his prime favourites among the lads of the village. - -But of the events that had led up to it he was strangely tolerant. “It’s -heredity,” he said, “and you can’t fight against it. Not an angel from -heaven could persuade them that the sea has not made over to them all the -property it lays at their doors. It mayn’t be good law,” he added, “but, -after all, there’s something to be said in favour of their view.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -AND now, during the calm and quiet summer months that followed, my life -took its tone from the harmony of Nature, and rested itself for a while -in one great calm. Taking its rest like Nature, the better to prepare -itself against the advent of stress and storm. - -Hardly a day passed during this halcyon time that I did not see Marion. -Sometimes it would be at the Rectory, sometimes at the Manor House; -oftener still in some cottage where there was sickness or trouble which -she could comfort and relieve. To ourselves, at any rate, life in those -days was full of interest; it may be, for that very reason, void of -interest to those who only watched its progress from without. - -One day the rooks re-appeared in the trees of the Manor House farm. I -suppose it was one of the periodical visits which they are accustomed to -pay, off and on, before they close their summer establishment finally to -take up their abode in some mysterious winter residence. In my boyish -days it seemed to me the height of unwisdom to abandon your city of -habitation just when the winter gales were due. But perhaps a rook lives -his real life elsewhere, and only comes down to rusticate in the country -as a volunteer or militiaman goes into camp, _i.e._ for duty’s sake, -which, in the case of the rook, means the fatigue duty of rearing and -raising a family. Somewhere (in the pages of the ‘Encyclopaedia -Britannica’ for example) and some day I will look up their winter -address. In this neighbourhood it is probably among the cliffs of -Portland or on the rock-bound promontory of St. Aldhelm’s Head that a -letter would find them. Anyhow, they were with us again to-day. - -“Do you think they talk to one another, Peggy?” I said, as they were -making a great to-do in the trees adjoining our garden. - -“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure; but if they do, it’s pretty much, I allow, -on the same subject. Seems like a warning of some kind to my ears.” - -“Perhaps it may be, Peggy, and, so far as I can read it, couched in very -classical language. It sounds to me exactly like the Latin word ‘cave,’ -which your favourite Reggie must often have told you means ‘take care.’ -We pronounce the word now-a-days ‘caue,’ which, in the clipt -pronunciation of an excited rook, might easily have degenerated into -‘caw.’ If so, they are very lavish of their presentiments at the present -moment.” - -“And no wonder,” was Peggy’s reply, “for there’s trouble enough and to -spare in the village to-day. And will be through all the country round -for the matter of that. You know, I suppose, sir, that the bank has -failed? There were whispers of it in the street last evening, and to-day -the postman tells me that the shutters are up.” - -I glanced at the letters on the table before me—at an aggressive-looking -blue one in particular, which might possibly contain a bill—a letter of -the kind that one ordinarily leaves unopened till the last. In it was a -short circular, confirming the fact of the failure in the plain -unsympathetic language with which a disaster that spells ruin to hundreds -is officially announced. - -There are many ways in which a bank may fail, though the result in all of -them is pretty much the same in the end. Sometimes it dies of inanition, -by a slow decay of life and credit, and this is the form of suicide that -novelists and journalists prefer. For it offers a fine field for -sensational writing—the whispers in the air, the mysteries and doubts; -then the ‘run,’ with all its train of interesting incidents, the -reinforcements of gold that are hurried down post haste from London, the -noise and tumult of desperate claimants, with the cashier’s final -announcement that his resources are exhausted. - -Sometimes, on the other hand, the suicide is sudden, without preliminary -word or warning—‘foudroyant,’ as the French would call it. And this is -how our bank elected to fall. To the last it drew in money and paid it -out, and then on a grey November morning the shutters were up, for the -bank had died in the night. But for us in Fleetwater there was not even -the poor satisfaction of watching its last hours or gazing upon the -closed shutters. For the bank had died elsewhere, at the county town -some miles away, and the news had only filtered to us at second hand (as -Peggy told me) through the postman. - -Most people, I suppose, were stunned at first by the novelty of the -disaster. I can remember that for some definite period, how long I never -knew, I studied the circular before me dreamily, with a strange feeling -that it would be bad for some other people, but never realising what it -meant for me. “What will Peggy do?” I asked myself. “She had all her -savings, I know, invested in it. And what again of Richard Smiley, who -only two days ago placed in it all that the Old Inn has earned for him in -twenty years?” - -Worse still, I thought, for Andrew Strong and his widowed mother, before -whom I saw nothing but the refuge of the Union, for they were old and -feeble now, and had been living, I knew, for years on the slender -pittance they drew in driblets from the bank. And so by degrees, and -through many vague wanderings of thought, by realising all that it meant -for others, I came at last to realise all that it meant for me. - -At this point in my meditations I did what it would have been wiser for -me to do a few months earlier, when I should have been in time to act -upon the Squire’s advice. I bethought me of turning up the original -prospectus of the bank where it had lain forgotten among a number of old -papers, mostly unimportant, that had come into my possession at the time -of my father’s death. The information that I gained from it was -startling. It was to the effect that the company had been registered in -shares of £50 each, only half of which had been as yet called up. So I -had no need to go to London to win the knowledge that I was a ruined man. - -This time I did not lose myself in vain misgivings. I had become, I -suppose, already somewhat callous to surprise. But I set myself the task -of looking the future in the face by thinking and working out my plans on -the basis of this new discovery. And I took the business in hand with -something of that strange unquestioning instinct which leads the fatalist -to work out his destiny in a crisis that has come upon him suddenly, and -over which he has lost the control. - -Whereby I saw that, under the best possible conditions, I had no right to -continue my claim to Marion’s hand. Even now there were rumours afloat -in the village that the failure was a bad one, and that the bank would -only pay a small dividend. And, though I could not satisfy myself on -this point till I had been to London to consult my agents, as I intended -to do on the following day, it was already perfectly clear that the -company would have to call up all its capital, and that, dividend or no -dividend, the result to me would be the loss of most of my small fortune. - -And this meant, first of all, the loss of Marion. How could I ask her -father to consent to our marriage, even if his opinion on a contingency -which was now realised had been less plainly given at the time of our -engagement? - -No; neither he nor I could have consented to it. And so the failure -meant to me the loss of all that, for the time at any rate, made life -worth living. Other work I could get, of course; possibly other friends. -But a love like Marion’s never again. And, for the time, I could bring -myself to think of nothing save the loss of her. I was young, it is -true, but not weak, I think, in character; and I could never picture -myself in the future as loving another with such love as I had given her. -Yet she and I must surely part. The clearest and most decisive judgment -dictated it. And I must be the one to go. - -Even if I had been content to remain among my present surroundings, every -smallest detail of which reminded me of her, yet for her sake my -continuance in Fleetwater was impossible. If I stayed, it would mean for -her nothing less than banishment from her father and her home. - -I had asked the Rector to tell her of my discovery and of the changes -that must follow from it. Not yet could I see her personally. Only I -asked her to meet me a few hours later for a walk in the adjoining -forest. Perhaps that few hours’ interval might tell me in what words to -greet her. - -With the Rector my arrangements were quickly made. Once put in -possession of the facts he saw, clearly as I had done, that I had decided -on the only course that was open to me under the circumstances of the -case. “No honourable man could have done otherwise,” he said, and, as he -grasped my hand at parting, the same kindly look came into his eye that -had welcomed me on the first day we met in the Rectory study. Only time -and our warm friendship had strengthened it into the look with which a -father greets his well-beloved son. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -THE Squire was wise enough not to embitter my position by attempting to -alter my resolution. He had meant what he said at our former interview, -and remembered it too. It was too late for him to retract now, even if -he had been tempted to do so from a false regard for his daughter’s -happiness. - -The walk with Marion, to which I had looked forward with something of -dread, was made almost a happiness by her quiet fortitude. I need not, I -found, have steeled my heart and strengthened my mind with arguments for -leaving her. She was not the woman to make of my sorrow a burden heavier -still to bear. She might have told her love in the words of which -quotation has made a platitude:— - - “I could not love thee, dear, so much, - Loved I not honour more.” - -Not by so much as a suggestion would she have made the path before me -more difficult. She had realised, almost before I had told her my -intention, that not only my honour, but even my very love for her, -necessitated our parting. Only, instead of the parting almost without -hope as I had pictured it, she made of it a parting that had in it sure -promise that we should meet again. - -We knew each other’s love too well by now for need of speech. Our walk -was almost a silent one, except for the words with which she ever and -again encouraged my despondency, and directed it, by her own strong -confidence, towards the hopefulness she was determined I should share. - -Instinctively, and without acknowledged purpose, our steps led us to a -spot that we had visited again and again in the earlier part of the -summer that was gone. - -It was a miniature forest, embedded in a sheltered valley that lay beyond -the outskirts of the village between the elbows of two mighty hills. -Protected by these watchful guardians, it was safe from the withering -gales that swept up from the Atlantic. When all the surrounding trees -stood bare and blighted by recurrent storms, Nature, in this quiet nook, -was permitted to fulfil her perfect work, changing her garb, as month by -month passed on, from emerald to sober green, but always keeping her -brightest tints to weave her funeral robe, folding it at last upon her -bosom with the air of one who has lived her life and done her work, and -now falls peacefully to sleep in painless, restful weariness. - -It was one of those perfect days in latest autumn that seem intended to -give us, just once or twice in the year, and especially before it leaves -us, an idea of all the glorious adornments Nature has in her keeping. -Perhaps the brightest beds in a nobleman’s _parterre_ might suggest the -colouring. But the stiff arrangement and orderly rows of bloom are the -very antipodes of Nature’s handiwork. A flush of crimson mountain-ash, -thrusting itself in irregular patches between groups of dusky pines, and -these in their turn lost among beeches of burnished gold, with oak and -hornbeam and ash to give the softer intermediate tones is, at best, a -poverty-stricken catalogue of the colours that flamed all round us on -that autumn day. No marvel that to a dweller by our storm-swept seas, -when a gale in August will wither all the rest of our foliage two months -before it falls, the scene I am describing should be the one we chose to -close around our parting. - -It was in the depths of this fairy forest that we lost ourselves—Marion -and I. We met no one by the way. Nothing but the silent trees above us -with their mist of tangled colours, and at our feet a maze of undergrowth -only just less brilliant in colouring than the tree-tops overhead, with -an occasional squirrel or blackbird or thrush to suggest the life with -which the scene had palpitated in the sweltering summer heat. Even the -voices of the birds were silent. They would only have marred the -peaceful stillness of that wondrous day. Till the early autumn evening -began to close about us, and it was time to set our faces homewards. - -And after we had left the forest we turned aside through a bye-lane of -the village to mount once more the Chapel hill, feeling, both of us, that -the spot which had seen the consecration of our love would be the fitting -witness of its untimely end. And there we said good-bye. “I shall never -marry, Harold,” Marion said, “till you come back again to claim me. For -come again you surely will. And never think I blame you for this -parting. In honour you could not have done otherwise than leave me now. -And hard as it is, dear, for us to part so soon, my love (if that be -possible) is only made the stronger by the parting.” - -And so she left me—with none of the prayers and protests that would only -have made my duty harder for me. With nothing but a confident hope, in -which I could not bring myself as yet to share, that time in its course -would smooth away all difficulties in the fulfilment of our love. - -“When that day comes,” and these were her last words, “we will meet once -more, Harold, in this same place, and dedicate anew the love which -chances like this will have been powerless to change.” - -The next day we parted: I on my visit to Eric in London, and she to a -relative in the Midlands, with whom she was to stay during the month I -should remain at Fleetwater. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -“OF course you’re going to stay with me, old man?” said Eric, when he met -me at Waterloo station next day. “You surely didn’t imagine I should let -you go to an hotel?” - -Nothing in these few words of the studied tone of unimpeachable -politeness to which he had accustomed me at our last meeting. This was -the hearty undergraduate greeting of old, and I needed no more to tell me -that his sorrow on my account had dispersed the cloud that lay between -us. - -It was good to see him again; to feel the grasp of his strong hand, and -read the look of welcome in his troubled eyes. And then we went to dine -at ‘Simpson’s’ in reminiscence of the past, when I had had a pleasant -balance to draw upon, and banks had not taken to breaking. And then for -a long stroll and back again to his rooms. - -“You see I’ve got them all ready for you, and the lobster supper that you -always favoured, though how on earth you manage to sleep after it, passes -my comprehension. And then we’ll chat on as in the good old days, and -fancy ourselves undergraduates again, and that all this trouble is an -evil dream. And remember that a room will always be kept ready for you -in the future. Send me a wire when you want to use it, and the oftener -you come and the longer you stay the better for me. But it’s late in the -day of our friendship to be telling you all this, as if you hadn’t known -it years and years ago.” - -All my vague misgivings had vanished before his welcome, and it has dwelt -with me since as a pleasurable thought that Eric, I am sure, meant fairly -by me then, and that for what happened later on between us, the blame in -part must rest with me, who had spread, however unwittingly, a snare -before his feet. - -After supper we drew up our chairs side-by-side before the fire—for the -autumn evenings had become chilly now in town—and discussed the situation -from every possible view and bearing, without, I candidly admit, finding -any means of bettering it. - -Eric was far too wise to offer me monetary help. But his hand-grasp told -me I might have had it for the asking—aye, anything he could have given -me. And I grew cheerier and more hopeful of the future, and thought with -thankfulness how much it means to any man to have just one true friend in -life. How few of us can say as much, especially when life’s sun begins -to verge towards its setting, and the friends we have made are gone -before us, and ourselves have lost the will and opportunity to win us new -ones. - -To-night I was tasting this cup of happiness in fullest measure. Time -for me had rolled backwards, and he and I were together again—the friend -in whom I could see no change; the lad who in days gone by had slipped up -with me from Cambridge for many an evening just like this. - -The next morning I went to call upon my agents, after arranging with Eric -to meet him in the Strand at the private gallery where his picture was on -view. - -In those early days there was little information, I knew, to be expected -from them, and such as it was it only went to confirm my gloomy forecast. -The bank, they told me, was irretrievably ruined, and all the capital it -could command would infallibly be called up. - -Afterwards I joined Eric in the Strand, and he took me into a room from -which all natural light had been carefully excluded. And as I stood -looking at a curtain which shrouded the farther wall, it suddenly rolled -back, and under a perfect light, and with all the accessories that art -could lend to its environment, I saw before me the picture that had made -him famous. - -It was in no wise a sensational subject. Only a precipitous rock, rent -in twain by a huge fissure, through which I looked down upon a valley -which opened and fell away in front of me. From its foot a mountain -stream foamed and fretted down a steep incline. And on either side of -the valley, wherever a projection or an eminence promised safety from the -torrents that scored the declivities, tiny sparks of fire, few and far -between, flickered from the cottage windows, with a pleasant suggestion -of the cheeriness within. Crowning the precipice which occupied the -foreground on the right hand of the picture, I could see the outline of -the village church, where glowed a larger, ruddier flame, from the lamp, -no doubt, which burned before the altar of the sanctuary. - -It was a wonderful piece of work for a lad so young in years. I am no -painter, and the defects there may have been in it were all invisible to -me. But the cleverness of the composition, and the marvellous adjustment -of the lights and shadows, flung by the afterglow upon the surrounding -hills, could only have been inspired by genius. No wonder that his work -had made him famous. - -He had entitled it “Val Verde.” - -“It commemorates a story, Harold,” he whispered—for there were visitors -besides ourselves—“that has grown up around a picture which forms the -altar-piece of the church. Whether the legend rests on any historic -ground-work, I could never satisfactorily determine. I only know that -versions of it, in many various forms, are current in most of the -adjoining villages. But this evening, if you like, I will tell it to you -precisely as it was told to me by the curé of the parish. True or -untrue, it is interesting enough as a story, though I could wish we had -fallen upon a more cheerful topic for the enlivenment of our last -evening.” - -As we were leaving the gallery, I bethought me of the picture which -Reggie had unearthed for me at Cambridge. - -“By the way, Eric,” I said, “I’ve got a picture, too, in my possession, -on which I want your opinion. If you don’t mind the trouble, old man, -I’ll send it up to you when I get home to-morrow. It’s only a copy, for -I’ve seen the original. But it’s a fairly good one, unless I am much -mistaken. And in these days, when I don’t know where to look for a -five-pound note, anything, however small, will come in handy. So, if you -think it’s worth a few pounds, please do the best you can for me, and -I’ll be awfully grateful.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -IN the evening, as we sat before the fire, Eric told me the story. {190} - -“I had lost my way in the Abruzzi. All the day long I had wandered in -fruitless quest of a subject to complete my series of Italian sketches. -And now the twilight had fallen upon me with the suddenness of an Italian -autumn. Up to this time I had followed the guidance of a faint -bridle-path, but on a sudden the ground shelved downwards, and I found -myself at the entrance of a narrow ravine, confronted by a blank, -precipitous rock, while the path I had been following wandered off to the -left, and was lost in the obscurity of the moor beyond. Nothing in the -shape of a village, nothing that promised me a shelter for the night, was -visible on the moorland I had been traversing. So my only hope lay in -the chance of what might lie beyond the rock that barred my progress. - -“Stumbling and halting at every step, for the night was falling rapidly -and progress rendered difficult by boulders and watercourses, I at length -made my way past the obstruction through a fissure at the side, and found -to my delight that the subject of my picture lay before me. What it was -you have seen to-day. - -“Cheered by my good fortune, for the wind was rising rapidly, and there -was every suggestion of an autumn gale, I made for one of the larger -cottages that faced me. I had chosen well, as the event proved, for I -found it to be the residence of the village priest—a kindly and refined -old man—who met me at the door with outstretched hands, and with a -welcome that in England we accord only to long-established friends. - -“‘You are welcome, my son, most welcome,’ he began. ‘Few visitors reach -me in this Val Verde—for so I have christened it, not very appropriately, -I fear, but in memory of my home in Spain—and when they do come we keep -them, be assured, for as long as they will stay. But now let me show you -my guest-chamber. Poor as it is, it is better than would have fallen to -your lot if you had missed the entrance to our valley. And in an hour -Annetta will be ready with our evening meal, and afterwards we will sit -and talk over a flask of Chianti till late into the night. Or rather, -you shall talk and I will listen, for news of the outer world is the -payment we exact from our visitors for such welcome as we can give them.’ - -“Annetta was still busy with her preparations when I rejoined him in the -little sitting-room, so comfortable in its contrast with the world -outside, where a hurricane raged and roared through the ravines that fell -away from either side of the house. - -“I went to the window and looked out at the tiny lights blinking from the -cottages like glow-worms that had lost their confidence. And right on -the top of the grim rock facing me gleamed the red light from the church -that crowned its summit. - -“‘The story of a terrible tragedy attaches to that lamp,’ said my host, -who had come forward to join me. And his words, by a strange -coincidence, came almost as an answer to my thought. ‘When we settle -down,’ he added, ‘for our evening chat, my contribution to our -entertainment shall be the story of the tragedy that it commemorates. -Meanwhile, as Annetta is behindhand with her preparations, and will not -serve us yet awhile, do you feel bold enough to climb that hill with me -in face of the storm, and see for yourself what my church contains? It -can boast, at any rate, of one good picture, which, by the way, you ought -to study before you hear the story I have promised you, and with which it -is connected.’ - -“‘With pleasure,’ was my reply, ‘though surely it is hardly fair to judge -a picture on a night like this, and by what looks like the glimmer of one -feeble lamp. It would be difficult, I imagine, to devise worse -conditions for appreciating an artist’s work.’ - -“‘As a rule, no doubt. But remember that pictures, like music, may be -composed to suit certain accompaniments; and this is one of them, as I -think you will admit, if you are content to take my words on trust and -brave the storm in faith of them.’ - -“Lantern in hand, the old man sallied forth, and I followed him. The -distance was not so great as I had anticipated, nor the wind so -overpowering. The church was really nearer than I had judged it to be in -the twilight of the approaching night, and the precipice up which our -pathway lay acted as a barrier to the wind, which had gathered in the -moorland beyond, and, parted into two currents, swept the defiles on -either side of us. - -“On entering the church I saw at once that the main building was in -darkness, save for the glimmering flame before the sanctuary. But from a -side chapel that opened on the choir streamed another and fuller -radiance, which had been concentrated by a careful adjustment on the -picture I had come to study. - -“It was a ‘Descent from the Cross,’ left by the artist, as I gathered at -a glance, in an unfinished state. Nothing indeed had been attempted -except the central Figure, which lay unattended and alone at the foot of -the Cross. One weak and wavering line, visible only to the expert’s eye, -might have been taken to imply that, worn out by his task, the painter -had flung down his brush, and, satisfied or dissatisfied with the result, -had never cared to re-touch his work. - -“Yet satisfied he surely must have been, for, in spite of numerous -faults, it was great, immeasurably great, in rough untutored power. What -most impressed me was the terrible truthfulness with which he had -realised the details. Surely, such total collapse, such limp and inert -limbs, such lights and shadows on the livid skin, were never the outcome -of the painter’s consciousness? Death alone, and death that was only -just not life, had been the model from which he drew. - -“And then, as I studied it more closely, other minor details grew out of -the obscurity and impressed themselves upon me. It was unfinished, as I -said, and had been painted with lightning rapidity, probably at a single -sitting. It had been painted, too, by artificial light—the tone of the -colouring proved it—but painted certainly to suit its surroundings, and -probably on the very spot where we stood to view it. Now and again, as -the wind forced its way through the time-worn casement, it swayed the -draperies that hung around the picture—only another accessory, or so it -seemed, to which the painter had attuned his work. - -“‘Strong and terrible as a Ribera,’ was my verdict, ‘but a Ribera -inspired and glorified.’ For this was no morbid study of Death the -Destroyer’s handiwork. No; the artist had carried his subject far beyond -the dominion of Death, when he transfigured the Face on the canvas with -the light of an Everlasting Love.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -IN the evening after supper Eric told me the story of the picture as he -had heard it from his friend the priest. - -“Years ago,” he said—“for so I heard the story on my arrival in the -parish—a rich Englishman, travelling for pleasure, found his way to our -village, and, intending to stay three weeks, was detained for eight. For -he had caught the fever which prevails in the lower valleys, and only -recovered from it thanks to the care he received from my predecessor in -the house to which it has been my pleasure to welcome you. On his -departure he left a hundred pounds with the priest as a thank-offering -for his recovery, on the understanding that it was to be employed in the -purchase of an altar-piece for our church, painted, if possible, by some -local artist from the surrounding district. Many competed, but it was -felt from the first that the honour was as good as won by Agostino -Villari, a young painter of extraordinary talent, who lived in the house -I showed you at the further end of the village. At that time he was only -twenty—hardly more than a boy—and his talent was almost wholly -undeveloped. But he only wanted time and teaching. The power was there, -as you have seen for yourself to-day. Well, Agostino had but one great -friend, a cousin, who shared his house, sat for his model, and whose -single hope and assurance was that Agostino would live to be a famous -painter. Cecco, for so he was called, was about thirty, a pale sedate -man, of a gentle loving nature. But why describe him? You have seen him -to-day, pictured by his friend’s hand as no words of mine could paint -him. - -“As the time for the competition drew on, the two friends were wholly -absorbed in anticipating the result. Agostino was to be immortalised as -the painter, Cecco as the model. And their love for each other made them -wholly unselfish; each hoped for success solely in the interest of his -friend. Nothing short of a perfect likeness would satisfy Agostino, -nothing short of a perfect picture would satisfy Cecco’s ambition for his -friend. - -“On the night before the pictures were to be sent in, the two went up -together to the church, to place the painting in position and to judge of -its effect, taking with them the materials for retouching it if it should -be required. It was a wild night—a night like this (for the story is -precise in its details)—and the two friends had a hard climb up the hill -to the church, where they placed the picture in the side chapel, because -they could utilise the stronger light to throw into relief the details of -the composition. - -“You ask for the result? Well, Cecco was in raptures. ‘It is -immortality, ’Tino,’ he cried, ‘for both of us. How great you are! It -is I—I myself, and to the very life—only grander, nobler, spiritualised.’ -‘Yes, it is you,’ said ’Tino hesitatingly, ‘you, no doubt, and to the -very life, as you say. But will that do? Look at that face, that chest, -those firm and muscular limbs. True to life, I admit, well-drawn and -well-painted. But life, not death, and _death_ is what we wanted. Strip -yourself, Cecco, and lie at the foot of the Cross; see if you can help -me. You know I can never paint the smallest detail without a model. -There—fling yourself down in a heap as if you had lost all strength, all -energy. Yes, that is well. You have given me the attitude. But the -blood, the rich colouring in your face and limbs—it is life, vigorous -life, all of it—and I cannot even picture what they would be like, shrunk -and colourless and lifeless. If you could only faint, Cecco, I might do -something. Can’t you faint—just for one moment—just to oblige me?’ ‘No, -’Tino, but I will do more for you and the picture than that. Only -promise to finish it—here, this evening, before you leave the church. -’Tino, remember, _I count upon your promise_.’ - -“One short swift stroke, and he had dealt himself the blow before ’Tino’s -hand could stay him. - -“But ’Tino set up his easel beside the corpse, and all the night through -he painted—painted as if the Furies were upon him—till the dawn looked in -at the window and his friend’s form took shape on the canvas, and the -task that had been appointed him was done. - -“Then ’Tino, too, vanished from among us, leaving the story of Cecco’s -death in writing beside the corpse. - -“And it was said by some, but never believed by those who knew him, that -’Tino had slain his friend.” - - * * * * * - -It was some time before I or Eric spoke. - -“I wonder what became of ’Tino,” I murmured. “Stay; do not tell me, even -if the legend has recorded it. I can picture it without words. Lonely -he must have been, for he had seen that which must have built a barrier -for ever between him and the world outside. And I can assume with equal -certainty that he never handled brush or palette again. And -sometimes—always at night—he would reappear at the church and watch -through the darkness in company with his friend. Yes, lonely he must -have been—but not unhappy, brightened by a great love here and by a -vision of the Greater beyond.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -WHEN I returned to Fleetwater, Marion was gone. It was better so, I -felt, much as I missed her. Indeed, our last good-bye had been said in -the place she had chosen for it,—on the Chapel Hill where she had turned -and left me. - -Two days later Eric’s verdict on the picture came. It was short and to -the point. - - “Dear Harold, - - “Why, it’s a Bronzino (he wrote), the great Bronzino at Madrid. I - mean, of course, a copy. But a remarkably good one, and worth - something if only for the excellence of the work. I’ll do what I can - with it. The original is safe, as you know, in the Museum at - Madrid—at least it was, unless you have stolen it since I left the - place last autumn. - - “Yours affectionately, - - “ERIC.” - -I do not know what other answer we could have expected. But -notwithstanding, it was a disappointment to all of us. Most fortunate it -proved that I had seen the original at Madrid, and been able, in -consequence, to repress the growing confidence of those around me in the -value of the picture. Indeed, I had been obliged to insist on this point -again and again in my conversations with the Rector and Marion, neither -of whom could in any wise be persuaded that it was only a copy. Marion, -if possible, had been the more obstinate of the two, and had almost -succeeded in convincing me that I had never seen the original at all. “I -believe it was a dream, Harold,” she would say, “and that you only -fancied you saw it. Why, I’ve had the same feeling a hundred times over. -Dreams with me often take such a real and tangible form that I’ve found -myself hunting again and again for some article which I was sure I had in -my possession, and which very possibly never existed at all. Reason in -such cases is absolutely powerless. Even to this very day I constantly -wake up with a belief that I’ve bought a whole gallery of pictures, and -am short of the money to pay for them. And so real is the fancy that I -could describe to you at this moment the shop where I bought them, the -man who sold them to me, and the subject of each picture in detail. - -“Besides, you must have been picture-blind by the time you got to Madrid. -By your own showing it came at the end of a long round of galleries, and -I suspect that this dream-picture of yours is a sort of blend of all the -best pictures you’d been seeing at Rome and Florence and Dresden. A -cardinal gave you the dress, and Bindo Altoviti the face, and lo and -behold you had your portrait complete.” - -And the Rector, who had a fine eye for drawing and colouring, had been -not one whit more easy to persuade. “I can’t solve the mystery, -Stirling. But of one thing I’m certain—that no copyist did it. Do you -mean to tell me that a painter who could do work like that would waste -his time on the slavish task of copying? Why, the man who painted that -picture might command the Royal Academy. It’s no such easy matter, -remember, to reproduce a picture in flaming scarlet, without a touch of -any other colour to relieve it. Try it, my boy—you’re a dabbler in the -art yourself—and see if you can produce anything on the same lines that -will be worth hanging as a signboard on the village Inn.” - -Even Peggy, too, had had her fling at my unbelief. “Why, it’s simply -lovely, Mr. Stirling,” she’d tell me, “though I say it as shouldn’t, for -it goes sore against my conscience to praise that idolatrous young -heathen, who, but for the cut of his dress, might be the Scarlet Woman -herself. And even she couldn’t have chosen herself a more beautiful -material; I will say that for it, scarlet or no scarlet. You can’t find -such a texture as that in a shop now-a-days for love or money. Look at -the gloss and sheen on it, and the beautiful folds that it makes, that’ll -never show a crease in them till years after that young jackanapes has -grown out of it.” - -Well, I had my revenge on all of them at last when Eric’s letter came, -confirming my statement that I had left the original at Madrid. - -But I question whether revenge is ever at any time satisfactory; it -certainly was not so to me. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -IN the days that followed, my life took a dull sad monotone, lightened at -intervals by the reflection of past memories, which lay along its path -like the sunlit pools left on a shore by the receding tide. - -Leave-takings are bad enough at any time, unless they form the prelude to -a brighter future. And future before me I had none, except a grim -monotony of work in a curacy at the East End, into which I intended to -throw all the energy I could command, if only to keep my thoughts from -brooding on the past. - -And yet of quiet happiness there was something left me still. For -everyone at Fleetwater seemed sorry at my going. Even Higgins, our one -great Calvinist, with whom on questions of theology the Rector and I had -found ourselves at bitter feud, was troubled at my leaving. He had -hoped, I think, to convert me to his theories. But as his arguments went -chiefly to prove that one of the great pleasures of the righteous in the -world to come would be to listen to the tortures of the wicked, I -declined his ministrations, and became to him in his own words as “the -deaf adder that stoppeth her ears.” - -Stranger still, even Peggy was sorry, now that the time had come for me -to go the way of all the curates, even though I was fulfilling my -preordained destiny, and going on the question of Marion’s love. Not -even the knowledge that Reggie would soon be home again, to find a fair -field and plenty of her own favour, could reconcile her wholly to the -parting. - -And at the Rectory all was sadness and dismay. The Rector seldom alluded -to my going; I think he could not trust himself. But the children, who -had been always fond of me, were less reticent of their grief, especially -as they saw before them a blank future, from which the wedding and its -attendant festivities had been suddenly withdrawn. - -And still the dreary days went on. Each day a Good-bye said to some one -who had become a kindly friend, and each day a Good-bye to some haunt in -which Marion and I had walked and loved. - -If only I could have shared in her firm confidence, the task before me -would have been lightened. But each day I heard news of the bank that -increased more and more my hopelessness. Already I had been obliged to -borrow funds to meet the calls that were in prospect, and, when they -should have been paid in full, I foresaw myself starting anew in life -with a load of encumbrances about my neck that, out of a curate’s slender -pittance, there was small hope of reducing, granted that I could find the -means of paying the annual interest. - -Even now I found myself hampered by the expenses necessitated by my -leaving. And it was in the hope of getting something to relieve my -present embarrassment that I wrote again to Eric, reminding him of his -promise, and asking him in so many words if he had been able to do -anything towards finding me a market for the picture. - -He delayed his answer for many days, from the difficulty, I thought, he -had found in getting any offer that he would be warranted in accepting. - -And then, when the last day of my time at Fleetwater was come, and I had -almost given up the hope of hearing any news from him, his answer reached -me. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - - “DEAR HAROLD, - - “I have been behaving like a cad. - - Your picture is an original Bronzino, worth quite enough to free you - from all the difficulties brought about by the bank. Any copyist who - could do such work could expend his time more profitably on a picture - of his own. Besides, it’s a _tour de force_ in colouring that no - sane copyist would dream of imitating. Bronzino, I suppose, fancied - his subject, and, like some other great painters, reproduced it in - duplicate, with just the smallest amount of alteration that would - serve to characterize and identify it. - - “And now for my own part in this sorry business. It was a mean - trick, but, thank Heaven, I hadn’t the strength, and, I hope, not the - will to carry it through. You see I wanted her so badly that I - couldn’t give her up even to you. And then the question of the - picture turned up, and, unluckily, I found in it my opportunity. - Till then, believe me, I had kept my honour safe. All of a sudden, - the words she had used of me on Chapel hill, the night of the show, - flashed across my mind, and I thought that, if you were out of the - way for a time, I might win her still. And it _was_ hard for me, you - know, when I had waited for her all these years, and had come home at - last to claim her, to find that you had won her love. - - “Believe me, Harold, when I say I am sorry. I have sinned against - the friend of my youth and the woman of my love. But try, old - friend—not now but in the future—to win my pardon from Marion and - yourself. You will have time to do so, for I leave England to-morrow - for the East, and shall not return, if I ever do, till I can face - your happiness without a thought of envy or regret. Don’t tell - Marion more than you can help. Old friend, good-bye. - - “ERIC.” - -“P.S.—I enclose Christie and Manson’s receipt for your picture, which -will go into their next sale. ‘Bronzino _at his best_’ the critics -pronounce it, which in his case means a big difference. I am forwarding -you my own picture of ‘Val Verde,’ which I always intended for Marion.” - - - - -EPILOGUE - - -ERIC, I fancy, will never marry. At least, he says so, and the words -mean more with him than they would do on the lips of other men. - -His was not a character—I recognised at last—to love lightly, or to -change the object easily where once it had given its love. In every -single point he had falsified the career which I had mapped out for him -at starting. Not always, it is clear, does Cicero’s rule hold -good—“_Imago animi vultus_; _indices oculi_.” Eric, for one, had -demonstrated its incompleteness. I had thought him weak and vacillating. -And his weakness, if ever it existed, had become his strength. Strong he -had shown himself (in spite of his own words) both for the friend of his -youth and the woman of his choice; strong to build himself a grand -career; strong above all to conquer a temptation before which the -strongest might have fallen; strong finally to fall and rise again, which -is greater and grander, I take it, than not to fall. True of him, if of -anyone— - - “That men may rise on stepping-stones - Of their dead selves to higher things.” - -Thank Heaven! there is no shadow of a cloud between us now. And though I -cannot look for him at Fleetwater as yet, where the tantalising proximity -of all he held most dear would make life for a time unbearable; yet -surely, most surely, I know that we shall see him there some time, some -day. - -In appearance he is not altered much from the lad I loved at school and -college, and from whom I parted not quite three years ago in his rooms at -Trinity, starting, each of us, so confidently on the journey of a life -for which I had made forecast of such different results. Only a weary -look in his eyes, which time, I think, will surely lighten; only a line -or two on his forehead, which time, I think, will surely smooth away. - -And when he left us again for a long round of travel in Italy, Egypt, and -the East, to enlarge his ideas and find fresh subjects for his pencil, it -was with a heart full of hope and thankfulness that I bade him Godspeed. - -For surely, most surely, I know that we shall have him once again with -us—the Eric of the past, the dearest friend, save one, I ever knew—to -share in and complete the happiness he had won for us out of the strong -heart that only failed him once, and made out of failure a greater and -far more glorious recovery. For time has been quietly perfecting its -work, and when he comes to us again, we shall meet, I know, the Eric of -the future, too, uprising from the Eric of the past. - - * * * * * - - THE END. - - - - -FOOTNOTE. - - -{190} The following legend formed the subject of a short story in the -“Cambridge Review,” June 1903. - - * * * * * - - - - - - Ronald and I - - - Crown 8vo. Illustrated. 3s. 6d. net. - - _OPINIONS OF THE PRESS_ - -_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE_.—“Stones and Sketches . . . There is not one which -is not of its kind perfect.” - -_BIRKENHEAD NEWS_.—“There is literature here, and that of the very best, -witness ‘The Cruel Crawling Foam.’” - -_LITERATURE_.—“We had finished Mr. Pretor’s book, and had been refreshed -by the knowledge and humour and tenderness underlying his descriptions of -‘Our Rector,’ ‘Our Professor,’ and ‘Bindo.’” - -_CAMBRIDGE REVIEW_.—“Mr. Pretor’s power for delicate delineation is -unequalled. His style is alone a charm. We have read the book with -genuine delight, and we think it appeals to all cultivated people who -care for simple yet well drawn pictures of real life.” - -_ACADEMY_.—“A series of studies, grim, humorous, fanciful and pathetic . . . -The pleasant mixture is dedicated to Mrs. Thomas Hardy.” - -_SPECTATOR_.—“A volume of clever sketches. Indeed, there is more than -cleverness in them. There is feeling, often expressed with no little -subtlety and skill, and plenty of humour. Some of the stories are of the -strangest.” - -_SATURDAY REVIEW_.—“Mr. Thomas Hardy did well to encourage.” - -_LITERARY WORLD_.—“Mr. Pretor possesses the panoply of a successful -writer unless we are much mistaken.” - - * * * * * - - Cambridge Deighton Bell & Co. - London George Bell & Sons. - - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHAPEL ON THE HILL*** - - -******* This file should be named 63310-0.txt or 63310-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/3/1/63310 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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