HETTY WESLEY. 

by

ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH. 

TO ANDREW LANG. A GOOD CHAMPION OF HETTY. 

CONTENTS. 

BOOK I. 

 PROLOGUE. 

 CHAPTER I. 

 CHAPTER II. 

 CHAPTER III. 

 CHAPTER IV. 

 CHAPTER V. 

 CHAPTER VI. 

 CHAPTER VII. 

 CHAPTER VIII. 

BOOK II. 

 CHAPTER I. 

 CHAPTER II. 

 CHAPTER III. 

 CHAPTER IV. 

 CHAPTER V. 

 CHAPTER VI. 

BOOK III. 

 PROLOGUE. 

 CHAPTER I. 

 CHAPTER II. 

 CHAPTER III. 

 CHAPTER IV. 

 CHAPTER V. 

 CHAPTER VI. 

 CHAPTER VII. 

 CHAPTER VIII. 

 CHAPTER IX. 

 CHAPTER X. 

 CHAPTER XI. 

 CHAPTER XII. 

 CHAPTER XIII. 

 CHAPTER XIV. 

 CHAPTER XV. 

 CHAPTER XVI. 

BOOK IV. 

 CHAPTER I. 

 CHAPTER II. 

 CHAPTER III. 

 CHAPTER IV. 

 CHAPTER V. 

 CHAPTER VI. 

 CHAPTER VII. 

 CHAPTER VIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

 CHAPTER I. 

 CHAPTER II. 

 EPILOGUE. 

BOOK I. 

PROLOGUE. 

 "For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"

At Surat, by a window of his private office in the East IndiaCompany's factory, a middle-aged man stared out upon the broad riverand the wharves below. Business in the factory had ceased for theday: clerks and porters had gone about their own affairs, and hadleft the great building strangely cool and empty and silent. The wharves, too, were deserted--all but one, where a Hindu sat inthe shade of a pile of luggage, and the top of a boat's mast waveredlike the index of a balance above the edge of the landing-stairs. 

The luggage belonged to the middle-aged man at the window: the boatwas to carry him down the river to the _Albemarle_, East Indiaman, anchored in the roads with her Surat cargo aboard. She would sailthat night for Bombay and thence away for England. 

He was ready; dressed for his journey in a loose white suit, which, though designed for the East, was almost aggressively British. A Cheapside tailor had cut it, and, had it been black or gray orsnuff-coloured instead of white, its wearer might have passed all theway from the Docks to Temple Bar for a solid merchant on 'Change--aself-respecting man, too, careless of dress for appearance' sake, butcareful of it for his own, and as part of a habit of neatness. He wore no wig (though the date was 1723), but his own gray hair, brushed smoothly back from a sufficiently handsome forehead and tiedbehind with a fresh black ribbon. In his right hand he held a strawhat, broad-brimmed like a Quaker's, and a white umbrella with a greenlining. His left fingered his clean-shaven chin as he gazed on theriver. 

The ceremonies of leave-taking were done with and dismissed; so faras he could, he had avoided them. He had ever been a hard man andknew well enough that the clerks disliked him. He hated humbug. He had come to India, almost forty years ago, not to make friends, but to make a fortune. And now the fortune was made, and the roombehind him stood ready, spick and span, for the Scotsman who wouldtake his chair to-morrow. Drawers had been emptied and dusted, loosepapers and memoranda sorted and either burnt or arranged anddocketed, ledgers entered up to the last item in his firmhandwriting, and finally closed. The history of his manhood lay shutbetween their covers, written in figures terser than a Roman classic:his grand _coup_ in Nunsasee goods, Abdul Guffere's debt commuted for500, 000 rupees, the salvage of the _Ramillies_ wreck, his commercialduel with Viltul Parrak . . . And the record had no loose ends. He owed no man a farthing. 

The door behind him opened softly and a small gray-headed man peeredinto the room. 

"Mr. Annesley, if I might take the liberty--"

"Ah, MacNab?" Samuel Annesley swung round promptly. 

"I trust, sir, I do not intrude?"

"'Intrude, ' man? Why?"

"Oh, nothing, sir, " answered the little man vaguely, with a dubiousglance at Mr. Annesley's eyes. "Only I thought perhaps--at such amoment--old scenes, old associations--and you leaving us for ever, sir!"

"Tut, nonsense! You have something to say to me. Anythingforgotten?"

"Nothing in the way of business, sir. But it occurred to me--"Mr. MacNab lowered his voice, "--Your good lady, up at theburial-ground. You will excuse me--at such a time: but it may beyears before I am spared to return home, and if I can do anything inthe way of looking after the grave, I shall be proud. Oh no--" hewent on hurriedly with a flushed face: "for _love_, sir; for love, ofcourse: or, as I should rather say, for old sake's sake, if that'snot too bold. It would be a privilege, Mr. Annesley. "

Samuel Annesley stood considering his late confidential clerk withbent brows. "I am much obliged to you, MacNab; but in this matteryou must do as you please. You are right in supposing that I wassincerely attached to my wife--"

"Indeed yes, sir. "

"But I have none of the sentiment you give me credit for. 'Let thedead bury the dead'--that is a text to which I have given someattention of late, and I hope to profit by it in--in the future. "

"Well, God bless you, Mr. Annesley!"

"I thank you. We are delaying the boat, I fear. No"--as Mr. MacNabmade an offer to accompany him--"I prefer to go alone. We haveshaken hands already. The room is ready for Mr. Menzies, when hecomes to-morrow. Good-bye. "

A minute later Mr. MacNab, lingering by the window, saw him cross theroad to the landing-stage and stand for a moment in talk with theHindu, Bhagwan Dass. Then his straw hat disappeared down the steps. The boat was pushed off; and Bhagwan Dass, after watching it for awhile, turned without emotion and came strolling across to thefactory. 

On board the _Albemarle_ Mr. Annesley found the best cabin preparedfor him, as became his importance. He went below at once and wasonly seen at meal-times during the short voyage to Bombay, a townthat of late years had almost eclipsed Surat in trade and importance. Here Captain Bewes was to take in the bulk of his passengers andcargo, and brought his vessel close alongside the Bund. During thethree days occupied in lading and stowing little order wasmaintained, and the decks lay open to a promiscuous crowd of cooliesand porters, waterside loafers, beggars and thieves. The officerskept an eye open for these last: the rest they tolerated until themoment came for warping out, when the custom was to pipe all handsand clear the ship of intruders by a general rush. 

The first two days Mr. Annesley spent upon the poop, watching the mobwith a certain scornful interest. On the third he did not appear, but was served with _tiffin_ in his cabin. At about six o'clock, thesecond mate--a Mr. Orchard--sought the captain to report that allwas ready and waiting the word to cast off. His way led pastMr. Annesley's cabin, and there he came upon an old mendicantstooping over the door handle and making as if to enter and beg; whomhe clouted across the shoulders and cuffed up the companion-ladder. Mr. Orchard afterwards remembered to have seen this same beggar man, or the image of him, off and on during the two previous days, seatedasquat against a post on the Bund, and watching the _Albemarle_, with his crutch and bowl beside him. 

When the rush came, this old man, bent and blear-eyed, was sweptalong the gangway like a chip on the tide. In pure lightness ofheart a sailor, posted at the head of the plank, expedited him with akick. "That'll do for good-bye to India, " said he, grinning. 

The old man showed no resentment, but was borne along bewildered, gripping his bowl to his breast. On the quay's edge he seemed tofind his feet, and shuffled off towards the town, without oncelooking back at the ship. 

CHAPTER I. 

"MILL--mill! A mill!"

At the entrance of Dean's Yard, Westminster, a small King's Scholar, waving his gown and yelling, collided with an old gentleman hobblinground the corner, and sat down suddenly in the gutter with a squeal, as a bagpipe collapses. The old gentleman rotated on one leg like adervish, made an ineffectual stoop to clutch his gouty toe and woundup by bringing his rattan cane smartly down on the boy's shoulders. 

"Owgh! Owgh! Stand up, you young villain! My temper's hasty, andhere's a shilling-piece to cry quits. Stand up and tell me now--isit Fire, Robbery, or Murder?"

The youngster pounced at the shilling, shook off the hand on hiscollar, and darted down Little College Street to Hutton's BoardingHouse, under the windows of which he pulled up and executed aderisive war-dance. 

 "Hutton's, Hutton's, Put up your buttons, Hutton's are rottenly Whigs--"

"Mill--mill! Come out and carry home your Butcher Randall!You'll be wanted when Wesley has done with him. "

He was speeding back by this time, and flung this last taunt from asafe distance. The old gentleman collared him again by the entry. 

"Stop, my friend--here, hold hard for a moment! A fight, you said:and Wesley--was it Wesley?"

The boy nodded. 

"Charles Wesley?"

"Well, it wouldn't be Samuel--at _his_ age: now would it?" The boygrinned. The Reverend Samuel Wesley was the respected Head Usher ofWestminster School. 

"And what will Charles Wesley be fighting about?"

"How should I know? Because he wants to, belike. But I was told itbegan up school, with Randall's flinging a book at young Murray for alousy Scotch Jacobite. "

"H'm: and where will it be?"

The boy dropped his voice to a drawl. "In Fighting-green, I believe, sir: they told me Poets' Corner was already bespoke for a turn-upbetween the Dean and Sall the charwoman, with the Head Verger forbottle-holder--"

"Now, look here, young jackanapes--" But young jackanapes, catchingsight of half a dozen boys--the vanguard of Hutton's--at the streetcorner, ducked himself free and raced from vengeance across the yard. 

The old gentleman followed; and the crowd from Hutton's, surgingpast, showed him the way to Fighting-green where a knot of King'sScholars politely made room for him, perceiving that in spite of hissmall stature, his rusty wig and countrified brown suit, he was aperson of some dignity and no little force of character. They readit perhaps in the set of his mouth, perhaps in the high aquiline archof his nose, which he fed with snuff as he gazed round the ring whilethe fighters rested, each in his corner, after the first round: for amill at Westminster was a ceremonious business, and the Head Masterhad been known to adjourn school for one. 

"H'm, " said the newcomer; "no need to ask which is Wesley. "

His eyes set deep beneath brows bristling like a wire-hairedterrier's--were on the boy in the farther corner, who sat on hisbacker's knee, shoeless, stripped to the buff, with an angry red markon the right breast below the collar-bone; a slight boy and a trifleundersized, but lithe, clear-skinned, and in the pink of condition; ahandsome boy, too. By his height you might have guessed him undersixteen, but his face set you doubting. There are faces almostuncannily good-looking: they charm so confidently that you shrinkfrom predicting the good fortune they claim, and bethink you that thegods' favourites are said to die young: and Charles Wesley's was sucha face. He tightened the braces about his waist and stepped forwardfor the second round with a sweet and serious smile. Yet his mouthmeant business. 

Master Randall--who stood near three inches taller--though nicknamed"Butcher, " was merely a dull heavy-shouldered Briton, dogged, hard tobeat; the son of a South Sea merchant, retired and living at Barnet, who swore by Walpole and King George. But at Westminster theseconvictions--and, confound it! they were the convictions of England, after all--met with scurrilous derision; and here Master Randallnursed a dull and inarticulate resentment in a world out of joint, where the winning side was a butt for epigrams. To win, and belaughed at! To have the account reopened in lampoons and witticisms, contemptible but irritating, when it should be closed by the mere actof winning! It puzzled him, and he brooded over it, turning sulky inthe end, not vicious. It was in no viciousness that he had flung abook at young Murray's head and called him a lousy Jacobite, butsimply to provoke Wesley and get his grievance settled byintelligible weapons, such as fists. 

He knew his to be the unpopular side, and that even Freind, the HeadMaster, would chuckle over the defeat of a Whig. Outside ofHutton's, who cheered him for the honour of their house, he had fewwell-wishers; but among them was a sprinkling of boys bearing thegreat Whig names--Cowpers, Sackvilles, Osborns--for whose sake andfor its own tradition the ring would give him fair play. 

The second round began warily, Wesley sparring for an opening, Randall defensive, facing round and round, much as a bullock fronts aterrier. He knew his game; to keep up his guard and wait for achance to get in with his long left. He was cunning, too; appearedslower than he was, tempting the other to take liberties, and, towards the end of the round, to step in a shade too closely. It wasbut a shade. Wesley, watching his eye, caught an instant's warning, flung his head far back and sprang away--not quickly enough to avoida thud on the ribs. It rattled him, but did no damage, and it taughthim his lesson. 

Round 3. Tempted in turn by his slight success, Randall shammed slowagain. But once bitten is twice shy, and this time he overreachedhimself, in two senses. His lunge, falling short, let in the littleone, who dealt him a double knock--rap, rap, on either side of thejaw--before breaking away. Stung out of caution he rushed andmanaged to close, but took a third rap which cut his upper lip. First blood to Wesley. The pair went to grass together, Randall ontop. But it was the Tories who cheered. 

Round 4. Randall, having bought his experience, went back to soundtactics. This and the next two rounds were uninteresting and quiteindecisive, though at the end of them Wesley had a promising blackeye and Randall was bleeding at mouth and nose. The old gentlemanrubbed his chin and took snuff. This Fabian fighting was all againstthe lighter weight, who must tire in time. 

Yet he did not look like tiring, but stepped out for Round 7 with thesame inscrutable smile. Randall met it with a shame-faced grin--really a highly creditable, good-natured grin, though the blood abouthis mouth did its meaning some injustice. And with this therehappened that which dismayed many and puzzled all. Wesley's fistswent up, but hung, as it were impotent for the moment, while his eyesglanced aside from his adversary's and rested, with a stiffening ofsurprise, on the corner of the ring where the old gentleman stood. A cry went up from the King's Scholars--a groan and a warning. At the sound he flung back his head instinctively--as Randall's leftshot out, caught him on the apple of the throat, and drove himstaggering back across the green. 

The old gentleman snapped down the lid of his snuffbox, and at thesame moment felt a hand gripping him by the elbow. "Now, how the--"he began, turning as he supposed to address a Westminster boy, andfound himself staring into the face of a lady. 

He had no time to take stock of her. And although her fingerspinched his arm, her eyes were all for the fight. 

It had been almost a knock-down; but young Wesley just saved himselfby touching the turf with his fingertips and, resting so, crouchedfor a spring. What is more, he timed it beautifully; helped byRandall himself, who followed up at random, demoralised by the happyfluke and encouraged by the shouts of Hutton's to "finish him off. "In the fall Wesley had most of his remaining breath thumped out ofhim; but this did not matter. He had saved the round. 

The old gentleman nodded. "Well recovered: very pretty--very prettyindeed!" He turned to the lady. "I beg your pardon, madam--"

"I beg yours, sir. " She withdrew her hand from his arm. 

"If he can swallow that down, he may win yet. "

"Please God!"

She stood almost a head taller than he, and he gazed up into asingularly noble face, proud and strong, somewhat pinched about thelips, but having such eyes and brows as belong to the few accustomedto confront great thoughts. It gave her the ineffable touch ofgreatness which more than redeemed her shabby black gown and antiquebonnet; and, on an afterthought, the old gentleman decided that itmust have been beautiful in its day. Just now it was pale, and onehand clutched the silk shawl crossed upon her bosom. He noted, too, that the hand was shapely, though roughened with housework where themitten did not hide it. 

She had scarcely glanced at him, and after a while he dropped hisscrutiny and gazed with her across the ring. 

"H'm, " said he, "dander up, this time!"

"Yes, " the lady answered, "I know that look, sir, though I have neverseen it on _him_. And I trust to see him wear it, one day, in abetter cause. "

"Tut, madam, the cause is good enough. You don't tell me I'm talkingto a Whig?--not that I'd dispute with a lady, Whig or Tory. "

"A Whig?" She fetched up a smile: she had evidently a reserve ofmirth. "Indeed, no: but I was thinking, sir, of the cause ofChrist. "

"Oh!" said the old gentleman shortly, and took snuff. 

They were right. Young Wesley stepped out this time with a honeyedsmile, but with a new-born light in his hazel eyes--a demoniac light, lambent and almost playful. Master Randall, caressed by them, readthe danger signal a thought too late. A swift and apparentlyreckless feint drew another of his slogging strokes, and in a flashthe enemy was under his guard. Even so, for the fraction of asecond, victory lay in his arms, a clear gift to be embraced: a quickcrook of the elbow, and Master Wesley's head and neck would be snuglyin Chancery. Master Wesley knew it--knew, further, that there was noretreat, and that his one chance hung on getting in his blow firstand disabling with it. He jabbed it home with his right, a littlebelow the heart: and in a second the inclosing fore-arm dragged limpacross his neck. He pressed on, aiming for the point of the jaw; butslowly lowered his hands as Randall tottered back two steps with aface of agony, dropped upon one knee, clutching at his breast, and soto the turf, where he writhed for a moment and fainted. 

As the ring broke up, cheering, and surged across the green, the oldgentleman took snuff again and snapped down the lid of his box. 

"Good!" said he; then to the lady, "Are you a relative of his?"

"I am his mother, sir. "

CHAPTER II. 

She moved across the green to the corner where Charles was coollysponging his face and chest over a basin. "In a moment, ma'am!" saidhe, looking up with a twinkle in his eye as the boys made way forher. 

She read the meaning of it and smiled at her own mistake as she drewback the hand she had put out to take the sponge from him. He washer youngest, and she had seen him but twice since, at the age ofeight, he had left home for Westminster School. In spite of theevidence of her eyes he was a small child still--until his voicewarned her. 

She drew back her hand at once. Boys scorn any show of feeling, evenbetween mother and son; and Charles should not be ridiculed on heraccount. So he sponged away and she waited, remembering how she hadtaught him, when turned a year old, to cry softly after a whipping. Ten children she had brought up in a far Lincolnshire parsonage, andwithout sparing the rod; but none had been allowed to disturb theirfather in his study where he sat annotating the Scriptures or turningan heroic couplet or adding up his tangled household accounts. 

A boy pushed through the group around the basin, with news thatButcher Randall had come-to from his swoon and wished to shake hands:and almost before Charles could pick up a towel and dry himself thefallen champion appeared with a somewhat battered grin. 

"No malice, " he mumbled: "nasty knock--better luck next time. "

"Come, I say!" protested Charles, shaking hands and pulling a mockface, "Is there going to be a next time?"

"Well, you don't suppose I'm _convinced_--" Randall began: but Mrs. Wesley broke in with a laugh. 

"There's old England for you!" She brought her mittened palmstogether as if to clap them, but they rested together in the verygesture of prayer. "'Won't be convinced, ' you say? but oh, when it'sdone you are worth it! Nay--don't hide your face, sir! Wounds foran honest belief are not shameful, and I can only hope that in yourplace my son would have shown so fair a temper. "

"Whe-ew!" one of the taller boys whistled. "It's Wesley's mother!"

"She was watching, too: the last two rounds at any rate. I saw her. "

"And I. "

"--And so cool it might have been a dog-fight in Tuttle Fields. Your servant, ma'am!" The speaker made her a boyish bow and liftedhis voice: "Three cheers for Mrs. Wesley!"

They were given--the first two with a will. The third tailed off;and Mrs. Wesley, looking about her, laughed again as the boys, suddenly turned shy or overtaken by a sense of delicacy, backed awaysheepishly and left her alone with her son. 

"Put on your shirt, " said she, and again her hand went out to helphim. "I want you to take a walk with me. "

Charles nodded. "Have you seen Sam?"

"Yes. You may kiss me now, dear--there's nobody looking. I left himalmost an hour ago: his leg is mending, but he cannot walk with us. He promises, though, to come to Johnson's Court this evening--Isuppose, in a sedan-chair--and greet your uncle Annesley, whom I haveengaged to take back to supper. You knew, of course, that I shouldbe lodging there?"

"Sammy--we call him Sammy--told me on Sunday, but could not say whenyou would be arriving here. "

"I reached London last night, and this morning your uncle Matthewcame to my door with word that the _Albemarle_ had entered the river. I think you are well enough to walk to the Docks with me. "

"Well enough? Of course I am. But why not take a waterman from thestairs here?"

"'Twill cost less to walk and hire a boat at Blackwall, if necessary. Your father could give me very little money, Charles. We seem to beas poorly off as ever. "

"And this uncle Annesley--" he began, but paused with a glance at hismother, whose face had suddenly grown hot. "What sort of a man ishe?"

"My boy, " she said with an effort, "I must not be ashamed to tell mychild what I am not ashamed to hope. He is rich: he once promised todo much for Emmy and Sukey, and these promises came to nothing. But now that his wife is dead and he comes home with neither chicknor child, I see no harm in praying that his heart may be movedtowards his sister's children. At least I shall be frank with himand hide not my hope, let him treat it as he will. " She was silentfor a moment. "Are _all_ women unscrupulous when they fight fortheir children? They cannot all be certain, as I am, that theirchildren were born for greatness: and yet, I wonder sometimes--"She wound up with a smile which held something of a playful irony, but more of sadness. 

"Jacky could not come with you?"

"No, and he writes bitterly about it. He is tied to Oxford--by lackof pence, again. "

By this time Charles had slipped on his jacket, and the pair steppedout into the streets and set their faces eastward. Mrs. Wesley wascockney-bred and delighted in the stir and rush of life. She, themother of many children, kept a well-poised figure and walked withthe elastic step of a maid; and as she went she chatted, asking ascore of shrewd questions about Westminster--the masters, the food, the old dormitory in which Charles slept, the new one then rising toreplace it; breaking off to recognise some famous building, or topause and gaze after a company of his Majesty's guards. Her ownmasterful carriage and unembarrassed mode of speech--"as if allLondon belonged to her, " Charles afterwards described it--drew thestares of the passers-by; stares which she misinterpreted, for in thegut of the Strand, a few paces beyond Somerset House, she suddenlytwirled the lad about and "Bless us, child, your eye's enough tofrighten the town! 'Tis to be hoped brother Sam has not turnedQuaker in India; or that Sally the cook-maid has a beefsteak handy. "

Mr. Matthew Wesley, apothecary and by courtesy "surgeon, " to whosehouse in Johnson's Court, Fleet Street, they presently swerved aside, had not returned from his morning's round of visits. He was awidower and took his meals irregularly. But Sally had two coverslaid, with a pot of freshly drawn porter beside each; and here, afterCharles's eye had been attended to and the swelling reduced, they ateand drank and rested for half an hour before resuming their walk. 

So far, and until they reached the Tower, their road was familiarenough; but from Smithfield onwards they had to halt and inquiretheir way again and again in intervals of threading the traffic whichpoured out of cross-streets and to and from the docks on theirright--wagons empty, wagons laden with hides, jute, scrap-iron, tallow, indigo, woollen bales, ochre, sugar; trollies andpack-horses; here and there a cordon of porters and warehousementrundling barrels as nonchalantly as a child his hoop. The businessof piloting his mother through these cross-tides left Charles littletime for observation; but one incident of that walk he never forgot. 

They were passing Shadwell when they came on a knot of people and twowatchmen posted at the corner of a street across which a reek ofsmoke mingled with clouds of gritty dust. Twice or thrice they hearda crash or dull rumble of falling masonry. A distillery had beenblazing there all night and a gang of workmen was now clearing theruins. But as Charles and his mother came by the corner, the knot ofpeople parted and gave passage to a line of stretchers--sixstretchers in all, and on each a body, which the bearers had nottaken the trouble to cover from view. A bystander said that thesewere men who had run back into the building to drink the flamingspirit, and had dropped insensible, and been crushed when the wallsfell in. The boy had never seen death before; and at the sight of itthrust upon him in this brutal form, he put out a hand towards hismother to find that she too was swaying. 

"Hallo!" cried the same bystander, "look out there! the lady'sfainting. "

But Mrs. Wesley steadied herself. "'Tis not _that_, " she gasped, at the same time waving him off; "'tis the fire--the fire!"And stepping by the crossing she fled along the street with Charlesat her heels, nor ceased running for another hundred yards. "You do not remember, " she began, turning at length; "no, of courseyou do not. You were a babe, not two years old; nurse snatched youout of bed--"

The odd thing was that, despite the impossibility, Charles seemed toremember quite clearly. As a child he had heard his sisters talk sooften of the fire at Epworth Rectory that the very scene--andespecially Jacky's escape--was bitten on the blank early pages as areal memory. He had half a mind now to question his mother about itand startle her with details, but her face forbade him. 

She recovered her colour in bargaining with a waterman at BlackwallStairs. Two stately Indiamen lay out on the river below, almostflank by flank; and, as it happened, the farther one was at thatmoment weighing her anchor, indeed had it tripped on the cathead. A cloud of boats hung about her, trailing astern as her head-sailsdrew and she began to gather way on the falling tide. 

The waterman, a weedy loafer with a bottle nose and watery blue eyes, agreed to pull across for threepence; but no sooner were theyembarked and on the tide-way, than he lay on his oars and jerked histhumb towards the moving ship. "Make it a crown, ma'am, and I'lloverhaul her, " he hiccupped. 

Mrs. Wesley glanced towards the two ships and counted down threepencedeliberately upon the thwart facing her, at the same time pursing upher lips to hide a smile. For the one ship lay moored stem and sternwith her bows pointed up the river, and the other, drifting past, atthis moment swung her tall poop into view with her windows flashingagainst the afternoon sun, and beneath them her name, the _JosiahChilds_, in tall gilt letters. 

"Better make it a crown, ma'am, " the waterman repeated with a drunkenchuckle. 

Mrs. Wesley rose in her seat. Her hand went up, and Charles madesure she meant to box the man's ears. He could not see the look onher face, but whatever it was it cowed the fellow, who seized hisoars again and began to pull for dear life, as she sat back and laidher hand on the tiller. 

"Easy, now, " she commanded, after twenty strokes or so. "Easy, andship your oar, unless you want it broken!" But for answer he merelystared at her, and a moment later his starboard oar snapped itstholepin like a carrot, and hurled him back over his thwart as theboat ran alongside the _Albemarle's_ ladder. 

"My friend, " said Mrs. Wesley coolly, "you have a pestilent habit ofnot listening. I hired you to row me to the _Albemarle_, and this, Ibelieve, is she. " Then, with a glance up at the half-dozen grinningfaces above the bulwarks, "Can I see Captain Bewes?"

"Your servant, ma'am. " The captain appeared at the head of theladder; a red apple-cheeked man in shirt-sleeves and clean whitenankeen breeches, who looked like nothing so much as an overgrownschoolboy. 

"Is Mr. Samuel Annesley on board?"

Captain Bewes rubbed his chin. He had grown suddenly grave. "I begyour pardon, " said he, "but are you a kinswoman of Mr. Annesley's?"

"I am his sister, sir. "

"Then I'll have to ask you to step on board, ma'am. You may dismissthat rascal, and one of my boats shall put you ashore. "

He stepped some way down the ladder to meet her and she took his handwith trepidation, while the _Albemarle's_ crew leaned over andtaunted the cursing waterman. 

"There--that will do, my man. I don't allow swearing here. Steady, ma'am, that's right; and now give us a hand, youngster. "

"Is--is he ill?" Mrs. Wesley stammered. 

"Who? Mr. Annesley? Not to my knowledge, ma'am. "

"Then he is on board? We heard he had taken passage with you. "

"Why, so he did; and, what's more, to the best of my knowledge, hesailed. It's a serious matter, ma'am, and we're all at our wits'ends over it; but the fact is--Mr. Annesley has disappeared. "

CHAPTER III. 

That same evening, in Mr. Matthew Wesley's parlour, Johnson's Court, Captain Bewes told the whole story--or so much of it as he knew. The disappearance from on board his ship of a person so important asMr. Samuel Annesley touched his prospects in the Company's service, and he did not conceal it. He had already reported the affair at theEast India House and was looking forward to a highly uncomfortableinterview with the Board of Governors: but he was concerned, too, asan honest man; and had jumped at Mrs. Wesley's invitation to sup withher in Johnson's Court and tell what he could. 

Mr. Matthew Wesley, as host, sat at the head of his table and puffedat a churchwarden pipe; a small, narrow-featured man, in achocolate-coloured suit, with steel buttons, and a wig ofprofessional amplitude. On his right sat his sister-in-law, herbonnet replaced by a tall white cap: on his left the Captain in hisshore-going clothes. He and the apothecary had mixed themselves aglass apiece of Jamaica rum, hot, with sugar and lemon-peel. At the foot of the table, with his injured leg supported on acushion, reclined the Reverend Samuel Wesley, Junior, Usher ofWestminster School, his gaunt cheeks (he was the plainest-featured ofthe Wesleys) wan with recent illness, and his eyes fixed on CaptainBewes's chubby face. 

"Well, as I told you, Mr. Annesley's cabin lay beside my state-room, with a window next to mine in the stern: and, as I showed Mrs. Wesleyto-day, my stateroom opens on the 'captain's cabin' (as they callit), where I have dined as many as two dozen before now, and where Ido the most of my work. This has three windows directly under thebig poop-lantern. I was sitting, that afternoon, at the head of themahogany swing table (just as you might be sitting now, sir) with myback to the light and the midmost of the three windows wide openbehind me, for air. I had the ship's chart spread before me when mysecond mate, Mr. Orchard, knocked at the door with word that all wasready to cast off. I asked him a few necessary questions, and whilehe stood there chatting I heard a splash just under my window. Well, that might have been anything--a warp cast off and the slack ofit striking the water, we'll say. Whatever it was, I heard it, turned about, and with one knee on the window-locker (I remember itperfectly) took a glance out astern. I saw nothing to account forthe sound: but I knew of a dozen things which might account for it--anything, in fact, down to some lazy cabin-boy heaving thedinner-scraps overboard: and having, as you'll understand, a dozenmatters on my mind at the moment, I thought no more of it, but turnedto Mr. Orchard again and picked up our talk. To this day I don'tknow that there was anything in the sound, but 'tis fair to tell youall I can. "--Captain Bewes took a sip at his grog, and over the rimlooked down the table towards Samuel, who nodded. 

The Captain nodded back, set down his glass, and resumed. "Quite so. The next thing is that Mr. Orchard, returning to deck two minuteslater and having to pass the door of Mr. Annesley's cabin on his way, ran against an old Hindu beggar crouching there, fingering thedoor-handle and about to enter--or so Orchard supposed, and kickedhim up the companion. He told me about it himself, next day, when wefound the cabin empty and I began to make inquiries. 'Now here, 'says you, 'here's a clue, ' and I'm not denying but it may be one. Only when you look into it, what does it amount to? Mr. Annesley--saving your presence--was known for a stern man: you may take it forcertain he'd made enemies over there, and these Hindus are the devil(saving your presence again, ma'am) for nursing a grudge. 'Keep astone in your pocket seven years: turn it, keep it for another seven;'twill be ready at hand for your enemy'--that's their way. But, tobegin with, an old _jogi_ is nothing strange to meet on a ship beforeshe clears. These beggars in the East will creep in anywhere. And, next, you'll hardly maintain that an old beggarman ('seventyyears old if a day, ' said Orchard) was going to take an active manlike Mr. Annesley and cram him bodily through a cabin window?'Tis out of nature. And yet when we broke into his cabin, twenty-four hours later, there was not a trace of him: only his boxesneatly packed, his watch hanging to the beam and just running down, ahandful of gold and silver tossed on to the bunk--just as he mighthave emptied it from his pockets--nothing else, and the whole cabinneat as a pin. "

"But, " objected Mr. Matthew Wesley, "if this _jogi_--or whatever youcall him--had entered the cabin for no good, he would hardly havemissed the money lying on the bunk. "

"Sir, you must not judge these eastern mendicants by your Londonbeggars. They are not thieves, nor avaricious, but religious menpractising self-denial, who collect alms merely to support life, andbelieve that money so bestowed blesses the giver. "

"A singularly perverted race!" was the apothecary's comment. 

Captain Bewes turned towards Mr. Samuel, who next spoke from thepenumbra at the far end of the table. "I believe, Captain, " said he, "that these mendicants are as a rule the most harmless of men?"

"Wouldn't hurt a fly, sir. I have known some whose charity extendedto the vermin on their own bodies. "

Mrs. Wesley sat tapping the mahogany gently with her finger-tips. "To my thinking, the key of this mystery, if there be one, lies atSurat. My brother had powerful enemies: his letters make that clear. We must inquire into _them_--their numbers and the particular grudgethey bore him--and also into the state of his mind. He was not thesort of person to be kidnapped in open day. "

--"By a Thames waterman, for instance, madam?" said Captain Bewes, jocularly, but instantly changed his tone. "You suggest that he mayhave disappeared on his own account? To avoid his enemies, youmean?"

"As to his motives, sir, I say nothing: but it certainly looks to meas if he had planned to give you the slip. "

"Tut-tut!" exclaimed Matthew. "And left his money behind?Not likely!"

"We have still his boxes to search--"

"Under power of attorney, " Sam suggested. "We must see about gettingit to-morrow. "

"Well, madam"--Captain Bewes knocked out his pipe, drained his glass, and rose--"the boxes shall be delivered up as soon as you bring meauthority: and I trust, for my own sake as well as yours, thecontents will clear up this mystery for us. I shall be tied to myship for the next three days, possibly for another week--"

He was holding out his hand to Mrs. Wesley when the door openedbehind him, and Sally appeared. 

"If you please, " she announced, "there's a gentleman without, wishesto see the company. He calls himself Mr. Wesley. "

"It cannot be Charles?" Mrs. Wesley turned towards her son Sam. "But Charles must be at Westminster and in bed these two hours!"

"Surely, " said he. 

"'Tis not young Master Charles, ma'am, nor anyone like him: but abadger-faced old gentleman who snaps up a word before 'tis out ofyour mouth. "

"Show him in, " commanded Matthew: and the words were scarcely outbefore the visitor stood in the doorway. Mrs. Wesley recognised himat once as the old gentleman who had stood beside her that morningand watched the fight. 

"Good evening, ma'am. I learned your address at Westminster: or, tobe precise, at the Reverend Samuel Wesley's. You are he, Isuppose?"--here he swung round upon Sam--"Your amiable wife told me Ishould find you here: and so much the better, my visit being onfamily business. Eh? What? I hope I'm not turning out thisgentleman?"--indicating Captain Bewes--"No? Well, if you wereleaving, sir, I won't detain you: since, as I say, mine is familybusiness. Mr. Matthew Wesley, I presume?"--with a quick turn towardshis host as Captain Bewes slipped away--"And brother of this lady'shusband? Quite so. No, I thank you, I do not smoke; but will takesnuff, if the company allows. I have heard reports of your skill, sir. My name is Wesley also: Garrett Wesley, of Dangan, CountyMeath, in Ireland: I sit for my county in Parliament and pass in thisworld for a respectable person. You'll excuse these details, ma'am;but when a man breaks in upon a family party at this hour of thenight, he ought to give some account of himself. "

Mrs. Wesley rose from her chair and dropped him a stately curtsey. "The name suffices for us, sir. I make my compliments to one of myhusband's family. "

"I'm obliged to you, ma'am, and pleased to hear the kinshipacknowledged. A good family, as families go, though I say it. We have held on to Dangan since Harry Fifth's time; and to our namesince Guy of Welswe was made a thane by Athelstan. We have a knack, ma'am, of staying the course: small in the build but sound in thewind. It did me good, to-day, to see that son of yours step out forthe last round. "

"Excuse me--" put in Samuel, pushing a candle aside and craningforward (he was short-sighted) for a better look at the visitor. 

"Ha? You have not heard? Well, well--oughtn't to tell tales out ofschool, and certainly not to the Usher: but your mother and I, sir, had the fortune, this morning, to witness a bout of fisticuffs--Whigagainst Tory--and perhaps it will not altogether distress you tolearn that the Whig took a whipping. I like that boy of yours, ma'am: he has breed. I do not forget"--with another bow--"hismother's descent from the Annesleys of Anglesea and Valentia: but shewill forgive me that, while watching him, I thought rather of hisblood derived from my own great-great-grandfather Robert, and of ourcommon ancestors--Walter, the king's standard-bearer, Edward, whocarried the heart of the Bruce to Palestine--but I weary Mr. Matthewperhaps?"

"Not at all, sir, " the apothecary protested: rubbing a lump of sugaron the rind of a lemon. "You will suffer me to mix you a glass ofpunch while I listen? I am a practical man, who has been forced tomake his own way in the world, and has made it, I thank God. I neverfound these ancestors of any use to me; but if one of them had timeand leisure to carry the heart of the Bruce to Jerusalem I hope Ihave the leisure to hear about it. Did he return, may I ask?"

"He did not, sir. The Saracens slew him before the Holy Sepulchre, and in fact the undertaking was, as you would regard it, unprofitable. But it gave us the palmer-shells on our coat of arms--argent, a cross sable, in each corner three escallops of the last. I believe, ma'am, the coat differs somewhat in your husband's branchof the family?" He spread a hand on the table so that thecandle-light fell on his signet ring. 

Mrs. Wesley smiled. "We keep the scallops, sir. "

"Scallops!" grunted the apothecary. "Better for you, Susanna, ifyour husband had ever found the oyster!"

Garrett Wesley glanced at him from under his badger-gray brows. "We may be coming to the oyster, sir, if you have patience. Crest, awivern proper: motto, 'God is love. ' I am thinking, ma'am, a childof yours might find some use for that motto, since children of my ownI have none. "

"There could be none nobler, sir, " Mrs. Wesley answered. 

"'Tis his then, ma'am, if you can spare me your son Charles. "

The lump of sugar dropped from old Matthew's fingers and splashedinto the tumbler, and with that there fell a silence on the room. Samuel half rose from his couch and passed a nervous hand over histhick black hair. His purblind eyes sought his mother's; hers werefastened on this eccentric kinsman, but with a look that passedbeyond him. Her lips were parted. 

"God is love, " she repeated it, soft and low, but with a thrill atwhich Garrett Wesley raised his head. "If ever I had distrusted it, that love is manifested here to-night. There was a kinsman, sir, from whom I hoped much for my son; to-day I learn that he is lost--dead, most like--and those hopes with him. He was my brother, andGod--who understands mothers, and knows, moreover, how small was everSamuel Annesley's kindness--must forgive me that I grieved less forhim than for Charles's sake. The tale was brought us by the honestman who has just left, and it is scarcely told when another kinsmanenters and lays his fortune in Charles's hands. Therefore I thankGod for His goodness and"--her voice wavered and she ended with afrank laugh at her own expense--"you, on your part, may read thequality of the gratitude to expect from me. At least I have beenhonest, sir. "

"Ma'am, I have lived long enough to value honesty above gratitude. I make this offer to please myself. The point is, Do I understandthat you accept?"

"As for that, " she answered deliberately--and Sam leaned forwardagain--"as for that, I am a married woman, and have learnt to submitto my husband's judgment. To be sure I have acquired some skill inguessing at it. " She smiled again. "My husband is no ordinary manto jump at this offer. He has three sons, besides his women folk--"

"Whom he neglects, " put in Matthew. 

"His dearest ambition is to see each of these three an accreditedservant of Christ. He desires learning for them, and the priest'shabit, and the living God in their hearts. It will appear strange toyou that he should rate these above wealth and a castle in Irelandand a seat in Parliament; but in fact he would. I know him. Thinkwhat you will of his ambition, it has this much of sincerity, that heis willing to pinch and starve for it. This, too, I have proved. "

"You might add, mother, " interposed Sam, "that he would like allthese the better with a little success to season them. "

"No, I will add that he has perhaps enough respect for me to listento my entreaties and allow Charles to choose for himself. And thisfor the moment, sir, is all I can promise, though I thank you fromthe bottom of my heart. "

"Tut, woman!" snapped the apothecary. "Close with the offer anddon't be a fool. My brother, sir, may be pig-headed--sit down, Susanna!"

"You and I, sir, " said Garrett Wesley, "as childless men, are in noposition to judge a parent's feelings. "

"Children? Let me tell you that I had a son, sir, and he broke myheart. He is in India now, I believe; a middle-aged rake. I giveyou leave to find and adopt _him_, so long as you don't ask me to seehis face again. One was too many for me, and here's a woman with tenchildren alive--Heaven knows how many she's buried--ten childrenalive and half-clothed, and herself the youngest of twenty-five!"He broke off and chuckled. "Did you ever hear tell, sir, what oldDr. Martin said after baptizing Susanna here? Someone asked him'How many children had Dr. Annesley?' 'I forget for the moment, 'said the doctor, but 'tis either two dozen or a quarter of ahundred. ' And here's a woman, sir, with such a sense of heroffspring's importance that she higgles over accepting a fortune forone of 'em!"

"Can you suffer this, ma'am?" Garrett Wesley began. But theapothecary for the moment was neither to hold nor to bind. 

"Sam! _You_ have a grain of sense in your head. Don't sit theremum-chance, man! Speak up and tell your mother not to be a fool. You are no child; you know your father, and that, if given one chancein a hundred to act perversely, he'll take it as sure as fate. For heaven's sake persuade your mother to use common caution and keephis finger out of this pie!"

"Nay, sir, " answered Sam, "I think she has the right of it, that myfather ought to be told; and that the chances are he will leave it toCharles to decide. "

Matthew Wesley flung up his hands. "'Tis a conspiracy of folly!Upon my professional word, you ought all to be strait-waistcoated!"He glared around, found speech again, and pounced upon Sam. "A pretty success _you've_ made of your father's ambitions--you, withyour infatuation for that rogue Atterbury, and your born gift ofchoosing the cold side of favour! You might have been Freind'ssuccessor, Head Master of Westminster School! Where's yourchance now? You'll not even get the under-mastership, I doubt. Some country grammar school is your fate--I see it; and all for lackof sense. If you lacked learning, lacked piety, lacked--"

"Excuse me, sir, but these are matters I have no mind to discuss withyou. When Freind retires Nicoll will succeed him, and Nicolldeserves it. Whether I get Nicoll's place or no, God will decide, who knows if I deserve it. Let it rest in His hands. But when youspeak of Bishop Atterbury, and when I think of that great heartbreaking in exile, why then, sir, you defeat yourself and steel meagainst my little destinies by the example of a martyr. "

He said it awkwardly, pulling the while at his bony knuckles; but hesaid it with a passion which cowed his uncle for the moment, and drewfrom his mother a startled, almost expectant, look. Yet she knewthat Sam's eyes could never hold (for her joy and terror) theunderlying fire which had shone in her youngest boy's that morning, and which mastered her--strong woman though she was--in herhusband's. And this was the tragic note in her love for Sam--themore tragic because never sounded. Sam had learning, diligence, piety, a completely honest mind; he had never caused her an hour'sreasonable anxiety; only--to this eldest son she had not transmittedhis father's genius, that one divine spark which the Epworthhousehold claimed for its sons as a birthright. An exorbitant, acolossal claim! Yet these Wesleys made it as a matter of course. Did the father know that one of his sons had disappointed it?Sam knew, at any rate; and Sam's mother knew; and each, aware of theother's knowledge, tried pitifully to ignore it. 

Matthew Wesley bounced from his chair, unlocked the glazed doors of abookcase behind him and pulled forth a small volume. 

"Here you have it, sir, '_Maggots: by a Scholar_'--that's my brother. '_Poems on Several Subjects never before Handled, _'--that's the manall over. You may wager that if any man of sense had ever hit onthese subjects, my brother had never come within a mile of 'em. Listen: 'The Grunting of a Hog, ' 'To my Gingerbread Mistress, ''A Box like an Egg, ' 'Two Soldiers killing one another for a Groat, ''A Pair of Breeches, ' 'A Cow's Tail'--there's titles for you!Cow's tail, indeed! And here, look you, is the author's portrait fora frontispiece, with a laurel-wreath in his hair and a maggot inplace of a parting! 'Maggots'! He began with 'em and he'll end with'em. Maggots!" He slammed the two covers of the book together andtossed it across the table. 

Mr. Garrett Wesley, during this tirade, had fallen back upon theattitude of a well-bred man who has dropped in upon a painful familyquarrel and cannot well escape. He had taken his hat and stood withhis gaze for the most part fastened on the carpet, but lifted now andthen when directly challenged by the apothecary's harangue. The contemned volume skimmed across the table and toppled over at hisfeet. With much gravity he stooped and picked it up; and as he didso, heard Mrs. Wesley addressing him. 

"And the curious part of it is, " she was saying calmly, "that mybrother-in-law means all this in kindness!"

"No, I don't, " snapped Matthew; and in the next breath, "well, yes, Ido then. Susanna, I beg your pardon, but you'd provoke a saint. "He dropped into his chair. "You know well enough that if I lose mytemper, 'tis for your sake and the girls'. "

"I know, " she said softly, covering his hand with hers. "But youmust e'en let us go our feckless way. Sir, "--she looked up--"must this decision be made to-night?"

"Not at all, ma'am, not at all. The lad, if you will, may choosewhen he comes of age; I have another string to my bow, should herefuse the offer. But meantime, and while 'tis uncertain to which ofus he'll end by belonging, I hope I may bear my part in his schoolfees. "

"But that, to some extent, must bind him. "

"No: for I propose to keep my share of it dark, with your leave. But you shall hear further of this by letter. May I say, that if Ichose his father's son, I have come to-day to set my heart on hismother's? I wish you good night, ma'am! Good night, sirs!"

CHAPTER IV. 

In a corner of the Isle of Axholme, in Lincolnshire, and on theeastern slope of a knoll a few feet above the desolate fenland, sixsisters were seated. The eldest, a woman of thirty-three, held abook open in her lap and was reading aloud from it; reading withadmirable expression and a voice almost masculine, rich as adeep-mouthed bell. And, while she read, the glory of the verseseemed to pass into her handsome, peevish face. 

Her listeners heard her contentedly--all but one, who rested a littlelower on the slope, with one knee drawn up, her hands clasped aboutit, and her brows bent in a frown as she gazed from under hersun-bonnet across the level landscape to the roofs and church-towerof Epworth, five miles away, set on a rise and facing the eveningsun. Across the field below, hemmed about and intersected with dykesof sluggish water, two wagons moved slowly, each with a group oflabourers about it: for to-night was the end of the oat-harvest, andthey were carrying the last sheaves of Wroote glebe. After thecarrying would come supper, and the worn-out cart-horse which hadbrought it afield from the Parsonage stood at the foot of the knollamong the unladen kegs and baskets, patiently whisking his tail tokeep off the flies, and serenely indifferent that a lean and lankyyouth, seated a few yards away with a drawing-board on his knee, wasattempting his portrait. 

The girl frowned as she gazed over this group, over the harvesters, the fens, the dykes, and away toward Epworth: and even her frownbecame her mightily. Her favourite sister, Molly, seated beside her, and glancing now and again at her face, believed that the whole worldcontained nothing so beautiful. But this was a fixed belief ofMolly's. She was a cripple, and in spite of features made almostangelic by the ineffable touch of goodness, the family as a ruledespised her, teased her, sometimes went near to torment her; for theWesleys, like many other people of iron constitution, had a healthyimpatience of deformity and weakness. Hetty alone treated her alwaysgently and made much of her, not as one who would soften a defect, but as seeing none; Hetty of the high spirits, the clear eye, thespringing gait; Hetty, the wittiest, cleverest, mirthfullest of themall; Hetty, glorious to look upon. 

All the six were handsome. Here they are in their order: Emilia, aged thirty-three (it was she who held the book); Molly, twenty-eight; Hetty, twenty-seven; Nancy, twenty-two, lusty, fresh-complexioned, and the least bit stupid; Patty, nearingeighteen, dark-skinned and serious, the one of the Wesleys who couldnever be persuaded to see a joke; and Kezzy, a lean child of fifteen, who had outgrown her strength. By baptism, Molly was Mary; Hetty, Mehetabel; Nancy, Anne; Patty, Martha; and Kezzy, Kezia. But theregister recording most of these names had perished at Epworth in theParsonage fire, so let us keep the familiar ones. Grown women andgirls, all the six were handsome. They had an air of resting therealoof; with a little fancy you might have taken them, in their plainprint frocks, for six goddesses reclining on the knoll and watchingthe harvesters at work on the plain below--poor drudging mortals andunmannerly:

 "High births and virtue equally they scorn, As asses dull, on dunghills born; Impervious as the stones their heads are found, Their rage and hatred steadfast as the ground. "

(The lines were Hetty's. ) When the Wesleys descended and walked amongthese churls, it was as beings of another race; imperious in prideand strength of will. They meant kindly. But the country-folk cameof an obstinate stock, fierce to resent what they could notunderstand. Half a century before, a Dutchman, Cornelius Vermuydenby name, had arrived and drained their country for them; in returnthey had cursed him, fired his crops, and tried to drown out hissettlers and workmen by smashing the dams and laying the land underwater. Fierce as they were, these fenmen read in the Wesleys a willto match their own and beat it; a scorn, too, which cowed, but at thesame time turned them sullen. Parson Wesley they frankly hated. Thrice they had flooded his crops and twice burnt the roof over hishead. 

If the six sisters were handsome, Hetty was glorious. Her hair, something browner than auburn, put Emilia's in the shade; her brows, darker even than dark Patty's, were broader and more nobly arched;her transparent skin, her colour--she defied the sunrays carelessly, and her cheeks drank them in as potable gold clarifying their blood--made Nancy's seem but a dairymaid's complexion. Add that thiscolouring kept an April freshness; add, too, her mother's height andmore than her mother's grace of movement, an outline virginallysevere yet flexuous as a palm-willow in April winds; and you haveHetty Wesley at twenty-seven--a queen in a country frock and cobbledshoes; a scholar, a lady, amongst hinds; above all, a woman made forlove and growing towards love surely, though repressed and thwarted. 

Emilia read:

 "So spake our general mother, and, with eyes Of conjugal attraction unreproved, And meek surrender, half-embracing leaned On our first father; half her swelling breast Naked met his, under the flowing gold Of her loose tresses hid; he, in delight Both of her beauty and submissive charms, Smiled with superior love (as Jupiter On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds That shed May flowers), and pressed her matron lip With kisses pure. Aside the Devil turned For envy, yet with jealous leer malign Eyed them askance; and to himself thus plained:-- 'Sight hateful, sight tormenting!' . . . "

Molly interrupted with a cry; so fiercely Hetty had gripped her wristof a sudden. Emily broke off:

"What on earth's the matter, child?"

"Is it an adder?" asked Patty, whose mind was ever practical. "Johnny Whitelamb warned us--"

"An adder?" Hetty answered her, cool in a moment and deliberate. "Nothing like it, my dear; 'tis the old genuine Serpent. "

"What do you mean, Hetty? Where is it?"

"Sit down, child, and don't distress yourself. Having renderedeverybody profoundly uncomfortable within a circuit of two miles andalmost worried itself to a sun-stroke, it has now gone into the houseto write at a commentary on the Book of Job, to be illustrated withcuts, for one of which--to wit, the War-horse which saith, 'Ha, ha, 'among the trumpets--you observe Johnny Whitelamb making a study atthis moment. "

"I think you must mean papa, " said Patty; "and I call it verydisrespectful to compare him with Satan; for 'twas Satan sister Emmywas reading about. "

"So she was: but if you had read Plutarch every morning with papa, asI have, you would know that the best authors (whom I imitate)sometimes use comparisons for the sake of contrast. Satan, youheard, eyed our first parents askance: papa would have stepped inearlier and forbidden Adam the house. Proceed, Emilia! How goesMilton on?--

 "Adam and Eve and Pinch-me Went to the river to bathe: Adam and Eve were drown'd, And who do you think was saved? . . . "

Molly drew her wrist away hurriedly. "Hetty!" she cried, as Emiliawithdrew into her book in dudgeon. "Hetty, dear! I cannot bear youto be flippant. It hurts me, it is so unworthy of you. "

"Hurts you, my mouse?"--this was one of Hetty's tender, fantasticnames for her. "Why then, I ask your pardon and must try to amend. You are right. I _was_ flippant; you might even have said vulgar. Proceed, Emilia, --do you hear? I beg your pardon. Tell us more ofthe Arch-Rebel--

 "And courage never to submit or yield And what is else not to be overcome . . . "

Say it over in your great voice, Emmy, and purge us poor rebels ofvulgarity. "

"Pardon me, " Emilia answered icily, "I am not conscious of being arebel--nor of any temptation to be vulgar. "

Molly shot an imploring glance at Hetty: but it was too late, and sheknew it. 

"Hoity-toity! So we are not rebellious--not even Emilia when shethinks of her Leybourne!" Emilia bit her lip. "Nor Patty when shethinks of Johnny Romley? And we are never vulgar? Ah, but forgiveyour poor sister, who goes into service next week! You must allowher to practise the accomplishments which will endear her to theservants' hall, and which Mr. Grantham will pay for and expect. Indeed--since Milton is denied us--I have some lines here; a petitionto be handed to mother to-night when she returns. She may not grantit, but she must at least commend her daughter's attempt to catch thetone. " And drawing a folded paper from her waistband, she drawledthe following, in the broadest Lincolnshire accent:

 "_Hetty the Serving-maid's Petition to her Mother. _" "Dear mother, you were once in the ew'n [oven], As by us cakes is plainly shewn, Who else had ne'er come arter: Pray speak a word in time of need, And with my sour-looked father plead For your distressed darter!"

Nancy and Kezzy laughed; the younger at the absurd drawl, which hitoff the Wroote dialect to a hair; Nancy indulgently--she was safelybetrothed to one John Lambert, an honest land-surveyor, and Mr. Wesley's tyranny towards suitors troubled her no longer. But theothers were silent, and a tear dropped on the back of poor Molly'shand. 

As Hetty took it penitently, Patty spoke again. "You are wrong, atall events, " she persisted, "about papa's being in the house, for Isaw him leave it, more than half an hour ago, and walk off on theBawtry road. "

"He has gone to meet mother, then, " said Kezzy, "and poor Sander willhave to trudge the last two miles. "

"Pray Heaven, then, they do not quarrel!" sighed Emilia, shutting thebook. 

"My dear!" Hetty assured her, "that is past praying for. She will beweary to death; and he, as you know, is in a mood to-day! Though youthought it unfeeling, I rejoiced when he announced he was not ridingto Bawtry to meet her but would send Sander instead: for whatevernews she brought he would have picked holes in it and wrangled allthe way home. But this is his masterpiece. It contrives to get themost annoyance out of both plans. I often wonder"--here Hettyclasped her knee again, and, leaning back against the turf, let hereyes wander over the darkening landscape--"if our father and motherlove each other the better for living together in one perpetual raspof temper?"

"What is the hour?" asked Emilia. 

Hetty glanced at the sun. 

"Six, or a few minutes past. "

"She cannot be here before half-past seven, and by then the moon willbe rising. We will give her a regal harvest-supper, and enthrone heron the last sheaf. I have sent word to have it saved. And thereshall be a fire, and baked potatoes. "

Kitty clapped her hands. 

"And, " Hetty took up the tale, "she shall sit by the embers and tellus all her wanderings, like Aeneas, till the break of morning. But before we bid Johnny Whitelamb desist from drawing and build afire, let us be six princesses here and choose the gifts our mothershall bring home from town. "

"You know well enough she has no money to buy gifts, " objected Patty. 

"Be frugal, then, in wishing, dear Pat. For my part, I demand only arich Indian uncle: but he must be of solid gold. He should come tous along the Bawtry road in a palanquin with bells jingling at thefringes. Ann, sister Ann, run you to the top of the mound and say ifyou see such an uncle coming. Moll, dear, 'tis your turn to wish. "

"I wish, " said Molly, "for a magic mirror. " Hetty gave a start, thinking she spoke of a glass which should hide her deformity. But Molly went on gravely. "I should call it my Why Mirror, for itwould show us why we live as we do, and why mother goes ill-clothedand sometimes hungry. No, I am not grumbling; but sometimes I wishto _know_--only to _know!_ I think my mirror would tell me somethingabout my brothers, and what they are to do in the world. And I amsure it would tell me that God is ordering this for some great end. But I am weak and impatient, and, if I knew, I could be so muchbraver!" She ended abruptly, and for a moment or two all the sisterswere silent. 

"Come, Nancy, " said Hetty at length. "Patty will wish for a harp, for certain"--Patty's burning desire to possess one was as notoriousin the family as her absolute lack of ear for music--"and Emmy willask for a new pair of shoes, if she is wise. " Emilia tucked a footout of sight under her skirt. 

"But I don't understand this game, " put in Kezzy. "A moment ago itwas _Blue Beard_, and now it seems to be _Beauty and the Beast_. Which is it?"

"We may need Molly's mirror to tell us, " Hetty answered lightly: andwith that she glanced up as a shadow darkened the golden sky abovethe mound, and a voice addressed the sisters all. "Good evening, young ladies!"

CHAPTER V. 

A broad-shouldered man looked down on them from the summit of theknoll, which he had climbed on its westward side; a tradesman to allappearance, clad in a dusty, ill-fitting suit. So far as they couldjudge--for he stood with the waning light at his back--he was notill-featured; but, by his manner of mopping his brow, he was mostungracefully hot, and Molly declared ever afterwards that his thickworsted stockings, seen against the ball of the sun, gave his calvesa hideous hairiness. She used to add that he was more than halfdrunk. His manner of accosting them--half uneasy, half familiar--froze the Wesley sisters. 

"Good evening, young ladies! And nice and cool you look, I will say. Can any of you tell me if Parson Wesley's at home?"

"He is not, " Emilia answered. "He has gone towards Bawtry. "

"Well now, that's what the maid told me at the parsonage: but Ithought, maybe, 'twas a trick--a sort of slip-out-by-the-back andnot-at-home to a creditor. I've heard of parsons playing that game, and no harm to their conscience, because no lie told. "

"Sir!" Emilia rose and faced him. 

"Oh, no offence, miss! I believe _you_; and for that matter thewench seemed fair-spoken enough, and gave me a drink of cider. 'Tis the matter of a debt, you see. " He drew a scrap of dirtypaper from his pocket. "Twelve-seventeen-six, for repairs done toWroote Parsonage; new larder, fifteen; lead for window-casements, eight-six; new fireplace to parlour, one-four-six: ancettera. I'm a plumber by trade--plumber and glazier--and in business atLincoln. William Wright's my name, and Right by nature. " Here hegrinned. "Your father would have everything of the best; Epworthtradesman not worth a damn, excuse me, and meaning no offence. So he said, or words to that effect. A very particular gentleman, and his nose at the time into everything. But a man likes to bepaid, you understand? So, having a job down Owston way, I thoughtI'd walk over and jog his reverence's memory. "

"The money will be paid, sir, in due course, I make no doubt, " saidEmilia bravely. Some of her sisters were white in the face. Hetty alone seemed to ignore the man's presence, and gazed over thefields towards Epworth. 

"Ah, 'in due course!' Let me tell you, miss, that if all the moneyowing to me was paid, I'd--I'd--" He broke off. "I have ambitions, _I_ have: and a head on my shoulders. London's the only place for aman like me. Gad, if _these_ were only full"--he slapped hispockets--"there's no saying I wouldn't up and ask one of you to comealong o' me! There's that beauty, yonder, " he jerked his thumb atHetty. "She's the pick. My word, and you _are_ a beauty, bridlingto yourself there, and thinking dirt of me. Go on, I like you forit: you can't show too much spirit for William Wright. " Molly's handclosed over Hetty's two, clasped and lying in her lap: Hetty satmotionless as a statue. "If only your father would trade you offagainst an honest debt--But you're gentry: I knows the sort. Well, well, 'tis a long tramp back to Owston: so here's wishing yougood night, missies all. If I take back no money, and no pay but apint of sour cider, I've seen the prettiest picter in allLincolnshire; so we'll count it a holiday. "

He was gone. With the dropping of the sun a chilly shadow had fallenon the mound, and for some moments the sisters remained motionless, agonised, each in her own way distraught. 

"The brute!" said Kezzy at length, drawing a long breath. 

Hetty rose deliberately. "Child, " she said, and her voice was hard, "don't be a goose! The poor creature came for his money. He had theright to insult us. "

She smoothed the dew from her skirt and walked swiftly down theslope. 

At the foot of it Johnny Whitelamb had risen and was holding hisdrawing aslant, in some hope, perhaps, that the angle might correctthe perspective of old Mettle's portrait. Certainly it was avillainous portrait, as he acknowledged to himself with a sigh. Parts of it must be rubbed out, and his right hand rummaged in hispocket and found a crust. But Johnny, among other afflictions, suffered from an unconscionable appetite. While he doubted where tobegin, his teeth met in the bread, and he started guiltily, for itwas more than half eaten when Hetty swooped down on him. 

"Quick, Johnny! run you to the woodstack while I unpack the baskets. Mother will be arriving in an hour, and we are to give her supper outhere, with baked potatoes. Run, that's a good soul: and on your wayget Jane to give you a tin of oatmeal--tell her I must have it if shehas to scrape the bottom of the bin; _and_ a gridiron, _and_ arolling-pin. We will have griddle-cakes. Run--and whatever you do, don't forget the rolling-pin!"

Johnny ran with long ungainly strides, his coat-tails flapping like ascarecrow's. The coat, in fact, was a cast-off one of Mr. Wesley's, narrow in the chest, short in the sleeves, but inordinately full inthe skirts. The Rector had found and taken Johnny from the CharitySchool at Wroote to help him with the maps and drawings for his greatwork, the _Dissertationes in Librum Jobi_, and in return the ladfound board and lodging and picked up what scraps he could of Greekand Latin. He wrote a neat hand and transcribed carefully; hisdrawings were atrocious, and he never attempted a woodcut withoutgashing himself. But he kept a humble heart, and for all the familya devotion almost canine. To him the Rector, with his shovel-hat andstores of scholarship, was a god-like man; with his air, too, ofapostolical authority--for Johnny, whom all Epworth set down as goodfor nothing, reflected the Wesley notions of the Church's majesty. In his dreams--but only in his dreams--he saw himself such a man, anOxford scholar, treading that beatific city of which the Rectordisclosed a glimpse at times; his brows bathed by her ineffable aura, and he--he, Johnny Whitelamb--baptized into her mysteries, aparticipant with the Rector's second son John, now at Christ Church--of whom (he noted) the family spoke but seldom and with a constraintwhich hinted at hopes too dear to be other than fearful. Meanwhilehe did his poor tasks, stayed his stomach when he could, and rewardedhis employers with love. 

He loved them all: but Hetty he worshipped. 

He knew his place. For an hour past he had been sitting, as became aservant, beyond earshot of the sisters' talk, yet within call, shouldthey summon him. Now the goddess had descended from her mountainwith a command, and he ran toward the woodstack as he would have runand plunged into the water-dyke, had she bidden him. 

He returned to find her waiting with her sleeves tucked above herelbows. 

"Oh, Johnny--I forgot the tinder-box!" she cried. 

He dropped his burdens and produced it triumphantly from his tailpocket. 

"I thought of that!"

"But you must not!"--as he dropped on his knees and began to unbindand break up the sticks. "This is my business. I am going intoservice, in ten days--at Kelstein: and you must watch and tell mewhat I do amiss. "

She pulled the faggot towards her, broke up the sticks, and built thefragments daintily into a heap, with a handful of dry leaves asbasis. The twilight deepened around them as she built. Next shestruck flint on steel, caught the spark on tinder, and blew. Johnny watched the glow on her cheeks wakening and fading, and, watching, fell into a brown study. 

"There!" she exclaimed, straightening herself upon her knees as theblaze caught. "Is that a good omen for Kelstein?"

Her eyes were on the sticks, and in their crackling she did notlisten for his answer, but commanded him to take a pitcher of waterand pour, while she mixed and kneaded the meal. To the making ofbread, cakes, pastry, Hetty brought a born gift; a hand so light, quick, and cool, that Johnny could have groaned for his own fumblingfingers. A dozen cakes were finished and banked in the wood-ashes asthe fire died down to a steadily glowing mass. By this time thelandscape about them lay flat to the eye and gray, touched with thefaint gold of moonrise, and just then Emilia called down from themound that the travellers were in sight on the Bawtry road. 

The others ran to meet them: but Hetty remained by her task, silent, and Johnny silent beside her. Together they spread the two meals, one beside the fire for the family, the other some fifty yards offfor the harvesters, now moving towards the rick-yard with the lastload. 

Hetty was not her mother's favourite. Emilia and Patty divided thathonour by consent, though the balance appeared now and then toincline towards Patty. But between Mrs. Wesley and her fairestdaughter there rested always a shadow of restraint, curious enough inits origin, which was that they knew each other better than the rest. Often and quite casually Hetty would guess some thought in hermother's mind hidden from her sisters. She made no parade of thisinsight, set up no claim upon it; merely gave proof of it in passing, and fell back on her attitude of guarded affection. And Mrs. Wesleyseemed to draw back uneasily from these reflections of herself, andtake refuge in Patty, who, of all her children, understood her theleast. 

So now when the others brought their mother to the feast in triumph, Hetty swept her a curtsey with skirt held wide, then went straightand kissed her on both cheeks. 

"Ah, what a dear truant 'tis! and how good 'tis to have her homeagain!"

She did not ask (as Nancy or Patty would assuredly have asked) whathad become of her father. She noted, even in the half-light, a flushon her mother's temples, and guessed at once that there had been aduel of tempers on the road, and that, likely enough, papa hadbounced into the house in a huff. The others had, in fact, witnessedthis exit. Hetty, who divined it, went the swiftest way to effacethe memory. She alone, on occasion, could treat her motherplayfully, as an equal in years; and she did so now, taking her bythe hand, and conducting her with mock solemnity to the seat ofhonour. 

"It _is_ good to be home, " Mrs. Wesley admitted as they seated her, dusted her worn shoes, and plied her with milk and hot griddle-cakes, potatoes slit and sprinkled with salt upon appetising lumps ofbutter. She forgot her vexation. Even the Wroote labourers seemedless surly than usual. One or two, as they gathered, stepped forwardto welcome her and wish her health before ranging themselves at theirseparate meal: and soon a pleasant murmur of voices went up fromeither group at supper in the broad meadow under the moon. 

"But where have you left uncle Annesley?" asked Kezzy. "And are weall to be rich and live in comfort at last?"

Mrs. Wesley shook her head. "He was not on board the _Albemarle_. "She told of her visit to the ship and the captain's story; addingthat their uncle's boxes, when handed over and examined, contained nopapers at all, no will, no bonds, not so much as a scrap to throwlight on the mystery. And as they sat silent in dismay, she went onto tell of Garrett Wesley and the fortune unexpectedly laid atCharles's feet. 

Emilia was the first to find speech. "So, " she commented bitterly"yet another of our brothers is in luck's way. Always our brothers!Westminster and Oxford for them, and afterwards, it seems, a fortune:while we sit at home in rags, or drudge and eat the bread of service. Oh, why, mother? You and we suffer together--do you believe it canbe God's will?"

Hetty drew a long breath. "Perhaps, " she said drearily, "Charleswill clothe us when he gets this money. Perhaps he will even find uswooers in place of those to whom papa has shown the door. "

"I am not sure your father will allow Charles to accept, " said Mrs. Wesley gently; "though I may persuade him to let the lad decide forhimself when he comes of age. Until then the offer stands open. "

"I sometimes wonder, " Emilia mused, "if our father be not staringmad. "

"Hush, child! That is neither for you to say nor for me to hear. You know it has been almost a vow with him to dedicate your threebrothers to God's service. "

"Charles might inherit Dangan Castle and serve God too. There is nolaw that an Irish squire must spend all his time cock-fighting. "

"These vows!" murmured Hetty, flinging herself back in her favouriteattitude and nursing her knee. "If folks will not obey Christ'scommand and swear not at all, they might at least choose a vow whichonly hurts themselves. Now, papa"--Hetty shot a glance at hermother, who felt it, even in the dusk, and bent her eyes on thesmouldering fire. The girl had heard (for it was kitchen gossip)that Mr. Wesley had once quarrelled with his wife over politics, andleft Epworth rectory vowing never to return to her until sheacknowledged William III. For her rightful king; nor indeed hadreturned until William's death made the vow idle and released him. "Now, papa"--after a pause--"has an unfortunate habit, like Jephthah, of swearing to another's hurt. For instance, since Sukey marriedDick Ellison, he seems to have vowed that none of us shall have alover; and, so, dear mother, you might have found us just now, likesix daughters of Jephthah, bewailing our fates upon a hill. "

"He has no fault to find with my John Lambert, " put in Nancy. 

Hetty did not heed. "I have no patience with these swearers. A man, or a woman for that matter, should have the courage to outbrave anoath when it hurts the innocent. Did God require the blood ofJephthah's daughter? or of the sons of Rizpah? Think, mother, ifthis fire were lit in the fields here, and you sitting by it to scarethe beasts from your three sons! I cannot like that David. Saul, now, was a man and a king, every inch of him, even in his darkhours. David had no breeding--a pretty, florid man, with his curlsand pink cheeks; one moment dancing and singing, and the next weepingon his bed. Some women like that kind of man: but his complexionwears off. In the end he grows nasty, and from the first he isdisgustingly underbred. "

"Hetty!"

"I cannot help it, mother. Had I been Michal, and Saul's daughter, and had seen that man capering before the ark, I should have scornedhim as she did. "

And Hetty stood up and strode away into the darkness. 

In the darkness, almost an hour later, Molly found her by the edge ofa dyke. She had a handkerchief twisted between her fingers, and keptwringing it as she paced to and fro. Why had she given way topassion? Why, on this night of all nights, had she saddened hermother? And why by an outburst against David, of all people in theworld?

She could not tell. When the temper is overcharged it overflows, nine times out of ten, into a channel absurdly irrelevant. 

What on earth had David to do with it? She halted and laughed whileMolly entreated her. In the dyke the black water crawled at herfeet, and upon it a star shone. 

"Star Mary--_stella maris_, if only you will shine steadily and guideme! Kiss me now, and hear that I am sorry. "

But it was Molly who, later that night, put out both arms in the bedwhere they slept together: and with a wail which lasted until Hettyenfolded her and held her close. 

"I was dreaming, " she muttered. "I dreamt--of that man. "

CHAPTER VI. 

For six months of the year, sometimes for longer, the thatchedparsonage at Wroote rose out of a world of waters, forlorn as acornstack in a flood, and the Rector of Epworth journeyed between histwo parishes by boat, often in soaked breeches, and sometimes with anapkin tied over his hat and wig. But in this harvest weather, whilethe sun shone and the meadow-breezes overcame the odours of dampwalls and woodwork, of the pig-sty at the back and of rotting weedbeyond, the Wesley household lived cheerfully enough, albeit pinchedfor room; more cheerfully than at Epworth, where the more spaciousrectory, rebuilt by Mr. Wesley at a cost of 400 pounds, remainedhalf-furnished after fourteen years--a perpetual reminder of debt. 

Here at any rate, although Wroote tithe brought in a bare 50 pounds ayear, they could manage to live and pay their way, and feel meanwhilethat they were lessening the burden. For Dick Ellison, Sukey'shusband, had undertaken to finance Epworth tithe, and was renting therectory for a while with the purpose of bringing his father-in-law'saffairs to order--a filial offer which Mr. Wesley perforce acceptedwhile hating Dick from the bottom of his heart, and the deeperbecause of this necessity. 

Dick was his "wen, " "more unpleasant to him than all his physic"--ared-faced, uneducated squireen, with money in his pockets (as yet), aswaggering manner due to want of sense rather than deliberateoffensiveness, and a loud patronising laugh which drove the Rectormad. Comedy presided over their encounters; but such comedy as onlythe ill-natured can enjoy. And the Rector, splenetic, exacting, jealous of authority, after writhing for a time under Dick's candidtreatment of him as a child, usually cut short the scene by bouncingoff to his library and slamming the door behind him. 

Even Mrs. Wesley detested her son-in-law, and called him "a coarse, vulgar, immoral man "; but confessed (in his absence) that they wereall the better off for his help. Ease from debt she had never known;but here at Wroote the clouds seemed to be breaking. Duns had beenfewer of late. With her poultry-yard and small dairy she was earninga few pounds, and this gave her a sense of helpfulness she had notknown at Epworth; a pound saved may be a pound gained, but a poundearned can be held in the hand, and the touch makes a wonderfuldifference. The girls had flung themselves heartily into thefarm-work: they talked of it, at night, around the kitchen hearth(for of the two sitting-rooms one had been given up to their fatherfor his library, and the other Hetty vowed to be "too grand for thelikes of dairy-women. " Also the marsh-vapours in the Isle of Axholmecan be agueish after sunset, even in summer, and they found the firea comfort). Hetty had described these rural economies in a longletter to Samuel at Westminster, and been answered by an "HeroickPoem, " pleasantly facetious:

 "The spacious glebe around the house Affords full pasture to the cows, Whence largely milky nectar flows, O sweet and cleanly dairy!"

 "Unless or Moll, or Anne, or you, Your duty should neglect to do, And then 'ware haunches black and blue By pinching of a fairy. "

--With much in the same easy vein about "sows and pigs and porkets, "and the sisters' housewifely duties:

 "Or lusty Anne, or feeble Moll, Sage Pat or sober Hetty. "

And the sisters were amused by the lines and committed them to heart. 

They had learnt of the pleasures of life mainly through books; andnow their simple enjoyment was, as it were, more real to them becauseit could be translated into verse. In circumstances, then, they werehappier than they had been for many years: nor was poverty the realreason for Hetty's going into service at Kelstein; since Emilia hadbeen fetched home from Lincoln (where for five years she had beenearning her livelihood as teacher in a boarding-school) expressly toenjoy the family's easier fortune, and with a promise of pleasantcompany to be met in Bawtry, Doncaster and the country around Wroote. 

This promise had not been fulfilled, and Emilia's temper had souredin consequence. Nor had the Rector's debts melted at the rateexpected. The weight of them still oppressed him and all thehousehold: but Mrs. Wesley knew in her heart that, were poverty theonly reason, Hetty need not go. Hetty knew it, too, and rebelled. She was happy at Wroote; happier at least than she would be atKelstein. She did not wish to be selfish: she would go, if one ofthe sisters must. But why need any of them go?

She asked her mother this, and Mrs. Wesley fenced with the questionwhile hardening her heart. In truth she feared what might happen ifHetty stayed. They had made some new acquaintances at Wroote and atBawtry there was a lover, a young lawyer . . . A personable youngman, reputed to be clever in his profession. . . . Mrs. Wesley knewnothing to his discredit . . . And sure, Hetty's face might attractany lover. So her thoughts ran, without blaming the girl, whoseheart she believed to be engaged, though she could not tell howdeeply. But the Rector must be considered, and he had taken aninstant and almost frantic dislike for the youth. There was nothingunusual in this: for, like many another uxorious man (with all hisfaults of temper he was uxorious), Mr. Wesley hated that anyoneshould offer love to his daughters. This antipathy of his had been anuisance for ten years past; since the girls were, when all was said, honest healthy girls with an instinct for mating, and not to beblamed for making their best of the suitors which Epworth and itsneighbourhood provided. But since Sukey's marriage it had deepenedinto something like a mania, and now, in Hetty's case, flared up witha passion incomprehensible if not quite insane. He declared hishatred of lawyers--and certainly he had suffered at their hands: heforbade the young man to visit the house, to correspond with Hetty, even to see her. 

Mrs. Wesley watched her daughter and was troubled. The Rector's vetohad been effective enough once or twice with Hetty's sisters. Emilia, on a visit with her uncle Matthew in London, had fallenpassionately in love with a young Oxonian named Leybourne. But Sam'swife had discovered something to his discredit and had spoken to Sam, and Sam to the Rector. The match was broken off, and Emiliarenounced her love, though she never forgave the mischief-maker. Patty again had formed an attachment for John Romley, who had been apupil of Sam's, had afterwards graduated at Lincoln College, Oxford, and was now the ambitious young master of the Free School at Epworth. Again the Rector interfered, and Patty sighed and renounced herromance. Would Hetty, too, renounce and acquiesce? Mrs. Wesleydoubted: nay, was even afraid. Hetty alone had never been overawedby her father, had never acknowledged the _patria potestas_ with allits exorbitant claims. She had never actually revolted, but shedefied, somehow, the spell he had cast upon the others: and somehow--here was the marvel--Mrs. Wesley, who more than any other of thefamily had yielded to the illusion and fostered it, understood Hettythe better for her independence. The others, under various kinds ofpressure, had submitted: but here was the very woman she might havebeen, but for her own submission! And she feared for that woman. Hetty must leave Wroote, or there was no knowing how it might end. 

"Mother, I believe you are afraid of what I may do. "

Mrs. Wesley, incapable of a lie or anything resembling it, bent herhead. "I have been afraid, once or twice, " she said. 

"So you send me away? That seems to me neither very brave nor verywise. Will there be less danger at Kelstein?"

Her mother started. "Does _he_ know of your going? You don't tellme he means to visit you there?"

"Forgive me, dearest mother, but your first question is a littlefoolish--eh?" Hetty laughed and quoted:

 "But if she whom Love doth honour Be conceal'd from the day-- Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. "

She put up her chin defiantly. 

"I wish, child, you would tell me if--if this is much to you, " saidMrs. Wesley wistfully, with a sudden craving to put her arms aroundher daughter and have her confidence. 

Hetty hesitated for a fatal moment, then laughed again. "I am not achild precisely; and we read one another, dear, much better than weallow. Your second question you have no right to ask. You aresending me away--"

"No right, Hetty?"

"You are sending me away, " Hetty repeated, and seemed to beconsidering. After a pause she added slowly: "You others are allunder papa's thumb, and you make me a coward. But I will promise youthis"--here her words began to drag--"and to strengthen me no lessthan to ease your fears, I promise it, mother. If the worst come tothe worst, it shall not be at Kelstein that I choose it, but hereamong you all. I think you will gain little by sending me toKelstein, mother: but you need not be afraid for me there. "

"You speak in enigmas. "

"And my tone, you would say, is something too theatrical for yourtaste? Well, well, dear mother, 'tis the privilege of a house with adoom upon it to talk tragedy: for, you know, Molly declares we have adoom upon us, though we cannot agree what 'tis. I uphold it to bedebt, or papa's tantrums, or perhaps Old Jeffrey [apparently theWesley family ghost] but she will have it to be something deeper, andthat one day we shall awake and see that it includes all three. "

"It appears to be my doom, " said Mrs. Wesley, her face relaxing, "tolisten to a deal of nonsense from my daughters. "

"And who's to blame, dear? You chose to marry at twenty, and hereyou have a daughter unmarried at seven and twenty. Now I respect andlove you, as you well know: but every now and then reason steps inand proves to me that I am seven years your senior--which is absurd, and the absurder for the grave wise face you put upon it. So comealong, sweet-and-twenty, and help me pack my buskins. " Hetty led theway upstairs humming an air which (though her mother did notrecognise it) was Purcell's setting of a song in _Twelfth Night_:

 "Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. "

CHAPTER VII. 

On the day fixed, and at nine in the morning, Dick Ellison, who hadpromised to drive Hetty over to Kelstein, arrived with his gig. Sukey accompanied him, to join in the farewells and spend a few hoursat the parsonage pending his return. 

Now these visits of Sukey's were a trial to her no less than to hermother and sisters. She knew that they detested her husband, and(what was worse) she had enough of the Wesley in her to perceive whyand how: nevertheless, being a Wesley, she kept a steady face on herpain. Stung at times to echo Dick's sentiments and opinions, as itwere in self-defence, she tried to soften them down and present themin a form at least tolerable to her family. It was heroic, butuncomfortable; and they set aside the best parlour for it. 

Sukey would have preferred the kitchen. In person she was short andplump, and her face expressed a desire to be cheerful. She hadlittle or none of that grace by which her sisters walked in thecommonest cotton frocks as queens. In childhood she had been notedfor her carelessness in attire, and now obediently flaunted herhusband's taste in bonnets. 

Her headdress to-day had a dreadful coquettishness. Dick had foundit at Lincoln and called on the company to admire. It consisted ofthree large mock water-lilies on a little mat of muslin, and wasperched on her piled hair so high aloft that their gaze, as theyscanned it, seemed to pass far over her head. She longed to tear itdown, cast it on the floor, and be the Sukey they knew. 

The plate of cake and biscuits on the table gave the parlour a lastfunereal touch. Dick was boisterously talkative. The othersscarcely spoke. At length Hetty, who had been struggling to swallowa biscuit, and well-nigh choking over it, rose abruptly, kissed hermother, and went straight to her father's room. 

He sat at his writing-table, busy as usual with his commentary uponthe Book of Job. At another table by the window Johnny Whitelambbent over a map, with his back to the light. He glanced up as sheentered: she could not well read his eyes for the shadow, and perhapsfor some dimness in her own: but he rose, gathered his paperstogether, and slipped from the room. 

"Papa, Dick Ellison is in the parlour. "

"So my ears inform me. "

"He wishes to see you. "

"Then you may take him my compliments and assure him that he willnot. "

"But, papa, the gig is at the door. I have come to say good-bye. "

"Ah, in that case I will step out to the door and see you off; but Iwill not be button-holed by Dick Ellison. " He rose and stood eyeingher, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger. "You havesomething to say to me, I suspect. "

"I am going to Kelstein, " Hetty began firmly. "I would like to obeyyou there, sir, as the others do at home. I do not mean outwardly:but to feel, while I am absent, that I am earning--" She paused andcast about for a word. 

"You will be earning, of course. There is always satisfaction inthat. "

"I am not thinking of money. "

"Of my approval, then? Your employer, Mr. Grantham, is an honestgentleman: I shall trust his report of you. "

"Papa, I came to beg you for more than that. Will you not let mefeel that I am earning something more?--that if, as times goes on, myconduct pleases you, you will be more disposed to consider--to grantme--"

"Mehetabel!"

"I love him, papa! I cannot help it. Sir--!"

She put out both hands to him, her eyes welling. But he had turnedsharply away from her cry, and strode across the room in hisirritation. Her hands fell, and one caught at the edge of the tablefor support while she leaned, bowing her head. 

He came abruptly back. "Are you aware, Mehetabel, that you haveproposed a bargain to me? I do not bargain with my children:I expect obedience. Nor as a father am I obliged to give my reasons. But since you are leaving us, and I would not dismiss you harshly, let me say that I have studied this man for whom you avow a fondness;and apart from his calling--which I detest--I find him vain, foppish, insincere. He has _levitas_ with _levitas_: I believe his heart tobe as shallow as his head. I know him to be no fit mate for one ofmy daughters; least of all for you who have gifts above yoursisters--gifts which I have recognised and tried to improve. Child, summon your pride to you, and let it help your obedience. "He broke off and gazed out of the window. "If, " said he more softly, "our fate be not offered to us, we must make it. If, while our truefate delays, there come to us unworthy phantoms simulating it, weshould test them; lest impatient we run to embrace vanity, andbetray, not our hopes alone, but the purpose God had in mind for usfrom the beginning. "

Hetty looked up. She might have thought that she was twenty-seven, and asked herself how long was it likely to be before a prince cameacross those dreary fields to the thatched parsonage, seeking her. But her heart was full of the man she loved, and she thought onlythat her father did him bitter injustice. 

She shivered and lifted her face. "Good-bye, papa, " she said coldly. 

He kissed her on the cheek, and took a step to follow her to thedoor; but thought better of it and returned to the window. He heardthe door close upon her, and five minutes later saw her whisked awayin the gig by Dick Ellison's side. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

He continued to stare out of the window long after the gig haddisappeared over the low horizon: a small, nervous, indomitablefigure of a man close upon his sixty-second birthday, standing for awhile with his back turned upon his unwieldy manuscripts and his jawthrust forward obstinately as he surveyed the blank landscape. He had the scholar's stoop, but this thrust of the jaw was habitualand lifted his face at an angle which gave an "up-sighted" expressionto his small eyes, set somewhat closely together above a longstraight nose. Nose, eyes, jaw announced obstinacy, and the eyes, quick and fiery, warned you that it was of the aggressive kind whichnot only holds to its purpose, but never ceases nagging until it beattained. In build he was lean and wiry: in carriage amazinglydignified for one who (to be precise) stood but 5 feet 5 and a halfinches high. 

His father had been a non-juring clergyman, one of the many ejectedfrom their livings on St. Bartholomew's Day, 1662; and he himself hadbeen educated as a Nonconformist at Mr. Morton's famous academy onNewington Green, where Daniel Defoe had preceded him as a pupil, andwhere he had heard John Bunyan preach. At the conclusion of histraining there he was pitched upon to answer some pamphlets levelledagainst the Dissenters, and this set him on a course of reading whichproduced an effect he was far from intending: for instead of writingthe answer he determined to renounce Dissent and attach himself tothe Established Church. He dwelt at that time with his mother and anold aunt, themselves ardent Dissenters, to whom he could not tell hisdesign. So he arose before daybreak one morning, tramped sixty milesto Oxford, and entered himself at Exeter College as a poor scholar. This was in August, 1683. 

He took up his residence in Oxford with forty-five shillings in hispocket. He studied there five years, and during that time receivedfrom his family and friends just five shillings; obtained hisBachelor's degree, and departed seven pounds and fifteen shillingsricher than when he entered the University. The winter of 1683 was ahard beginning for a scholar too poor to buy fuel, the cold being sosevere in the Thames valley that coaches plied as freely on the riverfrom the Temple to Westminster as if they had gone upon the land. Yet "I tarried, " he afterwards wrote, "in Exeter College, though Imet with some hardships I had before been unacquainted with, till Iwas of standing sufficient to take my Bachelor's degree; and notbeing able to subsist there afterwards, I came to London during thetime of my Lord Bishop of London's suspension by the High Commission, and was instituted into deacon's orders by my Lord Bishop ofRochester, at his palace at Bromley, August 7th, 1688. "

He had maintained himself by instructing wealthier undergraduates andwriting their exercises for them (as a servitor he had to black theirboots and run their errands); also by scribbling for John Dunton, thefamous London bookseller, whose acquaintance he had made during hislast year at Mr. Morton's. With all this he found time and the willto be charitable, and had visited the poor creatures imprisoned inthe Castle at Oxford--many for debt. He lived to take the measure ofthis kindness, and to see it repeated by his sons. 

_Maggots: or Poems on Several Subjects never before Handled_ was novery marketable book of rhymes. Yet it served its purpose and helpedhim, through Dunton, to become acquainted with a few men of lettersand learning. He had something better, too, to cheer his start inLondon. Dunton in 1682 had married Elizabeth, one of the manydaughters of Dr. Samuel Annesley, the famous Dissenter, thenpreaching at a Nonconformist church which he had opened in Little St. Helen's, Bishopsgate. Young Wesley, a student at Newington Green, had been present at the wedding, with a copy of verses in his pocket:and there, in a corner of the Doctor's gloomy house in Spital Yard, he came on the Doctor's youngest daughter, a slight girl of fourteen, seated and watching the guests. 

She was but a child, and just then an unhappy one, though with nochildish trouble. Minds ripened early in Annesley House, wherescholars and divines resorted to discuss the battle raging betweenChurch and Dissent. Susanna Annesley had listened and brooded uponwhat she heard; and now her convictions troubled her, for she saw, orthought she saw, the Church to be in the right, and herself an alienin her father's house, secretly rebellious against those she lovedand preparing to disappoint them cruelly. She knew her father'sbeliefs to be as strong and deep as they were temperately expressed. 

So it happened that Samuel Wesley, halting awkwardly (as ahobbledehoy will) before this slip of a girl and stammering somewords meant to comfort her for losing her sister, presently foundhimself answering strange questions, staring into young eyes whichhad somehow surprised his own doubts of Dissent, and beyond them intoa mind which had come to its own decision and quietly, firmly, invited him to follow. It startled him so that love dawned at thesame moment with a lesser shock. He seated himself on the windowcushion beside her, and after this they talked a very little, butwatched the guests, feeling like two conspirators in the crowd, feeling also that the world was suddenly changed for them both. 

And thus it came about that Samuel Wesley dropped his pen, packed hisbooks, and tramped off to Oxford. He was back again now, after fiveyears, with his degree, but no money as yet to marry on. He startedwith a curacy at 28 pounds a year; was appointed chaplain on board aman-of-war, when his income rose to 70 pounds; and began an epic poemon the Life of Christ, scribbling (since he had leisure) at the rateof two hundred couplets a day; but soon returned to London, where heobtained a second curacy and 30 pounds year. His pen earned himanother 30 pounds, and on this he decided to marry. 

Between him and Susanna Annesley there had been little talk of love, but no doubt at all. She was now close upon twenty, and ready tomarry him when he named the day. So married they were, in 1689. Less than a year later their first child, Samuel, was born in theirLondon lodgings, and soon after came an offer, from the Massingberdfamily, through the Marquis of Normanby, of the living of SouthOrmsby in Lincolnshire. Thither accordingly they journeyed onMidsummer Day, 1690, and there resided until the spring of 1697 in avicarage little better than a mud-built hut. There Mrs. Wesley bareEmilia, Susannah and Molly, besides other children who died ininfancy, and there the Rector put forth his _Life of our Blessed Lordand Saviour Jesus Christ. A heroic poem in ten books_: besides suchtrifles as "The Young Student's Library: containing Extracts andAbridgments of the most Valuable Books printed in England and in theForeign Journals from the year '65 to this time. To which is addedA New Essay upon all sorts of Learning. "

Close by the parish church stood the Hall, the great house of theLord Marquis of Normanby who in 1694 made Mr. Wesley his domesticchaplain. The Marquis was a rake, and he and his mistresses gave thepoor clergyman many searchings of heart. There was one who tooka fancy to Mrs. Wesley and would be intimate with her. Coming homeone day and finding this visitor seated with his wife, Mr. Wesleywent up to her, took her by the hand and very fairly handed her out. It cost him his living: but the Marquis, being what is called a goodfellow in the main, bore him no grudge; nay, rather liked his spirit, and afterwards showed himself a good friend to the amount of twentyguineas, to which the Marchioness (but this is more explicable) addedfive from her own purse. 

By good fortune the living of Epworth fell vacant just then, and inaccordance with some wish or promise of the late Queen Mary, to whomhe had dedicated his _Life of Christ_, Mr. Wesley was presented toit, a decent preferment, worth about 200 pounds a year in thecurrency of those times. But by this time his family was large; hewas in debt; the fees to be paid before taking up the living atefarther into his credit; a larger house had to be maintained, withthree acres of garden and farm-buildings; and his new parishionershated his politics and made life as miserable for him as they could. They were savage fighters, but they found their match. In 1702 theyset fire secretly to the parsonage-house, and burned down two-thirdsof it. In the winter of 1704 they destroyed a great part of his cropof flax. This was the year of Blenheim, and upon news of the victoryMr. Wesley sat down to commemorate it in heroic verse. The poem(published in the early days of 1705), if inferior to Mr. Addison'son the same occasion, ran to five hundred and ninety-four lines, andcontained compliments enough to please the great Duke ofMarlborough, who sent for its author, rewarded him with thechaplaincy of Colonel Lepelle's regiment, and promised him aprebend's stall. The Dissenters, who (with some excuse, perhaps)looked upon Mr. Wesley as that worst of foes, a deserter from theirown ranks, using their influence in Parliament and at Court, had himdeprived of his regiment and denied the stall. In April Queen Annedissolved Parliament, and in May the late Tory members for the countyof Lincoln, Sir John Thorold--and the Dymoke who then held--as hisdescendant holds to-day--the dignity of Royal Champion, fought andlost an election with the Whig candidates, Colonel Whichcott andMr. Albert Bertie. The Dissenters of course supported these; andMr. Wesley, scorning insults and worse, the unpopular side: with whatresults we may read in these extracts from letters to the Archbishopof York. 

 Epworth, June 7th, 1705. 

 I went to Lincoln on Tuesday night, May 29th, and the election began on Wednesday, 30th. A great part of the night our Isle people kept drumming, shouting, and firing of pistols and guns under the window where my wife lay, who had been brought to bed not three weeks. I had put the child to nurse over against my own house; the noise kept his nurse waking till one or two in the morning. Then they left off, and the nurse being heavy with sleep, overlaid the child. She waked, and finding it dead, ran over with it to my house almost distracted, and calling my servants, threw it into their arms. They, as wise as she, ran up with it to my wife and, before she was well awake, threw it cold and dead into hers. She composed herself as well as she could, and that day got it buried. 

 A clergyman met me in the castle yard and told me to withdraw, for the Isle men intended me a mischief. Another told me he had heard near twenty of them say, "if they got me in the castle yard, they would squeeze my guts out. " My servant had the same advice. I went by Gainsbro', and God preserved me. 

 When they knew I was got home, they sent the drum and mob, with guns etc. As usual, to compliment me till after midnight. One of them, passing by on Friday evening and seeing my children in the yard, cried out "O ye devils! We will come and turn ye all out of doors a-begging shortly. " God convert them, and forgive them!

 All this, thank God, does not in the least sink my wife's spirits. For my own, I feel them disturbed and disordered. . . . 

The rebuilding of the parsonage and some unhappy essays in farminghis glebe had run the Rector still farther in debt: and now, notsatisfied with winning the election, his enemies struck at himprivily. His next letter is dated not three weeks later from thedebtors' ward in Lincoln. 

 Lincoln Castle, June 25th, 1705. 

 My Lord, --Now I am at rest, for I am come to the haven where I have long expected to be. On Friday last (June 23rd), when I had been, in christening a child, at Epworth, I was arrested in my churchyard by one who had been my servant, and gathered my tithe last year, at the suit of one of Mr. Whichcott's relations and zealous friends (Mr Pinder) according to their promise when they were in the Isle before the election. The sum was not thirty pounds, but it was as good as five hundred. Now they knew the burning of my flax, my London journey, and their throwing me out of my regiment had both sunk my credit and exhausted my money. My adversary was sent to, when I was on the road, to meet me, that I might make some proposals to him. But all his answer was that 'I must immediately pay the whole sum, or go to prison. ' Thither I went, with no great concern to myself: and find much more civility and satisfaction here than _in brevibus gyaris_ of my own Epworth. I thank God, my wife was pretty well recovered and churched some days before I was taken from her; and hope she'll be able to look to my family, if they don't turn them out of doors as they have often threatened to do. One of my biggest concerns was my being forced to leave my poor lambs in the midst of so many wolves. But the great Shepherd is able to provide for them and to preserve them. My wife bears it with that courage which becomes her, and which I expected from her. 

 I don't despair of doing some good here (and so I sha'n't quite lose the end of living), and it may be, do more in this new parish than in my old one: for I have leave to read prayers every morning and afternoon here in the prison, and to preach once a Sunday, which I choose to do in the afternoon when there is no sermon at the minster. And I'm getting acquainted with my brother jail-birds as fast as I can; and shall write to London next post, to the Society for propagating Christian Knowledge, who, I hope, will send me some books to distribute among them. . . . 

The next letter, dated from prison on September 12th, proves that hehad reasons only too good to be fearful. 

 The other matter is concerning the stabbing of my cows in the night since I came hither, but a few weeks ago; and endeavouring thereby to starve my forlorn family in my absence; my cows being all dried by it, which was their chief subsistence; though I hope they had not the power to kill any of them outright. . . . 

 The same night the iron latch of my door was twined off, and the wood hacked in order to shoot back the lock, which nobody will think was with an intention to rob my family. My housedog, who made a huge noise within doors, was sufficiently punished for his want of politics and _moderation_, for the next day but one his leg was almost chopped off by an unknown hand. 'Tis not every one could bear these things; but, I bless God, my wife is less concerned with suffering them that I am in the writing, or than I believe your Grace will be in reading them. . . . Oh, my lord! I once more repeat it, that I shall some time have a more equal Judge than any in this world. 

 Most of my friends advise me to leave Epworth, if e'er I should get from hence. I confess I am not of that mind, because I may yet do good there; and 'tis like a coward to desert my post because the enemy fire thick upon me. They have only wounded me yet and, I believe, _can't_ kill me. I hope to be home by Xmass. God help my poor family! . . . 

By the end of the year (the Archbishop and other friends assisting) agood part of his debts had been paid and Mr. Wesley was at homeagain. From Epworth he refused to budge; and there, for three yearsand more, the rage of his enemies slumbered and his affairs greweasier. John (if we do not count the poor infant overlaid) had beenthe last child born before his imprisonment. Now arrived Patty, inthe autumn of 1706, and Charles, in December, 1707. A third wasexpected, and shortly, when in the night of February 9th, 1709, theparsonage took fire again and burned to the ground in fifteenminutes. 

 On Wednesday last, at half an hour after eleven at night, in a quarter of an hour's time or less, my house at Epworth was burned down to the ground--I hope by accident; but God knows all. We had been brewing, but had done all; every spark of fire quenched before five o'clock that evening--at least six hours before the house was on fire. Perhaps the chimney above might take fire (though it had been swept not long since) and break through into the thatch. Yet it is strange I should neither see nor smell anything of it, having been in my study in that part of the house till above half an hour after ten. Then I locked the doors of that part of the house where my wheat and other corn lay, and went to bed. 

 The servants had not been in bed a quarter of an hour when the fire began. My wife being near her time, and very weak, I lay in the next chamber. A little after eleven I heard "Fire!" cried in the street, next to which I lay. If I had been in my own chamber, as usual, we had all been lost. I threw myself out of bed, got on my waistcoat and nightgown, and looked out of window; saw the reflection of the flame, but knew not where it was; ran to my wife's chamber with one stocking on and my breeches in my hand; would have broken open the door, which was bolted within, but could not. My two eldest children were with her. They rose, and ran towards the staircase, to raise the rest of the house. There I saw it was my own house, all in a light blaze, and nothing but a door between the flame and the staircase. 

 I ran back to my wife, who by this time had got out of bed, naked, and opened the door. I bade her fly for her life. We had a little silver and some gold--about 20 pounds. She would have stayed for it, but I pushed her out; got her and my two eldest children downstairs (where two of the servant were now got), and asked for the keys. They knew nothing of them. I ran upstairs and found them, came down, and opened the street door. The thatch was fallen in all on fire. The north-east wind drove all the sheets of flame in my face, as if reverberated in a lamp. I got twice to the step and was drove down again. I ran to the garden door and opened it. The fire there was more moderate. I bade them all follow, but found only two with me, and the maid with another in her arms that cannot go; but all naked. I ran with them to an outhouse in the garden, out of the reach of the flames; put the least in the other's lap; and not finding my wife follow me, ran back into the house to seek her, but could not find her. The servants and two of the children were got out at the window. In the kitchen I found my eldest daughter, naked, and asked her for her mother. She could not tell me where she was. I took her up and carried her to the rest in the garden; came in the second time and ran upstairs, the flame breaking through the wall at the staircase; thought all my children were safe, and hoped my wife was some way got out. I then remembered my books, and felt in my pocket for the key of the chamber which led to my study. I could not find the key, though I searched a second time. Had I opened that door, I must have perished. 

 I ran down and went to my children in the garden, to help them over the wall. When I was without, I heard one of my poor lambs, left still above-stairs, about six years old, cry out, dismally, "Help me!" I ran in again, to go upstairs, but the staircase was now all afire. I tried to force up through it a second time, holding my breeches over my head, but the stream of fire beat me down. I thought I had done my duty; went out of the house to that part of my family I had saved, in the garden, with the killing cry of my child in my ears. I made them all kneel down, and we prayed to God to receive his soul. 

 I tried to break down the pales, and get my children over into the street, but could not; then went under the flame and got them over the wall. Now I put on my breeches and leaped after them. One of my maidservants that had brought out the least child, got out much at the same time. She was saluted with a hearty curse by one of the neighbours, and told that we had fired the house ourselves, the second time, on purpose! I ran about inquiring for my wife and other children; met the chief man and chief constable of the town going from my house, not towards it to help me. I took him by the hand and said "God's will be done!" His answer was, "Will you never have done your tricks? You fired your house once before; did you not get enough by it then, that you have done it again?" This was cold comfort. I said, "God forgive you! I find you are chief man still. " But I had a little better soon after, hearing that my wife was saved; and then I fell on mother earth and blessed God. 

 I went to her. She was alive, and could just speak. She thought I had perished, and so did all the rest, not having seen me nor any share of eight children for a quarter of an hour; and by this time all the chambers and everything was consumed to ashes, for the fire was stronger than a furnace, the violent wind beating it down on the house. She told me afterwards how she escaped. When I went first to open the back-door, she endeavoured to force through the fire at the fore-door, but was struck back twice to the ground. She thought to have died there, but prayed to Christ to help her. She found new strength, got up alone and waded through two or three yards of flame, the fire on the ground being up to her knees. She had nothing on but her shoes and a wrapping gown, and one coat on her arm. This she wrapped about her breast, and got through safe into the yard, but no soul yet to help her. She never looked up or spake till I came; only when they brought her last child to her, bade them lay it on the bed. This was the lad whom I heard cry in the house, but God saved him almost by a miracle. He only was forgot by the servants, in the hurry. He ran to the window towards the yard, stood upon a chair and cried for help. There were now a few people gathered, one of whom, who loves me, helped up another to the window. The child seeing a man come into the window, was frightened, and ran away to get to his mother's chamber. He could not open the door, so ran back again. The man was fallen down from the window, and all the bed and hangings in the room where he was were blazing. They helped up the man a second time, and poor Jacky leaped into his arms and was saved. I could not believe it till I had kissed him two or three times. My wife then said unto me, "Are your books safe?" I told her it was not much, now she and all the rest were preserved. . . . 

 Mr. Smith of Gainsborough, and others, have sent for some of my children. . . . I want nothing, having above half my barley saved in my barns unthreshed. I had finished my alterations in the _Life of Christ_ a little while since, and transcribed three copies of it. But all is lost. God be praised!

 I hope my wife will recover, and not miscarry, but God will give me my nineteenth child. She has burnt her legs, but they mend. When I came to her, her lips were black. I did not know her. Some of the children are a little burnt, but not hurt or disfigured. I only got a small blister on my hand. The neighbours send us clothes, for it is cold without them. 

The child (Kezzy) was born and lived. The Rectory was rebuilt withina year, at a cost of 400 pounds. The day after the fire, as hegroped among the ruins in the garden, Mr. Wesley had picked up a tornleaf of his Polyglot Bible, on which these words alone were legible:_Vade; vende omnia quot habes; et attolle crucem, et sequere me_. He had come to Epworth a poor man: and now, after fifteen years, hestood as poor as then; poorer, perhaps. He had served hisparishioners only to earn their detestation. But he stood unbeaten:and as he stared out of his window there gripped him--not for thefirst time--a fierce ironical affection for the hard landscape, thefields of his striving, even the folk who had proved such goodhaters. _Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; andthou shalt eat the herb of the field_--ay, and learn to relish it asno other food. _In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, tillthou return unto the ground_. Ah, but to go and surrender thatground to others--there lay the sting! With him, as with manyanother true man disappointed in his fate, his hopes passed fromhimself to fasten the more eagerly on his sons. He wanted them to begreat and eminent soldiers of Christ, and he divined already that, iffor one above the others, this eminence was reserved for John. But he wanted also a son of his loins to succeed him at Epworth, tohold and improve what painful inches he had gained; and again hecould only think of John. Could a man devote his life to thisforsaken parish and yet be a light set on a hill for the world?Had not his own life taught the folly of that hope?

He sighed and turned from the window. He had quite forgotten Hetty. 

He stepped to the door to summon Johnny Whitelamb: but the sound ofvoices drew him across the passage to the best parlour, and there atthe threshold his eyes fell on Sukey's headdress. 

"Susannah!"

"Yes, father. " Sukey stepped forward to be kissed. 

"Take off that--that _thing_!"

"Yes, father. " She untied the strings obediently. 

"If your husband chooses to dress and carry you about the countrylike a figure of fun, I cannot prevent him. But in my house rememberthat I am your father, and take my assurance that, although Jezebeltired her head, she had the saving grace of not looking like a fool. "

Mr. Wesley turned on his heel and strode back to his books. 

"Why don't you stand up to him?" asked Mr. Dick Ellison suddenly, onthe road to Kelstein. 

"To father?" Hetty came out of her day-dreams with a start. 

"Yes: you've been having a tiff this morning, anyone can see. Young man is poison to him, hey? Why don't you take a leaf out of mybook? 'Paternal authority'--and a successor of the apostles into thebargain--that's his ground. Well, I don't allow him to take it. 'Beggars can't be choosers' is mine, and I pin him to it. Oh, yes, _I'm_ poison to him, but it does him good. 'That cock won't crow, 'I say. He's game enough on his own dunghill, but a high-blooded lasslike you ought to be his master by this time. Hint that you'll cutthe painter, kick over the traces--you needn't _do_ it, y'know. Threaten you'll run and join the stage--nothing unlikely in that--and, by George, it'd bring him up with a clove hitch! Where's yourinvention?"

Hetty gazed at the horse's ears and considered. "It's easy for you, Dick, who have nothing in common with him, not even affection. "

"Oh, I like the old fellow well enough, for all his airs with me, "said Mr. Dick Ellison graciously. 

"If they annoyed you more, you might understand him better--and me, "replied Hetty. 

Silence fell between them again and the gig bowled on. 

BOOK II. 

CHAPTER I. 

The frozen canal ran straight towards the sunset, into a floodedcountry where only a line of pollard willows, with here and there analder, marked the course of its left bank. But where Hetty waitedthe banks were higher, and the red ball on the horizon sent a levelshaft down the lane between them. 

She was alone. Indeed, the only living creature within sight was ared-breast, hunched into a ball and watching her from a wintry willowbough; the only moving object a windmill half a mile away across thelevel, turning its sails against the steel-gray sky--so listlessly, they seemed to be numbed. 

She had strapped on a pair of skates--clumsy homemade things, and abirthday present from Johnny Whitelamb, who had fashioned them withpains, the Epworth blacksmith helping. Hetty skated excellentlywell--in days, be it understood, before the cutting of figures hadbeen advanced to an art with rules and text-books. But as the poiseand balanced impetus came natural to her, so in idle moments andcasually she had struck out figures of her own, and she practisedthem now with the red-breast for spectator. She was happy--herbosom's lord sitting lightly on his throne--and all because of twoletters she pulled from her pocket and re-read in the pauses of herskating. 

The first was from her mother at Wroote, and told her that to-day orto-morrow her father would be arriving at Kelstein with her sisterPatty. Hetty had been expecting this for some weeks. At Christmas(it was now mid-January) the Granthams had written praising her, andthis had given Mr. Wesley the notion of proffering yet another of hisdaughters. Two days after receiving the letter he had ridden over toKelstein with the proposal. Patty was the one chosen (Hetty couldguess why), and poor Patty knew nothing of it at the time: but Mrs. Grantham had accepted almost effusively, and she was to come. In what capacity? Hetty wondered. She herself taught the children, and she could think of no other post in the household not absolutelymenial. Was it selfish of her to be so glad? For one thing Patty hadfewer whimsies than the rest of her sisters and, likely enough, wouldaccept her lot as a matter of course. She seldom wept or grumbled:indeed Hetty, before now, had found her patience irritating. But tohave Patty's company now seemed the most delightful thing in theworld; to fling her arms around somebody who came from home!

The most delightful? Hetty turned to the second letter--and withthat looked up swiftly as her ear caught the ringing sound of skates, and a young man descended, as it were, out of the sun's disc and cameflying down the long alley on its ray. She put out both hands. He swooped around her in a long curve and caught them and kissed heras he came to a standstill, panting, with a flush on each handsomecheek. 

"Hetty!"

No answer to this but a sound like a coo of rapture. He is, as weshould think, a personable young fellow, frank, and taking to theeye, though his easy air of mastery provokes another look at Hetty, who is worth ten of him. But to her he is a young god above whom thestars dance. Splendid creature though she be, she must comply withher sex which commands her to be passive, to be loved. With his armabout her she shuts her eyes and drinks delicious weakness; with asense of sinking through space supported by that arm--not whollyrelying on him as yet, but holding her own strength in reserve, if heshould fail her. 

"I have raced. "

She laughed. "I bargained for that. We have so little time!"

"How long?"

"Mrs. Grantham expects me back in an hour at latest. Father andPatty will be arriving before supper, and there are the children tobe put to bed. "

"Let us go up the canal, then. I have a surprise for you. "

They took hands--both her hands in his, their arms held crosswise totheir bodies--and struck out, stroke for stroke. By the third strokethey were swinging forward in perfect rhythm, each onrush held longand level on the outside edge and curving only as it slackened. The air began to sing by Hetty's temples; her skates kept a hummingtune with her lover's. The back of his hand rested warm against herbosom. 

"You skate divinely. "

She scarcely heard. The world slipped past and behind her with theracing trees: she was a bird mated and flying into the sunset. Ah, here was bliss! Awhile ago she had been faint with love, asthough a cord were being tightened around her heart: it had been hardfor her to speak, hard even to draw breath. Now her lungs opened, the cord snapped and broke with a sob; and, as the sun's rim dipped, she flew faster, urgent to overtake and hold it there, to stay itsred glint between the reed-beds, its bloom of brown and purple on thewithered grasses. The wind of her skirt caught up the dead leavesfreshly scattered on the ice and swept them along with her, whirling, like a train of birds. But, race as she would, the sun sank and theshadow of the world crept higher behind her shoulder. The last gleamdied; and, lifting her eyes, Hetty saw over its grave, poised in aclear space of sky, the sickle moon. 

She tried to disengage her hand, to point to it: but as his eyessought hers with a question, she let it lie and nodded upwardsinstead. He saw and understood, and with their faces raised to itthey held on their flight in silence: for lovers may wish with thenew moon, but the first to speak will have wished in vain. 

A tapping, as of someone hammering upon metal, sounded from a clumpof willows ahead and upon their right. A woman's voice joined inscolding. This broke the spell; and with a laugh they disengagedhands, separated, and let their speed bear them on side by side tillit slackened and they ran to a halt beside the trees. 

A barge lay here, hopelessly frozen on its way up the canal. On itsdeck a woman, with arms akimbo, stood over a man seated and tinkeringat a kettle. She nodded as they approached. 

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir--you and the lady. "

Hetty looked at her lover. 

"It's all right, " he explained: "only a surprise of mine, which seemsto have missed fire. I had planned a small picnic here and this goodwoman was to have had a dish of tea ready for you--"

"How was I to know that man of mine had been fool enough to fill thekettle before tramping off to the 'Ring of Bells'?" the good womanbroke in. "Lord knows 'tisn' his way to be thoughtful, and when hetries it there's always a breakage. When I'd melted the ice, thething began to leak like a sieve; and if this tinker fellow hadn'tcome along--by Providence, as you may call it--though I'd ha' beenobliged to Providence for a quicker workman--"

Hetty was not listening. Her eyes had caught the tinker's, and thewarm blood had run back from her face: for he was the man who hadstartled the sisters on the knoll, that harvest evening. 

He nodded to her now with an impudent grin. "Good evening, missy!If I'd known the job was for Miss Wesley, I'd ha' put best speed intoit: best work there is already. "

"Hallo! Do you know this fellow?" her lover demanded. 

"'Fellow'--and a moment back 'twas 'tinker'! Well, well, a man mustlook low and pick up what he can in these times, 'specially when hislarger debtors be so backward--hey, miss? Why, to be sure I knowMiss Wesley: a man don't forget a face like hers in a hurry. Glad tomeet her, likewise, enjoyin' herself so free and easy. Shall I tellthe old Rector, miss, next time I call, how well you was lookin', andin what company?"

Hetty saw her lover ruffling and laid a hand on his arm. 

"Tuppence if you please, ma'am, and I'll be going. William Wrightwas never one to spoil sport: but some has luck in this world andsome hasn't, and that's a fact. " He grinned again as he pocketed themoney. 

"If you don't take your impudent face out of this, I'll smash it foryou, " spoke up the young man hotly. 

The plumber's grin widened as, slinging his bag of tools over hisshoulder, he stepped on to the frozen towpath. "Ah, you're abruiser, I dare say: for I've seen you outside the booth at LincolnFair, hail-fellow with the boxing-men on the platform. And a buckyou was too, with a girl on each arm; and might pass, that far fromhome, for one of the gentry, the way you stood treat. But you'renot: and if missy ain't more particular in her bucks, she'd do betterwith a respectable tradesman like me. As for smashing of faces, twocan play at that game, belike: but William Wright chooses his time. "

He was lurching away with a guffaw; for the tow-path here ran withintwo furlongs of the high road, and a man upon skates cannot pursueacross _terra firma_. 

But he had reckoned without Hetty, who had seated herself on the edgeof the barge and who now shook her feet free of Johnny Whitelamb'srough clamps, and, springing from the deck to the towpath, took himby the collar as he turned. 

"Go!" she cried, and with her open palm dealt him a stinging slapacross the cheek. "Go!"

The man put up his hand, fell back a moment with a dazed face, andthen without a word ran for the highway, his bag of tools rattlingbehind him. 

Never was route more ludicrously sudden. Even in her wrath Hettylooked at her lover and broke into a laugh. 

"Let me skate up the canal and head him off, " said he. "Half a milewill give me lead enough to slip out of these things and collar himon the highway. "

"He is not worth it. Besides, he may not be going towards Kelstein:in this light we cannot see the road or what direction he takes. Let him be, dear, " Hetty persuaded, as the old woman called out fromher cabin that the kettle boiled. "Our time is too precious. "

Then, while he yet fumed, she suddenly grew grave. 

"Was it truth he was telling?"

"Truth?" he echoed. 

"Yes: about Lincoln Fair?"

"Oh, the boxing-booth, you mean? Well, my dear, there was somethingin it, to be sure. You wouldn't have me be a milksop, would you?"

"No-o, " she mused. "But I meant what he said about--about thosewomen. Was that true?"

He was on the point of answering with a lie; but while he hesitatedshe helped him by adding, "I am not a child, dear. I amtwenty-seven, and older than you. Please be honest with me, always. "

He was young, but had an instinct for understanding women. He revised the first lie and rejected it for a more cunning one. "It was before I met you, " he said humbly. "He made the worst of it, of course, but I had rather you knew the truth. You are angry?"

Hetty sighed. "I am sorry. It seems to make our--our love--different somehow. "

The bargewoman brought out their tea. She had heard nothing of thescrimmage on the bank, so swiftly had it happened and with so fewwords spoken. 

"Halloa--is the tinker gone? And I'd cut off a crust for him. Well, I can eat it myself, I suppose; and after all he was lowcompany for the likes of you, though any company comes well to folksthat can't pick and choose. " In the act of setting herself on thecabin top she sat up stiffly and listened. 

"There's a horse upon the high road, " she announced. 

"A highwayman, perhaps, if all company's welcome to you. "

"He won't come this way, " said the woman placidly. "I loves to lieclose to the road like this and see the wagons and coaches rolling byall day: for 'tis a dull life, always on the water. Now you wouldn'tbelieve what a pleasure it gives me, to have you two here a-lovering, nor how many questions I'd put if you'd let me. When is it to be, mydear?"--addressing Hetty--"But you won't answer me, I know. You're wishing me farther, and go I will as soon as you've drunk yourtay. Well, sir, I hope you'll take care of her: for the pretty sheis, I could kiss her myself. May I?" she asked suddenly, takingHetty's empty cup; and Hetty blushed and let her. "God send youchildren, you beauty!"

She paused with a cup in either hand, and in the act of squeezingherself backwards through the small cabin-door. "La, the red you'vegone! I can see it with no help more than the bit of moon. 'Tis aterrible thing to be childless, and for that you can take my word. "Wagging her head she vanished. 

Left to themselves the two sat silent. The sound of the horse'shoofs died away down the road towards Kelstein. Had Hetty known, herfather was the horseman, with Patty riding pillion behind him. Over the frozen floods came the note of a church clock, borne on thealmost windless air. 

"Five o'clock?" Hetty sprang up. "Time to be going, and past. "

"You have not forgiven me, " he murmured. 

"Indeed, yes. " She was, after all, a girl of robust good sense, andcould smile bravely as she put an illusion by. "To be loved ismarvellous and seems to make all marvels possible: but I was wrong toexpect--this one. And if, since knowing me--"

"You have taught me all better things. " He knelt on the ice at herfeet and began to fasten her skates. "Let me still be your pupil andlook up to you, as I am looking now. "

"Ah!" she pressed her palms together, "but that is just what I need--to know that we are both better for loving. I want to be sure ofthat, for it makes me brave when I think of father. While he forbidsus, I cannot help doubting at times: and then I look into myself andsee that all the world is brighter, all the world is better since Iknew you. O my love, if we trust our love, and help one another!--"Her rich voice thrilled and broke as she leaned forward and laid ahand on his forehead. 

"See me at your feet, " he whispered, looking up into eyes divinelydewy. "I am yours to teach: teach me, if you will, to be good. "

They rose to their feet together--he but an inch or so the taller--and for a moment, as he took her in his arms, she held back, herpalms against his shoulders, her eyes passionately seeking the truthin his. Then with a sob she kissed him and was gone. 

For a moment she skated nervelessly, with hanging arms. But, watching, he saw her summon up her strength and shoot down theglimmering ice-way like a swallow let loose from his hand. So swiftwas her flight that, all unknowing, she overtook and passed thetravellers jogging parallel with her on the high road; and hadreached Kelstein and was putting her two small charges to bed, whenher father's knock sounded below stairs. 

Mr. And Mrs. Grantham, though pompous, were a kindly pair: and Mrs. Grantham, entering the library where Mr. Wesley and his daughterawaited her, and observing that the girl seemed frightened ordepressed (she could not determine which), rang the bell at once andsent a maid upstairs for Hetty. 

Hetty entered with cheeks still glowing and eyes sparkling; went atonce to her father and kissed him, and running, threw her arms aroundPatty, who responded listlessly. 

"She needs Kelstein air, " explained Mr. Wesley. "I protest it seemsto agree with _you_, Mehetabel. "

"But tell me all the news, father, " Hetty demanded, with an arm abouther sister's waist and a glance at Mrs. Grantham, which asked pardonfor her freedom. 

"Your sister shall tell it, my dear, " answered that good woman, "while I am persuading your father to sup with us. I have given thema room together, " she explained to Mr. Wesley. "I thought it wouldbe pleasanter for them. "

"You are kindness itself, madam. "

Hetty led the way upstairs. "It is all strange at first, dear: Iknow the feeling. But see how cosy we shall be. " She threw the dooropen, and showed a room far more comfortably furnished than any atWroote or Epworth. The housemaid, who adored Hetty, had even lit afire in the grate. Two beds with white coverlets, coarse butexquisitely clean, stood side by side--"Though we won't use themboth. I must have you in my arms, and drink in every word you haveto tell me till you drop off to sleep in spite of me, and hold youeven then. Oh, Patty, it is good to have you here!"

But Patty, having untied the strings of her hat, tossed it on to theedge of her bed and collapsed beside it. 

"I wish I was dead!" she announced. 

CHAPTER II. 

John Romley was the cause of her exile. This young man had been apupil of the Rector's, and studied divinity with him for a whilebefore matriculating at Lincoln College, Oxford; where in due coursehe took his degree, and whence he returned, in deacon's orders, totake charge of the endowed school at Epworth and to help in thespiritual work of the parish. Mr. Wesley's experience of curates hadbeen far from happy, but Romley promised to be the bright exceptionin a long list of failures. (It was he who discovered and introducedJohnny Whitelamb to the household. ) He was sociable; had pleasantmanners, a rotund figure not yet inclining to coarseness, a pink andwhite complexion, and a mellifluous tenor voice. To his voice, alas!he owed most of his misfortunes in life. 

The Rector had no high opinion of his brains: but tolerated him, andat first looked on leniently enough when he began to pay hisaddresses to Patty. Indeed the courtship proceeded to the gentleenvy of her sisters until one fatal night when Romley, in the rectoryparlour at Wroote, attuned his voice to sing the _Vicar of Bray_. In his study Mr. Wesley heard it. He, of all men, was no Vicar ofBray, albeit he had abjured Dissent: but he felt his cloth insulted, and by this fribble of his own order. It was treason in short, andhe bounced into the parlour as Mr. Romley carolled:

 "When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional Conformists base--"

There was a scene, and it ended in Romley being shown the door andPatty forbidden to have speech with him. Actually she had not seteyes on him since that night: but the Rector unaccountably omitted toforbid their corresponding. Now Patty, the most literally minded ofher sex, had a niggling obstinacy in pursuit of her ends. She wouldobey to a hair's breadth: but, nothing having been said aboutletters, letters passed. Piecing the truth together from herincoherent railings, Hetty learned that the Rector had happened upona scrap of Romley's handwriting, had lost his temper furiously andgiven sentence of banishment. 

Patty in love showed none of her sister's glorious fervour: butstared obtusely, even sulkily, when Hetty hinted at her own secretand, pressing her waist, spoke of love with fearless elation, yet asof a sacred thing. 

"Oh, you're too poetical for me!" she interrupted. 

This was depressing. 

"And I wish I was in my grave, " added Patty, looking like a martyr ina wet blanket. 

Thinking to put spirit into her, Hetty became more explicit andproved that love might find out a way between Epworth and Kelstein--nay, even spoke of her own clandestine meeting that very afternoon. Her cheeks glowed. Nor for a minute did she observe that Patty, listless at the beginning of the tale, was staring at her with roundeyes. 

"You mean to tell me that you meet him!"

"Why, of course I do. "

"But father forbade it!"

"To be sure he did. "

"Then all I can say is"--Patty rose to her feet in the strength ofher disapproval--"that I call it disgraceful, and I'm perfectlyashamed of you!"

"But, good Heavens! he forbade you to see Romley. "

"But not to write. "

"O-o!" Hetty mused with her pretty mouth shaped to the letter. "And now, I suppose, he has forbidden that too?"

"Of course he has. "

"And are you going to obey?"

"Of course I am. "

It was Hetty's turn to stare wide-eyed. "You are going to giveRomley up?" she asked very slowly. 

"Yes, yes, yes--and I wish I was in my grave!" Patty collapsed againdismally, but sat upright after a moment. "As for your behaviour, 'tis positively wicked, and I think father ought to be told of it!"

Hetty put out both hands; but instead of shaking her sister (as shewas minded to do) she let the open palms fall gently upon hershoulders and looked her in the face. 

"Then I advise you not to tell him, dear. For in the first place itwould do no good. "

"Do no good?"

"Well, then, it would make no difference. "

"You mean to--run away--with him?" gasped Patty, her eyesinvoluntarily turning towards the window. 

The glance set Hetty's laughter rippling. "Pat--Pat! don't be agoose. I shall not run away with him from this house. I promisedmother. "

"You--promised--mother!" Patty was reduced to stammering echoes. 

"Dear me, yes. You must not suppose yourself the only one of herchildren she understands. " Hetty, being human, could not forgo thislittle slap. "Now wash your face, like a good girl, and come down tosupper: and afterwards you shall tell me all the news of home. There's one thing"--and she eyed Patty drolly--"I can trust you to beaccurate. "

"Do you mean to tell me that you can look father in the face--"But here Patty broke off, at the sound of hoofs on the gravel below. 

"There will be no need, " said Hetty quietly, "if, as I think, he ismounting Bounce to ride home. "

"Bounce? How did you know that Bounce brought us?"--for Bounce wasMrs. Wesley's nag, and the Rector usually rode an old gray namedMettle, but had taken of late to a filly of his own breeding. 

"I ought to remember Bounce's shuffle, " answered Hetty. "Nay, Ishould have recognised it on the road two miles back if--if I hadn'tbeen--"

She came to a full stop, in some confusion. Nevertheless she wasright; and the girls arrived downstairs to learn from Mrs. Granthamthat their father had ridden off, declining her offer of supper andscoffing at her fears of highwaymen. 

And the days went by. Hetty could not help telling herself thatPatty was a disappointment. But she was saved from reflecting on itovermuch: for Mrs. Grantham (after forty years of comfort withoutone) had conceived a desire to be waited on and have her hair dressedby a maid, and between Mrs. Grantham's inability to discoverprecisely what she wanted done by Patty, and Patty's unhandiness indoing it, and Mrs. Grantham's anxiety to fill up Patty's time, andPatty's lack of inventiveness, the pair kept Hetty pretty constantlynear her wit's end. 

Concerning her lover she attempted no more confidences. But, alone, she pondered much on Patty's reproof, which set her arguing out thewhole case afresh. For, absurd though its logic was, it had touchedher conscience. Was it conscience (she asked herself) or but the oldhabit of trembling at her father's word, which kept her so uneasy indisobeying him?

She came to no new conclusion; for a sense of injustice gave a twistto her thinking from the start. All his daughters held Mr. Wesley inawe: they never dreamed, for instance, of comparing their lovers withhim in respect of dignity or greatness. They assumed that theirbrothers inherited some portion of that greatness, but they requirednone in the men to whom they were ready to give their hands; nay, perhaps unconsciously rejoiced in the lack of it, having lived withit at home and found it uncomfortable. 

They were proud of it, of course, and knew that they themselves hadsome touch of it, if but a lunar glow. They read the assurance intheir mother's speech, in her looks; and, moving among the Epworthfolk as neighbours, yet apart, they had acquired a high pride offamily which derived nothing from vulgar chatter about titled, richand far-off relatives; but, taking ancestry for granted, foundsustenance enough in the daily life at the parsonage and the lettersfrom Westminster and Oxford. Aware of some worth in themselves, theysaw themselves pinched of food, exiled from many companions, shut outfrom social gatherings for want of pocket-money and decent attire, while amid all the muddle of his affairs their father could tramp formiles and pledge the last ounce of his credit to scrape a few poundsfor John or Charles. They divined his purpose: but they felt thepresent injustice. 

They never regarded him as just. And this was mainly his own fault, or at least the fault of his theory that women, especially daughters, were not to be reasoned with but commanded. Hetty, for example, hadan infinite capacity for self-sacrifice. At an appeal from him shewould have surrendered, not small vanities only, but desires morethan trivial, for the brothers whom in her heart she loved tofondness. But the sacrifice was ever exacted, not left to hergood-nature; the right word never spoken. 

And now, under the same numbing deference, her mother had failed herat a moment when all her heart cried out in its need. Hetty lovedher lover. Perhaps, if allowed to fare abroad, consort with othergirls, and learn, with responsibility, to choose better, she hadnever chosen this man. She had chosen him now. Poor Hetty!

But that she did wrong to meet him secretly her conscience accusedher. She had been trained religiously. Had she no religion, then, upon which to stay her sense of duty?

Where a mother has failed, even the Bible may fail. Hetty read herBible: but just because its austerer teaching had been bound tooharshly upon her at home, she turned by instinct to the gentler sidewhich reveals Christ's loving-kindness, His pity, His indulgence. All generous natures lean towards this side, and to their honour, butat times also to their very great danger. For the austerity is meantfor them who most need it. Also the austere rules are more definite, which makes them a surer guide for the soul desiring goodness, butpassionately astray. It spurns them, demanding loving-kindness; anddiscovers too late that loving-kindness dictated them. 

CHAPTER III. 

Two mornings after Patty's arrival, Hetty sat in the schoolroomtelling a Bible story to her pupils, George Grantham and smallRebecca; the one aged eight, the other barely five. They were by nomeans clever children; but they knew a good story when they heardone, and Hetty held them to the adventures of Joseph and hisBrethren, although great masses of snow were sliding off the roof, and every now and then toppling down past the window with a rush--which every child knows to be fascinating. For the black frost hadbroken up at last in a twelve hours' downfall of snow, and this inturn had yielded to a soft southerly wind. The morning sunshinepoured in through the school-room window and took all colour out ofthe sea-coal fire. 

"One night Joseph dreamed a dream which he told next morning to hisbrothers. And his dream was that they were all in the harvest-field, binding sheaves: and when Joseph had bound his sheaf, it stoodupright, but the other sheaves around slid and fell flat, as if theywere bowing on their faces before it. When he told this, it made hisbrothers angry, because it seemed to mean that he would be a greaterman than any of them. "

"I don't wonder they were angry, " broke in George, who was theGranthams' son and heir, and had a baby brother of whom he tried hardnot to be jealous. "Joseph wasn't the oldest, was he?"

"No: he was the youngest of all, except Benjamin. "

"And even if he dreamed it, he needn't have gone about bragging. It was bad enough, his having that coat of many colours. I say, MissWesley--you're not a boy, of course--but how would _you_ feel if yourfather made everything of one of your brothers?"

"I wonder if he dreamed it on a Friday?" piped Rebecca. 

"Why, child?"

"Because Martha says"--Martha was the Granthams' cook--"that Friday'sdream on Saturday told is bound to come true before you are old. "

"We shall find out if it came true. Go on, Miss Wesley. "

"But if it _was_ Friday's dream, " Rebecca persisted, "and he wantedit to come true, he couldn't help telling it. "

"Couldn't help being a sneak, I suppose you mean!"

A sound outside the window cut short this argument. All glanced up:but it came this time from no avalanche of snow. Someone had planteda ladder against the house, and the top of the ladder was scrapingagainst the window-sill. 

"Too short by six feet, " Hetty heard a voice say, and held herbreath. The ladder was joggled a little and fixed again. Footstepsbegan to ascend it. A face and a pair of broad shoulders rose intosight over the sill. They belonged to William Wright. 

"I--I think, dears, we had better find some other room. "

Hetty had sprung up and felt herself shaking from head to foot. For the moment he was not looking in, but stood at the top of theladder with his head thrown back, craning for a view of thewater-trough under the eaves. 

"About two feet to the right, " he called to someone below. "No useshifting the ladder; 'twon't reach. Stay a minute, though--I don'tbelieve 'tis a leak at all. Here--"

He felt the closed window with the palm of his hand, then peeredthrough it into the room; and his eyes and Hetty's met. 

"Well, I do declare! Good morning, miss: 'tis like fate, the way Ikeep running across you. Now would you be so kind as to lift thelatch on your side and push the window gently? The frame opensoutwards and I want to steady myself by it. "

She obeyed, and was turning haughtily to follow the children whenGeorge, who loitered in the doorway watching, called out:

"Is he coming into the room, Miss Wesley?"

She glanced over her shoulder and halted. The man clearly did notmean to enter, but had scrambled up to the sill, and balanced himselfthere gripping the window-frame and leaning outwards at an anglewhich made her giddy. The sill was narrow, too, and sloping. She caught her breath, not daring to move. 

He seemed to hear her, for he answered jocularly: "'Tis to be hopedthe hinges are strong--eh, missy?--or there's an end of WilliamWright. "

"Do, please, be careful!"

"What's that to you? You hate me bad enough. Look here--send thechild out of the room and give me a push: a little one'd do, andyou'll never get a better chance. "

Still she held her breath; and he went on, gazing upwards andapparently speaking to the eaves. 

"Not worth it, I suppose you'll say?--Don't you make too sure. Now if I can get my fingers over the launder, here--" He worked hisway to the right, to the very edge of the sill, and reached sidewaysand upwards, raising himself higher and higher on tip-toe. Hettyheard a warning grunted from below. 

"No use, " he announced. "I can't reach it by six inches. "

"What are you trying to do?" Hetty asked in a low voice, with a handover her heart. 

"Why, there's a choke here--dead leaves or something--and theroof-water's running down the side of the house. "

She glanced hurriedly about the room, stepped to the fireplace andpicked up a poker--a small one with a crook at the end. "Will thishelp?" she asked, passing it out. 

"Eh? the very thing!" He took it, and presently she heard itscraping on the pipe in search of the obstruction. "Cleared it, byJingo! and that's famous. " He lowered himself upon the flat of hisbroad soles. "You ought to ha' been a plumber's wife. My! if I hada headpiece like that to think for me--let alone to look at!"

"Give me back the poker, please. "

"No tricks, now!" He handed it back, chuckled, and lowering himselfback to the topmost rung of the ladder, stood in safety. "You're aswhite as a sheet. Was you scared I'd fall? Lord, I like to see youlook like that! it a'most makes me want to do it again. Look here--"

"For pity's sake--"

Was the man mad? And how was it he held her listening to hisintolerable talk? He was actually scrambling up to the sill again, but paused with his eyes on hers. "It hurts you? Very well, then, Iwon't: but I owe you something for that slap in the face, you know. "

"You deserved it!" Hetty exclaimed, flushing as she recoiled fromterror to unreasonable wrath, and at the same moment hating herselffor arguing with him. 

"Did I? Well, I bear ye no malice. Go slow, and overlook offences--that's William Wright's way, and I've no pride, so I gets it in theend. Now some men, after being treated like that, would have satdown and wrote a letter to your father about your goings-on. I thought of it. Says I, 'It don't take more than a line from me, and the fat's in the fire. ' Mind, I don't say that I won't, but Iha'n't done it yet. And look here--I'm a journeyman, as you know, and on the tramp for jobs. I push on for Lincoln this afternoon; andwhat I say to you before leaving is this--you're a lady, every inch. Don't you go and make yourself too cheap with that fella. He's apretty man enough, but there ain't no honesty in him. "

He was gone. Hetty drew a long breath. Then, having waited whilethe ladder too was withdrawn, she fetched back the children and setthem before their copy-books. 

"_Honesty is the best policy_. "--She saw Master George fairly startedon this text, with his head on one side and his tongue working in thecorner of his mouth; and drawing out paper and ink began to write aletter home. 

"Dear Mother--, " she wrote, glanced at George's copy-book, then atthe window. Five minutes passed. She started and thrust pen andpaper back into the drawer. Patty must write. 

CHAPTER IV. 

1. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John, at Christ Church, Oxford. 

 Wroote, January 5, 1725. 

 Dear Son, --Your brother will receive 5 pounds for you next Saturday, if Mr. S. Is paid the 10 pounds he lent you; if not, I must go to H. But I promise you I shan't forget that you are my son, if you do not that I am:

 Your affectionate father, Samuel Wesley. 

2. From the same to the same. 

 Wroote, January 26, 1725. 

 Dear Son, --I am so well pleased with your decent behaviour, or at least with your letters, that I hope I shall not have occasion to remember any more some things that are past; and since you have now for some time bit upon the bridle, I'll take care hereafter to put a little honey upon it as oft as I am able. But then it shall be of my own _mero motu_, as the last 5 pound was; for I will bear no rivals in my kingdom. 

 I did not forget you with Dr. Morley, but have moved that way as much as possible; though I must confess, hitherto, with no great prospect or hopes of success. As for what you mention of entering into Holy Orders, it is indeed a great work; and I am pleased to find you think it so, as well as that you do not admire a callow clergyman any more than I do. 

 And now the providence of God (I hope it was) has engaged me in such a work wherein you may be very assistant to me, I trust promote His glory and at the same time notably forward your own studies; for I have some time since designed an edition of the Holy Bible, in octavo, in the Hebrew, Chaldee, Septuagint and Vulgar Latin, and have made some progress in it: the whole scheme whereof I have not time at present to give you, of which scarce any soul yet knows except your brother Sam. 

 What I desire of you in this article is, firstly, that you would immediately fall to work, read diligently the Hebrew text in the Polyglot, and collate it exactly with the Vulgar Latin, which is in the second column, writing down all (even the least) variations or differences between them. To these I would have you add the Samaritan text in the last column but one, which is the very same with the Hebrew, except in some very few places, only differing in the Samaritan character (I think the true old Hebrew), the alphabet whereof you may learn in a day's time, either from the Prolegomena in Walton's Polyglot, or from his grammar. In a twelvemonth's time, sticking close to it in the forenoons, you will get twice through the Pentateuch; for I have done it four times the last year, and am going over it the fifth, collating the Hebrew and two Greek, the Alexandrian and the Vatican, with what I can get of Symmachus and Theodotian, etc. Nor shall you lose your reward for it, either in this or the other world. 

 In the afternoon read what you will, and be sure to walk an hour, if fair, in the fields. Get Thirlby's Chrysostom _De Sacerdotio_; master it--digest it. I like your verses on Psalm lxxxv. , and would not have you bury your talent. All are well and send duties. 

 Work and write while you can. You see Time has shaken me by the hand, and Death is but a little behind him. My eyes and heart are now almost all I have left; and bless God for them. I am not for your going over-hastily into Orders. When I am for your taking them, you shall know it. 

 Your affectionate father, Sam. Wesley. 

3. From Mrs. Wesley to her son John. 

 February 25th, 1725. 

 Dear Jackey, --I was much pleased with your letter to your father about taking Orders, and like the proposal well; but it is an unhappiness almost peculiar to our family that your father and I seldom think alike. I approve the disposition of your mind and think the sooner you are a deacon the better, because it may be an inducement to greater application in the study of practical divinity, which I humbly conceive is the best study for candidates for Orders. Mr. Wesley differs from me, and would engage you (I believe) in critical learning; which, though accidentally of use, is in no wise preferable to the other. I dare advise nothing: God Almighty direct and bless you! I long to see you. We hear nothing of Hetty, which gives us some uneasiness. We have all writ, but can get no answer. I wish all be well. Adieu. 

 Susanna Wesley. 

4. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John. 

 Wroote, March 13, 1724-5. 

 Dear Son, --I have both yours, and have changed my mind since my last. I now incline to your going this summer into Orders. But in the first place, if you love yourself or me, pray heartily. I will struggle hard but I will get money for your Orders, and something more. Mr. Downes has spoken to Mr. Morley about you, who says he will inquire of your character. 

 "Trust in the Lord, and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed. " This, with blessing, from your loving father, Samuel Wesley. 

5. From Emilia Wesley to her brother John. 

 Wroote, April 7th, 1725. 

 Dear Brother, --Yours of March 7th I received, and thank you for your care in despatching so speedily the business I desired you to do. It is the last of that kind I shall trouble you with. No more shall I write or receive letters to and from that person. But lest you should run into a mistake and think we have quarrelled, I assure you we are perfect friends; we think, wish and judge alike, but what avails it? We are both miserable. He has not differed with my mother, but she loves him not, because she esteems him the unlucky cause of a deep melancholy in a beloved child. For his own sake it is that I cease writing, because it is now his interest to forget me. 

 Whether you will be engaged before thirty or not, I cannot determine; but if my advice be worth listening to, never engage your affections before your worldly affairs are in such a position that you may marry very soon. The contrary practice has proved very pernicious in our family; and were I to live my time over again, and had the same experience as I have now, were it for the best man in England, I would not wait one year. I know you are a young man, encompassed with difficulties, that has passed through many hardships already, and probably must pass through many more before you are easy in the world; but, believe me, if ever you come to suffer the torment of a hopeless love, all other afflictions will seem small in comparison of it. And that you may not think I speak at random, take some account of my past life, more than ever I spoke to anyone. 

 After the fire, when I was seventeen years old, I was left alone with my mother, and lived easy for one year, having most necessaries, though few diversions, and never going abroad. Yet after working all day I read some pleasant book at night, and was contented enough; but after we were gotten into our house, and all the family were settled, in about a year's time I began to find out that we were ruined. Then came on London journeys, Convocations of blessed memory, that for seven years my father was at London, and we at home in intolerable want and affliction. Then I learnt what it was to seek money for bread, seldom having any without such hardships in getting it that much abated the pleasure of it. Thus we went on, growing worse and worse; all us children in scandalous want of necessaries for years together; vast income, but no comfort or credit with it. Then I went to London with design to get into some service, failed of that, and grew acquainted with Leybourne. Ever after that I lived in close correspondence with him. When anything grieved me, he was my comforter; and what though our affairs grew no better, yet I was tolerably easy, thinking his love sufficient recompense for the absence of all other worldly comforts. Then ill fate, in the shape of a near relation, laid the groundwork of my misery, and--joined with my mother's command and my own indiscretion-broke the correspondence between him and I [_sic_]. 

 That dismal winter I shall ever remember; my mother was sick, confined even to her bed, my father in danger of arrests every day. I had a large family to keep, and a small sum to keep it on; and yet in all this care the loss of Leybourne was heaviest. For nearly half a year I never slept half a night, and now, provoked at all my relations, resolved never to marry. Wishing to be out of their sight, I began first to think of going into the world. A vacancy happening in Lincoln boarding school, I went thither; and though I had never so much as seen one before, I fell readily into that way of life; and I was so pleased to see myself in good clothes, with money in my pocket, and respected in a strange manner by everyone, that I seemed gotten into another world. 

 Here I lived five years and should have done longer, but the school broke up; and my father having got Wroote living, my mother was earnest for my return. I was told what pleasant company was at Bawtry, Doncaster, etc. , and that this addition to my father, with God's ordinary blessing, would make him a rich man in a few years. I came home again, in an evil hour for me. I was well clothed, and, while I wanted nothing, was easy enough. But this winter, when my own necessaries began to decay and my money was most of it spent, I found what a condition I was in--every trifling want was either not supplied, or I had more trouble to procure it than it was worth. 

 I know not when we have had so good a year, both at Wroote and Epworth, as this year; but instead of saving anything to clothe my sister or myself, we are just where we were. A noble crop has almost all gone, beside Epworth living, to pay some part of those infinite debts my father has run into, which are so many (as I have lately found out) that were he to save 50 pounds a year he would not be clear in the world this seven years. One thing I warn you of: let not my giving you this account be any hindrance to your affairs. If you want assistance in any case, my father is as able to give it now as any time these last ten years; nor shall we be ever the poorer for it. We enjoy many comforts. We have plenty of good meat and drink, fuel, etc. ; have no duns, nor any of that tormenting care to provide bread which we had at Epworth. In short, could I lay aside all thoughts of the future, and be content with three things, money, liberty, and clothes, I might live very comfortably. While my mother lives I am inclined to stay with her; she is so very good to me, and has so little comfort in the world beside, that I think it barbarous to abandon her. As soon as she is in heaven, or perhaps sooner if I am quite tired out, I have fully fixed on a state of life; a way indeed that my parents may disapprove, but that I do not regard. And now:

 "Let Emma's hapless case be falsely told By the rash young, or the ill-natured old. "

 You, that know my hard fortune, I hope will never hastily condemn me for anything I shall be driven to do by stress of fortune that is not directly sinful. As for Hetty, we have heard nothing of her these three months past. Mr. Grantham, I hear, has behaved himself very honourably towards her, _but there are more gentlemen besides him in the world_. 

 I have quite tired you now. Pray be faithful to me. Let me have one relation I can trust: never give any hint to anyone of aught I write to you: and continue to love, Your unhappy but affectionate sister, Emilia Wesley. 

6. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John. 

 Wroote, May 10, 1725. 

 Dear Son, --Your brother Samuel, with his wife and child, are here. I did what I could that you might have been in Orders this Trinity; but I doubt your brother's journey hither has, for the present, disconcerted our plans, though you will have more time to prepare yourself for Ordination, which I pray God you may, as I am your loving father, Samuel Wesley. 

7. From Mrs. Wesley to her son John. 

 Wroote, June 8th, 1725. 

 Dear Son, --I have Kempis by me; but have not read him lately. I cannot recollect the passages you mention; but believing you do him justice, I do positively aver that he is extremely wrong in that impious, I was about to say blasphemous, suggestion that God, by an irreversible decree, has determined any man to be miserable, even in this world. His intentions, as Himself, are holy, just and good; and all the miseries incident to men here or thereafter spring from themselves. 

 Your brother has brought us a heavy reckoning for you and Charles. God be merciful to us all! Dear Jack, I earnestly beseech Almighty God to bless you. Adieu. 

 Susanna Wesley. 

8. From the Rev. Samuel Wesley to his son John. 

 Bawtry, September 1st, 1725. 

 Dear Son, --I came hither to-day because I cannot be at rest till I make you easier. I could not possibly manufacture any money for you here sooner than next Saturday. On Monday I design to wait on Dr. Morley, and will try to prevail with your brother to return you 8 pounds with interest. I will assist you in the charges for Ordination, though I am just now struggling for life. This 8 pounds you may depend on the next week, or the week after. 

 S. Wesley. 

9. From the same to the same. 

 Gainsborough, Sept. 7th, 1725. 

 Dear Son John, --With much ado, you see I am for once as good as my word. Carry Dr. Morley's note to the bursar. I hope to send you more, and, I believe, by the same hand. God fit you for your great work. Fast--watch--pray--endure--be happy; towards which you shall never want the ardent prayers of your affectionate father, S. Wesley. 

On Sunday, September 19th, 1725, John Wesley, being twenty-two yearsold, was ordained deacon by Dr. John Potter, Bishop of Oxford, inChrist Church Cathedral. 

CHAPTER V. 

Of the letters received from home by him during the struggle to raisemoney for his Ordination fees, the above are but extracts. Let us goback to the month of May, and to Kelstein. 

"Patty dear, " asked Hetty one morning, "have you heard lately of JohnRomley?"

She was sitting up in bed with a letter in her hand. It had comeyesterday; and Patty, brushing her hair before the glass, guessedfrom whom. She did not answer. 

"He is at Lincoln; he has gone to try for the precentorship of thecathedral, " Hetty announced. 

"You know perfectly well that we do not correspond. I have too muchprinciple. "

"I know, dear, " sighed Hetty, with her eyes fixed meditatively uponher sister's somewhat angular back. "I hope he is none the worse forit: for I have my reasons for wishing to think of him as a good man. "Patty paused with brush in air, her eyes on Hetty's image in theglass; but Hetty went on inconsequently: "But surely you get word ofhim, now and then, in those letters from home which you hide from me?Patty, I am a stronger woman than you: and you may think yourselflucky I haven't put you through the door before this, laid violenthands on the whole budget, and read them through at my leisure. You invite it, too, by locking them up; which against a determinedperson would avail nothing and is therefore merely an insult, mydear. "

"You know perfectly well why I do not show you my letters. They areall crying out for news of you--mother, and Emmy and Molly: even poorhonest Nan breaks off writing about John Lambert and when the weddingis to be and what she is to wear, and begs to hear if there beanything wrong. And all I can answer is, that you are well, with aline or two about the children. They must think me a fool, and ithas kept me miserable ever since I came. But more I _will_ not say. At least--" She seemed about to correct herself, but came to anabrupt halt and began brushing vigorously. Hetty could not see theflush on her sallow face. 

"Dear old Molly!" Hetty murmured the name of her favourite sister. "But I could not write without telling her and loading her poorconscience. "

"Much you think of conscience, with a letter from him in your hand atthis minute!"

"But I do think of conscience. And the best proof of it is, I amgoing home. "

"Going home!" Patty faced about now, and with a scared face. 

"Yes. " Hetty put her feet out of bed and sat for a moment on theedge of it. "Mrs. Grantham paid me my wages yesterday, and now Ihave three pounds in my pocket. I am going home--to tell them. "

"You mean to tell them!"

"Not a doubt of it. But why look as if you had seen a ghost?"

"And what do you suppose will happen?"

"Mother and Molly will cry, and Emmy will make an oration which Ishall interrupt, and Kezzy will open her eyes at such a monster, andfather will want to horsewhip me, but restrain himself and turn mefrom the door. Or perhaps he will lock me up--oh Patty, cannot yousee that I'm weeping, not joking? But it has to be done, and I amgoing to be brave and do it. "

"Very well, then. Now listen to me. --You cannot. "

"Cannot? Why?"

"There's no room, to begin with--not a bed in the house. Sam and hiswife are there, and the child, on a visit. "

"Sam there! And you never told me. --Oh, Pat, Pat, and I might havemissed him!" She sprang up from the bed and began her dressing in afever of haste. 

"But what will you do?"

"Go home and find Sam, of course. "

"I don't see how Sam can help you. He did not help Emmy much: andhis wife will be there, remember. "

There was no love lost between Sam's sisters and Sam's wife--apractical little woman with a sharp tongue and a settled convictionthat her husband's relatives were little better than lunatics. She understood the Rectory's strict rules of conduct as little as itsfeckless poverty (for so she called it). That a household which heldits head so high should be content with a parlour furnished like abarn, sit down to meals scarcely better than the day-labourers' aboutthem, and rest ignored by families of decent position in theneighbourhood, puzzled and irritated her. "Better he paid his debtsand fed his children, " was her answer when Sam put in a word for hisfather's spiritual ambitions. Her slight awe of the Wesleys'abilities--even _she_ could not deny them brains--only drove her toentrench herself more strongly behind her practical wisdom; and shenever abandoned her position (which had saved her in a thousanddomestic arguments) that her sisters-in-law had been trained assavages in the wilds. She had a habit of addressing them aschildren: and her interference, some years before, between Emilia andyoung Leybourne, had been conducted by letter addressed to Mr. AndMrs. Wesley and without pretence of consulting Emilia's feelings. 

Hetty pondered this for a moment, but without pausing in herdressing. 

"Besides, " urged Patty, "they may be gone by this time. Mother didnot say how long the visit was to last; only that Sam had brought hisbill for Jacky and Charles, and it is enormous. Father will be inthe worst possible temper. "

"Of all the wet blankets--" began Hetty, but was interrupted by theringing of a bell in the corner above her bed. It summoned her torun and dress Rebecca, who slept in a small room opening out of Mrs. Grantham's. 

Hetty departed in a whirl. Patty stood considering. "She neverwould! 'Tis a mercy sometimes she doesn't mean all she says. "

But this time Hetty meant precisely what she said. Having dressedRebecca, she suddenly faced upon Mrs. Grantham, who stood watchingher as she turned back the bed-clothes to air, and folded the child'snightdress. 

"With your leave, madam, I wish to go home to-day. "

"Bless my soul!" ejaculated Mrs. Grantham. "You must be mad. "

"I know how singular you must think it: and indeed I am very sorry toput you out. Yet I have a particular reason for asking. "

"Quite impossible, Miss Wesley. "

But, as Mr. Grantham had afterwards to tell her, a householder has nomeans in free England of coercing a grown woman determined to quitthe shelter of his roof and within an hour. The poor lady wasnonplussed. She had not dreamed that life's tranquil journey layexposed to a surprise at once so simple and so disconcerting, and inher vexation she came near to hysterics. 

"What to make of your sister, I know not, " she cried, twenty minuteslater, seating herself to have her hair dressed by Patty. 

"Her temper was always a little uncertain, " said Patty sagely. "I think father spoilt her by teaching her Greek and poetry and suchthings. "

"Greek! You don't tell me that Greek makes a person want to walk outof a comfortable house at a moment's notice and leave my poordarlings on the stream!"

"Oh, no, " agreed Patty. "You will not allow it, of course?"

"Perhaps you'll tell me how to prevent it? In all my life I don'tremember being so much annoyed. "

So Hetty had her way, packed a small bundle, and was ready at thegate for the passing of the carrier's van which would set her downwithin a mile of home. She had acted on an impulse, unreasoning, butnot to be resisted. She felt the crisis of her life approaching andhad urgent need, before it came on her, to make confession andcleanse her soul. She knew she was hurrying towards a tempest; but, whatever it might wreck, she panted for the clear sky beyond. In herfever the van seemed to crawl and the miles to drag themselves outinterminably. 

She was within a mile of her journey's end when a horseman met andpassed the van at a jog-trot. Hetty glanced after him, wrenched openthe door and sprang out upon the road with a cry--

"Father!"

Mr. Wesley heard her and turned his head; then reined up the fillyand came slowly back. The van was at a standstill, the drivercraning his head and staring aft in wholly ludicrous bewilderment. 

"Dropped anything?" he asked, as Hetty ran to him. She thrust thefare into his hand without answering and faced around again to meether father. 

He came slowly, with set jaws. He offered no greeting. 

"I was expecting this, " he said. "Indeed, I was riding to Kelsteinto fetch you home. "

"But--but why?" she stammered. 

"Why?" A short savage laugh broke from him, almost like a dog'sbark; but he held his temper down. "Because I do not choose to havea decent household infected by a daughter of mine. Because, ifsisters of yours must needs be exposed to the infection, it shall bewhere I am present to watch them and control you. I have received aletter--"

She stared at him dismayed, remembering the man Wright and histhreat. 

"And upon that you judge me, without a hearing?" She let her armsdrop beside her. 

"Will you deny it? Will you deny you have been in the habit ofmeeting--no, I see you will not. Apparently Mrs. Grantham hasdismissed you. "

"Sir, Mrs. Grantham has not dismissed me. I came away against herwish, because--"

"Well?" he waited, chewing his wrath. 

It was idle now to say she had come meaning to confess. That chancehad gone. 

"I ask you to remember, sir, that I never promised not to meet him. "Since a fight it must be, she picked up all her courage for it. "I had no right to promise it. "

His mouth opened, but shut again like a trap. He had theself-control to postpone battle. "We will see about that, " he saidgrimly. "Meanwhile, please you mount behind me and ride. "

As they jogged towards Wroote, Hetty, holding on by her father'scoat, seemed to feel in her finger-tips the wrath pent up and workingin his small body. She was profoundly dejected; so profoundly thatshe almost forgot to be indignant with William Wright; but she had nothought of striking her colours. She built some hope upon Sam, too. Sam might not take her part openly, but he at least had always beenkind to her. 

"Does Sam know?" she took heart to ask as they came in sight of theparsonage. 

"Sam?"

"Patty tells me he is here with his wife and little Philly. "

"I am glad to say that Patty is mistaken. They took their departureyesterday. "

CHAPTER VI. 

"Oh, Hetty!" was all Molly could find to say, rushing into the backgarret where Hetty stood alone, and clinging to her with a long kiss. 

Hetty held the dear deformed body against her bosom for a while, thenrelaxing her arms, turned towards the small window in the eaves. "My dear, " she answered with a wry smile, "it had to come, you see, and now we must go through with it. "

"But who could have written that wicked letter? Mother will not tellus--even if she knows, which I doubt. "

"I fancy I know. And you must not exaggerate, even in your love forme. I don't suppose the letter was wicked, though it may have beenspiteful. "

"It accused you of the most dreadful things. "

"If it be dreadful to meet the man you love, and in secret, then Ihave been behaving dreadfully. "

"O-oh!"

"And that is just what I came home to confess. " She paused at thesight of Molly's face. "What! are you against me too? Then I mustfight this out alone, it seems. "

"Darling Hetty, you must not--ah, don't look so at me!"

But Hetty turned her back. "Please leave me. "

"If you had only written--"

"That would take long to explain. I am tired, and it is not worthwhile; please leave me. "

"But you do not understand. I had to come, although for the timefather has forbidden us to speak with you--"

Hetty stepped to the door and held it open. "Then one of hisdaughters at any rate shall be dutiful, " she said. 

Molly flung her an imploring look and walked out, sobbing. 

"Is Hetty not coming down to supper?" Emilia asked in the kitchenthat evening. Mrs. Wesley with her daughters and Johnny Whitelambsupped there as a rule when not entertaining visitors. The Rectortook his meals alone, in the parlour. 

"Your father has locked her in. Until to-morrow he forbids her tohave anything but bread and water, " answered Mrs. Wesley. 

"And she is twenty-seven years old, " added Molly. 

All looked at her; even Johnny Whitelamb looked, with a face as longas a fiddle. The comment was quiet, but the note of scorn in itcould not be mistaken. Molly in revolt! Molly, of all persons!Molly sat trembling. She knew that among them all Johnny was her oneally--and a hopelessly distressed and ineffective one. He had turnedhis head quickly and leaned forward, blinking and spreading hishands--though the season was high summer--to the cold embers of thekitchen fire; his heart torn between adoration of Hetty and the olddog-like worship of his master. 

"Molly dear, she has deceived him and us all, " was Mrs. Wesley'sreproof, unexpectedly gentle. 

"For my part, " put in Nancy comfortably, "I don't suppose she wouldcare to come down. And 'tis cosy to be back in the kitchen again, after ten days of the parlour and Mrs. Sam. Emmy agrees, I know. "

But Emmy with fine composure put aside this allusion to her pet foe. "Molly and Johnny should make a match of it, " she sneered. "They might set up house on their belief in Hetty, and even take herto lodge with them. "

John Whitelamb sprang up as if stung; stood for a moment, still withhis face averted upon the fire; then, while all stared at him, letdrop the arm he had half-lifted towards the mantel-shelf and relapsedinto his chair. He had not uttered a sound. 

Mrs. Wesley had a reproof upon her tongue, and this time a sharp one. She was prevented, however, by Molly, who rose to her feet, totteredto the door as if wounded, and escaped from the kitchen. 

Molly mounted the stairs with bowed head, dragging herself at eachstep by the handrail. Reaching the garrets, she paused by Hetty'sdoor to listen. No light pierced the chinks; within was silence. She crept away to her room, undressed, and lay down, sobbing quietly. 

Her sobs ceased, but she could not sleep. A full moon strained itsrays through the tattered curtain, and as it climbed, she watched thepanel of light on the wall opposite steal down past a text above thewashstand, past the washstand itself, to the bare flooring. "God islove" said the text, and Molly had paid a pedlar twopence for it, years before, at Epworth fair--quite unaware that she was purchasingthe Wesley family motto. She heard her mother and sisters below bidone another good night and mount to their rooms. An hour later herfather went his round, locking up. Then came silence. 

Suddenly she sat up in her bed. She had heard--yes, surely--Hetty'svoice. It seemed to come from outside, close below her window--Hetty's ordinary voice, with no distress in it, speaking some wordsshe could not catch. She listened. Actual sound or illusion, it wasnot repeated. She climbed out of bed and drew the curtain aside. Bright moonlight lay spread all about the house and, beyond, thefenland faded away to an unseen horizon as through veils of gold andsilver, asleep, no creature stirring on the face of it. 

She let drop the corner of the curtain and on the instant caught itback again. A dark form, quick and noiseless, slipped past theshadow by the yard-gate. It was Rag the mastiff, left unchained atnight: and as he padded across the yard in the full moonlight, Mollysaw that he was wagging his tail. 

She watched him to his kennel; stepped to her door, lifted the latchcautiously and stole once more along the passage to Hetty's room. 

"Hetty!" she whispered. "Hetty dear! Were you calling? Is anythingwrong?" She shook the door gently. No answer came. Mr. Wesley hadleft the key in the lock after turning it on the outside: and stillwhispering to her sister, Molly wrenched it round, little by little. No one stirred below-stairs: no one answered within. She pushed thedoor open an inch or two, then wider, pausing as it creaked. A draught of the warm night wind met her as she slipped into theroom, and--her fingers trembling and missing their hold--the doorfell to behind her, almost with a slam. 

She stood still, her heart in her mouth. In her ears the noise wasloud enough to awake the house. But as the seconds dragged by andstill no sound came from her father's room, "Hetty!" she whisperedagain. 

Her eyes were on the bed as she whispered it, and in the pale lightthe bed was patently empty. Still she did not comprehend. Her eyeswandered from it to the open window. 

When she spoke again it was with the same low whisper, but a whisperwhich broke as she breathed it to follow where it might not reach. 

"What have they done to you? My darling, God watch over you now!"

She crept back to her room and lay shivering, waiting for the dawn. 

BOOK III. 

PROLOGUE. 

In a chilly dawn, high among the mountains to the north of Berar, twoBritons were wandering with an Indian attendant. They came likespectres, in curling wreaths of mist that magnified their stature;and daylight cowed each with the first glimpse of his comrade's face, yellow with hunger and glassy-eyed with lack of sleep. They were, infact, hopelessly lost. They had spent the night huddled together ona narrow ledge, listening hour by hour to the sound of water tumblingover unknown precipices; and now they moved with painful crampedlimbs, yet listlessly, being past hope to escape or to see anotherdawn. 

The elder Briton was a Scotsman, aged fifty or thereabouts, a clerkof the H. E. I. C. ; the younger an Englishman barely turned twenty, anofficer in the same company's service. They hailed from Surat, andhad arrived in Berar on a trade mission with an escort of fifty men, of whom their present attendant, Bhagwan Dass, was the solitarysurvivor; and this came of believing that a "protection" from theNizam would carry them anywhere in the Nizam's supposed dominions, whereas the _de facto_ rulers of Berar were certain Mahrattachieftains who collected its taxes and who had politely forwarded themission into the fastnesses of the mountains. There, at the ripemoment, the massacre had taken place, Mr. Menzies and young Priorescaping on their hill-ponies, with Bhagwan Dass clutching at Prior'sstirrup-leather. The massacre having been timed a little beforenightfall, darkness helped them to get clear away; but Menzies, byover-riding his little mare, flung her, an hour later, with a brokenfetlock, and Prior's pony being all but dead-beat, they abandoned thepoor brutes on the mountain-side, took to their feet and stumbled onuntil the setting of the young moon. With the first light of dawnthey had roused themselves to start anew, lingering out the agony:for the slopes below swarmed with enemies in chase, and even if avillage lurked in these heights the inhabitants would give no help, being afraid of their Mahratta masters. 

They had crossed a gully through which a mountain runlet descended, unrolling a ribbon of green mossy herbage on its way, and slippingout of sight over the edge of a precipice of two hundred feet or so. Beyond this the eye saw nothing but clouds of mist heaving andsmoking to the very lip of the fall. Young Prior halted for a momenton the farther slope to take breath, and precisely at that momentsomething happened which he lived to relate a hundred times andalways with wonder. For as his eye fell on these clouds of mist, abeam of light came travelling swiftly down the mountain and piercedthem, turning them to a fierce blood-red; next, almost with anaudible rush, the sun leapt into view over the eastern spurs: andwhile he stared down upon the vapours writhing and bleeding underthis lance-thrust of dawn--while they shook themselves loose andtrailed away in wreaths of crimson and gold and violet, and deep inthe chasms between them shone the plain with its tilled fields andvillages--a cry from Bhagwan Dass fetched him round sharply, and hebeheld, a few yards above him on the slope, a man. 

The man sat, naked to the waist, at the entrance of a low cave oropening in the hillside. He seemed to be of great age, with a calmand almost unwrinkled face and gray locks falling to his shoulders, around which hung a rosary of black beads, very highly polished andflashing against the sun. From the waist down he was wrapped in abright yellow shawl, and beside him lay a crutch and a wooden bowlheaped with rice and conserves. 

Before the two Britons could master their dismay, Bhagwan Dass hadrun towards the cave and was imploring the holy man to give themshelter and hiding. For a while he listened merely, and his firstresponse was to lift the bowl and invite them with a gesture to staytheir hunger. Famished though they were, they hesitated, and readingthe reason in their eyes, he spoke for the first time. 

"It will not harm you, " said he in Hindustani: "and the villagersbelow bring me more than I can eat. "

From the moment of setting eyes on him--Prior used to declare--ablessed sense of protection fell upon the party; a feeling that inthe hour of extreme need God had suddenly put out a shield, under theshadow of which they might rest in perfect confidence. And indeed, though they knew the mountain to be swarming with their enemies, theyentered the cave and slept all that day like children. Whether or nomeanwhile their enemies drew near they never discovered: but Prior, awaking towards nightfall, saw the hermit still seated at theentrance as they had found him, and lay for a while listening to theclick of his rosary as he told bead after bead. 

He must, however, have held some communication with the unseenvillage in the valley: for three bowls of milk and rice stood readyfor them. They supped, forbearing--upon Bhagwan Dass's advice--toquestion him, though eager to know if he had a mind to help themfurther, and how he might contrive it. Until moonrise he gave nosign at all; then rising gravely, crutch and bowl in hand, stepped apace or two beyond the entrance and whistled twice--as they supposedfor a guide. But the only guides that answered were two smallmountain foxes--a vixen and her half-grown cub--that came boundingaround an angle of the rock and fawned about his feet while hecaressed them and spoke to them softly in a tongue which none of theparty understood. And so they all set out, turning their faceswestward and keeping to the upper ridges; the foxes trotting always afew paces ahead and showing the way. 

All that night they walked as in a dream, and came at daybreak to aledge with a shrine upon it, and in the shrine a stone figure of agoddess, and below the ledge--perhaps half a mile below it--a villageclinging dizzily to the mountain-side. --There was no food in theshrine, only a few withered wreaths of marigolds: but the holy manmust have spoken to his foxes, for at dawn a priest came toiling upthe slope with a filled bowl so ample that his two arms scarcelyembraced it. The priest set down the food, took the hermit'sblessing and departed in silence: and this was the only humancreature they saw on their journey. Not for all their solicitationwould the hermit join them in eating: and at this they marvelled mostof all: for he had walked far and moderately fast, yet seemed to feelless fatigue than any of them. That night, as soon as the moon rose, he started afresh with the same long easy stride, and the foxes ledthe way as before. 

The dawn rose, but this time he gave no signal for halting: and thecool of morning was almost ended when he led them out through thelast broken crests of the ridge and, pointing to a broad plain attheir feet, told them that henceforward they might fare in safety. A broad road traversed the plain, and beside it, some ten to twelvemiles from the base of the foothills, twinkled the white walls of arest-house. 

"There, " said he, pointing, "either to-day or to-morrow will pass thetrader Afzul Khan: and if indeed ye come from Surat--"

His mild eyes, as he pointed, were turned upon Menzies, who broke outin amazement: "For certain Afzul Khan is known to us, as debtorshould be to creditor. But how knowest _thou_ either that he passesthis way or that we come from Surat?"

"It is enough that I know. "

"Either come with us then, " Menzies pressed him, "and at therest-house Afzul Khan shall fill thy bowl with gold-dust; or remainhere, and I will send him. "

"Why should he do aught so witless?"

Menzies laughed awkwardly. "Though money be useless to thee, holyman, I dare say thy villagers might be the gladder for it. "

The hermit shook his head. 

"Anyhow, " broke in Prior, addressing Menzies in English, "we must do_something_ for him, if only in justice to some folks who will beglad enough to see us back alive. "

"My friend here, " Menzies interpreted, "has parents living, and istheir only son. For me, I have a wife and three children. For theirsakes, therefore--"

But the hermit put up a hand. "Something I did for their sakes, giving you back to the chains they will hang upon you. It wasweakness in me, and no cause for thanks. " He turned his begging bowlso that it shone in the sun: an ant clung to it, crawling on itspolished side. "If ye have sons, I may live belike to see them passmy way. "

"That is not likely. "

"Who knows?" The old man's eyes rested on Bhagwan Dass. "Unlikelier things have befallen me while I sat yonder. See--" heturned the bowl in his hand and nodded towards the ant running hitherand thither upon it. "What happens to him that would not likewisehappen if he stood still?"

"There is food at the rest-house, " Menzies persisted; "but I take ityou can find food on your way back, even though since starting wehave seen none pass your lips: and that is two days. "

"It will be yet two days before I feast again: for I drink not saveof the spring by which you found me, and I eat no food the taste ofwhich I cannot wash from me in its water. "

Menzies and Prior eyed one another. "Cracked as an old bell!" saidthe younger man in English, and laughed. 

"Is it a vow?" Menzies asked. 

"It is a vow. "

"But tell me, " put in Prior, "does the water of your spring differfrom that of a thousand others on these hills?"

"The younger sahib, " answered the hermit, "understands not themeaning of a vow; which a man makes to his own hurt, perhaps, or tothe hurt of another, or it may even be quite foolishly; but therebyhe stablishes his life, while the days of other men go by in a fluxof business. As for the water of my hillside, " he went on with asharp change of voice and speaking, to their amazement, in English, "have not your countrymen, O sahibs, their particular springs?Churchman and Dissenter, Presbyterian and Baptist--count they notevery Jordan above Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus?"

He turned and walked swiftly from them, mounting the slope with swiftloose strides. But while they stared, Bhagwan Dass broke from themand ran in pursuit. 

"Not without thy blessing! O Annesley sahib, go not before thou hastblessed me!"

Two days later, at sunset, a child watching a little below thehermit's spring saw him limp back to it and drink and seat himselfagain at the entrance of the cave; and pelted down to the villagewith the news. And the hill-people, who had supposed him gone forever, swarmed up and about the cave to assure themselves. 

"Alas!" said the holy man, gazing out upon the twilight when atlength all had departed, leaving him in peace. "Cannot a man beanywhere alone with God? And yet, " he added, "I was somethingwistful for their love. "

CHAPTER I. 

"_To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgiveness, though we haverebelled against him: neither have we obeyed the voice of the Lordour God, to walk in his laws which he set before us. O Lord, correctme, but with judgment; not in thine anger, lest thou bring me tonothing_. "

The voice travelled down the great nave of Lincoln Cathedral, and, asit came, the few morning worshippers--it was a week-day--inclinedtheir faces upwards: for it seemed to pause and float overhead andagain be carried forward by its own impulse, a pure column of soundwavering awhile before it broke and spread and dissolved intowhispers among the multitudinous arches. To a woman still kneelingby a pillar close within the western doorway it was as the voice of aseraph speaking with the dawn, fresh from his night-watch over earth. She had been kneeling for minutes, and still knelt, but she could notpray. She had no business to be there. To her the sentences carriedno message; but the voice smiting, pure and cold, across the hotconfusion in her brain, steadied her while it terrified. 

Yet she knew the voice well enough. It was but John Romley's. The Dean and Chapter wanted a precentor, and among a score ofcandidates had selected Romley and two others for further trial. This was his chance and he was using it; making the most of it, too, to the mingled admiration and disgust of his rivals listening in thechoir beside him. 

And she had dressed early and climbed to the cathedral, not to pray, but to seek Romley because she had instant need of him; because, though she respected his character very little, he was the one man inthe world who could help her. She had missed him at the door. Entering, she learned from a verger that he was already robing. Then the great organ sounded, and from habit she dropped on herknees. 

John Romley, unseen in the choir, was something very different fromJohn Romley in private life with his loose face and flabby handshake. Old Mr. Wesley had once dismissed him contemptuously as _vox etpraeterea nihil_: but disembodied thus, almost a thing celestial, yetsubtly recalling home to her and ties renounced, the voice shookHetty's soul. For it came on her as the second shock of an ambush. She had climbed to the cathedral with but half of her senses awake, drowsed by love, by the long ride in the languorous night wind, bythe exhaustion of a long struggle ended, by her wonderinghelplessness on arriving--the chill sunlight, the deserted street, the strange voice behind the lodging-house door, the unfamiliarpassage and stairs. She had lived a lifetime in those hours, and forthe while Wroote Parsonage lay remote as a painful daily round fromthe dream which follows it. Only the practical instinct, as it werea nerve in the centre of her brain, awake and refusing to be drugged, had kept sounding its alarm to rise and seek Romley; and though atlength she obeyed in a panic, she went as one walking in sleep. The front of the cathedral, as she came beneath its shadow, overhungher as a phantom drawn upon the morning sky, its tall towersunsubstantial, trembling against the light, but harmless even shouldthey fall upon her. She entered as one might pass through a paperscreen. 

The first shock came upon her then. She passed not out of sunlightinto sunlight, but out of sunlight into a vast far-reaching, high-arching gloom, which was another world and another life; thesolemn twilight which her upbringing had taught her to associate withGod. Once before in her life, and once only, she had stood withinthe minster--on her confirmation day, when she had entered with herhand in her mother's. Her eyes sought and found the very place whereshe had sat then among the crowd of girl-candidates, and a ghost in awhite frock sat there still with bowed head. She remembered the verytexture and scent of that white frock: they came back with the awe, the fervour, the passionate desire to be good; and these memoriescried all in her ears, "What have you to do with that child?Which of you is Hetty? You cannot both be real. "

They sang in her ears while she questioned the verger about Romley. He had to repeat his answers before she thanked him and turnedtowards one of the lowest seats. She did not repent: she was notthinking of repentance. She loved, she had given all for love, andlife was fuller of beautifying joy than ever it had been even on thatday of confirmation: but beneath the joy awoke a small ache, and withthe ache a certain knowledge that she might never sit beside thechild in white, never so close as to touch her frock; that theirplaces in this building, God's habitation, were eternally separate. 

Then the organ ceased, and the voice began to speak. And the voiceuttered promise of pardon, but Hetty heard nothing of the words--onlythe notes. 

"_And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden inthe cool of the day: and A dam and his wife hid themselves from thepresence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden_. "

Less terrible this voice was; a seraph's rather, at the lodge-gate, welcoming the morn. Yet Hetty crouched by her pillar, afraid. For the day he welcomed was not _her_ day, the worship he offered wasnot _her_ worship; for _her_ a sword lay across the gate. 

Her terror passed, and she straightened herself. After all, she didnot repent. Why should she repent? She was loved; she loved inreturn, utterly and without guile, with a love which, centred uponone, yet embraced all living creatures. Nay, it embraced Heaven, ifHeaven would accept it. And why not?

"_Wherefore let us beseech him_, " said the voice, "_to grant us truerepentance and his Holy Spirit, that those things may please himwhich we do at this present; and that the rest of our life hereaftermay be pure and holy_ . . . "

"Pure and holy"--but she desired no less, and out of her love. She wanted to be friends with all at home, to go to them fearlesslyand make them understand her as she understood them, and to be goodall the days of her life. "True repentance"? Why repent? . . . Ah, yes, of course: but God was no haggler over hours. In an hour ortwo . . . "That those things may please him which we do at thispresent--" She caught at her heart now as the terror--a practicalterror this time--returned upon it. At all costs she must find JohnRomley after service, though indeed there was little danger ofmissing him, for he, no doubt, would be seeking her. 

Her mind was clear now. 

She lay in wait for him as he stepped out under the great porch, witha clean surplice on his arm. He paused there with a smile on hisface, glanced up at the blue sky, clapped on his hat, and descendedthe steps gaily, whistling a phrase from the _Venite exultemus_; toofar preoccupied to recognise Hetty, until she stepped forward andalmost laid a hand on his arm. 

"Miss Mehetabel!"

Plainly, then, he was not seeking her. 

"You in Lincoln? This is a surprise--a pleasant surprise, indeed!"

"But I came in search of you. I have been waiting--" She nodded herhead towards the porch. 

"Eh? You heard? 'Twas not altogether a breakdown, I hope? You mustallow for some nervousness--did you detect it? No? Well, I don'tmind owning to you I was nervous as a cat: but there, if you didn'tdetect it I shall flatter myself I did passably. " He laughed, evidently on the best terms with himself. His breath smelt of beer. "The Rector is with you, of course?"

"My father? But, Mr. Romley, I don't think you understand--"

"I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on him this morning. Nothing could have happened better, and I'm in luck's way to-day, forcertain. It seems the Dean and Chapter require a certificate fromhim--a testimonial--just a line or two, to say that I'm a decentrespectable fellow. We have not been friends of late--I hope MissPatty keeps pretty well, by the way--but he won't deny me that smallfavour. You were not seeking me on her account?" he added, by anafterthought. "Patty?" She uttered her sister's name to gain time, for in truth she was bewildered, alarmed. 

He nodded. "We are not allowed to correspond, as you know. But shemust keep up her heart: your father will come round when he sees meprecentor. 'Tis a good opening. We must allow for the Rector'scrotchets (you'll excuse me, I feel sure): but give him time, I say--give him time, and he'll come round right and tight. "

"My father is not with me. Oh, Mr. Romley, you have heard, surely? Iwas told--but there, you have the licence. "

"The licence! What licence?" He stared at her. 

Her heart sank. Here was some horrible mistake. She bethoughtherself of his careless habits, which indeed were notorious enough inand about Wroote and Epworth. "It must be among your letters--haveyou neglected them lately? Ah, think--think, my friend: for to methis means all the world. "

"Upon my word of honour, Miss Hetty, I don't understand one wordyou're saying. Come, let us have it clear. What brings you toLincoln? The Rector is not with you. Who, then?"

"We came here last night--early this morning, rather--"

"'We'?"

"I have left home. You know what we intended? But my father lockedme up. I had tried to be open with him, and he would listen tonothing. So--as everything was ready--and you here with thelicence--"

John Romley stepped back a pace. It is doubtful if he heard the lastwords. His eyes were round in his head. 

"You are here--with--_him_!" He gasped it in an incredulous whisper. For a moment in her earnestness she met his stare. Then her handswent up to her face. "You? You?" he repeated slowly. His eyesshrank from her face and wandered helplessly over the smoke, over thered roofs of the town below them. 

"But we came to get married!" She plucked her hands away from herface and stepped close to him, forcing his reluctant eyes to meethers. Her cheeks flamed: he groaned at the sight of her beauty. "But we came to get married! John, there is nothing--surelynothing?--that with your help cannot be set right? Ah, I forget--bymarrying us you will offend father, and you find now that you wantthis favour of him. John, it cannot be _that_--you cannot be playingso cruel a trick for _that_--and after your promise? Forgive me if Iam selfish: but think what I am fighting for!"

"It will cost me the precentorship, " answered he slowly, "but Ihadn't given a thought to that. "

"It shall cost you nothing of the kind. After all, father is justerto others than to me. I will write--we will both write: I will tellhim what you risked to save his daughter. Or, stay: any clergymanwill do, will he not? We need only the licence. You shall risknothing: give me only the licence and I will run and find one. "

"Dear Miss Hetty, I made no promise. I have no licence. None hasreached me, nor word of one. "

"Then he must have it! He told me--that is, I understood--"She broke off with a laugh most pitiful in John's ears, though itseemed to reassure her. "But how foolish of me! Of _course_ he musthave it. And you will come with me, at once? At the least you arewilling to come?"

"Surely I will come. " John's face was gloomy. "Where are thelodgings?"

"I cannot tell you the name of the street, but I can find them. John, you are an angel! And afterwards I will sit and tell you aboutPatty to your heart's content. We can be married in the parlour, Isuppose? Or must it be in church? I had rather--far rather--it werein church if you could manage that for us: but not to lose time. Perhaps we can find a church later in the day and get permission togo through the service again. I daresay, though, he has it allarranged--he said I might leave it to him. You won't tell him, John, what a fright I have given myself?"

So her tongue ran on as they descended the hill together. John Romley walked beside her stupidly, wondering if she were intruth reassured or chattering thus to keep up her hopes. They might, after all, be justified: but his forebodings weighed on his tongue. Also the shock had stunned him and all his wits seemed to be buzzingloose in his head. 

They did not notice, although they passed it close, a certainsignboard over a low-browed shop half-way down the street. Afterwards Hetty remembered passing the shop, and that its one windowwas caked with mud and grimed with dust on top of the mud. She didnot see a broad-shouldered man in a dirty baize apron seated at hiswork-bench behind the pane. Nor after passing the shop did she turnher head: but walked on unaware of an ill-shaven face thrust out ofits doorway and staring after her. 

William Wright sat at his bench that morning, fitting a leatherwasher in a leaky brass tap. In the darkest corner at the back ofthe shop his father--a peevish old man, well past seventy--stoopedover a desk, engaged as usual in calculating his book-debts, anoccupation which brought him no comfort but merely ingrained his badopinion of mankind. Having drunk his trade into a decline, and beingnow superannuated, he nagged over his ledgers from morning to nightand snatched a fearful joy in goading William to the last limit offorbearance. William, who had made himself responsible for the oldman's debts, endured him on the whole very creditably. "Here's a bad'un, " "Here's a bad 'un, " piped the voice from time to time. 

William trimmed away at his washer. 

"Hello! Who's been putting this in the ledger?" The old man held up athin strip of leather. "Oh, Willum, here's a very bad 'un!"

"What name?" asked William indifferently, without turning his head. 

"Wesley, Reverend Samuel--Wroote and Epworth Rectory--twelve-seventeen-six. Two years owing, and not a stiver on account. Oh, a poisonous bad 'un!"

"That's all right!"

"Not a stiver on account!"

"All right, I tell you. There won't be any paying on account withthat bill: it'll be all or nothing. All, perhaps; and, if so, something more than all"--he laid down his clasp-knife and almostinvoluntarily put a hand up to his cheek--"but nothing, most like. I put that slip of leather there to remind me, but I don't need it. 'Twelve-seventeen-six'--better scratch it off. "

"'Scratch it off'? Scratch off twelve-seventeen-six!" Old Wrightspun round on his stool. But William sat gazing out of the window. He had picked up his knife again, but did not at once resume work. 

The next thing old Wright heard was the clatter of a knife on thebench. William sprang up as it dropped, crept swiftly to the shopdoor, and stood there craning his head into the street and fumblingwith his apron. 

"What's the matter? Cut yourself? It don't want a doctor, do it?"

William did not answer: suddenly he plucked off his apron, flung itbackwards into the shop, and disappeared into the street. The oldman tottered forward, picked it off the floor and stood examining it, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish's. 

CHAPTER II. 

"'Brought him'! Who told you to bring him?"

Hetty's lover faced her across the round table in the lodging-houseparlour. The table was spread for two, and Hetty's knife and platestood ready for her with a covered dish before it. He hadbreakfasted, and their entrance surprised him with an empty pewter inhis hand, his chair thrust back sideways from the table, his legsextended towards the empty fire-place, and his eyes bent on hishandsome calves with a somewhat moody frown. 

"Who told you to bring him?"

John Romley stood in the doorway behind Hetty's shoulder. She turnedto him bravely and quietly, albeit with the scare in her face. 

"I ought not to have brought you in like this. You will not mindwaiting outside, will you?--a minute only--while I explain--"

Romley bent his head and walked out, closing the door. 

"Dear"--Hetty turned--"you must forgive me, but I could not restuntil I had brought him. "

He had risen, and stood now with his face averted, gazing out of thewindow where a row of clouts and linen garments on a clothes-lineblocked the view of an untidy back-yard. He had known that thismoment must come, but not that it would take him so soon and atunawares. He let his anger rise while he considered what to answer;for a man in the wrong will miss no excuse for losing his temper. 

Hetty waited for a moment, then went on--"And I thought you had givenhim the licence: that is what made me so anxious to find--"

A noise in the passage cut short her excuses: a woman's laugh. Hetty knew of two women only in the house--the landlady whohad opened the door last night and a pert-looking slatternly servantshe had passed at the foot of the stairs on her way to the cathedral. She could not tell to which of these the voice belonged: but thelaugh and the jest it followed--though she had not caught it--wereplainly at John Romley's expense, and the laugh was horrible. 

It rang on her ears like a street-door bell. It seemed to tear downthe mystery of the house and scream out its secret. The young man atthe window turned against his will and met Hetty's eyes. They werestrained and staring. 

She put out her hand. "Where is the licence?" she asked. "Give itto me. "

The change in her voice and manner confused him. "My dear child, don't be silly, " he blundered. 

"Give me the licence. "

"Tut, tut--let us understand one another like sensible folks. You must not treat me like a boy, to be bounced in this fashion byJohn Romley. " He began to whip up his temper again. "Nasty tipplingparson! I've more than a mind to kick him into the street. "

Her eyes widened on his with growing knowledge, growing pain: butfaith lived in them yet. 

"I thought you had given him the licence, to be ready for us. Yes, yes--you did say it!" Her hand went up to her bosom for his lastletter, which she had worn there until last night. Then sheremembered: she had left it upstairs. Having him, she had no moreneed to wear it. 

He read the gesture. "You are right, dear, and I forgot. I _did_ sayso, because I believed by the time the words reached you--orthereabouts, at any rate--"

"Then _you_ have it. Give it to me, please, " she commanded. 

He stepped to the fire-place, unable to meet her eye. "You hurriedme, " he muttered: "there was not time. "

For a moment she spread out both hands as one groping in the dark:then the veil fell from her eyes and she saw. The truth spoke to hersenses first--in the sordid disarray of breakfast, in the fusty smellof the room with its soiled curtains, its fly-blown mirror, itsoutlook on the blank court. A whiff of air crept in at the openwindow--flat, with a scullery odour which sickened her soul. In herears rang the laugh of the woman in the passage. 

"What have you done? What have you done to me?"

She crouched, shivering, like some beautiful wild creature entrapped. He faced her again. Her eyes were on his, but fastened there now bya shrinking terror. 

"Hetty!"

She put up a hand and turned her face to the wall, as if to shut outhim and the light. He stepped to her, caught her by the wrist andforced her round towards him. At the first touch he felt her wince. So will you see a young she-panther wince and cower from her tamer'swhip. 

Yet, although she shuddered, she could not drag her hand away. He was her tamer now: and as he spoke soothingly and she grewquieter, a new faith awoke in her, yet a faith as old as woman; thefalse imperishable faith that by giving all she binds a man as he hasbound her. 

With a cry she let her brow sink till it touched his breast. Then, straightening herself, she gripped him by both shoulders andstared close into his eyes--clinging to him as she had clung thatevening on the frozen canal, but with a face how different!

"But you mean no harm? You told me a falsehood"--here he blinked, but she went on, her eyes devouring his--"but you told it inkindness? Say you mean no harm to me--you will get this licencesoon. How soon? Do not be angry--ah, see how I humble myself toyou! You mean honestly: yes, yes, but say it! how soon?"

"Hetty, I'll be honest with you. One cannot get a licence in a day. "

"And I will be patient--so patient! Only we must leave this horriblehouse: you must find me a lodging where I can be alone. "

"Why, what's the matter with this house?" He tried a laugh, and theresult betrayed him. 

Her body stiffened again. "When did you apply for the licence?" shedemanded. "How long since?"

He tried to shuffle. "But answer me!" she insisted, thrusting himaway. And then, after a pause and very slowly, "You have not appliedat all, " she said. "You are lying again. . . . God forgive you. "She drew herself up and for an instant he thought she was going tostrike him; but she only shivered. "I must go home. "

"Home!" he echoed. 

"And whither but home?"--with a loathing look around her. 

"You will not dare. "

In all this pitiful scene was nothing so pitiful as the pride inwhich she drew herself up and towered over the man who had abasedher. Yet her voice was quiet. "That you cannot understand is worstof all. I feared sin too little: but I can face the consequences. I fear them less than--than--"

A look around her completed the sentence eloquently enough. As shestood with her hand on the door-latch that look travelled around thesordid room and rested finally on him as a piece of it. Then thelatch clicked, and she was gone. 

She stood in the passage by the foot of the staircase. Half-way upthe servant girl was stooping over a stair-rod, pretending to cleanit. Hetty's wits were clear. She reflected a moment, and mountedsteadily to her room, crammed her poor trifles into her satchel, andcame down again with a face of ice. 

The girl drew aside, watching her intently. But--on a suddenimpulse--"Miss--" she said. 

"I beg your pardon!" Hetty paused. 

"I wouldn't be in a hurry, miss. You can master him, if you try--youand the parson: and the worst of 'em's better than none. And youthat pretty, too!"

"I don't understand you, " answered Hetty coldly, and passed on. 

John Romley was patrolling the pavement outside. She forced up asmile to meet him. "There has been some difficulty with thelicence, " said she, and marvelled at her own calmness. "I am sorry, John, to have brought you here for nothing. He hid it from me--inkindness: but meanwhile I am going back. " With this brave falsehoodshe turned to leave him, knowing that he believed it as little asshe. 

He too marvelled. "Is it necessary to go back?"

"It is necessary. "

"Then let me find you some conveyance. " But he saw that she wishedonly to be rid of him, and so shook hands and watched her down thestreet. 

"The infernal hound!" he said to himself; and as she passed out ofsight he turned to the lodging-house door and entered withoutknocking. 

He emerged, twenty minutes later, with his white bands twisted, hishat awry, and a smear of blood on the surplice he carried--altogethera very unclerical-looking figure. On the way back to his inn he keptlooking at his cut knuckles, and, arriving, called for a noggin ofbrandy. By midday he was drunk, and at one o'clock he was due toappear at the Chapter House. The hour struck: but John Romley sat onin the coffee-room staring stupidly at his knuckles. 

And all this while in the lodging-house parlour sat or paced the manwho has no name in this book. He also was drinking: but thebrandy-and-water, though he gulped it fiercely, neither unsteadiedhis legs nor confused his brain. Only it deadened by degrees theruddy colour in his face to a gray shining pallor, showing up oneangry spot on the cheek-bone. Though he frowned as he paced andmuttered now and again to himself, he was not thinking of JohnRomley. 

Some men are born to be the curse of women and, through women, of theworld. Despicable in themselves they inherit a dreadful secretbefore which, as in a fortress betrayed to a false password, theproudest virtue hauls down its flag, and kneeling, proffers its keys. Doubtless they move under fate to an end appointed, though to us theyappear but as sightseers, obscure and irresponsible, who passingthrough a temple defile its holies and go their casual ways. We wonder that this should be. But so it is, and such was this man. Let his name perish. 

CHAPTER III. 

Late that evening and a little after moonrise, Johnny Whitelamb, going out to the woodstack for a faggot, stood still for a moment atsight of a figure half-blotted in the shadow. 

"Miss Hetty--oh, Miss Hetty!" he called softly. 

Hetty did not run; but as he stepped to her, let him take her handsand lifted her face to the moonlight. 

"What are they doing?" she whispered. 

Johnny was never eloquent. "They are sitting by the fire, just asusual, " he answered her, but his voice shook over the words. 

"Just as usual?" she echoed dully. "Mother and the girls, you mean?"

"Yes: the Rector is in his study. I have not seen him to-day: onlythe mistress has seen him. " He paused: Hetty shivered. She was weakand woefully tired: for, excepting a lift at Marton and a second in awagon from Gainsborough to Haxey, she had walked from Lincoln and hadbeen walking all day. 

"I cannot tell what mistress thinks, " Johnny went on: "the otherstalk to each other--a word now and then--but she sits looking at thefire and says nothing. I think she means to sit up late to-night. Else why did she send me out for another faggot?" he asked, in hissimple, puzzled way. "But oh, Miss Hetty, she will be glad you'vecome back, and now we can all be happy again!"

She waved a hand feebly. "Fetch Molly to me. "

By the pallor of her brow in the moonlight he made sure she was nearto fainting: and, indeed she was not far from it. He ran and burstin at the kitchen-door impetuously; but meeting the eyes of thefamily, surprised--as well they might be--by the violence of hisentry and his scared face, he became suddenly and absurdlydiplomatic, crossed to Molly and whispered, as Mrs. Wesley turned hereyes from the fire. 

"But where is the faggot?" she demanded. 

"I--I forgot it, " stammered Johnny and was for returning to fetch it. Molly rose. 

"Hetty is outside, " she announced. 

For a second or two there was silence. Mrs. Wesley turned to hercrippled daughter. "You had best bring her in. The rest of you, goto bed. "

They obeyed at once and in silence. Johnny, too, stole off to hismattress in the glass-doored cupboard under the stairs. 

When Molly returned, leading in her sister, Mrs. Wesley was seated bythe fire alone. Mother and daughter looked into each other's eyes. In silence Hetty stepped forward and dropped into the chair a minuteago vacated by Kezzy. But for the ticking of the tall clock therewas no sound in the kitchen. 

Mrs. Wesley read Hetty's eyes; read the truth in them, and somethingelse which tied her tongue. She made no offer to rise and kiss her. 

"You are hungry?" she asked after a while, and Molly pushed forward aplate of biscuits. Hetty ate ravenously for a minute (fortwenty-four hours not a morsel of food had passed her lips and shehad walked close on thirty miles) and then pushed away the plate indisgust. Her eyes still sought her mother's; they neither pleadednor reproached. 

Yet Mrs. Wesley spoke, when next she spoke, as if choosing to answera plea. "Your father does not know of your return. You may sleepwith Molly to-night. " She bent over the hearth and raked its emberstogether. Molly laid a hand lightly on Hetty's shoulder, thenslipped it under the crook of her arm, and lifted and led her fromthe kitchen. 

Hetty went unresisting. When they reached the bedroom she halted andstared around as one who had lost her bearings. She winced once andshook as Molly's gentle fingers began to unfasten her bodice, butafterwards stood quite passive and suffered herself to be undressedas a little child. Molly unlaced her shoes. Molly brought coolwater in a basin, bathed her face and hands, braided her hair--themasses of red-brown hair she had been used to admire and caress, passing a hand over them as tenderly as of old; then knelt and washedthe tired feet, and wiped them, feeling the arch of the instep withher bare hand and chafing them to make sure they were dry--so coldthey were. 

"Won't you say your prayers, dear?"

Hetty shook her head. 

"Then at least you shall kneel by me, and I will pray for both. "

Molly's arm was about her. She obeyed and with her waist soencircled knelt by the bed. And twice Molly, not interrupting herprayer, pressed the waist close to her side, and once lifted her lipsand kissed the side of the brow. 

They arose at length, the one confirmed now and made almost fearlessby saintliness and love. But the other, creeping first into thenarrow bed, shrank away towards the wall and lay with her eyes fixedon it and staring. 

"No, darling, " whispered Molly, "when you were strong and I was weakyou used to comfort me. I am the strong one now, and you shall notescape me so!"

And so it was. Her feeble arms had suddenly become strong. They slid, the one beneath Hetty's shoulder, the other across andbelow her bosom, and straining, not to be denied, they forced herround. Wide-eyed still, Hetty gazed up into eyes dark in themoonlight, but conquering her, piercing through all secrets. Her ownbrimmed suddenly with tears and she lay quiet, her soul naked beneathMolly's soul. 

"Ay, let them come--let them come while I hold you!"

While Hetty lay, neither winking nor moving, the big dropsoverbrimmed at the corners of each eye and trickled on the pillow. As one fell, another gathered. Silent, unchecked, they flowed, andMolly bent and watched them flowing. 

"A little while--a little while!" moaned Hetty. 

"I will hold you so for ever. "

"No--yet a little while, though you know not what you are holding. "

"Were it a thousand times worse than I think, I am holding mysister. "

"To-morrow--"

"We will bear it together. " Molly smiled, but very faintly. "You forget that I shall never marry--that I shall always need you tocare for. All my life till now you have protected me: now I shallpay back what I owe. "

"Ah, you think I fear father? Molly, I do not fear father at all. I fear myself--what I am. " And still staring up Hetty whispered ahorrible word. 

"Oh hush, hush!" Molly laid a swift hand over her lips, and for awhile there was silence in the room. 

"So make the most of me now, " Hetty murmured, "while you have me tohold, dear; for what I am is not mine to give. "

"Hetty!" Molly drew back. "You will not go--to _him_--again?"

"If he will marry me. I do not think he will, dear: I do not thinkhe has the courage. But if he calls me, I will go humbly, thankfully. "

"And if not--"

Hetty turned her face aside: but after a moment she looked up, staring, as before. There were no tears in her eyes now. 

"I do not know. " She was silent awhile, then went on slowly. "But if any honest man will have me, I vow before God to marry him. Yes, and I would take his hand and bless it for so much honour, werehe the lowest hind in the fields. "

Molly choked down a cry and held her breath. Her arms slipped fromaround the dear body she could have saved from fire, from drowning, from anything but this. This pair had loved and honoured each otherfrom babyhood: the heart of each had been a shrine for the other, daily decked with pretty thoughts as a shrine with flowers in season. All that was best they had brought each other: how much at need theywere ready to give God alone knew. And now, by the law which in Edendivided woman from man, the basest stranger among the millions of menheld the power denied to Molly, the only salvation for Hetty's need. "What I am is not mine to give"--for a minute Molly bowed over hersister, helpless. 

"But no, " she cried suddenly, "that is wicked! It would be a thousandtimes worse than the other, however bad. You shall take no suchoath! You did not know what it meant. Hetty, Hetty, take it back!"

She flung herself forward sobbing. 

"I have said it, " Hetty answered quietly. The two lay shuddering, breast to breast. 

Downstairs a sad-eyed woman sat over the dead fire. She heard achair pushed back in the next room, and trembled. By and by sheheard her husband trying the bolts of the doors and window-shutters. He looked into the kitchen and, finding her there seated with thelamp beside her, withdrew without a word. She had not raised herhead. His footsteps went up the stair slowly. 

For another hour, almost, she sat on, staring at the gray ashes: thentook the lamp and went shivering to her room. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The worst (or perhaps the best) of a temper so choleric as Mr. Wesley's is that by constant daily expenditure on trifles it fatiguesitself, and is apt to betray its possessor by an unexpected lassitudewhen a really serious occasion calls. A temper thoroughly cruel(which his was not) steadily increases its appetite: but a temperless than cruel, or cruel only by accident, will run itself to astandstill and either cry for a strong whip or yield to thetemptation to defer the crisis. 

On this Mrs. Wesley was building when she broke to her husband thenews of Hetty's return. He lifted himself in his chair, clutchingits arms. His face was gray with spent passion. 

"Where is she?"

"She has gone for a walk, alone, " she answered. She had, in truth, packed Hetty off and watched her across the yard before venturing toher husband's door. 

"So best. " He dropped back in his chair with a sigh that was morethan half composed of relief. "So best, perhaps. I will speak toher later. "

He looked at his wife with hopeless inquiry. She bowed her head forsign that it was indeed hopeless. 

Now Molly had sought her mother early and spoken up. But Molly (whointended nothing so little) had not only made herself felt, for thefirst time in her life, as a person to be reckoned with, but had alsodone the most fatally foolish thing in her life by winding up with:"And we--you and father and all of us, but father especially--havedriven her to it! God knows to what you will drive her yet: for shehas taken an oath under heaven to marry the first man who offers, andshe is capable of it, if you will not be sensible. "

--Which was just the last thing Hetty would have forbidden her totell, yet just the last thing Hetty would have told, had she beenpleading for Molly. For Hetty had long since gauged her mother andknew that, while her instinct for her sons' interests was well-nighimpeccable, on any question that concerned her daughters she wouldblunder nine times out of ten. 

So now Mrs. Wesley, meaning no harm and foreseeing none, answered herhusband gravely, "She has told me nothing. But she swears she willmarry the first man who offers. "

The Rector shut his mouth firmly. "That decides it, " he answered. "Has she gone in search of the fool?"

But this was merely a cry of bitterness. As Mrs. Wesley stole fromthe room, he opened a drawer in his table, pulled out some sheets ofmanuscript, and gazed at them for a while without fixing histhoughts. He seldom considered his daughters. Women had their placein the world: that place was to obey and bear children: to carry onthe line for men. It was a father's duty to take care that theirhusbands should be good men, worthy of the admixture of good blood. The family which yielded its daughters to this office yielded them asits surplus. They did not carry on its name, which depended on itssons. . . . He had three sons: but of all his daughters Hetty hadcome nearest to claim a son's esteem. Something masculine in hermind had encouraged him to teach her Latin and Greek. It had been anexperiment, half seriously undertaken; it had come to be seriouslypursued. Not even John had brought so flexible a sense of language. In accuracy she could not compare with John, nor in that masculineapprehension which seizes on logic even in the rudiments of grammar. Mr. Wesley--a poet himself, though by no means a great one--hadsometimes found John too pragmatical in demanding reasons for thisand that. "Child, " he had once protested, "you think to carryeverything by dint of argument; but you will find how little is everdone in the world by close reasoning": and, turning to his wife in apet, "I profess, sweetheart, I think our Jack would not attend to themost pressing necessities of nature unless he could give a reason forit. " To Hetty, on the other hand, beauty--beauty in language, inmusic, in all forms of art, no less than the beauty of a spring day--was an ultimate thing and lay beyond questions: and Mr. Wesley, though as a divine he checked her somewhat pagan impulses andrecalled them to give account of their ground of choice, as a scholarcould not help admiring them. For they seldom led her to choosewrongly. In Hetty dwelt something of the Attic instinct which, indays of literary artifice and literary fashions from which she couldnot wholly escape, kept her taste fresh and guided her at once tobrowse on what was natural and health-giving and to reject withdelicate disgust what was rank and overblown. Himself a sardonichumorist, he could enjoy the bubbling mirth with which she discoveredcomedy in the objects of their common derision. Himself a hoplite instudy, laborious, without sense of proportion, he could look on andsmile while she, a woman, walked more nimbly, picking and choosing asshe went. 

The manuscript he held was a poem of hers, scored with additions andalterations of his own, by which (though mistakenly) he believed hehad improved it: a song of praise put in the mouth of a disciple ofPlato: its name, "Eupolis, his Hymn to the Creator. " As he turnedthe pages, his eyes paused and fastened themselves on a passage hereand there:

 "Sole from sole Thou mak'st the sun On his burning axles run: The stars like dust around him fly, And strew the area of the sky: He drives so swift his race above, Mortals can't perceive him move: So smooth his course, oblique or straight, Olympus shakes not with his weight. As the Queen of solemn Night Fills at his vase her orb of light-- Imparted lustre--thus we see The solar virtue shines by Thee. EIRESIONE! we'll no more For its fancied aid implore, Since bright _oil_ and _wool_ and _wine_ And life-sustaining _bread_ are Thine; _Wine_ that sprightly mirth supplies, Noble wine for sacrifice. . . . "

The verses, though he repeated them, had no meaning for him. He remembered her sitting at the table by the window (now surrenderedto Johnny Whitelamb) and transcribing them into a fair copy, sittingwith head bent and the sunlight playing on her red-brown hair: heremembered her standing by his chair with a flushed face, waiting forhis verdict. But though his memory retained these visions, theycarried no sentiment. He only thought of the young, almost boyish, promise in the lines:

 "Omen, monster, prodigy! Or nothing is, or Jove, from thee. Whether various Nature's play, Or she, renversed, thy will obey, And to rebel man declare Famine, plague or wasteful war . . . No evil can from Thee proceed; 'Tis only suffered, not decreed. . . . "

He gazed from the careful handwriting to the horizon beyond hiswindow. Why had he fished out the poem from its drawer? She, thewriter--his child--was a wanton. 

CHAPTER V. 

Hetty had found a patch of ragged turf and mallow where the woodstackhid her from the parsonage windows; and sat there in the morningsun--unconsciously, as usual, courting its full rays. Between herand the stack the ground was bare, strewn with straw and brokentwigs. She supposed that her father would send for her soon: but shewas preparing no defence, no excuses. She hoped, indeed, that theinterview would be short, but simply because the account she mustrender to him seemed trivial beside that which she must render toherself. Her eyes watched the hens as they scratched pits in thewarm dust, snuggled down and adjusted and readjusted theirwing-feathers. But her brain was busied over and over with the samethought--"I am now a bad woman. Is there yet any way for me to begood?"

Yet her wits were alert enough. She heard her father's footstep onthe path twenty yards away, guessed the moment which would bring himinto sight of her. Though she did not look up, she knew that he hadcome to a halt. She waited. He turned and walked slowly away. She knew why he had faltered. Her mind ran back to the problem. "I am a bad woman. Is there any way for me to be good?"

Half an hour passed. Emilia came round the rick, talking to herself, holding a wooden bowl from which she had been feeding the chickens. She came upon Hetty unawares and stood still, with a face at firstconfused, but gradually hardening. 

"Sit down, Emmy. " Hetty pointed to a faggot lying a few paces off. 

Emilia hesitated. 

"You may sit down: near enough to listen--"

 'Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, let Emmy bow to it. '

"You were reciting as you came along. " She raised her eyes with agrave smile. "Shall I tell you your secret?"

"What secret?" asked Emilia, reddening in spite of herself. 

"Oh, I have known it a long while! But if you want me to whisper it, you must come closer. Nay, my dear, I know very little of thestage--perhaps as little as you: but, from what I have read, it willbring you close to creatures worse than I. "

Emilia was scared now. "Who told you? Have you heard from Jacky?--no, he couldn't, because--"

"--Because you never told him, although you may have hinted at it. And if you told him, he would laugh and call it the ambition of agirl who knows nothing of the world. "

"I will not starve here. And now that this--this disgrace--"

"Father would think it no less disgrace to see you an actress. Listen: a little while ago he came this way, meaning to curse me, buthe turned back and did not. And now you come, and are confused, andI read you just as plainly. While my wits are so clear I want to sayone or two things to you. Yesterday--only yesterday--I left home forever, and here I am back again. I have been wicked, you say, andthere is nothing sinful in becoming an actress. Perhaps not: yet Iam sure father would think it sinful--even more selfishly sinful thanmy fault, because it would hurt the careers of Jacky and Charles; andthat, as you know, he would never forgive. "

"Who are you, to be lecturing me?"

"I am your sister, who has done wrong: I have tasted bitter fruit andmust go eating it all my life. But it is fruit of knowledge--ah, listen, Emmy! If you do this and become famous, the greater yourfame, the greater the injury; or so father would hold it, and perhapsour brothers too. Hetty can be hidden and forgotten in a far countryparish. But can Jacky become a bishop, having an actress forsister?"

"You are sudden in this thought for your brothers. "

"It is not of them I am thinking. I say that if you succeed you willlose father's forgiveness and always carry with you this sorrowfulknowledge. Yet I would bid you go and do it; for to be great isworth much cost of sorrow, and sorrow might even increase yourgreatness. But have you that strength? And if you should notsucceed?--We know nothing of the world: all our thoughts of it comeout of books and dreaming. You imagine yourself treading the boardsand holding all hearts captive with your voice. So I used to imaginemyself slaying dragons. So, only yesterday, I believed--"

She sat erect with a shiver. "To wake and find all your dreamschanged to squalor, and for you no turning back! Have you thestrength, Emmy--to go forward and change that squalor back again bysheer force into beautiful dreams? Have you the strength?"She gazed at Emilia and added musingly, "No, you have not thestrength. You will stay on here in the cage, an obedient woman, yourtalent repressed to feed the future of those grand brothers of ourswho take all we give, yet cannot help us one whit. They take itinnocently; they do not know; and they are dear good fellows. But they cannot help. I only have done what may injure them--thoughI do not think it will: and when father came along the path just now, he was thinking of them rather than of me--of me only as I mightinjure them. "

She was right indeed. Mr. Wesley had left the house thinking of her:but a few steps had called up the faces of his sons, and by habit, since he thought of them always on his walks. His studies put aside, to think of them was his one recreation. Coming upon Hetty, he hadfelt himself taken at unawares, and retreated. 

"--And when he turned away, " Hetty went on, "I understood. And Ifelt sorry for him; because all of a sudden it came to me that he maybe wiser than any of us, and one day it will be made plain to us, what we have helped to do--or to spoil. "

"Here is someone you had better be sorry for, " said Emilia, glancingalong the path at the sound of footsteps and catching sight of Nancy. "She has made up her mind that John Lambert will have no more to dowith us now; and the wedding not a month away!"

Sure enough, Nancy's eyes were red, and she gazed at Hetty less withreprobation than with lugubrious reproach. 

"Then she knows less of John Lambert than I do, " said Hetty; "andstill less how deep he is in love with her. Nancy dear, " she asked, "was he to have walked over this morning?"

"He was coming from Haxey way, " wailed Nancy. "He was to have beenhere at ten o'clock and it is past that now. Of course he has heard, and does not mean to come. "

Hetty choked down an exceeding bitter sob. 

"Anne--sister Anne, " she answered in her old light manner, though shedesired to be alone and to weep: "go, look along the road and say ifyou see anyone coming!"

Nancy turned away, too generous to upbraid her sister, but hotlyashamed of her and her lack of contrition, and indignantly sorry forherself. Nevertheless she went towards the gate whence she could seealong the road. 

"It seems to me, " said Emilia, "that you are scarcely awake yet toyour--your situation. "

She was trying to recover her superiority, which Hetty had shaken byguessing her secret. 

"Oh, yes I am, " Hetty answered. "But my time may be short fortalking: so I use what ways I can to make my sisters listen. Hark!"

"He is coming!" Nancy announced, running towards them from the gate. Honest love shone in her eyes. "He is coming--and there is someonewith him!"

"Who?" asked Emilia. Hetty's eyes put the same question, far moreeagerly. She rose up: her face was white. 

"I don't know. He--they--are half a mile away. Yet I seem to knowthe figure. It is odd now--"

Hetty put out a hand and leaned it against the wood-stack to steadyherself. The sharpened end of a stake pierced her palm, but she didnot feel it. 

"Is it--is it--" Her lips worked and formed the words, inaudibly. 

"Run and look again, " commanded Emilia. 

But Hetty turned and walked swiftly away. Could it be _he_? No--andyet why not? Until this moment she had not known how much she builtupon that chance. She loved him still: at the bottom of her heartmost tenderly. She had reproached herself, saying that her desirefor him had nothing to do with love--was no genuine impulse toforgive, but a selfish cowardly longing to be saved, as only he couldsave her. She was wrong. She desired to be saved: but she desiredfar more wildly that he should play the man, justify her love andearn forgiveness. She had--and was, alas! to prove it--an almostinfinite capacity to forgive. She, Hetty, of the reckless wit andtongue--she would meet him humbly--as one whose sin had been as deepas his . . . 

Was it he? If so, she would beg his pardon for thoughts which hadaccused him of cowardice. . . . 

She could not wait for the truth. So much joy it would bring, or sodeep anguish. She walked away blindly towards the fields, not oncelooking back. 

"So there you're hiding!" cried John Lambert triumphantly, salutingNancy with a smacking kiss on either cheek, and in no waydisconcerted by Emilia's presence. 

Nancy pushed him away, but half-heartedly. 

"No, you mustn't!" she protested, and her face grew suddenly tragic. 

"Oh, I forgot for the moment!" John Lambert tried to look doleful. He was an energetic young land-surveyor, with tow-coloured hair and aface incurably jolly. 

"You have heard, then?" asked Emilia. 

"Why, bless you, your father was around to see me at eight o'clockyesterday morning, or some such hour. He must have saddled at once. He's a stickler, is the Rector. 'Young Mr. Lambert, ' says he, veryformal, or some such words, 'I regret to say I must retract mypermission that you should marry into my family, as doubtless youwill wish to be released of your troth. ' 'Hallo!' says I, a bitsurprised, but knowing his crotchets: 'Why, what have I been doing?''Nothing, ' says he. 'Then what has _she_ been up to?'"--this with awink at Emilia--"'Nothing, ' says he again, and pours out the wholestory, or so much of it as he knew and guessed, and winds up with'I release you, ' and a bow very formal and stiff. 'How about MissNancy?' I asked; 'does she release me too?' 'I haven't asked her, 'he says, and goes on that he is not in the habit of being guided byhis daughters. To which I replied: 'Well, I am--by one of 'em, anyhow--or hope to be. And, if you don't mind, I'll step roundto-morrow at the hour she expects me. I'd do it this moment if Ihadn't a job at Bawtry. And I'm sorry for you, Rector, ' I said, 'but if you think it makes a penn'orth of difference to me apart fromthat, you're mistaken. ' And so we parted. "

"Have you thought of the consequences?" Nancy demanded, tearful, butobviously worshipping this very ordinary young man. 

"No, I haven't. "

"She is back again. "

"Oh, is she? Then she found him out quick. Poor Hetty! She must bein a taking too!" His face expressed commiseration for a moment, butwith an effort, and sprang back to jollity as a bow is released fromits cord. "Curious, how quickly a bit of news like that gets about!I picked up with a man on the road--said his name was Wright and hecomes from Lincoln--a decent fellow--tradesman--plumber, I think. At all events he knows a deal about you, and began, after a while, pumping me about your sister. I saw in a moment that he had heardsomething, and gave him precious little change for his money. Talked as if he knew more than I did, if only he cared to tell: butof course I didn't encourage him. "

"Wright?--a plumber from Lincoln?" Emilia faltered, and her eyes metNancy's. 

"That's it. He had business with your father, he said. In fact Ileft him on his way to knock at the door. "

The two sisters remembered the man on the knoll, and his bill. They were used to duns. 

Emilia's eye signalled that John Lambert was to be kept away from thehouse at all costs; nor did she breathe freely until she saw thelovers crossing the fields arm-in-arm. 

CHAPTER VI. 

"And my business is important. William Wright is the name, and you'dbetter say that I come from Lincoln direct. "

The answer came back that Mr. Wesley would see Mr. Wright in hisstudy; and thither accordingly Mr. Wright lurched, after pulling outa red handkerchief and dusting his boots on the front doorstep. At his entrance Johnny Whitelamb rose, gathered up some papers andretired. The Rector looked up from his writing-table, at the samemoment pushing back and shutting the drawer upon Hetty's manuscript, which he had again been studying. 

"Good morning, Mr. Wright. You have come about your bill, I suspect:the amount of which, if I remember--"

"Twelve-seventeen-six. "

The Rector sighed. "It is extremely awkward for me to pay you justnow. Still, no doubt you find it no less awkward to wait: and sinceyou have come all the way from Lincoln to collect it--"

"Steady a bit, " Mr. Wright interrupted; "I never said that. I saidI'd come direct from Lincoln. "

Mr. Wesley looked puzzled. "Pardon me, is not that the same thing?"

"No, it ain't. I'd be glad enough of my little bit of money to besure: but there's more things than money in this world, Mr. Wesley. "

"So I have sometimes endeavoured to teach. "

"There's more things than money, " repeated Mr. Wright, not to bedenied: for it struck him as a really fine utterance, with a touch ofthe epigrammatic too, of which he had not believed himself capable. In the stir of his feelings he was conscious of an unfamiliarloftiness, and conscious also that it did him credit. He paused andadded, "There's darters, for instance. "

"Daughters?" Mr. Wesley opened his eyes wide. 

"Darters. " Mr. Wright nodded his head slowly and took a step nearerto the table. "Has Missy come back?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. 

"If you mean my daughter Mehetabel--yes, she has returned. "

"I saw her in Lincoln only yesterday morning. She didn't see me; buthaving (as you might say) my suspicions, I follered her: and I sawenough to make a man feel sore--leastways when he takes an interestin a young lady as I do in Miss Hetty. For, saving your presence, sir, you've a good-looking bunch, but she's the pick. 'Tis a badbusiness--a very bad business, Mr. Wesley. What, may I ask, are yougoing to do about it?"

"You certainly may _not_ ask, Mr. Wright. " The danger-signaltwinkled for a moment under the Rector's brows; but he repressed itand turned towards a cupboard in the wall, where in a drawer layfifteen pounds, ten of which he had designed to send to Oxford. "Twelve pounds seventeen shillings and sixpence, I think you said?"

"Never mind the bill, sir, for a moment. And about Miss Hetty I'llask ye no questions if you forbid it: but something I came to say, and it'll have to be said. First of all I want to be clear with youthat I had no hand in this affair. On the contrary, I saw it comingand warned her against the fellow. "

"I have not the least need of your assurance. I did not even knowyou were acquainted--"

"No, you don't need it; but I need to give it. _Very_ well: nowcomes my point. Here's a young lady beautiful as roses, _and_ thataccomplished, _and_ that thoroughbred she makes an honest tradesmanfeel like dirt to look upon her. Oh, you needn't to stare, sir!William Wright knows breeding when he sees it, in man or beast; andas for feeling like dirt, why there's a sort of pleasure in it, ifyou understand me. "

"I do not. "

"No: I don't suppose you do. You're not the sort of man to feel likedirt before anyone--not before King George on his throne. But youmay take my word for it there's a kind of man that likes it: when helooks at a woman, I mean. 'Take care, my lady, ' I said; 'you'redelicate and proud now, and as dainty as a bit of china. But onceyou fall off the shelf--well, down you go, and 'tis all over but thebroom and the dust-heap. There you'll lie, with no man to look atyou; worse than the coarsest pint-pot a man will drink out of. 'You understand me now, Mr. Wesley?"

"I do, sir, to my sorrow, but--"

"But that's just where you're wrong--you _don't_!" Mr. Wright criedtriumphantly, and pursued with an earnestness which held Mr. Wesleystill in his chair. "I'll swear to you, sir, that if I could havestopped this, I would: ay, though it killed my only chance. But Icouldn't. The thing's done. And I tell you, sir"--his face wasflushed now, and his voice shaking--"broken as she is, I do worshipMiss Hetty beyond any woman in the world. I do worship her as if shehad tumbled slap out of heaven. I--I--there you have it, any way: soif you'll leave talking about the little account between us--"

Mr. Wesley stood up, drew out his keys, opened the cupboard and begancounting the sum out upon the table. 

"You misunderstand me, sir: indeed you do!" Mr. Wright protested. 

"Maybe, " answered the Rector grimly. "But I happen to be consultingmy own choice. Twelve pounds seventeen and sixpence, I think yousaid? You had best sit down and write out a receipt. "

"But why interrupt a man, sir, when he's thinking of higher things, and with his hand 'most too shaky to hold a pen?"

The Rector walked to the window and stood waiting while the receiptwas made out: then took the paper, went to the cupboard and filed it, locked the door and resumed his seat. 

"Now, sir, let me understand your further business. You desire, Igather, to marry my daughter Mehetabel?"

Mr. Wright gasped and swallowed something in his throat. Put intowords, his audacity frightened him. "That's so, sir, " he managed toanswer. 

"Knowing her late conduct?"

"If I didn't, " Mr. Wright answered frankly, "I shouldn't ha' beenfool enough to come. "

"You are a convinced Christian?"

"I go to church off and on, if that's what you mean, sir. "

"'Tis not in the least what I mean, Mr. Wright. "

"There's no reason why I shouldn't go oftener. "

"There is every reason why you should. You are able to maintain mydaughter?"

"I pay my way, sir; though hard enough it is for an honest tradesmanin these times. " Insensibly he dropped into the tone of one pressingfor payment. The Rector regarded him with brows drawn down and theangry light half-veiled, but awake in his eyes now and growing. Mr. Wright, looking up, read danger and misread it as threatening_him_. "Indeed, sir, " he broke out, courageously enough, "I feel foryou: I do, indeed. It seems strange enough to _me_ to be standinghere and asking you for such a thing. But when a man feels as I dot'ards Miss Hetty he don't know himself: he'll go and do that forwhich he'd call another man a fool. Kick me to doors if you want to:I can't help it. All I tell you is, I worship her from the top ofher pretty head to her shoe-strings; and if she were wife of mine sheshould neither wash nor scrub, cook nor mend; but a room I would makefor her, and chairs and cushions she should have to sit on, and booksto read, and pens and paper to write down her pretty thoughts; andnot a word of the past, but me looking up to her and proud all thedays of my life, and studying to make her comfortable, like the ladyshe is!"

During this remarkable speech Mr. Wesley sat without a smile. At theend of it, he lifted a small handbell from the writing-table and rangit twice. 

Mr. Wright made sure that this was a signal for his dismissal. He mopped his face. "Well, it can't be helped. I've been a fool, nodoubt: but you've had it straight from me, as between man and man. "

He picked up his hat and was turning to go, when the door opened andMrs. Wesley appeared. 

"My dear, " said the Rector, "the name of this honest man is Wright--Mr. William Wright, a plumber, of Lincoln. To my surprise he hasjust done me the honour of offering to marry Mehetabel. "

Mrs. Wesley turned from the bowing Mr. Wright and fastened on herhusband a look incredulous but scared. 

"I need scarcely say he is aware of--of the event which makes hisoffer an extremely generous one. "

The signal in the Rector's eyes was blazing now. His wife rested herhand on a chair-back to gain strength against she knew not what. Mr. Wright smiled, vaguely apologetic; and the smile made him lookexceedingly foolish; but she saw that the man was in earnest. 

"I think, " pursued Mr. Wesley, aware of her terror, aware of the painhe took from his own words, but now for the moment fiercely enjoyingboth--"I think, " he pursued slowly, "there can be no question of ouranswer. I must, of course, make inquiry into your circumstances, andassure myself that I am not bestowing Mehetabel on an evil-liver. Worthless as she is, I owe her this precaution, which you mustpardon. I will be prompt, sir. In two days, if you return, youshall have my decision; and if my inquiries have satisfied me--as Imake no doubt they will--my wife and I can only accept your offer andexpress our high sense of your condescension. "

Mr. Wright gazed, open-mouthed, from husband to wife. He saw thatMrs. Wesley was trembling, but her eyes held no answer for him. He was trembling too. 

"You mean that I'm to come along?" he managed to stammer. 

"I do, sir. On the day after to-morrow you may come for my answer. Meanwhile--"

Mr. Wright never knew what words the Rector choked down. They wouldhave surprised him considerably. As it was, reading his dismissal ina slight motion of Mrs. Wesley's hand, he made his escape; but had topull himself up on the front doorstep to take his bearings and assurehimself that he stood on his feet. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 "She graced my humble roof and blest my life, Blest me by a far greater name than wife; Yet still I bore an undisputed sway, Nor was't her task, but pleasure, to obey; Scarce thought, much less could act, what I denied. In our low house there was no room for pride:" etc. The Rev. Samuel Wesley's Verses of his Wife. 

 "It is an unhappiness almost peculiar to our family that your father and I seldom think alike. . . . "

 "I am, I believe, got on the right side of fifty, infirm and weak; yet, old as I am, since I have taken my husband 'for better, for worse, ' I'll take my residence with him: where he lives, I will live: and where he dies, will I die: and there will I be buried. God do so unto me and more also, if aught but death part him and me. " Mrs. Wesley's Letters. 

Mrs. Wesley guessed well enough what manner of words her husband hadchoked down. She stood and watched his face, waiting for him to lifthis eyes. But he refused obstinately to lift them, and went onrearranging with aimless fingers the pens and papers on hiswriting-table. At length she plucked up her courage. "Husband, " shesaid, "let us take counsel together. We are in a plight that wrathwill not cure: but, be angry as you will, we cannot give Hetty tothis man. "

It needed but this. He fixed his eyes on hers now, and the light inthem first quivered, then grew steady as a beam. "Did you hear megive my promise?" he demanded. 

"You had no right to promise it. "

"I do not break promises. And I take others at their word. Has she, or has she not, vowed herself ready to marry the first honest man whowill take her; ay, and to thank him?"

"She was beside herself. We cannot take advantage of such a vow. "

"You are stripping her of the last rag of honour. I prefer to credither with courage at least: to believe that she hands me the knife andsays, 'cut out this sore. ' But wittingly or no she has handed it tome, and by heaven, ma'am, I will use it!"

"It will kill her. "

"There are worse things than death. "

"But if--if the _other_ should seek her and offer atonement--"

Mr. Wesley pacing the room with his hands beneath his coat-tails, halted suddenly and flung up both arms, as a man lifts a stone todash it down. 

"What! Accept a favour from _him_! Have you lived with me theseyears and know me so little? And can you fear God and think to saveyour daughter out of hell by giving her back her sin, to rut in it?"

Mrs. Wesley shook her head helplessly. "Let her be punished, then, in God's natural way! Vengeance is His, dear: ah, do not take it outof His hands in your anger, I beseech you!"

"God for my sins made me her father, and gave me authority topunish. " He halted again and cried suddenly, "Do you think this isnot hurting me!"

"Pause then, for it is His warning. Who _is_ this man? What do youknow of him? To think of him and Hetty together makes my fleshcreep!"

"Would you rather, then, see her--" But at sound of a sobbing cryfrom her, he checked the terrible question. "You are trying tounnerve me. 'Who is he?' you ask. That is just what I am going tofind out. " At the door he turned. "We have other children to thinkof, pray you remember. I will harbour no wantons in my house. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

At first Hetty walked swiftly across the fields, not daring to lookback. "Is it he?" she kept asking herself, and as often cried outagainst the hope. She had no right to pray as she was praying: itwas suing God to make Himself an accomplice in sin. She ought tohate the man, yet--God forgive her!--she loved him still. Was itpossible to love and despise together? If he should come. . . . She caught herself picturing their meeting. He would follow acrossthe fields in search of her. She would hear his footstep. Yet shewould not turn at once--he should not see how her heart leapt. He would overtake her, call her by name. . . . She must not be proud:just proud enough to let him see how deep the wrong had been. But she would be humble too. . . . 

She heard no footsteps. No voice called her. Unable to endure itlonger, she came to a standstill and looked back. Between her andthe parsonage buildings the wide fields were empty. She could seethe corner of the woodstack. No one stood there. Away to the lefttwo figures diminished by distance followed a footpath arm-in-arm--John Lambert and Nancy. 

A great blackness fell on her. She had no pride now; she turned andwent slowly back, not to the parsonage, but aslant by the bank of adyke leading to the highroad along which, a few hours ago, she hadreturned so wearily. She must watch and discover what man it was whohad come with John Lambert. 

Before she reached the low bridge by the road, she heard a tunewhistled and a man's footfall approaching--not _his_. She supposedit to be one of the labourers, and in a sudden terror hid herselfbehind an ash-bole on the brink. 

The man went by, still whistling cheerfully. She peered around thetree and watched him as he retreated--a broad-shouldered man, swinging a cudgel. A hundred yards or less beyond her tree hehalted, with his back to her, in the middle of the road, and stayedhis whistling while he made two or three ludicrous cuts with hiscudgel at the empty air. This pantomime over, he resumed his way. 

She recognised him by so much of his back as showed over the dwarfhedge. It was William Wright. 

Was it _he_, then, who had come with John Lambert? Hetty sat down bythe tree, and, with her eyes on the slow water in the dyke, began tothink. 

To be sure, this man might have come to Wroote merely for his money. Yet (as she firmly believed) it was he who had written the letterwhich in effect had led to her running away. He might have used thedebt to-day as a pretext. His motive, she felt certain, wascuriosity to learn what his letter had brought about. 

She bore him no grudge. He had fired the train--oh, no doubt!But she was clear-sighted now, saw that the true fault after all washers, and would waste no time in accusing others. Very soon shedismissed him from her mind. In all the blank hopelessness of herfall from hope she put aside self-pity, and tasked herself to facethe worst. To Emilia and Nancy she had spoken lightly, as ifscarcely alive to her dreadful position, still less alive to her sin. They had misunderstood her: but in truth she had spoken so on theinstinct of self-defence. Real defence she had none. 

She knew she had none. And let it be said here that she saw nocomfortable hope in religion. She had listened to a plenty ofdoctrine from her early childhood: but somehow the mysteries of Godhad seldom occupied her thoughts, never as bearing directly on thequestions of daily life. If asked, for example, "did she believe inthe Trinity?" or "did she believe in justification by faith?" shewould have answered "yes, " without hesitating for a moment. But infact these high teachings lay outside her private religion, whichamounted to this--"God is all-seeing and omnipotent. To please Him Imust be good; and being good gives me pleasure in turn, for I feelthat His eye is upon me and He approves. He is terribly stern: butall-merciful too. If, having done wrong, I go to Him contritely, andrepent, He will give me a chance to amend my ways, and if I honestlystrive to amend them, He will forgive. " In short--and perhapsbecause the word "Father" helped to mislead--she had made for herselfan image of God by exalting and magnifying all that she saw best inher parents. And this view of Him her parents had confirmedinsensibly, in a thousand trifles, by laying constant daily stressupon good conduct, and by dictating it and judging her lapses with anair of calm authority, which took for granted that what pleased themwas exactly what would please God. 

So now, having done that which her mother and father could notforgive, at first she hardly dared to hope that God could by anymeans forgive it. In the warm sunlight of loving she had seen for awhile that her father and mother were not always wise; nay, longbeforehand in her discontent she had been groping towards thisdiscovery. But now that the sunshine had proved a cruel cheat, sheran back in dismay upon the old guide-posts, and they pointed to ahell indeed. 

She had been wicked. She craved to be good. She remembered MaryMagdalene, whom Christ had forgiven, and caught at a hope forherself. But why had Christ forgiven Mary? Because she had beensorry, and turned and walked the rest of her life in goodness?Because He had foreseen her long atonement? So Hetty believed. For her, too, then the way back to forgiveness lay through conduct--always through conduct; and for her the road stretched long, for notuntil death could she reach assurance. Of a way to forgivenessthrough faith (though she must have heard of it a hundred times) shescarcely thought; still less of a way through faith to instantassurance. To those who have not travelled by that road its end--though promised on the honour of God and proclaimed incessantly bythose who have travelled and found it--seems merely incredible. Hardly can man or woman, taught from infancy to suspect false guides, trust these reports of a country where to believe and to have areone. 

Hetty sat by the tree and saw the road beyond her, that it was steepand full of suffering. But for this she did not refuse it: shedesired it rather. She saw also, that along it was no well offorgiveness to refresh her; the thirst must endure till she reachedthe end and went down in darkness to the river. This, too, she mustendure, God in mercy helping her. What daunted her was consciencewhispering that she had as yet no right to that mercy, no right evento tread the road. For though her sin was abhorrent, in her heartshe loved her fellow-sinner yet. A sound of hoofs aroused her. Still screened by her tree, she saw her father trot by on the filly. In spite of the warm settled weather he carried his cloak before himstrapped across the holsters. His ride, therefore, would be a longone; to Gainsborough at least--or to Lincoln?

She lifted her head and sat erect in a sharp terror. Was her fathergoing to seek _him_? She had not thought of this as possible. And if so--

Leaping up she ran into the open and gazed after him, as though thesight of his bobbing figure could resolve her crowding surmises. For a minute and more she stood, gazing so; and then, turning, wasaware of her mother coming slowly towards her across the wide field. 

A number of shallow ditches, dry at this season, crossed the fieldsin parallels; and at each of these Mrs. Wesley picked up her skirts. "How young she is!" was Hetty's thought as she came nearer, and itrose--purely from habit--above her own misery. Hetty was one ofthose women who admire other women ungrudgingly. She knew herself tobe beautiful, yet in her eyes her mother had always the mien of agoddess. 

For her mother's character, too, she had the deepest, tenderestrespect. But it was the respect of a critic rather than of a child, and touched with humorous wonder. She knew her firmness of judgment, her self-control, her courage in poverty, the secret ardent pietyilluminating her commonest daily actions; she knew how perfectlydesigned that character was for masculine needs, how strong forguidance the will even in yielding--but alas! how feeble to help adaughter!

"Your father is riding to Lincoln, " said Mrs. Wesley as she drewnear. Hetty scanned her closely, but read no encouragement in herface. She fell back on the tone she had used with Emilia and Nancy;knowing, however, that this time it would not be misunderstood. "I saw that he had taken his cloak with him, " she answered. "Be frank with me, mother. You would be frank, you know, with Jackyor Charles, if they were in trouble; whereas now you are not lookingme in the face, and your own is white. "

Mrs. Wesley did not answer, but walked with Hetty back to the treeand, at a sign, seated herself on the bank beside her, with her eyeson the road. 

"I have been sitting here for quite a long time, " began Hetty, aftera pause, and went on lightly. "Before father passed a tradesman wentby--a man called Wright. " She paused again as Mrs. Wesley's handsmade an involuntary movement in her lap. "He has a bill againstfather; he called with it on the evening you came back from London. Is father riding after him to pay it?"

"What do you know of that man?" Mrs. Wesley muttered, with her headturned aside and her hands working. 

"Very little; yet enough to suspect more than you guess, " said Hettycalmly. 

But her mother showed her now a face she had not looked to see. 

"You know, then?--but no, you cannot!"

It was Hetty's turn to show a face of alarm. "What is it, dear? Ithought--indeed I know--he had a notion about me--how I wasbehaving--and wrote a letter to father. But that cannot matter now. Is there anything worse? I understood he had merely an accountagainst father; an ordinary bill. It _is_ something worse--oh, tellme! Father is riding after him! I see it in your face. What isthis trouble which I have added to?"

"The debt is paid, I believe, " answered Mrs. Wesley; but she shook asshe said it. 

"Yet father is riding after him. What is the matter? Let me seeyour eyes!"

But her mother would not. In the long silence, looking at her, slowly--very slowly--Hetty understood. After understanding therefollowed another long silence, until Hetty drew herself up againstthe bole of the tree and shivered. 

"Come back to the house, mother. You had best take my arm. "

CHAPTER IX. 

Mr. Wesley slept that night at Lincoln, and rode back the nextafternoon, reaching Wroote a little before nightfall. After stablingthe filly he went straight to his study. Thither, a few minuteslater, Mrs. Wesley carried his supper on a tray. He kissed her, butshe saw at once from his manner that he would not talk, that hewished to be alone. 

Hetty and Molly sat upstairs in the dusk of the garret, speakinglittle. Molly had exhausted her strength for the while and argued nomore, but leaned back in her chair with a hand laid on Hetty'sforehead, who--crouching on the floor against her knee--drew down thenerveless fingers, fondled them one by one against her cheek, andkissed them, thinking her own thoughts. 

Downstairs a gloom, a breathless terror almost, brooded over thecircle by the kitchen hearth. They knew of Hetty's probable fate--the sentence to be pronounced to-morrow; they had whispered it one toanother, and while they condemned her it awed them. 

Soon after nine Johnny Whitelamb came in from the fields where fortwo hours he had been walking fiercely but quite aimlessly. Great drops of sweat stood out on his temples, over which his hairfell lank and clammy. His shoes and stockings were dusted over withfine earth. He did not speak, but lit his candle and went off to hisbed-cupboard under the stairs. 

Before ten o'clock the rest of the family crept away to bed. Mr. Wesley sat on in his study. This was the night of the week onwhich he composed his Sunday morning's sermon. He wrote at itsteadily until midnight. 

Next morning, about an hour after breakfast, Mrs. Wesley heard thehand-bell rung in the study--the sound for which (it seemed to her)she had been listening in affright for two long days. She went atonce. In the passage she met Johnny Whitelamb coming out. 

"I am to fetch Miss Hetty, " he whispered with a world of dreadfulmeaning. 

But for once Johnny was not strictly obedient. Instead of seekingHetty he went first across the farmyard and through a small gatewhence a path took him to a duck-pond at an angle of the kitchengarden, and just outside its hedge. A pace or two from the brinkstood a grindstone in a wooden frame; and here, on the grindstonehandle, sat Molly watching the ducks. 

"He has sent for her, " announced Johnny, and glanced towards thekitchen-garden. "Is she there?"

Molly rose with a set face. She did not answer his question. 

"You must give me ten minutes, " she said. "Ten minutes; on noaccount must you bring her sooner. "

She limped off towards the house. 

So it happened that as Mr. And Mrs. Wesley stood and faced each otheracross the writing-table they heard a gentle knock, and, turning witha start, saw the door open and Molly walk boldly into the room. 

"We are busy, " said the Rector sharply, recovering himself. "I didnot send for you. "

"I know it, " Molly answered; "but I am come first to explain. "

"If you are here to speak for your sister, I wish to hear noexplanations. "

"I know it, " Molly answered again; "but I need to give them; and, please you, father, you will listen to me. "

Mr. Wesley gasped. Of all his daughters this deformed one hadrendered him the most absolute obedience; of her alone he could saythat, apart from her bodily weakness, she had never given him amoment's distress. In a family where high courage was the rule hertimidity was a by-word; she would turn pale at the least word ofanger. But she was brave now, as a dove to defend her brood. 

"You are using a secret"--her voice trembled, but almost at once grewsteady again--"a secret between me and Hetty which I had no right tobetray. If I told it to mother, it was because she seemed to doubtof Hetty's despair; because I believed, if only she knew, she wouldcome to Hetty and help her--the more eagerly the worse the need. Mother will tell you that was my only reason. I was very foolish. Mother would not help: or perhaps she could not. She went straightto you with the tale--this poor pitiful tale of an oath taken inpassion by the unhappiest girl on earth. Yes, and the dearest, andthe noblest! . . . But why do I tell you this? You are her fatherand her mother, and it is nothing to you; you prefer to be herjudges. Only I say that you have no right to my secret. Give itback to me! You shall not use it to do this wickedness!"

"Molly!" The last word fairly took Mrs. Wesley's breath away; sheglanced at the Rector; but the explosion she expected hung fire, although he was breathing hard. 

Molly, too, was panting, but she went on recklessly. "Yes; awickedness! She swore it, but she did not mean it. Even had shemeant it, she was not responsible. . . . No, mother, you need notlook at me so. I have been thinking, and father shall hear the truthfor once. Had he been kind--had he even been just--Hetty had neverrun away. Oh, sir, you are a good man! but you are seldom kind, andyou are rarely just. You plan what seems best to you--best for Samand Jacky and Charles--best for us too, maybe. But of us, apart fromyour wishes, you never think at all. Oh, yes again, you are good;but your temper makes life a torture--"

"Silence!" Mr. Wesley thundered out suddenly. 

But the thunder did not affect Molly one whit. 

"You may do what you will to me, sir; but you have heard the truth. You are a tyrant to those you love: and now in your tyranny you aregoing to do what even in your tyranny you have never done before--adownright wickedness. Thwarted abroad, you have drunk of power athome till you have come to persuade yourself that our souls areyours. They are not. You may condemn Hetty to misery as you havedriven--yes, driven--her to sin: but her soul is not yours and thissecret of hers is mine not yours!"

But here standing beside the table she began to sway, then to sob andlaugh unnaturally. Mrs. Wesley, instantly composed at sight of aphysical breakdown, stepped to her and caught her by both wrists, butnot before she had pointed a finger point-blank at her father's grayface. 

"But--but--he is ridiculous!" she gasped between her short outcries. "Look at him! A ridiculous little man!"

Her mother took her by both shoulders and forced her from the room, almost carried her upstairs, dashed cold water over her face and lefther to sob out her hysterics on her bed. It had been a weak, undignified exit: but those last words, which she never remembered tohave uttered, her father never forgot. In all the rest of her shortlife Molly never had a sign from him that he remembered her outbreak. Also he never again spoke a harsh word to her. 

While her mother bent over her, waiting for the attack to subside, aknock sounded below stairs. Molly heard it, raised herself on thebed for a moment, staring wildly, then sank back helpless, and hermoaning began afresh. 

Mrs. Wesley turned her face away quickly; and with that her gaze, passing out through the garret window, fell on a figure crossing theyard towards the house. 

It was Hetty, moving to the sacrifice. And below, on the other sideof the house, the man was knocking to claim her. 

For a moment Mrs. Wesley felt as one in a closing trap. It was she, not Hetty, upon whom these iron teeth of fate were meeting; andHetty, the true victim, had become part of the machine of punishment. The illusion passed almost as quickly as it had come, and with aglance at the figure on the bed she hurried downstairs, in time tomeet Hetty at the back door. 

As she opened it she heard William Wright's footstep in the passagebehind, and his shuffling halt outside the study door, while Jane, the servant, rapped for admittance. 

Hetty, too, heard it, and bent her head. 

"We had best go in at once, " Mrs. Wesley suggested, desperatelyanxious now to come to the worst and get it over. 

Hetty bent her head again and followed without a word. The two menwere standing--the Rector by his writing-table, Mr. Wright a littleinside the door. He drew aside to let the two ladies pass andwaited, fumbling with his hat and stick and eyeing the pattern of thecarpet. There was no boldness about him. It seemed he dared notlook at Hetty. 

"Ah!" Mr. Wesley cleared his throat. "There is no reason, Mr. Wright, why we should protract a business which (as you may guess)must needs be extremely painful to some of us here. I have madeinquiries about you and find that, though not well-to-do, you bearthe reputation of an honest man, even a kind one. It appears that atgreat cost to yourself you have made provision for an aged father, going (I am told) well beyond the strict limits of a son's duty. Filial obedience--" The Rector's eyes here fell upon Hetty and hechecked himself. "But I will not enlarge upon that. You ask tomarry my daughter. She is in no position to decline your offer, butmust rather accept it and with thanks, in humility. As her father Icommend her to your love and forbearance. "

There was silence for a while. Mr. Wright lifted his head: and nowhis culprit's look had vanished and in its place was one of genuineearnestness. 

"I thank ye, sir, " he said; "but, if 'tis no liberty, I'd like tohear what Miss Hetty says. " Hetty, too, lifted her eyes and for thefirst time since entering rested them on the man who was to be herhusband. Mrs. Wesley saw how they blenched and how she compelledthem to steadiness; and turned her own away. 

"Sir, " said Hetty, "you have heard my father. Although he has notchosen to tell you, I am bound; and must answer under my bond unlesshe release me. "

"For your salvation, as I most firmly believe, I refuse to releaseyou, " said the Rector. 

"Then, sir, " she continued, still with her eyes on William Wright, "under my bond I will answer you. If, as I think, those who marrywithout love sin against God and themselves, my father is driving outsin by sin. I cannot love you: but what I do under force I will dowith an honest wish to please. I thank you for stooping to one whomher parents cast out. I shall remember my unworthiness all the morebecause you have overlooked it. You are all strange to me. Just nowI shrink from you. But you at least see something left in me tovalue. Noble or base your feeling may be: it is something whichthese two, my parents who begat me, have not. I will try to think itnoble--to thank you for it all my days--to be a good wife. "

She held out her hand. As Mr. Wright extended his, coarse and nottoo clean, she touched it with her finger-tips and faced her father, waiting his word of dismissal. 

But the Rector was looking at his wife. For a moment he hesitated;then, stepping forward, drew her arm within his, and the pair leftthe room together. 

CHAPTER X. 

William Wright stared at the door as it closed upon them. Hetty didnot stir. To reach it she must pass him. She stood by thewriting-table, her profile turned to him, her body bent with a greatshame; suffering anguish, yet with an indignant pride holding it downand driving it inward as she repressed her bosom's rise and fall. Even a callous man must have pitied her; and William Wright, though avulgar man, was by no means a callous one. 

"Miss Hetty--" he managed to say, and was not ashamed that his voiceshook. 

She did not seem to hear. 

"Miss Hetty--" His voice was louder and he saw that she heard. "There's a deal I'd like to say, but the things that come uppermostare all foolish. F'r instance, what I most want to say is that I'mdesperate sorry for you. And--and here's another thing, though 'tiseven foolisher. When I came to speak to your father, day beforeyestiddy, the first thing he did was to pay me down every penny heowed me--not that I was thinking of it for one moment--"

She had turned her head away at first, yet not as if refusing tolisten: but now from a sudden stiffening of her shoulders, he sawthat he was offending. 

"Nay, now, " he persisted, "but you must hear me finish. I want youto know what I did with it. I went home with it jingling in mypocket, and called out my father and spread it on the counter beforehim. 'Look at it, ' I said, and his eyes fairly glistened. 'And now, ' I said, 'hear me tell you that neither you nor I touches apenny of it. ' I took him up the hill to the cathedral and crammed itinto a box there. For the touch of it burned my fingers till I gotrid of it, same as it burned your father's. The old man fairlycapered to see me and cried out that I must be mad. 'Think so?' saidI, 'then there's worse to come. ' I led him home again, went to mydrawerful of savings, and counted out the like sum to a penny. 'That's towards a chair for her, ' said I; 'and that's towards a sofy;and there's for this, and there's for that. If she will condescendto the likes of me, like a queen she shall be treated while I havefingers to work. ' That's what I said, Miss Hetty: and that's what Iwant to tell you, foolish as you'll think it, and rough belike. "

She turned suddenly upon him with swimming eyes. 

"'Condescend'?" she echoed. 

He nodded. "That's so: and like dirt you may treat me. You didonce, you know. I'd like it to go on. "

She spread her hands vaguely. "Why _will_ you be kind to me? When--when--"

"When you'd far liefer have every excuse to hate the sight of me. Oh, I understand! Well, I'd even give you that, if it pleased you, and I could. "

She looked at him now, long and earnestly. Her next question was astrange one and had little connection with her thoughts. 

"Did you sign that letter?"

"What letter?"

"The one you sent to father. "

He fingered his jaw in a puzzled way. "I never sent any letter toyour father. Writing's none so easy to me, though sorry I am to sayit. "

"Then it must have been--" Light broke on her, but she paused andsuppressed Patty's name. 

"I like you, " she went on, "because you speak honestly with me. "

"Come, that's better. "

"No: I want you to understand. It's because your honesty makes meable to be honest with you. " She drew herself up to the height ofher superb beauty and touched her breast. "You see me?" she asked ina low, hurried voice. "I am yours. My father has said it, and Irepeat it, adding this: I make no bargain, except that you will behonest. I am to be your wife: use me as you will. All that lifewith you calls to be undergone, I will undergo: as his drudge to thehind in the fields I offer myself. Nothing less than that shallsatisfy me, since through it--can you not see?--I must save myself. But oh, sir! since something in me makes you prize me above otherwomen, even as I am, let that compel you to be open with me always!When, as it will, a thought makes you turn from me--though but for amoment--do not hide it. I would drink all the cup. I must atone--let me atone!"

She walked straight up to him in her urgency, but suddenly droppedher arms. He stared at her, bewildered. 

"I shall have no such thoughts, Miss Hetty. "

CHAPTER XI. 

Beyond the kitchen-garden a raised causeway led into the Bawtry road, between an old drain of the Tome River and a narrower ditch runningdown to the parsonage duck-pond. The ditch as a rule was dry, oralmost dry, being fed through a sluice in the embankment from time totime when the waters of the duck-pond needed replenishing. 

Half an hour later, as William Wright--who had business at Bawtry--left the yard by the small gate and came stepping briskly by thepond, Johnny Whitelamb pushed through the hedge at the end of thekitchen-garden, attempted a flying leap across the ditch andscrambled--with one leg plastered in mud to the knee--up to thecauseway, where he stood waving his arms like a windmill and utteringsounds as rapid as they were incoherent. 

The plumber, catching sight of this agitated figure on the pathahead, stood still for a moment. He understood neither the noisesnor the uncouth gestures, but made sure that some accident hadhappened. 

"Here, what's wrong?" he demanded, moving on and coming to a haltagain in front of Johnny. 

But still Johnny gurgled and choked. "You--you mustn't come here!"

"Eh, why not? What's doing?"

"You mustn't come here. You _sha'n't_--it's worse than murder!P-promise me you won't come here again!"

Mr. Wright began to understand, and his eye twinkled. "Who's toprevent it, now?"

"_I_ will, if you w-won't listen to reason. You are killing her, between you: you don't know w-what wickedness you're doing. She's--she's an angel. "

"Bravo, my lad! So she is, every inch of her. " The plumber held outhis hand. 

Johnny drew his away indignantly and began to choke again. "She's not for you. It'll all come right if you stay away. P-promise me you'll stay away!

"There I don't agree with you. "

"C-can you fight?"

"A bit. Here, keep on your coat, boy, and don't be a fool. Hands off, you young dolt!"

There was barely room on the causeway for two to pass. As Mr. Wrightthrust by, Johnny snatched furiously at his arm and with just enoughforce to slew him round. Letting go, he struck for his face. 

The plumber had no wish to hurt the lad. Being a quick man with hisfists, he parried the blow easily enough. 

"No more of this!" he shouted, and as Johnny leapt again, hurled himoff with a backward sweep of his wrist. 

He must have put more weight into it than he intended. Johnny, flungto the very edge of the causeway, floundered twice to recover hisbalance; his feet slipped on the mud, and with hands clutching theair he soused into the water at Mr. Wright's feet. 

"Hallo!" called out a cheerful voice. "Whar you two up to?"

Dick Ellison was coming down the causeway towards the house, somewhatadvanced in liquor, though it wanted an hour of noon. Wright, whoknew him only by sight, did not observe this at once. "Come andhelp, " he answered, dropping on his knees by the brink and offeringJohnny a hand. 

Johnny declined it. He was a strong swimmer, and in a couple ofstrokes regained the bank and scrambled to firm ground again, dripping from head to heel and looking excessively foolish. 

"Wha's matter?" demanded Mr. Ellison again. 

"Nothing he need be ashamed of, " answered Mr. Wright. "Here, shakehands, my boy!"

But Johnny dropped his head and walked away, hiding tears of rage andshame. 

"Sulky young pig, " commented Mr. Ellison, staring blearily after him. A thought appeared to strike him. --"Blesh me, you're the newson-'law!"

"Yes, sir: Miss Hetty has just honoured me with her consent. "

"Consent? I'll lay she had to! Sukey--tha's my wife--told me youwere in the wind. _I_ said the old man's wrong--all right, patchingit up--Shtill--" He paused and corrected himself painfully. "_Still_, duty to c'nsult family; 'stead of which, he takes law in'sown hands. Now list'n this, Mr. --"

"Wright. "

"Qui-so. " He pulled himself together again. "_Quite_ so. Now _I_say, it's hard on the jade. _You_ say, 'Nothing of the sort: she'smade her bed and must lie on it. '"

"No, I don't. "

"I--er--beg your pardon? You must allow me finish my argument. _I_ say, 'Look here, I'm a gentleman: feelings of a gentleman'--_You're_ not a gentleman, eh?"

"Not a bit like one, " the plumber agreed cheerfully. 

"Tha's what I thought. Allow me to say so, I respect you for it--forspeaking out, I mean. Now what I say is, wench kicks over thetraces--serve her right wharrever happens: but there's _family_ toconsider--"

Here Mr. Wright interrupted firmly. "Bless your heart, Mr. Ellison, I quite see. I've made a mistake this morning. "

"No offence, you understand. "

"No offence at all. It turns out I've given the wrong man aducking. "

"Eh?"

"It can easily be set right. Some day when you're sober. Goodmorning!"

William Wright went his way whistling. Dick Ellison stared along thecauseway after him. 

"Low brute!" he said musingly. "If she's to marry a fellow likethat, Sukey shan't visit her. I'm sorry for the girl too. "

Beyond the hedge, in a corner of the kitchen-garden, Johnny Whitelamblay in his wet clothes with his face buried in a heap of mown grass. He had failed, and shamefully, after preparing himself for theinterview by pacing (it seemed to him, for hours) the box-borderedwalks which Molly had planted with lilies and hollyhocks, pinks andsweet-williams and mignonette. It was high June now, and the gardenbreaking into glory. He had tasted all its mingled odours thismorning while he followed the paths in search of Hetty; and when atlength he had found her under the great filbert-tree, they seemed tofloat about her and hedge her as with the aura of a goddess. He haddelivered his message, trembling: had watched her go with firm stepto the sacrifice. And then--poor boy--wild adoration had filled himwith all the courage of all the knights in Christendom. He alonewould champion her against the dragon. . . . And the dragon had flunghim into the ditch like a rat! He hid his face in the sweet-smellinghillock. 

For years after, the scent of a garden in June, or of new-mown hay, caused him misery, recalling this the most abject hour of his life. 

CHAPTER XII. 

Six weeks later Mr. Wesley married William Wright and Hetty in thebare little church of Wroote. Her sisters (among them Patty, newlyreturned from Kelstein) sat at home: their father had forbidden themto attend. A fortnight before they had stood as bridesmaids atNancy's wedding with John Lambert, and all but Molly had contrived tobe mirthful and forget for a day the shadow on the household and themiserable woman upstairs. Hetty had no bridesmaids, no ringing ofbells. The church would have been empty, but for a steady downpourwhich soaked the new-mown hay, and turned the fields into swamps, driving the labourers and their wives, who else had been too busy, totake recreation in a ceremony of scandal. For of course the wholestory had been whispered abroad. It was to keep them away that theRector had chosen a date in the very middle of the hay-harvest, andthey knew it and enjoyed his discomfiture. He, on his part, when themorning broke with black and low-lying clouds, had been tempted toread the service in the parlour at home; but his old obstinacy hadasserted itself. Hetty's feelings he did not consider. 

The congregation pitied Hetty. She, with Molly to help, had been theparish alms-giver, here and at Epworth; and though the alms had beensmall, kind words had gone with the giving. Of gratitude--activegratitude--they were by race incapable: also they were shrewd enoughto detect the Wesley habit of condescending to be kind. She belongedto another world than theirs: she was a lady, blood and bone. But they were proud of her beauty, and talked of it, and forgave herfor the sake of it. 

They hated the Rector; yet with so much of fear as kept them huddledto-day at the west end under the dark gallery. A space of empty pewsdivided them from Mrs. Wesley, standing solitary behind her daughterat the chancel step. 

"O God, who hast consecrated the state of Matrimony to such anexcellent mystery that in it is signified and represented thespiritual marriage and unity betwixt Christ and his Church: lookmercifully upon these thy servants. . . . "

A squall of rain burst upon the south windows, darkening the nave. Mrs. Wesley started, and involuntarily her hands went up towards herears. Then she remembered, dropped them and stood listening with herarms rigid. 

Under a penthouse in the parsonage yard, Molly and Johnny Whitelambwatched the downpour, and the cocks and hens dismally ruffling undershelter of the eaves. 

"She was the best of us all, the bravest and the cleverest. "

"She was like no one in the world, " said Johnny. 

"And the most loyal. She loved me best, and I have done nothing forher. "

"You did what you could, Miss Molly. "

"If I were a man--Oh, Johnny, of what use are my brothers to me?"

Johnny was silent. 

"The others were jealous of her. She could no more help excellingthem in wit and spirits than she could in looks. None of themunderstood her, but I only--and you, I think, a little. "

"It was an honour to know her and serve her. I shall never forgether, Miss Molly. "

"_We_ will never forget her--we two. When the others are notlistening we will talk about her together and say, She did this orthat; or, Just so she looked; or, At such a time she was happy. We will recollect her sayings and remind each other. Oh, Hetty!dear, dear Hetty!"

Johnny was fairly blubbering. "But she will visit us sometimes. Lincoln is no great distance. "

Molly shook her head disconsolately. "I do not think she will come. Father will refuse to see her. For my part, after the wickedness hehas committed this day--"

"Hush, Miss Molly!"

"Is it not wrong he is doing? Is it not a wicked wrong? Answer me, John Whitelamb, if we two are ever to speak of her again. "She glanced at his face and read how terribly old fidelity and newdistrust were tearing him between them. "Ah, I understand!" shesaid, and laid a hand on his coat-sleeve. 

The service over and the names signed in the vestry, Mr. Wesleymarched out to the porch for a view of the weather. Half a score ofgossips were gathered there among the sodden graves awaiting thebridal party. They gave back a little, nudging and plucking oneanother by the arm. For all the notice he took of them they mighthave been tombstones. 

The rain had ceased to fall, and though leaden clouds rolled up fromthe south-west, threatening more, a pale gleam, almost of sunshine, rested on the dreary landscape. The Rector nodded his head andstrode briskly down the muddy path. The newly married pair followedat a respectful distance, Mrs. Wesley close behind. Hetty showed nosign of emotion. She had given her responses clearly and audiblybefore the altar, and she bore herself as bravely now. 

As they entered the house the Rector turned and held out his hand tothe bridegroom. "You will not find us hospitable, I fear. But thereare some refreshments laid in the parlour: and my wife will see thatyou are served while I order the gig. Your wife will have time tosay farewell to her sisters if she chooses. As I may not see heragain, I commit her to your kindness and God's forgiveness. "

"At least you will bless her, husband!" entreated Mrs. Wesley. But he turned away. 

Twenty minutes later bridegroom and bride drove southward towardsLincoln, under a lashing shower and with the wind in their faces. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A few words will tie together the following letters or extracts fromletters. John was ordained on September 19th. A few weeks later hepreached his first sermon at South Leigh, a village near Witney andbut a few miles out of Oxford. He and Charles visited Wroote thatChristmas, and on January 11th he preached a funeral sermon atEpworth for John Griffith, a hopeful young man, the son of one of hisfather's parishioners, taking for his theme 2 Samuel xii. 23, "But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him backagain? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me "--a textobvious enough. He returned for the beginning of the Oxford LentTerm, having had no sight of Hetty. His chances of a fellowship atLincoln College had long been debated, and on March 17th he waselected. Meanwhile Charles had passed out of Westminster with astudentship to support him at Christ Church, the college his brotherwas leaving. 

The first letter--from Patty--bears no date, but was written fromWroote about the time of John's ordination. 

 From Martha (Patty) Wesley to her brother John

 Dear Brother, --I believe it is above half a year since I wrote to you, and yet, though it is so long since, you never were so good as to write to me again; and you have written several times since to my sisters, but have perfectly neglected your loving sister Martha, as if you had not known there was such a person in the world; at which I pretended to be so angry that I resolved I would never write to you more. Yet my anger soon gave way to my love, as it always does whenever I chance to be angry with you. But you only confirm me in the truth of an observation I have since made; which is, that if ever I love any person very well, and desire to be loved by them in return--as, to be sure, whoever loves desires to be loved--I always meet with unkind returns. I shall be exceedingly glad if you get the Fellowship you stand for; which if you do, I shall hope that one of the family besides my brother Sam will be provided for. I believe you very well deserve to be happy, and I sincerely wish you may be so both in this life and the next. 

 For my own particular I have long looked upon myself to be what the world calls ruined--that is, I believe there will never be any provision made for me, but when my father dies I shall have my choice of three things--starving, going to a common service, or marrying meanly as my sisters have done: none of which I like, nor do I think it possible for a woman to be happy _with a man that is not a gentleman_, for he whose mind is virtuous is alone of noble kind. Yet what can a woman expect but misery? My brother Ellison wants all but riches; my brother Lambert, I hope, has a little religion; poor brother Wright has abundance of good-nature, and, I hope, is religious; and yet sister Hetty is, I fear, entirely ruined, though it is not her husband's fault. 

 If you would be so good as to let me hear from you, you would add much to my satisfaction. But nothing can make me more than I am already, dear brother, your sincere friend and loving sister Martha Wesley. 

 P. S. --I hope you will be so kind as to pardon the many faults in my letter. You must not expect I can write like sister Emily or sister Hetty. I hope, too, that when I have the pleasure of seeing you at Wroote you will set me some more copies, that I may not write so miserably. 

From Samuel Wesley to his son John

 Wroote, March 21, 1726. 

 Dear Mr. Fellow-Elect of Lincoln, --I have done more than I could for you. On your waiting on Dr. Morley with this he will pay you 12 pounds. You are inexpressibly obliged to that generous man. We are all as well as can be expected. Your loving father, Samuel Wesley. 

From the same to the same

 Wroote, April I, 1726. 

 Dear son John, --I had both yours since the election. The last 12 pounds pinched me so hard that I am forced to beg time of your brother Sam till after harvest to pay him the 10 pounds that you say he lent you. Nor shall I have so much as that (perhaps not 5 pounds) to keep my family till after harvest; and I do not expect that I shall be able to do anything for Charles when he goes to the University. What will be my own fate before the summer is over God only knows. _Sed passi graviora_. Wherever I am, my Jack is Fellow of Lincoln. All at present from your loving father, Samuel Wesley. 

From John Wesley to his brother Samuel

 Lincoln College, Oxon. , April 4, 1726. 

 Dear Brother, --My father very unexpectedly, a week ago, sent me a bill on Dr. Morley for 12 pounds, which he had paid to the Rector's use at Gainsborough; so that now all my debts are paid, and I have still above 10 pounds remaining. If I could have leave to stay in the country till my college allowance commences, this money would abundantly suffice me till then. 

 I never knew a college besides ours whereof the members were so perfectly well satisfied with one another, and so inoffensive to the other part of the University. All the Fellows I have yet seen are both well-natured and well-bred; men admirably disposed as well to preserve peace and good neighbourhood among themselves as to preserve it wherever else they have any acquaintance. I am, etc. John Wesley. 

The next, addressed also to Sam, shows him making provision forCharles's entrance at Christ Church:

 My mother's reason for my cutting off my hair is because she fancies it prejudices my health. As to my looks, it would doubtless mend my complexion to have it off, by letting me get a little more colour, and perhaps it might contribute to my making a more genteel appearance. But these, till ill health is added to them, I cannot persuade myself to be sufficient grounds for losing two or three pounds a year. I am ill enough able to spare them. 

 Mr. Sherman says there are garrets, somewhere in Peckwater, to be let for fifty shillings a year; that there are some honest fellows in college who would be willing to chum in one of them; and that, could my brother but find one of these garrets, and get acquainted with one of these honest fellows, he might possibly prevail on him to join in taking it; and then if he could but prevail upon some one else to give him 7 pounds a year for his own room, he would gain almost 6 pounds a year clear, if his rent were well paid. He appealed to me whether the proposal was not exceedingly reasonable? But as I could not give him such an answer as he desired, I did not choose to give him any at all. 

 Leisure and I have taken leave of one another. I propose to be busy as long as I live, if my health is so long indulged me. In health and sickness I hope I shall ever continue with the same sincerity, your loving brother, John Wesley. 

From Samuel Wesley to his son John

 April 17, 1726. Dear Son, --I hope Sander will be with you on Wednesday morn, with the horses, books, bags, and this. I got your mother to write the inclosed (for you see I can hardly scrawl), because it was possible it might come to hand on Tuesday; but my head was so full of cares that I forgot on Saturday last to put it into the post-house. I shall be very glad to see you, though but for a day, but much more for a quarter of a year. I think you will make what haste you can. I design to be at the "Crown, " in Bawtry, on Saturday night. God bless and send you a prosperous journey to your affectionate father, Samuel Wesley. 

The day after receiving this John and Charles set out and rode downto Lincolnshire together. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

"For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father willalso forgive you: but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neitherwill your Father forgive your trespasses. "

John Wesley laid his Bible down beside him on the rustic seat underthe filbert-tree, and leaned back against the trunk with half-closedeyes. By and by he frowned, and the frown, instead of passing, grewdeeper. His sermons, as a rule, arranged themselves neatly andrapidly, when once the text was chosen: but to-day his thoughts ranby fits and starts, and confusedly--a thing he abhorred. 

In truth they kept harking back to the text, "For if ye forgive mentheir trespasses. . . . " He had chosen it with many searchings ofheart, for he knew that if he preached this sermon it wouldexasperate his father. Had he any right, knowing this, to preach itfrom his father's pulpit? After balancing the _pro's_ and_contra's_, he decided that this was a scruple which his Christianduty outweighed. He was not used to look back upon a decision oncetaken: he had no thought now of changing his mind, but the prospectof a breach with his father unsettled him. 

While he pondered, stabbing the turf with his heel, Molly camelimping along the garden-path. Her face was white and drawn. She had been writing for two hours at her father's dictation, andcame now for rest to the seat which she and Hetty had in former daysmade their favourite resort. 

Seeing it occupied, she paused in the outer shade of the greatbranches. 

"You are thinking out your sermon?" she asked, smiling. 

He nodded. "You seem tired, " he remarked, eyeing her; but he did notrise or pick up his Bible to make room for her. 

"A little, " she confessed; "and my ears are hot. But Charles verygood-naturedly left his _De Oratore_--on which I heard him say he wasengaged--to relieve me. Johnny Whitelamb had to finish colouring amap. "

"I don't think Charles needs much persuasion just now to leave hisstudies. "

"He will not require them if he is to be an Irish squire. "

"You count upon his choosing that?" John's frown grew deeper. 

"Not if you dissuade him, Jack. "

"I have not even discussed it with him. Once or twice on our waydown he seemed to be feeling his way to a confidence and at the lastmoment to fight shy. No doubt he knows my opinion well enough. 'What is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose hisown soul?' But why should my opinion have so much weight with him?"

For a moment Molly considered her brother's cold and handsome youngface. She put out a hand, plucked a twig from a low drooping bough, and peeling the gummy rind, quoted softly:

 "'Why do you cross me in this exigent?' 'I do not cross you; but I will do so. '"

"If I remember, " mused John, "that is what Shakespeare makes Octaviussay to Mark Antony before Pharsalia. "

She nodded. "Do you know that you always put me in mind of Octavius. You are so good-looking, and have the same bloodless way of followingyour own path as if you carried all our fates. Sometimes I think you_do_ carry them. "

"I thank you. " He made her a mock bow. 

"And I still think it was kind of Charles to come to my rescue; for Iwas tired. " She glanced at the seat and he picked up his book. "No; you are composing a sermon and I will not interrupt you. But you must know that father expected you to help him this morning, and was put out at hearing that you had walked off. "

"He and I have not agreed of late, and are likely to agree still lessif I preach this sermon--as I shall. "

"What is the subject?"

"I have not thought of a title yet; but you may call it 'UniversalCharity, ' or (better perhaps) 'The Charity due to wicked persons. '"

"You mean Hetty?" She limped close to him. "Hetty may have donewickedly, but she is _not_ a wicked person, as you might havediscovered had you let Universal Charity alone and practised it inparticular, for once, by going to visit her. It is now close on fourmonths that you and Charles have been home, and from here to Lincolnis no such great distance. "

"You are a sturdy champion, " he answered, eyeing her up and down. "As a matter of fact you are right, though you assert it rashly. How are you sure that I have not visited Hetty, seeing that threetimes I have been absent from home and for some days together?"

Molly winced. "The worse reproach to all of us, that her onlychampion was the weakling whom you all scorn! You do not understandweakness, Jack. As for my knowing that you had not visited her, Johnny Whitelamb took his holiday a fortnight ago and trudged toLincoln to see her. She is living behind a dingy little shop withher husband, and his horrible old father, who drinks whatever he canfilch from the till. They wink at it so long as he does not go toofar; but William is trying to find him lodgings at Louth, which washis old home, and hopes to sell up the business and move to Londonwith Hetty, to try his fortune. Uncle Matthew has written to her, and will help them to move, I believe. And there was a baby coming, but mercifully something went wrong, poor mite! All this news shesent by Johnny, who reports that she is brave and cheerful and asbeautiful as ever--more beautiful than ever, he said--but she talkedlong of you and Charles, and is said to have seen neither of you. "

"So Whitelamb is in the conspiracy? Since you have so much of hisconfidence, you might warn him to be careful. Doubts of our father'swisdom must unsettle him woefully. I do not ask to join thealliance, but it may please you to know that in my belief Hetty hasbeen treated too fiercely for her deserts, and in my sermon I intendto hint at this pretty plainly. "

Molly stared. "Dear Jack, it--it is good to have you on our side. But what good can a sermon do?"

"Not much, I fear. Still a testimony is a testimony. "

"But the folks will know you are speaking of her. "

"I mean them to. "

"But--but--" Molly cast about, bewildered. 

"I am venturing something, " John interrupted coldly, "by testifyingagainst my father. It is not over-pleasant to stand up and admitthat in our own family we have sinned against Christ's injunction tojudge not. "

"I should think not, indeed!"

"Then you might reasonably show a little more pleasure at finding meprepared, to that extent, to take your side. "

Molly gasped. His misunderstanding seemed to her too colossal to becoped with. "It will be a public reproach to father, " she managed tosay. 

"I fear he may consider it so; and that is just my difficulty. "

"But what good can it do to Hetty?"

"I was not, in the first instance, thinking of Hetty, but ratherusing her case as an example which would be fresh in the minds of allin the building. Nevertheless, since you put the question, I willanswer, that my argument should induce our mother and sisters, aswell as the parish, to judge her more leniently. "

"The parish!" murmured Molly. "I was not thinking of _its_judgment, And I doubt if Hetty does. "

"You are right. The particular case--though unhappily we cannot helpdwelling on it--is merely an illustration. We, who have duties underChrist to all souls in our care, must neglect no means of showingthem the light, though it involve mortifying our own privatefeelings. "

Molly, who had been plucking and twisting all this while the twigbetween her fingers, suddenly cast it on the ground and hobbled away. 

John gazed after her, picked up the book and set it down again. The sermon came easily now. 

Having thought it out and arranged the headings in his mind, hereturned to the house and wrote rapidly for two hours in his bedroom. He then collected his manuscript, folded it neatly, scribbled a note, and called down the passage to the servant, Jane, whom he heardbustling about the parlour and laying dinner. To her he gave thenote and the sermon, to be carried to his father; picked up a crustof bread from the table; and a minute later left the house for a longwalk. 

Returning a little before supper-time, he found the manuscript on thetable by his bedside. No note accompanied it; there were none of theusual pencil-marks and comments in the margin. The Rector hadrestored it without a word. 

For a moment he was minded to go and seek an interview; but decidedthat, his resolution being fixed, an interview would but increasepain to no purpose. He washed and went down to the parlour, walkingpast the door of the study, in which his father supped alone. 

Next morning being Saturday, Mr. Wesley walked over to Epworth, to aroom above a chandler's shop, where he and John lodged in turn asthey took Epworth duty on alternate Sundays. The Rectory there wasclosed for the time and untenanted, the Ellisons having returned somemonths before to their own enlarged and newly furnished house. There, to be sure, a lodging might have been had at no cost, andSukey offered it as in duty bound. She knew very well, however, thatneither her father nor John could stomach being a guest of Dick's. The invitation was declined, and she did not press it. 

So on Sunday, August 28th, Mr. Wesley took the services at Epworthwhile John stayed at home and preached his sermon in Wroote church. 

From the pulpit he looked straight down into the tall Rectory pew, and once or twice his eyes involuntarily sought its occupants. Once, indeed, he paused in his discourse. It was after the words--"We are totally mistaken if we persuade ourselves that Christ waslenient towards sin. He made no hesitation in driving themoney-changers from His Father's temple even with a whip. But Hediscriminated between the sin and the sinner. The fig-tree Heblasted was one which, bearing no fruit, yet made a false show ofhealth: the Pharisees He denounced were men who covered rottennesswith a pretence of religion; the sinners He consorted with had asaving knowledge of their vileness. Sin He knew to be human andbound up in our nature: all was pardonable save the refusal toacknowledge it and repent, which is the sin against the Holy Ghosttestifying within us. If we confess our sins not only is He faithfuland just to forgive them, but He promises more joy in Heaven over ourrepentance than over ninety-and-nine just persons which need norepentance. And why? Because, as David foretold, a broken spirit isGod's peculiar sacrifice: 'a broken and contrite heart, O God, thouwilt not despise. ' Yet we in this parish have despised it. With sorrow I admit before you that in the household to which youshould reasonably look for example and guidance, it has beendespised. What then? Are we wiser than Christ, or more absolute?"

He paused. His mother sat stiff and upright with her eyes bent onthe ground. Only Charles and Molly looked up--she with a spot of redon either cheek, he with his bright pugnacious look, his nostrilsslightly distended scenting battle with delight. Emilia and Pattywere frowning; Kezzy, who hated all family jars, fidgeted with herprayer-book. 

The sermon ended and the benediction pronounced, he fetched from thevestry the white surplice in which he had read the prayers, and cameback to the pew in which the family waited as usual for the rest ofthe congregation to leave the church. Mrs. Wesley took the surplice, as she invariably took her husband's, to carry it home and hang it inthe wardrobe. They walked out. A fortnight before, his sisters hadbegun to discuss his sermon and rally him upon it as soon as theyfound themselves in the porch. To-day they were silent: and again atdinner, though John and his mother made an effort to talk of trivialmatters, the girls scarcely spoke. Charles only seemed in goodspirits and chattered away at ease, glancing at his brother from timeto time with a droll twinkle in his eye. 

Early next morning John set out for Epworth, having promised torelieve his father and visit the sick and poor there during the week. At Scawsit Bridge he met the Rector returning. The two shook handsand stood for a minute discussing some details of parish work: theneach continued on his way. Not a word was said of the sermon. 

CHAPTER XV. 

John remained at Epworth until Thursday evening. Dark was fallingwhen he set out to tramp back to Wroote, but the guns of a few latepartridge-shooters yet echoed across the common. A little beyondScawsit Bridge a figure came over the fields towards him, walkingswiftly in the twilight--a woman. He drew aside to let her pass; butin that instant she stretched out both hands to him and he recognisedher. 

"Hetty!"

She dropped her arms. "Are you not going to kiss me, Jack? Do you, too, cast me off?"

"God forbid!" he said, and lifted his face; for she was the taller bytwo inches. With a sob of joy she put out both hands again and drewhis lips to hers, a palm pressed on either cheek. 

"But what are you doing here?" he asked. 

"My husband has business at Haxey. We came from Lincoln thismorning, and just before sunset I crept over for a look at the house, hoping for a glimpse of you and Charles. They will not have meinside, Jack: father will not see me, and has forbidden the others. But I saw Johnny Whitelamb. He told me that Charles was indoors, atwork transcribing for father, and not easily fetched out; but thatyou were expected home from Epworth to-night. So I came to meet you. Was I running? I dare say. I was thirsty to see your face, dear, and hear your voice. "

"We have all dealt hardly with you, Hetty. "

"Ah, let that be! I must not pity myself, you understand? Indeed, dear, I was not thinking of myself. If only I could be invisible, and steal into the house at times and sit me down in a corner andwatch their faces and listen! That would be enough, brother: Idon't ask to join in that life again--only to stand apart and feed myeyes on it. "

"You are not happy, then?"

"Happy?" She mused for a while. "My man is kind to me: kinder than Ideserve. If God gives us a child--" She broke off, lowered her eyesand stammered, "You heard that I had--that one was born! Dead. He never breathed, the doctor told me. I ought to be glad, for _his_sake--and for William's--but I cannot be. "

"It was God's goodness. Look at Sukey, now; how much of her time herchildren take up. "

She drew back sharply and peered at him through the dusk. 

"Now that time is restored to you, " he went on, "you have nothing todo but to serve God without distraction, till you are sanctified inbody, soul and spirit. "

"Jacky, dear, " she asked hoarsely, "have they taught you at Oxford tospeak like that?"

He was offended, and showed it. "I have been speaking up for you;too warmly for my comfort. Father and mother, and indeed all butMolly, will have it that you talked lightly to them; that yourpenitence was feigned. I would not believe this, but that, as bymarriage you redeemed your conduct, so now you must be striving toredeem your soul. If you deny this, I have been in error and musttell them so. "

For a while she stood considering. "Brother, " she said, "I will beplain with you. Since this marriage was forced upon me, I havetried--and, please God, I will go on trying--to redeem my conduct. But of my soul I scarcely think at all. "

"Hetty, this is monstrous. "

"I pray, " she went on, "for help to be good. With tears I pray forit, and all day long I am trying to be good and do my duty. As formy soul, sometimes I wake and see the need to be anxious for it, andresolve to think of it anxiously: but when the morning comes, I haveno time--the day is too full. And sometimes I grow rebellious andvow that it is no affair of mine: let them answer for it who took itin charge and drove me to tread this path. And sometimes I tellmyself that once I had a soul, and it was sinful; but that God wasmerciful and destroyed it, with its record, when He destroyed mybaby. The doctor swore to me that it never drew a separate breath;no, not one. Tell me, Jack! A child that has never breathed canknow neither heaven nor hell--questions of baptism do not touch it--it goes out of darkness into darkness and is annihilated. Is thatnot so? So I assure myself, and sometimes I think that by the samestroke God wiped out the immortal part of me with its sins, that mybody and brain go on living, but that the soul of your Hetty willnever come up for judgment, for it has ceased to be. "

"Monstrous!"

"You understand, " she went on wearily, "that this is but one of mythoughts. My heart denies it whenever I long to creep back to Wrooteand listen to the old voices and be a child once more. But I amshowing you what is the truth--that upon one plea or another I put mysoul aside and excuse myself from troubling about it. "

"Sadder hearing there could not be. You have an imperishable soul, and owe it a care which should come before your duty even to yourhusband. "

"Ah, Jack, you may be a very great man: but you do not understandwomen! I wonder if you ever will? For now you do not even begin tounderstand. "

He would have answered in hot anger, but a noise on the pathprevented him. Four sportsmen came wending homeward in the dusk, shouldering their guns and laughing boisterously. In the loudest ofthe guffaws he recognised the voice of Dick Ellison. 

"Hallo!" The leader pulled himself up with a chuckle. "Here's pretty goings-on--the little parson colloguing with a wench!Dick, Dick, aren't you ashamed of your relatives?"

"Ashamed of them long ago, " stuttered Dick, lurching forward. He hadbeen making free with the flask all day. "Who is it?" he demanded. 

"Come, my lass--no need to be shy with me! Let's have a look at yourpretty face. " The fellow plucked at Hetty's hood. John gripped hisarm, was flung off with an indecent oath, and gripped him again. 

"This lady, sir, is my sister. "

"Eh?" Dick Ellison peered into Hetty's face. "So it is, by Jove!How d'ye do, Hetty?" He turned to his companion. "Well, you've madea nice mistake, " he chuckled. 

The man guffawed and slouched on. In two strides John was after himand had gripped him once more, this time by the collar. 

"Not so fast, my friend!"

"Here, hands off! This gun's loaded. What the devil d'you want?"

"I want an apology, " said John calmly. "Or rather, a couple ofapologies. " He faced the quartette: they could scarcely see hisface, but his voice had a ring in it no less cheerful than firm. "So far as I can make out in this light, gentlemen, you are alldrunk. You have made one of those foolish and disgusting mistakes towhich men in liquor are liable: but I should suppose you can musterup sense enough between you to see that this man owes an apology. "

"What if I refuse?"

"Why then, sir, I shall give myself the trouble to walk beside youuntil your sense of decency is happily restored. If that should nothappen between this and your own door, I must leave you for the nightand call upon you to-morrow. "

"This is no tone to take among gentlemen. "

"It is the tone you oblige me to take. "

"Come away, Jack!" Hetty besought him in a whisper: but she knewthat he would not. 

"Surely, " he said, "after so gross an offence you will lose no moretime in begging my sister's pardon?"

"Look you now, master parson, " growled the offender, "you are thin inthe legs, but I am not too drunk to shoot snipe. " With his gun hemenaced John, who did not flinch. 

But here Dick Ellison interposed. "Don't be a fool, Congdon! Put upyour gun and say you're sorry, like a gentleman. Damme"--Dick in hiscups was notoriously quarrelsome and capricious as to the grounds ofquarrel--"she's my sister, too, for that matter. And Jack's mybrother: and begad, he has the right of it. He's a pragmaticalfellow, but as plucky as ginger, and I love him for it. Fight him, you'll have to fight me--understand? So up and say you're sorry, like a man. "

"Oh, if you're going to take that line, I'm willing enough. "Mr. Congdon shuffled out an apology. 

"_That's_ right, " Dick Ellison announced. "Now shake hands on it, like good fellows. Jack's as good a man as any of us for all hislong coat. "

"Excuse me, " John interrupted coldly, "I have no wish to shake handswith any of you. I accept for my sister Mr. Congdon's assurance thathe is ashamed of himself, and now you are at liberty to go your way. "

"At liberty!" grumbled one: but, to Hetty's surprise, they went. Jack might not understand women: he could master men. For her partshe thought he might have shaken hands and parted in good-fellowship. She listened to the sportsmen's unsteady retreat. At a littledistance they broke into defiant laughter, but discomfiture was inthe sound. 

"Come, " said John. She took his arm and they walked on togethertowards Wroote. 

For a while neither spoke. Hetty was thinking of a story once toldher by her mother: how that once the Rector, then a young man, hadbeen sitting in Smith's Coffee House in the City and discussing the_Athenian Gazette_ with his fellow-contributors, when an officer ofthe Guards, in a box at the far end of the room, kept interruptingthem with the foulest swearing. Mr. Wesley called to the waiter tobring a glass of water. It was brought. "Carry this, " he saidaloud, "to that gentleman in the red coat, and desire him to rinsehis mouth after his oaths. " The officer rose up in a fury, with handon sword, but the gentlemen in his box pulled him down. "Nay, colonel, you gave the first offence. You know it is an affront toswear before a clergyman. " The officer was restrained. Mr. Wesleyresumed his talk. And her mother went on to tell that, years after, when the Rector was in London attending Convocation, a gentlemanstopped him one day as he crossed St. James's Park. "Do you know me, Mr. Wesley?" "Sir, I have not that pleasure. " "Will you know me, then, if I remind you that once, in Smith's Coffee House, you taughtme a lesson? Since that time, sir, I thank God I have feared an oathand everything that is offensive to the Divine Majesty. I rejoiced, just now, to catch sight of you, and could not refrain fromexpressing my gratitude. "

And John inherited this gift of mastery. He could not understandwomen, nor could she ever understand him: but she felt that the armshe held was one of steel. To what end she and her sisters and hermother had been sacrificed she could not yet divine: but theencounter by the bridge had reawakened the Wesley pride in her, andshe walked acquiescent in a fate beyond her ken. She knew, too, thathe had dismissed the squabble from his mind and was thinking of herconfession and her soul's danger. But here she would not help him. 

"You have heard, " she asked, "that we are leaving Lincoln?"

This was news to him. 

"Yes; my husband thinks of opening a business in London: but first hemust sell the shop and effects and pension off his father intolodgings at Louth. That is the old man's native home, and he wishesto end his days there. He is loth to leave the business; but trulyhe has brought it low, and we must move if William is to make hisfortune. "

"Moving to London will be a risk, and a heavy expense. "

"Uncle Matthew is helping us, and it is settled that we move in theautumn. We go into lodgings at first, and shall live in the humblestway while we look about us for a good workshop and premises. "

"Do you and your husband's father agree?"

"I at least try to please him. You would not call him a pleasant oldman: and of course he charges this new adventure down to myinfluence, whereas it is entirely William's notion. I have hadnothing to do with it beyond enlisting Uncle Matthew's help. "

John glanced at her as though to read her face in the darkness. "Was that also William's notion?" he asked. 

But here again he betrayed his ignorance. True woman, though she mayhave ceased to love her husband, or may never have loved him, willcover his weakness. "We have our ambitions, Jack, although to youthey seem petty enough. You must make William's acquaintance. He has a great opinion of you. I believe, indeed, he thinks more ofyou than of me. And if he wishes to leave Lincoln for London, it ispartly for my sake, that I may be happier in a great city where myfault is not known. "

"If, as it seems, he thinks of your earthly comfort but neglects yoursoul's health, I shall not easily be friends with him. "

By this time they were close to the garden gate. 

"Is that you, Jack?" Charles's voice hailed over the dark hedge ofprivet. 

The pair came to a halt. Hetty's eyes were fastened imploringly onher brother. He did not see them. If he had, it would have made nodifference. He pitied her, but in his belief her repentance was notthorough: he had no right to invite her past the gate. 

"Good-bye, " he whispered. 

She understood. With a sob she bent her face and kissed him and wasgone like a ghost back into the darkness. 

Charles met him at the gate. "Hallo, " said he, "surely I heardvoices? With whom were you talking?"

"With Hetty. "

"Hetty?" Charles let out a whistle. "But it is about her I wanted tospeak, here, before you go indoors. I say--where is she? Cannot wecall her back?"

"No: we have no right. To some extent I have changed my mind abouther: or rather, she has forced me to change it. Her soul ishardened. "

"By whose fault?"

"No matter by whose fault: she must learn her responsibility to God. Father has been talking with you, I suppose. "

"Yes: he is bitterly wroth--the more bitterly, I believe, because heloves you better than any of us. He says you have him at opendefiance. 'Every day, ' he cried out on me, 'you hear how hecontradicts me, and takes your sister's part before my face. And nowcomes this sermon! He rebukes me in the face of my parish. 'Mind you, I am not taking his part: if you stand firm, so will I. But I wanted to tell you this, that you may know how to meet him. "

For a while the brothers paced the dark walls in silence. Under thefalling dew the scent of honeysuckle lay heavy in the garden. Years later, in his country rides, a whiff from the hedgerow wouldarrest Charles as he pondered a hymn to the beat of his horse'shoofs, and would carry him back to this hour. John's senses wereless acute, and all his thoughts for the moment turned inward. 

"I have done wrong, " he announced at length and walked hastilytowards the house. 

In the hall he met his father coming out. "Sir, " he said, "I havebehaved undutifully. I have neglected you and set myself tocontradict you. I was seeking you to beg your forgiveness. "

To his amazement the Rector put a hand on either shoulder, stoopedand kissed him. 

"It was a heavy sorrow to me, Jack. Now I see that you are good atbottom; and to-morrow, if you wish, you shall write for me. Nay, come into the study now, and see the work that is ready foryou. "

In the light of the study lamp John saw that his father's eyes werewet. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Late in September, having been chosen to preach on St. Michael's Dayin St. Michael's Church the sermon annually delivered by a Fellow ofLincoln, John travelled up to Oxford, whither Charles followed him aweek or two later, to take up his residence in Christ Church, and bematriculated on the first day of the October term. 

John had deferred his journey to the last moment, in order to standgodfather to Nancy's healthy firstborn. John Lambert--honest man andproud father--had honoured the event with a dinner, and very nearlywrecked his own domestic peace by sending out the invitations in hisown hand and including Mr. And Mrs. Wright. For weeks after, Nancyshuddered to think what might have happened if Hetty and her fatherhad come face to face at the ceremony or the feast. By good luck--orrather by using her common sense and divining the mistake--Hettyrefused. Her husband, however, insisted on attending, and she lethim go. With _his_ presence the Rector could not decently quarrel. 

"But look here, " said he, "I am getting tired of the line the old mantakes. It wasn't in our bond: he waited to spring it on me after thewedding. If I can overlook things, he should be able to, and I've amind to tell him so. " He urged her to come. But Hetty pleaded thatshe could not; it was now past the middle of September, and her babywould be born early in the new year. "Well, well, " he grumbled, "but'tis hard to have married a lady, and a beauty to boot, and never achance to show her. " The speech was gracious after his fashion, aswell as honest: but she shivered inwardly. For as time wore on, sheperceived this desire growing in him, to take her abroad and displayher with pride. Failing this, he had once or twice brought his owncronies home, to sit and smoke with him while he watched their uneasyadmiration and enjoyed the tribute. She blamed herself that she hadnot been more genial on those occasions; but in truth she dreadedthem horribly. By sheer force of will she had managed hitherto, andwith fair success, to view her husband as a good honest man, andoverlook his defects of breeding. In her happiest moods she almostbelieved in the colours with which (poor soul, how eagerly!) shedecked him. But she could not extend the illusion to his friends. "You shall show _him_ off, " she pleaded, meaning the unborn babe. "We will show him off together. " But her face was white. 

So William Wright had gone alone to the christening feast, and thereJohn Wesley had met him for the first time, and talked with him, andafterwards walked home full of thought. For, in truth, Hetty'shusband had drunk more of John Lambert's wine than agreed with him, and had asserted himself huskily, if not aggressively, under the coldeye of Mr. Wesley senior. John, as godfather, had been called uponfor a speech, and his brother-in-law's "Hear, hear" had been sovociferous that while his kinsfolk stole glances at one another aswho should say, "But what can one expect?" the Rector put out a handwith grim mock apprehension and felt the leaded window casements. "I'll mend all I break, and for nothing, " shouted Mr. Wrightheartily: and amid a scandalised silence Charles exploded in merrylaughter, and saved the situation. 

For a fortnight after his return to Oxford, college work absorbed allJohn's leisure: but he found time as a matter of course to meetCharles on his arrival at the Angel Inn, and took him straight off toChrist Church to present him to the Senior Censor. Next day hecalled to find his brother installed in Peckwater, on the topmostfloor, but in rooms very much more cheerful than the garret suggestedby Mr. Sherman. Charles, at any rate, was delighted with them andhis sticks of furniture, and elated--as thousands of undergraduateshave been before his day and since--at exchanging school for collegeand qualified liberty and the dignity of housekeeping on one's ownaccount. 

"_Est aliquid quocunque loco, quocunque recessu_, " he quoted, andshowed John with triumph the window seat which, lifted, disclosed acupboard to contain his wine, if ever he should possess any. 

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

Charles closed the lid, seated himself upon it, drew up his legs, andgazed out across the quadrangle. He had made a friend or two alreadyamong the freshmen, and this life seemed to him very good. 

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

John frowned. "You do not forget, I hope, in what hope you have beenhelped to Christ Church?"

Charles sat nursing his knees. A small frown puckered his forehead, but scarcely interfered with the good-tempered smile about his mouth. 

"Others beside my father have helped or are willing to help. See that letter?"--he nodded towards one lying open on the table--"It is from Ireland. It has been lying in the porter's lodge for aweek, and my scout brought it up this morning. "

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

Charles nodded, and while his brother read, gazed out of window. The smile still played about his mouth, but queerly. 

"It is a handsome offer, " said John slowly, and laid the letter down. "Have you taken any decision?"

"Father leaves it to me, as you know, " Charles answered and paused, musing. "I suppose, now, ninety-nine out of a hundred would jump atit. "

"Assuredly. "

"Somehow our family seems to be made up of odd hundredths. You, forexample, do not wish me to accept. "

"I have said nothing to influence your choice. "

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

John picked up the letter again and folded it carefully. 

"An estate in Ireland; a safe seat in the Irish Parliament; andmoney. Jack, that money might help to make many happy. Think of ourmother, often without enough to eat; think of father's debts. He knows I would pay them, " said Charles. 

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

"He's a Trojan, Jack; an old warhorse. You have cause to love him, for he loves you so much above all of us--and you know it--that, hadthe choice been offered you, he'd have moved heaven and earth toprevent your accepting a fortune. "

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

"Upon my word, " he went on, "this thing annoys me. I've a mind to--"Here he dived a hand into his breeches pocket and fished out ashilling. "We'll settle it here and now, and you shall be witness. Heads for Dangan Castle and Parliament House; tails for poverty!"

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

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

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

"I have seen you open the Bible at random and take your omen from thefirst words your eyes light on. Yet I never accused you of jestingwith Holy Writ. Cannot God as easily determine the fall of a coin?"

He withdrew his hand, and drew a deep breath. "Tails!" he announced, and faced his brother, smiling. "I am in earnest, " he said. "But if you prefer the other way--"

He stepped to the shelf, took down his Bible and opened it, notlooking himself, but holding the page under his brother's eyes. 

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

"It says, " John answered, "'Let the high praises of God be in theirmouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand. '"

Charles closed the Bible and restored it to its shelf; then faced hisbrother again, still with his inscrutable smile. 

BOOK IV. 

CHAPTER I. 

"I never knew you were such a needlewoman, Hetty. It has beennothing but stitch-stitch for these two hours--and the sameyesterday, and the day before. See, the kettle's boiling. Lay downyour sewing, that's a dear creature; make me a dish of tea; and whileyou're doing it, let me see your eyes and hear your voice. "

Hetty dropped her hands on her lap and let them rest there for amoment, while she looked across at Charles with a smile. 

"As for talking, " she answered, "it seems to me you have been doingpretty well without my help. "

Charles laughed. "Now you speak of it, I _have_ been rattling on. But there has been so much to say and so little time to say it in. Has it occurred to you that we have seen more of each other in theseseven days than in all our lives before?"

Seven days ago, while staying with his brother Sam at Westminster, hehad heard of her arrival in London and had tramped through the slushystreets at once to seek her out at her address in Crown Court, DeanStreet, Soho. She had welcomed him in this dark little second-floorroom--dwelling-room and bedroom combined--in which she was sittingalone; for her husband spent most of the day abroad on the businesswhich had brought them to London, either superintending thealterations in the unfurnished premises he had hired in Frith Streetfor his shop and the lead-works by which he proposed to make hisfortune, or in long discussions at Johnson's Court with UncleMatthew, who was helping with money and advice. The lodgings inCrown Court were narrow enough and shut in by high walls. But Hettyhad not inhabited them two hours before they looked clean andcomfortable and even dainty. Her own presence lent an air ofdistinction to the meanest room. 

Her face, her voice, her regal manners, her exquisitely tender smile, came upon Charles with the shock of discovery. These two had notseen one another for years. The date of this first call was December22nd: then and there--with a shade of regret that in a few days hemust leave London to pay Wroote a visit before his vacation closed--Charles resolved that she should not spend her Christmas uncheered. On Christmas Day he had carried her off with her husband to dine atWestminster with Mr. And Mrs. Sam Wesley. Mr. Wright had been on hisbest behaviour, Mrs. Sam unexpectedly gracious, and the meetingaltogether a great success. Charles had walked home with the guests, and had called again the next afternoon. He could see that hisvisits gave Hetty the purest delight, and now that they must end, he, too, realised how pleasant they had been, and that he was going tomiss them sorely. 

"Only seven days?" he went on, musing. "I can hardly believe it; youhave let me talk at such length--and I have been so happy. "

Hetty clapped her hands together--an old girlish trick of hers. "It's I that have been happy! And not least in knowing that you willdo us all credit. " She knit her brows. "You are different from allthe rest of us, Charles; I cannot explain how. But, sure, there's aProvidence in it, that you, who are meant for different fortunes--"

"How different?"

"Why, you will take our kinsman's offer, of course. You will move ina society far above us--go into Parliament--become a greatstatesman--"

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

"Refused!" She set down the kettle and gazed at him. "Is thisJohn's doing?" she asked slowly. 

"Why should it be John's doing?" He was nettled, and showed it. "I am old enough to make a choice for myself. "

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

"Who are ruthless?"

"Father and John. They would compass heaven and earth to make oneproselyte; and the strange thing to me is that John at least does itin a cold mechanical way, almost as if his own mind stood outside ofthe process. Father is set on his inheriting Wroote and Epworthcures, John on saving his own soul; let them come to terms or fightit out between them. But how can it profit Epworth or John's soulthat they should condemn _you_, as they have condemned mother and allof us, to hopeless poverty? What end have they in view? Or havethey any? For what service, pray, are you held in reserve?"She paused. "Somehow I think they will not wholly succeed, eventhough they have done this thing between them. You will fall on yourfeet; your face is one the world will make friends with. You mayserve their purpose, but something of you--your worldly happiness, belike--will slip and escape from the millstones which have groundthe rest of us to powder. "

She picked up the kettle again and turned her back upon him while shefilled the tea-pot at the small table. For the first time in theirtalks she had spoken bitterly. 

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

"Is there such a thing as free will in our family? I never detectedit. As babes we were yoked to the chariot to drag Jack's soul up tothe doors of salvation. I only rebelled, and--Charles, I am sorry, but not all penitent. "

He ignored these last words. "You are quoting from Molly, I think. She and Jack seldom agree. "

"Because, dear soul, she reads that Jack despises while he uses her. He looks upon her as the weak one in the team; he doubts she maybreak down on the road, and she, too, looks forward to it, though notwith any fear. "

"For some reason, father allows her to talk to him as no one elsedoes--not even mother. Do you know that one day last summer fatherand I were discussing Jack and the chance of his ever settling atEpworth; for this is in the old man's thoughts now, almost day andnight. We were in the study by the window, and Molly at the tablemaking a fair copy of the morning's work on Job; we did not think sheheard us. All of a sudden she looked up and quoted 'Doth the hawkfly by _thy_ wisdom and stretch her wings toward the south?'I supposed she was repeating it aloud from her manuscript, but fatherknew better and swung round upon her. 'Do you presume, then, to knowwhither or how far Jack will fly?' he demanded. She turned a queerlook upon him, not flinching as I expected, and 'I shall see him, 'she answered, using Balaam's words; 'I shall see him, but not now: Ishall behold him, but not nigh. ' And with that she dropped her headand went on quietly with her writing. As for father, if you'llbelieve me, it simply dumbfounded him; he hadn't a word!"

"And I will tell you why. Once on a time that weak darling stood upfor me to his face. She would not tell me what happened. But Ibelieve that ever since father has been as nearly afraid of her as ofanyone in the world. . . . And now I want a promise. You say youhave been happy in these talks of ours; and heaven knows I have beenhappier than for many a long day. Well, I want you to tell Mollyabout me--alone, remember--for of them all she only tried to help me, and believes in me still. "

"Why, of course I shall. "

"And, " Hetty smiled, "they have no poet among them now. You mightsend me some of your verses for a keepsake. "

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

"Oh, my dear, " she laughed merrily, "one divines it! the more easilyfor having known the temptation. "

He had set down his tea-cup and was standing up now, in his youngconfusion fingering the sewing she had laid aside. 

"What is this you are doing?" he asked, with his eyes on thebaby-linen; and though he uttered the first question that came intohis head, and merely to cover his blushes, as he asked it the truthcame to him, and he blushed more redly than ever. 

Hetty blushed too. She saw that he had guessed at length, but shesaw him also clothed in a shining innocence. She felt suddenly that, though she might love him better, there were privacies she could notdiscuss with Charles as with John. And for the moment Charles seemedto her the more distant and mysterious of the two. 

What she answered was--"We shall be following you back toLincolnshire in a few days. I am to stay at Louth, in the housewhere William has found lodgings for his father--who was born atLouth, you know, and has now determined to end his days there. William will not be with me at first; he has to wind up the businessat Lincoln and looks for some unpleasantness, as he has made himselfresponsible for all the old man's debts. I may even find my way toWroote before facing Louth. "

"To Wroote?"

"As a moth to the old cruel flame, dear. They will not take me in:but I know where to find a bedroom. Women have curious fancies attimes; and I feel as if I may die very likely, and I want to seetheir faces first. "

She stepped to him and kissed him hurriedly, hearing her husband'sstep on the stairs. "Remember to speak with Molly!"

CHAPTER II. 

EXTRACTED FROM THE WESLEY CORRESPONDENCE. 

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

 January 20th, 1727. Poor Sister Hetty! 'twas but a week before I left London that I knew she was at it. Little of that time you may be sure, did I lose, being with her almost continually; I could almost envy myself the doat of pleasure I had crowded within that small space. In a little neat room she had hired, did the good-natured, ingenuous, contented creature watch, and I talk, over a few short days which we both wished had been longer. As yet she lives pretty well, having but herself and honest W. W. To keep, though I fancy there's another a-coming. Brother Sam and sister are very kind to her, and I hope will continue so, for I have cautioned her never to contradict my sister, whom she knows. I'd like to have forgot she begs you'd write to her, at Mrs. Wakeden's in Crown Court, Dean Street, near Soho Square. 

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

 You were very much mistaken in thinking I took ill your desiring my sister Emily to knit you another pair of gloves. What I meant was to my brother Jack, because he gave her charge to look to my well-doing of his: but I desire you no more to mention your obligation to me for the gloves, for by your being pleased with them I am fully paid. 

 Dear brother, I beg you not to let the present straits you labour under to narrow your mind, or render you morose or churlish, but rather resign yourself and all your affairs to Him who best knows what is fittest for you, and will never fail to provide for whoever sincerely trusts in Him. I think I may say I have lived in a state of affliction ever since I was born, being the ridicule of mankind and reproach of my family; and I dare not think God deals hardly with me, and though He has set His mark upon me, I still hope my punishment will not be greater than I am able to bear; nay, since God is no respecter of persons, I must and shall be happier in that life than if I had enjoyed all the advantages of this. 

 My unhappy sister was at Wroote the week after you left us, where she stayed two or three days, and returned again to Louth without seeing my father. Here I must stop, for when I think of her misfortunes, I may say with Edgar, "O fortune! . . . "

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

 Though I have not the good fortune to be one of your favourite sisters, yet I know you won't grudge the postage now and then, which, if it can't be afforded, I desire that you will let me know, that I may trouble you no further. I am sensible nothing I can say will add either to your pleasure or your profit; and that you are of the same mind is evidently shown by not writing when an opportunity offered. But why should I wonder at any indifference shown to such a despicable person as myself? I should be glad to find that miracle of nature, a friend which not all the disadvantages I labour under would hinder from taking the pains to cultivate and improve my mind; but since God has cut me off from the pleasurable parts of life, and rendered me incapable of attracting the love of my relations, I must use my utmost endeavour to secure an eternal happiness, and He who is no respecter of persons will require no more than He has given. You may now think that I am uncharitable in blaming my relations for want of affection, and I should readily agree with you had I not convincing reasons to the contrary; one of which is that I have always been the jest of the family--and it is not I alone who make this observation, for then it might very well be attributed to my suspicion--but here I will leave it and tell you some news. 

 Mary Owran was married to-day, and we only wanted your company to make us completely merry; for who can be sad where you are? Please get Miss Betsy to buy me some silk to knit you another pair of gloves, and I don't doubt you will doubly like the colour for the buyer's sake. 

 My sister Hetty's child is dead, and your godson grows a lovely boy, and will, I hope, talk to you when he sees you: which I should be glad to do now. 

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

 Feb. 7th, 1727. 

 I must confess you had a better opinion of me than I deserved: for jealousy did indeed suggest that you had very small kindness for me. When you sent the parcel to my sister Lambert, and wrote to her and sister Emme, and not to me, I was much worse grieved than before. Though I cannot possibly be so vain as to think that I do for my own personal merits deserve more love than my sisters, yet can you blame me if I sometimes wish I had been so happy as to have the first place in your heart?

 Sister Emme is gone to Lincoln again, of which I'm very glad for her own sake; for she is weak and our misfortunes daily impair her health. Sister Kezzy, too, will have a fair chance of going. I believe if sister Molly stays long at home it will be because she can't get away. It is likely in a few years' time our family may be lessened--perhaps none left but your poor sister Martha, for whose welfare few are concerned. 

 My father has been at Louth to see sister Wright, who by good providence was brought to bed two days before he got thither; which perhaps might prevent his saying what he otherwise might have said to her; for none that deserves the name of man would say anything to grieve a woman in a condition where grief is often present death to them. I fancy you have heard before now that her child is dead. 

Of these letters but a faint echo reached Hetty as she lay in her bedat Louth--a few words transcribed by Charles from the one (No. 2)received by him, and sent with his affectionate inquiries. He addedthat Molly had also written to Jack, but to what effect he knew not;only that Jack, after reading it in his presence, had 'pish'd' andpocketed it in a huff. 

She lay in a darkened room, with her own hopes at their darkest--orrather, their blankest. She had journeyed to Wroote, and from herhumble lodging there had written an honest letter to her father, begging only to see her mother or Molly, promising to hold nocommunication with them if he refused. He had refused, in a curtnote of three lines. From Wroote she returned to Louth, to face hertrouble alone; for the preliminaries of selling the Lincoln businesshad brought old Wright's creditors about her husband's ears like aswarm of wasps. Until then they had waited with fair patience: butno sooner did he make a perfectly honest move towards paying them offin a lump than the whole swarm took panic and he was forced to decampto London to escape the sponging-house. There Uncle Matthew came tothe rescue, satisfied immediate claims, and guaranteed the rest. But meanwhile Hetty's child--a boy, as she had prayed--was born, anddied on the third day after birth. 

She hardly dared to think of it--of the poor mite and the hopes shehad built on him. As she had told Charles, she was sorry, but notpenitent--at least not wholly penitent. Once she had been whollypenitent: but the tyrannous compulsion of her marriage had eased ordeadened her sense of responsibility. Henceforth she had no duty butto make the best of it. So she told herself, and had conscientiouslystriven to make the best of it. She had even succeeded, up to apoint; by shutting herself within doors and busily, incessantly, spinning a life of illusion. She was a penitent--a woman in a book--redeeming her past by good conduct. The worst of it was that herhusband declined to help the cheat. He was proud of her, honest man!and had no fancy at all for the _role_ assigned to him, of "all forlove, and the world well lost. " That she refused to be shown off heset down to sulkiness; and went off of an evening to taverns andreturned fuddled. She studied, above all things, to make home brightfor him, and ever met him with a smile: and this was good enough, yetnot (as it slowly grew clear to her) precisely what he wanted. So she had been driven to build fresh hopes on the unborn babe. _He_ would make all the difference: would win his father back, or atworst give her own life a new foundation for hope. Her son should bea gentleman: she would deny herself and toil and live for him. 

And now God had resumed His gift, and her life was blank indeed. She might have another--and another might die. She had neversupposed that this one could die, and its death gave her a dreadfulfeeling of insecurity--as if no child of hers could ever be reared. What then? The prospect of pardon by continued good conduct seemedto her shadowy indeed. Something more was needed. Yes, penitencewas needed; _real_ penitence: urgently, she felt the need of it andyet for the life of her could not desire it as she knew it ought tobe desired. 

She turned from the thought and let her mind dwell on the sentence ortwo quoted by Charles from Molly's letter. They were peevishsentences, and she did not doubt that the letter to John had been yetmore peevish. Life had taught her what some never learn, that folksare not to be divided summarily into good and bad, right and wrong, pleasant and unpleasant. Men and women are not always refined orennobled by unmerited suffering. They are soured often, sometimescoarsened. Hetty loved Molly far better than she loved John: but ina flash she saw that, not Molly only, but all her sisters who hadsuffered for John's advancement, would exact the price of theirsacrifices in a consuming jealousy to be first in his favour. She saw it so clearly that she pitied him for what would worry himincessantly and be met by him with a patient conscientiousness. He would never understand--could never understand--on what thesejealous sisters of his based their claims. 

She saw it the more closely because she had no care of her own tostand first with him. She smiled and stretched out an arm along thepillow where the babe was not. Then suddenly she buried her face init and wept, and being weak, passed from tears into sleep. 

CHAPTER III. 

Molly's protest against the tyranny of home had long since passedinto a mere withholding of assent. She went about her daily taskmore dutifully than ever. She had always been the household drudge:but now she not only took over all the clerical work upon the_Dissertationes in Librum Jobi_ (for the Rector's right hand wasshaken by palsy and the drawings occupied more and more of JohnnyWhitelamb's time); she devised new schemes for eking out the familyincome. She bred poultry. With Johnny's help--he was famous withthe spade--she added half an acre to the kitchen garden and plantedit. The summer of 1727 proved one of the rainiest within men'smemory, and floods covered the face of the country almost to theParsonage door. "I hope, " wrote the Rector to John on June 6th, "I may be able to serve both my cures this summer, or if not, diepleasantly in my last dike. " On June 21st he could "make shift toget from Wroote to Epworth by boat. " Five days later he was twistedwith rheumatism as a result of his Sunday journey to Epworth andback, "being lamed with having my breeches too full of water, partlywith a downpour from a thunder-shower, and partly from the wash overthe boat. Yet I thank God I was able to preach here in theafternoon. I wish the rain had not reached us on this side Lincoln, but we have it so continual that we have scarce one bank left, and Ican't possibly have one quarter of oats in all the levels; but thanksbe to God the field-barley and rye are good. We can neither go afootnor horseback to Epworth, but only by boat as far as Scawsit Bridgeand then walk over the common, though I hope it will soon be better. "

That week the floods subsided, and on July 4th he wrote again:"My hide is tough, and I think no carrion can kill me. I walkedsixteen miles yesterday; and this morning, I thank God, I was not apenny worse. The occasion of this booted walk was to hire a room formyself at Epworth, which I think I have done. You will find yourmother much altered. I believe what would kill a cat has almostkilled her. I have observed of late little convulsions in her veryfrequently, which I don't like. "

This report frightened John, who wrote back urgently for furtherparticulars. Mrs. Wesley had indeed fallen into a low state ofhealth, occasioned partly (as Kezzy declared in a letter) by "want ofclothes or convenient meat, " partly by the miasma from the floods. Ague was the commonest of maladies in the Isle of Axholme, and eventhe labourers fortified themselves against it with opium. 

"Dear son John, " replied the Rector sardonically, "we received lastpost your compliments of condolence and congratulation to your motheron the supposition of her near approaching demise, to which yoursister Patty will by no means subscribe; for she says she is not sogood a philosopher as you are, and that she can't spare her motheryet, if it please God, without great inconveniency. And indeed, though she has now and then some very sick fits, yet I hope the sightof you would revive her. However, when you come you will see a newface of things, my family being now pretty well colonised, and allperfect harmony--much happier, in no small straits, than perhaps weever were in our greatest affluence. "

Molly, while she helped to cook the miserable meals which could nottempt her mother's appetite, or looked abroad upon the desolatefloods, saw with absolute clearness that this apparent peace was butthe peace of exhaustion. Yet it was true that--thanks to her--thepinch of poverty had relaxed. The larger debts were paid: for somemonths she had not opened the door to a dunning tradesman. The floods, as by a miracle, had spared her crops and she had ascheme for getting her surplus vegetables conveyed to Epworth market. Already she had opened up a trade in fowls with a travelling dealer. "Molly, " wrote her father, "miraculously gets money even in Wroote, and has given the first fruit of her earning to her mother, lendingher money, and presenting her with a new cloak of her own buying andmaking, for which God will bless her. "

Her secret dissent did not escape the Rector's eye, so alert forevery sign of defiance: but in his expanding sense of success he letit pass. There was another, however, who divined it and watched itanxiously day after dreary day, for it answered a trouble in his ownbreast. 

Johnny Whitelamb was now almost a man grown: but what reallyseparated him from the Johnny Whitelamb of two years ago was noincrease in stature or in knowledge. That which grew within him, andstill grew, defying all efforts to kill it, was--a doubt. It hadbeen born in him--no bigger then than a grain of mustard-seed--on theday when he sought Hetty to send her to the house where WilliamWright waited for her answer. Until then the Rector had been to hima divine man, in wisdom and goodness very little lower than theangels. And now--

He fought it hard, at first in terror, at length in cold desperation. But still the doubt grew. And the worst was that Molly guessed hissecret. He feared to meet her eye. It seemed to him that he and shewere bound in some monstrous conspiracy. He spent hours in wrestlingwith it. At times he would rise from table on some stammered excuse, rush off to the fields and there, in a hidden corner, fall on hisknees and pray, or even lie at full length, his face hidden in thegrasses, his body writhing, his ungainly legs twisting anduntwisting. And still the doubt grew. 

Everything confirmed it. He saw the suffering by which mother anddaughters were yoked. He noted the insufficient food, the thinclothing, the wan cheeks, the languid tread. He no longer took thesefor granted, but looked into their causes. And the Rector'sblindness to them, or indifference, became a terror to him--a thinginhuman. 

He began to think him mad. Worse, he began to hate him: he, JohnnyWhitelamb, who had taken everything at his hands--food, clothing, knowledge, even his faith in God! He accused himself for a monsterof ingratitude, whose sins invited the sky to fall and blot him out. And still he could not meet Molly's eyes; still, in spite of checksand set-backs, the doubt grew. 

It was almost at its worst one morning in late August, when theRector invited him to lay by his drawings and walk beside him as faras Froddingham, where he had business to transact. (It was to payover 5 pounds, and meet a note given by him in the spring to keepCharles in pocket-money. ) Had Johnny been in a more charitable mood, the accent in which the old man proffered the invitation would havestruck him as pathetic. For the Rector it was indeed a rareconfession of weakness. But three weeks before his purblind nagMettle had stumbled, flung him, trailed him a few yards on the groundwith one foot in the stirrup, and come to a standstill with one hoofplanted blunderingly on his other foot. It had been a narrow escape, had caused him excruciating pain, and he limped still. To walk, evenwith a stick, was impossible. But the money must be paid atFroddingham and he would trust no messenger. So he mounted the mare, Bounce, and set forth at a foot-pace, with Johnny striding alongsideand noting how the white palsied hand shook on the rein. Johnny noted it without pity: for the doubt was awake and clamorous. If ever he hated his benefactor, he hated him that morning. 

The morning was gray, with a blusterous south-west wind of more thansummer strength; and the floods had subsided, but the Trent, barelycontained within its banks, was running down on a fierce ebb-tide. They reached Althorpe, and while waiting for the horse-boat to crossto Burringham, Johnny found time to wonder at the force of two orthree gusts which broke on the lapping water and drove it like whitesmoke against the bows of a black keel, wind-bound and anchored inmid-channel about fifty yards down-stream. 

It turned out that the ferryman, who worked the horse-boat with hiseldest son, had himself walked over to Bottesford earlier in themorning: and Johnny felt some uneasiness at finding his placesupplied by a boy scarcely fourteen. Mr. Wesley, however, seemed inno apprehension, but coaxed Bounce to embark and stood with heramidships, holding her bridle, as the boat was pushed off. Johnny took his seat, fronting the elder lad, who pulled the sternoar. 

They started in a lull of the wind. Johnny's first thought of dangerhad never been definite, and he had forgotten it--was busy in factwith the doubt--when, half-way across, one of the white squallsswooped down on them and the youngster in the bows, instead ofpulling for dear life, dropped his oar with a face of panic. 

Johnny felt the jerk, heard the Rector's cry of warning, and in twoseconds (he never knew how) had leapt over the stern oar, across thethwarts, past the kicking and terrified Bounce--with whom the Rectorwas struggling as she threatened to leap overboard--and reached thebows in time to snatch the oar as it slipped over the side. But ithad snapped both the thole-pins short off in their sockets and wasuseless. The boat's nose fell off and they were swept down towardsthe anchored hulk below. Johnny could only wait for the crash, andhe waited: and in those few instants--the doubt being still uponhim--bethought him that likely enough the Rector could not swim, orwould be disabled by his lameness. And . . . Was he sorry? He hadnot answered this question when the crash came--the ferry-boatstriking the very stem of the keel, her gunwale giving way to it witha slow grinding noise, then with a bursting crack as the splintersbroke inwards. As it seemed to him, there were two distinct bumps, and between them the boat filled slowly and the mare slid away intothe water. He heard voices shouting on board the keel. The waterrose to his knees and he sank in it, almost on top of Mr. Wesley. At once he felt the whirl of the current, but not before he hadgripped the Rector's collar. The other hand he flung up blindly. By Providence the keel was freighted with sea-coal and low in thewater, and as the pair slid past, Johnny's fingers found and grippedthe bulwark-coaming. So for a half-minute he hung--his body and theRector's trailing out almost on the surface with the force of thewater, his arm almost dislocated by the strain--until a couple ofcolliers came running to help and hauled them on board, the Rectorfirst. They had gripped the small boy as the boat sank, and he stoodin the bows scared and dripping, but otherwise nothing the worse. His brother, it appeared, could swim like a fish and was already agood hundred yards downstream, not fighting the current, but edginglittle by little for the home shore. And astern of him battled themare. 

The colliers had a light boat on deck, but with it even in calm waterthey could have done little to help the poor creature, and on such astream it was quite useless. They stood watching and discussing heras she turned from time to time, either as the tide carried her or invain, wild efforts to stem it: the latter, probably, for after someten minutes (by which time her head had diminished to a black speckin the distance) she seemed to learn wisdom from the example of theswimmer ahead, resisted no longer, and was finally cast ashore andcaught by him more than half a mile below. 

Johnny, seated on the grimy deck, heard the colliers discussing herstruggles, but took no concern in them. His eyes were all for theRector, who, after the first fit of coughing, lay and panted againsthis knees, with gaze fastened on the steel-gray sky above. 

He had saved his life. But had he really desired to? The action hadbeen instinctive merely: and a moment before he had been speculatingon the Rector's death, assenting, almost hoping! Had he translatedthat assent into deed--had he been given time to obey the wickedwhisper in his heart--he would now be the blackest criminal underheaven. God had interposed to save him from this: but was he any theless a sinner in intent?

How had he come to harbour the thought? For now again it was to himunthinkable as of old--yet in his madness he had thought it. There abode the memory, never to be escaped. He looked down on thevenerable face, the water-drops yet trickling from the brow, usuallytinted with exposure to sun and wind but now pale as old ivory. The old adoration, the old devotion surged back into Johnny's heart, the tide rose to his eyes and overflowed. "My master!" he groaned, "my master!" and a tear fell upon Mr. Wesley's hand. 

Whether or not this aroused him, the old man sat up at once andlooked about him. He showed no emotion at all. 

"Where is the mare?" he asked. 

One of the keelmen pointed down-stream, and the little party staredafter her in silence until she staggered up the bank. 

"All saved?" asked Mr. Wesley again. "My friends, before you put meashore, I will ask you to kneel with me and give thanks for God'smercy to me a sinner. " The men stared at him and at one another, nota little embarrassed. But seeing the Rector and Johnny already ontheir knees in the grime, they pulled off their caps sheepishly andknelt: and after a moment the frightened youngster in the bowsfollowed suit. 

"Almighty God, who aforetime didst uphold Thy great apostle inshipwreck and bring him safe to land, and hast now again interposedan arm to succour two of this company and me, the unworthiest ofPaul's successors; though our merits be as nothing in comparison withhis, and as nothing the usefulness whereto Thou hast preserved us, webless Thee that Thy mercy is high and absolute, respecting notpersons; we thank Thee for giving back the imperfect lives Thoumightest in justice have brought to an end; and we entreat Thee forgrace so to improve the gift as through it to receive more fitly thegreater one of everlasting life, through Jesus Christ, our soul'sSaviour. Amen. ". 

He knelt for a minute, praying silently; then arose, dusted his kneesand professed himself ready to be rowed ashore. The keelmen slidtheir deck-boat overside, and presently all embarked and were tidedback to shore, the boat taking ground about fifty yards above thebend where Bounce stood shivering, caked in mud to her withers. 

The Rector thanked the keelmen in few words while Johnny ran to fetchthe mare. They were pulling back when he returned with her. The elder lad invited Mr. Wesley to the ferryman's cottage, to sitand dry his clothes: but he declined. 

Johnny helped him to remount. Scarcely a word passed on theirhomeward way beyond a comment or two on poor Bounce, who had strainedher near shoulder in her plunging battle for life and was all butexhausted. At the Parsonage door they parted, still in silence, andJohnny led the mare off to stable. He did not know if Mr. Wesley hadobserved his emotion, and his own heart was too full of love andremorse for any words. 

But an hour later word came to him by Kezzy that her father wished tospeak with him in the study. He went at once, wondering, and foundthe Rector seated as usual before his manuscripts, but alone. 

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

Johnny attempted to speak, but could not. 

"I know what you would say. We owe one another something, eh?But this is a debt which I choose to acknowledge at once. None theless I wish you to understand that although your conduct to-dayhastens my proposal, it has been in my head for some time. Whitelamb, would you like to go to Oxford?"

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

Mr. Wesley smiled. "I will speak to Jack. I think it can be managedif he will take you for his pupil, as no doubt he will. You cannotwell be poorer than I was on the day when I entered my name at ExeterCollege. There, go away and think it over! There's no hurry, youunderstand: if you are to go, I must first of all hammer some Greekinto you--eh? What is it?"

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

At supper Molly, to whom her mother had whispered the news, announcedit to her sisters, who knew only of the accident and Johnny's hand inthe rescue. 

"Yes, " said she, "we are all proud of him, and shall be prouderbefore long, when he goes to Oxford!"

"Why to Oxford?" asked Patty, not comprehending, and sought hermother's eyes for the interpretation. Mrs. Wesley smiled. 

"Why, to be a great man, " Molly went on; "perhaps in time asgreat as Jack or Charles. " Johnny, in his usual seat by thechimney-corner, detected the challenge in her tone, but did not lookup. 

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

"It is true. " Mrs. Wesley rose, and stepping to him laid a hand onhis straggling dark hair. "What is more, he has deserved it, notto-day only but by his goodness over many years. The Lord shall behis illumination, " she said gravely, quoting the motto of theUniversity which (amazing thought!) was to be _his_ University. "May the light of His countenance rest upon you, dear son. "

She had never called him by that title before. He caught her handand for the moment, in the boldness of a great love, clasped itbetween his own. Now he could look across at Molly: and she noddedback at him, her eyes brimful--but behind her tears they gave himabsolution and released him from the doubt. 

CHAPTER IV. 

This was at the close of August, 1728, and the Rector's letterentreating his good offices for Johnny Whitelamb reached John Wesleyon the eve of his taking Priest's Orders, for which he was thenpreparing at Oxford. He was ordained priest on September 22nd, and aweek later had news from William Wright in London that Hetty's thirdchild was born--and was dead. 

This is how the father announced his loss:

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

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

 "Dear Bro: This comes to Let you know that my wife is brought to bed and is in a hopefull way of Doing well but the Dear child Died--the Third day after it was born--which has been of great concerne to me and my wife She Joyns With me In Love to your selfe and Bro: Charles. From Your Loveing Bro: to Comnd-- Wm. Wright. 

 "P. S. I've sen you Sum Verses that my wife maid of Dear Lamb Let me hear from one or both of you as Soon as you think Convenient. "

And these are Hetty's verses inclosed. 

 A Mother's Address to Her Dying Infant

 "Tender softness, infant mild, Perfect, purest, brightest Child! Transient lustre, beauteous clay, Smiling wonder of a day! Ere the last convulsive start Rend thy unresisting heart, Ere the long-enduring swoon Weigh thy precious eyelids down, Ah, regard a mother's moan! --Anguish deeper than thy own. 

 "Fairest eyes, whose dawning light Late with rapture blest my sight, Ere your orbs extinguish'd be, Bend their trembling beams on me!

 "Drooping sweetness, verdant flower Blooming, withering in an hour, Ere thy gentle breast sustain Latest, fiercest, mortal pain, Hear a suppliant! Let me be Partner in thy destiny: That whene'er the fatal cloud Must thy radiant temples shroud; When deadly damps, impending now, Shall hover round thy destin'd brow, Diffusive may their influence be, And with the blossom blast the tree!"

Mr. Wright inclosed these verses complacently enough. Poetry in hiseyes was an elegant accomplishment vaguely connected with scholarshipand gentility: and he took pride in possessing a wife who, as he morethan once assured his cronies in the parlour of the "Turk's Head" atthe end of the street, could sit down and write it by the yard. 

To please Hetty he read them through, pronounced them very pretty, and folded up the paper, remarking, "I'll send it off to your brotherJohn. He likes this sort of thing, and when he learns 'twas writtenin your weak state he'll think it wonderful. "

Of the anguish in the closing lines his eye detected, his ear heard, nothing. 

Yet it was an anguish which daily touched despair in Hetty's heart. God had laid a curse on her, and would not be placated by the goodbehaviour on which she had built her hopes. She had borne threechildren, and not one had He suffered to live for a week. No matterhow many she might bear, the same fate stood ready for them. Nor wasthis all. She saw Him smiting, through these innocent babes, at herhusband's love. Little by little she felt it relaxing and sinkingthrough carelessness into neglect: and the whole scheme of heratonement rested on his continuing fondness. She had never lovedhim, but his love was, if not infinitely precious, of infinite momentto her. She needed it to sustain her and keep her in the right way. She omitted no small attentions which might make home pleasant tohim. She kept the house bright (they had moved into Frith Street andlived over the shop), and unweariedly coaxed his appetite with hercookery, in which--and especially in pastry-making--she had a borngift. The fumes of the lead-works at the back often took her ownappetite away and depressed her spirits, but she never failed torouse herself and welcome him with a smile. Also (but this was toplease herself) sometimes by a word of advice in the matter of toiletor of clothes, oftener by small secret attentions with the needle, she had gradually reformed his habits of dress until now he mightpass for a London tradesman of the superior class, decently attired, well shaven and clean in his person. He resigned himself to theseimprovements with much good-nature and so passed through hismetamorphosis almost without knowing it. She practised smalleconomies too; and he owned (though he set it down to his ownindustry) that his worldly affairs were more prosperous than everthey had been before his marriage. But the fumes of the lead-worksaffected _his_ appetite, too, and his spirits: and when these flag aman has an easy and specious remedy in brandy-and-water. By and byit became a habit with him, when his men ceased work, to stroll downto the "Turk's Head" for a "stiffener" before his meal. The men hemet there respected him for a flourishing tradesman and flatteredhim. He adored his wife still. In his eyes no woman would comparewith her. But there was no denying he felt more at home in companywhich allowed him to tell or listen to a coarse story and stretch hislegs and boast at his ease. 

He was not aware of any slackening in affection. But Hetty noted itand fought against it, though with a sinking heart. She had countedon this babe to draw him back--if not to her, then at least to home. When told that it was dead, on an impulse she had turned her face atonce to him and with a heart-rending look appealed for hisforgiveness. He did not understand. Yet he behaved well, strokingher head and saying what he could to comfort her. 

She was convinced now that she lay under God's curse, and by and byher weak thoughts connected this curse with her father's displeasure. If she could move her father to relent, it might be lifted from her. And so after many weeks of brooding she found courage to write thisletter:

From Hetty to her Father

 Honoured Sir, --Although you have cast me off and I know that a determination once taken by you is not easily moved, I must tell you that some word of your forgiving is not only necessary to me, but would make happier the marriage in which, as you compelled it, you must still (I think) feel no small concern. My child, on whose frail help I had counted to make our life more supportable to my husband and myself, is dead. Should God give and take away another, I can never escape the thought that my father's intercession might have prevailed against His wrath, which I shall then, alas! take to be manifest. 

 Forgive me, sir, that I make you a party in such happiness (or unhappiness) as the world generally allows to be, under God, a portion for two. But as you planted my matrimonial bliss, so you cannot run away from my prayer when I beseech you to water it with a little kindness. My brothers will report to you what they have seen of my way of life and my daily struggle to redeem the past. But I have come to a point where I feel your forgiveness to be necessary to me. I beseech you, then, not to withhold it, and to believe me your obedient daughter, Mehet. Wright. 

The Answer

 Daughter, --If you would persuade me that your penitence is more than feigned, you are going the wrong way to work. I decline to be made a party to your matrimonial fortunes, as you claim in what appears to be intended for the flower of your letter; and in your next, if you would please me, I advise you to display less wit and more evidence of honest self-examination. To that--which is the beginning of repentance--you do not appear to have attained. Yet it would teach you that your troubles, if you have any, flow from your own sin, and that for any inconveniences you may find in marriage you are probably as much to blame (at the very least) as your honest husband. Your brothers speak well of him, and I shall always think myself obliged to him for his civilities to you. 

 But what are your troubles? You do not name them. What hurt has matrimony done you? I know only that it has given you a good name. I do not remember that you were used to have so frightful an idea of it as you have now. Pray be more explicit. Restrain your wit if you wish to write again, and I will answer your next if I like it. Your father, S. Wesley. 

On receiving this Hetty could not at once bethink her of having givenany cause of offence. But she had kept a rough copy of her letter, and on studying it was fairly shocked by its tone, which now seemedto her almost flippant. 

She marvelled at her maladroitness, which was the more singularbecause she had really written under strong emotion. She did noteven now guess the secret of her failure; which was, that she hadwritten entreating forgiveness of one whom she had not whollyforgiven. Nevertheless she tried again. 

Hetty to her Father

 Honoured Sir, --Though I was glad, on any terms, of the favour of a line from you, yet I was concerned at your displeasure on account of the unfortunate paragraph which you are pleased to say was meant for the flower of my letter. I wish it had not gone, since I perceive it gave you some uneasiness. 

 But since what I said occasioned some queries, which I should be glad to speak freely about, I earnestly beg that the little I shall say may not be offensive to you, since I promise to be as little witty as possible, though I can't help saying you accuse me of being too much so; especially these late years past I have been pretty free from that scandal. 

 You ask me what hurt matrimony has done me, and whether I had always so frightful an idea of it as I have now? Home questions, indeed! and I once more beg of you not to be offended at the least I can say to them, if I say anything. 

 I had not always such notions of wedlock as now, but thought that where there was a mutual affection and desire of pleasing, something near an equality of mind and person, either earthly or heavenly wisdom, and anything to keep love warm between a young couple, there was a possibility of happiness in a married state; but when all, or most of these, were wanting, I ever thought people could not marry without sinning against God and themselves. 

 You are so good to my spouse and me as to say you shall always think yourself obliged to him for his civilities to me. I hope he will always continue to use me better than I deserve in one respect. 

 _I think exactly the same of my marriage as I did before it happened_; but though I would have given at least one of my eyes for the liberty of throwing myself at your feet before I was married at all, yet, since it is past and matrimonial grievances are usually irreparable, I hope you will condescend to be so far of my opinion as to own that, since upon some accounts I am happier than I deserve, it is best to say little of things quite past remedy, and endeavour, as I really do, to make myself more and more contented, though things may not be to my wish. 

 Though I cannot justify my late indiscreet letter, yet I am not more than human, and if the calamities of life sometimes wring a complaint from me, I need tell no one that though I bear I must feel them. And if you cannot forgive what I have said, I sincerely promise never more to offend by saying too much; which (with begging your blessing) is all from your most obedient daughter, Mehetabel Wright. 

CHAPTER V. 

You who can read between the lines of these letters will haveremarked a new accent in Hetty--a hard and bitter accent. She willsuffer her punishment now; but, even though it be sent of God, shewill appeal against it as too heavy for her sin. 

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

At first when her husband, at the close of his day's work, sidled offto the "Turk's Head, " she pretended not to remark it. Indeed herfears were long in awaking. In all her life she had never tastedbrandy, and knew nothing of its effects. That Dick Ellison fuddledhimself upon it was notorious, and on her last visit to Wroote shehad heard scandalous tales of John Romley, who had come to haunt thetaverns in and about Epworth, singing songs and soaking with theriff-raff of the neighbourhood until turned out at midnight to rollhomeward to his lonely lodgings. She connected drunkenness withuproarious mirth, boon companionship, set orgies. Of secret unsocialtippling she had as yet no apprehension. 

Even before the birth of his second child the tavern had becomenecessary to Mr. Wright, not only at the close of work, but in themorning, between jobs. His workmen began to talk. He suspected themand slid into foolish, cunning tricks to outwit them, leaving theshop on false excuses, setting out ostentatiously in the wrongdirection and doubling back on the "Turk's Head" by a side street. They knew where to find him, however, when a customer dropped in. 

"Who sent you here?" he demanded furiously, one day, of the youngestapprentice, who had come for the second time that week to fetch himout of the "King's Oak. " (He had enlarged his circle of taverns bythis time, and it included one half of Soho. )

"Please you, I wasn't sent here at all, " the boy stammered. "I triedthe 'Turk's Head' first and then the 'Three Tuns. '"

"And what should make you suppose I was at either? Look here, youngman, the workshop from Robinson down"--Robinson was the foreman--"ispoking its nose too far into my business. If this goes on, one ofthese days Robinson will get his dismissal and you the strap. "

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

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

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

The business, as it turned out, was merely to give him quittance of aloan. The sum first advanced to them by Matthew Wesley had provedbarely sufficient. To furnish the dwelling-rooms in Frith Street hehad lent another 10 pounds and taken a separate bond for it, andthis debt Hetty had discharged out of her household economies, secretly planning a happy little surprise for her husband; and now inthe hurry of innocent delight she betrayed her sadder secret. 

She had as yet no fear of him, though he was afraid of her. But atsight of him as he entered, all the joy went out of her announcement. 

He listened sulkily, took the receipt, and muttered some ungraciousthanks. Old Matthew eyed him queerly, and, catching a whiff ofbrandy, pulled out his gold watch. The action may have beeninvoluntary. The hour was half-past ten in the morning. 

"Well, well--I must be going. Excuse me, nephew Wright; with myexperience I ought to have known better than to withdraw a busy manfrom his work. "

He glanced at Hetty, with a look which as good as asked leave for afew words with her in private. But Mr. Wright, now thoroughlysuspicious, did not choose to be dismissed in this fashion. So aftera minute or two of uneasy talk the old man pulled out his watchagain, excused himself, and took his departure. 

"Look here, " began Mr. Wright when he and Hetty were left alone:"You are taking too much on yourself. "

He had never spoken to her quite so harshly. 

"I am sorry, William, " she answered, keeping her tears well undercontrol. For months she had been planning her little surprise, andits failure hurt her cruelly. "I had no thought of displeasing you. "

"Oh, I daresay you meant it for the best. But I choose to be masterin my own house, that's all. Another time, if you have more moneythan you know what to do with, just come and consult me. I've nonotion of being made to look small before your uncle, and I don'tstomach it. "

He turned away growling. He had spoken only of the repaid loan, butthey both knew that this had nothing to do with his ill temper. 

At the door he faced round again. "What were you talking about whenI came in?" he asked suspiciously. 

"Uncle was congratulating us. He is delighted to know that thebusiness is doing so well and complains that he seldom gets sight ofyou nowadays, your hands are so full. "

"And pray what the devil has it to do with him, how I spend my time?"He pulled himself up on the oath, and seeing her cheek flush, he tooreddened, but went on, if anything, more violently. "You've a trickin your family of putting your fingers into other folks' pies: you'reknown for it. There's that Holy Club I hear about. Your cleverbrothers can't be content, any more than your father, to let honestfolks alone, but are for setting right the whole University ofOxford. I warn you, that won't do with me. 'Live and let live' ismy motto: let me alone and I'll let you alone. You Wesleys thinkmightily of yourselves; but you're neither king nor Parlyment, andthat I'll have you learn. "

It was not a dignified exit and he knew it: by brooding over itthrough the afternoon his temper grew more savage. That evening hespent at the "Turk's Head" and slouched home at midnight dividedbetween contrition and bravado. 

Hetty was in bed, pretending sleep. Had she known it, a word fromher might have mended matters. Even had he found her in tears therewas enough good nature in the man to have made him relent. 

At sight of her beautiful face he felt half-inclined to awake her andhave the quarrel cleared up. But, to begin with, he was not whollycertain of his sobriety. And she, too, distrusted it. He hadwounded her family pride, to be sure: but what really kept her silentwas the dread of discovering him to be drunk and letting him see thatshe had discovered it. 

Yet she had great need of tears: for on more than one account sherespected her husband, even liked him, and did most desperately longto be loved by him. After all, she had borne him children: and sincethey had died he was her only stay in the world, her only hope ofredemption. Years after there was found among her papers atear-blotted sheet of verses dating from this sorrowful time: andthough the sorrow opens and shows ahead, as in a flash, the contempttowards which the current is sweeping her, you see her travel down toit with hands bravely battling, clutching at the weak roots of loveand hope along the shore:

 "O thou whom sacred rites design'd My guide and husband ever kind, My sovereign master, best of friends, On whom my earthly bliss depends: If e'er thou didst in Hetty see Aught fair or good or dear to thee, If gentle speech can ever move The cold remains of former love, Turn thou at last-my bosom ease, Or tell me _why_ I fail to please. 

 "Is it because revolving years, Heart-breaking sighs, and fruitless tears Have quite deprived this form of mine Of all that once thou fancied'st fine? Ah no! what once allured thy sight Is still in its meridian height. Old age and wrinkles in this face As yet could never find a place; A youthful grace informs these lines Where still the purple current shines, Unless by thy ungentle art It flies to aid my wretched heart: Nor does this slighted bosom show The many hours it spends in woe. 

 "Or is it that, oppress'd with care, I stun with loud complaints thine ear, And make thy home, for quiet meant, The seat of noise and discontent? Ah no! Thine absence I lament When half the weary night is spent, Yet when the watch, or early morn, Has brought me hopes of thy return, I oft have wiped these watchful eyes, Conceal'd my cares and curb'd my sighs In spite of grief, to let thee see I wore an endless smile for thee. 

 "Had I not practised every art, To oblige, divert and cheer thy heart, To make me pleasing in thine eyes, And turn thy house to paradise, I had not ask'd 'Why dost thou shun These faithful arms, and eager run To some obscure, unclean retreat, With vile companions glad to meet, Who, when inspired by beer, can grin At witless oaths and jests obscene, Till the most learned of the throng Begins a tale of ten hours long To stretch with yawning other jaws, But thine in rapture of applause?'

 "Deprived of freedom, health and ease, And rivall'd by such _things_ as these, Soft as I am, I'll make thee see I will not brook contempt from thee! I'll give all thoughts of patience o'er (A gift I never lost before); Indulge at once my rage and grief Mourn obstinate, disdain relief, Till life, on terms severe as these, Shall ebbing leave my heart at ease; To thee thy liberty restore To laugh, when Hetty is no more. "

One morning William Wright awoke out of stertorous sleep with a heavysense of something amiss, and opened his eyes to find Hetty standingbeside the bed in nightgown and light wrapper, with a tray and pot oftea which she had stolen downstairs to prepare for him. After asecond or two he remembered, and turned his face to the wall. 

"No, " said she, "you had better sit up and drink this, and we cantalk honestly. See, I have brought a cup for myself, too. "

She drew a small table close to the bed, and a chair, poured out thetea and seated herself--all with the least possible fuss. 

"I suppose you know, " she began, "that you struck me last night?"

His hand trembled as he took the cup, and again he turned away hiseyes. 

"You were drunk, " she went on. "You called me by an evil name, too--a name I once called myself: but a name you would not have called mein your sober senses. At least, I think not. Tell me--and rememberthat you promised always to answer honestly: you would not havecalled me so in your sober senses? You do not think of me so?"

He set down the cup and stretched out a hand. 

"My lass"--the words seemed to choke him. 

"For I am not _that_. You married me knowing the worst; and eversince I have been a true wife to you. Well, I see that you aresorry. And you struck me, on the breast. I have a bruise there;but, " she went on in a level lifeless tone, "there is no child to seehis father's mark. You are sorry for that, too. But I understand, of course, that you were drunk. Many times now you have come homedrunk, and next morning I pretended not to know it. I must notpretend now, since now to be clear about it is my only chance ofcomfort and your only chance of self-respect. "

He groaned. 

"Lass, I could cut my hand off for it! When a man gets overtaken--"

"No, no, " her voice suddenly grew animated; "for God's sake, William, don't cry over it! You are not a David. " She shivered, as a trickof memory brought back to her the night in the harvest field when shehad broken out in wrath against her least admired of Biblicalheroes--the same night on which she had first set eyes on this man, whose ring and whose bruise she wore. 

"Do not use cheating words, either, " she went on. "You were notovertaken by liquor; you went out to meet it, as you have gone nightafter night. Call it by the straight name. Listen: I like you wellenough, William, to help you, if I can--indeed, I have tried. But there seems to be something in drink which puts aside help: theonly fighting of any worth must come from the man himself--is it notso?"

"I have fought, lass. "

"Drink up your tea, my man, and fight it again! Come home to meearlier, and with a firmer step, and each night will be a victory, better worth than all the cries and sobbings in the world. "

He gazed at her stupidly as she put out a hand and laid it gently onhis wrist. He covered his eyes. 

"I--struck--you!" he muttered. 

She winced. Startled by the sudden withdrawal of her touch, helowered his hand and looked at her. Her eyes, though brimming, methis steadily. 

"Tears are for women, " she said. "I must cry a little: but see, I amnot afraid. "

For some months after this he fought the drink; fought it steadily. With Christmas came a relapse, through which she nursed him. To herdismay she found the fit, during the few days that it lasted, moreviolent than before, and thought of the house swept and garnished andthe devil returning with others worse than himself. Her consolationwas that at his worst now he seemed to turn to her, and depend onher--almost to supplicate--for help. The struggle left them bothexhausted: but he had not attempted to beat her this time. She triedto persuade herself that this meant amendment, and that the outbreakswould grow rarer and at length cease altogether. 

Throughout the spring and summer of 1731 his health improved, andwith it his kindness to her. Indeed, she had not been so nearhappiness (or so she told herself) since her wedding day. Another child was coming. Hope, so often cut down, grew again in herheart. And then--

One forenoon in the second week of June--a torrid, airless day--hecame home reeling. For the moment a black fear fell on her that shewould be too weak to wrestle with this attack; but she braced herselfto meet it. 

The next day her uncle called. He was about to start on along-planned journey to Epworth, taking his man with him; and havinglately parted with his housekeeper, he had a proposal to make; thatHetty should sleep at Johnson's Court and look after the house in hisabsence. 

She shook her head. Luckily her husband was out, drinking fiercelyat some tavern, as she very well knew; but anything was better thanhis encountering Uncle Matthew just now. 

"Why not?" the old man urged. "It would save my hiring a carekeeper, and tide me over until I bring back Patty with me, as I hope to do. Besides, after travelling in those wilds I shall want to return andfind the house cheerful: and I know I can depend on you for that. "

"And I promise that you shall have it. Send me but word of yourcoming, and all shall be ready for you that you require. "

"But you will not take up your abode there?"

She shook her head again, still smiling: but the smile had lostconnection with her thoughts. She was listening for her husband'sunsteady step and praying God to detain it. 

"But why not?" Uncle Matthew persisted. "It is not for lack of goodwill, I know. Your husband can spare you for a few days: or for thatmatter he might come with you and leave the house at night to youngRitson. " This was Mr. Wright's apprentice, the same that had fetchedhim out of the "King's Oak "; an exemplary youth, who slept as a rulein a garret at the top of the house. 

"Tom Ritson is not lodging with us just now: we have found a room forhim two doors away. " She had, indeed, packed off the youth at thefirst sign of his master's returning madness: but, lest Uncle Matthewshould guess the true reason, she added, "Women in my state takequeer fancies--likes and dislikes. "

The old man eyed her for a while, then asked abruptly, "Is yourhusband drinking again?"

"How--what makes you--I don't understand, " she stammered. Do whatshe might she could not prevent the come-and-go of colour in herface. 

"Oh, yes you do. Tut, tut, my dear! I've known it every whit as longas you. Look here; would you like me to put off my journey for a fewdays?"

"On no account. There's not the least reason, I assure you, uncle. "

He seemed content with this and talked for a little while of thejourney and his plans. He had warned nobody at Epworth. "I intendit for a surprise, " he explained; "to learn with my own eyes how theyare faring. " Emilia and Kezzy were at home now upon a holiday: forsome months they had been earning their livelihood at Lincoln asteachers in a boarding-school kept by a Mrs. Taylor. He might evenmake a trip to Scarborough, to drink the waters there. He wasgravely kind, and promised to deliver all Hetty's messages to hersisters. 

"Well, well, " he said as he rose to go, "so you won't come to me?"

"I cannot. "

"Nevertheless I shall leave word that the house is to be open toyou--in case of need. " He looked at her meaningly, kissed her on theforehead, and so took his leave. 

At the street door he paused. "And that poor soul is childless, " hemuttered. "She that should have been a noble mother of soldiers!"

CHAPTER VI. 

From Mrs. Wesley to her son John. 

 Epworth, July 12th, 1731. 

 My brother Wesley had designed to have surprised us, and had travelled under a feigned name from London to Gainsborough; but there, sending his man for guide out to the Isle the next day, the man told one that keeps our market his master's name, and that he was going to see his brother, which was the minister at Epworth. The man he informed met with Molly in the market about an hour before my brother got thither. She, full of news, hastened home and told us her uncle Wesley was coming to see us; but we could hardly believe her. 'Twas odd to observe how all the town took the alarm and were upon the gaze, as if some great prince had been about to make his entry. He rode directly to John Dawson's [this refers to a local inn]: but we had soon notice of his arrival, and sent John Brown with an invitation to our house. He expressed some displeasure at his servant for letting us know of his coming: for he intended to have sent for Mr. Wesley to dine with him at Dawson's and then come to visit us in the afternoon. However, he soon followed John home, where we were all ready to receive him with great satisfaction. 

 His behaviour among us was perfectly civil and obliging. He spake little to the children the first day, being employed (as he afterwards told them) in observing their carriage and seeing how he liked them: afterwards he was very free, and expressed great kindness to them all. 

 He was strangely scandalised at the poverty of our furniture, and much more at the meanness of the children's habit. He always talked more freely with your sisters of our circumstances than with me; and told them he wondered what his brother had done with his income, for 'twas visible he had not spent it in furnishing his house, or clothing his family. 

 We had a little talk together sometimes, but it was not often we could hold a private conference, and he was very shy of speaking anything relating to the children before your father, or indeed of any other matter. I informed him, as far as I handsomely could, of our losses, etc. , for I was afraid that he should think I was about to beg of him; but the girls, I believe, told him everything they could think on. 

 He was particularly pleased with Patty; and one morning, before Mr. Wesley came down, he asked me if I was willing to let Patty go and stay a year or two with him at London? "Sister, " says he, "I have endeavoured already to make one of your children easy while she lives, and if you please to trust Patty with me, I will endeavour to make her so too. " Whatever others may think, I thought this a generous offer, and the more so, because he had done so much for Sukey and Hetty. I expressed my gratitude as well as I could, and would have had him speak with your father, but he would not himself--he left that to me; nor did he ever mention it to Mr. Wesley till the evening before he left us. 

 He always behaved himself very decently at family prayers, and in your father's absence said grace for us before and after meat. Nor did he ever interrupt our privacy, but went into his own chamber when we went into ours. 

 He staid from Thursday to the Wednesday after, then he left us to go to Scarborough, from whence he returned the Saturday se'nnight, intending to stay with us a few days; but finding your sisters gone the day before to Lincoln, he would leave us on Sunday morning, for he said he might see the girls before they--he and Patty--set forward for London. He overtook them at Lincoln, and had Mrs. Taylor, Emily, Kezzy, with the rest, to supper with him at the Angel. On Monday they breakfasted with him; then they parted, expecting to see him no more till they came to London, but on Wednesday he sent his man to invite them to supper at night. On Thursday he invited them to dinner, at night to supper, and on Friday morning to breakfast, when he took his leave of them and rode for London. They got into town on Saturday about noon, and that evening Patty writ me an account of her journey. 

 Dear Jackey, I can't stay now to talk about Hetty, but this-I hope better of her than some others do. I pray God to bless you. Adieu. S. W. 

Hetty had been warned that her uncle and Patty would arrive on theSaturday. She did not expect them before evening; nevertheless, inthe forenoon she sallied out, and stopping in the market on her wayto buy a large bunch of roses, walked to Johnson's Court, where thedoor was opened to her by her own cook-maid--a fearless, middle-agedScotswoman who did not mind inhabiting an empty house, and whom shehad sent to Uncle Matthew on the eve of his departure, as well to gether out of the way as to relieve him of his search for a carekeeper. 

Janet noted that her mistress's face was pale and her eyesunnaturally bright with want of sleep, but held her tongue, beingever a woman of few words. Together the two dressed the table andset out the cold viands in case the travellers should arrive in timefor dinner. The rest of the meal would be sent in at a few minutes'notice from the tavern at the entrance of the court. 

Having seen to these preparations and paid a visit of inspection tothe bedrooms, she set out on her way back to Frith Street just as St. Dunstan's clock was striking eleven. She left, promising Janet toreturn before nightfall. 

Night was dusking down upon the narrow court as she entered it againout of the rattle of Fleet Street. She had lost her springy gait, and dragged her legs heavily under the burden of the unborn child anda strain which during the past four or five days had become aphysical torture. She came out of her own thoughts with an effort, to wonder if the travellers had arrived. 

Her eyes went up to the windows of Uncle Matthew's parlour: and, while they rested there, the room within of a sudden grew bright. Janet had entered it with a lamp, and, having set it down, cameforward to draw the curtains and close the shutters. At the samemoment in the other window an arm went up to the curtain and the slimfigure of Patty stood dark against the lamplight. She stood for amoment gazing out upon the court; gazing, as it seemed to Hetty, straight down upon her. Hetty came to a halt, crouching in the duskagainst the wall. Now that she knew of their arrival she had no wishto greet either her sister or her uncle: nay, as her own dark shadowovertook her--the thought of the drunkard at home in the lonelyhouse--she knew that she could not climb to that lighted room andkiss and welcome them. 

As her sister's hand drew the curtain, she turned and sped back downthe court. She broke into a run. The pedestrians in the dim streetswere as ghosts to her. She ought not to have left him. Heaven aloneknew how long this fit would last; but while it lasted her place wasbeside him. Twice, thrice she came to a dead stop, and panted withone hand at her breast, the other laid flat against a house-wall orthe closed shutters of a shop, and so supporting her. Men peeredinto her face, passed on, but turned their heads to stare back ather, not doubting her a loose woman the worse for drink, but piercedwith wonder, if not with pity, at her extraordinary beauty. She heeded them not, but always, as soon as she caught her breathagain, ran on. 

She turned the corner of Frith Street. Heaven knows what sheexpected to see--the house in a blaze, perhaps: but the dingythoroughfare lay quiet before her, with a shop here and there castinga feeble light across the paving-stones. The murmur of the streets, and with it all sense of human help within call, fell away and werelost. She must face the horror alone. 

The house was dark--all but one window, behind the yellow blind ofwhich a light shone. She drew out her latchkey and at first fumbledat the opening with a shaking hand. Then she recalled her courage, found the latch at once, slipped in the key and pushed the door open. 

No sound: the stairs stretched up before her into pitchy darkness. She held her breath; tried to listen. Still no sound but one in herears--the thump-thump of her own overstrained heart. She closed thedoor as softly as she could, and mounted the first flight. 

Hark! the sound of a step above, followed by a faint glimmer oflight. At the turn of the stairs she looked up and faced him. He stood on the landing outside their bedroom door, with a candleheld aloft. His eyes were blazing. 

He must be met quietly, and quietly she went up. "See how quick Ihave been!" she said gaily, and her voice did not shake. She passedin by the open door. He followed her stupidly and set the candledown. 

"They have arrived, " she said, drawing off her mittens. Her eyestravelled round the room to assure her that no weapon lay handy, though for her own sake she had no wish to live. 

"Come here, " he commanded thickly. 

"Yes, dear: what is it?"

"Where have you been?"

"Why, to Johnson's Court, as you know. "

"Conspiring against me, eh?" He pushed his face close to hers: hisreeking breath sickened her: but she smiled on, expecting him tostrike. 

"Come here!"--though she was close already. "Stand up. I'll teachyou to gossip about me. You and your gentry, my fine madam. I'll teach you--I'll teach you!"

He struck now, blow after blow. She turned her quivering shouldersto it, shielding the unborn child. 

He beat her to her knees. Still she curved her back, holding herarms stiffly before her, leaving her head and neck exposed. Would the next blow kill her? She waited. 

The table went over with a crash, the light with it. He must havefallen across it: for, an instant later, she heard the thud of hishead against the floor. 

It seemed to her that she crouched there for an endless while, waiting for him to stir. He lay close beside her foot. 

Her heel touched him as she rose. She groped for the tinder-box, found the candle, lit it, held it over him. 

A trickle of blood ran from his right temple, where it had struckagainst the bed-post. His eyes were closed. She loosened hiscollar, put forth all her strength--her old maiden strength for amoment restored to her--and lifted him on to the bed. 

By and by his lips parted in a sigh. He began to breathe heavily--tosleep, as she thought. Still the blood trickled slowly from histemple and on to the pillow. She stepped to the water-jug, dippedher handkerchief in it, and drawing a chair to the bedside, seatedherself and began to bathe the wound. 

When the bleeding stopped, as the touch of cold water appeared tosoothe him, she fetched a towel and pressed it gently about his neckand behind his ears. He was sleeping now: for he smiled and mutteredsomething. Almost she thought it was her own name. 

Still she sat beside him, her body aching, her heart cold; andwatched him, hour after hour. 

CHAPTER VII. 

"And my brothers visit her?"

Twilight with invisible veils closed around Epworth, its parsonage, and the high-walled garden where Molly, staff in hand, limped to andfro beside Johnny Whitelamb--promoted now to be the Reverend JohnWhitelamb, B. A. He had arrived that afternoon, having walked all theway from Oxford. 

--"Whenever they visit London, " he answered. 

"Charles, you know, upheld her from the first; and John has come toadmit that her sufferings have lifted her above man's judgment. They talk with her as with their equal in wit--"

"Why, and so she is!"

"No doubt: but it does not follow that John would acknowledge it. They report their Oxford doings to her, and their plans: and shelistens eagerly and advises. To me the strange thing is, as shemanages it, that her interest does not tie her down to sharing theiropinions. She speaks always as a looker-on, and they recognise this. She keeps her own mind, just as she has always held to her own viewof her marriage. I have never heard her complain, and to her husbandshe is an angel: yet I am sure (without being able to tell you why)that her heart condemns your father and will always condemn him. "

"She knows what her punishment has been: we can only guess. Does theman drink still?"

"Yes; he drinks: but she is no longer anxious about him. Your UncleMatthew told me that in his first attacks he used to be no betterthan a madman. Something happened: nobody seems to know preciselywhat it was, except that he fell and injured his head. Now thecraving for drink remains, but he soaks harmlessly. No doubt he willkill himself in time; meanwhile even at his worst he is tractable, and obeys Hetty like a child. To do the man justice, he was alwaysfond of her. "

"Poor Hetty!"

"John has spoken to her once or twice about her soul, I believe: buthe does not persist. "

"H'm, " said Molly, "you had better say that he is biding his time. John always persists. "

"That's true, " he owned with a laugh: "but I have never known him sobaffled to all appearance. The fact is, she cannot be roused to anyinterest in herself. Of others she never ceases to think. It wasshe, for instance--when I could not afford to buy myself a gown forordination--who started the notion of a subscription in the family. "He was wearing the gown now, and drew it about him with anotherlaugh. "Hence the majestic figure I cut before you at this moment. "

"But we all subscribed, sir. You shall not slight my poor offering--all made up as it was of dairy-pence. "

"Miss Molly, all my life is a patchwork made up of kind deeds andkind thoughts from one or other of you. You do not believe--"

"Nay, you love us all, John. I know that well enough. "

For some reason a silence fell between them. Molly broke it with alaugh, which nevertheless trembled a little. "Then your gown shouldbe a patchwork, too?"

"Why to be sure it is, " he answered gravely; "and I wish the worldcould see it so, quartered out upon me like a herald's coat, and eachquartering assigned--that is Mr. Wesley's, and that your mother's, and that, again, your brother John's--"

"And the sleeve Miss Molly's: I will be content with a sleeve. Only it must have the armorial bearings proper to a fourth daughter, with my simple motto--'Butter and New-laid Eggs. '"

The sound of their merriment reached Mrs. Wesley through an openwindow, and in the dim kitchen Mrs. Wesley smiled to herself. 

"But, " objected he, "the sleeve will not do. I do not wear my heartupon my sleeve, Molly. " She turned her head abruptly. For the firsttime in his life he had dared to call her Molly, and was trembling athis boldness. At first he took the movement for a prompt rebuke:then, deciding that she had not heard, he was at once relieved anddisappointed. 

But be sure she had heard. And she was not angry: only--this was notthe old Johnny Whitelamb, but another man in speech and accent, andshe felt more than a little afraid of him. 

"Tell me more of Hetty, " she commanded, and resting one hand on herstaff pointed to the south-west, where, over the coping of the wall, out of a pure green chasm infinitely deep between reddened clouds ofsunset, the evening star looked down. 

He knew the meaning of the sudden gesture. Had not Hetty ever beenher Star?

"She is beautiful as ever. You never saw so sad a face: the sadderbecause it is never morose. "

"I believe, John, you loved her best of us all. "

"I worshipped her. To be her servant, or her dog, would have beenenough for me. I never dared to think of her as--as--"

--"As you thought, for example, of her crippled sister, whom youprotected. "

"Molly!" He drew back. "Ah, if I dared--if I dared!" she heard himstammer, and faced him swiftly, with a movement he might have misreadfor anger, but for the soul shining in her eyes. 

"Dare, then!"

"But I am penniless, " said he, a few moments later. For him theheavens still spun and the earth reeled: but out of their turmoilthis hard truth emerged as a rock from the withdrawing flood. 

"God will provide for us. He knows that I cannot wait--and you--youmust forget that I was unmaidenly and wooed you: for I _did_, andit's useless to deny it. But I have known--known--oh, for ever solong! And I have a short while to be happy!"

Either he did not hear or he let slip her meaning. His eyes were onthe star, now almost level with the wall's coping. 

"And this has come to me: to me--that was once Johnny Whitelamb ofthe Charity School!"

"And to me, " she murmured; "to me--poor Grizzle, whom even herparents despised. The stars shine upon all. "

"I remember, " he said, musing, "at Oxford, one night, walking back tocollege with your brother John. We had been visiting the prisonersin Bocardo. As we turned into the Turl between Exeter and Jesuscolleges there, at the end of the street--it is little more than alane--beyond the spire of All Saints' this planet was shining. John told me its name, and with a sudden accord we stood still for amoment, watching it. 'Do you believe it inhabited?' I asked. 'Why not?' he said. 'Then why not, as this world, by sinners: and ifby sinners, by souls crying for redemption in Christ?' 'Ay, ' saidhe, ' for aught we know the son of God may pass along the heavensadding martyrdom to martyrdom, may even at this moment be bound on across in some unseen planet swinging around one in this multitude ofstars. But, ' he broke off, 'what have we to do with this folly ofspeculation? This world is surely parish enough for a man, and in ithe may be puzzled all his days to save his own soul out of the manymillions. '"

"And father, " murmured Molly, "designs him to take Epworth cure!But why are you telling me this?"

"Because I see now that if God's love reaches up to every star anddown to every poor soul on earth, it must be something vastly simple, so simple that all dwellers on earth may be assured of it, as all whohave eyes may be assured of the planet yonder; and so vast that allbargaining is below it, and they may inherit it without consideringtheir deserts. Is not God's love greater than human? Yet, see, thisearthly love has come to me--Johnny Whitelamb--as to a king. It hastaken no account of my worth, my weakness: in its bounty I amswallowed up and do not weigh. To dream of it as holding tally withme is to belittle and drag it down in thought to something scarcelylarger than myself. I share it with kings, as I share this star. Can I think God's love less magnificent?"

But Molly shrank close to him. "Dear, do not talk of these greatthings: they frighten me. I am so small--and we have so short awhile to be happy!"

CHAPTER VIII. 

Samuel Wesley to the Lord Chancellor. 

 Westminster, January 14th, 1733-4. 

 My Lord, --The small rectory of Wroote, in the diocese and county of Lincoln, adjoining to the Isle of Axholme, is in the gift of the Lord Chancellor, and more then seven years since it was conferred on Samuel Wesley, Rector of Epworth. It lies in our low levels, and is often overflowed--four or five years since I have had it; and the people have lost most or all the fruits of the earth to that degree that it has hardly brought me in fifty pounds per annum, _omnibus annis_, and some years not enough to pay my curate there his salary of 30 pounds a year. 

 This living, by your lordship's permission and favour, I would gladly resign to one Mr. John Whitelamb, born in the neighbourhood of Wroote, as his father and grandfather lived in it, when I took him from among the scholars of a charity school, founded by one Mr. Travers, an attorney, brought him to my house, and educated him there, where he was my amanuensis for four years in transcribing my _Dissertations on the Book of Job_, now well advanced in the press; and drawing my maps and figures for it, as well as we could by the light of nature. After this I sent him to Oxford, to my son John Wesley, Fellow of Lincoln College, under whom he made such proficiency that he was the last summer admitted by the Bishop of Oxford into Deacon's Orders, and placed my curate in Epworth, while I came up to town to expedite the printing my book. 

 Since I was here I gave consent to his marrying one of my seven daughters, and they are married accordingly; and though I can spare little more with her, yet I would gladly give them a little glebe land at Wroote, where I am sure they will not want _springs of water_. But _they_ love the place, though I can get nobody else to reside on it. If I do not flatter myself, he is indeed a valuable person, of uncommon brightness, learning, piety and indefatigable industry; always loyal to the King, zealous for the Church, and friendly to our Dissenting Brethren; and for the truth of this character I will be answerable to God and man. If therefore your lordship will grant me the favour to let me resign the living unto him, and please to confer it on him, I shall always remain your lordship's most bounden, most grateful, and most obedient servant, Samuel Wesley, Sen. 

The Lord Chancellor complied: and so, in February, with an income ofbut fifty pounds a year, increased to seventy by Mr. Wesley'skindness, but in good heart and hope and such love as can only bebetween two simple hearts that have proved each other, JohnWhitelamb and Molly took possession of the small parsonage. 

They were happy: and of their happiness there is no more to be said, save that it was brief. In the last days of October Molly's childwas born, and died: and a few hours later while the poor man held herclose, refusing to believe, with a sigh Molly's spirit slippedbetween his arms and went to God. 

To God? It tore the man up by the roots, and the root-soilof his faith crumbled and fell with the moulds upon her coffin. He went from her graveside back to the house and closed the door. Mrs. Wesley had urged him to return with the family to Epworth, andJohn, who had ridden from Oxford to preach the funeral sermon, shookhim by the hand and added his persuasions. But the broken husbandthanked him shortly, and strode away. He had sat through the sermonwithout listening to a word: and now he went back to a house lonelyeven of God. 

He and Molly had been too poor to keep a servant: but on the eve ofher illness a labourer's wife had been hired to do the housework andcook the meals. And seeing his lethargy, this sensible woman, without asking questions, continued to arrive at seven in the morningand depart at seven in the evening. He ate the food she set beforehim. On Sunday he heard the bell ringing from his church hard by. But he had prepared no sermon: and after the bell had ceased he satin his study before an open book, oblivious. 

Yet prayer was read, and a sermon preached, in Wroote Church thatday. John Wesley had walked over from Epworth; and when the bellceased ringing, and the minutes passed, and still no rector appeared, had stepped quietly to the reading-desk. 

After service he walked across to the parsonage, knocked gently atthe study door and entered. 

"Brother Whitelamb, " he said, "you have need of us, I think, and Iknow that my father has need of you. To-morrow I return to Oxford, and I leave a letter with him that he will wish to answer. Death hasshaken him by the hand and it cannot guide a pen: he will be glad toemploy his old amanuensis. What is more, his answer to my letterwill contain much worth your pondering, as well as mine, for it willbe concerned with even such a spiritual charge as you have this daybeen neglecting. "

"Brother Wesley, " answered the widower, looking up, "you have done akind deed this morning. But what was your text?"

"My text was, 'Son of man, behold I take from thee the desire ofthine eyes with a stroke: yet shalt thou not mourn or weep, neithershall thy tears run down. '"

"I love you, brother: you have ever been kind indeed to me. Yet youput it in my mind at times, that the poor servant with one talent hadsome excuse, if a poor defence, who said 'I know thee, that thou arta hard man. '"

"Do I reap then where I have not sown, and gather where I have notstrewn?"

"I will not say that. But I see that others prepare the way for youand will do so, as Charles prepared it at Oxford: and finding itprepared, you take command and march onward. You were born to takecommand: the hand of God is evident upon you. But some grow faint bythe way and drop behind, and you have no bowels for these. "

Silence fell between them. John Whitelamb broke it. "I can guesswhat your father's letter will be--a last appeal to you to succeedhim in Epworth parish. Do you mean to consent?"

"I think not. My reasons--"

"Nay, it is certain you will not. And as for your reasons, they donot matter: they may be good, but God has better, who decides foryou. Yet deal gently with the old man, for you are denying thedearest wish of his heart. "

"May I tell him that you will come?"

"I will come when he sends for me. "

Mr. Wesley's message did not arrive until a good fortnight later, during which time John Whitelamb had fallen back upon his own sorrow. He resumed his duties, but with no heart. From the hour of hiswife's death he sank gradually into the rut of a listless parishpriest--a solitary man, careless of his dress as of his duties, lovedby his parishioners for the kindness of his heart. They said thatsorrow had broken him; but the case was worse than this. He had lostassurance of God's goodness. 

He could not, with such a doubt in his heart, go to his wife's familyfor comfort. He loved them as ever; but he could not trust theirlove to deal tenderly with his infidelity. No Wesley would ever havelet a human sorrow interfere with faith: no Wesley (it seemed to him)would understand such a disaster. It was upon this thought that hehad called John a hard man. He recognised the truth and that he wasbut brittle earthenware beside these hammered vessels of service. 

Nevertheless, when in obedience to Mr. Wesley's message he presentedhimself at Epworth, he was surprised by the calm everyday air withwhich the old man received him. He had expected at least some wordof his grief, some fatherly pressure of the hand. There was none. He knew, to be sure, that old age deadened sensibility. But, afterall, his dear Molly had been this man's child, if not thebest-beloved. 

"Son Whitelamb, my hand is weary, and there is much to write. Help me to my dearest wish on earth--the only wish now left to me:help me that Jack may inherit Epworth cure when I am gone. Hear whathe objects: 'The question is not whether I could do more good thereor here in Oxford, _but whether I could do more good to myself_;seeing wherever I can be most holy myself, there I can most promoteholiness in others. But I can improve myself more at Oxford than atany other place. ' The lad must think I forget my logic. See you, hejuggles me with identical propositions! First it is no question ofdoing good to others, but to himself; and anon when he does most goodto himself he will do most good to others. Am I a dead dog, to bepelted with such sophisms? Son Whitelamb, is your pen ready?"

"Of what avail is it?" John Whitelamb asked himself. "These men, father and son, decide first, and, having decided, find no lack ofarguments. It is but pride of the mind in which they clothe theirwill. Moreover, if there be a God, what a vain conflict am I aiding!seeing that time with Him is not, and all has been decided from thebeginning. "

Yet he took down the answer with his habitual care, glancing up inthe pauses at the old face, gray and intense beneath the darkskull-cap. The letter ended:

"If you are not indifferent whether the labours of an aged father forabove forty years in God's vineyard be lost, and the fences of ittrodden down and destroyed; if you have any care for our family, which must be dismally shattered as soon as I am dropped; if youreflect on the dear love and longing which this dear people has foryou, whereby you will be enabled to do God the more service; and theplenteousness of the harvest, consisting of near two thousand souls, whereas you have not many more scholars in the University; you mayperhaps alter your mind, and bend your will to His, who has promised, if in all our ways we acknowledge Him, He will direct our paths. "

CONCLUSION. 

CHAPTER I. 

"Unto him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth theungodly, his faith is counted to him for righteousness. "

All the world has heard how John Wesley rode, eight years later, intoEpworth; and how, his father's pulpit having been denied to him, hestood outside upon his father's tomb and preached evening afterevening in the warm June weather the gospel of Justification by Faithto the listening crowd. Visitors are shown the grit slab, now recutand resting on a handsome structure of stone, but then upon plainestbrickwork; and are bidden to notice, in the blank space below thewords "Their works do follow them, " two rough pieces of ironstonewhich mark where the preacher's feet rested. 

Eight evenings he preached from it, and on the third evening chosefor his text these words: "Unto him that worketh not, but believethon Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted to him forrighteousness. "

Under a sycamore by the churchyard wall at a little distance from thecrowd a man stood and listened--a clergyman in a worn black gown, aman not old in years but with a face prematurely old, and shouldersthat already stooped under the burden of life--John Whitelamb. He watched between fear and hope to be recognised. When the preachermounted the slab, stroked back his hair and, turning his face towardsthe sycamore, fixed his eyes (as it seemed) upon the figure beneathit, he felt sure he had been recognised: a moment later he doubtedwhether that gaze had passed over him in forgetfulness or contempt. 

He felt himself worthy of contempt. They had been too hard for him, these Wesleys. They had all departed from Epworth, years before, andleft him, who had been their brother, alone with his miserabledoubts. No letters, no message of remembered affection or presentgood will, ever came from them. He had been unfaithful to hisreligion: they had cast him off. For seven years he had walked andlaboured among the men and women here gathered in the midsummer dusk:but the faces to which he had turned for comfort were faces of thepast--some dead, others far away. 

So the preacher's voice came to him as one rending the sepulchre. "Son of man, can these bones live?" Yes, the bones of Christ'swarrior beneath the slab--laid there to rest in utter weariness--werestirring, putting forth strength and a voice that pierced his livingmarrow. Ah, how it penetrated, unlocking old wells of tears!

He listened, letting his tears run. Only once did he withdraw hiseyes, and then for a moment they fell on John Romley, loitering too, on the outskirts of the crowd by the churchyard gate and plainly intwo minds about interfering. Romley was curate of Epworth now, delegate of an absentee sporting rector: and had in truth set thisball rolling by denying John Wesley his pulpit. He had miscalculatedhis flock; this stubborn English breed, so loyal in enmity, lovingthe memory of a foe who had proved himself a man. He watched with aloose-lipped sneer; too weak to conquer his own curiosity, far tooweak to assert his authority and attempt to clear the churchyard ofthat "enthusiasm" which he had denounced in his most florid stylelast Sunday, within the church. 

John Whitelamb's gaze travelled back to the preacher. Up to this hehad heard the voice only, and the dead man in his grave belowspeaking through that voice. Now he listened to the words. If thedead man spoke through them, what a change had death wrought--whatwisdom had he found in the dust that equals all! What had become ofthe old confident righteousness, the old pride of intellect?They were stripped and flung aside as filthy rags. "Apart from faithwe do not count. We _are_ redeemed: we _are_ saved. Christ has madewith us no bargain at all except to believe that the bargain isconcluded. What are we at the best that He should make distinctionsbetween us? We are all sinners and our infinitesimal grades of sinsunk in His magnificent mercy. Only acknowledge your sin: only admitthe mercy; and you are healed, pardoned, made joint heirs withChrist--not in a fair way to be healed, not going to be pardoned insome future state; but healed, pardoned, your sins washed away inChrist's blood, actually, here and now. "

He heard men and women--notorious evil-livers, some of them--cryingaloud. Ah, the great simplicity of it was beyond him!--and yet notperhaps beyond him, could he believe the truth, in the bygone yearsnever questioned by him, that Jesus Christ was very God. 

He waited for the last word and strode back to his lonely home with amind unconvinced yet wondering at the power he had witnessed, a heartbursting with love. He sat down to write at once: but tore up manyletters. With Christ, to believe was to be forgiven. If Christcould not be tender to doubt, how much less would John Wesley betender? It was not until Friday that he found courage to dispatchthe following:

 Dear Brother, --I saw you at Epworth on Tuesday evening. Fain would I have spoken to you, but that I am quite at a loss to know how to address or behave to you. 

 Your way of thinking is so extraordinary that your presence creates an awe, as if you were an inhabitant of another world. God grant you and your followers may always have entire liberty of conscience. Will you not allow others the same?

 Indeed I cannot think as you do, any more than I can help honouring and loving you. Dear sir, will you credit me? I retain the highest veneration and affection for you. The sight of you moves me strangely. My heart overflows with gratitude; I feel in a higher degree all that tenderness and yearning of bowels with which I am affected towards every branch of Mr. Wesley's family. I cannot refrain from tears when I reflect, This is the man who at Oxford was more than a father to me; this is he whom I have heard expound, or dispute publicly, or preach at St. Mary's, with such applause; and--oh, that I should ever add--whom I have lately heard preach at Epworth, on his father's tombstone!

 I am quite forgot. None of the family ever honour me with a line. Have I been ungrateful? I have been passionate, fickle, a fool; but I hope I never shall be ungrateful. 

 Dear sir, is it in my power to serve or oblige you in any way? Glad I should be that you would make use of me. God open all our eyes and lead us into truth wherever it be! John Whitelamb. 

The answer was delivered to him that same evening. It ran:

 Dear Brother, --I take you at your word, if indeed it covers permission to preach in your church at Wroote on Sunday morning next. I design to take for text--and God grant it may be profitable to you and to others!--"Ask, and it shall be given you. "

CHAPTER II. 

From Epworth John Wesley rode on to Sheffield, and then southwardthrough Coventry, Evesham and Painswick to Bristol, preaching as hewent, sometimes thrice a day: from Bristol to Cardiff and back; andso, on Sunday evening, July 18th, towards London. On Tuesday morninghe dismounted by the door of the Foundry, having left it just twomonths before. 

To his surprise it was opened by Hetty: but at once he guessed thereason. 

"Mother?"

"Hist! The end is very near--a few hours perhaps. " She kissed him. "I have been with her these five days, taking turns with the others. They are all here--Emmy and Sukey and Nancy and Pat. Charles cannotbe fetched in time, I fear. "

"He was in North Wales when he last wrote. "

"Listen!"--a sound of soft singing came down the stairway. "They are singing his hymn to her: she begs us constantly to sing toher. "

 "Jesu, Lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly While the nearer waters roll--"

Sang the voices overhead as John followed his sister into the smallsitting-room. 

"What do the doctors say?"

"There is nothing to be said. She feels no pain; has no disease. It is old age, brother, loosening the cords. "

"She is happy?"

"Ah, so happy!" Hetty's eyes brimmed with tears and she turned away. 

"Sister, that happiness is for you too. Why have you, alone of us, so far rejected it?"

"No--not now!" she protested. "Speak to me some other time and Iwill listen: not now, when my body and heart are aching!"

Her sisters sang:

 "Other refuge have I none; Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, ah! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me! All my trust on Thee is stay'd, All my help from Thee I bring: Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of Thy wing!"

She stepped to the door with a feeble gesture of the hands. She knewthat, worn as he was with his journey, if she gave him the chance hewould grasp it and pause, even while his mother panted her last, towrestle for and win a soul--not because she, Hetty, was his sister;simply because hers was a soul to be saved. Yes, and she foresawthat sooner or later he would win: that she would be swept into theflame of his conquest: yet her poor bruised spirit shrank back fromthe flame. She craved only to be let alone, she feared all newexperience, she distrusted even the joy of salvation. Life had beentoo hard for Hetty. 

He followed her up the stairs to his mother's room, and enteringcommanded his sisters with a gesture to sing the hymn to an end. They did so. Mrs. Wesley lay propped on the pillows, her wasted faceturned to the light, a faint smile on her lips. For a little whileafter the hymn ended she lay silent with no change on her face. They doubted if she saw John or, seeing, had recognised him. But by and by her lips moved and she murmured his name. 

"Jacky!"

He stepped to the bedside, and with his hand covered the transparenthand with its attenuated marriage ring. 

"I like them--to sing to me, " she whispered. "When--when I amreleased--sing--a psalm of praise to God. Promise me. "

He pressed her hand for reply, and her eyes closed peacefully. Sheseemed to sleep. 

It was not until Friday that the end came. Shortly before eleventhat morning she waked suddenly out of slumber with lips mutteringrapidly. They, bending close, caught the words "Saviour--dearSaviour--help--at the last. " By the time they had summoned John, though the muttering continued, the words were unintelligible: yetthey knew she was praising God. 

In a little while the voice ceased and she lay staring calmlyupwards. From three to four o'clock the last cords were loosening. Suddenly John arose, and lifting his hand in benediction, spoke thewords of the Commendatory Prayer: "O Almighty God, in whom do livethe spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered fromtheir earthly prison; we humbly commend the soul of this Thy servant, our dear Mother, into Thy hands, as into the hands of a faithfulCreator and most merciful Saviour, most humbly beseeching Thee thatit may be precious in Thy sight. . . . "

It was Hetty who bent low, took the inert hand, and after listeningfor a while laid it softly down on the coverlet. All was over: yetshe listened until the voices of the watchers, released by hersignal, rose together--

 "Hark! a voice divides the sky-- Happy are the faithful dead In the Lord who sweetly die--"

She raised her face as if to entreat for yet a moment's respite. But their faces were radiant, transfigured with the joy of theirfaith. And then suddenly, certainly, in their rapture she saw thepurpose and end of all their common sufferings; want, hunger, yearsof pinching and striving, a thousand petty daily vexations, all thehardships that had worn her mother down to this poor corpse upon thebed, her own sorrowful fate and her sisters' only less sorrowful--allcaught up in the hand of God and blazing as a two-edged sword offlame. Across the blaze, though he was far away, she saw theconfident eyes of Charles smiling as at a prophecy fulfilled. But the hand outstretched for the sword was John's, claiming it byright indefeasible. She, too, had a right indefeasible: and beforethe sword descended to cleave the walls of this humble death chamberand stretch over England, her heart cried and claimed to be piercedwith it. "Let it pierce me and cut deep, for my tears, too, havetempered it!"

From the Journal of Charles Wesley for the year 1750:

 "March 5th. I prayed by my sister Wright, a gracious, tender, trembling soul; a bruised reed which the Lord will not break. 

 "March 14th. I found my sister Wright very near the haven"; and again on Sunday, the 18th: "Yet still in darkness, doubts and fears, against hope believing in hope. 

 "March 21St. At four I called on my brother Wright, a few minutes after her spirit was set at liberty. I had sweet fellowship with her in explaining at the chapel those solemn words, 'Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thy everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended. '

 "March 26th. I followed her to her quiet grave, and wept with them that weep. "

EPILOGUE. 

Early in December, 1803, in the cool decline of a torrid day, a smallBritish force--mixed regulars and sepoys--threaded its way among themountains of Berar. It moved slowly and with frequent halts, itspace regulated by the middle of the column, where teams of men pantedand dragged at the six guns which were to batter down the hillfortress of Gawul Ghur: for roads in this country there were none, and all the long day ahead of the guns gangs laboured with pick andshovel to widen the foot-tracks leading up to the passes. 

Still farther ahead trudged and halted the 74th regiment, following asquadron of the 19th Light Dragoons, and now and again the toilers onthe middle slope, taking breath for a new effort and blinking thesweat from their eyes, would catch sight of a horseman on a ridge faroverhead, silhouetted against the pale blue sky for a moment while hescanned a plateau or gully unseen by them. Now and again, too, insuch pauses, the clear air pulsed with the tramp of the rearguard inthe lower folds of the hills--sepoys and comrades of the 78th and94th. 

Though with arms, legs and loins strained almost to cracking, the menworked cheerfully. Their General had ridden forward with his staff:they knew that close by the head of the pass their camp was alreadybeing marked out for them, and before sleeping they would be fed asthey deserved. 

They growled, indeed, but good-humouredly, when, for the tenth timethat day, they came to the edge of a gully into which the trackplunged steeply to mount almost as steeply on the farther side: andtheir good humour did them the more credit since the General hadforbidden them to lock the wheels, on the ground that locking shookand weakened the gun-carriages. 

With a couple of drag-ropes then, and a dozen men upon each, diggingheels in the slope, slipping, cursing, back-hauling with all theirweight, the first gun was trailed down and run across the gully. As the second began its descent a couple of horsemen came ridingslowly back from the advance-guard and drew rein above the fartherslope to watch the operation. 

About a third of the way down, the track, which trended at first tothe left, bent abruptly away to the right, from the edge of a lowcliff of rock; and at this corner the men on the drag-ropes mustalso fling themselves sharply to the right to check the wheels onthe verge of the fall. They did so, cleverly enough: but almost onthe instant were jerked out of their footholds like puppets. Amid outcries of terror and warning, the outer wheel of the gun brokethrough the crumbling soil on the verge, the ropes flew through theirhands, tearing away the flesh before the flesh could cast off itsgrip; and with a clatter of stones the gun somersaulted over theslope. With it, caught by the left-hand rope before he could springclear, went hurling a man. They saw his bent shoulders strike a slabof rock ripped bare an instant before, and heard the thud as hedisappeared. 

As they ran to view the damage, the two riders came cantering acrossthe gully and joined them. By good fortune, at the base of the rockthere welled a tiny spring and spread itself in a miniature bogbefore making up its mind to leap down the mountain-side and feed theinfant waters of the Taptee. Into this plashy soil the gun hadplunged and the carriage lay some yards away up-ended on a brokenwheel, but otherwise uninjured. Beside the carriage, when theGeneral reached it, an artillery sergeant and three of the team ofNo. 2 gun were lifting the injured man. 

"Badly hurt?"

The sergeant saluted. "We doubt it's over with him, sir. His back'sbroken, seemingly. "

The General turned away to examine the face of the cliff, and almostat once gave vent to a low whistle. 

"See here, Ellerton, the rock is caverned and the gun must havebroken through the roof. It doesn't look to me like a naturalcavern, either. Hi! half a dozen of you, clear away this rubbish andlet me have a nearer look. "

The men turned to and heaved away the fallen stones under which thewater oozed muddily. 

"Just as I thought! Nature never made a hole like this. "

An exclamation interrupted him. It came from one of the relief partywho had clambered into the cavern and was spading there in the loosesoil. 

"What is it?"

"A skeleton, sir!--stretched here as natural as life. "

The General dismounted and clambered to the entrance, followed by hisstaff officer. As they reached it, the man stooped again and rosewith something in his hand. 

"Eh? A begging-bowl?"

"Not a doubt of it, " said the staff officer, as his chief passed itto him. He examined it, turning it slowly over in his hands. "It's clear enough, though curious. We have struck the den of someold hermit of the hills, some holy man--"

"Who pitched his camp here for the sake of the water-spring, nodoubt. "

"Queer taste, " said the staff officer sagely. "I wonder how thedeuce he picked up his food. "

"Oh, the hill-men hereabouts will travel leagues to visit and feedsuch a man. "

"That doesn't explain why his bones lie unburied. "

"No. " The General mused for a moment. "Found anything else?" hedemanded sharply. 

The searchers reported "Nothing, " and wished to know if they shouldbring the skeleton out into the light. 

"No: cover him up decently, and fall in to limber up the gun!"He took his horse's bridle and walked back to the group about theinjured man. 

"Who is he?"

He was told, a corporal of the 94th who had volunteered for the gunteam two days before. The sergeant who reported this addeddiffidently, "He had half a dozen of his religious mates in the team. He's a Wesleyan Methodist, sir, begging your pardon. "

"Are you one?"

The sergeant saluted. 

"He was the best man in his company and--and, " he added with a touchof awe, "he was converted by Charles Wesley himself--at Bristol in'eighty, so he's told us--and him aged but sixteen. "

The General bent with sudden interest as the dying man opened hiseyes. After scanning his face for a moment or two he said gently:

"My man, they tell me you knew Charles Wesley. "

The corporal painfully bent his brows, on which the last sweat wasgathering. "Is that--the General?" he gasped with a feeble effort tosalute. Then his brain seemed to clear suddenly and he answered, notas soldier to commanding officer, but as man to man. "He convertedme. Praise be to God!"

"You are going to him. You know?"

The corporal nodded. 

"And you may take him a message from me: for he once did me ahandsome turn, too--though not in that way. You may tell him--for Iwatched you with the guns to-day--that I pass you for a good soldier. You may tell him and his brother John that I wish to command nobetter followers than theirs. Now, is there anything I can do foryou?"

The man looked up into the eyes of the sergeant bending over him, muttered a word or two, slowly drew his palm up to his forehead; andso, with the self-same salute, parted from his earthly captain andmet his eternal Captain in Heaven. 

"What did he say?" asked the General. 

"He was wishful not to be put away without a hymn, sir, " answered thesergeant, drawing himself erect to "Attention" and answeringrespectfully through his captain who had drawn near, having limberedup his gun. 

The General nodded and turned away to watch the lowering of theremaining guns. A new track had been cut and down it they weretrailed without accident. One by one they crossed the gully. Then the rear regiments hove in sight with the ambulance. The deadman was lifted in and his carrying-party, Wesleyans all, fell intorank behind the light wagon as that, too, moved on. 

"Ellerton, " said the General suddenly as he gazed after them, "did you hear what I said to that poor fellow just now?"

"Yes, General, and wondered. "

"It was true, though. If it hadn't been for Charles Wesley, I shouldnever be here commanding these troops. Wesley or Wellesley, sir--spell the name as you will: the man who adopted my great-grandfatherspelt it Wesley: and he moved heaven and earth to make Charles Wesleyhis heir before he condescended to us. The offer stood open foryears, but Charles Wesley refused it. I never heard why. "

What--the hymn-man?"

"Even so. Odd story, is it not?"

The man who was to be the great Duke of Wellington stared for amoment, lost in thought, at his rear-guard mounting the farther slopeof the gully. And as the British guns rolled onward into the dusk, back from the glimmering pass were borne the words of Wesley, Handel's music wafting them on its majestic wings:

 "Rejoice, the Lord is King! Your Lord and King adore: Mortals, give thanks and sing And triumph evermore. Lift up your heart, lift up your voice-- Rejoice! again I say, Rejoice!"