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Title: The Tramping Methodist
Author: Kaye-Smith, Sheila (1887-1956)
Date of first publication: 1908
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London, New York, Toronto, and Melbourne: Cassell, 1922
Date first posted: 3 July 2009
Date last updated: 3 July 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #343

This ebook was produced by:
Andrew Templeton

This file was produced from images generously made available
by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




                         THE TRAMPING METHODIST



                           BY THE SAME AUTHOR

                        UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME


                        GREEN APPLE HARVEST
                        STARBRACE
                        SPELL LAND
                        THE CHALLENGE TO SIRIUS
                        SUSSEX GORSE
                        TAMARISK TOWN
                        JOANNA GODDEN
                        LITTLE ENGLAND



                                  THE
                           TRAMPING METHODIST


                                   BY
                           SHEILA KAYE-SMITH



                  "Bed in the bush with stars to see,
                    Bread I dip in the river--
                  There's the life for man like me.
                    There's the life for ever."

                                       R. L. STEPHENSON.



                        CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD

                London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne



                      _First Published . . 1908_.
                      _Uniform Edition . . 1922_.



                      _Printed in Great Britain_.





                                CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                   PAGE

1. OF THE METHODIST AT BREDE PARSONAGE       1

2. OF THE METHODIST AT SHOYSWELL            11

3. OF THE METHODIST'S CONFESSION OF FAITH   23

4. OF THE METHODIST AND RUTH SHOTOVER       36

5. OF THE METHODIST AND MARY WINDE          54

6. OF THE METHODIST AS A WANDERER           67

7. OF THE METHODIST AS A LOVER              83

8. OF THE METHODIST'S JOURNEY INTO THE
DENS OF KENT                                94

9. OF THE METHODIST AT THE VILLAGE OF
ROLVENDEN                                  104

10. OF THE METHODIST AT THE VILLAGE OF
TENTERDEN                                  117

11. OF THE METHODIST AT THE VILLAGE OF
BIDDENDEN                                  130

12. OF THE METHODIST AND ONE WHO
SUFFERED MORE BRAVELY THAN HE              137

13. OF THE METHODIST AND THE MAN HE HATED  146

14. OF THE METHODIST AND THE WOMAN HE
LOVED                                      154

15. OF THE METHODIST IN PLURENDEN QUARRY   170

16. OF THE METHODIST IN A SORE STRAIT      182

17. OF THE METHODIST IN PRISON             200

18. OF THE METHODIST AND MUCH STORM AND
TROUBLE                                    218

19. OF THE METHODIST AND THE STRETCHED-OUT
ARM OF THE LORD                            242

20. OF THE METHODIST AND THE RETURN WITH
JOY                                        267



                         The Tramping Methodist

                               CHAPTER I

                  OF THE METHODIST AT BREDE PARSONAGE



My father was Rector of Brede, and held in plurality the livings of
Udimore, Westfield, Piddinghoe, and Southease. He himself took charge of
the first three parishes, which lay near each other, and my elder
brother, Clonmel, assisted him as his curate. Between Piddinghoe and
Southease an underfed, overworked curate-in-charge galloped an underfed,
overworked horse every Sunday.

My father's office was almost a sinecure--there were only two services a
week at Brede, and only one at Udimore and at Westfield. On Sunday
evening my father took off the priest with his surplice, and lived the
life of a fox-hunting squire till he put on his surplice again the next
Sunday morning. Clonmel was not a priest even in his surplice, but from
week-end to week-end, a combination of the jockey, the sot, and the
brute.

We were a large family--my father and mother, my brothers Clonmel,
Archie, and Christopher, and my sisters Fanny and Matilda. I have it on
the authority of several neighbours that the Lytes of Brede Parsonage
were renowned for their good looks, my father and Clonmel being
specially fine men. As for me, I think I can do no better than describe
myself in the words of my mother when a visitor admired my face: "Yes,
Humphrey would be handsome if his brows were not so black, and if he
were not always frowning."

I can clearly remember that frown, though time and peace have long since
worn away all traces of it, except two upright lines between my brows. I
first noticed it when, as a child of six, I caught sight of myself in a
mirror and saw the sullen, swarthy little face, with its beetling brows
and angry grey eyes beneath them. I then realised how I deserved the
epithets constantly hurled at me by my parents and Clonmel of "Little
beast! Little devil!"

I was an unfavourable specimen of childhood--stiff, moody, sullen, and
untractable, my bosom always seething with furious passions. I had no
affection for my family, as I knew they did not love me or take any
interest in me. Archie and Kit were coarse and rough, Fanny and Tilly
were vain and would-be-genteel; my mother neglected me, and my father
and Clonmel kicked and beat me. So I shunned them all, and would mope by
myself about the house, sitting for hours, my head sunk on my breast, in
the recess of some windowseat, or on the attic stairs, where, as they
were rickety and unsafe with age, I was sure of comparative peace.

My life was miserable, and my heart was full of bitter passions; but one
day a kind of happiness dawned for me. My brothers and sisters and I
were gathering blackberries in a field near Starvecrow, when the sun
suddenly pierced his noontide wrapping of clouds, and shed his beams on
the pastures. Then I noticed for the first time how lovely was the
country round my home. I saw the Brede River winding through emerald
marshes, like a string of turquoise on a woman's green gown. I saw Spell
Land Woods with their foliage gilt right royally, and the glorious
scarlet of the roofs of Dew Farm against a background of bice and blue.
I felt as if I had been blind up to that hour, and had only just opened
my eyes on a world which God saw was very good.

Thenceforth I was an ardent lover of Nature, a mistress who never grows
old. I rose early each day that I might see the mists scuttle from the
valleys like ghosts at cock-crow, and the sunrise pierce the woods with
copper darts. I never went to bed till the fold-star had risen beyond
Udimore, and the owls had begun to hoot in the woods of Brede Eye. I
used to take long rambles in the lanes and fields, and one night I spent
on the lee-side of a haystack by the Rother Marshes. I saw the Zodiac
wheel slowly above the horizon, the scales hang over the Five-watering,
and the Virgin stand as close as she dare to the flushing moon. I saw
the mists creep along the grass and along the breast of the river,
writhe between the pollards, and scud like ghosts over the level. I was
severely beaten for my escapade when I returned home, but the memory of
that night shall go down with me to the grave.

It was well for me that I had this love of field and hedgerow, for my
life was empty of all other loves. I hated books, and never opened one
of my freewill, though by dint of much whipping I had been taught my
letters. My younger brothers and I did not go to school, as we were
needed for work on the Parsonage Farm, and our education was confined to
three hours' daily reading with our father. I hated this, and,
regardless of blows, played truant at every opportunity. It was after
one of these revolts that the turning-point of my life was reached.

I had been wandering in Loneham fields, instead of plodding through Ovid
in my father's study, and on my return was thrashed by Clonmel, and
locked into an attic with the assurance that I should stay there on
bread and water till the end of the week. At first I was delirious with
rage, and lying on the dirty floor, I sobbed wildly and tearlessly, till
I fell asleep through exhaustion. When I awoke I felt calmer, and began
to examine my prison. It was bare of all furniture, save for an old
chest, and on opening this I found a quantity of musty books. These were
no consolation to me, and I shut the lid. But as the hours wore on,
loneliness and fear overpowered me. I had always been a superstitious
child, and even in the room where I slept with Archie and Kit, I had
often lain awake trembling in the clutches of the terror by night. This
attic soon became a hell to me. I thought to see ghosts and fetches
slithering in the moonbeams up the wall, and the dark corners seemed
full of spooks. I thought to hear my name called from the garden, but on
looking out, saw nothing but the ghastly moonlight fluttering in the
trees. My face and the palms of my hands were damp with sweat, and in
sheer desperation I opened the book-chest, and took out a volume to
distract my thoughts.

At first I did not understand half I read by the clear white light of
the moon; I realised only that the book was a holy book, and spoke of
God and heaven. But soon a sentence arrested me and made me consider,
simply because it was so unlike anything I had read before. I had only
the vaguest religious ideas--I had been told that there was a God above,
Who would certainly thrust me into hell if I continued passionate and
unruly. I had also been told that Brede Church was God's house, which
did not increase my reverence for my Maker, as the church was dirty and
hideous, with walls discoloured by damp and filth, and all view of the
altar-table shut out by a huge, unsightly three-decker. But in this book
I found God as the God of love. "My son, I am the Lord," I read, "a
stronghold in the day of trouble. Come thou unto Me when it is not well
with thee."

I paused. The words were sweet. How often and how bitterly had I longed
for a comforter! My heart was touched, and my tears splashed on the open
page. I read on--"I will come and take care of thee." "Let not therefore
thine heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. Trust in Me and put
confidence in My mercy."

I read the "Imitation of Christ" till the sky suddenly flushed with a
throbbing flame of light, and the birds sent up a matins through the
roar of the wind. Then I put it aside, and lay down and slept on the
floor till the sun awoke me. The whole of that day I spent in pouring
over my new-found treasure. I forgot that I was terrified, miserable,
and hungry; I lived only in the sweet words of the Brother of Common
Life. The effects they produced in me were extraordinary. I think that
Mr. Wesley would have been glad to know my case--it would have
strengthened his theory of instantaneous conversion. I entered that
attic passionate, desperate, my heart full of hate and fury. I left it
calmed and humbled, with a steadfast resolution to lead a Christian
life.

It was very hard--it is always so, and it was exceptionally difficult in
my case. I had no loving parents or friends to help me and pray for me.
On the contrary, my efforts after holiness often brought on me the
ridicule of my family, who could neither understand nor sympathise.
Still, I fought on. I fell daily, hourly, but I rose again and struggled
forward, learning as much from my failures as from my triumphs.

At first my efforts were directed towards what I called "being
good"--that is to say, answering meekly when I was spoken to roughly,
obeying even the surliest commands, and banishing all thoughts of rage
or unbrotherliness from my heart. But after a while my views widened. I
had finished the first three books of Thomas  Kempis, and had begun the
fourth--"Concerning the Sacrament." This inflamed me with fresh desires,
and my whole being yearned for the Communion. I was sufficiently
acquainted with the Prayer Book to know that I could not receive the
Lord's Supper without Confirmation, and after some thought I approached
my father on the subject, and asked if I might be confirmed.

At first he received the idea with derision, but, remembering that I was
fifteen years old and a clergyman's son, granted me my wish. So I was
handed over to Clonmel, who kicked and caned my Catechism into me, and
one September afternoon my brother and I rode off to Hastings, where the
Bishop was about to hold a Confirmation.

It was a still day, and the clouds were dun, but every now and then a
gleam of sunlight swept over the fields, faint as the smile of a dying
child. Clonmel took no notice of me, as he was sulky at having missed a
day's cub-hunting, but rode on in front, his Rehoboam very much on the
back of his head, and dismounted for a tankard of beer at every tavern
we passed.

We went through Westfield and Ore, and I saw the sea and the cliffs and
the little red-roofed town, with the church of All Saints looking down
on it from the slope of the East Hill. There are two churches in
Hastings, S. Clement's and All Saints', and the Confirmation was to be
held in the latter. So Clonmel and I rode down All Saints' Street, and
engaged quarters for the night at the New Moon. After a goodly potation
of rum-shrub, my brother marched me off to the church, where I took my
place in a front seat, while he lounged in a pew at the back.

All Saints', Hastings, was not unlike S. George's, Brede, in point of
ugliness. But it was cleaner; there was some beautiful tracery in the
windows, and the faded remains of a fresco representing the Resurrection
were still visible over the chancel arch. The Confirmation candidates
sat in the front of the church, the boys on one side, the girls on the
other. The latter were devout enough, and read their Prayer Books till
the service began; but the former, who were miserably few, spent their
time in whispering, giggling, and ogling the less serious of the girls.
I found it practically impossible to pray collectedly, especially as my
comrades were laughing at me for remaining so long on my knees. I
stuffed my fingers into my ears, and uttered a few disjointed
supplications. Then a tear, born of hopelessness, fell on my Prayer
Book. I flushed, bit my lips angrily, and rose from my knees to see that
the Bishop and the Vicar had just arrived.

Bishop Ashburnham was a fatherly little man, but did not seem much
impressed with ideas of reverence. Still, he had some notion of feeding
his flock, and before the actual rite of Confirmation, spoke a few words
to the candidates. He had a pleasant voice, and his address was
practical, if not very spiritual. He told us to obey our parents and
pastors, to keep the commandments, honour the King, and say our prayers.
He also bade us come frequently to the Communion, though this was a
mockery to most of us, who had only three celebrations a year in our
parish churches.

As the service continued I began to feel less miserable and hopeless,
and when it came to the laying on of hands, peace and devotion had
revisited my heart. I went up the aisle like one in a trance, and knelt
enraptured with the thin white hands upon my head, while pastoral lips
begged the Lord to defend this His child with His heavenly grace.

I returned to my seat, my heart beating feverishly with love and hope. I
remember nothing of the rest of the service; I seemed to have soared in
vision above that ugly church and slovenly congregation, and to have
visited the house not made with hands, and the general assembly and
church of the first-born. I was cruelly aroused by my companions pushing
past me into the aisle at the end of the service, and rising from my
knees I went to where Clonmel was waiting for me at the back of the
church.

"What the devil is the matter with you?" exclaimed my brother, when we
had passed through the churchyard, and stood in All Saints' Street.
"What are you starin' at the sky for, as if you saw spirits, like a
damnation Methodist?"

"I am very sorry, Clonmel----"

"Don't answer me like that, you little beast! I won't stand your cant.
Hurry on to the New Moon and order me a quart of ale. Make haste, I tell
you, or I'll break every bone in your body."

I obeyed him hurriedly, and a few minutes later we were seated at our
supper in the coffee-room, Clonmel slowly drowning his ill-humour in his
tankard of bitter ale. He seemed to have plenty of friends in Hastings,
judging by the number of greetings he exchanged with the other occupants
of the room. Our table was soon surrounded by horse-breakers and jockeys
in different stages of intoxication, with whom my brother bandied oaths
and jests that set me blushing to the roots of my hair. The Reverend
Clonmel noticed this, and boxed my ears in his usual brotherly fashion,
telling the company that I had just been confirmed, and was already half
a Ranter, though, by the hell! he'd flog it out of me before long.

I gulped down my supper and stole out of the room. I was tired, and
decided to go to bed. The little bedchamber under the eaves of the old
inn was very peaceful after that uproarious coffee-room. I knelt by the
window and prayed, while the starlight came down through the space and
years, and kissed my shoulders and bent head.

I lay awake a long time listening to the wind as it howled up the
street, and thinking over the events of the day. My misery and my
happiness balanced each other pretty equally. I was miserable because I
was so lonely and unloved: I was happy because I possessed a treasure
which God had given, and the world could not take away.

The hours went by, and the noise in the coffee-room increased. Roars of
laughter came to me where I lay, with fragments of song, and every now
and then an unlovely woman's voice. At last a door flew open, and the
shouts and oaths sounded more clearly. The merry company were reeling
upstairs. I heard my brother approach my door. Clonmel drunk was worse
than Clonmel sober. I lay motionless in a sweat of terror with the
clothes over my head. But he took no notice of me, flung himself all
dressed on the bed, and was soon asleep, breathing heavily. A few
minutes later I fell asleep myself, and thus ended my Confirmation day.

I woke early, and the morning twilight was in the room. I rose
noiselessly, dressed, and stole downstairs, and drawing back the bolts
of the inn door, went into the street. The little houses were asleep,
and my steps rang hollow on the deserted pavement. At the bend of the
road, I saw the sea. The water was a soft pearl-grey, the same colour as
the sky. Indigo shadows lay here and there on its breast, and from the
light into the shadow, from the grey into the indigo, the brown-sailed
fishing-smacks glided. The wind came rustling and moaning up the street,
and suddenly a blood-red scar appeared in the clouds above the East
Hill. I heard a robin sing, and my heart leapt in my breast with peace
new-born, and hope revived.

When I reached the inn I found Clonmel and my breakfast waiting for me,
for we were to go home early, my brother being anxious to ride with the
hounds.


                               CHAPTER II

                     OF THE METHODIST AT SHOYSWELL

A soon as we had reached home, Clonmel set off for Doleham, where he
hoped to fall in with the hunt. I went into the back parlour, where I
hoped to be alone. I found my mother seated at the window trifling with
some fancy work. She looked surprised to see me.

"I had no idea you would be back so soon. Your father thought that you
and your brother would spend the day in Hastings, so he has hired a man
from Doucegrove Farm to help Kit and Archie with the ricks."

"Clonmel has gone a-hunting. Mother," I added suddenly, "when will there
be a Sacrament at Brede?"

"A Sacrament!" cried my mother, knitting her brows.

"Yes, ma'am. The Bishop said----"

"Oh, you have been confirmed--I had forgotten it. That accounts perhaps
for your extraordinary way of speaking. There will be a Sacrament at
Christmas, not a day before."

"That's a long time!"

"Well, how often would your reverence have a Sacrament, may I ask?"

"Once a week."

"You little fool! You don't know what you're saying. Why, the Methodists
have a Sacrament once a week!"

"But may we not do as the Methodists do?"

"As the Methodists do! The boy's mad. I've a good mind to tell your
father, and, la! wouldn't he beat you! But I shan't tell him," she added
more kindly, "for you're only a silly child. Go away now, and learn to
keep your opinions to yourself in future."

I left the room and went into the garden. The sun was shining, but the
world seemed very grey to the boy who stood with his hands pressed
tightly to his bosom, trying vainly to keep down the sobs that swelled
it. I do not think that I ever felt so miserable and desolate. But my
despair did not last long, for the thought came to me that though there
was not to be a Sacrament in my father's church till Christmas, other
parsons might do their duty better. Hastings, Iden, Rye, Sedlescombe, I
knew to be in the same plight as Brede, but there were hamlets
beyond--Bodiam, Salehurst, Ticehurst, and many others--where I should
perhaps find what I yearned for. My time was my own that afternoon, as a
man had been hired from Doucegrove to do my work. I could not be happier
than in wandering from village to village searching for a temple where I
might offer my sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.

The sunbeams flickered in the leafage of the orchard; the wind swept
singing over the fields from Lankhurst and dried the foolish tears upon
my face. I went into the house, pocketed a hunk of bread and cheese, and
thus equipped started on my voyage of discovery.

I walked quickly up the Cackle Street, and came to Broad Oak, where I
left the road and crossed the fields to the hop-gardens of Udiam. It was
the hopping season, and I passed many a band of hop-pickers, and many an
oast with the smoke of the drying furnaces streaming through the cowl.
The scent of the vines was delicious, and I sat in their moving shade,
ate my bread and cheese, and felt almost happy in the quiet and
sunshine.

After I had eaten I stretched myself on the sweet-smelling ground, and
slept and dreamed of moaning water and church bells ringing at dawn.
When I woke, the sun was at its highest. I rose refreshed, and walked on
to Salehurst, my heart bounding to see the world so fair. I forgot that
the swallows were flown, that the purple loosestrife had faded from the
banks of the meadow stream, and that the scarlet on the leaves I thought
so beautiful was like the glow on consumption's cheek, a herald of death
and decay.

But my spirits were soon dashed at the sight of the locked doors of S.
Mary's, Salehurst, and of the notice which told me that though morning
and evening prayers were read there alternately every Sunday, the Lord's
Supper was not administered except at Christmas, Easter, and
Whitsuntide. It was the same at Bodiam, and before I had come to Hurst
Green I was deaf and blind to the beautiful world, and saw only the bare
stubble-fields drenched in the tears of the dying summer.

At Hurst Green there was no church, and I set out wearily for Ticehurst.
I had now come some fourteen miles from my home, but this would be no
obstacle to me were I so fortunate as to find a Sacrament at Ticehurst,
for in those days celebrations after Morning Prayer were the accepted
rule. Still, the sun was westering, and I knew that I should be punished
if I reached home after dark; and as at Ticehurst I was again doomed to
disappointment, I started Bredewards with a heavy heart.

The sun was setting fast, and hung low in the sky above Witherenden--a
scarlet wafer on the brink of a cloudy chalice into which it was rapidly
sinking. I quickened my pace, for I realised that I ran the risk not
only of arriving home after dark, but of being locked out for the night.
Seeing a lane lead southward through the fields, I turned down it,
thinking that it might shorten my road. But this reckless course brought
me punishment. The lane merged into a track, and the track gradually
faded away and left me on the banks of a stream, with never a bridge to
cross by.

I sighed hopelessly, and wandered a little by the stream side. The
waters flowed with a moaning sound, and the crimson of the sky was
mirrored in them, with the first star hanging on the edge of the glow.

At last I came to a bend where weeping willows kissed the bubbles at
their feet, and where the stream looked narrow enough for me to jump it.
But I had miscalculated my distance, and this the icy water round my
thighs and breast soon told me. With great difficulty I scrambled out at
the further side and stood shivering on the bank. That moment the sun
went down and the night wind rustled the grass.

I was by this time almost sure that I could not reach Brede much before
midnight, when the Parsonage door would be locked. Moreover, I had lost
my way, I was dripping wet, and faint with hunger and weariness. I
dragged myself across the field, and came into a road. In front of me a
lane led southwards, but I would not have turned down it--remembering my
former recklessness and its results--had I not seen a light twinkling at
the end. I knew that I was near a house, and resolved to go there and
ask my way.

The lane was rough and muddy, and the arching trees shadowed it from the
dusk as with a pall. I groped my way along the hedge, and suddenly came
out of the darkness to find myself in front of an old house with oasts
and haggards swarming round it. The farm-house was half-timbered, and
roses, passion-vine, and creeper did their best to hide the cracks and
gaps in the walls, and to cover the wounds in the old roof, wreathing
tenderly about the tottering chimney-stacks, and hanging in festoons
from gable-end and eaves.

A light beamed from one of the lower windows, and, passing by, I saw an
oak-ribbed kitchen with a table in the middle, at which three persons
were seated. I knocked at the door, and the next moment it was opened by
a short, thickset man, with kind eyes and curly grey air. He looked
sharply at my wet clothes, and when I asked him the way to Brede,
exclaimed:

"You're not going there to-night, surely!"

"I am indeed--is it far off?"

"If you walked hard from this minute, you couldn't reach it before
dawn--and you're soaking wet, my lad Where have you been?"

I told him that I had fallen into a stream, and he shook his head.

"You can't walk far in this plight; you're shivering with cold. Come in
to the fire, and dry your clothes."

"You are very kind, but indeed I must not loiter. I I shall get into
trouble if I am not home tonight."

"I told you just now that you can't possibly be home before dawn, so
come in, my lad. I won't have you leave my door shivering in this way!"

He took me by the arm, and led me into the kitchen. It was a quaint
room, and smelled sweet, for great bunches of lavender were hung from
the middle beam, and an apple stuck full of cloves stood on the
chimney-piece. A man and a girl sat at the table. The man was a tall,
thin young fellow, raggedly dressed, but with one of the sweetest faces
I have ever seen in my own sex. The droop of his mouth was sad, but his
eyes were full of happiness and of a light that was almost divine. He
had been talking earnestly to the girl, and his wan cheeks were flushed,
as he quoted from the Bible before him: "The zeal of Thine house hath
eaten me up," were the words I remember he said.

The girl was of about my own age and dressed in pigeon grey, her hair
hanging in a long, thick plait between her shoulders. She was not
beautiful, but her eyes were glowing like the sparks which fly from
under the smith's hammer, and her cheeks were flushing like the heart of
a fire.

They both rose as I came in, and showed no surprise when the grey-haired
man told them of my plight, but bade me sit by the fire and dry myself.
I drew close to the blaze, and the three took their seats once more at
the table, while the ragged saint resumed his reading. Every now and
then he paused and spoke a few words to his listeners, and he spoke as I
had heard no man speak. His words were rough and ill-chosen, and he gave
me the impression of a man who, though educated himself, had mixed so
long with the rude and uncultured people as to have assimilated some of
the manners and speech. He spoke with force, even brutality, and there
was a Biblical ring in his sentences that told of a deep familiarity
with the Book before him. His speech seemed too great for his frail
body; the thundering words and rolling phrases matched ill with the thin
hands and haggard face. What struck me most about his oration was the
way he went to Nature for his similes. He had not been speaking for ten
minutes before I knew that he could tell the name of every star that
trembled on the dun breast of the sky, and of every flower that coloured
the grass; that he knew the roosting-places of the birds and the
variations of their notes; that he regarded as familiar friends the wild
timid creatures of the forest, the conies of the fallow, and the
butterflies of the hedge and clover-field.

He stopped speaking suddenly, and closed his book. At the same moment a
woman came in with three bowls of porridge, but at a word from her
master went away for a fourth, of which I was right glad, as I had
tasted nothing since noon.

"You shall spend the night here," said the grey-haired man, sitting down
beside me on the settle. "You're much too tired to walk further
to-night. Besides, you would lose your way in the dark."

"I dare not----"

"Nonsense, my lad! I insist. Your parents wouldn't have you walk through
the dark and cold. No,"--and he laid his hand on my mouth "I'll hear no
more excuses. You shan't open your lips--except to eat your porridge."

"The night is very sweet," said the girl, who had risen and was standing
by the fire. "Father, I shall take my supper to the gable-barn and eat
it there. Will you not come too?" she added, turning to me.

Her tone was so frank, so modest, and so sweet that I had neither the
will nor the power to refuse. My clothes were by this time dry enough to
suit me, for I had been hardily bred, so we left the kitchen and crossed
the fold to a barn with tarred wooden walls. The inside was full of hay,
which we climbed by a ladder set against it, and found ourselves in a
sweet-smelling loft, from which we looked down through a huge window
into the fold.

"You have not told me your name," said the girl, when we were seated.

"My name is Humphrey Lyte; what is yours?"

"Mary Winde!"

"What a lovely name!"

"Do you think so? There are so many girls round here called Mary."

"I think it is the most beautiful name a woman can have."

She looked meditative, and cast down her eyes to the hay.

"Does your father own this farm?" I asked her.

"Yes. He used to be a preacher, but his health broke down, so we came to
live here at Shoyswell."

"Who is that gentleman with your father? He looks like a preacher, too!"

"That is Mr. John Palehouse, and he goes from village to village
preaching."

"You are Methodists!" I cried, suddenly alarmed.

"Yes! Does that shock you very much?"

"No--er no--that is to say----"

She laughed merrily.

"I am sure by your voice that you are very much shocked indeed."

"My father is a. clergyman," I stammered, "and I know that he will be
furious when he hears that I have spent the night with Methodists. But
after all, he is sure to beat me for not being home by dark, and he
cannot beat me harder then he does usually--that is to say," I added,
"without killing me."

"You speak as if you would not mind being killed."

"I don't suppose being killed hurts much," I said dreamily; "at least,
not more than being alive."

"How wildly you talk!" she cried, drawing away from me. "Life is
wonderful and beautiful--at least to me."

"It is," I said, "at least to you."

"There are the fields, the woods, the stars, and the wind," she
continued, "and there are books. Don't you love books?"

"I hate them!"

"What a strange boy you are! How do you spend the long evenings if you
hate books?"

"I think!"

"And sad thoughts, I'll be bound. Do you know that there are such
fierce, frowning lines between your eyebrows? They were the first thing
I noticed when I saw you."

"Have you many books?" I asked abruptly.

"Not many of my own, but my father allows me to read what I like of
his."

"Tell me about your books," I cried, leaning forward in the hay, and
touching her hand. "I love to hear you speak. I never had a playfellow."

"I know nothing of foreign languages, so I can read only English books.
But I love them so much that I never wish for any others. Shakespeare,
Chaucer, Pope, Milton, and Spenser--I will lend you my Spenser if you
like?"

"Thank you! I promise to read it, and it will be the only book, except
my Bible and 'Imitation,' that I have ever read of my own free will."

She went on speaking, and I lay listening in the hay. We had finished
our porridge, and had set our bowls aside. The night wind blew in on us,
and rustled the hay. The stillness was broken by the bleating of sheep,
which gradually drew nearer. The fold-gates opened, and the flock poured
in, their whiteness tinged to grey in the starlight. All was so dim that
sheep from sheep could hardly be distinguished, and an indefinite mass
surged between the oasts.

It was like a beautiful dream, which we cry for when we wake. The stars
shone mistily, like pearls under a woman's scarf, and farm-lights dotted
the country, as if the fields reflected and magnified the stars. A
little moon hung between the gables of Shoyswell, and when her light
fell full upon the hay, Mary stopped speaking and laughed.

"I have preached of books enough for to-night. Hark! the fold-bells are
ringing us to bed."

We climbed down from our nest and made our way through the sheep to the
house, Mary going in front of me--grey gown 'mid grey sheep in a grey
starlight.

Entering the kitchen, we surprised Mr. Winde and John Palehouse in a
dispute as to which room I should sleep in, each declaring that I must
have his own. Finding that accommodation at Shoyswell was so scant, I
refused both offers, vowing, as was, indeed, the truth, that I would
rather lie on a truss of hay in one of the outhouses. By dint of
argument and entreaty I at length carried my point, and after we had all
knelt for a few minutes in prayer on the warm flags round the hearth,
Peter Winde lighted me to my sleeping-place.

It was an old barn and immensely high; but it was warm and
sweet-scented. The moon and stars shone on me where I lay, too happy to
go to sleep. I had always loved solitude and longed to sleep alone, but
my wish had never been granted me--except for the night spent under the
haystack on the Rother Marshes--till now, when I lay in the old black
barn, and outside the wind-crooned hush-a-bye to the oaks and hazels,
and all else was silence save for the groaning cowls of the oasts.

I did not sleep till the morning dusk, and it seemed as if I had only
just closed my eyes when I woke to find John Palehouse shaking me by the
shoulder. Breakfast was laid in the kitchen, and when it was over, Mary
took me into the next room, where the walls were lined with books. She
gave me a Spenser from her own little store, and I was delighted,
because I knew that I should have to walk over to Shoyswell to return
it. On our way out of the room I noticed a number of black-bound volumes
in a case by themselves.

"Are those your father's?" I asked, impressed by their size.

"Yes," she said, and added mischievously, "they are Methodist books."

I drew back a little.

"But, after all, if you and Mr. Winde are Methodists, they cannot be
such dreadful people as I have been told."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," cried Mary, laughing. "I am so sorry
you must go," she added gravely.


"You are not so sorry as I am. I have been happier these few hours than
I have ever been before."

"Poor boy!" I thought I heard her whisper, and I know that there were
tears in her eyes as she said good-bye.


                              CHAPTER III

                 OF THE METHODIST'S CONFESSION OF FAITH

I was not long in reading Mary's Spenser, and when I had returned it she
lent me her Shakespeare, and after that her Chaucer. This meant many a
walk to Shoyswell, and each visit was sweeter than the last. I found
that if I rose very early, I could easily be back by nightfall, and as I
was often wont to take long rambles by myself, my family asked no
questions. I was much hindered by my duties on the farm, but I enjoyed
an occasional holiday, and no one cared to know how I spent it. On my
return from my first visit to the Windes I had told my father that,
being overtaken by night, I had sought shelter at a farm-house; and as
this afforded enough excuse for beating me, no more questions were
asked, and the Reverend Septimus Lyte never heard that his son was the
guest and friend of Methodists.

John Palehouse had gone on a preaching expedition to Devonshire, and
Peter and Mary were alone. They always had a quiet but kindly welcome
for me, and my heart began to warm and expand in its new happiness. For
this was the only friendship I had known. Though my father and mother
occasionally visited or were visited by the neighbouring "gentry," I had
never had any other companions than my younger brothers, who were
companions only in the sense that we worked, ate, and slept together,
and could by no means be called my friends.

My intercourse with the Windes was new and beautiful. Mary and I used to
take our books into the hayloft and read aloud to each other, bringing
what we could not understand to Peter; and in the evening the father and
daughter walked part of the way home with me, as far as Lossenham,
perhaps, or Methersham, on the great lonely marsh where the mists were
brooding and hanging like streamers on the branches of the willows,
where the Rother wound like a ribbon of flame towards the east. Peter
would bless me when we said good-bye, and I would walk on to Brede with
a light heart, and would dream of Shoyswell.

A great happiness had come into my life with these two friends, but I
still had my moments of darkness and depression. These increased as I
grew older and my eyes opened wider on the sorrows round me. I soon
realised that not only was the Sacrament neglected, but that the Gospel
was not preached. The poor people of my father's parish were woefully
ignorant--many of them could neither read nor write--and could hear of
God and heaven only from my father and Clonmel, who cared for none of
these things. These wretched folk lived hopeless, religionless lives,
and spent them in bestial pleasures, sin, suffering, and despair. My
heart yearned after them--they were like shepherdless sheep on the
hills. I resolved to try to better their lot. I secretly visited the old
people in their cottages, and I formed a class of lads, whom I taught to
read in a kitchen lent me by a cottager of Broad Oak, having only one
rule---that each lad I taught should in his turn teach a friend. But my
father heard of my undertaking, and if there was one thing he hated, it
was to see another do the good works he left undone. He scattered my
class, flogged me, and multiplied my duties on the Parsonage Farm,
hoping by hard work and hard blows "to knock all the nonsense out of
me."

This made me desperate, and I did that which I had been tempted to do
some months before, but had not dared. On one of my visits to
Shoyswell--they were very few now that my farm-work had been
increased--I asked Peter Winde to lend me one of his Methodist books. He
had made me a laughing offer once, but I had drawn back horrified, and
he looked surprised when I ventured my request.

"Do you really mean it, lad?"

"Yes, I really mean it."

He shook his head, but gave me a volume. It was the smallest of his
collection, and during the day I kept it in my bosom, and at night it
lay under my pillow. I was in dread of discovery, and read it in secrecy
and fear, but when I had finished it I asked Peter for another.

It was sheer desperation that had driven me to this course, and
sometimes I paused and wondered at myself, and at the direction matters
were taking. It seemed impossible that Humphrey Lyte, the loyal
Churchman and devout Sacramentalist, should be reading Methodist books,
and becoming each day more favourably disposed towards Methodism. The
fact was that my books, and the beautiful lives led by Peter and Mary
Winde, had taught me that Methodists were not the evil fanatics and
heretics my family believed them. They were truer to Church discipline
and to the Sacraments than were most Church people and clergy, and they
had a zeal for the Gospel of Christ that made my heart glow with fervour
and admiration. With the Calvinistic Methodists, the followers of
Whitefield, I had no sympathy, but the disciples of Wesley, with their
simple austere lives, their good works, and their enthusiasm, stirred up
my highest respect, and respect soon deepened into a wish to imitate.

At first I proposed to go no further than imitation. I fasted and spent
much time in prayer and in reading the Bible. I hoped that the Church
might be goaded to reform by the example of the noble lives outside her
pale. But I soon saw how foundationless was this hope, and began to
entertain doubts as to my right to remain in a Church which had fallen
so far from her purest ideals.

I angrily silenced my doubts, but they were stronger then I, and
tormented me, especially after my failure with my school. I saw that it
would be impossible for me to do good in my father's parish. I saw also
that no parish in England would tolerate my good works. The Church hated
enthusiasm; she preached against it and fought against it. There was no
room for the zealous preacher of the Gospel in the Church.

I have told in a few lines of a struggle which raged several months. I
shall not enter into the details of that conflict, or describe how my
doubts gradually formed themselves into unanswerable arguments and then
into convictions. I was about twenty years old when my eyes opened fully
on the truth, and I remember my despair when I saw that there was only
one course open to me--a secession from the Established Church to the
Methodists.

I lay awake night after night in anguish. I said nothing of my trouble
to Peter Winde, and he gave me no sign that he suspected it. He had
seldom spoken to me of his beliefs, but his life had preached them more
convincingly than his lips could ever have done. At last, however, he
let me see that he knew of my difficulties. I had managed to find time
for a visit to Shoyswell. Mary was out, but Peter received me kindly. He
was dusting the shelves of his library, and asked me to amuse myself
with a book till he had finished. I remember little of the book--it was
"Purchas his Pilgrimage" I think--for I fell a-dreaming over the open
page, and was roused only by Winde putting something down in front of
me. It was an open Bible, and one verse was deeply scored--

"He that taketh not his cross and followeth after Me, is not worthy of
Me."

"I'll walk as far as Reedbed with you this evening, lad," said Peter.

Mary came home from the neighbouring farm-house of Turzes, where she had
been visiting some friends, and we had dinner. When it was over, Peter
and I set out for Brede. I said good-bye to Mary at the gate.

"You are not coming with us?"  said.

"No, not this afternoon!"

"Why not? I should like to talk with you about 'Paradise Regained.'"

"But my father wished to talk with you about something far more
important."

Her voice rang serious, and there was a great glow in her eyes and on
her cheeks.

"God bless you, Humphrey," and she shut the gate. I hurried after her
father, who was half way up Shoyswell Lane, and we walked on side by
side for some time in silence. It was not till we had reached the Rothe
Levels that he spoke. The March afternoon was drawing to a close, and
the country lay round me draped in vesper robes of crimson and
grey--crimson on the great sedge-bordered ponds and on the breast of the
Rother, grey on the misty fields that huddled, with woods still darker
grey, towards the south.

"Well, lad," said Peter, "and will you deny your Lord that He may deny
you, or will you confess Him that He may confess you before the angels
of Heaven?"

"What do you mean?" I faltered.

"I mean that you must speak--you can't keep silence any longer."

"How do you know what I've got to say?"

"I've studied your face and read a secret there."

"Oh . . . Mr. Winde. . . ."

"You're surprised, are you? But I'm used to studying folk, and though
you're reserved enough, I've read the proud young heart that would have
nursed its own bitterness."

"I did not care to trouble you," I murmured sheepishly.

"In other words, you were afraid of your secret."

"That is true," I cried. "That is true indeed; and, sir, you wish me to
tell my family of this?"

"The Lord wishes it, dear lad!"

I walked on beside him in moody silence. The evening was very still,
troubled only by the tinkling of a foldbell at Moon's Green, and the
splash of our feet on the spongy level.

"It is quite true," I said at last, "that my family do not love me, and
that I shall have no heartache in parting from my home, but my father
and brother are passionate men, and when they hear----"

"So you're afraid of physical pain! Oh, lad I thought better of you."

"I do not fear pain, but I fear the storm that will break. I shall
probably be turned out and disowned."

"That's a light affliction," said Peter, "and 'He that loveth father or
mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.'"

"I repeat that I do not love my family, only--oh, I must tell you the
truth, sir. I have lived a quiet life until now; I have been unhappy,
but I have been in comparative peace. I have lived with thoughts and
dreams, and it is hard to come to realities. If my father turns me out I
shall starve."

"You can work for your living--you know how to work hard. But I've
greater hopes for you, lad. I've hoped and prayed that you should follow
in John Palehouse's steps and in mine."

"You mean that I should become a preacher?"

"Certainly, lad. I've noticed before this that the Almighty has given
you 'a mouth and wisdom.' So go forth and preach the Gospel to every
creature."

We had reached Reedbed by this time, and Peter stood still.

"Yes, go forth 'because of the word of truth, of meekness and of
righteousness, and thy right hand shall teach thee terrible things.'
Tell your father of your convictions, cast aside your old life of
groping, and come into the new life of grasping. 'How beautiful upon the
mountains are the feet of him that publisheth peace!' Lad, in this
county of Sussex there are hundreds of villages where no one has
preached the tidings of great joy. The Lord has called you, Humphrey. He
has called you from the pastures of your father's farm, from the herds,
and from the sheep-folds and will you say: 'I pray Thee have me
excused'?"

His voice rang out over the marsh, and a sudden gust of wind moaned
"Amen" among the reeds. I held out my hands.

"I shall do as you wish and as God wishes. My sacrifice is very small,
but I offer it with my whole heart."

He smiled and wrung my hand.

"God bless you, lad. Mary will be pleased when she hears this."

"I shall tell my father on my first opportunity."

"And when you have done so come to Shoyswell, and we'll arrange the
future. Oh, lad, if only you knew how long I've had this at heart!"

He wrung my hand again and we parted. I looked back after I had come to
Hope Farm, and saw him still standing among the osiers of Reedbed. I
knew that he was praying for me.

It was always my custom to walk home by the marsh, instead of by the
shorter way across the fields, and before I had left the levels the
first stars were flickering above the old Kent Ditch, and my lady moon
was blushing over Appledore, kerchiefed in the mist. I walked quickly as
the twilight deepened and the thoughts chased each other through my
brain.

I realised that the sacrifice I was about to make was but a little one
compared to those which had been offered rejoicingly by the martyrs
before me. I had no dear home-ties to sever; no bitter partings would
make me weep. My great fear was that my father would not turn me out of
doors, but would shut me up and try to starve me into subjection.
However, I thought this most unlikely. Upon one thing I was resolved. I
would make my confession to my father alone, and not in the presence of
Clonmel.

It was dark when I arrived home, and a storm was blowing up from the
west. The raindrops were already on my face when I reached Brede
Parsonage, and every now and then the wind raised a mournful shriek
among the gables.

On entering the kitchen, where we generally had our meals, I found that
my mother, sisters, and younger brothers had finished their supper. Only
my father and Clonmel remained at table, and were already in the
quarrelsome stage of their liquor, judging by my father's question as to
"where the devil I had been all day?" and Clonmel's request to "shut the
door and be damned!"

I took my seat without a word, and set a volume of "Tristram Shandy"
before me on the table, to read while I ate my supper. I had grown to
love books since Mary Winde had introduced me to her favourite authors,
and had gone through a course of ridiculously miscellaneous reading,
snatching my few spare moments, meal-times, and occasionally an hour in
bed. I was far lost in the company of Tristram, Uncle Toby, Yorick, and
Corporal Trim, when an extra loud oath from my father made me start.

"Zounds! but the fellow's no better than a Methodist!"

"Confounded Ranter," growled Clonmel, his face hid in a mug of ale.

"A Bible-class!"--and my father pounded the table till the ale leaped
and swashed in the jugs. "We'll be having daily prayers soon. What are
you staring at, Humphrey, you idiot?"

"I was wondering what was making you so angry, sir?"

"The confounded curate at Piddinghoe has set up a Bible-class, and I've
turned him off like the knave and Ranter he is. I'll have no Methodist
humbugs in my parishes. Those Methodists are past bearing with, and
they're not content with their pranks outside the Church, but must needs
play Old Harry with matters inside it! Talk of toleration! I'd hang 'em
as high as Haman if I had the managing of affairs. Let's drink to their
damnation. Fill up your glass, Clon, and here's to their eternal
roasting!"

Clonmel swung off his ale. "Damnation to the whole brood!" he roared.
"Why, Humphrey, you're not drinkin'!"

"Nor do I intend to," I replied.

"You don't? Then I'll make you!"

He sprang up, and before I could resist, had flung his arm round my
neck, and forced his tankard against my teeth. I struggled, but he held
me like a vice, half-choking me. At last I managed to wriggle an arm
free. I struck him in the face with all my force, threw myself from him,
and stood in the middle of the room, with dry skin and heaving breast.

Clonmel swore at me, but he offered no further violence, seeing that I
had the fire-irons within reach.

"You young devil!" he screamed. "I'll serve you out for this--you damned
Methodist. I'll have your blood from you. I'll make you screech and pant
for mercy!"

"By the Lord! What's the meaning of this, Humphrey?" cried my father.

"Clonmel is in a rage because I refuse to drink damnation to the
Methodists," I replied, resolving to go on as well as I could with my
confession.

"And why won't you drink?"

"Because--because I believe that they are honest and holy men; because I
consider them foully and spitefully slandered; because I--I am myself a
Methodist."

I brought the last words out with a gasp, and stood silently awaiting
their effect.

My father's jaw dropped, and he gazed at me in the uttermost
bewilderment and anger. Clonmel started up with an inarticulate oath,
and sprang towards me. I darted back, and, seizing a chair, swung it
above my head.

"Stand off, if you value your skull!" I cried, and he drew back, still
cursing and swearing.

At last my father recovered speech.

"What the devil do you mean, Humphrey Lyte? Are you mad?"

"No, sir, I am sane--and a Methodist."

"And the foulest young devil that ever walked this earth!" roared
Clonmel.

"Since when is this folly--knavery, I mean?" cried my father.

"I decided some weeks ago to join the Methodists, but I put off my
confession till to-day, and should not have made it even now had I not
been forced. I meant to speak privately with you, sir, to-morrow."

"By all the blazes! I never met such impudence. I've a good mind to
horsewhip you."

"Stay, sir, I am too old for such threats. I assure you that I have not
made up my mind without serious thought. I have found that the Church
cannot satisfy----"

"Is this the way you serve the Church that has done so much for you?"
cried my father, assuming a clerical air. "You leave the paths of sound
doctrine and embrace vapouring heresies. Pah!"

"I ask your pardon, but the Church has done nothing for me, and will, I
am persuaded, still do nothing. The Methodists are not heretics; on the
contrary, they are more loyal to Church truth and discipline than are
Church people themselves. They fast twice a week; they assemble daily
for praise and prayer. Wesley and his followers at Oxford used to be
called the Sacramentarians, so great was their love for the Communion.
My conscience----"

"Dearly beloved brethren, my conscience moveth me in sundry instances to
play the game-cock with my betters," cried Clonmel, who was drunk.

"Hold your tongue, Clon, and let me deal with him. Look here, you fool,
you are talking stuff and nonsense, but I'll soon see whether you mean
what you say, or whether it's your usual damned effrontery. Either you
abjure your devil's heresies, or you leave my house."

He was very flushed and excited, but I knew that he meant what he said.

"I was prepared for this alternative, sir, and have already made my
choice. I leave Brede Parsonage."

"Go, then, and the devil take you!" he cried thickly.

I went towards the door, but Clonmel, who was still smarting from the
blow I had given him, sprang to his feet.

"You young viper and villain, you! You shan't leave this house till I've
made you curse the day you were born."

The next moment he had snatched up his hunting whip from a chair beside
him, and had sprung upon me, slashing me in the face. I grappled him,
but he was too strong for me, and flogged me over the head and shoulders
till I thought I should swoon. In mad desperation I seized him by the
throat, and he brought both hands to bear at my fingers, dropping the
whip. For a moment we swayed together; then he fell heavily to the
floor, and lay there an instant as if stunned, before he staggered,
cursing most horribly, to his feet. He would have closed with me again,
but my father, who, during our struggle had been meditatively swilling,
suddenly interfered, thrust us apart, and hurled Clonmel into a chair.

"You young beast!" he cried to me. "Now that you have done mauling your
brother, leave my house for ever."

"I am going," I blurted out, half choked with passion.

Clonmel would have sprung up, but my father held him down.

"Let him alone, Clon. We've had enough for a clergyman's household. Be
off, you vagabond, and if ever I catch you inside my gates I'll skin you
alive."

My heart was beating so hard with fury that I could scarcely breathe,
but I strode to the door and flung it open, letting a draught of wind
and icy rain into the kitchen.

The next moment something whirled at my head and struck my temple. I
felt the blood trickle into my eye, and glared back into the room
through a crimson mist. Clonmel had managed to free a hand from my
father's grasp, and had hurled a pewter tankard at me as a fitting
farewell.

"What are you staggering there for?" roared my father. "Go to the devil
with you!"

I gave one last glance at them both. The next moment I was out in the
fold, and the night-wind was drying the blood upon my face.



                               CHAPTER IV

                   OF THE METHODIST AND RUTH SHOTOVER

I went through the yard, and, as I passed the lighted window of the room
where my mother and sisters were sitting, the thought came to me how
strange it was that I should have no loving stolen farewells to make
before I went out penniless into the world. Kit and Archie were laughing
and talking together in the Dutch barn, but they neither heard nor saw
the outcast who strode past them into the night.

The wind was barking like a starving dog behind the meadow-hills of
Udimore; the clouds ran wildly across the sky, and between them danced
the stars, hither and thither, here and there, while the horned moon
scudded through the wrack. The rain fell hissing round me, and in a few
moments I was drenched to the skin. I had left the Parsonage without hat
or cloak; moreover, I had taken off my boots on my return from
Shoyswell, and wore only shoes which were in every way unsuited to the
rough and stony road I trod. But I thought little enough of these things
at that moment, for at first I was mad with rage, and then I was mad
with grief. I strode up the Cackle Street, and the light from the
cottage-windows burnished the wet road, and bewitched the raindrops into
a shower of garnets. Then I left the village, and the angry night threw
her shroud round me, and her voices stormed at me, and her winds
buffeted me as I half-walked, half-ran over the mud and stones. I felt
the blood trickling down my face, so tore off the kerchief I wore
knotted about my throat, and tied it around my head, which ached
miserably.

I had no exalted feelings to compensate me for my bodily wretchedness.
When dwelling beforehand on my confession, I had always pictured myself
in some noble attitude, speaking noble words, while my father listened
abashed, with "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian" written on
his face. The dream had been a glorious triumph--the reality was very
like a pot-house brawl. Perhaps this was entirely my fault,
nevertheless, I felt bitterly ashamed of the fury that had knotted my
veins, and nearly burst my heart, and, throwing myself down under the
hedge, I sobbed great tearless sobs that tore my throat and chest.

I lay in the wet grass for over a quarter of an hour, then rose
shivering, and pressed on to Broad Oak. I realised how useless it would
be to try to reach Shoyswell by the fields on such a night, so turned
down what I believed to be the road to Sedlescombe, and soon the fitful
stormlight of the moon was shut off from me by overarching trees. I had
not gone far before I saw that I had taken the wrong lane, but my heart
was so numb that the discovery did not distress me, especially as, on
coming to Beckley Furnace, I realised that the track I followed would
eventually bring me to Peasmarsh, where I knew a cottager who would, I
hoped, let me lie in his kitchen during the night.

But the darkness was so great, and the storm so wild, that I soon
wandered from my track, and became entangled in a maze of bypaths, which
wound up and down and in and out of black woods where the wind
whispered, and rustled a twisted undergrowth.

I was hopelessly lost, and faint with cold and pain, for my clothes were
as drenched as if I had fallen into the Rother, and my feet were so cut
with the stones that I could hardly put them to the ground. My head
ached terribly, and a kind of blindness seized me, so that in the glints
of moonlight everything looked blurred and confused, and lights danced
ahead of me, which at first I took for cottage windows, but which I soon
saw were the creatures of my own brain. I cannot tell what kept me from
throwing myself down in a ditch to die, for I had no spirit in me. But I
struggled doggedly on, stumbling every now and then, and rising and
pressing on again. At last the wood grew thinner, then seemed to fall
away from me, the trees gliding and curtseying till I became terrified
at my delirium--for it was not as if I passed the bushes and trees, but
as if they passed me.

I found myself on a track of waste land, half marsh, half wilderness,
crossed by dykes, and studded with willows, bent and twisted like the
tormented trees of hell. I knew that I must be on the outskirts of the
Rother Levels, and that all would go well with me if I could find the
river.

But the darkness cloaked the marsh on all sides, and though I pressed,
as I thought, northwards, I soon discovered that I was going west, for
on a sudden the moon shone in front of me, kissing the horizon and
showing me a group of barns and oast-houses about a hundred yards off.
The shape of the buildings seemed familiar, and in another burst of
moonlight I recognised a ruined farmstead known as Baron's Grange, which
I had often visited in my walks. This told me that many acres of marsh
must lie between me and the Rother, and that I should find it almost
impossible to cross the treacherous swamp of dyke and osier in the dark.
I was half dead with fatigue, for I had walked over thirty miles since
morning, and it occurred to me that I could not do better than spend the
night in a barn at Baron's Grange, and resume my journey at daybreak.

I crossed the waste of rushes and osiers, and went into the ruined fold.
All around me the farm-buildings raised tottering gables against the
clouds, and their black windows were like sightless eyes. I crept into
the oast-house barn, the roof of which seemed fairly watertight, and
threw myself down upon a heap of straw. The place had evidently been
used as a stable for cattle during the winter, for hay and straw were
littered on all sides, with piles of frost-bitten mangolds.

I lay on my back, staring at a ray of light that crept through a chink
between the roof and the wall. The wind howled uncannily among the
beams, and rumbled in the caverns of the oasts. I shivered. The kerchief
I wore round my head was by this time saturated with blood, which poured
from under it down my cheeks. My shoulders were horribly stiff and
aching, both from the cold and from the lash of Clonmel's whip. My feet
were numb, and though I swathed them in the hay, I could not restore
sensation.

But my pain of body was nothing to my pain of mind; and I groaned as I
lay, and cried to God to end the life of His miserable servant. In my
agony and weakness I tossed in the straw, and cursed the life God had
given me in His love. At last I found the relief of tears, and sobbed as
if my heart would break, and fell asleep sobbing like a beaten child.

My dreams were distressful; I woke in a sweat, and so great was my
discomfort that for a moment I actually wished myself back in the low,
hot room where I slept at Brede Parsonage. The barn had been in profound
silence when I fell asleep, but on waking I noticed that it was full of
sounds--rustlings, flutterings, trampings, and groanings. Then a great
fear seized me, and I cowered in the straw. I had been extremely nervous
and superstitious as a child, and though when I grew older I had fought
with my terrors, I had never entirely mastered them, and now, when I lay
enfeebled by weariness, pain, and misery, they utterly overpowered me.

All kinds of weird legends, sprung from the soil of the fields and
fallows round me, came into my mind--Cicely of Cicely's Farm, who hanged
herself on her own barn door, when the sun was red, and the sheep were
bleating at the fold-gates, who wanders over the marshes with the
suicide's stake in her breast, followed by her wraith-sheep, searching
in vain for a fold to pen them in, and silence their bleating: Grey
Clement of Stream Farm, who calls his cows home at sunset, even as he
was calling them when his shepherd slew by his orders Clement's
beautiful guilty wife in Pattenden's field: Colin Clamourne of
Winterland Farm, who burned his new-born babe, whose spook wanders
screaming through the woods of Ellenwhorne, a fire burning in his heart
and shining through his breast and through his eyes. These and many
other stories came to me as I lay with the sweat on my face, listening
to the ghostly sounds that troubled the stillness of the old haggard. I
thought to hear the rustle of women's dresses, the patter of children's
feet, and often it was as if something touched me. At length I could
bear it no longer. I sprang up, and rushed out into the fold.

At the same moment a wrack of clouds rolled off the face of the sky, and
the starlight shone clearly into the barn I had left, showing me a
number of rats, scampering and gambolling among the straw and mangolds.
These had been the source of my fears, and in my relief I laughed out
loud. Still, I did not care to go back to the straw, which was shaking
and heaving with its numerous inmates, so, as by a certain freshness in
the air I knew that the dawn was at hand, I started out once more in
search of the Rother.

The rain had ceased, and the wind was only sobbing. The dawn-star
glimmered wan above Baron's Grange, and soon a steely light rode over
the sky, and showed me the river not far off. I thanked God, for I had
nothing to do but to follow the Rother to Bodiam, whence a lane would
take me to Shoyswell. But walking was not easy, for my feet sank deep at
each step into the boggy ground, and every now and then I stumbled, and
was almost too weary to rise. Moreover, the pains of hunger had begun to
gnaw me. I had eaten practically nothing since my dinner at Shoyswell,
for the disturbance with my father and Clonmel had taken place before I
had done more than taste my supper. I drank greedily of the Rother
water, and it refreshed me a little, but I soon saw that I could never
hope to reach Shoyswell unless I first had food and rest.

I stumbled on by the sighing river, and gradually the dawn woke, and
veiled the stars in her wavy skirts of flame. The Rother valley was yet
dusk, but on the hills that flanked it I saw the sunrise lying, and
suddenly the mist rolled back from a village on the crest of the
southern ridge.

My heart leapt to see the little houses reflect the sun's amber
matin-light on their windows, and unconsciously I turned towards that
village on the hill. I felt sure that I could find there some kind heart
who would let me share his morning meal and rest by his fire.

I toiled painfully up the slope, with a throbbing in my head and a
singing in my ears. I met some children at play by a group of pollards,
and by the startled shrieks with which they fled, knew what a horrible
sight my sufferings must have made me. My shoes had been torn off, and
my naked feet were bleeding; my clothes were dripping with rain, and had
become so disordered by brakes and brambles that my neck and half my
bosom were bare. A bloody bandage was fastened round my head, and
channels of blood were dry upon my cheeks.

I went a little further, and came to a garden which sloped from a
russet-roofed house on the brow of the hill. As I staggered to the
fence, and stood for a moment clutching to it, I noticed that I had
passed out of the twilight, and had come into the golden mist of
sunrise.

Hardly aware of what I was doing, I climbed the low bryony-tangled fence
into the garden. The earth was damp and soft, and smelled sweet, and
primroses and dog-violets starred the turf and borders. I went through a
kind of shrubbery, nearly hanging myself in ropes of convolvulus, and
came out on a lawn which stretched up to the house.

I stood abashed, for a young man was pacing the grass, a book in his
hand. He was evidently a parson, for he wore black clothes and
shovel-hat, but, instead of the parson's full-bottomed wig, his own pale
hair fell about his ears. He walked with a stoop, and looked frail and
careworn.

I would have slunk away, for when a Methodist is hungry, it is not to
the Parsonage he should come for bread. But at that moment he turned and
caught sight of me.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" His voice, though startled, was
not unkind, and I replied, "I had no idea this was a Parsonage when I
came into your garden, for I am a Methodist."

"But that doesn't tell me why you are here."

"I have tramped many miles, and am tired and hungry--but I am a
Methodist."

He knit his brows and stared at me. He had a good face, but the lines
round his mouth were very weak.

"You might tell me more about yourself besides that you are a Methodist.
But I do wrong to question you when you're tired and fasting. Come into
the house."

I was bewildered. I had not expected this reception from a parson. I
staggered as I walked. He noticed it, and bade me lean on his arm.

"You can explain matters afterwards, but you shall rest and eat first."

"You are very trustful," I replied rather bitterly; "for all you know, I
may be the worst kind of tramp and thief."

"I don't think so, and I'm good at reading faces. Besides, you are
tired, and hungry, and God forbid that I should deny you food and rest."

"Is that your Gospel?" I asked, touched by his simple kindness. "Beware,
it may bring you into trouble."

"I think not," he answered gently. "But here we are in the kitchen.
Don't be frightened, Rosie"--to a maidservant--"this gentleman has been
out all night, and is tired and hungry. Heat him some soup at
once"--then to me, "Sit here, my friend, and I shall fetch you some
water to wash your feet."

He was gone, and I leaned back on the settle, and closed my eyes. I
wondered for a moment if I were dreaming, but the cosy kitchen, the
red-cheeked maid, and the hot soup she brought me with soaked bread,
were real enough. The voracity with which I devoured my meal astonished
my waitress, who refilled the bowl, and stared at me with the
profoundest awe as I gulped it down. I had just upon finished when the
parson returned, carrying not only a basin of warm water, but stockings
and shoes.

He bathed my feet, then examined and bound up the gash on my forehead,
and helped me to arrange my dress. While he performed these kind offices
I thought it best to tell him my story, and let him know on whom he was
bestowing his charity, but my recital nothing altered his goodness.

"I don't agree with you in the least," he said, "but that makes no
difference. You are my guest for to-day, and you mustn't resume your
journey till you are thoroughly rested."

"You are very good," I said brokenly. For the second time in my life I
had found a kind heart, given to hospitality.

"I only do you a decent kindness. How tired you must be! Come, you shall
sleep in my bed for a few hours while your clothes are dried." He drew
my arm through his, and led me to a small sunlit room in the gable of
his house.

"Is this Bodiam village?" I asked, while he helped me to undress, for I
was so stiff and cramped that every movement was painful. "I thought old
Mr. Henniker was rector of Bodiam."

"This is not Bodiam. It is Ewehurst, and I'm Guy Shotover, the
curate-in-charge."

"Ewehurst! What a fool I was not to have recognised it! But I was sick
and dazed, and I thought to have come further than this."

"Take courage, you are not far from your journey's end, and you will be
another man after you have slept."

He left me, and I fell into a sleep where I dreamed of nothing but green
fields, sunshine, and kind voices.

The sun was shining full on my face when I woke, and gazed stupidly
round me, wondering where I was. I remembered in an instant, and jumped
out of bed. My clothes had been cleaned and dried, so I hastened to
dress myself. I had slept off in a great measure my anxiety and despair,
and, though subdued, my heart was not so heavy as it had been a few
hours ago. I was also physically refreshed, but not to such an extent,
for my head still ached and throbbed, and every now and then I shivered,
and the next moment I burned.

It was nearly two o'clock, and before I had finished dressing, Guy
Shotover came to summon me to dinner.

"But before we eat," he said, "I must introduce you to my sister. She
was in bed when you arrived, as she sleeps badly, and seldom rises
before seven. I have told her about you, and she's most anxious to see
you."

"I fear that I am not a very suitable object to present to a lady."

"Nonsense. You look marvellously better after your sleep. There's a
brilliant colour on your face."

I followed him downstairs, and through the parlour into the garden.

"Ruth is in the arbour, reading." We went along a path bordered with an
array of daffodils, and came to a summer-house at the end of it. Great
ropes of creeper hung in front of the arch, and between the leaves I saw
the pale blue of a woman's gown. The next moment Shotover caught aside
the blushing curtain of young shoots, and my eyes met those of the
curate's sister.

She looked little more than a child. Her stature was low, and her figure
slight, and she had the dimpled cheeks and soft white throat one loves
to kiss in children. But her eyes were essentially unchildlike, though
it was some time before I could tell what made them so--whether it was
their resolution, their anxiety, or their pathos. Her hair was almost
hidden under a scarf she wore wound over her head and shoulders, but a
narrow band of it was visible outside the muslin, and it was a rich,
ruddy auburn, nearly red.

"Ruthie," said Shotover, "here is Mr. Lyte."

She rose, and dropped me a rather prim curtsey.

"I hope you feel refreshed after your sleep," she said shyly.

"Greatly refreshed, madam, and I am glad to be out again in the
sunshine. What a lovely day to follow last night's rain!"

"Lud! It was indeed a dreadful night. What hardships you must have
endured!"

"They are over now, and I shall think of them no more, but be thankful
that I met such a kind friend in your brother."

"Lud! Guy is good," she said innocently, and I noticed with some
surprise that her words brought a look of anguish to the curate's face.

She seemed to realise, in spite of my appearance, that I was not one of
the common mumpers and vagabonds to whom her brother loved to give
shelter, for the shyness with which she had greeted me passed away, and
she chattered merrily as we strolled over the daisies towards the
Vicarage. Her voice was musical, and though her speech was full of
little schoolgirl affectations, I found her marvellously sweet to listen
to, as she told me about the seminary at Peckham she had just left,
about "young ladies," her companions, about her "studies"--confined to
French, singing, and the use of the globes, it seems--and how glad she
was to be back home with Guy. No girl had ever spoken thus to me before.
My sisters could not mention their school at Hastings without nudgings,
gigglings, and allusions to a certain music-master; Mary Winde had never
been to school, and would not have chattered of it so artlessly if she
had. We came to a clump of daffodils; Miss Shotover picked one and gave
it to me.

"La! how beautiful the garden looks to-day. The tulips are already out
in the herb-walk. I'm vastly eager to see Sussex in spring-time. Guy and
I came here only in November. We came from Golden Parsonage, in the
county of Herts."

"Which is not so fair as Sussex, madam."

"No, faith!" she answered.

Her little hand was in the curate's, and I noticed that he fixed his
eyes on her face with a look half of love, half of reverence. She could
not have been more than eighteen, and he was evidently over thirty, but
his whole behaviour seemed rather that of a child looking up to a
parent, than that of an elder brother towards his slip of a sister. He
was by no means as handsome as she, though his face was pleasing. He
seemed anxious and careworn, and once, when he looked into her eyes, his
lips twitched as if he were in pain.

Dinner was prepared in a little brick-floored room, sweet-smelling with
hyacinths and violets. Miss Shotover noticed that her brother was
depressed.

"Lud, Guy! You mustn't look so vastly glum, or you'll spoil my appetite.
What shall I do to make you smile?"

She came up behind him as he sat, and putting her thin arms round his
neck, laid her cheek against his. Thought I to myself--he will be a fool
if he does not smile now; and he did smile, the cloud of misery passing
from his brow, but not from his eyes. Soon we were all three talking
together with laughter and friendliness, while a little bird sang in a
cage by the window, and nearly drowned our voices in his own.

Suddenly there came the sound of a horse's hoofs on the gravel, followed
by a knock at the hall-door.

"It must be Enchmarsh!" cried Miss Shotover, and I saw that every scrap
of colour had left her cheeks.

"Surely not," said the curate. "He was here only yesterday."

"But I know it's he. That is his step in the hall, and that is his voice
speaking to Rosie."

She sprang up, and I noticed that the sadness of her eyes had suddenly
become the expression of her whole face, that she was no longer a little
chattering schoolgirl, but a miserable, desperate woman. The impulse of
my heart communicated itself to my limbs, and I took half a stride
towards her. But the next instant she recovered herself, and tripped
gracefully to the door as it opened and the maidservant announced--"Mr.
Enchmarsh."

A fine, tall fellow of about three or four-and-thirty came in. He wore a
rough and simple riding-suit, which could not, however, hide the grand
proportions of his figure. His face was deeply bronzed; his eyes and
brows were black as night. He wore his hair cut short against his head,
and parted at the side of his forehead, which gave him an additionally
manly look. But there was an expression in his dark and restless eyes
which repelled, even revolted me, and this instinctive dislike was not
softened by the careless way he greeted Shotover or by the familiarity
with which he took the sister's hand.

He gave me scarcely more than a nod when the curate presented me, and
ignored me almost entirely during the meal which the Shotovers invited
him to share. He seemed, though evidently dreaded, on familiar terms
with the brother and sister. His manners could not be described as
actually bad, though they were swaggering and free. He rattled of his
horse, his hounds, his hunt, and his house, called Kitchenhour, on the
borders of Wet Level. He pressed Miss Shotover to ride out a-hunting
with him, and won a reluctant consent. He snubbed her brother, who
wished to go with her, telling him that he could never bestride any
mount more spirited than a donkey. He asked me if I ever went hunting,
and in the middle of my reply started speaking of something else to Miss
Ruth, whom he called by her Christian name.

Soon after Miss Shotover had left the room, Enchmarsh became moderately
drunk. The curate seemed anxious that he should not see his sister
before he went away, but the squire insisted on bidding her farewell.
She was sitting over some embroidery in her parlour, and when we came
into the room, started up alarmed.

Her eyes were red, and her cheeks tear-stained. I fell back and so did
Shotover, but Enchmarsh strode quickly towards her, and took her rather
roughly by the arm. "Here, dry your eyes," and she obediently unfolded a
morsel of a handkerchief clenched in her hand, and soaked with tears.
Then he whispered something to her, and a strange look crept into her
eyes, mingled fear and audacity. I glanced at Shotover, and saw that his
hands were both clenched, but his face was more miserable than angry. As
for me, I could have knocked Enchmarsh down, and wondered why the curate
did not do so.

"Your horse is ready, Enchmarsh," said Shotover at last, in a jerky,
nervous voice.

"So'm I," replied the squire. "Don't you play the fool, you two; there's
my parting advice," and he flung himself out of the room, Shotover,
after some hesitation, following him.

I felt keen embarrassment on being left alone with Miss Ruth, who was
still fighting with her tears. I tried to beguile her to talk of her
school, but the young ladies' seminary seemed to have lost its
attraction, and her replies were monosyllabic. I heartily wished myself
elsewhere.

It was nearly three o'clock, and when the curate came back, I told him
that I must leave Ewehurst Parsonage. He would have persuaded me to stay
the night, saying that he thought me feverish. But though I thought the
same, I persisted in my resolution, and at last he gave way, declaring,
however, that I should drink a dish of his sister's chocolate before I
started.

Either Miss Ruth was a very good actress, or she had suddenly recovered
from her depression. "Lud! indeed you must stay for chocolate!" she
cried, turning from the window, and showing me eyes once more bright and
cheeks all dimpled with smiles. "You shall have chocolate, and
cheese-cakes too. I made some this morning. Do you like cheese-cakes?"

"Very much," I answered lamely, somewhat taken aback at her sudden
change of mood.

"So does Guy, and so do I--only I like meringues better. I learned to
make cheese-cakes because Milly Rogers, one of the young ladies at Miss
Wetherbee's seminary, likes them so. Don't you remember Milly, brother,
and how beautifully she sang to the guitar when she stayed with us at
Golden Parsonage?"

She ran to the curate and kissed him. He patted her hands, and her
cheek, and turned away, his lips trembling.

At four o'clock a table was spread under a sycamore on the lawn, and the
chocolate and cheese-cakes were served. In spite of her partiality for
the latter, Miss Ruth did not eat many; she devoted her energies to
forcing them down her brother's throat. He seemed unable to shake off
his melancholy, and she seemed resolved that he should. So she fondled
and chattered and laughed, and sang little snatches of song in a sweet
though untrained voice. But for all her gaiety, I could see that she was
in an agony of nervousness. She started at any sudden noise, and the
colour came and went on her cheeks.

"Now, Guy, another cheese-cake?" she coaxed. "What, you won't? You
horrid fellow! that's because you don't like my cooking. Lud! I shall
give it to the chicks, since you're so dainty."

A hen with five chicks had sauntered on to the lawn, and Ruth broke up
the cheese-cake, and scattered the crumbs. Shotover sat watching her,
his elbow on the table, his chin on his hand. I watched her too, as she
crouched on the grass, some crumbs in the palm of her outstretched hand
to tempt the timid fools. Her pretty innocence contrasted strangely with
the wild eyes, quivering lips, and locked hands of an hour ago. What had
given her back her girlhood? and why had Enchmarsh's dark face made her
lose it, or rather cast it from her like a garment, and show in its
nakedness her suffering womanhood? How was it that Enchmarsh had dared
address her with such brutality, and her brother with such contempt? How
was it that they had both endured his insults, like children under the
lash, who can but weep and writhe in their shame?

A cry of delight interrupted my thoughts. Ruth had risen from her knees,
and came towards me, holding a chicken in a cradle made by her two
hands--she had the dearest little hands; the spring sun had just begun
to bronze them.

"Look, Mr. Lyte! Look! Isn't he a sweet little fellow? Feel how soft he
is," and she held the creature against my face. As she did so, her hand
accidentally touched my cheek, and at once a strange new divine thrill
passed through me and quickened my heart.

The shadows were drawing in; the curate's set face looked grey in the
waning light, and I rose to take my leave. Shotover lent me a pair of
boots, and he and his sister walked with me as far as their
wistaria-tangled gate.

"I shall not try to thank you for your kindness," I said to my host. "I
am not equal to such a task. But you can guess my gratitude."

"I'm glad I was able to help you," he answered simply. "I like to feel
that I can be of use to my fellow-men. Fare you well, Methodist; I hope
to see you again soon. If ever you should pass this way, remember that
there is always a bed for you at Ewehurst Vicarage."

I wrung his hand, and kissed Miss Ruth's, and they stood at the little
gate till I had vanished round a corner of the lane.

I mused as I walked between the blackthorn battlements of the hedges,
and the white blossoms against the blue sky made me think of Ruth
Shotover's scarf against her gown. I mused on the curate and his sister,
and on Enchmarsh, and felt that some mystery bound them together. I
mused on the curate's sad face and kind heart, on his sister's merry
laugh and miserable eyes, on Enchmarsh's brutality, and on his strange
connection with the Shotovers--and the whole perplexed me.

The spring day, lulled by soft winds and tinkling fold-bells, fell
asleep. The sky darkened, and the first stars appeared like shining
daisies over Furnacefield just as I was beginning to drag my legs
wearily. I went down the lane of deep shadows, and came into the light
that streamed from the open doorway. I knocked, and the next moment
Peter Winde had sprung forward and dragged me into the kitchen.

"Lad, lad, dear lad! You've done it! The Lord helped you!"

"Yes, I have done it, and the Lord have mercy!"

Then the room swam, and Peter's eyes looked at me as through a mist. I
cast up my arms, staggered, spun round, and fell in a faint at his feet.



                               CHAPTER V

                    OF THE METHODIST AND MARY WINDE

For a time all was blackness and silence, then streaks of flame shot
before my eyes, and I gasped for breath. It was as if a huge weight lay
on my chest; I thought that I was suffocating, and writhed and panted.
Then a sudden light burst upon me, and I found myself lying on the
floor, while Peter Winde bathed my forehead with water.

I moaned, but did not raise my head, which was softly pillowed, and lay
for a while silent, with Peter's hand on my forehead. Then the room,
which had seemed full of fiery mist, became clear again. I turned
myself, and saw that my head rested on Mary Winde's lap.

For a moment I gazed speechless into her face, and noticed that there
were tears on her eyelashes and cheeks; then I smiled feebly and sat up,
gripping Peter's arm.

"Come lad, you're better now," he said; "you were exhausted after your
tramp. When did you leave Brede Parsonage?"

"Last night."

"Then why didn't you reach here sooner?"

"I lost my way--oh, it was horrible!"

I struggled up from the floor, and he drew me down beside him on the
settle, and while Mary busied herself preparing her supper in the outer
kitchen, I poured forth my tale, and found relief in confession, as who
does not?

Peter took my hand, and patted it as one would pat a child's.

"Take heart, lad. God measures our love by our efforts, not by our
achievements, or we should all be in a sorry way. I've lived fifty
years, and have met but two saints--John Palehouse and----"

"Whom?" I asked, as he hesitated.

"She's a woman," he said, "and you can hear her footsteps in the next
room."

We sat for a long time in silence, while the firelight leaped on the
walls and ceiling, and a great scarlet moon rose from beyond Iridge,
and, filling almost the whole of the uncurtained window-pane, climbed up
among the stars. Mary's feet sounded ghostly in the outer room, and now
and then she crooned to herself little snatches of song which made me
think of ruined oasts in a lonely field and spooks in some haunted shell
of a farm-house at dusk. I was glad when she came and stood in the
doorway, the firelight falling on her, and called us to our supper.

"I cooked it myself, for Jane is gone to visit her parents at Botany."
Then suddenly my thoughts flew back to the other girl who that same day
had set before me fare of her own cooking, and I realised more than ever
that Mary was not beautiful, that her figure was immature, her cheeks
were pale, and her mouth was ill-drawn.

But she was so gentle and sweet that I soon forgot her plainness--that
is to say if a face which wore such an expression of love and serenity
could ever be called plain. She and Peter vied with one another in
trying to raise my spirits, and to keep me from dwelling too miserably
on the woes of yesterday. Peter spoke many kind words that I did not
deserve, and Mary questioned me about Ewehurst Parsonage, the parson,
and his sister.

"I have never seen Miss Shotover," she said, "but I have often heard of
her from the Cartwrights at Turzes. She sometimes drinks tea there. They
tell me she is very beautiful."

"She is indeed," I replied, and there must have been more than an
ordinary rapture in my voice and look, for Peter and Mary both laughed.

"Her brother's a good fellow, I believe," said the former. "I know very
little of him except from hearsay, but he seems to understand his duties
as a parson better than many in these parts. Not that he has more than
two services a week in his church--I suppose we mustn't expect that of
him at present--but he reads them reverently and well, and he visits his
poor and cares for them."

"And for any vagrant that he meets," I said.

"I'm rather puzzled," resumed Peter, "at the friendship between the
Shotovers and the new squire at Kitchenhour. Enchmarsh is a wild fellow,
and his reputation is none too clean; it's strange that I should so
often see him riding with Miss Ruth."

"I believe they knew him in Hertfordshire," said Mary, "and perhaps Mr.
Shotover thinks that the companionship of such a sweet girl as his
sister will make another man of the squire."

"Humph!" grunted Peter, "you look at things from a woman's point of
view, my dearie. It isn't likely that Shotover's zeal for souls should
make him put his sister to such risk."

He fell a-meditating, and Mary and I had the conversation to ourselves
during the rest of the meal.

When Peter had said grace, I asked him if I might go to bed, for I ached
with weariness, and my head throbbed painfully. He gave me his arm up
the twisting stairs, where the candle-flame cast our shadows uncouthly
on the wall, and led me to a room looking out over a field to Shoyswell
Wood.

"You slept in the oast-barn the first time you were here, but you shall
lie between sheets to-night."

"I shall never forget my first visit to Shoyswell, sir. I have felt
better and happier ever since."

"You were a strange lad, then. You made me think of an untamed colt I'd
just been breaking in. The young beast kicked and fought with his
harness, and hated his life, I'll be bound."

He wished me a good night, and I heard him humming one of Wesley's hymns
as he went downstairs. As for me, what could I do but fall on my knees
at my bedside and thank God?

I was just about to undress when I noticed that the daffodil Miss
Shotover had given me was still in my buttonhole. It was faded, and for
a moment I thought of throwing it away, but remembered that I needed a
bookmark for my Bible, so put it between the pages, furious with myself
because I blushed as I did so.

I flung off my clothes and was soon in bed. The window was uncurtained,
and I could see the moon hanging like a crescent of yellow glass in the
space, and the stars flashing between the tossed branches of a tree that
shadowed my pane. I became conscious of a vague, delicious smell which
made me think of September hop-fields and smoking kilns, and I saw in
the moonlight that a bunch of dried hops hung above my bed, and swung
gently in the draught of the night wind.

My sleep was uneasy with dreams--of Brede Parsonage, my father, and
Clonmel, of wet fields and woods, and long twisting roads, down which I
trudged wearily on and on, passing only ruined farms and half-burnt
cottages, my legs staggering under me, my head swimming. I woke, and the
horror and fatigue were still with me. I tried to raise myself in bed,
but was helpless, and could only lie and listen to the birds chirruping
their dawn-song among the apple-trees, while the stars paled and the sky
flushed, and the sunshine crept among the clouds.

It seemed hours later that I saw Peter Winde in the room. He spoke, but
his voice came to me only in a confused murmur, and when I myself tried
to speak, I found that the words would not do my bidding, but crowded on
my tongue without connexion or sense. Then the walls of the room seemed
to come together, and I to fall backwards into the dark.

I remember nothing clearly of the days that followed. I spent them
sometimes sleeping, sometimes lying awake, every limb racked with pain,
sometimes tossing in delirium. I saw faces around me but they appeared
and disappeared, changed and wavered like the faces of a dream. I often
thought myself at Brede Parsonage and a child once more, smarting and
aching under the blows of my father or Clonmel--for the pain was always
with me--and sometimes I would fancy myself at Ewehurst, drinking
chocolate with Miss Shotover on the lawn. But my most constant vision
was that of the endless twisting roads, along which I trudged, sometimes
in the sunshine, sometimes in the dark, and sometimes at twilight. Once
I thought I felt a woman take my hand and kiss it and bathe it with
tears, and to this hour I do not know if it were a dream.

One day I woke out of this whirl of vision, delirium, and
phantasmagoria. It was evening, and the sky was soft and throbbing with
the sunset. The birds were gurgling and twittering in Shoyswell Wood,
the cows were lowing in the stalls, and a girl's voice was speaking just
under my window.

"I'm so glad he's better."

I sat up in bed, and saw Mary sewing close by me.

"Who is that outside?"

She started, but answered calmly:

"That is Miss Shotover."

I fell back on the pillows.

"Miss Shotover!" I repeated in a low voice.

"Yes. She rode a-hunting past this farm-house the day after you arrived,
and asked how you did; and hearing that you were ill, she and her
brother have often been to inquire after you."

"Have I been ill a long time?"

"About a fortnight."

"Was I near dying?"

"We thought so at one time, but you are better now and you must not talk
any longer, you must go to sleep."

"I'll do my best, but first tell me, was it you who nursed me?"

"Yes, father and I."

"Thank you, Mary!"

I stretched out my hand, and she came over to the bedside and took it.
For a moment her fingers lay in mine, then she drew them abruptly away.

"Go to sleep," she said almost roughly.

I slept during the greater part of the days that followed, and sometimes
Mary was with me, and sometimes her father. Once I noticed a basket full
of nectarines by my bedside, and was told that the Shotovers had sent
them. The same answer was given a short while later to my question as to
who had sent the glorious Lent lilies with which my room was decked. I
had no doubt but that the brother and sister had taken an interest in
me, and the thought solaced my waking hours and sweetened my dreams.

I grew quickly better, and one day, after the doctor had left, Peter
came up to my room and said:

"Dr. Hewland thinks that you might come downstairs to-day; and I believe
that it would be a good thing, as the Shotovers have promised us a visit
this morning, and are very anxious to see you."

I declared myself more than willing to rise, so dressed with the help of
Peter. My pulses beat fast with quickening health and hope, and I went
downstairs with an agility remarkable in one only just recovering from a
severe attack of fever. I told myself that it was the joy of
convalescence that brought the flush to my throat and cheek, but in my
heart of hearts I realised that my pleasure and excitement were due to
Peter's words, "The Shotovers promised us a visit this morning." I heard
a girl's voice in the kitchen, and my eyes shone, but it was only Mary
speaking to the maid.

"When do you expect the curate and his sister?" I asked Peter, as I sat
in an arm-chair by the fire, with a rug over my knees.

"Not for an hour or so. You and Mary must entertain each other till
then. I'm going to visit the lambs in the river-field."

He left the room, and Mary drew her chair to the opposite side of the
hearth, and brought her sewing--snowy folds of linen on her lap, and the
sound of stitching to mingle with the crackle and roar of the fire.

"I am sure you will like Miss Shotover when you know her," I remarked,
somewhat irrelevantly, after a silence.

"I do know her a little," said Mary, "and I like her very much."

"I am sorry for her. She has such miserable eyes."

"Poor girl! I think she must have had trouble."

"And yet she laughs so often"--I was speaking more to myself than to
Mary--"and she cannot have had much sorrow; she is only a little
schoolgirl."

Mary sewed in silence, and I watched the hands of the clock move slowly
round. A fat, short-legged puppy came sprawling in at the door, and I
enticed the little brute on to my knee. The clock struck the hour, and I
started. The Shotovers would soon arrive.

"Mary, pray bring me the mirror that hangs by the door."

"No, sir, I will not!"

"That means that I am not fit to be seen after my illness. Bring me the
mirror and let me judge for myself."

"I shall not bring it for you, for I value it, and when you have looked
into it, you will throw it across the room and break it."

"You can catch it in your apron--but bring it here, I beseech you."

She fetched the glass and I made a wry face at the countenance it
reflected--deadly pale, save for the black brows, and an ugly purple
scar across the left temple.

"Mary, how can I meet Miss Shotover?"

She would have spoken some comforting words, but at that instant horses'
hoofs clattered in the yard and, giving me a smile that made her
beautiful, she hurried to the door.

The next moment I heard Miss Shotover's voice, and the sun, streaming
suddenly into the room, fell upon her as she stood on the threshold. She
wore a dark riding-habit, a three-corner velvet hat and buff chamois
gloves with gauntlets reaching half-way up her arm. Her hair was
slightly powdered, and tied at the nape of her neck, her cheeks were
flushed, her lips parted, and her breath was fast with exercise; her
eyes were sweet with kindness.

"Please, please don't move!" she cried, when I would have risen. "Lud!
you look dreadfully ill. Oh? Oh! what a sweet little puppy!"--and the
next moment the lucky beggar was whisked off my knee into her arms. "I
do so vastly love puppies and kittens and little chickens. But here's
Guy, looking glum because he wants to speak to you and I won't stop
chattering."

Shotover stepped forward and shook me by the hand, and the next moment
Peter joined us, and we all sat round the fire. At first our talk was
laboured--we spoke of my returning health and of the weather. At last
Mary asked Miss Ruth if she were not sorry that the hunting-season was
over, and we fell to talking of the hunt. I had sometimes ridden with
the hounds--only on rare occasions, for I had hard work to do, and no
horse of my own in the Parsonage stables--and my heart leapt with the
memory of those days when the woods shrilled with the huntsman's horn,
and the fox broke covert through the long grass of Peppering Eye, and my
horse, bounding under me, seemed scarcely to touch the earth. The
conversation was chiefly between Miss Ruth and me, for the others knew
little of our topic, but we soon digressed into a discussion on
Fielding, in which everybody joined. The parson held with the new
fashion, and vowed that he would never let his sister read "Tom Jones."
Peter told him that Mary had read it from cover to cover, and I
championed Peter.

It is strange that I should remember the details of our chat so clearly,
how friendly we grew over it, and how surprised we were when Jane's
appearance with a tray of cake and mead told us that twelve o'clock had
struck, and that our visitors must be going. Miss Ruth was full of mirth
and high spirits, and her brother smiled at her laughter. Only once her
bright eyes clouded, and that was when Peter Winde pressed her and the
curate to stay for dinner, and she answered, "My brother and I are
promised to dine at Kitchenhour."

The cake was eaten and the mead drunk; Mary, who had made them, was
praised, and blushed at her praises; and our friends rose to leave. The
next moment I was gazing at the door through which Miss Ruth had just
vanished.

"Isn't she beautiful?" I said to Mary.

"Yes, and such a sweet girl!"

Mary Winde and Ruth Shotover had evidently fallen in love with each
other, for many were the visits that during the next fortnight Mary paid
to Ewehurst and Ruth to Shoyswell. The latter were the most frequent, as
Mary could be ill spared from home, and the two girls would sit and talk
in the kitchen, where I often joined them.

Miss Ruth's moods varied exceedingly. Sometimes she was all laughter and
high spirits; sometimes she was downcast, with the tears not very far
from her eyes. She spoke little of her life at the Parsonage, and once
she appeared with her eyes red, and told Mary that she had had trouble
at home, but begged that she would ask no questions.

The weeks went by, and the swallows came back with May, and I passed
through convalescence to perfect health. During the long days when I sat
inactive in my chair by the hearth, or walked, leaning on Peter's arm,
in the fields or in the garden, he and I had many discussions as to my
future. He was just as vehement as ever in his wish that I should be a
preacher, and carry the Gospel through broad Sussex, even as Wesley had
carried it through broad England. I could earn my bread by working on
the farms round the hamlets I visited, and Peter and I mapped out my
journey between us. He insisted on lending me five pounds, so that if I
could not find work I need not starve.

"This is neither the hay-time nor the harvest, lad, and many a yeoman to
whom you offer your services will turn you away, saying that he has
enough hands on his farm. And even if he takes you on, what will be your
wages? Sixpence a day, or perhaps only food and bed. So take the money,
and God speed you with it. I'm not sending you to a soft life, Humphrey,
or to an easy one, but I'm sending you to a good life and a great life.
Oh, I trust that when you return here in a month's time you will be able
to look back on many souls who once sat in darkness, but now see great
light."

And I, sitting opposite him in the ember-glow, murmured "Amen."

I shall never forget the last night I spent at Shoyswell. Mary and I sat
side by side on the floor in front of the fire, and Peter read to us out
of his Bible how Jesus Christ sent out His disciples two and two before
His face, bidding them be wise as serpents and harmless as doves. Then
we all three knelt on the flags and sang Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn,
while outside the wind crooned a low cradle-song to the trees, and the
stars yearned through the mist of the spring night.

The next morning we rose early, and ate our breakfast at six. My bundle
had been made up the evening before, and, as I had no clothes whatever
except those I wore, it contained sets of Peter's stockings and
underlinen, as well as the five pounds he had lent me. He also gave me a
pistol, which would be useful to the lonely traveller by night. I was
heartsick at parting with my kind friends, but life, the world, and
labour lay before me, and I was full of good resolutions and zeal.

Peter and Mary walked with me to the end of Shoyswell Lane. The birds
were singing gaily, and as we passed under the trees, so beautiful in
their spring green, a robin began to trill and twitter. I remembered how
that little red throat had brought me comfort on the miserable morning
after my Confirmation, and I seemed once more to stand in twilight All
Saints' Street, with the cobalt shadows on the sea.

We came to where the lane joined the high road to Wadhurst, my first
halting-place, and I turned to Mary to say good-bye.

"Remember me to Miss Shotover," and she promised.

We had been so like brother and sister during the last few weeks that I
half thought of kissing her, but something in her face as well as in my
own heart forbade it, and I merely put my lips to the little brown hand
that shook in mine.

Then I turned to Peter. "Bless me before I go," and I knelt down before
him, and he laid his hand on my head and prayed God to bless and keep
me, and lift up the light of His countenance upon me, and give me peace
"henceforth and for ever more."



                               CHAPTER VI

                     OF THE METHODIST AS A WANDERER

The wind that brings the scent of flowers to city gates in May was
blowing over the fields as I tramped westward with the tears in my eyes.
Awe and zeal and sorrow mingled in my heart. Awe at the life-work laid
upon me, zeal for its success, sorrow at the parting which had just
taken place. How good they had been to me, that Methodist farmer and his
daughter! They had been father and sister to one who was to all intents
fatherless and sisterless. They had loved me and helped me, and had
pointed through the clouds to the sun.

I trudged on, my bundle slung on a stick over my shoulder, for all the
world like a tramp or gipsy, and an evil-looking fellow I was, no doubt,
with my thick bent brows and white, scarred face. The day grew every
minute warmer and sweeter; the country was waking, throwing off her
night-robe of mist and gloom, clothing herself in sweet scents, sweet
sounds, sweet sights, sweet sunshine, and laughing a joyous Godspeed to
the Methodist.

I went by the farm-houses of Miskyns and Cottenden, with old
Churchsettle down in the valley, and came at last to a cross-road known
as Shover's Green. This was about two miles from Wadhurst, and as far as
I had ever walked from Brede Parsonage, the country beyond it being an
unknown land. I stood by the signpost, and gazed down the long white
road before me, and began to tremble and shake like a girl. I was to
preach at Wadhurst, but what should I say? I had never preached before,
might not my tongue falter and fail in its new task? The sweat was on my
face; I was like a nervous actor shuddering in the wings, while on the
stage his cue is being spoken. But suddenly some words came to me, Bible
words: "Take no thought beforehand what ye shall speak, for it is not ye
that speak, but the Holy Ghost." I lifted my hat, and prayed as I stood
by the signpost at Shover's Green, with the long grass waving round my
knees.

Reassured and strengthened, I went on, and came to Wadhurst, a mass of
cottages and windmills swarming round a slender spire. It was nearly
eight o'clock, and the village was awake and flooded with sunshine. The
house doors were open, and the housewives stood in them; children played
in the street; girls in brightly-coloured gowns grouped together and
gossiped; men and lads loafed against the doorposts, the inn porch, and
the lych-gate.

There was a party of yokels chatting and joking in the market-place,
where stood a cart from which the horse had been unharnessed. I sat down
on the shaft and watched the people. I saw that many of them stared
suspiciously at me, especially the group of farm-lads at my elbow. I
read a few verses of my Bible, breathed a prayer, and climbed into the
cart.

"I have something to say to you," I cried, standing up in the cart.

Every one started and looked amazed; then some laughed, and a man in a
smock cried:

"Go on, muster!"

My courage had deserted me, my tongue stuck and stammered, and my knees
shook so that I nearly fell down in the cart. I felt utterly unfitted
for the task before me. I was not used to speaking to others of
spiritual things, for my confidences would have been laughed at by the
family at Brede Parsonage, and how was I suddenly to bring my heart to
my lips, and pour into indifferent, perhaps hostile ears, the most
sacred feelings of my soul?

I stood irresolute, my head held down, my cheeks scarlet. Then a girl
tittered, and I was ashamed. I lifted my head, and threw it back, and
the next moment a torrent of words rose to my lips.

I have only a faint recollection of what I said. I stammered, I
remember, to begin with, but soon my speech flowed more smoothly, and a
mad yearning love of those shepherdless sheep before me filled my heart
and set my words on fire. I told them of Christ's love for them, of the
help He offered, and of the reward He promised. There was no order or
method in my sermon; the thoughts ground and clashed against one another
like stones in a stream. I spoke for nearly half an hour, then stopped
suddenly, for the strange power that had upheld me was gone, and
throwing myself down in the cart, I hid my face and groaned.

There was a confused murmur all round me. "A Methodee!"--"Off his
head!"--"Take un to the lockup!"--"Quite a boy, and as crazed as
Nebuchadnezzar!"--"What rubbidge the poor chap spoke!"

This was not encouraging, and I realised that to lie groaning on the
floor of a cart would by no means dispel the idea that I was mad. So I
sprang up, and climbed down into the street, pushed my way through the
crowd, and hurried out of the market-place.

Some of the people followed me, a few of them interested, but most of
them jeering. Well-nigh in despair I turned and said:

"I am not mad, but am feeling very wild and miserable, so please do not
follow me. I shall see you again perhaps in a month or so. Think over my
words, or rather God's words, which He forced me to speak."

There must have been an unusual look on my face as I said this, for the
people slunk away without further badgering me.

I strode forward between the hedges, reflecting on my late adventure. I
felt that I had not made a good beginning to my ministry. Perhaps I had
left Wadhurst in too great a hurry, perhaps I should have stayed, and
reasoned with the people, perhaps I should even now go back to them. But
I realised that this would be worse than useless, so sped on, resolving
to act more wisely in future.

The next matter was to consider where to find work and wages--for I had
resolved not to touch Peter's five pounds till sheer want drove me to
it. Fortune favoured me; my first application met with success, and I
was given half a day's work among the sheep at a farm-house called
Little Pell. I toiled contentedly till sunset, when the farmer's wife
called me into the kitchen and gave me and the other farm-hands a supper
of bread-and-broth, after which I was taken to a loft full of sweet hay
and left there to sleep.

The sunshine on my face awoke me, and I rose singing for
light-heartedness. At the farm-house I was given a cup of milk and some
rye-bread, and half an hour later set out for Rotherfield, my next
halting-place.

The day was sweet and warm, and I reached Rotherfield about noon. There
I bought some gingerbread, and ate it by the side of one of the three
rivers which are born in the flats near the little town. Then I went to
the market-place, and waited for an opportunity to begin my sermon. I
did not wait long. In the churchyard close at hand the Burial Service
was being read over a child's grave. A curate, with muddy top-boots
showing under a surplice well-frayed with his spurs, was hurrying
through the Church's sweet words of consolation. The mother sobbed
bitterly, and the father, little more than a lad, with a look of dogged
misery on his face, groaned aloud during the unseemly gabble. The
service came to an end; the curate strode off without a word, though the
mother's tears had moistened the grass at his feet. Then I went up to
them and to the little group of mourners. The group widened into a
crowd, and I ceased to speak of the dead child, but turned to death
itself, and told them of the hope beyond the squalid tether of their
lives.

Whether it was the solemnity of the occasion, or that I spoke more
powerfully and simply than before, I do not know. But my words produced
a better effect than at Wadhurst, and when I had finished I heard
murmurs of "Thank you," and "God bless you." Happier than I had felt for
many a day, I bade the people farewell, and had little difficulty in
finding work at a farm-house in the neighbourhood.

I shall not give in detail the rest of my journey across Sussex to the
borders of Hampshire. From Rotherfield I crossed the valley of Jarvis
Brook to Crowborough, then went on to Cuckfield and Cowfold, and through
many a village to Fernhurst, where you can see the Hampshire downs. I
preached in every market-place, meeting sometimes with success,
sometimes with what seemed utter failure. Since the death of Wesley,
eight years before, and the schism of the Methodists from the
Established Church, Methodism had fallen into bad repute, and I was
often greeted with jeers, even stones and mud. Moreover, my youth was in
my disfavour, and at many a market-cross a rude voice from the crowd
would exclaim, "Where's yer mammy, my boy?" or, "Yer unaccountable young
to be out wudout yer nurse," or, "Yer had better go back to school, or
yer'll be whipped for playing truant." In several villages where I
preached, the people used to tell me of another preacher who had gone
before me "a man of powerfuller words than you, my lad." I wondered who
this man might be, and longed to make up with him, for my heart went out
to him, hearing that he was a "Methodee." But when I reached Fernhurst,
I was told that he had gone on into Hampshire.

In spite of the disappointments and failures that dogged my path, that
month of wandering was very happy, almost the happiest of my life. There
were, it is true, moments when I would throw myself down and nearly weep
in my hopelessness, but there were also moments which will be sweet to
muse on when I lie dying. I often had difficulty in finding work, yet
this did not disconcert me much, for wherever I was so fortunate as to
be given a day's labour the farmer paid me well. So during the whole
journey I had no cause to touch Peter Winde's generous loan. It was then
that I thanked God that my father had forced me to toil on the farm at
Brede Parsonage instead of sending me to school and college like other
gentlemen's sons. For I was useful in barn, field, or fold as the oldest
farm-hand, and my fame as a labourer far exceeded my fame as a preacher.
"De faks may ferget yer sarmons, lad," said an old farmer at East
Mascalls with whom I took service, "but dey'll never ferget wot a
fust-rate hand yer wur wi' de ewes, surelye!"

During this month there were moments when I thanked God for the mere joy
of living. It was so sweet to feel the wind on my face and to press on
over wet roads, my cheeks sprinkled with the soft splashing rain. I
loved the twilight and the rosy sleepy dawn. I loved the noontide, when
the cows stood knee-deep in the streams, and I loved the solemn nights,
when I walked through a great speaking silence. At the beginning of my
journey I used to sleep in barns or lofts, but soon I grew to prefer the
leeside of a haystack or hedgerow, and often I lay among last year's
leaves in the great beech-woods, listening to the scuttle and flutter of
the night creatures, and watching the stars that shimmered through the
moving tester of the trees.

When I had come to the borders of Hampshire, at Fernhurst, I went
southward and preached at the villages of Chidham, Bosham, and
Appledram, on the marshy seaboard below Chichester. Then, turning
inland, I carried the Gospel to the Down hamlets, and northwards to
Fletching. From Fletching I decided to go back to Shoyswell through
Maresfield, and Mayfield, revisiting Wadhurst.

It was Sunday morning when I entered Maresfield, and the church bells
were pealing a loud _Sursum Corda_ over the fields. It had been my
custom in villages where there was no Methodist meeting-room to worship
at the parish church, and I was soon kneeling in a back pew of old S.
Bartholomy's, at rest and at peace in the cool gloom.

There was a gentle footfall on the aisle, and I thought that some woman
had just come into the church, but on looking up I saw the flutter of a
surplice, and knew that it was the parson who trod so reverently. This
surprised me, accustomed as I was to the stride and swagger of my father
and Clonmel, and the jingle of their spurs against the pulpit steps. I
craned my head to see the clergyman's face. He was Guy Shotover.

I caught my breath. What could he be doing at Maresfield? Had he been
appointed to the living? Surely not, in the short time since I had last
seen him. Perhaps he was only doing duty there for the day. I really did
not trouble to explain his presence, I was too much occupied in looking
for Miss Ruth. At first I could not see her, and came with a pang to the
conclusion that she was not in the church. But at last I caught sight of
her in a side pew, and could hardly take my eyes off her during the rest
of the service. She looked pale and worn, I thought, and her head
dropped pathetically under her wide hat. She did not notice me, for she
kept her eyes fast fixed on her Prayer Book, in which I might have
followed her example.

Guy read the service reverently, and preached an earnest, though not
very brilliant, sermon, after which we sang the Old Hundredth, and went
out into the sunshine. I waited in the porch for Miss Ruth, and in a few
moments she appeared, looking very downcast. She would not have seen me,
had I not touched her arm.

She started, coloured, and held out her hand.

"Lud, Mr. Lyte! This is an unexpected pleasure for me."

"And for me," I murmured, as I pressed her hand against my lips.

"Are you and your brother staying at Maresfield?" I asked.

"For to-day. Here comes Guy. You didn't expect to meet Mr. Lyte at
Maresfield, did you, dear?"

"I'm surprised, but I'm also delighted. You must come and dine with us
at Fiveash Farm. We're lodging there, for Maresfield is one of my
Rector's livings, and the curate is sick, so I'm in charge of both
parishes."

"But they are twenty miles apart."

"Yes, and that means services on alternate Sundays only. But it's the
sole thing to be done, as my Rector doesn't wish to pay for another
curate."

I readily accepted Shotover's invitation to dinner, and we set off down
a bridle-path to a farm-house cuddling in the hollow.

"Have you seen Mary Winde lately?" I asked Ruth.

"Faith, yes! Guy and I spent an hour at Shoyswell yesterday on our way
to Maresfield. Mr. Winde and Mary are vastly well, and longing to see
you home."

"I shall be at Shoyswell on Wednesday, I hope."

"And at Ewehurst on Thursday," put in Guy. "But here we are at Fiveash.
Go, Guthrie, and hasten Mrs. Ferrars with the dinner. The Methodist is
starving, I'm sure."

Dinner was served in the outer kitchen, and both brother and sister were
in high spirits, and laughed and talked incessantly during the meal. I
sat opposite Guy, and whether it was that I had not seen him for so long
I do not know, but I was more struck than ever by the weak lines round
his mouth; and his laughter, which was nervous, and his conversation,
which was excited, confirmed me in the idea that he was even more
emotional and high-strung than his sister.

After dinner the curate retired to his room to pore over the afternoon's
sermon--he always learned his sermons by heart, and had a final
rehearsal a short time before delivering them--and Ruth and I went out
into the garden. The farm-house had once been a Manor, and the garden
had been a pleasaunce. Tiger-lilies, sweet-william, flox, and peonies
still grew among the long grass, and wicker arches smothered in roses
yet stood.

From the bottom of the garden the fields sloped upward, dotted with
sheep, and on the crest of the ridge was a little wood.

"Let's gather bluebells," cried Ruth; "there's a vast deal in the
coppice yonder."

"I should like nothing better, but do you think it wise to go so far?
Look at the sky"--and I pointed to some fierce rag-edged clouds that
were rolling up from Plawhatch in the west.

"Lud! It won't rain for an hour yet, and I do so vastly want to gather
some bluebells for Guy. He loves flowers."

She laid her hand coaxingly on my arm, and looked up at me wistfully
with childlike face and unchildlike eyes.

"Come on, then!" I cried, clasping her brown fingers in mine, as if she
were a little girl I was taking for a holiday. I suddenly realised what
I was doing and dropped her hand, while the colour mounted on my cheeks.

I spoke scarcely a word the whole of our way to Piekreed Wood, though my
companion chattered gaily enough. I fear she must have found me woefully
poor company, but, after all, I was silent only because I was thinking
of her. The woods were full of shadow and peace. Ruth flung herself down
among the bluebells and regaled me with an account of how she had once
spoiled a new white gown by lying on damp grass, and how Miss Witherbee
of the seminary had sent her to bed early as a punishment.

There is a golden chain running through my life, binding me to God, and
its links are the happy moments He has given me. The first link was
forged on the night I slept by the Rother, the next on the afternoon I
gathered bluebells with Ruth in Piekreed Wood. We filled our hands full
of flowers, while one of us talked and one of us listened. We never
noticed the sunshine fade and the sky become first dappled, then
overcast with grey, or heard the first drip of rain upon the leaves. A
vivid flash of lightning made us both start, and spring to our feet.
Ruth dropped her bluebells, and clapped her hands to her ears as a
terrific burst of thunder rocked the trees.

"Oh, Lud! Mr. Lyte! Mr. Lyte! What shall we do?" And she ran to me and
clutched my arm.

"We mustn't stay here. We must hurry out into the open."

Her lips trembled. "I'm afraid of thunder," she said plaintively.

"I'll take care of you," I replied, and the words made my heart warm.
For the first time in my life I realised the sweetness of having some
one weaker than myself to protect.

I drew her hand threw my arm, and we forced our way through the hazel
undergrowth, and scrambled over the fence into the meadow. The rain fell
steadily in heavy warm drops. Ruth's flimsy dress began to cling about
her shoulders. I flung off my coat and wrapped it round her.

"I insist! You shall wear it!" I cried, when she would have objected.
"Come, we must run to that little shed in the next field. We shall be
sheltered there."

We ran over the grass, the frightened sheep galloping before us, their
bleating mingling with the crash of the storm. We were soaked to the
skin by the time we reached the shed.

Ruth was shivering as I drew her into shelter. She stood clinging to my
arm, and her wet hair dripped upon my sleeve. There was a ewe with two
lambs at the back of the shed. The creatures seemed tame, and did not
try to leave on our entrance; and one or two sheep, evidently more
terrified of the storm than of us, came in and huddled their soaked
fleeces together in a distant corner.

"Do you think me very silly to be frightened?" asked Ruth.

She gripped my arm with both her nervous little hands, and I tried to
answer her, to reassure her; but words failed me, for the clasp of her
fingers and the appeal of her eyes had bound my lips with silence, and
filled my heart with a strange humility. "Why was I ever born?" I had
often blasphemously flung that cry to God. Now I realised that I had
been born for this hour, for this swarming of the blood, this quickening
of the heart, for this blessed birth of love and love's twin,
humbleness.

"The storm is passing over," said Ruth, and the silly sheep ran out into
a sudden burst of sunshine.

"Lud! how silent you are," she added, lifting her eyes to mine.

"I am wondering," I said slowly, scarcely realising what I uttered,
"whether it would be safe to venture out."

"The rain has stopped," said Ruth, "and I expect Guy will be anxious
about us. Please take your coat back; I don't need it now, and you're
shivering with cold."

"I am not cold," I answered, and I spoke truly, though my limbs were
numb.

We went out into the field. The thunder-clouds were rolling away; the
thunder-breeze swept the grass and sang. I sang, too, as I strode along.

"I never heard you sing before," said Ruth. "What are you singing? Is it
one of Mr. Wesley's hymns?" she added, lowering her voice. My Methodism
always seemed to inspire her with feelings of awe.

"I don't know what it is. It's nothing of Wesley's."

"I like to hear you sing. You've such a deep voice. But lud! pray don't
stride so fast; I can't keep up with you."

I slackened my pace, and ceased my song to listen to her voice, which
was sweeter. We soon met Guy, who had come out to look for us, and with
him we strolled back to the house, Ruth still wearing my coat about her
shoulders.

On arriving at Fiveash I changed my wet clothes in the curate's room. He
begged me to stay the night, and I consented, for it would be sweet to
sleep under the same roof as Ruth.

All the afternoon and evening I was in a state of exalted happiness,
which, I think, must have often shown itself in my eyes and on my lips.
Ruth was never absent from my thoughts. I loved her. I did not know if
she loved me--but I loved her, and that was all that mattered at
present. How blessed it is to love!

We went to Evening Prayer at four o'clock, and afterwards to a
children's Bible-class at the village school. Ruth took care of the
little ones, and most of my time was spent in watching her as she sat at
the back of the room, her arm round one babe, another  on her lap, a
third at her feet, playing with the ribbons of her shoes. Guy had a rare
tact with children, and I was surprised to see how well he taught them.
After we had returned to Fiveash and had seated ourselves before the
kitchen fire, the curate said:

"What do you think the chief virtue to cultivate in a child?"

I considered.

"Well, after all," I said at length, "I think it is the virtue of love
with sacrifice."

"Cannot love exist without sacrifice?"

"Never! Love without sacrifice is like faith without works: it is dead."

"I don't agree with you. I believe--I--I'm sure that love can exist
without self-sacrifice."

"Indeed it cannot. For sacrifice is the soul of love, and when the soul
has left the body, then the body is lifeless, worthless--carrion!"

I was flushed and excited with my argument and would have pushed it
further, but I suddenly noticed that Shotover looked ill at ease, and
his sister unhappy, so started on another topic.

I went to bed early that night, and lay awake a long while thinking of
Ruth. I was far too happy to sleep. I built a dozen castles in the air.
True, I was only a poor tramping Methodist, without home, and estranged
from my kin; but the brother and sister had already shown me by their
friendship what little account they took of our religious differences,
and the day would come, I felt sure, when I should be no longer poor and
homeless; then I should have Ruth Shotover for my wife. How blessed it
is to love!

I fell asleep shortly after midnight, and woke in a sweat, conscious
that some one was in the room. The morning dusk poured in upon a figure
standing motionless at the foot of the bed. I held my breath, and felt
for my pistol, but suddenly stayed my hand, for no ghost or robber
confronted me, but Guy Shotover.

He was evidently sleep-walking, for he was scantily clothed, and his
eyes were turned up, showing me only the whites. I had heard that it was
dangerous to wake somnambulists, so lay still, wondering what he would
do and what I ought to do.

He stood for a while motionless, then bent over the bed-foot towards me,
looking so ghastly with his rolled-up eyes that I drew back and
shuddered.

"I must speak," he said, in a low, monotonous voice, only less horrible
than the soulless cry of one who is terrified with dreams; "I must
speak. I can keep silence no longer. There is no love without sacrifice.
I----"

He ceased speaking, covered his face, and groaned. At the same moment I
saw Ruth Shotover standing in the doorway.

"Guy!" she called softly. "Guy!"

He walked slowly towards her and took her outstretched hand.

"He's walking in his sleep," she said. "I heard his door open and then
yours, so I guessed that he had come in here. What did he say to you?"

"Only a few words about being unable to keep silence, or something of
the kind."

"Was that all? You mustn't heed what he said. He has the strangest
fancies when he's like this. I'm sorry he disturbed you. I shall lock
his door on the outside, so it shan't happen again. Come, Guy, come!"

She led him out and shut the door, and I lay for a while thinking of her
and her brother, then of her alone, and then I fell asleep and dreamed
of her.

The next day I found Guy very penitent at having disturbed me.

"I often walk in my sleep. I should have told you to lock your door."

"You can't be well."

"Oh, indeed, I am quite well," and he laughed rather nervously. "I'm
sorry I gave you trouble."

Immediately after breakfast I said good-bye to the brother and sister,
promising to visit them at Ewehurst, and started on my journey, reaching
Wadhurst that night. Tuesday I spent in preaching in the village and
working at Little Pell. On Wednesday I set out again, and at twilight
saw the Shoyswell oast-houses against Shoyswell Wood.



                              CHAPTER VII

                      OF THE METHODIST AS A LOVER

It would be useless and impossible for me to describe the warmth of the
welcome that awaited me at Shoyswell. I was made to tell the story of my
wanderings over and over again, as we sat round the fire after supper,
and each recital drew out fresh tokens of sympathy and goodwill from
Peter and Mary Winde.

My eyes moistened and shone every time I mentioned Ruth Shotover, and I
think the Windes must have guessed my love for her; that is to say, if
they had not guessed it before--for I now knew that I had loved her ever
since I had first kissed her hand.

"Poor Ruth had been very poor-spirited of late," said Mary; "I'm sure
that she has something on her mind, but I can't induce her to confide in
me. Did she seem dejected at Maresfield?"

"Not at the farm-house: she laughed and was in high spirits then; but in
church, where I first saw her, she looked utterly miserable."

"Poor girl! I wonder what is ailing her and her brother, for he often
looks as unhappy and anxious as she."

"I believe it's something to do with that fellow Enchmarsh," said Peter;
"I can't make out how it is he's always at the Parsonage, or riding with
Miss Ruth. He's a man whom every right-minded girl should shun. Even
Mary, who sees good in everybody, says that the only virtue she can find
in Enchmarsh is that he's a first-rate pistol shot."

I slept that night in the little room where the dried hops still rustled
in the wind, and directly after breakfast the next morning I set out for
Ewehurst. Ruth was more than usually cordial, and I reached home--I had
come by this time to call Shoyswell "home"--in an ecstasy of happiness.

It had been settled that I should stay with the Windes for a week or two
before setting out on a second missionary journey, and nearly every day
I went to Ewehurst. I came to be regarded as quite an old friend by the
Shotovers, and my bliss was complete--or rather, would have been
complete but for Squire Enchmarsh, whom I met constantly at the
Parsonage. More than once I was tempted to ask Ruth how she could
tolerate the continual presence of this man, who treated her brother
with undisguised contempt, and herself with a familiarity no less
odious. But so closely did she draw the veil over this mystery that it
would have been both cruel and presumptuous to try to pluck it away.

About this time my love entered on a new phase. At first I had been
satisfied with the mere joy of loving, and would have been content to
love without hope of reward. But now all was changed. My love became
hungry, and I sighed romantically and foolishly for a word or a look to
tell me that I did not worship in vain. This was no doubt owing to the
fact that Ruth had suddenly grown very reserved and shy. She had ceased
to chatter and laugh, but spoke primly, and seemed to avoid solitary
talks and walks with me. I wondered whether she had discovered my love
and was displeased at it, or whether she had come to love me, but was
not sure if I returned her passion. I pondered and brooded over these
surmises; I even thought of speaking my love, but as yet reason held my
heart in leash, and I was silent.

Thus the days went by till an evening in early June. The wind was soft,
and brought the sound of fold-bells from Marsh Quarter; the red clouds
were tossed like burning feathers in the west, and the moon hung above
Totease with a star below her nether tip. I had gone for a ramble in the
fields, and intended to sup at Ewehurst Parsonage, and walk home under
the stars; the lanes at night bewitched me; they were favourable to the
dreams of young love.

The Parsonage windows shone in the twilight, and the trees in the garden
rustled an accompaniment to the songs of sleepy birds. Fat miller-moths
fluttered heavily among the evening primroses, and the violet torches of
the glow-worms shone like amethysts in the shade of the leaves. I saw
Ruth's shadow against the study blind, and stood for a time watching her
while she sewed, and rocked herself as she sewed. A man's shadow leaned
over her; she lifted her head, and I knew that she had set her lips
invitingly for her brother to kiss. Then another man's shadow came
between them; I groaned impatiently, for I recognised Enchmarsh.

I knocked at the door, and Ruth herself opened it. She wore a white
dress, babyish, soft, and bunchy, and cuddled a black kitten in her
arms. She looked the veriest child and I realised that she must be even
younger than I had hitherto thought her--not more than seventeen.

"Good evening, Mr. Lyte; I'm so vastly glad you've come." I could not
tell whether her words were truth or courtesy, for there were tears as
well as a smile in her eyes.

Enchmarsh greeted me very superciliously when, a moment later, I entered
the study. He never took the slightest pains to conceal his dislike for
me, and I know that I might have tried harder to conceal mine. Ruth
smiled anxiously at us both, and endeavoured to turn and soften
Enchmarsh's sneering and often insolent remarks. Guy hardly ever spoke
in the presence of the Squire of Kitchenhour, so supper was rather an
ordeal, and I felt glad when it was over. Enchmarsh chose to stay
drinking and smoking by himself in the dining-room; Guy went off to his
study, and I persuaded Ruth--she seemed strangely unwilling--to stroll
out with me into the garden.

The moon was high among the stars, and a nightingale was drowning with
his rich wild voice the drowsy twitter of some bird yet awake. We
crossed the lawn to the shrubbery, and the roses that tangled the path
brushed dew on to our cheeks. The spell of the night was upon us, and
neither of us spoke for some time.

"I love the moonlight," I said at last.

"I hate it," said Ruth.

"Why?"

"It seems so cold and cruel; it mocks me. Why do you love it?"

"Because it is like--like----"

"Like what?"

"Like you."

She laughed shrilly.

"How can it be like me?"

"It is so beautiful."

She laughed again.

"Lud! How vastly romantic you are to-night! Is it the moon that makes
you so?"

I was silent.

"We'd better go indoors," said Ruth abruptly; "my slippers are quite
wet."

I do not know what madness prompted me to ask her to stay.

"Wait a moment, I have something to tell you."

"I--I don't want to hear it." To my horror, I saw that she was in tears.

"Ruth, Ruth, you must hear--I love you!"

We were standing in an open space among some bushes; their shadow
covered us except for our faces, and I saw Ruth's suddenly become set
and white even to the lips. She led her hand over her breast, and swayed
back from me.

"Ruth, sweetheart, do not cry. I love you. I----"

My voice died away, for she pushed me from her with a strength I could
not have expected in one so frail.

"Go--go; never speak to me like that again. Go right away----"

She stood for an instant motionless, then turned and dashed through the
bushes towards the house. The next moment I heard a rush and a scream. I
forced my way after her through the thick euonumus, and suddenly found
myself face to face with Enchmarsh.

He stood in the moonlight, and I saw clearly the rage burning in his
eyes. In his arms he held an unconscious white mass, gathered up against
him as one would hold a baby. The white face was thrown back on his
shoulder, so that I could see the look of grief and terror it had not
lost in unconsciousness.

A torrent of wrath rose to my lips, but Enchmarsh spoke before I could
let it loose.

"What the hell are you about?

"What the--what are _you_ about?"

"My business."

"You were eavesdropping."

"I was not. But I heard what you said, because, in your cursed
effrontery, you spoke loud enough for anyone within ten yards to hear."

There was a rustle in the long grass beside me, and I noticed that Guy
Shotover stood close at hand, his cheeks flushed and his head held low.

"And what if you did hear?" I cried. "Is not my tongue my own?"

"You deserve to have it torn out of your head for pestering with your
worthless love a lady who is as high above you as heaven is above hell."

"You may be thankful that you have her in your arms at this moment; for
if you hadn't I should certainly knock you down."

He did not answer, but suddenly bent his head and kissed the pale face
upon his shoulder, and not the face only, but the hair and the extended
throat.

I sprang towards him, livid with rage.

"You are drunk, you beast! How dare you insult a helpless girl who, if
she weren't unconscious and in your power, would rather blow her brains
out than let you shame her so! Guy Shotover, haven't you a spark of
manliness left, that you can stand by and see your sister treated so
infernally?"

The curate made no reply. The moonlight fell upon him, and I saw that he
was shaking from head to foot.

"Coward! Fool!" I cried, and turned from him furiously.

"Stop fuming and ranting!" roared Enchmarsh.

"Not while you hold Ruth Shotover in your arms."

"I shall hold her as long as I please, and kiss her as often as I have
a mind to. Stand off, you damned psalm-singing gipsy!"

"As her brother will not protect her, I must."

"Her brother knows that I have a right to do as I please."

"What right?"

He curled back his lips in a contemptuous smile.

"Merely the right of a betrothed husband."

"Betrothed husband!"

I echoed his words blankly, wildly, and staggered back from him, my
hands over my face. When I drew them away the stars were swinging, the
bushes reeling, and Enchmarsh's face leered at me like a devil's through
the darkness.

"Yes, Miss Shotover is my promised wife."

"You lie," I cried hoarsely.

"Shotover, do I lie?"

The curate shook his head.

I looked from one to the other in horror. My rage was dead, my flesh
crept and my limbs shook as if with the palsy.

"I--I didn't know. No one told me--I----"

Enchmarsh broke in with a torrent of oaths.

"And why should anyone have told you, you skulking vagabond? Was it any
business of yours? Damn you! Do you expect to be told all the concerns
of your betters, you insolent fool?"

My fury revived and blazed out.

"If it were not for my vocation, I'd call you out for this!" I cried,
grinding my teeth.

"I don't fight with tramps, I kick 'em; and I'll kick you if you come
nearer. Be off! This girl belongs to me. She's mine, I tell you be off!"
and again he stooped and kissed her cheeks and her mouth, her closed
eyelids, and her red hair that streamed over his arm.

I strode up to Shotover and seized him by the wrist.

"You cowardly fool! What devil gives you the power to stand by and see
your sister shamed by this villain?"

He turned pale and groaned a little, for in my rage I had nearly
wrenched his arm out of its socket.

"Leave Shotover alone!" shouted Enchmarsh. "Why should you maul him?
Ought he to have kept his sister for you? Ought he to have rejected all
other suitors and kept her for a hypocritical Methodist mumper, that she
might share his rags and starvation by day and his ditch by night? But
let me tell you that I loved her months ago, before you had begun to
poison her sight with your scowling face, when you were washing out the
cow-stalls and being horsewhipped on your father's farm."

How he knew of the miseries and degradations of my boyhood I cannot
imagine.

"Be off now," continued Enchmarsh, "and don't let me ever see you at
Ewehurst Parsonage again."

"The Parsonage is not yours, and I'll not leave it for you."

"Order him off, Shotover."

The curate came forward.

"I'm not going until I've spoken to Ruth," I cried frantically. "I
believe that what you have told me is a lie, and that Shotover is only
swearing to it because he's afraid of you."

"You may speak to her if you like," sneered Enchmarsh. "Look, she is
recovering consciousness."

The limp arm stirred, the head writhed on its support. Her eyes opened,
and a quick glance of fear shot into them; her lips parted in horror.
She evidently remembered all that had passed.

"Ruth," said Enchmarsh, "are you my promised wife?"

Her dilated eyes looked wildly into mine.

"My darling! My darling!" I cried, unmanned and nearly weeping, "tell me
that it is a lie."

"It is true," she said. That was all.

Enchmarsh caught her to him with a loud laugh.

"She's mine--arn't you, Ruth? She loves me--don't you, Ruth? Be off, you
tramp; your game is up. Order him off, Shotover."

He caught Ruth to his breast once more, and kissed her; then carried her
triumphantly away.

Guy came timidly up to where I stood, speechless and paralysed, and
touched my arm. I shook him off with such violence that he went reeling
backwards among the bushes. Then I turned and rushed away.

I ran wildly through the shrubbery, tearing my clothes and my flesh
among the brakes, often in my blind fury dashing up against a tree, then
speeding on afresh, reckless of bruises and pain. At last I came to a
fence, and vaulted it without pausing to see what was on the other side.
I did not spring high enough, my foot struck against a stake, and I fell
headlong.

I rolled over among a mass of dead leaves, which the violence of my fall
sent whirling and fluttering round me. Then down I shot for about fifty
feet, among stones, leaves, and clods of earth, now my head, now my feet
foremost, clutching in vain at every twig and stone, my breath all but
dashed out of my body. At last I reached the bottom, and lay battered,
shaken, gasping, and bleeding, among the stones of a stream which wound
along the foot of the hollow, and which owing to recent drought, was
nearly dry.

The trickle of cold water under my head revived me, and I staggered to
my feet, feeling very sick, and almost unable to stand. I wondered how I
should ever reach home. I was at the foot of one of those glens or
"hatches" that every now and then break the peace of the Sussex fields.
It was thickly grown with brushwood, but on one side this had been cut
away--hence the fruitlessness of my efforts to break my fall. On the
further side hazel, ash, and sallow rose almost precipitously, and I
despaired of being able, bruised and shaken as I was, to climb out of
the stuffy darkness of the hatch into the wind and moonlight above.

However, there was nothing else to be done, so I made the attempt, and
toiled upwards on my hands and knees for nearly half an hour. Every
moment was agony, and I was covered with sweat by the time I reached the
top and found myself in a field where the breeze was rippling the grass
into silver moon-shot waves. I threw myself down, and lay there for
fully an hour, with the buttercups stretching their Eldorado to where
the fold-star hung and trembled. Now and then I writhed, and tore the
young grass with my hands and teeth, but it was not bodily pain which
caused my throes.

"Betrothed to Enchmarsh!" I cried the words aloud to the mocking wind
and sky. How he would make her suffer! He would beat her, perhaps--had I
not seen him flog his horse, and kick his dog lame? Oh, how I loved her!
Every minute seemed to double the intensity of my love, and to make it
doubly passionate, doubly tender, doubly wild, and doubly torturing. If
a good man had won her from me I could have borne it, "but not
Enchmarsh!" I cried, as I rolled in the rustling grass, "not Enchmarsh!
Oh, my God!" I did not for a moment think that Ruth loved this fellow.
The idea was foolish and impossible. Again and again I had seen her eyes
glow with contempt, dislike, and even horror, when he was near. No, no,
no! She did not love him; there was some devilish mystery which I could
not fathom. Perhaps the curate was in Enchmarsh's debt. I had heard of
women being sold to pay debts.

The night wore on; the moon had set, and a chill mist had risen. I
shivered and struggled to my feet, to toil homewards through the rank
wet fields, where the grass reached almost to my knees. At last I stood
in Shoyswell fold.

The windows were dark; not a soul was stirring; but I found the kitchen
window unfastened, and climbed in. The last red gleeds still smouldered
on the hearth, and I crouched down before them, for I was trembling with
cold. My rage had died suddenly and completely, and in its place reigned
a dumb and stony grief. I did not care to go to bed, for I knew that
sleep would be impossible. So I crouched there, while the dawn crept
grey and quivering into the room, and the wind tossed the trees with a
hissing, moaning sound.


                              CHAPTER VIII

            OF THE METHODIST'S JOURNEY INTO THE DENS OF KENT

The sun had just risen between the oasts, and the morning wind was
beginning to play with the heavy damp hair on my forehead when Peter
came into the room.

"What, lad! you here? I thought you must be spending the night at
Ewehurst. When did you come back?"

"About midnight."

"Then why aren't you in bed? Those who don't lie down till midnight
shouldn't rise at four."

"I--I haven't been to bed."

I was crouched in the shadow of the settle, and he could see me only
dimly, but a movement of mine brought the light on to my face, and he
started back with an exclamation of horror.

"Humphrey where have you been?"

"Only to Ewehurst," I muttered, not realising the plight I was in. He
took me by the arm, and pulled me from my knees.

"What--good God!"

"I--I had a fall. But I'm right enough."

"Look in the glass before you try to deceive me further."

He dragged me to the mirror, and I saw that my face and neck were
scratched and cut and blood-stained, and that my hair was matted with
blood. But it was the expression of my face that made it look so changed
and dreadful. My eyes were wild and bloodshot, my brows drawn and
furrowed, and my whole countenance was lined as if I had grown suddenly
to old age. I drew back and covered my eyes.

"Lad," said Peter searchingly, "what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"That's not true. But there! I mustn't scold you. You're not used to
confiding your troubles."

I went to the window and looked out. Peter came behind me and touched my
shoulder.

"Won't you tell me, lad?"

"I--I don't know."

"I think you would feel better if you did."

I was silent for a few moments; then I said slowly:

"Ruth Shotover is engaged to Enchmarsh of Kitchenhour."

Peter started back.

"That can't be true!"

"It is true--as God's wrath."

"This is dreadful news."

"It's damnable!" I cried, swinging round upon him, my hands clenched
above my head. "It's damnable! It's hellish! Oh, damn him! He's----"

"Lad! lad!" cried Peter.

"Forgive me. I'm half crazy. The Methodist is lost in----"

"The lover," said Peter quietly.

"How did you know?"

"It was an open secret, Humphrey."

"You will keep it?"

"On my honour, I will. But some one else knows it, lad."

"Who?"

"Mary."

I had thought as much.

Peter went over to the settle, and beckoned me to him; and before I had
been very long kneeling at his feet, I found the story of my foolish
declaration of love, Ruth's terror, Enchmarsh's rage, and my own
madness, slipping from my tongue. Peter waited patiently till I had
finished the miserable tale, and had thrown myself upon the floor. Then
he said:

"Humphrey, is this the way you bear the chastening of the Lord?"

"I can't bear it any other way. I'm mad."

"You're mad with rage. I never met a fellow with a temper like yours, my
lad. It ill becomes a Methodist."

I hung my head.

"I can understand and sympathise with your heartbreak, but you're more
furious than heart-broken."

"Because I'm sure there is foul play somewhere. Ruth doesn't love that
scoundrel. I know she doesn't."

"I must confess that matters don't look quite straight. But we can do
nothing, dear lad--nothing but pray, and rage won't help our prayers."

He talked on, and gradually I became calm and humble and bitterly
ashamed. I saw how foolish and self-degrading my rage had been, and how
that patience under bitterest suffering is "a most commendable and manly
thing."

At last the clock struck six, and I heard Mary Winde's step on the
stairs.

"I had better go to my room, sir. I'm not fit to meet Mary just now."

He nodded, so I went up, and washed, and changed my clothes. After which
I looked a little more presentable, but still very ghastly, with my
scratched and bruised face, and my eyes blurred with sleeplessness.

Peter had prepared Mary for my plight, so when I came down an hour later
she did not start or draw back from me, but came to meet me with the
winning smile and outstretched hand of other days. There was no mention
made during breakfast of what had happened at Ewehurst Parsonage. The
father and daughter spoke of farming matters, the country, books, and
preaching, changing their topic every other minute in a vain hope to
interest me. I felt too sick to eat, and rose after having done little
more than taste my food. I forgot how the rest of the day passed. All I
know is that I prayed for the evening, and when the sun set I cried,
"Oh, that it was morning!"

Peter urged me to go to bed early, so I lighted my bedroom candle at
about nine. I was half crazy with sleeplessness and I thought sleep
would be peace and forgetting. But I could not sleep. I lay desperate
and wakeful the livelong night. I saw Capricornus rise above the fog,
and Cancer set beyond Starvenden. I saw the first sun-ray kiss the
sinking moon, and make her blush. I saw the spume of mist rise slowly
from the fields, and hang in mid-air, like a pile of opalescent cloud
till the wind tore it, and sent the white shreds fluttering like ghosts
against the trees.

I had never suffered from sleeplessness before. It is true that I had
passed many a wretched night during my boyhood, but never without one or
two hours' sleep. I had heard that insomnia often produced madness, and
the horror of madness was added to the other horrors of that night. I
cried for sleep; I prayed for it, but it never came. I tossed and
tumbled till half the bedclothes were on the floor and my shirt was damp
with perspiration. My brain was even more restless than my body, and
throbbed with a hundred torturing thoughts.

At last I could endure no more, so rose and went to look for Peter. He
was not in his room or in the kitchen, so I sought him in the fields,
and found him in a meadow close to the Limden Stream. He knelt by a rift
in the hedge, through which the sunlight wavered, red and angry, but
bathing his features in a wonderful light. He prayed--aloud in the
solitude--and as I drew near I heard him pray for me.

Then I would have turned and left him, and, I hope, gone myself to pray.
But he heard the rustle of the grass as I came through it, and rose from
his knees.

"Good morning, lad. Are you surprised to find I make the fields my
oratory? One prays better under an open sky."

A shower of rain came slanting with the sun, and gently struck our
faces.

"I have come to you, Mr. Winde, because I want to tell you of the
resolution I made as I lay awake last night. I must leave Sussex."

"Yes, lad."

"You don't seem surprised."

"I'm not."

"I think we had arranged that I shouldn't set out on my second
missionary journey till next week. But I cannot stay till then. I must
leave Sussex. Where do you advise me to go?"

"Far away, lad. A long journey, with a far-off return."

I groaned, and looked through the mist of crimson rain at the fields
around me, at the sun in the east above Scales Crouch, and at the glow
of blood on the Limden Stream.

"Oh, Mr. Winde, though I travel all England over, I shall never love a
place as I love Sussex!"

"But you must go, lad. You yourself say so."

"Yes, I must--but God help me!"

He took my arm, and we walked down to the bank of the Limden Stream.
There Peter talked with me for fully an hour, and we mapped out my
immediate future.

I was to go into Kent, and travel through those towns and villages, the
names of which all end in "den"--Rolvenden, Benenden, Biddenden,
Horsemonden, Bethersden--and northwards to the flat chalk-lands by
Rochester and Chatham. Then I was to cross the mouth of the Thames into
Essex, and on into Suffolk and Norfolk. I was not to come back till I
had learned to suffer in silence, to think of Ruth without wincing, and
to bear my loneliness. I felt that these things would never be, and that
in setting out to wander till I attained them, I set out to wander till
I died.

"And when shall you start?" asked Peter.

"This evening. I shall walk all night, then fall down and sleep from
exhaustion--that is the only way I can hope to sleep."

"You shall do as you please. But don't be faint-hearted. Many a man
before you has borne your burden, and borne it singing."

"Perhaps I shall sing one day--when I know that she is dead and out of
that villain's power. Oh, believe me that it is the thought of her
suffering that makes my own so awful."

"Perhaps, poor lad, she's not suffering so cruelly as you think. She
must know the fellow's character, seeing that he's her familiar friend;
but she may be captivated by his good looks, or by that careless dashing
manner of his."

"I know she is miserable. She does not love him; and he will ill-use
her--flog her when he is angry, as he flogs his horse and his dogs."

"It may be so. But she's acting with her eyes open. She knows Enchmarsh
even better than we do. We can't interfere with her, lad."

"I know that, so I had better go away to where every lane and field does
not bring me a memory of her."

The rain had ceased, and the sun had risen higher; the fires in the east
flamed no longer, only smouldered, and Peter and I, still talking,
sauntered home. Mary and breakfast were awaiting us in the kitchen, and
while we ate the latter, we told the former of my plans.

She showed little more surprise than her father when she heard of my
resolution to leave Sussex. Only, I thought, she seemed more grieved at
it than he.

"We shall miss you, Humphrey," she said simply.

"And I shall miss Shoyswell, and the happy homelife there. You have both
been so good to me. I believe I should have killed myself when I was a
little lad, if it hadn't been for your kindness."

"Killed yourself! What nonsense!" cried Peter. "You loved God, and a man
who loves God will never throw His best gift back in His face. Lad, go
through life with a song on your lips and a prayer in your heart, and
doubt not but that the song will gladden your brethren and the prayer go
straight to your Father."

That evening I made up my few possessions into a bundle, Peter insisting
on renewing his loan of five pounds, and I found that Mary had spent the
last month in making me some shirts and handkerchiefs. My dear friends
did not accompany me, as before, to the end of Shoyswell Lane, but said
good-bye to me in the kitchen. Mary cried a little, and for the second
time I thought of kissing her, and for the second time her look and my
own heart forbade it. The kitchen was red with firelight when I passed
the window, and I thought of the evening when I had first come to
Shoyswell, and had looked in and seen the two Windes and John Palehouse
at the table.

At the end of the lane I paused and glanced back. A ribbon of smoke was
rising against the dim sky, and the trees were tossing their branches
against a square of red light. I groaned, and bowed my head over my
clasped hands as I prayed for Peter and Mary.

Then I went on through the listening night, past Iridge and Bodiam, to
where I could see the glint of the moon mingling with the sullen red of
the sunset on the Rother. I had left the Sussex fields, and stood on the
Sussex marshes. The wind swept moaning through the osiers, and the river
moaned. The sunset died as I came to Merstham, and a thousand stars
shone among the clouds in the mirror of the overflow. One can ford the
Rother at low tide near Ethnam, and from the ford one can see the lights
of Ewehurst. I saw them through a mist of tears, and as I stood on the
great lonely marsh, a passionate longing gripped me to see Ruth's face.
But I fought it down, and stepped into the Rother.

The water at mid-stream came nearly to my waist, and when I saw that
another step would bring me into Kent--for the Rother at this point is
one with the Kent ditch, and a boundary line between the counties--I
stood still, and gazed back at the huddling mass of marsh, field, wood,
and waste towards the south. Farewell, Sussex!--my mother, my nurse, my
mistress, my home, my goodly heritage! I stood mid-stream, with clasped
hands, while the water, sprinkled with mirrored stars, eddied moaning
round me. Then I waved my hand to the southward country, and scrambled
on to the Kentish bank.

The wind blew fiercely in my face, and tossed the great clouds like
feathers about the sky. Turning my back resolutely on the county I
loved, I walked to some little houses known as Ethnam, the lights of
which I had often seen from the Sussex marsh on my rambles to and from
Ewehurst. Here I left the levels and came on to the Kentish weald.

My heart ached madly as I strode on between the hedges, seen dimly
through a waving mist of hemlock, chervil, and burnet. I had never
longed so desperately for Ruth. I was like a man struck blind and crying
for light. My past happiness lay behind me, like the shores of some
blessed isle, at which my craft had touched for a moment, but from which
it had been rudely driven for ever.

The night deepened; the water-bearer had risen and quivered over Udiam.
Charles's Wain hung just above my head, and cast a light on my way. The
mist came trailing over the fallows, and it seemed as if the vapour took
strange shapes. Now two white girls danced across the grass; then I saw
a great lamb standing against the woods of Mockbeggar, which melted into
a horse without a head, which in its turn changed into a snow-white
bird, that flew with outspread wings into the face of the moon.

I was weak and weary from want of sleep, and I longed to throw myself
down and forget my sorrows, if only for an hour. There was a gap in the
hedge on my right, and through it I saw the great umbellifer waving. I
crept into the field, and lay down where a tangle of bramble and bryony
shut out the keen little wind that blew up from the Rother. The blessed
sleep came almost immediately, born of exhaustion and sorrow. I slept
for sorrow. No dreams disturbed my rest, but I woke at intervals during
the night, stirred, then slept again. At last a rustle in the grass made
me start up fully awake. The dawn lay, a rosy infant, on the breast of
the east, and a flock of sheep, their fleeces tinged with rose towards
the sunrise, stood a few yards off, staring at me with silly, frightened
faces. They scampered away as I raised myself on my elbow, and buried
their noses in the rich grass higher up the pasture.

There was a freshness in the air that quickened my blood, and as the sun
rose grandly behind the eastern meadows, and the glory of the young day
grew more and more dazzling, submission came to my heart, and, kneeling
among the spurge, I prayed God to give me strength to endure. Then a
robin sang--my little bird of hope.



                               CHAPTER IX

              OF THE METHODIST AT THE VILLAGE OF ROLVENDEN

I preached that morning at Sandhurst, and, buying two rolls and a cake
of gingerbread--of which I am very fond--ate them in a wood by the
Hexden Channel, then walked to the neighbouring village of Hawkhurst. I
preached there, and at Highgate, and towards evening found work on a
farm-house known as Mopesden.

I was at this time painfully learning the lesson of resignation, and I
felt that my will would be more easily brought in tune with God's if I
mortified it by healthy labour. There is nothing like hard work for
crushing rebellion. When our bodies are tired, our minds, as it were,
grow tired too, and cease to struggle against Heaven; and when we are
doing with all our might whatsoever our hand findeth to do, our mind has
little time for dwelling on its miseries. I therefore decided to stay a
week at Mopesden Farm, and, finding the people kindly and the work
congenial, did not repent my decision.

One night, after supper, when I was sitting with the other farm hands by
the kitchen fire, the former's wife came in after a ride to Sandhurst
market.

"A strange day we've had, the master and I!" she exclaimed. "There's
bin a feller preaching in the market-place till it seemed as if the
very stans and tiles must be listening to un."

"What?" I cried with interest.

"Oh, he wur a just about grand speaker, and a Methodee, like yourself.
He spake better than you, lad. But dan't 'ee be downhearted; I reckon
as he can't mow or stack half as well."

"What was he like?"

"Oh, a tall, slim chap, youngish, but with grey hair."

"Where did he come from?"

"How many more questions, young feller? He came from Sussex and from
Hampshire, I heerd tell."

"Why, that must be the man who went before me when I preached in Sussex!
Where has he gone?"

"On to Rolvenden and Benenden, I b'lieve. I'm unaccountable glad he's
a-gone, for he spake of hell and death and judgment in a way that made
one tremble. But let's have no more of un--and to bed with you, lad, for
you must be up rath the morrer for the stacking of Yattenden's field,
surelye!"

My week of service came to an end a day or two later, and refusing the
good farmer's offer for a permanent place at Mopesden Farm, I again set
out on my wanderings. I had several reasons for starting thus. I felt
that Highgate was too near Sussex for my peace of mind--one can see
Ewehurst from Four Throws, close to the village--and continued
sleeplessness had so sapped my health that I was physically unfitted for
the hard work at Mopesden. I felt also that I had no right to remain in
one place when it was my mission to carry the Saving Word through the
length and breadth of England. My fourth reason was perhaps the
weakest--I wished to make up with the Greater Preacher who went before.
I thirsted for company of my own age, condition and faith, and I
believed that I should find it in this mysterious Chrysostom, the track
of whose conquests I was following for the second time.

I decided to go to Rolvenden by the shortest way--up and down and in and
out of a multitude of twisting lanes, where the rose-crowned battlements
of the hedges shut out everything but the sky; through fields, where the
hay lay mown in great swathes, or where the green corn preached the
Resurrection; through woods where every step caused a flutter among the
wild creatures that played in the mush of dead leaves; by hangar and
bostal, hurst and hatch, cottages and farm-houses, hop-fields, glorious
in their summer dress, orchards from which the blossom had withered, and
where the shrivelled fruits hung like ruddy fungi among the leaves;
through the young fresh morning, till drowsy noon, when, as the sheep
gathered on the shady side of the hedges, and the cattle panted
knee-deep in the meadow streams, I came to Rolvenden.

The village was half asleep. The bow-pranked team dozed outside the
tavern, where the waggoners were nodding over their ale. The old men
slumbered on the benches by the inn porch, the women sat idly in their
doorways, the children slept in the scanty patches of shade. It was not
an encouraging audience, but I resolved to speak, and soon gathered a
little crowd round me by the churchyard gate. I think that since the
great sorrow of my life had fallen upon me, I had preached with far more
eloquence and power. I had noticed that at Sandhurst, Hawkhurst, and
Highgate, my sermons had gone deeper into the people's hearts than at
Wadhurst, Cuckfield, or Cowfold when I was happy and the world smiled.
This day at Rolvenden the sleepy, sordid men and women listened to me
almost eagerly. There was no laughing or interrupting, so I gained
confidence, and spoke and pleaded with them as I had never spoken or
pleaded before. A chapter from Thomas  Kempis came into my mind--"Of
the want of all comfort"--and I chose it for my text. For more than an
hour I preached of the broken heart, and of the bleeding Hand which
alone can bind it. At last I ceased, and at the same moment a voice at
my elbow cried out: "Well done!"

I started, and looked for the speaker among the crowd of smocks and
stolid faces. The next moment I started again, for by my side stood John
Palehouse!

He had altered very little since I had last seen him five years ago, for
though he had occasionally visited Shoyswell since then, I had never met
him. His hair was streaked with grey, it is true, and he looked thinner
and frailer than of old; but the face was the same, with the eyes that
shone as if they had once seen the Beatific Vision, and had not
forgotten it, and the smile so sad and so wonderfully sweet. He was
literally in rags. His shoes were ripped in a dozen places, his shoulder
showed through his sleeve, and his neck was bare.

"Well done, lad!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand. "I thank God to
meet you thus."

"And I am glad as well as surprised to meet you, Mr. Palehouse. I had no
idea that you were in these parts."

"I have only just come into Kent. I have been through Sussex to
Hampshire, then back through Sussex to Shoyswell, where I spent a day or
two on my way to Kent. Peter Winde told me that the Lord had called you
to preach His Gospel, and that you had gone into the sister county
before me."

"Why!" I exclaimed, as the truth dawned on me, "you must be the Greater
Preacher!

"The what?"

"The preacher who went before me through Sussex, and went again before
me through Kent. You passed me while I worked on Mopesden Farm. When did
you reach this village?"

"The day before yesterday. I have been nursing a sick boy down at a
place called Lambstand on the marshes. A vile hole! The child will die."

"I am so glad that you are the preacher whose praises have been dinned
into my ears on every village green. You don't know how I have longed to
make up with you and talk to one of my own condition and persuasion."

"Stay with me for a while at Rolvenden, and we can talk of Shoyswell and
of the labours we have undertaken for the Lord."

"Gladly!" I answered, and we made our way through the crowd to the
village inn, where I called for a jug of beer, for I was thirsty after
my walk in the dust and heat. Palehouse refused to drink beer, but asked
the landlady to bring him a cup of spring water. I ordered some bread
and cheese, and when the woman had left the room to fetch it, my
companion said:

"I don't think that I should stay here. I have no money, and though I
know that Mrs. Edwardes would be quite willing not to charge me for the
bread and cheese, I don't think I should let her be so good-natured. I
shall wait for you outside."

"Pray do not go!" I cried. "I ordered the bread and cheese for both of
us, and should be sorry to eat it alone."

"Why should I presume on your kindness more than on the landlady's? You
must not spend your money on me."

"I spend it for selfish reasons. I hate a solitary meal."

He glanced at the table, then at the door.

"Come, Mr. Palehouse," I insisted. "Come, or I shall go too."

Another glance at the table and another at the door, then he smiled and
took his place beside me.

"You are very kind, and why should I be too proud to confess that I am
starving?"

"Mr. Palehouse!"

"Well, I had my last meal at Sandhurst."

"That was the day before yesterday."

"True. But I have sometimes been without food for longer than that. I
can so seldom earn any money. The folks like my prophesying, but not the
work of my hands. The last farmer I was with nearly flogged me for my
blockheadedness."

"It is just the opposite with me. Folk often laugh at my sermons, but
never at my stacking, binding, or mowing."

"You are young, Mr. Palehouse, and your gift is fully developed."

"Young, am I? Do you know that I sometimes forget my own age! I am
thirty--no, thirty-one--but I don't feel young. Besides, I am several
years older than you, and you are a novice at prophesying."

It was a characteristic of John Palehouse that he always preferred Bible
phraseology to that of modern times. "Preaching" with him was
"prophesying"; his manner of life was his "conversation"; he had not
gone before but had "prevented" me on my journey. He spoke thus without
the slightest affectation; it was part of his nature. His mind was
saturated in the Holy Scriptures. He seldom read his Bible, for he knew
it by heart.

By this time the landlady had brought the bread and cheese, and
Palehouse folded his hands and bowed his head in thanksgiving over the
coarse fare. Then he smiled gaily, sat down, and ate like--well, like a
man who has not tasted food for two days.

As soon as the meal was over, my companion rose, and declared that he
must hurry back to Lambstand.

"I left the boy asleep and in charge of a neighbour--his family are at
work in the hayfields--but she will soon be obliged to go home and cook
her husband's supper, so I must return to my post. Come with me, and we
can talk by the way."

I readily agreed. It was blessed to have a companion.

"I shall beg some gooseberries at Sparkeswood Farm for the little
fellow," said John Palehouse; "he's in a high fever, and always crying
for drink, but the water at Lambstand is warm and foul this weather."

"You will beg for fruit to cool a sick child's fever, but you would not
have the landlady of this inn give you food when you were starving."

"The two things are utterly different. I may do for others that which I
cannot in all honesty do for myself. Besides, if I once allowed Mrs.
Edwardes to give me a meal, she would never take money from me again.
These poor folk are often too generous. Again and again a man and his
wife would have turned out of their bed that I might lie in there, and
the very children on their way to school have offered me their
breakfasts when they knew I was hungry."

"You are known in these parts?"

"Oh, yes! I constantly go over my ground confirming weak souls. I have
many friends in the southern counties. But come, we mustn't loiter here.
Off we go to Lambstand!"

I paid the landlady, and we left the alehouse. The sun had lost his
noonday heat, and the cool of late afternoon was in the air. John
Palehouse sniffed at the little wind that blew from the west.

"Do you smell the hay? They have cut it in Freezingham meadow."

Lover of Nature that I was, I had not noticed the faint delicious smell
till he called my attention to it, and during the whole of our walk it
was the same. He saw sights and heard sounds to which I was blind and
deaf, and every now and then he would ask me if I did not smell the
young hops, or the fennel by the wayside, and I would be obliged to
answer that I had never noticed their fragrance. As we went along he
talked of the birds, the stars, the rain, and the rustling leaves of the
woods. He paused to admire stretches of fallow or cornfield, the
windings of a stream, the cobalt of a pillar of smoke against the
ultramarine of the sky, the red roofs of the farmsteads against the
green of their orchards. John Palehouse had two loves--God and Nature,
and two books, the Bible and the green earth.

We went into the garden of Sparkeswood Farm, where the farmer's wife
picked us some gooseberries. Half a dozen children trod on our heels,
and prattled to John Palehouse. The old shepherd wrinkled up his face
with smiles when John's rags fluttered into the fold. The dairy-maids
curtseyed and grinned, and the plough-boy was with difficulty sent back
to his team. I felt that this was indeed a Greater Preacher.

We set out again on our way, and leaving the road, struck across the
fields to where the Rother wound through grey-green marshes. My heart
leapt at the sight of old Sussex on the opposite shore. But we were
several miles east of Ewehurst, and I looked in vain for the red roofs
with the lichen-yellowed spire rising in their midst. I saw Methersham
and Reedbed in a golden haze, and beyond them a mass of fields
undulating to the south.

Lambstand was a desolate cottage on the edge of the marsh. There was a
field behind it, with all attempts at cultivation choked by the rank
marsh-weeds that sprang up from the soil. The walls of the cottage were
blotched with damp, and huge fungi projected their fat lips from between
the clods of which it was built.

There were two rooms inside. The first was filled with smoke; from the
second came a sick child's cry. We went in and found a boy of about
eight years old tossing on a wretched bed. There were two other beds in
the room, and these had not been made that day. The heat was terrible,
and the boy's thirst was aggravated by the distant gurgle and suck of
the Rother on Maytham weir.

"Water," he moaned, for the cup at his side was empty, and had evidently
long been so.

"I have something better than water for you, Dickie," said Palehouse
tenderly, and crushed the fruit against the dry lips.

I watched him in admiration. It was wonderful how he brought peace and
refreshment into that stifling room. He smoothed the tumbled pillow and
bedclothes while he spoke low and tenderly to the child. He brushed back
the hair from his forehead and bathed his little hot hands.

"Where's Mrs. Ades?" he asked, when he had finished his ministrations.

"She's a-gone to cook her man's supper. He came home early and flew into
a mad rage when he found her here. He beat her, he did--oh, Mus' Pal'us,
my head, my head!"

He tossed and writhed in his hot bedclothes, and John took him in his
arms, and walked with him up and down the room.

"I should not have left you, poor babe. But I was obliged to visit old
Mrs. Harting up at the village, and I wanted to get you some fruit, my
poor dear."

He rocked the boy in his arms, and sang to him gently till the flushed
eyelids closed. I heard footsteps in the mud outside the house, and a
babel of voices. The next moment four lads and a girl rushed in, but
stopped and drew back at the sight of John Palehouse and his burden.

"Is Dickie any better, Mus' Pal'us?" asked the girl.

"I'm afraid that he's in a bad way. Where are his father and mother?"

"Father's a-gone to the Fightin' Cocks to drink good luck to the
hay-harvest. Mummy's jest a-loiterin'. Surelye!"

"One of you lads go and give her your arm," cried Palehouse; "you know
that she is tired and ill. For shame to have left her!"

Again I marvelled, for at these few words from this frail man, the great
uncouth lads darted off all four out of the cottage. The girl went into
the kitchen to coax the smoky fire, and John laid Dickie back on his
bed--or rather, the bed he shared with two of his brothers.

The twilight fell, the stars shone, vapours laden with fever and ague
steamed up from the marsh, and the gurgle of the Rother swelled to a
moan as the tide rose. The boy lay very still, and the girl moved very
softly in the next room. Again there were footsteps in the mud, and one
of the lads entered, with a pale woman, her eyes bright with approaching
maternity, leaning on his arm. She broke from him and ran to the
bedside.

"Dickie! Dickie! Speak to me, my babe!"--and she fell on her knees and
laid her cheek against his wasted hand.

"Mummy."

"I've brought yer some flowers, darlin'. I picked 'em in the
lane--hemlock, vetch, willow-herb, and campions." She laid the bunch,
the stalks hot with the clasp of her hot hands, on the pillow, beside
his head.

"Dan't yer remember how yer and me used to pick 'em in Ox Lane,
darlin'."

"I remember. Ain't they juastabout fine? We'll pick some more, mummy,
when I'm waal."

His head rolled sideways on the pillow, so that his cheek fell on the
flowers and crushed them. He was dead.

She threw herself across him, sobbing and praying God to give back her
son. Her sorrow did not tear her long, for that night her child was
born, and she joined little Dickie at cockcrow.

The episode of the sick boy at Lambstand gave me further insight into
the character of John Palehouse, and made me understand more clearly why
the poor folk loved him so. He and I lay that night in a barn near
Wassall, and talked till the Water-bearer set behind Great Job's Cross.
John told me about his visit to Shoyswell and Peter and Mary Winde.

"When do you go back to Sussex?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, on to Essex, Suffolk, anywhere."

"I have been thinking," said John Palehouse, "what if we went together!"


"I should dearly love to go with you. I am very lonely sometimes."

"Then let us go. It is not good for man to be alone."

He leaned towards me in the hay which was our bed, and held out his
hand.

"There is my hand in covenant."

"And there is mine. I shall be a better man for your friendship, John
Palehouse."

We did not talk any more that night, but lay back in the hay and fell
asleep. I dreamed once more that I was wandering along endless lanes,
and suddenly I became aware that Ruth was in front of me. I did not see
her, but I knew that she went on before me. I followed her, calling, but
not her name, for I could not utter it. I found myself calling,
"Dorothy! Dorothy! Dorothy!" till at last I woke with that same cry of
"Dorothy!" in my ears. John Palehouse lay beside me, his arms tossed
above his head, his face white and damp, as if in deadly sorrow, while
he cried, in the choked voice of one dreaming a horrible dream,
"Dorothy! Dorothy! Dorothy!"

I thought it an act of mercy to wake him, and did so. He sat up, still
calling "Dorothy!" then gazed bewildered round him, and at the bar of
yellow that crossed the eastern sky through the barn-door.

"I've been dreaming. What is it? Did I call out?"

"Yes!"

"A woman's name?"

"Yes."

He took up a handful of hay and bit and tore it with his teeth. Then he
threw himself down on his face.

"John," I cried, patting his shoulder, "what sorrow is this, my poor
fellow?"


"I'll tell you another time, perhaps but not now, for the wound is raw.
Go to sleep--as for me, I will get me to my God."

He went to the barn-door and knelt to pray with the morning dusk upon
his face.



                               CHAPTER X

              OF THE METHODIST AT THE VILLAGE OF TENTERDEN

That same day John Palehouse and I found work on Elphee's Farm, for my
funds were reduced to sixpence. I was then confirmed in my opinion that,
though my friend was a wonderful preacher, he was a vile labourer. Not
that he was unwilling or shirking--in fact, at the end of the day he was
twice as exhausted as I, who had done twice as much--but he was
intensely unpractical and absent-minded, extraordinarily ignorant--there
was a rumour, implicity believed at Ephee's Farm, that "Mus' Pal'us had
once axed Maaster Doolish by which end he shud 'ald he's scythe"--and
had an unlucky habit of deserting his own work to help the women and
children with theirs. The result of this incapability was that even the
farmers who loved and respected him most thought twice before giving him
work on their farms; and in consequence his clothes were always in rags,
and his pocket and stomach generally empty.

But though at Ephee's Farm I deplored John's helplessness in the field
and fold, at Benenden, a village we reached the next morning, I was
struck dumb with wonder and admiration at his preaching. The words of
the farmer's wife at Mopesden were true: it seemed as if the very stones
and tiles must be listening to him. I had heard him speak before, in the
kitchen at Shoyswell; but, in the open air, the breeze buffeting his
face, and the clouds sailing above his head, his words were steeped in a
new eloquence. It was as if they had borrowed strength from the wind
that blew his hair across his cheek, swiftness from the birds that cleft
the blue air over the tree-tops, fierceness from the thunder that
rumbled sulkily behind the barrows of Swattenden. He was not a soft
preacher. Though he himself was mild and tender as a woman, his sermons
were stern, rugged, and ruthless as a storm. He spoke of death, hell,
and judgment, where I had spoken of Christ and endless life; he warned
where I had pleaded; he drove with fear of hell where I had enticed with
hope of heaven. He was not a Calvinist, but his creed contained an
article--"There are few that can be saved."

In many other ways, besides in power and fierceness, his preaching
differed from mine. Though in ordinary speech his language was that of
an educated man, his sermons were full of rough, ill-chosen words and
expressions, borrowed from the uncultured peasantry he addressed.
Moreover, he loved to dwell on Old Testament scenes and characters,
whereas I had chiefly spoken of the New: I had preached God as the
Father, loving and beloved, showing mercy unto thousands of them that
love Him and keep His commandments; John Palehouse spoke of Him as
Jehovah, mighty and to be feared, visiting the sins of the fathers upon
the children unto the third and fourth generation.

I was struck, also, by another characteristic of John's
preaching--namely, the effect it produced on his hearers. Men had
listened to me with stolid, unmoved faces; sometimes they had openly
jeered. When John preached no one jeered, and every one was moved, even
excited. The tears fell down the women's cheeks, the men's faces worked
and twitched with their emotion. The silence was a silence of bated
breath, broken only by the rush and sough of the wind up the street,
and the mutter of distant thunder. John spoke for two hours of wrath
and judgment, then suddenly ceased, came down from the cart where he
stood, and was no longer the fierce and ruthless prophet, with his
message of fear, but the mild and tender brother who had nursed a sick
child at Lambstand, and bore a message of love.

"John," I cried, as he came to me through the silent and motionless
crowd, "your life and your gospel ill agree."

"My conversation is not all that I could wish, friend, and as for my
Gospel, it is given me of the Lord; yea, woe is me if I preach not the
Gospel."

"Gospel means good news--why do you speak of death and hell?"

"Because I would have folk flee from the wrath to come, when He shall
shake earth and also heaven."

He bowed his head and seemed greatly exercised in his mind. I thought it
best to say no more for a time, so took his arm and led him to the
outskirts of the crowd. Here he shook off some of his depression, and
insisted on returning and greeting his friends among the throng of
smocks and print aprons. His friends seemed numberless, and he greeted
them all. He inquired after sick husbands and children, after black
sheep that disturbed the home fold, and after lost sheep that had
deserted it. The people had trembled at his preaching, but they
evidently realised that the preacher and the man in him were two
different personalities. Women brought him their children, and he kissed
them and patted their heads; the young men told him of their work in
field and barn; the young women spoke of their sweethearts, and some of
an approaching marriage-day. He chatted with the yokels and with the old
men, who held out shaking hands to clasp his. He joked with the young
labourer and his pretty wife; he comforted the mother whose son had run
away to sea; he cheered the desponding lover; he had kindness, smiles,
and sympathy for all.

Towards evening John and I left Benenden for Tenterden. We did not take
the shortest road, but walked as far as a cross-roads known as the
Brogues, in a field near which we passed the night. The next day at
sunrise John visited the tenant of an old farm called Rat's Castle, and
also some cottages at the hamlet of Castiswell. Wherever he went he was
welcome, and we breakfasted at Rat's Castle off bread and cheese,
cherries and curds.

It was still fairly early when we reached Tenterden, a little
market-town in the midst of the hop-gardens of Kent. The sun lay hot on
the cobbles of the High Street, and on the steep roofs of the houses,
above which rose the church-tower, buttressed and crocketed.

"I am hot and tired," said Palehouse, when we entered the village, "and
so are you, lad. Let us put off our prophesying till the afternoon, and
rest till then in the cool wind."

"I'm sure I should like that, for my eyes and throat are full of dust.
Where shall we go?"

John pointed to the tower of old St. Mildred's, round which the swallows
were wheeling. "Right up to where not even a tree can screen us from
God's wind."

I readily agreed, and we went to the church. It was locked, but John
knew where to find the key, and we were soon in the cold aisles, with
the smell that haunts damp old churches in our nostrils.

Tenterden Church was ill-kept, dirty, and dark, with cattle-pen pews, a
hideous three-decker pulpit, and a neglected sanctuary. John Palehouse
sighed, but knelt down to pray in a pew near the door, and I knelt
beside him. A few minutes later we rose, unlocked the tower-door, and
went up a dark, twisting flight of steps to another door, which opened
out on to the leads at the top of the steeple.

The wind blew on us, rich with the scent of hay-fields. John and I sat
down on the parapet, and gazed over the giddy brink at the red roofs
swarming below. All round us lay the wonderfully contrasted yet
wonderfully blended colours of the weald--red and yellow farm-houses,
with their white-capped oasts and black barns, emerald pastures,
olive-green hop-fields, green-bice woods nearly black, glorious
variegated patches of garden, brown and purple commons, where the
gorse-fires flared, and above all the blue sky across which the clouds
were scudding. Due south stretched a strip of apple-green, with a blue
ribbon winding along the centre. It was the Rother Marsh, with the
Rother. And on the further side huddled the fields and woods of Sussex.
It seemed as if I could never escape from the county of my birth and
love and sorrow. I saw her meadows and marshes from every hill-top, and
each sight brought the intensest longing.

John and I sat silently, and feasted our eyes on the green beauty below
and the blue beauty above us, while the wind cooled our hot necks and
faces, and the throbbing in our tired limbs died gradually. At last John
spoke.

"This is a glorious spot. We look down on the world, and yet are not of
the world; we see its loveliness and are spared its dust and heat. This
is an ideal place for----"

"For what?" I asked, as he hesitated.

"For confidences, lad."

He touched my hand and smiled.

"I am fond of you," he said simply.

"How can I help you, John?"

"By listening to me--I should like to tell you about--about--Dorothy."

I flushed with pleasure. Short as the time of our comradeship had been,
I had become much attached to John Palehouse, and was deeply touched by
this token of his love and confidence.

"Yes, lad. I decided last night that I would tell you when I had
opportunity. A sorrow loses half its bitterness when told to a friend,
and you are my friend, Humphrey. I have not known you long, but I have
grown to care for you more than I ever cared for any man, so I shall
tell you what I never told any man."

"Not Peter Winde?"

"Not even Peter, though I love him dearly and trust him implicity. I
don't know why I feel so drawn to you. Perhaps it is because we are
fairly of an age, because we are working together in God's vineyard,
because we have shared bed and board--the stream-side stone our board,
the field our bed--or because we are both wanderers and have lost or
estranged our kith and kin. But, be the reason what it may, I am fond of
you, and would feel much relief in telling you what I have never told
any man."

"Tell me, then, John. I wish that I could help you."

"You cannot help me except by your sympathy. You cannot bring the dead
to life. But your sympathy will be help indeed."

He was silent a moment, and sat swinging his legs against the parapet,
gazing at the roofs beneath. At last he lifted his head and spoke.

"You may be surprised to hear that my father was a gentleman of wealth
and position, and my mother a high-born lady."

"I'm not surprised. I always thought you were of good birth."

"In spite of my rags and vagabond ways? Come, now, you will surely be
surprised to hear that I have been well educated?"

"I--I don't think I am--but----"

"You may well stammer and falter; there are few traces of my education
left. I have not opened a book, except this"--and he touched the Bible
in the ragged bosom of his shirt--"for years, and I have forgotten
nearly all I once knew.

"My father was a squire of good family and fortune, and we lived in an
old house called Mackery End, in one of the Midland counties. My mother
died when I was fifteen, and the same year my father and I heard a
sermon by Charles Wesley, and joined the Methodists. Fired with the zeal
of the Lord, my father sold his house and lands, gave the money to the
poor, and one morning led me by the hand into the lanes, that we might
preach the Gospel to those who sat in darkness and had no light.

"We tramped through the whole of England with the good tidings of great
joy. We slept in fields and sheds; we hungered and thirsted and fainted.
The years went by, and one day my father laid himself down on a truss of
hay in a haggard, and died with the name of JESUS on his lips.

"This was a terrible blow to me, for I loved him dearly, but my heart
did not break, because lately it had begun to throb with a new
happiness. In the course of my wanderings my father and I had often
visited our native village of Harpendeane, and had always found a
welcome at the house of the Methodist minister, Charles Grimsdale. He
had two daughters, Dorothy and Katharine--and I fell in love with
Dolly."

He paused a moment and bowed his head. I waited silently till he
continued.

"She was as beautiful as the flowers and the young grass. Her eyes had
the glow of a forge in them--you know Scullsgate forge, when the glare
streams over the fields of Great Nineveh on a summer night? She was a
mischievous witch, and a dozen hearts lay at her feet. She laughed at
them, played with them, and sometimes broke them. Half the county sighed
after her. Her eyes were like the burning fiery furnace of Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abed-nego, slaying all who approached them.

"I had reason to think myself the most favoured of all her lovers, and
though she often flouted me and drove me desperate, I had good hope of
success.

"Kitty Grimsdale was not so beautiful as her sister, neither was she
such a little minx and flirt. She was a sweet, rather quiet girl,
engaged to a good young clergyman of a neighbouring parish. I often went
to visit the sisters at the cottage by the meeting-house, and as time
went by I noticed that my wild, beautiful Dolly was growing tamer, and I
often thought that her proud spirit was passing under the yoke of love.

"On one of my visits to Harpendeane I was surprised to meet my cousins
Harold and Robert Macaulay. I had seen very little of them during my
boyhood, and had heard no good. Still, I was glad to renew our
acquaintance, for they declared that they had sown their wild oats, and
had resolved to spend the rest of their lives in quiet and innocence.
With this object in view, they bought a house in Harpendeane, a few
doors below Grimsdale's Manse.

"They were fine-looking men, and the younger had the most pleasing
manners. The elder I found a surly fellow, with little good-breeding,
though he would occasionally put on a rough dashing air that captivated
the hearts of silly women.

"I introduced my cousins to their neighbours, the Grimsdales, and the
next day, when I met Doll in Harpendeane market-place, she scolded me so
prettily that I could have kissed her then and there, for presenting her
to such a bearish fellow as my cousin Harold; and a few minutes later I
met Kitty, who reproached me for having brought under her notice an
affected coxcomb like my cousin Robert.

"However, the sisters did not long remain so dissatisfied with the
Macaulays; I often met my cousins at the Manse, and soon found out that
they were welcome there. I fear that there was for me more wooing than
prophesying in the summer months that followed. I shall never forget how
Dolly and I used to sit in the Manse garden, where the rose-petals lay
like blood-drops in the grass; how we used to walk in the lanes and
gather wild flowers, and speak in the language of smiles and glances;
how I used to say good-bye to her at her father's gate, and watch her go
singing up the path under the rose arches, the colours of the roses
painted on her white gown by the sunset. Well, it is all over now, as a
dream when one awaketh.

"At the end of the summer the Spirit drove me to carry the word into
Kent, and when I returned the leaves were brown and dying and the
swallows flown. But this death and decay could not cloud my happiness as
I trudged through the lanes under the misty stars. I lay that night in a
field near Harpendeane, and my joy kept me awake. Poor preacher as I
was, I felt sure that Dorothy loved me, and next day I would come with
the sun to her window, and offer her my heart in the dewy silent dawn.
She would blush and hang her head, and stammer and falter--and plight
her troth with kisses.

"I rose at cockcrow. The day was sweet, and the clouds flocked like
doves into the east, where they blushed as red as Dolly's cheek. I had
nearly reached the Manse, when I saw a man coming to meet me, wild in
look, disordered in dress. He was Charles Grimsdale.

"'Minister!' I cried, my heart sickening with fear, 'what is wrong?'

"His lips twitched, but he could not speak.

"'Speak, for God's sake!' and I shook him by the arm.

"'My girls are dead!'

"'Dead! What do you mean? Both dead?'

"'Dead in trespasses and sins!'

"My jaw fell, and I groped for his meaning.

"'They have run away with your cousins, the Macaulays!'

"'Impossible! You are raving.'

"'Listen, before you decide that I am raving. My daughters' room was
found empty this morning, and their bed had not been slept in. We
searched for them and called them; then I came across this letter on my
writing-table. Read it.'

"He took a letter out of his pocket, and I read it, though a mist swam
before my eyes.

"'Forgive us, we beseech you. But we cannot help ourselves. We love
Harold and Robert Macaulay with all our heart and soul and strength, and
would go to hell for them.'

"I reeled, and clasped my hands to my head. I could scarcely believe my
eyes and ears. But it was all true--my cousins' house was found shut up
and empty, and I never saw them or my poor sweet Doll again."

John Palehouse was silent, and I gazed at him with all the love and pity
of my soul in my eyes. For fully five minutes we remained thus; then I
broke the stillness with:

"Is that the end?"

"The end of my happiness, boy."

"Did you ever hear anything of Dorothy?"

"Yes; she died a year ago, after seven years of a life worse than death.
My cousin deserted her at the end of a few months. She was afraid and
ashamed to come home, and sank deeper and deeper into the slough. We
lost all trace of her, and it was through a mere chance that I heard of
her death last June. Katharine caught a fever, and died only three weeks
after her elopement. Her lover, the young clergyman, is happier than I."

"And your cousins?"

"I know nothing of Harold. He may be alive or he may be dead. Robert
died only six or seven months ago. He returned to Harpendeane with his
brother for a few days' secret visit, and the vengeance of the Lord
overtook him. He fell from the topmost window of his house, and perished
even as Jezebel. I heard this from Mr. Grimsdale, for I was away at the
time. I have never visited Harpendeane since my heart was broken."

"You tramped and preached?"

"Yes. I had neglected my prophesying for lovemaking, so the Lord thrust
sore at me. I struggled to atone. For the last eight years I have
tramped, starved, sweated, and prophesied. I have cried the name of the
Lord through the length and breadth of England. I have nursed the sick,
rebuked the wicked, comforted the comfortless. In ministering to others
I have done much to heal my own wound. My heart has often been vexed
within me. But although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall
fruit be in the vines, the labour of the olive shall fail, and the
fields shall yield no meat, the flocks shall be cut off from the fold,
and there shall be no herd in the stalls; yet I will rejoice in the
Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation."

We both sat motionless, gazing at the peaceful cloud-flecked sky. Some
cattle were lowing on Forstal Farm, and children's voices rose and fell
in a meadow near the church. I held out my hand to John Palehouse.

"Thank you for your confidence. I will try to be worthy of it."

"I felt sure that I could tell you, for--for----"

"For what?"

"I am not the only one of us to dream of a woman and cry her name."

I bit my lip.

"It was when we were lying in a field near the Brogues," he continued,
"you moaned in your sleep, and cried----"

"Ruth?"

"Yes, lad--three or four times."

I bowed my head over my clenched hands.

"After that I felt sure that I could count on your sympathy,
and--and--Humphrey, if there is a load on your breast that might be
eased by--by confidence----"

"Not yet!" I cried, starting up; "not yet, John. My heart is still
bleeding, and--and I'm trying to forget her. John, if you love me, do
not mention her name."



                               CHAPTER XI

              OF THE METHODIST AT THE VILLAGE OF BIDDENDEN

The friendship between John Palehouse and me, begun at Rolvenden, and
confirmed at Tenterden, grew stronger and deeper as we tramped through
Boar's Isle and High Halden to Biddenden. We were admirably suited to
each other by the law of contraries. Besides, there is nothing that
draws men closer together than the sharing of afflictions.

John often spoke to me of his Dorothy--when we worked together on the
Kentish farms, walked together in the Kentish lanes, or slept together
in the Kentish fields. He seemed to find relief in talking of his
sorrow. I steadfastly nursed mine. I was far more reserved by nature
than he; my wound was fresher than his, and I felt a strange pleasure,
often experienced by young men, in suffering alone. I did not realise
that a wound untended by sympathy will often fester. I would tell my
friend some day, I resolved, but not just yet, for every thought of Ruth
was torture.

John sympathised with my silence, and did not seek to break it. He tried
to distract my thoughts, and it is wonderful how entrancing he made that
ramble from Tenterden to Biddenden. I had long known his devotion to the
green earth and her children, but it was during that week, when we
tramped the convolvulus-netted lanes, or worked with rake and scythe in
the scorched hay-fields, that I gauged the full depth of this love. I
was never tired of hearing him speak of Nature's beautiful things--of
the wind among the larches, of stars, of the dawn, of the sweet rain he
loved, of the rabbits that play in the beech-woods, of the squirrels
that dart across the lane, and of the birds that praise God from
daybreak to darkness.

Moreover, he knew all the wild legends of the country through which we
roamed. He told me about Norah Powlare of Omenden, whose spook tempts
women to starve their babes; about the Field of the Unbaptised near
Hareplain Wood, where the souls of the unbaptised wander and wail; about
Feverden House, where lived one who had committed the sin against the
Holy Ghost; and about the woman-spirit that carries a light, and is
always searching and never finds. The weirdness of these tales was
increased as he told them by his implicit belief in them. He believed in
ghosts and fetches, elves and evil spirits, and only smiled and sighed
when I chid him for his superstition.

We did not travel fast--we took a week to cover the few miles between
Tenterden and Biddenden. We worked on two farms--Pigeon Hoo and
Duesden--and preached at two villages--Boar's Isle and High Halden. It
was John who first brought me into contact with organised Methodism. I
had worshipped in the chapels when I had found them, but had never
spoken to the ministers, or acquainted myself with their methods.
Organised and settled Christianity is apt to look down on that which is
unorganised and itinerant; and this I found to be the case at High
Halden, where John introduced me to the minister, and where we spent the
night at the minister's little house which he called Wesley Manse. He
was very superior in his manner, criticised our sermons, and found fault
with our methods, which he termed "too free and easy." He told us to our
faces that John was a dreamer and fanatic, differing but little from the
Puritan Nonconformists, and that I, in my like for the Sacrament, was
very like a Papist. "I may also remark," he added, "that you will find
the respect of the populace rather difficult to win in--er-your--er--
ragged costume!"

It was at High Halden that I first noticed signs of decay and disunion
in Methodism, and my glimpse of Minister Browne's parochial organisation
opened my eyes to many defects in the Methodist system. I have never
cared for chapel life, for the petty interests, ambitions, and quarrels
of Salem and Little Bethel. I am a born wanderer--vagabond, if you
like--and always preach badly within four walls. And though at the
present time I am in charge of a chapel in the suburbs of London, that
is because my health will not suffer me to lead my old roaming, roofless
life--and I long madly to have the market-cross for my pulpit, the
tree-stump for my table, and the green earth for my bed.

On a grey day towards the end of June John Palehouse and I left Wesley
Manse for Biddenden. We were prepared for some danger and difficulty at
this village, for Mr. Browne had warned us that the curate of Biddenden
was a vigorous opponent of the Word. Hitherto, we had often found the
clergy scornful and indifferent, but never hostile.

There was a rumble of distant thunder as we went up the village street
on our way to the inn, for we were thirsty after our walk through the
dust. John asked for a cup of cold water, and I a mug of beer, and we
were seated drinking in the inn porch when a young clergyman came up and
spoke to us.

He was fair, tall, and walked with a slight stoop. The epithet "vigorous
opponent" seemed inappropriate to one who looked so indolent. He stared
at us fixedly, and I saw that he had a cast in his eye.

"Are you the two preacher fellahs come up from Halden?" he drawled.

"Yes, friend; what would you have with us?" replied John Palehouse.

"I merely came to tell you to pack off. I won't have your demned ranting
in my parish. Will you leave it?"

"No, friend."

The curate's fixed stare became a trifle more insolent.

"You won't? You may regret that decision, my good fellah."

"You can't interfere with us," I said, "if we don't make any disturbance
in the village."

"Ain't preaching a disturbance? Demmit! I've heard of ranters being put
in the stocks."

"I trust, friend," said John, "that you will not resist the Spirit.
I--I mean to preach here."

The curate answered nothing, but, taking off his hat and bowing low in
mock courtesy, turned on his heel and left us. The landlord was standing
close by.

"Ye're in for an unaccountable vrother wud Curate Kitson," he remarked.
"May the Old Un fly away wud me if that feller sticks at anythink
whatsumdever, fur all he looks so sheep-like. I advise you to make off,
young men."

"We are not afraid of their terror," said John, rising; "we have regard
unto the recompense of the reward. Come, Humphrey, fear not nor be
dismayed, for behold He is with us alway, even to the end of the world."

His face shone with an intense exultation, such as a martyr's features
might have worn. He took my arm, and we went down the street to an open
space of common-land, orange with gorse. The clouds had parted above our
heads, and the sunshine struggled through the rift and kissed John's
hair as he took off his hat and knelt down to pray among the thyme and
the restharrow. I prayed too, chiefly for him. I felt sure that we were
in danger, and that we might count ourselves lucky if we escaped
unharmed from the village of Biddenden.

A large crowd of people soon assembled. They looked far more brutal and
depraved than any congregation we had hitherto addressed. In the
villages where the parson was lazy and negligent we had found the people
squalid, hopeless, and miserable, but here was something more terrible
than hopelessness stamped on the dark faces before us. John had hardly
begun to speak when a chorus of hoots and hisses rose from the crowd. I
could easily tell who prompted the disturbance, for Curate Kitson was
lounging on the outskirts of the throng. He was speaking to some rough,
ferocious-looking fellows, and my heart beat wildly and fast.

Suddenly my worst fears were realised. A stone was thrown at us. John,
who had been appealing passionately to his surly hearers, and had forced
attention from more than one of them, stopped speaking, and stared in
amazement. The next moment another stone whirled at his head; he ducked,
and avoided it. Another and another came hurtling at him; they struck
him, and the blood poured down his face. I dashed to his side and tried
to ward off the missiles, but they came thick and fast, and though some
fell wide, the majority struck us. John seemed to be the chief butt, no
doubt because he had been the chief withstander of Curate Kitson. He
made me think of Stephen, as he knelt, bruised and blood-stained, the
stones crashing round him. Only, unlike Stephen, he never spoke.

It could not last long. Already I saw the sun through a mist of blood,
and a horrible feeling of nausea almost overpowered me. I still tried to
shield John Palehouse, though he made feeble attempts to push me away.
Then, suddenly, he stretched out his arms and fell forward without a
complaint or a cry.

He lay with his face buried in the thyme, the blood trickling from his
head, shoulders, arms, and sides. The crowd rushed on us, and I thought
that the end had come.

Suddenly there was a loud shout, and the mob swayed and parted, as a
gentleman and three stout grooms, all armed with hunting-whips, flogged
their way through.

"What is this?" cried the gentleman, who looked like a country squire.
"Kitson, do you know anything of this?"

"I'm sure I can't tell what made 'em so furious," drawled the curate. "I
warned these two fellahs not to preach here, but they were too demned
pig-headed to take my advice."

"Gad! this is a matter for a magistrate. I'll look to it later.
Meantime, these poor wretches must be taken to Ihornden Hall. Can you
walk as far as my coach?"--addressing me--"my grooms will carry your
friend."

Two of the lads picked up the unconscious John Palehouse, and I
followed, leaning heavily on the arm of the third. The squire strode on
ahead, for he had ladies in his coach, he said, and must prepare them
for our arrival. He declared that they could easily walk home across the
fields, and insisted that John and I should drive.

It was all swift and sudden as a dream. The crowd fell back sulkily, and
we came to where a coach and four was standing. A stout, comely woman,
whom I took to be the squire's wife, had already alighted, and a younger
lady stood upon the carriage-steps. My heart gave a sudden, fierce
bound, then every pulse in my body seemed to stand still. My eyes met
the eyes of Ruth Shotover.

She stood in the carriage doorway, clad in a simple white gown, her
curls straying from under a little black velvet hood. Her lips were
parted in mingled wonder and pity, her eyes were full of tears. The
sight of her sickened me more than the blows of a minute past--I
fainted.



                              CHAPTER XII

       OF THE METHODIST AND ONE WHO SUFFERED MORE BRAVELY THAN HE

I opened my eyes in an old oak-panelled room, through the windows of
which I saw trees and sky, pale and vague, like the landscape of a
dream. I had no idea where I was or what had happened, but I was full of
a nameless misery, the cause of which I could not determine--as when one
wakes and is conscious of sorrow before remembering the exact source and
nature of it.

At my side stood the squire. He was a short red-faced gentleman, with
kind blue eyes, and rather a loose mouth. His boots, hair, and
finger-nails showed that he cared little for the niceties of the toilet.
For a moment I lay staring at him in bewilderment; then suddenly
remembrance came, and I stared up with but one thought in my heart.

"Where is----" I was going to say "Ruth," but
recollected myself, and bit my lip.

"Your friend? He's in the guest-room. The doctor is putting him to bed."

"Is he badly hurt?"

"He has been finely drubbed by those rascals, but there's little danger,
I reckon, though a good deal of pain. Begad! You must be feeling pretty
sick and sore yourself, Mr. Lyte. You see, I know your name. Miss
Shotover told me. She said you were very friendly with her and her
brother in Sussex."

I smiled grimly, and glanced at my tattered clothes and bloodstained
hands.

"I do not look like a friend of Miss Shotover's."

"You've been tramping the roads, and can't be expected to look as if
you'd just taken leave of your valet. Gad! I wish we had more of your
kind in Merry England. The parsons are a very sorry herd, and we need an
honest man or two to show 'em their duty. I must apologise for the way
those knaves treated you at the village. They shall suffer for it, you
may be sure. But, come, you ought to be in bed like your friend."

"Indeed, I would rather not----" I thought with horror of the wakeful
hours I should be sure to spend, and of the thoughts that would torture
me as I tumbled and tossed.

"Take my advice, and go to bed at once. You've been infernally knocked
about."

"Pray do not press me. Let me wait till my friend is able to see me,
then allow me to watch the night by him."

The squire shook his head, but seeing that I was obdurate, at last gave
in.

"You can sit quiet here till the doctor is ready to overhaul you. Then,
if he allows it, you can go to your friend's room."

"May I ask," I said, as he was leaving me, "to whom I am indebted for
all this kindness?"

"My name's Wychellow, and this house is Ihornden Hall. Begad, sir! don't
speak to me of kindness; my wife and I are only too pleased to do all we
can for you."

He left the room, and I drew my chair up to the fire, for though the
month was June, old Ihornden was damp and cold enough; besides, I was
shivering with fever. I was miserable and spiritless, my limbs ached
wearily, and I felt horribly sick. It seemed as if fate had pursued me,
and overtaken me at Ihornden Hall. To escape Ruth Shotover I had torn
myself from my friends and the county of my birth--and here she was
under the same roof as I. How had she come to Ihornden, and why? Surely
heaven was unmerciful to cast such a snare on my path. Oh, but I would
flee from it! I would insist on removing John to some farm-house in the
neighbourhood; I would not stay another hour in this house of
temptation. But who would nurse John at a farm? He would have to lie
hard and be roughly tended. I had no right to sacrifice him in such a
way. After all, my strained relations with both Ruth Shotover and her
brother would induce her to avoid me as much as lay in her power. I
could have my meals with John Palehouse, and so escape even a glimpse of
that torturing sweet face.

I sat miserably while the glow of the afternoon paled, and evening came
with pink and golden lights on the oak floor. The fire was an inert
crimson mass, except where in one corner a solitary flame writhed its
singing horn. Sometimes I dozed, and dreamed again of the forsaken roads
along which I was bound to tramp, in spite of dizzy weariness. I never
slept for more than five minutes at a time, and would wake with a groan.
The birds were chirping and gurgling in the trees outside, and every now
and then a swift flew screaming through the air, and--such were my
depression and weakness--made me start.

At last the doctor came. His examination was short, and, though he
advised me to go to bed, he finally gave in to my entreaties, and, after
an application of ointment and bandages, allowed me to go to my friend's
room.

I went down a long passage, smelling of old wood, and was just about to
lift the latch of the door pointed out to me, when it opened from the
inside, and I stood face to face with Ruth Shotover.

The blood dyed her neck and cheeks, and my own tingled and throbbed in
every vein.

"You've come to see Mr. Palehouse?"

The words roused me out of the trance into which I had fallen.

"How do you know my friend's name?" I asked, rather abruptly, and the
colour left her face at once.

"We met in Hertfordshire," she answered shortly, and I saw that my
question and the manner of it had been rude.

"You must forgive me my rough speaking. It is evident that my manners as
well as my senses were knocked out of me this morning."

She smiled in her old sweet way.

"Lud! how terribly you must have suffered under that cruel stoning!"

"Not half as terribly as my friend. Tell me, is he better?"

"Faith, I can't say. He's conscious, but in great pain. You're in a
fearful plight yourself."

"It is nothing. Is your brother at Ihornden?"

"Yes. He was in Mr. Palehouse's room a minute ago. Sir Miles Wychellow
was a friend of our father's, and when he heard that poor Guy was sick,
he asked him to Ihornden Hall."

"Then has your brother been ill?"

"He's ill now, and it's vastly necessary that he should have rest and
change. We've been here nearly a week, and I've no idea when we shall be
able to go back to Ewehurst."

Her voice trembled with tears. She curtseyed hurriedly, and left me
gazing after her as she sped down the corridor. For an instant I stood
motionless, while the bitterness of death nestled in my heart, and made
it almost stop its beating. I recovered myself with difficulty, and went
into John Palehouse's room.

Lady Wychellow was at the bedside, but she slipped out when I came in,
and left me alone with my friend. The room was dim, for the curtains
were drawn, though a red shaft of sunset streamed through the narrow
slit between them. The walls were ribbed with oak, and two handsome,
gilt-edged mirrors reflected the furniture, which was heavy and
luxurious. It was then I realised that, had it not been for Ruth's
recognition, John would doubtless be lying in the servant's quarters
instead of in the chief guest-room of Ihornden Hall.

I went softly over to the bed--a huge four-poster, with green hangings.
John's eyes were shut, but he opened them at my approach, and said
feebly:

"Well, my lad, you see me in a pretty plight. I hope you escaped with
less bruises than I."

"Indeed, I have only some trifling hurts. It makes me wretched to see
you thus, John."

"They did it in ignorance," he said earnestly; "they are sorry enough
for it now, I'll be bound. Oh, poor shepherdless sheep!"

"You think more of them than of yourself."

"They are in a worse plight than I. Oh, lad, my heart aches for the poor
things."

He spoke with difficulty, and as I knew that every word must mean
torture, I implored him to be silent, and for some time he lay with no
other sign of life than the wandering of his large, restless eyes. I
watched beside him till the patch of ruby light on the floor had faded
to yellow and to pearl. Then I was called away to a futile attempt to
eat, while Lady Wychellow and Ruth Shotover watched by the bed.

I resumed my post at about nine, and though Sir Miles Wychellow came
several times and begged me to take some rest, I remained till morning
in an armchair by my friend's bedside. I longed to ask John about his
acquaintanceship with Ruth, but shrank from disturbing him; besides, he
was delirious, and raved for the greater part of the night.

I did not sleep, and was sure that, even if I had been in bed, I could
not have slept. I felt glad that, instead of tossing alone, I was
sitting by my friend; for, though unconscious, he was, nevertheless, a
companion, and his ravings were not wild and horrible, but gentle as the
voice of a little child who talks in his sleep.

He spoke of the old days at Harpendeane, and of his evenings with
Dorothy Grimsdale in the Manse garden. That name was on his lips the
livelong night--"Dorothy! Dorothy!"--and I wondered if it would be the
same with me if I fell ill, and whether I should lie from roosting-time
to cock-crow crying, "Ruth Ruth!" The thought horrified me, and I
resolved to fight desperately against the sickness I believed was at
hand.

My poor friend's sufferings were awful, and between his cries of
"Dorothy!" and gentle wanderings in a happy time long past, he comforted
himself from the Book of Job and from the Psalms: "'Why dost thou strive
against Him? For He giveth not account to any of His matters.' 'He will
deliver my soul from going into the pit, and my life shall see the
light.' 'Why art thou so cast down, O my soul, and why art thou
disquieted within me? Hope in God: for I shall yet praise Him, Who is
the health of my countenance and my God.'"

These words, uttered in a semi-conscious state, stole like drops of
healing oil into my heart. A sudden realisation of my ingratitude and
rebellion came to me. I had railed against Fate for bringing Ruth
Shotover and me together at Ihornden Hall, forgetting that Fate is only
another name for Providence. "'How should a man be just with God? If he
contend with Him, he cannot answer; he cannot answer Him one of a
thousand. He is wise in heart and mighty in strength. Who hath hardened
himself against Him and hath prospered?'" said John Palehouse from the
bed. I had been murmuring against God, questioning His will, kicking
against His commandments. "'Be ye not like to horse and mule,'" said
John Palehouse, "'which have no understanding, whose mouths must be held
with bit and bridle lest they fall upon thee.'" If God's will was being
fulfilled in my greatest misfortune, I had no right to do otherwise than
rejoice. "'God is faithful,'" said John Palehouse, "'Who will not suffer
you to be tempted above that which you are able, but will with the
temptation also make a way of escape, that ye may be able to bear it.'"
I knew that He would help me to bear the tormenting presence of Ruth
Shotover day after day, even week after week. I went over to the window
and fell on my knees, and the tears in my eyes were not of misery, but
of contrition.

The dawn was in the room, and I drew aside the curtain and looked out. A
beautiful park sloped from the house, and beyond it lay twilight fields,
and a range of blue barrows on the horizon. The sky was pale, and the
morning star was wan. A sudden flush of light throbbed in the east, the
wind swept up and shook the trees, and the birds began a drowsy whimper.
I heard myself called from the bed.

"Is it morning?"

"Yes. The sun is just going to rise."

"Is the dawn grey?"

"No, red as blood."

"Then we shall have mist and rain. How sweetly the birds are singing! I
love their voices; they teach me, 'Fear not; ye are of more value than
many sparrows.'"

I crossed over to the bed.

"Are you better, dear John?"

"Better in mind, if not in body. I feel sure that God has heard my
prayers, and has forgiven those poor misguided souls."

"Can I do anything for you?"

"No, thank you, boy. Humphrey, I have seen a ghost."

I knit my brows.

"I meant to have told you before this, but the Lord thrust sore at me,
and I could not speak. You remember the young clergyman I told you of,
who was engaged to Katharine Grimsdale?"

"Well?"

"He is in this house."

"You don't mean Guy Shotover?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"We--we--knew each other in Sussex. But I had no idea that he and the
unfortunate young man of your story were the same."

"I didn't know that he was in these parts, and was surprised to see him
yesterday. I called him a ghost because he is the shadow of his former
self. In the old days he was a stalwart, healthy young man, full of life
and gaiety. Now he is a wreck in body and mind."

"No wonder, poor fellow! after all he has suffered."

I lapsed into silence. For an instant I thought that I had grasped the
secret that cankered the lives of Ruth and Guy Shotover, but the next
moment I saw that such a cause could not have produced the effect I had
witnessed. The curate's love-affair could only be a matter of sorrow and
regret, not a present and pregnant anxiety, mysteriously bound up with
Enchmarsh of Kitchenhour.

"Did you know Shotover's sister at Harpendeane?" I asked Palehouse.

"Very well. I dined more than once at Golden Parsonage. Her name is
Ruth."

His eyes met mine suddenly, and I quailed. For a moment I thought of
telling him everything, but my reserve and sentiment were too strong for
me.

"It is a common name," I said abruptly; and with his accustomed tact he
never again alluded to the subject.

I sat by my friend's side while the daylight grew, and when the sun rose
I sang to him Bishop Ken's Morning Hymn.



                              CHAPTER XIII

                 OF THE METHODIST AND THE MAN HE HATED

As soon as breakfast was over, I went to bed, and rose much refreshed
after a few hours' sleep. I spent the rest of the day in my friend's
room--I dared not mix with the household and meet Ruth.

Time wore on uneventfully. I quickly recovered from my bruises, and John
Palehouse began slowly to mend. It was a beautiful summer; the days were
long and golden, the sun rose early and dawdled over his setting. I
seldom went out of doors, though the sunshine and the scent of the
flowers invited me, for from my window I often saw a white-gowned figure
moving in the garden, or standing like a solitary patch of snow in one
of the great fields near Ihornden. We rarely met, and then it was only a
bow and a curtsey, a "good day, madam," and a "good day, sir." Guy
Shotover I saw oftener. He seemed disposed to forget what had passed
between us at Ewehurst Parsonage, and now that Enchmarsh was no longer
present to rule him was friendly enough with the man he had but a short
time ago ordered from his house. I fear that I met his advances surlily
at first. I could not help thinking that he had a great deal to do with
Ruth's unhappiness. But, after all, he had once been kind to me, and had
befriended me when I stood in sore need of a friend. Besides, the poor
fellow looked so ill that it was impossible to nurse enmity. I felt sure
that he must be in a decline, and his scarlet cheeks, shaking hands,
harsh cough and hysterical laughter confirmed my opinion. He
occasionally came to see John, and would sit by the bedside, jerking his
head as if he had St. Vitus' dance, twisting his pocket handkerchief
round his fingers, and starting if anyone spoke loud, if a chair
creaked, or if a bird flew crying past the window.

Towards the middle of July, John was well enough to leave his room, and
often walked in the garden, leaning on my arm. Sometimes we roamed along
the twisting lanes to Kalsham or Stede Quarter or sat together in the
fields of Plurenden, or lay together in the scent and shade of
Dashnanden Wood. We each bought a new coat in the village, for those in
which we had arrived at Ihornden were rags, unfit for a gentleman's
house. I do not know whether it was the new coat or the sickness from
which he was recovering, but I began to notice a change in John
Palehouse. He lost his look of tramp and vagrant, and I saw in him the
high-born squire of Mackery End. His hands were no longer brown and
coarse, but white and transparent, so that one saw the blue veins
through the skin; the sunburn had faded from his cheek, and left it as
softly tinted as when his mother used to kiss it. Sir Miles Wychellow
took a great fancy to him, often sat in his room, and surrendered to his
entreaties that no notice should be taken of the rough usage he had
received at Biddenden. However, in spite of the kindness and
consideration with which he was treated, I noticed in him an
ever-increasing desire to resume his wanderings.

"While I am idling here," he said, "hundreds may be dying without the
Lord. Oh, pray, my lad, that you and I may soon be preaching on
Frittenden Green."

One afternoon, after a shower of rain, I went out into the garden. The
flowers smelled so sweet, and the wet grass and trees were so beautiful,
that my heart bounded with joy in spite of its load of sorrow, and I
realised that God would still leave some happiness in my life if He left
me the earth and sky. From my childhood I had found comfort in Nature.
The trill of a nightingale would soothe the misery of the little beaten
child who lay and sobbed in the long grass of Spell Land. The overworked
boy, full of disappointment and vain longing, would look up with a smile
when he saw the sun burst from behind the meadows of Ellenwhorne and
turn the Brede River to blood. And this day the sorrow of the despairing
man was blown to heaven with the incense of the flowers.

The lane looked even more inviting than the garden, and I strolled down
the avenue towards the channel of moving shadows. At the gate I heard a
horse's hoofs beating a gay presto on the road, and the next moment a
horseman trotted up and entered the grounds. My cheeks flushed and my
blood warmed angrily at the sight of him. He was Enchmarsh of
Kitchenhour.

He looked wonderfully handsome. His eyes were bright, his cheeks ruddy
with exercise, and his parted lips showed his fine, white teeth. He
recognised me at once, and his brow darkened.

"Hello! Where the devil do you come from?"

"From Ihornden Hall."

"What are you doing there?"

"That's no concern of yours."

"Isn't it, though? What about a certain lady I have forbidden you to
have anything more to do with?"

"I don't care a jot for your commands."

"You don't! I'll make you."

He raised his crop, but I sprang forward, twisted it out of his hand,
and hurled it far away among the bushes. For a moment we faced each
other, our eyes blazing, our bosoms swelled with fury. At last Enchmarsh
broke the silence.

"What hell's reason brings you here?"

"That's my business." My voice shook with rage, but suddenly my heart
smote me for such an unchristian spirit, and I added:

"I am with a fellow-preacher who had some rough usage in these parts,
and is staying at Ihornden till he recovers."

"Confound you! And look here, you Lyte, keep clear of Miss Shotover, and
keep clear of me. The sight of you makes me want to eat grass like a
sick cat."

He cantered past me, then turned in his saddle and cried:

"By the by, my engagement to Miss Shotover is no longer a secret. We are
to be married next month." He burst into a fit of triumphant laughter,
and left me confounded.

I stood gazing after him, gnawing my lips with anger. Surely God did not
expect me to bear this fellow's insults. In that moment of fury I half
thought of challenging him. At last, however, I grew ashamed of myself,
and as the afternoon was so soft and sweet, decided to ask John
Palehouse to come out and share it with me.

I reached John's room without encountering Enchmarsh. He had evidently
not heard of the visitor's arrival, and as I still felt angry and sore I
did not mention it. He took my arm, and we went out into the lanes
together, and strolled as far as Brakefields Farm. The summer swale was
dusking into night; the sun had set, the violet clouds were veiling the
red scar he had left behind him. A little cold breeze blew up from
Bettenham, and I advised John to go home.

We took a path through the fields, for it was the shortest way, and John
loved the fields. We paused at a hedge, and watched the moon rise out of
the purple mist, while the fold-star shone timidly over haunted Omenden.
Suddenly I heard voices on the other side of the hedge, and my heart
thrilled while Ruth Shotover spoke.

"Miss Shotover has also come out to admire the evening," said Palehouse.
Then his voice trailed off, and his face whitened, as Enchmarsh answered
Ruth.

"Who is that?" he asked sharply. "I know the voice."

"That is her betrothed, Squire Enchmarsh of Kitchenhour in Sussex."

"Enchmarsh!"

"Yes. Do you know the name?"

"No, but I know the voice. Let me look."

He pulled aside a rope of bryony, and peered through the hedge, then
drew back with white lips.

"You may know the man as Enchmarsh of Kitchenhour, but I know him as my
cousin, Harold Macaulay!"

I stared at him stupefied, and the blood was like ice in my veins with
horror.

"The scoundrel who ruined Dorothy Grimsdale?"

He nodded.

"Are you sure that the fellow is your cousin? As far as I know he has
never borne any name but Enchmarsh."

"As far as you know. But I am certain he is Macaulay" he looked again.
"Yes, I am too familiar with that dark face to mistake it. For some
reason or other he has changed his name. Woe betide him! What has
brought him here?"

His cheeks were hectic with excitement. He bit his lip, and one thin
hand wrung the other till the joints cracked.

"He arrived here an hour or two ago," I said, forcing myself to speak
calmly. "He has evidently come to visit Miss Shotover"--and I writhed.

"How long will he stay? If he stays I must go. I hate him! I hate him!
No, no, no! I must not hate him. The dear Lord prayed for His enemies.
But I can't pray. My tongue is dried up like pots-herd."

His teeth gritted together, and his limbs trembled. I had never seen him
so passionate.

"Come, dear John, do not fret yourself. You are far too weak and ill to
leave Ihornden and why should you go away? You need never meet him, and
he probably will not stay long. Take my arm, and let me help you back to
the house."

He grew suddenly calmer.

"I am forgetful of my calling. The Lord's preacher should not hate or
rail. God must forgive me. I am very weak and unprofitable, though there
are many years since my conversion."

He took my arm, and I led him back by the way we had come. He was silent
for a long time, then he said suddenly: "But how is it that he is
betrothed to Miss Shotover? I can't understand such a state of affairs."

I struggled with a tempest of bitter thoughts.

"Perhaps she does not know," I said faintly.

"That is impossible. Her brother was engaged to Kitty Grimsdale."

"What can we do to save her," I cried hopelessly.

"Perhaps my cousin has repented and been turned to the Lord. Surely she
could not have accepted him as he was."

"He's no more converted than the devil!"

"Then what can have induced her to accept him?"

"I can't say. Sometimes I think that she has sold herself to pay her
brother's debts."

"That is possible, but hardly probable. What is her attitude towards
Macaulay--Enchmarsh, I mean?"

"As far as I can see she hates him."

Palehouse shuddered.

"Poor girl, we must pray for her."

"We must do more than pray."

"What more can we do?"

"Speak, entreat, conjure----"

I stopped suddenly in my wild talk. Our eyes met, and there was in his a
strange look of interest and of pity.

I lay awake all that night in misery. My bed was soon hot and tumbled
with my tossing, and once or twice I rose and went to cool my forehead
at the window. The night was very black. I could feel no wind on my
face, but I heard it moaning and roaring in the trees. One word was
borne me on the wind's wild cry--one word formed the burden of the owls'
wail in Ihornden Park--"Ruth!"

How could I save her? She seemed beyond my reach--beyond the reach of
all save God. She had made her choice in the light of knowledge; she was
under no delusion, and believed no lie.

Towards morning I ceased to writhe and groan, but began to consider. I
lay still and pondered while the sky reddened and the birds woke, and
suddenly, as the first sun-ray kissed me healingly, came to a decision.

It was a bold resolve, but I was desperate for Ruth, and courage is
strong when born of desperation. I decided to go to her, tell her all I
knew, and entreat her to give up Enchmarsh.

She might rebuke me--and a rebuke from her would be terrible;
nevertheless, I would face it. I commended my resolution to God, rose,
and went to John Palehouse, that I might fortify myself by conversation
with him; for he was one of those whose mere presence consoles the
afflicted and strengthens the weak.



                              CHAPTER XIV

                OF THE METHODIST AND THE WOMAN HE LOVED

I did not have an opportunity for speaking to Ruth till evening. Then I
found her alone in one of the quaint old sitting-rooms in the west wing
of Ihornden Hall. The oaken walls were hung with prints and strips of
tapestry; the ceiling was ribbed with heavy beams, on which the
firelight danced ruddily; the polished floor reflected the legs of the
tables and chairs--old-fashioned, twisted, and carved. There were a
couple of candlesticks on the table, and a hundred candle-flames
flickered and throbbed in the mirror-like panels of the wall. The window
was only half curtained, and through the open space could be seen the
branches of the trees, wildly tossing against the moon, the stars
scudding in and out of the storm-clouds, and a silver shower of rain.

Ruth sat before the fire, some needlework on her lap, her hands folded
idly over it, while her eyes gazed into the embers. She started at my
footfall, and rose. She was all in white, but the firelight made ruddy
smears on her dress and a red carnation was fastened in her bosom. She
curtseyed stiffly, while her eyes questioned me. My tongue stuck, and I
moistened my lips again and again before I could speak. I dare say that
I ought to have approached my subject circumspectly, but I am a fool at
the little artifices of speech, and blundered out:

"Miss Shotover, forgive me if I seem rude, for I must speak, even if I
offend you."

"Lud! I shall never think you rude, Mr. Lyte. I know you too well for
that."

"Thank you. You give me courage."

I sat down opposite to her.

"You knew John Palehouse in Hertfordshire, I believe. He has just told
me the truth about Enchmarsh----"

"And Dorothy Grimsdale?"

"Yes. I felt sure that you knew it too."

"My brother was engaged to Katharine Grimsdale."

I leaned forward in my seat, and our eyes met. Mine were burning, hers
were full of tears.

"Miss Shotover, you will think me the most insolent dog on earth, but I
have come to you this evening to implore you to break off your
engagement----"

"Mr. Lyte! I----"

"I speak abruptly--it's my failing. I have no aptitude for mincing and
biting my words when my heart is full. Miss Shotover, Enchmarsh is a
villain--you know it--and you do not love him. No doubt you have a
reason for accepting him, but believe me, nothing can justify your
marriage with that beast. I--I have a sincere regard for you, and it
would break my heart to see you united to a man who would make your life
hell with his brutalities and intrigues. I speak to you as I would speak
to a sister I saw in danger and wished to save, so forgive me as you
would forgive a brother."

She sat absolutely rigid, her hands locked together, her cheeks and eyes
glowing as if a fever had stricken her.

"I had to speak," I cried desperately.

"I know--I know; but it's all useless."

"Useless, madam!"

"Useless. I--I can't unwrite the past."

"You can blot it out, and, oh, I entreat you, blot out that man's name
from your life."

"You don't know what you ask," she cried, covering her face.

I groaned.

"You've done your best," she continued more calmly; "but your best is
useless. I must marry Enchmarsh. I can't tell you why--but I must."

"Oh, don't drive me desperate. My life will be all hell if you commit
this act of madness. It's indeed madness, I assure you, to cast away in
your youth all hope and happiness, to break your own heart, to--to----O
God of Mercy! Who knows? It may drive you to self-murder!--damn your own
soul."

She did not speak, but two tears glittered on her face. I lost all
self-control, and, sinking on my knees before her, cried:

"Ruth! Ruth! For the sake of the God Who made us----"

She sprang up, but I caught her dress--it was hot and scorched by the
fire.

"I shall not let you go till you have promised to give up that
brute----"

"Humphrey--for God's sake."

"Hush, sweetheart, hush--don't cry. You are mine, Ruth. I love you! I
love you! Neither God nor Satan shall part us. Do not cry. The world has
treated us infernally, but we'll defy it together. We'll laugh at it,
Ruth--we'll laugh at the whole miserable farce that tried to keep us
apart, but failed, darling--failed! For I love you, Ruthie. You are all
mine, and I shall never let you go."

Then I started to my feet, caught her to my breast and devoured her thin
face with kisses, the mad, hungry kisses I had so often given her in
dreams.

That embrace lasted for an instant, which seemed eternity. She did not
struggle or scream, but lay against me as if lifeless, while the tears
poured down her face. All the love with which my heart was throbbing was
on my lips as I pressed them to hers, and in my eyes as my tears mingled
with hers. We forgot the past; we ceased to dread the future. Love
veiled all except the present--which was Paradise. We threw back our
heads and laughed aloud; then our lips pressed again and more
rapturously.

The spell broke. She sprang from me with a scream, and I threw myself on
the floor. The past flashed back to us with its misery; the future
loomed before us with its dread. The present was once more anguish.

We crouched opposite each other for several silent minutes. The clock
ticked on, the fire crackled and spluttered, and an owl was crying far
away in Ihornden Park. A dog howled, and I started, and, raising myself
on my elbow, gazed across at Ruth. She half sat, half huddled, on the
settle, her hands over her face, her hair, dishevelled with our embrace,
pouring over her shoulders. Now and then a great sob convulsed her.

"After all," I said at last, misery making me cruel, "I suppose you have
an excellent reason for all this."

She started, looked at me, and shuddered.

"I say you doubtless have a good reason for the blasting of two lives."

"Don't, Humphrey, don't!"

"Why shouldn't I speak? This is so--so extremely unpleasant that I
should hope there was some reason for it all."

"Humphrey, don't look at me in that way."

"But I--oh, sweetheart, tell me why we should suffer so."

I had risen and taken her cold hand.

"You're so vastly cruel. I can't tell you."

"You must tell me. I have a right to know. A poor fellow going to hell
has a right to know why he's sent there."

"I--I can't tell you. We shall be undone."

"Why should you be undone?"

"Because, because----Oh, Humphrey, have pity----"

Her eyes were so beseeching that I cursed my selfishness.

"Don't tell me, then, Ruthie."

"That's kind of you."

She sat silently for a time, her eyes big with thought. Then she said
suddenly:

"But I don't see, after all, why I shouldn't tell you You won't betray
me."

"My darling, I'd rather die in torture."

"Don't call me 'darling.' It's cruel--and it's wicked, too, Humphrey."

"I know it is, but, before God----"

"Hush hush! I'm going to tell you a story--my story. I can't bear to
have you misunderstand me, and when you've heard, you will see how it is
that I can't give up Enchmarsh, though it is true, as you have guessed,
that I--I don't love him."

"Oh, if you would only tell me, Ruth!"

"But you must promise--no, you must swear--not to breathe a word of what
I am going to say. Oh, pray don't think me distrustful, but this is a
matter of life and death. A day or two ago torture wouldn't have dragged
this confession from me, but to-night your soul and mine have met, and I
know that you would rather die than injure me. So I shall tell you my
life's secret; you will understand--and you will go."

"Go, Ruth?"

"Yes--go for ever."

"Oh, my God!"

"You must go--ah! but I forgot your poor sick friend; it might rouse
suspicion if you left Ihornden without him--but you must go, Humphrey,
or I must."

"You can't leave, and it is I who have brought this misery on our heads
by my uncontrolled passions. I can tell part of the truth to John
Palehouse--that I am in hopeless love--and easily find some excuse to
offer Sir Miles."

"It will be kind and generous of you to do so. You and I are best apart
after this."

"I shall go to-morrow."

"Thank you. And now for my story--and your oath."

She took a small Bible from her pocket and held it out to me.

"Swear on this."

She looked like a child in her simple white frock, with her soft, sweet
face and loose hair. The gravity of her eyes only enhanced the
babyishness of her dimples and the full curves of her lips. I felt for
her the devotion touched with awe, which one so often feels for a child.

I took the Bible in my hand, and said over the sacred words, "so help
me, God!" and she bowed her head with the simple reverence of a babe.

We drew our seats close together, so that she could put her lips to my
ear. Then came that conversation in whispers, which still haunts my
dreams.

"John Palehouse told you the story of Kitty Grimsdale and Robert
Macaulay?"

"Yes."

"He--he told you how Macaulay met his death?"

"Yes."

"How did he say it was?"

"He fell out of an upper window and was killed."

"That is all John Palehouse knows. I know that Macaulay did not fall out
of the window--he was pushed out."

"You mean that he was murdered?"

"Yes, by my brother."

It was as if my heart had stopped beating, and a dimness clouded my
eyes. I saw Ruth's face through a mist, and her voice seemed to come
from far off.

"My brother," she repeated, her eyes wide with dread.

"Poor, poor sweet Ruthie! Is this the secret you have been nursing all
this while?"

She began to cry hysterically.

"Yes my secret, my awful companion and bedfellow. Humphrey, I've told
you--no one but you. You--you won't betray me?"

"Ruth!" and I pointed to the Bible on her lap.

"Forgive me. I'm crazy with grief. I know that you will keep your oath.
You're honourable, and you love me. But I haven't yet told you how
Robert Macaulay's--m-murder led to my betrothal."

"Tell me, dear."

"It was like this. I was only a little boarding-school girl when my
brother lost Kitty Grimsdale. I had a vague idea of what had befallen
him, but, of course, he wouldn't allow a child to know much about his
misfortune. It was not till many years later that I heard the story--and
I may here tell you that I had never met either of the Macaulays.

"When I was sixteen I went to stay with a school friend, Milly Rogers,
in London. Two young men were constant visitors at the house. Their name
was Enchmarsh, and they had some fine property in Sussex. It was not
long before the elder began to pay me attentions, and one night, when we
were brushing our hair, Milly made me flush scarlet by whispering, 'I
vow Mr. Harold Enchmarsh will ask you to marry him, Ruthie.'

"A week or two after our first meeting he did just as Milly said, and
told me that he loved me madly. I know you'll think me vastly wicked and
foolish, but the idea of being engaged at sixteen--of showing my ring to
the young ladies of the school--together with his handsome face and
dashing manner, turned my head. I promised to be his wife. He begged me
to keep our affair secret for a few days. I loved secrets, and
consented. About a week later he came to me and suggested a run-away
match. This made me suspicious, and I asked him why he wanted an
elopement, considering that my brother would doubtless be only too
pleased at our marriage. He gave me an evasive answer, but my fears were
not to be so easily soothed, and at last he told me that his name wasn't
Enchmarsh. He and his brother had inherited some property from a
relation, and had been forced by the requirements of the will to adopt
his name. Their real name was Macaulay, and his brother was the wrecker
of Guy's happiness.

"I tell you that I'd never really loved him, and can you wonder that at
this revelation I came to my senses, and ordered him away? 'Do not let
me see your face again,' I cried; 'your brother ruined my brother's
life, and you sinned with him. You're a scoundrel and a deceiver. Do not
let me see your face again!'

"The next day I went back to Guy at Golden Parsonage, and told him all
that had happened. He said that I'd done right, and that his heart would
have broken if I'd married Enchmarsh. So I took comfort, and soon
afterwards I left school and came home to live with my dear Guy.

"We heard nothing of the Enchmarshes for about three months. Then a
sudden rumour flew through Harpendeane that they were in the village.
They were in their old house, which they hadn't yet managed to sell, and
when Guy heard how near his enemy was to him I saw a terrible look creep
into his eyes, and though I kissed him, and sat on his knee all the
evening, I couldn't drive it away. His manner became vastly strange; he
spoke wildly of the past and of all he had suffered, and he used some
dreadful words with regard to Robert Macaulay. I'm sure that he was half
mad with grief, and that he wasn't really responsible for what followed.

"I cried myself to sleep that night, and the next morning I rose early
and plucked him a salad for his breakfast. I wanted to show him, just by
a little thing like that, how much I loved him and wanted to make him
happy. Breakfast-time came, but he never appeared. I went up to his
room, but couldn't find him. I looked for him in the church--he's such a
devout man, and I thought he might have gone to ask God's pardon for his
anger of yesterday--but he was nowhere to be seen. I began to feel
vastly anxious, and questioned the villagers, and at last heard that a
little boy had noticed him leave Golden Parsonage early in the morning,
and take the road for Harpendeane.

"A terrible foreboding seized me. I ordered my horse, and rode after
him. I made inquiries from time to time on my way, and traced him to the
Macaulay's house. Then I felt sick with fear, and my legs shook under me
as I dismounted. There was an atmosphere of dread all round that house.
I trembled in every limb, and--I shall always swear it--so did my horse.

"I didn't knock, but went straight upstairs to a room which I knew the
brothers used as a study. For a moment I thought that there was blood on
the doorhandle, but it was only the sun streaming through a pane of
red-glass in the staircase window. I opened the door, then fell on my
knees--because of what I saw between me and the light.

"Two men were standing, and one lay on the floor with a dark stream
oozing from his hair. The men who stood were Harold Enchmarsh and my
brother, while it was Robert Enchmarsh who lay bleeding between them.

"The thud of my fall made them start and turn round, and my brother
threw his arms above his head, and staggered against the wall. Enchmarsh
came to me and lifted me to my feet. But I could neither speak nor walk;
I could only stand staring at that dreadful Thing on the floor.

"Then Guy spoke, but I couldn't answer, so he ran up to me, and fell at
my feet, and, clinging to my gown, cried: 'Little sister! little
sister!' and sobbed with his face against my knee. He told me how he had
gone hotfoot to the village with murder in his heart, how he had gone
into that awful house, into that very room; how he had found Robert
Enchmarsh leaning out of the window, and how Satan had entered into him.
He had stolen across the floor like a panther; he had seized his enemy,
they had struggled together; Enchmarsh had bitten him--he showed me the
bleeding place on his hand--he had thrown Enchmarsh out of the window.

"'Then as I turned round,' said my poor Guy, 'expecting to find the
devil standing behind me, I saw this man, Harold Enchmarsh, in the
doorway. I shall not tell you what passed between us. It's enough to say
that his servant is at this very moment saddling a horse to ride off to
S. Albans and fetch the constable. Ruthie, Ruthie, your brother will be
hanged!'

"Oh, Humphrey, I can't help crying when I think of the awful minutes
that followed--how I shuddered and cried and clung to Guy, praying God
to have mercy on us and strike us both dead. Enchmarsh stood by in
silence, and suddenly I threw myself on my knees before him and caught
his arm.

"'Pity me, pity me, and spare my brother! Oh, be merciful and spare us
both!'

"He didn't speak, but gazed down on me, then tried to move away, but I
clung to him, praying him to pity me for Christ's sake. He swore, and
struggled to shake me off, but I only gripped more fiercely, and he
dragged me half across the room before I fell at his feet.

"Then he spoke--for as I lay before him, I begged him to pity me for his
love's sake.

"'It's true that I love you.'

"'Then spare my brother for your love's sake!'

"He caught me up from the floor, and I could see the pulses beating in
his throat, so close was his face to mine, as he whispered:

"'Ruth, if you marry me, I'll spare your brother!'

"'No, no, no!' and I sprang from him, sick with horror.

"'I would rather die!' cried my brother, who had overheard the whisper.

"'As you please,' said Enchmarsh, biting his lips with vexation, for he
wanted me more than he wanted his revenge.

"At that moment there was a trample of hoofs in the yard. The servant
was starting for S. Albans. I saw Guy turn pale, and shiver from head to
foot, and my love for him overcame my hatred of Enchmarsh.

"'Stop him! stop him!' I shrieked. 'I will marry you!'

"'You shall not,' cried my brother. 'I'd rather die at the torture
stake!'

"'Stop him! stop him!' I could cry nothing else till Enchmarsh had
called to the servant to wait a few minutes. Then he turned to me.

"'Listen, both of you. Though this is the corpse of my only brother, I'm
willing to forgive his murderer if the murderer's sister will become my
wife. Ruth, during these past months I have loved you, and you only----'

"'He's a lying scoundrel!' interrupted Guy. 'Don't listen to him, Ruth.'

"'Hold your tongue, and let me settle this matter with your sister.'

"He took me by the hand, and led me aside.

"'I love you,' he said, 'and if you will marry me, your brother shall be
safe. I give you my solemn oath.'

"I gazed from one man to the other in hopeless misery. In spite of all
he said, I knew that Guy was really in mortal fear. He's always been
afraid of death, and his lips were white and his limbs were shaking. I
loved him more than my happiness--more than I hated Enchmarsh. You may
call me weak and wicked, but I couldn't help myself. I promised to marry
Enchmarsh if he would spare my brother. If at any time I went back from
my word he might go back from his. Guy protested vehemently at first,
and vowed that life would be hell if bought at such a price. But my
arguments overcame him.

"The servant waiting in the yard was told to unsaddle the horse. He was
privy to the murder, as he had seen Robert Enchmarsh fall, and had
helped carry his body upstairs. He's still alive, and has sworn to give
evidence against Guy if Enchmarsh should require it. He has sworn, also,
to keep silence until commanded to speak, and never shall weakness of
mine cause that command to be uttered.

"Our engagement was kept a secret. It would have filled the village with
dangerous gossip if it had been known in Harpendeane. A few months ago
we came to Ewehurst. The curate was dead, and Enchmarsh induced the
Rector to appoint Guy in his place. So my future husband has us what he
calls 'under his eye.' We didn't publish the betrothal even in Sussex.
Secrecy was still advisable, and Guy would never have agreed to our
compact if Enchmarsh hadn't promised that the marriage should not take
place for a year. The year is not over yet, but my lover thought it
right to declare our engagement a few weeks ago."

"Why?"

I interrupted her almost rudely, for I knew what she was about to say.

"Because--because you loved me, Humphrey."

She began to cry, and I bit my lip. There was a long pause. Then I said:

"Do you think Heaven approves this devil's bargain?"

"I can't say, and it doesn't matter to me. I shall carry it through--I
shall pay the uttermost farthing."

"But he is a scoundrel, a rake, a brute! You would be happier in hell
than at Kitchenhour."

"He's better than he used to be. He has had no--no intrigues since he
left Harpendeane."

"But he's a beast, a gambler, a swaggerer, a drunkard. What worse could
you have?"

"Oh, don't tempt me; it's all for my brother's sake."

"Your brother!" I cried, grinding my teeth. "Your brother is a coward,
and unworthy of your sacrifice."

"I love him," she sobbed piteously. "You can't understand. You never
loved a brother."

"No. But I am sure that Guy Shotover is unworthy of your love. Even
Enchmarsh despises him, though he gains by his cowardice. I know I'm
speaking brutally, but no brother with the slightest spark of manly
feeling would allow his sister to marry a drunken rake in order that he
might save his own skin."

"Guy withstood me obstinately at first. I had the greatest difficulty in
persuading him. Besides, suppose that he had refused my sacrifice and
had gone to his death, should I have been in a happier case? I should
have found myself alone in the world at sixteen, helpless, homeless, and
friendless. Enchmarsh would have taken advantage of my helplessness, and
I should have met a fate so horrible that I hardly dare think of it. Guy
knew all this, or he would never have given in to me."

Was an abject craven ever half so well defended? I looked at once
admiringly and despairingly into her brave eyes, while my bosom ached
with unshed tears.

"I told you my story," she continued, "that you might understand--and
go."

"You told me your story," I cried harshly, "that I might love you a
thousand times more than ever. Before this I loved you because you were
so beautiful and sweet, because you were--O God!--so child-like. Now I
love you because you are a thousand times better and braver than I. You
are no child to be pitied and protected. You are the noblest woman that
a man ever looked into the eyes of and called blessed."

I sank on one knee before her and kissed the hem of her little gown.

"Humphrey! Humphrey! don't kneel"--and she tugged frantically at my hand
to pull me to my feet. "Why won't you stand up? Why won't you leave me?
Don't you see that it's because I love you so much that I want you to
go? I love you too well to let you be an occasion for sin to me. You
can't help me except by your prayers. Go and pray for me."

I rose wearily to my feet. "I am going," I said, but I did not move.

"That br---- Enchmarsh told me you and he are
to be married soon," I muttered, after a pause.

"In a month. He's here at Ihornden till next week, when he goes back to
Kitchenhour."

"Do you see much of him?"

"Very little, as he practises pistol shooting nearly all day. Go, now,
Humphrey, please go."

"I am going. To-morrow I leave Ihornden. Oh, that I could help you,
dear! What a useless coward I feel! Why must I flee when I long to
fight?"

"Go and pray for me."

I went towards her and held out my hands. Her own hung heavy at her
side.

"Let me kiss you."

"No . . . for God's sake! . . ."

A terrible, haunting stillness pervaded the room. Both the candles
flickered out, and in the dusk of mingled firelight and moonlight our
hands met. Then I turned from her and went to the door mechanically. On
the threshold I paused and looked back.

She was standing by the window, her little hands clenched in anguish,
her hair falling over her face and sparing me the sight of her tears.



                               CHAPTER XV

                  OF THE METHODIST IN PLURENDEN QUARRY

I could not speak to John Palehouse that night, for when I left Ruth he
had already gone to bed. But I was resolved to have an interview with
him the next morning, and on the whole I was glad of a few hours'
meditation before I attempted to leave Ihornden. My heart was torn with
conflicting passions. I had promised to leave Ruth--but could I fulfil
my promise? It seemed dastardly to desert her in her hour of need, yet
my presence was a torture to her rather than a relief.

I went to my little room and lay down on the bed. I could not sleep, but
I did not wish to. I had grown accustomed to my malady of sleeplessness,
and though I realised that my health was surely failing under it, bore
it with resignation. Besides, it gave me more time for thought, and I
felt that this night at any rate would be better spent in thinking than
in sleeping.

What was I to do? I pondered a dozen mad schemes, but dismissed them one
and all as hopeless. I thought of appealing to Shotover, but entertained
the idea only for a moment. The curate would listen to me, certainly; he
would shed tears, perhaps, but fear of death would prevent the great
sacrifice that alone could save us. I thought of appealing to
Enchmarsh--the next moment I laughed out loud. Were my sufferings
crazing me that I should for an instant cherish such a scheme? Should I
appeal again to Ruth? Why, fool! She is the most obstinate of the three.

There they stood between me and all hope--the girl, the man, and the
coward. The coward was chained by his fear, the man by his hatred, the
girl by her love, and it would be difficult to say which was the fastest
bound.

There was no help for it, I must leave Ihornden. I must abandon Ruth to
her fate. No! That should never be. Ruth's fate was my fate, and I would
never leave her to it. There was still a month to elapse before her
marriage, and during that month I should not cease to labour for her
deliverance. But how could I labour, how could I deliver, shackled as I
was by my oath of secrecy? I gnashed my teeth in hopeless frenzy. Then
into my own mind came Ruth's own words: "Go and pray for me." I believed
in prayer and in the God Who hears it. Surely He would help me and Ruth.
I had realised by this time that nothing could save us but a
re-arrangement of circumstances, the happening of the unexpected. I
would trust God for that. I rose from my bed and knelt down beside it.
"O Thou that hearest prayer, to Thee shall all flesh come."

A sleepless night is not the best preparation for a troublous day. I
could eat no breakfast; my head ached, and my limbs throbbed with
fatigue. The morning was grey and cold, and a fierce wind blew from
Frittenden. Nevertheless, John Palehouse was eager for a walk in the
fields.

It was wonderful how his sweet temper and serenity smoothed the furrows
between my eye-brows, and softened the lines of rage and pain about my
mouth. He seemed in an unusually peaceful mood. He was even joyful, and
took my arm with a smile, and a quick upward look of happiness.

"Where shall we go this sweet morning?"

"Do you call this a sweet morning? I call it dull and unlike summer."

"The sky is grey, but it is beautiful as a woodpigeon's wing, and see
how an occasional flash of sunlight rests on the fields. What a
delicious wind is rustling up from the west, and the birds, it is long
since I heard them sing so merrily. Oh, it is a wonderful, wonderful
day."

His delight was infectious, and I felt a vague comfort in the thought
that though I lost Ruth for ever I should still have the green trees and
fields, and that even on my death-bed I should see the sky.

We went through Ihornden Park to Brakefields Farm, and struck out across
the meadows towards Heartsap. It was then I told Palehouse that I must
leave Ihornden because I loved Ruth Shotover.

He listened attentively, and said:

"I knew all this, lad."

"You knew it?"

"Yes. It was plainly written."

"There is one thing, then, that I have learned--a man can't hide his
love. I am in love, and Peter Winde, Mary Winde, and John Palehouse, all
find out my secret."

"It was not much of a secret. You are a strange lad. Where many a man
would tell his thoughts you lock them up in your heart, yet you can't
keep them out of your eyes they're written on your face, and he may run
who readeth them."

"I wish I was not in love. But no, I can't say that. Better to have
loved hopelessly than have never loved at all."

"My poor boy! I know what it is to love in vain. So you want to leave
Ihornden? You are right."

"But I must find some excuse to give Sir Miles."

"I have a good one for you. I have long been anxious about the poor folk
at Frittenden. There is a family at Whitsunden Farm the thought of which
kills sleep. Tell Sir Miles that I have asked you to continue your
journey, to preach at Frittenden, Horsemonden, Bethersden, and to wait
for me at Headcorn. I shall soon be able to follow you."

"I shall wait for you at Bethersden," I said. I was resolved not to go
further than that from Ruth.

"As you will, lad; but why not at Headcorn?"

"I hope that you will join me before I have time to reach Headcorn."

"When do you start?"

"This afternoon."

"Won't Sir Miles think that rather sudden?"

"I don't care if he does. I must go."

"Perhaps it would be best. I wish that I could go with you;" and he
sighed.

"Does your cousin know you are here?"

"He must. But we never see each other, which is fortunate, for if we did
I could not stay at Ihornden. You see, Humphrey, that I am very weak and
unworthy. Do you still insist on leaving me this afternoon?"

"I'm afraid I must."

"And I do wrong in trying to keep you back. Go, and God bless you. Oh,
lad, you will often be downcast and weary of your groaning, but believe
the words of one who has suffered--there is joy in the world, even for a
broken heart."

We had entered a chalk quarry in the corner of a high meadow known as
Plurenden. The wind swept it, rumpled our hair over our brows, and
danced the poppies on the chalkstone cliffs. The sun burst suddenly
through a cloud rift, and John stood in the full glare of it, his hands
clasped over mine.

"Yes, lad, joy for the broken heart. God is good, and the earth is
green; life is wonderful, and death is sweet. The girl you love is in
stronger, tenderer hands than yours, and though you be parted like two
meadow streams, remember that all waters mingle in the sea and all lives
touch in eternity. 'Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither
shall fruit be in the vines, the labour of the olive shall fail, and the
fields shall yield no meat; the flocks shall be cut off from the fold
and there shall be no herd in the stalls, yet will I rejoice in the
Lord; I will joy in the God of my salvation.'"

His hands closed more tensely over mine, and his eyes looked into mine,
full of love and hope and joyousness. Then a cloud veiled the sun, and a
wave of darkness rushed over the fields. I heard a footstep behind me,
and a voice I knew and hated well.

"Good morning, my handsome cousin! This meeting is as opportune as it is
unexpected."

John turned very pale. Enchmarsh stood with his arms folded, his face
flushed, his eyes dangerously bright. In his hand he carried a pistol,
well grimed with recent use.

"I've been shooting down in Ihornden Park, but it's as hot as hell in
the valley, so I took some wine and came up here to cool myself."

He had evidently been drinking heavily, so I pulled John's sleeve, and
we moved off.

"Don't leave so hurriedly. Stay and speak to me, coz. To think that you
and I should have spent forty-eight hours under the same roof, and never
have met, though we love each other so dearly. But you have been in the
wars, my swashbuckling Methodist, and have tasted a little of the
stoning of Stephen."

"Let me pass," said John. "It is not right or safe"--the outraged man in
him triumphed over the preacher--"that you and I should speak together."

"Not right? Not safe? Shall you kill me, then, my valiant singer of
psalms? Oh, a happy life you would have led my Dolly! She was no
Methodist."

Palehouse was silent, and this maddened Enchmarsh, enflamed with wine.

"You won't speak? Then I'll tell you a piece of news. Dolly vowed that
she was happier as my mistress than she ever could have been as your
wife. There, does that warm your fish's blood?"

"The Lord rebuke you!" said John Palehouse; and I wondered at his
calmness, till I saw the mark of his teeth on his nether lip.

"No; Dolly was never made for virtue, nor virtue for Dolly," resumed
Enchmarsh; "so they were best apart."

I could restrain my fury no longer, and would have struck the brute
down, but John Palehouse seized my arm.

"Do not strike him--he is made in God's image."

Enchmarsh sneered, but the next moment drew back uneasily, for John
strode up to him and grasped his wrist.

"Silence, wretch! You have slandered the woman I loved, that I still
love, though she died a sinner. You seduced her and betrayed her, and
now you smear her name with the filth that should be daubed on yours
before the whole world. It was through you that she took the first step
in sin, which led her to the bottomless pit. Before you decoyed her she
was pure as snow. The Lord rebuke you."

His mouth quivered with righteous fury; he still held Enchmarsh by the
wrist. Then he dropped his hand and his proud head. The squire stood
motionless, panting with rage; suddenly his eyes flashed. He seized John
Palehouse by the shoulders, and shook him as a dog shakes a coney; then
he struck him furiously with the butt of his pistol.

John fell to the ground without groan or cry. His face was white, his
lips were a little parted; and as I gazed at him, petrified, I saw the
blood rush under the skin of his temple, and form a little grey bruise
there.

"My God!" I cried, and fell on my knees beside him. I thought him only
stunned, but an impulse bade me put my hand on his heart. There was no
throb.

I felt no grief--it was all so sudden and like a dream--but something
seemed to snap in my breast and freeze my eyes. I lifted John's head on
to my knee, and gazed down at his peaceful face. Then I raised my eyes
to Enchmarsh.

"You are a murderer!"

He did not answer. His nerveless hand had dropped the pistol, his lips
trembled, and his eyes were fixed on the dead man's face. For a moment
or two we remained silent, gazing at the marble features and limp,
lifeless form. His eyes were wide open, and stared up at us, so I closed
them gently.

My movement startled Enchmarsh out of the trance into which he had
fallen. I saw a look of terror leap into his eyes, and the next instant
he would have rushed from the place, had I not caught him round the legs
and held him like a vice. He writhed and struggled, and fell on the
ground beside me. Over and over we rolled together, silent except for
our panting. Enchmarsh fought like a wild beast, but, though by no means
so powerful as he, I was more agile, and contrived to keep uppermost in
the struggle. At last I managed to pin him beneath me, and he lay
helpless, with my knee on his chest and my hands on his throat.

"This shall be your last crime, you blackguard! You have betrayed the
innocent and oppressed the helpless, and no man gave you your reward.
But your career is ended with the murder of John Palehouse."

"Take your hands off my throat!" he panted. "You're choking me."

"I shall keep my hands where they are till I see you in custody. There
are some labourers working in Coarsebarn field. I shall shout for them,
and if you move an inch I'll throttle you."

"Shout, then, you beast! But, remember--if you have me arrested, I'll
have Guy Shotover hanged. I have power to hang him----"

"I know that."

"How do you know?"

"Never mind how I know--and you may hang Shotover as high as Haman for
all I care. He's nothing to me."

I paused a moment after I had said this, for I remembered that, though
Shotover was nothing to me, he was the brother of the girl who was all
things to me, and into my mind came her words: "I loved Guy more than my
happiness--more than I hated Enchmarsh." I should show myself unworthy
of Ruth if I sacrificed her brother to my revenge. My dearest friend had
been brutally murdered, but I had no right to demand vengeance at such a
price. Into Guy's grave would go his sister's youth, hope, and
happiness. She had given up all that makes life sweet in order to spare
him the doom to which I, who swore I loved her, was about to send him to
gratify my ungodlike passions.

I meditated with my hands on Enchmarsh's throat, while the wind sang in
the grass, and suddenly I remembered the bargain my enemy had made with
Ruth over Robert Enchmarsh's body at Harpendeane, and I realised that if
I followed his example, it was in my power to free her from this
scoundrel she hated, and yet spare her another drop in the cup which was
already overbrimming with tears.

"Listen, you blackguard. I said that Shotover was nothing to me, but
for his sister's sake he must not be allowed to perish. If you set Ruth
Shotover free from her engagement and at the same time hold your tongue
as to the curate's affair, I'll keep silence as to what you did for John
Palehouse."

"Ugh-gh--you're choking me----"

"Nonsense. Do you accept my offer?"

"I'm damned if I give up Ruth for you to marry her."

"You'll have to give her up, anyhow. It's only a question of whether you
and Shotover go scot-free, or whether you both hang."

"It's a devil's bargain!" He writhed, and the grip of my hands tightened
on his windpipe. He was soon lying quiet as a lamb.

"You'd better not struggle," I said grimly. "Come, give me a straight
answer. Will you lose Ruth Shotover and your life together, while
enjoying your revenge, or will you lose her and live--without revenge?"

"I suppose life's better worth having than vengeance," he said sulkily.

"That's for you to decide and be quick about it."

"Then I'll live and hold my tongue; and now, for God's sake, take your
hands off my throat."

"We must settle matters more definitely first."

"Oh, anything you like--I'll swear--Ugh-gh----"

"I want something more trustworthy than your oath. You shall write out a
full confession of your crime."

"Yes--at Ihoraden."

"No--here."

"Why not at Ihornden?" The fellow knew that he could easily give me the
slip once we were out of the quarry.

"Because I intend to have it here."

"But I've not even a piece of paper."

"That's a lie. You have a notebook in your pocket;" and I pulled it
out. "I can lend you a pencil."

"I can't write it lying on my back, while you're half strangling me, you
beast!"

"Sit up, then."

I relaxed the grip of my hands and the pressure of my knee sufficiently
to allow him to raise himself.

"There, you can write now, and, remember, I'll throttle the life out of
you if you move an inch."

He began to write in the notebook at my dictation:

"I, Harold Enchmarsh----"

I had seen his handwriting on several occasions, and knew that the
round, bold letters he was forming were merely an attempt to make the
document valueless. I pressed my fingers on his windpipe, and the next
moment he had dropped the pencil and paper, and was writhing between my
knees.

"You scoundrel! I'm not the fool you think me. Write in your usual
hand--I know it well--or I'll shout for help, and deliver you over to
justice, come what may."

He sat up, looking very white and ill, and wrote, his hands trembling
because of the grip of mine:

"I, Harold Enchmarsh, hereby declare that I murdered my cousin, John
Palehouse, by striking him on the temple with a pistol in Plurenden
Quarry, on the fourteenth of July, 1799."

I bade him tear out the leaf; then I took my hands from his throat,
leaving blue finger-marks on the skin, and thrust the paper into my
pocket.

"You can go now."

"What shall you do with that?" he said hoarsely, pointing to John
Palehouse.

I considered.

"I can account for his death in a fall from the top of the quarry, and
for the bruise on his forehead in one of the stones scattered round
about----"

I ceased speaking suddenly, for the grief which had been waiting outside
my heart till rage had left it now stole in, and choked my voice.
Enchmarsh stood by me in silence, his hands clasped round his throat. As
I looked at him, I was seized with an unholy joy that I had punished the
villain so well.

"What are you going to do?" he asked faintly.

"I shall run to Coarsebarn Farm and tell the folk that my friend had had
a fall into Plurenden Quarry, and is dead. As for you, you had better be
off at once"--it was my great ambition to get the brute away. "On your
first opportunity release Ruth Shotover from her engagement, and
remember that if you move a finger against her or her brother, I produce
my evidence--and many a man has been hanged on less."

"Ruth Shotover"--he stood repeating the name and biting his nails--"Ruth
Shotover--Ruth Enchmarsh--Ruth Lyte. Oh, damn you!"

"Be off!" I cried. "Remember that I carry your death."

He threw me a fierce glance of hatred; then he looked towards the dead
man, turned very white, and hurried away in a sweat.

I went to John Palehouse, and stooped over him. He lay as he had often
slept--one arm across his breast, the other stretched out among the
grass. Surely he rested well.



                              CHAPTER XVI

                   OF THE METHODIST IN A SORE STRAIT

I sat for about a quarter of an hour in Plurenden Quarry, while the wind
waved the poppies on the cliffs. At last I rose and went softly from the
place, as if I feared to wake John Palehouse.

I shudder to think how terrible my grief would have been had not joy
come to me hand in hand with my sorrow. In John's death I suffered my
first bereavement, and to those who remember the anguish of their first
bereavement I need say no more. But his death opened the gate of
happiness to two lives against which it had long been barred.

Once in the lane outside the meadow, I began to run. The oast-houses of
Coarsebarn Farm rose in front of me above the hanger of Heartsap Hill. I
hoped--indeed, I prayed--that I might be able to utter my lie with firm
lips; for on that lie Ruth's happiness depended. If the murder were
discovered, and Enchmarsh proved to be the murderer, then Guy Shotover
would perish, and his sister's heart be broken. But if all were kept
secret and John Palehouse believed to have met his death through a fall
into Plurenden Quarry, then--oh, blessed thought! it sent the blood to
my cheeks and the tears to my eyes.

Suddenly, as I ran, I became aware of footsteps following me, and of
voices calling me to stop. I turned my head. The little lane was steep
and rough. I stumbled in a rut, and fell prone. The next minute a pair
of hands were on my shoulders, pinning me to the ground, while my legs
were seized and held forcibly, and a voice I seemed to have heard before
exclaimed:

"Now we have you, my fine fellow!"

What with the violence of my fall and the unexpectedness of all that had
happened, I lay for a second or two utterly bewildered, without power of
speech. At last, however, I managed to turn my head, and looked,
dumbfounded, into the face of Curate Kitson.

"What--what the devil is this?" I stammered.

"Yes, indeed. What--what the devil is it?" mocked Kitson.

"Will you let me get up?"

"All in good time. Leave go his legs, Pitcher; he had better stand. He
can't very well speak with his mouth full of dust."

The grip on my ankles was relaxed, and I rose painfully to my feet.
Kitson stood before me, with two farm labourers. One of these, as soon
as I was upright, pinned my arms to my sides. I was evidently regarded
as a dangerous subject.

"Will you do me the favour of explaining all this?" I cried hotly.

"Oh, certainly," drawled Kitson. "We have just discovered the corpse of
your fellow-Ranter Palehouse, in Plurenden Quarry."

"He fell over the edge . . . he is dead. . . . I'm on my way to
Coarsebarn Farm for help."

"Yes, you seemed in a demned hurry."

"I suppose you think I murdered him?" I cried angrily, for by this time
I had guessed the reason of their violence.

"Well, such an idea did cross our minds, I must confess."

"It's a lie! My friend fell into the quarry, as I've told you, and
dashed his head against a stone."

My lips were accustomed to speak the truth, and stammered horribly over
the lie. Kitson grinned.

"I should be quite ready to believe you if it were not for this," and he
took a pistol out of his pocket.

I turned pale. I had forgotten the pistol, and must have left it on the
ground beside John Palehouse, fool that I was--oh, thrice a fool! Thanks
to my idiocy, everything would be discovered. The pistol would be
recognised as Enchmarsh's; he would be arrested, Shotover hanged, and
Ruth's heart broken--oh, fool, fool! A hundred times a fool.

Suddenly I started, and looked closer; then my jaw dropped, and the
sweat beaded out on my forehead. The pistol was MINE.

How had it come into Enchmarsh's hands? Was it indeed my pistol that had
killed John Palehouse? I stood absolutely dumbfounded, but saw that I
must rise to the occasion. My first impulse was to betray Enchmarsh, but
I thought of the consequences, and refrained. There was surely some
other way of clearing myself of this hateful charge. If I did not think
of it now I should think of it later. I had no right to wreck Ruth's
happiness simply because I was in danger.

"Well," drawled Kitson, "how much paler, and how much redder, and how
much more sweat?"

I saw that my emotion was damning me, so fought it down.

"Well," continued the curate, "how do you account for the pistol?"

"I must have dropped it."

"Yes--and fractured the butt."

He held out the pistol and showed me a deep crack across the butt. With
such force must Enchmarsh have struck John Palehouse.

"Do you still deny that you are a murderer?"

"I do."

"Perhaps you deny that this is your pistol?"

"No, I don't deny that." Such a course would have been useless, as my
initials were engraved on the butt, and every one at Ihornden knew the
weapon to be mine.

"It is just as well not to tell more lies than you can help. We won't
keep you here any longer. Your reverence shall see the inside of a jail
for once in your saintly life. But we must have a warrant of commitment
first. 'Let all things be done decently and in order,' as the Apostle
says. So off with you to Sir Miles Wychellow."

I was quite ready, for I felt sure that I should easily be able to clear
myself before the kind magistrate, who knew of my love for John
Palehouse and the good character I had hitherto borne.

The two farm men instantly gripped me by the shoulders and marched me up
Heartsap Hill. They were great rough fellows, and seemed to relish their
work. They had doubtless been among the rioters on Biddenden Common, and
rejoiced to wreak their spite on the hated Methodist. The curate walked
beside us, his lip curling slightly. He, too, delighted in the hour of
revenge.

I held my head high, for I felt confident. In fact, the only thing that
perplexed me was--how had Enchmarsh come by my pistol? Had he been using
it in mistake for his own? Had his own been damaged, and had he taken
mine, rather than ask a favour of me? Or--desperate thought!--had he
intended to murder John Palehouse, and deliberately made use of my
pistol, so that he might avert suspicion from himself and fix it on me,
and thus kill two birds with one stone--his cousin and his rival?

We had reached Ihornden before I could answer any of those questions.
The servant who opened the door fell back in surprise at the sight of my
escort, but neither I nor Kitson vouchsafed any explanation. The curate
asked for Sir Miles, and on being told that he was out, requested to be
shown a room where he and his prisoner--a slight accent on the word
"prisoner," which made the servant stare yet more blankly--could await
his return. We were ushered into a small room looking out on the
terrace. Kitson and the two labouring men sat at the table, while I
flung myself on a bench near the window.

My spirits were somewhat dashed by an hour's waiting--in fact, they soon
fell very low indeed--for after some thought, I came to the conclusion
that I should not find it so easy to clear myself as I had imagined. I
was resolved not to speak a word that might lead to Guy Shotover's
arrest, and it seemed as if only by such word I could be saved. I spent
the hour that followed in imaginary conversations with Squire Wychellow,
every one of which ended in my betraying Enchmarsh--and with him
Shotover. My only safe course seemed to be to hold my tongue.

The sky grew greyer, and gusts of rain beat against the windows. A dog
howled to the accompaniment of the wind, and every now and then a door
slammed in a distant part of the house. Kitson and my guards talked in
low voices, as if cowed by the uncanniness of the day. A cart had been
sent to fetch the body of John Palehouse, and the men who drove it had
gone forth pale and wide-eyed, starting at every sound. Horror was in
the wind and in the house. A gust blew the leaves off the trees as if
autumn had come, and they danced on the terrace a dance of death.

At last the horrible wind brought us the sound of coach-wheels, and Sir
Miles's coach rolled up to the door. From the window I could see Lady
Wychellow dismount, followed by her husband, Guy Shotover, and Ruth.

Kitson rose, and went to meet the magistrate in the hall. I still gazed
out of the window, for Ruth was still standing where I could see her.

Sir Miles entered in great perturbation, rubbing his hands, as was his
habit when excited.

"What the devil is all this?" he cried. "Surely there's some mistake!"

I was at a loss what to say, so fixed my eyes on the floor, and answered
him not a word.

Sir Miles looked mystified.

"Give your evidence," he said abruptly, turning to Kitson.

The curate gave his evidence, which was confirmed by the working men
Pitcher and Green.

"Do you wish to contradict anything these gentlemen have said?"

"No."

"You confess that you killed Palehouse?"

"No!" I cried sharply, lifting my head.

Sir Miles knit his brows.

"Begad, Mr. Kitson! your evidence is clear enough, but I'm loth to
disbelieve this young man."

"Why, he's as big a liar as Ananias!" cried the curate, roused by hatred
out of his usual state of insolent calm. "He has already told us several
lies. You don't deny that, do you?"--turning to me.

"No."

Sir Miles glanced at me impatiently.

"Begad, sir! I'm sick of your 'no.' What has come over you?"

My heart was too full for speech, so I only stared at the ground. The
squire shrugged his shoulders.

"He looks hang-dog enough. But when I first met him he was risking his
life and limb to save the man you say he has just murdered. He and
Palehouse loved each other like brothers----"

"No doubt it was a sudden quarrel. These Ranters are always as
hot-tempered as Old Harry--and who killed Palehouse if not this fellah?"

"Perhaps he fell from the top of the quarry?"

Kitson grinned. "Mr. Lyte did not make that statement
with--er--sufficient calmness for me to believe it. Besides, what of the
pistol?"

"Is this pistol yours, young man?"

"Yes, Sir Miles."

The squire shook his head.

"I've sent for a doctor from Cranbrook to examine the body; and, of
course, there will be an inquest, when we shall be told whether the
bruise on Palehouse's forehead has anything to do with Mr. Lyte's
pistol. In the meantime----"

"He must go to jail," drawled the curate, who evidently enjoyed heaping
every insult on me.

Sir Miles flushed.

"I fear so. The charge is serious. Young man, I am oth to commit you,
but you leave me no choice."

He stood for a moment in thought. "Come, Sir Miles, the warrant," said
Kitson sweetly.

Swearing under his breath, the squire moved slowly towards his
writing-table. The warrant was made out, and I was locked into an attic
till the constable should arrive from Biddenden to take me in charge.

Here I had ample time for reflection--the constable was a leisurely
man--and I cannot say that the hours passed pleasantly. Hitherto I had
been racking my brains for some way of clearing myself without involving
Enchmarsh. I had realised that this would be difficult, but now I saw
that it would be impossible. I could not establish my innocence without
sending Enchmarsh--and with him, Guy Shotover--to the gallows.

I saw that even now it would be comparatively easy to put matters
straight. Enchmarsh must be somewhere in the house, the marks of my
fingers must still be on his throat, no one would question the
authenticity of the confession in my pocket, and the presence of my
pistol in Plurenden Quarry could no doubt be satisfactorily explained. I
could certainly save myself if I pleased--but ought I to do so?

The question rose stern and baffling, and I trembled before it.
Shotover's arrest would certainly follow my betrayal of Enchmarsh. I
thought of Ruth's face as I had last seen it, her eyes full of pleading,
her lips quivering with unselfish love. She had given up all that makes
life worth living to save her brother. Had I the cruelty to make her
sacrifice of none effect?

"Ah, but it is because I love her!" I cried in answer to my own
thoughts. "Surely she had rather lose her brother than lose me--surely
she loves me more than that abject coward."

"True," replied the inward voice; "doubtless she loves you more, but she
has loved you all these past weeks and yet she has sacrificed you to her
brother. She could any day have banished Enchmarsh and have given
herself to you, but she would not, because to do so would have meant the
death of her brother, who loved life."

"She naturally shrank from uttering his death-sentence with her own
lips, but if he perished through words of mine----"

"She would despise you for ever."

"But I should be dooming him only indirectly. He would owe his death to
Enchmarsh----"

"And to you. If you speak you speak with the full knowledge that your
words will hang him."

I groaned. A year ago I should have been glad to die. But this day
happiness, love, and heart's desire had been put within my reach, and it
was cruel to have them snatched from me. Oh, I must speak, I must live,
come what may!

Then I pictured my meeting with Ruth after I had spoken. She would look
at me with sad, reproachful eyes.

"Dear," I should cry, "I did it all for your happiness."

And she would answer kindly, perhaps, but sadly:

"No doubt you did it for the best, but that makes it no less hard for me
to lose my brother--and my confidence in my lover."

I sat in silence, my head sunk on my breast, my hands clasped between my
knees. Whatever course I adopted, Ruth was bound to suffer. The question
I had to consider was--which would cause her least misery? Surely she
would rather lose her brother. But not through me, for that way she lost
me too. If I betrayed Shotover I could never be to Ruth what I had been
before. All her faith in me, her trust, her reverence, would be gone.

Then there were other considerations. I had told Enchmarsh that Guy
Shotover was nothing to me, but now I realised that at the bottom of my
heart lurked a sort of sneaking affection for the fellow. It was true
that his weakness and cowardice stood between me and all hope, but I
could not forget that he had befriended me when I was friendless, and
taken me into his house, fed me, washed my feet with his own hands, and
had made me sleep in his own bed. Besides, I could not deny that the man
was lovable, that he was gentle, simple-hearted, and devoted to holy
things. But the chief point in his favour was that he was my benefactor.
One had scruples about sending one's benefactor to jail.

So love and honour bade me be silent, to suffer death rather than speak.
After all, the evidence against me being purely circumstantial, it was
possible that the county magistrates might not think it safe to give a
petty jury the chance of convicting me.

But if I betrayed Shotover I sent him to certain death and what would
become of Ruth when he was hanged? I should be too poor to marry her for
years to come, and she had no relations living. Doubtless the Wychellows
would care for her; nevertheless, her lot would be a hard one. I had no
right to condemn her to it.

No. I must be silent. I saw my way plainly--the way of silence. Love and
honour tied my tongue, bade me suffer, and, if need be, die. So I fell
on my knees and commended my resolution to God, asking Him to help me,
who, without Him, was helpless.

After that I felt calmer, and sat listening to the sweet songs of the
birds, till a step outside my prison made me start. The next moment the
door was unlocked, and Sir Miles Wychellow came in.

"The doctor has arrived from Cranbrook," he said abruptly. "He has
examined Palehouse and he has examined your pistol, and swears that the
death of one is due to a blow from t'other."

There was dead silence. I had risen, and stood shuffling my feet
uneasily. Sir Miles laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Come, my lad," he said, very kindly, "I'm sure you can explain all this
if you choose. Make a clean breast of it. Did you kill Palehouse?"

"No."

"But, young man, there's little use in saying 'no.' You must give us
facts."

He waited for a moment, then, as I remained silent, continued: "Did you
and Palehouse meet anyone near Plurenden?"

"No."

"You and he were alone together the whole of your walk?"

"Yes."

"That's bad! If Palehouse and you were alone the whole morning, why----"
he hesitated.

"Yes," I replied, "the conclusion is natural enough."

"I can't understand you," said Sir Miles; "you are either a fool or a
liar."

I was both, but I would not tell him so.

"Come, lad, why so proud and silent? If you're guilty, confess. Perhaps
there are extenuating circumstances."

His voice was so gentle, and he patted my shoulder so kindly that I was
cut to the heart, and could not answer him.

"You won't answer me? Well, so be it," and he went off, shaking his
head.

I paced miserably up and down the room, now and then singing a verse of
"Jesu, Lover of my Soul" to comfort my fainting heart. Rain began to
fall, and the clouds rolled back from the face of the sun, so that an
angry copper glare streamed upon the rain. The west was bloody and
ragged as if the sun were setting in wrath. In about half an hour my
prison door opened, and Sir Miles came back to tell me that the
constable had arrived from Biddenden, and would take me off to the
village lock-up.

I followed the magistrate to the hall, where the constable was waiting
with gyves. I winced at the sight of these, but schooled myself to
submission and held out my hands. I noticed that Guy Shotover was
skulking at the further end of the hall. When we were about to leave the
house, he came forward and whispered a few words to Sir Miles.

"Egad! I had forgotten," said the baronet. "Wait a moment, my man, the
prisoner has had no food since morning."

I had been so highly wrought that I had not noticed how hungry I was. My
needs had occurred to no one but Guy, and his solicitude was
characteristic of him. The constable made no objection to waiting while
I had some supper. I ate in silence, and had soon finished. Guy shook
hands with me, and asked if I had any money. I told him that I had
enough, and he begged me to borrow of him if ever I should be in need.

The sun was sinking fast when we left the house, and went down the
avenue. We were nearly at the gate when a white figure suddenly flashed
into the copper glare of the sunset. It was Ruth. I do not know whether
she was out on purpose to see me, or whether I had come upon her
unawares. She did not speak, but drew aside to let us pass, while she
stared in horror at my gyves. Her eyes were red with crying, and the
sight of her was as hot iron on a raw wound. I looked into her face and
tried to speak, but the words froze on my tongue. Did she believe me
guilty or innocent? I longed to ask her, but had not the courage.

In a quarter of an hour we reached Biddenden, and I spent the tramp in
racking my brains for a safe way of disposing of Enchmarsh's confession,
for I knew that as soon as I reached the lock-up I should be searched.
The paper was in the breast-pocket of my coat, and I wondered if I could
slip it into a safer place without the constable noticing me. He did not
seem a very observant fellow. He walked beside me half asleep, his eyes
nearly shut.

"Wot yer doing, young man?" he cried suddenly.

"Tying my shoe-lace," I replied, as I slipped Enchmarsh's confession
from my pocket into my stocking.

"I can't have no loitering, come on!"

I obeyed, well satisfied; and a few minutes later we entered Biddenden.
The men had not yet come back from the fields, and the street was
deserted, save for a few women and children who stared curiously at me
and whispered among themselves. I was marched past the church and the
inn to the village lock-up--a tiny dark cell, the floor rough and dirty,
the walls trickling with damp.

I had not expected a very thorough search, and the constable did little
more than bid me turn out my pockets. Having satisfied himself as to
their contents, he went off, locking the door. I groped my way to a
bench set against the wall, which was the only furniture the place
contained, and gave myself up to thought. I decided to let Enchmarsh's
confession stay where it was for the present, as I might be searched
again.

The stars came out, and the hush of night fell on all things, but I was
too sorrowful to sleep. My heart was full of bitter longing for John
Palehouse. I had hitherto been too much engrossed in my difficulties to
pine for him; but now that the questions which had tormented me were
answered, now that I had taken the roughest of the two roads before
which I had stood hesitating, my heart was open to grief and craving,
and I brooded miserably. It was terrible to think that all men believed
I had killed him, my dearest friend, for whom I would have willingly
laid down my life. To be charged with such a crime was only a degree
less awful than to have committed it.

Day dawned after what seemed an eternity, and about nine o'clock the
constable appeared with a bowl of gruel for my breakfast, and told me
that the inquest had already taken place, and that a verdict of "wilful
murder" had been brought against me. At noon I appeared before the local
magistrates, who, after hearing the detailed and conclusive evidence of
Kitson, Pitcher, and Green, committed me for trial at the Maidstone
Assizes. I was taken back to my dirty little cell, and there I sat, hot
and depressed, till at twilight the bolt was shot back and the
constable, muffled in many wraps, bade me tumble up, for I was to go to
Maidstone by the night coach.

The fresh air was sweet after the stuffiness of my prison. It fanned my
hot cheeks gratefully; it soothed me into a happier frame of mind.

We reached the cross-roads near Three Chimneys after a few minutes'
walk. Here we were to wait till the Maidstone coach went by. The sun had
set, and the sky was blue-grey, except for dark masses of cloud, and for
a faint glow of red and orange in the west. It had been raining, and the
hedges, fields, and trees were wet, and great pools shone on the road in
the twilight. The fold star hung above Chittenden, and the wind crept
with a moaning whisper over the fields, and rustled the grasses by the
wayside. Every now and then a burst of summer lightning showed me the
meadows and spinneys lying in their night stillness, showed me High Tilt
and Hareplain, and the roofs of Castwisell, and all the dear places
where John Palehouse and I had roamed together. I thought of my friend
lying silent and peaceful at Ihornden Hall, his white hands folded on
his breast; and the thought no longer tortured, but soothed me. "They
shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more." His sufferings were
over, the chastening hand was lifted from his back and sides, the cup of
deadly wine was withdrawn from his lips. No longer would he sorrow for
the beautiful unworthy woman he had loved, no longer would he travail in
prayers and tears for the thankless souls of men, no longer would he
starve, and tramp, and toil. "Yea, saith the Spirit, for they rest from
their labours."

A rumble of wheels drew near, and at last the coach rolled into view,
and pulled up at a signal from the constable. The outside was crowded,
so we were forced to go inside, which I hated, for the summer night was
glorious, hot and still, and the interior of the coach was stuffy, and
full of noise and smell. Moreover, my fellow-passengers had little
relish for travelling with a man who wore gyves on his wrists; and
though the constable assured her that I was "perfectly tractable,
madam," one old lady removed herself and her belongings to the further
end of the coach, and declared that she would not be able to sleep a
wink all night, for she was sure that I should murder her if ever she
closed an eye.

I sat in a kind of stupor, while the coach lurched and jolted over ruts.
A lamp hanging from the roof swung with every roll and cast weird
shadows on the faces of my companions. Near Headcorn I fell asleep, and
dreamed a strange, jumbled dream about Ihornden and Shoyswell, Ruth
Shotover, Mary Winde, and John Palehouse. Then I dreamed that I was
dead, and stood as a disembodied spirit in Shoyswell fold. I woke with a
shudder. The wheels were jolting over cobbles, and houses reared their
gables against a sky yellow with moonlight. We had reached Maidstone.

The coach drew up at the Star Inn, and the constable, swearing that he
had never been so thirsty in his life, led me into the bar. He was a
kindly fellow, and offered to stand me a glass of ale, for which I was
grateful, as both my soul and body were faint enough.

In spite of the late hour the bar was crowded to overflowing. I sat in
an obscure corner, the constable's burly figure shutting out the rest of
the company, whose talk, songs, and laughter came to me as in a dream. I
had soon finished my ale, and leaned back with closed eyes. I had nearly
fallen into a doze when I heard close by me a feeble twitter, the ghost
of a lark's rising song. I lifted my eyes and saw above my head a tiny
cage in which a lark was imprisoned. There was barely room for him to
turn, and every now and then he dashed his little body against the bars
with the force of desperation. Occasionally he tried to sing the old
glad song with which he had flown up into the face of God but the notes
were piteous, and died off in a haunting cry. Poor little heart! How I
pitied it with its ruffled breast and round, frightened eyes. I had seen
larks rise from the Sussex fields; I had been awakened by the stirring
of their wings.

Then the thought came to me that in an hour's time I should be even as
this lark a prisoner, beating in vain against iron bars. Poor little
heart! You and I are brethren.

The constable interrupted my reverie.

"Come, young feller, no more starin' at that tedious bird, but off with
yer to jail!"

With that he marched me through a crowd of curious mocking faces into
the fresh air and moonlight. A few minutes' walk brought us to a huge
grey building with shackles hung over the door. Before the constable had
told me I knew this was the jail, and my heart sank.

The formalities that preceded my admission were short, and, owing to the
time of night, sleepy. Shackles were no longer worn by the prisoners, so
mine were struck off, much to my relief, and I was led down a series of
dark, stuffy passages to an iron door.

I held my breath, but the next moment gasped it forth in horror. The
opening of the door revealed a terrible sight--a room in which sleeping
men lay together like beasts. The window was unglazed, nevertheless the
atmosphere was noisome. Accustomed as I was to living and sleeping in
the open air, the idea of such quarters chilled my blood. For a long
time after the jailer had locked the door, I stood motionless, with
covered face, shivering like a girl.

At last I managed to control my disgust, and started to pick my way
across the room, warily and shrinkingly, like one who crossed a
battlefield the day after the fight. I touched a man's head with my
foot, and he swore, but did not wake. At last I reached a spot where
there was room for me to lie down. Fortunately, I was exhausted after
two nights' sleeplessness, for it would have crazed me to lie wakeful in
that hell.



                              CHAPTER XVII

                       OF THE METHODIST IN PRISON

The sound of laughter mingled with my dreams, and I awoke. A number of
men were standing round me, and they laughed again at my mystified face;
for at first I had no idea where I was. Remembrance came all too soon,
and with a groan I struggled to my feet.

"When did you come here? Answer civilly," said a tall, thin fellow, who
seemed to be the leader of the rest.

"About midnight."

"What's your name?"

"Lyte."

"What are you here for?"

"On a charge of murder."

"Just as I told the lads while you were sleeping. You've a reg'lar
murderer's phiz. Think you're likely to get off?"

"I can't say."

"Are you one of us?"--and he addressed me in a strange jargon I could
not understand, evidently thieves' cant.

I shook my head.

"Then what are you? Anything in the smashing line?"

"No; I'm a Methodist preacher."

A roar of laughter burst from my audience.

"A Methodee! A Methodee! The devil! but we'll be having daily prayers
now. Are you saved?"


                  "'Sing hey for the Methodist parson;
                    Sing ho for the Ranter bold!
                    He kissed my wife----'"


"Hold your damn noise, will you?" cried my questioner. "I want to find
out something more about the cove. Where's your little Bethel?"

"I have no chapel. I'm a travelling preacher."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"You're young for holiness." Then he put his face close to mine, and
winked. "Any pretty girl to love you?"

I flushed angrily, and was silent.

"Come now; won't you tell us whether she's dark or fair."

"I refuse to answer any more of your questions. What right have you to
pester me in this way?"

"I advise you to be civil, young feller. We lads aren't over gentle with
the young and insolent. But never mind; you've said your catechism like
a good boy, and I'll leave you alone till I've had some beer."

With that he went off to the other end of the room, or "ward," where a
bottle was going round.

A church clock close by struck nine, and I realised that I was very
hungry. But I had rather starve than mix with the rough, profane crowd,
devouring and swilling meat and beer a few yards off. I lay down in the
cleanest spot I could find, and gave myself up to thought.

I took advantage of my comparative solitude to slip Enchmarsh's
confession out of my stocking--by no means a convenient
hiding-place--back into my pocket. I had been searched, in a very
perfunctory manner, on my arrival at the jail, and did not expect the
ordeal to be repeated till I was brought up for trial.

The sun rose higher, and fell with such fierceness on the stones where I
lay that I was forced to creep into the shade. Here three men were
stretched, talking so foully that I hurriedly left them for the crowd,
who, I felt sure, had not viler tongues than they.

I found every one drowning their cares, and was invited to join them.
But I suffered no less from hunger than from thirst, and asked for some
food.

"Have you any coin?" was the immediate question.

"Yes; but why?"

"Why? Because you can't have any prog till you tip us the blunt."

"I thought rations were provided by the prison authorities."

"Do prime tripe and ham pie look like rations provided by the prison
authorities, as you're kind enough to call a pack of blessed old fools
and knaves? No, my man this 'ere tripe and this 'ere pie have come from
the Lock and Fetters over the way, and must be paid for in cash down."

"What does the prison provide in the way of food?"

"Not enough for you to live on. No one lives on prison rations unless
they wants to escape hanging. So which will you have, young feller,
tripe or pie?"

"I'll have some tripe. But I shall be ruined at this rate."

"Haven't you any pals to keep you?"

"I don't wish to be kept by my friends."

"Oh, we're a bit of a game-cock, are we? Never mind; starvation will
soon lower our crest."

I did not answer, but fell to my helping of tripe, supplemented by a mug
of very bad ale. For this meal I was obliged to pay just double the
price I should have paid under ordinary circumstances, which made my
heart sink, as I had only a few shillings left, and hated the thought of
borrowing.

The sun rose higher and the room grew hotter. By noon the atmosphere was
suffocating, and men lay stretched on the floor, panting like beasts. My
lips were cracked with thirst, for the ale was finished. Outside in the
street a girl was selling fruit, and every now and then her voice
floated into the stifling room and mocked us--


                       "Ripe cherries! I cry,
                        Who'll buy, who'll buy?"


I opened my Bible, and tried to find comfort, but my head ached, and I
felt deadly sick.

At last the evening came and the horrible sun left us for a bloody
setting. Darkness fell and the stars glittered. Far away in the fields
the dew was shining and the wind was rustling the grass. I thought of
the beech-woods where I had so often spent the night, of the rabbits
that used to waken me by scampering over my body, of the toadstools,
orange, yellow, and speckled, that used to spring up round me while I
slept. Perhaps I should never see the fields and woods again, perhaps I
had enjoyed my last of singing birds, rustling grass, falling dew, and
scampering conies.

I was seized with a desperate longing for the open air. I could have
rushed at that stern iron door, shaken it, kicked it, beaten out my
brains against it. Why, because a fellow-man is a murderer and a coward
must I lose all that makes life sweet? I can endure this horrible
captivity no longer; I must go back to the fields and the wind. Next
time the jailer comes round I shall ask to see the governor; I shall
show him Enchmarsh's confession; I shall demand Enchmarsh's arrest;
I--get thee behind me, Satan! I am here for love's sake, and God is
love, and God has said: "Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake shall
keep it unto life eternal."

There were no beds in the ward, only a few rugs, and these were dirty
and verminous. I shuddered at the thought of spending a night under one
of them, but an icy wind sprang up, and seemed to pierce my very bones.

I was standing watching my miserable companions lie down and huddle
together like cattle in winter, when some one touched my elbow. I looked
round, and saw a young fellow of ragged yet genteel appearance, whom I
had noticed very drunk that morning.

"Excuse me, but you seem to have no friends in this place. May I offer
you a share of my rug?"

"Thank you kindly, but I must not put you to such discomfort."

"There will be no discomfort; on the contrary, I shall be all the warmer
for an extra bedfellow."

"An _extra_ bedfellow?"

"I have one mate already, but he's so dirty that I daren't lie closer to
him than I can help. Do accept my offer. Rugs are scarce, and you can't
sleep without one, for the nights are as cold as the days are stifling."

I was grateful for his kindness, and availed myself of it. We lay down
under an exceedingly filthy rug, and soon were joined by a dirty
foul-tongued wretch, who plagued us for an hour or more with stories of
the various bedfellows he had had in Lewes Jail, which were neither
amusing nor edifying. About eleven o'clock there was silence, and we all
tried to sleep.

I hardly closed my eyes. All round me men snored and shivered, moaned
and cursed. Every now and then a fellow would scream, and some of the
younger ones sobbed in their sleep. In spite of the cold the atmosphere
was stifling, and we lay so close that I could not stir without touching
the flesh of other men. One of my bedfellows was, as I have already
said, filthy in the extreme, and even the other was far from clean--I
was not clean myself; it was impossible to be clean in such a place.

Oh, the indescribable wretchedness of that night! I panted and shivered
at one and the same time; I longed and prayed for morning, though I knew
it would bring only a change of evils. The lad at my side moaned,
tossed, tumbled, and raved. Every now and then he would, to my surprise,
murmur a sentence from the English Prayer Book: "That it may please Thee
to have mercy on all prisoners and captives, and on all who are desolate
and oppressed"-"We do earnestly repent, and are heartily sorry for those
our misdoings. . . . Have mercy upon us, most merciful Father."--"Thou
hast laid me in the lowest pit, in a place of darkness and in the deep.
. . . Free among the dead, like unto those that are wounded and lie in
the grave, who are out of remembrance." He talked louder and more
frequently than anyone else, and occasionally a restless prisoner would
wake him with a kick or a blow, and bid him hold his tongue and be
damned.

Surely sleeplessness and suffering would eventually drive me mad! But
God is very merciful, and just as my brain was reeling and my heart
breaking under my burden of loneliness, pain, and longing, He sent sweet
thoughts of my dead friend to cheer me. I realised how near he was to
me, though death divided us, how he was now one of the cloud of
witnesses who gazed on my struggle and helped me by their prayers. And
when the white, trembling dawn showed up the prison bars, a strange,
half-fearful peace crept into my soul and whispered, as the light grew
stronger and stronger, and showed me plainer and plainer the dirt,
degradation, and misery in the midst of which I lay: "Though ye have
lien among the pots, yet shall ye be as the wings of a dove, which is
covered with silver wings, and her feathers like gold."

So in spite of the horrors of that night, I rose in a fairly peaceful
frame of mind. Most of my companions lay till a late hour, for to many
the sleep which had been denied them in the darkness came with the dawn,
and by the reddening light I saw them lying in the stillness of
exhaustion, their sorrow-stamped faces showing how bitter were their
dreams.

About eight o'clock the ward was too noisy for any more sleeping. The
sleepers awoke, stretched, cursed, groaned, and staggered, half-blind
with drowsiness, to where an early jug of ale was going from mouth to
mouth. I would have none of it. My stock of shillings was very low, and
as I was not hungry, I resolved to live that day on prison fare. This,
which consisted of a small loaf and half a pint of water, was brought to
me half an hour later, and I sat down to breakfast in a distant corner.

Here I was joined by my friend of the night. He brought a bowl of
porridge, which he insisted on sharing with me. He evidently wished to
make friends, and though at first I was inclined to be reserved I soon
began to take an interest in him. He seemed to have had some education,
and his language was clean.

"I hope I did not disturb you much last night," he said. "I fear that I
rave terribly in my sleep."

"You talked a good deal especially about the Prayer Book."

He flushed scarlet, then said in a low voice:

"I was once a clergyman."

I was too much taken aback to reply.

"Yes," he continued, "for eighteen months I was Vicar of Rowfant."

"Why, that is in Sussex! I come from Sussex too!"

"I knew it--I knew it by your speech. You have the Sussex drawl."

"Which is not pretty."

"No. But it is like home. It was that which made me take kindly to you
at once. You reminded me of the old days."

I did not care to ply indiscreet questions, so was silent, hoping that
he would of his free will tell me more. I was not disappointed, for
after a few minutes' silence he said:

"Yes, I was ordained very young, and appointed to a living in the gift
of a friend of my father's, Harold Macaulay----"

"What! You know Macaulay?"

"Yes. Do you?"

"Too well."

"So do I--too well."

"You do not speak as if you loved him."

"I hate him--I had a little sister, and----"

"I understand. Have you heard that he has changed his name? He is now
Squire Enchmarsh of Kitchenhour, in Sussex."

"I know it, and I shall give Sussex a wide birth, or I may one day find
myself in jail for murder. But to go on with the story there's not much
more of it. Soon after my appointment to Rowfant Vicarage, some terrible
sorrows came upon me. I lost my sister--not through death--and my
mother, whom I loved above all things, died of sickness brought on by
grief. I was half crazed with misery, and I did not seek comfort in
God--I sought it in wine. My parishioners found me drunk again and
again, and at last I grew so ashamed that I sent in my resignation to
the Bishop, and went to live where I could no longer offend Christ's
flock by my evil example. I soon fell into want, and one day I faced
starvation. I fought with the anguish for twenty-four hours, but my
better nature was weakened by indulgence, and in the evening I stole a
piece of bread."

"And you were caught?"

"Caught in the act, and I remember that when they arrested me I wept,
not because I was a prisoner, and likely to suffer cruelly, but because
they had taken the bread away."

"How long have you been in this place?"

"Nigh two years--a more lenient sentence than I expected. I have only
five more weeks to go through. Oh, it has been worse than hell!"

"Poor fellow!"

"You must not pity me," he said simply; "I do not deserve it. You are
here on a charge of murder, are you not?"

"Yes. What do you think of me?"

"I am very sorry for you. Nowadays the guilty often fare better than the
innocent."

"Then you believe me innocent!"

"Certainly I do."

The words were quietly uttered, and were called forth by nothing more
reliable than a few disjointed assertions I had made the preceding
night, when we lay together. But it is wonderful how they cheered me. I
wrung his hand, too deeply moved to speak, and could hardly have felt
more triumphant had I been acquitted in full court.

The young parson and I sat together the whole morning and talked of
Sussex, of fields, woods, streams, stars, and rain. He also gave me some
information about jail life and my fellow-prisoners.

There were nearly fifty men in the ward. Most of them were thieves,
pick-pockets, "shorters," and "smashers," the offscouring of the county.
Their language was always foul, and they were always fuddled with drink.
There was almost as large a percentage of brawlers, scraggers, and
stabbers. These brought their crimes with them to jail, and when in
liquor made the ward a very Bedlam with their violence. There was a
third class, not nearly so numerous, consisting of men who had once been
honest and respectable, but who, owing to poverty, drink, or some sudden
temptation, had committed a felony.

The wardsman, or chief prisoner, was the fellow who had so minutely
catechised me the day of my arrival. No words of my comrade's could
describe this wretch's villainy; it was to be brought home to me during
the terrible days which followed. Joe Timberlake had been in jail for
some years, and it seemed as if his object were to sear away what faint
marks of innocency yet remained on the hearts of his comrades. He
exercised a horrible tyranny over the ward. The scoundrel had in his
possession one of the jailer's whips, and with this I have seen him
thrash a fellow till his clothes were in ribbons.

He could do practically what he chose. The jailer never interfered--in
fact, he abetted him. Sometimes in the cold evenings Joe would light a
fire for the cooking of tripe, herrings, and sausages, and last, but not
least, for the heating of a poker, with which, when liquor moved him, he
inflicted gruesome tortures on the more helpless of his comrades. If an
ordinary prisoner had ventured to do this the jailer would have had him
flogged almost to death, but because the tyrant was Timberlake, he never
showed himself in the ward, in spite of the shrieks which proceeded from
it on such occasions.

Once Joe, more drunk than usual, burnt out a victim's eye. The poor
wretch made such an outcry that the governor heard it, and sent the
jailer up to investigate. He looked in and saw the fellow rolling over
and over on the ground, his hands covering his face; he shook his head
at Timberlake, said that he would report him if he did it again, and
went away.

Every other day we were turned out into the prison yard, that we might
breathe a combination of smoke and smell called "fresh air," and indulge
in a few occasional strides called "exercise." In the yard prisoners
were allowed to interview their friends, who stood on the further side
of an iron grating. Most of my fellow-captives had friends, chiefly of
the softer sex, but my heart never beat with the hope of seeing a loved
face, and I skulked by myself on the opposite side of the yard, watching
enviously the interchange of greeting.

One day as I lounged thus, and had taken my Bible from my pocket for
comfort, the young Sussex clergyman came up to me.

"There are some people wishing to see you."

"To see me!" My cheeks flushed and my eyes glowed, but I assured him
that he must be mistaken.

"Indeed, I'm not. They were asking for you by name--for Mr. Humphrey
Lyte."

"Who are they? Do you know?"

"A man and a girl."

I dashed off across the yard. I expected to see Ruth Shotover. But it
was not the beloved face that smiled on me, though the smile was just as
sweet. Behind the grating stood Mary Winde and her father. I held out
both my hands, while my heart was too full for speech.

"God bless you, lad," said Peter huskily.

"God bless you, sir. This is too great a kindness."

"It was the promptings of our hearts. Directly we had Ruth Shotover's
letter telling us of your trouble, Mary and I packed up our traps and
came to Maidstone."

"How is it that you are so good to me? So you heard the news from Ruth
Shotover. Do do you know where she is now?"

"She is in Maidstone."

My heart leaped and thumped, and my cheeks flushed scarlet with joy.

"How long has she been here?"

"She arrived yesterday with her brother and the Wychellows."

Then Mary leaned forward, and put her hand in mine.

"Humphrey, have you heard that Ruth is no longer engaged to Mr.
Enchmarsh?"

"I--I--no one told me."

"Well, it is true, and I'm not surprised--in fact, it is a mystery to me
how they ever came to be engaged at all. What should you say, Humphrey,
if one day she paid you a visit?"

"Oh, Mary, tell me, did she ever hint that she might?"

"Hint! why, she has been on her knees to Sir Miles Wychellow, begging
him to take her; she would have come here to-day if the doctor had
allowed it."

"Has she been ill, then?"

"Yes, Humphrey, so ill that she could not leave Ihornden till yesterday,
and even then she would not have left if Sir Miles had had his way. He
wanted her to remain quietly in the country, but she said: 'I shall go
to Maidstone, and I shall stay there till Humphrey Lyte is acquitted!'"

"Then she believes me innocent!" My voice shook with rapture.

"Yes, and so do I," said Mary.

"And so do I," said Peter.

"You are very kind."

"And credulous, some people would say. And let me tell you, lad, that
it's only because I know you to be incapable of such a revolting crime
that I believe in your innocence. The evidence is dead against you. Sir
Miles swears to your guilt, though he thinks it's very likely only a
case of manslaughter. By the bye, my lad, as you're a felon in the eye
of the law, you won't be allowed the benefit of counsel. Have you
considered what defence you shall make?"

I shook my head.

"That's a piece of sinful neglect. Your life is too precious to be
thrown away. Hearken, lad--Mary and I had a long talk about you last
night, and what do you think was the result of it?"

"Indeed, I cannot say."

"Why, we both vowed that you're keeping something back."

I set my teeth hard, then replied:

"Why should you think that?"

"Because you've behaved so strangely. You deny the murder, but you won't
give us a plain tale of what happened, and when questioned you say silly
things which you afterwards confess to be untrue. You were with John
Palehouse the whole morning of the crime, and you must know who
committed it even if you weren't an actual witness."

I was silent, and Peter continued:

"You're acting foolishly and wickedly. Your friends can't help you
unless you give them the facts."

"I leave that to Curate Kitson."

"Then you're a fool!" exclaimed Peter.

"There is little doubt of that," I cried bitterly; "but, come, let us
speak of happier things. Tell me about Shoyswell and all the dear places
round it. Mary, are there many moon-daisies at Witherhurst, and many
wild fowl on the marshes of Lossenham? Do you remember how we used to
gather cowslips at Socknersh? Are they all faded now?"

She answered none of these questions, but once more took my grimy hand
in hers, and said:

"Humphrey, Ruth is free, and you too must be free--for her sake."

"The jury, not I, will decide that."

She was about to reply but was cut short by the voice of the jailer
ordering us away. So I wrung Peter's hand, and kissed Mary's, and left
them, thanking God for two such friends.

I spent the next day in a state of feverish excitement, and when, the
morning after, the hour of our "fresh air and exercise" drew near, I
could scarcely contain myself. My bright eyes and flushed cheeks made my
fellow-prisoners wonder and jeer.

Would Ruth come? Should I see her? I perplexed my heart with useless
questions. I could scarcely eat for excitement. Oh, my darling, my
darling! When I see you I shall forget all this misery and iron. I shall
forget that I am in prison, and think I am in Paradise.

The ward door flew open with a clang, and out we filed. Down the passage
we tramped, a regiment of rags and sorrow. A gust of wind blew in upon
us as the yard gate was flung back, and we poured into the open space,
stumbling and blinking in the unaccustomed light. I pushed my way
through the crowd to the grating. I saw a little blue gown.

She stood in a throng of street-walking girls with bold eyes and loud
laughter. Vagabonds, loafers, cadgers rubbed their tatters against her
dress--the little blue dress in which I had first seen her. She gripped
the bars and leaned against them while her eyes roamed from face to
face. The next moment she caught sight of me, and her lips parted with a
cry:

"Humphrey!"

"Ruth!"

It was all we said. I staggered against the bars, and covered her hands
with mine. I did not kiss her--the grating was too close, and round us
stood a crowd of leering, ogling, jibing scoundrels and courtesans.

"Dear," I said, after a long silence, "let us pretend that this is the
garden-gate."

"The garden-gate----"

"Yes; I want to forget the prison and you are to forget it too. We are
to talk of happy things, brightly, merrily, as if only the garden-gate
divided us."

"I'll try, Humphrey, but I don't feel merry."

"Nor do I, Ruthie. Still, let's pretend."

"Have you heard?--about my freedom?"

"Yes; Mary told me."

"I can't understand it, I----"

She was interrupted by an exclamation from a figure standing at her
side, who might have been made of wood for all the attention I had
hitherto paid him, but whom I now saw to be Sir Miles Wychellow.

"Egad, young people! What the devil does all this mean?"

We both flushed crimson, and I realised that my thoughtlessness had
placed us in an awkward and shameful position. Sir Miles knew that we
had not met since the breaking off of Ruth's engagement, and would
naturally infer that we had been carrying on a clandestine love affair
while she was still betrothed to Enchmarsh. I made haste to put matters
straight.

"You are certainly entitled to an explanation, Sir Miles. I--I have
loved Miss Shotover for many months."

"While she was betrothed to another man."

"True, and I confess that I allowed my passion to overmaster me, and
spoke words I had no right to utter. But this dear lady put me to shame
with her steadfastness and purity, and even if John Palehouse had not
been killed and I been arrested, I shouldn't have stayed another hour at
Ihornden."

Sir Miles answered nothing, and I realised with a pang that his silence
was due to a natural reluctance to tell a poor fellow who would soon be
hanged that he was an insolent dog to have aspired to the affections of
a lady like Ruth. True, I was of as good blood as she, but I was a
tramp, a beggar, a felon, and it was as well that a noose should end my
unlucky passion. Ruth must have guessed what was passing through my
mind, for her eyes flashed, and she held my hand close in hers.

I broke the embarrassing silence.

"Where is Enchmarsh?"

"At Kitchenhour. Poor fellow! He's in a bad way. He was to have started
for the Continent last Tuesday--to see some friends in Holland, I
believe--but on his way from Ihornden to Sussex his horse fell on him
and broke his leg, so he's now lying at his Manor in a devilish sorry
state."

"And how is your brother, Ruthie?"

"He's much better, dear"--then she leaned forward and whispered: "He has
been much better ever since my engagement was broken off."

"The Windes told me he was in Maidstone."

"Yes." Then I saw, rather than heard, her murmur: "Poor Guy!" There was
on her face that look of motherly tenderness she always wore when
speaking of her brother--and my heart burned with strengthened
resolution.

"You look very poorly, dear boy," she added softly, stroking my dirty
hand.

"I don't feel so," I replied, lying.

"You look a regular ragamuffin!" said Sir Miles bluntly. "Have you no
opportunities for washing in jail?"

"Not unless I use my drinking water, which is too precious."

"Do you get enough to eat?"

I did not answer, for I could see the jailer unlocking the yard gates.
Our moments of bliss were numbered.

"Oh, Humphrey!" cried Ruth, "it's hard to leave you in this dreadful
place."

"Don't fret about me, child. You remember Lovelace's words: 'If I have
freedom in my love, and in my soul am free----'"

"'Angels alone that soar above have not such liberty,'" she finished
gravely.

"Come in with you, and no loitering!" shouted the jailer.



                             CHAPTER XVIII

              OF THE METHODIST AND MUCH STORM AND TROUBLE

What astonished and touched me most during the days which followed was
the kindness of my friends; not only of those who, in spite of
appearances, believed me innocent, but of those who thought the worst of
me. Sir Miles Wychellow lent me money--I was forced to subdue my pride
and borrow, for I was starving--Lady Wychellow knitted me a jersey to
wear during the terrible nights when I could not sleep for the cold, and
Mary Winde brought me sweet oranges to slake my thirst during the
terrible days when I could not rest for the heat. I no longer skulked
alone while my fellow-prisoners greeted their friends; there was always
a loved face at the grating.

I did not see Ruth as often as I wished, and I realised that it was only
because I should almost certainly be hanged I was allowed to see her at
all. Sir Miles would have done his best to part us, had he not believed
that the hangman would soon perform that office for him.

Once Guy Shotover came to see me. I could not tell by his manner whether
he thought me innocent or guilty, and with a tact wanting in many of my
visitors, he forebore any direct reference to my plight. Ruth had told
me that he had looked better since her engagement was broken off, but in
my opinion he looked infinitely worse. His cheeks were redder and his
eyes brighter, it is true, but it was the bloom and brilliancy of a
decline. As I gazed at him, a voice within me cried: "What is the avail
of laying down your life? This man will not live another year." But I
silenced the coward in my heart. I did not know for a certainty that
Shotover was dying; he might have years and years of life before him for
aught I could tell. Besides, let disease slay him, not my tongue!

Poor fellow! I had forgiven him long ago, and my heart was warm with
love's brother, compassion, as I looked into his miserable eyes and read
their secret the secret--of a sin clamouring to be confessed for its own
sake. Soon afterwards he went back to Ewehurst. He hated the town, and
felt well enough to resume his clerical duties.

A few days later Peter Winde received a subpoena bidding him give
evidence for the prosecution, who had heard that it was he who had given
me my pistol, and wished him to identify it in court. There were--and
could be--no witnesses for the defence, and though I occasionally
considered what I might safely say on my own behalf, I knew that I
should be practically in the position of an unarmed man attacked on all
sides--and it was cruel to have Peter's hand among those uplifted to
strike me down. Mary would not be in Maidstone for my trial. Her servant
girl had fallen sick, and she was obliged to go back to Shoyswell. The
day before she left she came to bid me good-bye.

"I shall be back as soon as possible, and I pray that when I next see
you it will not be through iron bars."

"I pray the same, dear Mary."

"By the by, my lad," said Peter, "I've a piece of news for you--your
family are in Maidstone!"

"My family!"

"Yes--your father and mother and Mr. Clonmel Lyte. They must have read
of your arrest in the papers. Do you want to send them any message?"

"There would be no use in that."

"Don't you think that their coming to Maidstone is a sign that they've
relented towards you?"

I shook my head. My arrest and trial would furnish my father with a good
excuse for taking a holiday. "If they wished to have anything to do with
me, they would have come to see me, or have sent me word. Where are they
staying?"

"At the George. Mayn't I take them a message? They've served you badly,
but they're your flesh and blood."

"Perhaps you are right, Mr. Winde. Pray give my father and mother my
humble duty."

Peter promised, but no response was made.

My trial was to take place in a week, and many and varied were the
speculations in the jail as to what the result would be. The general
opinion was that I should be "scragged," and as it was delightful to see
a young fellow turn pale and gnaw his lips, in spite of all his efforts
to play the game-cock, my comrades regaled me with sickening stories of
the gallows, which, owing either to the clumsiness of the machinery or
to the hangman's want of skill, was often the scene of frightful
agonies.

Sir Miles Wychellow paid me occasional visits, apparently for no other
purpose than to wring facts from my unwilling lips. In this he believed
he was acting for my good. "If you would only explain matters, instead
of scowling and shaking your head," he cried one day when I had been
more sullen than usual, "begad! the jury might bring in a verdict of
manslaughter."

"Where would be my advantage? The penalty for manslaughter is the same
as for murder."

"If you were found guilty of manslaughter, your friends could easily get
you a reprieve; but if you're sentenced for murder--gad! it's all up
with you! Several murders have been committed round here of late, and
the courts are putting down the evil with a strong hand. So, young man,
if once you're found guilty of murder, you're hanged!"

I brooded over these words for the rest of the day, and parted with my
last hope.

That night I dreamed a horrible dream. I dreamed that I was dead, and
that Enchmarsh had renewed his persecution of Ruth. I woke trembling,
and gripping my companion's arm. I could not, dared not, sleep again. I
sat up and thought, my chin resting on my hand.

It is strange, but till that night I had never considered the
possibility of Enchmarsh returning to his blackguardism after my death.
I now realised that it was not only a possibility--it was a practical
certainty. What could I do? Enchmarsh held his tongue only for fear of
mine, and when that tongue was silenced for ever--I shuddered. True,
there was his confession safe in my pocket; but if that were found and
read at my death, I had died in vain. The secret of Enchmarsh's crime
must be kept; I must destroy the fatal paper on the morning of my
execution. Then my enemy would no longer have anything to fear, and
would once more make Ruth's life a burden and a curse. Whichever way I
acted I seemed bound to thwart my own ends, to make my sacrifice of none
effect.

I groaned aloud in my perplexity, so that half the ward woke up and
swore at me. What was I to do? How was I to tie Enchmarsh's tongue after
my own was dust? I prayed for guidance, and the thought came to me,
"Confide your secret to a friend; pass it on to one you can trust, who,
strengthened with it, will mount guard over Enchmarsh after you have
laid down your arms."

But whom should I tell? Peter Winde? Sir Miles Wychellow? I should have
no opportunity for telling them. Our meetings were in a crowd, and my
secret would run the risk of being heard by half the prison. Besides,
even if it were not so, I doubted if either of these men would consider
themselves justified in keeping silence after my confession. They would
probably insist on the arrest of the real culprit, would drag me from
jail and publish abroad my sacrifice--making it useless.

Whom, then, could I confide in? The dawn came shuddering into the room,
and showed me the faces of my companions--stern, degraded, peaceless.
Then the lad at my side stirred and moaned, for the cruel light fell on
his eyes, and roused him out of the sleep into which he had only just
fallen after a long night of tossing.

What of him? He seemed attached to me; I had reason to think him
faithful; he knew Enchmarsh, and hated him. Nevertheless, I shrank from
telling him. But some one must be told, and whom could I tell if not
this fellow? Peter Winde and Sir Miles were out of the question; so were
all my friends except this poor criminal. Would my secret be safe with
him? I thought so. He was in prison for theft, but his crime had been
committed under the pressure of starvation; it was not the result of
systematic dishonesty and untrustworthiness. Yet he was a drunkard, and
though he fought with all the feeble strength of a weak will and a weak
constitution against his curse, I had seen him drunk several times
during the fortnight I had been in prison. Could I confide the most
precious secret of my life to a drunkard, who might any day blab it
forth in his cups? Yes, I could rely on him, for he was not as the
common toper, who talks and grins and laughs, and opens his heart.
Liquor made him sullen and fierce, drove him into some lonely corner,
where he would lie with hidden face till at last he fell asleep, to wake
ashamed and in his right mind. But would he be in a position to keep
watch over Enchmarsh? There was no doubt of that. He had once told me
that after his release he was to go to his brother, who lived at
Woodchurch in South Kent, and had offered him a fresh start in life at
his farm. Woodchurch was only a matter of fourteen miles from
Kitchenhour.

I thought, and prayed over my thoughts, till heat and sunshine would no
longer suffer my companions to sleep, and they struggled up, groaning,
and cursing the light that woke them to fresh misery.

I awaited an opportunity for speaking alone with my friend. It was not
long in coming. While the rest of the ward were trying to drown their
newly-awakened cares in washy ale, he came to me where I sat in the
furthest corner of the room, and offered me a share of some meat he had
managed to buy. I declined it, but begged him to stay with me instead of
going back to the swilling crowd, some of whom were already drunken.

"Only three weeks more," he said, "then I--but it's cruel of me to
rejoice in this way when in three weeks you----"

"Will very likely be hanged. That's exactly what I want to speak to you
about. Come close; I do not wish the rest of the ward to hear."

He drew closer, and I whispered:

"I have something to tell you, but first of all you must swear secrecy."

"I swear it," he said simply.

"Thank you. Perhaps you remember that when I first came here you told me
you thought me innocent?"

"I did--and I do still."

"Well, I'm going to tell you who the real murderer was."

He started back from me.

"You--you don't mean to say you know?"

"I know."

"Then why in God's name are you here?"

"For reasons I shall soon tell you. Listen. I did not commit the murder,
but I witnessed it. The real murderer is a man you know as well as I
do."

"Who? Tell me----"

"Harold Enchmarsh."

The fellow's jaw dropped. He seized my arm, and stared at me.

"Yes. Enchmarsh was my friend's cousin, and had cruelly wronged him.
High words passed between them, and Enchmarsh in a fit of fury dashed
out his kinsman's brains."

"Then you are keeping silence to shield Enchmarsh?"

I laughed aloud.

"The devil, no! I would have dragged him before a magistrate that very
hour, had he not threatened a deadly injury to some one I loved."

"What injury?"

"I cannot tell you. I am sworn to keep silence. Let it suffice that it
would have ruined a life dearer to me than my own. I promised Enchmarsh
his liberty if he would swear to refrain his malice, and to break off an
engagement he had contracted with a girl who hated him, but who was
going to marry him for reasons I again cannot give you."

"And he swore?"

"Yes, he swore, and I went off happy, in spite of my dear friend's
death, for I knew that some one I loved even more passionately would be
saved from much sorrow. An hour later I was a prisoner, accused of the
crime Enchmarsh had committed."

"Could you not clear yourself?"

"Not without betraying Enchmarsh, which would have meant the anguish of
this poor girl I loved. I tried to think of some other way; I soon found
out there was no other way."

"So you suffered in silence?"

"I have been silent up to now, and have suffered, if you can call that
suffering which is endured for love's sake. But last night the thought
came to me or rather I chose to believe that God showed me in a
dream--'When I am dead, Enchmarsh will no longer fear betrayal, and he
will renew his persecution of this girl I love.' He will either force
her once more into an engagement with him, or he will bring on her the
sorrow to which I have already referred. Now, it is in this I want you
to help me."

"I will do anything in my power."

"It is in your power, I am sure. I merely want you, when I am dead and
you are free, to keep watch over Enchmarsh, and if he in any way molests
this girl, or her brother, to drag him before a magistrate on a charge
of murder."

"My dear fellow, I would willingly oblige you, but I fear that it would
be useless for me to bring an accusation of murder against a man, having
no proofs, no evidence----"

"But I have both. I have the fellow's full confession in my pocket."

"You have!"

"Yes. I made him write it out five minutes after the crime. So I have a
hold on him, and when I am dead I do not wish that hold to be
relinquished. I shall give you the paper, and trust that, if need be,
you will use it."

"I shall, I swear! But who is this girl, and where does she live, that I
may know if he molests her?"

"Her name is Ruth Shotover, and she and her brother live at Ewehurst in
Sussex."

"Not far from where I shall be."

"No. But I expect they will leave it soon. It is too near Kitchenhour
for their happiness. You must find out where they go, and take care that
Enchmarsh does not visit them. If he should renew his engagement with
the girl, or molest her or her brother in any way--well, you know what
to do."

"And I'll do it."

"I think you have seen Miss Shotover. She has been here to visit me once
or twice. She has red hair, and----"

"Ah, I remember her. She came with the magistrate fellow who is always
persecuting you for 'facts.' She has a lovely face. I dreamed of her for
two nights afterwards. Her brother once came to see you, too, didn't
he?"

"Yes; and I'm glad you have seen both the Shotovers, as you will be
better able to watch over them. Now I shall show you the confession. But
I shall not give it to you till--till we part."

He pressed my hand silently, and I drew the paper out of my pocket.

"Here, read it. You see what power I have."

He read it, knitting his brows.

"How dearly you must love your Ruth to keep silence with this in your
possession. If I had loved a girl so dearly I might have been a better
man."

"You will leave the old life behind you in this jail," I said, deeply
touched; "you will go forward to nobler things."

"I trust so--I pray so. Dick has promised to give me a fresh start. He
was always a faithful brother to me. By the by, we must let Enchmarsh
know you have told me this. I had better go to him directly I am
released."

"Yes but, quick! Give me the paper! The fellows are staring at us."

They did more than stare; they rushed in a body towards us before I had
well thrust back the confession into my pocket.

"Hello, Ranter! What've you got there?" cried Timberlake.

"Nothing," I answered, trying to look unconcerned.

"That's a damn lie! I saw you hide a paper somewhere about you. Let's
have a look at it."

"I tell you I've nothing!" I cried desperately.

"We'll soon see that. I bet you a hundred to one he's hiding a
love-letter. We've left you alone too long, my fine feller. We're going
to hear something about that mort o' yours, and see her letters."

"I haven't got a letter."

"Let's see--hold him, lads."

Two fellows seized my arms. The young clergyman interposed. "Here, hands
off! Fair play! What if he has got a letter, you've no right to see it."

"Might is right!" shouted Timberlake. "Hold fast, lads!"

He would have thrust his hand into my pocket, while I raged and ground
my teeth like an impotent beast; but my friend rushed at him and tore
him away. There was a frantic scuffle, and the next minute the poor lad
was lying unconscious, his arm broken.

Timberlake sneered.

"Now for our perfect lover," and his hand was in my pocket.

A mist swam before me, and through it I dimly saw the villain draw out
the paper and unfold it. I gathered myself together, and the next moment
the fellows who held me were rolling on the floor, and I was at
Timber-lake's throat.

He staggered, but recovered himself, and we swayed together. I tried to
snatch the paper out of his hand, but he was taller than I, and held it
aloft, just out of my reach. We struggled frantically, desperation
giving me a strength I had never hitherto possessed. I managed to grip
his great bare arm, and would have dragged it down, but at that moment
we reeled against the window. Timberlake flung himself free.

"If I can't have it, you shan't," and the next moment the precious
fragment that I held dearer than my life was whirling in the summer
wind, fluttering, dancing, and sinking slowly into the yard.

Then I verily believe that I lost my reason. With a cry of fury and
despair I flung myself on Timberlake, and struggled like a beast to kill
him. I wanted his life. I was mad.

The rest of the ward, who, though the supporters of the wardsman against
his victims, did not love him too dearly to enjoy seeing him paid in his
own coin, offered no interference, but stood watching us as we tottered
up and down the room. I clutched at his throat, but he tore my fingers
away, breaking one of them. I tried to break his back, but he dragged my
head down against his shoulder, and pulled out handfuls of my hair. Our
clothes were soon in tatters, and our breasts and shoulders uncovered.
He was getting the worst of it. I should soon kill him. He shouted,
cursed, and screamed. I was silent; I only panted.

I tried to drag him against the wall and dash out his brains, but he bit
and tore my encircling arms, and we staggered across the room, mauling
one another like two furious dogs. Near the middle of the ward lay my
poor friend; we stumbled over his body, and down we crashed. Who would
rise first?

For an instant we both lay stunned. Then I sprang to my feet, and the
next moment would have murdered him, had not the door burst open and the
jailer appeared. I stood petrified, then suddenly came to my senses.
Timberlake rolled on the floor in agony. His thigh was broken.

"How now, you beasts!" shrieked the jailer. "What hellish pranks are you
up to?"

My fellow-prisoners evidently thought it more to their advantage to take
Timberlake's part than mine. "The Methodist's been mauling Joe!" they
shouted with one accord.

"Oh, it's you, is it, you fighting devil?" and he gave me a blow in the
face that nearly broke my jaw. "I'll teach you to go murdering your
wardsman"--another blow, and I measured my length on the ground.

"Here, you fellers, keep him down while I run for help. You young beast!
I'll have the skin flayed off your shoulders for this. Keep him down, I
say--sit on him, stifle him, throttle him--anything you please, only
keep him down."

My companions obeyed, nothing loth, and I was half dead by the time the
jailer returned with two subwarders and a surgeon for Timberlake, who
had not ceased to roll and scream.

All my fury was gone, and when I was at last pulled to my feet, I stood
shamed and mute, while fetters were fastened on my wrists and ankles.
Then I was half-dragged, half-carried to the governor's office.

The governor listened to the jailer's indictment, and asked me if I had
anything to say for myself.

As I could only shake my head, he ordered me a flogging and three days'
imprisonment in a dark cell. No doubt I deserved both.

"Thank God that Ruth cannot see me now!" I thought, as they hurried me
down the passage. "Would she recognise this dishevelled, blood-stained,
half-naked wretch as her lover?" The thought of Ruth was poignant as
death, for once more in front of her stretched the old misery, and I was
powerless to save her from it. That scrap of paper which had meant her
peace and mine was gone--lost for ever, whirled by the summer wind out
of sight or ken. My anguish of mind was too much for my pain-enfeebled
body, and I groaned.

The men thought it was horror at my punishment which caused my misery,
and one of them, who was a humane fellow, tried to cheer me by saying
that the lashing would soon be over, and perhaps not so terrible as I
imagined; and as for the dark cell, prisoners that had the cat were only
too glad of a little peace and quiet afterwards.


"It's as well 'is mother can't see 'im."

The words seemed to come to me from a great way off, as I was carried
back along the passage. I was conscious of little--only that I was being
carried, that one man bore my head and another my legs, and that one of
my arms was hanging so that my hand dragged along the floor.

We came to a door, and a jailer opened it. Surely that was a black
curtain which I saw stretched across the entrance. No, for they pushed
me into it. The door shut with a hideous rattle of iron, and the
blackness wrapped round me. I tried to push it away, for it pressed upon
my eyeballs. Then I sank to the ground, covering my face.

Consciousness slipped away, and I entered a hell of dreams. I was at
Brede Parsonage, working in the oast-barn. Clonmel had just been
flogging me, and I was thinking how I could kill him. I saw him standing
at the corner of the great pasture-field, and stole after him, leaving
blood-marks on the grass where my feet had pressed. But when he turned
round to grapple me, I saw the face of Harold Enchmarsh, and he shivered
like a ghost from my sight.

Then I was in a high, cloudy place, where a great wind was shrieking,
and in front of my eyes, dancing, fluttering, whirling in the wind, was
a tiny scrap of paper. I struggled to catch it, but it eluded my grasp,
and suddenly I fell from the windy place, and consciousness came back
with a gasp of agony.

I knew where I was; I remembered what had happened, and in vain I prayed
God to kill both knowledge and remembrance. I had been tied up and
lashed like a dog because I had behaved like a dog. My shirt was
saturated with something that was warm as well as wet. I shuddered. Then
suddenly I threw up my arms with a cry of anguish, for I remembered that
I was suffering in vain. When I was dead Ruth would be in even a worse
plight than if at the beginning I had refused to sacrifice myself, and
had sent her brother to the gibbet. I had no hope of living; I could not
clear myself without the paper, which had no doubt by this time been
trodden an inch deep into the mud. I must die, and Ruth must live on in
misery deeper than that from which I had struggled in prayers and
anguish to save her.

Oh, that I had allowed Timberlake to read the fatal confession! then at
least I should have been free and able to help her--at least, I should
not have been in this foul hole, suffocating as a coffin, damp as a
grave, and black as hell. How long had I been there? I considered. It
seemed an eternity, but I thought that very likely my imprisonment had
not lasted more than twelve hours. How should I endure three days of it?
I had heard of men leaving the dark cell as shrieking lunatics. The
horror of madness made me tremble. I must do something to distract my
thoughts--to make me forget the darkness, the airlessness, the damp, the
smell, the living things that crawled over my limbs, the pains of my
torn body. I tried to repeat a psalm, but my mind was incapable of any
sustained effort, and agonising thoughts broke in upon the grand old
words of comfort: "The Lord is my shepherd. . . . The Lord is my
shepherd. . ." I murmured wildly, staring with strained eyeballs into
the dark--"therefore can I lack nothing . . . lack nothing. . . ." I
gave up the attempt, for the rest of the psalm had fled from my mind,
leaving it a wilderness of terror. I was filled with a vague, horrible
fear, which I had often felt at Brede Parsonage, which had often driven
me to leave my bed and entreat one of my brothers to take me into his,
that the contact of a warm human body might soothe away the nameless
horror that gripped me. I was now alone, ill, broken in mind and body. I
cowered down in a corner of my prison, my hands clasped against my
breast, my eyes staring wildly into the dark. Oh, that dreadful dark! It
seemed to enwrap my very soul; it seemed a loathsome material thing; it
seemed to crush me. I felt blood trickling down my chin. What had
happened? And I remembered. I had bitten my lips to keep down my cries
while I was being flogged, and they still bled. I longed to lose
consciousness once more, for no phantasmagoria could be worse than the
awful reality, and at last I fell into a kind of waking dream. I thought
that I was walking with John Palehouse along the Biddenden road. The
wind was moaning, the clouds were low. Then suddenly I lifted my eyes to
his face, and saw on his temple a little grey bruise. I shrieked and
awoke. "John, John!" I cried, till the blackness echoed. "I want you--I
want you--come to me--how shall I bear this torture without you?--Come
to me.----" Then God sent a merciful blank.

I was roused by a sudden stream of light. I thought it was flames, and
covered my face.

"'Ere, take this." The warder kicked me, and thrust a bowl of
nauseous-looking gruel into my hands. I tried to speak to him, but my
parched lips refused to utter, and it was not till he had all but shut
the door that I managed to gasp:

"How long have I been in this place?"

"Maybe three hours," he said, and banged the door.

I fell back with a moan. Three hours! I had thought it twelve, hoped it
might be eighteen. I sobbed aloud in anguish. I could not eat my supper.
The smell of it alone made me feel sick. I was terribly thirsty. Oh,
that they would give me a drink of water! I beat on the door and cried
to the jailer, but no one heard.

I resolved to try to sleep, but my shoulders were so lacerated that I
could not lie on my back or side, so I stretched myself on my face and
prayed God to let me sleep or better still--die.

I did neither.

At last morning came, and when the jailer brought me a fresh relay of
gruel, I caught the skirt of his coat--for I could not lift myself from
the ground--and prayed him to bring me some water for Christ's sake. He
muttered something about "being aginst orders," but the light falling on
my face showed him my black, cracked lips, and he had compassion on me.
He fetched me a jug of fairly clean water, and left it with me in my
cell.

The rest of the day I spent chiefly in dozing, dreaming, or raving. I
slept all that night, but an attempt to eat my gruel resulted in a
dreadful attack of sickness, which left me so weak that I could hardly
move or breathe.

Nevertheless, my mind was more calm and unclouded, and I began to rack
my brains for some way of maintaining my hold on Enchmarsh, even though
his confession was lost. It did not take me long to realise that this
would be impossible. The confession was the only weapon which I could
rely on, and without it I was powerless. There seemed no way out of my
misery. Ruth's heart and mine must be broken on the same wheel. I ground
my teeth and moaned. True, Enchmarsh had no idea that I had lost the
paper; he would make no attempt to molest the poor child during my
lifetime, but after my death----Oh, it was too horrible to contemplate.
I had suffered in vain, sacrificed my good name, offered up my life--in
vain. Oh, that I could only live! Let Guy Shotover perish a thousand
times rather than that my poor dear should be persecuted, tortured, and
shamed by the man from whom I had thought to have saved her for ever.
Should I tell my story to the governor, and denounce Enchmarsh, trusting
that I should be able without the paper to prove my assertions? Vain
thought! I could never do that. Such an action would merely blacken me
as a coward, who tried to save himself at the last moment by shifting
the burden of his guilt on to another man. If I was to die, at least I
should die courageously. Men should say: "He was a blackguard, but he
died well."

At last the third day came, and the blessed light streamed in upon me,
no more to be shut away till my eyes filmed and closed for ever. I could
scarcely stagger up from the floor, and I could not see the jailer's
face, so dazzling was the unaccustomed brightness. He dragged me back to
the ward, unlocked the door, and pushed me in. I still wore my chains,
for I was considered a dangerous prisoner, and no longer allowed to go
unfettered.

I expected my former comrades to insult, perhaps to ill-treat me, but
they took no notice beyond to nudge one another and leer, as with a
jingle of chains I sank down against the wall, too weak to do more than
breathe.

I was still unaccustomed to the light--in fact, it was a few days ere I
could see as before--and lay with my eyes shut. I did not hear a soft
footfall approach me, and started when a hand touched my shoulder.

I looked up, and saw my friend, the young clergyman, his arm in a sling.
He sat down beside me, and without a word slipped something into my
hand. My fingers closed round it mechanically, and I wondered
halfstupidly what it could be.

"It's your paper," said my friend gently, seeing how dazed I was.

"Enchmarsh's confession!" I cried incredulously.

"Yes. I found it in the yard when we were turned out there the other
day. It had drifted on to a pile of rubbish."

My joy was so great and my body so weak that I nearly swooned. For a few
moments I could not speak, but could only lie clasping the precious
paper to my heart.

"You'd better stow it away," said my friend; and as I was too weak and
dazed to do anything for myself, he unclasped my hot hand, took the
paper, and thrust it into my pocket.

"I am loth to trouble you when you are so ill," he continued, "but I
think it right that you should know that the paper is practically
illegible."

"What has happened?" I asked faintly, only half understanding him.

"It has been rained upon, and has been sadly torn. It is decipherable
now, but a month hence it will be of no use to us whatever."

"What can I do?"

"Ask Enchmarsh to send you another, written fairly in ink. He will not
dare refuse you."

"But how can I communicate with him? I thought----"

"It is generally impossible to send secret letters from jail, I confess.
But we are unusually fortunate. One of the fellows here is to be
released to-morrow, and will smuggle to Kitchenhour whatever you choose
to write."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Implicitly. I've employed him before this, and he has never failed me."

"But I have no paper."

"Josh Parkins has some, and will sell you a sheet for half a crown."

"I've no money."

"Yes, you have. I saw the magistrate fellow in the yard yesterday. I
told him what trouble you were in, and he gave me a quid for you when
you should come out. It was very good of him to trust me."

"Did did you see Ruth?"

"The girl you love, for whose sake you have suffered so terribly?"

"Yes--I love her--did you see her?"

He nodded, and pressed my hand.

"Did you tell her?"

"Yes."

"That I tried to kill Timberlake?"

"I never knew you tried to kill Timberlake."

"I did. I wanted to break his back. Where is he? Is he here?"

"No. He's been removed to the infirmary."

"Thank God! Then--then didn't Ruth know I tried to kill Timberlake?"

"No; I told her what I knew myself, and, of course, not all of that."

"She ought to know--she ought to know the worst of me."

"Don't bother your poor head about that. You'll see her yourself soon."

"Did she cry? Was she unhappy when you told her I'd been flogged?"

"I did not mention the flogging."

"Thank you."

"I told her you had been put in solitary confinement for three days. I
thought it best to say nothing about the dark cell. But, come now, poor
lad, try and rest a bit. Lean against me."

"Did Ruth send me a message?"

"She sent you her love."

"Did she wear a blue gown?" I continued, hardly knowing what I said.

"Yes--and she was so lovely! But you mustn't speak any more; your poor
brain's all confused."

He lifted me, and let my flayed shoulders rest against him instead of
the wall. I closed my eyes.

"What about Enchmarsh's letter?" I asked suddenly.

"We needn't trouble about that till the evening. Go to sleep now."

God bless the good fellow! For the rest of that day he held me up
against him, soothed me when I was delirious, covered me with his own
coat when I was cold, and gave me to drink when I was consumed with
fever and thirst. During the afternoon I slept a little, and woke
refreshed, both in mind and body. I was still very weak, but felt myself
able to grapple with my letter to Enchmarsh, the writing of which must
not be delayed any longer.

My friend bought a sheet of Josh Parkins's paper. Parkins had been doing
a roaring trade that day, for his fellow-prisoners, discovering that
paper was to be had, were consumed with a desire to write love-letters.
Seeing his goods in such demand, he became autocratic, and raised his
prices. My sheet--a very dirty crumpled specimen--cost me exactly three
shillings, and I believe that the last piece went for a crown.

My friend had picked up a piece of stick, which would serve as a pen,
but we had no ink. So we used the only available substitute, of which,
thanks to the tortures I had lately undergone, there was no lack, and
when the ghastly crimson scrawl was finished my friend went in search of
our confederate.

He was a tall, wiry, sly-looking man, and did not prepossess me in the
least. But my friend insisted on his trustworthiness, and I asked him
how much he would charge for taking a letter with all possible speed to
Kitchenhour in Sussex.

He scratched his head, leered, and named an exorbitant price, quite
impossible for me to pay. I told him that he must ask less, and after a
great deal of wrangling he consented to serve me for half the money I
possessed, the other half to be made over to him on his return with an
answer to my letter. This would mean living on prison diet for a week or
more, but my appetite was gone, so I did not fear the ordeal, under
which many men had died.

"And 'ow shall oi get to Kitchenhour, mister? Oi've been in Ew'ust
village, and can find my way to't well enough from 'ere. But where's
Kitchen'am--Kitchenhour--or wotever yer calls it?"

"You leave the high-road just after you come to Mockbeggar," I cried
excitedly; "there's a clump of larches on the left-hand side of the way,
and a mavis sings there. You go on till you come to a stretch of down
all golden with furze, and you can see the Rother in the valley, and the
marshes, and the dykes, and--and----"

My voice trailed off in a sob of anguished longing, and I fell back,
hiding my face.

My friend tried to comfort me. "There, there! Perhaps you'll see it all
for yourself soon. But, come, tell Pearson where he's to go when he
leaves the down."

"You can see Kitchenhour from the down," I said brokenly; "it's the
stone house on the edge of Wet Level. You can't mistake it--and listen,"
I added, as he was about to take himself off, "you're to give that
letter into the Squire's own hand. No doubt he'll be in bed; he's broken
his leg. But never mind, insist on seeing him. And make all the haste
you can, and bring the answer to the yard grating, and--and remember,
it's a matter of deathly secrecy."

The fellow nodded and slouched away.

The next morning the prison gates opened to him, and he went out into
the sun and wind. My heart went with him, and all day long, while my
body lay agonised in the stifling heat, my heart was in the fields,
among the flowers, and the sobbing notes of stock-doves.



                              CHAPTER XIX

         OF THE METHODIST AND THE STRETCHED-OUT ARM OF THE LORD

The day of my trial was wet and windy. I drove through the streets in a
closed hackney, with the blinds down. Fortunately I had a sound
constitution, and was almost recovered from my weakness and fever,
though I was still far from well. I had never been in a Court of Justice
before, and the strangeness of the situation, together with the stare of
a thousand eyes, threw me completely out of countenance. I entered the
dock pale and trembling, catching my breath, and clutching my throat as
if I already felt a rope there.

My trial had evidently created much interest, for the court was
thronged. Here and there among the press I saw the severe black garb and
stern ascetic face of some minister of Bethel or Salem come to watch the
fate of a fellow-Methodist. Women were there, attracted, no doubt, by my
romantic story, of which, it appears, several new and enlarged editions
were being circulated in Maidstone. I saw many parsons of the
Established Church, among them Curate Kitson and the Rector of All
Saints', Hastings. Some faces were hostile, some were friendly, some
mocking, some curious, all interested.

Not far off were my father, my mother, and Clonmel. It seemed impossible
that barely five months had elapsed since I left Brede Parsonage, but I
could see how that short time of stress and trouble had altered me by
the looks of my family as they stared at my white scarred face.

I saw Peter Winde among the crowd, with Sir Miles and Lady Wychellow.
But my eyes did not rest on them; they wandered anxiously, till at last
they fell on Ruth. She was pale, but her lips were very red, and her
eyes bright as December stars. She did not smile or wave her hand, but
her eyes, with her love sitting in them, looked into mine, and our
hearts met.

She was so sweet and childlike in her wide hat and muslin gown. I
noticed that many girls and women cast envious glances at her as she
sat, a dainty bunch of green, beside Lady Wychellow. Surely they would
have laughed loud in mockery and disbelief had they been told that she
loved and was loved by the felon in the dock, whose coarse blue shirt
was so ragged that one saw his skin through the rents, whose hair was
all matted over his eyes, and whose fierce black brows were bent in a
perpetual frown.

The judge was a massively-built, unctuous-looking fellow, with large
white hands, and a multitude of rings. Though slow of speech and
movement, he was evidently sound of thought, for his remarks showed
penetration and a firm grasp of the case. The prosecuting counsel was a
man of refined presence and graceful manner. He had a wonderfully mellow
voice, and I liked the straightforward glance of his eyes.

From the first I saw that everything was hopeless. As I listened to
counsel's opening speech I realised that had I been an unprejudiced
spectator I should have at once set down the prisoner at the bar as
guilty; the case was so clearly made out against me. Not one damning
circumstance was forgotten--the corpse, the pistol, my flight, my lies,
my confession that John Palehouse and I had been alone the whole
morning; all these facts were laid calmly, concisely before the court.
Counsel dwelt on my guilty looks, on my alternate refuges in lies and
silence; he pointed out how I had started, coloured, and nearly swooned
at the sight of the pistol, and though continuing to deny my guilt, had
been unable to account for my weapon or prove my innocence. In all this
he was strictly fair; there was no exaggeration, no misrepresentation.
But the calm words were deadly, and when at length he sat down, I saw by
the faces round me that my life was not considered worth a farthing's
purchase.

The evidence of Curate Kitson and of Pitcher and Green was then heard,
and though I had a right to cross-examine the witnesses I did not avail
myself of it. Where would be the use? I could prove nothing. After Mr.
Green had finished stammering and stirring up the devil in counsel,
Peter Winde was called to identify my pistol as his gift. Poor fellow,
how his voice trembled! Then the Cranbrook doctor entered the
witness-box, and a long discussion followed as to the cause of the
bruise on the deceased's forehead. Counsel asked if the prisoner's story
of the fall into Plurenden Quarry was possible, considering the nature
of the injuries, and the surgeon replied that there were on the body no
traces whatever of a fall--the neck was not broken, there were no
fractures elsewhere, and no bruises except that on the temple. Again I
was asked if I wished to cross-examine the witness, and again I shook my
head. Then, as it was nearly five o'clock, the court adjourned, and I
was led from the dock. The next day Sir Miles Wychellow was to give
evidence; I should make a pitiful effort at my own defence, should see
the judge put on the black cap, hear the sentence read. Then--I put up
my hands to my throat and shuddered.

The wind was still high, but the rain-clouds had rolled away, and the
sky was blue, and bright with the golden glow of afternoon. The people
thronged me as I stood waiting for the hackney which was to take me back
to jail, and suddenly Clonmel came elbowing his way through the crowd,
followed by my father, with my mother on his arm.

"Parson Lyte's coach for the George!" yelled my brother. Then his eyes
met mine, and he grinned.

My father stood close by me, but with averted face. My mother's sleeve
brushed my arm. She also was looking the other way, but every now and
then I saw her neck twitch with the longing she had to turn it.
Something snapped in my breast.

"Mother!" I said jerkily and hoarsely.

She turned.

"H--Humphrey--how your face is scarred!"

That was all. Her coach rolled up, and my father helped her into it.
Then he and Clonmel jumped in beside her and shut the door. They rattled
off over the cobbles, and I was soon on my way back to jail.

During the coal-dark August night, while men slept and shivered round
me, I lay awake preparing myself for death. I knew that the time of
grace allowed me after the sentence was passed would be all too short,
and I should not even have the consolation of being put in a separate
cell. The condemned cells were full of the overflowings of the
infirmary, of men whom disease, not Mr. Justice, had sentenced. I should
have to make what preparation I could among the drunkenness, the
lewdness and the violence of the felon's ward.

So I prayed God to help me to forgive the men who had shamed my body and
trodden down my soul, and to forgive me, who needed forgiveness more
than they all. Then my mind wandered--ever since my punishment in the
dark cell I had had delirium at nights--and I thought that I was lying
in a great field, bathed in misty starlight, that my suffering and
degradation had been a dream. But I woke from this blessed state of
semiconsciousness, and realised that I lay with other wretches in a foul
hole where most men would not suffer their cattle to sleep.

I thought of the prisoner who had a few days ago gone out into the fresh
air and sun and rain. I wondered where he was. He had no doubt delivered
my letter, and was hastening back with the reply. Perhaps he was at this
very moment walking through the dark mysterious lanes, his nostrils
sweet with the smell of the country at night, of sleeping earth and
dew-wet grass, his ears thrilling with mysterious night sounds--the
flutter of birds suddenly awakened, the howl of a little breeze
imprisoned in a cave of bramble and crack-willow, the splash of hidden
water falling, the rustle of bracken under a rabbit's feet. Or perhaps
he lay asleep in a sheltered field, where the mushrooms spread their
tents, and where the thrushes would wake him at the fading of the stars.

Towards morning I slept, and dreamed a dream which I am sure was not
born of memory. For I dreamed that I was a little child again, and that
I sat on my mother's knee, while she combed my hair in the firelight. I
woke as a neighbouring clock struck four, and knew, as I saw the ghastly
yellow splash the pale sky outside the grating, that the day of fate had
broken.

I could eat no breakfast. I felt sick and faint, and my hands shook. It
was strange that I should recoil at the touch of death, I who had so
often prayed for it. How I should have rejoiced as a boy at Brede
Parsonage if God had said, "This night thy soul shall be required of
thee!" All was changed now; life was no longer a drink of deadly wine.
Besides, there is a difference between dying quietly in one's bed, when
the body is so sick and tired that it would fain be dissolved, and
having one's life choked out of one by hemp and a fellow-creature's
hands, when the body is sound and warm and full of vigour.

But I forced myself to be calm. I would not meet death like a coward,
when the wretched dregs of human kind faced him with a song and a snap
of their fingers, joked with the hangman, and laughed in their throes. I
walked quietly out of the jail between two warders, and took my seat in
the hackney without blanching. The fellows well knew what was passing in
my mind; they were familiar with pitiful efforts at self-control, which
too often broke down ignominiously.

"There's an infernal jamb in the streets," said one to the other.

"What's up?"

"Can't say. Looks as if it had something to do with----" and he leered
at me.

The streets were certainly very crowded; all round me rose and fell the
hum of people's voices. Had they come to hear me sentenced? To see
whether I blanched or trembled, threw up my arms, or called on God? The
nearer we drew to the assize courts the louder swelled the noise, and as
we entered the High Street there was a sudden burst of cheering. I
stared in amazement from one to the other of my guards. The cheering
redoubled, and I made a dash at the blind to pull it aside but was
promptly seized and flung back into my seat.

When we came to the court we found a dense crowd assembled, who thronged
us as we alighted.

"Three cheers for the Methodee! Good luck to yer, me lad. May the judge
rot if you're scragged!"

I was about to question the warders, who hustled me into the building,
but before I could speak the door of an ante-room opened, and Sir Miles
dashed out.

"Humphrey, was it you who arranged all this?"

"I? Arranged what?"

"Egad! This _coup de thtre_. Haven't you heard anything about it?"

"No. One doesn't hear news in prison."

"It's all over the town. Wait a moment, warders; I must have a word with
the prisoner. Miss Mary Winde has come up from Sussex with the Ewehurst
constable, and Parson Taylor of Northiam, and--gad! Humphrey, you don't
mean to say you know nothing of this?"

"Nothing--absolutely nothing, I swear it! For God's sake, tell me more!"

"Well, Miss Mary has brought Shotover with her."

"Shotover!"

"Yes. Little Ruthie's brother--with gyves too! The very devil's in it.
And hark ye here, young man, a letter has been found, and Enchmarsh of
Kitchenhour has been arrested, and--he has killed himself. Here, jailer,
quick! Some water!"

I had staggered back against him, and would have fallen had he not
caught me in his arms. They made me swallow some water, and I recovered
sufficiently to be able to stand and speak.

"Tell me about Enchmarsh--and Shotover--where is he?"

"In the doctor's hands, spitting blood and dying fast."

"Dying! Good God!"

"It's the best thing he can do for himself, poor wretch. He has been
arrested for murder on his own confession. Young man"--laying his hand
on my arm--"is it true that you have been shielding him?"

I stared at him blankly, hardly realising what he said.

"Is it true?" he repeated almost fiercely.

"Take me into court," I cried, turning to the warders; and much to my
relief they led me away.

"Sir Miles wants me to give him facts; it's always 'facts,'" I informed
them, not knowing what I said.

On my appearance in dock there was a slight burst of cheering, which was
subdued by angry cries of "Silence!" I scarcely noticed it. In fact, I
noticed nothing but two faces--Mary Winde's and Ruth's. Mary's cheeks
were flushed with tears; Ruth sat with her head against Lady Wychellow's
shoulder; her face was tear-stained, but her eyes were dry.

It was all like a dream. I listened with closed eyes and throbbing
temples while counsel rose and addressed the court.

"My lord," he said, "I have to address your lordship to-day under most
unusual circumstances. Since I opened the case on behalf of the Crown
yesterday, I have become acquainted with certain facts which I consider
myself bound to examine closely. The reason for my bringing them to your
lordship's notice at this stage of the trial is that if your lordship is
satisfied, as I must say I am, that they point to the prisoner's
innocence, it will be desirable to sift them thoroughly, and possibly to
ask the jury to say that Lyte is not guilty."

There was a murmur in the court, but the ushers silenced it, and when
quiet was once more established counsel continued rapidly:

"I will hand your lordship a letter which was found in the possession of
a man who appears to have been entrusted with it by the prisoner, and I
can prove by the evidence of the person who found it that it is in the
prisoner's handwriting."

The judge, who had listened attentively, interrupted for the first time.

"What, then?" he said abruptly. "How can the prisoner's letter be
evidence in his favour?"

"It is the prosecution which produces it, my lord," said counsel
blandly, "and if your lordship will allow me to read it, it will be
found to contain references to another document which your lordship will
perhaps assist us to obtain in the interest of justice."

Then a filthy scrap of paper, grimy, damp, and scrawled over with blood,
was passed up to the judge, who held it between his finger-tips, glanced
at it and laid it on the desk before him. There was no need for me to
look at it more closely, I knew it only too well. I trembled from head
to foot; a mad, desperate, animal joy contended in my heart with a
sorrow and a compassion which I thank God were real enough. I was
cleared; my name was clean; my body would soon be free. Yet, on the
other hand, Shotover was arrested, and Ruth was swallowing the dregs of
humiliation and grief. But not through me. There lay the whole point of
the matter. It was not I who had spoken; it was God. That I should save
my life by sending Ruth's brother to the gallows was horrible,
loathsome, too dreadful to think of, but that God should deliver me
without any act or word of mine, with His mighty hand and His
stretched-out arm, was a matter for awe, bowed head, and thankful heart.

The judge had evidently read some of my note, for he was eyeing me
inquisitively and, as I thought, interrogatively. At any rate, I
ventured to speak, and said in a low voice:

"I wrote that letter."

"Perhaps, my lord," said counsel quickly, "that admission will suffice
for the present, if I may read a copy of the letter which I have here. I
can bring forward more formal proof at a later stage."

The judge acquiesced, and counsel read:


_To Harold Enchmarsh, Esq., Kitchenhour, Sussex._

"The confession you wrote for me in Plurenden Quarry is by this time
very torn and faded. It is still legible, and I can still hang you with
it, but I wish you to write me out another, fairly, in ink, for I have
revealed our secret to a third party, with a view to protecting the
Shotovers from your blackguardism after I am dead. The fellow is to be
trusted. You know him. His name is Gerald Frome, and he was once Vicar
of Rowfant. If you refuse to do as I wish I shall immediately throw up
the whole concern, so send me the confession at once by the bearer of
this. I shall give it to Frome, and if you ever renew your engagement
with Miss Shotover, or bring about her brother's arrest or death, he
will see you hanged for the murder of John Palehouse.

                                                     "HUMPHREY LYTE."


There was nothing for me to say. Counsel, judge, and jury seemed to be
pursuing their own course without reference to me. The first-named had
evidently made careful plans as to the procedure he should follow. He
continued his speech, and I soon became aware that if not speaking to
me, he was speaking at me, and expected my intervention.

"I am not going to say just yet how the letter came into our hands; I
shall leave that to my witness, Mary Winde. There is, however, one link
in the chain apparently missing, and I think, my lord, that the prisoner
alone can supply it. The letter refers to a document alleged to
incriminate Enchmarsh directly. If that exists the prisoner can produce
it or can give us some clue as to where it is. If necessary we can have
him searched again, an operation which has perhaps not been performed as
carefully as it might."

I went from red to pale. I had grown so accustomed to the zealous
guarding of my secret that I could not even now pluck forth my
deliverance.

"Unless the prisoner can show the court this confession," pursued
counsel, in the tone of one giving disinterested advice on a
comparatively unimportant matter, "the authenticity of the letter may be
doubted."

I saw Ruth lift her head, and a quick glance of anxiety flashed into her
eyes. I realised that now Shotover was arrested and Enchmarsh dead, an
attempt at concealment on my part would do more harm than any revelation
I might choose to make. So I thrust my hand into my pocket, and drew out
that paper of many vicissitudes.

It was barely legible. It was torn almost in half, smudged, and soiled.
Counsel gave a shrug as he took it into his hands.

"I don't wonder the prisoner asked for a new one," he remarked. Then he
read it:


"I, Harold Enchmarsh, hereby declare that I murdered my cousin, John
Palehouse, by striking him on the temple with a pistol, in Plurenden
Quarry, on the fourteenth of July, 1799."


There was sensation in court, and some promptly suppressed cheering. I
saw the colour mount and glow on Ruth's cheeks. Then suddenly everything
was swallowed up in mist, and I reeled.

"You may sit down, Lyte," said the judge, his voice seeming to come from
a long way off; and I sank on the bench behind me, dazed and weak.

Counsel made an observation to the effect that he had persons present
who knew Enchmarsh's handwriting, but no one seemed to think that the
confession was likely to prove a forgery, so he continued his narrative.

Shortly after the adjournment of the court on the preceding day he had
received a message from his attorney telling him that four witnesses for
the defence had arrived from Sussex with evidence that might alter the
whole course of the trial. Impressed by the short summary of the
evidence given in the attorney's note, and considering himself bound by
all the traditions of the Bar to see that justice was done in an
undefended case, counsel had taken the unusual step of having three of
the witnesses--Mary Winde, a farmer's daughter from near Ticehurst;
James Apps, constable of Ewehurst; and the Reverend Barnabas Taylor,
Rector of Northiam--brought before him at his lodgings. The fourth
witness--the Reverend Guy Shotover, curate of Ewehurst was too ill to be
interviewed. The accounts given by the three witnesses satisfied counsel
that the murderer of John Palehouse was not Lyte, but one Harold
Enchmarsh, Squire of Kitchenhour, who took poison shortly after his
arrest.

Mary Winde then entered the witness-box, and the court listened, gaping,
to her evidence. As for me, I could only sit with closed eyes, and trace
the hand of the Lord in all that had taken place.

The prisoner Pearson must have left jail with the seeds of typhus on
him, for, smitten with disease, he had wandered from his track, and Mary
had found him unconscious in Shoyswell Lane. None of the restoratives
that she and her maid applied could unseal his lips, which long before
the doctor arrived had stiffened into death. Mary searched his pockets
for some clue as to his identity and found the letter! She read it, and
at once realised the following facts: I was innocent; I was keeping
silence to shield one or both of the Shotovers; Enchmarsh was the real
murderer. At first she thought of hastening to the nearest constable and
demanding Enchmarsh's arrest, but on reflection decided to go first to
Guy Shotover. "Arrest or death!" She realised that Shotover must have
committed some crime for which Enchmarsh could hang him, but as to
which, in order to save his own skin, he had promised to hold his
tongue. So she saddled her horse, rode off to Ewehurst, and found the
curate in his study. She told him what had happened, that Humphrey Lyte
was going to his death in order to shield him and his sister, showed him
the letter, and begged him to explain it.

She described in a few words the interview which followed, but my
imagination filled in the blanks. I saw the little lamp-lit room, where
Ruth and I had so often sat and played with her black kitten; I saw
Guy's face, haggard, terrified; I saw Mary's, resolute, passionate. I
heard him lie, vacillate, prevaricate; I heard her insist, command,
implore. The coward was brought to bay--by a girl. His mind, once set on
the right track, leapt to the right conclusion--Enchmarsh had murdered
John Palehouse, but had bargained for his life with the only witness of
his crime. What that bargain was the curate also knew. He knew that it
was his own worthless life--made a burden even to himself by remorse and
fear--that stood between an innocent man and his liberty. How that man
had come to know his secret, the ghost which he thought walked only in
his own dreams and Ruth's, he could but guess.

Mary had no mercy on him; she wrung his confession from him. Then she
did what only a woman would have the tact, the enterprise, the
fearlessness to do; she appealed to his courage. She bade that miserable
coward be brave, be a hero, counteract by speedy sacrifice the evil he
had done, make atonement for his unworthy, craven life by a glorious act
of oblation. She pleaded, and his countenance changed; the dead spirit
quickened in him; the dumb devil fled; he spoke; he said, "Let me go to
the constable and give myself up."

I can only guess the workings of his soul. No doubt it was already weary
of the struggle. His remorse had barely been appeased by the breaking
off of his sister's engagement. The sin was clamouring to be confessed
for its own vileness' sake. And that night, when he realised how a
fellow-man was facing that from which he had fled, and was going to
death for his sake and Ruth's--when a woman knelt at his feet, and
pleaded with shaking voice and tear-blind eyes, the last redoubt of
cowardice and selfishness gave way, and the true, noble, selfless man of
him ruled in his heart.

Be causes what they may, the effects were these: He and Mary went
hand-in-hand to the Ewehurst constable, and he gave himself up.

The constable was then called into the witness-box. He said that he had
been routed out of his bed at one o'clock in the morning by Miss Winde
and the curate-in-charge of the parish. The latter stepped towards him
and cried:

"I have come to give myself up; I have committed a murder." Mr. Shotover
looked extremely disturbed and ill, but gave a clear account of his
crime and of the motives which had induced him to confess.

Mary then showed the constable her letter, and asked him to arrest
Enchmarsh. Apps told her that the evidence was very slight, as the
letter might be a forgery, for all they knew. At all events, there must
be considerable delay before a warrant could be procured, as the nearest
magistrate lived more than six miles off. However, after some thought,
he decided to arrest the Squire on the evidence in his possession, and,
moreover, admitted that in a case of felony where he had good reason to
believe the person accused was guilty, he could proceed without a
warrant. So he and Mary set off for Kitchenhour, leaving Guy in custody.

Counsel took the opportunity to say that Apps was to be commended for
assuming this responsibility, but I gathered that this was chiefly
because the event had justified a piece of independent action somewhat
rash in one in his position.

"Miss Winde didn't come inside the house," said Constable Apps, "and it
wur an unaccountable long time afore I cud knock anyone up. I wur tald
that the master wur too tedious sick to see anybody whatsumever, but I
said as how I'd come in the num o' the law, and the sarvent-lad let me
pass. Mus' Enchmarsh wur abed and asleep, but he wakes up when I comes
into his room, and when he sees me and hears what I've got to say, he
starts cussing and damning at such a rate as I wonders the Old Un
didn't fly away wud un then and there. When falkses asservates their
innercence wud too many swears, I'se allus a bit slow at believing um,
and I tald the Squire as how he must consider himself under arrest, and
tried to put on the darbies. He struggled like a loonatic, but a sick
man un't much of a bruiser, me lord, and I got un fast. Then I showed
un Miss Winde's letter, and, sakes! I thought he wur going to have a
fit, surelye! 'Where did yer git this, yer son of a harlot?' And when I
tells un, he rolls in the bed, and screams and cusses like all Bethlem
Hospital. Then, right on a sudden, he lies still, gasping like a fish,
and I runs to the door and calls the sarvent-lad to go and fetch another
constable from Norjum and a doctor from wheresumever he cud get one.
When I turns round I sees Mus' Enchmarsh riz up on his elber, a-putting
of a bottle back on the table by his bedside. 'I had to take some
doctor's stuff,' sez he; 'I'm feeling that larmentable.' Then I looks to
see what it is he's bin swallering, and I sees on the bottle,
'Pison! Only to be taken externally!' and he'd swallered the whole damn
concern!

"Then I got in a tedious taking, and ran down and called the lad and
Miss Winde, and we got some mustid and water, and tried to get the
Squire's mouth open to make un swaller it; but though we near brake
his jaw, we cudn't get un t'unlock his teeth--and soon he goes all
stiff-like and retches, and Miss Winde, she cries, 'Apps, go and fetch
Parson Taylor from Norjum!' So I sends off the lad, and good old Parson
comes running up in less than no time, and finds Mus' Enchmarsh in the
sweat o' death."

Parson Taylor knew the main facts of my arrest and trial, and being
convinced as to the authenticity of the letter, at once realised the
importance of inducing Enchmarsh to confess his guilt in terms. The
Squire was dying fast, writhing on the tumbled bed, tearing the
bed-clothes with his teeth; in his anguish he forgot that his admissions
would save the hated Lyte, and allowed Taylor to drag from him a
half-terrified, half-defiant avowal that he had killed Palehouse--"and
I'm sorry I gave him such an easy death." A few minutes later he was
seized with violent convulsions, and went to his account.

"Doctor Hewland comes up from Tice'ust," continued the constable, "but
he wur a sight too late, and cud only tell us as how the Squire wur
dead, which we knewed well enough. Then I and Miss Winde we goes back to
Ewe'ust, and, Lord bless us! we finds Mus' Shotover a-lying on the
lock-up floor, wud the blood a-streaming from his mouth. So off my lad
has to go for Doctor Hewland, and catches the pore gent just getting
into his bed at five o'clock in the morning. Doctor Hewland brings the
curate round, but sez he'll never live to be tried. Still, Mus' Shotover
wur mad and frantic to be up at Maidstone to give evidence, and sez I,
'No doubt as he'll be useful.' So we ships un off in yester morning's
coach, and kept un all cockered up at the inn last night. But this
morning as soon as he gets to court he begins to spit blood and falls
flat. So there he is, lying in one o' the side rooms, and the doctor
here dan't think as how he'll ever be in the witness-box--or in the
dock or at the gallers, neither!"

The constable's evidence was finished. He had had to be checked once or
twice in his garrulity, but had persevered nevertheless in telling what
was probably the most sensational story it would ever fall to his lot to
repeat. When he had done, there were murmurings, and cries of "Silence!"

The Rector of Northiam--a good old man and a lover of the Word--then
entered the witness-box and confirmed all Apps had said. He told the
court that he had been roused at about three o'clock in the morning, and
summoned to Enchmarsh's death-bed. The constable gave him the facts of
the case, and showed him Mary Winde's letter. The effect this scrap of
torn paper had produced on Enchmarsh, and the crime to which it had
driven him, left in the witness little doubt as to its authenticity. But
he at once saw the need for more trustworthy evidence, and conjured the
Squire not to enter his Maker's presence with a lie on his lips, but if
he were guilty of the murder to confess it and save his soul. Enchmarsh
was not the man to care much about his soul, but he was prostrated by
horror and agony, and Mr. Taylor managed to wring from him two separate
statements, which he wrote down then and there in his pocket-book, and
which he now read to the court: "I killed John Palehouse, and I'm sorry
I gave him such an easy death," and "I brained that fool of a Ranter,
but I shan't live to be hanged for it." He also once cried out in his
throes: "This is hellish, but it's not so hellish as hanging!"

The good parson came down from the witness-box, and I have only a dim
recollection of what followed. A mist swam before my eyes. Every now and
then it parted and showed me a face--the judge's, counsel's, Mary
Winde's, or Ruth's. My trial was by no means ended. The judge spoke in
low tones to the Sheriff, and counsel had a discussion with his
attorney. I was asked by some one who spoke to me over the edge of the
dock--I think it was the prosecuting attorney--if I could explain the
presence of my pistol in Plurenden Quarry, but I only shook my head.
Then after a vague while I realised that Gerald Frome had been brought
into court, and called into the witness-box. I heard very little of his
evidence, though every now and then a word, a disconnected phrase,
drifted on to the ocean where my mind wandered derelict. I was full of
strange delusions. I thought it was I who had betrayed Ruth's secret,
who had brought about the arrest of her brother. I moaned, twisted,
struggled, and would have cried out had not one of the warders put his
hand over my mouth.

After Frome had left the court, I recovered my faculties to some extent,
and saw that counsel had once more risen.

"My lord," he said, "the evidence we have just heard is of such a nature
that I feel compelled to take the responsibility of asking the
jury--with your lordship's sanction--to acquit the prisoner. It is true
that one important matter has not been cleared up--I refer to the
finding of Lyte's pistol in Plurenden Quarry. But apparently there would
be opportunities, of which Enchmarsh no doubt availed himself, for
abstracting it with a view to casting suspicion on the wrong person. Be
that as it may, Lyte's innocence seems beyond question--or, at all
events, no jury would convict him now--and I cannot but express my
belief that by a timely discovery of the true facts of the case, the
prisoner has been saved from death on the gallows, and myself from being
a participant in a miscarriage of justice."

He sat down amidst murmurs of applause, and though I was too faint and
dazed to fully realise my good fortune, I felt grateful to the man who
throughout the trial had acted so generously by me.

There was a brief silence, then the judge said with unction:

"Mr. Lyte, it is with the greatest satisfaction that I have watched the
progress of the trial during the last few hours. The law is merciful as
well as just, and rejoices to see innocence effectually vindicated.
Still, Mr. Lyte, you have yourself to thank for all you have suffered,
and I expect you are aware--and if not," he added sharply, "you must be
made aware--that in shielding both Shotover and Enchmarsh, you did not
act the part of a good citizen, whose duty it is to denounce the
criminal and to aid in furthering the ends of justice. You incurred a
heavy responsibility, and if not actually accessory after the fact to
two murders in such a sense as to render yourself amenable to the law,
you were most certainly privy to them, and did nothing to bring the
offenders to justice, which they have now apparently escaped. However, I
shall say no more on that head. You, gentlemen"--he turned to the
jury--"have heard all that has passed, and I feel sure you have done so
with satisfaction. It is for you to say that Mr. Lyte is 'Not Guilty.'"

There was subdued applause, then another silence, during which I sat too
weary even to thank God. The jury had not, of course, retired, and
suddenly I heard the clerk of the court put the question:

"Gentlemen, have you considered your verdict?"

"We find the prisoner not guilty."

"You say that he is not guilty, and that is the verdict of you all."

Then it was as if a black mist rushed on me, wrapped me round and
stifled me. I thought I was in the dark cell, and cried, "Water, for the
love of God!" then I knew no more.

"There, Lady Wychellow, lift his head a little higher. Now some more
brandy that's it!"

I opened my eyes and gazed round me. My head was on Lady Wychellow's
lap.

"Ruth," I murmured faintly.

"She is with her brother. There, do not knit your brows so. Close your
eyes, and don't fret."

I shut my eyes obediently, but I fretted hard. Where was I? What had
happened? Ah, I remembered I had betrayed Ruth. I had saved myself by
revealing her secret after having been faithful almost unto death. I
writhed my head on Lady Wychellow's knee and moaned.

"What's troubling you, dear lad?" asked a voice I knew to be Peter
Winde's.

"Ruth," I murmured, "I have betrayed Ruth--she told me a secret--I
revealed it to save my life!"

"No, no, lad. You're raving. You kept it to the end. Your poor mind's
been brooding so fiercely over this confidence that you've come to think
you've betrayed it. Nothing of the sort! Don't you remember how Mary
found your letter, how Shotover confessed, how Enchmarsh----"

I passed my hand over my forehead. Then I started up.

"Yes, I remember. Oh, Mr. Winde, am I free? Shan't I have to go back to
jail?"

I gripped his hands, and a shudder passed over me.

"No, poor fellow, your prison days are over, thank the Lord!"

"Where am I now?"

A voice from behind me answered:

"In one of the ante-rooms of the court, egad! You were carried here
after you fainted in the dock."

I turned round and saw Sir Miles Wychellow. I held out my hand to him;
he had been a good friend to me.

"Well, Don Quixote," he said huskily, "your campaign is over."

"Why do you call me Don Quixote?"

"Begad! Because Cervantes said, 'Don Quixote is a madman!'"

"You think I was mad to shield Shotover?"

"I don't think it was a particularly sensible thing to do."

"But I did it for Ruth's sake."

Peter Winde pressed my hand.

"I understand you, dear lad," he said kindly; "and God will accept your
sacrifice."

"Where's Mary?"

"She--she fell faint and ill, and went to rest at our inn. You shall go
there soon, but first you must speak a word of comfort to a poor soul
that's passing into God's presence sorely sin-stained."

"Shotover?"

"Yes. He's in the next room."

"Dying?"

"I'm afraid so. The doctor gives him no hope. He has been in a decline
since winter, and all the horror and excitement of the last two days
have brought on a terrible bleeding from the lungs. He's so weak that
the doctor won't allow him even to be moved to an inn. He'll die before
the stars come out."

"I will go to him--if you really think I can give him any comfort."

"I am sure you can. He has been asking for you. Poor fellow! He wants
your forgiveness."

I rose with difficulty to my feet.

"Gad! hadn't you better rest a while before seeing him?" said Sir Miles.

"I would rather go to him now."

Peter Winde made me lean on his arm, and led me into the next room.

Shotover lay on the floor, for the place was bare of furniture, but his
head was softly pillowed on his sister's lap, and her red hair fell and
touched his face, while in his own hair I saw her fingers twisted. She
lifted her eyes as I came in, and said:

"He's here."

"Come to my side and take my hand. . . . I'm dying, and I can't see.
. . . Are we alone?"

"Yes," for Peter Winde had stolen away.

"That's well. . . . I'm not going to thank you--I could never do it.
. . . It would take a lifetime, and I shall be dead in an hour. All I
want to do is--this!"

He took Ruth's hand, and laid it in mine.

My fingers closed round hers hungrily. Neither of us spoke. We were
united after long parting, and after much tossing had reached the haven
where we would be. Silently she laid her face against mine, and I kissed
her cheek and the tears upon it.

Guy turned his head on Ruth's knee, and sobbed.

"God forgive me for keeping you two apart! What a wreck I have made of
my life! What a wreck I have all but made of your love! . . . What shall
I answer God when He reckoneth with me? . . .' Love without sacrifice
is dead.' . . . Then I have never loved . . . and how shall I, having
never loved, enter the presence of God Who is Love?"

He groaned aloud, and I sought for words to comfort him. But I could
think of nothing save a sentence from the Communion service he used to
read so reverently. I laid my hand on his forehead, and whispered:

"'Not weighing our merits, but pardoning our offences, through Jesus
Christ our Lord.'"

After that he lay quieter, while a little breeze, sweet enough to have
been born in Sussex, blew in upon us.

"Ruth," said the dying man at last, and his voice was only a whisper, "I
want to hear you say that you forgive me."

"Why will you speak this way? What have I to forgive? Have I not thanked
God for you, and loved you most when you sinned most?"

"'Loved most when sinning most.' Such is the love of women. 'Not
weighing our merits, but pardoning our offences.' Such is the love of
God."

And with that he died.

We could not mourn for him who had escaped the gallows by dying in the
arms of those he loved. We closed his eyes and smoothed the hair upon
his forehead, and Ruth kissed his lips. The sunshine crept up to the
wall, and the little wind began to blow chilly. Still we sat hand in
hand, our tears falling like a benediction on the face of the dead man
upon our knees.



                               CHAPTER XX

                OF THE METHODIST AND THE RETURN WITH JOY

Before the evening was very far advanced I again became light-headed,
and as there was no room for me at the Black Ship, where the Wychellows
were staying, I was put to bed in a little chamber in the New Inn, where
Peter and Mary lodged. Peter sat with me through the whole night, during
which I tossed in almost ceaseless delirium. I was possessed once more
with the idea that I had betrayed Ruth's secret, and Peter afterwards
told me that he had often to hold me down in bed, so frantically did I
struggle to rise and fling myself at Ruth's feet, beseeching her
forgiveness. It is strange, but to this day this phantom haunts me, and
I constantly awake trembling, with the belief that I have been faithless
to the most solemn trust ever confided to me.

During my few clear intervals I lay quiet and contented, fingering the
sheets which were so clean and soft, or turning myself lazily on the
feather mattress. I felt that all this cleanliness, comfort, and peace
must be a dream, and that I should soon wake to find myself in jail,
amidst stench, dirt, airlessness, and crowded unwashed humanity.

About eleven o'clock I was conscious. Peter had just made me swallow
some milk, and had laid me back on the pillow as tenderly as my mother
might have done if she had cared for me. There was a knock at the door,
and I heard Mary's voice.

"Father, go downstairs and have some supper. I'll watch by Humphrey
while you are away."

Peter glanced at me as I lay with my cheek on my hand, breathing softly.

"He's quiet enough now, poor lad. Thank you, dearie, I'll go down if you
will stay here, and remember to call me if he gets excited."

She promised, and soon the door closed after him.

Mary pulled a chair up to the lamp, and drew a little book out of her
pocket. I lay watching her with drowsy half-closed eyes.

"Mary," I said suddenly.

"What is it, Humphrey? I thought you were asleep."

"I've never said 'Thank you' for all you've done for me."

"I did nothing--except what anyone else would have done in such a case.
It was God Who showed strength with His arm."

"I have thanked Him, but I have not thanked you. Come to the bedside,
and let me thank you as I ought."

Mary rose, and came mechanically to the foot of the bed.

"I tell you that you've nothing to thank me for," she exclaimed with
some abruptness. "Please do not say any more about it."

She drew aside the window curtain and looked out. The moon and stars
were shining. I sighed rapturously.

"Oh, Mary, how sweet it is to see the moon without any bars between. I
saw her last night in jail, and there was a great black bar across her
face."

"I'll leave the curtain drawn back if you like it."

"Thank you. What a glorious sky! Mary, don't you remember--the moon was
lying on her back just like that when you and I met for the first time,
when we ate our supper in the hayloft?"

"I am not likely to forget," she answered sharply. I had never seen Mary
in this strange abrupt mood before.

She evidently realised that she had spoken hastily, for she turned round
from the window with a smile.

"Let me arrange your pillows for you," she said in a voice that
trembled; "they are almost on the floor."

She shook and smoothed them. Her hand happened to touch my hair, and she
drew it hurriedly away.

"Now try to go to sleep. Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you, Mary."

She went and sat once more in the lamplight, and opened her book.
Suddenly I saw a tear fall on the page. I shut my eyes, and drew the
bedclothes high over my head.

A few minutes later I fell asleep, and dreamed that I was at Shoyswell,
and that Mary and I sat in the gable barn among the hay, as on the night
of our first meeting. We watched the moonlight in the fold and on the
fleeces of the sheep, while the little moon lay on her back between the
oasts, and Mary sang, "Glory to Thee, my God, this night."

The song died away in a sudden scream of wind outside the casement, and
I awoke. Mary had left the room; Peter sat in her place. The window was
still uncurtained, but the moon was gone, and there were raindrops on
the pane.

The next morning Peter urged me to stay in bed. But I was far too
restless, and I thirsted to see Ruth. So, after a little persuasion, he
gave in, and lent me some clothes to wear instead of my own rags and
tatters.

My heart was full of fears as I walked, leaning on a stick, up the High
Street to the sign of the Black Ship. It was true that Shotover had put
Ruth's hand in mine; he was free from all pride, and demanded of Ruth's
husband but one qualification--that he should love her even as she loved
him. Yet Sir Miles was different, and now Shotover was dead, he had the
direction of Ruth's affairs. I remembered how coldly he had looked on
our love when I was in prison, and my heart failed me.

I soon reached the inn, and asking for Miss Shotover, was shown into a
private sitting-room. A few minutes later the door opened, and I sprang
forward eagerly to meet--not Ruth--but Sir Miles! To my surprise, he
grasped my hand, and clapped me heartily on the shoulder.

"Begad, young man, you look better after a decent night's rest. Ruth
slept ill, and is only just risen, but she will be with us in a moment."

I gazed at him bewildered.

"Sir Miles, do you know what Guy Shotover said? what he did?"

The baronet looked graver.

"I know it, my lad. I was with the poor fellow a few minutes yesterday
morning, and, though every time he spoke he nigh suffocated, he begged
me not to keep you and Ruthie apart."

He was silent a moment, then continued:

"I don't deny, young man, that I had looked higher for the child. You're
gently born, I know, but I wanted her to lead an easy life, and have a
house of her own, and servants, and silk gowns, and such things as a
maid loves. But after what happened yesterday I have come to think
differently. A man who could suffer so much for her sake, even though he
be poor and friendless, is worthy of her--yes, lad, you've proved
yourself worthy;" and he clasped my hand once more.

I was too much moved to reply.

"And now," he continued, "I've some questions to ask you. When is the
marriage to be?"

I gnawed my lip angrily.

"It's all very well to speak of marriage when I haven't a penny in the
world."

"But, my dear fellow, now poor Shotover's dead, Ruthie has enough----"

"Sir Miles, if you think----"

"There, there--don't devour me quite. I didn't mean that you should live
on her money. What I wanted to say was this--that what she has and what
you can earn ought to be enough for you both."

"But I don't earn anything--at least, except as a farm-hand. Do you
refer to that?"

"I do. Gad! if you take Ruth on the roads with you, you will have to
sleep under a roof. You must lie at inns instead of in the fields, and
have rafters, not clouds, over your heads in time of rain."

"But I never thought of taking her on the roads. I can't imagine her
tramping the highways, and being hungry and tired. She has not been bred
for such a life."

"You mean to wait till you have a chapel somewhere--which may never be
at all. Egad! as you young people insist on being married, and as I'm
weak enough to allow it, there had better be no waiting; that would be
dreary enough for the girl as well as for you. Besides, she is less
unfit for the roads than you for Little Bethel. My lad, you're a vagrant
born, and I'd rather see Ruthie wearing out her soles on the highway
than you eating out your heart among streets, chimneys, and
conventionality. And she need not be hungry or tired, you can take care
of that."

"Then you mean," I cried, trembling, "that we can be married at once?"

"As soon as the banns are up--certainly."

I bowed my head. The room swayed and seemed full of fire.

"And Ruth?" I asked faintly. "What does she think of this?"

"What I think, lad, and what you think--and here she is to tell you the
same."

The door opened, and Ruth came in. Sir Miles slipped out, but before he
was well away I had caught her to my breast. She was all in white except
for a black ribbon twisted in her hair, in token of her love and sorrow
for the dear, unworthy Guy. She felt a thin, frail thing as I clasped
her to me, but the shadow was quite flown from her eyes.

It was some time before I recovered my health and strength, and I spent
the days of convalescence happily enough. Every one was good to me; it
was sweet to lie alone in the little room in the gable, and the hours
when I sat with Ruth's hand in mine and her cheek against mine were
unutterably blessed.

About a week after my release I was visited by my friend in adversity,
Gerald Frome. I had not forgotten him when God opened to me the prison
gates, but had written to him, and had sent him what little comforts I
could afford. As soon as he was set free he came to thank me, and to ask
me for my prayers. It was he, not I, who deserved thanks, for without
his care and tenderness, and the support of his arm in a terrible time,
I verily believe I should have died. I earnestly prayed our Lord to have
mercy on him, to save him from the old curse, and lead him to better
things. Three months later he died. Perhaps that was the only possible
answer to my prayer.

Peter and Mary Winde were unable to stay in Kent for my marriage. Peter
was obliged to be back at Shoyswell for the hop-picking, and he and his
daughter left Maidstone about a week after my release. It struck me that
Mary was eager to go.

On the evening of their departure I was sitting alone in the inn
parlour, when they came to see me.

"We start for Sussex in an hour," said Peter, "and before we go, we both
want to give a wedding present to the lad who has been a son and brother
to us."

"You have indeed been a father and a sister to me."

"We had some difficulty in choosing our gifts, for how can we give you
house-linen, china, damask or such things as are usually given at a
marriage, when the sky is to be your roof, the soil your floor, the
tree-stump your table, and when the landlady of the White Hart or the
Blue Boar will provide the sheets for your bed? So you must forgive me
if I make this my present."

He handed me a small tin box, which I found to contain a cheque for five
pounds, and while I was seeking in vain for words to thank him, Mary
gave me a Bible bound in black leather, and told me she had given one
like it to Ruth.

"So you can think of me when you read God's word."

"I shall always think of you, Mary," I cried, my tongue loosed at last;
"I shall always think of you, Mr. Winde. You are my truest, dearest
friends, of whom I am not worthy."

Tears choked my voice, and Peter shook my hand and laid the other hand
on my breast, and if I had not known him for a staunch Methodist, I
should have thought he had made the sign of the cross there.

Then I turned to Mary, and was seized with the old impulse. I did not
resist it this time, but caught her in my arms and gave her my first and
only kiss. I felt how hot her cheek was under my lips, and her hand in
mine was trembling and burning. When I drew back and looked into her
eyes, I could have sacrificed all I possessed not to have given that
kiss.

"The coach leaves the Star Inn at half-past eight," said Peter, breaking
the awkward silence. "Mary, you and I must be starting. You will come
with us, lad?"

"Certainly. Have you said good-bye to Ruth?"

"We've just been to the Black Ship. Come, Mary, run upstairs and put on
your hat and cloak, my dearie."

A few minutes later Peter, Mary, and I were on our way to the Star. The
sun had set, and the sky was iron grey, flushed in the west. We had not
long to wait till the coach was ready to start. Then a hasty pressure of
hands, and good wishes called on the night air, while the Maidstone
Rocket rattled over the courtyard stones.

I walked back to my inn with a slow, grave step, and sat for some time
brooding alone; but at ten o'clock I went to see Ruth, and forgot all my
depression.

After that the days flew quickly, till our wedding morning, the
twentieth of September, broke at last. We were to be married very early,
for we wished to leave Maidstone by the nine o'clock coach. This would
reach the cross-roads of Three Chimneys at noon. Then my wife and I
would walk to Ewehurst to superintend the selling of the Parsonage
furniture and livestock, and that tramp through the Kentish and Sussex
lanes should be our honeymoon.

I rose at five and dressed all trembling. My heart was full of a joy as
pure and an awe as sweet as that with which it had throbbed on the
morning of my confirmation or of my first sacrament. The streets were
dim with morning fog, which did not reach as far as the housetops, so
that from my window in the gable I looked down on a creamy, opaque sea.
Once out of doors, the thick yellowness was all round me, and I groped
my way with difficulty to All Saints' Church.

Inside the church everything was very dark, and I had to call up a
sleepy old verger to draw up the blinds and light a few lamps that
parson might see to read the service.

I was early, and knelt for some time alone in one of the worm-eaten
pews. A robin was twittering outside, and I thanked God for that little
song of hope. Ruth arrived at last with Sir Miles and Lady Wychellow. My
bride wore no jewels or brocades, lace or veiling, only a simple muslin
gown, with roses at her breast, and a chip hat tied with broad ribbons
under her chin. She was, and looked, a child, but sorrow had crowned her
with an early tender womanhood. I kissed her silently, and we knelt in
the old pew side by side.

On the stroke of seven, parson bustled in, his surplice crackling with
starch. He was a brisk, excitable little man, and evidently enjoyed the
romance of a wedding at such an early hour. The service was soon over,
and Ruth and I came hand-in-hand from the communion rails, wedded
husband and wife, "for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, till death us do part."

The fog still lay thick upon the streets, but the rays of the risen sun
made crimson smears on its yellowness. We went to the Black Ship Inn,
where a simple wedding-breakfast was prepared, and I do not think that
Ruth and I spoke a word the whole of our way. After breakfast we said
good-bye to the Wychellows, for we were to walk to the coach alone. The
good baronet and his wife knew that we needed no company in our
happiness.

On reaching the Star we found we had nearly half an hour to wait before
the coach started, but it is strange how quickly the time passed, though
we did little more than stand hand-in-hand and watch the clouds in their
lazy drift. Then "Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen!" cried the
guard, and all was bustle and confusion. The next moment the horses had
plunged forward as the ostlers let go their heads, and we were lurching
and rolling out of the yard and down the street.

Maidstone was soon behind us; the jail, with all its hideousness of sin
and sorrow, was like a dream from which we wake shuddering and thanking
God that it is day. My past life seemed to me then as a baptism of
tears, from which I had come strengthened, healed, and purified.

Through hopfields and orchards, heavy with their September riches,
through cornfields where reapers bent whistling over their toil, where
scythes swished and hones sang. Through Shepway, Wormlake, Stallance,
and Motynden, and thus to Headcorn, where we stopped to water the
horses. Then on past Great Love, Hungerden, and merry little
Shepherdswell, till suddenly the coach drew up at the cross-roads of
Three Chimneys, and the next moment Ruth and I were left standing beside
the bundle that held our chattels, watching a cloud of dust spin away
towards Cranbrook.

We were at the same cross-roads where the constable and I had stopped
the Maidstone coach barely two months ago. Then I wore gyves on my
wrists, now my only shackles were Ruth's soft hands, clasped over mine
as she put her lips to my face.

"Humphrey--husband!"

I could not answer for gladness, but kissed her mouth and took her hand,
and led her down the lane.

We had a long tramp in front of us, but heat and weariness seemed to
have taken fright at our love, and to flee before our face. We walked
gaily hand-in-hand, singing like children. At Dockenden we halted, and
went into a field through which ran a little stream. By the side of this
stream we ate our mid-day meal of bread and cheese, and drank of the
delicious water, Ruth drinking from my hands. Then suddenly my heart
reproached me.

"Little girl, you have been gently bred, and here am I taking you to
tramp the roads with me!"

"Faith! That's just what I love, Humphrey."

"But you are too sweet and delicate to be a common mumper's wife."

"What nonsense you talk! As if you were a common mumper!"

"You will often be tired."

"I shall not mind with you beside me."

"You will have a frugal board and a hard bed."

"I shall not mind with you to share them."

"Ruth, how can you sacrifice so much for a fellow like me?"

"Lud! I'd sacrifice the world for a fellow like you. But come, Humphrey,
why should you and I reason together in this way? When I promised to
share your life, I didn't mean only the sweetness and the sunshine of
it, but also the bitterness and the rain. Now, let's hurry on, or we
shall never reach Ewehurst to-night."

As it happened, we did not reach Ewehurst that night, for in spite of
Ruth's words we loitered on our way, and night fell as we reached Crit
Hall. We did not care. Love prefers starlight to sunlight. Our tongues
were loosed, and we talked of many things--of our first meeting, of
Shoyswell, the Windes, and of John Palehouse. Then we talked of Guy, and
our voices fell to whispers.

On and on, past Beretilt and Four Wents, across the Furnace Stream,
through the uncanny shades of Mopesden Wood. We had left the road, for
the grass was softer than the marl to our feet.

"Ruth," I said, "we must be nearing Sussex."

The night was very wonderful. The great flat fields lay round us in a
stillness broken by the sough of the wind through the grass and spurge.
Evening moths, fat and white, fluttered heavily in and out of the fennel
and chervil, waving like fragile spooks in the light of the first stars.
It was a perfect ghost time. We found it hard to believe that those
tall, pale forms which appeared and disappeared in the dark were only
the giant hemlock as the wind waved them in and out of the moonlight. An
owl raised his note of sadness, the whirr of bats' wings troubled the
brooding air. Far away at Soul's Green a bell was tinkling, now clear,
now soft, as the wind swept it, and every now and then an unusually
strong puff brought the bleating of some outcast from the fold.

"Ruth," I cried, "how sweet the country is to a man who has been in
prison!"

We tramped on, and passed a group of cottages known as Delmonden. Their
little windows shed oblongs of light upon our path, and by that light I
saw the tears hanging in Ruth's eyes like stars.

"Wife," I said, "directly we are in Sussex I shall kiss you."

"But how will you know when we are in Sussex? We are nowhere near the
Rother."

"But the Kent Ditch, dear. We shall cross the Kent Ditch--and then I
shall kiss you."

Only a few yards further on we came to a reedy channel, where the wind
swept the osiers with a moaning sound.

"There is no bridge," said Ruth.

"I'm glad there is no bridge," said I. And I caught her up in my arms,
and waded with her across the Kent Ditch, and clambered on to the shore
of my goodly heritage.

We were in a hop-garden, and the wind gently bowed the overweighted
vines, while their steamy scent crept into my nostrils, soothing and
sweet. The night was very clear, or rather let me say the morning, for
it was past one, and the autumn lay an hour old on the breast of the
sky, swaddled in stars.

"Wife!" I cried, and clasped her to me, and kissed her again and again.
It seemed as if I should never have my fill of kisses.

When at last I drew back my head, she stole her arms round me, and
looked up into my face. Two tears crept down her cheeks; one fell on her
lip, and I kissed it away. The wind lifted a sob, and swept upon us from
the huddling fields of Kent, and blew a strand of Ruth's hair across my
mouth. I held it there while the blast sobbed again--blustered--and was
still. Far, far away, a shooting star crossed the sky above Shoyswell,
and I saw it sink among the woods like a burning eye.



                                THE END


                      Printed in Great Britain at
      _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth_. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.



Transcriber's note:

The edition used as base for this book contained the
following errors, which have been corrected:

Page 94 -- 'should'nt' => 'shouldn't':
"Then why aren't you in bed? Those who don't lie
down till midnight should'nt rise at four."

Page 204 -- 'old' => 'cold':
"I have one mate already, but he's so dirty that I daren't lie
closer to him than I can help. Do accept my offer. Rugs are
scarce, and you can't sleep without one, for the nights are as
old as the days are stifling."

Page 212 -- standardization of quotation marks:
"Yes, Humphrey, so ill that she could not leave Ihornden till
yesterday, and even then she would not have left if Sir Miles
had had his way. He wanted her to remain quietly in the country,
but she said: "I shall go to Maidstone, and I shall stay there
till Humphrey Lyte is acquitted!"
 =>
"Yes, Humphrey, so ill that she could not leave Ihornden till
yesterday, and even then she would not have left if Sir Miles
had had his way. He wanted her to remain quietly in the country,
but she said: 'I shall go to Maidstone, and I shall stay there
till Humphrey Lyte is acquitted!'"




[End of _Willow's Forge and other poems_ by Sheila Kaye-Smith]
