{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_51971/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_51971","id":"gutenberg_51971","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51971","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Methodist Church (Great Britain) -- Fiction","Wesley, John, 1703-1791 -- Fiction"],"text":"THE LOVE THAT PREVAILED\n\nBy Frank Frankfort Moore\n\nAuthor of \u201cThe Jessamy Bride,\u201d\n\n\u201cI Forbid the Bans,\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Fatal Gift,\u201d \u201cThe Millionaire,\u201d\n\n\u201cOur Fair Daughter,\u201d etc., etc.\n\nIllustrated By H. B. Matthews\n\nNew York Empire Book Company Publishers\n\n1907\n\n[Illustration: 0001]\n\n[Illustration: 0008]\n\n[Illustration: 0009]\n\n\nTHE LOVE THAT PREVAILED\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nThe old church ways be good enough for me,\u201d said Miller Pendelly as\nhe placed on the table a capacious jug of cider, laying a friendly left\nhand on the shoulder of Jake Pullsford, the carrier, as he bent across\nthe side of the settee with the high back.\n\n\u201cI ne'er could see aught that was helpful to the trade of a smith in\nsuch biases as the Quakers, to name only one of the new-fangled sects,\u201d\n said Hal Holmes, the blacksmith, shaking his head seriously. \u201cSo I holds\nwith Miller.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, that's the way too many of ye esteems a religion--' Will it\nput another crown in my pocket?' says you. If't puts a crown in your\npocket, 'tis a good enough religion; if 't puts half-a-crown in your\npocket, 'tis less good; if't puts naught in your pocket, that religion is\ngood for naught.\u201d\n\nThe speaker was a middle-aged man with a pair of large eyes which seemed\nto vary curiously in colour, sometimes appearing to be as grey as steel,\nand again of a curious green that did not suit everybody's taste\nin eyes. But for that matter, Jake Pullsford, the carrier, found it\nimpossible to meet everybody's taste in several other ways. He had a\nhabit of craning forward his head close to the face of anyone to whom he\nwas speaking, and this movement had something of an accusing air, about\nit--occasionally a menacing air--which was distinctly distasteful to\nmost people, particularly those who knew that they had good reason to be\naccused or to be menaced.\n\n\u201cJake Pullsford goes about the world calling his best friends liars\nwithout the intent to hurt their feelings,\u201d was the criticism passed\nupon him by Miller Pendelly. Other critics were not so sure on the\nsubject of his intent. He had never shown himself to be very careful of\nthe feelings of his friends.\n\n\u201cThe religion that puts naught in thy pocket is good for naught--that's\nwhat you be thinking of, Hal Holmes,\u201d he said, thrusting his head close\nto the face of the smith. But the smith did not mind. The man that\nspends most of his days hammering out and bending iron to his will,\nusually thinks good-naturedly of one who uses words and phrases as\narguments.\n\n\u201cI don't gainsay thee, Jake,\u201d he replied. \u201cIf you know what's in my\nthought better than I do myself, you be welcome to the knowledge.\u201d\n\n\u201cI meant not thee in special, friend,\u201d said Jake. \u201cWhat I say is that\nthere are too many in these days that think of religion only for what it\nmay bring to them in daily life--folk that make a gain of godliness.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd a right good thing to make a gain of, says I,\u201d remarked the miller\nwith a confidential wink into the empty mug which he held--it had been\nfull a moment before.\n\n\u201cAy, you be honest, miller: you allow that I am right and you have\ncourage enough to praise what the Book condemns,\u201d said Jake.\n\n\u201cLook'ee here, friend,\u201d said the miller, in his usual loud voice--the\nyears that he had spent in his mill had caused him to acquire a voice\nwhose tone could successfully compete with the creaking and clattering\nof the machinery. \u201cLook'ee here, friend Jake, 'twould be easy enough for\nyou or me that has done moderate well for ourselves in life, to turn up\nour eyes in holy horror at the bare thought of others being godly for\nwhat they may gain in daily life, but for myself, I would not think that\nI was broaching a false doctrine if I was to say to my son, 'Young\nman, be godly and thou 'll find it to bring gain to thee.' What, Jake,\nwould 'ee have a man make gain out of ungodliness?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, that's a poser for him, miller: I've been thinking for that\npowerful proposal ever since the converse began,\u201d said a small man who\nhad sat silently smoking in a high-backed chair. He was one who had\nthe aspect of unobtrusiveness, and a figure that somehow suggested to\nstrangers an apologetic intention without the courage ever to put it\nin force. His name was Richard Pritchard, and he was by profession\na water-finder--a practitioner with the divining rod, but one whose\nsuccesses were never startling.\n\nWhen he had spoken, all the room, to the number of three, turned anxious\neyes upon him, as if they were surprised at his having gone so far and\nfeared a painful sequel. He seemed to feel that he had justified their\nworst forebodings, and hastened to relieve their minds.\n\n\u201cI'm all friendly, friends, and Jake in especial,\u201d he said. \u201cDon't\nforget that though a man on the spur of the moment, and in the fierce\nstress of argyment, may say a bitter hard word or two, there may still\nbe naught in his bosom's heart but neighbourly friendship, meaning no\noffence to you, Jake, that be a travelled man, viewing strange cities\nquite carelessly, where plain and simple men would gape and stare.\u201d\n\nJake, the carrier, gave no sign of having heard the other speak.\n\n\u201cThere's a many o' us in these parts as strong as in other parts, that\nbe ready and willing to take things as they come,\u201d said he; \u201cto take the\nparson's preaching as they take the doctor's pills.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, wi' a wry face,\u201d acquiesced the blacksmith with a readiness that\none could see the carrier thought meant no good.\n\nHe leant across the table once more until his face was close to the\nsmith's, and said:\n\n\u201cThat's where you be wrong, Hal Holmes. You know as well as the most\nknowledgable----\u201d\n\n\u201cMeaning yourself, Jake?\u201d said the smith drily.\n\n\u201cYou know well that though you may make a wry face when gulching down\nthe doctor's pill, ye dursn't so much as show a wrinkle or a crinkle on\nyour face when Parson Rodney is in his pulpit,\u201d replied the carrier with\nemphasis.\n\n\u201c'Cause why?\u201d said the miller. \u201cI'll tell ye truly--'tis because the\nparson gives us no bitter pills, only----\u201d\n\n\u201cThat's what I've been leading up to,\u201d cried the carrier triumphantly.\n\u201cThe parson, like thousands of the rest of his cloth throughout the\nlength and breadth o' the land, is content to preach pleasant things\nonly, even as the false prophets of Israel prophesied fair things.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why shouldn't he be content to preach pleasant things, friend Jake,\nif so be that we be content to hear them? and for myself I would muchly\nlisten to an hour of pleasant things--ay, rather than half an hour of\nunhappy ones.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, miller, what would you say if the doctor, who, when he saw your\nbody suffering from a canker, gave you a sugar-plum and withheld his\nknife from cutting out the plague spot because you were apt to be\nsqueamish at the sight of bloodletting!\u201d\n\nThere was an uneasy pause when the carrier had asked this rehearsed\nquestion. He asked it with a triumphant air, and, as if he felt it to be\ntoo large a question to be answered by the miller singlehanded, he, as\nit were, swept the whole company by a glance into his interrogation.\n\nThe water-finder made a motion with his hands as if trying to smooth\naway an imaginary roughness in the air. There was a general feeling that\nthe carrier had triumphed in his argument. He was one of those people\nwho, by speaking in an air of triumph, succeed in making some people\nbelieve that they have triumphed. The farmer shook his head with the\ndisinterestedness of an arbitrator. The smith continued looking into\nthe empty mug from which he had just drunk. The silence lasted several\nseconds, and every second of course added to the triumph of the carrier.\nThe man was not, however, adroit enough to perceive this. He was\nindiscreet enough to break the silence. When his eyes had gone round the\ncompany they returned to the miller.\n\n\u201cAnswer me that question, man!\u201d he cried, and then everyone knew that\nhe had not triumphed: the last word had not been said.\n\n\u201cI'll answer you when you tell me if you wouldn't bear friendly feelings\nfor a doctor who gives you a sugar plum instead of blooding you when he\nfinds you reasonable well,\u201d said the miller.\n\n\u201c'Tis when a man feels healthiest that he stands most in need of\nblooding,\u201d said Jake, not very readily and not very eagerly. \u201cAnd so it\nis in the health of the soul. 'Let him that thinketh he stand take heed\nlest he fall.' Friends, is there one among us that can lay his hand\non his heart and say that he believes that our parsons do their duty\nhonestly and scripturally.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt took you a deal o' time to lead us up to that point: you'd best ha'\nblurted it out at once,\u201d remarked Hal Holmes.\n\n\u201cNay, we all knew that it was a-coming,\u201d said the farmer. \u201cSince Jake\nfound himself as far away from home as Bristol city, he has never lost a\nchance of a dig at the parsons.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don't deny that my eyes were opened for the first time at Bristol,\u201d\n said Jake. \u201cBristol was my Damascus, farmer.\u201d\n\nThe farmer gave a jerk to his head, for the carrier had laid undue\nemphasis upon the first syllable of the name.\n\n\u201cSo bad as that?\u201d he whispered.\n\nThe blacksmith laughed.\n\n\u201cNot so bad, farmer,\u201d he said. \u201c'Tis only our neighbour Jake that\ncompares himself with St. Paul, the Apostle.\u201d\n\n\u201cI heard the profanity. He would ha' done better to abide at home,\u201d said\nthe farmer severely.\n\nThe blacksmith laughed again.\n\n\u201cThere fell, as it were, scales from my eyes when I heard preaching for\nthe first time--when I heard a parson for the first time,\u201d resumed the\ncarrier, looking out of a window, and apparently unconscious of any of\nthe remarks of his friends. \u201cAy, 'twas for the first time, albeit I had\nscarce missed church for a whole Sunday since I were a lad. That was\nwhat struck me most, neighbours--that I could go Sunday after Sunday, in\ngood black cloth, too, and hear the holy service read, in a sort of way,\nand the sacred psalms sung, while the fiddle and the double bass and the\nviol made sweet music, and yet have no real and true yearning after the\ntruth, seems little short of a miracle, doesn't it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot when one knows that your heart was hard, Jake--ay, sir, it must ha'\nbeen harder than steel,\u201d said the blacksmith, shaking his head in mock\ngravity.\n\n\u201cYou scoff, smith, you scoff, I know; but you speak the truth\nunwittingly,\u201d said the carrier with some sadness. \u201cMy heart was like the\nnether millstone--your pardon, miller, I meant not to say a word that\nwould cast a slight upon your calling: 'tis right for your nether\nmillstone to be hard.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe harder the better, and no offence, neighbour,\u201d said the miller\ngenerously.\n\n\u201cNone was meant, sir,\u201d said the carrier. \u201cWe were discoursing of my\nheart--hard--hard. And I was a reader o' the Book all my life. That's\nthe strange thing; but I sought not to understand what I read and I got\nno help from parson---no, nor yet from Archdeacon Eaton, that I listened\nto twice--no, nor the Dean himself in his own Cathedral at Exeter.\nWith the new light that came to me, I was able to perceive that their\ndiscourse was a vain thing--not helpful to a simple man who thought\nsomething of himself, albeit jangling with the other tinkling cymbals\nevery Sunday, kneeling (on the knees of my body) when we called\nourselves miserable sinners. Miserable sinners! I tell ye, friends, I\ngave no thought to the words. I slurred through the General Confession\nat a hand gallop--just the pace that parson gets into when he warms to\nhis work.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere's few left of the cloth and none of the laity can pass parson\nwhen he gets warmed to it. To hear him in the Litany is like watching\nhim go 'cross country when he be mounted on _King George_, his big\nroan,\u201d said the blacksmith reflectively.\n\n\u201cThere's none rides straightlier,\u201d said the farmer. \u201cAnd there's no\nbetter or steadier flyer than _King George_, first foal to my mare\n_Majesty_. When I heard that parson had need of a flyer that was a\nflyer, after poor _Gossip_ broke her neck at the Lyn and her master's\nleft arm, I held back, not being wishful to put myself for'ard, though\nI knew what I knew, and knew that parson knew all I knew and maybe more;\nbut he got wind o' the foal, and then----\u201d\n\n\u201cOne at a time, farmer--one at a time is fair play between friends,\u201d\n said the miller, nodding in the direction of Jake, who had suffered the\ninterruption very meekly.\n\n\u201cYour pardon, friend,\u201d said the farmer. \u201cOnly 'twas yourself brought in\nthe parson's pace. For myself, I think all the better of the cloth that\nrides straight to hounds.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Miserable sinners,'\u201d said the carrier, picking up the thread which he\nhad perforce dropped. \u201cI tell ye, neighbours, that there's no need for\nany parson, be he a plain Vicar or of high rank such as a Dean--nay,\na consecrated Bishop--no, I'm not going too far, miller--I say in cool\nblood and in no ways excited, a consecrated Lord Bishop--I say that not\none of them need travel in discourse all his pulpit life, beyond that\ntext 'Miserable sinners.' That was his text--the one I heard at Bristol.\n'Miserable sinners.' For the first time in my life I knew what the words\nmeant. I felt them--I felt them--words of fire--I tell ye that I\nfelt them burn into me. That was at first--when he began to preach; a\nred-hot iron brand stinging me all over, and before he had done I felt\nas if all my poor body had been seared over and over again with red-hot\nletters that go to the spelling of '_miserable sinners_' You mind Joe\nWarden's trial when we were lads, and how he was branded in the forehead\nand right hand before he was sent to the pillory. He uttered neither cry\nnor moan when the hot iron burst his skin----\u201d\n\n\u201cI smell the smell o' 't in my nose this moment,\u201d said the water-finder\ngently. The farmer nodded.\n\n\u201cBut the look that was on his face when he stood up there a marked man\nforever!\u201d cried the original speaker. \u201cIt told everyone that had eyes\nwhat the man felt, and that was how I felt, multiplied an hundred fold,\nwhen my preacher had done with me. I felt from the first that he had\nsingled out me--only me out of all that assembly, and when he had done\nwith me, I say that I could feel myself feeling as Joe Warden felt, the\nrebel who suffered for slandering the King's Majesty.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis no marvel that the man has had most of the church doors banged\nin's face, if so be that he makes genteel churchgoers with ordinary\nfailings to feel so unwholesome,\u201d remarked the smith.\n\n\u201cAnd so you comed away,\u201d said the farmer. \u201cWell, I wouldn't look back\non it as if I was satisfied. If I want that sort o' preaching I'll e'en\nthrow myself prone on my nine-acre field when the seed's in, and command\nmy man Job to pass the harrow o'er the pelt o' my poor carcase.\u201d\n\n\u201cI've only told you of that part of his sermon that made one feel sore\nand raw with hot wounds all over,\u201d said Jake. \u201cThat was one part. I told\nyou not of the hand that poured soothing oil and precious ointment into\nthe wounds--that came after. And the oil was as holy soothing as what\nran down over Aaron's beard even unto the skirts of his garment, and\nthe ointment was as precious as Mary Magdalen's of spikenard--in the\nalabaster box, whose odour filled the whole house. The whole life of me\nbecame sweetened with the blessed words that fell from his lips. I felt\nno longer the sting of the brand of the truth that had made me to tingle\nall over. Oh, the dew of Hermon's holy hill was not more soothing than\nthe words of gracious comfort that came from him. I had a sense of being\nhealed and made whole. The joy of it! A cup of cold spring water when\none has toiled through a long hot harvest day. Oh, more than that.\nThe falling of a burden from off my shoulders like the great burden of\nChristian, the Pilgrim; and then the joy--the confidence--the surety--I\ncannot tell you how I felt--'tis over much for me, neighbours--over much\nfor me to attempt.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay no more, Jake; you have made a good enough trial for such as us,\u201d\n said the miller, laying his hand on the carrier's shoulder, and speaking\nonly after a long pause. The others of the party began to breathe again,\nsome of them very audibly.\n\nThe carrier's eyes were shining with an expression his friends had never\nbefore seen them wear. He had been swept away by the force and fervour\nof his words, and like one who has been breathing of a rarer atmosphere\nthan that of the plain, he gasped for several moments, and then there\nwas a sob in his throat. He went quickly to the door and, letting into\nthe room the sudden glow of a beautiful Spring sunset, he passed into\nthe open air, without speaking another word.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nNo one in the room had watched the man except in a furtive way, after\nhe had spoken, although while he was speaking every eye had been fixed\nupon him. The sight of the effect of a great emotion makes some people\nfeel strangely abashed, and the miller and his friends were among such\npersons. When the carrier had gone they remained silent for some time.\nEach of them seemed to be thinking his thoughts.\n\n\u201cPoor Jake!\u201d said the miller at last. \u201cHe was ever the sort of man that\nwould be like to have a twist, and he hath got one now. He's made us\nforget the cider, lads. Blest if the jug has been touched since Jake\nbegan his story! Hal, man, pass the jug to your neighbour.'Tis Jake that\nshould have swallowed a mouthful before he left: talking is drouthier\nwork than listening.\u201d\n\nThe smith passed on the jug of cider without replenishing his own mug;\nand then knocked the ashes out of the bowl of his pipe.\n\n\u201cI don't know that there's a deal in all this,\u201d he remarked. \u201cWhat do\nyou say, miller?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don't say nought: I only looks on,\u201d replied the miller cautiously.\n\n\u201cAy, that may be,\u201d said the smith. \u201cWe all know Jake. He never wronged\nhis fellow--nay, there's some of us knows that if the worst came to the\nworst with us, Jake 'ud be the first to hold out a helping hand, with a\nguinea or two in it, as the case may be. Still there may be something in\nwhat he said about being brought to feel himself a miserable sinner.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe allowed that the preacher on'y kept him in that suspensory way o'\nthought for a brief space,\u201d said the miller.\n\n\u201cAy, there's men that be mortal sinners, and for all that their luck\nis tremendous and saves 'em from the eye of their fellow-men,\u201d said the\nsmith.\n\n\u201cI feel bound to say this to the credit o' parson,\u201d remarked the\nwater-finder with deprecatory suavity: \u201che never makes a simple\ncountryman feel himself to be a miserable sinner. He is of such a good\nnature that he slurs over the General Confession so genteelly that I\ndefy the wickedest of his churchful to feel in any ways as if parson was\ndictating the words to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat shows that parson's heart be in the right place,\u201d nodded the\nfarmer. \u201cHe gives us all to understand at a glance that he reads the\nwords 'cause they are set down for him in the solemn prayer book, and\nhopes that there's none among his hearers who will hold him responsible\nas a man for their ungentility.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, sir, true; parson's an am'able gentleman, always 'cepting when the\ncock he has hatched from the noblest game strain fails him in the first\nmain,\u201d said the blacksmith.\n\n\u201cAnd who is he that would be different, tell me that?\u201d cried the miller,\nwho had fought a few cocks in the course of his life. \u201cAy, we be well\ncontent wi' parson, we be so; but I don't say that if Jake's Bristol\npreacher came within earshot I would refuse to listen to him--only out\no' curiosity--only out o' curiosity. But I do wonder much that a man\no' the steadiness o' Jake Pullsford owning himself overcome by a parson\nthat has no church of his own.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis as humble as allowing a toothache to be cured by a quack at\na fair, when a wholesome Doctor of Physic, like Mr. Corballis, has\nwrestled, with it for a whole week,\u201d said the water-finder.\n\n\u201cI hope I haven't offended any friend by my homeliness when the talk was\nserious,\u201d he added, glancing around, not without apprehension.\n\nNo one took the trouble to say a word that might place him at his ease.\nThe farmer took a hasty drink out of his mug, and sighed after. The\nblacksmith cut up some tobacco and rolled it between his palms. There\nwas a long silence in the room. It seemed as if the weakness which\nJake, the carrier, had displayed had saddened the little company. It was\npretty clear that they were all thinking of it.\n\n\u201cHey, neighbours,\u201d cried the miller at last, with a loud attempt to pull\nhis friends together. \u201cHey lads, what's amiss? These be doleful dumps\nthat have fallen on us. A plague on Jake and his quack preacher! Now, if\nI'm not better satisfied than ever with parson may I fail to know firsts\nfrom seconds by a sniff of the dust. Come, farmer, tell Hal what answer\nyou gave to Squire's young lady when she asked you if you made the cows\ndrink wine wouldn't they milk syllabub? He told me before you looked in,\nHal! Droll, it was surely. You'd never think that the farmer had it in\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, nay,\u201d said the farmer with a smile that broke up his face into\nthe semblance of a coloured diagram of the canals in Mars. \u201cNay, miller,\n'twas on the spur o' the moment. I had no time to think o' some ready\nreply that a young miss might think suitable to her station in life\ncoming from a humble yeoman that has no learning but of tillage.\u201d\n\n\u201cI'll swear you'll esteem it neat as a sheep's tongue,\u201d said the miller.\n\u201cCome, farmer, out with it, and don't force me to spoil it i' the\ntelling.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, well----\u201d began the farmer, pursing out his lips and assuming the\nexpression of one who is forced into a position of enviable prominence.\n\n\u201cOh, well, 'twas o' Tuesday last--or was it Monday, miller?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou told me Monday,\u201d replied the miller.\n\n\u201cDid I? Well, if I said Monday I sticks to it whatever may hap; for as\nye know me, friends, I don't go back on my word, even though I be wrong,\nthat being my way, so to speak, that came natural to me ever since poor\nfather said to me----\u201d\n\nBut the revelation as to the terms of his father's discourse which had\nproduced so lasting an impression upon him, was not to be made at that\ntime; for before the slow farmer had spoken, the porch door was opened,\nand there appeared against the background of the spring green side\nof the little valley slope, the figure of a young girl, rather tall,\nwearing a cloak by the lined hood of which her pretty face was framed.\n\n\u201cHey,\u201d cried the miller, \u201cthis be an improvement. After all we won't\nneed your story, farmer.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour servant, Master Miller--gentlemen, I am your most obedient to\ncommand now as ever,\u201d said the girl, dropping a curtsey first to the\nmiller, then to his guests. \u201cOh, Master Hal, black but comely as usual,\nand rather more idle than usual. And Farmer Pendelly, too--fresh as a\nnew-washed cherub on a tombstone. Master Pritchard, with his magic wand\nup his sleeve, I doubt not. I didn't know that you was entertaining a\nparty, miller, or I--I----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon't tell us that you would ha' tarried, Nelly; that would be to pay a\nbad compliment to my company as well as to me,\u201d said the miller.\n\n\u201cI was about to say that I would have hurried, not tarried. Maybe I'll\nnot tarry even now, in spite of the attractions you hold out, sir.\u201d\n\nWhile she spoke the girl conveyed the impression of making another\ngeneral curtsey to the company, though she had merely glanced around at\nthem with an inclusive smile. She made a pretty pretence of drawing\nher cloak around her--she had thrown back the hood immediately after\nentering the room--and made a movement towards the door.\n\n\u201cDon't you dare to think of fleeing, hussy,\u201d said the miller. \u201cIf you\nwas to flee just now, there's not one of us here that wouldn't hale thee\nback by the hair o' the head--and a nobler tow line couldn't be found.\u201d\n\nHe had put his arms about her and patted her hair, which was the\nlightest chestnut in colour, and shining like very fine unspun silk.\n\n\u201cHey, Nelly, where did ye pick up that head of hair, anyway? All your\nhousehold be black as night,\u201d he continued.\n\n\u201cWhere's the puzzle, sir?\u201d said she, without a suggestion of sauciness.\n\u201cI favour the night, too, only a moonlight night. My hair is the flash\no' moonlight.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe lass never was slack in speaking up for herself,\u201d said the\nblacksmith.\n\n\u201cTrue, friend Hal; but haven't I ever been moderate? Have I ever gone\neven half-way to describe my own charms?\u201d said the girl with a mock\nseriousness that set everyone laughing--they roared when she looked at\nthem more seriously still, as if reproving their levity.\n\n\u201cI'll not stay here to be flouted,\u201d she cried with a pout, giving the\nmiller a pat on the cheek. \u201cAh, here comes Sue to protect me. Dear Sue,\nyou come in good time. Tell these gentlemen that I haven't a red hair in\nmy head, and as for its being good only to make towing lines of----\u201d\n\nHere she broke down and fell sobbing into the arms of Susan Pendelly, a\ngirl of about her own age, who had entered the room by the door that\nled to the parlour. For a few moments Susan was puzzled, for Nelly went\nthrough her piece of acting extremely well, but the laughter of the\nmiller and the smith--the farmer and the water-finder were not quite\nsure, so they remained solemn--quickly let her know that Nelly was up\nto a prank, so she put her arms about her and pretended to soothe her,\ncalling the men ill-mannered wretches, and shaking her fist at them.\nSusan was a little heavy and homely in her comedy.\n\n\u201cTowing line indeed!\u201d she said, looking indignantly over Nelly's bowed\nhead at the men. \u201cTowing line indeed! Why 'tis the loveliest hair in\nCornwall.\u201d\n\n\u201cA towing line,\u201d said her father, laughing. \u201cA towing line that\nhas drawn more craft in its wake than any twenty-oared galley of a\nman-o'-war. Oh, the poor fools that try to get a grip o' that towing\nline! Let me count them. First there was Spanish Roderick----\u201d\n\nThe girl lifted up her head from her friend's shoulder.\n\n\u201cSpanish Roderigo the first!\u201d she cried. \u201cOh, miller, I did think that\nmy reputation was safe in your keeping! Why, sir, there were three after\nme long before Roderigo showed his face at the Cove.\u201d\n\n\u201cI ask your pardon, madam; I did you an injustice; you began the towing\nbusiness when you were twelve----\u201d\n\n\u201cTen, miller--ten, if you love me. You would not accuse a simple girl of\nwasting her time.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnce again, your pardon, miss. I'll make it nine, if so be that you\nwish.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no wish in the matter, sir. I'm nought but a simple country\nwench with no wish but to be let live in peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell us how many lads are dangling after you at the present moment,\nNell--dangling like mackerel on the streamers?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow could I possibly tell, sir? Do you suppose that my father knows to\na fish how many mackerel are on his cast of streamers at any time? You\nshould have more sense, miller. The most that I can speak for is the\nfive that I angled for.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe impudence of the girl! She allows that she angled for five!\u201d\n\n\u201cMiller, you would not have me treat them like trout and whip for them\nwith a rod and a single hook. Oh, no, sir, that would not be worth\nthe while. You see, miller, there are so many of them swimming\nabout--and--and--well, life is brief.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis my belief, Nelly, that there's a hook on every hair of your head\nand a foolish lad wriggling on it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou compliment my fishing too highly, sir. If I thought that----\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what would happen if you thought that, madam?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, well, I believe that I would e'en weave my hair into a reasonable\nfishing-net to save time and a diffusion of wriggling. There now,\nmiller, we have had said the last word between us of this nonsense. I\nknow what I am, and you know what I am--a healthy, wholesome country\nwench, that two or three lads think well of, and as many more think ill\nof--they don't get distraught about me on the one hand, and they don't\nhave any particular enmity of me on the other hand. That's the way with\nall girls, even such as are black-browed, and hard-voiced, which no one\nhas yet accused me of being, and I've walked seven miles from Porthawn\nwithin the two hours to give you my father's message about Rowan's\ncorner, and when I've given it to you, I have to trudge back with a\nsix-pound bag of your best seconds to keep us from starvation for a day\nor two.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou'll not trudge back before the morning if I have any say in the\nmatter,\u201d cried the miller's daughter, catching up the other's cloak and\nthrowing it over one arm. \u201cCome hither, Nelly, and we'll have a chat\nin the parlour, like the well-to-do folk that we be; these men can have\nthis place to themselves till the time comes to lay out supper.\u201d\n\n\u201cSupper! what good pixie made you say that word?\u201d cried the other girl.\n\u201cIf you hadn't said it it would have clean gone from my mind that I\nbrought with me a stale fish or two that was left over from our dinner\non Sunday week. What a memory I lack, to be sure!\u201d\n\nShe picked up a rush basket which she had placed on the floor when she\nwas taking off her cloak, and handed it to Susan.\n\n\u201cYou young rapparee!\u201d said the miller. \u201cDid it not cross your foolish\npate that a basket of fish a week old and more is fully capable of\nbetraying its presence without the need for a laboured memory?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know that that basket betrayed its presence to me more than once as\nit hung on my arm after the first three mile hither,\u201d said the girl.\n\n\u201cAs I live'tis a seven-pound pink salmon, and 'twas swimming in the sea\nat noon this day,\u201d said Susan when she had opened the basket.\n\n\u201cShe must ha' heard that we were supping at the mill this eve'n, and\nthat I was of the company,\u201d said the blacksmith. \u201cMistress Polwhele, my\nrespects to you!\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, Master Hal, had I known that you were to be of the company, the\nsalmon would ha' been a fifteen-pounder at least--that is if I wanted\nany of the others to have a mouthful,\u201d laughed the girl.\n\nShe was out of the room before the blacksmith had ceased rattling his\nchair in his pretence of rising to carry out the menace he made with his\nfist when she was speaking.\n\nThe miller and his guests watched in silence the door through which she\nhad gone.\n\n\u201cA bit of a change from Jake Pullsford, eh, friends!\u201d remarked Hal.\n\n\u201cThat's what we needed sorely,\u201d said the miller.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nLife did not seem to be strenuous in the valley of the Lana, seven\nmiles from the fishing village of Porthawn, and thirty from Falmouth,\nwhen the eighteenth century still wanted more than ten years of\ncompleting its first half. To be sure, the high road to Plymouth was\nnot so very far away, and coaches with passengers and luggage flew daily\nacross the little bridge of the Lana at the rate sometimes of as much as\nnine miles an hour; and the consciousness of this made the people of the\nvillage of Ruthallion think rather well of themselves--so at least\nthe dwellers in the more remote parts of the region were accustomed to\naffirm. The generous were ready to allow that the most humble-minded\nof people would think well of themselves if they were so favourably\nsituated in regard to the great world as to be able to get news from\nLondon only a few days old, simply by waiting at the turn of the\nPlymouth road until a coach came up.\n\nBut of this privilege the people of that most scattered of all Cornish\nvillages, Ruthallion, did not avail themselves to any marked extent,\nexcept upon occasions of great national importance; such as the\nachievement of a victory by King George's army in the Low Countries,\nor by the King's ships in the West Indies. In the latter case the news\nusually came from the Plymouth side of the high road. For the sober\ndiscussion of such news in all its bearings, it was understood that the\nLana Mill, situated as it was in the valley within a few hundred yards\nof the village, and having a little causeway off the Porthawn road all\nto itself, occupied a most favourable position. There was no inn with a\nwell-lighted bar-parlour within four miles of the place, and the miller\nwas hospitable. He was said to be the inheritor of an important secret\nin regard to the making of cider, and it was no secret that his autumnal\nbrew had a flavour that was unsurpassed by any cider produced in\nCornwall, or (as some people said) in the very apple-core of Devonshire\nitself.\n\nMiller Pendelly was known to be a warm man in more senses than one.\nHe had not only a considerable amount of property apart from the mill,\nwhich the unfailing waters of the Lana fed; he was a warm-hearted man,\nthough one of the most discreet that could be imagined. When it was a\ncharity to give, he gave freely, but he showed himself to be well aware\nof the fact that sometimes charity consists in withholding one's hand.\nHe was not a man that could be easily imposed upon; though, like all\nshrewd people, he allowed three or four ne'er-do-wells to borrow from\nhim--_once_. He talked of every such case with great bitterness on his\ntongue, but with a twinkle in his eye that assured his confidants that\nhe knew what he was about. To rid the neighbourhood of an idle youth who\nwas robbing an easy-going father, was surely worth the disbursement of\nfive guineas; and the expatriation of a hard-drinking husband was not\ndear at six.\n\nHe, himself, was a good husband to a good wife, and the father of a\ngirl, who, though well favoured, was discreet--a girl who loved her home\nand all it contained better than she did any possible lover.\n\nThe miller's friends were just equal in number to the inhabitants of the\nvalley and of the villages of Porthawn and Ruthallion. Even the mother\nof the worthless youth who had disappeared with the five guineas, and\nthe wife of the bibulous husband who had not returned after contracting\nhis loan of six, became, in the course of time, his friends, and almost\nforgave him for his exercise of generosity. But among his neighbours\nthere were none whom he met on such friendly terms as those to whom he\nturned with a side-nod of his head when the girls had gone.\n\n\u201cThey may spare their breath who would tell me that the ill-favoured\nones are the best daughters,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cI'll not be the first to advance that doctrine to the father of Susan\nPendelly,\u201d said the blacksmith.\n\nThe miller laughed.\n\n\u201cSue was not in my thought,\u201d he cried--\u201cat least not when I spoke,\nthough thinking of her now only makes me stronger in my opinion.'Twas\nthe sight of t'other lass. Merry she be and with a sharp enough tongue,\nbut was there ever a better daughter than Nelly Polwhele, tell me that,\nHal?\u201d\n\n\u201cA fine salmon fish it be surely,\u201d said the blacksmith. \u201cSeven pounds,\nI'll wager, if 'tis an ounce.\u201d\n\n\u201cOut upon thee for a curmudgeon,\u201d shouted the miller, giving the\nblacksmith a push of a vehemence so friendly that he with difficulty\nretained his place on the settee.\n\n\u201c'Tis a mortal pity that so spirited a mare foal will be tamed sooner\nor later--that's the way with all female flesh whether well-favoured or\nblack-a-vised,\u201d remarked the farmer..\n\nRichard Pritchard, who was the only single man present, shook his head\nwith as great a show of gravity as if he had spent his life taming\nspirited things.\n\nHis arrogance aroused his host.\n\n\u201cAnd what are you that gives yourself airs, my man?\u201d he cried. \u201cWhat\ncall has a worm of a bachelor to let his tongue wag on a matter that\nmight well make owdacious fathers o' families keep dead silence? Richard\nPritchard, my good man, this talk is not for such as thee. Thou beest\na middling silent man by nature, Dick, and for that thou shouldst be\nthankful when wild words be flying abroad on household matters.\u201d\n\n\u201cI allow that I went too far, neighbour, though I call all to witness\nthat I did not open my mouth to speak,\u201d said the water-finder, with\ngreat humility.\n\n\u201cYou are aye over daring, though never all through immoral, Dick,\u201d said\nthe blacksmith gravely.\n\n\u201cI allow that I earned reproof, friend,\u201d said Richard.' \u201cWe all be\nhuman, and many have frail thought of high language, and a proud heart\nat the hope of wisdom and ancient learning. But I take reproof with no\nill-feeling.\u201d\n\nThe miller roared at the success of his jest.\n\n\u201cRichard Pritchard, if I didn't know you for a brave Welshman, I would\ntake you for a Dorset dairyman that's so used to the touch o' butter\nthey say it wouldn't melt in their mouths,\u201d he cried when he found\nbreath.\n\nAt this point Mistress Pendelly bustled into the room, which was not the\nkitchen, but only a sort of business-room of the mill, with the message\nthat supper would not be ready so soon as she could wish; the salmon\nsteaks took their own time to cook, she affirmed, and expressed the hope\nthat her friends would be able to hold out for another half hour.\n\n\u201cMake no excuses, mother,\u201d said her husband. \u201cWhy, good wife, the very\nsound of the frizzling will keep us alive in hope, and the smell that\ncreeps through the crevices of the kitchen door is nigh as satisfying as\na full meal in itself.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak for yourself if you are so minded, miller,\u201d cried Hal Holmes.\n\u201cSup off the sound of a frizzle mixed with the sniff of a well-greased\npan, if you so please, but give me a flake or two o' salmon flesh, good\nmother, the pink o' the body just showing through the silver o' the\nscales. Oh, a lady born is your sea salmon with her pink complexion\nshining among the folds o' her silver lace!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, sir, better than that your praise should be, for the fish's beauty\nis more than skin deep,\u201d said the housewife, as she stood with the\nkitchen door half open.\n\nThe miller winked at his friends when she had disappeared.\n\n\u201cCanst better that, Hal?\u201d he enquired.\n\n\u201cVanity to try,\u201d replied the blacksmith. \u201cA man's good enough maybe for\nthe catching o' a salmon, but it needs a woman's deft fingers to cook\nit. You see through my proverb, miller?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt needs no spying glass, Hal,\u201d said the miller. \u201cThe interpretation\nthereof is in purpose that it needs a woman's nimble wit to put a\nfinishing touch to a simple man's discourse, howsoever well meant it may\nbe. Eh, farmer?\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis different wi' pilchards, as is only natural, seeing what sort of\neating they be,\u201d said the farmer shrewdly; he found that he had been\nwittier than he had any notion of being, and he added his loudest\nchuckles (when he had recovered from his surprise) to the roaring of the\nmiller's laughter.\n\nIt was Nelly Polwhele who demanded to be let into the secret of the\nmerriment so soon as she had returned to the room with Susan, and when\nthe miller told her, with an illuminating wink and a shrewd nod, she\nlaughed in so musical a note with her hands uplifted that the farmer\npursed out his lips in pride at his own wit. He was not without a hope\nthat he might find out, in the course of the evening, wherein the point\nof it lay.\n\nMeantime Nelly was looking anxiously around the room.\n\n\u201cWhat's gone wrong wi' the girl?\u201d said the miller. \u201cOh, I see how things\nbe: 'tis so long since she was here the place seems strange to her. Is't\nnot so, Nelly?\u201d\n\n\u201cPartly, sir,\u201d replied the girl. \u201cBut mainly I was looking to see where\nMr. Pullsford was hiding. You can't be supping in good style and he\nabsent.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive no heed to Mr. Pullsford, whether he be here or not; spend your\ntime in telling us where you yourself have been hiding for the past\nmonth,\u201d cried the miller.\n\n\u201cShe has not been hiding, she has been doing just the\nopposite--displaying herself to the fashionable world,\u201d said Susan.\n\n\u201cHey, what's all this?\u201d said the miller. \u201cYou don't mean to tell us that\nyou've been as far as Plymouth?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlymouth, indeed! Prithee, where's the rank and fashion at Plymouth,\nsir?\u201d cried Nelly. \u201cNay, sir, 'tis to the Bath I have been, as befits one\nin my station in life.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Bath?--never,\u201d exclaimed the miller, while the girl, lifting up her\ndress with a dainty finger and thumb to the extent of an inch or\ntwo, went mincing past him down the room, followed by the eyes of the\nblacksmith and the others of the party. \u201c'Tis in jest you speak, you\nyoung baggage--how would such as you ever get as far as the Bath?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt sounds like a fancy freak, doth it not truly; and yet 'tis the sober\ntruth,\u201d said Nelly. \u201cAt the Bath I was, and there I kept for a full\nmonth, in the very centre core of all the grandest that the world has in\nstore. I didn't find myself a bit out of place, I protest.\u201d\n\n\u201cHear the girl!\u201d exclaimed the miller. \u201cShe talks with the cold\nassurance of a lady of quality--not that I ever did meet with one to\nknow; but--and the fun of it is that she wouldn't be out of place in the\nmost extravagant company. Come, then, tell us how it came about. Who was\nit kidnapped thee?\u201d\n\nAnd then the girl told how it was that Squire Trelawny's young ladies\nat Court Royal, having lost their maid, owing to her marrying in haste,\nasked her to take the young woman's place for a month or two until they\nshould get suited. As she had always been a favourite with them, she had\nconsented, and they had forthwith set out for the Bath with the Squire's\nretinue of chariots and horsemen, and there they had sojourned for a\nmonth.\n\n\u201c'Tis, indeed, like a story o' pixies and their magic and the like,\u201d\n said the miller. \u201cI knew that the young ladies and you was ever on the\nbest o' terms, but who could tell that it would come to such as this?\nAnd I'll wager my life that within a day and a night you could tire\ntheir hair and dust it wi' powder with the best of their ladyships'\nladies. And, prithee, what saw you at the Bath besides the flunkies o'\nthe quality?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sir, ask me not to relate to you all that I saw and noted,\u201d said\nthe girl. \u201cEvery day of my life I said, 'What a place the world is to be\nsure!'\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so it be,\u201d said the farmer approvingly.\n\n\u201cOh, the rank and fashion, farmer, such as would astonish even you, and\nyou are a travelled man,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cAy, I have been as wide afield as Falmouth on the west and Weymouth on\nthe east,\u201d said the farmer. \u201cAy, I know the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour travels have ever been the talk of the six parishes, sir,\u201d said\nthe girl. \u201cBut among all the strange people that have come-under your\neyes, I'll warrant you there was none stranger than you might find at\nthe Bath. Have you ever in your travels crossed ladies sitting upright\nin stumpy sentry boxes with a stout fellow bearing it along the streets,\nwinging 'twixt the pair o' poles?\u201d\n\n\u201cNaught so curious truly; but I've seen honest and honourable men that\nhad heard of such like,\u201d said the farmer.\n\n\u201cAnd to think that I saw them with these eyes, and link boys, when there\nwas no moon, and concerts of music in the Cave of Harmony, night by\nnight, and two gentlemen fighting in a field--this was by chance, and\nmy lady passing in a chariot sent forth a shriek, so that one pistol\nexploded before its time, and the bullet graded a peaceful gentleman,\nwho they said was a doctor of physic coming quick across the meadow,\nscenting a fee!\u201d\n\n\u201cPity is 'twasn't a lawyer. I hoard the thought that in case o' a\nfight 'twixt friends, the lawyers hurry up as well as the doctors in hope\nof a job,\u201d said the miller. \u201cWell, you've seen the world a deal for one\nso young, Nelly,\u201d he added.\n\n\u201cAnd the concerts of singing and the assemblies and the beautiful polite\ndance which they call the minuet were as nought when placed alongside\nthe plays in the playhouse,\u201d cried Nelly.\n\nThe miller became grave.\n\n\u201cThere be some who see a wicked evil in going to the playhouse,\u201d he\nremarked, with a more casual air than was easy to him.\n\n\u201cThat I have heard,\u201d said the girl.\n\n\u201cThey say that a part o' the playhouse is called the pit,\u201d suggested the\nfarmer. \u201cAy, I saw the name over the door at Plymouth, as it maybe did\nyou, miller.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd some jumped at the notion that that pit led to another of a\nbottomless sort?\u201d said the girl. \u201cWell, I don't say that'twas the\nremembrance of that only that drew me to the playhouse. I did get\nsomething of a shock, I allow, when my young ladies bade me attend them\nto the playhouse one night, but while I sought a fair excuse for 'biding\nat our lodging on the Mall, I found myself inventing excuses for obeying\nmy orders, and I must say that I found it a good deal easier doing this\nthan t'other.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, I doubt not that--oh, no, we doubt it not,\u201d cried the miller,\nshaking his head.\n\nRichard Pritchard shook his head also.\n\n\u201cI found myself saying, 'How can the playhouse be a place of evil when my\ngood young ladies, who are all that is virtuous, find it a pleasure to\ngo?'\u201d\n\nThe miller shook his head more doubtfully than before.\n\n\u201cI think that you left the service of your young ladies in good time,\u201d\n muttered the miller.\n\n\u201cDo not dare to say a word against them--against even Mistress Alice,\nwho, I allow, hath a tantrum now and again, when the seamstress fails\nher in time or mode,\u201d said the girl. \u201cOf course when I reflected that\nI was but a servant, so to speak, and that my duty was to obey my\nmistresses, I would hesitate no longer. Duty is a virtue, sir, so I\nsubmitted without a complaint.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, you would do that,\u201d murmured the blacksmith.\n\n\u201cI said to myself----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d groaned the miller.\n\nNelly ignored the groan. She went on demurely from where she was\ninterrupted.\n\n\u201cI said to myself, 'Should there be evil in it none can hold me\nblameworthy, since I was only obeying the order of them that were set\nover me.' I went and I was glad that I went, for I saw no evil in word\nor act.\u201d\n\n\u201cI'm grieved to hear it, Nelly,\u201d said the miller.\n\n\u201cWhat, you are grieved to hear that I saw nothing of evil? Oh, sir!\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean that I don't like to think of a girl like thee in such a place,\nNelly. But let's make the best of a bad matter and recount to us what\nyou saw. It may be that by good fortune we may be able to find out the\nevil of it, so that you may shun it in future.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlack, I fear the chance will not come to me in the future,\u201d said Nelly\nmournfully.\n\n\u201cI trust not. Who was the actor that night, do you mind?\u201d asked the\nmiller.\n\n\u201cHer name was Mistress Woffington, and now I mind that one of my ladies\nsaid that Mr. Long had told her that Mistress Woffington had been to\ndinner with the learned provost of Dublin College in Ireland--a parson\nand a scholar.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, an Irishman!\u201d was the comment of the miller.\n\n\u201cLet the girl be, miller,\u201d said Hal Holmes. \u201cShe's making a brave fight\nin the way of excusing herself. Go thy gait, Nell; give us a taste of\nthe quality of this Mistress Woffington.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Hal, she is a beauty--I never thought that the world held such. The\nfinest ladies of quality at the Bath, though they all copy her in her\nmode, are not fit to hold a candle to her. And her clothing and her\nmodesty withal. They say she does the modest parts best of all.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, I've heard that the likes of her are best in parts that have the\nleast in common with themselves,\u201d murmured the miller.\n\n\u201cOh, to see her when she vowed that she would be true to her lover\nalbeit that her ancient father, stamping about with a cudgel and a\nmighty wig, had promised her to a foolish fellow in yellow silk and an\neyeglass with a long handle, and a foppish way of snuff-taking and a\ncambric handkerchief! La! how the lady made a fool of him under his\nvery nose. This is Mistress Woffington: 'I protest, Sir, that I am but\na simple girl, country bred, that is ready to sink into the earth at the\napproach of so dangerous a gentleman as your lordship.' And she make a\nlittle face at her true lover, who is getting very impatient, in blue\nand silver, at the other side of the room. 'Stap my vitals, madam,'\nlisps the jessamy, dangling his cane in this fashion--you should see\nthem do it on the Mall--\u201d She picked up a light broom that lay at the\nside of the hearth and made a very pretty swagger across the room with\nher body bent and her elbow raised in imitation of the exquisite of the\nperiod, quite unknown to Cornwall. \u201c'Egad, my dear, for a country wench\nyou are not without favour. To be sure, you lack the mode of the _haut\nton_, but that will come to you in time if you only watch me--that is,\nto a certain extent. My lady, the Duchess says, \u201cCharles is inimitable.\u201d\n Ah, her Grace is a sad flatterer, 'fore Gad, but she sometimes speaks the\ntruth.' 'What, Sir,' says the lady, 'do you think that in time I should\ncatch some of your grand air? I beseech you, Sir, have pity on a poor\nsimple maiden; do not raise false hopes in her breast.' 'Nay, pretty\ncharmer, I do not dare to affirm that you will ever quite catch the full\nstyle--the air of breeding, so to speak; but you may still catch----'\n'the smallpox, and faith, I think I would prefer it to him,' says Mrs.\nWoffington in a whisper, that all in the playhouse can hear. 'Eh, what's\nthat?' lisps Mr. Floppington. 'Oh, sir, I was just saying that I fear\nI am sickening for the smallpox, which runs in our family as does the\ngout, only a deal faster.' 'Eh, what, what! keep away from me, girl,\nkeep away, I tell you.' He retreats with uplifted hands; she follows\nhim, with her own clasped, imploring him not to reject her. He waves his\ncane in front of her as if she was a bull ready to toss him. They both\nspeak together, they run round the table, he springs upon the table, she\ntilts it over--down he goes crying, 'Murder--murder--stop her--hold her\nback!' He is on his feet again, his fine coat torn in half at the back.\nShe catches at it and one whole side rips off in-her hand. He makes for\nthe window--finds it too high to jump from--rushes to the door and down\ngoes the lady's father, who is in the act of entering, with a bump, and\ndown goes the fop with the half coat in the other direction. The lady\nsits drumming with her heels on the floor between them in a shrieking\nfaint--thus!\u201d\n\nShe flung herself into a chair and her shrieks sounded shrill above the\nlaughter of the others.\n\nSuddenly the laughter came to an abrupt end, as though it were cut in\ntwain with a sharp knife. The girl continued for a few seconds shrieking\nand rapping her heels on the floor, her head thrown back; then she\nclearly became aware of the fact that something unusual had occurred.\nShe looked up in surprise at the men on the settee, followed the\ndirection of their eyes, and saw standing at the porch door a man of\nmedium stature, wearing a long riding cloak and carrying a book in one\nhand. The doorway framed him. The dimness of the shadowy eventide made a\nbackground for his head, the candle which Susan had lighted in the room\nshone upon his face, revealing the thin, refined features of a man who\nwas no longer young. His face was sweetness made visible--eyes that\nlooked in brotherly trustfulness into the eyes of others, and that,\nconsequently, drew trust from others--illimitable trust.\n\nThe girl stared at the stranger who had appeared in the doorway with\nsuch suddenness; and she saw what manner of man he was. There was an\nexpression of mild surprise on his face while he looked at her, the\ncentral figure in the room; but she saw that there was a gentle smile\nabout his eyes.\n\n\u201cI hope that I am not an intruder upon your gaiety,\u201d said the stranger.\n\u201cI knocked twice at the door, and then, hearing the shrieks of distress,\nI ventured to enter. I hoped to be of some assistance--shrieks mixed\nwith laughter--well, I have stopped both.\u201d\n\nThe miller was on his feet in a moment.\n\n\u201cFoolery, sir, girl's foolery all!\u201d he said, going towards the stranger.\n\u201cPray, enter, if you can be persuaded that you are not entering a Bedlam\nmad-house.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, sir,\u201d said the newcomer. \u201c'Twould be foolish to condemn simply\nbecause I do not understand. I am a stranger to this county of England;\nI have had no chance of becoming familiar with your pastimes. Dear\nchild, forgive me if I broke in upon your merriment,\u201d he added, turning\nto Nelly; \u201cGood sir,\u201d--he was now facing the miller--\u201cI have ridden\nclose upon thirty miles to-day--the last four in the want of a shoe; my\nhorse must have cast it in the quagmire between the low hills. Yours\nwas the first light that I saw--I was in hopes that it came from a\nblacksmith's forge.\u201d\n\nThe miller laughed.\n\n\u201c'Tis better than that, good sir,\u201d said he. \u201cThe truth is that the smith\nof these parts is a fellow not to be trusted by travellers: his forge\nis black tonight, unless his apprentices are better men than he. He is a\nhuge eater of salmon and divers dainties, and he will drink as much as a\nmugful of cider before the night is past.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut he is a fellow that is ready to sacrifice a cut of salmon and a\ngallon of cider to earn a sixpence for a shoe, sir,\u201d said Hal Holmes,\nrising from the settee and giving himself a shake. \u201cIn short, sir, I\nbe Holmes, the smith, whose lewd character has been notified to your\nhonour, and if you trust me with your nag, I'll promise you to fit a\nshoe on him within the half-hour.\u201d\n\nThe stranger looked from the smith to the miller, and back again to the\nsmith, and his smile broadened.\n\n\u201cGood neighbours both, I can see,\u201d he said. \u201cI thank you, smith. How far\nis it to Porthawn, pray, and what may this placed be called?\u201d\n\nBefore he could be answered the door opened and Jake Pullsford entered\nthe room. The sound of his entrance caused the stranger to turn his\nhead. Jake gave an exclamation of surprise.\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley!\u201d he said in a whisper that had something of awe in its\ntone. \u201cMr. Wesley! How is this possible? I have spent the afternoon\ntalking of you, sir.\u201d\n\nAt the sound of the name the miller glanced meaningly at the smith. They\nwere plainly surprised.\n\n\u201cWell, my brother,\u201d said Mr. Wesley, \u201cI ask nothing better than to give\nyou the chance of talking to me for the next hour. I remember you well.\nYou are Jake Pullsford, who came to see me a month ago at Bristol. You\nhave been much in my thoughts--in my prayers.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nJake was so excited at finding himself by a curious accident once\nmore face to face with the man who, as he had happily confessed to his\nfriends, had produced so great an impression upon him as to change the\nwhole course of his life, that he began to talk to him in his usual\nrapid way, as though Mr. Wesley and himself were the only persons in the\nroom.\n\nThe miller remained on his feet. The blacksmith was also on his feet. He\nhad assumed a professional air. After all, he was likely to be the most\nimportant person present. The girl in the chair remained with her hands\nfolded on her lap. She had the aspect of a schoolgirl who has broken out\nof bounds and awaits an interview with the schoolmistress. She had heard\nduring her visit to Bath of this Mr. Wesley and his views--at least such\nviews as were attributed to him by the fashionable folk who assembled to\nhave their gossip and intrigue flavoured by the sulphur of the waters.\nHe was not so easy-going as the clergymen at Bath. She could not doubt\nthat he would esteem it his duty to lecture her on her levity. It was\nknown that he abhorred playgoing. He was naturally abhorred by the\nplayers. They had the best of reasons: when he was preaching in any town\nthat had a theatre, the players remained with empty pockets.\n\nThe appearance of Mrs. Pendelly announcing that supper was ready was a\ngreat relief to her.\n\nShe jumped up with alacrity. Jake Pullsford came back to earth. He was\nbreathing hard. The visitor had signified his intention of resuming his\njourney, if his horse could be shod. Jake was entreating him to pass the\nnight at his house, only a mile up the valley.\n\nThe miller was beginning to feel awkward. He was hospitably inclined,\nbut he was not presumptuous. The blacksmith was fast losing his\nprofessional bearing; a sniff of the salmon steaks had come through the\nopen door.\n\nIt was the visitor whose tact made the situation easy for everyone.\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d he said to the miller, \u201cI have arrived here so opportunely for\nmyself that I will not even go through the pretence of offering to go to\nthe wayside inn, which our good friend Jake Pullsford tells me is some\nmiles away. I know that I can throw myself on your hospitality and that\nyou would feel affronted if I hurried on. I have no mind to do so--to be\nmore exact, I should say no stomach.\u201d\n\n\u201cSir, if your reverence will honour my house I can promise you a\nwholesome victual,\u201d said the miller. \u201cEven if you was not a friend o'\nmy friend Jake here, who might, I think, have named my name in your ear,\nyou would still be welcome.\u201d.\n\n\u201cI know it, sir,\u201d said Wesley, offering the miller his hand. \u201cI thank\nyou on behalf of myself and my good partner whose bridle I hung over\nyour ring-post. A feed of oats will put new spirit in him in spite of\nthe loss of his shoe.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe horse shall be seen to, Mr. Wesley. Susan, the stable bell,\u201d said\nthe miller, and his daughter set a bell jangling on the gable wall.\n\n\u201cAgain my thanks, good friend,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cMay I beg your leave to be presented to my fellow-guests at your table,\nsir?\u201d\n\nHe shook hands with the farmer, the water-finder and the smith, saying a\nword to each. Then he turned to where the two young women had been.\n\nThey had fled through the open door, Nelly having been the one to judge\nof the exact moment for flight.\n\nThey appeared at the supper table, however, but not taking their seats\nuntil they had waited upon all the others of the party. That was the\npatriarchal custom of the time. Nelly Polwhele only wished that the\nsevere discipline of a side table for the serving girls had been in\nforce at the Mill. Remote from the long oak table on which generations\nof her family had dined, she might have had a pleasant chat with her\nfriend Susan, and then steal off, evading the lecture which she felt was\nimpending from the strict Mr. Wesley. As it was, the most she could do\nfor herself was to choose an unobtrusive place at the further end from\nthe clergyman.\n\nShe hoped that the excellence of the salmon which she had carried\nthrough the valley of the Lana would induce him to refrain from asking\nany questions in regard to the game that was being played at the moment\nof his entrance.\n\nBut Mr. Wesley was vigilant. He espied her before he had finished his\nsalmon, and had expressed his thanks to her for having burdened herself\nwith it. It was his thirst for information of all sorts that had caused\nhim to enquire how it was possible to have for supper a fish that must\nhave been swimming in the sea, or at least in a salmon river, which the\nLana was not, a few hours before. Was not Porthawn the nearest fishing\nvillage, and it was six miles away? Then it was that Mrs. Pendelly had\ntold him of Nelly's journey on foot bearing her father's gift to his\nfriend the miller.\n\n\u201cI should like to have a word or two with you, my dear,\u201d said Mr. Wesley\nwhen he had thanked her. \u201cI wish to learn something of the people of\nPorthawn. I am on my way thither to preach, and I like to learn as much\nas is possible of the people who, I hope, will hear what I have to say\nto them.\u201d\n\nNelly blushed and tried to say that she was afraid she could tell him\nnothing that he could not learn from any other source--that was what was\non her mind--but somehow her voice failed her. She murmured something;\nbecame incoherent, and then ate her salmon at a furious rate.\n\nThe miller, although he had felt bound to offer hospitality to the\nstranger who had appeared at his door, knew that his other guests--with\nthe exception, it might be, of Jake Pullsford--would feel, as he himself\ndid, that the presence of this austere clergyman would interfere with\ntheir good fellowship at supper and afterwards. He and his associates\nknew one another with an intimacy that had been maturing for thirty\nyears, and the sudden coming of a stranger among them could not but\ncause a certain reserve in the natural freedom of their intercourse.\n\nThe miller had a constant fear that this Mr. Wesley would in the course\nof the evening say something bitter about the parsons who hunted and\nbred game-cocks and fought them, laying money on their heads--on parsons\nwho lived away from their parishes, allowing indifferent curates to\nconduct the services of the church--of parsons who boasted of being able\nto drink the Squires under the table. The miller had no confidence in\nhis power of keeping silent when he felt that the parson with whom\nhe was on the easiest of terms and for whose gamecocks he prepared\na special mixture of stiffening grain food was being attacked by a\nstranger, so he rather regretted that his duty compelled him to invite\nMr. Wesley, of whom he, in common with thousands of the people of the\nWest country, had heard a great deal, to supper on this particular\nevening.\n\nBut in the course of the meal he began to think that he would have no\nreason to put any restraint upon himself. He soon became aware of the\nfact that this Reverend John Wesley was not altogether the austere\ncontroversialist which rumour, becoming more and more exaggerated as it\ntravelled West, made him out to be. Before supper was over he had come\nto the conclusion that Parson Rodney as a companion could not hold a\ncandle to this Mr. Wesley.\n\nThe compliment in respect of the salmon had pleased both the miller and\nhis wife, even though it had made Nell blush; and then a bantering\nword or two was said to Hal Holmes and his fine taste for salmon, and\nforthwith Mr. Wesley was giving an animated account of how he had seen\nthe Indians in Georgia spearing for salmon on one of the rivers. This\npower of bringing a wide scene before one's eyes in a moment by the use\nof an illuminating word or two was something quite new to the miller and\nhis friends; but it was the special gift of his latest guest. With\nthin uplifted forefinger--it had the aspect as well as the power of a\nwizard's wand--he seemed to draw the whole picture in the air before\nthe eyes of all at the table--the roar of the rapids whose name with its\nIndian inflections was in itself a romance--the steathily moving red\nmen with their tomahawks and arrows and long spears--the enormous\nbackwoods--one of them alone half the size of England and Wales--the\nstrange notes of the bird--whip-poor-will, the settlers called\nit--moonlight over all--moonlight that was like a thin white sheet let\ndown from heaven to cover the earth; and where this silver wonder showed\nthe white billows of foam churned up by the swirl of the mad river,\nthere was the gleam of torches--from a distance they looked like the\nfierce red eyes of the wild beasts of the backwood; but coming close one\ncould see deep down at the foot of the rapids the flash of a blood-red\nscimitar--the quick reflection in the passionate surface of the water of\nthe red flare that waved among the rocks. Then there was a sudden splash\nand a flash--another scimitar--this time of silver scattering diamonds\nthrough the moonlight--another flash like a thin beam of light--the fish\nwas transfixed in mid-air by the Indian spear!\n\nThey saw it all. The scene was brought before their eyes. They sat\nbreathless around the supper table. And yet the man who had this magic\nof voice and eye had never once raised that voice of his--had never once\nmade a gesture except by the uplifting of his finger.\n\n\u201cFishing--that is fishing!\u201d said Hal Holmes. \u201cI should like----\u201d\n\nThe finger was upraised in front of him.\n\n\u201cYou must not so much as think of it, my friend! It would be called\npoaching on our rivers here,\u201d said Mr. Wesley with a smile.\n\n\u201cThen I should like to live in the land where the fish of the rivers,\nthe deer of the forests, the birds of the air are free, as it was\nintended they should be--free to all men who had skill and craft--I\nhave heard of the trappers,\u201d said Hal. \u201cIt seems no sort of life for a\nwholesome man to live--pulling the string of a bellows, hammering iron\ninto shoes, for plough-horses!--no life whatsoever.\u201d Wesley smiled.\n\n\u201cAh, if you but knew aught of the terror of the backwoods,\u201d said he. \u201cIf\nyou but knew of it--one vast terror--monstrous--incredible. A terror by\nday and by night. I was used to stand on one of the hills hard by our\nlittle settlement, and look out upon the woods whose skirts I could see\nin the far distance, and think of their immensity and their mystery.\nHundreds of miles you might travel through those trackless forests\nuntil the hundreds grew into thousands--at last you would come upon-the\nprairie--hundred and hundreds of miles of savage country--a mighty ocean\nrolling on to the foot of the Rocky Mountains! Between the backwoods-and\nthe mountains roll the Mississippi River--the Ohio, the Potomac. Would\nyou know what the Mississippi is like? Take the Thames and the Severn\nand the Wye and the Tyne and the Humber--let them roll their combined\nvolume down the one river bed; the result would be no more than an\ninsignificant tributary of the Mother of Waters--the meaning of the name\nMississippi.\u201d\n\nThere was more breathlessness. When Hal Holmes broke the silence\neveryone was startled--everyone stared at him.\n\n\u201cGrand! grand!\u201d he said in a whisper. \u201cAnd your eyes beheld that wonder\nof waters, sir?\u201d\n\nMr. Wesley held up both his hands.\n\n\u201cI--I--behold it?\u201d he cried. \u201cWhy, there is no one in England whose eyes\nhave looked upon that great river. Had I set out to find it I should\nhave had to travel for a whole year before reaching it--a year, even if\nthe forests had opened their arms to receive me, and the prairie had\noffered me a path I spoke with an Indian who had seen it, and I spoke\nwith the widows of two men who had gone in search for it. Four years had\npassed without tidings of those men, and then one of the Iroquois tribe\nfound a tattered hat that had belonged to one of them, on the borders of\nthe backwoods, not a hundred miles from his starting place. Of the other\nnothing has yet been forthcoming. I tell you, friends, that I was used\nto let my eyes wander across the plain until they saw that forest, and\nthey never saw it without forcing me to look upon it as a vast,\nmonstrous thing--but a living creature--one of those fabled dragons that\nwere said to lie in wait to devour poor wretches that drew nigh to it.\nNay, when I looked upon it I recalled the very striking lines in John\nMilton's fine epic of 'Paradise Lost':\n\n               'With head uplift above the wave, and eyes\n\n               That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides\n\n               Prone on the flood, extended long and large,\n\n               Lay floating many a rood,--\u201d\n\n\u201cOne must needs be a dweller among the adventurers in America in order\nto understand in its fulness how terrible a monster those backwoods\nare thought to be. There it stretched, that awful mass--that monstrous\nmother of that venomous brood--the huge snakes that lurk in the\nundergrowth, the fierce lynx, the terrible panther, the wolf and the\nwildcat. I have heard, too, of a certain dragon and the vampire--a\nhuge bat that fans a poor wretch asleep by the gentle winnowing of its\nleather wings only to drain his life's blood. These are but a few of the\nbrood of the backwoods. Who can name them all? The poisonous plants that\nshoot out seeds with the noise of the discharge of a musket, the\nswamps made up of the decay of a thousand years--breathing fevers and\nagues--the spectre of starvation lurks there unless you have weapons and\nthe skill to use them--fire--they told me of the prairie fires--a blast\nof flame five miles broad--sometimes twenty miles broad--rushing along\ndriving before it beasts and birds until they drop in sheer exhaustion\nand become cinders in a minute--these are some of the terrors that dwell\nin the backwoods, but worst of all--most fierce--inexorable, is the Red\nIndian. Tongue of man cannot tell the story of their treachery--their\ntorturings. Our settlers do not fear to face the beasts of the\nbackwoods--the rattlesnakes--the pestilence of the swamps--the most\ncruel of these is more merciful than the Indian.\u201d\n\nThey listened as children listen to a fairy tale, and they knew that\nthey were hearing the truth. There was not one of them that had not\nheard something of the story of the founding of the settlement along the\ncoast of the new Continent, from the Bay Colonies and Plymouth Rock in\nthe North to Carolina in the South. The spirit of adventure which had\ngiven Drake and Raleigh their crews from the men of the West country\ngave no signs of dying out among their descendants. They listened\nand were held in thrall while this man, who had come among them with\nsomething of the reputation of a pioneer--a man boldly striking out a\nnew track for himself, told them of the perils faced by their countrymen\non the other side of that sea which almost rolled to their very doors.\nHe carried them away with him. They breathed with him the perfume of the\nbackwoods and became imbued with the spirit of mystery pervading them.\nHe carried them away simply because he himself was carried away. He felt\nall that he spoke about; this was the secret of his power. He could not\nhave made them feel strongly unless by feeling strongly himself.\n\nBut his aim was not limited to his desire to arouse their interest in\nthe romance of the backwoods. He spoke of the troubles of the young\nsettlement to which he had gone out, of the bravery of the settlers,\nmen and women--of the steadfast hope which animated them in facing their\nanxieties--their dangers. What was the power that sustained them? In one\nword, it was faith.\n\nWithout the least suggestion of preaching, he talked to them of Faith.\nHe talked as if it was not merely a sentiment--a cold doctrine to be\ndiscussed by the aid of logic--nay, but as a real Power--a Power that\ncould move mountains. Such as had it had the greatest gift that Heaven\noffered to mankind. It was a gift that was offered freely--all could\nhave it, if they so willed; and this being so, how great would be the\ncondemnation of those who refused to accept it!\n\nAnd the people who had eagerly drunk in all that he had to say of the\nmystery of the backwoods were even more interested when he talked of\nthis other mystery. There had been no dividing line in his subject;\nthe Faith of which he was now speaking with all the eloquence of\nsimple language that fell like soft music on their ears, was a natural\npart--the most actual part of his story of the great half-known West.\n\nThey listened to him while he discoursed for that marvellous half-hour,\nand the prayer that followed seemed also a part--the suitable closing\npart of that story of trial and trouble and danger rendered impotent by\nFaith. Surely, when such a gift could be had for the asking, they should\nask for it. He prayed that the hearts of all who were kneeling might be\nopened to receive that saving grace of Faith.\n\n\u201cHal, my friend,\u201d said the miller, when they stood together at the\nentrance to the lane, having seen Mr. Wesley drive off with Jake. \u201cHal,\nfor the first time these sixteen years I have seen thee rise from thy\nsupper without searching about for thy pipe!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy pipe? List, old friend, while I tell thee that to pass another such\nevening I would break my pipe into a hundred pieces and never draw a\nwhiff of 'bacca between my teeth,\u201d said Hal. \u201cMoreover, a word in thy ear:\nI would not have it made public; I'll smoke no more 'bacca that comes\nto me by a back way. I believe that why I didn't smoke this evening was\nby reason of the feeling that was in me that 'twould be a solemn sin for\nme to let him have even a sniff of 'bacca that had been run.\u201d\n\nThe miller laughed.\n\n\u201cWhy, Hal, he did not preach to us to give the Preventive men their\ndue,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cNo, no. If he had I might ha' been the less disposed to do the right\nthing. But now--well, no more smuggled 'bacca for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood:--good--but wherefore this honest resolve, Hal Holmes?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know not. Only I seem somehow to look at some things in a new light.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd that light will not let your tinder be fired over a pipe o' 'bacca\nthat has paid no duty? That's right enough, but what I need to learn\nfrom you is the reason of all this.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, there you have me, friend. I can give you no reason for it; only\nthe notion came over me quite sudden like, that for ten year I had been\ndoing what I should ha' turned from, and I made the resolve now to turn\nnow before it was too late. That's all, and so, good-night to you, Mat,\nand God bless you. I be to get that shoe on before he starts from Jake's\nhouse i' the morn, and he said he would start betimes.\u201d\n\nThe miller laughed again, but very gently, and held out his hand to the\nother without a word. It was not until the blacksmith had disappeared\ndown the lane that his friend said in a low voice:\n\n\u201cIt beats me clean. There must be a sort of magic in the man's tongue\nthat it works those wonders. All the time that he was telling us his\nstory o' the woods I was making up my mind to be a better man--to have\nmore charity at heart for my fellows--to be easier on such as cannot pay\nall that they have promised to pay. And now here's Hal that confesses\nto the same, albeit he has never gone further out of the straight track\nthan to puff a pipe that has paid nothing to King George's purse. And\nthe man gave no preacher's admonition to us, but only talked o' the\nforest and such-like wild things.... Now, how did he manage to bring\nFaith into such a simple discourse?... Oh, 'tis his tongue that has\nthe magic in it! Magic, I say; for how did it come that when he spoke I\nfound myself gazing like a child at a picture--a solid, bright picture\no' woods and things?... Oh, 'tis true magic, this--true!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nOh, that a man could speak to men in the language of the Spring!\u201d cried\nMr. Wesley, when his horse stopped unbidden and unchidden and looked\nover the curved green roof of the hedge across the broad green pasturage\nbeyond. \u201cOh, that my lips could speak that language which every ear\ncan understand and every heart feel! What shall it profit a man to\nunderstand if he does not feel--feel--feel? The man who understands is\nthe one who holds in his hand the doctor's prescription. The man who\nfeels is the one who grasps the healing herbs; and 'tis the Spring that\nyields these for all to gather who will.\u201d\n\nAnd then, automatically he took his feet out of the stirrups for greater\nease, and his eyes gazed across the meadow-land which sloped gently\nupward to the woods where the sunbeams were snared among the endless\nnetwork of the boughs, for the season was not advanced far enough\nto make the foliage dense; the leaves were still thin and\ntransparent--shavings of translucent emerald--a shade without being\nshadowy.\n\nEverything that he saw was a symbol to him. He looked straight into the\nface of Nature herself and saw in each of its features something of the\nGreat Message to man with which his own heart was filled to overflowing.\nHe was a poet whose imagination saw beneath the surface of everything.\nHe was a physician who could put his finger upon the pulse of Nature and\nfeel from its faintest flutter the mighty heart which throbbed through\nthe whole creation.\n\nWhat man was there that failed to understand the message of Nature as\nhe understood it? He could not believe that any should be so dense as to\nmisinterpret it. It was not a book written in a strange tongue; it was a\nbook made up of an infinite number of pictures, full of colour that any\nchild could appreciate, even though it had never learned to read. There\nwas the meadow beyond the hedgerow. It was full of herbs, bitter as well\nas sweet. Could anyone doubt that these were the symbols of the Truth;\nherbs for the healing of the nations, and if some of them were bitter to\nthe taste, were their curative properties the less on this account? Nay,\neveryone knew that the bitterest herbs were oftentimes the most healing.\nWhat a symbol of the Truth! It was not the dulcet truths that were\npurifying to the soul of man, but the harsh and unpalatable.\n\n\u201cGod do so to me and more also if ever I should become an unfaithful\nphysician and offer to the poor souls of men only those Truths that\ntaste sweet in their mouths and that smell grateful to their nostrils!\u201d\n he cried.\n\nAnd he did not forget himself in the tumult of his thought upon his\nmessage. He was not the physician who looked on himself as standing in\nno need of healing.\n\n\u201cI have tasted of the bitter medicine myself and know what is its power.\nOh, may I be given grace to welcome it again should my soul stand in\nneed of it!\u201d\n\nA lark rose from the grass of the sloping meadow and began its ecstatic\nsong as it climbed its \u00e6rie ladder upward to the pure blue. He listened\nto the quivering notes--a bubbling spring of melody babbling and\nwimpling and gurgling and flitting and fluttering as it fell through the\nsweet morning air.\n\n\u201cOh, marvel of liquid melody!\u201d cried the man, letting his eyes soar\nwith the soaring bird. \u201cWhat is the message that is thine! What is that\nmessage which fills thy heart with joy and sends thee soaring out of the\nsight of man, enraptured to the sky? Is it a message from the sons of\nmen that thou bear-est to the heavens? Is it a message from Heaven that\nthou sendest down to earth?\u201d\n\nA butterfly fluttered up from beyond the hedge, carrying with it the\ndelicate scent of unseen primroses. It hovered over the moss of the bank\nfor a moment and then allowed itself to be blown like a brown leaf in\nthe breeze in a fantastic course toward the group of harebells that made\na faint blue mist over a yard of meadow.\n\nHe watched its flight. The butterfly had once been taken as an emblem of\nthe immortality of the soul, he remembered. Was it right that it should\nbe thought such a symbol, he wondered. In latter years it was looked on\nas an example of all that is fickle and frivolous. Was it possible that\nthe ancients saw more deeply into the heart of things--more deeply into\nthe spirit of these forms of Nature?\n\n\u201cWho can say what wise purpose of the Creator that gaudy insect may\nfulfil in the course of its brief existence?\u201d said he. \u201cWe know that\nnothing had been made in vain. It may be that it flutters from flower to\nflower under no impulse of its own, but guided by the Master of Nature,\nwhose great design would not be complete without its existence. That\nwhich we in our ignorance regard as an emblem of all that is vain and\nlight may, in truth, be working out one of the gravest purposes of the\nAll Wise.\u201d\n\nHe remained under the influence of this train of thought for some time.\nThen his horse gave a little start that brought back his rider from the\nrealm into which he had been borne by his imagination. He caught up the\nrein, slipped his feet into his stirrups, and perceived that it was the\nfluttering dress of a girl, who had apparently sprung from the primrose\nhollow beyond the hedge, that had startled the animal. It seemed that\nthe girl herself was also startled; she stood a dozen yards away, with\nher lips parted, and gave signs of flight a moment before he recognised\nher as one of the girls who had been at the Mill the night before--the\ngirl who had been the central figure in the game which his entrance had\ninterrupted.\n\n\u201cAnother butterfly--another butterfly!\u201d he said aloud, raising his hand\nto salute Nelly Polwhele, who dropped him a curtsey with a faint reply\nto his \u201cGood-morning.\u201d\n\nHe pushed his horse closer to her, saying:\n\n\u201cA fair morning to you, my child! You are not a slug-a-bed. Have you\ncome for the gathering of mushrooms or primroses? Not the latter; the\nborders of the Mill stream must be strewn with them to-day.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am on my way to my home, sir,\u201d she replied. \u201cI set out on my return\nto the village an hour ago. I should be back in less than another--'tis\nscarce four mile onward.\u201d\n\n\u201cI remember that you told me you had come from Porthawn--my destination\nalso. I wished for a chat with you, but somehow we drifted a long\nway from Porthawn--we drifted across the Atlantic and got lost in the\nbackwoods of America.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, no, sir, not lost,\u201d said the girl.\n\n\u201cI was a poor guide,\u201d said he. \u201cI have only had a glimpse of the\nbackwoods, and so could only lead you all a rood or two beyond their\nfringes of maple. The true guide is one that hath been on every forest\ntrack and can tell by the tinges on the tree trunk in what direction\nhis feet tend. What a pity 'tis, my dear, that we cannot be so guided\nthrough this great tangled forest of life that we are travers-. ing now\non to the place of light that is far beyond--a place where there is no\ndarkness--a shelter but no shadow! There, you see, I begin to preach to\nthe first person whom I overtake. That is the way of the man who feels\nlaid upon him the command to preach.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt does not sound like preaching, sir,\u201d said the girl. \u201cI would not\ntire listening to words like that.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is how you know preaching from--well, from what is not preaching:\nyou tire of the one, not of the other?\u201d said he, smiling down at her.\n\nShe hung her head. Somehow in the presence of this man all her readiness\nof speech--sharpness of reply--seemed to vanish.\n\n\u201cI do not say that you have not made a very honest and a very excellent\nattempt to convey to me what is the impression of many people,\u201d he\nresumed. \u201cBut there is a form of preaching of which you can never grow\nweary. I have been listening to it since our good friend Hal Holmes\nhelped me to mount the horse that he had just shod.\u201d\n\n\u201cPreaching, sir?\u201d she said. \u201cThere are not many preachers hereabouts.\nParson Rodney gives us a good ten minutes on Sunday, but he does not\ntrouble us on week-days.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoth his preaching trouble you on Sunday, child? If so, I think more\nhighly of your parson than I should be disposed to think, seeing that\nI have heard nothing about him save that he is the best judge of\na game-cock in Cornwall. But the sermon that makes a listener feel\ntroubled in spirit is wholesome. Ah, never mind that. I tell you that\nI have been listening to sermons all this lovely morning--the sermon of\nthat eminent preacher, the sun, to the exhortation of the fields, the\nhomily of the bursting flowers, the psalm of the soaring lark, the\nparable of the butterfly. I was thinking upon the butterfly when you\nappeared.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are different from Parson Rodney, if it please you, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt does please me, my child; but, indeed, I am sure that there are\nworse parsons than those who take part in the homely sports of their\nparish, rude though some of these sports may be. I wonder if your ears\nare open to the speech--the divine music of such a morn as this.\u201d\n\n\u201cI love the morning, sir--the smell of the flowers and the meadows--the\nlilt of the birds.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have felt that they bring gladness into our life? I knew that your\nchild's heart would respond to their language--they speak to the heart\nof such as you. And for myself, my thought when I found myself drinking\nin of all the sweet things in earth and air and sky--drinking of that\noverflowing chalice which the morning offered to me--my thought--my\nyearning was for such a voice as that which I heard come from everything\nabout me on this Spring morning. 'Oh, that a man might speak to men in\nthe language of this morn!' I cried.\u201d\n\nThere was a long pause. His eyes were looking far away from her. He\nseemed to forget that he was addressing anyone.\n\nShe, however, had not taken her eyes off his face. She saw the light\nthat came into it while he was speaking, and she was silent. It seemed\nto her to speak just then would have been as unseemly as to interrupt at\none's prayers.\n\nBut in another moment he was looking at her.\n\n\u201cYou surely are one of the sweet and innocent things of this dewy morn,\u201d\n said he. \u201cAnd surely you live as do they to the glory of God. Surely you\nwere meant to join in creation's hymn of glory to the Creator!\u201d\n\nShe bent her head and then shook it.\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d said he, \u201cyou will not be the sole creature to remain dumb while\nthe Creator is revealing Himself in the reanimation of His world after\nthe dark days of Winter, when the icy finger which touched everything\nseemed to be the finger of Death!\u201d\n\nHis voice had not the inflection of a preacher's. She did not feel as if\nhe were reading her a homily that needed no answer.\n\nBut what answer could she make? She was, indeed, so much a part of the\nthings of Nature that, like them, she could only utter what was in\nher heart. And what was in her heart except a consciousness of her own\nunworthiness?\n\n\u201cAh, sir,\u201d she murmured, \u201conly last night had I for the first time a\nsense of what I should be.\u201d\n\nHis face lit up again when she spoke. His hands clasped, mechanically as\nit seemed.\n\n\u201cI knew it,\u201d he said in a low voice, turning away his head. \u201cI was\nassured of it. When my horse cast his shoe I felt that it was no\nmischance. I heard the voice of a little child calling to me through the\nnight. No doubt crossed my mind. I thank Thee--I thank Thee abundantly,\nO my Master!\u201d\n\nThen he turned to Nelly, saying:\n\n\u201cChild, my child, we are going the same way. Will you give me permission\nto walk by your side for the sake of company?\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, sir, will not you be weary a-walking?\u201d she said. \u201c'Tis a good\nthree mile to the Port, and the road is rough when we leave the valley.\u201d\n\n\u201cThree miles are not much,\u201d said he, dismounting. \u201cThe distance will\nseem as nothing when we begin to talk.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed that is so, sir,\u201d said she. \u201cLast night fled on wings while you\nwere telling us the story of the backwoods.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt fled so fast that I had no time to fulfil my promise to ask you\nabout your friends at Port-hawn,\u201d said he. \u201cThat is why I am glad of\nthe opportunity offered to me this morning. I am anxious to become\nacquainted with all sorts and conditions of people. Now, if I were to\nmeet one of your neighbours to-day I should start conversation by asking\nhim about you. But is there any reason why you should not tell me about\nyourself?\u201d\n\nShe laughed, as they set out together, Mr. Wesley looping his horse's\nbridle over his arm.\n\n\u201cThere is naught to be told about myself, sir; I am only the daughter of\na fisherman at Porthawn. I am the least important person in the world.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis not safe, my child, to assign relative degrees of importance to\npeople whom we meet,\u201d said he. \u201cThe most seemingly insignificant is very\nprecious in the sight of the Master. Who can say that the humblest of\nmen or women may not be called upon some day to fulfil a great purpose?\nHave you read history? A very little knowledge of history will be enough\nto bear out what I say. When the Master calls He does not restrict\nHimself to the important folk; He says to the humblest,\n'Follow Me and do My work--the work for which I have chosen thee.' God\nforbid that I should look on any of God's creatures as of no account.\nWhat is in my thought just now is this: How does it come that you, who\nare, as you have told me, the daughter of a fisherman in a small village\nfar removed from any large city--how does it come that you speak as a\nperson of education and some refinement? Should I be right to assume\nthat all the folk at your village are as you in speech and bearing?\u201d\n\nThe little flush of vanity that came to her face when he had put his\nquestion to her lasted but a few seconds.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\u201cI have had such advantages--I do not know if you would look on them\nas advantages, sir; but the truth is that the Squire's lady and her\ndaughters, have been kind to me. My father did the Squire a service a\nlong time ago. His son, Master Anthony, was carried out to sea in his\npleasure boat and there was a great gale. My father was the only man who\nventured forth at the risk of his life to save the young gentleman, and\nhe saved him. They were two days in the channel in an open boat, and\nmy father was well-nigh dead himself through exhaustion. But the young\nsquire was brought back without hurt. The Squire and his lady never\nforgot that service. My father was given money to carry out the plans\nthat he had long cherished of making the port the foremost one for\nfishing on our coast, and the ladies had me taught by their own\ngoverness, so that I was at the Court well nigh every day. I know not\nwhether or not it was a real kindness.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was no real kindness if you were thereby made discontented with your\nhome and your friends.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Mr. Wesley; that is just what came about. I thought myself a deal\nbetter than anyone in the village--nay, than my own father and mother.\nI had a scorn of those of my neighbours who were ignorant of books and\nmusic and the working of embroidery, and other things that I learned\nwith the young ladies. I was unhappy myself, and I knew that I made\nothers unhappy.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, such things have happened before. But you seemed on good terms with\nthe miller's family and the others who supped last evening at the Mill.\nAnd did not you walk all the way from your village carrying that heavy\nfish for their entertainment?--our entertainment, I may say, for I was\nbenefited with the others.\u201d\n\nThe girl turned her head away; she seemed somewhat disturbed in her\nmind. She did not reply at once, and it was in a low voice that she said:\n\u201cA year ago I--I--was brought to see that--that--I cannot tell you\nexactly how it came about, sir; 'tis enough for me to say that something\nhappened that made me feel I was at heart no different from my own folk,\nthough I had played the organ at church many times when Mr. Havlings was\nsick and though the young ladies made much of me.\u201d\n\nMr. Wesley did not smile. He was greatly interested in the story which\nthe girl had told to him. Had she told him only the first part he\nwould have been able to supply the sequel out of his own experience and\nknowledge of life. Here was this girl, possessing the charms of youth\nand vivacity, indiscreetly educated, as people would say, \u201cabove her\nstation,\u201d and without an opportunity of mingling on equal terms with\nany except her own people--how should she be otherwise than dissatisfied\nwith her life? How could she fail to make herself disagreeable to the\nhomely, unambitious folk with whom she was forced to associate?\n\nHe had too much delicacy to ask her how it was that she had been brought\nto see the mistake that she had made in thinking slightingly of her\nown kin who remained in ignorance of the accomplishments which she\nhad acquired? He had no difficulty in supplying the details which she\nomitted. He could see this poor, unhappy girl being so carried away by\na sense of her own superiority to her natural surroundings as to presume\nupon the good nature of her patrons, the result being humiliation to\nherself.\n\n\u201cI sympathise with you with all my heart, dear child,\u201d he said. \u201cBut the\nlesson which you have had is the most important in your education--the\nmost important in the strengthening of your character, making you see,\nI doubt not, that the simple virtues are worthy of being held in far\nhigher esteem than the mere graces of life. Your father would shake his\nhead over a boat that was beautifully painted and gilded from stem to\nstern. Would he be satisfied, do you think, to go to sea in such a craft\non the strength of its gold leaf? Would he not first satisfy himself\nthat the painted timbers were made of stout wood? 'Tis not the paint\nor the gilding that makes a trustworthy boat, but the timber that is\nbeneath. So it is not education nor graceful accomplishments that\nare most valuable to a man or woman, but integrity, steadfastness of\npurpose, content These are the virtues that tend to happiness. Above\nall, the most highly cultivated man or woman is he or she that has\ncultivated simplicity. I thank you for telling me your story in answer\nto my enquiry. And now that you have satisfied my curiosity on this\npoint, it may be that you will go so far as to let me know why it was\nthat you were filling the room in the Mill with shrieks last evening\nwhen I entered.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nNelly Polwhele gave a little jump when Mr. Wesley had spoken. It had\ncome at last. She had done her best to steal away from the explanation\nwhich she feared she would have to make to him. But somehow she did\nnot now dread facing it so greatly as she had done in the Mill. She had\nheard that the Reverend Mr. Wesley was severe, as well as austere. She\nhad heard his Methodism mocked by the fashionable folk at Bath, story\nafter story being told of his daring in rebuking the frivolities of the\nday. She had believed him to be an unsympathetic curmudgeon of a man,\nwhose mission it was to banish every joy from life.\n\nBut now that she had heard his voice, so full of gentleness--now that\nhis eyes had rested upon her in kindliness and sympathy--now that she\nhad heard him not disdain to spend an hour telling her and her friends\nthat romance of the backwoods, thrilling them by his telling of it, her\ndread of being rebuked by him for her levity was certainly a good deal\nless than it had been. Still she looked uneasily away from him, and\nthey had taken a good many steps in silence together before she made an\nattempt to answer him. And even then she did not look at him.\n\n\u201c'Twas a piece of folly, I am afraid, sir,\u201d she said in a low tone. \u201cAt\nleast you may esteem it folly, though it did not fail to amuse the\ngood people at the Mill,\u201d she added in an impulse of vanity not to be\nresisted.\n\n\u201cI had no doubt that it was a domestic game,\u201d said he. \u201cThey were all\nroaring with laughter. Had you heard, as I did, from without, the loud\nlaughter of the men and above it the wild, shrill shrieks, you would, I\nam sure, have been as amazed as I was.\u201d\n\nShe laughed now quite without restraint.\n\n\u201cBedlam--Bedlam--nothing less than Bedlam it must have seemed to you,\nMr. Wesley,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cI will not contend with you as to the appropriateness of your\ndescription,\u201d said he, smiling, still kindly.\n\n\u201cThe truth is, sir, that I have just returned from paying my first visit\nto the Bath,\u201d said she. \u201c'Twas the greatest event in my simple life. I\nwent to act as dresser to the Squire's young ladies, and they were so\ngood as to allow me to see mostly all that there was to be seen, and to\nhear all that there was to be heard.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat--all? That were a perilous permission that your young ladies gave\nto you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know not what is meant by all, but I heard much, sir; singers and\npreachers and players. I was taken to the Cave of Harmony for lovely\nmusic, and to the playhouse, where I saw Mistress Woffington in one of\nher merry parts. I was busy telling of this when you entered the Mill. I\nwas doing my best to shriek like Mistress Woffington.\u201d\n\nShe spoke lightly and with a certain assurance, as though she were\ndetermined to uphold her claim to go whithersoever she pleased.\n\nShe was in a manner disappointed that he did not at once show himself to\nbe shocked. But he heard her and remained silent himself. Some moments\npassed; but still he did not speak; he waited.\n\nOf course she began to excuse herself; he knew that she would do so. The\nuneasily confident way in which she had talked of the playhouse had told\nhim that she would soon be accusing herself by her excuses without the\nneed for him to open his lips.\n\n\u201cYou will understand, sir, I doubt not, that I was but in the position\nof a servant, though my ladies treated me graciously; I could not but\nobey them in all matters,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cDoes your saying that mean that you had some reluctance in going to the\nplayhouse?\u201d he asked her.\n\n\u201cI was not quite--quite--sure,\u201d she replied slowly. \u201cI had heard that\nthe playhouse was a wicked place.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd therefore you were interested in it--is that so?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I asked myself, 'Would my young ladies go to the playhouse--would\nthe Squire, who surely knows a good deal about wickedness, having lived\nfor so many years in London--would the Squire and his lady allow them to\ngo to the playhouse if there was anything evil in it?'\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so you went and you were delighted with the painted faces on both\nsides of the stage, and you have remained unsettled ever since, so that\nyou must needs do your best to imitate an actress whose shamelessness of\nliving is in everybody's mouth? I know that you imitated this Woffington\nwoman to your young ladies when you returned warm and excited from the\nplayhouse, and they laughed hugely at your skill.\u201d\n\nNelly stood still, so startled was she at the divination of her\ncompanion.\n\n\u201cHow came you to hear that?\u201d she cried.\n\n\u201cWere we not alone in the bedroom? Who could have told you so much?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when you returned to your home you were not many hours under its\nroof before you were strutting about feeling yourself to be decked\nout in the fine clothes which you had seen that woman wear in the\nplayhouse?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have been talking to someone--was it Jake Pullsford? But how could\nhe have known? Oh, sir; you seem to have in yourself a power equal to\nthat of the water-finder's wand, only surer by a good measure.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you saw no evil in the playhouse?\u201d he said gently.\n\n\u201cI do not want to go again, Mr. Wesley,\u201d she said. \u201cBut indeed I dare\nnot say that I saw any of the wickedness that I have heard of, in the\ntheatre.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, are you not in yourself an example of the evil?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cWhat--I, sir? Surely not, Mr. Wesley. Whatever you may have heard you\ncould hear nothing against me,\u201d she cried, somewhat indignantly.\n\nHer indignation lent her boldness and she turned to him, saying:\n\n\u201cI affirm, sir, and I am not ashamed to do so, that I saw nothing of\nevil in the playhouse, and I made up my mind that instead of spending my\ndays hidden away in a lonely village far from all the pleasures of life,\nI would try my fortune as an actress. I believe that I have some gift\nof mimicry--my ladies told me so. Why, sir, you allowed that my shrieks\nfrightened you outside the Mill.\u201d\n\n\u201cChild, your feet are on a path perilous,\u201d said he. \u201cYou were indignant\nwhen I said that you were in yourself an example of the evil of going to\nthe playhouse. Every word that you have spoken since has gone to prove\nthe truth of my assertion. Do you say that the unsettling of your mind\nis no evil due to your visits to the playhouse--the unsettling of your\nmind, the discontent at your homely and virtuous surroundings, the\narousing of a foolish vanity in your heart and the determination to\ntake a step that would mean inevitable ruin to such as you--ruin and the\nbreaking of your father's heart?\u201d\n\nHe spoke calmly, and in his voice there was more than a suggestion of\nsorrow.\n\nShe had become pale; she made an attempt to face him and repel his\naccusations, but there was something in his face that took all the\nstrength out of her. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed\nbitterly. He watched her for some moments, and then he put a soothing\nhand upon her arm.\n\n\u201cNay, dear child, be not overcome,\u201d said he. \u201cHave you not said to me\nthat you have no wish ever to enter the playhouse again? Let that be\nenough. Be assured that I will not upbraid you for your possession of\nthat innocence which saved you from seeing aught that was wrong in\nthe play or the players. Unto the pure all things are pure. Unto the\ninnocent all things are harmless. You were born for the glory of God. If\nyou let that be your thought day and night your feet will be kept in the\nnarrow way.\u201d\n\nShe caught his hand and held it in both her own hands.\n\n\u201cI give you my promise,\u201d she cried, her eyes upon his face; they were\nshining all the more brightly through her tears.\n\n\u201cNay, there is no need for you to give me any promise,\u201d he said. \u201cI will\nhave confidence in your fidelity without any promise.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will have to reckon with me first, you robber!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: 0008]\n\nThey both started at the sound of the voice. It came from a scowling man\nwho, unperceived by them, had come through a small plantation of poplars\non the slope at one side of the road, and now leaped from the bank, high\nthough it was, and stood confronting them.\n\nThe girl faced him.\n\n\u201cWhat do you here, John Bennet?\u201d she cried. \u201cHave you been playing the\nspy as usual?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are one of them that needs to be watched, my girl,\u201d said he.\n\u201cYou know that I speak the truth and that is why you feel it the more\nbitterly. But rest sure that I shall watch you and watch you and watch\nyou while I have eyes in my head.\u201d\n\nHe was a lank man, who wore his own red hair tied in a queue. He had\neyes that certainly would make anyone feel that the threat which he had\nuttered to the girl was one that he was well qualified to carry out;\nthey were small and fierce--the eyes of a fox when its vigilance is\noverstrained.\n\nHe kept these eyes fixed upon her for some moments, and then turned them\nwith the quickness of a flash of light upon Wesley.\n\n\u201cI heard what she said and I heard what you said, my gentleman,\u201d\n said he. \u201cYou will have faith in her fidelity--the fidelity of Nelly\nPolwhele. I know not who you are that wears a parson's bands; but parson\nor no parson I make bold to tell you that you are a fool--the biggest\nfool on earth if you have faith in any promise made by that young\nwoman.\u201d\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cyou called me a thief just now. My knowledge of the\nfalsehood of that accusation enables me to disregard any slander that\nyou may utter against this innocent girl.\u201d\n\n\u201cI called you a thief once and I shall call you so a second time,\u201d cried\nthe man. \u201cYou have stolen the love of this girl from me--nay, 'tis no use\nfor you to raise your hand like that. I know you are ready to swear\nthat you said nothing except what a good pastor would say to one of his\nflock--swear it, swear it and perjure yourself, as usual--all of your\ncloth do it when the Bishop lays his hands upon their wigs, and they\nswear to devote their lives to the souls of their parishes and then\nhasten to their rectories to get on their hunting boots--their hunting\nboots that are never off their legs save when they are playing bowls or\nkneeling--kneeling--ay, in the cock-pit.\u201d\n\n\u201cSilence, sir!\u201d cried Wesley. \u201cPass on your way and allow us to proceed\non ours.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have told your reverence some home truths; and as for yonder girl,\nwho has doubtless tricked you as she did me----\u201d\n\n\u201cSilence, sir, this instant! You were coward enough to insult a man who\nyou knew could not chastise you, and now you would slander a girl! There\nis your way, sir; ours is in the other direction.\u201d\n\nHe had his eyes fixed on the man's eyes, and as he faced him he pointed\nwith his riding whip down the road. The man stared at him, and then\nNelly saw all the fierceness go out of his eyes. He retreated slowly\nfrom Mr. Wesley, as though he were under the influence of a force upon\nwhich he had not previously reckoned. Once he put his hands quickly up\nto his face, as if to brush aside something that was oppressing him.\nHis jaw fell, and although he was plainly trying to speak, no words came\nfrom his parted lips. With a slow indrawing of his breath he followed\nwith his eyes the direction indicated by the other's riding whip. A\nhorseman was trotting toward them, but in the distance.\n\nThen it was that the man recovered his power of speech.\n\n\u201cYou saw him coming--that emboldened you!\u201d he said. \u201cDon't fancy that\nbecause I was a bit dazed that 'twas you who got the better of me. I'll\nhave speech with you anon, and if you still have faith in that girl----\u201d\n\nThe sound of the clattering hoofs down the road became more distinct.\nThe man took another quick glance in the direction of the sound, and\nthen with an oath turned and leapt up to the green bank beside him. He\nscrambled up to the top and at once disappeared among the trees.\n\nWesley and the girl stood watching him, and when he had disappeared\ntheir eyes took the direction that the man's had taken. A gentleman,\nsplendidly mounted on a roan, with half a dozen dogs--a couple of sleek\nspaniels, a rough sheep dog and three terriers--at his heels, trotted\nup. Seeing the girl, he pulled up.\n\n\u201cHillo, Nelly girl!\u201d he cried cheerily, when she had dropped him a\ncurtsey. \u201cHillo! Who was he that slunk away among the trees?\u201d\n\n\u201c'Twas only John Bennet, if you please, parson,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cIt doth not please me,\u201d said he. \u201cThe fellow is only fit for a madhouse\nor the county gaol. He looked, so far as I could see, as if he was\nthreatening you or--I ask your pardon, sir; your horse hid you.\u201d\n\nWhen he had pulled up Mr. Wesley had been on the off side of his horse\nand half a dozen yards apart from the girl; so that the stranger had no\nchance of seeing the bands that showed him to be a clergyman.\n\n\u201cYou arrived opportunely, sir,\u201d he said. \u201cI fear if the man had not\nperceived you coming in the distance, we might have found ourselves in\ntrouble.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, did the fellow threaten you? Shall I set the dogs upon his\ntrack? Say the word and I'll wager you _King George_ against your sorry\nskewbald that he'll find himself in trouble before many minutes are\nover,\u201d cried the stranger.\n\n\u201cNay, sir; the man hath gone and we are unharmed,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cThe scoundrel! Let me but get him within reach of my whip!\u201d said the\nother. \u201cBut the truth is, Nelly, that the fellow is more than half\ndemented through his love for you. And i' faith, I don't blame him. Ah,\na sad puss you are, Nelly. There will not be a whole heart in the Port\nif you do not marry some of your admirers.\u201d\n\nThen he turned to Wesley, saying:\n\n\u201cYou are a brother parson, sir, I perceive, though I do not call your\nface to mind. Are you on your way to take some duty--maybe 'tis for Josh\nHilliard; I heard that he had a touch of his old enemy. But now that I\nthink on't 'twould not be like Josh to provide a substitute.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have come hither without having a church to preach in, sir; my name\nis Wesley, John Wesley.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, the head of the men we christened Methodists at Oxford?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe same, sir. I believe that the name hath acquired a very honourable\nsignificance since those days. I hope that we are all good churchmen, at\nany rate.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don't doubt it, Mr. Wesley; but you will not preach in my church,\nsir, of that you may rest assured.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are frank, sir; but pray remember that I have not yet asked your\npermission to do so.\u201d\n\nThe other laughed, and spoke a word or two to his horse, who was\nbecoming impatient and was only controlled with difficulty.\n\n\u201cA fair retort, Mr. Wesley--a fair retort, sir,\u201d he said. \u201cI like your\nspirit; and by my word, I have a sort of covert admiration for you. I\nhear that none can resist your preaching--not even a Bishop. You have\nmy hearty sympathy and good will, sir, but I will not go to hear you\npreach. The truth is that you are too persuasive, Mr. Wesley, and I\ncannot afford to be persuaded to follow your example. I find the Church\na very snug nest for a younger son with simple country tastes and a\nrare knowledge of whist; I am a practical man, sir, and my advice upon\noccasion has healed many a feud between neighbours. I know a good horse\nand I ride straight to hounds. In the cockpit my umpiring is as good law\nas the Attorney General could construe for a fee of a thousand guineas.\nAsk anyone in this county what is his opinion of Parson Rodney and\nyou will hear the truth as I have told it to you. I wish you luck, Mr.\nWesley, but I will not countenance your preaching in my church; nor will\nI hear you, lest I should be led by you to reform my ways, as I suppose\nyou would say; I am a younger son, and a younger son cannot afford to\nhave doubts on the existing state of things, when the living that he\ninherits is of the net value of eight hundred pounds per annum. So fare\nyou well, sir, and I beg of you not to make my flock too discontented\nwith my ten-minute sermons. They should not be so, seeing that my\nsermons are not mine; but for the most part Doctor Tillotson's--an\nexcellent divine, sir--sound--sound and not above the heads of our\ngaffers. Fare thee well, Nelly; break as few hearts as thy vanity can do\nwith.\u201d\n\nAnd Parson Rodney, smiling gallantly, and waving his whip gracefully,\nwhistled to his dogs, and put his roan to the trot for which he was\neager.\n\n\u201cAn excellent type,\u201d murmured Wesley. \u201cAlas! but too good a type. Plain,\nhonest, a gentleman; but no zeal, no sense of his responsibility for the\nwelfare of the souls entrusted to his keeping.\u201d\n\nHe stood for some time watching the man on the thoroughbred. Then he\nturned to Nelly Polwhele, saying:\n\n\u201cWe were interrupted in our pleasant chat; but we have still three miles\nto go. Tell me what the people think of Parson Rodney.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey do not think aught about him, Mr. Wesley; they all like him: he\nnever preaches longer than ten minutes.\u201d\n\n\u201cA right good reason for their liking of him--as good a reason as he had\nfor liking the Church; it doth not exact overmuch from him, and it saves\nhim from sponging on his friends. The Church of England has ever been an\nindulgent mother.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nSuch a sight had never been seen in Cornwall before: on this Sunday\nmorning an hour after sunrise every road leading to the village of\nPorthawn had its procession of men, women, and children, going to hear\nthe preacher. The roads became dusty, as dry roads do when an army of\nsoldiers passes over them; and here was an army of soldiers along, with\nits horse and foot and baggage-waggons--such an army as had never been\nin the West since the days of Monmouth's Rebellion; and this great march\nwas the beginning of another rebellion, not destined to fail as the\nother had failed. Without banners, without arms, with no noise, with no\nshoutings of the captains, this great force marched to fight--to take\npart in an encounter that proved more lasting in its effects than\nany recorded in the history of England since the days of the Norman\nInvasion.\n\nThe Cornish crowds did not know that they were making history. The\npeople had heard rumours of the preacher who had awakened the people of\nSomersetshire from their sleep of years, and who, on being excluded\nfrom the churches which had become Sabbath dormitories, had gone to the\nfields where all was wakefulness, and had here spoken to the hearts of\ntens of thousands.\n\nThe reports that spread abroad by the employment of no apparent agency\nmust have contained some element that appealed with overwhelming power\nto the people of the West. The impulse that drove quiet folk from their\nhomes and induced them to march many miles along dusty roads upon the\nmorning of the only day of the week that gave them respite from toil was\nsurely stronger than mere curiosity. They did not go into the wilderness\nto see a reed shaken by the wind. There was a seriousness of purpose\nand a sincerity about these people which must have been the result of a\nstrong feeling among them that the existing order of things was lacking\nin some essentials--that the Church should become a stimulating force to\nthem who were ready to perish, and not remain the apathetic force that\nit was when at its best, the atrophying influence that it was when at\nits worst.\n\nThat the ground was ready for the sowing was the opinion of Wesley,\nthough few signs had been given to him to induce this conclusion, but\nthat he had not misinterpreted the story of the Valley of Dry Bones was\nproved by the sight of the multitudes upon the roads--upon the moorland\nsheep-tracks--upon the narrow lanes where the traffic was carried on by\npack-horses. There they streamed in their thousands. Farmers with their\nwives and children seated on chairs in their heavy waggons, men astride\nof everything that was equine--horses and mules and asses--some with\ntheir wives or sisters on the pillion behind them, but still more riding\ndouble with a friend.\n\nOn the wayside were some who were resting, having walked seven or eight\nor ten miles, and had seen the sun rise over the hills on that scented\nSpring morning. Some were having their breakfast among the primroses\nunder the hedges, some were smoking their pipes before setting forth to\ncomplete their journey. Mothers, were nursing their infants beneath the\npink and white coral of the hawthorns.\n\n\u201c'Tis a fair,\u201d said Hal Holmes to his friend, Dick Pritchard, who was\nseated by his side in a small pony cart made by himself during the\nwinter.\n\n\u201cSalvation Fair,\u201d hazarded the water-finder. \u201cSalvation Fair I would\ncall it if only I was bold enough.\u201d\n\nThe smith shook his head.\n\n\u201cThat is how it will be styled by many, I doubt not,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd\nbeing as it must be, a strange mixture of the two--a church-going and a\nfairgoing--I have my fears that 'twill fall  'twixt the two. If the thing\nwas more of a failure 'twould be a huge success. You take me, Dick?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly vague, Hal--only vague, man,\u201d replied the water-finder, after a\nlong cogitating pause. \u201cWhen you spake the words there came a flash upon\nme like the glim from the lanthorn when 'tis opened sudden. I saw the\nmeaning clear enough like as 'twere a stretch of valley on an uneven\nnight of moonlight and cloud. Seemed as if there was a rift in your\ndiscourse and the moon poured through. But then the clouds fled across\nand I walk in the dark. Say 't again, Hal, and it may be that 'twill be\nplain. I have oft thought that your speech lit up marvellous well.\u201d\n\nThe blacksmith grinned.\n\n\u201cMaybe that is by reason of my work with the forge,\u201d he said. \u201cThe\nfurnace is black enough until I give it a blast with the bellows and\nthen 'tis a very ruby stone struck wi' lightning.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe--ay, very likely,\u201d said the little man doubtfully.\n\nThe smith grinned again.\n\n\u201cYou don't altogether see it with my eyes, friend,\u201d he said. \u201cHow could\nyou, Dick, our trades being natural enemies the one to t'other? My best\nfriend is fire, yours is water. But what was on my mind this moment was\nthe likelihood that the light-hearted may be fain to treat this great\nserious field gathering as though it were no more than a fair. Now,\nI say still that if 'twas no more than a gathering together of two or\nthree parishes none would think of it in light of a fair, but being as\n'tis--a marvel of moving men and women--why, then, there may be levity\nand who knows what worse.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, it looks as if the carcase of the hills was alive and moving with\ncrawling maggots,\u201d remarked Dick. The summit of the hill on the road\nhad been reached, and thus a view was given him and his companion of\nthe hollow in the valley beyond, which was black with the slow-moving\nprocession.\n\nAnd there were many who, while anxious for the success of the meeting,\nshared Hal Holmes's fears and doubts as to its result. What impression\ncould one man make upon so vast an assembly in the open air, they asked\nof each other. They shook their heads.\n\nThese were the sober-minded people who sympathised with the aims of\nthe preacher--God-fearing men and women to whom his hopes had been\ncommunicated. They knew that hundreds in that procession on the march to\nthe meeting-place were no more serious than they would be had they been\ngoing to a fair. They were going to meet their friends, and they were\nimpelled by no higher motives than those which were the result of the\ninstinct of the gregarious animals. Many of them lived far away from a\ntown or even a village, in the wilder parts of the Duchy, and they laid\nhold on an opportunity that promised to bring them in contact with a\ngreater crowd than they had ever joined before. The joy of being one of\nthe crowd was enough for them; the preaching was only an insignificant\nincident in the day's proceedings. The sober-minded, knowing this,\nwere afraid that in these people the spirit of levity might be aroused,\nespecially if they could not hear the words of the preacher, and the\nconsequences would be disastrous.\n\nAnd doubtless there were hundreds of the dwellers along the coast who\nwould have been pleased if grief came to an enterprise that threatened\ntheir employment as smugglers or the agents of smugglers. Smuggling and\nwrecking were along the coast, and pretty far inland as well, regarded\nas a legitimate calling. Almost everyone participated in the profits of\nthe contraband, and the majority of the clergy would have been very\nmuch less convivial if they had had to pay the full price for their\npotations. Preaching against such traffic would have been impolitic\nas well as hypocritical, and the clergy were neither. The parson who\ndenounced his congregation for forsaking the service on the news of a\nwreck reaching the church was, probably, a fair type of his order.\nHis plea was for fair play. \u201cLet us all start fair for the shore, my\nbrethren.\u201d\n\nSuch men had a feeling that the man who had come to preach to the\nmultitude would be pretty sure to denounce their fraud; or if he did\nnot actually denounce it he might have such an influence upon their\ncustomers as would certainly be prejudicial to the trade. This being\nso, how could it be expected that they should not look forward to the\nfailure of the mission?\n\nAnd there was but a solitary man to contend against this mixed\nmultitude! There was but one voice to cry in that wilderness--one voice\nto awaken those who slept. The voice spoke, and its sound echoed round\nthe wide world.\n\nHe stood with bared head, with a rock for his pulpit, on a small plateau\noverlooking a long stretch of valley. On each side there was an uneven,\nsloping ground--rocks overgrown with lichen, and high tufts of coarse\nherbage between, with countless blue wild flowers and hardy climbing\nplants. The huge basin formed by the converging of the slopes made a\nnatural amphitheatre, where ten thousand people might be seated. Behind\nwere the cliffs, and all through the day the sound of the sea beating\naround their bases mingled with the sound of many voices. A hundred feet\nto the west there hung poised in its groove the enormous rocking stone\nof Red Tor.\n\nPerhaps amongst the most distant of his hearers there was one who might\nnever again have an opportunity of having the word that awakens spoken\nin his hearing. There might be one whose heart was as the ground in\nSummer--waiting for the seed to be sown that should bring forth fruit,\nsixtyfold or an hundredfold. That was what the man thought as he looked\nover the vast multitude. He felt for a moment overwhelmed by a sense\nof his responsibility. He felt that by no will of his own he had been\nthrust forward to perform a miracle, and he understood clearly that the\nresponsibility of its performance rested with him.\n\nFor a moment the cry of the overwhelmed was in his heart.\n\n\u201cIt is too much that is laid upon me.\u201d\n\nFor a moment he experienced that sense of rebellion which in a supreme\nmoment of their lives--the moment preceding a great achievement for\nthe benefit of the world--takes possession of so many of the world's\ngreatest, and which has its origin in a feeling of humility. It lasted\nbut for a moment. Then he found that every thought of his mind--every\nsense of his soul--was absorbed by another and greater force. He had\na consciousness of being possessed by a Power that dominated every\nsensation of his existence. That Power had thrust him out from himself\nas it were, and he felt that he was standing by wondering while a voice\nthat he did not know to be his own went forth, and he knew that it\nreached the most remote of the people before him. It was like his own\nvoice heard in a dream. For days there had been before his eyes the\nvision that had come to the prophet--the vision of the Valley of Dry\nBones. He had seemed to stand by the side of the man to whom it had been\nrevealed. He had always felt that the scene was one of the most striking\nthat had ever been depicted; but during the week it was not merely its\nmysticism that had possessed him. He felt that it was a real occurrence\ntaking place before his very eyes.\n\nAnd now he was standing on his rock looking all through that long\nvalley, and he saw--not the thousands of people who looked up to him,\nbut ranks upon ranks and range upon range of dead men's bones, bleaching\nin the sunshine--filling up all the hollows of the valley forsaken of\nlife, overhung by that dread legend of a battle fought so long ago\nthat its details had vanished. There they stretched, hillocks of white\nbones--ridges of white bones--heaps upon heaps. The winds of a thousand\nyears had wailed and shrieked and whistled, sweeping through the valley,\nthe rains of a thousand years had been down upon them--hail and snow\nhad flung their pall of white over the whiteness of the things that lay\nthere, the lightnings had made lurid the hollow places in the rocks, and\nhad rent in sunder the overhanging cliffs--there was the sign of such\na storm--the tumbled tons of black basalt that lay athwart one of the\nwhite hillocks--and on nights of fierce tempest the white foam from the\ndistant sea had been borne through the air and flung in quivering\nflakes over cliffs and into chasm--upon coarse herbage and the blue rock\nflowers. But some nights were still. The valley was canopied with stars.\nAnd there were nights of vast moonlight, and the white moonlight spread\nitself like a great translucent lake over the white deadness of that\ndreary place....\n\nThe man saw scene after scene in that valley as in a dream. And then\nthere came a long silence, and out of that silence he heard the voice\nthat said: \u201cCan these dead bones live?\u201d\n\nThere was another silence before the awful voice spoke the command:\n\n\u201cLet these bones live!\u201d\n\nThrough the moments of silence that followed, the sound of the sea was\nborne by a fitful breeze over the cliff face and swept purring through\nthe valley.\n\nThen came the moment of marvel. There was a quivering here and\nthere--something like the long indrawing of breath of a sleeper who has\nslept for long but now awakens--a slow heaving as of a giant refreshed,\nand then in mysterious, dread silence, with no rattling of hollow\nskeleton limbs, there came the great moving among the dry bones, and\nthey rose up, an exceeding great army.\n\nLife had come triumphant out of the midst of\n\nDeath. That was what the voice said. The whole valley, which had been\nsilent an hour before, was now vibrating, pulsating with life--the\ntumult of life which flows through a great army--every man alert, at his\npost in his rank--waiting for whatever might come--the advance of the\nenemy, the carrying out of the strategy of the commander.\n\nLife had come triumphant out of the midst of death, and who would dare\nnow to say that the deepest spiritual life might not lie hidden from\nsight among the bleaching heaps of dead bones that strewed the valley\nfrom cliffy to cliffs--hidden but only waiting for the voice to cry\naloud:\n\n\u201cLet these bones live!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, that that Dread Voice would speak through me!\u201d cried the preacher.\n\nThat was the first time he became conscious of the sound of his own\nvoice, and he was startled. He had heard that other voice speaking,\ncarrying him away upon the wings of its words down through the depths\nof that mystic valley, but now all was silent and he was standing with\ntrembling hands and quivering lips, gazing out over no valley of mystery\nalive with a moving host, but over a Cornish vale of crags; and yet\nthere beneath his eyes were thousands of faces, and they looked like\nthe faces of such as had been newly awakened after a long\nsleep--dazed--wondering--waiting....\n\nHe saw it. The great awakening had come to these people, and now they\nwere waiting--for what?\n\nHe knew what he had to offer them. He knew what was the message with\nwhich he had been entrusted--the good news which they had never heard\nbefore.\n\nAnd he told it with all simplicity, in all humility, in all\nsincerity--the evangel of boundless love--of illimitable salvation, not\nfrom the wrath to come--he had no need to speak of the Day of Wrath--his\ntheme wras the Day of Grace--salvation from the distrust of God's\nmercy--salvation from the doubts, from the cares of the world, from the\nlethargy that fetters the souls of men, from the gross darkness and from\nthe complacency of walking in that darkness.\n\nHe let light in upon their darkness and he forced them to see the\ndangers of the dark, and, seeing, they were overwhelmed. For the first\ntime these people had brought before their eyes the reality of sin--the\nreality of salvation. They had had doctrines brought before them in the\npast, but the tale of doctrines had left them unmoved. They had never\nfelt that doctrines were otherwise than cold, impassioned utterances.\nDoctrines might have been the graceful fabrics that clothed living\ntruths, but the truth had been so wrapped up in them that it had\nremained hidden so far as they were concerned. They had never caught a\nglimpse of the living reality beneath.\n\nBut here was the light that showed them the living thing for which they\nhad waited, and the wonder of the sight overwhelmed them.\n\nThe voice of the preacher spoke to them individually. That was the sole\nmystery of the preaching--the sole magnetism (as it has been called) of\nthe preacher.\n\nAnd that was the sole mystery of the manifestation that followed. Faces\nwere streaming with tears, knees were bowed in prayer; but there were\nother temperaments that were forced to give expression to their varied\nfeelings--of wonder, of humiliation, of exultation. These were not to be\ncontrolled. There were wild sobbings, passionate cries, a shout or\ntwo of thanksgiving, an outburst of penitence--all the result of the\nfeelings too strong to be controlled, and all tokens of the new life\nthat had begun to pulsate in that multitude--all tokens that the Valley\nwhich had been strewn with dry bones had heard the voice that said:\n\n\u201cLet these dry bones live.\u201d\n\nThere was a great moving among the dry bones, and they stood up, an\nexceeding great army.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nHis preaching had ceased, but the note that he had struck continued to\nvibrate through the valley. He had spoken with none of the formality of\nthe priest who aims at keeping up a certain aloofness from the people.\nThis Mr. Wesley had spoken as brother to brother, and every phrase that\nhe uttered meant the breaking down of another of the barriers which\ncenturies had built up between the pulpit and the people.\n\nThey proved that they felt this to be so when he came among them.\nWarm hands were stretched out to meet his own--words of blessing were\nejaculated by such as were able to speak; but infinitely more eloquent\nwere the mute expressions of the feeling of the multitude. Some there\nwere who could not be restrained from throwing themselves upon his\nshoulders, clasping him as if he had indeed been their brother from whom\nthey had been separated for long; others caught his hands and kissed\nthem. Tears were still on many faces, and many were lighted up with an\nexpression of rapture that transfigured their features.\n\nHe made no attempt to restrain any of the extravagances to which that\nhour had given birth. He knew better than to do so. He had read of the\nextravagant welcome given by the people of a town long besieged to\nthe envoys who brought the first news of the approach of the relieving\nforce, and he knew that he was there as an envoy to tell the people\nabout him of their release. He had himself witnessed the reception given\nto the King's Posts that brought the tidings of the last peace, and he\nknew that he himself was a King's Messenger, bearing to these people the\ntidings of Peace and Goodwill.\n\nHe had a word of kindness and comfort and advice to all. He was an elder\nbrother, talking to the members of his own family on equal terms. But\nsoon he left the side of these new-found brethren, for his eyes had not\nfailed to see some who were sitting apart among the low crags--some in\nsilent dejection, bearing the expression of prisoners for whom no order\nof release has come, though they had seen it come for others. But all\nwere not silent: many were moaning aloud with ejaculations of despair.\nIn the joy that had been brought to their friends they had no share.\nNay, the message that had brought peace to others had brought despair\nto them. They had been happy enough before, knowing nothing of or caring\nnothing for, the dangers that surrounded them in the darkness, and the\nletting in of the light upon them had appalled them.\n\nHe was beside them in a moment, questioning them, soothing their fears,\nremoving their doubts, whispering a word or two of prayer in their ears.\nJake, the carrier, had been right: the preacher had balm for the wounds\nof those who suffered. He went about among them for hours, not leaving\nthe side of any who doubted until their doubts had been removed and they\nshared the happiness that the Great Message brought with it. But the\nevangel had arisen upon that valley as the Daystar, with healing in its\nwings.\n\nWhen the multitude dispersed, the church bells were making melody over\nthe hills and through the dales. The Reverend Mr. Wesley was a good\nchurchman, and he took care that his preaching did not interfere with\nthe usual services. His object was to fill the churches with devout men,\nand not merely the body of the churches, but the pulpits as well.\n\nFor himself, he withdrew from his friends and walked slowly up one of\nthe tracks leading to the summit of the cliffs a few miles beyond the\nvillage of Porthawn. He wished to be alone, for amid all his feelings\nof thankfulness for the good which he knew had been done through his\npreaching, there came to him a doubt. Had he been faithful in his\ndelivery of the Message? Had he yielded up everything of self to the\nservice of the Master? Had he said a word that might possibly become\na stone of stumbling to the feet that had just set out upon the narrow\nway?\n\nThat was the fear which was ever present with him--the possibility\nthat the Message had failed in its power by reason of his frailty in\ndelivering it--the possibility that he might attribute to himself some\nof the merit of the Message.\n\nThe hours which he passed in loneliness almost every day of his life,\nthe solitary rides covering thousands of miles, his long walks without\na companion, were devoted to self renunciation. He was more afraid of\nhimself than of any enemy from without. He sometimes found himself in\nsuch a frame of mind as caused him to admire the spirit that led the\npriests of the heathen beliefs in the East to torture and mutilate\nthemselves in the attainment of what appeared to them to be holiness.\nHe knew that their way was not the right way, and the object which\nthey strove to achieve was not a worthy one; but he could not deny the\nself-sacrifice and its value.\n\nYes, but was it not possible that self-sacrifice might, if performed\nostentatiously, become only another form of self-glorification?\n\nIt was only now that this thought flashed upon him. He had walked along\nthe cliff path for a mile or two, and soon became aware of the pangs of\nhunger. It was nothing for him to set out to preach without having more\nthan a bite or two of bread, and to go fasting until the afternoon. He\nhad never regarded this as an act of self-sacrifice. But how had he felt\nwhen some of his friends had made much of these facts, entreating him\nto be more mindful of his health? Had he not felt a certain pride in\nthinking that his health was regarded as important?\n\nAnd now, when he should return to the house where he was a guest--it\nwas the house of a Mr. Hartwell, the owner of a mine in the tin district\nsome distance from Porthawn--would not his hours of fasting preceding\nand following the exertion of preaching to so great a multitude in the\nopen air make him appear akin to a martyr in the eyes of the people with\nwhom he might come in contact?\n\nNay, could he deny that he felt some vanity in the reflection that\nhere again he would be seriously remonstrated with for his disregard of\nhimself?\n\nEven his orderly mind was unable to differentiate between the degrees of\nself-sacrifice and self-satisfaction involved in this simple question of\nfasting and eating, and he was troubled that his attempts to do so\nwere not wholly successful. It was like the man that, in his hours of\nexhaustion, he should be dissatisfied with what was really the result\nof his exhaustion. This trivial self-examination was, though he did not\nknow it, only the result of his neglect of the wants of his body. Yes,\nbut this fact did not make it the less worrying to him.\n\nHe had been led by the charm of the day to walk farther than he had\nintended, and he was so exhausted that he found it necessary to rest in\na dip of the cliffs above the little bay. On each side of him stretched\nthe broken shore, a short crescent patch of sand at every dip in that\nlong, uneven wall, and marking the outline of its curve was the white\nfloss of the lazy ripples. Behind him was the coarse sand-herbage of the\nbroken shore, and in front of him stretched the sea. A white bird or two\nhovered between the waters and the cliff summit, and far away a revenue\ncutter showed its white sails. Sunlight was over all. The warm air\nseemed imbued with the presence of God, which all might breathe and\nbecome at peace with all the world.\n\nIt came over the face of the waters, upon the face of the man who\nreclined upon a cushion of springy herbage that quite hid the shape of\nthe rock at whose base it found root. The feathery touch upon his\nbrow soothed him as a mother's hand soothes her child and banishes its\ndistrust. He lay there and every doubt that had oppressed him vanished.\nHe was weary and hungry, but he felt that the grace of heaven was giving\nhim food in the strength of which he might wander in the wilderness for\nforty days.\n\nHe closed his eyes and with the faint hum of the little bees that droned\namong the blue cliff-flowers,--with the faint wash of the ripples upon\nthe unnumbered pebbles of the beach--a sweet sleep crept over him.\n\nWhen he awoke it was not with a start, but as gently as he had fallen\nasleep. For a moment he had a fear that he had overslept himself. He\nturned to look at the sun and saw standing only half a dozen yards\naway the girl by whose side he had walked a few mornings before to the\nvillage.\n\nThe picture that she made to his eyes was in keeping with the soothing\nsights and sounds of this placid day. She wore a white kirtle and cap,\nbut the latter had failed to restrain the abundant hair which showed\nitself in little curls upon her forehead, and in long strands of\nsunshine over her ears and behind them. She was pleasant to look at--as\npleasant as was everything else of nature on this day; and he looked at\nher with pleased eyes for some time before speaking.\n\nAs for Nelly, she was not watching him; but he could see that she had\nseen him; she had only turned away lest he should have a man's distaste\nto be caught sleeping in the daytime. He perceived this the moment\nthat he spoke and she turned to him. The little start that she gave was\nartificial. It made him smile.\n\n\u201cI am at your mercy; but you will not betray my weakness to anyone,\u201d he\nsaid, smiling at her.\n\n\u201cOh, sir!\u201d she cried, raising her hands.\n\n\u201cYou saw me sleeping. I hope that 'twas not for long,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI did not come hither more than five minutes agone, sir,\u201d she replied.\n\u201cYou cannot have slept more than half an hour. I came to seek you after\nthe preaching.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have not been at your church, girl?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI was at your church, Mr. Wesley. I like Parson Rodney. I did not go to\nhis church.\u201d\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\u201cI like not such an answer, child.'Twould grieve me to learn that there\nwere many of my hearers who would frame the same excuse.\u201d\n\nShe hung her head.\n\n\u201cI am sorry, sir,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was my intent to go to Parson Rodney's\nchurch, if only to see how vast a difference there was 'twixt--that is--I\nmean, Mr. Wesley, that--that my intention was to be in church, only when\nI saw that you had wended your way alone through the valley, not going\nin the direction of Mr. Hartwell's house, but far away from it--what\ncould one do, sir, who knew that you could not have had a bite to eat\nsince early morning--and after such a preaching and an after-meeting\nthat filled up another fasting hour? 'He has no one to look after him,'\nsaid my mother in my ear. 'He is a forlorn man who thinks that he is\ndoing God's service by forgetting that his body must be nourished if his\nsoul is to remain sound.'\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is what your mother said--'tis shrewd enough. And what did you\nreply? Mind that the answer hath a bearing upon your staying away from\nchurch, Nelly.\u201d\n\n\u201cI said naught, Mr. Wesley; but what I did was to hurry to our home and\npack you a basket of humble victuals and--here it is.\u201d\n\nShe picked up a reed basket from the grass and brought it beside him.\nKneeling then on a stone she raised the lid and showed him a dish of\ncooked pilchards, some cakes of wheat bread and a piece of cream cheese\nlaid on a pale green lettuce.\n\nShe had spread the coarsest and whitest napkin he had ever seen on the\nface of the crag at his elbow, and with the air of a bustling housewife\nlaid a plate and knife and fork for him, talking all the time--reproving\nhim quite gravely and even severely for his inattention to his\nstomach--there was no picking and choosing of words in Cornwall\nor elsewhere during that robust century. She gave him no chance of\ndefending himself, but rattled on upbraiding him as if he had been a\nnegligent schoolboy, until she had laid out his picnic for him, and had\nspread the butter on one of the home-made cakes, saying:\n\n\u201cThere, now, you must not get upon your feet until you have put down all\nthat is before you. If you was to make the attempt to do so your long\nfast would make you so faint that you would run a chance of tottering\nover the cliff.\u201d\n\nHe saw that there was no need for him to say a word. What could he say\nin the face of such attention to his needs as the girl was showing?\n\n\u201cI submit with a good grace, my dear,\u201d he said when her work was done\nand she paused for breath. \u201cWhy should not I submit? I am, as you said,\nweak by reason of hunger, and lo, a table is spread for me with such\ndelicacies as would tickle the appetite of a man who has just partaken\nof a heavy meal, and I am not that man. Happier than the prophet, I am\nfed not by ravens, but by a white dove.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sir,\u201d she said, her face shining with pleasure. \u201cOh, sir, I protest\nthat even in the genteelest society at the Bath, I never had so pretty a\ncompliment paid to me.\u201d\n\nHe had paid his compliment to her in a delicate spirit of bantering, so\nas to make no appeal to her vanity, and he saw that her pleasure was not\nthe result of gratified vanity.\n\n\u201cBut concerning yourself, my dear,\u201d he cried when he had his fork in\nhis hand, but had as yet touched nothing. \u201cIf I was fasting you must be\nalso.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, sir, did I omit to say that I returned to my home after\nyour preaching?\u201d she said. \u201cOh, yes; I got the basket there and the\npilchards. My father despises pilchards, but I hope that you----\u201d\n\n\u201cI ama practical man, Nelly, and I know, without the need to make a\ncalculation on paper, that you could not be more than a few minutes in\nyour cottage, and that all that time was spent by you over my basket.\nI know such as you--a hasty mouthful of cake and a spoonful of milk\nand you say, 'I have dined.' Now I doubt much if you had so much as a\nspoonful of milk, and therefore I say that unless you face me at this\ntable of stone, I will eat nothing of your store; and I know that that\nwould be the greatest punishment I could inflict upon you. Take your\nplace, madam, at the head of the table.\u201d\n\nShe protested.\n\n\u201cNay, sir, I brought not enough for two--barely enough to sustain one\nthat is a small feeder until he has the opportunity of sitting down to a\nregular meal.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have spoken,\u201d he said. \u201cI need but a bite! Oh, the long fasting\njourneys that I have had within the year!\u201d\n\nShe still hesitated, but when, at last, she seated herself, she did not\ncause him to think that he had made her feel ill at ease; she adapted\nherself to the position into which he had forced her, from the moment\nshe sat opposite to him. She forgot for the time that he was the\npreacher on whom thousands of men and women had hung a couple of hours\nbefore, and that she, if she had not been with him, would have been\neating in a fisherman's cottage.\n\nShe had acquired, through her association with the Squire's young\nladies, something of their manners. Her gift of quick observation was\nallied to a capacity to copy what she observed, and being, womanlike,\nwell aware of this fact, she had no reason to feel otherwise than at\nease while she ate her share of the pilchards, and made him feel all the\ntime that she was partaking of his hospitality.\n\nAs for the preacher, he felt the girl's thoughtfulness very deeply. It\nseemed that she was the only one of the thousands who had stood before\nhim that had thought for his needs. Her tact and the graceful way in\nwhich she displayed it, even down to her readiness to sit with him lest\nhe should feel that she was remaining hungry, pleased him; and her\nchat, abounding with shrewdness, was gracefully frank. He felt refreshed\nbeyond measure by her freshness, and he rose to walk to the house\nwhere he was a guest, feeling that it was, indeed, good for him to have\nchanged the loneliness of his stroll for the companionship which she\noffered him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nThe question had often been discussed by him to the furthest point\npossible (as he thought) for its consideration to be extended; and how\nwas it that he found himself debating it at this time in its crudest\nform? He had long ago settled it to his own satisfaction, that his life\nwas to be a lonely one through the world. Not for him were to be the\npleasant cares of home or wife or child. Not for him was the tenderness\nof woman--not for him the babble of the little lips, every quiver of\nwhich is a caress. His work was sufficient for him, he had often said,\nand the contemplation of the possibility of anything on earth coming\nbetween him and his labours, filled him with alarm. He felt that if he\nwere to cease to be absorbed in his work, he should be unfaithful to his\ntrust. The only one that was truly faithful was the one who was ready to\ngive up all to follow in the footsteps of the Master.\n\nBut being human and full of human sympathy, he had often felt a moment's\nenvy entering the house of one of his friends who was married and become\nthe father of children. The hundred little occurrences incidental to a\nhousehold, where there was a nursery and a schoolroom, were marked by\nhim--the clambering of little chubby legs up to the father's knee--the\ninterpretation of the latest phrase that fell from baby lips--the charm\nof golden silk curls around an innocent child's face--all these and a\nscore of other delights associated with the household had appealed to\nhim, giving him an hour's longing at the time, and a tender recollection\nat intervals in after years.\n\n\u201cNot for me--not for me,\u201d he had said. So jealous was he of his work\nthat, as has been noted, the possibility of his becoming absorbed--even\npartially--by anything that was not directly pertaining to his work,\nwas a dread to him. He set himself the task of crushing down within him\nevery aspiration that might tend to interfere with the carrying out\nof the labour of his life, and he believed that, by stern and strict\nendeavour, he had succeeded in doing so.\n\nThen why should he now find himself considering the question which he\nbelieved he had settled forever? Why should he now begin to see that the\nassurance that it was not good for a man to be alone was based upon a\nknowledge of men and was wise?\n\nHe found an apt illustration of the wisdom of the precept in the conduct\nof the girl who had shown such thoughtfulness in regard to him. \u201cMentem\nmortalia tangunt,\u201d was the _sors Virgiliana_ which came to his mind at\nthe moment. He recognised the truth of it. A man was affected by the\nmaterial conditions of his life. If the girl had not shown such thought\nfor his comfort, he would well-nigh have been broken down by his\nexhausting labours of the day, followed up by an exhausting walk along\nthe cliffs. He might not have returned to the house at which he was\nstaying in time to dine, before setting out for a long drive to another\nplace for an afternoon's meeting. So absorbed was he apt to be in his\npreaching that he became oblivious to every consideration of daily life.\nWhat were to him such trivial matters as eating and drinking at regular\nintervals? He neglected the needs of his body, and only when he had\nsuffered for so doing did he feel that his carelessness was culpable. On\nrecovering from its' immediate effects, however, he fell back into his\nold habits.\n\nBut now the thought that came to him was that he had need for someone to\nbe by his side as (for example) Nelly Polwhele had been. He knew quite\nwell, without having had the experience of married life, that if he had\nhad a wife, he would not have been allowed to do anything so unwise as\nto walk straight away from the preaching to the cliffs, having eaten\nnothing since the early morning, and then only a single cake of bread.\nA good wife would have drawn him away from the people to whom he was\ntalking, to the house where he was a guest, and when there have set\nabout providing for him the food which he lacked and the rest which he\nneeded to restore him after his arduous morning's work, so that he might\nset out for the afternoon's preaching feeling as fresh as he had felt in\nthe morning.\n\nHe was grateful to the girl, not only for her attention to him, but\nalso for affording him an illustration favourable to his altered way of\nlooking at a question which he fancied had long ago been settled forever\nin his mind. (He had long ago forgiven the woman, who, in America, had\ntaught him to believe that a life of loneliness is more conducive to\none's peace of mind than a life linked to an unsympathetic companion.)\n\nAnd having been led to such a conclusion, it was only reasonable that he\nshould make a resolution that, if he should ever be so fortunate as to\nmeet with a virtuous lady whom he should find to possess those qualities\nwhich promised most readily to advance the work which he had at heart,\nhe would not be slow to ask her to be his companion to such an end.\n\nThis point settled to his satisfaction (as he thought), he mounted his\nhorse, after a week's stay in the valley of the Lana, and made his way\nto the tinners of Camlin, twenty miles further along the coast Here\nhe was received with open arms, and preached from his rock pulpit to\nthousands of eager men and women an hour after sunrise on a summer\nmorning.\n\nOn still for another fortnight, in wilder districts, among people who\nrarely entered a church, and whom the church made no attempt to reach.\nThese were the people for him. He was told that he was going forth to\nsow the seed in stony ground, but when he came and began to sow, he\nfound that it fell upon fruitful soil. Here it was impossible for him\nto find a huge congregation, so scattered were the inhabitants. But this\nwas no obstacle to him: he asked for no more than a group of hearers\nin every place, and by the time that night came he found that he had\npreached to thousands since sunrise. Beginning sometimes at five o'clock\nin the morning, he would preach on the outskirts of a village and hold\na second service before breakfasting six miles away. It was nothing for\nhim to preach half a dozen times and ride thirty miles in one of these\ndays.\n\nBut as he went further and further on this wonderful itinerary of his,\nthat sense of loneliness of which he had become aware at Porthawn seemed\nto grow upon him. During those intervals of silence which he spent on\nhorseback, his feeling of loneliness appeared to increase, until at last\nthere came upon him a dread lest he should affect his labours. He had a\nfear that a despondent note might find its way into his preaching, and\nwhen under such an influence he made a strong effort in the opposite\ndirection, he was conscious of an artificial note; and, moreover, by the\ntrue instinct of the man who talks to men, he was conscious that it was\ndetected by his hearers.\n\nHe was disappointed in himself--humiliated. How was it that for years\nhe had been able to throw off this feeling of walking alone, through\nthe world, or making no effort to throw it off, to glory in it, as it\nwere--to feel all the stronger because of it, inasmuch as it could not\ncome without bringing with it the reflection that he--he alone--had been\nchosen to deliver the message to the multitudes--the message of Light to\nthe people that walked in darkness?\n\nHe could not understand how the change had come about in him, and not\nbeing able to understand it, he felt the more humiliated.\n\nAnd then, one day, riding slowly along the coach road, he saw a young\nwoman standing waiting for a change of horses for her post chaise at the\ndoor of a small inn.\n\nHe started, for she had fair hair and a fresh face whose features bore\nsome resemblance to those of Nelly Polwhele--he started, for there came\nupon him, with the force of a revelation, the knowledge that this was\nthe companionship for which he was longing--that unconsciously, she had\nbeen in his thoughts--some way at the back of his thoughts, to be sure,\nbut still there--that, only since he had been her companion had his need\nfor some sweet and helpful companionship become impressed upon him..\n\nHe rode on to his destination overwhelmed by the surprise at the result\nof this glimpse which had been given to him into the depths of his\nown heart. The effect seemed to him as if with the sight of that\nstranger--that young woman on the roadside--a flash of lightning had\ncome, showing him in an instant what was in the depths of his heart.\n\nHe tried to bring himself to believe that he was mistaken.\n\n\u201cImpossible--impossible!\u201d he cried. \u201cIt is impossible that I should be\nso affected--a village girl!... And I did not talk with her half a dozen\ntimes in all!... Kind, thoughtful, with tact--a gracious presence, a\nreceptive mind.... Ah, it was she undoubtedly who set me thinking--who\nmade me feel dissatisfied with my isolation, but still.. . oh,\nimpossible--impossible!\u201d\n\nAnd, although a just man, the thoughts that he now believed himself to\nhave in regard to Nelly Polwhele were bitter rather than sweet. He\nbegan to think that it was too bold of her--almost immodest--to make the\nattempt to change the whole course of the life of such a man as he was.\nHe had once courted the lonely life, believing it to be the only\nlife for such as he--the only life that enabled him to give all his\nthoughts--all his strength--oh, all his life--all his life--to the work\nwhich had been appointed for him to do in the world of sinners; but lo!\nthat child had come to him, and had made him feel that he was not so\ndifferent from other men.\n\nUnder the influence of his bitterness, he resented her intrusion, as\nit were. Pshaw! the girl wras nothing. It was only companionship as\na sentiment that he had been longing for; he had a clear idea of the\ncompanionship that he needed; but he had never thought of the companion.\nIt was a mere trick of the fancy to suggest that, because the young\nwoman had sent his thoughts into a certain groove, they must of\nnecessity be turned in the direction of the young woman herself.\n\nHe soon found, however, that it is one thing for a man to prove to the\nsatisfaction of his own intelligence that it would be impossible that he\nshould set his heart on a particular young woman, but quite another to\nshut her out from his heart. He had his heart to reckon with, though he\ndid not know it.\n\nBefore the day had passed he had shut the doors of his heart, and he\nbelieved that he had done right. He did not know that he had shut those\ndoors, not against her, but upon her.\n\nLike all men who have accomplished great things in the world, he was\nintensely human. His sympathy flowed forth for his fellow-men in all\ncircumstances of life. But he did not know himself sufficiently well to\nunderstand that what he thought of with regret as his weaknesses, were\nactually those elements wherein lay the secret of his influence with\nmen.\n\nHe had just succeeded, he fancied, in convincing himself that it was\nimpossible he could ever have entertained a thought of Nelly Polwhele as\nthe one who could afford him the companionship which he craved, when a\nletter came to him from Mr. Hartwell, whom he had appointed the leader\nof the class which he had established at Porthawn, entreating him to\nreturn to them, as they were in great distress and in peril of falling\nto pieces, owing to the conduct of one of their members, Richard\nPritchard by name.\n\nCould he affirm that the sorrow which he felt on receiving this news was\nthe sum of all the emotions that filled his heart at that moment?\n\nHe laid down the letter, saying,\n\n\u201cIt is the Lord's doing.\u201d\n\nAnd when he said that, he was thinking, not of the distress in which his\nchildren at Porthawn found themselves by reason of Richard Pritchard,\nbut of the meaning of the summons to himself.\n\n\u201cIt is the trial to which my steadfastness is to be put,\u201d he said. \u201cI am\nnot to be allowed to escape without scathe. Why should I expect to do so\nwhen others are tried daily? There can be no victory without a battle.\nThe strength of a man is developed by his trial. I am ready. Grant me\ngrace, O Lord, to sustain me, and to keep my feet from straying!\u201d\n\nHe prepared himself for this journey back to Porthawn, and he was\npresently amazed (having been made aware of his own weakness) to find\nhimself thinking very much less about himself and scarcely at all about\nNelly Polwhele, nor that the chance of seeing her again had, without the\nleast expectation on his part, came to him. He found himself giving\nall his thoughts to the question of his duty. Had he been over-hasty in\naccepting the assurances of all these people at Porthawn to whose souls\npeace had come through his preaching? Was he actuated solely by a hope\nto spread abroad the Truth as he had found it, or had a grain of the\ntares of Self been sown among the good seed? Had there been something of\nvanity in his desire to increase the visible results of his preaching?\n\nThese were his daily questionings and soulsearching, and they had been\never present with him since he had put his hand to the plough. He was\never apt to accuse himself of vainglory--of a lack of that spirit of\nhumility which he felt should enter into every act--every thought of his\nlife. He thought of himself as the instrument through which his Master\nspake to His children. Should the harp vaunt itself when a hand sweeps\nover its strings, making such music as forces those who hear to be\njoyful or sad? Should the trumpet take credit to itself because through\nits tubes is blown the blast that sends an army headlong to the charge?\n\nAfter his first preaching in the valley of the Lana, hundreds of those\nwho heard him had come to him making a profession of the Faith that he\npreached. He asked himself now if it was not possible that he had been\ntoo eager to accept their assurance. He had had his experiences of the\nresultat the emotions of his listeners being so stirred by his preaching\nthat they had come to him with the same glad story; but only to become\nlukewarm after a space, and after another space to lapse into their\nformer carelessness. The parable of the Sower was ever in his mind. The\nquick upspring-ing of the seed was a sign that it had fallen where there\nwas no depth of earth. And this sowing was more hopeless than that on\nstony ground--than that among thorns.\n\nHe feared that he had been too hasty. He was a careless husbandman\nwho had been too ready to assume that a plentiful harvest was at hand,\nbecause he had sown where there was no depth of earth. He should have\nwaited and watched and noted every sign of spiritual growth before\nleaving the field of his labours.\n\nThese were some of his self-reproaches which occupied all his thoughts\nwhile making his return journey to Porthawn, thus causing all thought of\nNelly Polwhele to be excluded from his mind. He had caught a glimpse of\nthe Lana winding its way through the valley before he had a thought of\nher, and then it was with some bitterness that he reflected that, all\nunknown to himself, he had shortened his stay in this region because\nhe had had an instinct that a danger would threaten him if he were\nto remain. Instinct? Now he was dealing with a force that was wholly\nanimal--wholly of the flesh, and the flesh, he knew, was waging\nperpetual war with the things that appertained to the spirit.\n\nHe urged his horse onward. Whatever danger might threaten himself by his\nreturning to this region, he would not shrink from it; what was such a\ndanger compared with that threatening the edifice of Faith which he had\nhoped had been built up in the midst of the simple people of the land?\n\nHe urged his horse forward, and on the afternoon of the second day of\nhis journey he was within a few hours' journey of Ruthallion Mill.\nHe meant to call at the Mill, feeling sure that he would get from the\nmiller a faithful and intelligent account of all that had happened\nduring the three weeks of his absence from this neighbourhood. Miller\nPendelly, once the champion of the old system of lifeless churchgoing,\nhad become the zealous exponent of the new. He was the leader of\nthe little band that formed the nucleus of the great organisation of\nchurchmen who, under the teaching of Wesley, sought to make the Church\nthe power for good among the people that it was meant to be. Jake\nPullsford, who had spread the story of Wesley's aims among his friends\nbefore the preacher had appeared in Cornwall, had given evidence of the\nnew Light that had dawned upon him when he had heard Wesley at Bristol.\nBoth these were steadfast men, not likely to cause offence, and if\nWesley had heard any report of their falling short of what was expected\nof them he would have been more than disappointed.\n\nIt was through Richard Pritchard, the professional water-finder, that\noffence had come or was likely to come, Mr. Hartwell's letter had told\nhim. He remembered the man very clearly. He had had some conversation\nwith him, and Jake had satisfied him as to the sincerity of his belief.\nHe had never been otherwise than a clean-living man, and he had studied\nmany theological works. But he had not impressed Mr. Wesley as being a\nperson of unusual intelligence. His remarkable calling and the success\nwith which he practised it all through the West had caused Him to appear\nin the eyes of the people of the country as one possessing certain\npowers which, though quite legitimate, being exercised for good, were\nbordering on the supernatural. Wesley now remembered that he had had\nsome doubt as to the legitimacy of the man's calling. Believing, as he\ndid, so fully in the powers of witchcraft, he had a certain amount of\nuneasiness in accepting as a member of the little community which he\nwas founding, a man who used the divining rod; but the simplicity of\nPritchard and his exemplary character, were in his favour, so much as to\noutweigh the force of. Wesley's objection to his mode of life.\n\nNow, as he guided his horse down the valley road, he regretted bitterly\nthat he had allowed his misgivings to be overcome so easily. Like all\nmen who have accomplished great things in the world, the difficulties\nwhich occasionally beset him were due to his accepting the judgment\nof others, putting aside his own feelings or tendencies, in certain\nmatters. The practice of the virtue of humility, in regard to his\nestimation of the value of his own judgment, had cost him dearly upon\noccasions.\n\nIt was all the more vexatious to reflect that the man through whom the\ntrouble (whatever it might be) was impending, was the last one in the\nworld from whom any trouble might reasonably be looked for. This was\nprobably the first time in his life that he had reached any prominence\nin the little circle in which he lived. To be allowed to remain in the\nbackground, seemed to be his sole aspiration. His fear of giving offence\nto anyone seemed to be ever present with him, and his chief anxiety was\nto anticipate an imaginary offence by an apology. How a man who was so\nludicrously invertebrate should become a menace to the stability of a\ncommunity that included such robust men as the miller, the carrier, and\nthe smith, to say nothing of Farmer Tregenna and Mr. Hartwell, the mine\nowner, was more than Wesley could understand. It was this element of\nmystery that caused him to fear that Pritchard had all along been an\nagent of the Enemy--that his noted successes with the divining rod were\ndue to his connection with the Powers of Darkness, and that his getting\nwithin the fold of the faithful was, after all, only what might have\nbeen expected from one whose tactics were devised for him by the Old\nSerpent--the origin of every evil since the expulsion from Paradise.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nHe spent an hour at the Old Waggoner Inn at the corner of the River\nRoad, and while his horse was getting a feed in the stable he had some\nbread and cheese in the inn parlour--a large room built to accommodate\nthe hungry coach passengers, who, accustomed to break their journey to\nor from Plymouth, were at this house.\n\nThe room was not crowded when he arrived, but in the course of the next\nhalf-hour two additional parties entered, and while tankards were filled\nand emptied, and pewter platters of underdone beef laden with pickles\nwere passed round, there was a good deal of loud talk, with laughter and\nan interchange of friendly, if rude, humour. Wesley had had a sufficient\nexperience of inn parlours to prevent his being greatly interested by\nthe people here or their loud chat.\n\nThis was only at first, however, for it soon became clear to him that\nthe conversation and the jests were flowing in one channel. Then he\nbecame interested.\n\n\u201cCome hither, friend Thomas, and pay all scores,\u201d cried one jovial young\nfellow to an elderly stout farmer who had been standing in the bar.\n\n\u201cNot me, lad,\u201d cried the farmer. \u201cBy the Lord Harry, you've the\n'impidence'!\u201d.\n\n\u201cWhat, man, pay and look joyous. What will all your hoard of guineas be\nto you after Monday?\u201d cried the younger man.\n\n\u201c'Twill be worth twenty-one shillings for every guinea, if you must\nknow,\u201d replied the farmer.\n\n\u201cNay, sir, you know well that there will be no use for your guineas at\nthe Day of Judgment, which, as surely as Dick Pritchard is a prophet,\nwill happen on Monday,\u201d said the other.\n\n\u201cI'm ready to run the chance, i' the face o' the Prophet Pritchard,\u201d\n said the farmer. \u201cAy, and to show what's in me, I am ready 'twixt now\nand Sunday to buy any property at a reasonable discount rate that any\nbeliever in Dick Pritchard may wish to sell.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood for you, farmer--good for you!\u201d shouted a dozen voices, with the\napplause of rattling pewters on the table.\n\n\u201cLet Dick stick to his trade--water and not fire is his quality; he'd\nbest leave the Day of Judgment in subtler hands,\u201d growled a small,\nred-faced man, who was cooling himself this Summer day with Jamaica rum.\n\nThere was some more laughter, but it was not of a hearty sort; there was\na forced gaiety in it that Wesley easily detected.\n\n\u201cBy my troth, the fellow's prophecy hath done a good turn to the\nmaltster; there hath been more swilling, hot and cold, since he spoke a\nweek ago yesterday, than in any month of ordinary calm weather, without\na sniff of brimstone in it,\u201d said Mr. Hone, the surgeon of the revenue\nmen, who was in the act of facing a huge beef-steak with onions and a\npotato baked with a sauce of tansy.\n\n\u201cSmall blame to the drouthy ones; they know full well that by this day\nweek they will be ready to pay Plymouth prices for a mugful o' something\ncooling,\u201d remarked a traveller.\n\n\u201cGentlemen and friends, all, I make bold enough to affirm that this\nmatter is too grave an one to be jested on or to be scoffed at,\u201d said a\ntall, pale-faced young man. \u201cI tell you, sirs, that there may be more in\nthis thing than some of us suspect.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, Mr. Tilley, are you feeble enough to believe that an event of\nsuch considerable importance to the Government as the Day of Judgment\nwould be announced through such an agent? This Dick Pritchard is a\ncommon man, as full of ignorance as a young widow is of tricks,\u201d said\nthe surgeon, looking up from his plate.\n\n\u201cIgnorant? ay, doubtless, Mr. Hone; but how many ignorant men have yet\nwon an honourable place in the book of the prophets, sir?\u201d asked the\nyoung man. \u201cSeems to any natural man, sir, that ignorance, as we call\nignorance, was the main quality needful for an ancient old prophet that\nspake as he was moved.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat was in the Antique Dispensation, Mr. Tilley; you must not forget\nthat, sir,\u201d cried the surgeon.\n\n\u201cAy, that's sure; 'tis a different age this that we live in,\u201d said an\nacquiescent voice behind the shelter of a settle.\n\n\u201cI'd as lief credit a Christian as a Jew in such a matter: the Jews seem\nto have had this business of prophecy as exclusive in their hands as\nthey have the trade of money now,\u201d said the traveller. \u201cThe Jewish seers\nbusied themselves a good deal about the Day of Judgment, why should\nnot a humble Christian be permitted a trifle of traffic on the\nsame question, since it is one that should be of vital interest to\nall--especially innkeepers in hot weather?\u201d\n\nThere was only a shred of laughter when he had spoken. It was clear that\nin spite of some of the jeers against the water-finder that had taken\nplace in the room, there was a feeling that whatever he had taken it\nupon him to say--it seemed to Wesley that it had reference to the Day\nof Judgment on the next Monday--should not be treated with levity. The\njocular tone of a few men who were present was distinctly forced. Upon\nseveral faces Wesley perceived an expression that reminded him of that\nupon the faces of some of the prisoners under sentence of death whom he\nhad visited in his young days at Oxford.\n\n\u201cSay what you will, gentlemen,\u201d resumed the young man called Tilley,\n\u201cthis Dick Pritchard is no ordinary man. I have seen him at work with\nhis wizard's wand', and inside five minutes o' the clock he had shown\nus where to bore for water in a meadow slope that was as deeply pitted\nbefore with borings as if it had an attack of smallpox. Ay, sirs, a\nhole had been dug here and another there--and there--and there--\u201d he\nindicated with his finger on the floor the locality of the diggings to\nwhich he referred--\u201cbut not a spoonful of water appeared. Then in comes\nour gentleman with a sliver of willow between his palms, and walks over\nthe ground. I was nigh to him, and I affirm that I saw the twig twist\nitself like a snake between his fingers, jerking its tip, for all the\nworld like the stumpy head of an adder, first in one direction, anon\nin another--I'll swear that it turned, wicked as any snake, upon Dick\nhimself at one time, so that he jerked his hands back and the thing fell\non the grass, and if it did not give a kind of writhe there, my eyes\nplayed me false. But he picked it up again and walked slowly across the\nground, not shunning in the least as an ordinary man would have done, if\nhe had his wits about him, the parts that showed the former borings that\nhad come to naught. 'Twas in full boldness, just between two of the old\nholes, that he stopped short, and says he, 'There's your spring, and\n'tis not six foot from the surface. I'll wait to have a mugful, if I\ndon't make too bold,' says he, 'for'tis strangely drying work, this\nwaterfinding.' And by my faith, sirs, the fellow had a pitcher of the\nsoftest spring water from that spot before an hour had gone and the rude\nscum of the field had been rinsed away.\u201d\n\nThe silence that followed the man's story was impressive. It seemed as\nif the cloud which had been overhanging the company had become visible.\nNo man so much as glanced at his neighbour, but every one of them\nstopped eating or drinking at that moment, and stared gloomily straight\nin front of him. Only one man, however, uttered a groan.\n\n\u201cLord have mercy on us!--the rocks and the mountains--the great and\nterrible day of the Lord!\u201d he murmured.\n\nThen it was that a couple of men passed their hands over their\nforeheads.\n\n\u201cI would sooner see my cattle die of drouth than call in a\nwater-finder,\u201d said the farmer. \u201cI've oft-times said that he has a\npartner in his trade. In my young days, a water-finder was burnt at the\nstake, for 'twas clearly proven that he was in league with the Fiend:\nafter drinking o' the water that he drew from the bowels o' th' earth\nthe husbandman's son was seized wi' a fit and down he fell like a log\nand was only saved by the chance of the curate passing near the farm.\nThough but a young man, he saw at once that the boy had been tampered\nwith.'Twas by good luck that he had with him a snuffbox made of the\ncedar wood of Lebanon at Jerusalem, where King Solomon built his temple,\nand 'tis well known that neither witch nor warlock can stand against\nsuch. Before you could say 'Worm,' the young parson had made a circle\no' snuff around the poor victim, and with a deadly screech the fiend\nforsook the boy and 'twas said that it entered into a young heifer of\npromise, for she went tearing out of her byre that same night and was\nfound all over a lather wandering on Dip-stone Sands in the morning. Ay,\nthey burnt the water-finder at the next 'Sizes, the testimony being so\nclear as I say.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis time they burnt Dick Pritchard,\u201d said someone else in a low voice.\n\u201cThough I'm not sure that 'tis in the Book that mere water-finding is\nheinous.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe not, but sure a proof o' the gift o' prophecy is burnable in the\nNew Dispensation,\u201d suggested another.\n\nA big man sprang to his feet. His face was pale and his hands were\nnervous. He clapped his palms together.\n\n\u201cEvery man in the room has a tankard with me,\u201d he cried. \u201cI'll pay the\nscore for all. What use is the blunt to me after Monday? But now is our\ntime, lads. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!\u201d\n\nThe sentiment was greeted with a loud and harsh laugh by some men, but\nby a serious shake of the head by others. A young man started a ribald\nsong.\n\n\u201cShame, sir, shame, a parson's present in the room,\u201d cried an elderly\nman, who was seated near Wesley.\n\nThe lilt was interrupted, and two or three fingers were pointed toward\nWesley, who was half hidden from most of the people in the room. Now he\nstood up and faced them all.\n\n\u201cHey, 'tis Wesley the preacher himself!\u201d cried the surgeon, and\nexpressions of surprise were uttered in various directions.\n\n\u201cYou have come in good time to superintend the winding up of the world,\nMr. Wesley. Nay, don't be over modest; 'tis one of your own children\nhath said it,\u201d said another. \u201cWhat, sir; would you disown your own\noffspring?\u201d\n\nWesley had held up his hand twice while the man was speaking.\n\n\u201cFriends, I am John Wesley,\u201d he said. \u201cI have come sixty miles and\nbetter, having heard from Mr. Hartwell that I was needed in regard to\nthis same Pritchard, but having been made acquainted with no points of\ndetail. Sirs, since I entered this room I have, I believe, learned all\nthat Mr. Hartwell forbore to tell me, and now I hasten to give you my\nassurance that I cannot countenance aught that this man Pritchard said.\nI deplore most heartily that he should be so far misled as to take upon\nhim to utter a statement of prophecy touching the most awful event that\nour faith as believers takes a count of. Brethren, we are told that we\nknow not the day nor the hour when that dread shall fall upon the world.\nThat is the written Word of the Most High, and any man who, whether\nunder the impulse of vanity or in the sincere belief that he possesses\nthe gift of prophecy, is presumptuous, is likely to become a stumbling\nblock and a rock of offence. That is all that I have to say at this\ntime. I have said so much in the hope that all who hear me will refrain\nfrom attributing to the influence of my preaching or teaching, an act or\na statement which I and my associates repudiate and condemn.\u201d\n\nHe inclined his head slowly, and then, picking up his hat, left the\nroom. But before he reached the door every man in the room had risen\nrespectfully, though no word was spoken by anyone present. Even after\nhis departure there was a silence that lasted for several minutes.\nEveryone seemed to have drawn a long breath as of relief.\n\n\u201cGentlemen, I think you may breathe freely once more: the world will\nlast over Monday after all,\u201d said the surgeon.\n\n\u201cAy, the master has spoken and disowned his pupil,\u201d said another.\n\n\u201cMaybe that's because he feels chagrined that he lost the chance that\nDick Pritchard grappled with,\u201d suggested the pale youth.\n\n\u201cBoy,\u201d said the traveller, with a contemptuous wave of the hand. \u201cBoy,\nMr. Wesley is a man of learning and a man of parts, not a charlatan in a\nbooth at a fair.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr one with the duck's instinct of seeking for water with a quack--ay,\na quack with a quack,\u201d said the surgeon.\n\n\u201cWell, if the world is not to expire on Monday, we would do well to drink\nher health, so hey for a gallon of old ale so far as it goes,\u201d cried the\nman with the shaking head.\n\nThe opinion seemed to be all but general, that some sign of hilarity\nwould not now be so much out of place as it seemed to be a quarter of an\nhour earlier, and the landlord was zealous in support of this view. He\npromised them a tipple worthy of the name, even if the world were to\nbreak up in a day or two!\n\nBut long before the company were satisfied Wesley was on his horse\nriding slowly down to Ruthallion Mill.\n\nHe felt deeply pained by his experience in the inn parlour. So this was\nwhat Mr. Hartwell had hinted at in his letter--this assumption of the\ndivine gift of the prophet by Pritchard. And the subject of his prophecy\nwas one that every charlatan who had existed had made his own! He\nhimself could remember more than one such prediction being made by men\nwho were both ignorant and vain. One of them had afterwards stood in\nthe pillory and another--the more sincere--had gone to a mad-house. It\nseemed to him strange that they should have had a following, but\nbeyond a doubt their prediction had been widely credited, and the men\nthemselves had achieved a notoriety which was to them the equivalent to\nfame. They had had their followers even after the date which they named\nin their prophecies had gone by without any disaster to the world. It\nseemed that the people were so glad at escaping that they had no room in\ntheir thoughts for any reproach for the false prophet.\n\nHe knew, however, that in the case of Richard Pritchard, the same\nleniency would not be shown. He knew that his own detractors--and\nthey were many who regarded his innovations as a direct menace to the\nChurch--would only be too glad of the chance which was now offered to\nthem of ridiculing him and his out-of-doors preaching, pointing out, as\nthey most certainly would, that Richard Pritchard represented the first\nfruit of his preaching, and that his assumption of the authority of a\nprophet was the first fruit of his Methodism.\n\nBut it was not only by reason of the possible injury that would be done\nto the movement which he had inaugurated in Cornwall that he was vexed.\n\nHe had been greatly pained to observe the spirit in which the most awful\nincident on which the mind of man could dwell was referred to by the\nmen in the inn parlour--men fairly representative of the people of the\nneighbourhood. The Day of Wrath had been alluded to with levity by some,\nin a spirit of ridicule by others; while one man had made it the subject\nof a wager, and another had made it an excuse for drunkenness!\n\nHe was grieved and shocked to reflect that it was Pritchard's connection\nwith his mission that had produced this state of things. He felt certain\nthat if the man had remained outside the newly founded organisation, he\nwould not have taken it upon himself to speak as a prophet.\n\nBut he felt that he could not lay the blame for what had occurred at the\ndoor of anyone whom he had appointed to help him in his work, and who\nhad advanced the claims of Pritchard, for who could have foreseen that\na man who seemed abnormally modest and retiring by nature should develop\nsuch a spirit? Beyond a doubt the man's weak head had been turned. He\nhad become possessed of a craving after notoriety, and now that he had\nachieved it, he would be a very difficult person to deal with. This\nWesley perceived when he began to consider how to deal with the source\nof the affair.\n\nThe most difficult point in this connection was his feeling that the man\nwas quite sincere in his belief, that upon him the spirit of prophecy\nhad descended. He felt sure that the man was unaware of the existence of\nany motive in his own heart apart from the desire to utter a warning and\na call to repentance to the people of the world, as Jonah the prophet,\nhad done to the people of Nineveh.\n\nThat fact, Wesley perceived, made it a matter of great difficulty both\nto silence Pritchard, and to hold him up as a charlatan.\n\nHe was indeed greatly perplexed in mind as he rode down the valley path\nleading to the Mill.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nWesley could not, of course, know that Pritchard was at that time\nin the Mill awaiting his arrival. But it was the case that the\nwater-finder, learning that the coming of Mr. Wesley was looked for\nduring the afternoon, had gone to the Mill early and had rejected the\nsuggestion made by the blacksmith and Jake Pullsford, that he should\nnot appear in the presence of Mr. Wesley until he was sent for. He was\nalmost indignant at the hint conveyed to him in an ambiguous way by Hal\nHolmes, that it would show better taste if he were to remain away for\nthe time being.\n\n\u201cTake my word for 't, Dick, you'll be brought face to face with him soon\nenow,\u201d said Hal. \u201cYou'll be wishful that you had ne'er been born or\nthought of. Mr. Wesley is meek, but he isn't weak, and 'tis the meek\nones that's the hardest to answer when the time comes, and it always\ncomes too soon. Before your Monday comes you'll be wishful to hide away\nand calling on the mountains to cover ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cList to me, Hal; there's naught that will say nay to me when my mind is\nmade up, and go to face Mr. Wesley I shall,\u201d Dick had replied.\n\nThe blacksmith folded his big bare arms and looked at him with curiosity\nfrom head to foot.\n\n\u201cA change has come o'er a good many of us since Mr. Wesley began to\npreach, but what's all our changes alongside yours, Dick Pritchard?\u201d he\nsaid, shaking his head as though he relinquished this task of solving\nthe problem which had been suggested to him. \u201cWhy, you was used to fear\nand tremble at the thin noise of your own voice, Dick Pritchard. With\nthese ears I have heard you make an apology for saying 'Thank ye,' on\nthe score that you were too bold. But now you are for rushing headlong\nto meet the man that you scarce dare lift your hat to a month or two\nagone.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hadn't learned then all that there's in me now, Hal,\u201d replied the\nwater-finder. \u201cI always did despise myself, being unmindful that to\ndespise myself was to do despite to Heaven. Doesn't it stand to reason,\nHal, that the greater a man thinks himself, the greater is the honour he\ndoes to his Maker? I think twice as much of God since I came to see what\na man He made in me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat's a square apology for conceit, Dick, and I don't think aught the\nbetter of you for putting it forward at this time and in such a case as\nthis. What, good fellow, would you be at the pains to magnify a man's\nrighteousness pace for pace with his conceit? At that rate, the greater\nthe coxcomb the more righteous the man.\u201d\n\nDick was apparently lost in thought for some time. At last he shook his\nhead gravely, saying:\n\n\u201cNot for all cases, Hal, not for all cases. You be a narrow-souled\ncaviller, I doubt; you cannot comprehend an argyment that's like a\ncrystal diamond, with as many sides to it as a middling ignorant man\nwould fail to compute.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat may be, but I've handled many a lump of sea-coal that has shown\nas many sides as any diamond that was ever dug out of the earth, and it\nseems to me that your talk is more like the sea-coal than the crystal,\nDick, my friend,\u201d said the blacksmith. \u201cAy, your many-sided argyments\nare only fit to be thrust into the furnace, for all, their sides.\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley will comprehend,\u201d said Pritchard doggedly; \u201cthough even Mr.\nWesley might learn something from me. Ay, and in after years you will\nall be glad to remember that you once dwelt nigh a simple man by name\nRichard Pritchard.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn after years?\u201d cried Hal Holmes. \u201cWhy, where are your after years to\ncome from, if the end of all things is to be on us on Monday?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon't you doubt but that 'twill come to an end on Monday,\u201d said the\nwater-finder, \u201chowever you may twist and turn. Be sure that you be\nprepared, Hal Holmes. You have been a vain-living blacksmith, I am\nfeared, and now you side with them that would persecute the prophets.\nPrepare yourself, Hal, prepare yourself.\u201d\n\nThis was the style in which the man had been talking for some time,\nastonishing everyone who had known his extreme modesty in the past; and\nthis was the strain in which he talked when he had entered the Mill,\nand found the miller, Jake Pulls-ford and Mr. Hartwell seated together\nawaiting the arrival of Wesley.\n\nThe man's entrance at this time surprised them. They knew he was\naware that Mr. Wesley was returning in haste, owing solely to his,\nPritchard's, having put himself forward in a way that his brethren could\nnot sanction, and it never occurred to them that he would wish to\nmeet Mr. Wesley at this time. They were, as was Hal Holmes, under the\nimpression that when Wesley arrived Pritchard's former character might\nshow itself once more, causing him to avoid even the possibility of\nmeeting the preacher face to face.\n\nThey were soon undeceived. The water-finder was in no way nervous when\nhe came among them.\n\nWhen he had in some measure recovered from his surprise, the miller said:\n\u201cWe looked not for thy coming so soon, Dick, but maybe 'tis as well that\nthou 'rt here.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow could I be away from here unless I had hastened to meet Mr. Wesley\non his way hither?\u201d said Pritchard. \u201cI have been trembling with desire\nto have his ear for the past week. It is laid on me to exhort him\non some matters that he neglected. These matters can be neglected no\nlonger.\u201d\n\nThe miller looked at Jake Pullsford, and the latter sat aghast. He was\nso astounded that he could only stare at Pritchard, with his hands on\nhis knees and his head in its usual poise, craning forward. Some moments\nhad passed before he succeeded in gasping out, after one or two false\nstarts:\n\n\u201cYou--you--you--Dick Pritchard--you talk of exhorting Mr. Wesley? Oh,\npoor fellow! poor fellow! Now, indeed, we know that you are mad!\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley should ha' found out the gift that is mine,\u201d said Pritchard,\nquite ignoring the somewhat frank utterance of the carrier. \u201cI suspected\nmyself during several months of having that great gift of prophecy.'Twas\nno more than a suspicion for some time, and I dare not speak before I\nwas sure.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what made thee sure, Dick?\u201d asked the miller.\n\n\u201c'Twas reading how the great prophet, Moses, made water flow from the\nrock,\u201d replied Pritchard. \u201c'What,' said I to my own self. 'What, Richard\nPritchard, hath not all thy life been spent in performing that great\nmiracle of Moses, and hast not known the greatness of thy gift?' And\nthen I made search and found that water-finding has been the employment\nof most of the great prophets, Elijah being the foremost. Like to a\nflash from a far-off cannon gun, that reaches the eyes before ever the\nsound of the boom comes upon the ear, the truth was revealed to me. I\nknew then that the gift of the Tishbite was mine.\u201d\n\nIt was Jake Pullsford who now looked at the miller. The miller shook his\nhead.\n\n\u201c'Twould not matter much what you thought of yourself, Dick,\u201d said the\nmiller, \u201cif only you had not been admitted to our fellowship; but things\nbeing as they be---\u201d\n\nHe shook his head again.\n\n\u201cWhat overcomes me is the thought of thy former habit of life, Dick,\u201d\n said the carrier. \u201cWhy, up to a month agone, a man more modest, shy and\ntame speaking, wasn't to be found in all the West Country. Why, man,\nI've seen thee sweat at the sound of thine own voice, like as if thou\nhadst been a thief a-hearing o' the step of an officer! Meek! Meek is no\nname for it! I give thee my word that it oft made me think shame of all\nmanhood in the world to hear thee make apology for a plain truth that,\nafter all, thou wast too bashful to utter!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could not see my heart, Miller,\u201d said Pritchard. \u201c'Twas only that\nI was humble in voice; I know now that in spirit I was puffed up with\npride, so that I could hardly contain myself. But even after the truth\ncame upon me in that flash, I was ready to treat the likes of you,\nMiller--ay, even the likes of thee, Jake Pullsford, as mine equal, so\naffable a heart had I by birth.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou promoted yourself a bit, Dick,\u201d remarked the miller. \u201cBut I've\nalways observed that when a man tells another in that affable way that\nhe regards the other as his equal, he fancies in the inwardness of his\nheart, that he is far above the one he gives such an assurance to.\u201d\n\n\u201cI feel a sort of light of knowledge within me ready to break forth\nand tell me a wonderful reply to that remark of yours, Miller,\u201d said\nPritchard. \u201cTarry a while, and give me time for the light to-break forth\nwith fulness, and you'll be rewarded; friends, you will hear a reply\nthat will make you all stand back in amaze, and marvel, as I have done,\nhow noble a thing is the gift of speech--saying a phrase or two that\nmakes the flesh of man tingle. All I ask is time. It may not come to me\nwithin the hour, but----\u201d\n\n\u201cHere's one that hath come to thee, my man, and he will listen to all\nyou have to say: I hear the sound of his horse on the lane,\u201d cried the\nmiller.\n\nJake Pullsford sprang from the settle, and strained himself to look out\nof the window.\n\n\u201cRight; 'tis Mr. Wesley, in very deed,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cThat's as should be,\u201d cried Pritchard, with an air of satisfaction that\nmade the others feel the more astonished.\n\nAnd when Wesley had entered and greeted his-friends, including the\nwater-finder, they were a good deal more astonished at the attitude\ntaken by Pritchard. Without wasting time over preliminaries, he assumed\nthat Wesley had come to the Mill in order not to admonish him, but to be\nadmonished by him. Before Mr. Wesley had time to say more than a\nword, Pritchard had become fluent on the subject of the preacher's\nresponsibilities. It was not for Mr. Wesley to go wandering in the\nuttermost parts of Cornwall, he said; he should have remained at\nPorthawn to consolidate the work that he had begun; had he done so until\nhe had gathered in every soul, the Lord might have been as merciful to\nthe world as He had been to Nineveh in the days of Jonah. But Mr. Wesley\nhad, like Jonah, fled from his duty, and the next Monday was to be the\nDay of Judgment.\n\nWesley listened gravely until the man got upon his feet and with an\noutstretched finger toward him, cried:\n\n\u201cI have been mocked by some, and held in silent despite by others--all\nof them professing to be of the Household of Faith, because the Spirit\nof prophecy came upon me, and I announced the truth. Nor, Mr. Wesley,\nwill you dare to join with the disbelievers and say straight out that\nthe first Monday will not be the Last Day that will dawn on this world?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cI would not be so presumptuous as to lay claim to\nany knowledge that would entitle me to speak on a subject of such awful\nimport. '_Ye know not the day nor the hour_'--those were the words of\nour Lord, and anyone who makes profession of knowing either, commits a\ngrievous sin.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, anyone but me,\u201d said Pritchard. \u201cBut the revelation was made to\nme--I take no glory to myself. The great and terrible Day of the Lord\ncometh next Monday, and they shall cry unto the rocks to fall on them\nand the mountains to cover them. What other place could that refer to if\nnot Ruthallion and Porthawn; is't not that Buthallion is in the heart of\nthe hills and Porthawn the place of rocks?\u201d\n\nWith all gentleness Wesley spoke to the man of the great need there was\nfor caution on the part of anyone venturing to assign times and seasons\nto such prophecies as had been uttered respecting the mystery of\nthe Last Judgment. He tried to show him that however strong his own\nconviction was on the subject of the Revelation, he should hold his\npeace, for fear of a mistake being made and enemies being afforded a\nreason for railing against the cause which they all had at heart. The\ninterpretation of prophecy, he said, was at all times difficult and\nshould certainly not be lightly attempted even by those men who had\nspent all their lives dealing with the subject, with the light of\nhistory to guide them. Nothing could exceed the tact, patience and\ngentleness with which the pastor pleaded with this erring one of his\nflock--the miller and Jake Pullsford were amazed at his forbearance;\nthey learned a lesson from him which they never forgot. He was patient\nand said no word of offence all the time that they were waxing irritable\nat the foolishness of the man who sat shaking his head now and again,\nand pursing out his lips after the manner of pig-headed ignorance when\nobjecting to the wisdom of experience.\n\nIt was all to no purpose that Wesley spoke. The man listened, but\ncriticised with the smile of incredulous superiority on his face almost\nall the time that Wesley was speaking--it varied only when he was\nshaking his head, and then throwing it back defiantly. It was all to no\npurpose.\n\n\u201cYou are right, Mr. Wesley, in some ways,\u201d he cried. \u201cBut you talk of\nthe interpretation of prophecy. Well, that is within your sphere, and I\ndurstn't stop you so far. Ay, but I am not an interpreter of prophecy--I\nam the very prophet himself. Friends, said not I the truth to you this\nhour past--how I felt as it were a burst of flame within me, whereby I\nknew that I had been possessed of the spirit of prophecy? The gift of\nwater-finding, which has been mine since my youth, was only bestowed\nupon the major prophets, Moses being the chief; and when I read of\nElijah, who in the days of the grievous water famine was enabled by\nthe exercise of his gift, and guided by the hand of the Lord, to find\nwater--even the running brook Chereth--in the midst of a land that was\ndusty dry, all unworthy doubt was set at rest. Is it not written that\nElijah, the prophet, was to come back to earth to warn the people of the\nGreat Day being at hand?\u201d\n\n\u201cDear friend, stay thy tongue for a moment--say not words that might not\nbe forgiven thee even by the Most Merciful,\u201d cried Wesley.\n\n\u201cYou are a great preacher and a faithful servant--up to a certain point,\nMr. Wesley; but you are not as I am,\u201d replied Pritchard firmly, but not\nwithout a tone of tenderness. \u201cYou are a preacher; I am the prophet. I\nhave spoken as Jonah spoke to the men of Nineveh: 'Yet forty days\nand Nineveh shall be overthrown.' 'In eleven days the world shall be\noverthrown,' said I, feeling the flame within me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe people of Nineveh repented and the destruction was averted,\u201d said\nWesley. \u201cHave there been signs of a great repentance among the people\nwho got tidings of your prediction?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy prophecy has everywhere been received with ridicule,\u201d replied the\nman proudly.\n\n\u201cI can testify to that,\u201d said Jake Pullsford. \u201cI travel about, as you\nknow, and I hear much of what is talked over from here to Devon, and\nonly for a few light-headed women--ready to believe that the moon was\nthe sun if they were told so from the pulpit--only for these, it might\nbe said that Dick's foolishness would ha' fallen on ears as deaf as an\nadders.\u201d\n\n\u201cI, myself, can bear witness to the evil effect that has been produced\namong a people who were, I hoped, ready for the sowing of the good\nseed,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cIt was a great sorrow to me to hear the lightness\nof talk--the offer of wagers--the excuse of drunkenness--all the result\nof Richard Pritchard's indiscretion.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd everywhither it has been received as coming from us--from us\nwhom you have instructed in the Truth, sir,\u201d said Jake. \u201c'Tis not Dick\nPritchard that has been ridiculed, but we whom they call Methodists.\nThat is the worst of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd now that I have paved the way for you, the preacher, Mr. Wesley,\nyou will be able for three days to exhort the people to repentance,\u201d\n said Pritchard, with the air of a man accustomed to give advice on grave\nmatters, with confidence that his advice would be followed.\n\n\u201cMy duty is clear,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI shall have to disclaim all sympathy\nwith the statements made by Richard Pritchard. Souls are not to be\nterrorised to seek salvation. I am not one of those ministers who think\nthat the painting of lurid pictures of the destruction of the earth and\nall that is therein the best way of helping poor sinners. Nay, there\nhave come under mine own eyes many instances of the very temporary\nnature of conversions brought about by that paradox of the gospel of\nterror. But need we look for guidance any further away than the history\nof Jonah and the Ninevites? The prophet preached destruction, and\nthe people repented. But how long did the change last? The fire and\nbrimstone had to be rained down upon them before the sackcloth that they\nassumed was worn out.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn Monday the fire and brimstone will overwhelm the whole world,\nand woe be to him that preacheth not from that text till then!\u201d cried\nPritchard. He was standing at one end of the table facing the window\nthat had a western aspect, and as he spoke, the flaming beams of the\nsinking sun streamed through the glass and along the table until they\nseemed to envelop him. In spite of the smallness of his stature he\nseemed, with the sunbeams striking him, to possess some heroic elements.\nThe hand that he uplifted was thin and white, and it trembled in the\nlight. His face was illuminated, not from without only; his eyes were\nlarge and deep, and they seemed staring at some object just outside the\nwindow.\n\nWatching him thus, everyone in the room turned toward the window--Wesley\nwas the only exception; he kept his eyes fixed upon the man at the\nfoot of the table. He saw his eyes move as if they were following the\nmovements of someone outside, and their expression varied strangely.\nBut they were the eyes of a man who is the slave of his nerves--of a\nvisionary who is carried away by his own ill-balanced imagination--of the\nmystic who can see what he wishes to see.\n\nWesley was perplexed watching this man whose nature seemed to have\ncompletely changed within the month. He had had a good deal of strange\nexperience of nervous phases, both in men and women who had been\novercome by his preaching, but he had never before met with a case that\nwas so strange as this. The man was no impostor; an impostor would have\nbeen easy to deal with. He was a firm believer in his own mission and in\nhis own powers, and therein lay the difficulty of suppressing him.\n\nAnd while Wesley watched him, and everyone else seemed striving to catch\na glimpse of the object on which the man's eyes were fixed, the light\nsuddenly passed out of his eyes and they became like those of a newly\ndead man, staring blankly at that vision which comes before the sight\nof a soul that is in the act of passing from the earth into the great\nunknown Space. There he stood with his hand still upraised, and that\nlook of nothingness in his staring eyes..\n\nWesley sprang up from the table to support him when he fell, and he\nappeared to be tottering after the manner of a man who has been shot\nthrough the heart while on his feet; and Wesley's movement caused the\nothers to turn toward the man.\n\nIn a second the miller was behind him with outstretched arms ready to\nsupport him. Pritchard did not fall just then, however. Breathlessly\nand in a strained silence, the others watched him while he swayed to\nthe extent of a hand's breadth from side to side, still with his hand\nupraised and rigid. For some minutes--it might have been five--he stood\nthus, and in the end he did not collapse. He went slowly and rigidly\nbackward into Wesley's arms, and then down into his own chair, his eyes\nstill open--still blankly staring, devoid of all expression.\n\n\u201cDead--can he be dead?\u201d whispered Jake, slipping a hand under his\nwaistcoat.\n\nWesley shook his head.\n\n\u201cHe is not dead, but in a trance,\u201d he replied.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nFor half an hour the four men in that room sat watching with painful\ninterest the one who sat motionless in the chair at the end of the\ntable. There was not one of them that had not a feeling of being a\nwatcher by the side of a bed on which a dead body was lying. Not a\nword was exchanged between them. In the room there was a complete\nsilence--the silence of a death chamber. The sound of the machinery of\nthe mill--the creaking of the wooden wheels, and the rumbling of the\ngrindstones--went on in dull monotony in the mill, and from the kitchen,\nbeyond the oaken door, there came the occasional clink of a pan or\nkettle; and outside the building there was the clank of the horses of a\nwaggon, and the loud voices of the waggoners talking to the men in one\nof the lofts, and now and again directing the teams. A cock was crowing\ndrowsily at intervals in the poultry run, and once there was a quacking\nsquabble amongst the ducks on the Mill race. And then, with the lowing\nof the cows that were being driven to the milking shed, came the\nlaughter of a girl, passing the waggoners.\n\nBut in the room there was silence, and soon the dimness of twilight.\n\nAnd then John Wesley prayed in a low voice.\n\n*****\n\nEnough light remained in the room to allow those watchers to see when\nconsciousness returned to the man's eyes: he was facing the window. But\nbefore the expression of death changed to that of life, his arm, that\nwas still stiffly outstretched, and seeming all the more awkward since\nhe had ceased to be on his feet, fell with a startling thud upon the\nedge of the table. It was as if a dead man had made a movement. Then his\neyes turned upon each in the room in turn. He drew a long breath.\n\n\u201cYou are among friends, Dick; how feel you, my man?\u201d said Jake\nPullsford, laying his hand upon Pritchard's that had fallen upon the\ntable.\n\n\u201cI saw it again--clear--quite clear, Jake,\u201d said Pritchard.\n\n\u201cWhat saw ye, friend Dick?\u201d asked Jake.\n\n\u201cThe vision--the Vision of Patmos. The heavens rolled together like\na scroll--blackness at first--no mind o' man ever conceived of such\nblackness--the plague of Egypt was snow-white to compare. And then 'twas\nall flame--flame--flame. The smith's furnace hath but a single red eye\nof fire, but its sharp brightness stings like a wasp. But this--oh,\nmillions upon millions of furnace eyes, and every eye accusing the world\nbeneath. Who can live with everlasting burning?--that was what the Voice\ncried--I know not if it was the strong angel, or him that rode upon the\nWhite Horse, but I heard it, and all the world heard it, and the most\ndreadful and most unusuallest thing of all was the sight of that White\nHorse, plunging and pawing with all the fiery flames around it and\nabove and below! And the Voice said, 'There shall be no more sea,' and\nforthwith all the tide that had been flowing in hillocks into Porthawn\nand teasing the pebbles where the shallows be, and lapping the Dog's\nTeeth reef, wimpling around the spikes--all that tide of water, I say,\nbegan to move out so that every eye could see it move, and the spikes\no' the reef began to grow as the water fell, till the bases of the rocks\nappeared with monstrous weeds, thick as coiled snakes, and crawling\nshells, monstrous mighty that a man might live in; and then I saw the\nslime of the deep, thick as pitch and boiling and bubbling with the heat\nbelow, even as pitch boils over the brazier when the boats lie bottom\nup on the beach. And then I saw a mighty ship lying in the ooze--a ship\nthat had become a wreck, maybe a hundred years agone, half the timbers\nrotted from the bends so that she was like some monster o' the deep with\nits long ridges of ribs showing fleshless as a skeleton. And then\nthe Voice cried, 'The Sea gave up its Dead.'... You shall see it for\nyourselves on Monday--ay, all that came before mine eyes.'Twas Mr.\nWesley preached on the great moving among the dry bones--they were dry\nin that valley, but in the dread secret depths where the sea had been\nthese were damp with the slime of ages, and they crawled together, bone\nunto bone, throwing off the bright green seaweeds that overlaid them\nlike shrouds of thin silk. They stood up together all in the flesh, and\nI noted that their skin was the yellow pale skin of the drowned, like\nthe cheeks of a female who holds a candle in her hands and shades the\nflame with one of her palms. Flame--I saw them all by the light of the\nflaming sky, and some of them put up their saffron hands between their\nfaces and the flame, but the light shone through their flesh as you have\nseen the sun shine through a sere leaf of chestnut in the autumn.\u201d\n\nHe stopped suddenly and drew a long breath. For some moments he breathed\nheavily. No one in the room spoke. A boy went past the door outside\nwhistling.\n\nWhen the man spoke again it was in a whisper. He turned to Wesley.\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley, I knew not that I had the gift until I heard you preach,\u201d\n he said. \u201cI only suspected now and again when I felt the twitchings of\nthe twig between my hands when I was finding the water, that I was not\nas other men; but when I heard you preach and saw how you carried all\nwho listened away upon your words as though they were not words, but a\nwave of the sea, and the natural people the flotsam of the waste, I\nfelt my heart swell within me by reason of the knowledge that I had been\nchosen to proclaim something great beyond even all that you could teach.\nAnd now 'tis left for you to stand by my side and tell all that have\nears to hear to prepare for the Great Day. It is coming--Monday. I would\nthat we had a longer space, Sir, for, were it so, my name would go forth\nthrough all the world as yours has done--nay, with more honour, for a\nprophet is ahead of the mere preacher. But you will do your best for the\nworld in the time allowed to us, will you not, Mr. Wesley?\u201d\n\nHe laid his hand on one of Wesley's, firmly and kindly.\n\n\u201cMy poor brother!\u201d said Wesley gently. \u201cGod forgive me if I have been\nthe means of causing hurt to even the weakest of my brethren. Let us\nlive, dear brother, as if our days in the world were not to be longer\nthan this week, giving our thoughts not to ourselves, but to God;\nseeking for no glory to attach to our poor names, but only to the Name\nat which every knee must bow. Humility--let us strive after humility.\nWhat are we but dust?\u201d\n\nThe man looked at him--there was still some light in the room--and after\nthe lapse of a few moments he said:\n\n\u201cYou have spoke a great truth, Mr. Wesley. Humility is for all of us.\nPray that I may attain it, brother. It should come easy enough to some\nthat we know, but for such as you and me, especially me, dear\nbrother, 'tis not so easy. The gift of prophecy surely raises a humble\nman into circumstances so lofty that he is above the need for any abject\ndemeanour. Ay, now that I reflect on't, I am not sure that I have any\nright to be humble. 'Twould be like flouting a gift in the face of the\ngiver. 'Twould be like a servant wearing a ragged coat when his master\nhath provided him with a fine suit of livery.\u201d\n\nHe had risen from his place, and now he remarked that the evening had\ncome and he had far to travel. He gave Wesley his hand, nodded to the\nothers and went through the door without another word.\n\nThe men whom he left in the room drew long breaths. One of them--the\nfarmer--made a sound with his tongue against his teeth as one might do\nwhen a child too young to know better breaks a saucer. The miller gave\nan exclamation that went still further, showing more of contempt and\nless of pity. Mr. Hartwell, the mine-owner, who was a quiet, well-read\nman, said:\n\n\u201cI have heard of cases like to his; I have been reading of revivals,\nas some call such an awakening as has taken place through Mr. Wesley's\npreaching, and every one of them has been followed by the appearance\nof men not unlike Dick Pritchard in temper--men who lose themselves\nin their zeal--get out of their depth--become seized by an ambition to\nteach others before they themselves have got through the primer.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor me, I call to mind naught but the magic men of Egypt,\u201d said Jake\nPullsford. \u201cThey were able to do by their traffic with the Evil One all\nthat Moses did by miracle. I always had my doubts about the power that\nDick Pritchard professed--finding water by the help of his wand of\nhazel--as 'twere a wizard's wand--maybe the staves of the Egyptian\nsorcerers were of hazel--I shouldn't wonder. And now he falls into\na trance and says he sees a vision, equalling himself to St. John at\nPatmos! For myself I say that I never knew of a truly godly man falling\ninto a trance. My grandfather--you are old enough to remember him,\nfarmer?\u201d\n\n\u201cI mind him well--pretty stiff at a bargain up to the end,\u201d said the\nfarmer with a side nod of acquiescence.\n\n\u201cWe be talking of the same man,\u201d resumed the miller. \u201cWell, I say that\nhe told me of one such mystical vision seer that came from Dorset in his\nyoung days, and he saw so many things that he was at last tried for\nsorcery and burnt in the marketplace. Ah, those were the days when men\nwasn't allowed by law to go so far as they do now-a-days. Why, 'tis only\nrarely that we hear of a witch burning in these times.\u201d\n\nWesley held up his hand.\n\n\u201cI had my misgivings in regard to Pritchard from the first,\u201d he said.\n\u201cAnd when I got news that he had been causing you trouble I felt that he\nhad indeed been an agent of the Evil One. But now--God forbid that I\nshould judge him in haste. I scarce know what to think about him. I have\nheard of holy men falling into trances and afterwards saying things that\nwere profitable to hear. I am in doubt. I must pray for guidance.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe man is to be pitied,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell.\n\n\u201cYou heard the uplifted way he talked at the last--like a fool full of\nhis own conceit? Have you heard yet, Mr. Wesley, what an effect his\nprediction has had upon the country?\u201d\n\n\u201cI heard naught of it until I had entered the parlour at the inn where\nI dined to-day, but I think I heard enough to allow of my forming some\nnotion of the way his prediction was received. Some were jocular over\nit, a few grave, and a large number ribald.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have described what I myself have noticed, sir,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell.\n\u201cOnly so far as I can see there are a large number who are well-nigh\nmad through fear. Now what we may be sure of is that these people, when\nMonday passes, will turn out open scoffers at the truth. And you may\nbe certain that your opponents will only be too glad of the opportunity\nthereby afforded them of discrediting your labours; they will do their\nbest to make Methodism responsible for the foolishness and vanity of\nthat man?\u201d\n\n\u201cI perceived that that would be so the moment I got your letter,\u201d\n said Wesley. \u201cAnd yet--I tell you, brethren, that I should be slow to\nattribute any imposture to this man, especially since I have heard him\nspeak in this room. He believes that he has been endowed by Heaven with\nthe gift of prophecy.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd he only acknowledges it to boast,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell. \u201cIt is his\nfoolish boasting that I abhor most, knowing, as I do full well, that\nevery word that comes from him will be used against us, and tend to cast\ndiscredit upon the cause which we have at heart.\u201d\n\nWesley perceived how true was this view of the matter, but still he\nremained uncertain what course to adopt in the circumstances. He knew\nthat it was the fervour of his preaching that had affected Pritchard, as\nit had others; he had heard reports of the spread of a religious mania\nat Bristol after he had preached there for some time; but he had always\nsucceeded in tracing such reports to those persons who had ridiculed his\nservices. This wras the first time that he was brought face to face with\none who had been carried away by his zeal to a point of what most people\nwould be disposed to term madness.\n\nHe had known that there would be considerable difficulty dealing with\nthe case of Pritchard, but he had also believed that the man would\nbecome submissive if remonstrated with. It had happened, however, that,\nso far from becoming submissive, Pritchard had reasserted himself,\nand with so much effect that Wesley found himself sympathising with\nhim--pitying him, and taking his part in the face of the others who were\napparently but little affected by the impassioned account the man had\ngiven of his vision when in the trance.\n\nIt was not until the night had fallen that they agreed with Wesley that\nit might be well to wait for a day or two in order that he should become\nacquainted with some of the effects of the prediction, and thus be in\na position to judge whether or not he should take steps to dissociate\nhimself and his mission from the preaching of the man Pritchard.\n\nHe had not, however, gone further than Port-hawn the next day before he\nfound out that the impression produced by the definite announcement that\nthe Day of Judgment was but forty-eight hours off was very much deeper\nthan he had fancied. He found the whole neighbourhood seething with\nexcitement over the prophecy. It had been made by Pritchard, he learned,\nin the course of a service which had been held in a field on the first\nSunday after Wesley's departure, and it had been heard by more than a\nthousand of the people whom Wesley's preaching had aroused from lethargy\nto a living sense of responsibility. Religious fervour had taken hold\nupon the inhabitants of valley and coast, and under its influence\nextravagance and exuberance were rife. Only at such a time would\nPritchard's new-found fervour have produced any lasting impression, but\nin the circumstances his assumption of the mantle of the prophet and his\ndelivery of the solemn warning had had among the people the effect of\na firebrand flung among straw. He had shouted his words of fire to\nan inflammable audience, and his picture of the imminent terror had\noverwhelmed them. The shrieks of a few hysterical women completed what\nhis prediction had begun, and before the evening the valley of the Lana\nwas seething with the news that the world was coming to an end within\nthe month.\n\nAll this Wesley heard before he left the Mill, and before he had ridden\nas far as the coast village he had ample confirmation of the accuracy\nof the judgment of his friends, who had assured him that the cause which\nthey had at heart was likely to suffer through the vanity of Pritchard.\nHe also perceived that the man had good reason for being puffed up on\nobserving the effect of his deliverance. In a moment he had leaped into\nnotoriety from being a nonentity. It seemed as if he had been ashamed of\nhearing his own voice a short time before, and this fact only made him\nappear a greater marvel to himself as well as to the people who had\nheard him assume the character of a prophet of fire and brimstone. It\nwas no wonder, Wesley acknowledged, that the man's head had been turned.\n\nThe worst of the matter was that he was referred, to by nearly all\nthe countryside as Wesley's deputy. Even the most devoted of Wesley's\nhearers seemed to have accepted Pritchard as the exponent of the methods\nadopted by Wesley to get the ears of the multitude. In their condition\nof blind fervour they were unable to differentiate between the zeal of\nthe one to convey to them the living Truth and the excess of the other.\nThey were in the condition of the French mob, who, fifty years later,\nafter being stirred by an orator, might have gone to think over their\nwrongs for another century had not a madman lighted a torch and pointed\nto the Bastille.\n\nIt was only to be expected that the opponents of the great awakening\nbegun by Wesley should point to the extravagance of Pritchard and call\nit the natural development of Methodism. Wesley's crusade had been\nagainst the supineness of the Church of England, they said; but how much\nmore preferable was this supineness to the blasphemy of Methodism as\ninterpreted by the charlatan who arrogated to himself the power of a\nprophet!\n\nHe was pained as he had rarely been since his American accusers had\nforced him to leave Georgia, when he found what a hold the prediction\nhad got on the people. He had evidence of the extent of Pritchard's\nfollowing even during his ride to Port-hawn. At the cross roads, not two\nmiles from the Mill, he came upon a large crowd being preached to by a\nman whom he had never seen before, and the text was the Judgment Day.\nThe preacher was fervid and illiterate. He became frantic, touching\nupon the terror that was to come on Monday; and his hearers were\nshrieking--men as, well as women. Some lay along the ground sobbing\nwildly, others sang a verse of a hymn in frenzy.\n\nFurther along the road a woman was preaching repentance--in another\ntwo days it would be too late; and in the next ditch a young woman was\nmaking a mock of her, putting a ribald construction upon what she was\nsaying. Further on still he came to a tavern, outside which there was a\nlarge placard announcing that the world would only last till Monday, and\nhaving unfortunately a large stock of beer and rum in fine condition,\nthe innkeeper was selling off the stock at a huge reduction in the price\nof every glass of liquor.\n\nWesley had no difficulty in perceiving the man's generosity was being\nappreciated. The bar was crowded with uproarious men and women, and some\nwere lying helpless on the stones of the yard.\n\nOn the wall of a disused smithy a mile or two nearer the coast there was\nchalked up the inscription:\n\n\u201cThe Methodys have bro' about the Ende of the World. Who will bring\nabout the Ende of the Methodys? Downe with them all, I saye.\u201d\n\nHe rode sadly onward, with bowed head. He felt humiliated, feeling that\nthe object for which he lived was humiliated.\n\nAnd the worst of the matter was, he saw, that these people who were\nmaking a mock of the Truth, some consciously, others unconsciously, were\nnot in a condition to lend an ear to any remonstrance that might come\nfrom him. The attitude assumed by Pritchard was, Wesley knew, typical\nof that which would be taken up by his followers, and the mockers would\nonly be afforded a new subject for ridicule.\n\n\u201cIs it I--is it I who am an unprofitable servant?\u201d he cried out of\nthe depth of his despondency. \u201cIs it I that have been the cause of the\nenemy's blasphemy? What have I done that I should be made a witness of\nthis wreckage of all that I hoped to see accomplished through my work?\u201d\n\nFor some time he felt as did the man who cried \u201cIt is enough! I am not\nbetter than my fellows.\u201d\n\nHe let his rein drop on his horse's neck when approaching the house\nwhere he was to be a guest. The day was one of grey mists rolling from\nthe sea through the valley, spreading wisps of gauze over the higher\nslopes, which soon whirled into muslin scarfs with an occasional ostrich\nplume shot through with sunshine. At times a cataract of this grey sea\nvapour would plunge over the slopes of a gorge and spread abroad into\na billowy lake that swirled round the basin of the valley and then\nsuddenly lifted, allowing a cataract of sunshine to pour down into the\nhollows which were dewy damp from the mist.\n\nIt was a strange atmosphere with innumerable changes from minute to\nminute.\n\n\u201cFor me the shadows of the mist--the shadows touched by no ray of\nsunshine,\u201d he cried when he felt the cold salt breath of the vapour upon\nhis face.\n\nAnd then he bowed his head and prayed that the shadows might flee away\nand the Daystar arise once more to lighten the souls of the people as he\nhad hoped that they would be enlightened.\n\nWhen he unclosed his eyes, after that solemn space in which a man\nstretches out weak hands, \u201cgroping blindly in the darkness,\u201d hoping that\nthey will touch God's right hand in that darkness and be guided into a\nright path, he saw the tall figure of a man standing on a crag watching\nhim.\n\nThe man had the aspect of a statue of stone looking out of a whirl of\nsea-mist.\n\nWesley saw that it was Bennet, the man by whom he had been met when he\nwas walking through this Talley for the first time with Nelly Polwhele.\nHe had heard a great deal about the man during the few weeks that he\nhad sojourned in the neighbourhood. He found that he was a man of some\neducation--certainly with a far more intimate knowledge of the classics\nthan was possessed by most of the parsons west of Exeter. He had been a\nschoolmaster in Somerset, but his erratic habits had prevented him from\nmaking any position for himself. He had become acquainted with Nelly\nPolwhele at Bristol, and his devotion to her amounted almost to a\nmadness. It was all to no purpose that she refused to listen to him;\nhe renewed his suit in season and out of season until his persistence\namounted to persecution. Of course Nelly found many self-constituted\nchampions, and Bennet was attacked and beaten more than once when off\nhis guard. When, however, he was prepared for their assault he had shown\nhimself to be more than a match for the best of them. The fact that he\nhad disabled for some weeks two of his assailants did not make him any\nmore popular than he had been in the neighbourhood.\n\nThere he stood looking at Wesley, and there he remained for several\nminutes, looking more than ever like a grey stone figure on a rough\ngranite pedestal.\n\nIt was not until Wesley had put his horse in motion that the man held up\none hand, saying:\n\n\u201cGive me one minute, Mr. Wesley. I know that you are not afraid of me.\nWhy should you be?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, indeed?\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI know not why I should fear you, seeing\nthat I fear no man who lives on this earth?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou came hither with a great blowing of trumpets, Mr. Wesley,\u201d said\nthe man. \u201cYou were the one that was to overthrow all the old ways of the\nChurch--you were to make such a noise as would cause the good old dame\nto awake from her slumber of a century. Well, you did cause her to\nawake; but the noise that you made awoke more than that good mother, the\nChurch of England--it aroused a demon or two that had been slumbering in\nthese valleys, and they began to show what they could do. They did not\nforget their ancient trick--an angel of light--isn't that the wiliest\nsorcery of our ancient friend, the Devil, Mr. Wesley?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou should know, if you are his servant sent to mock me,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cYou have taught the people a religion of emotion, and can you wonder\nthat the Enemy has taken up your challenge and gone far beyond you\nin the same direction? He found a ready tool and a ready fool in your\nardent disciple with the comical Welsh name--Richard Pritchard, to wit.\nHe has shown the people that you were too tame, and the water-finder\nhath found fire to be more attractive as a subject than insipid water.\nYou are beaten out of the field, Mr. Wesley. As usual, the pupil hath\nsurpassed the master, and you find yourself in the second place.\u201d\n\nWesley sat with his head bent down to his horse's neck. He made no reply\nto the man's scoff; what to him was the scoffing of this man? When one\nis sitting in the midst of the ruins of his house what matters it if the\nwind blows over one a handful of dust off the roadside?\n\n\u201cJohn Wesley, the preacher, hath been deposed, and Pritchard, the\nprophet, reigns in his stead,\u201d the man went on. \u201cAy, and all the day you\nhave been saying to yourself, 'What have I done to deserve this? What\nhave I done to deserve this?' Dare you deny it, O preacher of the Gospel\nof Truth?\u201d\n\nWesley bowed his head once more.\n\n\u201cMayhap you found no answer ready,\u201d Bennet cried. \u201cThen I'll let you\ninto the secret, John Wesley. You are being rightly punished because you\nhave been thinking more of the love of woman than of the Love of God.\u201d\n\nWesley's head remained bent no longer.\n\n\u201cWhat mean you by that gibe, man?\u201d he cried.\n\n\u201cAsk your own heart what I mean,\u201d said the man fiercely. \u201cYour own heart\nknows full well that you sought to win the love of the woman who walked\nwith you on this road little more than a month ago, and who ministered\nto you on the day of your great preaching--you took her love from those\nto whom she owed it, and you have cherished, albeit you know that she\ncan never be a wife to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Lord rebuke thee,\u201d said Wesley, when the man made a pause.\n\n\u201cNay, 'tis on you that the rebuke has fallen, and you know it, John\nWesley,\u201d cried Bennet, more fiercely than ever. \u201cNelly Polwhele would\nhave come to love me in time had not you come between us--that I know--I\nknow it, I tell you, I know it--my love for her is so overwhelming\nthat she would not have been able to hold out against it. But you came,\nand--answer me, man: when it was written to you that you were to return\nhither in hot haste to combat the folly of Pritchard, did not your heart\nexult with the thought singing through it, 'I shall see her again--I\nshall be beside her once more'?\u201d\n\nWesley started so that his horse sprang forward and the man before him\nbarely escaped being knocked down. But Bennet did not even pretend that\nhe fancied Wesley intended riding him down. He only laughed savagely,\nsaying:\n\n\u201cThat start of yours tells me that I know what is in your heart better\nthan you do yourself. Well, it hath made a revelation to you now, Mr.\nWesley, and if you are wise you will profit by it. I tell you that if\nyou think of her again you are lost--you are lost. The first rebuke has\nfallen upon you from above.'Tis a light one. But what will the second\nbe? Ponder upon that question, sir. Know that even now she is softening\ntoward me. Come not between us again. Man, the love of woman is not\nfor such as you, least of all the love of a child whose heart is as the\nheart of the Spring season quivering with the joy of life. Now ride on,\nsir, and ask your reason if I have not counselled you aright.\u201d\n\nHe had spoken almost frantically at first; but his voice had fallen: he\nhad become almost calm while uttering his last sentences.\n\nHe took off his hat, stepped to one side, and pointed down the road.\nHe kept his arm stretched out and his fingers as an index, while Wesley\nlooked at him, as if about to make a reply.\n\nBut if Wesley meant to speak he relinquished his intention. He looked\nat the man without a word, and without breaking the silence, urged his\nhorse forward and rode slowly away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nJohn Wesley had ample food for thought for the remainder of his\njourney. He knew that the man who had appeared to him so suddenly out of\nthe mist had for some time been on the brink of madness through his wild\npassion for Nelly Pol-whele, which brought about a frenzy of jealousy\nin respect of any man whom he saw near the girl. The fierceness of his\ngibes was due to this madness of his. But had the wretch stumbled in his\nblindness over a true thing? Was it the truth that he, Wesley, had all.\nunknown to himself drawn that girl close to him by a tenderer cord than\nthat which had caused her to minister to his needs after he had preached\nhis first great sermon?\n\nThe very idea of such a thing happening was startling to him. It would\nhave seemed shocking to him if it had not seemed incredible. How was it\npossible, he asked himself, that that girl could have been drawn to love\nhim? What was he to attract the love of such a young woman? He was\nin all matters save only one, cold and austere. He knew that his\naustereness had been made the subject of ridicule--of caricature--at\nOxford and Bath and elsewhere. He had been called lugubrious by reason\nof his dwelling so intently on the severer side of life, and he had\nnever thought it necessary to defend himself from such charges. He was\nsure that they were not true.\n\nThat was the manner of man that he was, and this being so, how was it\npossible that he should ever draw to himself the love of such a bright\ncreature as Nelly Polwhele? What was she? Why, the very opposite to him\nin every respect. She was vivacious--almost frivolous; she had taken a\ndelight in all the gaieties of life--why, the first time he saw her she\nhad been in the act of imitating a notorious play-actress, and, what\nmade it worse, she was playing the part extremely well. To be sure she\nhad taken his reproof with an acknowledgment that it was deserved, and\nshe had of her own free will and under no pressure from him promised\nthat she would never again enter a playhouse; but still he knew that the\ndesire for such gaieties was not eradicated from her nature. It would be\nunnatural to suppose' that it was. In short, she had nothing in common\nwith him, and to fancy that she had seen anything in him to attract her\nlove would be to fancy the butterfly in rapture around a thistle.\n\nOh, it was incredible that such a thing should happen. The notion was\nthe outcome of the jealousy of that wretch. Why, the first time that the\nman had seen them together had he not burst out on them, accusing him\nof stealing away the child's affection, although he had not been ten\nminutes by her side?\n\nOf course the notion was preposterous. He felt that it was so, and at\nthe same moment that this conviction came to him, he was conscious of a\nlittle feeling of sadness to think that it was so. The more certain he\nbecame on the matter the greater was the regret that he felt.\n\nWas it curious that he should dwell upon what the man had said last\nrather than upon what he had said first? But some time had passed\nbefore he recalled the charge that Bennet had brought against him almost\nimmediately after they had met--the charge of having Nelly Polwhele in\nhis thoughts rather than the work with which he had been entrusted by\nhis Maker. The man had accused him of loving the girl, and declared that\nhis present trouble was the rebuke that he had earned.\n\nHe had been startled by this accusation. Was that because he did not\nknow all that was in his own heart? Could it be possible that he loved\nNelly Polwhele? Once before he had asked himself this question, and he\nhad not been able to assure himself as to how it should be answered,\nbefore he received that letter calling him back to this neighbourhood;\nand all thoughts that did not bear upon the subject of that' letter were\nswept from his mind. He knew that he heard in his ear a quick whisper\nthat said:\n\n\u201c_You will be beside her again within four days_;\u201d but only for a single\nsecond had that thought taken possession of him. It had come to him with\nthe leap up of a candle flame before it is extinguished. That thought\nhad been quenched at the moment of its exuberance, and now he knew\nthat this accusation brought against him was false; not once--not for a\nsingle moment, even when riding far into the evening through the lonely\nplaces of the valley where he might have looked to feel cheered by such\na thought, had his heart whispered to him:\n\n\u201c_You will be beside her again within four days_.\u201d\n\nShe had not come between him and the work which he had to do.\n\nBut now the man had said to him all that brought back his thoughts to\nNelly Polwhele; and having, as he fancied, answered the question which\nhe put to him respecting her loving him, he found himself face to face\nwith the Question of the possibility of his loving her.\n\nIt came upon him with the force of a blow; the logical outcome of his\nfirst reflections:\n\n\u201cIf I found it incredible that she could have any affection for me\nbecause we have nothing in common, is not the same reason sufficient to\nconvince me that it is impossible I could love her?\u201d\n\nHe was exceedingly anxious to assure himself that the feeling which he\nhad for her was not the love which a man has for a woman; but he did not\nfeel any great exultation on coming to this logical conclusion of his\nconsideration of the question which had been suggested to him by the\naccusations of Bennet; on the contrary, he was conscious of a certain\nplaintive note in the midst of all his logic--a plaintive human\nnote--the desire of a good man for the love of a good woman. He felt\nvery lonely riding down that valley of sea-mist permeated not with the\ncold of the sea, but with the warmth of the sunlight that struck some of\nthe highest green ridges of the slopes above him. His logic had led him\nonly into his barren loneliness, until his sound mental training, which\ncompelled him to examine an argument from every standpoint, asserted\nitself and he found that his logic was carrying him on still further,\nfor now it was saying to him:\n\n\u201c_If you, who have nothing in common with that young woman, have been\nled to love her, what is there incredible in the suggestion that she has\nbeen led to love you?_\u201d\n\nThen it was that he was conscious of a feeling of exultation. His own\nheart seemed to be revealed to him in a moment. Only for a moment,\nhowever; for he gave a cry, passing his hand athwart his face as if to\nsweep away a film of mist from before his eyes.\n\n\u201cMadness--madness and disaster! The love of woman is not for such as\nI--the man spoke the truth. The love of woman is not for me. Not for me\nthe sweet companionship, the fireside of home, the little cradle from\nwhich comes the little cry--not for me--not for me!\u201d\n\nHe rode on, and so docile had his mind become through the stern\ndiscipline of years, not once did his thoughts stray to Nelly from\nthe grave matter which he had been considering when he encountered\nbennet--not once did he think even of Bennet. What he had before him\nwas the question of what steps he should take to counteract the mischief\nwhich had been done and was still being done by the man who had taken it\nupon him to predict the end of the world.\n\nA change seemed to have come over his way of looking at the matter.\nPreviously he had not seen his way clearly; the mist that was sweeping\nthrough the valley seemed to have obscured his mental vision. He had\nbeen aware of a certain ill-defined sympathy in regard to the man since\nhe had shown himself to be something of a mystic; his trance and, his\naccount of the vision that he had seen had urged Wesley's interest\ninto another channel, as it were; so that he found himself considering\nsomewhat dreamily the whole question of the trustworthiness of visions,\nand then he had been able to agree with his friends at the Mill who had\ncertainly not taken very long to make up their minds as to how Pritchard\nshould be dealt with.\n\nNow, however, Wesley seemed to see his way clearly. He became practical\nin a moment. He perceived that it was necessary for him to dissociate\nhimself and his system from such as Pritchard--men who sought to play\nsolely upon the emotions of their hearers, and who had nothing of the\nTruth to offer them however receptive their hearers' hearts had become.\nHe did not doubt that Pritchard would take credit to himself for the\nnon-fulfilment of his prophecy. He would bring forward the case of Jonah\nand Nineveh. Jonah had said definitely that Nineveh would be destroyed\non a certain day; but the inhabitants had been aroused to repent, and\nthe city's last day had been deferred. He would take credit to himself\nfor arresting the Day of Judgment, his prophecy having brought about the\nrepentance of his neighbours at Porthawn and Ruthallion, and thus the\nfact of his prophecy not being realised would actually add to the\nfame which he had already achieved, and his harmfulness would be\nproportionately increased.\n\nWesley knew that not much time was left to him and his friends to take\naction as it seemed right to him. The day was Friday, and he would\npreach on Sunday and state his views in respect of Pritchard and his\nfollowing, so that it should be known that he discountenanced their\nacts. He had seen and heard enough during his ride through the valley to\nlet him know how imminent was disaster to the whole system of which he\nwas the exponent.\n\nHe had succeeded in banishing from his mind every thought which he had\nhad in regard to Nelly Polwhele; so that it was somewhat disturbing for\nhim to come upon her close to the entrance gates to the Court. She was\ncarrying a wicker bird cage containing two young doves; he heard her\nvoice talking to the birds before he recognised her. For a moment lie\nfelt that he should stop his horse and allow her to proceed so far in\nfront of him that she should reach the village without his overtaking\nher; but a moment's reflection was enough to assure him that to act in\nthis way would be cowardice. He had succeeded in banishing her from\nhis mind, and that gave him confidence in his own power to abide by the\ndecision to which he had come respecting her. To avoid her at this time\nwould have been to confess to himself that he was not strong enough to\ncontrol his own heart; and he believed that he was strong enough to do\nso. Therefore he found himself once more beside her and felt that he was\nwithout a trouble in the world.\n\nOf course she became very red when he spoke her name and stooped from\nhis saddle to give her his hand. She had blushed in the same way an hour\nbefore when old Squire Trevelyan had found her with his daughters and\nsaid a kindly word to her.\n\n\u201cI have been to my young ladies,\u201d she said, \u201cand see what they have\ngiven to me, sir.\u201d She held up the cage and the birds turned their heads\ndaintily in order to eye him. \u201cThey were found in a nest by one of the\nkeepers, and as my ladies are going to London they gave the little birds\nto me. I hope they will thrive under my care.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should they not?\u201d he said. \u201cYou will be a mother to them and they\nwill teach you.\u201d\n\nShe laughed with a puzzled wrinkle between her eyes.\n\n\u201cTeach me, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, they will teach you, I would fain hope, how becoming is a sober\nshade of dress even to the young.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo I need to be taught such a lesson, Mr. Wesley?\u201d she cried, and\nnow her face was in need of such a lesson. She spoke as if hurt by his\nsuggestion.\n\n\u201cI have never seen you dressed except modestly and as is becoming to\na young woman,\u201d he replied. \u201cIndeed I meant not what I said to be a\nreproach. I only said what came first to mind when I saw those dainty\nwell-dressed creatures. My thought was: 'Her association with such\ncompanions will surely prevent her from yielding to the weakness of most\nyoung women. She will see that the dove conveys gentleness to the mind,\nwhereas the peacock is the type of all that is to be despised.' Then, my\ndear child, the pair of turtle doves is an emblem of sacrifice.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that why they were chosen as the symbols of love?\u201d said the girl,\nafter a pause.\n\nHe looked at her curiously for some time. He wondered what was in her\nmind. Had she gone as far as her words suggested in her knowledge of\nwhat it meant to love?\n\n\u201cI think that there can be no true love without self-sacrifice,\u201d said\nhe. \u201c'Tis the very essence--the spiritual part of love.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs It so in verity, sir?\u201d she cried. \u201cNow I have ever thought that what\nis called love is of all things the most selfish. Were it not so why\nshould it provoke men to quarrel--nay, the quarrelling is not only on\nthe side of the men. I have seen sisters up in arms simply because the\nlover of one had given a kindly glance to the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be ready to sacrifice one's self to save the loved one from\ndisaster--from trouble in any shape or form--that is the love that is\ntrue, he assured of that, Nelly,\u201d said he. \u201cLove, if it be true, will\nhelp one to do one's duty--to our Maker as well as to our fellow-men,\nand to do that duty without a thought of whatever sacrifices it may\ndemand. Love, if it be true, will not shrink from the greatest sacrifice\nthat can be demanded of it--separation from the one who is beloved--a\ndividing asunder forever. That is why it is the noblest part of a man's\nnature, and that is why it should not be lightly spoken of as is done\ndaily.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, sir,\u201d she said, \u201cthat may be the love that poets dream of; I have\nread out of poetry books to my ladies at the Court, when they were\nhaving their hair brushed. There was the poet Waller, whom they liked to\nhave read to them, and Mr. Pope, in places. Mr. Marlowe they had a great\nregard for. They all put their dreams of love into beautiful words that\nwould make the coldest of us in love with love. But for the real thing\nfor daily life I think that simple folk must needs be content with the\nhomelier variety.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is only one sort of love, and that is love,\u201d said he. \u201c'Tis a\nflower that blooms as well in a cottage garden as in the parterres of a\npalace--nay, there are plants that thrive best in a poor soil, becoming\nstunted and losing their fragrance in rich ground, and it hath oft\nseemed to me that love is such a growth.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet I have heard it said that love flies out at the window when\npoverty comes in by the door,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cThat never was love; 'twas something that came in the disguise of\nlove.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do believe that there are many such sham things prowling about, and\nknocking at such doors as they find well painted. Some of them have\nheard of silver being stored away in old jugs, and some have gone round\nto the byres to see exactly how many cows were there before knocking at\nthe door.\u201d\n\nHe smiled in response to her smiling. And then suddenly they both became\ngrave.\n\n\u201cHave you had recent converse with that man Bennet?\u201d he asked suddenly.\n\nShe swung the bird cage so quickly round that the doves were well-nigh\njerked off their perch. She had flushed at the same moment, and a little\nfrown was upon the face that she turned up to him.\n\n\u201cWhy asked you that question? Is it because you were speaking of the\nsham loves, sir?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cI ask your pardon if I seem somewhat of a busybody, Nelly Polwhele,\u201d\n he said. \u201cBut the truth is that I--I find myself thinking of you at\ntimes--as a father--as an elder brother might think of--a sweet sister\nof tender years.\u201d\n\nNow she was blushing rosier than before, and there was no frown upon\nher forehead. But she did not lower her eyes or turn them away from his\nface. There was about her no sign of the bashful country girl who has\nbeen paid a compliment by one above her in rank. She did not lower her\neyes; it was he who lowered his before her.\n\n\u201c'Tis the truth, dear child, that I tell you: I have been strangely\ninterested in you since the first day I saw you, and I have oft wondered\nwhat your future would be. I have thought of you in my prayers.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not deserve so much from you, sir,\u201d she said softly, and now her\neyes were on the ground, and he knew by the sound of her voice that they\nwere full of tears. She spoke softly--jerkily. \u201cI do not deserve so much\nthat is good, though if I were asked what thing on earth I valued most I\nshould say that it was that you should think well of me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow could I think otherwise, Nelly?\u201d he asked. \u201cYou gave me your\npromise of your own free will, not to allow any further longing after\nthe playhouse to take possession of you, and I know that you have kept\nthat promise. You never missed a preaching and you were ever attentive.\nI do not doubt that the seed sown in your heart will bear good fruit.\nThen you were thoughtful for my comfort upon more than one occasion\nand--Why should you not dwell in my thoughts? Why should you not be\nassociated with my hopes? Do you think that there is any tenderer\nfeeling than that which a shepherd has for one of his lambs that he has\nturned into the path that leads to the fold?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am unworthy, sir, I have forgotten your teaching even before your\nwords had ceased to sound in mine ears. I have not scrupled to deceive.\nI led on John Bennet to believe that I might relent toward him, when all\nthe time I detested him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy did you do that?\u201d he asked gravely.\n\n\u201cIt was to induce him to come to hear you preach, Mr. Wesley,\u201d she\nreplied. \u201cI thought that it was possible if he heard you preach that he\nmight change his ways as so many others have changed theirs, and so I\nwas led to promise to allow him to walk home with me if he came to the\npreaching. I felt that I was doing wrong at the time, though it did not\nseem so bad as it does now.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you did not give him any further promise?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone--none whatsoever. And when I found that he was unaffected by your\npreaching I refused him even the small favour--he thought it a\nfavour--which I had granted him before. But I knew that I was\ndouble-dealing, and indeed I have cried over the thought of it, and when\nI heard that you were coming back I resolved to confess it all to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI encountered the man not more than half an hour ago,\u201d said he.\n\nShe seemed to be surprised.\n\n\u201cThen he has broken the promise which he made to me,\u201d she cried. \u201cHe\ngave me his word to forsake this neighbourhood for two months, at least,\nand I believed that he went away.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy what means were you able to obtain such a promise from him?\u201d asked\nWesley.\n\nShe was silent for some time--silent and ill at ease. At last she said\nslowly:\n\n\u201cI fear that I was guilty of double dealing again. I believe he went\naway with the impression that I would think with favour of him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI fear that you meant to convey such an impression to him, Nelly.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot deny it sir. I admit it. But I got rid of him. Oh, if you knew\nhow he persecuted me you would not be hard on me.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy poor child, who am I that I should condemn you? I do not say that\nyou were not wrong to deceive him as you did; the fact that your own\nconscience tells you that you were wrong proves that you were.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not desire to defend myself, sir; and perhaps it was also wrong\nfor me to think as I have been thinking during the past week or two that\njust as it is counted an honourable thing for a general in battle to\nhoodwink his enemy, so it may not be quite fair to a woman to call her\ndouble dealing for using the wits that she has for her own protection.\nWere we endowed with wits for no purpose, do you think, Mr. Wesley?\u201d\n\nMr. Wesley, the preacher of austerity, settled his countenance--not\nwithout difficulty--while he kept his eyes fixed upon the pretty face\nthat looked up innocently to his own. He shook his head and raised a\nfinger of reproof. He began to speak with gravity, his intention being\nto assure her of the danger there was trying to argue against the\ndictates of one's conscience. If cunning was the gift of Nature,\nConscience was the gift of God--that was in his mind when he began to\nspeak.\n\n\u201cChild,\u201d he began, \u201cyou are in peril; you\n\n\u201cA woman,\u201d she cried. \u201cI am a woman, and I know that there are\nsome--they are all men--who assert that to be a woman is to be incapable\nof understanding an argument--so that----\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be a woman is to be a creature that has no need of argument because\nfeeling is ever more potent than argument,\u201d said he. \u201cTo be a woman is\nto be a creature of feeling; of grace, of tenderness--of womanliness. If\nyour conscience tells you that you were wrong to deceive John Bennet,\nbe sure that you were wrong; but Heaven forbid that I should condemn you\nfor acting as your womanly wit prompted. And may Heaven forgive me if\nI speak for once as a man rather than a preacher. 'Tis because I have\nspoken so that I--I--oh, if I do not run away at once there is no\nknowing where I may end. Fare thee well, child; and be sure--oh, be sure\nthat your conscience is your true director, not your woman's wits--and\nleast of all, John Wesley, the preacher.\u201d\n\nHe laid his hand tenderly upon her head; then suddenly drew it back with\na jerk as if he had been stung upon the palm. His horse started, and he\nmade no attempt to restrain it, even when it began to canter. In a few\nseconds he had gone round the bend on the road beneath the trees that\noverhung the wall of the Trevelyan demesne.\n\nHe had reached the house where he was to lodge before he recollected\nthat although he had been conversing with Nelly Polwhele for close upon\ntwenty minutes--although they had touched upon some topics of common\ninterest, neither of them had referred even in the most distant way\nto the matter which had brought about his return to the neighbourhood;\nneither of them had so much as mentioned the name of Pritchard, or\nreferred to his prophecy of the End of all things.\n\nAs a matter of fact a whole hour had passed before John Wesley\nremembered that it was necessary for him to determine as speedily as\npossible what form his protest against the man and his act should take.\n\nHis sudden coming upon Nelly Polwhele had left a rather disturbing\nimpression upon him--at first a delightfully disturbing impression, and\nthen one that added to the gravity of his thoughts--in fact just such a\ncomplex impression as is produced upon an ordinary man when coming out\nof the presence of the woman whom he loves, he knows not why.\n\nThe sum of his reflections regarding their meeting was that while he\nhad an uneasy feeling that he had spoken too impulsively to her at the\nmoment of parting from her, yet altogether he was the better of having\nbeen with her. A cup of cool water in the desert--those were the words\nthat came to him when he was alone in his room. After the horrible\nscenes that he had witnessed while riding through the valley--after the\nhorrible torture to which he had been subjected by the gibes of John\nBennet--she had appeared before his weary eyes, so fresh, so sweet, so\ngracious! Truly he was the better for being near her, and once more he\nrepeated the word:\n\n\u201cA cup of cool water in the desert land.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nWesley lost no time in announcing to his friends the decision to which\nhe had come. He was to preach on Sunday at the place where his first\nmeeting had been held, and he felt sure that his congregation would\nbe sufficiently large for his purpose, which was to let it be known\nthroughout the country that he and all those who were associated with\nhim in his work in Cornwall discountenanced Pritchard in every way. To\nbe sure there was very little time left to them to spread abroad the\nnews that Mr. Wesley had returned and would preach on Sunday. Only a\nsingle day remained to them, and that was not enough to allow of the\nannouncement being made outside an area of twenty-five or thirty miles\nfrom Porthawn; but when Mr. Hartwell and Jake Pullsford shook their\nheads and doubted if this preaching would bring together more than a few\nhundred people, these being the inhabitants of the villages and hamlets\nwithin a mile or two of Porthawn, Wesley explained that all that was\nnecessary to be done would be accomplished even by a small congregation.\nAll that should be aimed at was to place it on record that Pritchard had\ndone what he had done on his own responsibility and without any previous\nconsultation with the leader of the movement with which he had been\nassociated. But, of course, the more people who would be present the\nmore fully his object would be accomplished, and Wesley's friends sent\ntheir message with all speed and in every direction.\n\n\u201cI would fain believe that the news of this distressing folly of\nPritchard's has not spread very far abroad,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI travelled,\nas you know, through a large portion of the country on my return, and\nyet it was not until I had reached the head of the valley that the least\nwhisper of the matter reached me; I would fain hope that the trouble\nwill be only local.\u201d\n\n\u201cThose who are opposed to us will take the best of care to prevent it\nfrom being circumscribed,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell. \u201cThe captain of my mine\ntells me that there is excitement as far away as Falmouth and Truro\nover the prediction. In some districts no work has been done for several\ndays. That news I had this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis more serious than I thought possible it could be,\u201d said\nWesley. \u201cOur task is not an easy one, but with God's help it shall be\nfulfilled.\u201d Going forth through the village in the early afternoon, he\nwas surprised to find so much evidence of the credence which the people\nhad given to the prediction and so pronounced a tendency to connect it\nwith the movement begun by Wesley in the early Summer. It seemed to be\ntaken for granted that Wesley had come back to urge upon them the need\nfor immediate repentance. This Pritchard had done with great vehemence\never since he had prophesied the Great Day.\n\nWesley found his old friends agitated beyond measure--even those who\nhad professed to have received the Word that he had preached. No boats\nexcept those owned by Nelly Polwhele's father had put off to the fishing\nground for some days, and, strange to say, although Isaac Polwhele held\nthat Pritchard had gone too far in all that he had said, he returned on\nFriday morning from his night's fishing with a strange story of lights\nseen in the depths of the Channel--something like fires seething beneath\nthe surface--of wonderful disturbances of the waters, although only the\nlightest of breezes was hovering round the coast; and of a sudden sound,\nthunderous, with the noise as of a cataract tumbling in the distance,\nfollowed by the rolling of large waves in spite of the fact that for the\ntime there was not a breath stirring the air.\n\nThe old fisherman told his story of these things without any reserve;\nbut while he was still disposed to give a contemptuous nod when anyone\nmentioned Pritchard's name, his experience through that night had done\nmuch to widen Pritchard's influence until at last there seemed to be\nneither fisherman nor boat-builder that did not dread the dawning of\nMonday.\n\nAnd yet Nelly had not spoken one word about the prophecy when he had\ntalked with her a few hours before!\n\nThis circumstance caused Wesley no little surprise. He asked himself if\nPolwhele's girl was the only sensible person in the neighbourhood. While\nthe other people were overwhelmed at the prospect of a catastrophe on\nMonday, she had gone to visit her young ladies and brought back with her\na pair of young doves.\n\nHe began to feel that he had never given the girl credit for some of\nthose qualities which she possessed--qualities which certainly are not\nshared by the majority of womankind.\n\nHer father told him before he had reached the village something of the\nmarvels which had come under his notice only two nights before. But he\ntried to make it plain that he did not attach any great importance to\nthem: he did not regard them as portents, however other people might be\ndisposed to do so. The old fisherman was shrewd enough to guess that\nMr. Wesley's sympathies were not with Pritchard. Still he could not\ndeny that what he had seen and heard surpassed all his experience of the\nChannel, although he allowed that he had heard of the like from the\nlips of mariners who had voyaged far and wide, and had probably\nbeen disbelieved in both hemispheres, by the best judges of what was\ncredible. He had heard, for instance, of parallels where through long\nsultry nights the ocean had seemed one mass of flame. But he himself was\nno deep-sea sailor.\n\n\u201cA sea of flame is common enough in some quarters,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI\nmyself have seen the Atlantic palpitating like a furnace, and our ship\ndashed flakes of fire from the waters that were cloven by her cut-water.\nBut the sounds which you say you heard--think you not that they came\nfrom a distant thunderstorm?\u201d\n\n\u201cLikely enough, sir, likely enough,\u201d replied the man after a pause; but\nhe spoke in a way that assured Mr. Wesley that he knew very well that\nthe sounds had not come from a thunderstorm, however distant. He had had\nplenty of experience of thunderstorms, near at hand as well as far off.\n\n\u201cOr Admiral Hawke's ships--might not some of the Admiral's fleet have\ncome within a mile or two of the coast and discharged their carronades?\u201d\n Wesley suggested.\n\n\u201cAy, sir, the boom of a ship's gun carries a long way on the water,\u201d\n said the fisherman, but in a tone that suggested graver doubt than\nbefore.\n\n\u201c'Tis clear you are convinced that what you heard was stranger than\neither thunder or gunpowder,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cNay, sir, what I am thinking of is the sudden uprise of the sea,\u201d said\nPolwhele. \u201cWithout warning our smack began to sway so that the mast\nwell-nigh went by the board, albeit there was ne'er a draught o' wind.\nAnd there was summat besides that I kept back from all the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cA greater mystery still?\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cThe biggest of all, sir; after the last rumblings my mates thought that\nwe had been long enough anchored on the fishing bank; so we got in the\ngrapple and laid out sweeps to pull the smack to the shore.\u201d\n\nHe made another pause, and looked into the face of his auditor and then\nout seawards. He took a step or two away and stood thoughtfully with\npursed out lips.\n\n\u201cAnd then?\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cAnd then, sir, then--sir, the oar blades refused to sink. They struck\non something hard, though not with the hardness of a rock or even a sand\nbank. 'Twas like as if they had fallen on a floating dead body--I know\nwhat the feel is, sir. When the _Gloriana_, East Indiaman, went ashore\nforty years agone, and broke up on the Teeth--you know the reef, sir--we\nwere coming on the bodies o' the crew for weeks after, as they came to\nthe surface, as bodies will after eight days--some say ten, but I stick\nto eight.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if you came upon the body of a drowned man the night before last\nyou would surely have reported it, Polwhele,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cIt were dead bodies that we touched wi' our blades, but they was the\ndead bodies of fishes. There they floated, sir, thick as jelly bags\nafter a Spring tide--hundreds of them--thousands of them--all round the\nboats--big and little--mackerel and cod and congers and skates and some\nmonsters that I had never seen before, with mighty heads. They held the\nboat by their numbers, blocking its course till we got up a flare o'\npitch and held it out on an oar and saw what was the matter. That was\nhow it came about that we landed with fish up to the gunwale, though we\nhad hauled in empty seines--or well-nigh empty half an hour before.\nAnd if all the other boats had been out that night they would have been\nfilled likewise. I tell you, sir, all we picked up made no difference\nto the shoals that was about us. But I said no word to mortal man about\nthis event nor e'en to my own wife. What would be the good? I asks you,\nsir. The poor folk be troubled enow over Dick Pritchard, as no doubt\nyou heard. I would that Tuesday was safe o'er us. List, you can hear the\nvoice o' Simon Barwell baying the boys into the fold like a sheep dog.\nSimon was a sad evil liver before he heard you preach, sir, and now he's\ntelling the lads that they have only another day and half to repent, so\nthey'd best not put it off too long.\u201d\n\nWesley looked in the direction he indicated and saw a young fellow\nmounted on a fish barrel, haranguing a group of men and women. He was\nfar off, but his voice every now and again reached the place where\nWesley and the old man stood.\n\n\u201cThere be some that holds that Simon himself would ha' done well to\nbegin his repentance a while back,\u201d resumed Polwhele. \u201cAnd there's some\nothers that must needs scamp their penitence, if I have a memory at all;\nhowsomever, Dick Pritchard----\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, friend,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cif I could think that the repentance which\nis being brought about through fear of Monday will last, I would take\njoy to stand by the side of Pritchard and learn from him, but alas, I\nfear that when Monday comes and goes----\u201d\n\n\u201cBut will it come and go?\u201d cried the old man eagerly.\n\n\u201cI cannot tell--no man living can tell if to-morrow will come and go, or\nif he will live to see the day dawn. We know so much, but no more, and I\nhold that any man who says that he knows more is tempting the Lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I hold with you, Mr. Wesley; only not altogether so fast since\nthose happenings I have rehearsed to you. What was it slew them fish,\nsir?\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot tell you that. I have heard that some of your mines are\npierced far below the sea, and that for miles out. Perhaps we shall hear\nthat a store of gunpowder exploded in one of them, throwing off the roof\nand killing the fish in the water over it--I do not say that this is the\nonly explanation of the matter. I make no pretence to account for all\nthat you saw and heard. I have heard of earthquakes beneath the water.\u201d\n\n\u201cEarthquakes in divers places, Mr. Wesley, 'twas from that text Dick\nPritchard preached last Sunday.\u201d The man's voice was lowered, and there\nwas something of awe in his whisper. \u201cHe prophesied that there would be\nan earthquake in divers places--meaning the sea--before the coming of\nthe terrible day, Monday next. Now you know, sir, why I said naught that\nwas particular--only hazy like--that none could seize hold upon about\nThursday's fishing. But I've told you, Mr. Wesley, whatever may happen.\u201d\n\nHe took off his hat and walked away, when he had looked for some moments\ninto Wesley's face, and noted the expression that it wore.\n\nAnd, indeed, Wesley was perturbed as he turned and went up the little\ntrack that led to the summit of the cliffs, and the breezy space that\nswept up to the wood. He was greatly perturbed by the plain statement\nof the fisherman. He had been anxious to take the most favourable view\nof Pritchard and his predictions. He had believed that the man, however\nfoolish and vain he might be, had been sincere in his conviction that he\nwas chosen by Heaven to prophesy the approaching end of all things; but\nnow the impression was forced upon him that the man was on a level with\nthe soothsayers of heathendom.\n\nEven though he had taken a ludicrously illiterate view of the text,\n\u201cThere shall be earthquakes in divers places,\u201d he had made it the\nsubject of another prediction, and it seemed as if this prediction\nhad actually been realised, although only a single fisherman, and he a\nfriend of Pritchard's, was in a position to testify to it.\n\nWesley had heard it said more than once that the finding of water by the\naid of a divining rod was a devil's trick; but he had never taken such a\nview of the matter; he affirmed that he would be slow to believe that a\nskill which had for its object so excellent an object as the finding of\na spring of the most blessed gift of water, should be attributed to the\nEnemy. He preferred to assume that the finding of water was the result\nof a certain delicacy of perception on the part of the man with the\nhazel wand, just as the detection of a false harmony in music is due to\na refinement of the sense of hearing on the part of other men.\n\nBut was he to believe that any man possessed such a sense as enabled him\nto predict an earthquake?\n\nIt was impossible for him to believe it. And what then was he to think\nof the man who had foretold such an event--an event which had actually\ntaken place within a week of his prediction?\n\nThe man could only be a soothsayer. The very fact of his corrupting\nthe text out of the Sacred Word was a proof of this. If he were in the\nservice of God, he would never have mistaken the word in the text to\nmean the sea. The man was a servant of the Evil One, and Wesley felt\nonce more that he himself had been to blame in admitting him to his\nfellowship, without subjecting him to such tests as would have proved\nhis faith.\n\nAnd then he found himself face to face with the further question: If\nthe man had, by reason of his possession of a certain power, achieved\nsuccess in his forecast of one extraordinary event, was it to be assumed\nthat the other event--the one of supreme importance to the world, and\nall that dwell therein--would also take place?\n\nWhat, was it possible that the Arch Enemy had been able to get\npossession of the secret which not even the angels in heaven had\nfathomed, and had chosen this man to communicate it to some people in\nthe world?\n\nWhat, was it possible that Satan, if he acquired that secret, would\nallow it to be revealed, thereby losing his hold upon as many of the\npeople of the world as became truly repentant, and there was no doubt\nthat Pritchard had urged repentance upon the people?\n\nIt was a tangled web that Wesley found in his hand this day. No matter\nwhich end of it he began to work upon, his difficulties in untangling\nseemed the same. He was fearful of doing the man an injustice; but how\ncould he, as a faithful servant, stand by and see the work with which he\nhad been entrusted, wrecked and brought to naught?\n\nAnd then another point suggested itself to him: what if this prediction\nbecame the means of calling many to repentance--true repentance--how\ndreadful would be his own condemnation if he were to oppose that which\nhad been followed by blessing!\n\nIt was the flexibility and the ceaseless activity of his mind that\nincreased the difficulties of his position. He, and he only, could\nlook at the matter from every standpoint and appreciate it in all its\nbearings. If he had not had the refuge of prayer, having faith that he\nwould receive the Divine guidance, he would have allowed the vanity--if\nit was vanity--of Pritchard to be counteracted in the ordinary--in what\nseemed to be the natural way--namely, by the ridicule which would follow\nthe nonfulfilment of his prophecy.\n\nHe prayed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nHe had seated himself on the trunk of a fallen tree on the edge of the\nwood, and he had a feeling that he was not alone. The Summer ever seemed\nto him to be a spiritual essence--a beautiful creature of airy flashing\ndraperies, diffusing perfumes a& she went by. He had known the joy of\nher companionship for several years, for no man had ampler opportunities\nof becoming acquainted with the seasons in all their phases.\n\nThere was the sound of abundance of life in the woods behind him, and\naround the boles of the scattered trees in front of him the graceful\nlittle stoats were playing. At his feet were scattered all the wild\nflowers of the meadow. Where the earth was brown under the trees,\nmyriads of fairy bells were hanging in clusters, and in the meadow the\nyellow buttercups shone like spangles upon a garment of green velvet.\nHe was not close enough to the brink of the cliffs to be able to see\nthe purple and blue and pink of the flowers scattered among the coarse\nherbage of the rocks. But the bank of gorse that flowed like a yellow\nriver through the meadow could not be ignored. In the sunlight it was a\nglory to see.\n\nThe sky was faintly grey, but the sea was of the brightest azure--the\npure translucent blue of the sapphire, and it was alive with the light\nthat seemed to burn subtly within the heart of a great jewel. But in the\nutter distance it became grey until it mingled imperceptibly with the\nsky.\n\nThe poet-preacher saw everything that there was to be seen, and his\nfaith was upheld as it ever was, by the gracious companionship of\nnature, and he cried now:\n\n\u201cOh, that a man could speak to men in the language of the Summer!\u201d\n\nWhy could not all eyes of men look forth over that sea to where the\nheaven bowed down and mingled with it? Why could not men learn what was\nmeant by this symbol of the mystic marriage of heaven and earth? Why\nshould they continue to refuse the love which was offered them from\nabove?\n\nEverything that he saw was a symbol to him of the love of which he\nwas the herald--the love which is followed by a peace that passeth all\nunderstanding. He was conscious of this peace leaning over him with\noutstretched wings, and he felt that the answer to his prayer had come.\nHe would make no further attempt to solve the difficulties which had\nperplexed him. The voice that breathed the message that soothed him was\nthe same that Elijah heard, and it said:\n\n\u201cRest in the Lord, and He shall direct thy ways.\u201d\n\nHe remained there for another hour, and then rose and made his way\nslowly toward the village.\n\nThe meadow track led to a broad gap in the hedge of gorse, and just\nas he had passed through, he was aware of the quick pattering of a\ngalloping horse on the short grass behind him, and before he had time to\nturn, the horseman had put his mount to the hedge, making a clear jump\nof it.\n\n\u201cWhat, ho!\u201d cried the man, apparently recognising Wesley before the\nhorse's feet had reached the ground. \u201cWhat, ho!\u201d and he pulled the\nanimal to its haunches.\n\nWesley saw that he was Parson Rodney, the good-humoured Rector who had\nspoken to him when he had been on the road with Nelly six weeks before.\n\n\u201cHo, Mr. Wesley, I had heard that you were returning to us,\u201d he cried.\n\u201cIs it your thought that at Monday's Assize you will run a better chance\nif you are found in good company? What, sir, never shake your head in so\ngloomy a fashion. The Prophet Pritchard may be wrong. I was thinking of\nhim when I came upon a clump of guzzlers reeling along the road an hour\nago--reeling along with the buttercups as yellow as gold under their\nfeet, and the sunlight bringing out all the scents of the earth that we\nlove so well--I thought what a pity 'twould be if the world should come\nto an end when all her creatures are so happy!\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me, Reverend sir,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cBut I have at heart too much\nsorrow to enjoy any jest, least of all one made upon a matter that seems\nto me far too solemn for jesting.\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw! Mr. Wesley, what is there serious or solemn in the vapourings of\na jackanapes?\u201d cried the other. \u201cWhat doth a parson of our church--and\na learned parson into the bargain--a Fellow of his College--not a dunce\nlike me--what, I say, doth such an one with the maunderings of a vain\nand unlettered bumpkin whom his very godfathers and godmothers made\na mark for ridicule when they had him christened Richard--Richard\nPritchard?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, sir,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cyou witnessed what you did an hour ago on the\nroadside--you saw what I saw, and yet you can ask me why I should be\ntroubled. Were not you troubled, Mr. Rodney?\u201d\n\n\u201cTroubled? Oh, ay; my horse became uneasy when one of the drunken\nrascals yelled out a ribald word or two across the hedge--I am very\ncareful of my horse's morals, sir; I never let him hear any bad\nlanguage. When we are out with the hounds I throw my kerchief over his\nears when we chance to be nigh the Master or his huntsmen. That is why I\nlaid over the rascal's shoulders with my crop, though the hedge saved\nthem from much that I intended. Trust me, Mr. Wesley, that is the way\nsuch fellows should be treated, and as for this Pritchard--faugh! a\nhorsewhip on his back would bring him to his senses, though as a Justice\nof the Peace, I would be disposed to let this precious water-finder find\nwhat the nature of a horse-pond is like. Why, in Heaven's name, do you\ntrouble yourself about him?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was I who gave him countenance at first, sir. He made profession to\nme and I trusted him. I fear that the work on behalf of which I am very\njealous may suffer through his indiscretion.\u201d\n\n\u201cHis indiscretion? _your_ indiscretion, you surely mean, Mr. Wesley.\u201d\n\n\u201cI accept your correction, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook ye here, Mr. Wesley, I have more respect for you, sir, than I have\nfor any man of our cloth--ay, even though he may wear an apron and lawn\nsleeves. I know that as a clergyman I am not fit to black your shoes,\nbut I am equally sure that as a man of the world, with a good working\nknowledge of human nature, I am beyond you; and that is why I tell you\nthat this movement of yours has--well, it has too much movement in it to\nprove a lasting thing. You have never ridden to hounds or you would know\nthat 'tis slow and steady that does it. If you keep up the pace from the\nstart, you will be blown before the first half-hour is over, and where\nwill you be when you have a double ditch to hop over? Why, you'll be up\nto your neck in the mire of the first. Mr. Wesley, there are a good\nmany ditches to be got over in the life of a beneficed clergyman of your\nChurch and mine; and, my word for it, you would do well to take them\nslowly, and reserve your strength. You want to go too fast ahead--to\nrush your hedges--that's how the thorns in the flesh thrive, and this\nPritchard is only one of the many thorns that will make your life\nwearisome to you, and bring your movement to an end. You have never said\na hard word about me, Mr. Wesley, though you had good reason to do so;\nand I have never said aught but what is good about you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it, sir. Others have called me a busybody--some a charlatan.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey were fools. You are the most admirable thing in the world, sir--a\nzealous parson; but a thoroughbred horse is not the best for daily use;\na little blood is excellent, but not too much. Your zeal will wear you\nout--ay, and it will wear your listeners out sooner. You cannot expect\nto lead a perpetual revival, as people call it, and that's why I am\nconvinced that the humdrum system, with a stout woollen petticoat here\nand a bottle of sound port there, is the best for the parsons and the\nbest for the people.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour views are shrewd, and I dare not at this moment say that they are\nnot justifiable. But for myself--sir, if God gives me strength, I shall\nnot slacken the work with which I believe He hath entrusted me--until\nour churches are filled with men and women eager in their search after\nthe Truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf all your friends were like you, the thing might be accomplished,\nMr. Wesley; but the breakdown of your methods--your Methodism--will come\nthrough your introduction of the laity as your chief workers. You will\nfind yourself face to face with Pritchards, and the last state of the\npeople will be, as it is now, worse than the first. You may have\ndone some good since you came here to preach a month ago, but you\nhave--unwittingly, I say--done great mischief. My parishioners were\nheretofore living quite comfortably, they were satisfied with my\nministrations, such as they were. I have heard it said that a healthy\nman does not know that he has any liver or spleen or vitals within his\nbody: 'tis only the sick that have that knowledge. Well, the same is true\nin respect to their souls. Sir, there was not a man of my flock that\nknew he had a soul. There was a healthy condition of things for you!\u201d\n\n\u201cSir, I entreat of you not to mock!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not mocking, friend Wesley. What have people in the state of life\nto which the majority of my parishioners have been called, to do with\nthe state of their souls? There should be a law that no man below the\nGame Law qualification shall assume that he has a soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot listen further to you, Mr. Rodney.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, Mr. Wesley, whatever you be, I'll swear that you are no coward:\nyou will not run away by reason of not agreeing with an honest\nopponent--and I am not an opponent--I am only an honest friend. I say\nthat my people were simple, homely people who respected me because I\nnever wittingly awoke a man or woman who went asleep in my church, and\nbecause I never bothered them with long sermons, when they could hear\ntheir Sunday dinners frizzling in their cottages--they respected me for\nthat, but more because they knew I had a sound knowledge of a horse, a\nboat, a dog and a game-cock.\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Rodney----\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw, Wesley, have you not eyes to see that the Church of England\nexists more for the bodies than the souls of the people? I would rather\nsee a good, sturdy lot of Englishmen in England--good drinkers of honest\nale, breeders of good fat cattle, and growers of golden wheat--honest,\nhard swearers of honest English oaths, and with selfrespect enough\nto respect their betters--I would rather have them such, I say, than\nsnivelling, ranting Nonconformists, prating about their souls and\nshowing the whites of their eyes when they hear that an educated man,\nwho is a gentleman first and a parson afterwards, follows the hounds,\nrelishes a main in the cockpit, and a rubber of whist in the rectory\nparlour and preaches the gospel of fair play for ten minutes in his\npulpit, and the rest of the twenty-four hours out of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I, Mr. Rodney, would rather hear of the saving of a sinner's soul\nby a Nonconformist ranter, Churchman though I be, than see the whole\nnation living in comfortable forgetfulness of God.\u201d\n\nParson Rodney laughed.\n\n\u201cI will give you another year of riding to and fro and telling the\npeasantry that they have souls,\u201d he said. \u201cYou will not make us a nation\nof spiritual hypochondriacs, Mr. Wesley. For a while people will fancy\nthat there is something the matter with them, and you'll hear a deal of\ngroaning and moaning at your services; but when the novelty of the thing\nis gone, they will cease to talk of their complaints. Englishmen are\nstronger in their bodies than in their souls, and the weaker element\nwill go to the wall, and your legs will be crushed against that same\nwall by the asses you are riding. Why, already I know that you have\nsuffered a bruise or two, through the shambling of that ass whose name\nis Pritchard. The unprofitable prophet Pritchard. A prophet? Well, 'tis\nnot the first time that an ass thought himself a prophet, and began to\ntalk insolently to his master. But Balaam's animal was a hand or two\nhigher than his brother Pritchard; when he began to talk he proved\nhimself no ass, but the moment the other opens his mouth, he stands\ncondemned. Lay on him with your staff, Mr. Wesley; he has sought to make\na fool of you without the excuse that there is an angel in your way. I\nhave half a mind to give his hide a trouncing myself to-morrow, only I\ncould not do so without giving a cut at you, who are, just now, holding\non by his tail, hoping to hold him back in his fallow, and, believe me,\nsir, I respect you with all my heart, and envy your zeal. Good-day to\nyou, Mr. Wesley; I hope I may live to see you in good living yet; if\nyou worry to a sufficient degree the powers that be, they will assuredly\nmake you a Dean, hoping that in a Cathedral Close, where everything\nslumbers, you will fold your hands and sleep comfortably like the rest.\nI doubt if you would, sir. But meantime if you will come to my humble\nrectory this evening, I can promise you a Tubber with a good partner,\nand a bottle of Bordeaux that the King of France might envy, but that\nhas paid no duty to the King of England.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thank you for your invitation, sir; but you know that I cannot accept\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cI feared as much, sir. But never mind, I hope that I shall live\nuntil you are compelled to accept my offer of hospitality to you as my\nBishop.\u201d\n\nHe waved his hand, and gave his horse, who had never heard his master\ntalk for so long a time at a stretch and whose impatience had for some\ntime given way to astonishment, a touch with the spur. Wesley watched\nhim make a beautiful jump over the gate that led into the park, beyond\nwhich the rectory nestled on the side of a hill among its orchards.\n\nHe turned with a sigh to the cliff path leading beyond the village to\nwhere Mr. Hartwell's house stood, separated from the beach only by a\nwall of crags, and a few rows of weather-beaten trees, all stretching\nrather emaciated arms inland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nWesley had preached under varying conditions in different parts of\nEngland, but never under such as prevailed on this Sunday, when he set\nout in the early morning with his friend, Mr. Hartwell, for the pulpit\namong the crags which he had occupied several times during his previous\nstay at Porthawn.\n\nWhen he set out from the Hartwells' house the grey sea-mist, which had\nbeen rolling round the coast and through the valley of the Lana for\nseveral days past, was as thick as a fog. It was dense and confusing\nto one who faced it for the first time. It was so finely grey that one\nseemed to see through it at first, and boldly plunged into its depths;\nbut the instant that one did so, its folds closed over one as the dense\nwaters of the sea do over a diver, and one was lost. Before one had\nrecovered, one had the feeling of being smothered in a billow of grey\ngauze, smooth as silk that has been dipped in milk, and gasped within\nthe windings of its folds. It was chilly, with the taste of the salt sea\nin its moisture. It took the heart out of one.\n\n\u201cThis is nothing, sir,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell. \u201cLay your hand upon my arm\nand you will have no trouble: I could find my way along our cliffs\nthrough the thickest weather. I have been put to the test before now.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not thinking so much of ourselves as of our friends whom we expect\nto meet us in the valley,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cHow, think you, will they be\nable to find their way under such conditions?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not assume that this mist is more than a temporary thing--it comes\nfrom the sea well-nigh every Summer morn, but perishes as it rolls over\nthe cliffs,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell.\n\n\u201cIt was clinging to the ridges of the valley slopes when I rode through,\nalmost at noon yesterday,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cStragglers from the general army that we have to encounter here,\u201d said\nthe other. \u201cWhen the phalanx of sea-mist rolls inland, it leaves its\ntattered remnants of camp followers straggling in its wake. I believe\nthat when we reach the place we shall find ourselves bathed in\nsunshine.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay your surmise prove correct!\u201d said Wesley.\n\nAnd so they started breaking into the mist, feeling its salt touch upon\ntheir faces and hearing the sound of the waves breaking on the beach\nbelow them. It was curiously hollow, and every now and then amid the\nnoise of the nearer waves, there came the deep boom from the distant\ncaves, and the sob of the waters that were choked in the narrow passage\nbetween the cliffs and the shoreward limits of the Dog's Teeth.\n\nThey had not gone more than half a mile along the track that led to the\npack horse road, when they heard the sound of voices, near at hand, with\na faint and still fainter far-off hail. The next moment they almost ran\ninto a mixed party of travellers on the same track.\n\nMr. Hartwell was acquainted with some of them. They came from a hamlet\nhigh up in the valley a mile from Ruthallion.\n\n\u201cWe are bound for the preaching,\u201d said one of them. \u201cWhat a wandering\nwe have had for the past two hours! We lost our way twice and only\nrecovered ourselves when we gained the horse road.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are going to the preaching also,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell.\n\n\u201cHow then does it come that we meet you instead of overtaking you?\u201d\n asked the other.\n\nThere was a silence. The halloa in the distance became fainter.\n\n\u201cOne of us must be wrong,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cWe don't match our knowledge against Mr. Hartwell's,\u201d said the\nspokesman of the strangers.\n\n\u201cI am confident that I know the way,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell. \u201cI only left\nthe main track once, and that was to cut off the round at Stepney's\nGap.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn we go then, with blessings on your head, sir,\u201d said the other man.\n\u201cFriends, where should we ha' landed ourselves if we had fallen short of\nour luck in coming right on Mr. Hartwell? Would we not do kindly to give\na halloa or twain to help those poor hearts that may be wandering wild?\u201d\n he added, pointing in the direction whence the hail seemed to come.\n\n\u201cAy, 'twould be but kind,\u201d said an old man of the party. \u201cOh, 'tis a dread\nand grisly mishap to be wandering wild in an unknown country.\u201d\n\nForthwith the younger ones sent out answering hails to the halloas that\ncame to them. But when the next sounds reached their ears like echoes of\ntheir own shouts, it seemed that they came from quite another quarter.\n\n\u201cI could ha' taken my davy that the lost ones was off another point o'\nthe compass,\u201d said the old man.\n\n\u201cNo, Comyn,\u201d said another. \u201cNo, my man, they came from thither.\u201d\n\nHe pointed straight in front of him.\n\n\u201cFrom where we stand that should be the Gap,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell.\n\n\u201cA special comfortable place to be wandering wild in is the Gap, for if\nyou walk straight on it carries you to the mighty ocean, and if you walk\nback you will reach your own home safe, if it be in that direction,\u201d\n said the old man with emphasis.\n\n\u201cWas this mist far up the valley?\u201d Wesley enquired.\n\n\u201cNot more than a league, sir,\u201d replied the old man. \u201c'Twas a sunlit morn\nwhen we made our start, and then it came down on us like a ship in full\nsail. There goes another hail, and, as I said, it comes from behind\nus. Is there one of us that has a clear throat. 'Kish Trevanna, you was\na gallery choir singer in your youth, have you any sound metallic notes\nleft that you could cheer up the lost ones withal? Come, goodman, be not\nover shy. Is this a time to be genteel when a parson's of the company,\nwaiting to help and succour the vague wanderers?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe call is for thee, Loveday, for didst not follow the hounds oft\nwhen there was brisk work in Squire's coverts?\u201d said the man to whom the\nappeal was made.\n\n\u201cWe must hasten onward,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell, making a start. \u201c'Tis most\nlike that we are overtaking whomsoever it be that was shouting a hail.\nForward, friends, and feel your way to the pack-horse road.\u201d\n\nThe whole party began to move, Mr. Hartwell and Wesley leading, and\nbefore they had proceeded for more than two hundred yards they heard the\nsound of talking just ahead of them, and the next moment a group of men\nloomed through the mist. Friends were also in the new party.\n\n\u201cWere you them that sang out?\u201d asked one of them.\n\n\u201cOnly in answer to your hail; we be no cravens, but always ready to help\npoor wanderers,\u201d replied the talkative old man.\n\n\u201cWe did not sound a note before we heard a hail,\u201d said the questioner in\nthe new party. \u201cWe have not strayed yet, being bound for the preaching.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you been on the horse road?\u201d asked Hartwell.\n\n\u201cThe horse road? Why, sir, the horse road lies down the way that you\ncame,\u201d said the other.\n\n\u201cSurely not, my friend. How could we have missed it?\u201d said Hartwell.\n\n\u201cIf 'twasn't for the fog I could walk as steady for it as a mule,\u201d said\nthe old man. \u201cAy, friends, us any mule under a pack saddle, for I have\ntraversed valley and cleft an hundred times in the old days, being well\nknown as a wild youth, asking your pardon for talking so secular when a\nparson is by. I am loath to boast, but there was never a wilder youth in\nthree parishes, Captain Hartwell.\u201d\n\n(Mr. Hartwell had once been the captain of a mine.)\n\n\u201cSurely we should be guided by the sound of the sea,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cA\nbrief while ago I heard the boom of waters into one of the caves. If we\nlisten closely we should learn if the sound is more distinct and thereby\ngather if we are approaching that part of the cliff or receding from\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cBook-learning is a great help at times, but 'tis a snare in a streaming\nfog, or in such times of snow as we were wont to have in the hard years\nbefore the Queen died in her gorgeous palace,\u201d remarked the patriarch.\n\n\u201cOne at a time, grandfather,\u201d said a man who had arrived with the last\nparty. \u201cThere's not space enough for you and the ocean on a morn like\nthis. Hark to the sea.\u201d\n\nThey stood together listening, but now, through one of the mysteries of\na fog, not a sound from the sea reached them. They might have been miles\ninland.\n\n\u201cI have been baffled by a fog before now,\u201d said a shepherd. \u201cHave\nfollowed the bleat of an ewe for a mile over the hills, and lo, the\nsilly beast had never left her lamb, and when I was just over her she\nsounded the faintest.\u201d\n\n\u201cTime is passing; should we not make a move in some direction?\u201d said\nWesley. \u201cSurely, my friends, we must shortly come upon some landmark\nthat will tell us our position in a moment.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot believe that in trying to cut off the mile for the Gap I went\ngrossly astray,\u201d said Mr. Hartwell. \u201cI am for marching straight on.\u201d\n\n\u201cStraight on we march and leave the guidance to Heaven,\u201d said Wesley.\n\nOn they went, Wesley marvelling how it was that men who should have\nknown every inch of the way blindfold, having been on it almost daily\nall their lives, could be so baffled by a mist. To be sure Mr. Hartwell\nhad forsaken the track at one place, but was it likely that he had got\nupon a different one when he had made his detour to cut off a mile of\ntheir journey.\n\nOn they walked, however, their party numbering fourteen men, and then\nall of a sudden the voice of the sea came upon them, and at the same\nmoment they almost stepped over the steep brink of a little chasm.\n\n\u201cWhat is this?\u201d cried Hartwell. \u201cAs I live'tis Gosney hollow, and we are\nscarcely half a mile from my house! We have walked a good mile back on\nour steps.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid not I tell you how I followed the ewe?\u201d said the shepherd. \u201c'Tis\nfor all the world the same tale. Sore baffling thing is a sea-mist.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe valley will be full o' lost men and women this day,\u201d remarked the\nold man.\n\nThere is no condition of life so favourable to the growth of despondency\nas that which prevails in a fog. The most sanguine are filled with\ndespair when they find that their own senses, to which they have trusted\nfor guidance and protection, are defeated. The wanderers on this Sunday\nmorning stood draped by the fog, feeling a sense of defeat. No one made\na suggestion. Everyone seemed to feel that it would be useless to make\nthe attempt to proceed to the crags where the preaching was to be held.\n\n\u201cThink you, Mr. Wesley, that this state of weather is the work of\nthe Fiend himself?\u201d asked the talkative old man. \u201cI know 'tis a busy\nquestion with professing Christians, as well as honest Churchmen--this\none that pertains to the weather. Stands to reason, for say I have a\nturnip crop coming on and so holds out for a wet month or two, while a\nneighbour may look for sunshine to ripen his grain. Now if so be that\nthe days are shiny my turnips get the rot, and who is to blame a weak\nman for saying that the Foul Fiend had a hand in prolonging the shine;\nbut what saith my neighbour?\u201d\n\n\u201cHither comes another covey of wandering partridges,\u201d said one of the\nfirst party, as the sound of voices near at hand was heard.\n\n\u201cNow, for myself, I hold that 'tis scriptural natural to say that aught\nin the matter that pertains to the smoke of the Pit is the Devil's own\nwork, and if such a fog as this comes not straight out the main flue\nof----\u201d\n\nThe old man's fluency was interrupted by the arrival of the new party,\nNelly Polwhele and her father.\n\n\u201cYou are just setting out for the preaching, I suppose; so we are not\nso late as we feared,\u201d cried the girl. \u201cStill, though we shall certainly\nnot be late for the preaching, however far behind we may be, we would do\nwell to haste.\u201d\n\nWesley surely felt less despondent at the cheery greeting of the girl.\nHe laughed, saying:\n\n\u201c'Tis all very well to cry 'Haste,' child; know that it Has taken us a\nwhole hour to get so far.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs't possible that you have been out for an hour, sir?\u201d she cried.\n\u201cSurely some man of you was provident to carry with him a compass on\nsuch a morn as this?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou speak too fast, maid; book-learning has made thee talkative; a\nmariner's compass is for the mariners--it will not work on dry land,\u201d\n said the old man.\n\n\u201cMine is one of the sort that was discovered since your sensible days,\nfriend--ay, as long agone as that; it works on land as well as on sea.\nIf a bumpkin stands i' the north its finger will point dead to him.\nWouldst like to test it thyself?\u201d said Nelly's father. Before the old\nman had quite grasped his sarcasm, though it was scarcely wanting in\nbreadth, he had turned to Mr. Hartwell, displaying a boat's compass in\nits wooden box.\n\n\u201c'Twas Nelly bade me carry it with us,\u201d he Said. \u201cI worked out all the\nbearings o' the locality before we started, and I can make the Red Tor\nas easy as I could steer to any unseen place on the lonely ocean. Here\nwe be, sir; west sou'west to the Gap, track or no track; then west\nand by nor'-west a little northerly to the lift o' the cliff, thence\nsouth-half-east to the Red Tor. Up wi' your grapples, friends, we'll be\nthere before the sermon has begun or even sooner if we step out.\u201d\n\nWesley, and indeed all of the party except perhaps the pessimistic old\nman, whose garrulity had suffered a check, felt more cheerful. Hartwell\nclapped Polwhele on the back, saying:\n\n\u201cYou are the man we were waiting for. Onward, pilot; we shall reach the\nTor in good time, despite our false start and the delay it made to us.\u201d\n They started along the track, Polwhele at their head, and Wesley with\nMr. Hartwell and Nelly immediately behind him.\n\n\u201cThere's a whole sermon in this, child,\u201d said the preacher.\n\n\u201cA whole sermon, sir?\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cThere should be only one sermon preached by man to men, and this\nis it,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cThe poor wandering ones standing on a narrow\ncauseway, with danger on every side, and the grey mist of doubt in\nthe air. The sense of being lost--mark that, dear child,--and then the\ncoming of the good Pilot, and a complete faith in following Him into\nthe place of safety which we all seek. There is no sermon worth the\npreaching save only this.\u201d On they went, Polwhele calling out the\nbearings every now and again, and as they proceeded they came upon\nseveral other travellers, more or less forlorn--all were hoping to reach\nthe Red Tor in time; so that before the abrupt turn was made from the\npack-horse track, there was quite a little procession on the way.\n\nNever had Wesley had such an experience as this.\n\nOut from the folds of the impenetrable mist that rolled through the\nhollows of the low mounds that formed that natural amphitheatre, came\nthe sound of many voices, and the effect was strange, for one could not\neven see that a mass of people was assembled there. The hum that the\nnewcomers heard when still some distance away became louder as\nthey approached, and soon they were able to distinguish words and\nphrases--men calling aloud to men--some who had strayed from the friends\nwere moving about calling their names, and occasionally singing out a\nhail in the forlorn hope of their voices being recognised; then there\ncame the distressed wail of a woman who had got separated from her\nparty, and with the laughter of a group who had got reunited after many\nwanderings. There was no lack of sounds, but no shape of men or women\ncould be distinguished in the mist, until Wesley and his party were\namong them. And even then the dimly seen shapes had suggestions of the\nunreal about them. Some would loom larger than human for a few moments,\nand then vanish suddenly. Others seemed grotesquely transfigured in the\nmist as if they had enwrapped themselves in a disguise of sackcloth.\nThey seemed not to be flesh and blood, but only shadows. Coming suddenly\nupon them, one felt that one had wandered to another world--a region of\nrestless shadows.\n\nHow was any man to preach to such a congregation? How was a preacher to\nput force into his words, when failing to see the people before him?\n\nWhen Wesley found himself on the eminence where he had spoken to the\nmultitude on his first coming to Cornwall, and several times later, he\nlooked down in front of him and saw nothing except the fine gauze of the\ngrey clouds that rolled around the rocks. He stood there feeling that he\nwas the only living being in a world that was strange to him. He thought\nof the poet who had gone to the place of departed spirits, and realised\nhis awful isolation. How was he to speak words of life to this spectral\nhost?\n\nHe had never known what fear was even when he had faced a maddened crowd\nbent upon the most strenuous opposition to his preaching: he had simply\npaid no attention to them, and the sound of his voice had held them\nback from him and their opposition had become parched. But now he felt\nsomething akin to terror. Who was he that he should make this attempt to\ndo what no man had ever done before?\n\nHe fell upon his knees and prayed aloud. Light--Light--Light--that was\nthe subject of his prayer. He was there with the people who had walked\nin darkness--he had walked with them, and now they were in the presence\nof the One who had said \u201cLet there be Light.\u201d He prayed that the Light\nof the World might appear to them at that time--the Light that shineth\nthrough the darkness that comprehended Him not. He prayed for light to\nunderstand the Light, as the poet had done out of the darkness of his\nblindness.\n\n               \u201cSo much the rather, Thou Celestial Light,\n\n               Shine inward and the mind through her way\n\n               Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mists from thence\n\n               Purge and disperse that I may see and tell\n\n               Of things invisible to mortal sight.\u201d\n\nAnd after his prayer with closed eyes, he began to preach into that\nvoid, and his text was of the Light also. His voice sounded strange to\nhis own ears.\n\nIt seemed to him that he was standing in front of a wall, trying to make\nhis words pass through it. This was at first; a moment later he felt\nthat he was speaking to a denser multitude than he had ever addressed\nbefore. The mist was before his eyes as a sea of sad grey faces waiting,\nearnest and anxious for the message of gladness which he was bringing\nthem. His voice rose to heights of impressiveness that it had never\nreached before. It clove a passage through the mist and fell upon the\nears of the multitude whom he could not see, stirring them as they had\nnever been stirred before, while he gave them his message of the Light.\n\nFor close upon half an hour he spoke of the Light. He repeated the\nword--again and again he repeated it, and every time that it came from\nhis lips it had the effect of a lightning flash. This was at first. He\nspoke in flashes of lightning, uttered from the midst of the cloud of a\nnight of dense blackness; and then he made a change. The storm that\nmade fitful, fiercer illumination passed away, and after an interval\nthe reiteration of the Light appeared again. But now it was the true\nLight--the light of dawn breaking over a sleeping world. It did not come\nin a flash to dazzle the eyes and then to make the darkness more dread;\nit moved gradually upward; there was a flutter as of a dove's wing over\nthe distant hills, the tender feathers of the dawn floated through the\nair, and fell upon the Eastern Sea, quivering there; and even while one\nwatched them wondering, out of the tremulous spaces of the sky a\nsilver, silken thread was spread where the heaven and the waters met--it\nbroadened and became a cincture of pearls, and then the thread that\nbound it broke, and the pearls were scattered, flying up to the sky and\nfalling over all the waters in beautiful confusion; and before the world\nhad quite awakened, the Day itself gave signs of hastening to gather up\nthe pearls of Dawn. The Day's gold-sandalled feet were nigh--they were\nshining on the sea's brim, and lo! the East was bright with gold. Men\ncried, \u201cWhy do those feet tarry?\u201d But even while they spoke, the wonder\nof the Morn had come upon them. Flinging down his mantle upon the\nmountains over which he had stepped--a drapery of translucent lawn, the\nsplendour of the new light sprung upward, lifting hands of blessing over\nthe world, and men looked and saw each other's faces, and knew that they\nwere blest.\n\nAnd the wonder that he spoke of had come to pass. While the preacher had\nbeen describing the breaking light, the light had come. All unnoticed,\nthe mist had been dissolving, and when he had spoken his last words the\nsunlight was bathing the preacher and the multitude who hung upon his\nwords. The wonder that he told them of had taken place, and there did\nnot seem to them anything of wonder about it. Only when he made his\npause did they look into each other's faces as men do when they have\nslept and the day has awakened them. Then with the sunlight about them,\nfor them to drink great draughts that refreshed their souls, he spoke of\nthe Light of the World--of the Dayspring from on High that had visited\nthe world, and their souls were refreshed.\n\nAnd not one word had he said of all that he had meant to say--not one\nword of the man whom he had come so far to reprove.\n\nNo one was conscious of the omission.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nThe day became sultry when the mist had cleared away, and by noon the\nheat was more oppressive than had been known all the Summer. Wesley\nwas exhausted by the time he set out with Mr. Hartwell to return to the\nvillage. They needed no mariner's compass now to tell them the way.\n\nThey scarcely exchanged a word. They seemed to have forgotten the\nconditions under which they had gone forth in the early morning. A new\nworld seemed to have been created since then--a world upon which the\nshadow of darkness could not fall for evermore.\n\nThey had gone straight to the cliffs, hoping for a breath of air\nfrom the sea to refresh them; but they were disappointed; the air\nwas motionless and the reflection of the sunlight from the waves was\ndazzling in its brilliancy.\n\n\u201cI should have thought that the very weight of this heavy atmosphere\nwould make the sea like glass,\u201d said Wesley, while they rested on the\nsummit of the cliff. \u201cAnd yet there are waves such as I have never\nseen on this part of the coast unless when something akin to a gale was\nblowing.\u201d\n\n\u201cI daresay there was a strong breeze blowing, though we did not feel it\nin the shelter of the hollow of the Tor,\u201d said his companion.\n\n\u201cTrue; it would require a strong wind to sweep away the mist so\nsuddenly,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cAh, sir,\u201d said the other, \u201cI did not think of a wind in that\nconnection. Was it the fingers of the wind, think you, that swept that\nthick veil aside, or was it the Hand that rent in twain the veil of the\nTemple?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am reproached, brother,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cLet us give thanks unto God.\nMay He give us grace to think of all things as coming from Him--whether\nthey take the form of a mist which obscures His purpose, or the darkness\nof a tempest on which He rides. I know myself wanting in faith at all\ntimes--in that faith without reserve which a child has in his father. I\nconfess that for a moment in the morning I had the same thought as that\nwhich was expressed by the old man who joined us: I thought it possible\nthat that fog which threatened to frustrate our walk had been sent by\nthe Enemy. Should I have thought so if our work had been hindered in\nvery truth? I dare not say no to that question. But now I know that it\nhelped rather than obstructed, us.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere can be no doubt about that,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cFor myself, I say\nthat I was never so deeply impressed in my life as at that moment when\nI found myself looking at you; you were speaking of the world awakening,\nand it seemed to me that I had been asleep--listening to the sound of\nyour voice--the voice of a dream, and then I was full awake, I knew not\nhow. I tell you, Mr. Wesley, I was not conscious of the change that was\ntaking place--from darkness to light.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor was I,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cMy eyes were closed fast while I was\npreaching. I had closed them to shut out that incongruous picture of\nobscurity, while I thought of the picture of the breaking of light;\nwhen I opened my eyes the picture that I had been striving to paint was\nbefore me. It was the Lord's doing.\u201d\n\nWhile they remained resting on the cliff the officer of the Preventive\nmen came upon them. He knew Hartwell, and had, when Wesley had been\nin the neighbourhood before, thanked him for the good influence his\npreaching had in checking the smuggling.\n\nHe now greeted them cordially and enquired if they had come from the\nvillage, adding that he hoped the fishing boats had not suffered from\nthe effects of the tide.\n\n\u201cWe left the port early in the morning, and in the face of the mist.\nWhat is the matter with the tide?\u201d said Hartwell.\n\n\u201cYou have not been on the beach? Why, 'tis a marvel, gentlemen,\u201d cried\nthe officer. \u201cThe like has not been seen since I took up my appointment\nin this neighbourhood--a tide so high that the caves are flooded to the\nroof. List, sirs; you can hear naught of the usual boom of the waters\nwhen the pressed air forces them back.\u201d\n\nThey listened, but although there was the usual noise of the waves\nbreaking along the coast, the boom from the caves which had been heard\nat intervals through the mist was now silent.\n\n\u201cAs a rule 'tis at high tide that the sound is loudest,\u201d said Hartwell.\n\n\u201cThat is so,\u201d said the officer. \u201cThe higher the water is, the more the\nair in the caves becomes pressed, and so the louder is the explosion.\nBut this day the water has filled the caves to the roof, leaving no air\nin their depths to bellow. One of my men, on his patrol an hour ago, was\novertaken by the tide at the foot of the cliffs at a place high above\nspring tide mark. He had to climb to safety. He did so only with\ndifficulty. Had he been at Nitlisaye, nothing would have saved him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, are Nithsaye sands flooded? Impossible,\u201d cried Hartwell.\n\n\u201cFlooded up to Tor, sir. I tell you the thing is a marvel!\u201d\n\n\u201cAll the more so, since there is no wind to add to the force of the\ntide,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cTrue, sir; there was a strong breeze in the early morning that swept\nthe sea-mist over the shore; but there has not been a capful since,\u201d\n said the officer.\n\n\u201cBut see the waves! Are they the effects of the early wind, think you,\nsir?\u201d asked Wesley.\n\n\u201cMaybe; but if so, this also is past my experience of this coast, sir,\u201d\n replied the man. \u201cBut I allow that when I was sailing with Captain\nHawke in the West Indies I knew of the waters of the Caribbean Sea being\nstirred up like this in the dead calm before a hurricane that sent us on\nour beam ends, and one of our squadron on to the Palisades Reef at Port\nRoyal.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you fear for a hurricane at this time?\u201d asked Wesley.\n\n\u201cA gale, maybe; but no such hurricane as wrecks the island it swoops\ndown on in the Leewards, sir. Oh, a hurricane in very deed! Our ship's\ncutter--a thirty-foot boat swung in on the iron davits--and lashed down\nto iron stanchions on the deck--was whisked adrift as if it had been an\nautumn leaf. I say it went five hundred fathom through the air and no\nman saw it fall. I saw a road twenty foot wide shorn through the dense\nforest for five miles as clean as with a scythe, as you go to Spanish\nTown--a round dozen of planters' houses and a stone church had once\nstood on that cutting. They were swept off, and not a stone of any one\nof them was ever found by mortal after. Oh, a hurricane, indeed! We need\nexpect naught like that, by the mercy of Heaven, gentlemen; though I\ncare not for the look of yon sun.\u201d\n\nThey glanced upwards. The sun had the aspect of being seen through a\nslight haze, which made it seem of a brazen red, large and with its\norb all undefined. It looked more like the red fire of a huge lighted\nbrazier than the round sun, and all around it there was the gleam as of\nmoving flames.\n\n\u201cLooks unhealthy--is't not so?\u201d said the officer.\n\n\u201cThere is a haze in the air; but the heat is none the less,\u201d said\nHartwell.\n\n\u201cI like it not, sirs. This aspect of the sun is part and parcel of some\ndisturbance of nature that we would do well to be prepared for,\u201d said\nthe officer, shaking his head ominously.\n\n\u201cA disturbance of nature? What mean you? Have you been hearing of the\nfishing-boats that have been hauled up on the stones at the port for the\npast two days? Have you taken serious account of the foolishness of a\nman who calls himself a prophet?\u201d asked Hartwell.\n\nThe officer laughed.\n\n\u201cOh, I have heard much talk of the Prophet Pritchard,\u201d he said. \u201cBut you\nsurely do not reckon me as one of those poor wretches whom he has\nscared out of their lives by threatening them with the Day of Judgment\nto-morrow? Nay, sir; I placed my trust in a statement that begins with\nsoundings, the direction of the wind and its force, the sail that is\nset, the last cast of the log, the bearings of certain landmarks,\nand the course that is being steered. My word for it, without such a\npreface, any statement is open to doubt.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd have you received such a statement in regard to your 'disturbance\nof nature,' sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat I have, sirs. Our cutter was cruising about a league off shore\ntwo nights ago, light breeze from west-nor'-west, sail set; mainsail,\nforesail, jib, speed three knots. Hour, two bells in the morning, Master\nin charge on deck, watch, larboard--names if necessary. Reports, night\nsultry, cloudless since second dog watch, attention called to sounds as\nof discharge of great guns in nor'-nor'west. Lasted some minutes, not\ncontinuous; followed by noise as of a huge wave breaking, or the fall\nof a cataract in same quarter. Took in jib, mainsail haul, stand by to\nlower gaff. No further sounds reported, but sea suddenly got up, though\nno change of wind, force or direction, and till four bells cutter sailed\nthrough waves choppy as if half a gale had been blowing. After four\nbells gradual calm. Nothing further to report till eight bells, when\ncutter, tacking east-nor'east, all sail set, gunner's mate found in it\na dead fish. Master reports quantity of dead fish floating around.\nTook five aboard--namely, hake two, rock codling one, turbot two,\nrock codling with tail damaged. That's a statement we can trust, Mr.\nHartwell. Yesterday it was supplemented by accounts brought by my men\nof the coast patrol, of quantities of dead fish washed ashore in various\ndirections. And now comes this marvellous tide. Sirs, have not I some\ngrounds for touching upon such a subject as 'a great disturbance of\nnature'?\u201d\n\n\u201cAmple, sir, ample,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cPray, does your West Indian\nexperience justify you in coming to any conclusion in regard to these\nthings?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have heard of fish being killed by the action of a volcano beneath\nthe sea,\u201d said the officer. \u201cI have heard it said that all the Leeward\nIslands are volcanos, though only one was firing broadsides the year\nthat I was with my Lord Hawke. 'Twas at Martinique which we took from\nthe French. Even before the island came in sight, our sails were black\nwith dust and our decks were strewn with cinders. But when we drew nigh\nto the island and saw the outburst of molten rocks flying up to the very\nsky itself--sir, I say to you that when a man has seen such a sight as\nthat, he is not disposed to shudder at all that a foolish fellow who has\nnever sailed further than the Bristol Channel may prate about the Day of\nJudgment.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd to your thinking, sir, an earthquake or some such convulsion of\nnature hath taken place at the bottom of our peaceful Channel?\u201d said\nWesley.\n\n\u201cIn my thinking, sir, yes. But I would not say that the convulsion was\nat the bottom of the Channel; it may have been an hundred leagues in\nthe Atlantic. And more is to come, sirs; take my word for it, more is to\ncome. Look at yonder sun; 'tis more ominous than ever. I shall look out\nfor volcano dust in the next rain, and advise the near-, est station\neast'ard to warn all the fishing craft to make snug, and be ready for\nthe worst. I should not be surprised to find that the tide is still\nrising, and so I wish you good-morning, sirs.\u201d\n\nHe took off his hat and resumed his patrol of the coast.\n\n\u201cThis is a day of surprises,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cThe story of the fish is difficult to believe, in spite of the cocoon\nof particulars in which it is enclosed,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cThe greatest\nmarvel in a mariner's life seems to me to be his imagination and his\nreadiness of resource when it comes to a question of memory. A volcano\nmountain in our Channel!\u201d\n\n\u201cDo not condemn the master of the revenue cutter too hastily,\u201d said\nWesley. \u201cHis story corresponds very nearly to that narrated to me\nyesterday by Polwhele.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs't possible? True, Polwhele was the only fisherman who went out to\nthe reef three nights ago,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cAnd the strange sounds----\u201d\n\n\u201cHe heard them also--he thought that they came from a frigate\ndischarging a broadside of carronades.\u201d\n\nHartwell was silent for some time. At last he said:\n\n\u201cI could wish that these mysterious happenings had come at some other\ntime. Are you rested sufficiently in this place, sir? I am longing for\na cool room, where I can think reasonably of all that I have seen and\nheard this day.\u201d\n\nWesley rose from the hollow where he had made his seat and walked slowly\ndown the sloping path toward the village. But long before they had\nreached the place of his sojourning, he became aware of a scene of\nexcitement in the distance. The double row of straggling cottages\nthat constituted the village of Porthawn they had left in the morning\nstanding far beyond the long and steep ridge of shingle, at the base of\nwhich the wrack of high water lay, was now close to the water's edge.\nThe little wharf alongside of which the fishing boats were accustomed\nto lie had been hauled up practically to the very doors of the houses.\nScores of men and women were engaged in the work of hauling them\nstill higher, not by the machinery of the capstans--the capstans were\napparently submerged--but by hawsers. The sound of the sailors'\n\u201cHeave ho!\u201d came to the ear of Wesley and his companion a few seconds\nafter they had seen the bending to the haul of all the people who were\nclinging to the hawsers as flies upon a thread. The shore was dark with\nmen running with gear-tackles with blocks, while others were labouring\nalong under the weight of spars and masts that had been hastily\noutstepped.\n\nMr. Hartwell was speechless with astonishment.\n\n\u201cIt is indeed a day of wonder!\u201d exclaimed Wes--ley. \u201cA high tide? Ay;\nbut who could have believed such an one possible? Should we not be doing\nwell to lend them a hand in their emergency?\u201d\n\nHe had to repeat his question before the other had recovered from his\nastonishment sufficiently to be able to reply.\n\n\u201cSuch a tide! Such a tide!\u201d he muttered. \u201cWhat can it mean? Lend a hand?\nSurely--surely! Every hand is needed there.\u201d\n\nThey were compelled to make a detour landward in order to reach the\npeople, for the ordinary path was submerged, but they were soon in the\nmidst of them, and bending to the work of hauling, until the drops fell\nfrom their faces, when the heavy boat at which they laboured had her\nbowsprit well-nigh touching the window of the nearest house.\n\nWesley dropped upon a stone and wiped his forehead, and some of the\nfishermen did the same, while others were loosing the tackles, in\nreadiness to bind them on the next boat.\n\nNelly Polwhele was kneeling beside him in an instant--her hair had\nbecome unfastened, for she had been working hard with the other women,\nand fell in strands down her back and over her shoulders. Her face was\nwet.\n\n\u201cOh, sir; this is overmuch for you!\u201d she cried.\n\n\u201cFar overmuch, after all that you have gone through since morning. Pray\nrest you in the shade. There is a jug of cider cooling in a pail of\nwater fresh drawn from the well. You need refreshment.\u201d\n\nHe took her hand, smiling.\n\n\u201cI am refreshed, dear child,\u201d he said. \u201cI am refreshed.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should that man he treated different from the rest of us; tell\nme that,\u201d came the voice of a man who had been watching them, and now\nstepped hastily forward. Wesley saw that he was Bennet. \u201cIs there a man\nin the village who doesn't know that 'tis John Wesley and his friends\nthat has brought this visitation upon us? Was there anything like to\nthis before he came with his new-fangled preaching, drawing down the\nwrath of Heaven upon such as have been fool enough to join themselves\nto him? Was there any of you, men, that thought with trembling limbs and\nsweating foreheads of the Day of Judgment until John Wesley turned\nthe head of that poor man Pritchard, and made him blaspheme, wrapping\nhimself in Wesley's old cloak, and telling you that'twas the mantle of a\nprophet?\u201d\n\nNelly had risen to her feet before his last sentence was spoken, but a\nmoment afterward she sprang to one side with a cry. She was just in\ntime to avoid the charge of a man on horseback. But Bennet was not so\nfortunate. Before he was aware of a danger threatening him, he felt\nhimself carried off his feet, a strong man's hands grasping the collars\nof his coat, so that he was swung off the ground, dangling and scrawling\nlike a puppet. Down the horse sprang into the water, until it was\nsurging over the pommel of the saddle. Then, and only then, the rider\nloosed his hold, reining in his horse with one hand, while with the\nother he flung the man headforemost a couple of yards farther into the\nwaves.\n\n\u201cThe hound! the hound! that will cool his ardour!\u201d cried Parson Rodney,\nbacking his horse out of the water, while the people above him roared,\nand the man, coming to the surface like a grampus, struck out for a part\nof the beach most remote from the place where he had stood.\n\nWesley was on his feet and had already taken a step or two down the\nshingle, for Parson Rodney's attitude suggested his intention of\npreventing the man from landing, when he saw that Bennet was a strong\nswimmer, and that he, too, had put the same interpretation upon the\nrider's raising of his hunting crop.\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d said Parson Rodney, bringing his dripping horse beside him, \u201cI\ngrieve that any man in my parish should put such an affront upon you.\nOnly so gross a wretch would have done so. Thank Heaven the fellow is\nnot of Porthawn, nor a Cornishman at all. If you do not think that my\nsimple rebuke has been enough, I am a Justice, and I promise you to send\nhim to gaol for a month at next session.\u201d\n\n\u201cSir, you mean well by me,\u201d said Wesley; \u201cbut I would not that any human\nbeing were placed in jeopardy of his life on my account.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is because you are overgentle, sir,\u201d said Rodney. \u201cThank Heaven,\nmy fault does not lie in that direction.\u201d\n\n\u201cRepent, repent, repent, while there is yet time In a few more hours\nTime shall be no more!\u201d came a loud voice from the high ground above the\nbank.\n\nEveryone turned and saw there the figure of Richard Pritchard, standing\nbarehead in the scorching sun, his hands upraised and his hair unkept;\nand a curious nondescript garment made apparently of several sacks\nhastily stitched together, with no sleeves. On his feet he wore what\nlooked like sandals--he had cut down the upper portion of his shoes,\nso that only the sole remained, and these were fastened to his feet by\ncrossed pieces of tape. He was the prophet of the Bible illustration. It\nwas plain that he had studied some such print and that he had determined\nthat nothing should be lacking in his garb to make complete the part\nwhich he meant to play.\n\nUp again went the long, lean, bare arms, and again came the voice:\n\n\u201cO men of Porthawn, now is the accepted time, now is the Day of\nSalvation. Yet a few more hours and Time shall be no more. Repent,\nrepent, repent, while ye have time.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nThere could be no doubt about the depth of the impression which the\nstrange figure and his unusual garb produced upon the people.\n\nThere he stood on the high ground above the houses, the man who had\nprophesied the end of the world, while beneath them tumbled the waves of\na sea where they had never seen sea water before! The occurrence,\nbeing so far outside their experience, had about it the elements of the\nsupernatural--the aspect of a miracle. Was this the beginning of the end\nof all? they asked themselves. To these people the daily ebb and flow of\nthe tide, ever going on before their eyes, was the type of a regularity\nthat nothing could change; and never once had the water been forced,\neven under the influence of the strongest gale from the southwest,\nbeyond the summit of the shingle-heap--never until this day.\n\nIt was an awful thing that had come to pass before their eyes, and while\ntheir brains were reeling beneath its contemplation there rang out that\nvoice of warning. The man who had predicted an event that was not more\nsupernatural in their eyes than the one which had come to their very\nfeet, was there bidding them repent.\n\nBut strange to say, there was not one among the-people assembled\nthere who made a motion--who cried out in conviction of the need for\nrepentance, as hundreds had done upon every occasion of John. Wesley's\npreaching, although it had contained no element that, in the judgment of\nan ordinary person, would appeal with such force to the emotions of the\nvillagers as did the scene in which Pritchard now played a part.\n\nThey remained unmoved--outwardly, however shrinking with terror some of\nthem may have been. Perhaps it was they felt that the man had, in a way,\nthreatened them physically, and they had a feeling that it would show\ncowardice on their part to betray their fear, or it may have been that,\nas was nearly always the case when a prophet came to a people, they\nattributed to the bearer of the messages of the ill the responsibility\nfor the ills which he foretold--however it may have been, the people\nonly glanced up at the weird figure, and made no move.\n\nBut the appearance of the man at that moment had the effect of making\nthem forget the scene which had immediately preceded the sound of his\nvoice. No one looked to see whether or not John Bennet had scrambled\nback to the beach or had gone under the waters.\n\n\u201cIt is coming--it is coming: I hear the sound of the hoofs of the pale\nHorse--yonder is the red Horse spoken of by the prophet at Patmos, but\nthe White Horse is champing his bit. I hear the clink of the steel,\nand Death is his rider. He cometh with fire and brimstone.\nRepent--repent--repent!\u201d\n\n\u201cI have a mind to make the fellow repent of his impudence,\u201d said Parson\nRodney. \u201cThe effrontery of the man trying to make me play a part in his\nquackery. I wonder how this water-finder would find the water if I were\nto give him the ducking I gave to the other?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou would do wrong, sir,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cBut I feel that I have no need\nto tell you so: your own good judgment tells you that yonder man is to\nbe pitied rather than punished.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, if that is the view you take of the matter, you may be sure that\nI'll not interfere,\u201d cried the other. \u201cThe fellow may quack or croak or\ncrow for aught I care.'Twas for you I was having thought. But I've no\nintention of constituting my humble self your champion. I wish you well;\nand I know that if the world gets over the strain of Monday, we shall\nnever see you in our neighbourhood again.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe elements shall melt with fervent heat. You feel it--you feel it on\nyour faces to-day: I foretold it, and I was sent to cry unto all that\nhave ears to hear, 'Repent--repent--repent'!\u201d\n\n\u201cThe fellow has got no better manner than a real prophet,\u201d laughed\nParson Rodney; but there was not much merriment in his laughter. \u201cI\nhave a mind to have him brought before me as an incorrigible rogue and\nvagabond,\u201d he continued. \u201cAn hour or twain in the stocks would make\nhim think more civilly of the world. If he becomes bold enough to be\noffensive to you, Mr. Wesley, give me a hint of it, and I'll promise you\nthat I'll make him see more fire and brimstone than he ever did in one\nof his ecstatic moods; and so good-day to you, sir.\u201d\n\nHe put his horse to a trot, and returned the salutes of the men who were\nstanding idly watching Pritchard in his very real sackcloth.\n\nBut he had scarcely ridden past them when he turned his horse and called\nout:\n\n\u201cWherefore are you idle, good men? Do you mean to forsake the remainder\nof your smacks?\u201d\n\nA few of the fishermen looked at one another; they shook their heads;\none of them wiped his forehead.\n\n\u201c'Twill be all the same after Monday, Parson,\u201d said that man.\n\n\u201cYou parboiled lobster-grabber!\u201d cried the Parson. \u201cDo you mean to say\nthat you have the effrontery to believe that addle-pate up there rather\nthan a clergyman of the Church of England? Look at him. He's not a\nman.'Tis a poor cut torn from, a child's picture Bible that he is! Do\nyou believe that the world would come to an end without your properly\nordained clergyman giving you a hint of it? Go on with your work, if you\nare men. Repent? Ay, you'll all repent when 'tis too late, if you fail\nto haul up your boats so that their backs get not broken on that ridge.\nIf you feel that you must repent, do it hauling. And when you've done\nyour work, come up to the Rectory and cool your throats with a jug of\ncider, cool from the cellar, mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere shall be no more sea,\u201d came the voice of the man on the mound; it\nwas growing appreciably hoarser.\n\n\u201cNo more sea?\u201d shouted the parson. \u201cThat's an unlucky shot of yours, my\naddle-pated prophet; 'tis too much sea that we be suffering from just\nhere.\u201d\n\nWesley had not reseated himself. He put his hand upon Mr. Hartwell's\narm. The latter understood what he meant. They walked away together.\n\n\u201cI have seen nothing sadder for years,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI have been asking\nmyself if I am to blame. Should not I have been more careful in regard\nto that unhappy man?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf blame is to be attached to any it is to be attached to those who\nrecommended the man to you, and I was among them,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cI\nrecall how you were not disposed to accept him into our fellowship by\nreason of his work with the divining rod; but we persuaded you against\nyour judgment. I, for one, shall never forgive myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas ever aught so saddening as that travesty of the most solemn\nevent?\u201d said Wesley. \u201cAnd then the spectacle of that well-meaning but\nill-balanced man! A clergyman of our Church--you saw him turn to mock\nthe wretch? He made a jest upon the line that has never failed to send a\nthrill through me: 'No more sea.' Shocking--shocking!... Friend, I\ncame hither with the full intention of administering a rebuke to\nPritchard--of openly letting it be understood that we discountenanced\nhim. But I did not do so to-day, and I am glad of it. However vain\nthe man may be--however injuriously he may affect our aims among the\npeople--I am still glad that I was turned away from saying a word\nagainst him.\u201d\n\nMr. Hartwell was too practical a man to look at the matter in the same\nlight. But he said nothing further about Pritchard. When he spoke, which\nhe did after a time, it was about Bennet. He asked Wesley if he could\nguess why the man had spoken to him so bitterly. Why should the man bear\nhim a grudge?\n\nWesley mentioned that Bennet had come upon him when he was walking with\nPolwhele's daughter from the Mill.\n\n\u201cAh, that is the form of his madness--he becomes insanely jealous of\nanyone whom he sees near that girl. But one might have thought that\nyou at least--oh, absurdity could go no further! But a jealous man is\na madman; he is incapable of looking at even the most ordinary incident\nexcept through green glasses. You are opposed to clergymen marrying, are\nyou not, Mr. Wesley? I have heard of your book-----\u201d\n\n\u201cI wrote as I was persuaded at that time,\u201d replied Wesley. \u201cBut more\nrecently--I am not confident that I did not make a mistake in my\nconclusions. I am not sure that it is good for a man to be alone; and\na clergyman, of all men, needs the sympathy--the sweet and humane\ncompanionship of a woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, sir; but if a clergymen makes a mistake in his choice of a wife,\nthere can be no question that his influence declines; and so many men\nof your cloth wreck themselves on the quicksand of matrimony. I daresay\nthat 'tis your own experience of this that keeps you single, though you\nmay have modified your original views on the subject. Strange, is't not,\nthat we should find ourselves discussing such a point at this time?\nBut this seems to be the season of strange things, and 'twould be the\ngreatest marvel of all if we ourselves were not affected. Is it the\nterrible heat, think you, that has touched the heads of those two men?\u201d\n\n\u201cI scarce know what I should think,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cThe case of Pritchard\nis the more remarkable. Only now it occurred to me that there may be a\nstrange affinity between the abnormal in nature and the mind of such a\nman as he.'Twould be idle to contend that he has not been able as a\nrule to say where water is to be found on sinking a shaft; I have heard\nseveral persons testify to his skill in this particular--if it may be\ncalled skill. Does not his possession of this power then suggest that\nhe may be so constituted that his senses may be susceptible of certain\nvague suggestions which emanate from the earth, just as some people\ncatch ague--I have known of such in Georgia--when in the neighbourhood\nof a swamp, while others remain quite unaffected in health?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is going too far for me, sir,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cI do not need to\nresort to anything more difficult to understand than vanity to enable\nme to understand how Pritchard has changed. The fellow's head has been\nturned--that's all.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat explanation doth not wholly satisfy me,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI think\nthat we have at least some proof that he was sensible of something\nabnormal in Nature, and this sensibility acting upon his brain disposed\nhim to take a distorted view of the thing. His instinct in this matter\nmay have been accurate; but his head was weak. He receives an impression\nof something strange, and forthwith he begins to talk of the Day of\nJudgment, and his foolish vanity induces him to think of himself as\na prophet. The Preventive officer thinks that there hath been an\nearthquake. Now there can, I think, be no doubt that Pritchard was\nsensible of its coming; Pol-whele told you yesterday that he had\npredicted an earthquake in the sea, although it seemed that his\nilliteracy was accountable for this: and now there comes this remarkable\ntide--the highest tide that the memory of man has known.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have plainly been giving the case of Pritchard much of your\nattention,\u201d said Hartwell; \u201cbut I pray you to recall his account of the\nvision which he said came to him when he fell into that trance. 'Twas\njust the opposite to a high tide--'twas such an ebbing of the water as\nleft bare the carcase of the East Indiaman that went ashore on the Dog's\nTeeth reef forty years ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue; but to my way of thinking it matters not whether 'twas a\nprodigious ebb or a prodigious flow that he talked of so long as he was\nfeeling the impression of the unusual--of the extraordinary. Mind you,\nI am only throwing out a hint of a matter that may become, if approached\nin a proper spirit, a worthy subject for sober philosophical thought.\nGod forbid that I should take it upon me to say at this moment that the\npower shown by that man is from the Enemy of mankind, albeit I have at\ntimes found myself thinking that it could come from no other source.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are too lenient, I fear, Mr. Wesley. For myself, I believe simply\nthat the man's head has been turned. Is't not certain that a devil\nenters into such men as are mad, and have we not proof that witches\nand warlocks have sometimes the perverted gift of prophecy, through the\npower of their master, the Old Devil?\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot gainsay it, my brother, and it is because of this you say,\nthat I am greatly perplexed.\u201d\n\nThey had been walking very slowly, for the heat of the day seemed to\nhave increased, and they were both greatly exhausted. Before entering\nMr. Hartwell's house they stood for a short time looking seaward. There,\nas before, the waves danced under the rays of the sun, although not a\nbreath of air stirred between the sea and the sky. The canopy of the\nheaven was blue, but it suggested the blue of hard steel rather than\nthat of the transparent sapphire or that of the soft mass of a bed of\nforget-me-nots, or of the canopy of clematis which clambered over the\nporch.\n\nThe sun that glared down from the supreme height was like to no other\nsun they had ever seen. The haze on its disc, to which the Preventive\nofficer had drawn their attention an hour earlier, had been slowly\ngrowing in the meantime, until now it was equal to four diameters of the\norb itself, and it was so permeated with the rays that it seemed part of\nthe sun itself. There that mighty furnace seethed with intolerable fire,\nand so singular was the haze that one, glancing for a moment upward with\nhand on forehead, seemed to see the huge tongues of flame that burst\nforth now and again as they do beneath a copper cauldron on the furnace\nof the artificer.\n\nBut this was not all, for at a considerable distance from the molten\nmass, which had the sun for its core, there was a wide ring apparently\nof fire. Though dull as copper for the most part, yet at times there\nwas a glow as of living and not merely reflected flame, at parts of the\nbrazen circle, and flashes seemed to go from the sun to this cincture,\nconveying the impression of an enormous shield, having the sun as the\ncentral boss of shining brass, on which fiery darts were striking,\nflying off again to the brass binding of the targe.\n\n\u201cAnother marvel!\u201d said Wesley; \u201cbut I have seen the dike more than once\nbefore. Once 'twas on the Atlantic, and the master of our ship, who was\na mariner of experience, told me that that outer circle was due to the\nsun shining through particles of moisture. Hold up a candle in the mist\nand you have the same thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cI myself have seen it more than once; 'tis not a marvel, though it has\nappeared on a day of marvels,\u201d said Hartwell; and forthwith they entered\nthe house.\n\nThey were both greatly exhausted, the fact being that before setting\nout for the preaching in the early morning they had taken no more than a\nglass of milk and a piece of bread, and during the seven hours that\nhad elapsed they had tasted nothing, though the day had been a most\nexhausting one.\n\nIn a very few minutes the cold dinner, with the salad, which had been in\nreadiness for their return, found them grateful; and after partaking of\nit Wesley retired to his room.\n\nHe threw himself upon a couch that stood under the window; a group of\ntrees, though birch and not very bosky, grew so close to the window that\nthey had made something of a shade to the room since morning, so that\nit was the coolest in the house. It was probably this sense of coolness\nthat refreshed him so far as to place him within the power of sleep. He\nhad thought it impossible when he entered the house that he should be\nable to find such a relief, exhausted as he had been. But now he had\nscarcely put his head on the pillow before he was asleep.\n\nSeveral hours had passed before he opened his eyes again. He was\nconscious that a great change of some sort, that he could not at once\ndefine, had taken place. The room was in shadow where before it had\nbeen lighted by flecks of sunshine, but this was not the change which\nappealed to him with striking force; nor was it the sense of being\nrefreshed, of which he was now aware. There was a curious silence in the\nworld--the change had something to do with the silence. He felt as he\nhad done in the parlour of Ruthallion Mill when he had been talking\nto the miller and the machinery had suddenly stopped for the breakfast\nhour. That was his half-awakened thought.\n\nThe next moment he was fully awake, and he knew what had happened: when\nhe had fallen asleep the sound of the waves had been in his ears without\ncessation, and now the sea was silent.\n\nHe thought that he had never before been in such a silence. It seemed\nstrange, mysterious, full of awful suggestions. It seemed to his vivid\nimagination that the world, which a short time before had been full of\nlife, had suddenly swooned away. The hush was the hush of death. The\nsilence was the silence of the tomb. \u201c'Tis thus,\u201d he thought, \u201cthat a\nman awakens after death--in a place of awful silences.\u201d\n\nAnd then he felt as if all the men in the world had been cut off in a\nmoment, leaving him the only man alive.\n\nIt continued unbroken while he lay there. It became a nightmare\nsilence--an awful palpable thing like a Sphinx--a blank dumbness--a\nbenumbing of all Nature--a sealing up of all the world as in the hard\nbondage of an everlasting Winter.\n\nHe sprang from his couch unable to endure the silence any longer. He\nwent to the window and looked out, expecting to see the flat unruffled\nsurface of the channel, where the numberless waves had lately been,\nsparkling with intolerable, brilliance, and every wave sending its voice\ninto the air to join the myriad-voiced chorus that the sea made.\n\nHe looked out and started back; then he drew up the blind and stared out\nin amazement, for where the sea had been there was now no sea.\n\nHe threw open the window and looked out. Far away in the utter distance\nhe saw what seemed like a band of glittering crimson on the horizon.\nLooking further round and to the west he saw that the sun was more than\nhalfway down the slope of the heavens in that quarter and it was of the\ndarkest crimson in colour--large, but no longer fiery.\n\nThen there came a murmur to his ears--the murmur of a multitude of\npeople; and above this sound came a hoarse, monotonous voice, crying:\n\n\u201cI heard one say to me: 'There shall be no sea--there shall be no more\nsea'; and the sun shall be turned into darkness and the moon into blood,\nbefore the great and terrible Day of the Lord. Repent--repent--repent!\u201d\n\nFar away he could see the figure of the man. He stood on the summit of\nthe cliff beyond the path, and, facing the sinking sun, he was crimson\nfrom head to foot. Seen at such a distance and in that light he looked\nan imposing figure--a figure that appealed to the imagination, and not\nlacking in those elements which for ages have been associated with the\nappearance of a fearless prophet uplifting a lean right arm and crying\n\u201cThus saith the Lord.\u201d Wesley listened and heard his cry:\n\n\u201cThere shall be no more sea! Repent--repent--repent!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: 0223]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nWhat think you now, sir?\u201d Hartwell asked of Wesley when the latter had\ndescended the stairs and entered the little parlour of the house.\n\n\u201cI am too greatly amazed to think,\u201d replied Wesley. \u201cBut since you put\nthinking into my head, I would ask you if you think it unnatural that a\ngreat ebb should follow an unusually high tide?\u201d\n\nIt was plain that Hartwell was greatly perturbed.\n\n\u201cUnnatural? Why, has not everything that has happened for the past three\ndays been unnatural?\u201d he cried. \u201cSir, I am, I thank God, a level-headed\nman. I have seen some strange things in my life, both in the mines and\nwhen seafaring; I thought that naught could happen to startle me, but I\nconfess that this last--I tell you, sir, that I feel now as if I were\nin the midst of a dream. My voice sounds strange to myself; it seems to\ncome from someone apart from me--nay, rather from myself, but outside\nmyself.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis the effect of the heat, dear friend,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cYou should\nhave slept as I did.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did sleep, sir; what I have been asking myself is 'Am I yet awake?' I\nhave had dreams before like to this one--dreams of watching the sea and\nother established things that convey to us all ideas of permanence and\nregularity, melting away before my very eyes--one dread vision showed\nme Greta Cliff crumbling away like a child's mound built on the\nsand--crumbling away into the sea, and then the sea began to ebb and\nsoon was on the horizon. Now, I have been asking myself if I am in the\nmidst of that same dream again. Can it be possible? Can it be possible?\u201d\n\nHe clapped his hand to his forehead and hastened to the window, whence\nhe looked out. Almost immediately he returned to Wesley, saying:\n\n\u201cI pray you to inform me, sir, if this is the truth or a dream--is it\nreally the case that the sea has ebbed so that there is naught left of\nit?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are awake, my brother,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cand 'tis true that the sea\nhath ebbed strangely; but from the upper windows 'tis possible to see a\nbroad band of it in the distance. I beseech of you to lie down on your\nbed and compose yourself. This day has tried you greatly.\u201d\n\nThe other stared at him for a few moments and then walked slowly away,\nmuttering:\n\n\u201cA mystery--a mystery! Oh, the notion of Dick Pritchard being a true\nprophet! Was it of such stuff as this the old prophets were made? God\nforgive me if I erred in thinking him one of the vain fellows. Mr.\nWesley's judgment was not at fault; he came hither to preach against\nhim; but not a word did he utter of upbraiding or reproof.\u201d\n\nWesley saw that the man was quite overcome. Up to this moment he had\nshown himself to be possessed of a rational mind, and one that was\nnot easily put off its balance. He had only a few hours before been\ndiscussing Pritchard in a sober and unemotional spirit; but this last\nmystery had been too much for him: the disappearance of the sea, which\nhad lately climbed up to the doors of Porthawn, had unhinged him and\nthrown him off his balance. If the phenomenon had occurred at any other\ntime--under any less trying conditions of weather--he might have been\nable to observe it with equanimity; but the day had been, as Wesley\nsaid, a trying one. The intense heat was of itself prostrating, and\ndemoralising even to Wesley himself, and he had schooled himself to be\nunaffected by any conditions of weather.\n\nSuddenly Hartwell turned toward his visitor, saying:\n\n\u201cAnd if the man was entrusted to predict the falling away of the sea, is\nthere anyone that will say that the remainder of his prophecy will not\nbe fulfilled?\u201d\n\n\u201cI entreat of you, brother, to forbear asking yourself any further\nquestions until you have had a few hours' sleep,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cWhat signifies a sleep now if before this time to-morrow the end of all\nthings shall have come?\u201d Hartwell cried almost fiercely. \u201cNay, sir, I\nshall wait with the confidence of a Christian; I shall not be found as\nwere the foolish virgins--asleep and with unlighted lamps. There will be\nno slumber for me. I shall watch and pray.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us pray together, my brother,\u201d said Wesley, laying his hand on the\nman's shoulder affectionately. He perceived that he was not in a mood to\nbe reasoned with.\n\nIt was at this moment that the door was opened and there entered the\nroom the miller and Jake 'Pullsford.\n\nWesley welcomed their coming; he had hopes that they would succeed in\npersuading his host to retire; but before they had been in the room for\nmore than a few minutes Hartwell had well-nigh become himself again.\n\nThe newcomers were not greatly affected by anything that had happened.\nThey were only regretful that the mist of the morning had prevented them\nfrom reaching the Red Tor in time for the preaching. They had started\ntogether, but had stopped upon the way to help a party of their friends\nwho were in search of still another party, and when the strayed ones\nhad been found they all had thought it prudent to remain at a farm where\nthey had dined.\n\n\u201cOn our way hither we met with one who had been to the preaching,\u201d said\nJake. \u201cHe told us something of what we had missed.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere you disappointed to learn that no reference had been made to the\nvery matter that brought me back to you?\u201d asked Wesley.\n\nJake did not answer immediately. It was apparent that he had his own\nviews on this matter, and that he had been expounding them to his\ncompanion on their walk from the farm to the coast.\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley, 'tis plain to me that the skill at divination shown by that\nman comes from below, not from above,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd do you suppose that\nour enemies will take back any of the foul things they have said about\nour allying ourselves with sorcery when they hear of the wonderful\nthings that are now happening?\u201d\n\n\u201cBrother,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cif the principles of the Truth which we have\nbeen teaching are indeed true, they will survive such calumnies--nay,\nthey will take the firmer hold upon all who have heard us by reason of\nsuch calumnies. The gold of the Truth has oft been tried by the fire of\ncalumny and proved itself to be precious.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou saw the man play-acting in his sackcloth?\u201d said the carrier.\n\nWesley shook his head sadly.\n\n\u201c'Twas deplorable!\u201d he said. \u201cAnd yet I dare not even now speak against\nhim--no, not a word.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, sir, you do not believe that he is a sorcerer and a soothsayer?\u201d\n cried Jake.\n\n\u201cI have not satisfied myself that he is either,\u201d replied Wesley. \u201cMore\nthan once since I saw how much evil was following on his predictions I\nhave felt sure that he was an agent of our Arch-enemy, but later I have\nnot felt quite so confident in my judgment. No, friend, I shall not\njudge him. He is in the hands of God.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I agree with Mr. Wesley,\u201d said the miller.\n\nJake Pullsford, with his hands clasped behind him and his head craned\nforward, was about to speak, when Hal Holmes entered the room. He was\nexcited.\n\n\u201cHave you seen it?\u201d he cried before he had greeted anyone. \u201cHave you\nseen it--the vision of his trance at the Mill--the tide sliding away as\nit hath never done before within the memory of man?--the discovery of\nthe bare hollow basin of the sea? Have you been within sight of the\nDog's Teeth?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe--Mr. Hartwell and I--have not been out of doors for six hours; but\nwe are going now,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cWe have seen some of the wonders that\nhave happened; we would fain witness all.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sir,\u201d said the blacksmith, \u201cthis one is the first that I have seen,\nand seeing it has made me think that we were too hasty in condemning\npoor Dick Pritchard. We need your guidance, sir. Do you hold that a\nman may have the gift of prophecy in this Dispensation, without being a\nsorcerer, and the agent of the Fiend?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! 'tis not I that can be your guide in such a matter,\u201d said Wesley.\n\u201cYou must join with me in seeking for guidance from above. Let us go\nforth and see what is this new wonder.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis the vision of his trance--I saw it with these eyes as I passed\nalong the high ground above the Dog's Teeth Reef--the reef was well-nigh\nbare and naked,\u201d said Hal. \u201cWho is there of us that could tell what the\nbottom of the sea looked like? We knew what the simple slopes of the\nbeach were--the spaces where the tide was wont to ebb and flow over\nare known to all; but who before since the world began saw those secret\nhidden deeps where the lobsters lurk and crabs half the size of a\nman's body--I saw them with these eyes a while agone--and the little\nrunnels--a thousand of them, I believe, racing through channels in the\nslime as if they were afraid to be left behind when the sea was ebbing\nout of sight--and the sun turned all into the colour of blood! What does\nit all mean, Mr. Wesley--I do not mean the man's trance-dream, but the\nthing itself that hath come to pass?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe shall go forth and be witnesses of all,\u201d said Wesley.\n\nHe was not excited; but this could not be said of his companions; they\nbetrayed their emotions in various ways. Mr. Hartwell and the miller\nwere silent and apparently stolid; but the carrier and the smith talked.\n\nVery few minutes sufficed to bring them to the summit of the cliff that\ncommanded a full view seaward. At high tide the waves just reached\nthe base of these cliffs, and the furthest ebb only left bare about a\nhundred feet of sand and shingle, with large smooth pebbles in ridges\nbeyond the groins of the out-jutting rocks. But now it was a very\ndifferent picture from that of the ordinary ebb that stretched away to\nthe horizon under the eyes of our watchers.\n\nThe sandy breadth, with its many little ribs made by the waves, sloped\ninto a line of sparse sea weed, tangled tufts of green and brown, and\nsome long and wiry, and others flat with large and leathery bosses, like\nthe studs of a shield. But beyond this space the rocks of the sea-bed\nbegan to show, There they were in serrated rows--rocks that had never\nbefore been seen by human eyes. Some lay in long sharp ridges, with\nhere and there a peak of a miniature mountain, and beyond these lines\nof ridges there was a broad tableland, elevated in places and containing\nhuge hollow basins brimming over with water, out of which every now and\nagain a huge fish leaped, only to find itself struggling among the thick\nweeds. Further away still there was a great breadth of ooze, and then\npeak beyond peak of rocks, to which huge, grotesque weeds were clinging,\nhaving the semblance of snakes coiled round one another and dying in\nthat close embrace.\n\nLooking over these strange spaces was like having a bird's-eye view\nof an unexplored country of mountains and tablelands and valleys\nintersected by innumerable streams. The whole breadth of sea-bed was\nveined with little streams hurrying away after the lost sea, and all the\nair was filled with the prattling and chattering that went on through\nthese channels.\n\nAnd soon one became aware of a strange motion of struggling life among\nthe forests of sea weed. At first it seemed no more than a quivering\namong the giant growths; but soon one saw the snake's head and the\nnarrow shoulders of a big conger eel, from five to seven feet long,\npushed through the jungle of ooze, to be followed by the wriggling body;\nthere were congers by the hundred, and the hard-dying dog-fishes by the\nscore, flapping and forcing their way from stream to stream. Stranded\ndying fish of all sorts made constant movements where they lay, and\nwhole breadths of the sea-bed were alive with hurrying, scurrying\ncrabs and lobsters and cray-fish. Some of these were of enormous size,\npatriarchs of the deep that had lurked for ages far out of reach of the\nfisherman's hook, and had mangled many a creel.\n\nThe weirdness of this unparalleled picture was immeasurably increased\nby its colouring, for over all there was spread what had the effect of a\ndelicate crimson gauze. The whole of the sea-bed was crimson, for it was\nstill dripping wet, and glistening with reflections of the red western\nsky. At the same time the great heat of the evening was sucking the\nmoisture out of the spongy sea weeds, and there it remained in the form\nof a faint steam permeated with the crimson light.\n\nAnd through all that broad space under the eyes of the watchers on\nthe cliff there was no sign of a human being. They might have been the\nexplorers of stout Cortez who stared at the Pacific from that peak in\nDarien. It was not until they had gone in silence for a quarter of a\nmile along the cliff path that they saw where the people of the village\nhad assembled. The shore to the westward came into view and they saw\nthat a crowd was there. The sound of the voices of the crowd came to\ntheir ears, and above it the hard, high monotone like that of a town\ncrier uttering the words that Wesley had heard while yet in his room:\n\n\u201cThere shall be no more sea. Repent--repent--repent.\u201d\n\nOnce more they stood and looked down over the part of the coast that\nhad just been disclosed--the eastern horn of Greta Bay, but no familiar\nlandmark was to be seen; on the contrary, it seemed to them that they\nwere looking down upon a new and curious region. The line of cliffs was\nfamiliar to their eyes, but what was that curious raised spine--that\nlong sharp ridge stretching outwards for more than a mile on the\nglistening shore?\n\nAnd what was that strange object--that huge bulk lying with one end\ntilted into the air on one shoulder of that sharp ridge?\n\nAll at once Wesley had a curious feeling that he had seen all that\nbefore. The sight of that mighty bulk and the knowledge that it was the\nheavy ribbed framework of a large ship seemed familiar. But when or how\nhad he seen it?\n\nIt was not until Hartwell spoke that he understood how this impression\nhad come to him.\n\n\u201cYou see it--there--there--just as he described it to us when he awoke\nfrom his trance?\u201d said Hartwell.\n\nAnd there indeed it was--the fabric of the East Indiaman that had been\nwrecked years before on the Dog's Teeth Reef, and there was the Dog's\nTeeth Reef laid bare for the first time within the memory of man!\n\nIt was the skeleton of a great ship. The outer timbers had almost wholly\ndisappeared--after every gale for years before some portion of the\nwreckage had come ashore and had been picked up by the villagers; but\nthe enormous framework to which the timbers of the hull had been bolted\nhad withstood the action of the waves, for the ship had sunk into a\ncradle of rock that held her firmly year after year. There it lay like\nthe skeleton of some tremendous monster of the awful depths of the\nsea--the Kraken--a survival of the creatures that lived before the\nFlood. The three stumps of masts which stood up eight or ten feet above\nthe line of bulwarks gave a curious suggestion to a creature's deformed\nlegs, up in the air while it lay stranded on its curved back.\n\nAnd the crimson sunset shot through the huge ribs of this thing and\nspread their distorted shadows sprawling over the sands at the base of\nthe reef and upon the faces of the people who stood looking up at this\nwonder.\n\n\u201cThere it is--just as he saw it in his trance!\u201d said Hal Holmes. \u201cHe saw\nit and related it to us afterward. What are we to say to all this, Mr.\nWesley? All that he predicted so far has come to pass. Are we safe in\nsaying that yonder sun will be setting over a blazing world to-morrow?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not dare to say anything,\u201d replied Wesley. \u201cI have already\noffered my opinion to Mr. Hartwell, which is that there may be a kind of\nsympathy between the man and the earth, by whose aid he has been able\nto discover the whereabouts of a spring in the past and to predict these\nmarvels of tides.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is a diviner's skill derived from the demons that we know inhabit\nthe inside of the earth,\u201d cried Jake Pullsford. \u201cHe has ever had\ncommunication with these unclean things.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat works so far as the tides are concerned,\u201d said the smith. \u201cIt\nstands to reason that the demons of the nether world must know all\nabout the ebb and flow; but how did he foresee the laying bare of yonder\nsecret?\u201d He pointed to the body; of the wreck.\n\n\u201cWas it not the same demons that dragged the ship to destruction on the\nreef, and is't not within their province to know all that happens below\nthe surface of the sea?\u201d said the carrier.\n\n\u201cDoubtless,\u201d said the smith. \u201cBut I find it hard to think of so\nmoderately foolish a fellow as Dick Pritchard being hand in glove with\na fiend of any sort, and not profiting more by the traffic--as to his\nsecular circumstances, I should say.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I find it hard to think of him as urging men to repent, if he be an\nally of the Evil One,\u201d said Hartwell.\n\n\u201cThis is not a case in which the wisdom of man can show itself to be\nother than foolishness,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cBut I am now moved to speak to\nthe people who have come hither to see the wonder. Let us hasten onward\nto the highest ground. My heart is full.\u201d\n\nHe went on with his friends to a short spur of the cliff about twenty\nfeet above the shingle where groups of men and women were straying;\nmost of them had been down to the wreck and nearly all were engaged\nin discussing its marvellous appearance. Some of the elder men were\nrecalling for the benefit of the younger the circumstances of the loss\nof the great East Indiaman, and the affluence that had come to a good\nmany houses in the Port, when the cargo began to be washed ashore before\nthe arrival of the Preventive men and the soldiery from Falmouth.\n\nBut while the larger proportion of the people were engaged in\ndiscussing, without any sense of awe, the two abnormal tides and the\nstory of the wreck, there were numbers who were clearly terror-stricken\nat the marvels and at the prospect of the morrow. A few women were\nclinging together and moaning without cessation, a girl or two wept\naloud, a few shrieked hysterically, and one began to laugh and gibber,\npointing monkey hands in the direction of the wreck. But further on half\na dozen young men and maidens were engaged in a boisterous and an almost\nshocking game preserved in Cornwall and some parts of Wales through\nthe ages that had elapsed since it was practised by a by-gone race\nof semi-savages. They went through it now in the most abandoned and\nbarbaric way, dancing like Bacchanalians in a ring, with shouts and wild\nlaughter.\n\nJohn Wesley, who knew what it was to be human, had no difficulty in\nperceiving that these wretched people were endeavouring in such excesses\nto conceal the terror they felt, and he was not surprised to find a\nnumber of intoxicated men clinging together and singing wildly in the\nbroad moorland space that lay on the landward side of the cliffs.\n\n\u201cThis is the work of Pritchard the water-finder, and will you say that\n'tis not of the Devil?\u201d cried Jake Pullsford.\n\n\u201cPoor wretches! Oh, my poor brothers and sisters!\u201d cried Wesley. \u201cOur\naim should be to soothe them, not to denounce them. Never have they been\nsubjected to such a strain as that which has been put upon them. I\ncan understand their excesses. 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we\ndie'--that is the cry which comes from all hearts that have not been\nregenerated.'Tis the cry of the old Paganism which once ruled the world,\nbefore the sweet calm of Christianity brought men from earth to heaven.\nI will speak to them.\u201d\n\nHe had reached the high ground with his friends. There was a sudden spur\non the range of low cliffs just where the people were most numerous.\nThey had come from all quarters to witness the wonders of this lurid\neve, and, as was the case at Wesley's preaching, everyone was asking of\neveryone else how so large an assembly could be brought together in a\nneighbourhood that was certainly not densely populated. On each side\nof him and on the beach below there were crowds, and on every face the\ncrimson of the sinking sun flamed. He went out to the furthest point of\nthe cliff-spur and stood there silent, with uplifted arms.\n\nIn a moment the whisper spread:\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley has come--Mr. Wesley is preaching!\u201d\n\nThere was the sound of many feet trampling down the pebbles of the\nbeach. The people flowed toward him like a great wave slowly moving over\nthat place now forsaken by the waves. The young men and maidens who had\nbeen engaged in that fierce wild dance among the wiry herbage flocked\ntoward him, their faces shining from their exertions, and stood catching\ntheir breath. The old men who had been staring stolidly through the\ngreat ribs of the hulk, slouched through the ooze and stood sideways\nbeneath him, their hands, like the gnarled joints of a thorn, scooped\nbehind their ears lest they should lose a word. The women, with\ndisordered hair, tears on their faces, the terror of anticipation\nin their eyes, waited on the ground, some kneeling, others seated in\nvarious postures.\n\nThen there came a deep hush.\n\nHe stood there, a solitary figure, black against the crimson background\nof the western sky, his arms still upraised. It might have been a statue\ncarved out of dark marble that stood on the spur of the cliff.\n\nAnd then he began to speak.\n\nHis hands were still uplifted in the attitude of benediction; and the\nwords that came from him were the words of the Benediction.\n\n\u201cThe Peace of God which passeth all understanding.\u201d\n\nThe Peace of God--that was the message which he delivered to that\nagitated multitude, and it fell upon their ears, soothing all who heard\nand banishing their fears. He gave them the message of the Father to His\nchildren--a message of love, of tenderness--a promise of protection, of\ninfinite pity, of a compassion that knew no limits--outliving the life\nof the world, knowing no change through all ages, the only thing that\nsuffered no change--a compassion which, being eternal, would outlive\nTime itself--a compassion which brought with it every blessing that man\ncould know--nay, more--more than man could think of; a compassion that\nbrought with it the supreme blessing that could come to man--the Peace\nof God which passeth all understanding!\n\nHe never travelled outside this message of Divine Peace, although he\nspoke for a full hour.\n\nAnd while he spoke the meaning of that message fell upon the multitude\nwho listened. They felt that Peace of which he spoke falling gently\nupon them as cold dew at the close of a day of intolerable heat. They\nrealised what it meant to them. The Peace descended upon them, and they\nwere sensible of its presence. The dread that had been hanging over them\nall the day was swept away as the morning mist had been dispersed. The\napprehension of the Judgment was lost in the consciousness of a Divine\nLove surrounding them. They seemed to have passed from an atmosphere of\nfoetid vapours into that of a meadow in the Spring time. They drank deep\ndraughts of its sweetness and were refreshed.\n\nWhen he had begun to speak the sun was not far from setting in the\ndepths of a crimson sky, and before he had spoken for half an hour the\nimmense red disc, magnified by the vapours in the air, was touching the\nhorizon. With its disappearance the colour spread higher up the sky and\ndrifted round to the north, gradually changing to the darkest purple.\nEven then it was quite possible for the people to see one another's\nfeatures distinctly in the twilight, but half an hour later the figure\nof the preacher was but faintly seen through the dimness that had fallen\nover the coast. The twilight had been almost tropical in its brevity,\nand the effect of the clear voice of many modulations coming out of the\ndarkness was strange, and to the ears that heard it, mysterious. Just\nbefore it ceased there swept upon the faces of his listeners a cool\nbreath of air. It came with a suddenness that was startling. During all\nthe day there had not been a breath. The heat had seemed to be so solid,\nand now the movement of the air gave the impression of the passing of a\nmysterious Presence. It was as if the wings of a company of angels were\nwinnowing the air, as they fled by, bringing with them the perfume of\ntheir Paradise for the refreshing of the people of the earth. Only for\na few minutes that cool air was felt, but for that time it was as if the\nPeace of God had been made tangible.\n\nWhen the preacher ended with the words with which he had begun, the\nsilence was like a sigh.\n\nThe people were on their knees. There was no one that did not feel that\nGod was very nigh to him.\n\nAnd the preacher felt it most deeply of all. There was a silence of\nintense solemnity, before the voice was heard once more speaking to\nHeaven in prayer--in thanksgiving for the Peace that had come upon this\nworld from above.\n\nHe knew how fully his prayer had been answered when he talked to the\nyoung men and maidens who had been among his hearers. The excitement of\nthe evening had passed away from all of them. At the beginning of his\npreaching there had been the sound of weeping among them. At first it\nhad been loud and passionate; but gradually it had subsided until at the\nsetting of the sun the terror which had possessed them gave place to the\npeace of the twilight, and now there was not one of them that did\nnot feel the soothing influence that comes only when the angel of the\nevening hovers with shadowy outspread wings over the world.\n\nThey all walked slowly to their homes; some belonged to Porthawn and\nothers to the inland villages of the valley of the Lana, as far away as\nRuthallion, and the light breeze that had been felt during the preaching\nbecame stronger and less intermittent now. It was cool and gracious\nbeyond expression, and it brought with it to the ears of all who walked\nalong the cliffs the soothing whisper of the distant sea. The joyous\ntidings came that the sea was returning, and it seemed that with that\nnews came also the assurance that the cause for dread was over and past.\n\nAnd all this time the preacher had made no allusion to the voice that\nhad sounded along the shore in the early part of the evening predicting\nthe overthrow of the world. All that he had done was to preach the\ncoming of Peace.\n\n\u201cYou may resume your journeying, Mr. Wesley, as soon as you please. May\nhe not, friend Pullsford?\u201d said Hartwell when he had returned to his\nhouse. \u201cThere is no need for us to keep Mr. Wesley among us when we\nknow that he is anxious to resume his preaching further west. You never\nmentioned the man's name, sir, and yet you have done all--nay, far more\nthan we thought it possible for you to accomplish.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no need for me to tarry longer,\u201d replied Wesley. \u201cBut I pray\nof you, my dear friends, not to think that I do not recognise the need\nthere was for me to return to you with all speed. I perceived the great\ndanger that threatened us through Pritchard, and I was glad that you\nsent for me. I hope you agree with me in believing that that danger is\nno longer imminent.\u201d\n\n\u201cI scarce know how it happened,\u201d said Hartwell; \u201cbut yesterday I had\na feeling that unless you preached a direct and distinct rebuke to\nPritchard, the work which you began here last month would suffer\ndisaster, and yet albeit you did no more than preach the Word as you\nmight at any time, making no reference to the things that have happened\naround us, I feel at the present moment that your position is, by the\nGrace of God, more promising of good than it has ever been.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said Jake Pullsford. \u201cBut I am not so sure that the vanity of that\nman should not have been crushed. There is no telling to what length\nhe may not go after all that has happened. The people should ha' been\nwarned against him, and his sorceries exposed.\u201d.\n\n\u201cThink you, Jake, that the best way to destroy the vanity of such as\nhe would be by taking notice of what he said and magnifying it into a\nmenace?\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cBelieve me, my friend, that Mr. Wesley's way is\nthe true one. Dick Pritchard's vanity got its hugest filip when he heard\nthat Mr. Wesley had come back to preach against him. It will receive its\ngreatest humiliation when he learns that Mr. Wesley made no remark that\nshowed he knew aught of him and his prophecies.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe will take full credit to himself for what has happened--of that you\nmay be sure,\u201d said Jake, shaking his head. \u201cAy, and for what did not\nhappen,\u201d he continued as an afterthought. \u201cBe certain that he will claim\nto have saved the world as Jonah saved the Ninevites. He will cling to\nJonah to the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad that I came hither when you called for me, my brethren,\u201d\n said Wesley. \u201cLet us look at the matter with eyes that look only at the\nfinal issue. I would fain banish from my mind every thought save one,\nand that is spiritual blessing of the people. If they have been\nsoothed by my coming--if even the humblest of them has been led to\nfeel something of what is meant by the words 'the Peace of God,' I give\nthanks to God for having called me back. I have no more to say.\u201d\n\nAnd that was indeed the last word that was said at that time respecting\nPritchard and his utterances. Wesley and his friends felt that, however\ndeeply the people had been impressed by the natural phenomena which had\nfollowed hard on his predictions of disaster to the world, he would not\nnow be a source of danger to the work which had been begun in Cornwall.\nWesley had, by his preaching, showed that he would give no countenance\nto the man. Those who thought that it would be consistent with his\nmethods and his Methodism to take advantage of the terror with which the\nminds of the people had become imbued, in order to bring them into the\nclasses, that had already been formed, were surprised to find him doing\nhis utmost to banish their fears. He had preached the Gospel of Peace,\nnot of Vengeance, the Gospel of Love, not of Anger.\n\nAwakening shortly after midnight, Wesley heard the sound of the washing\nof the waters on the pebbles at the base of the cliffs. There was no\nnoise of breaking waves, only the soft, even lisp and lap of the last\nripples that were crushed upon the pebbles--grateful and soothing to his\nears.\n\nSuddenly there came to him another sound--the monotone of the watchman\ncalling out of the distance:\n\n\u201cRepent--repent--repent! The Day of the Lord is at hand. Who shall abide\nthe Day of His Wrath? Repent--repent--repent!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nThe sunlight was in his room when he awoke. He had a sense of\nrefreshment. A weight seemed lifted off his heart. He remembered how\nhe had awakened the previous morning in the same bed with a feeling of\nperplexity. He had found it impossible to make up his mind as to the\ncourse he should pursue in regard to Pritchard. He had been fearful of\nbeing led to rebuke a man who might have been made the means of leading\neven one sinner to repentance. He asked himself if he differed as much\nfrom that man as the average churchman did from himself in his methods.\nHe knew how grievous he regarded the rebukes which he had received from\nexcellent clergymen who looked on his field preaching with the sternest\ndisapproval; and who then was he that he should presume to rebuke a man\nwho had been led by his zeal beyond what he, Wesley, thought to be the\nbounds of propriety?\n\nHe had felt great perplexity on awakening on that Sunday morning; but he\nhad been given help to see his way clearly on that morning of mist, and\nnow he felt greatly at ease. He had nothing to reproach himself with.\n\nHe recalled all the events of the day before--all that his eyes had\nseen--all that his ears had heard; and now that he had no further need\nto think about Pritchard, it was surprising how much he had to recall\nthat had little to do with that man. He himself felt somewhat surprised\nthat above all that had been said to him during the day the words that\nhe should dwell longest upon were a few words that had fallen from Mr.\nHartwell. He had hinted to Mr. Hartwell that John Bennet had acted so\ngrossly in regard to him, through a mad jealousy; and Mr. Hartwell,\nhearing this, had lifted up his hands in amazement, and said:\n\n\u201cAbsurdity could go no further!\u201d\n\nWhen Hartwell said those words Wesley had not quite grasped their full\nimport; his attention had been too fully occupied with the further\nextravagance which he had witnessed on the part of Pritchard. But now\nthat his mind was at ease he recalled the words, and he had sufficient\nselfpossession to ask himself if his host considered that the absurdity\nwas to be found in Bennet's fancying that he, Wesley, was his rival. If\nso, was the absurdity to be found in the fancy that such a young woman\ncould think of him, Wesley, in the light of a lover; or that he should\nthink of the young woman as a possible wife?\n\nHe could not deny that the thought of Nelly Polwhele as his constant\ncompanion had more than once come to him when he was oppressed with a\nsense of his loneliness; and he knew that when he had got Mr. Hartwell's\nletter calling him back to Porthawn he had felt that it might be that\nthere was what some men called Fate, but what he preferred to call\nthe Hand of God, in this matter. Was he being led back to have an\nopportunity of seeing her again, and of learning truly if the regard\nwhich he thought he felt for her was to become the love that sanctified\nthe marriage of a man with a woman?\n\nWell, he had returned to her, and he had seen (as he fancied) her face\nalight with the happiness of his return. For an hour he had thought of\nthe gracious possibility of being able to witness such an expression\nupon her face any time that he came from a distant preaching. The\nthought was a delight to him. Home--coming home! He had no home; and\nsurely, he felt, the longing for a home and a face to welcome him at the\ndoor was the most natural--the most commendable--that a man could have.\nAnd surely such a longing was not inconsistent with his devotion to the\nwork which he believed it was laid upon him to do while his life lasted.\n\nHe had seen her and talked with her for a short time, and felt refreshed\nby being under the influence of her freshness. But then he had been\nforced to banish her from his mind in order to give all his attention to\nthe grave matter which had brought him back to this place. He had walked\nby her side through the mist the next day, and never once had he allowed\nthe thought of her to turn his eyes away from the purpose which had\ncalled him forth into the mist of the morning. He thought of her\nthoughtfulness in the matter of the mariner's compass with gratitude.\nThat was all. His heart was full of his work; there was no room in it\nfor anything else.\n\nBut now while he sat up in the early sunshine that streamed through his\nwindow he felt himself free to think of her; and the more he thought of\nher the more he wondered how he could ever have been led to believe what\nhe had already embodied in a book respecting the advantages of celibacy\nfor the clergy. A clergyman should not only have a knowledge of God;\na knowledge of man was essential to success in his calling; and a\nknowledge of man meant a wide sympathy with men, and this he now felt\ncould only be acquired by one who had a home of his own. The influence\nof the home and its associations could not but be the greatest to which\na man was subject. The ties that bind a man to his home were those which\nbind him to his fellow-men. The _res angusta domi_, which some foolish\npersons regarded as detrimental to a man's best work, were, he was now\nconvinced, the very incidents which enabled him to do good work, for\nthey enabled him to sympathise with his fellows.\n\nTheologians do not, any more than other people, feel grateful to those\nwho have shown them to be in the wrong; but Wesley had nothing but the\nkindliest feelings for Nelly Polwhele for having unwittingly led him\nto see that the train of reasoning which he had pursued in his book was\nfounded upon an assumption which was in itself the result of an immature\nand impersonal experience of any form of life except the Academic, and\nsurely such a question as he had discussed should be looked at from\nevery other standpoint than the Academic.\n\nMost certainly he was now led to think of the question from very\ndifferent standpoints. He allowed his thoughts to wander to the girl\nherself. He thought of her quite apart from all womankind. He had never\nmet any young woman who seemed to possess all the charms which endear\na woman to a man. She was bright as a young woman should be, she was\nthoughtful for the needs of all who were about her, she had shown\nherself ready to submit to the guidance of one who was older and more\nexperienced than herself. He could not forget how she had promised him\nnever again to enter the playhouse which had so fascinated her. Oh, she\nwas the most gracious creature that lived--the sweetest, the tenderest,\nand surely she must prove the most devoted!\n\nSo his imagination carried him away; and then suddenly he found himself\nface to face with that phrase of Mr. Hartwell's \u201c_Absurdity could go no\nfurther_.\u201d\n\nAnd then, of course, he began to repeat all the questions which he\nhad put to himself when he had started on his investigations into the\nmatter. Once more he said:\n\n\u201c_Where lies the source of all absurdities?_\u201d\n\nAnd equally as a matter of course he was once again led in the direction\nthat his thoughts had taken before until he found himself enquiring if\nthe world held another so sweet and gracious and sympathetic.\n\nIt was not until he was led once more to his starting-point that he\nbegan to feel as he had never done before for those of his fellow-men\nwho allowed themselves to be carried away by dwelling on the simplest of\nthe questions which engrossed him.\n\n\u201c'Tis a repetition of yesterday morning,\u201d said he. \u201cWe set out\npleasantly enough in the mist, and after an hour's profitless wandering\nwe found ourselves at the point whence we had started--ay, and the young\nwoman was waiting for us there in person.\u201d\n\nWas that morning's wandering to be typical of his life? he wondered. Was\nhe to be ever straying along a misty coast, and evermore to be finding\nhimself at the point whence he had started, with Nelly Polwhele waiting\nfor him there?\n\nAn absurdity, was it?\n\nWell, perhaps--but, after all, should he not be doing well in asking Mr.\nHartwell what had been in his mind when he had made use of that phrase?\n\nMr. Hartwell had undoubtedly something in his mind, and he was a\nlevel-headed man who had accustomed himself to look at matters without\nprejudice and to pronounce an opinion based on his common sense. It\nmight be that he could see some grave reason why he, Wesley, should\ndismiss that young woman forever from his thoughts--forever from his\nheart.\n\nBut, of course, he reserved to himself the right to consider all that\nMr. Hartwell might say on this matter, and--if he thought it right--to\nexercise his privilege of veto in regard to his conclusions. He was not\nprepared to accept the judgment of Mr. Hartwell without reserve.\n\nFollowing this line of thought, he quickly saw that whatever Mr.\nHartwell might have to say, and however his conclusions might be put\naside, it would be necessary for him, Wesley, to acquaint all those men\nwho were associated with him in his work with his intention of marrying\na certain young woman. There were his associates in London, in Bristol,\nin Bath, and above all there was his brother Charles. Would they be\ndisposed to think that such a union would be to the advantage or to the\ndetriment of the work to which they were all devoted?\n\nThe moment he thought of his brother he knew what he might expect. Up to\nthat moment it had really never occurred to him that any objection that\nmight not reasonably be overruled, could be offered to his marrying\nNelly Polwhele. But so soon as he asked himself what his brother\nwould say when made aware of his intention, he perceived how it was\nconceivable that his other friends might agree with Mr. Hartwell. For\nhimself, he had become impressed from the first with some of those\nqualities on the part of Nelly Polwhele which, he was convinced, made\nher worthy of being loved by the most fastidious of men. He had long ago\nforgotten that she was only the daughter of a fisherman, and that she\nowed her refinement of speech to the patronage of the Squire's daughters\nwhose maid she had been.\n\nBut what would his brother say when informed that it was his desire to\nmarry a young woman who had been a lady's maid? Would not his brother be\nright to assume that such a union would be detrimental to the progress\nof the work in which they were engaged? Had they not often talked\ntogether deploring how so many of their brethren in the Church had\nbrought contempt upon their order through their loss of self-respect in\nmarrying whomsoever their dissolute patrons had ordered them to marry?\nWhat respect could anyone have for his lordship's chaplain who was\ncontent to sit at the side table at meals and in an emergency discharge\nthe duties of a butler, and comply without hesitation to his lordship's\ncommand to marry her ladyship's maid, or, indeed, any one of the\nservants whom it was found desirable to have married?\n\nThe thing was done every day; that was what made it so deplorable, he\nand his brother had agreed; and in consequence day by day the influence\nof the clergy was declining. Was he then prepared to jeopardise the work\nto which he had set his hand by such a union as he was contemplating?\n\nHe sprang to his feet from where he had been sitting by the window.\n\n\u201cHeaven forgive me for having so base a thought!\u201d he cried. \u201cHeaven\nforgive me for being so base as to class the one whom I love with such\ncreatures as his patron orders his chaplain to marry! She is a good\nand innocent child, and if she will come to me I shall feel honoured. I\nshall prove to all the world that a woman, though lowly-born, may yet be\na true helpmeet for such as I. She will aid me in my labours, not impede\nthem. I know now that I love her. I know now that she will be a blessing\nto me. I love her, and I pray that I may ever love her truly and\nhonestly.\u201d\n\nIt was characteristic of the man that the very thought of opposition\nshould strengthen him. An hour earlier he had been unable to assure\nhimself that his feeling for her was love, but now he felt assured on\nthis point: he loved her, and he had never before loved a woman. She was\nthe first fruit of his mission to Cornwall. She had professed the\nfaith to which even he himself had failed to attain until he had been\npreaching for years. Bound to her by a tie that was the most sacred that\ncould exist between a man and a woman, his most earnest hope was to hold\nher to him by another bond whose strands were interwoven with a sympathy\nthat was human as well as divine. His mind was made up at last.\n\nHe was early at breakfast with his host, but he did not now think it\nnecessary to ask Mr. Hartwell what he had meant by his reference to the\nabsurdity of John Bennet's jealousy. The morning gave promise of a day\nof brilliant sunshine and warmth. There was nothing sinister in the\naspect of the sun, such as had been noted on the previous day.\n\n\u201cAh, sir,\u201d said Hartwell, \u201cyou came hither with a blessing to us all,\nand you will leave with a sense of having accomplished by the exercise\nof your own judgment far more than we looked for at such a time. The\nboats have put out to the fishing ground once more, and the dread that\nseemed overhanging our poor friends sank with the setting sun last\nevening.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot to me be the praise--not to me,\u201d said Wesley, bowing his head in\nall humility. After a few moments he raised his head quite suddenly,\nsaying:\n\n\u201cYou have referred to my judgment, dear friend; I wonder if you think\nthat in many matters my judgment is worthy to be depended on?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, sir, I know of no man in the world whose judgment in all\nreasonable matters I would accept sooner than yours,\u201d replied Hartwell.\n\u201cWhy, Mr. Wesley, who save you would have foreseen a way of avoiding the\ntrouble which threatened us by such means as you adopted? Were not\nwe all looking for you to administer a rebuke to the man whose vanity\ncarried him so far away from what we held to be discreet? Was there\none of us who foresaw that the right way of treating him was to let him\nalone?\u201d\n\n\u201cI dare not say that 'twas my own judgment that guided me,\u201d said Wesley.\n\u201cBut--I hope, friend Hartwell, that I shall never be led to take any\nstep that will jeopardise your good opinion of my capacity to judge what\ncourse is the right one to pursue in certain circumstances.\u201d\n\n\u201cBelieve me, Mr. Wesley, after the events of yesterday I shall not\nhesitate to say that you were in the right and I in the wrong, should I\never be disposed to differ from you on a matter of moment. But I cannot\nthink such a difference possible to arrive,\u201d said Hartwell.\n\n\u201cDifferences in judgment are always possible among good friends,\u201d said\nWesley.\n\n\u201cI should like to have a long talk with you some day, Mr. Wesley, on\nthe subject of the influence of such powers as are at the command of\nPritchard,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cAre they the result of sorcery or are they a\ngift from above? I have been thinking a great deal about that trance of\nhis which we witnessed. How was it possible for him to foresee the place\nand the form of that wreck, think you?\u201d\n\n\u201cHowsoever his powers be derived,\u201d replied Wesley, \u201cthe lesson that we\nmust learn from his case is that we cannot be too careful in choosing\nour associates. For myself, I have already said that I mistrusted him\nfrom the first, as I should any man practising with a divining rod.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe should have done so, too, sir, only that we had become so accustomed\nto his water-finding, it seemed as natural to send for him when sinking\na well as it was to send for the mason to build the wall round it when\nthe water was found.\u201d\n\nThis was all that they said at that time touching the remarkable\nincidents of the week. Both of them seemed to regard the case of\nPritchard as closed, although they were only in the morning of the day\nwhich the man had named in his prediction. Mr. Hartwell even assumed\nthat his guest would be anxious to set out on his return to the west\nbefore noon, and he was gratified when Wesley asked for leave to stay on\nfor a day or two yet.\n\nWesley spent an hour or two over his correspondence, and all the time\nthe matter which he had at heart caused him to lay down his pen and lie\nback in his chair, thinking, not upon the subject of his letters, but\nupon the question of approaching Nelly Polwhele, and upon the question\nof the letter which he would have to write to his brother when he had\nseen the girl; for whether she accepted him or refused him, he felt that\nit was his duty to inform his brother as to what had occurred.\n\nThe result of his meditations was as might have been expected. When a\nman who is no longer young gives himself up to consider the advisability\nof offering marriage to a young woman with whom he has not been in\ncommunication for much more than a month, he usually procrastinates in\nregard to the deciding scene. Wesley felt that perhaps he had been too\nhasty in coming to the conclusion that a marriage with Nelly would bring\nhappiness to them both. Only a few hours had elapsed since he had, as he\nthought, made up his mind that he loved her. Should he not refrain from\nacting on such an impulse? What would be the consequence if he were to\nask the young woman to be his wife and find out after a time that he\nshould not have been so sure of himself? Surely so serious a step as\nhe was contemplating should be taken with the utmost deliberation. He\nshould put himself to the test. Although he had been looking forward to\nseeing the girl this day, he would not see her until the next day--nay,\nhe was not confident that he might not perceive that his duty lay in\nwaiting for several days before approaching her with his offer.\n\nThat was why, when he left the house to take the air, he walked, not\nin the direction of the village, where he should run the best chance of\nmeeting her, but toward the cliffs, which were usually deserted on week\ndays, except by the Squire's grooms, who exercised the horses in their\ncharge upon the fine dry sand that formed a large plateau between the\npathway and the struggling trees on the outskirts of Court Park.\n\nHe went musing along the cliff way, thinking of the contrast between\nthis day and the previous one--of the contrast between those sparkling\nwaves that tossed over each other in lazy play, and the slime and ooze\nwhich had lain bare and horrid with their suggestions of destruction\nand disaster. It was a day such as one could scarcely have dreamt of\nfollowing so sinister a sunset as he had watched from this place. It was\na day that made him glad that he had not uttered a harsh word in rebuke\nof the man who had troubled him--indeed he felt most kindly disposed\ntoward Pritchard; he was certainly ready to forgive him for having been\nthe means of bringing him, Wesley, back to this neighbourhood.\n\nHe wondered if it had not been for Pritchard, would he have returned to\nRuthallion and Porthawn. Was the affection for Nelly, of which he had\nbecome conscious during his journeying in the west, strong enough at\nthat time to carry him back to Porthawn, or had it matured only since he\nhad come back to her?\n\nHe wondered and mused, strolling along the path above the blue Cornish\nwaters. Once as he stood for a while, his eyes looked longingly in the\ndirection of the little port. He felt impatient for more than a few\nmoments--impatient that he should be so strict a disciplinarian in\nregard to himself. It was with a sigh he turned away from where the\nroofs of the nearest houses could just be seen, and resumed his stroll\nwith unfaltering feet. He had made his resolution and he would keep to\nit.\n\nBut he did not get further than that little dip in the cliffs where he\nhad once slept and awakened to find Nelly Polwhele standing beside him.\nThe spot had a pleasant memory for him. He remembered how he had been\nweary when he had lain down there, and how he had risen up refreshed.\n\nSurely he must have loved her even then, he thought. What, was it\npossible that he had known her but a few days at that time? His\nrecollection of her coming to him was as that of someone to whom he had\nbeen attached for years.\n\nHe smiled as he recalled the tale which he had once read of the magician\nMerlin, who had woven a bed of rushes for the wife of King Mark, on\nwhich she had but to lie and forthwith she saw whomsoever she wished to\nsee. Well, here he was in the land of King Mark of Cornwall, and there\nwas the place where he had made his bed....\n\nHe had been contemplating the comfortable hollow between the rocks,\nthinking his thoughts, and he did not raise his eyes for some time. When\nhe did he saw Nelly Polwhele coming toward him, not along the cliffs,\nbut across the breadth of moorland beyond which was the Court Park.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTis by a happy chance we are brought together,\u201d Wesley said while he\nheld her hand.\n\nBut Nelly Polwhele made haste to assure him that it was not by chance;\nshe had been with her young ladies at the Court, she said, and from\nthe high ground she had spied upon him on his walk, and had come to him\nthrough the sparse hedges of the park.\n\nHe smiled at the eagerness with which she disclaimed such an ally as\nchance. He had not had a wide experience of young women, but he had a\nshrewd conviction that the greater number of them would have hastened to\nacknowledge his suggestion rather than to repudiate it. She was innocent\nas a child.\n\n\u201cBy whatsoever means we have been brought together, I for one must think\nit happy,\u201d said he. \u201cDo you go to your friends yonder every day?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no, sir; but they have charged me to keep them apprised of your\npreaching since you came hither, and thus I went to them yesterday--that\nwas after your morning preaching--and to-day to tell them of the\nevening. Oh, sir, surely there was never aught seen that would compare\nwith the happenings of yester eve! Even while I was rehearsing all to my\nyoung ladies, I had a feeling that I was telling them what I had seen\nin a dream. I do think that I have had a dream more than once that was\nstrangely like all that was before my eyes--a dream of drowning and\nseeing in a blood-red light the mysteries of the sea-bed.\u201d\n\n\u201cA strange thing, my child! I have never seen a stranger thing,\u201d said\nhe. \u201cIt did not seem a wonder to me that the people were so agitated.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey thought for sure that the end of the world had come,\u201d said she.\n\u201cAnd indeed I began to feel that poor Dick Pritchard had truly been sent\nto warn us.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how was his warning taken by many?\u201d he cried. \u201cWorse than the\nNinevites were some that I saw here. Of sackcloth there was none on\ntheir limbs--of repentance their hearts were empty. I hope, my child,\nthat you did not see some of those whom I saw here--dancing--wild--pagan\ncreatures of the woods! And their dance! Pagan of the worst--an orgy of\nthe festival of the god Saturn--an abomination of Baal and Ashtoreth.\nAnd I asked myself, 'Is it possible that this is how a solemn warning of\nthe coming of the Dreadful Day is taken by a Christian people? But you,\nI trust, did not see all that came before me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw enough to tell me that Dick Pritchard's warning was not a true\none,\u201d said she. \u201cI was by the side of father below the wreck. He had\nseen the _Gloriana_ founder, and if Dick Pritchard had prophesied that\nhe should live to look upon her hull again after all the years that have\npassed, he would have laughed. And some of the men about us on the beach\nthat had never been bare of water since the world began, talked like\nwild men. If the world was to come to an end before another set o' sun\nthey meant to enjoy themselves--the Court--they whispered of breaking\nthrough the doors of the Court and feasting for once and for the last\ntime. One of them--David Cairns is his name--cried that at the\nDay of Judgment all men were equal, and he would head any band of\nfellows that had the spirit to face the Squire and call for the key of\nthe cellar. Father called him a rascal, and he replied. Some were taking\nhis part and some the part of father, when the cry went up that Mr.\nWesley was nigh. That was the end of the strife, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo tell me this last is to gladden my heart, my dear,\u201d he said, and\nagain he clasped one of her hands in both his own. But he did not do so\nwith the fervour of a lover. His heart was not dwelling upon the purpose\nwhich he had been considering since he rose; the girl's story had\nabsorbed him. \u201cAnd now I hope that the good folk will settle down once\nmore into their quiet and useful lives,\u201d he added.\n\n\u201cThey will not be able to do so for some time,\u201d she replied, shaking her\nhead. \u201cAll who were present at the preaching have already returned to\ntheir work; the boats that were idle for nearly a week put out to the\nfishing early in the morning; but there are other places where Dick\nPritchard's talk was heard, and the miners made it a good excuse for\nquitting their labour.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor fellows, I shall go among them at once; I may be able to help\nthem,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cDo you think of going at once, sir?\u201d she asked quickly.\n\n\u201cAt once,\u201d he replied. \u201cIs there any time to lose?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you will not return to us?\u201d\n\nHer question came from her like a sigh--a sigh that is quickly followed\nby a sob.\n\nHe looked at her for some moments in silence. He had a thought that if\nhe meant to tell her that he loved her, no better opportunity would be\nlikely to present itself. This was for the first few moments, but his\nthought was succeeded by a feeling that it would be a cruelty to shock\nthis innocent prattling child with his confession. She could not be\notherwise than shocked were he to tell her that his desire was to get\nher promise to marry him. He would adhere to his resolution to wait. He\nwould make another opportunity if one did not present itself.\n\n\u201cIf it be God's will I shall return to you,\u201d he said. \u201cYes, in good\ntime--in good time.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was because I feared that you would go away\nat once and not return for a long time, that I made haste to reach you\nwhen I saw you from the park.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should my going affect you, Nelly?\u201d he asked. He wondered if the\nopportunity which he looked for, and yet was anxious to avoid, would\npersist in remaining within easy reach.\n\n\u201cI--I--the truth is, sir, that I wanted--I wished greatly--to ask your\nadvice,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cI hope you will not find that you have placed overmuch dependence on\nme,\u201d he said. \u201cLet us walk along the cliffs and talk as we pursue our\nway. Not that I am anxious to leave this spot; it bears many happy\nmemories to me. Was it not here that you came to me on the day of my\nfirst preaching, ministering to my needs?\u201d\n\nShe flushed with pleasure.\n\n\u201cAh, sir, all I did was as nothing compared with the good that has come\nto me through your words. I want your counsel now. I am sometimes very\nunhappy by reason of my doubts in a matter on which I should have none.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me your grief, dear child. Have you not lived long enough to know\nthat when the cause of your unhappiness is told to another, it weighs\nless heavily upon you? What, did you not confide in me on Saturday? 'Tis\nsurely not from that man Bennet that----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no; he has naught to do with my trouble. It comes not from anyone\nbut my own self--from my own foolishness. You have a mind to hear the\nstory of a young girl's foolishness who knew not her own mind--her own\nheart?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you are quite sure that you wish to tell it to me. You may be\nassured that you will find in me a sympathetic listener. Is there any\none of us that can say in truth that his heart or hers has not some time\nbeen guilty of foolishness?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe worst of it is that what seems foolishness to-day had the semblance\nof wisdom yesterday. And who can say that to-morrow we may not go back\nto our former judgment?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the knowledge that has come to you from experience.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt has come to me as the conclusion of my story--such as it is.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis sad to think that our best teacher must ever be experience, my\nchild. But if you have learned your lesson you should be accounted\nfortunate. There are many to whom experience comes only to be neglected\nas a teacher.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have had experience--a little--and all that it has taught to me is\nto doubt. A year ago I thought that I loved a man. To-day I do not know\nwhether I love him or not--that is all my poor story, sir.\u201d She had not\nspoken fluently, but faltering--with many pauses--a little wistfully,\nand with her eyes on the ground.\n\nHe stopped suddenly in his walk. He, too, had his eyes upon the ground.\nHe had not at once appreciated the meaning of her words, but after a\npause it came upon him: he understood what her words meant to him.\n\nShe loved another man.\n\nHow could he ever have been so foolish as to take it for granted that\nsuch a girl as this was free? That was the first thought which came to\nhim. Had he not heard how every youth for miles round was in love with\nNelly Polwhele? Had he not seen how one man had almost lost his senses\nthrough love of her?\n\nAnd yet he had been considering the question of asking her to marry\nhim, assuming from the very first that she must be free! He had been\nconsidering the matter from his own standpoint, asking himself if it\nwould not be well to be assured of his own love for her before telling\nher that he loved her; and he came to the conclusion that he should\nnot use any undue haste in saying the words which, he hoped, would link\ntheir lives together. He had never entertained a suspicion that he might\nbe too late in making his appeal to her. It was now a shock to him to\nlearn, as he had just done, that he was too late.\n\nIt took him some time to recover himself.\n\n\u201cI ask your pardon,\u201d he said. \u201cI pray you to tell to me again what you\nhave just said.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am well-nigh ashamed to say it, sir,\u201d she murmured. \u201cI am afraid that\nyou may not think well of me. You may think that there is some truth in\nthe reports that have gone abroad concerning me.\u201d\n\n\u201cReports? I have heard no reports. I thought of you as I found you,\nand all that I thought was good. I think nothing of you now that is not\ngood. Ah, child, you do not know what direction my thoughts of you have\ntaken! Alas! alas!\u201d\n\nIt was her turn to be startled. He saw the effect that his words had\nproduced upon her, and he hastened to modify it. He felt that he had no\nright to say a word that might even in a distant way suggest to her the\ndirection in which his thoughts--his hopes--had so recently led him.\n\n\u201cHave I spoken too vaguely?\u201d he said. \u201cSurely not. But I will be\nexplicit, and assure you that from the day we walked through the valley\nside by side I have thought of you as a good daughter--an honest and\ninnocent young woman, thoughtful for the well-being of others.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sir, your good opinion is everything to me!\u201d she cried. \u201cBut I\nfeel that I have not earned it truly. Vanity has ever been my besetting\nsin--vanity and fickleness. That is what I have to confess to you now\nbefore asking you for your counsel.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod forbid that I should give you any counsel except that which I am\nassured must be for your own well-being. Tell me all that is weighing on\nyour heart, and, God helping me, I will try to help you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will tell you all--all that I may tell, sir.'Tis not much to tell,\nbut it means a great deal to me. In brief, Mr. Wesley, a year ago I was\nat Bristol and there I met a worthy man, who asked me to marry him. I\nfelt then that I loved him so truly that 'twould be impossible for me\never to change, and so I gave him my promise. I had been ofttimes wooed\nbefore, but because my heart had never been touched the neighbours all\naffirmed that I had the hardest heart of any maiden in the Port. They\nmay have been right; but, hard-hearted or not, I believed that I loved\nthis man, and he sailed away satisfied that I would be true to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was a mariner?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is a master-mariner, and his ship is a fine one. He sailed for the\nChina Seas, and 'twas agreed that after his long voyage we were to be\nmarried. That was, I say, a year ago, and I was true to him until----\u201d\n\nShe faltered, she gave him a look that he could not understand, and then\nall at once she flung herself down on the short coarse herbage of the\ncliff, and began to weep with her hands over her face.\n\nHe strove to soothe her and comfort her, saying she had done naught\nthat was wrong--giving her assurance that a way out of her trouble would\nsurely he found if she told him all.\n\n\u201cWhat am I to do?\u201d she cried, looking piteously up to him, with shining\neyes. \u201cWhat am I to do? I got a letter from him only on Friday last,\ntelling me that he had had a prosperous voyage and had just brought his\nship safe to Bristol, and that he meant to come to me without delay. Oh,\nsir, 'twas only when I had that letter I found that I no longer loved him\nas I did a year ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there another man who has come between you, my child?\u201d he asked\ngravely.\n\n\u201cHeaven help me! there is another,\u201d she faltered.\n\n\u201cAnd does he know that you are bound by a promise to someone else? If\nso, believe me he is a dishonourable man, and you must dismiss him from\nyour thought,\u201d said he.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\u201cHe is an honourable man; he has never said a word of love to me. He\nknows nothing of my love for him. He at least is innocent.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf he be indeed a true man he would, I know, give you counsel which I\nnow offer to you; even if he suspected--and I cannot but think that\nif he sees you and converses with you, no matter how seldom, he will\nsuspect--the sad truth--he will leave your side and so give you an\nopportunity of forgetting him, and all may be well.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, sir, think you that 'tis so easy to forget?\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you not just given me an instance of it, Nelly? But no; I will not\nthink that you have forgotten the one to whom you gave your promise.\nI like rather to believe that that affection remains unchanged in your\nheart, although it be for a while obscured. You remember how we lost our\nway on the morning of yesterday? We saw not the shore; 'twas wreathed in\nmist; but the solid shore was here all the same, and in another hour a\nbreak dispersed the mist which up till then had been much more real to\nus than the shore; the mist once gone, we saw the substance where we had\nseen the shadow. Ah, dear child, how often is not the shadow of a love\ntaken for the true--the abiding love itself. Now dry your tears and tell\nme when you expect your true lover to come to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe may arrive at any time. He will come by the first vessel that leaves\nBristol river. He must have left already. Oh, that sail out there may be\ncarrying him hither--that sail----\u201d\n\nShe stopped suddenly, and made a shade of one hand over her eyes while\nshe gazed seaward. After a few moments of gazing she sprang to her feet\ncrying:\n\n\u201cThe boats--you see them out there? What has happened that they are\nflying for the shore? They should not be returning until the night.\u201d\n\nHe looked out across the waters and saw the whole fleet of fishing\nsmacks making for the shore with every sail spread.\n\n\u201cPerhaps the boats have been unusually successful and thus have no need\nto tarry on the fishing ground,\u201d he suggested.\n\nShe remained with her eyes upon them for a long time. A look of\nbewilderment was upon her face while she cried:\n\n\u201cOh, everything is topsy-turvy in these days! Never have I known all the\nboats to make for the shore in such fashion, unless a great storm was to\nwindward, and yet now----\u201d\n\nShe caught him by the arm suddenly after she had remained peering out to\nthe southern horizon with an arched hand over her eyes.\n\n\u201cLook there--there!\u201d she said in a whisper, pointing seaward. \u201cTell me\nwhat you see there. I misdoubt my own eyes. Is there a line of white\njust under the sky?\u201d\n\nHe followed the direction of her finger. For some moments he failed\nto see anything out of the common; the sea horizon was somewhat\nblurred--that was all. But suddenly there came a gleam as of the sun\nquivering upon a thin sword blade of white steel out there--it quivered\nas might a feather in the wind.\n\n\u201c'Tis a white wave,\u201d he said. \u201cSee, it has already widened. A great wave\nrolling shoreward.\u201d\n\n\u201cList, list,\u201d she whispered.\n\nHe put his hand behind his ear. There came through the air the hollow\nboom of distant thunder, or was it the breaking of a heavy sea upon a\nrocky coast? The sound of many waters came fitfully landward, and at the\nsame moment a fierce gust of wind rushed over the water--they marked its\nfootsteps--it was stamping with the hoofs of a war-horse on the surface\nof the deep as it charged down upon the coast.\n\nBefore the two persons on the cliff felt it on their faces, bending\ntheir bodies against its force, a wisp of mist had come over the sun.\nFar away there was a black cloud--small, but it looked to be dense as a\ncannon ball. She pointed it out, and these were her words:\n\n\u201cA cannon ball!--a cannon ball!\u201d\n\nThe gust of wind had passed; they could hear the trees of the park\ncomplaining at first and then roaring, with the creaking of branches as\nit clove its way through them. Flocks of sea birds filled the air--all\nwere flying inland. Their fitful cries came in all notes, from the\nplaintive whistle of the curlew and the hoarse shriek of the gull to the\nbass boom of a bittern.\n\nThen the cannon ball cloud seemed to break into pieces in a flame of\nblue fire, more dazzling than any lightning that ever flashed from\nheaven to earth, and at the same instant the sun was blotted out, though\nno cloud had been seen approaching it; the pall seemed to have dropped\nover the disc, not to have crept up to it.\n\n\u201cA storm is on us,\u201d he said. \u201cWhither can we fly for shelter?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe stones of Red Tor,\u201d she replied; \u201cthat is the nearest place. There\nis plenty of shelter among the stones.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d he cried, \u201cthere is no moment to be lost. Never have I known a\nstorm fall so quickly.\u201d\n\nShe was tarrying on the cliff brow watching the progress of the fishing\nboats.\n\n\u201cThey will be in safety before disaster can overtake them,\u201d she said.\n\nThen she turned to hasten inland with him; but a sound that seemed to\nwedge its way, so to speak, through the long low boom, with scarcely a\nquiver in it, of the distant thunder, made her look round.\n\nShe cried out, her finger pointing to a white splash under the very\nblackness of the cloud that now covered half the hollow of the sky dome\nwith lead.\n\n\u201cNever have I seen the like save only once, while the great gale was\nupon us returning from Georgia,\u201d said he. \u201c'Tis a waterspout.\u201d\n\nIt was a small spiral that came whirling along the surface of the water\nwhence it had sprung, and it made a loud hissing sound, with the swish\nof broken water in it. It varied in height from three feet to twenty,\nuntil it had become a thick pillar of molten glass, with branching\ncapitals that broke into flakes of sea-foam spinning into the drift.\nIts path through the sea was like the scythe-sweep of a hurricane on\nthe shore. Its wake was churned up like white curd, and great waves fled\nfrom beneath its feet.\n\nWesley and his companion stood in astonishment, watching that wonder.\nIts course was not directly for the cliff where they were standing; but\nthey saw that if it reached the shore it would do so a hundred yards or\nthereabouts to the westward.\n\nThey were not wrong. It reached the shore not farther away from them.\nIt struck the sand where the sun had dried it, and in a moment it had\nscooped out a hollow eight or ten feet deep; then it whirled on to the\nshingle. They heard the noise as of the relapse of a great wave among\nthe pebbles, sweeping them down beneath the scoop of its talons; only\nnow it seemed as if the prow of a frigate had dashed into the ridge of\npebbles and was pounding its way through them. It was a moving pillar\nof stones that struck furiously against the stones of the cliff--an\navalanche in the air that thundered against the brow, breaking away\na ton of rock, and turning it into an avalanche that slid down to the\nenormous gap made in the shingle. At the same instant there was the roar\nof a cataract as the whirling flood of the waterspout broke high in the\nair and dropped upon the land. It was as if a lake had fallen from the\nskies in a solid mass, carrying everything before it.\n\nIt was the girl who had grasped Wesley by the arm, forcing him to\nrush with her to the higher ground. Together they ran; but before they\nreached it they were wading and slipping and surging through a torrent\nthat overflowed the cliff, and poured in the wave of a waterfall over\nthe brink and thundered upon the rocks beneath.\n\nThey only paused to take breath when they reached the highest ledge of\nthe irregular ground beyond the cliff pathway. There was a tangle\nof lightning in the air--it fell from a cloud that had black flowing\nfringes, like a horse's tail trailing behind it, and it was approaching\nthe shore. They fled for the rocks of the Bed Tor.\n\nIf he had been alone he never would have reached the place. The air was\nblack with rain, and he and his companion seemed to be rushing through\na cloud that had the density of velvet. It was a blind flight; but this\ngirl of the coast needed not the lightning torch that flared on every\nside of them to guide her. She held his arm, and he suffered himself\nto be led by her. She even knew where the sheltering rocks were to\nbe found; they had not to search for them. At the back of the slight\neminence that had formed his pulpit, half a dozen basalt boulders of\nunequal size lay tumbled together. Two of them were on end and three\nothers lay over them, the remaining one lying diagonally across the\narched entrance to what had the appearance of the ruin of a doorway four\nfeet high. The high coarse herbage of the place, with here and there\na bramble branch, was thick at this place, and if the girl and the\ncompanions of her childhood had not been accustomed to play their games\nhere, calling the hollow between the stones their cave sometimes, their\npalace when it suited them, it would have escaped notice.\n\nShe bent her head and crept under the stones of the roof, and he\nfollowed her. They had a depth of scarcely three feet behind them, for\nthe bank of the mound against which the stones lay sloped naturally\noutward, and the height was not more than four feet; but it was a\nshelter, although they had to kneel upon its hard floor. It was a\nshelter, and they had need of one just then. The cloud had burst over\nthem just as they reached their hospitable cleft in the rocks, and the\nseventh plague of Egypt had fallen upon the rude amphitheatre of the\nRed Tor--it was hail mingled with fire; and when a pause came, as it\ndid with a suddenness that was more appalling than the violence of the\nstorm, the ninth plague was upon them. The darkness might have been\nfelt. They could see nothing outside. They knew that only ten yards away\nthere was another pile of rocks with a few stunted trees springing from\ntheir crevices; but they could not even see this landmark. Farther away,\non a small plateau, was the celebrated rocking-stone of Red Tor; but it\nseemed to have been blotted out. They could hear the sound of the wind\nshrieking over the land, making many strange whistlings and moanings\nthrough the hollows among the stones--they could hear the sound of\nthousands of runnels down the banks, but they could see nothing.\n\nIn that awful black pause Wesley began to repeat the words of the\neighteenth Psalm:\n\n\u201cThe Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my\nstrength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and my high tower....\n\n\u201cIn my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried unto my God: he heard\nmy voice out of his temple, and my cry before him, even into his ears.\n\n\u201cThen the earth shook and trembled; the foundations also of the hills\nmoved and were shaken, because he was wroth.\n\n\u201cThere went up a smoke out of his nostrils, and fire out of his mouth\ndevoured: coals were kindled by it.\n\n\u201cHe bowed the heavens also, and came down: and darkness was under his\nfeet.\n\n\u201cAnd he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: yea, he did fly upon the wings\nof the wind.\n\n\u201cHe made darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were\ndark waters and thick clouds of the skies.\n\n\u201cAt the brightness that was before him his thick clouds passed, hail\nstones and coals of fire.\n\n\u201cThe Lord also thundered in the heavens, and the Highest gave his voice;\nhail stones and coals of fire.\n\n\u201cYea, he sent out his arrows, and scattered them; and he shot out\nlightnings, and discomfited them.\n\n\u201cThen the channels of waters were seen, and the foundations of the world\nwere discovered at thy rebuke, O Lord, at the blast of the breath of thy\nnostrils....\n\n\u201cFor thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God will enlighten my\ndarkness.\u201d\n\nBefore he had come to the last stanza the battle of the elements had\nfollowed the brief truce.\n\nThe first flash was blinding, but before they had instinctively put\ntheir hands up to their eyes they had seen every twig of the skeleton\ntrees outlined against the background of fire--they had seen the black\nbulk of the rocking-stone, and for the first time they noticed that\nit had the semblance of a huge hungry beast crouching for a leap. The\nthunder that followed seemed to set the world shaking with the sway of\nthe rocking-stone when someone had put it in motion.\n\n\u201cIs it true?--is it, indeed, true?\u201d cried the girl between the peals of\nthunder. He felt her hands tighten upon his arm.\n\n\u201cThe Rock of Ages is true,\u201d he said; but the second peal swallowed up\nhis words.\n\nHe heard her voice when the next flash made a cleft in the cloud:\n\n\u201cIs it true--the prophecy--has it come?\u201d\n\nThen he knew what was in her mind.\n\n\u201cDo you fear it?\u201d he cried, and he turned his face toward her. Another\nflaring sword made its stroke from the heavens, and by its blaze he saw\nthat she was smiling while she shook her head.\n\nHe knew that she had no fear. Across his own mind there had flashed the\nsame thought that had come to her, taking the form of the question which\nshe had put to him: \u201cIs the prophecy about to be realised?\u201d\n\nHe felt perfectly tranquil in the midst of the storm; and the reflection\nthat the tranquillity of the girl was due to his influence was sweet to\nhim. The roar of the thunder had become almost continuous. They seemed\nto be the centre of a circle of livid flame. The intervals of darkness\nwere less numerous than those during which the whole sky became\nilluminated. The floods came rather more fitfully. For a few minutes at\na time it seemed as if an ocean had been displaced, as if an ocean had\nbeen suspended above them, and then suddenly dropped with the crash of a\nwaterfall. Immediately afterward there would be a complete cessation of\nrain and the crash of waters. The thunder sounded very lonely.\n\nMore than once there were intervals of sudden clearness in the air. For\nminutes at a time they could see, even after the blinding flash of a\njavelin of lightning, every object outside their sheltering place; then\nsuddenly all would be blotted out. At such moments it seemed as if the\nblackness above them was solid--a vast mountain of unhewn marble falling\ndown upon them. They had the impression of feeling the awful weight of\nits mass beginning to crush them. They became breathless--gasping.\n\nOnce a flash fell close to them, and there was a noise of splintering\nwood and the hiss of water into which a red-hot bar has been dipped.\nA second afterward a blazing brand was flung in front of them, and the\nsmoke hung dense in the heavy air. By the light that was cast around\nthey saw that one of the trees growing on the little mound close to them\nhad been struck and hurled where it lay.\n\nIt blazed high for a few minutes, and then the girl cried out. She had\ngot upon her feet, though forced to keep her head bent. He thought that\nshe was pointing out to him the thing that had happened; but in a moment\nhe perceived that her eyes were fixed upon some object beyond the mound\nthat had been struck. It was, however, only when the next flash came\nthat he saw out there the figure of a man--he recognised him: it was\nPritchard.\n\nHe stood bareheaded with his sackcloth garment clinging to him--the\nlightning was reflected from it as if it had been made of steel, for the\nwater was streaming down its folds--on the summit of the rocks that were\npiled together on the slope of the bank not twenty yards away. He was\ngesticulating, but his bare arms were above his head.\n\nSo much Wesley saw in the single glimpse that was allowed to him. After\nthe flash the darkness swallowed him up once more; but even before the\nnext flash came he was visible, though faintly, by the light of the\nblazing tree, for the trunk had not fallen directly between where he\nwas standing and the shelter. The red light flickered over his body, and\nshowed his attitude--his hands were now clasped over his head, and he\nwas facing the quarter whence the storm was coming. Then there fell\nanother torrent of rain and hail, and he was hidden by that watery sheet\nfor some minutes. Suddenly, as before, the rain ceased, and there was\nanother interval of clearness, that showed him standing with his arms\nextended. And when the thunder peal rolled away his voice was heard\ncalling out passionately, though his words were indistinct; they were\nsmothered in the noise of the thousand torrents of the Tor.\n\nIn a moment Wesley had pushed himself through the opening of his shelter\nand hurried to his side. He caught him by the arm.\n\n\u201cCome!\u201d he cried. \u201cHave you not read, 'Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy\nGod'? Man! is this a time to seek destruction?\u201d\n\nThe man turned upon him.\n\n\u201cIt has come--it has come--the great and terrible Day, and I am its\nprophet!\u201d he shouted. \u201cYou did not believe me. I was mocked more than\nany prophet; but it has come. All has been fulfilled, except calling\nto the rocks and the mountains. No voice has called to them but mine.\nI have called to the rocks to cover me and the hills to hide, but none\nelse. But you will join me--you will add your voice to mine that the\nScriptures may be fulfilled, John Wesley. Call upon them as I do. Fall\nupon us, O rocks--cover us, O hills!\u201d\n\nHe stretched out his arms once more and bowed his head on every side,\nshouting out his words, amid the blaze of the lightning and the rattle\nof the thunder.\n\n\u201cWretch!\u201d cried Wesley, but then he checked himself. He had now no doubt\nthat the man had become a maniac. \u201cMy poor friend--brother--let me be\nyour guide at this time. Let us talk over the matter together. There is\na place of safety at hand.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, you, John Wesley, talk of safety; know you not in this dread hour\nthat the Scripture must be fulfilled?\u201d shouted the man. \u201cWhat will your\njudgment be who would make the Holy Writ to be a vain thing? I tell you,\nsir, that it will be a lie if you do not join with me in calling\nupon the rocks to fall upon us? This is the place that was prophesied\nof--these are the very rocks--yonder are the very hills. They will not\nmove--they must be stubborn until another voice be joined with mine. O\nrocks, fall--fall--fall!\u201d\n\nWesley grasped one of the frantic arms that were outstretched. He could\nnot temporise with the wretch again.\n\n\u201cYou shall not dare!\u201d he cried. \u201cI may not stand by and hear such a\nmockery.\u201d\n\nThe man wrenched his arm free.\n\n\u201cThe mockery is yours, sir,\u201d he shouted. \u201cYou will not save the truth\nof the Scriptures when it is left for you to do so. Think of your own\ncondemnation, man--think that there are only two of us here, and if we\nremain silent we are guilty of blasphemy, for we are preventing the\nfulfilment of this prophecy.\u201d\n\nA discharge of lightning that had the semblance of a pair of fiery\nfetters went from hill to hill, and when Wesley recovered the use of his\neyes he saw that the man was pointing to the slight eminence on which\nthe rocking-stone was poised.\n\n\u201cIt has been shown to me--thank God that it has been shown to me before\n'tis too late,\u201d he cried. \u201cIf you, John Wesley, refuse to aid me, power\nshall be given me alone to fulfil the Scriptures. The rocks shall obey\nme. I am the chosen vessel.\u201d\n\nA torrent of rain swept between them, with the sound of a huge wave\nstriking upon the flat face of a cliff. Wesley spread out his arms. One\nof them was grasped by the girl, who had crept to his side, and he felt\nhimself guided back to the shelter.\n\nHe lay back upon the sloping rock thoroughly exhausted, and closed his\neyes.\n\nA minute had passed before he opened them again, hearing the girl cry\nout.\n\nAnother of the comparatively clear intervals had come, and it was\nsufficient to show the great rocking-stone in motion and the figure that\nwas swaying it. To and fro it went on its heels' keel, the man making\nfrantic efforts to increase the depth to which it rose and fell. To\nand fro, to and fro it swayed, and every fall was deeper than the last,\nuntil at last it was swinging so that the side almost touched the rock\nbeyond. The man thrust his shoulder beneath the shoulder of the moving\nmass of stone, pushing it back every time it bowed toward him. Never\nbefore had it swung like this. At last it staggered on to the edge of\nthe cup on which it was poised--staggered, but recovered itself and\nslipped into its place again. It swung back and jerked out of the cup as\nbefore. One more swing, with the man flinging his whole weight upon it;\nfor a second it trembled on the edge of the hollow fulcrum, and then--it\nfailed to return. It toppled slowly over upon the granite rock. For\na moment its descent was retarded by the man, who was crushed like a\nwalnut beneath it, then with a crash of broken crags it fell over the\nbrink of the height to the ground, fifteen feet beneath.\n\nWesley left the girl with her hands pressed against her eyes and hurried\nto the fallen mass. A man's hand projected from beneath it--nothing\nmore. But for this it would have been impossible to say that a body was\nbeneath it. The mighty stone did not even lie flat on the ground; it had\nmade a hollow for itself in the soft earth. It had buried itself to the\ndepth of a foot, and beneath its base Pritchard lay buried.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nNot until the afternoon had the storm moderated sufficiently to allow\nof Wesley and his companion returning to Porthawn. For a full hour after\nthe fall of the rocking-stone they remained together in the shelter.\nThey were both overcome by the horror of what they had witnessed.\nHappily the charred crown of branches which remained on the tree that\nhad been struck down, after the rain had extinguished the blaze, was\nenough to hide the fallen stone, and that ghastly white thing that lay\nthrust out from beneath it like a splash of lichen frayed from the crag.\nBut for another hour the tempest continued, only with brief intervals,\nwhen a dense and smoky greyness took the place of the blackness. It\nseemed as if the storm could not escape from the boundary of the natural\namphitheatre in the centre of which was the mound which Wesley had used\nas his pulpit; and to that man whose imagination was never a moment\ninactive, the whole scene suggested a picture which he had once seen of\nthe struggle of a thousand demons of the Pit, around a sanctified place,\nfor the souls of those who were safe within the enclosure. There were\nthe swirling black clouds every one of which let loose a fiery flying\nbolt, while the winds yelled horribly as any fiends that might be\nstruggling with obscene tooth and claw, to crush the souls that were\nwithin the sacred circle. The picture had, he knew, been an allegory; he\nwondered if it were not possible that certain scenes in Nature might be\nequally allegorical. He hoped that he was not offending when he thought\nof this citadel of his faith--this pulpit from which he had first\npreached in Cornwall--being assailed by the emissaries of the\nArch-enemy, and jet remaining unmoved as a tower built to withstand\nevery assault of the foe.\n\nThe whole scene assumed in his imagination a series of fierce assaults,\nin all of which the enemy was worsted and sent flying over the plain; he\ncould hear the shrieks of the disappointed fiends--the long wail of the\nwounded that followed every impulse; and then, after a brief interval,\nthere came the renewed assault--the circling tumult seeking for a\nvulnerable point of entrance. But there it stood, that pulpit from whose\nheight he had preached the Gospel to the thousands who had come to hear\nhim, and had gone forth to join the forces that are evermore at conflict\nwith the powers of evil in the world, There stood his pulpit unmoved in\nthe midst of the tumult. He accepted the symbolism, and he was lifted\nup by the hope that his work sent forth from this place would live\nuntouched by the many conflicts of time.\n\nHe was able to speak encouraging words to his companion every time\nthe thunder passed away; and he was more than ever conscious of the\nhappiness of having her near to him at this time. He knew that he had\nloved her truly; for his love had been true enough and strong enough to\ncompel him to give her the advice that precluded his ever being able\nto tell her of his own feeling for her. The joy of her gracious\ncompanionship was not for him; but he would do all that in him lay to\nassure her happiness.\n\nHe knew that he was able to soothe her now that she had received a shock\nthat would have been too much for most women. The horror of the mode of\nthe man's death, quite apart from the terror of the tempest, was enough\nto prostrate any ordinary man or woman. It was very sweet to him to feel\nher cling to his arm when they crawled back to their shelter. He laid\nhis hand tenderly upon the hand that clasped him, and he refrained from\nsaying a word to her at that moment. When the storm had moderated in\nsome measure he spoke to her; and he was too wise to make any attempt\nto turn her thoughts from the tragedy which, he knew, could not possibly\nfade from her mind even with the lapse of years.\n\n\u201cHe predicted truly so far as he himself was concerned,\u201d he said\ngravely. \u201cThe end came for him as he said. Poor wretch! He may have\npossessed all his life a curious sense beyond that allowed to others--an\ninstinct--it may not have been finer than the instinct of a bird. I have\nread that one of the desert birds will fly an hundred miles to where\na camel has fallen by the way. The camel itself has, we are told, an\ninstinct that guides it to water. But I do not say that he was not an\nagent of evil. There is evidence to prove that sorcery can give the\npower to predict what seems to be the truth, but it is only a juggling\nof the actual truth. The manner of that poor wretch's death makes one\nfeel suspicious. He predicted the end of the world; well, the world came\nto an end, so far as he was concerned. You perceive the jugglery? But\nhis was a weak mind. He may have been lured on to his own destruction.\nHowever this may be, his end was a terrible one. I grieve that it was\nleft for us to witness it.\u201d\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\u201cI shall never forget to-day,\u201d she said. \u201cI had a feeling more than\nonce when the lightning was brighter than common, and the world seemed\nto shake under the rattle of the thunderclap, that the next moment would\nbe the last.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere was no terror on your face--I saw it once under the fiercest\nflash,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cAt first--ah, I scarce know how I felt,\u201d said she. \u201cBut when I heard\nyour words saying, 'Rock of Ages,' my fear seemed to vanish.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe lines ring with the true confidence that only the true Rock of Ages\ncan inspire,\u201d said he.\n\nAnd thus he gradually led her thoughts away from the ghastly thing that\nshe had seen, though he had begun talking to her about it. At this time\nthe storm, which had been hurtling around the brim of the huge basin\nof the valley, had succeeded in its Titanic efforts to free itself from\nwhatever influence it was held it fettered within the circle; and though\nthe rain continued, there was only an occasional roll of thunder. The\nroar that now filled the valley was that of the sea. It came to them\nafter the storm like the voice of an old friend shouting to them to be\nof good cheer.\n\nAnd all that the preacher said to her was founded upon the text that the\nsea shouted for them to hear. For a time at least the horror that she\nhad looked upon passed out of her mind; and when he pointed out to her\nthat the rain had almost ceased, she suffered herself to be led away\nfrom their place of shelter by the further side of the central mound,\nwithout straining her eyes to see where the rocking-stone lay; she\nhad not even a chance of noting the strangeness brought about by the\ndisappearance of a landmark that she had seen since she was a child. But\nas they walked rapidly toward the little port, a cold fear took hold of\nher.\n\n\u201cCan a single cottage remain after such a storm--can anyone be left\nalive?\u201d she cried, and he saw that the tears were on her face.\n\n\u201cDo not doubt it,\u201d he said. \u201cTo doubt it were to doubt the goodness of\nGod. Some men are coming toward us. I have faith that they bring us good\nnews.\u201d\n\nWithin a few minutes they saw that it was Mr. Hartwell and two of his\nmen who had come in search of Wesley. Before they met, Nelly had asked\nhow the port had fared--the boats, what of the boats?\n\n\u201cAll's well,\u201d was the response, and her hands clasped themselves in joy\nand gratitude.\n\nNever had such a tempest been thrown on the coast, Hartwell said, but\nabsolutely no damage had been done to building, boat, or human being.\nSome trees had been struck by the lighting in the outskirts of the park,\nand doubtless others had suffered further inland; but the fishing boats\nhaving had signs of the approach of the storm, had at once made for\nthe shore, and happily were brought to the leeward of the little wharf\nbefore the first burst had come.\n\nWhen he had told his tale he enquired if either of them had seen\nanything of Pritchard.\n\n\u201cHe appeared suddenly where we saw him yesterday,\u201d he continued, \u201cand\nhis cry was that we should join him in calling upon the rocks to fall on\nus. He would not be persuaded to take shelter, and he was seen to wander\ninto what seemed to be the very heart of the storm.\u201d\n\nWesley shook his head, and told his story.\n\nThe man whose prophecy of the end of the world had spread within certain\nlimits a terror that was recalled by many firesides, and formed a\nlandmark in the annals of two generations, was the only one who perished\nin the great thunderstorm, which undoubtedly took place within a day or\ntwo of the date assigned by him to see the destruction of the world.\n\nJohn Wesley had no choice left him in the matter. His host insisted on\nhis going into a bed that had been made as warm as his copper pan of\ncharcoal could make it, after partaking of a spiced posset compounded in\naccordance with a recipe that was guaranteed to prevent the catching of\na cold, no matter how definitely circumstances conspired in favour of a\ncold.\n\nHis garments had become sodden with rain from the waterspout at the\noutset of the storm, and he had been forced to sit for several hours in\nthe same clothes. He could not hope to escape a cold unless by the help\nof this famous posset, the housekeeper affirmed; and she was amazed to\nfind him absolutely docile in this matter. She had been voluble in her\nentreaties; but she came to the conclusion that she might have spared\nherself half her trouble; she had taken it for granted that she was\ntalking to an ordinary man, who would scoff at the virtues of her\nposset, and then make all his friends miserable by his complaints when\nhe awoke with a cold on him. Mr. Wesley was the only sensible man she\nhad ever met, she declared to her master, with the sinister expression\nof a hope that his example of docility would not be neglected by others.\n\nHe went to bed, and after listening for some hours to the roaring of\nthe sea, he fell asleep. The evening had scarcely come, but he had never\nfelt wearier in all his life.\n\nHe slept for eight hours, and when he awoke he knew that he had done\nwell to yield, without the need for persuasion, to the advice of the\nhousekeeper. He felt refreshed in every way; and after lying awake for\nan hour, he arose, dressed himself, and left the house. This impulse to\ntake a midnight walk was by no means unusual with him. He had frequently\nfound himself the better for an hour or two spent in the darkness,\nespecially beside the sea. Midnight was just past. If he were to remain\nin the air for some time, he might, he thought, be able to sleep until\nbreakfast-time.\n\nThe night was cool, without being cold, and there was a sweet freshness\nin the air which had certainly been wanting when he had walked along the\ncliffs in the afternoon. The thunderstorm did not seem at that time to\nhave cleared the atmosphere. He was rather surprised to find that there\nwas such a high sea rolling at this time, and he came to the conclusion\nthat there had been a gale while he was asleep. Clouds were still hiding\nthe sky, but they held no rain.\n\nHe shunned the cliff track, going in the opposite direction, which led\nhim past the village, and on to the steep sandy bay with its occasional\nlittle peninsulas of high rocks, the surfaces of which were not covered\neven by Spring tides. Very quiet the little port seemed at this\nhour. Not a light was in any window--not a sound came from any of the\ncottages. He stood for a long time on the little wharf looking at the\nsilent row of cottages. That one which had the rose-bush trained over\nthe porch was the home of the Polwheles, he knew, and he remained with\nhis eyes fixed upon it. It seemed as if this had been the object of his\nwalk--to stand thus in front of that house, as any youthful lover might\nstand beneath the lattice that he loved.\n\nHe had his thoughts to think, and he found that this was the time to\nthink them. They were all about the girl who slept beyond that window.\nHe wondered if he had ever loved her before this moment. If he had\nreally loved her, how was it that he had never before been led to this\nplace to watch the house where she lay asleep? Was it possible that he\nhad fancied he knew her before he had passed those hours with her when\nthe storm was raging around them? He felt that without this experience\nhe could not possibly have known what manner of girl she was.\n\nAnd now that he had come to know her the knowledge came to him with the\nthought that she was not for him.\n\nHe had set out in the morning feeling that perhaps he had been too hasty\nin coming to the conclusion that because, when far away from her he had\nbeen thinking a great deal of his own loneliness and the joy that her\ncompanionship would bring to him, he loved her. That was why he had\nwished to put himself to the test, and he had fancied that he was doing\nso when he had walked in the opposite direction to that in which the\nvillage lay so that he might avoid the chance of meeting her.\n\nBut in spite of his elaborate precautions--he actually thought that\nit had shown ingenuity on his part--he had met her, and he had learned\nwithout putting the question to her that she was not for him. He\nrecalled what his feeling had been at that moment. He had fancied that\nhe knew all that her words meant to him; but he had deceived himself; it\nwas only now that he knew exactly the measure of what they meant to him.\nIt seemed to him that he had known nothing of the girl before he had\npassed those dark hours by her side.\n\nAt that time it was as if all the world had been blotted out, only he\nand she being left alone.\n\nThis feeling he now knew was what was meant by loving--this feeling that\nthere was nothing left in the world--that nothing mattered so long as he\nand she were together--that death itself would be welcome if only it did\nnot sunder them.\n\nAnd he had gained that knowledge only to know that they were to be\nsundered.\n\nIt was a bitter thought, and for a time, as he stood there with his eyes\nfixed upon the cottage, he felt as if so far as he was concerned the\nworld had come to an end. The happiness which he had seen before him as\nplainly as if it had been a painted picture--a picture of the fireside\nin the home that he hoped for--had been blotted out from before his\neyes, and in its stead there was a blank. It did not matter how that\nblank might be filled in, it would never contain the picture that had\nbeen torn away from before him when she had of her own free will told\nhim the story of her love.\n\nHe felt the worst that any man can feel, for the worst comes only when a\nman cries out to himself:\n\n\u201cToo late--too late!\u201d\n\nHe was tortured by that perpetual question of \u201cWhy? Why? Why?\u201d\n\nWhy had he not come to Cornwall the previous year? Why had he not seen\nher before she had gone to Bristol and given her promise to the other\nman?\n\nBut this was only in the floodtide of his bitterness; after a space\nit subsided. More reasonable thoughts came to him. Who was he that\nhe should rail against what had been ordered by that Heaven in whose\nordering of things he had often expressed his perfect faith? What would\nhe say of any man who should have such rebellious thoughts? Could this\nbe the true love--this that made him rebel against the decree of an\nall-wise Providence? If it was true it would cause him to think not of\nhis own happiness, but of hers.\n\nHad he been thinking all the time of his own happiness? he asked\nhimself. Had she been denied to him on this account? He feared that it\nwas so. He recalled how he had been thinking of her, and he had many\npangs of self-reproach when he remembered how in all the pictures of the\nfuture that his imagination had drawn he was the central figure. He\nfelt that his aim had been an ignoble one. Selfishness had been the\nfoundation of his love, and therefore he deserved the punishment that\nhad fallen upon him.\n\n'He continued his walk and went past the cottage on which his eyes had\nlingered. For a mile he strolled, lost in thought along the sandy bay,\ndisturbing the sea birds that were wading about the shallow pools in\nsearch of shell fish. The tide was on the ebb and he walked down the\nlittle ridges of wet beach until he found himself at the edge of that\nbroad grey sea that sent its whispering ripples to his feet. He had\nalways liked to stand thus in winter as well as summer. Within an hour\nof dawn the sea seemed very patient. It was waiting for what was to\ncome--for the uprising of the sun to turn its grey into gold.\n\nHe never failed to learn the lesson of the sea in all its moods; and now\nhe felt strengthened by looking out to the eastern sky, though it was\nstill devoid of light. He would have patience. He would wait and have\nfaith. Light was coming to the world, and happy was the one to whom was\ngiven the mission of proclaiming that dawn--the coming of the Light of\nthe World.\n\nEven when he resumed his stroll after he had looked across the dun\nwaters he became conscious of a change in the eastern sky. The clouds\nthat still clung to that quarter were taking on to themselves the pallor\nof a pearl, and the sky edge of the sea was lined with the tender glaze\nthat appears on the inner surface of a white shell, and its influence\nwas felt upon the objects of the coast. The ridges of the peninsular\nrocks glimmered, and the outline of the whole coast became faintly seen.\nIt was coming--the dawn for which the world was waiting was nigh. The\ndoubts born of the night were ready to fly away as that great heron\nwhich rose in front of him fled with winnowing wings across the surface\nof the sea.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nThe first faint breath of the dawn--that sigh of light of which the air\nwas scarcely conscious--made him aware as he walked along the sands\nof the fact that the beach was strewn with wreckage. He found himself\nexamining a broken spar upon which he had struck his foot. Further on he\nstumbled over a hen-coop, and then again a fragment that looked like the\ncover of a hatchway.\n\nHe had heard nothing about a vessel's having come ashore during the\ntempest of the morning; but there was nothing remarkable in the sudden\nappearing of wreckage on this wild Cornish coast. Almost every tide\nwashed up something that had once been part of a gallant ship. Wreckage\ncame without anyone hearing of the wreck from which it had come. He\nexamined the broken spar, and his fancy showed him the scene at the\nfoundering of such a ship as the _Gloriana_, whose carcase had been\nso marvellously uncovered on the Sunday evening. He had had enough\nexperience of seafaring to be able to picture the details of the\nwreckage of such a ship.\n\nHe left the beach and went on to the ascent of the higher part of the\nshore, thinking that it might be that when the dawn strengthened it\nmight reveal the shape of some craft that had run ashore on the outer\nreef at this dangerous part of the coast; and even before he reached the\nelevated ground the dawn light had spread its faint gauze over the\nsea, and the shapes of the rocks were plain. He looked out carefully,\nscanning the whole coast, but he failed to see any wreck between the\nhorns of the bay.\n\nBut when he had continued his slow walk for a few hundred yards he\nfancied that he saw some objects that looked dark against the pale\nsands. At first he thought that he was looking at a rock that had some\nresemblance to the form of a man; but a movement of a portion of the\nobject showed that it was indeed a man who was standing there.\n\nWesley had no mind for a companion on this stroll of his, so he went a\nshort way inland in order to save himself from being seen, and he did\nnot return to the sandy edge of the high ground until he judged that he\nhad gone beyond the spot where he had seen the man. Turning about, he\nfound that he had done what he intended: he saw the dark figure walking\nfrom where he had been, in the direction of the sea.\n\nBut by this time the light had so increased that he was able to see that\nthe man was walking away from the body of another that was lying on the\nbeach.\n\nHe had scarcely noticed this before the man stopped, looked back, and\nslowly returned to the body. But the moment he reached it Wesley was\namazed to see him throw up his arms as if in surprise and then fling\nhimself down on the body with his hands upon its throat.\n\nWesley knew nothing except that the man's attitude was that of one who\nwas trying to strangle another. But this was surely enough. He shouted\nout and rushed toward the place with a menace.\n\nThe man was startled; his head went back with a jerk, but his hands did\nnot leave the other's throat. Wesley had to drag him back by the collar,\nand even then he did not relax his hold until the body had been lifted\nup into a sitting position. The moment the man's fingers were loosed the\nhead fell back upon the sand.\n\nWesley threw himself between the two, and the instant that he turned\nupon the assailant he recognised John Bennet.\n\n\u201cWretch!\u201d he cried, \u201cwhat is it that you would do? What is it that you\nhave done--murderer?\u201d\n\nBennet stared at him as if stupefied. Then he burst into a laugh, but\nstopped himself suddenly.\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley, is it?\u201d he cried. \u201cOh, sir, is't you indeed that pulls my\nhands off his throat? There is something for the Devil to laugh at in\nthat.\u201d\n\n\u201cMan, if you be a man and not a fiend, would you strangle one whom the\nsea has already drowned?\u201d cried Wesley.\n\n\u201cI have the right,\u201d shouted Bennet, \u201cfor he would be dead by now if I\nhad not succoured him.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it be true that you saved him from an imminent death, at that time,\nwherefore should you strive to murder him now?\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cI did not see his face then--it was dark when I stumbled on him. Only\nwhen I turned about when the dawn broke I saw who he was. Go your ways,\nMr. Wesley. The man is mine by every law of fair play. Stand not between\nus, sir, or you shall suffer for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cMonster, think you that I shall obey you while a breath remains in my\nbody? I shall withstand you to the death, John Bennet; you shall have\ntwo murders laid at your door instead of one.\u201d\n\nThe man laughed as before. Then he said:\n\n\u201cThat is the point where the devils begin to laugh--ho! ho! John\nWesley!\u201d\n\n\u201cI have heard one of them,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cOh, you fool, to stay my hand! Know you not that the man lying there is\nnone other than he whom Nelly Polwhele has promised to marry?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is not that a sufficient reason why you should do your best to save\nhim--not take his life away?\u201d\n\nFor more than a minute the man was too astonished to speak. At last he\nsaid:\n\n\u201cIs it that you are mad, John Wesley? Heard you not what I said?\u201d\n\n\u201cEvery word,\u201d replied Wesley.\n\n\u201cYou cannot have taken in my words,\u201d the other whispered. \u201cThink, sir,\nthat is the foolish thing that stands between you and her--you love\nher--I have seen that.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: 0293]\n\n\u201cAnd I stand between you and him--that is enough for the present\nmoment,\u201d said Wesley quickly, facing the man, whom he noticed sidling\nround ready to leap upon the body lying on the beach.\n\nBennet saw that his cunning was overmatched. \u201cFool! I cry again,\u201d he\nsaid in a low tone. \u201cWould not I slay a score such as you and he for\nher sake? A man's soul can only be lost once, and I am ready to go to\nperdition for her--I have counted the cost. The best of the bargain is\nwith me! Out of my way, sir--out of my way!\u201d\n\nHe took a few steps back, preparing to rush at the other. Wesley kept\nhis eyes upon him and stood with his feet firmly planted to stand\nagainst his violence. But before the man could make his rush there was\nsudden flash of light in his face, dazzling him and Wesley as well. The\nlight shifted.\n\nWesley turned to see whence it came. There was the sound of a hard boot\non the pebbles and a man's voice said:\n\n\u201cAvast there! Don't move a hand. I have a pistol covering ye, and a\ncutlash is in my belt.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have come in good time, whoever you be,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cBut you will\nhave no need to use your weapons, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, but if there's a move between ye, my gentlemen, I'll make\nspindrift o' your brains. Ye hear?\u201d was the response.\n\nThe man, who had flashed his lantern upon them--the dawn was still very\nfaint--came beside them and showed that he had not made an empty boast.\nWesley perceived that he was one of the Preventive men, fully armed.\n\nHe kept the blaze of his lantern on Bennet's face and then turned it on\nWesley, whom he appeared to recognise.\n\n\u201cIn Heaven's name, sir, what's this?\u201d he cried.\n\n\u201cTake no thought for us,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cHere lies a poor wretch washed\nashore. Give me your help to bring back life to him. No moment must be\nlost--the loss of a minute may mean the loss of his life.\u201d\n\nHe was already kneeling beside the prostrate figure. The Preventive man\nfollowed his example. They both exclaimed in one voice:\n\n\u201cHe is alive!\u201d\n\n\u201cGod be thanked,\u201d said Wesley solemnly. \u201cI feared----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have treated him with skill, sir,\u201d said the man. \u201cYou did not give\nhim a dram?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have only been here a few minutes; the saving; of him from drowning\nis not due to me,\u201d said Wesley.\n\nThe man had his ration of rum in his knapsack, and was administering it,\nBennet standing by without a word.\n\n\u201cWe must get help to carry him to the nearest house,\u201d said the\nPreventive man.\n\n\u201cI shall hasten to the village,\u201d said Wesley. But he suddenly checked\nhimself. He knew that Ben-net's cunning would be equal to such a device\nas to get rid of the revenue officer for the few minutes necessary to\ncrush the life out of the man on the sand. \u201cNo, on second thought yonder\nman--his name is Bennet--will do this duty. John Bennet, you will hasten\nto the nearest house--any house save Polwhele's--and return with at\nleast two of the fishermen. They will come hither with two oars and a\nsmall sail--enough sailcloth to make into a hammock for the bearing of\nthe man with ease. You will do my bidding.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will do your bidding,\u201d said Bennet after a pause, and forthwith he\nhurried away.\n\n\u201cWhat is all this, sir?\u201d asked the man in a low tone when he had gone.\n\u201cI heard your voice and his--he is half a madman--they had the sound of\na quarrel.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou arrived in good time, friend,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cYou say this man was\ntreated with skill in his emergency; if so, it must be placed to the\ncredit of John Bennet. I can say so much, but no more.\u201d\n\n\u201cI'll ask no more from you, sir,\u201d said the other, slowly and\nsuspiciously. \u201cBut if I heard of Ben-net's murdering a man I would\nbelieve it sooner than any tale of his succouring one. He is a bit loose\nin the hatches, as the saying is; I doubt if he will bear your message,\nsir.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall make this sure by going myself,\u201d said\n\nWesley. \u201cI am of no help here; you have dealt with the half drowned\nbefore now.\u201d\n\n\u201cA score of times--and another score to the back of the first,\u201d said the\nman. \u201cI tell you this one is well on the mend. But a warm blanket will\nbe more to him than an anker of Jamaica rum. You do well to follow\nBennet. Would the loan of a pistol be of any confidence to you in the\njob?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere will be no heed for such now, even if I knew how to use one,\u201d\n said Wesley.\n\nHe perceived that the man had his suspicions. He hurried away when he\nhad reached the track above the shingle.\n\nIt was quite light before he reached the nearest cottage, which stood\nabout a hundred yards east of the Port Street, and belonged to a\nfisherman and boatwright named Garvice. The men and his sons had their\ntar-pot on the brazier and had already begun work on a dinghy which lay\nkeel uppermost before them.\n\nThey looked with surprise at him when he asked if they had been long at\nwork.\n\n\u201cOn'y a matter o' quartern hour,\u201d replied the old man.\n\n\u201cThen you must have seen John Bennet and got his message?\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cSeen John Bennet? Ay, ay--still mad. Message? No message i' the world.\nWhat message 'ud a hare-brainer like to 'un bear to folk wi' the five\nsenses o' Golmighty complete?\u201d the old man enquired.\n\n\u201cDo you tell me that Bennet said naught to you about a half-drowned man\nneeding your help?\u201d asked Wesley.\n\n\u201cNo word. Even if so rigid a madman ha' carried that tale think ye we'd\nbe here the now?\u201d\n\n\u201c'Tis as well that I came, though I thought it cruel to distrust him,\u201d\n said Wesley.\n\nHe then told the man what was needed, and before he had spoken a dozen\nwords the old man had thrown down his tar-brush and was signalling his\nsons to run down one of the boats to the water.\n\n\u201cPaddle round in half the time takes t' walk,\u201d he said. \u201cNo back\nbreakin', no bone shakin 's my morter. Down she goes.\u201d\n\nWesley was glad to accept a seat in the stern sheets of the small boat\nwhich was run down to the water, not twenty yards from the building\nshed; and when he returned with the three boatmen to that part of the\ncoast from which he had walked, he found the man to whose aid he had\ncome sitting up and able to say a word or two to the revenue man, who\nwas kneeling beside him, having just taken his empty rum bottle from his\nmouth.\n\nOld Garvice looked as if he felt that he had been brought from his work\nunder false pretences. He plodded slowly across the intervening piece of\nbeach a long way behind Mr. Wesley, and the Preventive man had reported\nthe progress to recovery made by the other before the Garvice family had\ncome up. The Garvices had had more than a nodding acquaintance with the\nrevenue authorities before this morning.\n\n\u201cJohn Bennet is a bigger rascal than I thought, and that's going far,\u201d\n said the Preventive man when Wesley told him that no message had been\ngiven at the Port. \u201cIf I come face to face with him, them that's nigh\nwill see some blood-letting. Why, e'en Ned Garvice, that I've been\ntrying to lay a trap for this twelve year, lets bygones be bygones when\nthere's a foundered man to succour.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is 'un?\u201d enquired the old man with pointed satire, looking round\nwith a blank face.\n\nThe bedraggled man sitting on the beach was able to smile.\n\n\u201cWish I'd had the head to bid you ask Neddy Garvice to carry hither a\nbottle of his French brandy--ay, the lot that you run ashore when the\ncutter fouled on the bank,\u201d said the Preventive man.\n\n\u201cOh, that lot? Had I got a billet from you, Freddy Wise, I'd ha' put a\nstoup from the kegs o' the _Gorgon_ into my pocket,\u201d said the old man\nwickedly. Mr. Wesley did not know that the _Gorgon_ was a large ship\nthat had come ashore the previous year, and had been stripped bare by\nthe wreckers. \u201cOh, ay; the _Gorgon_ for brandy and the _Burglarmaster_\nfor schnapps, says I, and I sticks to that object o' creed, Freddy,\nwhatsoe'er you says.\u201d The _Bourghermeister_ was the name of another\nwreck whose stores the revenue men had been too slow to save some years\nbefore.\n\nBut while these pleasantries were being exchanged between the men Wesley\nwas looking at the one in whose interests he was most concerned. He was\nlying with his head supported by a crag on which Fred Wise had spread\nhis boat cloak. His face was frightfully pallid, and his forehead was\nlike wax, only across his temple there was a long ugly gash, around\nwhich the blood had coagulated. His eyes were closed except at intervals\nwhen he started, and they opened suddenly and began to stare rather\nwildly. His arms hung down and his hands were lying limp on the beach\npalms up, suggesting the helplessness of a dead man. He was clearly\na large and strongly built fellow, who could sail a ship and manage a\ncrew, using his head as well as his hands.\n\nThe others were looking at him critically; he was so far recovered that\nthey did not seem to think there was any imperative need for haste in\nthe matter of carrying him to a bed; although they criticised him as if\nhe were dead.\n\n\u201cWorser lads ha' gone down and heard of for nevermore,\u201d said the old\nfisherman. \u201cDid he know that Squire Trevelyan buries free of all duty\nall such as the sea washes up 'tween tides? That's the Vantage to be\ndrowned on these shores; but the Squire keeps that knowledge like a\nsolemn secret; fears there'd be a rush--they'd be jammin' one t'other\namongst crags as for who'd come foremost to his own funeral.\u201d\n\n\u201cTis no secret o' gravity, Ned Garvice, that you give orders to your\nboys to carry you down in the cool o' the evening when you feel your\nhour's at hand, and lay ye out trim and tidy for the flood-tide, so that\nye get a free funeral, and Parson Rodney's 'Earth t' earth' thrown into\nthe bargain,\u201d said Wise.\n\n\u201cI've learned my sons to honour their father, and it puts 'un back a long\nway in their 'struction to be face to face wi' 'un as has a hardened\nscoff for his grey hairs,\u201d said the fisherman. \u201cGo your ways, lads, and\ngather limpits so ye hear not evil words that shake your faith in your\nancient father. But what I can't see is how he got them finger-marks on\nhis neck.\u201d\n\nHe pointed to the man on the beach.\n\n\u201cThey ha' the aspect o' finger marks, now ha' they not, sir?\u201d said Wise\nmeaningly, turning to Wesley.\n\n\u201cMy thought, friends, amounts to this: I have heard that in cases\nof rescue from drowning quickness is most needful for the complete\nrestoration of the sufferer,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cNow, sirs, I ask you is this\nthe moment for light gossip, when yonder poor fellow lies as if he had\nnot an hour's life in his body?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere's summat i' that, too,\u201d said old Garvice, as if a matter which\nhe had been discussing had suddenly been presented to him in an entirely\nnew light.\n\n\u201cOh, sir,\u201d said the Preventive man, \u201cwhen a corpse has revived so far\n'tis thought best that he should have a short rest; it kind o' way knits\nthe body and soul together all the closer. The man is in no danger now,\nI firmly believe; but, as you say, there's no need for wasting any more\ntime. Give us a heave under his other armpit, my lad. Heave handsomely;\nthere's naught but a thin halfhour 'twixt him and eternity--mind that,\nand you won't jerk. Who's for his heels?\u201d\n\nThe elder of Garvice's sons--a big lad of twenty--obeyed the\ninstructions of the revenue man, and Wesley and the old fisherman went\nto the feet.\n\n\u201c'Vast hauling! Set me up on end,\u201d said the man over whom they were\nbending. He spoke in a low voice and weak; he did not seem to have\nsufficient breath to make himself heard.\n\n\u201cHear that?\u201d said the fisherman with a sagacious wink. \u201cThere's the\nlightsome and blithe quarter-deck voice o' your master-mariner when\nwarping into dock and his missus a-waitin' for 'un rosy as silk on the\npier-head.'Tis then that if so be that a man's genteel, it will out.\u201d\n\n\u201c'Vast jaw, my hearty!\u201d murmured the man wearily.\n\n\u201cThat's the tone that fills the air wi' th' smell o' salt beef for me\nwhene'er I hears 'un--ay, sirs, salt beef more lifelike and lively than\nthis high ship-master who I trow hath ofttimes watched a ration toddle\nround the cuddy table like to a guileless infant.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeave all, with a will!\u201d cried Wise, and the four men raised the other\nas tenderly as a bulk so considerable could be taken off the ground,\nand bore him with some staggering and heavy breathing, down to where the\nyoungest of the Garvice family was keeping the dinghy afloat over the\nrapidly shallowing sand.\n\nAn hour later, when the day was still young, Wesley was kneeling by his\nbedside giving thanks to Heaven for having allowed him to participate in\nthe privilege of saving a fellow-creature from death.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nHe slept for an hour or two, but awoke feeling strangely unrefreshed.\nBut he joined Hartwell at breakfast and heard the news that the latter\nhad acquired during his usual half-hour's stroll through the village.\n\nAfter shaking his guest warmly by the hand, Hartwell cried:\n\n\u201cWhat, Mr. Wesley, was it that you did not believe you had adventure\nenough for one Summer's day, that you must needs fare forth in search of\nothers before sunrise?\u201d\n\nWesley laughed.\n\n\u201cI ventured nothing, my good friend,\u201d he said. \u201cI came upon the\nshipwrecked man by the blessing of God, in good time. I have been\nwondering since I rose if he had suffered shipwreck. Did you learn so\nmuch at the village--and pray hath he fully recovered himself?\u201d\n\n\u201cI dare not say fully, but he has recovered himself enough to be able to\ntell his story,\u201d replied Hartwell.\n\n\u201cAnd he was wrecked?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly swamped at sea. He is a ship-master, Snowdon, by name, but 'twas\nnot his own craft that went down, but only a miserable coasting\nketch that ventured from Bristol port to Poole with a cargo of\npottery--something eminently sinkable. Strange to say, Captain Snowdon\nset out from Bristol, wanting to go no further than our own port; for\nwhy? you ask. Why, sir, for a true lover's reason, which may be reckoned\nby some folk as no reason at all--namely a hope to get speedily by the\nside of his mistress, this lady being none other than our friend, the\npretty and virtuous young woman known as Nelly Polwhele.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Nelly Polwhele?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone other, sir. It seems that Nelly met this good master-mariner a\nyear ago at Bristol, and following the usage of all our swains, he falls\nin love with her. And she, contrary to her usage of the stay-at-home\nswains who piped to her, replies with love for love. But a long voyage\nloomed before him, so after getting her promise, he sails for the China\nSeas and the coast of the Great Mogul. Returning with a full heart and,\nI doubt not, a full pocket as well, he is too impatient to wait for the\nsailing of a middle-sized packet for Falmouth or Plymouth, he must needs\ntake a passage in the first thing shaped like a boat that meant to come\nround the Lizard, and this was a ketch of some ten ton, that opened\nevery seam before the seas that the hurricane of yesterday raised up in\nthe Channel, and so got swamped when trying to run ashore on some soft\nground. Nelly's shipmaster, Mr. Snowdon, must have been struggling in\nthe water for something like four hours, and was washed up, well-nigh at\nthe very door of the young woman's cottage, and so--well, you know\nmore of the remainder of the story than doth any living man--not even\nexcepting the Captain himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the young woman--have you heard how she received her lover?\u201d asked\nWesley.\n\n\u201cAh, that is the point at which Rumour becomes, for a marvel, discreetly\nsilent,\u201d replied Hartwell. \u201cI suppose it is taken for granted that the\ntheme has been dealt with too frequently by the poets to have need to be\nfurther illustrated by a fisherman's daughter. Take my word for it, sir,\nthe young woman, despite her abundance of womanly traits, is a good and\nkind and true girl at heart. She hath not been spoiled by the education\nwhich she received as companion to the Squire's young ladies.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat was my judgment, too,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI pray that the man will be\na good husband to her. His worldly position as the master of an East\nIndiaman is an excellent one.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe will make her a very suitable husband,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cI must\nconfess that I have had my fears for her. She is possessed of such\ngood looks--a dangerous possession for such a young woman, sir. These,\ncoupled with her intimate association with the Squire's daughters, might\nhave led her into danger. A less sensible girl would certainly be likely\nto set her cap at someone a good deal above her in station--a dangerous\nthing--very dangerous!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt, sir. And now you are disposed to think that her happiness is,\nhumanly speaking, assured?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think that she is a very fortunate young woman, and that the man is\neven more fortunate still. Old Polwhele, in his whimsical way, however,\nprotests that he wishes the man whose intent it is to rob him of his\ndaughter, had got drowned. He grumbled about the part you played in the\nmatter--he was very whimsical. 'What, sir,' he grumbled to me just now,\n'is Mr. Wesley not content with looking after our souls--is he turning\nhis attention to our bodies as well? Old Polwhele has a nimble wit.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was not I, but John bennet, who was fortunate enough to restore the\nman: he treated him altogether skilfully, the revenue patrol-man told\nme.\u201d\n\nHartwell threw up his hands in surprise. Then he frowned. He was plainly\npuzzled for some time. At last he said:\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley, if Bennet saved that man's life he must have stumbled on\nhim while it was yet dark--too dark to let him see the man's face.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how should he know who the man was, even if he had seen his face?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was acquainted with Mr. Snowdon at Bristol, and his grievance was\nthat if Snowdon had not appeared, the girl would have accepted his own\nsuit. Oh, yes; it must have been too dark for him to see the man's face,\nor it would have gone hardly with the poor fellow.\u201d\n\nThere was a considerable pause before Wesley said:\n\n\u201cYou are right, it was too dark to allow him to recognise the man's\nfeatures. Has he been seen at the village during the morning?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf he has I heard nothing of it,\u201d replied Hartwell, \u201cit might be as\nwell to say a word of warning to Mr. Snowdon respecting him; he is a\nmadman, and dangerous. You do not forget the mad thing he said about you\non Sunday, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have not forgotten it,\u201d said Wesley in a low voice. \u201cI have not\nforgotten it. I think that I shall set out upon my journey this\nafternoon.\u201d\n\nThe pause that he made between his sentences was so slight as to suggest\nthat they were actually connected--that there was some connection\nbetween the thing that Bennet had said and his own speedy departure.\n\nHis host, who was in good spirits after his walk in the early sunshine,\ngave a laugh and asked him in no spirit of gravity if he felt that it\nwas necessary for him to fly lest Captain Snowdon should develop the\nsame spirit of jealousy that had made Bennet fit for Bedlam.\n\nWesley shook his head and smiled.\n\n\u201cNeed I ask your pardon for a pointless jest, sir?\u201d cried Hartwell.\n\u201cNay, dear sir and brother, I hope you will find good reason for\nremaining with us for a few days still. You have had a trying time since\nyou came, Mr. Wesley; and I do not think that you are fit to set out on\nso rude a journey.\u201d\n\n\u201cI confess that I feel somewhat exhausted,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cbut I have\nhope that an hour or two in the saddle will restore me.\u201d\n\nHartwell did his best to persuade him to reconcile himself to the idea\nof staying in the neighbourhood for at least another day, but without\nsuccess.\n\n\u201cI must go. I feel that I must go, grateful though I be to you for your\noffer of hospitality,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cThen I will not say a further word. If it be a matter of feeling with\nyou, I do not feel justified in asking you to change your intention,\u201d\n said Hartwell. \u201cI shall give orders as to your horse without delay.\u201d\n\nBut the horse was not needed that day, nor was it likely to be needed\nfor some time to come, for within the hour after breakfast Mr. Wesley\nwas overcome by a shivering fit and compelled to take to his bed. It\nbecame plain that he had caught a chill--the wonder was that it had not\nmanifested itself sooner, considering that he had sat for so long the\nday before in his saturated garments, and the very trying morning that\nhe had had. Mr. Hartwell, who had some knowledge of medicine, and a\nconsiderable experience of the simpler maladies to which his miners were\nsubject, found that he was more than a little feverish, and expressed\nthe opinion that he would not be able to travel for a full week. Wesley,\nwho, himself, knew enough about the treatment of disease to allow of\nhis writing a book on the subject, agreed with him, that it was not\nnecessary to send for a physician, who might possibly differ from both\nof them in his diagnosis.\n\nFor three days he remained in bed, and in spite of the fact that\nhe would have nothing to say to the Peruvian bark which his host so\nstrongly recommended, his feverish tendency gradually abated, and by\ncareful nursing he was able to sit up in his room by the end of a week.\n\nIn the meantime he had many visitors, though he refrained from seeing\nany of them. His host told him that Miller Pendelley, Jake Pullsford,\nand Hal Holmes had driven more than once from Ruthallion when they\nheard of his illness; but of course the earliest and most constant of\nthe enquirers after his health were Nelly Polwhele and her lover. Mr.\nHartwell told him how greatly distressed they were, and perhaps it was\nnatural, he added, that the girl should be the one who laid the\ngreatest emphasis upon the fact that they were the cause of Mr. Wesley's\nsuffering. She was undoubtedly a sweet and unselfish girl, Hartwell\nsaid; and he feared that Captain Snowdon thought that she was making\ntoo great a fuss in referring to the risks which he, Wesley, had run to\nbring her happiness. Snowdon, being a man, had not her imagination; and\nbesides his life had been made up of running risks for the benefit\nof other people, and he was scarcely to be blamed if he took a less\nemotional view of, at least, the incident of Wesley's finding him\nexhausted on the shore in the early dawn.\n\n\u201cI spoke with him to-day,\u201d said Hartwell when his guest was able to hear\nthese things, \u201cand while he certainly showed himself greatly concerned\nat your sickness, he grumbled, half humorously, when he touched upon\nthe way he was being neglected by the young woman. 'I am being hardly\ntreated, sir,' he said. 'What is a simple master-mariner at best\nalongsides a parson with a persuasive voice? But when the parson adds on\nto his other qualities the dash and derring-do of a hero it seems to me\nthat a plain man had best get into his boat, if so be that he have one,\nand sail away--it boots not whither, so long as he goes. Oh, ay, sir, I\nallow that your Mr. Wesley hath made short work of me.' Those were his\nwords; and though they were followed by an earnest enquiry after your\nhealth, I could see that he would as lief that he owed his life to a\nmore ordinary man.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I had not been overtaken by this sickness he would have had no cause\nfor complaint,\u201d said Wesley. After a pause he touched with caution upon\na matter over which he had been thinking for some time.\n\n\u201cMr. Snowdon heard nothing about a rival other than myself in the young\nwoman's regard?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cOh, not he,\u201d replied Hartwell quickly. \u201cSnowdon is not the fellow to\nlisten to all that the gossips may say about Madam Nelly's liking for\nadmiration--he knows well that so pretty a thing will be slandered, even\nwhen she shows herself to be wisely provident by seeking to have two\nstrings to her bow. But, indeed, whatever her weakness may have been\nin the past, she hath been a changed girl since you first came hither.\nCaptain Snowdon has no rival but yourself, sir, and I am certain that\nthe honest fellow would not for the world that the young woman abated\naught of her gratitude to you. He has too large a heart to harbour any\nthought so unworthy of a true man.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod forbid that anything should come between them and happiness,\u201d said\nWesley.\n\n\u201c'Tis all unlikely,\u201d said his host. \u201cHe must see that her love for him\nmust be in proportion to her gratitude to you for having done all that\nyou have done for him. If she did not love him dearly she would have no\nneed to be half so grateful to you.\u201d\n\nWesley said nothing more on this point. He had not forgotten what Nelly\nhad confided to him and the counsel which he had given her just before\nthe hurricane had cut short their conversation on the cliffs. She had\ntold him her story, confessing that the man to whom she had given her\npromise was less dear to her now that she was in daily expectation of\nmeeting him after the lapse of a year than he had been when they had\nparted; and he had defined, in no doubtful language, the direction in\nwhich her duty lay.\n\nFor the rest of the time that they were together neither he nor she had\nmade any reference to this matter; but he had not ceased to think upon\nit. After what Mr. Hartwell had said he felt reassured. He had brought\nhimself to feel that he could only be happy if the girl's happiness were\nassured; and he believed that this could only be accomplished by her\nkeeping the promise which she had given to a man who was worthy of her.\nHowever she might have fancied that her love had waned or turned in\nanother direction during the year they had been parted, he was convinced\nthat it would return, as true and as fresh as before, with the return\nof Captain Snowdon.\n\nAll that Hartwell had said bore him out in this view which he was\ndisposed to take of the way of this maid with the man. Hartwell was\na man of judgment and observation, and if there had been any division\nbetween the two people in whom they were interested, he would\nundoubtedly have noticed it. He had described the grievance of which\nSnowdon had complained in a humorous way; and Wesley knew that if the\nman felt that he had a grievance of the most grievous sort that can fall\nupon a man, he would not have referred to it in such a spirit.\n\nAnd then the day came when Wesley was able to talk, without being hushed\nby his hospitable friend, of mounting his horse and resuming his-journey\nin the west. He had many engagements, and was getting daily more anxious\nto fulfil them before the summer should be over.\n\n\u201cIf it rested with me, sir,\u201d said Hartwell, \u201cI would keep you here\nfor another month and feel that I was the most favoured of men; but in\nthis-matter I dare not be selfish. I know what, with God's blessing, you\nseek to accomplish, and I feel that to stay you from your journey would\nbe an offence.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have been more than good to me, my brother,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cAnd now\nin parting from, you, I do not feel as did the Apostle Paul when leaving\nthose friends of his who sorrowed knowing that they should see his face\nno more. I know that your sorrow is sincere, because I know how sincere\nis my own, but if God is good to us we shall all meet again after a\nseason.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is what we look forward to; you have sown the good seed among us\nand you must return to see what your harvest will be,\u201d said Hartwell.\n\nThey agreed that his horse was to be in readiness the next morning. This\nwas at their noon dinner, and they had scarcely risen from the table\nwhen the maidservant entered with the enquiry if Mr. Wesley would allow\nCaptain Snowdon to have a word with him in private.\n\n\u201cI was expecting this visitor,\u201d said Hartwell. \u201cIt would be cruel for\nyou to go away without receiving the man, albeit I think that you would\nrather not hear him at this time. Let me reassure you: he will not be\nextravagant in his acknowledgment of the debt which he owes to you; he\nis a sailor, and scant of speech.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should I not see him?\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI am not afraid to face him!\neven a demonstration of his gratitude. Pray let him be admitted.\u201d\n\nVery different indeed was the stalwart man who was shown into the room\nfrom the poor half-drowned wretch whom Wesley had helped to carry\nfrom the shore to the boat. Captain Snowdon stood over six feet--a\nlight-haired, blue-eyed man who suggested a resuscitated Viking of the\nmilder order, brown faced and with a certain indefinable expression of\nshrewd kindliness which might occasionally take the form of humour and\nmake itself felt by a jovial slap on the back that would make most men\nstagger.\n\nHe was shy, and he had plainly been walking fast.\n\nThese were the two things that Wesley noticed when Hartwell was shaking\nhands with the man, and the latter had wiped his forehead with a\nhandkerchief as splendid as the western cloud of a sunset in the\nTropics--a handkerchief that seemed a floating section of the Empire of\nthe Great Mogul--dazzling in red and yellow and green--a wonder of the\nsilk loom.\n\n\u201cYou and Mr. Wesley have already met, Mr. Snowdon,\u201d said Hartwell with a\nsmile, and forthwith quitted the room.\n\nCaptain Snowdon looked after him rather wistfully. He seemed to be under\nthe impression that Mr. Hartwell had deserted him. Then he glanced with\nsomething of surprise in the direction of Wesley, and was apparently\nsurprised to see his hand stretched out in greeting. He took the hand\nvery gingerly and with nothing of a seaman's bluffness or vigour.\n\n\u201cSeeing you at this time, Captain Snowdon, makes me have a pretty\nconceit of myself,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cYes, sir, I feel inclined to boast\nthat I was one of the four who bore you from the high beach to the\nboat--I would boast of the fact only that I know I should never be\nbelieved. You do not seem to have suffered by your mishap.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, sir, I am a man that turns the corner very soon in matters\nof that sort, and then I race ahead,\u201d replied the master-mariner.\n\n\u201cYou have become accustomed to such accidents, sir,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cAy, sir, the salt sea and me have ever been friends, and more than once\nwe have had a friendly tussle together, but we bear no malice therefor,\nneither of us--bless your heart, none whatever,\u201d said Snowdon. \u201cWhy, the\nsea is my partner in trade--the sea and the wind, we work together, but\nyou, Mr. Wesley, I grieve to see you thus, sir, knowing that 'twas on my\naccount. What if you'd been finished off this time--wouldn't the blame\nfall on me? Shouldn't I be looked on as your murderer?\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot see on what principle you should, sir,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cIn the\nfirst place the chill from which I have now, by the blessing of Heaven,\nfully recovered, was not due to my having been one of the four men who\ncarried you down the beach, though I should have no trouble in getting\nanyone to believe that I suffered from exhaustion. No, Mr. Snowdon, I\nhad contracted the complaint before I was fortunate enough to come upon\nyou in my early morning's walk.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnyway, sir, you earned my gratitude; though indeed, I feel as shy as a\nschool miss to mention such a word in your presence. If I know aught\nof you, Mr. Wesley, and I think that I can take the measure of a man\nwhether he be a man or a parson, if I know aught of you, sir, I repeat,\nyou would be as uneasy to hear me talk of gratitude as I should be to\nmake an offer to talk of the same.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right in that respect, Mr. Snowdon. Between us--men that\nunderstand each other--there need be no protestation of feeling.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive me your hand, sir; you have just said what I should like to say.\nI feel that you know what I feel--you know that if there was any way for\nme to prove my gratitude---- \u201d\n\n\u201cAh, you have said the word again, and I understood that it was to be\nkept out of our conversation. But I am glad that you said so much, for\nit enables me to say that you have the means of showing your gratitude\nto Heaven for your preservation, and I know that you will not neglect\nsuch means. You will be a good husband to Nelly Polwhele--that is the\nway by which you will show how you appreciate the blessing of life!\u201d\n\nCaptain Snowdon's face became serious--almost gloomy--as gloomy as the\nface of such a man can become. He made no reply for a few moments. He\ncrossed the room and looked out of the window. Once more he pulled\nout his handkerchief and mopped his brow with that bit of the gorgeous.\nOrient.\n\nThen he turned to Wesley, saying:\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley, sir, I have come to you at this; time to talk about Nelly\nPolwhele, if I may make so bold.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can hear a great deal said about Nelly Polwhele so long as it is all\nthat is good,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cI am not the man to say aught else,\u201d said Snowdon. \u201cOnly--well, sir,\nthe truth is I don't quite know what to make of Nelly.\u201d\n\n\u201cMake her your happy wife, Captain Snowdon,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cThat's what I look forward to, sir; but she is not of the same way of\nthinking, worse luck!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou cannot mean that she--she--what, sir, did not she give you her\npromise a year ago?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat she did, sir; but that's a year ago. Oh, Mr. Wesley, I believe\nthat all of her sex are more or less of a puzzle to a simple man, and in\nmatters of love all men are more or less simple, but Nelly is more of a\npuzzle than them all put together.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow so? I have ever found her straightforward and natural--all that a\nyoung woman should be.\u201d.\n\n\u201cAy, sir; but you have not been in love with her.\u201d\n\nWesley looked at him for a moment or two without a word. Then he said:\n\n\u201cPray proceed, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe truth is, Mr. Wesley, the girl no longer loves me as she did, and\nall this time my love for her has been growing,\u201d said Snowdon. \u201cWhy,\nsir, she as good as confessed it to me no later than yesterday, when I\ntaxed her with being changed. 'I must have another year,' she said. 'I\ncannot marry you now.'Twould be cruel to forsake my father and mother,'\nsays she. 'You no longer love me, or you would not talk like that,' says\nI, and she hung her head. It was a clear minute before she said, 'That\nis not the truth, dear. How could I help loving you when I have given\nyou my promise. All I ask is that you should not want me to marry you\nuntil I am sure of myself--another year,' says she. Now, Mr. Wesley, you\nare a parson, but you know enough of the affairs of mankind to know what\nall of this means--I know what it means, sir; it means that another\nman has come between us. You can easily understand, Mr. Wesley, that\na well-favoured young woman, that has been educated above her station,\nshould have her fancies, and maybe set her affections on someone that\nhas spoken a word or two of flattery in her ear.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can scarce believe that of her, Mr. Snowdon. But she was at the Bath\na few months ago, and perhaps--Mr. Snowdon, do you think that any words\nof mine--any advice to her--would have effect?\u201d\n\nThe sailor's eyes gleamed; he struck his left palm with his right fist.\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, that's the very thing that I came hither to beg of you,\u201d he\ncried. \u201cI know in what esteem she holds you, Mr. Wesley; and I said to\nmyself yesterday when I sat on the crags trying to worry out the day's\nwork so that I might arrive at the true position of the craft that I'm\na-trying to bring into haven--says I, ''Tis trying to caulk without\noakum to hope to prevail against a young woman that has a fancy that\nshe doesn't know her own mind. But in this case if there's anyone living\nthat she will listen to 'tis Mr. Wesley.' Those was my words.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot promise that I shall prevail with her; but I have confidence\nthat she will at least hearken to me,\u201d said Wesley.\n\n\u201cNo fear about that, sir,\u201d cried the other, almost joyfully. He took a\nstep or two toward the door, having picked up his hat, which he stood\ntwirling for a few moments. Then he slowly turned and faced Wesley once\nagain.\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley,\u201d he said in a low voice. \u201cMind this, sir: I would not have\nyou do anything in this matter unless you feel that 'twould be for\nthe good of the girl. 'Tis of the girl we have to think in the first\nplace--the girl and her happiness. We must keep that before us, mustn't\nwe, sir? So I ask of you as a man of judgment and wisdom and piety to\nabstain from saying a word to her in my favour unless you are convinced\nthat I am the man to make her happy. Look at me, sir. I tell you that\nI will not have the girl cajoled into marrying a man simply because she\nhas given him her promise. What! should she have a life of wretchedness\nsimply because a year ago she did not know her own mind?\u201d\n\n\u201cCaptain Snowdon, give me leave to tell you that you are a very noble\nfellow,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cThe way you have acted makes me more certain than\never that Nelly Polwhele is the most fortunate young woman in Cornwall,\nno matter what she may think of the matter. Since I have heard you, sir,\nwhat before was a strong intention has become a duty. Hasten to Nelly\nand send her hither.\u201d\n\nThe man went to the door quickly, but when there he hesitated.\n\n\u201cTo be sure 'twould be better if you was to speak to her without her\nknowing that I had been with you; but we cannot help that; we are not\ntrying to trick the girl into keeping her promise,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cThe knowledge that you have been with me would make no difference to\nher,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cShe knows that I would not advise her against my\njudgment, to please even the man who, I know, loves her truly as man\ncould love woman.\u201d\n\nCaptain Snowdon's broad back filled up the doorway in an instant.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nJohn Wesley sat alone in the room, thinking his thoughts. They were\nnot unhappy, though tinged with a certain mournfulness at times.\nThe mournful tinge was due to the reflection that once more he must\nreconcile himself to live alone in the world. For a brief space he had\nhad a hope that it might be given to him to share the homely joys of his\nfellow-men. He now saw that it was not to be; and he bowed his head to\nthe decree of the Will which he knew could not err.\n\nAlone? How could such a reflection have come to him? How could he who\nsought to walk through the world with the Divine companionship of the\nOne to whom he trusted to guide his steps aright feel lonely or alone?\n\nThis was the thought that upheld him now. He could feel the hand that he\nknew was ever stretched out to him. He touched it now as he had touched\nit before, and he heard the voice that said:\n\n\u201cI have called ye friends.\u201d\n\nHe was happy--as happy as the true man should be who knows that the\nwoman whom he loves is going to be made happy. He now perceived that\neverything had been ordered for the best, this best being the ultimate\nhappiness of the woman whom he loved. He now saw that although he might\nstrive to bring happiness to her, he might never succeed in doing so.\nEven if she had loved him her quick intelligence could not fail\nto whisper to her what the people around them would be saying out\nloud--that John Wesley had married the daughter of a humble fisherman of\nCornwall, and that that was no match for him to make. She would hear\nit said that John Wesley, who was ever anxious for the dignity of the\nChurch to be maintained, had shown himself to be on the level with my\nlord's greasy, sottish chaplain, who had showed himself ready to marry\nmy lady's maid when commanded to do so by his master, when circumstances\nhad made such an act desirable.\n\nWould such a young woman as Nelly Polwhele be happy when now and again\nshe should hear these whispers and the consciousness was forced upon her\nthat John Wesley was believed to have made a fool of himself?\n\nBut even to assume what her thoughts would be was to assume that she had\nloved him, and this she had never done. He was convinced that she had\nnever ceased to love the man to whom she had given her promise. To be\nsure, she had told him when they had been together on the cliffs that\nsomeone else had come into her life. But that he believed to be only a\npassing fancy of hers. It was impossible that such a young woman, having\ngiven her promise to so fine a fellow as Captain Snowdon, should allow\nhis place in her heart to be taken by anyone else.\n\nHe wondered if the Squire had a son as well as daughters. Nelly had\ntalked to him often enough about the young ladies, but not a word had\nshe breathed about a young gentleman. If there was a son, would it\nbe beyond the limits of experience that this village girl should be\ncaptivated by his manners--was it beyond the limits of experience that\nthe young man might have been fascinated by the beauty of the girl and\nso have talked to her as such young men so often did, in a strain of\nflattery that flattered the poor things so that they were led to hope\nthat an offer of marriage was approaching?\n\nHe resolved to make enquiry on this point from Nelly herself should she\nstill maintain that her affection had changed. But meantime----\n\nHis lucubrations were interrupted by the sudden return of Captain\nSnowdon. He was plainly in a condition of great excitement. His coat was\nloose and his neckerchief was flying.\n\n\u201cWe are too late, Mr. Wesley,\u201d he cried. \u201cWe are too late. The girl has\ngiven both of us the slip. I called at the cottage to fetch her hither.\nI did not find her at home. This is what was put into my hand.\u201d\n\nHe thrust out a piece of paper with writing upon it.\n\n\u201c_I cannot stay--I dare not stay any longer where I am forced to see you\nevery day, and am thus reminded of my promise which I know I cannot now\nkeep. Please try not to follow me; 'twould be of no use. I must be apart\nfrom you before I make up my mind. I am very unhappy, and I know that\nI am most unhappy because I have to give pain to one who is the best of\nmen._\n\n\u201c_Nelly._\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have read it?\u201d cried Snowdon. \u201cI had no notion that her whimsies\nwould carry her so far. Oh, she is but a girl after all--I tell you that\nshe is no more than a girl.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is a girl, and I think that she is the best that lives, to be a\nblessing to a good man's life,\u201d said Wesley, returning the letter to his\ntrembling hand.\n\n\u201cThe best? The best? She has made a fool of the man who would have died\nto save her from the least hurt, and you call her the best!\u201d he cried,\nwalking to and fro excitedly, crumpling up the letter with every stride.\n\n\u201cShe is the best,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cSir, cannot you see that those lines\nwere written by a woman who is anxious to be true to herself? Cannot you\nsee that her sole fear is that she may do an injustice to the man who\nloves her?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou see things, sir, that none other can see; I am but a plain man, Mr.\nWesley, and I can see naught in this letter save the desire of a fickle\nyoung woman to rid herself of a lover of whom she has grown weary. Well,\nshe has succeeded--she has succeeded! She exhorts me not to follow her.\nShe need not have been at the trouble to do so: I have no intention of\nfollowing her, even if I knew whither she has gone. Have you any guess\nas to the direction she has taken? Not that I care--I tell you, sir, I\nhave no desire to follow her. Who do you suspect is her lover?\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Snowdon,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cher lover stands before me in this room.\nThe poor child has had her doubts, as any true girl must have when she\nthinks how serious a step is marriage, and the best way that you can\ndissipate such doubts is to show to her that you have none.'Tis left for\nyou to prove yourself a true man in this matter, Captain Snowdon, and I\nknow that, being a true man, you will act as a true man should act.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know not what you would suggest, sir, but I can promise you that if\nyou hint that I should seek to follow her, you make a mistake,\u201d said\nSnowdon.\n\n\u201cShe may go whithersoever she pleases. I have no mind to be made a fool\nof a second time by her. I have some self-respect still remaining, let\nme tell you, Mr. Wesley.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may be sure that no advice to sacrifice it will come from me, sir,\u201d\n said Wesley. \u201cOh, Mr. Snowdon, did not you come to me an hour ago to\nask me to be your friend in this matter? Did you not ask me to give my\nadvice to the young woman of whom we have been speaking? Was not that\nbecause you believed that my advice would be right?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know that it would have been right, Mr. Wesley; but now----\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you could trust to me to give her good advice, why cannot you prove\nthat this was your hope, by hearkening to the advice which I am ready to\ngive to you?\u201d\n\nThe big man, who was standing in the middle of the room, had made\nseveral passionate attempts to speak, but none of them could be called\nsuccessful. When Wesley had put his last question, he tried to frame a\nreply. He put out an arm with an uplifted forefinger and his lips began\nto move. Not a word would come. He looked at Wesley straight in the\nface for a long time, and then he suddenly turned away, dropped into the\nnearest chair, and bent his head forward until his chin was on his hand,\nand he was gazing at the floor.\n\nWesley let him be. He knew something of men and their feelings, as well\nas their failings.\n\nThere was a long silence before the man arose and came to him, saying in\na low voice:\n\n\u201cMr. Wesley, I will trust to your judgment. I will do whatsoever you bid\nme.\u201d\n\nWesley grasped him by the hand.\n\n\u201cI had no doubt of you, my friend,\u201d he said. \u201cI felt that any man whom\nNelly Polwhele loved----\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, loved--loved!\u201d interjected Snowdon.\n\n\u201cLoves--loves--in love there is no past tense,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cShe loved\nyou, and she loves you still--she will love you forever. You will come\nwith me, and I know that mine will be the great happiness of bringing\nyou together. What greater happiness could come to such as I than this\nwhich, by the grace of Heaven, shall be mine?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe gave you her confidence? You know whither she has fled?\u201d\n\nWesley shook his head.\n\n\u201cShe told me nothing; remember that I have not seen her since you\nreturned to her,\u201d he said. \u201cBut I think that I can say whither she has\ngone.'Tis but six or seven miles from here. Have you heard of Ruthallion\nMill?\u201d\n\nThe mariner struck the palm of his left hand with his right fist. The\nblow had weight enough in it to make the casements quiver.\n\n\u201cWherefore could I not have thought of the Mill?\u201d he cried.' \u201cI was fool\nenough to let a thought of Squire Trevelyan's Court come into my mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no doubt that we shall find her at the Mill,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cThe\nmiller has been a second father to her, and, besides, he has a daughter.\n'Tis to friends such as these that she would go for succour and sympathy\nin her hour of trouble.\u201d Captain Snowdon mused for a moment.\n\n\u201cHow do I know that they will be on my side, Mr. Wesley?\u201d he asked.\n\u201cThey may reckon that she has been ill-used--that she has a right to\nchange her mind and to choose whomsoever she will.\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Snowdon,\u201d said Wesley, \u201cit doth not need that one should be\npossessed of a judgment beyond that of ordinary people to decide the\nright and the wrong of this affair in which we all take a huge interest.\nCome, sir, let us prepare for the best and not for the worst. What, are\nyou a master-mariner and yet have not learned that the best way to stamp\nout a mutiny is by a display of promptitude. Let us lose no time over\nthe discussion of what the result of our action may be--let us act at\nonce.\u201d\n\nHe went to the door..\n\n\u201cNay, sir; but you are a sick man--how will you make this journey?\u201d said\nSnowdon.\n\n\u201cI am no longer a sick man,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI would not give a second\nthought to the setting out upon a journey to the Mill on foot. But there\nwill be no need for this. Mr. Hartwell will lend us his light cart; it\nwill hold three.\u201d\n\n\u201cThree? But we are but two, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, Mr. Snowdon--only two for the journey to the Mill; but we shall\nneed an extra seat for our return.\u201d\n\nA few words to Mr. Hartwell and his easy running waggon was at the door.\nThe drive through the valley of the Lana on this lovely afternoon had\nan exhilarating effect upon Captain Snowdon, for Wesley took care that\ntheir conversation should be-on topics far removed from their mission\nat this time. He wished to be made acquainted with his companion's views\nrespecting many matters of the Orient. Was it possible that the Jesuits\nhad sent missionaries to the Indies and even to China? Had Captain\nSnowdon had any opportunity of noting-the result of their labours? Had\nCaptain Snowdon learned if the Jesuits discountenanced any of the odious\nnative customs such as the burning of widows--the throwing of infants\ninto the sacred river of Ganges? Or did the missioners content\nthemselves with simple preaching?\n\nThe journey to the Mill was all too short to allow of Captain Snowdon's\nanswering more than a few of the questions put to him by the discreet\nMr. Wesley, and it was not until they were turning down the little lane\nthat the ship-master came to an abrupt end of his replies, and put the\nnervous question to his companion:\n\n\u201cShall we find her here, or have we come on a wild-goose chase?\u201d\n\nIn a few minutes they were in her presence--almost in her presence; they\ncaught sight of her flying through the inner door when they entered the\nMill room.\n\nThe miller, in his shirtsleeves and wearing his working apron, gave a\nloud laugh and shouted \u201cStop thief!\u201d but his daughter and her mother\nwere looking grave and tearful. They moved to the door by which Nelly\nhad made her escape, but checked themselves and returned to greet Wesley\nand Snowdon. They hoped that the sun had not been overwarm during the\ndrive through the valley, and that Mr. Wesley had fully recovered from\nhis sickness.\n\nThe miller came to the point with his usual directness.\n\n\u201cYou have come to carry the girl home with you, I doubt not?\u201d he said;\nand forthwith his wife and daughter made for the door.\n\nCaptain Snowdon looked ill at ease. He glanced toward the outer door.\n\n\u201cHow oft have I not told her that a judgment would fall upon her for\nthe heartburnings that she brought about--all through her kindness o'\nheart?\u201d continued the miller. \u201cPoor daughter! But they all go through\nthe same course, Captain, of that you may be assured, albeit I doubt not\nthat you think that so dread a case as yours has never been known i'\nthe world before. When the marriage day draws nigh, the sweetest and the\nsurest of them all has a misgiving. Don't be too ready to blame them,\nsir. The wonder is that when she sees so many errors hurried into under\nthe name of marriage, any maid can bring herself to take upon her the\nbondage.\u201d Captain Snowdon nodded sideways and looked shyly down.\n\n\u201cNature is stronger than experience, miller,\u201d said Wesley. \u201cI am\nbold enough to think that you could give Mr. Snowdon a pinch of your\nexperience in your garden, after you have told Nelly that I seek a word\nwith her here. I am pretty certain that I shall have completed my task\nbefore your experiences as a married man are exhausted.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight, sir,\u201d said the miller. \u201cCaptain, I show you the door in no\ninhospitable spirit. I'll join you in the turning of a pinion.\u201d\n\nCaptain Snowdon seemed pleased to have a chance of retiring, returning\nto the open air; he hurried out by one door, while the miller went\nthrough the other and shouted for Nelly. His wife's remonstrance with\nhim for his unfeeling boisterousness reached Wesley, who was now alone\nin the room.\n\nHe was not kept long waiting. Nelly entered, the miller leading her by\nthe hand, and then walking slowly to the outer door..\n\n\u201cMy dear, you know why I have come hither,\u201d said Wesley, taking her hand\nin both of his own. \u201cYou asked for my counsel once, and I gave it to\nyou. I could only give it to you at that time in a general way. I had\nnot seen the man to whom you had given your promise; but having seen\nhim, and knowing what manner of man he is--and I am something of a judge\nof a man's character--I feel that I would be lacking in my duty to you,\ndear child, if I were to refrain from coming to you to plead for--for\nyour own happiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave I forfeited all your esteem by my behaviour, sir?\u201d she cried,\nstill holding his hand and looking at him with piteous eyes. \u201cDo you\nthink of me as a light-minded girl, because I confessed to you--all that\nI did confess?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have never ceased to think of you with affection,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cAh! the affection of a man who is esteemed by all the world, for a poor\ngirl who touched the hem of his life, and then passed away never to be\nseen by him again.\u201d\n\nShe spoke in a curious tone of reproach. He looked at her, asking\nhimself what she meant.\n\n\u201cChild, child, you little know how I have thought of you,\u201d he said\nslowly. \u201cDo you believe that the path of my life has been so gilded with\nsunshine that I take no count of such hours as we passed together when\nwe walked through the valley, side by side--when we sat together on the\ncliffs?\u201d\n\nShe gave a little cry of joy and caught up his hand and kissed it.\n\nHe was startled. He turned his eyes upon her. She was rosy red. Her head\nwas bowed.\n\nIn that instant he read her secret.\n\nThere was a long silence. Only occasionally a little sob came from her.\n\n\u201cChild,\u201d he said in a low voice. \u201cChild, you have been very dear to me.\u201d\n\nShe looked up with streaming eyes.\n\n\u201cSay those words again--again,\u201d she cried in faltering tones.\n\n\u201cThey are true words, my dear,\u201d he said. \u201cThe life which it has been\ndecreed that I shall lead must be one of loneliness--what most men and\nall women call loneliness. Such joys of life as love and marriage and a\nhome can never be for me. I have given myself over body and soul to the\nwork of my Master, and I look on myself as separate forever from all the\ntenderness of life. They are not for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should they not be for you? You have need of them, Mr. Wesley?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should they not be for me, do you ask?\u201d he cried. \u201cThey are not for\nme, because I have been set to do a work that cannot be done without\na complete sacrifice of self. Because I have found by the bitterest\nexperience, that so far as I myself am concerned--I dare not speak for\nanother--these things war against the Spirit. If I thought it possible\nthat a woman should be led to love me I would never see her again.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, do not say that--do not say that!\u201d she said piteously.\n\n\u201cI do say it,\u201d he cried. \u201cNever--never--never would I do so great an\ninjustice to a woman as to marry her. I tell you that I would think of\nit as a curse and not a blessing. I know that I have been appointed to\ndo a great work, and I am ready, with God's help, to trample beneath my\nfeet everything of life that would turn my thoughts from that work. The\nwords are sounding in my ear day and night--day and night, 'If any man\ncome to Me and hate not his father and mother and wife and children\nand brethren and sisters--yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my\nDisciple.'\u201d\n\nHe stood away from her, speaking fervently. His face, pale by reason\nof his illness, had become paler still: but his resolution had not\nfaltered, his voice had not broken.\n\nShe had kept her eyes fixed upon him. The expression upon her face was\none of awe.\n\nShe shuddered when he took a step toward her and held out a thin white\nhand to her. She touched it slowly with her own.\n\n\u201cNelly,\u201d he said, \u201cthere is a joy in self-sacrifice beyond any that\nthe world can give. I look on you as one of my children--one of that\nHousehold of Faith who have told me that they had learned the Truth from\nmy lips. My child, if you were called on to make any great sacrifice for\nthe Truth, would you not make it? Although I may seem an austere man to\nyou, I do not live so far apart from those who are dear to me as to be\nincapable of sympathising with them in all matters of their daily life.\nI think you knew that or you would not have confessed to me that you\nfancied your love had suffered a change.\u201d\n\nShe rose from her chair, and passed a hand wearily across her face.\n\n\u201cA fancy--it was a fancy--a dream--oh, the most foolish dream that ever\na maiden had,\u201d she said. \u201cHas it ever been known that a maiden fancied\nshe loved the shadow of a dream when all the time her heart was given to\na true man?\u201d\n\n\u201cDear child, have you awakened?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cMy dreaming time is past,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cI may bid Captain Snowdon to enter?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cNot yet--not yet--I must be alone; I will see him in another hour.\u201d\n\nHe kissed her on the forehead, and went with unfaltering feet into the\nsunshine.","title":"The Love That Prevailed","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":91567}