A Voice in the Wilderness. A novel

Front matter

Xcto Xobrls at rbrry 3Ltfjrar». UNCLE BOB'S NIECE. By Leslie Keith. 3 vols. A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. By James Tats. 3 vols. AN ADVENTURESS. By the Author of " Foe Love and Honour." 3 vols. THE NUN'S CURSE. By Mrs. Riddell. 3 vols. ONE MAID'S MISCHIEF. By G. Manvillb Fenn. 3 vols. A MODERN MAGICIAN. By Fitzgeiiald Molloy. 3 vols. HER TWO MILLIONS. By Wm. Westall. 3 vols. THROUGH GREEN GLASSES. By F. M. Allen. 6s. JOHN O' LONDON. By Somekvule Gibney. 6s. WARD & DOWNEY, Publishers, London. n Nobel. EY CAROLINE FOTHERGILL, author of "an enthusiast," etc. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. WARD AND DOWNEY, 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 1888. \_All rights reserved.'] A CHAHs.RS DICKENS AND fcVANS, CKTSTAL PALACE PBESS. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. Despondency

A few days later Antoinette got a hurried scrawl from Mr. Fountain, which ran some what thus : " I have heard from Burland aud he will come (I told you he would). That is he will lecture, for he will be here long before the time, of course. He congratulates me on what we have done, but does not mention your name. So you see no harm is done. Don't forget to work Haslam." Antoinette laughed aloud as she read VOL. Ill, B B this and said, " Poor Mr. Fountain ! " Then she sat down and thought of what was going to happen. She felt as though disaster were at hand, she had lost all con fidence in her own strength. She feared to meet Burland. A teasing thought would keep coming to her, and she could not help o-ivinoher attention to it. She remembered that Mr. Fountain had said Burland had been long in replying to the invitation to undertake the frescoes, when at last his reply had come, it had been a refusal.

Upon pressure he had yielded. In the meantime, he had received Mr. Fountain's invitation to lecture and had learned that she was living at Whitfield. What had been his reason for consenting to come ? She chid herself for vanity and presumption, but the thought would not be laid, and when she thouoht of Burland, it was with a feeling of foreboding which not all her reason could conquer. She looked forward to Christmas with a kind of terror which was none the DESPONDENCY. 3 less real, that she could neither explain nor justify it. She could only resolve to call all her strength to her aid and to dissemble with what cunningshe mie-ht. O O Not long after, Mark came to see her. He apologised for not having called for so long, but said he had been much occupied. She did not ask what his occupation had been.

She would have been very much sur prised if she had known it had consisted in resisting the influence she had over him, and in seeking guidance on the point. He had felt quite comfortable for some time after that night spent on his knees ; then the first Sunday he had seen Antoinette announced to sing, he had so longed to hear her that he had yielded to the temptation. Twice since then he had been, and now he was again at war with himself. He seemed as much led away as any of those he ' was attempting to reclaim. Her voice had cast a spell over him, he must go where he could hear it. He was puzzled. Had he been b mistaken on that night ? Had he taken his own wishes for the voice of God and was he sinking into a state of sin, or was this some inexplicable manifestation of the Divine Will 1 Was it ordained that out of dark ness light should come ? order out of chaos, good out of evil 1 He could not make up his mind ; and at last, after hours spent in prayers and suppli cations, he resolved to see Antoinette— some explanation of the m)*stery might be granted him. ♦ The weather was wintry by this time, and he found her looking very bright in her warm, pretty room.

It was such a wretched day, there were not likely to be any other callers. She had been reading when he came in, and he took up the book, as she laid it aside, and looked at it. It was an explanation of evolu tion' by the highest teachings of Christianity. " I did not know you read these books," he said. " I thought your convictions were all made up." DESPONDENCY. " They are not graven in marble." " That means they may be changed. I am glad ; it gives a kind of countenance to one's own changes." He sighed as he spoke, and laid the book aside. After a pause, he went on : " I don't know whether it is good to read such books at all." " I thought you believed in examining and proving all that came in your way, to test your faith." " Oh, no ! Because we see a puddle right in our way is no reason for walking straight through it to see if we can keep our boots clean."

She laughed, and he went on " That is one of the fallacies of modern thought. People think they must examine everything ; there are some things which will not bear examination." " We will not dispute about that now, but it seems to me rather you who should strengthen my convictions than I yours." " Things are rather what they are than what they should be." "That sounds to mean more than it does. I believe there is more of the fitness of things in every-day life than is commonly supposed." " I don't agree with you. I have been wondering lately what fitness of things there is in my being here." He was evidently inclined to talk about himself. Toinette humoured him. " Do you mean in this town, or in existence at all ? " " I believe no one comes into existence without an appointed work to do, and an appointed place to do it in ; but people are constantly getting the wrong work in the wrong places."

" Do you think you are in the wrong place ? " I do. My work here is completely thrown away." " Nay, you exaggerate. It cannot be DESPONDENCY. 7 thrown away, even if you^ don't see all the good it does." " I don't know why I am here at all," he went on, almost angrily. " I never intended to be in a place like this when I enteredj the Church. My ideal was far above anything I have done, or am likely to do. From time to time my spirit slumbers, and then I wake again with the horrible feeling that time is passing, and I am doing nothing, worse than nothing. I am doing harm rather than good. That is a fearful feeling," turning to Antoinette. " In your case I should think it is the feeling of a disordered imagination," she said quietly. " You are not well, or you would not feel like that." "You are wrong.

It is just because I am well, and my mind is alive to realities, that I do feel it. I am wasting my time, and I think there is no knowledge more bitter than that." " Retrieve what you have wasted ; there is time." " I am half inclined to, and yet I am A VOICE IN 1HE WILDERNESS. 8 so bound to this. place. Miss Howard," he went on abruptly, "what do you think of a missionary's life ? " " I have not thought much about it," she answered, startled by a question for which she was wholly unprepared. " You should. I very much want to have }> your opinion. " Tell me first what you understand by a missionary's life." " I mean, to go abroad into heathen countries, and spread the knowledge of Christ, call the lost unto salvation, and proclaim the Gospel." "I think it is a gigantic mistake." " Did you say a gigantic mistake ?

" he asked. " I cannot have heard aright. "That is what I said." " But why ? What is your reason ? ' " There is enough to do in this country, without spending time, money and energy in preaching the Gospel to those you call heathens." DESPONDENCY. 9 " Those / call heathens ! Why, they do. not know the meaning of the word Christianity." "Do all the people in England, in this town even, know what it means ? " " I know the argument. Evangelise these large towns by all means, but do not there fore neglect those who live in darkness beyond the seas. To do so would be to disregard the Divine injunction that the Kingdom of God should be preached to all nations. You cannot do away with that command." "It seems to me monstrous that, while thousands are starving in our streets at home, money should flow in abundance to those who would have been better and happier if they had been left alone."

" Your eyes are blinded so that you cannot see," he said sadly. ** It is you who are blinded. You blind yourselves with texts which were not written to describe your case at all. You distort them from their original meaning. And your work is all in vain. The people to whom you preach are unable to grasp the most elementary truths, much less an abstract principle like Christianity ; and if you would only try to see things as they are, you would know it. There is another thing, too," she went on, as he did not speak. "It would be cowardly to desert your work here. It is beset with difficulties, and, after long and arduous labour, you find the results disappointingly small. It is very much easier, besides having the appearance of having ' given up all for Christ,' to go to some distant country and produce a merely super ficial effect, which extends over a large area, and therefore looks imposing ; to have your name quoted as an active worker in the Lord's vineyard.

I have seen missionary reports, and know the phraseology. If you yield to the temptation of exchanging your hard, obscure work in Whitfield for the life of a missionary abroad, I shall be more dis appointed than I can say." DESPONDENCY. 11 What had led her to adopt such a tone she did not know. It is true she had spoken out of the fulness of her heart, but she would have said, had her opinion been asked, that on such subjects there was no need to give publicity to one's convictions. But with Mark she often spoke more unreservedly than she would have done with any one else. Mark heard her to the end, and then seized upon a point which she had not expected. " Cowardly ! " he said. " Do you think it would be cowardly ? " " I think it would be showing great want of conviction in the good of your cause."

"No, you are unjust, and you do not understand. A missionary's life is full of dangers and hardships ; no coward would ever dare to undertake it." " You are so narrow ; you will admit only one way of doing good. You hold yourselves aloof and say yours is the only way to salvation, and yet you have been proved wrong a thousand times." "You are following a blind guide," was all he said, " you are walking in the dark." "Because you refuse to share your light with us," she said, seizing the opportunity to fulfil her promise to Mr. Fountain. " Clergymen have been asked to lecture at East Shore, and they have always refused." " On Sunday, you forget." "They preach on Sundays." "But this is different." He spoke with hesitation and she spoke persuasively to him, urging upon him the importance of hearing both sides, showing him that, if he would, they might work hand in hand.

He was silent ; but his face showed that he was moved. At last she made a direct appeal to him, speaking in the low, rich voice which he never could resist. " You have never heard us. Come and hear us speak for ourselves. You have set DESPONDENCY. 13 a great example in other things, be the pioneer in this." He did not speak at once. Then he said, hesitatingly, and only half aloud : "I may go and hear. There is no harm in that." " That is all I ask. Show yourself on the platform, and you will not regret it." Still he meditated in silence. At last he said : " I should like to hear you sing." " On the last Sunday I shall sing four songs. Come then : make it an engage ment." " I will come," he said after a long pause.

Chapter II. Mr

FOUNTAIN'S LETTER. At this time Burland was at home. He had been away in the spring and in the early autumn, now he was at home again. He had been working hard. He had brought out the volume of social essays, called " Side Lights," of w*hich Antoinette had heard, and which had been a great success, and he had produced one great picture, which created more of a sensation even than his celebrated " View from Bryn Teg." He had become a most important lion, aud was overwhelmed with attentions and invitations ; the one he bore passively, the other he generally refused. He lived very much alone, and there were times when his more intimate acquaintances grew anxious about him, and urged him to lead a more healthy and rational life. People had almost forgotten by this time that he had a wife, many were ignorant of the fact.

Lilian might have been dead for all he ever heard of her outside his own house, and inside he had but few reminders of her existence. He never saw her, except at long intervals for a few minutes. Mrs. Lang had entire control over her, and he was seldom troubled with details. Early in the summer, he had received au invitation from the authori ties in Whitfield to paint the series of twelve frescoes, with which the large hall of their new Assize Court was to be adorned. He did not reply at once. He knew no one in Whitfield, and very little about the town itself; what he did know offered very little temptation to go and live there for an in definite time. He could not take Lilian, and hesitated about leaving her alone for so long. After weighing the matter well in his mind, he wrote and declined the offer, although, from a pecuniary point of view, it was an exceedingly tempting one.

His refusal was not accepted. He received a renewal of the invitation, urgently pressing him to undertake the work. Again he reflected on the matter, turning it this way and that, and almost resolved to decline again, when he got one day another letter bearing the Whitfield post-mark. He always remembered the coming of that letter; it was in the evening. He had been that afternoon to call upon Bertha, and she had de tained him after the other callers had left, that she might ask his advice upon a matter of some importance to her. When the matter was laid before him, he was surprised to find that it consisted in an offer of marriage she had had from Dr. Warwick, a colleague of her brother's, and a man of considerable note. She could not make up her mind whether to accept him or not. She admitted that she had no love for him, scarcely even a preference.

But, on the other hand, the match would be a good match, and her brother would certainly be pleased. She had not yet mentioned it to him, and would only do so if she decided to accept Dr. Warwick's proposal. Burland, rather at a loss to know why he was consulted in the matter, asked what she wanted him to do. She said she wanted his advice. He replied that he was flattered at the confidence she showed in his judg ment ; and after a little talk about it, he said that, without wishing to give his words the authority of advice, he thought she would do better not to accept Dr. Warwick. For some reason, which he failed to fathom, she seemed relieved, and wrote a note on the spot, which she requested him to post, con veying her refusal to Dr. Warwick. He walked home with the letter between his fingers, pondering a little over Bertha's oddities, dropped her note into the first pillar he came to, and reached home to find VOL. III. o this letter from Whitfield waiting for him.

The envelope contained many things beside a letter ; reports, programmes, and various printed sheets ; but he read the letter before looking at any of them. It was from Mr. Fountain, explaining to him the nature and purpose of his organisation, and concluding with an invitation to go down and lecture on a certain Sunday, the date of which was given at some months hence. " There seems to be a conspiracy to get me to Whitfield," he murmured as he read, for the letter was long and the writine rather illegible. Still he was interested, and read on till, as he turned the last page, his eye leapt to a certain name on that page, and was held there spell-bound. The name was "Miss Antoinette Howard," and its effect upon Burland was magical. He read to the end of the letter at a glance. He turned to the enclosures, and in them all — programmes, reports, and syllabuses— the same name reappeared.

The rest he skimmed that he might see what she was doing, and again and again he came upon her name. In an instant his mind was made up. He would fall in with the conspiracy ; he would become the victim of it ; he would go to Whitfield ; he would accept both invitations. The length of time he would have to spend there, which before had so strongly influenced his refusal to go, was now an additional cord drawing him thither. He had spent such hours wondering where Antoinette was, and what she was doing, and wishing to see her ; now he might see her as easily and naturally as if he had never wished it at all. He lost no time in writing to close the negotiations about the frescoes, and until he got an answer to his letter he was haunted with a fear lest they should have grown impatient over his delay, and have appointed some one else.

He wrote a letter to Mr. Fountain, which surprised that gentleman, who was so fond of surprising other people o — a letter which contained, in addition to a promise of a lecture, a cheque for a hand some subscription to the organisation. He had a little more correspondence about the frescoes, and it was arranged he should take up his abode in Whitfield shortly before Christmas. It was also found necessary that he should run down for a couple of days at once, and he joyfully acquiesced in the arrangement. It was possible he might see Antoinette ; at any rate he would be in the same place. The gloom of Whitfield, on a damp and sunless autumn day, failed to depress him ; everything seemed bathed in light, every one seemed the pleasantest man he had ever met. He could have laughed at himself, and did so several times when he was alone and un observed.

Business over, he was put in charge of one of the committee, at whose house he was to stay all night, and who deliberated on the best form of entertainment he could offer his guest. He suggested at last that they should go to the new archery club, .which some enterprising spirits had set going, and which promised to become very popular. Burland agreed, he would have agreed to anything. His host explained that his two daughters had joined and would probably be there ; besides, he added, " It was pretty sport, very pretty sport." They went. His host admitted his guest and himself with a private key, and they found themselves in a long alley with a target at each end, and a group of ladies gathered round one. Some looked up at the entrance of the two men. But the lady who, it appeared. was just about to shoot, and who was standing with her back to them, did not alter her position ; but her figure and bearing were familiar to him, and his heart gave a great leap as he recognised Antoinette.

Chapter III. Taken By Surprise

Antoinette had not joined the archery club ; but she had come that day to take a part in a friendly match that had been got up between the members. It had been one of her favourite amusements in Yorkshire, and she had practised it sometimes in Wales. Burland had often seen her do it and admired her skill and grace. Now he watched her with deep interest. She stood at one end of the long smooth lawn in battle array. Her gown of green fitted her perfectly, her quiver was slung round her slender waist, the arm which wore the guard was bare to the elbow, and upon it flashed a golden band which he TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 23 remembered well and smiled at the sight of Her little cap was decorated with a waving plume. She was just taking aim, her figure was drawn erect, one foot a little forward ; she raised her bow, drew the arrow to the head, paused, the bow-string twanged, and the arrow flew into the very middle of the ball's eye, where it stuck quivering.

She was applauded, and Burland, unable to control his interest and excitement, stepped forward with the rest and addressed her. She had not known he was coming, and was totally unaware of his presence. At the sound of his voice, she felt a thrill pass through her from head to foot, and she did not try to hide her surprise. " I have come over on business," he said, in reply to her greeting, and then went on : " Your right hand has not lost its cunning, Miss Howard. That was a eapital shot." " I will repeat it if you like," she said, for the blood was now coursing at racing speed through her veins. Something in his look and manner showed her that he had noticed her loss of self-control, it might be that her face had been more expressive than she knew. She was on her mettle again, and anxious to show him that his sudden and unexpected appearance caused her no more than a very temporary agitation.

" Should you like me to repeat it ? " she said, as he was silent. "I beg your pardon," he said, rousing himself, for he had seen her agitation, and been pleasurably excited by it. "If you can," he went on ; " but it will be difficult to repeat such a shot as that." There was a note of warning in his voice as if he would say : " Do not offer to do more than you are sure of." She heard the warning, and smiled as she drew another arrow from her quiver, and fitted it to her bow. "Stand a little further back, please," ehe said, " I have not room enough." " It must be equally in the middle," he TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 25 said, inclined to increase the difficultyof the test when he saw how readily she accepted it. " I will split the arrow I have just shot. Will that satisfy you ? " turning her head slightly as she spoke.

" Certainly, if you can," still with the note of warning in his voice, and thinking to himself, " suppose she fails, I shall take it for a sign." She smiled again, raised her bow, took aim, feeling his eyes fixed eagerly upon her, and let fly. There was a rattle as the arrow struck the one she had first shot, and both quivered with the concussion. The loud applause of the bystanders recalled them to the consciousness that they were not alone. Burland, too, applauded ; and she turned to him, not speaking, but with a look in her eyes and a curl of her lip more eloquent than words. Then she walked to the target, and he followed her, half mortified, but admiring. She moved before him with something queenly in her step and bearing, her bow raised against her shoulder ; and he bit his lip as he looked at her.

"See," she said, touching the arrows, " did I not tell you ? " And he replied : " I was an idiot to doubt your skill in anything." She said nothing ; she was pulling the arrows out of the target and holding them in a sheaf in her hand. One had gone in more deeply than the rest (it was the last she had shot, and she wondered if he noticed it), and refused to come out ; he offered to pull it out for her, but she refused his assistance. Then she slipped them all back into her quiver, and Burland said : " You are not going to shoot again ? I want to talk." "No. I shall not shoot again; but there is Mr. Henderson looking for you, he wants to introduce you to his daughters. TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 27 And it is time for me to go," looking at her watch. " One instant," he said, detaining her ■as she was turning away.

" I have not had a word with you yet," he went on, hurriedly. "You know I am coming to live here for some time ? " " Yes. I heard the other day. I con gratulate our city fathers on their choice of a workman." She was smiling brightly, there wag a gleam of malice in her eyes. " I come down in about a month. May I call ? " " Do. I shall be so glad to see you. Any one will tell you where I live. Now I must go. . I have friends to dinner early before the concert, and I see the Miss Hendersons looking daggers at me. By the way, they are exceedingly pleasant girls, I advise you to cultivate them when you come down. Good-bye." He held her ungloved hand for an instant in his, and then she was gone, leaving him feeling sore and disappointed, and rather snubbed. Outside the archery ground Antoinette took refuge in a cab, because she could not walk.

She had exhausted herself in her supreme effort at self-control and in difference. She had played her part well, she felt sure of that, but she had tried her strength to the utmost, and was capable of nothing more. She must rest now. She had thought herself safe until Christmas, not having heard that Burland was to come down for a couple of days before then. His appearance in that sud den, unexpected fashion had given her a greater shock than she knew, and she was rather dismayed to find that she did not recover from it all the evening. But she had begun well, she assured herself, and everything was in the beginning.

Chapter IV. Dangerous

ground. It was in her own house that Antoinette next saw Burland. He called very soon after having settled in Whitfield; but this time she was not taken by surprise, because she knew he was in the town and had half expected his coming. As it was the after noon when she was always at home to her friends, there were other people present, and she had but little conversation with him. She had given a great deal of thought to the manner in which it would be most pru dent to bear herself, and had at last decided that her safety lay in never allowing him to become serious ; if she could always keep up a tone of sufficient lightness in their inter course, she was convinced that she need fear nothing. Above all, it would be well not to revert to that time in Wales, when their friendship had been so close.

It might be difficult always to do what she intended ; for, while she was supposed to know nothing she knew all, and he was acquainted with only his own side of the question. But her belief in herself had returned ; and she felt that, under skilful management, the situation was at least possible. So, when Burland entered the room, he received a greeting which in no way distinguished him from the common herd, and, being instantly made known to the other people present, he found himself subsiding into con versation with a young lady in whom he felt not the slightest interest, and who was powerless to excite any in him. He had never seen Antoinette in her own house before, and the spectacle had great attractions for him. He discovered a charm in everything she said and did, which to some extent reconciled him to being so far separated from her.

She was in gay spirits too. He soon perceived that she had not lost her old readiness of speech ; and, as the conversation became more general, he was enabled to take part in it, and even to exchange direct speech with her. She addressed him in the same tone in which she spoke to the others, and, though she talked of nothing but trifles, he found that very refreshing. He had hoped to get a few words aside with her, but was disappointed. As fast as people went, others came, and though she passed near him several times, and never seemed to avoid speaking to him, their intercourse lacked all privacy ; and, after sitting for a much longer time than was becoming, he went away feeling the very reverse of amiable. Twice again he called, and always the same thing happened. Other people were always there, to whom Miss Howard paid and perhaps owed greater attention than she did to him.