Arnold Inglehurst, the Preacher. A story of the Fen Country

Chapter I

On the Road . . ... 7 II. Five Thorn Mill . ■ . . 21 III. Lady Ermine . . ... 34 l\r. The Devilles of Marsh Peveril . 45 V. The Minister's Household . . . 59 ArI. The Birthday Feast . . . . 73 VII. A Meeting of Ministers . . . . 85 VIII. Stolen Pleasures . • . . 101 IX. A Meeting . - • . . 113 X. The Haunted Chamber . ■ . . 126 XL A Strange Discovery . . . . 137 XII. Christmas at Gable House . . . 150 XIII. Cain's Opportunity . • . . 162 XIV. A Stricken Home . • . . 175 XV. Drawing Nearer . . ■ . . 189 XVI. Ermine Learns a Lesson . ■ . . 201 XVII. Cain's Letter . • ... 214 XVIII. Mallock's Daughters . ■ . . 227 XIX. Spring-tide and Love . ■ . . 238 XX. Geoffrey's Suit . . .■ ... Contents. VI CHAPTEP. PACE XXI. An Awakening . . ... 263 XXII The False and the True . . . 275 XXIII. Summer Days . . ... 287 XXIV.

Inglehurst as Mediator . . . 300 XXV. The Great Gale . . . 313 XXVI. A Strange Sunday . . . 324 XXVI I. "For Ermine's Sake" . ... 337 XXVIII. The Abating Flood . . . 351 XXIX. Drawing Near . . ... 364 XXX. Farewell . . ... ARNOLD INGLEHURST, Uhc preacher. CHAPTER T. ON THE ROAD. FjNT jQ|b3 C !■ market day in St. Andrews, and a high L*iy (S(^ '^ay t° hoot ; for to-day Avas that of the pyr >^ annual autumn horse fair, which was quite an r.hgsr7>-sJ| tA7ent amongst all farmers of the East Fen country. From a radius of some forty miles they gathered to witness the sale of the young colts and fine cart-horses which were offered to purchasers, and all the roads which led from the town were alive upon the day with travellers of all sorts and conditions, and with horses of every age and aspect. At the Old Half-way House this was one of the busiest days in the year.

That old-fashioned and well-patronised hostelry was situated in the village of Marshthorpe, about four miles from St. Andrews, and exactly half - way between that town and Wold End, another and less important place, though boasting notwithstanding a market-place and a weekly market of its own, as well as a quite respectable roll of inhabitants. Marshthorpe, as its name suggested, was one of those places reclaimed from the hungry waters of the restless ocean by the energy and skill of man. It was guarded on three sides by great dykes which had been raised to protect it from the ravages of storm or inundation. Out side the East Dyke, as it was called, the restless waves of the North Sea beat in stormy weather and at high tides, whilst at other times it would lie sleeping far away beyond great beds of marshy treacherous sand, looking as though it could never rouse itself to approach the frowning line of dyke which ran parallel with the coast for many a mile at this place.

Tradition said that once prosperous villages had stood where now the salt waves rolled, and it was whispered by some that, men of science had predicted that the sea might in the course of a few generations withdraw once more, and leave man another wide expanse of waste land to cultivate again, rendering useless the dykes raised with so much skill and toil. But on that point there was no certainty. All that the oldest inhabitants of the place were prepared to vouch for was that " theer were no tellin' what the zay would be at next along the coast." It took "vreaks and vancies like a woman," but they didn't reckon it would change much more in their time, which appeared the point of chiefest importance to them. The high road and the Old Half-way House stood about a mile from the sea coast at this point, though the road was tending towards the sea and almost touched the dyke half a mile further along, where it. then swept inland, making a wide horseshoe bend round the park land surrounding Marsh Peveril, the great house of the district, and so northward towards Great Grimsby, which ,-was regarded by the natives of Marshthorpe as the limit of the wildest wanderings.

Adam Bearward, or Master Bearward, as he was generally called by the villagers, was one of the great men of Marshthorpe. He had succeeded to the business from his father, who had held it before him ; and indeed there had been Bearwards at the inn ever since the memory of man and the testimony of tradition could reach back. The old hostelry itself was worth an hour of study, and certainly it would take more time than that to become ac quainted with all its ins and outs, its many quaint twists and turns, as passages led into rooms and rooms into passages again, with steps up and steps down at every turn, and hardly any two windows alike from garret to basement. One peculiarity of its construction was that it had been originally built on piles, probably owing to the marshy nature of the land, so that the visitor had to ascend many steps before reaching the front door and the ground floor rooms.

Below these rooms were a number of cellars in which quantities of mead and wine were stored, as well as innumerable open sheds, which travellers found mightily convenient, as many of them were large enough to con tain cart, and horse, and all, just as they were, and in inclement weather the poor beasts found comfortable shelter whilst their masters sat within, when otherwise they would perforce have been simply hitched to a ring, and have stood out exposed to wind and rain all the while. At the rear of the house stood a well-stocked kitchen garden, and beyond that again a large paddock, with a range of open sheds along one side of it. To-day this paddock was almost full of horses, and as a soft tine snow began to fall towards four o'clock, the creatures gathered beneath the friendly shelter of the wattle sheds, and crowded together for warmth.

It was only the last day of October, and although the wind had blown chill from the north-east all day, and the sky had worn a gathering and threatening look, people were hardly prepared for these white-winged messengers, and quite a small crowd gathered upon the wide veran dah-like space in front of the inn to have a look at the weather, and tp take counsel one with another as to the advisability of pursuing their journey, or of remaining in these comfortable quarters for the night. " Looks a bit queerish, measter, dwoan't un ? " remarked one and another. " My old 'ooman, her did azay as theer 'd be snow afore the week was out," added a drover, scratching his head. " But a didn't a think 'twould a coom so zoon. I 'd best be getten whoam with they sheep. The dwag '11 know his way, snow or no snow, I reckon.

Good day to you, measter ; good even, missus. 1 11 be getting along now." " I don't like the looks of it," said a comfortable farmer, with his hands in his pockets ; " them clouds have an angry sort a look, and I don't loike the way the wind yowls round the corners. Thee can give me a bed, Master Bearward, I reckon ; I 've a matter of ten miles to go, and a think I 'd sooner wait for daylight." " Thee 's welcome to stay. We 've beds still to spare, haven't we, missus ? " But the landlady was out of sight, and Master Bearward, looking round, called out im patiently : " Cain ! — Abel ! — where are you all got to ? Come, look alive, some on you. Bun and ask your grandam how many beds there still be unbespoke. We '11 have the house full to-night, I reckon ! " The innkeeper, foreseeing a busy time and brisk business, hurried off himself into the bar, whilst a traveller in a small parlour, who was a stranger to the place, and was only travelling with a friend with whom he was staying a few weeks, looked after the snow-powdered form passing the window, and said : " And who may Cain and Abel be ?

" His friend laughed, and glanced round the room, but there was no one else near to overhear. " They are the grandsons of the innkeeper. It is rather a sad story. The good folks here had an only son, a youth of promise and high intelligence, but full of wild theories and speculations altogether foreign from what you generally find in the natives of these parts. I don't know all the story. I often pass this way and hear a bit of news here and another bit there, but the details have to be filled up from surmise. The facts, however, are these. Young Adam was the sort of youth to be taken up with any new idea that was put before him in a fashion to catch his imagination. Quite early on in his career he was 'converted,' as it is called, by one of those itinerant Methodists. I believe he went to the most extreme lengths, living almost on bread and water, inveighing against his father's business, and one fine day almost getting himself turned out of house and home."

" Yes, that sort of thing would hardly be palatable to a tavern-keeper," said the other with a smile : " good ale and mead seem to flow freely at the Old Half-way House." " Yes, the Bearwards for many generations have been notable brewers ; they have their own recipes for all sorts of malt liquors and home-made wines. Of course the father was greatly displeased at what appeared to him to be nothing but folly and extravagance, and but for the intervention of the mother an open breach might have occurred ; as it was, a semblance of peace was just kept, and presently the hot-headed youth's fervour cooled. The reaction set in, and the next thing I heard was that he had been got hold of by some wild revolutionary teacher of universal equality and freedom ; and that he had gone to London to be better instructed in this creed."

" And what came of that ? " " Nothing good, as you may guess. For one thing, he married the daughter of one of your hot-headed revolu tionaries. He gave up all semblance of religion as taught by ministers of any denomination whatever, and talked wildly about the ' religion of the people ' — if you know what that is." " The religion of the French Revolution, I suppose," answered the other drily ; " the religion of wholesale murder, and the exaltation of a harlot to be the goddess of reason." "Something of that sort, I suppose. I don't think anybody in these parts knows much about those wild doings — long may they remain ignorant ! To return to facts, the young man suddenly appeared some four years after he had left home, with two infants in his arms. He told his mother that his wife had died in giving birth to the second — that their names were Cain and Abel, and that he was off to foreign lands to find there the freedom denied him in his own country ; but that he begged to leave his children with her, that they might have a mother's love over them in their infancy."

" And she took the charge ? " " Good soul, yes. I think it helped her to bear the grief of her son's defection better than anything else could have done. She was grieved, I believe, at the names of the children — at least at that of Cain ; but old Adam here would not have it changed. He had become an avowed enemy to what he calls 'cant' — which really means religion of any marked and outward kind. I believe he occasionally attends the parish church just as a mark of respectability ; but he always declares that it was religion that sent his boy wrong, and he cannot forgive or forget. In spite of all pleadings and remon strances he had the children christened Cain and Abel, in accordance with the names under which they had been registered, and so they remain till this very day. They are fine lads now of twenty and twenty-one, and quite Hke sons of the house.

As for the luckless son himself, he once came back about eight years ago, and might perhaps have settled down had it not been for the news of the outbreak in France. But that drew him like a magnet. He was in Paris all through those unspeak able horrors ; but they cost him his life, and he was killed in a street brawl some five years ago now. I suppose the career of his son has been the hardest trial Adam Bearward has had to bear. Everybody who knows him says how it has hardened and embittered him. He does not show this outwardly to any great extent ; but it comes out now and then, and especially if religion happens to be the theme under discussion, or the doctrines of the Methodists in particular. Nothing will convince him that it was not the teachings of the Methodists which ruined his son, and I have heard that he sedulously keeps any kind of religious influence away from the boys.

However, I must not weary you by my talk, and it is cime we were on the road again. We shall have our work to get home by nightfall ; but I am not afraid to try it. We shall have the wind at our backs." The two friends went out and called for their horses, which were quickly and smartly brought up by the two lads, Cain and Abel. The former of these was a dark eyed handsome youth, with an open face, but an expression that bespoke keen intelligence, and a latent impatience of his surroundings not yet actively developed, but which sometimes made those who had known his father shake their heads and prognosticate a similar fate for the son. Abel, although like his brother in feature, was much fairer, and looked dreamy rather than restless. The brothers were much attached to each other, and though the superstitious shook their heads and declared that no good would come of giving lads such names as Cain and Abel, yet nothing of a sinister nature had arisen to give point or weight to their prognostications.

They lived together in more than ordinarily brotherly accord, and were universal favourites with the travellers, who were always willing to chat with the bright lads, and answer any questions that might be put to them. Whilst all the bustle of coming and going, departing hastily, or bespeaking accommodation for the night was in full swing at the Old Half-way House, a solitary horseman was slowly approaching the village of Marsh thorpe from a southerly direction. He was mounted on a tall horse which, although somewhat road-worn and out of condition, yet bore the unmistakable stamp of good blood, and lifted its feet daintily, placing them firmly and well ; and every now and then pricking its veined ears and turning its shapely head towards some snow-covered object along the wayside, the nature of which could not now be clearly distinguished.

The rider was so powdered with snow that it would be hard to give any sort of description of him. He was certainly slightly built, and it might be conjectured that he was tall, but he sat with his head down, and his hat pulled over his eyes, so that his face could not be seen, and the only thing about him which the casual observer could remark was that he wore no wig, but that his own hair, which clustered round his head in close natural curls that as yet the snow had not damped out, was of a very deep golden colour, such as is rarely seen save on the head of a child. He sat his horse with the ease and the unconscious grace of a trained rider; but there was something in his attitude which betrayed extreme weariness, if not something worse. Occasionally he swayed slightly in the saddle, as though, save for the gentle pace of the animal he rode, and from long practice, he might have fallen ; and his reins hung slack in his nerveless grasp, as though he had no longer the will or the power to guide his steed.

But the horse stepped on with regular stride, looking from right to left with his soft brown eyes, as though seeking for some sign of human habitation, and as though he knew that his master's safety depended upon his action. The horseman was now just approaching the South Dyke, which branched off at right angles from the East Dyke guarding the coast, and marked the commencement of an area of increased cultivation and habitation. The high road ran across the dyke ; but there was a bridle and foot-path leading straight along the top of the barrier, and curling smoke and the outline of snow-laden buildings showed that some habitations might thus be reached. There were also houses to be seen on either side the high way a little further on. The horse paused, as though for direction here from his rider, and the latter, seeming to waken out of his semi -unconscious state, sat up in the saddle and looked about him, shaking the snow from the brim of his hat, and pushing it out of his eyes and from his face with a few quick movements of his hands.

Now that the face could be seen, it was evident to the most casual observer that the traveller was ill. That intense pallor, and the dark shadows beneath the eyes, are never seen save in actual sickness or that exhaustion which is its precursor. The face was a striking one — the features being very finely chiselled, and bearing the stamp upon them that is generally associated (and in this case rightly so) with high birth. The eyes were large and penetrating in expression, even now when somewhat dimmed by weakness and faintness ; they were of an intensely blue colour, verging on violet, and there was something in their expression of so haunting and quicken ing a nature that those who had once encountered their glance could not help constantly recalling it, wondering what was the cause of this, yet in some sort almost always desirous of meeting that glance again.

The stranger looked along the high road, and then along the bridle path which crossed it at right angles. Away to the right lay the cluster of cottages, together with a larger building that might be an inn — though generally inns lay right upon the high road — and beyond that the sea, the sullen booming of which filled the air with ceaseless moan. " It is more like a fishing community than a village," he murmured to himself ; " perhaps 1 had better keep straight on. I would not willingly stray from my path, either for my own sake or that of my good comrade. I fear me there is something wrong with me to-night. I must seek shelter quickly, if I am to find it at all. God send I fall not b}r the way-side to die in a ditch with my work yet undone ! And yet — His will be done ! If I could serve Him so more than by my life, let it even be so!"

At this moment the horse pricked up his ears and uttered a low whinny. The dim eyes of the traveller, which for a moment had closed in weakness and deathly exhaustion, opened again to see a sturdy figure buffeting its way along the dyke towards him, exposed to the cutting wind but in no wise daunted thereby. " Truly a friend in need ! " he murmured to himself ; and as the pedestrian approached he rallied his powers to ask : " Good sir, can you tell me if I am near to an inn ? My horse and myself are sorely weary, and I fear me I have gotten something of a chill in this biting cold. But 1; I trust by the signs I see to be near to some hostelry, and once there, I hope all may be well with us. " You have but to follow that road, good sir, and you will reach a most excellent inn in half a mile," answered the pedestrian cheerily, as he took the bridle of the weary horse, and led him onwards, thus obtaining a little shelter for himself from the gale ; " but whether or no you will find a bed there to-night is another matter, for it is a busy day with all tavern-keepers along these roads, by reason of the great horse-fair at St. Andrews.

Yet even so maybe they will make shift to take you in — provided you be not a preacher of the Gospel of the Kingdom of Heaven ! " The rider had bowed forward again upon his saddle as if in overpowering weakness ; but at these words he roused himself and asked : " What mean you by those words, sir ? " " I mean verily what I say. Adam Bearward will welcome any guest to his house save one who comes in the Name of all names ; and upon him he would fain shut his doors if he had but the excuse to do so. He could not do so were his house empty ; but be it full and there comes a preacher his way, he would sooner let him die in a ditch than stir hand or foot to help him." " I am a preacher," said the traveller faintly ; " and methinks I shall even so die if I can find no shelter to-night." " Nay, my good sir — not so," answered the little man with cheery good-will ; " I will take care of that, even though I should sleep in my own kitchen myself to give you my bed.

But I can do better than that, I trow. Welcome as any brother of the gospel would be at my house, I have scant accommodation there for my own household, and a sick man loves not the noise of healthy hearty young folks between thin walls. If you can sit your horse for a short half-hour more, methinks I can place you in the best hands in all Marshthorpe for tending you, and keeping you through this colic or chill, or what ever may have its grip on you. Mistress Shooter, of the Five Thorns, is a notable nurse, and the windmiller, her husband, has a guest-chamber where often a wayfarer is taken in when the Old Half-way House is full. I will conduct you thither myself." " You are too good to me, sir— such a night — I fear to trespass on your good-will." " Chut ! chut ' chut ! I am the gainer as much as you, my friend.

This gentle beast of yours gives me excellent shelter from the biting blast ; and it so chances my way lies past the very door of the windmill itself." " It is an ill night to be abroad," said the traveller, still in the same gentle refined tones, faint through weakness of body, but betraying in every accent the gentle rearing and effects of education. " Oh, as for that, there are many worse nights that I have to face the weather," answered the cheery little man ; " as I say to my wife and children when they come and pray me to wait for the day, even when a summons be urgent like the one to-night : — "'Come rain, come wind, come frost, come snow, I 'm a Methodist preacher, and I must go.' " "You are a Methodist preacher then, sir," said the traveller, " and a resident in these parts ? " " Yes, for the present at least.

I live beside the little chapel over yonder, nigh to where you met me, and labour amongst the poor fishing-folks, and those who will hear me. Are you a Methodist yourself, sir, may I ask ? You spoke of being a preacher." " A preacher of the gospel, yes ; but I belong to no body gathered under a name or system. I would talk with you one day, sir, of my mission, but to-night I have no fitting words." " To lie sure not — nor is it weather for talk. The wind rises every moment. But another day— another day. You will find Wesley Warner always ready. And may I your name, my brother ? — that I may know whom I have to entrust to good Mistress Shooter ? " " My name is Arnold Inglehurst," answered the traveller; and he said no more, being only half conscious when they turned off from the main road down the bridle path. leading to the mill.

Chapter II. Five Thorn Mill

* JPJSj T 'LL be a wild night, missus," remarked Jacob t£y^ b$l Shooter, shaking off the poAvdering of snow L^y .^y^ from his outer garments, as he entered the l.LJT,<«--Sjj comfortable dwelling-house adjoining the mill; " I Ve been reefing up the sails a bit, for the wind 's rising every half-hour. Has the wench got safe home ? " " Yes, father, here I am," answered a clear, fresh young voice from the inner room, and Euth Shooter appeared in the doorway of communication with a dainty burden in her arms — a mass of costly drapery of some sort, upon Avhich she was plainly at work. The bluff, honest face of the windmiller lighted up at the sight of his only child. "That be well, Euthie, my lass — that be well. I dwoan't loike to think o' thee out in such weather. I wouldn't turn a dowg out such a night as thisen promises to be.

Bad for them as '11 be on the road to-night comin' to whome from the horse-fair." "Yes, I've bin thinking as we shall surely have our bed full to-night," spoke up the windmiller 's wife, Susannah, as she lifted her face from her culinary task before the fire ; " I 've a-bin gettin' our room all ready : for I dwoan't think it '11 be empty to-night. The warming pan's in the bed now : and there 's a bit of drift-wood fire burnin' there. Happen we '11 have to make shift in take in more'n one poor soul if the Half-way House be ower full." " Well, well, well, we must make a shift to dew what we can. We can't turn any traveller away from our doors such a night," answered the windmiller heartily. " Thy sister knows we '11 be willin' to do our best. I '11 just have a look along the lane, and see to the mill once more, and then I '11 be glad of a snack o' supper, missus ; and Ruthie shall tell us all the news up at her fine house.

Thee 've got a fine gaud there, lassie. Some fine new habit of Lady Ermine's ? " " Yes father, a saque I am to embroider for her in these silks. It's a lovely thing ; I '11 show it thee presently, when thy hands are a bit cleaner." And Rutli laughed a bright saucy laugh, and retired with her draperies back to the table in the inner parlour, which was covered with a white sheet. Here she carefully laid the soft folds of silk, and covered them up, and going out into the kitchen, which was also the main living-room of the family, she busied herself in laying the supper-table, whilst her mother stood over her pots and pans, which gave out an appetising odour. Mother and daughter talked together as they per formed their tasks, in a way which showed them to possess a pleasant intimacy of thought and feeling.

It might be gathered from the words that passed between them that Ruth was rather intimately acquainted with Lady Ermine Mowbray, the granddaughter of the haughty old Dowager Countess of Lynne, who resided in a house m the neighbourhood — her granddaughter sharing her home with her. Euth went daily to Convent House to wait upon the young lady, to look after her wardrobe and fill many little offices for her that would naturally have been performed by a lady's maid. Indeed, Euth had many times been pressed to take that place in the household of the Countess : but her father would never consent that she should leave home, nor did the girl desire to do so, though much attached to the gentle Lady Ermine. A compromise was effected by her going backwards and forwards daily, or almost daily, and the windmiller always enjoyed hearing the news, as he called it, as he sat at supper, and his daughter retailed the little events of her day for his entertainment.

But to-night she had hardly begun her story before a sound from without made the windmiller raise his head and listen. " That 's a horse coming down the lane," he said, rising; " I 'm certain sure of it, though the snaw do muffle the sound a bit. Missus, it's some traveller comin' to ask shelter heer. Put another place to the table. He '11 be glad enough, I '11 warrant, to sit down with us, who ever he be. Stir up the vire and make all cheery ; I '11 go out and bring un in." The dame bustled about, though the kitchen was already so warm and bright it needed no more done to add to its look of homely welcome. Euth set another place, and kept looking towards the window : but as it was now dark outside, and the snow-flakes had drifted considerably over the diamond lattices, she could see nothing, and finally went across and drew close the crimson curtains, thus giving an extra air of snugness to the scene within.