For such is Life

Front matter

MR The The The The OPINIONS OF THE PRESS UN SILAS K. HOCKING'S RECENT WORK, "THE HEART OF MAN." FKEE METHODIST says: " Should Mr. Hccking write no more, his niche in English literature is now filled. Taken in every way the book is great. Arrestive, sus tained, idyllic, powerfully dramatic, it lays hold of thc reader from the first and holds him as with a spell. ( The Heart of Man ' is true to its title. It is a close study of the envies, hates, subterfuges, designs, crafts, and malignancies of that something in us which is said to be deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. The exposure is frank without exaggeration, and the psychologic portions are so lightened by popular touches that no dull line or lugubrious paragraph despoils the art of fiction. We are face to face with the issues of life, but we are face to face with them in the home, in the street, in thc Church, and not in the schools.

Mr. Hocking writes for men, not for students ; for the living, throbbing crowds, and not for lean gaunt gownsmen. Perhaps many of his readers may lose the philosophic element running through the book in the attractiveness of the story, in the intensity of the plot, or in the destiny of the hero. To those, however, of a more thoughtful turn, the under-current will be the charm, the sinuous trails of thc human heart, and the deftness and relentlessness with which men sink all for self." BRITISH WEEKLY says: " The secret of Mr. Hocking's power is that he is a born story-teller. 1 The neart of Man ' is interesting from beginning to end, and though in many parts very painful, holds the reader." VrESTERN DAILY PRESS says: " In ' The Heart of Man ' Mr. Silas K. Hocking has conferred a favour on the reading public in providing a reliable novel, the influence of which is sought in the thoughtful study of human nature as it is and contemplation of what it might be.

The success of this excellent novel docs not depend upon slim-built speculation on nineteenth-century discoveries, but upon a generous-miudod examination of weaknesses more or less common to all, which have been the inheritance of mankind as far back as history can trace their power to blight thc lives of men an women." QUEEN says: "Mr. Silas K. Hocking's novels have a circulation which can only bo compared to that enjoyed by the late Rev. E. P. Roe in the United States, and not only do they sell by tens of thousands, but they are read, marked, learned, and inwardly digested as the utterances of an inspired preacher of the gospel of humanity. ' The Heart of Man ' shows the art of a story-teller born. The people in the book aro real people, and the book has for its keynote justice— a keynote touched with marked ability.' OPINIONS OF THE PRESS— Continued.

Book I. Temptation

CHAITER PAGE I. AN ACCIDENT ...... 9 II. PAST AND PRESENT - - - - - 20 III. THE SPRINGS OF CONDUCT - - - - 31 IV. THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM - - - - 42 V. WAS IT FATE ? - - - - - - 58 VI. THE FRUIT RIPENS - - - - - 64 VII. THE DIE CAST - - - - - -75 VIII. PARTING WORDS - - - - - 85

Book II. Danger

I. DOROTHY - - - - - - - 96 II. YOUTH AND AGE ... - - 107 III. CAPTIVATED - - - . - . H8 IV. A QUEST AND ITS RESULT- .... 129 V. TWO MEN AND A MAID ----- 13g VI. PROBLEMS ------- 149 VII. ROMANCE AND REALITY ----- 160 VIII. THE COURSE OF LOVE ----- 170 IX. THE TREACHEROUS SEA ----- 181 X. A DISTURBING ELEMENT .... - CONTENTS. 8 CHAPTER PAGE XI. GOOD INTENTIONS- - - - " 202 XII. THE LOVE THAT LIVES ----- 212 XIII. '4 CAN I FORGET THEE?"- - 223 XTV. COMING OF AGE ------ 233 XV. A REVELATION ..---- 243 XVI. THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS ... - 253 XVII. TO SAY " GOOD-BYE" ----- 264

Book III. Struggle

I. UNDER THE STARS - - - . 274 II. OFFENDED DIGNITY ----- 284 III. MAN PROPOSES ------ 295 IV. A DISCOVERY ------ 305 V. A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE - - - - 312 VI. AT LAST ------- 322 VII. HOME AGAIN ------ 332 VIII. A MORNING'S ADVENTURE ----- 342

Book IV. Victory

I. " OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE " - 351 II. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM - - - 860 III. THE TURN OF THE TIDE - . - - 369 IV. INTERVIEWS - - - - 380 V. THE SECRET OUT - - - - 389 VI. AT PENDORMIC - - - - - -• 398 VII. HOPE AND DISAPPOINTMENT - 408 VIII. HUMILIATION - - - - . 417 IX. A DISCOVERY ------ 427 X. TIME WILL TELL - - - - . FOE SUCH IS LIFE

Book I. Temptation

" Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre, Beady to flash out at God's call, 0 chivalry of labour I Triumph and toil are twins, though they Be singly born in sorrow, And 'tis the martyrdom to-day Brings victory to-morrow." — Gerald Massey.

Chapter I. An Accident

•' If God so guide our fate, The nobler portions of ourselves shall last Till all the lower rounds of life be past, And we regenerate." — Lewis Morris. Abeam Fowey sat in the shadow of a gum-tree, smoking. It was too hot to work. The stagnant air palpitated in the fierce rays of the sun. The blistered fields cracked and crumbled in the glare. Down in the creek, where the stream had been dammed back into pools, the cattle stood up to their bellies in water, and huddled together in the shadow of the trees. The distant Bush lost itself in a shimmering haze. The wheat arish snapped and crackled in the blazing noon. To anyone used to the roar and rush of city life, this Australian farmstead would have seemed oppressively quiet. Nothing stirred about the place. Not a bird fluttered in the trees.

The servants lay about in the shadow, and panted or smoked, but no one was in the humour for speech. Abram Fowey rested his back against the trunk of the tree, and appeared to be watching the blue wreath of smoke curling up from the bowl of his pipe. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Coat and vest he had none. His thin duck trousers were tucked inside a pair of tall Wellington boots. His wideawake hat was tilted low on the back of his head. Suddenly he started to his feet and took the pipe out of his mouth. " I wonder who comes here," he said to himself, as a horse and its rider appeared over the brow of the hill. " A scorching day like this ain't fit for man or beast to be out,'' and he moved a little to the right to get a better view of the rider. Goolong Creek was not in the way of travellers.

The road that ran through it led to nowhere in particular. Twenty miles beyond was virgin Bush — an unexplored country. Hence the sight of a horseman was an event, particularly in the middle of a reeking hot day. " Shouldn't be surprised if 'twern't Trefusa come to look after those sheep," he muttered; "but he might have waited till the cool of the afternoon, at any rate. But just like him. Ay, it's him sure enough ; nobody else would tear down that hill at such a breakneck pace. But what's he going to do next?" And Abram Fowey moved out from under the shadow of the gum-tree, and shaded his eyes with his hand. "The reckless fool! why can't he keep to the track, I wonder? He'd risk his neck any day to save haaf a mile. Surely, surely " And Fowey ran two or three paces, then suddenly halted.

"As I'm a living man," he exclaimed, with clenched hands, "he's going to take that fence, and he knows how the ground dips suddenly on the other side. It'll be as much as his life is worth." And Abram ran a dozen paces further, and halted again. " Pull up, you fool !" he shouted, at the top of his voice. " Don't you know ?" But his warning came too late. As a matter of fact, the rider did not hear it. With a flying leap he took the fence, then horse and rider disappeared. A minute later, the horse with distended nostrils and bridle flying loose came galloping toward the farmstead. Abram waited for a few moments for the rider to appear, then ran back to the house and shouted, " Dan ! Davey ! Bill ! Wake up, you lazy lubbers, and come along ! Do you hear ? Stir your stumps, and be quick about it !"

" What's up?" Dan asked indifferently, struggling to his feet. " Man killed, like as not," the squatter answered. " Trefusa's horse has thrown him." " Where ? — how ?" demanded two or three voices at the same time. "Don't stay jawing there, but come along!" roared the squatter. And he started off at a run, followed by his hired men. In a few minutes they reached the scene of the accident. Trefusa was lying on his side with a broken arm doubled underneath him, and blood flowing from a nasty cut in his forehead. He was deathly pale, and quite unconscious. Indeed, to all outward appearances he was dead. " I reckon it's all up with him, governor," Davey remarked, with a slight shake in his voice. " I don't know," the squatter remarked, getting down on his knees, and putting his ear close to the unconscious man's mouth.

" There's life in him yet," he said, after a moment of painful suspense ; "we must get him to the house some how." It did not take them long to improvise a stretcher, on which they laid the wounded man very tenderly, and then bore him slowly to the house. It was a low building, con structed after the prevailing fashion of the country, with a broad veranda running all round it, and rooms opening from one into the other. " Let's take him to my room," the squatter said, as they halted for a moment at the door. " Now, Betty, don't lose your head or go into hysterics. You'll need all your wits, if he's to be kept alive till the doctor can be got here." This to the housekeeper, an elderly female who presided over the domestic arrangements of the house. Betty controlled herself with great suddenness and success, and a few minutes later was bathing the wounded man's forehead with cold water as he lay on Fowey's bed.

The squatter stood a little back and watched the pro ceeding. There seemed nothing more that he could do. Dan had been despatched on the swiftest horse he had to Eokerstown — fifteen miles away — for the doctor, and until his arrival they could only wait and hope. Trefusa lay quite still, faintly moaning now and then, but showing no signs of returning consciousness. His face was deathly pale, but the wound in his forehead had stopped bleeding, and his breathing seemed a little more regular, and not quite so feeble as at the first. Suddenly, a thought struck the farmer, and without a word he left the room, and a few minutes later he returned with a small tumbler in his hand, half full of brandy-and water. " Stand aside, Betty," he said, "and let me see if I can get him to take this." " You'll have to lift him up if you do," she answered, " aud he's no light weight."

" Then suppose you get round to the other side," he said. " We shall be able to manage it between us." " I think we'd better let him lie still," she answered; " it may hurt him to be moved." " He don't feel anything," Fowey answered slowly, " and we're bound to keep life in him if we can." " I wish the doctor were here," she said, after a pause ; " we're only a-meddling in the dark." " We're bound to do the best we can," was the answer. " Ay, only we don't know what is best. He seems terribly hurt. I'm afraid it's a gone case with him." The attempt to get the brandy-andwater down his throat proved a failure, and when Fowey laid down the glass, Betty stole quickly out of the room. She was beginning to feel hysterical, and did not want to make a scene. She knew if she could get a few minutes to herself, and have " a good cry," as she called it, she would feel better.

The farmer did not call her back. He went out a few minutes later and fetched a feather, and then sat down on the side of the bed and began to moisten the lips of the unconscious man with the brandy-and-water. Fowey was generally a very silent man, and not given to emotion. But the accident to his neighbour had startled him out of himself. Not since his wife left him twelve months before had he been so troubled. Trefusa was his nearest neighbour, living only three miles away. Besides FOB SJTCH IS LIFE. 14 that, they had a good deal in common ; and though neither of them knew anything of the other's past life, they knew enough of each other's recent troubles to make them sympathetic toward each other. They were both wifeless men. Trefusa's wife died less than six months before, leaving him with a baby who was then just a year old.

Fowey's wife, alas ! was not dead. He would have been a happier man if he had buried her. She was a vain, heart less woman. He had met her in Melbourne, where she was an assistant in a large drapery establishment. He fell in love with her almost at first sight. He thought she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen — save one — and when she received his attentions with evident pleasure he thought he was the happiest man alive. She seemed to like him, and perhaps she did, after a fashion ; but it was not in her nature to love deeply. She imagined that to live away in the Bush would be delightful. She hated the city, she told him — hated the confinement of a house of business ; hated the long hours and the worry of discontented customers. To breathe the fresh air of the country, and have a horse to ride, and cows to milk, and chickens to look after, and a real house of her own, would be like paradise.

Abraham listened like a man in a dream, and never doubted that everything would be as she pictured it. So he married the city shop girl and carried her away into the country. For two months their sky was clear enough — as clear, at any rate, as they could reasonably hope for ; then the clouds began to gather. In three months they both discovered that they had made a mistake. Abram, however, did not blame his wife : he blamed himself. He said it was not reasonable to expect that she would settle down to the quiet lonely life of the Bush and be contented therewith. She had lived all her life in the city. That she should be fond of dress and company and amusements was the most natural thing in the world. He ought to have thought of all that beforehand. If blame there was, the blame was his. This view of the case suited his wife exactly.

She never had any thought of blaming herself. She persuaded herself that she was a muchwronged individual. The Bush was altogether so different from what she had been led to believe. The work of a farmhouse was hateful ; it soiled her hands, and she had never been used to it. Moreover, she saw no one from week's end to week's end ; her fashionable dresses were lying in her trunks unworn. There was no one to dress for at Goolong Creek, no one but her husband, and he was not worth considering. For six months Abram coaxed and petted her as well as he knew how. But she grew tired of his caresses, and told him so — declared that he smelt of the farm-yard and the sheep-pens, and that she could not bear him to come near her. He did not say much, but slowly her utter heartless ness began to dawn upon him.

Perhaps her pretty face — not nearly so pretty since she gave up painting it — began to pall upon him. At any rate, he grew sullen, and sometimes angry, and answered her back with bitter, biting words. Twelve months after their marriage a little son was born, and Abram became a cheerful man again. He imagined that this new link would hold their lives together in love and concord, that the mystery of motherhood would trans form his wife, and that she would become a different and a nobler woman. His satisfaction, however, was of shorter duration than his first dream of happiness had been. The new care added a new and deeper note of bitterness to his wife's complaints. The burden of a baby, she declared, was intolerable. She rarely saw it, and seemed to feel no love for it. The poor little waif was left to the care of Betty, the nurse, and Abram.

The mother moped in her own room, and pined for the old life of the city. So six months wore away, and then she took her de parture. One morning when Abram was away from home a waggon drove up. She was evidently expecting it. She assisted to get her boxes into it with great energy. Then, mounting to the side of the driver, she was driven away. Betty, who had been sent out to the hen-run, and had taken baby with her, returned just in time to see her climb into the waggon. "Are you coming back again to-day, mum?" she asked, in wide-eyed astonishment. " No, I'm not," was the sharp reply. "When, then?" " I don't know. Perhaps next year, perhaps never." Betty ran after the retreating waggon. "What shall I say to the master?" she called. " Tell him he needn't follow, for he won't find me," floated back the answer.

" And won't you kiss baby?" she cried, holding the child high in her hands. But there was no response. The waggon jolted noisily over the uneven road, and a cloud of dust rose up behind and almost blotted it from view. Betty stood as if rooted to the spot until the vehicle had disappeared over the brow of the hill ; then with a big sob she turned back into the house and sat down. Had not the baby claimed her attention, she would probably have given way to hysterics, but under the present circumstances that luxury was denied her. So she had to console herself with the delivery of a fiery and vehement speech, which, fortunately for the baby, he was too young to understand. Abram Fowey did not return to his home till the evening of the following day. Betty saw him coming, and went to meet him with the baby in her arms.

He saw by her face that something was amiss, and prepared himself for the worst. In a few hurried sentences she told him everything. He did not reply. His face betrayed very little emotion. He was not the man to rave and tear his hair, but be felt none the less deeply because he kept his grief and anger to himself. His first impulse was to turn his horse's head and follow her, but the impulse lasted only a moment. He did not know where she had gone. Her departure had evidently been carefully planned. It was no sudden decision she had come to. Her mind had been made up for weeks, perhaps for months ; hence it would be of no use searching for her, or trying to bring her back. Even if he succeeded in tracing her, and in dragging her back home against her will, he would gain nothing by it. She would go away again on the first opportunity.

At any rate, it was of no use acting hastily. She had had thirty hours' start, and any search, to be successful now, would have to be carefully planned. Betty walked by the side of his horse back to the house, and waited for him to speak, but he had no words with which to answer her. When he did speak, it was to Dan. " Here, take Bess, and groom her well," he said; then, with bent head, he walked silently into the house. That was twelve months ago ; and as he sat on the side of the bed this hot afternoon and moistened Trefusa's lips, it all came back to him again as though it had been yesterday. He had made inquiries in all directions for his missing wife, but without avail. Had the earth opened and swallowed her up, she could not have hidden herself more effectually. It was very clear that she did not want to return, that she had no love for either husband or child.

That was the most painful of all his reflections. It tortured him so, that when Trefusa's wife died six months '2 later he almost envied him. Trefusa could cherish her memory, and keep her grave green, and plant flowers above her pure and moveless breast, while he could never allude to his wife, never breathe her name before others. It was a terrible cross, and one that embittered his whole life. He was rapidly becoming a misanthrope, and was losing all faith in God and man. There were times when he felt it would be a positive relief if he could wreak his anger on something or somebody. To serve somebody else as he had been served would help to balance things ; at present all the injustice was on one side. Trefusa took his trouble in quite a different way. Instead of growing sullen and silent, he had become reckless and boisterous, had assumed a defiant, don't-care attitude, and occasionally took more drink than was good for him.

In the old days when his wife was alive, he would never have taken that daring leap from which he was suffering now. It seemed sometimes as if he wanted to break his neck, so that he might rejoin her in the better country that lay outside the storms and troubles of earth. Abram Fowey scarcely took his eyes from the face of the unconscious man during the whole of that long, sultry afternoon. He was not a profound thinker, and yet, somehow, to-day he could not help looking into the eyes of that strange mystery which we call life. Never before did its depths seem so profound, so unfathomable. Never before did he feel so small, so utterly helpless ; never did life seem so little worth living. He was but a young man yet — just turned thirty. Humanly speaking, he had already seen the best of his days, and yet there was very little in the past that he could recall with any degree of pleasure.

Toil and struggle, sorrow and disappointment, seemed the chief ingredients in the cup. Even his love episodes— and there had been two of them — had been only like the brilliant dawn that heralds a stormy day. Even his childhood, in that far-away Cornish home, had been one of constant hardship, and his youth one of unbroken toil for the bare necessaries of life. His early manhood found him crowded out of the land of his birth by oppression and overreaching avarice, and for the last nine or ten years he had been an exile in the Australian Bush, toiling desperately with one object in view, and that to earn sufficient to enable him, in his declining years at least, to return to his native land, and spend the evening of his life amid the scenes and with the companions of his youth. He wondered in a vague way if he would ever realize that poor ambition.

As he looked at it now, it seemed a very small matter whether he did or didn't. Then his thoughts turned to Trefusa. Perhaps he had struggled for a similar hope, and this looked like the end. Several hours had passed since the accident, and there was no sign of returning consciousness yet. Perhaps he was dying, and if so, what then ? Was it not better that he should never wake again to the worry and pain of life ? If there was a better country, such as the preachers used to describe when he was a boy, why, then it would be far better that he slipped peacefully away. Or even if there was nothing at all beyond — if death ended everything — it would still be better that he should never wake again. The sun began to get low at length, and a cool breeze sprang up from the south. The wounded man moaned more frequently, and rolled his head from side to side.

Betty came back into the room, having finished her household duties. Baby was asleep in his cot. No word was spoken, however. They waited in silence, while the shadows deepened, for the sound of hoofs that should tell of the arrival of the doctor. CHAPTEE II. PAST AND PEESENT. Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages." Shakespeare. Early on the following morning Abram stole silently into the sick man's room. The doctor was sitting in an easy chair by the bedside, having watched by his patient all the night. " He is sleeping now," the doctor whispered, in reply to Abram's inquiring glance. " He will be quite conscious when he wakes again." " Is there any chance for him ?" Abram asked in the same low tones, but before the doctor could reply, Trefusa had opened his eyes and smiled feebly.

" I fear I've disturbed you," Abram said, taking a step forward. " Oh no ; I heard you come in," Trefusa answered, but in a voice so feeble that Abram had the greatest difficulty in catching what he said. " I'm glad you've come round again," Fowey said after a pause. " I thought yesterday you were never coming to." " Yes, I'm glad also ; but it won't be for long. Doctor doesn't think there's any chance for me." ■21 " I did not say so," the doctor answered quickly, administering at the same time a stimulating draught. " Not in so many words, perhaps," was the reply ; " but your evasions are quite sufficient for me. I know you think I'm a goner." He spoke in a half-flippant, half-indifferent manner, as though it was a matter that did not trouble him in the least. " I don't deny that you are very seriously hurt," the doctor replied, " and still think if you have any business affairs to settle it would be well you should do so at once.

You'll not die any sooner for having settled your worldly affairs." " Quite right, doctor," the sick man answered cheerfully. " Fortunately, I've precious little to settle, and were it not for the kid, I should not have a regret." " I presume you have relatives somewhere ?" the doctor questioned. " Yes, I've relatives ; but unfortunately they don't count." " Are they in the colony?" "No; they are back in the old country. You see, it's this way : I'm a younger son, and of course a prodigal, though I don't know that I ever did much that I regret. My unpardonable sin was in marrying the orphan child of a man my father hated like poison. Lucy Dale could not help that. She loved me, and I loved her, and so we married. You can easily guess the rest. My father vowed that he would never forgive me, and never even see me again.

On the second of these counts he will have no choice. He will never see me again. Whether he forgives me or no is a matter of no consequence. He may, however, sufficiently relent when he hears I'm gone as to take the little un ; but even that is doubtful. My brother Thomas has a lad of his own, and he will resent a child of_mine having a crumb." "At any rate, should anything happen to you, you would like your father to be communicated with." " Yes ; it's right the old man should know. If you or Fowey will write to him, why, I shall be much obliged. But it's the little one that troubles me." " Don't let that worry you, Trefusa," Fowey said huskily. "I've got a motherless bairn of my own, and if I were in your place, I believe you'd do as much for me. The little one can come here." The dying man's eyes filled in a moment, and all the old flippancy and seeming indifference vanished as if by magic.

" Give us your hand, Fowey," he said brokenly ; " you've always been a good neighbour." " We've had trouble in common," the other answered ; " but we'll not talk of that now." " With me trouble's nearly over," Trefusa said, with a far-away look in his eyes. " I wonder if I shall find Lucy again." " If what the parsons say is true you will," Fowey answered huskily. " She'll be on the lookout for you, and mighty pleasant it will be for you to meet again." And as he spoke a pained look came into his own eyes, for he thought of his own loveless life, and the cheerless journey that lay before him. " I'm sorry to burden you with my little one," Trefusa said after a long pause, " especially — especially " " I know what you want to say," Fowey interrupted ; "but if she were here she might object. Now I can do as I like, and the two little ones will be company for each other."