The Heart of Man ... Third edition. Tenth thousand

Front matter

s LIST OF AVORKS BY SILAS K. HOCKING, f.r.h ONE IN CHARITY. Twenty-fifth Thousand. A SON OF REUBEN. Fifteenth Thousand. DOCTOR DICK. Tenth Thousand. HER BENNY. One Hundredth Thousand. IVY. Sixtieth Thousand. HIS FATHER. Fifty-fifth Thousand. ALEC GREEN. Seventieth Thousand. SEA WAIF. Thirty-eighth Thousand. DICK'S FAIRY. Thirty-fifth Thousand. CRICKET. Twenty-ninth Thousand. CALEB CARTHEW. Twenty-seventh Thousand. REAL GRIT. Thirty-eighth Thousand. CROOKLEIGH. Twenty-seventh Thousand. FOR ABIGAIL. Thirty-fifth Thousand. TREGEAGLE'S HEAD. Twenty-fifth Thousand. REEDYFORD. Fifteenth Thousand. CHIPS, JOE, AND MIKE. Fourteenth Thousand. REX RAYNOR, ARTIST. Twenty-fourth Thousand. FOR LIGHT AND LIBERTY. Thirtieth Thousand. WHERE DUTY LIES. Thirtieth Thousand. London : FREDERICK WARNE & CO. ; and New York.

THE HEAET OF MAN. "BY AN ALMOST SUPERHUMAN EFFORT 1 FLUNG HIM FROM ME." Front. p. 46. THE HEAKT OF MAN. 1SY SILAS K. HOCKING, F.RHist.S, AUTHOR OF "ONE IN CHARITY," "A SON OF REDBEN," "DOCTOR DICK," "WHERE DUTY LIES," " FOR ABIGAIL," " HER BENNY," ETC. Maicopioi 01 naQapoX tjj KapSlss, 3t_ outo! rbn Bibs' 6s[ovrsxs. Jesus. THIRD EDITION. TENTH THOUSAND. LONDON: FREDERICK WARNE & CO- AND NEW YORK. 1895. [All rights reserved.] CONTENTS.

Book I. Chapter Pace

I. I make A Beginning ... ... ... ... 9 II. A Shelter from the Heat ... ... ... 20 III. A Sweet Tyrant ... ... ... ... ... 30 IV. The Secret Oct ... ... ... ... 41 V. On the Move ... ... ... ... ... 52 VI. Drusy's Little Fiction ... ... ... 61 VII. A New Acquaintance ... ... ... ... 74 VIII. A Morning's Ride ... ... ... ... 85 IX. Widening Experience ... ... ... ... 96 X. The Beginning of Strife ... ... ... 106 XL Love and Strife ... ... ... ... ... 117 XII. The Parting of the Ways ... ... ... 128 XIII. A Winter's Day ... ... ... ... ... 139 XIV. A Cry in the Night ... ... ... ... 149 XV. "Marget" ... ... ... ... ... 161 XVI. The Voice of the West Wind ... ... 171 XVII. The Tragedy of Lowgate Dyke ... ... ... 181 XVIII. A Serious Discussion ... ... •■■ ••■ !91 XIX. A Face at the Window ... ... ... ■•• 202 XX.

An Unexpected Meeting ... ... ... CONTENTS. VIII CHAPTER PAGE XXI. How Evan kept the Secret ... ... ■•• 222 XX.II. On the Brink 233 XXIII. At Close Quarters ... ... ... ... 244 XXIV. Through the Night ... ... ... ... 254 XXV. The Burden of Life ... ... ... ... 265 XXVI. Compensations ... ... ... ... 276 'XXVII. Back in the Fens ... ... ... ... 287 XXVIII. "Out of the Blue" ... ... ... ... 299 XXIX. The Hills of Home ... ... ... ... 310 XXX. A Mountain Refuge... ... ... ... 321 XXXI. The End of the Struggle ... ... ... 332

Book II

BOOK I. CHAPTER

I. I MAKE A BEGINNING. " I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one." Merchant of Venice. Now that I have decided to tell this story of my life, I am at a loss to know at what point to begin. Events crowd so thick and fast upon my memory that to disentangle them seems altogether beyond my skill. Yesterday I sat for a full hour biting the end of my penholder, unable to hit upon a sentence that suited me ; unable, indeed, to decide what part of the story should be told first. I cannot understand why it is that the events of my life are ever on the march. I seem to stand apart, watching the swift procession ; and directly I attempt to fall into line, I discover that my step is so slow and hesitating that the point I aimed at is far ahead of me and out of reach, and so I step back and wait again.

It reminds me of those early days when, as children, we tied our skipping ropes together, and then prevailed upon two docile friends to stand one at each end and turn the cord. For some reason or other, I was always slow at " running in." Standing sufficiently back, I would watch the rope circling round and round, and would duck my head at each revolution, and make a dozen feints before I took the final run, and in the end, more frequently than not, would miss the step, and get the cord entangled in my feet. I feel in a precisely similar position to-day. The events of my life keep circling past so rapidly that I hesitate to run, and at what point of my story I shall pick up the thread I hardly know even now. But after yesterday's experience I resolved that, whenever I took up my pen again, I would make a beginning ; that the first sentence shaping itself in my brain should be transferred to paper.

The time at my disposal is all too short at most. If the story is to be told at all there must be no more fruitless nibbling at the penholder. For myself, it does not matter ; nothing can matter to me now. But it is due to those whom I have loved, and who have loved me in return, that all the truth should be told. They have found great difficulty, I know, in justifying themselves, and have suffered much for my sake. This story I hope will make many things clear, and win a kindlier verdict than that already given. Now that I have actually made a beginning — a very poor one, I admit — one little scene in the story of my life stands out for the moment distinct from all the rest — my meeting with Mary Jessop. To tell it here, I know, is to begin in the middle of my narrative. But it does not matter.

This is not a novel, and if I am to write at all I must write in my own way. Perhaps when I get fairly into my task I shall find events dropping into their proper places without much effort of my own. Mary was standing at the garden gate when I saw her first, and I shall always think of her in that position more frequently / MAKE A BEGINNING. 11 than in any other. I don't think she noticed me, stranger though I was ; and strangers were few in that part of the country. She was looking beyond me, far back along the lane I had come, where another figure moved slowly, and kicked up the dust as he walked. So intent was she upon the distant figure that, though I came very near, she did not move her eyes for a moment. It was a blazing afternoon in August. The 'sky glowed like a furnace, and all the air shimmered in the sultry heat.

I had walked five miles from Moss-end Station along a road between two dykes, perfectly straight and perfectly level. Not a tree grew by the wayside for all that distance, not a solitary cottage threw its shadow across the hot and dusty road. Right and left, before and behind, the fen country stretched, for the most part hedgeless and almost treeless. Here and there a clump of poplars or birch trees marked the presence of a farmstead, or it might be of a village. Such a clump I noticed far along the road I travelled, and when at length I paused in the shadow of a thick-leaved poplar^and leaned against its trunk, I breathed a sigh of relief, for I was ready to faint with exhaustion. The sun had been at my back all the distance, and the marrow in my spine seemed boiling with the terrible heat; I was just getting within the shadow of the trees when Mary Jessop came down the garden-path, and, leaning against the gate, she shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked long and eagerly along the road I had come.

I drew nearer to her at every step, but she did not heed me, and when I paused a little beyond her and leaned against the tree, her eyes were still fixed in the same direction. I felt no more interest in her at the moment than I should in any other stranger. I was too exhausted and too heart broken to care for anything. A great calamity had overtaken me, a great sorrow had broken my heart, and my only thought was how I might get far enough away from the scene of my trouble, how hide from those who had known me in other days, how begin again with any hope of peace. I suppose I must have looked at Mary Jessop closely and attentively, though I have no recollection of doing so. I saw, that day, without seeming to see ; I had no wish to look at her or any one else. I understood there was a little hamlet two miles further on, and I was anxious to reach it if possible.

Yet to-day I can recall every detail of that little scene. My brain received impressions, shall I say, unawares. Without wishing to notice, I took everything in — the colour of her hair, her eyes, the ivory white of her complexion ; the shape of her chin ; the full round neck ; the taper fingers that shaded her eyes ; ay, the very folds in the simple white dress, and the dainty foot that peeped from underneath. It seems very strange, considering what I was suffering then, that I should have noticed any of these things. My head was throbbing in a way that made me sick, and my eyes were burning like living coals. Every now and then the whole landscape swam around me, and the trees seemed playing hide-and-seek with each other. Then, again, my eyes would grow cool for a moment and my head cease throbbing, and the picture of the young girl standing at the garden gate shading her eyes with her hand would stand out clear and distinct before me.

But, all the same, it was a picture I felt no interest in. All my thoughts were for myself and my own sufferings. Slowly the conviction was growing upon me that I was going to be ill ; and I wondered, though not without a little shudder, if death would not be a welcome relief. For some reason or other, I had always an unspeakable horror of dying. I thank God that feeling has at last passed away, and death seems no longer the king of terrors, but a kind angel of deliverance. Had such a conviction possessed me earlier I should have been saved much suffering aud sorrow and toil. But at the time of J MAKE A BEGINNING. 13 which I write life was very sweet to me. To five in hell in everlasting torment seemed preferable to going out of existence. Hence, though I was suffering the acutest torture, both in mind aud body, the thought of dying filled me with a strange terror.

With a strong effort I pulled myself together, and made an attempt to continue my journey ; but with the first step I found, to my dismay, that my strength was not equal to the task, and staggering back, I leaned against the tree again for support. I think I grew frightened after that, for courage has never been a strong point with me. All the horror of my position swept over me like a shock of paralysis. I was a stranger in a strange place. Sick — perhaps dying. Without a home, without a friend, or even an acquaintance. What would become of me ? Should I be left to lie and die by the roadside ? Then the sound of a footstep revived me a little, and I saw the postman drawing near enveloped in a cloud of dust. I recognized now that it was for him the young girl at the gate watched and waited.

My eyes cooled again for a moment, my head ceased to swim. I saw the eager look in the girl's eyes ; I fancied her lips trembled slightly. " Have you anything for me, Jeff ? " she asked, when he was within a dozen yards of her. And the sweet, clear tones of her voice I can hear even now, and shall always hear till the great silence shall fall upon me. " I think I have, Miss Mary ; I think I have," he said, in a slow, hesitating way. " At any rate, I have a little parcel here I've brought fro' th' station." " Oh, never mind the parcel, Jeff," she answered eagerly ; " let me have the letter." " Love mak's young folks impatient, eh ? " he questioned, his sunburned face puckering into a smile. " It isn't love, Jeff," she answered quickly, " it's life. Please do be quick." " I know it's here somewhere," he said slowly, unwinding a long piece of string from a bundle of letters.

She was by his side now, eagerly looking over his shoulder. " There it is," she said at length ; " oh, I've been expecting it for days. I wonder " and she went and leaned against the gate, while Jeff slowly replaced his bundle of letters. I did not see her open the letter, for my head began to swim again ; but a moment later I noticed a sheet of white paper flutter from her hand to the ground, while she, with a white, pitiful face, was looking off into space. " Oh, here's the parcel, Miss Mary," Jeff said at length. " I desarve thruppence for bringin' it from th' station on sich a blazin' 'ot day as this ; but as it's you, I'll say tuppence." For a moment she did not heed him, and Jerry reached out the parcel and touched her arm with it. " I caan't say less'n tuppence, Miss Mary," he went on ; " it's a terrible 'ot afternoon."

" Oh, I was forgetting the parcel," she answered absently ; " but it doesn't matter. I don't want it." " But, you see, I've brought it, miss. It bein' of no value, you see, don't make it no lighter." " No, no, Jeff ; quite right," she answered, with apparent effort. " I'm sorry I've no change to-day." " I could give you tenpence for a shillin'," Jerry answered with alacrity. " I've no silver at all to-day, Jerry," she said. " I'm very sorry ; but I shall see you again to-morrow." Jerry shuffled uneasily, and raised more dust in doing so. Then he turned his eyes in my direction, and took two or three steps towards me. " Perhaps, sir," he said, " you could change this young lady a sovereign ? " I saw her start at Jerry's words. She was evidently unaware of my presence. I MAKE A BEGINNING. 15 " I am sorry I cannot," I said, clinging desperately to the tree ; " I have nothing less than a sovereign in my pocket."

Jerry grunted and looked troubled. " I reckon it'll 'ave to be thruppence," he said ; " it's a terrible 'ot day," and adjust ing his bag, he slouched away and finally disappeared in a cloud of dust. I made a movement to follow him, then changed my mind. To walk two miles further in this sweltering heat I knew was impossible. Besides, what was to be gained by going further ? One place was as good as another to me. I could count eight or ten cottages from where I stood, and three or four farmhouses lay in as many directions across the fields. I was about as " far from the madding crowd " as I could hope to get. I was spent, ill, and could keep on my feet only by a desperate effort. Why not seek shelter here ? Surely in one of those cottages I might find a home for a few days, at any rate. Some pitiful soul would surely take me in.

With this thought in my mind I staggered across the road to where Mary Jessop stood, and clutched eagerly at the garden rail. She drew herself away a little, and then waited for me tc speak. " I hope you will pardon me," I said, shutting my eyes tightly, for the world had begun to spin round again like a top, " but do you know any place in this village where I could secure apartments ? " " I think not," she answered, slowly. " Apartments are rarely wanted in these parts." " I presume that is so," I replied, " and yet I should be very glad if I could secure a couple of rooms for a few weeks at least." * You are a stranger ? " she questioned. " Quite," I said, opening my eyes. " It is my first visit to the Lincolnshire Fens." 1HE HEART OF MAN. "Strangers do not often come here," she replied. '.1 tones that indicated surprise at my presence.

" I should judge no one would come here unless hi had special reasons for doing so," I answered. " I am a natuialist, and am anxious to make my collection of moths as complete as possible, and I am told I can find specimens here in the Lincolnshire Fens such as are to be found in no other part of England." This long sentence nearly choked me, though I had rehearsed my part many times beforehand. " I was not aware," she replied, " though doubtless what you say is true. I am glad our poor Fens are noted for something, if only for moths." And she looked at me with such sweet, guileless eyes that my cheeks grew hot with shame. " I hope I have not come on a wild-goose chase," I replied, " or a wild-moth chase ; particularly as there is no prospect of getting apartments." " You see, most of the cottages are very small," she replied, " and, if I may be allowed to say it, the families generally very large."

" I should not require very large rooms," I answered, " or much attention, and I should be willing to pay anything in reason for the accommodation." For a moment I thought her eyes brightened, and she heaved a little sigh. " The pay would be welcome to many people," she said at length, "if they had the room to spare;" and she sighed again. As for myself, I thought I should have fallen then and there. I felt myself growing worse every minute, and I clutched more desperately at the rail for support. " You do not seem very well," she said. " Perhaps the heat has been too much for you." " I did not know the distance was so great when I started I MAKE A BEGINNING. 17 to walk from the station," I replied. " I feel very exhausted. Would you mind giving me a glass of water ? " " With pleasure," she answered, and she disappeared like a flash into the house, and a moment later returned with a brimming glass of deliriously cold water.

I felt better after I had drunk it, and inquired how far it was to the next village, or whether I could get a conveyance to take me back to the station. " It is two miles to Scudder Fen," she replied thoughtfully, " and I fear you would be worse off there than here. And as for getting a conveyance back to the station, I fear that is im possible ; you see, all the people are busy with the harvest." I was silent after that for a moment, and bent my eyes to the ground ; yet I knew that Mary Jessop was looking at me as though she would read my secret and discover who I was. " If we could make you comfortable in our poor rooms " she began, after a long pause, then stopped abruptly. " If you could shelter me for only a few days," I said eagerly, " I should be so thankful. I will pay you anything you may charge, and will pay you in advance."

" You could give references, of course ? " " Most certainly," I answered, though the question staggered me a little. " We are only three of us," she went on — " mother, myself, and an old servant. Mother is an invalid, and spends most of her time in her room. I don't know if mother will consent. I will go and ask her." And she tripped lightly away. Inside the gate was a rickety garden-chair. So I stole into the garden, and sat down. My temples were throbbing as though my head would burst open, my eyes were burning again like coals of fire, my legs felt too weak to bear my weight. I think I must have lost consciousness for a little while, for it seemed to me no sooner had she disappeared than she was back again ; and yet she apologized for her long c THE HEART OF MAN. 18 absence. I noticed, too, that the sun had got very low in the west, and that its level rays, shining under the branches of the trees, flung my shadow across the whole width of the garden.

I looked up wonderingly when Mary Jessop began to apologize for her long absence, and for the first time consciously noticed how exceedingly beautiful she was. And yet I am not certain that the word " beautiful " correctly describes her. Many weeks after I heard the old Rector speak of her as a " lovely " girl, and on reflection I am disposed to think that " lovely " is the better word. I am not going to attempt to describe her ; I never was good at description. Besides, her loveliness did not arise from feature alone. The charm lay deeper — in a sweet and patient expression, in a smile that was full of gentleness and sympathy, in a Hght of truth and purity that dwelt in her eyes, and illumined her whole face. Her forehead was broad and low, her hair dark, her skin like tinted ivory. All that I noticed before without being aware of it.

But now, as I sat close to her and looked into her dark, liquid eyes, my interest suddenly quickened, and I found myself saying, " This is the loveliest girl I have ever seen," forgetful of my own pain and distress, and indifferent for the moment as to the result of her inquiry. I was soon, however, brought back to myself. Her short apology was at an end, and then I saw that my fate was swaying in the balance. " You see, we could not settle the matter in a moment," she went on, " for it is the first time we have ever had to consider such a question. And then mother being an invalid makes a great deal of difference. If she were well and stron°- it would be quite another matter." " Quite so," I assented, almost with a groan, for I saw or thought I saw, what this was leading to. " Our rooms, too, are only small, and mother very much regrets • " / MAKE A BEGINNING. 19 " Do not say another word," I said, staggering to my feet.

" The day is cooler now, and — and " But somehow I could not finish the sentence. There are times when the smallest disappointment looms up before us like a huge calamity. It was so with me at this moment. Half-an-hour before I had no thought of finding shelter at this trim cottage. But in the mean while I had grown every minute more faint and weary, more incapable of exertion, more absolutely certain that if I attempted to walk to Scudder Fen, I should fall by the wayside and die. And so, when I learned that shelter was denied me, it seemed like the last straw on the back of the fabled camel, the last hope went out of my heart, and for the first time in my life I found myself in the toils of utter despair.

Chapter II

A SHELTER FROM THE HEAT. " Sometimes 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, That we may lift the soul and contemplate With lovely joy the joys we cannot share." Coleridge. Our impatience often brings us needless trouble. It was so in my case. If I could have controlled myself until Mary Jessop had finished what she had to say, I -should have been saved one long moment at least of very deep distress. It was but a moment, and yet it might have been a thousand moments rolled into one. It is astonishing how much suffering may be compressed into the merest point of time. I am but a young man yet, but had my sufferings been spread over a thousand years they would have been accounted exceedingly bitter. " We should count time by heart-throbs," one of our poets has told us, and, indeed, it is true.

Some men scarcely live at all, though they reach their four-score years, and some at thirty die old. Mary Jessop gently rebuked me for my impatience when I paused in my speech, though I do not think she intended it as a rebuke. With a playful smile lighting up her face she said, " Pardon me, but if you will wait a moment till I've done." A SHELTER FROM THE HEAT. 21 " A thousand pardons," I said, raising my hat. " I thought " " I was going to observe," she went on, her face growing serious again, " that mother regrets that our accommodation is by no means good. We have two rooms, it is true, which we rarely use ; but they are small, and the furniture is very old fashioned, and not very comfortable." " The style of the furniture will not trouble me in the least," I interposed. " And mother says if you can find nothing more suitable in the neighbourhood " " I am sure your rooms will satisfy me," I interjected.

" And provided, of course, you can give satisfactory references," she went on, without heeding me, " you can have the rooms for a week or two, at any rate." • I at once pulled a letter out of my pocket and handed it to her, then followed her into the house. Oh, what a relief it was to get into its shadow after the scorching sunshine without, while the depths of an easy-chair seemed a luxury I had never appreciated before. Tea was already laid on the table, consisting of bread and butter only, though later on, the old servant, Drucilla Jakes — or Drusy, as they called her — brought in a hot potato cake. Mary went upstairs to assist her mother, who had decided to come down to tea. Drusy was busy in the kitchen, and for several minutes I was left alone. I felt a curious sensation at my heart as I glanced slowly and painfully about me.

Had I any business in such a home ? Would not my presence bring trouble to the unsuspecting inmates ? They did not know who I was. My hope was that they would never know. But if they found out And beyond that, I could not hide from myself the fact that I was going to be ill. I was wretchedly ill now, more fit to be in bed than anywhere else. It was only by the most desperate and determined effort I could keep on my feet, and with such knowledge was I not a coward to inflict my presence on three unsuspecting women, one of whom was an invalid ? Then my thoughts slid away into another channel ; what motive could have induced them to take me in ? They were evidently gentlefolks. They were not the kind of people to take in lodgers under any circumstances. Was there something pre possessing in my appearance ?

But no, the old lady had not seen me. Was pity at the bottom of it, then ? Had my more or less lonely condition appealed to their hearts ? That seemed hardly likely; my appearance by no means betokened the distress I felt. Were they so poor, then, that the money I should pay for the rooms would be a real help to them ? I looked around me more curiously. The room was small, and the furniture old and much worn, but no one could say it was shabby. If put up by auction it would fetch almost nothing, and yet there was an air of refinement about the place that could be felt but cannot be described. Then my thoughts flew back to the incident of the letter. " It is not love, Jeff," she said to the postman, " but life." What did that mean ? At the time I thought nothing about it. I felt no interest in her or in the letter.

But now the words excited my curiosity. She had been expecting something by post — something that should be as life to her. That ex plained her eager look, her indifference to my presence. In a moment the whole picture came up before me, as it has come up a thousand times since, with every detail vivid and distinct. I had paid no heed to it then, but the brain had photographed it with wonderful accuracy, leaving out nothing. The letter evidently was not such as she had hoped for. She had let it fall from her hands unheeding, whilst an expression that was pitiful, almost despairing, had come into her eyes. Had that letter decided her and her mother in my favour ? A SHELTER FROM THE nEAT. 23 Did they regard me for the moment as a kind of providence ? I almost hoped that such was the case. If I could only believe that I was conferring on them a favour equal to what they were conferring on me, it would be, to say the least of it, a sort of salve to my conscience, and, alas !