Chapter II: Part I: I (2)

Since Hector’s departure on mission duty, Meg helps me to look after our little picaninny. She has installed herself as head nurse, and it is amusing to see how she marshals MacMahon and myself. In the twinkling of an eye, she has turned the cottage inside out. It is so spick and span now that it must feel quite lonely. A huge stack appeared suddenly in the back yard, composed of the treasured accumulations of years. Ancient letters, old ragged garments, littered on the floor or stowed away in cupboards, old broken pipes, odds and ends of all kinds, were submissively carried out by Mac himself.

At Meg’s stern order he set fire to the pile with his own hands and stood ruefully watching his treasures disappear in smoke.

I was afraid that such drastic proceedings would offend him. But, no! To my sympathetic condolences, he replies with a complacent shake of his head.

“Begorra!” This is his favourite swear word--the only one he permits himself in my presence. “But she’s a masterful woman, a woman with a head on her shoulders.”

Oh! what an idea!

Meg and Mac. The two extremes.

But extremes meet, they say. Why not make a match between the two? A little diplomacy and success will crown my efforts. I will sow the grain and leave it to time to germinate.

“Meg,” I begin, as she brings me a cup of tea next morning, a duty she has taken upon herself to show her penitence for having suspected me of the crime of being a Papist, “Meg, you must have had a good many sweethearts in your time.”

“What an idea, Miss Joan! Why do you say that?”

“Well, you see, you have an admirer now, Meg.”

“An admirer, Miss! What silly nonsense! Saving your presence, Miss.”

“It’s quite true, Meg, I assure you. He has eyes only for you. But you are making the poor man desperate by your indifference.”

“This is one of your French jokes, isn’t it, Miss?”

“No, Meg; really, it’s very serious, you know. Do you mean to say that you have never noticed the effect you have on Mac? Why, the poor man can scarcely pluck up courage to look you in the face, but when your back is turned, his eyes follow you everywhere.”

“That good-for-nothing of a Mac! Sure, it’s better for him to look at me than at his whisky bottle.”

“Cruel Meg! Your disdain will drive him to despair.”

The old dame went off, muttering something about the silly heads that think of nothing but love and lovers.

In reality, she is not at all displeased. What woman is, even if she be a septuagenarian, at the thought of having a lover?

“Jeanette, Jeanette!”

My uncle is calling me.

“I have just received a letter from Russell. He will lunch with us to-morrow, and.... Oh, he sends his compliments and regards to you. Take care, girlie! Don’t let your heart be touched by this Byronic hero,” he added, smilingly.

My dear uncle doesn’t know how serious the case is already. In the privacy of my room, I question myself anxiously.

“What shall I do? Remain and receive Mr. Russell? Fall again under the charm of his personality? At the bare thought my heart beats quickly. His sombre eyes seem again to fix mine, compelling me to explore unknown depths of joy and suffering.”

Unknown? I wonder.

No, no! I will absent myself on some pretext or other. To fly from danger is sometimes a proof of true courage. Hastily I send off a note to Daisy, asking her to meet me to-morrow morning. She shall drive me to Wellington in her dog-cart. When we return late at night all danger of a meeting will be passed.

Daisy is punctually at the rendezvous.

She is delighted at the chance of going to the township, where Dick’s Bank is. He will find someone to take his duties for a time so that he may be our cavalier.

My uncle is surprised and a trifle displeased at our departure. Soon, however, he regains his good temper. Is he cognizant of Mr. Russell’s reputation?

At any rate, he doesn’t insist on my remaining, and I leave to him the task of explaining my absence. Meg will look after Bahloo. It is one of my aunt’s good days, and she will be able to preside over the luncheon table. I can go with a clear conscience, and give myself almost without regret to the pleasure of chatting with Daisy, who is too good a whip to mind the dual occupation.

What a charming girl Daisy is! Healthy in mind and body, frank, ingenuous, and bright, she is a true type of Australian girlhood.

Her nature has developed like a beautiful wayside plant in the wide sunny spaces of Australia.

One must not exact from her artistic or abstract ideals. Born in a country without a history, she possesses no feeling for the past, no veneration for the great heroes of the world. But she vibrates to all the pristine forces of a simple and natural life.

During the drive she opens her heart to me.

Dick and she are engaged. They are too poor to get married yet, but so soon as he is promoted to the management of a country bank their parents will help them to start housekeeping.

Naturally, Dick is delighted to see us. With the freedom of this happy land from rigid conventionality, he takes complete charge of us. We lunch at the hotel, where the merry repartees of my companions make me forget the reason of my presence.

Lunch over, we go to the river for a row. The two lovers ply their oars in unison, exchanging candid glances of love and tenderness as they discuss their future plans. They consider me as their friend and confidante. I wonder if one day I also shall come across a man who will love me simply and purely with a calm, untroubled affection like theirs, without ecstasy perhaps, but also without shame.

I considerately turn my attention to the river banks, umbrageous with willows, which the early settlers, the pioneers of the district, planted there. They have grown to dimensions quite unknown in more temperate climes. I amuse myself following the friskings and gambols of quite an aquatic fauna at the water’s edge, wild duck, teal, gracefully poised cranes, shags, and huge pelicans. Cockatoos, black and white, fly from tree to tree, uttering their harsh dissonant cries. The clear, flute-like notes of the magpie pierce the summer air.

“This is a sportsman’s paradise,” remarks Dick, who is nothing if not practical.

We return to Gwylata by moonlight. Mr. Russell, as I expected, is no longer there.

“He was very disappointed not to have seen you,” said my aunt. “He wanted to say good-bye before leaving for Europe, where he intends spending several months.”

So complex are my feelings that it is half with regret and half with relief that I learn of his departure, which will put half the globe between us.

* * * * *

Bahloo has evinced a great fondness for Meg’s society. She is quite proud of it, and her face relaxes its severity when the funny little chap strokes her wrinkled cheeks with his tiny hands. This afternoon she has dressed him for his first outing since his illness. With what an air of importance she carries him in her arms! Mac follows, holding a parasol to shield them from the sun, which even thus early in the season is very warm in the middle of the day.

Mrs. Deslandes, watching the trio from the verandah, cannot understand the _entente cordiale_ between these queerly assorted individuals. But I let her into the secret of my matchmaking scheme. At first she laughs. Then, growing serious, says,

“It is really a capital idea, Jeanne. What would have become of the poor old soul when I am gone? She will, at any rate, have a companion and an interest in life.”

VIII

Shearing
Time

On la tond,
On la tond,
La laine du mouton.

RONDE ENFANTINE.

For some days we have scarcely seen anything of Mr. Deslandes. It is the busiest time of the year on the station, and his attention is given wholly to the shearing.

All the outbuildings have been opened up--the sheds, the packing rooms where the wool is compressed into bales, and the quarters for the shearers, who have arrived in a body.

Despite my uncle’s protests, I am going to watch the sheep being shorn.

* * * * *

It is a weird sight! Once is sufficient; I do not wish to repeat the experience. There is something so savage and bestial in the scene. Half-naked men rushing wildly about, waving their arms and shouting like demons in the midst of bleating, terrified sheep; the atmosphere of steaming humanity, of pungent animal odours, of blood even, for now and then a poor beast is wounded by the shears. It mounts to one’s brain, intoxicating and revolting at the same time.

I could not look on for more than a few minutes, and not until I have had a long gallop on Said, inhaling great draughts of the saline air which blows across the lake from the Southern Ocean, do I feel clean and fresh again.

Hector never fails to be home at this time. He organises concerts and other amusements in the large common room set apart for the shearers.

Some of the men have fine voices, untrained but clear and resonant, developed in sunshine and liberty. Sometimes lantern pictures are thrown on the wall, and it is always a marvel to me to see these big children of the bush so interested in Old World pictures. Snow scenes especially arouse their wonder and admiration, and a thoughtful face here and there indicates that memory is back among the half-effaced scenes of childhood. The phonograph is brought into requisition, and a dance generally winds up the evening’s fun--a dance with men only, like those on board a man-of-war.

What a strange nomadic people are these shearers! Journeying from station to station, traversing Australia from north to south, according to the seasons, rough, uncouth and violent, with quick passions, counting on the need of their services to make their own terms with the squatters! Poor people! I can scarcely blame them; their lives are hard, their work strenuous.

Many have no greater ambition or hope than to “knock down” the cheque so laboriously earned, in the nearest bar, which, thanks to the machinations of the publican and the seductions of the barmaid, they only leave when their last penny is gone.... I heard of the wife of a wealthy hotel-keeper who actually sat down and cried with vexation because a shearer left the hotel with thirty shillings still in his pocket.

Then the journey to the next station is resumed, and the same pitiful comedy, I might almost say tragedy, is re-enacted.

Comparatively few return to the cities. The shearing season over, the majority still tramp from station to station, arriving generally about sunset, and asking a meal and a night’s lodging which are rarely refused. Hence the expressive name given to them--_Sundowners_.

What is the secret spell which this silent and mysterious land of far distances weaves around these Bohemians of the Bush who prefer to cook their simple meals and boil their “billy” on the track, sleeping at night under a stately gum, through whose pendant leaves filters the soft light of the Southern Cross?

Few abandon the life--they may go to the capital occasionally for a “jolly spree,” as they call it, but the Spirit of the Bush calls with insistent voice; an unseen presence is on the trail, and they must fain follow.

The need of affection drives them to seek companionship with another “mate,” that expressive word which indicates a community of interest, affection and fidelity.

One meets them thus in couples, helping each other through difficult moments, sharing alike good and bad fortune, tending each other in illness until, perhaps, the summons of the Dread Spectre calls for the last service which faithful hands can give. The Bush has its silent, secret language, known only to its initiates. A cross, rudely cut in a tree above an initial, may be passed quite unsuspectingly by an outsider, but the bushman knows that it marks the last resting-place of an unknown comrade, and his hat is reverently raised as he passes on. So, too, may he sleep in the deep stillness.

* * * * *

I am never tired of listening to Hector.

Full of sympathy himself, he possesses the rare gift of evoking it in others. His interest in the material welfare of the men on the station is as keen as his desire to awaken the religious instinct in their hearts.

In the daytime when every one is busy we resume our rides. My aunt, whom I am afraid of neglecting, is the first to find a pretext for sending us off together. Placing her pretty hand on my shoulder, she said to me this morning:

“I am so happy that my two children get on so well together; that is right, enjoy your youth.”

Sometimes Hector takes me for a row on the lake.

Neither lofty mountains nor far vistas move me so deeply as a little rocky inlet by the seashore, a turn of the river bordered with poplars, or a tiny stream babbling under willows.

Is it the magnetism of the water, its fluidity, its incessant movement, the latent life which is imprisoned? Or is it simply the interchanging play of light and shadow which gives it a new aspect every moment?

Our corner of the lake is fringed with weeping willows, whose tender green tassels contrast vividly with the dull-toned gum trees.

Mooring our boat to the trunk of a tree, we pass long hours on the unruffled water.

Hector is initiating me into the beauties of Burns, Keats and Shelley, the obscurities of Browning, whom he admires above all; the lofty socialism of Ruskin, which strongly appeals to me.

We discuss the perennial disputes between England and France, and compare Shakespeare and Victor Hugo.

Naturally, the national poet of each is exalted in turn.

“Shakespeare!” exclaims Hector, rhetorically; “the myriad-minded, the Seer of the Ages, whose intellect resolved the secrets of Humanity, whose sympathy softened them into music. His soul is the garner-house of immemorial experiences.”

To which I reply:

“Victor Hugo, ‘the Poet of the Soul.’ His heart is a lyre which resounds to all vibrations. He loves, he fights, he suffers with all humanity.”

IX

Engaged

Ce que le flot dit aux rivages,
Ce que le vent dit aux vieux monts,
Ce que l’astre dit aux nuages,
C’est le mot ineffable. Aimons.

VICTOR HUGO.

A snake crossing the road, a sudden shy on the part of Said, and the whole world is transfigured!

Hector and I start for a ride immediately after breakfast in order to escape the heat. We have not gone far when an unexpected swerve nearly unseats me. Said, startled by a snake darting in front of him, rears and then bolts.

Hector’s voice is powerless to stop him. I lose all control; the reins drop from my nerveless fingers, a sudden shock....

Words of tenderness and love recall me to consciousness. Hector’s face, drawn with emotion, is bending over me. I close my eyes quickly, but a tell-tale rush of blood to my cheeks betrays that I have heard. He assists me to rise. Beyond a little giddiness I am not hurt.

We remain a moment facing each other in a silence fraught with intense feeling, broken by Hector’s grave voice.

“I did not wish to speak so soon, dear, but seeing you lying there unconscious, perhaps dead, the words leapt from my heart. You know it now, Jeanne, I love you.”

All that is good and noble in my nature responds to his words. I place my hands in his. A kiss soft as a sigh brushes my trembling lips.

Then, standing back a little the better to read in my eyes the answer for which he is longing, he says:

“The wife of a minister, dear! It is a serious life for a gay little Parisienne. You are sure that you will regret nothing?”

“Quite sure,” I murmur. And a feeling of infinite calm, of inward rest and contentment pervades me. In the pure atmosphere in which he lives, my little weaknesses and feminine vanities will disappear. I shall become the woman I want to be--a woman worthy of him.

The sun high above the horizon recalls us to the flight of time and to the fact that the Gwylata folk will be getting anxious at our prolonged absence. Hector is unwilling that I should remount Said, who, after his escapade, has come back and is browsing quietly near Sultan.

Throwing the bridles over our arms, we walk slowly home, discussing the plans for our future.

My aunt, evidently uneasy, is watching for us from the verandah. She is quick to divine the news in our altered glances, and calls her husband to share her delight. Both beam with joy. Their greatest desire is realised.

“I am not at all surprised,” says my uncle, teasingly; “since the day I saw a certain portrait wherein Jeanne depicted her ideal, I expected it would end thus.” My menacing frown prevents further disclosures....

Mr. Deslandes, in the exuberance of his joy, is quite unable to keep the secret. Soon the whole station shares it.

I am overwhelmed with congratulations, for Hector is loved by all these honest souls who have known him from childhood.

Mac comes last, and draws me aside in a mysterious manner. Since I am now an important personage, he gives me his confidence.

“Sure, our parson is very lucky to find such a pretty colleen,” he says, sighing dolorously.

“Well, Mac, why don’t you follow his example and look for one too?”

“There is no need to look far, Miss Mam’selle, you know who it is. Ah! if she would only take me as you are taking Master Hector, it would be better for everybody.”

“Including little Bahloo?”

“Yes; Bahloo, too. Though I should set him a shocking example sometimes, I know,” shaking his head with a naive complaisance towards his pet delinquency.

“Well, Mac, you had better go and speak to her at once.”

“I dare not, Miss Mam’selle, she intimidates me just awful.”

I laugh at the picture of my old bushman, six feet high and proportionately broad, trembling with emotion before Meg’s dour face.

But love has opened my eyes, and awakened depths of feelings which I did not suspect. So placing my hand affectionately on my old friend’s arm, I say, “Come, Mac, courage. If you succeed--and I hope you will--we will give you a fine wedding.”

And the big-hearted old man, so weak against himself, squeezes my hand with such vigour that I nearly cry out.

* * * * *

I cannot sleep to-night.

Seated at my open window, I murmur my happiness to the stars which gaze down upon me from their radiant heights.

Hector loves me. Joy, sweet, calm and profound pervades my whole being.

This, then, is love--real love!

There is nothing in it of the wild agitation and excitement I felt under Allan Russell’s strange gaze. When Hector presses my hand my blood keeps its wonted flow. When he kissed me this evening I remained as cool as though it had been a paternal embrace from my guardian.

Nevertheless, I love him. I am sure of it. The thought of passing my life with him is sweet. All my aspirations towards the Good, the Beautiful and the Infinite attract and draw me closer to him. I am happy at the idea of confiding my future to his care. He will be an ideal husband--the friend and brother of my soul.

How glad I am to be able to pay the debt of gratitude which I owe these generous friends who have taken me to their hearts so warmly.

There will be no more danger of seeing the enthusiast start forth on a foolish mission of self immolation. I recall my uncle’s words:

“You have clipped his wings, little girl; he is bound to the old home now, and our two children will remain near us always.”

X

The
Spirit
and
the
Letter

Une seule chose est nécessaire, d’après l’Évangile. La voici:

L’homme pécheur et misérable est aimé de Dieu pour le temps et pour
l’Éternité.
C. WAGNER (Justice).

Hector has returned to the Murray after some halcyon days, spent together. Golden hours, whose minutes are counted by the emotions, sweet confidences wherein soul communes with soul, and words are but the gross envelope of feelings which they reveal.

The separation is hard, so soon after our _fiançailles_. But he will write every day, and I have promised to consider myself an Australian “fiancee,” and write in return.

He must not expect poetic effusions. Words of love lose their fragrance when written. The sound of the beloved voice, the magnetism of the living presence are necessary to give them their true value. My letters will consist only of prosaic details of the station life and of my studies ... for I have a great project in view of which I have not yet said a word.

I am going to study THEOLOGY!

The wife of a minister ought to share the religious beliefs of her husband, I suppose. This is a point I have never dared discuss with Hector for fear that we should clash; but now I long to know something of those dogmas which mould his inner life. My own religion, one of sentiment only, has never been troubled with any vexed doctrinal questions. Protestant in name, it is true, but educated in a State _Lycée_ with Catholics and even Jewesses, where the teaching imparted was moral and altruistic, I conformed to an ideal of life lofty enough, but absolutely outside all creeds and dogmas.

I am quite prepared to share a life of self-denial with Hector. Before he left he asked me if I would consent to devote a part of his income to certain good works which he has in view, necessitating a very simple life for ourselves.

“To lead the ‘Simple Life’ of my dear Pasteur Wagner has always been my dream,” I replied, smiling. “It will be scarcely necessary, will it? My guardian is rich, and he will help us.”

“You must not count on uncle’s wealth, Jeanne; the station is not prospering, in spite of appearances. Moreover, he speculates, and with his sanguine temperament and ignorance of mining affairs generally, I am afraid, very much afraid....”

“He ought to reduce his expenditure, discharge some of the hands, sell the motor....”

“I have thought of it often, and spoken to him, but without result. Fortunately, I have my father’s small fortune, and whatever happens he and my mother are secure of a home with US,” pressing my arm lovingly.

* * * * *

This very day I am going to begin my theological education. Comfortably ensconced in a corner of the verandah shut off by a huge screen so as not to be disturbed, my little table piled with frowning tomes taken from Hector’s private library, I attack the bull by the horns.

The Thirty-nine Articles of the Anglican Faith.

After several hours’ steady perusal, I let the book fall.

Predestination. The Redemption of Sin by the blood of Jesus Christ. Eternal Salvation obtained by Faith alone, irrespective of deeds. Belief in an Eternal Hell!

Are these doctrines, which seem to me reminiscent of a long past day, still really taught in the Anglican Church? Oh, Jesus, gentle Prophet of Nazareth, You who journeyed through Judea, preaching to the lowly your Gospel of Love, what has been made of your teaching?

I carry my difficulties to my uncle, but he pooh-poohs them.

“Why bother your head about it at all, little girl? Leave Theology to others, and come for a walk with me.”

“But, uncle, I must try to understand. It can’t be possible that Hector teaches....”

“Tut, tut! That won’t concern you. Your role will be to cut out little frocks for the kiddies, distribute soup to the old people, and port wine to the invalids--which reminds me to stock your cellar forthwith for that purpose.”

I take refuge in silence. I will write to Hector. He will not find my scruples childish. He will understand and explain matters to my full satisfaction.

* * * * *

Meg and Mac have asked for a day’s leave.

They want to go to Strathalbyn to get married by the Presbyterian Minister.

I wonder who put the fateful question!

Did Mac muster sufficient courage, or--did Meg take the initiative?

“Meg, why didn’t you wait a day or two? Mr. Hector would have been back, and we could have had a fine wedding feast.”

“Nae, nae; Maister Hector is guid enow to preach on the Sabbath, Miss Joan, but we maun hae a true minister to marry us. Maister Hector is nae sound enow in doctrine.”

Not sound enough!

If Hector’s views are too liberal for her, surely there is hope for me!

Mr. Deslandes lends them the motor for the great event, and we witness their departure in grand style.

Meg and Mac are truly superb!

But Bahloo!!!

Words fail to do justice to his elaborate splendour.

For he is going also. As best man, I suppose.

The dusky mite holds himself painfully rigid in the resplendent ruby velveteen suit Meg has made for the occasion.

And how in the world has she procured here the sailor hat with “Nelson” in gilt letters around it, which is perched jauntily on his mop of frizzy hair? Would not the word “Cupid” suit better the circumstances? In truth, has not our picaninny played the part of a little black “Deus in Machina”?

Mrs. Deslandes is a little hurt that Meg should leave her _service personnel_ without a word of regret. It has all been done so hurriedly that we have had no time to replace her. But it will be a pleasure to take Meg’s duties upon myself for a while.

After the usual Bridge, I accompany my aunt to her room to render her the little services which her weakness necessitates.

But, behold the faithful handmaiden at her post as usual!

“Meg, you here?” exclaims her mistress.

“You surely didn’t think I was going to abandon you?” comes the calm reply.

“But what will your husband say?” I question wonderingly, opening my eyes at this startling development in honeymoon etiquette, “and who is going to keep house for him and Bahloo?”

“Oh, I can easily manage that if the mistress will let me off for an hour or two in the morning.... Noo, Miss Joan,” lapsing into the vernacular, “gang to bed yer ain sel’. Ye can sleep quite peacefully, the mistress will want for naught.”

I make my exit, leaving the two old friends--friends in sooth, despite the difference of their station--to resume the even tenor of their ways, which no incident so frivolous as Meg’s marriage could interrupt.

XI

The
Letter
Kills

D’où viennent l’intolérance, les haines religieuses, la polémique et
le fanatisme? Ils tiennent tous à une fausse conception de l’essence
et du but de la Religion.
C. WAGNER (Justice).

The inquisitor was sometimes conscientious when he racked and burned
his brother man for the glory of God and the salvation of the souls of
others who might be inclined to follow that heretical brother; he
acted with a clear conscience, honestly believing himself to be doing
service both to God and to man.
ANNIE BESANT.

* * * * *

His letter has arrived....

A cold chill has passed over my heart. Can it really be Hector who, ignoring the spirit of the Gospel, has written these words, with their sophistry and fanatical respect for the letter of the Jewish Bible?

“... If you deny Revelation everything crumbles under your feet.... It is your duty to accept and believe the truth taught by the Church. Has not the Saviour promised that He will always be with his Church even to the end of the world, to guide it in the path of Truth?... The Bible is the directly inspired word of God, and we must bow before its teaching without presuming to judge it.... All Faith rests on the doctrine of the Redemption, of Predestination, of the Day of Judgment.... Many of our clergy themselves ignore these subjects. They are spiritual heretics, freethinkers under the garb of the Church....”

Then follows an exhortation:

“Beloved, cease your doubts. Prostrate yourself before the Cross, stained with the blood of Christ, that blood shed in order to efface the sins of the world. Come, before the justice of an angry God bars the way.”

He finishes with these words, which in his sincere but blind faith he believes must touch me:

“Pray for the Light! Oh, my life, may our Saviour enlighten you with his Grace!”

* * * * *

No, no, I cannot pray. I do not want this unjust Grace which would single me out arbitrarily. Rather would I remain in doubt, in negation, even, than admit this conception of a partial Creator who cannot be appeased but by the abasement of Conscience and intelligence, the greatest gifts bestowed by him.

* * * * *

Hector is here. For a week he has tried all means, arguments, persuasion, tenderness, to break what he calls my intellectual pride.

He makes me read Pusey, Stanley, Weldon.... In vain he cites the great minds, the lofty spirits who have accepted unmurmuringly the dogmas which revolt me--above all, that of an eternal Hell. This is the one upon which he is most inflexible.

“Then those you term pagans,” I argue, “you condemn them also to this eternal punishment?”

“We have no right to judge God. In his immutable justice He separates the sheep from the goats.”

“If He is cruel enough to condemn those who have no means of knowing Him, I should prefer to be with them in Hell rather than in Heaven with your God.”

These controversies, which leave me utterly broken and exhausted, only increase the gulf between us.

* * * * *

Hector has adjured me by the regard I have for him, by the submission I owe him as priest, by our love for each other, to make an act of intellectual humility and come to the Communion Table to-morrow morning.

I could have done so once. In the little Paris oratory of Pasteur Wagner I sometimes partook of the Communion. But he never preached this God of Vengeance, this Father appeased only by the blood of his own Son!... Now, this act of Communion would be sheer hypocrisy, a blasphemy against my conscience. No, even though I lose Hector’s love, sunder our lives, I must be honest with myself and him.

The evening has passed apparently as usual, dinner en famille, followed by bridge, but the atmosphere is charged with suppressed emotion. My aunt, sensitive like all nervous natures to external influences, suspects that something is wrong. She is troubled and looks at us anxiously. My guardian asks me to sing. I cannot. My throat is constricted as though in a vice.

As I look up from the book I have taken I encounter Hector’s gaze.

His eyes are fixed upon me, seeking to impose his will on my soul. Thought is really a force. I feel his beating against my brain, seeking to break down my resistance, to absorb my personality, stupefying me as with an anaesthetic....

* * * * *

The night has been one long struggle.

My tortured heart has striven to convince my reason.

I have retraced again and again all the old theological arguments, the problems remain unsolved. I endeavour to pray; the words halt on my lips. I see before me only a precipice, a void, ready to engulf me....

I have no courage to appear at breakfast. I even hesitate whether I shall go to matins, but it looks too cowardly to stay away. Besides, who knows? A flash of Faith, a spark from the Divine Light may descend upon me and dissipate my doubts.

When I enter the little improvised chapel Hector is already at the altar.

For one moment his eyes seek mine with devouring intensity. Then he turns and gives himself wholly to his office.

His voice, more sonorous than usual, has deep notes in it which go straight to my soul as he pronounces the words of the solemn ritual.

“I bid you in the name of God, I call you in Christ’s behalf, I exhort you as ye love your own salvation, that ye will be partakers of this holy Communion.” My whole being rushes towards him. I rise to follow the communicants. A force greater still holds me back. The voice of my conscience cries so loudly that I seem to actually hear it within my heart. “You no longer believe, you no longer believe. It is a crime towards him, towards God, to yield to a momentary emotion. Better to separate than live a life of lies.”

* * * * *

My engagement is broken.

Hector has gone, never to come back.

Here is the letter which was brought to my room where, almost unconscious, I returned after the service.

“Jeanne,--God has not granted my prayer and enlightened your heart. There is only one means to propitiate Him--the sacrifice of my life, the sacrifice of my love. I submit to His will. An atheist (my heart bleeds in giving you that name) who denies Revelation, the authority of the Divine Book, cannot be the wife of a minister of God. To continue to see you, to feel the charm of your presence, would be impossible.... I am only a man, a man who loves you with all his heart, and soul and body.... From afar as near, O my loved one, my prayers shall follow you, my supplications shall mount to the God of Justice who is also the God of Mercy. He will break down the barrier of your pride and lead you to His feet. I am writing to my mother to explain my departure. Love her, my dear mother, who loves me so dearly; soften by your affection the grief she will feel ... be to her the daughter she hoped to find indeed in you.

“Adieu, Jeanne, my beloved. I confide you to His care.

“HECTOR.”

* * * * *

My poor Aunt Molly! Her heart will be broken!