"Is it a vow?" Menzies asked.
"It is a vow."
"But tell me," put in Prior, "does the water of your spring differ from that of a thousand others on these hills?"
"The younger sahib," answered the hermit, "understands not the meaning of a vow; which a man makes to his own hurt, perhaps, or to the hurt of another, or it may even be quite foolishly; but thereby he stablishes his life, while the days of other men go by in a flux of business. As for the water of my hillside," he went on with a sharp change of voice and speaking, to their amazement, in English, "have not your countrymen, O sahibs, their particular springs?
Churchman and Dissenter, Presbyterian and Baptist--count they not every Jordan above Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus?"
He turned and walked swiftly from them, mounting the slope with swift loose strides. But while they stared, Bhagwan Da.s.s broke from them and ran in pursuit.
"Not without thy blessing! O Annesley sahib, go not before thou hast blessed me!"
Two days later, at sunset, a child watching a little below the hermit"s spring saw him limp back to it and drink and seat himself again at the entrance of the cave; and pelted down to the village with the news. And the hill-people, who had supposed him gone for ever, swarmed up and about the cave to a.s.sure themselves.
"Alas!" said the holy man, gazing out upon the twilight when at length all had departed, leaving him in peace. "Cannot a man be anywhere alone with G.o.d? And yet," he added, "I was something wistful for their love."
CHAPTER I.
"_To the Lord our G.o.d belong mercies and forgiveness, though we have rebelled against him: neither have we obeyed the voice of the Lord our G.o.d, to walk in his laws which he set before us. O Lord, correct me, but with judgment; not in thine anger, lest thou bring me to nothing_."
The voice travelled down the great nave of Lincoln Cathedral, and, as it came, the few morning worshippers--it was a week-day--inclined their faces upwards: for it seemed to pause and float overhead and again be carried forward by its own impulse, a pure column of sound wavering awhile before it broke and spread and dissolved into whispers among the mult.i.tudinous arches. To a woman still kneeling by a pillar close within the western doorway it was as the voice of a seraph speaking with the dawn, fresh from his night-watch over earth.
She had been kneeling for minutes, and still knelt, but she could not pray. She had no business to be there. To her the sentences carried no message; but the voice smiting, pure and cold, across the hot confusion in her brain, steadied her while it terrified.
Yet she knew the voice well enough. It was but John Romley"s.
The Dean and Chapter wanted a precentor, and among a score of candidates had selected Romley and two others for further trial.
This was his chance and he was using it; making the most of it, too, to the mingled admiration and disgust of his rivals listening in the choir beside him.
And she had dressed early and climbed to the cathedral, not to pray, but to seek Romley because she had instant need of him; because, though she respected his character very little, he was the one man in the world who could help her. She had missed him at the door.
Entering, she learned from a verger that he was already robing.
Then the great organ sounded, and from habit she dropped on her knees.
John Romley, unseen in the choir, was something very different from John Romley in private life with his loose face and flabby handshake.
Old Mr. Wesley had once dismissed him contemptuously as _vox et praeterea nihil_: but disembodied thus, almost a thing celestial, yet subtly recalling home to her and ties renounced, the voice shook Hetty"s soul. For it came on her as the second shock of an ambush.
She had climbed to the cathedral with but half of her senses awake, drowsed by love, by the long ride in the languorous night wind, by the exhaustion of a long struggle ended, by her wondering helplessness on arriving--the chill sunlight, the deserted street, the strange voice behind the lodging-house door, the unfamiliar pa.s.sage and stairs. She had lived a lifetime in those hours, and for the while Wroote Parsonage lay remote as a painful daily round from the dream which follows it. Only the practical instinct, as it were a nerve in the centre of her brain, awake and refusing to be drugged, had kept sounding its alarm to rise and seek Romley; and though at length she obeyed in a panic, she went as one walking in sleep.
The front of the cathedral, as she came beneath its shadow, overhung her as a phantom drawn upon the morning sky, its tall towers unsubstantial, trembling against the light, but harmless even should they fall upon her. She entered as one might pa.s.s through a paper screen.
The first shock came upon her then. She pa.s.sed not out of sunlight into sunlight, but out of sunlight into a vast far-reaching, high-arching gloom, which was another world and another life; the solemn twilight which her upbringing had taught her to a.s.sociate with G.o.d. Once before in her life, and once only, she had stood within the minster--on her confirmation day, when she had entered with her hand in her mother"s. Her eyes sought and found the very place where she had sat then among the crowd of girl-candidates, and a ghost in a white frock sat there still with bowed head. She remembered the very texture and scent of that white frock: they came back with the awe, the fervour, the pa.s.sionate desire to be good; and these memories cried all in her ears, "What have you to do with that child?
Which of you is Hetty? You cannot both be real."
They sang in her ears while she questioned the verger about Romley.
He had to repeat his answers before she thanked him and turned towards one of the lowest seats. She did not repent: she was not thinking of repentance. She loved, she had given all for love, and life was fuller of beautifying joy than ever it had been even on that day of confirmation: but beneath the joy awoke a small ache, and with the ache a certain knowledge that she might never sit beside the child in white, never so close as to touch her frock; that their places in this building, G.o.d"s habitation, were eternally separate.
Then the organ ceased, and the voice began to speak. And the voice uttered promise of pardon, but Hetty heard nothing of the words--only the notes.
"_And they heard the voice of the Lord G.o.d walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and A dam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord G.o.d among the trees of the garden_."
Less terrible this voice was; a seraph"s rather, at the lodge-gate, welcoming the morn. Yet Hetty crouched by her pillar, afraid.
For the day he welcomed was not _her_ day, the worship he offered was not _her_ worship; for _her_ a sword lay across the gate.
Her terror pa.s.sed, and she straightened herself. After all, she did not repent. Why should she repent? She was loved; she loved in return, utterly and without guile, with a love which, centred upon one, yet embraced all living creatures. Nay, it embraced Heaven, if Heaven would accept it. And why not?
"_Wherefore let us beseech him_," said the voice, "_to grant us true repentance and his Holy Spirit, that those things may please him which we do at this present; and that the rest of our life hereafter may be pure and holy_ . . ."
"Pure and holy"--but she desired no less, and out of her love.
She wanted to be friends with all at home, to go to them fearlessly and make them understand her as she understood them, and to be good all the days of her life. "True repentance"? Why repent? . . .
Ah, yes, of course: but G.o.d was no haggler over hours. In an hour or two . . . "That those things may please him which we do at this present--" She caught at her heart now as the terror--a practical terror this time--returned upon it. At all costs she must find John Romley after service, though indeed there was little danger of missing him, for he, no doubt, would be seeking her.
Her mind was clear now.
She lay in wait for him as he stepped out under the great porch, with a clean surplice on his arm. He paused there with a smile on his face, glanced up at the blue sky, clapped on his hat, and descended the steps gaily, whistling a phrase from the _Venite exultemus_; too far preoccupied to recognise Hetty, until she stepped forward and almost laid a hand on his arm.
"Miss Mehetabel!"
Plainly, then, he was not seeking her.
"You in Lincoln? This is a surprise--a pleasant surprise, indeed!"
"But I came in search of you. I have been waiting--" She nodded her head towards the porch.
"Eh? You heard? "Twas not altogether a breakdown, I hope? You must allow for some nervousness--did you detect it? No? Well, I don"t mind owning to you I was nervous as a cat: but there, if you didn"t detect it I shall flatter myself I did pa.s.sably." He laughed, evidently on the best terms with himself. His breath smelt of beer.
"The Rector is with you, of course?"
"My father? But, Mr. Romley, I don"t think you understand--"
"I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on him this morning.
Nothing could have happened better, and I"m in luck"s way to-day, for certain. It seems the Dean and Chapter require a certificate from him--a testimonial--just a line or two, to say that I"m a decent respectable fellow. We have not been friends of late--I hope Miss Patty keeps pretty well, by the way--but he won"t deny me that small favour. You were not seeking me on her account?" he added, by an afterthought. "Patty?" She uttered her sister"s name to gain time, for in truth she was bewildered, alarmed.
He nodded. "We are not allowed to correspond, as you know. But she must keep up her heart: your father will come round when he sees me precentor. "Tis a good opening. We must allow for the Rector"s crotchets (you"ll excuse me, I feel sure): but give him time, I say-- give him time, and he"ll come round right and tight."
"My father is not with me. Oh, Mr. Romley, you have heard, surely? I was told--but there, you have the licence."
"The licence! What licence?" He stared at her.
Her heart sank. Here was some horrible mistake. She bethought herself of his careless habits, which indeed were notorious enough in and about Wroote and Epworth. "It must be among your letters--have you neglected them lately? Ah, think--think, my friend: for to me this means all the world."
"Upon my word of honour, Miss Hetty, I don"t understand one word you"re saying. Come, let us have it clear. What brings you to Lincoln? The Rector is not with you. Who, then?"
"We came here last night--early this morning, rather--"
""We"?"
"I have left home. You know what we intended? But my father locked me up. I had tried to be open with him, and he would listen to nothing. So--as everything was ready--and you here with the licence--"
John Romley stepped back a pace. It is doubtful if he heard the last words. His eyes were round in his head.
"You are here--with--_him_!" He gasped it in an incredulous whisper.