The Survivor | Page 2

building though it was, he reckoned all men
equal.
Praying silently before them, on the eve of his first sermon, a young
man was kneeling. He had seen nothing of these newcomers, but of a
sudden as he knelt there, his thoughts and sensations in strange
confusion, himself half in revolt against what lay before him, there
floated up the little aisle an exquisite perfume of crushed violets, and
he heard the soft rustling of a gown which was surely worn by none of
those who were gathered together to listen to him. He opened his eyes
involuntarily, and met the steady gaze of the lady whose whim it had
been to enter the place.
He had never seen her before, nor any one like her. Yet he felt that, in
her presence, the task which lay before him had become immeasurably
more difficult. She was a type to him of all those things, the memory of
which he had been strenuously trying to put away from him, the
beautiful, the worldly, the joyous. As he rose slowly to his feet, he
looked half despairingly around. It was a stern religion which they
loved, this handful of weatherbeaten farmers and their underlings. Their
womenkind were made as unlovely as possible, with flat hair, sombre
and ill-made clothes. Their surroundings were whitewashed and
text-hung walls, and in their hearts was the love for narrow ways. He
gave out his text slowly and with heavy heart. Then he paused, and,

glancing once more round the little building, met again the soft, languid
fire of those full dark eyes. This time he did not look away. He saw a
faint interest, a slight pity, a background of nonchalance. His cheeks
flushed, and the fire of revolt leaped through his veins. He shut up the
Bible and abandoned his carefully prepared discourse, in which was a
mention of hellfire and many gloomy warnings, which would have
brought joy to the heart of Gideon Strong, and to each of which he
would slowly and approvingly have nodded his head. He delivered
instead, with many pauses, but in picturesque and even vivid language,
a long and close account of the miracle with which his text was
concerned. In the midst of it there came from outside the tinkling of
many bicycle bells--the rest of the party had returned in search of their
host and his companion. The Earl looked up with alacrity. He was
nicely rested now, and wanted a cigarette.
"Shall we go?" he whispered.
She nodded and rose. At the door she turned for a moment and looked
backwards. The preacher was in the midst of an elaborate and
painstaking sifting of evidence as to the season of the year during
which this particular miracle might be supposed to have taken place.
Again their eyes met for a moment, and she went out into the sunlight
with a faint smile upon her lips, for she was a woman who loved to feel
herself an influence, and she was swift to understand. To her it was an
episode of the morning's ride, almost forgotten at dinner-time. To him
it marked the boundary line between the old things and the new.
CHAPTER II
A STRANGE BETROTHAL
The room had all the chilly discomfort of the farmhouse parlour,
unused, save on state occasions--a funereal gloom which no sunlight
could pierce, a mustiness which savoured almost of the grave. One by
one they obeyed the stern forefinger of Gideon Strong, and took their
seats on comfortless chairs and the horse-hair sofa. First came John
Magee, factor and agent to the Earl of Cumberland, a great man in the

district, deacon of the chapel, slow and ponderous in his movements. A
man of few words but much piety. After him, with some hesitation as
became his lowlier station, came William Bull, six days in the week his
master's shepherd and faithful servant, but on the seventh an elder of
the chapel, a person of consequence and dignity. Then followed Joan
and Cicely Strong together, sisters in the flesh, but as far apart in kin
and the spirit as the poles of humanity themselves. And lastly, Douglas
Guest. At the head of his shining mahogany table, with a huge Bible
before him on which rested the knuckle of one clenched hand, stood
Gideon Strong, the master of Feldwick Hall Farm. It was at his bidding
that these people had come together; they waited now for him to speak.
His was no common personality. Neat in his dress, precise though local,
with a curious mixture of dialects in his speech, he was feared by every
man in Feldwick, whether he stood over them labouring or prayed
amongst them in the little chapel, where every Sunday he took the
principal place. He was well