The Survivor | Page 4

whole neighbourhood wore were too heavy to be thrown lightly aside.
So he held out his hand, and Joan's fingers, passive and cold, lay for a
moment in his. The old man watched without any outward sign of
satisfaction.
"Thou ha' chosen well, nephew Douglas," he said, with marvellous but
quite unconscious irony. "I reckon, too, that we ha' chosen well to elect
you our pastor. Thou wilt have two pounds a week and Bailiff
Morrison's cottage. Neighbour Magee, there is a sup o' ale and some tea
in the kitchen."
John Magee and William Bull betrayed the first signs of real interest
they had exhibited in the proceedings. One by one they all filed out of
the room save Douglas Guest and Joan. Cicely had flitted away with

the first. They two were alone. He wondered, with a grim sense of the
humour of the thing, whether she was expecting any love-making to
follow upon so strange an engagement. He looked curiously at her.
There was no change in her face nor any sign of softening.
"I hope you will believe, Joan," he said, taking up a book and looking
for his place, "that I knew nothing of this, and that I am not in any way
responsible for it."
Her face seemed to darken as she rose and moved towards the door.
"I am sure of that," she said, stiffly. "I do not blame you."
* * * * *
Up into the purer, finer air of the hills-up with a lightening heart,
though still carrying a bitter burden of despondency. Night rested upon
the hilltops and brooded in the valleys. Below, the shadowy landscape
lay like blurred patchwork-still he climbed upwards till Feldwick lay
silent and sleeping at his feet and a flavour of the sea mingled with the
night wind which cooled his cheeks. Then Douglas Guest threw
himself breathless amongst the bracken and gazed with eager eyes
downwards.
"If she should not come," he murmured. "I must speak to some one or I
shall go mad."
Deeper fell the darkness, until the shape of the houses below was lost,
and only the lights were visible. Such a tiny little circle they seemed.
He watched them with swelling heart. Was this to be the end of his
dreams, then? Bailiff Morrison's cottage, two pounds a week, and Joan
for his wife? He, who had dreamed of fame, of travel in distant
countries, of passing some day into the elect of those who had written
their names large in the book of life. His heart swelled in passionate
revolt. Even though he might be a pauper, though he owed his learning
and the very clothes in which he stood to Gideon Strong, had any man
the right to demand so huge a sacrifice? He had spoken his mind and
his wishes only to be crushed with cold contempt. To-day his answer

had been given. What was it that Gideon Strong had said? "I have fed
you and clothed you and taught you; I have kept you from beggary and
made you what you are. Now, as my right, I claim your future. Thus
and thus shall it be. I have spoken."
He walked restlessly to and fro upon the windy hilltop. A sense of
freedom possessed him always upon these heights. The shackles of
Gideon Strong fell away. Food and clothing and education, these were
great things to owe, but life was surely a greater, and life he owed to no
man living--only to God. Was it a thing which he dared misuse?--fritter
helplessly away in this time-forgotten corner of the earth? Life surely
was a precious loan to be held in trust, to be made as full and deep and
fruitful a thing as a man's energy and talent could make it. To Gideon
Strong he owed much, but it was a debt which surely could be paid in
other ways than this.
He stopped short. A light footstep close at hand startled, then thrilled
him. It was Cicely--hatless, breathless with the climb, and very fair to
see in the faint half-lights. For Cicely, though she was Gideon Strong's
daughter, was not of Feldwick or Feldwick ways, nor were her gowns
simple, though they were fashioned by a village dressmaker. She had
lived all her life with distant relatives near London. Douglas had never
seen her till two months ago, and her coming had been a curious break
in the life at the farm.
He moved quickly to meet her. For a moment their hands met. Then
she drew away.
"How good of you, Cicely," he cried. "I felt that I must talk to some
one or go mad."
She stood for a moment recovering her breath--her bosom rising and
falling quickly under her dark gown, a pink