The Solitary Farm. Fergus Hume

to speak to the young man. He therefore could not be cognisant of the fact, stated by Mrs. Coppersley, that Lister and the girl were on the eve of an engagement.

      Thus thinking, Pence mechanically wandered along the left bank of the boundary water-way, and found himself near a small hut, inhabited by the sole labourer whom Huxham habitually employed. He engaged others, of course, when his fields were ploughed, and sown, and reaped, but Tunks—such was the euphonious name of the handy-man—was in demand all the year round. He resided in this somewhat lonely hut, along with his grandmother, a weird old gipsy reputed to be a witch, and it was this reputation which set Mr. Pence thinking.

      Remembering that Mrs. Tunks was of the Romany, he thought, and blushed as he thought, that it would be worth while to expend a shilling in order to learn if his suit with Bella would really prosper. The temple of fate was before him, and the Sibyl was probably within, since the smoke of cooking the evening meal curled from the chimney. It was only necessary to lift the latch, lay down a shilling, and inquire. But even as the temptation drew him, he was seized with a feeling of shame, that he—a preacher of the Gospel, and the approved foe thereby of witches—should think for one moment of encouraging such traffic with the Evil One. Pence, blushing as red as the now setting sun, turned away hastily, and found himself face to face with the very girl who was causing him such torment.

      "How are you, Mr. Pence?" said Bella Huxham, lightly. "A lovely evening, isn't it?" and she tried to pass him on the narrow path. Probably she was going to see the Witch of Endor.

      The preacher placed himself directly before her.

      "Wait for one moment."

      The girl did not reply immediately, but looked at him earnestly, trying to guess what the usually nervous preacher had to say. Bella looked more lovely than ever in Pence's eyes, as she stood before him in her white dress and bathed in the rosy glory of the sunset. She did not in the least resemble her father or her aunt, both of whom were stout, uncomely folk of true plebeian type. Bella was aristocratic in her looks, as tall and slim and willowy as a young sapling. Her hair and eyes were dark, her face was a perfect oval of ivory-white delicately flushed with red, like a sweet-pea, and if her chin was a trifle resolute and hard, her mouth was perfect. She carried herself in a haughty way, and had a habit of bending her dark brows so imperiously, that she reminded Pence of Judith, who killed Holofernes. Judith and Jael and Deborah must have been just such women.

      "Well?" asked Bella, bending her brows like an empress, "what is it?"

      "I—I—love you, Miss Huxham."

      She could not be angry at so naive a declaration, and one coming from a man whom she knew to be as timid as a hare. "I am somewhat surprised, Mr. Pence," she replied demurely, "are you not making a mistake?"

      "No," he stuttered, flushing with eagerness, for amorous passion makes the most timid bold. "I have loved you for months, for years. I want you to be my wife—to share with me the glorious privilege of leading my flock to the land of Beulah, and——"

      "Stop, stop!" She flung up her hand. "I assure you, Mr. Pence, that it is impossible. Forget that you ever said anything."

      "I cannot forget. Why should I forget?"

      "You must not ask a woman for her reasons, Mr. Pence," she answered drily, "for a woman never gives the true ones."

      "Bella!"

      "Miss Huxham to you, Mr. Pence." She spoke in a chilly manner.

      "No," he cried wildly; "to me you are Bella. I think of you by that sweet name day and night. You come between me and my work. When I console the afflicted I feel that I am talking to you. When I read my Bible, your face comes between me and the sacred page. To me you are Hephzibah—yes, and the Shulamite. The Angel of the Covenant; the joy of my heart. Oh, Bella, I love the very ground that you tread on. Can you refuse me? See!" He threw himself on the path, heedless of the fact that Mrs. Tunks might be at her not far distant window. "I am at your feet, Bella! Bella!"

      The girl was distressed by this earnestness. "Rise, Mr. Pence, someone will see you. You must not behave like this. I cannot be your wife."

      "Why not? Oh, why not?"

      "Because I am not fit to be a minister's wife."

      The young man sprang to his feet, glowing with passion. "Let me teach you."

      Bella avoided his extended arms. "No, no, no!" she insisted, "you must take my answer once and for all, Mr. Pence. I cannot marry you."

      "But why?" he urged despairingly.

      "I have a reason," she replied formally; "don't ask me for it."

      "I have no need to. I know your reason."

      Bella flushed, but overlooked the bitterness of his tone because she guessed what he suffered. "In that case, I need not explain," she said coldly, and again tried to pass. Again he prevented her.

      "You love that man Lister," he said between his teeth.

      "That is my business, Mr. Pence."

      "Mine also," he cried, undaunted by her haughtiness. "Your father's business, too. Mrs. Coppersley said that you were almost engaged to this man Lister. But you shall not marry him; you will not even be engaged to him."

      "Who will prevent me?" asked Bella angrily.

      "Your father. He hates this man Lister."

      "How can my father hate a man he has never even seen?" she demanded; "you are talking rubbish."

      "Miss Huxham"—Pence detained her by laying his thin fingers on her arm—"if you marry this man Lister"—he kept to this sentence as though it were a charm—"you will be a pauper."

      She flashed up into a royal rage and stamped. "How dare you say that?"

      "I dare tell the truth."

      "It is not the truth. How can you tell if——"

      "Your father told me," insisted the preacher, hotly.

      Bella withdrew a step or so, her eyes growing round with surprise. "My—father—said—that?"

      "Yes, yes, yes!" cried Silas feverishly. "I went to him this very afternoon to ask permission to present myself to you as a suitor. He consented, but only when he heard that you loved this man who——"

      "You told him that?" demanded Bella, her breath coming quick and short.

      "Yes," said Pence, trying to be courageous, "and it is true."

      "Who says that it is?"

      "Everyone in the village."

      "The village has nothing to do with my business," she declared imperiously, "and even if I do love—but let that pass. You told me that my father said I should be a pauper."

      "If you married the man Lister," he reminded her. "Yes, he did say so, and declared also that he would give me the manor-house and the farm when he died, if I made you my wife."

      Bella shrugged her shoulders. "My father does not mean what he says," she remarked disbelievingly; "as I am his only child, the Solitary Farm, as they call it, comes to me in any case. And I see no reason why I should discuss my father's business with you. Stand aside and let me pass."

      "No." Silas was wonderfully brave for one of his timid soul. "You shall not pass until you learn the truth. You think that I am a fool and weak. I am not. I feel wise and strong; and I am strong—strong enough to withstand temptation, even when you are offered as a bribe."

      Bella grew somewhat alarmed. She did not like the glittering of his shallow, grey eyes. "You are mad."

      "I am sane; you know that I am sane, but you think to put me off by saying that I am crazy. I have had enough to make me so. Your father"—here his voice took on the sing-song pulpit style—"your father took me up to an exceedingly high mountain, and showed me the kingdoms of the world. All of them he offered me, together with you, if I murdered