IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. A North Country Story. BY MARY LINSKILL, AUTHOR OF "BETWEEN HEATHER AND SEA," "THE HAVEN UNDER THE HILL," ETC. CHAPTER I.THORHILDA THEYN. "O what a thing is man! how far from power, From settled peace and rest! "HA He is some twenty several men at least Each several hour! GEORGE HERBERT. [APPY! What right hast thou to be happy?" This pregnant question, asked once emphatically by Carlyle, and repeated often by him in modified form, is certainly worthy of attention. Consciously or unconsciously, the need for happiness is a factor in the life of each one of us and no attempt to deny the need is so successful as we dream. Thorhilda Theyn was not greatly given to self-questioning. So far, perhaps, there had seemed to be no special necessity for it in her life-that is, no necessity caused by pressure of outward circumstance, by any of the strong crises that come upon most human lives at one time or another. She was yet young, she was very beautiful. Life was all before her, and the promise of it exceeding fair. What need for question so far? Yet as she stood there on that blue, breezy May morning, she felt herself decidedly in the grasp of some new spirit of inquiry, born within her apparently of the day and of the hour, strong at its birth, and demanding attention. The waters of the North Sea were her grand outlook. They were spread all before her across the bay, rippling from point to point, leaping, darting, dancing. The free, fresh, rustling sound was sweeter to her always than the similar sound of the wind in the woodland trees; and it was soothing as soft music to watch the wavelets at play, leaping into light, flashing for a gay glad moment, then dissolving instantly into apparent nothingness. Over and over it was all repeated, and the entrancingly uncertain certainty was as a spell to hold her there by the foot of the tall cliffs of Ulvstan Bight as one held in a dream. "They say that life is like that-the poets, the philosophers," Thorhilda said to herself, leaning lightly upon the parapet, tall and straight, and still, and beautiful. She was dressed as became her stately style, in a fashion that might have been of that day or of this, so few of its details were borrowed from any extraneous source. Her gown fell gracefully about her feet; her long cloak almost covered it; her small hands were crossed lightly, and held her hat, so that the fair face, so sweet and yet so strong, was all unshaded from the morning sun. And it was a face that could well bear the full clear light; no thought-line was yet graven upon the wide forehead, on either side of which the dark abundant hair was braided "Madonna-wise; " deep, changeful grey eyes looked out from below the white drooping lids that give to any face a touch of pathosa touch contradicted at that moment on Thorhilda's face by an evidently half-unconscious smile, which played fitfully about her mouth. It was a mouth that was almost childlike in the fine roundness of its curves, and yet it was the lower part of the face that displayed firmness, decision. The eyes were all gentleness, all tenderness, in repose. When the lips smiled in conversation the eyes smiled too, and a fascinating piquancy of expression would suddenly light up features that had seemed too grave and gentle ever to be piquant. The effect was apt to be surprising; but it was always a pleasant surprise, and betrayed the observer to admiration, though no such effect had been expected on the one side, or certainly intended on the other. Thorhilda was innocent of the art of producing effects. That such an art existed was a matter of hearsay, and therefore dubious. "They say that life is like that!" she had murmured half-audibly, "Like en. 'A momentary ray, cival Meredith. He was a neighbour, the owner of Ormston Magna, a place some three miles nearer to the sea than Yarburgh; indeed from its terraced gardens you could look out over the wide expanse of the German Ocean. Percival, who was an elderlylooking man if you considered his thirty-four summers, lived at Ormston with his mother, a lady who might easily have been mistaken for his elder sister. It had been made evident for some time to Canon and Mrs. Godfrey that the Merediths had especial motives for gladly accepting every invitation that was sent to them from the Rectory, and for inviting the inhabitants of the Rectory to Ormston on any and every possible occasion. Of late Thorhilda had herself discovered the reason of all this; and she was perplexed, pleased, perturbed by turns. Only at rare moments was she conscious of any true satisfaction in thinking of Percival Meredith and his too evident intentions. Yes; it was certainly significant that at the present moment she made haste to put away all thought of him, and went on thinking, meditating, on the strong glad sense of her life and its happiness. She was not old enough, or tried enough, to know how on such days the mere sense of living is enough for unusual exultation. "Bliss was it on that morn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven." So wrote Wordsworth; but he had passed his youth when he wrote this. "So wrote Francis Quarles, over two hundred years ago; so others have written," she went "And yet, how different one feels! I feel this morning as if life were ages long. I have lived but four-and-twenty years, yet I seem to have centuries in my personal memory." Had any one in Thorhilda's circle of friends Presently definite thought passed on into-Gertrude Douglas, for instance, who was indefinite. Dreams came up out of the past, with reminiscence sad and sunny; and finally came that bright, yet questioning mood of which mention has been made already, the disposition to ask herself not "What right have I to be happy?" but "Why am I so happy?" Once as she leaned by the edge of the sea wall, watching the gulls float up and down with folded wing and yielding breast upon the gently heaving waters, an answer came suddenly. Was it from the heart, or from the brain only? Though she was alone, she blushed, the long eyelashes drooped; and a little instant, negative movement of the head might have been detected had any one to detect it been there. "No, no! It is not that, it is not that!" she made haste to assure herself. "I do not feel that he could make happiness of mine. No, it is not that! It was perhaps significant that she did not long continue to dwell upon the idea of Per considered to be her most intimate friendbeen asked to give a reason for Miss Theyn's happiness, Gertrude would have made answer, "How should she not be happy?" Her home in the house of her uncle, Canon Godfrey, the Rector of Market Yarburgh, was, admittedly, as happy a home as a woman could have. The Canon's wife, Milicent Godfrey, was the sister of Thorhilda's dead mother; and, being a childless woman herself, with a passionate love for children, she had done all that might be done to make Thorhilda's life a life full of all sweetness, all light, all good. It was for her niece's sake that the old Rectory had been refurnished, made beautiful with all artistic beauty that fair means could command. Indeed, nothing had been left undone that love could suggest as better to be done. And Thorhilda, having a keen appreciation of the material good of life-too keen, said some of the friendliest of her friends-was neither unconscious nor ungrateful. Therefore, what reason for not being happy? Is it true, that old saying, "Every light has its shadow"! Scientifically, it must be true, always; but surely the analogy will not bear stretching to meet and to fit this human life in every possible phase. We know that it will not, and are happier for the knowledge, happier and better. But the bright picture of Thorhilda Theyn's life was not without that enhancing touch of depth in the background of it, which gives both to colour and light their rightful prominence and effect. There had been hours, nay days, when that dark background had claimed more of the girl's life than any foreground object that could be put before her for her distraction. "I must think of these things, Aunt Milicent," she had said. "Garlaff Grange is my own home. They are my own people who live there." "No; there I cannot agree," Mrs. Godfrey had replied. "Your mother gave you to me solemnly, prayerfully, when she was dying. She entreated me to promise that the Rectory should be your home. . . . I have tried to keep my promise." The touch of emotion with which these and other sayings were uttered was usually conclusive. Thorhilda had no heart to go on with arguments presented to her only by an inadequate sense of duty. If people so much older and wiser than herself as Canon Godfrey and her aunt considered that it was her wisdom to sit still, why should she not agree-especially since movement in the direction indicated by conscience was so eminently distasteful? And yet from time to time conscience would have its way. Did she really do all that it was her duty to do in going to the Grange now and then when it was quite convenient to her aunt to drive round that way; in sending presents on birthdays and Christmas Days; in calling occasionally to see how her sister Rhoda was, or to inquire after her Aunt Averil? It was not pleasant for her to go there the reverse of that-and she did not for a moment imagine that she gave any pleasure by going. She was saved from all illusion on that head. So far as she could remember, her father had never once in his life said, "I am glad to see you!" never, even when she was a child, offered her any greeting or parting kiss. Once or twice he had shaken hands; once or twice he had—not at all ironically-taken off his hat as the Rectory carriage drove away with only Thorhilda in it; and there had seemed nothing incongruous in his doing so. His daughter knew little of him except what she heard from others; and it was long since she had heard any pleasant thing. For years past everything had been going down at Garlaff Grange, and though repeated efforts had been made by Canon Godfrey and others to stop the descent, no such efforts had availed, and it was long now since Squire Theyn had permitted anything of what he termed "interference." "Ah'll ha' neä mair on't!" he had said to his only son, Hartas, on one occasion. Canon Godfrey had been spending an hour with Squire Theyn-spending it mostly in earnest entreaty; and he had left the Grange with the Squire's "words of high disdain" ringing in his ears painfully. "Ah'll ha' neä mair on't!" repeated the old man; and Hartas helped greatly to confirm him in this decision. The younger man's dislike to anything that could touch his liberty was at least as strong as the same feeling in the elder one. There were some who said that Squire Theyn and his son were not unworthy of each other; and it is possible that the saying had more in it than appeared on the surface. Certainly it was one to bear investigation, had any analytically-minded person been drawn to interest himself in the matter. And a student bent upon humanity might have travelled far before finding two more unique subjects for his research. CHAPTER II.-A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER MAIDEN. "She was a careless, fearless girl, And made her answer plain, Outspoken she to earl or churl, Kindhearted in the main." CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. WHY Thorhilda's thoughts, as she stood there by the margent of the sea, should suddenly be drawn to her brother Hartas she could hardly have told in that first moment. She had not been thinking of him as she stood, letting the breezes blow upon her forehead, turning from watching the wide, white-flecked sea to note the fisher folk on the beach and on the quays. She knew nothing of any of these save by hearsay, and yet she was aware of something prompting her interest in a group of tall, handsome fisher-girls who were down by the edge of the tide-such girls as you would hardly see anywhere else in England for strength and straightness, for roundness of form and bright, fresh healthfulness of countenance. They wore blue flannel petti coats, and rough, dark blue masculine-looking trodden. the sea. The wind seemed freer and the guernseys of their own knitting. Their sun brighter there by the changing edge of heads were either bare, or covered with picturesque hoods of drawn cotton-pink, lilac, buff, pale blue. One, the tallest of them and decidedly the handsomest, had no bonnet at all, and her rich chestnut hair blew about in the breeze in shining rings and curls in a way that attracted Thorhilda's attention, and even her admiration, though as a rule she had slight sympathy with the "admired disorder" school of æsthetics. And as she watched the girl, all at once there darted a new thought across her brain, a new and disturbing conviction. "That is Barbara Burdas!" she said to herself. Then she smiled a little, and wondered at the force of a feeling that had so far-off a cause. Miss Theyn was not a woman to saunter on aimlessly, to wait for an opportunity of speaking to Bab alone. She went straight across the stretch of brown sea-tangle, going directly to the group of laughing girls, with that fine nerve and presence which comes mostly of good health and right training. The laughter died down as she came nearer; and with apparent courtesy Bab and her friends half turned and drew together waitingly. They were not unused to conversation with curious strangers. Thorhilda was the first to speak. She looked at Bab as she did so, and there was involuntary admiration in her look, which Bab saw, and did not resent. Yet there was an unconscious touch of scorn about the quiring glance she fixed upon the lady whose delicate grey silk dress had come in contact with the slimy weed and the coarse, brown sand, and whose small, dainty boots were surely being ruined as they sank and slipped among the great drifting fronds that lay heaped upon the shale. Thorhilda understood the disdain. Miss Theyn knew very little of Barbara Burdas. Though the reputation of the hand-fisher-girl's mouth, a half-disdain in the insome fisher girl was rapidly spreading along the coast from Flamborough Head to Hild's Haven, her name had seldom been heard within the walls of the Rectory at Market Yarburgh; but one day Canon Godfrey had spoken in a somewhat grieving tone to his wife concerning some new rumour which had reached his ear-a story in which both Barbara's bravery and the influence of her beauty were brought into prominence. Mrs. Godfrey tried to prevent his sorrow from deepening. "It will do the girl no harm," she said, with her usual somewhat emphatic vivacity. "Barbara Burdas is as good a woman as I am, and as strong. Think of her life, of all she is doing for her grandfather and the children! Oh, a little admiration won't harm Barbara! It may even be some lightness in her life, some relief; I hope it will. She has not known much pleasure." 66 Are you not Barbara Burdas?" she asked, in her clear yet gentle voice, as she drew quite near. Bab hesitated a moment, during which her lips compressed themselves firmly, yet without discharging the scorn from the curves at the corners. Her gaze was still steady and inquiring. A slight tinge of colour crept under the creamy olive of her cheek. She was about to reply; but it was a moment too late. Her friend, Nan Tyas, a young fish-wife, almost as tall, almost as handsome as herself, but in a different way, had come to an end of her slight store of patience. Looking over Bab's shoulder, her keen dark eyes glittering as she stared straight into Miss Theyn's face, an expression of suspicion on every feature, she asked, "Wheä telled ya her neäme?" Thorhilda being present, Canon Godfrey had made no reply at that moment; but later he had confided to his wife the things that he had heard in the parish concerning Barbara Burdas and her own nephew, Hartas Theyn. Subsequently, some guesses had been made by Thorhilda, but they were little more than guesses, arising out of a word dropped by her aunt in an unguarded moment. Now, seeing Barbara there on the beach, a sudden desire to know something of the truth came upon her; and after a few moments' consideration she left the promenade, and went down between the nurse-ness." maids and the babies, the donkeys and the A second laugh was heard, less restrained Bath-chairs, to where the shore was wet and than before. Thorhilda looked on with inshining, and, for the present, almost un-terest, but not smilingly, still less resentfully. This was meant to be facetious, and there was esprit de corps enough among the girls to cause it to be received as it was meant. A general titter went round, in the midst of which another voice found courage to remark. "Mebbe she kenned it of her oän sharp The sun was still shining down with brilliancy upon the blue waters of the North The moment and its experience were new to her. Moreover, she discerned that a grave clear look from Bab was quelling the ten-Sea, upon the white wavelets that broke dency to sarcasm. "Haud yer tongues, ya fools," Bab said quietly, but with a certain force in the tone of her voice. Then she turned to Miss Theyn, the lingering displeasure still about her mouth. Speaking with decidedly less of the northern accent and intonation than before, she said, "Yes, Barbara Burdas; that's what they call ma. Ah'm noän shamed o' my name. Did ya want anything wi' me?" "Yes; I wished to speak to you for awhile. I do not know that I have much of importance to say at present; but I wished to know you, to ask you one or two questions. I thought that perhaps your friends would permit me to speak to you alone." A certain power in Miss Theyn's glance as she looked round upon the six or seven young women might have as much to do with their compliance as the tone of expectant authority which she involuntarily used. They smiled satirically to each other; and then went gliding away with the strong easy grace of movement which seems their birthright. Thorhilda watched them admiringly for a few moments; then she turned to walk with Bab in the opposite direction; and for a little while there was silence; but it was not at all an awkward silence. Though the moment was not a facile one, the elements of awkwardness did not exist for these two, who walked there side by side, so near, yet so widely separated. Again it was Thorhilda who spoke first. She did so naturally, and without constraint. "Thank you for telling me your name," she said. "It is only fair that I should tell you mine in return; it is Thorhilda Theyn." Bab did not quite stay the firm step that was going on over the beach; but Miss Theyn perceived the partial arresting of movement; she divined the cause of it; and she understood the presence of mind that gave Bab the power to go on again as if nothing had happened. “Then you'll live at the Grange," Bab said, speaking as if even curiosity were far softly but just below where the two girls were sauntering. A couple of sea-gulls were crying softly overhead; the fishing boats in the offing were ploughing their way northward. A light breeze fluttered the loops of grey ribbon that fastened Thorhilda's dress. Bab's attention seemed drawn in rather a marked way to the ribbon. Her eyes followed its fluttering as she walked on in silence, but it was not of the ribbon that she was thinking. Perhaps she was hardly thinking at all in any true sense of the word; yet she was aware of some new and gentle influence that was stealing upon her swiftly, awakening an admiration that was almost an emotion; subduing the natural pride that was in her; the strong natural independence of her spirit, an independence of which she was as utterly unconscious as she was of the ordinary pulsations of her heart; but which was yet one of the dominant traits of her nature; and produced difficulties, perplexities, which she had often found bewildering, but never more bewildering than at the present moment. Here was one, far above her by birth, by beauty, by position, by education, yet possessing a something (Bab did not know it to be sympathy) that had the power to charm, to extract the bitterness from pain, and the sting from an unacknowledged dread. Bab hesitated some time, sighing as she repressed one impulse after another toward unsuitable speech. The right words would not come. At last came some awkward ones. "If ya've anything to saäy, Miss Theyn, ya'd better say it," the girl remarked, decidedly more in the tone of one urging blame than deprecating it. "It is evident that you have nothing to fear," Thorhilda replied, turning to look into the proud yet winning face so near her own. "Fear!" exclaimed Bab, a great scorn flashing in her eyes and on her lips. "Fear! what would I ha' to fear, think ya? If ya dream that I'm feared o' yon brother o' yours, or of ony mischief he can bring aboot for me, ya can put away the notion withoot a second thowt. It's as big a mistake as you've ever made. Fear! I'm noäan feared of him. . . . Noä! . . . But Ah know what it is, Miss Theyn. I know what's brought you here you're feared for him-for your brother! You're feared he's goin' to disgrace "Yes. . . . And Hartas Theyn is my hisself, an' you, wi' marryin' a flither*brother." from her. "No," Thorhilda replied. "I live at Market Yarburgh, at the Rectory; but the Grange is my real home." "An' the Squire is yer father?" • Flithers = limpets, used for bait. |