"Miss Arnott! Miss Arnott!" called the minister, nervously; but she was gone, and he could not summon up courage to follow her.
When Johnson was on his road to Bethdagon he thought less of his errand than was consistent with the interest it had for him. The last words of Miss Arnott rang in his ears; the look on her face was constantly before his eyes. He knew well that his confession had inspired her with a new hope, and he did not know exactly what to think of it. His love for Tera had not been transferred to Miss Arnott. Yet the woman had done him a great kindness in the most delicate manner. He was her debtor to a large amount in money, and in gratitude, yet he could see no way save one of repaying her. That way he hesitated to take. He respected her, but he had no love to bestow; and he pursued his journey agitated in his mind as to what he had best do under such untoward circumstances. If Johnson had been a strong man with a well-defined character he would have decided at once and held by his decision; but he was weak-willed, gentle, and loth to give pain. It was a knowledge of this instability that made Miss Arnott so persistent in her determination. The woman knew that in the end she would gain her heart's desire. The man had an inkling of it too, yet fought and argued and held back in the vain effort to avoid the inevitable. Poor Mr. Johnson! He was good, and lovable, and tender-hearted, but he lacked the strength to be a hero. Yet in his weakness was he not more heroic than many in their strength?
Farmer Carwell was waiting for the minister. He looked much older, for the terrible experiences of the previous night had proved a severe shock to his nerves. Jack, he informed Johnson, had gone to the schooner in answer to a message from Shackel. Tera was looking after the house, so far as she was able in her untrained way, and Rachel was nursing Herbert.
"Nursing Herbert?" repeated Johnson, for this was the last news he expected to hear; "has she forgiven him?"
Carwell did not reply at once. He brought out two chairs, and planted them in a shady corner where the sun was strong. "I don't know if she has forgiven him," he said when they were seated; "women are strange in their affections, and Rachel is no exception. Mayne has done her a cruel wrong, and if he were in his usual health and strength I do not think she would let him come near her. But now he is laid low, she will hardly leave his bedside. She would not even let him be removed to his own house. I was unwilling that the scoundrel should stay here, but Rachel insisted, and so I gave way."
"Is he dying?"
"No, I don't think he will die; men like Mayne never do meet the reward of their evil deeds. You remember the text of the 'wicked flourishing like a green bay-tree,' Brother Johnson. As like as not he will recover--so the doctor says. Then," added Carwell, with a bitter smile, "I suppose Rachel will marry him."
"Will you allow her to do so?"
"What can I do to prevent it? She is of age, and can act as best pleases her. I might threaten to disinherit her, but she is so infatuated with the scoundrel that she would not care if she went to him penniless. And he is well off in this world's goods, you know. Yes, I believe she will marry him, unless Chard proves him guilty of murdering his wife."
"Do you think he really killed her?" asked Johnson, doubtfully.