"I come from Eden," cried the preacher; "even from the Island of Koiau, which floats as a green leaf upon the untroubled sea. There reigneth eternal summer, but there reigneth not the Eternal God in the hearts of the heathen. Koiau is one of the dark places of the earth. There 'every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.' Yet the Lord hath not forgotten His people. The light of the gospel glimmers amid the gloom, and ours, brethren, must be the task of pouring oil into the lamp, that the flame may illuminate those who walk in darkness. Buli, the High Chief of the island, inclines his ear to the words of Salvation. He hath given a hostage to the Lord. Yea, verily; for doth not his only child abide in the tabernacles of Zion?--dwelleth she not in the land of Goshen? Tera she was: Bithiah she is, which, being interpreted, meaneth 'daughter of the Lord.' She, a brand plucked from the burning, shall yet herald the dawn of pure religion in her heathen cradle. 'It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing.'"
The speaker, whose zeal thus confused his metaphors, was a herculean, weather-beaten man of some fifty years. He was clothed in rough blue serge. Wind and spray had reddened his rugged face. His hair and short beard, iron-grey and grizzled, were in disorder, and the light of enthusiasm brightened his deep-set grey eyes, peering from under their shaggy brows. He had the appearance of a sea-captain; and his raucous voice rumbled through the building as though it were carrying orders through the storming of a gale. Through long study of the Bible, he had become possessed of a certain elevated phraseology; and, couching his everyday experiences in this, he managed to deliver a lurid and picturesque discourse which enthralled his hearers.
Before him now, in the bare pitch-pine pews of their place of worship, some twenty or more of these were seated. They were demure folk, and their chapel was tiny--diminutive even. Its walls were innocent of decoration--simply whitewashed, its windows plain glass. Before a deal rostrum--up to which on either side led steps to a reading-desk--the preacher now gesticulated and thundered. The majority of the congregation were women; some old, some young; but all were clothed in the plainest of garments, their close Quakerish caps hiding their hair.
In contrast to these, their faces pallid and expression impassive, there sat, almost immediately below the missionary, a dark and splendid girl of twenty-two or thereabouts, with a vivacious smiling face. She was the Tera, alias Bithiah, so eloquently referred to by the speaker. In deference to her savage love of colour, and her rank as a king's daughter, she was permitted to indulge somewhat in feminine fripperies. Of this latitude she did not fail to take full advantage. No parrot of her native isles ever spread a finer plumage than did Tera. A dark blue dress, a bright scarlet shawl, a wonderful straw hat trimmed with poppies and cornflowers--she glowed like a sun-smitten jewel in that sombre conventicle. She was in no wise embarrassed by the pointed reference of the missionary. Her rank and good looks accustomed her to observation, and indeed, to admiration. Moreover, as a native convert, she was thought much of by the congregation at Grimleigh, and sat among them as a sign that the good work would prosper in the Island of Koiau. It was this impression that Korah Brand, former sailor and present missionary, wished to produce. Hence his use of her as an object-lesson.
"'I am black but comely,'" quoted Brand, in a strain of doubtful compliment to Tera. "'A king's daughter all-glorious.' As I am, so are those of my race, who yet bow down to idols of stone--the 'work of men's hands.'" Then the preacher passed into a description of the fierce heathen worship which Christianity was to destroy.
Tera's eyes flashed, and her nostrils dilated, as Brand painted the idol ceremonies with natural eloquence. She, too, knew of the trilithon in the dark forest, where scowled the terrible god, Lomangatini; she also had seen the limestone altar which had streamed so often with human blood. These things, fables to her neighbours, were realities to her; and the hot barbaric blood sang in her veins with quick response to the home picture. After a time the missionary began to describe the island; and Tera's fancy ran before his words to where Koiau lay amid leagues of shining seas, beneath the wider skies of the underworld. The lines of feathery palms; the long rollers crumbling on the ragged reef; the still lagoon where the parrot-fish darted amongst branching coral, of rainbow hues; picture after picture presented itself to her mind, and faded to leave her sick for home. In this grey island of sunless skies and chilling mists, she was as one in the pale realms of the dead.
To distract her thoughts, which were too much for her, she glanced round at the attentive congregation. There, with the elders, sat Farmer Carwell, his jolly red face filled with interest and awe. Near her, his daughter Rachel, pale and pretty, leaned forward to catch every word of the discourse; and beside the door, Herbert Mayne, the yeoman squire, also leaned forward, but less to hear the preacher than to catch a loving glance from Rachel's bright eyes. Present also was Miss Arnott, a lean demure woman who had been an actress in her youth, but who, stirred by a chance word, had left the booths of Satan for the tabernacle of Zion. She was gazing ardently at a pale man seated on a cane chair near the rostrum, and guided by the intensity of the look, Tera let her eyes stray in the same direction. Yet there was little in the appearance of Mr. Johnson to attract the eye.
Johnson--the Rev. George--was the minister of the Grimleigh Bethesda, which was also known locally as Bethgamul, i.e the House of Recompense. This tall slender expounder of the Word had been a missionary in the South Seas some years before, but had returned to take charge of the Grimleigh remnant. He was well acquainted with the Island of Koiau, with Buli the High Chief also; and it was he who had brought home Tera to be educated in England. A religious man, a sympathetic man, yet a guardian whom Tera feared, and more than half detested. As she looked at his hairless face, the colour of old ivory, the minister, as if conscious of her gaze, raised his eyes. A look passed between them--on his part imploring, yet withal imperious; on hers, defiant, with a touch of dread. And in that look--intercepted and frowned upon by the vigilant Miss Arnott--lay a story of love and rejection. And the quondam actress shivered as her heart interpreted its meaning.
After an hour of description, denunciation, and imploring appeals on behalf of the poor heathen, Brand prayed long and fervently for the conversion of Tera's countrymen. Then he gave out the words of a favourite hymn bearing on the subject of his discourse, which was sung with fervour by the moved congregation.
The music, following so closely on Brand's discourse of her homeland, was too much for Tera's emotions. With an hysterical sob she rose hastily and passed down the narrow aisle out into the night. Johnson's burning gaze followed her graceful form, and a quiver passed over his face like a breath of wind on still waters.
Outside, the night was warm and balmy. Over the hills at the back of Bethgamul rode the golden wheel of the harvest moon. Below, where the land spread beach-ward at the foot of the rise, Tera could see the winking lights of the little town--the red eye of the lamp at the end of the jetty, and extending in radiance towards a darkening horizon, the silent ocean, broken here and there by the fitful moonlight into a myriad sparkles. Somewhere beyond those dark clouds lay Koiau, encircled by shining waters. The over-sea breeze blowing shoreward seemed almost to bear with it the spicy perfumes of the isle, strange intoxicating odours which maddened her for home. On the beach below beat the surf, as at this moment it beat on the coral reefs beyond the lagoon. As a bird, her soul flew on the wings of fancy to the radiant isle of her birth--to the cocoa-palm groves and banana plantations. Wild music, wilder dances, far-stretching spaces of silver sand, forests glowing with tropical blossom, the dusky women twining hibiscus flowers for coronals, and the great chiefs holding counsel in the "pure" (house) of the gods. Tera dreamed dreams; she saw visions; and still behind her drawled and droned the nasal harmonies of those colourless worshippers who adored an unknown god.
Suddenly a warm clasp was laid upon her wrist, and Tera awoke from her ecstasy to find a fair Saxon face close to her own. With a quiet little sigh of pleasure she nestled into the breast of the man.
"Jack," she murmured softly, "O'ia fe gwa te ofal."
"Put it in English, Tera," said Jack, slipping his arm round the girl; "I never could get my tongue round that Kanaka lingo."
She hid her face on his shoulder with a blush. "It means, 'I love you,'" she said.
"Why then, Tera, Kanaka talk is very good talk. Let me hear more of it. But not here. The piety folk will soon be out, and their psalm-singing doesn't step well with our love-making."
"Aué," sighed Tera, christened Bithiah; "they make me dull and sad, these songs. Let us go." She moved along the brow of the hill, leaning on the sailor's arm.
Jack Finland was Farmer Carwell's nephew; a smart, alert second mate on board a coasting tramp. He should have shipped on a better boat, but Tera lived at Grimleigh, and Grimleigh was a port of call. He had sailed among the islands of Eden below Capricorn: he knew the looks of a coral atoll, and the beauty of the women who wandered on the South Sea beaches. After a prolonged stay in the islands, a fit of home-sickness had brought him back to the grimy port whence he had set sail many years before. Here he had seen Tera exiled from her Southern paradise, and here, with the impetuosity of a sailor, he had declared his love. That she returned it was natural enough; for Jack Finland was as splendid a young man as ever set foot ashore to beguile the hearts of maidens. Tera, with her inherent love for physical beauty, had surrendered at once to his wooing.
"But I fear we may not marry," she said, as they strolled along. "My guardian--this Mr. Johnson--wishes that I should be his wife."
"He wishes what he won't get, then, Tera. You wouldn't throw yourself away on an ugly devil-dodger like him? No, my dear, you shall marry me; and we will go to the South Seas for our honeymoon."
"With you, Jack!--ah, how I should love that! At Koiau my father is a great chief. He will admit you to our family; he will place his tabu on you; and when Buli goes into the darkness we shall rule, my dear." The girl sighed, and tightened her clasp on Jack's arm. "But this thing cannot be. My father has sent Korah Brand Misi" [missionary] "to carry me back to Koiau."
"But you won't go, Tera?"
"I must. Jack. If I do not, Mr. Johnson will make me his wife."
"I'll wring his neck first."
"Ah!" Tera's eyes gleamed with a savage light. "If we were in my land you could do that; but here"--she shrugged her shoulders--"they would lock you in prison. No, Jack, here you must not kill."
"Worse luck," grumbled Finland, whose wanderings had made a barbarian of him; "still, you ain't going to marry Johnson."
"Oh no! I shall buy him if I can. Listen, Jack. When I left Koiau, my father gave me pearls to sell here. But I have never sold them--oh no! I had no need to sell them. Mr. Johnson is poor--he wants money--I will give those pearls to him if he lets me go free."
"Then this missionary chap will collar you, Tera; and I don't take much stock in that lot."
"If I go with Misi, you come also, Jack. In Koiau we may marry."
"In Koiau your father may make you marry some big chief," said Jack, wisely, "and I should be left out in the cold."
Before Tera could protest that she would be nobody's wife save his, Johnson appeared, hurrying towards them with an angry look on his face. In the silver moonlight he could see the lovers plainly, and their attitude sent a thrill of rage through his heart.
"Bithiah," he said harshly, "this is not an hour for you to be out. Come! My mother is waiting for us."
"Tera is free to come and go as she pleases," struck in Finland, hotly.
Johnson turned on him with restrained passion.
"You call her by a heathen name; you think of her as a heathen girl. Oh, I know you, Mr. Finland, you beach-comber."
Finland, full of rage at the contemptuous word, would have struck the minister, but Tera flung herself between them.
"No, no, I must go!" she said, and flung a last word and look at Jack. "Toë fua" [farewell] said she, and walked away with Johnson.
Tera and her guardian walked home in silence, Johnson, whose love for the girl bordered on a frenzy, could not, as yet, trust himself to remark on her conduct in meeting Finland. On her side, Tera, having for Johnson something of the awe a pupil feels for his schoolmaster, did not dare to bring down an avalanche of anger by so much as one rash word. But this attitude was, as may be guessed, the calm before the storm. When Tera reached the house she would have gone supperless to bed, if only to avert high words; but the man, wrought beyond endurance, beckoned her into his study, and there the storm broke--as violent as any hurricane of the girl's native clime.
"This cannot go on," said Johnson, striving to speak calmly; "you must see for yourself--this cannot go on."
The girl, seated in a chair beyond the circle of light thrown by the reading-lamp, said nothing. With clasped hands and head raised, like a serpent's crest, she watched her guardian striding to and fro, vainly trying to moderate his anger. So had she seen countrymen of her own fighting the primeval elements of man. Religion, civilization, the restraint learned by experience, all were gone: and Johnson had got down to the rock-bed of his character, there to find that the centre of his being, like that of the earth, was raging fire. Tormented by the seven devils of rejected love, he hardly noticed that the girl made no comment upon his despairing outcry.
"That you, a baptized Christian, should leave the temple of God to dally with a profane Belial!" he raged. "Are you not ashamed to have converse with such an one? Finland is a mocker, a deceiver, a lover of strong drink; yet you dare trust yourself with him. Bithiah you are named; would that I could call you Candace."
Tera drew her well-marked brows together. "I have done no wrong," she said bravely; "lies are told of Jack: lies which I do not believe. He is tall and beautiful and good. I love him!"
Johnson looked as though he could have struck her; and only remembrance of his calling prevented his seizing her with a rough grasp. However, he restrained himself, beat down his anger, and spoke on.
"Bithiah!" said he, in a quiet voice, "you deceive yourself in this. You are attracted only by the appearance of this man, and you do not see how bad, how cruel he is. I should be false to my trust did I permit you to become his wife. As your guardian, I have power from your father, and that power shall be exercised for your good. I forbid you to see Finland again."
"No!" said Tera, and set her mouth firmly.
"You defy me?"
"Yes!"
"Then I shall have nothing more to do with you. You shall go back to Koiau with Brand." He hesitated. "It will be a happy day for me when I see the last of you," he added abruptly.
Tera said nothing, but looking on his white face, smiled with a little ripple of laughter. The man's chest rose and fell with his panting: for the hint that she knew all, and scorned all, touched him nearly. Drawn as by cords, he stumbled across the room, every fibre of his being slack and weak.
"Tera," he muttered faintly, "dear, I love you."
"I am sorry! I cannot----"
"Wait! wait!" Johnson lightly touched her arm with his hot hand. "Do not speak. Hear me! I love you! I have always loved you: I always shall. I brought you here in the hope that you would learn to love me. My passion is stronger than my life! Many waters cannot quench it. Dear, I am but a man as other men. For months I have fought against this love, but in vain. Give me your heart; marry me. We will return to your island; we will bring your countrymen into the fold of the Good Shepherd. Let me comfort you, guide you, lead you as my earthly bride to the foot of the Cross. See! See! I am no stern guardian, no minister of the Gospel, but a man--a man whose life lies in your hand."
"No!" said Tera, firmly, although his passion made her pity him; "my heart is not my own to give. You are a good man, but--Jack!"
"You--you love him then?"
"With all my soul!"
Johnson gave an hysterical sob. "'And this also is a sore evil,'" he quoted under his breath, "'that in all points as he came, so shall he go.'"
"May I leave the room?"
"Woman," he seized her wrist, "you shall love me!"
"No!"
"You are a snare--a sorceress; you have beguiled my soul to its undoing! I was happy once; I walked in pleasant ways, but you have turned aside my feet to iniquity. God help me! How can I preach His Word with this raging fire in my breast! You shall love me! I forbid you to think of Finland. You are mine--mine--mine!"
With a dexterous twist Tera released her hand and flew out of the room, closing the door behind her. Johnson started in headlong pursuit, but stumbling blindly against the door, struck his forehead on the panels, and fell half stunned on the floor. There he lay and moaned, with his head spinning like a teetotum, until the sound of approaching steps made him rise and get into the desk chair. Then his mother, a commonplace type of her sex, much occupied with domestic affairs, entered to say that supper was ready.
"I don't want supper to-night, thank you, mother," said the minister, keeping his face turned away that she might not see the swelling on his forehead; "have it yourself, and go to bed."
"I can't find Bithiah, my son."
"She has retired, mother."
"Ah!" the old woman wagged her head like a mandarin, "she is no doubt meditating on the beautiful discourse of Brother Korah."
"No doubt, mother. Please go away; I am busy."
"There is cold meat and pickles, George."
"I am not hungry."
"I want you to say grace."
Johnson laughed bitterly. "I am not in the mood to say grace, mother."
The old lady, who was somewhat querulous, lifted up her voice in reproof of his irreligious speech; but Johnson cut her short, and persuaded her to leave the room. Then he looked the door and threw himself into his chair with a groan.
"I am only a man--a man. It is past all bearing. Oh, what a life--what a life! No money, no love--and a faith that fails me at need. Yet I was wrong to lose my temper. 'A fool's wrath is presently known; but a prudent man covereth shame.'"
The minister was shaking as a blown reed, and his nerves racked him with pain. There was a French window opening on to a plot of grass, and this he flung wide to the night air. But the calm failed to soothe him, although he walked rapidly up and down the sward trying to forget the girl. He had done all he could; he could do no more. "Bithiah! Tera!" he cried. Then he was silent. He re-entered the room, and sat down resolutely at his desk. "I must try and forget her," said he. "Work! work! Anything to distract my mind."
From a drawer he took a number of bills, and with these, many unpleasant letters insisting upon payment. They were evidence of his youthful folly at college, before he had been called to grace--five hundred pounds of disgrace and self-indulgence which had hung round his neck these many years. Some he had paid, but many remained unsettled. During his two years' absence in the South Seas, these records of sin--as he regarded them--had never troubled him; but since his return to Grimleigh his creditors had found him out, and were persecuting him daily. He was threatened with imprisonment, with bankruptcy, and public shame--he, a minister of the Gospel. If the truth became known he would lose his position; he would be cast without employment on the world. Yet how to conceal his difficulties he did not know. Five hundred pounds he owed, and his stipend was two hundred a year.
"If the pearls were only mine!" he murmured.
With a sigh he took from another drawer a bag of chamois leather, tied at the neck with red tape. Opening this, he shook out on the blotting-pad a number of smooth shining pearls, some large, some small, all of rare colouring and great value. These belonged to Tera. They had been given to her by Buli before she left Koiau, for the purpose of buying goods and clothes to take back when she returned. Tera, as yet, had not sold them, and for safe keeping had given them to her guardian. But the time was at hand when she would go back to Koiau with Brand; and this treasure would be turned into money, and exchanged for value, in accordance with her father's wish.
"Three thousand pounds' worth!" said Johnson, handling the glistening gems, "and if Bithiah married me the money would be mine. But God knows I do not care for these things, tempting as they are. It is she alone whom I desire for my wife, though to gain her I risk the pearl of great price. For a man's soul is as a pearl, and she with her beauty would thieve----"
He stopped suddenly, for it seemed to him that he heard a soft and stealthy footstep outside. Cowardice formed no part of the young man's character, and hastily replacing the pearls in the bag, and the bag in the drawer, he crossed the room and stepped out of the window. To right and left of him he looked, but saw nothing. Overhead shone the quiet stars; underfoot he trod the dewy sward; but there was no sign of any human being. Yet Johnson felt convinced that some eye had been on him whilst he counted the pearls, and he felt glad that he had locked the drawer which contained them. To verify his suspicions, he stepped through the iron gate, and walked some way up the street. All was silent under the glimmer of the gas-lamps, and he could hear only the echo of his own steps, hollow on the asphalt pavement. With a sigh of relief, half convinced that his ears had played him false, he returned to the house and his study. There was no doubt that some one had been at the desk during his ten minutes' absence. The bills were gone!
The bills were gone! His secret was in the keeping of some other person. Who had done this? Why had he been watched? Why had the bills, of all things, been taken by this unknown thief? The minister ran wildly out again into the darkness; he hunted up and down the street; he looked over his neighbours' fences; but in spite of the closest search he could find neither the bills nor the person who had taken them. The door leading from the study to the interior of the house was locked--no one could have entered in that way. No member of his own household could have stolen them. No! the thief must have come in by the window during his absence. But why had the miscreant taken the bills and not the pearls? An examination assured him that these were safe. But the list of his debts, his name, his honour, were in the hands of some person unknown.
"It is some horrible dream--a nightmare!" gasped the unfortunate man. "Oh God! what am I to do?"
There was nothing to be done. The strictest search had failed to find the thief, and he did not dare to summon assistance lest his dishonour might become the sooner known. With a prayer for help on his lips, he locked the window. Perplexed and anxious, he retired to rest--but not to his room. Fearful lest the thief should return, he lay down on the sofa. In vain were all efforts to sleep, and he passed the night in agony, until dawn burned redly along the ocean line. Then he rose to play his part of the godly young minister of the Grimleigh Bethesda.
With the passing of the night went a portion of Johnson's terrors; and he was fairly composed when he met Tera at the breakfast-table. Beyond a conventional greeting he said nothing; but during the absence of his mother from the room, he raised his eyes to bespeak the girl's attention.
"I beg your pardon for speaking as I did last night," he said coldly; "I lost control of myself."
"Say nothing more, Mr. Johnson," cried Tera; "I understand."
"You do not understand anything, Bithiah. To-day I write to Brother Korah, asking him to see me to-morrow morning at ten. You will please be present, as I wish to give into his charge you and your pearls."
"Aué! You cast me off?"
"I can no longer be responsible for you or for myself. I love you, but your heart belongs to this worldly Finland. I shall tell all to Brother Korah, and he shall take you back at once to Koiau."
"And Jack!" faltered Tera, in low tones.
"You shall never see him again," said Johnson, fiercely; "in your own despite you shall be saved from that infidel."
Tera looked at him so contemptuously that he winced.
"Dog in the manger!" said she, insultingly. "I am not to see Jack, because I refuse to love you. Well! we shall see if a chief's daughter is to be your slave. Tofa alii" [farewell, chief], and with a haughty air she walked out of the room.
It might have been that Johnson would have followed, to explain his meaning more clearly, and even to defend his conduct so far as was possible, had not his mother returned just at that moment. She at once engaged him in a conversation touching the delinquencies of their maid-of-all-work, a mulish creature who was one of that great army of cooks sent by the devil for the spoliation of God's food.
The man, intent on his own thoughts, listened mechanically, and seized the first opportunity to get away. That same morning he wrote a note, asking Brand, the missionary, to call and see him about Tera; and so, with iron determination, committed himself to a separation.
All that day Tera pointedly avoided his company, and when, as at meal-times, she was forced to be in it, was content to express herself in monosyllables. Johnson winced and paled at the scorn which her attitude implied, but bore with it as best he could. Yet his thoughts were not exclusively taken up with her. He was constantly conjecturing as to who could have stolen his bills, and he tortured himself with fears lest his shame would speedily be made known in Grimleigh. The strictest examination had revealed no trace of the thief. He could not imagine how the creature had accomplished his end so dexterously. He was silent and unhappy.
The year was drawing to harvest-time, and the golden sunlight lay heavy on the yellow corn lands. In the almost tropical heat, Johnson panted and quivered, for his jaded nerves and ill-nourished body could not resist the power of the sun. Towards five o'clock, when the heat had somewhat abated, and the cool sea-breeze breathed across the glowing earth, he went into the town to see some members of his congregation. His work, he sternly resolved, should not be neglected for his private troubles; so he visited the sick, succoured the needy, and returned somewhat calm to his home. As he entered, Mrs. Johnson, querulous as ever, met him.
"Where is Bithiah, my son?" she asked, complainingly. "I want Bithiah to help me prepare the supper; Jane is worse than useless."
"I have not seen Bithiah, mother."
"She went out an hour ago, George, and it is growing dark. This is not the time for a modest maiden to be out. And Jane worries me. She has used up all the milk, and has forgotten to order the meat. Do look for Bithiah."
"Very well, mother. I expect she is taking her favourite walk by Farmer Carwell's meadows. I must just see if there are any letters for me in the study."
There was ample light in the room when he entered, for the curtains were drawn back from the open window. He approached the desk in an absent frame of mind, but suddenly his attention was fixed by an amazing circumstance. On the blotting-paper lay the pile of bills which had been stolen from him on the previous night. Again during his absence the thief had evidently entered. The plunder was restored. The minister shook, and the perspiration beaded his brow. Then he noticed that his keys, which he had left behind, dangled from the drawer which had contained the pearls.
"Gone!" he cried wildly. "The pearls are gone!" For a moment he stood still, looking at the returned bills--the empty drawer. Then, in a frenzy of fear, he rushed from the house.
Originally Korah Brand had been a sailor--careless of religion, and content to live for the day without taking thought of the morrow. Born in England, trained as a weaver, he had really wandered to America and the South Seas at the dictation of a restless and inquiring spirit. In those unregenerate days he had been a law unto himself, and thereby sufficiently ill-governed. But the chance words of a missionary, met with in Samoa, had turned his thoughts towards religion, and, deserting his seafaring life, he henceforth worked as a labourer in the Lord's vineyard.
Yet this change hardened rather than softened his character. He held by the Mosaic law, and interpreted the precepts of Christ in a spirit of narrow bigotry. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth;" "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off." These were the fundamental articles of his creed. He spoke much of the punishment, little of the promise, and daunted the minds of his hearers with threats of eternal doom. In his own way he was a good man, but incapable of preaching on the text, "God is Love." He hardly understood that these three words form the true basis of Christianity.
In answer to Johnson's urgent letter. Brand presented himself next morning in the study. He had visited it several times before, yet on this occasion he again glanced critically round him as if in search of some indulgence deserving of rebuke. But the room and its contents were plain--even poor. The furniture was of stained deal, the floor was covered with coarse cocoa-nut matting brought by its owner from Koiau. There were savage weapons on the walls between the well-filled bookcases: shells of strange hue and form ranged on the mantelpiece, and bright-coloured chintz curtains, drawn back with red, white, and blue cords, draped the one window. On these last Brand's eyes rested with disapprobation.
"The lust of the eye is there, brother," he declared to the pensive Johnson; "why do you deck your dwelling with purple and fine linen?"
"Miss Arnott gave them to me," explained Johnson, lifting his heavy eyes; "she thought the room looked bare, and draped the window herself. The curtains are only of chintz, brother Brand, although the cords are of silk. They can scarcely do harm."
"Admit God's light into your tabernacle. Let not your heart be led astray by the gifts of a light woman."
Though he felt sick in mind and body, Johnson could not let this remark pass without a protest.
"Miss Arnott is one of our most devoted sisters," said he, stiffly; "she was once in the bonds of sin as a singing woman, but she gave up the allurements of the world to serve humbly in our Zion."
"The old leaven is still in her, brother. Such gay adornments savour of the world. Let me say a word in season----"
"This is not the season for words," interrupted Johnson, impatiently. "I have to speak with you on other and more important matters."
"Nothing is more important than a man's soul," rebuked Korah, shaking his shaggy head; "but I suppose you desire to talk of the maiden Bithiah?"
"Yes. I want you to take her away to Koiau as soon as possible; but I fear that you will not be able to do so." Johnson rose and paced the room. "She has disappeared," he said, in a low voice.
"Disappeared!" repeated Brand, harshly. "What do you mean, brother? Have you lost the precious pearl entrusted to your charge?"
"Tera is lost. I admit she----."
"Not Tera, friend. We know her as Bithiah."
"Bithiah is lost," repeated the minister, patiently. "She left my house last evening, shortly after four o'clock, and has not returned. I fear," he added, "that she has taken her pearls with her."
"What pearls, brother? What pearls?"
"Pearls worth three thousand pounds, which Buli gave her to sell here, before she returned to Koiau. She wished to keep them until the time of her return, and gave them into my keeping. In this drawer," said Johnson, touching the desk, "I locked them up. When I returned yesterday evening the pearls were gone--Bithiah also."
It will be perceived that Johnson omitted to explain the loss and return of the bills. This he did for two reasons. Firstly, his private affairs were his own concern. Secondly, to take Brand into his confidence would result only in a lecture. Korah, however, found in the disappearance of Tera and her pearls quite sufficient matter for anger. It was serious that an influential convert, and a comparatively large fortune, should be lost to the sect of which he was a member. At first he was inclined to speak severely; but a momentary reflection convinced him that it would be wiser first to examine Johnson with a view to reaching the root of the matter. Brand was not without diplomatic gifts.
"If you please," said he, dryly, "we will approach this matter with more particularity. How do you know that Bithiah has gone away?"
"How do I know?" echoed the minister, with surprise on his haggard face; "why, she has not been home all night. Moreover, we had a few words."
"About what?"
Johnson hesitated. It was unpleasant to tell this unsympathetic zealot the story of his love; but for the sake of gaining help it seemed inevitable. Still he temporized, so that courage to speak boldly might come to him in the interval. "About a man called Finland," said he.
"Jack Finland, the sailor? Brother Carwell's nephew?"
"Oh, you know him?"
"I know of him, and no good either. He was in the South Seas some few months back, and bore no very good character. So far as the low moral standard of fellow-man goes, he is right enough. But he is not a Christian; he is steeped in vanity. One of those who grin like a dog and run about the city. What is Bithiah to him?"
"She is in love with him. Wait, don't speak. Since this sister returned to Grimleigh he has followed her constantly with the low, sensual passion which he miscalls love. The other night, after your lecture, she left our Bethgamul to meet him. I found them together, and she--she declared her love," cried Johnson, with sudden passion. "She said it was her intention to marry him--to marry that son of Belial, lost and iniquitous as he is. I took her away from his sinful company, and brought her home into this very room."
"And then?" demanded Korah, with his eyes on the quivering white face.
"Then I reproved her for consorting with sinners. I told her of my love."
"Oh!" said Korah, very dryly, "then it was jealousy, and not pure Christianity, which urged you to save her?"
"Call it what you like, Brand. I loved her, and I told her of my love. I asked her to be my wife. I promised to take her back to the islands, that we might work together in the vineyard. She refused."
"She was right to refuse. How dare you mingle sacred and profane love?"