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.
CHAPTER III
A DISAPPOINTMENT
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
