The Distracted Preacher by Thomas Hardy Page B

him.
    â€œWe will,” he said, with a forced smile on his part; and they sat down.
    It was the first meal that they had ever shared together in their lives, and probably the last that they would so share. When it was over, and the indifferent conversation could no longer be continued, he arose and took her hand. “Lizzy,” he said, “do you say we must part—do you?”
    â€œYou do,” she said, solemnly. “I can say no more.” “Nor I,” said he. “If that is your answer, good-by!”
    Stockdale bent over her and kissed her, and she involuntarily returned his kiss. “I shall go early,” he said, hurriedly. “I shall not see you again.”
    And he did leave early. He fancied, when stepping forth into the gray morning light, to mount the van which was to carry him away, that he saw a face between the parted curtains of Lizzy’s window; but the light was faint, and the panes glistened with wet; so he could not be sure. Stockdale mounted the vehicle, and was gone; and on the following Sunday the new minister preached in the chapel of the Moynton Wesleyans.
    One day, two years after the parting, Stockdale, now settled in a midland town, came into Nether-Moynton by carrier in the original way. Jogging along in the van that afternoon, he had put questions to the driver, and the answers that he received interested the minister deeply. The result of them was that he went without the least hesitation to the door of his former lodging. It was about six o’clock in the evening, and the same time of year as when he had left; now, too, the ground was damp and glistening, the west was bright, and Lizzy’s snow-drops were raising their heads in the bo rder under the wall.
    Lizzy must have caught sight of him from the window, for by the time that he reached the door she was there holding it open; and then, as if she had not sufficiently considered her act of coming out, she drew herself back, saying, with some constraint, “Mr. Stockdale!”
    â€œYou knew it was,” said Stockdale, taking her hand. “I wrote to say I should call.”
    â€œYes, but you did not say when,” she answered.
    â€œI did not. I was not quite sure when my business would lead me to these parts.”
    â€œYou only came because business brought you near?”
    â€œWell, that is the fact; but I have often thought I should like to come on purpose to see you. But what’s all this that has happened? I told you how it would be, Lizzy, and you would not listen to me.”
    â€œI would not,” she said, sadly. “But I had been brought up to that life, and it was second nature to me. However, it is all over now. The officers have blood-money for taking a man dead or alive, and the trade is going to nothing. We were hunted down like rats.”
    â€œOwlett is quite gone, I hear.”
    â€œYes, he is in America. We had a dreadful struggle that last time, when they tried to take him. It is a perfect miracle that he lived through it; and it is a wonder that I was not killed. I was shot in the hand. It was not by aim; the shot was really meant for my cousin; but I was behind, looking on as usual, and the bullet came to me. It bled terribly, but I got home without fainting, and it healed after a time. You know how he suffered?”
    â€œNo,” said Stockdale. “I only heard that he just escaped with his life.”
    â€œHe was shot in the back, but a rib turned the ball. He was badly hurt. We would not let him be took. The men carried him all night across the meads to Bere, and hid him in a barn, dressing his wound as well as they could, till he was so far recovered as to be able to get about. He had gied up his mill for some time, and at last he got to Bristol, and took a passage to America, and he’s settled in Wisconsin.”
    â€œWhat do you think of smuggling now?” said the minister, gravely.
    â€œI own that we were wrong,”