Mr. Fallow was, in fact, just at his Fifthly and Finally, with Nip for sole representative of Blackwater Hall. That faithful congregant, discovering that Jinny had dodged him as usual, had set out for church forthwith, and was utterly disconcerted to find her pew vacant. It was noted, however, that he remained awake during the sermon, pricking up his ears at the recurrent word “Methuselah,” which no doubt sounded to him like his old companion’s name. Mr. Fallow’s timely sermon on Noah’s Flood proved no less rousing to the human hearers, though it began unpromisingly with the text: “And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years; and he died.” But Miss Gentry, already ruffled by Jinny’s absence, wondered why so much honour should be done to Mr. Bundock “Why preach a sermon against a postman?” she asked Jinny afterwards.

The fact was, of course, that those “sceptical sophisms” which Mr. Fallow took the opportunity to traverse and confute came from “The Age of Reason,” but as Miss Gentry had heard them only from Bundock, she did not know they were inspired by Tom Paine. At any rate it was satisfactory to have them demolished and the veracity of the Bible vindicated by the very arithmetical tests with which the atheists juggled. They had “set the story of Noah and his ark as on a level with the ”Arabian Nights“ and the ages of the Patriarchs as no less fabulous than the immortality of the giants of mythology.” Well, but here was the text, Mr. Fallow thundered: “And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died.” A statement splendidly bare—bare as Truth alone could afford to be. But let them follow it, these dear brethren and sisters, into all its ramifications, trace the scattered threads of chronology and exhibit their marvellous congruity. Noah’s grandfather lived nine hundred sixty and nine years; and he died. But at the age of 187 he had begotten Lamech, and at the age of 182 Lamech had begotten Noah. Methuselah was then just 369 years old when the hero of the Flood was born. And the Flood came, we were told in a later chapter, in the six hundredth year of Noah’s life; 600 added to 369 made 969. “And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years; and he died.” Had the figures made 970, the Bible would have indeed ceased to be the infallible Word of God, and atheism could have crowed, unanswered. For Methuselah was not in the ark; and every living creature outside was destroyed from the earth!

Whether he himself perished in the Flood, or whether—as the preacher preferred to believe, the aged patriarch had been removed—like his father Enoch before him—from the evil to come, was a minor issue compared with the glorious certainty that 369 added to 600 made 969 and not 970. Had Lamech or Noah been begotten one year later, or the Flood recorded as one year earlier, what a catastrophe for mankind! How the sophists would have gloated over their perverse arithmetic! Happily such discrepancies were the mere dream of the impious. “And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years; and he died.”

Nip refused to sit through the prayer for sceptics that followed. With the cessation of the word “Methuselah” his interest waned, and the dismal conviction overcame him that Jinny had gone back to the chapel. Tearing off at a great rate, he soon, however, scented the truants homing across the Common.

“Why, where have you been?” said his mistress, as if he were the sinner!

But his raptures at seeing united at last the twain he had done so much to bring together, served to suspend a debate that had brought the first cloud on the morning’s happiness. Having to walk smartly to Blackwater Hall with no time for dalliance, they had come at last to a serious talk about their plans, and it transpired that Will’s mind was playing about the new Australian goldfields. He seemed dangerously in the grip of the “yellow fever,” which, spreading from a Mr. Hargreaves and Summer Hill Creek, had circled the world in less than nine months. He recited to Jinny the legends of the new diggings, the quartz that was three-fourths gold, the aureous streams, the nuggets the size of melons. When he spoke of purchasing shovels and blankets, it was not, alas, for their joint home, nor were the “cradles” of his conversation indelicately domestic. How could he talk of going away, she asked, with tears in her eyes, when they had only just got to know each other? Well, of course, he didn’t mean to-morrow, with his arm like that! She needn’t begin to cry yet, but obviously this hidebound old England was no place for a man without capital. Did she expect him to become a farmhand to Farmer Gale? Of course he could go on shearing sheep and doing odd jobs and sink into a Ravens, always singing, with nothing to sing about! But if they were to marry, he must find a decent livelihood. Hard, irrefutable truths! If only—she thought—they had both been less silly while he still had his coach and horses! Impossible to suggest to a man like Will that she might manage to earn enough for him as well as for her grandfather! Of course if he had lost his arm altogether—but that was too wicked a speculation to gloat over! Had Methusalem been younger and stronger, the cart might perhaps have taken on extra rounds, with Will in command. But even that would probably have jarred his pride. No, he was a ruined man, and adventure—as he truly urged—was his only chance. And yet she clung tighter to his one good arm, glad of the respite the other had given her, and hoping that the Angel-Mother would somehow intervene to keep him in the country—if not the county—she hovered over. Sufficient for the day was the good thereof; here was Will, and Nip, and the Sunday pie in the oven—the first good dinner since Christmas, the preparation of which for her lip-smacking elder had served to keep her sane during those days of torturing suspense. How glad she was the meal would be worthy of their visitor!

A faint uneasiness did indeed begin to creep under her happiness as they crossed the rutted road that divided the Common from her gate, but she was hardly conscious what it was, vaguely putting it down to Nip’s dangerous attempts to caress them with his muddy paws.

“Here we are!” she cried gaily. “Lucky Gran’fer never asks about the sermon.”

He drew her to him. Hurriedly ascertaining that there was no eye or telescope bearing upon her, she submitted to the long ardour of his kiss. Then she drew him in turn towards the gate.

“But I’ve kissed you good-bye,” he said.

“Good-bye?” she repeated blankly. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“How can I come in?”

Even then she hardly realized the situation. Foreseen as it had long been, it had so softened in her own mind—especially after her comparative success in soothing down her grandfather—that she did not realize it remained in Will’s in all its original crudity. “You’re not thinking of that nonsense!” she said, smiling. “We’ll just lift up the latch and walk in! Won’t Gran’fer be surprised?” But her smile was uneasy.

“You’ve forgotten, Jinny, he won’t have me over his doorstep.”

“Oh, is that the reason you didn’t come all the week?” The greyness creeping beneath her happiness began to spread out like a clammy fog.

“Well, how could I have got to you? I couldn’t stand about the Common in the wind and rain on the chance you might catch sight of me.”

“I’d have stood about for you,” she said simply.

“And didn’t I stand about at ‘The Black Sheep’?”

“Yes, that was my fault, sweetheart. But anyhow we won’t stand about here.” And she tugged at his arm. “Where else could you have dinner?”

“I can get some at ‘The King of Prussia.’ I’ll be just in time if I go now.”

“You desert me to get dinner!”

“You know that’s nonsense, dearest, considering I could get both if I came in.”

“Then why don’t you come in?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Because of those few high words? How absurd!”

“We won’t go into that now.”

“Yes, we will. You don’t want to eat humble pie. But it isn’t humble pie,” she laughed, with a desperate attempt at merriment, “it’s steak and kidney pie! So there!”

“But, Jinny, he forbade me to cross his sill!”

“You old goose! He never thought we’d cross it arm in arm. Like this! Come along—won’t he open his eyes and wipe his spectacles!”

He shook off her arm. “It’s no laughing matter, Jinny. An oath is an oath.”

“An oath!” she repeated dully. The violence of that grotesque collision had blurred her memory of its minutiÆ.

“You can’t have forgotten? He laid his hand on the Bible—he vowed to the Almighty I should never cross your threshold.”

She essayed a last jaunty smile. “Unless on your hands and knees. Don’t forget that part.”

“Is it likely I could forget such an insult?”

“Well then, that’s all right!” Her smile became braver. “We’ll crawl in together, two little babies. Come along, petsy.” And she stooped down comically.

“How can you be so childish, Jinny?”

“Isn’t it all childish? Down you go, Willie!”

But he stiffened himself physically as well as morally. “Give in to such a humiliation?”

“You won’t really be giving in,” she said, with a happy thought. “With only one arm, you can only come in on your hand and knees. So you’ll outwit him after all. Come along, poor little lopsided creature, Jinny’ll help you—and Gran’fer will forget to count your limbs, my poor brave boy!”

“It’s you that are forgetting,” he said harshly. “It’s impossible.”

“What’s impossible?”

“That I should crawl to your grandfather.”

“I see! It’s your pride you love, not me.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.” She snatched her hand from his. “Nothing can bring you to your knees.”

“It’s not true. I’d go on my hands and knees to you, as if I was in chapel, and I’d crawl on ’em across your threshold and thank God for what laid on t’other side—but you see, Jinny, what breaks me up is that I made a vow too.”

“You?”

“You don’t seem to remember anything.”

“I dare say I was a bit dazed at all the silliness. But if you swore too not to cross our threshold, why, I’ll go and let you in by the lattice. And perhaps Gran’fer will be that tickled, he’ll laugh and forget about his cranky old oath. Or perhaps he’ll reckon you have scrambled in on your hands and knees. Oh dear, isn’t it funny? See you in a moment, Will.” She put her hand on the latch of the gate.

He shook his head. “Neither by door nor by window.”

“Didn’t I say I’d never cross your doorstep?” she urged. “And yet I came.”

“You came through the window.”

“Well, I’ll come by the door. There! That’s a fair offer. I’m not going to stick to silliness—when it’s so silly!”

“All very well,” he said coldly. “But you know you can’t get through my door.”

“Goodness gracious! Have I grown so fat?”

“Don’t pretend. You know it’s the flood. Besides, it wouldn’t be any good my going through the window. What I said when I raised my hand to heaven was that your grandfather should never see me in his house——!”

“Just what I said—I remember now,” she interrupted. “I said you’d never see me in Frog Farm. And yet you did—and lost your bet too.” Her face was gay again. “So I gave in first, you see, sweetheart, and now you’ve got to play fair.”

“You don’t listen—you cut into my words. What I swore was that your grandfather should never see me in his house unless he carried me in!”

Her gaiety grew hysterical. “Ha, ha, ha!” she laughed. “Grandfather’s given up carrying ages ago. I’m his deputy now. Oh dear!” She measured him with a rueful eye. “Well, I can but try!” And she put her arms round his hips.

“Don’t make light of an oath, Jinny.” He pushed her off with his left hand.

“’Twas you that made light of an oath—taking the Lord’s name over trifles.”

“I never took the Lord’s name,” he said sullenly. “I only lifted my hand.”

“Well, you can’t lift it now—and serve you right! You surely never expected Gran’fer to lug a sulky lout over his doorstep.”

“Of course not. I never expected I’d want to cross it. Why, Jinny, though you were there in the room, I was that blind——!” And his hand sought hers again.

“Leave me alone!” she cried. “You and your miserable vows!”

“I’d cut my tongue out if I could unsay the words.”

“You can unsay ’em more easily with your tongue in.”

“A man can’t go back on his sworn word. Women don’t understand.”

“So you said about horses. And nicely you managed yours! Oh, forgive me, I didn’t mean to crow. That was your misfortune. But this is your fault. It’s your pride you’re in love with; not me. Good-bye; Gran’fer will be starving.” She lifted the gate-latch angrily.

“But only good-bye for the moment,” he pleaded. “I can’t cross your threshold, but you can cross mine.”

She answered more gently, but her tone was tired and helpless. “And what would be the good, unless you and Gran’fer make it up?”

“I’m not marrying your grandfather!”

Something patronizing in the sentence jarred afresh. “You’d better go back to Blanche—it’ll be too late soon.”

“I wouldn’t touch Blanche with Bidlake’s barge-pole!”

The magnificence of the repudiation had its effect—it swamped in both the recollection that it was Blanche who had done the refusing.

“You don’t expect me to give up Gran’fer at his age?” she said more mildly.

“We’ll get him a minder—when I come back from Australia!”

Australia put the climax to her weariness. “Oh, yes, I don’t wonder it’s so easy for you to go.”

“It isn’t easy for me to go, even as far as Chipstone,” he protested passionately. “But it’s your grandfather you love, not me.”

“I love you both. Only think how old he is. It’s like quarrelling with a child. And he is in his second childhood almost, though I wouldn’t say it to anybody else. There are times when he seems quite his old self, wonderfully strong and sensible, but there are moments when he quite frightens me. He can’t bear to be crossed, and he forgets almost everything that happens nowadays.”

“Then perhaps he’s forgotten our upset!”

“No, that’s the unfortunate part. But we must just make a little joke of it. Down on your marrow-bones, Willie!” And she laid her hand on his shoulder with a last sprightly effort.

But even as his shoulder subsided, it swelled up again, like a pressed gutta-percha ball. “It’s all grandfather with you, your husband doesn’t count.”

“Husband, indeed!” She withdrew her hand as if stung. “You’re going quicker than your coach ever went.”

“Oh, very well—I’m off to Australia!”

“As you please. I’ll call for your box!”

“I’ll have no truck with a cart of yours.”

“There’s no other way of getting things to Chipstone,” she reminded him blandly.

“I’ll shoulder it sooner,” he burst forth.

“Ah, then you won’t be going just yet!”

“Damn my arm! I’ll not stay in this wretched country another fortnight! I’ll never look on your face again.”

She began humming: “A dashing young man from Canada——!”

His face grew black with anger, and he strode away even before she had passed through the gate.