the tide of sorrow. For the present let us draw gently back and leave
her, for she is bowed to the earth--fallen on her knees, her head
buried in the curtains of her bed; dark, faint and leaden, on the
borders of despair--a word often lightly used through ignorance.
Heaven keep us all from a single hour, here or hereafter, of the thing
the Word stands for; and Heaven comfort all true and loving hearts
that read me, when their turn shall come to drain the bitter cup like
Susan Merton.



CHAPTER V.

THE moment George Fielding was out of sight, Mr. Meadows went to the
public-house, flung himself on his powerful black mare, and rode
homeward without a word.

One strong passion after another swept across his troubled mind. He
burned with love, he was sick with jealousy, cold with despondency,
and for the first time smarted with remorse. George Fielding was gone,
gone of his own accord; but like the flying Parthian he had shot his
keenest arrow in the moment of defeat.

"What the better am I?" thus ran this man's thoughts. "I have opened
my own eyes, and Susan seems farther from me than ever now--my heart
is like a lump of lead here--I wish I had never been born!--so much
for scheming--I would have given a thousand pounds for this, and now
I'd give double to be as I was before; I had honest hopes then; now
where are they? How lucky it seemed all to go, too. Ah! that is
it--'May all your good luck turn to wormwood!' that was his word--his