That such a man had proved fickle in love was a
thing difficult to credit to the mind familiar with his character. Solid,
sober, simple, fearing God and lacking humor, the jilting of a woman was an
offense of all others least likely to have been associated with him. Yet
circumstances and some unsuspected secrets of disposition had brought about
that event; and now, as he hastened along, the vision of the dark woman he
once loved at Drift did not for an instant cross his thoughts, for they
were full of the fair girl he meant to marry at Newlyn. To her, at least,
he had kept faithful enough; she had been the guiding-star of his life for
hard upon a year of absence; not one morning, not one night, in fair
weather or foul, had he omitted to pray God's blessing upon her. A
fatalism, which his Luke Gospel tenets did not modify, was strong in the
sailor. He had seen death often enough in his business; and his instincts
told him, apart from all religious teaching, that those who died ripe for
salvation were but few. Every man appeared to be an instrument in God's
hand, and human free-will represented a condition quite beyond the scope of
his intelligence to estimate or even conceive. Had any justified in so
doing asked of him his reasons for desertion of Mary Chirgwin, Noy would
have explained that when inviting her to be his wife he took a wrong step
in darkness; that light had since suddenly shone upon him, as upon Saul,
and that Mary, choosing rather to remain outside the sure fold of Luke
Gospeldom, by so doing made it impossible for him to love her longer.
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