“To be a woman is to be a creature that has no need of argument because feeling is ever more potent than argument,” said he. “To be a woman is to be a creature of feeling; of grace, of tenderness--of womanliness. If your conscience tells you that you were wrong to deceive John Bennet, be sure that you were wrong; but Heaven forbid that I should condemn you for acting as your womanly wit prompted. And may Heaven forgive me if I speak for once as a man rather than a preacher. 'Tis because I have spoken so that I--I--oh, if I do not run away at once there is no knowing where I may end. Fare thee well, child; and be sure--oh, be sure that your conscience is your true director, not your woman's wits--and least of all, John Wesley, the preacher.” He laid his hand tenderly upon her head; then suddenly drew it back with a jerk as if he had been stung upon the palm. His horse started, and he made no attempt to restrain it, even when it began to canter. In a few seconds he had gone round the bend on the road beneath the trees that overhung the wall of the Trevelyan demesne. He had reached the house where he was to lodge before he recollected that although he had been conversing with Nelly Polwhele for close upon twenty minutes--although they had touched upon some topics of common interest, neither of them had referred even in the most distant way to the matter which had brought about his return to the neighbourhood; neither of them had so much as mentioned the name of Pritchard, or referred to his prophecy of the End of all things. As a matter of fact a whole hour had passed before John Wesley remembered that it was necessary for him to determine as speedily as possible what form his protest against the man and his act should take. His sudden coming upon Nelly Polwhele had left a rather disturbing impression upon him--at first a delightfully disturbing impression, and then one that added to the gravity of his thoughts--in fact just such a complex impression as is produced upon an ordinary man when coming out of the presence of the woman whom he loves, he knows not why. The sum of his reflections regarding their meeting was that while he had an uneasy feeling that he had spoken too impulsively to her at the moment of parting from her, yet altogether he was the better of having been with her. A cup of cool water in the desert--those were the words that came to him when he was alone in his room. After the horrible scenes that he had witnessed while riding through the valley--after the horrible torture to which he had been subjected by the gibes of John Bennet--she had appeared before his weary eyes, so fresh, so sweet, so gracious! Truly he was the better for being near her, and once more he repeated the word: “A cup of cool water in the desert land.” CHAPTER XIV