"Oh, Miss Clibborn, how sad it is to think that your affections should
be unrequited. Why am I not Captain Parsons? Miss Clibborn, can you give
me no hope?"
"I should not be acting rightly towards you if I did not tell you at
once that so long as Captain Parsons lives, my love for him can never
alter."
"I wish I were a soldier!" murmured Mr. Dryland.
"Oh, it's not that. I think there's nothing so noble as a clergyman. If
it is any consolation to you, I may confess that if I had never known
Captain Parsons, things might have gone differently."
"Well, I suppose I had better go away now. I must try to bear my
disappointment."
Mary gave him her hand, and, bending down with the utmost gallantry, the
curate kissed it; then, taking up his low, clerical hat, hurriedly left
her.
* * *
Mrs. Jackson was a woman of singular penetration, so that it was not
strange if she quickly discovered what had happened. Mr. Dryland was
taking tea at the Vicarage, whither, with characteristic manliness, he
had gone to face his disappointment. Not for him was the solitary
moping, nor the privacy of a bedchamber; his robust courage sent him
rather into the field of battle, or what was under the circumstances the
only equivalent, Mrs. Jackson's drawing-room.
But even he could not conceal the torments of unsuccessful love. He
stirred his tea moodily, and his usual appetite for plum-cake had quite
deserted him.
"What's the matter with you, Mr. Dryland?" asked the Vicar's wife, with
those sharp eyes which could see into the best hidden family secret.