"Oh dear, no: he asked me whether I thought we lived in Utopia. He said
I might come if I chose--that what would be only laughed at in a silly
boy like me, might be deemed impertinence in him."
The interview came to an end. Anne said she hoped I should dine with
them while I was in town--and Mr. Brandon also, Sir Robert added; and
with that I came out. Came out just as wise as I had gone in; for
never a word of hope did Sir Robert give. For all he intimated to the
contrary, the living might be already in the hands of the Canon of St.
Paul's.
Two events happened the next day, Saturday. The funeral of the Rector,
and the departure of Miss Cattledon for Chelmsford, in Essex. An aunt
of hers who lived there was taken dangerously ill, and sent for her by
telegram. Mr. Brandon came up to dine with us in the evening---- But
that's neither here nor there.
* * * * *
I sat in Miss Deveen's pew at church with herself on the Sunday morning;
she wore black silk out of respect to the late Rector. Mr. Lake and the
young deacon, who had a luxuriant crop of yellow hair, had put on black
gloves. The church was full; all the world and his wife seemed to have
come to it; and the parsons' surplices stood on end with starch.
Mr. Lake was in the reading-desk; it caused, I think, some
surprise--could that yellow-haired nonentity of a young dandy be going
to preach? He stood at the communion-table, looking interesting, and
evidently suffering from a frightful cold: which cold, as we found
later, was the reason that Mr. Lake took nearly all the service himself.
What a contrast they were! The simpering, empty-faced young deacon, who
was tall and slender as a lamp-post, and had really not much more brains
than one; and the thoughtful, earnest, middle-aged priest, with the
sad look on his gentle face. Nothing could be more impressive than his
reading of the prayers; they were prayed, not read: and his voice was
one of those persuasive, musical voices you don't often hear. If Sir
Robert Tenby could but hear this reading! I sighed, as Mr. Lake went
through the Litany.
Hardly had the thought crossed my mind, when some commotion in the
church caused most of us to turn round: a lady was fainting. But for
that, I might never have seen what I did see. In the next pew, right
behind ours, sat Sir Robert and Lady Tenby. So surprised was I that I
could not for the moment believe my eyes, and simply stared at them.
Anne caught the look, and smiled at me.
Was it a good omen? I took it to be one. If Sir Robert had no thought of
Mr. Lake, or if the living was already given to that canon, why should
he have come all this way to hear him? I recalled the Sunday, years ago
now, when Sir Robert had sat in his own pew at Timberdale, listening
attentively to Herbert Tanerton's reading and preaching, deliberating
within his mind--I know I thought so then--whether he should bestow upon
him the living of Timberdale, or not; whether Herbert was worthy of it.
Sir Robert did give it to him: and I somehow took it for an earnest that
he might give this one to Mr. Lake.
Meanwhile Mr. Lake ascended the pulpit-stairs in his black gown, and
began his sermon: supremely unconscious that the patron of the church
was just in front of him, looking and listening. No one present knew Sir
Robert and Lady Tenby.
You should have heard that sermon: all its earnest eloquence, its sound
piety, its practical application, and its quiet, impressive delivery. It
was not exactly a funeral sermon; but when he spoke of the late Rector,
who had been so unexpectedly taken away, and whose place in this world
could know him no more, hardly a dry eye was in the church: and if he
himself had not once or twice paused to call up his equanimity, his own
eyes would not have been dry, either. I was glad Sir Robert heard it. It
was a sermon to be remembered for all time.
Miss Deveen waited in her pew until the people had mostly gone; she did
not like being in a crowd. The Tenbys waited also. In the porch Anne put
her hand upon my arm, speaking in a whisper.
"That is Miss Deveen, I suppose, Johnny? What a nice face she has! What
a fine, handsome woman she is! How good she looks!"
"She is good; very. I wish I might introduce her to you."
"That's just what I was going to ask you to do, Johnny. My husband would
like to speak with her."
I did it outside in the churchyard. After speaking together for a minute
or two, Miss Deveen invited them to step into her house, pointing to it
that they might see it was close by. Sir Robert walked on by her side, I
behind with Anne. An open carriage was pacing in the road, the servants
wearing the Tenby livery: people turned to look at it, wondering whose
grand carriage it was. As we went slowly onwards Mr. Lake overtook us.
He did not stop, only lifted his hat to Miss Deveen in passing: but she
arrested him to ask after Mrs. Selwyn.
"Oh, she is very ill, very sad," he answered, in a tone as if the sorrow
were his own. "And at present I fear there's nothing for her but to
bear; to bear as she best may: not yet can she open her heart to
consolation."
Miss Deveen said no more, and he walked on. It struck me she had only
stopped him that Sir Robert might see him face to face. Being a shrewd
woman, it could not be but that she argued good from this unexpected
visit. And she knew I had been to them.
They would not stay to take lunch; which was on the table when we went
in. Anne said she must get home to her baby: not the young shaver I saw;
a little girl a month or two old. Sir Robert spared a few minutes to
shut himself up in the drawing-room with Miss Deveen; and then the
carriage whirled them off.
"I hope he was asking you about Mr. Lake?" I said impulsively.
"That is just what he was asking, Johnny," replied Miss Deveen. "He
came here this morning, intending to question me. He is very favourably
impressed with William Lake; I can see that: and he said he had never
heard a better sermon, rarely one as good."
"I dare say that canon of St. Paul's is all an invention! Perhaps Mrs.
Jonas went to sleep and dreamt it."
"It is certainly not fact," laughed Miss Deveen. "Sir Robert tells me he
does not as much as know any one of the canons by sight."
"He did not tell you he should give it to Mr. Lake?"
"No, Johnny: neither did he give me any grounds for supposing that
he would. He is a very cautious man; I can see that; conscientiously
wishing to do right, and act for the best. We must say nothing of this
abroad, remember."
* * * * *
The Reverend William Lake sat down to his breakfast on Monday morning,
as the clock was striking half-past nine. He had been called out to
baptize a sick baby and pray by its dying mother. Pouring himself out a
cup of tea, buttering his first slice of dry toast, and cracking his
egg, for that's what his breakfast consisted of, he took up a letter
lying on the table, which had come by the morning post. Opening it
presently, he found it to contain a request from Sir Robert Tenby that
he would call upon him that morning at eleven o'clock, in Upper Brook
Street.
"Sir Robert Tenby cannot know of our daily service," thought the
clergyman, after reading the note twice over, and wondering what he
was wanted for; he having no knowledge of the tide of affairs: no more
notion that Sir Robert had been at the church the previous day than that
the man in the moon was there. "I must ask Chisholm to take the service
this morning."
Accordingly, his breakfast over, and a sprucer coat put on, he went to
the deacon's lodgings--handsome rooms in a good house. That young divine
was just beginning breakfast, the table being laid with toasted ham and
poached eggs, and potted meats, and hot, buttered muffins, and all kinds
of nice things, presenting a contrast to the frugal one Mr. Lake had
just got up from.
"Took an extra snooze in bed to nurse myself," cried the young man, in
half-apology for the lateness of the meal, as he poured out a frothing
cup of chocolate. "My cold?--oh, it's better."
"I am glad of that," said Sir. Lake. "I want you to take the service
this morning."
"What, do it all!"
"If you will be so good. I have a note here from Sir Robert Tenby,
asking me to call upon him at eleven o'clock. I can't think what he
wants."
"Sir Robert Tenby? That's the patron! Oh, I dare say it's only to talk
about the Selwyns; or to tell you to take the duty until some one's
appointed to the living."
"Ay," replied Mr. Lake. And he had no other thought, no idea of
self-benefit, when he started off to walk to Upper Brook Street.
An hour later, seated in Sir Robert's library, enlightenment came to
him. After talking with him for some time, questioning him of his
Church views and principles, hearing somewhat of his past career and of
what he had formerly done at Cambridge, to all of which he gave answers
that were especially pleasing to the patron's ear, Sir Robert imparted
to him the astounding fact that he--_he!_--was to be the new Rector.
William Lake sat, the picture of astonishment, wondering whether his
ears were playing him false.
"_I!_" he exclaimed, scarcely above his breath. "I never thought of
myself. I can hardly believe--believe--pardon me, Sir Robert--is there
no mistake?"
"No mistake so far as I am concerned," replied Sir Robert, suppressing a
smile. "I have heard of your many years' services at St. Matthew's, and
of your worth. I do not think I could bestow it upon one who deserves it
better than you--if as well. The living is yours, if you will accept
it."
"You are very kind, sir," gasped the curate, not in the least recovering
his senses. "May I presume to ask who it is that has been so kind as to
speak of me?"
"The person from whom I first heard of you was young Johnny Ludlow,"
smiled Sir Robert. "Mr. Johnny presented himself to me here last Friday,
in a state of mental commotion, not having been able to get any one else
to come, evidently thinking, though not saying, that I should commit an
act of singular injustice if the living did not find its way to one who,
by dint of his hard and earnest work, so richly deserved it."
The tears stood in William Lake's eyes. "I can only thank you,
sir, truly and fervently. I have no other means of testifying my
gratitude--save by striving ever to do my duty untiringly, under my
Lord and Master."
"I am sure you will do it," spoke Sir Robert, impulsively--and he was
not a man of impulse in general. "You are not a married man, I believe?"
A faint red light came into the curate's cheeks. "I have not had the
means to marry, Sir Robert. It has seemed to me, until this morning,
that I never should have them."
"Well, you can marry now," was the laughing rejoinder; "I dare say you
will." And the faint light deepened to scarlet, as the curate heard it.
"Shall you give him the living, Robert?" asked Anne, when Mr. Lake had
departed.
"Yes, love."