II.

When lawyers get a case into their hands, no living conjurer can divine

when their clients will get it out again. The hardest problem in Euclid

was never more difficult to solve than that. Mr. Brandon came up to

town on the Monday morning, bringing me with him; he thought we might

be detained a few days, a week at the utmost; yet the second week was

now passing, and nothing had been done; our business seemed to be no

forwarder than it was at the beginning. The men of law in Lincoln's Inn

laid the blame on the conveyancers; the conveyancers laid it on the

lawyers. Any way, the upshot was the same--we were kept in London. The

fact to myself was uncommonly pleasant, though it might be less so to

Mr. Brandon.

The astounding news--that the Reverend William Lake was to have St.

Matthew's--and the return of Miss Cattledon from her visit to the sick

lady at Chelmsford, rejoiced the ears and eyes of the parish on one and

the same day. It was a Wednesday. Miss Cattledon got home in time for

dinner, bringing word that her relative was better.

"Has anything been heard about the living?" she inquired, sitting,

bonnet in hand, before going up to dress.

Miss Deveen shook her head. In point of fact, we had heard nothing at

all of Sir Robert Tenby or his intentions since Mr. Lake's interview

with him, and she was not going to tell Cattledon of that, or of Sir

Robert's visit on the Sunday.

But, as it appeared, the decision had been made public that afternoon,

putting the whole parish into a ferment. Dinner was barely over when Dr.

Galliard rushed in with the news.

"Only think of it!" he cried. "Such a piece of justice was never heard

of before. Poor Lake has not the smallest interest in the world; and how

Sir Robert Tenby came to pick him out is just a marvel. Such a stir it

is causing! It's said--I don't know with what truth--that he came up

here on Sunday morning to hear Lake preach. Mrs. Herriker saw a fine

barouche draw up, high-stepping horses and powdered servants; a lady and

gentleman got out of it and entered the church. It is thought now they

might have been Sir Robert and Lady Tenby."

"I shouldn't wonder but they were," remarked Miss Deveen.

"Has Mr. Lake _really_ had the living given to him?" questioned

Cattledon, her eyes open with surprise, her thin throat and waist all

in a tremor, and unable to touch another strawberry.

"Really and truly," replied the doctor. "Chisholm tells me he has just

seen the letter appointing him to it."

"Dear me!" cried Cattledon, quite faintly. "_Dear_ me! How very thankful

we all ought to be--for Mr. Lake's sake."

"I dare say _he_ is thankful," returned the doctor, swallowing down the

rest of his glass of wine, and preparing to leave. "Thank you, no, Miss

Deveen; I can't stay longer: I have one or two sick patients on my hands

to-night, and must go to them--and I promised Mrs. Selwyn to look in

upon her. Poor thing! this terrible loss has made her really ill.

By-the-by," he added, turning round on his way from the room, "have

you heard that she has decided upon her plans, and thinks of leaving

shortly?"

"No--has she?" returned Miss Deveen.

"Best thing for her, too--to be up and doing. She has the chance of

taking to a little boys' preparatory school at Brighton; small and

select, as the advertisements have it. Some relative of hers has kept it

hitherto, has made money by it, and is retiring----"

"Will Mrs. Selwyn like _that_--to be a schoolmistress?" interrupted

Cattledon, craning her neck.

"Rather than vegetate upon her small pittance," returned the doctor

briskly. "She is an active, capable woman; has all her senses about her.

Better teach little boys, and live and dress well, than enjoy a solitary

joint of meat once a-week and a turned gown once a-year--eh, Johnny

Ludlow?"

He caught up his hat, and went out in a bustle. I laughed. Miss Deveen

nodded approvingly; not at my laugh, but at Mrs. Selwyn's resolution.

The stir abroad might have been pretty brisk that evening; we had Dr.

Galliard's word for it: it could have been nothing to what set in the

next day. The poor, meek curate--who, however good he might have been to

run after, could hardly have been looked upon as an eligible, bonâ-fide

prospect--suddenly converted into a rich Rector: six hundred a-year and

a parsonage to flourish in! All the ladies, elder and younger, went into

a delightful waking-sleep and dreamed dreams.

"Such a mercy!" was the cry; "_such_ a mercy! We might have had some

dreadful old drony man here, who does not believe in daily services,

and wears a wig on his bald head. Now Mr. Lake, though his hair is

getting a little grey, has a most luxuriant and curly crop of it.

Beautiful whiskers too."

It was little Daisy Dutton said that, meeting us in the Park road; she

was too young and frivolous to know better. Miss Deveen shook her head

at her, and Daisy ran on with a laugh. We were on our way to Mrs.

Topcroft's, some hitch having arisen about the frames for Emma's

screens.

Emma was out, however; and Mrs. Topcroft came forward with tears in her

eyes.

"I can hardly help crying since I heard it," she said, taking her

handkerchief out of the pocket of her black silk apron. "It must be

such a reward to him after his years of work--and to have come so

unsought--so unexpectedly! I am sure Sir Robert Tenby must be a good

man."

"I think he is one," said Miss Deveen.

"Mr. Lake deserves his recompense," went on Mrs. Topcroft. "No one can

know it as I do. Poor Mr. Selwyn knew--but he is gone. I think God's

hand must have been in this," she reverently added. "These good and

earnest ministers deserve to be placed in power for the sake of those

over whom they have charge. I have nothing to say against Mr. Selwyn,

but I am sure the parish will find a blessing in Mr. Lake."

"You will lose him," remarked Miss Deveen.

"Yes, and I am sorry for it; but I should be selfish indeed to think of

that. About the screens," continued Mrs. Topcroft; "perhaps you would

like to see them--I am sorry Emma is out. One, I know, is finished."

Not being especially interested in the screens, I stepped into the

garden, and so strolled round to the back of the house. In the little

den of a room, close to the open window, sat Mr. Lake writing. He stood

up when he saw me and held out his hand.

"It is, I believe, to you that I am indebted for the gift bestowed upon

me," he said in a low tone of emotion, as he clasped my hand, and a wave

of feeling swept over his face. "How came you to think of me--to be so

kind? I cannot thank you as I ought."

"Oh, it's nothing; indeed, I did nothing--so to say," I stammered, quite

taken aback. "I heard people say what a pity it was you stood no chance

of the living, after working so hard in it all these years; so, as I

knew Sir Robert, and knew very well Lady Tenby, I thought it would do

no harm if I just told them of it."

"And it has borne fruit. And very grateful I am: to you, and to Sir

Robert--and to One who holds all things, great and small, in His hands.

Do you know," he added, smiling at me and changing his tone to a lighter

one, "it seems to me nothing less than a romance."

This was Thursday. The next day Mr. Lake paid a visit to the

bishop--perhaps to go through some formality connected with his

appointment, but I don't know--and on the following Sunday morning he

"read himself in." No mistake about his being the Rector, after that. It

was a lovely day, and Mr. Brandon came up in time for service. After he

knew all about it--that I had actually gone to Sir Robert, and that Mr.

Lake had the living--he asked me five or six hundred questions, as

though he were interested, and now he had come up to hear him preach.

You should have seen how crowded the church was. The ladies were in full

force and flutter. Cattledon got herself up in a new bonnet; some of

them had new rigging altogether. Each individual damsel looked upon the

Rector as her especial prize, sure to be her own. Mr. Lake did every

scrap of the duty himself, including the reading of the articles; that

delightful young deacon's cold had taken a turn for the worse, through

going to a water-party, and he simply couldn't hear himself speak. Poor

Mrs. Selwyn and her daughter sat in their pew to-day, sad as the crape

robes they wore.

Did you ever feel nervous when some one belonging to you is going to

preach--lest he should not come up to expectation, or break down, or

anything of that sort? Mr. Lake did not belong to me, but a nervous

feeling came over me as he went into the pulpit. For Mr. Brandon was

there with his critical ears. I had boasted to him of Mr. Lake's

preaching; and felt sensitively anxious that it should not fall short.

I need not have feared. It was a very short sermon, the services had

been so long, but wonderfully beautiful. You might have heard a pin drop

in the church, and old Brandon himself never stirred hand or foot.

At the end of the pew sat he, I next to him; his eyes fixed on the

preacher, his attitude that of one who is absorbed in what he hears.

Just a few words Mr. Lake spoke of himself, of the new relation between

himself and his hearers; very quiet, modest words hearing the ring of

truth and good-fellowship.

"That man would do his duty in whatever position of life he might be

placed," pronounced old Brandon, as we got out. "Robert Tenby's choice

has been a good and wise one."

"Thanks to Johnny Ludlow, here," said Miss Deveen, laughing.

"I don't say but what Johnny Ludlow has his head on his shoulders

the right way. He means to do well always, I believe; and does do it

sometimes."

Which I am sure was wonderful praise, conceded by old Brandon, calling

to my face no end of a colour. And, if you'll believe me, he put his arm

within mine; a thing he had never done before; and walked so across the

churchyard.

The next week was a busy one. What with Mrs. Selwyn's preparations for

going away, and what with the commotion caused by the new state of

things, the parish had plenty on its hands. Mr. Lake had begged Mrs.

Selwyn not to quit the Rectory until it should be quite and entirely

convenient to her; if he got into it six or twelve months hence, he

kindly urged, it would be time enough for him. But Mrs. Selwyn, while

thanking him for his consideration, knowing how earnestly he meant it,

showed him that she was obliged to go. She had taken to the school at

Brighton, and had to enter upon it as speedily as might be. A few days

afterwards she had vacated the Rectory, and her furniture was packed

into vans to be carried away. Some women went into the empty house to

clean it down; that it might be made ready for its new tenant. Poor Mr.

Selwyn had repaired and decorated the house only the previous year,

little thinking his tenure of it would be so short.

Then began the fun. The polite attentions to Mr. Lake, as curate, had

been remarkable; to Mr. Lake, as Rector, they were unique. Mrs.

Topcroft's door was besieged with notes and parcels. The notes contained

invitations to teas and dinners, the parcels small offerings to himself.

A person about to set up housekeeping naturally wants all kinds of

articles; and the ladies of St. Matthew's were eager to supply

contributions. Slippers fell to a discount, purses and silk watch-guards

ditto. More useful things replaced them. Ornamental baskets for the

mantelpiece, little match-boxes done in various devices, card-racks

hastily painted, serviette rings composed of coloured beads, pincushions

and scent-mats for the dressing-table, with lots more things that I

can't remember. These were all got up on the spur of the moment; more

elaborate presents, that might take weeks to complete, were put in hand.

In vain Mr. Lake entreated them not to do these things; not to send

_anything_; not to trouble themselves about him, assuring them it made

him most uncomfortable; that he preferred not to receive presents of any

kind: and he said it so emphatically, they might see he was in earnest.

All the same. He might as well have talked to the moon. The ladies

laughed, and worked on.

"Mrs. Topcroft, I think you had better refuse to take the parcels in,"

he said to her one day, when a huge packet had arrived, which proved

to be a market-basket, sent conjointly by three old maiden sisters. "I

don't wish to be rude, or do anything that would hurt kind people's

feelings: but, upon my word, I should like to send all the things back

again with thanks."

"They would put them into the empty Rectory if I did not take them in,"

returned Mrs. Topcroft. "The only way to stop it is to talk to the

ladies yourself. Senseless girls!"

Mr. Lake did talk--as well, and as impressively as he knew how. It made

not the slightest impression; and the small presents flocked in as

before. Mrs. Jonas did not brew a "blessed great jug of camomile-tea,"

as did one of the admirers of Mr. Weller, the elder; but she did brew

some "ginger-cordial," from a valued receipt of her late husband, the

colonel, and sent it, corked up in two ornamental bottles, with her best

regards. The other widow, Mrs. Herriker, was embroidering a magnificent

table-cover, working against time.

We had the felicity of tasting the ginger-cordial. Mrs. Jonas gave a

small "at home," and brought out a bottle of it as we were leaving.

Cattledon sniffed at her liqueur-glass surreptitiously before drinking

it.

"The chief ingredient in that stuff is rum," she avowed to me as we

walked home, stretching up her neck in displeasure. "_Pine-apple rum!_

My nose could not be mistaken."

"The cordial was very good," I answered. "Rum's not a bad thing, Miss

Cattledon."

"Not at all bad, Johnny," laughed Miss Deveen. "An old sailor-uncle of

mine, who had been round the world and back again more times than he

could count, looked upon it as the panacea for all earthly ills."

"Any way, before I would lay myself out to catch Mr. Lake, as that widow

woman does, and as some others are doing, I would hide my head for

ever," retorted Cattledon. And, to give her her due, though she did look

upon the parson as safe to fall to her own lot, she did not fish for

him. No presents, large or small, went out from her hands.

That week we dined in Upper Brook Street. Miss Deveen, Mr. Brandon, the

new Rector, and I; and two strange ladies whom we did not previously

know. Mr. Brandon took Anne in to dinner; she put me on her left hand at

table, and told me she and Sir Robert hoped I should often go to see

them at Bellwood.

"My husband has taken such a fancy to you, Johnny," she whispered. "He

does rather take likes and dislikes to people--just as I know you do. He

says he took a great liking to me the first time he ever spoke to me.

Do you remember it, Johnny?--you were present. We were kneeling in the

parlour at Maythorn Bank. You were deep in that child's book of mine,

'Les contes de ma bonne,' and I had those cuttings of plants, which I

had brought from France, spread out on newspapers on the carpet, when

Sir Robert came in at the glass-doors. That was the first time he spoke

to me; but he had seen me at Timberdale Church the previous day. Papa

and I and you walked over there: and a very hot day it was, I remember."

"That Sir Robert should take a liking to you, Anne, was only a matter of

course; other people have done the same," I said, calling her "Anne"

unconsciously, my thoughts back in the past. "But I don't understand why

he should take a liking to me."

"Don't you?" she returned. "I can tell you that he has taken it--a

wonderful liking. Why, Johnny, if my little baby-girl were twenty years

older, you would only need to ask and have her. I'm not sure but he'd

offer her to you without asking."

We both laughed so, she and I, that Sir Robert looked down the table,

inquiring what our mirth was. Anne answered that she would not forget to

tell him later.

"So mind, Johnny, that you come to Bellwood as often as you please

whenever you are staying at Crabb Cot. Robert and I would both like it."

And perhaps I may as well mention here that, although the business

which had brought Mr. Brandon to London was concluded, he did not

go home. When that event would take place, or how long it would be,

appeared to be hidden in the archives of the future. For a certain

matter had arisen to detain him.

Mr. Brandon had a nephew in town, a young medical student, of whom you

once heard him say that he was "going to the bad." By what we learnt

now, the young fellow appeared to have gone to it; and Mr. Brandon's

prolonged stay was connected with this.

"I shall see you into a train at Paddington, Johnny," he said to me,

"and you must make your way home alone. For all I know, I may be kept

here for weeks."

But Miss Deveen would not hear of this. "Mr. Brandon remains on for his

own business, Johnny, and you shall remain for my pleasure," she said

to me in her warm manner. "I had meant to ask Mr. Brandon to leave you

behind him."

And that is how I was enabled to see the play played out between the

ladies and the new Rector. I did wonder which of them would win the

prize; I would not have betted upon Cattledon. It also caused me to see

something of another play that was being played in London just then; not

a comedy but a tragedy. A fatal tragedy, which I may tell of sometime.

* * * * *

All unexpectedly a most distressing rumour set in; and though none knew

whence it arose, a conviction of its truth took the parish by storm. Mr.

Lake was about to be married! Distressing it was, and no mistake: for

each individual lady had good cause to know that _she_ was not the

chosen bride, being unpleasantly conscious that Mr. Lake had not asked

her to be.

Green-eyed jealousy seized upon the community. They were ready to rend

one another's veils. The young ladies vowed it must be one or other

of those two designing widows; Mrs. Jonas and Mrs. Herriker, on their

parts, decided it was one of those minxes of girls. What with lady-like

innuendos pitched at each other personally, and sharp hints levelled

apparently at the air, all of which provoked retort, the true state of

the case disclosed itself pretty clearly to the public--that neither

widows nor maidens were being thought of by Mr. Lake.

And yet--that the parson had marriage in view seemed to be certain; the

way in which he was furnishing his house proved it. No end of things

were going into it--at least, if vigilant eyes might be believed--that

could be of no use to a bachelor-parson. There must be a lady in the

case--and Mr. Lake had not a sister.

With this apparent proof of what was in the wind, and with the

conviction that not one of themselves had been solicited to share his

hearth and home--as the widow Herriker poetically put it--the world

was at a nonplus; though polite hostilities were not much less freely

exchanged. Suddenly the general ill-feeling ceased. One and all

metaphorically shook hands and made common cause together. A frightful

conviction had set in--it must be Emma Topcroft.

Miss Cattledon was the first to scent the fox. Cattledon herself.

She--but I had better tell it in order.

It was Monday morning, and we were at breakfast: Cattledon pouring out

the coffee, and taking anxious glances upwards through the open window

between whiles. What could be seen of the sky was blue enough, but

clouds, some dark, some light, were passing rapidly over it.

"Are you fearing it will rain, Miss Cattledon?"

"I am, Johnny Ludlow. I thought," she added, turning to Miss Deveen, "of

going after that chair this morning, if you have no objection, and do

not want me."

"Go by all means," returned Miss Deveen. "It is time the chair went,

Jemima, if it is to go at all. Take Johnny with you: he would like the

expedition. As for myself, I have letters to write that will occupy me

the whole morning."

Miss Cattledon wished to buy an easy-chair that would be comfortable for

an aged invalid: her sick aunt at Chelmsford. But, as Miss Cattledon's

purse was not as large as her merits, she meant to get a second-hand

chair: which are often just as good as new. Dr. Galliard, who knew all

about invalid-chairs and everything else, advised her to go to a certain

shop in Oxford Street, where they sold most kinds of furniture, old and

new. So we agreed to go this same morning. Cattledon, however, would not

miss the morning service; trust her for that.

"It might do _you_ no harm to attend for once, Johnny Ludlow."

Thus admonished, I went over with her, and reaped the benefit of the

young deacon's ministry. Mr. Lake did not make his appearance at all:

quite an unusual omission. I don't think it pleased Cattledon.

"We had better start at once, Johnny Ludlow," she said to me as we came

out; and her tone might have turned the very sweetest of cream to curds

and whey. "Look at those clouds! I believe it _is_ going to rain."

So we made our way to an omnibus, then on the point of starting, got in,

and were set down at the shop in Oxford Street. Cattledon described what

she wanted; and the young man invited us to walk upstairs.

Dodging our way dexterously through the things that crowded the shop,

and up the narrow staircase, we reached a room that seemed, at first

sight, big enough to hold half the furniture in London.

"This way, ma'am," said the young man who had marshalled us up.

"Invalid-chairs," he called out, turning us over to another young man,

who came forward--and shot downstairs again himself.

Cattledon picked her way in and out amidst the things, I following.

Half-way down the room she stopped to admire a tall, inlaid cabinet,

that looked very beautiful.

"I never come to these places without longing to be rich," she whispered

to me with a sigh, as she walked on. "One of the pleasantest interludes

in life, Johnny Ludlow, must be to have a good house to furnish and

plenty of money to---- Dear me!"

The extreme surprise of the exclamation following the break off, caused

me to look round. We were passing a side opening, or wing of the room; a

wing that seemed to be filled with bedsteads and bedding. Critically

examining one of the largest of these identical bedsteads stood the

Reverend William Lake and Emma Topcroft.

So entranced was Cattledon that she never moved hand or foot, simply

stood still and gazed. They, absorbed in their business, did not see us.

The parson seemed to be trying the strength of the iron, shaking it with

his hand; Emma was poking and patting at the mattress.

"Good Heavens!" faintly ejaculated Cattledon; and she looked as if about

to faint.

"The washhand-stands are round this way, and the chests of drawers

also," was called out at this juncture from some unknown region, and I

knew the voice to be Mrs. Topcroft's. "You had better come if you have

fixed upon the beds. The double stands look extremely convenient."

Cattledon turned back the way she had come, and stalked along, her head

in the air. Straight down the stairs went she, without vouchsafing a

word to the wondering attendant.

"But, madam, is there not anything I can show you?" he inquired,

arresting her.

"No, young man, not anything. I made a mistake in coming here."

The young man looked at the other young man down in the shop, and tapped

his finger on his forehead suggestively. They thought her crazy.

"Barefaced effrontery!" I heard her ejaculate to herself: and I knew she

did not allude to the young men. But never a word to me spoke she.

Peering about, on this side the street and on that, she espied another

furniture shop, and went into it. Here she found the chair she wanted;

paid for it, and gave directions for it to be sent to Chelmsford.

That what we had witnessed could have but one meaning--the speedy

marriage of Mr. Lake with Emma Topcroft--Cattledon looked upon as a dead

certainty. Had an astrologer who foretells the future come forth to read

the story differently, Cattledon would have turned a deaf ear. Mrs.

Jonas happened to be sitting with Miss Deveen when we arrived home; and

Cattledon, in the fulness of her outraged heart, let out what she had

seen. She had felt so sure of Mr. Lake!

Naturally, as Mrs. Jonas agreed, it could have but one meaning. She took

it up accordingly, and hastened forth to tell it. Ere the sun went down,

it was known from one end of the parish to the other that Emma Topcroft

was to be Mrs. Lake.

"A crafty, wicked hussy!" cried a chorus of tongues. "She, with that

other woman, her mother, to teach her, has cast her spells over the poor

weak man, and he has been unable to escape!"

Of course it did seem like it. It continued to seem like it as the week

went on. Never a day dawned but the parson and Emma went to town by an

omnibus, looking at things in this mart, buying in that. It became known

that they had chosen the carpets: Brussels for the sitting-rooms, colour

green; drugget for the bed-chambers, Turkey pattern: Mrs. Jonas fished

it out. How that impudent girl could have the face to go with him upon

such errands, the parish could not understand. It's true Mrs. Topcroft

always made one of the party, but what of that?

Could anything be done? Any means devised to arrest the heresy and save

him from his dreadful fate? Sitting nose and knees together at one

another's houses, their cherished work all thrown aside, the ladies

congregated daily to debate the question. They did not quite see their

way clear to warning the parson that Emma was neither more nor less than

a Mephistopheles in petticoats. They would have assured herself of the

fact with the greatest pleasure had that been of any use. How sly he

was, too--quite unworthy of his cloth! While making believe to be a poor

man, he must have been putting by a nice nest-egg; else how could he buy

all that furniture?

Soon another phase of the affair set in: one that puzzled them

exceedingly. It came about through an ebullition of temper.

Mrs. Jonas had occasion to call upon the Rector one afternoon,

concerning some trouble that turned up in the parish: she being a

district visitor and presiding at the mothers' meetings. Mr. Lake was

not at home. Emma sat in the parlour alone stitching away at new

table-cloths and sheets.

"He and mamma went out together after dinner," said Emma, leaving her

work to hand a chair to Mrs. Jonas. "I should not wonder if they are

gone to the house. The carpets were to be laid down to-day."

She looked full at Mrs. Jonas as she said it, never blushing, never

faltering. What with the bold avowal, what with the sight of the sheets

and the table-linen, and what with the wretched condition of affairs,

the disappointment at heart, the discomfort altogether, Mrs. Jonas lost

her temper.

"How dare you stand there with a bold face and acknowledge such a thing

to me, you unmaidenly girl?" cried the widow, her anger bubbling over as

she dashed away the offered chair. "The mischief you are doing poor Mr.

Lake is enough, without boasting of it."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Emma, opening her eyes wide, and feeling more

inclined to laugh than to cry, for her mood was ever sunny, "what _am_ I

doing to him?"

How Mrs. Jonas spoke out all that was in her mind, she could never

afterwards recall. Emma Topcroft, gazing and listening, could not

remain ignorant of her supposed fault now; and she burst into a fit of

laughter. Mrs. Jonas longed to box her ears. She regarded it as the very

incarnation of impudence.

"Marry me! _Me!_ Mr. Lake! My goodness!--what _can_ have put such a

thing into all your heads?" cried Emma, in a rapture of mirth. "Why, he

is forty-five if he's a day! He wouldn't think of me: he couldn't. He

came here when I was a little child: he does not look upon me as much

else yet. Well, I never!"

And the words came out in so impromptu a fashion, the surprise was so

honestly genuine, that Mrs. Jonas saw there must be a mistake somewhere.

She took the rejected chair then, her fears relieved, her tones

softened, and began casting matters about in her mind; still not seeing

any way out of them.

"Is it your mother he is going to marry?" cried she, the lame solution

presenting itself to her thoughts, and speaking it out on the spur of

the moment. It was Emma's turn to be vexed now.

"Oh, Mrs. Jonas, how can you!" she cried with spirit. "My poor old

mother!" And somehow Mrs. Jonas felt humiliated, and bit her lips in

vexation at having spoken at all.

"He evidently _is_ going to be married," she urged presently, returning

to the charge.

"He is not going to marry me," said Emma, threading her needle. "Or to

marry my mother either. I can say no more than that."

"You have been going to London with him to choose some furniture:

bedsteads, and carpets and things," contended Mrs. Jonas.

"Mamma has gone with him to choose it all: Mr. Lake would have been

finely taken in, with his inexperience. As to me, I wanted to go too,

and they let me. They said it would be as well that young eyes should

see as well as theirs, especially the colours of the carpets and the

patterns of the crockery-ware."

"What a misapprehension it has been!" gasped Mrs. Jonas.

"Quite so--if you mean about me," agreed Emma. "I like Mr. Lake very

much; I respect him above every one in the world; but for anything

else--such a notion never entered my head: and I am sure it would not

enter his."

Mrs. Jonas, bewildered, but intensely relieved, wished Emma

good-afternoon civilly, and went away to enlighten the world. A reaction

set in: hopes rose again to fever heat. If it was neither Emma Topcroft

nor her mother, why, it must be somebody else, argued the ladies, old

and young, and perhaps she was not chosen yet: and the next day they

were running about the parish more than ever.

Seated in her drawing-room, in her own particular elbow-chair, in the

twilight of the summer's evening, was Miss Deveen. Near to her, telling

a history, his voice low, his conscious face slightly flushed, sat

the Rector of St. Matthew's. The scent from the garden flowers came

pleasantly in at the open window; the moon, high in the heavens, was

tinting the trees with her silvery light. One might have taken them for

two lovers, sitting there to exchange vows, and going in for romance.

Miss Deveen was at home alone. I was escorting that other estimable

lady to a "penny-reading" in the adjoining district, St. Jude's, at

which the clergy of the neighbourhood were expected to gather in

full force, including the Rector of St. Matthew's. It was a special

reading, sixpence admission, got up for the benefit of St. Jude's

vestry fire-stove, which wanted replacing with a new one. Our parish,

including Cattledon, took up the cause with zeal, and would not have

missed the reading for the world. We flocked to it in numbers.

Disappointment was in store for some of us, however, for the

Rector of St. Matthew's did not appear. He called, instead, on Miss

Deveen, confessing that he had hoped to find her alone, and to get

half-an-hour's conversation with her: he had been wishing for it for

some time, as he had a tale to tell.

It was a tale of love. Miss Deveen, listening to it in the soft

twilight, could but admire the man's constancy of heart and his

marvellous patience.

In the West of England, where he had been curate before coming to

London, he had been very intimate with the Gibson family--the medical

people of the place. The two brothers were in partnership, James and

Edward Gibson. Their father had retired upon a bare competence, for

village doctors don't often make fortunes, leaving the practice to these

two sons. The rest of his sons and daughters were out in the world--Mrs.

Topcroft was one of them. William Lake's father had been the incumbent

of this parish, and the Lakes and the Gibsons were ever close friends.

The incumbent died; another parson was appointed to the living; and

subsequently William Lake became the new parson's curate, upon the

enjoyable stipend of fifty pounds a-year. How ridiculously improvident

it was of the curate and Emily Gibson to fall in love with one another,

wisdom could testify. They did; and there was an end of it, and went in

for all kinds of rose-coloured visions after the fashion of such-like

poor mortals in this lower world. And when he was appointed to the

curacy of St. Matthew's in London, upon a whole one hundred pounds

a-year, these two people thought Dame Fortune was opening her favours

upon them. They plighted their troth solemnly, and exchanged broken

sixpences.

Mr. Lake was thirty-one years of age then, and Emily was nineteen. He

counted forty-five now, and she thirty-three. Thirty-three! Daisy Dutton

would have tossed her little impertinent head, and classed Miss Gibson

with the old ladies at the Alms Houses, who were verging on ninety.

Fourteen summers had drifted by since that troth-plighting; and the

lovers had been living--well, not exactly upon hope, for hope seemed to

have died out completely; and certainly not upon love, for they did not

meet: better say, upon disappointment. Emily, the eldest daughter of the

younger of the two brothers, was but one of several children, and her

father had no fortune to give her. She kept the house, her mother being

dead, and saw to the younger children, patiently training and teaching

them. And any chance of brighter prospects appeared to be so very

hopeless, that she had long ago ceased to look for it.

As to William Lake, coming up to London full of hope with his rise in

life, he soon found realization not answer to expectation. He found that

a hundred a-year in the metropolis, did not go so very much further than

his fifty pounds went in the cheap and remote village. Whether he and

Emily had indulged a hope of setting up housekeeping on the hundred

a-year, they best knew; it might be good in theory, it was not to be

accomplished in practice. It's true that money went further in those

days than it goes in these; still, without taking into calculation

future incidental expenses that marriage might bring in its train, they

were not silly enough to risk it.

When William Lake had been five years at St. Matthew's, and found he

remained just as he was, making both ends meet upon the pay, and saw no

prospect of being anywhere else to the end, or of gaining more, he wrote

to release Emily from her engagement. The heartache at this was great on

both sides, not to be got over lightly. Emily did not rebel; did not

remonstrate. A sensible, good, self-enduring girl, she would not for the

world have crossed him, or added to his care; if he thought it right

that they should no longer be bound to one another, it was not for her

to think differently. So the plighted troth was recalled and the broken

sixpences were despatched back again. Speaking in theory, that is, you

understand: practically, I don't in the least know whether the sixpences

were returned or kept. It must have been a farce altogether, taken at

the best: for they had just gone on silently caring for each other;

patiently bearing--perhaps in a corner of their hearts even slightly

hoping--all through these later years.

Miss Deveen drew a deep breath as the Rector's voice died away in

the stillness of the room. What a number of these long-enduring,

silently-borne cases the world could tell of, and how deeply she pitied

them, was very present to her then.

"You are not affronted at my disclosing all this so fully, Miss Deveen?"

he asked, misled by her silence. "I wished to----"

"Affronted!" she interposed. "Nay, how could I be? I am lost in the deep

sympathy I feel--with you and with Emily Gibson. What a trial it has

been!--how hopeless it must have appeared. You will marry now."

"Yes. I could not bring myself to disclose this abroad prematurely,"

he added; "though perhaps I ought to have done it before beginning to

furnish the house. I find that some of my friends, suspecting something

from that fact, have been wondering whether I was thinking of Emma

Topcroft. Though indeed I feel quite ashamed to repeat to you any idea

that is so obviously absurd, poor child!"

Miss Deveen laughed. "How did you hear that?" she asked.

"From Emma herself. She heard of it from--from--Mrs. Jonas, I think--and

repeated it to me, and to her mother, in the highest state of glee. To

Emma, it seemed only fun: she is young and thoughtless."

"I conclude Emma has known of your engagement?"

"Only lately. Mrs. Topcroft knew of it from the beginning: Emily is her

niece. She knew also that I released Emily from the engagement years

ago, and she thought I did rightly, my future being so hopeless. But how

very silly people must be to suppose I could think of that child Emma! I

must set them right."

"Never mind the people," cried Miss Deveen. "Don't set them right until

you feel quite inclined to do so. As to that, I believe Emma has done

it already. How long is it that you and Emily have waited for one

another?"

"Fourteen years."

"Fourteen years! It seems half a lifetime. Do not let another day go on,

Mr. Lake; marry at once."

"That was one of the points on which I wished to ask your opinion," he

rejoined, his tones hesitating, his face shrinking from the moonlight.

"Do you think it would be wrong of me to marry--almost directly? Would

it be at all unseemly?"

"Wrong? Unseemly?" cried Miss Deveen. "In what way?"

"I hardly know. It may appear to the parish so very hurried. And it is

so short a time since my kind Rector died."

"Never mind the parish," reiterated Miss Deveen. "The parish would fight

at your marriage, though it were put off for a twelvemonth; be sure of

that. As to Mr. Selwyn, he was no relative of yours. Surely you have

waited long enough! Were I your promised wife, sir, I wouldn't have you

at all unless you married me to-morrow morning."

They both laughed a little. "Why should the parish fight at my marriage,

Miss Deveen?" he suddenly asked.

"Why?" she repeated; thinking how utterly void of conceit he was, how

unconscious he had been all along in his modesty. "Oh, people always

grumble at everything, you know. If you were to remain single, they

would say you ought to marry; and if you marry, they will think you

might as well have remained single. _Don't_ trouble your head about the

parish, and don't tell any one a syllable beforehand if you'd rather

not. _I_ shouldn't."

"You have been so very kind to me always, Miss Deveen, and I have felt

more grateful than I can say. I hope--I hope you will like my wife. I

hope you will allow me to bring her here, and introduce her to you."

"I like her already," said Miss Deveen. "As to your bringing her

here, if she lived near enough you should both come here to your

wedding-breakfast. What a probation it has been!"

The tears stood in his grey eyes. "Yes, it has been that; a trial hardly

to be imagined. I don't think we quite lost heart, either she or I. Not

that we have ever looked to so bright an ending as this; but we knew

that God saw all things, and we were content to leave ourselves in His

hands."

"I am sure that she is good and estimable! One to be loved."

"Indeed she is. Few are like her."

"Have you never met--all these fourteen years?"

"Yes; three or four times. When I have been able to take a holiday I

have gone down there to my old Rector; he was always glad to see me. It

has not been often, as you know," he added. "Mr. Selwyn could not spare

me."

"I know," said Miss Deveen. "He took all the holidays, and you all the

work."

"He and his family seemed to need them," spoke the clergyman from his

unselfish heart. "Latterly, when Emily and I have met, we have only

allowed it to be as strangers."

"Not quite as strangers, surely!"

"No, no; I used the word thoughtlessly. I ought to have said as

friends."

"Will you pardon me for the question I am about to ask you, and not

attribute it to impertinent curiosity?" resumed Miss Deveen. "How have

you found the money to furnish your house? Or are you doing it on

credit?"

His whole face lighted up with smiles. "The money is Emily's, dear Miss

Deveen. Her father, Edward Gibson, sent me his cheque for three hundred

pounds, saying it was all he should be able to do for her, but he hoped

it might be enough for the furniture."

Miss Deveen took his hands in hers as he rose to leave. "I wish you both

all the happiness that the world can give," she said, in her earnest

tones. "And I think--I feel sure--Heaven's blessing will rest upon you."

* * * * *

We turned out from the penny-reading like bees from a hive, openly

wondering what could have become of Mr. Lake. Mrs. Jonas hoped his head

was not splitting--she had seen him talking to Miss Cattledon long

enough in the afternoon in that hot King's Road to bring on a sunstroke.

Upon which Cattledon retorted that the ginger-cordial might have

disagreed with him. With the clearing up as to Emma Topcroft, these

slight amenities had recommenced.

Miss Deveen sat reading by lamp-light when we arrived home. Taking off

her spectacles, she began asking us about the penny-reading; but never

a hint gave she that she had had a visitor.

Close upon this Mr. Lake took a week's holiday, leaving that interesting

young deacon as his substitute, and a brother Rector to preach on the

Sunday morning. No one could divine what on earth he had gone out for,

as Mrs. Herriker put it, or what part of the world he had betaken

himself to. Miss Deveen kept counsel; Mrs. Topcroft and Emma never

opened their lips.

The frightful truth came out one morning, striking the parish all of a

heap. They read it in the _Times_, amongst the marriages. "The Reverend

William Lake, Rector of St. Matthew's, to Emily Mary, eldest daughter of

Edward Gibson, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons." Indignation set

in.

"I have heard of gay deceivers," gasped Miss Barlow, who was at the

least as old as Cattledon, and sat in the churchwarden's pew at church,

"but I never did hear of deceit such as this. And for a clergyman to be

guilty of it!"

"I'm glad I sent him a doll," giggled Daisy Dutton. "I dare say it is a

doll he has gone and married."

This was said in the porch, after morning prayers. Whilst they were all

at it, talking as fast as they could talk, Emma Topcroft chanced to

pass. They pounced upon her forthwith.

"Married! Oh yes, of course he is married; and they are coming home on

Saturday," said Emma, in response.

"Is she a doll?" cried Daisy.

"She is the nicest girl you ever saw," returned Emma; "though of course

not much of a girl now; and they have waited for one another fourteen

years."

Fourteen years! Thoughts went back, in mortification, to slippers and

cushions. Mrs. Jonas cast regrets to her ginger-cordial.

"Of course he has a right to be engaged--and to have slyly kept it to

himself, making believe he was a free man: but to go off surreptitiously

to his wedding without a word to any one!--I don't know what _he_ may

call it," panted Mrs. Herriker, in virtuous indignation, "_I_ call it

conduct unbefitting a gentleman. He could have done no less had he been

going to his hanging."

"He would have liked to speak, I think, but could not get up courage

for it; he is the shyest man possible," cried Emma. "But he did not go

off surreptitiously: some people knew of it. Miss Deveen knew--and Dr.

Galliard knew--and we knew--and I feel nearly sure Mr. Chisholm knew, he

simpered so the other day when he called for the books. I dare say

Johnny Ludlow knew."

All which was so much martyrdom to Jemima Cattledon, listening

with a face of vinegar. Miss Deveen!--and Johnny Ludlow!--and those

Topcrofts!--while _she_ had been kept in the dark! She jerked up her

skirts to cross the wet road, inwardly vowing never to put faith in

surpliced man again.

We went to church on Sunday morning to the sound of the ting-tang.

Mr. Lake, looking calm and cool as usual, was stepping into the

reading-desk: in the Rector's pew sat a quiet-looking and quietly

dressed young lady with what Miss Deveen called, then and afterwards,

a sweet face. Daisy Dutton took a violent fancy to her at first-sight:

truth to say, so did I.

Our parish--the small knot of week-day church-goers in it--could not

get over it at all. Moreover, just at this time they lost Mr. Chisholm,

whose year was up. Some of them "went over" to St. Jude's in a body;

that church having recently set up daily services, and a most desirable

new curate who could "intone." "As if we would attend that slow old St.

Matthew's now, to hear that slow old parson Lake!" cried Mrs. Herriker,

craning her neck disparagingly.

The disparagement did not affect William Lake. He proved as

indefatigable as Rector as he had been as curate, earning the golden

opinions he deserved. And he and his wife were happy.

But he would persist in declaring that all the good which had come to

him was owing to me; that but for my visit to London at that critical

time, Sir Robert Tenby would never have heard there was such a man as

himself in the world.

"It is true, Johnny," said Miss Deveen. "But you were only the humble

instrument in the hand of God."