'9. THE. UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 1468S-S 
 
George Eliot 
 
 Scenes of Clerical Life 
 
SCENES OF 
 CLERICAL LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOLUME ONE 
 
 WITH LIFE OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 By MATHILDE BLIND 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, •AND COMPANY 
 BOSTON 
 
Copyright^ i88jy 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 Copyright^ igoOy 
 By Little, Brown, &^ Co. 
 
^ CONTEITTS. 
 
 ^ Volume One. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton .... 1 
 
 Mr. Gilfil's Love-Story 78 
 
 J Janet's Repentance 207 
 
 % 
 
 ■m 
 
 i 
 o 
 
 3 
 
 i 
 
 f ;3?9400 
 4 
 
SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 THE SAD FORTUNES OF THE REVEREND 
 AMOS BARTON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Shepperton" Church, was a very different-looking building 
 five and twenty years ago. To be sure, its substantial stone 
 tower looks at you through its intelligent eye, the clock, with 
 the friendly expression of former days ; but in everything else 
 what changes ! Now there is a wide span of slated roof flank- 
 ing the old steeple; the windows are tall and symmetrical; 
 the outer doors are resplendent with oak-graining, the inner 
 doors reverentially noiseless with a garment of red baize ; and 
 the walls, you are convinced, no lichen will ever again effect 
 a settlement on — they are smooth and innutrient as the sum- 
 mit of the Rev. Amos Barton's head, after ten years of bald- 
 ness and supererogatory soap. Pass through the baize doors 
 and you will see the nave filled with well-shaped benches, un- 
 derstood to be free seats ; while in certain eligible corners, less 
 directly under the fire of the clergyman's eye, there are pews 
 reserved for the Shepperton gentility. Ample galleries are 
 supported on iron pillars, and in one of them stands the 
 crowning glory, the very clasp or aigrette of Shepperton 
 church-adornment — namely, an organ, not very much out of 
 repair, on which a collector of small rents, differentiated by 
 the force of circumstances into an organist, will accompany 
 the alacrity of your departure after the blessing by a sacred 
 minuet or an easy " Gloria." 
 
2 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Immense improvement! says the well-regulated mind, 
 which unintermittingly rejoices in the New Police, the Tithe 
 Commutation Act, the penny-post, and all guaranties of hu- 
 man advancement, and has no moments when conservative- 
 reforming intellect takes a nap, while imagination does a little 
 Toryism by the sly, revelling in regret that dear, old, brown, 
 crumbling, picturesque inefficiency is everywhere giving place 
 to spick-and-span new-painted, new-varnished efficiency, 
 which will yield endless diagrams, plans, elevations, and sec- 
 tions, but, alas ! no picture. Mine, I fear, is not a well-regu- 
 lated mind : it has an occasional tenderness for old abuses ; it 
 lingers with a certain fondness over the days of nasal clerks 
 and top-booted parsons, and has a sigh for the departed shades 
 of vulgar errors. So it is not surprising that I recall with a 
 fond sadness Shepperton Church as it was in the old days, 
 with its outer coat of rough stucco, its red-tiled roof, its hetero- 
 geneous windows patched with desultory bits of painted glass, 
 and its little flight of steps with their wooden rail running up 
 the outer wall, and leading to the school-children's gallery. 
 
 Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses ! which I began to 
 look at with delight, even when I was so crude a member of 
 the congregation, that my nurse found it necessary to provide 
 for the re-enforcement of my devotional patience by smug- 
 gling bread-and-butter into the sacred edifice. There was the 
 chancel, guarded by two little cherubim looking uncomfort- 
 ably squeezed between arch and wall, and adorned with the 
 escutcheons of the Oldinport family, which showed me inex- 
 haustilDle possibilities of meaning in their blood-red hands, 
 their death's-heads and cross-bones, their leopards' -paws, and 
 Maltese crosses. There were inscriptions on the panels of the 
 singing-gallery, telling of benefactions to the poor of Shepper- 
 ton, with an involuted elegance of capitals and final flourishes, 
 which my alphabetic erudition traced with ever-new delight. 
 No benches in those days; but huge roomy pews, round which 
 devout church-goers sat during lessons, " trying to look any- 
 where else than into each other's eyes. No low partitions 
 allowing you, with a dreary absence of contrast and mystery, 
 to see everything at all moments ; but tall dark panels, under 
 whose shadow I sank with a sense of retirement through the 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 3 
 
 Litany, only to feel with more intensity my burst into the 
 conspicuousness of public life when I was made to stand up 
 on the seat during the psalms or the singing. 
 
 And the singing was no mechanical affair of official routine ; 
 it had a drama. As the moment of psalmody approached, by 
 some process to me as mysterious and untraceable as the open- 
 ing of the flowers or the breaking-out of the stars, a slate ap- 
 peared in front of the gallery, advertising in bold characters 
 the psalm about to be sung, lest the sonorous announcement 
 of the clerk should still leave the bucolic mind in doubt on 
 that head. Then followed the migration of the clerk to the 
 gallery, where, in company with a bassoon, two key-bugles, 
 a carpenter understood to have an amazing power of singing 
 "counter,^' and two lesser musical stars, he formed the com- 
 plement of a choir regarded in Shepperton as one of distin- 
 guished attraction, occasionally known to draw hearers from 
 the next parish. The innovation of hymn-books was as yet 
 undreamed of; even the New Version was regarded with a 
 sort of melancholy tolerance, as part of the common degener- 
 acy in a time when prices had dwindled, and a cotton gown 
 was no longer stout enough to last a lifetime ; for the lyrical 
 taste of the best heads in Shepperton had been formed on 
 Sternhold and Hopkins. But the greatest triumphs of the 
 Shepperton choir were reserved for the Sundays when the slate 
 announced an Anthem, with a dignified abstinence from par- 
 ticularization, both words and music lying far beyond the 
 reach of the most ambitious amateur in the congregation : — an 
 anthem in which the key-bugles always ran away at a great 
 pace, while the bassoon every now and then boomed a flying 
 shot after them. 
 
 As for the clergyman, Mr. Gilfil, an excellent old gentle- 
 man, who smoked very long pipes and preached very short 
 sermons, I must not speak of him, or I might be tempted to 
 tell the story of his life, which had its little romance, as most 
 lives have between the ages of teetotum and tobacco. And at 
 present I am concerned with quite another sort of clergyman 
 — the Eev. Amos Barton, who did not come to Shepperton 
 until long after Mr. Gilfil had departed this life — until after 
 an interval in which Evangelicalism and the Catholic Ques' 
 
4 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 tion had begun to agitate the rustic mind with controversial 
 debates. A Popish blacksmith had produced a strong Prot- 
 estant reaction by declaring that, as soon as the Emancipation 
 Bill was passed, he should do a great stroke of business in 
 gridirons ; and the disinclination of the Shepperton parishion- 
 ers generally to dim the unique glory of St. Lawrence, ren- 
 dered the Church and Constitution an affair of their business 
 and bosoms. A zealous Evangelical preacher had made the 
 old sounding-board vibrate with quite a different sort of elocu- 
 tion from Mr. GilfiPs; the hymn-book had almost superseded 
 the Old and New Versions; and the great square pews were 
 crowded with new faces from distant corners of the parish — 
 perhaps from Dissenting chapels. 
 
 You are not imagining, I hope, that Amos Barton was the 
 incumbent of Shepperton. He was no such thing. Those 
 were days when a man could hold three small livings, starve 
 a curate apiece on two of them, and live badly himself on the 
 third. It was so with the Vicar of Shepperton; a vicar given 
 to bricks and mortar, and thereby running into debt far away 
 in a northern county — who executed his vicarial functions 
 toward Shepperton by pocketing the sum of thirty-five pounds 
 ten per annum, the net surplus remaining to him from the 
 proceeds of that living, after the disbursement of eighty 
 pounds as the annual stipend of his curate. And now, pray, 
 can you solve me the following problem? Given a man with 
 a wife and six children : let him be obliged always to exhibit 
 himself when outside his own door in a suit of black broad- 
 cloth, such as will not undermine the foundations of the Es- 
 tablishment by a paltry plebeian glossiness or an unseemly 
 'whiteness at the edges ; in a snowy cravat, which is a serious 
 Anvestment of labor in the hemming, starching, and ironing 
 departments; and in a hat which shows no symptom of taking 
 to the hideous doctrine of expediency, and shaping itself ac- 
 cording to circumstances; let him have a parish large enough 
 to create an external necessity for abundant shoe-leather, and 
 an internal necessity for abundant beef and mutton, as well 
 as poor enough to require frequent priestly consolation in the 
 shape of shillings and sixpences ; and, lastly, let him be com- 
 pelled, by his own pride and other people's, to dress his wife 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 5 
 
 and children with gentility from bonnet-strings to shoe-strings. 
 By what process of division can the sum of eighty pounds per 
 annum be made to yield a quotient which will cover that man's 
 weekly expenses? This was the problem presented by the 
 position of the Rev. Amos Barton, as curate of Shepperton, 
 rather more than twenty years ago. 
 
 What was thought of this problem, and of the man who had 
 to work it out, by some of the well-to-do inhabitants of Shep- 
 perton, two years or more after Mr. Barton's arrival among 
 them, you shall hear, if you will accompany me to Cross 
 Farm, and to the fireside of Mrs. Patten, a childless old lady, 
 who had got rich chiefly by the negative process of spending 
 nothing. Mrs. Patten's passive accumulation of wealth, 
 through all sorts of " bad times, " on the farm of which she 
 had been sole tenant since her husband's death, her epigram- 
 matic neighbor, Mrs. Hackit, sarcastically accounted for by 
 supposing that " sixpences grew on the bents of Cross Farm " ; 
 while Mr. Hackit, expressing his views more literally, re- 
 minded his wife that "money breeds money." Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hackit, from the neighboring farm, are Mrs. Patten's guests 
 this evening ) so is Mr. Pilgrim, the doctor from the nearest 
 market-town, who, though occasionally affecting aristocratic 
 airs, and giving late dinners with enigmatic side-dishes and 
 poisonous port, is never so comfortable as when he is relaxing 
 his professional legs in one of those excellent farmhouses 
 where the mice are sleek and the mistress sickly. And he 
 is at this moment in clover. 
 
 For the flickering of Mrs. Patten's bright fire is reflected in 
 her bright copper tea-kettle, the home-made muffins glisten 
 with an inviting succulence, and Mrs. Patten's niece, a single 
 lady of fifty, who has refused the most ineligible offers out of 
 devotion to her aged aunt, is pouring the rich cream into the 
 fragrant tea with a discreet liberality. 
 
 Reader ! did you ever taste such a cup of tea as Miss Gibbs 
 is this moment handing to Mr. Pilgrim? Do you know the 
 dulcet strength, the animating blandness of tea sufficiently 
 blended with real farmhouse cream? No — most likely you 
 are a miserable town-bred reader, who think of cream as a 
 thinnish white fluid, delivered in infinitesimal pennyworths 
 
6 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 down area steps ; or perhaps, from a presentiment of calves' 
 brains, you refrain from any lacteal addition, and rasp your 
 tongue with unmitigated bohea. You have a vague idea of 
 a milch cow as probably a white plaster animal standing in a 
 butterman's window, and you know nothing of the sweet his- 
 tory of genuine cream, such as Miss Gibbs's: how it was this 
 morning in the udders of the large sleek beasts, as they stood 
 lowing a patient entreaty under the milking-shed ; how it fell 
 with a pleasant rhythm into Betty's pail, sending a delicious 
 incense into the cool air; how it was carried into that temple 
 of moist cleanliness, the dairy, where it quietly separated it- 
 self from the meaner elements of milk, and lay in mellowed 
 whiteness, ready for the skimming-dish which transferred it 
 to Miss Gibbs's glass cream-jug. If I am right in my conject- 
 ure, you are unacquainted with the highest possibilities of 
 tea ; and Mr. Pilgrim, who is holding that cup in his hand, 
 has an idea beyond you. 
 
 Mrs. Hackit declines cream ; she has so long abstained from 
 it with an eye to the weekly butter-money, that abstinence, 
 wedded to habit, has begotten aversion. She is a thin woman 
 with a chronic liver-complaint, which would have secured her 
 Mr. Pilgrim's entire regard and unreserved good word, even 
 if he had not been in awe of her tongue, which was as sharp 
 as his own lancet. She has brought her knitting — no frivo- 
 lous fancy knitting, but a substantial woollen stocking; the 
 click-click of her knitting-needles is the running accompani- 
 ment to all her conversation, and in her utmost enjoyment of 
 spoiling a friend's self-satisfaction, she was never known to 
 spoil a stocking. 
 
 Mrs. Patten does not admire this excessive click-clicking 
 activity. Quiescence in an easy-chair, under the sense of 
 compound interest perpetually accumulating, has long seemed 
 an ample function to her, and she does her malevolence 
 gently. She is a pretty little old woman of eighty, with a 
 close cap and tiny flat white curls round her face, as natty and 
 unsoiled and invariable as the waxen image of a little old lady 
 under a glass-case; once a lady's-maid, and married for her 
 beauty. She used to adore her husband, and now she adores 
 her money, cherishing a quiet blood-relation's hatred for her 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 7 
 
 niece, Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, expects a large legacy, 
 and whom she is determined to disappoint. Her money shall 
 all go in a lump to a distant relation of her husband's, and 
 Janet shall be saved the trouble of pretending to cry, by find- 
 ing that she is left with a miserable pittance. 
 
 Mrs. Patten has more respect for her neighbor Mr. Hackit 
 than for most people. Mr. Hackit is a shrewd, substantial 
 man, whose advice about crops is always worth listening to, 
 and who is too well off to want to borrow money. 
 
 And now that we are snug and warm with this little tea- 
 party, while it is freezing with February bitterness outside, 
 we will listen to what they are talking about. 
 
 "So," said Mr. Pilgrim, with his mouth only half empty of 
 muffin, " you had a row in Shepperton Church last Sunday. I 
 was at Jem Hood's, the bassoon-man's, this morning, attend- 
 ing his wife, and he swears he'll be revenged on the parson — 
 a confounded, methodistical, meddlesome chap, who must be 
 putting his finger in every pie. What was it all about? " 
 
 *^0h, a passill o' nonsense," said Mr. Hackit, sticking one 
 thumb between the buttons of his capacious waistcoat and 
 retaining a pinch of snuff with the other — for he was but mod- 
 erately given to " the cups that cheer but not inebriate, " and 
 had already finished his tea ; " they began to sing the wedding 
 psalm for a new-married couple, as pretty a psalm an' as pretty 
 a tune as any in the prayer-book. It's been sung for every 
 new-married couple since I was a boy. And what can be bet- 
 ter?" Here Mr. Hackit stretched out his left arm, threw 
 back his head, and broke into melody : 
 
 " 'Oh, what a happy thing it is, 
 And joyful for to see, 
 Brethren to dwell together in 
 Friendship and unity. ' 
 
 But Mr. Barton is all for the hymns, and a sort o' music as I 
 can't join in at all." 
 
 "And so," said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from 
 lyrical reminiscences to narrative, " he called out Silence ! did 
 he? when he got into the pulpit; and gave a hymn out him- 
 self to some meeting-house tune? " 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Hackit, stooping toward the candle to 
 
8 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 pick up a stitch, ^' and turned as red as a turkey-cock. I often 
 say, when he preaches about meekness, he gives himself a 
 slap in the face. He's like me — he's got a temper of his 
 own." 
 
 "Kather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton," said Mr. Pil- 
 grim, who hated the Eev. Amos for two reasons — because he 
 had called in a new doctor, recently settled in Shepperton; 
 and because, being himself a dabbler in drugs, he had the 
 credit of having cured a patient of Mr. Pilgrim's. "They 
 say his father was a Dissenting shoemaker; and he's half a 
 Dissenter himself. Why, doesn't he preach extempore in 
 that cottage up here, of a Sunday evening?" 
 
 "Tchuh!" — this was Mr. Hackit's favorite interjection — 
 "that preaching without book's no good, only when a man 
 has a gift, and has the Bible at his fingers' ends. It was all 
 very well for Parry — he'd a gift; and in my youth I've heard 
 the Eanters out o' doors in Yorkshire go on for an hour or 
 two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute. There was 
 one clever chap, I remember, as used to say : ' You're like the 
 wood-pigeon ; it says do, do, do all day, and never sets about 
 any work itself.' That's bringing it home to people. But 
 our parson's no gift at all that way; he can preach as good a 
 sermon as need be heard when he writes it down. But when 
 he tries to preach wi'out book, he rambles about, and doesn't 
 stick to his text; and every now and then he flounders about 
 like a sheep as has cast itself, and can't get on its legs again. 
 You wouldn't like that, Mrs. Patten, if you was to go to 
 church now? " 
 
 "Eh, dear," said Mrs. Patten, falling back in her chair, 
 and lifting up her little withered hands, "what 'ud Mr. Gilfil 
 say, if he was worthy to know the changes as have come about 
 i' the church these last ten years? I don't understand these 
 new sort o' doctrines. When Mr. Barton comes to see me, he 
 talks about nothing but my sins and my need o' marcy. Now, 
 Mr. Hackit, I've never been a sinner. From the fust begin- 
 ning, when I went into service, I al'ys did my duty by my 
 emplyers. I was a good wife as any in the county — never 
 aggravated my husband. The cheese-factor used to say my 
 cheese was al'ys to be depended on. I've known women, as 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 9 
 
 their cheeses swelled a shame to be seen, when their husbands 
 had counted on the cheese-money to make up their rent ; and 
 yet they'd three gowns to my one. If I'm not to be saved, 
 I know a many as are in a bad way. But it's well for me as 
 I can't go to church any longer, for if th' old singers are to 
 be done away with, there'll be nothing left as it was in Mr. 
 Patten's time; and what's more, I hear you've settled to pull 
 the church down and build it up new? " 
 
 Now the fact was that the Eev. Amos Barton, on his last 
 visit to Mrs. Patten, had urged her to enlarge her promised 
 subscription of twenty pounds, representing to her that she 
 was only a steward of her riches, and that she could not spend 
 them more for the glory of God than by giving a heavy sub- 
 scription toward the rebuilding of Shepperton Church — a 
 practical precept which was not likely to smooth the way to 
 her acceptance of his theological doctrine. Mr. Hackit, who 
 had more doctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been 
 a little shocked by the heathenism of her speech, and was glad 
 of the new turn given to the subject by this question, ad- 
 dressed to him as church-warden and an authority in all 
 parochial matters. 
 
 "Ah," he answered, "the parson's bothered us into it at 
 last, and we're to begin pulling down this spring. But we 
 haven't got money enough yet. I was for waiting till we'd 
 made up the sum, and, for my part, I think the congregation's 
 fell off o' late; though Mr. Barton says that's because there's 
 been no room for the people when they've come. You see, 
 the congregation got so large in Parry's time, the people stood 
 in the aisles; but there's never any crowd now, as I can 
 see." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Hackit, whose good nature began to act 
 now that it was a little in contradiction with the dominant 
 tone of the conversation, "I like Mr. Barton. I think he's 
 a good sort o' man, for'all he's not overburthen'd i' th' upper 
 storey; and his wife's as nice a lady -like woman as I'd wish 
 to see. How nice she keeps her children ! and little enough 
 money to do't with; and a delicate creatur' — six children, and 
 another a-coming. I don't know how they make both ends 
 meet, I'm sure, now her aunt has left 'em. But I sent 'em 
 
10 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 a cheese and a sack o' potatoes last week; that's something 
 toward filling the little mouths." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Hackit, " and my wife makes Mr. Barton 
 a good stiff glass o' brandy-and-water, when he comes in to 
 supper after his cottage preaching. The parson likes it; it 
 puts a bit o' color into his face, and makes him look a deal 
 handsomer.'' 
 
 This allusion to brandy-and-water suggested to Miss Gibbs 
 the introduction of the liquor decanters, now that the tea was 
 cleared away ; for in bucolic society five and twenty years ago, 
 the human animal of the male sex was understood to be per- 
 petually athirst, and " something to drink " was as necessary 
 a " condition of thought " as Time and Space. 
 
 ^'Now, that cottage preaching," said Mr. Pilgrim, mixing 
 himself a strong glass of '^cold without," " I was talking about 
 it to our Parson Ely the other day, and he doesn't approve of 
 it at all. He said it did as much harm as good to give a too 
 familiar aspect to religious teaching. That was what Ely said 
 — it does as much harm as good to give a too familiar aspect 
 to religious teaching." 
 
 Mr. Pilgrim generally spoke with an intermittent kind of 
 splutter ; indeed, one of his patients had observed that it was 
 a pity such a clever man had a 'pediment " in his speech. 
 But when he came to what he conceived the pith of his argu- 
 ment or the point of his joke, he mouthed out his words with 
 slow emphasis ; as a hen, when advertising her accouchement, 
 passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to 
 fortissimo crotchets. He thought this speech of Mr. Ely's 
 particularly metaphysical and profound, and the more decisive 
 of the question because it was a generality which represented 
 no particulars to his mind. 
 
 "Well, I don't know about that," said Mrs. Hackit, who 
 had always the courage of her opinion, " but I know, some of 
 our laborers and stock ingers as used never to come to church, 
 come to the cottage, and that's better than never hearing any- 
 thing good from week's end to week's end. And there's that 
 Track Society as Mr. Barton has begun — I've seen more o' the 
 poor people with going tracking, than all the time I've lived 
 in the parish before. And there' d need be something done 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 11 
 
 among 'em ; for the drinking at them Benefit Clubs is shame- 
 ful. There's hardly a steady man, or steady woman either, 
 but what's a Dissenter.'' 
 
 During this speech of Mrs. Hackit's, Mr. Pilgrim had emit- 
 ted a succession of little snorts, something like the treble 
 grunts of a guinea-pig, which were always with him the sign 
 of suppressed disapproval. But he never contradicted Mrs. 
 Hackit — a woman whose pot-luck " was always to be relied 
 on, and who on her side had unlimited reliance on bleeding, 
 blistering, and draughts. 
 
 Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation, and had 
 no reasons for suppressing it. 
 
 ^^Well," she remarked, "I've heared of no good from in- 
 terfering with one's neighbors, poor or rich. And I hate the 
 sight o' women going about trapesing from house to house in 
 all weathers, wet or dry, and coming in with their petticoats 
 dagged and their shoes all over mud. Janet wanted to join 
 in the tracking, but I told her I'd have nobody tracking out 
 o' my house; when I'm gone, she may do as she likes. I 
 never dagged my petticoats in my life, and I've no opinion 
 o' that sort o' religion." 
 
 '^No," said Mr. Hackit, who was fond of soothing the acer- 
 bities of the feminine mind with a jocose compliment, " you 
 held your petticoats so high, to show your tight ankles: it 
 isn't everybody as likes to show her ankles." 
 
 This joke met with general acceptance, even from the 
 snubbed Janet, whose ankles were only tight in the sense of 
 looking extremely squeezed by her boots. But Janet seemed 
 always to identify herself with her aunt's personality, holding 
 her own under protest. 
 
 Under cover of the general laughter the gentlemen replen- 
 ished their glasses, Mr. Pilgrim attempting to give his the 
 character of a stirrup-cup by observing that he "must be 
 going." Miss Gibbs seized this opportunity of telling Mrs. 
 Hackit that she suspected Betty, the dairymaid, of frying the 
 best bacon for the shepherd, when he sat up with her to " help 
 brew " ; whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that she had always 
 thought Betty false; and Mrs. Patten said there was no bacon 
 stolen when she was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who often 
 
12 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 complained that lie " never saw the like to women with their 
 maids — he never had any trouble with his men, " avoided lis- 
 tening to this discussion, by raising the question of vetches 
 with Mr. Pilgrim. The stream of conversation had thus di- 
 verged ; and no more was said about the Eev. Amos Barton, 
 who is the main object of interest to us just now. So we may 
 leave Cross Farm without waiting till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely 
 donning her clogs and wrappings, renders it incumbent on 
 Mr. Pilgrim also to fulfil his frequent threat of going. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was happy for the Eev. Amos Barton that he did not, 
 like us, overhear the conversation recorded in the last chapter. 
 Indeed, what mortal is there of us, who would find his satis- 
 faction enhanced by an opportunity of comparing the picture 
 he presents to himself of his own doings, with the picture 
 they make on the mental retina of his neighbors? We are 
 poor plants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own conceit : 
 alas for us, if we get a few pinches that empty us of that 
 windy self -subsistence ! The very capacity for good would go 
 out of us. For, tell the most impassioned orator, suddenly, 
 that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and that he 
 is tickling people by the oddity of his person, instead of thrill- 
 ing them by the energy of his periods, and you would infal- 
 libly dry up the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep and 
 wide saying, that no miracle can be wrought without faith — 
 without the worker's faith in himself, as well as the recipi- 
 ent's faith in him. And the greater part of the worker's 
 faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believe 
 in him. 
 
 Let me be persuaded that my neighbor Jenkins considers 
 me a blockhead, and I shall never shine in conversation with 
 him any more. Let me discover that the lovely Phoebe thinks 
 my squint intolerable, and I shall never be able to fix her 
 blandly with my disengaged eye again. 
 
 Thank heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 13 
 
 enable us to be useful and agreeable — that we don't know ex- 
 actly what our friends think of us — that the world is not made 
 of looking-glass, to show us just the figure we are making, and 
 just what is going on behind our backs ! By the help of dear 
 friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charming — 
 and our faces wear a becoming air of self-possession ; we are 
 able to dream that other men admire our talents — and our be- 
 nignity is undisturbed ; we are able to dream that we are doing 
 much good — and we do a little. 
 
 Thus it was with Amos Barton on that very Thursday even- 
 ing when he was the subject of the conversation at Cross 
 Farm. He had been dining at Mr. Farquhar^s, the secondary 
 squire of the parish, and, stimulated by unwonted gravies 
 and port-wine, had been delivering his opinion on affairs paro- 
 chial and extra-parochial with considerable animation. And 
 he was now returning home in the moonlight — a little chill, 
 it is true, for he had just now no greatcoat compatible with 
 clerical dignity, and a fur boa round one's neck, with a wa- 
 terproof cape over one's shoulders, doesn't frighten away the 
 cold from one's legs; but entirely unsuspicious, not only of 
 Mr. Hackit's estimate of his oratorical powers, but also of the 
 critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar as 
 soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him. Miss 
 Julia had observed that she never heard any one sniff so 
 frightfully as Mr. Barton did — she had a great mind to offer 
 him her pocket-handkerchief ; and Miss Arabella wondered why 
 he always said he was going for to do a thing. He, excellent 
 man ! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions on the morrow ; 
 he would set on foot his lending library; in which he had in- 
 troduced some books that would be a pretty sharp blow to 
 the Dissenters — one especially, purporting to be written by a 
 working man, who, out of pure zeal for the welfare of his 
 class, took the trouble to warn them in this way against those 
 hypocritical thieves, the Dissenting preachers. The Eev. 
 Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence of that 
 working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent, 
 he considered, would have its head bruised in Shepperton, for 
 did he not attack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church 
 doctrine — as evangelical as anything to be heard in the Inde- 
 
14 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 pendent Chapel; and he made a High-Churcli assertion of 
 ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenters 
 would feel that " the parson was too many for them. Noth- 
 ing like a man who combines shrewdness with energy. The 
 wisdom of the serpent, Mr. Barton considered, was one of his 
 strong points. 
 
 Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard! 
 The silver light that falls aslant on church and tomb enables 
 you to see his slim black figure, made all the slimmer by 
 tight pantaloons, as it flits past the pale gravestones. He 
 walks with a quick step, and is now rapping with sharp de- 
 cision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by 
 the nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once — that is to say, 
 by the robust maid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton 
 hangs up his hat in the passage, you see that a narrow face 
 of no particular complexion — even the small-pox that has at- 
 tacked it seems to have been of a mongrel, indefinite kind — 
 with features of no particular shape, and an eye of no partic- 
 ular expression, is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently 
 rising from brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be 
 about forty. The house is quiet, for it is half -past ten, and 
 the children have long been gone to bed. He opens the sit- 
 ting-room door, but instead of seeing his wife, as he expected, 
 stitching with the nimblest of fingers by the light of one can- 
 dle, he finds her dispensing with the light of a candle alto- 
 gether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red firelight, 
 holding in her arms little Walter, the year-old baby, who 
 looks over her shoulder with large wide-open eyes, while the 
 patient mother pats his back with her soft hand, and glances 
 with a sigh at the heap of large and small stockings lying un- 
 mended on the table. 
 
 She was a lovely woman — Mrs. Amos Barton ; a large, fair, 
 gentle Madonna, with thick, close, chestnut curls beside her 
 well-rounded cheeks, and with large, tender, short-sighted 
 eyes. The flowing lines of her tall figure made the limpest 
 dress look graceful, and her old frayed black silk seemed to 
 repose on her bust and limbs with a placid elegance and sense 
 of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of 
 being no fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling of 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 16 
 
 Mrs. Farquhar's gros de Naples, The caps she wore would 
 have been pronounced, when off her head, utterly heavy and 
 hideous — for in those days even fashionable caps were large 
 and floppy ; but surmounting her long arched neck, and min- 
 gling their borders of cheap lace and ribbon with her chestnut 
 curls, they seemed miracles of successful millinery. Among 
 strangers she was shy and tremulous as a girl of fifteen ; she 
 blushed crimson if any one appealed to her opinion ; yet that 
 tall, graceful, substantial presence was so imposing in its 
 mildness, that men spoke to her with an agreeable sensation 
 of timidity. 
 
 Soothing, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood! which 
 supersedes all acquisitions, all accomplishments. You would 
 never have asked, at any period of Mrs. Amos Barton's life, 
 if she sketched or played the piano. You would even perhaps 
 have been rather scandalized if she had descended from the 
 serene dignity of being to the assiduous unrest of doing, 
 Happy the man, you would have thought, whose eye will rest 
 on her in the pauses of his fireside reading — whose hot aching 
 forehead will be soothed by the contact of her cool soft hand — 
 who will recover himself from dejection at his mistakes and 
 failures in the loving light of her unreproaching eyes ! You 
 would not, perhaps, have anticipated that this bliss would fall 
 to the share of precisely such a man as Amos Barton, whom 
 you have already surmised not to have the refined sensibilities 
 for which you might have imagined Mrs. Barton's qualities to 
 be destined by pre-established harmony. But I, for one, do 
 not grudge Amos Barton this sweet wife. I have all my life 
 had a sympathy for mongrel ungainly dogs, who are nobody's 
 pets ; and I would rather surprise one of them by a pat and a 
 pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of the 
 loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady' s chair. 
 That, to be sure, is not the way of the world : if it happens 
 to see a fellow of fine proportions and aristocratic mien, who 
 makes no fauxpasy and wins golden opinions from all sorts of 
 men, it straightway picks out for him the loveliest of unmar- 
 ried women, and says, There would be a proper match ! Not 
 at all, say I: let that successful, well-shapen, discreet, and 
 able gentleman put up with something less than the best in 
 
16 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 the matrimonial department ; and let the sweet woman go to 
 make sunshine and a soft pillow for the poor devil whose legs 
 are not models, whose efforts are often blunders, and who in 
 general gets more kicks than halfpence. She — the sweet wom- 
 an — will like it as well; for her sublime capacity of loving 
 will have all the more scope ; and I venture to say, Mrs. Bar- 
 ton's nature would never have grown half so angelic if she 
 had married the man you would perhaps have had in your eye 
 for her — a man with sufficient income and abundant personal 
 eclat. Besides, Amos was an affectionate husband, and, in 
 his way, valued his wife as his best treasure. 
 
 But now he has shut the door behind him, and said : " Well, 
 Milly!" 
 
 " Well, dear ! " was the corresponding greeting, made elo- 
 quent by a smile. 
 
 "So that young rascal won't go to sleep! Can't you give 
 him to Nanny? " 
 
 "Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but 
 I think I'll take him to her now." And Mrs. Barton glided 
 toward the kitchen, while her husband ran upstairs to put 
 on his maize-colored dressing-gown, in which costume he was 
 quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned to the 
 sitting-room. Maize is a color that decidedly did not suit 
 his complexion, and it is one that soon soils ; why, then, did 
 Mr. Barton select it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he 
 had a knack of hitting on the wrong thing in garb as well as 
 in grammar. 
 
 Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself 
 before her heap of stockings. She had something disagree- 
 able to tell her husband, but she would not enter on it at 
 once. 
 
 " Have you had a nice evening, dear? " 
 
 "Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went 
 away rather early. Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him 
 with a vengeance. But I don't think he' s much smitten. I've 
 a notion Ely's engaged to some one at a distance, and will 
 astonish all the ladies who are languishing for him here, by 
 bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely's a sly dogj 
 he'll like that." 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 17 
 
 " Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last 
 Sunday 
 
 "Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was 
 some improvement in the choir. But he was rather scandal- 
 ized at my setting the tune of ' Lydia.' He says he's always 
 hearing it as he passes the Independent meeting. '' Here Mr. 
 Barton laughed — he had a way of laughing at criticisms that 
 other people thought damaging — and thereby showed the re- 
 mainder of a set of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old 
 Guard, were few in number, and very much the worse for 
 wear. "But,'' he continued, "Mrs. Farquhar talked the 
 most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She has taken 
 up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to her 
 opinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought." 
 
 "Dear me! why will people take so much pains to find out 
 evil about others? I have had a note from the Countess since 
 you went, asking us to dine with them on Friday." 
 
 Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, 
 and gave it to her husband. We will look over his shoulder 
 while he reads it : 
 
 Sweetest Milly : — Bring your lovely face with your husband to dine 
 with us on Friday at seven — do. If not, I will be sulky with you till 
 Sunday, when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you 
 that very moment. Yours, according to your answer, 
 
 Caroline Czerlaski. 
 
 " Just like her, isn't it? " said Mrs. Barton. " I suppose 
 we can go? " 
 
 " Yes ; I have no engagement. The Clerical Meeting is to- 
 morrow, you know." 
 
 " And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have 
 some money next week. He has a payment to make up." 
 
 This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He 
 puffed more rapidly, and looked at the fire. 
 
 " I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for 
 it is nearly two months till Lady-day, and we can't give 
 Woods our last shilling." 
 
 " I hardly like you to ask Mr. Hackit, dear — he and Mrs. 
 Hackit have been so very kind to us j they have sent us so 
 many things lately," 
 
18 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 " Then I must ask Oldinport. I'm going to write to him 
 to-morrow morning, for to tell him the arrangement I've been 
 thinking of about having service in the workhouse while the 
 church is being enlarged. If he agrees to attend service there 
 once or twice, the other people will come. Net the large fish, 
 and you're sure to have the small fry." 
 
 " I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I 
 don't see how we can. Poor Fred must have some new shoes ; 
 I couldn't let him go to Mrs. Bond's yesterday because his 
 toes were peeping out, dear child! and I can't let him walk 
 any where except in the garden. He must have a pair before 
 Sunday. Eeally, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of 
 my life. Everything else one can turn and turn about, and 
 make old look like new; but there's no coaxing boots and 
 shoes to look better than they are." 
 
 Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in meta- 
 morphosing boots and shoes. She had at that moment on her 
 feet a pair of slippers which had long ago lived through the 
 prunella phase of their existence, and were now running a 
 respectable career as black silk slippers, having been neatly 
 covered with that material by Mrs. Barton's own neat fingers. 
 Wonderful fingers those! they were never empty; for if she 
 went to spend a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out 
 came her thimble and a piece of calico or muslin, which before 
 she left had become a mysterious little garment with all 
 sorts of hemmed ins and outs. She was even trying to per- 
 suade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he 
 would wear the ordinary gun-cases she knew she could make 
 them so well that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor. 
 
 But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the 
 candle begins to burn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to see if 
 Nanny has succeeded in lulling Walter to sleep. Nanny is 
 that moment putting him in the little cot by his mother's 
 bedside ; the head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair, in- 
 dents the little pillow ; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides 
 the rosy lips, for baby is given to the infantine peccadillo of 
 thumb-sucking. 
 
 So Nanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and 
 all could go to bed. 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 19 
 
 Mrs. Barton carried upstairs the remainder of her heap of 
 stockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where 
 also she placed a warm shawl, removing her candle, before 
 she put it out, to a tin socket lixed at the head of her bed. 
 Her body was very weary, but her heart was not heavy, in 
 spite of Mr. Woods the butcher, and the transitory nature of 
 shoe-leather; for her heart so overflowed with love, she felt 
 sure she was near a fountain of love that would care for hus- 
 band and babes better than she could foresee ; so she was soon 
 asleep. But about half -past five o'clock in the morning, if 
 there were any angels watching round her bed — and angeis 
 might be glad of such an office — they saw Mrs. Barton rise up 
 quietly, careful not to disturb the slumbering Amos, who was 
 snoring the snore of the just, light her candle, prop herself 
 upright with the pillows, throw the warm shawl round her 
 shoulders, and renew her attack on the heap of undarned 
 stockings. She darned away until she heard Nanny stirring, 
 and then drowsiness came with the dawn; the candle was 
 put out, and she sank into a doze. But at nine o'clock she 
 was at the breakfast-table, busy cutting bread-and-butter for 
 five hungry mouths, while Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy 
 cheeks, fat neck, ard night-gown, brought in a jug of hot 
 milk and water, is" aarest her mother sits the nine-year-old 
 Patty, the eldest ct Id, whose sweet fair face is already rather 
 grave sometimes, and who always wants to run upstairs to 
 save mamma's legs, which get so tired of an evening. Then 
 there are four other blond heads — two boys and two girls, 
 gradually decreasing in size down to Chubby, who is making 
 a round O of her mouth to receive a bit of papa's "baton." 
 Papa's attention was divided between petting Chubby, rebuk- 
 ing the noisy Fred, which he did with a somewhat excessive 
 sharpness, and eating his own breakfast. He had not yet 
 looked at Mamma, and did not know that her cheek was paler 
 than usual. But Patty whispered: "Mamma, have you the 
 headache? " 
 
 Happily coal \\ as cheap in the neighborhood of Shepper- 
 ton, and Mr. Ha<^kit would any time let his horses draw a 
 load for "the parson" without charge; so there was a blazing 
 fire in the sittir g-room, and not without need, for the vi- 
 
20 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 carage garden, as they looked out on it from the bow-window, 
 was hard with black frost, and the sky had the white woolly 
 look that portends snow. 
 
 Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and oc- 
 cupied himself in the first place with his letter to Mr. Oldin- 
 port. It was very much the same sort of letter as most clergy- 
 men would have written under the same circumstances, except 
 that instead of perambulate, the Eev. Amos wrote preambu- 
 late, and instead of " if haply, if happily, the contingency 
 indicated being the reverse of happy. Mr. Barton had not 
 the gift of perfect accuracy in English orthography and syn- 
 tax, which was unfortunate, as he was known not to be a 
 Hebrew scholar, and not in the least suspected of being an 
 accomplished Grecian. These lapses, in a man who had gone 
 through the Eleusinian mysteries of a university education, 
 surprised the young ladies of his parish extremely ; especially 
 the Misses Earquhar, whom he had once addressed in a letter 
 as Dear Mads., apparently an abbreviat?.on for Madams. The 
 persons least surprised at the Kev. Amos' s deficiencies were 
 his clerical brethren, who had gone through the mysteries 
 themselves. 
 
 At eleven o'clock, Mr. Barton walked forth in cape and 
 boa, with the sleet driving in his face, to read prayers at the 
 work-house, euphuistically called the " College." The College 
 was a huge square stone building, standirg on the best apol- 
 ogy for an elevation of ground that could be seen for about 
 ten miles round Shepperton. A flat ugly district this; de- 
 pressing enough to look at even on the brightest days. The 
 roads are black with coal-dust, the brick ' houses dingy with 
 smoke; and at that time — the time of hr>ndloom weavers — 
 every other cottage had a loom at its window, where you 
 might see a pale, sickly looking man or woman pressing a 
 narrow chest against a board, and doing a sort of treadmill 
 work with legs and arms. A troublesome district for a cler- 
 gyman; at least to one who, like Amos Barton, understood 
 the "cure of souls" in something more than an official sense; 
 for over and above the rustic stupidity furni shed by the farm- 
 laborers, the miners brought obstreperous animalism, and the 
 weavers an acrid Radicalism and Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. 
 
 i 
 
AMOS BAETON. 
 
 21 
 
 Hackit often observed that the colliers, who many of them 
 earned better wages than Mr. Barton, passed their time in 
 doing nothing but swilling ale and smoking, like the beasts 
 that perish " (speaking, we may presume, in a remotely ana- 
 logical sense) ; and in some of the ale-house corners the drink 
 was flavored by a dingy kind of infidelity, something like 
 rinsings of Tom Paine in ditch-water. A certain amount of 
 religious excitement created by the popular preaching of Mr. 
 Parry, Amos^s predecessor, had nearly died out, and the relig- 
 ious life of Shepperton was falling back toward low-water 
 mark. Here, you perceive, was a terrible stronghold of Sa- 
 tan; and you may well pity the Eev. Amos Barton, who had 
 to stand single-handed and summon it to surrender. We 
 read, indeed, that the walls of Jericho fell down before the 
 sound of trumpets ; but we nowhere hear that those trumpets 
 were hoarse and feeble. Doubtless they were trumpets that 
 gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty vibration 
 through brick and mortar. But the oratory of the Eev. Amos 
 resembled rather a Belgian railway-horn, which shows praise- 
 worthy intentions inadequately fulfilled. He often missed the 
 right note both in public and private exhortation, and got 
 a little angry in consequence. For though Amos thought 
 himself strong, he did not feel himself strong. Nature had 
 given him the opinion, but not the sensation. Without that 
 opinion he would probably never have worn cambric bands, 
 but would have been an excellent cabinet-maker and deacon 
 of an Independent church, as his father was before him (he 
 was not a shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). He 
 might then have sniffed long and loud in the corner of his 
 pew, in Gun Street Chapel; he might have indulged in halt- 
 ing rhetoric at prayer-meetings, and have spoken faulty Eng- 
 lish in private life; and these little infirmities would not have 
 prevented him, honest faithful man that he was, from being 
 a shining light in the Dissenting circle of Bridgeport. A tal- 
 low dip, of the long-eight description, is an excellent thing in 
 the kitchen candlestick, and Betty's nose and eye are not sen- 
 sitive to the difference between it and the finest wax ; it is 
 only when you stick it in the silver candlestick, and introduce 
 It into the drawing-room, that it seems plebeian, dim, and in- 
 
22 
 
 SCENES OF CLEKICAL LIFE. 
 
 effectual. Alas for the worthy man who, like that candle, gets 
 himself into the wrong place! It is only the very largest 
 souls who will be able to appreciate and pity him — who will 
 discern and love sincerity of purpose amid all the bungling 
 feebleness of achievement. 
 
 But now Amos Barton has made his way through the sleet 
 as far as the College, has thrown off his hat, cape, and boa, 
 and is reading, in the dreary stone-floored dining-room, a por- 
 tion of the morning service to the inmates seated on the 
 benches before him. Remember, the New Poor-law had not 
 yet come into operation, and Mr. Barton was not acting as 
 paid chaplain of the Union, but as the pastor who had the 
 cure of all souls in his parish, pauper, as well as other. After 
 the prayers he always addressed to them a short discourse on 
 some subject suggested by the lesson for the day, striving if 
 by this means some edifying matter might find its way into 
 the pauper mind and conscience — perhaps a task as trying as 
 you could well imagine to the faith and patience of any honest 
 clergyman. For, on the very first bench, these were the faces 
 on which his eye had to rest, watching whether there was any 
 stirring under the stagnant surface. 
 
 Eight in front of him — probably because he was stone-deaf, 
 and it was deemed more edifying to hear nothing at a short 
 distance than at a long one — sat " Old Maxum, as he was 
 familiarly called, his real patronymic remaining a mystery to 
 most persons. A fine philological sense discerns in this cog- 
 nomen an indication that the pauper patriarch had once been 
 considered pithy and sententious in his speech ; but now the 
 weight of ninety-five years lay heavy on his tongue as well as 
 on his ears, and he sat before the clergyman with protruded 
 chin, and munching mouth, and eyes that seemed to look at 
 emptiness. 
 
 Next to him sat Poll Podge — known to the magistracy of 
 her county as Mary Higgins — a one-eyed woman, with a 
 scarred and seamy face, the most notorious rebel in the work- 
 house, said to have once thrown her broth over the master's 
 coat-tails, and who, in spite of nature's apparent safeguards 
 against that contingency, had contributed to the perpetuation 
 of the Podge characteristics in the person of a small boy, who 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 23 
 
 was behaving naughtily on one of the back benches. Miss 
 Fodge fixed her one sore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort of 
 hardy defiance. 
 
 Beyond this member of the softer sex, at the end of the 
 bench, sat Silly Jim/' a young man afflicted with hydro- 
 cephalus, who rolled his head from side to side, and gazed at 
 the point of his nose. These were the supporters of Old 
 Maxum on his right. 
 
 On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall fellow, who had once 
 been a footman in the Oldinport family, and in that giddy 
 elevation had enunciated a contemptuous opinion of boiled 
 beef, which had been traditionally handed down in Shepper- 
 ton as the direct cause of his ultimate reduction to pauper 
 commons. His calves were now shrunken, and his hair was 
 gray without the aid of powder ; but he still carried his chin 
 as if he were conscious of a stiff cravat ; he set his dilapidated 
 hat on with a knowing inclination toward the left ear ; and 
 when he was on field-work, he carted and uncarted the manure 
 with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost of that jaunty demeanor 
 with which he used to usher in my lady's morning visitors. 
 The flunkey nature was nowhere completely subdued but in 
 his stomach, and he still divided society into gentry, gentry's 
 flunkeys, and the people who provided for them. A clergy- 
 man without a flunkey was an anomaly, belonging to neither 
 of these classes. Mr. Fitchett had an irrepressible tendency 
 to drowsiness under spiritual instruction, and in the recurrent 
 regularity with which he dozed off until he nodded and 
 awaked himself, he looked not unlike a piece of mechanism, 
 ingeniously contrived for measuring the length of Mr. Bar- 
 ton's discourse. 
 
 Perfectly wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand 
 aeighbor, Mrs. Brick, one of those hard undying old women, 
 to whom age seems to have given a network of wrinkles, as 
 a coat of magic armor against the attacks of winters, warm or 
 cold. The point on which Mrs. Brick was still sensitive — the 
 theme on which you might possibly excite her hope and fear 
 ■ — was snuff. It seemed to be an embalming powder, helping 
 her soul to do the office of salt. 
 
 And now, eke out an audience of which this front benchful 
 
24 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 was a sample, with a certain number of refractory children, 
 over whom Mr. Spratt, the master of the workhouse, exercised 
 an irate surveillance, and I think you will admit that the uni- 
 versity-taught clergyman, whose office it is to bring home the 
 gospel to a handful of such souls, has a sufficiently hard 
 task. For, to have any chance of success, short of miraculous 
 intervention, he must bring his geographical, chronological, 
 exegetical mind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or 
 of no view ; he must have some approximate conception of the 
 mode in which the doctrines that have so much vitality in the 
 plenum of his own brain will comport themselves in vacuo — 
 that is to say, in a brain that is neither geographical, chrono- 
 logical, nor exegetical. It is a flexible imagination that can 
 take such a leap as that, and an adroit tongue that can adapt 
 its speech to so unfamiliar a position. The Rev. Amos Barton 
 had neither that flexible imagination, nor that adroit tongue. 
 He talked of Israel and its sins, of chosen vessels, of the 
 Paschal Iamb, of blood as a medium of reconciliation ; and he 
 strove in this way to convey religious truth within reach of 
 the Fodge and Fitchett mind. This very morning, the first 
 lesson was the twelfth chapter of Exodus, and Mr. Barton's 
 exposition turned on unleavened bread. Nothing in the world 
 more suited to the simple understanding than instruction 
 through familiar types and symbols ! But there is always this 
 danger attending it, that the interest or comprehension of 
 your hearers may stop short precisely at the point where your 
 spiritual interpretation begins. And Mr. Barton this morning 
 succeeded in carrying the pauper imagination to the dough- 
 tub, but unfortunately was not able to carry it upward from 
 that well-known object to the unknown truths which it was 
 intended to shadow forth. 
 
 Alas! a natural incapacity for teaching, finished by keep- 
 ing " terms at Cambridge, where there are able mathemati- 
 cians, and butter is sold by the yard, is not apparently the 
 medium through which Christian doctrine will distil as wel- 
 come dew on withered souls. 
 
 And so, while the sleet outside was burning to unquestion- 
 able snow, and the stony dining-room looked darker and drear- 
 ier, and Mr. Fitchett was nodding his lowest, and Mr. Spratt 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 25 
 
 was boxing the boys' ears with a constant rinforzando, as he 
 felt more keenly the approach of dinner-time, Mr. Barton 
 wound up his exhortation with something of the February 
 chill at his heart as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett, thoroughly 
 roused now the instruction was at an end, obsequiously and 
 gracefully advanced to help Mr. Barton in putting on his cape, 
 while Mrs. Brick rubbed her withered forefinger round and 
 round her little shoe-shaped snuff-box, vainly seeking for the 
 fraction of a pinch. I can't help thinking that if Mr. Barton 
 had shaken into that little box a small portion of Scotch high- 
 dried, he might have produced something more like an amiable 
 emotion in Mrs. Brick's mind than anything she had felt 
 under his morning's exposition of the unleavened bread. But 
 our good Amos labored under a deficiency of small tact as well 
 as of small cash ; and when he observed the action of the old 
 woman's forefinger, he said, in his brusque way; ''So your 
 snuff is all gone, eh?" 
 
 Mrs. Brick's eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the 
 parson might be intending to replenish her box, at least medi- 
 ately, through the present of a small copper. 
 
 "Ah, well! you'll soon be going where there is no more 
 snuff. You'll be in need of mercy then. You must remem- 
 ber that you may have to seek for mercy and not find it, just 
 as you're seeking for snuff." 
 
 At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle sub- 
 sided from Mrs. Brick's eyes. The lid of her box went 
 *' click ! " and her heart was shut up at the same moment. 
 
 But now Mr. Barton's attention was called for by Mr. 
 Spratt, who was dragging a small and unwilling boy from the 
 rear. Mr. Spratt was a small-featured, small-statured man, 
 with a remarkable po wer of language, mitigated by hesitation, 
 who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable sentiments 
 in unexceptionable language on all occasions. 
 
 " Mr. Barton, sir — aw — aw — excuse my trespassing on your 
 time — aw — to beg that you will administer a rebuke to this 
 boy ; he is — aw — aw — most inveterate in ill-behavior during 
 service-time. " 
 
 The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contend- 
 ing against a cold in his nose by feeble sniffing. But no 
 
26 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 sooner had Mr. Spratt uttered his impeachment, than Miss 
 Fodge rushed forward and placed herself between Mr. Barton 
 and the accused. 
 
 "That's my child, Muster Barton," she exclaimed, further 
 manifesting her maternal instincts by applying her apron to 
 her offspring's nose. "He's al'ys a-findin' faut wi' him, and 
 a-poundin' him for nothin'. Let him goo an' eat his roost 
 goose as is a-smellin' up in our noses while we're a-swallering 
 them greasy broth, an' let my boy alooan." 
 
 Mr. Spratt' s small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of 
 uttering sentiments not unexceptionable before the clergyman ; 
 but Mr. Barton, foreseeing that a prolongation of this episode 
 would not be to edification, said " Silence ! " in his severest 
 tones. 
 
 " Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave 
 well, if you set him the example of being saucy." Then 
 stooping down to Master Fodge, and taking him by the shoul- 
 der : " Do you like being beaten? " 
 
 "No-a." 
 
 " Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you 
 were not naughty, you wouldn't be beaten. But if you are 
 naughty, God will be angry, as well as Mr. Spratt; and God 
 can burn you forever. That will be worse than being beaten." 
 
 Master Fodge's countenance was neither aflBrmative nor 
 negative of this proposition. 
 
 "But," continued Mr. Barton, "if you will be a good boy, 
 God will love you, and you will grow up to be a good man. 
 Now, let me hear next Thursday that you have been a good 
 boy." 
 
 Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that 
 would accrue to him from this change of courses. But Mr. 
 Barton, being aware that Miss Fodge had touched on a deli- 
 cate subject in alluding to the roast goose, was determined to 
 witness no more polemics between her and Mr. Spratt, so, 
 saying good-morning to the latter, he hastily left the College. 
 
 The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and al- 
 ready the vicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed 
 through the gate. Mrs. Barton heard him open the door, and 
 ran out of the sitting-room to meet hinu 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 27 
 
 "I'm afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible 
 morning! Let me take your hat. Your slippers are at the 
 fire.^' 
 
 Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is diffi- 
 cult, when you have been doing disagreeable duties, without 
 praise, on a snowy day, to attend to the very minor morals. 
 So he showed no recognition of Milly^s attentions, but simply 
 said; "Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you?" 
 
 *^It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn't go into the 
 study, because you said you would letter and number the 
 books for the Lending Library. Patty and I have been cov- 
 ering them, and they are all ready in the sitting-room.'' 
 
 "Oh, I can't do those this morning," said Mr. Barton, as 
 he took off his boots and put his feet into the slippers Milly 
 had brought him; "you must put them away into the parlor." 
 
 The sitting-room was also the day nursery and schoolroom ; 
 and while Mamma's back was turned, Dickey, the second boy, 
 had insisted on superseding Chubby in the guidance of a 
 headless horse, of the red-wafered species, which she was 
 drawing round the room, so that when Papa opened the door 
 Chubby was giving tongue energetically. 
 
 " Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to 
 be quiet." 
 
 " Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby ; go with Patty, and see what 
 Nanny is getting for our dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and 
 Dickey, help me to carry these books into the parlor. There 
 are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily." 
 
 Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easy-chair, and took 
 up a work on Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical 
 Book Society; thinking he would finish it and return it this 
 afternoon, as he was going to the Clerical Meeting at Milby 
 Vicarage, where the Book Society had its headquarters. 
 
 The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been 
 founded some eight or ten months, had had a noticeable effect 
 on the Eev. Amos Barton. When he first came to Shepper- 
 ton he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose Christian 
 experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. 
 Mr. Johns, of Gun Street Chapel, and had been consolidated 
 at Cambridge under the influence of Mr. Simeon. John New- 
 
28 
 
 SCENES 05* CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 ton and Thomas Scott were his doctrinal ideals; he would 
 have taken in the Christian Observer and the Record^ if he 
 could have afforded it ; his anecdotes were chiefly of the pious- 
 jocose kind, current in Dissenting circles; and he thought an 
 Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable. 
 
 But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was 
 beginning to be felt in backward provincial regions, and the 
 Tractarian satire on the Low-Church party was beginning to 
 tell even on those who disavowed or resisted Tractarian doc- 
 trines. The vibration of an intellectual movement was felt 
 from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment ; 
 and so it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the 
 market-town close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed to 
 have a clerical meeting every month wherein they would exer- 
 cise their intellects by discussing theological and ecclesiastical 
 questions, and cement their brotherly love by discussing a 
 good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself as an 
 adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive, there 
 was provision made for ample friction of the clerical mind. 
 
 Now, the Eev. Amos Barton was one of those men who 
 have a decided will and opinion of their own; he held himself 
 bolt upright, and had no self-distrust. He would march very 
 determinedly along the road he thought best ; but then it was 
 wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best road. 
 And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted discus- 
 sion made him see that an Episcopalian Establishment was 
 much more than unobjectionable, and on many other points he 
 began to feel that he held opinions a little too far-sighted and 
 profound to be crudely and suddenly communicated to ordinary 
 minds. He was like an onion that has been rubbed with 
 spices ; the strong original odor was blended with something 
 new and foreign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined 
 High-Church nostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the 
 palate of the genuine onion-eater. 
 
 We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting to-day, 
 because we shall probably want to go thither some day when 
 he will be absent. And just now I am bent on introducing 
 you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski, with whom 
 Mr. and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine to-morrow. 
 
AMOS BATTON. 
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold 
 snow, and the white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are 
 casting a blue shadow across the white ground, while the Rev. 
 Amos Barton and his wife are audibly crushing the crisp snow 
 beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock on Friday evening, 
 they approach the door of the above-named desirable country 
 residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, 
 etc., situated only half a mile from the market-town of Milby. 
 
 Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting 
 a pleasant but uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a 
 lady who is reclining behind a screen in the corner of the sofa, 
 and allowing you to discern that the hair of the gentleman 
 who is seated in the arm-chair opposite, with a newspaper 
 over his knees, is becoming decidedly gray. A little " King 
 Charles, " with a crimson ribbon round his neck, who has been 
 lying curled up in the very middle of the hearth-rug, has just 
 discovered that that zone is too hot for him, and is jumping 
 on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accommodating his 
 person on the silk gown. On the table there are two wax- 
 candles, which will be lighted as soon as the expected knock 
 is heard at the door. 
 
 The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently 
 Mr. and Mrs. Barton are ushered in — Mr. Barton erect and 
 clerical, in a faultless tie and shining cranium ; Mrs. Barton 
 graceful in a newly turned black silk. 
 
 " Now this is charming of you,'' said the Countess Czerlaski, 
 advancing to meet them, and embracing Milly with careful 
 elegance. " I am really ashamed of my selfishness in asking 
 my friends to come and see me in this frightful weather." 
 Then, giving her hand to Amos: ^^And you, Mr. Barton, 
 whose time is so precious ! But I am doing a good deed in 
 drawing you away from your labors. I have a plot to prevent 
 you from martyrizmg yourself." 
 
 While this greeting was going forward, Mr. Bridmain, and 
 J et the spaniel, looked on with the air of actors who had no 
 
30 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 idea of by-play. Mr. Bridmain^ a stiff and rather thick-set 
 man, gave his welcome with a labored cordiality. It was as- 
 tonishing how very little he resembled his beautiful sister. 
 
 For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As 
 she seated herself by Mrs. Barton on the sofa, Milly's eyes, 
 indeed, rested — must it be confessed? — chiefly on the details 
 of the tasteful dress, the rich silk of a pinkish lilac hue (the 
 Countess always wore delicate colors in an evening), the black 
 lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling at the back of the 
 small, closely braided head. For Milly had one weakness—- 
 don't love her any the less for it, it was a pretty woman's 
 weakness — she was fond of dress : and often, when she was 
 making up her own economical millinery, she had romantic 
 visions how nice it would be to put on really handsome stylish 
 things — to have very stiff balloon sleeves, for example, with- 
 out which a woman's dress was nought in those days. You 
 and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not? which 
 makes us think foolish things now and then. Perhaps it may 
 lie in an excessive admiration for small hands and feet, a tall 
 lithe figure, large dark eyes, and dark silken braided hair. 
 All these the Countess possessed, and she had, moreover, a 
 delicately formed nose, the least bit curved, and a clear bru- 
 nette complexion. Her mouth, it must be admitted, receded 
 too much from her nose and chin, and to a prophetic eye 
 threatened " nut-crackers " in advanced age. But by the light 
 of fire and wax-candles that age seemed very far off indeed, 
 and you would have said that the Countess was not more than 
 thirty. 
 
 Look at the two women on the sofa together ! The large, 
 fair, mild-eyed Milly is timid even in friendship; it is not 
 easy to her to speak of the affection of which her heart is full. 
 The lithe, dark, thin-lipped Countess is racking her small 
 brain for caressing words and charming exaggerations. 
 
 "And how are all the cherubs at home?" said the Count- 
 ess, stooping to pick up Jet, and without waiting for an an- 
 swer. " I have been kept indoors by a cold ever since Sun da}", 
 or I should not have rested without seeing you. What have 
 you done with those wretched singers, Mr. Barton?" 
 
 " Oh^ we have got a new choir together, which will go on 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 31 
 
 very well with a little practice. I was quite determined that 
 the old set of singers should be dismissed. I had given orders 
 that they should not sing the wedding-psalm, as they call it, 
 again, to make a new-married couple look ridiculous, and they 
 sang it in defiance of me. I could put them into the Ecclesi- 
 astical Court, if I chose for to do so, for lifting up their voices 
 in church in opposition to the clergyman." 
 
 " And a most wholesome discipline that would be, " said the 
 Countess; "indeed, you are too patient and forbearing, Mr. 
 Barton. For my part, I lose w.y temper when I see how 
 far you are from being appreciated in that miserable Shep- 
 perton. " 
 
 If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt at a loss what to say in 
 reply to the insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that 
 dinner was announced just then, and that he had to offer his 
 arm to the Countess. 
 
 As Mr. Bridmain was leading Mrs. Barton to the dining- 
 room, he observed: "The weather is very severe." 
 
 " Very, indeed, " said Milly . 
 
 Mr. Bridmain studied conversation as an art. To ladies he 
 spoke of the weather, and was accustomed to consider it under 
 three points of view : as a question of climate in general, com- 
 paring England with other countries in this respect ; as a per- 
 sonal question, inquiring how it affected his lady interlocutor 
 in particular; and as a question of probabilities, discussing 
 whether there would be a change or a continuance of the pres- 
 ent atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen he talked politics, 
 and he read two daily papers expressly to qualify himself for 
 this function. Mr. Barton thought him a man of considerable 
 political information, but not of lively parts. 
 
 "And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at 
 Mr. Ely's?" said the Countess, between her spoonfuls of 
 soup. (The soup was a little over-spiced. Mrs. Short of 
 Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting her best apart- 
 ments, gave only moderate wages to her cook.) 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Barton; "Milby is a central place, and 
 there are many conveniences in having only one point of meet- 
 ing." 
 
 "Well," continued the Countess, "every one seems to agree 
 
32 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 in giving the precedence to Mr. Ely. For my part, I cannot 
 admire him. His preaching is too cold for me. It has no 
 fervor — no heart. I often say to my brother, it is a great 
 comfort to me that Shepperton Church is not too far off for us 
 to go to; don't I, Edmund?" 
 
 " Yes, " answered Mr. Bridmain ; " they show us into such 
 a bad pew at Milby — just where there is a draught from that 
 door. I caught a stiff neck the first time I went there.'' 
 
 " Oh, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the 
 cold in the pew. I was writing to my friend Lady Porter 
 this morning, and telling her all about my feelings. She and 
 I think alike on such matters. She is most anxious that when 
 Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the living at 
 their place, Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous, 
 clever man there. I have been describing a certain friend of 
 mine to her, who, I think, would be just to her mind. And 
 there is such a pretty rectory, Milly; shouldn't I like to see 
 you the mistress of it? " 
 
 Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos blushed 
 very red and gave a little embarrassed laugh — he could rarely 
 keep his muscles within the limits of a smile. 
 
 At this moment John, the man-servant, approached Mrs. 
 Barton with a gravy-tureen, and also with a slight odor of the 
 stable, which usually adhered to him throughout his indoor 
 functions. John was rather nervous ; and the Countess, hap- 
 pening to speak to him at this inopportune moment, the tureen 
 slipped and emptied itself on Mrs. Barton's newly turned 
 black silk. 
 
 " Oh, horror ! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs. 
 Barton's dress," said the Countess to the trembling John, care- 
 fully abstaining from approaching the gravy-sprinkled spot 
 on the floor with her own lilac silk. But Mr. Bridmain, who 
 had a strictly private interest in silks, good-naturedly jumped 
 up and applied his napkin at once to Mrs. Barton's gown. 
 
 Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and 
 tried to make light of the matter for the sake of John as well 
 as others. The Countess felt inwardly thankful that her own 
 delicate silk had escaped, but threw out lavish interjections of 
 distress and indignation. 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 33 
 
 " Dear saint that you are, she said, when Milly laughed, 
 and suggested that, as her silk was not very glossy to begin 
 with, the dim patch would not be much seen; "you don't 
 mind about these things, I know. Just the same sort of 
 thing happened to me at the Princess Wengstein's one day, 
 on a pink satin. I was in an agony. But you are so indiffer- 
 ent to dress; and well you may be. It is you who make dress 
 pretty, and not dress that makes you pretty. 
 
 Alice, the buxom lady's maid, wearing a much better dress 
 than Mrs. Barton's, now appeared to take Mr. Bridmain's 
 place in retrieving the mischief, and after a great amount of 
 supplementary rubbing, composure was restored, and the busi- 
 ness of dining was continued. 
 
 When John was recounting his accident to the cook in the 
 kitchen, he observed: "Mrs. Barton's a hamable woman; I'd 
 a deal sooner ha' throwed the gravy o'er the Countess's fine 
 gownd. But laws! what tantrums she'd ha' been in arter the 
 visitors was gone." 
 
 " You'd a deal sooner not ha' throwed it down at all, I 
 should think," responded the unsympathetic cook, to whom 
 John did not make love. "Who d'you think' s to make gravy 
 anuff, if you're to baste people's gownds wi' it?" 
 
 "Well," suggested John, humbly, "you should wet the 
 bottom of the duree a bit, to hold it from slippin'." 
 
 " Wet your granny ! " returned the cook ; a retort which she 
 probably regarded in the light of a reductio ad absurdum^ and 
 which in fact reduced John to silence. 
 
 Later on in the evening, while John was removing the tea- 
 things from the drawing-room, and brushing the crumbs from 
 the table-cloth with an accompanying hiss, such as he was 
 wont to encourage himself with in rubbing down Mr. Brid- 
 main's horse, the Eev. Amos Barton drew from his pocket a 
 thin green-covered pamphlet, and, presenting it to the Count- 
 ess, said: 
 
 " You were pleased, I think, with my sermon on Christmas 
 Day. It has been printed in ' The Pulpit, ' and I thought 
 you might like a copy." 
 
 " That indeed I shall. I shall quite value the opportunity 
 of reading that sermon. There was such depth in it! — such 
 
34 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 argument! It was not a sermon to be heard only once. I am 
 delighted that it should become generally known, as it will be, 
 now it is printed in ' The Pulpit. ' " 
 
 " Yes, " said Milly, innocently, " I was so pleased with the 
 editor's letter." And she drew out her little pocket-book, 
 where she carefully treasured the editorial autograph, while 
 Mr. Barton laughed and blushed, and said; *^ Nonsense, 
 Milly!" 
 
 "You see," she said, giving the letter to the Countess, "I 
 am very proud of the praise my husband gets." 
 
 The sermon in question, by the by, was an extremely argu- 
 mentative one on the Incarnation ; which, as it was preached 
 to a congregation not one of whom had any doubt of that doc- 
 trine, and to whom the Socinians therein confuted were as 
 unknown as the Arimaspians, was exceedingly well adapted to 
 trouble and confuse the Sheppertonian mind. 
 
 "Ah," said the Countess, returning the editor's letter, "he 
 may well say he will be glad of other sermons from the same 
 source. But I would rather you should publish your sermons 
 in an independent volume, Mr. Barton ; it would be so desir- 
 able to have them in that shape. For instance, I could send 
 a copy to the Dean of Radborough. And there is Lord 
 Blarney, whom I knew before he was Chancellor. I was a 
 special favorite of his, and you can't think what sweet things 
 he used to say to me. I shall not resist the temptation to 
 write to him one of these days sans fagon, and tell him 
 how he ought to dispose of the next vacant living in his 
 
 gift." 
 
 Whether Jet the spaniel, being a much more knowing dog 
 than was suspected, wished to express his disapproval of the 
 Countess's last speech, as not accordant with his ideas of wis- 
 dom and veracity, I cannot say ; but at this moment he jumped 
 off her lap, and turning his back upon her, placed one paw on 
 the fender, and held the other up to warm, as if affecting to 
 abstract himself from the current of conversation. 
 
 But now Mr. Bridmain brought out the chess-board, and 
 Mr. Barton accepted his challenge to play a game, with im- 
 mense satisfaction. The Rev. Amos was very fond of chess, 
 as most people are who can continue through many years to 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 35 
 
 create interesting vicissitudes in the game, by taking long- 
 meditated moves with their knights, and subsequently discov- 
 ering that they have thereby exposed their queen. 
 
 Chess is a silent game; and the Countess's chat with Milly 
 is in quite an undertone — probably relating to women's mat- 
 ters that it would be impertinent for us to listen to ; so we 
 will leave Camp Villa, and proceed to Milby Vicarage, where 
 Mr. Farquhar has sat out two other guests with whom he has 
 been dining at Mr. Ely's, and is now rather wearying that 
 reverend gentleman by his protracted small-talk. 
 
 Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man 
 of three and thirty. By the laity of Milby and its neighbor- 
 hood he was regarded as a man of quite remarkable powers 
 and learning, who must make a considerable sensation in Lon- 
 don pulpits and drawing-rooms on his occasional visits to the 
 metropolis ; and by his brother clergy he was regarded as a 
 discreet and agreeable fellow. Mr. Ely never got into a warm 
 discussion; he suggested what might be thought, but rarely 
 said what he thought himself; he never let either men or 
 women see that he was laughing at them, and he never gave 
 any one an opportunity of laughing at him.. In one thing only 
 he was injudicious. He parted his dark wavy hair down the 
 middle ; and as his head was rather flat than otherwise, that 
 style of coiffure was not advantageous to him. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely's, was 
 one of his warmest admirers, and thought he would make an 
 unexceptionable son-in-law, in spite of his being of no partic- 
 ular family." Mr. Farquhar was susceptible on the point 
 of " blood " — his own circulating fluid, which animated a short 
 and somewhat flabby person, being, he considered, of very 
 superior quality. 
 
 "By the by," he said, with a certain pomposity counter- 
 acted by a lisp, "what an ath Barton makth of himthelf, 
 about that Bridmain and the Counteth, ath she callth her- 
 thelf. After you were gone the other evening, Mithith Far- 
 quhar wath telling him the general opinion about them in the 
 neighborhood, and he got quite red and angry. Bleth your 
 thoul, he believeth the whole thtory about her Polish huth- 
 band and hith wonderful ethcapeth ; and ath for her — why, 
 
36 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 he thinkth her perfection, a woman of motht refined f eelingth, 
 and no end of thtuff.^' 
 
 Mr. Ely smiled. " Some people would say our friend Bar- 
 ton was not the best judge of refinement. Perhaps the lady 
 flatters him a little, and we men are susceptible. She goes to 
 Shepperton Church every Sunday — drawn there, let us sup- 
 pose, by Mr. Barton's eloquence." 
 
 " Pthaw, " said Mr. Farquhar ; " now, to my mind, you have 
 only to look at that woman to thee what she ith — throwing 
 her eyth about when she comth into church, and drething in 
 a way to attract attention. I should thay, she'th tired of her 
 brother Bridmain, and looking out for another brother with a 
 thtronger family likeneth. Mithith Farquhar ith very fond 
 of Mithith Barton, and ith quite dithtrethed that she should 
 athothiate with thuch a woman, tho she attacked him on 
 the thubject purpothly. But I tell her it'th of no uthe, 
 with a pig-headed fellow like him. Barton'th well-meaning 
 enough, but tlio contheited. I've left off giving him my 
 advithe." 
 
 Mr. Ely smiled inwardly and said to himself : " What a 
 punishment ! " But to Mr. Farquhar he said : " Barton might 
 be more judicious, it must be confessed." He was getting 
 tired, and did not want to develop the subject. 
 
 "Why, nobody vithit-th them but the Barton th," con- 
 tinued Mr. Farquhar, "and why should thuch people come 
 here, unleth they had particular reathonth for preferring a 
 neighborhood where they are not known? Pooh! it lookth 
 bad on the very f athe of it. You called on them, now ; how 
 did you find them? " 
 
 " Oh! — Mr. Bridmain strikes me as a common sort of man, 
 who is making an effort to seem wise and well bred. He 
 comes down on one tremendously with political information, 
 and seems knowing about the king of the French. The Count- 
 ess is certainly a handsome woman, but she puts on the grand 
 air a little too powerfully. Woodcock was immensely taken 
 with her, and insisted on his wife's calling on her and asking 
 her to dinner ; but I think Mrs. Woodcock turned restive after 
 the first visit, and wouldn't invite her again." 
 
 '^Ha, ha! Woodcock hath alwayth a thoft place in hith 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 S7 
 
 heart for a pretty fathe. It'th odd how he came to marry 
 that plain woman, and no fortune either." 
 
 Mysteries of the tender passion/^ said Mr. Ely. "I am 
 not initiated yet, you know." 
 
 Here Mr. Farquhar^s carriage was announced, and as we 
 have not found his conversation particularly brilliant under 
 the stimulus of Mr. Ely's exceptional presence, we will not 
 accompany him home to the less exciting atmosphere of do- 
 mestic life. 
 
 Mr. Ely threw himself with a sense of relief into his easiest 
 chair, set his feet on the hobs, and in this attitude of bachelor 
 enjoyment began to read Bishop Jebb's Memoirs. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I AM by no means sure that if the good people of Milby had 
 known the truth about the Countess Czerlaski, they would not 
 have been considerably disappointed to find that it was very 
 far from being as bad as they imagined. Nice distinctions are 
 troublesome. It is so much easier to say that a thing is black, 
 than to discriminate the particular shade of brown, blue, or 
 green to which it really belongs. It is so much easier to 
 make up your mind that your neighbor is good for nothing, 
 than to enter into all the circumstances that would oblige you 
 to modify that opinion. 
 
 Besides, think of all the virtuous declamation, all the pene- 
 trating observation, which had been built up entirely on the 
 fundamental position that the Countess was a very objection- 
 able person indeed, and which would be utterly overturned 
 and nullified by the destruction of that premise. Mrs. 
 Phipps, the banker's wife, and Mrs. Landor, the attorney's 
 wife, had invested part of their reputation for acuteness in the 
 supposition that Mr. Bridmain was not the Countess's brother. 
 Moreover, Miss Phipps was conscious that if the Countess was 
 not a disreputable person, she. Miss Phipps, had no compen- 
 sating superiority in virtue to set against the other lady's mani- 
 fest superiority in personal charms. Miss Phipps's stumpy 
 
38 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 figure and unsuccessfnl attire, instead of looking down from a 
 mount of virtue with an aureole round its head, would then 
 be seen on the same level and in the same light as the Count- 
 ess Czerlaski's Diana-like form and well-chosen drapery. 
 Miss Phipps, for her part, didn't like dressing for effect — she 
 had always avoided that style of appearance which was calcu- 
 lated to create a sensation. 
 
 Then what amusing innuendoes of the Milby gentlemen over 
 their wine would have been entirely frustrated and reduced to 
 nought, if you had told them that the Countess had really 
 been guilty of no misdemeanors which demanded her exclusion 
 from strictly respectable society ; that her husband had been 
 the veritable Count Czerlaski, who had had wonderful escapes, 
 as she said, and who, as she did not say, but as was said in 
 certain circulars once folded by her fair hands, had subse- 
 quently given dancing lessons in the metropolis; that Mr. 
 Bridmain was neither more nor less than her half-brother, 
 who, by unimpeached integrity and industry, had won a 
 partnership in a silk manufactory, and thereby a moderate 
 fortune, that enabled him to retire, as you see, to study poli- 
 tics, the weather, and the art of conversation at his leisure. 
 Mr. Bridmain, in fact, quadragenarian bachelor as he was, felt 
 extremely well pleased to receive his sister in her widowhood, 
 and to shine in the reflected light of her beauty and title. 
 Every man who is not a monster, a mathematician, or a mad 
 philosopher, is the slave of some woman or other. Mr. Brid- 
 main had put his neck under the yoke of his handsome sister, 
 and though his soul was a very little i one — of the smallest 
 description indeed — he would not have ventured to call it his 
 own. He might be slightly recalcitrant now and then, as is 
 the habit of long-eared pachyderms, under the thong of the 
 fair Countess's tongue; but there seemed little probability 
 that he would ever get his neck loose. Still, a bachelor's 
 heart is an outlying fortress that some fair enemy may any day 
 take either by storm or stratagem ; and there was always the 
 possibility that Mr. Bridmain's first nuptials might occur be- 
 fore the Countess was quite sure of her second. As it was, 
 however, he submitted to all his sister's caprices, never 
 grumbled because her dress and her maid formed a consider- 
 
AMOS BARTOK 
 
 39 
 
 able item beyond her own little income of sixty pounds per 
 annum, and consented to lead with her a migratory life, as 
 personages on the debatable ground between aristocracy and 
 commonalty, instead of settling in some spot where his five 
 hundred a year might have won him the definite dignity of a 
 parochial magnate. 
 
 The Countess had her views in choosing a quiet provincial 
 place like Mil by. After three years of widowhood, she had 
 brought her feelings to contemplate giving a successor to her 
 lamented Czerlaski, whose fine whiskers, fine air, and romantic 
 fortunes had won her heart ten years ago, when, as pretty 
 Caroline Bridmain, in the full bloom of five and twenty, she 
 was governess to Lady Porter's daughters, whom he initiated 
 into the mysteries of the pas de basque, and the Lancers' 
 quadrilles. She had had seven years of sufficiently happy 
 matrimony with Czerlaski, who had taken her to Paris and 
 Germany, and introduced her there to many of his old friends 
 with large titles and small fortunes. So that the fair Caroline 
 had had considerable experience of life, and had gathered 
 therefrom, not, indeed, any very ripe and comprehensive wis- 
 dom, but much external polish, and certain practical conclu- 
 sions of a very decided kind. One of these conclusions was, 
 that there were things more solid in life than fine whiskers and 
 a title, and that, in accepting a second husband, she would re- 
 gard these items as quite subordinate to a carriage and a set- 
 tlement. Now, she had ascertained, by tentative residences, 
 that the kind of bite she was angling for was difficult to be 
 met with at watering-places, which were already preoccupied 
 with abundance of angling beauties, and were chiefly stocked 
 with men whose whiskers might be dyed, and whose incomes 
 were still more problematic ; so she had determined on trying 
 a neighborhood where people were extremely well acquainted 
 with each other's affairs, and where the women were mostly 
 ill-dressed and ugly. Mr. Bridmain's slow brain had adopted 
 his sister's views, and it seemed to him that a woman so hand- 
 some and distinguished as the Countess must certainly make a 
 match that might lift himself into the region of county celeb- 
 rities, and give him at least a sort of cousinship to the quarter- 
 sessions. 
 
40 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 All this, which was the simple truth, would have seemed 
 extremely flat to the gossips of Milby, who had made up their 
 minds to something much more exciting. There was nothing 
 here so very detestable. It is true, the Countess was a little 
 vain, a little ambitious, a little selfish, a little shallow and 
 frivolous, a little given to white lies. — But who considers such 
 slight blemishes, such moral pimples as these, disqualifications 
 for entering into the most respectable society? Indeed, the 
 severest ladies in Milby would have been perfectly aware that 
 these characteristics would have created no wide distinction 
 between the Countess Czerlaski and themselves ; and since it 
 was clear there was a wide distinction — why, it must lie in the 
 possession of some vices from which they were undeniably 
 free. 
 
 Hence it came to pass that Milby respectability refused to 
 recognize the Countess Czerlaski, in spite of her assiduous 
 church-going, and the deep disgust she was known to have ex- 
 pressed at the extreme paucity of the congregations on Ash- 
 Wednesdays. So she began to feel that she had miscalculated 
 the advantages of a neighborhood where people are well ac- 
 quainted with each other's private affairs. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, you will imagine how welcome was the perfect 
 credence and admiration she met with from Mr. and Mrs. Bar- 
 ton. She had been especially irritated by Mr. Ely's behavior 
 to her ; she felt sure that he was not in the least struck with her 
 beauty, that he quizzed her conversation, and that he spoke of 
 her with a sneer. A woman always knows where she is utterly 
 powerless, and shuns a coldly satirical eye as she would shun 
 a Gorgon. And she was especially eager for clerical notice 
 and friendship, not merely because that is quite the most re- 
 spectable countenance to be obtained in society, but because 
 she really cared about religious matters, and had an uneasy 
 sense that she was not altogether safe in that quarter. She 
 had serious intentions of becoming quite pious — without any 
 reserves — when she had once got her carriage and settlement. 
 Let us do this one sly trick, says Ulysses to Neoptolemus, and 
 we will be perfectly honest ever after — 
 
 aTJC r)6v yap roc KTTjfia rfjg vlktjq Tia/Seiv, 
 Tdljua ' dcKaioi 6' avOcg eKipavov/ueda, 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 41 
 
 The Countess did not quote Sophocles, but she said to herself : 
 " Only this little bit of pretence and vanity, and then I will 
 be quite good, and make myself quite safe for another world." 
 
 And as she had by no means such fine taste and insight in 
 theological teaching as in costume, the Rev. Amos Barton 
 seemed to her a man not only of learning — that is always un- 
 derstood with a clergyman — but of much power as a spiritual 
 director. As for Milly, the Countess really loved her as well 
 as the preoccupied state of her affections would allow. For 
 you have already perceived that there was one being to whom 
 the Countess was absorbingly devoted, and to whose desires 
 she made everything else subservient — namely, Caroline Czer- 
 laski, nee Bridmain. 
 
 Thus there was really not much affectation in her sweet 
 speeches and attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Barton. Still their 
 friendship by no means adequately represented the object she 
 had in view when she came to Milby, and it had been for 
 some time clear to her that she must suggest a new change of 
 residence to her brother. 
 
 The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never 
 precisely in the way we have imagined to ourselves. The 
 Countess did actually leave Camp Villa before many months 
 were past, but under circumstances which had not at all en- 
 tered into her contemplation. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Eev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have under- 
 taken to relate, was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or 
 exceptional character; and perhaps I am doing a bold thing to 
 bespeak your sympathy on behalf of a man who was so very 
 far from remarkable, — a man whose virtues were not heroic, 
 and who had no undetected crime within his breast ; who had 
 not the slightest mystery hanging about him, but was palpably 
 and unmistakably commonplace ; who was not even in love, 
 but had had that complaint favorably many years ago. An 
 utterly uninteresting character ! " I think I hear a lady reader 
 
42 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 exclaim — Mrs. Farthingale, for example, who prefers the ideal 
 in fiction; to whom tragedy means ermine tippets, adultery, 
 and murder ; and comedy, the adventures of some personage 
 who is quite a " character." 
 
 But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of youi 
 fellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp. At 
 least eighty out of a hundred of your adult male fellow-Britons 
 returned in the last census are neither extraordinarily silly, 
 nor extraordinarily wicked, nor extraordinarily wise; their 
 eyes are neither deep and liquid with sentiment nor sparkling 
 with suppressed witticisms ; they have probably had no hair- 
 breadth escapes or thrilling adventures ; their brains are cer- 
 tainly not pregnant with genius, and their passions have not 
 manifested themselves at all after the fashion of a volcano. 
 They are simply men of complexions more or less muddy, 
 whose conversation is more or less bald and disjointed. Yet 
 these commonplace people — many of them — bear a conscience, 
 and have felt the sublime prompting to do the painful right; 
 they have their unspoken sorrows, and their sacred joys ; their 
 hearts have perhaps gone out toward their first-born, and they 
 have mourned over the irreclaimable dead. -N^ay, is there not 
 a pathos in their very insignificance — in our comparison of 
 their dim and narrow existence with the glorious possibilities 
 of that human nature which they share? 
 
 Depend upon it, you would gain unspeakably if you would 
 learn with me to see some of the poetry and the pathos, the 
 tragedy and the comedy, lying in the experience of a human 
 soul that looks out through dull gray eyes, and that speaks in 
 a voice of quite ordinary tones. In that case, I should have 
 no fear of your not caring to know what farther befell the Eev. 
 Amos Barton, or of your thinking the homely details I have 
 to tell at all beneath your attention. As it is, you can, if you 
 please, decline to pursue my story farther; and you will easily 
 find reading more to your taste, since T learn from the news- 
 papers that many remarkable novels, full of striking situa- 
 tions, thrilling incidents, and eloquent writing, have appeared 
 only within the last season. 
 
 Meanwhile, readers who have begun to feel an interest in 
 the Eev. Amos Barton and his wife will be glad to learn that 
 
AMOS BARTOK 
 
 43 
 
 Mr. Oldinport lent the twenty pounds. But twenty pounds 
 are soon exhausted when twelve are due as back payment to 
 the butcher, and when the possession of eight extra sovereigns 
 in February weather is an irresistible temptation to order a 
 new greatcoat. And though Mr. Bridmain so far departed 
 from the necessary economy entailed on him by the Countess's 
 elegant toilet and expensive maid, as to choose a handsome 
 black silk, stiff, as his experienced eye discerned, with the 
 genuine strength of its own texture, and not with the factitious 
 strength of gum, and present it to Mrs. Barton, in retrieval of 
 the accident that had occurred at his table, yet, dear me — as 
 every husband has heard — what is the present of a gown when 
 you are deficiently furnished with the et-ceteras of apparel, 
 and when, moreover, there are six children whose wear and 
 tear of clothes is something incredible to the non-maternal 
 mind? 
 
 Indeed, the equation of income and expenditure was offering 
 new and constantly accumulating difficulties to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Barton; for shortly after the birth of little Walter, Milly's 
 aunt, who had lived with her ever since her marriage, had 
 withdrawn herself, her furniture, and her yearly income, to 
 the household of another niece ; prompted to that step, very 
 probably, by a slight tifc with the Kev. Amos, which oc- 
 curred while Milly was upstairs, and proved one too many for 
 the elderly lady's patience and magnanimity. Mr. Barton's 
 temper was a little warm, but, on the other hand, elderly 
 maiden ladies are known to be susceptible; so we will not 
 suppose that all the blame lay on his side — the less so, as he 
 had every motive for humoring an inmate whose presence kept 
 the wolf from the door. It was now nearly a year since Miss 
 Jackson's departure, and, to a fine ear, the howl of the wolf 
 was audibly approaching. 
 
 It was a sad thing, too, that when the last snow had melted, 
 when the purple and yellow crocuses were coming up in the 
 garden, and the old church was already half pulled down, 
 Milly had an illness which made her lips look pale, and ren- 
 dered it absolutely necessary that she should not exert herself 
 for some time. Mr. Brand, the Shepperton doctor so obnox- 
 ious to Mr. Pilgrim, ordered her to drink port-wine, and it 
 
44 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 was quite necessary to have a charwoman very often, to assist 
 Nanny in all the extra work that fell upon her. 
 
 Mrs. Hackit, who hardly ever paid a visit to any one but 
 her oldest and nearest neighbor, Mrs. Patten, now took the 
 unusual step of calling at the vicarage one morning; and the 
 tears came into her unsentimental eyes as she saw Milly seated 
 pale and feeble in the parlor, unable to persevere in sewing 
 the pinafore that lay on the table beside her. Little Dickey, 
 a boisterous boy of five, with large pink cheeks and sturdy 
 legs, was having his turn to sit with Mamma, and was squat- 
 ting quiet as a mouse at her knee, holding her soft white hand 
 between his little red black -nailed fists. He was a boy whom 
 Mrs. Hackit, in a severe mood, had pronounced " stocky " (a 
 word that etymologically, in all probability, conveys some al- 
 lusion to an instrument of punishment for the refractory) ; but 
 seeing him thus subdued into goodness, she smiled at him with 
 her kindest smile, and, stooping down, suggested a kiss — 
 a favor which Dickey resolutely declined. 
 
 "Now do you take nourishing things enough?" was one of 
 Mrs. Hackit' s first question s, and Milly endeavored to make 
 it appear that no woman was ever so much in danger of being 
 over-fed and led into self-indulgent habits as herself. But 
 Mrs. Hackit gathered one fact from her replies, namely, that 
 Mr. Brand had ordered port-wine. 
 
 While this conversation was going forward. Dickey had been 
 furtively stroking and kissing the soft white hand; so that at 
 last, when a pause came, his mother said, smilingly : " Why 
 are you kissing my hand. Dickey? " 
 
 " It id to yovely, " answered Dickey, who, you observe, was 
 decidedly backward in his pronunciation. 
 
 Mrs. Hackit remembered this little scene in after days, and 
 thought with peculiar tenderness and pity of the "stocky 
 boy.'' 
 
 The next day there came a hamper with Mrs. Hackit' s re- 
 spects ; and on being opened it was found to contain half a 
 dozen of port-wine and two couples of fowls. Mrs. Farquhar, 
 too, was very kind; insisted on Mrs. Barton's rejecting all ar- 
 rowroot but hers, which was genuine Indian, and carried away 
 Sophy and Fred to stay with her a fortnight. These and other 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 45 
 
 good-natured attentions made the trouble of Milly's illness 
 more bearable; but they could not prevent it from swelling 
 expenses, and Mr. Barton began to have serious thoughts of 
 representing his case to a certain charity for the relief of needy 
 curates. 
 
 Altogether, as matters stood in Shepperton, the parishioners 
 were more likely to have a strong sense that the clergyman 
 needed their material aid, than that they needed his spiritual 
 aid — not the best state of things in this age and country, 
 where faith in men solely on the ground of their spiritual gifts 
 has considerably diminished, and especially unfavorable to the 
 influence of the Eev. Amos, whose spiritual gifts would not 
 have had a very commanding power even in an age of faith. 
 
 But, you ask, did not the Countess Czerlaski pay any atten- 
 tion to her friends all this time? To be sure she did. She 
 was indefatigable in visiting her " sweet Milly, and sitting 
 with her for hours together. It may seem remarkable to you 
 that she neither thought of taking away any of the children, 
 nor of providing for any of Milly 's probable wants; but ladies 
 of rank and of luxurious habits, you know, cannot be expected 
 to surmise the details of poverty. She put a great deal of eau- 
 de-Cologne on Mrs. Barton\s pocket-handkerchief, rearranged 
 her pillow and footstool, kissed her cheeks, wrapped her in a 
 soft warm shawl from her own shoulders, and amused her with 
 stories of the life she had seen abroad. When Mr. Barton 
 joined them she talked of Tractarianism, of her determination 
 not to re-enter the vortex of fashionable life, and of her anxiety 
 to see him in a sphere large enough for his talents. Milly 
 thought her sprightliness and affectionate warmth quite charm- 
 ing, and was very fond of her ; while the Kev. Amos had a 
 vague consciousness that he had risen into aristocratic life, 
 and only associated with his middle-class parishioners in a 
 pastoral and parenthetic manner. 
 
 However, as the days brightened, Milly ^s cheeks and lips 
 brightened too ; and in a few weeks she was almost as active 
 as ever, though watchful eyes might have seen that activity 
 was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit's eyes were of that kind, 
 and one day, when Mr. and Mrs. Barton had been dining with 
 ner for the first time since Milly' s illness, she observed to her 
 
46 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 husband: "That poor thing^s dreadful weak an' dilicate; she 
 won't Stan' havin' many more children." 
 
 Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been indefatigable in his voca- 
 tion. He had preached two extemporary sermons every Sun- 
 day at the workhouse, where a room had been fitted up for 
 divine service, pending the alterations in the church ; and had 
 walked the same evening to a cottage at one or other extremity 
 of his parish to deliver another sermon, still more extemporary, 
 in an atmosphere impregnated with spring flowers and perspi- 
 ration. After all these labors you will easily conceive that he 
 was considerably exhausted by half -past nine o'clock in the 
 evening, and that a supper at a friendly parishioner's, with a 
 glass, or even two glasses, of brandy-and-water after it, was a 
 welcome re-enforcement. Mr. Barton was not at all an ascetic; 
 he thought the benefits of fasting were entirely confined to the 
 Old Testament dispensation ; he was fond of relaxing himself 
 with a little gossip ; indeed. Miss Bond, and other ladies of 
 enthusiastic views, sometimes regretted that Mr. Barton did 
 not more uninterruptedly exhibit a superiority to the things of 
 the flesh. Thin ladies, who take little exercise, and whose 
 livers are not strong enough to bear stimulants, are so extremely 
 critical about one's personal habits! And, after all, the Kev. 
 Amos never came near the borders of a vice. His very faults 
 were middling — he was not very un grammatical. It was not 
 in his nature to be superlative in anything ; unless, indeed, he 
 was superlatively middling, the quintessential extract of medi- 
 ocrity. If there was any one point on which he showed an 
 inclination to be excessive, it was confidence in his own 
 shrewdness and ability in practical matters, so that he was 
 very full of plans which were something like his moves in 
 chess — admirably well calculated, supposing the state of the 
 case were otherwise. For example, that notable plan of intro- 
 ducing anti-Dissenting books into his Lending Library did not 
 in the least appear to have bruised the head of Dissent, though 
 it had certainly made Dissent strongly inclined to bite the 
 Kev. Amos' s heel. Again, he vexed the souls of his church- 
 wardens and influential parishioners by his fertile suggestive- 
 ness as to what it would be well for them to do in the matter 
 of the church repairs, and other ecclesiastical secularities. 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 47 
 
 "I never saw the like to parsons," Mr. Hackit said one day 
 in conversation with his brother church- war den, Mr. Bond ; 
 "they^re aPys for meddling with business, and they know no 
 more about it than my black filly." 
 
 "Ah," said Mr. Bond, "they^re too high learnt to have 
 much common sense." 
 
 " Well, " remarked Mr. Hackit, in a modest and dubious 
 tone, as if throwing out a hypothesis which might be consid- 
 ered bold, " I should say that's a bad sort of eddication as 
 makes folks unreasonable." 
 
 So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton's popularity was in that 
 precarious condition, in that toppling and contingent state, in 
 which a very slight push from a malignant destiny would ut- 
 terly upset it. That push was not long in being given, as you 
 shall hear. 
 
 One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his parochial 
 visits, and the sunlight was streaming through the bow-win- 
 dow of the sitting-room, where Milly was seated at her sewing, 
 occasionally looking up to glance at the children playing in 
 the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, which she at 
 once recognized as the Countess's, and that well-dressed lady 
 presently entered the sitting-room, with her veil drawn over 
 her face. Milly was not at all surprised or sorry to see her ; 
 but when the Countess threw up her veil and showed that her 
 eyes were red and swollen, she was both surprised and sorry. 
 
 "What can be the matter, dear Caroline?" 
 
 Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp ; then she 
 threw her arms round Milly's neck and began to sob; then she 
 threw herself on the sofa, and begged for a glass of water ; 
 then she threw off her bonnet and shawl ; and by the time 
 Milly's imagination had exhausted itself in conjuring up calam- 
 ities, she said : 
 
 "Dear, how shall I tell you? I am the most wretched 
 woman. To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been so 
 devoted — to see him degrading himself — giving himself utterly 
 to the dogs ! " 
 
 "What can it be? " said Milly, who began to picture to her- 
 self the sober Mr. Bridmain taking to brandy and betting. 
 " He is going to be married — to marry my own maid, that 
 
48 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 deceitful Alice, to whom I have been the most indulgent mis- 
 tress. Did you ever hear of anything so disgraceful? so mor- 
 tifying? so disreputable?'' 
 
 "And has he only just told you of it?'' said Milly, who, 
 having really heard of worse conduct, even in her innocent 
 life, avoided a direct answer. 
 
 " Told me of it ! he had not even the grace to do that. I 
 went into the dining-room suddenly and found him kissing 
 her — disgusting at his time of life, is it not? — and when I re- 
 proved her for allowing such liberties, she turned round sau- 
 cily, and said she was engaged to be married to my brother, 
 and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. Edmund 
 is a miserable coward, you know, and looked frightened ; but 
 when she asked him to say whether it was not so, he tried to 
 summon up courage and say yes. I left the room in disgust, 
 and this morning I have been questioning Edmund, and find 
 that he is bent on marrying this woman, and that he has been 
 putting off telling me — because he was ashamed of himself, I 
 suppose. I couldn't possibly stay in the house after this, with 
 my own maid turned mistress. And now, Milly, I am come 
 to throw myself on your charity for a week or two. Will you 
 take me in? " 
 
 " That we will, " said Milly, " if you will only put up with 
 our poor rooms and way of living. It will be delightful to 
 have you ! " 
 
 " It will soothe me to be with you and Mr. Barton a little 
 while. I feel quite unable to go among my other friends just 
 at present. What those two wretched people will do I don't 
 know — leave the neighborhood at once, I hope. I entreated 
 my brother to do so before he disgraced himself." 
 
 When Amos came home, he joined his cordial welcome and 
 sympathy to Milly's. By and by the Countess'« formidable 
 boxes, which she had carefully packed before her indignation 
 drove her away from Camp Villa, arrived at the vicarage, and 
 were deposited in the spare bedroom, and in two closets, not 
 spare, which Milly emptied for their reception. A week after- 
 ward the excellent apartments at Camp Villa, comprising din- 
 ing- and drawing-rooms, three bedrooms, and a dressing-room, 
 were again to let, and Mr. Bridmain's sudden d.eparture, to- 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 49 
 
 gether with the Countess Czerlaski's installation as a visitor 
 at Shepperton Vicarage^ became a topic of general conversation 
 in the neighborhood. The keen-sighted virtue of Milby and 
 Shepperton saw in all this a confirmation of its worst suspicions, 
 and pitied the Eev. Amos Barton's gullibility. 
 
 But when week after week, and month after month, slipped 
 by without witnessing the Countess's departure — when sum- 
 mer and harvest had fled, and still left her behind them occu- 
 pying the spare bedroom and the closets, and also a large pro- 
 portion of Mrs. Barton's time and attention, new surmises of 
 a very evil kind were added to the old rumors, and began to 
 take the form of settled convictions in the minds even of Mr. 
 Barton's most friendly parishioners. 
 
 And now, here is an opportunity for an accomplished writer 
 to apostrophize calumny, to quote Virgil, and to show that he 
 is acquainted with the most ingenious things which have been 
 said on that subject in polite literature. 
 
 But what is opportunity to the man who can't use it? An 
 unfecundated egg, which the waves of time wash away into 
 nonentity. So, as my memory is ill-furnished, and my note- 
 book still worse, I am unable to show myself either erudite or 
 eloquent apropos of the calumny whereof the Eev. Amos Bar- 
 ton was the victim. I can only ask my reader, — did you ever 
 upset your ink-bottle, and watch, in helpless agony, the rapid 
 spread of Stygian blackness over your fair manuscript or 
 fairer table-cover? With a like inky swiftness did gossip now 
 blacken the reputation of the Eev. Amos Barton, causing the 
 unfriendly to scorn and even the friendly to stand aloof, at a 
 time when difliculties of another kind were fast thickening 
 around him. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 One j^ovember morning, at least six months after the 
 Countess Czerlaski had taken up her residence at the vicarage, 
 Mrs. Hackit heard that her neighbor Mrs. Patten had an attack 
 of her old complaint, vaguely called "the spasms." Accord- 
 ingly, about eleven o'clock, she put on her velvet bonnet and 
 
50 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 cloth cloak, with a long boa and muff large enough to stow a 
 prize baby in 5 for Mrs. Hackit regulated her costume by the 
 calendar, and brought out her furs on the first of November, 
 whatever might be the temperature. She was not a woman 
 weakly to accommodate herself to shilly-shally proceedings. 
 If the season didn't know what it ought to do, Mrs. Hackit 
 did. In her best days it was always sharp weather at Gun- 
 powder Plot," and she didn't like new fashions. 
 
 And this morning the weather was very rationally in accord- 
 ance with her costume, for as she made her way through the 
 fields to Cross Earm, the yellow leaves on the hedge-girt elms, 
 which showed bright and golden against the low-hanging pur- 
 ple clouds, were being scattered across the grassy path by the 
 coldest of November winds. "Ah,'' Mrs. Hackit thought to 
 herself, " I dare say we shall have a sharp pinch this winter, 
 and if we do, I shouldn't wonder if it takes the old lady off. 
 They say a green Yule makes a fat churchyard; but so does a 
 white Yule too, for that matter. When the stool's rotten 
 enough, no matter who sits on it." 
 
 However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of 
 Mrs. Patten's decease was again thrown into the dim distance 
 in her imagination, for Miss Janet Gibbs met her with the 
 news that Mrs. Patten was much better, and led her, without 
 any preliminary announcement, to the old lady's bedroom. 
 Janet had scarcely reached the end of her circumstantial nar- 
 rative how the attack came on and what were her aunt's sen- 
 sations — a narrative to which Mrs. Patten, in her neatly plaited 
 nightcap, seemed to listen with a contemptuous resignation to 
 her niece's historical inaccuracy, contenting herself with occa- 
 sionally confounding Janet by a shake of the head — when the 
 clatter of a horse's hoofs on the yard pavement announced 
 the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted person 
 presently made its appearance upstairs. He found Mrs. 
 Patten going on so well that there was no need to look sol- 
 emn. He might glide from condolence into gossip without 
 offence, and the temptation of having Mrs. Hackit' s ear was 
 irresistible. 
 
 " What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your 
 parson's," was the remark with which he made this agreeable 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 61 
 
 transition, throwing himself back in the chair from which he 
 had been leaning toward the patient. 
 
 Eh, dear me ! " said Mrs. Hackit, " disgraceful enough. 
 I stuck to Mr. Barton as long as I could, for his wife's sake; 
 but I can't countenance such goings-on. It's hateful to see 
 that woman coming with 'em to service of a Sunday, and if 
 Mr. Hackit wasn't church- warden and I didn't think it wrong 
 to forsake one's own parish, I should go to Knebley Church. 
 There's a many parish'ners as do." 
 
 " I used to think Barton was only a fool," observed Mr. Pil- 
 grim, in a tone which implied that he was conscious of having 
 been weakly charitable. L thought he was imposed upon 
 and led away by those people when they first came. But 
 that's impossible now." 
 
 ^^Oh, it's as plain as the nose in your face," said Mrs. 
 Hackit, unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her 
 comparison — " comin' to Milby, like a sparrow perchin' on a 
 bough, as I may say, with her brother, as she called him ; and 
 then all on a sudden the brother goes off with himself, and she 
 throws herself on the Bartons. Though what could make her 
 take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn't got enough 
 to keep wife and children, there's One above knows — I don't." 
 
 "Mr. Barton may have attractions we don't know of," said 
 Mr. Pilgrim, who piqued himself on a talent for sarcasm. 
 " The Countess has no maid now, and they say Mr. Barton is 
 handy in assisting at her toilet — laces her boots, and so forth." 
 
 "Tilet, be fiddled! " said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant bold- 
 ness of metaphor; "an' there's that poor thing a-sewing her 
 fingers to the bone for them children — an' another comin' on. 
 What she must have to go through ! It goes to my heart to 
 turn my back on her. But she's i' the wrong to let herself be 
 put upon i' that manner." 
 
 " Ah ! I was talking to Mrs. Farquhar about that the other 
 day. She said, ' I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k 
 w-o-m-a-n.'" (Mr. Pilgrim gave this quotation with slow 
 emphasis, as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar had uttered a re- 
 markable sentiment.) "They find it impossible to invite her 
 to their house while she has that equivocal person staying with 
 her." 
 
62 
 
 SCENES OF CLEKICAL LIFE. 
 
 '^Well remarked Miss Gibbs, '^if I was a wife, nothing 
 should induce me to bear what Mrs. Barton does." 
 
 Yes, it^s fine talking," said Mrs. Patten, from her pillow; 
 " old maids' husbands are aPys well managed. If you was a 
 wife, you'd be as foolish as your betters, belike." 
 
 " All my wonder is," observed Mrs. Hackit, "how the Bar- 
 tons make both ends meet. You may depend on it she^s got 
 nothing to give 'em; for I understand as he's been havin' 
 money from some clergy charity. They said at fust as she 
 stuffed Mr. Barton wi' notions about her writing to the 
 Chancellor an' her fine friends, to give him a living. How- 
 iver, I don't know what's true an' what's false. Mr. 
 Barton keeps away from our house now, for I gave him a 
 bit o' my mind one day. Maybe he's ashamed of himself. 
 He seems to me to look dreadful thin an' harassed of a 
 Sunday." 
 
 "Oh, he must be aware he's getting into bad odor every- 
 where. The clergy are quite disgusted with his folly. They 
 say Carpe would be glad to get Barton out of the curacy if he 
 could; but he can't do that without coming to Shepperton 
 himself, as Barton's a licensed curate; and he wouldn't like 
 that, I suppose." 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Patten showed signs of uneasiness, 
 which recalled Mr. Pilgrim to professional attentions; and 
 Mrs. Hackit, observing that it was Thursday, and she must 
 see after the butter, said good-by, promising to look in again 
 soon, and bring her knitting. 
 
 This Thursday, by the by, is the first in the month — the day 
 on which the Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage; and 
 as the Eev. Amos Barton has reasons for not attending, he 
 will very likely be a subject of conversation amongst his clerical 
 brethren. Suppose we go there and hear whether Mr. Pilgrim 
 has reported their opinion correctly. 
 
 There is not a numerous party to-day, for it is a season of 
 sore throats and catarrhs ; so that the exegetical and theolog- 
 ical discussions, which are the preliminary of dining, have not 
 been quite so spirited as usual ; and although a question rela- 
 tive to the Epistle of Jude has not been quite cleared up, the 
 striking of six by the church clock, and the simultaneous an- 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 63 
 
 nouncement of dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be im- 
 portunate. 
 
 Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a 
 comfortable dining-room, where the closely drawn red curtains 
 glow with the double light of fire and candle, where glass and 
 silver are glittering on the pure damask, and a soup-tureen 
 gives a hint of the fragrance that will presently rush out to 
 inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by the deli- 
 cate visitation of atoms, for the keen gusto of ampler contact! 
 Especially if you have confidence in the dinner-giving capacity 
 of your host — if you know that he is not a man who entertains 
 grovelling views of eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction 
 of hunger and thirst, and, dead to all the finer influences of 
 the palate, expects his guests to be brilliant on ill-flavored 
 gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr. Ely was particularly 
 worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryon 
 had probably contributed quite as much as the central situa- 
 tion of Milby to the selection of his house as a clerical rendez- 
 vous. He looks particularly graceful at the head of his table, 
 and, indeed, on all occasions where he acts as president or 
 moderator ; he is a man who seems to listen well, and is an 
 excellent amalgam of dissimilar ingredients. 
 
 At the other end of the table, as Vice,'^ sits Mr. Fellowes, 
 rector and magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a 
 mellifluous voice and the readiest of tongues. Mr. Eellowes 
 once obtained a living by the persuasive charms of his conver- 
 sation, and the fluency with which he interpreted the opinions 
 of an obese and stammering baronet, so as to give that elderly 
 gentleman a very pleasing perception of his own wisdom. Mr. 
 Fellowes is a very successful man, and has the highest charac- 
 ter everywhere except in his own parish, where, doubtless be- 
 cause his parishioners happen to be quarrelsome people, he is 
 always at fierce feud with a farmer or two, a colliery proprie- 
 tor, a grocer who was once church-warden, and a tailor who 
 formerly ofiiciated as clerk. 
 
 At Mr. Ely's right hand you see a very small man with a 
 sallow and somewhat puffy face, whose hair is brushed straight 
 up, evidently with the intention of giving him a height some- 
 what less disproportionate to his sense of his own importance 
 
54 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 than the measure of five feet three accorded him by an over- 
 sight of nature. This is the Eev. Archibald Duke, a very dys- 
 peptic and evangelical man, who takes the gloomiest view of 
 mankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale of 
 the " Pickwick Papers, recently completed, one of the strong- 
 est proofs of original sin. Unfortunately, though Mr. Duke 
 was not burdened with a family, his yearly expenditure was 
 apt considerably to exceed his income ; and the unpleasant cir- 
 cumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat- 
 breakfasts, may probably have contributed to his desponding 
 views of the world generally. 
 
 Next to him is seated Mr. Furness, a tall young man, with 
 blond hair and whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge en- 
 tirely owing to his genius ; at least I know that he soon after- 
 ward published a volume of poems, which were considered 
 remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his acquaintance. 
 Mr. Purness preached his own sermons, as any one of tolerable 
 critical acumen might have certified by comparing them with 
 his poems : in both, there was an exuberance of metaphor and 
 simile entirely original, and not in the least borrowed from any 
 resemblance in the things compared. 
 
 On Mr. Purness's left you see Mr. Pugh, another young 
 curate, of much less marked characteristics. He had not pub- 
 lished any poems ; he had not even been plucked ; he had neat 
 black whiskers and a pale complexion; read prayers and a 
 sermon twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day sally- 
 ing forth on his parochial duties in a white tie, a well-brushed 
 hat, a perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots — an equip- 
 ment which he probably supposed hieroglyphically to represent 
 the spirit of Christianity to the parishioners of Whittlecombe. 
 
 Mr. Pugh's vis-a-vis is the Eev. Martin Cleves, a man about 
 forty — middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with a negligently tied 
 cravat, large irregular features, and a large head thickly cov- 
 ered with lanky brown hair. To a superficial glance, Mr. 
 Cleves is the plainest and least clerical-looking of the party; 
 yet, strange to say, there is the true parish priest, the pastor 
 beloved, consulted, relied on by his flock ; a clergyman who is 
 not associated with the undertaker, but thought of as the sur- 
 est helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 65 
 
 rather than severe. Mr. Cleves has the wonderful art of 
 preaching sermons which the wheelwright and the blacksmith 
 can understand; not because he talks condescending twaddle, 
 but because he can call a spade a spade, and knows how to 
 disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him more 
 attentively, and you will see that his face is a very interesting 
 one — that there is a great deal of humor and feeling playing in 
 his gray eyes and about the corners of his roughly cut mouth : 
 — a man, you observe, who has most likely sprung from the 
 harder- working section of the middle class, and has hereditary 
 sympathies with the checkered life of the people. He gets 
 together the working men in his parish on Monday evening, 
 and gives them a sort of conversational lecture on useful prac- 
 tical matters, telling them stories, or reading some select 
 passages from an agreeable book, and commenting on them ; 
 and if you were to ask the first laborer or artisan in Tripple- 
 gate what sort of man the parson was, he would say: "A 
 uncommon knowin', sensible, free-spoken gentleman; very 
 kind an' good-natured too." Yet for all this, he is perhaps 
 the best Grecian of the party, if we except Mr. Baird, the 
 young man on his left. 
 
 Mr. Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an 
 original writer and metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he 
 used to preach in a little church something like a barn, to a 
 congregation consisting of three rich farmers and their ser- 
 vants, about fifteen laborers, and the due proportion of women 
 and children. The rich farmers understood him to be " very 
 high learnt ; but if you had interrogated them for a more 
 precise description, they would have said that he was " a thin- 
 nish-faced man, with a sort o' cast in his eye, like.^^ 
 
 Seven, altogether : a delightful number for a dinner-party, 
 supposing the units to be delightful, but everything depends 
 on that. During dinner Mr. Fellowes took the lead in the 
 conversation, which set strongly in the direction of mangold- 
 wurzel and the rotation of crops ; for Mr. Fellowes and Mr. 
 Cleves cultivated their own glebes. Mr. Ely, too, had some 
 agricultural notions, and even the Eev. Archibald Duke was 
 made alive to that class of mundane subjects by the possession 
 of some potato-ground. The two young curates talked a little 
 
56 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 aside during these discussions, which had imperfect interest 
 for their unbeneficed minds ; and the transcendental and near- 
 sighted Mr. Baird seemed to listen somewhat abstractedly, 
 knowing little more of potatoes and man gold- wurzel than that 
 they were some form of the " Conditioned." 
 
 " What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling ! " said Mr. 
 Fellowes, when the cloth was being drawn. " I went over his 
 farm at Tetterley with him last summer. It is really a model 
 farm ; first-rate dairy, grazing and wheat land, and such splen- 
 did farm- buildings! An expensive hobby, though. He sinks 
 a good deal of money there, I fancy. He has a great whim 
 for black cattle, and he sends that drunken old Scotch bailiff 
 of his to Scotland every year, with hundreds in his pocket to 
 buy these beasts." 
 
 By the by, " said Mr. Ely, " do you know who is the man 
 to whom Lord Watling has given the Bramhill livings?" 
 
 "A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His 
 brother is a lawyer, and was very useful to Lord Watling in 
 that ugly Brounsell affair. That's why Sargent got the liv- 
 ing." 
 
 "Sargent," said Mr. Ely. "I know him. Isn't he a 
 showy, talkative fellow ; has written travels in Mesopotamia, 
 or something of that sort? " 
 
 "That's the man." 
 
 "He was at Witherington once, as Bagshawe's curate. He 
 got into rather bad odor there, through some scandal about a 
 flirtation, I think." 
 
 " Talking of scandal, " returned Mr. Fellowes, " have you 
 heard the last story about Barton? Nisbett was telling me 
 the other day that he dines alone with the Countess at six, 
 while Mrs. Barton is in the kitchen acting as cook." 
 
 "Kather an apocryphal authority, Nisbett," said Mr. Ely. 
 
 "Ah," said Mr. Cleves, with good-natured humor twinkling 
 in his eyes, " depend upon it, that is a corrupt version. The 
 original text is, that they all dined together with six — mean- 
 ing six children — and that Mrs. Barton is an excellent cook." 
 
 " I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad 
 business," said the Kev. Archibald Duke, in a tone implying 
 that his wish was a strong figure of speech. 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 57 
 
 "Well/' said Mr. Fellowes, filling his glass and looking 
 jocose, " Barton is certainly either the greatest gull in exist- 
 ence, or he has some cunning secret — some philter or other to 
 make himself charming in the eyes of a fair lady. It isn't all 
 of us that can make conquests when our ugliness is past its 
 bloom.'' 
 
 " The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the 
 very outset," said Mr. Ely. "I was immensely amused one 
 night at Granby's when he was telling us her story about her 
 husband's adventures He said: 'When she told me the tale, 
 I felt I don't know how, — I felt it from the crown of my head 
 to the sole of my feet. ' " 
 
 Mr. Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Eev. 
 Amos' s fervor and symbolic action, and every one laughed ex- 
 cept Mr. Duke, whose after-dinner view of things was not apt 
 to be jovial. He said : 
 
 " I think some of us ought to remonstrate with Mr. Barton 
 on the scandal he is causing. He is not only imperilling his 
 own soul, but the souls of his flock." 
 
 "Depend upon it," said Mr. Cleves, "there is some simple 
 explanation of the whole affair, if we only happened to know 
 it. Barton has always impressed me as a right-minded 
 man, who has the knack of doing himself injustice by his 
 manner." 
 
 "Now I never liked Barton," said Mr. Fellowes. "He's 
 not a gentleman. Why, he used to be on terms of intimacy 
 with that canting Prior, who died a little while ago; — a fellow 
 who soaked himself with spirits and talked of the Gospel 
 through an inflamed nose." 
 
 " The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I dare 
 say," said Mr. Ely. 
 
 "Well," observed Mr. Cleves, "the poor fellow must have a 
 hard pull to get along, with his small income and large fam- 
 ily. Let us hope the Countess does something toward making 
 the pot boil. " 
 
 " Not she," said Mr. Duke; " there are greater signs of pov- 
 erty about them than ever." 
 
 "Well, come," returned Mr. Cleves, who could be caustic 
 sometimes, and who was not at all fond of his reverend brother, 
 
58 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Mr. Duke, "that's something in Barton's favor at all events. 
 He might be poor without showing signs of poverty." 
 
 Mr. Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blush- 
 ing, and Mr. Ely came to his relief by observing : 
 
 "They're making a very good piece of work of Shepperton 
 Church. Dolby, the architect, who has it in hand, is a very 
 clever fellow." 
 
 "It's he who has been doing Coppleton Church," said Mr. 
 Furness. " They've got it in excellent order for the visita- 
 tion." 
 
 This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and 
 thus opened a wide duct, which entirely diverted the stream of 
 animadversion from that small pipe — that capillary vessel, the 
 Rev. Amos Barton. 
 
 The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the 
 esoteric part of their profession ; so we will at once quit the 
 dining-room at Milby Vicarage, lest we should happen to over- 
 hear remarks unsuited to the lay understanding, and perhaps 
 dangerous to our repose of mind. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I DARE say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski at 
 Shepperton Vicarage is very puzzling to you also, dear reader, 
 as well as to Mr. Barton's clerical brethren; the more so, as I 
 hope you are not in the least inclined to put that very evil in- 
 terpretation on it which evidently found acceptance with the 
 sallow and dyspeptic Mr. Duke, and with the florid and highly 
 peptic Mr. Fellowes. You have seen enough, I trust, of the 
 Rev. Amos Barton to be convinced that he was more apt to fall 
 into a blunder than into a sin — more apt to be deceived than 
 to incur a necessity for being deceitful : and if you have a 
 keen eye for physiognomy, you will have detected that the 
 Countess Czerlaski loved herself far too well to get entangled 
 in an unprofitable vice. 
 
 How, then, you will say, could this fine lady choose to quar- 
 ter herself on the establishment of a poor curate, where the 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 69 
 
 carpets were probably falling into holes, where the attendance 
 was limited to a maid-of-all-work, and where six children 
 were running loose from eight o'clock in the morning till eight 
 o'clock in the evening? Surely you must be straining prob- 
 ability. 
 
 Heaven forbid! Eor not having a lofty imagination, as 
 you perceive, and being unable to invent thrilling incidents for 
 your amusement, my only merit must lie in the truth with 
 which I represent to you the humble experience of ordinary 
 fellow-mortals. I wish to stir your sympathy with common- 
 place troubles — to win your tears for real sorrow : sorrow such 
 as may live next door to you — such as walks neither in rags 
 nor in velvet, but in very ordinary decent apparel. 
 
 Therefore, that you may dismiss your suspicions as to the 
 truth of my picture, I will beg you to consider, that at the 
 time the Countess Czerlaski left Camp Villa in dudgeon, she 
 had only twenty pounds in her pocket, being about one-third 
 of the income she possessed independently of her brother. 
 You will then perceive that she was in the extremely incon- 
 venient predicament of having quarrelled, not indeed with her 
 bread and cheese, but certainly with her chicken and tart — a 
 predicament all the more inconvenient to her, because the 
 habit of idleness had quite unfitted her for earning those neces- 
 sary superfluities, and because with all her fascinations she 
 had not secured any enthusiastic friends whose houses were 
 open to her and who were dying to see her. Thus she had 
 completely checkmated herself, unless she could resolve on one 
 unpleasant move — namely, to humble herself to her brother, 
 and recognize his wife. This seemed quite impossible to her 
 as long as she entertained the hope that he would make the 
 first advances ; and in this flattering hope she remained month 
 after month at Shepperton Vicarage, gracefully overlooking the 
 deficiencies of accommodation, and feeling that she was really 
 behaving charmingly. " Who indeed, '' she thought to herself, 
 " could do otherwise, with a lovely, gentle creature like Milly ? 
 I shall really be sorry to leave the poor thing." 
 
 So, though she lay in bed till ten, and came down to a sep- 
 arate breakfast at eleven, she kindly consented to dine as early 
 as five, when a hot joint was prepared, which coldly furnished 
 
60 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 forth the children's table the next day; she considerately pre* 
 vented Milly from devoting herself too closely to the children, 
 by insisting on reading, talking, and walking with her ; and 
 she even began to embroider a cap for the next baby, which 
 must certainly be a girl, and be named Caroline. 
 
 After the first month or two of her residence at the vicarage 
 the Rev. Amos Barton became aware — as, indeed, it was un- 
 avoidable that he should — of the strong disapprobation it drew 
 upon him, and the change of feeling toward him which it was 
 producing in his kindest parishioners. But, in the first place, 
 he still believed in the Countess as a charming and influential 
 woman, disposed to befriend him, and, in any case, he could 
 hardly hint departure to a lady guest who had been kind to 
 him and his, and who might any day spontaneously announce 
 the termination of her visit; in the second place, he was con- 
 scious of his own innocence, and felt some contemptuous indig- 
 nation toward people who were ready to imagine evil of him ; 
 and, lastly, he had, as I have already intimated, a strong will 
 of his own, so that a certain obstinacy and defiance mingled 
 itself with his other feelings on the subject. 
 
 The one unpleasant consequence which was not to be evaded 
 or counteracted by any mere mental state, was the increasing 
 drain on his slender purse for household expenses, to meet 
 which the remittance he had received from the clerical charity 
 threatened to be quite inadequate. Slander may be defeated 
 by equanimity; but courageous thoughts will not pay your 
 baker's bill, and fortitude is nowhere considered legal tender 
 for beef. Month after month the financial aspect of the Rev. 
 Amos' s affairs became more and more serious to him, and 
 month after month, too, wore away more and more of that 
 armor of indignation and defiance with which he had at first 
 defended himself from the harsh looks of faces that were once 
 the friendliest. 
 
 But quite the heaviest pressure of the trouble fell on Milly 
 — on gentle, uncomplaining Milly — whose delicate body was 
 becoming daily less fit for all the many things that had to be 
 done between rising up and lying down. At first, she thought 
 the Countess's visit would not last long, and she was quite 
 glad to incur extra exertion for the sake of making her friend 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 61 
 
 comfortable. I can hardly bear to think of all the rough work 
 she did with those lovely hands — all by the sly, without let- 
 ting her husband know anything about it, and husbands are 
 not clairvoyant : how she salted bacon, ironed shirts and cra- 
 vats, put patches on patches, and re-darned darns. Then 
 there was the task of mending and eking out baby-linen in 
 prospect, and the problem perpetually suggesting itself how 
 she and Nanny should manage when there was another baby, 
 as there would be before very many months were past. 
 
 When time glided on and the Countess's visit did not end, 
 Milly was not blind to any phase of their position. She knew 
 of the slander; she was aware of the keeping aloof of old 
 friends; but these she felt almost entirely on her husband's 
 account. A loving woman's world lies within the four walls 
 of her own home ; and it is only through her husband that she 
 is in any electric communication with the world beyond. Mrs. 
 Simpkins may have looked scornfully at her, but baby crows 
 and holds out his little arms none the less blithely; Mrs. 
 Tomkins may have left off calling on her, but her husband 
 comes home none the less to receive her care and caresses ; it 
 has been wet and gloomy out of doors to-day, but she has 
 looked well after the shirt buttons, has cut out baby's pina- 
 fores, and half finished Willy's blouse. 
 
 So it was with Milly. She was only vexed that her hus- 
 band should be vexed — only wounded because he was miscon- 
 ceived. But the difficulty about ways and means she felt in 
 quite a different manner. Her rectitude was alarmed lest they 
 should have to make tradesmen wait for their money; her 
 motherly love dreaded the diminution of comforts for the chil- 
 dren ; and the sense of her own failing health gave exaggerated 
 force to these fears. 
 
 Milly could no longer shut her eyes to the fact that the 
 Countess was inconsiderate, if she did not allow herself to en- 
 tertain severer thoughts ; and she began to feel that it would 
 soon be a duty to tell her frankly that they really could not 
 afford to have her visit further prolonged. But a process was 
 going forward in two other minds, which ultimately saved 
 Milly from having to perform this painful task. 
 
 In the first place^ the Countess was getting weary of Shep ' 
 
62 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 perton — weary of waiting for her brother's overtures which 
 never came; so, one fine morning, she reflected that forgive- 
 ness was a Christian duty, that a sister should be placable, 
 that Mr. Bridmain must feel the need of her advice, to which 
 he had been accustomed for three years, and that very likely 
 "that woman" didn't make the poor man happy. In this 
 amiable frame of mind she wrote a very affectionate appeal, 
 and addressed it to Mr. Bridmain, through his banker. 
 
 Another mind that was being wrought up to a climax was 
 Nanny's, the maid-of -all- work, who had a warm heart and a 
 still warmer temper. Nanny adored her mistress: she had 
 been heard to say that she was " ready to kiss the ground as 
 the missis trod on"; and Walter, she considered, was her 
 baby, of whom she was as jealous as a lover. But she had, 
 from the first, very slight admiration for the Countess Czer- 
 laski. That lady, from Nanny's point of view, was a per- 
 sonage always " drawed out i' fine clothes, " the chief result 
 whose existence was to cause additional bed-making, carrying 
 of hot water, laying of table-cloths, and cooking of dinners. 
 It was a perpetually heightening " aggravation " to Nanny that 
 she and her mistress had to " slave " more than ever, because 
 there was this fine lady in the house. 
 
 "An' she pays nothin' for't neither," observed Nanny to 
 Mr. Jacob Tomms, a young gentleman in the tailoring line, 
 who occasionally — simply out of a taste for dialogue — looked 
 into the vicarage kitchen of an evening. " I know the mas- 
 ter's shorter o' money than iver, an' it meks no end o' differ- 
 ence i' th' housekeepin' — her bein' here, besides bein' obliged 
 to have a charwoman constant. " 
 
 "There's fine stories i' the village about her," said Mr. 
 Tomms. " They say as Muster Barton's great wi' her, or else 
 she'd niver stop here." 
 
 " Then they say a passill o' lies, an' you ought to be ashamed 
 to go an' tell 'em o'er again. Do you think as the master, as 
 has got a wife like the missis, 'ud go running arter a stuck-up 
 piece o' goods like that Countess, as isn't fit to black the 
 missis's shoes? I'm none so fond o' the master, but I know 
 better on him nor that. " 
 
 " Well^ I didn't b'lieve it/' said Mr. Tomms, humbly. 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 63 
 
 " B'lieve it? you'd ha' been a ninny if yer did. An' she^s 
 a nasty, stingy thing, that Countess. She's niver giv' me a 
 sixpence nor an old rag neither, sin' here she's been. A-lyin' 
 abed an' a-comin' down to breakfast when other folks wants 
 their dinner ! " 
 
 If such was the state of Nanny's mind as early as the end 
 of August, when this dialogue with Mr. Tomms occurred, you 
 may imagine what it must have been by the beginning of No- 
 vember, and that at that time a very slight spark might any 
 day cause the long-smouldering anger to flame forth in open 
 indignation. 
 
 That spark happened to fall the very morning that Mrs. 
 Hackit paid the visit to Mrs. Patten, recorded in the last 
 chapter. Nanny's dislike of the Countess extended to the 
 innocent dog Jet, whom she couldn't a-bear to see made a 
 fuss wi' like a Christian. An' the little ouzel must be washed, 
 too, ivery Saturday, as if there wasn't children enoo to wash, 
 wi'out washin' dogs." 
 
 Now this particular morning it happened that Milly was 
 quite too poorly to get up, and Mr. Barton observed to Nanny, 
 on going out, that he would call and tell Mr. Brand to come. 
 These circumstances were already enough to make Nanny anx- 
 ious and susceptible. But the Countess, comfortably ignorant 
 of them, came down as usual about eleven o'clock to her sep- 
 arate breakfast, which stood ready for her at that hour in the 
 parlor ; the kettle singing on the hob that she might make her 
 own tea. There was a little jug of cream, taken according to 
 custom from last night's milk, and specially saved for the 
 Countess's breakfast. Jet always awaited his mistress at her 
 bedroom door, and it was her habit to carry him downstairs. 
 
 "Now, my little Jet," she said, putting him down gently on 
 the hearth-rug, "you shall have a nice, nice breakfast." 
 
 Jet indicated that he thought that observation extremely 
 pertinent and well timed by immediately raising himself on 
 his hind legs, and the Countess emptied the cream-jug intc 
 the saucer. Now there was usually a small jug of milk stand- 
 ing on the tray by the side of the cream, and destined for 
 Jet's breakfast; but this morning Nanny, being "moithered," 
 had forgotten that part of the arrangements, so that when the 
 
64 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Countess had made her tea, she perceived there was no second 
 jugj and rang the bell. Nanny appeared, looking very red 
 and heated — the fact was, she had been "doing up" the 
 kitchen fire, and that is a sort of work which by no means 
 conduces to blandness of temper. 
 
 "Nanny, you have forgotten Jet's milk; will you bring me 
 some more cream, please? " 
 
 This was just a little too much for Nanny's forbearance. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say. Here am I wi' my hands full o' the chil- 
 dren an' the dinner, and missis ill abed, and Mr. Brand 
 a-comin' ; and I must run o'er the village to get more cream, 
 'cause you've give it to that nasty little blackamoor." 
 
 "Is Mrs. Barton ill?" 
 
 " 111 — yes — I should think she is ill, and much you care^ 
 She's likely to be ill, moithered as she is from mornin' to 
 night, wi' folks as had better be elsewhere." 
 
 " What do you mean by behaving in this way? " 
 
 "Mean? Why, I mean as the missis is a-slavin' her life 
 out an' a-sittin' up o' nights, for folks as are better able to 
 wait of her, i'stid o' lyin' abed an' doin' nothin' all the 
 blessed day, but mek work." 
 
 "Leave the room and don't be insolent." 
 
 " Insolent! I'd better be insolent than like what some folks 
 is, — a-livin' on other folks, an' bringin' a bad name on 'em 
 into the bargain." 
 
 Here Nanny flung out of the room, leaving the lady to digest 
 this unexpected breakfast at her leisure. 
 
 The Countess was stunned for a few minutes, but when she 
 began to recall Nanny's words, there was no possibility of 
 avoiding very unpleasant conclusions from them, or of failing 
 to see her position at the vicarage in an entirely new light. 
 The interpretation, too, of Nanny's allusion to a "bad name" 
 did not lie out of the reach of the Countess's imagination, and 
 she saw the necessity of quitting Shepperton without delay. 
 Still, she would like to wait for her brother's letter — no — she 
 would ask Milly to forward it to her — still better, she would 
 go at once to London, inquire her brother's address at his 
 banker's, and go to see him without preliminary. 
 
 She went up to Milly's room, and, after kisses and inquiries, 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 65 
 
 said : " I find, on consideration, dear Milly, from the letter I 
 had yesterday, that I must bid you good-by and go up to Lon- 
 don at once. But you must not let me leave you ill, you 
 naughty thing." 
 
 " Oh, no,'' said Milly, who felt as if a load had been taken 
 off her back, " I shall be very well in an hour or two. Indeed, 
 I'm much better now. You will want me to help you to pack. 
 But you won't go for two or three days? " 
 
 " Yes, I must go to-morrow. But I shall not let you help 
 me to pack, so don't entertain any unreasonable projects, but 
 lie still. Mr. Brand is coming, Nanny says." 
 
 The news was not an unpleasant surprise to Mr. Barton 
 when he came home, though he was able to express more re- 
 gret at the idea of parting than Milly could summon to her 
 lips. He retained more of his original feeling for the Count- 
 ess than Milly did, for women never betray themselves to men 
 as they do to each other; and the Eev. Amos had not a keen 
 instinct for character. But he felt that he was being relieved 
 from a difficulty, and in the way that was easiest for him. 
 Neither he nor Milly suspected that it was Nanny who had 
 cut the knot for them, for the Countess took care to give no 
 sign on that subject. As for Nanny, she was perfectly aware 
 of the relation between cause and effect in the affair, and 
 secretly chuckled over her outburst of " sauce " as the best 
 morning's work she had ever done. 
 
 So, on Friday morning, a fly was seen standing at the Vicar- 
 age gate with the Countess's boxes packed upon it; and pres- 
 ently that lady herself was seen getting into the vehicle. 
 After a last shake of the hand to Mr. Barton, and last kisses 
 to Milly and the children, the door was closed ; and as the fly 
 rolled off, the little party at the Vicarage gate caught a last 
 glimpse of the handsome Countess leaning and waving kisses 
 from the carriage window. Jet's little black phiz was also 
 seen, and doubtless he had his thoughts and feelings on the 
 occasion, but he kept them strictly within his own bosom. 
 
 The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and 
 lost no time in telling it to the schoolmaster, who again com- 
 municated the news to the landlord of ^^The Jolly Colliers," 
 at the close of the morning school-hours. Nanny poured the 
 
66 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 joyful tidings into the ear of Mr. Earquhar's footman, who 
 happened to call with a letter, and Mr. Brand carried them to 
 all the patients he visited that morning, after calling on Mrs. 
 Barton. So that, before Sunday, it was very generally known 
 in Shepperton parish that the Countess Czerlaski had left the 
 Vicarage. 
 
 The Countess had left, but, alas ! the bills she had contrib- 
 uted to swell still remained j so did the exiguity of the chil- 
 dren's clothing, which also was partly an indirect consequence 
 of her presence ; and so, too, did the coolness and alienation 
 in the parishioners, which could not at once vanish before the 
 fact of her departure. The Eev. Amos was not exculpated — 
 the past was not expunged. But what was worse than all, 
 Milly's health gave frequent cause for alarm, and the prospect 
 of baby's birth was overshadowed by more than the usual 
 fears. The birth came prematurely, about six weeks after the 
 Countess's departure, but Mr. Brand gave favorable reports to 
 all inquirers on the following day, which was Saturday. On 
 Sunday, after morning service, Mrs. Hackit called at the 
 Vicarage to inquire how Mrs. Barton was, and was invited 
 upstairs to see her. Milly lay placid and lovely in her feeble- 
 ness, and held out her hand to Mrs. Hackit with a beaming 
 smile. It was very pleasant to her to see her old friend unre- 
 served and cordial once more. The seven-months' baby was 
 very tiny and very red, but handsome is that handsome 
 does" — he was pronounced to be "doing well," and Mrs. 
 Hackit went home gladdened at heart to think that the perilous 
 hour was over. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The following Wednesday, when Mr. and Mrs. Hackit were 
 seated comfortably by their bright hearth, enjoying the long 
 afternoon afforded by an early dinner, Rachel, the housemaid, 
 came in and said : 
 
 " If you please 'm, the shepherd says, have you heard as 
 Mrs. Barton's wuss, and not expected to live? " 
 
 Mrs. Hackit turned pale, and hurried out to question the 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 «7 
 
 shepherd, who, she found, had heard the sad news at an ale- 
 house in the village. Mr. Hackit followed her out and said: 
 "You'd better have the pony-chaise, and go directly." 
 
 "Yes,'' said Mrs. Hackit, too much overcome to utter any 
 exclamations. " Eachel, come an' help me on wi' my things." 
 When her husband was wrapping her cloak round her feet in 
 the pony-chaise, she said : 
 
 " If I don't come home to-night, I shall send back the pony- 
 chaise, and you'll know I'm wanted there." 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 It was a bright frosty day, and by the time Mrs. Hackit ar- 
 rived at the Vicarage, the sun was near its setting. There 
 was a carriage and pair standing at the gate, which she recog- 
 nized as Dr. Madeley's, the physician from Kotherby. She 
 entered at the kitchen door that she might avoid knock- 
 ing, and quietly questioned Nanny. No one was in the 
 kitchen, but, passing on, she saw the sitting-room door 
 open, and Nanny, with Walter in her arms, removing the 
 knives and forks, which had been laid for dinner three 
 hours ago. 
 
 "Master says he can't eat no dinner," was Nanny's first 
 word. "He's never tasted nothin' sin' yesterday mornin', 
 but a cup o' tea." 
 
 " When was your missis took worse?" 
 
 " 0' Monday night. They sent for Dr. Madeley i' the mid- 
 dle o' the day yisterday, an' he's here again now." 
 
 "Is the baby alive?" 
 
 "No, it died last night. The children's all at Mrs. Bond's. 
 She come and took 'em away last night, but the master says 
 they must be fetched soon. He's upstairs now, wi' Dr. Made- 
 ley and Mr. Brand." 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Hackit heard the sound of a heavy, 
 slow foot in the passage; and presently Amos Barton entered, 
 with dry, despairing eyes, haggard and unshaven. He ex- 
 pected to find the sitting-room as he left it, with nothing to 
 meet his eyes but Milly's work-basket in the corner of the 
 sofa, and the children's toys overturned in the bow-window. 
 But when he saw Mrs. Hackit come toward him with answer- 
 ing sorrow in her face, the Dent-up fountain of tears was 
 
68 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 opened ; he threw himself on the sofa, hid his face, and sobbed 
 aloud. 
 
 "Bear up, Mr. Barton," Mrs. Hackit ventured to say at 
 last; "bear up, for the sake o^ them dear children.'^ 
 
 "The children, said Amos, starting up. "They must be 
 sent for. Some one must fetch them. Milly will want to " 
 
 He couldn't finish the sentence, but Mrs. Hackit understood 
 him, and said: "I'll send the man with the pony -carriage 
 for 'em." 
 
 She went out to give the order, and encountered Dr. Made- 
 ley and Mr. Brand, who were just going. 
 
 Mr. Brand said : " I am very glad to see you are here, Mrs. 
 Hackit. No time must be lost in sending for the children. 
 Mrs. Barton wants to see them." 
 
 " Do you quite give her up, then? " 
 
 " She can hardly live through the night. She begged us to 
 tell her how long she had to live ; and then asked for the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 The pony-carriage was sent ; and Mrs. Hackit, returning to 
 Mr. Barton, said she would like to go upstairs now. He went 
 upstairs with her and opened the door. The chamber fronted 
 the west ; the sun was just setting, and the red light fell full 
 upon the bed, where Milly lay with the hand of death visibly 
 upon her. The feather-bed had been removed, and she lay 
 low on a mattress, with her head slightly raised by pillows. 
 Her long fair neck seemed to be struggling with a painful 
 effort; her features were pallid and pinched, and her eyes were 
 closed. There was no one in the room but the nurse and the 
 mistress of the free school, who had come to give her help 
 from the beginning of the change. 
 
 Amos and Mrs. Hackit stood beside the bed, and Milly 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 "My darling, Mrs. Hackit is come to see you." 
 
 Milly smiled and looked at her with that strange, far-off 
 look which belongs to ebbing life. 
 
 "Are the children coming?" she said, painfully. 
 Yes, they will be here directly." 
 
 She closed her eyes again. 
 
 Presently the pony-carriage was heard ; and Amos, motion- 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 69 
 
 ing to Mrs. Hackit to follow him, left the room. On their 
 way downstairs, she suggested that the carriage should remain 
 to take them away again afterward, and Amos assented. 
 
 There they stood in the melancholy sitting-room — the five 
 sweet children, from Patty to Chubby — all, with their moth- 
 er's eyes — all, except Patty, looking up with a vague fear at 
 their father as he entered. Patty understood the great sorrow 
 that was come upon them, and tried to check her sobs as she 
 heard her papa's footsteps. 
 
 " My children, said Amos, taking Chubby in his arms, " God 
 is going to take away your dear mamma from us. She wants 
 to see you to say good-by. You must try to be very good and 
 not cry.'' 
 
 He could say no more, but turned round to see if Nanny 
 was there with Walter, and then led the way upstairs, lead- 
 ing Dickey with the other hand. Mrs. Hackit followed with 
 Sophy and Patty, and then came E'anny with Walter and Fred. 
 
 It seemed as if Milly had heard the little footsteps on the 
 stairs, for when Amos entered her eyes were wide open, eagerly 
 looking toward the door. They all stood by the bedside — 
 Amos nearest to her, holding Chubby and Dickey. But she 
 motioned for Patty to come first, and clasping the poor pale 
 child by the hand, said : 
 
 "Patty, I'm going away from you. Love your papa. 
 Comfort him ; and take care of your little brothers and sisters. 
 God will help you." 
 
 Patty stood perfectly quiet, and said, "Yes, mamma." 
 
 The mother motioned with her pallid lips for the dear child 
 to lean toward her and kiss her; and then Patty's great an- 
 guish overcame her, and she burst into sobs. Amos drew her 
 toward him and pressed her head gently to him, while Milly 
 beckoned Fred and Sophy, and said to them more faintly : 
 
 " Patty will try to be your mamma when I am gone, my 
 darlings. You will be good and not vex her." 
 
 They leaned toward her, and she stroked their fair heads, 
 and kissed their tear-stained cheeks. They cried because 
 mamma was ill and papa looked so unhappy ; but they thought, 
 perhaps next week things would be as they used to be again. 
 
 The little ones were lifted on the bed to kiss her. Little 
 
70 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Walter said, Mamma, mamma, " and stretched out his fat 
 arms and smiled; and Chubby seemed gravely wondering; 
 but Dickey, who had been looking fixedly at her, with lip 
 hanging down, ever since he came into the room, now seemed 
 suddenly pierced with the idea that mamma was going away 
 somewhere ; his little heart swelled, and he cried aloud. 
 
 Then Mrs. Hackit and Nanny took them all away. Patty 
 at first begged to stay at home and not go to Mrs. Bond's 
 again ; but when Nanny reminded her that she had better go 
 to take care of the younger ones, she submitted at once, and 
 they were all packed in the pony-carriage once more. 
 
 Milly kept her eyes shut for some time after the children 
 were gone. Amos had sunk on his knees, and was holding 
 her hand while he watched her face. By and by she opened 
 her eyes, and drawing him close to her, whispered slowly : 
 
 " My dear — dear — husband — you have been — very — good to 
 me. YovL — have — made me — very — happy." 
 
 She spoke no more for many hours. They watched her 
 breathing becoming more and more diflBcult, until evening 
 deepened into night, and until midnight was passed. About 
 half -past twelve she seemed to be trying to speak, and they 
 leaned to catch her words. 
 
 "Music — music^ — didn't you hear it? '' 
 
 Amos knelt by the bed and held her hand in his. He did 
 not believe in his sorrow. It was a bad dream. He did not 
 know when she was gone. But Mr. Brand, whom Mrs. Hackit 
 had sent for before twelve o'clock, thinking that Mr. Barton 
 might probably need his help, now came up to him, and said : 
 
 " She feels no more pain now. Come, my dear sir, come 
 with me." 
 
 "She isn't cZeacZ.^" shrieked the poor desolate man, strug- 
 gling to shake off Mr. Brand, who had taken him by the arm. 
 But his weary, weakened frame was not equal to resistance, 
 and he was dragged out of the room. 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 They laid her in her grave — the sweet mother with her 
 baby in her arms — while the Christmas snow lay thick upon 
 the graves. It was Mr. Cleves who buried her. On the first 
 news of Mr. Barton's calamity, he had ridden over from Trip- 
 plegate to beg that he might be made of some use, and his 
 silent grasp of Amos's hand had penetrated like the painful 
 thrill of life-recovering warmth to the poor benumbed heart of 
 the stricken man. 
 
 The snow lay thick upon the graves, and the day was cold 
 and dreary ; but there was many a sad eye watching that black 
 procession as it passed from the vicarage to the church, and 
 from the church to the open grave. There were men and 
 women standing in that churchyard who had bandied vulgar 
 jests about their pastor, and who had lightly charged him with 
 sin; but now, when they saw him following the coffin, pale 
 and haggard, he was consecrated anew by his great sorrow, 
 and they looked at him with respectful pity. 
 
 All the children were there, for Amos had willed it so, 
 thinking that some dim memory of that sacred moment might 
 remain even with little Walter, and link itself with what he 
 would hear of his sweet mother in after years. He himself 
 led Patty and Dickey ; then came Sophy and Fred ; Mr. Brand 
 had begged to carry Chubby, and Nanny followed with Wal- 
 ter. They made a circle round the grave while the coffin was 
 being lowered. Patty alone of all the children felt that 
 mamma was in that coffin, and that a new and sadder life had 
 begun for papa and herself. She was pale and trembling, but 
 she clasped his hand more firmly as the coffin went down, and 
 gave no sob. Fred and Sophy, though they were only two 
 and three years younger, and though they had seen mamma 
 in her coffin, seemed to themselves to be looking at some 
 strange show. They had not learned to decipher that terrible 
 handwriting of human destiny, illness and death. Dickey 
 had rebelled against his black clothes, until he was told that it 
 would be naughty to mamma not to put them on, when he at 
 
72 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 once submitted; and now, though he had heard Nanny say 
 that mamma was in heaven, he had a vague notion that she 
 would come home again to-morrow, and say he had been a 
 good boy and let him empty her work-box. He stood close to 
 his father, with great rosy cheeks and wide-open blue eyes, 
 looking first up at Mr. Cleves and then down at the coflBn, and 
 thinking he and Chubby would play at that when they got home. 
 
 The burial was over, and Amos turned with his children to 
 re-enter the house — the house where, an hour ago, Milly's 
 dear body lay, where the windows were half -darkened, and 
 sorrow seemed to have a hallowed precinct for itself, shut out 
 from the world. But now she was gone; the broad snow- 
 reflected daylight was in all the rooms; the vicarage again 
 seemed part of the common working-day world, and Amos, for 
 the first time, felt that he was alone — that day after day, 
 month after month, year after year, would have to be lived 
 through without Milly's love. Spring would come, and she 
 would not be there ; summer, and she would not be there ; and 
 he would never have her again with him by the fireside in 
 the long evenings. The seasons all seemed irksome to his 
 thoughts ; and how dreary the sunshiny days that would be 
 sure to come ! She was gone from him ; and he could never 
 show her his love any more, never make up for omissions in 
 the past by filling future days with tenderness. 
 
 Oh, the anguish of that thought that we can never atone to 
 our dead for the stinted affection we gave them, for the light 
 answers we returned to their plaints or their pleadings, for 
 the little reverence we showed to that sacred human soul that 
 lived so close to us, and was the divinest thing God had given 
 us to know ! 
 
 Amos Barton had been an affectionate husband, and while 
 Milly was with him, he was never visited by the thought that 
 perhaps his sympathy with her was not quick and watchful 
 enough ; but now he relived all their life together, with that 
 terrible keenness of memory and imagination which bereave- 
 ment gives, and he felt as if his very love needed a pardon for 
 its poverty and selfishness. 
 
 No outward solace could counteract the bitterness of this 
 inward woe. But outward solace came. Cold faces looked 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 73 
 
 kind again, and parishioners turned over in their minds what 
 they could best do to help their pastor. Mr. Oldinport wrote 
 to express his sympathy, and enclosed another twenty-pound 
 note, begging that he might be permitted to contribute in this 
 way to the relief of Mr. Barton's mind from pecuniary anxie- 
 ties, under the pressure of a grief which all his parishioners 
 must share ; and ojffering his interest toward placing the two 
 eldest girls in a school expressly founded for clergymen's 
 daughters. Mr. Cleves succeeded in collecting thirty pounds 
 among his richer clerical brethren, and, adding ten pounds 
 himself, sent the sum to Amos, with the kindest and most 
 delicate words of Christian fellowship and manly friendship. 
 Miss Jackson forgot old grievances, and came to stay some 
 months with Milly's children, bringing such material aid as 
 she could spare from her small income. These were substan- 
 tial helps, which relieved Amos from the pressure of his money 
 diflBculties ; and the friendly attentions, the kind pressure of 
 the hand, the cordial looks he met with everywhere in his 
 parish, made him feel that the fatal frost which had settled 
 on his pastoral duties, during the Countess's residence at the 
 vicarage, was completely thawed, and that the hearts of his 
 parishioners were once more open to him. 
 
 No one breathed the Countess's name now ; for Milly's mem- 
 ory hallowed her husband, as of old the place was hallowed on 
 which an angel from God had alighted. 
 
 When the spring came, Mrs. Hackit begged that she might 
 have Dickey to stay with her, and great was the enlargement 
 of Dickey's experience from that visit. Every morning he was 
 allowed — being well wrapt up as to his chest by Mrs. Hackit' s 
 own hands, but very bare and red as to his legs — to run loose 
 in the cow and poultry yard, to persecute the turkey-cock by 
 satirical imitations of his gobble-gobble, and to put difficult 
 questions to the groom as to the reasons why horses had four 
 legs, and other transcendental matters. Then Mr. Hackit 
 would take Dickey up on horseback when he rode round his 
 farm, and Mrs. Hackit had a large plum-cake in cut, ready to 
 meet incidental attacks of hunger. So that Dickey had con- 
 siderably modified his views as to the desirability of Mrs. 
 Hackit' s kisses. 
 
74 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 The Misses Farquhar made particular pets of Fred and 
 Sophy, to whom they undertook to give lessons twice a week 
 in writing and geography ; and Mrs. Farquhar devised many 
 treats for the little ones. Patty's treat was to stay at home, 
 or walk about with her papa ; and when he sat by the fire in 
 an evening, after the other children were gone to bed, she 
 would bring a stool, and, placing it against his feet, would sit 
 down upon it and lean her head against his knee. Then his 
 hand would rest on that fair head, and he would feel that 
 Milly's love was not quite gone out of his life. 
 
 So the time wore on till it was May again, and the church 
 was quite finished and reopened in all its new splendor, and 
 Mr. Barton was devoting himself with more vigor than ever to 
 his parochial duties. But one morning — it was a very bright 
 morning, and evil tidings sometimes like to fly in the finest 
 weather — there came a letter for Mr. Barton, addressed in the 
 Vicar's handwriting. Amos opened it with some anxiety — 
 somehow or other he had a presentiment of evil. The letter 
 contained the announcement that Mr. Carpe had resolved on 
 coming to reside at Shepperton, and that, consequently, in six 
 months from that time Mr. Barton's duties as curate in that 
 parish would be closed. 
 
 Oh, it was hard! Just when Shepperton had become the 
 place where he most wished to stay — where he had friends 
 who knew his sorrows — where he lived close to Milly's grave. 
 To part from that grave seemed like parting with Milly a sec- 
 ond time ; for Amos was one who clung to all the material 
 links between his mind and the past. His imagination was 
 not vivid, and required the stimulus of actual perception. 
 
 It roused some bitter feeling, too, to think that Mr. Carpe's 
 wish to reside at Shepperton was merely a pretext for remov- 
 ing Mr. Barton, in order that he might ultimately give the 
 curacy of Shepperton to his own brother-in-law, who was 
 known to be wanting a new position. 
 
 Still, it must be borne ; and the painful business of seeking 
 another curacy must be set about without loss of time. After 
 the lapse of some months, Amos was obliged to renounce the 
 hope of getting one at all near Shepperton, and he at length 
 resigned himself to accepting one in a distant county. The 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 76 
 
 parish was in a large manufacturing town, where his walks 
 would lie among noisy streets and dingy alleys, and where the 
 children would have no garden to play in, no pleasant farm- 
 houses to visit. 
 It was another blow inflicted on the bruised man. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 At length the dreaded week was come, when Amos and his 
 children must leave Shepperton. There was general regret 
 among the parishioners at his departure : not that any one of 
 them thought his spiritual gifts pre-eminent, or was conscious 
 of great edification from his ministry. But his recent troubles 
 had called out their better sympathies, and that is always a 
 source of love. Amos failed to touch the spring of goodness 
 by his sermons, but he touched it effectually by his sorrows ; 
 and there was now a real bond between him and his flock. 
 
 "My heart aches for them poor motherless children,'^ said 
 Mrs. Hackit to her husband, " a-going among strangers, and 
 into a nasty town, where there's no good victuals to be had, 
 and you must pay dear to get bad uns." 
 
 Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of a town life as a combi- 
 nation of dirty backyards, measly pork, and dingy linen. 
 
 The same sort of sympathy was strong among the poorer 
 class of parishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. Tozer, who was 
 still able to earn a little by gardening "jobs," stopped Mrs. 
 Cramp, the charwoman, on her way home from the vicarage, 
 where she had been helping Nanny to pack up the day before 
 the departure, and inquired very particularly into Mr. Bar- 
 ton's prospects. 
 
 "Ah, poor mon," he was heard to say, "I'm sorry for un. 
 He hedn't much here, but he'll be wuss off theer. Half a 
 loaf's better nor ne'er un." 
 
 The sad good-bys had all been said before that last evening; 
 and after all the packing was done and all the arrangements 
 were made, Amos felt the oppression of that blank interval in 
 which one has nothing left to think of but the dreary future — 
 
76 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 the separation from the loved and familiar, and the chilling 
 entrance on the new and strange. In every parting there is 
 an image of death. 
 
 Soon after ten o'clock, when he had sent Nanny to bed, 
 that she might have a good night's rest before the fatigues of 
 the morrow, he stole softly out to pay a last visit to Milly's 
 grave. It was a moonless night, but the sky was thick with 
 stars, and their light was enough to show that the grass had 
 grown long on the grave, and that there was a tombstone tell- 
 ing in bright letters, on a dark ground, that beneath were 
 deposited the remains of Amelia, the beloved wife of Amos 
 Barton, who died in the thirty-fifth year of her age, leaving a 
 husband and six children to lament her loss. The final words 
 of the inscription were, "Thy will be done.'' 
 
 The husband was now advancing toward the dear mound 
 from which he was so soon to be parted, perhaps forever. He 
 stood a few minutes reading over and over again the words on 
 the tombstone, as if to assure himself that all the happy and 
 unhappy past was a reality. For love is frightened at the in- 
 tervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little 
 and little on the dominion of grief, and it makes efforts to re- 
 call the keenness of the first anguish. 
 
 Gradually, as his eye dwelt on the words, " Amelia, the be- 
 loved wife," the waves of feeling swelled within his soul, and 
 he threw himself on the grave, clasping it with his arms, and 
 kissing the cold turf. 
 
 "Milly, Milly, dost thou hear me? I didn't love thee 
 enough — I wasn't tender enough to thee — but I think of it all 
 now." 
 
 The sobs came and choked his utterance, and the warm 
 tears fell. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Only once again in his life has Amos Barton visited Milly^s 
 grave. It was in the calm and softened light of an autumnal 
 afternoon, and he was not alone. He held on his arm a young 
 woman, with a sweet, grave face, which strongly recalled the 
 
AMOS BARTON. 
 
 77 
 
 expression of Mrs. Barton's, but was less lovely in form and 
 color. She was about thirty, but there were some premature 
 lines round her mouth and eyes, which told of early anxiety. 
 
 Amos himself was much changed. His thin circlet of hair 
 was nearly white, and his walk was no longer firm and up- 
 right. But his glance was calm, and even cheerful, and his 
 neat linen told of a woman's care. Milly did not take all her 
 love from the earth when she died. She had left some of it 
 in Patty's heart. 
 
 All the other children were now grown up, and had gone 
 their several ways. Dickey, you will be glad to hear, had 
 shown remarkable talents as an engineer. His cheeks are 
 still ruddy, in spite of mixed mathematics, and his eyes are 
 still large and blue; but in other respects his person would 
 present no marks of identification for his friend Mrs. Hackit, 
 if she were to see him ; especially now that her eyes must be 
 grown very dim, with the wear of more than twenty additional 
 years. He is nearly six feet high, and has a proportionately 
 broad chest; he wears spectacles, and rubs his large white 
 hands through a mass of shaggy brown hair. But I am sure 
 you have no doubt that Mr. Eichard Barton is a thoroughly 
 good fellow, as well as a man of talent, and you will be glad 
 any day to shake hands with him, for his own sake as well as 
 his mother's. 
 
 Patty alone remains by her father's side, and makes the 
 evening sunshine of his life. 
 
ME. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 When old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty years ago, there was 
 general sorrow in Shepperton; and if black cloth had not 
 been hung round the pulpit and reading-desk, by order of his 
 nephew and principal legatee, the parishioners would certainly 
 have subscribed the necessary sum out of their own pockets, 
 rather than allow such a tribute of respect to be wanting. 
 All the farmers^ wives brought out their black bombazines; 
 and Mrs. Jennings, at the Wharf, by appearing the first 
 Sunday after Mr. GilfiPs death in her salmon-colored ribbons 
 and green shawl, excited the severest remark. To be sure, 
 Mrs. Jennings was a new-comer, and town-bred, so that she 
 could hardly be expected to have very clear notions of what 
 was proper; but as Mrs. Higgins observed in an undertone to 
 Mrs. Parrot when they were coming out of church, Her hus- 
 band, who'd been born i' the parish, might ha' told her bet- 
 ter." An unreadiness to put on black on all available occa- 
 sions, or too great an alacrity in putting it off, argued, in 
 Mrs. Higgins' s opinion, a dangerous levity of character, and 
 an unnatural insensibility to the essential fitness of things. 
 
 "Some folks can't a-bear to put off their colors," she re- 
 marked ; " but that was never the way i' my family. Why, 
 Mrs. Parrot, from the time I was married, till Mr. Higgins 
 died, nine years ago come Candlemas, I niver was out o' black 
 two year together ! " 
 
 "Ah," said Mrs. Parrot, who was conscious of inferiority 
 in this respect, "there isn't many families as have had so 
 many deaths as yours, Mrs. Higgins." 
 
 Mrs. Higgins, who was an elderly widow, "well left," re- 
 flected with complacency that Mrs. Parrot's observation was 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 79 
 
 no more than just, and that Mrs. Jennings very likely be- 
 H)nged to a family which had had no funerals to speak of. 
 
 Even dirty Dame Fripp, who was a very rare church-goer, 
 had been to Mrs. Hackit to beg a bit of old crape, and with 
 this sign of grief pinned on her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was 
 seen dropping her curtsy opposite the reading-desk. This 
 manifestation of respect toward Mr. GilfiFs memory on the 
 part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing whatever. It 
 was due to an event which had occurred some years back, and 
 which, I am sorry to say, had left that grimy old lady as in- 
 different to the means of grace as ever. Dame Fripp kept 
 leeches, and was understood to have such remarkable influence 
 over those wilful animals in inducing them to bite under the 
 most unpromising circumstances, that though her own leeches 
 were usually rejected, from a suspicion that they had lost 
 their appetite, she herself was constantly called in to apply 
 the more lively individuals furnished from Mr. Pilgrim^s sur- 
 gery, when, as was very often the case, one of that clever 
 man's paying patients was attacked with inflammation. Thus 
 Dame Fripp, in addition to " property supposed to yield her 
 no less than half a crown a week, was in the receipt of profes- 
 sional fees, the gross .amount of which was vaguely estimated 
 by her neighbors as *^pouns an' pouns.'' Moreover, she drove 
 a brisk trade in lollipop with epicurean urchins, who recklessly 
 purchased that luxury at the rate of two hundred per cent. 
 Nevertheless, with all these notorious sources of income, the 
 shameless old woman constantly pleaded poverty, and begged 
 for scraps at Mrs. Hackit's, who, though she always said 
 Mrs. Fripp was " as false as two folks, " and no better than a 
 miser and a heathen, had yet a leaning toward her as an old 
 neighbor. 
 
 " There's that case-hardened old Judy a-coming after the 
 tea-leaves again," Mrs. Hackit would say; "an' I'm fool 
 enough to give 'em her, though Sally want's 'em all the while 
 to sweep the floors with ! " 
 
 Such was Dame Fripp, whom Mr. Gilfil, riding leisurely in 
 top-boots and spurs from doing duty at Knebley one warm 
 Sunday afternoon, observed sitting in the dry ditch near her 
 cottage, and by her side a large pig, who, with that ease and 
 
80 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 confidence belonging to perfect friendship, was lying with his 
 head in her lap, and making no effort to play the agreeable 
 beyond an occasional grunt. 
 
 '^Why, Mrs. Fripp," said the Vicar, "I didn't know you 
 had such a fine pig. You'll have some rare flitches at Christ- 
 mas ! " 
 
 "Eh, God forbid! My son gev him me two 'ear ago, an' 
 he's been company to me iver sin'. I couldn't find i' my 
 heart to part wi'm, if I niver knowed the taste o' bacon-fat 
 again." 
 
 " Why, he'll eat his head off, and yours too. How can you 
 go on keeping a pig, and making nothing by him? " 
 
 " Oh, he picks a bit hisself wi' rootin', and I dooant mind 
 doing wi'out to gi' him summat. A bit o' coompany's meat 
 an' drink too, an' he foUers me about, and grunts when I 
 spake to'm, just like a Christian." 
 
 Mr. Gilfil laughed, and I am obliged to admit that he said 
 good-by to Dame Fripp without asking her why she had not 
 been to church, or making the slightest effort for her spiritual 
 edification. But the next day he ordered his man David to 
 take her a great piece of bacon, with a message, saying, the 
 parson wanted to make sure that Mrs. Fripp would know the 
 taste of bacon-fat again. So, when Mr. Gilfil died. Dame 
 Fripp manifested her gratitude and reverence in the simple 
 dingy fashion I have mentioned. 
 
 You already suspect that the Vicar did not shine in the more 
 spiritual functions of his office; and indeed, the utmost I can 
 say for him in this respect is, that he performed those func- 
 tions with undeviating attention to brevity and despatch. He 
 had a large heap of short sermons, rather yellow and worn at 
 the edges, from which he took two every Sunday, securing 
 perfect impartiality in the selection by taking them as they 
 came, without reference to topics ; and having preached one of 
 these sermons at Shepperton in the morning, he mounted his 
 horse and rode hastily with the other in his pocket to Kneb- 
 ley, where he officiated in a wonderful little church, with a 
 checkered pavement which had once rung to the iron tread of 
 military monks, with coats of arms in clusters on the lofty 
 roof, marble warriors, and their wives without noses occupy- 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 81 
 
 ing a large proportion of the area, and the twelve apostles, 
 with their heads very much on one side, holding didactic rib- 
 bons, painted in fresco on the walls. Here, in an absence of 
 mind to which he was prone, Mr. Gilfil would sometimes for- 
 get to take off his spurs before putting on his surplice, and only 
 become aware of the omission by feeling something myste- 
 riously tugging at the skirts of that garment as he stepped into 
 the reading-desk. But the Knebley farmers would as soon 
 have thought of criticising the moon as their pastor. He be- 
 longed to the course of nature, like markets and toll-gates and 
 dirty bank-notes ; and being a vicar, his claim on their vener- 
 ation had never been counteracted by an exasperating claim 
 on their pockets. Some of them, who did not indulge in the 
 superfluity of a covered cart without springs, had dined half 
 an hour earlier than usual — that is to say, at twelve o' clock- 
 in order to have time for their long walk through miry lanes, 
 and present themselves duly in their places at two o'clock, when 
 Mr. Oldinport and Lady Felicia, to whom Knebley Church was 
 a sort of family temple, made their way among the bows and 
 curtsies of their dependents to a carved and canopied pew in 
 the chancel, diffusing as they went a delicate odor of Indian 
 roses on the unsusceptible nostrils of the congregation. 
 
 The farmers' wives and children sate on the dark oaken 
 benches, but the husbands usually chose the distinctive dig- 
 nity of a stall under one of the twelve apostles, where, when 
 the alternation of prayers and responses had given place to 
 the agreeable monotony of the sermon. Paterfamilias might be 
 seen or heard sinking into a pleasant doze, from which he in- 
 fallibly woke up at the sound of the concluding doxology. 
 And then they made their way back again through the miry 
 lanes, perhaps almost as much the better for this simple 
 weekly tribute to what they knew of good and right, as 
 many a more wakeful and critical congregation of the present 
 day. 
 
 Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his way home in the later years 
 of his life, for he had given up the habit of dining at Knebley 
 Abbey on a Sunday, having, I am sorry to say, had a very 
 bitter quarrel with Mr. Oldinport, the cousin and predecessor 
 <of the Mr. Oldinport who flourished in the Eev. Amos Barton's 
 
82 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 time. That quarrel was a sad pity, for the two had had many 
 a good day^s hunting together when they were younger, and 
 in those friendly times not a few members of the hunt envied 
 Mr. Oldinport the excellent terms he was on with his vicar; 
 for, as Sir Jasper Sitwell observed, ^^next to a man's wife, 
 there's nobody can be such an infernal plague to you as a 
 parson, always under your nose on your own estate." 
 
 1 fancy the original difference which led to the rupture was 
 very slight ; but Mr. Gilfil was of an extremely caustic turn, 
 his satire having the flavor of originality which was quite 
 wanting in his sermons; and as Mr. Oldinport's armor of 
 conscious virtue presented some considerable and conspicuous 
 gaps, the Vicar's keen-edged retorts probably made a few in- 
 cisions too deep to be forgiven. Such, at least, was the view 
 of the case presented by Mr. Hackit, who knew as much of 
 the matter as any third person. For, the very week after the 
 quarrel, when presiding at the annual dinner of the Associa- 
 tion for the Prosecution of Felons, held at the Oldinport Arms, 
 he contributed an additional zest to the conviviality on that 
 occasion by informing the company that "the parson had 
 given the Squire a lick with the rough side of his tongue." 
 The detection of the person or persons who had driven off Mr. 
 Parrot's heifer, could hardly have been more welcome news 
 to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr. Oldinport was in 
 the worst odor as a landlord, having kept up his rents in spite 
 of falling prices, and not being in the least stung to emulation 
 by paragraphs in the provincial newspapers, stating that the 
 Honorable Augustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers, had made 
 a return of ten per cent, on their last rent-day. The fact was, 
 Mr. Oldinport had not the slightest intention of standing for 
 Parliament, whereas he had the strongest intention of adding 
 to his unentailed estate. Hence, to the Shepperton farmers 
 it was as good as lemon with their grog to know that the Vicar 
 had thrown out sarcasms against the Squire's charities, as little 
 better than those of the man who stole a goose, and gave away 
 the giblets in alms. For Shepperton, you observe, was in a 
 state of Attic culture compared with Knebley ; it had turnpike 
 roads and a public opinion, whereas, in the Boeotian Knebley, 
 men's minds and wagons alike moved in the deepest of ruts. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 83 
 
 and the landlord was only grumbled at as a necessary and 
 unalterable evil, like the weather, the weevils, and the turnip- 
 
 Thus in Shepperton this breach with Mr. Oldinport tended 
 only to heighten that good understanding which the Vicar had 
 always enjoyed with the rest of his parishioners, from the 
 generation whose children he had christened a quarter of a 
 century before, down to that hopeful generation represented 
 by little Tommy Bond, who had recently quitted frocks and 
 trousers for the severe simplicity of a tight suit of corduroys, 
 relieved by numerous brass buttons. Tommy was a saucy 
 boy, impervious to all impressions of reverence, and exces- 
 sively addicted to humming-tops and marbles, with which 
 recreative resources he was in the habit of immoderately dis- 
 tending the pockets of his corduroys. One day, spinning his 
 top on the garden-walk, and seeing the Vicar advance directly 
 toward it, at that exciting moment when it was beginning to 
 " sleep magnificently, he shouted out with all the force of 
 his lungs — "Stop! don't knock my top down, now!'' From 
 that day little Corduroys " had been an especial favorite with 
 Mr. Gilfil, who delighted to provoke his ready scorn and won- 
 der by putting questions which gave Tommy the meanest 
 opinion of his intellect. 
 
 " Well, little Corduroys, have they milked the geese to- 
 day?" 
 
 "Milked the geese! why, they don't milk the geese, you 
 silly!" 
 
 "No! dear heart! why, how do the goslings live, then?" 
 
 The nutriment of goslings rather transcending Tommy's ob- 
 servations in natural history, he feigned to understand this 
 question in an exclamatory rather than an interrogatory sense, 
 and became absorbed in winding up his top. 
 
 "Ah, I see you don't know how the goslings live! But did 
 you notice how it rained sugar-plums yesterday?" (Here 
 Tommy became attentive.) " Why, they fell into my pocket 
 as I rode along. You look in my pocket and see if they 
 didn't." 
 
 Tommy, without waiting to discuss the alleged antecedent, 
 lost no time in ascertaining the presence of the agreeable con- 
 
84 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 sequent, for he had a well-founded belief in the advantages of 
 diving into the Vicar's pocket. Mr. Gilfil called it his won- 
 derful pocket, because, as he delighted to tell the "young 
 shavers'' and "two- shoes" — so he called all little boys and 
 girls — whenever he put pennies into it, they turned into sugar- 
 plums or gingerbread, or some other nice thing. Indeed, little 
 Bessie Parrot, a flaxen-headed "two-shoes," very white and 
 fat as to her neck, always had the admirable directness and 
 sincerity to salute him with the question — " What zoo dot in 
 zoo pottet?" 
 
 You can imagine, then, that the christening dinners were 
 none the less merry for the presence of the parson. The 
 farmers relished his society particularly, for he could not only 
 smoke his pipe, and season the details of parish affairs with 
 abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs, but, as Mr. Bond 
 often said, no man knew more than the Vicar about the breed 
 of cows and horses. He had grazing-land of his own about 
 five miles off, which a bailiff, ostensibly a tenant, farmed 
 under his direction ; and to ride backward and forward, and 
 look after the buying and selling of stock, was the old gentle- 
 man's chief relaxation, now his hunting-days were over. To 
 hear him discussing the respective merits of the Devonshire 
 breed and the short-horns, or the last foolish decision of the 
 magistrates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have 
 seen little difference, beyond his superior shrewdness, between 
 the Vicar and his bucolic parishioners ; for it was his habit to 
 approximate his accent and mode of speech to theirs, doubt- 
 less because he thought it a mere frustration of the purposes 
 of language to talk of " shear-hogs " and " ewes " to men who 
 habitually said "sharrags" and "yowes." Nevertheless the 
 farmers themselves were perfectly aware of the distinction 
 between them and the parson, and had not at all the less 
 belief in him as a gentleman and a clergyman for his easy 
 speech and familiar manners. Mrs. Parrot smoothed her 
 apron and set her cap right with the utmost solicitude when 
 she saw the Vicar coming, made him her deepest curtsy, and 
 every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send him with her 
 " duty." And in the most gossiping colloquies with Mr. 
 Gilfil, you might have observed that both men and women 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 85 
 
 "minded their words/' and never became indifferent to his 
 approbation. 
 
 The same respect attended him in his strictly clerical func- 
 tions. The benefits of baptism were supposed to be somehow 
 bound up with Mr. GilfiPs personality, so metaphysical a dis- 
 tinction as that between a man and his office being, as yet, 
 quite foreign to the mind of a good Shepperton Churchman, 
 savoring, he would have thought, of Dissent on the very face 
 of it. Miss Selina Parrot put off her marriage a whole month 
 when Mr. Gilfil had an attack of rheumatism, rather than be 
 married in a makeshift manner by the Milby curate. 
 
 "We've had a very good sermon this morning,'' was the 
 frequent remark, after hearing one of the old yellow series, 
 heard with all the more satisfaction because it had been heard 
 for the twentieth time ; for to minds on the Shepperton level 
 it is repetition, not novelty, that produces the strongest effect ; 
 and phrases, like tunes, are a long time making themselves at 
 home in the brain. 
 
 Mr. Gilfil' s sermons, as you may imagine, were not of a 
 highly doctrinal, still less of a polemical, cast. They perhaps 
 did not search the conscience very powerfully; for you re- 
 member that to Mrs. Patten, who had listened to them thirty 
 years, the announcement that she was a sinner appeared an 
 uncivil heresy ; but, on the other hand, they made no unrea- 
 sonable demand on the Shepperton intellect — amounting, in- 
 deed, to little more than an expansion of the concise thesis, 
 that those who do wrong will find it the worse for them, and 
 those who do well will find it the better for them ; the nature 
 of wrong-doing being exposed in special sermons against lying, 
 backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like; and well-doing 
 being interpreted as honesty, truthfulness, charity, industry, 
 and other common virtues, lying quite on the surface of life, 
 and having very little to do with deep spiritual doctrine. 
 Mrs. Patten understood that if she turned out ill-crushed 
 cheeses, a just retribution awaited her; though, I fear, she 
 made no particular application of the sermon on backbiting. 
 Mrs. Hackit expressed herself greatly edified by the sermon 
 on honesty, the allusion to the unjust weight and deceitful 
 balance having a peculiar lucidity for her, owing to a recent 
 
86 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 dispute with her grocer ; but I am not aware that she ever ap- 
 peared to be much struck by the sermon on anger. 
 
 As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil did not dispense the 
 pure Gospel, or any strictures on his doctrine and mode of 
 delivery, such thoughts never visited the minds of the Shep- 
 perton parishioners — of those very parishioners who, ten or 
 fifteen years later, showed themselves extremely critical of 
 Mr. Barton's discourses and demeanor. But in the interim 
 they had tasted that dangerous fruit of the tree of knowledge 
 — innovation, which is well known to open the eyes, even in 
 an uncomfortable manner. At present, to find fault with the 
 sermon was regarded as almost equivalent to finding fault with 
 religion itself. One Sunday, Mr. Plackit's nephew. Master 
 Tom Stokes, a flippant town youth, greatly scandalized his 
 excellent relatives by declaring that he could write as good a 
 sermon as Mr. GilfiPs; whereupon Mr. Hackit sought to re- 
 duce the presumptuous youth to utter confusion, by offering 
 him a sovereign if he would fulfil his vaunt. The sermon was 
 written, however ; and though it was not admitted to be any- 
 where within reach of Mr. Gilfil's, it was yet so astonishingly 
 like a sermon, having a text, three divisions, and a conclud- 
 ing exhortation beginning And now, my brethren, that the 
 sovereign, though denied formally, was bestowed informally, 
 and the sermon was pronounced, when Master Stokes's back 
 was turned, to be "an uncommon cliver thing." 
 
 The Eev. Mr. Pickard, indeed, of the Independent Meeting, 
 had stated, in a sermon preached at Kotherby, for the reduc- 
 tion of a debt on New Zion, built, with an exuberance of 
 faith and a deficiency of funds, by seceders from the original 
 Zion, that he lived in a parish where the Vicar was very 
 " dark '' ; and in the prayers he addressed to his own congrega- 
 tion, he was in the habit of comprehensively alluding to the 
 parishioners outside the chapel walls, as those who, Gallio- 
 like, " cared for none of these things." But I need hardly say 
 that no church-goer ever came within earshot of Mr. Pickard. 
 
 It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that Mr. GilfiPs 
 society was acceptable; he was a welcome guest at some of the 
 best houses in that part of the country. Old Sir Jasper Sit- 
 well would have been glad to see him every week ; and if you 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 87 
 
 had seen him conducting Lady Sitwell in to dinner, or had 
 heard him talking to her with quaint yet graceful gallantry, 
 you would have inferred that the earlier period of his life had 
 been passed in more stately society than could be found in 
 Shepperton, and that his slipshod chat and homely manners 
 were but like weather-stains on a fine old block of marble, 
 allowing you still to see here and there the fineness of the 
 grain, and the delicacy of the original tint. But in his later 
 years these visits became a little too troublesome to the old 
 gentleman, and he was rarely to be found anywhere of an 
 evening beyond the bounds of his own parish — most frequent- 
 ly, indeed, by the side of his own sitting-room fire, smoking 
 his pipe, and maintaining the pleasing antithesis of dryness 
 and moisture by an occasional sip of gin-and-water. 
 
 Here I am aware that I have run the risk of alienating all 
 my refined lady -readers, and utterly annihilating any curiosity 
 they may have felt to know the details of Mr. Gilfil's love-story. 
 " Gin-and-water ! f oh ! you may as well ask us to interest our- 
 selves in the romance of a tallow-chandler, who mingles the 
 image of his beloved with short dips and moulds." 
 
 But in the first place, dear ladies, allow me to plead that 
 gin-and-water, like obesity, or baldness, or the gout, does not 
 exclude a vast amount of antecedent romance, any more than 
 the neatly executed " fronts which you may some day wear, 
 will exclude your present possession of less expensive braids. 
 Alas, alas ! we poor mortals are often little better than wood- 
 ashes — there is small sign of the sap, and the leafy freshness, 
 and the bursting buds that were once there ; but wherever we 
 see wood-ashes, we know that all that early fulness of life 
 must have been. I, at least, hardly ever look at a bent old 
 man, or a wizened old woman, but I see also, with my mind's 
 eye, that Past of which they are the shrunken remnant, and 
 the unfinished romance of rosy cheeks and bright eyes seems 
 sometimes of feeble interest and significance, compared with 
 that drama of hope and love which has long ago reached its 
 catastrophe, and left the poor soul, like a dim and dusty 
 stage, with all its sweet garden-scenes and fair perspectives 
 overturned and thrust out of sight. 
 
 In the second place, let me assure you that Mr. GilfiPs po- 
 
88 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 tations of gin-and-water were quite moderate. His noee was 
 not rubicund j on the contrary, his white hair hung around a 
 pale and venerable face. He drank it chiefly, I believe, be- 
 cause it was cheap ; and here I find myself alighting on another 
 of the Vicar's weaknesses, which, if I had cared to paint a 
 flattering portrait rather than a faithful one, I might have 
 chosen to suppress. It is undeniable that, as the years ad- 
 vanced, Mr. Gilfil became, as Mr. Hackit observed, more and 
 more close-fisted, though the growing propensity showed 
 itself rather in the parsimony of his personal habits, than in 
 withholding help from the needy. He was saving — so he 
 represented the matter to himself — for a nephew, the only son 
 of a sister who had been the dearest object, all but one, in his 
 life. "The lad,'' he thought, "will have a nice little fortune 
 to begin life with, and will bring his pretty young wife some 
 day to see the spot where his old uncle lies. It will perhaps 
 be all the better for his hearth that mine was lonely." 
 Mr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then? 
 
 That is the conclusion to which you would probably have 
 come if you had entered his sitting-room, where the bare 
 tables, the large old-fashioned horse-hair chairs, and the 
 threadbare Turkey carpet perpetually fumigated with tobacco, 
 seemed to tell a story of wifeless existence that was contra- 
 dicted by no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit of 
 pretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small feminine 
 ambitions. And it was here that Mr. Gilfil passed his even- 
 ings, seldom with other society than that of Ponto, his old 
 brown setter, who, stretched out at full length on the rug with 
 his nose between his fore-paws, would wrinkle his brows and 
 lift up his eyelids every now and then, to exchange a glance 
 of mutual understanding with his master. But there was a 
 chamber in Shepperton Vicarage which told a different story 
 from that bare and cheerless dining-room — a chamber never 
 entered by any one besides Mr. Gilfil and old Martha the 
 housekeeper, who, with David her husband as groom and gar- 
 dener, formed the Vicar's entire establishment. The blinds 
 of this chamber were always down, except once a quarter, 
 when Martha entered that she might air and clean it. She 
 always asked Mr. Gilfil for the key, which he kept locked up 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOYE STORY. 
 
 89 
 
 in his bureau, and returned it to him when she had finished 
 her task. 
 
 It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed in upon, 
 as Martha drew aside the blinds and thick curtains, and 
 opened the Gothic casement of the oriel window ! On the lit- 
 tle dressing-table there was a dainty looking-glass in a carved 
 and gilt frame ; bits of wax-candle were still in the branched 
 sockets at the sides, and on one of these branches hung a little 
 black lace kerchief; a faded satin pin-cushion, with the pins 
 rusted in it, a scent-bottle, and a large green fan, lay on the 
 table; and on a dressing-box by the side of the glass was a 
 work-basket, and an unfinished baby-cap, yellow with age, 
 lying in it. Two gowns, of a fashion long forgotten, were 
 hanging on nails against the door, and a pair of tiny red slip- 
 pers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery on them, were 
 standing at the foot of the bed. Two or three water-color 
 drawings, views of Naples, hung upon the walls ; and over the 
 mantelpiece, above some bits of rare old china, two minia- 
 tures in oval frames. One of these miniatures represented a 
 young man about seven and twenty, with a sanguine complex- 
 ion, full lips, and clear candid gray eyes. The other was the 
 likeness of a girl probably not more than eighteen, with small 
 features, thin cheeks, a pale southern-looking complexion, 
 and large dark eyes. The gentleman wore powder; the lady 
 had her dark hair gathered away from her face, and a little 
 cap, with a cherry-colored bow, set on the top of her head — 
 a coquettish head-dress, but the eyes spoke of sadness rather 
 than of coquetry. 
 
 Such were the things that Martha had dusted and let the 
 air upon, four times a year, ever since she was a blooming 
 lass of twenty ; and she was now, in this last decade of Mr. 
 Gilfil's life, unquestionably on the wrong side of fifty. Such 
 was the locked-up chamber in Mr. GilfiPs house: a sort of 
 visible symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, where 
 he had long turned the key on early hopes and early sor- 
 rows, shutting up forever all the passion and the poetry of 
 his life. 
 
 There were not many people in the parish, besides Martha, 
 who had any very distinct remembrance of Mr. GilfiPs wife, 
 
90 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 or indeed who knew anything of her, beyond the fact that 
 there was a marble tablet, with a Latin inscription in memory 
 of her, over the vicarage pew. The parishioners who were 
 old enough to remember her arrival were not generally gifted 
 with descriptive powers, and the utmost you could gather from 
 them was, that Mrs. Gilfil looked like a " furriner, wi' such 
 eyes, you can't think, an' a voice as went through you when 
 she sung at church." The one exception was Mrs. Patten, 
 whose strong memory and taste for personal narrative made 
 her a great source of oral tradition in Shepperton. Mr. 
 Hackit, who had not come into the parish until ten years after 
 Mrs. Gilfil's death, would often put old questions to Mrs. Pat- 
 ten for the sake of getting the old answers, which pleased him 
 in the same way as passages from a favorite book, or the 
 scenes of a familiar play, please more accomplished people. 
 
 "Ah, you remember well the Sunday as Mrs. Gilfil first 
 come to church, eh, Mrs. Patten?" 
 
 " To be sure I do. It was a fine bright Sunday as ever was 
 seen, just at the beginnin' o' hay harvest. Mr. Tarbett 
 preached that day, and Mr. Gilfil sat i' the pew with his 
 wife. I think I see him now, a-leading her up the aisle, an' 
 her head not reachin' much above his elber: a little pale 
 woman, with eyes as black as sloes, an' yet lookin' blank- 
 like, as if she see'd nothing with 'em." 
 
 "I warrant she had her weddin' clothes on?" said Mr. 
 Hackit. 
 
 "Nothin' partickler smart — on'y a white hat tied down 
 under her chin, an' a white Indy muslin gown. But you 
 don't know what Mr. Gilfil was in those times. He was fine 
 an' altered before you come into the parish. He'd a fresh 
 color then, an' a bright look wi' his eyes, as did your heart 
 good to see. He looked rare and happy that Sunday; but 
 somehow, I'd a feelin' as it wouldn't last long. I've no opin- 
 ion o' furriners, Mr. Hackit, for I've travelled i' their country 
 with my lady in my time, an' seen enough o' their victuals 
 an' their nasty ways." 
 
 "Mrs. Gilfil come from It'ly, didn't she?" 
 
 " I reckon she did, but I niver could rightly hear about 
 that. Mr. Gifil was niver to be spoke to about her, and no- 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 91 
 
 body else hereabout knowed any thin'. Howiver, she must 
 ha' come over pretty young, for she spoke English as well as 
 you an' me. It's them Italians as has such fine voices, an' 
 Mrs. Gilfil sung, you never beared the like. He brought her 
 here to have tea with me one afternoon, and says he, in his 
 jovial way, ' Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Gilfil to see the 
 neatest house, and drink the best cup o' tea, in all Shepper- 
 ton ; you must show her your dairy and your cheese-room, and 
 then she shall sing you a song.' An' so she did; an' her 
 voice seemed sometimes to fill the room ; an' then it went low 
 an' soft as if it was whisperin' close to your heart like." 
 
 " You never beared her again, I reckon? " 
 
 " No : she was sickly then, and she died in a few months 
 after. She wasn't in the parish much more nor half a year 
 altogether. She didn't seem lively that afternoon, an' I could 
 see she didn't care about the dairy, nor the cheeses, on'y she 
 pretended, to please him. As for him, I niver see'd a man so 
 wrapt up in a woman. He looked at her as if he was worship- 
 pin' her, an' as if he wanted to lift her off the ground ivery 
 minute, to save her the trouble o' walkin' . Poor man, poor 
 man ! It had liked to ha' killed him when she died, though 
 he niver gev way, but went on ridin' about and preachin'. 
 But he was wore to a shadow, an' his eyes used to look as 
 dead — you wouldn't ha' knowed 'em." 
 
 " She brought him no fortin? " 
 
 "Not she. All Mr. Gilfil's property come by his mother's 
 side. There was blood an' money too, there. It's a thou- 
 sand pities as he married i' that way — a fine man like 
 him, as might ha' had the pick o' the county, an' had his 
 grandchildren about him now. An' him so fond o' chil- 
 dren, too." 
 
 In this manner Mrs. Patten usually wound up her reminis- 
 cences of the Vicar's wife, of whom, you perceive, she knew 
 but little. It was clear that the communicative old lady had 
 nothing to tell of Mrs. Gilfil's history previous to her arrival 
 in Shepperton, and that she was unacquainted with Mr. Gil- 
 fil's love-story. 
 
 But I, dear reader, am quite as communicative as Mrs. Pat- 
 ten, and much better informed; so that, if you care to know 
 
92 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 more about the Vicar's courtsMp and marriage, you need only 
 carry your imagination back to the latter end of the last cen- 
 tury, and your attention forward into the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 It is the evening of the 21st of June, 1788. The day has 
 been bright and sultry, and the sun will still be more than an 
 hour above the horizon, but his rays, broken by the leafy fret- 
 work of the elms that border the park, no longer prevent two 
 ladies from carrying out their cushions and embroidery, and 
 seating themselves to work on the lawn in front of Cheverel 
 Manor. The soft turf gives way even under the fairy tread of 
 the younger lady, whose small stature and slim figure rest on 
 the tiniest of full-grown feet. She trips along before the 
 elder, carrying the cushions, which she places in the favorite 
 spot, just on the slope by a clump of laurels where they can 
 see the sunbeams sparkling among the water-lilies, and can be 
 themselves seen from the dining-room windows. She has de- 
 posited the cushions, and now turns round, so that you may 
 have a full view of her as she stands waiting the slower ad- 
 vance of the elder lady. You are at once arrested by her large 
 dark eyes, which, in their inexpressive unconscious beauty, 
 resemble the eyes of a fawn, and it is only by an elfort of at- 
 tention that you notice the absence of bloom on her young 
 cheek, and the southern yellowish tint of her small neck and 
 iace, rising above the little black lace kerchief which prevents 
 the too immediate comparison of her skin with her white mus- 
 lin gown. Her large eyes seem all the more striking because 
 the dark hair is gathered away from her face, under a little 
 cap set at the top of her head, with a cherry-colored bow on 
 one side. 
 
 The elder lady, who is advancing toward the cushions, is 
 cast in a very different mould of womanhood. She is tall, and 
 looks the taller because her powdered hair is turned backward 
 over a toupee, and surmounted by lace and ribbons. She is 
 nearly fifty, but her complexion is still fresh and beautiful, 
 
MR. GILFIL'8 LOVE-STORY. 
 
 93 
 
 with the beauty of an auburn blonde ; her proud pouting lips, 
 and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, give an 
 expression of hauteur which is not contradicted by the cold 
 gray eye. The tucked-in kerchief, rising full over the low 
 tight bodice of her blue dress, sets off the majestic form of her 
 bust, and she treads the lawn as if she were one of Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds's stately ladies, who had suddenly stepped from her 
 frame to enjoy the evening cool. 
 
 "Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have 
 so much sun upon us," she called out, in a tone of authority, 
 when still at some distance. 
 
 Caterina obeyed, and they sat down, making two bright 
 patches of red and white and blue on the green background of 
 the laurels and the lawn, which would look none the less 
 pretty in a picture because one of the women's hearts was 
 rather cold and the other rather sad. 
 
 And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have made 
 that evening, if some English Watteau had been there to paint 
 it : the castellated house of gray-tinted stone, with the flicker- 
 ing sunbeams sending dashes of golden light across the many- 
 shaped panes in the mullioned windows, and a great beech 
 leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and breaking, with 
 its dark flattened boughs, the too formal symmetry of the 
 front ; the broad gravel-walk, winding, on the right, by a row 
 of tall pines, alongside the pool — on the left branching out 
 among swelling grassy mounds, surmounted by clumps of trees, 
 where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in the descending 
 sunlight against the bright green of limes and acacias; the 
 great pool, where a pair of swans are swimming lazily with 
 one leg tucked under a wing, and where the open water-lilies 
 lie calmly accepting the kisses of the fluttering light-sparkles ; 
 the lawn, with its smooth emerald greenness, sloping down to 
 the rougher and browner herbage of the park, from which it 
 is invisibly fenced by a little stream that winds away from the 
 pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distant 
 pleasure-ground; and on this lawn our two ladies, whose part 
 in the landscape the painter, standing at a favorable point of 
 view in the park, would represent with a few little dabs of red 
 and white and blue. 
 
94 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, 
 they had much more definiteness of outline, and were distinctly 
 visible to the three gentlemen sipping their claret there, as 
 two fair women in whom all three had a personal interest. 
 These gentlemen were a group worth considering attentively ; 
 but any one entering that dining-room for the first time, would 
 perhaps have had his attention even more strongly arrested by 
 the room itself, which was so bare of furniture that it impressed 
 one with its architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of 
 matting stretched from door to door^ a bit of worn carpet under 
 the dining-table, and a sideboard in a deep recess, did not de- 
 tain the eye for a moment from the lofty groined ceiling, with 
 its richly carved pendants, all of creamy white, relieved here 
 and there by touches of gold. On one side, this lofty ceiling 
 was supported by pillars and arches, beyond which a lower 
 ceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered the square 
 projection which, with its three large pointed windows, formed 
 the central feature of the building. The room looked less like 
 a place to dine in than a piece of space enclosed simply for the 
 sake of beautiful outline ; and the small dining-table, with the 
 party round it, seemed an odd and insignificant accident, 
 rather than anything connected with the original purpose of 
 the apartment. 
 
 But, examined closely, that group was far from insignifi- 
 cant; for the eldest, who was reading in the newspaper the 
 last portentous proceedings of the French parliaments, and 
 turning with occasional comments to his young companions, 
 was as fine a specimen of the old English gentleman as could 
 well have been found in those venerable days of cocked-hats 
 and pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, 
 made more prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows; but any 
 apprehension of severity excited by these penetrating eyes, 
 and by a somewhat aquiline nose, was allayed by the good- 
 natured lines about the mouth, which retained all its teeth and 
 Its vigor of expression in spite of sixty winters. The forehead 
 sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peaked out- 
 line was made conspicuous b}^ the arrangement of the profusely 
 powdered hair drawn backward and gathered into a pigtail. 
 He sat in a small hard chair, which did not admit the slight- 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 96 
 
 est approach to a lounge, and which showed to advantage the 
 flatness of his back and the breadth of his chest. In fact, Sir 
 Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman, as any 
 one may see who enters the saloon at Cheverel Manor, where 
 his full-length portrait, taken when he was fifty, hangs side 
 by side with that of his wife, the stately lady seated on the 
 lawn. 
 
 Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been 
 inclined to hope that he had a full-grown son and heir ; but 
 perhaps you would have wished that it might not prove to be 
 the young man on his right hand, in whom a certain resem- 
 blance to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and brow, 
 seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this young man 
 had been less elegant in his person, he would have been re- 
 marked for the elegance of his dress. But the perfections of 
 his slim, well-proportioned figure were so striking that no one 
 but a tailor could notice the perfections of his velvet coat ; and 
 his small white hands, with their blue veins and taper fingers, 
 quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles. The face, how- 
 ever — it was difficult to say why — was certainly not pleasing. 
 Nothing could be more delicate than the blond complexion — 
 its bloom set off by the powdered hair — than the veined over- 
 hanging eyelids, which gave an indolent expression to the 
 hazel eyes ; nothing more finely cut than the transparent nos- 
 tril and the short upper lip. Perhaps the chin and lower jaw 
 were too small for an irreproachable profile, but the defect was 
 on the side of that delicacy and finesse which was the distinc- 
 tive characteristic of the whole person, and which was carried 
 out in the clear brown arch of the eyebrows, and the marble 
 smoothness of the sloping forehead. Impossible to say that 
 this face was not eminently handsome; yet, for the majority, 
 both of men and women, it was destitute of charm. Women 
 disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently accepting admira- 
 tion instead of rendering it ; and men, especially if they had a 
 tendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles, were inclined 
 to think this Antinous in a pigtail a " confounded puppy. I 
 fancy that was frequently the inward interjection of the Kev. 
 Maynard Gilfil, who was seated on the opposite side of the 
 dining-table, though Mr. Gilfil' s legs and profile were not at 
 
96 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 all of a kind to make him peculiarly alive to the impertinence 
 and frivolity of personal advantages. His healthy open face and 
 robust limbs were after an excellent pattern for e very-day wear, 
 and, in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country gardener, 
 would have become regimentals " a fain saight better than the 
 " peaky " features and slight form of Captain Wybrow, not- 
 withstanding that this young gentleman, as Sir Christopher's 
 nephew and destined heir, had the strongest hereditary claim 
 on the gardener's respect, and was undeniably " clean-limbed." 
 But, alas ! human longings are perversely obstinate ; and to the 
 man whose mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no use to 
 offer the largest vegetable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not sensi- 
 tive to Mr. Bates's opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the 
 opinion of another person, who by no means shared Mr. Bates's 
 preference. 
 
 Who the other person was it would not have required a very 
 keen observer to guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr. Gilfil's 
 glance as that little figure in white tripped along the lawn 
 with the cushions. Captain Wybrow, too, was looking in the 
 same direction, but his handsome face remained handsome — 
 and nothing more. 
 
 "Ah," said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, 
 "there's my lady. Eing for coffee, Anthony; we'll go and 
 join her, and the little monkey Tina shall give us a song." 
 
 The coffee presently appeared, brought — not as usual by the 
 footman, in scarlet and drab, but — by the old butler, in thread- 
 bare but well-brushed black, who, as he was placing it on the 
 table, said: 
 
 "If you please. Sir Christopher, there's the widow Hartopp 
 a-crying i' the still-room, and begs leave to see your honor." 
 
 " I have given Markham full orders about the widow Har- 
 topp," said Sir Christopher, in a sharp, decided tone. "I 
 have nothing to say to her." 
 
 "Your honor," pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and 
 putting on an additional coating of humility, " the poor wom- 
 an' s dreadful overcome, and says she can't sleep a wink this 
 blessed night without seeing your honor, and she begs you to 
 pardon the great freedom she's took to come at this time 
 Slie cries fit to break her heart." 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 97 
 
 "Ay, ay; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the 
 library." 
 
 Coffee despatched, the two young men walked out through 
 the open window, and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir 
 Christopher made his way to the library, solemnly followed by 
 Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his habitual place at the 
 Baronet's right hand, behaved with great urbanity during din- 
 ner ; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared 
 under the table, apparently regarding the claret-jug as a mere 
 human weakness, which he winked at, but refused to sanction. 
 
 The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on 
 the other side of a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel 
 window was overshadowed by the great beech, and this, with 
 the flat, heavily carved ceiling and the dark hue of the old 
 books that lined the walls, made the room look sombre, espe- 
 cially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial 
 curves and cream-colored fretwork touched with gold. As Sir 
 Christopher opened the door, a jet of brighter light fell on a 
 woman in a widow's dress, who stood in the middle of the 
 room, and made the deepest of curtsies as he entered. She 
 was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyes red with the 
 tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handkerchief 
 gathered into a damp ball in her right hand. 
 
 " TSTow, Mrs. Hartopp, " said Sir Christopher, taking out his 
 gold snuff-box and tapping the lid, " what have you to say to 
 me? Markham has delivered you a notice to quit, I suppose? '' 
 
 "0 yis, your honor, an' that's the reason why I've come. 
 I hope your honor '11 think better on it, an' not turn me an' 
 my poor children out o' the farm, where my husband al'ys 
 paid his rent as reg'lar as the day come." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I should like to know what good it will do you 
 and your children to stay on a farm and lose every farthing 
 your husband has left you, instead of selling your stock and 
 going into some little place where you can keep your money 
 together. It is very well known to every tenant of mine that 
 I never allow widows to stay on their husbands' farms." 
 
 " O, Sir Christifer, if you ivould consider — when I've sold 
 the hay an' corn an' all the live things, an' paid the debts, 
 an' put the money out to use, I shall have hardly enough to 
 
98 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 keep our souls an^ bodies together. An' how can I rear my 
 boys and put 'em 'prentice? They must go for day-laborers, 
 an' their father a man wi' as good belongings as any on your 
 honor's estate, an' niver threshed his wheat afore it was well 
 i' the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor nothin'. Ask 
 all the farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man than 
 my husband as attended Kipstone market. An' he says, 
 'Bessie,' says he — them was his last words — * you'll mek a 
 shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer 'uU let you stay on.' " 
 
 *'Pooh, pooh !" said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp's sobs 
 having interrupted her pleadings, " now listen to me, and try 
 to understand a little common sense. You are about as able 
 to manage the farm as your best milch cow. You'll be obliged 
 to have some managing man, who will either cheat you out of 
 your money, or wheedle you into marrying him." 
 
 0, your honor, I was never that sort o' woman, an' nobody 
 has known it on me." 
 
 " Very likely not, because you were never a widow before. 
 A woman's always silly enough, but she's never quite as great 
 a fool as she can be until she puts on a widow's cap. Now, 
 just ask yourself how much the better you will be for staying 
 on your farm at the end of four years, when you've got through 
 your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrears 
 for half your rent; or, perhaps, have got some great bulky fel- 
 low for a husband, who swears at you and kicks your chil- 
 dren. " 
 
 " Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o' f armin', an' was 
 brought up i' the thick on it, as you may say. An' there was 
 my husband's great-aunt managed a farm for twenty year, an' 
 left legacies to all her nephys an' nieces, an' even to my hus- 
 band, as was then a babe unborn." 
 
 Pshaw ! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp 
 elbows, I dare say — a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked 
 widow like you, Mrs. Hartopp." 
 
 ^' Indeed, your honor, I never heard of her squintin', an' 
 they said as she might ha' been married o'er and o'er again, 
 to people as had no call to hanker after her money. " 
 
 Ay, ay, that's what you all think. Every man that looks 
 at you wants to marry you, and would like you the better 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOYE-STORY. 
 
 99 
 
 more children you have and the less money. But it is useless 
 to talk and cry. I have good reasons for my plans, and never 
 alter them. What you have to do is to make the best cf your 
 stock, and to look out for some little place to go to, when you 
 leave The Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. Bellamy's room^ 
 and ask her to give you a dish of tea." 
 
 Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher's tone 
 that he was not to be shaken, curtsied low and left the 
 library, while the Baronet, seating himself at his desk in the 
 oriel window, wrote the following letter : 
 
 Mr. Markham, — Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot Cottage, as I 
 intend to put in the widow Hartopp when she leaves her farm ; and if 
 you will be here at eleven on Saturday morning, I will ride round with 
 you, and settle about making some repairs, and see about adding a bit of 
 land to the take, as she will want to keep a cow and some pigs. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 Christopher Cheverel. 
 
 After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be sent, Sir 
 Christopher walked out to join the party on the lawn. But 
 finding the cushions deserted, he walked on to the eastern 
 front of the building, where, by the side of the grand entrance, 
 was the large bow-window of the saloon, opening on to the 
 gravel-sweep, and looking toward a long vista of undulating 
 turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seeming to unite itself with 
 the green of the meadows and a grassy road through a planta- 
 tion, only terminated with the Gothic arch of a gateway in the 
 far distance. The bow-window was open, and Sir Christo- 
 pher, stepping in, found the group he sought, examining the 
 progress of the unfinished ceiling. It was in the same style 
 of florid pointed Gothic as the dining-room, but more elaborate 
 in its tracery, which was like petrified lace-work picked out 
 with delicate and varied coloring. About a fourth of it still 
 remained uncolored, and under this part were scaffolding, lad- 
 ders, and tools ; otherwise the spacious saloon was empty of 
 furniture, and seemed to be a grand Gothic canopy for the 
 group of five human figures standing in the centre. 
 
 " Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day 
 or two," said Sir Christopher, as he joined the party: "he's a 
 sad lazy dog, and I fancy he has a knack of sleeping as he 
 
100 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 stands, with his brushes in his hands. But I must spur him 
 on, or we may not have the scaffolding cleared away before 
 the bride comes, if you show dexterous generalship in your 
 wooing, eh, Anthony? and take your Magdeburg quickly.'^ 
 
 " Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious 
 operations in war, " said Captain Wybrow, with an easy smile. 
 
 "Not when there's a traitor within the walls in the shape 
 of a soft heart. And that there will be, if Bccitrice has her 
 mother's tenderness as well as her mother's beauty." 
 
 " What do you think, Sir Christopher, " said Lady Cheverel, 
 who seemed to wince a little under her husband's reminiscences, 
 "of hanging Guercino's 'Sibyl' over that door when we put 
 up the pictures? It is rather lost in my sitting-room." 
 
 " Very good, my love, " answered Sir Christopher, in a tone 
 of punctiliously polite affection ; " if you like to part with the 
 ornament from your own room, it will show admirably here. 
 Our portraits, by Sir Joshua, will hang opposite the window, 
 and the ' Transfiguration ' at that end. You see, Anthony, I 
 am leaving no good places on the walls for you and your wife. 
 We shall turn you with your faces to the wall in the gallery, 
 and you may take your revenge on us by and by." 
 
 While this conversation was going on, Mr. Gilfil turned to 
 Caterina and said : 
 
 " I like the view from this window better than any other in 
 the house." 
 
 She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling 
 with tears ; so he added : " Suppose we walk out a little ; Sir 
 Christopher and my lady seem to be occupied." 
 
 Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of 
 the gravel walks that led, after many windings under tall 
 trees and among grassy openings, to a large enclosed flower- 
 garden. Their walk was perfectly silent, for Maynard Gilfil 
 knew that Caterina' s thoughts were not with him, and she had 
 been long used to make him endure the weight of those moods 
 which she carefully hid from others. 
 
 They reached the flower-garden, and turned mechanically in 
 at the gate that opened, through a high, thick hedge, on an 
 expanse of brilliant color, which, after the green shades they 
 had passed through, startled the eye like flames. The effect 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 101 
 
 was assisted by an undulation of the ground, which, gradually 
 descended from the entrance-gate, and then rose again toward 
 the opposite end, crowned by an orangery. The flowers were 
 glowing with their evening splendors; verbenas and helio- 
 tropes were sending up their finest incense. It seemed a gala 
 where all was happiness and brilliancy, and misery could find 
 no sympathy. This was the effect it had on Caterina. As 
 she wound among the beds of gold and blue and pink, where 
 the flowers seemed to be looking at her with wondering elf- 
 like eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the feeling of isolation in 
 her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, which had been 
 before trickling slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed forth 
 accompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving human 
 being close beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who 
 was possessed by the feeling that she was miserable, and that 
 he was helpless to soothe her. But she was too much irritated 
 by the idea that his wishes were different from hers, that he 
 rather regretted the folly of her hopes than the probability of 
 their disappointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy. 
 Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sympathy 
 which she suspected to be mingled with criticism, as the child 
 turns away from the sweetmeat in which it suspects impercep- 
 tible medicine. 
 
 "Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices, said Mr. Gilfll; 
 "they may be coming this way." 
 
 She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her 
 emotions, and ran rapidly to the other end of the garden, 
 where she seemed occupied in selecting a rose. Presently 
 Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm of Captain Wy- 
 brow, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped to 
 admire the tiers of geraniums near the gate; and in the mean- 
 time Caterina tripped back with a moss rosebud in her hand, 
 and, going up to Sir Christopher, said — " There, Padroncello 
 — there is a nice rose for your button-hole." 
 
 "Ah, you black-eyed monkey," he said, fondly stroking her 
 cheek ; " so you have been running off with Maynard, either 
 to torment or coax him an inch or two deeper into love. Come, 
 come, I want you to sing us 'Ho perduto ' before we sit down 
 to picquet. Anthony goes to-morrow, you know; you must 
 
102 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 marble him into the right sentimental lover's mood, that he 
 may acquit himself well at Bath." He put her little arm un- 
 der his, and calling to Lady Cheverel, " Come, Henrietta ! " 
 led the way toward the house. 
 
 The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel 
 window, corresponded to the library in the other wing, and 
 had also a flat ceiling heavy with carving and blazonry ; but the 
 window being unshaded, and the walls hung with full-length 
 portraits of knights and dames in scarlet, white, and gold, it 
 had not the sombre effect of the library. Here hung the por- 
 trait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign of Charles II. 
 was the renovator of the family splendor, which had suffered 
 some declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil 
 who came over with the Conqueror. A very imposing person- 
 age was this Sir Anthony, standing with one arm akimbo, and 
 one fine leg and foot advanced, evidently with a view to the 
 gratification of his contemporaries and posterity. You might 
 have taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarlet cloak, which 
 was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilating 
 the dignity of his appearance. And he had known how to 
 choose a wife, too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with 
 her sunny brown hair drawn away in bands from her mild 
 grave face, and falling in two large rich curls on her snowy, 
 gently sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hue and out- 
 line of her white satin robe, was a fit mother of " large-acred " 
 heirs. 
 
 In this room tea was served; and here, every evening, as 
 regularly as the great clock in the court-yard with deliberate 
 bass tones struck nine. Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat 
 down to picquet until half -past ten, when Mr. Gilfil read 
 prayers to the assembled household in the chapel. 
 
 But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down 
 to the harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher's favorite airs, by 
 Gluck and Paesiello, whose operas, for the happiness of that 
 generation, were then to be heard on the London stage. It 
 happened this evening that the sentiment of these airs, " Che 
 faro senza Eurydice ? " and " Ho perduto il bel semhiante, in 
 both of which the singer pours out his yearning after his lost 
 love, came very close to Caterina' s own feeling. But her 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOYE-STORT. 
 
 103 
 
 emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her 
 additional power. Her singing was what she could do best; 
 it was her one point of superiority, in which it was probable 
 she would excel the high-born beauty whom Anthony was to 
 woo; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her rebellion 
 against her destiny made one stream of passion which welled 
 forth in the deep, rich tones of her voice. She had a rare con- 
 tralto, which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had 
 been careful to preserve her from straining. 
 
 "Excellent, Caterina,'^ said Lady Cheverel, as there was a 
 pause after the wonderful linked sweetness of " Che faro^ 
 " I never heard you sing that so v/ell. Once more ! 
 
 It was repeated ; and then came, " Ho perduto, " which Sir 
 Christopher encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. 
 When the last note was dying out, he said — 
 
 "There's a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out the 
 table for picquet." 
 
 Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, 
 with her rapid fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on 
 her knees and clasped Sir Christopher's knee. He bent down, 
 stroked her cheek, and smiled. 
 
 "Caterina, that is foolish,'' said Lady Cheverel. "I wish 
 you would leave off those stage-players' antics." 
 
 She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and 
 then, seeing the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly 
 glided out of the room. 
 
 Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord dur- 
 ing the singing, and the chaplain had thrown himself on a 
 sofa at the end of the room. They both now took up a book. 
 
 Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the GentlemarC s Maga- 
 zine; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near the door, 
 opened " Faublas " ; and there was perfect silence in the room 
 which, ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate 
 tones of Caterina. 
 
 She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now 
 lighted here and there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand stair- 
 case, which led directly to a gallery running along the whole 
 eastern side of the building, where it was her habit to walk 
 when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight was 
 
104 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light 
 and shadow the heterogeneous objects that lined the long 
 walls: Greek statues and busts of Roman emperors; low cab- 
 inets filled with curiosities, natural and antiquarian ; tropical 
 birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and strange 
 shells ; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armor ; Roman 
 lamps and tiny models of Greek temples ; and, above all these, 
 queer old family portraits — of little boys and girls, once the 
 hope of the Cheverels, with close-shaven heads imprisoned in 
 stiff ruffs — of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary fea- 
 tures and highly developed head-dresses — of gallant gentle- 
 men, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards. 
 
 Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their 
 promenade, and here billiards were played; but, in the even- 
 ing, it was forsaken by all except Caterina — and, sometimes, 
 one other person. 
 
 She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and 
 thin, white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some 
 former Lady Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon. 
 
 By and by she paused opposite the broad window above the 
 portico, and looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now 
 stretching chill and saddened in the moonlight. 
 
 Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float 
 toward her, and an arm stole gently round her waist, while a 
 soft hand took up her tiny fingers. Caterina felt an electric 
 thrill, and was motionless for one long moment; then she 
 pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round, lifted up 
 to the face that hung over her, eyes full of tenderness and 
 reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in 
 that one look were the ground tones of poor little Caterina' s 
 nature — intense love and fierce jealousy. 
 
 "Why do you push me away, Tina?" said Captain Wy- 
 brow in a half -whisper ; " are you angry with me for what a 
 hard fate puts upon me? Would you have me cross my uncle 
 — who has done so much for us both — in his dearest wish? 
 You know I have duties — we both have duties — before which 
 feeling must be sacrificed." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning 
 away her head; " don't tell me what I know already." 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 105 
 
 There was a voice speaking in Cater ina's mind to which she 
 had never yet given vent. That voice said continually: 
 " Why did he make me love him — why did he let me know he 
 loved me, if he knew all the while that he couldn't brave 
 everything for my sake?" Then love answered: "He was 
 led on by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Cater- 
 ina; and now you ought to help him to do what is right." 
 Then the voice rejoined: "It was a slight matter to him. He 
 doesn't much mind giving you up. He will soon love that 
 beautiful woman, and forget a poor little pale thing like you." 
 
 Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in that young 
 soul. 
 
 " Besides, Tina, " continued Captain Wybrow in still gentler 
 tones, " I shall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely prefers 
 some one else ; and you know I have the best will in the world 
 to fail. I shall come back a hapless bachelor — perhaps to 
 find you already married to the good-looking chaplain, who is 
 over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir Christopher 
 has made up his mind that you're to have Gilfil." 
 
 "Why will you speak so? You speak from your own want 
 of feeling. Go away from me." 
 
 " Don't let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pass away. 
 It's as likely as not that I may never marry any one at all. 
 These palpitations may carry me off, and you may have the 
 satisfaction of knowing that I shall never be anybody's bride- 
 groom. Who knows what may happen? I may be my own 
 master before I get into the bonds of holy matrimony, and be 
 able to choose my little singing-bird. Why should we distress 
 ourselves before the time?" 
 
 "It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling," said 
 Caterina, the tears flowing fast. "It is bad to bear now, 
 whatever may come after. But you don't care about my mis- 
 ery." 
 
 "Don't I, Tina?" said Anthony in his tenderest tones, 
 again stealing his arm round her waist, and drawing her tow- 
 ard him. Poor Tina was the slave of this voice and touch. 
 Grief and resentment, retrospect and foreboding, vanished — ■ 
 all life before and after melted away in the bliss of that mo- 
 ment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers. 
 
106 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Captain Wybrow thought: "Poor little Tina! it would 
 make her very happy to have me. But she is a mad little 
 thing." 
 
 At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her trance 
 of bliss. It was the summons to prayers in the chapel, and 
 she hastened away, leaving Captain Wybrow to follow slowly. 
 
 It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in 
 the little chapel, where a couple of wax-candles threw a mild 
 faint light on the figures kneeling there. In the desk was 
 Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade graver than usual. On his 
 right hand, kneeling on their red velvet cushions, were the mas- 
 ter and mistress of the household, in their elderly dignified 
 beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony and 
 Caterina, in all the striking contrast of their coloring — he, 
 with his exquisite outline and rounded fairness, like an Olym- 
 pian god ; she, dark and tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Then 
 there were the domestics kneeling on red-covered forms, — the 
 women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little old house- 
 keeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady's 
 maid, of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire; the 
 men by Mr. Bellamy the butler, and Mr Warren, Sir Christo- 
 pher's venerable valet. 
 
 A few collects from the Evening Service were what Mr. 
 Gilfil habitually read, ending with the simple petition, 
 "Lighten our darkness." 
 
 And then they all rose, the servants turning to curtsy and 
 bow as they went out. The family returned to the drawing- 
 room, said good-night to each other, and dispersed — all to 
 speedy slumber except two. Caterina only cried herself to 
 sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil lay awake 
 still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was crying. 
 
 Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, was 
 soon in a soft slumber, his face looking like a fine cameo in 
 high relief on the slightly indented pillow. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 107 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The last chapter has given the discerning reader sufficient 
 insight into the state of things at Cheverel Manor in the sum- 
 mer of 1788. In that summer, we know, the great nation of 
 France was agitated by conflicting thoughts and passions, 
 which were but the beginning of sorrows. And in our 
 Caterina's little breast, too, there were terrible struggles. 
 The poor bird was beginning to flutter and vainly dash its soft 
 breast against the hard iron bars of the inevitable, and we see 
 too plainly the danger, if that anguish should go on heighten- 
 ing instead of being allayed, that the palpitating heart may be 
 fatally bruised. 
 
 Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel some interest in Caterina 
 and her friends at Cheveral Manor, you are perhaps asking, 
 how came she to be there? How was it that this tiny dark- 
 eyed child of the south, whose face was immediately suggest- 
 ive of olive-covered hills and taper-lit shrines, came to have 
 her home in that stately English manor-house, by the side of 
 the blond matron, Lady Cheverel — almost as if a humming- 
 bird were found perched on one of the elm-trees in the park, 
 by the side of her ladyship's handsomest pouter-pigeon? 
 Speaking good English, too, and joining in Protestant pray- 
 ers? Surely she must have been adopted and brought over to 
 England at a very early age. She was. 
 
 During Sir Christopher's last visit to Italy with his lady, 
 fifteen years before, they resided for some time at Milan, 
 where Sir Christopher, who was an enthusiast for Gothic arch- 
 itecture, and was then entertaining the project of metamor- 
 phosing his plain brick family mansion into the model of a 
 Gothic manor-house, was bent on studying the details of that 
 marble miracle, the Cathedral. Here Lady Cheverel, as at 
 other Italian cities where she made any protracted stay, en- 
 gaged a maestro to give her lessons in singing, for she had then 
 not only fine musical taste, but a fine soprano voice. Those 
 were days when very rich people used manuscript music, and 
 many a man who resembled Jean Jacques in nothing else, 
 
108 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 resembled him in getting a livelihood " a copier la musique k 
 tant la page. Lady Cheverel having need of this service, 
 Maestro Albani told her he would send her sl poveraccio of his 
 acquaintance, whose manuscript was the neatest and most cor- 
 rect he knew of. Unhappily , the poveraccio was not always in 
 his best wits, and was sometimes rather slow in consequence; 
 but it would be a work of Christian charity worthy of the 
 beautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti. 
 
 The next morning, Mrs. Sharp, then a blooming abigail of 
 three and thirty, entered her lady's private room and said, 
 "If you please, my lady, there's the frowsiest, shabbiest man 
 you ever saw, outside, and he's told Mr. Warren as the sing- 
 ing-master sent him to see your ladyship. But I think you'll 
 hardly like him to come in here. Belike he's only a beggar." 
 
 "Oh, yes, show him in immediately." 
 
 Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about " fleas and 
 worse." She had the smallest possible admiration for fair 
 Ausonia and its natives, and even her profound deference for 
 Sir Christopher and her lady could not prevent her from ex- 
 pressing her amazement at the infatuation of gentlefolks in 
 choosing to sojourn among "Papises, in countries where there 
 was no getting to air a bit o' linen, and where the people smelt 
 o' garlic fit to knock you down." 
 
 However, she presently reappeared, ushering in a small, 
 meagre man, sallow and dingy, with a restless wandering look 
 in his dull eyes, and an excessive timidity about his deep 
 reverences, which gave him the air of a man who had been 
 long a solitary prisoner. Yet through all this squalor and 
 wretchedness there were some traces discernible of compara- 
 tive youth and former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though 
 not very tender-hearted, still less sentimental, was essentially 
 kind, and liked to dispense benefits like a goddess, who looks 
 down benignly on the halt, the maimed, and the blind that 
 approach her shrine. She was smitten with some compassion 
 at the sight of poor Sarti, who struck her as the mere battered 
 wreck of a vessel that might have once floated gayly enough 
 on its outward voyage to the sound of pipes and tabors. She 
 spoke gently as she pointed out to him the operatic selections 
 she wished him to copy, and he seemed to sun himself in her 
 
MR GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 109 
 
 auburn, radiant presence, so that when he made his exit with 
 the music-books under his arm, his bow, though not less rev- 
 erent, was less timid. 
 
 It was ten years at least since Sarti had seen anything so 
 bright and stately and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For the 
 time was far off in which he had trod the stage in satin and 
 feathers, the prima teiiore of one short season. He had com- 
 pletely lost his voice in the following winter, and had ever 
 since been little better than a cracked fiddle, which is good 
 for nothing but firewood. For, like many Italian singers, he 
 was too ignorant to teach, and if it had not been for his one 
 talent of penmanship, he and his young helpless wife might 
 have starved. Then, just after their third child was born, 
 fever came, swept away the sickly mother and the two eldest 
 children, and attacked Sarti himself, who rose from his sick- 
 bed with enfeebled brain and muscle and a tiny baby on his 
 hands, scarcely four months old. He lodged over a fruit-shop 
 kept by a stout virago, loud of tongue and irate in temper, but 
 who had had children born to her, and so had taken care of 
 the tiny yellow, black-eyed hamhinetta^ and tended Sarti him- 
 self through his sickness. Here he continued to live, earning 
 a meagre subsistence for himself and his little one by the work 
 of copying music, put into his hands chiefly by Maestro Albani. 
 He seemed to exist for nothing but the child : he tended it, he 
 dandled it, he chatted to it, living with it alone in his one 
 room above the fruit-shop, only asking his landlady to take 
 care of the marmoset during his short absences in fetching 
 and carrying home work. Customers frequenting that fruit- 
 shop might often see the tiny Caterina seated on the floor with 
 her legs in a heap of pease, which it was her delight to kick 
 about; or perhaps deposited, like a kitten, in a large basket 
 out of harm's way. 
 
 Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with another 
 kind of protectress. He was very regular in his devotions, 
 which he paid thrice a week in the great cathedral, carrying 
 Caterina with him. Here, when the high morning sun was 
 warming the myriad glittering pinnacles without, and strug- 
 gling against the massive gloom within, the shadow of a man 
 with a child on his arm might be seen flitting across the more 
 
110 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 stationary shadows of pillar and mullion, and making its way 
 toward a little tinsel Madonna hanging in a retired spot near 
 the choir. Amid all the sublimities of the mighty cathedral, 
 poor Sarti had fixed on this tinsel Madonna as the symbol of 
 divine mercy and protection — just as a child, in the presence 
 of a great landscape, sees none of the glories of wood and sky, 
 but sets its heart on a floating feather or insect that happens 
 to be on a level with its eye. Here, then, Sarti worshipped 
 and prayed, setting Caterina on the floor by his side; and now 
 and then, when the cathedral lay near some place where he 
 had to call, and did not like to take her, he would leave her 
 there in front of the tinsel Madonna, where she would sit, per- 
 fectly good, amusing herself with low crowing noises and see- 
 sawings of her tiny body. And when Sarti came back, he 
 always found that the Blessed Mother had taken good care of 
 Caterina. 
 
 That was briefly the history of Sarti, who fulfilled so well 
 the orders Lady Cheverel gave him, that she sent him away 
 again with a stock of new work. But this time, week after 
 week passed, and he neither reappeared nor sent home the 
 music intrusted to him. Lady Cheverel began to be anx- 
 ious, and was thinking of sending Warren to inquire at the 
 address Sarti had given her, when one day, as she was 
 equipped for driving out, the valet brought in a small piece of 
 paper, which, he said, had been left for her ladyship by a 
 man who was carrying fruit. The paper contained only three 
 tremulous lines, in Italian : 
 
 " Will the Eccelentissima, for the love of God, have pity on 
 a dying man, and come to him? 
 
 Lady Cheverel recognized the handwriting as Sarti' s in spite 
 of its tremulousness, and, going down to her carriage, ordered 
 the Milanese coachman to drive to Strada Quinquagesima, 
 Numero 10. The coach stopped in a dirty, narrow street 
 opposite La Pazzini's fruit-shop, and that large specimen of 
 womanhood immediately presented herself at the door, to the 
 extreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who remarked privately to Mr. 
 Warren that La Pazzini was a " hijeous porpis.^' The fruit- 
 woman, however, was all smiles and deep courtesies to the 
 Eccelentissima, who, not very well understanding her Milanese 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 dialect, abbreviated the conversation by asking to be shown at 
 once to Signor Sarti. La Pazzini preceded her up the dark, 
 narrow stairs, and opened a door through which she begged 
 her ladyship to enter. Directly opposite the door lay Sarti, 
 on a low, miserable bed. His eyes were glazed, and no move* 
 ment indicated that he was conscious of their entrance. 
 
 On the foot of the bed was seated a tiny child, apparently 
 not three years old, her head covered by a linen cap, her feet 
 clothed with leather boots, above which her little yellow legs 
 showed thin and naked. A frock, made of what had once 
 been a gay flowered silk, was her only other garment. Her 
 large dark eyes shone from out her queer little face, like two 
 precious stones in a grotesque image carved in old ivory. She 
 held an empty medicine-bottle in her hand, and was amusing 
 herself with putting the cork in and drawing it out again, to 
 hear how it would pop. 
 
 La Pazzini went up to the bed and said, " Ecco la nobilis- 
 sima donna! " but directly after screamed out, "Holy mother! 
 he is dead ! 
 
 It was so. The entreaty had not been sent in time for Sarti 
 to carry out his project of asking the great English lady to 
 take care of his Caterina. That was the thought which haunted 
 his feeble brain as soon as he began to fear that his illness 
 would end in death. She had wealth — she was kind — she 
 would surely do something for the poor orphan. And so, at 
 last, he sent that scrap of paper which won the fulfilment of 
 his prayer, though he did not live to utter it. Lady Cheverel 
 gave La Pazzini money that the last decencies might be paid 
 to the dead man, and carried away Caterina, meaning to con- 
 sult Sir Christopher as to what should be done with her. 
 Even Mrs. Sharp had been so smitten with pity by the scene 
 she had witnessed when she was summoned upstairs to fetch 
 Caterina, as to shed a small tear, though she was not at all 
 subject to that weakness; indeed, she abstained from it on 
 principle, because, as she often said, it was known to be the 
 worst thing in the world for the eyes. 
 
 On the way back to her hotel, Lady Cheverel turned ovei 
 various projects in her mind regarding Caterina, but at last 
 one gained the preference over all the rest. Why should they 
 
112 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 not take the child to England, and bring her up there? They 
 had been married twelve years, yet Cheverel Manor was cheered 
 by no children's voices, and the old house would be all the bet- 
 ter for a little of that music. Besides, it would be a Christian 
 work to train this little Papist into a good Protestant, and 
 graft as much English fruit as possible on the Italian stem. 
 
 Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty acquies- 
 cence. He loved children, and took at once to the little black- 
 eyed monkey — his name for Caterina all through her short life. 
 But neither he nor Lady Cheverel had any idea of adopting 
 her as their daughter, and giving her their own rank in life. 
 They were much too English and aristocratic to think of any- 
 thing so romantic. No! the child would be brought up at 
 Cheverel Manor as a protegee, to be ultimately useful, perhaps, 
 in sorting worsteds, keeping accounts, reading aloud, and other- 
 wise supplying the place of spectacles when her ladyship's eyes 
 should wax dim. 
 
 So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes, to replace the 
 linen cap, flowered frock, and leathern boots ; and now, strange 
 to say, little Caterina, who had suffered many unconscious 
 evils in her existence of thirty moons, first began to know 
 conscious troubles. "Ignorance," says Ajax, "is a painless 
 evil ; so, I should think, is dirt, considering the merry facer 
 that go along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is sometimes a 
 painful good, as any one can vouch who has had his face 
 washed the wrong way, by a pitiless hand with a gold ring on 
 the third finger. If you, reader, have not known that initia- 
 tory anguish, it is idle to expect that you will form any ap- 
 proximate conception of what Caterina endured under Mrs. 
 Sharp's new dispensation of soap-and- water. Happily, this 
 purgatory came presently to be associated in her tiny brain 
 with a passage straightway to a seat of bliss — the sofa in Lady 
 Cheverel' s sitting-room, where there were toys to be broken, a 
 ride was to be had on Sir Christopher's knee, and a spaniel of 
 resigned temper was prepared to undergo small tortures with- 
 out flinching. 
 
MR. GiLFiL's Love-story. 
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In three months from the time of Caterina's adoption — - 
 namely, in the late autumn of 1773 — the chimneys of Cheverel 
 Manor were sending up unwonted smoke, and the servants 
 were awaiting in excitement the return of their master and 
 mistress after a two years' absence. Great was the astonish- 
 ment of Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, when Mr. Warren 
 lifted a little black-eyed child out of the carriage, and great 
 was Mrs. Sharp's sense of superior information and experience, 
 as she detailed Caterina's history, interspersed with copious 
 comments, to the rest of the upper servants that evening, as 
 they were taking a comfortable glass of grog together in the 
 housekeeper's room. 
 
 A pleasant room it was as any party need desire to muster 
 in on a cold November evening. The fireplace alone was a 
 picture : a wide and deep recess with a low brick altar in the 
 middle, where great logs of dry wood sent myriad sparks up 
 the dark chimney-throat ; and over the front of this recess a 
 large wooden entablature bearing this motto, finely carved in old 
 English letters, jfeat (30& aub hOWOt tbC IRing/' And 
 beyond the party, who formed a half -moon with their chairs 
 and well-furnished table round this bright fireplace, what a 
 space of chiaro-scuro for the imagination to revel in ! Stretch- 
 ing across the far end of the room, what an oak table, high 
 enough surely for Homer's gods, standing on four massive 
 legs, bossed and bulging like sculptured urns ! and, lining the 
 distant wall, what vast cupboards, suggestive of inexhaustible 
 apricot jam and promiscuous butler's perquisites! A stray 
 picture or two had found their way down there, and made 
 agreeable patches of dark brown on the buff-colored walls. 
 High over the loud -resounding double door hung one which, 
 from some indications of a face looming out of blackness, 
 might, by a great synthetic effort, be pronounced a Magdalen. 
 Considerably lower down hung the similitude of a hat and 
 feathers, with portions of a ruff, stated by Mrs. Bellamy to 
 
114 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 represent Sir Francis Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and, 
 in her opinion, "might ha' been better emplyed/' 
 
 But this evening the mind is but slightly arrested by the 
 great Verulam, and is in the humor to think a dead philoso- 
 pher less interesting than a living gardener, who sits con- 
 spicuous in the half -circle round the fireplace. Mr. Bates is 
 habitually a guest in the housekeeper's room of an evening, 
 preferring the social pleasures there — the feast of gossip and 
 the flow of grog — to a bachelor's chair in his charming thatched 
 cottage on a little island, where every sound is remote but 
 the cawing of rooks and the screaming of wild geese : poetic 
 sounds, doubtless, but, humanly speaking, not convivial. 
 
 Mr. Bates was by no means an average person, to be passed 
 without special notice. He was a sturdy Yorkshireman, ap- 
 proaching forty, whose face Nature seemed to have colored 
 when she was in a hurry and had no time to attend to nuances, 
 for every inch of him visible above his neckcloth was of one 
 impartial redness ; so that when he was at some distance your 
 imagination was at liberty to place his lips anywhere between 
 his nose and chin. Seen closer, his lips were discerned to be 
 of a peculiar cut, and I fancy this had something to do with 
 the peculiarity of his dialect, which, as we shall see, was indi- 
 vidual rather than provincial. Mr. Bates was further distin- 
 guished from the common herd by a perpetual blinking of the 
 eyes ; and this, together with the red-rose tint of his complex- 
 ion, and a way he had of hanging his head forward, and roll- 
 ing it from side to side as he walked, gave him the air of a 
 Bacchus in a blue apron, who, in the present reduced circum- 
 stances of Olympus, had taken to the management of his own 
 vines. Yet, as gluttons are often thin, so sober men are often 
 rubicund ; and Mr. Bates was sober, with that manly, British, 
 churchman-like sobriety which can carry a few glasses of grog 
 without any perceptible clarification of ideas. 
 
 ^'Dang my boottons! " observed Mr. Bates, who, at the con- 
 clusion of Mrs. Sharp's narrative, felt himself urged to his 
 strongest interjection, ^^it's what I shouldn't ha' looked for 
 from Sir Cristhifer an' my ledy, to bring a furrin child into 
 the coonthry; an' depend on't, whether you an' me lives to 
 see't or noo, it'll coom to soom harm. The first sitiation iver 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 115 
 
 I held — it was a hold hancient habbey, wi' the biggest orchard 
 o' apples an' pears you ever see — there was a French valet, 
 an' he stool silk stoockins, an' shirts, an' rings, an' iverythin' 
 he could ley his hands on, an' run awey at last wi' th' missis's 
 jewl-box. They're all alaike, them furriners. It roons i' th' 
 blood." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Sharp, with the air of a person who held 
 liberal views, but knew where to draw the line. ^^I'm not 
 a-going to defend the furriners, for I've as good reason to know 
 what they are as most folks, an' nobody'U ever hear me say 
 but what they're next door to heathens, and the hile they eat 
 wi' their victuals is enough to turn any Christian's stomach. 
 But for all that — an' for all as the trouble in respect o' 
 washin' and managin' has fell upo' me through the journey — 
 I can't say but what I think as my Lady an' Sir Cristifer's 
 done a right thing by a hinnicent child as doesn't know its 
 right hand from its left, i' bringing it where it'll learn to 
 speak summat better nor gibberish, and be brought up i' the 
 true religion. For as for them furrin churches as Sir Cristif er 
 is so unaccountable mad after, wi' pictures o' men an' women 
 a-showing themselves just for all the world as God made 'em, 
 I think, for my part, as it's almost a sin to go into 'em." 
 
 " You're likely to have more foreigners, however," said Mr. 
 Warren, who liked to provoke the gardener, for Sir Christo- 
 pher has engaged some Italian workmen to help in the altera- 
 tions in the house." 
 
 " Olterations ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bellamy, in alarm. " What 
 operations? " 
 
 "Why," answered Mr. Warren, "Sir Christopher, as I un- 
 derstand, is going to make a new thing of the old Manor-house, 
 both inside and out. And he's got portfolios full of plans and 
 pictures coming. It is to be cased with stone, in the Gothic 
 style — pretty near like the churches, you know, as far as I can 
 make out; and the ceilings are to be beyond anything that's 
 been seen in the country. Sir Christopher's been giving a 
 deal of study to it." 
 
 "Dear heart alive!" said Mrs. Bellamy, "we shall be 
 pisoned wi' lime an' plaster, an' hev the house full o' work- 
 men colloguing wi' the maids, an' makin' no end o' mischief." 
 
116 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 "That ye may ley your life on, Mrs. Bellamy," said Mr 
 Bates. " Howiver, I'll noot denay that the Goothic stayle's 
 prithy anoof, an' it's woonderful how near them stoon-carvers 
 cuts oot the shapes o' the pineapples, an' shamrucks, an' 
 rooses. I dare sey Sir Cristhifer '11 meek a naice thing o' the 
 Manor, an' there woon't be may gentlemen's houses i' the coon- 
 thry as '11 coom up to't, wi' sich a garden an' pleasure-groons 
 an' wall-fruit as King George maight be prood on." 
 
 "Well, I can't think as the house can be better nor it is, 
 Gothic or no Gothic," said Mrs. Bellamy; "an' I've done the 
 picklin' and preservin' in it fourteen year Michaelmas was a 
 three weeks. But what does my lady say to't?" 
 
 " My lady knows better than cross Sir Cristifer in what he's 
 set his mind on," said Mr. Bellamy, who objected to the crit- 
 ical tone of the conversation. " Sir Cristifer '11 hev his own 
 way, that you may tek your oath. An' i' the right on't too. 
 He's a gentleman born, an's got the money. But come, Mes- 
 ter Bates, fill your glass, an' we'll drink health an' happiness 
 to his honor an' my lady, and then you shall give us a song. 
 Sir Cristifer doesn't come hum from Italy ivery night." 
 
 This demonstrable position was accepted without hesitation 
 as ground for a toast ; but Mr. Bates, apparently thinking that 
 his song was not an equally reasonable sequence, ignored the 
 second part of Mr. Bellamy's proposal. So Mrs. Sharp, who 
 had been heard to say that she had no thoughts at all of marry- 
 ing Mr. Bates, though he was " a sensable fresh-colored man 
 as many a woman 'ud snap at for a husband," enforced Mr. 
 Bellamy's appeal. 
 
 "Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear ^ Eoy's Wife.' I'd rether 
 hear a good old song like that nor all the fine Italian toodlin." 
 
 Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his thumbs into 
 the armholes of his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair 
 with his head in that position in which he could look directly 
 toward the zenith, and struck up a remarkably staccato ren- 
 dering of "Koy's Wife of Aldivalloch." This melody may 
 certainly be taxed with excessive iteration, but that was pre- 
 cisely its highest recommendation to the present audience, 
 who found it all the easier to swell the chorus. Nor did it at 
 all diminish their pleasure that the only particular concerning 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 117 
 
 "Roy's Wife," which Mr. Bates's enunciation allowed them 
 to gather, was that she chated '' him, — whether in the mat- 
 ter of garden stuff or of some other commodity, or why her 
 name should, in consequence, be repeatedly reiterated with 
 exultation, remaining an agreeable mystery. 
 
 Mr. Bates's song formed the climax of the evening's good- 
 fellowship, and the party soon after dispersed — Mrs. Bellamy 
 perhaps to dream of quicklime flying among her preserving- 
 pans, or of love-sick housemaids reckless of unswept corners — 
 and Mrs. Sharp to sink into pleasant visions of independent 
 housekeeping in Mr. Bates's cottage, with no bells to answer, 
 and with fruit and vegetables ad libitum, 
 
 Caterina soon conquered all prejudices against her foreign 
 blood; for what prejudices will hold out against helplessness 
 and broken prattle? She became the pet of the household, 
 thrusting Sir Christopher's favorite bloodhound of that day, 
 Mrs. Bellamy's two canaries, and Mr. Bates's largest Dorking 
 hen, into a merely secondary position. The consequence was, 
 that in the space of a summer's day she went through a great 
 cycle of experiences, commencing with the somewhat acidu- 
 lated good-will of Mrs. Sharp's nursery discipline. Then 
 came the grave luxury of her ladyship's sitting-room, and, per- 
 haps, the dignity of a ride on Sir Christopher's knee, some- 
 times followed by a visit with him to the stables, where Caterina 
 soon learned to hear without crying the baying of the chained 
 bloodhounds, and to say, with ostentatious bravery, clinging to 
 Sir Christopher's leg all the while, "Dey not hurt Tina." 
 Then Mrs. Bellamy would perhaps be going out to gather the 
 rose-leaves and lavender, and Tina was made proud and happy 
 by being allowed to carry a handful in her pinafore ; happier 
 still, when they were spread out on sheets to dry, so that she 
 could sit down like a frog among them, and have them poured 
 over her in fragrant showers. Another frequent pleasure was 
 to take a journey with Mr. Bates through the kitchen-gardens 
 and the hothouses, where the rich bunches of green and purple 
 grapes hung from the roof, far out of reach of the tiny yellow 
 hand that could not help stretching itself out toward them ; 
 though the hand was sure at last to be satisfied with some del- 
 icate-flavored fruit or sweet-scented flower. Indeed, in the 
 
118 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 long, monotonous leisure of that great country-house, you may 
 be sure there was always some one who had nothing better to 
 do than to play with Tina. So that the little southern bird 
 had its northern nest lined with tenderness, and caresses, and 
 pretty things. A loving, sensitive nature was too likely, un- 
 der such nurture, to have its susceptibility heightened into 
 unfitness for an encounter with any harder experience ; all the 
 more, because there were gleams of fierce resistance to any 
 discipline that had a harsh or unloving aspect. For the only 
 thing in which Caterina showed any precocity was a certain 
 ingenuity in vindictiveness. When she was five years old she 
 had revenged herself for an unpleasant prohibition by pouring 
 the ink into Mrs. Sharp's work-basket; and once, when Lady 
 Cheverel took her doll from her, because she was affectionately 
 licking the paint off its face, the little minx straightway 
 climbed on a chair and threw down a flower-vase that stood on 
 a bracket. This was almost the only instance in which her 
 anger overcame her awe of Lady Cheverel, who had the 
 ascendancy always belonging to kindness that never melts into 
 caresses, and is severely but uniformly beneficent. 
 
 By and by the happy monotony of Cheverel Manor was 
 broken in upon in the way Mr. Warren had announced. The 
 roads through the park were cut up by wagons carrying loads 
 of stone from a neighboring quarry, the green courtyard be- 
 came dusty with lime, and the peaceful house rang with the 
 sound of tools. For the next ten years Sir Christopher was 
 occupied with the architectural metamorphosis of his old fam- 
 ily mansion ; thus anticipating, through the prompting of his 
 individual taste, that general reaction from the insipid imita- 
 tion of the Palladian style, toward a restoration of the Gothic, 
 which marked the close of the eighteenth century. This was 
 the object he had set his heart on, with a singleness of deter- 
 mination which was regarded with not a little contempt by his 
 fox-hunting neighbors, who wondered greatly that a man with 
 some of the best blood in England in his veins, should be mean 
 enough to economize in his cellar, and reduce his stud to two 
 old coach-horses and a hack, for the sake of riding a hobby, 
 and playing the architect. Their wives did not see so much 
 to blame in the matter of the cellar and stables, but they were 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 119 
 
 eloquent in pity for poor Lady Cheverel, who had to live in 
 no more than three rooms at once, and who must be distracted 
 with noises, and have her constitution undermined by un- 
 healthy smells. It was as bad as having a husband with an 
 asthma. Why did not Sir Christopher take a house for her at 
 Bath, or, at least, if he must spend his time in overlooking 
 workmen, somewhere in the neighborhood of the Manor? 
 This pity was quite gratuitous, as the most plentiful pity 
 always is ; for though Lady Cheverel did not share her hus- 
 band's architectural enthusiasm, she had too rigorous a view 
 of a wife's duties, and too profound a deference for Sir Chris- 
 topher, to regard submission as a grievance. As for Sir 
 Christopher, he was perfectly indifferent to criticism. An 
 obstinate, crotchety man," said his neighbors. But I, who 
 have seen Cheverel Manor, as he bequeathed it to his heirs, 
 rather attribute that unswerving architectural purpose of his, 
 conceived and carried out through long years of systematic 
 personal exertion, to something of the fervor of genius, as well 
 as inflexibility of will ; and in walking through those rooms, 
 with their splendid ceilings and their meagre furniture, which 
 tell how all the spare money had been absorbed before per- 
 sonal comfort was thought of, I have felt that there dwelt in 
 this old English baronet some of that sublime spirit which dis- 
 tinguishes art from luxury, and worships beauty apart from 
 self-indulgence. 
 
 While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness into 
 beauty, Caterina, too, was growing from a little yellow bantling 
 into a whiter maiden, with no positive beauty indeed, but with 
 a certain light, airy grace, which, with her large appealing 
 dark eyes, and a voice that, in its low-toned tenderness, re- 
 called the love-notes of the stock-dove, gave her a more than 
 usual charm. Unlike the building, however, Caterina's de- 
 velopment was the result of no systematic or careful appliances. 
 She grew up very much like the primroses, which the gardener 
 is not sorry to see within his enclosure, but takes no pains to 
 cultivate. Lady Cheverel taught her to read and write, and 
 say her catechism ; Mr. Warren, being a good accountant, gave 
 her lessons in arithmetic, by her ladyship's desire; and Mrs. 
 Sharp initiated her in all the mysteries of the needle. But, 
 
120 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 for a long time, there was no thought of giving her any more 
 elaborate education. It is very likely that to her dying day 
 Caterina thought the earth stood still, and that the sun and 
 stars moved round it; but so, for the matter of that, did 
 Helen, and Dido, and Desdemona, and Juliet ; whence I hope 
 you will not think my Caterina less worthy to be a heroine on 
 that account. The truth is, that, with one exception, her only 
 talent lay in loving ; and there, it is probable, the most astro- 
 nomical of women could not have surpassed her. Orphan and 
 protegee though she was, this supreme talent of hers found 
 plenty of exercise at Cheverel Manor, and Caterina had more 
 people to love than many a small lady and gentleman affluent 
 in silver mugs and blood relations. I think the first place in 
 her childish heart was given to Sir Christopher, for little girls 
 are apt to attach themselves to the finest-looking gentleman at 
 hand, especially as he seldom has anything to do with disci- 
 pline. Next to the Baronet came Dorcas, the merry rosy- 
 cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp's lieutenant in the nur- 
 sery, and thus played the part of the raisins in a dose of senna. 
 It was a black day for Caterina when Dorcas married the 
 coachman, and went, with a great sense of elevation in the 
 world, to preside over a " public " in the noisy town of Slop- 
 peter. A little china box, bearing the motto " Though lost to 
 sight, to memory dear,'' which Dorcas sent her as a remem- 
 brance, was among Caterina' s treasures ten years after. 
 
 The one other exceptional talent, you already guess, was 
 music. When the fact that Caterina had a remarkable ear for 
 music, and a still more remarkable voice, attracted Lady 
 Cheverel' s notice, the discovery was very welcome both to her 
 and Sir Christopher. Her musical education became at once 
 an object of interest. Lady Cheverel devoted much time to 
 it; and the rapidity of Tina's progress surpassing all hopes, 
 an Italian singing-master was engaged, for several years, to 
 spend some months together at Cheverel Manor. This unex- 
 pected gift made a great alteration in Caterina' s position. 
 After those first years in which little girls are petted like pup* 
 pies and kittens, there comes a time when it seems less obvi- 
 ous what they can be good for, especially when, like Caterina, 
 they give no particular promise of cleverness or beauty ; and 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 121 
 
 it is not surprising that in that uninteresting period there was 
 no particular plan formed as to her future position. She could 
 always help Mrs. Sharp, supposing she were fit for nothing 
 else, as she grew up ; but now, this rare gift of song endeared 
 her to Lady Cheverel, who loved music above all things, and 
 it associated her at once with the pleasures of the drawing- 
 room. Insensibly she came to be regarded as one of the fam- 
 ily, and the servants began to understand that Miss Sarti was 
 to be a lady after all. 
 
 "And the raight on't too,'^ said Mr. Bates, "for she hasn't 
 the cut of a gell as must work for her bread; she's as nesh an' 
 dilicate as a paich-blossom — welly laike a linnet, wi' on'y 
 joost body anoof to hold her voice.'' 
 
 But long before Tina had reached this stage of her history, 
 a new era had begun for her, in the arrival of a younger com- 
 panion than any she had hitherto known. When she was no 
 more than seven, a ward of Sir Christopher's — a lad of fif- 
 teen, Maynard Gilfil by name — began to spend his vacations 
 at Cheverel Manor, and found there no playfellow so much to 
 his mind as Caterina. Maynard was an affectionate lad, who 
 retained a propensity to white rabbits, pet squirrels, and 
 guinea-pigs, perhaps a little beyond the age at which young 
 gentlemen usually look down on such pleasures as puerile. 
 He was also much given to fishing, and to carpentry, considered 
 as a fine art, without any base view to utility. And in all 
 these pleasures it was his delight to have Caterina as his com- 
 panion, to call her little pet names, answer her wondering 
 questions, and have her toddling after him as you may have 
 seen a Blenheim spaniel trotting after a large setter. When- 
 ever Maynard went back to school, there was a little scene of 
 parting. 
 
 "You won't forget me, Tina, before I come back again? I 
 shall leave you all the whipcord we've made; and don't you 
 let Guinea die. Come, give me a kiss, and promise not to for- 
 get me." 
 
 As the years wore on, and Maynard passed from school to 
 college, and from a slim lad to a stalwart young man, their 
 companionship in the vacations necessarily took a different 
 form, but it retained a brotherly and sisterly familiarity 
 
122 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 With Maynard the boyish affection had insensibly grown into 
 ardent love. Among all the many kinds of first love, that 
 which begins in childish companionship is the strongest and 
 most enduring : when passion comes to unite its force to long 
 affection, love is at its spring- tide. And Maynard Gilfil's love 
 was of a kind to make him prefer being tormented by Caterina 
 to any pleasure, apart from her, which the most benevolent 
 magician could have devised for him. It is the way with 
 those tall, large-limbed men, from Samson downward. As 
 for Tina, the little minx was perfectly well aware that May- 
 nard was her slave ; he was the one person in the world whom 
 she did as she pleased with ; and I need not tell you that this 
 was a symptom of her being perfectly heart-whole so far as he 
 was concerned: for a passionate woman's love is always over- 
 shadowed by fear. 
 
 Maynard Gilfil did not deceive himself in his interpretation 
 of Caterina' s feelings, but he nursed the hope that some time 
 or other she would at least care enough for him to accept his 
 love. So he waited patiently for the day when he might ven- 
 ture to say, " Caterina, I love you ! " You see, he would have 
 been content with very little, being one of those men who pass 
 through life without making the least clamor about themselves ; 
 thinking neither the cut of his coat, nor the flavor of his soup, 
 nor the precise depth of a servant's bow, at all momentous. 
 He thought — foolishly enough, as lovers will think — that it 
 was a good augury for him when he came to be domesticated at 
 Cheverel Manor in the quality of chaplain there, and curate of 
 a neighboring parish; judging falsely, from his own case, that 
 habit and affection were the likeliest avenues to love. Sir 
 Christopher satisfied several feelings in installing Maynard as 
 chaplain in his house. He liked the old-fashioned dignity of 
 that domestic appendage; he liked his ward's companionship; 
 and, as Maynard had some private fortune, he might take life 
 easily in that agreeable home, keeping his hunter, and observ- 
 ing a mild regimen of clerical duty, until the Cumbermoor 
 living should fall in, when he might be settled for life in the 
 neighborhood of the Manor. With Caterina for a wife, too," 
 Sir Christopher soon began to think ; for though the good Bar- 
 onet was not at all quick to suspect what was unpleasant and 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 123 
 
 opposed to his views of fitness, he was quick to see what would 
 dovetail with his own plans ; and he had first guessed, and 
 then ascertained, by direct inquiry, the state of Maynard^s 
 feelings. He at once leaped to the conclusion that Caterina 
 was of the same mind, or at least would be, when she was old 
 enough. But these were too early days for anything definite 
 to be said or done. 
 
 Meanwhile, new circumstances were arising, which, though 
 they made no change in Sir Christopher^ s plans and prospects, 
 converted Mr. GilfiPs hopes into anxieties, and made it clear 
 to him not only that Caterina' s heart was never likely to be 
 his, but that it was given entirely to another. 
 
 Once or twice in Caterina' s childhood, there had been 
 another boy-visitor at the Manor, younger than Maynard Gil- 
 fil — a beautiful boy with brown curls and splendid clothes, on 
 whom Caterina had looked with shy admiration. This was 
 Anthony Wybrow, the son of Sir Christopher's younger sister, 
 and chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The Baronet had sacri- 
 ficed a large sum, and even straitened the resources by which 
 he was to carry out his architectural schemes, for the sake of 
 removing the entail from his estate, and making this boy his 
 heir — moved to the step, I am sorry to say, by an implacable 
 quarrel with his elder sister ; for a power of forgiveness was 
 not among Sir Christopher's virtues. At length, on the death 
 of Anthony's mother, when he was no longer a curly-headed 
 boy, but a tall young man, with a captain's commission, Chev- 
 erel Manor became his home too, whenever he was absent from 
 his regiment. Caterina was then a little woman, between 
 sixteen and seventeen, and I need not spend many words in 
 explaining what you perceive to be the most natural thing in 
 the world. 
 
 There was little company kept at the Manor, and Captain 
 Wybrow would have been much duller if Caterina had not 
 been there. It was pleasant to pay her attentions — to speak 
 to her in gentle tones, to see her little flutter of pleasure, the 
 blush that just lit up her pale cheek, and the momentary timid 
 glance of her dark eyes, when he praised her singing, leaning 
 at her side over the piano. Pleasant, too, to cut out that 
 chaplain with his large calves! What idle man can with* 
 
124 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 stand the temptation of a woman to fascinate, and another 
 man to eclipse? — especially when it is quite clear to himself 
 that he means no mischief, and shall leave everything to come 
 right again by and by. At the end of eighteen months, how- 
 ever, during which Captain Wybrow had spent much of his 
 time at the Manor, he found that matters had reached a point 
 which he had not at all contemplated. Gentle tones had led 
 to tender words, and tender words had called forth a response 
 of looks which made it impossible not to carry on the crescendo 
 of love-making. To find one's self adored by a little, grace- 
 ful, dark-eyed, sweet-singing woman, whom no one need de- 
 spise, is an agreeable sensation, comparable to smoking the 
 finest Latakia, and also imposes some return of tenderness as 
 a duty. 
 
 Perhaps you think that Captain Wybrow, who knew that 
 it would be ridiculous to dream of his marrying Caterina, must 
 have been a reckless libertine to wm her affections in this 
 manner ! Not at all. He was a young man of calm passions, 
 who was rarely led into any conduct of which he could not 
 give a plausible account to himself; and the tiny fragile 
 Caterina was a woman who touched the imagination and the 
 affections rather than the senses. He really felt very kindly 
 toward her, and would very likely have loved her — if he had 
 been able to love any one. But nature had not endowed him 
 with that capability. She had given him an admirable figure, 
 the whitest of hands, the most delicate of nostrils, and a large 
 amount of serene self-satisfaction ; but, as if to save such a 
 delicate piece of work from any risk of being shattered, she 
 had guarded him from the liability to a strong emotion. 
 There was no list of youthful misdemeanors on record against 
 him, and Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel thought him the 
 best of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs, full of grate- 
 ful deference to themselves, and, above all things, guided by 
 a sense of duty. Captain Wybrow always did the thing easi- 
 est and most agreeable to him from a sense of duty : he dressed 
 expensively, because it was a duty he owed to his position ; 
 from a sense of duty he adapted himself to Sir Christopher's 
 inflexible will, which it would have been troublesome as well 
 as useless to resist 5 and, being of a delicate constitution, he 
 
MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 125 
 
 took care of his health from a sense of duty. His health was 
 the only point on which he gave anxiety to his friends ; and 
 it was owing to this that Sir Christopher wished to see his 
 nephew early married, the more so as a match after the Bar- 
 onet's own heart appeared immediately attainable. Anthony 
 had seen and admired Miss Assher, the only child of a lady 
 who had been Sir Christopher's earliest love, but who, as 
 things will happen in this world, had married another baro- 
 net instead of him. Miss Assher's father was now dead, and 
 she was in possession of a pretty estate. If, as was probable, 
 she should prove susceptible to the merits of Anthony's per- 
 son and character, nothing could make Sir Christopher so 
 happy as to see a marriage which might be expected to secure 
 the inheritance of Cheverel Manor from getting into the wrong 
 hands. Anthony had already been kindly received by Lady 
 Assher as the nephew of her early friend ; why should he not 
 go to Bath, where she and her daughter were then residing, 
 follow up the acquaintance, and win a handsome, well-born, 
 and sufficiently wealthy bride? 
 
 Sir Christopher's wishes were communicated to her nephew, 
 who at once intimated his willingness to comply with them 
 — from a sense of duty. Caterina was tenderly informed by 
 her lover of the sacrifice demanded from them both ; and three 
 days afterward occurred the parting scene you have witnessed 
 in the gallery, on the eve of Captain Wy brow's departure for 
 Bath. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 The inexorable ticking of the clock is like the throb of pain 
 to sensations made keen by a sickening fear. And so it is 
 with the great clockwork of nature. Daisies and buttercups 
 give way to the brown waving grasses, tinged with the warm 
 red sorrel; the waving grasses are swept away, and the mead- 
 ows lie like emeralds set in the bushy hedgerows ; the tawny- 
 tipped corn begins to bow with the weight of the full ear ; 
 the reapers are bending amongst it, and it soon stands in 
 sheaves; then, presently, the patches of yellow stubble lie 
 
126 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 side by side with streaks of dark-red earth, which the plough 
 is turning up in preparation for the new-threshed seed. And 
 this passage from beauty to beauty, which to the happy is like 
 the flow of a melody, measures for many a human heart the 
 approach of foreseen anguish — seems hurrying on the moment 
 when the shadow of dread will be followed up by the reality 
 of despair. 
 
 How cruelly hasty that summer of 1788 seemed to Caterina! 
 Surely the roses vanished earlier, and the berries on the moun- 
 tain-ash were more impatient to redden, and bring on the au- 
 tumn, when she would be face to face with her misery, and 
 witness Anthony giving all his gentle tones, tender words, and 
 soft looks to another. 
 
 Before the end of July, Captain Wybrow had written word 
 that Lady Assher and her daughter were about to fly from the 
 heat and gayety of Bath to the shady quiet of their place at 
 Farleigh, and that he was invited to join the party there. 
 His letters implied that he was on an excellent footing with 
 both the ladies, and gave no hint of a rival ; so that Sir Chris- 
 topher was more than usually bright and cheerful after reading 
 them. At length, toward the close of August, came the an- 
 nouncement that Captain Wybrow was an accepted lover, and 
 after much complimentary and congratulatory correspondence 
 between the two families, it was understood that in Septem- 
 ber Lady Assher and her daughter would pay a visit to Chev- 
 erel Manor, when Beatrice would make the acquaintance of 
 her future relatives, and all needful arrangements could be 
 discussed. Captain Wybrow would remain at Farleigh till 
 then, and accompany the ladies on their -journey. 
 
 In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had something 
 to do by way of preparing for the visitors. Sir Christopher 
 was occupied in consultations with his steward and lawyer, and 
 in giving orders to every one else, especially in spurring on 
 Francesco to finish the saloon. Mr. Gilfil had the responsi- 
 bility of procuring a lady's horse, Miss Assher being a great 
 rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted calls to make and invi- 
 tations to deliver. Mr. Bates's turf, and gravel, and flower- 
 beds were always at such a point of neatness and finish that 
 nothing extraordinary could be done in the garden except a 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 127 
 
 little extraordinary scolding of the under-gardener, and this 
 addition Mr. Bates did not neglect. 
 
 Happily for Caterina, she too had her task, to fill up the 
 long dreary daytime : it was to finish a chair-cushion which 
 would complete the set of embroidered covers for the drawing- 
 room, Lady CheverePs year-long work, and the only note- 
 worthy bit of furniture in the Manor. Over this embroidery 
 she sat with cold lips and a palpitating heart, thankful that 
 this miserable sensation throughout the daytime seemed to 
 counteract the tendency to tears which returned with night 
 and solitude. She was most frightened when 3ir Christopher 
 approached her. The Baronet^ s eye was brighter and his step 
 more elastic than ever, and it seemed to him that only the 
 most leaden or churlish souls could be otherwise than brisk 
 and exulting in a world where everything went so well. Dear 
 old gentleman ! he had gone through life a little flushed with 
 the power of his will, and now his latest plan was succeeding, 
 and Cheverel Manor would be inherited by a grand-nephew, 
 whom he might even yet live to see a fine young fellow with 
 at least the down on his chin. Why not? one is still young 
 at sixty. 
 
 Sir Christopher had always something playful to say to 
 Caterina. 
 
 " Now, little monkey, you must be in your best voice ; you're 
 the minstrel of the Manor, you know, and be sure you have a 
 pretty gown and a new ribbon. You must not be dressed in 
 russet, though you are a singing-bird." Or perhaps, ^'It is 
 your turn to be courted next, Tina. But don't you learn any 
 naughty proud airs. I must have Maynard let off easily." 
 
 Caterina' s affection for the old Baronet helped her to sum- 
 mon up a smile as he stroked her cheek and looked at her 
 kindly, but that was the moment at which she felt it most 
 difficult not to burst out crying. Lady Cheverel' s conversa- 
 tion and presence were less trying ; for her ladyship felt no 
 more than calm satisfaction in this family event ; and besides, 
 she was further sobered by a little jealousy at Sir Christo- 
 pher's anticipation of pleasure in seeing Lady Assher, en- 
 shrined in his memory as a mild-eyed beauty of sixteen, with 
 whom he had exchanged locks before he went on his first 
 
128 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 travels. Lady Cheverel would have died rather than confess 
 it, but she couldn't help hoping that he would be disappointed 
 in Lady Assher, and rather ashamed of having called her so 
 charming. 
 
 Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through these days with mixed 
 feelings. Her suffering went to his heart; but, even for her 
 sake, he was glad that a love which could never come to good 
 should be no longer fed by false hopes; and how could he 
 help saying to himself : " Perhaps, after a while, Caterina will 
 be tired of fretting about that cold-hearted puppy, and 
 then. ..." 
 
 At length the much-expected day arrived, and the brightest 
 of September suns was lighting up the yellowing lime-trees, 
 as about five o'clock Lady Assher's carriage drove under the 
 portico. Caterina, seated at work in her own room, heard the 
 rolling of the wheels, followed presently by the opening and 
 shutting of doors, and the sound of voices in the corridors. 
 Kemembering that the dinner-hour was six, and that Lady 
 Cheverel had desired her to be in the drawing-room early, she 
 started up to dress, and was delighted to find herself feeling 
 suddenly brave and strong. Curiosity to see Miss Assher — the 
 thought that Anthony was in the house — the wish not to look 
 unattractive, were feelings that brought some color to her lips, 
 and made it easy to attend to her toilet. They would ask her 
 to sing this evening, and she would sing well. Miss Assher 
 should not think her utterly insignificant. So she put on her 
 gray silk gown and her cherry-colored ribbon with as much 
 care as if she had been herself the betrothed ; not forgetting 
 the pair of round pearl ear-rings which Sir Christopher had 
 told Lady Cheverel to give her, because Tina's little ears were 
 so pretty. 
 
 Quick as she had been, she found Sir Christopher and Lady 
 Cheverel in the drawing-room chatting with Mr. Gilfil, and 
 telling him how handsome Miss Assher was, but how entirely 
 unlike her mother — apparently resembling her father only. 
 
 " Aha ! " said Sir Christopher, as he turned to look at Cat- 
 erina, "what do you think of this, Maynard? Did you ever 
 see Tina look so pretty before? Why, that little gray gown 
 has been made out of a bit of my lady's, hasn't it? It doesn't 
 
MH. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 129 
 
 take anything mucli larger than a pocket-handkerchief to dress 
 the little monkey." 
 
 Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assurance a sin- 
 gle glance had given her of Lady Assher's inferiority, smiled 
 approval, and Caterina was in one of those moods of self-pos- 
 session and indifference which come as the ebb-tide between 
 the struggles of passion. She retired to the piano, and busied 
 herself with arranging her music, not at all insensible to the 
 pleasure of being looked at with admiration the while, and 
 thinking that, the next time the door opened. Captain Wybrow 
 would enter, and she would speak to him quite cheerfully. 
 But when she heard him come in, and the scent of roses floated 
 toward her, her heart gave one great leap. She knew nothing 
 till he was pressing her hand, and saying, in the old easy 
 way : " Well, Caterina, how do you do? You look quite 
 blooming." 
 
 She felt her cheeks reddening with anger that he could 
 speak and look with such perfect nonchalance. Ah! he was 
 too deeply in love with some one else to remember anything 
 he had felt for her. But the next moment she was conscious 
 of her folly ; — ^' as if he could show any feeling then ! " This 
 conflict of emotions stretched into a long interval the few mo- 
 ments that elapsed before the door opened again, and her own 
 attention, as well as that of all the rest, was absorbed by the 
 entrance of the two ladies. 
 
 The daughter was the more striking, from the contrast she 
 presented to her mother, a round-shouldered, middle-sized 
 woman, who had once had the transient pink-and-white beauty 
 of a blonde, with ill-defined features and early embonpoint. 
 Miss Assher was tall, and gracefully though substantially 
 formed, carrying herself with an air of mingled graciousness 
 and self-confidence; her dark-brown hair, untouched by pow- 
 der, hanging in bushy curls round her face, and falling behind 
 in long thick ringlets nearly to her waist. The brilliant car- 
 mine tint of her well-rounded cheeks, and the finely cut out- 
 line of her straight nose, produced an impression of splendid 
 beauty, in spite of commonplace brown eyes, a narrow fore- 
 head, and thin lips. She was in mourning, and the dead black 
 of her crape dress, relieved hera and there by jet ornaments, 
 
130 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 gave the fullest effect to lier complexion, and to the rounded 
 whiteness of her arms, bare from the elbow. The first coup 
 deceit was dazzling, and as she stood looking down with a gra- 
 cious smile on Caterina, whom Lady Cheverel was presenting 
 to her, the poor little thing seemed to herself to feel, for the 
 first time, all the folly of her former dream. 
 
 We are enchanted with your place, Sir Christopher,'^ said 
 Lady Assher, with a feeble kind of pompousness, whicn she 
 seemed to be copying from some one else ; " I'm sure your 
 nephew must have thought Farleigh wretchedly out of order. 
 Poor Sir John was so very careless about keeping up the house 
 and grounds. I often talked to him about it, but he said, 
 ' Pooh, pooh ! as long as my friends find a good dinner and 
 a good bottle of wine, they won't care about my ceilings 
 being rather smoky.' He was so very hospitable, was Sir 
 John." 
 
 " I think the view of the house from the park, just after we 
 passed the bridge, particularly fine,'' said Miss Assher, inter- 
 posing rather eagerly, as if she feared her mother might be 
 making infelicitous speeches, " and the pleasure of the first 
 glimpse was all the greater because Anthony would describe 
 nothing to us beforehand. He would not spoil our first im- 
 pressions by raising false ideas. I long to go over the house. 
 Sir Christopher, and learn the history of all your architectural 
 designs, which Anthony says have cost you so much time and 
 study." 
 
 " Take care how you set an old man talking about the past, 
 my dear," said the Baronet; "I hope we shall find something 
 pleasanter for you to do than turning over my old plans and 
 pictures. Our friend Mr. Gilfil here has found a beautiful 
 mare for you, and you can scour the country to your heart's 
 content. Anthony has sent us word what a horsewoman you 
 are." 
 
 Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil with her most beaming 
 smile, and expressed her thanks with the elaborate gracious- 
 ness of a person who means to be thought charming, and is 
 sure of success. 
 
 " Pray do not thank me, " said Mr. Gilfil, " till you have 
 tried the mare. She has been ridden by Lady Sara Linter 
 
MR. GILFIL^S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 131 
 
 for the last two years; but one lady's taste may not be like 
 another's in horses, any more than in other matters.'' 
 
 While this conversation was passing, Captain Wybrow was 
 leaning against the mantelpiece, contenting himself with re- 
 sponding from under his indolent eyelids to the glances Miss 
 Assher was constantly directing toward him as she spoke. 
 " She is very much in love with him," thought Caterina. But 
 she was relieved that Anthony remained passive in his atten- 
 tions. She thought, too, that he was looking paler and 
 more langiiid' than usual. " If he didn't love her very 
 much — if he sometimes thought of the past with regret, 
 I think I could bear it all, and be glad to see Sir Chris- 
 topher made happy." 
 
 During dinner there was a little incident which confirmed 
 these thoughts. When the sweets were on the table, there 
 was a mould of jelly just opposite Captain Wybrow, and 
 being inclined to take some himself, he first invited Miss 
 Assher, who colored, and said, in rather a sharper key than 
 usual, " Have you not learned by this time that I never take 
 jelly?" 
 
 "Don't you?" said Captain Wybrow, whose perceptions 
 were not acute enough for him to notice th© difference of a 
 semitone. " I should have thought you were fond of it. There 
 was always some on the table at Farleigh, I think." 
 
 "You don't seem to take much interest in my likes and 
 dislikes." 
 
 " I'm too much possessed by the happy thought that you 
 like me," was the ex-officio reply, in silvery tones. 
 
 This little episode was unnoticed by every one but Caterina. 
 Sir Christopher was listening with polite attention to Lady 
 Assher' s history of her last man-cook, who was first-rate at 
 gravies, and for that reason pleased Sir John — he was so par- 
 ticular about his gravies, was Sir John : and so they kept the 
 man six years in spite of his bad pastry. Lady Cheverel and 
 Mr. Gilfil were smiling at Rupert the bloodhound, who had 
 pushed his great head under his master's arm, and was taking 
 a survey of the dishes, after snuffing at the contents of the 
 Baronet's plate. 
 
 When the ladies were in the drawing-room again, Lady 
 
132 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Assher was soon deep in a statement to Lady Cheverel of het 
 views about burying people in woollen. 
 
 " To be sure, you must have a woollen dress, because it's the 
 law, you know; but that need hinder no one from putting 
 linen underneath. I always used to say, * If Sir John died 
 to-morrow, I would bury him in his shirt ' ; and I did. And 
 let me advise you to do so by Sir Christopher. You never 
 saw Sir John, Lady Cheverel. He was a large tall man, with 
 a nose just like Beatrice, and so very particular about his 
 shirts.^' 
 
 Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated herself by Caterina, 
 and, with that smiling affability which seems to say, " I am 
 really not at all proud, though you might expect it of me, " 
 said — 
 
 " Anthony tells me you sing so very beautifully. I hope 
 we shall hear you this evening." 
 
 *'0h yes," said Caterina, quietly, without smiling; "I al- 
 ways sing when I am wanted to sing." 
 
 " 1 envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, I have 
 no ear; I cannot hum the smallest tune, aud I delight in 
 music so. Is it not unfortunate? But I shall have quite a 
 treat while I am here; Captain Wybrow says you will give us 
 some music every day." 
 
 ^'1 should have thought you wouldn't care about music if 
 you had no ear," said Caterina, becoming epigrammatic by 
 force of grave simplicity. 
 
 " Oh, I assure you, I dote on it ; and Anthony is so fond of 
 it ; it would be so delightful if I could play and sing to him ; 
 though he says he likes me best not to sing, because it doesn't 
 belong to his idea of me. What style of music do you like 
 best?" 
 
 "I don't know. I like all beautiful music." 
 
 "And are you as fond of riding as of music?" 
 
 "No; I never ride. I think I should be very frightened." 
 
 " Oh, no ! indeed you would not, after a little practice. I 
 have never been in the least timid. I think Anthony is more 
 afraid for me than I am for myself ; and since I have been 
 riding with him, I have been obliged to be more careful, be- 
 cause he is so nervous about me." 
 
MR. GiLFiL's Love-story. 
 
 133 
 
 Caterina made no reply ; but she said to herself, " I wish 
 she would go away and not talk to me. She only wants me 
 to admire her good-nature, and to talk about Anthony." 
 
 Miss Assher was thinking at the same time, " This Miss 
 Sarti seems a stupid little thing. Those musical people often 
 are. But she is prettier than I expected ; Anthony said she 
 was not pretty." 
 
 Happily at this moment Lady Assher called her daughter's 
 attention to the embroidered cushions, and Miss Assher, walk- 
 ing to the opposite sofa, was soon in conversation with Lady 
 Cheverel about tapestry and embroidery in general, while her 
 mother, feeling herself superseded there, came and placed her- 
 self beside Caterina. 
 
 " I hear you are the most beautiful singer, " was of course 
 the opening remark. *^A11 Italians sing so beautifully. I 
 travelled in Italy with Sir John when we were first married, 
 and we went to Venice, where they go about in gondolas, you 
 know. You don't wear powder, I see. No more will Bea- 
 trice; though many people think her curls would look all the 
 better for powder. She has so much hair, hasn't she? Our 
 last maid dressed it much better than this ; but, do you know, 
 she wore Beatrice's stockings before they went to the wash, 
 and we couldn't keep her after that, could we?" 
 
 Caterina, accepting the question as a mere bit of rhetorical 
 effect, thought it superfluous to reply, till Lady Assher re- 
 peated, "Could we, now?" as if Tina's sanction were essen- 
 tial to her repose of mind. After a faint No " she went on. 
 
 " Maids are so very troublesome, and Beatrice is so particu- 
 lar, you can't imagine. I often say to her, ^ My dear, you 
 can't have perfection.' That very gown she has on — to be 
 sure, it fits her beautifully now — but it has been unmade and 
 made up again twice. But she is like poor Sir John — he was 
 so very particular about his own things, was Sir John. Is 
 Lady Cheverel particular?" 
 
 "Rather. But Mrs. Sharp has been her maid twenty 
 years." 
 
 " I wish there was any chance of our keeping Griffin twenty 
 years. But I am afraid we shall have to part with her because 
 her health is so delicate \ and she is so obstinate, she will not 
 
134 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 take bitters as I want her. You look delicate, now. Let me 
 recommend you to take camomile tea in a morning, fasting. 
 Beatrice is so strong and healthy, she never takes any medi- 
 cine ; but if I had had twenty girls, and they had been deli- 
 cate, I should have given them all camomile tea. It strength- 
 ens the constitution beyond anything. Now, will you promise 
 me to take camomile tea? 
 
 "Thank you; I'm not at all ill,'' said Caterina. "I've al- 
 ways been pale and thin." 
 
 Lady Asslier was sure camomile tea would make all the dif- 
 ference in the world — Caterina must see if it wouldn't — and 
 then went dribbling on like a leaky shower-bath, until the 
 early entrance of the gentlemen created a diversion, and she 
 fastened on Sir Christopher, who probably began to think 
 that, for poetical purposes, it would be better not to meet 
 one's first love again, after a lapse of forty years. 
 
 Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and Miss As- 
 sher, and Mr. Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina from the awkward- 
 ness of sitting aloof and dumb, by telling her how a friend of 
 his had broken his arm and staked his horse that morniug, not 
 at all appearing to heed that she hardly listened, and was 
 looking toward the other side of the room. One of the tor- 
 tures of jealousy is, that it can never turn away its eyes from 
 the thing that pains it. 
 
 By-and-by every one felt the need of a relief from chit-chat 
 — Sir Christopher perhaps the most of all — and it was he who 
 made the acceptable proposition — 
 
 "Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night before 
 we sit down to cards? Your ladyship plays at cards, I 
 think?" he added, recollecting himself, and turning to 
 Lady Assher. 
 
 "Oh yes! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist-table 
 every night." 
 
 Caterina sat down to the harpischord at once, and had no 
 sooner begun to sing than she perceived with delight that Cap- 
 tain Wybrow was gliding toward the harpsichord, and soon 
 standing in the old place. This consciousness gave fresh 
 strength to her voice ; and when she noticed that Miss Assher 
 presently followed him with that air of ostentatious admira- 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 135 
 
 tion which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her clos- 
 ing bravura was none the worse for being animated by a little 
 triumphant contempt. 
 
 Why, you are in better voice than ever, Caterina," said 
 Captain Wybrow, when she had ended. This is rather dif- 
 ferent from Miss Hibbert's small piping that we used to be 
 glad of at Farleigh, is it not, Beatrice? 
 
 "Indeed it is. You are a most enviable creature, Miss 
 Sarti — Caterina — may I not call you Caterina? for I have 
 heard Anthony speak of you so often, I seem to know you 
 quite well. You will let me call you Caterina? 
 
 " Oh yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when they call 
 me Tina." 
 
 "Come, come, more singing, more singing, little monkey," 
 Sir Christopher called out from the other side of the room. 
 " We have not had half enough yet. " 
 
 Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she was sing- 
 ing she was queen of the room, and Miss Assher was reduced 
 to grimacing admiration. Alas! you see what jealousy was 
 doing in this poor young soul. Caterina, who had passed her 
 life as a little unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling so fondly 
 under the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart 
 beating only to the peaceful rhythm of love, or fluttering with 
 some easily stifled fear, had begun to know the fierce palpita- 
 tions of triumph and hatred. 
 
 When the singing was over. Sir Christopher and Lady 
 Cheverel sat down to whist with Lady Assher and Mr. Gilfil, 
 and Caterina placed herself at the Baronet's elbow, as if to 
 watch the game, that she might not appear to thrust herself 
 on the pair of lovers. At first she was glowing with her little 
 triumph, and felt the strength of pride; but her eye would 
 steal to the opposite side of the fireplace, where Captain Wy- 
 brow had seated himself close to Miss Assher, and was lean- 
 ing with his arm over the back of the chair, in the most lover- 
 like position. Caterina began to feel a choking sensation. 
 She could see, almost without looking, that he was taking up 
 her arm to examine her bracelet; their heads were bending 
 close together, her curls touching his cheek — now he was put- 
 ting his lips to her hand. Caterina felt her cheeks burn — she 
 
136 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 could sit no longer. She got up, pretended to be gliding 
 about in search of something, and at length slipped out of 
 the room. 
 
 Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along the pas- 
 sages and up the stairs to her own room, locked the door. 
 
 ^' Oh, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it ! the poor thing 
 burst out aloud, clasping her little fingers, and pressing them 
 back against her forehead, as if she wanted to break them. 
 
 Then she walked hurriedly up and down the room. 
 
 "And this must go on for days and days, and I must 
 see it.'^ 
 
 She looked about nervously for something to clutch. There 
 was a muslin kerchief lying on the table ; she took it up and 
 tore it into shreds as she walked up and down, and then 
 pressed it into hard balls in her hand. 
 
 " And Anthony, she thought, he can do this without car- 
 ing for what I feel. Oh, he can forget everything: how he 
 used to say he loved me — how he used to take my hand in his 
 as we walked — how he used to stand near me in the evenings 
 for the sake of looking into my eyes. 
 
 " Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel ! " she burst out again aloud, as 
 all those love-moments in the past returned upon her. Then 
 the tears gushed forth, she threw herself on her knees by the 
 bed, and sobbed bitterly. 
 
 She did not know how long she had been there, till she was 
 startled by the prayer-bell; when, thinking Lady Cheverel 
 might perhaps send some one to inquire after her, she rose, and 
 began hastily to undress, that there might be no possibility of 
 her going down again. She had hardly unfastened her hair, 
 and thrown a loose gown about her, before there was a knock 
 at the door, and Mrs. Sharp's voice said — "Miss Tina, my 
 lady wants to know if you're ill.'- 
 
 Caterina opened the door and said, " Thank you, dear Mrs. 
 Sharp ; I have a bad headache ; please tell my lady I felt it 
 come on after singing. 
 
 "Then, goodness me! why aren't you in bed, instead o^ 
 standing shivering there, fit to catch your death? Come, let 
 me fasten up your hair and tuck you up warm." 
 
 " Oh no^ thank you ; I shall really be in bed very soon. 
 
MR GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 137 
 
 Good-night, dear Sharpy; don't scold; I will be good, and 
 get into bed." 
 
 Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs. Sharp 
 was not to be " come over " in that way, and insisted on see- 
 ing her former charge in bed, taking away the candle which 
 the poor child had wanted to keep as a companion. 
 
 But it was impossible to lie there long with that beating 
 heart ; and the little white figure was soon out of bed again, 
 seeking relief in the very sense of chill and uncomfort. It 
 was light enough for her to see about her room, for the moon, 
 nearly at full, was riding high in the heavens among scattered 
 hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside the window-curtain, 
 and, sitting with her forehead pressed against the cold pane, 
 looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn. 
 
 How dreary the moonlight is ! robbed of all its tenderness 
 and repose by the hard driving wind. The trees are harassed 
 by that tossing motion, when they would like to be at rest; 
 the shivering grass makes her quake with sympathetic cold; 
 and the willows by the pool, bent low and white under that 
 invisible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like herself. 
 But she loves the scene the better for its sadness : there is 
 some pity in it. It is not like that hard unfeeling happiness 
 of lovers, flaunting in the eyes of misery. 
 
 She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the 
 tears fell thick and fast. She was so thankful she could cry, 
 for the mad passion she had felt when her eyes were dry 
 frightened her. If that dreadful feeling were to come on 
 when Lady Cheverel was present, she should never be able to 
 contain herself. 
 
 Then there was Sir Christopher — so good to her — so happy 
 about Anthony's marriage; and all the while she had these 
 wicked feelings. 
 
 " Oh, I cannot help it, I cannot help it ! '' she said in a 
 loud whisper between her sobs. " 0 God, have pity upon 
 me!" 
 
 In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy 
 moonlight, till at last, with weary aching limbs, she lay down 
 in bed again, and slept from mere exhaustion. 
 
 While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight 
 
138 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 too heavy for it, Nature was holding on her calm inexorable 
 way, in unmoved and terrible beauty. The stars were rush- 
 ing in their eternal courses;, the tides swelled to the level of 
 the last expectant weed ; the sun was making brilliant day to 
 busy nations on the other side of the swift earth. The stream 
 of human thought and deed was hurrying and broadening on- 
 ward. The astronomer was at his telescope; the great ships 
 were laboring over the waves ; the toiling eagerness of com- 
 merce, the fierce spirit of revolution, were only ebbing in 
 brief rest; and sleepless statesmen were dreading the possible 
 crisis of the morrow. What were our little Tina and her 
 trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one awful un- 
 known to another? Lighter than the smallest centre of quiv- 
 ering life in the water-drop, hidden and uncared for as the 
 pulse of anguish in the breast of the tiniest bird that has flut- 
 tered down to its nest with the long-sought food, and has 
 found the nest torn and empty. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The next morning, when Caterina was waked from her 
 heavy sleep by Martha bringing in the warm water, the sun 
 was shining, the wind had abated, and those hours of suffer- 
 ing in the night seemed unreal and dreamlike, in spite of 
 weary limbs and aching eyes. She got up and began to dress 
 with a strange feeling of insensibility, as if nothing could 
 make her cry again ; and she even felt a sort of longing to be 
 downstairs in the midst of company, that she might get rid 
 of this benumbed condition by contact. 
 
 There are few of us that are not rather ashamed of our sins 
 and follies as we look out on the blessed morning sunlight, 
 which comes to us like a bright-winged angeL beckoning us to 
 quit the old path of vanity that stretches its dreary length be- 
 hind us ; and Tina, little as she knew about doctrines and 
 theories, seemed to herself to have been both foolish and 
 wicked yesterday. To-day she would try to be good; and 
 when she knelt down to say her short prayer — the very form 
 
MR. GILFIL^S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 139 
 
 she had learned by heart when she was ten years old — she 
 added, " O God, help me to bear it! 
 
 That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for after some 
 remarks on her pale looks at breakfast, Caterina passed the 
 morning quietly. Miss Assher and Captain Wybrow being out 
 on a riding excursion. In the evening there was a dinner- 
 party, and after Caterina had sung a little. Lady Cheverel, 
 remembering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where she 
 soon sank into a deep sleep. Body and mind must renew their 
 force to suffer as well as to enjoy. 
 
 On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every one must 
 stay indoors; so it was resolved that the guests should be 
 taken over the house by Sir Christopher, to hear the story of 
 the architectural alterations, the family portraits, and the fam- 
 ily relics. All the party, except Mr. Gilfil, were in the draw- 
 ing-room when the proposition was made; and when Miss As- 
 sher rose to go, she looked toward Captain Wybrow, expecting 
 to see him rise too ; but he kept his seat near the fire, turning 
 his eyes toward the newspaper which he had been holding un- 
 read in his hand. 
 
 *'Are you not coming, Anthony?'^ said Lady Cheverel, 
 noticing Miss Assher's look of expectation. 
 
 ^^I think not, if you'll excuse me,'' he answered, rising and 
 opening the door; ^^I feel a little chilled this morning, and 1 
 am afraid of the cold rooms and draughts." 
 
 Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, 
 Lady Cheverel accompanying her. 
 
 Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was 
 the first time she and Anthony had been alone together, and 
 she had thought before that he wished to avoid her. But 
 now, surely, he wanted to speak to her — he wanted to say 
 something kind. Presently he rose from his seat near the 
 fire, and placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her. 
 
 " Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long time? " 
 
 Both the tone and the words were an offence to her ; the 
 tone was so different from the old one, the words were so cold 
 and unmeaning. She answered, with a little bitterness — 
 
 " I think you needn't ask. It doesn't make much differ- 
 ence to you." 
 
140 
 
 OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 " Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me after my 
 long absence?^' 
 
 "I don't know why you should expect me to say kind 
 things. 
 
 Captain Wybrow was silent. He wished very much to 
 avoid allusions to the past or comments on the present. And 
 yet he wished to be well with Caterina. He would have liked 
 to caress her, make her presents, and have her think him 
 very kind to her. But these women are plaguy perverse! 
 There's no bringing them to look rationally at anything. At 
 last he said, " I hoped you would think all the better of me, 
 Tina, for doing as I have done, instead of bearing malice tow- 
 ard me. I hoped you would see that it is the best thing for 
 every one — the best for your happiness too. '' 
 
 "Oh pray don't make love to Miss Assher for the sake of 
 my happiness," answered Tina. 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Miss Assher entered, 
 to fetch her reticule, which lay on the harpsichord. She gave 
 a keen glance at Caterina, whose face was flushed, and saying 
 to Captain Wybrow with a slight sneer, " Since you are so 
 chill I wonder you like to sit in the window," left the room 
 again immediately. 
 
 The lover did not appear much discomposed, but sat quiet a 
 little longer, and then, seating himself on the music-stool, 
 drew it near to Caterina, and, taking her hand, said, " Come, 
 Tina, look kindly at me, and let us be friends. I shall always 
 be your friend." 
 
 "Thank you," said Caterina, drawing away her hand. 
 " You are very generous. But pray move away. Miss As^ 
 sher may come in again." 
 
 " Miss Assher be hanged!" said Anthony, feeling the fas- 
 cination of old habit returning on him in his proximity to 
 Caterina. He put his arm round her waist, and leaned his 
 cheek down to hers. The lips couldn't help meeting after 
 that ; but the next moment, with heart swelling and tears ris- 
 ing, Caterina burst away from him, and rushed out of the 
 room. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY, 
 
 141 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Caterina tore herself from Anthony with the desperate 
 effort of one who has just self -recollection enough left to be 
 conscious that the fumes of charcoal will master his senses 
 unless he bursts a way for himself to the fresh air ; but when 
 she reached her own room, she was still too intoxicated with 
 that momentary revival of old emotions, too much agitated by 
 the sudden return of tenderness in her lover, to know whether 
 pain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a miracle had 
 happened in her little world of feeling, and made the future 
 all vague — a dim morning haze of possibilities, instead of the 
 sombre wintry daylight and clear rigid outline of painful cer- 
 tainty. 
 
 She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk out 
 in spite of the rain. Happily, there was a thin place in the 
 curtain of clouds which seemed to promise that now, about 
 noon, the day had a mind to clear up. Caterina thought to 
 herself, " I will walk to the Mosslands, and carry Mr. Bates 
 the comforter I have made for him, and then Lady Cheverel 
 will not wonder so much at my going out.^' At the hall door 
 she found Rupert, the old bloodhound, stationed on the mat, 
 with the determination that the first person who was sensible 
 enough to take a walk that morning should have the honor 
 of his approbation and society. As he thrust his great black 
 and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail with 
 vigorous eloquence, and reached the climax of his welcome by 
 jumping up to lick her face, which was at a convenient lick- 
 ing height for him, Caterina felt quite grateful to the old dog 
 for his friendliness. Animals are such agreeable friends — 
 they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. 
 
 The " Mosslands was a remote part of the grounds, encir- 
 cled by the little stream issuing from the pool ; and certainly, 
 for a wet day, Caterina could hardly have chosen a less suit- 
 able walk, for though the rain was abating, and presently 
 ceased altogether, there was still a smart shower falling from 
 the trees which arched over the greater part of her way. But 
 
142 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 she found just the desired relief from her feverish excitement 
 in laboring along the wet paths with an umbrella that made 
 her arm ache. This amount of exertion was to her tiny body 
 what a day's hunting often was to Mr, Gilfil, who at times 
 had his fits of jealousy and sadness to get rid of, and wisely 
 had recourse to nature's innocent opium — fatigue. 
 
 When Cater ina reached the pretty arched- wooden bridge 
 which formed the only entrance to the Mosslands for any but 
 webbed feet, the sun had mastered the clouds, and was shin- 
 ing through the boughs of the tall elms that made a deep nest 
 for the gardener's cottage^ — turning the rain-drops into dia- 
 monds, and inviting the nasturtium flowers creeping over the 
 porch and low*thatched roof to lift up their flame-colored 
 heads once more. The rooks were cawing with many -voiced 
 monotony, apparently — by a remarkable approximation to 
 human intelligence — finding great conversational resources in 
 the change of weather. The mossy turf, studded with the 
 broad blades of marsh-loving plants, told that Mr. Bates's 
 nest was rather damp in the best of weather ; but he was of 
 opinion that a little external moisture would hurt no man who 
 was not perversely neglectful of that obvious and providential 
 antidote, rum-and-water. 
 
 Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every sound 
 that haunted it, had been familiar to her from the days when 
 she had been carried thither on Mr. Bates's arm, making little 
 cawing noises to imitate the rooks, clapping her hands at the 
 green frogs leaping in the moist grass, and fixing grave eyes 
 on the gardener's fowls cluck-clucking under their pens. And 
 now the spot looked prettier to her than ever ; it was so out 
 of the way of Miss Assher, with her brilliant beauty, and 
 personal claims, and small civil remarks. She thought Mr. 
 Bates would not be come into his dinner yet, so she would sit 
 down and wait for him. 
 
 But she was mistaken. Mr. Bates was seated in his arm- 
 chair, with his pocket-handkerchief thrown over his face as 
 the most eligible mode of passing away those superfluous 
 hours between meals when the weather drives a man indoors. 
 Roused by the furious barking of his chained bull-dog, he de- 
 scried his little favorite approaching, and forthwith presented 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 143 
 
 himself at the doorway, looking disproportionately tali con: 
 pared with the height of his cottage. The bull-dog, mean- 
 while, unbent from the severity of his official demeanor, and 
 commenced a friendly interchange of ideas with Rupert. 
 
 Mr. Bates's hair was now gray, but his frame was none the 
 less stalwart, and his face looked all the redder, making an 
 artistic contrast with the deep blue of his cotton neckerchief, 
 and of his linen apron twisted into a girdle round his waist. 
 
 "Why, dang my boottons. Miss Tiny,'' he exclaimed, "hoo 
 coom ye to coom oot dabblin' your f aet laike a little Muscovy 
 duck, sich a day as this? Not but what ai'm delaighted to sae 
 ye. Here Hesther/' he called to his old humpbacked house- 
 keeper, "tek the young ledy's oombrella an' spread it oot to 
 dray. Coom, coom in. Miss Tiny, an' set ye doon by the 
 faire an' dray yer fact, an' hev summat warm to kape ye from 
 ketchin' coold." 
 
 Mr. Bates led the way, stooping under the door-places, into 
 his small sitting-room, and, shaking the patchwork cushion in 
 his arm-chair, moved it to within a good roasting distance of 
 the blazing fire. 
 
 " Thank you, uncle Bates " (Caterina kept up her childish 
 epithets for her friends, and this was one of them) ; " not quite 
 so close to the fire, for I am warm with walking.^' 
 
 " Eh, but yer shoes are f aine an' wet, an' ye must put up 
 yer faet on the fender. Rare big fact, baint 'em? — aboot the 
 saize of a good big spoon. I woonder ye can mek a shift to 
 stan' on 'em. Now, what'U ye hev to warm yer insaide? — 
 a drop o^ hot elder wain, now? " 
 
 "No, not anything to drink, thank you; it isn't very long 
 since breakfast," said Caterina, drawing out the comforter 
 from her deep pocket. Pockets were capacious in those days. 
 " Look here, uncle Bates, here is what I came to bring you. 
 I made it on purpose for you. You must wear it this winter, 
 and give your red one to old Brooks." 
 
 " Eh, Miss Tiny, this is a beauty. An' ye made it all wi' 
 yer little fingers for an old feller laike mae ! I tek it very 
 kaind on ye, an' I belave ye I'll wear it, and be prood on't 
 too. These sthraipes, blue an' whaite, now, they mek it un- 
 common pritty." 
 
144 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 " Yes, that will suit your complexion, you know, better than 
 the old scarlet one. I know Mrs. Sharp will be more in love 
 with you than ever when she sees you in the new one." 
 
 "My complexion, ye little roogue! ye're a laughin' at me. 
 But talkin' o' complexions, what a beautiful color the bride as 
 is to be has on her cheeks ! Dang my boottons ! she looks 
 faine and handsome o' hossback — sits as upraight as a dart, 
 wi' a figure like a statty ! Misthress Sharp has promised to 
 put me behaind one o' the doors when the ladies are comin^ 
 doon to dinner, so as I may sae the young un i' full dress, wi' 
 all her curls an' that. Misthress Sharp says she's almost 
 beautifuller nor my ledy was when she was yoong; an' I 
 think ye'll noot faind many i' the counthry as'U coom up to 
 that." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Assher is very handsome," said Caterina, rather 
 faintly, feeling the sense of her own insignificance returning 
 at this picture of the impression Miss Assher made on others. 
 
 "Well, an' I hope she's good too, an'll mek a good naice 
 to Sir Cristhifer an' my ledy. Misthress Griffin, the maid, 
 says as she's rether tatchy and find-fautin' about her cloothes, 
 laike. But she's yoong — she's yoong; that'll wear off when 
 she's got a hoosband, an' children, an' summat else to think 
 on. Sir Cristhifer' s fain an' delaighted, I can see. He 
 says to me th' other mornin', says he, * Well, Bates, what 
 do you think of your young misthress as is to be?' An' I 
 says, ^ Whay, yer honor, I think she's as fain a lass as iver I 
 set eyes on ; an' I wish the Captain luck in a fain family, an^ 
 your honor laife an' health to see't. Mr. Warren says as the 
 masther's all for forrardin' the weddin,' an' it'll very laike 
 be afore the autumn's oot." 
 
 As Mr. Bates ran on, Caterina felt something like a painful 
 contraction at her heart. "Yes," she said, rising, "I dare 
 say it will. Sir Christopher is very anxious for it. But I 
 must go, uncle Bates ; Lady Cheverel will be wanting me, and 
 it is your dinner-time." 
 
 "Nay, my dinner doon't sinnify a bit; but I moosn't kaep 
 ye if my ledy wants ye. Though I hevn't thanked ye half 
 anoof for the comfiter — the wrapraskil, as they call't. My 
 feckins, it^s a beauty. But ye look very whaite and sadly, 
 
MK. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 145 
 
 Miss Tiny; I doubt ye're poorly; an' this walking i' th' wet 
 isn't good for ye." 
 
 " Oh yes, it is indeed, " said Caterina, hastening out, and 
 taking up her umbrella from the kitchen floor. I must 
 really go now; so good-by." 
 
 She tripped off, calling Kupert, while the good gardener, 
 his hands thrust deep in his pockets, stood looking after her 
 and shaking his head with rather a melancholy air. 
 
 ^^She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver,'' he said, half 
 to himself and half to Hester. ^^I shouldn't woonder if she 
 fades away laike them cyclamens as I transplanted. She puts 
 me i' maind on 'em somehow, hangin' on their little thin stalks, 
 so whaite an' tinder." 
 
 The poor little thing made her way back, no longer hunger- 
 ing for the cold moist air as a counteractive of inward excite- 
 ment, but with a chill at her heart which made the outward 
 chill only depressing. The golden sunlight beamed through 
 the dripping boughs like a Shechinah, or visible divine pres- 
 ence, and the birds were chirping and trilling their new au- 
 tumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their throats, as well 
 as the air, were all the clearer for the rain; but Caterina 
 moved through all this joy and beauty like a poor wounded 
 leveret painfully dragging its little body through the sweet 
 clover-tufts — for it, sweet in vain. Mr. Bates's words about 
 Sir Christopher's joy. Miss Assher's beauty, and the nearness 
 of the wedding, had come upon her like the pressure of a cold 
 hand, rousing her from confused dozing to a perception of hard, 
 familiar realities. It is so with emotional natures, whose 
 thoughts are no more than the fleeting shadows cast by feel- 
 ing : to them words are facts, and even when known to be 
 false, have a mastery over their smiles and tears. Caterina 
 entered her own room again, with no other change from her 
 former state of despondency and wretchedness than an addi- 
 tional sense of injury from Anthony. His behavior toward 
 her in the morning was a new wrong. To snatch a caress 
 when she justly claimed an expression of penitence, of regret, 
 of sympathy, was to make more light of her than ever. 
 
146 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 That evening Miss Assher seemed to carry herself with 
 unusual haughtiness, and was coldly observant of Caterina. 
 There was unmistakably thunder in the air. Captain Wy- 
 brow appeared to take the matter very easily, and was in- 
 clined to brave it out by paying more than ordinary attention 
 to Caterina. Mr. Gilfil had induced her to play a game at 
 draughts with him, Lady Assher being seated at picquet with 
 Sir Christopher, and Miss Assher in determined conversation 
 with Lady Cheverel. Anthony, thus left as an odd unit, 
 sauntered up to Caterina' s chair and leaned behind her, 
 watching the game. Tina, with all the remembrances of the 
 morning thick upon her, felt her cheeks becoming more and 
 more crimson, and at last said impatiently, "I wish you 
 would go away.'' 
 
 This happened directly under the view of Miss Assher, who 
 saw Caterina' s reddening cheeks, saw that she said something 
 impatiently, and that Captain Wybrow moved away in conse- 
 quence. There was another person, too, who had noticed this 
 incident with strong interest, and who was moreover aware 
 that Miss Assher not only saw, but keenly observed what was 
 passing. That other person was Mr. Gilfil, and he drew some 
 painful conclusions which heightened his anxiety for Caterina. 
 
 The next morning, in spite of the fine weather. Miss Assher 
 declined riding, and Lady Cheverel, perceiving that there was 
 something wrong between the lovers, took care that they should 
 be left together in the drawing-room. Miss Assher, seated on 
 the sofa near the fire, was busy with some fancy-work, in 
 which she seemed bent on making great progress this morn- 
 ing. Captain Wybrow sat opposite with a newspaper in his 
 hand, from which he obligingly read extracts with an elaborate- 
 ly easy air, wilfully unconscious of the contemptuous silence 
 with which she pursued her filigree work. At length he put 
 down the paper, which he could no longer pretend not to have 
 exhausted, and Miss Assher then said — 
 
 " You seem to be on very intimate terms with Miss Sarti.^' 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 147 
 
 "With Tina? oh yes; she has always been the pet of the 
 house, you know. We have been quite brothe^^ and sister 
 together.'' 
 
 ^' Sisters don't generally color so very deejjly when their 
 brothers approach them." 
 
 *^Does she color? I never noticed it. But she's a timid 
 little thing." 
 
 " It would be much better if you would not be so hypocriti- 
 cal, Captain Wybrow. I am confident there has been some 
 flirtation between you. Miss Sarti, in her position, would 
 never speak to you with the petulance she did last night, if 
 you had not given her some kind of claim on you." 
 
 ^' My dear Beatrice, now do be reasonable ; do ask yourself 
 what earthly probability there is that I should think of flirt- 
 ing with poor little Tina. Is there anything about her to at- 
 tract that sort of attention? She is more child than woman. 
 One thinks of her as a little girl to be petted and played 
 with." 
 
 " Pray, what were you playing at with her yesterday morn- 
 ing, when I came in unexpectedly, and her cheeks were flushed, 
 and her hands trembling? " 
 
 " Yesterday morning? — Oh, I remember. You know I al- 
 ways tease her about Gilfil, who is over head and ears in love 
 with her; and she is angry at that, — perhaps, because she 
 likes him. They were old playfellows years before I came 
 here, and Sir Christopher has set his heart on their mar- 
 rying." 
 
 " Captain Wybrow, you are very false. It had nothing to 
 do with Mr. Gilfil that she colored last night when you leaned 
 over her chair. You might just as well be candid. If your 
 own mind is not made up, pray do no violence to yourself. 
 I am quite ready to give way to Miss Sarti' s superior attrac- 
 tions. Understand that, so far as I am concerned, you are 
 perfectly at liberty. I decline any share in the affection of a 
 man who forfeits my respect by duplicity." 
 
 In saying this Miss Assher rose, and was sweeping haugh- 
 tily out of the room, when Captain Wybrow placed himself 
 before her, and took her hand. 
 
 " Dear, dear Beatrice, be patient; do not judge me so rashly, 
 
148 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Sit down again, sweet," lie added in a pleading voice, press- 
 ing both her hands between his, and leading her back to the 
 sofa, where he sat down beside her. Miss Assher was not 
 unwilling to be led back or to listen, but she retained her cold 
 and haughty expression. 
 
 "Can you not trust me, Beatrice? Can you not believe 
 me, although there may be things I am unable to explain? " 
 
 "Why should there be anything you are unable to explain? 
 An honorable man will not be placed in circumstances which 
 he cannot explain to the woman he seeks to make his wife. 
 He will not ask her to believe that he acts properly ; he will 
 let her know that he does so. Let me go, sir. " 
 
 She attempted to rise, but he passed his hand round her 
 waist and detained her. 
 
 "Now, Beatrice, dear," he said, imploringly, "can you not 
 understand that there are things a man doesn't like to talk 
 about — secrets that he must keep for the sake of others, and 
 not for his own sake? Everything that relates to myself you 
 may ask me, but do not ask me to tell other people's secrets. 
 Don't you understand me? " 
 
 "Oh yes," said Miss Assher, scornfully, "I understand. 
 Whenever you make love to a woman — that is her secret, 
 which you are bound to keep for her. But it is folly to be 
 talking in this way. Captain Wybrow. It is very plain that 
 there is some relation more than friendship between you and 
 Miss Sarti. Since you cannot explain that relation, there is 
 no more to be said between us." 
 
 "Confound it, Beatrice! you'll drive me mad. Can a fel- 
 low help a girl's falling in love with him? Such things are 
 always happening, but men don't talk of them. These fancies 
 will spring up without the slightest foundation, especially 
 when a woman sees few people ; they die out again when there 
 in no encouragement. If you could like me, you ought not to 
 be surprised that other people can ; you ought to think the 
 better of them for it." 
 
 " You mean to say, then, that Miss Sarti is in love with 
 you, without your ever having made love to her." 
 
 " Do not press me to say such things, dearest. It is enough 
 that you know I love you — that I am devoted to you. You 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 149 
 
 naughty queen, you, you know there is no chance for any one 
 else where you are. You are only tormenting me, to prove 
 your power over me. But don't be too cruel ; for you know 
 they say I have another heart disease besides love, and these 
 scenes bring on terrible palpitations.'' 
 
 "But I must have an answer to this one question," said 
 Miss Assher, a little softened : " has there been, or is there, 
 any love on your side toward Miss Sarti? I have nothing to 
 do with her feelings, but I have a right to know yours." 
 
 " I like Tina very much ; who would not like such a little 
 simple thing? You would not wish me not to like her? But 
 love — that is a very different affair. One has a brotherly 
 affection for such a woman as Tina ; but it is another sort of 
 woman that one loves." 
 
 These last words were made doubly significant by a look of 
 tenderness, and a kiss imprinted on the hand Captain Wybrow 
 held in his. Miss Assher was conquered. It was so far from 
 probable that Anthony should love that pale insignificant 
 little thing — so highly probable that he should adore the beau- 
 tiul Miss Assher. On the whole, it was rather gratifying that 
 other women should be languishing for her handsome lover ; 
 he really was an exquisite creature. Poor Miss Sarti! Well, 
 she would get over it. 
 
 Captain Wybrow saw his advantage. "Come, sweet love," 
 he continued, " let us talk no more about unpleasant things. 
 You will keep Tina's secret, and be very kind to her — won't 
 you? — for my sake. But you will ride out now? See what 
 a glorious day it is for riding. Let me order the horses. I'm 
 terribly in want of the air. Come, give me one forgiving kiss, 
 and say you will go." 
 
 Miss Assher complied with the double request, and then 
 went to equip herself for the ride, while her lover walked to 
 the stables. 
 
150 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Gilfil, who had a heavy weight on his 
 mind, had watched for the moment when, the two elder 
 ladies having driven out, Caterina would probably be alone 
 in Lady CheverePs sitting-room. He went up and knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 Come in," said the sweet mellow voice, always thrilling to 
 him as the sound of rippling water to the thirsty. 
 
 He entered and found Caterina standing in some confusion, 
 as if she had been startled from a revery. She felt relieved 
 when she saw it was Maynard, but, the next moment, felt a 
 little pettish that he should have come to interrupt and 
 frighten her. 
 
 "Oh, it is you, Maynard! Do you want Lady Cheverel?" 
 
 "No, Caterina," he answered gravely; "I want you. I 
 have something very particular to say to you. Will you lei 
 me sit down with you for half an hour? " 
 
 " Yes, dear old preacher, " said Caterina, sitting down with 
 an air of weariness; "what is it?" 
 
 Mr. Gilfil placed himself opposite to her, and said, "1 
 hope you will not be hurt, Caterina, by what I am going to 
 say to you. I do not speak from any other feelings than real 
 affection and anxiety for you. I put everything else out of 
 the question. You know you are more to me than all the 
 world; but I will not thrust before you a feeling which you 
 are unable to return. I speak to you as a brother — the old 
 Maynard that used to scold you for getting your fishing-linti 
 tangled ten years ago. You will not believe that I have any 
 mean, selfish motive in mentioning things that are painful to 
 you? " 
 
 " No ; I know you are very good, " said Caterina, abstract- 
 edly. 
 
 "From what I saw yesterday evening," Mr. Gilfil went on, 
 hesitating and coloring slightly, " I am led to fear — pray for- 
 give me if I am wrong, Caterina — that you — that Captain 
 Wybrow is base enough still to trifle with your feelings, that 
 
MR. GILFIL^S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 151 
 
 lie still allows himself to behave to you as no man ought who 
 is the declared lover of another woman. 
 
 "What do you mean, Maynard?" said Caterina, with anger 
 flashing from her eyes. " Do you mean that I let him make 
 love to me ? What right have you to think that of me? 
 What do you mean that you saw yesterday evening? 
 
 "Do not be angry, Caterina. I don't suspect you of doing 
 wrong. I only suspect that heartless puppy of behaving so 
 as to keep awake feelings in you that not only destroy your 
 own peace of mind, but may lead to very bad consequences 
 with regard to others. I want to warn you that Miss Assher 
 has her eyes open on what passes between you and Captain 
 Wybrow, and I feel sure she is getting jealous of you. Pray 
 be very careful, Caterina, and try to behave with politeness 
 and indifference to him. You must see by this time that he 
 is not worth the feeling you have given him. He's more dis- 
 turbed at his pulse beating one too many in a minute, than at 
 all the misery he has caused you by his foolish trifling.'' 
 
 " You ought not to speak so of him, Maynard, " said Cat- 
 erina, passionately. "He is not what you think. He did 
 care for me ; he did love me ; only he wanted to do what his 
 uncle wished." 
 
 " Oh to be sure ! I know it is only from the most virtuous 
 motives that he does what is convenient to himself." 
 
 Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he was getting irritated, 
 and defeating his own object. Presently he continued in a 
 calm and affectionate tone. 
 
 " I will say no more about what I think of him, Caterina. 
 But whether he loved you or not, his position now with Miss 
 Assher is such that any love you may cherish for him can 
 bring nothing but misery. God knows, I don't expect you 
 to leave off loving him at a moment's notice. Time and ab- 
 sence, and trying to do what is right, are the only cures. If 
 it were not that Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel would be 
 displeased and puzzled at your wishing to leave home just 
 now, I would beg you to pay a visit to my sister. She and 
 her husband are good creatures, and would make their house 
 a home to you. But I could not urge the thing just now 
 without giving a special reason j and what is most of all to 
 
162 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 be dreaded is the raising of any suspicion in Sir Christopher's 
 mind of what has happened in the past, or of your present 
 feelings. You think so too, don't you, Tina?" 
 
 Mr. Gilfil paused again, but Caterina said nothing. She 
 was looking away from him, out of the window, and her eyes 
 were filling with tears. He rose, and, advancing a little tow- 
 ard her, held out his hand and said — 
 
 "Forgive me, Caterina, for intruding on your feelings in 
 this way. I was so afraid you might not be aware how Miss 
 Assher watched you. Remember, I entreat you, that the peace 
 of the whole family depends on your power of governing your- 
 self. Only say you forgive me before I go." 
 
 "Dear, good Maynard," she said, stretching out her little 
 hand, and taking two of his large fingers in her grasp, while 
 her tears flowed fast; " I am very cross to you. But my heart 
 is breaking. I don't know what I do. Good-by." 
 
 He stooped down, kissed the little hand, and then left the 
 room. 
 
 "The cursed scoundrel!" he muttered between his teeth, 
 as he closed the door behind him. " If it were not for Sir 
 Christopher, I should like to pound him into paste to poison 
 puppies like himself! " 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 That evening Captain Wybrow, returning from a long ride 
 with Miss Assher, went up to his dressing-room, and seated 
 himself with an air of considerable lassitude before his mir- 
 ror. The reflection there presented of his exquisite self was 
 certainly paler and more worn than usual, and might excuse 
 the anxiety with which he first felt his pulse, and then laid 
 his hand on his heart. 
 
 "It's a devil of a position this for a man to be in," was the 
 train of his thought, as he kept his eyes fixed on the glass, 
 while he leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands behind 
 his head; "between two jealous women, and both of them as 
 ready to take fire as tinder. And in my state of health, too! 
 
MR. GILFIL*S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 163 
 
 I should be glad enough to run away from the whole affair, 
 and go off to some lotos-eating place or other where there are 
 no women, or only women who are too sleepy to be jealous. 
 Here am I, doing nothing to please myself, trying to do the 
 best thing for everybody else, and all the comfort I get is to 
 have fire shot at me from women's eyes and venom spirted at 
 me from women's tongues. If Beatrice takes another jealous 
 fit into her head — and it's likely enough, Tina is so unman- 
 ageable — I don't know what storm she may raise. And any 
 hitch in this marriage, especially of that sort, might be a 
 fatal business for the old gentleman. I wouldn't have such 
 a blow fall upon him for a great deal. Besides, a man must 
 be married some time in his life, and I could hardly do better 
 than marry Beatrice. She's an uncommonly fine woman, and 
 I'm really very fond of her; and as I shall let her have her 
 own way, her temper won't signify much. I wish the wed- 
 ding was over and done with, for this fuss doesn't suit me at 
 all. I haven't been half so well lately. That scene about 
 Tina this morning quite upset me. Poor little Tina ! What 
 a little simpleton it was, to set her heart on me in that way ! 
 But she ought to see how impossible it is that things should 
 be different. If she would but understand how kindly I feel 
 toward her, and make up her mind to look on me as a friend ; 
 — but that is what one never can get a woman to do. Bea- 
 trice is very good-natured; I'm sure she would be kind to the 
 little thing. It would be a great comfort if Tina would take 
 to Gilfil, if it were only in anger against me. He'd make 
 her a capital husband, and I should like to see the little grass- 
 hopper happy. If I had been in a different position, I would 
 certainly have married her myself ; but that was out of the 
 question with my responsibilities to Sir Christopher. I think 
 a little persuasion from my uncle would bring her to accept 
 Gilfil; I know she would never be able to oppose my uncle's 
 wishes. And if they were once married, she's such a loving 
 little thing, she would soon be billing and cooing with him as 
 if she had never known me. It would certainly be the best 
 thing for her happiness if that marriage were hastened. 
 Heigho! Those are lucky fellows that have no women fall 
 ing in love with them. It's a confounded responsibility.*' 
 
164 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 At this point in his meditations he turned his head a little, 
 so as to get a three-quarter view of his face. Clearly it was 
 the " dono infelice delta bellezza " that laid these onerous du- 
 ties upon him^ — an idea which naturally suggested that he 
 should ring for his valet. 
 
 For the next few days, however, there was such a cessation 
 of threatening symptoms as to allay the anxiety both of Cap- 
 tain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil. All earthly things have their 
 lull : even on nights when the most unappeasable wind is rag- 
 ing, there will be a moment of stillness before it crashes among 
 the boughs again, and storms against the windows, and howls 
 like a thousand lost demons through the keyholes. 
 
 Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good-humor; 
 Captain Wybrow was more assiduous than usual, and was very 
 circumspect in his behavior to Caterina, on whom Miss Assher 
 bestowed unwonted attentions. The weather was brilliant; 
 there were riding excursions in the mornings and dinner-par- 
 ties in the evenings. Consultations in the library between 
 Sir Christopher and Lady Assher seemed to be leading to a 
 satisfactory result; and it was understood that this visit at 
 Cheverel Manor would terminate in another fortnight, when 
 the preparations for the wedding would be carried forward 
 with all despatch at Farleigh. The Baronet seemed every 
 day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who entered 
 into his plans by the pleasant light which his own strong will 
 and bright hopefulness were always casting on the future, he 
 saw nothing but personal charms and promising domestic 
 qualities in Miss Assher, whose quickness of eye and taste in 
 externals formed a real ground of sympathy between her and 
 Sir Christopher. Lady CheverePs enthusiasm never rose 
 above the temperate mark of calm satisfaction, and, having 
 quite her share of the critical acumen which characterizes the 
 mutual estimates of the fair sex, she had a more moderate 
 opinion of Miss Assher' s qualities. She suspected that the 
 fair Beatrice had a sharp and imperious temper ; and being 
 herself, on principle and by habitual self-command, the most 
 deferential of wives, she noticed with disapproval Miss As- 
 sherds occasional air of authority toward Captain Wybrow. A 
 proud woman who has learned to submit, carries all her pride 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 155 
 
 to the re-enforcement of her submisson, and looks down with 
 severe superiority on all feminine assumption as unbecom- 
 ing." Lady Cheverel, however, confined her criticisms to the 
 privacy of her own thoughts, and, with a reticence which I 
 fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means of dis- 
 turbing her husband^ s complacency. 
 
 And Cater ina? How did she pass these sunny autumn 
 days, in which the skies seemed to be smiling on the family 
 gladness? To her the change in Miss Assher's manner was 
 unaccountable. Those compassionate attentions, those smil- 
 ing condescensions, were torture to Caterina, who was con- 
 stantly tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought, 
 Perhaps Anthony has told her to be kind to poor Tina." 
 This was an insult. He ought to have known that the mere 
 presence of Miss Assher was painful to her, that Miss As- 
 sher's smiles scorched her, that Miss Assher^ s kind words were 
 like poison stings inflaming her to madness. And he — An- 
 thony — he was evidently repenting of the tenderness he had 
 been betrayed into that morning in the drawing-room. He 
 was cold and distant and civil to her, to ward off Beatrice's 
 suspicions, and Beatrice could be so gracious now, because she 
 was sure of Anthony's entire devotion. Well! and so it 
 ought to be — and she ought not to wish it otherwise. And 
 yet — oh, he was cruel to her. She could never have behaved 
 so to him. To make her love him so — to speak such tender 
 words — to give her such caresses, and then to behave as if 
 such things had never been. He had given her the poison 
 that seemed so sweet while she was drinking it, and now it 
 was in her blood, and she was helpless. 
 
 With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor child 
 went up to her room every night, and there it all burst forth. 
 There, with loud whispers and sobs, restlessly pacing up and 
 down, lying on the hard floor, courting cold and weariness, 
 she told to the pitiful listening night the anguish which she 
 could pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came at 
 last, and always in the morning the reactive calm that enabled 
 her to live through the day. 
 
 It is amazing how long a young frame will go on battling 
 with this sort of secret wretchedness, and yet show no traces 
 
156 
 
 SCENES OF CLEBICAL LIFE. 
 
 of the conflict for any but sympathetic eyes. The very deli- 
 cacy of Caterina^s usual appearance, her natural paleness and 
 habitually quiet mouse-like ways, made any symptoms of fa- 
 tigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing — the one 
 thing in which she ceased to be passive, and became promi- 
 nent — lost none of its energy. She herself sometimes won- 
 dered how it was that, whether she felt sad or angry, crushed 
 with the sense of Anthony's indifference, or burning with im- 
 patience under Miss Assher's attentions, it was always a relief 
 to her to sing. Those full deep notes she sent forth seemed 
 to be lifting the pain from her heart — seemed to be carrying 
 away the madness from her brain. 
 
 Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no change in Caterina, and it 
 was only Mr. Gilfil who discerned with anxiety the feverish 
 spot that sometimes rose on her cheek, the deepening violet 
 tint under her eyes, and the strange absent glance, the un- 
 healthy glitter of the beautiful eyes themselves. 
 
 But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal effect 
 than was represented by these slight outward changes. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 The following Sunday, the morning being rainy, it was de- 
 termined that the family should not go to Cumbermoor 
 Church as usual, but that Mr. Gilfil, who had only an after- 
 noon service at his curacy, should conduct the morning service 
 in the chapel. 
 
 Just before the appointed hour of eleven, Caterina came 
 down into the drawing-room, looking so unusually ill as to 
 call forth an anxious inquiry from Lady Cheverel, who, on 
 learning that she had a severe headache, insisted that she 
 should not attend service, and at once packed her up comfort- 
 ably on a sofa near the fire, putting a volume of Tillotson's 
 Sermons into her hands — as appropriate reading, if Caterina 
 should feel equal to that means of edification. 
 
 Excellent medicine for the mind are the good Archbishop's 
 sermons, but a medicine, unhappily, not suited to Tina's 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 157 
 
 case. She sat with the book open on her knees, her dark eyes 
 fixed vacantly on the portrait of that handsome Lady Cheverel, 
 wife of the notable Sir Anthony. She gazed at the picture 
 without thinking of it, and the fair blond dame seemed to look 
 down on her with that benignant unconcern, that mild won- 
 der, with which happy, self-possessed women are apt to look 
 down on their agitated and weaker sisters. 
 
 Caterina was thinking of the near future — of the wedding 
 that was so soon to come — of all she would have to live 
 through in the next months. 
 
 "I wish I could be very ill, and die before then,'' she 
 thought. " When people get very ill, they don't mind about 
 things. Poor Patty Eichards looked so happy when she was 
 in a decline. She didn't seem to care any more about her 
 lover that she was engaged to be married to, and she liked the 
 smell of the flowers so, that I used to take her. Oh, if I could 
 but like anything — if I could but think about anything else! 
 If these dreadful feelings would go away, I wouldn't mind 
 about not being happy. I wouldn't want anything — and I 
 could do what would please Sir Christopher and Lady Chev- 
 erel. But when that rage and anger comes into me, I don't 
 know what to do. I don't feel the ground under me; I only 
 feel my head and heart beating, and it seems as if I must do 
 something dreadful. Oh ! I wonder if any one ever felt like 
 me before. I must be very wicked. But God will have pity 
 on me; He knows all I have to bear." 
 
 In this way the time wore on till Tina heard the sound of 
 voices along the passage, and became conscious that the vol- 
 ume of Tillotson had slipped on the floor. She had only just 
 picked it up, and seen with alarm that the pages were bent, 
 when Lady Assher, Beatrice, and Captain Wybrow entered, 
 all with that brisk and cheerful air which a sermon is often 
 observed to produce when it is quite finished. 
 
 Lady Assher at once came and seated herself by Caterina. 
 Her ladyship had been considerably refreshed by a doze^ and 
 was in great force for monologue. 
 
 " Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and how do you feel now? — a 
 little better, I see. I thought you would be, sitting quietly 
 here. These headaches, now, are all from weakness. You 
 
158 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 must not over-exert yourself, and you must take bitters. I 
 used to have just the same sort of headaches when I was your 
 age, and old Dr. Samson used to say to my mother : * Madam, 
 what your daughter suffers from is weakness. ' He was such 
 a curious old man, was Dr. Samson. But I wish you could 
 have heard the sermon this morning. Such an excellent ser- 
 mon! It was about the ten virgins: five of them were fool- 
 ish, and five were clever, you know ; and Mr. Gilfil explained 
 all that. What a very pleasant young man he is ! so very 
 quiet and agreeable, and such a good hand at whist. I wish 
 we had him at Farleigh. Sir John would have liked him be- 
 yond anything; he is so good-tempered at cards, and he was 
 such a man for cards, was Sir John. And our rector is a very 
 irritable man ; he can't bear to lose his money at cards. I 
 don't think a clergyman ought to mind about losing his money ; 
 do you? — do you now? " 
 
 "Oh pray, Lady Assher," interposed Beatrice, in her usual 
 tone of superiority, " do not weary poor Caterina with such 
 uninteresting questions. Your head seems very bad still, 
 dear," she continued, in a condoling tone, to Caterina; "do 
 take my vinaigrette, and keep it in your pocket. It will per- 
 haps refresh you now and then." 
 
 "No, thank you," answered Caterina; "I will not take it 
 away from you." 
 
 "Indeed, dear, I never use it; you must take it," Miss 
 Assher persisted, holding it close to Tina's hand. Tina col- 
 ored deeply, pushed the vinaigrette away with some impa- 
 tience, and said : " Thank you, I never use those things. I 
 don't like vinaigrettes." 
 
 Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette to her pocket in sur- 
 prise and haughty silence, and Captain Wybrow, who had 
 looked on in some alarm, said hastily : " See ! it is quite 
 bright out of doors now. There is time for a walk before 
 luncheon. Come, Beatrice, put on your hat and cloak, and 
 let us have half an hour's walk on the gravel." 
 
 " Yes, do, my dear," said Lady Assher, " and I will go and 
 see if Sir Christopher is having his walk in the gallery." 
 
 As soon as the door had closed behind the two ladies, Cap' 
 tain Wybrow, standing with his back to the fire, turned 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 159 
 
 toward Caterina, and said in a tone of earnest remonstrance : 
 " My dear Caterina, let me beg of you to exercise more con- 
 trol over your feelings ; you are really rude to Miss Assher, 
 and I can see that she is quite hurt. Consider how strange 
 your behavior must appear to her. She will wonder what can 
 be the cause of it. Come, dear Tina," he added, approaching 
 her, and attempting to take her hand; "for your own sake let 
 me entreat you to receive her attentions politely. She really 
 feels very kindly toward you, and I should be so happy to see 
 you friends. 
 
 Caterina was already in such a state of diseased susceptibil- 
 ity that the most innocent words from Captain Wybrow would 
 have been irritating to her, as the whirr of the most delicate 
 wing will afllict a nervous patient. But this tone of benevo- 
 lent remonstrance was intolerable. He had inflicted a great 
 and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed an air of 
 benevolence toward her. This was a new outrage. His pro- 
 fession of good will was insolence. 
 
 Caterina snatched away her hand and said indignantly: 
 "Leave me to myself. Captain Wybrow! I do not disturb 
 you. " 
 
 "Caterina, why will you be so violent — so unjust to me? 
 It is for you that I feel anxious. Miss Assher has already 
 noticed how strange your behavior is both to her and me, and 
 it puts me into a very difficult position. What can I say to 
 her?" 
 
 "Say?" Caterina burst forth with intense bitterness, ris- 
 ing, and moving toward the door ; " say that I am a poor silly 
 girl, and have fallen in love with you, and am jealous of her; 
 but that you have never had any feeling but pity for me — 
 you have never behaved with anything more than friendliness 
 to me. Tell her that, and she will think all the better of 
 you." 
 
 Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her ideas would 
 furnish her with, not having the faintest suspicion that the 
 sarcasm derived any of its bitterness from truth. Under- 
 neath all her sense of wrong, which was rather instinctive 
 than reflective — underneath all the madness of her jealousy, 
 and her ungovernable impulses of resentment and vindictive- 
 
160 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 ness — underneath all this scorching passion there were still 
 left some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self -reproof, of belief 
 that Anthony was trying to do the right. Love had not all 
 gone to feed the fires of hatred. Tina still trusted that An- 
 thony felt more for her than he seemed to feel ; she was still 
 far from suspecting him of a wrong which a woman resents 
 even more than inconstancy. And she threw out this taunt 
 simply as the most intense expression she could find for the 
 anger of the moment. 
 
 As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, her little 
 body trembling under the shock of passions too strong for it, 
 her very lips pale, and her eyes gleaming, the door opened, 
 and Miss Assher appeared, tall, blooming, and splendid, in 
 her walking costume. As she entered, her face wore the 
 smile appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young lady 
 who feels that her presence is an interesting fact ; but the next 
 moment she looked at Caterina with grave surprise, and then 
 threw a glance of angry suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who 
 wore an air of weariness and vexation. 
 
 " Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out. Captain 
 Wybrow? I will go alone. 
 
 '^No, no, I am coming," he answered, hurrying toward her, 
 and leading her out of the room ; leaving poor Caterina to feel 
 all the reaction of shame and self-reproach after her outburst 
 of passion. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 Prat, what is likely to be the next scene in the drama 
 between you and Miss Sarti? " said Miss Assher to Captain 
 Wybrow as soon as they were out on the gravel. ^' It would 
 be agreeable to have some idea of what is coming." 
 
 Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humor, wea- 
 ried, annoyed. There come moments when one almost deter- 
 mines never again to oppose anything but dead silence to an 
 angry woman. "Now then, confound it," he said to himself, 
 "I'm going to be battered on the other flank." He looked 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 161 
 
 resolutely at the horizon, with something more like a frown 
 on his face than Beatrice had ever seen there. 
 
 After a pause of two or three minutes, she continued in a 
 still haughtier tone, ^^I suppose you are aware, Captain 
 Wybrow, that I expect an explanation of what I have just 
 seen.'^ 
 
 I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice, " he answered at 
 last, making a strong effort over himself, except what I have 
 already given you. I hoped you would never recur to the 
 subject.'^ 
 
 " Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. 
 I can only say that the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled 
 to put on toward you, are quite incompatible with your posi- 
 tion as regards me. And her behavior to me is most in- 
 sulting. I shall certainly not stay in the house under such 
 circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to Sir 
 Christopher." 
 
 "Beatrice," said Captain Wybrow, his irritation giving way 
 to alarm, " I beseech you to be patient, and exercise your good 
 feelings in this affair. It is very painful, I know, but I am 
 sure you would be grieved to injure poor Caterina — to bring 
 down my uncle's anger upon her. Consider what a poor little 
 dependent thing she is." 
 
 " It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, but do not 
 suppose that they deceive me. Miss Sarti would never dare 
 to behave to you as she does, if you had not flirted with her, 
 or made love to her. I suppose she considers your engage- 
 ment to me a breach of faith to her. I am much obliged to 
 you, certainly, for making me Miss Sarti' s rival. You have 
 told me a falsehood. Captain Wybrow." 
 
 " Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is noth- 
 ing more to me than a girl I naturally feel kindly to — as a 
 favorite of my uncle's, and a nice little thing enough. I 
 should be glad to see her married to Gilfil to-morrow ; that's 
 a good proof that I'm not in love with her, I should think. 
 As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which 
 she has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not 
 liable to that sort of thing? " 
 
 " But what can she found her behavior on? What had she 
 
162 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 been saying to you this morning to make her tremble and turn 
 pale in that way? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I just said something about her be- 
 having peevishly With that Italian blood of hers, there's no 
 knowing how she may take what one says. She's a fierce 
 little thing, though she seems so quiet generally." 
 
 " But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and 
 indelicate her conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Chev- 
 erel has not noticed her short answers and the airs she puts 
 on." 
 
 " Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything of the 
 kind to Lady Cheverel. You must have observed how strict 
 my aunt is. It never enters her head that a girl can be in 
 love with a man who has not made her an offer." 
 
 " Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have ob- 
 served her conduct. It will be only a charity to her." 
 
 "Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Cate- 
 rina's temper is peculiar. The best thing you can do will be 
 to leave her to herself as much as possible. It will all wear 
 off. I've no doubt she'll be married to Gilfil before long. 
 Girls' fancies are easily diverted from one object to another. 
 By Jove, what a rate my heart is galloping at ! These con- 
 founded palpitations get worse instead of better." 
 
 Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Cate- 
 rina, not without leaving a distinct resolution in Captain Wy- 
 brow's mind — a resolution carried into effect the next day, 
 when he was in the library with Sir Christopher for the pur- 
 pose of discussing some arrangements about the approaching 
 marriage. 
 
 " By the by," he said carelessly, when the business came to 
 a pause, and he was sauntering round the room with his hands 
 in his coat pockets, surveying the backs of the books that lined 
 the walls, "when is the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina 
 to come off, sir? I've a fellow-feeling for a poor devil so 
 many fathoms deep in love as Maynard. Why shouldn't 
 their marriage happen as soon as ours? I suppose he has 
 come to an understanding with Tina? " 
 
 "Why," said Sir Christopher, "I did think of letting the 
 thing be until old Crichley died; he can't hold out very long, 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOYE-STORY. 
 
 163 
 
 poor fellow ; and then Maynard might have entered into mat- 
 rimony and the Rectory both at once. But, after all, that 
 really is no good reason for waiting. There is no need for 
 them to leave the Manor when they are married. The little 
 monkey is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her a 
 matron, with a baby about the size of a kitten in her arms.'' 
 
 " I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I 
 can further any settlement you would like to make on Cate- 
 rina, I shall be delighted to carry out your wishes.'' 
 
 "My dear boy, that's very good of you; but Maynard will 
 have enough ; and from what I know of him — and I know him 
 well — I think he would rather provide for Caterina himself. 
 However, now you have put this matter into my head, I begin 
 to blame myself for not having thought of it before. I've 
 been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal, that I had 
 really forgotten poor Maynard. And he's older than you — 
 it's high time he was settled in life as a family man." 
 
 Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative manner, 
 and presently said, more to himself than to Anthony, who was 
 humming a tune at the far end of the room, " Yes, yes. It 
 will be a capital plan to finish off all our family business at 
 once." 
 
 Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain 
 Wybrow mentioned to her incidentally, that Sir Christopher 
 was anxious to bring about the wedding between Gilfil and 
 Caterina as soon as possible, and that he, for his part, should 
 do all he could to further the affair. It would be the best 
 thing in the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was really 
 interested. 
 
 With Sir Christopher there was never any long interval be- 
 tween purpose and execution. He made up his mind promptly, 
 and he acted promptly. On rising from luncheon, he said to 
 Mr. Gilfil, " Come with me into the library, Maynard. I want 
 to have a word with you." 
 
 " Maynard, my boy," he began, as soon as they were seated, 
 tapping his snuff-box, and looking radiant at the idea of the 
 unexpected pleasure he was about to give, " why shouldn't we 
 have two happy couples instead of one, before the autumn is 
 over, eh?" 
 
164 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 "Eh?" he repeated, after a moment's pause, lengthening 
 out the monosyllable, taking a slow pinch, and looking up at 
 Maynard with a sly smile. 
 
 "I'm not quite sure that I understand you, sir," answered 
 Mr. Gilfil, who felt annoyed at the consciousness that he was 
 turning pale. 
 
 "Not understand me, you rogue? You know very well 
 whose happiness lies nearest to my heart after Anthony's. 
 You know you let me into your secrets long ago, so there's 
 no confession to make. Tina's quite old enough to be a grave 
 little wife now; and though the Eectory's not ready for you, 
 that's no matter. My lady and I shall feel all the more com- 
 fortable for having you with us. We should miss our little 
 singing-bird if we lost her all at once." 
 
 Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult position. He 
 dreaded that Sir Christopher should surmise or discover the 
 true state of Caterina's feelings, and yet he was obliged to 
 make those feelings the ground of his reply. 
 
 "My dear sir," he at last said with some effort, "you will 
 not suppose that I am not alive to your goodness — that I am 
 not grateful for your fatherly interest in my happiness ; but 
 I fear that Caterina's feelings toward me are not such as to 
 warrant the hope that she would accept a proposal of marriage 
 from me." 
 
 " Have you ever asked her? " 
 
 " No, sir. But we often know these things too well with- 
 out asking." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! the little monkey must love you. Why, you 
 were her first playfellow ; and I remember she used to cry if 
 you cut your finger. Besides, she has always silently admitted 
 that you were her lover. You know I have always spoken of 
 you to her in that light. I took it for granted you had set- 
 tled the business between yourselves ; so did Anthony. An- 
 thony thinks she's in love with you, and he has young 
 eyes, which are apt enough to see clearly in these matters. 
 He was talking to me about it this morning, and pleased 
 me very much by the friendly interest he showed in you 
 and Tina." 
 
 The blood — more than was wanted — rushed back to Mr. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 165 
 
 GilfiPsface; he' set his teeth and clinched his hands in the 
 effort to repress a burst of indignation. Sir Christopher no- 
 ticed the flush^ but thought it indicated the fluctuation of 
 hope and fear about Caterina. He went on — 
 
 " You're too modest by half, Maynard. A fellow who can 
 take a five-barred gate as you can, ought not to be so faint- 
 hearted. If you can't speak to her yourself, leave me to talk 
 to her.'' 
 
 ^^Sir Christopher," said poor Maynard, earnestly, ^'1 shall 
 really feel it the greatest kindness you can possibly show me 
 not to mention this subject to Caterina at present. I think 
 such a proposal, made prematurely, might only alienate her 
 from me." 
 
 Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased at this con- 
 tradiction. His tone became a little sharper as he said, 
 " Have you any grounds to state for this opinion, beyond your 
 general notion that Tina is not enough in love with you? " 
 
 " I can state none beyond my own very strong impression 
 that she does not love me well enough to marry me." 
 
 " Then I think that ground is worth nothing at all. I am 
 tolerably correct in my judgment of people ; and if I am not 
 very much deceived in Tina, she looks forward to nothing else 
 but to your being her husband. Leave me to manage the 
 matter as I think best. You may rely on me that I shall do 
 no harm to your cause, Maynard." 
 
 Mr. Gilfil, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the prospect 
 of what might result from Sir Christopher' s determination, 
 quitted the library in a state of mingled indignation against 
 Captain Wybrow, and distress for himself and Caterina. 
 What would she think of him? She might suppose that he 
 had instigated or sanctioned Sir Christopher's proceeding. 
 He should perhaps not have an opportunity of speaking to her 
 on the subject in time; he would write her a note, and carry 
 it up to her room after the dressing-bell had rung. No; that 
 would agitate her, and unfit her for appearing at dinner, and 
 passing the evening calmly. He would defer it till bedtime. 
 After prayers, he contrived to lead her back to the drawing- 
 room, and to put a letter in her hand. She carried it up to 
 her own room, wondering, and there read — 
 
166 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Dear Caterina, — Do not suspect for a moment that anything Sir 
 Christopher may say to you about our marriage has been prompted by me. 
 I have done all I dare do to dissuade him from urging the subject, and 
 have only been prevented from speaking more strongly by the dread of 
 provoking questions v^hich I could not answer without causing you fresh 
 misery. I write this, both to prepare you for anything Sir Christopher 
 may say, and to assure you — but I hope you already believe it — that 
 your feelings are sacred to me. I would rather part with the dearest 
 hope of my life than be the means of adding to your trouble. 
 
 It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir Christopher to take up 
 the subject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you from hearing 
 it suddenly when you are with Sir Christopher. You see now what sort 
 of stuff that dastard's heart is made of. Trust in me always, dearest 
 Caterina, as — whatever may come — your faithful friend and brother, 
 
 Maynard Gilfil. 
 
 Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about 
 Captain Wybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened 
 her — to think either of what Sir Christopher would say to her, 
 or of what she could say in reply. Bitter sense of injury, 
 fierce resentment, left no room for fear. With the poisoned 
 garment upon him, the victim writhes under the torture — he 
 has no thought of the coming death. 
 
 Anthony could do this! — Of this there could be no explana- 
 tion but the coolest contempt for her feelings, the basest sac- 
 rifice of all the consideration and tenderness he owed her to 
 the ease of his position with Miss Assher. No. It was 
 worse than that: it was deliberate, gratuitous cruelty. 
 He wanted to show her how he despised her; he wanted 
 to make her feel her folly in having ever believed that he 
 loved her. 
 
 The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, 
 were dried up ; all was parched, fiery hatred. Now she need 
 no longer check her resentment by the fear of doing him an 
 injustice; he ZiacZ trifled with her, as Maynard had said; he 
 had been reckless of her ; and now he was base and cruel. 
 She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger ; they were 
 not so wicked as they had seemed to her. 
 
 As these thoughts were hurrying after each other like so 
 many sharp throbs of fevered pain, she shed no tear. She 
 paced restlessly to and fro, as her habit was — her hands 
 clinched, her eyes gleaming fiercely and wandering uneasily, 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 167 
 
 as if in search of something on which she might throw herself 
 like a tigress. 
 
 "If I could speak to him," she whispered, "and tell him I 
 hate him, I despise him, I loathe him ! " 
 
 Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she drew a 
 key from her pocket, and unlocking an inlaid desk where she 
 stored up her keepsakes, took from it a small miniature. It 
 was in a very slight gold frame, with a ring to it, as if 
 intended to be worn on a chain ; and under the glass at the 
 back were two locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn, 
 arranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony's secret pres- 
 ent to her a year ago — a copy he had had made specially for 
 her. For the last month she had not taken it from its hiding- 
 place : there was no need to heighten the vividness of the 
 past. But now she clutched it fiercely, and dashed it across 
 the room against the bare hearthstone. 
 
 Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under her 
 high-heeled shoe, till every trace of those false cruel features 
 is gone? 
 
 Ah, no! She rushed across the room; but when she saw 
 the little treasure she had cherished so fondly, so often 
 smothered with kisses, so often laid under her pillow, and re- 
 membered with the first return of consciousness in the morn- 
 ing — when she saw this one visible relic of the too happy past 
 lying with the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin 
 ivory cracked, there was a revulsion of the overstrained feel- 
 ing: relenting came, and she burst into tears. 
 
 Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, search- 
 ing for the hair and replacing it, and then mournfully exam- 
 ining the crack that disfigures the once-loved image. There 
 is no glass now to guard either the hair or the portrait ; but 
 see how carefully she wraps delicate paper round it, and locks 
 it up again in its old place. Poor child! God send the re- 
 lenting may always come before the worst irrevocable deed! 
 
 This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read May- 
 nard's letter again. She read it two or three times without 
 seeming to take in the sense; her apprehension was dulled by 
 the passion of the last hour, and she found it difficult to call 
 up the ideas suggested by the words. At last she began to 
 
168 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 have a distinct conception of the impending interview with Sir 
 Christopher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of whom 
 every one at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so much 
 that she thought it would be impossible to resist his wish. 
 He believed that she loved Maynard; he had always spoken 
 as if he were quite sure of it. How could she tell him he was 
 deceived — and what if he were to ask her whether she loved 
 anybody else? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at 
 her, was more than she could bear, even in imagination. He 
 had always been so good to her ! Then she began to think of 
 the pain she might give him, and the more selfish distress of 
 fear gave way to the distress of affection. Unselfish tears 
 began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Christopher 
 helped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. GilfiPs tenderness and 
 generosity. 
 
 "Dear, good Maynard! — what a poor return I make him! 
 If I could but have loved him instead — but I can never love 
 or care for anything again. My heart is broken." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The next morning the dreaded moment came. Caterina, 
 stupefied by the suffering of the previous night, with that 
 dull mental aching which follows on acute anguish, was in 
 Lady CheverePs sitting-room, copying out some charity lists, 
 when her ladyship came in, and said — 
 
 " Tina, Sir Christopher wants you ; go down into the library." 
 
 She went down trembling. As soon as she entered, Sir 
 Christopher, who was seated near his writing-table, said, 
 "Now, little monkey, come and sit down by me; I have 
 something to tell you." 
 
 Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the 
 Baronet's feet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, 
 and in this way she could hide her face better. She put her 
 little arm round his leg, and leaned her cheek against his 
 knee. 
 
 "Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. 
 What's the matter, eh?" 
 
MR. GILFIL^S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 169 
 
 " ITothing, Padroncello ; only my head is bad. " 
 
 "Poor monkey! Well, now, wouldn't it do the head good 
 if I were to promise you a good husband, and smart little wed- 
 ding-gowns, and by and by a house of your own, where you 
 would be a little mistress, and Padroncello would come and 
 see you sometimes? " 
 
 " Oh no, no! I shouldn't like ever to be married. Let me 
 always stay with you! '' 
 
 "Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tire- 
 some, and there will be Anthony's children putting your nose 
 out of joint. You will want some one to love you best of all, 
 and you must have children of your own to love. I can't have 
 you withering away into an old maid. I hate old maids : they 
 make me dismal to look at them. I never see Sharp without 
 shuddering. My little black-eyed monkey was never meant 
 for anything so ugly. And there's Maynard Gilfil, the best 
 man in the county, worth his weight in gold, heavy as he is ; 
 he loves you better than his eyes. And you love him too, 
 you silly monkey, whatever you may say about not being 
 married. " 
 
 " No, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so ; I could not marry 
 him." 
 
 " Why not, you foolish child? You don't know your own 
 mind. Why, it is plain to everybody that you love him. My 
 lady has all along said she was sure you loved him — she has 
 seen what little princess airs you put on to him ; and Anthony 
 too, he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what has 
 made you take it into your head that you wouldn't like to 
 marry him? " 
 
 Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any answer. 
 Sir Christopher patted her on the back and said, "Come, 
 come; why, Tina, you are not well this morning. Go and 
 rest, little one. You will see things in quite another light 
 when you are well. Think over what I have said, and re- 
 member there is nothing, after Anthony's marriage, that I 
 have set my heart on so much as seeing you and Maynard set- 
 tled for life. I must have no whims and follies — no non- 
 sense." This was said with a slight severity; but he pres- 
 ently added, in a soothing tone, " There, there, stop crying, 
 
170 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 and be a good little monkey. Go and lie down and get to 
 sleep." 
 
 Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, took the 
 old Baronet' s hand, covered it with tears and kisses, and then 
 ran out of the room. 
 
 Before the evening. Captain Wybrow had heard from his 
 uncle the result of the interview with Caterina. He thought, 
 " If I could have a long quiet talk with her, I could perhaps 
 persuade her to look more reasonably at things. But there's 
 no speaking to her in the house without being'] interrupted, 
 and I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice's 
 finding it out." At last he determined to make it a matter of 
 confidence with Miss Assher — to tell her that he wished to 
 talk to Caterina quietly for the sake of bringing her to a calmer 
 state of mind, and persuade her to listen to Gilfil's affection. 
 He was very much pleased with this judicious and candid 
 plan, and in the course of the evening he had arranged with 
 himself the time and place of meeting, and had communicated 
 his purpose to Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. 
 Anthony, she thought, would do well to speak plainly and 
 seriously to Miss Sarti. He was really very patient and kind 
 to her, considering how she behaved. 
 
 Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been carefully 
 tended as an invalid. Sir Christopher having told her ladyship 
 how matters stood. This tendance was so irksome to Cate- 
 rina, she felt so uneasy under attentions and kindness that 
 were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself to ap- 
 pear at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well, 
 though head and heart were throbbing. To be confined in her 
 own room was intolerable ; it was wretched enough to be looked 
 at and spoken to, but it was more wretched to be left alone. 
 She was frightened at her own sensations : she was fright- 
 ened at the imperious vividness with which pictures of the 
 past and future thrust themselves on her imagination. And 
 there was another feeling, too, which made her want to be 
 downstairs and moving about. Perhaps she might have an 
 opportunity of speaking to Captain Wybrow alone — of speak- 
 ing those words of hatred and scorn that burned on her tongue. 
 That opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected manner. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 171 
 
 Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing- 
 room to fetch some patterns of embroidery from her sitting- 
 room, Captain Wybrow presently walked out after her, and 
 met her as she was returning downstairs. 
 
 " Caterina, he said, laying his hand on her arm as she was 
 hurrying on without looking at him, " will you meet me in 
 the Eookery at twelve o'clock? I must speak to you, and we 
 shall be in privacy there. I cannot speak to you in the 
 house." 
 
 To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her 
 face; she answered shortly and decidedly, "Yes,'' then 
 snatched her arm away from him, and passed downstairs. 
 
 Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being 
 bent on emulating Lady Cheverel' s embroidery, and Lady 
 Assher chose the passive amusement of holding the skeins. 
 Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus about her, 
 and Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and 
 sat down to the harpsichord in the sitting-room. It seemed as 
 if playing massive chords — bringing out volumes of sound — 
 would be the easiest way of passing the long feverish moments 
 before twelve o'clock. Handel's "Messiah" stood open on 
 the desk, at the chorus, "All we like sheep," and Caterina 
 threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies of that 
 magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could never 
 have played it so well ; for now all the passion that made her 
 misery was hurled by a convulsive effort into her music, just 
 as pain gives new force to the clutch of the sinking wrestler, 
 and as terror gives far-sounding intensity to the shriek of the 
 feeble. 
 
 But at half -past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Chev- 
 erel, who said, " Tina, go down, will you, and hold Miss As- 
 sher' s silks for her. Lady Assher and I have decided on hav- 
 ing our drive before luncheon." 
 
 Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from 
 the drawing-room in time to be in the Eookery at twelve. 
 Nothing should prevent her from going; nothing should rob 
 her of this one precious moment — perhaps the last — when she 
 could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that, 
 she would be passive ; she would bear anything. 
 
172 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk 
 on her hands, when Miss Assher said, graciously — 
 
 " I know you have an engagement with Captain Wybrow 
 this morning. You must not let me detain you beyond the 
 time. " 
 
 "So he has been talking to her about me," thought Cate- 
 rina. Her hands began to tremble as she held the skein. 
 
 Miss Assher continued, in the same gracious tone : " It is 
 tedious work holding these skeins. I am sure I am very much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 "No, you are not obliged to me," said Caterina, completely 
 mastered by her irritation ; " I have only done it because Lady 
 Cheverel told me." 
 
 The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer 
 suppress her long latent desire to " let Miss Sarti know the 
 impropriety of her conduct." With the malicious anger that 
 assumes the tone of compassion, she said — 
 
 " Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you are not 
 able to control yourself better. This giving way to unwar- 
 rantable feelings is lowering you — it is indeed." 
 
 "What unwarrantable feelings?" said Caterina, letting hei 
 hands fall, and fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss 
 Assher. 
 
 " It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You must 
 be conscious what I mean. Only summon a sense of duty to 
 your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrow extremely by 
 your want of self-control." 
 
 " Did he tell you I pained him? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you 
 should behave to me as if you had a sort of enmity toward 
 me. He would like you to make a friend of me. I assure 
 you we both feel very kindly toward you, and are sorry you 
 should cherish such feelings." 
 
 " He is very good, " said Caterina, bitterly. " What feel- 
 ings did he say I cherished? " 
 
 This bitter tone increased Miss Assher' s irritation. There 
 was still a lurking suspicion in her mind, though she would 
 not admit it to herself, that Captain Wybrow had told her a 
 falsehood about his conduct and feelings toward Caterina. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 173 
 
 It was this suspicion, more even than the anger of the mo- 
 ment, which urged her to say something that would test the 
 truth of his statement. That she would be humiliating Cate- 
 rina at the same time was only an additional temptation. 
 
 " These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. 1 
 cannot even understand how a woman can indulge a passion 
 for a man who has never given her the least ground for it, as 
 Captain Wybrow assures me is the case." 
 
 "He told you that, did he?'' said Caterina, in clear low 
 tones, her lips turning white as she rose from her chair. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it to me after 
 your strange behavior.'' 
 
 Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left 
 the room. 
 
 See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along 
 the passages and up the gallery stairs ! Those gleaming eyes, 
 those bloodless lips, that swift silent tread, make her look like 
 the incarnation of a fierce purpose, rather than a woman. 
 The midday sun is shining on the armor in the gallery, mak- 
 ing mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of polished 
 breastplates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery. 
 There is a dagger in that cabinet ; she knows it well. And 
 as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on 
 a leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and 
 thrusts it into her pocket. In three minutes more she is out, 
 in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying along toward 
 the thick shades of the distant Kookery. She threads the 
 windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that 
 rain upon her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her 
 hand is in her pocket, clinching the handle of the dagger, 
 which she holds half out of its sheath. 
 
 She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the 
 interlacing boughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst her 
 bosom — as if every next leap must be its last. Wait, wait, 
 0 heart ! — till she has done this one deed. He will be there 
 — he will be before her in a moment. He will come toward 
 her with that false smile, thinking she does not know his 
 baseness — she will plunge that dagger into his heart. 
 
 Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to have the fish 
 
174 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 put back into the water — who never willingly killed the small- 
 est living thing — dreams now, in the madness of her passion, 
 that she can kill the man whose very voice unnerves her. 
 
 But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path 
 three yards before her? 
 
 Good God! it is he — lying motionless — his hat fallen off. 
 He is ill, then — he has fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, 
 and she rushes toward him. His eyes are fixed ; he does not 
 see her. She sinks down on her knees, takes the dear head 
 in her arms, and kisses the cold forehead. 
 
 Anthony, Anthony! speak to me — it is Tina — speak to 
 me! 0 God, he is dead! 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Yes, Maynard, " said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr. 
 Gilfil in the library, " it really is a remarkable thing that I 
 never in my life laid a plan, and failed to carry it out. I lay 
 my plans well, and I never swerve from them — that's it. A 
 strong will is the only magic. And next to striking out one's 
 plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to see them well 
 accomplished. This year, now, will be the happiest of my 
 life, all but the year '53, when I came into possession of the 
 Manor, and married Henrietta. The last touch is given to 
 the old house; Anthony's marriage — the thing I had nearest 
 my heart — is settled to my entire satisfaction ; and by and by 
 you will be buying a little wedding-ring for Tina's finger. 
 Don't shake your head in that forlorn way ; — when I make 
 prophecies they generally come to pass. But there's quarter 
 after twelve striking. I must be riding to the High Ash to 
 meet Markham about felling some timber. My old oaks will 
 have to groan for this wedding, but " 
 
 The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, 
 her eyes distended with terror, rushed in, threw her arms 
 round Sir Christopher's neck, and gasping out — Anthony 
 . . . the Rookery . . • dead ... in the Rookery," fell 
 fainting on the floor. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 175 
 
 In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and Mr. 
 Gilfil was bending to raise Caterinain his arms. As he lifted 
 her from the ground he felt something hard and heavy in her 
 pocket. What could it be? The weight of it would be 
 enough to hurt her as she lay. He carried her to the sofa, 
 put his hand in her pocket, and drew forth the dagger. 
 
 Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, 
 or ... or ... a horrible suspicion forced itself upon him. 
 "Dead — in the Eookery.'' He hated himself for the thought 
 that prompted him to draw the dagger from its sheath. No! 
 there was no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss the good 
 steel for its innocence. He thrust the weapon into his own 
 pocket ; he would restore it as soon as possible to its well- 
 known place in the gallery. Yet, why had Caterina taken 
 this dagger? What was it that had happened in the Rook- 
 ery? Was it only a delirious vision of hers? 
 
 He was afraid to ring — afraid to summon any one to Cate- 
 rina's assistance. What might she not say when she awoke 
 from this fainting-fit? She might be raving. He could not 
 leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty for not follow- 
 ing Sir Christopher to see what was the truth. It took but 
 a moment to think and feel all this, but that moment seemed 
 such a long agony to him that he began to reproach himself 
 for letting it pass without seeking some means of reviving 
 Caterina. Happily the decanter of water on Sir Christopher's 
 table was untouched. He would at least try the effect of 
 throwing that water over her. She might revive without his 
 needing to call any one else. 
 
 Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying at his utmost 
 speed toward the Rookery ; his face, so lately bright and con- 
 fident, now agitated by a vague dread. The deep alarmed 
 bark of Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of 
 Mr. Bates, then on his way homeward, as something unwonted, 
 and, hastening in the direction of the sound, he met the Baro- 
 net just as he was approaching the entrance of the Rookery. 
 Sir Christopher's look was enough. Mr. Bates said nothing, 
 but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward 
 among the dead leaves with his nose to the ground. They 
 had scarcely lost sight of him a minute when a change in the 
 
176 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 tone of his bark told them that he had found something, and 
 in another instant he was leaping back over one of the large 
 planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, 
 Eupert leading them ; the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the 
 very rustling of the leaves, as their feet plunged among them, 
 falling like an evil omen on the Baronet's ear. 
 
 They had reached the summit of the mound, and had begun 
 to descend. Sir Christopher saw something purple down on 
 the path below among the yellow leaves. Eupert^was already 
 beside it, but Sir Christopher could not move faster. A tremor 
 had taken hold of the firm limbs. Eupert came back and 
 licked the trembling hand, as if to say " Courage ! " and then 
 was down again snuffing the body. Yes, it was a body . . . 
 Anthony's body. There was the white hand with its diamond 
 ring clutching the dark leaves. His eyes were half open, but 
 did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself directly 
 on them from between the boughs. 
 
 Still he might only have fainted ; it might only be a fit. 
 Sir Christopher knelt down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened 
 the waistcoat, and laid his hand on the heart. It might be 
 syncope; it might not — it could not be death. No! that 
 thought must be kept far off. 
 
 ^^Go, Bates, get help; we'll carry him to your cottage. 
 Send some one to the house to tell Mr. Gilfil and Warren. 
 Bid them send off for Dr. Hart, and break it to my lady and 
 Miss Assher that Anthony is ill." 
 
 Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone 
 kneeling beside the body. The young and supple limbs, the 
 rounded cheeks, the delicate ripe lips, the smooth white 
 hands, were lying cold and rigid ; and the aged face was bend- 
 ing over them in silent anguish ; the aged deep-veined hands 
 were seeking with tremulous inquiring touches for some 
 symptom that life was not irrevocably gone. 
 
 Eupert was there too, waiting and watching ; licking first 
 the dead and then the living hands ; then running off on Mr. 
 Bates's track as if he would follow and hasten his return, but 
 in a moment turning back again, unable to quit the scene of 
 his master's sorrow. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 177 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 It is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand by one 
 who has fainted, and witness the fresh birth of consciousness 
 spreading itself over the blank features, like the rising sun- 
 light on the alpine summits that lay ghastly and dead under 
 the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and the frost-bound 
 eyes recover their liquid light ; for an instant they show the 
 inward semi-consciousness of an infant's; then, with a little 
 start, they open wider and begin to look ; the present is visi- 
 ble, but only as a strange writing, and the interpreter Memory 
 is not yet there. 
 
 Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over 
 Caterina's face. He bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, 
 and looking at her with tender pity as her dark eyes opened 
 on him wonderingly. He thought there might be some wine 
 in the dining-room close by. He left the room, and Caterina's 
 eyes turned toward the window — toward Sir Christopher's 
 chair. There was the link at which the chain of conscious- 
 ness had snapped, and the events of the morning were begin- 
 ning to recur dimly like a half- remembered dream, when 
 Maynard returned with some wine. He raised her, and she 
 drank it; but still she was silent, seeming lost in the attempt 
 to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr. Warren 
 appeared with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr. 
 Gilfil, dreading lest he should tell them in Caterina's pres- 
 ence, hurried toward him with his finger on his lips, and drew 
 him away into the dining-room on the opposite side of the 
 passage. 
 
 Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the 
 full consciousness of the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was 
 lying there dead ; she had left him to tell Sir Christopher ; she 
 must go and see what they were doing with him; perhaps he 
 was not really dead — only in a trance ; people did fall into 
 trances sometimes. While Mr. Gilfil was telling Warren how 
 it would be best to break the news to Lady Cheverel and Miss 
 Assher, anxious himself to return to Caterina, the poor child 
 
178 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 had made her way feebly to the great entrance-door, which 
 stood open. Her strength increased as she moved and breathed 
 the fresh air, and with every increase of strength came in- 
 creased vividness of emotion, increased yearning to be where 
 her thought was — in the Rookery with Anthony. She walked 
 more and more swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificial 
 strength of passionate excitement, began to run. 
 
 But now she heard the tread of heavy steps, and under the 
 yellow shade near the wooden bridge she saw men slowly 
 carrying something. Soon she was face to face with them. 
 Anthony was no longer in the Rookery ; they were carrying 
 him stretched on a door, and there behind him was Sir Chris- 
 topher, with the firmly set mouth, the deathly paleness, and 
 the concentrated expression of suffering in the eye, which 
 mark the suppressed grief of the strong man. The sight of 
 this face, on which Caterina had never before beheld the signs 
 of anguish, caused a rush of new feeling which for the moment 
 submerged all the rest. She went gently up to him, put her 
 little hand in his, and walked in silence by his side. Sir 
 Christopher could not tell her to leave him, and so she went 
 on with that sad procession to Mr. Bates's cottage in the Moss- 
 lands, and sat there in silence, waiting and watching to know 
 if Anthony were really dead. 
 
 She had not yet missed the dagger from her pocket ; she had 
 not yet even thought of it. At the sight of Anthony lying 
 dead, her nature had rebounded from its new bias of resent- 
 ment and hatred to the old sweet habit of love. The earliest 
 and the longest has still the mastery over us ; and the only 
 past that linked itself with those glazed unconscious eyes, was 
 the past when they beamed on her with tenderness. She for- 
 got tlie interval of wrong and jealousy and hatred — all his cru- 
 elty, and all her thoughts of revenge — as the exile forgets the 
 stormy passage that lay between home and happiness and the 
 dreary land in which he finds himself desolate. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 179 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Before night all hope was gone. Dr. Hart had said it was 
 death; Anthony ^s body had been carried to the house, and 
 every one there knew the calamity that had fallen on them. 
 
 Caterina had been questioned by Dr. Hart, and had answered 
 briefly that she found Anthony lying in the Rookery. That 
 she should have been walking there just at that time was not 
 a coincidence to raise conjectures in any one besides Mr. Gilfil. 
 Except in answering this question, she had not broken her 
 silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener's kitchen, 
 shaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return with 
 him, and apparently unable to think of anything but the pos- 
 sibility that Anthony might revive, until she saw them carry- 
 ing away the body to the house. Then she followed by Sir 
 Christopher's side again, so quietly, that even Dr. Hart did 
 not object to her presence. 
 
 It was decided to lay the body in the library until after the 
 coroner's inquest to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door 
 finally closed, she turned up the gallery stairs on her way to 
 her own room, the place where she felt at home with her sor- 
 rows. It was the first time she had been in the gallery since 
 that terrible moment in the morning, and now the spot and 
 the objects around began to reawaken her half -stunned mem- 
 ory. The armor was no longer glittering in the sunlight, but 
 there it hung dead and sombre above the cabinet from which 
 she had taken the dagger. Yes ! now it all came back to her 
 — all the wretchedness and all the sin. But where was the 
 dagger now? She felt in her pocket; it was not there. Could 
 it have been her fancy — all that about the dagger? She 
 looked in the cabinet ; it was not there. Alas ! no ; it could 
 not have been her fancy, and she was guilty of that wicked- 
 ness. But where could the dagger be now? Could it have 
 fallen out of her pocket? She heard steps ascending the 
 stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the 
 bed, and burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she 
 tried to recall every feeling and incident of the morning. 
 
180 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 It all came back ; everything Anthony had done, and every- 
 thing she had felt for the last month — for many months — ever 
 since that J une evening when he had last spoken to her in the 
 gallery. She looked back on her storms of passion, her jeal- 
 ousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts of revenge on 
 Anthony. Oh how wicked she had been! It was she who 
 had been sinning ; it was she who had driven him to do and 
 say those things that had made her so angry. And if he had 
 wronged her, what had she been on the verge of doing to him? 
 She was too wicked ever to be pardoned. She w^ould like to 
 confess how wicked she had been, that they might punish her; 
 she would like to humble herself to the dust before every one 
 — before Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would send her 
 away — would never see her again, if he knew all; and she 
 would be happier to be punished and frowned on, than to be 
 treated tenderly while she had that guilty secret in her breast. 
 But then, if Sir Christopher were to know all, it would add to 
 his sorrow, and make him more wretched than ever. No! she 
 could not confess it — she should have to tell about Anthony. 
 But she could not stay at the Manor ; she must go away ; she 
 could not bear Sir Christopher's eye, could not bear the sight 
 of all these things that reminded her of Anthony and of her 
 sin. Perhaps she should die soon; she felt very feeble ; there 
 could not be much life in her. She would go away and live 
 humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die. 
 
 The poor child never thought of suicide. No sooner was 
 the storm of anger passed than the tenderness and timidity of 
 her nature returned, and she could do nothing but love and 
 mourn. Her inexperience prevented her from imagining the 
 consequences of her disappearance from the Manor ; she fore- 
 saw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and 
 search that must ensue. ^^They will think I am dead,'' she 
 said to herself, " and by and by they will forget me, and May- 
 nard will get happy again, and love some one else." 
 
 She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door. 
 Mrs. Bellamy was there. She had come by Mr. Gilfil's re- 
 quest to see how Miss Sarti was, and to bring her some food 
 and wine. 
 
 "You look sadly, my dear," said the old housekeeper, "an' 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 181 
 
 you're all of a quake wi' cold. Get you to bed, now do. 
 Martha shall come an' warm it, an' light your fire. See now, 
 here's some nice arrowroot, wi' a drop o' wine in it. Take 
 that, an' it'll warm you. I must go down again, for I can't 
 awhile to stay. There's so many things to see to; an' Miss 
 Assher's in hysterics constant, an' her maid's ill i' bed — a 
 poor creachy thing — ^an' Mrs. Sharp's wanted every minute. 
 But I'll send Martha up, an' do you get ready to go to bed, 
 there's a dear child, an' take care o' yourself." 
 
 " Thank you, dear mammy, " said Tina, kissing the little 
 old woman's wrinkled cheek; "I shall eat the arrowroot, and 
 don't trouble about me any more to-night. I shall do very 
 well when Martha has lighted my fire. Tell Mr. Gilfil I'm 
 better. I shall go to bed by and by, so don't you come up 
 again, because you may only disturb me." 
 
 "Well, well, take care o' yourself, there's a good child, an' 
 God send you may sleep." 
 
 Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha was 
 lighting her fire. She wanted to get strength for her journey, 
 and she kept the plate of biscuits by her that she might put 
 some in her pocket. Her whole mind was now bent on going 
 away from the Manor, and she was thinking of all the ways 
 and means her little life's experience could suggest. 
 
 It was dusk now ; she must wait till early dawn, for she 
 was too timid to go away in the dark, but she must make her 
 escape before any one was up in the house. There would be 
 people watching Anthony in the library, but she could make 
 her way out of a small door leading into the garden, against 
 the drawing-room on the other side of the house. 
 
 She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil ready ; then she lighted 
 a candle, opened her desk, and took out the broken portrait 
 wrapped in paper. She folded it again in two little notes of 
 Anthony's, written in pencil, and placed it in her bosom. 
 There was the little china box, too — Dorcas's present, the 
 pearl ear-rings, and a silk purse, with fifteen seven-shilling 
 pieces in it, the presents Sir Christopher had made her on her 
 birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor. Should she 
 take the ear-rings and the seven-shilling pieces? She could 
 not bear to part with them ; it seemed as if they had some of 
 
182 
 
 SCENES OF CLEKICAL LIFE.* 
 
 Sir Christopher's love in them. She would like them to be 
 buried with her. She fastened the little round ear-rings in 
 her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas's box in her pocket. 
 She had another purse there, and she took it out to count her 
 money, for she would never spend her seven-shilling pieces. 
 She had a guinea and eight shillings; that would be plenty. 
 
 So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to lay 
 herself on the bed lest she should sleep too long. If she could 
 but see Anthony once more and kiss his cold forehead ! But 
 that could not be. She did not deserve it. She must go away 
 from him, away from Sir Christopher, and Lady Cheverel, 
 and Maynard, and everybody who had been kind to her, and 
 thought her good while she was so wicked. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Some of Mrs. Sharp's earliest thoughts, the next morning, 
 were given to Caterina, whom she had not been able to visit 
 the evening before, and whom, from a nearly equal mixture of 
 affection and self-importance, she did not at all like resigning 
 to Mrs. Bellamy's care. At half -past eight o'clock she went 
 up to Tina's room, bent on benevolent dictation as to doses 
 and diet and lying in bed. But on opening the door she 
 found the bed smooth and empty. Evidently it had not been 
 slept in. What could this mean? Had she sat up all night, 
 and was she gone out to walk? The poor thing's head might 
 be touched by what had happened yesterday 5 it was such a 
 shock — finding Captain Wybrow in that way ; she was per- 
 haps gone out of her mind. Mrs. Sharp looked anxiously in 
 the place where Tina kept her hat and cloak; they were not 
 there, so that she had had at least the presence of mind to put 
 them on. Still the good woman felt greatly alarmed, and has- 
 tened away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who, she knew, was in his 
 study. 
 
 "Mr. Gilfil," she said, as soon as she had closed the door 
 behind her, "my mind misgives me dreadful about Miss 
 Sarti.'^ 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 183 
 
 " What is it? " said poor Maynard, with a horrible fear that 
 Caterina had betrayed something about the dagger. 
 
 " She's not in her room, an' her bed's not been slept in this 
 night, an' her hat an' cloak's gone." 
 
 For a minute or two Mr. Gilfil was unable to speak. He 
 felt sure the worst had come : Caterina had destroyed herself. 
 The strong man suddenly looked so ill and helpless that Mrs. 
 Sharp began to be frightened at the effect of her abruptness. 
 
 "Oh, sir, I'm grieved to my heart to shock you soj but 1 
 didn't know who else to go to." 
 
 "No, no, you were quite right." 
 
 He gathered some strength from his very despair. It was 
 all over, and he had nothing now to do but to suffer and to 
 help the suffering. He went on in a firmer voice — 
 
 " Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any one. We 
 must not alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss 
 Sarti may be only walking in the garden. She was terribly 
 excited by what she saw yesterday, and perhaps was unable 
 to lie down from restlessness. Just go quietly through the 
 empty rooms, and see whether she is in the house. I will go 
 and look for her in the grounds." 
 
 He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm in the house, 
 walked at once toward the Mosslands in search of Mr. Bates, 
 whom he met returning from his breakfast. To the gardener 
 he confided his fear about Caterina, assigning as a reason for 
 this fear the probability that the shock she had undergone 
 yesterday had unhinged her mind, and begging him to send 
 men in search of her through the gardens and park, and in- 
 quire if she had been seen at the lodges ; and if she were not 
 found or heard of in this way, to lose no time in dragging the 
 waters round the Manor. 
 
 "God forbid it should be so, Bates, but we shall be the 
 easier for having searched everywhere." 
 
 "Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr. Gilfil. Eh! but I'd ha^ 
 worked for day -wage all the rest o' my life, rether than any- 
 thin' should ha' happened to her." 
 
 The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the sta- 
 bles that he might send the grooms on horseback through the 
 park. 
 
184 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Mr. GilfiPs next thought was to search the Eookery: she 
 might be haunting the scene of Captain Wybrow's death. He 
 went hastily over every mound, looked round every large tree, 
 and followed every winding of the walks. In reality he had 
 little hope of finding her there ; but the bare possibility fenced 
 off for a time the fatal conviction that Caterina's body would 
 be found in the water. When the Eookery had been searched 
 in vain, he walked fast to the border of the little stream that 
 bounded one side of the grounds. The stream was almost 
 everywhere hidden among trees, and there was one place 
 where it was broader and deeper than elsewhere — she would 
 be more likely to come to that spot than to the pool. He hur- 
 ried along with strained eyes, his imagination continually cre- 
 ating what he dreaded to see. 
 
 There is something white behind that overhanging bough. 
 His knees tremble under him. He seems to see part of her 
 dress caught on a branch, and her dear dead face upturned. 
 O God, give strength to thy creature, on whom thou hast laid 
 this great agony ! He is nearly up to the bough, and the white 
 object is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads its wings 
 and flies away screaming. He hardly knows whether it is a 
 relief or a disappointment that she is not there. The convic- 
 tion that she is dead presses its cold weight upon him none 
 the less heavily. 
 
 As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he saw 
 Mr. Bates, with a group of men already there, preparing for 
 the dreadful search which could only displace his vague de- 
 spair by a definite horror; for the gardener, in his restless 
 anxiety, had been unable to defer this until other means of 
 search had proved vain. The pool was not now laughing 
 with sparkles among the water-lilies. It looked black and 
 cruel under the sombre sky, as if its cold depths held re- 
 lentlessly all the murdered hope and joy of Maynard GilfiPs 
 life. 
 
 Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as him- 
 self were crowding on his mind. The blinds and shutters 
 were all closed in front of the Manor, and it was not likely 
 that Sir Christopher would be aware of anything that was 
 passing outside; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina's disappear- 
 
MR GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 185 
 
 ance could not long be concealed from him. The coroner's 
 inquest would be held shortly ; she would be inquired for, and 
 then it would be inevitable that the Baronet should know all. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 At twelve o'clock, when all search and inquiry had been in 
 vain, and the coroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil 
 could no longer defer the hard duty of revealing this fresh 
 calamity to Sir Christopher, who must otherwise have it dis- 
 covered to him abruptly. 
 
 The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the 
 dark window-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a som- 
 bre light. It was the first time Mr. Gilfil had had an inter- 
 view with him this morning, and he was struck to see how a 
 single day and night of grief had aged the fine old man. The 
 lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened ; his 
 complexion looked dull and withered; there was a swollen 
 ridge under his eyes ; and the eyes themselves, which used to 
 cast so keen a glance on the present, had the vacant expression 
 which tells that vision is no longer a sense, but a memory. 
 
 He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat 
 down beside him in silence. Sir Christopher's heart began to 
 swell at this unspoken sympathy ; the tears would rise, would 
 roll in great drops down his cheeks. The first tears he had 
 shed since boyhood were for Anthony. 
 
 Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his 
 mouth. He could not speak first : he must wait until Sir 
 Christopher said something which might lead on to the cruel 
 words that must be spoken. 
 
 At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say, " I'm 
 very weak, Maynard — God help me! I didn't think anything 
 would unman me in this way; but I'd built everything on that 
 lad. Perhaps I've been wrong in not forgiving my sister. 
 She lost one of her sons a little while ago. I've been too 
 proud and obstinate." 
 
 "We can hardly learn humility and tenderness enough 
 
186 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 except by suffering," said Maynard; "and God sees we are 
 in need of suffering, for it is falling more and more heavily on 
 us. We have a new trouble this morning. " 
 
 "Tina?" said Sir Christopher, looking up anxiously — "is 
 Tina ill?" 
 
 " I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was very 
 much agitated yesterday — and with her delicate health — I am 
 afraid to think what turn the agitation may have taken." 
 
 "Is she delirious, poor dear little one?" 
 
 " God only knows how she is. We are unable to jBnd her. 
 When Mrs. Sharp went up to her room this morning, it was 
 empty. She had not been in bed. Her hat and cloak were 
 gone. I have had search made for her everywhere — in the 
 house and garden, in the park, and — in the water. No one 
 has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire at seven 
 o'clock in the evening." 
 
 While Mr. Gilfil was speaking. Sir Christopher's eyes, 
 which were eagerly turned on him, recovered some of their 
 old keenness, and some sudden painful emotion, as at a new 
 thought, flitted rapidly across his already agitated face, like the 
 shadow of a dark cloud over the waves. When the pause came, 
 he laid his hand on Mr. GilfiPs arm, and said in a lower 
 voice — 
 
 " Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony? " 
 " She did." 
 
 Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling between his 
 reluctance to inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christopher, 
 and his determination that no injustice should be done to Cat- 
 erina. Sir Christopher's eyes were still fixed on him in sol- 
 emn inquiry, and his own sunk toward the ground, while he 
 tried to find the words that would tell the truth least cruelly. 
 
 "You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina," he 
 said at length. "I must tell you now, for her sake, what 
 nothing but this should ever have caused to pass my lips. 
 Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentions which, in 
 his position, he was bound not to show her. Before his mar- 
 riage was talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover." 
 
 Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard' s arm, and 
 looked away from him. He was silent for some minutes^ evi- 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 187 
 
 dently attempting to master himself, so as to be able to speak 
 calmly. 
 
 " I must see Henrietta immediately, he said at last, with 
 something of his old sharp decision ; " she must know all ; but 
 we must keep it from every one else as far as possible. My 
 dear boy," he continued in a kinder tone, "the heaviest bur- 
 then has fallen on you. But we may find her yet; we must 
 not despair : there has not been time enough for us to be cer- 
 tain. Poor dear little one! God help me! I thought I saw 
 everything, and was stone-blind all the while." 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 The sad slow week was gone by at last. At the coroner's 
 inquest a verdict of sudden death had been pronounced. Dr. 
 Hart, acquainted with Captain Wy brow's previous state of 
 health, had given his opinion that death had been imminent 
 from long-established disease of the heart, though it had prob- 
 ably been accelerated by some unusual emotion. Miss Assher 
 was the only person who positively knew the motive that had 
 led Captain Wybrow to the Eookery ; but she had not men- 
 tioned Caterina's name, and all painful details or inquiries 
 were studiously kept from her. Mr. Gilfil and Sir Christo- 
 pher, however, knew enough to conjecture that the fatal agita- 
 tion was due to an appointed meeting with Caterina. 
 
 All search and inquiry after her had been fruitless, and 
 were the more likely to be so because they were carried on 
 under the prepossession that she had committed suicide. No 
 one noticed the absence of the trifles she had taken from her 
 desk ; no one knew of the likeness, or that she had hoarded her 
 seven-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that she 
 should have happened to be wearing the pearl ear-rings. She 
 had left the house, they thought, taking nothing with her ; it 
 seemed impossible she could have gone far; and she must 
 have been in a state of mental excitement, that made it too 
 probable she had only gone to seek relief in death. The same 
 places within three or four miles of the Manor were searched 
 
188 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 again and again — every pond, every ditch, in tlie neighborhood 
 was examined. 
 
 Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come on 
 unsought, from cold and exhaustion ; and not a day passed but 
 he wandered through the neighboring woods, turning up the 
 heaps of dead leaves, as if it were possible her dear body could 
 be hidden there. Then another horrible thought recurred, and 
 before each night came he had been again through all the un- 
 inhabited rooms of the house, to satisfy himself once more that 
 she was not hidden behind some cabinet, or door, or curtain — 
 that he should not find her there with madness in her eyes, 
 looking and looking, and yet not seeing him. 
 
 But at last those five long days and nights were at an end, 
 the funeral was over, and the carriages were returning through 
 the park. When they had set out, a heavy rain was falling ; 
 but now the clouds were breaking up, and a gleam of sunshine 
 was sparkling among the dripping boughs under which they 
 were passing. This gleam fell upon a man on horseback who 
 was jogging slowly along, and whom Mr. Gilfil recognized, in 
 spite of diminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott, the coachman 
 who had married the rosy-cheeked Dorcas ten years before. 
 
 Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr. Gil- 
 fil ; and his eye no sooner fell on Knott than he said to him- 
 self, "Can he be come to tell us anything about Caterina?'^ 
 Then he remembered that Caterina had been very fond of Dor- 
 cas, and that she always had some present ready to send her 
 when Knott paid an occasional visit to the Manor. Could 
 Tina have gone to Dorcas? But his heart sank again as he 
 thought, very likely Knott had only come because he had 
 heard of Captain Wybrow's death, and wanted to know how 
 his old master had borne the blow. 
 
 As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to his 
 study and walked about nervously, longing, but afraid, to go 
 dov/n and speak to Knott, lest his faint hope should be dissi- 
 pated. Any one looking at that face, usually so full of calm 
 good-will, would have seen that the last week's suffering had 
 left deep traces. By day he had been riding or wandering 
 incessantly, either searching for Caterina himself, or directing 
 inquiries to be made by others. By night he had not knowQ 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 189 
 
 /Sleep — only intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be 
 finding Caterina dead, and woke up with a start from this un- 
 real agony to the real anguish of believing that he should see 
 her no more. The clear gray eyes looked sunken and restless, 
 the full careless lips had a strange tension about them, and 
 the brow, formerly so smooth and open, was contracted as if 
 with pain. He had not lost the object of a few months' pas- 
 sion; he had lost the being who was bound up with his power 
 of loving, as the brook we played by or the flowers we gath- 
 ered in childhood are bound up with our sense of beauty. 
 Love meant nothing for him but to love Caterina. For years, 
 the thought of her had been present in everything, like the air 
 and the light ; and now she was gone, it seemed as if all pleas- 
 ure had lost its vehicle : the sky, the earth, the daily ride, the 
 daily talk might be there, but the loveliness and the joy that 
 were in them had gone forever. 
 
 Presently, as he still paced backwards and forwards, he 
 heard steps along the corridor, and there was a knock at his 
 door. His voice trembled as he said " Come in, and the rush 
 of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable from pain when 
 he saw Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him. 
 
 "Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sarti. I thought it 
 best to bring him to you first." 
 
 Mr. Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman and 
 wringing his hand ; but he was unable to speak, and only mo- 
 tioned to him to take a chair, while Warren left the room. 
 He hung upon DaniePs moon-face, and listened to his small 
 piping voice, with the same solemn yearning expectation with 
 which he would have given ear to the most awful messenger 
 from the land of shades. 
 
 " It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come ; but we knowed 
 nothin' o' what's happened at the Manor. She's frightened 
 out on her wits about Miss Sarti, an' she would hev me saddle 
 Blackbird this mornin', an' leave the ploughin', to come an' 
 let Sir Christifer an' my lady know. P'raps you've beared, 
 sir, we don't keep the Cross Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle o' 
 mine died three 'ear ago, an' left me a leggicy. He was bailiff 
 to Squire Eamble^ as hed them there big farms on his hans ; 
 an' so we took a little farm o' forty acres or thereabouts; becos 
 
190 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Dorkis didn't like the public when she got moithered wi' chil- 
 dren. As pritty a place as iver you see, sir, wi' water at the 
 back convenent for the cattle.'' 
 
 " For God's sake," said Maynard, "tell me what it is about 
 Miss Sarti. Don't stay to tell me anything else now." 
 
 "Well, sir," said Knott, rather frightened by the parson's 
 vehemence, "she come t' our house i' the carrier's cart o' 
 Wednesday, when it was welly nine o'clock at night; and 
 Dorkis run out, for she beared the cart stop, an' Miss Sarti 
 throwed her arms roun' Dorkis' s neck an' says, ^ Tek me in, 
 Dorkis, tek me in,' an' went off into a swoond, like. An' 
 Dorkis calls out to me, — ^ Dannel,' she calls — an' I run out 
 and carried the young miss in, an' she come roun' arter a 
 bit, an' opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her to drink a spoon- 
 ful o' rum-an'-water — we've got some capital rum as we 
 brought from the Cross Keys, and Dorkis won't let nobody 
 drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness; but for my 
 part, T think it's a pity to drink good rum when your mouth's 
 out o' taste; you may just as well hev doctor's stuff. How- 
 ever, Dorkis got her to bed, an' there she's lay iver sin', 
 stoopid like, an' niver speaks, an' on'y teks little bits an' 
 sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An' we begun to be fright- 
 ened, and couldn't think what had made her come away from 
 the Manor, and Dorkis was afeared there was summat wrong. 
 So this mornin' she could hold no longer, an' would hev no 
 nay but I must come an' see; an' so I've rode twenty mile 
 upo' Blackbird, as thinks all the while he's a-ploughin', an' 
 turns sharp roun', every thirty yards, as if he was at the end 
 of a furrow. I've hed a sore time wi' him, I can tell you, sir." 
 
 " God bless you, Knott, for coming ! " said Mr. Gilfil, 
 wringing the old coachman's hand again. " 'Now go down and 
 have something and rest yourself. You will stay here to- 
 night, and by and by I shall come to you to learn the nearest 
 way to your house. I shall get ready to ride there immedi- 
 ately, when I have spoken to Sir Christopher." 
 
 In an hour from that time Mr. Gi^^l was galloping on a 
 stout mare toward the little muddy village of Callam, five 
 miles beyond Sloppeter. Once more hp saw some gladness in 
 the afternoon sunlight; once more it was a pleasure to see the 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 191 
 
 hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be conscious of a " good 
 seat while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, and the 
 air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina was not 
 dead ; he had found her ; his love and tenderness and long- 
 suffering seemed so strong, they must recall her to life and 
 happiness. After that week of despair, the rebound was so 
 violent that it carried his hopes at once as far as the utmost 
 mark they had ever reached. Caterina would come to love 
 him at last; she would be his. They had been carried 
 through all that dark and weary way that she might know the 
 depth of his love. How he would cherish her — his little bird 
 with the timid bright eye, and the sweet throat that trembled 
 with love and music! She would nestle against him, and the 
 poor little breast which had been so ruffled and bruised should 
 be safe for evermore. In the love of a brave and faithful man , 
 there is always a strain of maternal tenderness ; he gives out 
 again those beams of protecting fondness which were shed on 
 him as he lay on his mother's knee. 
 
 It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, and, 
 asking a homeward-bound laborer the way to Daniel Knott's, 
 learned that it was by the church, which showed its stumpy 
 ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground ; a useful addi- 
 tion to the means of identifying that desirable homestead 
 afforded by Daniel's description — "the prittiest place iver you 
 see " — though a small cow-yard full of excellent manure, and 
 leading right up to the door, without any frivolous interrup- 
 tion from garden or railing, might perhaps have been enough 
 to make that description unmistakably specific. 
 
 Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the 
 cow-yard, than he was descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, 
 prematurely invested with the toga virilis^ or smock-frock, 
 who ran forward to let in the unusual visitor. In a moment 
 Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all 
 the redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed a group 
 round her, and for the very fat baby who stared in her arms, 
 and sucked a long crust with calm relish. 
 
 "Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir?" said Dorcas, curtsying low as he 
 made his way through the damp straw, after tying up his 
 horse. 
 
192 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 " Yes, Dorcas ; I'm grown out of your knowledge. How is 
 Miss Sarti? " 
 
 " Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dannel's 
 told you; for I reckon youVe come from the Manor, though 
 you're come uncommon quick, to be sure." 
 
 " Yes, he got to the Manor about one o'clock, and I set off 
 as soon as I could. She's not worse, is she? " 
 
 "No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to 
 walk in, sir? She lies there takin' no notice o' nothin', no 
 more nor a baby as is on'y a week old, an' looks at me as 
 blank as if she didn't know me. Oh what can it be, Mr. 
 Gilfil? How come she to leave the Manor? How's his honor 
 an' my lady? " 
 
 " In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Christo- 
 pher's nephew, you know, has died suddenly. Miss Sarti 
 found him lying dead, and I think the shock has affected her 
 mind." 
 
 "Eh, dear! that fine young gentleman as was to be th' heir, 
 as Dannel told me about. I remember seein' him when ho 
 was a little un, a-visitin' at the Manor. Well-a-day, what a 
 grief to his honor and my lady. But that poor Miss Tina — • 
 an' she found him a-lyin' dead? Oh, dear, oh dear! " 
 
 Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charming 
 a room as best kitchens used to be in farmhouses which had 
 no parlors — the fire reflected in a bright row of pewter plates 
 and dishes ; the sand-scoured deal tables so clean you longed 
 to stroke them ; the salt-coffer in one chimney-corner, and a 
 three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behind handsomely 
 tapestried with flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamented 
 with pendent hams. 
 
 " Sit ye down, sir — do, " said Dorcas, moving the three-cor- 
 nered chair, " an' let me get you somethin' after your long 
 journey. Here, Becky, come an' tek the baby." 
 
 Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining 
 back-kitchen, and possessed herself of baby, whose feelings or 
 fat made him conveniently apathetic under the transference. 
 
 " What'll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you ? I'll get 
 you a rasher o' bacon i' no time, an' I've got some tea, or be- 
 like you'd tek a glass o' rum-an' -water. I know we've got 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 193 
 
 nothin' as you're used eat and drink; but sucli as I hev, 
 sir, I shall be proud to give you." 
 
 Thank you, Dorcas; I can't eat or drink anything. Pm 
 not hungry or tired. Let us talk about Tina. Has she spoken 
 at all?" 
 
 ^' Mver since the fust words. ^ Dear Dorkis, ' says she, ' tek 
 me in ' ; an' then went off into a faint, an' not a word has she 
 spoken since. I get her t' eat little bits an' sups o' things, 
 but she teks no notice o' nothin'. I've took up Bessie wi' 
 me now an' then " — here Dorcas lifted to her lap a curly-headed 
 little girl of three, who was twisting a corner of her mother's 
 apron, and opening round eyes at the gentleman — "folks'll 
 tek notice o' children sometimes when they won't o' nothin' 
 else. An' we gethered the autumn crocuses out o' th' orchard, 
 and Bessie carried 'em up in her hand, an' put 'em on the bed. 
 I knowed how fond Miss Tina was o' flowers an' them things, 
 when she was a little un. But she looked at Bessie an' the 
 flowers just the same as if she didn't see 'em. It cuts me to 
 sh' heart to look at them e^'es o' hers; I think they're bigger 
 nor iver, an' they look like my poor baby's as died, when it 
 got so thin — oh dear, its little hands you could see thro' 'em. 
 But I've great hopes if she was to see you, sir, as come from 
 the Manor, it might bring back her mind, like." 
 
 Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear 
 gathering round him after the few bright warm hours of joyful 
 confidence which had passed since he first heard that Caterina 
 was alive. The thought would urge itself upon him that her 
 mind and body might never recover the strain that had been 
 put upon them — that her delicate thread of life had already 
 nearly spun itself out. 
 
 " Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don't say any- 
 thing about my being here. Perhaps it would be better for 
 me to wait till daylight before I see her, and yet it would be 
 very hard to pass another night in this way." 
 
 Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The three 
 other children, including young Daniel in his smock-frock, 
 were standing opposite to Mr. Gilfil, watching him still more 
 shyly now they were without their mother's countenance. He 
 drew little Bessie toward him, and set her on his knee. She 
 
194 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 shook her yellow curls out of her eyes, and looked up at him 
 as she said — 
 
 " Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo mek her peak? What zoo 
 do to her? Tissher?'' 
 
 " Do you like to be kissed, Bessie? 
 
 "Det,'^ said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head 
 very low, in resistance to the expected rejoinder. 
 
 "We've got two pups,'' said young Daniel, emboldened by 
 observing the gentleman's amenities toward Bessie. " Shall I 
 show 'em yer? One's got white spots." 
 
 "Yes, let me see them." 
 
 Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind 
 puppies, eagerly followed by the mother, affectionate though 
 mongrel, and an exciting scene was beginning when Dorcas 
 returned and said — > 
 
 "There's niver any difference in her hardly. I think you 
 needn't wait, sir. She lies very still, as she al'ys does. I've 
 put two candles i' the room, so as she may see you well. 
 You'll please t' excuse the room, sir, an' the cap as she has 
 on; it's one o' mine." 
 
 Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her upstairs. 
 They turned in at the first door, their footsteps making little 
 noise on the plaster floor. The red-checkered linen curtains 
 were drawn at the head of the bed, and Dorcas had placed the 
 candles on this side of the room, so that the light might not 
 fall oppressively on Caterina's eyes. When she had opened 
 the door, Dorcas whispered, "I'd better leave you, sir, I 
 think?" 
 
 Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the cur- 
 tain. Caterina lay with her eyes turned the other way, and 
 seemed unconscious that any one had entered. Her eyes, as 
 Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever, perhaps because her 
 face was thinner and paler, and her hair quite gathered away 
 under one of Dorcas's thick caps. The small hands, too, that 
 lay listlessly on the outside of the bed-clothes were thinner 
 than ever. She looked younger than she really was, and any 
 one seeing the tiny face and hands for the first time might 
 have thought they belonged to a little girl of twelve, who was 
 being taken away from coming instead of past sorrow. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 195 
 
 When Mr. Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the 
 light fell full upon his face. A slight startled expression 
 came over Caterina's eyes; she looked at him earnestly for a 
 few moments, then lifted up her hand as if to beckon him to 
 stoop down toward her, and whispered, " Maynard ! 
 
 He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down toward 
 her. She whispered again — 
 
 "Maynard, did you see the dagger?^' 
 
 He followed his first impulse in answering her, and it was 
 a wise one. 
 
 "Yes,'^ he whispered, "I found it in your pocket, and put 
 it back again in the cabinet. 
 
 He took her hand in his and held it gently, awaiting what 
 she would say next. His heart swelled so with thankfulness 
 that she had recognized him, he could hardly repress a sob. 
 Gradually her eyes became softer and less intense in their 
 gaze. The tears were slowly gathering, and presently some 
 large hot drops rolled down her cheek. Then the flood-gates 
 were opened, and the heart-easing stream gushed forth ; deep 
 sobs came; and for nearly an hour she lay without speaking, 
 while the heavy icy pressure that withheld her misery from 
 utterance was thus melting away. How precious these tears 
 were to Maynard, who day after day had been shuddering at 
 the continually recurring image of Tina with the dry scorching 
 stare of insanity ! 
 
 By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calmly, 
 and lay quiet with her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, 
 not heeding the flight of the hours, not heeding the old clock 
 that ticked loudly on the landing. But when it was nearly 
 ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result of Mr. 
 GilfiPs appearance, could not help stepping in on tip-toe. 
 Without moving, he whispered in her ear to supply him with 
 candles, see that the cow-boy had shaken down his mare, and 
 go to bed — he would watch with Caterina — a great change had 
 come over her. 
 
 Before long, Tina's lips began to move. "Maynard," she 
 whispered again. He leaned toward her, and she went on — 
 
 "You know how wicked I am, then? You know what T 
 meant to do with the dagger? " 
 
196 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 " Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina? " 
 
 She shook her head slowly, and then was silent for a long 
 while. At last, looking at him with solemn eyes, she whis- 
 pered, "To kill him.'' 
 
 " Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God 
 saw your whole heart; He knows you would never harm a 
 living thing. He watches over His children, and will not let 
 them do things they would pray with their whole hearts not 
 to do. It was the angry thought of a moment, and He for- 
 gives you.'^ 
 
 She sank into silence again till it was nearly midnight. 
 The weary enfeebled spirit seemed to be making its slow way 
 with diflBculty through the windings of thought; and when 
 she began to whisper again, it was in reply to Maynard's 
 words. 
 
 " But I had had such wicked feelings for a long while. I 
 was so angry, and I hated Miss Assher so, and I didn't care 
 what came to anybody, because I was so miserable myself. 
 I was full of bad passions. No one else was ever so wicked.'^ 
 
 " Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have very 
 wicked feelings, and am tempted to do wrong things ; but then 
 my body is stronger than yours, and I can hide my feelings 
 and resist them better. They do not master me so. You have 
 seen the little birds when they are very young and just begin 
 to fly, how all their feathers are ruffled when they are fright- 
 ened or angry ; they have no power over themselves left, and 
 might fall into a pit from mere fright. You were like one of 
 those little birds. Your sorrow and suffering had taken such 
 hold of you, you hardly knew what you did." 
 
 He would not speak long, lest he should tire her, and op- 
 press her with too many thoughts. Long pauses seemed need- 
 ful for her before she could concentrate her feelings in short 
 words. 
 
 " But when I meant to do it, '' was the next thing she whis- 
 pered, " it was as bad as if I had done it." 
 
 "No, my Tina," answered Maynard, slowly, waiting a little 
 between each sentence ; " we mean to do wicked things that 
 we never could do, just as we mean to do good or clever things 
 that we never could do. Our thoughts are often worse than 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOYE-STORY. 
 
 197 
 
 we are, just as they are often better than we are. And God 
 sees us as we are altogether, not in separate feelings or actions, 
 as our fellow-men see us. We are always doing each other 
 injustice, and thinking better or worse of each other than we 
 deserve, because we only hear and see separate words and 
 actions. We don't see each other's whole nature. But God 
 sees that you could not have committed that crime." 
 
 Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. After a 
 while — 
 
 "I don't know," she said; "I seemed to see him coming 
 toward me, just as he would really have looked, and I meant 
 — I meant to do it." 
 
 " But when you saw him — tell me how it was, Tina? " 
 
 " I saw him lying on the ground and thought he was ill. 
 I don't know how it was then; I forgot everything. I 
 knelt down and spoke to him, and — and he took no notice 
 of me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think he was 
 dead." 
 
 "And you have never felt angry since? " 
 
 " Oh no, no ; it is I who have been more wicked than any 
 one; it is I who have been wrong all through." 
 
 " No, Tina ; the fault has not all been yours ; he was wrong ; 
 he gave you provocation. And wrong makes wrong. When 
 people use us ill, we can hardly help having ill-feeling toward 
 them. But that second wrong is more excusable. I am more 
 sinful than you, Tina; I have often had very bad feelings 
 toward Captain Wybrow ; and if he had provoked me as he 
 did you, I should perhaps have done something more wicked." 
 
 "Oh, it was not so wrong in him; he didn't know how he 
 hurt me. How was it likely he could love me as I loved him? 
 And how could he marry a poor little thing like me? " 
 
 Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again silence, 
 till Tina said — 
 
 "Then I was so deceitful; they didn't know how wicked I 
 was. Padroncello didn't know; his good little monkey he 
 used to call me ; and if he had known, oh how naughty he 
 would have thought me ! " 
 
 " My Tina, we have all our secret sins ; and if we knew our- 
 ^Ives, we should not judge each other harshly. Sir Christo- 
 
198 
 
 SCENES OR CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 pher himself has felt, since this trouble came upon him, that 
 he has been too severe and obstinate. 
 
 In this way — in these broken confessions and answering 
 words of comfort — the hours wore on, from the deep black 
 night to the chill early twilight, and from early twilight to the 
 first yellow streak of morning parting the purple cloud. Mr. 
 Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that night the bond that 
 united his love for ever and alone to Caterina had acquired 
 fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human rela- 
 tions that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection : 
 every new day and night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a 
 new consecration, for the love that is nourished by memories 
 as well as hopes — the love to which perpetual repetition is not 
 a weariness but a want, and to which a separated joy is the 
 beginning of pain. 
 
 The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a 
 tramp of footsteps in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas 
 stirring. These sounds seemed to affect Caterina, for she 
 looked anxiously at him and said, " Maynard, are you going 
 away ? 
 
 No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and 
 then you will go away too." 
 
 " Never to the Manor again, oh no ! I shall live poorly, and 
 get my own bread." 
 
 Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. 
 But I wish you could go to sleep now. Try to rest quietly, 
 and by and by you will perhaps sit up a little. God has kept 
 you in life in spite of all this sorrow ; it will be sinful not to 
 try and make the best of His gift. Dear Tina, you will try; 
 — and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once, you didn't 
 notice the poor little thing ; but you will notice her when she 
 comes again, will you not? " 
 
 "I will try," whispered Tina, humbly, and then closed her 
 eyes. 
 
 By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the 
 clouds, and shining with pleasant morning warmth through 
 the little leaded window, .Caterina was asleep. Maynard gen- 
 tly loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcas with the good news, 
 and made his way to the village inn, with a thankful heart 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 199 
 
 that Tina had been so far herself again. Evidently the sight 
 of him had blended naturally with the memories in which her 
 mind was absorbed, and she had been led on to an unburthen- 
 ing of herself that might be the beginning of a complete res 
 toration. But her body was so enfeebled — her soul so bruised 
 — that the utmost tenderness and care would be necessary. 
 The next thing to be done was to send tidings to Sir Christo- 
 pher and Lady Cheverel ; then to write and summon his sister, 
 under whose care he had determined to place Caterina. The 
 Manor, even if she had been wishing to return thither, would, 
 he knew, be the most undesirable home for her at present ; 
 every scene, every object there, was associated with still un- 
 allayed anguish. If she were domesticated for a time with 
 his mild gentle sister, who had a peaceful home and a prat- 
 tling little boy, Tina might attach herself anew to life, and 
 recover, partly at least, the shock that had been given to her 
 constitution. When he had written his letters and taken a 
 hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle again, on his way 
 to Sloppeter, where he would post them, and seek out a medi- 
 cal man, to whom he might confide the moral causes of Cate- 
 rina^ s enfeebled condition. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 In less than a week from that time, Caterina was persuaded 
 to travel in a comfortable carriage, under the care of Mr. Gil- 
 fil and his sister, Mrs. Heron, whose soft blue eyes and mild 
 manners were very soothing to the poor bruised child — the 
 more so as they had an air of sisterly equality, which was 
 quite new to her. Under Lady CheverePs uncaressing author- 
 itative good-will, Tina had always retained a certain constraint 
 and awe ; and there was a sweetness before unknown in hav- 
 ing a young and gentle woman, like an elder sister, bending 
 over her caressingly and speaking in low loving tones. 
 
 Maynard was almost angry with himself for feeling happy 
 while Tina's mind and body were still trembling on the verge 
 of irrecoverable decline ; but the new delight of acting as her 
 
200 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 guardian angel, of being with her every hour of the day, of 
 devising everything for her comfort, of watching for a ray 
 of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to leave 
 room for alarm or regret. 
 
 On the third day the carriage drove up to the door of Fox- 
 holm Parsonage, where the Eev. Arthur Heron presented him- 
 self on the door-step, eager to greet his returning Lucy, and 
 holding by the hand a broad-chested tawny-haired boy of five, 
 who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip with great vigor. 
 
 Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks bet- 
 ter swept, or a porch more prettily festooned with creepers 
 than at Foxholm Parsonage, standing snugly sheltered by 
 beeches and chestnuts half-way down the pretty green hill 
 which was surmounted by the church, and overlooking a vil- 
 lage that straggled at its ease among pastures and meadows, 
 surrounded by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing trees, as 
 yet unthreatened by improved methods of farming. 
 
 Brightly the fire shone in the great parlor, and brightly in 
 the little pink bedroom, which was to be Caterina's, because 
 it looked away from the churchyard, and on to a farm home- 
 stead, with its little cluster of beehive ricks, and placid 
 groups of cows, and cheerful matin sounds of healthy labor. 
 Mrs. Heron, with the instinct of a delicate impressible woman, 
 had written to her husband to have this room prepared for 
 Caterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching 
 for the rarely found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick 
 heart than a grove of nightingales ; there is something irre- 
 sistibly calming in the unsentimental cheeriness of topknotted 
 pullets, unpetted sheep-dogs, and patient cart-horses enjoying 
 a drink of muddy water. 
 
 In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, with- 
 out any of the stateliness that would carry a suggestion of 
 Cheverel Manor, Mr. Gilfil was not unreasonable in hoping 
 that Caterina might gradually shake off the haunting vision of 
 the past, and recover from the languor and feebleness which 
 were the physical sign of that vision's blighting presence. 
 The next thing to be done was to arrange an exchange of du- 
 ties with Mr. Heron's curate, that Maynard might be con- 
 stantly near Caterina, and watch over her progress. She 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 201 
 
 seemed to like him to be with her, to look uneasily for his 
 return ; and though she seldom spoke to him, she was most 
 contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his 
 large protecting grasp. But Oswald, alias Ozzy, the broad- 
 chested boy, was perhaps her most beneficial companion. 
 With something of his uncle's person, he had inherited also 
 his uncle's early taste for a domestic menagerie, and was 
 very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in the welfare 
 of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she 
 seemed now and then to have gleams of her childhood coming 
 athwart the leaden clouds, and many hours of winter went by 
 the more easily for being spent in Ozzy's nursery. 
 
 Mrs. Heron was not musical, and had no instrument; but 
 one of Mr. GilfiPs cares was to procure a harpsichord, and 
 have it placed in the drawing-room, always open, in the hope 
 that some day the spirit of music would be reawakened in 
 Caterina, and she would be attracted toward the instrument. 
 But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain. 
 The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone beyond passive- 
 ness and acquiescence — a quiet grateful smile, compliance with 
 Oswald's whims, and an increasing consciousness of what was 
 being said and done around her. Sometimes she would take 
 up a bit of woman's work, but she seemed too languid to per- 
 severe in it ; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsed into 
 motionless revery. 
 
 At last — it was one of those bright days in the end of Feb- 
 ruary, when the sun is shining with a promise of approaching 
 spring. Maynard had been walking with her and Oswald 
 round the garden to look at the snowdrops, and she was rest- 
 ing on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the room 
 in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harpsichord, and 
 struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note. 
 
 The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric 
 shock : it seemed as if at that instant a new soul were entering 
 into her, and filling her with a deeper, more significant life. 
 She looked round, rose from the sofa, and walked to the harp- 
 sichord. In a moment her fingers were wandering with their 
 old sweet method among the keys, and her soul was floating in 
 its true familiar element of delicious sound, as the water- 
 
202 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands 
 into freedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native 
 flood. 
 
 Maynard thanked God. An active power was reawakened, 
 and must make a new epoch in Caterina's recovery. 
 
 Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves 
 with the harder tones of the instrument, and gradually the 
 pure voice swelled into predominance. Little Ozzy stood in 
 the middle of the room, with his mouth open and his legs very 
 wide apart, struck with something like awe at this new power 
 in "Tin-Tin," as he called her, whom he had been accustomed 
 to think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in 
 need of his instruction on many subjects. A genie soaring 
 with broad wings out of his milk-jug would not have been 
 more astonishing. 
 
 Caterina was singing the very air from the Orfeo which we 
 heard her singing so many months ago at the beginning of her 
 sorrows. It was Che faro, Sir Christopher's favorite, and its 
 notes seemed to carry on their wings all the tenderest memo- 
 ries of her life, when Cheverel Manor was still an untroubled 
 home. The long happy days of childhood and girlhood recov- 
 ered all their rightful predominance over the short interval of 
 sin and sorrow. 
 
 She paused, and burst into tears — the first tears she had 
 shed since she had been at Foxholm. Maynard could not help 
 hurrying toward her, putting his arm round her, and leaning 
 down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him, and put up her 
 little mouth to be kissed. 
 
 The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling 
 to. The soul that was born anew to music was born anew to 
 love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 On the 30th of May, 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by 
 the villagers assembled near the door of Foxholm church. 
 The sun was bright upon the dewy grass, the air was alive 
 with the murmur of bees and the trilling of birds, the bushy 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 203 
 
 blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows 
 seemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells 
 were ringing so merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright 
 with happiness, walked out of the old Gothic doorway with 
 Tina on his arm. The little face was still pale, and there was 
 a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups with friends 
 for the last time, and has his ear open for the signal that will 
 call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure of 
 contented affection on Maynard^ s arm, and the dark eyes met 
 his downward glance with timid answering love. 
 
 There was no train of bridesmaids; only pretty Mrs. Heron 
 leaning on the arm of a dark-haired young man hitherto un- 
 known in Foxholm, and holding by the other hand little Ozzy, 
 who exulted less in his new velvet cap and tunic, than in the 
 notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin. 
 
 Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more 
 eagerly than the bride and bridegroom : a fine old gentleman, 
 who looked round with keen glances that cowed the conscious 
 scapegraces among them, and a stately lady in blue-and-white 
 silk robes, who must surely be like Queen Charlotte. 
 
 "Well, that theer's whut I call a pictur,'' said old "Mes- 
 ter" Ford, a true Staffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a 
 stick and held his head very much on one side, with the air of 
 a man who had little hope of the present generation, but 
 would at all events give it the benefit of his criticism. " Th' 
 yoong men noo-a-deys, the're poor squashy things— the' looke 
 well anoof, but the' woon't wear, the' woon't wear. Theer's 
 ne'er un'U carry his 'ears like that Sir Cris'fer Chuvrell.'-' 
 
 "'Ull bet ye two pots," said another of the seniors, "as 
 that yoongster a-walkin' wi' th' parson's wife'U be Sir Cris'- 
 fer's son — he favors him." 
 
 "Nay, yae'll bet that wi' as big a fule as yersen; hae's noo 
 son at all. As I oonderstan', hae's the nevey as is t' heir th' 
 esteate. The coochman as puts oop at th' White Hoss tellt 
 me as theer war another nevey, a deal finer chap t' looke at 
 nor this un, as died in a fit, all on a soodden, an' soo this here 
 yoong un's got upo' th' perch istid." 
 
 At the church gate Mr. Bates was standing in a new suit, 
 ready to speak words of good omen as the bride and bride- 
 
204 
 
 SCENES OE CLERICAL LIEE. 
 
 groom approached. He had come all the way from Cheverel 
 Manor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy once more, and 
 would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for the infe- 
 riority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have fur- 
 nished from the garden at the Manor. 
 
 " God A'maighty bless ye both, an' send ye long laife an' 
 happiness/' were the good gardener's rather tremulous words. 
 
 " Thank you, uncle Bates ; always remember Tina," said the 
 sweet low voice, which fell on Mr. Bates's ear for the last time. 
 
 The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route to Shep- 
 perton, where Mr. Gilfil had been for several months inducted 
 as vicar. This small living had been given him through the 
 interest of an old friend who had some claim on the gratitude 
 of the Oldinport family ; and it was a satisfaction both to 
 Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might 
 take Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance 
 from Cheverel Manor. For it had never yet been thought safe 
 that she should revisit the scene of her sufferings, her health 
 continuing too delicate to encourage the slightest risk of pain- 
 ful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps, by the time old Mr. 
 Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left a world 
 of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy 
 mother, Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumber- 
 moor, and Tina would feel nothing but content at seeing a 
 new " little black-eyed monkey " running up and down the 
 gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no mem- 
 ories — those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of 
 baby's smile. 
 
 In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina's nestling 
 affection, Mr. Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. 
 She had come to lean entirely on his love, and to find life 
 sweet for his sake. Her continual languor and want of active 
 interest was a natural consequence of bodily feebleness, and 
 the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new ground for 
 hoping the best. 
 
 But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised, and in 
 the struggle to put forth a blossom it died. 
 
 Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil's love went with her into 
 deep silence for evermore. 
 
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 
 
 205 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 This was Mr. GilfiPs love-story, which lay far back from 
 the time when he sat, worn and gray, by his lonely fireside in 
 Shepperton Vicarage. Rich brown locks, passionate love, and 
 deep early sorrow, strangely different as they seem from the 
 scanty white hairs, the apathetic content, and the unexpect- 
 ant quiescence of old age, are but part of the same life's jour- 
 ney ; as the bright Italian plains, with the sweet Addio of 
 their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day's travel 
 that brings us to the other side of the mountain, between the 
 sombre rocky walls and among the guttural voices of the 
 Valais. 
 
 To those who were familiar only with the gray -haired Vicar, 
 jogging leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would per- 
 haps have been hard to believe that he had ever been the 
 Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart full of passion and tender- 
 ness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest gallop on the 
 way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue, 
 and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the deep 
 secrets of devoted love, had struggled through its days and 
 nights of anguish, and trembled under its unspeakable joys. 
 And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperton days had 
 more of the knots and ruggedness of poor human nature than 
 there lay any clear hint of in the open-eyed loving Maynard. 
 But it is with men as with trees : if you lop off their finest 
 branches, into which they were pouring their young life- juice, 
 the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss, some 
 odd excrescence ; and what might have been a grand tree ex- 
 panding into liberal shade, is but a whimsical misshapen 
 trunk. Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, 
 has come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed 
 the nature just when it was expanding into plenteous beauty; 
 and the trivial erring life which we visit with our harsh blame, 
 may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb 
 is withered. 
 
 And so the dear old Vicar, though he had something of the 
 
206 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 knotted whimsical character of the poor lopped oak, had yet 
 been sketched out by nature as a noble tree. The heart of 
 him was sound, the grain was of the finest ; and in the gray- 
 haired man who filled his pocket with sugar-plums for the lit- 
 tle children, whose most biting words were directed against 
 the evil doing of the rich man, and who, with all his social 
 pipes and slipshod talk, never sank below the highest level of 
 his parishioners' respect, there was the main trunk of the 
 same brave, faithful, tender nature that had poured out the 
 finest, freshest forces of its life-current in a first and only love 
 —the love of Tina. 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " No ! said lawyer Dempster, in a loud, rasping, oratorical 
 tone, struggling against chronic huskiness, "as long as my 
 Maker grants me power of voice and power of intellect, I will 
 take every legal means to resist the introduction of demoraliz- 
 ing, methodistical doctrine into this parish ; I will not supinely 
 suffer an insult to be inflicted on our venerable pastor, who has 
 given us sound instruction for half a century.'^ 
 
 It was very warm everywhere that evening, but especially 
 in the bar of the Red Lion at Milby, where Mr. Dempster was 
 seated mixing his third glass of brandy -and- water. He was 
 a tall and rather massive man, and the front half of his large 
 surface was so well dredged with snuff, that the cat, having 
 inadvertently come near him, had been seized with a severe fit 
 of sneezing — an accident which, being cruelly misunderstood, 
 had caused her to be driven contumeliously from the bar. Mr. 
 Dempster habitually held his chin tucked in, and his head 
 hanging forward, weighed down, perhaps, by a preponderant 
 occiput and a bulging forehead, between which his closely 
 clipped coronal surface lay like a flat and new-mown table- 
 land. The only other observable features were puffy cheeks 
 and a protruding yet lipless mouth. Of his nose I can only 
 say that it was snuffy ; and as Mr. Dempster was never caught 
 in the act of looking at anything in particular, it would have 
 been difficult to swear to the color of his eyes. 
 
 "Well! I'll not stick at giving myseli trouble to put down 
 such hypocritical cant," said Mr. Tomlinson, the rich miller. 
 " I know well enough what your Sunday evening lectures are 
 good for — for wenches to meet their sweethearts, and brew 
 
208 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 mischief. There's work enough with the servant-maids as it 
 is — such as I never heard the like of in my mother's time, and 
 it's all along o' your schooling and newfangled plans. Give 
 me a servant as can nayther read nor write, I say, and doesn't 
 know the year o' the Lord as she was born in. I should like 
 to know what good those Sunday schools have done, now. 
 Why, the boys used to go a bird's-nesting of a Sunday morn- 
 ing; and a capital thing too — ask any farmer; and very pretty 
 it was to see the strings o' heggs hanging up in poor people's 
 houses. You'll not see 'em nowhere now." 
 
 "Pooh! " said Mr. Luke Byles, who piqued himself on his 
 reading, and was in the habit of asking casual acquaintances 
 if they knew anything of Hobbes ; " it is right enough that 
 the lower orders should be instructed. But this sectarianism 
 within the Church ought to be put down. In point of fact, 
 these Evangelicals are not Churchmen at all; they're no bet- 
 ter than Presbyterians." 
 
 "Presbyterians? what are they?" inquired Mr. Tomlinson, 
 who often said his father had given him " no eddication, and 
 he didn't care who knowed it; he could buy up most o' th^ 
 eddicated men he'd ever come across." 
 
 " The Presbyterians," said Mr. Dempster, in rather a louder 
 tone than before, holding that every appeal for information 
 must naturally be addressed to him, " are a sect founded in the 
 reign of Charles I., by a man named John Presbyter, who 
 hatched all the brood of Dissenting vermin that crawl about in 
 dirty alleys, and circumvent the lord of the manor in order to 
 get a few yards of ground for their pigeon-house conventicles." 
 
 "No, no, Dempster," said Mr. Luke Byles, "you're out 
 there. Presbyterianism is derived from the word presbyter, 
 meaning an elder." 
 
 "Don't contradict me, sir!" stormed Dempster. "I say 
 the word presbyterian is derived from John Presbyter, a mis- 
 erable fanatic who wore a suit of leather, and went about from 
 town to village, and from village to hamlet, inoculating the 
 vulgar with the asinine virus of Dissent." 
 
 "Come, Byles, that seems a deal more likely," said Mr. 
 Tomlinson, in a conciliatory tone, apparently of opinion that 
 history was a process of ingenious guessing. 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 209 
 
 "It's not a question of likelihood; it's a known fact. I 
 could fetch you my Encyclopaedia, and show it you this mo- 
 ment." 
 
 I don't care a straw, sir, either for you or your Encyclo- 
 paedia, " said Mr. Dempster ; " a farrago of false information 
 of which you picked up an imperfect copy in a cargo of waste 
 paper. Will you tell me, sir, that I don't know the origin of 
 Presbyterianism? I, sir, a man known through the county, 
 intrusted with the affairs of half a score parishes ; while you, 
 sir, are ignored by the very fleas that infest the miserable 
 alley in which you were bred." 
 
 A loud and general laugh, with "You'd better let him 
 alone, Byles " ; " you'll not get the better of Dempster in a 
 hurry," drowned the retort of the too well-informed Mr. Byles, 
 who, white with rage, rose and walked out of the bar. 
 
 "A meddlesome, upstart, Jacobinical fellow, gentlemen," 
 continued Mr. Dempster. "I was determined to be rid of 
 him. What does he mean by thrusting himself into our com- 
 pany? A man with about as much principle as he has prop- 
 erty, which, to my knowledge, is considerably less than none. 
 An insolvent atheist, gentlemen. A deistical prater, fit to sit 
 in the chimney-corner of a pot-house, and make blasphemous 
 comments on the one greasy newspaper fingered by beer-swill- 
 ing tinkers. I will not suffer in my company a man who 
 speaks lightly of religion. The signature of a fellow like 
 Byles would be a blot on our protest." 
 
 "And how do you get on with your signatures?" said Mr. 
 Pilgrim, the doctor, who had presented his large top-booted 
 person within the bar while Mr. Dempster was speaking. 
 Mr. Pilgrim had just returned from one of his long day's 
 rounds among the farmhouses, in the course of which he had 
 sat down to two hearty meals that might have been mistaken 
 for dinners if he had not declared them to be " snaps " ; and 
 as each snap had been followed by a few glasses of " mixture, " 
 containing a less liberal proportion of water than the articles 
 he himself labelled with that broadly generic name, he was in 
 that condition which his groom indicated with poetic ambigu- 
 ity by saying that " master had been in the sunshine. " Under 
 these circumstances, after a hard day, in which he had really 
 
210 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 had no regular meal, it seemed a natural relaxation to step into 
 the bar of the Eed Lion, where, as it was Saturday evening, 
 he should be sure to find Dempster, and hear the latest news 
 about the protest against the evening lecture. 
 
 " Have you hooked Ben Landor yet? " he continued, as he 
 took two chairs, one for his body, and the other for his right 
 leg. 
 
 "No,'^ said Mr. Budd, the churchwarden, shaking his head; 
 " Ben Landor has a way of keeping himself neutral in every- 
 thing, and he doesn't like to oppose his father^ Old Landor 
 is a regular Tryanite. But we haven't got your name yet, 
 Pilgrim." 
 
 "Tut tut, Budd," said Mr. Dempster, sarcastically, "you 
 don't expect Pilgrim to sign? He's got a dozen Tryanite liv- 
 ers under his treatment. Nothing like cant and methodism 
 for producing a superfluity of bile." 
 
 " Oh, I thought, as Pratt had declared himself a Tryanite, 
 we should be sure to get Pilgrim on our side." 
 
 Mr. Pilgrim was not a man to sit quiet under a sarcasm, 
 nature having endowed him with a considerable share of self- 
 defensive wit. In his most sober moments he had an impedi- 
 ment in his speech, and as copious gin-and-water stimulated 
 not the speech but the impediment, he had time to make his 
 retort sufficiently bitter. 
 
 "Why, to tell you the truth, Budd," he spluttered, "there's 
 a report all over the town that Deb Traunter swears you shall 
 take her with you as one of the delegates, and they say there's 
 to be a fine crowd at your door the morning you start, to see 
 the row. Knowing your tenderness for that member of the 
 fair sex, I thought you might find it impossible to deny her. 
 I hang back a little from signing on that account, as Prender- 
 gast might not take the protest well if Deb Traunter went with 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Budd was a small, sleek-headed bachelor of five and 
 forty, whose scandalous life had long furnished his more moral 
 neighbors with an after-dinner joke. He had no other striking 
 characteristic, except that he was a currier of choleric temper- 
 ament, so that you might wonder why he had been chosen as 
 clergyman's churchwarden, if I did not tell you that he had 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 211 
 
 recently been elected through Mr. Dempster's exertions, in 
 order that his zeal against the threatened evening lecture 
 might be backed by the dignity of office. 
 
 " Come, come, Pilgrim, ^' said Mr. Tomlinson, covering Mr. 
 Budd's retreat, ^^you know you like to wear the crier's coat, 
 green o' one side and red o' the other. You've been to hear 
 Tryan preach at Paddiford Common — you know you have." 
 
 "To be sure I have; and a capital sermon too. It's a pity 
 you were not there. It was addressed to those ^ void of under- 
 standing.' " 
 
 "No, no, you'll never catch me there," returned Mr. Tom- 
 linson, not in the least stung; "he preaches without book, 
 they say, just like a Dissenter. It must be a rambling sort of 
 a concern." 
 
 "That's not the worst," said Mr. Dempster; "he preaches 
 against good works; says good works are not necessary to sal- 
 vation — a sectarian, antinomian, anabaptist doctrine. Tell a 
 man he is not to be saved by his works, and you open the 
 flood-gates of all immorality. You see it in all these canting 
 innovators; they're all bad ones by the sly; smooth-faced, 
 drawling, hypocritical fellows, who pretend ginger isn't hot 
 in their mouths, and cry down all innocent pleasures ; their 
 hearts are all the blacker for their sanctimonious outsides. 
 Haven't we been warned against those who make clean the 
 outside of the cup and the platter? There's this Tryan, now, 
 he goes about praying with old women, and singing with char- 
 ity-children ; but what has he really got his eye on all the 
 while? A domineering ambitious Jesuit, gentlemen; all he 
 wants is to get his foot far enough into the parish to step into 
 Crewe's shoes when the old gentleman dies. Depend upon it, 
 whenever you see a man pretending to be better than his 
 neighbors, that man has either some cunning end to serve, or 
 his heart is rotten with spiritual pride." 
 
 As if to guarantee himself against this awful sin^ Mr. 
 Dempster seized his glass of brandy-and-water, and tossed oE 
 the contents with even greater rapidity than usual. 
 
 " Have you fixed on your third delegate yet? " said Mr. Pil- 
 grim, whose taste was for detail rather than for dissertation. 
 That's the man," answered Dempster, pointing to Mr. 
 
212 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Tomlinson. ^*We start for Elmstoke Eectory on Tuesday 
 morning; so, if you mean to give us your signature, you must 
 make up your mind pretty quickly, Pilgrim.'' 
 
 Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least mean it, so he only said, 
 " I shouldn't wonder if Tryan turns out too many for you, 
 after all. He's got a well-oiled tongue of his own, and has 
 perhaps talked over Prendergast into a determination to stand 
 by him." 
 
 " Ve-ry little fear of that, " said Dempster, in a confident 
 tone. " I'll soon bring him round. Tryan has got his match. 
 I've plenty of rods in pickle for Tryan." 
 
 At this moment Boots entered the bar, and put a letter into 
 the lawyer's hands, saying, There's Trower's man just come 
 into the yard wi' a gig, sir, an' he's brought this here letter." 
 
 Mr. Dempster read the letter and said, " Tell him to turn 
 the gig — I'll be with him in a minute. Here, run to Gruby's 
 and get this snuff-box filled — quick! " 
 
 "Trower's worse, I suppose; eh, Dempster? Wants you 
 to alter his will, eh? " said Mr. Pilgrim. 
 
 "Business — business — business — I don't know exactly 
 what," answered the cautious Dempster, rising deliberately 
 from his chair, thrusting on his low-crowned hat, and walking 
 with a slow but not unsteady step out of the bar. 
 
 "I never see Dempster's equal; if I did I'll be shot," said 
 Mr. Tomlinson, looking after the lawyer admiringly. " Why, 
 he's drunk the best part of a bottle o' brandy since here we'vo 
 been sitting, and I'll bet a guinea, when he's got to Trower's 
 his head '11 he as clear as mine. He knows more about law 
 when he's drunk than all the rest on 'em when they're sober." 
 
 "Ay, and other things too, besides law," said Mr. Budd. 
 " Did you notice how he took up Byles about the Presbyteri- 
 ans? Bless your heart, he know everything, Dempster does. 
 He studied very hard when he was a young man." 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 213 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The conversation just recorded is not, I am aware, remark- 
 ably refined or witty ; but if it had been, it could hardly have 
 taken place in Milby when Mr. Dempster flourished there, 
 and old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was yet alive. 
 
 More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since then, 
 and in the interval Milby has advanced at as rapid a pace as 
 other market-towns in her Majesty's dominions. By this time 
 it has a handsome railway-station, where the drowsy London 
 traveller may look out by the brilliant gas-light and see per- 
 fectly sober papas and husbands alighting with their leather 
 bags after transacting their day's business at the county town. 
 There is a resident rector, who appeals to the consciences of 
 his hearers with all the immense advantages of a divine who 
 keeps his own carriage ; the church is enlarged by at least five 
 hundred sittings ; and the grammar-school, conducted on re- 
 formed principles, has its upper forms crowded with the gen- 
 teel youth of Milby. The gentlemen there fall into no other 
 excess at dinner-parties than the perfectly well-bred and vir- 
 tuous excess of stupidity ; and though the ladies are still said 
 sometimes to take too much upon themselves, they are never 
 known to take too much in any other way. The conversation 
 is sometimes quite literary, for there is a flourishing book-club, 
 and many of the younger ladies have carried their studies so 
 far as to have forgotten a little German. In short, Milby is 
 now a refined, moral, and enlightened town ; no more resem- 
 bling the Milby of former days than the huge, long-skirted, 
 drab great-coat that embarrassed the ankles of our grandfathers 
 resembled the light paletot in which we tread jauntily through 
 the muddiest streets, or than the bottled-nosed Britons, rejoic- 
 ing over a tankard in the old sign of the Two Travellers at 
 Milby, resembled the severe-looking gentleman in straps and 
 high collars whom a modern artist has represented as sipping 
 the imaginary port of that well-known commercial house. 
 
 But pray, reader, dismiss from your mind all the refined 
 and fashionable ideas associated with this advanced state of 
 
214 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 things, and transport your imagination to a time when Milby 
 had no gas-lights ; when the mail drove up dusty or bespat- 
 tered to the door of the Eed Lion; when old Mr. Crewe, the 
 curate, in a brown Brutus wig, delivered inaudible sermons on 
 a Sunday, and on a week-day imparted the education of a gen- 
 tleman — that is to say, an arduous inacquaintance with Latin 
 through the medium of the Eton Grammar — to three pupils in 
 the upper grammar-school. 
 
 If you had passed through Milby on the coach at that time, 
 you would have had no idea what important people lived there, 
 and how very high a sense of rank was prevalent among them. 
 It was a dingy-looking town, with a strong smell of tanning 
 up one street and a great shaking of handlooms up another; 
 and even in that focus of aristocracy. Friar's Gate, the houses 
 would not have seemed very imposing to the hasty and super- 
 ficial glance of a passenger. You might still less have sus- 
 pected that the figure in light fustian and large gray whis- 
 kers, leaning against the grocer's door-post in High Street, was 
 no less a person than Mr. Lowme, one of the most aristocratic 
 men in Milby, said to have been brought up a gentleman," 
 and to have had the gay habits accordant with that station, 
 keeping his harriers and other expensive animals. He was 
 now quite an elderly Lothario, reduced to the most economical 
 sins ; the prominent form of his gayety being this of lounging 
 at Mr. Gruby's door, embarrassing the servant-maids who came 
 for grocery, and talking scandal with the rare passers-by. 
 Still, it was generally understood that Mr. Lowme belonged 
 to the highest circle of Milby society ; his sons and daughters 
 held up their heads very high indeed ; and in spite of his con- 
 descending way of chatting and drinking with inferior people, 
 he would himself have scorned any closer identification with 
 them. It must be admitted that he was of some service to 
 the town in this station at Mr. Gruby's door, for he and Mr. 
 Landor's Newfoundland dog, who stretched himself and gaped 
 on the opposite causeway, took something from the lifeless air 
 that belonged to the High Street on every day except Satur- 
 day. 
 
 Certainly, in spite of three assemblies and a charity ball in 
 the winter, the occasional advent of a ventriloquist, or a com- 
 
JANET »S REPENTANCE. 
 
 215 
 
 pany of itinerant players, some of whom were very highly 
 thought of in London, and the annual three days^ fair in June, 
 Milby might be considered dull by people of a hypochondria- 
 cal temperament ; and perhaps this was one reason why many 
 of the middle-aged inhabitants, male and female, often found 
 it impossible to keep up their spirits without a very abundant 
 supply of stimulants. It is true there were several substan- 
 tial men who had a reputation for exceptional sobriety, so that 
 Milby habits were really not as bad as possible ; and no one is 
 warranted in saying that old Mr. Crewe's flock could not have 
 been worse without any clergyman at all. 
 
 The well-dressed parishioners generally were very regular 
 church-goers, and to the younger ladies and gentlemen I am 
 inclined to think that the Sunday-morning service was the 
 most exciting event of the week ; for few places could present 
 a more brilliant show of outdoor toilets than might be seen 
 issuing from Milby church at one o'clock. There were the 
 four tall Miss Pittmans, old lawyer Pittman's daughters, with 
 cannon curls surmounted by large hats, and long, drooping 
 ostrich feathers of parrot green. There was Miss Phipps, 
 with a crimson bonnet, very much tilted up behind, and a 
 cockade of stiff feathers on the summit. There was Miss Lan- 
 dor, the belle of Milby, clad regally in purple and ermine, 
 with a plume of feathers neither drooping nor erect, but main- 
 taining a discreet medium. There were the three Miss Tom- 
 linsons, who imitated Miss Landor, and also wore ermine and 
 feathers ; but their beauty was considered of a coarse order, 
 and their square forms were quite unsuited to the round tippet 
 which fell with such remarkable grace on Miss Landor's slop- 
 ing shoulders. Looking at this plumed procession of ladies, 
 you would have formed rather a high idea of Milby wealth ; 
 yet there was only one close carriage in the place, and that 
 was old Mr. Landor' s, the banker, who, I think, never drove 
 more than one horse. These sumptuously attired ladies flashed 
 past the vulgar eye in one-horse chaises, by no means of a su- 
 perior build. 
 
 The young gentlemen, too, were not without their little 
 Sunday displays of costume, of a limited masculine kind. 
 Mr. Eustace Landor, being nearly of age, had recently acquired 
 
216 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 a diamond ring, together with the habit of rubbing his hand 
 through his hair. He was tall and dark, and thus had an ad- 
 vantage which Mr. Alfred Phipps, who, like his sister, was 
 blond and stumpy, found it difficult to overtake, even by the 
 severest attention to shirt- studs, and the particular shade of 
 brown that was best relieved by gilt buttons. 
 
 The respect for the Sabbath, manifested in this attention to 
 costume, was unhappily counterbalanced by considerable lev- 
 ity of behavior during the prayers and sermon ; for the young 
 ladies and gentlemen of Milby were of a very satirical turn. 
 Miss Landor especially being considered remarkably clever, 
 and a terrible quiz; and the large congregation necessarily 
 containing many persons inferior in dress and demeanor to the 
 distinguished aristocratic minority, divine service offered irre- 
 sistible temptations to joking, through the medium of tele- 
 graphic communications from the galleries to the aisles and 
 back again. I remember blushing very much, and thinking 
 Miss Landor was laughing at me, because I was appearing in 
 coat-tails for the first time, when I saw her look down slyly 
 toward where I sat, and then turn with a titter to handsome 
 Mr. Bob Lowme, who had such beautiful whiskers meeting 
 under his chin. But perhaps she was not thinking of me, 
 after all ; for our pew was near the pulpit, and there was 
 almost always something funny about old Mr. Crewe. His 
 brown wig was hardly ever put on quite right, and he had a 
 way of raising his voice for three or four words, and lowering 
 it again to a mumble, so that we could scarcely make out a 
 word he said ; though, as my mother observed, that was of no 
 consequence in the prayers, since every one had a prayer-book ; 
 and as for the sermon, she continued with some causticity, we 
 all of us heard more of it than we could remember when we 
 got home. 
 
 This youthful generation was not particularly literary. 
 The young ladies who frizzed their hair, and gathered it all 
 into large barricades in front of their heads, leaving their 
 occipital region exposed without ornament, as if that, being a 
 back view, was of no consequence, dreamed as little that their 
 daughters would read a selection of German poetry, and be able 
 to express an admiration for Schiller, as that they would turn 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 217 
 
 all their hair the other way — that instead of threatening us 
 with barricades in front, they would be most killing in retreat, 
 
 "And, like the Parthian, wound us as they fly." 
 
 Those charming well-frizzed ladies spoke French indeed with 
 considerable facility, unshackled by any timid regard to idiom, 
 and were in the habit of conducting conversations in that lan- 
 guage in the presence of their less instructed elders ; for accord- 
 ing to the standard of those backward days, their education 
 had been very lavish, such young ladies as Miss Landor, Miss 
 Phipps, and the Miss Pittmans, having been " finished " at 
 distant and expensive schools. 
 
 Old lawyer Pittman had once been a very important person 
 indeed, having in his earlier days managed the affairs of sev- 
 eral gentlemen in those parts, who had subsequently been 
 obliged to sell everything and leave the country, in which cri- 
 sis Mr. Pittman accommodatingly stepped in as a purchaser of 
 their estates, taking on himself the risk and trouble of a more 
 leisurely sale; which, however, happened to turn out very 
 much to his advantage. Such opportunities occur quite unex- 
 pectedly in the way of business. But I think Mr. Pittman 
 must have been unlucky in his later speculations, for now, in 
 his old age, he had not the reputation of being very rich ; and 
 though he rode slowly to his office in Milby every morning on 
 an old white hackney, he had to resign the chief profits, as 
 well as the active business of the firm, to his younger partner, 
 Dempster. No one in Milby considered old Pittman a virtu- 
 ous man, and the elder townspeople were not at all backward 
 in narrating the least advantageous portions of his biography 
 in a very round unvarnished manner. Yet I could never ob- 
 serve that they trusted him any the less, or liked him any the 
 worse. Indeed, Pittman and Dempster were the popular law- 
 yers of Milby and its neighborhood, and Mr. Benjamin Landor, 
 whom no one had anything particular to say against, had a 
 very meagre business in comparison. Hardly a landholder, 
 hardly a farmer, hardly a parish within ten miles of Milby, 
 whose affairs were not under the legal guardianship of Pitt- 
 man and Dempster ; and I think the clients were proud of 
 their lawyers' unscrupulousness, as the patrons of the fancy 
 
218 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 are proud of their champion's condition." It was not, to be 
 sure, the thing for ordinary life, but it was the thing to be bet 
 on in a lawyer. Dempster's talent in "bringing through'' a 
 client was a very common topic of conversation with the farm- 
 ers, over an incidental glass of grog at the Eed Lion. " He's 
 a long-headed feller, Dempster ; why, it shows yer what a 
 headpiece Dempster has, as he can drink a bottle o' brandy 
 at a sittin', an' yit see further through a stone wall when he's 
 done, than other folks '11 see through a glass winder." Even 
 Mr. Jerome, chief member of the congregation at Salem 
 Chapel, an elderly man of very strict life, was one of Demp- 
 ster's clients, and had quite an exceptional indulgence for his 
 attorney's foibles, perhaps attributing them to the inevitable 
 incompatibility of law and gospel. 
 ] The standard of morality at Milby, you perceive, was not 
 inconveniently high in those good old times, and an ingenuous 
 vice or two was what every man expected of his neighbor. 
 Old Mr. Crewe, the curate, for example, was allowed to enjoy 
 his avarice in comfort, without fear of sarcastic parish dema- 
 gogues; and his flock liked him all the better for having 
 scraped together a large fortune out of his school and curacy, 
 and the proceeds of the three thousand pounds he had with 
 his little deaf wife. It was clear he must be a learned man, 
 for he had once had a large private school in connection with 
 the grammar-school, and had even numbered a young noble- 
 man or two among his pupils. The fact that he read nothing 
 at all now, and that his mind seemed absorbed in the common- 
 est matters, was doubtless due to his having exhausted the re- 
 sources of erudition earlier in life. It is true he was not 
 spoken of in terms of high respect, and old Crewe's stingy 
 housekeeping was a frequent subject of jesting; but this was 
 a good old-fashioned characteristic in a parson who had been 
 part of Milby life for half a century ; it was like the dents and 
 disfigurements in an old family tankard, which no one would 
 like to part with for a smart new piece of plate fresh from 
 Birmingham. The parishioners saw no reason at all why it 
 should be desirable to venerate the parson or any one else : 
 they were much more comfortable to look down a little on 
 their fellow-creatures. 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 219 
 
 Even the Dissent in Milby was then of a lax and indifferent 
 kind. The doctrine of adult baptism, struggling under a 
 heavy load of debt, had let off half its chapel area as a ribbon- 
 shop ; and Methodism was only to be detected, as you detect 
 curious larvse, by diligent search in dirty corners. The Inde- 
 pendents were the only Dissenters of whose existence Milby 
 gentility was at all conscious, and it had a vague idea that the 
 salient points of their creed were prayer without book, red 
 brick, and hypocrisy. The Independent chapel, known as 
 Salem, stood red and conspicuous in a broad street ; more than 
 one pew-holder kept a brass-bound gig; and Mr. Jerome, a 
 retired corn-factor, and the most eminent member of the con- 
 gregation, was one of the richest men in the parish. But in 
 spite of this apparent prosperity, together with the usual 
 amount of extemporaneous preaching mitigated by furtive 
 notes, Salem belied its name, and was not always the abode 
 of peace. For some reason or other, it was unfortunate in the 
 choice of its ministers. The Eev. Mr. Horner, elected with 
 brilliant hopes, was discovered to be given to tippling and 
 quarrelling with his wife; the Eev. Mr. Eose's doctrine was 
 a little too "high," verging on antinomianism ; the Eev. Mr. 
 Stickney's gift as a preacher was found to be less striking on 
 a more extended acquaintance ; and the Eev. Mr. Smith, a dis- 
 tinguished minister much sought after in the iron districts, 
 with a talent for poetry, became objectionable from an inclina- 
 tion to exchange verses with the young ladies of his congrega- 
 tion. It was reasonably argued that such verses as Mr. Smith's 
 must take a long time for their composition, and the habit 
 alluded to might intrench seriously on his pastoral duties. 
 These reverend gentlemen, one and all, gave it as their opinion 
 that the Salem church members were among the least enlight- 
 ened of the Lord's people, and that Milby was a low place, 
 where they would have found it a severe lot to have their lines 
 fall for any long period ; though to see the smart and crowded 
 congregation assembled on occasion of the annual charity ser- 
 mon, any one might have supposed that the minister of Salem 
 had rather a brilliant position in the ranks of Dissent. Sev- 
 eral Church families used to attend on that occasion, for Milby, 
 in those uninstructed days, had not yet heard that the schis- 
 
220 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 matic ministers of Salem were obviously typified by Korali, 
 Dathan, and Abiram ; and many Church people there were of 
 opinion that Dissent might be a weakness, but, after all, had 
 no great harm in it. These lax Episcopalians were, I believe, 
 chiefly tradespeople, who held that, inasmuch as Congrega- 
 tionalism consumed candles, it ought to be supported, and 
 accordingly made a point of presenting themselves at Salem 
 for the afternoon charity sermon, with the expectation of be- 
 ing asked to hold a plate. Mr. Pilgrim, too, was always there 
 with his half-sovereign ; for as there was no Dissenting doctor 
 in Milby, Mr. Pilgrim looked with great tolerance on all shades 
 of religious opinion that did not include a belief in cures by 
 miracle. 
 
 On this point he had the concurrence of Mr. Pratt, the only 
 other medical man of the same standing in Milby. Otherwise, 
 it was remarkable how strongly these two clever men were 
 contrasted. Pratt was middle-sized, insinuating, and silvery- 
 voiced; Pilgrim was tall, heavy, rough-mannered, and splut- 
 tering. Both were considered to have great powers of con- 
 versation, but Pratt's anecdotes were of the fine old crusted 
 quality to be procured only of Joe Miller; Pilgrim's had the 
 full fruity flavor of the most recent scandal. Pratt elegantly 
 referred all diseases to debility, and, with a proper contempt for 
 symptomatic treatment, went to the root of the matter with 
 port-wine and bark; Pilgrim was persuaded that the evil prin- 
 ciple in the human system was plethora, and he made war 
 against it with cupping, blistering, and cathartics. They had 
 both been long established in Milby, and as each had a suffi- 
 cient practice, there was no very malignant rivalry between 
 them ; on the contrary, they had that sort of friendly con- 
 tempt for each other which is always conducive to a good 
 understanding between professional men; and when any new 
 surgeon attempted, in an ill-advised hour, to settle himself in 
 the town, it was strikingly demonstrated how slight and triv- 
 ial are theoretic differences compared with the broad basis of 
 common human feeling. There was the most perfect unanim- 
 ity between Pratt and Pilgrim in the determination to drive 
 away the obnoxious and too probably unqualified intruder as 
 soon as possible. Whether the first wonderful cure he effected 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 221 
 
 was on a patient of Pratt's or of Pilgrim's, one was as ready 
 as the other to pull the interloper by the nose, and both alike 
 directed their remarkable powers of conversation toward mak- 
 ing the town too hot for him. But by their respective pa- 
 tients these two distinguished men were pitted against each 
 other with great virulence. Mrs. Lowme could not conceal 
 her amazement that Mrs. Phipps should trust her life in the 
 hands of Pratt, who let her feed herself up to that degree, it 
 was really shocking to hear how short her breath was ; and 
 Mrs. Phipps had no patience with Mrs. Lowme, living, as she 
 did, on tea and broth, and looking as yellow as any crow-flower, 
 and yet letting Pilgrim bleed and blister her and give her low- 
 ering medicine till her clothes hung on her like a scarecrow's. 
 On the whole, perhaps, Mr. Pilgrim's reputation was at the 
 higher pitch, and when any lady under Mr. Pratt's care was 
 doing ill, she was half disposed to think that a little more 
 " active treatment " might suit her better. But without very 
 definite provocation no one would take so serious a step as to 
 part with the family doctor, for in those remote days there 
 were few varieties of human hatred more formidable than the 
 medical. The doctor's estimate, even of a confiding patient, 
 was apt to rise and fall with the entries in the day-book; and 
 I have known Mr. Pilgrim discover the most unexpected vir- 
 tues in a patient seized with a promising illness. At such 
 times you might have been glad to perceive that there were 
 some of Mr. Pilgrim's fellow-creatures of whom he entertained 
 a high opinion, and that he was liable to the amiable weak- 
 ness of a too admiring estimate. A good inflammation fired 
 his enthusiasm, and a lingering dropsy dissolved him into 
 charity. Doubtless this crescendo of benevolence was partly 
 due to feelings not at all represented by the entries in the day 
 book; for in Mr. Pilgrim's heart, too, there was a latent store 
 of tenderness and pity which flowed forth at the sight of 
 suffering. Gradually, however, as his patients became con- 
 valescent, his view of their characters became more dispas- 
 sionate; when they could relish mutton-chops, he began to 
 admit that they had foibles, and by the time they had swal- 
 lowed their last dose of tonic, he was alive to their most inex- 
 cusable faults. After this, the thermometer of his regard 
 
222 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 rested at the moderate point of friendly backbiting, which 
 sufficed to make him agreeable in his morning visits to the 
 amiable and worthy persons who were yet far from convales- 
 cent. 
 
 Pratt's patients were profoundly uninteresting to Pilgrim: 
 their very diseases were despicable, and he would hardly have 
 thought their bodies worth dissecting. But of all Pratt's pa- 
 tients, Mr. Jerome was the one on whom Mr. Pilgrim heaped 
 the most unmitigated contempt. In spite of the surgeon's 
 wise tolerance, Dissent became odious to him in the person of 
 Mr. Jerome. Perhaps it was because that old gentleman, 
 being rich, and having very large yearly bills to pay for medi- 
 cal attendance on himself and his wife, nevertheless employed 
 Pratt — neglected all the advantages of " active treatment," and 
 paid away his money without getting his system lowered. 
 On any other ground it is hard to explain a feeling of hostility 
 to Mr. Jerome, who was an excellent old gentleman, express- 
 ing a great deal of good- will toward his neighbors, not only in 
 imperfect English, but in loans of money to the ostensibly rich, 
 and in sacks of potatoes to the obviously poor. 
 
 Assuredly Milby had that salt of goodness which keeps the 
 world together, in greater abundance than was visible on the 
 surface: innocent babes were born there, sweetening their 
 parents' hearts with simple joys; men and women withering 
 in disappointed worldliness, or bloated with sensual ease, had 
 better moments in which they pressed the hand of suffering 
 with sympathy, and were moved to deeds of neighborly kind- 
 ness. In church and in chapel there were honest-hearted 
 worshippers who strove to keep a conscience void of offence ; 
 and even up the dimmest alleys you might have found here 
 and there a Wesleyan to whom Methodism was the vehicle of 
 peace on earth and good-will to men. To a superficial glance, 
 Milby was nothing but dreary prose : a dingy town, surround- 
 ed by flat fields, lopped elms, and sprawling manufacturing 
 villages, which crept on and on with their weaving-shops, till 
 they threatened to graft themselves on the town. But the 
 sweet spring came to Milby notwithstanding: the elm-tops 
 were red with buds; the churchyard was starred with daisies; 
 the lark showered his love-music on the flat fields ; the rain- 
 
JANET'S KEPENTANCE. 
 
 223 
 
 bows hung over the dingy town, clothing the very roofs and 
 chimneys in a strange transfiguring beauty. And so it was 
 with the human life there, which at first seemed a dismal mix- 
 ture of griping worldliness, vanity, ostrich-feathers, and the 
 fumes of brandy : looking closer, you found some purity, gen- 
 tleness, and unselfishness, as you may have observed a scented 
 geranium giving forth its wholesome odors amidst blasphemy 
 and gin in a noisy pot-house. Little deaf Mrs. Crewe would 
 often carry half her own spare dinner to the sick and hungry ; 
 Miss Phipps, with her cockade of red feathers, had a filial 
 heart, and lighted her father's pipe with a pleasant smile; 
 and there were gray-haired men in drab gaiters, not at all 
 noticeable as you passed them in the street, whose integrity 
 had been the basis of their rich neighbor's wealth. 
 
 Such as the place was, the people there were entirely con- 
 tented with it. They fancied life must be but a dull affair 
 for that large portion of mankind who were necessarily shut 
 out from an acquaintance with Milby families, and that it 
 must be an advantage to London and Liverpool that Milby 
 gentlemen occasionally visited those places on business. But 
 the inhabitants became more intensely conscious of the value 
 they set upon all their advantages, when innovation made its 
 appearance in the person of the Eev. Mr. Tryan, the new 
 curate, at the chapel-of-ease on Paddiford Common. It was 
 soon notorious in Milby that Mr. Tryan held peculiar opinions ; 
 that he preached extempore; that he was founding a religious 
 lending library in his remote corner of the parish ; that he 
 expounded the Scriptures in cottages ; and that his preaching 
 was attracting the Dissenters, and filling the very aisles of his 
 church. The rumor sprang up that Evangelicalism had in- 
 vaded Milby parish — a murrain or blight all the more terrible, 
 because its nature was but dimly conjectured. Perhaps Milby 
 was one of the last spots to be reached by the wave of a new 
 movement; and it was only now, when the tide was just on 
 the turn, that the limpets there got a sprinkling. Mr. Tryan 
 was the first Evangelical clergyman who had risen above the 
 Milby horizon: hitherto that obnoxious adjective had been 
 unknown to the townspeople of any gentility ; and there were 
 even many Dissenters who considered evangelical" simply a 
 
224 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 sort of baptismal name to the magazine which circulated among 
 the congregation of Salem Chapel. But now, at length, the 
 disease had been imported, when the parishioners were expect- 
 ing it as little as the innocent Eed Indians expected smallpox. 
 As long as Mr. Try an' s hearers were confined to Paddiford 
 Common — which, by the by, was hardly recognizable as a 
 common at all, but was a dismal district where you heard the 
 rattle of the handloom, and breathed the smoke of coal-pits 
 — the " canting parson could be treated as a joke. Not so 
 when a number of single ladies in the town appeared to be 
 infected, and even one or two men of substantial property, 
 with old Mr. Landor, the banker, at their head, seemed to he 
 "giving in" to the new movement — when Mr. Tryan was 
 known to be well received in several good houses, where he 
 was in the habit of finishing the evening with exhortation and 
 prayer. Evangelicalism was no longer a nuisance existing 
 merely in by-corners, which any well-clad person could avoid; 
 it was invading the very drawing-rooms, mingling itself with 
 the comfortable fumes of port-wine and brandy, threatening 
 to deaden with its murky breath all the splendor of the 
 ostrich-feathers, and to stifle Milby ingenuousness, not pre- 
 tending to be better than its neighbors, with a cloud of cant 
 and lugubrious hypocrisy. The alarm reached its climax 
 when it was reported that Mr. Tryan was endeavoring to ob- 
 tain authority from Mr. Prendergast, the non-resident rector, 
 to establish a Sunday -evening lecture in the parish church, on 
 the ground that old Mr. Crewe did not preach the Gospel. 
 
 It now first appeared how surprisingly high a value Milby 
 in general set on the ministrations of Mr. Crewe; how con- 
 vinced it was that Mr. Crewe was the model of a parish priest, 
 and his sermons the soundest and most edifying that had 
 ever remained unheard by a church-going population. All 
 allusions to his brown wig were suppressed, and by a rhetori- 
 cal figure his name was associated with venerable gray hairs; 
 the attempted intrusion of Mr. Tryan was an insult to a man 
 deep in years and learning ; moreover, it was an insolent effort 
 to thrust himself forward in a parish where he was clearly dis- 
 tasteful to the superior portion of its inhabitants. The town 
 was divided into two zealous parties, the Tryanites and anti- 
 
JANET»S REPENTANCE. 
 
 225 
 
 Tryanites; and by the exertions of the eloquent Dempster, 
 the anti-Tryanite virulence was soon developed into an organ- 
 ized opposition. A protest against the meditated evening lec- 
 ture was framed by that orthodox attorney, and, after being 
 numerously signed, was to be carried to Mr. Prendergast by 
 three delegates representing the intellect, morality, and wealth 
 of Milby. The intellect, you perceive, was to be personified 
 in Mr. Dempster, the morality in Mr. Budd, and the wealth 
 in Mr. Tomlinson ; and the distinguished triad was to set out 
 on its great mission, as we have seen, on the third day from 
 that warm Saturday evening when the conversation recorded 
 in the previous chapter took place in the bar of the Be4 Lion. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It was quite as warm on the following Thursday evening, 
 when Mr. Dempster and his colleagues were to return from 
 their mission to Elmstoke Eectory ; but it was much pleas- 
 anter in Mrs. Linnet's parlor than in the bar of the Eed Lion. 
 Through the open window came the scent of mignonette and 
 honeysuckles ; the grass-plot in front of the house was shaded 
 by a little plantation of Gueldres roses, syringas, and labur- 
 nums; the noise of looms and carts and unmelodious voices 
 reached the ear simply as an agreeable murmur, for Mrs. 
 Linnet's house was situated quite on the outskirts of Paddi- 
 f ord Common ; and the only sound likely to disturb the seren- 
 ity of the feminine party assembled there, was the occasional 
 buzz of intrusive wasps, apparently mistaking each lady's 
 head for a sugar-basin. No sugar-basin was visible in Mrs. 
 Linnet's parlor, for the time of tea was not yet, and the round 
 table was littered with books which the ladies were covering 
 with black canvas as a re-enforcement of the new Paddiford 
 Lending Library. Miss Linnet, whose manuscript was the 
 neatest type of zigzag, was seated at a small table apart, writ- 
 ing on green paper tickets, which were to be pasted on the 
 covers. Miss Linnet had other accomplishments besides that 
 of a neat manuscript, and an index to some of them might be 
 
226 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 found in the ornaments of the room. She had always com- 
 bined a love of serious and poetical reading with her skill in 
 fancy-work, and the neatly bound copies of Dryden's "Vir- 
 gil," Hannah More's "Sacred Dramas/' Falconer's "Ship- 
 wreck, '' Mason " On Self-knowledge, " " Easselas, " and Burke 
 "On the Sublime and Beautiful," which were the chief orna- 
 ments of the bookcase, were all inscribed with her name, and 
 had been bought with her pocket-money when she was in her 
 teens. It must have been at least fifteen years since the lat- 
 est of those purchases, but Miss Linnet's skill in fancy-work 
 appeared to have gone through more numerous phases than 
 her literary taste; for the japanned boxes, the alum and seal- 
 ing-wax baskets, the fan-dolls, the " transferred " landscapes 
 on the fire screens, and the recent bouquets of wax-flowers, 
 showed a disparity in freshness which made them referable to 
 widely different periods. Wax-flowers presuppose delicate 
 fingers and robust patience, but there are still many points of 
 mind and person which they leave vague and problematic; so 
 I must tell you that Miss Linnet had dark ringlets, a sallow 
 complexion, and an amiable disposition. As to her features, 
 there was not much to criticise in them, for she had little 
 nose, less lip, and no eyebrow; and as to her intellect, her 
 friend Mrs. Pettifer often said: "She didn't know a more 
 sensible person to talk to than Mary Linnet. There was no 
 one she liked better to come and take a quiet cup of tea with 
 her, and read a little of Klopstock's ^ Messiah.' Mary Lin- 
 net had often told her a great deal of her mind when they 
 were sitting together : she said there were many things to bear 
 in every condition of life, and nothing should induce her to 
 marry without a prospect of happiness. Once, when Mrs. 
 Pettifer admired her wax-flowers, she said, ^Ah, Mrs. Petti- 
 fer, think of the beauties of nature ! ' She always spoke very 
 prettily, did Mary Linnet; very different, indeed, from Re- 
 becca." 
 
 Miss Rebecca Linnet, indeed, was not a general favorite. 
 While most people thought it a pity that a sensible woman 
 like Mary had not found a good husband — and even her fe- 
 male friends said nothing more ill-natured of her, than that 
 her face was like a piece of putty with two Scotch pebbles 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 227 
 
 stuck in it — Rebecca was always spoken of sarcastically, and 
 it was a customary kind of banter with young ladies to recom- 
 mend her as a wife to any gentleman they hapx^ened to be flirt- 
 ing with — her fat, her finery, and her thick ankles sufficing to 
 give piquancy to the joke, notwithstanding the absence of 
 novelty. Miss Rebecca, however, possessed the accomplish- 
 ment of music, and her singing of Oh no, we never mention 
 her,'' and "The Soldier's Tear," was so desirable an accession 
 to the pleasures of a tea-party that no one cared to offend her, 
 especially as Rebecca had a high spirit of her own, and in 
 spite of her expansively rounded contour, had a particularly 
 sharp tongue. Her reading had been more extensive than 
 her sister's, embracing most of the fiction in Mr. Procter's 
 circulating library ; and nothing but an acquaintance with the 
 course of her studies could afford a clew to the rapid transi- 
 tions in her dress, which were suggested by the style of beauty, 
 whether sentimental, sprightly, or severe, possessed by the 
 heroine of the three volumes actually in perusal. A piece of 
 lace, which drooped round the edge of her white bonnet one 
 week, had been rejected by the next 5 and her cheeks, which, 
 on Whitsunday, loomed through a Turnerian haze of network, 
 were, on Trinity Sunday, seen reposing in distinct red out- 
 line on her shelving bust, like the sun on a fog-bank. The 
 black velvet, meeting with a crystal clasp, which one evening 
 encircled her head, had on another descended to her neck, and 
 on a third to her wrist, suggesting to an active imagination 
 either a magical contraction of the ornament, or a fearful ratio 
 of expansion in Miss Rebecca's person. With this constant 
 application of art to dress, she could have had little time for 
 fancy-work, even if she had not been destitute of her sister's 
 taste for that delightful and truly feminine occupation. And 
 here, at least, you perceive the justice of the Milby opinion as 
 to the relative suitability of the two Miss Linnets for matri- 
 mony. When a man is happy enough to win the affections of 
 a sweet girl, who can soothe his cares with crochet, and re- 
 spond to all his most cherished ideas with beaded urn-rugs 
 and chair-covers in German wool, he has, at least, a guaranty 
 of domestic comfort, whatever trials may await him out of 
 doors. What a resource it is under fatigue and irritation to 
 
228 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 have your drawing-room well supplied with small mats, which 
 would always be ready if you ever wanted to set anything on 
 them ! And what styptic for a bleeding heart can equal copi- 
 ous squares of crochet, which are useful for slipping down the 
 moment you touch them? How our fathers managed without 
 crochet is the wonder; but I believe some small and feeble 
 substitute existed in their time under the name of ^Hatting.'' 
 Eebecca Linnet, however, had neglected tatting as well as 
 other forms of fancy-work. At school, to be sure, she had 
 spent a great deal of time in acquiring flower-painting, accord- 
 ing to the ingenious method then fashionable, of applying the 
 shapes of leaves and flowers cut out in cardboard, and scrub- 
 bing a brush over the surface thus conveniently marked out; 
 but even the spill-cases and hand-screens which were her last 
 half-year's performances in that way were not considered emi- 
 nently successful, and had long been consigned to the retire- 
 ment of the best bedroom. Thus there was a good deal of 
 family unlikeness between Eebecca and her sister, and I am 
 afraid there was also a little family dislike; but Mary's dis- 
 approval had usually been kept imprisoned behind her thin 
 lips, for Eebecca was not only of a headstrong disposition, but 
 was her mother's pet; the old lady being herself stout, and 
 preferring a more showy style of cap than she could prevail 
 on her daughter Mary to make up for her. 
 
 But I have been describing Miss Eebecca as she was in 
 former days only, for her appearance this evening, as she sits 
 pasting on the green tickets, is in striking contrast with what 
 it was three or four months ago. Her plain gray gingham 
 dress and plain white collar could never have belonged to her 
 wardrobe before that date ; and though she is not reduced in 
 size, and her brown hair will do nothing but hang in crisp 
 ringlets down her large cheeks, there is a change in her air 
 and expression which seems to shed a softened light over her 
 person, and make her look like a peony in the shade, instead 
 of the same flower flaunting in a parterre in the hot sunlight. 
 
 No one could deny that Evangelicalism had wrought a 
 change for the better in Eebecca Linnet's person — not even 
 Miss Pratt, the thin stiff lady in spectacles, seated opposite 
 to her, who always had a peculiar repulsion for " females with 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 229 
 
 a gross habit of body." Miss Pratt was an old maidj but 
 that is a no more definite description than if I had said she 
 was in the autumn of life. Was it autumn when the orchards 
 are fragrant with apples, or autumn when the oaks are brown, 
 or autumn when the last yellow leaves are fluttering in the 
 chill breeze? The young ladies in Milby would have told you 
 that the Miss Linnets were old maids; but the Miss Linnets 
 were to Miss Pratt what the apple-scented September is to the 
 bare, nipping days of late November. The Miss Linnets were 
 in that temperate zone of old-maidism, when a woman will not 
 say but that if a man of suitable years and character were to 
 offer himself, she might be induced to tread the remainder of 
 life's vale in company with him; Miss Pratt was in that arctic 
 region where a woman is confident that at no time of life wpuld 
 she have consented to give up her liberty, and that she has 
 never seen the man whom she would engage to honor and 
 obey. If the Miss Linnets were old maids, they were old 
 maids with natural ringlets and embonpoint, not to say obesity ; 
 Miss Pratt was an old maid with a cap, a braided " front, " a 
 backbone and appendages. Miss Pratt was the one blue- 
 stocking of Milby, possessing, she said, no less than five hun- 
 dred volumes, competent, as her brother the doctor often 
 observed, to conduct a conversation on any topic whatever, 
 and occasionally dabbling a little in authorship, though it was 
 understood that she had never put forth the full powers of her 
 mind in print. Her " Letters to a Young Man on his En- 
 trance into Life, " and " De Courcy, or the Eash Promise, a 
 Tale for Youth,'' were mere trifles which she had been in- 
 duced to publish because they were calculated for popular 
 utility, but they were nothing to what she had for years had 
 by her in manuscript. Her latest production had been Six 
 Stanzas, addressed to the Eev. Edgar Tryan, printed on glazed 
 paper with a neat border, and beginning, ^' Forward, young 
 wrestler for the truth ! " 
 
 Miss Pratt having kept her brother's house during his long 
 widowhood, his daughter. Miss Eliza, had had the advantage 
 of being educated by her aunt, and thus of imbibing a very 
 strong antipathy to all that remarkable woman's tastes and 
 opinions. The silent handsome girl of two-and-twenty who 
 
230 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 is covering the "Memoirs of Felix Neff/' is Miss Eliza Pratt; 
 and the small elderly lady in dowdy clothing, who is also 
 working diligently, is Mrs Pettifer, a superior-minded widow, 
 much valued in Milby, being such a very respectable person to 
 have in the house in case of illness, and of quite too good a 
 family to receive any money-payment — you could always send 
 her garden-stuff that would make her ample amends. Miss 
 Pratt has enough to do in commenting on the heap of volumes 
 before her, feeling it a responsibility entailed on her by her 
 great powers of mind to leave nothing without the advan- 
 tage of her opinion. Whatever was good must be sprinkled 
 with the chrism of her approval ; whatever was evil must be 
 blighted by her condemnation. 
 
 "Upon my word," she said, in a deliberate high voice, as if 
 she were dictating to an amanuensis, " it is a most admirable 
 selection of works for popular reading, this that our excellent 
 Mr. Tryan has made. I do not know whether, if the task 
 had been confided to me, I could have made a selection, com- 
 bining in a higher degree religious instruction and edification 
 with a due admixture of the purer species of amusement. 
 This story of ^Father Clement' is a library in itself on the 
 errors of Komanism. I have ever considered fiction a suitable 
 form for conveying moral and religious instruction, as I have 
 shown in my little work ^De Courcy,' which, as a very clever 
 writer in the Crompton Argus said at the time of its appear- 
 ance, is the light vehicle of a weighty moral." 
 
 "One 'ud think," said Mrs. Linnet, who also had her spec- 
 tacles on, but chiefly for the purpose of seeing what the others 
 were doing, " there didn't want much to drive people away 
 from a religion as makes 'em walk barefoot over stone floors, 
 like that girl in ' Father Clement ' — sending the blood up to 
 the head frightful. Anybody might see that was an unnat'ral 
 creed. " 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Pratt, " bat asceticism is not the root of the 
 error, as Mr. Tryan was telling us the other evening — it is the 
 denial of the great doctrine of justification by faith. Much 
 as I had reflected on all subjects in the course of my life, I 
 am indebted to Mr. Tryan for opening my eyes to the full im- 
 portance of that cardinal doctrine of the Keformation, From 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 231 
 
 a child I had a deep sense of religion, but in my early days 
 the Gospel light was obscured in the English Church, notwith- 
 standing the possession of our incomparable Liturgy, than 
 which I know no human composition more faultless and sub- 
 lime. As I tell Eliza, I was not blest as she is at the age of 
 two-and- twenty, in knowing a clergyman who unites all that 
 is great and admirable in intellect with the highest spiritual 
 gifts. I am no contemptible judge of a man's acquirements, 
 and I assure you I have tested Mr. Tryan's by questions which 
 are a pretty severe touchstone. It is true, I sometimes carry 
 him a little beyond the depth of the other listeners. Pro- 
 found learning, continued Miss Pratt, shutting her spectacles, 
 and tapping them on the book before her, " has not many to 
 estimate it in Milby." 
 
 " Miss Pratt, '' said Kebecca, " will you please give me 
 ' Scott's Force of Truth ' ? There— that small book lying 
 against the ' Life of Legh Richmond. ' " 
 
 "That's a book I'm very fond of — the ' Life of Legh Rich- 
 mond, ' " said Mrs. Linnet. " He found out all about that 
 woman at Tutbury as pretended to live without eating. Stuff 
 and nonsense ! " 
 
 Mrs. Linnet had become a reader of religious books since 
 Mr. Tryan's advent, and as she was in the habit of confining 
 her perusal to the purely secular portions, which bore a very 
 small proportion to the whole, she could make rapid progress 
 through a large number of volumes. On taking up the biog- 
 raphy of a celebrated preacher, she immediately turned to the 
 end to see what disease he died of ; and if his legs swelled, as 
 her own occasionally did, she felt a stronger interest in ascer- 
 taining any earlier facts in the history of the dropsical divine 
 — whether he had ever fallen off a stage-coach, whether he had 
 married more than one wife, and, in general, any adventures 
 or repartees recorded of him previous to the epoch of his con- 
 version. She then glanced over the letters and diary, and 
 wherever there was a predominance of Zion, the River of Life, 
 and notes of exclamation, she turned over to the next page; 
 but any passage in which she saw such promising nouns as 
 "smallpox," "pony," or "boots and shoes," at once arrested 
 her. 
 
232 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 ^^It is half -past six now,'^ said Miss Linnet, looking at her 
 watch as the servant appeared with the tea-tray. " I suppose 
 the delegates are come back by this time. If Mr. Tryan had 
 not so kindly promised to call and let us know, I should hardly 
 rest without walking to Milby myself to know what answer 
 they have brought back. It is a great privilege for us, Mr. 
 Tryan living at Mrs. Wagstaff's, for he is often able to take 
 us on his way backward and forward into the town.^' 
 
 " I wonder if there's another man in the world who has been 
 brought up as Mr. Tryan has, that would choose to live in 
 those small close rooms on the common, among heaps of dirty 
 cottages, for the sake of being near the poor people,'' said 
 Mrs. Pettifer. ^^I'm afraid he hurts his health by it; he 
 looks to me far from strong." 
 
 "Ah," said Miss Pratt, "I understand he is of a highly re- 
 spectable family indeed, in Huntingdonshire. I heard him 
 myself speak of his father's carriage — quite incidentally, you 
 know — and Eliza tells me what very fine cambric handker- 
 chiefs he uses. My eyes are not good enough to see such 
 things, but I know what breeding is as well as most people, 
 and it is easy to see that Mr. Tryan is quite comme il fawy to 
 use a Prench expression. " 
 
 " I should like to tell him better nor use fine cambric i' this 
 place, where there's such washing, it's a shame to be seen," 
 said Mrs. Linnet; "he'll get 'em tore to pieces. Good lawn 
 'ud be far better. I saw what a color his linen looked at the 
 sacrament last Sunday. Mary's making him a black silk case 
 to hold his bands, but I told her she'd more need wash 'em 
 for him." 
 
 " 0 mother ! " said Eebecca, with a solemn severity, " pray 
 don't think of pocket-handkerchiefs and linen, when we are 
 talking of such a man. And at this moment, too, when he is 
 perhaps having to bear a heavy blow. We don't know but 
 wickedness may have triumphed, and Mr. Prendergast may 
 have consented to forbid the lecture. There have been dis- 
 pensations quite as mysterious, and Satan is evidently putting 
 forth all his strength to resist the entrance of the Gospel into 
 Milby Church." 
 
 "You niver spoke a truer word than that, my dear," said 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 233 
 
 Mrs. Linnet, who accepted all religious phrases, but was ex- 
 tremely rationalistic in her interpretation; "for if iver Old 
 Harry appeared in a human form, it's that Dempster. It was 
 all through him as we got cheated out o' Pye's Croft, making 
 out as the title wasn't good. Such lawyer's villany! As 
 if paying good money wasn't title enough to anything. If 
 your father as is dead and gone had been worthy to know it! 
 But he'll have a fall some day, Dempster will. Mark my 
 words." 
 
 " Ah, out of his carriage, you mean, " said Miss Pratt, who, 
 in the movement occasioned by the clearing of the table, had 
 lost the first part of Mrs. Linnet's speech. "It certainly is 
 alarming to see him driving home from Eotherby, flogging his 
 galloping horse like a madman. My brother has often said 
 he expected every Thursday evening to be called in to set some 
 of Dempster's bones; but I suppose he may drop that expec- 
 tation now, for we are given to understand from good author- 
 ity that he has forbidden his wife to call my brother in again 
 either to herself or her mother. He swears no Tryanite doc- 
 tor shall attend his family. I have reason to believe that 
 Pilgrim was called in to Mrs. Dempster's mother the other 
 day." 
 
 "Poor Mrs. Kaynor! she's glad to do anything for the sake 
 of peace and quietness," said Mrs. Pettifer ; " but it's no trifle 
 at her time of life to part with a doctor who knows her con- 
 stitution." 
 
 " What trouble that poor woman has to bear in her old 
 age ! " said Mary Linnet, " to see her daughter leading such 
 a life! — an only daughter, too, that she dotes on." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Miss Pratt. "We, of course, know 
 more about it than most people, my brother having attended 
 the family so many years. For my part, I never thought 
 well of the marriage ; and I endeavored to dissuade my brother 
 when Mrs. Eaynor asked him to give Janet away at the wed- 
 ding. ' If you will take my advice, Eichard, ' I said, ^ you 
 will have nothing to do with that marriage. ' And he has seen 
 the justice of my opinion since. Mrs. Eaynor herself was 
 against the connection at first ; but she always spoiled Janet ; 
 and I fear, too, she was won over by a foolish pride in hav- 
 
234 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 ing her daughter marry a professional man. I fear it was 
 so. No one but myself, I think, foresaw the extent of the 
 evil.'^ 
 
 " Well/' said Mrs. Pettifer, ''Janet had nothing to look to 
 but being a governess ; and it was hard for Mrs. Kaynor to 
 have to work at millinering — a woman well brought up, and 
 her husband a man who held his head as high as any man in 
 Thurston. And it isn't everybody that sees everything fifteen 
 years beforehand. Kobert Dempster was the cleverest man in 
 Milby; and there weren't many young men fit to talk to 
 Janet. " 
 
 "It is a thousand pities," said Miss Pratt, choosing to 
 ignore Mrs. Pettifer's slight sarcasm, "for I certainly did 
 consider Janet Eaynor the most promising young woman of 
 my acquaintance; — a little too much lifted up, perhaps, by 
 her superior education, and too much given to satire, but able 
 to express herself very well indeed about any book I recom- 
 mended to her perusal. There is no young woman in Milby 
 now who can be compared with what Janet was when she was 
 married, either in mind or person. I consider Miss Landor 
 far, far below her. Indeed, I cannot say much for the men- 
 tal superiority of the young ladies in our first families. They 
 are superficial — very superficial." 
 
 " She made the handsomest bride that ever came out of 
 Milby Church, too," said Mrs. Pettifer. "Such a very fine 
 figure! and it showed off her white poplin so well. And what 
 a pretty smile Janet always had ! Poor thing, she keeps that 
 now for all her old friends. I never see her but she has some- 
 thing pretty to say to me — living in the same street, you know, 
 I can't help seeing her often, though I've never been to the 
 house since Dempster broke out on me in one of his drunken 
 fits. She comes to me sometimes, poor thing, looking so 
 strange, anybody passing her in the street may see plain 
 enough what's the matter; but she's always got some little 
 good-natured plan in her head for all that. Only last night 
 when I met her, I saw five yards off she wasn't fit to be out; 
 but she had a basin in her hand, full of something she was 
 carrying to Sally Martin, the deformed girl that's in a con- 
 sumption." 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 235 
 
 "But she is jast as bitter against Mr. Tryan as her hus- 
 band is, I understand/' said Eebecca. "Her heart is very 
 much set against the truth, for I understand she bought Mr. 
 Tryan's sermons on purpose to ridicule them to Mrs. Crewe." 
 
 "Well, poor thing,'' said Mrs. Pettifer, "you know she 
 stands up for everything her husband says and does. She 
 never will admit to anybody that he's not a good husband." 
 
 " That is her pride, " said Miss Pratt. " She married him 
 in opposition to the advice of her best friends, and now she is 
 not willing to admit that she was wrong. Why, even to my 
 brother — and a medical attendant, you know, can hardly fail 
 to be acquainted with family secrets — she has always pre- 
 tended to have the highest respect for her husband's qualities. 
 Poor Mrs. Eaynor, however, is well aware that every one 
 knows the real state of things. Latterly, she has not even 
 avoided the subject with me. The very last time I called on 
 her she said, ' Have you been to see my poor daughter? ' and 
 burst into tears." 
 
 "Pride or no pride," said Mrs. Pettifer, "I shall always 
 stand up for Janet Dempster. She sat Up with me night after 
 night when I had that attack of rheumatic fever six years ago. 
 There's great excuses for her. When a woman can't think of 
 her husband coming home without trembling, it's enough to 
 make her drink something to blunt her feelings — and no chil- 
 dren either, to keep her from it. You and me might do the 
 same, if we were in her place." 
 
 "Speak for yourself, Mrs. Pettifer," said Miss Pratt. 
 " Under no circumstances can I imagine myself resorting to a 
 practice so degrading. A woman should find support in her 
 own strength of mind." 
 
 "I think," said Eebecca, who considered Miss Pratt still 
 very blind in spiritual things, notwithstanding her assumption 
 of enlightenment, "she will find poor support if she trusts 
 only to her own strength. She must seek aid elsewhere than 
 in herself." 
 
 Happily the removal of the tea-things just then created a 
 little confusion, which aided Miss Pratt to repress her resent- 
 ment at Eebecca's presumption in correcting her — a person 
 like Eebecca Linnet! who six months ago was as flighty and 
 
236 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 vain a woman as Miss Pratt had ever known — so very uncon" 
 scions of her unfortunate person ! 
 
 The ladies had scarcely been seated at their work another 
 hour, when the sun was sinking, and the clouds that flecked 
 the sky to the very zenith were every moment taking on a 
 brighter gold. The gate of the little garden opened, and 
 Miss Linnet, seated at her small table near the window, saw 
 Mr. Tryan enter. 
 
 There is Mr. Tryan," she said, and her pale cheek was 
 lighted up with a little blush that would have made her look 
 more attractive to almost any one except Miss Eliza Pratt, 
 whose fine gray eyes allowed few things to escape her silent 
 observation. ''Mary Linnet gets more and more in love with 
 Mr. Tryan," thought Miss Eliza; it is really pitiable to see 
 such feelings in a woman of her age, with those old-maidish 
 little ringlets. I dare say she flatters herself Mr. Tryan may 
 fall in love with her, because he makes her useful among the 
 poor." At the same time. Miss Eliza, as she bent her hand- 
 some head and large cannon curls with apparent calmness over 
 her work, felt a considerable internal flutter when she heard 
 the knock at the door. Rebecca had less self-command. She 
 felt too much agitated to go on with her pasting, and clutched 
 the leg of the table to counteract the trembling in her hands. 
 
 Poor women's hearts! Heaven forbid that I should laugh 
 at you, and make cheap jests on your susceptibility toward 
 the clerical sex, as if it had nothing deeper or more lovely in 
 it than the mere vulgar angling for a husband. Even in these 
 enlightened days, many a curate who, considered abstractedly, 
 is nothing more than a sleek bimanous animal in a white neck- 
 cloth, with views more or less Anglican, and furtively addicted 
 to the flute, is adored by a girl who has coarse brothers, or by 
 a solitary woman who would like to be a helpmate in good 
 works beyond her own means, simply because he seems to 
 them the model of refinement and of public usefulness. What 
 wonder, then, that in Milby society, such as I have told you 
 it was a very long while ago, a zealous evangelical clergyman, 
 aged thirty-three, called forth all the little agitations that be- 
 long to the divine necessity of loving, implanted in the Miss 
 Linnets, with their seven or eight lustrums and their unfash- 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 237 
 
 ionable ringlets, no less than in Miss Eliza Pratt, with her 
 youthful bloom and her ample cannon curls. 
 
 But Mr. Tryan has entered the room, and the strange light 
 from the golden sky falling on his light-brown hair, which is 
 brushed high up round his head, makes it look almost like an 
 aureole. His gray eyes, too, shine with unwonted brilliancy 
 this evening. They were not remarkable eyes, but they ac- 
 corded completely in their changing light with the changing 
 expression of his person, which indicated the paradoxical char- 
 acter often observable in a large-limbed sanguine blond; at 
 once mild and irritable, gentle and overbearing, indolent and 
 resolute, self-conscious and dreamy. Except that the well- 
 filled lips had something of the artificially compressed look 
 which is often the sign of a struggle to keep the dragon under- 
 most, and that the complexion was rather pallid, giving the 
 idea of imperfect health, Mr. Tryan' s face in repose was that 
 of an ordinary whiskerless blond, and it seemed difficult to 
 refer a certain air of distinction about him to anything in par- 
 ticular, unless it were his delicate hands and well-shapen feet. 
 
 It was a great anomaly to the Milby mind that a canting 
 evangelical parson, who would take tea with tradespeople, and 
 make friends of vulgar women like the Linnets, should have 
 so much the air of a gentleman, and be so little like the splay- 
 footed Mr. Stickney of Salem, to whom he approximated so 
 closely in doctrine. And this want of correspondence between 
 the physique and the creed had excited no less surprise in the 
 larger town of Laxeter, where Mr. Tryan had formerly held a 
 curacy ; for of the two other Low Church clergymen in the 
 neighborhood, one was a Welshman of globose figure and unc- 
 tuous complexion, and the other a man of atrabiliar aspect, 
 with lank black hair, and a redundance of limp cravat — in 
 fact, the sort of thing you might expect in men who distrib- 
 uted the publications of the Eeligious Tract Society, and in- 
 troduced Dissenting hymns into the Church. 
 
 Mr. Tryan shook hands with Mrs. Linnet, bowed with rather 
 a preoccupied air to the other ladies, and seated himself in the 
 large horse-hair easy-chair which had been drawn forward for 
 him, while the ladies ceased from their work, and fixed their 
 eyes on him, awaiting the news he had to tell them. 
 
238 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 " It seems, " lie began, in a low and silvery tone, " I need a 
 lesson of patience; there has been something wrong in my 
 thought or action about this evening lecture. I have been too 
 much bent on doing good to Milby after my own plan — too 
 reliant on my own wisdom." 
 
 Mr. Tryan paused. He was struggling against inward irri- 
 tation. 
 
 *^The delegates are come back, then?" "Has Mr. Pren- 
 dergast given way?" "Has Dempster succeeded?" — were 
 the eager questions of three ladies at once. 
 
 " Yes ; the town is in an uproar. As we were sitting in 
 Mr. Landor's drawing-room we heard a loud cheering, and 
 presently Mr. Thrupp, the clerk at the bank, who had been 
 waiting at the Eed Lion to hear the result, came to let us 
 know. He said Dempster had been making a speech to the 
 mob out of the window. They were distributing drink to the 
 people, and hoisting placards in great letters, — ^ Down with 
 the Tryanites ! ' ' Down with cant ! ^ They had a hideous 
 caricature of me being tripped-up and pitched head-foremost 
 out of the pulpit. Good old Mr. Landor would insist on send- 
 ing me round in the carriage; he thought I should not be safe 
 from the mob ; but I got down at the Crossways. The row 
 was evidently preconcerted by Dempster before he set out. 
 He made sure of succeeding." 
 
 Mr. Tryan' s utterance had been getting rather louder and 
 more rapid in the course of this speech, and he now added, in 
 the energetic chest-voice, which, both in and out of the pulpit, 
 alternated continually with his more silvery notes — 
 
 " But his triumph will be a short one. If he thinks he can 
 intimidate me by obloquy or threats, he has mistaken the man 
 he has to deal with. Mr. Dempster and his colleagues will 
 find themselves checkmated after all. Mr. Prendergast has 
 been false to his own conscience in this business. He knows 
 as well as I do that he is throwing away the souls of the peo- 
 ple by leaving things as they are in the parish. But I shall 
 appeal to the Bishop — I am confident of his sympathy." 
 
 " The Bishop will be coming shortly, I suppose, " said Miss 
 Pratt, " to hold a confirmation? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I shall write to him at once^ and lay the case 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 239 
 
 before him. Indeed, I must hurry away now, for I have 
 many matters to attend to. You, ladies, have been kindly 
 helping me with your labors, I see," continued Mr. Tryan, 
 politely, glancing at the canvas-covered books as he rose from 
 his seat. Then, turning to Mary Linnet: "Our library is 
 really getting on, I think. You and your sister have quite a 
 heavy task of distribution now." 
 
 Poor Kebecca felt it very hard to bear that Mr. Tryan did 
 not turn toward her too. If he knew how much she entered 
 into his feelings about the lecture, and the interest she took 
 in the library. Well! perhaps it was her lot to be overlooked 
 — and it might be a token of mercy. Even a good man might 
 not always know the heart that was most with him. But the 
 next moment poor Mary had a pang, when Mr. Tryan turned 
 to Miss Eliza Pratt, and the preoccupied expression of his face 
 melted into that beaming timidity with which a man almost 
 always addresses a pretty woman. 
 
 " I have to thank you, too. Miss Eliza, for seconding me so 
 well in your visits to Joseph Mercer. The old man tells me 
 how precious he finds your reading to him, now he is no longer 
 able to go to church." 
 
 Miss Eliza only answered by a blush, which made her look 
 all the handsomer, but her aunt said — 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Tryan, I have ever inculcated on my dear Eliza 
 the importance of spending her leisure in being useful to her 
 fellow-creatures. Your example and instruction have been 
 quite in the spirit of the system which I have always pursued, 
 though we are indebted to you for a clearer view of the motives 
 that should actuate us in our pursuit of good works. Not that 
 I can accuse myself of having ever had a self-righteous spirit, 
 but my humility was rather instinctive than based on a firm 
 ground of doctrinal knowledge, such as you so admirably im- 
 part to us." 
 
 Mrs. Linnet's usual entreaty that Mr. Tryan would " have 
 something — some wine-and- water, and a biscuit," was just 
 here a welcome relief from the necessity of answering Miss 
 Pratt's oration. 
 
 "Not anything, my dear Mrs. Linnet, thank you. You 
 forget what a Rechabite I am. By the by, when I went this 
 
240 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 morning to see a poor girl in Butcher's Lane, wliom I had 
 heard of as being in a consumption, I found Mrs. Dempstei 
 there. I had often met her in the street, but did not know it 
 was Mrs. Dempster. It seems she goes among the poor a 
 good deaL She is really an interesting-looking woman. I 
 was quite surprised, for I have heard the worst account of her 
 habits— that she is almost as bad as her husband. She went 
 out hastily as soon as I entered. But '' (apologetically) " I 
 am keeping you all standing, and I must really hurry away. 
 Mrs. Pettifer, I have not had the pleasure of calling on you 
 for some time ; I shall take an early opportunity of going youi 
 way. Good-evening, good-evening." 
 
 CHAPTEE IV, 
 
 Mr. Try an was right in saying that the " row in Milby 
 had been preconcerted by Dempster. The placards and the 
 caricature were prepared before the departure of the delegates ; 
 and it had been settled that Mat Paine, Dempster's clerk, 
 should ride out on Thursday morning to meet them at Whit' 
 low, the last place where they would change horses, that he 
 might gallop back and prepare an ovation for the triumvirate 
 in case of their success. Dempster had determined to dine at 
 Whitlow : so that Mat Paine was in Milby again two hours 
 before the entrance of the delegates, and had time to send a 
 whisper up the back streets that there was promise of a 
 " spree " in the Bridge Way, as well as to assemble two knots 
 of picked men — one to feed the flame of orthodox zeal with 
 gin-and- water, at the Green Man, near High Street ; the other 
 to solidify their church principles with heady beer at the Bear 
 and Ragged Staff in the Bridge Way. 
 
 The Bridge Way was an irregular straggling street, where 
 the town fringed off raggedly into the Whitlow road : rows of 
 new red-brick houses, in which ribbon-looms were rattling be- 
 hind long lines of window, alternating with old, half -thatched 
 half-tiled cottages — one of those dismal wide streets where 
 dirt and misery have no long shadows thrown on them to 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 2« 
 
 soften their ugliness. Here, about half -past five o'clock, Silly 
 Caleb, an idiot well known in Dog Lane, but more of a stranger 
 in the Bridge Way, was seen slouching along with a string of 
 boys hooting at his heels; presently another group, for the 
 most part out at elbows, came briskly in the same direction, 
 looking round them with an air of expectation ; and at no long 
 interval, Deb Traunter, in a pink flounced gown and floating 
 ribbons, was observed talking with great affability to two men 
 in seal-skin caps and fustian, who formed her cortege. The 
 Bridge Way began to have a presentiment of something in the 
 wind. Phib Cook left her evening wash-tub and appeared at 
 her door in soapsuds, a bonnet-poke, and general dampness ; 
 three narrow-chested ribbon-weavers, in rusty black streaked 
 with shreds of many-colored silk, sauntered out with their 
 hands in their pockets ; and Molly Beale, a brawny old virago, 
 descrying wiry Dame Eicketts peeping out from her entry, 
 seized the opportunity of renewing the morning's skirmish. 
 In short, the Bridge Way was in that state of excitement 
 which is understood to announce a demonstration on the 
 part of the British public ; and the afiiux of remote townsmen 
 increasing, there was soon so large a crowd that it was time 
 for Bill Powers, a plethoric Goliath, who presided over the 
 knot of beer-drinkers at the Bear and Ragged Staff, to issue 
 forth with his companions, and, like the enunciator of the an- 
 cient myth, make the assemblage distinctly conscious of the 
 common sentiment that had drawn them together. The ex- 
 pectation of the delegates' chaise, added to the fight between 
 Molly Beale and Dame Eicketts, and the ill-advised appear- 
 ance of a lean bull-terrier, were a sufficient safety-valve to the 
 popular excitement during the remaining quarter of an hour ; 
 at the end of which the chaise was seen approaching along the 
 Whitlow road, with oak boughs ornamenting the horses' heads ; 
 and, to quote the account of this interesting scene which was 
 sent to the Botherhy Guardian, " loud cheers immediately tes- 
 tified to the sympathy of the honest fellows collected there^ 
 with the public-spirited exertions of their fellow-townsmen. " 
 Bill Powers, whose bloodshot eyes, bent hat, and protuberant 
 altitude, marked him out as the natural leader of the assem- 
 blage, undertook to interpret the common sentiment by stop- 
 
242 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 ping the chaise, advancing to the door with raised hat, and 
 begging to know of Mr. Dempster, whether the Rector had 
 forbidden the "canting lecture." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Mr. Dempster. "Keep up a jolly good 
 hurray. " 
 
 No public duty could have been more easy and agreeable to 
 Mr. Powers and his associates, and the chorus swelled all the 
 way to the High Street, where, by a mysterious coincidence 
 often observable in these spontaneous " demonstrations, " large 
 placards on long poles were observed to shoot upward from 
 among the crowd, principally in the direction of Tucker's 
 Lane, where the Green Man was situated. One bore, " Down 
 with the Tryanites!" another, "No Cant!" another, "Long 
 live our venerable Curate ! " and one in still larger letters, 
 " Sound Church Principles and no Hypocrisy ! " But a still 
 more remarkable impromptu was a huge caricature of Mr. 
 Try an in gown and band, with an enormous aureole of yellow 
 hair and upturned eyes, standing on the pulpit stairs and try- 
 ing to pull down old Mr. Crewe. Groans, yells, and hisses — 
 hisses, yells, and groans — only stemmed by the appearance of 
 another caricature representing Mr. Tryan being pitched head- 
 foremost from the pulpit stairs by a hand which the artist, 
 either from subtilty of intention or want of space, had left 
 unindicated. In the midst of the tremendous cheering that 
 saluted this piece of symbolical art, the chaise had reached 
 the door of the Red Lion, and loud cries of " Dempster for- 
 ever ! " with a feebler cheer now and then for Tomlinson and 
 Budd, were presently responded to by the appearance of the 
 public-spirited attorney at the large upper window, where also 
 were visible a little in the background the small sleek head of 
 Mr. Budd, and the blinking countenance of Mr. Tomlinson. 
 
 Mr. Dempster held his hat in his hand, and poked his head 
 forward with a butting motion by way of bow. A storm of 
 cheers subsided at last into dropping sounds of " Silence ! " 
 " Hear him! " " Go it, Dempster! " and the lawyer's rasping 
 voice became distinctly audible. 
 
 "Fellow-townsmen! It gives us the sincerest pleasure — I 
 speak for my respected colleagues as well as myself — to wit- 
 ness these strong proofs of your attachment to the principles 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 243 
 
 of our excellent Church, and your zeal for the honor of our 
 venerable pastor. But it is no more than I expected of you. 
 I know you well. Vve known you for the last twenty years 
 to be as honest and respectable a set of rate-payers as any in 
 this county. Your hearts are sound to the core! No man 
 had better try to thrust his cant and hypocrisy down your 
 throats. You're used to wash them with liquor of a better 
 flavor. This is the proudest moment in my own life, and I 
 think I may say in that of my colleagues, in which I have to 
 tell you that our exertions in the cause of sound religion and 
 manly morality have been crowned with success. Yes, my 
 fellow-townsmen! I have the gratification of announcing to 
 you thus formally what you have already learned indirectly. 
 The pulpit from which our venerable pastor has fed us^with 
 sound doctrine for half a century is not to be invaded by a 
 fanatical, sectarian, double-faced, Jesuitical interloper! We 
 are not to have our young people demoralized and corrupted 
 by the temptations to vice, notoriously connected with Sunday- 
 evening lectures! We are not to have a preacher obtruding 
 himself upon us, who decries good works, and sneaks into our 
 homes perverting the faith of our wives and daughters ! We 
 are not to be poisoned with doctrines which damp every inno- 
 cent enjoyment, and pick a poor man's pocket of the sixpence 
 with which he might buy himself a cheerful glass after a hard 
 day's work, under pretence of paying for Bibles to send to the 
 Chicktaws ! 
 
 But I'm not going to waste your valuable time with un- 
 necessary words. I am a man of deeds" ("Ay, damn you, 
 that you are, and you charge well for 'em too," said a voice 
 from the crowd, probably that of a gentleman who was imme- 
 diately afterward observed with his hat crushed over his head). 
 
 I shall always be at the service of my fellow-townsmen, and 
 whoever dares to hector over you, or interfere with your inno- 
 cent pleasures, shall have an account to settle with Eobert 
 Pempster. 
 
 ^^Now, my boys! you can't do better than disperse and 
 carry the good news to all your fellow-townsmen, whose hearts 
 are as sound as your own. Let some of you go one way and 
 some another, that every man, woman, and child in Milby 
 
244 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 may know what you know yourselves. But before we part, 
 let us have three cheers for True Keligion, and down with 
 Cant!^^ 
 
 When the last cheer was dying, Mr. Dempster closed the 
 window, and the judiciously instructed placards and carica- 
 tures moved off in divers directions, followed by larger or 
 smaller divisions of the crowd. The greatest attraction ap- 
 parently lay in the direction of Dog Lane, the outlet toward 
 Paddif ord Common, whither the caricatures were moving ; and 
 you foresee, of course, that those works of symbolical art were 
 consumed with a liberal expenditure of dry gorse-bushes and 
 vague shouting. 
 
 After these great public exertions, it was natural that Mr. 
 Dempster and his colleagues should feel more in need than 
 usual of a little social relaxation ; and a party of their friends 
 was already beginning to assemble in the large parlor of the 
 Eed Lion, convened partly by their own curiosity, and partly 
 by the invaluable Mat Paine. The most capacious punch- 
 bowl was put in requisition; and that born gentleman, Mr. 
 Lowme, seated opposite Mr. Dempster as ^'Vice,^' undertook 
 to brew the punch, defying the criticisms of the envious men 
 out of office, who, with the readiness of irresponsibility, igno- 
 rantly suggested more lemons. The social festivities were 
 continued till long past midnight, when several friends of 
 sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one 
 of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in 
 the gutter. 
 
 Mr. Dempster had done as much justice to the punch as any 
 of the party; and his friend Boots, though aware that the 
 lawyer could "carry his liquor like Old Nick,'' with whose 
 social demeanor Boots seemed to be particularly well ac- 
 quainted, nevertheless thought it might be as well to see so 
 good a customer in safety to his own door, and walked quietly 
 behind his elbow out of the inn-yard. Dempster, however, 
 soon became aware of him, stopped short, and, turning slowly 
 round upon him, recognized the well-known drab waistcoat 
 sleeves, conspicuous enough in the starlight. 
 
 " You twopenny scoundrel ! What do you mean by dogging 
 a professional man's footsteps in this way? I'll break every 
 
JANET^S REPENTANCE. 
 
 245 
 
 bone in your skin if you attempt to track me, like a beastly 
 cur sniffing at one's pocket. Do you think a gentleman will 
 make his way home any the better for having the scent of 
 your blacking-bottle thrust up his nostrils? 
 
 Boots slunk back, in more amusement than ill-humor, think- 
 ing the lawyer's " rum talk " was doubtless part and parcel of 
 his professional ability; and Mr. Dempster pursued his slow 
 way alone. 
 
 His house lay in Orchard Street, which opened on the pret- 
 tiest outskirt of the town — the church, the parsonage, and a 
 long stretch of green fields. It was an old-fashioned house, 
 with an overhanging upper story ; outside, it had a face of 
 rough stucco, and casement windows with green frames and 
 shutters ; inside, it was full of long passages, and rooms with 
 low ceilings. There was a large heavy knocker on the green 
 door, and though Mr. Dempster carried a latch-key, he some- 
 times chose to use the knocker. He chose to do so now. The 
 thunder resounded through Orchard Street, and, after a single 
 minute, there was a second clap louder than the first. An- 
 other minute, and still the door was not opened; whereupon 
 Mr. Dempster, muttering, took out his latch-key, and, with 
 less difficulty than might have been expected, thrust it into 
 the door. When he opened the door the passage was dark. 
 
 Janet! " in the loudest rasping tone, was the next sound 
 that rang through the house. 
 
 " Janet ! '' again — before a slow step was heard on the stairs, 
 and a distant light began to flicker on the wall of the passage. 
 
 " Curse you! you creeping idiot! Come faster, can't you? " 
 
 Yet a few seconds, and the figure of a tall woman, holding 
 aslant a heavy-plated drawing-room candlestick, appeared at 
 the turning of the passage that led to the broader entrance. 
 
 She had on a light dress which sat loosely about her figure, 
 but did not disguise its liberal, graceful outline. A heavy 
 mass of straight jet-black hair had escaped from its fastening, 
 and hung over her shoulders. Her grandly cut features, pale 
 with the natural paleness of a brunette, had premature lines 
 about them, telling that the years had been lengthened by sor- 
 row, and the delicately curved nostril, which seemed made to 
 quiver with the proud consciousness of power and beauty, 
 
246 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 must have quivered to the heart-piercing griefs which had 
 given that worn look to the corners of the mouth. Her wide- 
 open black eyes had a strangely fixed, sightless gaze, as she 
 paused at the turning, and stood silent before her husband. 
 
 " I'll teach you to keep me waiting in the dark, you pale 
 staring fool ! " he said, advancing with his slow drunken step. 
 "What, you've been drinking again, have you? I'll beat you 
 into your senses." 
 
 He laid his hand with a firm gripe on her shoulder, turned 
 her round, and pushed her slowly before him along^ the pas- 
 sage and through the dining-room door, which stood open on 
 their left hand. 
 
 There was a portrait of Janet's mother, a gray-haired, dark- 
 eyed old woman, in a neatly fluted cap, hanging over the 
 mantelpiece. Surely the aged eyes take on a look of anguish 
 as they see Janet — not trembling, no ! it would be better if 
 she trembled — standing stupidly unmoved in her great beauty, 
 while the heavy arm is lifted to strike her. The blow falls — 
 another — and another. Surely the mother hears that cry — " 0 
 Eobert! pity! pity!" 
 
 Poor gray-haired woman ! Was it for this you suffered a 
 mother's pangs in your lone widowhood five and thirty years 
 ago? Was it for this you kept the little worn morocco shoes 
 Janet had first run in, and kissed them day by day when she 
 was away from you, a tall girl at school? Was it for this you 
 looked proudly at her when she came back to you in her rich 
 pale beauty, like a tall white arum that has just unfolded its 
 grand pure curves to the sun? 
 
 The mother lies sleepless and praying in her lonely house, 
 weeping the difiScult tears of age, because she dreads this may 
 be a cruel night for her child. 
 
 She too has a picture over her mantelpiece, drawn in chalk 
 by Janet long years ago. She looked at it before she went to 
 bed. It is a head bowed beneath a cross, and wearing a crown 
 of thorns. 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was half-past nine o'clock in the morning. The mid- 
 summer sun was already warm on the roofs and weathercocks 
 of Milby. The church bells were ringing, and many families 
 were conscious of Sunday sensations, chiefly referable to the 
 fact that the daughters had come down to breakfast in their 
 best frocks, and with their hair particularly well dressed. 
 For it was not Sunday, but Wednesday; and though the 
 Bishop was going to hold a Confirmation, and to decide 
 whether or not there should be a Sunday-evening lecture in 
 Milby, the sunbeams had the usual working-day look to the 
 haymakers already long out in the fields, and to laggard 
 weavers just "setting up'' their week's "piece." The notion 
 of its being Sunday was the strongest in young ladies like Miss 
 Phipps, who was going to accompany her youngest sister to 
 the confirmation, and to wear a " sweetly pretty " transparent 
 bonnet with marabout feathers on the interesting occasion, 
 thus throwing into relief the suitable simplicity of her sister's 
 attire, who was, of course, to appear in a new white frock ; or 
 in the pupils at Miss Townley's, who were absolved from all 
 lessons, and were going to church to see the Bishop, and to 
 hear the Honorable and Reverend Mr. Prendergast, the rector, 
 read prayers — a high intellectual treat, as Miss Townley 
 assured them. It seemed only natural that a rector, who was 
 honorable, should read better than old Mr. Crewe, who was 
 only a curate, and not honorable; and when little Clara 
 Robins wondered why some clergymen were rectors and others 
 not, Ellen Marriott assured her with great confidence that it 
 was only the clever men who were made rectors. Ellen Mar- 
 riott was going to be confirmed. She was a short, fair, plump 
 girl, with blue eyes and sandy hair, which was this morning 
 arranged in taller cannon curls than usual, for the reception of 
 the Episcopal benediction, and some of the young ladies thought 
 her the prettiest girl in the school ; but others gave the prefer- 
 ence to her rival, Maria Gardner, who was much taller, and 
 had a lovely " crop " of dark-brown ringlets, and who, being 
 
248 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 also about to take upon herself the vows made in her name at 
 her baptism, had oiled and twisted her ringlets with especial 
 care. As she seated herself at the breakfast-table before Miss 
 Townley's entrance to dispense the weak coffee, her crop ex- 
 cited so strong a sensation that Ellen Marriott was at length 
 impelled to look at it, and to say with suppressed but bitter 
 sarcasm, " Is that Miss Gardner' s head? " Yes, '' said Maria, 
 amiable and stuttering, and no match for Ellen in retort; 
 " th— th— this is my head. " Then I don't admire it at all ! " 
 was the crushing rejoinder of Ellen, followed by a murmur of 
 approval among her friends. Young ladies, I suppose, ex- 
 haust their sac of venom in this way at school. That is the 
 reason why they have such a harmless tooth for each other in 
 after life. 
 
 The only other candidate for confirmation at Miss Townley's 
 was Mary Dunn, a draper's daughter in Milby and a distant 
 relation of the Miss Linnets. Her pale lanky hair could never 
 be coaxed into permanent curl, and this morning the heat had 
 brought it down to its natural condition of lankiness earlier 
 than usual. But that was not what made her sit melancholy 
 and apart at the lower end of the form. Her parents were 
 admirers of Mr. Tryan, and had been persuaded, by the Miss 
 Linnets' influence, to insist that their daughter should be 
 prepared for confirmation by him, over and above the prepara- 
 tion given to Miss Townley's pupils by Mr. Crewe. Poor 
 Mary Dunn ! I am afraid she thought it too heavy a price to 
 pay for these spiritual advantages, to be excluded from every 
 game at ball, to be obliged to walk with none but little girls 
 — in fact, to be the object of an aversion that nothing short 
 of an incessant supply of plum -cakes would have neutralized. 
 And Mrs. Dunn was of opinion that plum-cake was unwhole- 
 some. The anti-Tryanite spirit, you perceive, was very strong 
 at Miss Townley's, imported probably by day scholars, as well 
 as encouraged by the fact that that clever woman was herself 
 strongly opposed to innovation, and remarked every Sunday 
 that Mr. Crewe had preached an " excellent discourse." Poor 
 Mary Dunn dreaded the moment when school-hours would be 
 over, for then she was sure to be the butt of those very explicit 
 remarks which^ in young ladies' as well as young gentlemen's 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 249 
 
 seminaries, constitute the most subtle and delicate form of 
 the innuendo. " I'd never be a Tryanite, would you? " Oh 
 here comes the lady that knows so much more about religion 
 than we do ! " " Some people think themselves so very 
 pious ! 
 
 It is really surprising that young ladies should not be 
 thought competent to the same curriculum as young gentle- 
 men. I observe that their powers of sarcasm are quite equal ; 
 and if there had been a genteel academy for young gentlemen 
 at Milby, I am inclined to think that, notwithstanding Euclid 
 and the classics, the party spirit there would not have exhib- 
 ited itself in more pungent irony, or more incisive satire, than 
 was heard in Miss Townley's seminary. But there was no 
 such academy, the existence of the grammar-school under Mr. 
 Crewe's superintendence probably discouraging speculations of 
 that kind; and the genteel youths of Milby were chiefly come 
 home for the midsummer holidays from distant schools. Sev- 
 eral of us had just assumed coat-tails, and the assumption of 
 new responsibilities apparently following as a matter of course, 
 we were among the candidates for confirmation. I wish I 
 could say that the solemnity of our feelings was on a level 
 with the solemnity of the occasion; but unimaginative boys 
 find it difficult to recognize apostolical institutions in their 
 developed form, and I fear our chief emotion concerning the 
 ceremony was a sense of sheepishness, and our chief opinion, 
 the speculative and heretical position, that it ought to be con- 
 fined to the girls. It was a pity, you will say ; but it is the 
 way with us men in other crises, that come a long while after 
 confirmation. The golden moments in the stream of life rush 
 past us, and we see nothing but sand ; the angels come to visit 
 us, and we only know them when they are gone. 
 
 But, as I said, the morning was sunny, the bells were ring- 
 ing, the ladies of Milby were dressed in their Sunday gar- 
 ments. 
 
 And who is this bright-looking woman walking with hasty 
 step along Orchard Street so early, with a large nosegay in her 
 hand? Can it be Janet Dempster, on whom we looked with 
 such deep pity, one sad midnight, hardly a fortnight ago? 
 Yes; no other woman in Milby has those searching black 
 
250 
 
 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 
 
 eyes, that tall graceful unconstrained figure, set off by her 
 simple muslin dress and black lace shawl, that massy black 
 hair now so neatly braided in glossy contrast with the white 
 satin ribbons of her modest cap and bonnet. No other woman 
 has that sweet speaking smile, with which she nods to Jona- 
 than Lamb, the old parish clerk. And, ah ! — now she comes 
 nearer — there are those sad lines about the mouth and eyes on 
 which that sweet smile plays like sunbeams on the storm- 
 beaten beauty of the full and ripened corn. 
 
 She is turning out of Orchard Street, and making her way 
 as fast as she can to her mother's house, a pleasant cottage 
 facing a roadside meadow, from which the hay is being car- 
 ried. Mrs. Raynor has had her breakfast, and is seated in 
 her arm-chair reading, when Janet opens the door, saying, in 
 her most playful voice — 
 
 ^' Please, mother, I'm come to show myself to you before I 
 go to the Parsonage. Have I put on my pretty cap and bon- 
 net to satisfy you? " 
 
 Mrs. Raynor looked over her spectacles, and met her daugh- 
 ter's glance with eyes as dark and loving as her own. She 
 was a much smaller woman than Janet, both in figure and 
 feature, the chief resemblance lying in the eyes and the clear 
 brunette complexion. The mother's hair had long been gray, 
 and was gathered under the neatest of caps, made by her own 
 clever fingers, as all Janet's caps and bonnets were too. They 
 were well-practised fingers, for Mrs. Eaynor had supported 
 herself in her widowhood by keeping a millinery establish- 
 ment, and in this way had earned money enough to give her 
 daughter what was then thought a first-rate education, as well 
 as to save a sum which, eked out by her son-in-law, sufiftced to 
 support her in her solitary old age. Always the same clean, 
 neat old lady, dressed in black silk, was Mrs. Raynor : a pa- 
 tient, brave woman, who bowed with resignation under the 
 burden of remembered sorrow, and bore with meek fortitude 
 the new load that the new days brought with them. 
 
 " Your bonnet wants pulling a trifle forwarder, my child, " 
 she said, smiling, and taking off her spectacles, while Janet 
 at once knelt down before her, and waited to be " set to rights, " 
 as she would have done when she was a child. " You're going 
 
JANET'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 251 
 
 straight to Mrs. Crewe's, I suppose? Are those flowers to 
 garnish the dishes? 
 
 " No, indeed, mother. This is a nosegay for the middle of 
 the table. I've sent up the dinner-service and the ham we 
 had cooked at our house yesterday, and Betty is coming di- 
 rectly with the garnish and the plate. We shall get our good 
 Mrs. Crewe through her troubles famously. Dear tiny wom- 
 an! You should have seen her lift up her hands yesterday, 
 and pray heaven to take her before ever she should have 
 another collation to get ready for the Bishop. She said, ^It's 
 bad enough to have the Archdeacon, though he doesn't want 
 half so many jelly -glasses. I wouldn't mind, Janet, if it was to 
 feed all the old hungry cripples in Milby ; but so much trouble 
 and expense for people who eat too much every day of their 
 lives ! ' We had such a cleaning and furbishing up of the 
 sitting-room yesterday ! Nothing will ever do away with the 
 smell of Mr. Crewe's pipes, you know; but we have thrown it 
 into the background, with yellow soap and dry lavender. And 
 now I must run away. You will come to church, mother? " 
 
 ^'Yes, my dear, I wouldn't lose such a pretty sight. It 
 does my old eyes good to see so many fresh young faces. Is 
 your husband going? " 
 
 " Yes, Eobert will be there. I've made him as neat as a 
 new pin this morning, and he says the Bishop will think him 
 too buckish by half. I took him into Mammy Dempster's 
 room to show himself. We hear Tryan is making sure of the 
 Bishop's support; but we shall see. I would give my crooked 
 guinea, and all the luck it will ever bring me, to have him 
 beaten, for I can't endure the sight of the man coming to 
 harass dear old Mr. and Mrs. Crewe in their last days. 
 Preaching the Gospel indeed! That is the best Gospel that 
 makes everybody happy and comfortable, isn't it, mother?" 
 
 "Ah, child, I'm afraid there's no Gospel will do that here 
 below." 
 
 "Well, I can do something to comfort Mrs. Crewe, at least; 
 so give me a kiss, and good-by till church-time." 
 
 The mother leaned back in her chair when Janet was gone, 
 and sank into a painful revery. When our life is a continu- 
 ous trial, the moments of respite seem only to substitute the 
 
262 
 
 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 heaviness of dread for the heaviness of actual suffering : the 
 curtain of cloud seems parted an instant only that we may 
 measure all its horror as it hangs low, black, and imminent, 
 in contrast with the transient brightness ; the .water-drops that 
 visit the parched lips in the desert bear with them only the 
 keen imagination of thirst. Janet looked glad and tender 
 now — but what scene of misery was coming next? She was 
 too like the cistus flowers in the little garden before the win- 
 dow, that, with the shades of evening, might lie with the deli- 
 cate white and glossy dark of their petals trampled in the 
 roadside dust. When the sun had sunk, and the twilight 
 was deepening, Janet might be seen sitting there, heated, 
 maddened, sobbing out her griefs with selfish passion, and 
 wildly wishing herself dead. 
 
 Mrs. Raynor had been reading about the lost sheep, and the 
 joy there is in heaven over the sinner that repenteth. Surely 
 the eternal love she believed in through all the sadness of her 
 lot would not leave her child to wander farther and farther 
 into the wilderness till there was no turning — the child so 
 lovely, so pitiful to others, so good — till she was goaded into 
 sin by woman's bitterest sorrows ! Mrs. Raynor had her faith 
 and her spiritual comforts, though she was not in the least 
 evangelical, and knew nothing of doctrinal zeal. I fear most 
 of Mr. Try an' s hearers would have considered her destitute of 
 saving knowledge, and I am quite sure she had no well-defined 
 views on justification. Nevertheless, she read her Bible a 
 great deal, and thought she found divine lessons there — how 
 to bear the cross meekly, and be merciful. Let us hope that 
 there is a saving ignorance, and that Mrs. Raynor was justi- 
 fied without knowing exactly how. 
 
 She tried to have hope and trust, though it was hard to be- 
 lieve that the future would be anything else than the harvest 
 of the seed that was being sown before her eyes. But always 
 there is seed being sown silently and unseen, and everywhere 
 there come sweet flowers without our foresight or labor. We 
 reap what we sow, but Nature has love over and above that 
 justice, and gives us shadow and blossom and fruit that spring 
 from no planting of ours.