The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Village by the River, by H. Louisa Bedford

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Title: The Village by the River

Author: H. Louisa Bedford

Release Date: January 16, 2007 [EBook #20381]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VILLAGE BY THE RIVER ***




Produced by Al Haines










[Frontispiece: Paul . . . was holding it closely
upon the burning skirt.]






THE VILLAGE BY THE RIVER.


by

H. LOUISA BEDFORD,



AUTHOR OF

"MRS. MERRIMAN'S GODCHILD," "RALPH RODNEY'S MOTHER,"

"MISS CHILCOTT'S LEGACY," ETC., ETC.




ILLUSTRATED BY W. S. STACEY.



PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE

GENERAL LITERATURE COMMITTEE.




LONDON:

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.;

43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.

BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.

NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG AND CO.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

    I.  WHAT THE VILLAGERS SAID
   II.  AN UNLOOKED-FOR INHERITANCE
  III.  FIRST IMPRESSIONS
   IV.  OPPOSING VIEWS
    V.  A QUESTION OF EDUCATION
   VI.  A VOTE OF CONFIDENCE
  VII.  A MOMENTOUS DECISION
 VIII.  AN OUTSTRETCHED HAND
   IX.  A CRISIS IN A LIFE
    X.  RIVAL SUITORS
   XI.  A FRIEND IN NEED
  XII.  KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE
 XIII.  THE CALL OF GOD
  XIV.  A CHANGE OF MIND




ILLUSTRATIONS


Paul . . . was holding it closely
upon the burning skirt. . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"I've come after some roses."

Before he could regain his feet, a hand was on his collar.




THE VILLAGE BY THE RIVER.


CHAPTER I.

WHAT THE VILLAGERS SAID.

"Well, it were the grandest funeral as ever I set eyes on," said
Allison, the blacksmith, folding his brawny arms under his leather
apron, and leaning his shoulders against the open door of the smithy in
an attitude of leisurely ease.

The group, gathered round him on their way home from work, gave an
assenting nod and waited for more.

For convenience Allison shifted his pipe more to the corner of his
mouth, and proceeded--

"Not one of yer new-fangled ones, with a glass hearse for all the world
like a big window-box, and a sight of white flowers like a wedding.
Everything was as black as it should be; I never see'd finer horses, in
my life, with manes and tails reachin' a'most to the ground, and a
shinin' black hearse with a score of plumes on the top, and half a
dozen men with silk hatbands walking alongside it, right away from the
station to the churchyard yonder."  And Allison threw a backward glance
over the billowy golden cornfields, which separated the village from
the church by a quarter of a mile, where the grand tower reared its
head as if keeping watch over the village like a lofty sentinel.

"There were lots of follerers, I expect?" suggested Macdonald, gently.
He was a Scotchman, and worked on the line, and he shifted his bag of
tools from his shoulder to the ground as he spoke.  "A gentleman like
him would leave a-many to miss him."

Allison stared across at the river which ran swiftly by on the opposite
side of the road.  The long village of Rudham skirted its banks
irregularly for a mile or more.  The blacksmith had plenty of news to
communicate, but he was not to be hurried in the relating of it.

"I'm tryin' to recolleck," he said, knitting his brows, "but I can't
mind more than two principal mourners.  And the undertaker, when he
stopped to water his horses at the inn, told Mrs. Lake as they was the
doctor and the lawyer; but, relations or no, they did it wonderful
well!  Stood with their hats off all in the burnin' sun, and went back
to look at the grave when the funeral was over."

"The household servants was there--leastways the butler and footman,"
said Tom Burney, a dark-eyed, gipsy-looking young man, who was one of
the under-gardeners at the big house on the hill, "but not him as is
coming after."

"The question is who is a-comin' after?" said Allison, in a tone of
sarcastic argument.  "Maybe you'll tell us, as you seem to know such a
lot about it?"

Burney coloured under his dark skin, and gave an uneasy little laugh.

"I know what I've heard, no more nor less," he said; "but it comes
first-hand from the butler of him who's gone."

Allison gave an incredulous sniff; he was not used to playing second
fiddle, and the heads of his listeners had turned to a man in the
direction of the last speaker.

"He hadn't no near relation, not bein' a married man," went on Burney,
enjoying his advantage; "and Mr. Smith--that's the butler--came and
walked round the garden until it was time for his train to go back to
London."

"He don't pretend as the property's left to him, I suppose?" broke in
Allison, jocosely.

Burney turned his shoulder slightly towards the speaker, and went on,
regardless of the interruption--

"Mr. Smith says as the house up there, and all the property, goes to a
young fellow not more than thirty, of the same name as the old squire;
some third cousin or other."

"Hearsay! just hearsay!" ejaculated Allison, contemptuously.  "Who's
seen him, I should like to know?  Seein's believin', they say."

"Mr. Smith has," said Burney, a ring of triumph in his voice.  "He were
there when old Mr. Lessing died."

There was silence for a moment.  The evidence seemed conclusive, and
Allison's discomfiture complete; but, as the forge was the place where
the village gossips gathered every day, it was felt to be wise to keep
on good terms with the owner.

"Seems as if it might be true," said Macdonald, casting a timid glance
at the blacksmith.

"If it is, why wern't he here, to-day, then?" asked Allison, gruffly.

"Not knowin', can't say," Burney answered with a laugh.

"Maybe he'll be comin' to live here," said another.

"He can't!  I can tell you that much; there ain't a house he could live
in," asserted Allison.  "His own place is let, you see, to the
Websters--whom Burney there works for,--and he can't turn 'em out, as
they have it on lease; and a good thing too.  We don't want no resident
squire ridin' round and pryin' into everything.  The old one kept
hisself to hisself, and, as long as the rents was paid regular, he
didn't trouble much about us; and there was always a pound for the
widows every Christmas.  Trust me, it's better to have your landlord
livin' in London, and not looking about the place more than once a
year.  Did Mr. Smith say what the young one looked like, Burney?"

The question was asked a little reluctantly.

"No; but he thinks he's a bit queer in his notions.  He asked him
whether he'd be likely to want his services; and Mr. Lessing laughed
quite loud, and said, one nice old woman to cook and do for him was all
he should require now, or at any time in his life.  Mr. Smith ain't
sure but what he's a Socialist."

"I don't rightly know the meaning of it?" said Macdonald,
instinctively, turning to the blacksmith for an explanation.

"It may be a good thing, or it mayn't," declared Allison.  "I take it
that a Socialist means one as would take from those as has plenty and
give to those who has nothing.  We're born ekal into the world, and
they'd keep us ekal, as far as might be.  But it'd take a deal of
workin' out, more than you'd think, lookin' at it first; but I'm not
goin' to say that it wouldn't be handy to have a Socialist squire.  He
might divide his land ekal among us, and there'd be no more rent to pay
for any of us.  There now!"

A general murmur of approval ran round his audience, except with old
Macdonald, who gave a quaint smile.

"But it strikes me that such of us as have saved a tidy bit would have
to hand it out to be divided equal too.  It would not be fair as the
Squire should do it all; it would run through, you see."

"Well, I've not saved a brass farthing, so I should come in for a lot;
and I'd settle down and marry to-morrow!" cried Burney, gaily.  "But,
you may depend on it, whoever's got the place will stick to it.  I must
be getting on to the station.  Our people are coming back from abroad
this evening, and I'm to be there to help hoist up the luggage.  It
takes a carriage and pair to carry up the ladies, and an extra cart for
luggage."

"It's not the luggage you're going to meet, I'll bet; it's the lady's
maid," said a young fellow, who had not spoken before.  "If you married
next week we all know well enough whom you'd take for a wife;" and Tom
moved off amid a shout of laughter.

It was an open secret that Tom was head-over-ears in love with pretty
Rose Lancaster, the somewhat flighty maid of Miss Webster, who, with
her mother, was returning to the Court that evening.  Absence had made
his heart grow fonder, and it was beating much faster than usual as he
stood on the station platform awaiting the arrival of the train, and,
when it ran in with much splutter and fuss, not even by a turn of her
head did Miss Rose show herself aware of Tom's presence.  Instead, she
was looking after her ladies, lifting out their various belongings--not
a few in number--and ordering round the porters with a pretty pertness
as she counted out the boxes from the van.  It was only when she found
her own box missing that she turned appealingly to Tom.

"Run, there's a good boy, quick to the other van!" she said,
acknowledging him with a nod.  "It must have got in there, and the
train will be off in another moment."

Tom ran as requested, pantingly rescued the box, and came back smiling
to tell her of his successful search.

"That's right," said Rose, graciously.  "Now you can help me on to the
box-seat of the carriage, if you like.  I'm going to sit beside Mr.
Dixon."

Dixon was the coachman, and a formidable rival in Tom's eyes.

"I thought, perhaps, as you'd come along of me.  I'm drivin' the cart
back for Berry, as he had a message in the village.  I've not seen you
for such a time, Rose."

"Come with you!" said Rose, with a toss of her head.  "The ladies would
not like it; besides, we shall meet sure enough some day soon.  I
mustn't wait a minute longer.  You need not help me unless you like."

But poor Tom, under the pretext of making some inquiry about the
luggage, managed to be near so as to hand up Rose to her seat by the
coachman, who appeared far more absorbed in the management of his
horses than in the young woman who sat by him, upon whom he did not
bestow even a glance, preserving a perfectly imperturbable countenance.

"He's pretending! just pretending--the scamp!" said Tom, under his
breath, turning back to his horse and cart.

A strange man stood near stroking the animal's head and keeping a light
hand on its bridle.  He wore a loosely fitting brown suit, and the hand
that caressed the horse was almost as brown as his clothes.  His head
was closely cropped and his face clean-shaven, showing the clear-cut,
decided mouth and chin, and the white, even teeth displayed by the
smile with which he greeted Tom.

"You may be glad I was at hand or your cart with its cargo of luggage
would have been upset in the road," he said.  "It's not a wise thing to
leave a creature like this standing alone when a train is starting off."

A quick retort was on the tip of Tom's tongue; he had no fancy for
being called to account by a perfect stranger, but, although the words
sounded authoritative, the tone was good-humoured.

"Thank you, I only left him for a moment; he stands quiet enough as a
rule," he said, taking the bridle into his hand.

The stranger picked up the small portmanteau he had set down in the
road, and prepared to walk off, then turned half-hesitatingly back to
Tom.

"Can you tell me where I can get a night or two's lodging?  It does not
much matter where it is as long as it is clean and quiet."

Tom took off his cap and rubbed his head thoughtfully.

"Mrs. Lake's a wonderful good sort of woman."

"And who may Mrs. Lake be?" inquired the stranger, pleasantly.

"She keeps the Blue Dragon, but I couldn't say as it's exactly quiet of
a Saturday night.  She don't allow no swearin' on her premises, but
some of the fellers gets a bit rowdy before they go home."

"Very possibly," replied his companion, dryly.  "I don't think the Blue
Dragon would suit me; but surely there is some cottager with a spare
bed and sitting-room, who might be glad of a quiet, respectable lodger
for a bit?"

Tom threw a searching glance at the speaker; he was not quite sure
that, notwithstanding his gentle manner of talking, he was to be
altogether trusted.

"If you'd step up beside me I'll drive you to the forge," he said,
willing to shelve his responsibility of recommendation.  "It's close
here, and Allison will help you if no one else can.  He knows every
one's business."

"Just the sort of man I want," said Tom's new acquaintance, climbing
into the cart and seating himself on the cushion that had been intended
for Rose.  His alert grey eyes took in his new surroundings at a glance.

No one could call Rudham a pretty village: it was too straggling, too
bare of trees, which had been planted sparsely and attained no
luxuriance of growth; but it was not wholly unattractive this evening,
with the setting sun turning to gold the varying bends of the river
which ran through the valley, and the cottages and farmhouses dotted
here and there with a not unpleasing irregularity, and in the distance
a softly rising upland turning from blue to purple in the evening light.

"Yonder's the Court, where my people live," said Tom, jerking his whip
to a big house more than a mile away that peeped out from among the
trees.  "It belonged to the old squire who was buried to-day, you know."

"Ah!" ejaculated his listener, not greatly interested, apparently, in
the information.

"It's a wonderful fine place, and they say as he who's to have it won't
hold no store by it.  Pity, ain't it?"

Tom's companion broke into rather a disconcerting laugh.

"Look here, my lad, by the time you're thirty you won't give credit to
every bit of gossip that comes to your ears; you'll wait to know that
it's true before you pass it on, at any rate.  This will be the forge
you spoke of, and there's the owner, sure enough, standing at the door.
Thank you for the lift, and here's a shilling for your trouble."

But Tom thrust away the proffered tip with a shake of his head.

"No, thank you; you kept the horse safe at the station."

"So, on the principle that one good turn deserves another, you'll give
me a lift for nothing.  All right and thank you," said the man,
dismounting and lifting out his portmanteau.  "Good night."

"Good night," said Tom, with an answering nod.  "I wonder what his
business is?" he thought, as he pursued his way.  "Shouldn't be
surprised if he was the engineer who's to see to the laying down of the
new line; he's that quick, smart way with him as if he'd been about a
lot and knew a thing or two."

"Lodgings!" echoed Allison, slowly, as the stranger reiterated his
request.  "It's not a thing we are often asked for in Rudham.  I'd make
no objection to taking you in myself, but Mrs. Allison's not partial to
strangers."

"I should be sorry to inconvenience Mrs. Allison; is there no one else
you can think of?"

"Mrs. Pink 'ud do it; but she's a baby who's teething, and fretful o'
nights."

"And that would not suit me!" said the newcomer, with decision.

"I have it!" cried Allison, bringing down his big hand with a
resounding slap upon his knee.  "Mrs. Macdonald's the body for you!
There's not a better woman in Rudham, and I know 'em pretty well in
these parts.  Her husband's only just gone up street; he were talkin'
here not five minutes ago.  There's only their two selves, and the
cottage one of the best in the place."

"It sounds as if it would suit me down to the ground.  And if Mrs.
Macdonald could give me shelter, even for a few nights, it would give
me time to look about me."

"Thinkin' of settlin' in these parts?" inquired Allison.  "There's no
house as I knows on vacant."

"I've no settled plans at present," answered the stranger.  "If you'll
kindly direct me to Mrs. Macdonald's, I'll go and try my fate."

"Eighth house from here, set back a bit from the road, with a little
orchard behind it; and you can say as I sent you," said Allison,
feeling his name a good enough recommendation for any stranger.

The door of the eighth house set back a little from the road was
partially open as the new arrival made his way up the box-bordered
path, with beds on either side of it gay with flowers; and before he
could knock a neatly dressed middle-aged woman threw it wide and
surveyed him from head to foot.

"And what may you be wanting, sir?" she asked, quite civilly.

"A lodging for a night or two.  And Mr. Allison at the forge seemed to
think you might be inclined to take me in."

"I'm not sure as my John will wish it.  But if you'll step inside I'll
ask him," replied Mrs. Macdonald, motioning him to a chair.

"Unless they turn me out by force, I shall stay," he said, looking
round him with a pleased smile.

It was not his fault, but "my John's" deafness, that caused him to hear
himself described as a "very decent man, who spoke as civil as a
gentleman; and it was awkward to find yourself in a strange place on a
Saturday night with nobody ready to put themselves about a bit to take
you in."

"John will yield in the long run," sighed the unwilling listener.
"Mrs. MacD. rules the roost, unless I'm greatly mistaken."

Apparently his conjecture was right, for in another minute the woman
reappeared to say that she and her husband were willing to let him have
the front bed and sitting-room if, after due inspection, they proved
good enough for him.

"We're not used to grand folk," she said, a trifle awed by the sight of
the portmanteau.  "I cooked for a plain family before I married my
John, and----"

"Then it's certain that you can cook for me; I'm not nearly so much
trouble as a plain family," said her visitor, laughing.  "I'll carry up
my things if you'll show me the way, for I shall go no further than
this to-night.  I dare say you can give me some tea, and then I'll go
out and order in some food."

"I dare say you eat hearty, sir; or we've some fine new-laid eggs,"
suggested Mrs. Macdonald.

"The very thing.  You can't get such a thing in London; the youngest
new-laid egg is about a month old, I fancy.  Thank you," (with a glance
round the dimity-curtained room, fragrant with lavender); "I shall be
as happy as a king."

When her lodger was safely established at his evening meal, and Mrs.
Macdonald was satisfied that she could provide nothing more for his
comfort, she went upstairs to tidy his room, shaking her head a little
over the various things that littered the floor and table.

"He's not so tidy as my John, but he's not got his years over his
head," she said, as she closed the portmanteau and shoved it towards
the dressing-room table.

As she did so the name on the label caught her eye, she could not help
reading it; and then drew in her breath with a sharp exclamation of
surprise.  The next instant she hurried softly but quickly down the
stairs, took her astonished helpmeet by the arm, and dragged him into
the orchard, closing the kitchen door behind her.

"John!" she said, "who do you think has come to us?  Who is it that has
come quite humble like for shelter under our roof this night?"

In her eagerness to extract an answer she pinched the arm she held a
little.

"It's not a riddle you're asking me?" said John, withdrawing himself a
pace.

"No, no, man!  it's the young squire himself, for sure.  Paul Lessing
is on his portmanter," she said looking round, for fear she should be
overheard by a neighbour.  The news must be digested.




CHAPTER II.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR INHERITANCE.

A week before, Paul Lessing and his only sister Sally had started for a
three week's tour on the continent, with as light-hearted a sense of
enjoyment as any boy or girl home for the summer vacation.  They were
orphans, with only each other to care for; and Paul had not feared to
take up some of their slender capital to enable his sister to complete
her college course at Girton.  If she had to earn her own living, she
should at least have the best education that money could give; and
Sally had made the best use of her opportunity.  Her name was high in
the honour list, and Paul decreed that, before any plans were discussed
for her future, they should dedicate a certain sum to a foreign tour.

"It will be a good investment, Sally.  You are looking pale after all
your work.  We will make no definite plan; it's distance that swallows
up the money, so we'll start off for Brussels, and move on when we feel
inclined, possibly to the Rhine, and so to Heidelberg."  And Sally, in
the joyousness of her mood, felt that all places would be alike
delightful in the company of her brother.

Two days later found the brother and sister seated in the garden of the
_caf�_ that adjoins the park at Brussels.  Even now, at eight o'clock
in the evening, it was exceedingly hot, and the boughs of the trees
overhead, through which here and there a star glimmered, were
absolutely motionless.  The band which played was the best string-band
in Brussels, attracting a great throng of listeners; and every table
around them had its complement of guests; and the civil waiters who
flitted hither and thither had almost more than they could do to keep
the tables properly served.  Paul was smoking and reading the paper,
but Sally needed no better amusement than to watch the various groups
about her, and to listen to the exquisite playing of the band.

"We want something like this in England, Paul," she said, laying a hand
on his arm--"lots of places like this out-of-doors in the fresh air,
under the stars and trees, where people can go and drink their tea or
coffee, and listen to music that must refine them whilst they listen."

Paul laid by his paper and laughed.  "Yes," he said, "and when I get
into Parliament--if ever--I will do my utmost to make some of our
wealthy citizens disgorge a part of their wealth to put places such as
this within the reach of everybody.  I confess there are
difficulties----"

"What?" inquired Sally, with childish impatience.

"Our beastly climate, to begin with," Paul answered with a little
laugh.  "Want of space, and want of trees when you get the space.  Then
look at our population in our big cities.  Brussels is just a
pocket-town, if you come to compare it with London.  Of course the
recreation of the masses is only one of the many vexed questions
concerning them that Government eventually must take in hand.  If you
want people to be moral, you must give them a chance of enjoying
themselves in an innocent fashion."

"Of course, you could do a lot if you once got into Parliament!" cried
Sally, with the enthusiasm of her twenty years.  "When shall you get
in? and where shall you stand for? and may I help in the election?"

Paul laughed louder than before.  "There's a deal to be done before I
can even think of standing for any place.  First, I must accumulate
enough capital to bring me in a small independent income.  You know we
have not much now."

"You can have anything and everything that belongs to me; I mean to
earn my living somehow," declared Sally, sturdily.

"Thank you.  I don't mean to start that way; and money comes in slowly
to a barrister, although I am getting on fairly well.  Then I will
stand for any place that will return me, after learning my honestly
expressed political opinions.  Each man has his pet hobby, and I feel
that mine is the bettering of the condition of the masses."

"That will make you popular," said Sally.

"And I don't care a fig for popularity.  I want to help to leave the
average condition of the people better than it is at present.  The
contrast between the very rich and the very poor of our land is
something too awful to contemplate."

His talk, which he had begun half in play, had ended in deadly earnest;
and Sally laid her hand mischievously over his eyes.

"Then don't contemplate it--at any rate just now, when I am so merry
and happy.  You've not answered my last question.  May I help in your
election?  It would be such fun."

"I think not, Sally," Paul said smiling again.

"Oh, what a mass of inconsistency!--when you were saying only to-day
that you saw no just cause or impediment why women should not do
anything for which they have a special fitness.  Now I feel politics
will be my speciality, and I would not canvass for any one unless I
quite understood their views."

"Well, my Parliamentary career is in the far future," Paul interposed;
"and certainly I should not give my sanction to your undertaking any
work of that kind at present.  You are much too young, and much too----"

"Pretty, were you going to add?" broke in Sally, with a ripple of
laughter.  "I'm afraid not: enthusiastic would be the more likely
adjective for you to use concerning me.  Besides I don't think I am
pretty.  'My dear,' said that candid old Miss Sykes to me the other
day, 'you might have been very good-looking if all your features were
as good as your eyes.'  Why do ladies of a certain age take it for
granted that they can say what they choose to the budding young woman?
It annoys me frightfully.  Oh, Paul!" with a sudden lowering of her
voice, "talking of pretty, there's a perfectly lovely girl who is
seated with her mother at the third table from ours.  Don't turn your
head too quickly or she will think we are talking of her; and then you
can keep your head turned in the direction of the band.  Her profile
comes in between it and you."

Paul did as he was bid.  Sally was right, the girl to whom she directed
his attention was lovely beyond compare; and yet there was something in
her face that failed to satisfy him.  The very perfection, too, of
everything about her, gave him a feeling of unconscious irritation.

"Well?" asked Sally, when he turned back to her.

"She's beautiful, certainly; but I don't like her."

"It's just because you did not discover her first."

Paul did not trouble to answer; there was a general stir amongst the
company.  The concert was drawing to a close, and the burghers of
Brussels began to think of home and bed.  The wives slipped their
knitting into their pocket; the husbands bestowed a passing nod and
guttural good night to each other as they moved away; and the twinkling
lights began to be extinguished one by one.  In the crowd at the
entrance Paul and Sally found themselves close to the girl whom Sally
had so greatly admired.  She was talking in low, clear tones to her
mother.

"Ought not to have come?  What nonsense, mother!  It has been quite an
amusing experience to see the way these people pass their evenings;
they are quite nice and respectable.  I confess now I should be glad to
see our carriage.  I feel I'm getting smoke-dried like bacon--or ham,
is it?"

It was evident that the elder of the two ladies was rather frightened
and losing her head.

"I'll not do this again without a man of our own," she said with
nervous irritability.

Paul stepped forward, raising his hat.  "Is your carriage anywhere
about?  Can I get it for you?"

"Oh, thank you so much.  It's a private one from the Hotel de Flandres,
and I told the man to stop here."

"Unfortunately the police regulations interfere with your orders," Paul
said, with a slight smile.  "He must take his place in the ranks.  I
will soon find it for you if you will stay here."

"Name, Webster," said the older lady.

So Paul, with a nod to Sally to stay where she was, hurried off,
returning in a moment with the carriage.

"Thanks so much," said the girl whom Sally admired, as Paul handed her
in and closed the door behind her.

"I was quite glad of the time to consider her more closely!" cried
Sally, as they drove off.  "I've never seen what I call an absolutely
perfect face before.  I wonder if I shall see her again?"

"For my part I don't wish it," Paul answered carelessly.  "Beautiful
she is; but she bears the knowledge of it about with her like an
overpowering perfume, and is the very impersonation of the insolence of
riches!"

"Why, Paul, you are not often either narrow-minded or unjust."

"How dare she comment upon these Belgians, who nearly all possess a
smattering of English, under their very noses!" continued Paul,
angrily.  "'Quite nice and respectable,' indeed!  As she and her mother
were in a fix I was bound, as a man, to offer my services; but I did it
unwillingly."

Paul's indignation was short-lived, and he and Sally walked along the
streets leisurely, on their way back to their hotel, talking on
indifferent subjects.  They paused in the hall of the hotel, running
their eyes over the letters displayed outside the post-office, to see
if the evening post had brought any for them.  There were none for
Sally; but two or three for Paul, that had been forwarded from his
chambers in London.

"I'll go into the salon and read them, and then we'll go upstairs to
bed.  I feel infected by the early hours of these foreigners," he said,
yawning a little.

Sally turned over the leaves of a paper whilst her brother opened his
letters.  The last of them he read and re-read several times; then rose
and laid his hand on Sally's shoulder.

"I'm awfully sorry, Sally, but I shall have to go back to London by the
first train to-morrow."

The long-drawn "O-o-o-h!" was powerless to express half the
disappointment his sister felt.

"It's business, I suppose: everything nasty is always business," she
said at last.

"Well, no, it's not business; and it certainly is not pleasure.  You
remember I had an old godfather, Major Lessing?  I'm sure he amply
fulfilled his godfatherly duty by the silver milk-jug he gave me at my
baptism--which I've never set eyes on for many a long year, by the
way--and the tips he shoved into the palm of my hand whenever I paid
him a visit on my way from school.  I don't think I've seen him since;
and why, now that he's dying, he has a particular desire for a call, I
can't tell you.  It's inconvenient, to say the least of it."

"_Must_ you go?" asked Sally, despairingly.

"I'm afraid so.  It's the last thing one can do for him, poor old chap!"

"He might have chosen some other time to be ill," said Sally, who, not
knowing the major, was inclined to be heartless.

"Well, yes.  But we won't lose our holiday; we'll come again later,
Sally."

"We shan't!  I'm perfectly certain we shan't!" cried Sally, turning
away her head so that Paul should not see that there were tears in her
eyes.  "It was too delightful a plan to carry out."

The next day found Paul and his sister back in London.  Sally was to go
to an aunt for a few days, until Paul could settle his plans; and when
he had seen her off from the station, he turned his own steps in the
direction of the quiet square where his godfather had spent his
solitary life since the days of his retirement from active service.
His eyes turned instinctively to the windows, to see if the blinds were
drawn down; but the house wore its usual aspect of dignified reserve,
with its slightly opened casements.  The imperturbable butler, who
answered Paul's ring at the bell, seemed at first inclined to question
his right to enter.

"My master is very sadly, sir; he's not fit to see any one."

"But he sent for me," said Paul, quietly.  "Will you let him know, as
soon as possible, that Paul Lessing has come in answer to his letter?"

At the mention of the familiar name Smith's manner altered perceptibly;
he threw open the library door and ushered Paul in.  It was scarcely a
minute before he returned.

"My master is awake and will see you at once, sir."

"Has he been long ill?" Paul asked.

"It's been coming on gradual for a year or more, sir.  Creeping
paralysis is what the doctors call it.  He's no use left in his legs,
and very little in his arms or hands; but his brain seems as active as
ever.  He took a turn for the worse last week, and the end, they think,
may come at any time."

"Thank you; I'll go upstairs now."

He entered the sick-room so quietly that the nurse, who sat by the
bedside, did not hear him; but the grey head on the pillow turned
quickly, and the dying eyes shone with eager welcome.

"I'm glad you've come; I thought you meant to leave it till too late,"
was the abrupt greeting.

"I was abroad, and did not get your letter at once," Paul said gently.

"And you came back?  That's more than many fellows would have done.
Nurse, draw up those blinds, and leave us, please; there are several
things I have to say.  No, you need not talk about my saving my
strength.  What good will it do?  A few minutes more life, perhaps," he
added testily, as he saw the nurse giving Paul some admonition under
her breath.  "Women are a nuisance, Paul; and at no time do they prove
it more than when you are ill and under their thumb.  There! take a
seat close by me, where I can see you."

"You wanted to see me about something particular, your lawyer told me,"
said Paul, filled with pity at the sight of the perfectly helpless
figure.  "It may be that I can carry out some wish of yours.  I should
be glad to be of service to you."

Major Lessing did not answer for some minutes, and Paul ascribed his
silence to exhaustion.  In reality the keen eyes were scanning Paul's
face critically, as if trying to read his character.

"I wanted to see you; and now you've come I don't know what to make of
you.  It has crossed my mind more than once since I've lain here, that
I've been a rash fool to make a man I know so little of, my heir."

Paul could not repress an exclamation of astonishment; the news gave
him anything but unmixed pleasure.

"It was surely very rash, sir.  I've no possible claim upon you.  I
have scarcely even any connection with you except the name."

"That's it," said the major.  "You have the name, and that must be
carried on and a distant tie of relationship; and there's something
else, Paul.  Years ago I wanted to marry your mother.  You are my
godson; you might have been my real son, you see."

Paul felt a lump in his throat; this love-story of long ago was
pathetic.  His mother had died when he was still quite a child, but she
lived in his memory as beautiful and fascinating.

"She was half Irish," he said.

The major nodded.  "So, partly from sentimental reasons, and partly
because there was no one better, I've left the property at Rudham to
you," he went on with a smile.  "There would have been plenty of money
to have left with it; but I've made some very bad speculations lately,
and lost a great deal.  I took to speculation from sheer want of
amusement.  I was a good billiard player as long as I had the use of my
limbs; but here I've been, literally tied by the legs, for the last two
years.  The only thing properly alive about me was my brain, and
speculation has interested me; but I was badly hit ten days ago.  There
will be some money, but you won't be a rich man."

"I don't care about it," interposed Paul, eagerly.

"Then you ought to; a landlord poorly off is in a bad case in these
days; and I want things kept as they are, Paul.  I've not lived at
Rudham, but I've kept my eye on it all the same; and what you call
progress, and its attendant abominations, has not hurt it much yet.  I
made a mistake when I let the bishop nominate a successor to the living
when old Gregg died three years ago.  Curzon's a go-ahead fellow, from
all that I hear; I don't want a go-ahead squire."

"I'm afraid you've made another mistake, and, if there's time, you had
better undo it," said Paul, gravely.

"Do I look like a man who can re-arrange all his matters?" asked the
Major, irritably.  "After all, what I ask of you is no very hard thing
to grant; simply to accept the good the gods provide, and let well
alone."

"But that for me is an impossible condition," said Paul.  "I cannot let
things alone if I feel that I can better them.  I'm in no way fitted
for a country squire; I've been brought up on different lines from you,
and arrived at very different conclusions.  I am grateful to you for
your thought of me, but I want to live my own life unfettered by any
conditions."

"And this is how you show your readiness to carry out any wish of
mine?" said the major, bitterly.

"I'm sorry; but I promised in the dark, not knowing that my principles
would be involved."

"I'm glad to hear you have any.  May I ask what you call yourself?  A
Lessing who is not a Conservative is not worthy of the name."

"I scarcely know what I am; but my friends call me a Socialist."

"Then in Heaven's name, I've made a bigger blunder than the last!" said
the squire, with an odd thrill in his voice.

"It's not my fault; and there may still be time to undo it," said Paul,
rising, for the flush that crept to the major's temples warned him that
the interview had been too long and too exciting.  "I would thank you,
if I could, for the thought of me, and I am sorry to have been the
cause of disappointment, but it would not have been honest to hide my
opinions."

"No; you've been honest enough, in all conscience.  If there's yet
time----"  He broke off, turning away his head, and taking no notice of
Paul's departure.

All that night Paul paced his room in deep thought.  The scene he had
witnessed had stirred him more than a little; and it grieved him to his
heart that he had so seriously disturbed the last moments of a dying
man.

"But I could not have hoodwinked him," he thought; "no honest man
could.  But to-morrow I'll prove to him that I am ready to help him in
any way that I can.  If he will only talk quietly, and keep his temper,
he could surely suggest some more fitting heir than I; and the business
details could be fairly quickly settled if I could take down his wishes
and see his lawyer.  He must yet have several days to live, I should
think, with his extraordinary vitality of brain."

At a very early hour the following morning, therefore, Paul presented
himself again at the house in the square, with the request that he
might have a short interview with the major.

"Very sorry, sir," said Smith, with an added gloom of manner, "but my
master's much worse; they don't think he'll live through the day.  He
was very restless last night; and nothing would satisfy him but that I
should go off in the middle of the night and fetch Mr. Morgan--the
lawyer as wrote to you, sir; but when I got him here my master had lost
his power of speech.  He knew Mr. Morgan quite well, but he could not
make him understand what he wanted."

"And now?" asked Paul, pitifully.

"The doctor is just coming down the stairs, and will speak to you, sir."

Paul went out into the hall to meet him.  "How did you find the major?"
Paul inquired.

"Dead," replied the doctor, drawing on his gloves.  "He died as I
entered the room."




CHAPTER III.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

"RUDHAM, Sunday Evening.

"DEAR SALLY,

"I did not, until now, believe myself a creature of impulse.  That I am
one is proved by the fact that, as I dropped my last letter to you into
the post-box, I made up my mind to run down here and have a look round;
and here I am.  My surroundings I will describe later.  I told you I
had decided not to go to poor old Major Lessing's funeral for various
reasons.  I have a horror of humbug; and to pose as sole and chief
mourner at the funeral of a man who had made me his heir by a fluke,
and if he had lived an hour longer would have altered his will, seemed
humbugging, to my mind.  Also the funeral service, beautiful as it
appears to those who can believe in it, means absolutely nothing to me;
and I have scruples about appearing as if it did.  Two surprises
awaited me at Rudham: first, that by the same train by which I arrived
Mrs. and Miss Webster got out upon the platform; and the beauty who
fascinated you 'all of a heap' at Brussels, turns out to be the tenant
of Rudham Court--_my_ tenant, in fact!--a judgment upon me, you will
say, for my unreasoning prejudice.  Secondly, the extreme difficulty of
getting a night's lodging, unless your character and circumstances are
well known, was borne in forcibly upon my mind!  An under-gardener of
Mrs. Webster's took me up in the cart which carried your charmer's
luggage.

"Judging by the size and number of the boxes, beauty needs a great deal
of adorning, by the way!  Then I was handed over to the village
blacksmith, and, under the shelter of his name, I persuaded a Mrs.
Macdonald to take me in.  You would describe her as 'quite a darling!'

"She and her husband are Scotch by birth, and still retain the soft
intonation and pretty accent.  They have no children--indeed, Mrs.
Macdonald informs me that they have not long been married; and she must
be fifty, and 'my John,' as she calls him, some ten years older; but I
have never seen two people more in love with each other.  If
surroundings are an index to character they must be very nice people
indeed.  Let me try and describe my room, which is furnished with the
solid simplicity of a hundred years ago.  A grandfather clock ticks
solemnly in the corner, two oak chairs stand on either side of the
fireplace, with down cushions in print covers on the seats--a
concession to modern luxury.  In place of the cheap modern sideboard an
open oak cupboard, whereon are displayed my dinner and tea-things,
furnishes one side of the room, leaving just sufficient space for two
Windsor chairs, polished to such a dangerous brightness that to sit
upon them without sliding off requires more careful balance than to
ride a bicycle.  An oak table with twisted legs, and flaps that let up
or down at will, is in the centre of the room.  One almost expects
clean rushes strewed upon the floor; instead there is linoleum of a
neat design--black stars upon a white ground; and Mrs. Macdonald prides
herself not a little upon the far-sighted policy that made her decide
upon linoleum rather than carpet.

"'It can be wiped over with a damp cloth every day, sir, and kept sweet
and clean; and if you're feet are cold, I'm not saying that I'll mind
your putting them on the rug, although I made it all myself'--which was
kind of Mrs. Macdonald!  My attention being thus drawn to the
hearthrug, I discover that it's a work of art, in its way, knitted in
with rags and tags of cloth, grave or gay in colouring, but harmonious
in the general effect.  You will think that I am developing a passion
for detail, but it is rather that I wish to photograph exactly my first
impressions of the place.  There seems a primitive simplicity about it
that must vanish at the first touch of modern progress like a pretty
old fresco exposed to the light, and I feel myself like a traitor in
the camp.  If I decide to live here I shall probably be the motive
force that will set the ball of progress rolling.  Life here is almost
stagnant, I fancy, unlike the river, which runs swift and strong along
the side of the village.  It separates from, rather than connects it
with the outer world, for there are dangerous currents which make it
not too safe for navigation; and to cross it you must either go to the
ferry, half a mile off, or make for the bridge at Nowell four miles
away.  I found out all this by a stroll after tea, last evening, and a
gossip with my new acquaintance, the blacksmith Allison.  Gradually the
talk turned to things parochial, and I discovered some characteristics
of the go-ahead parson, whose appointment to the living my godfather
gently deplored; and this was how it came about.  A tall,
powerful-looking man came swinging down the road at a brisk pace,
nodding in quick, alert fashion to one and another as he passed,
recognizing me as a stranger, but bidding Allison a cheerful good night
as he passed on in the direction of the inn.  By his dress I knew he
must be the parson of the place.  Allison, who had acknowledged his
greeting only by a sideways nod, gave a grunt of assent when I asked
him if it were so.

"'Curzon,' he said; 'that's his name, a meddlesome chap, if ever there
were one!  Now the last rector were a real gentleman!  You could please
yourself about going to church or staying at home; but he were
wonderful kind in sickness and such.'

"'And you miss the attention, I daresay?"

"'Well, I'm not saying that exactly.  Mr. Curzon's wonderful took up
with the sick folks and children, but it's us well ones he can't leave
alone.  His work's never done, as you may say.  Now what do you suppose
he's after to-night?' in a tone of angry argument.

"'I really can't guess.'

"'No; it's not likely you would.  He makes believe as he's gone for a
walk, but he'll be turning back again about such time as the men are
turning out of the public there!  Then, come next week, he'll be
droppin' into one cottage or another about such time as the man comes
in from work, and it'ull be, 'So and so, I'm afraid you had a glass too
much on Saturday night.  I wouldn't do it, if I was you;' and then he's
sure to put in something about coming to church on Sunday."

"And do they?' I asked.

"'Some on 'em.  Most of 'em, if I speaks the truth, gets tired of being
told of it, I think, and goes just to pacify him, as you may, say; but
I don't hold with it myself.'

"Apparently this faithful shepherd does succeed in driving a very large
proportion of his flock to church on Sunday.  Allison and I are
distinctly in a minority.  I was nearly being carried there forcibly
myself to-night; and I only escaped, I believe, because Mrs. Macdonald
has evolved, from the label on my portmanteau that I am the coming
squire, and must be allowed some liberty of opinion.

"'You'll be going to church to-night, sir,' she said, beginning the
attack with gentle firmness.  'John and I lock up the house and hide
the key under the mat, in case you come back before we do.  We have a
walk these summer evenings when church is over.'

"'Thank you, Mrs. Macdonald, you can leave the key in the door; I have
writing to do.'

"'But you'll be going to church, for sure; you were not there this
morning, I'm thinking, and the rector's sure to say something of him
that's gone.'

"I had not the courage of my opinions, like Allison.  How could I
grieve the kindly eyes that looked into mine?  So I took refuge in weak
evasion.

"'I've been over-worked and over-worried, Mrs. Macdonald, and my head
aches, and I need rest and quiet.'

"'Well there, sir; you'll forgive my making so bold, but it will grieve
the good man, if he knows you've come.  And there's a-many will be
disappointed not to catch a sight of you, besides.'

"'Whom do you mean by the good man?'

"'There now! it slipped out without thinking.  But it's what my John
and I call Mr. Curzon, for we've never come across such a one as he.'

"'And why am I to be a sort of show to the others?' I asked with some
curiosity.

"'Ah!  Because some of them begin to guess now who you are--not that
John nor I are much given to talk.  But when a neighbour asks your
name, we couldn't keep it no longer--could we, sir?'

"'Certainly not.  And they will all see me sooner or later, though it
won't be at church to-night.  I hope soon to know every one in the
place.'

"So finally I've been left in charge of the cottage, and have been
writing ever since this long rigmarole to you.  Mrs. Macdonald's words
have given me food for reflection, and, the more I reflect, the more
fully convinced I am how thoroughly unfitted I am to fill the place
allotted to me.  Had Major Lessing left me money enough to carry out my
own wishes, I should have been inclined to put his property in the
hands of a capable, fair agent, and do with it as Major Lessing
suggested, and keep things very much as they are; but I find that I
shall have little independent income apart from the property.  To keep
things in really working repair I shall probably have to raise the
rents--which are absurdly low--which, of course, will be a very
unpopular movement; and my being willing to live as simply as any of my
tenants, will not in the least soften their feeling towards me.  I
shall not do anything in a hurry, but I shall first try and master my
position.  After so many years of a non-resident squire of a strictly
conservative type, there must be need for improvements; but here again
comes in the question of money.  I am afraid that trip abroad must be
put off for the present.  How would it be for you to come here for a
bit?  I will sound Mrs. Macdonald on the subject to-morrow.  If I
undertake the management of things here myself, you would help me with
accounts, etc., and I could take you on as my paid secretary!  However
this is looking too far ahead.  I will keep this letter open and tell
you the result of my advances to-morrow."


"Monday Evening.

"I approached Mrs. Macdonald with much diplomacy this morning.  She
gave me the opening I sought by saying, when I ordered my dinner--

"'I suppose you'll be leaving to-day or to-morrow, sir.'

"'On the contrary, you are making me so comfortable, that I was going
to ask you to take me on for a few weeks, at any rate.'

"'But it isn't right or fitting that the likes of you should be living
in a cottage such as this.  The whole place belongs to you, I'm
thinking.'

"'I suppose it does.  But if I come to live here I shall start either
in a cottage, or quite a small house, with a sister of mine who has no
home, poor child!  How she would like to join me here, by the way.'

"Mrs. Macdonald played nervously with the string of her apron.  I could
see I had appealed to her motherly heart by representing you as a
motherless orphan.

"'I suppose you haven't a second bedroom,' I suggested, following up my
advantage.

"'It's a slip of a thing; not fit for a lady, sir.'

"'After all, ladies are much the same as other women; and my sister
might have the bigger bedroom and I the smaller.'

"'There's my John,' doubtfully.

"'Doesn't he like ladies?'

"'Not all of them, sir,' with a sudden burst of confidence.  'There's
Mrs. Webster; she called here one day to know if I'd take in some of
the washing--and he'd just come in from work,--and she marched into the
kitchen and talked very loud.  Though he's deaf he don't like no notice
taken of it; and he told her it 'ud be time enough for me to work when
he was laid by, and then he'd be sorry if I had to do it.'

"'But, of course, if Macdonald does not like us we will leave at once,'
I said, assuming that Mrs. Macdonald had agreed to have you.  So you're
to come, Sally; come as quickly as you can.  Don't bring much luggage,
for there is nowhere to put it; and pray remember to talk gently to our
host.  I cannot see why we should not double the size of this
cottage--put in a bath-room, and get Mrs. Macdonald to do for us; but
this will entirely depend upon your manners, you see.  I was preparing
to go out, when I saw a child's invalid carriage barring the entrance
to the gate, and a child's clear voice was giving very impressive
orders about the contents of a certain basket which was to be carried
up to the door.

"'You won't spill them, Nurse.  You'll be sure not to spill them;
they're so _very_ ripe they'd burst if you did.'

"'No, darling; I'll carry them as carefully as new-laid eggs.'

"The woman spoke like a lady; her tone was so gentle and refined.

"I was standing at the open door of the cottage, and went down the path
to meet her, asking if I could take in the basket to Mrs. Macdonald.

"'But they are not for her; they're for you.  But I'm afraid you're
better and don't want them,' said the voice from the carriage outside.

"'Whatever is inside that basket I'm sure to want,' I said, going out
to my odd little visitor; 'but I don't quite know why you are so kind
as to bring me things.  I'm afraid there's some mistake; I shall be so
disappointed if there is.'

"The blue eyes that looked up into mine began to smile.

"'Shall you really?  There can't be any mistake, because last night, as
Nurse wheeled me out of church, I heard daddy talking to Mrs.
Macdonald; and she said she'd got the new squire at home, but he'd a
dreadful headache and couldn't come.'

"I could scarcely help laughing; I certainly had not intended my words
to be accepted so literally.

"'Who are you?' I asked, 'and what's in that basket?  It wouldn't be
manners to peep inside, would it?'

"'Oh yes, it would,' with a delighted giggle.  'I'm Kitty--Kitty
Curzon,--and daddy says it's my work to look after any one who is not
well; and I'm to think what they will like, and take it to them.  So,
when I heard you had such a bad headache, I got Nurse to gather my last
red gooseberries--they are _very, very_ ripe,--and I've brought them
for you; and can I have the basket, please?'

"'Well, I can't accept them on the plea of headache: it's gone, you
see; but perhaps you will be so kind as to leave them all the same, for
if there is one thing I like more than another----"

"'It's gooseberries,' interposed Kitty, eagerly; and I nodded assent.

"The child shot a triumphant glance at Nurse.

"'She said you would not want them, and I'd better ask daddy; but he
likes me to think of things by myself.  And then at the end of the day
I tell him where I've been; and he'll be so surprised to-night, for he
didn't know I'd heard about you.'

"I carried off the basket, and brought it back, presently, empty.

"'I have not half thanked you, Kitty; but I am most grateful.  How old
are you, I wonder?'

"There was a moment's hesitation.  'I'm not young at all; I'm nine,
although you'd never think it, because I'm so small.  Daddy says
running about makes you grow, and I can't run.'

"'Her back is not strong, sir,' said Nurse, hurriedly; and as I looked
at the recumbent figure, I saw that the poor little child was deformed.
It seemed a terrible pity, for the face and head are singularly pretty.

"'That's why daddy says I must think of all the ill ones, because Nurse
and he think so much about me.'

"'Very well.  I shall be sure and send for you directly there is
anything the matter.  I fancy you would do me more good than a doctor.
And I've a sister coming, before long, and she will want companions.
You will have to come to tea.'

"'Is she as old as I am?'

"'A little older, I think.'

"'I'll come if daddy will let me; but Nurse must come too.'

"'By all means, and if you have any little brothers or sisters----'

"'I have not any.  There's only me,' interposed Kitty, shaking her head.

"'I wonder what her name is?'

"'My sister's, do you mean?  Sally.  Rather a nice name, isn't it?'

"Evidently Kitty did not like it much, for she said she must be going;
and went on her way, kissing her hand graciously, so I took off my hat
and waved it.

"From Mrs. Macdonald I gather that my first visitor is Mr. Curzon's
only child.  He is a widower, it seems, and Kitty is the cause of his
holding a country living.  By my landlady's account he is simply
wrapped up in her.  I have been the round of the village to-day, making
acquaintance with one and another as occasion offered.  As I
conjectured there seems plenty to be done; and it must be some months
before I can stir hand or foot, before I can get things even into my
own hands--not that the people here realize this in the very least.
Indeed they are intellectually dead; they seem to possess no ambition
of any sort.

"I went into the parish church on my way home.  It is an interesting
one, built about the end of the thirteenth century, with a magnificent
tower that one can see for miles round.  I found a great many monuments
to the Lessings--a very virtuous lot, if their memorial tablets are to
be trusted.  The church has been carefully restored--quite recently, I
fancy, by the look of it.  Then I went into the churchyard, where a
newly-filled-in grave showed me where my poor godfather had been laid.
The sacristan, a very old, infirm man was putting it tidy; and to my
astonishment I saw a low vase of white flowers placed in the very
centre of the grave.

"'I suppose I am not mistaken,' I said.  'This must be Major Lessing's
grave?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'And who put the flowers?'

"'Miss Kitty, the little maid at the rectory.  She said she'd thought
he'd be lonely without any;' and the sacristan straightened his back
with a little smile.

"'I hope you don't mind,' said a voice behind me.  'I've a notion your
relative did not like flowers at a funeral, but I could not upset
Kitty's conviction that he did.'

"It was the rector who had come upon me unawares, and he did not
pretend not to know me.

"'What can it matter now?' I answered.  'He'll know nothing of it.'

"But I must stop, I've no time to describe the good man.  Come and see
him for yourself.

"Ever yours,

"PAUL LESSING."




CHAPTER IV.

OPPOSING VIEWS.

The man who some centuries earlier had built Rudham Court, had been
wiser than the generation in which he lived in his choice of a site.
Instead of a valley he had chosen the side of a hill, and the sloping
foreground had been levelled into a succession of terraces, giving the
impression of an almost mountainous ascent to the house from the road
which lay beneath.  The house, not beautiful in itself, was softened by
the hand of time into a dull red that contrasted harmoniously with the
group of trees behind it, and the gravelled terrace in front with its
box-bordered beds was a blaze of colour in the brilliant sunshine of
the August morning.  It was bordered by a low stone wall along which
two peacocks strutted with almost ridiculous self-consciousness of
their beauty.  In the very centre was a flight of steps which descended
to the bowling-green beneath, where the yew hedge which grew round it
had been fantastically cut into the shape of an embattlemented parapet,
framing the distant view into a series of charming little pictures:
here a glimpse of the river, there a delightful vignette of the church.

Across the velvety turf of the green tripped Rose Lancaster, dangling a
basket from her arm, a picture herself in her pink cambric frock and
befrilled apron, a little French cap set upon her head which enhanced
the beauty of the golden hair.  Her skin was of the delicate colouring
that so often accompanies fair hair, the mouth generally wore a smile
displaying Rose's pretty dimples, and the great blue eyes were half
concealed by the long lashes.  She made her way to the wicket-gate at
the far end of the green, to a winding path through a wood which led to
the rose-garden below, and gave a start of pretended surprise when Tom
Burney broke off from his task of mowing the grass paths which
separated the beds, with an exclamation of delight.

"You here!" said Rose, who had watched the direction of his steps from
a window above.  "I've come after some roses, if I can find any.
Nothing satisfies Miss Webster but roses on the mantel-shelf of her
sitting-room, and it does not matter to her whether they are in season
or out.  Roses she must have.  Are there any coming on, Tom?"

[Illustration: "I've come after some roses."]

"Bother the roses!" said Tom, impatiently.  "You've been back nearly a
fortnight, and have not spoken a word to me yet."

"That's ungrateful.  I walked to church with you on Sunday evening, and
I told you lots of things I did when we were away."

"Dixon joined us, and you let him!" said Tom, angrily.

"How could I help it?" Rose answered, arching her pretty brows.  "I
could not say I didn't want him, could I?"

"Are you going to walk with him or me, Rose?  I asked you before you
went away, and I want to know now."

Rose meditatively clipped off a bud, crying out a little as a thorn
pricked her finger, holding out the injured member for Tom to look at;
but he looked over it at her, a flush on his handsome face.

"It may be play to you; it isn't to me," he said, his voice shaking a
little.  "Did you get the letter I wrote?"

"I don't know; I forget.  I had a lot of letters.  Yes, I expect I did."

"And you didn't trouble to answer it?"

"It's clear you don't know what a lot a lady's maid has to do when
she's travelling," said Rose, petulantly.  "It's 'Lancaster' here and
'Lancaster' there, and you've no sooner packed up than you begin
unpacking again.  What time should I get for answering letters?'"

"I wanted to know if you'd thought over what I said?"

"You can't expect me to remember what you said six weeks ago."

"You do remember, only you don't want to give a straight answer.
That's about it," said Tom, bitterly.

"I like walking with you both, though not together.  There!" cried
Rose, with a defiant toss of her head.  "I'm young; I don't mean to be
tied!"

"But you'll care for the one who loves you best, and that's me!" burst
out poor Tom.  "Dixon may be smarter, and he's a deal better off; but
he's a glib sneak, and I know it.  I'll wait three months, and then
I'll have my answer; and if it's 'No' I'll be fit to drown myself," and
Tom's voice broke off in something very like a sob.

Rose was flattered but frightened at realizing her power over the lad.
It was like a book, that he should threaten to drown himself for love
of her; but of course he did not mean it.  She was sorry for him; when
she was with him she almost believed she loved him, but at any rate she
need not decide now.  Three months hence she might know her own mind.

"Well, we'll wait three months and see what happens; and meantime I do
hope you'll be careful not to quarrel with Dixon."

"I shall if he comes in my way," declared Tom, sturdily.  "I don't
wonder he wants you himself--any man would; but he should play fair."

"He's no quarrel with you; he said you were a decent sort of a lad, the
other day."

Tom clenched his fist involuntarily.  "That's just it!--he's always
trying to run me down in your eyes.  A lad, indeed!  I'm a man who
wants the same girl he does, and that's yourself, Rose."

Rose laughed gaily; it was nice to find herself so much in request.

"Man or boy, I can't stay talking to you all day.  Pick me any roses
there are, and let me go.  I believe" (in a lowered undertone) "that I
hear the ladies talking up there on the bowling-green.  They've come
out to sit in the shade, I expect."

Rose's conjecture was right, for, as she went back to the house, she
caught a glimpse of Miss Webster and her mother seated under the large
tree at the far end of the lawn.

"How pretty she is," said May Webster, following her retreating figure
with lazy eyes.  "As pretty as the roses she carries.  I do hope she
won't get snapped up at once.  She is a pleasant little thing to have
about one--which reminds me, mother.  I saw a pretty girl of a
different type in the village yesterday, whom I believe to be Miss
Lessing.  What are you going to do about her and her brother?"

"Nothing at present, I think.  One really can't leave cards on a
cottage!"

"But you might on the people in it.  We can't very well ignore the
squire of the place who is also our landlord."

"It will be time enough to recognize him when he behaves like other
people."

"I don't see that he's a bit more peculiar than the University men who
take to slumming.  Anybody may do anything nowadays," May said with a
little laugh.

"He doesn't even come to church," persisted Mrs. Webster.

"A weakness shared by many men."

"But his sister might and _ought_," replied her mother, severely.

"Mr. Curzon seems to think it equally necessary for men and women,"
said May, mischievously.

"Oh yes.  Of course he's a dear good man, and I wish we were all like
him, but we aren't," answered Mrs. Webster, resigning all hope of
anything but moral mediocrity with a gentle sigh.  "He says Mr. Lessing
is a very nice fellow; but you can't quite rely on his opinion: he's a
good word for every one."

"Which is delightful, but not amusing; and one does need amusement,
mother.  Suppose we call at the cottage and follow up the call by an
invitation to dinner.  We might ask the rector to meet them."

"The worst of asking the rector is that he always wants something,"
said Mrs. Webster, a little plaintively.

"That we haven't got?"

"Oh, May, you know quite well what I mean!  It must be the heat that is
making you so argumentative.  Mr. Curzon always has some pet hobby on
hand for which he wants money, and of course he ought to have it; but
really, just now, what with a trip abroad, and the London house to
paint and paper throughout, I've not so much in hand as usual."

"Enough for the rector's last hobby, I dare say.  At any rate let's
risk it.  If we all air our different views we might have an exciting
evening."

"I wish things were as they used to be.  The old major was such a
thorough gentleman.  It was quite a pleasure to give him a bed or
dinner when he came down."

"Is not this man a gentleman, then?"

"Oh, my dear, I hope so; but he has queer views, if all I hear be true.
I'm sure, if he says anything at dinner about our being all equal, I
shan't be able to hold my tongue.  We never were and never can be."

"I believe Mr. Curzon thinks we are; only he likes poor people _much_
the best.  He says the truest gentleman he ever came across is old
Macdonald."

"Now it is wild talk like that that makes me sometimes distrust Mr.
Curzon; and he ought to know better, being of such good family
himself," said Mrs. Webster, fretfully.  "Is it not at the Macdonalds
that the Lessings are lodging?  As you seem to wish it, we will call
this afternoon."

Paul Lessing was out when the smart carriage and pair drew up at the
Macdonald's cottage in the course of the afternoon; and Sally had to
receive her two visitors alone.  Mrs. Webster's ample presence seemed
to fill the tiny sitting-room; but she placed herself graciously enough
in one of the cushioned elbow-chairs, whilst May subsided into the
slippery Windsor as gracefully as if it were the softest sofa.  There
was something about Sally that pleased her; it may have been a certain
originality and freshness of manner, or the unconscious admiration that
shone in the dark eyes.  Nothing in its way pleases a handsome woman
more than the admiration of her own sex.  Be this as it may, May
Webster laid herself out to charm, and did it very successfully, and by
judicious management prevented her mother from asking any leading
questions as to Mr. Lessing's future line of conduct.  Mrs. Webster's
small talk so often took the line of asking questions.

Paul was not properly grateful when he found the cards upon the
mantelshelf.

"It's a dreadful bore; but I'm afraid it can't be helped.  You can
return the call sometime, and there will be an end of it."

"There may be for you, but there won't be for me!" said Sally, with
some spirit.  "I'm catholic in my choice of companions, and mean to
include everybody who cares to know me.  Mrs. Macdonald is charming,
and Allison amuses me, and Mrs. Pink and I have made friends over the
baby; but why I should refuse a proffer of friendship from Miss
Webster, because she happens to be a beauty and dresses well, I don't
exactly see!"

"Friendship!" echoed Paul, scornfully.  "How little you know of smart
people and their ways.  Friendship with them means a stepping-stone to
higher things; your means and your position must give them a leg up in
the world.  Now we have neither."

"You are shaking my faith in you, Paul.  You are judging without
knowing."

"I am not judging the Websters individually--only the class to which
they belong; of which I _do_ know something, and you nothing."

"Well, I think I will learn for myself then!" cried Sally.  "I'll start
by believing people as nice as they appear, until I find them
otherwise."

"And are Mrs. and Miss Webster 'nice,' as you call it?" asked Paul, his
curiosity overcoming his vexation.

"I did not like Mrs. Webster much: the room did not seem big enough to
hold her."

"I told you so!" said Paul, triumphantly.

"Oh, Paul! you might be a woman," replied Sally, with mocking laughter.
"But listen; Miss Webster is as nice as she looks!  Can you want more?"

"It's a good thing to be young and enthusiastic."

"Certainly better than being old and cynical," retorted Sally, saucily.

The next morning's post brought a crested envelope, directed in a
dashing hand, to Sally, inviting Paul and herself to dinner at the
Court on the following evening.

"We shall be simply a family party," wrote the lady; "but, with such
near neighbours, I thought it more friendly to invite you for the first
time quite informally."

"You don't want to go!" exclaimed Paul, who felt the meshes of the
society net closing round him.

"Of course I do.  I want to see your house, and to feel what it would
be like to live there."

"I don't believe you have a proper frock to go in.  A coat and skirt
won't do."

"What nonsense!  I've an evening dress, of a sort; and they don't
invite my frock, but me!"

"We'll go, then, as you've set your heart upon it; but I feel as if it
were the letting out of water."

Certainly Paul had no reason to complain of Sally's appearance when she
came down ready dressed for her dinner on the following evening.  In
her simple white dress, cut away at the throat, with a soft muslin
fichu tied in front with long ends falling to the bottom other skirt,
she looked, as old Macdonald afterwards remarked to his wife, "as a
lady should:" fair, and fresh, and young.  Her dusky hair waved
prettily upon her forehead, and half concealed her ears; the face it
framed was not, strictly speaking, pretty, but it was bright and
animated, and the dark eyes and eyebrows were handsome.

"I've won one person's approval at any rate," said Sally, merrily, as
they started on their way.  "I went in to bid Macdonald good night, and
Mrs. Macdonald said, as she helped me on with my cape, that 'my John'
likes ladies to wear white dresses and have pale faces.  He could not
abide colour, except in flowers."

"Then you are fulfilling your mission, Sally, and winning your way into
Macdonald's good graces.  We shan't be turned out."

"It's my first dinner-party, Paul.  Do you realise the importance of
the occasion?  I've had no coming-out like other girls."

"That's why you are so much jollier than most of them," said Paul,
betrayed into a compliment.

From the moment they entered the drive-gate, and began the ascent to
the house, Sally looked about her with eager interest, breaking into
exclamations of delight as each step revealed some fresh beauty to her
eyes.

"It's a dangerous experiment to have brought you.  You will be horribly
discontented with Macdonald's, after this."

"I shan't.  But if this place were mine, I should live here, and make
it a joy to everybody about me.  I would not want to keep it to
myself," Sally said--

But the front door was reached, and a footman was at hand to help her
off with her cloak; and in another instant the door of the long
drawing-room was thrown wide, and Sally, with the un-self-consciousness
of simplicity, heard herself announced, and found her hand in Mrs.
Webster's, who retained it as she led her on towards a tall, handsome
man who stood talking to Miss Webster.

"Mr. Curzon, allow me to introduce Miss Lessing.  You've been away with
your little Kitty, so I don't think you've met each other yet."

Then Sally realized that she stood face to face with the good man, and
that he was to take her in to dinner, so that she would have time to
consider him carefully.  Mrs. Webster placed her hand graciously on
Paul's arm when dinner was announced, and May trailing yards of
amber-coloured silk behind her, sailed in by herself.

The dinner-table was oval, and Sally found herself seated between the
Rector and May; on the other side sat Paul, with Mrs. Webster and May
to talk to alternately.  The very perfection of her surroundings
engaged Sally's attention at first: the delicately shaded lights
shining down on the dainty flowers, and silver and glass; the dinner,
remarkable rather for elegance than profusion; the family portraits on
the wall, bewigged and befrilled, which stood at ease, and glanced down
on the company with a sort of haughty indifference; the heavy, handsome
furniture combining beauty with comfort; and last, but not least, May
herself, whose beauty in her evening dress was simply dazzling.

Paul, reduced to commonplaces, was asking Mrs. Webster if the place
suited her.

"A leading question, Mr. Lessing," she answered, with a sort of heavy
playfulness.  "I've no doubt you would be glad to hear it did not.  But
we are so fond of it, May and I; it's just the country place we want
for the summer months.  We are always in London for the season.  But
our lease is nearly run out, you know; and then, I'm afraid, naughty
man! you will not let us renew it."

"Why not?  I'm not likely to get better tenants," said Paul, politely.

"But you may be wanting to live here yourself, you see."

"Such a plan is very far from my thoughts at present.  I neither wish,
nor can afford it."

"But where else _can_ you go?" asked Mrs. Webster, as if her life
depended on the answer.

The plea of poverty must be ignored; it was only advanced because Mr.
Lessing was her landlord!

"I've not decided yet.  Sally and I are quite happy where we are."

"But you could not go on like that.  It hardly seems right, you know."

"I don't see where the wrong comes in."

"Your very position as squire; you will be expected to be an employer
of labour, you see."

"So I suppose I shall be, in time, although perhaps not about my house
and garden.  There are a great many things that will have to be done in
the place when I get my affairs into order."

"Ah yes, of course; it's wonderful how the money flies.  Here's Mr.
Curzon insisting that the schools must be enlarged; I expect you are
like him, and think that everybody ought to know everything, and that
each child must have so many cubic feet!  I'm sure I can't cope with it
all.  I only know we, who are a little better off, have to pay for it.
He wants me to give a hundred pounds, and I tell him I really can't:
fifty is the utmost, and that is more than I can afford.  I advise you
to keep clear of him to-night; he's sure to ask you to subscribe a
similar sum."

"It's a voluntary school, I suppose?" said Paul, glancing across at the
rector.  "I could not subscribe to that; I'm in favour of a board
school, you see."

Sally, looking from one to the other scented trouble, for Mr. Curzon
broke off in the middle of a sentence, and his smiling, kindly face
grew grave as he gazed steadily back at her brother.  There was a
moment of uncomfortable silence.

"I was going to call and discuss the matter of the school with you,"
said Mr. Curzon, at last; "but I did not mean to introduce the subject
to-night."

"Of course not.  We could not possibly allow it; could we, mother?"
interposed May, with an air of relief.  "I feel at the present moment
we all need more cubic feet.  It's so very hot; I almost think we could
sit outside."  And as she spoke a general move was made for the
terrace, where seats and tables were arranged.

As neither of the men took wine they did not stay behind; and May, who
was clever enough to see that they were both ready to show fight for
their individual opinions, engaged Paul in conversation, whilst Mr.
Curzon carried off Sally to see the bowling-green by moonlight.

"I never saw anything so quaintly pretty," Sally said.  "The yew hedge
with its succession of views suits it exactly."

"Yes, doesn't it?" replied her companion.  "This is naturally my
favourite;" and he paused at the opening where, below, the church stood
out grand and stately against the evening sky.  "Is it not a grand old
tower?  It stands just as a church should; it dominates the place."

The ring of enthusiasm in his voice brought an answering thrill into
Sally's heart.

"Are you sure that it does really?" she asked, moved by a sudden
impulse.

"I hope so; I pray God it may be so.  If not in my time then in
another's."




CHAPTER V.

A QUESTION OF EDUCATION.

"I can't think why you, or any reasonable man, should object to a board
school?" said Paul, who had been expounding his views at some length to
the rector.  "The people should have a voice in the matter of their
children's education; and it can't be fair that any particular system
of religion should be forced upon them.  In a place like this you would
be pretty certain to come out at the head of the poll, and, if
religious teaching seems such an essential, you would be allowed to
give it with limitations."

"With limitations that would practically make it useless," said Mr.
Curzon.  "I am prepared to make any sacrifice rather than surrender the
religious training of the children God has given to my care.  It will
be a hard matter, with you against me, but I must stick fast by my
principle."

"In a few more years there won't be a voluntary school left in the
country," said Paul.

"Mine shall be one of the last to die," replied Mr. Curzon.

"You are fully persuaded that you are carrying out the wishes of your
people."

"I am sure that, as far as I know it, I shall be doing my duty by
them--and that must come first; but they shall have an opportunity of
expressing their opinion.  I am going to call a meeting about the
enlarging of the school, and I shall try and persuade every one to
attend it."

"Including myself?" inquired Paul, with a rather sceptical smile.

"I shall wish you, of course, to be there."

"But I can only be there in opposition to your views," Paul said.

"A clergyman gets used to opposition," replied Mr. Curzon, quietly;
"but if the school is to be continued under the management of myself
and my churchwardens, it shall be no hole-and-corner business: it shall
be with the consent and confidence of the majority of my people."

Paul rose to go; and there was rather a troubled look on his face as he
took Mr. Curzon's out-stretched hand.  It was such a kindly, friendly
grip.

"I'm afraid we cannot help coming across each other as we both have the
courage of our opinions; but at least you will believe that I have the
social development of the village very near at heart."

"And there, at least, we agree," said Mr. Curzon, smiling; "but with me
their spiritual welfare is even more urgent."

Kitty's little carriage was drawn up at the door, as she was just
returning from an outing.  She greeted Paul with a beaming face, which,
as he came closer, grew clouded with anxiety.

"I'm afraid you've got another headache, and I've got nothing to bring
now," she said.  "Blackberries wouldn't do.  They are rather nasty,
daddy thinks."

"I've not got a headache, Kitty, thank you," said Paul, leaving the
question of blackberries in abeyance.  "What made you think I had?"

"You were frowning; but perhaps it was the sun in your eyes.  Has your
sister bigger than me come yet?"

"Oh yes; she has been here quite a time, and you have not been to see
her."

"I've been away; did not you know?--away with daddy," with a proud
glance up at her father.  "It was lovely; he had no one to think of but
me, and I was with him on the beach nearly all day long."

"Ah, that's how you come to have such roses in your cheeks.  Well, when
are you coming to have tea with Sally and me?  You shall choose your
own day."

"Would to-morrow do?  It's Sunday; and daddy likes me to have all the
happiest things on Sunday.  But I forgot; Nurse was to come, too, but
she goes out on Sunday afternoon."

The sweet-faced woman who wheeled Kitty about gave an amused little
laugh.

"It would be rather nice for you to go this once alone, Miss Kitty; and
I could wheel you there on my way out----"

"And Sally and I could bring you home.  Would not that do?" said Paul
to Mr. Curzon.

"If you are sure you will not be troubled with her."

"Oh dear, no; it has been a long-standing engagement--has it not,
Kitty?"

"Daddy dear, lift me out, please!" said Kitty, when Paul had gone on
his way.  "I like him so much, although I don't remember his name.
It's rather a funny one, but I like him; he has such kind eyes."

Mr. Curzon tenderly lifted his little daughter out of her carriage, but
made no answer to her remark about their new neighbour.  To himself he
was free to admit that the new squire's views troubled him sorely.

"We are to have our first tea-party to-morrow, Sally.  I have invited
the district visitor."

"Who?" asked Sally, in considerable astonishment.

"Kitty Curzon--whose loving care for my head has won my heart.  The
child persists in believing that I live in a chronic state of headache,
and resorts to her own methods of cure.  Ours is a friendship doomed to
be nipped in the bud, alas!  Let us make the most of it while it lasts."

"What is to kill it?"

"The father is the difficulty; he has caught sight of my cloven hoof
this morning, and, depend upon it, he will not trust Kitty to us often.
He had to consent to her coming this morning, for she arranged it all
under his very eyes; and I saw he had not the heart to thwart her.
She's a young woman who evidently gets her own way up to a certain
point; but unless I'm greatly mistaken, the fatherly fiat will go forth
that the less she sees of us the better."

"I would rather she did not come at all, then," said Sally, hotly.

"I wouldn't; she has chosen this tea as her Sunday treat," Paul
answered with a humorous smile.

By four o'clock on the morrow the little invalid carriage stopped at
the Macdonald's gate, and Paul ran down to greet his visitor.

"Wait a moment, Kitty; Nurse and I between us can lift the whole thing
in, and then she can go on for her outing, and you shall be left to
Sally and me."

Kitty's eyes looked beyond Paul at Sally, who stood smiling behind.

"You did not tell me she was grown-up like everybody else," she
answered irrelevantly.

"Oh, there's a lot of difference even between grown-up people, as I
will presently show you," said Paul.  "Meanwhile, before you talk to
Sally, we'll get you into the cottage."

"Shall you carry me, like daddy?  I can walk on crutches, but it hurts
me rather," said Kitty.  And Paul lifted her in his strong arms as
gently as if she were a baby, and Sally followed with the crutches, her
soul filled with pity for the child so perfectly developed as far as
the waist, but whose legs were twisted and helpless.

Evidently poor Kitty had some affection of the spine.  Sally felt her
pity almost misplaced before the afternoon was over; Kitty's enjoyment
of life in general, and her present entertainment in particular was so
genuine, and her laughter so infectious.

By a happy inspiration Mrs. Macdonald had suggested that the tea should
be held in the orchard behind the house, and Kitty's carriage was
placed under the tree which bore the rosiest apples, one or two of
which fell with a flop at her feet.

"Such as comes to little missy she must take home with her," said
Macdonald, smiling benignantly from his seat in the kitchen, and
bestowing a meaning glance at Paul, who, mindful of the hint, shook the
boughs as he handed Kitty her tea, bringing a shower of red fruit about
her.

The conversation never flagged; Kitty's life seemed full of interest,
both at home and abroad, and she was fast friends, apparently, with
every soul in the place, including Allison, who had won her affection
for ever by presenting her with a Persian kitten, whom she brought down
regularly once a week to call upon its former owner.  When the bells
began to chime for evening service Kitty signified her wish to depart.

"We could take little missy," said Macdonald.  "We'll be going that way
ourselves."

"No, thank you," said Paul.  "We promised to take you home--did not we,
Kitty?"

Had he realized quite what the fulfilment of that promise involved, he
might have been inclined to accept the Macdonald's offer, for when he
and Sally had wheeled their visitor as far as the rectory, and were
going to enter, she shook her head vigorously.

"We can't get in there--it will be all locked up--every one's gone to
church.  Please take me on! my carriage goes into the belfry, and, as I
lie there, I can see all down the church."

There was no disobeying such clear directions, so Paul, with a smile,
humbly did as he was bid.

"Is that all you want?" he asked, when he had adjusted Kitty's carriage
to the exact angle which she liked best.

He was in a hurry to slip out before the service began; Sally waited
for him outside.

"Oh no; I haven't got my book and things," said Kitty.  "They are in
the box in the corner; daddy had it made for me, and here's the key,"
producing a key on a string from round her neck.  "There's a nice red
one you can use that belongs to Nurse."

By the time Paul had unlocked the box and found the books, Kitty's
hands were devoutly folded in prayer, and her eyes fast shut.  She
opened them presently with a bright smile.

"Thank you," she half-whispered.  "Now if you bring that chair close to
me, you'll find my places for me; Nurse always does.  I've not learned
to read so very long--daddy would not let me."

Paul, feeling himself a victim of circumstance, fetched the chair and
seated himself.

"I suppose he's forgotten to say his prayers," thought Kitty, as she
noticed that he neither knelt down nor even placed his hand over his
eyes, which were the varying methods of paying homage to God, that she
had observed the men of the congregation adopted when they came into
church.

Paul found his position a singular one.  He had not been present at a
service of any description since his college days.  It would not be
true to say that he had lost his belief; he had never had any.  He
might well question the necessity of religious education, for he had
had none himself.  He and Sally had been baptized as babies, just
because their mother had wished it; but after her death their father,
who cared for none of these things, left their religious training to
chance.

"Speak the truth, and behave like a gentleman," he said to Paul, when
he was sent at an early age to school; "and if ever you get into a
scrape, come to me and tell me all about it."

It was a very simple moral code, and Paul lived by it both at school
and college; and before his college course was ended his father had
died.  Christianity had not appealed to him in any way; he regarded it
as a worn-out system of religious belief that had been a moral force in
the world, but was dying now, slowly perhaps, but surely.  Perhaps in a
remote village like this, where a Rector of strong personality was at
the head of affairs, it might be fanned into a flame for a time, but it
would not last.  It certainly had a semblance of life to-night, Paul
admitted, as the congregation rose to its feet at the opening bars of
the voluntary, and the white-robed choir entered, followed by Mr.
Curzon.  There was scarcely an empty seat, and there were as many men
present as women; and they were there, apparently, not to look on but
to worship, if hearty singing or burst of response were any criterion.
There was a scarcely a voice silent save Paul's own.

Viewed as a picture it was a pretty one, framed as it was by the high
narrow Early English arch which opened from the belfry into the nave.
First came the bowed heads of the kneeling people, and, through the
beautiful old screen which separated chancel from nave, the altar shone
out in strong relief against its background of soft-coloured mosaic,
the rays of the western sun giving an added touch of brilliance to its
decoration of cross and flowers.

But Kitty's hand was laid upon Paul's arm, and "Psalms, please!"
brought him back from his reverie to his duty.  He did not keep her
waiting again, and he was interested by watching the sensitive, eager
little face.  There was no question that the child was following the
service heart and soul; but when the sermon time came she was fairly
tired out, and, turning her head a little on one side, she was soon
fast asleep.

"If the Lord be God, follow Him," said Mr. Curzon; and Paul glanced up
at the preacher, and noticed that every head was turned in the same
direction.  And yet it was no great eloquence that held them, but a
certain manly simplicity of speech which carried conviction of the
preacher's absolute sincerity.  He prefaced his sermon with a notice of
a public meeting that was to be held about the schools in the course of
the coming week, at which he begged the attendance of all interested in
the subject of education.  The time had come when the schools must be
enlarged, and he put the question of whether this should be done by
private subscription, or by turning the school into a board school,
very simply before his people, telling them that a grave question was
involved in the decision--that of religious education.

"There are those among you who will say that in this matter the parsons
want it all their own way; but, for myself, I emphatically deny the
charge.  I want God's way, and it is not until after much thought and
prayer that I venture to place this matter before you to-night.  It is
one that I, as shepherd of this flock, must talk to you about, for holy
hands have been laid upon my head, and the souls of all in this place
are committed solemnly to my charge; and I must claim the little ones
for the Master whom I serve, I wish to retain the right to train them
as faithful and true members of Christ and His Church.  I should not be
faithful to my office unless I try to make you fully grasp the danger I
believe to lurk in education that is robbed of its crowning glory--the
knowledge of God."

Paul listened to the simple appeal which followed with interest not
unmixed with irritation.

"He has the whip-hand over me; he rules his people by their hearts
rather than by their heads," he said to Sally, afterwards, when he was
giving her the gist of the sermon.  "Parsons have a greater chance of
propagating their views than any other set of men.  Twice a day every
Sunday they can lay down the law with never a soul to gainsay them."

"But lots of us don't go to listen," said Sally.

Paul laughed.  "Well, no; I don't think there are many country
congregations like the one I saw to-night.  I'm not sorry to have been
there for once.  In future we'll fix some other day than Sunday for our
visitor.  I really could not hurt the child's feelings, and yet I
cannot be led along a victim at her chariot wheels."

"I can't think why you take so much notice of her?  You've never cared
for a child before."

"She bought me with ripe gooseberries," Paul answered laughing.  "I
couldn't refuse a child's friendship any more than a dog's."

The Rector's sermon was fully discussed at the forge the following
evening.

"Says I to Mr. Lessing to-day when we was talking together about this
eddication business, 'It's all very well sayin' as we must make the
schools so fine and grand, but what I wants to know is, who's goin' to
pay?" said Allison.  "Them as has got the money, I s'pose."

"What did he say?" asked Tom Burney.

"'If I have my way it'll be thrown upon the rates.'  But I'm not sure
I'm with him there.  Once let the rates run up, and we dunno where we
are.  Seems to me, with all his free-and-easy ways, and his living like
one of us, he's a bit close-fisted--not a bit like the old major.
Depend upon it, he don't want to put down his cool hundred; and that's
why he talks so brisk about the rates.  There's something about it as
I've not got clear yet, for the rector comes along this morning, quite
cheery like, and sings out as he passes, 'Comin' to the school meetin'
a Friday, Allison?  Room for all.  I wants this school business
settled.'"

"We couldn't settle it no better than it is at present, I'm thinking,"
interposed Macdonald gently.  "To hear the rector talk a Sunday night
about it were grand, that it was; and, if it's money he wants, there
isn't one of us that oughtn't to help him."

"Rich fellers like you can talk about money!" retorted Allison, with
withering scorn; "but for me, who makes every penny I earns, he may
think hisself well off to get the five shillin's I gives him every year
for those blessed schools.  I'll stick to that five, neither more nor
less, unless the squire gets his way; and then I won't give nothink but
what I'm made to."  But Allison found himself without an audience.
With the mention of money the company had dispersed.




CHAPTER VI.

A VOTE OF CONFIDENCE.

"It must take it out of one dreadfully to be so terribly in earnest,"
said May Webster, softly stroking the pug dog that lay curled up in her
lap.

"As who?" asked her mother, looking up from her writing.

"As Mr. Curzon; you might think his life depended on this school
business.  I really could not follow all he said this afternoon; but,
apparently, he and Mr. Lessing have come to grief already about it.
There's another earnest one--with this difference between them: that
Mr. Curzon is earnest and agreeable, and Mr. Lessing earnest and
disagreeable."

"He's more tiresome than disagreeable, May.  I call it tiresome to live
in a cottage instead of a house, and to keep his sister from church--I
suppose that that is his doing,--and to upset us all when we are quiet
and happy.  He's paying such high wages, they say, to the men he has
set at work over the drainage of some of his cottages, that I expect
all our men will be asking us to raise theirs."

"I wonder which of them is right?" said May, returning to the subject
of the schools.

"Mr. Curzon, of course; he's a clergyman, my dear!"

"Then you will go to the meeting to-night."

"You must be crazed, May, to think of such a thing.  I go to a school
meeting!  If there is one type of woman I dislike more than another,
it's the one to be found on platforms."

"I had not thought of you on a platform exactly.  It only occurred to
me that you would give Mr. Curzon your moral support, as your
sympathies go with him.  You carry weight, you see," which was true in
more senses than one.

Mrs. Webster put the most favourable interpretation upon the phrase.

"Of course, if you really think it my duty, May," she said, softening
visibly, "and would come with me----"

"Oh, I intend going anyhow," interposed May, carelessly.

"It's such a new departure for you to take a prominent part in parish
things," exclaimed Mrs. Webster.

"Oh, parish has nothing to do with it!  I'm going as a disinterested
spectator to see the two earnest ones fight it out."

"My dear!" remonstrated her mother in a shocked tone.

"If I have a bias it's in favour of the rector.  I don't pretend to
understand the merits of voluntary versus board schools; but, as you
say, a clergyman is always right--most probably Mr. Curzon's is the
better cause, and most certainly he is the better man."

"Dear, dear; and we shall have to dine at seven, and keep as we are, I
suppose?" with a glance at the stately folds of her brocade dress.

"Yes; we won't treat a school meeting like a theatre," said May,
laughing.  "Will it be considered unduly flippant on my part to go in
this muslin? or ought I to wear black, as at a funeral?"

"It cannot signify in the least; a change of dress would not alter your
flippant mind," replied her mother, with unusual smartness.  "Dear Mr.
Curzon has really convinced me that it is a most important subject, so
I don't mind making a sacrifice for once in a way."

"By dining an hour earlier than usual and not changing your dress!  All
right, mother; I'll order the carriage for ten minutes to eight.  We
may as well be punctual."

The back benches of the schoolroom were crowded to overflowing when May
and her mother entered that evening.

"It's very hot, May.  I'm not sure that I can stay," said Mrs. Webster,
pausing in the doorway.

"Oh yes, mother; we'll see it through to the bitter end," said May, in
an undertone.  "There are seats in the front."

Mrs. Webster picked her way daintily through the crowd, and Mr.
Lessing, who was seated at the end of one of the desks, stood up to let
her pass.  May's skirt caught against a nail, as she followed, and Paul
bent to set it free; but as May turned smiling to thank him, it gave
her a faint shock of surprise to read the dislike that found expression
in his eyes.  Her smile faded, and she passed on her way with a haughty
little bow.

"I wonder why he hates me?  I am not aware that any man has ever viewed
me with honest dislike before," she thought, as she took her seat by
her mother.

Paul, on his side, was inspired with the same unwilling admiration and
active irritation as on the occasion of their first meeting at
Brussels.  Beautiful she undoubtedly was; so beautiful that his eyes
unconsciously followed her every movement.  The cordial greeting she
accorded the rector--so different from her bow to himself,--and the
poise of her head, as she turned to look at the rows of expectant faces
behind her, giving a smiling nod to Mrs. Macdonald, who, duly impressed
with the gravity of the occasion, sat by the side of her John with her
hands clasping a clean pocket-handkerchief as if she were at church.
Paul tried to define the cause of his annoyance as he looked at her.

"It is the hard crust of indifference which society people cultivate to
such perfection; it's the assurance which beauty assumes.  She has come
here most probably in search of a new sensation," he thought.

But the rector, who sat on a platform at the end of the room, with his
two churchwardens, was already on his feet, and Paul pocketed his
annoyance and settled himself to listen.

"My friends," he began, "we have met to-night to consider on what basis
our school shall be carried on; whether at this crisis in school
affairs, which demands an outlay of some seven or eight hundred pounds,
the voluntary system shall be continued; or whether it shall be turned
into a board school, paid for out of the rates, and managed by a
committee chosen by the votes of the people.  It is not a question that
it has been necessary for us to discuss before.  My people, I believe
to a man, have been content to entrust the education of their children,
the practical management of the school, to the churchwardens and
myself, supporting us by their voluntary subscriptions; but a murmur
has reached our ears that some of you are dissatisfied with this
arrangement.  My churchwardens and I feel reluctant to retain the
management of the school unless fully assured that we are fulfilling
the wishes of the majority of the people.  You one and all know my
views on this subject, and the principle that I believe to be involved
in your decision.  Whichever scheme is followed will mean a
considerable outlay of money.  It is for you to decide whether that
money shall be exacted from you by rate, or whether it shall be given
freely and liberally out of the means with which God has blessed you."

The rector closed with a request that any one wishing to address the
meeting would come up to the platform, and, in answer to the challenge,
Paul Lessing walked up the room and took his stand before the people.
He was clever, and gifted with readiness of speech, but something in
the audience baffled him; whether it was the stolid imperturbability of
the faces in the back benches, or May Webster's half-amused,
half-scornful smile just below him, he could not decide.  But he pulled
himself together, determining to state his case as shortly and clearly
as he could.

He expressed no doubt that in times past the school had been well and
ably managed; but he reminded them that Government had seen fit to
place in their hands a power which the people in country places were
slow to recognize: that of exercising a control over the education of
their children.  That all authority on a subject so important should be
vested in the hands of two or three men of the same way of thinking,
seemed to him, at the best, a one-sided arrangement; surely it was more
just that a committee of men should be chosen by the votes of the
people, and that every form of thought should find its exponent--thus
keeping the balance of opinion even.  Much more he said, and said it
ably, ending with a strong appeal that each one there present,
unbiassed by any cry of party, should think out this subject for
themselves, and consider whether he was doing the best for the place in
which he lived by saying, that what had been should be and could not be
improved; or whether he would make use of that power vested in him by
Government, and should decide to let his voice, in the education of the
future generation, find expression in that great and powerful
development of modern times, a School Board.

Allison, forgetful of his fears about rates, murmured "Ooray!" as the
squire resumed his seat; and the rector, thanking the squire for his
able expression of his views, asked if there were any one else who
would give them the benefit of his opinion.  There was a long silence.
It was hoped that Allison would have something to say and one and
another gave him a friendly nudge, but the blacksmith was too wise to
commit himself; he halted between two opinions.  But there was a murmur
of astonishment as Macdonald rose and, supporting his burly form
against the wall, cleared his throat, and began to speak a little
huskily.

"No, thank you, sir," he said in answer to a nod from the rector to
come up to the platform.  "I ain't scholard enough to stand up there,
but there's something I wants to say.  The squire says as we should
know our own minds, and I'd like to tell you what's mine.  Who should
have care of the children but the man who loves 'em like his own, who
goes reg'lar to see after 'em every day whilst we goes to work, who
teaches 'em to be good at school and to mind what their parents says at
home, and wants 'em most of all to love their God?  If we voted him out
to-night we'd vote him in again to-morrow, and I'll give a pound
to-night to show as I'm ready to bide by my words.  That's all,
gentlemen."

And Macdonald sat down with a very red face, which he promptly mopped
with a redder pocket-handkerchief, whilst Mrs. Macdonald unfolded her
clean one and wiped happy tears from her eyes.  She dated every event
in after life from the night when "my John" made his speech in the
schoolroom.  Its effect was electric, and roused the meeting to
enthusiasm.

A vote of confidence in the present management was proposed and carried
by an overwhelming majority, as seventy hands were counted in support
of it, and only five were raised against it.  The subscription list lay
on the table, and not a few of the working-class, mindful of
Macdonald's example came up to enter their names under his.

"I shall make my subscription a hundred pounds, May; I really shall,"
said Mrs. Webster, feeling that her moral support was taking
substantial form.  "Poor Mr. Curzon!  I think Mr. Lessing's speech was
very uncalled-for, and that old Macdonald really surprised me.  I
thought him a rude old man the only time I spoke to him, but to-night
he was simply charming.  I felt almost inclined to cry.  I'm going to
put down my name now.  I wish Mr. Curzon to realize that I am on his
side, whatever the squire may be;" and Mrs. Webster swept towards the
platform.

Left to herself May stood and looked down the room which was emptying
rapidly.  The squire stood apart but, catching her eye, moved towards
her with a slightly satirical smile.

"So you've lived it through, Miss Webster; you've faced the bitter
end," he said, quoting her words.

"Yes; and I've not been bored at all," she answered, resenting his tone.

"You came to scoff, in fact, and you remained to pray."

"I came with an open mind, prepared to be converted by the best
speaker, and I found him in Macdonald," said May, defiantly.
"Henceforth I shall be an ardent supporter of the voluntary system."

Paul laughed.  "Will your ardent support take tangible form like old
Macdonald's?" he said.  He spoke in pure jest, but May accepted his
words literally and flushed a little.  "It's a question that your very
short acquaintance with me hardly justifies you in asking, does it?"

"Not in earnest, certainly; I spoke in the merest fun.  If I vexed you,
I apologize."

"You did vex me.  It is the second time to-night that you have put
yourself out of the way to say a disagreeable thing.  People may think
as many disagreeable things as they like, but they have no right to
give expression to them."

"But now you are charging me with sins which I have not committed.  I
have not spoken to you for five minutes, and no other sentiment of
mine, that I know of, needs a special apology."

"A look does!  You looked cross as you stooped to unfasten my dress
from that nail when I came into the room: it bored you to render me
even that very slight service.  Pray don't attempt to deny it! you
possess the merit of being strictly truthful."

"Truthfully disagreeable apparently," said Paul, a little nettled.

"And now," said May, restored to perfect good-humour by having spoken
out her mind, "the platform seems vacant; shall we go and consider that
subscription list, or will it hurt your feelings?"

"Not the least.  I've suffered defeat, but I was glad of the
opportunity of speaking."

"Why?" asked May, as she mounted the platform.

"Because I have won four to my side; I made four people think."

"Then the people who followed Macdonald's lead, which includes myself,
are credited with not having the capacity of thinking.  That is your
inference, is it not?" asked May, with a gay laugh.

"You have a sharp tongue, Miss Webster.  All I hinted at was that
country people are slow to exercise their individual judgment on any
question.  They follow each other like a flock of sheep."

"And aren't they wise to do it when they have so kind and good a
shepherd?" with a glance at the rector's handsome head, as he stood at
a little distance off, talking with a happy, radiant face to her
mother.  "I wish you would tell me what possible motive you had in
trying to upset a man who lives in the hearts of his people."

Paul was interested in spite of himself, for he saw that May had passed
from brilliant nonsense to earnestness.

"It was not the man I wished to upset--nobody can fail to appreciate
his simple earnestness,--but it is his principle.  And your very
intolerance makes me feel that I was right to state the other side of
the question."

"We won't quarrel any more; I'm tired of it," said May, with a quick
change of mood.  "Let us look at all the people who are ready to bide
by their words, as Macdonald puts it."

The subscription list was headed by the rector with two hundred pounds.

"He's not a rich man," said May, pointing to the sum.

"And he can't be a poor one," retorted Paul.

May seated herself and toyed with the pen which lay upon the table.

"I'm in a difficulty; I want an opinion."

"Legal?" said Paul.  "If so, I might help you.

"Moral rather."

"Oh, then it's a case for the man who lives in the hearts of his
people.  Shall I call him?"

"You are not keeping the peace.  For want of a better adviser I'll put
my difficulty before you."

"And I will give you my opinion for what it is worth; you need not act
on it unless you like."

"Oh no, I shan't.  Should you think it right for me to put my name down
on this subscription list when I owe, I'm afraid to say how much, to my
dressmaker?"

"At the risk of being told again that I'm truthfully disagreeable, I
answer emphatically, No!  I should call it a most immoral act."

"Well, I'm going to do it anyway, and the person who has influenced me
is yourself.  You implied that I was unwilling to pay for my
convictions; and my dressmaker must wait."

And May dipped her pen in the ink and wrote her name boldly under her
mother's.

"Don't do it!" pleaded Paul, hurriedly.  "Can't you see that the
dressmaker, who earns her money so hardly, and waits for it so long,
has the first right to yours?"

"May!" called her mother.  "Are you never coming?  I can't be kept
waiting all night."

May hesitated for a moment, and then, half ashamed of yielding to the
man whose dislike of her was fast deepening into contempt, she dashed
her pen through the name she had just written, bringing her hand, as
she did so, into contact with the lamp upon the table.  With a
smothered exclamation Paul bent across her and tried to stay its fall,
but he was not in time.  With a crash it fell forwards breaking the
bowl, and a trickling stream of blazing paraffin ran down May's muslin
skirt, enveloping her in flame.  A piercing shriek from the other end
of the room showed that Mrs. Webster realized her daughter's peril, and
the rector dashed forward to the rescue; but Paul had already torn his
coat from his back, and was holding it closely upon the burning skirt.

"See to the platform! she's safe enough!" he shouted as the rector ran
up; and, almost before May realized the extreme danger from which she
had been delivered, she was lifted from the platform and laid very
gently on the floor.

"What are you putting me on the floor for?  I'm not going to faint,"
she said, with lips that trembled a little.  "I'm all right.  Don't let
mother be frightened."

Paul could not but admire the girl's wonderful self-possession.

"And you are not burned?  You are sure you are in no way hurt?"

"Thanks to your marvellous quickness, no," she answered.

But Mrs. Webster, tearful but thankful, was at hand, and Paul felt he
could not do better than leave May in her mother's charge.

The rector, meanwhile, with one or two others, was successfully
battling with the burning stream of paraffin; and in a few minutes all
serious fear of a conflagration was over.

"Now we had better see the ladies to their carriage," he said turning
to Paul.  But already they had taken their departure.  "We can't be too
thankful for such a narrow escape.  The platform looked all on fire
when Mrs. Webster's scream made me turn round.  Can you tell me how it
happened?"

"I think Miss Webster caught the lamp with her hand as she got up from
the table.  She had been reading the subscription list."

"Which reminds me that the list is burned to a cinder.  But it does not
signify; people will remember their promises," said Mr. Curzon.

"And nobody but myself will know that May Webster put down her name and
scratched it out at my request," thought Paul, not a little proud of
his moral victory over the haughty young woman.

"Well, I think everything is safe here; we may be going home.  I want
to get back before my little Kitty gets news of the fire, or she will
worry herself into a fever.  Late as it is, though, I must run up to
the Court."

"Why?" Paul inquired.  "We know that Miss Webster is safe."

"She might wish to see me," replied the rector, simply.  "And if she
does, she shall have the chance."

"Then I'll leave word at the rectory that you are all right, in case
Kitty is awake," said Paul, rather shortly.

May, from her couch in her dressing-room heard the rector's cheery
voice in the hall below asking after her.

"That's Mr. Curzon, Lancaster; run and ask him to come up and see me
for a moment," she said to her maid.

In another moment he entered, followed by her mother.

"Oh, my darling, you are not ill?  Have you been burned and not told me
of it?" she gasped in terror.

"Oh no, mother," said May, trying to smile; "but it's just because I'm
not burned, nor scared, nor horrible to look at, that I want Mr.
Curzon.  I want--I want----"  And then May's high courage gave way, and
she burst into tears.

"Let us pray," said the rector, quietly.  And he and May's mother knelt
down by the side of May's couch together.

When he rose up from his knees May's tears had ceased.




CHAPTER VII.

A MOMENTOUS DECISION.

The rector walked home through the starlight night with a thankful
heart.  It was possibly his sanguine temperament, backed by his strong
faith in the Christ Who must reign until He had brought all to His
Feet, that gave him such large success in his work; and against the
background of this day two special subjects for thanksgiving stood out
in strong relief: first, that he had received positive proof that he
possessed the confidence of the majority of his parishioners; and
secondly, that an accident--a deliverance from what might have been a
horrible death--had given him an insight into the deeper side of May
Webster's character.  That she had this deeper side he had been fully
assured, but hitherto he had been powerless to touch it.

To-night, however, she had appealed to him to give expression to the
gratitude which she felt to God.  For a moment the spiritual life that
was in her had touched his, and he trusted that the foundation of a
deeper, truer, more lasting friendship had been laid--a friendship that
might enable him, possibly, to give May Webster a helping hand on her
road to Heaven.

Mr. Curzon was not one of those who believe that a clergyman's mission
is fulfilled by looking after the poor who are committed to his care.
He had seen enough of society to realize both its fascination and its
special temptations; and the well-to-do members of his flock were as
frequently included in his prayers as the poor, the afflicted, the
sick, or the unhappy.

It was of May and her needs that his heart was full as he turned from
the drive into the road, but as he did so he stumbled against a man's
figure propped against the gate-post.  The man lurched heavily forward,
and would have fallen had not Mr. Curzon caught him in his arms,
peering at the same time into his face to see who it might be.

"Tom!  Tom Burney!  Poor lad," he exclaimed, with a heavy sigh, for the
mere touch of the inert body showed that Tom was not overcome by
illness but by drink.

"Tom!" said the rector, giving him a slight shake of the shoulders,
"rouse yourself, and get home to bed.  To-morrow we will talk this
over, but you are in no fit state to listen to-night."

The familiar voice roused the muddled brain to some sense of shame, and
instinctively Tom's hand was raised to his cap.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but I won't go home; same roof shan't cover that
beast Dixon and me!"

The words reminded Mr. Curzon that Dixon, Burney, and several other men
employed at the Court were lodged in rooms over the coach-house and
stables; evidently Tom and Dixon had quarrelled.

"That's sheer nonsense!" he answered sharply.  "I'm not going to leave
you out here all night, for the sake of your own character.  If you
won't go without me, I shall take you."

Tom made some show of sullen resistance, but a sober man always has the
advantage over a tipsy one; and Mr. Curzon was physically so strong
that, drunk as Tom was, he knew he could enforce obedience.  Once more,
therefore, the rector had to retrace his steps, and half supported,
half led, he presently landed Tom Burney in the stable-yard of the
Court.  A light burning in one of the upper windows showed him that
somebody was still awake, and a whistle readily attracted the attention
of the occupant.  The window was thrown wide and a head thrust out into
the night.

"So it's you, is it?" said a voice, that the rector recognized as
Dixon's.  "It would serve you right to keep you out there all night."

"You hound! you mean hound!" hiccoughed Tom, trying to wrest himself
from the strong restraining hand laid upon his collar.  "If only I can
get at you, I'll----"

The threat was nipped in the bud by the rector.  "Is that you, Dixon?"
he asked, in a low, authoritative tones.  "Just come down and open the
door, please.  I found Burney like this, and brought him home; and keep
out of sight, will you?  I've no intention of being landed in a
quarrel."

There was a smothered exclamation of surprise, the window was closed,
and, in another moment, the lower door was thrown wide to admit the
rector and his charge.  By a rapid signal Mr. Curzon directed Dixon to
conceal himself in an angle of the staircase, whilst he gave Tom a
helping hand up the staircase to the room which Dixon indicated with a
nod.  Once safely inside, he placed him on the bed and came away,
closing the door behind him.

"He won't come out again to-night, I think," he said to Dixon, who
followed him to the door.

"Oh no, sir; I'll see to that," replied the man, with a rather
unpleasant smile.  "I'll turn the key on him, and unlock the door again
before he wakes in the morning.  I'm sorry you've had all this trouble.
I tried my best to get him to come along quietly with me, but I had to
leave him to himself at last; he was so desperate quarrelsome.  He's a
quick temper at any time, and he's just mad when he's drunk."

"Which has not been very often, I think," interposed the rector.  "But
in the last few months, I fear he has fallen into bad company.  Good
night, Dixon."

"We shan't hear the end of this in a hurry.  What business has he
prowling about the place at this time of night, I should like to know?"
grumbled Dixon aloud, as he closed the door.  "Bad company, indeed!
He'll see for himself that I'm not drunk, whatever that fool Tom may
be."

Meanwhile the rector pursued his way home in less joyful mood than
before he had stumbled across poor Tom Burney; he was sorely troubled
about him as, for a long time, he had been one of the most promising
young fellows in the place.  He let himself quietly into the rectory,
shading the light with his hand as he passed the door of Kitty's room;
but a half-stifled cry of "Daddy!" arrested his steps.  He pushed open
the door and entered, crossing with swift, light tread to her bedside.
The frightened look in the child's eyes died away as she looked into
the smiling face.

"What does my little Kitty mean by lying awake to this hour?"

"I've been frightened, daddy.  I lay awake on purpose, at first,
because you promised to come and kiss me when you came home after the
meeting."

"Oh, I shan't promise that any more if it keeps you awake.  Well!"

"And then I heard Mr. Paul's voice down in the hall, and I thought he
said something about fire.  But Nurse said I was silly, and must go to
sleep; but I couldn't till I knew you were safe."

"What from, little one?"

"The fire," said Kitty, with a suppressed sob.  "I thought you might be
burned, and nobody would tell me."

"Well, that was very silly, certainly," said her father, with a little
laugh that had a singularly reassuring effect upon Kitty.

"And I tried to think of the three men with long names that the fire
did not hurt; but it did not do me a bit of good, daddy."

"Because you forgot about the fourth one who stood by them, even in the
fire, whose form was like the Son of God," said the rector, gently.
"And He was close by you, Kitty, although you were so frightened--by
you, and me too.  There! think of that and go to sleep now."

But though Mr. Curzon spoke so cheerfully, there were tears in his eyes
as he kissed his little daughter and tucked her into bed with strong,
gentle hands.

"Poor little soul!  She's bound to suffer, with her crippled body and
over-sensitive brain," he thought.

The next morning at breakfast he told Kitty the story of the previous
evening, quite simply, without any terrifying details.

"I should think Mr. Paul is very brave--almost as brave as you are,
daddy," said Kitty, whose terror seemed to have vanished into thin air
with the light of day.

"Much braver, I expect," agreed her father, good-humouredly.  "But I
wonder why you think so!"

"Oh, Sally has told me lots of things.  How he killed a mad dog, and
nursed a man with smallpox, and knocked down a costermonger for kicking
his pony.  That was brave, wasn't it?" said Kitty, who clearly regarded
the last item as the crowning act of bravery.

"Well, it was speedy punishment, certainly," answered her father,
laughing.  "But since you admire bravery so much, you'll have to learn
a little more about it yourself; and not lie awake every time I'm kept
out late at night.  A clergyman's work is like a doctor's--never done,
you know."

The word doctor gave Kitty an opportunity of rapidly changing the
subject.

"What's a stroke, father?  What's good for it?"

"A 'stroke' generally means paralysis, in some form or other, which
affects people's limbs--often making them useless."

"Like my legs?" asked Kitty, quickly.

Her father winced palpably.  "Not just like that, darling; I wonder
what you are thinking of?"

"Mr. Allison's mother.  She's very old and very deaf; and now she's had
a stroke.  I heard some one tell Nurse so; and, of course, I must go
and ask about her when I go out; but I can't tell what to take her."

"I should think beef-tea will be the kind of thing she needs.  Nurse
can say we will make her some if you like," said the rector, who always
humoured Kitty's fancy for taking sick people especially under her wing.

The day was a full one, and it was late in the afternoon before he
found himself rapping at the door of the house which adjoined the forge.

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Allison, in answer to his inquiry about her
mother-in-law; "she's a bit tired to-day, though going on as well as we
could hope.  She's had a visitor this afternoon," with a glance round
at the chimney-corner from which Sally Lessing's tall, girlish figure
emerged rather shyly; "and if you did not mind looking in rather
earlier to-morrow she'd be ready to see you."

"Very good," said the rector.  "If you'll name the time, I'll be here.
Miss Lessing, our way home lies in the same direction.  Shall we walk
together?"

No excuse presented itself for refusing Mr. Curzon's offer, though a
_t�te-�-t�te_ with the rector was not much to her taste--especially as
her brother was a little sore about his last night's defeat.

"How are you taking to the life down here?  Do you like it?" he asked,
as they started off together.

"I don't quite know," Sally said with a frank smile.  "At first it was
delightful--a new experience,--but the novelty is wearing off.  And
Paul said this morning that we were both of us fish out of water; that
he must stay here, at any rate for the present, but that I might please
myself."

"And what particular pond do you want to swim in?"

"London.  And that's not to be described as a pond, is it? but rather a
great, strong river.  You see, down here, there is literally nothing to
do."

"Plenty, if you choose to do it," replied Mr. Curzon, quietly.

Sally shook her head.  "You would only want workers of your own way of
thinking."

"I should prefer them, certainly; if by _my_ way of thinking you mean
the Church to which I belong--to which you belong also, I expect."

"Only by name.  I was baptized, but I've not been brought up on church
lines.  I've been allowed to think for myself, and judge the truth for
myself.  Paul says that that is the only truth worth believing."

"It still leaves you finally dependent on other people's judgment, does
it not?  In your case, I should say, your views unconsciously are
moulded entirely by your brother."

"But it is so with every one more or less!" retorted Sally, quickly.
"You've got your ideas, either from the people who have influenced you
the most, or the books you have read."

"Quite so.  The books that have influenced me most largely are those
contained in the Bible; but the only person upon whose judgment and
character I find I can wholly rely, is the Lord Himself.  An
old-fashioned belief, you will say, but I find it practically true."

"But Paul says the only facts based on history in the Gospels are that
Christ lived and died a martyr to his opinions," said Sally.

"So many men say nowadays.  If so, it is curious that faith in the Name
of a Jew who died nearly two thousand years ago, is still able to work
moral miracles in hundreds and thousands of lives in the present day;
that men and women, tied and bound with the chain of their sins,
looking to Him and asking help, can rise and walk in the glorious
liberty of the sons of God.  When I see that, as, thank God, I have
seen it, I feel I have a reason for the faith that is in me, that Jesus
is, as He claims to be, the Son of God; that it was no idle boast on
His part that He would give His Spirit to those that seek it."

Sally caught her breath.  There was no doubting the sincerity of the
speaker, but the very simplicity of the teaching was an argument
against accepting it.

"Well, of course, you as a clergyman have to do with people's morals,"
she said hurriedly; "but the bodily wretchedness and misery of hundreds
and thousands of people in London and other big places appeals more to
me.  I feel it's not a bit of good telling them to be good in this
world, and they will be happy in the next, whilst they have bad houses
to live in, and bad food to eat, and insufficient wages, and never a
ray of brightness in their lives.  To stay down here and potter about
amongst a few children and sick people seems such a small thing to do,
when one might help to set any one of these great wrongs right."

She pulled herself up, and broke into a peal of laughter.

"I'm talking of things that I dare say you will think I don't
understand," she said; "but Paul has interested me in them, and I had
thought, if I went on studying, I might some day work and speak about
them.  Lots of women do."

"And why not?  One of the best speakers I ever heard was a woman."

"I thought you would be sure to hate the notion."

"Why should I, unless----"

"Unless what?"

"You should speak any word against the Master whom I serve," said the
rector.  "On philanthropic subjects I could go with you heart and soul."

"I would not speak on a subject of which I know nothing," said Sally,
eagerly.  "I've told you that I am only a seeker after truth, picking
up a scrap here and there as I can find it."

"And you will reach the truth after a time," said Mr. Curzon, holding
out his hand, "if you are ready to acknowledge a Power higher than
yourself, to Whom you may safely appeal to guide you to all truth.
Without that, you will grope along in the darkness."

Before Sally could answer he had gone.  Was there such a power she
wondered?  What rest and comfort such a conviction would bring with it.
She made no mention of her talk to the rector to Paul when he came in;
she shrank from his glib criticism of Mr. Curzon's simple declaration
of faith.

As Mr. Curzon walked home he caught sight of Tom Burney leaning over a
gate with his back turned towards the road.  The very poise of his
head, and droop of his shoulders, showed depression of body and mind;
and with intuitive sympathy Mr. Curzon stopped and laid a kindly hand
on his shoulder.

"The very man I was wanting!" he said cheerily.  "I thought you would
be sure to come and see me to-night."

For a moment Tom's dark, handsome eyes sought his; then dropped for
very shame.

"No, I wasn't," he said bluntly.  "But I'm glad to have the chance of
telling you that I've got the sack for what happened last night.  Dixon
took good care to report me; and I'm to leave at the end of this week."

"What is your quarrel with Dixon?"

There was a long pause.  "We're after the same girl," said Tom, a
little huskily; "and he don't care what he does as long as he can get
me out of the way.  He made me drunk last night."

"Oh no," replied Mr. Curzon, shortly; "you made yourself drunk.  Tell
the truth about it, Tom."

"Well, I'll tell you straight what happened.  We were all in the public
together----"

"You went there of your own free will, I suppose?"

"Yes.  I've been there plenty of times before, and never had a drop too
much," said Tom, rather resentfully, "and I was just going away last
night, when Dixon offered me another glass; and Allison laughed and
said, 'Don't you take it, young 'un; head ain't strong and temper too
short.'  And I told him I could drink against any man if I chose, and
keep my wits about me too; and Dixon said he'd stand treat, and see
whose head would last the longest, mine or Allison's----"

"With the result that I found you how and when I did, and you've lost
your place into the bargain.  Truly the wages of sin are hard,"
commented Mr. Curzon; "but I'm ready to help you, Tom, if you are
willing to help yourself, for I think, to a certain extent, you've been
hardly done by.  If you are sorry for what has happened, and really
wish to turn over a new leaf, and make yourself worthy of the girl you
love, you'll take my advice and sign the pledge.  If you see your way
to doing this, I know of a situation that I could offer you; if not, I
strongly advise you to go away altogether."

"And leave the field clear for Dixon?  I'll never do it!" said Tom,
fiercely.  "And what would he call me but a coward if I signed the
pledge, just because I've been beastly drunk once in my life?  There's
no reason why I should do it again."

"That you will do it again is an absolute certainty; and with your hot
temper and the rivalry that exists between you and Dixon, there will be
serious mischief if you allow drink to get the upper hand.  The place I
offer you is that of gardener at the rectory.  Old Plumptree is
retiring on a pension; he's too old to do the work any longer.  But I
tell you frankly that I dare not undertake the responsibility of
keeping you here unless I feel that you are determined, God helping
you, to make a better start.  You need not decide in a hurry; you can
call to-morrow evening and let me know about it.  Until then I will
keep the situation open for you."

It was on the tip of Tom's tongue to tell the rector that he needed no
time for consideration, that he readily accepted the required
condition, and should be thankful for the situation that he offered,
when, as ill-luck would have it, Dixon passed by on a swift-trotting
horse, and turned upon Tom with a mocking smile.

"He thinks I'm catching it," thought poor Tom; "but I'll let him know
better."

"It's not that I'm ungrateful, sir, for your kindness last night, but
my mind's pretty well made up now.  I can't face Dixon and Allison, and
all the lot of 'em calling me a fool who can't take his glass without
getting drunk; I'll show 'em different.  But I'll promise you this:
it's the first time as any one of em, sneaks as they are, could tell
you that I'd been drunk, and it's the last too!  You shall hear no more
of it."

"And it's a promise that I tell you honestly you'll not keep," answered
Mr. Curzon, sadly.  "But you'll think it over; you won't decide until
to-morrow."

"Yes, sir; I've made up my mind, thank you kindly all the same," said
Tom.  "It's a thing I must settle for myself."

"Good night, then; I've nothing more to say except that at any time if
you are in trouble I shall be glad to see you.  I don't wish you to
think that this difference of opinion need separate us; although,
remember, I feel sure that I am right and you wrong."

The next morning, when Paul Lessing started for his walk, Tom Burney
stood waiting at the gate.

"Beg your pardon, sir," he said, touching his hat; "but I want to know
if you can give me work?"

Paul turned to the speaker with dawning recognition in his glance.

"Why, aren't you the fellow who gave me a lift for nothing the first
evening I came into the place."

"Yes, sir; I've often thought on it since.  I shouldn't have spoke so
free if I'd known who I was talking to."

"Why not?" said Paul, smiling pleasantly.  "You sent me to the proper
person to find me a lodging, at any rate; and you certainly spoke no
harm of any one.  I thought you told me you worked at the Court.

"So I did, sir; but I'm leaving there on Saturday."

"Of your own free will?"

"Not exactly; I got notice because I came home drunk one night."

"Is that your habit, may I ask?  It's a bad one."

"No, sir, it's not," said Tom, lifting fearless eyes.  "It was the
first time."

"Let it be the last, then.  What kind of work can you do?"

"I've been in the garden; but I know something about horses."

"Well, I'm going to take the management of the home farm that lies near
the Court, into my own hands, and I think I can find you work amongst
the horses.  I'll see the bailiff about it, and you can call on
Saturday night, when we will settle the question of wages."

Tom's heart gave a joyful throb!  A place on the farm close to the
Court would give him opportunities of many a stolen interview with
Rose; and if he showed himself willing and ready to do the thing that
came to his hand, he might rise to the position of bailiff before very
long, and find himself able to give his Rose as pretty a home as she
could wish for.

"I won't forget your kindness, nor how you're ready to take me without
a character.  I'll serve you honest and true," he said.

"It is only one more example of the capriciousness of rich people,"
said Paul, as he told the tale to Sally later in the day.  "Here was
this poor fellow dismissed without a character for what I honestly
believe was a first offence.  I'm glad to give him a helping hand."

But Paul was judging hastily; Tom Burney had received notice from the
gardener, who had not thought it worth while to consult Mrs. Webster
about the matter.




CHAPTER VIII.

AN OUTSTRETCHED HAND.

It was many weeks before Paul and May Webster met after the night of
the fire.  The Court was crammed with company, and although Paul and
his sister were invited to dinner more than once, such invitations were
politely declined.

"It's quite impossible, Sally," Paul had said, in answer to the rather
wistful look in her dark eyes.  "To dine there quietly by ourselves, is
one thing; to go and meet a heap of smart people, who are my special
abomination, is another; and I should not have thought you would have
wished it either."

"It would be so much experience; I could be in it but not of it.  But I
expect I should not be smart enough, either in my dress or my talk; so
we must decline, I suppose.  What shall I say?"

"Anything you like within the limits of truth."

"Paul won't come, and I can't because I have not a proper frock," said
Sally, merrily.  "I am sorry, and he is not."

"Don't talk nonsense, Sally," said Paul, with an answering laugh.  "Any
woman can write a decent note of refusal if she chooses."

So the decent note was written and despatched, to be followed by
another, rather differently worded, when the second invitation came
about a week later, after which they were asked no more.  Sally watched
the smart carriages drive to and from the station, with their varying
loads of visitors, with a passing pang of regret.  It was like gazing
into a shop-window when you are possessed of no money to buy the
tempting wares displayed there.

Paul scarcely gave his gay neighbours a thought; his head was full of
plans for the improvement of the place, and it fretted him a little
that on every hand he found himself unable to carry out his wishes for
the want of the necessary means.

He was not altogether popular: the poor people rather resented the
extreme simplicity of his manner of living when they discovered that it
was not accompanied by the open-handed liberality which Allison had
half led them to expect; the tenant-farmers opposed any change that
would touch their pockets; and people of his own class, few and far
between in that thinly populated neighbourhood, called once, but found
little to interest them in a man of such avowedly eccentric views on
things social and religious, and tacitly let the acquaintance drop.

The one exception to this was May Webster, who, half-piqued,
half-amused, at the barrier which Paul had chosen to erect between
them, determined to break it down.  She was coming out of the rectory
one afternoon when she met him at the gate.

He lifted his hat, and would have opened the gate to let her pass, but
she held it fast looking at him over the top.

"How are you?  It is long since we met; never, I think, since the night
of the meeting with its exciting close.  I've not thanked you properly,
by the way, for the rapid extinction of the flames."

"Oh, any one could have done it; only I happened to be the one nearest
you," said Paul, carelessly.  "It needs no special thanks."

"Which is a civil way of saying that you could not let me burn, but
that you would rather some one else had put me out," said May,
mockingly.  "Even so, I'm grateful; I've been calling on your friend
Kitty, who informed me with great triumph that daddy was out, but 'Mr.
Paul' was coming to tea with her.  Questioned further, she informed me
that he often came when she was by herself, and he said he liked it."

"So I do," Paul said.

"So tea fetches you if dinner does not; or perhaps it is not the meal,
but the company.  Frankly speaking, why do you accord your friendship
to Kitty and not to mother and me?  We may be neighbours for years and
years; we may just as well be friends."

"I'm not a man of many friends," Paul answered, fairly brought to bay.
"As for Kitty, she carried me by storm; she is the only child who has
taken to me of her own free will."

"How very odd," said May, thoughtfully.

"Oh yes; I admit the oddity."

"But, if you are going to live here, are you content to be isolated
from your fellows--to have no friends?" continued May, wonderingly.

"To have many acquaintances seems to me a dreary waste of life; and the
word friendship, in the mouth of a man, implies many things."

"Notably what?" asked May, a little scornfully.

"Similarity of tastes and thought."

"And, I suppose, no one down here is clever enough for you?"

"I hope I'm not such an intolerable prig as to have implied that.  But,
frankly, I expect that you and I, for instance, would not take the same
view on any subject; and, very likely, the things that interest me
would bore you to extinction."

"It would bore me pretty considerably if you persisted in urging that
the whole world should be reduced to one level of ugly uniformity,
which is what you are credited with believing."

"A free interpretation of a hope, on my part, to lessen the cruel gulf
between the very rich and the very poor," replied Paul, quietly.  "I
confess, the frightful extravagance of the wealthier classes makes me
sick at heart; for one section of society nothing but amusement and
pleasure, and the lavish spending of money; and for the larger half the
weary effort to make both ends meet--and for many quiet, hopeless
starvation."

"You are talking something like the rector; only he enlists my sympathy
more by speaking less severely--and he is more just too.  He does not
talk as if it were wicked to be better off than your neighbour; he only
makes you feel the responsibility of it."

Paul gave rather a hard little laugh.

"To speak plainly, he dresses it up a little--gives it the clerical
dash of sentiment.  Besides, what is the good of stirring one here and
there to give out of his abundance something of which he will never
feel the loss, with the comfortable sense left behind that he or she
has done something very big indeed.  What one would strive for, rather,
is to stir up the nation to its duties, to rouse Government to redress
some of these glaring social grievances."

"Oh, pray keep yourself in hand! level your intellect down to mine!"
cried May, with a burst of laughter.  "As far as I follow you, you wish
to lower my dress allowance by act of parliament.  I sincerely trust
you will fail.  By the way you may set your mind at rest about my
dressmaker; her bill is paid, and all my other outstanding accounts
too.  With your rather eccentric views about property, it will annoy
you considerably to hear that I have had a fortune left me; so that I
may not be in debt again for some considerable time."

"To her that hath," said Paul, with a glance at the elegantly clad
figure.  "It really seems to me as if you could not want it, and I need
it so much."

"You!" echoed May.  "For real inconsistency commend me to yourself!"

"I scarcely require it for my personal wants, but money is sorely
needed to carry out my wishes for this village.  As landlord, I feel
myself responsible for many things that cannot be set right without it."

"But--but--mother always told me that Major Lessing was rich; and you
are his heir."

"I can only assure you that I am poor," said Paul, simply.  "Now, I
hope, I have proved satisfactorily to you that circumstances, tastes,
and opinions differing so greatly between us, make anything like
friendship impossible.  Whenever we come across each other we quarrel;
we can't help it."

May flushed to the roots of her hair.  "Thank you," she said haughtily.
"It is kind of you to put it so clearly.  I simply tried to put things
on a kinder footing, as we are your tenants and your neighbours, but I
see I have made a mistake.  It surprises me to find you so painfully
prejudiced.  Good-bye.  I've kept you too long from your one friend."

She opened the gate and passed on her way with never a look behind; but
Paul followed with long, rapid strides.

"Miss Webster! stay one moment, please!  I believe I've been behaving
like a perfect brute," he said hurriedly.  "At first I thought you were
simply playing a game with me; but, without knowing it, we drifted into
earnestness.  If any word of mine has seriously vexed you, I apologize
and retract."

"You could even believe it possible that I might feel a ray of interest
in some of the big subjects which absorb your life," said May.

"To have made a man acknowledge himself a prig once in an afternoon is
enough," retorted Paul.  "I will not do it again.  You know the worst
of me: that I have an uncertain temper, which betrays me occasionally
into blurting out unpleasant truths: that I have absolutely no small
talk.  I shall be at best but a rough-and-ready friend; but if in your
kindness you still care to cultivate Sally and me, we will gratefully
accept the cultivation, and be the better for it.  There's my hand on
it," and Paul stretched out his hand.  And May gave him her small
gloved one for an instant with a very sunny smile.

"And you will come to dinner soon and not feel you need talk down to
us."

"When all the smart people have gone," Paul said smiling.

"Smart people are your pet aversion, apparently.  Is that why you would
not come lately?"

"Yes; if you wish to hear the truth," Paul admitted as he turned back
to the rectory.

"And I have made a pretty big fool of myself this afternoon," was his
mental comment as he let the gate clang behind him.  "I first lost my
temper, and then let a woman twist me round her finger simply because
she is beautiful."

Needless to relate he made no confession of his folly to Sally when he
got home that night.  He resolved simply to change his tactics about
the people at the Court, and preserve safe silence about his altered
mind.

The following afternoon he stopped at the forge to speak to the
blacksmith about some repairs that were to be set on foot on his
premises.  Allison stood at the open door of the smithy with his head
turned in the opposite direction from the squire, looking after the
rector, who had just left him, with something of the sullen
satisfaction with which a bulldog might regard a vanquished foe.
Indignation still simmered when Paul accosted him.  One glance at the
purple face showed the squire that, for some reason as yet unknown, the
blacksmith was in a towering passion.

"Confound his impudence!" he said, throwing a dark look after the
rector.  "I've let him know once for all that I'll have no more of it!
I'm not answerable to him, nor any man, for what I says and does.  His
business, indeed, to come and tell me, if I choose to have a bit of fun
with a young fellow in a public-house.  What does it hurt him to be
drunk for once in his life?  A lesson I call it! just a bit of a lesson
as will teach him that his head ain't so strong as mine, nor likely to
be till he gets seasoned a bit.  I give it him straight enough, and no
humbug about it.  'Look here, sir,' I says, 'you go your way, and leave
me to go mine.  I don't deny as you've been kind to my old mother, and
she'd fret sore if she didn't see you.  Psalm-singing and such comes
natural-like to most women; but for my part I want nothing better than
to be letted alone.'"

Allison came to a stop; breath rather than words had failed him.  Paul,
who had been an unwilling listener to this tirade against the rector,
took advantage of the pause to turn the subject.

"Afraid I can't attend to you this afternoon sir," said Allison, when
Paul stated the object of his call.  "Reason why, my mates are out for
a holiday, and this mare here is just brought in to be shod.  I said at
first I would not do her to-day; she's a savage brute to tackle alone.
I don't let any one touch her but myself when the men are here.  It's
wonderful now what a difference there is in the tempers of horses; but
I ain't come across the one I couldn't master in the forge.  They feel
I ain't afeared on 'em."

Boasting of his prowess in his art was fast restoring Allison's temper,
which, though violent, was not enduring.

"Very well; I'll come again to-morrow," said Paul.

"And you'll thank missy for lookin' up my mother as she does," said
Allison, referring to Sally's visits to the old lady, his mother.
"She's one as it does you good to see, so pleasant and free-spoken.
Now some on 'em," with a glance in the direction of the Court, "don't
look as if they thought you good enough to black their shoes, and that
don't do for me."

"She does not do herself justice," thought Paul, as he walked away,
unconsciously taking up the cudgels in May Webster's defence; "she can
be gracious enough when she chooses.  She has insisted on our being
friends, and I'll make use of the privilege to tell her the impression
she conveys, before many weeks are passed.  Allison is a shrewd fellow,
and in his blundering fashion knocks many a right nail on the head."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

The October afternoon was fading into night before Paul returned to the
cottage.  The curtains of the sitting-room were still undrawn, and from
within he caught the cheerful glow of the fire, and Sally seated on the
rug before it reading by the fitful light.  She sprang to her feet as
she heard his footstep, and ran to open the door; and then her merry
greeting checked itself in the utterance, for her brother's face was
grey with suppressed feeling, and his teeth chattered slightly.

"What is it, Paul?" she asked, in a half-frightened whisper.

"It's that poor fellow, Allison; he's dying.  And I happened to pass
when the accident occurred, and gave a hand in carrying him upstairs.
It's ghastly to see a man in mortal agony."

"What happened?"

"A troublesome mare took to kicking as he shod her, and somehow Allison
was knocked down; and, before any one could get to the rescue, he was
so injured that the doctor does not think he can last through the
night."

"How awful!  And were you there to see it all?" Sally asked with a
shiver.

"I had not left the forge very long.  I had been talking to Allison,
and he told me the mare was a skittish one to manage; and, as I
returned, I found a group of men gathered around him, not one of whom
had even had the sense of thinking of fetching the doctor.  So I first
helped them to get poor Allison to his room, and then I rushed to the
inn, got a trap, and went and brought a doctor back with me.  There is
absolutely nothing to be done; but it is a satisfaction to feel that a
doctor has seen him.  Taken right way, he's not half a bad sort, Sally.
He's bearing his pain like a man, and shook me by the hand to bid me
good-bye, and even sent a message to you.  'Say good-bye to missy.  I'd
like to have said it myself,'" he said.

"He shall!  I'll go and see him," Sally said, with a set white face.
"If the sight of me can give him the smallest pleasure, I'll go."

"It's rather awful, Sally; you've not had to face death yet.  I would
not go if I were you."

"We all must face it some time or other.  I'll go, Paul; I shan't be
long.  No! don't come with me, please; I'd rather go alone."

"Put on a waterproof, then, and take an umbrella; it's a wild night,
and it has just come on to rain," said Paul, and, moved by an unwonted
impulse, he stooped and kissed her.

The door of the blacksmith's house was open when Sally reached it, and,
entering softly, she removed her wet cloak and stood in the dimly
lighted parlour wondering how she should make her presence known.  From
overhead came the sound of voices talking in suppressed whispers, and
once Sally shivered, for a long-drawn moan fell upon her ear.

"I'll go and see the old mother.  Perhaps I can stay with her, and set
Mrs. Allison free when I have just said good-bye to her husband,"
thought Sally, as she went up the stairs.

A near neighbour met her at the top.

"We're just at our wits' end, miss," she said in answer to Sally's
inquiry.  "The old lady's not to be told anything about it, and Mrs.
Allison, poor soul! falls out of one faint into another, and can't stay
in the room along with him who's dying."

"May I go to him for a minute.  He wanted to see me," said Sally, with
a sob.

But, ushered into the chamber of death, Sally stood for a moment
overpowered by an awful terror: a chill which seemed as if it would
stop the beating of her heart, a terror she could not have explained.
Face to face with death!  The words were familiar enough, but they had
conveyed little meaning to her.  This man, who lay there, unable from
time to time to keep back a groan of agony, with the grey shadow
deepening on his face, and the drops of perspiration standing on his
forehead, would soon lie there silent and still, capable of neither
speech, nor feeling, nor hearing.  He would be simply an empty shell.
It was awful!--inexpressibly awful.  It all flashed through Sally's
mind in one shuddering instant; the next, she had pulled herself
together and crossed to the bedside on tip-toe, and stood looking down
at the poor, prostrate form with ineffable pity in her dark eyes.

"Oh, Lord!  I can't bear it!" broke in a sort of wail from the blue
lips.  "It can't last long; an hour or so will settle it."

The words Sally recognized as an exclamation rather than a prayer, but
they brought the rector to her remembrance.  If any man could help
another in his last agony surely it would be he.

"Mr. Allison," she said, laying her soft hand on the grimy one that
moved up and down so restlessly upon the counterpane, "I heard you
wanted to see me.  Let me do something.  Is there no one else you would
like to see?  Shall I fetch Mr. Curzon?"

Allison's eyes unclosed, dimmed already by the gathering haze of death.

"Bless you, missy; this ain't no place for you, though it's good of you
to come.  Good-bye.  God bless you!  You get home again; it will hurt
you to see me suffer."

Once more that half-blind appeal to the Higher Power of which Mr.
Curzon had spoken, and he spoke with no uncertain sound.  He seemed to
know about it.

"Won't the rector come?" asked Sally again.

But Allison shook his head.

"No, no; we'd words to-day.  I can't mind what about; but it don't
matter much.  I told 'un not to come."

But as he spoke a step fell on the stair, and the next moment Mr.
Curzon pushed open the door with an expression on his face so pitiful,
so strong, that in the tension of her feeling, Sally could only sob,
and, withdrawing her hand, slip quietly away to the window.

The rector knelt down, bringing his face to a level with the dying
man's.

"Allison, dear fellow, I only heard this minute what had happened; and
I came.  Will you let me stay?"

"You can please yourself," said Allison; "but you can't want to be
here.  We quarrelled, you and I."

"Not I," said the rector, gently.

"I'm mortal bad!  I'm dying!" gasped the blacksmith.  "It can't do no
good to watch me."

"You'll let me say a psalm or read a prayer."

"No.  Where's the use?  I wouldn't say 'em living and I can't listen
now I'm dying.  I ain't no worse than others, and I'm better than some;
and what's to see on the other side, I'll learn soon enough for myself.
I'm nearly there."

"But God is here! close to you, Allison," pleaded the rector; "asking
you even now to turn to Him, to look Him in the Face!"

Sally's breath came in fitful gasps; she looked round the room half
expecting the visible shining of that Presence.  Instead, the wind
sobbed in the chimney and the rain dashed against the window-pane.
Death was here, and darkness; but no God, thought Sally.

The rector's hands covered his face, and through his fingers Sally saw
that great tears forced themselves in the agony of his wrestling for
that soul with God.

"You can please yourself," said Allison, opening his eyes again.  "It
will do no good, but it won't do harm."  And the rector, catching at
the feeble flicker of a dawning faith, said the twenty-third Psalm
slowly on his knees: "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow
of death, I fear no evil, for Thou art with me----'"

A movement from the dying man made him pause and look up.

"I can't see nothing; give me a grip of your hand.  Hold tight; I'm
mortal cold."

He did not speak again.  Neighbours came and went, moistening the dying
lips with brandy; but the eyes had no gleam of recognition in them.
For an hour or more the rector sat with the great hand clasped tightly
between his own, repeating gently prayer or hymn, no word of which, he
feared, could reach the numbed brain, but certain that the Great God in
Heaven was looking down upon the sheep that had wandered so far from
Him, but whom He still claimed as His own.  And Sally waited, too,
until the rector rising, bent and softly closed the eyes.  Then she
knew that Allison was dead, and, slipping from the room, made her way
swiftly home, unconscious of the rain that beat upon her head, filled
only with the remembrance of the scene she had just witnessed.

"He's dead," she said, when Paul let her in; "he's dead--whatever that
may mean.  It does not mean going out like a candle--I'm certain it
does not mean that,--it means going somewhere else; and, if any one can
teach me, I must find out where.  I could not die like that, Paul; it's
despairing, it's quite hopeless!  I'm thankful that I'm young; that I
have time to learn.  If there's no hope, no light, the mere thought of
dying would be enough to drive one mad."

"My poor child!  I did wrong to let you see anything so painful," Paul
said, gathering her into his arms.  "I am afraid there is no one who
can tell you about these things.  Nobody knows; that is the sad part of
it."

"Mr. Curzon can," said Sally, lifting her head from Paul's shoulder.
"He has got hold of something that you and I have missed.  There is
positive conviction written on his face of the living God whom Allison
in dying was vaguely feeling after."

"Oh, he's a fine fellow in his way, I don't deny it, and has the
courage of his opinions; but he can't know.  Nobody does," said Paul,
doggedly.  "And now, dear, we'll have supper.  You will take a less
hysterical view of life and death in the morning."




CHAPTER IX.

A CRISIS IN A LIFE.

A year had passed since poor Allison's sun set so stormily.  It was
curious that his death marked the beginning of a new life for Sally;
but so it was.  It had changed her attitude of mind towards things
eternal, from one of placid indifference to active inquiry.  Paul's
assertion that "nobody knew" satisfied no longer, and she turned from
him to Mr. Curzon.

"Death can't be the end of it all," she said abruptly to the rector,
when she met him a few days after Allison had passed away.

"Oh no," he answered, following her lead with quick sympathy.  "Our
Lord's death and resurrection teach us that it is but the beginning."

"I wish I could believe it.  Can you help me? can any one help me?"
Sally said.

"I may be the signpost to show you the road, and I will tell you of the
things which have helped me on the road; but God is even now drawing
you to Himself by His Holy Spirit," said Mr. Curzon, earnestly.

Thus, under Mr. Curzon's guidance, Sally began the course of study
which ended, before many months had passed away, in the passionate
conviction that in Christ alone could be found the Way, the Truth, and
the Life.

Paul guessed at the fact that his sister was passing through some new
phase of thought, by the books he found left about the room, and by a
newly developed earnestness which underlay her natural gaiety of manner.

"Poor child!  Allison's death frightened her.  And it is as well that
she should study both sides of the question," he thought.  He did not
doubt that eventually she would accept his decision as final.

It was November, and Paul came into lunch one day with an unusual air
of depression.  His farming venture was proving a grievous failure, as
far as money was concerned.  On every side he found himself hampered by
poverty.  The summer had been a wet one, and, in common humanity, he
had had to make a considerable reduction in his farm rents;
improvements in his cottage property had led to an outlay for which he
well knew he could receive no adequate interest, and, as he had tramped
over the sodden land this morning, he had been occupied with the
anxious consideration how best to make both ends meet.

The longer he lived at Rudham the less he liked it.  He was deprived of
the society of men of his own way of thinking; and with the rector, who
in theory he cordially respected and liked, he found himself nearly
always in tacit opposition.  Paul's friendship with Kitty was the only
connecting link between him and the rector; otherwise they would have
drifted hopelessly apart before now.  Then, on this particular morning,
as he returned home he heard a rumour that May Webster was going to be
married to a baronet who had haunted the Court pretty frequently during
the last few months; and the hint had filled Paul with unreasoning
irritation.  Not that it mattered to him whom she married, he assured
himself; but the Court had become the one bright spot to him in all the
place.

Paul, having promised his friendship, had given it unstintingly, and
had been proud to discover that in many of the subjects which
interested him the most deeply, he had found May Webster a ready pupil;
and when she differed from him she held her own with such merry
defiance, that it gave her an added charm in his eyes.  And now this
mindless, fox-hunting squire was to carry her off, and life at Rudham
would sink into one dead level of dulness.  Thus it happened that he
came home in a captious mood.

"What's the excitement, Sally?  A wedding, I suppose, for the bells are
making row enough to wake the dead."

"No, it's the Bishop," said Sally, flushing a little.  "There is a
Confirmation here to-day."

Paul's eyes travelled from Sally's crimsoning face to the white dress
she wore.

"I can't see why the Bishop is to be welcomed like a bride, and you are
to dress like one of his bridesmaids," he said.  "What a singularly
inappropriate garment for this dreary November day."

"I am going to be confirmed, Paul."

A long pause followed.  It was the crowning vexation of a tiresome
morning; but Paul did not wish to say anything that he would afterwards
regret.

"It's a decided step, Sally; I wonder if you have thought it over
enough?  You will probably wake up from this religious craze to find
yourself bound down to a creed which your reason rejects."

"It is conviction, not a craze," said Sally.  "I have thought about
little else for a whole year, and my mind is quite made up."

"Very well, then; I have nothing more to say.  You are of age, and must
decide such things for yourself; but you've sprung it upon me somewhat
suddenly, Sally.  I suppose it was by Mr. Curzon's advice that you kept
your change of opinion dark?"

"Oh dear no! he wished me to tell you weeks ago.  But I've been so
happy, I cared so much, I felt as if I could not discuss things with
any one who differed from me."

"Then we won't discuss it," Paul said, drawing a long breath.  "What
time does the thing come off?  I'll go down and order the fly; I can't
let you walk up to church like that."

"May is going to call for me; she is coming to the service."

"Miss Webster!" said Paul, with a rather incredulous laugh.  "I should
not have thought it was at all in her line."

"She's glad; she thinks I'm right," said Sally, gently.

It was on the tip of Paul's tongue to ask Sally if she had heard
anything of May's rumoured engagement to Sir Cecil Bland; but some fear
lest the answer should be in the affirmative held him back.  When the
carriage from the Court drew up at the gate, he went down to put Sally
in, and was rewarded by a friendly nod and smile from May.

"Aren't you coming, too?" she asked boldly.  "It would make Sally so
happy if you did."

Paul shook his head.  "I don't understand these things; I leave them to
those that do."

"I promise to bring her back safely, and I am coming to tea," went on
May, gliding over his refusal.  "I've never seen that new wing of yours
since it was finished.  Cottage, indeed!  I call it quite a mansion!"
with a glance at the addition which had been lately built on to the
Macdonald's house, making it about double its original size.

"A mansion you would not care to inhabit, I expect; but it will do
capitally for Sally and me," said Paul.

"I'll decide that when I've seen it.  Good-bye, then, till we meet
later.  Tell Dixon to drive to the church, please."

Paul gave the order, and went back to his new sitting-room, seating
himself before his office table, as he called the one which was placed
in the bow window.  He opened his business ledgers, and congratulated
himself on the fact of having a long, quiet afternoon of undisturbed
work before him; but one more trivial interruption occurred before he
was entirely left to himself.  Mrs. Macdonald knocked at the door and
stood before him arrayed in her Sunday best.

"Shall you be wanting anything, sir?"

"Nothing whatever, Mrs. Macdonald."

"If not, I would like to go to the church to see Miss Sally and the
Bishop.  I'd slip out quiet before the end, so as not to keep the
ladies waiting for their tea."

"Go by all means," said Paul, smiling a little over the commotion
created by a Bishop and his lawn sleeves, and a flock of girls in white
dresses and caps.

Then his thoughts reverted to Sally's face, with its sweet seriousness
of expression, as she had started for the church, and from Sally he
passed on to May; and there his mind lingered.  She was
beautiful--beautiful beyond compare; and to-day there had been an added
grace of tenderness in her manner to Sally: a protecting, motherly
care, as if she would shield her from his want of sympathy.  She seemed
so much older than Sally, and yet there were but four years between
them.

He pictured the room as it would appear when she entered it, and he
settled which of the two easy-chairs he would draw nearer to the fire,
and where he would sit himself, so that he could watch the firelight
playing on her face; and then----  He covered his face with his hands
and shut out the light, the better to understand the cause of the
fierce pain that was gnawing at his heart.

It did not take him long to discover what had happened.  He, Paul
Lessing, a man who had knocked about the world and had mixed with all
sorts and conditions of men and women, whose pulses had hitherto never
quickened their beating at the touch of a woman's hand or the sound of
a voice, found himself, at thirty-one, as helplessly and ridiculously
in love as any lad of twenty.

With a smothered exclamation, he pushed back his chair, and began a
restless walk up and down the room.  Was ever a grown man guilty of
such egregious folly before?  A great gulf separated him and the woman
of his dreams: a gulf that could never be bridged over.  In tastes and
in circumstances they were separated far as the poles.  His love was
perfectly hopeless; and yet the notion of her marrying another, and
removing herself entirely out of his reach, was intolerable to him.
But, as an effectual cure of his madness, he knew that it was the best
thing that could happen to him.  The remedy was a sharp one, but it
would be complete.

"A few days must settle it, and, until then, I need not meet her," said
Paul, aloud.  "I won't stay in this afternoon; business can take me to
the farm."

In another minute he had gone into the village street, almost deserted
this afternoon, for most of the villagers had wandered up to the
church.  Paul's road lay in the same direction; and he walked along
with rapid strides, his head bent upon his breast, his heart busied
with his new discovery, and the thought how best to live it down.  He
was mingling with the crowd now, that had gathered round the
church-gate waiting for the procession of clergy that was just filing
out of the church.  From inside came the throb of the organ and the
sound of singing; but Paul went upon his way, neither lifting his head
nor staying his steps, when a familiar voice close at hand arrested his
attention.

"Mr. Paul!  I'm so glad you've come!  I _can't_ see anything; lift me
up, please!"

Paul started as he saw that he had nearly tumbled over his friend
Kitty, whose invalid carriage was drawn up as near to the gate as
possible.

"Poor Kitty!  And you want to look at the Bishop and his lawn sleeves,
and the girls in their caps, like all the rest of the village," he
said, bending over and lifting her high in his strong arms.

"Yes.  I suppose you've come to see the Bishop too?" said Kitty, with a
sigh of contentment.  "He's very nice, indoors; but oh! he's lovely
when he's got his scarlet coat on.  But daddy says I must not think
about the clothes, but about all the boys and girls whom he will bless
to-day.  They'll promise to be good, you know."

"Hush! hush!" said Paul, for the procession was upon them.  And Kitty,
carried away by the thrill of the voices, steadied herself in Paul's
arms by clasping hers about his neck, and sang lustily with the rest--

  "'Till with the vision glorious
  Her longing eyes are blest,
  And the great Church victorious
  Shall be the Church at rest.'"


The last clergyman in the procession before the Bishop was the rector,
and Paul could not but be struck by the singular beauty of his look,
the joyous ring of his voice.  The "vision glorious" was his at that
moment; fresh soldiers had just been sworn in to that great army, whose
Captain was Christ, and, though some might fall away, there were many
whom he prayed would die fighting.  That, and more than that, was
written clearly on the rector's face.

"Did you see him?  Did you see him?" whispered Kitty, eagerly.  "Isn't
he beautiful?"

"Yes," said Paul, absently, as he put Kitty back into her carriage.
But whilst Kitty referred to the Bishop, Paul spoke of the rector.

Then he hurried on his way, anxious not to encounter Sally or May.  The
brief interval of sunshine was over, and wreaths of mist gathered along
the banks of the river, creeping gradually to the slopes above it,
dissolving into fine thick rain as the afternoon darkened into night.
And still Paul lingered about his business at the farm, until he felt
assured that all danger of coming across May was over: a conviction
justified by the fact that he met the carriage from the Court, driving
home as he returned to the village, catching a glimpse of a lady's
figure inside it.

"How long has May been gone?" he asked, with studied carelessness, as
he let himself into he cottage and saw a girl's figure seated on the
rug before the fire.

"She's not gone! she's here, wondering why her host was so rude as to
absent himself this afternoon.  Since when, by the way, have you done
her the honour to call her by her Christian name?"  And May Webster
rose from her lowly position and faced Paul with laughter in her eyes.

Paul felt himself caught at a thorough disadvantage; he was dripping
with rain and covered with mud, and, confronted thus suddenly with the
girl of whom his heart was full, his usual readiness of speech deserted
him.

"You! you!" he stammered.  "But I saw you drive by me not a quarter of
an hour ago."

"And thought you had timed your homecoming so as judiciously to miss
me," said May, mercilessly.  "It must have been my mother; she has been
spending the day at Fairfield.  I told Dixon not to come back for me as
I would walk home: a premature decision, for it has rained ever since,
and I've been waiting for it to clear up.  However, I can wait no
longer; and Sally has just gone to forage out a waterproof and
umbrella."

"I'll go up to the Court and tell them to send back the carriage," said
Paul, preparing to depart.

"No, thank you; I will walk."

"The village fly, then?"

"It, or rather its horse, has had more than its proper work to-day.  It
is probably now conveying the Bishop to the station."

"I shall come with you, then; it will be quite dark before you get
home."

"I'm not afraid of it.  I believe you are; there's a queer, scared look
about you, as if you had seen a ghost; you still think I was in that
carriage.  Sally," turning to the girl who had just re-entered the
room, "will you tell your brother that I don't wish him to see me home?
He's very damp and miserable now."

"And at the risk of being a little damper, I will come; it's ridiculous
to argue the point."

With all her boasted independence May was not sorry for Paul's escort
when she stepped out into the night.  The rain was descending in a
steady down pour, the wind came sighing up the valley, and the river
swept on its way, lapping against the bark with a dreary, sobbing
sound.  They walked on in silence side by side until May broke it with
an impatient laugh.

"The dreariness of the night has infected us both.  You are not often
dull.  You are always either amusing or interesting.  Talk, please."

"I can't talk.  I've not an idea in my head except that, if the river
gets much higher, there will be a flood, and no more Rudham!  And
personally, I should not care much if it swept it away and me with it."

"You do yourself injustice; you are very interesting.  Why this fit of
the blues?  You are going to be ill, I expect; you looked rather ill
when you came in just now."

"Not a bit of it," said Paul, with a little laugh; "draggled and wet,
but not ill.  Do you remember that you told me once, a year ago, that I
was isolating myself from my fellows?  Then I felt as if I could defy
that isolation.  To-day I have been conscious of it; Robinson Crusoe on
his desert island could not feel more utterly lonely.  I have been
kicking against the pricks, wondering why I am condemned to a life and
a place which I hate."

"You have no business to complain of a solitude which you have created
yourself."

"Oh no; I blame no one."

"And you have Sally----"

"I _had_ Sally.  She was my disciple and satellite; but now I shall
always be having to take care that I don't hurt her feelings.  The
slippered ease of the old relationship is dead; I can't talk out to
her."

"But you can talk out to me as much as you like.  I shan't agree with
you; but my faith, such as it is, is not new-born like Sally's.  I wish
it were half as strong."

Only under cover of the dark would May have dared to say as much.

"No, I can't even talk to you; the friendship is dead too.  That was
the ghost I saw this afternoon; it would have been a short-lived joy,
any way, for I hear you are going to leave Rudham."

"You are talking in riddles now!" cried May.  "What should kill our
friendship? and where am I going to?"

"To Fairfield; so rumour says."

May stopped short in her walk, and Paul heard her breath coming
unevenly.  When she spoke again her voice was low, but angry.

"You outstrip the limits of friendship in daring to tell me what the
gossips here say of me."

"I had no intention of telling you.  I suppose it slipped out because I
hate to believe it true."

"You need not believe it; I am not going to marry Sir Cecil Bland,"
said May, coldly.  "What has it to do with you, may I ask?"

"Thank Heaven!" muttered Paul, under his breath.

"What have you against him?"

"Nothing.  Except that I suppose he loves you, and I love you too, and,
although I know better than you can tell me, that my love is perfectly
hopeless, I can bear it if I may let you live in my heart a little
while, as the one woman in all the world to me, the only woman I have
ever loved or ever wished to marry.  That must not have been if you
were pledged to marry some one else."

"Oh, stop!" said May, laying an entreating hand upon his arm; "I feel
as if I had been so cruel, I would not rest until I had you for a
friend, but I never dreamed of this."

"Nor I, until to-day," said Paul.  "But when I heard that some one else
was likely to marry you I knew."

"Put me back into the old niche.  Can't we forget about to-night?"

Paul laughed a little harshly.

"Forget!" he echoed drearily.  "How little women know the way a man can
love?  With you I shall only rank as one of the many moths that have
singed their wings by flying too closely about you."

"No, no!  I shall think of you always as my one man-friend, to whom I
could say anything that was in my head.  I shall miss him dreadfully."

"And under no circumstances can you think of me in a different light?"

"I don't know, but I think not," May said simply.  "You may think it
odd, or call me heartless, but I have not yet met the man I wish to
marry.  There! you see I trust you to the last.  Good-bye, my friend."

Paul bent over the hand that was put into his own and kissed it, and
went home feeling that the chill of the night had closed about his
heart.




CHAPTER X.

RIVAL SUITORS.

"Where have you been, May?  I have been frightened to death about you."

The process was apparently a painless one, judging from the extreme
comfort of Mrs. Webster's surroundings: her easy-chair drawn close to
the fire but sheltered from it by a screen, the lamp on the table
adjusted to a nicety behind, the illustrated papers ready cut for use,
and the last new novel lying open on her lap.  May seated herself
leisurely and stretched out her hands to the blaze before she answered.

"I've been having tea at the cottage."

"And came home in the wet and dark by yourself?"

"No.  Mr. Lessing saw me home."

"Of course; I know now that your staying at home to-day to take Sally
to the confirmation was just an excuse.  You did not want to come with
me to Fairfield."

"No, I did not; but I honestly did want to go with Sally: she looked so
pretty, mother.  I've not been at a confirmation since I was confirmed
myself."

"I don't want to talk of that just now, May.  Lady Bland is terribly
hurt at the way you have treated Cecil.  He's quite ill, poor fellow!"

"I'm sorry."

"You are not," snapped Mrs. Webster, "or you would have been kinder to
him!"

"Need we go over this oft-trodden ground again?" May asked rather
wearily.  "I can only reiterate that I really can't and won't marry any
one I do not care for."

"I don't believe there is the man in creation that you will care for.
It really would be wise for you to accept the one you least dislike."

"Or not marry anybody."

"That is a more than likely alternative.  You are five-and-twenty now,
and you might have been married over and over again."

May laughed.  "I don't know why you are so keen to get rid of me.  You
will be dreadfully lonely without me; not to say dull."

"That's true enough," said Mrs. Webster, softening; "but a girl like
you ought to marry.  You won't make a good old maid."

"No," May admitted candidly.

And this question of marriage, which was sorely perplexing the
mistress, was pressing hard also upon her maid, for pretty Rose
Lancaster, who had successfully played off her rival suitors against
each other for a year, was at last compelled to make her choice between
them.  Tom Burney had that day received an offer from the squire of a
free passage to Tasmania, and a very good appointment on a farm there
with a relation of Mr. Lessing's, where, if he gave satisfaction, he
might in a few years look forward to part-ownership.

"I only propose to part with you because agriculture does not pay, or I
have not learned the way to make it do so," the squire had said.  "I
have been making up my mind to reduce my staff; and, my cousin having
lately written to me about a suitable man, it occurred to me to give
you the first offer."

Tom coloured with pleasure.  "Thank you, sir; it seems a great chance.
It would be a certainty, wouldn't it?  I could take another with me."

"Well, it would be wiser for the other fellow to get a promise of work.
I might ask if there were an opening," Paul had replied.

"It's not a man as I was thinking of, sir.  It was a wife!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," the squire said laughing.  "But if you care
for my opinion on a subject of which I know but little, I believe quite
the wisest thing you could do would be to take out a wife with you.
She would make a home for you and keep you steady.  I expect you have
some girl in your eye, Burney."

Tom smiled rather sheepishly; it would be time enough to mention Rose
when his banns were put up.

And that very afternoon when work was over, Tom had gone home and put
on his best clothes; then walked boldly up to the Court and demanded an
interview with Rose.  She came into the servant's hall where he waited
nervously by the fire, and, giving him a careless nod, seated herself
and put her toes upon the fender.

"What is it, Tom?  I can't stop long; I'm expecting Miss Webster in
every minute."

"It's come at last: what I've waited for," stammered Tom.  "I've a
chance of giving you a home, Rose: a nice one, as far as I can make
out."

"Where?" asked Rose, with shining eyes and parted lips, a vision of
herself as a bride, in a white frock, and handsome Tom as her
bridegroom, floating before her.

"In Tasmania; if you love me well enough to come with me out there.
It's a wonderful offer that the squire has given me; and some day I may
bring you home almost like a lady."

"But I don't know where it is, and I wouldn't go if I did--not with you
nor any man!  What can you be thinking of to stuff me up with nonsense
like that?" Rose asked poutingly.  "I'll have a home on this side of
the water, or nowhere."

"And you shall," Tom declared passionately, "if you'll promise to wait
until I can make you one!--but I'll have your word for it.  You shall
have done with Dixon and stick fast by me, or----"

"Or what?" Rose said with rather frightened eyes.

"Or I'll go where you won't be troubled by me any more.  Look here!
you've held me on for eighteen months now, and, if you cared for me
one-half as I love you, you would be ready enough to come with me to
the other side of the world, when I can make you an honest offer of a
home.  I'd follow you to the world's end; ill or well, rich or poor I'd
love you just the same; you should not have a trouble that I could keep
from you.  I've told you so before, and I tell you so to-night; but
it's the last time.  You can take me or leave me; but I'll know now
which it is to be.  It don't matter much to me where you want to live,
except that, if I don't take this offer, we must wait a bit; but I'll
know your mind about it.  It must be 'yes' or 'no' to-night!"

Happily for Rose, Miss Webster's bell pealed a noisy summons at that
moment.

"I can't stop, Tom!  I _really_ can't!  Miss Webster is not one who can
wait.  I'll think it over and tell you sometime soon."

"When?" asked Tom, catching her hands and holding them so tightly that
she gave a little cry.

"Sunday.  Sunday night after church; you can see me home if you like,"
and with that promise Tom had to be content.

"Mind what you are up to, Rose.  Don't play with me too far," he said.

And as Rose sat stitching in the housekeeper's room that night, her
mind busied itself over Tom's words, and the difficulty of making a
decision.  It had never entered Rose's pretty head to lay this question
of marriage before God.  Had she done so she would have been saved from
making a mistake, which was to leave its mark upon the whole of her
future life.  Her heart drew her one way, and her ambition another.
Undoubtedly Tom, with his warm heart and openly expressed devotion, was
the man she loved the best of the many who had paid her attention; but
she might have to wait for him for years, whilst, if Dixon chose to
offer it, he could give her a home to-morrow that any girl in the
village might envy; but he had never spoken out as Tom had spoken
to-night.  His wooing had not been so manly and so straight as poor
Tom's.  Rose had almost made up her mind to tell him on Sunday that she
would wait for him, when a voice waked her from her reverie; and the
voice was Dixon's.

"I suppose you don't happen to know if the carriage will be wanted to
take the ladies to the station to-morrow?  I heard some talk about
their going out, but I haven't had any orders."

"I'm not the one to ask! you'll find Mr. Wheeler in the pantry," said
Rose, a little sharply.

"What's put you out to-night, I wonder?" said Dixon, coming a little
further into the room and closing the door behind him.  "Had some
quarrel with that peppery lad Burney, I expect?  Anyway you've been
crying about something; and ten to one it's Burney.  I saw him coming
away from here, and I had the biggest mind to ask him what business he
had to be prowling round a place where he was turned off for
unsteadiness."

"You'd best mind what you say about him!" Rose said, stitching away
with feverish rapidity.  "He wants me to marry him."

"Does he now?  Banns put up on Sunday, I suppose?" said Dixon, with a
palpable sneer.

"No; we should wait," faltered Rose.

"I should not have thought you were of the waiting sort.  Then it's
good-bye to me."

"It will be good-bye if I promise; he'll be all or nothing.  He's just
mad about me."

"Then you've not promised yet?" asked Dixon, eagerly.  "You've not been
silly enough to do that, Rose?"

"He won't wait; I'm to tell him on Sunday night.  And oh! I'm
miserable: I don't know what to do!"  And Rose let her work fall in her
lap, and burst into sobbing.

"Don't cry! don't take on!  I'll tell you what to do, my dear.  Promise
to marry me instead of that hot-headed fool, Burney.  Settle it all
right away, and don't fash your head any more about it.  There need be
no waiting--I'll go and see the vicar about the banns,--and if so be
that we can't get the rooms over the stables to ourselves, I'll ask Mr.
Lessing to give us a cottage.  There! you see I'm in earnest.  It would
be grand to hear your name given out in church the next Sunday as ever
is, now wouldn't it?" and Dixon pulled away Rose's hands from her face,
and smiled down on her.

"Oh, I couldn't!" Rose said.  "There's Tom."

"That would settle Tom fast enough."

Rose never knew quite how it happened; but half an hour later Dixon
left without any order for the carriage on the morrow, but with Rose's
promise that she would marry him as soon as he liked, and with her
consent that the banns should be published on the following Sunday.
Rose's silly little head was in such a whirl of delightful excitement
that, for the time being, Tom and his misery were forgotten.  There was
the wedding to think of, and the clothes that must be made, and the
question of hat versus veil, for the wedding-day loomed large in the
foreground.  She wondered how Miss Webster would look when she gave her
a month's notice that night; and whether Mrs. Webster would offer to
have the wedding breakfast at the Court.  It was almost certain that as
Dixon was coachman, he would have the loan of the carriage; and she
would be driven to the church that day for all the world just like a
lady, and half the village would turn out to see her married.  And then
Tom's large, reproachful eyes, with their expression of dumb pain,
stared at her out of the brilliant picture which her imagination
conjured.  Poor Tom! how would he bear it?  She comforted herself a
little with the thought that he would be quite certain now to accept
the offer of that situation abroad of which he had spoken, and she
would not be vexed by the sight of his unhappiness.

"I must not let him meet me on Sunday night.  I must write and tell him
that Dixon and I have settled it, and that he must not mind too much,"
thought Rose.

The letter was not an easy one to write, and Rose shelved it.  She had
a way of shelving unpleasant subjects; but when Saturday night came she
could put it off no longer, so, fetching down her writing-case, she
spoiled a dozen sheets of paper in the effort to make her news fairly
palatable, finally dashing off an unsatisfactory scrawl, badly written
and lamely expressed; and, having folded and directed it, she flew out
into the yard to find a messenger to take it.  The first who presented
himself was the groom.

"It would be doing me a real favour if you would let Burney have this
note to-night," she said.  "It's very particular;" and with the note
she shoved sixpence into the man's hand.

He laughed as he pocketed the coin, and was laughing still when he went
back into the saddle-room, where Dixon sat smoking over the fire.

"What's the joke, mate?"

"A note from your girl to Burney--'very particular' she called it!
I'll warrant it's to tell him he'd better not come this way any more."

"I dare say it is," replied Dixon, slowly.  "Hand it over; I'm going
down to the village, and I'll leave it myself."

The groom hesitated.  "I think I'll stick to it; she gave me sixpence
to make sure he got it, and I wouldn't like to cheat her."

"Stick to the sixpence but give me the letter.  Who's a better right to
it than I, I should like to know?  I'm as good as married already,"
said Dixon, stretching out his hand.

"You'll promise not to forget."

"I'm not one as forgets," said Dixon, with an odd laugh.

"And if there's any mistake you'll settle it?"

"Yes; I'll settle it."

The groom gave the note and went out whistling; he was not quite easy
in his mind about the missive.  Left to himself, Dixon turned the
envelope round in his fingers, examining it back and front.  The
blotted writing gave evidence of hurry, the blistered paper testified
to tears, and Dixon broke into an oath.

"The little jade!--that's the second time she's cried about him this
week to my certain knowledge," he said aloud.  "She would not dare to
chuck me now, though, even if she does love the other one; but I've
more than half a mind to put this in the fire.  It may be to tell him
that she's settled things with me; but it would not be a bad joke to
let him hear it for himself in church, and her telling him nothing
about it, good or bad, would let him know she did not care much for
him."

In another moment there was a brief blaze in the fire, and Rose's note
was reduced to ashes.

The next morning Tom Burney rose with the feeling that he trod on air,
such a strange exhilaration of spirit possessed him.

He had heard nothing from Rose during the week, and her very silence
filled him with hope.  If she meant to refuse him, he was almost sure
that she would have put him out of his misery before this.  He was not
generally a vain fellow, but to-day his toilet was a matter of moment;
his tie was re-adjusted half a dozen times, and he asked his landlady
to give him a chrysanthemum for his buttonhole.

"Goin' courtin'?" she said, with a laugh as she pinned it in for him.
And Tom coloured rosy red, but said nothing.

He started early for church, hoping that he might catch a glimpse of
Rose as she passed in with the other servants from the Court; but
either she had got there before him, or, for some unknown cause, she
had been detained at home.  Dixon presently appeared, smart and neat,
giving Tom an affable nod as he passed up the path to the church; but
Tom's eyes were fixed straight in front of him, and he ignored the
greeting.

"I'll not pretend to be friends when I ain't," he said to himself.

Presently the hurrying bell warned the outside group of stragglers to
make their way into church; and Tom took his usual seat at the end of
the nave.  It is to be feared that his thoughts that morning were not
occupied with devotion.  Prayer and psalm passed unheeded over his
head; but when, at the end of the second lesson, there was a pause, and
the rector turned over the leaves of a book in front of him, Tom lifted
his head and waited for the banns that would follow.  Before long he
might be listening to the publishing of his own.

"I publish the banns of marriage between William Dixon, bachelor, and
Rose Lancaster, spinster, both of this parish. . . ."

Was it some ghastly nightmare, Tom wondered, as he clutched at the seat
in front of him?  But the suppressed grin on the faces near him, the
foolish smile with which the publishing of banns is so often received
in a village church, convinced him that he had heard aright.  The blood
was rioting to his brain, and the beating in his throat made him put up
his hand with the vain endeavour to loosen his collar lest he should
choke there and then with the passion that could find no outlet.  For
one instant he was possessed by a wild wish to stand up and forbid the
banns; but what end would be gained by making himself a greater
laughing-stock to the village than he was at present, for already he
felt the derisive finger of scorn pointed at him as the man whom Rose
had jilted.  Even now he saw one or two of the lads nudge each other
and look at him with curious eyes.  To be watched at such a moment was
torture, and, like an animal in pain, Tom longed for solitude.  He
groped blindly under the seat for his hat, made his way to the door and
slipped out.  He stumbled on like a man in delirium, looking neither to
the right nor left, but following instinctively the path across the
fields which led to the river.  The turbulence of its grey waters, as
it rushed on to the sea, seemed most in keeping with the wild, wicked
thoughts that surged unchecked through his brain, and were bearing him
he knew not whither.  He threw himself upon the long, rank grass on the
bank, still wet with the heavy mist of night, and, pillowing his chin
in his hands, watched with dilating eyes the swirling river as it swept
by.  A giddiness dimmed his vision, a singing filled his ears.

"If I slipped over and was carried along with it, there'd be an end of
it all," thought Tom.  And the chill wind came sighing across the
water, and shook the heavy rushes at the edge, which seemed
whisperingly to echo his thought, "an end of it all."

Then Tom half-angrily roused himself, and pressed his hands to the eyes
that burned like fire, and tried to collect his bewildered senses.
What!--slip out of life like a drowned rat and never see Rose again,
nor tell her what he knew of the man she had chosen in preference to
him.  She would be glad to know he was dead, he told himself with
fierce bitterness.  She had played with him like a cat with a mouse for
more than a year but in the long run the mouse died squeaking.  Surely
she could not be so false-hearted as to break faith with him to-night;
she would meet him and say good-bye?  She _should_ meet him, whether
she liked it or not; and if Dixon were with her so much the
better,--and Tom's fists clenched involuntarily.

For hours and hours he wandered, following the windings of the river,
until, as the November sun paled and sank in a bank of grey cloud, he
discovered that he was some six or eight miles from Rudham, and that
his knees were knocking together with mingled emotion and fatigue.  A
wayside inn seemed a haven of refuge to him in his exhausted condition.
Through the red blind of the bar a light shone cheerily, and Tom
entered the door without knocking, and, seating himself on the settle
by the fire, ordered sixpennyworth of brandy.

"Hot water or cold?  You'll have it hot, if you take my advice," said
the landlady, with a glance at the bloodshot eyes that glared so
strangely out of the deathly white face.

"Neither, thanks," said Tom, tossing off the raw spirit at a gulp.

It tasted to him like so much water; it did not muddle his brain, it
cleared it, it nerved him for that interview with Rose.

"Another sixpennyworth, please," he said, laying down a shilling on the
table.

The landlady paused, and coughed behind her hand; she had sons of her
own.

"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, pushing him back sixpence.
"You've took as much as is good for you, and ne'er a drop of water.

"You can serve me or leave it alone," said Tom, angrily.  "I'm ill; I
need it.  It tastes like so much water."

The landlady shook her head but gave him the brandy, and Tom, having
swallowed it, bade her a civil good night and went on his way.

The landlady hurried to the door and looked after him; he was walking
very fast but quite straight.

"It may have gone to his head, but it's not got into his legs," she
said, a note of admiration in her voice.

Tom meanwhile hurried on to the station, which he knew to be not more
than half a mile away.  He was just in time to catch the one down-train
that ran on Sunday evening, which would land him in Rudham in time for
evening service--not that Tom meant to go to church that night.  He
would walk outside and wait for Dixon and for Rose.  Many a time the
two men had escorted Rose back to the Court, one on either side.  This
would be the last.




CHAPTER XI.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Rose Lancaster had never looked prettier than that Sunday night, as she
tripped into church, a soft ruffle of fur setting off the delicate fair
face, a large velvet hat resting on the golden hair.  Dixon, with a
proud air of possession, walked in behind her, and, seating himself at
her side, proved his proprietorship by producing her Prayer-book from
his pocket, and finding all her places for her throughout the service.
When Rose dared to lift her head and look about her, she gave a sigh of
relief to see that Tom was not present.

"I dare say he thought I should like it best if he stayed away," she
thought.  She was thankful that the question of her marriage was
decided and well decided.

The moon had risen when the service ended.  There was a group of people
collected outside the church-gate discussing the village gossip before
they dispersed to their several homes.

Dixon pulled Rose's arm through his own, and, not allowing her to
linger for a moment, led her off.  They did not either of them notice
that a man with a hat well pulled over his eyes followed them at some
little distance; and not until the village was left behind, and the
pair had turned into the road, which, with many a wind, led up to the
Court, did he attempt to lessen the space which separated them.  Then,
as unconsciously Rose and Dixon walked more slowly, Tom quickened his
steps, and was alongside of them before they realized his presence.  He
pushed back his hat; and Rose broke into a smothered cry of alarm as
the moonlight fell upon the haggard face and wild eyes of her rejected
lover, and she clung the tighter to Dixon's arm.

Tom's laugh was not pleasant to listen to.  "You asked for my company,
Rose, but you don't seem best pleased now I've come," he said; "but,
pleased or not, I'll walk with you to-night, and say a thing or two
it's right for you to hear before we part company for good."

"I wrote to you," stammered Rose.  "I sent it by a special messenger on
Saturday night to tell you that, after thinking things over,
I'd--I'd----"

"She made up her mind that I should be the best husband for her," said
Dixon, putting a protecting arm round Rose's shoulder, and finishing
off the sentence she found it so difficult to frame.

The words and the action alike maddened Tom.  Was Rose to be protected
from him when, to give her pleasure and shield her from pain, had been
his one thought for the last eighteen months?

"It's only fair that, as she's chucked me for you, she should know the
sort of man she's got hold of," he stuttered.

"I didn't lose my place for being so drunk that it took the parson the
best part of the night to see me home, did I?" sneered Dixon.

"No, you didn't.  But Rose shall hear now who plotted to make me drunk
that night, and who informed against me next day.  It was you, you sly,
sneaking scamp!--deny it if you dare?  If it comes to character who's
got the better one, you or I?  No man can throw a dirty, dishonest
trick at me!  And you!  Who squares the corn-merchant?  Who cooks every
bill that goes into the Court?  Don't I know it?  Have I lived nearly a
year under the same roof that covered you, without finding out pretty
well how you've managed to feather your nest so as to make it fine
enough for the pretty bird you've caught; and if I'd chosen to round on
you when you got me turned out, where would you be now, I'd like to
know?  You would not be coachman at the Court."

Dixon had turned livid with rage, but kept his head.

"You are a poor, drunken fool, and don't know what you are saying, or
I'd make you swallow your words."

"You wouldn't!  I could prove them!" went on Tom, choking with passion.
"And as you've cheated in work, you've cheated in love.  You've cheated
me, and you've cheated that one as followed you sobbing and crying from
the place where you last came from, and who you'd promised faithful to
marry, and who you'd walked with for three years and more.  I had the
story from the woman where I lodge.  The girl spent the night there,
and she was pretty nigh broken-hearted.  She'd even got her
wedding-gown."

Dixon sprang across the road like a tiger, and gave Tom such a swinging
box on the ear that, for a moment, he reeled again.  And then, all the
devil in Tom was loosed, and he leaped on his foe, gripping him by the
throat until every vein in his forehead stood out in blue knots.  The
action was so unexpected and so rapid that Dixon found it impossible to
free himself.  The men swayed to and fro in each other's embrace,
finally falling heavily together with a sickening thud upon the road.
Tom was uppermost, and picked himself up with a rather ghastly smile,
but Dixon lay there rigid and motionless.

"Get up!" said Tom, poking him with the toe of his boot.  "You won't be
so ready to interfere with me another time."  But Dixon did not stir.

Rose, who had tried to stop the quarrel by every artifice in her power,
knelt down by the side of her lover.  And suddenly a cry so shrill, so
despairing, broke the air, that Tom's heart stood still and the blood
froze in his veins.

"Tom!  Tom!--you wicked man, you've killed him!" she shrieked.

And Tom, sobered by the cry, and realizing in all its horror the
meaning of the words, turned like guilty Cain and fled.  There was but
one place for him now: the river--the river, and the end of it all.  He
was making for it straight, flying by the nearest cut across the
fields, leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, regardless of the
brambles that scored his face and hands.  Like a hare hunted by the
hounds he fled; away from his own guilty action, away from the woman he
loved, to the river which would sweep him swiftly, painlessly to rest
and forgetfulness.  But would it?  He had stumbled accidentally into
the path which led towards the cottage where he lodged, and turned his
head as he ran to take one last glance at the light which glimmered in
the window.  He could see the river now; he was nearing the brink.
There was but one field between him and it, when he became conscious of
a pursuing step.  Somebody was already on his scent.  The question now
was whether he should die by his own act, or be delivered over to the
terrible hands of justice; and at that thought Tom redoubled his speed
to outstrip his pursuer.  It was a desperate race, for his strength was
nearly spent.  His long fast had told upon him, and the fictitious
power of the spirit he had swallowed had passed away.  His breath was
coming in quick, short gasps.  His foot caught in a tussock of grass,
and he fell face foremost to the ground, and, before he could regain
his feet, a hand was on his collar.

[Illustration: Before he could regain his feet, a hand was on his
collar.]

"Let me go!  Let me go!" he cried, struggling desperately in the hands
of his capturer.  "If I've killed him I'm ready to die too.  You can't
do more than hang me!  One more moment and I'd have been in the river.
Let me go, I say!"

"I shall _not_ let you go; you are either mad or drunk--incapable of
taking care of yourself," said a low, clear voice; and Tom was lifted
to a standing posture by the rector's strong arms.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

When Dixon had called late on Saturday night to ask the rector to put
up his banns on the morrow, Mr. Curzon's thoughts flew straight to Tom.
So this was the end of his love-story, poor fellow! and he feared that
it would go hardly with the lad.

"Maybe he will come to see me to-morrow.  And, if not, I will see him,"
he had said.

He had noticed with satisfaction that Tom was in his accustomed place
on Sunday morning, and did not see him slip out of church after the
publishing of the banns; but on Sunday night he missed him, and, the
minute service was ended, he set off for the cottage where he lodged.
He had reached the field-path which led to it, when he heard the sound
of footsteps that stumbled in their running, and, pausing to look
round, he saw a figure, which he did not immediately recognize in the
moonlight as Tom's, dashing across the pathway in the direction of the
river.  Almost before he knew what he was doing the rector gave chase,
for he felt the man meant mischief: a conviction which grew into
certainty as he gained upon the runaway, and recognized him as the man
whom he sought.

Tom attempted no further resistance, and, from his incoherent
utterances, Mr. Curzon presently gathered what had occurred.

"And you ran off and left Rose with her dead lover?  I could not have
believed you such a coward, Tom!" he said, unable to keep back the
indignation and scorn he felt.  "This is no place for you and me; we
must go back at once, and see if anything can be done."

Nothing was said as the two hastened back to the spot where Dixon was
left lying; but, to the utter astonishment of both, when they arrived
there, Rose and Dixon had gone.

"Either some vehicle has driven by which has conveyed Dixon to the
Court, or he was, by God's mercy, only stunned," said the rector.
"We'll go on and find out."

Tom made no answer, but followed the rector's lead.  In a kind of dumb
despair he felt he was walking to meet his fate.  They made their way
first to the stables, anxious not to give the alarm at the house until
they knew the extent of the mischief.  The usual orderly quiet
prevailed, and, in response to the rector's knock, the groom, who had
played such a faithless part by Rose, appeared.

"Is Dixon in?  Can I see him for a moment?" asked Mr. Curzon, guardedly.

"He came in, sir, about a quarter of an hour since, but he's gone
straight up to bed.  He'd a nasty fall--did not know quite how he'd
done it, slipped up on his heel, he said, and fell on the back of his
head.  Rose Lancaster was with him, and seemed terrible cut up about
it, said he lay like a dead thing; and she would never have got him
home if it had not been that a cart drove by and gave 'em both a lift."

"Thank you.  Tell Dixon that I'll come round in the morning to see how
he is."

"We need do nothing more to-night; your worst fear is not realized," he
said, as he and Tom turned towards home.  "Now you will come back to
supper with me, and we will trace your sin to its very root, please
God.  You've had a warning that I think you are not likely to forget."

But Tom, in the sudden relief from the horrible fear that he had
inadvertently taken the life of a fellow creature, had broken into a
passion of sobs, shedding such tears as a man sheds but once in a
lifetime--scalding tears of bitter repentance and shame.

He and Mr. Curzon sat talking far into the night, and Tom told the
story truly, keeping nothing back.

"You've let drink and passion get the upper hand, Tom.  You have put
the love of a woman before the love of God, and you've come near to
wrecking your life and hers in consequence.  It would not have mended
matters if you had hurried yourself into another world to which you
have given so little thought, would it?  It was a mad, wicked thought!
a thought of the devil's own suggestion; but you are saved for the
beginning of a better life, a new life in new surroundings."

Tom glanced up quickly.  "Not in Tasmania," he said.  "The squire won't
send me, after this."

"You'll tell him about it, then," replied Mr. Curzon, with a
heart-throb of thanksgiving that Tom was ready to face out the
consequences of his action.

"Oh yes; I shall tell him.  He might hear it any way, but I'd rather
tell him myself."

"Very good.  Now you had better go home to bed, and, if you have never
said a real prayer before, you will say one to-night, Tom, to the God
who has saved you from falling over a precipice of crime."

Tom nodded; his heart was too full to speak.

When the morning broke it found the rector in his study where Tom had
left him, still upon his knees, for here and there, in this hurrying
nineteenth century world, there is yet found a disciple who, like the
Master whom he serves, will spend whole nights in prayer.  Was not the
salvation of a soul at stake?

A fresh development of Rose Lancaster's love-affairs was brought to Mr.
Curzon's notice on Monday, for the first person he met, as he left the
rectory in the morning, was Rose herself--a crumpled dishevelled Rose,
whose toilet gave evidence of hurry, and whose eyes were red with
weeping.

"Oh, sir, I've come because I didn't know what to do.  We're all in
dreadful trouble!--Dixon's gone!"

"Not dead!" cried the rector in horror.

"Oh no; he's run away.  And oh, it's cruel, cruel! to have used me like
this," said Rose, her sobs bursting out afresh.

"I wonder what has made him do it?  Has he left no note behind him?"

"Not a line--nor a message for me," replied Rose.  "Only a scrawl in
pencil which the groom found on the saddle-room table, to say that
nobody need try to trace him.  And only to think that our banns were
put up yesterday."

"I think you are wasting your tears over a heartless scamp!" said the
rector, a little impatiently.  "Did you come with any message from the
Court?"

"No, sir; I only came to ask you if I ought to tell?"

"To tell what?"

"All that happened last night.  There was a dreadful quarrel between
Dixon and Tom Burney; and that's how Dixon got hurt.  He was stunned,
and I thought he was dead; and Tom ran off, and, when Dixon came to
himself, his one notion was that I was not to tell any one how he came
by his fall."

"So you promised to back him up in a lie!" said the rector, coldly.
"One can scarcely wonder that you wished to keep the thing quiet,
however.  You've terribly misused God's good gift of a pretty face,
Rose.  You have played with two men; and chosen the wrong one, and
driven the other half off his head with misery.  Mercifully the good
God has saved you from what must have been a miserable marriage, for
there is more in Dixon's disappearance than we can see just yet."

Rose's tears dried with her gathering indignation.  It had not occurred
to her to blame herself in any way; she felt rather in the position of
the ill-used heroine of a tragedy in real life.

"Then you think I ought to tell," she said a little sulkily.

"I certainly think your mistress ought to know exactly what happened.
You need not tell any one else, that I know of."

So Rose returned to the Court greatly crestfallen; and her account of
the quarrel, and Tom's vague threats about Dixon's character, put Mrs.
Webster on to the right clue as to the causes of his sudden flight.  He
was found to have been guilty of repeated acts of dishonesty, so
cleverly concealed that, but for the fear that Tom would report him, he
might have gone on for years longer, respected and trusted by his
employers.  As the time seemed ripe for flight, however, he had taken
with him the change of a big cheque that Mrs. Webster had given him to
cash on the Saturday, and which he had told her glibly that he could
not get cashed until the Monday.  Each fresh revelation filled Rose
with misery and shame; and, behind all, was the one fact that she had
kept to herself: the memory of Tom's mention of that other girl that
Dixon had jilted--the crowning taunt which had hurried Dixon into
showing fight.

"And it must have been true, or it would not have made him so angry,"
thought Rose.

It was a bitter pill for the vain little thing to swallow: the
conviction that she had all along occupied the second place in Dixon's
affections, and that he had cast her away, like that other girl,
without any compunction.  Tom would not have done it; and at the
remembrance of him Rose's eyes filled with tears.  Rose was returning
from the village, whither she had been sent on a message, and she
shivered a little as she passed the scene of the last night's disaster;
and her alarm found expression in a little cry when she saw Tom Burney
standing there, too, and yet there was nothing to terrify her in the
deprecating glance of his troubled eyes.

"Rose," he said, stretching out his hands, "I don't wonder that you
hate the sight of me, but you can afford to speak kindly to me for this
once?  God knows I'm sorry enough for what I've done, heart sorry.  I
came here to look at the place again, where I nearly killed a man, just
to let it burn in so that I mayn't forget."

"But--but--you can't have heard that he's not much hurt even? that he's
run away and taken a lot of money that does not belong to him?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, drearily.  "But that does not alter things; I can't
forget that I nearly killed him--and myself."

"Oh, Tom, not that! not that!" cried Rose, for the first time pierced
by a pang of keen remorse.

"Yes.  I should have drowned myself if Mr. Curzon had not stopped me,"
said Tom, simply.  "I was mad, I think, with misery and drink."

Then Rose understood the full meaning of the rector's words that
morning.

"I did not mean to try and see you before I went away," went on Tom,
brokenly; "but I'm glad of the chance to ask your forgiveness for the
hurt I might have done to the man you wished to marry."

"Oh don't! please don't talk like that!" said Rose, Tom's utter
self-abasement and humility rousing all her better nature.  "Don't you
see that it's you who ought to forgive me for the cruel way I've
treated you; and if you'd died, Tom, and my wickedness had killed you,
how could I have ever lifted up my head again?  I see now how wicked
I've been.  I wanted to marry Dixon because he promised to give me
everything I liked: a pretty house and a little servant, and pretty
clothes and things.  It was not because I loved him best."

Tom threw back his head with a little cry.

"Rose," he said, coming a step nearer.  "Rose, my dear; it can't hurt
to tell me now.  In two days I'm going away for good and all.  I have
told the squire all about it, and he is going to overlook it and send
me across the seas just the same as if nothing had happened; but when
I'm gone, it would make me happy to know that you had ever loved me
just a little bit."

"I do," said Rose.  "I think I've loved you all the time."

Tom drew a long breath, but did not attempt to come closer.

"Thank you," he said, with an odd thrill in his voice.  "I'll go away
and think of it.  It will help me to be good, for I'll have a try at
that, Rose, my dear.  I'll keep clear of the drink; I'm going up to the
rector to-night to tell him I'm ready to sign.  He asked me to do it
before; and don't I wish I had listened to him!  But now I'll do it
without the asking."

There was some difference in Tom that Rose felt but could not define,
some influence over him that was stronger than her own.  She had been
conscious before that she had but to speak and he would try his utmost
to carry out her whim; but to-day, miserable as he was, oppressed by
the weight of sin, she felt respect for a certain strength of purpose
that seemed developed in him.  Mr. Curzon was right; she had chosen the
wrong man.  Never had she valued Tom's love as she did now when she was
just about to lose it.

"Then you are going directly?" she almost whispered.

"Yes; I leave here the day after to-morrow, and I sail in about a
fortnight.  The squire thought the sooner I was out of the way the
better."

"Shall you ever come back?"

"I don't know."

"Nor ever write?" asked Rose, with a sob in her throat.

"That's as may be; I'd write to one who cared."

"I care.  Write to me, please?"

She was looking at him with pleading eyes, but he would not trust
himself to return her glance.

"Rose," he said, "there's not the woman now that I would ask to be my
wife.  I'm guilty, before God, of two black sins; but if He gives me
time to live it down and earn a clean name again----"

"He will!  He will!" said Rose.  "And, Tom, it does not matter if it's
years, I'll wait."  And then she put her arms round his neck and kissed
him.

His face was ashen grey; his arms ached with the longing to return her
embrace and hold her close to his heart, but he let her go.

"Before God, Rose, my darling, I'll live worthy of your kiss!  Maybe it
won't be long before I dare return it."

The next instant he was gone, not daring to look back at her.




CHAPTER XII.

KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE.

"The Websters are off to London, Paul," said Sally, about two days
after Tom's departure.

Paul started at the sudden mention of the name.

"I did not think they intended to go to town until after the New Year.
Mrs. Webster dilates largely upon the superiority of a Christmas in the
country versus a Christmas in London; but, I suppose, it is as sincere
as most of her statements?"

"I think May has had more to do with it than her mother.  She says Mrs.
Webster has fussed a good deal over Dixon's flight, she trusted him so
thoroughly.  And May thinks it will be easier to get a good coachman in
London, and that it will take off her mother's thoughts from an
unpleasant subject.  She now has visions of Dixon's return in company
with an armed body of burglars, and prophesies cheerfully that they
will all be found dead in their beds one morning, and that the house
will be ransacked."

Paul laughed.  "Under the circumstances Miss Webster is wise to remove
her forcibly to London," he said.  But he privately conjectured that
May's real reason for flight lay in her desire to get away from
himself.  "Has anything been heard of Dixon?" he went on.

"Nothing.  I don't think any very keen search has been made for him.
Mrs. Webster declares that she would far rather lose her money than
appear in a court of law, or have her name bandied about in the papers.
I think, Paul, that if you approve I shall be off to London, too, when
the New Year comes."

"In what capacity?" asked Paul, resignedly.  "As a sister or something?"

"Oh dear, no; you know I've always wanted to join one of those
settlements of girls at the East End, who work under the management of
Miss Grant.  She wrote a little while ago to tell me she would have a
vacancy in the settlement soon after Christmas.  My work would lie
chiefly amongst factory girls, getting up statistics about their hours
of work and their housing, and my play would be recreation evenings
with them."

"But this is what you have always talked of doing.  I expected you to
take up quite different lines now: to district visit, and take classes
on Sundays, under the guidance and supervision of the rector."

"I don't feel the least fitted for it; I know very little about it.
Mr. Curzon thinks it would be a great pity for me to abandon the work
to which I feel myself drawn.  I like life in London far better than in
the country."

"I quite agree with you," interposed Paul.

"And I think that my change of opinion about religious things will
help, rather than hinder me in my work," continued Sally, with a slight
effort.

"Let us hope it may," said Paul, in a tone that implied a doubt on the
subject.  "Anyway, I wish you to follow your own plan of life.  I think
women ought to be as free as men to choose what they will do.
But"--with a glance from the window--"Miss Kitty's carriage stops the
way.  I must go and see what she wants."

"Why, Kitty," he began, almost before he had reached the gate, "I
thought you had forgotten all about me!  It is days, almost weeks, I
think, since you've paid me a call."

"It's because it has rained nearly every day and I've not been out at
all; and there are such a lot of things I want to ask you about."

Paul was Kitty's referee on every subject.  "What is the first, I
wonder?" he said, smiling down at her.

"Bend down, please, Mr. Paul.  It's a secret."

And Paul brought his ear to a level with Kitty's mouth.

"Do boys like Noah's Arks?"

Paul straightened himself with a burst of laughter.

"I thought you would know.  Nurse said you'd be sure to know," Kitty
said, much injured by his untimely mirth.

"It's just because I don't that I am laughing," said Paul, whose
remembrance of childhood was unconnected with any scriptural game.
That he should be solemnly consulted about one seemed extremely
ludicrous.

"Then you did not have one?"

"No, I did not."

"I suppose it won't do, after all," said Kitty, dejectedly.  "And it's
a real beauty; it cost half a crown."

"Really!  That's a big price.  I should think it might do for any one.
After all, an ark might come in handy soon, if we are going to have a
flood.  Who's the happy boy?"

"Oh, you are shouting!" cried Kitty, warningly.  "And it's a secret."

"I beg your pardon," said Paul, penitently.  "Shall I look in and give
an opinion?"

"Yes; you and Sally, too.  Perhaps you would come to tea with me this
afternoon?  Daddy is gone to a Congress, or he could have told me
everything."

"Yes, we will come--Sally and I."

"And then I can tell you all about it, for Nurse knows but has promised
not to tell."

"We will try to be as trustworthy as Nurse," Paul said with a
reassuring nod.

So, over tea and toast, after three false guesses on Paul and Sally's
part, Kitty divulged her tremendous secret, which turned out to be that
daddy had promised that when she was ten years old she should give a
Christmas-tree party to every child in Rudham from ten years and under,
and the whole responsibility of choosing the presents and assorting
them should devolve upon her.  For months past Kitty had been making
out her list of the children she would have to invite, rather
bewildering the villagers by her feverish anxiety to discover the ages
of their offspring; but the choosing of suitable presents for her
guests was a far more difficult task.  A large box of toys had arrived,
by her father's order, from a neighbouring town, from which Kitty could
make a selection; she had spent one whole day poring over them.  Girls
were easy enough to please, but boys' tastes were quite a different
matter.  So Nurse had finally suggested that Mr. Lessing should be
taken into confidence.  Happily, by the afternoon he had grasped the
gravity of the situation, and he discussed the varying merits of tops,
marbles, horses, and carts as earnestly as even Kitty could desire.  He
still felt a lurking desire to laugh when he saw the Noah's Ark, which
cost half a crown, set apart in a place by itself on Kitty's couch.
From time to time she laid a caressing hand upon it.  It was still
unallotted, and Kitty gave a quivering sigh of excitement as she
glanced down her crumpled list.

"I had meant this for Tommy Baird," she said, looking down at it
fondly.  "It's quite the best thing I have--and he's the oldest
boy,--and it's very pretty, daddy thinks; but you say it won't do."

"I!" cried Paul, aghast.  "I never said anything of the kind."

"You laughed at it! and you said something about a flood."

"Was not the ark connected with a flood?  You know better than I."

Kitty looked from Paul to Sally with distress on her face.

"Of course," she said, a little petulantly.  "But you said there might
be another--and there can't be, daddy says."

"Of course there can't," said Paul, a little hurriedly, feeling it
scarcely fair to make a joke to such a sensitive little girl.

"Look here!  I'm writing a ticket for Tommy Baird, and I shall tuck it
under the elephant's trunk.  Do you think he will hold it fast?"

"Then it will do, after all," said Kitty, greatly relieved.

But when Paul and Sally were gone, and all the excitement and joy of
the tea-party, and the allotting of her presents, was over, Kitty's
mind reverted to the flood.  Mr. Paul had meant something which he
would not explain to her.  Whilst the perplexing thought was still in
her mind, she heard her father's latchkey turn in the lock of the front
door, and he popped his head into the room where she lay with a merry
laugh.

"I'm home, Kitty.  I'll be down in a minute, but I must get my things
off first.  It is raining cats and dogs."

The words confirmed Kitty's worst fears.  That is how it must have
rained before that first great flood, when the waters crept up and up,
and the people first climbed the hills, until the waters reached them
there; and at last there was nothing to be seen anywhere but a waste of
water and one little ark that floated on the top.  By the time Mr.
Curzon came and seated himself by her side, Kitty's eyes were round
with the terror of the picture that her too vivid imagination had
painted.  Her father, quick to read each passing emotion on the face
that was dearest to him in the whole world, stooped down and kissed her.

"My little Kitty is in one of her frightened moods.  She must tell me
all about it."

"It's the flood," Kitty whispered.

"What flood, darling?"

"Mr. Paul said we might have one."

"Did he?  He must have meant that the river might overflow its banks;
and perhaps it will after such a wet season."

"But it would drown us all."

"Not a bit of it.  The cottages near the river might have some water in
them; but unless it were something quite unprecedented, the water would
not get to the upper floor of any house--and certainly won't come near
us or the church and schools, so you may dismiss your fear of a flood.
You ought not to have had it anyway, because God has promised that the
world shall not be flooded totally again.  Shall I tell you what a very
good man wrote years ago--many hundreds of years ago--about floods?
'The floods are risen, O Lord, the floods have lift up their voice, the
floods lift up their waves . . . but yet the Lord who dwelleth on high,
is mightier.'  If he could learn that, all that long time ago, you
ought not to be afraid now, ought you?"

"And you don't think God will let it come before my Christmas tree, do
you daddy?  Because, if all the little children were obliged to stay
upstairs, to keep out of the way of the water, they could not come,"
said Kitty, giving a strictly practical turn to the conversation.

Mr. Curzon smiled and stroked Kitty's head.

"That is more than I can say, darling.  Although your Christmas tree
seems such a big thing to you, it is only a little one; and if it were
put off it would be a disappointment to you, but not a trouble, you
see."

Kitty was silenced but not satisfied, and each night added a postscript
to her prayers that the flood, if it was to come, should not occur
before her Christmas tree.  It was to be held in the school-room on
Christmas Eve.  The secret had exploded now, for the invitations were
out, each one written by Kitty herself, and personally delivered in the
course of her morning rambles.  Paul and Sally were to come as humble
helpers.  December 23rd was a particularly wild, wet day; but a gleam
of sunshine at the close of it produced a rainbow so brilliant in hue
that Kitty regarded it as a written sign in the heavens that the flood
would be averted, certainly until after her Christmas tree.  But it was
such a brief gleam of sun!  All night through the rain fell, and the
wind, which had been fairly quiet the previous day, rose to a perfect
tempest, roaring in the tree-tops round the rectory, groaning in the
chimneys, and dashing the rain in sheets against poor little Kitty's
window-pane; and when in the morning Nurse drew up the blind, and burst
into an exclamation of surprise, Kitty knew that her worst fear was
realized, and that her prayer had been unavailing.  The "Lord that
dwelt on high" did not seem to have listened.  She tried to nerve
herself to bear the tidings which Nurse conveyed in as cheerful a tone
as she could assume.

"Miss Kitty, my dear, what do you think has happened?  The waters are
out, and the river is turned into a great big lake, and the houses are
standing out of it like little dots.  It all looks so funny; shall I
lift you out to see?"

But Kitty had buried her head under the clothes, and was sobbing
quietly to herself.  No mention was made of the Christmas tree in her
prayers that morning, and the prayers themselves were very perfunctory
indeed--said more from the force of habit than because she had any
faith in their efficacy.  True, the rain had ceased now, but what was
the good of that now the flood had come?  And the worst of it was that
she could not talk this matter out to daddy; he would think her
dreadfully wicked.  So it was a very white-faced Kitty that presented
herself at the breakfast-table, and she received her father's assurance
that her tree should not be abandoned, but only delayed, with a watery,
quivering smile.

"And I shall be so busy all the morning," went on Mr. Curzon,
cheerfully.  "You see, lots of the cottages are cut off from
communication with the outside world, and the children will be hungry
and wanting their breakfasts and dinners; so I must be off to see what
I can do with carts or boats, according to the depth of the water."

This was rather exciting; and Kitty spent her morning with her chair
drawn close to the window, which commanded the best view of the
village, and saw carts drawn by pairs of horses splashing along to some
of the cottages.  And to one cottage, standing alone in a low-lying
field, she saw a boat making its way; she was almost sure that the man
who rowed it was her friend Mr. Paul.  Later in the morning he paid her
a visit, with a red colour in his face and a cheery ring in his voice.

"I could not get up before, Kitty.  We have had such a lot to do, Sally
and I, taking round supplies to the people who are flooded.  Everybody
is in quite good spirits--indeed, some of the children are thinking it
first-rate fun."

At the mention of the children Kitty broke down helplessly, and sobbed
aloud.

"Dear me!  And I have had such a lot of water all the morning, I did
not expect a shower-bath here.  What time do you expect Sally and me?
How long will it take to light up that blessed tree?"

Kitty uncovered one eye; Mr. Paul must be dreaming.

"I can't have it, you see."

"Who said so?  Sally and I have been planning all the morning how we
shall order out all my waggons, and go round and fetch your
guests--only you must not have the tree too late, or else we might lose
our way in taking them home again."

Kitty's joy could only find expressions in incoherent exclamations of
delight.

"It's wonderfully kind of you," said the rector, who appeared at that
moment, and gradually gathered from Kitty what Paul proposed to do.

"It seems a pity the thing should be put off," Paul answered a little
awkwardly.

Perhaps no act of the squire's won such universal approbation as the
spirited manner in which he carried through Miss Kitty's tree.

"You would not have thought as he was one to care about the little
ones," said Mrs. Macdonald to Sally.

"And I don't think, honestly, that he is," Sally answered--"with the
exception of Kitty Curzon; his devotion to her is something quite
astonishing."

The tree had been, happily, trimmed the day before, and nothing
therefore remained but for the guests to appear.  One or two had to be
fetched in a boat, and the cottage in the field had a special voyage to
itself.  There was a little child there that was a particular friend of
Kitty's.

"It's very good of you to come, sir, but I'm not sure as I can let
Jenny go; she's been ailing all day," said the smiling mother, looking
out at Paul from an upstairs window.  "She's felt the damp a bit.  The
water's begun to go down already.  We'll be able to get downstairs
again to-morrow; but, as I was saying to my mate, it will be the
queerest Christmas Day we've ever spent."

"Yes, indeed," said Paul, hurriedly, anxious to cut short the
disconnected speech; "but I think you must let me have Jenny, Mrs.
Weldon.  She's such a great friend of Kitty's, and we shall not have
any more rain for the present.  Put on an extra shawl.  It will be fine
fun for Jenny to have a ride in a boat."

So Jenny, wrapped up so that only her eyes were visible, was handed
out; and Paul rowed her across the field that separated her from dry
land, popping her into a cart that waited on the far side.

Sally, meanwhile, was at the school arranging the children as they
arrived, whilst Kitty's carriage was drawn up close to the tree, which
was veiled under a sheet.  Jenny Weldon was the last to arrive, and,
when duly uncloaked, was given a place close to Kitty.

Then followed the lighting of the tree; and the dancing eyes of the
children watched the process with untold delight.  Joining hands they
walked round it singing a quaint old Christmas carol, led by the
rector's strong sonorous voice; and finally came the distribution of
the presents.

Paul, as he stood quietly at the back of the room, thought the scene a
pretty one.  It was a beautiful tradition, that of the Christ Child; he
could have almost wished it true.

"It has come to an end--I think it has really come to an end," the
rector said.  "But, stay, I find some little things tucked away at the
very bottom of the tree; and here upon the labels are written 'Miss
Lessing' and 'Mr. Lessing.'  That is quite as it should be, for to whom
do we owe the fact of your all being here to-night but to the squire,
who planned and carried it out?"

And as a penknife was handed to Paul, there were cheers ringing in his
ears for him and for Sally, who had a pen with her name on it.

"It was really very jolly of you, Kitty," said Paul, making his way to
her.

"Weren't you surprised?" said Kitty, joyfully.  "Daddy said you would
be; and I told him where to hide them so that Sally should not see
them.  And, oh!"--with a long-drawn sigh--"I've never been so happy in
my life.  Daddy says I must thank you ever so much, dear Mr. Paul."

Paul stooped and kissed the pretty, flushed face.  "It's been great
fun, Kitty; you've nothing to thank me for.  It is my first Christmas
tree, and I shall take great care of my penknife."

It was seven o'clock before Sally and Paul regained the quietness and
peace of their lodging, for it took some time to deliver all the little
ones to their several homes.

"It's wonderful what surroundings will do for one.  I've felt as if I
were a curate to-day; but it is Kitty who drove me to it.  Her despair
this morning was almost tragic," Paul said.

How little he knew that that night Kitty was thanking God for her happy
day, and for the special help He had sent her to carry through her tree.

"Pray bless dear Mr. Paul!"




CHAPTER XIII.

THE CALL OF GOD.

With the dawn of the New Year there was an outbreak of fever in Rudham,
the after-effect of the flood, which, although it subsided almost as
quickly as it rose, left the houses which it had invaded damp and many
of the drains blocked.  Paul, as he went his rounds, condemned some of
the cottages as insanitary, and determined that another spring should
see new ones begun in higher, healthier situations--if, at least, he
could by any means raise the requisite funds.  He was constantly
brought into contact with the rector, who busied himself amongst his
sick people morning, noon, and night.

"Bless you!" said Mrs. Weldon, when Paul had been looking round her
premises, and heard with some astonishment the sound of a strong, clear
voice singing in the bedroom above, "that's only Mr. Curzon singing
hymns to my little Jenny, who's proper bad with the fever.  She must
have been sickening with it that night as you fetched her to the tree.
Mr. Curzon seems like a parson, and doctor, and nurse, all in one.  He
come'd here late last night, and he took her temperature ready to tell
the doctor this morning, and he's round here again now; and it's not as
though he favours mine more than another's.  He's just the same to
every one who's bad."

And what one said all said, and Paul pondered on their words.  May
Webster had spoken truly when she said that this man lived in the
hearts of his people.  Sally delayed her departure for London for a few
weeks when she found that she could be of great service in the village
by going and lending a helping hand when the mothers got overdone with
nursing, for it was chiefly among the children of the place that the
fever found its victims.  Twenty succumbed, and then there was a day or
two when no fresh case was reported.

Paul met the rector one morning and stayed to congratulate him on the
fact that the fever seemed to have run its course, that there had been
no death from it during the last few days, and apparently no fresh
cases.

"Poor little Jenny Weldon passed away this morning; I was with her when
she died," said the rector.  Then came a long pause, and he cleared his
throat.  "My Kitty was the last case; she was pronounced to have the
fever last night."

"Kitty!" echoed Paul, with a face almost as white as Mr. Curzon's own.
"Good Heavens! and I was the double-dyed idiot who brought that child
Jenny Weldon to the treat.  Kitty probably caught it from her."

"That is quite impossible to decide," said Mr. Curzon, with a sad
little smile; "the outbreak has been almost simultaneous.  But Kitty's
life is in God's Hands."

Paul turned away with an impatient exclamation; he had no word of
comfort to offer, for he had but little hope that a child so delicate
as Kitty would recover.

"If Sally could help in the nursing of her, or I in fetching any
delicacy the child could fancy, you know we are ready to help," he said.

"Thank you; you have always been good to her."

It was a feeble fight that little Kitty made for life, and did not last
many days.  She had brief intervals of consciousness when she
recognized the father, who was never absent from her bedside except
when he visited the other sick children of his flock.  All day long the
rectory was besieged by anxious inquiries for Kitty, who was better
known and more loved than any other child in the place; and Paul came
each day with some offering of fruit or flowers.  But before the week
was over the passing-bell rang out, and a thrill of sympathy ran
through the village, and the neighbours looked into each other's faces,
and their kind eyes filled with tears as they said--

"That's little Miss Kitty gone home."

It was the phrase Mrs. Macdonald used as she brought in the breakfast
for Paul and Sally that morning, and the tears ran down her cheeks as
she said it.

"There may be some mistake, Mrs. Macdonald," said Paul, gently.  "There
are other children ill in the place besides Kitty."

"No, sir; it's true enough.  My John got up in the dark and went to ask
for her; and he saw the nurse, who told him she was dying then.  She
could not last the hour."

"And the rector?" inquired Sally, who was crying quietly.  "Did she
mention him?"

"Miss Kitty lay in his arms, poor lamb!  He's never had his clothes off
since she was taken ill, and he would not let her be frightened; he'd
hold her fast until He came to fetch her," said Mrs. Macdonald, with
simple conviction that the Good Shepherd Himself would lift little
Kitty straight from her father's arms into His own.

Late that afternoon Paul called at the rectory to leave a wreath of
white flowers from Sally and a bunch of arums from himself; and the
rector, who saw him pass the study window, opened the door to him.

"I've only brought a few flowers from Sally and me," said Paul,
omitting the usual greeting.

Mr. Curzon looked down at them for a moment, fingering the card
attached to Paul's spray with hands that trembled.  On it was written
"For Kitty, from one who loved her."

"Thank you," he answered with a smile that was more pathetic than
tears.  "She loved you, too, very dearly.  Will you give her them
yourself?"

But Paul drew back with a shiver.

"Oh no; her bright, living face is the memory that I would have of her."

So it was the rector who carried up the flowers to the room where Kitty
lay, and placed the wreath at her feet; and the arums framed the sweet,
smiling face, and the card with its message of love was laid upon her
breast, with the murmured prayer that the one who loved Kitty might
learn to love Kitty's God.

All the villagers that were able attended Kitty's funeral two days
later, drawn there by love and sympathy.  Paul was there with Sally,
sitting down in the belfry, close to the spot where Kitty's carriage
had been placed upon the only other occasion when Paul had attended a
service in Rudham church.

"If there is any meaning at all in the service, it is appropriate for
Kitty," was the reason he had assigned to Sally for accompanying her.
It seemed like a beautiful dream to him: the church nearly filled with
people, the fragrance of the flowers as the little white coffin was
carried into church headed by the rector and the choir, who sang, as
they led the way to the chancel, the words of a hymn quite unfamiliar
to Paul, and a few lines of which sounded clearly in his ears as they
passed him.

  "Death will be to slumber
    In that sweet embrace,
  And we shall awaken
    To behold His Face."


Only one person followed the little coffin, and that was the nurse, who
had loved Kitty as devotedly as any mother.  The door behind Paul was
gently pushed open after the service had begun, and he was vividly
conscious of the presence of the woman he loved the best in the
world--May Webster.  She was dressed in black, and sank upon her knees
by Sally's side.  The intense sympathy of her expression made her look
more beautiful than ever, giving the touch of softness that her
features sometimes lacked.  Throughout the service the rector's brave,
strong voice never faltered, and it rose and fell with the others in
Psalm and hymn.  He seemed, for the time being, borne aloft upon the
wings of faith and love; but when, the service ended, Paul made his way
back to the church to fetch his hat, which he had accidently left
behind him, he caught a glimpse of a white-robed figure prostrate
before the altar, and the frame was convulsed with sobs.  Nature must
have her way; and not even the rector could at once bring his will into
perfect submission with the will of God.  His darling was taken from
his sight, and his heart was aching over the dreary years that might
intervene before he could see her again.  There was a lump in Paul's
throat as he noiselessly left the church.  May and Sally waited for him.

"It's heart-breaking," said May, putting her hand into his.  "I was
bound to come."

"You return to London to-night, I suppose?  You will come and have tea
with us on your way, won't you?" said Sally, eagerly.

"I will come to tea.  But I am not going back at present; I told mother
I should stay down here for a little while, until all this trouble had
passed away; it cannot be right that we should be doing nothing to
help.  I only wish I had come in time to see that little girl alive
again."

Sally had moved away to help to arrange the flowers on the
newly-filled-in grave, and Paul stood a little apart by May's side.

"I'm sorry for every one," said May.  "It is almost enough to kill Mr.
Curzon.  And I have thought of you too; I was sorry for the loss of
your one friend."

"Yes," said Paul.  "I've been sorry for myself; I did not believe any
child's death could affect me so deeply.  Life is an unanswerable
riddle from beginning to end."

"Unless the rector is right," said May, softly.  "In which case we may
find the answer on the other side."

Never had May appeared so beautiful or gracious as that evening when
she sat listening to the story of all that had occurred in Rudham since
she and her mother had gone to London.

"I'm so glad to be back," she said.  "Mother thinks me half-crazed for
coming, and threw a dozen obstacles in my way.  But I've brought Rose
Lancaster with me, and the servants who are left in charge can manage
for us; and, as for carriages it will do me good to walk for a little
bit."

Paul left the talk almost entirely to the two girls; it was enough for
him to sit and watch the play of May's beautiful features, and hear the
sound of her voice.  What could this sudden return of hers mean, he
wondered?  Was it a passing whim, or was it?----  He left even the
thought unfinished, and called himself a presumptuous fool!

The next morning he received a note from the rector asking him to call.

"There is a matter of extreme importance that I cannot decide until I
have seen you, so will you kindly look in this evening?" he wrote.

Paul found him in his study, and noticed that the handsome face was
thinner, and the dark lines under the eyes betrayed the suffering
through which he had passed.

"I wanted you to come for many reasons," he said, pushing an easy-chair
near to the fire.  "To thank you, first of all, for the kindness you
have poured on my Kitty from the day of your coming until now.  There
are not many men who would have taken so much trouble about a delicate
little girl."

"You need not thank me," Paul answered with tears in his eyes.  "She
was a friend I shall sorely miss."

"And there is this letter I wish to show you," continued the rector,
not daring to talk further of Kitty.

It was a letter from the Bishop of the diocese, suggesting that Mr.
Curzon should accept the living of Norrington, a populous town some
thirty miles away.  In money value it was less than Rudham, but "the
needs of the place are great," wrote the Bishop.  "You are in the
heyday of your strength, and I believe you to be the man for the place.
Unless there be any very urgent reason for your refusing to move, I
greatly wish you to undertake it."

"Why can't the Bishop let well alone?" said Paul, as he returned the
letter.  "Of course, you will not go.  I don't pretend to constitute
myself a judge of a clergyman's work, but I should say that you have
this place as well in hand as any man could.  To move you, will be
equal loss to yourself and Rudham."

"I cannot decide it so quickly.  I do not believe in things happening
by chance," said Mr. Curzon.  "This letter came the day that Kitty
passed away, and I telegraphed to the Bishop that I could decide
nothing for a day or two; the one urgent reason that would have kept me
here is gone, you see."

"Kitty?" questioned Paul.

"Yes; I could not have taken her to live in the heart of a town."

"Then you really had decided to leave us before you wrote to me."

"Several things point to it: a less strong man than I could undertake
the work here.  If it is God's voice that calls, I would not disobey
it.  One thought holds me back.  What will happen here?  Is it
impertinent to ask?  The presentation to the living is yours."

Paul smiled involuntarily.  "And you scarcely think me the man to
appoint to a cure of souls.  I confess I don't myself feel I know
enough about it.  I should do as my godfather did before me, hand over
the nomination of a successor to the Bishop.  I believe this offer
jumps with your own inclination."

"Only for one thing," said the rector, quietly, "that my house is 'left
unto me desolate.'"

"And yet you call the God, who took your Kitty from you, a God of love."

"Yes.  Who, looking at her pitiful little frame, can doubt it?  My
selfish heart cries out for her yet; but what could her life have been
but one of constant suffering."

"But, I suppose, she was born like that?" said Paul, more to himself
than to the rector.

Mr. Curzon's face twitched a little.  "Oh no; she was the brightest,
healthiest little child you have ever seen; and then she was dropped.
And the girl who dropped her did not tell any one about it for months
after--not until the child's back began to grow out."

"How did you find it out at last?" asked Paul, deeply interested.

"The girl came of her own accord to confess it.  She was pretty well
heart-broken when she discovered that Kitty was injured for life."

"I would never have forgiven her!" said Paul, bitterly.

"Yes, you would.  You would have done much as I did, I expect; I let
her work out her repentance.  She is the nurse who has devoted herself
to Kitty like a mother, and who mourns for her like one, too.  We can
never be separated; where I go she will go.  And now she has not Kitty
she will help me to look after some of the sick children in my parish."

"So you have decided to go?"

"Yes; I think I have scarcely a choice in the matter."

The Vicar was not one to keep his people long in ignorance of a
decision which affected both him and them so largely, and, on the
following Sunday morning, he told them in a few words that he must
leave them.

"Dear people," he said, "the decision has been sharp and sudden, and
the pain of it still lingers in my heart as I talk to you to-day; but I
dare not have it otherwise lest, in hesitating, my will should cross
the will of God, for, as soldiers must obey the command of their
captain, nor ask the reason why, so I, Christ's soldier and servant,
must be ready at His Word to pass on to where the battle is most
fierce, and where, maybe, the army needs reinforcement.  Shall I be
less brave than Abraham, who, at the call of God, left home and kindred
to settle in a strange land amongst an alien people?  Dear friends, as
clearly as God's message came to Abraham in those far-off days, it has
seemed to come to me, telling me to leave the home and people that I
love, and to go, work for Him in another part of His vineyard.
Therefore I obey."

There were tears on the upturned faces that listened, and, when the
people left the church, there was an almost universal wail of
lamentation.  But reticent natures like the Macdonalds could find no
relief in words; they walked silently side by side with tears in their
eyes and an untold aching in their hearts.

"Life won't be the same again, John; we shan't get another like the
good man," said Mrs. Macdonald, as they neared home.

"No," said John, slowly.  "But if he don't make a fuss about it, no
more won't we; he's sure about the call, and he dursn't disobey.  But
now we'll save for the collectin'!"

"What collectin'?"

"They'll make him a present.  They are sure to make him a present; and
we'll be ready when they call," said John.

But, with all his brave words, John's dinner was pushed away untouched,
and his broad back was turned resolutely to his wife so that she might
not guess that he was crying!




CHAPTER XIV.

A CHANGE OF MIND.

Three months later Paul Lessing stood, one morning in March, with his
hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking out of his sitting-room
window.  His eyes rested on the little plot of ground before him, with
its borders of snowdrops and crocuses, and the road beyond, along which
the village children in their scarlet cloaks hurried to school: a
narrow boundary to a narrow life, he told himself--and lonely, since
Sally had left him a week or two ago.  He was intolerably dull, and
Sally's letter, which lay open on the table, brimful as it was of new
energies and interests, had set him wondering whether he could continue
his present course of life much longer.  There was positively no one
left in the village, at present, with whom he could interchange an idea.

Mr. Curzon, with whom, in the last three months, he had become fairly
intimate, had gone to his new field of work, leaving a blank behind him
in every house in the place; his successor had not yet arrived.  "And
we are not likely to have much in common when he does come," Paul
thought, with a smile.  May Webster, after manfully fulfilling her
purpose of helping in the village until the trouble and distress,
brought by the fever, had passed away, had returned to London; and it
was little enough that Paul had seen of her whilst she had been there.
And that very day Paul had received a letter from Mrs. Webster to tell
him that at Michaelmas she wished to vacate the Court, which she now
kept on as a yearly tenant.

"It cannot matter to me," Paul said to himself.  "In many ways, of
course, it is the best thing that could happen."  And yet he found
himself thinking of nothing but the utter desolation of Rudham, when
May's bright presence should be removed from it, when he could no
longer hope for a passing glimpse of her in the street.

"I have vegetated down here until I run a risk of softening of the
brain," he said aloud.  "I must have change.  I'll be off to London for
a week, put up at my club, see a few of my friends, and unearth Sally
in her new quarters."

The thought had scarcely formed itself before he began to carry it into
execution: putting together his papers, looking out a convenient train.
And, shoving his head inside the door of the Macdonald's sitting-room,
he enlisted Mrs. Macdonald's help in the matter of packing.

"Rather sudden, sir, isn't it?" she said, as she knelt upon the floor
in the centre of the clothes which Paul had pulled out of his drawers
and littered about in hopeless confusion.  "It's bad enough to lose
Miss Sally, but John and I won't know ourselves when you've gone too."

"It won't be for very long," said Paul, good-humouredly, grateful to
discover that anybody would miss him, and careful to suppress the fact
that he was dull.

Arrived in London the stir and bustle of the streets was as refreshing
to him as water to a thirsty man, and to find himself once more amongst
his fellows in the club, where many a man greeted him with a friendly
nod, was simply delightful, One friend asked him to dinner that night,
another made an appointment for the play on the night following; his
presence was demanded at an important political meeting, where he was
requested to speak on the labour question.  And again the thought
forced itself upon him how much better he felt fitted to cope with the
masses, and work at the big social problems of the day, than to deal
with the individual lives of the people of Rudham.  And the
parliamentary career for which he longed was absolutely within his
grasp, for a seat belonging to his political party was to be vacated in
the autumn, and his name was already mentioned as that of the likely
candidate; but there was no course open to him but to refuse the offer
if it came.  It took more means than he had at his disposal to do his
duty by Rudham.

He found Sally keen and happy over her work, and was satisfied that she
had discovered her proper vocation.

The last day of his London visit had come, and, late in the afternoon,
Paul found himself walking down Park Lane; and he hesitated for a
moment, when he came to the house which he knew to be the Websters,
wondering whether he would call and answer Mrs. Webster's note in
person.  That, at any rate, would be the ostensible reason for his
visit; he scarcely cared to admit that it was the longing for a sight
of May's face that made it impossible for him to pass the door.  In
another minute he had mounted the steps and rung the bell, and was
handed into a room crammed with people--society people, all talking
society gossip over their tea.  Many of them bestowed a passing glance
upon Paul as he made his way towards Mrs. Webster, but their interest
died down when they discovered that he was not of their set.

"Mr. Lessing!" exclaimed Mrs. Webster.  "Quite a welcome surprise!  You
are not often in London, are you?  So good of you to call.  Have you
had any tea?  Yes?  Pray have some more."

Then another visitor demanded her attention, and Paul found himself
stranded in a room full of people of whom he knew not one.  May was
nowhere to be seen; but, as Paul sidled his way past chairs and tables,
making for the door, he found himself face to face with her as she led
a party of people from the conservatory back to the drawing-room.  She
was talking with that brilliant, rapid fluency which had marked the
earlier stages of their acquaintance; but at sight of him she coloured
and stretched out her hand with unmistakable cordiality.

"This is indeed an unexpected honour," she said, letting her other
guests move on, and taking up her own position by Paul.  "I should not
have thought wild horses would have dragged you to a tea-fight."

"And they would not have done," Paul answered, with a laugh, "had I
known that such a thing was in process; but, finding myself in London,
I came to call in answer to a note of your mother's."

A professional singer at the far end of the room rose preparatory to
singing, and May gave an impatient little exclamation.

"Come into the conservatory and talk; I'm tired of all these people.
You bring a whiff of country air with you."

As she spoke she led the way towards two easy-chairs, placed by the
fountain in the middle of the conservatory, and, sinking into one
herself, she motioned Paul to the other.  From the half-open door of
the drawing-room came the confused murmur of voices, dominated by the
tenor soloist; but to Paul that society life seemed miles distant.  He
was enfolded by a sense of enchantment: for him, at that moment, there
was but two people in the world--himself and May.  To speak would be to
break the brief spell of enjoyment, so he sat silent and content.

"We are wasting the time; I brought you here to talk," said May,
turning towards him with a smile.  "How do things fare at Rudham now
Mr. Curzon has gone?"

"Badly; there is a sense of flatness.  He embodied the life of the
village in a way one could not believe unless one had lived there.
I've seen a lot of him in the last few months; we were fairly driven
into each other's society."

"How do you get on together?"

"To know Curzon intimately goes halfway towards converting one to his
way of thinking," said Paul, slowly.

May looked up quickly.

"I don't mean that I am fully prepared to accept his opinions, but I
have modified my views concerning them," Paul went on.  "A man like
Curzon, and his enormous power for good, cannot be ignored.  His creed,
which makes him what he is, must be reckoned with as a motive-force in
the world.  I said to myself at one time that, starting from opposite
poles, he and I worked for the same end--the good of the race.  But
where I seem only to scratch the surface, he gets below it.  Look at
Burney, for example.  I believed I had made a man of him by restoring
his self-respect and giving him a fresh chance--by trusting him, in
fact.  It did well enough for a time, but then he broke out worse than
ever.  Then, from what Tom told me, Curzon stepped in, saved him from
suicide, and saved him from himself; and has given him, apparently,
some principle to live by that will turn him into a fine character
yet--at any rate, I get excellent accounts of him."

"I did not know he had tried to kill himself," said May; "perhaps that
is what has sobered poor Rose Lancaster so effectually.  She told me
the other day that she would marry no one but Tom.  By the way, what
brought you to London?"

"Mixed motives.  Sheer dulness for one thing."

"You once aired a theory that only stupid people could be dull."

"Then, I suppose, I have grown stupid; I have not enough to occupy me,
for one thing.  If I could carry out all my whims I could be busy
enough; but I have had to abandon that scheme for rebuilding a good
many of my cottages from want of money, and that same want stands
between me and my one ambition: a seat in Parliament.  I might have had
a chance of a vacancy in the autumn.  By the way, as you intend to
throw me over, I trust that amongst your numerous friends you will find
me another tenant for the Court."

"I don't understand what you are talking of!  Who is going to throw you
over?"

"Your mother has written to say that she wishes to leave at Michaelmas.
Her letter was my excuse for calling."

May did not answer for a minute; she was busily pondering what her
mother's reason could have been for arriving at this decision without
consulting her.  It might be that the relations between themselves and
the Blands being somewhat strained, she had thought it wise to go
somewhere else, or--and here May's heart quickened its beating--it
might be that she feared a rival in Paul Lessing.

"I hope you are sorry to lose us," she said.

"Am I to tell the conventional falsehood or the truth?" Paul asked.

"The truth, of course; we have not studied conventionality much, have
we?"

"Then I am unfeignedly glad," said Paul, deliberately.

May had turned rather white.  "You don't mince matters certainly."

"No, I don't; but I prefer solitude to living perpetually within sight
of unattainable happiness.  Our friendship is destroyed, you remember;
you admitted as much once.  I cannot pretend that you are an ordinary
acquaintance, and, therefore, to have you taken out of my reach is
really the best thing that could happen to me."

"And you have left any wish I might have about it outside your
calculation," said May.

"It cannot signify to you where you live.  You will amuse yourself
wherever you are."

"It signifies considerably; as I like Rudham, at present, better than
any place in the world."

Paul broke into an incredulous laugh.

"I suppose it would be an impertinence to ask your reason for this
unaccountable preference?"

"It is a simple one: you live there," said May, with averted face.

Paul sprang to his feet and stood before May with arms folded, and
looked down at her with eyes that literally burned.

"May!" he said hoarsely, "if it is a joke it is a cruel one."

"Oh, it's true that you have grown stupid!" cried May, between laughter
and tears.  "It is no joke to have to tell you that I have changed my
mind.  I love you better than all the world besides."

With an incoherent cry Paul clasped her to his breast.

"My darling! my darling!" he said, after the rapture of that first
moment, "I am not worthy, and the sacrifice on your side is too great.
I had no right ever to ask you to marry me.  What will the world say of
me?  I could wish that you had no fortune----"

"Oh, nonsense! you were groaning for want of it just now.  It is my
own, to do as I like with; and I shall have a lot more, some day,
unless mother disinherits me."

"Which reminds me that I have to face her," said Paul, rather ruefully.

"I think you had better go at once," said May, with merry decision,
"and leave mother to me.  I don't pretend she will like it; but she may
consent, as she has been grievously worried by the fear that I was
going to be an old maid--and so I should have been but for you."

Paul tried to repossess himself of her hands, but May had glided back
to the drawing-room, turning as she left to tell him to call again in
the morning.  Left to himself, Paul tried to collect his thoughts, and
to realize the intense happiness that had come to him.  If it were true
that May loved him, he would marry her in the face of all opposition,
for she knew well enough that he did not care for her money, but for
herself.  Then he fell again to wondering whether she had sufficiently
counted the cost of uniting her life with his, for, in marrying, Paul
felt it would be impossible for him to change the whole scheme of his
life.  His objects and ambitions would be the same after it as before,
and, unless May was prepared to share them, they would gradually drift
apart.  He must put it all before her to-morrow, lest she should make a
lifelong mistake.

But May had made no mistake; she knew her own mind, at last, for
absence from Paul had taught it her.  She had turned with absolute
loathing from the mill-round of gaiety which was the only marked
characteristic of her life in London; and her thoughts had recurred
persistently to Rudham, until finally, in the time of distress, she had
followed the dictates of her heart and gone down there.  But not until
the day of Kitty's funeral, when she stood beside Paul at her grave,
had she owned to herself that he was the man she loved: a conviction
which deepened into certainty in the weeks which followed, for,
although she saw little of him, to be in the place where he lived, and
in some way to share his work, made her happy, and gave her a sense of
repose which had not been hers since she left.

Mrs. Webster shed some very bitter tears when, after dinner that
evening, May announced her engagement.

"It is wicked of him to have asked you! he is as poor as a church
mouse!"

"I can't remember, exactly, but I don't think he did ask me," said May,
knitting her pretty brows.  "He did once before, but I don't think he
did to-day.  But he was so very miserable that----"

"Well!" interposed Mrs. Webster, "in my young days girls left it to the
men to speak."

"Oh, mother, don't scold!  I am so happy--happier that I have ever been
before.  You know you have wished me to marry; let me marry the man I
love."

"It is such an ill-assorted match; he has no money----"

"And I have plenty," said May.

"And how can I ever consent to your living in a cottage?" went on Mrs.
Webster, with a wail of despair.

"Oh, we have not come to that yet!" May answered, unable to check a
laugh; "but I dare say he will not wish it.  We could live quite simply
at the Court.  I wonder if we shall run to a house-parlourmaid?"

"It's no laughing matter; you have been used to every luxury, May."

"I have had more than my share.  I feel rather a surfeit of the
sweetest things."

"And he does not go to church----"

"But he is more in earnest than many of the men who do," said May.  "Of
this I am sure, that he is seeking after God; if I were not sure, I do
not believe I should have the courage to marry him.  A year back I
should not have cared what a man thought as long as he led a straight
life, but lately I have felt different about things.  My own
convictions are stronger."

"Well, if we discuss it from now until Doomsday I shall not like it,
May; but it is equally certain that if you have set your mind on this
man you will not give him up."

"I have set my heart upon him," said May, an unusual softness in her
voice.  "After all, mother, love is the first thing."

Mrs. Webster sat silent, the tears dropping down her face.  Love,
either of God or man, had been no important factor in her life.  She
had married for money, and such love as she could give had been centred
on her one beautiful daughter; but even with her, her ambition was
stronger than her love, and it received its deathblow with May's
unaccountable choice of a husband.  Further opposition she saw to be
useless, so she surrendered with as good a grace as possible.

When May's engagement was publicly announced friends poured in to offer
congratulations that had a note of surprise behind them; but Mrs.
Webster proved fully equal to the occasion.

"Yes," she said; "May has been a long time making her choice, and now
it seems a funny one, doesn't it?  But Mr. Lessing is a very clever
man, and May became bitten with his views first, and with the
propounder of them afterwards.  He is the sort of man who will make a
career for himself yet.  I believe he means to stand for ---- in the
autumn."

Perhaps no one received the news with such genuine delight as Sally,
who came flying up to Park Lane directly she heard of it.

"I've always thought Paul the nicest man in the world, and you the most
fascinating woman; and that you should make a match of it is ideally
delightful," she said.  "It really is very funny, though, when I come
to think of it, and look back at that night in Brussels."

"What about that night at Brussels?" asked Paul, who had entered the
room unperceived by either of the girls.  But Sally laughed and held
her tongue.

"If you had stayed away a minute longer I should have wormed the truth
out of the too-truthful Sally," May said, turning upon him with a
smile.  "You clearly hated me."

"I don't think I ever hated you.  I believe I struggled from the first
against a tremendous fascination that you possessed for me.  I
quarrelled with your surroundings, with your money rather than with
you."

"It is a distinct judgment that that same money will enable you to
carry out all your schemes," May said quaintly, "from the new cottages
to the seat in Parliament."

"I shall wish you to do exactly what you like, May."

"And what else could give me so much pleasure?"

"Oh, May, how perfectly lovely it all sounds!" cried Sally,
enthusiastically.  "And shall you have open-air evenings on the
bowling-green for the village people, with a band playing and every one
dancing?  If so, ask me down with a contingent of girls."

When Paul returned to Rudham and informed Mrs. Macdonald of his
approaching marriage, he was a little puzzled by the look of alarm with
which she received the news.

"Come, come, Mrs. Macdonald! you have been as good as a mother to me; I
thought you would be the first to wish me good luck," Paul said.

"It's not that, sir! it's not that at all, that I'm thinking; but plain
people like John and me could noways manage for a pretty lady like Miss
Webster," she said.

Paul sat down and laughed.  "So that's it.  Well!  I had not thought of
bringing my wife here to live.  Happy as you have made me, it would be
a little small for her.  I suppose we shall go to the Court, and I
could turn my rooms here into a workman's club, couldn't I?  And we
could keep a bedroom for any of Miss Sally's girls who want a change."

After which Mrs. Macdonald recovered her spirits, and offered her
congratulations with Scotch sincerity.

"She's bonny, sir! she's very bonny!  But my John will say that there's
not another lady in the world like our Miss Sally.  His heart is set on
her, that it is!  And when will be the wedding, if I may be so bold as
to ask?"

"To-morrow, if I had _my_ way.  Six weeks hence, as I have to wait Miss
Webster's pleasure; and, I believe, in the years to come, she will
rival Miss Sally in your affections."

"Maybe, sir," replied Mrs. Macdonald, cautiously.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

More than two years had passed; and on a sunny day in June, Rose
Lancaster was once again making her way across the bowling-green at the
Court towards the rose-garden, bent upon the same quest as on the
summer morning, which seemed such a long time ago, when Tom Burney had
first declared his love for her.  It was said in the village that Rose
had lost her looks, and certainly the indefinable first blush of youth
had faded; but if Rose's face had lost its delicacy of colouring, it
had gained infinitely in expression.  The blue eyes were soft and
wistful, the pretty lips had lost their trick of pouting, the head was
poised less saucily; trouble had taught Rose lessons which had left a
lasting impression upon her character.  She had been retained in Mrs.
Lessing's service; nor ever showed any desire to quit it, until such
time as Tom was ready to come home and fetch her.  But oh! how long it
seemed to wait.  He had hinted, a month or two back, at the possibility
of his being sent over to England upon his master's business; but in
the letter which followed immediately after, no mention had been made
of the subject, so Rose feared that the happy chance was not to come
yet, since which time there had been silence--the longest silence that
had occurred since Tom had left.  Whether the rose-garden unconsciously
brought back her lover to her mind it is impossible to say, but as Rose
snipped the buds there were tears in her eyes with the simple longing
for news of her absent lover.  She chose all white roses to-day, for
the newly-arrived baby-girl at the Court was to be baptized, and Mr.
Curzon was coming to take the service; and Rose had planned that she
would slip off quietly to the church and put a wreath of white roses
round the font.  It was a business that must be carried through with
secrecy and despatch, as presently her mistress would want her to help
her to dress: she was far from strong yet.  A straying bramble caught
her gown and held it fast, and with an impatient little cry she stooped
down to disentangle it, when, to her astonishment, a great brown hand
from behind closed upon hers, and a strong arm was slipped round her
waist, and a voice, that set her trembling from head to foot,
exclaimed--

"Rose, Rose, my beauty! what luck to find you, the first minute I've
come, like this!  I was just making my way up the drive, and caught
sight of something shining through the trees; and if it wasn't your
head shining all yellow in the sun the same as when I left it!  And I
crept up behind you, and caught you crying over a thorn, I do believe."

Needless to say it was Tom Burney who was the speaker, a broader,
bigger Tom than Rose remembered: a handsome, strong fellow that any
girl might be proud of as a lover, who spoke half in jest to hide the
fact that tears were not far from his own eyes.  He held her so tightly
clasped to his breast, that it was some few minutes before Rose could
either speak or get a good look at her lover.

"Oh, Tom, you've taken the life out of me; you've given me such a
start!" she said when she could speak.  "How brown and big you
are!--but you're worth the waiting for.  Oh dear, how glad I am you've
come!"  And then Rose began to sob helplessly, and needed a deal of
comforting, which Tom was not slow to offer.  "There!" said Rose, at
last, pushing him from her, and showing him her dimples for the first
time, "you are wasting all my time; but you can come down to the
church, if you like, and help me to put the roses on the font."

"What for?" asked Tom, unsympathetically, preferring the privacy of the
rose-garden.

"For little Miss Kitty as is to be; that's the new baby at the Court.
And nothing will satisfy Mr. Lessing but that she shall be named after
the one that's gone.  Mr. Curzon is coming to baptize her."

"Is he?" cried Tom, eagerly.  "I'll come, then, and wait all day for a
sight of him, the best friend I've ever had, Rose, my darling.  Shall I
ask him to tie up you and me?"

"Oh!" cried Rose, blushing rosy red, "I had not thought of that yet,
Tom."

"Time you did," said Tom.  "I must start back again in a month, and I'm
not going without you."

"Oh no," said Rose.  "It seems to come sudden at the last, but I've
waited so long that I'll come when you like.  I've not looked at
another man since you went away."

Tom caught her again and kissed her.  "And there was plenty to look at
you, I'll bet."

"Yes, plenty," Rose admitted, with a dash of her old coquetry.

Then hand in hand, like two happy children, they walked down the lane
to the church; and Tom stood and handed the flowers, which Rose's deft
fingers arranged round the font.  And all that miserable past seemed
blotted out, and a future of perfect happiness seemed opening out
before them.  Just as their task was finished, and they stood side by
side admiring their handiwork, the church door was softly pushed open,
and Mr. Curzon entered.  Real joy flashed into his face as he
recognized Tom Burney, and saw that Rose was with him; but the words of
greeting were very simple.

"So you've come home, Tom?" he said, as he heartily grasped his hand.

"For a bit, sir--just for a week or two."

"And you will take out Rose with you, I expect?" with a kindly smile at
the pretty, downcast head.

"Well, yes, sir; that is my meaning.  And we were thinking, she and I,
as we would not feel rightly married unless you was kind enough to come
and marry us."

"And that I will gladly."

"You're the best friend as ever I had," said Tom speaking with some
effort.  "And if I've kept straight and got a good name, it's you I
have to thank for it."

"No, no," said Mr. Curzon; "God alone could do that.  I may have
chanced to be the sign-post that directed you to Him.  Shall we thank
Him now for bringing you back, and pray that He may bless your life
with Rose?"

So side by side the three knelt down, and in a few simple words Mr.
Curzon commended them to God.  And when he rose from his knees he laid
his hands upon their heads in blessing.

Then Tom and Rose made their way back to the Court, sobered, but
unspeakably happy, whilst Mr. Curzon lingered awhile by Kitty's grave.

"There's to be another little Kitty named in memory of you, my
darling," he said aloud, as he turned away from the grave with a tender
smile on his face.

It never seemed to him that his own little Kitty was far from him, and
a prayer was in his heart that Kitty the second might be as sweet, as
good as the one who was ever present in his thoughts.

Paul Lessing, too, thought tenderly of his first child-friend that same
afternoon, as he stood a little apart from the group gathered round the
font, and heard the familiar name of Kitty bestowed upon his own little
child.  That first Kitty had been dear to him, but the baby who
whimpered in Mr. Curzon's arms was nearer still and dearer; and in the
full realization of his own fatherhood Paul knelt, and, with his face
hidden in his hands, acknowledged the Fatherhood of God.

There was a very large party at the Court, that evening, to which every
inhabitant of Rudham had received an invitation--an invitation printed
in silver letters on a very small card.

"Kitty Lessing requests the company of Mr. and Mrs. ----, etc."

It had been May's particular wish that the invitations should be issued
in her daughter's name, and Paul, who considered the notion a little
fantastic, had yielded to his wife's whim.

"It seems rather nonsense that the giver of the feast should be fast
asleep in her cradle upstairs," he said, when he found himself standing
by Mr. Curzon in the course of the evening, "but May would have it so."

The two men stood side by side upon the terrace, looking down upon the
moving crowd of happy people that wandered hither and thither about the
beautiful grounds.  From the bowling-green below there floated the
strains of a string-band specially hired for the occasion; but, above
it all, came the sound of Sally's laughter as she tried to steer some
of the village boys and girls safely through the mysteries of a new
country dance--an effort not wholly crowned with success.  The shifting
scene was full of animation and happiness.

"I think Mrs. Lessing was right," said Mr. Curzon, presently.  "Kitty
is promising, by proxy, that she will carry on the work of kindliness
and good-will that you and your wife have begun in Rudham."

"I'm glad you are on my side," said May, who had come up in time to
hear Mr. Curzon's words.  "We'll have a birthday party every year as
long as Kitty lives at home.  I came to find you, Paul; some of the
elderly ones are going, and I want you to be at the gate to say
good-bye."

"No, no," Paul answered; "we'll go together to the bowling-green and
issue a yearly invitation."

A few minutes later Paul stood bare-headed, with May by his side, upon
the band-stand; and the guests from all parts of the grounds gathered
round, feeling that the squire had something to say to them.

"My friends," Paul began, "I am here not to make a speech, but just to
tell you, quite simply, what great pleasure it has given my wife and
myself to see you here this evening, at the birthday party of our
little girl.  If she be spared to us it is our wish that every birthday
of hers should be celebrated in a similar manner.  Her name, I hope,
will bring back to your memory the thought of another Kitty, who lived
long enough to make her influence felt in every cottage of our village.
That our little daughter shall also find a place in your hearts is her
mother's and my chief ambition concerning her."

There was a moment's pause when Paul ceased speaking, a passing
hesitation lest any open manifestation of gladness over the birthday
festival of the new Kitty should make their late rector more painfully
conscious of the loss of his own little daughter; and with his quick,
intuitive sympathy Mr. Curzon understood and appreciated the momentary
silence.  He sprang on to the platform and took his place by Paul's
side.

"Give expression to your thanks in the way which our entertainers will
like the best," he said.  "Three cheers for Kitty Lessing!"

The sound of the hearty cheering reached even to the nursery, and baby
Kitty stirred for a moment, opened her dark eyes, then, turning her
head on the pillow, slept more profoundly than ever.

In years to come she would be told the tale of her first birthday party.




THE END.











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