Deepdale Vicarage

Front matter

" Reginald Chauncey was quite the pet of society " (p. 44). Frontispiece. Deefidale * Vicarage BY THE AUTHOR OF "MARK WARREN," etc. etc. CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited: LONDON, PARIS <t NEW YORK. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. An Abbott Visit ...... 1 II. " Plain People " ..... 8 III. Db. Plume Refuses to Explain the Mysteby . 15 IV. The Big Countess ..... 20 V. Frank's Farewell to Lady Lucy . . .27 VI. "The Man fob Phil" .... 31 VII. An Imprudent Question, and its Consequences . 38 VIII. The Home of the Chaunceys ... 42 ES. Some One at the Doob . . . . .48 X. Dionysius and his Pupil .... 53 XI. The Countess Knows how to Allay Iebitation . 58 XII. ClECUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE .... 62 XIII. The Defence ...... 68 XIV. " Time and Tide "Wait foe no Man" . . 76 XV. A Confiding- Pabent . . . . .81 XVI. The Vicab brought to the Point . . 86 XVII.

" A Wondebful Woman " . . . .90 XVIII. Innocent ob Guilty? .... 94 XIX. The Resolve to "Live it Down" . . .98 XX. The Bailiffs in the House . . . 101 XXI. A Wife's Love can Survive the Wreck . . 105 XXII. "£12,000" 109 XXIII. At Rest 113 XXIV. A Removal ...... 118 XXV. An Unpleasant Sensation . . . .122 XXVL A Theeat 125 XXVII. The Appeal 129 XXVIIL "Settled" ...... 133 XXIX. The Latin and the Greek . . . .138 XXX." Phil's Treasures ..... 146 XXXL Two Heads abe Better than One . . .149 XXXII. The Solitary Mourneb .... 155 XXXIII.' A Ray of Light . . . . . .161 XXXIV. Again at Deepdale ..... 164 XXXV. Fbank's Patient . . . . .169 XXXVI. The First Lesson . . . . 173 XXXVII. How Little Books can do! . . . .178 XXXVIII. Yearning fob Sympathy .... CONTENTS, CHAPTER PACE XXXIX. Mrs. Flushing . . . . • " ,_.

XL. Frank's New Commission ... . • l-J-j XLI. Sie Geoffrey Willet . . ■ • - in t XLII. The Meaning of the Greek Alphabet . . 201 XLIII. Cut to the Heart . . . • - oia XLIV. A Passionate Woman . . . ■ ;«J4 XLV. Frank and Sir Geoffrey . . ■ ■ *J| XLVI. What the Countess has been Doing . . 221 XLVII. The Golden Dew of Sleep . . . . 226 XLVIII. Dr. Plume's Advice ..... 232 XLIX. "For the Future we can be Friends" . . 23G L. Sir Geoffrey becomes Confidential . . 241 LI. The Countess has learned her Lesson well . 246 LIL What Simon Crosskeys Wanted . . . 250 LIII. Gone for the Police ..... 253 LIV. She asks to Know the Worst . . . 257 LV. A Gleam of Hope . . . . .261 LVI. Who was the Guilty One .... 200 LVII. 7s Important Question ..... 272 LVIII. An Accident ...... 275 LIX. Father and Son . . . . . .281 LX.

Chapter I. An Abrupt Visit

f?ti^w las^J> anc^ above all, I must beware of W&BftSj I This astounding and illiberal sentiment jJwv^iiL proceeded by way of mental soliloquy from (0^Jf%7B tQe Rev. Dionysius Curling, tbe newly- \^^_M/ inducted vicar of the rural parish of Deep- 6^>, dale. So newly inducted, indeed, that not more than a week ago he had read himself in and also preached his first sermon at Deepdale. In accordance with certain habits of his, he had before him a list of all the church-going people in his parish, and he had been scanning this document attentively, and had been startled at the alarming preponderance of ladies. " Why, they are heie by shoals ! " cried Dionysius. To glance at the man as he stood on the hearth-rug of the vicarage drawing-room, his hands clasped behind him in true bachelor fashion, no one would suppose that he was in danger from a sex which is not insensible to the charms of manly beauty.

B He was young, to be sure — very young, in some respects — but he was not, therefore, handsome. His figure was insignificant ; his complexion of that light colour which, on exposure to the sun, is apt to freckle ; his eyes were small and restless ; his lips were thin, and his hair was sandy. So much for his physiological development. " And yet," thought Dionysius Curling, continuing his soliloquy, as he stood on the hearth-rug, " a young man like me is sure to be run after by all these women. Let me see ! Bless my life ! The three Misses Flushing, the seven Misses Penrose, the nine Misses Garner, the four Misses Turner, besides the widows. Ah ! " and he paused a moment, the paper still in his hand. Then resuming it with a sigh — " Lady Landon, at the Manor — why on earth do they put her last ? — Juliana Landon, Blanche Landon, Lucy Landon.

Humph ! " Again he paused. " Her daughters, I presume. Family from home on Sunday : back next week. Estates in Ireland. Exactly ; " and he stood ruminating a few minutes, rubbing his chin softly with his hand. Then, as if rousing himself from some mental digression, he returned to the subject before him. ': I know what will happen : of course I do," still rubbing his chin, now complacently. " When a fellow gets a living, of course it's different. Yes, I remember Spratt. Poor Spratt ! he had slippers ! Bless the man ! he might have walked on as many feet as a centipede not that a centipede walks ; I rather think it wri"-o'les. Cartes, till he had not albums to hold them. Flowers and fruit, till he might have furnished a stall in Covent Garden. Ah ! it was wretched work. I wonder Spratt survived it ; but he did, and got married.

AN ABRUPT VISIT. 3 " I don't mean to get married — not I. Let them do their worst ! " Somewhat excited and ruffled, he paced up and down the room. It was a dismal night. Deepdale was a retired village in the dead country, surrounded by muddy lanes, scarcely accessible, except in summer. The vicarage was a rambling old house, with low ceilings, and small gloomy windows. Many men, inducted into such a living, might have wished for the solace and companionship of a wife. Not so Dionysius Curling. His sentiments on that head were perfectly monstrous. " I know what wives are," he was known to have said. " When they are not gadding about the country, they are having the house turned upside down at home with scrubbing and cleaning. No, indeed ! Old Martha Beck is worth twrenty of them." Martha Beck was his housekeeper.

He had just settled down to his evening's quantum of reading, his fire bright, his slippers on, and all things comfortable, and, as he thought, secure from interruption, when Martha Beck tapped at the door. " Well," growled Dionysius from his chair. " If you please, sir, there's a lady as wants to speak to you." " Dionysius bristled up on the defensive, and threw an angry glance in the direction of his housekeeper. " It is too late, Martha. I see no one to-night." " But if you please, sir, she's so very pressing. She says " :> "Never mind what she says. It is not . likely that a well-conducted clergyman should receive ladies at this hour. She must come in the morning." " But, if you please, sir, she says " " Martha," thundered her master, getting exceeding irate, " I will not admit this — this woman !

" B Martha gave back a little ; not so much from deference to her master, as that she was pressed upon by some object in the rear. That object, a lady clad in the profoundest mourning, now glided by her, into the actual presence of Dionysius Curling. Dionysius — a gentleman born and bred, in spite of his erratic principles — could not remain in his chair after this event had happened. He rose, reluctantly indeed, still he rose, and with a face of intense sourness stood regarding his visitor. She was young, and with a face that was prelty in spite of its pallor, and the marks that care and sorrow had planted there. Evidently some great trouble was pressing upon her, for she was weep ing bitterly ; and, as she came forward, she said, holding out her hands imploringly, " Oh, sir, do have pity on me !

" Then, as if overcome by fatigue and distress, she sank on the little sofa which Dionysius had placed by the fire for his own especial solace. Now Dionysius Curling was the last man on earth for anything like a scene. Romance and sentiment had in him neither part nor lot. The sight of a woman, young, fair, and in distress, might have roused the chivalry of some as by the touch of Ithuriel's spear. Not so Diony sius. The uppermost feeling in his mind was how to get i-id of her. He could not thrust her forth rudely and unwarrantably. He was not the man for that, either. A parish minister in our day is rarely, and let us be thankful for it, without the instincts of a gentleman ! No ; but he stood regarding her as an enemy who had stormed his fortress by sleight of hand. As to addressing her, — in his confusion and dismay, and newly plucked up from his Plato, he really knew not how.

But the lady saved him tho trouble. Wiping her eyes AN ABRUPT VISIT. ■ — which were large and handsome, with long lashes — not that this circumstance mattered in the least to Dionysius — she said, in a sweet voice — " Pray pardon me, sir ! I have been labouring under a sad mistake. I did not know7 that my poor uncle was dead." " Oh ! indeed," said Dionysius, stiffly. " My uncle was incumbent of this parish," continued sbe; " his name was Melrose. You must have heard of him." Dionysius bowed. The Rev. Philip Melrose, of much beloved memory, and who had held the living fifty years, was his predecessor. " I am his niece — his only niece," continued the lady ; " my name is Clara Melrose. I kept his house until Oh, sir ! I have been very unfortunate ! " exclaimed she, bursting into tears, and sobbing violently.

Dionysius, wholly unmoved, stared stolidly at her. All at once his face cleared up, as he espied, with great satisfaction, a wedding-ring plainly visible on the lady's finger. " Oh, so you have a husband, ma'am," said he, quite blandly and benignantly. " No, sir ; I am a widow." Dionysius retreated as if he had been shot. Anger, annoyance, and even fear were visible in his countenance. " A wddow," he muttered ; " a widow, Yes, I see — I see." " My poor husband, who was a nephew of the late vicar, died about six months ago, leaving me quite destitute. In fact, I have spent my last shilling in coming here to night." Pleasant intelligence this for Dionysius Curling. " I hoped to find a refuge with my poor uncle, but Providence has directed otherwise," sobbed forth the fugitive, getting quite hysterical ; " and what am I to do ? what am I to do ?

" " Indeed, ma'am, that is just what puzzles me," replied Dionysius, curtly. " If, sir, you have a wife " " Madam," said Dionysius, with dignity, " I have no such thing belonging to me. I am a bachelor." The lady, alarmed at this portentous declaration, began to sob violently. Dionysius, who had relapsed into utter and blank stolidity, stood looking at her. Presently she said, her sobs growing more and more hysterical, " Could you advise me, sir, w7hat to do ? " It w7as a difficult question to put to a man so devoid of resources as Dionysius Curling ; but, as it happened, a bright idea occurred to him. He rubbed his hands, and advancing a step nearer, said, briskly, " Had you not better take lodgings in the village ? " " Alas, sir ! there are no lodgings in Deepdale." Dionysius rubbed his forehead, now wrinkled up into a hundred lines of care and perplexity.

At length another bright idea occurred to him. His two church wardens were married men, living in great rambling farmhouses, where there could be no scarcity of accom modation. It was evident that the lady should not, if possible, remain at the vicarage. Surely, if not one, yet another of the churchwardens would tahe her in. As the idea gained upon him, he looked round for his hat and stick. The lady was seized with a violent trembling, and to any but a totally inexperienced person would have appeared remarkably ill. But Dionysius was not blessed with perceptive faculties ; besides, his mind was running eagerly on his own chance of deliverance. Bidding her remain by the fire, and not waiting to hear her reply, he hurried out of the front door, and turned AN ABRUPT VISIT. his steps towards the abode of his nearest churchwarden, Simon Crosskeys.

Now the reader will have divined ere this that Diony sius was an exceptional man. He was one of those who enter the ministry regarding it only as a profession, and not as a sacred calling, from which all petty prejudices and trivial caprice must be put aside. Thank God, Dionysius Curling's is an exceptional character. To this, witness the persevering and wide-spread labours of our country pastors, and the unremitting and concen trated work of ministers in so many of our cities and towns.

CHAPTER IL

" PLAIN PEOPLE." *-T*_2_^ IMON CROSSKEYS was, as he had confided y\ (flS^ to liis friends and acquaintance, " none so , ' _9i___^ i M/S^tl, pleased with the new parson." tf??..^=^P In the sermon preached the preceding f^§$l^® Sunday, Dionysius had used the word æsthetics, a term which Simon fancied had vS?' reference to the Pope. When the young vicar, breathless with haste and excitement, stood at the door of the farmer, that astute individual was about to sit down to what he called his bread and cheese. " Well, I'm sure ! I never thought of seeing you, Mr. Curling, at this time of night. How7soever come in, sir. Happen you'll take a bit along with us." " Thank you," replied Dionysius, stiffly, and standing with his hat in his hand ; "I have just dined." " Humph ! " said the farmer. Dionysius had better have suppressed the fact of dinner.

" He's one of them as turns day into night and night into day," thought Simon Crosskeys, getting further dissatisfied. Dionysius now came forward, and going up to the fire, blurted out with excessive want of tact, " I suppose, Mr. Crosskeys, you don't let lodgings ? " "PLAIN PEOPLE." 9 Crosskeys stared at him in blank amazement. " You be a wonderful stranger in Deepdale, sir, to ask a question like that." " I beg your pardon. I meant no offence," faltered poor Dionysius ; " only I am in a dilemma." " A what, sir ? " asked Simon, quickly, and laying down his knife and fork. " A dilemma — a difficulty — an embarrassment," said tho young clergyman, hastily. " I want to find a home — a place, in fact, for " He paused, and the awkwardness of his position made him blush scarlet ; added to which, Simon, his knife and fork laid down, was regarding him with severe scrutiny.

" Well, sir ? " asked Simon, at length, as if his curiosity had been somewhat excited. " I want," stammered the wretched Dionysius, " in fact, there is a young lady — I want to find rooms for a young lady," added he, in desperation. " Oh, indeed," said Simon, with a smile of inde scribable grimness : " a young lady — ah ! humph ! ah ! " Dionysius's face, from scarlet, became the deepest crimson. Nothing could exceed the misery of his position. But recollecting what he supposed would set all things straight, he hastened to explain : — " She is a niece of the late Vicar of Deepdale, and has come to my house by " He stopped. Simon Crosskeys had started from his chair with an exclamation of mingled surprise and horror. " What ! Clara Melrose ! is that the — the woman's name ? " said be, roughly.

" Well, yes ; I believe it is," admitted the vicar, with some reluctance. The farmer looked his superior full in the face. It must be confessed that the latter showed unmistakable signs of agitation and alarm, and he was alarmed beyond measure. However, he hastened to pick up the thread of his narrative. " She came to my house by mistake, only half an hour ago. I never saw her before in my life," said be, hurriedly. "Pray, do you know anything of the lady ? " The farmer let his great clenched fist fall upon tho table. Beyond this, he made no reply whatever. " But pray do tell me ! " cried the vicar, anxiously and fearfully. " This lady was married here, at Deepdale, according to her statement." The farmer nodded assent. " You are aware of that fact ? " asked Dionysius, eagerly. " Certainly, sir ; certainly.

Everybody knows that Clara Melrose married her cousin four years ago come next Michaelmas. We are not likely to forget that fact, Mr. Curling." " Poor thing ! She is a widow now," observed Diony sius. " A widow ! " echoed the farmer. " Serve her right — serve her right ! " added he, with intense bitterness. " It couldn't be but that some judgment would fall upon her." " Judgment, Mr. Crosskeys ! pray inform me for what ! " asked the vicar, hastily. The farmer's stream of communication, never very deep, now7 froze up at once. It was evident that he did not give Dionysius credit for the ignorance he professed. " Pray inform me for what ! " repeated tho vicar eagerly. " Pardon me, sir ; I don't think it necessaiy to reply to that question." "PLAIN PEOPLE." 11 " Good gracious ! why not ? " exclaimed Dionysius.

Simon Crosskeys made no reply; except indeed by resuming his knife and fork, as a hint to the vicar to depart. Dionysius stood a moment, utterly confounded. Some great and hideous evil, of which he had not so much as dreamed, lay hidden before him ; some abyss into which the very next step might plunge him. He did not know which way to turn. He forgot that even in the little and apparently trivial difficulties of life the Great Master is ever ready to hear, and aid, and guide. He had one other churchwarden — or rather the parish • had — a man of the name of Lewin, a grazier and also a butcher. To him Dionysius resolved to go. " I will sift the matter to the bottom," thought he, " or I will know the reason why." Nathanael Lewin — such was his Christian name — lived at the end of a long lane ; indeed, his house was the last in the straggling village of Deepdale.

As no pains w7ere taken in these parts to improve the state of the roads, the lane was at seasons like the present in a state of mingled mud and water. Clerical attire was not made for so rough a transit. By the time the new Vicar of Deepdale reached the abode of Ijis parishioner, he was in a state better imagined than described. He got there at last ; and it was well he was no later, or the Lewin family would have been gone to bed. " Well, look ! if it ain't the parson ! " was the salutation from Mrs. Lewin, as she nearly dropped the candlestick in her surprise. The farmer was halfway upstairs to his dormitory ; it was therefore by no means the most happy time the vicar could have chosen for a visit. But on hearing the sound of voices, Nathanael Lewin returned. "I beg your pardon, sir," said he.

"You see, we're early folks at Deepdale ; and we've been a pig-killing." Dionysius bowed with the utmost politeness — indeed, he had a special object in being as polite as possible to Farmer Lew7in. " I'm sorry to intrude," said he, hastily ; " but I called to ask you a question — a very simple question indeed," added he, beginning, however, to feel the old embarrassment coming on with all its force. " Well, sir," replied the farmer, his candle still in his hand, " anything as I can do, sir, I shall be most happy. AVhat is it you wanted to know, sir ? " " Do you know," said Dionysius, as well as he was able, — " are you acquainted with a lady of the name of Clara Melrose ? " " Clara Melrose ! " cried the farmer, his face kindling. into excitement. " Yes," replied the vicar, now pale and red by turns ; " that was her name, I believe."

" And pray, sir," cried the farmer, still excited, " may I return the question, and ask what you know about her ? " " Oh, nothing whatever ; only, she is at my house, and " " At your house, sir ! " shouted the farmer, get ting more excited than ever — "at your house, did you say ? " " Well, yes — I believe so." The farmer's face turned very red, and his eyes looked as if starting from their sockets ; but he said nothin--. " I am aware there is some mystery about the lady," continued Dionysius, " and I called to beg that you would explain it." " Sir," replied the farmer, waving his hand, as if to sign to the vicar to depart, " there ain't no mystery at all " PLAIN PEOPLE." 13 to them as has their eyes open, and as read the papers. Don't tell me ! We're plain people at Deepdale, but we have our wits about us.

Good night to you, Mr. Curling." The papers. Dionysius stood as if petrified. Farmer Lewin had bolted his door, and was again halfway up to bed ere he recovered sufficiently to move. The papers ! Why, was she a criminal ? And he, the immaculate, the irreproachable Dionysius Curling, would have his name dragged into the dirt ? No ; he could not tolerate such an idea for a single moment. He would hurry home through mud and mire, and get rid of her at once. At once ! There and then ! He would give her money — he did not mind that in the least — and post her off to the nearest station in the little chaise. His man should drive her, and see her off. She was an incubus, pressing the very life out of him. Again he started, and ploughed his way manfully down the lane till the welcome sight of the vicarage cheered his weary and perturbed spirit.

On the threshold of his home he fell in with Martha Beck. " Oh, goodness me, sir ! So you're come at last ! " " Yes, I am come," said the vicar, grimly ; " and now, where is that lady ? " " Oh, sir, she's taken very bad indeed — as bad as ever I see any one in my life." "She shall not be bad here, Martha. I'll have her started off in a trice. Where's James ? " " James, sir, — he's gone for the doctor." " The doctor ! who wants the doctor ? " " If you please, sir, the lady does." " The lady ? " " Yes, sir. She's been took very ill indeed since Ii DEEPDALE VICARAGE. you've been gone. I'm sure she's in a bad fever, sir. I've had to put her to bed, and it's my opinion " Well," gasped Dionysius, breathless, and in great agitation — " well ? " " Well, sir, it's my opinion that she won't be able to» get up again for days and days ! ' 1.

Chapter III. Dr

PLUME REFUSES TO EXPLAIN THE MYSTERY. l?/^igi£>IONTSnjS staggered against the wall, and W_v___k5(_? remained there a few minutes, oblivious of V-.V. \u) j\ 11) every earthly consideration. Clara Melrose ill in his house, and likely feSV^ so some time to come, was a calamity for which he was not prepared. (^■W In fact, it seemed the first step into the abyss he had so much dreaded. When he had recovered somewhat from the shock, he found comfort in one reflec tion — he might elicit from Dr. Plume that information which his churchwardens had denied to him ; he might find out what Clara Melrose had done. No sooner had the doctor's visit to his patient ended than he was waylaid by Dionysius, and with unusual sociability invited into the drawing-room. But, alas ! again a wicked and cruel mystery beset the path of the young vicar.

Dr. Plume was a mild little man — as mild, in fact, as milk ; but he bristled up, and his face grew keenly suspicious as the unfortunate Dionysius opened the subject. Instead of making any answer, he shook his head and looked into his hat, as if the solution of the problem lay there. "Because," stammered Dionysius, awkwardly, "you DEEPDALT. VICARAGE. must be aware how unfortunate it is that such an occur rence should transpire in my house." " So it is, sir ; so it is," replied Dr. Plume, still stead fastly regarding his hat. " Especially as I am in total ignorance as to the lady's antecedents, and liable to gross misrepresentation," con tinued the young divine. There was no answer to this remark. " Will you have the kindness to enlighten me ? " asked Dionysius, politely. " What has Mrs. Melrose done ?

" The doctor knitted his brows in a peculiar manner, and screwed up his lips as tight as he could screw them ; but he made no attempt to elucidate the mystery. " What has she done ? " continued Dionysius, getting impatient and determined to force the doctor into speaking. The doctor shrugged his shoulders with a very knowing air; then he began to button up his greatcoat. "You must excuse me, Mr. Curling, if you please. I have no wish to rake up the very unpleasant circumstances of the past. Besides " " Besides what ? " cried Dionysius, exceedingly nettled. " Well, sir, all I can say is, I am sorry, and hope no offence ; but, bad as she is, it is my opinion that she would never have shown her face in Deepdale without— pardon me — some encouragement from somebody." " Doctor Plume ! " cried Dionysius, his hair almost standing on end — " you don't suspect me of wishing to harbour her ?

" " I mention no names, Mr. Curling," replied the little man, with dignity. " But, of course, sir, it is not likely you should be in ignorance of Mrs. Melrose's past history. No, sir ; you can never expect any of us in Deepdale to believe that. Good evening to you, sir." DR. PLUME REFUSES TO EXPLAIN THE MYSTERY. Dionysius, petrified and aghast, was unable at the moment to detain him ; the consequence was that in a few seconds his ears were greeted by the sound of wheels. Dr. Plume was driving off in his gig. The wretched Dionysius threw himself on his face upon the little sofa and groaned aloud. But even the solace of his study was in some measure denied him. The vicarage walls were thin, and the unwanted sounds that penetrated them were by no means conducive to his peace of mind. The opening and shutting of doors; the hurrying of women along the passages — the whole female population of Deepdale might have got into the house — were harassing to the nerves of the young vicar.

Then, the terrible onus of the thing The gathering storm of parochial displeasure.; the vague reports; the insinuating sneers. Oh ! it would be more than he could bear ! He had half a mind to order out his horse and flee. But to flee would be to leave his enemies masters of the field. No, come what might, he must stand his ground. Ho would at once occupy his mind to better purpose; in preparing his sermons for the next Sunday. Dionysius Curling was a trifle too young for the ministerial calling. His experience of life had not been very profound, and his knowledge of the rural capacity was more limited still. In the place of a plain preaching of the pure and simple doctrine of the Cross, he prepared an elaborate treatise, plentifully besprinkled with hard words and knotty arguments, to the bewilderment of his hearers.

This labour wholly occupied him for the next few days. In it he endeavoured to find a solace from the cares and vexations which oppressed him. Sunday morning came, and with his sermon elaborated to his own satisfaction, he set out for the small parish church of Deepdale. The weather was propitious, and c when that was the case the village street would be dotted over with persons in Sunday trim flocking towards the sacred building. Simon Crosskeys and his wife, and Nathanael Lewin and his wife were usually foremost amid the little flock of worshippers. But on this identical occasion the street was almost entirely deserted. Neither Crosskeys nor Lewin was to be seen. Something was amiss, and already the Vicar of Deepdale grew nervous. Faces peered in an unpleasant manner from the cottage doors and windows ; and the men at tho corner, the roughs of the place, whose only business on earth seemed to be to stand there, gave three groans as " the parson " went by.