The Vicar of Redcross; or, Till Death us do Part

Front matter

Alan gazed intently upun the wintry landscape." — 1'aye 8. THE VICAR OF REDCROSS OB Œill H)eatb us fco toart EY SARAH DOUDNEX/v AUTHOR OF "WHEN WE TWO PARTED," "PSALMS OF LIFE," ETO. ILLUSTRATED BY D. H. FRISTON LONDON HOULSTON AND SONS PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 1888. PUBLISHERS' NOTICE. This Story originally appeared under the title of "Till Death us do Pakt" in the Churchman's Shilling Magazine. A Novel having since then been published bearing the same name, it has been thought advisable to avoid confusion therewith by changing the title of this revised edition to " Tub Vicae of Rbdckoss." V CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE PACE IN THE TEAIN . . . . 7 II. REDCROSS VIC AB AGE 15 III. ALAN VERITON's CONFESSION ... 22 iv. Jessie's fairy tale . . . . 29 V. HUSBAND AND WIFE 35 VI. AN EVIL GENIUS . . 42 VTI.

GOOD INTENTIONS 50 VIII. SAINTSBOROUGH CATHEDRAL .... 63 IX. "NO ROOT" 74 X. LEFT ALONE 83 XI. A PROMISE 93 XII. BETWIXT LIFE AND DEATH .... 102 XIII. ENTERED INTO REST 112 XIV. TOILING AND MOILING 122 XV. THE PROMISE IS KEPT 131 XVI. THE OLD LOVE 139 XVII. SORROW AND COMFORT .... 148 XVIII. CANON HAVILLAND'S MEDITATIONS . . 157 XIX. THE THREE PATHS CONTENTS. VI CHArTER PAGE XX. JOINED TOGETHER 172 XXI. GREEN PASTURES AND STILL WATERS . 179 XXII. A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES . . 187 XXIII. FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT . . .194 XXIV. A HEAVY BURDEN 205 XXV. AT REDCROSS AGAIN 212 XXVI. A WASTED LIFE. . . . . 220 XXVII. A MIND DISEASED 233 XXVIII. WORK 241 XXIX. LEARNING LESSONS 249 XXX. A MESSAGE 255 XXXI. ON THE EVE OF PARTING . . .261 XXXII. A MAY-DAY DAWNING .... 268 XXXIII. ANOTHER NEW HOME .... 276 XXXIV.

THE CHILDREN'S FETE .... 283 XXXV. FANNY LAMBETH'S LOVE AFFAIR . . 290 XXXVI. A WEDDING AND A MEETING . . . 297 XXXVII. AT HOME AND AT REST .... 307 XXXVIII. "vale!" THE VICAE OF KEDCKOSS; OK, Hill 2>eatb us bo part

Chapter I. The Face In The Train

T was only a momentary vision of a face seen suddenly and unexpect edly. It flashed past, looking from the window of a railway carriage, was distinctly visible for the space of a few seconds, and then it was gone. Alan Veriton was on his way home from London, and his train was stopping at Guildford, when another, which had been waiting there, moved off. He had looked up, naturally enough, from the columns of the Times, and then he saw that face. " They are keeping us an unconscionable time here," growled an old gentleman in the opposite corner. " Just put your head out, Alan, and see what they are about." But Alan only stared at him vacantly. " Are you going to have a fit, sir ? " said the old man, pettishly. " Because, if you are, I '11 trouble you to step out on the platform. What are you glaring at me for ?

" " I beg pardon, uncle ; " and the delinquent gave himself a slight shake as he spoke. " This train is abominably slow, but we are beginning to move again now." " Have you been asleep, Alan, dear ? " asked a young lady sitting next to him. No," he answered shortly. The train was in motion once more. The old gentleman, grumbling and muttering, settled himself in the heavy folds of his wrappers and closed his eyes. The young lady went back to her novel, and Alan Veriton gazed intently out upon the wintry landscape. But although long reaches of brown woodland, and hills blue and misty with the coming twilight, passed before him in rapid succession, he only saw that face. We, too, will go back with him into the past; we will follow his memory step by step, and learn something of the secrets of his life.

Looking at him as he sits there, one would not judge that THE FACE IN THE TRAIN. the world had dealt harshly with him. His fair, handsome face has no lines or furrows about it ; he is a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow — a good specimen of the Saxon type of manly beauty. Rich, too, and with the expectation of yet greater wealth when death shall have removed that old gentleman in the corner. And the golden-haired lady by his side, wrapped up in the glossy seal skin, is his wife. His wife, but not the bride of his choice, nor the woman of his love. He had not even wedded, as many do, under the mistaken impression that he loved. He had gone into captivity with his eyes open, and " verily he had his reward." And now, instead of on winter woods, and the low lying hills with the mists slowly creeping over them, he was still looking in fancy upon that face which had flashed upon him so recently — looking at it as it was when he had seen it for the first time in his life.

At that period he was twenty four years of age, and the owner of the face was presented to him as Jessie Aylburton. Much has been said about first impressions, and Alan Veriton's remembrance of them in this case was remarkably distinct. They were con nected in his mind with a quiet autumn morning when the church bells were chiming on the festival of St. Michael and All Angels. The street in which the church stood was very still as he walked slowly along with his mother leaning on his arm, and when they came within the shadow of the time-worn walls, they saw two ladies standing near the iron railings and looking in at the graves. Then his mother had uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise, and the elder lady came up and took her warmly by the hand. " Alan, this is a dear old school-friend of mine," Mrs. Veriton had said.

" You have often heard me speak of Miss Waydon ; and this, I suppose, is Jessie Aylburton," she added, turning to a young girl, who stood silently by. Then they had all entered the church together, for Alan did not eschew church in those days. He stood reverently in the family pew, while Jessie Aylburton by his side lifted her brown eyes in wondering delight to the glories of the chancel windows. " Serve the Lord with glad ness " chanted the white-robed choir ; " Serve the Lord with gladness " was the preacher's text, and he had felt "glad" then. He had even thought that he was serving the Lord ; but now, in these present days, he never tried to serve Him at all. THE FACE IN THE TRAIN Well, it was a very old story, commonplace enough, a girl's heart sought eagerly ; and won, not easily at first, but surely.

Then came his uncle's imperative command that he should marry the heiress, and he had succumbed at last. Here the train stopped again at another station, and a passenger entered their carriage. The opening of the door let in a rush of cold air, and the old gentleman, thus rudely aroused from his slumbers, broke out into strong language, which ended in a fit of coughing. " Do, Alan, give uncle the spirit-case," said his wife's voice ; and when the restorative had been poured out and administered, they were off again. The old days might be summoned up once more ; he could lean back in his comer, and enjoy his secret griefs at his leisure. " Do wrap this rug a Uttle closer round me," said Mrs. Alan, speaking in that whining tone which is sometimes the feminine mode of pre ferring a request. Her husband complied, not ungently, but indifferently.

" I am not comfortable yet," she complained ; " I don't think I ever felt so cold in my life. Please pick up my muff. Thank you. How long will it be before we get to the end of our journey ? " " About half-an-hour, I believe." "I hate railway travelling! don't you? I'm sure you are tired, for you are looking so pale. What 's the matter, Alan ? " " Nothing at all." "This is the most stupid book I ever read. A man falls in love with one girl and marries another! Why can't they invent something new in novels ? " " Why can't they invent something new in life ? " thought her husband ; and he closed his eyes, as a hint to her to cease talking. Then he fell to building castles, founded on the old, airy foundation of " what might have been;" and the end of the journey came too soon for him. He was recalled to the realities of life by his uncle's anxiety to get out of the train, and then he found that their destination was reached.

A few minutes later they were seated in their carriage, rolling easily along the hard, frosty road. A drive of five miles brought them to Firslope House, and the happy pair entered Squire Veriton's mansion for the first time since their marriage. Later still, the bride came to the door of her husband's dressing-room, with the question — " Alan, shall I wear the blue silk to-night ? " THE FACE IN THE TRAIN. He was leaning moodily against the chimney piece and staring into the fire, but he glanced up as she spoke. She was wrapped in a loose robe, which fell in soft, rich folds about her tall figure, and as the fire-light flickered over her unbound hair and fair face, she looked almost beautiful. He thought so, and his heart soft ened towards her for an instant. " The blue silk, by all means, Lucilla," he said pleasantly.

His look and tone thrilled her with a quick sense of pleasure, and, letting the door close behind her, she came up to him, laying her hands lightly on his shoulders. He looked into the face wliich was so nearly on a level with his own, and knew that it was expected of him that he should kiss her. But he could not do it then. That other face flashed across his memory again, and the sudden remembrance altered the expression of his own. His wife saw the change at once ; she was not an acute woman, but she loved her husband, and love has marvellous powers of penetration. Despite the warmth of the comfortable room, a chill fell upon her ; she shivered and turned away. Half-an-hour afterwards they descended to the dining-room together. A fine couple, the ser vants thought, as they swept down the wide staircase ; but a restless, unsatisfied heart was beating under the blue silk and lace and jewels.

And even while his bride's hand rested on his arm, Alan was thinking with unsubdued tenderness of his lost love, — wondering if, in " the changes and chances of this mortal life," he should ever see that face again.

Chapter II

, REDCROSS VICARAGE, T was the last night of the old year. Christmas had come and gone, and the frost had not yet broken up. The busy old town of Redcross had kept the festive season merrily; sparing leisure from its hard-working life to be joyful and glad. And on this night most of the worthy townsfolk would sit up to hear the church clock toll the death-knell of the year, and the bells usher in the new-comer with sonorous music. In the old-fashioned dining-room of Redcross Vicarage sat the vicar and his guest, Alan Veriton, talking as old friends and old schoolfellows always talk when they have met again after years of separation. Dessert was still on the table ; the silver and crystal glittered in the gaslight, and the cheerful radiance shone upon the dark, oakpanelled walls, touching the scarlet hollyberries that adorned them here and there.

No two men could possibly be more unlike in appearance than the Reverend Horace Sherstone and his companion, for the clergyman possessed none of that personal beauty for which Alan was so remarkable. He had a strong, brave, rugged face, deeply furrowed with study, and thought, and care ; a face that told its own story of hard work and hidden struggles. He looked at least ten years older than his friend, whereas he was Veriton's senior by five years only. "You found the shooting at Firslope very good ?" he was saying ; " I was told that the covers had been well preserved. Well, Veriton, you have risen in the world's estimation; better to be a country gentleman than a lawyer without money or clients." "Yes," said Alan, leisurely cracking filberts. " I suppose I may be called a lucky fellow."

" No doubt of it. But I hope you don't intend to keep all your good luck to yourself. I shall expect to see a new schoolhouse at Firslope." " Do you think that a new one is really wanted, Sherstone ?" " My dear fellow ! Only use your eyes when you go back. Don't you know that the rain comes REDCROSS VICARAGE. 17 through the roof and drips upon the heads of the scholars ; and that it is the most ill-contrived place ever seen ?" " I think I remember Thornley did say some thing about it." " Thornley must have been a great deal too mild with you. Why, such a schoolhouse as that is a disgrace to a Christian parish." " Thornley is rather a milksop," said Alan, filling his glass. " I wish I had you at Firslope, Sherstone; you would be a great help to me. After all, I lead rather a humdrum life, you know."

" It 's your own fault if you do. No man's life need be humdrum. And it is a good thing we don't live near to each other," he added, laughing ; " for I should find you sadly in the way. You 'd be com ing over to the vicarage and wasting my time." "It's a relief to get out of the house some times," rejoined Alan. " My uncle's temper really grows worse and worse. I always make off when I see a fit coming on." "And your wife ; what does she do ?" " Oh, Lucilla doesn't mind it very much. She manages him pretty well, upon the whole." "But you should not leave her to bear his violence alone." " She can take her own part when she thinks B fit. And she isn't frightened of him, as some women would be." There was silence for a few seconds ; and then the page entered, bringing coffee. "Come into my study, Veriton," said Horace, when the cups were emptied.

" It 's the most comfortable room in the house." He rose, and led the way to an apartment on the other side of the hall. Here the glare of the gas lamps was tempered by green shades, and the strong light lay broadly upon the table with its litter of books and papers, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. The vicar placed his friend in an easy chair by the fireside, and took the seat opposite to him. " This is a capital sanctum of yours," said Alan, looking round. "Ah, you haven't lost your old taste for pictures, I see. By-the-by, who painted this?" He got up as he spoke, and stood before the fire. Horace removed the shade from one of the lamps, and cast its full glow upon a small painting in an " Oxford" frame of ebony, which hung just above the mantelpiece. It was executed in water-colours, and represented a half-length figure of the Virgin, bearing a cluster of lilies in her hand.

But it was noticeable that the artist had not striven to invest REDCROSS VICARAGE. 19 the " blessed among women " with any attributes of divinity. The eyes were not uplifted, but looked straight at the gazer ; the lips were slightly parted as if about to smile, and the whole face had a sweet womanly tenderness bleuding with its beauty. And this it was that gave the picture such an air of reality, causing Alan to stand silently contemplating it for some minutes. " Do you like it ? " queried the vicar. " Like it ! Yes, wonderfully ; it is very original. Where did you pick it up ? " " I abstracted it from a lady's portfolio," replied Horace, smiling. " But I was not guilty of theft ; she put a few finishing touches to the painting and allowed me to keep it." Alan bent forward and examined it more closely.

"Sherstone," he said suddenly, in a quick, eager tone, " what was that lady's name ? " " She is not a professional artist," answered his friend. " Her name is Jessie Aylburton." " Jessie Aylburton ! " echoed Alan ; " I thought so. I saw the initials." "Do you know her?" asked the vicar, in surprise. But Veriton made no reply. A dark shadow seemed suddenly to have fallen upon him; and turning quickly away from the picture, he sat down again, and looked fixedly into the fire. The minutes passed on, but no word escaped his lips ; the steady ticking of the timepiece and the crackling of the burning logs alone broke the stillness. Horace sat thoughtfully watching his com panion's gloomy face, and waiting for him to break the pause. Then, as he looked at him, his mind wandered back to the old school days, when he had been Alan's sworn friend and protector.

He remembered how often he had seen the same face, smooth and beardless then, troubled about some boyish scrape, and appealing to him for aid. With these memories came back the old love, which had never utterly died out ; and he felt the same tenderness for the grown man that he had once cherished for his little " fag- " of lonoao-o. " Alan, what 's the matter, old boy ? " he said, softly. And from Alan's aching heart burst forth the old boyish response, — " Oh, Horace, I 'm very miserable." "Tell me all about it if you can," rejoined the vicar gently. " It will do you no end of good to speak out." " My story won't improve your opinion of me," REDCROSS VICARAGE. 21 said the other, hesitating. " And yet it will be a wonderful relief to make a clean breast of it. You shall be my father confessor," he added, with a woful attempt to smile.

" I will be your friend," returned Horace ; "just as I always was." He stirred the fire and put on another log, and then waited to hear what revelation Alan had to make.

Chapter III Alan Veriton's Confession

T was a mistake of my poor father's ever to settle in Goldenbury," began Alan, after a brief pause. "You heard how he died there, leaving his affairs in an unsettled state. Well, it was a still greater blunder for me to stay in the place and wait for the clients that didn't come. I wasn't fit for a lawyer, you know; I never had brains enough, I believe. But he had brought me up to his profession, and my mother, poor soul, wished me to continue in it." He paused again, shifting his position, and shielding his face with one hand. " I won't make a long story of it, Horace," he said. " After all, there isn't much to tell. It was at Goldenbury that I first saw Jessie Aylburton — the very same Jessie who painted the picture there. She was ALAN VERITON'S CONFESSION. 23 an orphan, living with her aunt in a little cottage just out of the town.

Then my mother found out that the aunt, Miss Waydon by name, was an old school-friend of hers, and that 's how the intimacy began." "How old were you at that time?" asked the vicar, quickly. "I was twenty-four, and Jessie was nineteen, when we first met, and that is four years ago. But she seemed younger than her age ; a slight, childish little thing she was, and very shy at first. I took to going constantly to the house, and Miss Waydon encouraged me for my mother's sake. And the end of it was that Jessie and I became engaged." " Without much prospect of a speedy marriage," said the vicar. "Well, I was always hoping that the clients would come, you know, but the time went on and on, and my practice didn't increase. And when my mother died, I gave up the house where we had lived, and went into lodgings."

Once more he paused, as if struggling with himself a little while, and then continued in a hurried tone — " You know what a young fellow is without any home-ties, Horace, and I went on in the usual way. Somehow I got linked in with a fast set, and Miss Waydon began to hear tales about me. They reached Jessie's ears too, but she would not give me up. Poor child, she was the truest little girl in the world ! " Horace suddenly pushed his chair out of the yellow circle of gas-light, and sat back among the shadows. " I didn't improve as months went by," resumed Veriton. "Fellows of my stamp seldom mend, I believe. And when I began to find my debts pressing, and things about as black as they could be, I took a sudden resolution to start off to Firslope House, and seek help of my father's uncle. It was a wild scheme, for I had never seen him in my life, and he and my poor father were not even on speaking terms.

But I had grown desperate." " And did he receive you harshly ? " " Yes, he stormed at me at first. But his ward, Lucilla Mervin, was staying in the house, and she interceded on my behalf. At last he sent me back to Goldenbury with money to pay my debts, bidding; me return to him ao-ain." For the last time Alan stopped in his story. Leaning forwards, he rested his elbows on his knees, and pressing his forehead upon his hands, went on to the end. ALAN VERITON'S CONFESSION. 25 "I did go back, Horace, and settled all the duns. And then I went to Jessie, and told her that brighter days were coming to us both, for my rich uncle was about to befriend me. We walked up and down the little cottage garden, talking of all that was in store for us, — and I meant every word I said, I swear that I did. That was a year ago, and I have never spoken to her since.

I returned to Firslope House, and you know the result." He ceased to speak, and again there was a deep silence. The fire was getting low, but once or twice a bright flame shot up from the red embers, and flickered on the vicar's face, showing that he was very pale. " Why don't you say hard things to me, Horace?" cried Alan, at last. "Why don't you tell me that I 'm a scoundrel ? " " Isn't it enough that your own heart tells you so ? My reproaches are quite unnecessary," said the vicar, bitterly; and then added, in a softer tone, " My dear Alan, you have indeed made for yourself a heavy burden, 'grievous to be borne ! ' " "And after all, what have I gained by my sacrifice ? " continued Veriton, excitedly. " I am made to live in the same house with that diabolical old man and the wife he has forced upon me."

" And that wife, Alan ; don't visit your own sins upon her head. She at least made a love-match when she married you, for, with a fortune such as hers, she might have aspired to far higher rank." " That makes it all the worse. If we had been alike compelled to take this step, our mutual reluctance would have been, at least, a bond of sympathy. But Lucilla did me the honour to conceive an attachment for me ; my uncle per ceived it, and it suggested to his mind the glorious matrimonial scheme which he has so successfully carried out." "But, Alan, you allowed yourself to be con quered. You must blame your own weakness, and nothing else." " Don't I know that I 'm a hound ? Do I not acknowledge it again and again ? " " The only course now left to you is to try to make the best of your lot. Endeavour to do good with the wealth that has cost you so dear.

And above all, — don't break your wife's heart." " You don't suppose that I shall beat her, or knock her down ? " "God forbid! Yet many a woman would ALAN VERITON'S CONFESSION. 27 rather endure a blow, struck in the heat of passion, than bear the slow, wasting torture of indifference." " Well, I will do my best ; but, Horace, it is hard. The journey of life is so long, — so very long." "'But this I say, brethren, the time is short; it remaineth, that both they that have wives be as though they had none ; and they that weep, as though they wept not ; and they that rejoice, as though they rejoiced not; and they that use this world, as not abusing it : for the fashion of this world passeth away.' " When his friend had repeated these words, Alan Veriton rose suddenly and walked across the room to the window, drawing back the heavy folds of the crimson curtains, and looking out upon the night.

For a few minutes he remained there alone ; and then Horace came to his side, and leaned lovingly on his shoulder. The clear wintry moonlight touched the dark outlines of the vicar's old church, and shone in upon the figures of the two men, — standing as they used to stand when they were boys at school. " Alan, do you ever think of these things ? Our church has just celebrated the advent of our Lord Jesus Christ ; we have prayed ' that at His second coming, to judge the world, we may be found an acceptable people in His sight.' Does your heart join in that prayer?" The old church clock struck twelve solemn strokes, that throbbed slowly through the still night air. Then a loud clanging peal broke from the belfry, and all listeners knew that the old year's race was run.

Chapter IV. Jessie's Fairy Tale

OW, Jessie, go on with the story." The speaker, a little girl of six, was the orphan child of Jessie Aylburton's brother, and had only of late been an inmate of Miss Waydon's home. But already she had become Jessie's especial pet and darling — her pupil, plaj'thing, and constant companion. "Let me see, May; where was I ? " she asked, while May brought a stool and perched down on the hearthrug at her feet. " Why, Jessie, have you forgotten ? The poor little princess had lost the old king who was her father, and all the treasures in his palace were taken away. There was nothing left for her; so she had to go and live in quite a mean little place among strangers. And then there came to her a handsome young prince, oh, so handsome ! And he gave her a jewel to wear round her neck, a wonderful kind of jewel, that should sparkle even in the dark."

Jessie put aside her sewing, for the grey twilight was stealing into the small room, and she could no longer see the stitches. She leaned back in her low chair by the fireside as if con sidering for a while ; and May, growing impatient, took possession of one of her hands. " Well, what came next ? " " A very strange thing came next," said Jessie, speaking in a sweet, low voice. " The princess found that as time passed on the jewel was beginning to lose a little of its bright ness. But the prince had told her that if ever she fancied it was growing dim, she had only to breathe upon it, and it would sparkle as brilliantly as ever. And she discovered that this plan answered very well. But one day, quite suddenly, she put her hand to her neck to feel for her jewel and it was gone." " Gone ! " echoed May, her dark eyes opening very wide.

"O poor princess! what did she do?" " She didn't know what to do at first ; she just sat still and cried." " But couldn't she find it again ? " O JESSIE'S FAIRY TALE. 31 " No, it was lost beyond recovery. But while she was in the midst of her sorrow, a good fairy suddenly appeared to her, and told her not to fret; for the jewel was not a precious stone at all, but only a bit of common glass, and quite worth less." " Then if it was only common glass, how could it give light in the dark ? " " Because it was an enchanted bit of glass. It came from Fairyland, and the fairy folk had cast their spells over it." " Did the prince know that it wasn't real when he gave it to her ? " "No; he quite believed that it was indeed a precious stone. Well, when the princess came to understand that her jewel was valueless, she wouldn't waste any more tears about it, but occupied her thoughts with other matters.