Parson Jones. A novel

Front matter

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GRIFFITH, FARRAN & CO., Newbery House, 39 Charing Cross Road, London. A NOVEL IN THREE VOLUMES BY FLORENCE MARRYAT AUTHOR OF " LOVE'S CONFLICT," *' HOW LIKE A WOMAN,' ETC. To thine ownself be true, And it must follow, as the night, the day, Thou cans't not then be false to any man." —Hamlet. VOL. III. LONDON GRIFFITH, FARRAN & CO. NEWBERY HOUSE, 39 CHARING CROSS ROAD I«93 [The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved?^ CONTENTS PAGE

Chapter I

The Reverend George Bates had been at Cambridge with David Jones, but in a very different set. He was the son of Lord Arthur Bates, and the grandson of the Duke of Runnymede, who held the fat living of Solney-cum-Mereton in his gift. So when George was approaching manhood, and his father thought it was about time he decided what he was gsoinpto do for a livelihood, it was only natural that the duke proposed he should go into the VOL. UK A Church and become the vicar of Solney cum-Mereton. Accordingly young Bates, who had already given his people a con siderable amount of trouble, by getting into disreputable scrapes, was packed off to Cambridge to make himself ready for the service of the Lord. He entered col lege with as much idea of the gravity and importance of the career he had accepted as if he had been joining a wine party, and was soon in hot water with the authorities.

More than once he had been on the verge of expulsion and saved himself, as he said, " by the skin of his teeth," when the solemn - looking and somewhat ungainly David Jones gained admittance there. It is needless to say that he entered Cambridge with very different ideas from those of Mr. George Bates. Brought up from a baby to regard the sanctity of the Church as something only next to that of God Himself, he looked upon everything connected with his preparation for it in the same light. Added to which he had no money to keep up the same appear ances as his college mates. His father had with much difficulty scraped the capital together to send him there. He could not hire horses, nor give wine par ties, nor swagger about the town as the rich collegians did. For which reasons, no less than his intense earnestness, he was soon picked out as a species of butt for the wilder spirits in college, of whom George Bates was a very fair example, if not leader.

His father was not rich either, but he was a favourite with the old duke, who was wont to say that " George had no d — d nonsense about him, and was a chip of the old block, by Gad ! " by which he meant his decrepit and irreligious self. David Jones' grave looks and steady ap plication to study were standing reproaches to George Bates and his party, and they made the young Welshman very uncom fortable in consequence. Every trick they could play upon him they played — every unnecessary expense they could draw him into they did — and were overwhelmed with delight to view his mortification or to see his serious looks. He went by the name of " the Arch bishop " in college, and more than once they managed to lay the blame of their harum-scarum scrapes upon his innocent head, but never was David Jones known by word or look to betray them.

He suffered his undeserved censure in silence, and he paid his money down without a murmur. But had they known it, the poor young countryman, whom they ridi culed for his accent and his want of manners, had often to go without his proper amount of food in order to meet the expenses they drew him into against his will. At last, however, the day of reckoning came. George Bates, from late hours and dis sipation, fell ill of typhoid fever of so malignant a type that the doctor would allow none of his college mates to go near him. Even his own people were warned that if they travelled to Cam bridge they would not be allowed access to the sick chamber unless they stayed there altogether, so when they had ascer tained that George had his doctor and his nurse, and " all was being done for him that could possibly be done " (as they said), they were contented to receive daily bulletins concerning his health.

But David Jones, his butt and victim, thought of something more than the sick man's health. When it became rumoured in the college that " Bates was about as bad as he could be, and the don had written that morning to prepare his people for the worst," David began to wonder if they were going to let the poor fellow leave this world without a thought of the one to which he was hastening;. The idea troubled him all day, for he did not know if the authorities would grant him admission to Bates' chamber, and if the sick man would care to see him if they did. For he had never met him yet without receiving a sneer or a scoff at his supposed superiority. But the day went on and the rumours of Bates' danger became more rife, so David Jones went straight up to the proper authority and asked leave to watch the night in his room.

" You, Mr. Jones ! " exclaimed the don. " Are you, then, a friend of Mr. Bates ? " David Jones thought for a moment, and then answered, " I am, sir." " And you wish to be with him at the last, I suppose? Do you know the risk that you run ? " " I know that I shall be as safe there as anywhere else, sir." The don looked in his earnest face for a moment, and said : " You may go, but it can only be on one condition — that you do not return to the college until all fear of the infection is past. It will interrupt your studies, which will be a pity, when you are going on so well, but it will be inevitable. You cannot return in all pro bability this term. Have you thought of that ? " " Yes, sir ; but I think it is my duty to go to Bates, if you allow me." "Very well; you must decide for your self," replied the don.

But as Jones left his presence, he thought : '' That is a very remarkable young man. I know that Bates and his set have persecuted him ever since he entered college, and yet he will risk his life for him. He has the spirit of a true missionary. He will do something great, for the next world if not for this, by-and by." Meanwhile, David Jones, whose kindly heart was aching for the poor lad whose own people left him to die alone, made his way to George Bates' rooms, and estab lished himself as chief nurse. What need to say that the sick man recovered ? Has he not already been introduced by name, if not in person, to the reader ? But his convalescence was a long and tedious one. For weeks he lay prostrate on his bed, weak as an infant, and craving with all his heart for companionship, and support, and human sympathy, and when he found that the man he had ridiculed and sneered at, and done his best to make miserable, was the only creature who had cared to risk the danger of infection for his sake — that, rather than let his wild and careless soul quit the world without a thought of God or heaven, he had laid aside all prejudice and ill-feeling (if, indeed, he had ever harboured any), and come to his bedside to whisper words of hope and comfort, George Bates' heart experienced a revolution that proved a per manent one.

He rose from his sick-bed a changed man, and David Jones' firmest friend. He re-entered college in quite a different spirit, and with a different inten tion. His illness seemed to have swept away all the impurities of his nature, as it is said to do those of the body. His old set did not know him at first, but soon learned to respect him as they had never done before. And George Bates had always sufficient nobility to ascribe the change in his feelings to its true cause — the example of David Jones. As their friendship grew and flourished, and they discussed various topics together, George's views for the future changed as he had done, and, to the utter astonishment of his father and the disgust of his noble grandfather, when the time came for his ordination, he utterly refused to accept the fat living of Solney-cum-Mereton, where he would have drawn fifteen hundred per annum, with scarcely anything to do for it, and took a curacy in the East End of London instead, where he had eighty pounds a year, and was worked morning, noon, and night.

His people shrugged their shoulders, and said George was -- cracked ; " his grandfather called him a fool, with an adjective attached to it ; but he was resolute in having his own way, and had had it ever since. This was the friend to whom David Jones now wrote in his perplexity, and who answered his letter by return of post. The parson smiled as he perused the epistle, for George Bates, though a most sincere and religious man, had never quite given up his old forms of expression, and did not consider it necessary because he loved God to talk as if he were going to be buried the next day. "Dear old chum," it ran, "got your letter — delighted to hear from you, but sorry you are seedy. Will you come and help me for a while ? I have a young fellow here who ought never to have left his mother's apron-string — only been with me two months and fallen sick already with the smells, and the noises, and the hard work.

I was just going to send him back to his mammy when yours arrived. Why not exchange with him ? He'll do beauti fully for Llantygollen — wake them up a bit, I expect, for, like all youngsters, Jack has a wonderful idea of himself, and goes in for all sorts of new-fangled ideas. If any of your congregation survive one of his sermons, I'll eat my hat. But he'll be in his element. I believe it's because I stopped his preaching that he's fallen sick. It'll set him up like a house a-fire to find himself in sole charge, and you may trust him. It's only my chaff. By the way, I find I've omitted to mention his name, the Rev. John Neville (save the mark), aged twenty-four. However, he's a good little fellow, only a bit too zealous. I've chaffed him so unmercifully about his being the Rev. John Neville, that he has taken lately to calling me the Irreverent George Bates, so that I think change has become a necessity for him.

When will you come, old man ? The sooner the better. Can't you manage next week ? Write to the bishop at once. What a pleasure it will be to see your old mug again. And this strange life will interest you and draw you out of yourself— this terrible town, so cruel and indifferent, so full of tragedies and comedies, of sorrow, and starvation, and crime, stalking side by side with de bauchery, and pleasure, and extravagance. If you once settled in London, no other work would ever satisfy you. But perhaps you are sick for want of the sea air or the mild winds of the southern counties ? If so, tell me, and I will still send my Right Rev. Jack to take your place at Llantygollen, and give you a little holi day. I am sure you must want it by this time. Only come and pay me a visit be fore you turn your footsteps homewards again.

You know it has been a long promised treat. How I shall enjoy it, and what palavers we will have over our college days. Let me hear soon, and if I am to be disappointed, take me gently over the stones. — Ever yours, " George Bates." This letter from his old friend, so hearty and cheery, did David Jones more good than anything else could have done. He sat down and answered it at once. " No ! my dear Bates, you shall not be disappointed. I will be with you, if the bishop consents, next week. Nothing could have given me greater pleasure than the receipt of your letter— no change could do me so much good as to see your cheery face again and to take part in your interest ing work. "I am not sick in body, only a little up set in mind, but to take counsel with you will cure me more speedily than anything else could do.

" Tell Mr. Neville that everything here shall be ready for his reception early next week ; and I hope he will derive as much good from his change to Llantygollen as I intend to do from seeing you again. — Ever most affectionately yours, " David Jones." And thereupon, Parson Jones set about making his preparations for departure with far more cheerfulness than he could have believed possible a few days before. He would have liked to slip out of Llantygollen without meeting Verena Shaw again, for the mere idea of seeing her, and holding her hand to say good-bye, made the hot blood course through his veins in a fashion she only, of all women, had ever had the power to arouse, and yet he shivered with apprehension at the prospect of interview ing her. He wondered, in his innocence, if any man in the world had ever been affected by any woman in like manner, or if he were specially wicked and more a prey to his sinful passions than other people.

But he was not to escape the trial, for if Lina would have let him go without saying farewell to her favourite Verena, the girl herself would not have been satisfied to see him depart without another assurance of his intention and willingness to help her to enter into communication with her recreant lover. She haunted the parsonage during the last days of his sojourn VOL. III. B there, in hopes of catching him at home, and little thought the while, how the poor parson was hiding himself behind the hedges of his own garden, until she should have turned her steps once more in the direction of Heddlewick Manor. But it was to be, and it came about on this wise. Verena had appeared at the parsonage one morning very early, whilst Parson Jones was still occupied in watching Tom's operations in the stable, and consequently did not see her come up the drive.

She found Selina in great confusion, sorting, mending and packing her husband's scanty stock of clothes, in preparation for his journey on the morrow. " Verena, my dear," she cried, " I am so busy, I have no time to attend to you. Only look at this pile of things ! They have all to be mended, and poor grandmamma is of no earthly use to me, for added to her being so blind that she spends a morning over one sock, she has worried so much over David going away that she has made herself quite ill." " Poor Mrs. Jones," replied Verena sympathetically. " I am sorry for her and all of you. And is he really going to-morrow ? How you will miss him ! and so shall I. I am glad I came this morning though, for I should have been so grieved if Mr. Jones had left Llanty gollen without saying good-bye to me, and besides I think I can help you, Lina, with some of these things."

" Oh, you dear girl ! if you only will, I shall be everlastingly grateful to you. But, of course, David would never have gone away without bidding you good-bye. Why, you are a great pet of his. I don't think he cares for anyone in Llantygollen as he does for you, Verena ! " " That is very nice to hear. Let me show my gratitude for it by darning some of his socks." " No, not the socks, they are such horrid work. He would never forgive me for letting you do them. But if you will cut off the frayed edges of these cuffs and collars, Verena, and sew the buttons which may be wanting on his shirts, you will do me an infinite service." " I shall be proud to help in so good a cause, Lina ; but oh ! I am so sorry he is going away. Won't you miss him ter ribly ? And poor Mrs. Jones, too. I think more of her almost than I do of you, because she is so old, and has never been separated from her son before."

" But it is necessary that he should go, and he won't be long absent," said Selina, philosophically. " He has really been quite out of sorts and unlike him self lately. There never was a man so fond of his children as David used to be, and he never seemed to tire of their company. But the last month he has seemed to weary at the least trouble, and once or twice he has spoken quite sharply to them, so that the poor little creatures do not know what to make of him. That shows in itself, you know, that he must be ill. And at night," continued Lina, lowering her voice, " I haven't liked to tell grandmamma for fear of frightening her, but his moans and sighs during his sleep are heart-rending, and he is so restless, it is impossible to get any sleep one self. So I am sure that if he were to remain here, he would have a fever or something.

It is much better he should S°- "Of course," acquiesced Verena, '"and Uncle Hal says no man could do the work Mr. Jones does for so many years without feeling it. Is it decided yet where he is to go?" " Oh, dear, yes ! He is going straight to London to help his old friend Mr. Bates in his parish, and Mr. Bates' curate, Mr. Neville, is coming here. He is to live at the parsonage with us, so you will see plenty of him. I hope he will not be very stiff and formal, or I shall be afraid of him. But David says he is quite young — only four-and-twenty — so perhaps he will not take too much on himself." " A sucking parson," laughed Verena, merrily ; and as she laughed, David Jones passed'the window, and involuntarily looked in. " There's David," cried Selina, quickly. " Davy, do come in. Here's Verena so good as to be helping me with your things.

Your buttons will keep on ever so much better now, won't they ? Or if they come off with the first touch, you can't say it is all the fault of poor 1) me. Both the young women laughed at this sally, and Parson Jones leant for a moment on the window sill, in acknowledgment of their addressing him. " No, don't stay there, as if you were going to run away in a minute, Mr. Jones," said Verena, in a coaxing tone ; " come in and talk a little. You are going away to-morrow, Lina says, and it may be such a long time before we meet again." " But that very circumstance," stam mered the parson, " makes my time so precious, that I have not a moment to >» spare. " What a shame ! Am I not your parishioner as well as all those old alms house women ? And want your parting advice twice as much." " Must you really go into the village, David ?

" persisted his wife. " I must indeed, my dear. This de cision has been so sudden, that I shall leave half my work undone as it is." "Oh! don't you be afraid," said Verena, " Lina and I will see that the sucking parson does his duty. I'll promise to take him round the parish myself, if you will only give us half an hour of your com pany now." M "You had better not meddle too much with Mr. Neville, Verena," interposed Selina, "or he'll be falling in love with you, and then there will be a lot of parish work done. I expect I shall have to look after you two and keep you out of mischief." "You need not trouble yourself," replied Verena, with a touch of her old hauteur, " I am not at all likely to fall in love with anyone, especially with a parson." " That's complimentary to David," said Lina, smiling.

" Ah ! then, but I can't have ' David,' " returned Verena, with an innocent, girlish familiarity that went like a knife through the parson's heart. He turned away from the window, and seemed about to start on his parish rounds. "Verena," suggested Lina, suddenly, "if you want a talk with David, why not take a walk with him now ? You could come back and help me with my work in the afternoon, if you don't mind." "But wouldn't it worry Mr. Jones?" asked the girl wistfully. " Certainly not ! " replied Lina with de cision; "he will be only too pleased to have your company, won't you, David ? " and the parson was fain to answer yes. Verena observed the hesitation in his manner, and suggested that if her walking with him were inconvenient she would wait till the evening, and have a talk with him in the study instead.

But the parson shrunk from this proposi tion more than the other. He could not stand Verena alone with him in his study, looking up into his face — putting her hand in his — bending over his chair with uncon scious cruelty. It unmanned him. In the open air — among his villagers — along the country lanes — he felt more brave. " No," he said, " I shall be still more busy this evening, Miss Shaw — my last one at home too. If you wish to speak to me, let it be now." So Verena slipped on her hat and came out into the garden to him. " Is it anything new?" he asked, in any thing but an eager manner, as they strolled on together ; but the girl was too much occupied with her own feelings to take any notice of his apparent indifference. "Oh! no, Mr. Jones," she replied, "nothing new happens to me now.

It is always the same sad old story. But first I want to thank you for consenting to my living at the parsonage whilst Uncle Hal is away. I should have enjoyed my visit fifty times more if you had been there, too, you know — indeed I am awfully disappointed that you should be leaving Llanty gollen just now, but it can't be helped, and I shall live in hopes that Uncle Hal may stay away longer than you do. But I shall be very happy with dear Lina I know, and I shall always hear the first news of you there, and how you are getting on, and I shall feel your presence about the place, and that alone will do me good. Do you think me very silly and romantic?" she added, looking up into his face. "No, for I am sure you regard me as a friend, but you will find Lina still more sympathetic and helpful than myself."

" Is that possible ? However, I thank you from my heart for leaving me with her. And then the second thing I want to speak about is what you must guess — what you have promised me — your search for Bertie. Mr. Jones, how shall I know when you are successful ? Will you write to me ? I shall be so anxious — so terribly anxious to hear if you have had any success." The parson swallowed something in his throat before he replied. " But I shall be in London, and hard at work. I am not going away to be idle, remember. And I shall not be master of my time, it is so difficult to promise any thing." " Oh ! but you will make time for me — your poor little friend — I am sure you will, dear Mr. Jones! Think how I shall be longing, expecting, thirsting for news, and that I shall have no one to tell all my anxiety to when you are gone."

"Except God," said the parson. " Oh ! Mr. Jones, don't put me off with that platitude. Haven't I told God? In the days gone by, when I believed that God heard and answered prayer, and Bertie seemed to have deserted me, didn't I weary Heaven with my sighs and tears, and promise, and swear to do anything — any thing on earth — if He would only send me back my darling ? And what good were my prayers ? Did God hear or listen to them ? Did He send anyone to my relief? Oh ! yes," exclaimed Verena, suddenly breaking off in her diatribe, "He did! He sent you to me, to give me fresh hope and happiness. Of course He did. How could I be so unbelieving ? I see it all now. Light has broken in upon my soul. God could have sent me no better aid, and you will not desert me, will you? You will not throw me back upon myself and my own rebellious thoughts ?

" She clasped her two slight hands upon his arm as she spoke, and looked into his face with the confidence of a child. David Jones tried to disengage himself from her grasp, but she only clung the closer to him, and he was fain to turn and meet the gaze of her beaming eyes, and the sight of her fair, flushed face. "No, Verena," he said impulsively, "I will not desert you, so help me God!" " I knew it, I knew it ! " cried the girl excitedly, " and I feel that with your help everything will be right for me at last. I have seen Bertie so often in my dreams of late," she went on in a low voice, "and he has looked so gay — so much as he used to do, before this mysterious cloud came be tween our joy and us. It has made me feel so happy — so light-hearted — when I woke. And the other night I fancied I said to him — I suppose it was only fancy — ' Bertie, shall we ever be as we were again ? ' and he nodded his head at me and smiled.

And then I thought I said, ' It is David who will bring us together.' — Oh ! I beg your pardon, Mr. Jones, I hope you don't think me disrespectful, but I always call you ' David ' in my dreams. You know David killed Goliath, and I feel as if God had sent you to kill two giants for me at one blow — the giant of unbelief, and the giant of despair. And you will, if you bring Bertie back to me." "Oh, Verena, my child," exclaimed the tortured man, " / will, God helping me, whatever the cost may be to myself. I will pray night and day that your belief, which is struggling to the light, may culminate in the perfect day, and that your earthly happiness may he crowned by a joy that no man can take away from you." " Dear, dear friend, how can I thank you? And will you write to me?" " When I have any news to give you, I will.

And till that comes, you will be good — you will be patient — will you not, and try to trust ? " "Oh, yes, whilst you are praying for me, that will be easy, for I am sure God will hear your prayers." "Good-bye then, and God bless you," said David Jones, stopping and holding out his hand to her. " May I not walk a little further with you, Mr. Jones?" " No, child, better not. I have a great deal to do and think of, and I want all my courage to take leave of home. Wish me God speed, and let me go. It is no light thing for me to quit Llantygollen, Verena." " No, of course not, and dear Lina and all your little children. But we will look VOL. III. c after them for you, and you must mind to come back to us quite well again, and cured of all your troubles." "Please Heaven, I will," replied Parson Jones, and Verena was not surprised to see the tears standing in the sad eyes he turned upon her.