A Clerical Courtship

Chapter I

Be strong to bear, Oh heart, Nothing is vain ; Strive not, for life is earo, And God sends pain ; Heaven is above, and there, Rest will remain. Adelaide Proctor. hTT?/-- T is a quiet evening in the month of July. * \ Through the open window, comes the <0iaot sound of the soft monotonous cooing- *-$£ °f pigeons ; the faint scent of syringa, '■ mingled with the perfume of roses and musk. Outside all is fair and tranquil ; inside the house, the very atmosphere is heavy with grief — Margaret's lover lies dying ! She kneels at his bedside, and holds his hand in her own ! That strong, useful hand which will soon be cold and stiff in death ! Another is in the room, the dying man's brother, HIS LEGACY. 4 Dick Burns ; but he, struggling to conceal his bitter grief, has screened himself behind the bed-curtains. ' Margaret,' says the sick man. ' Yes, dearest — ' ' Tell Dick I want him.

I want to speak — only a few words.' The younger man comes forward into the light, and stands by the bedside. By a mighty effort he controls his agitation, and when he speaks, his voice is steady. ' I am here, Ray,' he says with infinite tenderness. His eyes, haggard with grief and watching, rest on his brother's face. A smile illumines the dying face. The great brown eyes shine with a wondrous love and satisfaction. For so many years, they have been all in all to one another; brothers, and orphans. 'Dick, I leave Margaret behind, be good to her!' 'Ray, I will!' He speaks solemnly, emphatically, it is a sacred promise. ' Yes, I know — but I wanted to hear you say the words. You will do your best, old man ! ' Then he turns to Margaret. 'Listen, dear. It is only this I want to say. The four thousand pounds I had left me — half is yours, Meg, the other is Dick's. He does not want any of it he says ; he tells me it should be yours.

But you GOOD-BYE ! 5 understand dear, you know we always, I mean, he and I, always went shares in everything. A young doctor needs a little capital.' His voice grows weaker with every laboured word ; a sudden faintness — a death-like pallor, rends Margaret's heart. She gently holds a restorative to the white lips. Little by little he revives. ' Let him finish what he has to say, dear,' says the brother, pitifully. It is not much he can tell her now. He would fain pour out his love ; he would once mope kiss her sweet face. Ikit the time is short. He speaks, but she is stunned. He tells her of money — money, when she can only realize that he whom she loves so faithfully is dying ! ' Margaret, I should like you to wear my ring. It is not the one I planned to place on your hand in the Autumn. My seal ring — you will wear it in memory of me ?

It is a heavy ring for so slight a hand, but you will not mind that. There, see, it fits your second finger nicely, you need not fear to lose it, dear. Dick will have my watch, it is under my pillow, Margaret ; take it and wear it in memory of a brother who loved you always, although he was sometimes rather sharp and stern.' ' Will you turn me on my side, Dick ? Ah ! thanks, that is nice ; I think I shall sleep now. Margaret will stay with me..' Yes, she stays, and Dick does A2 HOMEWARDS. not leave the room, for both know that the sleep he speaks of so calmly, will be the sleep of death ! The)* sit silently in the growing dusk, listening to the laboured breathing — the fitful tapping of a rose tree bough against the open casement ; the mournful, unbroken cooing of the pigeons. He lies with his hand under his face — there is a smile on his lips, and so he falls asleep !

The stars come out in the heavens, and gaze pityingly down on the white peaceful face — on the desolate figure of a woman by its side. In the star-light she goes home — alone, but con scious in a dim way of a protecting power — unseen, unheard.

Chapter II. Margaret's Sisters

ARGARET REID lifts the latch of the green-painted gate, and enters the garden of her home, an old-fashioned little place, smothered in ivy and clematis, and beautiful in its picturesque untidiness. A late owner named the house ' The Nook,' and it is a well-chosen name, being both private and cosy. The garden itself is large, and if it be rather overcrowded with flowers of all degrees, old-fashioned and new-fashioned, with arbours and rustic seats, placed where the sweet pink roses blow, I think few, except trained gardeners, would care to have it otherwise. Margaret goes past the tall white lilies, without a thought of their serene beauty, to-night. A CLOUDS. By-and-by Margaret goes away to her own room. She holds out her hand to Dorothy, as she lingers on the threshold. 'All is not lost — I have still something to live for,' she says ; then she goes inside and shuts her door.

It seems hard to leave her alone in her terrible grief and loneliness, but it is her wish. Sorrowfully the sisters go away. Their hearts are full. They too have lost a staunch friend — an almost brother; life has grown dark for them.

Chapter III

' I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air, Thine eye's beseeching earnestness, May be to thee a snare. The silver stars may purely shine The waters taintless flow, But they who kneel at women's shrine, Breathe on it as they bow — Ye may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain.' N. P. Willis t MONTH has come and gone. The newlyplanted sod is growing fresh and green, T^f.4~ over Ray's grave ; the marble cross is v^5falready placed, and gleams with a dreary rl i-vin" -l T-i -f- 1-* i~\ Wni^f Am V1A1- c- 1 -1 t-i c T-i -i -n r\ splendour in the September sunshine, — and in the quiet moonlight nights. Margaret Reid, nerving herself to look the future in the face, takes up her dailv tasks once more, — tasks she had contemplated so soon relinquishing. Well — she SILVER THREADS! 10 does not murmur, even though the sunlight has vanished, and grey stillness, and shadows in place of reality, are meted out to her.

Under the weight of the burden she bends, dazed and full of wondering sorrow ; still she is not wholly crushed, broken, so cast down, that she is unable to look upwards, for she knows that some day — it may be near or far off — she will meet him again, fair and radiant, and clothed in the beauty of holiness. She grows a little paler, a little more abstracted • a few faint lines begin to mar the beauty of her face ; a few silvery threads show here and there in her wavy hair. But as Margaret herself observes, when one is close upon thirty, such things must be expected — only, a month ago they were not there. But it does not matter how quickly the wrinkles and grey hairs appear noztt, she thinks ; Ray is not here to see, and so she does not trouble about it. For three short, sweet years, she dressed and studied her appearance to please him, but vanity pure and simple, was never one of Margaret's failings.

Torday, this fair September morning, she is sitting busy with some needlework, in the tiny dining-room — 'livin'-room,' their one domestic persists in styling it. It is such a bright little place, and perhaps Sarah is partly justified in her independent choice of language, for the sisters SARAH, 11 certainly do live there a good deal. Still as they boast a good-sized sitting-room, a room which has a subtle charm, an indescribable, quaint beauty, more artistic than costly, yet too humble a spot to be dignified by the grand name of ' drawing-room,' I think they may be allowed to term the other room by any name they please. Sarah however thinks otherwise. In her heart she thinks the Misses Reid rather pretentious for people working for their daily bread. Had they been ' gentle-folks ' (magic word to the country-bred) !

Sarah would never have dreamed of discussing the point ; but for those receiving money in return for services rendered, and yet with the outward and visible signs of superiority, she has a supreme and lofty contempt, born probably of a certain amount of jealousy. Her creed seems to consist of one great article of faith, and is the key-note to her character — ' if people want you to go one way, go t'other.' ' Kitchin ' and ' livin-room ' is what she was used to in all her other places (they were many), and in each situation would the family sit down 'free and easy ' in the ' kitchin ' or livin' room' in the evening, and she would be one of them. But for some reason or other Sarah never stayed very long in these ideal situations, and in due course of time found herself an inmate of ' The Nook,' 'where,' to quote her words to a friend, ' things is different, and my word, don't I have to DOROTHY. 12 mind my p's and q's, or that there May-pole of a Miss Dorothy is down on me in a minute with her 'igh and mighty 'that will do Sarah's,' a-speaking like a Duchess at the very least, and lookin' all the time a reg'lar laughin' stock with her hair all bobbed up anyhow, and wearin' an old rag of a gown, clingin' round her heels, which believe me I wouldn't be seen out in for somethin', no, not if you paid me for it ! ' How Dorothy would have laughed, could she have heard some of their hand-maiden's speeches!

But as she never by any chance did hear a word of Sarah's tittle-tattle, she pursued the even tenor of her way, in blissful unconsciousness that she was being held up in the village of Bovey as a most repulsive specimen of ' stuck-upedness ' (to quote Sarah) combined with disorderly personal habits. Poor maligned Dorothy ! So sweetly lovable, so true-hearted, but — yes, in one unfortunate particular Sarah is correct, Dorothy is negligent in matters of dress, but her friends look upon this minor fault with indulgent eyes, and consider it a trait of character peculiar to genius — for ■ Dorothy is an authoress. At present it is true she is only an underpaid, struggling one ; but with all the super abundant elasticity of youth, she lives in hopes of better days, and works with unflagging industry at her calling, accepting bravely disappointments in A LOVELY FACE ! 13 the shape of MSS. 'declined with thanks,' thankful for kindly criticism and encouragement ; over-joyed when she has a modest success ; bright and earnest always, under all circumstances.

Margaret inwardly regrets that Dorothy's life is so secluded ; for besides her undoubted talent she is very beautiful, and only comparative poverty keeps her from being admired and appreciated by the great ones of the world. At least this is what the elder sister thinks, but she wisely keeps this sentiment to herself. An artist would revel in Dorothy's appearance, for the hair which is so carelessly gathered back from her face and twisted into a knot at the back, breaks away into fascinating little love-locks about the blue-veined temples, and gives the pale high-bred face, a soft, almost childish look. The small, curved mouth, is proud and firm, not a sneering supercilious mouth ; rather it wears an expression as though the owner would scorn to do a mean action — utter a false word. I am tempted to dwell over much on Dorothy's face ; afraid too, that you may think that I am over-colouring a fair picture.

I can but quote some words of the great poet, Tennyson, which flash into my mind, when depicting or trying to depict Dorothy as she is now, in all the glory of her fair young womanhood of twenty-four summers — ' In truth she hath a lovely face, God in his mercy give her grace — A RESTFUL MORN. 14 Her eyes are grey and very expressive, as grey eyes usually are — the shape of her face a pure oval ; her figure supple and willowy : her every action fraught with a peculiar grace. This is Dorothy. Margaret busily plies her needle in silence, for Dorothy is seated before her writing table, her expression that of rapt thought ; she is evidently lost to her immediate surroundings, and is revelling in the ideal creations of her busy brain. Ruth lies on the couch by the window, where the sunbeams steal in, and light up her fair hair with a golden tinge.

She has in her hand a small blue-covered book, Keble's ' Christian Year,' a birthday gift, and one of her greatest treasures. Dorothy's pen alone disturbs the silence of the room, but Ruth listens, with a feeling of dreamy contentment to the outside music, which her quick ear detects from time to time ; the far-away song of a thrush in the plantation ; the lulling murmur of the bustling golden-brown bees ; the twitter of the swallows overhead. Then her eyes wander to Margaret's corner, and rest on the thin white hand, wearing the diamond engaged ring, that Ray had brought to her with such proud affection, just three years ago — full of energetic, hopeful life ! Next to the flashing diamonds is the heavy signet ring — his ring, and placed there by his hand, as he lay with all his strong manhood ebbing away.

A month ACCEPTED. 15 has come and gone : four sorrowful silent weeks ; and in that time it seemed that one at least emptied the cup of bitterness, even to the very dregs. But the bitterness of death is past : peace and resigna tion have come at last, after all the weary days — the sleepless nights ! And so things go on now in the house just the same as they did before the Angel of Death passed by, and beckoned away one dear to them. Margaret welcomes her pupils with the same friendly smile ; guides them over the stumbling-blocks which lie in the path of learning, with her wonted patience; touches up the clumsy drawings with the same skilful hand, and is as ready with encouraging words now as she was before the great sorrow of her life came to her. Ruth ponders curiously over it all. To her sensi tive mind it seems strange that so overwhelming a grief should be so soon — -not forgotten, oh no ! not that; but so quietly accepted — so well hidden from sight.

Yes; it may seem strange, not only to her, but to others, Margaret's trustful bowing to the Divine decree which went forth that July evening ; but Margaret could tell you that the anguish lies in her heart as fresh now as when she bent over Ray and kissed his lips — his brow, for the last time! Something seemed to snap in her heart when the brother laid in her hand a piece of her lover's DR. DICK. brown hair. She had looked up and thanked Dick calmly and gently; but it was not till then that she quite realised all that had happened. Alone, she had looked her last upon the peaceful face of the dead — alone, she knew, would her days be passed, until life for her too, was ended. After awhile Dorothy puts down her pen and indulges in a prolonged yawn — -her face is paler than usual, and her eyes have a tired look.

Margaret, glancing up from her stocking-mending, takes note of this. ' Used up, dear ? ' she asks, pleasantly. ' Why don't you leave your work and go out with Ruth into the garden?' Dorothy rises from her chair and goes across the room to the window and stands looking out. She feels she ought to be working, but the garden in all its autumn-glory of changing tints, of glowing crimson, and palest yellow, tempts her to enjoy its varied sweetness : bids her snatch an hour from monotonous toil. Wholly longing, yet still irresolute, she looks down the garden path ; then her face brightens and she turns round to her sisters. ' Here comes Dick,' she announces in an interested voice. Ruth gets off her couch and arranges her tumbled dress ; she is a particular little lady, and is nothing if not neat.

Then she goes to the door to meet the visitor, and is only just in time, for he enters as she is about to turn the handle. MADAM IDEALITY. 17 ' Well, Ruthie, how are you, dear ? ' says Dick, putting his big, brown hand caressingly on her head. He does not wait for her answer, but turns with characteristic impetuosity to Alargaret, and grasps her hand, holding it in a firm, lingering clasp, and looking at her with keen eyes. Margaret flushes faintly under his earnest, halfwistful scrutiny, but looks the pleasure she feels at seeing him. Then, when he releases her hand, she asks him why poor Dorothy is ignored. ' Is Madam Ideality here ? ' asks Dick, briskly. ' Dorothy, I ask your pardon twice over.' Madam Ideality smiles. ' Not twice, that is quite an unnecessary exertion,' she says sweetly, ' once asking is sufficient.' ' Scribbling as usual ? ' enquires Dick, glancing at the writing table littered over with carefully-prepared ' copy,' and odd bits of paper pencilled with hasty notes — ' What's on the boards now ?

Quarrel, murder, disinherited heir, or what ? ' What,' replies the authoress, serenely. Dick shows his white teeth in an amused, yet half-provoked, smile. He and Dorothy are never long together, before a sparring match is begun in which he is generally beaten. As he cannot think of anything very crushing in the way of retort, he turns his attention again to Margaret, and hands her a small basket that he has been cherishing with pious care, B A CHAT and whose contents are covered up with green leaves. Dorothy assumes a look of rapture, and clasps her hands in delighted expectation. ' Oh you nice man, what have you brought us ? Eggs, butter, or strawberries ? ' ' Neither,' answers Dick in a severe and dignified manner. Then he addresses Margaret. ' I have brought you and Ruth a few of my MagnumBonum plums,'he says, pointedly,'of course such an intellectual lady as Madam Ideality won't care for such trifles ! ' The intellectual lady walks leisurely across the room to where Margaret is seated, and peers down into the basket. ' What jolly plums ! ' she remarks with mild enthusiasm, then she picks out an especially fine one, and begins to eat it. ' Come, that's not fair,' protests Dick with an injured air, 'I brought those plums for your betters, young woman.' ' Then my betters had better help themselves before they are all gone — ' then, starting away from Dick, who has given her a sly pinch, ' I declare truly that was not meant for a pun.' ' I hope not,' says Dick in a disgusted tone ; then he proceeds to tell them that he has come straight from the Vicarage. ' I hope nobody is ill there,' says Margaret, with a look of concern.

THE VICAR. 19 ' Oh no ! The Vicar has one of his periodical head-aches,' says the doctor in his easy, hope-for the-best style. Margaret looks sympathetic. ' I am afraid Mr. Kingsley must worry over parish matters,' she says ; 'he so often has these severe head-aches. Clergymen have so much responsibility.' The young man smiles. He understands human nature ; he knows many clergymen ; lastly, he is less charitable than Margaret and Dorothy, who are in the way of idealising everybody with whom they come in contact. The Vicar of Bovey is a good man ; that is to say he is a genial kindly individual. He is also stout, and perhaps a trifle overfond of the good things of this world. His stoutness makes him indolent ; his liver is apt to get quickly upset, and Dick, knowing this, merely breathes, the word ' biliousness .' It is enough.

The young women look disappointed. ' Oh the Vicar's all right. You don't want me to make him out to be an overworked ascetic, do you?' he asks with a twinkle in his eyes. ' Live and let live,' that's his motto, and a very good one too ! ' ' Did you see Joyce ? ' breaks in Ruth's quiet voice. Joyce, I must tell you, is governess to the Vicar's little daughters, Ivy and Nora. ' I saw her only in the distance, Ruthie,' answers the young man ; ' she was playing tennis in the meadow, and Nora shouted out that they had ' a holiday.' The V.2 A WATER CURE. 20 Vicar was looking very woe-begone, stretched at full length on the dining-room couch, with vinegar cloths on his forehead. Mrs. Kingsley was there fussing about him, and pitying him to his heart's content. ' Now don't you think Fred might try an old-fashioned remedy I read in nurse's medicine book?' she asked me. 'Let's hear it!' said I, prepared to take a wrinkle.

Mrs. Kingsley went for the book, and then came and read it for my especial benefit. ' To cure head-ache: an unfailing remedy.' ' Sit in a bath filled with water up to the chin, as hot as you can bear it, and have a constant supply of cold water, poured from on high, over the head. The effect is instantaneous.' ' There now,' said Mrs. Kingsley, ' isn't that simple enough, and yet, even to oblige me, he won't try it.' The poor Vicar only roared with laughter. ' No, Rose, not even to please you, will I allow myself to be watered like some shrub ! ' he said. Then Mrs. Kingsley asked me if I had no faith in old-fashioned remedies. I answered, ' Yes, decidedly in some,' but added, ' that the water cure seemed rather an uncomfortable one.' I believe she thought me jealous because I did not back up the famous receipt.

I promised to send him up a draught, which would soon put him on his legs. And I must be off to make it up,' finishes the doctor, struggling to his legs, and looking rather disinclined to go. GUESSING. 21 ' You've kept the poor man waiting for his physic,' says Dorothy in a tragic voice, glad of the opportunity of administering reproof; 'how unkind ! ' ' Bless me ! A little stomach derangement is not a matter of life and death,' replies Dick, bluntly. ' Oh, by-the-way, I've some news for you ; guess what it is.' ' Your cat has kittens ! ' says Dorothy, impressively. ' Rubbish. Think again.' ' Come into a fortune.' ' Your new assistant is coming,' Margaret and Ruth say in a breath. ' No, but you burn,' replies Dick, delightedly, with a vivid recollection of the game of hot beans and bacon. ' I know, I really am right this time,' exclaims Dorothy with an air of conviction — ' You have married a wife ! ' ' Poor, poor young woman ! ' says Dick, pityingly. ' Who would have thought a short time ago, that she would be afflicted with softening of the brain ?

Better keep a strait waistcoat handy,' he says in a loud aside to Margaret. ' Well, what on earth can it be then ? ' asks she, impatiently. ' A great mercy is about to be vouchsafed to all the single girls of Bovey' — answers Dick, solemnly 'don't faint with joy, Dorothy — he won't look at ADONIS ! 22 you, you are too untidy — Mr. Kingsley has engaged a Curate.' 'Is that all ? What a fuss about nothing ! ' retorts Dorothy. 'Just you wait till you see him, young woman — this is a very superior article in the Curate line — -tall, good-looking, and with, as he put in his letter to the Vicar, ' Most comfortable private means ! ' Think of that, Madam Ideality! You should have heard Mrs. Kingsley crack him up, and the way she went on about his violet eyes, and lovely teeth, made me feel quite jealous of the fellow.

You mark my words, he will come and carry all before him.' ' I have a dark presentiment that such will be the case, and I know I shall hate him ! ' ' Such a nice friend for you, Dr. Burns,' said Mrs. K., gushingly. I said nothing, but I thought to myself, ' Not if I know it — catch me playing second fiddle to any Adonis of a parson ! ' Dick spoke so seriously that even Margaret could not refrain from a smile ; Dick was nothing if not honest, and was in the habit of blurting out everything to them; he had had the run of ' The Nook ' for so many years, that he was quite at home there, and was always sure of a welcome. ' No, no, he sha'n't have his little nose putout of joint ! ' says the family tease, soothingly — 'No naughty, blue-eyed Adonis shall supplant UNINVITED. 23 Dr. Dicky at ' The Nook.' ' ' No, I'll be hanged if he shall ! ' supplements Dick with more vigour than elegance.

I will take you for a drive this afternoon if you care to go Ruth, I have to go over to Charlton Towers, and you will be all the better for a blow. No use asking you, Margaret, I know,' he finishes, rather wistfully. Margaret smiles and shakes her head. ' You don't offer to take me,' remarks the authoress with a pretended pout. Dick looks at her, with twinkling eyes, dwelling on her rumpled collar, and inky fingers. ' No ; how can you expect me to ? ' he returns, a medical man has to study appearances a little — and, my dear girl — 'speaking, with apparent reluctance — ' really I don't want to hurt your filings — but that rough head — that general air of slovenliness — I put it to you as a consistent woman : would your general get-up reflect credit on me, a smart rising young physician ? ' ' No, no, I am sorry, very sorry, I can't take you with me, but you must cultivate the habit of tidiness before I can allow you to air yourself in public by my side ! ' ' Oh the conceit — the vanity of him ! ' laughs Dorothy — ' When he knows all the while Mr. Kingham would take me anywhere dressed in UP IN THE CLOUDS. anything, a cotton sunbonnet and mackintosh if I liked.' 'You wait, young man, pride goes before a fall — and remember that ' most comfortable Adonis,' will be here soon.' 'What is the new curate's name?' asks Ruth, who has a great respect for the clergy in general, and is somewhat scandalized at the airy style of conversation in which Dr. Dick and Dorothy have been indulging. ' Oh his name is as interesting as himself — Claude Kinnard' replies Dick, sarcastically. ' Claude — I rather like his first name, ' comments Dorothy, ' it has something fine, and yet soft, about it.

A man with such a name ought to be pre-eminently gentle and merciful.' ' Oh, I see, you are up in the clouds again, Madam ; I advise you to set to work and invest the new parson with all manner of glowing attributes, after your usual style. Only I hope when you have succeeded in making an idol of him, you won't cast him from his pedestal, as soon as you discover the least flaw in him.' Dorothy blushes and looks conscience-striken. It is her chief failing, the impulsive idealization of nearly all her fresh acquaintances — endowing them with moral qualities which they do not possess — then follows the rapid disillusionment — the disappointed, impatient IN THE SURGERY. 25 shrinking away from the imperfect nature. Fasti dious to a degree is Madam Ideality in her choice of friends ; less just and merciful than her sister Margaret, in her estimate of another's character ; loyal to those she loves, but apt to expect too much from faulty human nature.

Margaret, on the contrary, is inclined to err on the side of excessive mercy ; almost too patiently forbearing, too calmly acquiescent in taking people as they generally are, — selfish, and ungrateful ! Joyce laughs sometimes, and tells Dorothy it is no use shutting one's eyes, and fancying a cart-horse is a thorough-bred, because his coat feels much the same. She advises her to look upon mankind more philosophically, to take the bad and good together. But this, dreamy, imaginative Dorothy cannot do. Dick, by this time has drawn on his gloves, and with a parting request to Ruth that she will be ready by two o'clock, hastens away, his long legs making short work of the distance between the house and the garden gate. Arrived there, he turns and gaily waves his hand to the watchers by the window, and then goes off at a tremendous pace through the village, on his way to the surgery, where he presently busies himself making up pills and potions, and an especially nasty dark-coloured mixture for his spiritual pastor, alternately whistling and singing snatches of songs — music-hall melodies, AN AFTERNOON DRIVE.