Cathedral Bells

Front matter

VOL. I, a BY THE SAME AUTHOR. MISS LAVINIA'S TRUST. Crown 8vo, Cloth. Price Half-a-Crown. ' Is a beautiful story, in which very considerable power of real pathos is dis played.' — Sheffield Daily Telegraph. WRONG ON BOTH SIDES. One volume, crown 8vo, Cloth, bevelled boards. Price Six Shillings. ■ An exquisitely told tale, which is quite on a par with some of the best stories.' — Morning Post. ' Is written with care and great spirit.' — Academy. GRIFFITH FARRAN OKEDEN & WELSH London and Sydney, N.S.W. BY VIN VINCENT^ AUTHOR OF WRONG ON BOTH SIDES,' 'MISS I.AVINIA's TRUST,' ETC, ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I. LONDON GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN & WELSH SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERV AND HARRIS AND SYDNEY [The Rights of Translation ana of Reproduction are reserved.} TO A. L. D. I DEDICATE MY STORY. b VOL. I. NOTE, I have known cases of persons recog nising a place in a book at once fancying that they recognise also a like ness to their friends among the characters of the story.

As there are possibly some among my Readers who will penetrate the disguise under which I have placed Carswell, I take this opportunity of at once assuring them that not one single individual connected with the dear old city in question has been depicted in these volumes. VIN VINCENT, February iSSg.

Chapter I

' She was good as she was fair — None — none on earth above her ! As pure in thought as Angels are, To know her was to love her.' Samuel Rogers. ' WHAT a glorious day ! I do hope it will keep like this ! ' Ina Strong spoke these words out loud, standing by the open window in the dining-room of her father's house in Dean's Walk, Carswell, one summer morning in the month of June 1 38— . Ina was a very pretty girl indeed, with a VOL. I. A mass of curly brown hair crowning her forehead, blue grey eyes, delicately pencilled eyebrows, a remarkably clear complexion, and a slim, elegant figure. She was the only child of the Rev. Philip Strong, Rector of St Mary's, Jessop Street, and Honorary Canon of the Cathedral, and was a person of no small importance in the quaint house in Dean's Walk. Not that Ina interfered in any way with the domestic arrangements of the establishment.

She left all that to her mother, and very well Mrs Strong did it, too ; but she was the latter's pet and companion, while the servants made much of her. ' Miss Ina's wish ' was law to everyone. Her dresses, when it suited her, were ' built ' by a tailor. If she had a fancy to have her room fresh papered or painted, it was done almost before she had time to express the wish. Ina Strong appreciated the pretty dresses, and the neat little pink and white bedroom upstairs, looking out into the quiet old fashioned garden, across the smooth lawn of which fell, of a summer's evening, the shadow of the great Cathedral spire. She appreciated these little luxuries all the more, too, because it had been her lot to know very different times to those she now enjoyed. For the first fourteen years of her life, Ina had lived in Staffordshire, in the heart of the Black Country, in the great ugly town of Walsall, where her father held a curacy.

The Rev. Philip Strong was the scion of an impoverished Yorkshire family, and from the outset of his career had been hampered by a want of means. When but four-and-twenty, and possessing, as assistant-master in a school, the large salary of £100 a year, he had married the lady of his choice — the penniless daughter of an old Peninsular officer. Twelve months after wards, he had been appointed to the curacy of St M— 's, Walsall, and there for fifteen weary years he had struggled along on an income of £120 a year. The warfare, however, had been a bitter one, and it had left its mark upon him. And yet the Rev. Philip Strong was a clever man, and one who should have risen in his profession, had it not been for a fatal draw back, namely, that he possessed none of those arts whereby other men rise.

If he dined out, he never spoke more than a dozen words to the people sitting near him. After dinner he would shake his head, when pressed to fill his glass, and then would sit silent, as one who heard not, while the men round him talked and laughed. Even in his own home he rarely spoke. Now and then he would give utterance to some humorous thought, but such transient gleams of sunshine were rare indeed. And yet he was a man who in his own house played a large part. His wife was devoted to him, and he to her in his odd, silent way. It had been a love match, and, like so many love matches, an imprudent one. Then, too, they had gone through much together. At Walsall, there had been times when things were grave with them indeed. And in those days, she had been good to him — good as only a woman can be.

In her heart there had been a great terror at their position, but she had kept the terror out of sight, and when with him had been brave, and smiling, and confident. They had come through those troubled waters at last, and though, as I have said, they had left their mark upon him, still, in the knowledge he had thereby gained of his wife's affection for him, he considered it cheaply purchased. It was just when Ina was about fourteen that things had changed for the better. Mrs Strong had been very ill, and her husband, getting alarmed, did what hitherto in all their anxious hours he had obstinately refused to do — wrote and asked help of his distant cousin, the Rev. William Maycott, Archdeacon of Carswell. What Mr Strong suffered during those forty-eight hours, whilst he waited for a reply to his application, few can tell.

He was a proud man, and the action had been painful beyond measure. Almost as soon as the letter had been posted, he repented of the deed. He had gone to the post-office, and tried to get it back, but the bag had been made up and the letter was already on its way to town. The clergyman had turned away from the gossiping old clerk's explanation, and had gone out once more into the grimy, ugly street with a sick heart. He had done wrong-, he told himself; and in his wounded pride he had paced the streets of Walsall till long after the church steeples had proclaimed the hour of midnight. Mr Strong was alone in his study when the Archdeacon's answer came. He seized the envelope, and tore it roughly open, telling himself as he did so that it was a refusal. A slip of paper fell to the ground, and he picked it up — a cheque for £50 !

Then he turned to the letter and read it. After that he went to the door and tried to call his wife, but failed. He was a big, strong man, nevertheless he was completely over come. He struck his great hand upon the study table as though angry at his own weakness, and then called ' Ellen ! ' And she had come quickly, fearing all manner of things, and had been startled to find her husband's arms about her. He was a man not much given to open demonstrations of affection ; but then he held her close, and kissed her again and again. ' You were right,' he said, ' as you always are. I did well to go to such a man in mine hour of need. Ellen, our troubles are at end. My letter went at just the right moment. I am offered the living of St Mary's, Carswell. It is worth .£600 a year, and is in the gift of the Chapter.

The Archdeacon has used his influence in my behalf. Read what he says.' Mrs Strong took the letter. It was as follows : — ' The Close, Carswell, 1 April iS— . 'My Dear Cousin, — I quarrel with you for writing so long a string of apologies. Know you not that our great - grandmothers were sisters, and to whom should a man turn in distress but to those of his own blood ? The living of St Mary's, in this town — worth £600 per annum — is vacant. Will you accept it ? Write by return. Never allude to the enclosed, or we shall be enemies. The old Rectory, be ing far too large, was sold in the timeof the late incumbent, and the present residence is in the Close — a pretty house. — Yours in haste, ' William Maycott. 'P.S. — My wife desires me to say that she looks forward to seeing Mrs Strong here.' The Archdeacon's letter had been the turning point.

Since then things had gone well with Philip Strong. He had come to Cars well, and was now able to sleep in peace when he lay down at night, since he had insured his life, and thus made provision for his wife and child. At the time, also, at which my story opens, he held, in addition to the living of St Mary's, Jessop Street, the post of History Lecturer at King Edward's College, and was also an Honorary Canon of the Cathedral. ' What a glorious day ! I do hope it will keep like this ! ' Again Ina said the words aloud, looking up, as she did so, at the cloudless blue sky overhead. The Dean had a garden-party that afternoon, and Ina was going to wear a new dress if it would only keep fine. Each day of the past week had dawned fair and beauti ful, and each afternoon it had changed and become cloudy and disagreeable.

Who knew whether the clerk of the weather was not going to play just such another trick again ? ' It was much too fine to stay indoors,' the girl thought, as she pushed the soft curly hair from off her forehead, and gazed up at a workman engaged at some dizzy height in repairing the masonry of one of the buttresses of the Cathedral. Bah ! it made one giddy to look at him. If she went on staring, she felt he would fall. Ina turned, and leaving the room, crossed the hall and passed out into the quaint, old-fashioned garden. How still and peaceful it was that June morning, scarcely a sound to be heard save the cawing of the rooks far overhead as they circled round the pinnacles of God's great house. The air was heavy with the perfume of flowers, and the girl moved slowly along, noting lazily where she intended to come by-and-by with her scissors and basket.

There would be enough to fill all the vases in the drawing-room, over and above those required for the dinner-table. It would be time enough to cut them after luncheon. There was nothing to prevent her doing it once, only she was rather tired just then, for Ina was not very robust. By-and-by the inspection was finished, and the girl, having reached the end of the garden, where a long, low basket chair was placed ready for her, seated herself therein, and listened to the chimes of the old Cathedral clock. After a bit the silvery tones ceased, and the great bell boomed forth its solemn tones — twelve. The mason at the giddy height stopped work, and disappeared. ' Dinner and a pipe,' Ina said to herself. The echo of the clock had died away, and there was nothing to be heard save the hum of the bees, the cawing of the rooks, and the sweet song of the birds.

Ina felt that if she closed her eyes she would be asleep directly. She resisted the temptation, however, and contented herself with lying quietly back, enjoying the soft air. Half-an-hour went slowly by, and she was just going to rise when she beheld Martha, the parlour maid, at the drawing-room window, and directly afterwards a gentleman in deep mourn ing appeared behind her. The girl recognised the new-comer quickly enough. It was the Rev. James Romer, her father's curate, whose mother had only been buried the previous day. What was she to do ? The visitor came rather slowly across the lawn. He was a plain, insignificant - looking little man, with nothing very striking about him, except a pair of enormous feet, which Ina de clared he would one day fall over. The Curate was always a comic figure to look at, and that day he was even more so than usual.

He was dressed, as I have said, in the deepest mourn ing, but the effect was marred by the fact that, as the roads were dusty, he had turned his trousers up, and consequently his low shoes and white cotton socks were, to say the least of it, conspicuous. Everything about him was new, Ina noted, with one exception — he still carried his large dark green alpaca umbrella, and as the fastening had come off, its elegance was not enhanced by the fact that he had slipped an elastic band over it as a temporary substitute till he could get his landlady to rectify it. She who had hitherto done these things for him, had gone away on a great journey. She would never sew the fastening on his umbrella again, or the buttons on his shirt. He had not seen Ina since she left him — had, indeed, seen no one till yesterday, when he had shaken hands with the Rector, who had read the funeral service.

Ina rose slowly to meet the new-comer. She did not know in the least what to say to him. For a whole week, as I have said, no one had set eyes on him. When her father had called at the rooms in Jessop Street, the answer had always been the same, — ' If there was any question relating to the parish, would the Rector be so kind as to put it into writing ? ' Now the little man had probably come to see him, and yet why, oh ! why had Martha shown him out on to the lawn instead of into the study ? Mr Romer took the girl's outstretched hand rather eagerly, but he did not speak. Some how, the sight of Ina seemed to bring all his loss back to him, though why it should it is difficult to say. Once in about a month the girl had been wont to call on the poor old lady who had gone away — away for evermore.

Many times since Ina had heard of her death, she had felt sorry she had not been in the habit of going oftener. It had always been rather a bore. The little old lady — with her funny row of grey curls, her horn spectacles, and her plain black dress — had always been so very pleased to see her ; so eager, too, for her to remain ' because " James " was sure to be back for tea. He'll be disappointed to miss you, my dear. He thinks a deal of you, honey.' Now, as Ina thought of all this, and her glance fell on the black figure before her, some thing rose in her throat, and the tears came into her eyes, though she was not one who usually showed her feelings. In spite of his turned up trousers, white socks all in wrinkles, and the gamp-like umbrella, she recognised that she was in the presence of a great sorrow.

She gave his hand a little extra pressure and looked away. 'I — I came to thank you,' he said. His voice was quite steady, but there was a tremulous motion about his lower lip which told of a struggle within. ' You are the first person I have seen, except — except those yesterday. It was very good of your mother to come. I came to thank her. I could not then, you know.' ' Of course not,' Ina answered. ' Besides, why should you ? Mother liked to go. We were all very sorry when we heard of it,' lifting the blue-grey eyes for a moment as she spoke. She was very sorry for him — truly sorry. If there was anything in the world she could do for him, she would do it gladly ; but oh ! if he would only go ! The girl did not comprehend that by letting him stand there talking to her she was doing more than all the rest of the world could do for him.

Ina knew, had known for ages, that, in the words of her girl friends in Carswell, the Rev. James Romer was smitten with her, but she hardly comprehended how completely smitten he really was. As a rule VOL. I. B she was bored with him, and seized every opportunity of getting out of his way ; but every now and then his devotion touched her, and she could not help being kind and gentle to him. And on these occasions the little man would go home happy and contented. And James Romer ? He had come to the Rectory that bright June morning because he could not stand the quiet sitting-room in Jessop Street any longer ; above all, could not stand the sight of the empty arm-chair. She for whom his heart was desolate had not been a clever woman, — had, indeed, been quite the reverse, — but she had been his mother, and he had loved her.

People in Carswell — the ill-natured ones, that is — had called her vulgar, but in this I think they were wrong. She had been the daughter of a small farmer, and it is true that now and then in conversation she had been wont to let slip an ' H ' ; but that was the extent of her vulgarity. She had been a good woman, had borne nobly the ills of poverty, and had kept the sacrifices she was com pelled to make out of sight. He for whom she had made such sacrifices knew full well her worth, and the love he had given her had been very great. And so, that morning of which I am writing, James Romer had come up to see the one being who could distract his thoughts from the little old woman who had left him only eight days before — only eight days ! Standing there in the quaint garden, with the rooks cawing loudly up among the grey pinnacles of the Cathedral, and the scent of summer roses filling the air, the curate was able to forget for a few minutes something of his great sorrow — something of those terrible things which accompany death, and which leave such a strong impression on one's upset nerves.

Looking at the slim figure, every outline of which he knew so well, standing there before him in God's sunlight, he was able to put from him for the first time the recollection of the tramp, tramp of the bearers, and the muttered words of one of the men — just at the end — when she was really going, and when life seemed over — 'to twist that 'ere rope straight.' ' Do you want to see papa ? ' Ina asked at length, finding the poor Curate's gaze get ting a little embarrassing. ' I'm afraid he is out, but I can tell him anything — any message, you know.' ' Thank you — oh ! thank you very much,' he answered eagerly. He was always so over-polite, as Ina often complained. ' No, I haven't anything to say. I — I am a good boy and have a holiday to-day,' smiling a little at his feeble joke — it was the first he had made since it happened. ' Your father thought it would be better for me not to go back to parish work till to-morrow.

It is very kind and considerate, I am sure, but then he has been so all through, he and your mother and you. She liked the flowers you sent so very much. It was only the — only the last day she was too weak to notice them. I — I put those on her breast after it was all over,' working his square ugly fingers nervously together, and trying to steady his voice as he lifted his eyes to the girl's face for a moment. ' I am glad she liked them,' Ina answered. It was all she could think of to say. Oh ! if he would but go ! If the interview lasted much longer, she would end by having a bad headache, and be totally unfit for the Dean's garden-party. ' Oh ! yes — oh ! thank you — they were the greatest comfort to her. I can never forget it — your kindness, I mean. I ought not to come and weary you with my trouble, Miss Strong, but I hope you will forgive me.

Yes, I am sure you will — it is just like you to be always kind,' trying to squeeze the large alpaca folds of the ' gamp ' tighter as he spoke. Ina was silent. She could think of absolutely nothing to say. Not a sound broke the summer stillness. Surely her father or mother must re turn soon. She had not the slightest notion where either of them were. Mr Romer stood quietly in front of her, his brown eyes wander ing over her pretty dress, — now and then only did he venture to raise them to her face. By and-by the Curate thought of something to say. 'It is a difficult place, Carswell, to spend a whole holiday in. What, now what should you advise my doing, Miss Strong?' Ina had some difficulty in finding a reply. Through her mind flitted the idea of proposing that he should go over the Cathedral, but it was rejected instantly as absurd.

The Cathedral was the one thing to see in Carswell ; when that was over there was nothing left to do. ' I shall — I shall be guided wholly by your advice,' he said eagerly. ' Whatever you propose, I am sure will be charming.' The girl's face flushed a little. It was just the sort of speech she disliked. She was about to punish him by declaring that she had no suggestion to make, when the expression of the man's face altered to one of sharp agony as through the sultry summer silence came the deep tone of the Cathedral clock telling the hour — one ! For at that sound swiftly to the man's mind returned the scene of yesterday. When he had come forth from his house in Jessop Street, when ' all was ready,' it was the first sound which smote upon his ear — the Cathedral bell tolling — tolling for her!

All along Jessop Street, and as they proceeded down 'the High,' he had heard the solemn note. Yes, even when at length they had reached the cemetery gate, far away in the distance he had caught it mingling with the shrill tinkle of the chapel bell close at hand. He had forgotten his question — forgotten even the girl he loved — in his sudden agony. 'It — it was like — like yesterday,' he ex plained. The flush died away from the girl's face. She pardoned him. ' Could you — could you not go away for a little ? ' she asked gently. ' I don't mean from this garden,' rather quickly, as the idea struck her that her words were open to misconstruc tion, and came dangerously near to the class of ' things one would rather not have said ' — ' but quite away from Carswell, for a complete change.' The Curate's face fell.

He forgot his great sorrow again. He had certainly no wish to leave Carswell, and even if he had, had certainly not the means of doing so. ' I — I could not manage that,' he answered quickly. Ina remembered the clergyman's slender salary, and the fact that he had nothing be yond it. ' No, I suppose not,' she answered. ' But it is a pity ; it would have done you good. There is nothing like change. I am very sorry.' Her manner was so very gentle to him that the little man quite brightened up. ' But you haven't told me yet how I am to spend my holiday of one day, or rather half a day, to be exact,' looking, as he spoke, at his large silver watch, more like a warming-pan than a nineteenth - century timepiece. ' As I told you, I shall be guided wholly by your advice.' Ina looked vaguely round, as though seeking inspiration from some of the objects close at hand.

She must settle the question ; till she did, he would never go. Then a happy thought struck her. ' Why not walk over to Stackfield ? ' she said. Stackfield was the great show place of the Marquis of Stackallan, distant some two miles from Carswell, and the park was always open to the public. James Romer very rarely allowed himself a holiday from his labours down among the canal population, who formed so large a part of the parishioners of St Mary's. ' It is just the very thing,' he answered eagerly. ' Fancy, I have only been there twice since I came to Carswell, and each time it has been in charge of the school children. By-the bye, though, the family are there for the Par liamentary recess. Perhaps that will make a difference ; perhaps they will not let me in.' ' Oh, no ! it's all right. The state rooms are shut ; of course you cannot see them, or the picture gallery, or the gardens, but the park is always open.' She was going to add 'do go,' but luckily stopped herself.

Conscience makes cowards of us all. She felt her voice would have too eager a ring about it. ' And it is quite customary ? ' the Curate asked. ' Are you sure of that ? I mean, you do not think that if any of the family see me they will think me intrusive ? ' Ina almost laughed ' No, no ! everyone goes. It is open to the public' Poor little nervous shy man ! She did not like to tell him that if the noble owner should by chance see him, in all probability he would not even take the trouble to wonder who he was. ' In that case, then, I think I may venture. It is so kind of you, Miss Strong. I shall feel all the afternoon that I am indebted for my enjoyment to your thoughtfulness. And you will thank your mother for her kindness yester day ? I shall — I shall not forget it,' the look of weary pain coming back for a moment to his face. ' Good-bye.

I shall see you on Sunday at the school ? Oh, thank you — thank you ! It is so good of you to come — the children like it so much. Yes, indeed. Good-bye — good-bye.' So he went, and Ina, left alone, sank back into her garden chair, and closed her eyes with a sigh of relief. Perhaps, if she sat quite quiet, the headache which the interview had eiven o her might go off, and she might be able to en joy her garden-party at the Deanery. Long before James Romer had reached the end of ' the High,' which leads to the road to Stackfield, Ina had given up the struggle to keep awake, and was fast asleep under the shade of the garden trees.

Chapter II

' Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might, Whoever loved that loved not at first sight.' ' As You Like It. It was half-past four o'clock, and the promise of the morning had been more than fulfilled. In the blue sky not the shadow of a cloud was visible. The June sun was blazing hotly down, and on the Deanery lawn people were clustering together wherever there was a little shade. The windows of the old red - brick house were wide open, the muslin curtains in the drawing-room were moving gently to and fro in the soft summer breeze, while the flower-beds were bright with flowers. It was just the day for a garden-party. 'Very glad indeed to see you, Mrs Strong,' the Dean said, as that lady, followed by her daughter, stepped out through the open window to where Dr and Mrs Skelton were receiving their guests.

The former was a broad, well-proportioned man, with grey hair worn somewhat long, and a pair of penetrating blue eyes. He possessed an extremely fascinating manner ; but his for mer pupils — the Doctor had been head-master of one of our great public schools, and had only held the Deanery of Carswell for about a year — said that when he chose, the honied words were changed to winged ones, and that no man could be sterner than Dr Skelton when -he elected to be so. ' Mr Strong not able to come ? ' asked Mrs Skelton, a fair, clever, kind-hearted little woman, as she shook hands with the new - comers. Oh ! of course ; I forgot how much he must have to do in the parish, with poor Mr Romer unable to attend to work. A great loss for him, poor man ! I fear she suffered at the last. My dear Ina, I hope you wont tire yourself.