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diff --git a/old/42045-8.txt b/old/42045-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9d271ac..0000000 --- a/old/42045-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8259 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Curate in Charge, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Curate in Charge - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 7, 2013 [EBook #42045] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CURATE IN CHARGE *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - THE - CURATE IN CHARGE. - - BY - MRS. OLIPHANT. - - London: - MACMILLAN AND CO. - 1883. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -CHAPTER PAGE - - I. THE PARISH 1 - - II. THE PREVIOUS HISTORY OF MR. ST. JOHN 12 - - III. AUNT JANE 30 - - IV. MISS BROWN 51 - - V. THE GIRLS AT SCHOOL 68 - - VI. THE GIRLS AT HOME 89 - - VII. NEWS 109 - - VIII. THE NEW RECTOR 134 - - IX. THE ENEMY 154 - - X. IN THE PARISH 178 - - XI. CICELY'S APPEAL 202 - - XII. THE PARSON'S ROUND 224 - - XIII. WHAT THE GIRLS COULD DO 247 - - XIV. HOW TO EXERCISE CHURCH PATRONAGE 272 - - XV. THE ARTIST AND THE HOUSEKEEPER 290 - - XVI. REALITY 313 - - XVII. THE BREAKING UP 330 - -XVIII. THE CURATE LEAVES BRENTBURN 344 - - XIX. THE RECTOR'S BEGINNING 364 - - XX. THE PARISH SCHOOLMISTRESS 387 - - - - -THE CURATE IN CHARGE - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE PARISH. - - -The parish of Brentburn lies in the very heart of the leafy county of -Berks. It is curiously situated on the borders of the forest, which is -rich as Arden on one side, and on the edge of a moorland country -abounding in pines and heather on the other; so that in the course of a -moderate walk the wayfarer can pass from leafy glades and luxuriant -breadth of shadow, great wealthy oaks and beeches, and stately chestnuts -such as clothe Italian hill-sides, to the columned fir-trees of a Scotch -wood, all aromatic with wild fragrant odours of the moor and peat-moss. -On one hand, the eye and the imagination lose themselves in soft woods -where Orlando might hang his verses, and heavenly Rosalind flout her -lover. On the other, knee-deep in rustling heather and prickly billows -of the gorse, the spectator looks over dark undulations of pines, -standing up in countless regiments, each line and rank marked against -the sky, and an Ossianic breeze making wild music through them. At the -corner, where these two landscapes, so strangely different, approach -each other most closely, stand the church and rectory of Brentburn. The -church, I am sorry to say, is new spick-and-span nineteenth century -Gothic, much more painfully correct than if it had been built in the -fourteenth century, as it would fain, but for its newness, make believe -to be. The rectory is still less engaging than the church. It is of red -brick, and the last rector, so long as he lived in it, tried hard to -make his friends believe that it was of Queen Anne's time--that last -distinctive age of domestic architecture; but he knew very well all the -while that it was only an ugly Georgian house, built at the end of the -last century. It had a carriage entrance with the ordinary round "sweep" -and clump of laurels, and it was a good-sized house, and comfortable -enough in a steady, ugly, respectable way. The other side, however, -which looked upon a large garden older far than itself, where mossed -apple-trees stood among the vegetable beds in the distant corners, and a -delicious green velvet lawn, soft with immemorial turf, spread before -the windows, was pleasanter than the front view. There was a large -mulberry-tree in the middle of the grass, which is as a patent of -nobility to any lawn; and a few other trees were scattered about--a -gnarled old thorn for one, which made the whole world sweet in its -season, and an apple-tree and a cherry at the further corners, which -had, of course, no business to be there. The high walls were clothed -with fruit trees, a green wavy lining, to their very top--or in spring -rather a mystic, wonderful drapery of white and pink which dazzled all -beholders. This, I am sorry to say, at the time my story begins, was -more lovely than profitable; for, indeed, so large a garden would have -required two gardeners to keep it in perfect order, while all it had was -the chance attentions of a boy of all work. A door cut in this living -wall of blossoms led straight out to the common, which was scarcely -less sweet in spring; and a little way above, on a higher elevation, -was the church surrounded by its graves. Beyond this, towards the south, -towards the forest, the wealthy, warm English side, there were perhaps a -dozen houses, an untidy shop, and the post-office called Little -Brentburn, to distinguish it from the larger village, which was at some -distance. The cottages were almost all old, but this hamlet was not -pretty. Its central feature was a duck-pond, its ways were muddy, its -appearance squalid. There was no squire in the parish to keep it in -order, no benevolent rich proprietor, no wealthy clergyman; and this -brings us at once to the inhabitants of the rectory, with whom we have -most concern. - -The rector had not resided in the parish for a long time--between -fifteen and twenty years. It was a college living, of the value of four -hundred and fifty pounds a year, and it had been conferred upon the Rev. -Reginald Chester, who was a fellow of the college, as long ago as the -time I mention. Mr. Chester was a very good scholar, and a man of very -refined tastes. He had lived in his rooms at Oxford, and in various -choice regions of the world, specially in France and Italy, up to the -age of forty, indulging all his favourite (and quite virtuous) tastes, -and living a very pleasant if not a very useful life. He had a little -fortune of his own, and he had his fellowship, and was able to keep up -congenial society, and to indulge himself in almost all the indulgences -he liked. Why he should have accepted the living of Brentburn it would -be hard to say; I suppose there is always an attraction, even to the -most philosophical, in a few additional hundreds a year. He took it, -keeping out poor Arlington, who had the next claim, and who wanted to -marry, and longed for a country parish. Mr. Chester did not want to -marry, and hated everything parochial; but he took the living all the -same. He came to live at Brentburn in the beginning of summer, -furnishing the house substantially, with Turkey carpets, and huge -mountains of mahogany--for the science of furniture had scarcely been -developed in those days; and for the first few months, having brought an -excellent cook with him, and finding his friends in town quite willing -to spend a day or two by times in the country, and being within an -hour's journey of London, he got on tolerably well. But the winter was -a very different matter. His friends no longer cared to come. There was -good hunting to be sure, but Mr. Chester's friends in general were not -hunting men, and the country was damp and rheumatic, and the society -more agricultural than intellectual. Then his cook, still more -important, mutinied. She had never been used to it, and her kitchen was -damp, and she had no means of improving herself "in this hole," as she -irreverently called the rectory of Brentburn. Heroically, in spite of -this, in spite of the filthy roads, the complaints of the poor, an -indifferent cook, and next to no society, Mr. Chester held out for two -long years. The damp crept on him, into his very bones. He got incipient -rheumatism, and he had a sharp attack of bronchitis. This was in spring, -the most dangerous season when your lungs are weak; and in Mr. Chester's -family there had at one time been a girl who died of consumption. He was -just at the age when men are most careful of their lives, when, awaking -out of the confidence of youth, they begin to realize that they are -mortal, and one day or other must die. He took fright; he consulted a -kind physician, who was quite ready to certify that his health required -Mentone or Spitzbergen, whichever the patient wished; and then Mr. -Chester advertised for a curate. The parish was so small that up to this -moment he had not had any occasion for such an article. He got a most -superior person, the Rev. Cecil St. John, who was very ready and happy -to undertake all the duties for less than half of the stipend. Mr. -Chester was a liberal man in his way. He let Mr. St. John have the -rectory to live in, and the use of all his furniture, except his best -Turkey carpets, which it must be allowed were too good for a curate; and -then, with heart relieved, he took his way into the south and the -sunshine. What a relief it was! He soon got better at Mentone, and went -on to more amusing and attractive places; but as it was on account of -his health that he had got rid of his parish, consistency required that -he should continue to be "delicate." Nothing is more easy than to manage -this when one has money enough and nothing to do. He bought a small -villa near Naples, with the best possible aspect, sheltered from the -east wind. He became a great authority on the antiquities of the -neighbourhood, and in this way had a constant change and variety of the -very best society. He took great care of himself; was never out at -sunset, avoided the sirocco, and took great precautions against fever. -He even began to plan a book about Pompeii. And thus the years glided by -quite peacefully in the most refined of occupations, and he had almost -forgotten that he ever was rector of Brentburn. Young fellows of his -college recollected it from time to time, and asked querulously if he -never meant to die. "You may be sure he will never die if he can help -it," the Provost of that learned community replied, chuckling, for he -knew his man. And meantime Mr. St. John, who was the curate in charge, -settled down and made himself comfortable, and forgot that he was not -there in his own right. It is natural a man should feel so who has been -priest of a parish for nearly twenty years. - -This Mr. St. John was a man of great tranquillity of mind, and with -little energy of disposition. Where he was set down there he remained, -taking all that Providence sent him very dutifully, without any effort -to change what might be objectionable or amend what was faulty; nobody -could be more accomplished than he was in the art of "putting up with" -whatsoever befell him. When once he had been established anywhere, only -something from without could move him--never any impulse from within. He -took what happened to him, as the birds took the crumbs he threw out to -them, without question or preference. The only thing in which he ever -took an initiative was in kindness. He could not bear to hurt any one's -feelings, to make any one unhappy, and by dint of his submissiveness of -mind he was scarcely ever unhappy himself. The poor people all loved -him; he never could refuse them anything, and his reproofs were balms -which broke no man's head. He was indeed, but for his sympathy, more -like an object in nature--a serene, soft hillside touched by the lights -and shadows of changeable skies, yet never really affected by them -except for the moment--than a suffering and rejoicing human creature. - - "On a fair landscape some have looked - And felt, as I have heard them say, - As if the fleeting time had been - A thing as steadfast as the scene - On which they gazed themselves away." - -This was the effect Mr. St. John produced upon his friends and the -parish; change seemed impossible to him--and that he could die, or -disappear, or be anything different from what he was, was as hard to -conceive as it was to realize that distinct geological moment when the -hills were all in fusion, and there was not a tree in the forest. That -this should be the case in respect to the curate in charge, whose -position was on sufferance, and whom any accident happening to another -old man in Italy, or any caprice of that old man's fancy, could sweep -away out of the place as if he had never been, gave additional -quaintness yet power to the universal impression. Nobody could imagine -what Brentburn would be like without Mr. St. John, and he himself was of -the same mind. - -At the period when this story commences the curate was a widower with -"two families." He had been so imprudent as to marry twice; he had two -daughters grown up, who were coming to him, but had not arrived, and he -had two little baby boys, whose mother had recently died. But how this -mother and these boys came about, to Mr. St. John's great surprise--and -who the daughters were who were coming to take charge of him--I must -tell before I go on any further. The whole episode of his second -marriage was quite accidental in the curate's life. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE PREVIOUS HISTORY OF MR. ST. JOHN. - - -The Reverend Cecil St. John started in life, not so much under a false -impression himself, as conveying one right and left wherever he moved. -With such a name it seemed certain that he must be a man of good family, -well-connected to the highest level of good connections; but he was not. -I cannot tell how this happened, or where he got his name. When he was -questioned about his family he declared himself to have no relations at -all. He was his father's only child, and his father had been some one -else's only child; and the result was that he had nobody belonging to -him. The people at Weston-on-Weir, which was his first curacy, had a -tradition that his grandfather had been disowned and disinherited by -his family on account of a romantic marriage; but this, I fear, was pure -fable invented by some parish authority with a lively imagination. All -the years he spent at Weston nobody, except an old pupil, ever asked for -him; he possessed no family possessions, not even an old seal, or bit of -china. His father had been a curate before him, and was dead and gone, -leaving no ties in the world to his only boy. This had happened so long -ago that Mr. St. John had long ceased to be sad about it before he came -to Weston, and though the ladies there were very sorry for his -loneliness, I am not sure that it occurred to himself to be sorry. He -was used to it. He had stayed in Oxford for some years after he took his -degree, working with pupils; so that he was about five and thirty when -he took his first curacy, moved, I suppose, by some sense of the -monotony of an unprogressive life. At five and thirty one has ceased to -feel certain that everything must go well with one, and probably it -occurred to him that the Church would bring repose and quiet, which he -loved, and possibly some quiet promotion. Therefore he accepted the -curacy of Weston-on-Weir, and got lodgings in Mrs. Joyce's, and settled -there. The parish was somewhat excited about his coming, and many people -at first entertained the notion that his proper title was Honourable and -Reverend. But, alas! that turned out, as I have said, a delusion. Still, -without the honourable, such a name as that of Cecil St. John was enough -to flutter a parish, and did so. Even the sight of him did not dissipate -the charm, for he was handsome, very tall, slight, serious, and -interesting. "Like a young widower," some of the ladies thought; others, -more romantic, felt that he must have a history, must have sustained a -blight; but if he had, he never said anything about it, and settled down -to his duties in a calm matter-of-fact sort of way, as if his name had -been John Smith. - -Everybody who knows Weston-on-Weir is aware that Mrs. Joyce's cottage is -very near the vicarage. The vicar, Mr. Maydew, was an old man, and all -but incapable of work, which was the reason why he kept a curate. He was -a popular vicar, but a selfish man, whose family had always been swayed -despotically by his will, though scarcely any of them were aware of it, -for his iron hand was hidden in the velvetest of gloves, and all the -Maydews were devoted to their father. He had sent one son to India, -where he died, and another to Australia, where he had been lost for -years. His eldest daughter had married a wealthy person in Manchester, -but had died too, at an early age, for none of them were strong; thus -his youngest daughter, Hester, was the only one left to him. Her he -could not spare; almost from her cradle he had seen that this was the -one to be his companion in his old age, and inexorably he had guarded -her for this fate. No man had ever been allowed to approach Hester, in -whose eyes any gleam of admiration or kindness for her had appeared. It -had been tacitly understood all along that she was never to leave her -father, and as he was very kind in manner, Hester accepted the lot with -enthusiasm, and thought it was her own choice, and that nothing could -ever tempt her to abandon him. What was to become of her when her father -had left her, Hester never asked herself, and neither did the old man, -who was less innocent in his thoughtlessness. "Something will turn up -for Hester," he said in his cheerful moods, "and the Lord will provide -for so good a daughter," he said in his solemn ones. But he acted as if -it were no concern of his, and so, firm in doing the duty that lay -nearest her hand, did she, which was less wonderful. Hester had lived to -be thirty when Mr. St. John came to Weston. She was already called an -old maid by the young and gay, and even by the elder people about. She -was almost pretty in a quiet way, though many people thought her _quite_ -plain. She had a transparent, soft complexion, not brilliant, but pure; -soft brown eyes, very kind and tender; fine silky brown hair, and a trim -figure; but no features to speak of, and no style, and lived contented -in the old rotten tumble-down vicarage, doing the same thing every day -at the same hour year after year, serving her father and the parish, -attending all the church services, visiting the schools and the sick -people. I hope good women who live in this dutiful routine get to like -it, and find a happiness in the thought of so much humble handmaiden's -work performed so steadily; but to the profane and the busy it seems -hard thus to wear away a life. - -When Mr. St. John came to the parish it was avowedly to relieve old Mr. -Maydew of the duty, not to help him in it. Now and then the old vicar -would show on a fine day, and preach one of his old sermons; but, except -for this, everything was left to Mr. St. John. He was not, however, -allowed on that account to rule the parish. He had to go and come -constantly to the vicarage to receive directions, or advice which was as -imperative; and many a day walked to church or into the village with -Miss Hester, whom nobody ever called Miss Maydew, though she had for -years had a right to the name. The result, which some people thought -very natural, and some people quite absurd, soon followed. Quietly, -gradually, the two fell in love with each other. There were people in -the parish who were quite philanthropically indignant when they heard of -it, and very anxious that Mr. St. John should be undeceived, if any idea -of Hester Maydew having money was in his thoughts. But they might have -spared themselves the trouble. Mr. St. John was not thinking of money. -He was not even thinking of marriage. It never occurred to him to make -any violent opposition, when Hester informed him, timidly, fearing I -know not what demonstration of lover-like impatience, of her promise -never to leave her father. He was willing to wait. To spend every -evening in the vicarage, so see her two or three times a day, going and -coming; to consult her on everything, and inform her of everything that -happened to him, was quite enough for the curate. He used to tell her -so; while Hester's heart, wrung with pleasure and pain together, half -stood still with wonder, not knowing how a man could bear it, yet glad -he should. How much there is in the hearts of such good women which -never can come into words! She had in her still soul a whole world of -ideal people--the ideal man as well as the ideal woman--and her ideal -man would not have been content. Yet _he_ was, and she was glad; or -rather I should say thankful, which is a different feeling. And thus -they went on for ten years. Ten years! an eternity to look forward to--a -lifetime to look back upon; yet slipping away so softly, day upon day, -that Mr. St. John at least never realized the passage of time. He was a -very good clergyman, very kind to the poor people and to the children, -very ready to be of service to any one who wanted his services, seeking -no diversion or ease except to go down to the vicarage in the evening -by that path which his patient feet had made, to play backgammon with -the vicar and talk to Hester. I cannot see, for my part, why they should -not have married, and occupied the vicarage together; but such an -arrangement would not have suited Mr. Maydew, and Hester was well aware -of the impossibility of serving two masters. So year came after year, -and hour after hour, as if there were no changes in human existence, but -everything was as steady and immovable as the surface of that tranquil -rural world. - -When Mr. Maydew died at last it was quite a shock to the curate; and -then it was evident that something must be done. They hoped for a little -while that Lord Weston might have given the living to Mr. St. John, who -was so much beloved in the parish; but it had been promised years before -to his old tutor, and there was an end of that expectation. I think -Hester had almost come to doubt whether her curate had energy to marry -her when she was thus set free; but there she did him injustice. Though -he had not a notion how they were to live, he would have married her on -the spot had decorum permitted. It was some time, however, before he -heard of anything which would justify them in marrying. He had little -interest out of the parish, and was shy of asking anything from the few -people he did know. When they were told of Brentburn, and the rector's -bad health, they both felt it a special providence that Mr. Chester's -lungs should be weak. There was the rectory to live in, and two hundred -pounds a year, which seemed a fortune to them both; and they married -upon it with as much confidence as if it had been two thousand. They -were almost old people when they set off from the little church at -Weston bride and bride-groom; yet very young in the tranquillity of -their souls. Mr. St. John was thoroughly happy--not much more happy -indeed than when he had walked down across the grass to the -vicarage--but not less so; and if Hester felt a thrill of disappointment -deep down in her heart at his calm, she loved him all the same, and knew -his goodness, and was happy too. She was a woman of genius in her -way--not poetical or literary genius--but that which is as good, perhaps -better. She managed to live upon her two hundred a year as few of us -can do upon three or four times the sum. Waste was impossible to her; -and want appeared as impossible. She guided her house as--well, as only -genius can--without any pitiful economies, without any undue sparing, -making a kind, warm, beneficent, living house of it, and yet keeping -within her income. I don't pretend to know how she did it, any more than -I can tell you how Shakespeare wrote _Hamlet_. It was quite easy to -him--and to her; but if one knew how, one would be as great a poet as he -was, as great an economist as she. Mr. St. John was perfectly happy; -perhaps even a little more happy than when he used to walk nightly to -her father's vicarage. The thought that he was only curate in charge, -and that his rector might get better and come back, or get worse and -die, never troubled his peace. Why should not life always go as it was -doing? why should anything ever happen? Now and then he would speak of -the vicissitudes of mortal existence in his placid little sermons; but -he knew nothing of them, and believed still less. It seemed to him as if -this soft tranquillity, this sober happiness was fixed like the pillars -of the earth, and would never come to an end. - -Nor is it possible to tell how it was, that to this quiet pair two such -restless atoms of humanity as the two girls whose story is to be told -here should have been born. Hester's old nurse, indeed, had often been -heard to tell fabulous stories of the energy and animation of her young -mistress in the days of her youth, but these had always been believed in -Weston to be apocryphal. The appearance of her children, however, gave -some semblance of truth to the tale. They were the most living creatures -in all the parish of Brentburn. These two children, from the time they -were born, were ready for anything--nothing daunted them or stilled -them--they did not know what fear was. Sometimes there passed through -the mind of their mother a regret that they were not boys: but then she -would think of her husband and the regret was never expressed. Their -very vitality and activity made them easy to train, and she taught them, -poor soul, and spent her strength upon them as if she knew what was -coming. She taught them her own household ways, and her economy as far -as children could learn it, and to read and write, and their notes on -the old piano. This was all she had time for. She died when Cicely was -twelve and Mab eleven. God help us! what it must be when a woman has to -consent to die and leave her little children to fight their own way -through this hard world, who can venture to tell? For my part, I cannot -so much as think of it. Something comes choking in one's throat, -climbing like Lear's _hysterica passio_. Ah, God help us indeed! to -think of it is terrible, to do it---- Poor Hester had to accept this lot -and cover her face and go away, leaving those two to make what they -could of their life. Her death stupefied Mr. St. John. He could not -believe it, could not understand it. It came upon him like a -thunderbolt, incredible, impossible; yet, to be sure, he had to put up -with it like other men. And so tranquil was his soul that by-and-by he -quite learned to put up with it, and grew calm again, and made himself a -path across the common to the churchyard gate which led to her grave, -just as he had made himself a path to her father's door. Everything -passes away except human character and individuality, which outlive all -convulsions. The parish of Brentburn, which like him was stupefied for -the moment, could not contain its admiration when it was seen how -beautifully he bore it--"Like a true Christian," the people said--like -himself I think; and he was a good Christian, besides being so placid a -man. - -The two children got over it too in the course of nature; they had -passions of childish anguish, unspeakable dumb longings which no words -could utter; and then were hushed and stilled, and after a while were -happy again; life must defend itself with this natural insensibility or -it could not be life at all. And Mr. St. John's friends and parishioners -were very kind to him, especially in the matter of advice, of which he -stood much in need. His "plans" and what he should do were debated in -every house in the parish before poor Hester was cold in her grave; and -the general conclusion which was almost unanimously arrived at was--a -governess. A governess was the right thing for him, a respectable, -middle-aged person who would have no scheme for marrying in her -head--not a person of great pretensions, but one who would take entire -charge of the girls (whom their mother, poor soul, had left too much to -themselves), and would not object to give an eye to the housekeeping--of -ladylike manners, yet perhaps not _quite_ a lady either, lest she might -object to the homelier offices cast upon her. Mrs. Ascott, of the Heath, -happened to know exactly the right person, the very thing for poor Mr. -St. John and his girls. And Mr. St. John accepted the advice of the -ladies of the parish with gratitude, confessing piteously that he did -not at all know what to do. So Miss Brown arrived six months after Mrs. -St. John's death. She was not too much of a lady. She was neither old -nor young, she was subject to neuralgia; her complexion and her eyes -were grey, like her dress, and she had no pretensions to good looks. But -with these little drawbacks, which in her position everybody argued were -no drawbacks at all, but rather advantages, she was a good woman, and -though she did not understand them, she was kind to the girls. Miss -Brown, however, was not in any respect a woman of genius, and even had -she been so her gifts would have been neutralized by the fact that she -was not the mistress of the house, but only the governess. The maid who -had worked so well under Hester set up pretensions to be housekeeper -too, and called herself the cook, and assumed airs which Miss Brown got -the better of with great difficulty; and the aspect of the house -changed. Now and then indeed a crisis arrived which troubled Mr. St. -John's peace of mind very much, when he was appealed to one side or the -other. But yet the life of the household had been so well organized that -it went on _tant bien que mal_ for several years. And the two girls grew -healthy, and handsome, and strong. Miss Brown did her very best for -them. She kept them down as much as she could, which she thought was her -duty, and as what she could do in this way was but small, the control -she attained to was an unmixed advantage to them. Poor Hester had called -her eldest child Cecil, after her father, with a touch of tender -sentiment; but use and fondness, and perhaps a sense that the more -romantic appellation sounded somewhat weak-minded, had long ago improved -it into Cicely. Mabel got her name from a similar motive, because it was -pretty. It was the period when names of this class came into fashion, -throwing the old-fashioned Janes and Elizabeths into temporary eclipse; -but as the girls grew up and it came to be impossible to connect her -with any two-syllabled or dignified word, the name lent itself to -abbreviation and she became Mab. They were both pretty girls. Cicely had -her mother's softness, Mab her father's more regular beauty. They spent -their lives in the pure air, in the woods, which were so close at hand, -in the old-fashioned garden which they partly cultivated, or, when they -could get so far, on those bleaker commons and pine forests, where the -breezes went to their young heads like wine. Miss Brown's friends in the -parish "felt for her" with two such wild creatures to manage; and she -occasionally "felt for" herself, and sighed with a gentle complacency to -think of the "good work" she was doing. But I don't think she found her -task so hard as she said. The girls did not look up to her, but they -looked very kindly down upon her, which came to much the same thing, -taking care with youthful generosity not to let her see how much insight -they had, or how they laughed between themselves at her mild little -affectations. Children are terribly sharp-sighted, and see through -these innocent pretences better than we ourselves do. They took care of -her often when she thought she was taking care of them; and yet they -learned the simple lessons she gave them with something like pleasure; -for their natures were so vigorous and wholesome that even the little -tedium was agreeable as a change. And for their father they entertained -a kind of half-contemptuous--nay, the word is too hard--a kind of -condescending worship. He was a god to them, but a god who was very -helpless, who could do little for himself, who was inferior to them in -all practical things, though more good, more kind, more handsome, more -elevated than any other mortal. This was, on the whole, rather safe -ground for two such active-minded young persons. They were prepared to -see him do foolish things now and then. It was "papa's way," which they -accepted without criticism, smiling to one another, but in their minds -he was enveloped in a sort of feeble divinity, a being in whom certain -weaknesses were understood, but whose pedestal of superiority no other -human creature could approach. Thus things went on till Cicely was -fifteen, when important changes took place in their lives, and still -more especially in their father's life. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -AUNT JANE. - - -THE St. Johns had one relative, and only one, so far as they knew. This -was Miss Jane Maydew, who lived in London, the aunt of their mother, a -lady who possessed in her own right--but, alas, only in the form of an -annuity--the magnificent income of two hundred and fifty pounds a year. -To think that this old lady, with only herself to think of, should have -fifty pounds more yearly than a clergyman with a family, and all the -parish looking to him! More than once this idea had crossed even -Hester's mind, though she was very reasonable and could make her pounds -go further than most people. Miss Maydew was not very much older than -her niece, but yet she was an old lady, sixty-five, or thereabouts. She -liked her little comforts as well as most people, yet she had laid by -fifty pounds of her income for the last twenty years, with the utmost -regularity. A thousand pounds is a pretty little sum of money, but it -does not seem much to account for twenty years of savings. A stockbroker -might make it easily in a morning by a mere transfer from one hand to -another; and to think how much wear and tear of humanity can be in it on -the other hand! It is discouraging to poor economists to feel how little -they can do, labour as they may; but I don't think Miss Maydew had -anything of this feeling. She was on the contrary very proud of her -thousand pounds. It was her own creation, she had made it out of -nothing; and the name of it, a thousand pounds! was as a strain of music -in her ears, like the name of a favourite child. Perhaps it was the -completion of this beautiful sum, rounded and finished like a poem, -which gave her something of that satisfaction and wish for repose which -follows the completion of every great work; and this brought about her -visit to Brentburn, and all that directly and indirectly followed it. -She had not seen the St. Johns since Hester's death, though they were -her nearest relatives, the natural heirs of the fortune she had -accumulated. And the summer was warming into June, and everything spoke -of the country. Miss Maydew lived in Great Coram Street, Russell Square. -She had two charming large rooms, her bedroom at the back, her -sitting-room at the front, the two drawing-rooms in better days of the -comfortable Bloomsbury mansion. But even when your rooms are airy and -cool, it is hard to fight against that sense of summer which drops into -a London street in the warm long days, waking recollections of all -kinds, making eyelids drowsy, and the imagination work. Even the cries -in the street, the "flowers a blowing and a growing" of the -costermongers, the first vegetables, the "groundsel for your birds," and -the very sight of the greengrocer opposite with his groves of young -cabbages and baskets of young potatoes awoke this sensation of summer in -the heart of the solitary woman at her window. Her youth, which was so -full of summer, stirred in her once more, and old scenes all framed in -waving foliage of trees and soft enclosures of greensward, came before -her closed eyes as she dozed through the long long sunny afternoon. A -frugal old maiden, lodging in two rooms in a noisy Bloomsbury street, -and saving fifty pounds a year, is as little safe as any poet from such -visitations. As she sat there musing in that strange confusion of mind -which makes one wonder sometimes whether the things one recollects ever -were, or were merely a dream, Hester and Hester's children came into -Miss Maydew's mind. She had not seen them since her niece's death, and -what might have become of the poor children left with that incapable -father? This thought simmered in her fancy for a whole week, then -suddenly one morning when it was finer than ever, and the very canaries -sang wildly in their cages, and the costermongers' cries lost all their -hoarseness in the golden air, she took the decided step of going off to -the railway and taking a ticket for Brentburn. It was not very far, an -hour's journey only, and there was no need to take any luggage with her, -as she could return the same night; so the excursion was both cheap and -easy, as mild an extravagance as heart could desire. - -The air was full of the wild sweet freshness of the pines as she landed -on the edge of the common; the seed pods on the gorse bushes were -crackling in the heat, the ragged hedges on the roadside hung out long -pennons of straggling branches, blossomed to the very tips with wild -roses delicately sweet. Miss Maydew was not long in encountering the -objects of her interest. As she went along to the rectory, carrying her -large brown sunshade open in one hand, and her large white -pocket-handkerchief to fan herself in the other, her ears and her eyes -were alike attracted by a little group, under the shadow of a great tree -just where the gorse and the pines ended. There were two tall girls in -print frocks of the simplest character, and large hats of coarse straw; -and seated on the root of the tree slightly raised above them, a plain -little woman in a brown gown. Some well worn volumes were lying on the -grass, but the book which one of the girls held in her hand, standing up -in an attitude of indignant remonstrance, was a square slim book of a -different aspect. The other held a huge pencil, one of those weapons red -at one end and blue at the other which schoolboys love, which she -twirled in her fingers with some excitement. Miss Maydew divined at -once who they were, and walking slowly, listened. Their voices were by -no means low, and they were quite unconscious of auditors and -indifferent who might hear. - -"What does 'nice' mean?" cried the elder, flourishing the book. "Why, is -it not ladylike? If one is clever, and has a gift, is one not to use it? -Not _nice?_ I want to know what _nice_ means?" - -"My dear," said the governess, "I wish you would not always be asking -what everything means. A great many things are understood without -explanation in good society----" - -"But we don't know anything about good society, nor society at all. Why -is it not nice for Mab to draw? Why is it unladylike?" cried the girl, -her eyes sparkling. As for the other one, she shrugged her shoulders, -and twirled her pencil, while Miss Brown looked at them with a feeble -protestation, clasping her hands in despair. - -"Oh, Cicely! never anything but why?--why?" she said, with lofty, yet -pitying disapproval, "You may be sure it is so when I say it." Then, -leaving this high position for the more dangerous exercise of reason. -"Besides, the more one thinks of it, the more improper it seems. There -are drawings of _gentlemen_ in that book. Is that nice, do you suppose? -Gentlemen! Put it away; and, Mabel, I desire you never to do anything so -very unladylike again." - -"But, Miss Brown!" said the younger; "there are a great many gentlemen -in the world. I can't help seeing them, can I?" - -"A young lady who respects herself, and who has been brought up as she -ought, never looks at gentlemen. No, you can't help seeing them; but to -draw them you must _look_ at them; you must study them. Oh!" said Miss -Brown with horror, putting up her hands before her eyes, "never let me -hear of such a thing again. Give me the book, Cicely. It is too -dreadful. I ought to burn it; but at least I must lock it away." - -"Don't be afraid, Mab; she shan't have the book," said Cicely, with -flashing eyes, stepping back, and holding the volume behind her in her -clasped hands. - -Just then Miss Maydew touched her on the sleeve. "I can't be mistaken," -said the old lady; "you are so like your poor mother. Are you not Mr. -St. John's daughter? I suppose you don't remember me?" - -"It is Aunt Jane," whispered Mab in Cicely's ear, getting up with a -blush, more conscious of the interruption than her sister was. The -artist had the quickest eye. - -"Yes, it is Aunt Jane; I am glad you recollect," said Miss Maydew. "I -have come all the way from town to pay you a visit, and that is not a -small matter on such a hot day." - -"Papa will be very glad to see you," said Cicely, looking up shy but -pleased, with a flood of colour rushing over her face under the shade of -her big hat. She was doubtful whether she should put up her pretty cheek -to kiss the stranger, or wait for that salutation. She put out her hand, -which seemed an intermediate measure. "I am Cicely," she said, "and this -is Mab; we are very glad to see you, Aunt Jane." - -Miss Brown got up hastily from under the tree, and made the stranger a -curtsy. She gave a troubled glance at the girls' frocks, which were not -so fresh as they might have been. "You will excuse their schoolroom -dresses," she said, "we were not expecting any one; and it was so fine -this morning that I indulged the young ladies, and let them do their -work here. Ask your aunt, my dears, to come in." - -"Work!" said Miss Maydew, somewhat crossly, "I heard nothing but talk. -Yes, I should like to go in, if you please. It is a long walk from the -station--and so hot. Why, it is hotter here than in London, for all you -talk about the country. There you can always get shade on one side of -the street. This is like a furnace. I don't know how you can live in -such a blazing place;" and the old lady fanned herself with her large -white handkerchief, a sight which brought gleams of mischief into Mab's -brown eyes. The red and blue pencil twirled more rapidly round than ever -in her fingers, and she cast a longing glance at the sketch-book in -Cicely's hand. The girls were quite cool, and at their ease under the -great beech-tree, which threw broken shadows far over the -grass,--shadows which waved about as the big boughs did, and refreshed -the mind with soft visionary fanning. Their big hats shadowed two faces, -fresh and cool like flowers, with that downy bloom upon them which is -the privilege of extreme youth. Miss Brown, who was concerned about -their frocks, saw nothing but the creases in their pink and white -garments; but what Miss Maydew saw was (she herself said) "a picture;" -two fair slim things in white, with touches of pink, in soft shade, -with bright patches of sunshine flitting about them, and the green -background of the common rolled back in soft undulations behind. Poor -lady! she was a great contrast to this picture; her cheeks flushed with -the heat, her bonnet-strings loosed, fanning herself with her -handkerchief. And this was what woke up those gleams of fun in Mab's -saucy eyes. - -"But it is not hot," said Mab. "How can you speak of a street when you -are on the common? Don't you smell the pines, Aunt Jane, and the honey -in the gorse? Come under the tree near to us; it is not the least hot -here." - -"You are a conceited little person," said Aunt Jane. - -"Oh no! she is not conceited--she is only decided in her opinions," said -Cicely. "You see we are not hot in the shade. But come in this way, the -back way, through the garden, which is always cool. Sit down here in the -summer-house, Aunt Jane, and rest. I'll run and get you some -strawberries. They are just beginning to get ripe." - -"You are a nice little person," said Miss Maydew, sitting down with a -sigh of relief. "I don't want any strawberries, but you can come and -kiss me. You are very like your poor mother. As for that thing, I don't -know who she is like--not our family, I am sure." - -"She is like the St. John's," said Cicely solemnly; "she is like papa." - -Mab only laughed. She did not mind what people said. "I'll kiss you, -too," she said, "Aunt Jane, if you like; though you don't like me." - -"I never said I didn't like you. I am not so very fond of my family as -that. One can see you are a pickle, though I don't so much mind that -either; but I like to look at this one, because she is like your poor -mother. Dear, dear! Hester's very eyes, and her cheeks like two roses, -and her nice brown wavy hair!" - -The girls drew near with eager interest, and Mab took up in her artist's -fingers a great handful of the hair which lay upon her sister's -shoulders. "Was mamma's like that?" she said in awe and wonder; and -Cicely, too, fixed her eyes upon her own bright locks reverentially. It -gave them a new strange feeling for their mother to think that she had -once been a girl like themselves. Strangest thought for a child's mind -to grasp; stranger even than the kindred thought, that one day those -crisp half-curling locks, fall of threads of gold, would be blanched -like the soft braids under Mrs. St. John's cap. "Poor mamma!" they said -simultaneously under their breath. - -"Brighter than that!" said Miss Maydew, seeing across the mists of years -a glorified vision of youth, more lovely than Hester had ever been. "Ah, -well!" she added with a sigh, "time goes very quickly, girls. Before you -know, you will be old, too, and tell the young ones how pretty you were -long ago. Yes, Miss Audacity! you mayn't believe it, but I was pretty, -too." - -"Oh yes, I believe it!" cried Mab, relieved from the momentary gravity -which had subdued her. "You have a handsome nose still, and not nearly -so bad a mouth as most people. I should like to draw you, just as you -stood under the beech-tree; that was beautiful!" she cried, clapping her -hands. Miss Maydew was pleased. She recollected how she had admired the -two young creatures under that far-spreading shade; and it did not seem -at all unnatural that they should in their turn have admired her. - -"Mabel! Mabel!" said Miss Brown, who knew better, lifting a warning -finger. Miss Maydew took up the sketch-book which Cicely had laid on the -rough table in the summer-house. "Is this what you were all talking -about?" she said. But at this moment the governess withdrew and followed -Cicely into the house. She walked through the garden towards the rectory -in a very dignified way. She could not stand by and laugh faintly at -caricatures of herself as some high-minded people are capable of doing. -"I hope Miss Maydew will say what she thinks very plainly," she said to -Cicely, who flew past her in a great hurry with a fresh clean white -napkin out of the linen-press. But Cicely was much too busy to reply. As -for Mab, I think she would have escaped too, had she been able; but as -that was impossible, she stood up very demurely while her old aunt -turned over the book, which was a note-book ruled with blue lines, and -intended for a more virtuous purpose than that to which it had been -appropriated; and it was not until Miss Maydew burst into a short but -hearty laugh over a caricature of Miss Brown that Mab ventured to -breathe. - -"You wicked little thing! Are these yours?" said Miss Maydew; "and how -dared you let that poor woman see them? Why, she is there to the life!" - -"Oh! Aunt Jane, give me the book! She has never seen them: only a few -innocent ones at the beginning. Oh! _please_ give me the book! I don't -want her to see them!" cried Mab. - -"You hate her, I suppose?" - -"Oh! no, no! give me the book, Aunt Jane! We don't hate her at all; we -like her rather. Oh! please give it me before she comes back!" - -"Why do you make caricatures of her, then?" said Miss Maydew, fixing her -eyes severely on the girl's face. - -"Because she is such fun!" cried Mab; "because it is such fun. I don't -mean any harm, but if people will look funny, how can I help it? Give me -the book, Aunt Jane!" - -"I suppose I looked funny too," said Miss Maydew, "under the beech-tree, -fanning myself with my pockethandkerchief. I thought I heard you giggle. -Go away, you wicked little thing! Here is your sister coming. I like her -a great deal better than you!" - -"So she is, a great deal better than me," said Mab, picking up her -book. She stole away, giving herself a serious lecture, as Cicely -tripped into the summer-house carrying a tray. "I must not do it again," -she said to herself. "It is silly of me. It is always getting me into -scrapes; even papa, when I showed him that one of himself!" Here Mab -paused to laugh, for it had been very funny--and then blushed violently; -for certainly it was wrong, very wrong to caricature one's papa. "At all -events," she said under her breath, "I'll get a book with a lock and key -as soon as ever I have any money, and show them only to Cicely; but oh! -I must, I must just this once, do Aunt Jane!" - -Cicely meanwhile came into the summer-house carrying the tray. "It is -not the right time for it, I know," she said, "but I felt sure you would -like a cup of tea. Doesn't it smell nice--like the hay-fields? Tea is -always nice, is it not, Aunt Jane?" - -"My darling, you are the very image of your poor mother!" said Miss -Maydew with tears in her eyes. "She was always one who took the trouble -to think what her friends would like best. And what good tea it is, and -how nicely served! Was the kettle boiling? Ah! I recognise your dear -mother in that. It used always to be a saying with us at home that the -kettle should always be boiling in a well-regulated house." - -Then the old lady began to ask cunning questions about the household: -whether Cicely was in the habit of making tea and carrying trays about, -as she did this so nicely; and other close and delicate -cross-examinations, by which she found out a great deal about the -qualities of the servant and the governess. Miss Maydew was too clever -to tell Cicely what she thought at the conclusion of her inquiry, but -she went in thoughtfully to the house, and was somewhat silent as the -girls took her all over it--to the best room to take off her bonnet, to -their room to see what a pretty view they had, and into all the empty -chambers. The comments she made as she followed them were few but -significant. "It was rather extravagant of your papa to furnish it all; -he never could have wanted so large a house," she said. - -"Oh! but the furniture is the Rector's, it is not papa's," cried her -conductors, both in a breath. - -"I shouldn't like, if I were him, to have the charge of other people's -furniture," Miss Maydew replied; and it seemed to the girls that she -was rather disposed to find fault with all poor papa's arrangements, -though she was so kind to them. Mr. St. John was "in the parish," and -did not come back till it was time for the early dinner; and it was late -in the afternoon when Miss Maydew, knocking at his study door, went in -alone to "have a talk" with him, with the intention of "giving him her -mind" on several subjects, written fully in her face. The study was a -well-sized room looking out upon the garden, and furnished with heavy -book-shelves and bureaux in old dark coloured mahogany. The carpet was -worn, but those mournful pieces of furniture defied the action of time. -She looked round upon them with a slightly supercilious critical glance. - -"The room is very well furnished," she said, "Mr. St. John; exceedingly -well furnished; to rub it up and keep it in order must give your servant -a great deal of work." - -"It is not my furniture, but Mr. Chester's, my rector," said the curate; -"we never had very much of our own." - -"It must give the maid a deal of work all the same, and that's why the -girls have so much housemaiding to do, I suppose," said Miss Maydew -sharply. "To tell the truth, that was what I came to speak of. I am not -at all satisfied, Mr. St. John, about the girls." - -"The girls? They are quite well, I think, quite well," said Mr. St. John -meekly. He was not accustomed to be spoken to in this abrupt tone. - -"I was not thinking of their health; of course they are well; how could -they help being well with so much fresh air, and a cow, I suppose, and -all that? I don't like the way they are managed. They are nice girls, -but that Miss Brown knows just about as much how to manage them as -you--as that table does, Mr. St. John. It is ridiculous. She has no -control over them. Now, I'll tell you what is my opinion. They ought to -be sent to school." - -"To school!" he said, startled. "I thought girls were not sent to -school." - -"Ah, that is when they have a nice mother to look after them--a woman -like poor Hester; but what are those two doing? You don't look after -them yourself, Mr. St. John?" - -"I suppose it can't be said that I do," he said, with hesitation: -"perhaps it is wrong, but what do I know of girls' education? and then -they all said I should have Miss Brown." - -"Who are 'they all?' You should have asked me. I should never have said -Miss Brown. Not that I've anything against her. She is a good, silly -creature enough--but pay attention to me, please, Mr. St. John. I say -the girls should go to school." - -"It is very likely you may be right," said Mr. St. John, who always -yielded to impetuosity, "but what should I do with Miss Brown?" - -"Send her away--nothing could be more easy--tell her that you shall not -want her services any longer. You must give her a month's notice, unless -she was engaged in some particular way." - -"I don't know," said the curate in trepidation. "Bless me, it will be -very unpleasant. What will she do? What do you think she would say? -Don't you think, on the whole, we get on very well as we are? I have -always been told that it was bad to send girls to school; and besides it -costs a great deal of money," he added after a pause. "I don't know if I -could afford it; that is a thing which must be thought of," he said, -with a sense of relief. - -"I have thought of that," said Miss Maydew triumphantly: "the girls -interest me, and I will send them to school. Oh, don't say anything. I -don't do it for thanks. To me their improving will be my recompense. Put -all anxiety out of your mind; I will undertake the whole----" - -"But, Miss Maydew!" - -"There are no buts in the matter," said Aunt Jane, rising; "I have quite -settled it. I have saved a nice little sum, which will go to them -eventually, and I should like to see them in a position to do me credit. -Don't say anything, Mr. St. John. Hester's girls!--poor Hester!--no one -in the world can have so great a claim upon me; and no one can tell so -well as I what they lost in poor Hester, Mr. St. John--and what you lost -as well." - -The curate bowed his head. Though he was so tranquil and resigned, the -name of his Hester went to his heart, with a dull pang, perhaps--for he -was growing old, and had a calm unimpassioned spirit--but still with a -pang, and no easy words of mourning would come to his lip. - -"Yes, indeed," said Aunt Jane, "I don't know that I ever knew any one -like her; and her girls shall have justice, they shall have justice, Mr. -St. John. I mean to make it my business to find them a school--but till -you have heard from me finally," she added, turning back after she had -reached the door, "it will be as well not to say anything to Miss -Brown." - -"Oh no," said the curate eagerly, "it will be much best to say nothing -to Miss Brown." - -Miss Maydew nodded at him confidentially as she went away, and left him -in all the despair of an unexpected crisis. _He_ say anything to Miss -Brown! What should he say? That he had no further occasion for her -services? But how could he say so to a lady? Had he not always gone upon -the amiable ground that she had done him the greatest favour in coming -there to teach his daughters, and now to dismiss her--to _dismiss_ her! -Mr. St. John's heart sunk down, down to the very heels of his boots. It -was all very easy for Aunt Jane, who had not got it to do; but he, _he!_ -how was he ever to summon his courage and say anything like this to Miss -Brown? - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -MISS BROWN. - - -Mr. St. John's mind was very much moved by this conversation. It threw a -shadow over his harmless life. He could not say good night or good -morning to Miss Brown without feeling in his very soul the horror of the -moment when he should have to say to her that he had no further need for -her services. To say it to Hannah in the kitchen would have been -dreadful enough, but in that case he could at least have employed Miss -Brown, or even Cicely, to do it for him, whereas now he could employ no -one. Sometimes, from the mere attraction of horror, he would rehearse it -under his breath when he sat up late, and knew that no one was up in the -rectory, or when he was alone on some quiet road at the other extremity -of the parish. "I shall have no further need for your services." -Terrible formula! the mere thought of which froze the blood in his -veins. This horror made him less sociable than he had ever been. He took -no more of those evening walks which he had once liked in his quiet -way,--when, the two girls speeding on before, with their restless feet, -he would saunter along the twilight road after them, at ease and quiet, -with his hands under his coat-tails; while little Miss Brown, generally -a step or two behind, came trotting after him with her small steps, -propounding little theological questions or moral doubts upon which she -would like to have his opinion. The evening stillness, the shadowy, soft -gloom about, the mild, grey mist of imperfect vision that made -everything dreamy and vague, suited him better than the light and colour -of the day. As he wandered on, in perfect repose and ease, with the two -flitting figures before him, darting from side to side of the road, and -from bush to bush of the common, their voices sounding like broken links -of music; notwithstanding all that he had had in his life to wear him -down, the curate was happy. Very often at the conclusion of these walks -he would go through the churchyard and stand for a moment at the white -cross over his wife's grave. But this act did not change his mood; he -went there as he might have gone had Hester been ill in bed, to say -softly, "Good night, my dear," through the closed curtains. She made him -no reply; but she was well off and happy, dear soul! and why should not -he be so too? And when he went in to supper after, he was always very -cheerful; it was with him the friendliest moment of the day. - -But this was all over since Miss Maydew's visit; the thought of the -moment, no doubt approaching, when he would have to say, "I shall have -no further need for your services," overwhelmed him. He had almost said -it over like a parrot on several occasions, so poisoned was his mind by -the horror that was to come. And Miss Maydew, I need not say, did not -let any grass grow under her feet in the matter. She was so convinced of -Miss Brown's incapacity, and so eager in following out her own plan, and -so much interested in the occupation it gave her, that her tranquil life -was quite revolutionized by it. She went to call upon all her friends, -and consulted them anxiously about the young ladies' schools they knew. -"It must not be too expensive, but it must be very good," she told all -her acquaintances, who were, like most other people, struck with respect -by the name of St. John. Almost an excitement arose in that quiet, -respectable neighbourhood, penetrating even into those stately houses in -Russell Square, at two or three of which Miss Maydew visited. "Two very -sweet girls, the daughters of a clergyman, the sort of girls whom it -would be an advantage to any establishment to receive," Miss Maydew's -friend said; and the conclusion was, that the old lady found "vacancies" -for her nieces in the most unexpected way in a school of very high -pretensions indeed, which gladly accepted, on lower terms than usual, -girls so well recommended, and with so well-sounding a name. She wrote -with triumph in her heart to their father as soon as she had arrived at -this summit of her wishes, and, I need not say, carried despair to his. -But even after he had received two or three warnings, Mr. St. John could -not screw his courage to the sticking point for the terrible step that -was required of him; and it was only a letter from Miss Maydew, -announcing her speedy arrival to escort the girls to their school, and -her desire that their clothes should be got ready, that forced him into -action. A more miserable man was not in all the country than, when thus -compelled by fate, the curate was. He had not been able to sleep all -night for thinking of this dreadful task before him. He was not able to -eat any breakfast, and the girls were consulting together what could be -the matter with papa when he suddenly came into the schoolroom, where -Miss Brown sat placidly at the large deal table, setting copies in her -neat little hand. All his movements were so quiet and gentle that the -abruptness of his despair filled the girls with surprise and dismay. - -"Papa came flouncing in," Mab said, who was partly touched and partly -indignant--indignant at being sent off to school, touched by the sight -of his evident emotion. The girls believed that this emotion was called -forth by the idea of parting with them; they did not know that it was in -reality a mixture of fright and horror as to how he was to make that -terrible announcement to Miss Brown. - -"My dears," he said, faltering, "I have got a letter from your aunt -Jane. I am afraid it will take you by surprise as--as it has done me. -She wants you to--go--to school." - -"To school!" they cried both together, in unfeigned horror and alarm. -Miss Brown, who had been ruling her copybooks very nicely, acknowledging -Mr. St. John's entrance only by a smile, let the pencil drop out of her -hand. - -"It is--very sudden," he said, trembling--"very sudden. Your poor aunt -is that kind of woman. She means to be very kind to you, my dears; and -she has made up her mind that you must be educated----" - -"Educated! Are we not being educated now? Miss Brown teaches us -everything--everything we require to know," said Cicely, her colour -rising, planting herself in front of the governess; as she had sprung up -to defend her sister, when Miss Maydew saw her first. At that age Cicely -was easily moved to indignation, and started forward perhaps too -indiscriminately in behalf of any one who might be assailed. She was -ready to put Miss Brown upon the highest pedestal, whenever a word was -said in her disfavour. - -"So I think, my dear; so I think," said the frightened curate. "I made -that very remark to your aunt; but it is very difficult to struggle -against the impetuosity of a lady, and--and perhaps being taken by -surprise, I--acquiesced more easily than I ought." - -"But we won't go--we can't go," cried Mab. "I shall die, and Cicely will -die, if we are sent away from home." - -"My dears!" said poor Mr. St. John--this impetuosity was terrible to -him--"you must not say so; indeed you must not say so. What could I say -to your aunt? She means to give you all she has, and how could I oppose -her? She means it for the best. I am sure she means it for the best." - -"And did you really consent," said Cicely, seriously, looking him -straight in the eyes, "without ever saying a word to us, or to Miss -Brown? Oh, papa, I could not have believed it of you! I hate Aunt Jane! -Miss Brown, dear!" cried the girl, throwing her arms suddenly round the -little governess, "it is not Mab's fault nor mine!" - -Then it was Miss Brown's turn to fall upon the unhappy curate and slay -him. "My dear love," she said, "how could I suppose it was your fault -or Mab's? Except a little levity now and then, which was to be expected -at your age, you have been very good, very good children. There is no -fault at all in the matter," she continued, turning with that -magnanimity of the aggrieved which is so terrible to an offender, to Mr. -St. John. "Perhaps it is a little sudden; perhaps a person so fond of -the girls as I am might have been expected to be consulted as to the -best school; for there is a great difference in schools. But Miss Maydew -is very impetuous, and I don't blame your dear papa. When do you wish me -to leave, sir?" she said, looking at him with a smile, which tortured -the curate, upon her lips. - -"Miss Brown, I hope you will not think badly of me," he said. "You can't -think how hard all this is upon me." - -The little woman rose up, and waved her hand with dignity. "We must not -enter into such questions," she said; "if you will be so very kind as to -tell me when you would like me to go." - -I don't know what incoherent words the curate stammered forth: that she -should stay as long as she liked; that she must make her arrangements -entirely to suit herself; that he had never thought of wishing her to -go. This was what he said in much disturbance and agitation of mind -instead of the other formula he had rehearsed about having no further -need for her services. All this Miss Brown received with the pale -smiling of the injured and magnanimous; while the girls looked fiercely -on their father, leaving him alone and undefended. When he got away he -was so exhausted that he did not feel able to go out into the parish, -but withdrew to his study, where he lurked, half paralyzed, all the rest -of the day, like the criminal abandoned by woman and by man, which he -felt himself to be. - -And I will not attempt to describe the commotion which this announcement -raised in the rest of the house. Miss Brown kept up that smile of -magnanimous meekness all day. She would not give in. "No, my dears," she -said, "there is nothing to be said except that it is a little sudden. I -think your papa is quite right, and that you are getting beyond me." - -"It is not papa," said Cicely; "it is that horrible Aunt Jane." - -"And she was quite right," said the magnanimous governess; "quite right. -She saw that I was not strong enough. It is a little sudden, that is -all; and we must not make mountains out of mole-hills, my dears." But -she, too, retired to her room early, where, sitting forlorn at the -window, she had a good cry, poor soul; for she had begun to grow fond of -this rude solitude, and she had no home. - -As for the girls, after their first dismay and wrath the tide turned -with them. They were going out into the unknown, words which sound so -differently to different ears--so miserable to some, so exciting to -others. To Cicely and Mab they were exciting only. A new world, new -faces, new people to know, new places to see, new things to hear; -gradually they forgot their wrath alike and their emotion at this -thought. A thrill of awe, of fear, of delicious curiosity and wonder ran -through them. This checked upon their very lips those reproaches which -they had been pouring forth, addressed to their father and to Aunt Jane. -Would they be miserable after all? should not they, rather, on the -whole, _like_ it, if it was not wrong to say so? This first silenced, -then insinuated into their lips little broken words, questions and -wonderings which betrayed to each the other's feelings. "It might -be--fun, perhaps," Mab said at last; then looked up frightened at -Cicely, wondering if her sister would metaphorically kill her for saying -so. But then a gleam in Cicely's eyes looked as if she thought so too. - -Miss Brown set about very bravely next morning to get their things in -order. She was very brave and determined to be magnanimous, but I cannot -say that she was cheerful. It is true that she kept smiling all day -long, like Malvolio, though with the better motive of concealing her -disappointment and pain and unjust feeling; but the effect of this smile -was depressing. She was determined, whatever might happen, to do her -duty to the last: and then, what did it matter what should follow? With -this valiant resolution she faced the crisis and nobly took up all its -duties. She bought I don't know how many dozens of yards of nice -"long-cloth," and cut out and made up, chiefly with the sewing-machine, -garments which she discreetly called "under-clothing" for the girls; -for her delicacy shunned the familiar names of those indispensable -articles. She found it needful that they should have new Sunday frocks, -and engaged the parish dressmaker for a week, and went herself to town -to buy the stuff, after the girls and she had spent an anxious yet not -unpleasant afternoon in looking over patterns. All this she did, and -never a word of murmur escaped her lips. She was a heroic woman. And the -busy days pursued each other so rapidly that the awful morning came, and -the girls weeping, yet not uncheerful, were swept away by the "fly" from -the station--where Miss Maydew, red and excited, met them, and carried -them off remorseless on their further way--before any one had time to -breathe, much less to think. Mr. St. John went to the station with his -daughters, and coming back alone and rather sad, for the first time -forgot Miss Brown; so that when he heard a low sound of the piano in the -schoolroom he was half frightened, and, without thinking, went straight -to the forsaken room to see what it was. Poor curate!--unfortunate Mr. -St. John! and not less unfortunate Miss Brown. The music had ceased -before he reached the door, and when he went in nothing was audible but -a melancholy little sound of sobbing and crying. Miss Brown was sitting -before the old piano with her head bowed down in her hands. Her little -sniffs and sobs were pitiful to hear. When he spoke she gave a great -start, and got up trembling, wiping her tears hastily away with her -handkerchief. "Did you speak, sir?" she said, with her usual attempt at -cheerfulness. "I hope I did not disturb you; I was--amusing myself a -little, until it is time for my train. My th-things are all packed and -r-ready," said the poor little woman, making a deplorable effort at a -smile. The sobs in her voice struck poor Mr. St. John to the very heart. - -"I have never had time," he said in the tone of a self-condemned -criminal, "to ask where you are going, Miss Brown." - -"Oh yes, I have a pl-place to go to," she said. "I have written to the -Governesses' Institution, Mr. St. John, and very fo-fortunately they -have a vacant room." - -"The Governesses' Institution! Is that the only place you have to go -to?" he said. - -"Indeed, it is a very nice place," said Miss Brown; "very quiet and -lady-like, and not d-dear. I have, excuse me, I have got so fo-fond of -them. I never meant to cry. It is in Harley Street, Mr. St. John, very -nice and respectable, and a great b-blessing to have such a place, when -one has no h-home." - -Mr. St. John walked to the other end of the room, and then back again, -twice over. How conscience-stricken he was! While poor Miss Brown bit -her lips and winked her eyelids to keep the tears away. Oh, why couldn't -he go away, and let her have her cry out? But he did not do that. He -stopped short at the table where she had set so many sums and cut out so -much underclothing, and half turning his back upon her said, faltering, -"Would it not be better to stay here, Miss Brown?" - -The little governess blushed from head to foot, I am sure, if any one -could have seen; she felt thrills of confusion run all over her at such -a suggestion. "Oh, no, no," she cried, "you are very kind, Mr. St. John, -but I have nobody but myself to take care of now, and I could not stay -here, a day, not now the girls are gone." - -The poor curate did not move. He took off the lid of the big inkstand -and examined it as if that were what he was thinking of. The -Governesses' Institution sounded miserable to him, and what could he do? -"Miss Brown," he said in a troubled voice, "if you think you would like -to marry me, I have no objection; and then you know you could stay." - -"Mr. St. John!" - -"Yes; that is the only thing I can think of," he said, with a sigh. -"After being here for years, how can you go to a Governesses' -Institution? Therefore, if you think you would like it, Miss Brown----" - -How can I relate what followed? "Oh, Mr. St. John, you are speaking out -of pity, only pity!" said the little woman, with a sudden romantic gleam -of certainty that he must have been a victim of despairing love for her -all this time, and that the school-going of the girls was but a device -for bringing out his passion. But Mr. St. John did not deny this charge, -as she expected he would. "I don't know about pity," he said, confused, -"but I am very sorry, and--and I don't see any other way." - -This was how it happened that three weeks after the girls went to school -Mr. St. John married Miss Brown. She went to the Governesses' -Institution after all, resolute in her propriety, until the needful -interval had passed, and then she came back as Mrs. St. John, to her own -great surprise, and to the still greater surprise and consternation of -the curate himself, and of the parish, who could not believe their ears. -I need not say that Miss Maydew was absolutely furious, or that it was a -great shock to Cicely and Mab when they were told what had happened. -They did not trust themselves to say much to each other on the subject. -It was the only subject, indeed, which they did not discuss between -themselves; but by-and-by even they got used to it, as people do to -everything, and they were quite friendly, though distant, to Mrs. St. -John. - -Only one other important event occurred to that poor little woman in her -life. A year after her marriage she had twin boys, to the still greater -consternation of the curate; and three years after this she died. Thus -the unfortunate man was left once more with two helpless children on his -hands, as helpless himself as either of them, and again subject as -before to the advice of all the parish. They counselled him this time "a -good nurse," not a governess; but fortunately other actors appeared on -the scene before he had time to see the excellent creature whom Mrs. -Brockmill, of Fir Tree House, knew of. While he listened hopelessly, a -poor man of sixty-five, casting piteous looks at the two babies whom he -had no right, he knew, to have helped into the world, Cicely and Mab, -with bright faces and flying feet, were already on the way to his -rescue; and here, dear reader, though you may think you already know -something of it, this true story really begins. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE GIRLS AT SCHOOL. - - -The school to which Miss Maydew sent the girls was in the outskirts of a -seaside town, and it was neither the best nor the worst of such -establishments. There were some things which all the girls had to submit -to, and some which bore especially on the Miss St. Johns, who had been -received at a lower price than most of the others; but on the whole the -Miss Blandys were good women, and not unkind to the pupils. Cicely and -Mab, as sisters, had a room allotted to them in the upper part of the -house by themselves, which was a great privilege--a bare attic room, -with, on one side, a sloping roof, no carpet, except a small piece -before each small bed, and the most meagre furniture possible. But what -did they care for that? They had two chairs on which to sit and chatter -facing each other, and a little table for their books and their work. -They had a peep at the sea from their window, and they had their -youth--what could any one desire more? In the winter nights, when it was -cold sitting up in their fireless room, they used to lie down in those -two little beds side by side and talk, often in the dark, for the lights -had to be extinguished at ten o'clock. They had not spoken even to each -other of their father's marriage. This unexpected event had shocked and -bewildered them in the fantastic delicacy of their age. They could not -bear to think of their father as so far descended from his ideal -elevation, and shed secret tears of rage more than of sorrow when they -thought of their mother thus superseded. But the event was too terrible -for words, and nothing whatever was said of it between them. When the -next great occurrence, the birth of the two babies, was intimated to -them, their feelings were different. They were first indignant, almost -annoyed; then amused; in which stage Mab made such a sketch of Miss -Brown with a baby in each arm, and Mr. St. John pathetically looking on, -that they both burst forth into laughter, and the bond of reserve on -this event was broken; and then all at once an interest of which they -were half ashamed arose in their minds. They fell silent both together -in a wondering reverie, and then Mab said to Cicely, turning to her big -eyes of surprise-- - -"They belong to us too, I suppose. What are they to us?" - -"Of course our half-brothers," said Cicely; and then there was another -pause, partly of awe at the thought of a relationship so mysterious, and -partly because it was within five minutes of ten. Then the candle was -put out, and they jumped into their beds. On the whole, perhaps, it was -more agreeable to talk of their father's other children in the dark, -when the half-shame, half-wonder of it would not appear in each face. - -"Is one expected to be fond of one's half-brother?" said Mab doubtfully. - -"There is one illusion gone," said Cicely, in all the seriousness of -sixteen. "I have always been cherishing the idea that when we were quite -grown up, instead of going out for governesses or anything of that sort, -we might keep together, Mab, and take care of papa." - -"But then," said Mab, "what would you have done with Mrs. St. John? I -don't see that the babies make much difference. _She_ is there to take -care of papa." - -On this Cicely gave an indignant sigh, but having no answer ready held -her peace. - -"For my part, I never thought of that," said Mab. "I have always thought -it such a pity I am not a boy, for then I should have been the brother -and you the sister, and I could have painted and you could have kept my -house. I'll tell you what I should like," she continued, raising herself -on her elbow with the excitement of the thought; "I should like if we -two could go out into the world like Rosalind and Celia. - - 'Were it not better, - Because that I am more than common tall, - That I did suit me all points like a man?'" - -"But you are not more than common tall," said Cicely, with unsympathetic -laughter; "you are a little, tiny, insignificant thing." - -Mab dropped upon her pillow half-crying. "You have no feeling," she -said. "Aunt Jane says I shall go on growing for two years yet. Mamma -did----" - -"If you please," said Cicely, "you are not the one that is like mamma." - -This little passage of arms stopped the chatter. Cicely, penitent, would -have renewed it after an interval, but Mab was affronted. Their father's -marriage, however, made a great difference to the girls, even before the -appearance of the "second family;" the fact that he had now another -housekeeper and companion, and was independent of them affected the -imagination of his daughters, though they were scarcely conscious of it. -They no longer thought of going home, even for the longer holidays; and -settling down at home after their schooling was over had become all at -once impossible. Not that this change led them immediately to make new -plans for themselves; for the youthful imagination seldom goes so far -unguided except when character is very much developed; and the two were -only unsettled, uneasy, not quite knowing what was to become of them; or -rather, it was Cicely who felt the unsettledness and uneasiness as to -her own future. Mab had never had any doubt about hers since she was ten -years old. She had never seen any pictures to speak of, so that I -cannot say she was a heaven-born painter, for she scarcely understood -what that was. But she meant to draw; her pencil was to be her -profession, though she scarcely knew how it was to be wielded, and thus -she was delivered from all her sister's vague feelings of uncertainty. -Mab's powers, however, had not been appreciated at first at school, -where Miss Maydew's large assertions as to her niece's cleverness had -raised corresponding expectations. But when the drawing-master came with -his little stock of landscapes to be copied, Mab, quite untutored in -this kind, was utterly at a loss. She neither knew how to manage her -colours, nor how to follow the vague lines of the "copy," and I cannot -describe the humiliation of the sisters, nor the half disappointment, -half triumph, of Miss Blandy. - -"My dear, you must not be discouraged; I am sure you did as well as you -could; and the fact is, we have a very high standard here," the -school-mistress said. - -It happened, however, after two or three of these failures that Cicely, -sent by Miss Millicent Blandy on a special message into that retired -and solemn chamber, where Miss Blandy the elder sister sat in the -mornings supervising and correcting everything, from the exercises to -the characters of her pupils, found the head of the establishment with -the drawing-master looking over the productions of the week. He had -Mab's drawing in his hand, and he was shaking his head over it. - -"I don't know what to say about the youngest Miss St. John. This figure -is well put in, but her sky and her distance are terrible," he was -saying. "I don't think I shall make anything of her." - -When Cicely heard this she forgot that she was a girl at school. She -threw down a pile of books she was carrying, and flew out of the room -without a word, making a great noise with the door. What she ought to -have done was to have made a curtsy, put down the books softly by Miss -Blandy's elbow, curtsied again, and left the room noiselessly, in all -respects save that of walking backward as she would have done at Court. -Need I describe the look of dismay that came into Miss Blandy's face? - -"These girls will be my death," she said. "Were there ever such -colts?--worse than boys." This was the most dreadful condemnation Miss -Blandy ever uttered. "If their aunt does not insist upon drawing, as she -has so little real talent, she had better give it up." - -At this moment Cicely burst in again breathless, her hair streaming -behind her, her dress catching in the door, which she slammed after her. -"Look here!" she cried; "look here, before you say Mab has no talent!" -and she tossed down on the table the square blue-lined book, which her -sister by this time had almost filled. She stood before them glowing and -defiant, with flashing eyes and flowing hair; then she recollected some -guilty recent pages, and quailed, putting out her hand for the book -again. "Please it is only the beginning, not the end, you are to look -at," she said, peremptory yet appealing. Had Miss Blandy alone been in -the seat of judgment, she would, I fear, have paid but little attention -to this appeal; but the old drawing-master was gentle and kind, as old -professors of the arts so often are (for Art is Humanity, I think, -almost oftener than letters), and besides, the young petitioner was very -pretty in her generous enthusiasm, which affected him both as a man and -an artist. The first page at once gave him a guess as to the -inexpediency of examining the last; and the old man perceived in a -moment at once the mistake he had made, and the cause of it. He turned -over the first few pages, chuckling amused approbation. "So these are -your sister's," he said, and laughed and nodded his kind old head. When -he came to a sketch of Hannah, the maid-of-all-work at the rectory, the -humour of which might seem more permissible in Miss Blandy's eyes than -the caricatures of ladies and gentlemen, he showed it to her; and even -Miss Blandy, though meditating downright slaughter upon Cicely, could -not restrain a smile. "Is this really Mabel's?" she condescended to ask. -"As you say, Mr. Lake, not at all bad; much better than I could have -thought." - -"Better? it is capital!" said the drawing-master; and then he shut up -the book close, and put it back in Cicely's hands. "I see there are -private scribblings in it," he said, with a significant look; "take it -back, my dear. I will speak to Miss Mabel to-morrow. And now, Miss -Blandy, we will finish our business, if you please," he said -benevolently, to leave time for Cicely and her dangerous volume to -escape. Miss Blandy was vanquished by this stratagem, and Cicely, -beginning to tremble at the thought of the danger she had escaped, -withdrew very demurely, having first piled up on the table the books she -had thrown down in her impetuosity. I may add at once that she did not -escape without an address, in which withering irony alternated with -solemn appeal to her best feelings, and which drew many hot tears from -poor Cicely's eyes, but otherwise so far as I am aware did her no harm. - -Thus Mab's gifts found acknowledgment at Miss Blandy's. The old -drawing-master shook his fine flexible old artist hand at her. "You take -us all off, young lady," he said; "you spare no one; but it is so clever -that I forgive you; and by way of punishment you must work hard, now I -know what you can do. And don't show that book of yours to anybody but -me. Miss Blandy would not take it so well as I do." - -"Oh, dear Mr. Lake, forgive me," said Mab, smitten with compunction; "I -will never do it again!" - -"Never, till the next time," he said, shaking his head; "but, anyhow, -keep it to yourself, for it is a dangerous gift." - -And from that day he put her on "the figure" and "the round"--studies, -in which Mab at first showed little more proficiency than she had done -in the humbler sphere of landscape; for having leapt all at once into -the exercise of something that felt like original art, this young lady -did not care to go back to the elements. However, what with the force of -school discipline, and some glimmerings of good sense in her own -juvenile bosom, she was kept to it, and soon found the ground steady -under her feet once more, and made rapid progress. By the time they had -been three years at school, she was so proficient, that Mr. Lake, on -retiring, after a hard-worked life, to well-earned leisure, recommended -her as his successor. So that by seventeen, a year before Mrs. St. -John's death, Mab had released Miss Maydew and her father from all -responsibility on her account. Cicely was not so clever; but she, too, -had begun to help Miss Blandy in preference to returning to the rectory -and being separated from her sister. Vague teaching of "English" and -music is not so profitable as an unmistakable and distinct art like -drawing; but it was better than setting out upon a strange world alone, -or going back to be a useless inmate of the rectory. As teachers the -girls were both worse off and better off than as pupils. They were worse -off because it is a descent in the social scale to come down from the -level of those who pay to be taught, to the level of those who are paid -for teaching--curious though the paradox seems to be; and they were -better off, in so far as they were free from some of the restrictions of -school, and had a kind of independent standing. They were allowed to -keep their large attic, the bare walls of which were now half covered by -Mab's drawings, and which Cicely's instinctive art of household -management made to look more cheery and homelike than any other room in -the house. They were snubbed sometimes by "parents," who thought the -manners of these Miss St. Johns too easy and familiar, as if they were -on an equality with their pupils; and by Miss Blandy, who considered -them much too independent in their ways; and now and then had -mortifications to bear which are not pleasant to girls. But there were -two of them, which was a great matter; and in the continual -conversation which they carried on about everything, they consoled each -other. No doubt it was hard sometimes to hear music sounding from the -open windows of the great house in the square, where their old -schoolfellow, Miss Robinson, had come to live, and to see the carriages -arriving, and all the glory of the ball-dresses, of which the two young -governesses got a glimpse as they went out for a stroll on the beach in -the summer twilight, an indulgence which Miss Blandy disapproved of. - -"Now, why should people be so different?" Cicely said, moralizing; "why -should we have so little, and Alice Robinson so much? It don't seem -fair." - -"And we are not even prettier than she is, or gooder--which we ought to -be, if there is any truth in compensation," said Mab, with a laugh. - -"Or happier," said Cicely, with a sigh. "She has the upper hand of us in -everything, and no balance on the other side to make up for it. Stay, -though; she has very droll people for father and mother, and we have a -very fine gentleman for our papa." - -"Poor papa!" said Mab. They interchanged moods with each other every -ten minutes, and were never monotonous, or for a long time the same. - -"You may say why should people be so different," said Cicely, forgetting -that it was herself who said it. "There is papa, now; he is delightful, -but he is trying. When one thinks how altered everything is--and those -two little babies. But yet, you know, we ought to ask ourselves, 'Were -we happier at home, or are we happier here?'" - -"We have more variety here," said Mab decisively; "there is the sea, for -one thing; there we had only the garden." - -"You forget the common; it was as nice as any sea, and never drowned -people, or did anything dangerous; and the forest, and the sunset." - -"There are sunsets here," said Mab,--"very fine ones. We are not -forgotten by the people who manage these things up above. And there is -plenty of work; and the girls are amusing, and so are the parents." - -"We should have had plenty of work at home," said Cicely; and then the -point being carried as far as was necessary the discussion suddenly -stopped. They were walking along the sands, almost entirely alone. Only -here and there another group would pass them, or a solitary figure, -chiefly tradespeople, taking their evening stroll. The fresh sea-breeze -blew in their young faces, the soft dusk closed down over the blue -water, which beat upon the shore at their feet in the softest whispering -cadence. The air was all musical, thrilled softly by this hush of -subdued sound. It put away the sound of the band at Miss Robinson's ball -out of the girls' hearts. And yet balls are pleasant things at eighteen, -and when two young creatures, quite deprived of such pleasures, turn -their backs thus upon the enchanted place where the others are dancing, -it would be strange if a touch of forlorn sentiment did not make itself -felt in their hearts, though the soft falling of the dusk, and the hush -of the great sea, and the salt air in their faces, gave them a pleasure, -had they but known it, more exquisite than any mere ball, as a ball, -ever confers. One only knows this, however, by reflection, never by -immediate sensation; and so there was, as I have said, just a touch of -pathos in their voices, and a sense of superiority, comfortable only in -that it was superior, but slightly sad otherwise, in their hearts. - -"I don't know what makes me go on thinking of home," said Cicely, after -a pause. "If we had been at home we should have had more pleasure, Mab. -The people about would have asked us--a clergyman's daughters always get -asked; and there are very nice people about Brentburn, very different -from the Robinsons and their class." - -"We should have had no dresses to go in," said Mab. "How could we ever -have had ball-dresses off papa's two hundred a year?" - -"Ball-dresses sound something very grand, but a plain white tarlatan is -not dear when one can make it up one's self. However, that is a poor way -of looking at it," said Cicely, giving a little toss to her head, as if -to throw off such unelevated thoughts. "There are a great many more -important things to think of. How will he ever manage to bring up the -two boys?" - -Mab made a pause of reflection. "To be sure Aunt Jane is not their -relation," she said, "and boys are more troublesome than girls. They -want to have tutors and things, and to go to the university; and then -what is the good of it all if they are not clever? Certainly boys are -far more troublesome than girls." - -"And then, if you consider papa," said Cicely, "that he is not very -strong, and that he is old. One does not like to say anything -disagreeable about one's papa, but what _did_ he want with those -children? Surely we were quite enough when he is so poor." - -"There is always one thing he can do," said Mab. "Everybody says he is a -very good scholar. He will have to teach them himself." - -"We shall have to teach them," said Cicely with energy; "I know so well -that this is what it will come to. I don't mean to teach them ourselves, -for it is not much Latin I know, and you none, and I have not a word of -Greek--but they will come upon us, I am quite sure." - -"You forget Mrs. St. John," said Mab. - -Cicely gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, but beyond that she did not -pursue the subject. Mrs. St. John's name stopped everything; they could -not discuss her, nor express their disapprobation, and therefore they -forbore religiously, though it was sometimes hard work. - -"Blandina will think we are late," at last she said, turning round. This -was their name for their former instructress, their present employer. -Mab turned dutifully, obeying her sister's touch, but with a faint -sigh. - -"I hope they will be quiet at the Robinsons as we are passing," the girl -said. "What if they are in full swing, with the 'Blue Danube' perhaps! I -hate to go in from a sweet night like this with noisy fiddles echoing -through my head." - -Cicely gave a slight squeeze of sympathy to her sister's arm. Do not you -understand the girls, young reader? It was not the "Blue Danube" that -was being played, but the old Lancers, the which to hear is enough to -make wooden legs dance. Cicely and Mab pressed each other's arms, and -glanced up at the window, where dancing shadows and figures were -visible. They sighed, and they went into their garret, avoiding the -tacit disapproval of Miss Blandy's good-night. She did not approve of -twilight walks. Why should they want to go out just then like the -tradespeople, a thing which ladies never did? But if Miss Blandy had -known that the girls were quite saddened by the sound of the music from -the Robinsons', and yet could not sleep for listening to it, I fear she -would have thought them very improper young persons indeed. She had -forgotten how it felt to be eighteen--it was so long ago. - -On the very next morning the news came of their stepmother's death. It -was entirely unexpected by them, for they had no idea of the gradual -weakness which had been stealing over that poor little woman, and they -were moved by deep compunction as well as natural regret. It is -impossible not to feel that we might have been kinder, might have made -life happier to those that are gone--a feeling experienced the moment -that we know them to be certainly gone, and inaccessible to all -kindness. "Oh, poor Mrs. St. John!" said Mab, dropping a few natural -tears. Cicely was more deeply affected. She was the eldest and had -thought the most; as for the young artist, her feeling ran into the tips -of her fingers, and got expansion there; but Cicely had no such medium. -She went about mournfully all day long, and in the evening Mab found her -seated at the window of their attic, looking out with her eyes big with -tears upon the darkening sea. When her sister touched her on the -shoulder Cicely's tears fell. "Oh, poor Miss Brown!" she said, her heart -having gone back to the time when they had no grievance against their -kind little governess. "Oh, Mab, if one could only tell her how one was -sorry! if she could only see into my heart now!" - -"Perhaps she can," said Mab, awe-stricken and almost under her breath, -lifting her eyes to the clear wistful horizon in which the evening star -had just risen. - -"And one could have said it only yesterday!" said Cicely, realizing for -the first time that mystery of absolute severance; and what light -thoughts had been in their minds yesterday! Sighs for Alice Robinson's -ball, depression of soul and spirit caused by the distant strains of the -Lancers, and the "Blue Danube"--while this tragedy was going on, and the -poor soul who had been good to them, but to whom they had not been good, -was departing, altogether and for ever out of reach. Cicely in her -sorrow blamed herself unjustly, as was natural, and mourned for the -mystery of human shortsightedness as well as for Mrs. St. John. But I do -not mean to say that this grief was very profound after the first sting, -and after that startling impression of the impossibility of further -intercourse was over. The girls went out quietly in the afternoon, and -bought black stuff to make themselves mourning, and spoke to each other -in low voices and grave tones. Their youthful vigour was subdued--they -were overawed to feel as it were the wings of the great Death-Angel -overshadowing them. The very sunshine looked dim, and the world -enveloped in a cloud. But it was within a week or two of Miss Blandy's -"breaking up," and they could not go away immediately. Miss Blandy half -audibly expressed her satisfaction that Mrs. St. John was only their -step-mother. "Had she been their own mother, what should we have done?" -she said. So that it was not till the end of July, when the -establishment broke up, that the girls were at last able to get home. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -THE GIRLS AT HOME. - - -We are so proud in England of having a word which means home, which some -of our neighbours we are pleased to think have not, that, perhaps, it is -a temptation to us to indulge in a general rapture over the word which -has sometimes little foundation in reality. When Cicely and Mab walked -to the rectory together from the station a suppressed excitement was in -their minds. Since they first left for school, they had only come back -for a few days each year, and they had not liked it. Their stepmother -had been very kind, painfully kind; and anxious above measure that they -should find everything as they had left it, and should not be -disappointed or dull; but this very anxiety had made an end of all -natural ease, and they had been glad when the moment came that released -them. Now, poor woman, she had been removed out of their way; they were -going back to take care of their father as they might have done had -there been no second Mrs. St. John; and everything was as it had been, -with the addition of the two babies, innocent little intruders, whom the -girls, you may be sure, could never find it in their hearts to be hard -upon. Cicely and Mab took each others' hands instinctively as they left -the station. It was the first of August, the very prime and glory of -summer; the woods were at their fullest, untouched by any symptom of -decay. The moorland side of the landscape was more wealthy and glorious -still in its flush of heather. The common was not indeed one sheet of -purple, like a Scotch moor; but it was all lighted up between the gorse -bushes with fantastic streaks and bands of colour blazing in the broad -sunshine, and haunted by swarms of bees which made a hum in the air -almost as sweet and all-pervading as the murmur of the sea. As they drew -near the house their hearts began to beat louder. Would there be any -visible change upon it? Would it look as it did when they were -children, or with that indefinable difference which showed in _her_ -time? They did not venture to go the familiar way by the garden, but -walked up solemnly like visitors to the front door. It was opened to -them by a new maid, whom they had never seen before, and who demurred -slightly to giving them admittance, "Master ain't in," said the girl; -"yes miss, I know as you're expected," but still she hesitated. This was -not the kind of welcome which the daughters of a house generally -receive. They went in to the house nevertheless, Betsy following them. -The blinds were drawn low over the windows, which were all shut, and -though the atmosphere was stifling with heat, yet it was cold, miserably -cold to Cicely and Mab. Their father's study was the only place that had -any life in it. The rectory seemed full of nothing but old black heavy -furniture, and heavier memories of some chilled and faded past. - -"What a dreadful old place it is," said Mab; "it is like coming home to -one's grave," and she sat down on the black haircloth easy-chair and -shivered and cried; though this was coming home, to the house in which -she had been born. - -"Now it will be better," said Cicely pulling up the blinds and opening -the window. She had more command of herself than her sister. She let the -sunshine come down in a flood across the dingy carpet, worn with the use -of twenty years. - -"Please, miss," said Betsy interposing, "missis would never have the -blinds up in this room 'cause of spoiling the carpet. If master says so, -I don't mind; but till he do----" and here Betsy put up her hand to the -blind. - -"Do you venture to meddle with what my sister does?" cried Mab, furious, -springing from her chair. - -Cicely only laughed. "You are a good girl to mind what your mistress -said, but we are your mistresses now; you must let the window alone, for -don't you see the carpet is spoiled already? I will answer to papa. What -is it? Do you want anything more?" - -"Only this, miss," said Betsy, "as it's the first laugh as has been -heard here for weeks and weeks, and I don't like it neither, seeing as -missis is in her grave only a fortnight to-day." - -"I think you are a very good girl," said Cicely: and with that the -tears stood in that changeable young woman's eyes. - -No Betsy that ever was heard of could long resist this sort of -treatment. "I tries to be, miss," she said with a curtsy and a whimper. -"Maybe you'd like a cup of tea?" and after following them suspiciously -all over the house, she left them at last on this hospitable intent in -the fading drawing-room, where they had both enshrined the memory of -their mother. Another memory was there now, a memory as faded as the -room, which showed in all kinds of feeble feminine decorations, bits of -modern lace, and worked cushions and foolish foot-stools. The room was -all pinafored and transmogrified, the old dark picture-frames covered -with yellow gauze, and the needlework in crackling semi-transparent -covers. - -"This was how she liked things, poor soul! Oh, Mab," cried Cicely, "how -strange that she should die!" - -"No stranger than that any one else should die," said Mab, who was more -matter of fact. - -"A great deal stranger! It was not strange at all that little Mary -Seymour should die. One saw it in her eyes; she was like an angel; it -was natural; but poor Miss Brown, who was quite happy working cushions -and covering them up, and keeping the sun off the carpets, and making -lace for the brackets! It looks as if there was so little sense or -method in it," said Cicely. "She won't have any cushions to work up -there." - -"I dare say there won't be anything to draw up there," said Mab; "and -yet I suppose I shall die too in time." - -"When there are the four walls for Leonardo, and Michel Angelo and -Raphael and poor Andrea," said the other. "How you forget! Besides, it -is quite different. Hark! what was that?" she cried, putting up her -hand. - -What it was soon became very distinctly evident--a feeble little cry -speedily joined by another, and then a small weak chorus, two voices -entangled together. "No, no; no ladies. Harry no like ladies," mixed -with a whimpering appeal to "papa, papa." - -"Come and see the pretty ladies. Harry never saw such pretty ladies," -said the encouraging voice of Betsy in the passage. - -The girls looked at each other, and grew red. They had made up their -minds about a great many things, but never how they were to deal with -the two children. Then Betsy appeared at the door, pushing it open -before her with the tea-tray she carried. To her skirts were hanging two -little boys, clinging to her, yet resisting her onward motion, and -carried on by it in spite of themselves. They stared at the new-comers -with big blue eyes wide open, awed into silence. They were very small -and very pale, with light colourless limp locks falling over their -little black dresses. The girls on their side stared silently too. There -was not a feature in the children's faces which resembled their elder -sisters. They were both little miniatures of Miss Brown. - -"So these are the children," said Cicely, making a reluctant step -forward; to which Harry and Charley responded by a renewed clutch at -Betsy's dress. - -"Yes, miss; them's the children! and darlings they be," said Betsy, -looking fondly at them as she set down the tea. Cicely made another step -forward slowly, and held out her hands to them; when the little boys set -up a scream which rang through the house, and hiding their faces -simultaneously in Betsy's gown, howled to be taken away. Mab put up her -hands to her ears, but Cicely, more anxious to do her duty, made another -attempt. She stooped down and kissed, or tried to kiss the little -tear-stained faces, to which caress each small brother replied by -pushing her away with a repeated roar. - -"Don't you take no notice, miss. Let 'em alone and they'll get used to -you in time," said Betsy. - -"Go away, go away! Harry no like 'oo," screamed the spokesman brother. -No one likes to be repulsed even by a child. Cicely stumbled to her feet -very red and uncomfortable. She stood ruefully looking after them as -they were carried off after a good preliminary "shake," one in each of -Betsy's red hands. - -"There is our business in life," she said in a solemn tone. "Oh, Mab, -Mab, what did papa want with these children? All the trouble of them -will come on you and me." - -Mab looked at her sister with a look of alarm, which changed, however, -into laughter at sight of Cicely's solemn looks and the dreary -presentiment in her face. - -"You are excellent like that," she said; "and if you had only seen how -funny you all looked when the little demons began to cry. They will do -for models at all events, and I'll take to painting children. They say -it's very good practice, and nursery pictures always sell." - -These lighter suggestions did not, however, console Cicely. She walked -about the room with clasped hands and a very serious face, neglecting -her tea. - -"Papa will never trouble himself about them," she said half to herself; -"it will all fall on Mab and me. And boys! that they should be boys. We -shall never be rich enough to send them to the University. Girls we -might have taught ourselves; but when you think of Oxford and -Cambridge----" - -"We can't tell," said Mab; "how do you know I shan't turn out a great -painter, and be able to send them wherever you like? for I am the -brother and you are the sister, Ciss. You are to keep my house and have -the spending of all my money. So don't be gloomy, please, but pour out -some tea. I wish, though, they were not quite so plain." - -"So like their mother," said Cicely with a sigh. - -"And so disagreeable; but it is funny to hear one speak for both as if -the two were Harry. I am glad they are not girls. To give them a share -of all we have I don't mind; but to teach them! with those white little -pasty faces----" - -"One can do anything when one makes up one's mind to it," said Cicely -with a sigh. - -At this moment the hall door opened, and after an interval Mr. St. John -came in with soft steps. He had grown old in these last years; bowed -down with age and troubles. He came up to his daughters and kissed them, -laying his hand upon their heads. - -"I am very glad you have come home," he said, in a voice which was -pathetic in its feebleness. "You are all I have now." - -"Not all you have, papa," said Mab; "we have just seen the little boys." - -A momentary colour flushed over his pale face. "Ah, the babies," he -said. "I am afraid they will be a great deal of trouble to you, my -dears." - -Cicely and Mab looked at each other, but they did not say anything--they -were afraid to say something which they ought not to say. And what could -he add after that? He took the cup of tea they offered him, and drank -it standing, his tall frame with a stoop in it, which was partly age and -partly weakness, coming against one tall window and shutting out the -light. "But that you are older looking," he said at last, "all this time -might seem like a dream." - -"A sad dream, papa," said Cicely, not knowing what to say. - -"I cannot say that, my dear. I thank God I have had a great deal of -happiness in my life; because we are sad for the moment we must not -forget to thank Him for all His mercies," said Mr. St. John; and then -with a change in his voice, he added, "Your aunt sends me word that she -is coming soon to see you. She is a very strong woman for her years; I -look older than she does; and it is a trouble to me now to go to town -and back in one day." - -"You have not been ill, papa?" - -"No, Cicely, not ill; a little out of my usual," he said, "that is all. -Now you are here, we shall fall into our quiet way again. The changes -God sends we must accept; but the little worries are trying, my dear. I -am getting old, and am not so able to brave them; but all will be well -now you are here." - -"We shall do all we can," said Cicely; "but you must remember, papa, we -are not used to housekeeping, and if we make mistakes at first----" - -"I am not afraid of your mistakes," said Mr. St. John, looking at her -with a faint smile. He had scarcely looked full at her before, and his -eyes dwelt upon her face with a subdued pleasure. "You are your mother -over again," he said. "You will be a blessing to me, Cicely, as she -was." - -The two girls looked at him strangely, with a flood of conflicting -thoughts. How dared he speak of their mother? Was he relieved to be able -to think of their mother without Miss Brown coming in to disturb his -thoughts? If natural reverence had not restrained them, what a -cross-examination they would have put him to! but as it was, their eager -thoughts remained unsaid. "I will do all I can, papa, and so will Mab," -said Cicely, faltering. And he put down his cup, and said, "God bless -you, my dears," and went to his study as if they had never been absent -at all, only out perhaps, as Mab said, for a rather long walk. - -"I don't think he can have cared for her," said Cicely; "he is glad to -get back to the idea of mamma; I am sure that is what he means. He is -always kind, and of course he was kind to her; but there is a sort of -relief in his tone--a sort of ease." - -"That is all very well for us," said Mab; "but if you will think of it, -it seems a little hard on poor Miss Brown." - -This staggered Cicely, who loved justice. "But I think she should not -have married him," she said. "It was easy to see that anybody could have -married him who wished. I can see that now, though I never thought of it -then. And, kind as it was of Aunt Jane, perhaps we should not have left -him unprotected. You ought to have gone to school, Mab, because of your -talent, and I should have stayed at home." - -They decided, however, after a few minutes, that it was needless to -discuss this possibility now, so long after it had become an -impossibility. And then they went upstairs to take off their -travelling-dresses and make themselves feel at home. When they came down -again, with their hair smooth, Cicely carrying her work-basket and Mab -her sketch-book, and seated themselves in the old faded room, from -which the sunshine had now slid away, as the sun got westward, a -bewildered feeling took possession of them. Had they ever been absent? -had anything happened since that day when Aunt Jane surprised them in -their pinafores? The still house, so still in the deep tranquillity of -the country, after the hum of their schoolroom life and the noises of a -town, seemed to turn round with them, as they looked out upon the -garden, upon which no change seemed to have passed. "I declare," cried -Mab, "there is exactly the same number of apples--and the same branch of -that old-plum-tree hanging loose from the wall!" - -Thus the first evening passed like a dream. Mr. St. John came from his -study to supper, and he talked a little, just as he had been in the -habit of talking long ago, without any allusion to the past. He told -them a few pieces of news about the parish, and that he would like them -to visit the school. "It has been very well looked after lately," he -said. Perhaps this meant by his wife--perhaps it did not; the girls -could not tell. Then Betsy came in for prayers, along with a small -younger sister of hers who had charge of the little boys; and by ten -o'clock, as at Miss Blandy's, the door was locked, and the peaceful -house wrapped in quiet. The girls looked out of their window upon the -soft stillness with the strangest feelings. The garden paths were -clearly indicated by a feeble veiled moon, and the trees which thickened -in clouds upon the horizon. There was not a sound anywhere in the -tranquil place except the occasional bark of that dog, who somewhere, -far or near, always indicates existence in a still night in the country. -The stillness fell upon their souls. "He never asked what we were going -to do," said Mab, for they were silenced too, and spoke to each other -only now and then, chilled out of the superabundance of their own -vitality. "But he thinks with me that the children are to be our -business in life," said Cicely, and then they went to bed, taking refuge -in the darkness. For two girls so full of conscious life, tingling to -the finger points with active faculties and power, it was a chilly -home-coming, yet not so unusual either. When the young creatures come -home, with their new lives in their hands to make something of, for good -or evil, do not we often expect them to settle down to the level of the -calm old lives which are nearly worn out, and find fault with them if it -is a struggle? Mr. St. John felt that it was quite natural his girls -should come home and keep his house for him, and take the trouble of the -little boys, and visit the schools--so naturally that when he had said, -"Now you are here, we shall fall into our quiet way again," it seemed to -him that everything was said that needed to be said. - -In the morning the children were found less inaccessible, and made -friends with by dint of lumps of sugar and bits of toast, of which Mab -was prodigal. They were very tiny, delicate, and colourless, with pale -hair and pale eyes; but they were not wanting in some of the natural -attractions of children. Charley was the backward one, and had little -command of language. Harry spoke for both; and I will not say it was -easy for these girls, unaccustomed to small children, to understand even -him. Mr. St. John patted their heads and gave them a smile each by way -of blessing; but he took little farther notice of the children. "I -believe Annie, the little maid, is very kind to them," he said. "I -cannot bear to hear them crying, my dears; but now you are here all -will go well." - -"But, papa," said Cicely, "will it be right for us to stay at home, when -you have them to provide for, and there is so little money?" - -"Right for you to stay? Where could you be so well as at home?" said the -curate, perturbed. The girls looked at each other, and this time it was -Mab who was bold, and ventured to speak. - -"Papa, it is not that. Supposing that we are best at home" (Mab said -this with the corners of her mouth going down, for it was not her own -opinion), "yet there are other things to consider. We should be earning -something----" - -Mr. St. John got up almost impatiently for him. "I have never been left -to want," he said. "I have been young, and now I am old, but I have -never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread. -Providence will raise up friends for the children; and we have always -had plenty. If there is enough for me, there is enough for you." - -And he went out of the room as nearly angry as it was possible for his -mild nature to be. Cicely and Mab once more looked at each other -wondering. "Papa is crazy, I think," said Mab, who was the most -self-assertive; but Cicely only heaved a sigh, and went out to the hall -to brush his hat for him, as she remembered her mother used to do. Mr. -St. John liked this kind of tendance. "You are a good girl, Cicely; you -are just such another as your mother," he said, as he took the hat from -her; and Cicely divined that the late Mrs. St. John had not shown him -this attention, which I think pleased her on the whole. - -"But, papa, I am afraid Mab was right," she said. "You must think it -over, and think what is best for Mab." - -"Why should she be different from you?" said Mr. St. John, feeling in -his breast pocket for the familiar prayer-book which lay there. It was -more important to him to make sure it was safe, than to decide what to -do with his child. - -"I don't know why, but we _are_ different. Dear papa, you must think, if -you please, what is best." - -"It is nonsense, Cicely; she must stay where she is, and make herself -happy. A good girl is always happy at home," said Mr. St. John; "and, of -course, there is plenty--plenty for all of us. You must not detain me, -my dear, nor talk about business this first morning. Depend upon it," -said Mr. St. John, raising his soft, feeble hand to give emphasis to his -words, "it is always best for you to be at home." - -What a pity that children and women are not always convinced when the -head of the house thus lays down the law! Cicely went back into the -dining-room where they had breakfasted, shaking her head, without being -aware of the gesture. "Why should I depend upon it?" she said. "Depend -upon it! I may be quite willing to do it, for it is my duty; but why -should I depend upon it as being the best?" - -"What are you saying, Cicely?" - -"Nothing, dear; only papa is rather odd. Does he think that two hundred -a year is a great fortune? or that two of us, and two of them, and two -maids (though they are little ones), and himself, can get on upon two -hundred a year?" - -"I must paint," said Mab; "I must paint! I'll tell you what I shall do. -You are a great deal more like a Madonna than most of the women who have -sat for her. I will paint a Holy Family from you and _them_---- They are -funny little pale things, but we could light them up with a little -colour; and they are _real_ babies, you know," Mab said, looking at -them seriously, with her head on one side, as becomes a painter. She had -posed the two children on the floor: the one seated firmly with his -little legs stretched out, the other leaning against him; while she -walked up and down, with a pencil in her hand, studying them. "Stay -still a moment longer, and I will give you a lump of sugar," she said. - -"Harry like sugar," said the small spokesman, looking up at her. Charley -said nothing. He had his thumb, and half the little hand belonging to -it, in his mouth, and sucked it with much philosophy. "Or perhaps I -might make you a peasant woman," said Mab, "with one of them on your -back. They are nature, Ciss. You know how Mr. Lake used to go on, saying -nature was what I wanted. Well, here it is." - -"I think you are as mad as papa," said Cicely, impatient; "but I must -order the dinner and look after the things. That's nature for me. Oh, -dear--oh, dear! We shall not long be able to have any dinner, if we go -on with such a lot of servants. Two girls, two boys, two maids, and two -hundred a year! You might as well try to fly," said Cicely, shaking her -pretty head. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -NEWS. - - -Perhaps it had been premature of the girls to speak to their father of -their future, and what they were to do, on the very first morning after -their return; but youth is naturally impatient, and the excitement of -one crisis seems to stimulate the activity of all kinds of plans and -speculations in the youthful brain; and then perhaps the chill of the -house, the rural calm of the place, had frightened them. Cicely, indeed, -knew it was her duty and her business to stay here, whatever happened; -but how could Mab bear it, she said to herself--Mab, who required change -and novelty, whose mind was full of such hopes of seeing and of doing? -When their father had gone out, however, they threw aside their grave -thoughts for the moment, and dawdled the morning away, roaming about -the garden, out and in a hundred times, as it is so pleasant to do on a -summer day in the country, especially to those who find in the country -the charm of novelty. They got the children's hats, and took them out to -play on the sunny grass, and run small races along the paths. - -"Please, miss, not to let them run too much," said little Annie, Betsy's -sister, who was the nurse, though she was but fifteen. "Please, miss, -not to let 'em roll on the grass." - -"Why, the grass is as dry as the carpet; and what are their little legs -good for but to run with?" said Cicely. - -Whereupon little Annie made up a solemn countenance, and said, "Please, -miss, I promised missis----" - -Mab rushed off with the children before the sentence was completed. -"That's why they are so pale," cried the impetuous girl; "poor little -white-faced things! But we never promised missis. Let us take them into -our own hands." - -"You are a good girl to remember what your mistress said," said Cicely -with dignity, walking out after her sister in very stately fashion. And -she reproved Mab for her rashness, and led the little boys about, -promenading the walks. "We must get rid of these two maids," she said, -"or we shall never be allowed to have anything our own way." - -"But you said they were good girls for remembering," said Mab, -surprised. - -"So they were; but that is not to say I am going to put up with it," -said Cicely, drawing herself to her full height, and looking Miss St. -John, as Mab asserted she was very capable of doing when she pleased. - -"You are very funny, Cicely," said the younger sister; "you praise the -maids, and yet you want to get rid of them; and you think what 'missis' -made them promise is nonsense, yet there you go walking about with these -two mites as if you had promised missis yourself." - -"Hush!" said Cicely, and then the tears came into her eyes. "She is -dead!" said this inconsistent young woman, with a low voice full of -remorse. "It would be hard if one did not give in to her at first about -her own little boys." - -After this dawdling in the morning, they made up their minds to work in -the afternoon. Much as they loved the sunshine, they were obliged to -draw down the blinds with their own hands, to the delight of Betty, to -whom Cicely was obliged to explain that this was not to save the carpet. -It is difficult to know what to do in such circumstances, especially -when there is nothing particular to be done. It was too hot to go out; -and as for beginning needlework in cold blood the first day you are in a -new place, or have come back to an old one, few girls of eighteen and -nineteen are so virtuous as that. One thing afforded them a little -amusement, and that was to pull things about, and alter their -arrangement, and shape the room to their own mind. Cicely took down a -worked banner-screen which hung from the mantelpiece, and which offended -her fastidious taste; or rather, she began to unscrew it, removing first -the crackling semi-transparent veil that covered it. "Why did she cover -them up so?" cried Cicely, impatiently. - -"To keep them clean, of course," said Mab. - -"But why should they be kept clean? We are obliged to fade and lose our -beauty. It is unnatural to be spick and span, always clean and young, -and new. Come down, you gaudy thing!" she cried. Then with her hand -still grasping it, a compunction seized her. "After all, why shouldn't -she leave something behind her--something to remember her by? She had as -much right here as we have, after all. She ought to leave some trace of -her existence here." - -"She has left her children--trace enough of her existence!" cried Mab. - -Cicely was struck by this argument. She hesitated a minute, with her -hand on the screen, then hastily detached it, and threw it down. Then -two offensive cushions met her eye, which she put in the same heap. "The -little boys might like to have them when they grow up," she added, half -apologetically, to herself. - -And with these changes something of the old familiar look began to come -into the faded room. Mab had brought out her drawing things, but the -blinds were fluttering over the open windows, shutting out even the -garden; and there was nothing to draw. And it was afternoon, which is -not a time to begin work. She fixed her eyes upon a large chiffonier, -with glass doors, which held the place of honour in the room. It was -mahogany, like everything else in the house. - -"I wonder what sort of a man Mr. Chester is?" she said; "or what he -meant by buying all that hideous furniture--a man who lives in Italy, -and is an antiquary, and knows about pictures. If it was not for the -glass doors, how like a hearse that chiffonier would be. I mean a -catafalque. What is a catafalque, Cicely? A thing that is put up in -churches when people are dead? I hope Mr. Chester when he dies will have -just such a tomb." - -"It is not so bad as the big bookcase in the study," said Cicely; -"certainly things are better now-a-days. If I had plenty of money, how I -should like to furnish this room all over again, with bright young -things, not too huge; little sofas that would move anywhere when you -touched them, and soft chairs. They should be covered in amber----" - -"No--blue!" cried Mab. - -"Soft amber--amber with a bloom of white in it----" - -"In this sunny room," cried Mab. "What are you thinking of? No; it must -be a cool colour--a sort of moonlighty blue--pale, pale; or tender fairy -green." - -"What is fairy green? Amber is my colour--it would be lovely; of course -I don't mean to say it wouldn't fade. But then if one were rich the -pleasure would be to let it fade, and then have all the fun over again, -and choose another," said Cicely, with a sigh over this impossible -delight. - -"Things sometimes improve by fading," said the artist. "I like the faded -tints--they harmonize. Hush, Cicely!--oh, stop your tidying--there is -some one at the door." - -"It cannot be any one coming to call so soon?" said Cicely, startled. - -"But it is--listen! I can hear Betsy saying, 'This way, ma'am; this -way.'" And Mab closed her sketch-book, and sat very upright and -expectant on her chair; while Cicely, throwing (I am ashamed to say) her -spoils under a sofa, took up her needlework by the wrong end, and, -putting on a portentous face of gravity and absorbed occupation, waited -for the expected visitor. - -A moment after the door was flung open, but not by Betsy; and Miss -Maydew, flushed with her walk from the station, as when they had first -seen her, with the same shawl on, and I almost think the same bonnet -(but that was impossible), stood before them, her large white -handkerchief in her hand. She was too hot to say anything, but dropped -down on the first chair she came to, leaving the door open, which made a -draught, and blew about her ribbons violently. "I know it is as much as -my life is worth," said Miss Maydew; "but, oh, how delicious it is to be -in a draught!" - -"Aunt Jane!" the girls cried, and rushed at her with unfeigned relief. -They were more familiar with her now than they had been four years ago. -They took off her great shawl for her, and loosed her bonnet strings. -"Papa told us you were coming," they cried; "but we did not hope for you -so soon. How kind of you to come to-day." - -"Oh, my dears," said Aunt Jane, "I did not mean to come to-day; I came -to see how you were taking it; and what your papa means to do. As soon -as I saw it in the paper I thought, oh my poor, poor children, and that -helpless old man! What are they to do?" - -"Do you mean about Mrs. St. John?" said Cicely, growing grave. "Papa is -very composed and kind, and indeed I can do all he wants. Aunt -Jane----" - -"About Mrs. St. John? Poor woman, I have nothing to say against her--but -she is taken away from the evil to come," said Miss Maydew. "No, no, it -was not about Mrs. St. John I was thinking, it was about something much -more serious. Not that anything could be more serious than a death; but -in a worldly point of view!" - -"What is it?" they both said in a breath. The idea of news was exciting -to them, even though, as was evident from their visitor's agitation, it -was disagreeable news they were about to hear. Miss Maydew drew with -much excitement from her pocket a copy of the _Times_, very tightly -folded together to enable it to enter there, and opened it with -trembling hands. - -"There it is! Oh, my poor, poor children! imagine my feelings--it was -the very first thing I saw when I took up my paper this morning," she -said. - -The girls did not immediately take in the full meaning of the intimation -which they read with two startled faces close together over the old -lady's shoulder. "At Castellamare, on the 15th July, the Rev. Edward -Chester, Rector of Brentburn, Berks." - -"But we don't know him," said Mab, bewildered. - -Cicely, I think, had a remark of the same kind on her lips; but she -stopped suddenly and clasped her hands together and gave a low cry. - -"Ah, _you_ understand, Cicely!" said Miss Maydew, wiping her forehead -with her handkerchief; "now let us consult what is to be done. What is -the date? I was so agitated I never thought of the date! The 15th. Oh, -my dear, here is a fortnight lost!" - -"But what can be done?" said Cicely, turning a pathetic glance upon the -old room which had seemed so melancholy to her yesterday, and the tons -of mahogany which she had just been criticising. How kind, and friendly, -and familiar they had become all at once; old, dear friends, who -belonged to her no more. - -"Mr. Chester, the rector!" said Mab, with sudden apprehension. "Do you -mean that something will happen to papa?" - -"There is this to be done," said the old lady, "your poor good father -has been here for twenty years; the people ought to be fond of him--I do -not know whether they are, for a parish is an incomprehensible thing, as -your poor dear grandfather always used to say--but they ought to be; I -am sure he has trudged about enough, and never spared himself, though I -never thought him a good preacher, so far as that goes. But he ought to -have a great many friends after living here for twenty years." - -"But, Aunt Jane, tell us, tell us--what good will that do?" - -"It might do a great deal if they would exert themselves. They might get -up a petition, for instance--at once--to the Lord Chancellor; they might -employ all their influence. It is not a rich parish, nor a large parish, -but there are always gentry in it. Oh, a great deal might be done if -only people would exert themselves! It is dreadful to think that a -fortnight has been lost." - -Cicely, who was not much consoled by this hope, sat down with a very -pale countenance and a sudden constriction at her heart. She was almost -too much bewildered to realize all that it meant; enough lay on the -surface to fill her soul with dismay. Mab, who had less perception of -the urgent character of the calamity, was more animated. - -"I thought you meant _we_ could do something," she said. "Oh, Aunt -Jane, could not we go to the Chancellor, if that is the man. The -parish? I don't see why they should take the trouble. It will not hurt -them. They will have a young, well-off man instead of an old, poor man. -Couldn't _we_ go to the Lord Chancellor, Aunt Jane?" - -Miss Maydew's eyes lighted up for a moment. She seemed to see herself -approaching that unknown potentate as lovely ladies went to kings in the -days of romance, with a child in each hand. She felt how eloquent she -could be, how convincing. She felt herself capable of going down on her -knees and asking him whether the father of those two sweet girls was to -starve in his old age? All this appeared before her like a dream. But -alas! common sense soon resumed its sway; she shook her head. "I don't -know if that would do any good," she said. - -"And _we_ could not get up a petition from the parish," said Cicely; -"whatever the people may do we cannot stir in it. Oh, Aunt Jane, how -foolish, how wrong of us never to think of this! I have thought that -papa was old and that we should have to maintain ourselves and the two -babies if--anything happened; but I never remembered that it all hung -upon some one else's life. Oh, it does seem hard!" cried the girl, -clasping her hands. "Papa has done all the work since ever I was born, -but yet he has only been here on sufferance, ready to be turned out at a -moment's notice. Oh, it is wrong, it is wrong!" - -"Not exactly at a moment's notice," said Miss Maydew; "there is six -weeks or three months, or something, I forget how long." - -And then there was a painful pause. Mab cried a little, having her -feelings most upon the surface, but Cicely sat quite silent and pale -with her eyes fixed upon the white blinds which flapped against the open -windows. All at once she got up and drew one of them up with a rapid -impatient hand. "I want air, I want light," she said in a stifled voice, -and put herself full in the intrusive sunshine, which made Miss Maydew -blink her old eyes. - -"You will give yourself a headache, my dear, and that will not mend -matters," she said. - -Cicely's heart was very heavy. She drew down the blind again and walked -up and down the room in her agitation. "Five of us to provide for -now--and that is not the worst; what is papa to do? How can he live with -everything taken from him? Oh, go to the Chancellor, or any one, if it -will do any good! It is terrible for papa." - -It was while they were still in this agitated state that Betsy threw -open the door again, and Mrs. Ascott, of the Heath, one of the greatest -ladies in the parish, came in. She was not heated, like poor old Miss -Maydew, with walking, but fresh and well dressed from her carriage, and -tranquil as prosperity and comfort could make her. The girls made that -sudden effort, which women so often have to make, to receive her as if -nothing had happened, as if their minds were as easy and their -circumstances as agreeable as her own. She inquired about their journey, -about their school, about how they found their papa looking, about the -"sad trials" he had gone through, all in a sweet even tone, with smiles -or serious looks, as became her words, and hoped that now they had come -back she should see them often at the Heath. "You are the musical one, -Cicely," she said; "I know Mab draws. It is always nice when sisters -have each their distinction, that people can't mistake. My husband -always says girls are so like each other. What is your voice? contralto? -oh, a good second is such a want here. We are all more or less musical, -you know." - -"My voice is not much one way or the other," said Cicely. "Mab sings -better than I do, though she is the one who draws." - -"But I fear," said Miss Maydew, clearing her throat and interfering, -"unless something is done they will not be here long to be of use to any -one. We have just had news----" - -"Ah, about poor Mr. Chester," said Mrs. Ascott, with the slightest of -glances at the stranger; "I saw it in the papers. Will that affect your -papa?" - -"Unless"--Miss Maydew put herself forward squarely and -steadily--"something is done." - -Mrs. Ascott looked at the old lady for the first time. She had thought -her an old nurse at first--for the good woman was not of a patrician -appearance, like the girls, who were St. Johns. "Unless--something is -done? I am sure we will all do anything that is possible. What can be -done?" - -"Hush! my dear, hush! She does not know I belong to you," whispered -Miss Maydew. "I think a great deal might be done. If Mr. St. John's -friends were to get up a petition to the Lord Chancellor at -once--stating how long he had been here, and how much beloved he was, -and the whole state of the case. I don't personally know his lordship," -said the old lady; "but he can't be a bad man or he never would have -risen to that position. I can't believe but what if the case were put -fully before him, he would give Mr. St. John the living. It seems so -much the most natural thing to do." - -"Dear me, so it does!" said Mrs. Ascott. "How clever of you to have -thought of it. I will speak to my husband, and see what he says." - -"And if there is any one else whom you can influence--to do good it -should be general--from the whole parish," said Miss Maydew--"from all -classes; and it ought to be done at once." - -"To be sure," said Mrs. Ascott. "I assure you I will speak to my -husband." She got up to take her leave, a little frightened by the -vehemence of the stranger, and rather elated at the same time by the -sense of having a mission. Miss Maydew went with her to the very door. - -"At once," she said, "at once! It is a fortnight already since the -rector died. If the parish means to do anything, you should not lose a -day." - -"No: I see, I see! I will go at once and speak to my husband," cried the -visitor, escaping hastily. Miss Maydew returned to her seat breathing a -sigh of satisfaction. "There, girls! I have set it agoing at least. I -have started it. That was a nice woman--if she exerts herself, I don't -doubt that it will be all right. What a blessing she came while I was -here." - -"I hope it is all right," said Cicely doubtfully; "but she is not -very----not very, _very_ sensible, you know. But she is always kind. I -hope she will not do anything foolish. Is that papa she is talking to?" -cried the girl alarmed, for there were sounds of commotion in the hall. -A silence fell upon even the chief conspirator, when she felt that Mr. -St. John was near--the possibility that her tactics might not be quite -satisfactory alarmed her. She withdrew into a corner, instinctively -getting the girls and a considerable mass of furniture between herself -and any one coming in at the door. - -"I do not know what Mrs. Ascott is talking of," said the curate. "Is tea -ready, my dear, for I have a great deal to do? What have you been -putting into that good woman's head? She is talking of a petition, and -of the Lord Chancellor, and of bad news. I hope you are not a -politician, Cicely. What is it all about?" - -"Here is Aunt Jane, papa," said Cicely, who was not more comfortable -than Miss Maydew. And the old lady had to get up and stretch out her -hand to Mr. St. John over the sofa, which was her bulwark in chief. - -"But I wonder what she meant about bad news," he went on; "she seemed to -think it affected us. My dears, have you heard anything?" - -"Oh, papa, very bad news," said Cicely with tears in her eyes. "It is in -the paper. Mrs. Ascott has seen it, and that is what we were talking -about. Oh, dear papa, don't be cast down. Perhaps it may not be so bad -as we think. Something may be done; or at the very worst we are both -able and willing to work--Mab and I." - -"I don't know what you mean," said Mr. St. John, and he read the -announcement without much change of countenance. "Dear me, so he is gone -at last!" he said. "I have long expected this. His health has been -getting worse and worse for years. Poor Chester! has he really gone at -last? I remember him at college. He was a year younger than I, but -always sickly. Poor fellow! and he was a great deal better off than I -am, but never got the good of it. What a lesson it is, my dears!" - -"But, oh, papa," cried Mab, who was the most impatient, "it is a great -deal more than a lesson. Think what consequences it will bring to -you--and us--and everybody." - -He looked at her with a half smile. "Little Mab," he said, "teaching her -elders. Harry will begin soon. Yes, to be sure; we have got fond of this -place; it seems hard that we should have to go." - -"But, papa, where shall we go? What shall we do? What is to become of -us?" said Cicely. - -Mr. St. John shook his head. "If you will consider that I have only just -seen it this moment," he said, "you will see that I cannot be expected -all at once---- Was this what Mrs. Ascott was talking of? And what did -she mean by petitions, and the Lord Chancellor? I hope you have not been -putting anything into her head?" - -There was a pause--the girls looked at each other, and blushed as if -they were the culprits; then Miss Maydew came boldly to the front. "It -was not the fault of the girls, Mr. St. John; on the contrary, they were -against it. But I thought there was no harm in saying that a petition -from the parish--to the Lord Chancellor--a well signed petition, as -there must be so many people here who are fond of you--and that no doubt -he would give you the living if he understood the circumstances." - -"I a beggar for a living!" said Mr. St. John. "I who have never asked -for anything in my life!" A deep flush came upon his delicate pale face. -He had borne a great many more serious blows without wincing. Death had -visited him, and care dwelt in his house--and he had borne these -visitations placidly; but there was one flaw in his armour, and this -unlooked-for assault found it out. A flame of injured pride blazed up in -him, swift as fire and as glowing. "I thought I should have died without -this," he said with a groan, half fierce, half bitter. "What was it to -you? I never asked you for anything! Oh, this is hard--this is very hard -to bear." - -In the memory of man it had never been known that Mr. St. John thus -complained before. The girls had never heard his voice raised or seen -the flush of anger on his face; and they were overawed by it. This kind -of sentiment too has always a certain fictitious grandeur to the -inexperienced. Never to ask for anything; to wait--patient merit -scorning all conflict with the unworthy--till such time as its greatness -should be acknowledged. This sounds very sublime in most cases to the -youthful soul. - -"Well, Mr. St. John," said Miss Maydew, "you may say I have no right to -interfere; but if you had stooped to ask for something it might have -been a great deal better for your family. Besides, you have not asked -for anything now. I am not responsible for my actions to any one, and I -hope I may do either for you or anybody else whatever I please in the -way of service. If the Lord Chancellor does give you the living----" - -Mr. St. John smiled. "I need not make myself angry," he said, "for it -is all sheer ignorance. The living is a college living. I don't know -what your ideas are on the subject, but the Lord Chancellor has as much -to do with it as you have. Cicely, let us have tea." - -Miss Maydew shrivelled up upon her chair. She sat very quiet, and did -not say a word after this revelation. What she had done would have -troubled her mind little; but that she had done nothing after risking so -much was hard to bear. After this little ebullition, however, the curate -fell back into his usual calm. He spoke to them in his ordinary way. His -voice resumed its tranquil tone. He took his tea, which was a -substantial meal, doing justice to the bread and butter, and on the -whole showed signs of being more concerned for Mr. Chester than he was -for himself. - -"I remember him at college--we were of the same college," he said; "but -he always the richest, much the best off. How little that has to say to -a man's happiness! Poor Chester was never happy; he might have been very -well here. How much I have had to be thankful for here! but it was not -his disposition. He was good-looking too when he was young, and did very -well in everything. Any one would have said he had a far better chance -for a happy life than I had." - -The gentle old man grew quite loquacious in this contrast, though he was -in general the most humble-minded of men; and the two girls sat and -listened, giving wondering glances at each other, and blushing red with -that shame of affection which lively girls perhaps are particularly -disposed to feel when their parents maunder. This sort of domestic -criticism, even though unexpressed, was hard upon Mr. St. John, as upon -all such feeble good men. His last wife had adored him at all times, as -much when he was foolish as when he was wise. She would have given him -the fullest adhesion of her soul now, and echoed every word he said; but -the girls did not. They would have preferred to silence him, and were -ashamed of his gentle self-complacency. And yet it was quite true that -he felt himself a happier man than Mr. Chester, and higher in the scale -of merit though not of fortune; and the calm with which he took this -event, which was neither more nor less than ruin to him, was fine in its -way. - -"But what are we to do, papa?" Cicely ventured to ask him, looking up -into his face with big anxious eyes, as he took his last cup of tea. - -"My dear, we must wait and see," he said. "There is no very immediate -hurry. Let us see first who is appointed, and what the new rector -intends to do." - -"But, Mr. St. John, you are a very learned man--and if it is a college -living"--suggested Miss Maydew. - -"It is my own college, too," he said reflectively; "and I suppose I am -now one of the oldest members of it. It would not be amiss if they let -me stay here the rest of my days. But I never was distinguished. I never -was a Fellow, or anything. I never could push myself forward. No--we -must just wait and see what is going to happen. A few days or a few -weeks will make little difference. Compose yourselves, my dears," said -Mr. St. John. "I am not very anxious after all." - -"I wonder if he would be anxious if you were all starving," cried Miss -Maydew, as the girls walked with her to the station in the evening. "Oh, -Cicely, I know I oughtn't to say anything to you about your papa. But if -he has not been anxious, others have been anxious for him. Your poor -mother! how she slaved to keep everything as it ought to be; and even -poor Miss Brown. It did not cost much to marry her--but it cost her her -life." - -"Aunt Jane!" cried both the girls indignant. - -"Well, my dears! She might have been living now, a respectable single -woman, doing her duty, as she was capable of doing; instead of which -what must she do but bring a couple of white-faced babies into the world -that nobody wanted, and die of it. Yes, she did die of it. You don't -understand these things--you are only children. And all because he was -what you call kind-hearted, and could not bear to see her cry, forsooth. -As if the best of us were not obliged both to cry ourselves and to see -others cry often enough! but they never thought what they were doing; -and the ones to suffer will be you." - -"Aunt Jane, you ought not to speak so of papa." - -"I know I shouldn't, my dear--and I humbly beg your pardons," said Aunt -Jane, drying her eyes. - -"And we ought not to have left him unprotected," said Cicely, with a -sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE NEW RECTOR. - - -The news which so much disturbed the inhabitants of the rectory at -Brentburn was already old news in Oxford, where indeed it was known and -decided who Mr. Chester's successor was to be. The august body in whose -hands the appointment lay was absolutely unconscious of the existence of -Mr. St. John. Several members of it, it is true, were his own -contemporaries, and had been his acquaintances in the old days when -these very dons themselves traversed their quadrangles with such hopes -and fears in respect to the issue of an examination, as the destruction -of the world or its salvation would scarcely rouse in them now; but what -was it likely they could know about a man who at sixty-five was only a -curate, who had never asked for anything, never tried for anything; but -had kept himself out of sight and knowledge for a lifetime? Those of -them who had a dim recollection that "old St. John" was Chester's curate -in charge, naturally thought that he held that precarious and -unprofitable place for so long, because of some personal connection with -the locality, or preference for it, which he was well off enough to be -able to indulge. He had been poor in his youth, but probably his wife -had had money, or something had fallen to him. What so likely as that -something good should fall by inheritance to a man with such a patrician -name? Therefore let nobody blame the dons. They might have been capable -(though I don't know whether they would have had any right to exercise -their patronage so) of a great act of poetic justice, and might have -given to the undistinguished but old member of their college the reward -of his long exertions, had they known. But as they did not know, what -could these good men do but allot it to the excellent young -Fellow--already the winner of all kinds of honours--who condescended to -be willing to accept the humble rectory? Everybody said it was not -worth Mildmay's while to shelve himself in an obscure place like -Brentburn; that it was a strange thing for him to do; that he would hate -it as poor Chester--also an extremely accomplished man and fellow of his -college--had done. Gossips--and such beings exist in the most classical -places--feared that he must want the money; though some thought he was -merely disinclined to let a tolerable small living, not far from town, -and in a good county, where there were many "nice families," pass him; -but very few people so far as I am aware, thought of any higher motive -which a popular young don could have for such a fancy. - -Mr. Mildmay was quite one of the advanced rank of young Oxford men. I -have never been able to understand how it was that he continued more or -less orthodox, but he had done so by special constitution of mind, I -suppose, which in some tends to belief as much as in some others it -tends to unbelief. He was not one of those uncomfortable people who are -always following out "truth" to some bitter end or other, and refusing -all compromise. Perhaps he was not so profound as are those troublesome -spirits, but he was a great deal happier, and a great deal more -agreeable. It is quite possible that some young reader may object to -this as a shameful begging of the question whether it is not best to -follow "truth" with bosom bare into whatsoever wintry lands that -oft-bewildered power may lead. I don't know; some minds have little -inclination towards the sombre guesses of science, new or old; and -perhaps some may prefer Roger Mildmay for the mere fact that he did not -feel himself to have outgrown Christianity; which, I confess, is my own -feeling on the subject. However, if it is any satisfaction to the said -young reader, I may as well avow that though nature kept him from being -sceptical, that kindly nurse did not hinder him from throwing himself -into much semi-intellectual foolishness in other ways. To hear him talk -of art was enough to make all the Academy dance with fury, and drive the -ordinary learner, however little attached to the Academy, into absolute -imbecility; and his rooms were as good as a show, with all the last -fantastical delights of the day--more like a museum of china and -knick-knacks than rooms to live in. His floors were littered with rugs, -over which, in the æsthetic dimness, unwary visitors tumbled; his walls -were toned into olive greens or peacock blues, dark enough to have -defied all the sunshine of the Indies to light them up. He had few -pictures; but his rooms were hung with photographs "taken direct," and a -collection of old china plates, which perhaps, in their primitive -colours and broad effect, "came" better than pictures in the subdued and -melancholy light. But why insist upon these details? A great many -highly-cultured persons have the same kind of rooms, and Mildmay was -something more than a highly-cultured person. All this amused and -occupied him very much--for indeed collecting is a very amusing -occupation; and when he had found something "really good" in an old -curiosity shop, it exhilarated him greatly to bring it home, and find a -place for it among his precious stores, and to make it "compose" with -the other curiosities around it. As sheer play, I don't know any play -more pleasant; and when he looked round upon the dim world of _objets -d'art_ that covered all his walls, shelves, and tables, and marked the -fine pictorial effect of the one brilliant spot of light which the green -shade of his reading-lamp prevented from too great diffusion--when, I -say, looking up from his studies, Mr. Mildmay looked round upon all -this, and felt that only very fine taste, and much patient labour, -supported by a tolerably well-filled purse, could have brought it all -together, and arranged everything into one harmonious whole, there came -a glow of gentle satisfaction to the heart of the young don. - -But then he sighed. All perfection is melancholy. When you have finally -arranged your last acquisition, and look round upon a completeness -which, even for the introduction of additional beauty, it seems wicked -to disturb, what can you do but sigh? And there was more than this in -the breath of melancholy--the long-drawn utterance of an unsatisfied -soul in Mildmay's sigh. After all, a man cannot live for china, for -æsthetic arrangement, for furniture, however exquisite; or even for art, -when he is merely a critic, commentator, and amateur--not a worker in -the same. You may suppose that he was weary of his loneliness; that he -wanted a companion, or those domestic joys which are supposed to be so -infinitely prized in England. I am sorry to say this was not the case. -The class to which Mildmay belongs are rather in the way of scouting -domestic joys. A man who makes a goddess of his room, who adores china, -and decks his mantleshelf with lace, seldom (in theory) wants a wife, or -sighs for a companion of his joys and sorrows. For why? He does not deal -much in sorrows or in joys. The deepest delight which can thrill the -soul in the discovery of old Worcester or royal Dresden, scarcely -reaches to the height of passion; and even if a matchless cup of _Henri -Deux_ were to be shivered to pieces in your hand, your despair would not -appeal to human sympathy as would the loss of a very much commoner piece -of flesh and blood. And then young ladies as a class are not, I fear, -great in the marks of china, and even in the feminine speciality of lace -require years to mellow them into admiration of those archæological -morsels which cannot be worn. Besides, the very aspect of such rooms as -those I have indicated (not being bold enough to attempt to describe -them) is inimical to all conjoint and common existence. Solitude is -taken for granted in all those dainty arrangements; in the dim air, the -dusky walls, the subdued tone. A child in the place, ye heavens! -imagination shivers, and dares not contemplate what might follow. - -And then Mr. Mildmay had exhausted this delight. I believe his rooms -were papered with three different kinds of the choicest paper that ever -came out of Mr. Morris's hands. His curtains had been embroidered in the -art school of needlework on cloth woven and dyed expressly for him. An -ancient piece of lovely Italian tapestry hung over one door, and another -was veiled by a glorious bit of eastern work from Damascus or -Constantinople. His Italian cabinets were enough to make you faint with -envy; his Venice glass--but why should I go on? The rugs which tripped -you up as you threaded your way through the delicate artificial twilight -were as valuable as had they been woven in gold; and no sooner was it -known that Mildmay had accepted a living than all the superior classes -in the southern half of England pricked up their ears. Would there be a -sale? About a thousand connoisseurs from all parts of the country -balanced themselves metaphorically on one foot like Raphael's St. -Michael, ready to swoop down at the first note of warning. I am not sure -that among railway authorities there were not preparations for a -special train. - -Mr. Mildmay had got tired of it all. Suddenly in that dainty dimness of -high culture it had occurred to him that studies of old art and -accumulations of the loveliest furniture were not life. What was life? -There are so many that ask that question, and the replies are so feeble. -The commonest rendering is that which Faust in sheer disgust of -intellectualism plunged into--pleasure; with what results the reader -knows. Pleasure in its coarser meaning, in the Faust sense, and in the -vulgar sensual sense, was only a disgust to such a man as Roger Mildmay. -What could he have done with his fine tastes and pure habits in the -_coulisses_ or the casinos? He would only have recoiled with the -sickening sensations of physical loathing as well as mental. What then? -Should he marry and have a family, which is the virtuous and respectable -answer to his question? He had no inclination that way. The woman whom -he was to marry had not yet risen on his firmament, and he was not the -kind of man to determine on marriage in the abstract, dissociated from -any individual. How then was he to know life, and have it? Should he go -off into the distant world and travel, and discover new treasures of art -in unsuspected places, and bring home his trophies from all quarters of -the world? But he had done this so often already that even the idea -almost fatigued him. Besides, all these expedients, pleasure, -domesticity, travel, would all have been ways of pleasing himself only, -and he had already done a great deal to please himself. Life must have -something in it surely of sharper, more pungent flavour. It could not be -a mere course of ordinary days one succeeding another, marked out by -dinners, books, conversations, the same thing over again, never more -than an hour of it at a time in a man's possession, nothing in it that -could not be foreseen and mapped out. This could not be life. How was he -to get at life? He sat and wondered over this problem among his -beautiful collections. He had nothing to do, you will say; and yet you -can't imagine how busy he was. In short, he was never without something -to do. He had edited a Greek play, he had written magazine articles, he -had read papers before literary societies, he had delivered lectures. -Few, very few, were his unoccupied moments. He knew a great many people -in the highest classes of society, and kept up a lively intercourse with -the most intelligent, the most cultivated minds of his time. He was, -indeed, himself one of the most highly cultured persons of his standing; -yet here he sat in the most delightful rooms in his college, sighing for -life, life! - -What is life? Digging, ploughing, one can understand that; but -unfortunately one cannot dig, and "to beg I am ashamed." These familiar -words suggested themselves by the merest trick of the ear to his mind -unawares. To beg, the Franciscans he had seen in old Italy had not been -at all ashamed; neither were the people who now and then penetrated into -college rooms with--if not the Franciscan's wallet, or the penitent's -rattling money-box--lists of subscriptions with which to beguile the -unwary. For what? For hospitals, schools, missions, churches; the grand -deduction to be drawn from all this being that there were a great many -people in the world, by their own fault or that of others, miserable, -sick, ignorant, wicked; and that a great many more people, from good or -indifferent motives, on true or on false pretences, were making a great -fuss about helping them. This fuss was in a general way annoying, and -even revolting to the _dilettanti_, whose object is to see and hear only -things that are beautiful, to encourage in themselves and others -delightful sensations; but yet when you came to think of it, it could -not be denied that the whole system of public charity had a meaning. In -some cases a false, foolish, wrong meaning, no doubt; but yet---- - -If I were to tell you all the fancies that passed through Roger -Mildmay's head on the subject, it would require volumes; and many of his -thoughts were fantastic enough. The fact that he had taken orders and -was the man he was, made it his proper business to teach others; but he -would much rather, he thought, have reclaimed waste land, or something -of that practical sort. Yes, to reclaim a bit of useless moorland and -make it grow oats or even potatoes--that would be something; but then -unfortunately the ludicrous side of the matter would come over him. What -could he do on his bit of moorland with those white hands of his? Would -it not be much more sensible to pay honest wages to some poor honest man -out of work, and let him do the digging? and then where was Roger -Mildmay? still left, stranded, high and dry, upon the useless ground of -his present existence. Such a man in such a self-discussion is as many -women are. If he works, what is the good of it? It is to occupy, to -please himself, not because the work is necessary to others; indeed, it -is taking bread out of the mouths of others to do badly himself that -which another man, probably lounging sadly, out of work, and seeing his -children starve, would do well. Let him, then, go back to his own -profession; and what was he to do? A clergyman must preach, and he did -not feel at all at his ease in the pulpit. A clergyman must teach, and -his prevailing mood was a desire to learn. A clergyman must care for the -poor, and he knew nothing about the poor. The result of all these -confused and unsatisfactory reasonings with himself was that when the -living of Brentburn was offered to him half in joke, he made a plunge at -it, and accepted. "Let us try!" he said to himself. Anything was better -than this perplexity. At the worst he could but fail. - -Now, Mr. St. John, as I have said, was a member of the same college, and -had served the parish of Brentburn for twenty years, and what was to -Roger Mildmay an adventure, a very doubtful experiment, would have been -to him life and living; and next on the list of eligible persons after -Mr. Mildmay was the Rev. John Ruffhead, who was very anxious to marry -and settle, and was a clergyman's son well trained to his work. Such -injustices are everywhere around us; they are nobody's fault, we -say--they are the fault of the system; but what system would mend them -it is hard to tell. And, on the other hand, perhaps neither Mr. St. John -nor Mr. Ruffhead had the same high object before them as Roger had. The -old man would have gone on in his gentle routine just as he had done all -those years, always kind, soothing the poor folk more than he taught -them; the young man would, though sure to do his duty, have thought -perhaps more of the future Mrs. Ruffhead, and the settling down, than of -any kind of heroic effort to realize life and serve the world. So that -on the whole, ideally, my _dilettante_ had the highest ideal; though the -practical effect of him no one could venture to foretell. - -He had decided to accept the living of Brentburn at once, feeling the -offer to be a kind of answer of the oracle--for there was a certain -heathenism mingling with his Christianity--to his long-smouldering and -unexpressed desires; but before concluding formally he went, by the -advice of one of his friends, to look at the place, "to see how he would -like it." "Like it! do I want to like it?" he said to himself. Must this -always be the first question? Was it not rather the first possibility -held out to him in the world--of duty, and a real, necessary, and -certain work which should not be to please himself? He did not want to -like it. Now, men of Mildmay's turn of mind are seldom deeply devoted to -nature. They admire a fine landscape or fine sunset, no doubt, but it is -chiefly for the composition, the effects of light and shade, the -combination of colours. In the loveliest country they sigh for picture -galleries and fine architecture, and cannot please themselves with the -mists and the clouds, the woods and the waters, the warm, sweet, -boundless atmosphere itself, in which others find beauty and mystery -unceasing. Yet on this occasion a different result took place; although -it was contrary to his own principles, when he first came out of the -prosaic little railway at Brentburn and saw at his right hand, one rich -cloud of foliage rounding upon another, and all the wealth of princely -trees standing up in their battalions under the full warm August sky; -and on the other the sweet wild common bursting forth in a purple blaze -of heather, all belted and broken with the monastic gloom of the -pine-woods and ineffable blue distances of the wilder country--there -suddenly fell upon him a love at first sight for this insignificant -rural place, which I cannot account for any more than he could. I should -be disposed to say that the scent of the fir-trees went to his head, as -it does to mine; but then the very soul within him melted to the great, -broad, delicious greenness of shadows in the forest; and the two between -them held him in an ecstasy, in that sweet lapse of all sense and -thought into which nature sometimes surprises us, when all at once, -without any suspicion on our part of what she is about, she throws -herself open to us, and holds out her tender arms. Mildmay stood in this -partial trance, not knowing what he was doing, for--two full minutes, -then he picked himself up, slightly ashamed of his ecstasy, and asked -his way to the church, and said to himself (as I think Mr. Ruskin says -somewhere) that mere nature without art to back her up is little, but -that he might indeed permit himself to feel those indescribable -sensations if he could look at all this as a background to a beautiful -piece of ancient architecture in the shape of a church. Alas, poor Mr. -Mildmay! I don't know why it had never been broken to him. Ignorant -persons had said "a very nice church," perhaps out of sheer ignorance, -perhaps from the commercial point of view that a new church in perfect -repair is much more delightful, to a young rector's pocket at least, -than the most picturesque old one in perpetual need of restorations. But -anyhow, when the church of Brentburn did burst upon him in all its -newness, poor Roger put out his hand to the first support he could find, -and felt disposed to swoon. The support which he found to lean on was -the wooden rail, round a rather nasty duck-pond which lay between two -cottages, skirting the garden hedge of one of them. Perhaps it was the -odour of this very undelightful feature in the scene that made him feel -like fainting, rather than the sight of the church; but he did not think -so in the horror of the moment. He who had hoped to see the distant -landscape all enhanced and glorified, by looking at it from among the -ancestral elms or solemn yew-trees about a venerable village spire, and -old grey, mossy Saxon walls--or beside the lovely tracery of some -decorated window with perhaps broken pieces of old glass glimmering out -like emeralds and rubies! The church, I have already said, was painfully -new; it was in the most perfect good order; the stones might have been -scrubbed with scrubbing-brushes that very morning; and, worse than all, -it was good Gothic, quite correct and unobjectionable. The poor young -don's head drooped upon his breast, his foot slipped on the edge of the -duck-pond. Never was a more delicate distress; and yet but for the -despairing grasp he gave to the paling, the result might have been -grotesque enough. - -"Be you poorly, sir?" said old Mrs. Joel, who was standing, as she -generally was, at her cottage door. - -"No, no, I thank you," said the new rector faintly; "I suppose it is the -sun." - -"Come in a bit and rest, bless you," said Mrs. Joel; "you do look -overcome. It is a bit strong is that water of hot days. Many a one comes -to look at our cheuch. There's a power of old cheuches about, and ours -is the only one I know of as is new, sir, and sweet and clean--though I -says it as shouldn't," said the old woman, smoothing her apron and -curtsying with a conscious smile. - -"You are the sexton's wife? you have the charge of it?" said Mr. -Mildmay. - -"Thank my stars! I ain't no man's wife," said Mrs. Joel. "I be old John -Joel's widow--and a queer one he was; and the curate he say as I was to -keep the place, though there's a deal of jealousy about. I never see in -all my born days a jealouser place than Brentburn." - -"Who is the curate?" asked Mr. Mildmay. - -"Bless your soul, sir, he'll be as pleased as Punch to see you. You go -up bold to the big door and ask for Mr. St. John; he would always have -the hartis-gentlemen and that sort in, to take a cup of tea with him. -The Missis didn't hold with it in her time. She had a deal of pride, -though you wouldn't have thought it at first. But since she's dead and -gone, Mr. St. John he do have his way; and two pretty young ladies just -come from school," said Mrs. Joel with a smirk. She was herself very -curious about the stranger, who was evidently not a "hartis-gentleman." -"Maybe you was looking for lodgings, like?" she said, after a pause. - -"No, no," said Mildmay, with unnecessary explanatoriness; "I was only -struck by the church, in passing, and wished to know who was the -clergyman----" - -"Between ourselves, sir," said Mrs. Joel, approaching closer than was -pleasant, for her dinner had been highly seasoned, "I don't know as Mr. -St. John is what you call the clergyman. He ain't but the curate, and I -do hear as there is a real right clergyman a-coming. But you won't name -it, not as coming from me? for I can't say but he's always been a good -friend." - -"Oh no, I shall not name it. Good morning," cried Mildmay hurriedly. A -new church, a horrible duck-pond, an old woman who smelt of onions. He -hurried along, scarcely aware in his haste until he arrived in front of -it that the house beyond the church was the rectory, his future home. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -THE ENEMY. - - -The girls I need not say had been engaged in calculations long and weary -during these intervening days. Cicely, who had at once taken possession -of all the details of housekeeping, had by this time made a discovery of -the most overwhelming character; which was that the curate was in -arrears with all the tradespeople in the parish, and that the "books," -instead of having the trim appearance she remembered, were full of long -lists of things supplied, broken by no safe measure of weeks, but -running on from month to month and from year to year, with here and -there a melancholy payment "to account" set down against it. Cicely was -young and she had no money, and knew by her own experience how hard it -was to make it; and she was overwhelmed by this discovery. She took the -books in her lap and crept into the drawing-room beside Mab, who was -making a study of the children in the dreary stillness of the afternoon. -The two little boys were posed against the big sofa, on the carpet. The -young artist had pulled off their shoes and stockings, and, indeed, left -very little clothes at all upon Charley, who let her do as she pleased -with him without remonstrance, sucking his thumb and gazing at her with -his pale blue eyes. Harry had protested, but had to submit to the taking -away of his shoes, and now sat gloomily regarding his toes, and trying -to keep awake with supernatural lurches and recoveries; Charley, more -placid, had dropped off. He had still his thumb in his mouth, his round -cheek lying flushed against the cushion, his round white limbs huddled -up in a motionless stillness of sleep. Harry sat upright, as upright as -possible, and nodded. Mab had got them both outlined on her paper, and -was working with great energy and absorption when Cicely came in with -the books in her lap. "Oh, go away, go away," cried Mab, "whoever you -are! Don't disturb them! If you wake them all is lost!" - -Cicely stood at the door watching the group. Mab had improvised an -easel, she had put on a linen blouse over her black and white muslin -dress. She had closed the shutters of two windows, leaving the light -from the middle one to fall upon the children. In the cool shade, moving -now and then a step backwards to see the effect of her drawing, her -light figure, full of purpose and energy, her pretty white hand a little -stained with the charcoal with which she was working, she was a picture -in herself. Cicely, her eyes very red and heavy--for indeed she had been -crying--and the bundle of grocery books in her apron, paused and looked -at her sister with a gush of admiration, a sharp pinch of something like -envy. Mab could do this which looked like witchcraft, while she could -only count, and count, and cry over these hopeless books. What good -would crying do? If she cried her eyes out it would not pay a sixpence. -Cicely knew that she had more "sense" than Mab. It was natural. She was -nineteen, Mab only eighteen, and a year is so much at that age! But Mab -was clever. She could do something which Cicely could not even -understand; and she would be able to make money, which Cicely could -scarcely hope to do. It was envy, but of a generous kind. Cicely went -across the room quite humbly behind backs, not to disturb her sister's -work, and sat down by the darkened window, through which a fresh little -breeze from the garden was coming in. It distracted her for a moment -from her more serious cares to watch the work going on. She thought how -pretty Mab looked, lighting up the poetical darkness, working away so -vigorously and pleasantly with only that pucker of anxiety in her white -forehead, lest her sitters should move. "Oh, quiet, quiet!" she said, -almost breathless. "He must not either go to sleep or wake right up, -till I have put them in. Roll the ball to him softly, Cicely, quite -softly as if he were a kitten." Cicely put away the terrible books and -knelt down on the carpet and rolled the big ball, which Mab had been -moving with her foot towards little dozing Harry, who watched it with -eyes glazing over with sleep. The light and the warmth and the stillness -were too much for him. Just as the ball arrived at his soft little pink -toes he tumbled over all in a heap, with his head upon Charley. Mab gave -a cry of vexation. "But never mind, it was not your fault," she said, to -make up for her impatience. And indeed Cicely felt it was rather hard to -be blamed. - -"After all it does not matter," said Mab. "I have done enough--but I -shall never never get them to look like that again. How pretty children -are even when they are ugly! What pictures such things make! how anybody -can help making pictures all the day long I can't imagine. It is only -that you will not try." - -"I would try if I had any hope," said Cicely; "I would do anything. Oh, -I wonder if there is anything I could do!" - -"Why, of course you can teach," said Mab, consoling her, "a great deal -better than I can. I get impatient; but you shan't teach; I am the -brother and you are the sister, and you are to keep my house." - -"That was all very well," said Cicely, "so long as there was only us -two; but now look," she cried pointing to the two children lying over -one another in the light, asleep, "there is _them_--and papa----" - -"They are delightful like that," cried Mab starting up; "oh, quick, give -me that portfolio with the paper! I must try them again. Just look at -all those legs and arms!--and yet they are not a bit pretty in real -life," cried Mab in the fervour of her art, making a fine natural -distinction. - -Cicely handed her all she wanted, and looked on with wondering -admiration for a moment; but then she shook her head slightly and -sighed. "You live in another world," she said, "you artists. Oh, Mab, I -don't want to disturb you, but if you knew how unhappy I am----" - -"What is the matter? and why should you be more anxious than papa is?" -cried Mab busy with her charcoal. "Don't make yourself unhappy, dear. -Things always come right somehow. I think so as well as papa." - -"You don't mind either of you so long as you have---- Oh, you don't know -how bad things are. Mab! we are in debt." - -Mab stopped her work, appalled, and looked her sister in the face. This -was a terrible word to the two girls, who never had known what it was -to have any money. "In debt!" she said. - -"Yes, in debt--do you wonder now that I am wretched? I don't know even -if papa knows; and now he has lost even the little income he had, and we -have given up our situations. Oh, Mab! Mab! think a little; what are we -to do?" - -Mab let her chalk fall out of her hand. She went and knelt down by -Cicely's side, and put one soft cheek against another as if that would -do any good. "Oh, how can I tell?" she said with tears in her eyes. "I -never was any good to think. Is it much--is it very bad? is there -anything we can do?" - -Cicely shed a few tears over the butcher's book which was uppermost. "If -we were staying here for ever," she said, "as we were all foolish enough -to think when we came--we might have paid it with a struggle. I should -have sent away those two maids, and tried to do everything myself." - -"Everything, Cicely?" Mab was as much appalled at the thought of life -without a Betsy, as a fine lady would be denuded of her establishment. -The want of a maid-of-all-work represents a dreadful coming down in -life, almost more than a greater apparent loss does. Her countenance -fell, the corners of her mouth took a downward curve, and her pride -received a crushing blow. Yet if you consider what Betsy was, the loss -was not deadly. But as usual it was not the actual but the sentimental -view of the case which struck the girls. - -"Yes," said Cicely, with a solemn paleness on her face. She felt the -humiliation too. "I shouldn't mind _doing_ things," she said, her voice -breaking a little; "it is what people will think. Us, a clergyman's -daughters! But what is the use even of that?" she cried; "it will do no -good now. Papa must leave Brentburn, and we have not a shilling, not a -penny now, to pay those things with. I think and think--but I cannot -tell what we are to do." - -The two clung together in an agony of silence for a moment; how many -wringings of the heart have been caused by a little money! and so often -those who suffer are not those who are to blame. The ruin that seemed to -be involved was unspeakable to the two girls; they did not know what the -butcher and the baker might be able to do to them; nor did they know of -any way of escape. - -"If there was any hope," said Cicely after a pause, "of staying here--I -would go round to them all, and ask them to take pity upon us; to let us -begin again paying every week, and wait till we could scrape some money -together for what is past. That, I think, would be quite possible, if we -were to stay; and we might take pupils----" - -"To be sure," cried Mab, relieved, springing up with the easy hope of a -sanguine disposition, "and I might get something to do. In the meantime -I can finish my drawing. They have not stirred a bit, look, Cicely. They -are like two little white statues. It may be a pity that they were ever -born, as Aunt Jane says--but they are delightful models. I almost -think," Mab went on piously, working with bold and rapid fingers, "that -in all this that has happened there must have been a special providence -for me." - -Cicely looked up with surprise at this speech, but she made no reply. -She was too full of thought to see the humour of the suggestion. Mab's -art furnished a delightful way of escape for her out of all perplexity; -but Cicely could only go back to the butcher's book. "What could we do, -I wonder," she said half to herself, for she did not expect any advice -from her sister, "about the living? Very likely they don't know anything -about poor papa. It may be very highminded never to ask for anything," -said poor Cicely, "but then how can we expect that other people will -come and thrust bread into our mouths? It is better to ask than to -starve. As a matter of fact we cannot starve quietly, because if we are -found dead of hunger, there is sure to be a business in the papers, and -everything exposed. 'Death, from starvation, of a clergyman's family!' -That would make a great deal more fuss than quietly going and asking for -something for papa. I am not a bold girl--at least I don't think so," -she cried, her soft face growing crimson at the thought, "but I would -not mind going to any one, if it was the Head of the College, or the -Lord Chancellor, or even the Queen!" - -"I wonder," said Mab, "if we met the Queen driving in the forest--as one -does sometimes--whether we might not ask her, as people used to do long -ago? I don't think she would mind. Why should she mind? She could not be -frightened, or even angry, with two girls." - -Cicely shook her head. "The Queen has nothing to do with Brentburn; and -why should she be troubled with us any more than any other lady? No! -that sort of thing has to be done in a business way," said the elder -sister seriously. "If I could find out who was the chief man, the Head -of the College----" - -They had been so much absorbed that they had not heard any sound -outside; and at this moment the door was suddenly thrown open, admitting -a flood of cross light, and revealing suddenly the figures of the curate -and some one who followed him. - -"My dears!" began Mr. St. John, surprised. - -"Oh, papa! you have woke them up. You have spoiled my light!" cried Mab, -in despair. - -Cicely started to her feet, letting the account books tumble on the -floor; and the two little boys raised a simultaneous howl of sleepy woe. -"Harry wants his tea," they both piped piteously. Mr. Mildmay, whom the -curate had met at the gate, looked with a surprise I cannot describe on -this extraordinary scene. The white babies in the light had seemed to -him at first an exquisite little "composition," which went to his very -heart; and the two other figures, half lit up by the stream of unwelcome -light from the door, bewildered the young man. Who were they, or what? -One indignant, holding her charcoal with artistic energy; the other, -startled, gazing at himself with a hostile sentiment, which he could not -understand, in her eyes. - -"My love," said the gentle curate, "you should not make a studio of the -drawing-room." Mr. St. John was not disturbed by the wailing of the -little boys, to which, I suppose, he was used. "Cicely, this is Mr. -Mildmay, from Oxford, who has come--to look at the parish," he added, -with a gentle sigh. "Let us have tea." - -Why did the girl look at him with that paleness of anger in her face? -Mr. Mildmay's attention was distracted from the drawing and the artist, -who, naturally, would have interested him most, by the gleam of -hostility, the resentment and defiance in Cicely's eyes. - -"Yes, papa," she said shortly; and with merely an inclination of her -head to acknowledge his introduction to her, she took up the children, -Charley in one arm, who was half dressed; Harry under the other, whose -feet were bare, and carried them out of the room. She had divined the -first moment she saw him, a dark figure against the light, who he was; -and I cannot describe the bitterness that swelled like a flood through -poor Cicely's heart. It was all over, then! There was no further hope, -however fantastical, from College or Chancellor, or Queen! Fantastic, -indeed, the hope had been; but Cicely was young, and had been more -buoyed up by this delusion, even in her despair, than she was aware of. -She felt herself fall down, down into unspeakable depths, and the very -heart within her seemed to feel the physical pain of it, lying crushed -and sore, throbbing all over with sudden suffering. The passionate force -of the shock gave her strength, or I do not think she could have carried -the two children away as she did, one in each arm, while the stranger -looked on amazed. Little Charley, always peaceable, held her fast round -the neck, with his head against her cheek; but Harry, whom she carried -under her other arm, lifted his head a little from that horizontal -position, and kept up his melancholy whine. She was not fond of the -children; how could she be? and I think would gladly have "given them a -shake" in the excitement and misery of her feelings. It was so hard upon -the girl, that I think she might be forgiven for feeling that thus her -young arms were to be hampered all her life; and, meanwhile, she felt -that her father and sister would be perfectly amiable to the stranger, -who was about to supplant them, and turn them out of their house. This, -I am afraid, exasperated Cicely as much as anything else. "These two" -would have no _arrière pensée;_ they would be perfectly kind to him, as -though he were acting the part of their best friend. - -And, indeed, this was how it turned out. When she went back, having -disposed of the children, to make the tea, Cicely found Mab and Mr. -Mildmay in great amity over the uncompleted drawing. He had been -criticising, but he had been praising as well; and Mab was flushed with -pleasure and interest. She ran off laughing, to take off her blouse and -wash her hands, when Cicely came in, and the elder sister, who felt that -her eyes were still red, felt at the same time that her ungenial and -constrained reception of him had struck the new-comer. She went and -gathered up the account-books from the floor with a sigh. Despair was in -her heart. How could she talk and smile as the others had been doing? As -for Mr. St. John, he was as pleased with his visitor as if he had -brought him something, instead of taking all hope from him. It was -rarely the good man saw any but heavy parish people--the rural souls -with whom indeed he was friendly, but who had nothing to say to him -except about their crops and local gossip. The gossip of Oxford was much -sweeter to his ears. He liked to tell of the aspect of things "in my -time," as I suppose we all do; and how different this and that was -now-a-days. "I knew him when he was a curate like myself," he said, with -a soft sigh, talking of the dean, that lofty dignitary. "We were at -school together, and I used to be the better man;" and this was spoken -of the vice-chancellor himself; and he enjoyed and wondered to hear of -all their grandeurs. He had met Mildmay on the road, looking through the -gate at the rectory, and had addressed him in his suave old-world way as -a stranger. Then they had talked of the church, that most natural of -subjects between two clergymen; and then, half reluctantly, half with a -sense of compulsion, the stranger had told him who he was. Mr. St. John, -though he was poor, had all the hospitable instincts of a prince. He -insisted that his new acquaintance should come in and see the house, and -hear about everything. He would have given the same invitation, he said -afterwards, to any probable new resident in the parish, and why not to -the new rector? for in Mr. St. John's mind there was no gall. - -But to describe Mildmay's feelings when he was suddenly introduced into -this novel world is more difficult. He was taken entirely by surprise. -He did not know anything about the curate in charge. If he thought of -his predecessor at all it was the late rector he thought of, who had -died on the shores of the Bay of Naples after a life-long banishment -from England. He could understand all that; to go away altogether after -art, antiquity, Pompeii, classic editings, and æsthetic delights was -perfectly comprehensible to the young Oxford man. But this--what was -this? The old man before him, so gentle, so suave, so smiling, his own -inferior in position, for was he not rector elect, while Mr. St. John -was but curate? Yet so far above him in years and experience, and all -that constitutes superiority among gentlemen of equal breeding. Why was -he here as curate? and why did _that_ girl look at himself with so much -suppressed passion in her eyes? and where had the other been trained to -draw so well? and what was the meaning of the two children, so unlike -all the others, whom his young enemy had carried off impetuously, -instead of ringing the bell for their nurse as any one else would have -done? Mildmay felt a thrilling sensation of newness as he sat down at -the tea-table, and looked on, an interested spectator at all that was -proceeding under his eyes. This in its way was evidently _life_; there -was no mistaking the passion that existed underneath this quiet surface, -the something more than met the eye. Was it a skeleton in the closet, as -the domestic cynic says? But these were not words that seemed to apply -to this calm old man and these young girls. It was life, not the quiet -of books, and learned talk, and superficial discussion, but a quiet full -of possibilities, full of hidden struggle and feeling. Mildmay felt as -if he had come out of his den in the dark like an owl, and half -blinking in the unusual light, was placed as spectator of some strange -drama, some episode full of interest, to the character of which he had -as yet no clue. - -"You are looking at the furniture; it is not mine," said Mr. St. John, -"except the carpets, which, as you say, are much worn. The other things -are all Mr. Chester's. I am expecting every day to hear what is to be -done with them. Most likely they will sell it; if you wanted -anything----" - -Mildmay made a gesture of horror in spite of himself, and Mab laughed. - -"You do not think Mr. Mildmay wants all that mahogany, papa? The -catafalque there, Cicely and I agreed it was more like a tomb in -Westminster Abbey than anything else." - -"What is amiss with it?" said Mr. St. John. "I always understood it was -very good. I am told they don't make things nearly so strong or so -substantial now. Poor Chester! He was a man of very fine taste, Mr. -Mildmay. But why do you laugh, my dear? That was why he was so fond of -Italy; shattered health, you know. Those men who are so fond of art are -generally excitable; a little thing has an effect upon them. Cicely, -give Mr. Mildmay some tea." - -"Yes, papa," said Cicely; and gave the stranger a look which made him -think his tea might be poisoned. Mr. St. John went maundering kindly-- - -"You said you were going to London, and had left your things at the -station? Why shouldn't you stay all night here instead? There are a -great many things that I would like to show you--the church and the -school for instance, and I should like to take you to see some of my -poor people. Cicely, we can give Mr. Mildmay a bed?" - -Cicely looked up at her father quickly. There was a half-entreaty, a -pathetic wonder, mingled with anger, in her eyes. "How can you?" she -seemed to say. Then she answered hesitating, "There are plenty of beds, -but I don't know if they are aired--if they are comfortable." Strangely -enough, the more reluctant she was to have him, the more inclined -Mildmay felt to stay. - -"It is very kind," he said. "I cannot think how it is possible that I -can have had the assurance to thrust myself upon you like this. I am -afraid Miss St. John thinks it would be very troublesome." - -"Troublesome! There is no trouble at all. Cicely is not so foolish and -inhospitable," said the curate in full current of his open-heartedness. -"My dear, it is fine warm weather, and Mr. Mildmay is a young man. He is -not afraid of rheumatics like the old people in the parish. He and I -will walk up to the station after tea and fetch his bag, and I will show -him several things on the way. You will tell Betsy?" - -"I will see that everything is ready," she said, with so much more -meaning in the words than was natural or necessary. Her eyes were a -little dilated with crying, and slightly red at the edges; there was -surprise and remonstrance in them, and she did not condescend by a -single word to second her father's invitation. This settled the -question. Had she asked him, Mildmay might have been indifferent; but as -she did not ask him, he made up his mind it was quite necessary he -should stay. - -"I shall perhaps see you finish that group," he said to Mab, who was -interested and amused by the novelty of his appearance, as her father -was. - -"Ah, but I shall never get them into the same _pose_! If papa had not -come in so suddenly, waking them--besides spoiling my light----" - -"I am afraid it was partly my fault," he said; "but I did not expect to -be brought into the presence of an artist." - -The colour rose on Mab's cheeks. "Please don't flatter me," she said. "I -want so much to be an artist. Shall I ever be able to do anything, do -you think? for you seem to know." - -Cicely looked at her sister, her eyes sparkling with offence and -reproach. "The people who know you best think so," she said. "It is not -right to ask a stranger. How can Mr. Mildmay know?" - -How hostile she was! between her smiling pretty sister, who was ready to -talk as much as he pleased, and her kind old suave father, what a rugged -implacable young woman! What could he have done to her? Mildmay felt as -much aggrieved when she called him a stranger, as if it had been a -downright injury. "I know a little about art," he said quite humbly; -"enough to perceive that your sister has a great deal of real talent, -Miss St. John." - -"Yes, yes, she is clever," said the curate. "I hope it will be of some -use to you, my poor Mab. Now, Mr. Mildmay, let us go. I want to show you -the rectory fields, and the real village, which is some way off. You -must not think this cluster of houses is Brentburn. It is pleasant -walking in the cool of the afternoon, and, my dears, a walk will be good -for you too. Come down by the common and meet us. Cicely," he added in a -half-whisper, standing aside to let his guest pass, "my dear, you are -not so polite as I hoped. I wish you would look more kind and more -pleased." - -"But I am not pleased. Oh, papa, why did you ask him? I cannot bear the -sight of him," she cried. - -"My love!" said the astonished curate. He was so much surprised by this -outburst that he did not know how to reply. Then he put his hand softly -upon her forehead, and looked into her eyes. "I see what it is. You are -a little feverish: you are not well. It is the hot weather, no doubt," -he said. - -"Oh, papa! I am well enough; but I am very wretched. Let me speak to you -when we have got rid of this man--before you go to bed." - -"Surely, my dear," he said soothingly, and kissed her forehead. "I -should advise you to lie down for a little, and keep quiet, and the -fever may pass off. But I must not keep my guest waiting," and with this -Mr. St. John went away, talking cheerfully in the hall to his companion -as he rejoined him. "It is trying weather," they heard him saying. "I -stopped behind for a moment to speak to my eldest daughter. I do not -think she is well." - -"Will papa discuss your health with this new man?" cried Mab. "How funny -he is! But don't be so savage, Ciss. If it must be, let us make the best -of it. Mr. Mildmay is very nice to talk to. Let us take whatever -amusement is thrown in our way." - -"Oh, amusement!" said Cicely. "You are like papa; you don't think what -is involved. This is an end of everything. What are we to do? Where are -we to go to? His name is not Mildmay; it is Ruin and Destruction. It is -all I can do not to burst out upon him and ask him, oh! how has he the -heart--how has he the heart to come here!" - -"If you did I think he would not come," said Mab calmly. "What a pity -people cannot say exactly what they think. But if he gave it up, there -would be some one else. We must make up our minds to it. And how -beautifully poor papa behaves through it all." - -"I wish he were not so beautiful!" cried Cicely in her despair, almost -grinding her white teeth. "I think you will drive me mad between -you--papa and you." - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -IN THE PARISH. - - -Mr. Mildmay had a very pleasant walk. He went through Brentburn proper, -which was a mile from the church on the rich woodland side of the -parish, an ordinary little village, a mixture of old picturesque -Berkshire cottages, with high sloping roofs and aged harmonious mossy -brick walls, and very new square houses in the bilious brick of modern -use--mean and clean and angular. The cottages, with their wild old -gardens and mossed apple-trees delighted him; but the curate shook his -head, "They will be the curse of your life," he said solemnly, at which -the young Oxford man was disposed to laugh. - -A few people were standing about their doors enjoying the cool evening, -at whom the new rector looked with curiosity. They were very -commonplace people, with the set hard faces so common among the rural -poor, half caused by exposure to the open air, and half by the dull -routine in which their life is spent. Mildmay looked at them wistfully. -Were they the kind of people among whom he could find the life he -sought? A few of the women were gossiping, the men stared blankly at him -as he passed, saluting the curate gruffly; and evidently the wag among -them made some rough joke, received with loud laughter, upon the two -blackcoats. - -"Yes," said the curate mildly, "that fellow Joe Endley is one of the -worst in the parish. It was at us, no doubt, they were laughing. -Anything above their own level, except money, they don't understand; and -they know I have no money. Good evening, Mr. Wilkins. What a sweet -evening it is!" - -"Good evening, sir," said the grocer, coming, with his apron round him -from his shop-door. "I thought perhaps as you was comin' to me, sir, -along o' the letter I sent you." - -"I did not get any letter," said Mr. St. John, looking at the grocer in -a helpless, pitiful way, which his companion remarked wonderingly. The -curate seemed to shrink somehow: a painful look came upon his face. - -"I sent up this afternoon with my cart," said Wilkins, "to say as, if it -was quite convenient----" - -"My daughter will see to it--my daughter will see to it," said the -curate anxiously. "I am occupied at present, as you perceive, and in a -hurry. She will see you, or I, to-morrow." - -And he shuffled on through the dust of the highroad, quickening his -pace. His step had been the long, firm, manly step of a man still young, -till they met with this interruption. But poor Mr. St. John fell into a -shuffle when he met the grocer. His cheek got a hectic flush; he shrank -visibly; his knees and his elbows grew prominent. He did not speak again -till they had got beyond the village. Then he drew breath, and his -natural outline came slowly back. "You will find much hardness among the -people," he said; "Heaven forbid that I should blame them, poor souls: -they live hardly, and have hardness to bear from others; but when any -question arises between them and one who has unfortunately the -niceties--the feelings--that we are brought up to----" (the curate -stopped); "and I never was used to it," he said, as if to himself, in a -low voice. - -What did it all mean? the new rector said to himself. I think it was -easy enough to divine, for my part; but then the rector was young, and -had always been well off, and it did not occur to him that a grocer, -simply as grocer, could have any power over a clergyman; more and more -he felt convinced that some drama, some domestic tragedy, must be -connected with the St. Johns, and he felt more and more eager to find it -out. They went to the station, and sent a boy to the rectory with -Mildmay's portmanteau, and then they strayed home by the common, across -which the setting sun threw its very last slanting arrow of gold. - -"This is delightful!" said Mildmay. "What freedom! what breadth of -atmosphere! One feels oneself on the moors, in the great, ample world, -not shut in by walls and houses." - -"No, there is little of these," said the curate; "and it is very -healthy, I have always understood: the common is what my girls love. But -I don't see them coming." He arched his hand over his eyes as a defence -against the light, as he looked along the road for his daughters. Mr. -St. John had quite recovered himself. I don't think that even the name -of Wilkins would have discouraged him now. In the warm and balmy air he -took off his hat, holding up his venerable bare head to the sky. It was -a head which might have served for that of an old saint. His white hair -was still thick and abundant, his eyes full of soft light, his -expression tranquil as the evening. "I have come here in many troubles," -he said, "and I have always been refreshed. I don't pretend to know much -about art, Mr. Mildmay, but nature is always soothing. Greenness cools -the eyes whether it is study or tears that have fevered them. But I -wonder what has become of the girls." - -Mildmay was charmed by the meditative turn his companion's remarks had -taken, but the question about the girls embarrassed him. - -"I am afraid," he said, "that my intrusion has perhaps given Miss St. -John some trouble." - -"No; there is the servant, you know, a very good sort of girl, and -Cicely is like her dear mother--never taken by surprise. If you are -here as long as I have been you will know how pleasant it is to see a -new face. We country folks rust: we fall into a fixed routine. I myself, -see, was about to take this little byway unconsciously, a path I often -take, forgetting there was any one with me----" - -The curate looked wistfully along the thread of path; it had been worn -by his own feet, and he seldom concluded his evening walk otherwise. -Mildmay followed the narrow line with his eyes. - -"It leads to the churchyard," he said. "I like a country churchyard. May -we go there before we go in? What a pity the church is so new! and this -part of Berkshire is rich in old churches, I understand?" - -"It is in good repair, and much more wholesome than the old ones," said -Mr. St. John. "They may be more picturesque. Here you can see into the -rectory garden, the ground slopes so much; the church is very much -higher than the common. It used to be sweet to me, looking back at the -lights in the girls' rooms, when I stood----there they are on the lawn -now, Mr. Mildmay. They have not gone out, after all." - -Mildmay, looking down from the churchyard path, felt that it was -dishonourable to spy upon the two girls unaware of his scrutiny, whom he -could just see within the wall of the rectory garden; but he could not -help feeling that this was more and more like a drama which was being -played before him. He followed Mr. St. John along the narrow path to the -little white stile which admitted to the churchyard. The curate ceased -his tranquil talk as they entered that inclosure. He turned mechanically -as it seemed, to the left hand, and went round to a white cross upon a -grave turned towards the common. It was of common stone, grey with -years. The curate took off his hat again, and stood by it quite simply -and calmly. - -"It used to be sweet to me, standing here, to see the lights in the -girls' rooms," he said once more. The soft tranquillity of his tone -suited the still twilight, the pensive silent plain. It was too still -for sorrow, nor was there any touch of unhappiness in the gentle voice. -Young Mildmay uncovered too, and stood wondering, reverent, with a swell -of sympathy in his heart. Some men would have felt with anguish the -unspeakable separation between the mother under the dews and the -twinkle of the lights in her children's windows; but Mr. St. John was -not of that mind. Yet, somehow, to have this stranger here made his loss -seem fresher to him. "Cicely is very like her mother," he said, and -touched the cross softly with his hand as if caressing it, and turned -away. Mr. Mildmay could see that there were two paths up the mound to -the white gate, and the meaning of them struck him vividly--one was that -by which they had just come from the common, the other led down straight -to the rectory. His heart was more touched than I can say, by the gentle -fidelity, consoled and calm, yet always tender, which had worn that -double line through the grass. - -Mr. St. John, however, made a hesitating pause at a corner before he -took this second way home. "My other poor wife, poor Mrs. St. John, lies -there; but that I can show you to-morrow," he said, in his gentle -unchanged voice, and quietly went on to the gate, leading the way. -"Supper will be ready," the curate continued, when they emerged again -upon the turf. "We live a very simple primitive life here; our meals are -not arranged quite as yours are, but it comes to the same thing. In -short, whatever seeming differences there are, all ways of living come -to much the same thing." - -Did they so? Mr. St. John's meaning was of the simplest. He meant that -whether you called your latest meal dinner or supper did not matter -much; but his companion gave it a broader sense. With a jar of laughter -in his mind that broke up the reverential respect of the previous -moment, he followed his simple host into the house, which by-and-by was -to be his own house. Poor Mrs. St. John, who was not the mother of the -girls; whose grave could be shown to-morrow; for whose sake these paths -had not been worn across the grass; the stranger gave her her little -meed of human notice in that smothered laugh. Poor Miss Brown! - -The supper was homely enough--cold meat and salad, and bread and cheese -and jam--and would have been cheerful and pleasant, Mr. Mildmay thought, -but for the absorbed looks of that elder daughter, who was still -somewhat unfriendly to him. He went upstairs to his room, where a large -mahogany four-post bed, with heavy moreen hangings, awaited him, before -the night was very far advanced. When he had been there for a short -time, he saw that his door was not shut, and went to close it. As he did -so, he caught a glimpse of Cicely going downstairs. She had retired some -time before he did, so that her reappearance struck him all the more; -and she was quite unconscious that he saw her. She carried a candle in -one hand, and a pile of tradesmen's books in the other. She was pale, -her look fixed, her nostrils a little dilated, like some one going to a -painful task, he thought. As she moved down the dark staircase, a speck -of light, with her candle shining on the whiteness of her face and -dress, the walls, by which she flitted, looked more and more like the -scenery of a drama to the young man. If they only would have opened, as -in the _real_ theatre, and shown him where she was going, what she was -about to do! But this was very mean curiosity on Mr. Mildmay's part. He -shut his door humbly, that she might not be disturbed by the sound, and -after a while went meekly to bed, trying to say to himself that he had -no right to pry into the business of these good people, who had been so -kind to him; though, indeed, she had not been kind to him, he -reflected, by way of lessening his own sense of guilt. He heard subdued -voices below for some time after, and wished more than ever that the -scenery would open, and reveal this scene to him; but the substantial -walls stood fast, and the moreen curtains hung grimly about him, -shutting out everything. There was no compromise about the furniture at -the rectory; the pillared bedposts stood square, and stern, and strong, -till poor Mildmay, dozing within them in the warm August night, thought -them Samson's pillars in the house of Dagon, or the pillars of the -earth. - -Cicely went down to her father very resolute with her books. She had -intended to say very little to him, but he had exasperated her, and she -felt that she could not let him off. But her courage sank a little when -she got into the study, and saw his white head in the light of the -solitary candle. There were two candles on the table, but faithful to an -old frugal habit, Mr. St. John had put out one of them when his guest -left him. The room was good-sized, and full of huge mahogany bookcases; -and as the table was at one end of it, there is no telling how full of -gloom it was. One of the windows was open, and a great solid piece of -darkness seemed to have taken its place, and to be pouring in. Mr. St. -John was looking over some old sermons, bending his head over the -papers, with spectacles upon his nose, which he took off when Cicely -came in. He did not usually sit up so long, and he was rather aggrieved -at the late interview she had asked for. He did not like to be disturbed -out of his usual way, and he felt that she was going to speak to him -about Wilkins, the most painful subject which could be suggested. -Cicely, too, when he raised his head, and took off his spectacles, found -the interview a great deal more difficult than in her excited feelings -she had supposed. - -"Well, my dear," he said gently; "you wanted to speak to me." He gave a -little shiver when he saw the books in her hand. - -"Yes, papa," she said, laying them down on the table; and then there was -a pause. The soft night air came in, and crept wistfully about the room, -moving the curtains. When it approaches midnight, even in August, there -is always something chill and mournful in the night wind. - -"I wanted to speak to you," said Cicely, catching her breath a little; -"it was about the books. I don't know if you have looked at them lately. -Oh, papa! do you know that we are--in debt? I don't know how to say -it--a great deal in debt!" - -"Not a great deal, my dear," he said faintly; "something, I know. -Wilkins spoke to me to-day--almost before Mr. Mildmay." - -"It is not Wilkins alone," said Cicely solemnly; "it is everybody. The -butcher, too; and, oh! so many little people. How are they ever to be -paid? When I looked over the books to-day, not knowing--Oh! do you know -how it has happened? Can they be cheating? It is my only hope." - -"My dear," said the curate, faltering, "better that one should have done -wrong than that a great many should have done wrong. Poor Mrs. St. -John--nay, I should say both of us, Cicely; for I was also to blame. We -were not like your mother, my dear; it all came natural to your mother; -but she, or rather we----" Mr. St. John's voice sank into an indistinct -confusion. He was too good to blame the poor woman who was dead, and he -did not know how to meet the eyes thus shining upon him, youthful, -inexorable, of Hester's child. But even Cicely was moved by her father's -wistful looks, and the humility of his tone. - -"If only one could see any way of paying them," she said; "if even we -had been staying here! I had a plan, and we might have done it. And it -brings it all so near, and makes it so certain, to see this man." - -"My love," said the curate remonstrating, "we knew that some one must -come. It is not his fault. Why should we be unkind to him?" - -"Unkind! Oh papa!" cried Cicely in her exasperation, "what had we to do -with him? It was not our business to feast him and pet him. But that is -nothing," she said, trembling with excitement; "I will not blame you, -papa, for that or anything, if only you will say now what you are going -to do, or where you think we can go, or what I must say to these poor -people. We cannot stay here and starve, or till they put us in -prison--only tell me what we must do." - -"How can I tell you, Cicely," said the curate, "when I do not know -myself? I must advertise or something," he said helplessly. "I am old, -my dear. Few people want a curate of my age; I suppose it almost looks -like a stigma on a man to be a curate at my age." - -"Papa!" Cicely stopped short in what she was going to say, and looked at -him with strained and anxious eyes. She had meant to assail him for -still being a curate, but his self-condemnation closed the girl's lips, -or rather roused her in defence. - -"Yes," said Mr. St. John, "you may say I ought to have thought of that -sooner; but when things go on for a long time one asks one's self why -should not they go on for ever? 'He said, There will be peace in my -time.' That was selfish of Hezekiah, my dear, very selfish, when you -come to think of it. But I dare say it never seemed so to him, and -neither did it to me." - -Cicely was utterly overpowered by this; her anger and impatience died -out of her, and compunction and remorse rose in her heart. "That is not -the right way to look at it," she said. "It is a shame that a man like -you should only be a curate--oh, a shame to the Church and every one! -Mr. Chester, who never was here, never did anything, what right had he -to be the rector?--and this other person----" It was so necessary for -poor Cicely in the disturbance of her mind to be angry with some one -that naturally her wrath grew wild and bitter when she was free to pour -it out upon strangers. - -"Hush! hush! my dear," said the curate, with a half smile at her -vehemence; for indeed he was deeply relieved to have the tide of -indignation turned away from himself. - -"Why should I hush, papa? It is your own college, you say; but they -never take the trouble to ask who is at Brentburn, who has been taking -the duty, who has looked after the people when the rector has been so -long away. When people have the patronage of a parish in their hands, -ought they not to know about it? And how did they dare, how did they -venture, to give it to anybody but you?" - -"You don't understand," said Mr. St. John. "The livings are given to the -Fellows, Cicely, to people who have distinguished themselves. The dons -have no right to alienate a living, as it were, to put it away from -those who have a right to it, and give it to one like me." - -"What have they distinguished themselves in, papa? In Latin and -Greek--which will do a great deal in the parish, don't you think? -whereas you have distinguished yourself in Brentburn----" - -"I have not done very much, my dear," said the curate, shaking his head. - -"You have done all that has been done, papa; what are those college -people worth? This fine gentleman!" cried Cicely, with scorn. (I wonder -poor Mildmay did not feel himself shrink even within his four pillars -and moreen curtains.) "He knows about art if you please, and shudders at -the sight of Mr. Chester's mahogany. Poor old things," the girl cried, -turning round to look at the old bookcases with her eyes streaming, "I -only know how fond I am of them now!" - -I cannot tell how thankful her father was that the conversation had -taken this turn. _He_ too felt tenderly towards the old unlovely walls -which had sheltered him so long, and in the circumstances he felt it no -harm to speak a little more strongly than he felt. He looked round upon -the ghostly room so dark in all its corners. "A great many things have -happened to us here," he said; "this was the first room we sat in, your -mother and I. What changes it has seen! I don't know how to make up my -mind to leave it." - -This brought back the girl to the original question. "But now," she -said, drying her eyes, "there is no choice--we must leave it. I suppose -that is what this Mr. Mildmay has really come about? He will give you -some little time, I suppose. But papa, papa!" said Cicely, with a stamp -of her foot to emphasize her words, "don't you see you _must_ decide -something--make up your mind to something? Hoping on till the last day -will do no good to any one. And to think we should be so deep in debt! -Oh, papa, what are we to do?" - -"My dear, do not be hard upon me," said poor St. John; "I acknowledge, -indeed, that it was my fault." - -"It was not your fault--but I don't blame anybody. There was illness and -weakness, and some people can and some people can't," said Cicely, with -that mercy and toleration which are always, I fear, more or less, the -offspring of contempt. "Let us not go back upon that--but, oh, tell me, -what is to be done now?" - -Mr. St. John shook his venerable head piteously. "What do you think, -Cicely?" he said. - -This was all she could get from him; and, oh, how glad he was when he -was permitted to go to bed, and be done with it! He could not tell what -to do--anything he had ever done had been done for him (if it is not a -bull to say so), and he had no more idea what independent step to take -in this emergency, than one of the little boys had, to whose room he -paid a half-surreptitious visit on his way to his own. Poor little -souls! they were surreptitious altogether; even their father felt they -had no right to be there in his daughters' way. He went in, shading his -candle with his hand, not to disturb the slumbers of Annie, the little -nursemaid, and approached the two little cots on tip-toe, and looked at -the two little white faces on the pillows. "Poor little things," he said -to himself. Miss Brown was well out of it; she had escaped all this -trouble, and could not be called to account, either for the babies, or -those debts, which thus rose up against her in judgment. A dim giddiness -of despair had made Mr. St. John's head swim while his daughter was -questioning him; but now that the pressure was removed he was relieved. -He sighed softly as he left the subject altogether, and said his -prayers, and slept soundly enough. Neither the debts nor the babies -weighed upon him--at least "no more than reason;" he was quite able to -sleep and to forget. - -When Mr. Mildmay came downstairs next morning, and looked in at the open -door of the dining-room, he saw Cicely "laying the cloth" there, putting -down the white cups and saucers, and preparing the breakfast-table with -her own hands. He was so much surprised at this, that he withdrew -hastily, before she perceived him, with an uneasy sense that she might -not like to be caught in such an occupation, and went to the garden, -where, however, he could still see her through the open windows. He was -not used to anything of the kind, and it surprised him much. But when he -got outside he began to reflect, why should she be ashamed of it? There -was nothing in the action that was not graceful or seemly. He saw her -moving about, arranging one thing after another, and the sight made -somehow a revolution in his mind. He had been in the habit of thinking -it rather dreadful, that a man should expose his wife--a lady--to be -debased into such ignoble offices, or that any gentlewoman should have -such things to do. This was the first time he had ever seen domestic -business of a homely kind done by a lady, and my _dilettante_ was -utterly annoyed at himself, when he found that, instead of being hurt -and wounded by the sight, he liked it! Terrible confession! He went up -and down the garden walks, pretending to himself that he was enjoying -the fresh air of the morning, but actually peeping, spying, at the -windows, watching Miss St. John arrange the breakfast. She had not seen -him, but, quite unconscious of observation, absorbed in her own -thoughts, she went on with her occupation. There were more things to do -than to put the table to rights, for Betsy's work was manifold, and did -not admit of very careful housemaid work. Mr. Mildmay watched her for -some time, coming and going; and then he became aware of another little -scene which was going on still nearer to himself. Out from a side door -came the two little boys, hand in hand, with their hats tied on, and -overshadowing the little pallid faces like two mushrooms. They were -followed out by their little nurse, who watched their decorous exit with -approval. "Now take your walk, till I come and fetch you," said this -small guardian; upon which the two little urchins, tottering, but -solemn, began a serious promenade, so far along the gravel walk, so far -back again, turning at each end as on an imaginary quarterdeck. The -little boys tottered now and then, but recovered themselves, and went on -steadily up and down, backward and forward, without a break. Mildmay was -fond of children (so long as they did not bore him), and he was more -amused than he could say. He made a few steps across the lawn to meet -them, and held out his hands. "Come along here," he said; "come on the -grass." The solemn babies paused and looked at him, but were not to be -beguiled from their steady promenade. Their portentous gravity amazed -him--even the children were mysterious in this romantic rectory. He went -up to meet them on their next turn. - -"Come, little ones," he said, "let us be friends. What are your names?" - -They stood and looked at him with their big blue eyes, holding fast by -each other. They were unprepared for this emergency, as their father was -unprepared for the bigger emergency in which he found himself. At last -one small piping voice responded "Harry!" the other instinctively began -to suck his thumb. - -"Harry--and what else?--come, tell me," said the new rector; "you are -not both Harry." He stood looking at them, and they stood and looked at -him; and the two babies, three years old, understood as much about that -quintessence of Oxford, and education and culture, as he did of them; -they gazed at him with their four blue eyes exactly in a row. "Come, -speak," he said, laughing; "you have lost your tongues." This reproach -roused Charlie, who took his thumb out of his mouth and put his whole -hand in, to search for the tongue which was not lost. - -The sound of Mildmay's voice roused Cicely. She came to the window, and -looking out saw him there, standing in front of the children. Many -schemes had been throbbing in her head all night. She had not slept -tranquilly, like her father. She had been pondering plans till her -brain felt like a honeycomb, each cell holding some active notion. She -paused a moment, all the pulses in her beginning to throb, and looked -out upon the opportunity before her. Then, after a moment's hesitation, -she put down the little brush she held in her hand, threw up the window -a little higher and stepped out--to try one other throw, though the game -seemed played out, with Fortune and Fate! - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -CICELY'S APPEAL. - - -Cicely St. John was not in the least beautiful. The chief charm she had, -except her youthful freshness, was the air of life, activity, and -animation which breathed about her. Dulness, idleness, weariness, -langour were almost impossible to the girl--impossible, at least, except -for the moment. To be doing something was a necessity of her nature, and -she did that something so heartily, that there was nothing irritating in -her activity. Life (but for bills and debts, and the inaction of others) -was a pleasure to her. Her perpetual motion was so easy and pleasant and -harmonious, that it jarred upon nobody. When she came out, suddenly -stepping from the dining-room window, all the sweetness of the morning -seemed to concentrate in this one figure, so bright, so living, so full -of simple power; and this, after the sombre agitation and distress in -which she had been enveloped on the previous night, was the most -extraordinary revelation to the stranger, who did not know Cicely. He -could scarcely believe it was the same, any more than a man could -believe a sunshiny, brilliant summer morning to be the same as the -pallid, rainy troubled dawn which preceded the sunrising. Cicely had -been entirely cast down in the evening; every way of escape seemed to -have closed upon her; she was in despair. But the night had brought -counsel, as it so often does; and to-day she had risen full of plans and -resolutions and hopes, and was herself again, as much as if there were -no debts in her way, as if her father's position was as sure and stable -as they had all foolishly thought it. The moment she came into this -little group in the garden its character changed. Two poor little -startled babies gazing at a man who understood nothing about them, and -gazed back at them with a wonder as great as their own, without any -possible point on which they could come into contact: this is what the -curious encounter had been. Mildmay, as thinking himself much the most -advanced being, smiled at the children, and experienced a certain -amusement in their bewildered, helpless looks; yet he was not a bit -wiser in knowledge of them, in power to help them, in understanding of -their incomplete natures, than they were in respect to him. But when -Cicely stepped out, the group grew human. Whatever was going to be done, -whatever was necessary to be done, or said, she was the one capable of -doing or saying. Her light, firm step rang on the gravel with a meaning -in it; she comprehended both the previously helpless sides of the -question, and made them into a whole. Her very appearance had brightness -and relief in it. The children (as was natural and proper) were swathed -in black woollen frocks, trimmed with crape, and looked under their -black hats like two little black mushrooms, with their heads tilted -back. Cicely, too, possessed decorous mourning for poor Mrs. St. John; -but at home, in the morning, Mab and she considered it sufficient in the -circumstances to wear black and white prints, in which white -predominated, with black ribbons; so that her very appearance agreed -with the sunshine. May would have suited her perhaps better than August, -but still she was like the morning, ready for whatever day might bring. -Mildmay saluted her with a curious sensation of surprise and pleasure; -for this was the one, he perceived at once, who had looked at him with -so much hostility--and the change in her was very agreeable. Even the -children were moved a little. Charley's mouth widened over his thumb -with a feeble smile, and Harry took his gaze from Mildmay to fix it upon -her, and murmured "Zat's Cicely," getting over her name with a run, and -feeling that he had achieved a triumph. Little Annie, the nursemaid, -however, who was jealous of the sisters, appeared at this moment, and -led her charges away. - -"Funny little souls!" Mildmay said, looking after them; then fearing he -might have offended his hostess, and run the risk of driving her back -into her former hostility, he said something hastily about the garden, -which, of course, was the safest thing to do. - -"Yes, it is a nice garden," said Cicely; "at least, you will be able to -make it very nice. We have never taken enough trouble with it, or spent -enough money upon it, which means the same thing. You are very fond of -the country, Mr. Mildmay?" - -"Am I?" he said. "I really did not know." - -"Of country amusements, then--riding, and that sort of thing? We are -quite near the race-ground, and this, I believe, is a very good hunting -country." - -"But these are not clerical amusements, are they?" he said, laughing; -"not the things one would choose a parish for?" - -"No; certainly papa takes no interest in them: but then he is old; he -does not care for amusement at all." - -"And why should you think amusement is my great object? Do I look so -utterly frivolous?" said Mildmay, piqued. - -"Nay," said Cicely, "I don't know you well enough to tell how you look. -I only thought perhaps you had some reason for choosing Brentburn out of -all the world; perhaps love of the country, as I said; or love -for--something. It could not be croquet--which is the chief thing in -summer--for that you could have anywhere," she added, with a nervous -little laugh. - -"I hope, Miss St. John, there are other motives----" - -"Oh yes, many others. You might be going to be married, which people say -is a very common reason; but indeed you must not think I am prying. It -was only--curiosity. If you had not some object," said Cicely, looking -at him with a wistful glance, "you would never leave Oxford, where there -is society and books and everything any one can desire, to come here." - -"You think that is everything any one could desire?" he said smiling, -with a flattered sense of his superiority--having found all these -desirable things too little to content him--over this inexperienced -creature. "But, Miss St. John, you forget the only motive worth -discussing. There is a great deal that is very pleasant in -Oxford--society, as you say, and books, and art, and much besides; but I -am of no use to any one there. All the other people are just as well -educated, as well off, as good, or better than I am. I live only to -enjoy myself. Now, one wants more than that. Work, something to exercise -one's highest faculties. I want to do something for my -fellow-creatures; to be of a little use. There must be much to do, much -to improve, much to amend in a parish like this----" - -A rapid flush of colour came to Cicely's face. "To improve and amend!" -she said quickly. "Ah! you speak at your ease, Mr. Mildmay--in a parish -where papa has been working for twenty years!" - -Mildmay gave her a startled, wondering look. To be thus interrupted -while you are riding, full tilt, your favourite hobby, is very -confusing. He scarcely took in the meaning of the words "working for -twenty years." - -"Twenty years--all my lifetime and more; and you think you can mend it -all at once like an old shoe!" cried Cicely, her cheeks flaming. Then -she said, subduing herself, "I beg your pardon. What you say is quite -right, I know." - -But by this time her words began to take their proper meaning to his -mind. "Has Mr. St. John been here so long?" he said. "I hope you don't -think I undervalue his work. I am sure it must have been better than -anything I with my inexperience can do; but yet----" - -"Ah! you will learn; you are young; and we always think we can do better -than the old people. I do myself often," said Cicely, under her breath. - -"I did not mean anything so presumptuous," he said; "indeed, I did not -know. I thought of myself, as one does so often without being aware--I -hope you will not form a bad opinion of me, Miss St. John. I accepted -the living for the sake of the work, not for any smaller motive. Books -and society are not life. It seemed to me that to instruct one's -fellow-creatures so far as one can, to help them as far as one can, to -bring a higher ideal into their existence----" - -Cicely was bewildered by this manner of speech. She did not quite -understand it. No one had ever spoken to her of a high ideal; a great -deal had been said to her one time and another about doing her duty, but -nothing of this. She was dazzled, and yet half contemptuous, as -ignorance so often is. "A high ideal for the poor folk in the village, -and Wilkins the grocer, and old Mrs. Joel with her pigs?" she cried -mocking; yet while she said it, she blushed for herself. - -Mildmay blushed too. He was young enough to be very sensitive to -ridicule, and to know that high ideals should not be rashly spoken of -except to sympathetic souls. "Why not," he said, "for them as well as -for others?" then stopped between disappointment and offence. - -"Ah!" said Cicely, "you don't know the village people. If you spoke to -them of high ideals, they would only open their mouths and stare. If it -was something to make a little money by, poor souls! or to get new boots -for their children, or even to fatten the pigs. Now you are disgusted, -Mr. Mildmay; but you don't know how poor the people are, and how little -time they have for anything but just what is indispensable for living." -As she said this, Cicely's eyes grew wistful, and filled with moisture. -The young man thought it was an angelical pity for the poverty and -sufferings of others; but I fear the girl was at that moment thinking of -what lay before herself. - -"Miss St. John," he said, "when you feel for them so deeply, you must -sympathize with me too. The harder life is, has it not the more need of -some clear perception of all the higher meanings in it? If it is worth -while to be a clergyman at all, this is the use, it seems to me, to -which we should put ourselves; and for that reason----" - -"You are coming to Brentburn!" cried Cicely. The tears disappeared from -her eyes, dried by the flush of girlish impatience and indignation that -followed. "As if they were all heathens; as if no one else had ever -taught them--and spent his time and strength for them! Out of your Latin -and Greek, and your philosophy, and your art, and all those fine things, -you are coming to set a high ideal before poor Sally Gillows, whose -husband beats her, and the Hodges, with their hundreds of children, and -the hard farmers and the hard shopkeepers that grind the others to the -ground. Well!" she said, coming rapidly down from this indignant height -to a half disdainful calm, "I hope you will find it answer, Mr. Mildmay. -Perhaps it will do better than papa's system. He has only told them to -try and do their best, poor souls! to put up with their troubles as well -as they could, and to hope that some time or other God would send them -something better either in this world or another. I don't think papa's -way has been very successful, after all," said Cicely, with a faint -laugh; "perhaps yours may be the best." - -"I think you do me injustice," said Mildmay, feeling the attack so -unprovoked that he could afford to be magnanimous. "I have never thought -of setting up my way in opposition to Mr. St. John's way. Pray do not -think so. Indeed, I did not know, and could not think----" - -"Of papa at all!" cried Cicely, interrupting him as usual. "Why should -you? No, no, it was not you who ought to have thought of him. You never -heard his name before, I suppose. No one could expect it of you." - -"And if I have entered into this question," he continued, "it was to -show you that I had not at least mere petty personal motives." - -"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Mildmay. I had no right to inquire into your -motives at all." - -Mildmay was not vain; but he was a young man, and this was a young woman -by his side, and it was she who had begun a conversation much too -personal for so slight an acquaintance. When he thought of it, it was -scarcely possible to avoid a touch of amiable complacency in the -evident interest he had excited. "Nay," he said, with that smile of -gratified vanity which is always irritating to a woman, "your interest -in them can be nothing but flattering to me--though perhaps I may have a -difficulty in understanding--" - -"Why, I am so much interested! Mr. Mildmay!" cried Cicely, with her eyes -flashing, "don't you think if any one came to you to take your place, to -turn you out of your home, to banish you from everything you have ever -known or cared for, and send you desolate into the world--don't you -think you would be interested too? Don't you think you would wonder over -him, and try to find out what he meant, and why this thing was going to -be done, and why--oh, what am I saying?" cried Cicely, stopping short -suddenly, and casting a terrified look at him. "I must be going out of -my senses. It is not that, it is not that I mean!" - -Poor Mildmay looked at her aghast. The flash of her eyes, the energy of -her words, the sudden change to paleness and horror when she saw how far -she had gone, made every syllable she uttered so real, that to pass it -over as a mere ebullition of girlish temper or feeling was impossible; -and there was something in this sudden torrent of reproach--which, -bitter as it was, implied nothing like personal, intentional wrong on -his part--which softened as well as appalled him. The very denunciation -was an appeal. He stood thunderstruck, looking at her, but not with any -resentment in his eyes. "Miss St. John," he said, almost tremulously, "I -don't understand. This is all strange--all new to me." - -"Forget it," she said hastily. "Forgive me, Mr. Mildmay, when I ask your -pardon! I did not think what I was saying. Oh, don't think of it any -more!" - -"There is nothing to forgive," he said; "but you will tell me more? -Indeed I am not angry--how could I be angry?--but most anxious to know." - -"Cicely," said the curate's gentle voice from the window, "it is time -for prayers, and we are all waiting for you. Come in, my dear." Mr. St. -John stood looking out with a large prayer-book in his hand. His tall -figure, with a slight wavering of constitutional feebleness and age in -it, filled up one side of the window, and at his feet stood the two -babies, side by side as usual, their hats taken off, and little white -pinafores put on over their black frocks, looking out with round blue -eyes. There was no agitation about that placid group. The little boys -were almost too passive to wonder, and it had not occurred to Mr. St. -John as possible that anything calculated to ruffle the countenance or -the mind could have been talked of between his daughter and his guest. -He went in when he had called them, and took his seat at his usual -table. Betsy and Annie stood by the great sideboard waiting for the -family devotions, which Betsy, at least, having much to do, was somewhat -impatient of; and Mab was making the tea, in order that it might be -"drawn" by the time that prayers were over. The aspect of everything was -so absolutely peaceful, that when Mr. Mildmay stepped into the room he -could not but look at Cicely with a question in his eyes. She, her face -flushed and her mouth quivering, avoided his eye, and stole away to her -place at the breakfast-table behind. Mildmay, I am afraid, got little -benefit by Mr. St. John's prayer. He could not even hear it for -thinking. Was this true? and if it was true, what must he do? A perfect -tempest raged in the new rector's bosom, while the old curate read so -calmly, unmoved by anything but the mild every-day devotion which was -habitual to him. Secular things did not interfere with sacred in the old -man's gentle soul, though they might well have done so, Heaven knows, -had human necessities anything to do with human character. And when they -rose from their knees, and took their places round the breakfast-table, -Mildmay's sensations became more uncomfortable still. The girl who had -denounced him as about to drive her from her home, made tea for him, and -asked him if he took cream and sugar. The old man whom he was about to -supplant placed a chair for him, and bade him take his place with genial -kindness. Mr. Mildmay had been in the habit for the greater part of his -life of thinking rather well of himself; and it is inconceivable how -unpleasant it is when a man accustomed to this view of the subject, -feels himself suddenly as small and pitiful as he did now. Mr. St. John -had some letters, which he read slowly as he ate his egg, and Mabel also -had one, which occupied her. Only Cicely and the stranger, the two who -were not at ease with each other, were free to talk, and I don't know -what either of them could have found to say. - -The curate looked up from his letter with a faint sigh, and pushed away -the second egg which he had taken upon his plate unconsciously. -"Cicely," he said, "this is a startling letter, though perhaps I might -have been prepared for something of the kind. Mr. Chester's relations, -my dear, write to say that they wish to sell off the furniture." Mr. St. -John gave a glance round, and for a moment his heart failed him. "It is -sudden; but it is best, I suppose, that we should be prepared." - -"It was to be expected," said Cicely, with a little gasp. She grew -paler, but exerted all her power to keep all signs of emotion out of her -face. - -"Sell the furniture?" said Mab, with a laugh. "Poor old things! But who -will they find to buy them?" Mab did not think at all of the inevitable -departure which must take place before Mr. Chester's mahogany could be -carried away. - -"You will think it very weak," said poor Mr. St. John, "but I have been -here so long that even the dispersion of the furniture will be something -in the shape of a trial. It has seen so much. Of course, such a -grievance is merely sentimental--but it affects one more than many -greater things." - -"I did not know that you had been here so long," said Mildmay. - -"A long time--twenty years. That is a great slice out of one's life," -said Mr. St. John. (He here thought better of a too hasty determination, -and took back his egg.) "Almost all that has happened to me has happened -here. Here I brought your mother home, my dears. Cicely is very like -what her mother was; and here you were born, and here----" - -"Oh, papa, don't go on like that odious Jessica and her lover, 'On such -a night!'" said Cicely, with a forced laugh. - -"I did not mean to go on, my dear," said the curate, half aggrieved, -half submissive; and he finished his egg with a sigh. - -"But I wonder very much," said Mildmay, "if you will pardon me for -saying so, why, when you have been here so long, you did not take some -steps to secure the living. You must like the place, or you would not -have stayed; and nobody would have been appointed over your head; it is -impossible, if the circumstances had been known." - -"My dear sir," said the curate, with his kind smile, "you don't think I -mean to imply any grudge against you? That would shut my mouth -effectually. No, there are a great many reasons why I could not do -anything. First, I did not know till a few days ago that the rector was -dead; he should have sent me word. Then I have grown out of acquaintance -with all my friends. I have not budged out of Brentburn, except now and -then to town for a day, these twenty years; and, besides all this," he -said, raising his head with simple grandeur, "I have never asked -anything from anybody, and I hope I shall end my life so. A beggar for -place or living I could never be." - -Cicely, with her eyes fixed upon him with the most curious mixture of -pride, wonder, humiliation, satisfaction, and shame, raised her head -too, sharing this little lyrical outburst of the humble old man's -self-consequence. - -But Mab burst lightly in from the midst of her letter. "Don't boast of -that, papa, please," she said. "I wish you had asked something and got -it. I am sure it would have been much better for Cicely and me." - -"My dear!" said Mr. St. John, with a half smile, shaking his head. It -was all the reply he made to this light interruption. Then he resumed -the former subject. "Take the letter, Cicely, and read it, and tell me -what you think. It is grievous to think of a sale here, disturbing old -associations. We must consult afterwards what is best to do." - -"Papa," said Cicely, in a low voice full of agitation, "the best thing -of all would be to settle now, while Mr. Mildmay is here; to find out -when he wishes to come; and then there need be no more to put up with -than is absolutely necessary. It is better to know exactly when we must -go." - -The curate turned his mild eyes to the young man's face. There was a -look of pain and reluctance in them, but of submission; and then he -smiled to save the stranger's feelings. "It is hard upon Mr. Mildmay," -he said, "to be asked this, as if we were putting a pistol to his head; -but you will understand that we wish you every good, though we may be -grieved to leave our old home." - -Mildmay had been making a pretence at eating, feeling as if every morsel -choked him. Now he looked up flushed and nervous. "I am afraid I have -inadvertently said more than I meant," he said. "I don't think I have -made up my mind beyond the possibility of change. It is not settled, as -you think." - -"Dear me," said Mr. St. John, concerned, "I am very sorry; I hope it is -not anything you have heard here that has turned you against Brentburn? -It is not a model parish, but it is no worse than other places. Cicely -has been telling you about my troubles with those cottages; but, indeed, -there is no parish in England where you will not have troubles of some -kind--unwholesome cottages or other things." - -"I said nothing about the cottages," said Cicely, with downcast looks. -"I hope Mr. Mildmay does not mind anything I said. I say many things -without thinking. It is very foolish, but it would be more foolish to -pay any attention. I am sure you have often said so, papa." - -"I?" said the curate, looking at her disturbed countenance with some -surprise. "No, I do not think you are one of the foolish talkers, my -dear. It is a long story about these cottages; and, perhaps, I let -myself be more worried than I ought. I will tell you all about it on the -way to the Heath, for I think you ought to call on the Ascotts, if you -will permit me to advise. They are the chief people about here. If you -are ready, perhaps we should start soon; and you will come back and have -some of our early dinner before you go?" - -"I am ashamed to give so much trouble, to--receive so much kindness," -said Mildmay, confused. He rose when Mr. St. John did, but he kept his -eyes fixed upon Cicely, who kept her seat, and would not look at him. -The curate had various things to do before he was ready to start. He had -his scattered memoranda to collect, and to get his note-book from his -study, and yesterday's newspaper to carry to an old man in the village, -and a book for a sick child, and I don't know how many trifles besides. -"Papa's things are always all over the house," Mab cried, running from -one room to another in search of them. Cicely generally knew exactly -where to find all these properties which Mr. St. John searched for -habitually with unfounded yet unalterable confidence in the large -pockets of his long clerical coat. But Cicely still kept her seat, and -left her duties to her sister, her mind being full of other things. - -"What is the matter with Cicely?" said Mab, running back with her hands -full. "I have found them, but I don't know which of your pockets they -belong to. This is the one for the note-book, and this is the one for -the newspaper; but what does Cicely mean, sitting there like a log, and -leaving everything to me?" - -"Miss St. John," said Mildmay, in this interval, "may I come back as -your father says? May we finish the conversation we began this morning? -or is the very sight of me disagreeable to you? There are so many things -I want to know." - -Cicely got up suddenly, half impatient, half sad. "We are always glad to -see any one whom papa asks," she said; "you must call it luncheon, Mr. -Mildmay, but to us it is dinner; that makes the difference between -rector and curate," she added, with a laugh. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -THE PARSON'S ROUND. - - -How brilliant was that August morning when the two men went out! the sky -so blue and warm and full of sunshine, bending with friendly tenderness -toward the luxuriant earth which it embraced, lost everywhere in soft -distances, limits that were of the eye and not of the infinite melting -space--showing through the foliage, opening out sweet and full over the -breezy purpled common. The red cottage roofs, with all their lichens, -shone and basked in the light; the apples reddened moment by moment, the -yellow corn rustled and waved in every breath of air, conscious of the -coming sickle. Everything was at its fullest blaze of colour; the trees -more deeply green than usual, the sky of more profound and dazzling -blue, the heather purple-royal, showing in its moorland flush against -the russet-golden fields burning in the sun which gave them their last -perfection of ripeness; and even the flowers in the gardens blazing -their brightest to hide the fact from all men that the sweetness and -hope of the year were almost lost in that harvest and climax which -touches upon decay, as everything does which is perfect. The sun was too -fierce for anything but red burning geraniums, and gaudy hollyhocks and -rank dahlias. But the red old cottages at Brentburn were of themselves -like growths of nature, with all their stains of moss, red and grey and -yellow, relieved and thrown up by the waving greyness of the willows, -that marked every spot of special dampness, and by the wealthy green -woods that rolled away into the distance, into the sky. Everything is -musical in such a morning; the very cackle of the ducks in that brown -pond--how cool it looks to the dusty wayfarer!--takes a tone from the -golden air; the slow roll of the leisurely cart along the country road; -the voices from the cottages calling in full Berkshire drawl to Jyain or -Jeo outside. A harmonious world it seemed, with nothing in it to jar or -wound; the very air caressing every mother's son it met, blowing about -the rags as if it loved them, conveying never a chill to the most poorly -clad. How different was that broad outdoor satisfaction and fulness to -the complainings and troubles enclosed by every set of four walls in the -parish! Mildmay, as was natural, knew nothing about these nor suspected -them; his spirits rose when he came out into the summer air--to walk -along the cool side of the road in the shade, and watch the triumphant -sunshine blazing over everything, leaving not an inch even of the common -high road unglorified, brought a swell of pleasure to his heart he could -not tell why. - -"You must not come to a country parish with the idea that it is -Arcadia," said Mr. St. John; "such ideas lead to a great deal of -disappointment; but you must not let yourself be discouraged either. I -don't think that Cicely knows all the outs and ins of the story about -the cottages." - -"Miss St. John said nothing about the cottages." - -"Ah! I thought she had put you out of spirits; that would be foolish," -said the curate kindly. "You see, Mr. Mildmay, everybody here thinks a -great deal of a little money; it is so, I believe, in every small place; -they have little, very little, Heaven knows; and somehow, when one is -very poor, that gets to look of more importance than anything else. I -don't say so from personal experience, though I have always been poor -enough. My way, I am afraid, is to think too little of the money, not -too much--which is, perhaps, as great a mistake the other way; but it is -much easier, you know, to condemn those faults we have no mind to," Mr. -St. John added with a smile. The visit of an intelligent stranger had -quite brightened the good man up, though it ought to have depressed him, -according to all principles of good sense. The curate forgot how much he -himself must suffer from the change that was coming. Mildmay pleased -him; he was deferential to his own grey hairs and long experience; he -was willing to hear and apparently to take, his predecessor's opinion, -and Mr. St. John liked the novelty, the new companion, the attentive -listener. He walked on quite briskly, with the easy steps of a man to -whom the way is so familiar that he does not need to pause to look -where he is going. Now and then he would stop to point out a view, a -glimpse of the distant forest, a slope opening down upon the lower level -of the common, or even a pretty cottage; and one of them, a most -picturesque refuge of misery, with tiny little casement windows bulging -anyhow from the ruddy old wall, and a high roof of the most -indescribable and beautiful mixture of tints, set him easily afloat -again upon the subject of which his mind was full. - -"Look at it!" he said; "it is a picture. If one could only clear them -out and shut them up--or rather throw them open, that the winds of -heaven might enter, but not our fellow-creatures, Mr. Mildmay! As I was -saying, they are all poor here. The people think you do them an injury -when you speak of anything that has to be paid for. Because I have tried -to get the cottages put into good repair, the arrangements made a little -more decent, and the places fit to live in, more than two or three of -the people have left the parish church. Yes, that is quite true--I -thought Cicely must have told you--well-to-do people, who might have -spared a few pounds well enough. It was a trial; but what of that? I -have outlived it, and perhaps done a little good." - -"The cottagers, at least, must have been grateful to you," said Mildmay; -but the curate shook his head. - -"The cottagers thought I was only trying to get them turned out," he -said. "They almost mobbed me once. I told them they should not take -lodgers and lodgers till every room was crowded. They are as bad as the -landlords; but, poor souls! it was easy to forgive them, for the -shilling or two they gained was such an object to them. I thought it -best to tell you; but there was really nothing in it, nothing to be -annoyed about. It was soon over. You, a young man, need not be -discouraged by any such episode as that." - -"Mr. St. John, there is something which discourages me much more," said -Mildmay. "When I came yesterday to see Brentburn, I did not know you at -all. I had heard your name; that was all. I thought you were most likely -a man of my own standing, or younger----" - -"As a curate ought to be," said Mr. St. John, once more shaking his -head. "Yes; I was saying to Cicely, it is almost a stigma upon a man to -be a curate at my age; but so it is, and I cannot help it. Perhaps if I -had not settled down so completely when I was young, if I had been more -energetic; I feel that now--but what good does it do? it is too late now -to change my nature. The children are the worst," he said, with a sigh, -"for they must come upon the girls." Then recovering himself with a -faint smile, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Mildmay, for going off with my own -thoughts. You said it discouraged you. Do you mean my example? You must -take it as a lesson and a warning, not as an example. I am very sensible -it is my own fault." - -"I came to supplant you, to take your place, to turn you out of your -home," said Mildmay, finding it a kind of relief to his feelings to -employ Cicely's words, "and you received me like a friend, took me into -your house, made me sit at your table----" - -The curate was startled by his vehemence. He laughed, then looked at him -half alarmed. "What should I have done else?" he said. "I hope you are a -friend. Supplant me! I have been here a great deal longer than I had any -right to expect. Of course, we all knew a new rector would come. The -girls, indeed, had vague notions about something that might be -done--they did not know what, poor things! how should they? But of -course from the first I was aware what must happen. No, no; you must not -let _that_ trouble you. I am glad, on the contrary, very glad, that the -people are going to fall into hands like yours." - -"Poor hands," said Mildmay. "Mr. St. John, you may think it strange that -I should say this; but it is you who ought to be the rector, not me. You -ought to stay here; I feel it. If I come after all, I shall be doing a -wrong to the people and to you, and even to the Church, where such -things should not be." - -Once more Mr. St. John slowly shook his head; a smile came over his -face; he held out his hand. "It is pleasant to hear you say it; somehow -it is pleasant to hear you say it. I felt sure Cicely had been saying -something to you this morning. But no, no; they would never have given -me the living, and I should never have asked for it. As for a wrong, -nobody will feel it a wrong; not myself, nor the Church, and the people -here last of all." - -"They must look upon you as their father," said Mildmay warmly. "Nothing -else is possible. To them it is the greatest wrong of all." - -"You speak like a--boy," said the curate. "Yes; you speak like a kind, -warm-hearted boy. The girls say the same kind of things. You are all -young, and think of what ought to be, not of what is. The people! The -Church does not give them any voice in the matter, and it is just as -well. Mr. Mildmay, I've been a long time among them. I've tried to do -what I could for them. Some of them like me well enough; but the people -have never forgotten that I was only curate--not rector. They have -remembered it all these twenty years, when sometimes I was half tempted -to forget it myself." - -"Oh, sir, do not think so badly of human nature!" said Mildmay, almost -with a recoil from so hard a judgment. - -"Do I think badly of human nature? I don't feel that I do; and why -should this be thinking badly? Which is best for them to have, a man who -is well off, who is a real authority in the parish, whom the farmers and -masters will stand in awe of, and who will be able to help them in -trouble--or a poor man who has to struggle for himself, who has nothing -to spare, and no great influence with any one? I shall feel it, perhaps, -a little," said Mr. St. John, with a smile; "but it will be quite -unreasonable to feel it. In a month you will be twice as popular in the -parish as I am after twenty years." - -"It is not possible!" said the young man. - -"Ah, my dear Mr. Mildmay, a great many things are possible! The girls -think like you. I suppose it is natural; but when you come to take -everything into account--the only thing to have been desired was that I -should have died before Mr. Chester; or, let us say that he should have -outlived me, which sounds more cheerful. Come," said the curate with an -effort, "don't let us think of this. I hope you are a friend, Mr. -Mildmay, as I said; but, as you say yourself, you are only a friend of -yesterday, so why you should take my burden on your shoulders I don't -know. I think we may venture to call on the Ascotts now. He is a little -rough, or rather bluff, but a good man; and she is a little--fanciful," -said the curate, searching for a pleasant word, "but a kind woman. If -you take to them, and they to you----" - -"On what pretence should I go to see them, unsettled as I am about my -future?" said Mildmay, hesitating. - -The curate looked at him with a smile. He rang the bell, then opened the -door, which, like most innocent country doors, opened from the outside. -Then he fixed his mild eyes upon the young man. He had some gentle -insight in his way by right of his years and experience of life, -simple-minded as he was. "You go as the new rector--the best of -introductions," he said, and led the way smiling. It was not difficult, -perhaps, to see through the struggle in Mildmay's mind between his own -wish and determination, and his sympathetic sense of the hardship -involved to others. I think the curate was quite right in believing that -it was the personal inclination which would gain the day, and not the -generous impulse; as, indeed, Mr. St. John fully recognized it ought to -be. - -Mr. Ascott was in his library, reading the newspaper, but with such an -array of papers about him, as made that indulgence look momentary and -accidental. He was not the squire of the parish, but he had a -considerable landed property in the neighbourhood, and liked to be -considered as holding that position. He received Mr. Mildmay, boldly -introduced by the curate as the new rector, with the greatest -cordiality. "I had not seen the appointment," he said, "but I am most -happy to welcome you to the parish. I hope you like what you have seen -of it? This is quite an agreeable surprise." - -Mildmay found it very difficult to reply, for was not every word of -congratulation addressed to him an injury to his companion, whose star -must set as his rose? The curate, however, showed no such feeling. His -_amour propre_ was quite satisfied by being the first to know and to -present to the parish its new rector. "Yes, I thought you would be -pleased to hear at once," he said, with gentle complacency. "I would not -let him pass your door." - -"Poor Chester! This reminds me of him," said Mr. Ascott. "He came to -Brentburn in my father's time, when I was a young fellow at home fresh -from the university. He was a very accomplished man. It was a pity he -had such bad health. A parish gets out of order when it is without the -proper authorities. Even a good deputy--and St. John, I am sure, has -been the best of deputies--is never like the man himself." - -"That is just what I have been saying," said Mr. St. John; but though he -took it with great equanimity, it was less pleasant to him to hear this, -than to say it himself. "I think I will leave you now," he added. "I -have a great deal to do this morning. Mr. Ascott will tell you many -things that will be really valuable, and at two o'clock or sooner we -will expect you at the rectory." - -"It is a pity to trouble you and your girls, St. John. He can have some -luncheon here. Mrs. Ascott will be delighted to see him." - -"I shall be at the rectory without fail," said Mildmay, with a sense of -partial offence. He belonged to the rectory, not to this complacent -secular person. A certain _esprit de corps_ was within him. If the rest -of the world neglected the poor curate, he at least would show that to -him the old priest was the first person in the parish. "Or," he added, -hesitating, "I will go with you now." - -Mr. St. John did not wish this. He felt that he would be less at his -ease with his poor people if conscious of this new man fresh from -Oxford at his elbow. There might be, for anything he knew to the -contrary, newfangled ways even of visiting the sick. To talk to them -cheerily, kindly, as he had always done, might not fall in with the -ideas of duty held by "high" schools of doctrine, of whatever kind. He -went away plodding along the high road in the sultry noon, with a smile -still upon his face, which faded, however, when the stimulus of -Mildmay's company, and the gratification of presenting the stranger to -the great people of the parish, had subsided. These circumstances were -less exhilarating when the curate was alone, and had to remember Wilkins -and all the outstanding bills, and the fact that the furniture in the -rectory was to be sold, and that Cicely that very night would ask him -once more what he had made up his mind to do. What could he make up his -mind to do? The very question, when he put it to himself merely, and -when it was not backed up by an eager young face, and a pair of eyes -blazing into him, was bewildering enough; it made the curate's head go -round and round. Even when he came to Brentburn twenty years ago it was -not his own doing. Friends had found the appointment for him, and -arranged all the preliminaries. Nothing had been left for him but to -accept it, and he had accepted. And at that time he had Hester to fall -back upon. But now to "look out for something," to apply for another -curacy, to advertise and answer advertisements, describing himself and -his capabilities--how was he to do it? He was quite ready to consent to -anything, to let Cicely manage for him if she would; but to take the -initiative himself! The very thought of this produced a nervous -confusion in his mind which seemed to make an end of all his powers. - -"You must come upstairs and see my wife," said Mr. Ascott. "She will be -delighted to make your acquaintance. She has been a great deal in -society, and I don't doubt you and she will find many people to talk -about. As for me, I am but a country fellow, I don't go much into the -world. When your interests are all in the country, why, stick to the -country is my maxim; but my wife is fond of fine people. You and she -will find a hundred mutual acquaintances in half-an-hour, you will see." - -"But I am not fond of fine people--nor have I so many acquaintances." - -"Oh, you Oxford dons know everybody. They all pass through your hands. -Come along, it will be quite a pleasure for my wife to see you. -Adelaide, I am bringing you some one who will be a surprise to you as -well as a pleasure. Mr. Mildmay, our new rector, my dear." - -"Our new rector!" Mrs. Ascott said, with a subdued outcry of surprise. -She was seated in a corner of a large light room with three or four -large windows looking out upon a charming lawn and garden, beyond which -appeared the tufted undulations of the common, and the smooth green turf -and white posts of the race-ground. With a house like this, looking out -upon so interesting a spot, no one need be surprised that Mrs. Ascott's -fine friends "kept her up," and that for at least one week in the year -she was as popular and sought after as any queen. Though it was only one -week in the year, it had a certain influence upon her manners. She lived -all the year through in a state of reflected glory from this brief but -ever-recurring climax of existence. The air of conferring a favour, the -look of gracious politeness, yet preoccupation, which suited a woman -over-balanced by the claims of many candidates for her hospitality, -never departed from her. She gave that little cry of surprise just as -she would have done had her husband brought a stranger to her to see if -she could give him a bed for the race week. "I am delighted to make Mr. -Mildmay's acquaintance," she said; "but, my dear, I thought there was -going to be an effort made for poor Mr. St. John?" This was in a lower -tone, as she might have said, "But there is only one spare room, and -that I have promised to Mr. St. John." Her husband laughed. - -"I told you, my dear, that was nonsense. What do ladies know of such -matters? They talked of some foolish petition or other to the Lord -Chancellor, as if the Lord Chancellor had anything to do with it! You -may be very thankful you had me behind you, my dear, to keep you from -such a foolish mistake. No; Mr. Mildmay has it, and I am very glad. The -dons have done themselves credit by their choice, and we are in great -luck. I hope you will not be like your predecessor, Mr. Mildmay, and -take a dislike to the parish. We must do our best, Adelaide, to prevent -that." - -"Indeed, I hope so," said the lady. "I am sure I am delighted. I think -I have met some relations of yours, Mr. Mildmay--the Hamptons of -Thornbury? Yes; I felt sure I had heard them mention you. You recollect, -Henry, they lunched with us here the year before last, on the cup day? -They came with Lady Teddington--charming people. And you know all the -Teddingtons, of course? What a nice family they are! We see a great deal -of Lord Charles, who is often in this neighbourhood. His dear mother is -often rather anxious about him. I fear--I fear he is just a little -disposed to be what you gentlemen call fast." - -"We gentlemen don't mince our words," said her husband; "rowdy young -scamp, that is what I call him; bad lot." - -"You are very severe, Henry--very severe--except when it is a favourite -of your own. How glad I am we are getting some one we know to the -rectory. When do you take possession, Mr. Mildmay? We shall be quite -near neighbours, and will see a great deal of you, I hope." - -"I do not feel quite sure, since I have been here, whether I will come -to the rectory at all," said Mildmay. "Mr. St. John was so hasty in his -announcement, that I feel myself a swindler coming here under false -pretences. I have not made up my mind whether I will accept the living -or not." - -"Since you have been here? Then you don't like the place," said Mr. -Ascott. "I must say I am surprised. I think you are hasty, as well as -St. John. Poor Chester, to be sure, did not like it, but that was -because he thought it did not agree with him. The greatest nonsense! it -is as healthy a place as any in England; it has a hundred advantages. -Perhaps this sort of thing mayn't suit you as a clergyman," he said, -waving his hand towards the distant race-course; "but it gives a great -deal of life to the place." - -"And so near town," said Mrs. Ascott; "and such nice people in the -neighbourhood! Indeed, Mr. Mildmay, you must let us persuade you; you -must really stay." - -"Come, now," cried her husband, "let's talk it over. What's your -objection? Depend upon it, Adelaide, it is those pets of yours, the St. -John's who have been putting nonsense into his head." - -"Poor things, what do they know!" said Mrs. Ascott, with a sigh. "But -indeed, Mr. Mildmay, now that we have seen you, and have a chance of -some one we can like, with such nice connections, we cannot let you go." - -This was all very flattering and pleasant. "You are extremely kind," -said Mildmay. "I must put it to the credit of my relations, for I have -no right to so much kindness. No, it is not any objection to the place. -It is a still stronger objection. I heard Mrs. Ascott herself speak of -some effort to be made for Mr. St. John----" - -"I--what did I say?" cried the lady. "Mr. St. John? Yes, I was sorry, of -course; very sorry." - -"It was all nonsense," said the husband. "I told her so. She never meant -it; only what could she say to the girls when they appealed to her? She -is a soft-hearted goose--eh, Adelaide? One prefers women to be so. But -as for old St. John, it is sheer nonsense. Poor old fellow! yes, I am -sorry for him. But whose fault is it? He knew Chester's life was not -worth _that_; yet he has hung on, taking no trouble, doing nothing for -himself. It is not your part or our part to bother our minds for a man -who does nothing for himself." - -"That is true enough," said Mildmay; "but his long services to the -parish, his age, his devotion to his work--it does not seem right. I -don't say for you or for me, but in the abstract----" - -"Devotion?" said Mr. Ascott. "Oh yes; he has done his work well enough, -I suppose. That's what is called devotion when a man dies or goes away. -Yes, oh yes, we may allow him the credit of that, the poor old fogey, -but--yes, oh yes, a good old fellow enough. When you have said that, -there's no more to say. Perhaps in the abstract it was a shame that -Chester should have the lion's share of the income, and St. John all the -work; but that's all over; and as for any hesitation of yours on his -account----" - -"It may be foolish," said the young man, "but I do hesitate--I cannot -help feeling that there is a great wrong involved--to Mr. St. John, of -course, in the first place--but without even thinking of any individual, -it is a sort of thing that must injure the Church; and I don't like to -be the instrument of injuring the Church." - -"Tut--tut--tut!" said Mr. Ascott; "your conscience is too tender by -far." - -"Mr. Mildmay," said the lady sweetly, "you must not expect me to follow -such deep reasoning. I leave that to superior minds; but you ought to -think what a great thing it is for a parish to have some one to look up -to--some one the poor people can feel to be really their superior." - -"Not a poor beggar of a curate," cried her husband. "There, Adelaide! -you have hit the right nail on the head. That's the true way to look at -the subject. Poor old St. John! I don't say he's been well treated by -destiny. He has had a deal of hard work, and he has stuck to it; but, -bless you! how is a man like that to be distinguished from a Dissenting -preacher, for instance? Of course, he's a clergyman, in orders and all -that, as good as the Archbishop of Canterbury; but he has no -position--no means--nothing to make him the centre of the parish, as the -clergyman ought to be. Why, the poorest labourer in the parish looks -down upon the curate. 'Parson's just as poor as we is,' they say. I've -heard them. He has got to run up bills in the little shops, and all -that, just as they have. He has no money to relieve them with when -they're out of work. The farmers look down upon him. They think nothing -of a man that's poor; and as for the gentry----" - -"Stop, Henry," said Mrs. Ascott; "the gentry have always been very kind -to the St. Johns. We were always sorry for the girls. Poor things! their -mother was really quite a lady, though I never heard that she had -anything. We were all grieved about this last sad affair, when he -married the governess; and I should always have made a point of being -kind to the girls. That is a very different thing, however, Mr. -Mildmay," she added, with a sweet smile, "from having a clergyman whom -one can really look up to, and who will be a friend and neighbour as -well as a clergyman. You will stay to luncheon? I think I hear the -bell." - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -WHAT THE GIRLS COULD DO. - - -Mildmay left the house of the Ascotts hurriedly at this intimation. He -thought them pleasant people enough--for who does not think those people -pleasant who flatter and praise him?--but he would not allow himself to -be persuaded out of his determination to return to the rectory. I must -add however that his mind was in a more confused state than ever as he -skirted the common by the way the curate had taken him on the previous -night. There were two sides to every question; that could not be -gainsaid. To leave Brentburn after passing twenty years here in arduous -discharge of all the rector's duties, but with the rank and remuneration -only of the curate, was an injury too hard to contemplate to Mr. St. -John; but then it was not Mildmay's fault that he should interfere at -his own cost to set it right. It was not even the fault of the parish. -It was nobody's fault but his own, foolish as he was, neglecting all -chances of "bettering himself." If a man would do nothing for himself, -how could it be the duty of others, of people no way connected with him, -scarcely knowing him, to do it for him? This argument was unanswerable; -nothing could be more reasonable, more certain; and yet--Mildmay felt -that he himself was young, that the rectory of Brentburn was not much to -him one way or the other. He had wanted it as the means of living a more -real life than that which was possible to him in his college rooms; but -he had no stronger reason, no special choice of the place, no conviction -that he could do absolute good here; and why should he then take so -lightly what it would cost him nothing to reject, but which was -everything to the curate? Then, on the other hand, there was the parish -to consider. What if--extraordinary as that seemed--it did not want Mr. -St. John? What if really his very poverty, his very gentleness, made him -unsuitable for it? The argument seemed a miserable one, so far as the -money went; but it might be true. The Ascotts, for instance, were the -curate's friends; but this was their opinion. Altogether Mr. Mildmay was -very much perplexed on the subject. He wished he had not come to see for -himself, just as an artist has sometimes been sorry for having consulted -that very troublesome reality, Nature, who will not lend herself to any -theory. If he had come without any previous inspection of the place, -without any knowledge of the circumstances, how much better it would -have been! Whereas now he was weighed down by the consideration of -things with which he had really nothing to do. As he went along, full of -these thoughts, he met the old woman whom he had first spoken to by the -duck-pond on the day before, and who had invited him to sit down in her -cottage. To his surprise--for he did not at first recollect who she -was--she made him a curtsy, and stopped short to speak to him. As it was -in the full blaze of the midday sunshine, Mildmay would very gladly have -escaped--not to say that he was anxious to get back to the rectory, and -to finish, as he persuaded himself was quite necessary, his -conversation with Cicely. Old Mrs. Joel, however, stood her ground. She -had an old-fashioned large straw bonnet on her head, which protected her -from the sun; and besides, was more tolerant of the sunshine, and more -used to exposure than he was. - -"Sir," she said, "I hear as you're the new gentleman as is coming to our -parish. I am a poor woman, sir, the widow o' Job Joel, as was about -Brentburn church, man and boy, for more than forty year. He began in the -choir, he did, and played the fiddle in the old times; and then, when -that was done away with, my husband he was promoted to be clerk, and -died in it. They could not ezackly make me clerk, seeing as I'm nothing -but a woman; but Dick Williams, as is the sexton, ain't married, and -I've got the cleaning of the church, and the pew-opening, if you please, -sir; and I hope, sir, as you won't think it's nothing but justice to an -old servant, to let me stay?" - -"What do you think of Mr. St. John going away?" asked Mildmay abruptly. - -The old woman stared, half alarmed, and made him another curtsy, to -occupy the time till she could think how to answer. "Mr. St. John, sir? -He's a dear good gentleman, sir; as innocent as a baby. When he's gone, -sir, they will find the miss of him," she said, examining his face -keenly to see how he meant her to answer, which is one of the highest -arts of the poor. - -"If he goes away, after being here so long, why shouldn't you be sent -away, too?" said Mildmay. He felt how absurd was this questioning, as of -an oracle, which came from the confused state of his own mind, not from -any expectation of an answer; and then he could not but smile to himself -at the idea of thus offering up a victim to the curate's _manes_. - -Mrs. Joel was much startled. "Lord bless us!" she said, making a step -backwards. Then commanding herself, "It weren't Mr. St. John, sir, as -gave me my place; but the rector hisself. Mr. St. John is as good as -gold, but he ain't not to say my master. Besides, there's a many as can -do the parson's work, but there ain't many, not in this parish, as could -do mine. Mr. St. John would be a loss--but me, sir----" - -Here she made another curtsy, and Mildmay laughed in spite of himself. -"You--would be a greater loss?" he said. "Well, perhaps so; but if -there are any good reasons why he should leave, there must be the same -for you." - -"I don't see it, sir," said Mrs. Joel promptly. "The parson's old, and -he's a bit past his work; but I defy any one in the parish to say as the -church ain't as neat as a new pin. Mr. St. John's getting a bit feeble -in the legs; he can't go long walks now like once he could. Me! I may be -old, but as for my mop and my duster, I ain't behind nobody. Lord bless -you! it's a very different thing with Mr. St. John from what it is with -me. He's got those girls of his to think upon, and those little -children. What's he got to do with little children at his age? But I've -nobody but myself to go troubling _my_ brains about. I thinks o' my -work, and nought else. You won't get another woman in the parish as will -do it as cheap and as comfortable as me." - -"But don't you think," said Mildmay--whose conduct I cannot excuse, and -whose only apology is that his mind was entirely occupied with one -subject--"don't you think it is very hard upon Mr. St. John at his age, -to go away?" - -Mrs. Joel found herself in a dilemma. She had no desire to speak ill of -the curate, but if she spoke too well of him, might not that annoy the -new rector, and endanger her own cause? She eyed him very keenly, never -taking her eyes off his face, to be guided by its changes. "Between -gentlefolks and poor folks," she said at last, philosophically, "there's -a great gulf fixed, as is said in the Bible. They can't judge for us, -nor us for them. He's a deal abler to speak up for hisself, and settle -for hisself, than the likes o' me; and I reckon as he could stay on if -he'd a mind to; but me, sir, it's your pleasure as I've got to look to," -said the old woman, with another curtsy. This oracle, it was clear, had -no response or guidance to give. - -"Well," he said, carelessly, "I will speak to Miss St. John--for I don't -know about the parish; and if she approves----" - -A gleam of intelligence came into the keen old eyes which regarded him -so closely; the old face lighted up with a twinkle of mingled pleasure, -and malice, and kindness. "If that's so, the Lord be praised!" she -cried; "and I hope, sir, it's Miss Cicely; for if ever there was a good -wife, it's her dear mother as is dead and gone; and Miss Cicely's her -very breathing image. Good morning to you, and God bless you, sir, and I -hope as I haven't made too bold." - -What does the old woman mean? Mildmay said to himself bewildered. He -repeated the question over and over again as he pursued his way to the -rectory. What was it to him that Cicely St. John was like her mother? -The curate, too, had insisted upon this fact as if it was of some -importance. What interest do they suppose me to take in the late Mrs. -St. John? he said, with great surprise and confusion to himself. - -Meanwhile, the girls in the rectory had been fully occupied. When their -father went out, they held a council of war together, at which indeed -Mab did not do much more than question and assent, for her mind was not -inventive or full of resource as Cicely's was. It was she, however, who -opened the consultation. "What were you saying to Mr. Mildmay in the -garden?" said Mab. "You told him something. He did not look the same -to-day as he did last night." - -"I told him nothing," said Cicely. "I was so foolish as to let him see -that we felt it very much. No, I must not say foolish. How could we -help but feel it? It is injustice, if it was the Queen herself who did -it. But perhaps papa is right--if he does not come, some one else would -come. And he has a heart. I do not hate him so much as I did last -night." - -"Hate him! I do not hate him at all. He knows how to draw, and said some -things that were sense--really sense--and so few people do that," said -Mab, thinking of her sketch. "I must have those mites again when the -light is about the same as last time, and finish it. Cicely, what are -you thinking of now?" - -"So many things," said the girl, with a sigh, "Oh, what a change, what a -change, since we came! How foolish we have been, thinking we were to -stay here always! Now, in six weeks or so, we must go--I don't know -where; and we must pay our debts--I don't know how; and we must live -without anything to live on. Mab, help me! Papa won't do anything; we -must settle it all, you and I." - -"You need not say you and I, Cicely. I never was clever at plans. It -must be all yourself. What a good thing you are like mamma! Don't you -think we might go to Aunt Jane?" - -"Aunt Jane kept us at school for three years," said Cicely. "She has not -very much herself. How can I ask her for more? If it were not so -dreadful to lose you, I should say, Go, Mab--she would be glad to have -_you_--and work at your drawing, and learn all you can, while I stay -with papa here." - -Cicely's eyes filled with tears, and her steady voice faltered. Mab -threw her arms round her sister's neck. "I will never leave you. I will -never go away from you. What is drawing or anything if we must be -parted?--we never were parted all our lives." - -"That is very true," said Cicely, drying her eyes. "But we can't do as -we like now. I suppose people never can do what they like in this world. -We used to think it was only till we grew up. Mab, listen--now is the -time when we must settle what to do. Papa is no good. I don't mean to -blame him; but he has been spoiled; he has always had things done for -him. I saw that last night. To ask him only makes him unhappy; I have -been thinking and thinking, and I see what to do." - -Mab raised her head from her sister's shoulder, and looked at Cicely -with great tender believing eyes. The two forlorn young creatures had -nobody to help them; but the one trusted in the other, which was a -safeguard for the weaker soul; and she who had nobody to trust in except -God, felt that inspiration of the burden which was laid upon her, which -sometimes is the strongest of all supports to the strong. Her voice -still faltered a little, and her eyes glistened, but she put what was -worse first, as a brave soul naturally does. - -"Mab, you must go--it is the best--you are always happy with your work, -and Aunt Jane will be very kind to you; and the sooner you can make -money, don't you see? It would not do to go back to school, even if Miss -Blandy would have us, for all we could do there was to keep ourselves. -Mab, you are so clever, you will soon now be able to help; and you know, -even if papa gets something, there will always be the little boys." - -"Yes, I know," said Mab, subdued. "O Cicely, don't be vexed! I should -like it--I know I should like it--but for leaving you." - -Cicely's bosom heaved with a suppressed sob. "You must not mind me. I -shall have so much to do, I shall have no time to think; and so long as -one can keep one's self from thinking!--There now, that is settled. I -wanted to say it, and I dared not. After that--Mab, don't ask me my -plans! I am going round this very day," cried Cicely, springing to her -feet, "to all those people we owe money to." This sudden movement was -half the impulse of her vivacious nature, which could not continue in -one tone, whatever happened, and, half an artifice to conceal the -emotion which was too deep for her sister to share. Cicely felt the idea -of the separation much more than Mab did, though it was Mab who was -crying over it; and the elder sister dared not dwell upon the thought. -"I must go round to them all," said Cicely, taking the opportunity to -get rid of her tears, "and ask them to have a little patience. There -will be another half-year's income before we leave, and they shall have -all, all I can give them. I hope they will be reasonable. Mab, I ought -to go now." - -"Oh, what will you say to them? Oh, how have you the courage to do it? -_O Cicely!_ when it is not your fault. It is papa who ought to do it!" -cried Mab. - -"It does not matter so much who ought to do it," said Cicely, with -composure. "Some one _must_ do it, and I don't know who will but me. -Then I think there ought to be an advertisement written for the -_Guardian_." - -"Cicely, you said you were to stay with papa!" - -"It is not for me; it is for papa himself. Poor papa! Oh, what a shame, -what a shame, at his age! And a young man, _that_ young man, with -nothing to recommend him, coming in to everything, and turning us out! I -can't talk about it," cried Cicely. "The best thing for us is to go and -do something. I can make up the advertisement on the way." - -And in the heat of this, she put on her hat and went out, leaving Mab -half stupefied by the suddenness of all those settlements. Mab had not -the courage to offer to go to Wilkins and the rest with her sister. She -cried over all that Cicely had to do; but she knew very well that she -had not the strength to do it. She went and arranged her easel, and set -to work very diligently. That was always something; and to make money, -would not that be best of all, as well as the pleasantest? Mab did not -care for tiring herself, nor did she think of her own enjoyment. That -she should be the brother working for both, and Cicely the sister -keeping her house, had always been the girl's ideal, which was far from -a selfish one. But she could not do what Cicely was doing. She could not -steer the poor little ship of the family fortunes or misfortunes through -this dangerous passage. Though she was, she hoped, to take the man's -part of breadwinner, for the moment she shrank into that woman's part -which women too often are not permitted to hold. To keep quiet at home, -wondering and working in obscurity--wondering how the brave adventurer -was faring who had to fight for bare life outside in the world. - -I dare not follow Cicely through her morning's work; it would take up so -much time; and it would not be pleasant for us any more than it was for -her. "Don't you make yourself unhappy, Miss," said the butcher, "I know -as you mean well by every one. A few pounds ain't much to me, the Lord -be praised! and I'll wait, and welcome, for I know as you mean well." -Cicely, poor child! being only nineteen, cried when these kind words -were said to her, and was taken into the hot and greasy parlour, where -the butcher's wife was sitting, and petted and comforted. "Bless you, -things will turn out a deal better than you think," Mrs. Butcher said; -"they always does. Wait till we see the handsome young gentleman as is -coming through the woods for you, Miss Cicely dear: and a good wife -he'll have, like your dear mother," this kind woman added, smiling, yet -wiping her eyes. But Wilkins the grocer was much more difficult to -manage, and to him Cicely set her fair young face like a flint, biting -her lips to keep them steady, and keeping all vestige of tears from her -eyes. "Whatever you do," she said with those firm pale lips, "we cannot -pay you now; but you shall be paid if you will have patience;" and at -last, notwithstanding the insults which wrung Cicely's heart, this -savage, too, was overcome. She went home all throbbing and aching from -this last conflict, her heart full of bitterness and those sharp stings -of poverty which are so hard to bear. It was not her fault; no -extravagance of hers had swelled those bills; and how many people threw -away every day much more than would have saved all that torture of -heart and mind to this helpless and guiltless girl! Mildmay himself had -paid for a Palissy dish, hideous with crawling reptiles, a great deal -more than would have satisfied Wilkins and relieved poor Cicely's -delicate shoulders of this humiliating burden; but what of that? The -young man whom she saw in the distance approaching the rectory from the -other side could at that moment have paid every one of those terrible -debts that were crushing Cicely, and never felt it; but I repeat, what -of that? Under no pretence could he have done it; nothing in the world -would have induced the proud, delicate girl to betray the pangs which -cut her soul. Thus the poor and the rich walk together shoulder by -shoulder every day as if they were equal, and one has to go on in -hopeless labour like Sisyphus, heaving up the burden which the other -could toss into space with the lifting of a finger. So it is, and so it -must be, I suppose, till time and civilization come to an end. - -Meanwhile these two came nearer, approaching each other from different -points. And what Mildmay saw was not the brave but burdened creature we -know of, dear reader, bleeding and aching from battles more bitter than -Inkerman, with a whole little world of helpless beings hanging upon her, -but only a fresh, bright-eyed girl, in a black and white frock, with a -black hat shading her face from the sunshine, moving lightly in the -animation of her youth across the white high road--a creature full of -delicate strength, and variety, and brightness; like her mother! Mildmay -could not help thinking that Mrs. St. John must have been a pretty -woman, and there came a little pang of sympathy into his heart when he -thought of the grave in the twilight where the curate had led him, from -which the light in the girls' windows was always visible, and to which -his patient feet had worn that path across the grass. To be sure, across -the pathos of this picture there would come the jar of that serio-comic -reference to the other Mrs. St. John, who, poor soul! lay neglected down -the other turning. This made the new rector laugh within himself. But he -suppressed all signs of the laugh when he came up to Cicely, who, though -she gave him a smile of greeting, did not seem in a laughing mood. She -was the first to speak. - -"Have you left papa behind you, Mr. Mildmay? He has always a great many -places to go to, and parish work is not pleasant on such a hot day." - -Was there an insinuation in this that he had abandoned the unpleasant -work, finding it uncongenial to him? Poor Cicely was sore and wounded, -and the temptation to give a passing sting in her turn was great. - -"Mr. St. John did not permit me to try its pleasantness or -unpleasantness," said Mildmay. "He took me over the parish indeed, and -showed me the church and the school, and some other things; and then he -left me at Mr. Ascott's. I come from the Heath now." - -"Ah, from the Heath?" said Cicely, changing colour a little, and looking -at him with inquiring eyes. What had they done or said, she wondered, to -him? for she could not forget the projected petition to the Lord -Chancellor, which had raised a fallacious hope in their hearts when she -saw Mrs. Ascott last. - -"They have a pretty house, and they seem kind people," said Mildmay, not -knowing what to say. - -"Yes, they have a pretty house." Cicely looked at him even more -eagerly, with many questions on her lips. Had they said nothing to him? -Had they received him at once as the new rector without a word? Kind! -what did he mean when he said they were kind? Had they, too, without an -effort, without a remonstrance, gone over to the enemy? - -"Mr. St. John somewhat rashly introduced me as the new rector," said -Mildmay, "which was very premature; and they knew some relations of -mine. Miss St. John, the Ascotts are much less interesting to me than -our conversation of this morning. Since then my mind has been in a very -confused state. I can no longer feel that anything is settled about the -living." - -"Didn't they say anything?" said Cicely, scarcely listening to him; -"didn't they make any objection?" This was a shock of a new kind which -she was not prepared for. "I beg your pardon," she cried; "they had no -right to make any objection; but didn't they say anything at -least--about papa?" - -What was Mildmay to answer? He hesitated scarcely a moment, but her -quick eye saw it. - -"A great deal," he said eagerly; "they said, as every one must, that -Mr. St. John's long devotion----" - -"Don't try to deceive me," said Cicely, with a smile of desperation. "I -see you do not mean it. They did not say anything sincere. They were -delighted to receive a new rector, a new neighbour, young and happy and -well off----" - -"Miss St. John----" - -"Yes, I know; it is quite natural, quite right. I have nothing to say -against it. Papa has only been here for twenty years, knowing all their -troubles, doing things for them which he never would have done for -himself; but--'Le roi est mort; vive le roi!'" cried the impetuous girl -in a flash of passion; in the strength of which she suddenly calmed -down, and, smiling, turned to him again. "Is it not a pretty house? and -Mrs. Ascott is very pretty too--has been, people say, but I think it is -hard to say, has been. She is not young, but she has the beauty of her -age." - -"I take very little interest in Mrs. Ascott," said Mildmay, "seeing I -never saw her till to-day; but I take a great deal of interest in what -you were saying this morning." - -"You never saw any of us till yesterday, Mr. Mildmay." - -"I suppose that is quite true. I cannot help it--it is different. Miss -St. John, I don't know what you would think of the life I have been -living, but yours has had a great effect upon me. What am I to do? you -have unsettled me, you have confused my mind and all my intentions. Now -tell me what to do." - -"I," said Cicely aghast. "Oh, if I could only see a little in advance, -if I could tell what to do myself!" - -"You cannot slide out of it like this," he said; "nay, pardon me, I -don't mean to be unkind; but what am I to do?" - -Cicely looked at him with a rapid revulsion of feeling from indignation -to friendliness. "Oh," she cried, "can't you fancy how a poor girl, so -helpless as I am, is driven often to say a great deal more than she -means? What can we do, we girls?--say out some of the things that choke -us, that make our hearts bitter within us, and then be sorry for it -afterwards? that is all we are good for. We cannot go and do things like -you men, and we feel all the sharper, all the keener, because we cannot -_do_. Mr. Mildmay, all that I said was quite true; but what does that -matter? a thing may be wrong and false to every principle, and yet it -cannot be helped. You ought not to have the living; papa ought to have -it; but what then? No one will give it to papa, and if you don't take it -some one else will; therefore, take it, though it is wicked and a cruel -wrong. It is not your fault, it is--I don't know whose fault. One feels -as if it were God's fault sometimes," cried Cicely; "but that must be -wrong; the world is all wrong and unjust, and hard--hard; only sometimes -there is somebody who is very kind, very good, who makes you feel that -it is not God's fault, and you forgive even the world." - -She put up her hand to wipe the tears from those young shining eyes, -which indignation and wretchedness and tears only made the brighter. -Cicely was thinking of the butcher--you will say no very elevated -thought. But Mildmay, wondering, and touched to the heart, asked -himself, with a suppressed throb of emotion, could she mean him? - -"I am going back to Oxford," he said hastily. "I shall not go to town. -The first thing I do will be to see everybody concerned, and to tell -them what you say. Yes, Miss St. John, you are right; it is wicked and -wrong that I or any one should have it while your father is here. I -will tell the Master so, I will tell them all so. It shall not be my -fault if Mr. St. John does not have his rights." - -They were close to the rectory gate, and as fire communicates to fire, -the passionate impulse and fervour of Cicely's countenance had -transferred themselves to Mr. Mildmay, whose eyes were shining, and his -cheeks flushed with purpose like her own. Cicely was not used to this -rapid transmission of energy. She gazed at him half frightened. Usually -her interlocutor did all that was possible to calm her down--wondered at -her, blamed her a little, chilled her vehemence with surprised or -disapproving looks. This new companion who caught fire at her was new to -the girl. She was half alarmed at what she had done. - -"Will you do so, really?" she said, the tears starting to her eyes. "O -Mr. Mildmay, perhaps I am wrong! Papa would not advise you so. He would -say he never asked for anything in his life, and that he would not be a -beggar for a living now. And think--perhaps I should not have said half -so much if I could have done anything. I am too ignorant and too -inexperienced for any one to be guided by me." - -"Yes, you are ignorant," cried the young man. "You don't know the -sophistries with which we blind ourselves and each other. You dare to -think what is right and what is wrong--and, for once in my life, so -shall I." - -The moisture that had been gathering dropped all at once in two great -unexpected tears out of Cicely's eyes. Her face lighted like the sky -when the sun rises, a rosy suffusion as of dawn came over her. Her -emotion was so increased by surprise that even now she did not know what -to think. In the least likely quarter all at once, in her moment of -need, she had found sympathy and succour; and I think perhaps that even -the most strong and self-sustaining do not know how much they have -wanted sympathy and comprehension until it comes. It made Cicely weak, -not strong. She felt that she could have sat down on the roadside and -cried. She had an idiotic impulse to tell him everything, and especially -about the butcher--how kind he had been. These impulses passed through -her mind mechanically, or, as one ought to say nowadays, automatically; -but Cicely, who had no notion of being an automaton, crushed them in the -bud. And what she really would have said in the tumult of her feelings, -beyond what the look in her eyes said, behind the tears, I cannot tell, -if it had not been that the curate came forth leisurely at that moment -from the rectory, making it necessary that tears and every other -evidence of emotion should be cleared away. - -"Cicely, it is just time for dinner," he said. "You should not walk, my -dear, in the heat of the day; and Mr. Mildmay, too, must be tired, and -want something to refresh him. It is a long time since breakfast," said -the gentle curate, opening the door that his guest might precede him. -Mr. St. John was not a great eater, but he had a mild, regular appetite, -and did not like any disrespect to the dinner hour. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -HOW TO EXERCISE CHURCH PATRONAGE. - - -Mildmay made his way back to Oxford without any delay. He knew that the -Master of the college, who was a man with a family, had not yet set out -on the inevitable autumn tour. But I must add that, though no man could -have been more anxious to obtain preferment in his own person than he -was to transfer his preferment to another, yet various doubts of the -practicability of what he was going to attempt interfered, as he got -further and further from Brentburn, with the enthusiasm which had sprung -up so warmly in Cicely's presence. It would be very difficult, he felt, -to convey to the Master the same clear perception of the rights of the -case as had got into his own head by what he had seen and heard at the -rectory; and if all he made by his hesitation was to throw the living -into the hands of Ruffhead! For Brentburn was no longer an indifferent -place--the same as any other in the estimation of the young don; quite -the reverse; it was very interesting to him now. Notwithstanding the -bran-new church, he felt that no other parish under the sun was half so -attractive. The churchyard, with those two narrow threads of paths; the -windows, with the lights in them, which glimmered within sight of the -grave; the old-fashioned, sunny garden; the red cottages, with not one -wall which was not awry, and projecting at every conceivable angle; the -common, with its flush of heather--all these had come out of the -unknown, and made themselves plain and apparent to him. He felt -Brentburn to be in a manner his own; a thing which he would be willing -to give to Mr. St. John, or rather to lend him for his lifetime; but he -did not feel the least inclination to let it fall into the hands of any -other man. Neither did he feel inclined to do as Mr. Chester, the late -rector, had done--to expatriate himself, and leave the work of his -parish to the curate in charge. Besides, he could not do this, for he -was in perfect health; and he could neither tell the necessary lie -himself, nor, he thought, get any doctor to tell it for him. As he got -nearer and nearer to the moment which must decide all these -uncertainties, he got more and more confused and troubled in his mind. -The Master was the college, as it happened at that moment; he was by far -the most influential and the most powerful person in it; and what he -said was the thing that would be done. Mildmay accordingly took his way -with very mingled feelings, across the quadrangle to the beautiful and -picturesque old house in which this potentate dwelt. Had he any right to -attempt to make such a bargain as was in his mind? It was enough that -the living had been offered to him. What had he to say but yes or no? - -The Master's house was in a state of confusion when Mildmay entered it. -The old hall was full of trunks, the oaken staircase encumbered with -servants and young people running up and down in all the bustle of a -move. Eight children of all ages, and half as many servants, was the -Master--brave man!--about to carry off to Switzerland. The packing was -terrible, and not less terrible the feelings of the heads of the -expedition, who were at that moment concluding their last calculation of -expenses, and making up little bundles of circular notes. "Here is Mr. -Mildmay," said the Master's wife, "and, thank Heaven! this reckoning up -is over;" and she escaped with a relieved countenance, giving the new -comer a smile of gratitude. The head of the college was slightly -flustrated, if such a vulgar word can be used of such a sublime person. -I hope no one will suspect me of Romanizing tendencies, but perhaps a -pale ecclesiastic, worn with thought, and untroubled by children, would -have been more like the typical head of a college than this comely yet -careworn papa. The idea, however, flashed through Mildmay's mind, who -had the greatest reverence for the Master, that these very cares, this -evident partaking of human nature's most ordinary burdens, would make -the great don feel for the poor curate. Does not a touch of nature make -the whole world kin? - -"Well, Mildmay," said the Master, "come to say good-bye? You are just in -time. We are off to-night by the Antwerp boat, which we have decided is -the best way with our enormous party." Here the good man sighed. "Where -are you going? You young fellows don't know you're born, as people -say--coming and going, whenever the fancy seizes you, as light as a -bird. Ah! wait till you have eight children, my dear fellow, to drag -about the world." - -"That could not be for some time, at least," said Mildmay, with a laugh; -"but I am not so disinterested in my visit as to have come merely to say -good-bye. I wanted to speak to you about Brentburn." - -"Ah--oh," said the Master; "to be sure, your living. You have been to -see it? Well! and how do you think it will feel to be an orderly rector, -setting a good example, instead of enjoying yourself, and collecting -crockery here?" - -That was a cruel speech, and Mildmay grew red at the unworthy title -crockery; but the Master's savage sentiments on this subject were known. -What is a man with eight children to be expected to know about rare -china? - -"I believe there are much better collections than mine in some country -rectories," he said; "but, never mind; I want to speak to you of -something more interesting than crockery. I do not think I can take -Brentburn." - -The Master framed his lips into that shape which in a profane and -secular person would have produced a whistle of surprise. "So!" he said, -"you don't like it? But I thought you were set upon it. All the better -for poor Ruffhead, who will now be able to marry after all." - -"That is just what I wanted to speak to you about," said Mildmay, -embarrassed. "I don't want it to fall to Ruffhead. Listen, before you -say anything! I don't want to play the part of the dog in the manger. -Ruffhead is young, and so am I; but, my dear Master, listen to me. The -curate in charge, Mr. St. John, is not young; he has been twenty years -at Brentburn, a laborious excellent clergyman. Think how it would look -in any other profession, if either Ruffhead or I should thus step over -his head." - -"The curate in charge!" said the Master, bewildered. "What are you -talking about? What has he to do with it? I know nothing about your -curate in charge." - -"Of course you don't; and therefore there seemed to be some hope in -coming to tell you. He is a member of our own college; that of itself is -something. He used to know you, he says, long ago, when he was an -undergraduate. He has been Chester's curate at Brentburn, occupying the -place of the incumbent, and doing everything for twenty years; and now -that Chester is dead, there is nothing for him but to be turned out at a -moment's notice, and to seek his bread, at over sixty, somewhere -else--and he has children too." - -This last sentence was added at a venture to touch the Master's -sympathies; but I don't think that dignitary perceived the application; -for what is there in common between the master of a college and a poor -curate? He shook his head with, however, that sympathetic gravity and -deference towards misfortune which no man who respects himself ever -refuses to show. - -"St. John, St. John?" he said. "Yes, I think I recollect the name: very -tall--stoops--a peaceable sort of being? Yes. So he's Chester's curate? -Who would have thought it? I suppose he started in life as well as -Chester did, or any of us. What has possessed him to stay so long -there?" - -"Well--he is, as you say, a peaceable, mild man; not one to push -himself----" - -"_Push_ himself!" cried the Master; "not much of that, I should think. -But even if you don't push yourself, you needn't stay for twenty years a -curate. What does he mean by it? I am afraid there must be something -wrong." - -"And I am quite sure there is nothing wrong," cried Mildmay, warmly, -"unless devotion to thankless work, and forgetfulness of self is wrong; -for that is all his worst enemy can lay to his charge." - -"You are very warm about it," said the Master, with some surprise; -"which does you credit, Mildmay. But, my dear fellow, what do you expect -me--what do you expect the college to do? We can't provide for our poor -members who let themselves drop out of sight and knowledge. Perhaps if -you don't take the living, and Ruffhead does, you might speak to him to -keep your friend on as curate. But I have nothing to do with that kind -of arrangement. And I'm sure you will excuse me when I tell you we start -to-night." - -"Master," said Mildmay solemnly, "when you hear of a young colonel of -thirty promoted over the head of an old captain of twice his age, what -do you say?" - -"Say, sir!" cried the Master, whose sentiments on this, as on most other -subjects, were well known; "say! why I say it's a disgrace to the -country. I say it's the abominable system of purchase which keeps our -best soldiers languishing. Pray, what do you mean by that smile? You -know I have no patience to discuss such a question; and I cannot see -what it has to do with what we were talking of," he added abruptly, -breaking off with a look of defiance, for he suddenly saw the mistake he -had made in Mildmay's face. - -"Hasn't it?" said the other. "If you will think a moment--Ruffhead and I -are both as innocent of parochial knowledge as--as little Ned there." -(Ned at this moment had come to the window which opened upon the garden, -and, knocking with impatient knuckles, had summoned his father out.) -"Mr. St. John has some thirty years' experience, and is thoroughly known -and loved by the people. What can anybody think--what can any one -say--if one of us miserable subalterns is put over that veteran's head? -Where but in the Church could such a thing be done--without at least -such a clamour as would set half England by the ears?" - -"Softly, softly," cried the Master. "(Get away, you little imp. I'll -come presently.) You mustn't abuse the Church, Mildmay. Our arrangements -may be imperfect, as indeed all arrangements are which are left in human -hands. But, depend upon it, the system is the best that could be -devised; and there is no real analogy between the two professions. A -soldier is helpless who can only buy his promotion, and has no money to -buy it with. But a clergyman has a hundred ways of making his -qualifications known, and as a matter of fact I think preferment is very -justly distributed. I have known dozens of men, with no money and very -little influence, whose talents and virtues alone--but you must know -that as well as I do. In this case there must be something -behind--something wrong--extreme indolence, or incapacity, or -something----" - -"There is nothing but extreme modesty, and a timid retiring -disposition." - -"Yes, yes, yes," cried the Master; "these are the pretty names for it. -Indolence which does nothing for itself, and hangs a dead weight upon -friends. Now, tell me seriously and soberly, why do you come to me with -this story? What, in such a case, do you suppose I can do?" - -"If you were a private patron," said Mildmay, "I should say boldly, I -have come to ask you to give this living to the best man--the man who -has a right to it; not a new man going to try experiments like myself, -but one who knows what he is doing, who has done all that has been done -there for twenty years. I would say you were bound to exercise your -private judgment on behalf of the parish in preference to all promises -or supposed rights; and that you should offer the living of Brentburn to -Mr. St. John without an hour's delay." - -"That is all very well," said the Master, scratching his head, as if he -had been a rustic clodhopper, instead of a learned and accomplished -scholar, "and very well put, and perhaps true. I say, _perhaps_ true, -for of course this is only one side of the question. But I am not a -private patron. I am only a sort of trustee of the patronage, exercising -it in conjunction with various other people. Come, Mildmay, you know as -well as I do, poor old St. John, though his may be a hard case, has no -claim whatever upon the college; and if you don't accept it, there's -Ruffhead and two or three others who have a right to their chance. You -may be sure Ruffhead won't give up his chance of marriage and domestic -bliss for any poor curate. Of course the case, as you state it, is hard. -What does the parish say?" - -"The parish! I was not there long enough to find out the opinion of the -parish." - -"Ah, you hesitate. Look here, Mildmay; if I were a betting man, I'd give -you odds, or whatever you call it, that the parish would prefer you." - -"It is impossible; or, if they did, it would only be a double wrong." -But Mildmay's voice was not so confident as when he had been pleading -Mr. St. John's cause, and his eyes fell before the Master's penetrating -eyes. - -"A wrong if you like, but it's human nature," said the Master, with some -triumph. "I will speak to the Dean about it, if I see him this -afternoon, and I'll speak to Singleton. If they think anything of your -arguments, I shan't oppose. But I warn you I don't think it the least -likely. His age, if there were nothing else, is against him, rather than -in his favour. We don't want parishes hampered with an old man past -work." - -"He is just as old being curate as if he were rector." - -"Yes, yes. But to give him the living now, at his age, would be to -weight the parish with him till he was a hundred, and destroy the chance -for young men like yourself. _You_ don't mind, but I can tell you -Ruffhead does. No, no. Singleton will never hear of it; and what can I -do? I am going away." - -"Singleton will do whatever you tell him," said Mildmay; "and you could -write even though you are going away." - -"Hush, hush," said the Master, with a half laugh, "that is all a popular -delusion. Singleton is the most independent-minded man I know--and the -others are as obstinate as pigs. Talk of turning them as one likes! Poor -old St. John, though! we might hear of another place to suit him, -perhaps. He has something of his own, I suppose--some private income? -How many children has he? of course, being only a curate, he must have -heaps of children. (Coming, you rascal! coming, Ned.)" - -"He has two daughters grown up," said Mildmay, "and two small children; -and so far as I can judge is---- What is there to laugh at?" he added, -with a look of the greatest surprise. - -"So, so; he has _daughters_?" said the Master, with a burst of genial -laughter. "That is it? Don't blush, my dear fellow; as good men as you -have been in the same predicament. Go and marry her, which will be much -more sensible; and I hope Miss St. John is everything that is pretty and -charming for your sake." - -Perhaps Mildmay blushed, but he was not aware of it. He felt himself -grow pale in a white heat of passion. "This is a very poor joke," he -said. "Excuse me, Master, if I must say so. I speak to you of an injury -to the Church, and a serious wrong to one of her priests, and you answer -me with a jest most inappropriate to the occasion. I saw Miss--I mean -Mr. St. John and his family for the first time two days ago. Personal -feeling of any kind has not been my inducement to make this appeal to -your sense of justice. But I have made a mistake, it seems. Good -morning! I will not detain you more." - -"Why, Mildmay! a man may have his joke. Don't take it in this tragical -way. And don't be so withering in your irony about my sense of justice," -said the Master, with a laugh, half apologetic, half angry. But he did -not ask the young man to sit down again. "Justice goes both ways," he -added; "and I have justice to the college, and justice to its more -distinguished members, and even to the parish, for whose good we are -called upon to act--to consider; as well as justice to Mr. St. John, -which really is not our affair. But, my dear fellow, all this is very -admirable in you--and don't think I fail to see that, though you say I -made a poor joke. Yes, I am in a hurry, there is no denying it; but I'll -see Singleton, and leave the matter in his hands. Meet you in the -Oberland, eh? My wife talks of St. Moritz, but we never can drag the -children all that way. Good-bye." - -Mildmay marched out of the old house with all his pulses tingling. It -seemed to him that poor Cicely, in the midst of all the anxieties that -lurked in her young eyes, had been insulted. Was it that sort of folly -he was thinking of, or she, poor girl, who had said nothing to him but -reproaches? But yet, I will allow, that absolutely innocent as he felt -of any such levity, the accusation excited him more, perhaps, than was -needful. He could not forget or forgive it, as one forgives a sorry -jest at one's own expense, the reason being, he said to himself, that it -was an insult to her, and that this insult had come upon a young -innocent creature through him, which was doubly hard. He was still -tingling with this blow, when he met his second in succession, so to -speak, Mr. Ruffhead, who was serving a curacy near Oxford, and who had a -slight unspoken, unacknowledged grudge at his brother Fellow who had -been preferred before himself. Mildmay, in his excitement, laid hold -upon this probable heir of his, in case he should give up Brentburn, and -poured the whole story into his ears, asking with some heat and passion -for his advice. "I don't see how I can take the living over Mr. St. -John's head; it seems to me the most terrible injustice," he cried. - -Mr. Ruffhead shook his head. - -"You must not ask my advice," said that sensible person. "If you don't -take it, and it's offered to me, I shall of course. I don't know Mr. St. -John, and if one neglected one's own interests for every hard case one -heard of, where would one be? I can't afford to play with my chances. I -daresay you think I am very hard-hearted; but that is what I should -do." - -This plain declaration of sentiment subdued Mildmay, and brought him -back to matters of fact. "I suppose you are right; but I have not made -up my mind to decline the living," he said coldly, and did not ask -Ruffhead to dinner as he had at first intended. No man, they say, likes -his heir, and this kind of inheritance was doubly disagreeable to think -of. Certainly, if the only alternative was Ruffhead and his honeymooning -(which somehow it disgusted Mildmay to think of, as of something almost -insulting to himself), it would be better, much better, that he himself -should take Brentburn. He would not give it up only to see it passed on -to this commonplace fellow, to enable him, forsooth, to marry some still -more commonplace woman. Good heavens! was that the way to traffic with a -cure of souls? He went back to his beautiful rooms in a most disturbed -state of mind, and drew up impatiently the blinds which were not -intended to be drawn up. The hot August light came in scorching and -broad over all his delights, and made him loathe them; he tripped upon, -and kicked away to the end of the room, a rug for which you or I, dear -reader, would have given one of our ears; and jerked his Italian -tapestry to one side, and I think, if good sense had not restrained him, -would have liked to take up his very best bit of china and smash it into -a hundred pieces. But after a while he smiled at himself, and reduced -the blaze of daylight to a proper artistic tone, and tried to eat some -luncheon. Yesterday at the same hour he had shared the curate's dinner, -with Cicely at the head of the table, looking at him with sweet eyes, in -which there was still the dewy look of past tears. She had the house and -all its cares upon her delicate shoulders, that girl; and her innocent -name had been made the subject of a jest--through him! - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -THE ARTIST AND THE HOUSEKEEPER. - - -I do not suppose that Cicely St. John had really any hope in her new -acquaintance, or believed, when she looked at the matter reasonably, -that his self-renunciation, if he had the strength of mind to carry it -out, would really secure for her father the living of Brentburn. But yet -a certain amount of faith is natural at her years, and she was vaguely -strengthened and exhilarated by that suppressed expectation of something -pleasant that might possibly happen, which is so great an element in -human happiness; and, with this comfort in her soul, went about her -work, preparing for the worst, which, to be sure, notwithstanding her -hope, was, she felt, inevitable. Mab, when the stranger's enthusiastic -adoption of her sister's suggestion was told to her, accepted it for her -part with delight, as a thing settled. A true artist has always more or -less a practical mind. However strong his imagination may be, he does -not confine himself to fancies, or even words, but makes something -tangible and visible out of it, and this faculty more or less shapes the -fashion of his thinking. Mab, who possessed in addition that delightful -mixture of matter-of-factness which is peculiar to womankind, seized -upon the hope and made it into reality. She went to her work as gaily as -if all the clouds had been in reality dispersed from her path. This time -it was little Annie, the nursemaid--Cicely having interfered to protect -the babies from perpetual posing--who supplied her with the necessary -"life." Annie did not much like it. She would have been satisfied, -indeed, and even proud, had "her picture" been taken in her best frock, -with all her Sunday ribbons; but to be thrust into a torn old dingy -garment, with bare feet, filled the little handmaiden with disgust and -rage great enough for a full-grown woman. "Folks will think as I hain't -got no decent clothes," she said; and Mab's injudicious consolation, to -the effect that "folks would never see the picture," did not at all mend -the matter. Cicely, however, drew up her slight person, and "looked Miss -St. John," according to Mab's description; and Annie was cowed. There -were at least twenty different representations in Mab's sketch-books of -moments in which Cicely had looked Miss St. John; and it was Mab's -conviction in life as well as in art that no opponent could stand before -such a demonstration. Bare-footed, in her ragged frock, Annie did not -look an amiable young person, which, I am ashamed to say, delighted the -artist. "She will do for the naughty little girl in the fairy tale, the -one with toads and frogs dropping from her lips," cried Mab, in high -glee. "And if it comes well I shall send it to Mr. Mildmay, to show we -feel how kind he is." - -"Wait till he has been kind," said Cicely, shaking her head. "I always -liked the naughty little girl best, not that complacent smiling creature -who knew she had been good, and whom everybody praised. Oh, what a pity -that the world is not like a fairy tale! where the good are always -rewarded, and even the naughty, when they are sorry. If we were to help -any number of old women, what would it matter now?" - -"But I suppose," said Mab, somewhat wistfully, for she distrusted her -sister's words, which she did not understand, and was afraid people -might think Cicely Broad Church, "I suppose whatever may happen in the -meantime, it all comes right in the end?" - -"Papa is not so very far from the end, and it has not come right for -him." - -"O Cicely, how can you talk so! Papa is not so old. He will live years -and years yet!" cried Mab, her eyes filling. - -"I hope so. Oh, I hope so! I did not think of merely living. But he -cannot get anything very great now, can he, to make up for so long -waiting? So long--longer," said Cicely, with a little awe, thinking of -that enormous lapse of time, "than we have been alive!" - -"If he gets the living, he will not want anything more," said Mab, -blithely working away with her charcoal. "How delightful it will be! -More than double what we have now? Fancy! After all, you will be able to -furnish as you said." - -"But not in amber satin," said Cicely, beguiled into a smile. - -"In soft, soft Venetian stuff, half green, half blue, half no colour at -all. Ah! she has moved! Cicely, Cicely, go and talk to her, for heaven's -sake, or my picture will be spoilt!" - -"If you please, miss, I can't stop here no longer. It's time as I was -looking after the children. How is Betsy to remember in the middle of -her cooking the right time to give 'em their cod-liver oil?" - -"I'll go and look after the children," said Cicely. "What you have got -to do, Annie, is to stop here." - -Upon which Annie burst into floods of tears, and fell altogether out of -pose. "There ain't no justice in it!" she said. "I'm put up here to look -like a gipsy or a beggar; and mother will never get over it, after all -her slaving and toiling to get me decent clothes!" - -Thus it will be perceived that life studies in the domestic circle are -very difficult to manage. After a little interval of mingled coaxing and -scolding, something like the lapsed attitude was recovered, and Annie -brought back into obedience. "If you will be good, I'll draw a picture -of you in your Sunday frock to give to your mother," said Mab--a -promise which had too good an effect upon her model, driving away the -clouds from her countenance; and Cicely went away to administer the -cod-liver oil. It was not a very delightful office, and I think that now -and then, at this crisis, it seemed to Cicely that Mab had the best of -it, with her work, which was a delight to her, and which occupied both -her mind and her fingers; care seemed to fly the moment she got that -charcoal in her hand. There was no grudge in this sense of disadvantage. -Nature had done it, against which there is no appeal. I don't think, -however, that care would have weighed heavily on Mab, even if she had -not been an artist. She would have hung upon Cicely all the same if her -occupation had been but needlework, and looked for everything from her -hands. - -But it was not until Annie was released, and could throw off the ragged -frock in which she had been made picturesque, and return to her charge, -that Cicely could begin the more important business that waited for her. -She took this quite quietly, not thinking it necessary to be on the -look-out for a grievance, and took her work into the nursery, where the -two babies were playing in a solemn sort of way. They had their -playthings laid out upon the floor, and had some mild little squabbles -over them. "Zat's Harry's!" she heard again and again, mingled with -faint sounds of resistance. The children were very mysterious to Cicely. -She was half afraid of them as mystic incomprehensible creatures, to -whom everybody in heaven and earth did injustice. After a while she put -down her work and watched them play. They had a large box of bricks -before them, playthings which Cicely herself well remembered, and the -play seemed to consist in one little brother diving into the long box in -search of one individual brick, which, when he produced it, the other -snatched at, saying, "Zat's Harry's." Charley, who wanted both his hands -to swim with on the edge of the box, did not have his thumb in his mouth -this time; but he was silenced by the unvarying claim. They did not -laugh, nor did they cry, as other children do; but sat over the box of -bricks, in a dumb conflict, of which it was impossible to tell whether -it was strife or play. - -"Are they all Harry's?" asked Cicely, suddenly moved to interfere. The -sound of the voice startled the little creatures on the floor. They -turned right round, and contemplated her from the carpet with round and -wondering eyes. - -"Zat's Harry's," said the small boy over again with the iteration common -to children. Charley was not prepared with any reply. He put his thumb -into his mouth in default of any more extended explanation. Cicely -repeated her question--I fear raising her voice, for patience was not -Cicely's forte; whereupon Harry's eyes, who was the boldest, got bigger -and bigger, and redder and redder, with fright, and Charley began to -whimper. This irritated the sister much. "You little silly things!" she -said, "I am not scolding you. What are you crying for? Come here, Harry, -and tell me why you take all the bricks? They are Charley's too." - -Children are the angels of life; but they are sometimes little demons -for all that. To see these two pale little creatures sitting half dead -with fright, gazing at her sunny young countenance as if she were an -ogre, exasperated Cicely. She jumped up, half laughing, half furious, -and at that movement the babies set up a unanimous howl of terror. This -fairly daunted her, courageous as she was. She went back to her seat -again, having half a mind to cry too. "I am not going to touch you," -said Cicely piteously. "Why are you frightened at me? If you will come -here I will tell you a story." She was too young to have the maternal -instinct so warmly developed as to make her all at once, without rhyme -or reason, "fond of" her little half-brothers; but she was anxious to do -her duty, and deeply wounded that they did not "take to her." Children, -she said to herself with an internal whisper of self-pity, had always -taken to her before; and she was not aware of that instinctive -resistance, half defiance, half fright, which seems to repel the -child-dependant from those whose duty it is to take care of it--most -unreasonable, often most cruel, but yet apparently most universal of -sentiments. Is it that the very idea of a benefactor, even before the -mind is capable of comprehending what it is, sets nature on edge? This -was rather a hard lesson for the girl, especially as, while they were -still howling, little Annie burst in indignant, and threw herself down -beside the children, who clung to her, sobbing, one on each side. "You -have made 'em cry, miss," cried Annie, "and missus's orders was as they -was never to be allowed to cry. It is very dangerous for boys; it busts -their little insides. Did she frighten 'em, then? the naughty lady. -Never mind, never mind, my precious! Annie's here." - -To see this child spread out upon the floor with these chicks under her -wings would have been amusing to a cool spectator. But Cicely did not -take it in that light. She waited till the children were pacified, and -had returned to their play, and then she took the little nursemaid by -the arm, and led her to the door. "You are not to enter this room again -or come near the children," she said, in a still voice which made Annie -tremble. "If you make a noise I will beat you. Go downstairs to your -sister, and I will see you afterwards. Not a word! I have nothing more -to say to you here." - -Cicely went back again to her seat trembling with the excitement of the -moment, and then said to herself, what a fool she was! but, oh! what a -much greater fool Miss Brown had been to leave this legacy of trouble to -two girls who had never done any harm to her. "Though, I suppose," -Cicely added to herself with a sense of justice, "she was not thinking -about us." And indeed it was not likely that poor Mrs. St. John had -brought these babies into the world solely to bother her husband's -daughters. Poor Cicely, who had a thousand other things to do, and who -already felt that it was impolitic, though necessary, to dismiss Annie, -pondered long, gazing at those pale-faced and terrible infants, how she -was to win them over, which looked as hard as any of her other painful -pieces of business. At last some kind fairy put it into her head to -sing: at which the two turned round once more upon their bases solemnly, -and stared at her, intermitting their play till the song was finished. -Then an incident occurred almost unparalleled in the nursery chronicles -of Brentburn. Charley took his thumb out of his mouth, and looking up at -her with his pale eyes, said of his own accord, "Adain." - -"Come here then, and sit on my lap," said Cicely, holding out her hand. -There was a momentary struggle between terror and gathering confidence, -and then pushing himself up by the big box of bricks Charley approached -gradually, keeping a wary eye upon her movements. Once on her lap, -however, the little adventurer felt himself comfortable. She was soft -and pleasant, and had a bigger shoulder to support him and a longer arm -to enfold him than Annie. He leant back against her, feeling the charm -of that softness and sweetness, though he did not know how. "Adain," -said Charley; and put his thumb in his mouth with all the feelings of a -connoisseur in a state of perfect bodily ease prepared to enjoy the -_morceau_ specially given at his desire. - -Thus Cicely conquered the babies once for all. Harry, too much astounded -by thus seeing his lead taken from him to make any remonstrance, -followed his brother in dumb surprise, and stood against her, leaning on -her knee. They made the prettiest group; for, as Mab said, even when -they are ugly, how pretty children are! and they "compose" so -beautifully with a pretty young woman, making even a commonplace mother -into a Madonna and Lady of Blessing. Cicely sang them a song, so very -low down in the scale at once both of music and of poetry that I dare -not shock the refined reader by naming it, especially after that -well-worn comparison; and this time both Harry and Charley joined in -the encore, the latter too happy to think of withdrawing that cherished -thumb from his mouth, murmuring thickly, "Adain." - -"But, oh, what a waste of time--what a waste of time it will be!" cried -poor Cicely, when she took refuge in the garden, putting the delicate -children to play upon a great rug, stretched on the grass. "To be sure -there will be one mouth less to feed, which is always something. You -must help me a little while I write my letters, Mab." - -"Who are you going to write to?" said Mab, with colloquial incorrectness -which would have shocked out of their senses the Miss Blandys, and all -the excellent persons concerned in bringing her up. "Oh yes, I will try -to help; but won't you forgive Annie, just for this little time, and let -her stay?" - -"I can't be defied in my own house," said Cicely, erecting her head with -an air which frightened Mab herself; "and I must take to it sooner or -later. Wherever we go, it is I that must look after them. Well! it will -be a trouble at first; but I shall like it when I get fond of them. Mab, -we ought to be fond of them now." - -Mab looked at the children, and then laughed. "I don't hate them," she -said; "they are such funny little things, as if they had been born about -a hundred years before their time. I believe, really, they are not -children at all, but old, old men, that know a great deal more than we -do. I am sure that Charley could say something very wonderful if he -liked. He has a great deal in him, if he would but take his thumb out of -his mouth." - -"Charley is my boy," said Cicely, brightening up; "he is the one I like -best." - -"I like him best, too. He is the funniest. Are you going to write -there?" - -"I must keep my eye upon them," said Cicely, with great solemnity. She -was pleased with her victory, and felt it to be of the most prodigious -importance that she should not lose the "influence" she had gained; for -she was silly, as became her age, as well as wise. She had brought out -her little desk--a very commonplace little article, indeed, of rosewood, -with brass bindings--and seated herself under the old mulberry-tree, -with the wind ruffling her papers, and catching in the short curling -locks about her forehead. (N.B.--Don't suppose, dear reader, that she -had cut them short; those stray curls were carefully smoothed away under -the longer braids when she brushed her hair; but the breeze caught them -in a way which vexed Cicely as being untidy). It was as pretty a garden -scene as you could see; the old mulberry bending down its heavy -branches, the babies on the rug at the girl's feet; but yet, when you -look over Cicely's shoulder, a shadow falls upon the pretty scene. She -had two letters to write, and something still less agreeable than her -letters--an advertisement for the _Guardian_. This was very difficult, -and brought many a sigh from her young breast. - -"'An elderly clergyman who has filled the office of curate for a very -long time in one parish, finding it now necessary to make a change, -desires to find a similar----'" - -"Do you think that will do?" said Mab. "It is as if poor papa were a -butler, or something--'filled the office of curate for a long time in -one parish'--it does not sound nice." - -"We must not be bound by what sounds nice," said Cicely. "It is not -nice, in fact--is it? How hard it is to put even such a little thing as -this as one ought! Will this do better?--'A clergyman, who has long -occupied the position of curate in charge, in a small parish, wishes to -hear of a similar----' What, Mab? I cannot say situation, can I? that -is like a butler again. Oh, dear, dear; it is so very much like a butler -altogether. Tell me a word." - -"Position," said Mab. - -"But I have just said position. 'A clergyman who has long held the--an -_appointment_ as curate in charge'--there, that is better--'wishes to -hear of a similar position in a small parish.' I think that will do." - -"Isn't there a Latin word? _Locum_ something or other; would not that be -more dignified?" said Mab. - -"_Locum tenens_. I prefer English," said Cicely; "and now I suppose we -must say something about his opinions. Poor dear papa! I am sure I do -not know whether he is High, or Low, or Broad." - -"Not Broad," said Mab, pointedly; for she was very orthodox. "Say sound; -I have often seen that, and it does not commit you to anything,--sound, -but not extreme, like Miss Blandy's clergyman." - -"'Of sound, but not extreme principles,'" wrote Cicely. "That sounds a -little strange, for you might say that a man who could not tell a lie, -but yet did not mind a fib, was sound, but not extreme. 'Church -principles'--is that better? But I don't like that either. Stop, I have -it--'He is a sound, but not extreme Churchman'--that is the very -thing--'and has much experience' (Ah, poor papa!) 'in managing a parish. -Apply'--but that is another question. Where ought they to apply? We -cannot give, I suppose, the full name and address here?" - -"I wonder if any one will apply? But, Cicely, suppose all comes right, -as I am sure it will, you may be deceiving some one, making them -think--Here is the very person I want; and then how disappointed they -will be!" - -"Oh, if there is only _their_ disappointment to think of! Mab, you must -not think there is any reliance to be put on Mr. Mildmay. He meant it; -yes, tears came into his eyes," cried Cicely, with a look of gratitude -and pleasure in her own. "But when he goes back among those Oxford men, -those dons, do you think they will pay any attention to him? They will -laugh at him; they will say he is a Quixote; they will turn it all into -fun, or think it his folly." - -"Why should Oxford dons be so much worse than other men?" said Mab, -surprised. "Papa is an Oxford man--he is not hard-hearted. Dons, I -suppose, are just like other people?" - -"No," said Cicely, who was arguing against herself, struggling against -the tide of fictitious hope, which sometimes threatened to carry her -away. "They live by themselves among their books; they have nobody -belonging to them; their hearts dry up, and they don't care for common -troubles. Oh, I know it: they are often more heathens than Christians. I -have no faith in those sort of people. He will have a struggle with -them, and then he will find it to be of no use. I am as sure as if it -had happened already," cried Cicely, her bright eyes sparkling indignant -behind her tears. - -"At least we need not think them so bad till we know," said Mab, more -charitably. - -Cicely had excited herself by this impassioned statement, in which -indeed the Oxford men were innocent sufferers enough, seeing that she -knew nothing about them. "I must not let myself believe it; I dare not -let myself believe it," she said in her heart; "but, oh! if by chance -things did happen _so_!" What abundant compensation, what lavish -apology, did this impetuous young woman feel herself ready to offer to -those maligned dons! - -The advertisement was at last fairly written out, with the exception of -the address to be given. "Papa may surely tell me where they are to -apply," Cicely said, though with doubts in her mind as to whether he was -good even for this; and then she wrote her letters, one of which was in -Mr. St. John's name to the lawyer who had written to him about the -furniture, asking that the sale might not take place until the curate's -half-year, which ended in the end of September, should be out. Mr. St. -John would not do this himself. "Why should I ask any favour of those -people who do not know me?" he said; but he had at length consented that -Cicely might write "if she liked;" and in any case the lawyer's letter -had to be answered. Cicely made this appeal as business-like as -possible. "I wonder how a man would write who did not mind much--to whom -this was only a little convenience," she said to her sister. "I don't -want to go and ask as if one was asking a favour of a friend--as if we -cared." - -"But we do care; and it would be a favour----" - -"Never mind. I wish we knew what a man would say that was quite -independent and did not care. 'If it is the same to you, it would be -more convenient for me not to have the furniture disturbed till the 22nd -of September'--that is the kind of thing. We girls always make too much -of a favour of everything," said Cicely, writing; and she produced an -admirable imitation of a business letter, to which she appended her own -signature, "Cecil St. John," which was also her father's, with great -boldness. The curate's handwriting was almost more womanlike than hers, -for Cicely's generation are not taught to write Italian hands, and I do -not think the lawyer suspected the sex of the production. When she had -finished this, she wrote upon another sheet of paper, "My dear Aunt, I -am----" and then she stopped sharply. "It is cool now, let us take them -out for a walk on the common," she said, shutting up her desk. "I can -finish this to-night." - -It was not, however, the walk on the common Cicely wanted, but to hide -from her sister that the letter to Aunt Jane was much less easy than -even those other dolorous pieces of business. Poor Cicely looked upon -the life before her with a shudder. To live alone in some new place, -where nobody knew her, as nursemaid to these babies, and attendant upon -her father, without her sweet companion, the little sister, who, though -so near in age, had always been the protected one, the reliant dependent -nature, believing in Cicely, and giving her infinite support by that -belief! How could she do it? Yet she herself, who felt it most, must -insist upon it; must be the one to arrange and settle it all, as so -often happens. It would not be half so painful to Mab as to Cicely; yet -Mab would be passive in it, and Cicely active; and she could not write -under Mab's smiling eyes betraying the sacrifice it cost her. Mab -laughed at her sister's impetuosity, and concluded that it was exactly -like Cicely to tire of her work all in a moment, and dash into something -else. And, accordingly, the children's out-door apparel was got from the -nursery, and the girls put on their hats, and strayed out by the garden -door upon the common, with its heathery knolls and furze bushes. Harry -and Charley had never in all their small lives had such a walk as this. -The girls mounted them upon their shoulders, and ran races with them, -Charley against Harry, till first one twin, and then the other, was -beguiled into shrill little gusts of laughter: after which they were -silent--themselves frightened by the unusual sound. But when the races -ended, Charley, certainly the hero of the day, opened his mouth and -spoke, and said "Adain!" and this time when they laughed the babies were -not frightened. Then they were set down and rolled upon the soft grass, -and throned in mossy seats among the purple fragrant heather. What an -evening it was! The sky all ablaze with the sunset, with clouds of rosy -flame hanging like canopies over the faint delicious openings of that -celestial green which belongs to a summer evening. The curate, coming -from a distant round into the parish, which had occupied him all the -day, found them on the grass under the big beech-tree, watching the glow -of colour in the west. He had never seen his girls "taking to" his -babies before so kindly, and the old man was glad. - -"But it is quite late enough to have them out; they have been used to -such early hours," he said. - -"And Harry wants his tea," piped that small hero, with a half whimper. - -Then the girls jumped up, and looked at each other, and Cicely grew -crimson. Here was a beginning to make, an advantage terrible to think -of, to be given to the dethroned Annie, who no doubt was enjoying it -keenly. Cicely had already forgotten the children's tea! - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -REALITY. - - -Cicely wrote her letter to her aunt that evening, dropping some tears -over it when Mab was not by to see; and almost as soon as it was -possible she had a very kind answer, granting her request, and more. -Aunt Jane declared that she would receive Mab with great delight, and do -everything that could be done to further her art-studies, which, as the -British Museum was near, and "a very good artist" lived next door to -Miss Maydew, seemed likely to be something worth while. "She shall be to -me like my own child; though I have never concealed from either of you -that you, Cicely, are my pet," wrote Miss Maydew; and she added a still -more liberal invitation. "If you want to spend a few days anywhere -between leaving Brentburn and going to the new place, wherever that may -be, you must come here--babies and all. I can manage to find beds for -you near; and it will be a nice little holiday for us all," said the -kind woman. She even added a postscript, to the effect that, if there -was a little money wanting at the time of the removal, Cicely was "not -to hesitate" to apply to her: and what could woman do more? Sympathy and -hospitality, and a little money, "is wanted." Alas! perhaps it is -because the money is so sure to be wanted that so few people venture on -such an offer; but Miss Maydew knew she was safe with Hester's child, -who was so like her mother. Cicely's other letter was successful, too. -The lawyer who represented the Chester family was quite willing to -postpone the sale until Mr. St. John's time was up. After all, the world -is not so very bad as it is called. Nobody was cruel to the St. Johns. -The tradespeople agreed to wait for their money. The Chesters would not -for the world disturb the departing curate until he was ready to go; and -Mrs. Ascott, and all the other great people in the parish, called and -made much of the girls. The church was more full than usual every -Sunday, for a vague expectation of a farewell (or, as old Mrs. Joel -called it, a funeral) sermon was in the people's minds. A great many of -them, now it came to the point, were very sorry that Mr. St. John was -going. They would have signed freely anything that had been set before -them to make the curate stay. But, nevertheless, they were all -interested about his farewell sermon, and what he would say for himself, -and what account he would give of various matters which stuck fast in -their rustic recollections. Thus the weeks stole away quite placidly, -and the harvest was got in, and August wore out under a great blazing -moon with the utmost cheerfulness. One or two answers came to the -advertisement in the _Guardian_; but they were not of an encouraging -kind. Cicely felt that it was better to repeat it and wait; and her -father was always pleased to wait under all circumstances; and the long -bright days went away one by one in a kind of noiseless procession, -which Cicely felt herself watch with a dreary dismay and restlessness. -Nothing had happened yet to avert the calamity that was impending. -Everything, on the contrary, seemed preparing for it--leading up to -it--though still Mr. St. John went "into the parish," and still all went -on as usual at the rectory. The curate showed no symptom of feeling -these last days different from any other; but the girls kept looking -forward, and hoping for something, with a hope which gradually fell -sick, and grew speechless--and nothing came. - -One day when Mrs. Ascott called, Cicely had got into that state of -exhaustion and strained anxiety when the mind grows desperate. She had -been occupied with the children all day, not able to get free of -them--Annie having finally departed, and Betsy, being too much -displeased at the loss of her sister and subordinate to make any offer -of help. The babies had grown more active and more loquacious under the -changed _régime_, and this, though it was her own doing, increased poor -Cicely's cares. Mab was upstairs preparing for her departure, which was -to be a few days before the general breaking up. Altogether when Mrs. -Ascott came in, fresh and cool out of her carriage, Cicely was not in -the best mood to receive her. She gave the children her work-basket to -play with to keep them quiet, and cleared her own brow as best she -could, as she stood up and welcomed the great lady. How fresh her -toilette was, how unwrinkled her face! a woman altogether at ease, and -ready to smile upon everything. She shook hands with Cicely, and took -her seat with smiling prettiness. "I have come really on business," she -said; "to see if we could be of any use to you, Cicely--in packing or -any of your preparations; and to ask if the time is quite fixed? I -suppose your papa must have heard from Mr. Mildmay, and that all is -settled now?" - -"All--settled?" said Cicely, faintly. The words, so softly and prettily -said, went into the girl's heart like a knife; and yet of course it was -no more than she expected--no more. - -"The appointment, as you would see, is in the paper to-day. I am so -sorry your papa is going, my dear; but as he must go, and we cannot help -it, at least we have reason to be thankful that we are getting such a -good man as Mr. Mildmay. It will be some little compensation to the -parish for losing Mr. St. John." - -"Is it--in the papers?" said Cicely, feeling suddenly hoarse and unable -to speak. - -"You feel it, my poor dear child!--of course you must feel it--and so do -we all. There will not be a dry eye in the whole church when Mr. St. -John preaches his farewell sermon. To think that he should have been -here so long--though it is a little consolation, Mr. Ascott says, that -we are getting a thorough gentleman, and so well connected--an admirable -man." - -"Consolation!" cried Cicely, raising her head. "What consolation is -wanted? Papa is pretty well worn out; he has done almost as much work as -a man can do. People cannot keep old things when they are worn out--the -new are better; but why should any one pretend to make a moan over it? I -do not see what consolation the parish can want. If you cry at the -farewell sermon, Mrs. Ascott, I shall laugh. Why should not your eyes be -dry--as dry as the fields--as dry as people's hearts?" - -"Cicely, Cicely!" cried Mrs. Ascott, shocked; "my dear, I am very sorry -for it, but a misfortune like this should be borne in a better spirit. I -am sure your poor dear papa would say so; and it is nobody's fault." - -"It is everybody's fault," cried Cicely, forgetting herself, getting up -in her passion, and walking about the room; "the parish, and the Church, -and all the world! Oh, you may smile! It does not touch you; you are -well off; you cannot be put out of your home; you cannot have everything -taken from you, and see everybody smiling pity upon you, and no one -putting out a hand to help. Pity! we don't want pity," cried Cicely; "we -want justice. How dare you all stand by and see it done? The Church, the -Church! that everybody preaches about as if it was God, and yet that -lets an old servant be so treated--an old servant that has worked so -hard, never sparing himself! If this is the Church's doing, the Church -is harder than the farmers--worse, worse than worldly people. Do you -think God will be pleased because he is well connected? or is it God's -fault?" Here her voice broke with a sob and shudder, and suddenly -dropping from her height of passion, Cicely said faintly, "Papa!" - -"What is it?" said the curate, coming in. "Surely I heard something very -strange. Mrs. Ascott, I beg your pardon; my ears must have deceived me. -I thought Cicely must be repeating, to amuse herself, some speech, -perhaps out of _Paradise Lost_. I have heard of some great man who was -caught doing that, and frightened everybody who heard him," said Mr. St. -John, shaking hands with the visitor with his friendly smile. - -He sat down, weary and dusty from "the parish," and there was a painful -pause. Cicely stole away to the corner where her little brothers were -playing, her pulse bounding, her heart throbbing, her cheeks aflame, her -whole being, soul and body, full of the strong pain and violent stimulus -of the shock she had received. She had never expected anything else, she -said to herself; she had steadily prepared for the going away, the ruin -that awaited them; but, nevertheless, her heart had never believed in -it, since that conversation with Mildmay at the rectory gate. Day by day -she had awoke with a certainty in her mind, never put into words, that -the good news would come, that all would be well. But the shock did not -crush her, as it does some people; it woke her up into freshened force -and life; her heart seemed to thrill and throb, not so much with pain -as with activity, and energy and power. - -"Cicely is very much excited," said Mrs. Ascott in a low tone. "I fear -she is very excitable; and she ought to be more careful in her -position--a clergyman's daughter--what she says. I think you ought to -speak to her, Mr. St. John. She flew at me (not that I mind that) and -said such things--because I mentioned that Mr. Mildmay's appointment was -in the paper this morning; and that since we must lose you--which nobody -can be more sorry for than we are--it was well at least that we were -getting so good a man." - -"Ah!" said the curate. The announcement took him by surprise, and gave -him a shock too, though of a different kind. He caught his breath after -it, and panted for a moment. "Is it in the papers? I have not seen it. I -have no time in the morning; and, besides, I never see the _Times_." - -"We hope you will settle to dine with us one day before you go," said -Mrs. Ascott. "How we shall miss you, Mr. St. John! I don't like to think -of it--and if we can be of any use in your preparations---- I hear there -is to be a sale, too?" - -"Not till we move. They will not put us to any inconvenience; indeed," -said the curate, with a sigh and a smile, "everybody is very kind." - -"I am sure everybody wishes to be kind," said Mrs. Ascott, with -emphasis. "I must not take up your time any longer, for you look very -tired after your rounds. But Mr. St. John, mark my words, you must hold -a tight hand over Cicely. She uses expressions which a clergyman's -daughter ought not to use." - -"What were you saying to her, my dear?" said Mr. St. John, coming in -again after he had taken the lady to her carriage; "your voice was -raised, and you still look excited. What did you say?" - -"It was nothing, papa. I lost my temper--who could help it? I will never -do it again. To think of _that_ man calmly accepting the living and -turning you out of it, after all he said." - -"What good would it have done had he refused?" said Mr. St. John. "My -dear, how could he help it?" - -"Help it?" cried Cicely. "Can nobody help anything in this world? Must -we stand by and see all manner of wrong done and take the advantage, and -then think we are innocent and cannot help it. That is what I scorn. -Let him do wrong if he will, and bear the blame--that is honest at -least. But to say he cannot help it; how could he ever dare to give such -a miserable excuse?" - -"My dear," said the curate, "I am too tired to argue. I don't blame -Mildmay; he has done just what was natural, and I am glad he is coming -here; while in the meantime talking will do no good, but I think my tea -would do me good," he added with a smile. - -Always tea, Cicely could not help thinking as she went away dutifully to -prepare it--or dinner, or some trifle; never any serious thought of what -was coming, of what had already come. She was young and impatient and -unjust, as it is so natural to be at her years. The curate put his hand -over his eyes when he was left alone. He was not disappointed or -surprised. He had known exactly all along how it would be; but when it -thus came upon him with such obvious and unmistakable reality, he felt -it sharply. Twenty years! All that part of his life in which anything to -speak of had happened to him, and--what was almost as hard to bear--all -the familiar things which had framed in his life--the scene, the place, -the people, the surroundings he was used to. He had not even his -favourite consolation, forlorn pride in never having asked anything, to -sustain him, for that was no longer the case. He was asking something--a -poor curacy, a priest's place for a piece of bread. The pang was -momentary, but it was sharp. He got up, and stretched his long languid -figure, and said to himself, "Ah, well! what is the good of thinking? It -is soon enough to make oneself wretched when the moment comes," and then -he went peacefully into the dining-room to tea. This was not how the -younger people took it, but then perhaps they had more capacity for -feeling left. - -Next morning Cicely got a letter of a very unusual description, which -affected her in no small degree. It was from Mildmay, and, perhaps, it -will be best to give it in full here:-- - - "DEAR MISS ST. JOHN, - - "I have delayed writing to you until I could make sure that you - must have seen or heard of the announcement in the papers which - will tell the results of my last three weeks' work. Do not think - that our last conversation has been obliterated from my mind. Very - far from that. I have seen the Master and all who are concerned, - and have done my best to show them the step which bare justice - required at their hands, but ineffectually. I made a point at the - same time of ascertaining what were the views of the gentleman to - whom Brentburn would be offered in case I refused it, and found him - quite decided on the subject. What could I do then? Should I have - declined and put myself entirely out of the way of being of any use - at all? - - "As a matter of simple justice, I refer the question to you. What - am I to do now? My thoughts on the subject have been many, I need - not say, since I saw you. May I ask your father to continue at - Brentburn as my curate? I am quite inexperienced; his assistance - would be of infinite advantage to me; and, in point of fact, as is - natural at our respective ages, I should be his curate, not he - mine. May I do this? or what else can I do? The position in which I - find myself is a painful one. It would have been much easier, I - assure you, to have shuffled the whole matter off upon Ruffhead, - and to have withdrawn. But I felt a responsibility upon me since I - met you; and I ask you now urgently, feeling that I have almost a - right to your advice, what am I to do? - - "Yours very truly, - - "ROGER MILDMAY." - -This letter excited Cicely greatly. By chance it arrived before the -others had come into the breakfast-room, and she was able to read it -without any looker-on. She put it hurriedly into her pocket before her -father and sister appeared. She did not know what answer to make, -neither did she feel comfortable about making any answer, and she said -nothing about it all day; though--oh, how the letter burned her pocket -and her mind! She had scarcely ever known what it was to have a secret -before, and not to tell Mab seemed almost wrong. She felt that there was -something clandestine about her, going up and down the house with that -letter in her possession which nobody knew of. And to answer it--to -answer it without any one knowing? This she could not do. She bore the -burden of her secret all the day, and surprised Mab very much by her -silence about Mr. Mildmay, whom the younger sister abused roundly. -"Perhaps it was not his fault," Cicely faltered. What had come over her? -What change had happened? Mab was lost in a maze. - -The difficulty, however, was solved in a very unexpected way. Next -morning--no later--Mr. St. John himself had a letter from Oxford; a -letter which made him change colour, and bend his meek brows, and then -smile--but not like himself. "Cicely, this must be your doing," he said. -"I never made any complaints to Mr. Mildmay, nor said anything to call -for his pity. He asks me to be his curate," the old man added, after a -pause, with a strange smile. No one had suspected that Mr. St. John was -proud, until it became apparent all at once how proud he was. - -"His curate--O papa! you will stay here, and never go away at all," -cried Mab out of the fulness of her heart. Cicely knew better. She grew -pale, and to stop that outcry of inconvenient delight, grasped tightly -her sister's hand. - -"Stay here!" said Mr. St. John, smiling again. "No, Mab, I am not fallen -so low as that, I hope. There is no need of a curate at Brentburn. If I -could do without one, at double his age, what should he want with a -curate? It is pity, pity! Oh yes, my dear, I know very creditable to -him; but I did not expect--I never expected to be exposed. Cicely, have -you that letter about the curacy in Liverpool? I should like to look at -it again." - -"But, papa, we agreed that it would not do; a bad town district full of -dreadful people----" - -"The more dreadful people are, the more they want to be looked after," -he said. "Write and inquire about it, my dear; I am not particular. -Work! that is all I want, not idleness and charity. You all know I am -old--but you don't know how much strength I have in me, nor how I like -work!" he cried, with a quiver in his voice. - -The shock had something of the same effect upon him now that it had -previously had on Cicely. The latent pride in him rose up in arms. She -had to write by that post about the Liverpool curacy; and before the -week was out he had accepted this strange, uncongenial post. He was to -be one of three curates in a large parish, including some of the most -wretched quarters in the town; the work very hard; the people very -degraded. - -"Papa, you will never be able to bear it," cried Cicely, with tears in -her eyes. - -"Nonsense, nonsense," he cried, with feverish energy; "write at once and -say I accept. It will do me all the good in the world." - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -THE BREAKING UP. - - -The day after Mr. St. John made this abrupt decision--almost the only -decision he had made for himself, without stimulation from others, all -his life--he went out into the parish as usual, but came home very -tired, and went to bed early, which the girls thought natural enough. -During the day Cicely had told Mab of her letter from Mildmay, and had -written an answer to it, thanking him for his consideration, and -informing him of the step her father had taken. "We shall never forget -how kind you have been," she wrote, gratefully; "both Mab and I feel it -to the bottom of our hearts. Is that too much?" she said, reading it -over. "I don't want to say too much." - -"But we must not say too little; and if a man who is willing to -sacrifice the half of his income is not to be thanked for it, I don't -know who is," cried Mab, always practical. - -"It is not so much the income," Cicely said, slightly wounded by this -matter-of-fact suggestion; "it is the feeling." - -"But the offer proves the feeling," said her sister; and indeed she was -right. - -Mr. St. John came home, as has been said, before his usual hour, and -went very early to bed. Next morning he rang his bell--the most unusual -sound--and sent word by Betsy that he thought he would not get up. When -Cicely went to him--as she did at once in a fright, for the bell and the -message together produced a great panic in a house quite unaccustomed -(at least, so far as the girls' experience went) to illness--she found -him in a partial doze, his large pale hand, looking very nerveless and -feeble, lying outside the coverlet. - -"No, no!" he said, when she roused him; "not very bad; not bad at all; -only tired--and lazy. I have often thought of late that I should like to -lie still some morning; and to-day I have done it. That's all, that's -all, my dear." He would not hear of the doctor being sent for; and -wanted nothing, he declared--nothing but a day's rest. Cicely had to go -downstairs, feigning content with this; but she was far from satisfied. -They talked it over all the morning, but there was little enough to be -made of it. There was no harm in a day's laziness, and nothing but good -in a day's rest; but yet--the girls did not know what to think. Had he -been looking ill lately? they asked each other. But, no! he had not been -looking ill--a little fatigued, perhaps; tired by the hot weather, as he -often was; but just as usual, doing as much as he always did; spending -the whole long day "in the parish;" ready to go out morning or night -when he was called to any one who was sick. "And what so natural as that -he should be tired?" Mab said; "a day's rest will do him good." Cicely, -though she was generally the leader, accepted this decision humbly, -saying nothing for her own part, but feeling a sense of dismay steal -into her mind, she could not tell why; for though it was quite natural -that he should do this, he had never done it before; and an innovation -on habits so long established and firmly fixed was very alarming and -bewildering. But Mab had the coolest judgment of the two, she said to -herself--and no doubt Mab was right. - -And next day it appeared indeed that Mab had been right. Mr. St. John -came down to breakfast as usual; saying cheerfully that he was quite -well, and went out "into the parish" as usual. The day's rest had done -him "all the good in the world;" it had "set him up;" nor did he say -anything more again about feeling tired. How quickly the days past -during that last fortnight! They seemed to tumble on each other, one -following on another's heels, holding so little of all the work they -ought to see completed. It was settled that the curate was to leave on -the 25th of September, in order that the sale should be over and -everything cleared away before the quarter-day. Mildmay wrote again a -pleading note to Cicely, a guarded but anxious one to her father, -pointing out with abject civility that it would be the greatest possible -advantage to himself if Mr. St. John would consent to stay. Mr. St. John -only smiled and shook his head, and handed the letter over to Cicely, -who was not so confidential in return. "Write to him for me, my dear, -for I have not time. Say how obliged I am, but that it is impossible." -"Is that all, papa?" said Cicely, faltering. "All? What could be said -more? And that everything will be ready by quarter-day--everything -ready." As he said this he gave a strange bewildered look round him at -the solid mahogany furniture which stood steadfast against the walls, -looking as if it never could be changed or taken away. This look was -still in his eyes when he went out to the parish, and when he came -back--a sort of dreamy wonder and confusion. Cicely thought he had the -same look next morning, and the next and next, as if he had somehow got -astray from his moorings in life, and could not make out what was going -to happen to him, or why it was going to happen. Mab said, "Nonsense, -you are getting fanciful. Papa looks exactly as he has always looked;" -and indeed everything went on just the same as usual, showing no other -difference except this look, if there was a difference at all. He went -about just as usual, preached his two little sermons on the Sunday, went -to the schools, kept up all the occupations he had been used to for -twenty years; but nevertheless continued to have that dazed look in his -eyes, sometimes only bewildered, sometimes startled, like the look of an -animal who dumbly foresees something approaching which it knows to be -malign, but can neither avert nor understand. This, at least, was what -Cicely saw in her father's eyes; no one else dreamt of looking at his -eyes particularly, or cared what they meant. Perhaps his usually -tranquil manners were disturbed a little, but how natural that was! In -the evening when they were sitting together he would grow quite -talkative, telling the girls little stories of his first coming here, -and of their mother's trials in the new parish, and would even laugh -softly over them, saying, "Poor Hester! You grow more and more like her, -Cicely, my dear!" and then he would drop into long silence, never taking -a book or the newspaper which came in the evening, but sitting quite -still looking round him. The girls did not know, however, that his -parish rounds got shorter; that in several of the cottages he had been -compelled to wait and rest, and that here and there he had seemed to -forget everything around him, falling into a half faint or harmless -trance, from which he would rouse up, and smile upon them, and go on. -This, however, they were not told till long after, when it seemed to -them, that, if they had but known;--but if they had, I don't know what -they could have done. - -On the 22nd Mab went to London to Aunt Jane. It was not to be a parting, -for it was arranged that Mr. St. John and the rest of the family were to -go there also on the 25th, and rest for the night, and afterwards start -on their journey to Liverpool; but still the girls were sad enough as -they walked to the station together, Mab's boxes having been sent on -before by Farmer Dent's cart. Their eyes were dim with tears as they -went through the faded heather on the common. "You will have plenty to -fret about," said Mab, "with all you have got to do; and, oh, Cicely, I -beg of you, don't be silly and fret about papa! He feels it, of -course--but he is quite well, as well as you or me." "I hope so, dear," -said Cicely, meekly, with a tremor in her voice; and when they got to -the station they looked through all the carriages till they saw in one a -middle-aged homely woman, whose box, labelled for "London," was being -put in, under the seat. Then Cicely established Mab in the opposite -corner. It was the best that could be done for her, for no one could be -spared to go with her, even could they have afforded the expense. Cicely -walked home alone, feeling as if the world had suddenly grown dark and -lonely round her. Mab had set out upon life, and she for her part was -returning to hers--to the tradespeople, who were all to be paid so much, -out of the fifty pounds which the curate had to receive, and to the -babies, who had no one to look after them but herself, and to her father -with that bewildered look in his eyes. Next morning the auctioneer was -coming to begin his inventory, and arrange the business of the sale, -though the actual auction did not commence until twelve o'clock on -Thursday, the day they were to leave. - -On Tuesday morning, however, before he went out to the parish, Mr. St. -John suddenly stumbled upon the auctioneer, who had gone quietly into -the study as soon as its temporary master left, and was kneeling before -the large old-fashioned writing-table, which Mr. St. John had used for -so long, examining it, and tapping it with his knuckles to see where the -drawers were. He had his back to the door, and did not see the surprised -spectator, who stood and looked at him for a whole minute in silence. -The curate went back to the hall where Cicely stood waiting for him with -his hat in her hand. "Who is that?--who is that man?" he said, with his -eyes more cloudy and wild than they had ever been, and a sort of palsied -trembling all over him. - -"No harm, papa," said Cicely, trying to be cheerful; "only the -auctioneer." - -"Yes, yes, I remember," he said, taking his hat from her. "It was stupid -of me not to remember." - -"But, papa, you are trembling. You are not well. Come back and rest a -little," she cried. - -"No, no; it is nothing. Go back where? I suppose he is going through all -the rooms?" said Mr. St. John. "No, no; it gave me a little shock, -foolishly, but the air will blow it all away," he said, with a smile, -recovering himself. - -What terrors were in Cicely's mind all that day! but fortunately for her -she had not much time to indulge them. She had to do all her packing, to -take care of the children, to separate the few things her father -possessed from Mr. Chester's furniture, to see after everything and -everybody, providing something even (though she had so little) for the -auctioneer and his men. And it was a relief to her when her father came -back a little earlier than usual, and looking no worse. She said to -herself that Mab was right; that he felt it, of course--which was to be -expected--but otherwise was as well as usual. He had a little colour in -his cheeks, and ate very well, and afterwards fell asleep in his chair. -How natural it was that he should fall asleep! It was the very best -thing for him. Notwithstanding, in her anxiety, Cicely went out into the -garden to look at him through the open window, and make sure that all -was right. How white his venerable head looked lying against the dark -corner of the chair, his face like ivory but for the little pink in his -cheeks, but he looked well, although he was wearied out, evidently; and -no wonder! It was the most natural thing in the world. - -Next day he was stronger and more cheerful in the morning. He went out, -and made a round of all the poor people, saying good-bye to them; and -half the people in Brentburn came crying to the doors of the cottages, -and said "Good-bye, sir!" and "God bless you, sir!" curtsying and -wiping their eyes with their aprons. All the last sixpences he had went -that day to the old women and the children, to buy a little tea or some -sweets in the little shop. He was very heavy about the eyes when he came -home, and took his tea eagerly. Then he went out for an evening stroll, -as he had been used to do before all these troubles came. He did not ask -Cicely to go with him, but no doubt he knew how busy she was. When, -however, she had put the children to bed, and packed everything but the -last box, which was left till to-morrow morning, Cicely perceived that -daylight was over, and that it was getting late. Her father was not in -any of the rooms. Frightened, she ran out, and gazed about her looking -for him; then, seeing no one up or down, in a sudden passion of terror, -hurried up the bank to the white churchyard stile. There she found him -at once, standing close by the cross on her mother's grave. He had one -arm round it, and with his other hand was picking away the yellow mosses -that had crept over the stone; but he stopped when she called him, and -picked up his hat which lay at his feet, and came with her quite -submissively. - -"It is late, papa," said Cicely, with quivering lips. - -"Yes, yes, my dear; yes, you are quite right," he said, and walked -towards the rectory--but like a blind man, as if he did not see where he -was going. Two or three times she had to guide him to keep him from -stumbling over the humble graves, for which usually he had so much -reverence. He went into the house in the same way, going straight before -him, as if he did not know where the door were; and, instead of going -into the dining-room, where supper was laid as usual, he took up a -candle which stood on the hall-table, and went to his study. Cicely -followed him, alarmed; but he did nothing more than seat himself at his -writing-table. - -"Are you not coming to supper, papa?" she said. - -"Did any one speak?" he asked, looking up eagerly as if he did not see. - -"O papa, dear, come to supper!" she cried. Then his vacant face seemed -to brighten. - -"Yes, my love, yes. I am coming; I am coming----" - -Cicely did not know what to say or to think. Was it to her he was -speaking? She went away, her heart beating loud, to see that all was -ready, hoping he would follow. But as he did not come in about ten -minutes after, she went back. The room was dark, one corner of it only -lighted by the candle, which threw all its light on his pale face and -white hair. He was turning over some papers, apparently absorbed. He did -not seem to observe her entrance. She went up to him softly, and put her -hand upon his shoulder. "Come, please, papa, I am waiting," she said. - -He turned to her, a great light shining over his face. "Ah! yes, my -darling, you are waiting. How long you have been waiting! But I'm -ready--ready.--I knew you would come, Hester, I knew you would come when -I wanted you most----" - -"Papa!" cried Cicely, in a voice shrill with terror. - -He started, the light went out of his face, his eyes grew cloudy and -bewildered. "What were you saying, Cicely? I am getting--a little hard -of hearing. I don't think I heard what you said." - -"Come in to supper, papa." - -"Yes, yes; but you need not trouble; there is nothing the matter," he -said, recovering himself. And he went with her and ate something -dutifully, not without appetite. Then he returned to his study. When -Cicely went to him there to say good-night he was smiling to himself. "I -am coming; I am coming," he said. "No need to tell me twice; I know when -I am in good hands." - -"Good night, papa--you are going to bed?--we must be early to-morrow," -said Cicely. - -"Yes, early--early," he said, still smiling. "Directly, Hester--before -you have reached the gate----" - -"Papa! don't you know me?" cried Cicely, trembling from head to foot. - -Again he turned to her with his old face all lighted up and shining. -"Know you! my darling!" he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -THE CURATE LEAVES BRENTBURN. - - -Cicely went to her room that night in a very nervous and disturbed -condition. It was her last night, too, in the house in which she had -been born; but she had no leisure to think of that, or to indulge in any -natural sentiments on the subject. She was very much alarmed about her -father, whose looks were so strange, but did not know what to do. That -he should take her for her mother was perhaps not wonderful at such a -moment of agitation; but it frightened her more than words can say. What -could she do? It was night, and there was no one in the house with her -but Betsy, who had for hours been buried in deepest slumbers; and even -had she been able to send for the doctor, what advance would that have -made?--for he was not ill, only strange, and it was so natural that he -should be strange;--and the good steady-going country doctor, acquainted -with honest practical fevers and rheumatism, what help could he bring to -a mind diseased? Cicely had changed her room in her new office of nurse, -and now occupied a small inner chamber communicating with that of the -two children. She was sitting there pondering and thinking when she -heard her father come upstairs. Then he appeared suddenly bending over -the children's little cots. He had a candle in his hand, and stooping -feebly, kissed the little boys. He was talking to himself all the time; -but she could not make out what he said, except, as he stood looking at -the children, "Poor things, poor things! God bless you." Cicely did not -show herself, anxiously as she watched, and he went out again and on to -his own room. He was going to bed quietly, and after all it might turn -out to be nothing; perhaps he had been dozing when he called her Hester, -and was scarcely awake. After this she intended to go to bed herself; -for she was sadly worn out with her long day's work and many cares, and -fell dead asleep, as youth unaccustomed to watching ever will do in the -face of all trouble. The house was perfectly still so long as she was -awake; not a sound disturbed the quiet except the breathing of Harry and -Charley, and the tap of the jessamine branches against her windows. -There was one last blossom at the end of a branch, late and long after -its neighbours, which shed some of its peculiar sweetness through the -open window. The relief was so great to hear her father come upstairs, -and to know that he was safe in his room, that her previous fright -seemed folly. She said her prayers, poor child! in her loneliness, -giving tearful thanks for this blessing, and fell asleep without time to -think of any bothers or sorrow of her own. Thus sometimes, perhaps, -those who have other people to carry on their shoulders avoid -occasionally the sharp sting of personal feeling--at least, of all the -sentiments which are of a secondary kind. - -The morning was less warm and bright than usual, with a true autumnal -haze over the trees. This soothed Cicely when she looked out. She was -very early, for there were still various last things to do. She had -finished her own individual concerns, and locked her box ready for -removal, before it was time to call the children, who slept later and -more quietly than usual by another happy dispensation of providence. -Cicely heard the auctioneer arrive, and the sound of chatter and -laughter with which Betsy received the men, with whom already she had -made acquaintance. Why not? Shall everybody be sad because we are in -trouble? Cicely asked herself; and she leant out of the window which -overlooked the garden, and took a deep draught of the dewy freshness of -the morning before she proceeded to wake the children and begin the -day's work. Her eyes, poor child! were as dewy as the morning; but she -did not give herself time to cry, or waste her strength by such an -indulgence. A knock at her door disturbed her, and she shut the window -hastily, and shaking off those stray drops from her eyelashes, went to -see what Betsy wanted so early. Betsy stood outside, looking pale and -excited. "The men says, please, miss, will you come downstairs?" said -Betsy, making an effort at a curtsy, which was so very unusual that -Cicely was half amused. - -"What do they want? I have to dress the children, Betsy. Could not you -do instead?" - -"If you please, miss, I'll dress the children. Do go--go, please Miss -Cicely! I'm too frightened. O miss, your poor papa!" - -"Papa?" Cicely gave the girl one frightened beseeching look, and then -flew downstairs, her feet scarcely touching the steps. Why was he up so -early? Why was he vexing himself with those men, and their preparations, -making himself miserable about nothing, when there were so many real -troubles to bear? The men were standing in a little knot by the study -door, which was half open. "What do you want with me? What is it?" - -They were confused; one of them put forward another to speak to her, and -there was a little rustling, and shuffling, and changing of position, -which permitted her to see, as she thought, Mr. St. John sitting, facing -the door, in his usual chair. "Ah! it is papa who has come down, I -see--thank you for not wishing to disturb him. I will tell him," said -Cicely, passing through the midst of them with swift light youthful -steps. - -"Don't let her go! Stop her, for God's sake!" cried one of the men, in -subdued confused tones. She heard them, for she remembered them -afterwards; but at that moment the words conveyed no meaning to her. She -went in as any child would go up to any father. The chair was pushed -away from the writing-table, facing towards the door, as if he had been -expecting some one. What surprised Cicely more than the aspect of his -countenance, in which at the first glance she saw no particular -difference, was that he had upon his knees, folded neatly, a woman's -cloak and hat--her mother's cloak and hat--which had remained in his -room by his particular desire ever since Hester died. - -"Papa, what are you doing with these?" she said. - -There was no reply. "Papa, are you asleep?" cried Cicely. She was -getting very much frightened, her heart beating against her breast. For -the moment some impulse of terror drove her back upon the men at the -door. "He has gone to sleep," she said, hurriedly; "he was tired, very -much tired last night." - -"We have sent for the doctor, miss," said one of the men. - -"Papa, papa!" said Cicely. She had gone back to him paying no attention -to them; and then she gave a low cry, and threw herself on her knees by -his side, gazing up into his face, trembling. "What is the matter?" said -the girl, speaking low; "what is it, papa? Where were you going with -that hat and cloak? Speak to me; don't sit there and doze. We are to go -away--to go away--don't you remember, to-day?" - -Some one else came in just then, though she did not hear. It was the -doctor, who came and took her by the arm to raise her. "Run away, my -dear; run upstairs till I see what is to be done," he said. "Somebody -take her away." - -Cicely rose up quickly. "I cannot awake him," she said. "Doctor, I am so -glad you have come, though he would not let me send yesterday. I think -he must be in a faint." - -"Go away, go away, my dear." - -It neither occurred to the poor girl to obey him nor to think what he -meant. She stood by breathless while he looked at the motionless figure -in the chair, and took into his own the grey cold hand which hung -helpless by Mr. St. John's side. Cicely did not look at her father, but -at the doctor, to know what it was; and round the door the group of men -gazed too awestricken, with Betsy, whom curiosity and the attraction of -terror had brought downstairs, and one or two labourers from the village -passing to their morning's work, who had come in, drawn by the strange -fascination of _what had happened_, and staring too. - -"Hours ago," said the doctor to himself, shaking his head; "he is quite -cold; who saw him last?" - -"O doctor, do something!" cried Cicely, clasping her hands; "don't lose -time; don't let him be like this; do something--oh, do something, -doctor! Don't you know that we are going to-day?" - -He turned round upon her very gently, and the group at the door moved -with a rustling movement of sympathy. Betsy fell a crying loudly, and -some of the men put their hands to their eyes. The doctor took Cicely by -the arm, and turned her away with gentle force. - -"My dear, you must come with me. I want to speak to you in the next -room." - -"But papa?" she cried. - -"My poor child," said the compassionate doctor, "we can do nothing for -him now." - -Cicely stood quite still for a moment, then the hot blood flushed into -her face, followed by sudden paleness. She drew herself out of the kind -doctor's hold, and went back and knelt down again by her father's side. -Do nothing more for him--while still he sat there, just as he always -did, in his own chair? - -"Papa, what is it?" she said, trembling, while they all stood round. -Suddenly the roughest of all the men, one of the labourers, broke forth -into loud sobs. - -"Don't you, miss--don't, for the love of God!" cried the man. - -She could not hear it. All this came fresh to her word for word a little -later, but just then she heard nothing. She took the hand the doctor had -taken, and put her warm cheek and her young lips to it. - -"He is cold because he has been sleeping in his chair," she cried, -appealing to them. "Nothing else--what could it be else? and we are -going away to-day!" - -The doctor grasped at her arm, almost hurting her. "Come," he said, -"Cicely, this is not like you. We must carry him to bed. Come with me to -another room. I want to ask you how he was last night." - -This argument subdued her, and she went meekly out of the room, trying -to think that her father was to be carried to his bed, and that all -might still be well. Trying to think so; though a chill had fallen upon -her, and she knew, in spite of herself. - - * * * * * - -The men shut the door reverently as the doctor took her away, leaving -him there whom no one dared to touch, while they stood outside talking -in whispers. Mr. St. John, still and cold, kept possession of the place. -He had gone last night, when Cicely saw him, to fetch those relics of -his Hester, which he had kept for so many years in his room; but, in his -feeble state, had been so long searching before he could find them, that -sleep had overtaken Cicely, and she had not heard him stumbling -downstairs again with his candle. Heaven knows what fancy it was that -had sent him to seek his wife's cloak and hat; his mind had got confused -altogether with trouble and weakness, and the shock of uprootal; and -then he had sat down again with a smile, with her familiar garments -ready for her, to wait through the night till Hester came. What hour or -moment it was no one could tell; but Hester, or some other angel, had -come for him according to his expectation, and left nothing but the case -and husk of him sitting, as he had sat waiting for her, with her cloak -upon his knees. - -"I am going to telegraph for her sister," said the doctor, coming out -with red eyes after all was done that could be done, both for the living -and the dead. "Of course you will send and stop the people from coming; -there can be no sale to-day." - -"Of course," said the auctioneer. "The young lady wouldn't believe it, -my man tells me. I must get them off at once, or they'll get drinking. -They're all upset like a parcel of women--what with finding him, and -what with seeing the young lady. Poor thing! and, so far as I can learn, -very badly left?" - -"Left!" cried the doctor; there was derision in the very word. "They are -not _left_ at all; they have not a penny in the world. Poor St. John, we -must not say a word now against him, and there is not much to say. He -got on with everybody. He did his duty by rich and poor. There was never -a better clergyman, always ready when you called him, early or late; -more ready for nothing," the doctor added remorsefully, "than I am for -my best paying patients. We might have done more to smooth his way for -him, perhaps, but he never could take care of money or do anything to -help himself; and now they'll have to pay for it, these two poor girls." - -Thus the curate's record was made. The news went through the parish like -the wind, in all its details; dozens of people were stopped in the -village going to the sale, and a little comforted for their -disappointment by the exciting story. Some of the people thought it was -poor Miss Brown, the _other_ Mrs. St. John, whom he was looking for. -Some felt it a strange heathenish sort of thing of him, a clergyman, -that he should be thinking at that last moment of anything but the -golden city with the gates of pearl; and thought there was a dreadful -materialism in the cloak and hat. But most people felt a thrill of real -emotion, and the moment he was dead, mourned Mr. St. John truly, -declaring that Brentburn would never see the like of him again. Mrs. -Ascott cried so that she got a very bad headache, and was obliged to go -and lie down. But she sent her maid to ask if they could do anything, -and even postponed a dinner-party which was to have been that evening, -which was a very gratifying token of respect. Mrs. Joel, who was perhaps -at the other extremity of the social scale, cried too, but had no -headache, and went off at once to the rectory to make herself useful, -pulling all the blinds down, which Betsy had neglected, and telling all -the callers that poor Miss Cicely was as well as could be expected, -though "it have given her a dreadful shock." The trunks stood all ready -packed and corded, with Mr. St. John's name upon them. But he had no -need of them, though he had kept his word and left Brentburn on the -appointed day. After a while people began to think that perhaps it was -the best thing that could have happened--best for him certainly--he -could never have borne the rooting up, they said--he could never have -borne Liverpool, so noisy and quarrelsome. "Why, it would have killed -him in a fortnight, such a place," said Mr. Ascott, who had not, -however, lent a hand in any way to help him in his struggle against -fate. - -Mab, it is needless to say, came down at once with Aunt Jane, utterly -crushed and helpless with sorrow. Poor Cicely, who was only beginning -to realize what it was, and to make sure that her father absolutely was -dead, and beyond the reach of all bringing back, had to rouse herself, -and take her sister into her arms and console her. Mab sobbed quietly -when she was in her sister's arms, feeling a sense of strong protection -in them. - -"I have still you, Cicely," she said, clinging to her. - -"But Cicely has no one," said Aunt Jane, kissing the pale girl with that -compassionate insight which age sometimes brings even to those who do -not possess it by nature. "But it is best for you to have them all to -look after, if you could but see it, my poor child!" - -"I do see it," said Cicely--and then she had to disentangle herself from -Mab's clinging, and to go out of the room where they had shut themselves -up, to see somebody about the "arrangements," though indeed everybody -was very kind and spared her as much as they could. - -After the first shock was over it may well be supposed what -consultations there were within the darkened rooms. The funeral did not -take place till the following Tuesday, as English custom demands, and -the days were very slow and terrible to the two girls, hedged round by -all the prejudices of decorum, who could do nothing but dwell with their -grief in the gloomy house which crushed their young spirits with its -veiled windows and changeless dimness. That, and far more, they were -ready to do for their father and the love they bore him; but to feel -life arrested and stopped short by that shadow of death is hard upon the -young. Miss Maydew, whose grief naturally was of a much lighter -description than that of the girls, and with whom decorum was stronger -than grief, kept them upstairs in their rooms, and treated them as -invalids, which was the right thing to do in the circumstances. Only at -dusk would she let them go even into the garden, to get the breath of -air which nature demanded. She knew all the proper ceremonials which -ought to be observed when there was "a death in the house," and was not -quite sure even now how far it was right to let them discuss what they -were going to do. To make up for this, she carried to them the scraps of -parish gossip which she gleaned from Mrs. Joel and from Betsy in the -kitchen. There had, it appeared, been a double tragedy in the parish. A -few days after the death of the curate, the village schoolmistress, a -young widow with several babies, had "dropped down" and died of heart -disease in the midst of the frightened children. "It is a terrible -warning to the parish," said Miss Maydew, "two such events in one week. -But your dear papa, everybody knows, was ready to go, and I hope Mrs. -Jones was so too. They tell me she was a good woman." - -"And what is to become of the children?" said Cicely, thinking of her -own burden. - -"Oh, my dear, the children will be provided for; they always are -somehow. There are so many institutions for orphans, and people are very -good if you know how to get at them. No doubt somebody will take them -up. I don't doubt Mr. Ascott has votes for the British Orphans' or St. -Ann's Society, or some of these. Speaking of that, my dears, I have been -thinking that we ought to try for something of the same kind ourselves. -Cicely, hear first what I have got to say before you speak. It is no -disgrace. How are Mab and you to maintain these two little boys? Of -course you shall have all that I can give you, but I have so little; -and if girls can maintain themselves, it is all they are likely to do. -There is a society, I am sure, for the orphans of clergymen----" - -"Aunt Jane! Papa's sons shall never be charity boys--never! if I should -work my fingers to the bone, as people say." - -"Your fingers to the bone--what good would that do? Listen to me, girls. -Both of you can make a fair enough living for yourselves. You will -easily get a good governess's place, Cicely; for, though you are not -very accomplished, you are so thorough--and Mab, perhaps, if she -succeeds, may do still better. But consider what that is: fifty pounds a -year at the outside; and at first you could not look for that; and you -are always expected to dress well and look nice, and Mab would have all -sorts of expenses for her materials and models and so forth. The -cheapest good school for boys I ever heard of was forty pounds without -clothes, and at present they are too young for school. It is a woman's -work to look after two little things like that. What can you do with -them? If you stay and take care of them, you will all three starve. It -would be far better to get them into some asylum where they would be -well looked after; and then," said Aunt Jane, insinuatingly, "if you got -on very well, or if anything fortunate happened, you could take them -back, don't you see, whenever you liked." - -Mab, moved by this, turned her eyes to Cicely for her cue; for there was -a great deal of reason in what Aunt Jane said. - -"Don't say anything more about it, please," said Cicely. "We must not -say too much, for I may break down, or any one may break down; but they -shall not go upon charity if I can help it. Oh, charity is very good, I -know; we may be glad of it, all of us, if we get sick or can't find -anything to do; but I must try first--I must try!" - -"O Cicely, this is pride, the same sort of pride that prevented your -poor papa from asking for anything----" - -"Hush, Aunt Jane! Whatever he did was right; but I am not like papa. I -don't mind asking so long as it is for work. I have an idea now. Poor -Mrs. Jones! I am very very sorry for her, leaving her children desolate. -But some one will have to come in her place. Why should it not be me? -There is a little house quite comfortable and pleasant where I could -have the children; and I think the parish would not refuse me, if it was -only for papa's sake." - -"Cicely! my dear child, of what are you thinking?" said Miss Maydew, in -dismay. "A parish schoolmistress! you are dreaming. All this has been -too much for you. My dear, my dear, you must never think of such a thing -again!" - -"O Cicely, it is not a place for a lady, surely," cried Mab. - -"Look here," said Cicely, the colour mounting to her face. "I'd take in -washing if it was necessary, and if I knew how. A lady! there's nothing -about ladies that I know of in the Bible. Whatever a woman can do I'm -ready to try, and I don't care, not the worth of a pin, whether it's a -place for a lady or not. O Aunt Jane, I beg your pardon. I know how good -you are--but charity! I can't bear the thought of charity. I must try my -own way." - -"Cicely, listen to me," cried Aunt Jane, with tears. "I held back, for -the children are not my flesh and blood as you are. Perhaps it was mean -of me to hold back. O Cicely, I wanted to save what I had for you; but, -my dear, if it comes to that, better, far better, that you should bring -them to London. I don't say I'm fond of children," said Miss Maydew; -"it's so long since I had anything to do with them. I don't say but what -they'd worry me sometimes; but bring them, Cicely, and we'll do what we -can to get on, and when you find a situation, I'll--I'll--try----" - -Her voice sank into quavering hesitation, a sob interrupted her. She was -ready to do almost all they wanted of her, but this was hard; still, -sooner than sacrifice her niece's gentility, the standing of the -family--Cicely had good sense enough to perceive that enough had been -said. She kissed her aunt heartily with tender thanks, but she did not -accept her offer or say anything further about her own plans. For the -moment nothing could be done, whatever the decision might be. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -THE RECTOR'S BEGINNING. - - -Mr. Mildmay came to Brentburn the Saturday after the curate's death. The -Ascotts invited him to their house, and he went there feeling more like -a culprit than an innocent man has any right to do. He fairly broke down -in the pulpit next day, in the little address he made to the people. -"God knows," he said to them, "that I would give everything I have in -the world to bring back to you the familiar voice which you have heard -here so long, and which had the teachings of a long experience to give -you, teachings more precious than anything a new beginner can say. When -I think that but for my appointment this tragedy might not have -happened, my heart sinks within me; and yet I am blameless, though all -who loved him have a right to blame me." His voice quivered, his eyes -filled with tears, and all the Brentburn folks, who were not struck dumb -with wonder, wept. But many of them were struck dumb with wonder, and -Mr. Ascott, who was his host, and felt responsible for him, did more -than wonder. He interfered energetically when the service was over. - -"Mildmay," he said, solemnly, "mark my words, this will never do. You -are no more to blame for poor St. John's death than I am or any one, and -nobody has a right to blame you. Good heavens, if you had never heard of -the poor fellow, don't you think it would have happened all the same? -You did a great deal more than any one else would have done--is that why -you think it is your fault?" - -Mildmay did not make any reply to this remonstrance. Perhaps after he -had said it, he felt, as so many impulsive men are apt to do, a hot -nervous shame for having said it, and betraying his feelings; but he -would not discuss the question with the Ascotts, who had no -self-reproach in the matter, no idea that any one could have helped it. -They discussed the question now, the first shock being over, and a -comfortable Sunday put between them and the event, with great calm. - -"He was just the sort of man that would not even have his life insured," -said Mr. Ascott. "What those poor girls are to do, I do not know. Go out -for governesses, I suppose, poor things! the common expedient; but then -there are those babies. There ought to be an Act of Parliament against -second families. I never had any patience with that marriage; and Miss -Brown, I suppose, had no friends that could take them up?" - -"None that I know of," his wife replied. "It is a dreadful burden for -those girls. It will hamper them in their situations, if they get -situations, and keep them from marrying----" - -"They are pretty girls," said Mr. Ascott. "I don't see why they -shouldn't marry." - -"That is all very well, Henry," she replied; "but what man, in his -senses, would marry a girl with a couple of children dependent on her?" - -"A ready-made family," he said, with a laugh. - -This was on the Sunday evening after dinner. It was dusk, and they -could not see their guest's face, who took no part in the conversation. -To hear such a discussion as this, touching the spoiling of a girl's -marriage, is quite a commonplace matter, which the greater part of the -world would think it foolishly fastidious to object to, and probably Mr. -Mildmay had heard such talk upon other occasions quite unmoved; but it -is astonishing the difference it makes when you know the girl thus -discussed, and have, let us say, "a respect" for her. He felt the blood -come hot to his face; he dared not say anything, lest he should say too -much. Was it mere poverty that exposed those forlorn young creatures, -whose case surely was sad enough to put all laughter out of court, to -such comment? Mrs. Ascott thought it quite possible that Mr. Mildmay, -fresh from Oxford, might consider female society frivolous, and was -reserving himself for loftier conversation with her husband, and that -this was the reason of his silence, so she went away smiling, rustling -her silken skirts to the drawing-room, in the humility which becomes the -weaker vessel, not feeling herself equal to that loftier strain, to make -the gentlemen's tea. - -Her husband, however, came upstairs after her, by himself. Mildmay had -gone out for a stroll, he said, and seemed to prefer being alone; he was -afraid, after all, he was a morose sort of fellow, with very little "go" -in him. As for the new rector, he was very glad to get out into the -stillness of the dewy common after the hot room and the fumes of Mr. -Ascott's excellent port, which he disliked, being altogether a man of -the new school. He skirted the common under the soft light of some -stars, and the incipient radiance of the moon, which had not yet risen, -but showed that she was rising. He went even as far as the back of the -rectory, and that little path which the curate's feet had worn, which he -followed reverently to the grey cross upon Hester's grave. Here a flood -of peaceful and friendly thoughts came over the young man, bringing the -tears to his eyes. He had only known Mr. St. John for about twenty-four -hours, yet how much this short acquaintance had affected him! He seemed -to be thinking of a dear old friend when he remembered the few moments -he had stood here, six weeks before, listening to the curate's simple -talk. "The lights in the girls' windows;"--there they were, the only -lights in the dark house, a glimmer through the half-closed shutters. -Then he thought of the old man, bewildered with death and death's -weakness, sitting with his wife's cloak and hat ready, waiting for her -to come who had been waiting all these years under the sod for him to -come. "I shall go to her, but she will not come to me," said the new -rector to himself, letting a tear fall upon the cross, where the -curate's hand had rested so tenderly. His heart was full of that -swelling sensation of sympathetic sorrow which is both sweet and -painful. And _she_ was, they all said, so like her mother. Would any -one, he wondered, think of _her_ sometimes as Mr. St. John had done of -his Hester? Or would nobody, in his senses, marry a girl burdened with -two babies dependent on her? When those words came back to his mind, his -cheeks reddened, his pace quickened in a sudden flush of anger. And it -was a woman who had said it--a woman whose heart, it might have been -thought, would have bled for the orphans, not much more than children -any of them, who were thus left in the world to struggle for themselves. - -It was Mildmay who took all the trouble about the funeral, and read the -service himself, with a voice full of emotion. The people had scarcely -known before how much they felt the loss of Mr. St. John. If the new -parson was thus affected, how much more ought they to be! Everybody wept -in the churchyard, and Mr. Mildmay laid that day the foundation of a -popularity far beyond that which any clergyman of Brentburn, within the -memory of man, had enjoyed before. "He was so feelin' hearted," the poor -people said; they shed tears for the old curate who was gone, but they -became suddenly enthusiasts for the new rector. The one was past, and -had got a beautiful funeral, carriages coming from all parts of the -county; and what could man desire more? The other was the present, -cheerful and full of promise. A thrill of friendliness ran through every -corner of the parish. The tragedy which preceded his arrival, strangely -enough, made the most favourable preface possible to the commencement of -the new reign. - -"Do you think I might call upon Miss St. John?" Mildmay asked, the -second day after the funeral. "I would not intrude upon her for the -world; but they will be going away, I suppose--and if you think I might -venture----" - -He addressed Mrs. Ascott, but her husband replied. "Venture? to be sure -you may venture," said that cheerful person. "Of course you must want to -ascertain when they go and all that. Come, I'll go with you myself if -you have any scruples. I should like to see Cicely, poor thing! to tell -her if I can be of any use---- We are not much in the governessing line; -but you, Adelaide, with all your fine friends----" - -"Tell her I should have gone to her before now, but that my nerves have -been upset with all that has happened," said Mrs. Ascott. "Of course I -have written and told her how much I feel for her; but say _everything_ -for me, Henry. I will make an effort to go to-morrow, though I know that -to enter that house will unhinge me quite. If she is able to talk of -business, tell her to refer any one to me. Of course we shall do -everything we possibly can." - -"Of course; yes, yes, I'll say _everything_," said her husband; but on -the way, when Mildmay reluctantly followed him, feeling his purpose -defeated, Mr. Ascott gave forth his individual sentiments. "Cicely St. -John will never answer as a governess," he said; "she is far too -independent, and proud--very proud. So was her father before her. He -prided himself, I believe, on never having asked for anything. God bless -us! a nice sort of world this would be if nobody asked for anything. -That girl spoke to me once about the living as if it was _my_ business -to do something in respect to what she thought her father's rights! -Ridiculous! but women are very absurd in their notions. She was always -what is called a high-spirited girl; the very worst recommendation I -think that any girl can have." - -Mildmay made no reply; he was not disposed to criticise Cicely, or to -discuss her with Mr. Ascott. The rectory was all open again, the -shutters put back, the blinds drawn up. In the faded old drawing-room, -where the gentlemen were put by Betsy to wait for Miss St. John, -everything looked as usual, except a scrap of paper here and there -marked Lot----. This had been done by the auctioneer, before Mr. St. -John's death. Some of these papers Betsy, much outraged by the sight of -them, had furtively rubbed off with her duster, but some remained. Mr. -Mildmay had something of Betsy's feeling. He, too, when Mr. Ascott was -not looking, tore off the label from the big old chiffonnier which Mab -had called a tomb, and threw it behind the ornaments in the grate--a -foolish sort of demonstration, no doubt, of being on the side of the -forlorn family against fate, but yet comprehensible. He did not venture -upon any such freaks when Cicely came in, in the extreme blackness of -her mourning. She was very pale, keeping the tears out of her eyes with -a great effort, and strung to the highest tension of self-control. She -met Mr. Ascott with composure; but when she turned to Mildmay, broke -down for the moment. "Thanks!" she said, with a momentary pressure of -his hand, and an attempt at a smile in the eyes which filled at sight of -him, and it took her a moment to recover herself before she could say -any more. - -"Mrs. Ascott charged me with a great many messages," said that lady's -husband. "I am sure you know, Cicely, nobody has felt for you more; but -she is very sensitive--that you know too--and I am obliged to interpose -my authority to keep her from agitating herself. She talks of coming -to-morrow. When do you go?" - -"On Saturday," said Cicely, having just recovered the power of speech, -which, to tell the truth, Mildmay did not quite feel himself to have -done. - -"On Saturday--so soon! and you are going----" - -"With my aunt, Miss Maydew," said Cicely, "to London for a time--as -short a time as possible--till I get something to do." - -"Ah--h!" said Mr. Ascott, shaking his head. "You know how sincerely -sorry we all are; and, my dear Cicely, you will excuse an old friend -asking, is there no little provision--nothing to fall back upon--for the -poor little children, at least?" - -"Mr. Ascott," said Cicely, turning full towards him, her eyes very -clear, her nostrils dilating a little--for emotion can dry the eyes as -well as dim them, even of a girl--"you know what papa had almost as well -as he did himself. He could not coin money; and how do you think he -could have saved it off what he had? There is enough to pay every penny -he ever owed, which is all I care for." - -"And you have nothing--absolutely nothing?" - -"We have our heads and our hands," said Cicely; the emergency even gave -her strength to smile. She faced the two prosperous men before her, -neither of whom had ever known what it was to want anything or -everything that money could buy, her small head erect, her eyes shining, -a smile upon her lip--not for worlds would she have permitted them to -see that her heart failed her at sight of the struggle upon which she -was about to enter;--"and fortunately we have the use of them," she -said, involuntarily raising the two small hands, looking all the smaller -and whiter for the blackness that surrounded them, which lay on her lap. - -"Miss St. John," said Mildmay, starting up, "I dare not call myself an -old friend. I have no right to be present when you have to answer such -questions. If I may come another time----" - -To look at his sympathetic face took away Cicely's courage. "Don't make -me cry, please; don't be sorry for me!" she cried, under her breath, -holding out her hands to him in a kind of mute appeal. Then recovering -herself, "I would rather you stayed, Mr. Mildmay. I am not ashamed of -it, and I want to ask something from you, now that you are both here. I -do not know who has the appointment; but you must be powerful. Mr. -Ascott, I hear that Mrs. Jones, the schoolmistress, is dead--too." - -"Yes, poor thing! very suddenly--even more suddenly than your poor -father. And so much younger, and an excellent creature. It has been a -sad week for Brentburn. She was buried yesterday," said Mr. Ascott, -shaking his head. - -"And there must be some one to replace her directly, for the holidays -are over. I am not very accomplished," said Cicely, a flush coming over -her face; "but for the rudiments and the solid part, which is all that -is wanted in a parish school, I am good enough. It is difficult asking -for one's self, or talking of one's self, but if I could get the -place----" - -"Cicely St. John!" cried Mr. Ascott, almost roughly in his amazement; -"you are going out of your senses--the appointment to the parish -school?" - -"I know what you think," said Cicely, looking up with a smile; but she -was nervous with anxiety, and clasped and unclasped her hands, feeling -that her fate hung upon what they might decide. "You think, like Aunt -Jane, that it is coming down in the world, that it is not a place for a -lady. Very well, I don't mind; don't call me a lady, call me a young -woman--a person even, if you like. What does it matter? and what -difference does it make after all?" she cried. "No girl who works for -her living is anything but looked down upon. I should be free of all -that, for the poor people know me, and they would be kind to me, and the -rich people would take no notice. And I should have a place of my own, a -home to put the children in. The Miss Blandys, I am sure, would -recommend me, Mr. Mildmay, and they know what I can do." - -"This is mere madness!" cried Mr. Ascott, paling a little in his ruddy -complexion. Mildmay made a rush at the window as she spoke, feeling the -situation intolerable. When she appealed to him thus by name, he turned -round suddenly, his heart so swelling within him that he scarcely knew -what he was doing. It was not for him to object or to remonstrate as the -other could do. He went up to her, scarcely seeing her, and grasped for -a moment her nervous interlaced hands. "Miss St. John," he cried, in a -broken voice, "whatever you want that I can get you, you shall -have--that, if it must be so, or anything else," and so rushed out of -the room and out of the house, passing Mab in the hall without seeing -her. His excitement was so great that he rushed straight on, into the -heart of the pine-woods a mile off, before he came to himself. Well! -this, then, was the life he had been wondering over from his safe -retirement. He found it not in anything great or visible to the eye of -the world, not in anything he could put himself into, or share the -advantages of. He, well off, rich indeed, strong, with a man's power of -work, and so many kinds of highly-paid, highly-esteemed work open to -him, must stand aside and look on, and see this slight girl, nineteen -years old, with not a tittle of his education or his strength, and not -two-thirds of his years, put herself into harness, and take up the lowly -work which would sink her in social estimation, and, with all -superficial persons, take away from her her rank as gentlewoman. The -situation, so far as Cicely St. John was concerned, was not remarkable -one way or another, except in so much as she had chosen to be village -schoolmistress instead of governess in a private family. But to Mildmay -it was as a revelation. He could do nothing except get her the place, as -he had promised to do. He could not say, Take part of my income; I have -more than I know what to do with, though that was true enough. He could -do nothing for her, absolutely nothing. She must bear her burden as she -could upon her young shrinking shoulders; nay, not shrinking--when he -remembered Cicely's look, he felt something come into his throat. People -had stood at the stake so, he supposed, head erect, eyes smiling, a -beautiful disdain of the world they thus defied and confronted in their -shining countenances. But again he stopped himself; Cicely was not -defiant, not contemptuous, took upon her no _rôle_ of martyr. If she -smiled, it was at the folly of those who supposed she would break down, -or give in, or fail of courage for her work; but nothing more. She was, -on the contrary, nervous about his consent and Ascott's to give her the -work she wanted, and hesitated about her own powers and the -recommendation of the Miss Blandys; and no one--not he, at least, though -he had more than he wanted--could do anything! If Cicely had been a lad -of nineteen, instead of a girl, something might have been possible, but -nothing was possible now. - -The reader will perceive that the arbitrary and fictitious way of -cutting this knot, that _tour de force_ which is always to be thought of -in every young woman's story, the very melodramatic begging of the -question, still, and perennially possible, nay probable, in human -affairs, had not occurred to Mildmay. He had felt furious indeed at the -discussion of Cicely's chances or non-chances of marriage between the -Ascotts; but, so far as he was himself concerned, he had not thought of -this easy way. For why? he was not in love with Cicely. His sympathy was -with her in every possible way, he entered into her grief with an almost -tenderness of pity, and her courage stirred him with that thrill of -fellow-feeling which those have who could do the same; though he felt -that nothing he could do could ever be the same as what she, at her age, -so boldly undertook. Mildmay felt that she could, if she pleased, -command him to anything, that, out of mere admiration for her bravery, -her strength, her weakness, and youngness and dauntless spirit, he -could have refused her nothing, could have dared even the impossible to -help her in any of her schemes. But he was not in love with Cicely; or, -at least, he had no notion of anything of the kind. - -It was well, however, that he did not think of it; the sudden "good -marriage," which is the one remaining way in which a god out of the -machinery can change wrong into right at any moment in the modern world, -and make all sunshine that was darkness, comes dreadfully in the way of -heroic story; and how such a possibility, not pushed back into obscure -regions of hazard, but visibly happening before their eyes every day, -should not demoralize young women altogether, it is difficult to say. -That Cicely's brave undertaking ought to come to some great result in -itself, that she ought to be able to make her way nobly, as her purpose -was, working with her hands for the children that were not hers, -bringing them up to be men, having that success in her work which is the -most pleasant of all recompenses, and vindicating her sacrifice and -self-devotion in the sight of all who had scoffed and doubted--this, no -doubt, would be the highest and best, the most heroical and epical -development of story. To change all her circumstances at a stroke, -making her noble intention unnecessary, and resolving this tremendous -work of hers into a gentle domestic necessity, with the "hey presto!" of -the commonplace magician, by means of a marriage, is simply a -contemptible expedient. But, alas! it is one which there can be no doubt -is much preferred by most people to the more legitimate conclusion; and, -what is more, he would be justified by knowing the accidental way is -perhaps, on the whole, the most likely one, since marriages occur every -day which are perfectly improbable and out of character, mere _tours de -force_, despicable as expedients, showing the poorest invention, a -disgrace to any romancist or dramatist, if they were not absolute -matters of fact and true. Pardon the parenthesis, gentle reader. - -But Mr. Mildmay was not in love with Cicely, and it never occurred to -him that it might be possible to settle matters in this ordinary and -expeditious way. - -Mr. Ascott remained behind when Mildmay went away, and with the -complacence of a dull man apologised for his young friend's abrupt -departure. "He is so shocked about all this, you must excuse his -abruptness. It is not that he is without feeling--quite the reverse, I -assure you, Cicely. He has felt it all--your poor father's death, and -all that has happened. You should have heard him in church on Sunday. He -feels for you all very much." - -Cicely, still trembling from the sudden touch on her hands, the agitated -sound of Mildmay's voice, the sense of sympathy and comprehension which -his looks conveyed, took this apology very quietly. She was even -conscious of the humour in it. And this digression being over, "her old -friend" returned seriously to the question. He repeated, but with much -less force, all that Miss Maydew had said. He warned her that she would -lose "caste," that, however much her friends might wish to be kind to -her, and to treat her exactly as her father's daughter ought to be -treated, that she would find all that sort of thing very difficult. "As -a governess, of course you would always be known as a lady, and when you -met with old friends it would be a mutual pleasure; but the village -schoolmistress!" said Mr. Ascott; "I really don't like to mention it to -Adelaide, I don't know what she would say." - -"She would understand me when she took all into consideration," said -Cicely, "I could be then at home, independent, with the little boys." - -"Ah, independent, Cicely!" he cried; "now you show the cloven hoof--that -is the charm. Independent! What woman can ever be independent? That is -your pride; it is just what I expected. An independent woman, Cicely, is -an anomaly; men detest the very name of it; and you, who are young, and -on your promotion--" - -"I must be content with women then," said Cicely, colouring high with -something of her old impetuosity; "they will understand me. But, Mr. -Ascott, at least, even if you disapprove of me, don't go against me, for -I cannot bring up the children in any other way." - -"You could put them out to nurse." - -"Where?" cried Cicely; "and who would take care of them for the money I -could give? They are too young for school; and I have no money for that -either. If there is any other way, I cannot see it; do not go against -me at least." - -This he promised after a while, very doubtfully, and by and by went -home, to talk it over with his wife, who was as indignant as he could -have wished. "What an embarrassment it will be!" she cried. "Henry, I -tell you beforehand, I will not ask her here. I cannot in justice to -ourselves ask her here if she is the schoolmistress. She thinks, of -course, we will make no difference, but treat her always like Mr. St. -John's daughter. It is quite out of the question. I must let her know at -once that Cicely St. John is one thing and the parish schoolmistress -another. Think of the troubles that might rise out of it. A pretty thing -it would be if some young man in our house was to form an attachment to -the schoolmistress! Fancy! She can do it if she likes; but, Henry, I -warn you, I shall not ask her here." - -"That's exactly what I say," said Mr. Ascott. "I can't think even how -she could like to stay on here among people who have known her in a -different position; unless--" he concluded with a low whistle of -derision and surprise. - -"Please don't be vulgar, Henry--unless what?" - -"Unless--she's after Mildmay; and I should not wonder--he's as soft as -wax and as yielding. If a girl like Cicely chooses to tell him to marry -her, he'd do it. That's what she's after, as sure as fate." - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -THE PARISH SCHOOLMISTRESS. - - -I will not follow all the intermediate steps, and tell how the curate's -family left their home, and went to London; or how Miss Maydew made the -most conscientious effort to accustom herself to the little boys, and to -contemplate the possibility of taking the oversight of them. They were -not noisy, it is true; but that very fact alarmed Aunt Jane, who -declared that, had they been "natural children," always tumbling about, -and making the walls ring, she could have understood them. Perhaps had -they been noisy, she would have felt at once the superiority of "quiet -children." As it was, the two little tiny, puny old men appalled the old -lady, who watched them with fascinated eyes, and a visionary terror, -which grew stronger every day. Sometimes she would jump up in a passion -and flee to her own room to take breath, when the thought of having them -to take care of came suddenly upon her. And thus it came about that her -opposition to Cicely's scheme gradually softened. It was a bitter pill -to her. To think of a Miss St. John, Hester's child, dropping into the -low degree of a parish schoolmistress, went to her very heart; but what -was to be done? How could she oppose a thing Cicely had set her heart -upon? Cicely was not one to make up a scheme without some reason in it; -and you might as well (Miss Maydew said to herself) try to move St. -Paul's, when the girl had once made up her mind. I do not think Cicely -was so obstinate as this, but it was a comfort to Miss Maydew to think -so. And after everybody had got over their surprise at the idea, Miss -St. John was duly installed as the schoolmistress at Brentburn. The few -little bits of furniture which had belonged to them in the rectory--the -children's little beds, the old faded carpets, etc.--helped to furnish -the schoolmistress's little house. Cicely took back the little Annie -whom she had sent away from the rectory for interfering with her own -authority, but whose devotion to the children was invaluable now, and no -later than October settled down to this curious new life. It was a very -strange life. The schoolmistress's house was a new little square house -of four rooms, with no beauty to recommend it, but with little garden -plots in front of it, and a large space behind where the children could -play. The little kitchen, the little parlour, the two little bedrooms -were all as homely as could be. Cicely had the old school-room piano, -upon which her mother had taught her the notes, and which Miss Brown had -shed tears over on that unfortunate day when Mr. St. John proposed to -marry her rather than let her go back to the Governesses' Institute--and -she had a few books. These were all that represented to her the more -beautiful side of life: but, at nineteen, fortunately life itself is -still beautiful enough to make up for many deprivations, and she had a -great deal to do. As for her work, she said, it was quite as pleasant to -teach the parish children as to teach the little ladies at Miss -Blandy's; and the "parents" did not look down upon her, which was -something gained. - -And it was some time before Cicely awoke to the evident fact that, if -the parents did not look down upon her, her old acquaintances were much -embarrassed to know how to behave to her. Mrs. Ascott had gone to see -her at once on her arrival, and had been very kind, and had hoped they -would see a great deal of her. On two or three occasions after she sent -an invitation to tea in the evening, adding always, "We shall be quite -alone." "Why should they be always quite alone?" the girl said to -herself; and then she tried to think it was out of consideration for her -mourning. But it soon became visible enough what Mrs. Ascott meant, and -what all the other people meant. Even as the curate's daughter Cicely -had but been a girl whom they were kind to; now she was the parish -schoolmistress--"a very superior young person, quite above her -position," but belonging even by courtesy to the higher side no more. -She was not made to feel this brutally. It was all quite gently, quite -prettily done; but by the time spring came, brightening the face of the -country, Cicely was fully aware of the change in her position, and had -accepted it as best she could. She was still, eight months after her -father's death--so faithful is friendship in some cases--asked to tea, -when they were quite alone at the Heath; but otherwise, by that time, -most people had ceased to take any notice of her. She dropped out of -sight except at church, where she was only to be seen in her plain black -dress in her corner among the children; and though the ladies and -gentlemen shook hands with her still, when she came in their way, no one -went out of his or her way to speak to the schoolmistress. It would be -vain to say that there was no mortification involved in this change. -Cicely felt it in every fibre of her sensitive frame, by moments; but -fortunately her temperament was elastic, and she possessed all the -delicate strength which is supposed to distinguish "blood." She was -strong, and light as a daisy, jumping up under the very foot that -crushed her. This kind of nature makes its possessor survive and -surmount many things that are death to the less elastic; it saves from -destruction, but it does not save from pain. - -As for Mr. Mildmay, it was soon made very apparent to him that, for him -at his age to show much favour or friendship to the schoolmistress at -hers, was entirely out of the question. He had to visit the school, of -course, in the way of his duty, but to visit Cicely was impossible. -People even remarked upon the curious frequency with which he passed the -school. Wherever he was going in the parish (they said), his road seemed -to turn that way, which, of course, was highly absurd, as every -reasonable person must see. There was a side window by which the curious -passer-by could see the interior of the school as he passed, and it was -true that the new rector was interested in that peep. There were the -homely children in their forms, at their desks, or working in the -afternoon at their homely needlework: among them, somewhere, sometimes -conning little lessons with portentous gravity, the two little boys in -their black frocks, and the young school-mistress seated at her table; -sometimes (the spy thought) with a flush of weariness upon her face. The -little house was quite empty during the school-hours; for Annie was a -scholar too, and aspiring to be pupil-teacher some day, and now as -reverent of Miss St. John as she had once been critical. Mildmay went on -his way after that peep with a great many thoughts in his heart. It -became a kind of necessity to him to pass that way, to see her at her -work. Did she like it, he wondered? How different it was from his own! -how different the position--the estimation of the two in the world's -eye! He who could go and come as he liked, who honoured the parish by -condescending to become its clergyman, and to whom a great many little -negligences would have been forgiven, had he liked, in consequence of -his scholarship, and his reputation, and his connections. "We can't -expect a man like Mildmay, fresh from a University life, to go pottering -about among the sick like poor old St. John," Mr. Ascott would say. -"That is all very well, but a clergyman here and there who takes a high -position for the Church in society is more important still." And most -people agreed with him; and Roger Mildmay went about his parish with his -head in the clouds, still wondering where life was--that life which -would string the nerves and swell the veins, and put into man the soul -of a hero. He passed the school-room window as often as he could, in -order to see it afar off--that life which seemed to him the greatest of -all things; but he had not yet found it himself. He did all he could, -as well as he knew how, to be a worthy parish priest. He was very kind -to everybody; he went to see the sick, and tried to say what he could to -them to soothe and console them. What could he say? When he saw a man of -his own age growing into a gaunt great skeleton with consumption, with a -wistful wife looking on, and poor little helpless children, what could -the young rector say? His heart would swell with a great pang of pity, -and he would read the prayers with a faltering voice, and, going away -wretched, would lavish wine and soup, and everything he could think of, -upon the invalid; but what could he _say_ to him, he whose very health -and wealth and strength and well-being seemed an insult to the dying? -The dying did not think so, but Mildmay did, whose very soul was wrung -by such sights. Then, for lighter matters, the churchwardens and the -parish business sickened him with their fussy foolishness about trifles; -and the careful doling out of shillings from the parish charities would -have made him furious, had he not known that his anger was more foolish -still. For his own part, he lavished his money about, giving it to -everybody who told him a pitiful story, in a reckless way, which, if -persevered in, would ruin the parish. And when any one went to him for -advice, he had to bite his lip in order not to say the words which were -on the very tip of his tongue longing to be said, and which were, "Go to -Cicely St. John at the school and ask. It is she who is living, not me. -I am a ghost like all the rest of you." This was the leading sentiment -in the young man's mind. - -As for Cicely, she had not the slightest notion that any one thought of -her so, or thought of her at all, and sometimes as the excitement of the -beginning died away she felt her life a weary business enough. No -society but little Harry, who always wanted his tea, and Charley, with -his thumb in his mouth; and those long hours with the crowd of little -girls around her, who were not amusing to have all day long as they used -to be for an hour now and then, when the clergyman's daughter went in -among them, received by the schoolmistress curtsying, and with smiles -and bobs by the children, and carrying a pleasant excitement with her. -How Mab and she had laughed many a day over the funny answers and -funnier questions; but they were not funny now. When Mab came down, now -and then, from Saturday to Monday, with all her eager communications -about her work, Cicely remembered that she too was a girl, and they were -happy enough; but in the long dull level of the days after Mab had gone -she used to think to herself that she must be a widow without knowing -it, left after all the bloom of life was over with her children to work -for. "But even that would be better," Cicely said to herself; "for then, -at least, I should be silly about the children, and think them angels, -and adore them." Even that consolation did not exist for her. Mab was -working very hard, and there had dawned upon her a glorious prospect, -not yet come to anything, but which might mean the height of good -fortune. Do not let the reader think less well of Mab because this was -not the highest branch of art which she was contemplating. It was not -that she hoped at eighteen and a half to send some great picture to the -Academy, which should be hung on the line, and at once take the world by -storm. What she thought of was the homelier path of illustrations. "If, -perhaps, one was to take a little trouble, and try to find out what the -book means, and how the author saw a scene," Mab said; "they don't do -that in the illustrations one sees: the author says one thing, the -artist quite another--that, I suppose, is because the artist is a great -person and does not mind. But I am nobody. I should try to make out what -the reading meant, and follow that." This was her hope, and whether she -succeeds or not, and though she called a book "the reading," those who -write will be grateful to the young artist for this thought. "Remember I -am the brother and you are the sister," cried Mab. It was on the way to -the station on a Sunday evening--for both of the girls had to begin work -early next morning--that this was said. "And as soon as I make money -enough you are to come and keep my house." Cicely kissed her, and went -through the usual process of looking for a woman who was going all the -way to London in one of the carriages. This was not very like the -brother theory, but Mab was docile as a child. And then the elder sister -walked home through the spring darkness with her heart full, wondering -if that reunion would ever be. - -Mr. Mildmay had been out that evening at dinner at the Ascotts, where -he very often went on Sunday. The school was not at all in the way -between the Heath and the rectory, yet Cicely met him on her way back. -It was a May evening, soft and sweet, with the bloom of the hawthorn on -all the hedges, and Cicely was walking along slowly, glad to prolong as -much as possible that little oasis in her existence which Mab's visit -made. She was surprised to hear the rector's voice so close to her. They -walked on together for a few steps without finding anything very -particular to say. Then each forestalled the other in a question. - -"I hope you are liking Brentburn?" said Cicely. - -And Mr. Mildmay, in the same breath, said: "Miss St. John, I hope you do -not regret coming to the school?" - -Cicely, who had the most composure, was the first to reply. She laughed -softly at the double question. - -"It suits me better than anything else would," she said. "I did not -pretend to take it as a matter of choice. It does best in my -circumstances; but you, Mr. Mildmay?" - -"I want so much to know about you," he said, hurriedly. "I have not -made so much progress myself as I hoped I should; but you? I keep -thinking of you all the time. Don't think me impertinent. Are you happy -in it? Do you feel the satisfaction of living, as it seems to me you -must?" - -"Happy?" said Cicely, with a low faint laugh. Then tears came into her -eyes. She looked at him wistfully, wondering. He so well off, she so -poor and restricted. By what strange wonder was it that he put such a -question to her? "Do you think I have much cause to be happy?" she said; -then added hastily, "I don't complain, I am not _un_happy--we get on -very well." - -"Miss St. John," he said, "I have spoken to you about myself before now. -I came here out of a sort of artificial vegetation, or at least, so I -felt it, with the idea of getting some hold upon life--true life. I -don't speak of the misery that attended my coming here, for that, I -suppose, was nobody's fault, as people say; and now I have settled down -again. I have furnished my house, made what is called a home for myself, -though an empty one; and lo, once more I find myself as I was at Oxford, -looking at life from outside, spying upon other people's lives, going -to gaze at it enviously as, I do at you through the end window----" - -"Mr. Mildmay!" Cicely felt her cheeks grow hot, and was glad it was dark -so that no one could see. "I am a poor example," she said, with a smile. -"I think, if you called it vegetation with me, you would be much more -nearly right than when you used that word about your life at Oxford, -which must have been full of everything impossible to me. Mine is -vegetation; the same things to be done at the same hours every day; the -poor little round of spelling and counting, never getting beyond the -rudiments. Nobody above the age of twelve, or I might say of four, so -much as to talk to. I feel I am living to-night," she added, in a more -lively tone, "because Mab has been with me since yesterday. But -otherwise--indeed you have made a very strange mistake." - -"It is you who are mistaken," said the young rector, warmly. "The rest -of us are ghosts; what are we all doing? The good people up there," and -he pointed towards the Heath, "myself, almost everybody I know? living -for ourselves--living to get what we like for ourselves, to make -ourselves comfortable--to improve ourselves, let us say, which is the -best perhaps, yet despicable like all the rest. Self-love, self-comfort, -self-importance, self-culture, all of them one more miserable, more -petty than the other--even self-culture, which in my time I have -considered divine." - -"And it is, I suppose, isn't it?" said Cicely. "It is what in our humble -feminine way is called improving the mind. I have always heard that was -one of the best things in existence." - -"Do you practise it?" he asked, almost sharply. - -"Mr. Mildmay, you must not be hard upon me--how can I? Yes, I should -like to be able to pass an examination and get a--what is it -called?--_diplôme_, the French say. With that one's chances are so much -better," said Cicely, with a sigh; "but I have so little time." - -How the young man's heart swelled in the darkness! - -"Self-culture," he said, with a half laugh, "must be disinterested, I -fear, to be worthy the name. It must have no motive but the advancement -of your mind for your own sake. It is the culture of you for you, not -for what you may do with it. It is a state, not a profession." - -"That is harder upon us still," said Cicely. "Alas! I shall never be -rich enough nor have time enough to be disinterested. Good-night, Mr. -Mildmay; that is the way to the rectory." - -"Are you tired of me so soon?" - -"Tired of you?" said Cicely, startled; "oh no! It is very pleasant to -talk a little; but that is your way." - -"I should like to go with you to your door, please," he said; "this is -such an unusual chance. Miss St. John, poor John Wyborn is dying; he has -four children and a poor little wife, and he is just my age." - -There was a break in the rector's voice that made Cicely turn her face -towards him and silently hold out her hand. - -"What am I to say to them?" he cried; "preach patience to them? tell -them it is for the best? I who am not worthy the poor bread I eat, who -live for myself, in luxury, while he--ay, and you----" - -"Tell them," said Cicely, the tears dropping from her eyes, "that God -sees all--that comforts them the most; that He will take care of the -little ones somehow and bring them friends. Oh, Mr. Mildmay, it is not -for me to preach to you; I know what you mean; but they, poor souls, -don't go thinking and questioning as we do--and that comforts them the -most. Besides," said Cicely, simply, "it is true; look at me--you spoke -of me. See how my way has been made plain for me! I did not know what I -should do; and now I can manage very well, live, and bring up the -children; and after all these are the great things, and not pleasure," -she added, with a soft little sigh. - -"The children!" he said. "There is something terrible at your age to -hear you speak so. Why should you be thus burdened--why?" - -"Mr. Mildmay," said Cicely, proudly, "one does not choose one's own -burdens. But now that I have got mine I mean to bear it, and I do not -wish to be pitied. I am able for all I have to do." - -"Cicely!" he cried out, suddenly interrupting her, bending low, so that -for the moment she thought he was on his knees, "put it on my shoulders! -See, they are ready; make me somebody in life, not a mere spectator. -What! are you not impatient to see me standing by looking on while you -are working? I am impatient, and wretched, and solitary, and -contemptible. Put your burden on me, and see if I will not bear it! -Don't leave me a ghost any more!" - -"Mr. Mildmay!" cried Cicely, in dismay. She did not even understand what -he meant in the confusion of the moment. She gave him no answer, -standing at her own door, alarmed and bewildered; but only entreated him -to leave her, not knowing what to think. "Please go, please go; I must -not ask you to come in," said Cicely. "Oh, I know what you mean is kind, -whatever it is; but please, Mr. Mildmay, go! Good-night!" - -"Good-night!" he said. "I will go since you bid me; but I will come back -to-morrow for my answer. Give me a chance for life." - -"What does he mean by life?" Cicely said to herself, as, trembling and -amazed, she went back into her bare little parlour, which always looked -doubly bare after Mab had gone. Annie had heard her coming, and had -lighted the two candles on the table; but though it was still cold, -there was no fire in the cheerless little fireplace. The dark walls, -which a large cheerful lamp could scarcely have lit, small as the room -was, stood like night round her little table, with those two small -sparks of light. A glass of milk and a piece of bread stood ready on a -little tray, and Annie had been waiting with some impatience her young -mistress's return in order to get to bed. The little boys were asleep -long ago, and there was not a sound in the tiny house as Cicely sat down -to think, except the sound of Annie overhead, which did not last long. -Life! Was this life, or was he making a bad joke at her expense? What -did he mean? It would be impossible to deny that Cicely's heart beat -faster and faster as it became clearer and clearer to her what he did -mean; but to talk of life! Was this life--this mean, still, solitary -place, which nobody shared, which neither love nor fellowship -brightened? for even the children, though she devoted her life to them, -made no warm response to Cicely's devotion. She sat till far into the -night thinking, wondering, musing, dreaming, her heart beating, her head -buzzing with the multitude of questions that crowded upon her. Life! It -was he who was holding open to her the gates of life; the only life she -knew, but more attractive than she had ever known it. Cicely was as -much bewildered by the manner of his appeal as by its object. Could -he--love her? Was that the plain English of it? Or was there any other -motive that could make him desirous of taking her burden upon his -shoulders? Could she, if a man did love her, suffer him to take such a -weight on his shoulders? And then--she did not love him. Cicely said -this to herself faltering. "No, she had never thought of loving him. She -had felt that he understood her. She had felt that he was kind when many -had not been kind. There had been between them rapid communications of -sentiment, impulses flashing from heart to heart, which so often -accompany very close relations. But all that is not being in love," -Cicely said to herself. Nothing could have taken her more utterly by -surprise; but the surprise had been given, the shock received. Its first -overpowering sensation was over, and now she had to look forward to the -serious moment when this most serious thing must be settled, and her -reply given. - -Cicely did not sleep much that night. She did not know very well what -she was doing next morning, but went through her work in a dazed -condition, fortunately knowing it well enough to go on mechanically, -and preserving her composure more because she was partially stupified -than for any other reason. Mr. Mildmay was seen on the road by the last -of the little scholars going away, who made him little bobs of curtsies, -and of whom he asked where Miss St. John was? - -"Teacher's in the school-room," said one unpleasant little girl. - -"Please, sir," said another, with more grace or genius, "Miss Cicely's -ain't come out yet. She's a-settling of the things for to-morrow." - -Upon this young woman the rector bestowed a sixpence and a smile. And -then he went into the school-room, the place she had decided to receive -him in. The windows were all open, the desks and forms in disorder, the -place as mean and bare as could be, with the maps and bright-coloured -pictures of animal history on the unplastered walls. Cicely stood by her -own table, which was covered with little piles of plain needle-work, her -hand resting upon the table, her heart beating loud. What was she to say -to him? The truth somehow, such as it really was; but how? - -But Mr. Mildmay had first a great deal to say. He gave her the history -of his life since August, and the share she had in it. He thought now, -and said, that from the very first day of his arrival in Brentburn, when -she looked at him like an enemy, what he was doing now had come into his -mind; and on this subject he was eloquent, as a man has a right to be -once in his life, if no more. He had so much to say, that he forgot the -open public place in which he was telling his love-tale, and scarcely -remarked the little response she made. But when it came to her turn to -reply, Cicely found herself no less impassioned, though in a different -way. - -"Mr. Mildmay," she said, "there is no equality between us. How can you, -such a man as you, speak like this to a girl such as I am? Don't you see -what you are doing--holding open to me the gates of Paradise; offering -me back all I have lost; inviting me to peace out of trouble, to rest -out of toil, to ease and comfort, and the respect of the world." - -"Cicely!" he said; he was discouraged by her tone. He saw in it his own -fancy thrown back to him, and for the first time perceived how fantastic -that was. "You do not mean," he said, faltering, "that to work hard as -you are doing, and give up all the pleasure of existence, is necessary -to your--your--satisfaction in your life?" - -"I don't mean that," she said simply; "but when you offer to take up my -burden, and to give me all your comforts, don't you see that one -thing--one great thing--is implied to make it possible? Mr. Mildmay, I -am not--in love with you," she added, in a low tone, looking up at him, -the colour flaming over her face. - -He winced, as if he had received a blow; then recovering himself, -smiled. "I think I have enough for two," he said, gazing at her, as pale -as she was red. - -"But don't you see, don't you see," cried Cicely passionately, "if it -was you, who are giving everything, that was not in love, it would be -simple; but I who am to accept everything, who am to put burdens on you, -weigh you down with others beside myself, how can I take it all without -loving you? You see--you see it is impossible!" - -"Do you love any one else?" he asked, too much moved for grace of -speech, taking the hand she held up to demonstrate this impossibility. -She looked at him again, her colour wavering, her eyes filling, her lips -quivering. - -"Unless it is you--nobody!" she said. - -THE END. - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. - - * * * * * - -Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: - -Cicily, with scorn.=> Cicely, with scorn. {pg 94} - -manner a speech=> manner of speech {pg 209} - -something that might he done=> something that might be done {pg 231} - -with this comfort her in soul=> with this comfort in her soul {pg 290} - -like a gispy=> like a gipsy {pg 294} - -Mab was lost in amaze=> Mab was lost in a maze {pg 327} - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Curate in Charge, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CURATE IN CHARGE *** - -***** This file should be named 42045-8.txt or 42045-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/0/4/42045/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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