It was a poor little glove—a poor little cheap thread glove; but all the finest and softest kids that lay in their perfumed boxes in the well-stocked shops of Sootythorn,—all the pale gray kids and pale yellow kids which the young shopmen so strongly recommended as "suitable for the present season,"—were forgotten in a month, whereas Alice Stedman's glove was remembered for years and years.
The officers met at the orderly-room, after which they all went to the parade-ground at once; the field-officers and the Adjutant on horseback, the rest on foot.
Philip Stanburne followed the others. He knew nobody except the Colonel and the Adjutant, who had just said "Good morning" to him in the orderly-room; but they had trotted on in advance, so he was left to his own meditations. It was natural that in passing the bookseller's shop he should think of Miss Stedman, and he felt an absurd desire to go into the shop again and buy another pocket-book, as if by acting the scene over again he could cause the principal personage to reappear. "I don't think she's pretty," said Philip to himself—"at least, not really pretty; but she's a sweet girl. There's a simplicity about her that is very charming. Who would have thought that there was any thing so nice in Sootythorn?" Just as he was thinking this, Philip Stanburne passed close to one of the blackest mills in the place—an old mill,—that is, a mill about thirty years old, for mills, like horses, age rapidly; and through the open windows there came a mixture of bad smells on the hot foul air, and a deafening roar of machinery, and above the roar of machinery a shrill clear woman's voice singing. The voice must have been one of great power, for it predominated over all the noises in the place; and it either was really a very sweet one or its harshness was lost in the noises, whilst it rose above them purified. Philip stopped to listen, and as he stopped, twoother officers came up behind him. The footpath was narrow, and as soon as he perceived that he impeded the circulation, Philip went on.
"That's one o' th' oudest mills i' Sootythorn," said one of the officers behind Captain Stanburne; "it's thirty year oud, if it's a day."
The broad Lancashire accent surprised Captain Stanburne, and attracted his attention. Could it be possible that there were officers in the regiment who spoke no better than that? Evidently this way of speaking was not confined to an individual officer, for the speaker's companion answered in the same tone,—
"Why, that's John Stedman's mill, isn't it?"
"John Stedman? John Stedman? it cannot be t' same as was foreman to my father toward thirty year sin'?"
When Philip Stanburne heard the name of Stedman, he listened attentively. The first speaker answered, "Yes, but it is—it's t' same man."
"Well, an' how is he? he must be well off. Has he any chilther?"
"Just one dorter, a nice quiet lass, 'appen eighteen year old."
"So she's the daughter of a cotton-spinner," thought Philip, "and a Protestant cotton-spinner, most likely a bigot. Indeed, who ever heard of a Catholic cotton-spinner? I never did. I believe there aren't any. But what queer fellows these are to be in the militia; they talk just like factory lads." Then, from a curiosity to see more of these extraordinary officers, and partly, no doubt, from a desire to cultivate the acquaintance of a man who evidently knew something about Miss Stedman, Philip left the causeway, and allowed the officers to come up with him.
"I beg your pardon," he said; "no doubt you are going to the parade-ground. Will you show me the way? I was following some officers who were in sight a minute or twosince, but they turned a corner whilst I was not looking at them, and I have lost my guides."
To Captain Stanburne's surprise he was answered in very good English, with no more indication of the Lancashire accent than a clearly vibratedr, and a certain hardness in the other consonants, which gave a masculine vigor to the language, not by any means disagreeable. The aspirate, however, was too frequently omitted or misplaced.
"We are going straight to the parade-ground ourselves, so if you come with us you cannot go wrong." There was a short silence, and the same speaker continued, "The Colonel said we were to consider ourselves introduced. I know who you are—you're Captain Stanburne of Stanithburn Peel; and now I'll tell you who we are, both of us: I'm the Doctor—my name's Bardly. I don't look like a doctor, do I? Perhaps you are thinking that I don't look very like an officer either, though I'm dressed up as one. Well, perhaps I don't. This man here is called Isaac Ogden, and he lives at Twistle Farm, on a hill-top near Shayton, when he's at home."
This queer introduction, which was accompanied by the oddest changes of expression in the Doctor's face, and by a perpetual twinkle of humor in his gray eye, amused Philip Stanburne, and put him into a more genial frame of mind than his experience of the swell clique at breakfast-time. Isaac Ogden asked Stanburne what company he had got, and on being told that it was number six, informed him that he himself was only a lieutenant.
"He's lieutenant in the grenadier company," said the Doctor, "and on Sunday morning we shall see him like a butterfly with a pair of silver wings.[16]He's only a chrysalis to-day; his wings haven't budded yet. He's very likely put 'em on in private—most of them put on their full uniform in private,as soon as ever it comes from the tailor's. It's necessary to try it on, you know—itmightnot fit. The epaulettes would fit, though; but they generally take their epaulettes out of the tin box and put them on, to see how they look in the glass."
"Well, Doctor," said Stanburne, "I suppose you are describing from personal experience. When your own epaulettes came, you looked at yourself in the glass, I suppose."
Here an indescribably comic look irradiated Dr. Bardly's face. "You don't imagine thatIhave laid out any money on epaulettes and such gear? The tailor tried to make me buy a full uniform, of course, but it didn't answer with me. What do I want with a red coat, and dangling silver fringes over my shoulders? I've committed one piece of tomfoolery, and that's enough—I've bought this sword; but a sword might just possibly be of use for a thief. There was a man in Shayton who had an old volunteer sword always by his bedside, and one night he put six inches of it into a burglar; so you see a swordmaybe of use, but what can you do with a bit of silver fringe?"
"But I don't see how you are to do without a full uniform. How will you manage on field days, and how will you go to church on Sundays?"
"Get leave of absence on all such occasions," said the Doctor; "so long as I haven't a full uniform I have a good excuse." The fact was, that the Doctor's aversion to full dress came quite as much from a dislike to public ceremonies as from an objection to scarlet and silver in themselves. He had a youthful assistant in the regiment who was perfectly willing to represent the medical profession in all imaginable splendor, and who had already passed three evenings in full uniform, surrounded by his brothers and sisters, and a group of admiring friends.
The day was a tiresome idle day for everybody except the Adjutant, who shouted till his throat was sore, and the sergeants,on whom fell the real work of the companies. After lunch, the important matter of billets had to be gone into, and it was discovered that it was impossible to lodge all the men in Sootythorn. One company, at least, must seek accommodation elsewhere. The junior captain must therefore submit, for this training, to be banished from the mess, and sent to eat his solitary beefsteak in some outlandish village, or, still worse, in some filthy and uncouth little manufacturing town. His appetite, it is true, might so far benefit by the long marches to and from the parade-ground that the beefsteak might be eaten with the best of sauces; but the ordinary exercises of the regiment would have been sufficient to procure that, and the great efforts of Mr. Garley at the Thorn might have been relied upon for satisfying it. So the junior captain was ordered to take his men to Whittlecup, a dirty little town, of about six thousand inhabitants, four miles distant from Sootythorn; and the junior captain was Philip Stanburne.
Behold him, therefore, marching at the head of his rabble, for the men as yet had neither uniforms nor military bearing, on the dusty turnpike road! The afternoon had been uncommonly hot for the season of the year; and a military uniform, closely buttoned across the breast, and padded with cotton wool, is by no means the costume most suitable for the summer heats. There were so few lieutenants in the regiment (there was not one ensign) that a junior captain could not hope for a subaltern, and all the work of the company fell upon Philip Stanburne and his old sergeant. It was not easy to keep any thing like order amongst the men. They quarrelled and fought during the march; and it became necessary to arrange them so as to keep enemies at a distance from each other. Still, by the time they reached the precincts of Whittlecup several of the men were adorned with black eyes; and as a few had been knocked down and tumbled in the dust by their comrades, the company presentedrather the appearance of a rabble after a riot than of soldiers in her Majesty's service. Philip Stanburne's uniform was white with dust; but as the dust that alighted on his face was wetted by perspiration, it did not there remain a light-colored powder, but became a thick coat of dark paste. Indeed, to tell the truth, the owner of Stanithburn had never been so dirty in his life.
Now there was a river at the entrance to Whittlecup, and over the river a bridge; and on the bridge, or in advance of it (for the factories had just loosed), there stood a crowd of about three thousand operatives awaiting the arrival of the militia-men.
The Lancashire operative is not accustomed to restrain the expression of his opinions from motives of delicacy, and any consideration for your feelings which he may have when isolated diminishes with the number of his companions. Three factory lads may content themselves with exchanging sarcastic remarks on your personal appearance when you are out of hearing, thirty will make them in your presence, three hundred will jeer you loudly; and from three thousand, if once you are unlucky enough to attract their attention, there will come such volleys of derision as nobody but a philosopher could bear with equanimity.
Not only was the road lined on both sides with work-people, but they blocked it up in front, and made way for the militia-men so slowly, that there was ample time for Philip Stanburne to hear every observation that was directed against him. Amidst the roars of laughter which the appearance of the men gave rise to, a thousand special commentaries might be distinguished.
"Them chaps sowdiers! Why, there's nobbut one sowdier i' th' lot as I can see on."
"Where is he? I can see noan at o'."
"Cannot ta see th' felly wi' th' red jacket?"
"Eh, what a mucky lot!"
"They'll be right uns for fightin', for there's four on 'em 'as gotten black een to start wi'."
"Where's their guns?"
"They willn't trust 'em wi' guns. They'd be shootin' one another."
"There's one chap wi' a soourd."
"Why, that's th' officer."
"Eh, captain!" screamed a factory girl in Philip's ear, "I could like to gi' thee a kiss, but thou's getten sich a mucky face!"
"I wouldn't kiss him for foive shillin'," observed another.
"Eh, but I would!" said a third; "he's a nice young felly. I'll kiss him to-neet when he's washed hissel!"
The officers' mess was rather a good thing for Mr. Garley. He charged five shillings a-head for dinner without wine; and although both the Colonel and the large majority of his officers were temperate men, a good deal of profit may be got out of the ordinary vinous and spirituous consumption of a set of English gentlemen in harder exercise than usual, and more than usually disposed to be convivial. Even the cigars were no inconsiderable item of profit for Mr. Garley, who had laid in a stock large enough and various enough for a tobacconist.
A dense cloud of smoke filled the card-room, and through it might be discerned a number of officers in red shell-jackets reposing after the labors of the day, and wisely absolving nature from other efforts, in order that she might give her exclusive care to the digestion of that substantial repast which had lately been concluded in the mess-room. There was a party of whist-players in a corner, and the rattle of billiard-balls came through an open door.
Captain Eureton's servant came in and said that there was an innkeeper from Whittlecup who desired to speak to the Adjutant. The Captain left the card-room, and the officers scarcely noticed his departure, but when he came back their attention was drawn to him by an exclamation of the Colonel's. "Why, Eureton, what's the matter now? how grave you look!"
The Adjutant came to the hearth-rug where John Stanburnewas standing, and said, "Is not Captain Stanburne a relation of yours, Colonel?"
"Cousin about nine times removed. But what's the matter? He's not ill, I hope."
"Very ill, very ill indeed," said Eureton, with an expression which implied that he had not yet told the whole truth. "There's no near relation or friend of Captain Stanburne in the regiment, is there, Colonel?"
"None whatever; out with it, Eureton—you're making me very anxious;" and the Colonel nervously pottered with the end of a new cigar.
"The truth is, gentlemen," said Eureton, addressing himself to the room, for every one was listening intently, "a great crime has been committed this evening. Captain Stanburne has been murdered—or if it's not a case of murder it's a case of manslaughter. He has been killed, it appears, whilst visiting a billet, by a man in his company."
The Colonel rang the bell violently. Fyser appeared—he was at the door, expecting to be called for.
"Harness the tandem immediately."
"The tandem is at the door, sir, or will be by the time you get downstairs. I knew you would be wantin' it as soon as I 'eard the bad news."
The Doctor was in the billiard-room, trying to make a cannon, to the infinite diversion of his more skilful brother officers. His muscular but not graceful figure was stretched over the table, and his scarlet shell-jacket, whose seams were strained nearly to bursting by his attitude, contrasted powerfully with the green cloth as the strong gas-light fell upon him. Just as he was going to make the great stroke a strong hand was laid upon his arm.
"Now then, Isaac Ogden, you've spoiled a splendid stroke. I don't hoftens get such a chance."
"You're wanted for summat else, Doctor. Come, look sharp; the Colonel's waiting for you."
In common with many members of his profession, Dr. Bardly had a dislike to be called in a hurried and peremptory manner, and a disposition, when so called, to take his time. He had so often been pressed unnecessarily that he had acquired a general conviction that cases could wait—and he made them wait, more or less. In this instance, however, Isaac Ogden insisted on a departure from the Doctor's usual customs, and threw his gray military cloak over his shoulders, and set his cap on his head, and led him to the street-door, where he found the tandem, the Colonel in his place with the Adjutant, Fyser already mounted behind, and the leader dancing with impatience.
The bright lamps flashed swiftly through the dingy streets of Sootythorn, and soon their light fell on the blossoming hedges in the country. Colonel Stanburne had been too much occupied with his horses whilst they were in the streets; but now on the broad open road he had more leisure to talk, and he was the first to break silence.
"You don't know any further details, do you, Eureton?"
"Nothing beyond what I told you. The innkeeper who brought the news was the one Captain Stanburne was billeted with, and he quitted Whittlecup immediately after the event. He appears quite certain that Captain Stanburne is dead. The body was brought to the inn before the man left, and he was present at the examination of it by a doctor who had been hastily sent for."
"Beg pardon, sir," said Fyser from behind, "I asked the innkeeper some questions myself. It appears that Captain Stanburne was wounded in the head, sir, and his skull was broken. It was done with a deal board that a Hirish militia-man tore up out of a floor. There was two Hirish that was quarrellin' and fightin', and the Captain put 'em both into a hempty room which was totally without furnitur', and where they'd nothink but straw to lie upon; and he kep 'em there under confinement, and set a guard at the door. And thenthese two drunken Hirish fights wi' their fists—but fists isn't bloody enough for Hirish, so they starts tearin' up the boards o' the floor, and the guard at the door tried to interfere between 'em, but, not havin' no arms, could do very little; and the Captain was sent for, and as soon as hever one o' these Hirish sees him he says, 'Here's our bloody Captain,' and he aims a most tremenjious stroke at him with his deal board, and it happened most unfortunate that it hit the Captain with the rusty nail in it."
"I wonder it never occurred to him to separate the Irishmen," observed Eureton, in a lower tone, to the Colonel. "He ought not to have confined them together."
"Strictly speaking, he ought not to have placed them in confinement at all at Whittlecup, but sent them at once under escort to headquarters."
"What's this that we are meeting?" said the Adjutant. "I hear men marching."
The Colonel drew up his horses, and the regular footfall of soldiers became audible, and gradually grew louder. "They march uncommonly well, Eureton, for militia-men who have had no training; I cannot understand it."
"There were half-a-dozen old soldiers in Captain Stanburne's company, and I suppose the sergeant has selected them as a guard for the prisoners."
The night was cloudy and dark, and the lamps of the Colonel's vehicle were so very splendid and brilliant that they made the darkness beyond their range blacker and more impenetrable than ever. As the soldiers came nearer, the Colonel stopped his horses and waited. Suddenly out of the darkness came a corporal and four men with two prisoners. The Colonel shouted, "Halt!"
"Have you any news of Captain Stanburne?"
"He's not quite dead, sir, or was not when we left."
The tall wheels rolled along the road, and in a quarter ofan hour the leader had to make his way through a little crowd of people in front of the Blue Bell.
The Doctor was the first in the house, and was led at once to young Stanburne's room. The Whittlecup surgeon was there already. No professional men are so ticklish on professional etiquette as surgeons are, but in this instance there could be little difficulty of that kind. "You are the surgeon to the regiment, I believe," said the Whittlecup doctor; "you will find this a very serious case. I simply took charge of it in your absence."
The patient was not dead, but he was perfectly insensible. He breathed faintly, and every few minutes there was a rattling in the throat, resembling that which precedes immediate dissolution. The two doctors examined the wound together. The skull had been fractured by the blow, and there was a gash produced by the nail in the board. The face was extremely pale, and so altered as to be scarcely recognizable. The innkeeper's wife, Mrs. Simpson, was moistening the pale lips with brandy.
When the Colonel and Captain Eureton had seen the patient, they had a talk with Dr. Bardly in another room. The Doctor's opinion was that there were chances of recovery, but not very strong chances. Though Philip Stanburne had enjoyed tolerably regular health in consequence of his temperate and simple way of living, he had by no means a robust constitution, and it was possible—it was even probable—that he would succumb; but hemightpull through. Dr. Bardly proposed to resign the case entirely to the Whittlecup doctor, as it would require constant attention, and the surgeon ought to be on the spot.
As the lieutenant of the Grenadier Company, Mr. Isaac Ogden was appointed to do captain's work at Whittlecup in the place of Philip Stanburne.
For many weeks Mr. Ogden had displayed a strength of resolution that astonished his most intimate friends. Without meanly taking refuge in the practice of total abstinence, he had kept strictly within the bounds of what in Shayton is considered moderation.
The customs of the mess at Sootythorn were not likely to place him in the power of his old enemy again; for although the officers were not severely abstinent, their utmost conviviality scarcely extended beyond the daily habits of the very soberest of Shaytonians.
Viewing the matter, therefore, from the standpoint of his personal experience, Dr. Bardly looked upon Ogden as now the most temperate of men. It is true that as a militia officer he could not follow a new rule of his about not entering inns, for the business of the regiment required him to visit a dozen inns every day, and to eat and sleep in one for a month together; and it is obvious that the other good rule about not drinking spirits at Twistle Farm could not be very advantageous to him just now, seeing that, although it was always in force, it was practically efficacious only during his residence under his own roof. It seems a pity that he did not legislate for himself anew, so as to meet his altered circumstances; but the labors of regimental duty appeared so onerous that extraordinarystimulation seemed necessary to meet this extraordinary fatigue, and it would have appeared imprudent to confine himself within rigidly fixed limits which necessity might compel him to transgress. So in point of fact Mr. Ogden was a free agent again.
Whilst Philip Stanburne had remained at the Blue Bell, Lieutenant Ogden had been in all respects a model of good behavior. He had watched by Philip's bedside in the evenings, sometimes far into the night, and the utmost extent of his conviviality had been a glass of grog with the Whittlecup doctor. But the day Philip Stanburne was removed, Lieutenant Ogden, after having dined and inspected his billets, began to feel the weight of his loneliness, and he felt it none the less for being accustomed to loneliness at the Farm. Captain Stanburne's illness, and the regular evening talk with the Whittlecup doctor, had hitherto given an interest to Isaac Ogden's life at the Blue Bell, and this interest had been suddenly removed. Something must be found to supply its place; it became necessary to cultivate the acquaintance of somebody in the parlor.
It is needless to trouble the reader with details about the men of Whittlecup whom Mr. Ogden found there, because they have no connection with the progress of this history. But he found somebody else too, namely, Jeremiah Smethurst, a true Shaytonian, and one of the brightest ornaments of the little society that met at the Red Lion. When Jerry saw his old friend Isaac Ogden, whom he had missed for many weeks, his greeting was so very cordial, so expressive of good-fellowship, that it was not possible to negative his proposition that they should "take a glass together."
Now the keeper of the Blue Bell Inn knew Jerry Smethurst. He knew that Jerry drank more than half a bottle of brandy every night before he went to bed, and without giving Mr. Ogden credit for equal powers, he had heard that he came from Shayton, which is a good recommendation to a vendorof spirituous liquors. He therefore, instead of bringing a glass of brandy for each of the Shayton gentlemen, uncorked a fresh bottle and placed it between them, remarking that they might take what they pleased—that there was 'ot warter on the 'arth, for the kettle was just bylin, an' there was shugger in the shugger-basin.
The reader foresees the consequences. After two or three glasses with his old friend, Isaac Ogden fell under the dominion of the old Shayton associations. Jerry Smethurst talked the dear old Shayton talk, such as Isaac Ogden had not heard in perfection for many a day. For men like the Doctor and Jacob Ogden were, by reason of their extreme temperance, isolated beings—beings cut off from the heartiest and most genial society of the place—and Isaac had been an isolated being also since he had kept out of the Red Lion and the White Hart.
"Why should a man desire in any wayTo vary from the kindly race of men?"
"Why should a man desire in any wayTo vary from the kindly race of men?"
That abandonment of the Red Lion had been a moral gain—a moral victory—but an intellectual loss. Was such a fellow as Parson Prigley any compensation for Jerry Smethurst? And there were half-a-dozen at the Red Lion as good as Jerry. He was short of stature—so short, that when he sat in a rocking-chair he had a difficulty in giving the proper impetus with his toes; and he had a great round belly, and a face which, if not equally great and round, seemed so by reason of all the light and warmth that radiated from it. It was enough to cure anybody of hypochondria to look at Jerry Smethurst's face. I have seen the moon look rather like it sometimes, rising warm and mellow on a summer's night; but though anybody may see that the moon has a nose and eyes, she certainly lacks expression. It was pleasant to Isaac Ogden to see the friendly old visage before him once again. Genial and kind thoughts rose in his mind. Tennyson had not yet written "Tithonus," and if he had, no Shaytonianwould have read it—but the thoughts in Ogden's mind were these:—
"Why should a man desire in any wayTo vary from the kindly race of men,Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance,Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?"
"Why should a man desire in any wayTo vary from the kindly race of men,Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance,Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?"
The "goal of ordinance," at Shayton, being death fromdelirium tremens.
Mr. Smethurst would have been much surprised if anybody had told him that he was inducing Ogden to drink more than was good for him. It seemed so natural to drink a bottle of brandy! And Jerry, too, in his way, was a temperate man—a man capable of self-control—a man who had made a resolution and kept it for many years. Jerry's resolution had been never to drink more than one bottle of spirits in an evening; and, as he said sometimes, it was "all howin' to that as he enjy'd sich gud 'ealth." Therefore, when Mr. Simpson had placed the bottle between them, Mr. Smethurst made a little mental calculation. He was strong in mental arithmetic. "I've 'ad three glasses afore Hogden coom, so when I've powered him out three glasses, the remainder 'll be my 'lowance." Therefore, when Isaac had mixed his third tumbler, Jerry Smethurst rang the bell.
"Another bottle o' brandy."
Mr. Simpson stood aghast at this demand, and his eyes naturally reverted to the bottle upon the table. "You've not finished that yet, gentlemen," he ventured to observe.
"What's left in it is my 'lowance," said Mr. Smethurst. "Mr. Hogden shalln't 'ave none on 't."
"Well, thatisa whimmy gent," said Mr. Simpson to himself—but he fetched another bottle.
They made a regular Red Lion evening of it, those two. A little before midnight Mr. Smethurst rose and said Good night. He had finished his bottle, and his law of temperance, always so faithfully observed, forbade him one dropmore. The reader probably expects that Mr. Smethurst was intoxicated; but his genial nature was only yet more genial. He lighted his bed-candle with perfect steadiness, shook Ogden's hand affectionately, and mounted the stair step by step. When he got into his bedroom he undressed himself in a methodical manner, laid his clothes neatly on a chair, wound his watch up, and when he had assumed his white cotton night-cap, looked at himself in the glass. He put his tongue out, and held the candle close to it. The result of the examination was satisfactory, and he proceeded to pull down the corners of his eyes. This he did every night. The bugbear of his life was dread of a coming fit, and he fancied he might thus detect the premonitory symptoms.
Meanwhile Mr. Ogden, left by himself, took up the "Sootythorn Gazette," and when Mr. Simpson entered he found him reading, apparently. "Beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Simpson, "but it's the rule to turn the gas out at twelve, and it's a few minutes past. I'll light you your bed-candle, sir, and you can sit up a bit later if you like. You'll find your way to your room."
Ogden was too far gone to have any power of controlling himself now. The type danced before his eyes, the sentences ran into one another, and the sense of the phrases was a mystery to him. He kept drinking mechanically; and when at length he attempted to reach the door, the candlestick slipped from his hand, and the light was instantly extinguished.
A man who is quite drunk cannot find the door of a dark room—he cannot even walk in the dark; his only chance of walking in broad daylight is to fix his eye steadily on some object, and when it loses its hold of that, to fasten it upon some other, and so on. Ogden stumbled against the furniture and fell. The deep insensibility of advanced drunkenness supervened, and he lay all night upon the floor. The servant-girl found him there the next morning when she came to clean the room.
He could not go to Sootythorn that day, and the true reason for his absence soon became known to Dr. Bardly, who asked leave to drive over to Shayton to see a patient of his own. He drove directly to Milend.
"Well, Mrs. Ogden," said the Doctor, "I've come wi' bad news for you this time. Your Isaac's made a beast of himself once more. He lay all night last night dead drunk upo' th' parlor-floor o' th' Blue Bell Inn i' Whittlecup."
"Why—you don't say so, Dr. Bardly! Now, really, thisisprovokin', and 'im as was quite reformed, as one may say. I could like to whip him—I could."
"Well, I wish you'd just go to Whittlecup and take care of him while he stops there. If he'd nobbut stopped at Sootythorn I could have minded him a bit mysen, but there's nout like his mother for managin' him."
Little Jacob was staying at Milend during his father's military career, and so Mrs. Ogden objected—"But what's to become o' th' childt?"
"Take him with ye—take him with ye. It'll do him a power o' good, and it'll amuse him rarely. He'll see the chaps with their red jackets, and his father with a sword, and a fine scarlet coat on Sundays, and he'll be as fain as fain."
So it was immediately decided that Mrs. Ogden and little Jacob should leave for Whittlecup as soon as they possibly could. A fly was sent for, and Mrs. Ogden hastily filled two large wooden boxes, which were her portmanteaus. Little Jacob was at the parsonage with the youthful Prigleys, and had to be sent for. Mrs. Ogden took the decanters from the corner cupboard, and drank two glasses of port to sustain her in the hurry of the occasion. "Well, who would have thought," she said to herself, as she ate a piece of cake—"who would have thought that I should go and stop at Whittlecup? I wonder how soon Mary Ridge will have finished my new black satin."
Mrs. Ogden and her grandson reached Sootythorn rather late that evening—namely, about eight o'clock; and as it happened that she knew an old maid there—one Miss Mellor—whose feelings would have been wounded if Mrs. Ogden had passed through Sootythorn without calling upon her, she took the opportunity of doing so whilst the horse was baited at the inn. The driver took the fly straight to the Thorn; and when Mr. Garley saw a lady and a little boy emerge therefrom he concluded that they intended to stay at his house, and came with his apologies for want of room. "But we can let you 'ave a nice parlor, mum, to take your tea, and I can find you good bedrooms in the town."
Mrs. Ogden declined these obliging propositions, in the hope that Miss Mellor would offer her a night's lodging. It was not that she loved Miss Mellor so much as to desire to stay longer under her roof than was necessary to keep her in a good temper, but she had made sundry reflections on the road. "If I stop at th' Thorn they'll charge me 'appen 'alf-a-crown for my bedroom, and Jane Mellor 'ad a nice spare bedroom formerly. It really is no use throwin' money away on inn-keepers. And then there's our tea; they'll make me pay eighteenpence or two shillin' for't at Garley's, and very likely charge full as much for little Jacob. It's quite enough to 'ave to pay seven shillin' for th' horse and fly." And in any case there would be time to get on to Whittlecup after the horse had had his feed.
But Miss Mellor, who had not been to Shayton or heard direct news of Shayton for several years, was so delighted to see Mrs. Ogden that she would not hear of her going forward that night. "It's lucky I 'appened to be at 'ome," said Miss Mellor, "for I'm often out of an evening." It was lucky, certainly, for little Jacob, who got a much better tea than he would have done at the Thorn Inn, with quantities of sweet things greatly to his taste. Little Jacob was convinced that there was nobody in the world so kind and generous as his grandmother, yet he conceived an affection for Miss Mellor also before the close of the evening.
"The devil take the people," said Isaac Ogden, when he got back from Sootythorn to the Blue Bell, and had gone as usual to his bedroom there—"the devil take the people, they've hidden all my things!"
Just then came a gentle knock at the door, and the servant-maid entered. "Please, sir, your mother's come, and she says you aren't to sleep here any more, sir; and she's fetched your things to lodgings that she's took over Mr. Wood's, the shoemaker's."
It is at all times vexatious and humiliating to the independent spirit of a man to be disposed of by female authority, but it is most especially so when the authority is one's mamma. A grown-up man will submit to his mother on most points if he is worth any thing, but the best of sons does not quite like to see his submission absolutely taken for granted. In this case there was an aggravation in the look of the servant-girl. Notwithstanding the respectful modesty of her tone, there was just a twinkle of satire in her eye. It was plain that she was inwardly laughing at the Lieutenant. "Damn it!" he said, "this house is good enough for me; I don't want to leave it." Yet hedidleave, nevertheless.
The next day was Sunday, and it was a satisfaction to Mrs. Ogden to think that Isaac would be professionally compelledto attend public worship. Little Jacob was one of the crowd of spectators who gathered round the company when it was mustered for church-parade. He was proud of his resplendent papa—a papa all scarlet and silver; and it was a matter of peculiar anxiety with him that they should sit in the same pew. Mr. Ogden gratified him in this respect, and the child felt himself the most important young personage in Whittlecup. A steady attention to the service is not commonly characteristic of little boys; and on this occasion little Jacob's eye was so continually caught by the glitter of his father's gold sword-knot and the silver embroidery on his sleeve, that he followed the clergyman much less regularly than usual.
The neighborhood of Whittlecup was not aristocratic, but there were one or two manufacturing families of rather a superior description. One of these families, the Anisons, were at church not far from the pew which the Ogdens occupied. They lived at a house near Whittlecup called Arkwright Lodge, in a comfortable manner, with most of those refinements of civilization which are to be met with in the houses of rich professional men in London. Mr. Anison, indeed, was a manufacturer of the new school, whilst Jacob Ogden belonged to the old one. Men of the Anison class sometimes make large fortunes, but they more frequently content themselves with a moderate independence and a sufficient provision for their families. Money does not seem to them an end in itself, but they value the comforts and refinements which it procures and which cannot be had without it. Jacob Ogden, on the other hand, did not care a fig for comforts and refinements, and had no domestic objects: his only purpose was the inward satisfaction and the outward glory of being rich. Mr. Anison worked in moderation, spent a good deal, saved something, and kept a very hospitable house, where everybody who had the slightest imaginable claim upon his kindness was always heartily welcome.
After Philip Stanburne's accident he had been immediately moved to Arkwright Lodge, in compliance with the surgeon's advice and Mr. Anison's urgent request. Here he had rapidly passed into a state of agreeable convalescence, and found the house so pleasant that the prospect of a perfect recovery, and consequent departure, was not very attractive to him now.
When the service in Whittlecup church was over, Joseph Anison went straight to Mr. Ogden's pew and reminded him that he had promised to dine that day at Arkwright Lodge. When they got out of the church, Isaac presented his mother to Mr. Anison, and to Mrs. Anison also, who joined them in the midst of that ceremony. This was followed by a polite little speech from Mrs. Anison (she was an adept in polite little speeches), to the effect that, as Mr. Ogden had kindly promised to eat a dinner and pay his first call at the Lodge at the same time, his duties in the militia having prevented him from calling during the week, perhaps they might hope that Mrs. Ogden would allow them to call upon her at once at her lodgings, and then would she come with her son to the Lodge to spend the afternoon? So when the militia-men were disbanded, the Anisons accompanied the Ogdens to the lodging over Mr. Wood's, the shoemaker.
It was a very fine May morning, and they had all come on foot. There are families in Sootythorn (perhaps also there may be families out of Sootythorn) who, though living within a very short distance of their parish church, go thither always in their carriages—on the same principle which causes the Prince of Wales to go from Marlborough House to St James's Palace in a state-coach—namely, for the maintenance of their dignity. But though the Anisons' carriage was an institution sufficiently recent to have still some of the charms of novelty, they dispensed with it as much as possible on Sundays.
The young ladies had gone slowly forwards towards theLodge with the clergyman, who had a standing invitation to dine there whenever he came to Whittlecup. Mrs. Ogden's great regret in going to dine at the Lodge was for the dinner she left behind her, and she did not hesitate to express it. "It seems quite a pity," she said, "to leave them ducks and green peas—they were such fine ducks, and we're all of us very fond o' ducks, 'specially when we've green peas to 'em." After this little speech, she paused regretfully, as if meditating on the delightfulness of the ducks, and then she added, more cheerfully, "But what—ducks are very good cold, and they'll do very well for supper to-morrow night, when our Isaac comes back from Sootythorn."
The dinner at the Lodge was good enough to compensate even for the one left untasted at the shoemaker's, and nobody did better justice to it than the Rev. Abel Blunting. A man may well be hungry who has preached vehemently for seventy minutes, and eaten nothing since seven in the morning, which was Mr. Blunting's habitual breakfast-hour. He was a very agreeable guest, and worth his salt. He had a vein of rich humor approaching to joviality, yet he drank only water. On this matter of teetotalism he was by no means fanatical, but he said simply that in his office of minister it was useful to his work amongst the poor. Mrs. Ogden sat next to him at table, and was perfectly delighted with him. The Rev. Abel perceived at once what manner of woman she was, and talked to her accordingly. When he found out that she came from Shayton, he said that he had a great respect for Shayton, it was such a sound Protestant community—there was not a single Papist in the place—Popery had no holdthere. Unfortunately, when Mr. Blunting made this observation, there happened to be a lull in the talk, and it was audible to everybody, including Philip Stanburne, who was well enough to sit at table. Poor Mrs. Anison began to feel very uncomfortable, but as Mr. Blunting sat next to her, she whispered to him that they had a Roman Catholic at table.This communication not having been loud enough to be heard by Mrs. Ogden, who, never having sat down with a Roman Catholic in her life, was incapable of imagining such a contingency, that lady replied,—
"Shayton folk believe i' th' Bible."
"And may I ask," said Philip, very loudly and resolutely from the other end of the table, "what Catholics believe in?"
"Why, they believe i' th' Koran."
The hearers—and everybody present had heard Mrs. Ogden distinctly—could not credit their ears. Each thought that he must be mistaken—that by some wholly unaccountable magic he had heard the word "Koran" when it had been pronounced by no mortal lips. Nobody laughed—nobody even smiled. There is a degree of astonishment which stuns the sense of humor. Every one held his breath when Mr. Blunting spoke.
"No, ma'am," he said, respectfully, "you are somewhat mistaken. You appear to have confounded the Papal and the Mohammedan religions."
What Mrs. Ogden's answer may have been does not matter very much, for Mr. and Mrs. Anison both saw the necessity for an immediate diversion, and talked about something else in the most determined manner. On reflection, Philip Stanburne thought his Church quite sufficiently avenged already. "As I believe in the Koran," he said to Miss Anison, "I may marry four wives. What an advantage that will be!"
"You horrible man!"
"Why am I a horrible man? Why are you so ungracious to me? The Sultan and the Viceroy of Egypt are like me—they believe in the Koran—and they act upon their belief as I intend to do. Yet a Christian queen has been gracious to them. She did not tell them they were horrible men. Why should you not be gracious to me in the same way?When I have married my four wives, you will come and visit me, won't you, in my palace on the Bosphorus? Black slaves shall bring you coffee in a little jewelled cup, and your lips shall touch the amber mouth-piece of a diamonded chibouque."
"But then your four wives will all be Orientals, and I shall not be able to talk to them."
The Misses Anison were not the only young ladies at the table. Philip Stanburne had a neighbor on his left hand who interested him even more than the brilliant girl on his right. This was Miss Alice Stedman, whom he had seen in the bookseller's shop at Sootythorn.
"And if you believe in the Koran," said Miss Stedman, "you ought to show it by refusing to drink wine."
"Ah, then, I renounce Mohammed, that I may have the pleasure of drinking wine with you, Miss Stedman!" This was said with perfect grace, and in the little ceremony which followed, the young gentleman contrived to express so much respect and admiration for his fair neighbor, that Mrs. Anison took note of it. "Mr. Stanburne is in love with Alice," she said to herself.
"Would you renounce your religion for love?" asked Madge Anison, in a low tone.
Philip felt a sudden sensation, as if a doctor had just probed him. Garibaldi felt the corresponding physical pain when Nélaton found the bullet.
He turned slowly and looked at Madge. There was a strange expression about her lips, and the perennial merriment had faded from her face. "Are you speaking seriously, Miss Anison, I wonder?"
The talk was noisy enough all round the table to isolate the two completely. Even Miss Stedman was listening to her loud-voiced neighbor, the Lieutenant. Madge Anison looked straight at Philip, and said, "Yes, Iamspeaking seriously."
"I believe I should not, now. But nobody knows what he may do when he is in love."
"Youarein love."
This time the room whirled, and the voices sounded like the murmur of a distant sea. In an instant Philip Stanburne passed from one state of life to another state of life. A crisis, which changed the whole future of four persons there present, occurred in the world of his consciousness. His imagination rioted in wild day-dreams; but one picture rose before him with irresistible vividness—a picture of Alice kneeling with him under a canopy, before the high altar at St. Agatha's.
A slight pressure on his left arm recalled him to the actual world. The ladies were all leaving their seats, and Madge had kindly reminded him where he was.
"A sad place for drinking is Shayton," observed Mr. Blunting, as he poured himself a glass of pure water. "I wonder if one could do any good there?"
"They're past curing, mostly, are Shayton folk," answered John Stedman. "Are not they, Mr. Ogden?"
"There's one here that is, I'm afraid," answered Isaac, with much humility.
Mr. Blunting inquired, with sympathy in his tone, whether Mr. Ogden had himself fallen under temptation. When Isaac confessed his backslidings of the past week, the reverend gentleman requested permission to see him in private. Isaac had a dislike to clergymen in general, and in matters of religion rather shared the latitudinarian views of his friend Dr. Bardly; but he was in a state of profound moral discouragement, and ready to be grateful to any one who held out prospects of effectual help. So it ended by his accepting an invitation to take tea at the parsonage at Sootythorn.
"If you take tea with Mr. Blunting," said Joseph Anison, "you must mind he doesn't inoculate you with his own sortof intemperance, if he cures you of your little excesses. He drinks tea enough in a year to float a canal-boat. It's a terribly bad habit. In my opinion it's far worse than drinking brandy. The worst of it is that it makes men like gossip just as women do. Stick to your brandy-bottle, Mr. Ogden, like a man, and let Mr. Blunting empty his big tea-pot!"
Whilst the gentlemen were still in the dining-room, Mr. Blunting saw a horse pass the window—a riderless, yet harnessed horse—followed by another horse in an unaccustomed manner; and then came a lofty vehicle, drawn by the latter animal. I have described this equipage as it appeared to Mr. Blunting; but the experienced reader will perceive that it was a tandem, and by the association of ideas will expect to see Fyser and the Colonel.
Colonel Stanburne came into the dining-room, and soon made himself at home there. He had never happened to meet Joseph Anison or Mr. Stedman, but he knew the incumbent of Sootythorn slightly, and the other two men were his own officers, though he had as yet seen very little of either of them. The Stanburnes of Wenderholme held a position in all that part of the country so far above that to which their mere wealth would have entitled them (for there were manufacturers far richer than the Colonel), that Joseph Anison felt it an honor that the head of that family should have entered his gates. "He's only calling on young Stanburne," thought Joseph Anison; "he isn't calling upon us."
"I came to thank you and Mrs. Anison," said the Colonel, "for having so kindly taken care of our young friend here. He seems to be getting on uncommonly well; and no wonder, when he's in such good quarters."
"Captain Stanburne is gaining strength, I am glad to say,"replied the master of the house. "He rather alarmed us when he came here, he seemed so weak; but he has come round wonderfully."
"I am very much better, certainly," said the patient himself.
The commanding officer hoped he would be fit for duty again at an early date, but Captain Stanburne declared that he did not feel strong enough yet to be equal to the march and the drill; that he was subject to frequent sensations of giddiness, which would make him most uncomfortable, if not useless, on the parade-ground; and that, in a word, he was best for the present where he was. This declaration was accompanied by due expressions of regret for the way in which he abused the kind hospitality of the Anisons—expressions which, of course, drew forth from the good host a cordial renewal of his lease.
"And what have you done with the Irishman who nearly killed him?" asked Mr. Anison of the Colonel. "I've heard nothing about him. If you'd had him shot, we should have heard of it."
"It was a perplexing case. If you consider the man a soldier, the punishment is most severe—in fact it is death, even if he did not mean to kill. But we hardly could consider him a soldier—he had had no military experience—a raw Irish laborer, who had never worn a uniform. I have been unwilling to bring the man before a court-martial. He is in prison still."
"He has been punished enough," said Philip. "Pray consider him simply as having been drunk. Irishmen are always combative when they are drunk. It was not a deliberate attack upon me as his officer. The man was temporarily out of his senses, and struck blindly about him."
It having been settled that the Irishman was to be pardoned on the intercession of Captain Stanburne, the Colonel begged to be presented to Mrs. Anison. "He had not much time," he said, looking at his watch; "he had to be back inSootythorn in time for mess, and he was anxious to pay his respects to the lady of the house."
So they all went into the drawing-room. After the introductory bows, the Colonel perceived our friend, little Jacob (who had retreated with the ladies); but as he had not quite finished his little speech to Mrs. Anison about her successful nursing, he did not as yet take any direct notice of him. When the duties of politeness had been fully performed, the Colonel beckoned for little Jacob, and when he came to him, laid both hands on his shoulders.
"And so you're here, too, are you, young man? I thought you were at Shayton with your grandmamma."
Lieutenant Ogden came up at this instant to excuse himself. "My mother only came to Whittlecup yesterday, Colonel, and she brought my little boy with her." Mrs. Ogden approached the group.
"I'm little Jacob's grandmother," she said, "and I'm mother to this great lad here" (pointing to the Lieutenant), "and it's as much as ever I can do to take care of him. What did you send him by himself to Whittlecup for? You should have known better nor that; sending a drunkard like him to stop by hisself in a public-house. If he's a back-slider now, it's 'long o' them as turned him into temptation, same as a cow into a clover-field. I wish he'd never come into th' malicious (militia)—I do so."
The Colonel was little accustomed to be spoken to with that unrestrained frankness which characterizes the inhabitants of Shayton, and felt a temporary embarrassment under Mrs. Ogden's onslaught. "Well, Mrs. Ogden, let us hope that Mr. Isaac will be safe now under your protection."
"Safe? Ay, he is safe now, I reckon, when he's getten his mother to take care of him; and there's more on ye as wants your mothers to take care on ye, by all accounts."
"Mother," said the Lieutenant, "you shouldn't talk so tothe Colonel. You should bear in mind how he kept little Jacob at Wenderholme Hall."
Mrs. Ogden was pacified immediately, and held out her hand. "I thank you for that," she said, "you were very kind to th' childt; and I've been doin' a piece of needlework ever since for your wife, but it willn't be finished while Christmas."
"Mother, you shouldn't say 'your wife'—you should say 'her ladyship,'" observed the Lieutenant, in a low tone.
"My wife will be greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Ogden. I hope you will make her acquaintance before you leave the regiment; for I may say that you belong to the regiment now, since you have come to be Lieutenant Ogden's commanding officer."
Mrs. Anison had been first an astonished and then an amused auditor of this colloquy, but she ended it by offering Mrs. Ogden a cup of tea. Then the Colonel began to talk to Mrs. Anison. He had that hearty and frank enjoyment of the society of ladies which is not only perfectly compatible with morality, but especially belongs to it as one of its best attributes and privileges. Good women liked the Colonel, and the Colonel liked good women; he liked them none the less when they were handsome, as Mrs. Anison was, and when they could talk well and easily, as she did. Some women are distinguished by nature; and though Mrs. Anison had seen little of the great world, and the Colonel had seen a good deal of it, the difference of experience did not place a perceptible barrier between them. The time seemed to have passed rapidly for both when the visitor took his leave.
If any rational and worldly-minded adviser had said to Philip Stanburne a month before, "Why don't you look out for some well-to-do cotton-spinner's daughter in Sootythorn? you might pick up a good fortune, that would mend the Stanithburn property, and you might find a nice well-educated girl, who would do you quite as much credit as if she belonged to one of the old families"—if any counsel of this kind had been offered to Philip Stanburne then, before he saw Alice Stedman, he would have rejected it at once as being altogether inadmissible.He, the representative of the house of Stanburne, connect himself with a family of cotton-spinners! He, the dutiful son of the Church, ally himself with a member of one of those heretical sects who insult her in her affliction! Our general views of things may, however, be very decided, and admit, nevertheless, of exception in favor of persons who are known to us. To hate Protestants in general—to despise the commercial classes as a body—is one thing; but to hate and despise a gentle maiden, whose voice sounds sweetly in our ears, is quite another thing.
"She's as perfect a lady as any I ever saw," thought Philip, as she walked before him in the garden at Arkwright Lodge. A closer social critic might have answered, that although Alice Stedman was a very admirable and good young woman, absolutely free from the least taint of vulgarity, she lacked the style and "go" of a young lady of the world. Her deficiency in this respect may, however, havegone far to produce the charm which attracted Philip. Alice had not theaplombof a fine lady, nor the brilliance of a clever woman; but nature had given her a stamp of genuineness which is sometimes effaced by the attrition of society.
"It's wrong of me to have taken possession of you, Captain Stanburne," said Margaret Anison; "I see you are longing to be with Alice Stedman—you would be a great deal happier with her;" and, without consulting him further, she called her sister, adding, "I beg pardon, Lissy, but I want to say something to Sarah."
Of course, as Miss Anison had some private communication to make to her sister, Philip and Alice had nothing to do buts'éloigner. The young gentleman offered his arm, which was accepted, and they went on down a deviously winding walk. Alice looked round, and seeing nobody, said, "Hadn't we better wait, or go back a little? we have been walking faster than they have." Philip did as he was bid, not precisely knowing or caring which way he went. But the young ladies were not there.
"I think," he said at last, "we should do better to go in our first direction, as they will expect us to do. Very likely Miss Anison may have taken her sister to the house, to show her something, and they will meet us in the garden again, if we go in the direction they calculate upon." So they turned round and walked down the winding path again.
"You often come to this place, I believe," said Philip. "The Anisons are old friends of yours, are they not, Miss Stedman?"
"Oh yes; I come to stay here very often. The Anisons are very kind to me."
"They are kind to me also, Miss Stedman, and yet I have no claim of old acquaintance. A fortnight since I did not even know their name, and yet it seems to me now as if I had known them for years.Youare rather an older acquaintance,Miss Stedman. I had the pleasure of seeing you at Sootythorn before I came to Whittlecup."
Alice looked up at her companion rather archly, and said, "You mean in the bookseller's shop?"
"Yes, when you came to buy a book of sermons. Shall I tell you what book you ordered? I remember the name perfectly. It was 'Blunting's Sermons on Popery.'"
"So you were listening, were you?"
"I wasn't listening when I heard your voice for the first time, but I listened very attentively afterwards. My attention was attracted by the title of the book. You know that I am a Catholic, Miss Stedman?"
"Yes," said Alice, very briefly, and in a tone which seemed to endeavor not to imply disapprobation.
"And perhaps you know that Catholics don't quite like to hear their religion called 'Popery.' So I was a little irritated; but then I reflected that as the title of the book was so, you could not order it by another name than the name upon its titlepage." Here there was a pause, as Alice did not speak. Philip resumed,—
"Do you liveinSootythorn, Miss Stedman?"
"Not far out of the town. Indeed our house is surrounded by buildings now. It used to be quite in the country."
"I—I should like to call upon Mr. Stedman very much when I am quite well again."
For some seconds there was no answer. Then Alice said in a low tone, almost inaudible, "I should be very glad to see you again."
A heavy and rapid step on the gravel behind them abruptly ended this interesting conversation.
It was not Madge Anison's step. They stopped and looked round. The Reverend Abel Blunting confronted them.
If poor Alice had not had that miserable habit of blushing, the reverend gentleman would have perceived nothing beyond the simple fact that the young lady was walking ina garden with Mr. Philip Stanburne. But Alice's face was suffused with crimson, and the knowledge that it was so made her so uncomfortable that she blushed more than ever. In spite of his manhood, there was a slightly heightened color on Philip's cheek also, but a good deal of this may be attributed to vexation at what he was disposed to consider an ill-timed and unwarrantable intrusion.
"Good morning, Miss Alice! I hope you are quite well: and you, sir, I wish you good morning; I hope I see you well."
Philip bowed, a little stiffly, and Alice proceeded to make hasty inquiries about her papa. Did Mr. Blunting know if her papa had changed his intentions?
Mr. Blunting was always very polite, the defect in his manners (betraying that he was not quite a gentleman) being that they were only too deferential. He had a fatherly affection for Alice Stedman, whose spiritual guide he had been from her infancy, and it was certainly the very first time in her life that she had seen him without feelings of unmingled satisfaction.
"I have come to fetch you myself, Miss Alice. I met your papa in Sootythorn this morning as I was leaving in my gig, and he asked if I were coming to Whittlecup. So he requested me to offer you the vacant seat, Miss Alice, which I now do with great pleasure." Here Mr. Blunting made a sort of a bow. There was an unctuousness in his courtesy that irritated Philip, but perhaps Philip envied him his place in the gig.
"Are we going to leave immediately, then?" inquired Miss Stedman, in a tone which did not imply the most perfect satisfaction with these arrangements.
"Mrs. Anison has been so kind as to invite me to dine, and I have accepted." Mr. Blunting was too honest to say that Miss Alice ought to dine before her drive. He accepted avowedly in his own interest. He had a large body to nourish,he had to supply energies for an enormous amount of work, and the dinners at the Sootythorn parsonage were not always very succulent. He therefore thought it not wrong to accept effective aid in his labors when it offered itself in the shape of hospitality.
At dessert the clergyman found an opportunity of conveying, not too directly, a little hint or lesson which he felt it his duty to convey, and which had been tormenting him since the meeting in the garden. The conversation, which at Whittlecup, as elsewhere, very generally ran upon people known to the speakers, had turned to a case of separation between a neighboring country gentleman and his wife, who were, or had been, of different religions.
"Marriages of that kind," said Mr. Blunting, "between people of different religions, seldom turn out happily, and it is a great imprudence to contract them."
Mrs. Anison expressed a hearty concurrence in this view, but certain young persons present believed that, however just Mr. Blunting's observation might be, considered generally, there must be exceptions to a rule so discouraging.