The linen material, of whatever sort, was again moulded into the perfect form; but this time the mouth showed humour, and appeared to relax in a grim smile.

"Lucy shrieked, and dropped into my arms in a swoon: a real genuine fainting-fit, out of which she was brought round with difficulty, after summoned help of doctors.

"I hung about miserably till her safety was assured, and then went as miserably home. Next morning I received a cutting little note from my mother-in-law elect, in which she returned the ring, and informed me the engagement must be considered at an end.

"Well, Dick, you know now why I do not marry. And what have you to say?"


Parson Clench

Stoke-St. Edith is a small and deeply rural parish, a complete backwater; at least it was so fifteen years ago, and changes move so slowly within its boundaries that I should doubt it being greatly altered, even now. It has been said about the Stoke-St. Edith people that they just begin to realise they are born when it is time for them to die, and that it takes at least as long to convince them they are dead. And by the latter proposition hangs a tale.

As sometimes happens, though the case is rare, this retired and unimportant parish has a fatly endowed living, such as was reckoned in former times a suitable provision for younger sons. And some two-and-sixty years before the period of this story, the Albury younger son of that date not being of an age to take orders, the Reverend Augustus Clench was put in to keep the benefice warm for him.

But when the time came for Mr. Clench to surrender his cure, the younger son had developed other views, and the warmer was undisturbed. And so the long procession of years went on, and the old gentleman—whom none of us could picture as ever having been young—became more and more autocratic, more deeply conservative, more blind to all advantage in change, even when change was plainly for the better. It seemed to us juniors that he must have been born in a black gown and bands, bald-headed and wearing spectacles—(no doubt the bald head was fact)—and that of all things at Stoke-St.Edith he was the least mutable. So it came as a shock to us all, then scattered far and wide, when among the newspaper announcements we read that the Reverend Augustus Clench was no more.

I was not a resident in the parish when the following events took place, but I heard of them from a faithful correspondent, and later supplemented her account by personal inquiry on the spot.

The next presentation to the living was in the gift of the widowed Mrs. Albury at the Hall, who had long designed that fat provision for her nephew, the Reverend Basil Deane. He was working as curate in an East London parish, and when Mr. Clench's death took place he had his doubts whether he would be justified in exchanging strenuous duty so early in his career, for the soft cushion of rural ease. But it was now or never for his chance in life; his aunt Emmeline, good gentle soul, was a confirmed invalid, and at her death the Albury property, with the presentation right, would pass under her husband's will to a distant cousin, who would have no concern or care for any Deane.

Mr. Clench was only just buried when Mrs. Albury wrote: "I want you to come down for this next Sunday and take the services here, as the churchwardens are in a difficulty, and then we can arrange about your succession to the living. You know it is my earnest wish to have you settled at the Rectory. I cannot be thankful enough that I returned from France to be here at this time. I do not generally leave the Riviera so early in the spring, and it really was as if I had been led. But I caught a severe cold on the homeward journey, and am obliged to keep to my own two rooms, which I know you will excuse."

Mrs. Albury used to spend the greater part of the year abroad, and Basil's visits to her had hitherto been paid either at the Riviera villa or in London: he had not seen Stoke-St. Edith since his childhood. So he came with only the faintest recollection of what the place was like, and none of the old man it was proposed he should succeed.

He was unable to get away from his London duties till the Saturday, and his first appearance at the village church was shortly before the eleven o'clock service: there was, he had been told, no celebration, as that took place only once a month, and had been held the Sunday before, after the funeral sermon. Basil reflected that he would change all that, but it was too early yet to announce intentions: at the present moment he was called upon to do no more than carry on the services in the well worn rut of many previous years.

The clerk, an elderly man wedded to Stoke-St. Edith ways, awaited him in the vestry ready with instructions, and looking somewhat askance at the coloured stole Basil took out of his vestment bag. "We aren't used to that sort of thing here," the official ventured to hint; but Basil proceeded to assume it, despite the disapproval. It was likely to be a lengthy service. The Litany was expected of him, and also the ante-Communion office, but Basil reflected he might shorten his sermon, and took the opportunity to glance at the notes he had prepared.