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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1896-9-24, Page 6DR. BALL BY THE DUCHESS, . He was a very little man, with a olieruhla fatal, and a large oul, and nothing at all awe-inspiring about hint. His eyes shone through hie glasses anxiously as though in eager searell'of any good that inighe be. lying aboul! among hie parishioners'. He thought no evil of any man, and, in truth, no man t thought evil of him. He had , been twenty years a curate, but had never sighed for higher wages or betrayed a hankering for the flesh -pots of Egypt Coutented he was and happy among his ungrateful old wolnen and surly old mon. He went to bed. at eight o'clock, or half -past; he 'ever went into society; indeed, there was hardly any into which to go, in the benighted Irish village in which he lived. He knew as little about the subtile changes that creep now and again into fashionable life as the South Sea Islander. Dulcinea a charming girl of eighteen, and a groat heiress, his friend and god- child—would often walk down to his cottage to see him, but he would seldom go to her. He would never dine from home, but sometime e he would take from Duleinea's hand the eup of tea she had ready for him at all hours of the day, knowing it to be his one carnal delig,ht. His meter was old and infirm, and for the most part resided mu Italy. In fact, the little doctor did all the work of In- chbaabag,ga, which was the somewhat outlaodish name of his parish. Duleinefe, with an unpardonable) play upon his name, had christened bini her Candy -ball, saying in excuse that she had a right to give him any name she pleased because he hod given her hers— whioh did not please her—at the font, many winters ago now, "Yet, after all, I don't think nay sobri- quet suits you; eandy-balls are such bard things," she said tenderly, as she walked with him up and. down his little garden path one morning in midwinter, hugging his arm the while. "I'm sure I have nearly smashed all my teeth with them over and over again. And you, with your tender heart. could never hurt Ines or any living thing. I kuow—and Gerald says it too—that you aro the best and dearest man in all the world. Having exploded this little shell she waited somewhat anxiously for the result, 'Now—now-1 am afraid. you have been writing to tlerald again," said the doctor, stopping in his walk and. regard- ing her with what he believed to be severity, "Yoe, I have," Paid Miss Vane, promptly. "Ien't:it good of me to tell you the truth oat quite plainly? I'll tell you something else, too. If you say even one small seolding word to me, I shall run away from you, and you sha'n't see me again for a week." "Dear me! dear me1 this is terrible!" said the doctor, almost tragically. Now, Miss Duleinea Vane, besides be- ing an heiress, was Also the bishop's ward. And the bishop was sternly desir- ous of doing his duty by her—which rfteant turning a cold shoulder on aU needy young men who paid their ad- dresaes to her. Their name was legion; so that the poor bishop had by no menus a good time of it. There had. come nothing serious of it all, however, until about six months ago, when Gerald Wygram had descended upon Inchinabagga as if from the :clouds. He said he had come for the fishing, which was excellent in the neighborhood; but. having seen Miss "Vane one day in the curate's garden, his desire for trout suddenly died a natural death, and his dere for something else grew into a mighty longing. He was a tall 'young man, handsome, and worse than all, eloquent. He talked Dulcinea's heart out of her body before she woke to the knowledge that she had one. There was absolutely no fault to be found with him beyond. the fact that be was the fifth son of a by no means wealthy baronet. This was a sin past for- giveness in ereryboay's eyes, except Dulcinea's. She was reasoned with, ex- postulated with, threatened. All to no good. The bishop in a long letter—exquisite- ly written and perfectly worded—finally commanded Miss Vane to cease to think again of this Gerald Wygram (this clerk in the Foreign ()Dice, with a paltry stipend) for even one moment! To which Duloinea sent a meek reply, to the effect that as usual her guardian's behest should be obeyed. to the letter. She would indeed never think of Gerald Wygram again for that insignificant portion of time called a ntoment, but daily, hourly, until the family vault claimed her for its own. Whereupon the bishop wrote to ; Dr. Ball, as her spiritual adviser, begging him to bring her to a proper frame of mind, and to see, generally, what was to be done. It was wonderful how little could be done; and Dulcinea would promise nothing, So Sir Watkyn Wygram, Ger- ald's father, was written to; and he, though mightily amused at the whole afair, took the law into his own hands, and ordered Gerald. to leave Inchinabagga . without delay. ) There were certain reasons why it was best to obey this order, and. so, with many kisses and vows of eternal con- stancy, the lovers parted. They felt their constancy might be up to the test, as Duloinea was barely eighteen, and, by her father's will was not to come of age until :her twenty-third year. Fire years to (wait! An eternity to an impatient heart! A month's trial having proved. to them that life without each other was an ; earthly purgatory, they resolved to try one ;more expedient to soften the maxi in the apron and the long silk stockings. ! "What: is terrible?" asked Duleinea of , the curate, as they walked up and down , the garden. "This correspondence with Gerald, (when yon know the bishop--" i "Well, I won't do it again," she said. "It would. be a stupid thing to write to him, wouldn't it," continued Duloinea, ,innooentiy, "when I can see him every ;day?" "See him!" Dr. Ball stopped short , again, and gazed at her over his glasses. ("Why, you don't mean to tell me ]that—" "Yes, I do, indeed. He is staying , downat the 'white cottage, just like last ;spring. He says be has come for the "Fishing in January!" Well, if it isn't for that, it is for something else. And. you can't think how nixie he is looking. And he is so • fond of yOu1 Do you know, you were the very fleet person he asked' for?" "Did he, now?" said the doctor, with a broadly gratified smile. Then he reooi. looted himself, and brought hiraself bacl,. to a proper frame of mind with the help of a dry little cough. "The bishop and Sir Watkyn will be greatly annoyed," he said. "I don't care," (returned Dubai -nee.' re - heinously. "What feult Clati the bishop find with him?" ' "He is not your equal, my. dear." "I hope you are not growing worldly," said Duleinea, with a severity that to the poor dootor sounded very terrible. . "But he is very poor, my dear," he said, altering, and feeling himself the oaks going About, and thin bread-and- butter, and some delicate watery little things he had never scan before. He .glanoed at • tbe ormolu clock -on the minutes late as be entered the drawing - room. Ali the other guests Were there, but were fortunately argning busily over a huge portfolo of Italian views. chimney piece behind, hiin, and . saw it Mrs. Craik was standing ou the hearth - was nearly six o'clock. "And a very rug, somewhat apart. With a deep blush reasonable hour for tea, too," he said to aud a very distressed, countenance, the himself, complacently, and ate a good. cut ate advanced toward her. deal more bread-and-butter, and. told "Ab, Dr. Ball! A.s'I said before, it was himself the teat was excellent. He looked a long river," said the bisaop, graciously, round him and beamed through his tearing the group near the portfolio, to come up to him. "Confess the troth, now; say you fell asleep before your fire. I often do it myself—often." "It was hardly that my lord," said the doctor, to whom even prevarication was hateful. ' • "Ali! eh!" said the bishop, laughing. "Did. any one ever, I wonder, confess to those forty winks? You were tired„ glasses at the pretty girls in their charm - most worldly creature on earth. ing g".118, and declared m theto his "And. is his poverty the ouly thing ag,ainst him?'' • heart a sight worth seeing, Two or three of them, struck by the benevolence of his "The bishop has other objections."• smile, smiled back at him, so that his "Oh, I know all about that," said she, ..x know he has•satisfaction was complete. witla superb disdain, Then a dismal, booming sound mune been meanly trying to spy out some from the hall. The doctor started on trumpery little peccadilloes belonging to hearing it, and nearly dropped his cup of poor Gerald's Oxford days, It is my belief the bishop did far 'worse himself 8"ras' -thougheh? "The gong," said a little woman near ((g , " when he was at Oxford. I hate a spy!" was tired," sitid the little doctor, , himgetting up with graceful languor "But, my dear—" simply. He xnight have let it so rest, from her chair "And if Gerald was a little bit wild at college—I—I—think it was delightful of him! I can't bear goody-goody young men. I should • quite despise him if I thought he had. never done anything he oughtn't to do." "Dulcinea, this is horrible!" said the doctor. "If your guardian—" "I know my guardian," with a con- temptuous shrug of her pretty little shoulders—"and • you would, too, only you are too good. to fathom his schemes. Do you think a real Christian would. for- bid two people to be happy? No, you don't. A real Christian would help them to be happy. And"—turning to him suddenly, with a quick, radiant smile —"you will help us?" She spoke with an amount of assurance she was far from feeling, but determined to play her last card. with a high courage. "You will go to the bishop yourself, and plead for us. He respects you (it is the only sign of grace ibout him); he will listen to you, and you will bring us back word that you have succeeded. You will give us that bad old mina's blessing; we shall fall upon your nook and embrace you, and then you will marry us." "Stop! stop!" said the dootor. "I &igen% do this thing. The bishop's face Is set against Gerald, and—" "Then you are to set your face against the bishop's and turn his in favor of Gerald. Yes, you xnust indeed! Oh, •my dear godfather, you have never refused ine anything in all my life; do not begin to do so now. Tell him I am sick, tlying—" ".But, my dear girl, I never saw you looking better." "Never mind, I shall get sick. Tell him, too, that Gerald is such a regular attendant at church, and that—" "I can't, Dulcinea. All last spring, Sunday after Sunday, I missed his head In the rectory pew, where he was sup- posed to sit." All the pews in the church at Inchina- bagga, were so built that only the heads of the parishioners could be seen, staring over them as if impaled. "Perhaps he was there, but sitting low," said Dulcinea, mendaciously. "No. He wasn't sitting there at all," said the curate, sorrowfully. "He was up the Smith stream, at Owen's f arm, fishing for trout." "Well, even if he was," said Gerald's sweetheart, boldly, "surely there was some excuse for him. Sundays sbould not be good fishing days and on every one of those you mention the trout Were literally jumping out of the water and crying to be eaughtl He told me so. Why, the bishop himself would have gone fishing on such days." "1 xnust request, Dulcinea—" "Well, if he wouldn't, he would have been dying to go; it is all the same," said Miss trine, airily. "Come, you will go to the bishop —you. will do what you can for xis, won't you?" "What," nervously, "am I to say if I do go? Mind, I have not promised." "Say that Gerald is worthier of me than I am of Gerald. That will be a good beginning; be sure you say that. Make me out a inost perverse girl, of whom you can g,et no good—" "Dulcinea," said the doctor, with mournful reproach, "in all these years have I failed to show you the gracious- ness of truth?" "Oh, but what is the truth in compari- son with Gerald?" said Miss Vane, with an bnpatient gesture of the right hand. Quite overwhelmed by this last proof of the uselessness of his ministry, Dr. Ball maintained a crushed silence. "You will say just whav I have told you, won't you?" asked .Dulcinea, anxiously. "I shall say you have certain faults I would gludly see amended," said. the curate, sadly "but I can not bring my- self to malign you, Dulcinea, and of course the bishop, knowing you— though slightly—roust have forrued an opinion of his own about you." "He is such an old bore," said Miss Vane, irreverently, "that I don't believe he could form an opinion on any sub- ject." In which she wronged the,bishop. • "I must beg you won'tgrspeak of your bishop like that," said the curate, earnestly. "He has been of much service to the Church. He is a great and good man. Well," he continued, with a sigh, after a pause, "I will go to him and intercede for you. I shall write and ask him for an interview; but I doubt 15 good will come of it. And what shall I do there, iu a strange place, among strange faces, after all these years?" In truth, it seemed a terrible thing to him, this undertaking. He would. have to lettva his home, for the first time these San years, and go beyond his beloved boundary, and launch himself, as it were, upon the world.. But he wrote to the bishop, neverthe- less, asking for an interview, without stating the object he had in view, and received a very friendly letter from that dignitary in return, who, indeed, was a very kindly mao a fond, and most will- fully misunderstood by Duloinea. The bishop granted Dr. Ball the.desired in- terview with pleasure, and begged. he would come to the palace early in the ensuing week, not on business alone, but as a guest for a day or two. On the Monday tillowing Dr. Ball rose betimes, and, having shaved himself with extra care, and donned his hest clothes (oh, that he should have to call them so!) he started for the cathedral town in the heaviest snow storixt they had known that year. "First bell! Who would have thought it was so late?" said a tall, pretty girl. "How time does fly sometimes!" The doctor in a vague way had noticed that this last speaker had had a young man whispering to her for the last half • hour. Then, as if by magic, every one seemed to disappear. They melted away through the open doorway before his very eyes. Where were they going? To their rooms? The little doctor, who had been puzzled by his afternoon tea—an entirely new custom to him—now grew mulUly speculatire and somewhat be- wildered, Seeing the signs of hesitation that enshrauaed him, the bishop went up to him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. • "You will like to go too," he said, kindly, "after your long drive." There were no trains in those days to or from Inchinabagga. "Certainly, my lord," said Dr. Ball, mildly; "but where?" "Why, to your room," said the bishop. "Alt 1 to be sure," returned the doctor. Then he shook hands with the bishop rather to that good man's surprise, and. would probably have perforined the same ceremony with Mrs. Craik, but she had disappeared. The lamps were lighted everywhere, and a tall servant in powder handed him a silver candlestick at his bedroom door, to whicli haven he had conducted him. Inside, the bedroom fire was burning brilliantly, and the dootor, sinking into an arin-chair, gave himself up to thought. He meant to arrange his speech about Duloinett's engagement to be delivered to -morrow, but somehow his thoughts wandered. "Evidently they dine early"—they took this form at last—" evidently I suppose they thought I did too, but I depended on getting soxnething here. A mutton - chop, now, or even a little bit of cold mutton with my tea—it is a long drive, as he said himself." Not that it mat- tered, really. They bad all been kind, most kind; Mrs. Craik especially. Beau- tiful woman, Mrs. Oraik. He was a lit- tle, perhaps—well, a little hungry certainly, but a good night's rest is better than meat or drink; and he had often been hungry before when mile long day's tramp, and better be hungry and receive snob a kind reception as had been accorded him than—than— The fire was splendid, and the wax. candles burning here and there were full of sleepy suggestions. The doctor roused himself by an effort, and spread his hands over the • glorying coals, and en- joyed the glorious heat, and almost forgot the mutton -chop. When Ile had bobbed nearly into the Raines, and recovered himself many times it occurred to the little doctor that another and a final bob might land him in the cinders; so he pulled himself together heroically, and rose from his chair. He yawned gently. How quiet the house was! No doubt everyone was gone to bed. Had he not heard the bishop say they were gone to their rooms, and for what—after tea —except for repose? He was tired. He too, would go to bed. Then the good little gentleman knelt down and said his evening prayers. He prayed most sincerely for • the bishop in spite of that missing chop, and calmly, with a conscience devoid of offense, began to make preparations • for his couch. If he had any doubts about the earliness of the hour, he put it down to an episcopal rule that all should retire at an appointed time, and so found it good in his eyes. 'In his primitive mind (a mind that had never wandered from a strict belief in the customs of the earlier part of the century) a dinner at half -past seven was a thing unknown. If he had heard of any such absurdity, he had forgotten it. As I have told you, he as as dead to all innovations that had taken place since "Sailor Billy" was king, as the babe unborn; and yet it was the sixty-fifth year of the nineteereth century. Finally he kicked off his boots, and crept gladly into bed. It was a bed so comfortable that in two minutes he was sound asleep. He was indeed just enter- ing hito a beatific dream, where his poorest old widow had received provis- ions sufficient in quantity to last her for several years,when a sound rang tnrough the room'driving sleep affrighted from his lids. Where had he heard that sound before? The gong ! the gong! What! morning so soon! He sprung up in bed, and looked vaguely round him. As he did so, the door opened, and a young woman entered the room. "Eh?" said the doctor, staring hard at her. He felt he was at a disadvantage in his night-cap, and could not help wishing at the moment that the tassel would not dangle so insanely. He wished, too, that some more intellectual remark had risen to his lips, but the wish was productive of no good. The young woman stared at him in return with undisguised wonder, but from speech she refrained. "Eh?" said the doctor, again; then, remembering that she had • refused. to make reply to this , monosyllable before, he struggled with himself, and added some words to it. "What is this?" he said, confusedly. "What hour ig it? Does his lordship rise before dayllght?" He bobbed the tassel at her as he said this. A most confounding tassel! of abnormal stoutness and unparalleled length. The maid went down before it* She drew nearer to the door, and laid her grasp as a precautionary • measure upon the handle. "Lawks, sir," she said, "whatever are you lying abed for? Dinner will be served in two minits." • With that the darted into the corridor outside, and fled from the "mad gentle- man" to the safe regions below. "Dinner!" repeated the doctor to him - ,self, in a dazed. tone, and then, "Bless met" He had not even time to repent him of tills rash oath, as he called to mind the bare two minutes loft him; and, springing from his bed, he plunged into his clothes again. With all the haste he made, however, he did not succeed in being less than ten * • * en entering the episcopal drawing - room he found there not only the bishop and his wife, Mrs. Craik, • but a gooell,y company of guests. He was at first be- wildered by the lights, and the fine small chatter and the frou-frou of the silken gowns, and in hit progress Up the room fell over several chairs and tables. But presently he came to his senses and a comfortable ottoman • close • to his hostess—a handsome woman -with great kindly eyes and a delicious voice. He saw that she was pouring out tea, and that every one was drinking it. He saw, too, that there was a good deal of but his conscience pricked • him. In leaving the matter thus, was he net leading his host and bishop astray? His rounci, guileless face assumed even a deeper tinge of red, • he turned to the bishop again. "The fact is," he said, earnestly, "that when at home I dine early, and take my tea wheu—when you take yours. • Then, after a couple of hours' reading, I go to bed. Having no reading with me to -night, and feeling fatigued, I went to bed straight. I did not under- stand aboub the dinner, my lord. That is actually how it was. I beg,madam, turning to Mrs, Craik with the old. fashioned courtesy that all his rams of poverty and seclusion had not been able to steal from him, "you will try to for- give me for having had the misfortune to keep you waiting. The bishop had suddenly • found some fault, or some remarkable virtue, in his shoe -buckle. He bent obstinately over it. Only his wife, however could see by the shaking of his shoulders that he was convulsed with laughter. She launched at him a withering dart from her usually mild eye then pulled her satin skirts aside and beokoned to Dr. Ball to sit down beside her. • "You must not think you have kept us waiting for even one moment," she said with extreme sweetness. "I don't believe dinner is ready even yet; cook is so unpunctual!" Even as these words passed. her lips the footman announced. the meal in question in an aggrieved tone suggestive of many abusive words addressed to him by an irate cook. Nevertheless I feel sure Mrs, Craik's kindly fib was forgiven her in the highest courts of all. After dinner the bishop led Dr. Ball into the library, and, with a cheery "Now, let me know how I can help you," threw himself into a lounging - chair, and prepared to listen to some small parish trouble. Thus addressed, all the curate's wits at once deserted him. In a mean, paltry fashion, they fled, leaving him utterly stranded. He had meant to be more than ordinarily eloquent about Dulcinea's love affair; but now, brought face to face with the foe, he found himself barren of words. Yet speak he must; and so, boldly, curtly, terselyhe stated his mission, and expressed his hope of obtaining for Dulcinea permission to naarry the man of her heart. To say the bishop was astounded would be to say little. He was so amazed that he leaned. back in his chair and for some minutes was • incapable of an ,answer. Then he began a diatribe about fortune hunters, and his duty as a guard- ian, and Duloinea"s wealth, and her general impracticability. When he had got so far he paused, aud looked at the curate, as if for a further lead. But Mr. Ball was sorely in want of a lead him- self. Hewas, in fact, frightened out of his life. It seemed such presumption to sit there and argue with his bishop! What was he to say? Silence was im- possible with the bishop sitting there staring at him in expectant impatience; speech seemed oqually so. At last his lips unclosed, and seine words unbidden rose to them. "She is such a ,very good girl," he murmured, in a‘dull, heavy tone, hardly knowing what he said.. Could anything be tamer, more meaningless? He felt his cause was lost. "Yes, yes, no doubt," said his lordship, testily, somewhat put out he hardly knew why, by the curate's simple remark. "I have hardly had a good opportunity of sifting her character so far, as she has obstinately refused of late every invita- tion sent her by Mrs. Craik. But I am glad to hear you speak of her so favor- ably." Again he paused, and looked expect- antly at the doctor, who felt the blood mount surging to his brow. Oh, for the tongue of a Demoshtenes to sing his dear girl's praises! It was denied. him. His very brain seemed dry as his parched lips. Yet speak he must. "I never met so good a girl," he stam- mered again, in the same heavy, impres- sive tone, his shamed eyes on the ground. Good gracious! was he never to get beyond thSs lukewarm formula? "No doubt, no doubt,11 said. the bis- hop, with growing discomposure. "The fact that she is so admirable a girl as you describe her proves to me that there is all the more reason vvhy I should feel myself bound, as her guardian, to look after her interests and shield her from all barm—from fortune hunters especial- ly. And this Mr.—ah—Wygram seems to ntaen.'ing better than one of that ess Then he looked once more question- ingly at Dr. Ball, as though defying him to take up the cudgels here. It was a piercing look this time, and utterly wrecked the small remaining wits the poor little curate still possessed. He sunk deeper into his chair, and thought longingly �f the fate of Korah. "He is such a good young man," he said, at last, not feebly, as ono might imaaine, but with more than ordinary loudness, born of his distraction. Alas! alas! why did Dulcitea choose a broken reed like him to he her lover's advocate? Oh, where were the chosen, honeyed iwords he had rehearsed in secret for this fatal interview? He sat covered with self-reproach, a sight to be pitied. "Eh" 'saicl the • bishop, with a start, stirring uneasily • in his: chair. Soine- • thing in his companion's mild but ]ier- sistent praise seemed to rebuke him. Here was a:man who thbeght of nothing • but the grandeur of moral worth --Who looked upon position, wealth, social standing, as dross in coinparisonwith it. He the bishop of the diocese—who • should be an example to his flock— sitting here, datling altogether in -Worldly topics, such as the Worth of money, was brought to bay by a poor curate who was mildly but righteously insisting on • the worth of goodness. "You know him intimately, of course," said the bishop, after. a Short pause, alluding to Gerald Wygram. You can give me an honest sketeh of him as he appears to you. I ' have faith in your judgment; you have seen 1011011 of him, no doubt • .As guardian to Miss Vane, I am desirous of looking well into both sides of the • questiqn. Her happiness should be a nest conelderation, Now," leaning one elbow on the table and. look, 114,, fixedly at the devoted curate, "give 010 your exact opinion of this youeg 10011." A deadly silence followed. Now • or never, themifortenate, curate felt, was the moment in which to break into laudatory phrases about Dulten ea's lover. But none would come. He opened his lips; he tried to hums his thoughts. In Taill! • "I think. I lower met So • good a young mart," he said, in a tone so solemn it might have come from the dead, To the bishop the sound was earnest, . to Dr. Ball it meant despair. • • "Indeed!• indeed!" said the former, who was fond of' reiteration. He said it impatiently, and, got up and. began to pace; the floor. "It is a great responsibility," he said, striding slowly np and down the room; "He—this Mr. Wygram—has a bare subsistence, no prospects; and • she lias close upon five thousand pounds a year. Site ought to marry a title. Her father was bent ou it; he As gtOOLi as said so to nee just a month before his death. This, that you speak of, is not a thing to be lightly done. • But you give me such a high character of Mr. Wygram-,--you have bestowed, indeed, such unqualified praise on both him and Miss 'Vane—that you make »to hesitate about refusiug my censeut. • "I believe it would be hard. to find two Such good young people," he said, at last; and then he covered his face with his hand, and felt that now indeed it was all over, and that ne was on the verge of tears. There was a long silence, Then—"Well, well, well," said the -bishop, "I promise you to think it over. Worth, such as you have aseribed to this young num, should count 'before anything." It really did seem to the bishop that Dr. 13all had uttered unlimited words of commenda- tion about Gerald Wygram. "And he is of good. birth, undoubtedly? That is always something, even nowadays. Yes, 711 think it over. When you return home, Dr. Ball—which," courteously, "I hope will not be for some dine yet—tell Dulcinea from me that I shall come and, stay with lier at the hall very soon for a day or so, to talk all this over, and that I shall ask Mr. Wygram here to stuly P110 a little before giving my final decision. Tell her. too,"—with a kindly smile directed at the astonished curate— "that it was your hearty praise of Mr. "Wygram that induced me to look into a matter that I eon not still help consider- ing a little imprudent." "This will be good news for Dulcinea, my lord," said the curate, finding his voice at last when it was too late. But was it too late? "I hope it will continue to be good. news all her lifo," said the bishop with a sigh. Ho knew he would be glad to get rid of his guardian duties, and for that very reason was afraid to „get rid of them. "But now for another topic," he said, cheerfully, laying his hand on the curate's shoulder. "You know the rooter of Dreena is dead, tiud--" In fact be offered our little friend a rectory, with an income that quadrupled his present salary. But the doctor shrunk from him when he mentioned it. ' "Nay, my lord," he said; "give it to some better man." "I couldn't," said the bishop. "Give it to some better man," repeated the curate, earnestly. "I could not leave my present place, indeed. • They could not get ou without me; they are, for the most part, so old and so cross. I beg you will leave me there, with iny old men and women. They all know me, and I know them; and it is too late for Inc to begin the world afresh, with new faces and new interests," The bishop said nothing further then, but he took his arm and led him into the drawing -room, where presently he drew his wife aside and told her all about it. After which Mrs Craik made a great deal of the little doctor, and treated him delicately, as if he was of extreme value—as indeed he was. At the end of two days he went home, and told Dulcinea all the news, and she, on hearing it, took him round the ueok and kissed him tenderly. "I knew it," she said. "I felt it Something told me you were the one person in the world to win my case for me. Dearest,sweetest, loveliest Dr. Ball, how shall I thank you?" "My dear, if you only knew," faltered the doctor. "I do know. Don't you think., I can appreciate you after all these years? You are so clear, so convincing. You can conte so direct to the point. You can say so much that is good." "I can indeed," groaned the curate, desolated by dismal'. recollections. The little I did say was all `good!' " "I'm sure of it," gratefully. "Your fluency, you know, is your great point. How should I like to have heard you parrying successfully every one of that horrid old bishop's attacks upon my Gerald. But indeed it seems to me that I can hear you—muting through all his good qualities (and what a number he has in that nice, eloquent, self-possessed manner that belongs to you." "Dulcinea, hear me," said the curate, in desperation; and then and there he made his confession. But he failed to convince Dulcinea; she steadfastly ad- hered to her belif that his eloquence alone had won the bishop's consent. "And really he can't be such a very bad old man, lifter all," she said, "or he would not be capable of appreciating real worth such as yours; would he, Gerald?" For Mr. Wygram had stolen up to them in the twilight, and secured the doctor's • other arin.• Miss Vane looked upon his right one in the light of a fee -simple property. there ten times happier than that care. laden mortal And the morning brought him news. The old. man, his rector, hey dead, in an latliau town, and the bishop bad ap. pointed Dr. Ball as his successor. •"So you need not leave those happy old men and women who call you pastor," wrote the bishop, kindly, almost tenderly. • So it was as rector, not as curate, he made his dear girl Duloinea Wygram. LOVE OF A DAY. The library at Ardenvohr, the residence of the Stuart -Grahams, •' Mabel Stuart -Graham, only daughter, standing near the fireplace. Maxwell Leith, tutor to the house of Graham, • seated writing at a eenter table. Heads of the house dining out. Time, S:30 p.m. She (drumming impatiently on the mantel -piece and glancing in his dire!). tion)—You don't seem to care that this Is my last ' evening—that I am going away to-morrow—that I shan't be back at Ardenvoln; for months. He—It would be generally supposed that you are to be envied. • You are go- ing out into the world. You have life before you with all its possibilities. She (with an inflection of asperity in her voice)—I wish you would not speak so much like a copy book. What you say may be true enough, I have a box full of new clothes upstairs most girls would covet, and yet— yet —(flinging herself impatiently into a chair and glancing covertly at him)—I would a thousand. Mines rather be putting on my old serge gown aud be sitting down to Horace. He (still writing)—That feeling will wear off. You will enjoy the novelty of the new life. You will get fresh in- terests, You will be admired. She (pouting)—I don't want fresh in- terests. I don't eare—(significantly) for the adntiration of the multitude. (Silence, except for the scratching of his pen). She (rising and going to the table -near him) --What are you writing? He—Some Latin verse of your broth- er's, I am correcting it. She(watcihng him)—It seems fuller of mistakes than usual. (With a burst of irritation.) Can't you leave it to-nightf I don't suppose 'you care how miserable I am. I daresay (with a dry sob) you , will just ,,,go on when I am away as if nothing had happened—only with this difference that you, won't he bothered with thy mistakes. He (paling visibly and pushing away Iuis writing)—You are depressed to -night. Toonerrow things will look brighter. She (her eyes full. of 'reproach) --You are very unkind. (Her head goes clown on her hands on the table). He (agitated, rises and paces the room. Stops 11510! and lays his hand on her bowed head, speaks rather unsteadily)— Do you know how hard you make things for ine? Do you know I would willingly give tide right hand to save you un- happiness Sint (looking up with quivering lips) —Ie that all you have to say to me Ile (turning his head away)—It is all el.. I' dare say. There are things in this world you don't know about that come before inclination. She (desperately)—I don't understand about such things. I don't care about them. 1 only know that 1 am miserable. "It is the one redeeming pint in his character," said Mr. Wygram, promptly. "And another thing, Dulcie; nobody shall marry.us bat Dr. Ball. Eh?" "Nobody, indeed," firmly. "My dear girl, nonsense!" said the doctor. "Yon must have your rector, if not the bishop himself. .And—of course, by the bye, being your guardian, it will be the bishop. • I 0,111 a mere noobdy. It would ‘not do at all; and you, the most influeiNial—that is at least, the largest proprietor in the cetintry round,'" "Yon may call yourself a 'nobody' or any other bad name you like," said DuIcinea, earnestly, "but I can tell you this—no one but you shall ever make me Mrs. Gerald Wygram." "Nothing shall alter that decision; not even the archbishop," said Mr. Wygram, emphatically. . The doctor protested, but in his soul I think be was pleased, and went to bed Shat night as happy ae—I was going to say a king; but, indeed, I believe he went 1007,00opopeitatzataen rr Billiard room in Continental 1-Tote1l Robert Stuart -Graham, Maxwell Leith, tutor, occupants. , Robert Stuart -Graham (reading the Morning Post)—On niy soul, Mab has stoleu a march upon us, and no mistake! Maxwell Leith (testily, chalking a cue with a hand that shakes slightly)-- What 000 you talking aobut? Pray be more expli Robert Stuart-Graharn—Listen to this: (Heads aloud.) "A marriage has been arranged aud will take plate shortly be- tween Major the Hon. Haig Elinslie,1 younger, of Mount Elnaslie, Royal Scots! Fusilers, to Mabel, only daughter of 11(a,ert Stuart -Graham, of Ardenvoltr,1 -Argyllshire, N. B. " Good old Mab Marie all the running in her first season;' and it was only yesterday that she had her hair down her back and her frock& vp to her knees, (Throws down thel newspaper and lights a cigar.) (Wonder: what sort of a fellow he is? Hope he has a inoor awl keeps a yacht. I say, Leith, can you picture Mab in the capacity of lady of the manor? .1 Maxwell Leith (replaces cue in the 4tan1 and makes somewhat abruptly for; the door)—The sun's coming out, after' all. Much too fine a day to spend; cooped up indoors. I believe I shall go' forRi4setrrtStuart-Graham tuart-Graham (left alene, , yawys and throws himself on a seat and Picks up the fallen paper)—I don't know' what the fellow calls "fine." It's as black as thunder over there. He's as capricious as the weather itself. I wish he had known his mind before Higgins made up his golf foursome for this after- noon without me. Drawingroom in Mayfair, Maj. Ehinslie and -Mabel Stuart -Graham occupants.' He (holding her hand and toying with a diamond ring on the third linger of. She left hand)—And so you are leaving - me to -morrow and you have only this paltry little ring to remind you that you belong to me? • She (blushing and smiling)—I. hardly .g think I shall need it reminder. Arden, vohr is as uuexciting as a convent. You speak as ff I were going to be swallowed up in a succession of festivi- ties. ' He (jealously)—I am suspicious of these quiet retreats. They have a way of pro - &wing unattached men. if it be nothing ILION3 tJlan, a good-looking parson, or i tvriian arbitrary, self -Confident countr91 dootor. She (archly)—You need not agitate yourself. The parson' is near-sighted and has only one lung, and the dootor has a wife and six children. He (relieved)—And you have really, been wasting your sweetness on these owl •eppreeiative rustics up till now • What a deadly dull time of it you must have She (a shadeeculeasily by reason of cer- tain unwelcome' mental'‘iguniniseenees'') —Not exactly "deadly dull:" At least I did nob think- it so then: I dare say now I should find things and people that ainused me before rather—well--just a trifle vvan tin g in flavor. But—but (shyly) you will come down and relieve the monotony as soon as you can, 'won't He—Need :you, ask.?, The very first Moment duty, in the shape of CoL Senn- ders,makes it possible.' Meantinae I shall i • live only for the Pleasures of Hope.— Black and Whits.