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 Cr if pill Ken
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED BY SPGTT1SWOODE AND CO. 
 
 NEW-STREET SQUARE
 
 CRISPIN KEN 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "MIRIAM MAY" 
 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON 
 SAUNDERS, OTLEY, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 66 BROOK STREET, HANOVER SQUARE, W. 
 l86l 
 
 The right of Tranjlation is rcfcrvcd
 
 fX5 
 
 r 
 
 To the Right Ho?iorabJe 
 
 Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Bart., MP. 
 
 This is, by permiffion, gratefully Dedicated 
 
 By 
 
 The Author 
 
 *5 
 
 t 
 
 S
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Page 
 
 Chapter I. — How the Perpetual Curate of St. Hilda's 
 
 kept Christmas Eve ..... I 
 
 Chap. II. — How the Perpetual Curate of St. Hilda's 
 
 kept Christmas Day . . . . .25 
 
 Chap. III. — Reuben Ken — A Catastrophe "on 'Change " 5 1 
 
 Chap. IV '.—Edith of St. Mona ... 76 
 
 Chap. V. — Of the First Concession. — Of the Failing 
 
 Crumb . . . . . . .101 
 
 Chap. VI. — The Grave in the Sand . . .127 
 
 Chap. VII. — How the Perpetual Curate took a Chill 1 64 
 
 Chap. VIII. — How Reuben Ken made his last will . 206 
 
 Chap. IX. — A Funeral ...... 249 
 
 Chap. X. — The " Evangelicals." A Saturday Review 280
 
 Crispin Ken 
 
 G^D 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 How the Perpetual Curate of St. Hilda's 
 kept Christmas Eve. 
 
 THINK I could eat a bit of 
 something now, Jack ; I have 
 half a mind to try/' said the 
 perpetual curate of St. Hilda's, 
 in a thin uncertain voice, which might have 
 gathered up more strength had that " bit of 
 something" in its coming not been so long 
 about it. 
 
 " Jack is out, father ; he went to Mad 
 Meg's an hour or more ago." 
 
 " Ah ! Crispin, is that you," said the 
 vol. I. b curate ; 
 
 i
 
 2, Crispin Ken. 
 
 curate; " sit you down near me — nearer 
 me, where I can feel you ; for it's well to 
 me to have you by my side again; but in 
 waking up it strikes so chilly like ; we will 
 have some coal, and Crispin, I am glad we 
 are awhile alone, for mind you, I have a 
 thing or two to say to you ; and tell me/' 
 said the curate, looking eagerly into the 
 face of his son, " is it so long a time that 
 I have been sleeping here ? " 
 
 Crispin Ken drew near his father, and 
 seized the thin damp hand that was 
 stretched out to him. He, too, for days 
 and for weeks had had something to say, 
 but when he felt that hand, that hand so 
 heavy yet so thin, it was not in him just 
 then to begin at all, whatever he might 
 have to tell. 
 
 " Crispin, what ails you, boy, that your 
 hand is never still ? I say it's never still ; 
 likely enough though it's the cold ; a bit 
 of fire will stay that chill ; there's stick 
 and coal about." 
 
 Crispin Ken did not know how he 
 should meet this ; he would a great way 
 
 rather
 
 Crispin Ken. 3 
 
 rather not have met it at all ; but he could 
 see his father's searching eye upon him, 
 and he said, " there was, a week or more 
 back ; the coal is gone, and we owe for the 
 last, and there is no credit for us now." 
 
 " Well, well, Crispin, keep up your heart, 
 boy ; God will not see us over hungry ; 
 throw on a stick and strike a light ; and is 
 there a chance bit of anything about that I 
 could eat, think you ?" 
 
 " I would rather, father, that you did not 
 ask ; the last bit of wood was used to 
 warm your broth this morning, and we 
 have done without a candle end ever since 
 last week/' 
 
 " Never fear, boy," said the curate, who 
 had the more need to be holpened himself, 
 " things have got to their worst ; things 
 will mend; but it is very cold, and I think 
 I could bear my heaviest coat about me." 
 
 " Your coat, father — coat — which }" 
 said Crispin, staving off what seemingly 
 would have to come. 
 
 " Oh, I have only one, Crispin," said 
 
 the perpetual curate, forcing a smile, the 
 
 B 2 better
 
 4 Crispin Ken. 
 
 better to bear up his boy, " but it is not 
 what it used to be, it hangs up there/' 
 
 It had hung there for more years than 
 ten, but it hung up there no longer now. 
 
 Whilst the sick man slept, and yet 
 seemed so likely to sleep, for his waking 
 there must needs be fire and food. The 
 coat should have been by then a hostage 
 in the pawnbroker's hands, but it had not 
 been taken down till there was nothing 
 left besides. The perpetual curate of St. 
 Hilda's had asked in his waking up for a 
 bit of something he could eat ; he had 
 asked for coal, he had asked for light, and 
 now it was not for him to feel his ragged 
 coat was his. 
 
 " Crispin, you have something that you 
 want to tell ; God will strengthen me to 
 face it, but I cannot wait," said the wasting 
 man, in a whisper that showed no strength 
 had come ; " it must be now — now. The 
 worst, Crispin, if it is worse than what I 
 have faced, must be better than what He 
 has for a while chastened me to bear, and 
 that worst, Crispin, I must have you tell." 
 
 How
 
 Crispin Ken. 5 
 
 How could he so bidden speak — speak, 
 where the life was such a shadow that it 
 hardly seemed at all a living thing ? How 
 could he tell that where hunger had come 
 hunger would stay ? How could he tell 
 that as that coat had gone it might be 
 that no other coat would come ? and 
 harder than this there was that which 
 Crispin dreaded. The cold sweat broke 
 out, and stood upon him as he thought 
 that any of the season's many signs might 
 tell his father it was Christmas eve. The 
 doctor, who had only to order and not to 
 find, had said, " Give him to eat when he 
 awakes or likely he will die ; my drugs can- 
 not fill a belly that is pinched for food ; he 
 must not wander ; he must not think on 
 what has been. His mind will go back, 
 and where it so goes there it will stay :" and 
 Crispin Ken knew what this might mean. 
 
 By the little light that there was he could 
 see his father had relapsed into what was 
 his habitual fitful sleep. If anything, it 
 mattered little what, could yet be got 
 upon the coat, there might be to the 
 
 B ^ curate,
 
 6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 curate, yet, a waking from that sleep ; but 
 he knew better than he could bear to think, 
 how many levies there had been upon that 
 coat. He could nothing hope ; he dared 
 not fear. 
 
 " It is the last thing that I would come 
 to touch," said Crispin in a whisper to 
 himself, that he meant should justify what 
 he might do ; " but I must save him," and 
 as he spoke he crossed the room to where 
 the picture of his mother hung. 
 
 The memory of what was dead was very 
 fresh to him, and it is not well if to us 
 that memory is ever like at all to die. It 
 cannot, put it to what test you may, it 
 will not die. I have seen it come between 
 the heir with those wild oats in his hand, 
 and the kiss of hell, the wine cup and the 
 leg ; nor yet one grain of those oats there 
 shall take root or straw whilst the memory 
 of a mother lives. For every mother's 
 memory held fast, the circles of the damned 
 shall be the poorer. 
 
 That image was the last on which Cris- 
 pin would have laid his hand ; but it was a 
 
 print
 
 Crispin Ken. J 
 
 print of price, and many weeks of bread 
 were in that picture frame. He had taken 
 it from the wall, and by the little light of 
 the moon was feeling for his hat, when he 
 turned about to meet his father's eye. 
 
 " Crispin," said the curate, struggling to 
 raise himself in bed, " what may you be 
 doing with that picture ? I must see that 
 there." 
 
 " I am going to turn it into money, 
 to make it into bread ; the doctor says 
 you must be kept up. I am hungry 
 myself — it is not that, God knows — 
 but I cannot sit by here and see you 
 starve." 
 
 " I know you would do anything for me, 
 Crispin, — anything; you always would," 
 said the curate, holding out his thin arms, 
 i( and that makes me care a bit the less to 
 ask you this. Listen to me, Crispin, unless 
 I have your word, and have it now, that 
 whilst I live — no, no, that won't be long, 
 — that whilst you live, that picture never 
 shall be bartered for money or for bread, 
 never, but to save our honour, for the 
 
 B * nights
 
 8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 nights and days I yet may live, I will 
 never take my eyes from off it." 
 
 The son knelt down and spoke the 
 words, and the perpetual curate of St. 
 Hilda's restless breathing awhile was all 
 that might be heard. 
 
 " What's that, Crispin, I heard a hand 
 upon the door ? " 
 
 " It's nothing, father, nothing," said 
 Crispin, who did not quite mean this, 
 " only the wind which shakes the bar." 
 
 " There, boy, there, don't you hear it ? 
 there, again ? " and this time Crispin knew 
 that he must show his father was not 
 wrong. 
 
 " Oh, if you please, Mr. Crispin, it's only 
 summut for the ringers ; it's always been a 
 reg'lar thing on this ere eve for twenty 
 years." 
 
 The curate's son did not at all know 
 why he should be ashamed when the man, 
 who had only taken one answer for those 
 twenty years, should have gone empty 
 away. It might be it was not so regular 
 that a perpetual curate should want a " bit 
 
 of
 
 Crispin Ken. g 
 
 of something v he could eat on getting 
 round from a long chill, or a bit of fire, or 
 the coat that should have been his very 
 own ; but Crispin knew that things not 
 well to hear might very well be said by 
 those who once in twenty years had gone 
 without their shilling. 
 
 " Who was that, Crispin ? " said the 
 curate ; and this was asked with words that 
 hardly could be set aside. 
 
 This was what Crispin had dreaded that 
 his father should ask, so he was minded 
 that he would not tell him. 
 
 " It was no one," said Crispin, who was 
 awkward over any lie. 
 
 " What might no one have wanted at 
 my door ? " asked the curate searchingly. 
 " Look you, I know what he wanted," his 
 voice more hard and his manner wilder 
 than of late, " it was the ringer, Crispin, 
 the ringer that I always paid at Christmas 
 time ; why does he come now, — now, — 
 when it isn't Christmas time at all ? " 
 
 The doctor had said he could not answer 
 
 for it if the perpetual curate of St. Hilda's 
 
 B 5 came
 
 io Crispin Ken. 
 
 came to wander, and the perpetual curate 
 now so wandered that he thought that it 
 was spring ; but the bells rang out clear, 
 and the curate knew they never chimed 
 like that on any night in spring. 
 
 " Those bells are ringing, Crispin, as 
 they do on Christmas eve," and the curate 
 looked wistfully and terribly into his son's 
 face, and that son heard him say, " Is this 
 Christmas eve ? " 
 
 The curate did not ask this as he had, 
 since waking, asked anything before, — it 
 was a searching cry that would take no 
 answer but the truth. 
 
 " Father, this is Christmas eve ! " 
 
 "Christmas! — Christmas eve, boy ! then 
 I ought to be glad ; help me up, Crispin. 
 I must go and see your mother hang the 
 holly in the church ; where is she, boy ? It 
 seems that she has stayed away so long, — it 
 chilled her once : tell her not to stay." 
 
 " Where is she ?" and so the dying asked 
 where was the dead. 
 
 Crispin held his very breath as he 
 watched his father's face, so tortured by 
 
 the
 
 Crispin Ken. 1 1 
 
 the clinging memories of the past, as it 
 witnessed then that father's was. 
 
 " I have dreamed dreams, Crispin, of 
 Christmas eve, and of your mother, and of 
 her hanging up the holly in the church ; 
 and she kneeled, and doesn't she kneel 
 now, before the altar, as she did when we 
 were joined for ever ? But sit you down 
 boy, you are like her, and let me feel you — 
 you are left ; " and the crisis, till another 
 one should come, was past. 
 
 " I will get up, Crispin, I am stronger 
 than I was — it may be that I shall not keep 
 another Christmas eve." 
 
 " You forget the coat, father. Jack can't 
 be so long now; and if he have luck with 
 it he will bring back a bit of coal." 
 
 " I could eat a something, too, if it was 
 here," said the curate, looking quite as 
 though he could ; and then he continued, 
 " surely Jack is a while returning," as the 
 minutes, which to them seemed weary 
 hours, rolled on. 
 
 " He has gone out of his way a step or 
 two to Mad Meg's ; there's no one here- 
 
 E 6 abouts
 
 12, Crispin Ken, 
 
 abouts at all like Meg to get a price in 
 pawn," said Crispin, who, perhaps, was 
 beginning to show he feared that this last 
 journey of the coat might have been at a 
 discount. 
 
 " It ought to be good for something, 
 that coat," said the curate, with a show of 
 reliance in an old friend ; " of course, it 
 doesn't matter much, or perhaps anything 
 at all, but I suppose it hadn't got my 
 name. I shouldn't like people here- 
 abouts to talk for the sake of the church, 
 Crispin ; but where has Mona been these 
 m any hours ?" 
 
 " Mr. Lyle sent down about sunset to 
 say he should be very glad if some one 
 could come up as soon as might be to the 
 Hall ; and Jack had to go round to Mad 
 Meg's, and so Mona went to Mr. Lyle's, 
 not but what I think," continued Crispin, 
 " that this summons seemed to her — " 
 
 " Do you know," said the curate, looking 
 in the main well pleased at the suspicion, " I 
 am not so sorry Mona went ; and I often 
 fancy, Crispin, that I could see that happen 
 
 yet
 
 Crispin Ken. 13 
 
 yet before I die ; I think he likes the girl 
 right honestly." 
 
 It was not so hard to see what Reuben 
 Ken might mean. 
 
 " I have often fancied/' continued the 
 curate, half musingly, " that he took to the 
 girl from the first ; but what is that to 
 me }" he said, as though it was just every- 
 thing to him; " likely enough, what's best 
 will be." 
 
 " Not if she should ever come to be 
 the wife of Ruy Lyle, father," said Cris- 
 pin, almost setting his teeth against the 
 thought of such a bargain ; " and could she 
 keep her place in your heart if she showed 
 so false to Wycherley ? " 
 
 The curate gravely pondered his reply. 
 
 " Would you have her starve, boy ? 
 Hasn't she served her time at that already ?" 
 
 " Starve ! " said Crispin, " we well may 
 all do that; flesh of his flesh — God forbid." 
 
 " Crispin, since you first talked you were 
 ever bitter, ever seeing what you cared to 
 think was dark ; how has this man, Ruy 
 Lyle, drawn out your hate ? " 
 
 "I
 
 14 Crispin Ken. 
 
 " I do not hate him, father — I have no 
 cause. I have no cause to know that he 
 is either ill or well ; but I would not have 
 her love him." 
 
 " And how is she so much above the 
 love of a good man ? " 
 
 " A good man, father ? I would that I 
 could look upon his face and think it." 
 
 " Can you charge him with a crime to 
 justify this little liking ? " 
 
 " With none," said Crispin, bitterly. 
 "He goes softly ; he gives alms ; but did 
 you ever feel at ease in the presence of so 
 very good a man ? " 
 
 " Crispin," said the curate, with a touch 
 of sorrow in his words, " it is a heavy sin 
 in you to speak so ; there might be more 
 charity on your tongue, even if your heart 
 should grudge it ; with such suspicions 
 I have never served this cure. " 
 
 Crispin felt he might have something 
 answered this. " Would you have me 
 learn to lie ? " 
 
 " So I would not have you speak." 
 
 "Then you would that I lied the rather 
 
 to
 
 Crispin Ken. 15 
 
 to myself. No, father, the world may call 
 this surface-loving that you so commend, 
 and that it says it so believes in, charity. I 
 would never hurt a hair of that man's head. 
 So much may I hate ; but for all that, and 
 for a great deal more, I would not have her 
 his. So much do I like to hate ; if you 
 ask me why and gave me hours to find a 
 cause, perhaps I could not tell. If you 
 ask me why the man who holds so many 
 in a seeming spell keeps me away, I can- 
 not tell. This great good man, who does 
 his alms through a well salaried almoner, 
 and his charities by some liberal commis- 
 sion, he does not need my words to mark 
 his worth. Perhaps he is too good ; but I 
 do not think this Ruy Lyle would care 
 to tell aloud his past on the highway." 
 
 " In that you have ill said, Crispin, and 
 have liked to say it where you should have 
 said nothing, you have said too much. It 
 plagues me, Crispin, does the thought that 
 this bitterness which grows so full may be 
 your curse." 
 
 Crispin Ken had some reason to know 
 
 that
 
 1 6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 that his father would think him a very- 
 long way cursed if he said more ; so, whilst 
 he felt he could have answered a good 
 deal, he answered nothing ; and the curate, 
 who perhaps saw what the concession 
 meant, bethought himself to ask whether 
 Crispin would go a little way to seek for 
 Jack. 
 
 " There are footsteps, father, coming 
 now;" and in another minute Jack's hand 
 was on the door. 
 
 "You are late, Jack," said the curate 
 with all the impatience of aggravated hunger 
 in his words, and who searched about to see 
 what Jack had brought. " What kept 
 you?" 
 
 " Mad Meg was out, and she is worth 
 the waiting for ; for she is the one to get 
 the ticket I watched for her a good time, 
 but she didn't come." 
 
 " Have you got nothing, then?" said 
 Crispin, who, for his father, almost seemed 
 to fear the answer. 
 
 " Haven't I ? Is it for a fool that you 
 take me?" said Jack, beginning to un- 
 burden
 
 Crispin Ken. ly 
 
 burden himself, and casting off a good 
 deal of the little that was on him ; " but 
 they didn't like the coat so much, and had 
 a deal to say about the cloth/' 
 
 "It is their business/' said the curate; 
 " they must live." 
 
 Reuben Ken did not like this thing to 
 be said against his cloth over a pawn ticket ; 
 and it quite seemed by what he said, and 
 from how he said it, that he had learned in 
 no long while a little of Crispin's want of 
 charity. 
 
 " They said, too, they didn't know you 
 were quite so hard up ; but though it 
 wasn't worth three shillings they didn't 
 mind a crown. Meg couldn't have bet- 
 tered that," said Jack, triumphantly. 
 
 " They are dissenters," muttered the 
 curate, who felt that in saying this he had 
 spoken the only commentary the thing 
 would bear, " and they will keep my coat 
 to show in chapel. I have conceded every- 
 thing to them to come to this." 
 
 But a man who is so very near to starve, 
 when food is like again to touch his lips, 
 
 thinks
 
 1 8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 thinks all the less of means ; and as Jack 
 produced four of the longest candles they 
 had seen for weeks, and hinted that there 
 was a sack of coals in the shed, and showed 
 a pound and a half of beef cut from the 
 rump, and some potatoes, the curate came 
 to see his way to spend his Christmas eve. 
 
 Jack sat down, and shook off the mist 
 which was almost rain. 
 
 He was a cripple of perhaps fifteen years ; 
 but as with so many of the halt there was 
 about his face that chiseling which so often 
 is the birthright of the deformed. 
 
 "You didn't meet Mona, Jack?" said the 
 curate. " I would have her here amongst us 
 now," and Crispin looked into his father's 
 face, and his father looked in his. 
 
 " I shall preach to-morrow, Crispin, if I 
 live," said Reuben Ken as he sat up, and 
 saw the grilling meat, and felt the fire. " I 
 pray God that this gift of strength may last 
 me over Christmas day." 
 
 " You have got no coat, father, you for- 
 get," said Jack ; " but what's that? — there 
 it is again, — if ever I did hear anything, I 
 
 heard
 
 Crispin Ken. 19 
 
 heard Mona cry/' and whilst he spoke the 
 cripple struggled to the door. 
 
 "A light ! a light ! Mona's down/' said 
 the boy, as he took his sister in his arms. 
 
 "What's this place — where am I ? ,J 
 she tried to say, as after a little while she 
 opened her eyes and looked round her. 
 
 They had laid her on the bed, and she 
 sat up, and would have spoken, but as she 
 came to know the faces by her, the tears 
 welled over, and she buried her head on 
 Crispin's breast. 
 
 " Some one followed me from the bot- 
 tom of the lane, against the Hall, and kept 
 getting nearer and nearer," — and there was 
 more a good deal in these words than at 
 first might seem. 
 
 No one to harm had ever followed on 
 the steps of Mona Ken for eighteen years. 
 The very stocks would have been revived 
 by the one voice of St. Hilda's — not often 
 so unanimous — in favour of any one who 
 by night or day should have molested her, 
 and Jack sprung up as quickly as the 
 straightest when he heard the words. 
 
 "You
 
 2,o Crispin Ken. 
 
 " You, Mona, you — who — where ?" — 
 and the cripple ceased his hug around his 
 sister's neck, and had seized his hat and 
 crossed the door, when a woman stood 
 before him. 
 
 " Step aside, mother," said the boy, " I 
 have got work for this stick between here 
 and the Hall which won't bear waiting." 
 
 " Then you may put it up, Jack," said 
 the woman ; " it's work that will keep ; for 
 I take it you mean a mischief to some one, 
 and it was I who a bit since followed 
 Mona." 
 
 " You, mother ? " said the girl. 
 
 " You, Meg ?" said the curate and his 
 sons. 
 
 " You took a great liberty, then," con- 
 tinued Reuben Ken, " and it will be as 
 well you don't repeat it." 
 
 " Old friends may take them," said the 
 woman ; " and mustn't I be rough, girl, to 
 hold my title to Mad Meg ? But sure it 
 isn't worth so many words ; this is just how 
 it came about. I wanted to get to the Hall 
 before Mona left, but I was far away too 
 
 late,
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,1 
 
 late, so I took a short cut over the field to 
 the bottom of the lane, and when she 
 heard me coming through the hedge yon- 
 der, she was scared like, and set to run- 
 ning ; but Meg wanted a word with you, 
 Mona, and must have it yet, for the mat- 
 ter of that." 
 
 " It's all right, father," said Jack, who 
 was quite the chiefest friend of Mad Meg, 
 "she meant no harm." 
 
 " No, it isn't," said the woman, " and I 
 don't care who hears me say it ; and right 
 it won't be either if Mona's to go to the 
 Hall at the bidding of the like of Ruy 
 Lyle." 
 
 " Do you know of whom you speak ?" 
 said the curate, who began to think of all 
 the honours, parliamentary and philan- 
 thropic, which his neighbour bore. 
 
 " I ought to," said the woman with a 
 smile and an air which had gained for her 
 her name. 
 
 " He is quite the first man in the 
 county," said the curate. 
 
 " He prays a deal aloud, and knows a 
 
 good
 
 2,2, Crispin Ken, 
 
 good few people, and is known of a good 
 few, but I don't know so much about his 
 being first." 
 
 " Why, woman, you are living by his 
 generous hand." 
 
 " I live on his third day's leavings," said 
 Meg. " It's no business of mine, now, 
 what he is ; perhaps it may be, perhaps 
 not ; but Mona, you may not marry Ruy 
 Lyle ; that's just all I've got to say." 
 
 " Mother, I don't know what you 
 mean." 
 
 " Jack," said the curate, " you are too 
 familiar with this woman. Her madness 
 grows too much. I cannot," continued 
 the curate, addressing Meg, " hear you 
 speak so of our common friend." 
 
 But Meg went on the rather, for she 
 had come to speak, and would stay till she 
 had out all her say. 
 
 " And so you are to go up to the Hall to- 
 morrow ?" said Meg, searchingMona's eyes; 
 " and is it a dinner that John Wycherley 
 will get there, too ? " 
 
 " And do you forbid it?" said the curate, 
 
 who
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,3 
 
 who but very little liked the woman's 
 coming. 
 
 " Had I reckoned that my coming," said 
 Mad Meg, " would have made you bitter, 
 yet I should have come ; and isn't it the 
 time to speak before John Wycherley is put 
 aside ? Mona has given her love to him, 
 and that welcome to the Hall just means 
 — ' cast Wycherley away ! ' 
 
 " Woman, can't you see your words 
 may wound ?" 
 
 " I mean they should if there is a cause 
 Girl, girl, you know how Mad Meg loves 
 you !" 
 
 " It ill beseems you then to show it so," 
 said the curate. 
 
 " The world is most civil when it lies," 
 said Meg. " I did not ask for thanks 
 when I should say that Ruy Lyle loves 
 Mona." 
 
 61 He has not sought her," said the 
 curate, who meant by this that perhaps he 
 would not mind it if his neighbour had. 
 
 " That man need not speak to ask for 
 what he wants," said Meg ; and in those 
 
 words
 
 24 Crispin Ken. 
 
 words each one there saw the image of 
 the owner of the Hall. 
 
 " Times must have altered," said the 
 curate, " and altered for the worse, when 
 the maid should ask the man." 
 
 As he spoke Mad Meg had reached the 
 door, and lifting up her hand as she turned 
 to go, she said to Mona, " Girl — girl, you 
 may not marry Ruy Lyle !' ' 
 
 " Stay, stay," said the curate, " this is 
 Christmas eve," and each one helped to ask 
 Mad Meg to stay, for each one had a liking 
 for that strange mad woman; but when 
 Jack went out to seek her she was gone ; 
 and all seemed to think they heard those 
 words borne up again beneath that advent 
 sky, — " you may not marry Ruy Lyle ! " 
 
 CHAP.
 
 25 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 How the Perpetual Curate of St, Hilda's 
 kept Christmas Day, 
 
 r r was not in any way that the 
 \\ &k perpetual curate of St. Hilda's 
 " cut his coat other than quite 
 according to his cloth," but that 
 the perpetual curacy did not make provision 
 for its perpetual curate wearing any coat 
 at all. 
 
 Reuben Ken had, under no very genial 
 circumstances, been parted from his coat 
 for the very inconsiderable consideration of 
 " a crown," when things had gone so hard 
 with him ; but if he was to preach to his 
 people on Christmas day, it was a settled 
 vol. i. c persuasion
 
 2,6 Crisp hi Ken. 
 
 persuasion on his mind that it would beseem 
 his office best, to wear a coat. 
 
 " I shall preach to-day/' said the curate — 
 who had not slept away his purpose, if he 
 could get anything to cover him — when 
 they met the next morning over such a 
 meal as was left from the last night's 
 supper. 
 
 " You had better not/' said Crispin ; " it 
 is about the least wise thing that you can 
 do ;" and they all added something that 
 they hoped might so affect the curate's 
 purpose. 
 
 " It is not wise, I know that ; but 
 something seems to tell me — something," 
 said the curate, earnestly, " which I can 
 hardly disregard, — that I may not speak to 
 them again on any Christmas day." 
 
 " Father, you don't eat," said the crip- 
 ple, sidling up with his own meat to tempt 
 his father. 
 
 Reuben laid his wasting hand upon the 
 cripple's head, and bade the boy take heart. 
 
 " I can't eat my own coat," said the 
 curate, smiling ; " it doesn't eat with a 
 
 relish,
 
 Crispin Ken, 2,J 
 
 relish, Jack. I wonder if he'd let me 
 have it back to-day without the money ? " 
 
 " I take it he would not/' said Crispin ; 
 " he is too excellent a man of business. I 
 think he would a great deal rather keep 
 his pledge ; though it well might be that 
 a preaching pawnbroker may hope to be 
 saved by his faith, he doesn't mean to 
 trust the church.' 1 
 
 " I hope he won't be leaving my coat 
 about the shop," said the curate, appre- 
 hensively ; " there would be no end to 
 what might come of it. Don't you think 
 he would let me have it for a couple of 
 hours? Is he still so hard a man ?" 
 
 The curate had eaten his own coat, and 
 wanted yet again to eat it. 
 
 " I know he was glad enough to get it," 
 said Crispin, " and I think he will be glad 
 enough to keep it." 
 
 " He said a great many sermons might 
 be preached about it," answered Jack, 
 " and he thought he might say some- 
 thing that would tell." 
 
 " Did he, though ?" moaned the curate, 
 c * who
 
 ^8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 who saw the peril. " I shouldn't wonder if 
 he preached about it to-day. Wouldn't 
 any one else have lent the money, Jack ?" 
 
 " The coat has got to be known, father ; 
 you see it isn't as fresh as it was ; but he 
 didn't mind giving a fancy price because 
 he wanted it. He had a deal to talk 
 about ; and wondered if the apostles were 
 any better off than Curates." 
 
 " He attacks my authority through my 
 coat," groaned Mr. Ken; "and what did 
 you say, Jack ? I hope you rebuked his 
 irreverence; he always had a hasty tongue." 
 
 " I asked him," answered Jack, smiling, 
 " whether the extortioners in all ages were 
 any worse off than the pawnbrokers in 
 this." 
 
 "And what did he say to that, Jack ?" 
 laughed the curate. 
 
 " He took it very gravely, and said that 
 depended a good deal on whether com- 
 petition was brisk for the pledges at the 
 periodical sales. I asked him whether it 
 wouldn't do if I brought him the coat to- 
 morrow ; but he said he wasn't going to be
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,9 
 
 a different kind of man on Christmas day. 
 He had heard preachers of his own way of 
 thinking say, that if an angel was to come 
 down from heaven and want wrapping up, 
 that they shouldn't get anything warm 
 about them till they came down with the 
 money ; that there was so much charity 
 nowadays, people couldn't be too cautious. 
 It w T as all very well for the shepherds to 
 leave their sheep and take to a star ; if 
 people left their cattle about now they 
 were put in the pound, and quite right too. 
 He liked faith as well as any man, but it 
 wasn't trade to do without security. If 
 you will go to church, father, I think I can 
 manage to get you there." 
 
 " I am likely enough to get a chill, but 
 I shall go, God willing," said the curate. 
 " Perhaps that dissenter, to whom I taught 
 forbearance, thinks he can keep me away, 
 and that he will get my people to his 
 chapel because he has got my coat : but 
 perhaps I am hard upon the man." 
 
 The morning was wearing on, and there 
 
 was yet not a little to do. Jack had been 
 
 c 3 some
 
 30 Crispin Ken. 
 
 some time gone out, as it transpired later, 
 to seek the friendly services of Mad Meg ; 
 and just after ten a servant from the Hall, 
 a good deal decorated, came with a letter 
 and a hamper, which he had, seemingly, 
 not brought along to their delivery without 
 a series of protests. 
 
 " I am to wait for an answer, please 
 Miss," said the menial, as Mona opened 
 the door. 
 
 " Sit you down," said the curate, and 
 the man looked about as though it could 
 never be that he was to be seated in the 
 midst of a family, and wondered what sort 
 of people they could be who invited him 
 to sit amongst them. 
 
 The hamper quite betrayed the season : 
 there was a sirloin, and a turkey-cock, and 
 a ham, and a letter from the Hall. Mr. 
 Lyle presented his compliments to the 
 Rev. Reuben Ken, and hoped it would be 
 agreeable for all at the curacy to give him 
 the pleasure of their company at dinner, at 
 six o'clock, that Christmas day. The sir- 
 loin, and the turkey-cock, and the ham 
 
 Mr.
 
 Crispin Ken. 31 
 
 Mr. Lyle quite thought he might send to 
 a perpetual curate with three children, 
 and sixty pounds a year, without any more 
 particular introduction. 
 
 " Mr. Lyle is very kind," said Crispin — 
 who had some time seen what the hamper 
 meant — addressing the servant; " and you 
 will give him our compliments, but " 
 
 " I think I should write a note," said 
 Mona, blushing beyond what a note of 
 thanks seemed to call for or explain. 
 
 " Do Mona, do," said the curate, who 
 would have been more years in taking the 
 measure of a neighbour than Crispin would 
 have been minutes, " and tell Mr. Lyle, 
 with my hearty thanks for his consideration, 
 that it will give your brother and yourself 
 much pleasure to dine at the Hall to-day. 
 I have almost a mind to go myself." 
 
 " Father," said Crispin, who was not 
 unaccustomed to see the curate carried 
 away by a very little, " I do not think this 
 wise, and neither is it just to Wycherley." 
 
 "What's that you are saying about me?" 
 said John Wycherley, who was seemingly 
 
 c + not
 
 32 Crisp hi Ken. 
 
 not anticipating any very great injustice, 
 getting to a chair by Mona's side ; "but 
 it's well that there's such cheer, for I mean 
 to stay and dine." 
 
 John Wycherley's face fell a good deal 
 when he heard from Mona's lips how mat- 
 ters stood ; " but I shall not go now, John," 
 said she, and the perpetual curate of St. 
 Hilda's the less was comforted, as Crispin 
 Ken thought, with too little caution. 
 
 " I would rather that you did, Mona," 
 said her father, " we must not affront so 
 good a friend." 
 
 " Never mind me, Mona," said Wych- 
 erley, who was struggling against showing 
 how much he minded it ; " I will dine with 
 Jack and your father. Mr. Ken is right." 
 
 "That's just like you, John," said Crispin. 
 " You wouldn't think it was right if you 
 knew all ; there, you are saying one thing 
 because you want to think it is for the best, 
 and can't believe it, whilst you are meaning 
 another ; you may mean to stay and dine, 
 but you don't mean to stay and like it." 
 
 " I go to please my father," said Mona 
 
 to
 
 Crispin Ken. 33 
 
 to the curate of St. Hilda's the less, and 
 would a great deal rather dine with you, 
 John," — and Wycherley's face grew bright 
 as he saw the smile on Mona's face ; and 
 when Jack returned he found all well 
 pleased with the prospects of the day, all, 
 perhaps it should be said, but Crispin, in 
 whom had some time grown that very little 
 tolerated habit of saying what he thought. 
 
 " It's all right," said Jack, " Mad Meg's 
 done it ;" and so it seemed, for drawn up 
 at the door was an old wheel-chair, in 
 which, tradition had it, that a former pro- 
 prietor of the Hall had died with some 
 suddenness one forenoon about a quarter 
 of a century before, and Jack, after leading 
 anticipation to a fitting pitch, produced 
 from it a brown coat, which, he said, the 
 pawnbroker let Meg have for half a crown. 
 
 The perpetual curate of St. Hilda's the 
 great looked aghast, as well he might, 
 when his youngest son held up that coat. 
 There was no better known coat in the 
 county. It had been advertised on the 
 backs of a succession of schismatics ; it had 
 
 c 5 belonged
 
 34 Crispin Ken. 
 
 belonged to a non-conforming divine, a 
 sectarian leader, who liked as little as might 
 be the sect to which the pawnbroker be- 
 longed; so when that leader got into a strait, 
 and when the coat came to be pawned, the 
 pawnbroker felt there could be no room 
 more for his revenge. 
 
 " He thought it might fit you, father," 
 said Jack, " but he says you must be quiet 
 in it. 
 
 " Does he think I should knock about 
 in it as he would ? " groaned Reuben Ken. 
 
 It only wanted ten minutes to church 
 time ; but no sensitive churchman could 
 have suffered so much to be put upon him, 
 in the putting on of such a coat without 
 resisting. 
 
 As the minutes moved on there was 
 nothing at all for him to do but hang it 
 about him. So the curate with a groan 
 suffered himself to be bound up in the cast- 
 off coat of schism. 
 
 "I don't think it's aired," said the curate, 
 who shuddered w T hen he thought of what 
 his outward seeming was, — and the trials of 
 
 the
 
 Crispin Ken, 35 
 
 the Rev. Reuben Ken in no way abated, 
 but they rather grew, as each new matter 
 for his discomforting arose, and there seemed 
 no chance of their avoidance* To get by 
 the beadle, — to keep out the clerk, — but 
 circumstances favoured the perpetual curate, 
 and no man questioned him about his coat. 
 
 It had somehow so got about that Reuben 
 Ken would preach, that the little church 
 was full. 
 
 The perpetual curate of St. Hilda's the 
 great, in the three-and- twenty years that 
 he had been there, had drawn many to him 
 who at one time had not been very strongly 
 moved to be drawn to any preacher, and 
 perhaps the distribution of what he had to 
 say over no more than twenty minutes, 
 had something very materially to do with 
 the hesitating allegiance of all sorts towards 
 him. Of late such curates as could be 
 found had come there to take such liberties, 
 as curates often will, and very many had 
 been the experiments hazarded by all sorts 
 and conditions of preachers. 
 
 Now, Reuben Ken, on whose want of 
 c 6 firmness,
 
 36 Crispin Ken. 
 
 firmness, and on whose want of method 
 the dissenters had builded much of their 
 success, hazarded nothing on this wise at 
 all. He said " some people had more to 
 drink, and more to eat, and more to wear, 
 and more to make them glad than others 
 at those Christmas times ; but," he said, 
 u those who had most now would not for 
 ever and for ever have everything in a great 
 way just as they had it then." Reuben 
 Ken said this thing in a hard voice, for he 
 saw the pawnbroker, who he felt had come 
 to see him in that coat. But all he said 
 till he stopped, though well to write upon 
 most hearts, would not read so well upon 
 this page. He very simply told them what 
 the season meant. It was not a popular 
 discourse at all. He told them of all that 
 they might enjoy and yet live, and of all 
 they might indulge in and yet die. He 
 said " that he had not escaped that year, 
 but that God had taken him out of the 
 shadows, and as they saw had made him 
 glad that Christmas. He did not feel that 
 he should preach to them again. They 
 
 could
 
 Crispin Ken. %j 
 
 could see,' he said, " how hard it was for 
 him to fetch his breath, but it would be 
 harder to fetch soon. He had preached 
 to them there on one-and-twenty Christ- 
 mas days. He was going to ask them to 
 take away with them such things as he 
 should have strength to say to them on the 
 morning of the last. He would thank 
 God, and they would thank God with him, 
 for what Christendom celebrated on that 
 day ; and they should none of them think 
 that they were a whit the less likely or less 
 favoured than their neighbours, whose coats 
 might have about them more of the fashion 
 of the season, and on whose plates might 
 be more of the season's gifts," — and so he 
 urged them, " Let your living and your 
 lives connect you with a Christmas beyond 
 change." 
 
 There was nothing very new in this : 
 there was nothing new at all. It has been 
 said before from many of such places, and 
 on many of such days. With an easier air 
 it will be said again. But those who heard 
 those words spoken in that church took 
 
 them
 
 38 Crispin Ken. 
 
 them to their homes amongst the hills. 
 The pawnbroker even, who had come to 
 see how the curate acted in the coat, took 
 a bit ; and they had the meaning and the 
 seeming of what would be last words ; and 
 whether that kindly hollow voice should 
 speak again, there was a lingering, loving 
 sound that would speak when it was still. 
 
 What little, Reuben Ken had said, he 
 had fought against the want of breath to 
 say ; and now he leaned over the pulpit 
 side and gasped a little, and it was seen 
 that he was taking his last leave. 
 
 " I should tell you a lie, in this place, if 
 I said that w T hen I go from here I would 
 the rather die ; but I shall die soon. I 
 want to meet you, every one, by and by 
 up there ; I want you to meet me there. 
 Ask Him to give me, to give you, when it 
 shall be His will, an undivided Christmas 
 tide in heaven." 
 
 There was quite as great a gathering, — 
 after the people had eaten their " last sup- 
 per," with their pastor, — in the vestry as its 
 resources well could hold. 
 
 Even
 
 Crispin Ken. 39 
 
 Even a sick man, on a Christmas day, 
 must smile and look pleasant over his share 
 of what, as the phrase has it, are the 
 " compliments of the season/' 
 
 Now these compliments of the season, 
 in the most solid and the least transparent 
 circles, very often convey, in a measure, 
 more than they mean. But divers of these 
 neat-nothings wxre laid out on the per- 
 petual curate, till that good and reverend 
 man thought he should have audience of 
 these talking folks for ever ; he fancied 
 what was wished so well to him was real, 
 and perhaps it was, leastway, as much as 
 may be. 
 
 There was Mr. Lyle, and a little way 
 behind him, struggling to be seen, was 
 Miss Strake — Miss Aurelia Strake — the 
 maiden aunt of Mr. Lyle ; and hitched up 
 in a corner, away by himself, was the 
 pawnbroker who preached. 
 
 Reuben Ken did not at all know what 
 this should mean, and thought the very 
 seasonmight have softened down that man. 
 
 There was hardly ever any presence that 
 
 could
 
 40 Crispin Ken. 
 
 could rival that of Ruy Lyle. You could 
 never forget his eye ; but you could 
 never exactly remember to have seen it 
 look you in the face. It drew you near 
 but yet against your will. When it had 
 been yours to feel what was the searching 
 fascination of his look, of his voice, of 
 his smile, somehow you would not reckon 
 the time tedious till you felt it again. 
 You would wonder why he could keep 
 his way and never seem to feel that any- 
 thing went hard* He was very pale, and 
 yet it did not seem he wanted colour ; 
 he went softly, and yet it did not seem he 
 wanted strength ; you would have given 
 a great deal to have asked him to look you 
 in the face, and yet, perhaps, you rather 
 grasped at his reserve. He was not passion- 
 less, and yet you never saw him set aside 
 that smile. Nothing seemed too much 
 for him to have with equanimity ; nothing 
 seemed too much for him to go without 
 with equal equanimity. That silvered hair, 
 silvered on no more than forty years, and 
 that silver beard, and that oval face were 
 
 not
 
 Crispin Ken. 41 
 
 not the hair, or the beard, or the face 
 of a man who had just come to his prime. 
 You may have seen some such a face 
 accredited, in a missal, to an elderly saint, 
 or figured out on a cartoon. You would 
 never have felt more at ease in your life 
 than at his table, whilst you would never 
 remember to have felt more powerless to 
 take his depth. 
 
 Ruy Lyle was member for the county 
 on "Liberal" principles; and no man 
 could leave him " across country ;" if he 
 was not always at the front, it was felt 
 that even he might well be tired of always 
 excelling. No one who ever witnessed 
 what was not a lie, could say that his alms 
 were not a younger son's inheritance ; there 
 had been a great many theological parties 
 started in that cure, but Ruy Lyle became 
 at once a centre ; it was felt that only 
 what he liked could live. No one ever 
 realised that high churchmanship was con- 
 demned, because he made low church- 
 manship possible alone. Ruy Lyle had 
 come there and had settled down a mystery ; 
 
 and
 
 42 Crispin Ken. 
 
 and if you had been minded to taste and 
 to explain him, you would have felt what 
 others felt, and passed the riddle on. 
 
 Mr. Lyle that Christmas morning 
 took the curate's hand, as Reuben Ken, 
 surprised with such congratulations, had 
 hurried off his coat, and Mr. Lyle said, 
 " my dear Mr. Ken, to hear you preach 
 was such an unexpected pleasure — we shall 
 see you at dinner by and by — and you, 
 Mr. Wycherley — no ceremony ; w T e shall 
 be quite alone/' 
 
 The only one Mr. Lyle could be said 
 to have asked with his eyes — but no one 
 could avouch they saw them raised — was 
 Mona. His eyes did not meet her's, but 
 she felt that he had asked her only. 
 
 " Crispin and Mona will realise your 
 hospitality, my good friend," said Reuben 
 Ken ; " but Jack and Mr. Wycherley will 
 stay and keep me company." 
 
 Mr. Lyle bowed, so that it was hard to 
 say — hard as it always was — whether he 
 was well pleased or whether he took the 
 refusal roughly. No one could account 
 
 for
 
 Crispin Ken, 43 
 
 for what he meant or said, though some 
 told how that he had sharp pains near his 
 heart, and so was strange. 
 
 Miss Strake, who looked crisper than the 
 weather by more than a degree, repeated, 
 as though extemporaneously, what it was 
 fitting and regular for a gentlewoman man- 
 aging a large establishment, to repeat on 
 Christmas day; and she said, "she hoped 
 Mr. Ken would have a merry Christmas, 
 and many of them. " 
 
 Now, Miss Aurelia Strake, when she so 
 spoke that pleasant thing, had quite the 
 means of knowing that Mr. Ken had one 
 lung and no coat. 
 
 " My dear lady, I shall hope it may be 
 a merry one," said the curate, as well as 
 the one lung would let him, " for I have 
 some time felt that it would be my last." 
 
 " That it certainly will," said the maiden 
 aunt, ominously — with that sort of over- 
 done pantomime which should have passed 
 for a reproof, and holding up, what some 
 consumptive man with expectations some 
 five-and-twenty years before had called her 
 
 little
 
 44 Crispin Ken. 
 
 little hand, — " and that you will bring 
 upon yourself, Mr. Ken, if you stand in 
 the cold without your coat." 
 
 " My dear lady, your interest is very 
 grateful, you are very kind, but " 
 
 " Oh ! do let me assist you, Mr. Ken. 
 I can't let you do it, — it will make you 
 cough ; after your sad illness, Mr. Ken, 
 your people will not let you risk your pre- 
 cious life. We young folks can do any- 
 thing ; you should never be without your 
 coat this weather." 
 
 Miss Strake, this may be the proper 
 place to say, had heard of the coat's 
 vicissitudes and change of pla .e and cir- 
 cumstances, and thought this little em- 
 barrassment would not clash very materially 
 with the compliments of the season. 
 
 " My dear lady, indeed I cannot let you 
 wait any longer. There has been a little 
 mistake. I seem to — have come — to — to 
 — church in — in a coat that was strange 
 to me. I— I " 
 
 " Your coat is come, sir," said the pawn- 
 broker, reappearing at a crisis not to the 
 
 liking
 
 Crispin Ken, 45 
 
 liking of Miss Strake, and as he left the 
 coat upon the curate's arm, Reuben seemed 
 to feel the pressure of that erratic trades- 
 man's hands. 
 
 " It's all right/' said the pawnbroker, 
 leading Mr. Ken aside, " there's nothing 
 to pay ; but I couldn't bear to hear you 
 talk like that of dying, and think you hadn't 
 got a coat ; I havn't done you any good 
 I know for two-and-twenty years ; but 
 there's an end of that now, Mr. Ken. It 
 isn't too late for me to say it, is it ? You 
 ain't going to die ; if you'd been a bit 
 more firm that Sunday about the singing 
 and the surplice, I shouldn't have been the 
 ' light ' I've been at Meeting, — but don't 
 you talk of dying now." 
 
 The curate who in those minutes lived 
 those two-and-twenty years again, tried 
 very hard indeed to stop him ; but the pawn- 
 broker had more in his heart than he could 
 stifle, and the glad curate brushed away the 
 dew of joy. 
 
 Reuben Ken pressed Mr. Lyle as much 
 as it was well to press such a neighbour to 
 
 stay
 
 46 Crispin Ken. 
 
 stay and have some lunch ; but Mr. Lyle 
 had all the tact to stay away, and at six 
 o'clock Crispin and his sister sat down to 
 dinner at the Hall. 
 
 There was no one asked to meet them. 
 Miss Strake, who was dressed like a young 
 girl, presided, and looked quite her best — 
 and Miss Strake did not throw away her 
 best on all. The dinner was served on 
 silver gilt, and there were two servants in 
 livery about the table, and one who was 
 not seen, outside the door. This was per- 
 haps more than enough, but of what was 
 set before them there was more than enough 
 too. The best that Ruy Lyle could offer 
 was quite the best the county could provide, 
 with London to complete the competition. 
 
 Mona, who had never dined at the Hall 
 before in Mr. Lyle's time, thought that of 
 the courses there would never be an end; 
 and the splendour of the room, and the 
 presence of her host, seemed like a spell, as 
 very w T ell it might, about her. He poured 
 out all the power of his conversation, and 
 Mona felt, as she sat there with that mag- 
 nificence
 
 Crispin Ken. 47 
 
 nificence about her in a stuff gown, rather 
 ;i skimpy/' that it was like nothing she had 
 ever heard or seen before — it perhaps rather 
 awed her— it held her in a chain of wonder; 
 and yet when afterwards his words rose up 
 again she could not think of anything that 
 did not please her. He asked her to take 
 wine with him, but he did not raise his 
 eyes ; and Miss Strake, who had been at 
 intervals drawing Crispin out, and had 
 talked of " Mamma/' and had told him that 
 it'would be so nice if she could only walk 
 about and see the country, but that 
 "Mamma" did not think well of young 
 people walking about alone, said, " by the 
 by, do you know I was afraid Mr. Ken 
 might have lost a coat ; for I had heard 
 that one of his had been seen at the pawn- 
 broker's ; of course the rumour never went 
 beyond me ? " 
 
 Mr. Lyle saw that this gave pain, and 
 changed the subject, without any one seeing 
 how it had been changed ; and some time 
 after tea, as Mona had said how much she 
 should like to see every thing that Mr. 
 
 Lyle
 
 k 
 
 48 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Lyle had introduced into the Hall, the host 
 ordered up a hand lamp, and offered to 
 show her through the palace he had reared. 
 Mona had read about fairyland, and the 
 regular allowance of enchanted castles, but 
 in this fashion she had never read that 
 things so beautiful could be. 
 
 She seemed to walk, as they passed from 
 chamber to chamber, on acres of velvet 
 pile; and Mona marvelled, as much as might 
 be, where this magnificence would end. 
 
 Ruy Lyle, too, in such a scene seemcu 
 well to form a part of it. He looked like 
 one of the pictures Mona remembered to 
 have copied once out of the "Acts of the 
 Apostles." 
 
 " You are tired, Miss Ken, and you have 
 as much more to see." 
 
 They were alone ; Miss Strake was in 
 the long drawing-room talking about her 
 schoolfellows, and other young subjects. 
 
 Mona sat down, and as she drank in all 
 she saw she would have liked to have en- 
 joyed it her own way. Her stuff dress she 
 fancied grated on the damask silk. 
 
 "Do
 
 Crispin Ke?i. 49 
 
 " Do you approve the alterations, Miss 
 Ken ? " asked Ruy Lyle, in a tone which 
 seemed to say, if you don't they only remain 
 until something more successful to succeed 
 them can be organised. 
 
 Mona did not see that the enchanter 
 himself had sat down on the amber silk 
 beside her. 
 
 " It is a palace for a king," she said, 
 musing in her innocence, and looking up 
 and down the sumptuous vista. 
 
 " And of which could you be queen ? " 
 asked Ruy Lyle, on his knees, at her feet. 
 
 " If you please, Miss Mona, Mr. Ken 
 isn't so well ; taken a chill he thinks this 
 morning ; and I thought it likely you might 
 wish to know," and none other than Mad 
 Meg stood before them. 
 
 Mona started, not more perhaps at the 
 woman's sudden coming than at what Ruy 
 Lyle had asked her. What did that ques- 
 tion mean ? But Mad Meg was at some 
 pains that there should be, at least that 
 night, no explanation. 
 
 Mona Ken no longer remembered what 
 vol. 1. d Ruy
 
 go Crispin Ken. 
 
 Ruy Lyle had asked her when she reached 
 her home that night. She could face John 
 Wycherley with as little guile, as she so 
 guileless, ever had. Her smile was the same 
 — as bright, as soft. Her father searched 
 her eyes, but saw no change. What she 
 felt for Lyle, and whatever she might come 
 to feel, had nothing in it of the love she 
 felt for Wycherley. 
 
 And did it last ? Might he who had not 
 always that which he could wear, be set in 
 the balance with the owner of those velvet 
 acres ? Might he who could only say, " be 
 my wife, be one with nothing," ask, and 
 before him have, who could say " be my 
 queen ? " Did the leaven of that invitation 
 work, which said so softly, "reign with 
 me?" 
 
 Where the charitable have swollen into 
 the biggest crowds, there shall she be ad- 
 judged false before they turn this page. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 5 1 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 Reuben Ken — A Catastrophe " on' Change" 
 
 LOOD is as material to begin 
 a chapter as to found a race. 
 There is, and always has been, 
 quite as little liking as may be, to 
 the creation of fiction of doubtful blood. 
 The long pedigree goes a great way to get 
 rid of the prejudices against a short purse. 
 It were better that the parvenu never came 
 to the birth, than that by accident he 
 should at some time bleed. The curse 
 in his veins should course unseen. It is 
 not well to think too little of this blood just 
 now. A good deal of it abroad is no more 
 royal than is any of the ornamental water 
 in the parks, and about as little clean. A 
 great yield of corruption taints them both. 
 
 This 
 
 LJBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF HUM™*
 
 52 Crispin Ken. 
 
 This blood, it cannot be confounded when 
 you get it clean ; but something else than 
 pedigrees are wanted in an age of penny 
 fares. Blood serves England still ; the sub- 
 stitute more likely serves itself. All blood 
 has not its heroes, nor have all heroes blood. 
 When the pride of blood first mounted to 
 a price, it something did beseem the blood- 
 less, to hang about his skin what men of 
 blood should wear. What specialities 
 remain for blood, when nearly all the 
 world has found equality in sixteen-shilling 
 trousers ? 
 
 Reuben Ken, so far as blood was his, 
 was not ill-found. His mother, who had 
 been an heiress, and bargained away — , sick- 
 ening of the bargain — had died young, 
 seeming not to care at all to live. 
 
 Richard Ken, for whom she had been 
 set aside over a stoup of wine by her father, 
 before she was well weaned, objected 
 nothing. It was likely, then, that she was 
 set on making up her mind to want to die. 
 There is something very common in those 
 things. A man who had lived away his 
 
 liver,
 
 Crispin Ken. 55 
 
 liver, and discounted the power of his 
 prime, had married her, because every- 
 thing had been arranged that they should 
 be married decently, so that blood and 
 money might be got together — the blood 
 it certainly seemed meeting the settle- 
 ments quite half-way ; and out of this 
 arrangement they were got to the altar on 
 a certain day, " before God," as the divine, 
 who was in the secret of the sale, would 
 have it. 
 
 But no one of those, who were gathered 
 there about them, thought that that was 
 such a lie ; it did not look the thing it 
 was. It is often done, and no one ever 
 seems to wonder ; but everybody hoped, 
 and put up the sound aloud, " they would 
 be happy," which to many had much of 
 the exceeding freshness of an afterthought. 
 And when blood and money had been de- 
 cently seen into a chariot, with a heavy 
 weight on the near-side grey horse, with a 
 new satin jacket — quite a suggestion it 
 should be said of blood, but as entirely a 
 provision of money — the two rather elderly 
 D 3 gentlemen
 
 54 Crispin Ken. 
 
 gentlemen who had managed it all up to 
 that point, without, they thought, being 
 suspected to have done a very little busi- 
 ness, came back and exchanged many civil 
 salutations, and took wine one with the 
 other, and blood had quite the worst of it. 
 But the papers — some of the gentlemen 
 from which received considerable atten- 
 tion — spoke of it in their next issue in a 
 sort of serious way that was the most 
 proper and reverential ; and the whole 
 tiling as it was seen looked really very well. 
 
 Richard Ken, as years went on, came to 
 have three children ; but two — he thought 
 by some special mercy, as he looked upon 
 them in their little coffins — were carried 
 away young. 
 
 Reuben Ken was the heir, and how he 
 came to be so called Reuben was something 
 on this wise. 
 
 Richard Ken saw life, and saw his friends 
 with the money he had married. 
 
 Richard Ken had shown, as early as 
 might be, that his highest instincts would 
 lie in the direction of speculative accumu- 
 lation.
 
 Crisp t7i Ken. 55 
 
 lation. As a little lad he would race his 
 own tabby against the neighbour's big black 
 cat, and get the odds on the issue in four- 
 penny pieces. Such a soul — and courtesy 
 has declared for the presence of a soul- — to 
 do itself the merest justice, if he was 
 spared to be a grown up gambler, could 
 only lead one way ; and it was decided to 
 devote such unmistakable promise to the 
 Stock Exchange. 
 
 Richard Ken, basing his operations on 
 the models about him, had always thought 
 a good deal of making money, and, perhaps 
 less in proportion than he might have, how 
 he made it. But he was going in for a 
 great game ; and the great game is to be 
 builded up, as near as decency permits, 
 to where some other speculator has been 
 spilled. 
 
 Before he was thirty he cared for nothing 
 that was in all the world, and that was 
 beyond the world — and he expected to find 
 specie in another place — but money. 
 
 He only knew men, and was only seen 
 about with men, who had money, or who 
 
 D + were
 
 $6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 were coming into money ; none that had 
 had money, and had lost that money. And 
 amongst those whom he had been a great 
 while trying to know, and at last had got 
 to know, was one Reuben Israel ; and what 
 he felt was ever so much better, Reuben 
 Israel did not deny that he knew him. 
 
 Reuben Israel was the greatest judge of 
 " paper" in the world. He had done some- 
 thing to keep every power in Europe in 
 credit ; and sometime or another had stood 
 between them and bankruptcy. 
 
 He only took up the biggest loans ; such 
 loans as everybody else together that the 
 Bank parlour could hold, found it hard to 
 take up. 
 
 What he was worth, at his best, no one 
 ever knew. He did not know himself. He 
 had once kept ten clerks to ascertain it ; 
 but such a calculation did not come within 
 the grasp of finite means. One after the 
 other the ten clerks died away, and those 
 that were last were many millions off from 
 the end. 
 
 Next to making money, it was the 
 
 business
 
 Crispin Ken. 57 
 
 business of the natural life of Richard Ken 
 to get to know this Reuben Israel. 
 
 One day Reuben Israel met Richard 
 Ken, and the man of loans was seen by 
 many credible witnesses — -just under where 
 some satirist has declared over the heads 
 of the gentlemen of the Stock Exhange, 
 " That the earth is the Lord's, and the 
 fulness thereof" — for some forty and five 
 minutes to talk to Richard Ken. 
 
 From that day till he died, Richard Ken 
 talked in no wise for forty and five minutes 
 together to any one other than to the man 
 of loans. Every one thought there was 
 something in it, but no one quite knew 
 what it all should mean. If Richard Ken 
 did " operate" for less than his half-crown 
 a hundred, others " on 'change" might be 
 persuaded to do like him. Some one said 
 that Reuben Israel did his best things on 
 Sunday, and that Richard Ken did not 
 much care to go to church. But all 
 gentlemen of the Stock Exchange are not 
 always to be found in their pews on the first 
 day of the week, between eleven and one 
 D 5 o'clock :
 
 58 Crispin Ken. 
 
 o'clock ; and others said that Richard Ken 
 knew of something that Reuben Israel did 
 not care should see the light. But it was 
 not held to be at all likely that a man, who 
 did not know what he was worth, would 
 let anything see the light that he did not 
 choose should see it. He would not feel 
 the need of buying up a broker. 
 
 No one ever did know ; and at last 
 " What is Richard Ken to Reuben Israel" 
 was asked as hopelessly as who wrote 
 Junius's Letters. It always ended in the 
 one distress, and in the one belief, that 
 " the devil only knows." 
 
 It is not unlikely that he did. All that 
 the world knew in general was that they 
 did everything together ; and all that it 
 ever knew in particular was, that Reuben 
 Israel, who had been taken in the right 
 humour, was to be godfather to the heir of 
 Richard Ken. 
 
 Reuben Israel, who was now Sir Reuben, 
 as he well might be, had never been known, 
 under any pressure, to stand for any Chris- 
 tian infant before. No few of theseChristian 
 
 infants
 
 Crispin Ken. $g 
 
 infants had been brought up to tempt him ; 
 but the heir of Richard Ken was somehow 
 quite the first to get him. 
 
 Sir Reuben Israel did something more 
 than take upon himself just the necessary 
 compliment of the Christian profession. In 
 consideration of the infant taking his 
 name, Sir Reuben Israel indicated his inten- 
 tion of seeing him sometimes through the 
 world ; and there was every necessary indi- 
 cation of what this should mean. Reuben 
 Ken would get his " paper" "done" easily, 
 no matter how the market ruled ; and 
 there would be ever so much more in this 
 than in being asked whether he were " N 
 or M." 
 
 Other than this, the coming of Reuben 
 Ken to the font was much the sort of decent 
 desecration that such comings often are. 
 A good deal of Christianity, that it would 
 not be held charitable to impugn, is got 
 together after such a fashion. 
 
 Reuben Israel said all the responses with 
 
 affecting earnestness ; but perhaps just a 
 
 little as if he were feeling his way into 
 
 D 6 some
 
 60 Crispin Ken. 
 
 some unexplored novelty. It might have 
 been set down, by people who are cri- 
 tical, as a formal insult to his God ; but 
 then what a city connection it cemented ! 
 and then everything was done so very 
 decently. 
 
 Ever since the day that Reuben Israel 
 and Richard Ken had had that forty-five 
 minutes' understanding Mr. Richard Ken 
 had been a rising man. He left St. John's 
 Wood at a sacrifice of a quarter's rent. He 
 tried Tyburnia, and sent his footman one 
 Wednesday morning to treat for a front 
 pew. It was quite Mr. Richard Ken's 
 experience that going to church, as he went, 
 looked " rather well." Perhaps the service 
 did begin a little early, but there was no 
 better place, he found, for family men to 
 draw him out on safe investments, than 
 outside the church door. 
 
 After awhile Mr. Richard Ken bought 
 himself an estate in Cumberland, and once 
 Sir Reuben Israel was got there to stay out 
 a week. 
 
 Richard Ken had sometime buried his 
 
 wife,
 
 Crispin Ken. 61 
 
 wife, with every sumptuous form of sepul- 
 ture. His allegiance to her memory was 
 not by any means equivocal. He refrained 
 himself from " 'Change " for several days 
 during a monetary crisis, whilst the body 
 was about ; but during the intervals of his 
 getting above his sorrow, when he could 
 be so approached, his clerk came to take 
 his instructions, and nothing much was 
 lost. So that fifteen years' mistake was 
 buried in three coffins out of sight. 
 
 Reuben Ken was just as little like his 
 father as might be ; and their sympathies 
 were on no better terms. Reuben had 
 seen, when he was brought down in velvet 
 after dinner, ever so much too much of 
 his father's city friends to care at all to live 
 as they lived ; but when he put that velvet 
 by, and could take the measure of those 
 friends, he very much cared to live as they 
 did not. 
 
 Sunday night was the great night at 
 Mr. Richard Ken's. One or more reputa- 
 ble brokers always passed it with him ; and 
 some of the best things that were current 
 
 " upon
 
 6 2 Crispin Ken. 
 
 " upon change" came of these Sunday 
 orgies. 
 
 If Mr. Richard Ken was never very 
 faithful to his wife, it was but little likely 
 he would be to her memory ; and he was 
 not faithful even before his only son. 
 
 Richard Ken never drank ; no one ever 
 saw him over-set with wine. He could 
 not calculate in wine. He calculated it 
 was so much income to him what he got 
 out of those who did drink ; so with 
 Richard Ken, Sunday never ran to waste. 
 He thought it better to be dry, and there 
 w T as no saying, so he said, " what might 
 then be got beyond the ruling prices." 
 Could he have got this the easier for 
 drinking, Richard Ken would have drunk ; 
 but he plied those who came to him as 
 friends, and filled his pocket by their shame. 
 
 Reuben's education had not taught him 
 to think highly of his father. Mr. Richard 
 Ken thought indifferently well of public 
 schools. So far as he understood them he 
 believed they might do well enough for 
 bishops' sons. Thank God his was not a 
 
 bishop's
 
 Crispin Ken. 63 
 
 bishop's son. Mr. Richard Ken desired 
 that Reuben should be kept away from such 
 contamination. He had a great many of 
 the regular prospectuses ; but one gentle- 
 man, whose terms were represented as 
 merely nominal, and who did everything 
 for a very little, was the one selected, from 
 considerations other than those which were 
 wholly educational. 
 
 After he had sought out, with a sort of 
 affectionate interest — which, if sufficiently 
 common, is not commonly reproved — Reu- 
 ben's age, and had got to learn what his 
 pupil took to and refrained himself from, 
 he asked Mr. Ken whether he thought 
 the money market just then very healthy. 
 
 Mr. Richard Ken always asked this of 
 himself every morning fasting, before he 
 even said his prayers ; and his prayers came 
 to be long, or short, or nothing, as circum- 
 stances answered it. Beyond this the cheap 
 educationist, who knew the city man's weak 
 point, said, "That he had committed all 
 that he had," which might not have meant 
 much, to some popular debenture stock. 
 
 Mr.
 
 64 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Mr. Richard Ken rather believed in de- 
 benture stock; he believed in it as much as a 
 man who suspects everything can believe in 
 anything ; and so the education of Reuben 
 Ken was on this foundation. 
 
 When he was fifteen his father showed 
 him at dinner every Sunday to his Sunday 
 friends ; and his father thought the time 
 had about come when his heir should be 
 started to make money in the world. 
 
 Indeed, it had long been clear to Mr. 
 Ken that his son could only be one thing, 
 unless he were a fool ; but it eventuated to 
 the father's thinking that Reuben Ken was 
 a very fool, on a sort beyond all fools 
 known. 
 
 The thing began with an affectionate 
 interview, and ended with a commercial 
 imprecation. 
 
 u Reuben, I shall be glad to have a word 
 with you ; those ' Turks,' which have been 
 up and down all the morning, are not very 
 firm, to be sure, and I should like to watch 
 them, but you are getting old enough to 
 help me ; " and so Richard Ken, with his 
 
 Turks
 
 Crispin Ken. 65 
 
 Turks out of sorts, put aside the first five 
 minutes out of fifty years to advise his son. 
 
 " You are quick at figures I hear ; you 
 wouldn't be any use here if you were not ; 
 but you don't want to go back to school." 
 
 There was hypocrisy in this opening, for 
 Richard Ken had never heard of any boy 
 who did. 
 
 " Not to that school if you don't like it ; 
 it is w^ell enough, but I am too young for 
 college yet." 
 
 " Too young for what ? I didn't catch 
 the word." 
 
 " I said I thought I might be over young 
 for college." 
 
 " Reuben, you're a fool. I see it all ; I 
 have begotten a fool! College! College, 
 boy ! you don't get into working order for 
 ' 'Change ' there, I take it; college! if you 
 mean anything, you mean the workhouse. 
 Why Sir Reuben Israel never went to col- 
 lege, and he could buy up the Universities, 
 only he knows better than to touch such 
 drugs ; you'll learn more here in a week 
 than at college in a life ; why, I could teach 
 
 what
 
 66 Crispin Ken. 
 
 what you call college a good deal. Just 
 look at this ; I was offered twenty thousand 
 to give that fellow Dross's son a share, a 
 fourth, a fifth, anything I might like ; but I 
 wasn't such a fool as to like anything. I 
 wasn't going to let him into a corner of 
 this concern, eh ! Do you take ? " 
 
 " I hope you did not keep it for me. I 
 do not think that I should like it." 
 
 " I don't suppose you would ; like isn't 
 the word. Why, boy, I paid that fellow the 
 little he was worth, and so much extra, to 
 teach you the value of money. I shall not 
 hear you ; you don't know what you're say- 
 ing; you will be sorry for this when you're 
 cool. I don't ask you what you fancy ; 
 when you're as old as I am you will fancy 
 nothing else." 
 
 Reuben Ken was not the boy to show 
 that he thought ill of such a father ; per- 
 haps he was tried a little over much, but 
 he only said, " I think I have made up my 
 mind to go to college." 
 
 Mr. Richard Ken never exhibited all his 
 resources at once. He always had some- 
 thing
 
 Crispin Ken. 6j 
 
 thing in reserve ; so he .gathered himself 
 up, as he knew the time was come when 
 he should do it, looked round to see that 
 nothing could come of the doors being 
 ajar, and whispered, " Why, boy, do you 
 know what I'm worth ? " 
 
 Reuben Ken, who had known his father 
 more or less for nearly sixteen years, by 
 certain tests that sons of city men should 
 not hold up too severely, quite thought 
 that he could tell ; but Mr. Richard Ken 
 left his son no time to think about it. 
 
 " Why, Reuben, I was worth two hun- 
 dred thousand pounds when I realised upon 
 the last account, and I'm not poorer now 
 than I was then. I have only one son, 
 and he may get to have all, but I can have 
 no college : you must be a man of business." 
 
 " And if I say I would rather go to col- 
 lege." 
 
 " I shan't believe you, sir ; no one would 
 say so — no one who was fit to be at large ; 
 no one would throw away two hundred 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 " But I don't want the money." 
 
 " Yes,
 
 68 Crispin Ken. 
 
 " Yes, you do ; yes, you do, every one 
 wants money — not a little money — what's 
 the use of a little money ? It's very well 
 for those parsons who talk against money. 
 Why, I've heard them have the face to tell 
 a church full of sound men, whose paper 
 I know I'd discount, that a beast of a 
 camel — a thing with a hump — could get 
 through a needle's eye, more likely than 
 that they would get to heaven. Why 
 can't they talk what's written in the Bible 
 instead of saying what they think. There 
 is nothing about camels and needles in the 
 Bible. God forbid that you should ever 
 be a parson." 
 
 " I shall be that or nothing," answered 
 Reuben. 
 
 " That's right enough," answered his 
 father ; " if you're a parson, boy, you will 
 be nothing ; it all comes of going to 
 church. Don't talk in this way, or I'll 
 tell you what it is, I shall give up my 
 pew." 
 
 " And if I go to college, and if I do 
 take orders ?" 
 
 " Orders !
 
 Crispin Ken. 69 
 
 " Orders ! Take what, sir ? — you don't 
 call doing business here taking orders, do 
 you ? I'm no tradesman, sir. What do 
 you mean ?" 
 
 Reuben could not help a smile as he 
 explained what he had meant. 
 
 " You will not have the two hundred 
 thousand pounds if you do, or any part 
 of it." 
 
 " I do not ask it," answered Reuben, 
 mildly. " I do not say I do not want it, 
 or that I should well like to see it given to 
 others, but I do say I would not have it, 
 or a pound of it, on your terms." 
 
 " If you are serious," said Richard Ken, 
 who had never in all his life heard any one 
 talk so lightly of two hundred thousand 
 pounds, " tell me as much as you like of 
 this again to-morrow. I believe you are 
 very mad ;" and at that time the next day 
 Reuben Ken, in the little parlour over 
 against Throgmorton Street, said it all 
 again. 
 
 His father, when he could collect his 
 senses and realise that he was so spoken 
 
 to
 
 jo Crispin Ken. 
 
 to by his own son, was moved to tell him 
 he should have a thousand pounds w T hen 
 he should ask it ; and he had his attorney 
 in that same afternoon, and made another 
 will, and wiped clean out his own son's 
 name. 
 
 Richard Ken was quite persuaded now, 
 that his own son was very mad. 
 
 Reuben Ken for some three years re- 
 turned to school, and then graduated in 
 honours at Balliol College, Oxford. After 
 that, for awhile he lived there as a tutor, 
 and then married, as his father always said 
 he would, the daughter of a farmer, a 
 statesman on the Cumberland border. 
 
 Edith Dane came to him with nothing; 
 and when Richard Ken heard it in his 
 parlour one day when things were very flat, 
 he wrote a letter to his son, and said that if 
 he ever saw him again he should begin to 
 think his own capacity for business was 
 not what it used to be ; and when Reuben 
 Ken wrote to his father the letter came 
 back to him unopened. 
 
 The city man did what he said he would, 
 
 and
 
 Crispin Ken. yi 
 
 and Reuben Ken never saw his father in 
 this world again. 
 
 It was a little later that Reuben Ken, 
 who throughout, as he had never appealed 
 against his father's curse, had never brought 
 himself to say one word against his father, 
 but was busied to soften down, what to 
 himself seemed hard, was presented with 
 the perpetual curacy of St. Hilda's the 
 great, a preferment lying on the borders of 
 Cumberland and Westmoreland, with eight 
 hundred souls, and sixty pounds a year. 
 
 But they were beginning ; and in look- 
 ing forward were not much stricken by 
 what they could look back on, and so they 
 took it hopefully ; Edith, the while, much 
 comforting him that such a net incoming 
 every year, would go some way : and with 
 her loving thrift it did. 
 
 Mr. Richard Ken had now got to be so 
 nearly the first man on 'Change that he 
 had only to live, it was reckoned, about six 
 months more to be so ; but as some one 
 preaching, on his sudden going, phrased 
 it, " he fell asleep " the second best. 
 
 Mr.
 
 7 2 . Crispin Ken, 
 
 Mr. Richard Ken, one morning in May, 
 was " a bear;" and public securities had 
 taken such a turn as to leave him with no 
 little apprehension as to the " account." 
 
 Things got worse, and so much worse, 
 that the broker never went to bed at all. 
 Thirty-six hours he knew would leave him 
 w r here he was, or see out the end of his 
 credit. He did not care to face this last 
 contingency ; but for the second best man 
 it was really very near. 
 
 Richard Ken, after having passed an 
 hour at noon, in the little room with Sir 
 Reuben Israel, went out with a face that 
 was long, — for all that he could do to 
 make it hide his thoughts — " on 'Change," 
 to think ; and he took counsel with him- 
 self till it was nearly three, when some 
 one saw him put his hand upon his side 
 and fall. 
 
 A dozen hands were there to pick him 
 up and set him on his legs, but he shook 
 them off, and crawled under one of the 
 seats and groaned. It was a bad thing for 
 the second best man to have come to. 
 
 "I
 
 Crispin Ken. j% 
 
 " I shall be better presently," he gasped ; 
 -" I am well enough here." 
 
 What those curious ones around him 
 thought was very different. It was ill for 
 such a man to be gasping out the little life 
 that was left, under a side seat upon' Change. 
 
 " Send for a physician/' said one, who 
 had a reason for his humanity. 
 
 " I have sent for three," said a gentle- 
 man, who had three reasons for his, and 
 who seemed perhaps a little over anxious 
 to keep Mr. Richard Ken by any artificial 
 means alive, and was unloosing the broker's 
 cravat. 
 
 " Leave my throat alone," moaned 
 Richard Ken, whose instinct, just then at 
 fault, told him that they wanted his life ; 
 " and if you've been fools enough to send 
 for any doctor, you may pay him, I shan't. 
 It's a great liberty to take with the pockets 
 of people of whom you know nothing. 
 I'm only a little faint ; but," — continued 
 Mr. Ken more blandly — " could any one 
 just tell me what consols are at now ?" 
 
 The friend who had sent for the three 
 vol. I. E physicians
 
 74 Crispin Ken. 
 
 physicians was a " bull." Indeed the 
 group around the stricken, man were mostly 
 "bulls." 
 
 a Do his friends know it, because they 
 ought ? " said the doctor who had first ar- 
 rived ; " he may live ten minutes. I can't 
 give him more." 
 
 " So sudden !" said a clergyman who 
 was passing by, and had taken the dying 
 broker by the hand. " God grant that he 
 may be prepared to go to his account ! " 
 
 " And what's that to you, whether I'm 
 prepared for the account ; — who said I 
 wasn't ; — whose taking away my credit in 
 this place ? " 
 
 The three physicians had arrived ; they 
 shook their three heads ; that was all they 
 could do. 
 
 " Can he be made to live six-and-thirty 
 hours ?" asked some one, more officious and 
 feeling than the rest, and who thought he 
 well might discount the "event;" "and 
 then be got to sign a check ? " 
 
 The three physicians thought it would 
 be long over in as many minutes. 
 
 "I
 
 Crispin Ken, J 5 
 
 " I say, don't let this get into the even- 
 ing papers/' groaned Richard Ken, now 
 frothing at the mouth, " I shall only want 
 time to save my credit, — only time, — 
 time — " But Richard Ken was beyond 
 all time then. 
 
 The fitting means of burying such a 
 man, were to have pulled up a flag and 
 put him under the Exchange ; but there 
 was no precedent for this, and there was 
 no power. 
 
 When it got to be known, that every- 
 thing which Richard Ken possessed had 
 been lost to Sir Reuben Israel, his memory 
 was proportionately so much the less at a 
 premium. " After hours " " it was ope- 
 rated in," at a discount. 
 
 The hardest quite believed, according 
 as they had " been hit," that his soul 
 would get it hot ; but this comfort even 
 was denied to those who would lay odds 
 he had no soul at all. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 6 Crisp hi Ken. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Edith of St. Mona. 
 
 R. Richard Ken's memory, as 
 quite beseemed such a reveren- 
 tial belonging in a " bear," was 
 buried in chief in the money 
 article. But Mr. Richard Ken, without 
 much warning, and without telling those 
 whom it most concerned, had gone away 
 out of the world during a crisis, and had 
 died worth nothing. There was not so 
 much to be said for a man whose end had 
 been on such a fashion, no matter what 
 immunities city morals could plead. To 
 take it at the best, it certainly was some- 
 thing to have died in a corner upon 
 'Change, — to have had three physicians 
 with a different diagnosis, none of whom 
 were ever paid, about him, — to have had 
 the minutes — it was made a business — he 
 
 should
 
 Crispin Ken. yy 
 
 should live betted on and against ; and 
 where he should go to when he came to 
 die, offered, with any number of takers. 
 
 Everybody had always struggled for 
 some of his " paper." He was the only 
 man in whose ear Sir Reuben Israel, when 
 his confidence was at its most, ever whis- 
 pered. That such an one should die just 
 worth so many pennies in the pound, whose 
 estate, at the fullest stretch, offered but a 
 shabby yield of fourpenny-pieces ! 
 
 It was very bad ; and some pious people 
 went so far as to get a moral out of it — 
 rather against the city. But they found the 
 city offered any number of just such morals; 
 so they gave up the inquiry, in lack of 
 strength to carry it on. How could a 
 money article be pleasant, or anything 
 but grievous, with the memory of such a 
 " leading description " that had come to so 
 much grief? 
 
 Mr. Richard Ken was buried in a shell, 
 as near the top of the ground, as the rules 
 of the ground would warrant. The un- 
 dertaker had to do it for so much ; and the 
 
 E 3 so
 
 j 8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 so much happened to be but a ghostly 
 little of the attenuated dividend. Mr. 
 Richard Ken was shovelled away by con- 
 tract into four feet four of a clay soil. 
 
 Sir Reuben Israel was very adequately 
 represented by one of his coachmen, and 
 by one of his carriages. There were no 
 mutes ; and no one there who represented 
 his credit, to offer gratuities to the thirsty 
 bearers of his body. Those gentlemen said 
 it was about the very driest thing they ever 
 did ; and if the curses of the quick, in the 
 employ of the funeral contractor, can touch 
 the dead, the dust of Richard Ken did not 
 rest well. 
 
 How he had stood, when he had fallen 
 down upon that flag with his God, affected 
 none ; but how he had trifled with " the 
 House " grew into quite a popular concern. 
 So the burying of his body was of the fifth 
 class ; some five pounds fifteen in all — 
 discount five per cent, for ready money. 
 Bitterest satire was the ready coin. 
 
 Reuben Ken, in his little parish in the 
 north, saw the summing up of his father's 
 
 fame
 
 Crispin Ken. jg 
 
 fame in the money article, and was some 
 time full of hearty sorrow, that he who had 
 hated, and had never ceased to curse him, 
 had so died. For it is not well that this 
 sorrow should be taken away from the sons 
 of men, and the peril of a child's eternity 
 be left to rest too surely on those from 
 whose loins they spring ; or even city 
 circles may be got to learn in " after hours " 
 that, where their credit is quoted at a pre- 
 mium, more souls by it will be accredited 
 to hell, than by the other thousand means 
 which rule the market. 
 
 Society starts back with all its sickly af- 
 fectation, and mouths of want of "charity," 
 when it is told in words it does not like to 
 hear, of fathers " very generally respected " 
 lying on big beds, choking, as they roll from 
 side to side, with the half ripe curse that 
 would have asked damnation on a son, 
 because that son would follow something 
 nobler than his father loved. 
 
 It was so with the father of Reuben 
 
 Ken. The boy thought more highly of 
 
 Oxford than he did or could of Capel 
 
 E 4 Court ;
 
 80 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Court ; more of the cure of souls than 
 of consols ; and he was cursed so long as 
 ever there was breath to curse him with. 
 But saved from the wreck of Paradise 
 is the love, with which the child would 
 seal a kiss upon the foul-mouthed lips that 
 fret to curse him. 
 
 From a very boy, Reuben Ken had never 
 been so much moved to take a part and 
 hold it. That he should have declared so 
 unhesitatingly for the Church, and sum- 
 moned up his strength to stand by it, was, 
 perhaps, quite the first time he had kept 
 on his way, till he heard the words of his 
 own father cast him out of his inheritance, 
 because he had thought more of the cure 
 of souls than of price currents. 
 
 The estate of Richard Ken in Cumber- 
 land had stood near the acres of a yeoman, 
 one Caleb Dane ; and perhaps the liking 
 of the two near neighbours for each other 
 was just about as little as might be. 
 
 When Richard Ken, by the countenance 
 of Sir Reuben Israel, had got to be well to 
 do, and Caleb Dane the rather less abounded 
 
 in
 
 Crispin Ken. 8 J 
 
 in his means, the time was critically judged 
 to have come when Mr. Richard Ken be- 
 lieved he might like to hate his neighbour 
 with no small advantage. The ill feeling 
 came of about a dozen roods or less of 
 freehold land, which were the property 
 of Caleb Dane, and which Richard Ken 
 a good deal wanted for his own. Caleb 
 Dane held it at first against all offers, be- 
 cause he rather liked the land, and for any 
 time after that, perhaps, because of human 
 nature, as he saw how much his neighbour 
 was angered by his purpose. 
 
 When Mr. Richard Ken was creeping 
 up, and had begun to get a name in city 
 circles that was considered practically to 
 mean a reputation, it was thought by that 
 gentleman that,under pressure, Caleb Dane 
 could be tempted to give up the land. 
 
 Mr. Richard Ken, after a little thinking, 
 put the matter in the sort of light he did 
 most things, when he was bargaining with 
 men of little substance — he always began 
 by being over civil. 
 
 " It's a niceish piece of land, Mr. Dane, 
 E 5 and
 
 8z Crispin Ken. 
 
 and a nice clean soil." Mr. Ken had been 
 told by a seedsman in the city, who largely 
 took him in, that he was a great judge of 
 soils. " Come, now — anything in reason." 
 
 "I'm very sorry, Mr. Ken, but it doesn't 
 seem to suit me to sell it." 
 
 And it no longer suited Mr. Ken to 
 be civil. 
 
 " Oh, if it don't suit you, Mr. Dane, 
 there's an end of it ; of course that's your 
 affair ; you know best whether you most 
 like the land or the money ; but I had 
 heard," continued Richard Ken, in the 
 tone he adopted in the city when he 
 wanted something a point under the 
 market price, " I had heard you wanted a 
 little ready money ; but perhaps it's just as 
 well; for some people do say it's poor stuff 
 after all — poor stuff, Mr. Dane — a sort of 
 spot likely enough for a manure heap ; but 
 that would be a nuisance to me." 
 
 Mr. Dane said nothing, but it cost a 
 good deal in his inner man to say nothing. 
 He had never done a dirty thing in his 
 life ; but with such words cast at him he 
 
 felt
 
 Crispin Ken. 83 
 
 felt as a man would feel who had never 
 done a dirty thing ; and it was very little 
 he liked to be told that any one had heard 
 he wanted ready money. Perhaps he felt 
 his horny hand for a moment tighten on 
 his stick. But the city man was not worth 
 that. 
 
 Caleb Dane within him knew what he 
 should do. 
 
 The next morning when Mr. Richard 
 Ken cast his longing eyes upon the bit of 
 land, he saw a dung heap standing like a 
 cone upon the field. Mr. Richard Ken 
 could ill find cause to quarrel because of 
 his very own idea. 
 
 Ever after this, one of those who Richard 
 Ken gave up to his whole hate was Caleb 
 Dane. 
 
 It was some three years later that 
 Reuben Ken, who had been presented 
 with the perpetual curacy of St. Hilda's 
 the great, the parish in which the estates 
 of Richard Ken and Caleb Dane were 
 placed, came to live amongst the people 
 he had known as a boy. When it was 
 
 E 6 told, 

 
 84 Crispin Ken, 
 
 told, as it soon was, how his father had 
 cast him off, many were the right honest 
 hearts much gladdened by his coming, and 
 no one shook his hand more heartily 
 than Caleb Dane. 
 
 The perpetual curacy of St. Hilda's the 
 great, was no very considerable ecclesiasti- 
 cal preferment. It was not meant for any 
 man to marry on. The church, — which, 
 in the benevolence of those who built it, 
 was only designed for the coming together 
 of a very limited number of souls at sepa- 
 rate seasons — is one of the oldest Norman 
 relics left in England. The curacy offered 
 just enough to make starvation a very 
 reasonable and possible prospect. There 
 were, it was reckoned, when population 
 was at its best, about eight hundred souls 
 within the cure. And never, perhaps, in 
 so little space, had ever come together so 
 many sorts of big men. 
 
 Sixty pounds is hardly over much to 
 give eight hundred souls a decent sort of 
 care. The district was peopled with 
 miners; for the curacy of St. Hilda's the 
 
 great
 
 Crlsphi Ken. 85 
 
 great offered to one of the largest lead 
 mines in Cumberland, the only church 
 within many miles. It is not at all haz- 
 arded here, in the interests of correct 
 chronicling, that at the very best and 
 soberest of times more than a spare fourth 
 of the eight hundred ever went to church. 
 But the attendance, it was pleaded, and 
 not it would seem without some cause, 
 was materially affected by its being bad 
 to sit two hundred. Neither men nor 
 women — except at fashionable chapels, 
 where there is a fashionable preacher, and 
 what is gone through is of the nature of 
 a performance — ever care to stand; and 
 this was just the difficulty of Reuben Ken, 
 as it had been of those who had gone 
 before him, but had cared a great deal less 
 about it. 
 
 " Why don't you come to church ? " 
 was what he asked the great majority of 
 the astonished three fourths who stayed 
 away, before he had been among them a 
 week. 
 
 " If we was all to come, it would like 
 
 to
 
 86 Crispin Ken. 
 
 to be in one another's laps ; it wouldn't be 
 much of the sort of what you people call 
 the house of God to see a lot of hundreds 
 of the size of me in that bit of a place, 
 that was built, so they say, when folks 
 mustn't have run as large as now." 
 
 This was Reuben Ken's ecclesiastical 
 situation, set before him in a way that, to 
 him, did not seem to lighten what would 
 be his labours in the future. 
 
 It was clear enough to him, that it 
 would be nothing short of a mockery to 
 go about, bidding all come, when only 
 about a fourth of the least grown could 
 sit or stand. And, like the better part of 
 the Anglican clergy, who feel that whilst 
 they have not room for all, they have not 
 a clear conscience before God, Reuben 
 Ken bethought himself how he could best 
 occupy a place, that was built for two 
 hundred, with six hundred more. 
 
 He laid awake a good many nights 
 thinking if he dared to build ; and one 
 night he thought he dared. The next 
 morning he began to put his thoughts 
 
 together.
 
 Crispin Ken. 87 
 
 together. To open a subscription for 
 more church room wanted, perhaps, a 
 good deal of hard faith in an outlying 
 district, where God's name was taken in 
 vain if ever it was taken at all. 
 
 There was only one big house that could 
 be said to be good for anything, and that 
 was the Hall; but it was not to let just then. 
 There was the property of Mr. Richard 
 Ken — Mr. Richard Ken never gave to 
 churches — and when his son was moved to 
 go into the church, Mr. Richard Ken did 
 give up his pew. It was his belief that more 
 colds were caught in a church than " on 
 'change." Mr. Ken thought God might 
 very well be worshipped without sitting in 
 a thorough draught ; nor was that gentle- 
 man at all above being profane in his much 
 humour. " If that was God's house," he 
 he said one cool forenoon " on 'Change," 
 "it must be His summer house," and the 
 pleasantry was for a season freely quoted in 
 the circles which he leavened. 
 
 It was quite Reuben Ken's first experi- 
 ence, that to make a big church out of a little 
 
 one,
 
 88 Crispin Ken. 
 
 one, on the contingency of filling it, is a 
 thing to be begun in a man's morning of 
 life, if it is ever to be done at all. 
 
 Monies, however, such as they were, 
 did come in. A special sermon produced 
 in the morning and evening thirteen shil- 
 lings and fourpence ; which gross offering 
 would have been attributed to a fit of 
 unprofessional absence on the part of an 
 attorney, who happened to be " doing M 
 those parts, with a change of clothes in a 
 blue bag, but that the contribution was 
 made wholly up of copper. 
 
 Six weeks gave a hopeful total of be- 
 tween two and three pounds that had been 
 hard enough to get ; but these were evi- 
 dences that the district had been bled for 
 church purposes as much as was safe. 
 
 Reuben Ken was sorely put to it to 
 know what he should do. Sometimes he 
 thought he had better give the money 
 back. But the sight of the six hundred 
 souls without a church, kept him from 
 going back, and it was in this strait that 
 he sought out Caleb Dane. 
 
 It
 
 Crispin Ken* 89 
 
 It was not the first, nor was it the 
 second visit that Reuben Ken had made 
 to the beautiful old cottage-home of Mr. 
 Dane. The district had not a whole doc- 
 tor to itself. A professional person, of some 
 parts, rode over ten miles twice a week, and 
 he gave another day when there was any 
 epidemic. This gentleman, at such times 
 as he came, was to be seen in the parlour 
 of the best inn for three hours in the mid- 
 dle of the day, between which visitations 
 it was absolute dying to fall sick. Tues- 
 days and Fridays were the appointed days 
 for getting ill. 
 
 Neither was there a lawyer ; an indica- 
 tion, it might be, that there was nothing 
 in those parts fit to possess, so that there 
 could be nothing for which it was possible 
 unhappily to strive. It might have been 
 a sign of barbarism, or otherwise, an opinion 
 to be decided only by the various sorts of 
 individual reverence for lawyers. 
 
 When Reuben Ken first entered on his 
 cure, a nonconforming pawnbroker, who 
 had no stated charge — although he did not 
 
 set
 
 go Crispin Ken. 
 
 set himself against realising what he could, 
 — was got to give an opinion w T hen any bad 
 breach of the peace seemed likely. 
 
 Mr. Dane, whose family had lived there 
 for some generations, was very generally 
 respected. Mr. Dane was not at all re- 
 spected, as I have heard this said of hard 
 men with great " balances " in Lombard 
 Street. He came amongst those who 
 needed him, when something beyond good 
 advice was wanted. He did not look on 
 those about him and some w 7 ay below him 
 in what they earned, as mere " hands ; " 
 but he was known as an employer who was 
 irregular enough, moreover, to think some- 
 thing of the " hands' " souls. 
 
 Caleb Dane, however you might put 
 him out, was not at all the man to let a 
 quarrel live. 
 
 The cone of dung had not been even a 
 summer day's revenge ; that pile of pro- 
 vocation had long since ceased to give 
 offence to Richard Ken ; and in the hearty 
 welcome the farmer gave to Reuben, and 
 to the son of an ill-favoured, ill-conditioned 
 
 neighbour,
 
 Crispin Ken. gi 
 
 neighbour, there was not one bitter mem- 
 ory of the past. 
 
 It was of this unselfish and large-hearted 
 yeoman, that Reuben Ken in his first trou- 
 ble came to take some counsel. 
 
 It was a beautiful June afternoon when 
 the curate, who, it must be said, did not 
 much like the business he was bent on, 
 made his third visit to the farmer's home, 
 which was, by the chronicles of the neigh- 
 bourhood, — chronicles, with truth sufficient 
 in them to make them in that seeming 
 rare, — not much younger than the church. 
 
 By very credible annals it was in Roman 
 Catholic times, once the priest's house, and 
 to this day retains its title of St. Mona's. 
 
 Mr. Dane, who was not nearly an 
 " Evangelical " enough to care for any 
 number of such legends, on his first com- 
 ing into possession, had been talked to, to 
 no very great purpose, by the dissenters, 
 who came to him in clusters, declaring 
 the name was an abomination. It was 
 even told him, with an air that forbade 
 jesting, that some former travelled Pope, 
 
 anxious
 
 9 2, Crispin Ke?i. 
 
 anxious to see l( the Lakes," had come there 
 in disguise, and had rented the place for 
 weeks, returning to Rome, as it was only 
 likely he should, in the debt of the land- 
 lord. But with these, and with other such 
 like terrors, it still remained St. Mona. 
 
 Reuben Ken had not been waiting Aery 
 long, when the farmer entered the best 
 parlour, followed by a beautiful girl. 
 
 " Edith, this is Mr. Ken ; Mr. Ken, my 
 daughter." 
 
 Edith Dane, it may be said at once, 
 was not at all the girl whose image can be 
 told. It may be noted that she was then 
 not quite seventeen ; that there was just 
 so much of her as there should be of a 
 woman; that she was neither fair nor dark ; 
 that her eyes were not " fine eyes," but 
 soft, warm, never-to-be-forgotten, balmy 
 eyes. I do not know that her rounded 
 form was perfect. A spare woman, whose 
 authority from her point of view should 
 have its weight, would have called her 
 gross, — and some of the spare women of the 
 district called her gross. I do not know 
 
 that
 
 Crispin Ken, g$ 
 
 that her features were perfect ; but it was 
 hard to look, with whatever criticism you 
 might, upon the form or face of Edith 
 Dane, girl and woman just then mingling, 
 and feel that anything was wanting. She 
 was a beautiful girl, and that may not to 
 any purpose be figured out in words. 
 
 Reuben Ken had not heard a little of 
 the loveliness of Edith Dane. Every one 
 on his coming whom he met, wanted to 
 be the first to tell him w T hat was thought 
 of the little one he had sometimes played 
 with as a boy ; and for miles round, and for 
 many of them, Edith's praise was on all lips. 
 
 In the autumn months those who came 
 there to climb the hills managed to find 
 some cause for getting to St. Mona ; and it 
 was not considered a very great scandal, 
 that Edith drew more of the climbers to 
 church to look at her, than ever any parson 
 had by any sermon. 
 
 St. Mona had been her cradle. She had 
 never left it for the refined pollution of a 
 school. Imaged like her mother, to her 
 father she supplied a void, and was his all 
 
 in
 
 94 Crispin Ken. 
 
 in all. Edith was like her mother, and 
 got more like as time went on. 
 
 Around the memory of the idol that 
 was gone, the heart of Caleb Dane had 
 told him that he could not love again. But 
 the form and face of the dead seemed like 
 a resurrection in the living ; and whilst he 
 knew it not, he had yet raised up a second 
 idol in his child. 
 
 Edith, since her mother's death, had 
 been chiefly educated by an aunt, a woman 
 of great discipline of life, herself of excel- 
 lent intentions, and with all the acknow- 
 ledged purposes about her of strict " Evan- 
 gelical Protestantism." 
 
 Edith, when not yet seventeen, had 
 come back to her father, — her aunt would 
 have it in a series of letters she wrote 
 upon the calamity of an undeveloped 
 education, full three years too soon. 
 
 Reuben Ken soon got to know that the 
 enlargement of his church to the desired 
 size would not at all alienate him from 
 the society of Miss Dane. The society of 
 Miss Dane soon became a very material 
 
 part
 
 Crispin Ken. 95 
 
 part of the church building scheme. In- 
 deed, as many perpetual curates so situated 
 have before, he soon began to fancy that 
 the one had a great deal to do with the 
 other. Every time he saw Edith, and those 
 times were strangely multiplied, the church 
 in his imaginings greatly grew ; after awhile 
 there was all the promise that it was quite 
 likely to be very big. 
 
 Notwithstanding what her excellent aunt 
 had said about the evil of young High 
 Church clergymen always wanting to build, 
 Edith saw the state of things that was to 
 be, very much in the same light as the per- 
 petual curate ; and Edith could get together 
 somehow more in a day than could Reu- 
 ben in a month. 
 
 There was none of the counterfeit en- 
 thusiasm about the beautiful child of Caleb 
 Dane that so nearly unsexes so very many 
 women. The earnestness that was in her, so 
 feminine, and yet so fitting everything she 
 did, could never be reproached as what is 
 called " demonstrativeness." Her heart was 
 set on that church holding all the souls she 
 
 pleased,
 
 g6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 pleased, but it was not of the frothy nature 
 of that mere impulsiveness, which leads so 
 many at her age to set their hearts on every 
 sort of fashion or adventure. And Edith 
 would get whatever she had set her heart 
 on, if she went amongst the miners in the 
 earth to get it. Amongst these men 
 Edith was a queen ; and when she was once 
 told by her aunt, who thought miners were 
 no company for maidens, that those big men 
 used bad words, she witnessed truly when 
 she said she never heard one. 
 
 But with all that could be brought to 
 bear in the summing up, it seemed that 
 twenty pounds was the most which, even 
 by such means as Edith knew, could be 
 got together at St. Hilda's. Still the 
 curate, when he looked at the thing nar- 
 rowly and closely, could not bring his mind 
 to think the time ill spent ; nor, it may 
 be, did Edith of St. Mona either. 
 
 When the next summer came round 
 something would be got out of the clim- 
 bers who came to " do " the mountains 
 and see the view ; and perhaps the name 
 
 of
 
 Crispin Ken, 97 
 
 of Edith Dane drew quite as many to St. 
 Hilda's as the mountains. 
 
 But churches would never grow, and 
 perpetual curates, it is likely, would not 
 always mind if they did not, if they might 
 not nurse a fancy for their very chief lay 
 labourer. 
 
 Mr. Dane, who had heard of the church 
 building, as a symptom of what was com- 
 ing, saw what now had come, and perhaps 
 he did not stay it. Reuben felt it, and he 
 did not chill it ; but Edith only saw what 
 must be, unsuspectingly. 
 
 " I'm afraid we shall never succeed, Mr. 
 Ken," said Edith, one afternoon, adding 
 up a stubborn total of nineteen pounds 
 nineteen shillings and ninepence. " We are 
 still threepence off the twenty pounds ; 
 but the church ought to be bigger, although 
 aunt says there are too many churches, and 
 not enough chapels. I don't think so, and 
 I am sure something ought to be done for 
 your house, Mr. Ken ; it is not fit to live 
 in." 
 
 "Could younot then live there, Edith?" — 
 vol. 1. f Edith!
 
 98 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Edith ! It was the first time he had 
 ever taken that name on his lips before 
 her. Often had he spoken it in his prayers ; 
 often had he shouted it, in a rambling way, 
 upon the mountain side, but never till that 
 day before her. 
 
 " I have never thought if I could live- 
 there ; but why do you ask, Mr. Ken ?" 
 said Edith, with that unaffected innocence 
 which would pass for boldness in a London 
 drawing-room, or at a very finishing school. 
 
 " Because I am going to ask you, Edith, 
 if you will let me, to live there with me 
 always." 
 
 " Reuben ! " 
 
 " Yes ; there, Edith — as my wife." 
 
 " But that won't make the church get 
 bigger, will it ? and that's what you came 
 to talk about this afternoon," said Edith, 
 whose warm smile told Reuben that where 
 he could live, she felt that perhaps she 
 might; and that afternoon — for in such 
 matters it is not well to lose much time — 
 instead of at all seeking the threepence that 
 should have made the twenty pounds, the 
 
 two
 
 Crispin Ken, gg 
 
 two fresh hearts, that never could be twain 
 again, laid their burden before Mr. Dane. 
 
 Mr. Dane, who struggled to look firm, 
 said all that on such an occasion might be 
 said. 
 
 He was quite sure that Reuben was not 
 well old enough to marry, and that Edith 
 was much too young ; but in his heart the 
 farmer said, " I will not part them longer 
 than the winter;" and when the winter 
 came round, Reuben thought he should 
 write to his father to tell him of his com- 
 ing marriage ; and his father, who had once 
 said in a fatherly way, " Never let me hear 
 of you again," wrote back to heap fresh 
 city curses on his son. The language of the 
 moneyed man was even foul ; a great way 
 worse than ever. But Reuben Ken, who 
 had known he would be cursed afresh, on 
 Christmas Eve took Edith Dane to his own 
 home ; and on his wedding-day received 
 from Mr. Dane one thousand pounds, and 
 the bit of freehold, that had been for many 
 years between those families a " raw." 
 
 And there was no measure to their love ; 
 F z their
 
 ico Crispin Ken, 
 
 their world lay in that little home. To 
 the one, the care unuttered, was lost in the 
 sympathy that was felt to be supreme. 
 That sympathy which might cast out fear 
 for what could ever be. 
 
 Oh ! days, hours, minutes, what will be 
 their measure, what their span, in the 
 balance of the agonies that shall fret the 
 coil you yet shall step on ? Atoms as they 
 shall be, when you take their reckoning in 
 the past, hold them when you can ; believe 
 in them, before your shrivelling faith shall see 
 in every loveliness a lie. And when it seems 
 you can, take thought that what you grasp, 
 or better said, that what you think you grasp, 
 has no more substance than the pictures of 
 sleep, or the night mists of summer. And 
 when it seems you can, the " when " shall 
 be the "lie," its mockery the "life." — 
 "Ever" shall be the dream — the waking 
 " never." 
 
 CHAP.
 
 IOI 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 Of the First Concession. — Of the Failing 
 Crumb. 
 
 EUBEN KEN hadsufficient cause 
 to have some time learnt, that 
 all within his cure were not of 
 one way of thinking. St. Hilda's 
 being a preferment very little worth the 
 holding — if worth holding at all — although 
 many of its perpetual curates had gone to 
 their rest with their minds made up about 
 it — it had been held, a great way beyond 
 the memory of any one then living, by 
 tolerable men of only a very lax confor- 
 mity. They were of sober life, with the 
 necessary aggregate of its decent observan- 
 ces ; always with large families, which had 
 never done increasing; generally with twins; 
 F 3 sometimes
 
 102 Crispin Ken. 
 
 sometimes with thirteen plain girls ; and 
 with what they believed to be a judicious 
 liking for the " Record," any number of 
 weeks after publication. 
 
 It was not remarkable that church prin- 
 ciples should not take much under their 
 preferment. It was remarkable that they 
 should take anything. It was nothing 
 to them that episcopacy should continue ; 
 but it was everything to them that their 
 preferment should not cease. The differ- 
 ence between the ministry, and the meeting 
 house to them was, that they took their 
 sixty pounds a year, after some sort of cer- 
 tainty. It was not strange that they should 
 be taken very generally for what they 
 seemed ; and the nonconformists of St. 
 Hilda's, who rather overran it, were abun- 
 dantly satisfied that nonconformity, under 
 a rule so little divided, would take no very 
 great hurt. 
 
 This was a negative way of looking at 
 the callousness of the curates, which hardly 
 represented the real satisfaction of schism. 
 Dissent could take no ill whilst the per- 
 petual
 
 Crispin Ken. 103 
 
 petual curates were of such a sort. There 
 was nothing in the Calvinism of the whole 
 succession of ministers, from which it had 
 been possible to dissent. These were no 
 " prayer-book clergymen." The conventi- 
 cle had become the church, and the church 
 was the conventicle. 
 
 Reuben Ken's immediate predecessor — 
 a man who had some very emphatic fancies 
 of his own for what he called "the revision 
 of the liturgy," and would, perhaps, have 
 improved it from the service altogether — 
 had, on one Monday morning, so it was 
 given out, forgotten to send his one sur- 
 plice to the wash ; but nonconformity, if 
 just then without occupation, was still 
 there to applaud, and to superintend. 
 
 It was very delicately represented, that it 
 would make one fold of the place, if the 
 surplice never went to the wash again. 
 There was thought to be a good deal in 
 this, and the " soiled superstition," as the 
 vestment was christened, was put away. 
 
 Conformity at St. Hilda's was after this 
 
 sort, and about at this ebb, when the pre- 
 
 F + ferment,
 
 104 Crispin Ken. 
 
 ferment, after being almost hopelessly re- 
 fused, passed into the hands of Reuben 
 Ken. 
 
 Of church feeling there was none ; no 
 one knew what it meant ; and what little 
 public prayer there was, seemed the mono- 
 poly of schism. 
 
 The " dissenting divines" were the min- 
 isters of accident. There was, a great way 
 before anybody else, a preaching pawn- 
 broker, who had acquired his brilliant de- 
 livery over his duplicates ; and others there 
 were any length behind, tiring to get near 
 him, and catch whatever might be of his 
 inspiration ; but the protestantism of St. 
 Hilda's, it was easy to see, was in the hands 
 and mouth of the pawnbroker. 
 
 This gentleman attended in an official 
 sort of way, the first Sunday of Reuben's 
 coming, to listen to the reading in, and 
 hear the sermon. Everything, it had 
 transpired in some circles, would depend 
 on what took place. The chapel, which 
 had pipes all over it, could be warmed in 
 
 an
 
 Crispin Ken. 10 
 
 o 
 
 an hour, so " Protestant" worship would 
 be secured. 
 
 Reuben Ken, who had only come late 
 on the Friday night, had heard nothing of 
 the " evangelical" church discipline which 
 had bound his predecessors. Some one 
 set to watch had seen what was taken to 
 be a surplice between the church and the 
 Parsonage ; and report in every way con- 
 firmed that the curate, even in those early 
 days, had asked if there was an organ. 
 
 Now, if anything to some people is the 
 chief toy of " Anti-Christ," it is an organ. 
 The pawnbroker when he heard it cleared 
 his throat, — not at all to sing, — that throat 
 on which any organ was an imputation ; 
 and it was gathered from his symptoms, 
 that he thought Protestantism would be 
 likely to take hurt. 
 
 Reuben Ken was perfectly satisfied when, 
 he looked around upon the congregation, 
 that had come to hear him the first morn- 
 ing. There was not an empty seat. It 
 came over him, as he looked on that gather- 
 ing, that it should be the busy work of his 
 F 5 life,
 
 io6~ Crispin Ken. 
 
 life, the work in which he would never 
 tire, to keep those seats there full. But he 
 was very new indeed to that of which he 
 never meant to tire ; and it did not even 
 exceptionally enter into his calculations, 
 the sort of work that there would be. 
 
 His was beyond question a church-going 
 cure. When he came to the first lesson 
 he had begun to think that this was per- 
 haps why it was only sixty pounds a year. 
 The worship was very essentially congre- 
 gational, even if a very little harsh. The 
 clerk was perhaps overpowered by the pawn- 
 broker's immense capacity for continuous 
 response ; but that person was clearly an 
 unsalaried duplicate of the parish stipen- 
 diary. 
 
 Reuben Ken might have seen that the 
 organ spoke, as though it had been some 
 time without speaking, and that the mind 
 of the congregation was clearly set against 
 the instrument returning to so bad a habit. 
 So far, a good deal answered the worst 
 expectations of the pawnbroker. Every- 
 thing would hang about the sermon. That 
 
 would
 
 Crispin Ken. ioj 
 
 would open the chapel, or keep its doors 
 closed. Of all this, it had been taken care, 
 that Reuben Ken should know nothing. 
 He remembered indeed to have sate out 
 some services there with his mother when 
 a boy, but of the ecclesiastical sensitive- 
 ness of St. Hilda's he had everything 
 to learn. What he should wxar would 
 decide a good deal. If he wore nothing 
 outside his coat in the pulpit, the pawn- 
 broker might be got to stay with the fold. 
 But Reuben Ken mounted the pulpit stairs 
 in his surplice. The crisis had come. Any- 
 one in white in that pulpit had never been 
 seen before ; but as there was no vestry 
 there was still the chance, till Reuben 
 had given out the text, that he would yet 
 strip it off and cast it from him. But 
 when Reuben Ken preached there, with- 
 out any excuse for the white thing he stood 
 in, for twenty minutes, and addressed them, 
 chiefly concerning the end of his own 
 coming amongst them, and the authority 
 of the church to set him over them, and 
 although never perhaps was that authority 
 
 F 6 
 
 more
 
 Jo8 Crispin Ken, 
 
 more tenderly and less dogmatically pro- 
 claimed, yet, taken with the unaccountable 
 revival of the organ, and the apparelling of 
 his person in a surplice, an offence had 
 clearly been conveyed, which, it was very 
 necessary to meet at once, and which could 
 be only met in one fashion. 
 
 It was, in a measure, comforting to the 
 critics who had come so far to cavil, when 
 the pawnbroker turned himself about as 
 the surplice innovation had become con- 
 firmed, and nodded in a manner which 
 could not be mistaken, and which brought 
 assurance. The congregation felt that a 
 crisis was imminent, and were very glad 
 that it should be, as they gathered in groups, 
 to see what would come of it, in the church 
 yard. 
 
 Suspense, when so much was at stake, 
 would have been too much for schism; and 
 it was very soon clear that, the pawnbroker 
 had something to say, which would indi- 
 cate the course of action, and he mounted, 
 and clung to a gravestone to say it. 
 
 There was not, perhaps, so much ex- 
 pressed.
 
 Crispin Ken. 109 
 
 pressed. Empires have been saved by a 
 syllable, and churches by a word ; but 
 whilst a chapel in this instance was to be 
 declared open by a sentence, the severest 
 commentary on Mr. Ken's proceedings was 
 understood, when the pawnbroker gave 
 out, as Reuben passed, that there would be 
 " Protestant worship in the chapel that 
 same afternoon at three o'clock." And 
 there was. And Mr. Ken was prayed for 
 and against, by a chapel full ; for, that he 
 might see his peril and be brought to 
 Protestantism ; against, that he and all 
 such, might be cast out of the fold, by some 
 spirited process not just then determined 
 on ; and in this special praying everything 
 appearing in white, and all organs came to 
 be included. 
 
 Later in that day, Mr. Ken's belief, in 
 the liking of his parish for its church, un- 
 derwent some change. There was not so 
 much as a congregation of twelve at church 
 in the afternoon. Perhaps his people dined 
 early and were heavy ; but even he began 
 to suspect that their staying away was 
 
 hardly
 
 no Crispin Ken. 
 
 hardly to be traced to their general over- 
 eating. Something, it was clear, had divi- 
 ded the flock ; and Reuben Ken was told 
 in the evening what he had done. 
 
 The clerk, who was a man of few words, 
 did not seem disposed to tell a great deal ; 
 so Mr. Ken asked him to supper, and 
 during the meal, under some little pres- 
 sure, the cause of offence came out. 
 
 Reuben Ken would have conceded any- 
 thing for " peace." He thought much 
 more highly of peace, than of principles. 
 He could understand people dying for 
 peace, but he could not at all understand 
 that any one could be burnt for principles. 
 He respected orthodoxy, but he liked to get 
 it without discussion. He liked things de- 
 cently done. He had not an irreverential 
 mind, but he did not know — and he would 
 much rather not know — when to relax and 
 when to be firm. Reuben Ken in this 
 matter has so many imitators, that it is not 
 hard to understand how he was always 
 giving in, when he should have been the 
 rather holding out. He thought very well 
 
 on 

 
 Crispin Ken. 1 1 1 
 
 on the whole of the Articles, but he had sub- 
 scribed to them chiefly as a matter of peace. 
 If the Liturgy was in any manner hateful 
 to those without the church, it was as well, 
 he thought, that they should be conciliated. 
 No one could ever tell where the church- 
 manship of Reuben Ken ended or began. 
 He would have resigned his cure to have 
 escaped controversy. 
 
 Since the ministry of Reuben Ken, the 
 ordinances of the church — as the present 
 age abundantly evidences — have so come to 
 be lightly regarded, and unfaithfully minis- 
 tered by, an unsatisfied and undistinguished 
 section of the clergy, who seek to set up their 
 conscience as the excuse for their cavilling. 
 This miserable latitudinarianism, whilst it 
 hinders and scandalises the Establishment, 
 does not lessen schism. The spirit of con- 
 cession only just stops short — if it does stop 
 there — of a virtual surrender of the Li- 
 turgy ; and whilst it so stops short, it is 
 concession thrown away. 
 
 It was so with Reuben Ken ; and to get 
 back his congregation, who would not sit 
 
 out
 
 ii 2 Crispin Ken. 
 
 out the service that he was set over them 
 to administer, he was prepared to sur- 
 render everything that could give effect to 
 his authority. The dissenters, as is not 
 exceptional, accepted his concession, but 
 they did not close their chapel. 
 
 " You see, it's the organ a playing again 
 of a sudden that they couldn't bear ; and 
 that white gown," said the clerk, " the 
 gennelman afore you never thought the 
 more than nothing, of wearing anything 
 upon him but his coat, and put a stop to 
 the organ." 
 
 " But, my good friend, I don't insist 
 upon an organ ; pray, can't this be under- 
 stood ? I'm for peace, where it's possible. 
 I don't think much of a surplice, though 
 I can't preach in my coat. It wouldn't 
 do ; I should be certainly admonished by 
 my bishop." 
 
 " That's where it is you've gone and hit 
 it ; directly you begin in this place to talk 
 of bishops, and them sort of people, it's 
 all up with you. A bishop ain't of no 
 account here ; it isn't worth thinking 
 
 about :
 
 Crispin Ken. 113 
 
 about ; for the gennelman who was here 
 afore you gave up everything clean, so that 
 there wasn't nothing left, and then they 
 wasn't pleased." 
 
 "But," continued Reuben, casting about 
 to see how much more he might give 
 away to keep the peace, " I could have 
 congregational singing to be sure, which, 
 after all, is perhaps the simplest ; and I 
 will preach in a black gown. I particularly 
 wish to avoid giving offence by any pre- 
 judices — by any extremes. Who is this 
 preacher at the chapel ? if he would come 
 over and see me, I feel that these differences 
 would cease, and that I could at least as- 
 sure him." 
 
 " You be like all the rest of 'em as ever 
 came here," said the clerk. " It's no use 
 giving way, and I told 'em so ; and it's less 
 use now than ever it was. No one after a 
 bit, will see what's the difference between 
 you and him. If it's the pawnbroker that 
 you be meaning, and wanting to see, it ain't 
 quite likely that he'll come to you ; he 
 doesn't reckon that you're as good as him, 
 
 and
 
 114 Crispin Ken. 
 
 and I don't know that he'd see you for 
 certain if you went to him." 
 
 These were some of the prospects of his 
 parish that opened up to the perpetual 
 curate of St. Hilda's the great, the first 
 Sunday that he came amongst his people ; 
 and in the next six weeks every concession 
 that he could offer was put into the scale, 
 but they went for nothing. It only ended 
 in the chapel pipes being looked to ; the 
 efforts he subsequently made to enlarge 
 the church were accepted only as a chal- 
 lenge to the work of the dissenters ; and it 
 would have been quite sufficiently hard to 
 say, in what the conventicle differed from 
 the church, or the church from the con- 
 venticle. 
 
 And after this and a worse sort, was the 
 struggle which the perpetual curate had, 
 by his own weakness, brought to some 
 strength, when Reuben married Edith 
 Dane ; and as he took her home, he 
 could only hopelessly talk to her of what 
 he had conceded, in what he had not 
 gained. 
 
 Edith
 
 Crispin Ken. 115 
 
 Edith had seen through her husband's 
 want of purpose, in some measure before 
 they were married ; and she now compre- 
 hended it entirely, when one morning after 
 listening to what he had to say, and hear- 
 ing him blame every cause but the right 
 one, she hinted, whether he were not per- 
 haps assimilating his own services, a great 
 way too nearly to those of the noncon- 
 formists, and to such lengths, that, it was 
 not easy for a parish easily confused, to say 
 whether, the church or the chapel was the 
 least likeness of the Establishment. 
 
 But Reuben Ken, even with his wife's 
 words to rally him, was not to be got to 
 see anything in such a light. He had 
 seen everything so much the other way 
 that he did not take at all to the new view. 
 He had not liked shutting up the organ, 
 and being driven to preach in a black 
 gown, and apologising in many different 
 forms for the authority of his own office. 
 But he had actively begun at the wrong 
 end ; he meant to carry this end right 
 through, believing it to be the right one. 
 
 He
 
 1 1 6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 He had conceded everything, and in the 
 adding up it came to him that he had car- 
 ried nothing. 
 
 The perpetual curacy of St. Hilda's, as 
 a preferment, was, either a toy for a man 
 who might be already beneficed over much, 
 or a spare, and a bare living at the best, to 
 those, who had in some earnest, to look to 
 the living, for what they and theirs should 
 take to eat. Indeed the state of things 
 was a very regular one. St. Hilda's had 
 been variably held by a pluralist, and by a 
 pauper. 
 
 Neither Reuben Ken nor his wife found 
 that sixty pounds a year went very far. 
 Edith, indeed, had pretty much the mea- 
 sure of their means. She knew how 
 many days in the week she dared to set a 
 piece of gravy meat upon the table, and 
 how many days she did not dare to set it 
 there ; but there are times, even as the 
 wives of clergymen so beneficed must 
 know, when contriving itself becomes de- 
 moralised and out of sorts, and even the 
 candle ends have not another end to serve. 
 
 As
 
 Crispin Ken. ny 
 
 As getting the church to a more likely 
 size, had first brought Reuben and his wife 
 together, how to bring its greater size 
 about, with such a nonconforming element 
 against them, was the first difficulty that 
 they brought their blended life to face. 
 They had faith that there would be bread 
 to fill any number of mouths ; but their 
 faith was nothing like so large in church 
 extension. 
 
 Mr. Dane had dowered his daughter 
 with a thousand pounds, which was not 
 an indifferent sum to put by ; and it was 
 worth so much the more because it was 
 theirs to do what they would with it ; and 
 what they w T ould do with it, was to give it 
 to the church. If Mr. Dane could have 
 seen this very decent sum dropped over 
 their Utopian plan of free seats, he would 
 have tied it up a good deal tighter. They 
 thought then, that something could be 
 done on sixty pounds a year ; and that to 
 sink a thousand pounds under a church, 
 was getting rid of a responsibility to them- 
 selves,
 
 1 1 8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 selves, in a manner that would save some 
 souls. 
 
 A gentleman, who had testimonials 
 from Mr. Pugin, was commissioned to do 
 what he thought would be best with the 
 thousand pounds ; and what that gentle- 
 man, by what he did, thought best, was 
 seemingly a very little, for a good moiety 
 of the six hundred bodies could never any 
 the more get inside. Had Mr. Dane sur- 
 vived, the little church would have re- 
 mained little ; but he died suddenly in the 
 early spring ; and when they had buried 
 him away, Reuben and his wife hardly 
 dared remind each other, that they were 
 left to face the w^orld alone, on sixty pounds 
 a year. 
 
 It will never be told that they ever came 
 to be worse than they were. What they 
 passed through, will be written as their 
 record — written as those thin fingers left 
 it. If it may seem too hard to have be- 
 longed to their being, it is a bit of the 
 book of their lives. 
 
 Their first born came upon St. Crispin's 
 
 day.
 
 Crispin Ken. i to, 
 
 day. And whether it was, because, as Edith 
 said, when she was minded of a week's 
 account, that in those early days was 
 hard to meet, her third cousin, once re- 
 moved, who was called Crispin, might do 
 something for them — whether it was after 
 the third cousin, once removed, or whether 
 it was after the saint, the boy was chris- 
 tened Crispin. 
 
 This third cousin once removed heard 
 of the way he had been thought of, over 
 the font, with very remarkable emotion ; 
 and he knew, or he thought he knew — and 
 it was the only side of nature which in the 
 counting-house he had ever known — that 
 taking the name given to him at his bap- 
 tism, was meant to be a moral lien upon as 
 much of his undisposed of property as might 
 be. The way he did business himself, and 
 the great ends that came of it, made it very 
 necessary that he should be everlastingly 
 suspicious ; so he sent for his solicitor, and 
 strengthened the approaches to his pro- 
 perty accordingly. It was very horrible 
 for him to think that anybody with his 
 
 name
 
 i2o Crispin Ken. 
 
 name would ever come to him to ask for 
 anything that he had left upon his plate 
 to eat ; and it was likely that this was all 
 that would ever come of the compliment. 
 A man, he thought, who with sixty pounds 
 a year, could sink a whole thousand pounds 
 under a church, would never have the sink- 
 ing of a groat of his. He reserved his re- 
 spect for only those, who could show by 
 large evidences, that they knew the value of 
 money. 
 
 Within the first ten years of their mar- 
 ried life three children were born to them. 
 When the first had come, there were ugly 
 seemings that there was quite enough, for 
 another sixty pounds a year to do. But 
 Reuben Ken, thought only of the blessing 
 that was on his home, when Edith called 
 on him to love a daughter ; for before all, 
 in' that little one the mother spoke ; and 
 she was christened Mona. The third gave 
 a brother to Crispin, and him they called 
 John. 
 
 But little Jack, by which name he soon 
 came to be the better known, was lame, 
 
 and
 
 Crispin Ken. T2 r 
 
 and lame it was said — unless by a miracle, 
 which the doctor did not apprehend would 
 ever be worked in such a place as St. 
 Hilda's — he would be so long as he lived ; 
 and it might be, it was told, that he would 
 grow less comely, if he grew at all, every 
 day till he was laid down to die. 
 
 And in these times, what the sixty 
 pounds a year could do, grew less. But 
 Edith's heart, was set on keeping the hard 
 knowledge of this back from Reuben ; and 
 how she did it, only the wife who has stood 
 where she stood, can come out from her own 
 life's labour, and can tell. But it well may 
 be, that the agony, which has never seemed 
 to suffer, whilst the smile has beamed its 
 ever love, as the coverlet must go to get a 
 crust, has never yet been told. The cry 
 for bread rung in her ears, and she must 
 find the bread, and not let ever so little of 
 the cry ring in bis ear. She cannot say to 
 bim that they have come to be short of 
 bread ; she cannot say to them, as they fol- 
 low her from emptiness to emptiness, and 
 hang to her thin dress, that their cry, the 
 vol. t. G cry
 
 12,2 Crispin Ken. 
 
 cry of the flesh and blood of a clergyman, 
 is short of reason. This, where an appear- 
 ance must be kept, and bread must be got, 
 is where woman is the chiefest hope of 
 home ; where hunger stands by the hearth 
 side, and those there withering up, have 
 learned where hope may end. The cry of 
 the least of her little ones, has driven her 
 to the locker that she knows to be a void. 
 She hears the father promise bread. She 
 hears the footfall of the youngest nearing 
 her to get its crust ; and when its little 
 head is on her breast, she must stay that 
 weakening cry ; but it shall be suffered her 
 that time to save ; and she shall know how 
 nearly by too much, a bit of bread was 
 quite beyond their reach. 
 
 Through years, Edith Ken had been so 
 tried. The whole house would look to 
 her. Sixty pounds a year, when times 
 are at their best, does not contemplate a 
 servant, even of all work. A servant 
 would have liked, as little as might be, the 
 fare on which it was perhaps a marvel that 
 they did not die ; and without, and beyond, 
 the decencies of clerical life, — for the sake 
 
 of
 
 Crispin Ken. 123 
 
 of the church, — had to be preserved. The 
 church gave sixty pounds a year, and so of 
 course expected it. You cannot, however 
 you may set about it, get a mixed popula- 
 tion, to think well all round of a clergy- 
 man, who has butcher's meat just once a 
 week, and says a special grace for that. 
 Considerations in the main, not absolutely 
 favourable to church principles, will come 
 up; and the sensualist, who likes everything 
 comfortable, and well ground down to the 
 corner, of what he believes to be the religion 
 to which he clings, thinks it ever so great, 
 a pity that, clergymen do not do such 
 things, as will enable them to get a bit of 
 meat at less rare intervals. 
 
 For the first ten years of the hard struggle, 
 that was ever getting harder, very little of 
 the curate's need was known beyond his 
 door. Indeed, with Edith there, and with 
 her many ways of keeping back the worst, 
 he had not felt the keenest of their wants 
 himself. When he was called to eat, the 
 loaf was whole. He had never seen the 
 last crust hidden in a corner ; and what 
 G 2 with
 
 j 24 Crispin Ken. 
 
 with his parish, which he worked well 
 meaningly, whilst he was ever thinking 
 out some fresh concession ; and his two 
 boys who did not look so sickly, though 
 they had been sparely fed, Reuben Ken, as 
 should every parish priest, refrained him- 
 self from taking pupils. 
 
 About this time he seems to have begun 
 an unconnected diary, and to have con- 
 tinued it at varying intervals over many 
 years. At one place it is written : 
 
 " Dec. 4th. — This day I have had to pay 
 the doctor's bill, which seemed a long 
 one ; but I may not think so, for we have 
 all been sick at times of late. He has 
 dealt fairly with me, and it is for two 
 years' watchfulness of Jack, whose leg I 
 fear the rather shortens. I must give up 
 something to pay this doctor's bill. I 
 have told Edith she must stay all butcher's 
 meat for a short season. She says we 
 shall do well ; but I do not know how we 
 can do much worse. I would not tell 
 her this, but I must be for weeks without 
 a shilling in the house." 
 
 "Jan.
 
 Crispin Ken. 125 
 
 "Jan. 1st. — I have parted with a little 
 furniture this new year's day ; we have 
 not now a chair a piece ; but Edith says 
 we can yet awhile keep all the beds, for 
 which I am thankful. I hope my people 
 will not get to hear of this, as they may 
 think the less well of my ministry." 
 
 " June yd. — I have much sorrow that 
 Jack, who is my chief grief, can no longer 
 get his left leg to the ground. I am told 
 that I should give him as much port wine 
 as he can drink, and that nothing else can 
 serve him. Then his little foot must go 
 on shrinking, and I must give back my 
 boy. This night I have not a shilling to 
 buy bread." 
 
 " Nov. 4-tb.- — My wife has got a chill ; 
 she will not tell me how bad it is, so I 
 am forced to guess ; but she says her 
 cough is nothing. It has been nothing, 
 I fear to think, too long. It has been a 
 great time with her, and she seems to 
 waste." 
 
 "Dec. 1st. — I am sick myself to-day. 
 
 I can only just crawl about the room, and 
 
 G 3 am
 
 12,6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 am very weak. I do not complain ; for 
 up till now, God has always given me my 
 health. Edith says that she is better ; 
 but the doctor does not say so much 
 about it. 
 
 " Two of the bedsteads went to-day to 
 get Edith blankets. I pray God that I 
 may always bear His will. There is no 
 bread for to-morrow. Jack's clothes are 
 past mending, and Mona cannot work as 
 once." 
 
 " Dec. 2,0th. — This day has my cow 
 been seized, and the sow will go to- 
 morrow. We are in a great strait. Mona 
 has her mother's cough. Jack is now so 
 nearly naked, that he cannot go decently 
 abroad. Crispin is a great comfort to 
 me, but I wish he took more kindly to 
 concession. We have fasted these last 
 twelve hours through. We want food 
 sorely, every one. I pray God I may not 
 come to beg ; but I do not know how we 
 shall face the morrow ; for He does not 
 give us now our daily bread." 
 
 CHAP.
 
 I2 7 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 The Grave in the Sand. 
 
 HERE is a great, and what may 
 be a meaning, gap in the diary 
 of Reuben Ken after the day 
 the sow was seized ; so for a 
 while there is no record how they got, or 
 went without, their daily bread. 
 
 It may indeed be better said there 
 are all the means of believing, that for a 
 while they got none ; but then better 
 things it seems had come upon them, and 
 these better things for a little while had 
 seemed to stay. 
 
 Some one with a herd of beasts gave 
 
 them a dun cow, that there were, it was 
 
 believed, very sufficient reasons for believing, 
 
 would never at the best of times yield a 
 
 G 4 quart
 
 12,8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 quart of milk again. But these veterinary 
 and friendly calculations, were in the end 
 at fault, and so it turned out that no dry 
 beast was the gift cow. 
 
 It was nearly twenty years since the day 
 Reuben Ken had read himself in at the 
 little church of St. Hilda's the great — 
 since ever the organ had been heard to 
 speak, — since he had unwittingly aired, 
 what he dared to call, the authority of his 
 office in a surplice, — and the pawnbroker, 
 who had been the while moving on to his 
 meridian as a minister, was still the better 
 man. 
 
 Reuben Ken, in those twenty years, had 
 gone through a great deal, and had every 
 year found out the more, that sixty pounds 
 was less than he could live on. When he 
 had not suffered as much, as most about him 
 did, it was only when he had suffered more. 
 
 No one could say that the conscience of 
 the perpetual curate was ever, at the hard- 
 est times, far away from what he did. He 
 gave more than a little of all the little that 
 he had ; and when his weaknesses are for- 
 gotten,
 
 Crispin Ken. izg 
 
 gotten, and he has been laid away, there 
 shall steal back a genial memory of what 
 he did, with what he had, that even here, 
 where there is no stone above him, shall 
 speak over his dust, better than though it 
 spoke in marble. For other than this, there 
 shall be no big stone. But the little ones, 
 on whom he ever gently laid his hand, and 
 blessed them as he passed along, — too often 
 empty returning to his emptiness at home 
 — shall cease their play over his head, where 
 the grass grows green, and hold their breath, 
 — when they think of the things, that tell 
 of what he did, to those who came before 
 them — and not play out their marbles there. 
 Reuben Ken had only made up his full 
 mind to this one thing ; he only knew 
 that he wanted peace. " If," as he would 
 say — struggling for union, and getting 
 the while the further from it — " the dis- 
 senters do not like a surplice, why should 
 I wear one when I preach ?" and he rea- 
 soned within himself that there was a good 
 deal in this, so he put away the white for 
 the black ; but the dissenters, who neither 
 G 5 liked
 
 130 Crispin Ken. 
 
 liked the signs of white nor black, did not 
 somehow turn to fill his church. 
 
 There are a great many Reuben Kens, 
 without his heart or his simplicity — not 
 only in proprietary chapels and " Evangeli- 
 cal" preferments — on whom the laying on 
 of hands has not been well; with all the 
 weaknesses of the curate of St. Hilda's, 
 and yet without his lively meaning to keep 
 straight. 
 
 Reuben Ken, it is here protested, must 
 not be written down — or written up it 
 perhaps should be, — an " Evangelical." 
 
 If he had been set down for life where 
 nonconformity had a lesser hold, Reuben 
 Ken would have put out the colours of 
 a churchman. He liked things decently 
 done. He saw the ritual betrayed, with a 
 good deal of applause about the betrayal, 
 at the hands of hundreds eating the bread 
 of the church, and carrying that bread 
 about in sheets of the " Record." 
 
 Reuben Ken thought the betrayal grie- 
 vous enough ; but he did not see in how 
 much he was betraying it himself. 
 
 It
 
 Crispin Ken. 131 
 
 It was quite the same with his schools, 
 if not after a sort, perhaps a little worse. 
 The pawnbroker had been zealous to pack 
 a committee. Mr. Ken might well have 
 been too much for the packing, have ral- 
 lied the churchmen, and have said a good 
 deal to the purpose about the church hold- 
 ing her own; but this seemed to him of 
 all things, just another great occasion for 
 concession. 
 
 If the dissenters were anxious to join 
 churchmenon their own ground, he thought 
 it would be well to go out to meet them. 
 If they wanted, as it seemed they did, to 
 help to sow the good seed in the virgin 
 soil, should their zeal, he asked, be made a 
 reproach to them ? It is not easy for those 
 who look on and give judgment now, to 
 understand at all, why any perpetual curate 
 should have been so largely fooled, and why 
 he did not see, what so irresistibly brought 
 the dissenters, to have a little digging in 
 the virgin soil. 
 
 So the virgin soil was, as soon as might 
 
 be, a dirt where nothing orthodox would 
 g 6 ever
 
 i $2 Crispin Ken. 
 
 ever grow ; and the concession, whilst it 
 went to paralyse the hands of the church, 
 did not conciliate any one dissenter. 
 
 There were large openings, and the dis- 
 senters trooping up crept in, and thereout 
 they took nothing to their own advantage 
 that was very small. 
 
 It was the same with the book club, and 
 the parish reading-room. The pawnbroker, 
 who was as ever, too much for the perpetual 
 curate, after having got divers prints of his 
 own sort, played a great game ; and the 
 great game that the pawnbroker played took 
 this sort of line. With an air amounting 
 to benevolence, he proposed the " Record" 
 as a genial thing for " church " reading. 
 Reuben Ken, who on sixty pounds a year 
 had never given any part of it to a church 
 newspaper, did not at all know how far the 
 "Record" might exhaust church sympa- 
 thies ; but the pawnbroker's offer was too 
 much for the curate. It spoke, said Reuben 
 Ken, a great deal for the liberality of a dif- 
 fering brother, and perhaps too, it said some- 
 thing for the " Record." 
 
 But
 
 Crispin Ken. 133 
 
 But the kindliness of Reuben Ken had 
 in those twenty years got for him, as well 
 it might, a friend or two without his parish; 
 and in his parish, others would have grouped 
 themselves about him, long before the 
 twenty years had been but ten, had it been 
 evidenced, however little, that he knew 
 anything of the philosophy of not giving 
 up a point, when so much depended on 
 holding the point the tightest. 
 
 Reuben Ken had been in the class list 
 himself; and at nineteen it was believed 
 that Crispin, if he could have the oppor- 
 tunity, was quite likely to do even better 
 things, even in the same way. 
 
 And he had the luck to have his chance 
 of getting to those better things. 
 
 A neighbouring squire, whose heart kept 
 company w r ith his purse — nor could the 
 one at any time reproach the other — and 
 perhaps had a tendency to plethora, man- 
 aged, as with such it is not hard to manage, 
 without letting Reuben Ken know why 
 or how he did it, to introduce himself to 
 Crispin, and in the end to set him over 
 
 his
 
 j 34 Crispin Ken, 
 
 his two sons ; and this was done as de- 
 cently as such things can be, when the 
 offer does not seem to tell the offered of 
 his little means. 
 
 The squire indeed had come to hear — 
 and perhaps it might be, that all his life 
 through he had laid himself out for hear- 
 ing just such things — how the sow went, 
 and how the cow was fetched away, years 
 after they had suffered, as security; and he 
 took occasion to ask the curate to dinner 
 in a friendly way. 
 
 A dinner in "a friendly way " may 
 mean a table on which there is but little 
 set, and an apology or two for setting out 
 so little, whilst it was never meant to set 
 out more ; but this was not that squire's 
 friendly sort of dinner. 
 
 The curate had not dined away from 
 home — he and his children reckoned up — 
 for fifteen years; and it was quite the work 
 of a week to get him fit, and Reuben Ken 
 was never very fit, even after all was done ; 
 but Edith, who had sewed up his clothes, 
 and nearly conquered every breaking out, 
 
 said
 
 Crispin Ken, 135 
 
 said " he would do ;" and perhaps this was 
 the more sure to her, because her husband 
 wore her father's cast-off coat. 
 
 After dinner, the squire found the way 
 to make the curate drink a good deal of 
 dry wine. 
 
 The squire kept filling the curate's glass, 
 till the curate seemed to think that many 
 things were multiplied about him. But 
 nothing set aside the thought, that this 
 was the wine the doctor said which Edith 
 ought to drink ; and in the end he did not 
 greatly wonder at the doctor's faith in it. 
 
 The squire drew up his legs, and got 
 himself well together in his great arm- 
 chair, and, holding his glass up to the 
 light, said, "It's a pleasant wine, Mr. Ken, 
 though I say it ; it hasn't lost its body. 
 What do you think of it ? It was bottled 
 in '14. Nothing of the cork about it, eh ? 
 and it keeps its colour wonderfully. That 
 green seal made the fortune of two genera- 
 tions." 
 
 " It's very fine, remarkably fine," said 
 the curate, wondering how much a little 
 
 seal
 
 136 Crispin Ken. 
 
 seal in green could do ; " and it doesn't 
 seem to have lost its body. Perhaps it is 
 a little strong, but I do not wonder that 
 the doctor recommends it. My medical 
 man, says nothing but this port wine can 
 get back Edith's — that is, my wife's — 
 tone." 
 
 " God bless you, my dear sir, this isn't 
 what the doctors send the women ; they 
 don't put this seal to a lady's wine," said 
 the squire, who began to think that some 
 of his '48 full flavoured would be good 
 enough for his guest. " Have you tasted 
 port like that these twenty years ? don't 
 you feel that it gets hold of you ? did you 
 ever see such a crust ? There, sir ; I 
 wouldn't take ten pounds a dozen." 
 
 Reuben Ken, who had been reduced to 
 a good many crusts, with a very good 
 conscience could remember nothing of the 
 kind for twenty years ; and as he sat there 
 wondering that there should be a crust in 
 his glass which he could not see, he had 
 some time believed, that it must have got 
 hold of him, even as his host described. 
 
 Within
 
 Crispin Ken. 137 
 
 Within a week, a dozen of the green 
 seal came to the curate's wife, with the 
 squire's compliments — the squire fearing 
 it would be shaken to death. 
 
 " Take another glass, my friend, it 
 won't hurt you," said the curate's new 
 neighbour ; but the curate, who had been 
 seeing a duplicate squire this long time, 
 and more green seals than one, was not to 
 be over persuaded. 
 
 " Well, well, do as you like, but I want 
 to have just a word with you about that 
 eldest lad of yours. What do you mean 
 to do with him ?" 
 
 This was a hard thing for Reuben Ken 
 to answer there and then ; it had been 
 some time well to have thought of this, for 
 Crispin had left the lad behind him a good 
 way. He was too old for the sea ; besides 
 he couldn't climb ; and besides, his mother 
 then never could have borne to have heard 
 the wind at night. 
 
 It had been thought of binding him to 
 an attorney, who had woke up one morn- 
 ing, and had bethought himself to take 
 
 Crispin
 
 138 Crispin Ken, 
 
 Crispin Ken to do his dirty work — the 
 proper regular dirty work — for nothing ; 
 but before nightfall, the attorney had cal- 
 culated, that such a lift in life was clearly 
 above being given away. So Crispin Ken 
 was delivered from the law. 
 
 It was just then, after the failure of the 
 attorney's benevolence, one of the curate's 
 chiefest cares, what he should do with 
 Crispin. 
 
 " Indeed I have not thought. I must 
 see what I can best afford." 
 
 "That's wrong," said the squire, " never 
 think of a stint over a start ; send him to 
 Oxford, and make a gentleman of him." 
 
 There was no doubt about this being 
 quite the right thing to do. The curate 
 winced, and the squire went on. 
 
 " I shall send him there myself, if you 
 don't. It's a pity to see such a great lad, 
 and such a likely lad, milking that cow of, 
 yours, Mr. Ken." 
 
 The curate found it very hard to sit up 
 there. Whether it was the red wine get- 
 ing a further hold he did not know, but so 
 
 far
 
 Crispin Ken. 139 
 
 far as he knew anything of what was going 
 on, the squire seemed to him to be talking 
 strangely. 
 
 " My good friend/' said Reuben, as 
 what the squire meant began to dawn, 
 " God knows that I would thank you, but 
 I cannot — cannot." 
 
 " And what right have you to say any- 
 thing about it ? I shan't let that great lad 
 milk your cow — don't stop me — you're 
 putting it all out of my head. I know 
 you can't send the boy to Oxford. I 
 know it isn't your fault : some day some 
 people will have a great deal to say about 
 a curate getting less than a butler who 
 is at all particular ; but you are all alike ; 
 it's just the same with every one of you 
 poor devils ; you can't help yourselves, 
 and won't let others help you. There's 
 no need for any explanation. I shall send 
 that lad of yours to Oxford." 
 
 Reuben Ken began to feel that every- 
 thing about him told its story ; it was no 
 good to button up his coat ; the cloth 
 was much too sensitive to stand coercion. 
 
 Nothing
 
 140 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Nothing could get his trousers down 
 where they should be, shake them as he 
 might, whilst both his boots let in the 
 rain. It was no good to try to set aside 
 what he was ; he was at best a very 
 ragged man. He could see the squire 
 looking at his coat, and at his waistcoat, 
 which had been made two decades ago for 
 a much larger man ; and hardly knowing 
 where he was, or what he said, or what 
 he did, he tried to thank the squire, and 
 then, which was perhaps as hard, he tried 
 to go. 
 
 " I tell you, you shall have another glass 
 before you leave this room. I see what it 
 is ; you're afraid of it ; you've got into 
 your head that it's the doctor's wine. It 
 won't hurt you, man," and the squire 
 poured out another bumper of the ancient 
 wine. 
 
 Reuben Ken had the while escaped into 
 the hall for his hat and coat ; for he did 
 not know what he might say with more 
 of that wine in him ; but the squire 
 was jealous for the '14 port ; and Reuben 
 
 Ken,
 
 Crispin Ken. 141 
 
 Ken, who always liked concession, for 
 peace, was forced to drink it. 
 
 " Don't you forget about that lad of 
 yours, Mr. Ken ; and I don't think by the 
 look of him, that he ought to milk your 
 cow much longer." 
 
 When the curate had fairly got away, 
 and had told them all at home as well as 
 he could, — and it came out by odd bits at 
 a time, — something about Oxford, and 
 '14, and green seals, and what the squire 
 had it in his head to do for Crispin, 
 so oddly did the curate talk, that no one, 
 when he reached the climax, much be- 
 lieved him. 
 
 But when the next day came, and over 
 the breakfast table, his story, if not quite 
 so garnished, did not vary, and to make it 
 surer, a message came down from the 
 squire for Crispin Ken, with a note, some- 
 thing about large lads being fit for better 
 things than milking cows, and a cheque 
 with which to go to Oxford, when he 
 would, it seemed as though they were out 
 of those times which were so hard to bear, 
 
 and
 
 142 Crispin Ken. 
 
 and that that time had come, when they 
 should sorrow, after no sort, as they had. 
 
 4 'We will have a bit of meat on 
 Sunday," said Edith ; " won't it be nice ?" 
 and it might have seemed to those who 
 looked upon her, that that bit of meat had 
 only come in time. 
 
 " And Mr. Wycherley could come and 
 dine," suggested Mona, 
 
 " And we needn't sell the pig/' said 
 Jack. 
 
 Jack thought that no deliverance could 
 go much beyond the saving of the pigs, 
 for he had petted a lean sow. 
 
 But Reuben Ken spoke not at all. His 
 wife stole to his side, and gently there 
 crept up to them both, the other three. 
 
 They could not tell how they should 
 keep that day. It was the first time, for 
 more years than any of them could say, 
 that they could dare take thought for the 
 morrow. It was quite a new sensation ; 
 and as though the thought in an instant 
 had been born in each, as one, they kneeled 
 down there. 
 
 But
 
 Crispin Ken. 143 
 
 But there was a great deal to be done, 
 and a great many to do it, whilst Crispin 
 was yet at his home, and they took their 
 meals more regularly. When one was 
 done, the speculation was less as to when 
 the next should be. The bit of meat was 
 realised ; the pigs did not change hands, 
 but got a wash more generous ; and, to 
 make it all as well as it could be, Mona's 
 suggestion was considered, and then car- 
 ried out. Mr. Wycherley was there, and 
 sat next to Mona. 
 
 Great things had come to pass, within 
 and without St. Hilda's, the past twelve 
 months, and not the least part was, that 
 there was always something now to eat 
 at the parsonage. 
 
 The Rev. John Wycherley had been 
 collated perpetual curate of St. Hilda's the 
 less, a preferment valued roughly at 55L 
 per annum, with certain inexorable out- 
 goings ; and where the absence of means 
 in either cure was so definite, the sym- 
 pathy between the two curates was soon 
 in a measure reciprocal. 
 
 Mr.
 
 T44 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Mr. Ken had lived on 6ol. a year for 
 twenty years. He had solved the problem, 
 of how it could be done, as nearly as could 
 be. And so they ate, and they drank 
 together, when between them there had 
 been anything to eat or drink ; and that 
 John Wycherley was often the guest of 
 Reuben Ken, might have had something 
 of a special interest for Mona. 
 
 John Wycherley was a man, whose heart 
 and mind, were alike spells to the heart 
 and mind of such a girl as Mona. He 
 was not handsome. He would have been 
 criticised very hardly, had he been called 
 to fill some London pulpits. He was not 
 well looking ; but amidst the minds that 
 chain society, John Wycherley would not 
 have stood unnoticed in a corner. He 
 did not talk at all the average of nonsense, 
 whilst he never set up for a satirist. No 
 one better knew the measure of the hollow 
 world about him. His mind was of a rare 
 order ; and it was of an order, not to be 
 lightly turned in its full force, on any girl 
 so sensitive as Mona ; and to bring them 
 
 even
 
 Crispin Ken, 145 
 
 even more together, as their sympathies 
 were very much the same, so were their 
 circumstances not unlike. 
 
 Mona first began herself to learn, that 
 Wycherley was not indifferent to her, and 
 it may be said, nor she to him, when he 
 was first taught to feel, that it was not so 
 very possible a thing, decently to live on 
 50/., or thereabouts, a year. 
 
 And Mona, fresh and beautiful herself, 
 soon fixed her ideal in John Wycherley ; 
 in the man of so much power, committed 
 to so small a sphere. When he came to 
 her feet, with 50/. a year to back what he 
 would say, Mona, whose loveliness was 
 known beyond that little cure, might once 
 have married well, very well, the world 
 would say. But the city man, with his 
 thousands, and his thousand friends, looked 
 sickly and yellow in the light of the day ; 
 and Mona started from his rhapsodies on 
 gain, and from his parchment skin. 
 
 Reuben Ken, who, as any father would, 
 might well have liked to see her better in 
 the world, was very glad when she sent 
 
 vol. 1. H back
 
 146 Crispin Ken. 
 
 back the rich man ; but where she and 
 Wycherley would be, with only 50/. a year, 
 was very hard to say. 
 
 It was about this time, as near as might 
 be, when it first got about, that the Hall 
 was taken by Ruy Lyle, one of those men, 
 who are looked upon as the agreeable 
 agents of every sort of good, and as 
 powers in what is called, by some mis- 
 calling, the " religious world." 
 
 But the man, who had bought the Hall, 
 represented this religious world, with some 
 success in his own person. The profane, 
 it was believed, were, in a measure, power- 
 less, so long as he paid his subscriptions ; 
 and the " religious world," with instincts 
 gathered from the other world, liked his 
 rich voice, with none the less a fuller lik- 
 ing, because his monies, it was said, could 
 not be told. 
 
 Such a man as this, the curate thought, 
 would be, ever so much, too much for the 
 pawnbroker ; and, perhaps, just then, when 
 things seemed mending, the curate's only 
 care was for his wife ; and Edith, even with 
 
 the
 
 Crispin Ken. 147 
 
 the '14 port, did not seem to get more 
 strength. 
 
 The doctor said, whilst he did not seem 
 to say it hopefully, but only because he 
 must say something, that change of air 
 might work out well, if she was not already 
 too far gone ; and an offer made to Reuben 
 Ken about that time, to take some mis- 
 sionary work near Aden, determined him, 
 for a season to leave his cure, in the good 
 hands of Wycherley. 
 
 It was to be made worth the curate's 
 while to leave his cure for three years ; that 
 is, for the first time since ever he could 
 remember anything, it would be worth his 
 while for what he should get. 
 
 With a wife wasting away before his 
 eyes, who never quite ceased by night or 
 day to cough, arid whose strength, as it 
 seemed to slip away, must somehow be 
 kept in her ; with one boy a cripple, who 
 should have fed more heartily than he 
 could feed, to be got in limb like other 
 men ; and with a daughter who must be 
 specially cared for, or go out to take the 
 H 2 entire
 
 T48 Crispin Ken. 
 
 entire charge of other people's children, 
 and take her share of other people's indif- 
 ference, — Reuben Ken, at forty-three, 
 sat down to see how the future could be 
 met. 
 
 There were two hundred pounds a year 
 tor him, every year he stayed at Aden. 
 Here was nearly four times as much, as the 
 cure of souls at home could bring. The 
 doctor who had gone for change of air, now 
 saw cause to go against it, and said that 
 the sand of Aden would be quite the death 
 of Edith in a month ; but the curate 
 thought, that he could keep out any sand 
 with two hundred pounds a year. He 
 measured what he should do with those 
 two hundred pounds, by what he had done 
 upon the sixty, and the measure brought 
 him the belief, that such a sum could do 
 most things. 
 
 Crispin was to join them from Oxford 
 as soon as might be ; and the curacy of 
 St. Hilda's the great, under these circum- 
 stances, was so left to the Rev. John 
 Wycherley, in Reuben's stead. 
 
 Everything
 
 Crispin Ken. 149 
 
 Everything seemed new to them on the 
 morning that they went away. 
 
 It was the first time they had turned 
 their backs upon their home for twenty 
 years. It had never been expected that 
 the curate's trunks would ever be wanted 
 again, and, but for Jack's great available 
 science in the matter, it was very clear 
 that the boxes, such as they were — for the 
 fashion of boxes even changes many times 
 in twenty years — would never more have 
 left their dust. 
 
 But Jack had at no time, very lately, 
 been very long from the cottage of one 
 who has been already heard of in this his- 
 tory, and who was known — and nothing 
 much was known about her — as Mad 
 Meg. 
 
 She had come, when Mr. Lyle had come, 
 no one knew how. Those whose business 
 it was to know everything, could not in 
 any manner even tell ; but it was said that 
 she kept herself and an idiot child, on the 
 crumbs which fell from the table at the 
 Hall. 
 
 H 3 Rumour
 
 150 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Rumour suspected her to have been an 
 old servant of Mr. Lyle's, setting her down 
 as such, a suspicion which the woman 
 herself did not care to say was either false 
 or true ; other than this, she seemed to 
 have no history. 
 
 Jack Ken took to her at once. He was 
 drawn towards her stricken child, and 
 wherever Mad Meg was, Jack Ken was 
 never far away. Mad Meg's introduction 
 to the curate's family was settled to be 
 very necessary by Jack, and was at once 
 brought properly about by him. 
 
 Meg had taken to Jack in her own 
 rough, wild way. She had seen him with 
 her little one about his neck, that little 
 one — the string of whose tongue had 
 never yet been loosed — and between the 
 cripple, and the idiot child, there seemed to 
 be some tightening cord of sympathy that 
 made them one. Meg could see that Jack 
 heard music in the throat that, in its every 
 sound, seemed casting up a taunt at her 
 who bore him. Jack had seen what no 
 one else in St. Hilda's ever had. He had 
 
 stood
 
 Crispin Ken, 151 
 
 stood by when Mad Meg cried ; and per- 
 haps none other had more cause to know, 
 how she could either love or hate. 
 
 It was Mad Meg who came to get the 
 curate's trunks to hold together, and when 
 she had given them as much new life as 
 they could bear, she asked the curate who 
 would take his cure. 
 
 " Mr. Wycherley, Meg," said Reuben, 
 " I know you'll all like him." 
 
 The curate saw from the sudden change 
 in the woman's face, unimpressible as she 
 was, that the coming of John Wycherley, 
 had its special interest to her. 
 
 " I'm sure you'll all be glad to have 
 him, Meg," said the curate, who, after a 
 little thinking, fancied this the best way 
 of finding out Mad Meg's opinion. 
 
 But Meg knew what this should mean. 
 She had had the sort of thing put so to 
 her, a good many times before. There 
 was not a little method, in what those who 
 could not understand her, called her mad- 
 ness ; and the absolute vacuity that she 
 H + called
 
 igZ Crispin Ken. 
 
 called to her face, left the curate as hope- 
 lessly unanswered as before. 
 
 "Jack," he said aside, "there's something 
 more in that woman than she cares to tell. 
 What does Mad Meg know of Mr. Wy- 
 cherley ? " 
 
 " Did she tell you she knew anything ?" 
 asked Jack, who saw how Meg would best 
 like the question answered. But so long 
 as the curate stayed, whenever John Wy- 
 cherley happened to be there, Mad Meg 
 was somehow busy helping in the house. 
 
 " He is very kind to her, poor creature," 
 said Reuben to himself, still trying to find 
 out the riddle, as he watched Meg's eyes 
 ever fixed on Wycherley, as they never 
 were on any other man or woman. But 
 he found out nothing, and Wycherley 
 himself could not take away the puzzle. 
 
 Mr. Ken's very moderate expenses were 
 paid to Aden. The situation was so new 
 to him, that the instinct of knowing how 
 to charge was almost dead in him. 
 
 It was late in the evening of a hot spring 
 
 day,
 
 Crispin Ken. 153 
 
 day, that they came in sight of their new 
 home. 
 
 Mr. Ken had meant well all his life. 
 He had meant well, in all the fruitless con- 
 cessions he had ever made. He had meant 
 well, in angering his father to cut him ofT. 
 He had meant well, in coming there to 
 live, amidst that ever-thirsty sand, with his 
 hectic wife, who, if she did not die quite 
 soon, could not live long. And, chiefest 
 of all, did Reuben Ken mean well in com- 
 ing there upon a mission. And in all in 
 which he had ever failed, he had never at 
 all failed like this before. 
 
 Some two years after their coming out, 
 Mrs. Ken gave birth to twins. Reuben 
 had a great while thought his quiver to be 
 full enough, but with those twin boys, six 
 pounds a piece in weight, he might speak to 
 some purpose, with any enemy in any gate. 
 
 Crispin had joined them just after tak- 
 ing his degree ; and as they once more sat 
 around one table, it seemed as though they 
 yet should pass some pleasant weeks toge- 
 ther. 
 
 h 5 It
 
 154 Crispin Ken. 
 
 It was about this time, that Reuben Ken 
 was summoned suddenly many miles away. 
 
 Edith lay very feverish and ill, as he 
 passed from the room, where her hot kiss 
 had met his own. He had turned himself 
 about, as we have to do when we pass out 
 into the great jarring world, and leave 
 those we love, perhaps too much, behind. 
 Reuben loved too much ; and the know- 
 ledge of it struck him then. The light, 
 from Edith's warm balmy eyes, w T as turned 
 upon him. It was the last time that he 
 would ever feel the mighty love they 
 spoke. 
 
 " Bless you, Edith ! " he said, with the 
 agony of the thought that her call had 
 almost come, " I shall not be long away. 
 I don't think, darling, that your cough is 
 — is — worse." 
 
 That cough could not be very easily 
 much worse ; and it was very well for him, 
 he did not see the frothing blood upon the 
 lips which answered him. 
 
 She dashed away the crimson witness 
 of her doom — Reuben Ken was gone, and 
 
 there
 
 Crispin Ken, 155 
 
 there was no meeting here for them 
 again. 
 
 He was about the end of his third day's 
 journey, when a letter from his home was 
 put into his hand. It was from his wife, 
 pencilled in the weakness of the change 
 that was upon her. She urged him to 
 come back, and not to stay upon the road, 
 if he would see her alive. 
 
 She had been taken with a fever, and 
 her little ones had taken it from her. 
 
 It is an eternity, when you do not know 
 for one instant of time, whether the heart 
 that for twenty and more years has only 
 had one image there, and that one image 
 yours, is still ; but it makes the youngest 
 in an instant old, when they must ask 
 themselves that word through nights and 
 days — is it life, or is it death ? nothing 
 daring to think which. And there are 
 times when on the issue hangs, the drying 
 up, the withering, the living, or the dying 
 of the heart, that mocks itself to ask it. 
 
 Towards the evening of the third day 
 
 Reuben reached that, which, when he left 
 h 6 it
 
 156 Crispin Ken. 
 
 it was his home ; he reeled up to the door, 
 and in the doorway Crispin stood to meet 
 him. 
 
 It perhaps was well for both, that Reu- 
 ben did not ask what Crispin dared not 
 tell. Reuben never took his eyes from off 
 his son, but kept them fixed on him, to 
 beg a hope, or kill suspicion. 
 
 " Take me to your mother ; " and his 
 whole soul seemed to search his son as 
 Crispin tried to speak. 
 
 " Your mother, your mother, take me 
 to her ! Look you, Crispin, how little it 
 will want to make me mad ;" and he seized 
 his boy's arm, and pointed up the stairs, as 
 though he did not know his own wife's 
 room. 
 
 Crispin saw that it would take very 
 little. 
 
 "Tell her I am come, Crispin. Tell her 
 — why don't you go — why — — " But 
 Reuben Ken could see in his boy's face, 
 the truth which was written there. 
 
 He put his hand in Crispin's, and 
 
 searched,
 
 Crisp hi Ken. 157 
 
 searched, as he had never searched before, 
 his firstborn's eyes. 
 
 " I can bear it, Crispin- — I think I 
 can " — and he spoke this in a whisper ; 
 " take me there — there where they have 
 put her." And Crispin passed on through 
 the open door, till they were some way in 
 the open sand, and there he stayed before 
 a big rough stone. 
 
 " They are here," said Crispin, " I laid 
 them here no longer than an hour ago." 
 
 Crispin from the first had feared, that 
 what did come, would be ; and it was 
 not in him, to hope to keep his father's 
 purpose back. 
 
 With his own hands, did Reuben Ken 
 tear back the burning sand that kept him 
 from the dead ; it was all that was left 
 him here, to see her again, before that she 
 should change. 
 
 Crispin had had the coffin carried there 
 when no one saw, and Reuben had come 
 back to see that grave three feet in the sand. 
 On the mother's breast, as in their sleep, 
 the curate's last-born lay, and the smile 
 
 that
 
 158 Crispin Ken. 
 
 that stood upon her lips in life, seemed 
 chiselled there to him, as though it asked 
 to rest for ever. 
 
 Crispin knew how it would be when his 
 father stood beside that open grave ; and 
 Reuben had the bodies of his wife and 
 children taken to St. Hilda's. 
 
 Some very anxious friends, who were 
 always busied about other men, were of 
 opinion that it mattered nothing where 
 the dead should lie, whilst it mattered 
 everything that a curate of such little 
 means, should leave them where they were. 
 But tell that even to the man whose trade 
 is discount, and whose eternity, if he could 
 will it, would be the best of " paper." 
 If ever he has buried what he loves, in 
 his after hours, for awhile, he will even 
 have a mind to stand beside the grave. 
 
 Reuben did it, and when in doing it he 
 gave up his all, he felt the sea was not 
 between him and the dust. 
 
 We do not know when life lies out 
 before us, and we only search for life and 
 living things, how often, long before the 
 
 end
 
 Crispin Ken. 159 
 
 end has come, we shall seek a church- 
 yard at its close, or gather comfort from a 
 charnel. 
 
 Of course in St. Hilda's, where it was 
 easy for everybody to know what Reuben's 
 means could furnish, the more suggestive 
 and provident people had a great deal to 
 say. 
 
 The maiden lady, who kept house at 
 the Hall, was amazed — and it publicly ap- 
 peared she was amazed — at the folly of 
 carrying three dead bodies at such a cost 
 about. 
 
 " What can it matter where we lie ? " 
 she said ; but, perhaps, it seemed to her, 
 that from her experiences in life, wherever 
 at the last she might be put, she would at 
 least be suffered to remain. Of course 
 the curate would finish as he had begun ; 
 of course he would be setting up a stone. 
 Miss Strake would rather have no stone 
 on the top of her. 
 
 It was a bright evening, at the end 
 of autumn, about a month since their 
 return from Aden, that Crispin, who did 
 
 not
 
 160 Crispin Ken. 
 
 not know how bad things were, asked 
 Mona for some supper. Mona kept house 
 now, and was learning how to keep it 
 best on nothing. 
 
 " The last crust, Crispin, was gone this 
 afternoon ; for I made father eat it when 
 he woke ; it was very stale, and he could 
 hardly bite it." 
 
 " Never mind, darling, never mind ; I 
 am not very hungry." 
 
 He was, when he said it, only just as 
 hungry as a man would be, who had eaten 
 nothing since the morning. 
 
 " I think that you had better fetch your 
 father, Mona," said her brother ; " it may 
 harm him sitting on the grass in such a 
 dew ;" and Mona went to seek her father, 
 where that father spent his days, and 
 where he would have spent his nights, if 
 he could so have willed it. 
 
 When Mona reached the churchyard, 
 Reuben Ken was sitting resting his head 
 upon his hand, beside the new grassed grave. 
 He did not hear her coming, and Mona 
 saw that he was speaking to the dead. 
 
 Reuben
 
 Crispin Ken. 161 
 
 Reuben Ken had passed in those few 
 weeks to an old man. It seemed that 
 he had aged a score of years. Sometimes, 
 for hours together, his ebbing reason was 
 as though, it would stay away for ever. 
 Then he would get up, and, when no one 
 spoke, would say that Edith was calling 
 him ; and he would go out for hours, and 
 when his people met him, he would tell 
 them that Edith was come back, and was 
 walking by his side. 
 
 That evening, as all others, he had 
 passed by the grave side. 
 
 When Mona touched his hand, and 
 would have led him back, she was startled 
 by the change that was upon him. 
 
 " I am hungry," he said, impatiently ; 
 " and don't you hear, your mother wants 
 her supper ; why don't you bring us food ?" 
 
 Mona did not dare tell him why, and 
 in a louder voice he asked again. 
 
 " There is none," said Mona ; " there 
 is no food at home." 
 
 At the sound of his child's voice, the 
 dreams, he dreamed of that supper with 
 
 his
 
 i6z Crispin Ken. 
 
 his wife, had left him, and all that had 
 passed for a little time was real again. 
 
 " No food ; and why should there be 
 food for me ? Why should I eat, if eat- 
 ing keeps me back from her ? I will starve, 
 and I will like to starve. Edith, I will 
 come to you," and he knelt down, and 
 grasped the sod, and buried his face in the 
 clay above her. 
 
 And in that hour that man joyed that 
 he should even starve. No food at home ? 
 Home ! he looked upon that mound — he 
 had no home ! 
 
 When through a chain of years, we 
 build up agony to come, and wrap our- 
 selves in one idolatry, the love, that may 
 be left in those who live, but keeps our 
 torment fresh. 
 
 His child had told him that he could 
 not eat ; and Reuben Ken had come to this, 
 that he was very glad. He could bear it ; 
 he could beg it, for what it would bring. 
 He saw her; he saw his wife in that 
 emptiness, and life in that void. 
 
 Mona
 
 Crispin Ken. 163 
 
 Mona would have led him home, but he 
 did not know her then. She called to 
 Crispin, and when her brother came, 
 Reuben Ken no longer asked his wife, to 
 come up from her grave to supper. 
 
 Mona had raised him in her arms, and 
 heavily his heavy head fell back. Gently 
 they got him home, and through the long 
 night, in their hunger, watched him, as the 
 fever scorched his skin. He had taken a 
 chill in the damps of the dying day. The 
 doctor when he saw him, could not say if 
 Reuben Ken would live ; and for many 
 weeks, the curate did not cease to ask his 
 wife, to come up from her grave to supper. 
 
 CHAP,
 
 1 6 4 Crispin Ken. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 How the Perpetual Curate took a Chill. 
 
 EUBEN KEN lay a long while, 
 asking his dead wife, to come 
 up from her grave to supper. 
 It was soon seen that he had 
 taken a chill on the high earth that was 
 above her head ; and that night, when 
 he knew nothing, and was carried home, 
 it was very clear, from many things he 
 said and did, and from how he seemed, 
 that he would soon be carried back to 
 where he took that chill. 
 
 Weeks, and winter weeks, passed on, 
 till there came that Christmas Eve when, 
 as has been seen, after a long stupor he 
 awoke, to ask for a bit of something he 
 thought that he could eat — and the while 
 
 there
 
 Crispin Ken. [65 
 
 there had very often been, as there very 
 often had before — little enough in the 
 curate's house for any there to eat at all. 
 
 A good deal of medicine, which it was 
 thought would stimulate a little artificial 
 life, had been got through the curate's 
 lips. And it had sometimes done its work, 
 and had brought back to him, as the past 
 came up again, the power to think of the 
 life that was still ; but the doctor, in his 
 most sanguine humour, could only feel the 
 tiring pulse, and say that Reuben Ken 
 must live a little better ; and he talked of 
 wine and other things to give the patient 
 livelier blood. 
 
 He must have something that he, on 
 waking up, could fancy : and the doctor, 
 who knew nothing of the empty cup- 
 boards, did not of any sarcasm say this ; but 
 the sons and daughters of the curate, who 
 saw the empty cupboards only, were afraid 
 that what might so be fancied, did not 
 quite belong to sixty pounds a year. 
 
 The doctor, who saw how all would 
 end, was at some pains to hint very deli- 
 cately,
 
 1 66 Crispin Ken, 
 
 cately, or as delicately as such things can 
 be put, that the curate had, perhaps, better 
 make his will. 
 
 He did not see, that the making of wills, 
 had anything to do with living or dying ; he 
 held that men should think of that, before 
 it came that they had need to call a doctor 
 in ; but it would have been hard enough 
 for him, who held that cure, to have 
 made a will, whilst every day the little that 
 he had was getting less. He must have 
 conceived that he had, what he had not, to 
 have left it away. It must have been a 
 fiction, written in the ink of false pretence, 
 and he was much too near to death to 
 have the humour for it. A starving man 
 busied on his will, with nothing, always 
 nothing ! In his grave clothes he could do 
 that just as well. The doctor was not an 
 eager man ; but some one had told him, 
 that Reuben Ken held him in considerable 
 respect. The doctor was of opinion that, 
 if respect was to be evidenced after death, 
 there was only one material way of show- 
 ing it ; and having himself a good deal to 
 
 find
 
 Crispin Ken, 167 
 
 find for a large family with great diges- 
 tions, he well thought this respect, which 
 he felt was very properly placed, should 
 have every opportunity of declaring itself. 
 
 He had brought all the curate's children 
 — except the twins — into the world, and 
 had had Jack's short leg to look to ever 
 since. 
 
 As he could see, without his good offices 
 being more than friendly, that the curate 
 had no testamentary deposition upon him, 
 he thought, as a matter of duty, he would 
 open the subject himself. 
 
 The doctor's faith, in what Reuben Ken 
 might have to leave, would not itself have 
 been very strong. He half suspected, that 
 what there was to leave, would be very 
 little amongst so many ; but if the curate 
 respected him so much, there might be 
 something in it. 
 
 "I'm a little better to-day, I think," 
 said the curate, as though he meant he 
 ought to feel he was, while yet there was 
 a void within that did not seem to bear it 
 out. " I don't know but that I'm a good 
 
 deal
 
 1 68 Crispin Ken. 
 
 deal stronger," he continued, watching to 
 see, if the hope he had no faith in, would 
 be cast back by the doctor's look — flushing 
 and then paling, and then sitting up to get 
 his breath, or some of it. 
 
 The doctor had known the man, whose 
 hand was in his own, for some two-and- 
 twenty years ; and he could not find the 
 word to tell him that if he was better to- 
 day, it was no sign to build on, or how 
 near he was to die. Nor did the doctor 
 want to find the word. 
 
 " There is more pulse to-day ;" and so 
 there was ; but it was the pulse of more 
 fever. 
 
 " More pulse," said the dying man, tak- 
 ing up the words, " more pulse — more 
 life — nearer to being back in the world 
 — nearer to that — but — further from — 
 from her." 
 
 " I'm an old friend," said the doctor, a 
 good deal moved, it should be said, against 
 his will, and feeling for his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, " and one I'm glad to hear you 
 have some faith in. Of course, Mr. Ken, 
 
 it's
 
 Crispin Ken. 16 9 
 
 it's no business of mine, but the healthiest 
 amongst us does not know when he may 
 be summoned " — this was the safe plati- 
 tude the good doctor loved best, and ven- 
 tured oftenest. " It's not from any appre- 
 hension of an immediate change, but — but, 
 it's no business of mine, as I said, though 
 it's never well in this world to put off, till 
 there's no holding a pen, arranging one's 
 affairs. Your last will, Mr. Ken, will be 
 considered in the disposal of your property. 
 You are aware that in the event of — of 
 your — dying intestate, your children will 
 have every thing." 
 
 " And who should better have it ?" asked 
 the curate, mildly, " they have been every- 
 thing to me ; what I have, is all within 
 these walls." 
 
 " Indeed ; I'm very glad I know it ; it's 
 hardly safe — it isn't at all safe, Mr. Ken, 
 to leave property about in that sort of way. 
 God bless me — in these walls ! " 
 
 The doctor, who was nearer than he 
 had thought, to what he fancied he might 
 get, when he heard that it was within 
 
 vol. 1. 1 those
 
 170 Crispin Ken, 
 
 those walls, felt he would lay out a little 
 more delicacy, in discovering what the pro- 
 perty might be. 
 
 " If it lasts me out, my good friend," 
 continued the curate, " why then I shan't 
 live long, for it is going fast indeed ; but, 
 other than my children, I have no one in 
 this world to leave it to. You don't happen 
 to know any one that expects I should do 
 otherwise?" asked the curate. 
 
 " Oh no ; oh dear no ; not at all," said 
 the doctor, " that is — I only thought you 
 might have some old friend, whom you 
 would like to remember with ten pounds 
 or so." 
 
 The curate looked very hard at the doctor 
 to see what he could mean. To have re- 
 membered any one, who ever lived, with 
 just one pound, would have asked for 
 that, which he had not of his own to do it 
 with. 
 
 " I've no friend in the world but my 
 children," said the curate turning on his 
 pillow, " only yourself and Mr. Wycherley. 
 I have left you something, its — " 
 
 "Not
 
 Crispin Ken. iji 
 
 " Not another word, my good friend," 
 said the doctor, " not another word." 
 
 " IVe often wanted to speak about it," 
 continued the curate, not heeding the 
 rather demonstrative interruption — " its 
 Jack's leg, I don't like to give it up." 
 
 The doctor of St. Hilda's, who knew as 
 well as anybody, that there was no reckoning 
 in this world on what any minute might 
 bring forth, was, after all, only a man — a 
 sensitive middle-aged member of the Col- 
 lege of Surgeons, — and he would have been 
 a great deal more than a man, if he could 
 have sat there and heard unmoved, that 
 his friend's legacy to him, after the delicate 
 way in which the will had been brought 
 up, was a lad's leg, that could not be got to 
 reach the ground. He did not sit and hear 
 it out unmoved ; and he had almost said 
 that he had had quite enough of so hard 
 a limb ; but the doctor was not a man who 
 put himself at all to the front. 
 
 He had done a great deal for the curate 
 for very little ; having often come for no- 
 thing ; but he was not of that sort which 
 
 1 2 calculates
 
 i J 2 Crispin Ken, 
 
 calculates how many gifts they have given 
 away ; nor was he going to calculate them 
 then ; and he no longer remembered the 
 will, as he took the burning hand of 
 Reuben Ken in his own. 
 
 "You'll keep your eye on Jack then, 
 won't you ?" said the curate ; " Edith had 
 been very like to Jack in all but the 
 blighted foot." 
 
 " Jack shall never want whilst I live," 
 said the doctor, who spoke as though he 
 forgot that he had ever thought to be a 
 legatee. 
 
 " But I shan't put that care upon you 
 yet," said the curate, wondering why he 
 had come to speak so of those things, 
 which might be only spoken at the last. 
 " There's not so much that's ill with me 
 now ; but sit you down, I'm well enough 
 to talk a little more to-day — you won't 
 forget Jack's leg, eh ? — but what's Jack's 
 leg to you when I'm going to live ?" and 
 the curate put his hand to his head as the 
 hot blood mounted there. 
 
 The doctor wanted to stay, for he 
 
 hardly
 
 Crispin Ken. 173 
 
 hardly liked his patient's look, so he pro- 
 mised the curate that he would. 
 
 " Why don't you sit down ? " asked 
 Reuben. 
 
 The doctor thought he might as well, 
 and looked round the room, but all the 
 chairs were gone ; there never had been 
 many, but now there was not one. He 
 could stand as well as sit ; but when he 
 looked back to the bed, he saw the curate's 
 eyes were fixed on him, though it was not 
 such a look as he could like to see. 
 
 " I told you that I need not make a 
 will, that I hadn't much to leave, and 
 that that little would not stay here long," 
 said Reuben ; but suddenly being minded 
 that the doctor should not know how bad 
 things were, he did not let it seem how 
 great a strait they all were in. 
 
 And this struggle — hopeless, weary 
 struggle — in the face of what we are, to 
 seem what we are not, will never cease to 
 mock us, and to canker, whilst, what we 
 call society assumes to be so sensitive of 
 being scandalised, by the coming of a 
 1 3 starved
 
 174 Crispin Ken. 
 
 starved educated man, to gnaw the little 
 that is left him, in the midst of those full 
 ones, whose greatest luxury perhaps would 
 be to want. 
 
 And no one, even in St. Hilda's, where 
 appearances had not the value that we 
 give them further south, or further north, 
 knew how very poor their curate was. 
 
 It was known that he had no great 
 abundance ; but Reuben Ken believed 
 that it would do the church no good, and 
 might do it harm, if it was known that 
 whilst the doctor said his life depended 
 on his living well, he yet had even come 
 to want for bread. 
 
 And Mona too, had put away from 
 them the startling seeming, that witnessed 
 the level they had fallen to. You might 
 have come into the hungry circle, nor 
 known how far away the last meal was, 
 how far the next would be. 
 
 So they sometimes very nearly starved ; 
 and if there was not a crumb on that 
 bright floor, it was not because there were 
 so many mouths to share it, but because 
 
 the
 
 Crispin Ken. 175 
 
 the world without — the world that would 
 have talked — that does not like to touch 
 the things that starve — must not know 
 that the appearances it exacted, were at 
 the price of the hollowness it ensured. 
 
 So did the doctor — whose eyes were 
 some way open now — take his way home 
 that afternoon, still not at all suspecting 
 that he had not sat, because there was no 
 chair, in what was called a sitting-room. 
 
 It was some short time before Reuben 
 Ken and his family left for Aden, that 
 he made his first call at the Hall, but had 
 not seen Mr. Lyle ; indeed they never met 
 till Reuben Ken returned. 
 
 The Hall, which had been many years 
 untenanted, with its long rent-roll, had 
 been put up to public auction ; and had 
 realised, what those who had no liking for 
 it, called a fancy price. Mr. Lyle having 
 bid against a room full of very interested 
 gentlemen — who had come very tolerable 
 distances, having very considerable com- 
 missions — with an indifference as to where 
 the competition led him, which those 
 1 + who
 
 176 Crispin Ken. 
 
 who had been eager to get it, and had 
 finished no where, gave out, they would 
 have been sorry to have shown them- 
 selves. 
 
 Mr. Lyle, who it transpired had only 
 made up his mind to buy the Hall that 
 morning, walked into the room about 
 noon of the day of the sale, when the 
 biddings were at 30,000/., and going up 
 500/. at each offer. 
 
 " Thirty-five thousand," said Mr. Lyle, 
 very quietly indeed, not as though he 
 was there to show what he could do, if he 
 was put to the trial. 
 
 Competition could hardly recover itself 
 after this irregularity. The others, who 
 were well-meaning buyers, liked the in- 
 trusion as little as might be ; and, although 
 the auctioneer said that he could only 
 take biddings of 500/., they gave up the 
 competition with very little good grace at 
 50,000/. 
 
 " I don't like his look ; there's some- 
 thing queer about it," said one. 
 
 " I can't see what he looks like," said 
 
 another ;
 
 Crispin Ken* 177 
 
 another ; "be isnt to he got to look up ; 
 but he doesn't seem like anything I ever 
 saw before." 
 
 The only one in the room, who appeared 
 to like the turn that things had taken, 
 was the auctioneer. But the highest offer 
 was 50,000/., and there it stood at Mr. 
 Lyle's last bid. 
 
 " I'm very sorry," said the auctioneer, 
 " but 50,000/. won't quite buy this pro- 
 perty ; the reserved price is 70,000/." 
 
 " I have wasted a great deal of time," 
 said Mr. Lyle, who did not speak with 
 any affectation, although the time that he 
 had wasted was no more than twenty 
 minutes ; " I have gone through the form 
 to give these gentlemen their opportunity. 
 I have made up my mind to have the 
 Hall, and I can go on if these gentlemen 
 should wish it." 
 
 So had a good many more made up 
 their minds to have the Hall. 
 
 " Seventy thousand is the lowest penny," 
 said the auctioneer, addressing himself to 
 
 Mr. Lyle, " and the deposit " 
 
 1 5 " My
 
 178 Crispin Ken. 
 
 " My check is for 70,000/.," said Mr. 
 Lyle, walking away, as a sporting man re- 
 marked who rather believed he could supply 
 a telling commentary on anything in the 
 world in an instant, and had thought he 
 would buy the Hall right out because of 
 its trout preserves, whilst he had been one 
 of the first beaten — " I never saw a man 
 pay away thousands in that sort of way 
 before ; just as though he had as many 
 more to come after, and for a place that's 
 half to pieces, and which he hasn't fairly 
 seen ; and he did it as if he were paying 
 for a pennyworth of fish-hooks." 
 
 If that were so, Ruy Lyle bought every- 
 thing that he did buy, as he would a penny- 
 worth of hooks. 
 
 When Reuben Ken came home from 
 Aden, the first thing told him, when it was 
 believed he could begin to bear to be told 
 anything, was, that his old friend the squire 
 of the "14 port" had been some time 
 dead. When the curate heard that Mr. 
 Lyle was still amongst them, Crispin and 
 Mona, for their father, went up to the Hall. 
 
 It
 
 Crispin Ken. xyg 
 
 It was little likely that they would ever 
 forget it. Mr. Lyle had received them as 
 he received everybody. He was sorry they 
 had not met before. He never saw any dif- 
 ference between father, and son ; between 
 not very significant people, and very re- 
 markable deputations. What he said, al- 
 most went to show, that he had had an 
 interest in them and theirs very long before 
 they knew it, and that he would never 
 cease to have it. He spoke of Mr. Ken's 
 long illness, as though he himself knew all 
 the symptoms, and had been as very sick. 
 
 Miss Strake, who seemed to be dressed 
 many years under the age she was, did 
 everything that looked very cordial. 
 
 Miss Strake, if susceptible to definition, 
 was what is called a "pleasant person ; M 
 but in nothing was this spinster lady at all 
 like to Mr. Lyle. Indeed, people said she 
 was so little like, that the little likeness 
 served a purpose; and this was why she was 
 kept there, to show how many, and how 
 clear, the points of the contrast were. 
 
 Miss Strake did everything very loudly. 
 16 She
 
 180 Crispin Ken. 
 
 She had a loud way of commending to 
 the world the opinions of her " Mama." 
 She talked loudly, and she laughed loudly, 
 and said people were "such nice creatures," 
 or "so ladylike," or, that what they wore 
 was so "sweetly pretty." 
 
 When she was quite at her full, she would 
 dart up and clap her hands, and those who 
 saw it, said "she was so very natural." This 
 mock enthusiasm really takes in better than 
 half the human kind. 
 
 Mr. Lyle never seemed to want the right 
 word, whatever he might have to say; — not 
 that he of any necessity spoke to show how 
 easily he came by the right words, and that 
 he studied to get them — it was a power 
 that was felt to be complete, but that was 
 never felt to be acquired. Nor was his 
 laughing ever over loud ; nor did his voice 
 ever reach a tone within an octave of Miss 
 Strake's alto ; nor did he ever say what he 
 thought of those about him ; and you 
 would have never heard him say whatever 
 he might think. So, perhaps, as it was said, 
 did Miss Aurelia Strake set her nephew off 
 
 to
 
 Crispin Ken. 181 
 
 to some advantage ; and, whatever you 
 might have heard of Mr. Lyle before you 
 saw him, you were not in any way prepared 
 for his presence, when you were before him 
 in a room. 
 
 When Mona Ken first saw the white 
 hair, and the white beard in the man of 
 forty, and had heard him speak, and felt his 
 hand, which took hers very cordially, the 
 image followed her about for days. She 
 thought that such as he was, could only 
 live in books ; but Mona somehow had no 
 books in which they lived. 
 
 She had never known half an hour go 
 like that; and she could only believe that 
 half that time was gone, when Crispin 
 motioned her that they must leave. 
 
 It was raining when they reached the 
 door. 
 
 " Miss Ken, my carriage will take you 
 home — or you will wait ? " 
 
 Crispin urged that the rain was nothing ; 
 but whilst Mr. Lyle was not seeming to de- 
 tain them, the carriage stood before the door. 
 
 The absence of all show was quite the 
 
 chiefest
 
 1 82 Crispin Ken. 
 
 chiefest part of Mr. Lyle's attraction. The 
 man who drove, the man who let down 
 the steps, must have been all ready to 
 drive, and to let down the steps. Mr. 
 Lyle did not give them cause to feel that 
 he was doing them at all a service. Nor 
 did he give them cause to feel, that he 
 could get horses round from their stables 
 like that, just for mere effect. 
 
 Mona said nothing for a little while, 
 and when she spoke it was the rather to 
 herself. 
 
 " I'm glad Mr. Lyle has got the Hall, 
 he will be a very pleasant neighbour." 
 
 " He is very agreeable," said her brother, 
 a good many degrees below his sister's 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " He is the most interesting person I 
 ever saw in my life," was Mona's answer ; 
 " he is — what^ made you shudder, Cris- 
 pin ? 
 
 " Shudder, Mona, did I shudder ? It 
 was nothing ; but you forget that you 
 have lived here, where you have scarcely 
 seen any one at all, the greater part of 
 
 your
 
 Crispin Ken, 183 
 
 your life, and interesting people do not 
 often come to such a place as this." 
 
 " I can hardly believe he is only forty," 
 said Mona, very little heeding her brother's 
 answer. 
 
 " Nor can Miss Strake remember that 
 she must be forty-five," said her brother, 
 who had been talked to a good deal, on 
 matters concerning the young, by Mr. 
 Lyle's aunt. 
 
 " But don't you think him the pleasant- 
 est person you ever saw ?" said Mona, who 
 could only see the image, which filled her 
 mind, standing there on the steps in the 
 rain, and who marvelled that her brother's 
 enthusiasm came so very short of her 
 own. 
 
 " I would rather not say what I think 
 of Mr. Lyle," said Crispin ; a I do not 
 wonder he is popular. I should have won- 
 dered had he not been so ; out was there 
 nothing, Mona, that you did not like about 
 him ? " asked Crispin, meaningly. 
 
 " I hardly know," said Mona ; " he — 
 be never looked me in the face''' 
 
 Mona
 
 184 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Mona had spoken what they both had 
 felt. 
 
 " It is a perfect face," said Crispin, 
 " perhaps too perfect ; but I do not like 
 to look at any face that does not, cannot 
 look at me." 
 
 " Perhaps he didn't like to stare, and 
 make us uncomfortable," said Mona, who 
 felt her reason was not very sound. 
 
 " I don't think it was that ; but you 
 plead hard for him, Mona," said her bro- 
 ther ; "and have said more for him in these 
 five minutes than I ever heard you say for 
 Wycherley." 
 
 " You would not compare John Wy- 
 cherley with Mr. Lyle ?" asked Mona, with 
 surprise. 
 
 " That I would not. He is not like 
 any one I ever saw. I have heard, and 
 now I do not doubt it, that very few could 
 ever be compared with Ruy Lyle. But 
 I am not the less glad, Mona, for your 
 sake, that there is so little room for the 
 comparison." 
 
 The carriage stopped before the Parson- 
 age.
 
 Crispin Ken. 185 
 
 age. It was the first time they had ever 
 ridden in any but a hired carriage in their 
 lives, and full of what their new neighbour 
 was, Mona sprang out to tell her father 
 what she could of Mr. Lyle. 
 
 What could be told of him was very 
 little. 
 
 " What's that, Jack ? What's that 
 Jack's got there ? " Mona said, pointing 
 to her crippled brother, who was strangely 
 playing with a child, which showed that its 
 too plain idiocy was very bad to look on ; 
 and as it was trying with terrible eagerness 
 to assure Jack of its affection, the contor- 
 tions of the stricken child were horrible to 
 see. 
 
 " It's only Jim," answered Jack, carry- 
 ing on the facial game, that seemed so to 
 the idiot's taste. 
 
 " And who's Jim ?" said Mona ; " take 
 care he don't hurt you," for the idiot 
 scowled at her as she spoke. 
 
 " It's all right," said Jack, " he's only a 
 little queer," whilst the idiot shrieked its 
 hideous laugh at the way Jack danced to 
 
 please
 
 1 86 Crispin Ken. 
 
 please him. " It's all right ; it's Mad 
 Meg's boy." 
 
 Jack Ken had too much to do at that 
 moment with making himself into a toy, 
 to tell as clearly as he might ; so perhaps 
 it may be better told, as far as it was 
 known, who Mad Meg was. 
 
 Very little indeed was known. Every- 
 one was always guessing, but no one ever 
 knew. 
 
 She had come there when Mr. Lyle had 
 first settled at the Hall, but, other than 
 this, no one could tell who she was, or 
 where she came from ; and it was not much 
 that Meg herself, in whatever mood you 
 might meet her, would say to let light in. 
 
 But there are some people who will find 
 out any thing ; who will stay out of their 
 beds to do it ; and these people are not 
 foreign even to the Cumberland border. 
 
 It was chiefly these people, who first set 
 about calling the unaccountable woman 
 mad, because she was so sane as not to 
 care to account of herself to them. 
 
 The servants up at the Hall called her 
 
 simply
 
 Crispin Ken. 187 
 
 simply Meg, and inquiry was somewhat 
 satisfied with the offered explanation that 
 Mad Meg was an old servant of Mr. Lyle's, 
 without all her senses, whom he permitted 
 to follow him about, and live off some of 
 what was carried from his table. 
 
 Meg herself said nothing to this, either 
 to confirm or to deny it ; and it was soon 
 seen that she said very little to any one, 
 other than to Jack Ken. 
 
 The cause of this was not, perhaps, so 
 very strange. 
 
 Meg had always with her the idiot boy ; 
 and Jack, who was very sensitive, and felt 
 that his foot put him out of the world's 
 companionship, saw in Mad Meg's boy, 
 something more likely to suffer such re- 
 proaches even than himself. 
 
 So Jack took the idiot under his own 
 care ; and out of this had ripened the 
 strange liking that sprang up between 
 Mad Meg herself and Jack ; and it soon 
 came to be that the curate's younger son 
 was never very long away from Mad Meg. 
 
 There was something in Meg herself — 
 
 something
 
 1 88 Crispin Ken. 
 
 something in the roughness that she 
 seemed to force upon herself — that took 
 Jack's fancy. He soon found out that 
 Meg at bottom was the real thing. 
 
 Whether this woman, who was believed 
 to be so wild, ever gave him any of her 
 confidence, or told him what her past had 
 been, it was soon pretty well the business 
 of the place to know. Those who other- 
 wise would not have gone near her, to have 
 found out this, would have set about to try 
 to tame her. 
 
 She had soon come to the curate's when- 
 ever she was so minded ; and with some 
 purpose, as has been seen, for Meg knew 
 more of the philosophy of pawnbroking, 
 than any other whose interest the curate 
 could secure. 
 
 Meg was of as few words as most, and 
 of fewer than most women in these parts. 
 
 It always seemed that she had some- 
 thing to tell, which must not be told, and 
 that she might say more than she cared 
 to say, if she said anything. But let Ruy 
 Lyle be spoken of, and her tongue would 
 
 something
 
 Crispin Ken. 189 
 
 something run, if it happened that she 
 was with those she felt would not betray 
 her. 
 
 There was nothing ill to Meg's mind 
 that Ruy Lyle was not ; and Reuben Ken, 
 who always made it a great matter to say 
 nothing against anyone, even against those 
 he most suspected, would gravely tell her 
 of her want of charity. 
 
 Meg never answered him but once, and 
 then she thought that she had set him 
 down. 
 
 " Charity ! is it charity you call it in 
 the church, to see so big a rogue, and say 
 you'd be sorry to think he wasn't well 
 enough ? " 
 
 Mr. Lyle had called himself, and had 
 sat awhile on some three occasions since 
 first the curate took that chill ; but so 
 well did Mona manage, that Mr. Lyle 
 did not see how much they wanted, and 
 how little likely things were with them to 
 turn out any better. 
 
 It was after a critical relapse, when the 
 curate awoke to the reality of knowing 
 
 how
 
 190 Crispin Ken. 
 
 how few things there were left him, on 
 that Christmas Eve. 
 
 When the doctor heard how his patient 
 was not to be over persuaded, but was so 
 minded to come out of his bed and preach 
 that misty Christmas Day, he said there 
 would soon be an end now, to the long 
 time in which the curate had been dying ; 
 and two hours after midnight, and after 
 Crispin and his sister had returned from 
 Mr. Lyle's, Meg went up to fetch him. 
 
 The curate had been put to bed, and 
 the old thought had come back to him 
 that he must have his wife to supper. 
 
 As the night went on the fever rose ; 
 and the curate, as he wandered and called 
 on many who were gone, asked for Mr. 
 Lyle. Mona, who was watching by him, 
 started to her feet, as though to serve her 
 father she would even then alone, have 
 gone herself for Mr. Lyle. But whilst 
 she thought, she felt Meg's fingers lightly 
 touch her arm. 
 
 John Wycherley had never left that 
 night, for the doctor had said unless the 
 
 fever
 
 Crispin Ken, jgi 
 
 fever could be soon got under, Reuben 
 Ken would never live till it was day. 
 
 There was just a little dawn when the 
 curate first began to mend ; but he did not 
 clearly know who stood about him. He 
 called Mona to him, and drawing her to 
 his side, said, so that all might hear, " I 
 have dreamed that Ruy Lyle asked you to 
 marry him. I do not think that it will 
 always be a dream ; but now you know 
 that you must," — and the curate fell into 
 the only sleep the doctor said could save 
 him. 
 
 When Mona turned round she saw 
 Wycherley standing by her, as though he 
 would have asked her, what it all should 
 mean. " You won't think ill of him," 
 said Mona, who left her hand in Wycher- 
 ley's as she pointed to her father ; " and 
 could you hear that, and a great deal more, 
 and have so much as any doubt of me ? 
 I have something to say, but I cannot 
 say it now ; " and whilst Wycherley felt it 
 would be very hard indeed, to have one 
 thought, that was not well of Mona, he a 
 
 good
 
 IQ2 Crispin Ken. 
 
 good deal wondered, what she had to tell 
 him. 
 
 After breakfast, whilst the curate's sleep- 
 ing still let his children hope he would 
 yet stay amongst them, Mona came to 
 Wycherley, and beckoning him to fol- 
 low, led him to the garden. 
 
 Mona had long been the curate's maid 
 of all work ; and what was all work there, 
 would have given cause to every hireling 
 to leave. The kitchen, as they passed 
 through it, looked clean enough, and with 
 Jack's help, under Mona's direction, every 
 thing had a bright seeming about it. 
 
 " And now sit down opposite me, 
 John," she said ; for the day, for Christmas 
 time, was warm ; but there was not so 
 much about for anyone to sit on ; there 
 were no garden chairs out of the sixty 
 pounds a year ; so Wycherley was forced 
 to stand whilst Mona told him all, as well 
 as she could, that had happened at the 
 Hall the night before. 
 
 Wycherley heard it, so far as he feared 
 what might come of it, to do him any 
 
 hurt,
 
 Crispin Ken, 193 
 
 hurt, unmoved. He thought better of 
 Mona Ken, than he thought of any woman 
 in the whole world besides. It was a 
 great deal to look into Mona's guileless 
 face, and feel that whatever Ruy Lyle, or 
 any other man might say, the heart whose 
 first awakening had been his, had cast back 
 the rich man, whose following, it had been 
 said, was whatever of the world he cared 
 to ask, to follow him. And Wycherley 
 was now more sure than ever she was 
 his. 
 
 But the perpetual curate of St. Hilda's 
 the less, was a man whose selfishness was 
 perhaps the least part of his humanity. 
 He shared — and he did not conceal from 
 himself that he did share — with the county, 
 and indeed a world beyond it, an unmixed 
 belief in Ruy Lyle. He did not indeed 
 understand, what was the commanding 
 influence of that man, but he did not seek 
 to overcome it. It might have been 
 sometimes that he wondered, whether if 
 he were inclined to overcome it, that he 
 could. 
 
 vol. 1. k There
 
 194 Crispin Ken. 
 
 There was money that was not to be 
 told ; there was a character that was not 
 to be questioned — even within a circle to 
 which cavilling did notcome amiss — within 
 the reach of the daughter of a clergyman 
 whose preferment, at the best of times, 
 left to him only a very decent controversy 
 with starvation. 
 
 And what was John Wycherley, that he 
 should perpetuate the respectable want, 
 that had followed the father of that girl 
 for two and twenty years ? And that father 
 he did not lightly regard ; and it might be, 
 he thought, that he could of some sort 
 show this to that father's child, by doing 
 better than taking her himself. 
 
 Mr. Lyle was in every way very far above 
 what he could ever be. Mr. Lyle was a 
 good man. Everybody said he was a good 
 man. The world was his, and yet he was 
 not at all the world's ; and this man had 
 been no few hours before at her feet. 
 
 " No, Mona, it is enough for me ; it 
 would be enough for any one of prouder 
 stuff than I, to feel that he has failed where 
 
 I 

 
 Crispin Ken, 195 
 
 I have best succeeded. He can make 
 you, and will make you, Mona, what I 
 cannot. Ruy Lyle is a man, whom the 
 county has honoured almost before all ; 
 and I do not think that any of that honour 
 has been given wrongly. He is a man, 
 whose principles have suffered nothing by 
 those very circumstances, which would 
 have been fatal to all principle in many 
 men. Ruy Lyle does not throw his alms 
 about the streets where every one can see ; 
 but beyond such tricks to give relief and 
 take some praise, he is the county's bene- 
 factor, only needing, perhaps, the greater 
 opportunity more widely to benefit his 
 kind. He is a man whom to know is 
 to reverence. He draws all sorts towards 
 him ; none can hold back long ; but why 
 do you shudder, Mona ? They do not 
 seem to care that they are held there. It 
 is exceptional, that an influence so great, 
 so little hazarded,.and yet so all controlling, 
 should be so wisely used. I sometimes 
 think him, Mona, all that man can be ; 
 but I sometimes wish that — it may be 
 
 I
 
 iq6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 I have no right to wish it — he would 
 look me in the face. It means nothing, I 
 know ; it is his way," continued Wycher- 
 ley, perhaps not with perfect truth to his 
 own conscience ; but it was the chiefest 
 part of the indescribable power, with which 
 Ruy Lyle drew society towards himself, 
 that a belief in his unmixed influence 
 for good, went beyond all others. You 
 might have wanted him to look you in 
 the face, but you were at some pains to 
 assure yourself, that he had quite the 
 best reasons for never looking up at all. 
 " Mona," said Wycherley, taking her hand 
 in his, " I think now, and I know I shall 
 always think, that I should cease to care 
 to live, if anything could stand between 
 us, and yet — and yet." 
 
 " And yet what, John ? It must be 
 something sent of God that shall ever part 
 us here. This man draws me to him ; I 
 know that ; I cannot help. it. You know 
 what I mean ; it is something very strange, 
 but it is against my will. I do not think 
 
 had
 
 Crispin Ken. igy 
 
 had I not loved you, I could have loved 
 Mr. Lyle." 
 
 Mona could see that, although Wycher- 
 ley stood still before her, within he yet 
 hugged himself with the thought of what 
 was his ; that she would be his, though even 
 Ruy Lyle should want to come between 
 them. 
 
 " Mona, I have some time seen, and I 
 have seen it more of late, that your father 
 does not look on me as he once did ; yes, 
 darling, he does not hate me ; I do not 
 think he will ; I know he likes me, and I 
 think he will ; but he likes another better. 
 He has looked the hope that was in him 
 before now, Mona, and last night I heard — 
 you heard him speak it. I do not think 
 he's wrong at all. If I must put the 
 question to myself, I must think him 
 right ; but your father would see you the 
 wife of Ruy Lyle ; and, Mona, you will 
 better judge my heart, when I say too, that 
 so would I." 
 
 Mona shook her head, " and could you 
 K 3 be
 
 ig8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 be its queen ?" had had but an empty 
 sound for her. 
 
 " No, no, John ; you cannot give me 
 back my heart. I have seen the Hall, and 
 I have seen its master, but I could not 
 hold that Hall with him. I have known 
 what this is — and she looked round on 
 nothing — and I can ask to share its empti- 
 ness with you." 
 
 " I had not a little hope, darling, that 
 you would have so answered me. I do 
 not say again, ' I, Mona, give you up/ I 
 do not think I could ; but I tell you, you 
 are free. Mr. Lyle will be all that I could 
 be, and he will be more ; he will raise you 
 to where you should be, and where I could 
 not hope to place you. From this day, 
 Mona, do not think that you are bound to 
 me. I could hold you back to emptiness 
 from any man but him. Weigh between 
 us both. The world will say that an instant 
 would be over long, if you are wise, to 
 judge in. It is very simple. He has every- 
 thing, and I have nothing. I shall seek 
 out Mr. Lyle ; something tells me that I 
 
 must ;
 
 Crispin Ken, igg 
 
 must ; I may do myself some harm. I 
 shall bring him here. In a few days your 
 father will be asking, as his strength gets 
 less, for bread. If I bring that man here, 
 who may even take away the most from 
 me, your father shall not ask for bread 
 again. He shall yet want nothing, the 
 little time that may be left him. My 
 purpose is taken — answer Mr. Lyle as 
 though you never knew me, Mona." 
 
 " Will you take that answer to him, 
 John ? it shall be in words that nothing — " 
 and Mona for her tears could say no 
 more. As empty nothings were to her 
 the words of this man, Ruy Lyle ; words, 
 that almost all the womankind of any 
 county, would have left their life on. The 
 choice that Wycherley would give her, 
 was to Mona Ken the greatest grief that 
 she had ever had to bear ; and had Wycher- 
 ley, of his own purpose, so disguised it, the 
 image of Ruy Lyle could not well have 
 got more hateful. 
 
 John Wycherley could yet look proud, 
 
 and hold but one belief. He did not, 
 
 K + for
 
 500 Crispin Ken. 
 
 for he could not, think that Mona Ken 
 ■would ever take the freedom he had 
 offered her. But, he had seen too much 
 of what was very hard to bear beneath 
 that roof, not to leave her to her choice. 
 
 He did, as he said he would. He sought 
 out Mr. Lyle, and, within the hour that 
 he had so spoken to the owner of the 
 Hall, Mr. Lyle stood at Reuben Ken's 
 bedside. 
 
 " I thank you for this warning," Mr. 
 Lyle had said to Wycherley, as he took 
 in his, the hand of the man which Mona 
 Ken had taken ; and, for the first time 
 John Wycherley felt, that he would a great 
 deal rather Ruy Lyle had left his hand 
 alone. He did not know why he should 
 shudder, but he did. 
 
 Mr. Lyle fell in with the resources of 
 the curate's wasting home, with a seeming 
 delicacy, that was not without its effect 
 on all. 
 
 None of the contrasts of abundance, 
 were suffered to mock the thinness of 
 respectable decay. 
 
 He
 
 Crispin Ken, 201 
 
 He came in such a way, that no one 
 thought it strange that he had come. He 
 said he was there to nurse the curate ; and 
 Reuben Ken, as he turned in his bed to say 
 what his heart would have said, was at 
 some pains to realise the better things 
 that were upon him. 
 
 " It's a bad business, and he musn't 
 stop, Jack," said Meg, when she got to 
 hear of it. " If he does, I shall be in and 
 out here oftener a good bit than he'll 
 fancy ; but never take your eyes from off 
 him, and don't let John Wycherley leave 
 the house." 
 
 And Jack did watch, as though his 
 life depended on his watching ; and he 
 made it very hot for Mr. Lyle. 
 
 It was not found possible for Wycherley, 
 any how to stop in the house. There 
 were no beds, and if there had been, there 
 was no room for any other bed to stand. 
 So it was settled that he should come 
 the first thing the next morning, unless 
 graver symptoms should supervene with 
 Mr. Ken, when Jack was to go and fetch 
 K 5 him
 
 2,0 z Crispin Ken. 
 
 him. Jack did not like the compromise, 
 when he remembered what Mad Meg 
 had said, but there seemed to be no help 
 for it. 
 
 There was an early supper, so that the 
 sick man might get a long night's rest. 
 
 Mr. Lyle was perhaps more cordial than 
 ever; and threw out all his influence to 
 please ; and yet there was, however you 
 might criticise it, no seeming effort in the 
 throwing out. It was felt to be a great 
 thing, for such a man to have left his own 
 great house, to take up his place by a 
 dying man's bedside, — a dying man who 
 was going very soon to die, and leave 
 nothing ; but no one felt that he was 
 chiefly caring to please at all. 
 
 He insisted — and Ruy Lyle could do so 
 without much show of asking — on their 
 all drinking some wine, that he prepared 
 with spice, himself. 
 
 " Perhaps it is not sweet enough," he 
 said to Wycherley, who when he had 
 drained his glass, could not be got to 
 touch another. 
 
 But
 
 Crispin Ken. 203 
 
 But Wycherley, who had nothing to 
 prefer against its sweetness, soon after left, 
 feeling a little headache, which he said, as 
 Mr. Lyle was hoping he would sleep it 
 off, was the penalty he always paid when 
 he drunk mulled wine ; and the whole 
 house retired for the night. 
 
 The curate of St. Hilda's the less was 
 not at breakfast ; and when ten o'clock 
 had passed, mid-day had come, and there 
 were still no tidings of John Wycherley, 
 it wanted very little of Mona's coaxing — 
 she had herself been watching very long 
 — to get Jack to go and seek him. 
 
 Jack found the curate in bed, complain- 
 ing of hot pains in his head, and in his 
 eyeballs, and of a still hotter tongue. 
 
 " It's nothing, Jack, tell Mona ; but 
 I'm glad she sent, and I shall be the better 
 for it. I'm not so used to wine, and it 
 has not done me any good — that's all — 
 though perhaps, I never was like this 
 before." 
 
 Coming home Jack met Meg, to whom 
 K 6 was
 
 204 Crispin Ken. 
 
 was confided some of the worst symptoms 
 of John Wycherley's attack. 
 
 " What's the matter, Meg ? " said the 
 boy. 
 
 " What should be the matter ? " said 
 Meg. " I didn't say anything, did I ? — 
 nothing's the matter." 
 
 " Then you look very wild over it," 
 said the boy, " for there to be nothing the 
 matter. You didn't say anything — at least 
 aloud." 
 
 " Tell me, Jack," said Meg, not heed- 
 ing him, " what did John Wycherley 
 drink last night ? " 
 
 Jack told her. 
 
 " Did he seem to like it ? " searched 
 out Meg, as though a good deal hung 
 upon the answer. 
 
 " Well, not so much as some of us, 
 and Mr. Lyle did ask him, if it wasn't 
 sweet enough." 
 
 "Mr. Lyle asked that, did he? You 
 are sure ? It won't do not to be sure of 
 this." 
 
 Jack answered he was very sure. 
 
 "And
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,0 5 
 
 "And who made the hot wine stuff?" 
 asked Meg. 
 
 " Mr. Lyle," said the boy, " and he 
 made it for us all, and what I had, wasn't 
 so bad ; but what's the matter ? " 
 
 Meg's answer, as she seemed to be put- 
 ting this and that together, was spoken 
 almost to herself; but Jack heard enough 
 to know that, what she said was, that 
 John Wycherley was very likely sick from 
 poison. 
 
 " Poison ! " 
 
 " Poison ! but I didn't say that word, 
 eh, Jack, did I ? " 
 
 " But you did." 
 
 " There mayn't be much in it, Jack ; 
 you musn't say what you have heard. He 
 didn't like the wine stuff, you're sure he 
 didn't like it ? " 
 
 But before Jack could answer, Meg was 
 gone. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 2,0 6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 How Reuben Ken made his last will. 
 
 UY LYLE, had never again 
 asked Mona Ken, if she cared 
 to be his queen. It was not 
 at all that he thought himself 
 well out of any answer, but that Mona so 
 contrived it, that she never let him have 
 the opportunity, which it was quite the 
 business of his life to seek. 
 
 Mona, however she might put it, could 
 not say to herself that she loved him ; nor 
 could she say to herself that she could have 
 even loved him, had her love been free. 
 But there was that about him, which drew 
 her near — not, it might have been, in any 
 way near enough to be asked so great a 
 question, but just so near as to bring her 
 very near his path. 
 
 She
 
 Crispin Ken. 20 J 
 
 She would have felt herself so much the 
 freer, had he ceased to live and hang about 
 her father's bed ; but he hung about it to 
 her father's liking, and she could not 
 satisfy her own heart that any how she 
 wished him gone. And, perhaps, it was 
 not so much a question of the heart at all. 
 
 The strange, and inexpressible, and name- 
 less power, with which Ruy Lyle brought 
 all to like to feel themselves within that 
 power, whilst they dreaded that inscru- 
 table influence to which they committed 
 themselves, was rather a feeling of the 
 mind. 
 
 It was a great thing to say that you 
 knew so much of Mr. Lyle ; but others 
 thought it a great deal better to say that 
 they knew so much the more. It satisfied 
 two feelings — that of knowing the most of 
 Mr. Lyle, and that of knowing more than 
 the nearest neighbour knew. When so- 
 ciety can do this well, it feels that all its 
 education in that line has not been thrown 
 away. 
 
 Mona had never seen him other than 
 
 what
 
 508 Crispin Ken. 
 
 what the world knew him ; and, yet he 
 did not seem strange to those impulses, 
 with which he never appeared to be carried 
 away. That magnified excitement over 
 trifles, which to others seemed the highest 
 order of amazement, only seemed to him 
 to have reached that pitch when it be- 
 comes the most ordinary. 
 
 He did not reproach a jest, or seem ill 
 at ease, because nothing ever moved him 
 to anything beyond the merest smile. The 
 whole strength of his remarkable will, was 
 never shown in the evenness of his temper 
 towards those with whom he differed. 
 
 It would have been felt to have been 
 something of a relief, at which many 
 would have grasped, had he ever betrayed 
 that he was susceptible to the commoner 
 passions. And yet, however he might 
 bear himself, it was never said he bore 
 himself with affectation, or that his earlier 
 life had been given to the study of a part, 
 by which he was to bewilder all he moved 
 amongst at its meridian. 
 
 It was never said, however strange he 
 
 seemed,
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,09 
 
 seemed, that Ruy Lyle was acting. If his 
 whole bearing was irreproachable — whilst 
 it drew every one near to him, and as near 
 as he liked to have them — the power was 
 such, which those so drawn towards him 
 felt, was something which they could only 
 rather understand to be against their will. 
 And never had that power, so widely felt 
 and so little paraded, been more strangely 
 recognized than by Mona Ken. 
 
 Every morning, and every night she re- 
 proached herself, because she even took his 
 hand. There was something in the touch 
 in the morning, that bound her to return 
 to its touch at night, and, that yet was as 
 a chill, which stood on the flesh, and froze. 
 
 She even sometimes thought she did 
 not like him, and that she would try to 
 like him less ; but she found it was the 
 hardest thing that she had ever tried. 
 
 Ruy Lyle never seemed to be watching 
 any one ; but she felt that whilst his look 
 was always down, he yet was always watch- 
 ing her ; and if his eyes were ever raised, 
 
 she
 
 3io Crispin Ken. 
 
 she knew that she it was who raised 
 them. 
 
 She often came to think, as she hurried 
 through the silent rooms, that she heard his 
 voice, and heard him call her Mona ; and 
 what went against her to feel was that, had 
 it been him, she must almost have stopped. 
 She did not want to think she would have 
 stopped ; and she sometimes fancied to her- 
 self, that she was strong enough to wish, 
 that he would have put her to the trial. 
 
 And Ruy Lyle, though he had never 
 followed her, saw all he could have ever 
 seen by following. 
 
 But from the power — she did not like 
 to think it was a power — that was always 
 hanging over her, she would hardly care 
 to have been delivered. She felt that she 
 could see the wretchedness that lay before 
 her, if she did not shake the power — or 
 whatever she might choose to call it — off. 
 She struggled to hold back ; but it was not 
 a struggle that was very strong ; and neither 
 did she like the very emphatic interference 
 of Crispin, and the woman Meg. She 
 
 thought
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,11 
 
 thought she could keep him back herself, 
 and thought at least that she would try. 
 
 Mona could not the while reproach her 
 heart. The image of Ruy Lyle had not 
 driven out the image of John Wycherley 
 from there ; but sometimes — and this some- 
 times latterly rather grew — whilst her love 
 was nothing changed, or nothing likely to 
 be false, Wycherley did not gain by the 
 presence of Lyle. 
 
 But Mr. Lyle had come from his own 
 great Hall to watch her father ; so when 
 she asked herself if she should like or not 
 like Mr. Lyle, she thought she ought to 
 like him. 
 
 And her father, she could see, had some 
 time given himself over to the influence 
 that, those who felt it hardly talked of 
 to themselves, and which was, as much 
 too much, for those who were believed to 
 be morally strong, as for the weak. 
 
 Mona, to put it to a test that finds but 
 little favour with the world, not quite 
 honestly excused herself by this. If her 
 father was so very right, it was not neces- 
 sary
 
 212, Crispin Ken. 
 
 sary she should be so very rude. She 
 would not avoid Mr. Lyle quite so much, 
 did not want to like him ; but she did not 
 think she ought to hate him. 
 
 This was the power which Ruy Lyle had 
 never used grudgingly. He could quite 
 see how it worked, and how it would yet 
 work. He could see how she had strug- 
 gled to avoid him, how the struggle ended ; 
 and he could see how she had hung back 
 by the way. He had seen the hand she 
 would have held away, and which had 
 every night and morning touched his own. 
 He could see that he was near to being bet- 
 ter liked. He had worked out a good many 
 just such things ; and the curate too, long 
 since, was quite one with him in the 
 matter ; not that it mattered whether 
 Reuben Ken was for or against him ; he 
 could do without and against stronger 
 men than dying curates ; but, it so hap- 
 pened that Reuben Ken was very much 
 minded, that Mona should not hate this 
 Ruy Lyle. 
 
 Over this thing the curate w T as very 
 
 weak
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,13 
 
 weak indeed towards his latter end. The 
 one hope of his heart was yet to see Mona 
 marry Ruy Lyle. He did not stop to 
 think whether this was very fair, or fair 
 at all, to Wycherley. The influence of 
 Mr. Lyle, if it bore down those a great 
 way less susceptible, became an iron in- 
 fluence over the dying man, to which, as 
 his weakness grew, he the more listlessly 
 abandoned himself. 
 
 Mr. Lyle had now come to live at the 
 Parsonage. He never for a moment left 
 it. By day he was by the dying man, 
 whose weakness had now reached a great 
 way towards imbecility. Reuben looked 
 on Crispin, who resisted what he soon saw 
 would be irresistible, without caring 
 whether he gave offence, or where he gave 
 it, as one who would be always creating 
 antagonisms, for the great liking he had to 
 say hard things. 
 
 But, it was to Mona that the burning 
 hope within him was expressed ; and lat- 
 terly she had almost dreaded to come near 
 the bedside of her father. 
 
 As
 
 314 Crispin Ken. 
 
 As the strength of his body grew more 
 faint, Reuben Ken would tell aloud his 
 thoughts, even before Ruy Lyle and Mona. 
 
 He would lie for hours still, his eyes 
 fixed the while on Ruy Lyle ; and it 
 seemed to Reuben Ken, that the man who 
 came to nurse him did not need to eat, or 
 drink, or sleep as others did. No matter 
 what the hour of the night might be, 
 when Reuben Ken awoke, Ruy Lyle was 
 by his side, as though the earlier waking 
 up had been arranged ; and one morning 
 the curate said to Mr. Lyle, " Indeed I 
 cannot permit your health to suffer for 
 mine ; you must have your rest or you'll 
 be ill, and then the world will be con- 
 demning me." 
 
 " You are very kind, Mr. Ken, but I 
 have no need to rest more soundly than I 
 do. I never slept better in my life." 
 
 The curate looked into the face, as he 
 was sometimes obliged to look, although 
 it told so little ; and Reuben Ken was at 
 his wit's end to know how such a man, 
 could have come to such an age, if he had 
 
 never
 
 Crispin Ken. 215 
 
 never slept better in his life than when 
 he slept so ill. He felt, perhaps the more, 
 that it was a great thing for such a man, 
 who did not even need to sleep, to care to 
 be about him ; and he purposed to have a 
 word with Mona when an opportunity 
 should offer ; and the occasion offered 
 very soon, for Mona, as she always did, 
 came to ask him how he felt that morning. 
 
 " I am better, Mona ; it would be a 
 wonder if I wasn't ; getting my strength, 
 I do think," said the curate, wiping away 
 the blood which had strayed to his lips, 
 and told its story of the curate's strength. 
 
 " Ah ! that's nothing," he continued, 
 " only a little fulness of blood ; I'm living 
 too well ; he makes me eat," as Mona 
 looked upon that deadly sign, and for all 
 that she could do showed she felt that it 
 was deadly. " But what's the thing that 
 does not please you, Mona ? it is not such 
 a lucky girl, I think, should look so sad." 
 
 Mona did not speak ; she knew what 
 her father meant, but she did not mean to 
 show it. 
 
 "It
 
 2i6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 " It isn't because he is rich ; it isn't 
 that," said her father, rising on his pillow 
 and speaking out the words his heart 
 would not hold there. " It is not because 
 he is so much better than most men, 
 though it might very well be because of 
 that ; it is not because the country has 
 given him the highest place ; it is not be- 
 cause — what is it because of, Mona ? you 
 know what I mean — it is something, that 
 I cannot tell, which makes me want to see 
 you marry Ruy Lyle." 
 
 And the seeming ecstasy the thought 
 was to him, showed what the power was, 
 to which the dying man confessed. 
 
 " I loved John Wycherley before I 
 knew this Mr. Lyle, and I do not love 
 him less, now that I have seen Mr. Lyle." 
 
 "The love of Wycherley," said her 
 father, who would have defeated any ob- 
 ject by the way he put his wish, " will not 
 serve you much ; the doctor says he is but 
 sickly; if ever death was in man's face it is 
 in his." 
 
 Mr. Ken thought it would be better for 
 
 Mona
 
 Crispin Ken, 2,17 
 
 Mona to have been Mr. Lyle's widow, 
 than John Wycherley's wife. 
 
 " Father, Mr. Lyle should not seek to 
 make you speak like this. He follows me. 
 He is always waiting for my answer, — 
 that is, he seems to follow me. He — I 
 can see his face now, — here, — there, — 
 everywhere — that beautiful, that terrible 
 face ; " and she buried her head in the bed 
 clothes, as though to hide out some fright- 
 ful vision ; and then she said — dreading to 
 look up — (i do not ask me to try to love 
 him ; never ask me to love him again, or 
 you will make me hate him." 
 
 " Nonsense, Mona ; you are learning to 
 talk like your brother Crispin, who always 
 fancies that he sees through everybody ; 
 and you shouldn't live in this world to see 
 through anything. Wycherley is — " 
 
 " What Ruy Lyle can never be. Love 
 him ! — that face always searching and yet 
 never looking, — that face — there it is — 
 it is always following me ; I cannot keep it 
 now from what I dream," and Mona hid 
 
 vol. 1. l her
 
 2i8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 her face, and Ruy Ryle stood there, softly 
 asking something by the bed. 
 
 It was so whenever the curate ever 
 brought the matter, as he had that morn- 
 ing, before Mona. 
 
 Sometimes the curate showed how little 
 he was pleased at the way she spoke of 
 Mr. Lyle, and said it perhaps was better 
 she should love something that at any rate 
 would live; but Mr. Lyle himself saw that, 
 for the present, he would take nothing by 
 moving in the matter. 
 
 And perhaps the strongest feeling now 
 in Mona was, that she had come to see the 
 end of the strange power, with which Ruy 
 Lyle seemed to bind all he ever moved 
 amongst. 
 
 It had been intolerable that she should 
 be told of the dying of John Wycherley 
 as a thing to be desired ; and, as the sick- 
 ness which had so strangely seized him, that 
 night after supper, only left him now at 
 intervals, to come back the worse, she 
 knew that in his death the purpose of Mr. 
 
 Lyle
 
 Crispin Ken. 219 
 
 Lyle would then take form, and her re- 
 serve to him was sometimes chilling. 
 
 He did not seek to alter it — not because 
 he had become indifferent, or because he 
 wanted time to alter anything ; but, be- 
 cause his game had only just begun, and 
 this was only a chief part of the beginning 
 of the game. 
 
 His influence over her was not nearly yet 
 played out. 
 
 It was the one thing for which she was 
 always striving, that they should be never 
 left alone. She could not trust herself to 
 hear his words — words which to her were 
 so little like what they were to others. 
 She thought of the night of Christmas Day, 
 and knew what he would ask ; and yet no 
 woman can feel that any man has words 
 alone for her, and in a tone which has no 
 likeness in its tone to others, and not feel 
 something moved to hear that which it is 
 her ever struggle not to hear. 
 
 Mona was one morning, against all con- 
 triving, left alone with Mr. Lyle. 
 
 He did not move — he did not seem as 
 L 2 though
 
 %%o Crispin Ken. 
 
 though he meant to move. He did not 
 speak. Mona felt she did not dare to stay; 
 she had always thought what she should do 
 if this should come, and yet, it somehow 
 seemed to her, she could not go. Mona 
 had always known that he w T as seeking this, 
 and she had always felt that he would stop 
 her — that he was always thinking how to 
 stop her, and ask if she would be his queen; 
 and what she had so long fancied would be, 
 now seemed like a reality. 
 
 He was stopping her, or else why did she 
 still stay there ? Why did she not go ? and 
 yet he did not move or speak. She wanted 
 to go, and yet she was still there. She 
 stood up and moved a step towards the door. 
 
 " I know what you are going to say; but 
 let me pass, don't call me back — you are 
 calling me back now — why don't you let 
 me go ? ' 
 
 "Miss Ken, there is some mistake. I did 
 not call you back — I did not speak." 
 
 Ruy Lyle had never moved a step from 
 where he was. He had not spoken, nor 
 did it seem he meant to speak; but Mona 
 
 had
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,2 1 
 
 had so believed he would, that she now 
 believed he had. 
 
 She saw what she had been led to do 
 the instant it was done ; but it was too 
 late now to say anything that could 
 undo it. He must have thought her very 
 strange and very rude ; and she tried to 
 mend it by coming back, as though no- 
 thing had happened, and by sitting down 
 where she had sat before. 
 
 Ruy Lyle was not the man to show 
 what he might think of it, much more 
 that he thought it either strange or rude. 
 She felt very grateful to him that he took 
 no notice, or at least any notice that she 
 or any one could well have seen ; but he 
 could afford her this ; he had heard all he 
 cared to hear, and he had seen all he 
 cared to see, as she came back and spoke 
 to him very civilly — much more civilly 
 than she had spoken of late — and said 
 some little, woman's, nothing about the 
 weather ; and he answered her about the 
 weather, with not one word about that 
 other thing that she had said. 
 
 L 3 Mr.
 
 222, Crispin Ken. 
 
 Mr. Lyle never thought any occasion 
 too small for him to excel ; many men, 
 however well they might have meant it, 
 would have been clumsy over the confusion 
 of a girl that had been so unwittingly be- 
 trayed ; but he set her at her ease at 
 once, and she began to try to recollect 
 why she had once not nearly liked him. 
 
 After a little while, Mona found that 
 she was talking to him on things beyond 
 the weather, without seeming to think 
 that it was very hard to do. 
 
 He certainly talked very well. She put 
 it to herself that there was no real harm 
 in being civil to a man who talked so 
 very well. She had always thought this, 
 so there was nothing very strange in be- 
 lieving it then. There was nothing new, 
 she argued to herself, in the admission ; 
 and besides it would only be for once. 
 She was quite sure what had happened 
 that morning would never happen again ; 
 she would never let him sit with her 
 alone, as he had done that day. 
 
 " I was going to see Mr. Wycherley, if 
 
 it
 
 Crispin Ken, 22,3 
 
 it be fine," said Mona ; " do you think it 
 will be fine, Mr. Lyle ? Meg says he is 
 much worse — his illness seems most 
 strange — it alters him so much. I never 
 saw an illness alter any one like that 
 before." 
 
 " I think it will be fair, Miss Ken, I 
 was going to Mr. Wycherley's also," said 
 Mr. Lyle ; " I have seen his symptoms 
 before now, and they — " 
 
 "And they?—" 
 
 " They ended in death, Miss Ken ; but 
 it does not at all follow that Mr. Wycher- 
 ley will die." 
 
 " Do you think that you could save 
 him, Mr. Lyle ? " 
 
 " I do not prescribe, Miss Ken ; but if 
 I were numbered amongst Mr. Wycher- 
 ley's friends, I should be inclined to watch 
 those carefully who nursed him. I could 
 tell him this if you should think it well ; 
 but you, perhaps, Miss Ken, yourself, will 
 do that better." 
 
 He did not say that he should like to 
 
 walk with her — that was not his way ; 
 
 L <■ but
 
 224 Crispin Ken. 
 
 but she could only feel that he meant it, 
 and it seemed to her as if he asked it. 
 
 " I am going now/' said Mona ; and 
 whilst she would have gone alone, perhaps, 
 had she been asked, she did not dare forbid 
 his coming. 
 
 And so they walked to Wycherley's 
 together. 
 
 Mona did not think that Ruy Lyle was 
 very terrible indeed in what he said by 
 the way ; nor after a little while did she 
 dread, as she had sometimes dreaded, that 
 he would put to her the question, she so 
 feared, it was the business of his life to 
 ask. 
 
 She said very little when their walk 
 began, — and she walked as far from him 
 as she well could ; but, after not so long 
 a while, she let him walk a little nearer ; 
 and she spoke of the woman Meg, and 
 asked whether he thought she was a 
 woman to be trusted with the care of 
 Mr. Wycherley, a thing he did not answer 
 very straightly ; and as they so walked and 
 
 met
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,2,$ 
 
 met the neighbours, she was rather glad 
 to be so seen with him. 
 
 It did not at all seem to her, that, as 
 they went along, she was perhaps talking 
 rather freely, and telling him such things 
 that no lesser influence than his could have 
 drawn from her. 
 
 After all, he said a very little, and 
 nothing which it could be said had led 
 her on ; but it was just that little, and 
 the manner of its being said, that set her 
 at her ease. She had heard he could talk 
 better than well, and better than most, 
 even amongst great speakers ; but she had 
 never heard so many right words before. 
 It was always the right word with Mr. 
 Lyle ; and yet it seemed to have found its 
 place in the neatly-turned phrase, without 
 being sought ; and going down a hill 
 where there were ugly looking rolling 
 stones, and the way was slippery, and the 
 walking hard, he offered her his arm, and 
 Mona, quite because the road was hard, 
 took his arm. 
 
 She had certainly, she now knew, kept 
 L 5 out
 
 22,6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 out of his way without any very sufficient 
 cause. He had nothing to say that she 
 did not care to hear ; and how she could 
 have ever hesitated to take his hand when 
 he offered it so genially at night or morn- 
 ing, was more than she could tell. It 
 must have been her fancy that that hand 
 had ever chilled. 
 
 It was not two hours, since all the 
 fancies of her mind had worked within 
 her the belief, that she could not even pass 
 her father's door because of him — that he 
 stood in her path, putting the one question 
 that she feared to hear, and held her 
 back. He was not holding her back now 
 as they went down the hill, at least in 
 any way that went against her very badly ; 
 nor was she haunted with his face. It 
 was not a face, at any rate that morning, 
 fashioned to haunt at all. 
 
 He spoke to her of her father, as though 
 the living or dying of that father would 
 be a great matter to him, with just the 
 reverence a child should like to hear. But 
 it was not overdone. There was not too 
 
 much
 
 Crispin Ken. 22 J 
 
 much liking ; and he spoke of Wycherley 
 just as a man should speak who meant to 
 take Wycherley' s place as soon as might 
 be, but did not mean to show it then ; 
 and Mona was quite sure it would not be 
 a little thing to him if Wycherley should 
 die. 
 
 It would be hard to say how few words 
 Ruy Lyle laid out, to do the work he did 
 that morning. 
 
 " I'm afraid Mr. Wycherley is but 
 weakly, and that, though he gets a little 
 better now and then, he does not really 
 mend. Miss Ken, you must be very anx- 
 ious." 
 
 Mona looked to see if his eyes said more 
 than his words, but they never did say 
 anything, and she remembered they were 
 never raised. 
 
 " We are all very anxious, Mr. Lyle — 
 his illness was so sudden, and so strange ; 
 he is an old friend you know." 
 
 " It is well for him, Miss Ken, that he 
 
 should be reckoned so by you ; but you 
 
 L 6 have
 
 228 Crispin Ken. 
 
 have not set him higher than his mind 
 deserves." 
 
 Mona took this thing which was said 
 by Mr. Lyle about the mind of Wycher- 
 ley, just as it was meant she should. It 
 was not hard to see that she was putting 
 the mind of Ruy Lyle in the balance with 
 the mind of John Wycherley ; and Ruy 
 Lyle very well saw all the balancing, and 
 did not quarrel with the scales. 
 
 Mr. Lyle said nothing more that morn- 
 ing of John Wycherley, or of his mind, 
 and he did not need. 
 
 They reached the curate's cottage about 
 noon. Mr. Lyle remaining in a little par- 
 lour whilst Mona went to see for Meg and 
 Wycherley. 
 
 Ever since Wycherley had been taken ill 
 Meg had never been an hour's length from 
 his bed-side. No one could tell why, though 
 it was not many who cared to think about 
 it. If a man, who lives on what a higher 
 sort of butler would refuse to serve for, can 
 get a hag to hold his head for nothing, it is 
 
 not
 
 Crispin Ken, 2,2,9 
 
 not quite a popular concern how he may 
 get it done. 
 
 As Mona passed on to where Wycherley 
 was lying on a sofa near the window, Meg, 
 in the rough way that had so long been 
 tolerated by Mr. Ken and his family, stood 
 before her in the little narrow passage. 
 
 " It's bad to love another whilst he 
 lives, isn't it ? said the wild woman, 
 grasping Mona's arm, and pointing to 
 Wycherley' s room. 
 
 " But I don't love him, Meg," said 
 Mona, motioning to where Mr. Lyle was 
 waiting ; " and if I did," she added proud- 
 ly, " it's nothing to you." 
 
 " Nothing to me, isn't it ? may be it's 
 more than you are like to know," said 
 Meg, in a whisper, looking up and down 
 the passage, " but not more than you may 
 likely come to know. It is a hard thing 
 to shake him off; but let alone what you 
 owe to the man who is dying here, you 
 may not— must not, Mona — marry Ruy 
 Lyle." 
 
 Meg was always telling Mona this, and, 
 
 however
 
 530 Crispin Ken, 
 
 however free the woman was allowed to 
 be, this seemed going rather far. 
 
 " Marry him, Meg ; there's no fear of 
 that. I could not love him, were it ever 
 so little, even if I did not love John Wy- 
 cherley. It is not love that I could ever 
 feel for him," and Mona shuddered, as she 
 used before they walked together, as they 
 had that morning. 
 
 " It's likely you won't always shudder 
 when you think of loving him ; and if you 
 don't take care you won't be always think- 
 ing that John Wycherley's so much the 
 likeliest. Doesn't that man there draw 
 you on, you don't know how ? Is he to 
 you only what he was ? Is he what he 
 was this morning — two hours back ? He 
 will take your heart as easily as he took 
 your arm coming down that hill, and then 
 he will crush it, and he will still follow, for 
 all he may crush. It's just as he will bid 
 you, just as he bids all, and you won't have 
 a mind to help it ; and there is more work, 
 mark me, here of his than you know of. 
 Keep Ruy Lyle from here, and John Wy- 
 
 cherley
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,31 
 
 cherley will live ; that should not be so 
 very hard a thing to do ; but Wycherley, 
 as he lies upon his bed, looks for this 
 man's coming as you will soon. He calls 
 him in his sleep, and it's you who have 
 brought him now. Save John Wy- 
 cherley, Mona, save him, and you can. 
 You don't know what his life may be to 
 me," and Meg laid her head on Mona's 
 knees, and urged what she had spoken 
 with her tears. 
 
 " I cannot stay his coming here. What 
 am I that I should hinder him ? Could yon 
 stand between the will of Mr. Lyle?" and 
 they both looked round as Mona spoke, as 
 though they thought to see the face they 
 so little dared to see. 
 
 " But why musn't Mr. Lyle come 
 here ? " 
 
 " I should have to answer for it hardly 
 if I told you, Mona. Let him come here, 
 and Wycherley will die, and he will die 
 soon. It may be as you will." 
 
 " If you want me to believe that Mr. 
 Lyle would ever harm John Wycherley, 
 
 I
 
 2^2 Crispin Ken. 
 
 I cannot, Meg, and John Wycherley him- 
 self should speak, not I." 
 
 " He is bound — he is a fool — he is 
 stricken, as are you, as once was I. This 
 Ruy Lyle conies here, and Wycherley can 
 no more stand between the cursed will, of 
 the accursed man that chains him, than 
 can the world. Lyle cheats by one long 
 fraud. He, come what may, must not 
 come here. You, Mona, led him here ; 
 you, Mona, you ; and if you lead him here 
 again, it's very soon you will be rid of 
 Wycherley. I cannot tell you why, but 
 see, there is not very much for death to 
 finish now," and Meg, as she spoke with 
 bated breath, led Mona up to Wycherley. 
 
 " You did not come alone," said Wy- 
 cherley ; " but keep away that light, for my 
 eyes are badly burned already, and it seems 
 to make the water hiss to drink it. But, 
 Mona, I am better, and I always am when 
 he comes here ; better, to be only worse 
 when he is gone. Oh ! Mona," said John 
 Wycherley, leaning on his arm, his eye- 
 balls almost starting from his head, " what 
 
 would
 
 Crispin Ken. 233 
 
 would I give to see him never here 
 again ; never, and he is so kind ; never, 
 and my tongue would cool ; never, and 
 this thirst might die ; but he comes, and 
 I don't know how it is, I'm glad he comes. 
 He gives me to drink, and sits with me 
 here, and something seems to hold him 
 here ; he is so little like any man I ever 
 saw before ; it's something I cannot fight 
 against ; something I hardly have the will 
 to keep away. Isn't he there in that room 
 now ? Ask him, Mona, not to stay — not 
 to stay — but I think that it may do me 
 good to see him for a little," and as it al- 
 ways came to be, Ruy Lyle was asked to 
 come to Wycherley's bed-side. 
 
 " What's that you let me always drink ?" 
 said Wycherley wildly. 
 
 " It's only what Meg gives you," said 
 Mr. Lyle, "it's her you have to thank, not 
 me. 
 
 " If it's the same Meg gives me, it does 
 not taste the same," said Wycherley ; " I 
 think that I could drink a little now." 
 
 Mr. Lyle smiled. " It's very kind of you 
 
 to
 
 234 Crispin Ken. 
 
 to think that I can make it pleasant," he 
 said, taking up a cup by his side. 
 
 " Now, just taste this," said Wycherley, 
 holding Mr. Lyle the cup. 
 
 " It's your fancy, my dear sir, that the 
 rather flatters me I fear." 
 
 " But if it seems to do you good," said 
 Mona, " you had better drink it;" and 
 when it had almost reached the lips of Mr. 
 Lyle she passed it on to Wycherley, who, 
 as he always did when drink was given him 
 by Mr. Lyle, drained it to the dregs. 
 
 " Don't go — don't go yet, you have only 
 just now come," said the curate, as he rolled 
 his burning eyes and tried to force a smile 
 upon his scorching lips — " you must stay a 
 little longer," and, as he laid his hand on 
 Mr. Lyle as though to keep him there, and 
 looked long and searchingly into the face 
 that was as an image never leaving him at 
 all, he whispered to Mona, as if Mr. Lyle 
 should not hear what he said, " Take him 
 away — I want to tell him, but I can't. 
 What did I say ? — -don't believe her, Mr. 
 Lyle — don't believe any one who tells you 
 
 that
 
 Crispin Ken. 235 
 
 that I — I did not say to her that I do not 
 want you here." 
 
 " I think, perhaps, that in his present 
 state we are a little too mueh for him — we 
 had better go, Miss Ken ;" and they went ; 
 and as they passed out, Meg took her sleep- 
 less place beside John Wycherley. 
 
 Mr. Lyle, who had been watching for 
 this, and was able to show he saw it, 
 turned himself about, and Mona stopped 
 at the sound of his words. 
 
 " I do not like the symptoms, Miss Ken, 
 and less than any that rolling of the eyes ;" 
 and, whilst he spoke he saw that Mona 
 had been looking on whilst John Wy- 
 cherley drained the cup held to his lips by 
 Meg. 
 
 " As I said this morning, Miss Ken, you 
 have cause to think well of his nurse ? I 
 suppose that you can trust this woman who 
 just now gave him that to drink ?" 
 
 There was not very much in what he 
 said — suspicion admits of a great variety of 
 subtle treatment, and in some circles has 
 been brought to remarkable perfection ; 
 
 but
 
 2 36 Crispin Ken. 
 
 but there was nothing much in this ; he 
 only put to her two ordinary questions. 
 
 Still, what he had said worked, and 
 would work, and, from what Mona had 
 seen, he knew that it would go on working. 
 
 Society has so well taught us how this 
 may be done, that in its doing we may 
 often even cheat society. 
 
 It was some few days later that the 
 pawnbroker came to Reuben Ken. 
 
 Mona carried in the message, which was, 
 that the pawnbroker had something to say. 
 
 Reuben Ken reviewed his life when he 
 heard this message. He knew that of his 
 concessions this had come. 
 
 The pawnbroker sat down by the bed- 
 side of the dying man, and took the wast- 
 ing hand held out to him in his. He be- 
 gan hurriedly, and in a broken way, or it 
 may have been from how he felt, he could 
 not well have got his words to serve him. 
 
 " You don't care for such as me now, 
 Mr. Ken. I see you are well cared for ; 
 but I don't suppose it's the church you've 
 got to thank for having better than one 
 
 chair ;"
 
 Crispin Ken. 23J 
 
 chair ;" for he could see that things of 
 comfort had come up in the room ; things 
 which had not been seen for years. 
 
 " I havn't come for what I gave you 
 on the coat. I havn't come for that ; but 
 I am still something hereabouts, if I ain't 
 exactly all I was. It isn't the church that 
 has brought me round. I havn't given up 
 chapel, and it isn't very likely I shall, for 
 that's what makes the most of such as 
 me. In the church we ain't anything ; 
 we may have plenty to say, but you won't 
 hear us. But in the chapel, if we know 
 ever so little, that don't hinder us from 
 talking ; we are something and plenty 
 come to hear us. Still I aint what I was, 
 when I used to be against you over the 
 way, and you wasn't much use against 
 me. My voice isn't half a voice now 
 sometimes, and I ain't got any breath like 
 to fill a biggish room ; but they tell me 
 you are going, Mr. Ken ; and you do look 
 bad, and as though you didn't mean to stop ; 
 but I don't want you to go before I have 
 said what I've had a mind to say a good 
 
 bit
 
 2 38 Crispin Ken. 
 
 bit since. It's no account saying you've 
 been what you haven't been, and I've 
 come to say what you may like to hear 
 or not, as pleases you best, that you've 
 made a pretty mess of this place, Mr. Ken, 
 better now than twenty years. It is better 
 now than twenty years since I told them 
 that Sunday morning that there was no 
 help for it, that they must warm up the 
 chapel. Don't you remember that first 
 Sunday that ever you preached ? Well, it 
 wasn't likely that we was going to like 
 the organ being set going, and you dress- 
 ing yourself up in that white gown of a 
 thing, and talking to us about your author- 
 ity, and how the bishop pulled you about 
 with his hand ; it wasn't likely I — who 
 was what they looked to — was going to 
 stand that, but now's the time for a plain 
 word, Mr. Ken ; you are slipping away, 
 and you won't be here to be told it soon. 
 I shouldn't have done what you did if I 
 had been where you was. It didn't ought 
 to have mattered to you what we thought 
 about it. We didn't go to get pleased, and 
 
 it
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,39 
 
 it wasn't likely you could please us ; and 
 we didn't like it a bit the more because 
 you began to put down all you had preached 
 up ; and what a mess you did get in. You 
 didn't please yourself; you didn't shut us 
 up ; you didn't do what we wanted ; but 
 you set to work to show you was afraid of 
 your own likings, to make what you call the 
 church as near us as could be ; and you did 
 it ; and no one, that I could ever hear of, 
 thought it was a bit worth while going away 
 from us to come to you. There wasn't 
 difference enough ; and that's just how it 
 was. It isn't likely you would have got me, 
 but there's many that I took along with 
 me who would have come to you, but they 
 didn't think itwas worth while, as you made 
 the church so like the chapel, and kept 
 shrinking away from what you should have 
 held to. It's your middling sort that we 
 dissenters like ; you who never stick to any- 
 thing, but only want to make your church 
 as like our chapel as you can, but are afraid 
 to say so. You were so uncommon like 
 what we were ; that's where you made a 
 
 mess
 
 24° Crispin Ken. 
 
 mess of it. I couldn't bear to see you 
 dying up there on Christmas day ; and it 
 was what you said, and how you said it, 
 about meeting every one of us after a bit — 
 every one, and not forgetting me — that 
 worked me up to fetch back that coat, and 
 I hope, now it's all up, that there's no harm 
 between us, and that you won't mind 
 meeting me by and by, where there's no 
 coats wanted to be worn." 
 
 Reuben Ken heard the pawnbroker up 
 to the last word, and long as the pawn- 
 broker had spoken, without the wish that 
 one of those words should ever have been 
 left unsaid. 
 
 " It's very good of you to come so kindly, 
 and to want to meet me by and by. If 
 I was weak, I did it for peace ; and I hope 
 that Crispin won't be harsh. I must have 
 a word or two with him about it ; there's 
 nothing like concession in the church." 
 
 " If that's your son that you mean, Mr. 
 Ken, I hope he won't do as. you did ; 
 always meaning well, and always getting 
 in the wrong." 
 
 "I
 
 Crispin Ken. 241 
 
 " I have seen what concession could 
 do/' said Reuben Ken, his eyes filling as 
 he spoke, as though he even gave the 
 memory up to fight against the giving. 
 
 " I hope it won't be seen again here- 
 abouts, for a good bit," said the pawnbroker. 
 " I ain't of your mind, but I like to see 
 one thing or another ; it don't do for us, 
 and I shouldn't think it would do any 
 great deal for what you call the Church. 
 I like something well enough to kick 
 against ; but I'm sorry if I've ever vexed 
 you. Twenty-two years is a long time 
 for such a piece of work as ours ; but it's 
 all right now ; perhaps you won't mind 
 thinking of what I've told you ; it isn't 
 any dissenter that likes you a bit the less 
 for sticking to a thing. One of what's 
 called an " Evangelical" makes twenty of 
 us by what he does, in no time ;" and the 
 pawnbroker, as he spoke, squeezed the thin 
 hand that was so heartily held out to him ; 
 and he was gone to the curate, in this 
 world, for ever. 
 
 He had hardly left when Mr. Lyle re- 
 vol. 1. m turned,
 
 242 Crispin Ken. 
 
 turned, to watch by Reuben Ken's bed- 
 side. 
 
 " What is to-day ? " asked the curate, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " It is Thursday, the 2ist of January." 
 
 " If I live till to-morrow I shall have 
 been here three-and-twenty years. It's a 
 long time to do no good, but to do a great 
 deal that is ill, as that man told me I had 
 done. I don't know why, but something 
 tells me I shall not live beyond to-morrow. 
 God grant that, even if it is to-night, I 
 may be ready, Mr. Lyle." 
 
 " There is nothing I can do for you, 
 Mr. Ken, you have arranged everything 
 and settled all ? " 
 
 " That was never very hard for any 
 time this twenty years, Mr. Lyle," said 
 the curate, smiling. " We have lived upon 
 your bounty this month past. I have 
 settled all, for I have nothing." 
 
 " And you have no last wish — nothing 
 beyond all the rest , that you may desire, 
 Mr. Ken?" 
 
 Reuben
 
 Crispin Ken. 24.3 
 
 Reuben Ken looked with a long, mean- 
 ing look, into the face of Ruy Lyle. 
 
 " I have, Mr. Lyle ; you always know 
 everything I want to say ; it has been long 
 on my mind to tell it. This curacy is — " 
 
 " I understand you, Mr. Ken ; set your 
 mind entirely at rest, Crispin shall have it, 
 you have my word." 
 
 The curate pressed the hand that he 
 always seemed to want to press, and yet 
 which always seemed to chill him. 
 
 " I wish it were mine, to have the 
 thought of having lived the life you have, 
 Mr. Lyle." 
 
 And Mr. Lyle did not change colour, 
 even before this wish of the dying. He 
 never did change colour ; but a more keen 
 observer than Mr. Ken was might have 
 then judged something from the smile 
 upon those lips. 
 
 " And you've no other wish, nothing 
 beyond this, Mr. Ken ? You do not lay 
 upon us what is very hard." 
 
 The curate moved in his bed towards 
 M 2 the
 
 244 Crispin Ken. 
 
 the man, who, somehow, seemed to search 
 him through. 
 
 " You know everything, Mr. Lyle — 
 everything you want to know — can you, 
 then, see through me ? " 
 
 " It was only what I thought might be, 
 Mr. Ken/' 
 
 " If you had not known it without my 
 telling you, Mr. Lyle, I should not have 
 told you this; but come near," said the 
 curate, in a whisper, laying his hand on 
 Mr. Lyle, " nearer — nearer — there is, as 
 you say, something about Mona. I love 
 John Wycherley ; but I do not wish that 
 she should marry him. She might well 
 marry better ; can you, when I'm gone, 
 see this wish respected ? " 
 
 " It is a matter in which I would rather 
 not move, but as you put it, Mr. Ken, I 
 cannot well refuse, if you will give me 
 the power to act," said Ruy Lyle, in a 
 tone admirably callous, and which it would 
 have been generally said, even by the best 
 judges, showed how indifferent he was to 
 get the power. 
 
 " Give
 
 Crispin Ken. 245 
 
 " Give you the power, Mr. Lyle ; I 
 give power to you ? I don't think you 
 can need it." 
 
 "You must make your will/ Mr. Ken, 
 appoint me your daughter's guardian, my- 
 self, and — " 
 
 " And no one else," said Mr. Ken. 
 " This is what I wished ; you quite saw 
 what I wanted." 
 
 The curate had exactly supplied what 
 Mr. Lyle had paused for. 
 
 " I had better not act alone." 
 
 " I would rather that you did," said 
 Mr. Ken, who thought it would want all 
 he could say to keep Mr. Lyle to his 
 resolve. 
 
 And the last will of Reuben Ken was 
 made that afternoon, signed, and put aside 
 by Mr. Lyle. 
 
 It was two hours after midnight when 
 Ruy Lyle, who had never closed his eyes, 
 went softly and knocked at Crispin's door. 
 
 " There is a change, and it is one, I 
 think, from which no one in this house 
 should be away." 
 
 m 3 "y ou
 
 2\6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 " You know what it is ; you have seen 
 death before ? " said Crispin, starting to 
 his feet to follow. 
 
 " I have seen some die," said Mr. Lyle ; 
 and as the light of the little lamp fell on 
 his face, Crispin thought he never saw a 
 face so calm — that meant so much — that 
 told so little. 
 
 They stood a little later round the bed 
 — all listening to the tightening breath, 
 watching the change that was growing 
 into death. 
 
 " He wants to speak," said Mr. Lyle, 
 and Crispin bent over the bed to catch the 
 words. 
 
 There is nothing in this world we strive 
 for as we do to catch those words ; some 
 for the love they witness, more for the 
 gain they summon us to take. 
 
 " Is that you, Crispin? — bury me by 
 your mother — and Mr. Lyle has given 
 me his word to be your friend." 
 
 Crispin looked round, and there was 
 that in his look, which cast back on " the 
 friend," whatever words might have been 
 
 given.
 
 Crispin Ken. 247 
 
 given. But Ruy Lyle, as he stood there, 
 did not seem to see it. 
 
 " And I want you, Crispin, to do every- 
 thing for peace — always be ready to con- 
 cede — I hope I always was. It's nearly 
 over with me now ; I'm getting very tired ; 
 I shall be there to-night with your mother 
 and my little ones." 
 
 And the dying man, as he looked where 
 the moon was sailing high, gathered up 
 the little strength he had to bless his son. 
 And then he moved his lips, as though he 
 asked for Mona, then for Jack ; and the 
 cripple on Lis crutch pressed on to take 
 his share of the last words. 
 
 Reuben turned to Mona, and took her 
 hand, or rather seemed as though he 
 would have taken it, and then moved 
 round to ask for Mr. Lyle, and with the 
 little strength that stayed, tried to place 
 her hand in his. 
 
 " It may not be," and Meg stood there 
 to keep the hand of Mona back ; and the 
 sign of death had settled in its never-to- 
 be-simulated form, whilst the living who 
 M * stood
 
 .248 Crispin Ken. 
 
 stood there, took thought of things which 
 did not seem to have death in them. 
 
 What was coming in the future seemed 
 to them to ask for an eternity to fulfil it ; 
 and each had added something, to the 
 hopes and fears of their own being, before it 
 could be felt that death was in their midst. 
 
 Ruy Lyle turned round to lead Mona 
 from the room. 
 
 " It is better she should come," he said 
 to Crispin. 
 
 " It is best that you should leave her 
 to her will," was Crispin's answer ; and 
 so did Ruy Lyle, as he fell back ; but 
 Mona turned to take his arm. 
 
 " I did not ask it, Mr. Ken," said Ruy 
 Lyle, as he led Mona from the room. 
 
 i( Not here, not now," said Crispin to 
 himself as he looked upon the still warm 
 clay ; " but to-morrow — " 
 
 " And to-morrow," said Meg, " you will 
 wish it were to-day, when you shall know 
 his power. See, how he did not ask, and 
 how she followed him ; and so did I a 
 while ago, and that's why I am mad." 
 
 CHAP.
 
 Crispin Ken. 340 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 A Funeral. 
 
 HERE is perhaps nothing which, 
 under modern treatment, may 
 mean more or may mean less 
 than a funeral. It has long been 
 felt by those who have made it a matter of 
 business, how much may be done, and how 
 much may be realised, over putting a clay 
 body in a clay hole. 
 
 One man comes to die and he is buried 
 by the country; and it is held to be of such 
 interest that the reporters of the evening 
 papers, who have strong feelings and are 
 moved by anthems, are even there. 
 
 Another man dies, and, after a good deal 
 of inquiry, he is held to be a subject that 
 must be buried by the workhouse; and he 
 
 M 5 is.
 
 2,$o Crispin Ken. 
 
 is, it may be, drawn along by a horse for 
 the first time in his life. 
 
 There is the gorgeous funeral, where the 
 putting away of the clay must needs be 
 very grandly done. There are no effects 
 which an intelligent undertaker, if you do 
 not cramp him, will not secure. But the 
 deportment of the mourners, the compli- 
 mentary groups about in black, is very 
 hard to determine. Nor has it yet ever 
 quite been determined. 
 
 It does not do for the complimentary 
 follower to be over cast down, or the inhe- 
 ritor of the name, or money, of what you 
 are burying away, is quite likely to be apt 
 to feel, that you do not think sufficiently 
 of what is left. 
 
 And after the funeral is over, the refresh- 
 ment — which is the same thing as that for 
 a rout — whilst the servants are pulling up 
 the blinds, and making the place look as 
 little like it did when the dead was lying 
 there, what is the proper thing for the 
 complimentary mourner to do ? 
 
 Of course with some it had been thought 
 
 most
 
 Crispin Ken. 351 
 
 most worth while to send an empty carriage 
 after the corpse. 
 
 The reading of the will begins the busi- 
 ness. Everything will have been tending up 
 very decently to that — the amount and se- 
 verity of the black about you, and how you 
 looked when the head undertaker, touching 
 you on the arm and helping you over the 
 ropes, told you the time for having the last 
 look into the grave had come, had all been 
 governed by how you believed you stood in 
 relation to the will. 
 
 Setting aside those few to whom the 
 loss of the dead does not happen to be a 
 question of money, the complimentary 
 long faces whilst they lasted, were about 
 as real as the empty carriages. 
 
 It is not a little remarkable that you 
 may have a general rule for your outward 
 seeming at all entertainments but a funeral. 
 You are asked out of compliment ; you 
 stay away from business out of compli- 
 ment ; if you are very much thought of in 
 the city, this is the hardest thing you are 
 asked to do — you go out of compliment — 
 M 6 you
 
 2, $2, Crispin Ken. 
 
 you are found in gloves and in crape ; and 
 you see two of the more serious members 
 of the undertaker's establishment, unspeak- 
 ably afflicted, on either side of the door, to 
 carry out their employer's contract — their 
 employer undertook that he would find 
 two men to look grief-struck. But there 
 are as many good things, communicated in 
 one journey of a mourning-coach, as you 
 will see in a month in a "funny" paper. 
 You will have cast off the grief, that you took 
 from the opening sight of the mutes, and by 
 the time you are sitting down to eat and 
 to drink, you have quite determined that 
 a funeral offers to your complimentary 
 position, a very fair share of what may be 
 enjoyed. You have only made a mistake 
 or two in looking too heavy, when the in- 
 cident just occurring should have had a 
 contrary result. 
 
 Complimentary mourning in our earlier 
 education might be made an extra. We 
 should be brought to understand the deli- 
 cate medium of behaviour at a funeral. 
 We are invited by advertisement to learn 
 
 how
 
 Crispin Ken. 2 53 
 
 how to enter, and how to leave a room, on 
 every occasion but after holding a compli- 
 mentary place at a funeral. The way to 
 bury the dead is, after all, becoming a 
 cheapened and improving science. Those 
 impressible contractors, who only employ 
 the hopeless-looking, have lately introduced 
 a boot into the funeral machine, where the 
 thing is done by contract, and the dead 
 and the living ride in one black coach. 
 This cheap indecency is better than the 
 long procession. Everything is to be 
 made much of which weakens the posi- 
 tion of the complimentary mourner. The 
 hypocrisy, that we take a life to make our 
 own, is devoted, in complimentary mourn- 
 ing, to the memory of the dead. The 
 joke creeps up when we come to mourn. 
 By the vault and in the waltz we stand in 
 the same black trousers. We expect too 
 much. The city man believes his many 
 friends will be his many mourners, and 
 that those who followed him will follow his 
 six Flemish horses. It is not that society 
 is any more sincere over our cradle than 
 
 over
 
 254 Crispin Ken. 
 
 over our coffin ; but it may happen to be 
 better worth its while to be civil over the 
 child than enduring over the corpse. 
 What it gets by going is what society will 
 ask, and when society shall cease to ask 
 it, may be only at the funeral of the world. 
 
 When it was known that Reuben Ken 
 was dead, not a very great deal of com- 
 plimentary mourning was thought to be 
 necessitated. 
 
 It was not difficult to know that he 
 had died worth nothing. A man who 
 has had something to lose, and who has 
 lost it, and who with the breadth of his 
 operations has made others to lose, gives 
 employment to his successors, in the great 
 capacity there is for saying what he was ; 
 but Reuben Ken left no such capacities 
 behind at all. He might have died worth 
 something. He might have been doing 
 what Sir Reuben Israel would have ad- 
 vised him to do ; but he had lived his life 
 through nothing worth, and he had died 
 worth nothing. 
 
 So there was little enough to apprehend 
 
 from
 
 Crispin Ken. 255 
 
 from the empty carriages that would follow 
 him. 
 
 Indeed, it was very clear to Crispin that 
 there was something very far from com- 
 plimentary mourning to apprehend. The 
 perpetual curate was dead, and had not 
 left so much behind him as would satisfy 
 the undertaker's meanest contract. There 
 was certainly the bed on which the body 
 lay ; that could be sold from under it ; 
 and then there was the parish to fall 
 back on ; but Crispin felt that the Church 
 of England would never get over a parish 
 funeral. 
 
 When he entered the room the next 
 morning, Meg had already laid the body 
 out. 
 
 " I can't make much of it," she said ; 
 " it's a poor, shrivelled thing. I don't 
 think he had such a fair chance as he 
 should." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Crispin, 
 as he looked with an anxious face upon 
 the hard lines of the corpse. 
 
 " Mean ! Just that he didn't have as 
 
 much
 
 2,^6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 much, as he might have had to eat, before 
 he took that fever; but you ain't going 
 to let Ruy Lyle follow him ? It isn't come 
 to that ? " 
 
 " I have not thought about it," said 
 Crispin. 
 
 " It's time you should, then," said Meg, 
 " for he means to go." 
 
 " I shall order that." 
 
 " No, you won't order that," answered 
 the woman ; " he'll do just what he likes, 
 without asking." 
 
 " Mr. Lyle has no such influence with 
 me. I dislike him, and he knows it." 
 
 " You may do all that, and it's likely 
 you do; but you'll ask him to bury what's 
 here," said Meg. 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " I didn't know anything about it, only 
 he wants you to ask him. He knows you 
 haven't a shilling to pay the undertaker for 
 the job." 
 
 " Has he spoken to you then, Meg ? " 
 
 " He hasn't said a word ; but when he 
 wants most he never does." 
 
 "He
 
 Crispin Ken. 2$ J 
 
 " He will not be so mistaken as to try ; 
 the intercourse which my father permitted, 
 ceased the moment that my father died." 
 
 " You don't know that man, or else 
 you wouldn't say so. You will never, till 
 his death, be rid of Ruy Lyle. He will 
 bury that bit of clay any how. You will 
 forbid it at first, but you will not forbid it 
 afterwards. By and bye he will be here — 
 here, in this room. You will have him not 
 to stay. He will ask Mona to the Hall 
 till the funeral is over, and after the 
 funeral is over ; and you will set yourself 
 against it, and you will let her go." 
 
 Crispin Ken said nothing that any one 
 could hear ; but he seemed to be looking 
 back on him, who it was said could secure 
 the every wish of his will, without de- 
 claring what that will should be. 
 
 " You won't always hate him, or think 
 you hate him. I — I have loved and hated ; 
 I have heard him speak as you have never 
 heard him speak — I have felt his power, 
 when, to go on feeling it, I could have asked 
 God to let me never die. I have wor- 
 shipped
 
 258 Crispin Ken. 
 
 shipped that man, Ruy Lyle, — I have made 
 an idol of his image, and he knew I made 
 it, and it was not terrible to him at all ; 
 he only liked to see my agony, to look at 
 me when he broke that image up. He 
 liked to see it, only as he can. He liked to 
 see me trying, as I did, to get away — to get 
 away from what ? Not from what he said 
 or did ; he said nothing, he did nothing ; 
 but he seemed to chain me there ; and you 
 will be chained, if he should be minded. 
 He has never failed, and he won't pass you. 
 I was not always what I am ; they did not 
 always call me mad." 
 
 " Stay, Meg, isn't he coming ? I thought 
 I heard his step." 
 
 They both listened ; there was not a 
 sound that either one could hear. 
 
 " You thought you heard his step ; and 
 so used I — ever I thought I did," said Meg. 
 " It need not really be for you to hear it — 
 he only makes you feel that he is coming." 
 
 Crispin smiled at the fancy that was put 
 with so much force, and went to the door 
 to show the woman that she was wrong. 
 
 There
 
 Crispin Ken. 259 
 
 There was no one there, but in a few 
 minutes Ruy Lyle stood on the threshold. 
 
 " I thought I heard your step," said 
 Crispin, determining at once to put down 
 Meg's illusion, " it may have been five 
 minutes since." 
 
 " Five minutes since I was nearly half a 
 mile from here ; it must have been some 
 other step that you heard, Mr. Ken." 
 
 Some other step ; there was no other 
 step like that which Crispin Ken could at 
 all remember to have ever heard ; but 
 whether Mr. Lyle was speaking what was 
 truth or not, from that calm and unmoved 
 face he could not tell. 
 
 It was impossible for Crispin Ken to feel, 
 however much he might want to feel it, 
 that there was any great intrusion, or any 
 intrusion at all, in the coming of this man. 
 Ruy Lyle stood there with his hand upon 
 the door, but Crispin did not speak the 
 word that should have got him out. 
 
 Meg, as she turned to go, cast back a look 
 at Crispin Ken, which was meant to tell, 
 and told. She had said all along that Ruy 
 
 Lyle
 
 260 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Lyle would come, and would stay, and he 
 had come, and he was staying. 
 
 " I can't help it if he does," said Crispin, 
 unwittingly, aloud. It had escaped him, 
 that the power he confessed to be over 
 strong to bear, stood now before him. 
 
 " No one ever could, and no one ever 
 will, so long as he has a mind that they 
 shan't help it," muttered Meg to herself as 
 she still stayed on. 
 
 Crispin Ken felt that by his own act, 
 his own weakness was proclaimed, and as 
 he desired that its signs should be seen by 
 as few as might be, he motioned Meg to go. 
 
 As soon as the woman was gone, Crispin 
 determined he would have it out with Mr. 
 Lyle. If Mr. Lyle meant to stay he should 
 stand, for he would not be asked to sit. 
 But as the thought passed through Crispin, 
 Mr. Lyle evidenced how much he could 
 do without asking, and he sat himself down. 
 
 " I shall have to turn him out at the 
 door ; it will have come to that," said 
 Crispin to himself, pacing the room with 
 a betrayed irritation that most morning 
 
 visitors
 
 Crispin Ken, 261 
 
 visitors would have found it hard to under- 
 stand, " He has come here to offer to 
 bury my father — if he offers anything of 
 the sort I shall be at some pains to insult 
 him ; the parish purse is better any how 
 than his." 
 
 Crispin, as this went through his mind, 
 still paced the room; and Mr. Lyle, who 
 might have found it hard to interpret aright 
 the meaning of such remarkable exercise, 
 sat on and said nothing. 
 
 " You will be good enough to wait till 
 you are asked," said Crispin, turning and 
 glaring upon Mr. Lyle, " I can perfectly 
 well bury my own father." 
 
 " There must be some mistake, Mr. Ken, 
 I did not speak. I made no such offer." 
 
 " You said you would take upon yourself 
 the expenses of the funeral." 
 
 " Pardon me, when did I say so, Mr. 
 Ken ? " 
 
 " When ? now — a minute ago — in this 
 room — from that chair." 
 
 " There is some misapprehension ; your 
 sister will bear me out in what I say." 
 
 "Why
 
 2,6 2 Crispin Ken. 
 
 "Why are you here, Mona?" asked 
 Crispin, who had not seen his sister enter 
 the room. 
 
 " Mr. Lyle did not speak," said Mona, 
 avoiding to give her brother any answer 
 more direct. 
 
 " And if he did not speak, what was it 
 made me think he did?" asked Crispin. 
 
 If the brother and the sister had chanced 
 to look at Ruy Lyle as he sat there, they 
 might have seen a smile upon his face that 
 would have told them something. 
 
 " It often seems to me as though he 
 spoke when yet he never speaks a word," 
 said Mona to her brother, almost in a 
 whisper. I often hear his voice when he is 
 miles away." 
 
 " Mr. Lyle," said Crispin with a sneer 
 that was meant to be very clear, " you seem 
 to be possessed of an influence which you 
 will excuse my not understanding, and of 
 saying a great deal when you do not speak, 
 which I think you should explain." 
 
 "I have heard that said before," said Mr. 
 Lyle. 
 
 "And
 
 Crispin Ken. 263 
 
 " And you rather seem to like the mys- 
 tery," said Crispin, endeavouring in vain 
 to hit where Ruy Lyle was vulnerable ; and 
 at the moment he thought of having himself 
 heard the step of Ruy Lyle, when Mr. 
 Lyle must have been a good half mile 
 away. 
 
 " You deny this influence yourself, then, 
 Mr. Lyle." ' 
 
 " Is there anything strange about me, 
 Mr. Ken ? " 
 
 " Why don't you look me in the face, 
 Mr. Lyle, and say yes or no ? There is that 
 strange about you, Mr. Lyle, that you look 
 no one in the face." 
 
 Crispin Ken had set out with the purpose 
 upon him of insulting Mr. Lyle. He had 
 insulted Mr. Lyle ; he wanted him to go ; 
 and yet he now began to feel that he did 
 not altogether wish him gone. 
 
 " I was just going to John Wycherley's," 
 said Crispin, taking his hat. 
 
 Crispin Ken had got no answer from his 
 visitor. 
 
 Mr.
 
 2,6 4 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Mr. Lyle took his hat and walked to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 " A minute, if you please, Mr. Lyle," 
 and Mr. Lyle sat himself down again, 
 bidden to sit down by Crispin Ken. 
 
 Crispin, as Mr. Lyle came back, could 
 only remember Meg's last words, that Mr. 
 Lyle would come unasked, and that in the 
 end Crispin would ask him to stay. 
 
 " There is something in this man's in- 
 fluence," said Crispin to himself, " and, 
 after all, he was a friend who my father 
 trusted. I do not like him. I do not mean 
 to like him, and I will not take his money, 
 but if he will lend a little, it wouldn't 
 look well for the parish to do it," and the 
 more he thought of it, the less Crispin liked 
 the parish. 
 
 But Crispin's hesitation, to put himself 
 further in the power that he could not 
 reconcile himself to, was least of all unob- 
 served by Mr. Lyle, who took the opportu- 
 nity to explain, that he had come there to 
 see, if he could offer his services in any way. 
 
 If any one else had come there to do 
 
 that,
 
 Crispin Ken. 265 
 
 that, and had spoken as Mr. Lyle spoke 
 then, Crispin would have done what he 
 wanted to do, and would have opened his 
 heart then and there ; but he felt, however 
 near he might be drawn to Ruy Lyle, that 
 the influence — if it could be so interpreted 
 — was not a healthy one. 
 
 Crispin Ken felt forced to go on. 
 
 " My father's circumstances at his death, 
 will not be unknown to you, Mr. Lyle." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Ken, your father never 
 mentioned the matter, and — " 
 
 "You had too much good feeling to press 
 him at all on the subject," said Crispin 
 warmly, and extending his hand heartily 
 to the visitor he so little understood. 
 
 It seemed to Crispin that the hand he 
 took was clammy, and had a touch he could 
 not well define, even to himself; but he 
 forgot that he had not let his visitor finish 
 the interrupted sentence, or a great deal of 
 the seeming good feeling might not have 
 been proclaimed. 
 
 " He said nothing about his funeral ? " 
 said Crispin, who wanted to be rid of the 
 
 vol. 1. N responsibility
 
 2,66 Crispin Ken. 
 
 responsibility of asking a man, whose in- 
 fluence he was perpetually combating, to 
 bury his father. 
 
 " Mr. Ken expressed a wish that I should 
 relieve you from all the liabilities of his — " 
 
 " As you so far had my father's confi- 
 dence, Mr. Lyle, it would be unbecoming 
 in me to conceal from you that he has not 
 left behind him provision even for his 
 funeral ; but this evidence of your good 
 intentions towards himself, and towards 
 us, can be only accepted as a loan." 
 
 Crispin Ken could have concealed no- 
 thing, had he been so minded, for Mr. 
 Lyle knew everything that Crispin could 
 have told him. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Lyle changed colour just a 
 little, when Crispin spoke of the service 
 being disinterested. It was not lost upon 
 Crispin, who set it down to Mr. Lyle's 
 feelings, as the face of the corpse was, at 
 his request, uncovered. 
 
 " So soon, so soon," he muttered to 
 himself, as he saw the change about the 
 lips. 
 
 That
 
 Crispin Ken, 2,6 7 
 
 That was all that was ever said on either 
 side about the funeral ; and as Mr. Lyle 
 went out, Crispin Ken remembered that 
 the man he had once thought should 
 never stay, had stayed, — had been even 
 asked to stay ; and that this man, whose 
 power was so hateful, whilst yet it 
 seemed so necessary, would bury away the 
 dead. 
 
 Crispin had almost called back Mr. 
 Lyle. He was angry with himself to feel 
 that this influence, which he had so strug- 
 gled to set down as nothing, had a great 
 hold on him. But after the funeral there 
 would be an end to it all ; that he knew ; 
 only he was not quite so sure about it as 
 he might have been. 
 
 It was under these feelings that, as he 
 was leaving the room, Mona touched him 
 on the arm. 
 
 " Crispin, you know what his influence 
 is now." 
 
 " I know nothing about it. I want to 
 
 know nothing about it. I don't know, 
 
 moreover, what you mean by this man's 
 
 N z influence.
 
 % 68 Crispin Ken. 
 
 influence. Is he so unlike all other 
 men r 
 
 Crispin had started a question which he 
 had put to Ruy Lyle, and which he had 
 hardly liked himself to answer. It said all 
 that could be said of the man whose in- 
 fluence was just then paramount through- 
 out the country. 
 
 " I think he is," said Mona. " He comes 
 here, and I know that he is coming when 
 he is not near. I am sure I will not see 
 him, yet I see him. I know what he will 
 say, and think how I will answer it, but 
 somehow so, I do not answer it. I do not 
 know what it is, Crispin ; it makes me 
 very wretched, yet everybody says he is so 
 very good. I only feel it is an influence I 
 cannot and I do not like, but that I have 
 no power to resist. There is some mystery 
 about him. He never speaks of what he 
 did when he was young. When he was 
 here just now he said almost nothing ; but 
 I know he did everything he wanted." 
 
 •" His coming here amongst us, Mona, 
 was mysterious. The way he bought the 
 
 Hall
 
 Crispin Ken, 269 
 
 Hall — the way in which he looks no one 
 in the face. I never like such great, good 
 men ; but my flesh creeps, — I cannot help 
 its creeping when I think of him. After 
 the funeral, Mona, we shall never see him 
 again — at least — well — why do you 
 look so, Mona ? " 
 
 " I think that that depends on what 
 his will may be," said Mona, as she left 
 the room. 
 
 Crispin stayed behind a little while to 
 think, and the chiefest thing he thought 
 was, that to be under such an influence as 
 this, could be only what the weak would 
 acknowledge to. It should not be thought 
 that he was under it after the funeral. 
 
 It was after the funeral now. During 
 the week that the body lay in the house, 
 Mr. Lyle's attention to the curate's family 
 had never seemed like an attention to them. 
 It seemed, as though the favour done, was 
 rather done to him. They wanted no- 
 thing ; — it was all supplied before they 
 wanted it ; — and Crispin found himself, he 
 hardly knew why, taking from Mr. Lyle, 
 N ^ what
 
 2 Jo Crispin Ken. 
 
 what he could ill deceive himself into 
 fancying was a loan. 
 
 Crispin, and Jack, and Mr. Lyle, were 
 the only mourners at the funeral. A great 
 many people were sorry Mr. Ken was dead, 
 for he had had a kindly way about him ; 
 but they had never known him as a 
 churchman. He had been at life-long 
 pains that they should not know him so ; 
 and as a belonging of the Church they 
 were not going to follow him. 
 
 " I have a great deal to thank you for, 
 Mr. Lyle," said Crispin, with the un- 
 suspecting heartiness which belonged to 
 his nature. It is always so. Those that 
 are accredited with the least, of what the 
 world calls " charity," do not see motives, 
 when the " charitable " about them can 
 only suspect. 
 
 Crispin Ken suspected Ruy Lyle of not 
 being what he seemed. He suspected that 
 advertised goodness, which was an influ- 
 ence and a belief received by all ; but he 
 did not think that that week's sympathy 
 could have an end beyond ; and Crispin 
 
 would
 
 Crispin Ken. 271 
 
 would have said what it was quite in his 
 heart to say. Mr. Lyle saw what was 
 meant and stayed the words. 
 
 " We must part here, Mr. Lyle," said 
 Crispin, as they stood before the parson- 
 age. 
 
 Mr. Lyle, just then, did not care to 
 probe the meaning of what Crispin said. 
 
 " We shall see you all at the Hall to- 
 day, Mr. Ken?" " 
 
 " Not to-day, if you please, Mr. Lyle," 
 and not to-morrow, Crispin had it on his 
 lips to say. 
 
 " It is most genera] that such things 
 should be done at once ; I think, indeed, 
 on the day of the funeral," said Mr. Lyle, 
 who never accepted a direct issue upon 
 anything. 
 
 " I do not understand you, Mr. Lyle. 
 You have buried my father, I can never 
 forget your sympathy ; but, other than this, 
 there is nothing now between us." 
 
 " I think that we should see what are 
 your father's wishes, Mr. Ken." 
 
 " I think that I should best know what 
 N + they
 
 2 J 2 Crispin Ken, 
 
 they are, Mr. Lyle. He did not ask your 
 sympathy to go beyond his funeral ; after 
 that I only know his wishes." 
 
 " And yet he left their writing-out to 
 me. 
 
 " The writing-out of what, Mr. Lyle ?" 
 
 " You do not seem to know, Mr. Ken, 
 that your father, the late curate of this 
 parish, made a will ; and that, after the 
 funeral, is generally the time to let the 
 wishes of the dead appear." 
 
 Crispin had more than he very well could 
 bear, to think that Mr. Lyle should have 
 known anything about his father, that he, 
 that father's son, knew nothing of. That 
 was bad enough; but, that his father should 
 have made a will, and that it should be 
 only known till now to Mr. Lyle, was 
 nothing tolerable at all. It would have 
 been something easier to bear if Mr. Lyle 
 had seemed to triumph in the monopoly 
 of confidence. But he did not seem. It 
 was hard to fall foul there. 
 
 " And the will is with me," said Mr. 
 Lyle ; " you might like to see it." 
 
 "It
 
 Crispin Ken. 2J3 
 
 " It is strange that I should not have 
 heard of it." 
 
 Mr. Lyle did not at all seem to think it 
 was. " You see, Mr. Ken, it was only 
 made the afternoon your father died." 
 
 " It was by your influence/' said Crispin, 
 seeing, as he thought, his way to force a 
 quarrel ; " besides, it is not witnessed." 
 
 " It was by your father's own request," 
 said Mr. Lyle, who never had been seen to 
 quarrel, " and it was witnessed, as you will 
 have an early opportunity of seeing, by two 
 of my own tenants who were passing by. It 
 is very short, and appoints me executor, 
 and guardian of your sister. — Miss Ken 
 will have her own apartments at the 
 Hall." 
 
 Crispin's fingers itched, but he did not 
 believe he had heard rightly. Ruy Lyle 
 the guardian of his sister ! But it was no 
 use to be other than as cool as Mr. Lyle ; 
 that man should not see how much he 
 cared, or that he cared at all. 
 
 Without its seeming how it came about, 
 
 Ruy Lyle was once more in the parsonage. 
 
 N 5 He
 
 574 Crispin Ken, 
 
 He was never to have stood there again after 
 the funeral ; and Crispin Ken had almost 
 thought there must be something in the 
 power of this man to make things worse. 
 
 Mona had entered the room, and had 
 heard something about the making of her 
 father's will. 
 
 " You perhaps, Miss Ken, at least, will 
 spend this evening at the Hall. We shall 
 be alone," said Mr. Lyle, who thought 
 this was the best way of putting it till the 
 will was proved. 
 
 " Mr. Lyle, you must see that we can 
 only give one answer. You make us feel the 
 obligations that we have been compelled to 
 put ourselves under to yourself." 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Ken will like to see the 
 home I have to offer her." 
 
 " I shall answer for my sister for the 
 present, Mr. Lyle." 
 
 " I would rather stay with you," said 
 Mona. 
 
 "You will have heard that, Mr. Lyle," 
 said Crispin. 
 
 Mr. Lyle never stayed anywhere too 
 
 long.
 
 Crispin Ken. 2J$ 
 
 long. He had got his answer, and he 
 moved towards the door. 
 
 " I do not think we ought to refuse," 
 said Mona to her brother. 
 
 " Did you speak, Miss Ken," said Ruy 
 Lyle, stopping, with his hand upon the 
 door. 
 
 Mona said nothing, but Crispin felt that 
 the mischief had been done. 
 
 " It is miserable weakness, Mona," said 
 her brother ; and she would have thought 
 so all the more had she but seen how Ruy 
 Lyle was watching her. 
 
 " Where should we have been without 
 him this last week ? " continued Mona. 
 " It perhaps may seem we do not thank 
 him ;" and she said this so as it could be 
 heard alone by Crispin. 
 
 " You want to go, Mona, whilst you 
 only think you want to stay. It is a 
 cursed power hanging over us that shall 
 not last beyond this night," was her 
 brother's whispered answer. 
 
 " Mr. Lyle, we thank you, and will 
 pass this evening at the Hall." 
 
 N6 The
 
 2j6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 The evening passed away, and Mona 
 only went there, specially confided to Miss 
 Strake. 
 
 " You saw but half when you were 
 here before, Miss Ken," said Mr. Lyle, 
 taking up his lamp some time after tea. 
 
 Mona had seen enough, and she wanted 
 to say so ; but she could not find the 
 word. She followed, and before an hour 
 was gone was in the long drawing-room, 
 just where she had been upon the night 
 of Christmas Day. She had never so felt 
 the power of this man before. He had 
 been just what it is well to be after a 
 funeral. He had not said one thing that 
 jarred with any thought of the dead, but 
 yet he had said nothing that should let 
 her despond ; and the scene of Christmas 
 Day, which had haunted her ever since, 
 was before her again ; and the sound of 
 his words rung in her ears just as they 
 had then. She could almost have kneeled 
 before him, unimpressible as he was ; and 
 beyond the purpose that she feared she felt, 
 she could have done anything if he would 
 
 not
 
 Crispin Ken. zjj 
 
 not speak those words again ; and yet 
 whilst there was no seeming that he 
 wanted to detain her, it would have been 
 a comfort to her to have been with Miss 
 Strake, and Mona felt as though she was 
 held there. Why had she come there ? 
 Why had she followed him ? She could 
 not give a reason, even to herself, for what- 
 ever she might do at this man's silent 
 bidding. 
 
 " Mr. Wycherley is better, and yet I 
 do not think that he can be better long. 
 It surprises me your father did not like 
 him," said Mr. Lyle. 
 
 " There was no man my father ever 
 better loved." 
 
 " And yet, Miss Ken, that liking is not 
 written here," and Mr. Lyle held out the 
 will, which Mona read in agony. 
 
 " He did not know what he was saying ; 
 my father always loved John Wycherley." 
 
 " And if John Wycherley should die ? " 
 And Ruy Lyle asked of her this question, 
 as he could ask a thing when he was 
 minded. " And if John Wycherley should 
 
 live,
 
 2/8 Crispin Ken. 
 
 live, you would not love, Miss Ken, the 
 man your father could not like ; and if 
 John Wycherley should die ? " 
 
 " John Wycherley may die to-night/' 
 said Meg, who stood before them, as she 
 had on Christmas night. 
 
 " Is he very ill ?" said Mona, with her 
 hand upon the door. 
 
 " He cannot very well be worse," said 
 Meg. 
 
 Mona heard no more ; she bade her 
 host good night, and begging him to do 
 so for her to Miss Strake, though it was 
 nearing midnight, she hurried down the 
 road that led to Wycherley's, Meg finding 
 it a little hard to keep as near her as she 
 would. 
 
 He hardly knew her when she stood 
 beside him, but afterwards he did ; and it 
 was with him, as it always was, he wanted 
 terribly to keep away the very name of 
 Ruy Lyle, but could not set aside the 
 torment of that man's image which was 
 ever there. 
 
 " I have heard it all," said Wycherley, 
 
 " may
 
 Crispin Ken. zjg 
 
 " may God give me strength to bear it ; 
 your father, Mona, bids you hate me." 
 
 " No ! no ! he never did bid that ; and 
 if he could — " 
 
 "And if he could?" 
 
 " And if his curse had waited on the 
 answer, he could not have made me love 
 the less, or hate the more. And so I 
 would have told him, Ruy Lyle, just now, 
 when he asked me what I should say to 
 him if you should die." 
 
 Wycherley held his hot and heavy head, 
 and turned his burning eyes to look in 
 Mona's face, and death or life were staked 
 on what he read there. 
 
 " If I should die ? And is this then all 
 to end in death ? Keep him away, and I 
 shall live. Mona, you will say those words 
 again, that never whilst you live you will 
 ever marry Ruy Lyle." 
 
 Mona knelt down by his side to say it 
 after him. 
 
 " Never — never ! but his face — it's here, 
 it's there, looking, Mona, on me now." 
 
 And Ruy Lyle himself stood there 
 before them. CHAP.
 
 280 Crispin Ken, 
 
 CHAP. X 
 
 The " Evangelicals." A Saturday Review. 
 
 RISPIN KEN had always hoped 
 
 to be a clergyman. He had been 
 
 very well able to see, what sort of 
 
 a fight his father had made of it 
 
 those two-and- twenty years on sixty pounds 
 
 a year ; but he did not think he should be 
 
 wanting in strength to do it himself. 
 
 Crispin Ken was not at all going to do 
 as his father had done. He meant to see 
 whether his father was quite right — or 
 right at all — in giving away so much to 
 the dissenters. It is the only tolerable 
 thing, to talk of " conscientious objec- 
 tions ;" but Crispin Ken had seen a very 
 considerable something of the selfish cant 
 which such could cover. 
 
 The
 
 Crispin Ken. 281 
 
 The cure in his father's keeping had 
 been nearly lost. 
 
 Crispin Ken sought nothing — nothing 
 but the opportunity of getting back a part 
 of that to the Church, which Reuben Ken, 
 in his amiable infirmity, had carried away. 
 
 Some people might call this " extreme;" 
 but Crispin Ken would make over to such 
 the gift of calling it whatever they pleased. 
 It can only be seen in his after life what 
 came of his purpose. 
 
 He had just then to present himself 
 before his bishop ; and after having got 
 through the bishop's Calvinistic chaplain's 
 apology for the Liturgy, say he believed 
 this and subscribed to that. 
 
 It is a serious thing sometimes to be- 
 lieve anything. That experience must 
 be at least a narrow one, which has not 
 seen this even instanced in the child, as it 
 comes up tired from its toy and shakes its 
 little head, when all its mother's care was 
 to get it to spell over little stories in one 
 syllable that " God is good." Over the 
 story book there was no dispute perhaps 
 
 about
 
 2, 83 Crispin Ken~ 
 
 about it ; but if God was good, the child 
 would think why had God taken his papa 
 away, when he had heard his mamma ask 
 God very often not to take him. And 
 this belief, in certain things necessary to 
 ordination, and the subscription to certain 
 other things equally demanded, does not 
 prevent a belief that you have subscribed to 
 something tolerably near the heretical, and 
 have announced a belief in something 
 wrong. The child may often say, when 
 unconvinced, it believes that God is good, 
 because it is not too old to like to see its 
 mother always smile ; but it does not 
 nearly always quite believe. There is a 
 good deal of infidelity about in spencers 
 and pinafores. 
 
 The candidate for ordination gives out 
 that he believes the Thirty-nine Articles 
 ought to be thirty-nine, when he is just 
 going to print a pamphlet which is to show 
 that they ought to be only about thirty- 
 seven. And very little will come of it if 
 you take any action on his pamphlet. The 
 candidate has only become the curate ; and 
 
 the
 
 Crispin Ken. 283 
 
 the bishop, who has laid his hands upon 
 him, it is very likely, has no greater belief 
 that the Articles are neither too many nor 
 too few than has the curate. 
 
 They think nothing of baptismal regene- 
 ration, and spiritualise it to death on the 
 first opportunity. They subscribe to it as 
 a matter of some necessary form. The 
 chaplain who examined them had evidently, 
 in his mild way, strong " views" against it. 
 The bishop had strong " views" against it 
 — very strong if he be at all of late crea- 
 tion. There is no need to believe in it 
 or in any part of it ; and there is no need 
 to say you do after a little while. 
 
 But you can never mend this in these 
 days of " civil and religious liberty." In- 
 deed, it seems very necessary to " evangeli- 
 cal" propagandists that you do not mind 
 to mend it. You can make the subscrip- 
 tion what you please, and then write as 
 many essays or reviews against the Bible, 
 as it is, as you may like ; but you cannot 
 make him faithful who, as a bishop, be- 
 lieves apostolic succession, for his own pur- 
 poses,
 
 284 Crisp hi Ken. 
 
 poses, a mere convenient sham, and Episco- 
 pacy a lie in lawn. 
 
 People in these compromising times 
 know better than to interfere with unfaith- 
 ful bishops. It would not do to seek to set 
 down one's latitudinarian friends, or the 
 world might get unsafely thin. It does 
 not pay to keep men up to what they 
 have professed. It would be looked upon 
 as " Anglican intolerance ;" and Exeter 
 Hall would contract to send about some 
 half dozen men, to stagger through the 
 streets between two boards, to call " Pro- 
 testantism" together in the lower room. 
 
 A man subscribing to baptismal regene- 
 ration and absolution, called to account for 
 saying how little he believed in either ! 
 Such persecution would be overset at once. 
 There are ever so many ways of oversetting 
 it. The " Evangelical Alliance," whatever 
 it may be, would probably meet and ex- 
 press opinions, and this would be considered 
 to show that Protestant liberty at any rate 
 was safe. 
 
 In the general offering, if this might 
 
 have
 
 Crispin Ken, 285 
 
 have been freely interpreted, it would still 
 be something as the record of the views 
 of "evangelical" elders. Then those gentle- 
 men of these evangelical "views/' who 
 may happen to have heard that a religious 
 peer meant, if he was spared, to make them 
 bishops, would be very active. An un- 
 faithful "evangelical" bishop is not to be 
 reached in any way yet known. He 
 preaches against the belief of his own sub- 
 scription. He denies the authority that 
 made him a bishop ; but he does not deny 
 that he likes what he has got, and that he 
 means (D.V.) to keep it. And what will 
 you drive him from ? — what he will con- 
 fess to. What will you extort ? — his own 
 apology for his own office. 
 
 If you have a great deal of simplicity, 
 and cathedrally attend the consecration of 
 bishops, you will hear him say that he be- 
 lieved in this and subscribed to that. If 
 you were rather young you thought he 
 meant it. But this shows how great a 
 wrong you did the " evangelical." 
 
 Any how the development of unadul- 
 terated
 
 2 86 Crispin Ken, 
 
 terated " evangelical " Protestantism is not 
 by any negative action. It may happen that 
 a man can do some unintended good in 
 the world to the cause he serves, by being 
 unfaithful ; but " evangelical " Protestant- 
 ism, if it can help it — and under late ad- 
 ministrations it has been helped to do a 
 good deal in this way — won't let anybody 
 else be faithful. 
 
 And it is remarkable what it has done, 
 by talking on religious nights in charity 
 schools, when a text over the door has taken 
 the place of the price of admission, of the 
 danger of " extreme ritualism." If it hap- 
 pens to have arranged for the appearance 
 of any one easily inflamed, "extreme ritual- 
 ism " will be made to mean, in the end, 
 many fanciful things. The subject will 
 be treated in allegory and in anecdote, and 
 the prayer-book, as it should be, sent round 
 the room. 
 
 Some tradesman or another, who wants 
 to push his business inexpensively, will be 
 made churchwarden, and a deputation to 
 the bishop will show the world outside 
 
 that
 
 Crispin Ken. 287 
 
 that but for them, the Church of England 
 would be in a very poor way. This only 
 shows how much this Church can stand. 
 The churchwarden will not object to move 
 a resolution for the " revision of the Litur- 
 gy," with all the epithets of Calvinism put 
 into his mouth, if he can see his way to 
 getting rid of the stock of unrevised books 
 of Common Prayer he has on hand. Per- 
 haps this is the best thing " Evangelicalism" 
 could do. It might be inconvenient to 
 prove that it is very faithful in anything, 
 or faithful at all. 
 
 It is not a very remarkable body that 
 reads the" Record;" but it would even cease 
 to be conspicuous at all if it did not read 
 the " Record." 
 
 " Evangelical " Christianity, in its in- 
 tegrity, if it means anything, means that 
 the ritual is simply nothing. But " Evan- 
 gelicalism " would have been very unlike 
 what it is, if it could have satisfied itself 
 by eating the bread of its applauded un- 
 faithfulness in at all a decent way. Like 
 an unclean eater over his meat, it must 
 
 make
 
 288 Crispin Ken. 
 
 make a noise, and show the food in masti- 
 cation in its mouth. 
 
 Everybody, it is asserted, who may see 
 anything in the ritual but a thing to be 
 betrayed, is dragging the Church to the 
 Vatican. The platform locomotion is in- 
 evitably " dragging." Then they made a 
 religious peer, who was well connected, 
 absolute ; and set to to pack the bench 
 of bishops ; and of this it was to come that 
 the ritual was to be " revised." 
 
 But the great hit was to be over the 
 baptism. They called themselves " Evan- 
 gelicals," meaning to carry on their trade 
 under an entirely unobjectionable name; 
 and the thing has not been wholly unsuc- 
 cessful. There well may be no need to show 
 how much more the Church can bear — the 
 minor theatres are the hope of schism, 
 and an increase in the episcopate must give 
 a see to Sadler's Wells. 
 
 Many bishops have lately died, and popu- 
 lar preachers, who learnt very little at school, 
 and who have learnt less by their experience, 
 have been distributed about at the instance 
 
 of
 
 Crispin Ken. 289 
 
 of one not very remarkable man, to " put 
 down the ritual." You cannot very logically 
 ask them to interfere with the man who 
 has subscribed to the Thirty-nine Articles, 
 and never ceases to set himself against just 
 what it may please him of that number. 
 
 " Evangelical Protestantism " has made 
 itsbishops aboutthe last hope of the Church, 
 against those little caring to be faith- 
 ful. It is a bad business to ask such as 
 they are to interfere. What, for their com- 
 fort, can they do ? They will tell you that 
 heaven is not to be reached by so many 
 stops to an organ, or by so much music. 
 They will almost tell you that there is not 
 so much music as is supposed in heaven ; 
 and because you may want to be let to do, 
 what the least exaggerated reading of the 
 ritual orders, they will tell you where " this 
 extreme ritualism" will lead you. 
 
 This is what it has got to. " The faithful 
 are perishing out of the land." It was 
 David who said this ; and David sat all day 
 before a harp, and hung a white thing about 
 him ; people who sing so much must take 
 
 vol. 1. o the
 
 2, go Crispin Ken. 
 
 the consequence. The consequence they 
 
 must take is that what David " sung," is 
 
 " said." But if you seek out one of these 
 
 bishops to get him to interfere, and annoy 
 
 a churchman, he will see a great many 
 
 reasons for the interference. He will order 
 
 him to clear away the little boys in white, 
 
 and to " say " the psalms, and always to 
 
 deliver himself of his " discourse " in black, 
 
 and not to say too much about absolution, 
 
 and not to insist on baptismal regeneration. 
 
 It is quite an understood thing that you 
 
 will be told all this, and more like it if you 
 
 should go to any of those bishops, who are 
 
 considered sound, to set down a churchman. 
 
 If there be any one accidentally near, 
 
 likely to put it in the Record, he will tell 
 
 you that episcopacy is a belief that may be 
 
 overvalued. It will not be denied that a 
 
 man's success in orders now, almost ceases 
 
 to be a matter of speculation. To be 
 
 either "evangelical" or dull, is to be one 
 
 of these bishops' chaplains. To be both, 
 
 is to be one of these bishops. A new 
 
 bishop is always anticipated, unless a worse 
 
 man
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,gi 
 
 man has been overlooked. " Evangelical " 
 Protestantism, so far, is not very exacting. 
 It asks for nothing in those it honours. It 
 has only lately occurred to the " Evan- 
 gelicals " that while it is no matter that 
 they be faithful — though it is necessary to 
 their existence that they be not faithful — 
 they may as well cease to subscribe to what 
 they so very decently betray. 
 
 " Liturgical revision" can only make 
 these gentlemen easy. They can then put 
 all churchmen down ; and they have got it 
 recognised as an offence, inspired by that 
 remarkable platform terror, the Scarlet 
 Lady, for any clergyman to give effect to 
 the professions of his ordination. 
 
 It has been rather suspected that the 
 " Evangelicals," for those who take so 
 much, know very little ; but they have 
 some time known how to rise on the be- 
 lief that they despised, and to keep there 
 by what they have betrayed. They have 
 been some time satisfied that it should 
 have been convenient ; but now they want 
 it to be made respectable. 
 
 This
 
 292 Crispin Ken. 
 
 This was the situation of which Crispin 
 took the bearings in a Saturday review. 
 It was the first Saturday since his father's 
 funeral ; and the little that they had, was 
 growing so small, he felt he must be doing 
 something. 
 
 He had always meant to be a clergy- 
 man. He did not mean to show those 
 who might look on, and risk hard com- 
 parisons, that his father had done a multi- 
 tude of wrong things, quite meaning to do 
 as many that were right. People would 
 say that he had a mind to be " extreme." 
 They were saying it already ; but he quite 
 purposed, that those who wanted to see if 
 there was any appreciable difference be- 
 tween orthodoxy and schism, should have 
 the opportunity of seeing it. 
 
 In his father's time people had excused 
 themselves in many plausible ways from 
 going to church, because they saw no dif- 
 ference between the church and the chapel, 
 other than that the chapel was the better 
 warmed. 
 
 There are some very remarkable persons 
 
 about,
 
 Crispin Ken. 293 
 
 about, who are always making speeches and 
 writing pamphlets against what they call 
 " giving an undue prominence to forms 
 and ceremonies." These quiet people, if 
 they could get their way, or any part of it, 
 would have nothing seemly in the house 
 of God — nothing but Dutch carpet and 
 electro-plate — and they look on everything 
 as an excess which happens to be decent. 
 
 There were some such at St. Hilda's. 
 They were afraid Crispin Ken would be 
 having an organ. They were afraid he 
 would magnify the authority of the Church 
 too much ; and that too much would have 
 been reached had he declared it at all. 
 They were afraid he would be preaching 
 in his surplice. " It would be such a pity," 
 they said, with their best sectarian mildness, 
 " to contend for these little things when 
 they might very well offend so many." 
 
 It was very clear to Crispin Ken, that he 
 could only hope to fill the church, by show- 
 ing that he had some authority for asking 
 people to come. His father had conceded 
 everything — all those " little things" — and 
 3 when
 
 294 Crispin Ken. 
 
 when he came to die, had nothing he could 
 point to as gain. Those who had been 
 lost by concession, could only be regained 
 by showing, that there was more than had 
 seemed between the church, and the meet- 
 ing-house. 
 
 A man is written down an enthusiast 
 and a fanatic, who thinks anything of the 
 decencies of public worship ; and Crispin 
 Ken was quite prepared to be told that he 
 was unsettling the peace of the parish, and 
 unnecessarily disquieting quiet people, if he 
 insisted on these "little things." If there 
 was to be the worship of the church at all, 
 his people should know on what foundation 
 the church stood. If there were to be any 
 psalms or hymns, they should not be put 
 up in a manner very bad to hear ; and if 
 he was to wear anything about him when 
 he preached, over and above his coat, it 
 should at least be that for which there was 
 authority. 
 
 The " Evangelical Protestant" thinks it 
 a great pity to startle some people over that 
 which is white, instead of over that which 
 
 is
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,g$ 
 
 is black. It only matters that the white 
 is right, and that the black is wrong. 
 There is nothing very new, in its very 
 generally happening, that the wrong is 
 nicest. Sympathy is always with those 
 who want the wrong thing. The " ad- 
 vanced Evangelical Protestant" has at last 
 come to ask, " Why wear anything at all ?" 
 " It may offend some consciences ; your 
 coat does very well." " Why have priests 
 or deacons? — there are religious bankers." 
 " Why have churches ? — there are saloons 
 and theatres. If you cannot get the lost 
 into God's houses, you must get them in 
 their own saloons to dance no more, and 
 then begin to pray." 
 
 Crispin Ken meant to do what he 
 should subscribe to, and he meant to do it 
 all without an apology for being faithful. 
 But he did not care to take the curacy 
 from Mr. Lyle. Mr. Lyle had not asked 
 him to take it ; but Crispin knew that 
 something had passed about it between his 
 father and Mr. Lyle. 
 
 Every one he met had something to say 
 ° + for
 
 2g6 Crispin Ken. 
 
 for Mr. Lyle. This man's little paraded 
 power over all was becoming intolerable 
 to Crispin. He had felt the influence that 
 was so widely recognized himself, and 
 Crispin could not get over it, that this 
 power had once mastered him, even for so 
 short a while. 
 
 He would have liked to have had words 
 with Mr. Lyle ; but Mr. Lyle was not the 
 man to give him the occasion. 
 
 Crispin, look at it as he might, could 
 not set aside the conviction, that Mr. Lyle 
 was not what he seemed. That he was 
 not nearly so good as the world believed 
 him — but then he never seemed to be 
 ought else. Never ! and the worst amongst 
 us cannot always act. It is hard to keep 
 the counterfeit always in disguise. 
 
 There was nothing in the man that even 
 ever touched suspicion. He was an influ- 
 ence in the Parliament of England. He 
 was an influence on the platform that is 
 inspired by Exeter Hall ; but it was an in- 
 fluence that the middle men about him 
 could not reach. 
 
 Crispin
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,9 j 
 
 Crispin Ken had watched him for a 
 week, had watched — wanting to find out 
 the counterfeit — and at the end he could 
 not find a cause for thinking the worse of 
 Ruy Lyle. 
 
 " I do not think I am wrong," said Cris- 
 pin to himself, " I do not think this man 
 is what he seems." And whilst there was 
 so much to set suspicion down, there was 
 nothing that could give it any cause to 
 stay — nothing but that he seemed better 
 than a man can be — nothing but that he 
 never looked yon in the face. 
 
 Since the death of Reuben Ken, those 
 at the curacy had lived on the few pounds 
 due to the curate at his death. Crispin 
 had proposed taking orders at the Easter 
 ordination. After that he did not know 
 what he should do ; Jack could live with 
 him, and perhaps it would be for the best 
 that Mona and Wycherley should be 
 married as soon as might be — as soon as 
 Wycherley was well again. 
 
 It was the same afternoon, that Crispin 
 
 had surprised himself in that Saturday re- 
 
 5 view,
 
 2g8 Crisp hi Ken. 
 
 view, that he made up his mind to speak 
 to Mona, and abide by her decision, that 
 there was certainly no ground just then for 
 thinking ill of Mr. Lyle. In all that week 
 Mr. Lyle had never let it seem that he was 
 over Mona as her guardian. He insisted 
 upon nothing. He did not force himself 
 into her presence. Since the reading of 
 the will, and since he had told her how he 
 was her guardian, his authority had never 
 been intruded. Mona even thought some- 
 times he was away too much. She had 
 done everything she liked to do, but then, 
 certainly, she had done nothing that he 
 did not like. 
 
 Mona could not conceal from her own 
 heart that his influence had been at work; 
 and it was an influence that had grown 
 up, so that it took a part "in all she did. 
 She had not seen him for a week, and yet 
 she seemed to see him everywhere. 
 
 Crispin found his sister sitting buried 
 with these thoughts when he came into 
 the room. Mona started up and checked 
 what was almost a scream. 
 
 "I
 
 Crispin Ken. 2,99 
 
 " I did not know it was you, Crispin, I 
 thought it was — " 
 
 " You thought it was Mr. Lyle, Mona." 
 
 " How did you know that, Crispin ?" 
 
 " You are always thinking of that man, 
 Mona." 
 
 " I am not always thinking of Mr. Lyle, 
 Crispin; but I confess that his influence — " 
 
 " Influence, Mona — I am getting tired 
 of this nonsense ; what is he but like 
 another man ? He — ■" 
 
 " Did you ever see another that was like 
 him, Crispin ?" 
 
 " When I tell you, that I often feel his 
 influence and cannot throw it off, I can 
 hardly tell you, Crispin, what I mean ; 
 but did it never seem to you that he was 
 speaking very near, that this Mr. Lyle 
 was near, that you could even see his face, 
 when it might be he was miles away ? " 
 
 Crispin had felt this, but he had fought 
 against confessing it, so he did not answer 
 what his sister said. 
 
 " Mona, you love this man, and there is 
 that which tells me he has something to 
 
 keep
 
 300 Crispin Ken. 
 
 keep back from the world — that he is 
 not what he seems." 
 
 " Crispin, I could not love him if I 
 would — I would not if I could ; but what 
 do you mean by what you say ?" 
 
 " I only mean this, Mona, that I think 
 that Ruy Lyle has done, I don't know 
 when, some cursed thing ; he cannot be 
 what he would seem. I have watched 
 him as I never watched a man before ; but 
 he always seems the same ; he gave no 
 cause for me to at all suspect him." 
 
 " Then, Crispin, why be so suspicious ?" 
 
 "Ah, Mona, that is what the world 
 would ask ; now, I cannot tell, but never 
 will I rest until I can ; if he offers me 
 this living, I do not think that I will take 
 it." 
 
 " I think you will do wrong." 
 
 " You say so, Mona, because you can- 
 not throw away his influence as I can ; but 
 if I take it, it must be without condition." 
 
 " Don't talk so loud, Crispin, I'm sure 
 he's coming." 
 
 " Did you hear him, Mona ?" 
 
 "No,
 
 Crispin Ken, 301 
 
 " No, I did not hear him." 
 " Has he told you he will come ? " 
 " I have not seen him for a week." 
 " Mona, this is worse than folly ; you 
 know that he is coming, yet you cannot 
 hear or see him, and he has not told you 
 that he is coming — but I think I hear his 
 step." 
 
 There was no step ; but ten minutes 
 later Mr. Lyle entered the room. He 
 always came when he was wanted. 
 "About this living, Mr. Ken?" 
 Mona looked at Crispin, and the look 
 meant, " he has heard all we have said, and 
 yet he was not near." 
 
 " I promised your good father the day 
 he died that it should be yours." 
 
 " I will take it," said Crispin to him- 
 self; " Mona will marry Wycherley when 
 he is better, and then there cannot be 
 much harm." And Crispin took it. It 
 was offered too without condition. 
 
 " I don't think he can have done any- 
 thing so very bad," said Mona, when Mr. 
 Lyle had gone. 
 
 "You
 
 303 Crispin Ken. 
 
 " You could not love him, Mona, I be- 
 lieve ; but if you could, you would, I fear," 
 was all that Crispin answered. 
 
 Crispin was ordained at Easter, got a 
 title from Mr. Wycherley, and was pre- 
 sented by Mr. Lyle with the perpetual 
 curacy of St. Hilda's the great. 
 
 Meanwhile it was quite impossible to 
 have words with Mr. Lyle. He never 
 seemed to come too often, and yet perhaps 
 Mona was a good deal at the Hall — more 
 than she confessed to. 
 
 John Wycherley was sometimes worse, 
 sometimes better ; never well enough for 
 his marriage with Mona to be fixed. 
 
 Crispin had a great deal to do, and a 
 great deal to contend against. The ene- 
 mies of the Church in those two-and-twenty 
 years had gathered strength. But he set 
 the Church before them, so that they might 
 see there was a Church, and that authority 
 and schism were not one. 
 
 Mr. Lyle, although known to be of a very 
 different way of thinking, did not interfere ; 
 and before many months were over, Crispin 
 
 had
 
 Crispin Ken. 303 
 
 had not only a better filled church, but 
 tolerably well filled schools. 
 
 There was something too for the parish 
 to read. Some objected to the psalms be- 
 ing sung, but there was no more need to 
 listen than had they thought the sermon 
 should not be said. They objected to as 
 many things as would fill a chapter, and 
 it is quite sufficiently well known what 
 such object to. They did not think it 
 well that Crispin should preach in white ; 
 he might have, to please some, really 
 preached in nothing. 
 
 Mr. Lyle had nothing to say ; but when 
 Crispin put the better papers on the table 
 in the library, and took the Saturday Re- 
 view, Mr. Lyle called on Crispin Ken. 
 
 " You have taken the Saturday Review, 
 Mr. Ken ; you have well considered what 
 you are doing?" 
 
 " I have very well thought what I am 
 doing, Mr. Lyle. I do not think with 
 that paper on everything, but it has spoken 
 out against that disguised schism, and that 
 uncharitable ignorance of which Exeter 
 
 Hall
 
 304 Crispin Ken. 
 
 Hall is the church and the Record the 
 organ." 
 
 Crispin Ken, when he spoke, forgot 
 that he was speaking to the greatest man 
 " Evangelical " Protestantism ever had, or 
 ever had bowed down to. But Mr. Lyle, 
 if he felt it, did not seem to feel it; and if he 
 did hate the paper, as it is its greatest praise 
 to say his party always do, he did not seem 
 to hate it. Crispin Ken had some cause 
 to know that that man never showed what 
 was within him. 
 
 " Miss Ken is to be married in the sum- 
 mer ?" How did he know this ? it had 
 only been talked of that morning for the 
 first time. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Lyle, I cannot tell how 
 you should how it, for we only spoke of it 
 this morning." 
 
 Crispin had meant by this that very 
 likely Mr. Lyle was listening. 
 
 Mr. Lyle saw what was meant, but as- 
 suming to know that of which he had only 
 heard something, he put it to Crispin as 
 that which he had learnt. 
 
 "And
 
 Crispin Ken. 305 
 
 " And do you think that Mr. Wycher- 
 ley will be ever well again ?" 
 
 " Why not ?" asked Crispin, " why do 
 you ask that ?" and he started up, he did 
 not well know why. 
 
 " Because he is sometimes worse and 
 sometimes better, Mr. Ken, but oftenest 
 worse. Good morning — You might never 
 have thought to watch that woman, I sup- 
 pose : 
 
 " Watch who ? What woman ? " 
 
 But Mr. Lyle was gone. 
 
 The words that he had dropped were 
 working then, and afresh did Crispin seem 
 to hear them. " Sometimes better, some- 
 times worse, but oftenest worse ;" and he 
 saw it all as he had never looked on it be- 
 fore. The man he tried to hate had spoken 
 the word that might yet save Wycherley ; 
 that man had quickened in his mind a 
 hideous thought. He buried his face in 
 his hands to hide it out, but it seemed like 
 a spectre sitting there ; and he hurried on 
 and never stayed till he had reached John 
 Wycherley ; and John Wycherley was just 
 
 drinking
 
 306 Crispin Ken, 
 
 drinking from a cup held to his lips by 
 Meg. The devilry he dared not think 
 of was before him ; and everywhere did 
 Crispin seem to see a face, and in each 
 face the cold calm mocking smile of Ruy 
 Lyle. 
 
 End of the First Volume, 
 
 * 
 
 LONPOIf 
 PRINTED BT SIOITIS1VOC DE AHD CO. 
 HEW- STREET SQUARE.
 
 By the fame Author^ 
 
 MIRIAM MAY. 
 
 THE TWELFTH THOUSAND. 
 
 Opinions of the Prefs on " Miriam May" 
 
 The Standard. 
 This is not one of thofe novels which will die in a few weeks. We fhall 
 not anticipate the plealure our readers will derive from its perufal by attempt- 
 ing any flcetch of the plot. But we may fay that the life of Miriam May, from 
 the workhoufe door to the Court of St. James's, is a moft interefting, natural, 
 and well-told romance. It is, what it purports to be, a ftory of real life. 
 The writing is unaffected, pleafing, and powerful. It is a fiction every one 
 fhould read j and it is a fiction, we underftand, that all the world is reading. 
 Our political friends will find the hypocrify of Liberalifm in electioneering 
 admirably mown up ; and the Bifhop-making of the Whigs is not the lels 
 ably but truthfully expofed. 
 
 The Critic. 
 " Miriam May " is a real romance, and it is well done. 
 
 John Bull. 
 Before we have been enabled to notice the firft edition of this work, fo 
 great has been the demand for it that it has already reached a third edition. 
 This is not to be attributed fimply to it being a fingle-volume novel, though 
 that is in itfelf a great advantage, but is mainly owing to its being at once 
 interefting as a ftory, while at the fame time it is really a firft-rate political 
 novel. We will not fpoil our reader's intereft in the work by following the 
 heroine's varying fortunes, but will briefly point out fome of its excellences 
 as a political narrative. The object, of the book is at once to expofe, which it 
 does moft completely, how thoroughly Liberaiifm is a fham, and how the higheft 
 offices in the Church are bartered by the Whigs. The letter of Lord Kantwell 
 to the Hon. and Rev. Calvin Slie — the originals of which our readers will at 
 once recognife — is one of the beft things we have met with for a long time. 
 One of the incidents, viz., the praying for anything but a blefling on the labours 
 of a brother clergyman, we fhould have confidered a grofs exaggeration, did we 
 not unhappily know that juft fuch an occurrence took place in the Weft End of 
 this metropolis, the principal actor being one of the Palmerftonian Bifhops. Th- 
 reader's intereft throughout is thoroughly fuftained, and many will not clofe the 
 book till they have finifhed it. Altogether we pronounce it a firft-rate novel, 
 and heartily wifh it every fuccefs. 
 
 Literary Gazette. 
 Bitternefs is of various kinds as well as various degrees. There is the mellow 
 bitternefs of the hop, there is the pungent bitternefs of a Seville orange, there is 
 the four bitternefs of quaffia or of gentian ; thete is the bitternefs of cynicifm, of 
 hatred, of difappointment ; and there is perhaps a more reputable bitternefs, 
 having its root in a keen difcrimination and intenfe difapproval of fallehood and 
 wrong-doing. The volume before us is of this laft defcription. Its acrimony is 
 indeed acrimony, but it does not feem to fpring from any felfifh mifanthropy or 
 morbid difappointment. It is rather the overflowing of hot indignation againft 
 malignity under the cloak of charity. We confefs we have fcarcely ever come
 
 Miriam May — Opinions of the Prefs, continued. 
 
 c rofs a work containing fo much concentrated invective, or fuch relentlefs tear- 
 ing away of the veils which fociety allows to conceal infincerity and malice. 
 However, we believe, from the tone of " Miriam May," that its author has been 
 animated by no other motive than a defire to lafh, with merited feverity, religious 
 hypocrify, and to adminifter a deferved rebuke to uncharitablenefs and malice. As 
 fuch, we confider its remarkable popularity a moft healthy fign of the times — a 
 popularity too which muft infallibly tend to throw into confufion the clafs of 
 perfons whom its pages fo fiercely denounce, and whofe practices they fo relent- 
 leflly expofe. 
 
 In conclufion, we confider this novel very remarkable both for the keen way 
 in which it fees through hypocrify and roguery, and for the vigorous force with 
 which it chafttfes impoftors. Though perhaps occafionally a little too bitter in 
 its tone, it is ftill a faithful expofure of evil, and as fuch we welcome it. 
 
 Weekly Mail. 
 " Miriam May " is a more than ordinary good novel j and, being fo, has in a 
 few months gained a very enviable — and certainly a very defervable — meafure 
 of popularity. When we add that everything is wrought with conftructive /kill 
 and technical ability, we are quite fure we have faid enough to fet our novel- 
 loving readers craving for the book. It is but fair to them, however, and to the 
 author, to add that " Miriam May " is not merely a novel. There are many 
 pages in it devoted to a judicious and judicial confideration of the cardinal topics 
 — religious, political, and focial — of the hour ; and our author, without greatly 
 interfering with the courfe of his narrative, manages to give us, in pithy and 
 pleafant manner, many new and profound notions on a variety of fubjects. Alto- 
 gether, we have not met with a book for many a long day which has given us fo 
 much fatisfaction : and the very merits of the work itfelf fuggeft a canon of 
 criticifm which we fhould not think of applying to one novel out of a thoufand. 
 
 The Atlas. 
 
 Difappointed people declare that " luck's everything ; " but, if we examine a 
 " fuccefs," we fhall find it was achieved by thofe qualities which deferved it. 
 The work before us has reached a fourth edition, and no one, except an unfuc- 
 cefsful novelift, can read it without admitting that the popularity is deferved. 
 The ftory is well conftructed, and the characters are elaborately and faithfully 
 delineated. We regard it as a good fign of the times that " Miriam May " has 
 had, and ftill has, a large circulation. It contains fome things that may offend 
 our prejudices; from fome of its conclufions we may confcientioufly difient ; but 
 there is much in it with which we muft agree, and which is calculated to advance 
 the interefts of religion by expofing the folly and wickednefs of canting pro- 
 fefiions. 
 
 Dispatch. 
 
 " Miriam May " is the title of a very charming ftory. The heroifm of the 
 mother — who for fome twenty odd years fubmits to the infolent fneers of a fmall 
 townfhip, with its equivalent amount of tea and fcandal, highly faftiionable, and 
 crammed to the teeth with " refpectability," during which time fhe has been a 
 wife and wedded mother, the ring being put afide for purpofes the ftory itfelf ex- 
 plains — is of the nobleft order. Defcriptively, the fiction is excellent. 
 
 Plymouth Mail. 
 " Miriam May," a one-volume novel, only juft published, is yet in its fourth 
 edition. The earneftnefs of the writer — his energetic ftyle often rifing to elo- 
 quence — his cordial fympathies, and equally cordial antipathies — render the 
 book a moft abforbing one. The Hon. and Rev. Calvin Slie, who is made a 
 Bifhop when Lord Fripton is Premier, is a capital fatirical fketch.