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 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "A Fellow OF I KIN iTY 
 
 
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 LI B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
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 or ILLI NOIS 
 
 823 
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 V.I 

 
 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON.
 
 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 a iRoveL 
 
 BY 
 
 ALAN ST. AUBYN, 
 
 AUTHOK OF 
 
 '♦A FELLOW OF TRINITY," 
 "THE OLD MAID'S SWEETHEART," "THE JUNIOR DEAN,' 
 
 Etc., Etc. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 F. V. WHITE & Co., 
 
 14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1894.
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 KELLY AND CO, LIMITED, 182, 183 AND 184, HIGH HOLBORN, W.C. 
 
 AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 v? 
 
 OHAP. PAGB 
 
 Vi I. — The Curate of St. Radeguito's . . 1 
 
 j^ 11. — Cherry Garden 26 
 
 " III. — Nearer and Nearer .... 55 
 
 IV. — Ladtlift 72 
 
 V. — Paradise 90 
 
 VI. — Nancy's Lovers . . . . . 114 
 VII.— "That Forward Minx!" . . .135 
 
 VIII. " TUM-TDM-TE-TUMTT " . . . 153 
 
 ~ IX. — "Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True" 169 
 
 X. — Sarah Strong 185 
 
 ^ XI. — " A Little Rift Within the Lute " . 200 
 
 ^XIL— In the Rain 217 

 
 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON.
 
 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 THE CUEATE OF ST. EADEGUND'S. 
 " What eyes, like tiiine, have waken'd hopes ? " 
 
 It was whispered in Stoke Edith — 
 
 whispered softly across the tea tables — 
 
 that the curate of St. Eadegund's was in 
 
 love with Nancy Coulcher. Everybody 
 
 was sorry for him ; the men smiled and 
 
 shook their heads knowingly, as if they 
 
 could tell if they would, what would be the 
 
 poor fellow's fate, and the women sighed. 
 
 Their sorrow for the gentle-natured curate 
 
 who had recently come among them, and 
 
 had won all their tender hearts, was genuine, 
 
 quite genuine, and they all agreed that he 
 
 deserved a better fate. 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 Nancy Coulcher was not a favourite with 
 the mothers and daughters of Stoke Edith. 
 The ladies of Stoke did not admire her so 
 much as the gentlemen did, perhaps if they 
 had, she would not have been immensely 
 gratified. She preferred the admiration of 
 men ; she generally got quite as much 
 admiration as she desired, which is saying 
 a great deal. 
 
 She was a man's beauty, not a woman's 
 beauty. There was not a woman in Stoke 
 Edith who could understand what the men 
 could find to rave about in her. 
 
 They raved nevertheless. Perhaps a 
 little beauty of a certain sort — not a 
 very refined sort — went a great way with 
 them. Besides, Nancy Coulcher was the 
 fashion at the time. Men are like sheep, 
 they are content to follow where others 
 lead. 
 
 She had a delightful way with her lovers, 
 a frank camaraderie that took immensely.
 
 THE CUEATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 3 
 
 and set them all at their ease. The women 
 called it by another name, an old-fashioned 
 name — they did not mince matters — they 
 called it forwardness. 
 
 The old women of Stoke were behind the 
 time : girls behaved better, no doubt, 
 when they were young — there was not so 
 much freedom and license, and there was 
 no camaraderie. Iler worst enemies 
 could not call Nancy a flirt — a flirt is a 
 creature of wiles and stratagems, full of airs 
 and graces, and laying traps for men. 
 Nancy had no need to lay traps ; her 
 victims crowded round her unsought — she 
 had no need to resort to stratagem. She 
 received them all with her ready smiles, 
 and an engaging frankness of manner that 
 was very sweet and taking, but utterly 
 meaninsfless. 
 
 Perhaps this was the secret of her 
 
 success. Masculine vanity had a good deal 
 
 to do with it. Every one of Nancy 
 
 1*
 
 4 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 Coulcher's adorers believed that he was 
 the favoured object of her young affections. 
 Her ready smiles didn't mean much, but 
 they conveyed a good deal, and were very 
 transferable. She had a manner too, that 
 took with men, a sweet artless manner of 
 tender appealing helplessness, of advice- 
 seeking and aid - demanding that went 
 .straight to the hearts of her dupes and 
 made them more her slaves than ever. 
 When our story opens she was the standing 
 toast of Stoke Edith ; she was brighter, 
 prettier, and more daring than any other 
 girl in the place — and she was not troubled 
 with scruples. She pleased herself. Why 
 shouldn't a girl please herself? — is it not 
 the order of the day ? 
 
 Nancy Coulcher had so many lovers, 
 she might have spared the curate of 
 St. Eadegund's. A poor curate with a 
 wretched stipend of one hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year was not much of a conquest.
 
 THE CUEATE OF ST. EADEGUND'S. 5 
 
 A heart more or less made so little difference 
 to her. 
 
 It would have been kinder to have spared 
 him — kinder and wiser. It would have 
 been more womanly to have been content 
 with her conquests, and let the foolish 
 curate go. 
 
 Nancy was not made on noble lines ; she 
 was only a shallow, frivolous thing who had 
 the gift of beauty. An accident — a happy 
 accident — the droop of an eyeHd, the curve 
 of a rounded cheek, thin, scarlet hps, that 
 were always breaking into laughter, lovely 
 little sharp white teeth, a ready knack of 
 blushing — and sweet eyes. 
 
 A woman's eyes ought to have a soul 
 behind them, but Nancy Coulcher's blue 
 eyes were shallow, like her nature. Empty 
 and shallow, with a sweet, shy, pathetic 
 droop of the long-fringed eyelids that 
 veiled their emptiness. 
 
 Perhaps this was where the subtle charm
 
 6 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 came in. Women could never be got to 
 see it, but men went down before it. 
 
 The curate of Stoke Edith went down 
 with the rest. He didn't go down at once, 
 he resisted longer than the rest — he was 
 more exercised in spiritual warfare, in 
 wrestling with the old Adam. But he went 
 down at last, and his fall was all the harder 
 from having held out so long. 
 
 Douglas Craik had been in Holy Orders 
 three years when he came to Stoke Edith ; 
 he had been working all that time in a 
 dreadful London slum. He had gone 
 through as much in those three years as 
 most men go through in a lifetime. He had 
 seen more suffering and sin, and poverty 
 and misfortune and sorrow — real sorrow — 
 than most men. The sad sights he had seen, 
 and the sadder knowledge of the realities of 
 life that had come to him had touched him, 
 as they could not fail to touch a highly- 
 strung sympathetic nature, and deepened the
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 7 
 
 earnestness, the intense earnestness of his 
 character. He could do nothing by halves, 
 realizing as he did the awful responsibilities 
 of this present life, and the tremendous 
 outlook of the future. 
 
 He threw himself into his work, soul and 
 body. He had a great deal of the former, 
 and little, very little of the latter — he never 
 spared himself, and the consequence was 
 that at the end of three years' work in a 
 crowded London parish he was utterly and 
 completely broken down — a mere wreck of 
 his former self, and had to be sent into the 
 country for a change. 
 
 He would never be fit for London work 
 again, the eminent physician said, who 
 pronounced his life sentence. He would 
 never be fit for anything but light duty in 
 a healthy country parish. The duty at 
 Stoke Edith was light, and the air was 
 fine, particularly fine. It brought roses 
 into the cheeks of the girls, and of the
 
 8 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 boys too, as it happened to be the seat of 
 a large public school with three or four 
 hundred boys. 
 
 There was not much else at Stoke Edith 
 but the grammar school, and the salubrious 
 air, but it was quite enough to bring people 
 from all parts of England to settle in the 
 neighbourhood. It brought an unusual 
 number of widows. Perhaps because the 
 school was cheap, and widows with boys 
 to educate are seldom overburdened with 
 wealth. 
 
 Among the widows came Mrs. Coulcher 
 and her boys, and three grown - up 
 daughters, from a village in Cornwall of 
 which her husband had been rector. The 
 girls were all grown up when she came to 
 Stoke Edith, but the boys were still quite 
 young. There were three of them now at 
 the grammar school, and one away at the 
 University. The eldest, Geoff, had won a 
 scholarship, or he would not have been
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 9 
 
 able to go up to Cambridge. It was only 
 a sixty-pound scholarship from the school, 
 and his mother had to make up the differ- 
 ence. He had been " up " a year already, 
 and the " difference " and the college bills 
 that came in at the end of the year had 
 threatened to swallow up her slender 
 income. 
 
 It had been little enough to begin with, 
 to bring up seven children upon, but 
 carefully eked out, it had served, like the 
 widow's cruse, to meet the humble de- 
 mands upon it. Now it seemed that Geoff 
 was going to take it all ; that there would 
 be nothing left for the rest. But this was 
 not all ; troubles seldom come alone. A 
 colonial bank in which the principal part of 
 Mrs. Coulcher's smaU fortune was invested 
 had stopped payment, and her dividends 
 had suddenly ceased. 
 
 This financial crisis had not arisen in 
 the Coulcher establishment until some
 
 10 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 months after Douglas Craik came to Stoke 
 Edith. Looking across the pews of St. 
 Eadegund's one April night when he gave 
 out the hymns, and all the time he was 
 preaching his little earnest sermon, he could 
 have seen the cloud restinc^ on the widow's 
 worn face, as she sat among her boys under 
 the south window. He would certainly 
 have seen it and recognised it had he looked 
 her way — for who should be more quick to 
 note the flag of distress than he ? He 
 knew the lines of sorrow, and suffering, and 
 care so well ; he had mastered all the 
 touches of those hard masters ; he recog- 
 nised them in a moment, but he had only 
 eyes for one face in that seat beneath the 
 " south window," the face of Mrs. Coulcher's 
 youngest daughter. 
 
 Douglas Craik reading the beautiful 
 downcast face between the lines of his 
 sermon, saw that there was somethinsf 
 wrong. There was a pathetic droop of the
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 11 
 
 red under lip that lie had not observed 
 before, and the sweet eyes were downcast. 
 Once or twice he thought Nancy Coulcher 
 was going to cry. He would have given 
 the world to have shut up his sermon-case 
 and got down from the pulpit, and gone over 
 to the pew beneath the great window and 
 comforted her, but he sighed, and restrained 
 himself, and went on with his sermon. 
 He met Lucy Coulcher, the second girl, 
 the next day, and enquired anxiously after 
 her sister. 
 
 Lucy Coulcher was a common-place sort 
 of a girl, that is, she was exactly like a 
 thousand, like a hundred thousand, other 
 girls. There was nothing distinctive about 
 her. She was not the least like her beauti- 
 ful sister. She hadn't either the beauty or 
 the airs or graces of Nancy, there was no 
 pensive droop of her very common-place 
 eyehds over her very common-place eyes. 
 They were clear, honest eyes, and they
 
 12 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 looked straight out at you behind her 
 glasses — Lucy wore glasses — she had 
 not Nancy's fascinating way of looking at 
 people — masculine people ; her features 
 were blunt, and her figure short and plump. 
 She was always going about the parish, 
 visiting and leaving tracts, and reading to 
 bedridden old men and women. 
 
 She was generally known in Stoke Edith 
 as " the good Miss Coulcher," and Augusta, 
 the elder sister, enjoyed the distinction of 
 " the clever Miss Coulcher." 
 
 Lucy Coulcher blushed when she saw the 
 Curate coming across the road to speak to 
 her on that April morning. He was a pale, 
 slim young man, with a fine, clear-cut face, 
 rather a delicate, refined face, and the 
 colour mounted up into it as he 
 crossed the road to ask Lucy after her 
 sister. She saw the unwonted colour in 
 the Curate's face, and she blushed too. 
 
 It was a perfect Spring morning with the
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 13 
 
 blue April sky above, and all the world 
 breaking into blossom at her feet. The 
 new blood of the Spring was in everything, 
 the flowers were crowding out in the hedges, 
 and the lilac was nodding over the garden 
 wall as Lucy stopped beneath it to shake 
 hands with the Curate. 
 
 Perhaps this had something to do with 
 her blushing. The new blood of the Spring 
 was tingling in her veins, in her finger tips 
 as well as in the lilac buds overhead, and 
 it mounted up into her plain, freckled face 
 when she saw Douglas Craik hurrying up 
 the street towards her. Lucy had an 
 absurd habit of blushing, but she had a 
 kindly manner which took immensely with 
 all the old women in the parish. 
 
 " Poor old Sarah Strong is no better this 
 morning," he said, speaking hurriedly to 
 hide his ridiculous confusion. "I have 
 just come from her. She was too ill to 
 bear any reading — perhaps "
 
 14 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 He had no need to finish the sentence. 
 Lucy knew exactly what he was going to 
 say. 
 
 "Of course I'll go to her," she said 
 readily. " If she cannot bear any reading, 
 I can sit with her. She is always glad of 
 anyone to sit with her. It must be dreadfully 
 lonely for her, being left so many, many 
 hours alone." 
 
 " Yes," said the curate absently, but he 
 was not thinking of Sarah Strong. " I — I 
 thought your sister was not looking very 
 well last night. I hope she is better this 
 
 morning." 
 
 " Oh, Augusta had the toothache ; she 
 always looks glum when she has the tooth- 
 ache ; she is better this morning." 
 
 Then the curate had to explain that it 
 was not the eldest Miss Coulcher he was 
 enquiring for. He had not noticed that 
 poor Augusta had a swollen face. 
 
 " Nancy's quite well, thank you," Lucy
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 15 
 
 said, rather tartly. She had no patience 
 with men always enquiring after Nancy. 
 " I daresay she was looking rather glum. 
 She's going to give lessons on the violin at 
 Miss Mallet's this term ; she won't have so 
 much time for tennis, and I am going to 
 take an ambulance class, and teach German. 
 We've all got to do something to help 
 mother. You've heard of mother's losses. 
 There are the three boys to educate, and 
 Geoff at college ; we couldn't all stay at 
 home doing nothing." 
 
 The curate murmured something idiotic 
 to the effect that it was very praiseworthy 
 of three stalwart girls to do something to 
 help a poor broken-down parent. He 
 thought Lucy was quite right to " go out," 
 but Nancy — his cheeks paled at the thought 
 of Nancy Coulcher going out into the 
 world to earn her living. 
 
 Lucy's grey eyes read his thoughts like 
 an open book. She had no patience with
 
 16 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 him. She turned up her little blunt 
 reiroussS nose and went on her way raging 
 inwardly. 
 
 "They are all exactly alike," she said 
 impatiently. " I never thought he would 
 be such a fool as the rest ! " 
 
 Lucy was as good as her word. She 
 went to see Sarah Strong at once. She 
 hadn't any tracts with her this morning, or 
 her Bible tucked under her arm, and she 
 had not intended to do any visiting. She 
 had started early to do some shopping. 
 Nature had already, with a great deal of 
 rustling and bustling, unpacked her fresh 
 Spring clothing, and discarded her ^shabby 
 old brown winter wraps. The ground was 
 strewn with the worn-out old husks that 
 the dear little green buds overhead had 
 thrown off, and here was Lucy still in 
 her dowdy winter frock. 
 
 She sighed and put the bits of print she 
 was going to match into her pocket, and
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 17 
 
 turned away from the High Street with its 
 dazzHng shops into a quarter where the 
 humbler people dwelt. 
 
 It was an unsavoury quarter ; it was full 
 of small, poor houses huddled together, 
 and the sanitation was not all that could 
 be desired. It was a blot upon Stoke Edith. 
 This little neglected slum was known as 
 " Paradise," not in irony, oh, dear no ! It 
 had once been a delightful suburb of the 
 old, old town, and its thatched cottages 
 and dear little gardens, with the woodbine 
 growing over the porch, and the orchards 
 blossoming behind, and the sweet green 
 country spreading around it had won for 
 it this distinguished appellation. 
 
 It was Paradise still, though the gardens 
 had disappeared, and the orchards bloomed 
 no longer, and the houses had crowded 
 closer together, blotting out the sweet green 
 country. Love was still there. Love ready 
 to bear, and strong to save. Love in all 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 A TRAaiC HONEYMOON. 
 
 its varied forms ; mother-love, child-love, the 
 love of sweethearts and wives. Where- 
 ever men, women, and little children are, 
 whatever else there is, there is always 
 love. Love is happiness, love is life, love is 
 something deeper than happiness, and more 
 enduring than life. 
 
 What more is wanted to make Paradise ? 
 
 Into this Paradise Lucy Coulcher 
 
 entered, and found her way up a narrow 
 
 staircase into a darkened room, where 
 
 there was an old woman slowly dying of — 
 
 well, of nothing particular, of the common 
 
 disease of the poor ; old age, rheumatism, 
 
 poverty. It was a wonder she had lived so 
 
 long. She was so old; she had suffered 
 
 from rheumatism for years ; ever since 
 
 Lucy was born, she could not turn in bed 
 
 without groaning ; she could not lie in one 
 
 position for any length of time — and she 
 
 was miserably poor. There was nothing 
 
 for poor old Sarah Strong to live for, but
 
 THE CUKATE OF ST. KADEGUXD'S. 19 
 
 she went on living. She was tough and 
 long-lived, and unless something quite un- 
 expected came upon her, she might go on 
 groaning for some time to come. 
 
 Lucy Coulcher entered the room without 
 knocking ; she would have had a long time 
 to wait for an anwer. 
 
 The room was dark and close on this 
 sweet spring morning ; it had been shut up 
 all night ; it had been shut up for days 
 and days, thejwindows had not been opened 
 for months, and nobody had thought of 
 drawing the bhnds up to let in the warm 
 April sunshine. 
 
 Lucy went up to the bed and said a 
 few words to the old woman in her kind, 
 soft voice, and then she drew up the blind, 
 and the sunshine streamed into the room 
 and across the bed. The old woman put 
 up her feeble hands to keep out the light. 
 
 " Pull it down, dearie," she moaned, " pull 
 
 it down, I can't abear it ! " 
 
 2*
 
 20 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " I'm sure it will do you good, Sarah ; the 
 sunshine does everything good. You will 
 be able to bear it presently." 
 
 " I can't abear it," the old woman said 
 fretfully. "I've done with it, like I've 
 done with most things. I've been mortal 
 bad since you were here last. I never 
 thought to have seen the light o' the 
 sun again. Pull it down, dearie, pull it 
 down ! " 
 
 There was nothing to be done but to pull 
 the blind down, and the bare chilly room 
 was again in darkness. 
 
 " Is there anything I can do for you, 
 Sarah ? "[Lucy asked softly, " shall I read 
 to you ? " 
 
 "No, dearie, I can't abear reading, I'm 
 past most things." 
 
 " You could bear a psalm, a few words, a 
 text, I'm I sure, Sarah?" 
 
 "I can't bear naught. I've done wi' 
 preachin' [ an' pray in' an' readin'. I've
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 21 
 
 hearkened to 'em all my life, an' I'm none 
 the better for 'em now." 
 
 "If you can't bear reading, perhaps 
 you'd like me to sit with you for a little 
 time," Lucy said with a sigh ; it was so 
 difficult to find anything to say to this 
 cantankerous old woman. " I'm sure you 
 must get very tired lying here alone so 
 many hours." 
 
 " I get dreadful tired an' sick, an' lone- 
 some, an' the pain is that bad sometimes 
 I pray to be took. I dunno what I be 
 kep' lying here for, day after day, an' 
 night after night, an' getting no rest for the 
 pain." 
 
 " The Lord knows," Lucy said softly. 
 She did not venture to suggest that there 
 was a reason for the poor old worn-out 
 body to be kept groaning here on a bed of 
 pain. She did not dare to say that per- 
 haps there was a need-be for this discipline 
 of suffering.
 
 22 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 "Ay, he knows, I s'pose!" the old 
 woman said fretfully, " unless he's a-for- 
 gotten me. " I'm most tired of askin' him 
 to take the pain away. I've gone on askin' 
 an' askin', an' its worse than ever. Oh ! 
 Oh ! " 
 
 She was trying to move in the bed, and 
 the movement brought on the pain, which 
 was seldom absent for more than a few 
 minutes together. She was propped up in 
 the bed with pillows, and her feeble 
 groping hands lay outside on the coverlet. 
 They were thin, brown, shrivelled hands, 
 and her nails were long like a bird*s claws, 
 and the poor worn old face was a net-work 
 of wrinkles. 
 
 Lucy smoothed her pillows, and drew 
 back the straggling locks of her scanty grey 
 hair, and drew her old ragged shawl about 
 her. 
 
 " Have you asked Him for patience ? " 
 Lucy said softly as she was bending over
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 23 
 
 her. " Patience to bear the pain and the 
 suffering He has thought fit to lay upon 
 
 you ? " 
 
 " Patience ! " the old woman repeated 
 with a sniff. "You'd talk of patience if 
 you lay here a-groanin' day after day, an' 
 not a wink of sleep o' nights for the pain ! 
 Patience! My patience's most a-weared 
 out ; what wi' the pain, and what wi' the 
 tiredness, an' lying here alone in the dark, 
 hour after hour — an' never seein' a human 
 face, nor feelin' the touch of a human hand. 
 It's the only comfort I've got in life to 
 feel the touch of a hand now an' then. If 
 I'd got that to cling to, I could do wi'out 
 patience." 
 
 It was no use to argue with the old 
 woman. Not a single gleam of light would 
 penetrate the darkness of her soul. No 
 reading or prayers would pierce the gather- 
 ing gloom. 
 
 It seemed, as the Curate had said, quite
 
 24 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 a hopeless case ; but Lucy was not to be 
 daunted. 
 
 " I'm not in a hurry this morn- 
 ing, Sarah," she said, sitting down in a 
 chair beside the bed, and taking one of 
 the feeble hands on the coverlet in hers. 
 "I will sit with you for an hour if 
 you like, and perhaps you can get a 
 little sleep- if I hold your hand. Don't 
 be afraid of going to sleep, I won't go 
 away." 
 
 The feeble clinging fingers closed round 
 Lucy's soft warm hand ; she could not 
 have taken it away if she would, and the 
 old woman lay muttering to herself : 
 
 " It's the feel of the flesh does me good, 
 dearie, it's something to cling to." 
 
 How long Lucy sat there, she could not 
 tell. The air of the darkened room was 
 stifling and oppressive ; she would have 
 given anything to have pulled up the 
 blind an inch that a ray of sunlight might
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. RADEGUND'S. 25 
 
 have entered, but she did not dare to stir 
 from her place. 
 
 Sarah Strong had fallen asleep with 
 Lucy's hand in hers. She could not have 
 disengaged it if she would ; the long lean 
 fingers, more like the talons of a bird than 
 anything human, had twined themselves 
 around it, and held it in a grip of iron. It 
 was like the clutch of a drowning wretch 
 cHnging for bare life. 
 
 Lucy sat by the old woman's side till 
 she awoke, listening to the sounds of hfe 
 in the court Uutside, the women's voices, 
 and the children at play, and the mono- 
 tonous ticking of a clock in the room 
 below, with a dreadful, dreadful doubt 
 gnawing at her heart, as if the evil spirit 
 that possessed Sarah Strong had passed 
 from the worn-out body on the bed, in that 
 long hand clasp, into her. 
 
 Perhaps it had.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CHEERY GARDEN . 
 
 " You know so ill to deal with time, 
 You needs must play such pranks as these." 
 
 Cherry Garden, as the street where Mrs. 
 Coulcher lived was called, took its name 
 from an old cherry orchard, that used to 
 flourish on the outskirts of the town years 
 and years ago, before the widow had 
 found out the advantages of the grammar 
 school. 
 
 The town had been growing ever since 
 they had made the discovery, and rows 
 of neat semi-detached villas, with dread- 
 ful uniformity, had sprung up on every 
 side. They had crept over the green fields, 
 and down the meadows to the river's bank, 
 and up the hill sides. They had invaded
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 27 
 
 the old cherry orchard, and bit by bit 
 it had been built over. There was nothing 
 left of it now but the name, and that had 
 lost its original savour ; it was a garden 
 now, not an orchard, " Cherry Garden." 
 Orchards are so plebeian ; nobody Hves in 
 orchards now, they smack of the damp 
 moist earth ; an odour of freshness and 
 greenness hangs about them, a saggestion 
 of cool rain, of the damp fragrance of 
 the country, of green grass and things 
 growing and blossoming, of rushing winds 
 and the swaying of branches, and the 
 patter of rain drops on the leaves. 
 
 Nobody would ever think of living in 
 an orchard. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher lived in the corner house 
 of Cherry Garden, which had the advantage 
 over the rest of the row, that it looked 
 both ways. This was sometimes a con- 
 venience ; visitors could be seen approach- 
 ing from opposite directions, and if they
 
 28 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 were at all likely to clash, arrangements 
 could be made accordingly. 
 
 Nancy Coulcher, standing at the big bay 
 window that commanded the double view, 
 saw the curate of St. Eadegund coming 
 up the street, and another gentleman 
 approaching from an opposite direction. 
 
 They were both coming towards Cherry 
 Garden, and they were both coming to 
 call. 
 
 It was Mrs. Coulcher's "At Home" 
 day, and there were already two or three 
 people in the room, and Augusta and her 
 mother were talking to them. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher was trying to listen to the 
 platitudes of some tiresome callers, but 
 her mind was far away. She was worry- 
 ing and wearying about those debts of 
 Geoffrey's, and the bank shares that had 
 stopped paying dividends, and she was 
 wondering what had become of Lucy. 
 
 Lucy had not been home to dinner —
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 29 
 
 the Coulchers dined in the middle of the 
 day — she had gone out after breakfast to 
 do some shopping, and she had not 
 returned. Mrs. Coulcher was not anxious 
 about Lacy ; she was only wondering 
 what had become of her. If it had been 
 Nancy, it would have been different. Her 
 eyes kept straying over to Nancy standing 
 at the window, while she tried to listen to 
 the latest scandal. 
 
 The girl at the window was not taking 
 any notice of the people in the room ; she 
 did not pretend to take any notice ; she 
 stood drumming on the window pane and 
 looking down the street. 
 
 She was a tall girl, tall and shapely, her 
 back was to the people in the room, so 
 that only a view of her shoulders could 
 be obtained, and the back of her head. 
 They were strong, shapely young shoulders, 
 and her head was well thrown back, and 
 she had rich brown hair, rich and
 
 30 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 abundant, with red lights in it, and she 
 wore it in the latest fashion. A little bit 
 of her profile was visible, a dainty profile 
 with a well-marked outline, and thin 
 scarlet lips, thinner lips than most women, 
 and a wider mouth. A mere button hole 
 of a mouth couldn't have shown such a 
 liberal display of lovely little, white, sharp 
 teeth. She was showing her white sharp 
 teeth now, as she stood smiling at the 
 window and looking down the street. 
 
 Augusta, who was pouring out the tea 
 at a small table at the other end of the 
 room, saw her smiling, and a cloud came 
 over her plain face, and her hand shook. 
 She very nearly let the cup she was filling 
 brim over. 
 
 Auo^usta was not the least like her 
 sister ; she was short and dowdy, and 
 had blunt features, and a great deal of 
 dull, drab, tow-coloured hair, and a wide 
 forehead. Her face was pale and freckled,
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 31 
 
 not nice little freckles, but large patches 
 that gave a decided tone to her com- 
 plexion. And she had pale blue eyes 
 that very often had red rims round them 
 with reading late. 
 
 Augusta was the blue stocking of the 
 family, and she was credited with con- 
 suming a great amount of midnight oil. 
 
 At gusta was like her mother, whose 
 hair had once been drab, but was now 
 grey, and she was endowed by nature 
 with a blunt profile and mild blue eyes. 
 
 One almost wondered, looking at the 
 commonplace mother and daughters, how 
 such a variety as Nancy had crept in. 
 
 While Augusta was engaged pouring 
 out that cup of tea, Nancy escaped from 
 the room. She had gone out so quietly, 
 that when Augusta looked up again, she 
 was surprised to see her no longer 
 standing there drumming on the window 
 pane.
 
 32 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 She had not time to be surprised for 
 long ; there was a ring at the bell, a quiet, 
 assured ring, without the least eagerness 
 or trepidation in it, and a moment or two 
 after, the drawing-room door was thrown 
 open, and some one was announced : 
 
 " Mr. Montagu Asquith." 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher came forward and greeted 
 her guest ; she greeted him with quite 
 tremulous eagerness, and Augusta gave 
 him her hand across the tea table. 
 
 There was a vacant chair near the table, 
 and he dropped down into it, and then 
 he looked round the room. He was near 
 sighted, and he had to put up a glass that 
 hung by a thin gold chain, to see clearly 
 to the further end of the room. 
 
 Augusta saw the movement and blushed. 
 He was evidently looking round for some 
 one — and — and, it was not for Augusta. 
 
 Mr. Montagu Asquith was a brother of 
 the rector of St. Radegund's. He was a
 
 CHEERY GARDEN. 33 
 
 great scholar, had taken a Double First 
 at Cambridge, and was a Fellow of his 
 college. He had only quite recently- 
 resigned his fellowship and come to Stoke 
 Edith; he had come to settle there, and 
 had bought a house in the neighbourhood 
 in order to be near his brother. He would 
 be a distinct addition to Stoke Edith 
 Society ; a man of wealth, and learning, 
 and leisure — and a bachelor. 
 
 Perhaps it was this last distinction that 
 made him so interesting to the widows of 
 Stoke Edith — the widows with marriage- 
 able daughters — this in connection with his 
 other recommendations. 
 
 He was a man of forty, perhaps forty- 
 five ; he looked old for his years ; and his 
 hair, which was light brown and scanty, 
 was abeady a little worn on the top. 
 Perhaps this was the result of his immense 
 learning. He had a high, narrow forehead 
 and mild eyes, set rather far back in his 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 head — the eyes of a scholar ! His cheeks 
 were hollow like his eyes, with a pink flush 
 on them, and a small, scanty whisker at 
 the side ; his mouth, which was large and 
 thin-lipped, was clean-shaven, but he wore 
 a small tuft of hair on his chin. 
 
 He was carefully dressed, and had a thick 
 scarf round his neck on this warm April 
 day, and carried a pair of knitted gloves. 
 He looked like a man who had got in the 
 wav of taking care of himself. 
 
 Augusta enquired after his cough ; she 
 had found out that he liked to have his 
 ailments petted and made much of. 
 
 The cough had been trying lately, she 
 learnt ; the east wind that had prevailed 
 until now hadn't been at all good for it. 
 
 " No," he wouldn't take any tea, " thank 
 you ; " he had been forbidden by his 
 medical adviser to take tea. His nerves 
 had been a little out of order lately, and 
 tea had been strictly prohibited.
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 35 
 
 When Augusta had exhausted his cough 
 and his nerves, she asked him how his 
 house was getting on. He was furnishing 
 the house he had lately purchased, and was 
 living at the Eectory until it was ready for 
 occupation. 
 
 At the mention of the house, his face 
 lighted up and a warmer colour came into 
 his cheeks. 
 
 " That reminds me," he said with some 
 animation, " that I wanted to consult your 
 sister. T wanted to ask her about the 
 kitchen dresser." 
 
 " I don't think Nancy knows much 
 about kitchen dressers," Augusta said, 
 rather tartly ; she couldn't keep a little 
 sharpness out of her voice, she had no 
 patience with the man. "What did you 
 want to ask her about it ? " 
 
 " I was in doubt whether it ought to be 
 painted — or — or varnished, or left in its 
 natural state, and — and I thought she
 
 36 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 would help me to decide. It — it wouldn't 
 do to make a mistake ; I — I want 
 everything to be as nearly perfect as 
 possible." 
 
 Mr. Montagu Asquith had a slight 
 infirmity in his speech ; it was nothing very 
 much, it hardly amounted to a stammer, 
 unless he was unusually excited ; it only 
 took the less noticeable form of a slight 
 repetition of a word now and then in a 
 sentence, accompanied by a slight in-draw- 
 ing of the breath. 
 
 It was the penalty he paid for his Double 
 First. A man cannot go into the fray and 
 carry off the laurels of the University 
 unscathed. He had not suffered much, 
 only a scratch ; a slight touch of paralysis. 
 Nothing compared to other men, who, as a 
 penalty for their success, sometimes drag a 
 useless leg after them for the remainder of 
 their lives. They may be seen — dozens of 
 them — in every University town, bearing
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 37 
 
 about with them the trophies of their 
 splendid achievements. 
 
 "I think Lucy would be the best to 
 ask," Augusta said, referring to the dresser. 
 "Domestic economy is one of her subjects. 
 I believe she is going to lecture on it at 
 Miss Mallet's. We are all going to do 
 something, you know, to help mother. I 
 am going to teach some little boys Latin 
 and Euclid, to prepare them for the 
 grammar school; I have got six pupils 
 already. Nancy is going to give lessons 
 on the violin." 
 
 Mr. Asquith's fine countenance paled. 
 
 " Give lessons — on — on the vi-o-o-lin ! " 
 he repeated, deeply moved. 
 
 When he was excited the stammer came 
 in. 
 
 " Yes ; it is what she can do best," 
 Augusta said with some spirit. 
 
 " I hope the occasion will not arrive for 
 — for — for your sister — for Miss Nan — Nan
 
 38 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 — Nancy to go out as a teacher ! " the 
 scholar said in quite a shocked voice. 
 
 Nancy might have been going out as a 
 housemaid for the fuss he made about it. 
 Nancy had shipped out of the room un- 
 noticed when she saw Mr. Asquith coming 
 up the street — she knew exactly what he 
 was coming for. 
 
 He was coming to propose. 
 
 She read it in his step, in the unwonted 
 flush on his hollow cheeks, in the set of his 
 woollen scarf — he wore it buttoned inside 
 his coat to-day, not outside as he was 
 accustomed to wear it — and in his horrible 
 knitted gloves. 
 
 He was wearing a new pair to-day — at 
 least Nancy had not seen him wearing 
 them before — and as he came up the street, 
 with a flush on his thin cheeks and his 
 confident step, she found herself wondering 
 how long they would last, and if she would 
 have to knit the next pair. With this
 
 CHEERY GARDEN. 39 
 
 absurd idea in her mind, she turned away 
 with a laugh, and saw the curate of St. 
 Eadegund's approaching from an opposite 
 direction. They would hardly meet at the 
 door, she calculated, rapidly measuring the 
 distances with an experienced eye ; they 
 would just miss each other, and then with 
 a smile she slipped quietly out of the 
 room. 
 
 She need not have been afraid. Mr. 
 Asquith could not have proposed to her 
 before a roomful of people. Besides she 
 could not be quite sure that he had worked 
 himself up to the point. 
 
 He had been working himself up for 
 some time past. He had been getting 
 nearer and nearer to the point every time 
 he saw her, but the crisis had not yet 
 arrived. He did everything deliberately. 
 He did not approach the subject with 
 unscholarly haste. He felt the ground 
 quite sure under his feet at every step.
 
 40 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 He was nearer to-day than he was yester- 
 day, Nancy was quite sure when she saw 
 those new worsted gloves, and then, in a 
 fit of perverseness, she laughed and stole 
 away. 
 
 *' Show Mr. Craik into the dining-room, 
 Eussell," she said to the maid as she 
 crossed the passage, just as her elderly 
 suitor came up the steps. 
 
 She laughed and waited while the 
 drawing-room door was opened and shut 
 behind him, and then she went over to the 
 mantel-piece and looked in the glass. Her 
 hair was quite in order, and there was 
 nothing in her dress awry, and the face in 
 the glass smiled brightly back at her. It 
 was not a 3trictly beautiful face ; the 
 features were not regular, and the mouth 
 was much too wide, and the lips too thin 
 and receding. Some day, when she had 
 grown old, and the softness of youth had 
 departed, the piquant nose and chin might
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 41 
 
 become nutcrackers. There was a charm 
 somewhere in the face that was smiling 
 bewitchingly in the glass, although there 
 was no one to smile back, only the portrait 
 of an old man, a commonplace-looking old 
 man, over the sideboard opposite, and the 
 two faces were reflected side by side. 
 
 The two faces in the glass were strangely 
 ahke — ridiculously alike — though one was 
 old and grey, and red and bloated. A good- 
 tempered, florid old face, with immense 
 bushy eyebrows, and a curious way of 
 screwing up the eyes that stout people 
 sometimes have, and a trick of drawing 
 down the corners of the mouth. 
 
 As the faces smiled at each other in the 
 glass the resemblance grew more marked. 
 There was the same damask colour in the 
 cheeks, the same thickly-defined eyebrows 
 and lohg eyelashes, and the way of drawing 
 the eyelids together, only in Nancy's case 
 the eyeUds drooped — there will be time
 
 42 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 enough for them to screw up by-and-bye — 
 and the same trick of drawing down the 
 corners of the mouth. It was the same 
 face in miniature with the coarseness 
 smoothed out of it, and the defects, which 
 were defects no longer, lending it its 
 peculiar and irresistible charm. 
 
 The florid old man over the sideboard 
 was the Eeverend Augustus Coulcher, late 
 rector of St. Mnians in Cornwall, and if 
 Mr. Darwin had had the privilege of his 
 acquaintance, and the acquaintance of his 
 beautiful young daughter, he would have 
 built up a lovely theory of evolution — 
 evolution and variation. Distinct variation. 
 
 While the faces were still smiling at each 
 other in the glass, the dining-room door 
 was thrown open and the curate of St. 
 Eadegund's was announced. 
 
 Nancy left off smiling at no one in par- 
 ticular in the glass, and came forward 
 smiling to meet the curate. She had a
 
 CHEER r GARDEN. 43 
 
 ready way of blushing, and a delightful 
 smile, and she drew her eyelids together in 
 a bewitching way that made poor Douglas 
 Craik's heart — his much too susceptible 
 heart — go pit-a-pat. It hadn't gone pit-a- 
 pat while he was talking to Lucy, who was 
 worth a dozen of her sister, although she 
 had not inherited the paternal knack of 
 bringing her eyelids together, and the 
 corners of her mouth had not that pathetic 
 droop about them. 
 
 It was an absurd thing for a man to be 
 moved by such details, a man who ought 
 to have known better. 
 
 Douglas Craik with his heart thumping 
 in that ridiculous manner thought Nancy 
 had put on all those beautiful smiles and 
 blushes for him ; he had seen so little of 
 women, he knew so little about them. He 
 was quite ready to be taken in by any 
 syren with long -lashed grey eyes, and a 
 pretty drooping mouth.
 
 44 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " I hear you are going to give lessons 
 on the violin at Miss Mallet*s," he said 
 awkwardly. " I met your sister this morn- 
 ing, and she told me all about it. I am 
 so sorry that the necessity should have 
 arisen. It is very brave of you." 
 
 Nancy laughed. She had a dear little 
 laugh. 
 
 " Oh, I shan't mind giving lessons on the 
 violin," she said gaily, " I love the vioHn. 
 I never get tired of playing it, and I am 
 only to teach two hours a day, ten till 
 twelve. Lucy will have the whole morning 
 engaged, and Augusta, I'm afraid Augusta 
 will have to give up both mornings and 
 afternoons. She is going to teach a class 
 of little boys, to prepare them for the 
 school." 
 
 She spoke so gaily of the programme she 
 and her sisters had undertaken, that the 
 explanation of that pathetic droop of the 
 corners of the mouth that he had remarked
 
 CHEEKY GARDEN. 45 
 
 the night before, when he thought every 
 minute Nancy was going to cry, was clearly 
 not to be found here. 
 
 He had called to-day expressly to offer 
 his sympathy. It was the only thing he 
 was good at ; offering sympathy and counsel 
 and spiritual comfort to any one who 
 happened to be in need of them. 
 
 Nancy Coulcher did not look the least 
 like needing anything in that way, as she 
 stood smiHng down upon him. 
 
 He was such a little fellow, and he looked 
 shorter by comparison as he stood on the 
 hearthrug beside her ; she had not asked 
 him to sit down. Her lusty health and 
 strength seemed to make his weakness more 
 apparent, to dwarf him, and make him 
 look smaller and slighter. He had looked 
 ever so much more dignified in the pulpit, 
 she remarked as she looked down upon him 
 standing there. He was seen at his best, 
 his very best, in the chancel of St. Eade-
 
 46 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 gund's, with tlie high hght from the east 
 window streaming down on his pale, clear- 
 cut face. It was no wonder that all the 
 girls in Stoke Edith were raving about 
 him. 
 
 He ought to have gone about all day in 
 his cassock and surplice, not in that 
 ridiculous short jacket and limp felt hat. 
 
 " I'm afraid Mrs. Coulcher is in trouble 
 about your brother at Cambridge," he said, 
 blushing at his own temerity. " I hope it 
 is not true that he is going to be 'sent 
 down'?" 
 
 " I hope not. His tutor is very angry 
 with him ; he has threatened to send him 
 down. It will be a great expense to 
 mother if he does, and he wiU lose the 
 term. He has been idle and extravagant ; 
 he is always getting into trouble. It is 
 a great pity mother ever let him go up to 
 Cambridge." 
 
 " It will be a great thing for him to take
 
 CHEEKY GAKDEN. 47 
 
 a degree. It means so much, in life ; it is 
 worth making a sacrifice for. Your mother 
 was quite right to let him go ; we must all 
 pray for him that he may be kept," he said 
 earnestly. He was sorry for the mother 
 and the girls, and the anxiety this good- 
 for - nothing brother was giving them, 
 but he knew no other remedy for their 
 trouble than prayer. It was his sole pre- 
 scription. 
 
 " Oh, mother is always praying for him," 
 Nancy said with a gay little laugh, " and it 
 doesn't seem to do any good." 
 
 While they were talking there had been 
 another ring at the front door bell, and 
 someone came hurriedly into the room. It 
 was Lucy, who had just got away from 
 Sarah Strong, and had come in here think- 
 ing the room was empty. She was white 
 and tired, and there was a strained look 
 about her eyes, and her lips were trem- 
 bling.
 
 48 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " Wherever have you been, Lucy ? " 
 
 Nancy was standing between the door 
 and the fireplace, and the girl did not see 
 the curate standing there. Lucy was tired 
 and overdone, and she threw herself on a 
 couch that stood near the door and began 
 to cry hysterically. 
 
 She did not attempt to answer her 
 sister's question, she only sat there crying 
 and making a spectacle of herself, while 
 Nancy stood looking at her with an air of 
 mild surprise and wonder. She did not 
 fly over to Lucy's side and take off her hat 
 and smooth back her hair and strive to 
 comfort her in sweet, sisterly fashion ; she 
 stood smiling down at the curate, and 
 wondering why Lucy was making herself 
 so foolish. 
 
 " I'm afraid you've been doing too much, 
 Miss Lucy," he said ; he knew exactly how 
 she felt, he often wanted, after a long 
 morning's visiting, to throw himself down
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 49 
 
 somewhere and have a good cry. He was 
 a poor weak fellow, he hadn't the backbone 
 for a curate. 
 
 Lucy looked up when she heard his 
 voice, and hurriedly dried her eyes. 
 
 " I have been sitting with Sarah Strong," 
 she said, " and the room was so close." 
 
 "You have not been sitting with her 
 since — since I saw you this morning ? " 
 
 " Ye — es, I have been sitting with her 
 ever since." 
 
 " So long ? " he said, and his face flushed, 
 and he forgot all about Nancy, and 
 came over to the couch where Lucy was 
 sitting. 
 
 " You have been with her all these hours 
 — you have been able to do something 
 with her ? You have succeeded where I 
 have failed. Oh, I am so thankful you have 
 succeeded at last ! " 
 
 " I have not been able to do anything 
 
 with her," Lucy said, hanging her head. 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 60 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 "Not anything ? — and you have been 
 with her so long ! You have been able to 
 read to her ? " 
 
 " She would not let me read a single 
 word." 
 
 " Then you have prayed with her ; she 
 can sometimes bear a prayer when she can- 
 not listen to a text." 
 
 " She would not let me pray with her." 
 " And she kept you there so long ? It 
 was a great opportunity." 
 
 There was a note of disappointment, 
 almost reproof in his voice, that stung 
 Lucy like a blow, and she kept her tears 
 back with an effort. 
 
 " She is an old woman," she said quickly, 
 with her lips trembling, " and she has had 
 a great many troubles ; she has not been 
 free from pain for years. She is weary 
 of groaning and praying, she has been 
 praying for years and years, and she is 
 none the better. Oh ! you must not
 
 CHERRY GARDEN. 61 
 
 judge her by the same standard as other 
 people." 
 
 "I should be very sorry to judge her," 
 the Curate said meekly. " I should be glad 
 to do her good if I could ; I have been 
 visiting her for months, and it is always 
 the same tale ; she is too ill to bear any 
 reading, and she can't listen to any 
 prayers. Poor old woman ! Perhaps the 
 fault is in me. I have not been praying 
 for her as I ought." 
 
 He went away humbled and saddened: 
 he was sure he had failed in his duty ; he 
 would not go into the other room and have 
 a cup of tea. He promised to come and 
 see Mrs. Coulcher another day, and he 
 went away to pray for Nancy's good-for- 
 nothing brother, and old bed-ridden Sarah 
 Strong. 
 
 He was always praying for somebody 
 or other : worldly people used to say 
 jocosely that it was his meat and drink : 
 
 4* 
 LIBRARY 
 UNiVERSmr OF lUINOtS
 
 62 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 perhaps it was : he was such a puny little 
 fellow to do so much work, to be consumed 
 with such untiring energies, he must have 
 had some secret source of supply. 
 
 Lucy Coulcher was dreadfully ashamed 
 of herself for breaking down, for that 
 ridiculous exhibition, as Nancy feelingly 
 termed it ; she had no idea that Mr. 
 Craik was there, or she wouldn't have 
 given free course to those foohsh tears for 
 the world. 
 
 That visit to Sarah Strong had upset her 
 more than she cared to acknowledge. She 
 had been brooding over all sorts of dread- 
 ful things while she had been sitting in 
 that darkened room. She had been ques- 
 tioning the ways of Providence : she had 
 been driven face to face with solemn, 
 aching, anxious problems, and she had not 
 been able to solve them. 
 
 Her faith, her calm, assured faith, had 
 never been disturbed until to-day, and now
 
 CHEKRY GARDEN. 53 
 
 all sorts of dreadful unspoken doubts kept 
 surging up in her mind. Was there any 
 use in praying after all ? Oh ! it was a 
 dreadful question. Was it Providence or 
 chance that ruled in the world ? — and why 
 were the burdens that were laid on man- 
 kind, so unequal — so terribly unequal ? 
 
 What had that poor old soul groaning 
 from morning till night on her bed of pain 
 done that she should suffer so horribly ? — 
 and what had she herself done, that all 
 that women most prize in the world, 
 beauty, and admiration, and love, should 
 be denied her, and that Nancy should have 
 all — everything — full measure of this 
 world's good, pressed down, running over ? 
 Oh, what had she done that there should be 
 this disparity in their lot ? 
 
 Lucy could not find an answer to any of 
 these foolish questions that had arisen in 
 her mind, as she sat with the old woman's 
 hand in hers in that darkened room.
 
 64 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 Perhaps she will find an answer to them 
 by-and-bye. There are some questions that 
 can never be answered, some perplexing 
 doubts that can never be solved — else, 
 where were faith ?
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 NEAKER AND NEARER. 
 
 '* Men's love, and birds' love, 
 And women's love and men's ! '* 
 
 When the people had gone away, Mr. 
 Montagu Asquith among them, Augusta 
 told Nancy about the kitchen dresser. 
 
 " He must be in earnest, or he wouldn't 
 want you to decide about the dresser," 
 Augusta said with a sigh. 
 
 " Of course he's in earnest," Lucy said 
 quickly, with the colour coming into her 
 pale face as she spoke ; " he wouldn't come 
 here day after day, as he does, and pay 
 Nan such marked attention, if he were not 
 in earnest. I think it's coming nearer and 
 nearer." 
 
 "It's a long time coming," Nancy said 
 with a laugh, "the longer the better.
 
 56 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 What a Molly he must be to trouble him- 
 self about the kitchen dresser ! I suppose 
 he will ask me to choose the saucepans 
 next ! " 
 
 Nancy tossed her head and went out 
 of the room singing, and pr':::ntly they 
 heard her thrumming gaily on the fiddle in 
 the adjoining room. 
 
 She had everything to sing for. The 
 cloud that hung over the house didn't 
 overshadow her, didn't darken her bright 
 horizon. She had youth, health, abundant 
 health, immense vitality and capacity for 
 enjoyment, and lovers by the score. 
 
 The last thing in the world she wanted 
 was a husband. Of course she would have 
 one by-and-bye, when the game was played 
 out, but now, in the midst of life, when the 
 world was at her feet, the httle, tiny world 
 of Stoke Edith, marriage was the very, very 
 last thing to be thought of. 
 
 " Stupid old frump ! " Nancy Coulcher
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 57 
 
 said to herself as she crossed the hall, 
 "what can he expect me to care about 
 kitchen dressers ? " and then she took up 
 her fiddle and began to play a dance 
 tune. 
 
 "I wish Mr. Asquith would come to the 
 point," Lucy said crossly, when she had 
 left the room. "If Nancy were once 
 engaged — openly engaged, there would be 
 an end of all this nonsense. I should 
 make it a point to tell everybody directly. 
 I don't think it fair of her to encourage 
 half-a-dozen men that she doesn't care a 
 straw for, when she is already as good as 
 engaged to another man. It's mean, and 
 cruel, and heartless." 
 
 Lucy spoke with some heat, and there 
 was an unwonted colour in her cheeks, and 
 her lips were trembling. 
 
 Augusta raised her eyes from the book 
 she was reading, and looked at Lucy 
 keenly. Her eyes were very mild blue
 
 5S A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 eyes, but they saw a long way ; the boys 
 used to say they could see through a 
 stone wall. 
 
 " Who is it now ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't ask ! I should have 
 thought you could have seen it last night. 
 He never took his eyes off our pew all 
 through the sermon, and this morning, 
 when I met him in Silver Street, the first 
 question he asked was after Nancy ; and 
 when I came in this afternoon they were 
 alone together in the dining-room." 
 
 " You — don't — mean Mr. Craik ? " 
 Augusta gasped ; she did not often gasp, she 
 was not an emotional young woman, but 
 she gasped now. 
 
 " Who else should I mean ? " Lucy said 
 tartly. 
 
 " I — I thought it was you ! " Augusta 
 answered meekly. 
 
 " Me ! " Lucy exclaimed, flushing up 
 scarlet like a poppy.
 
 NEAEER AND NEAEER. 69 
 
 She was a poor-spirited little thing, and 
 she was overdone. Sitting in that cramped 
 position by the bedside of a dreadful old 
 woman all those hours had been too much 
 for her nerves, and she broke down all at 
 once and began to cry. 
 
 " Oh, no, he never thought of me ! '* poor 
 Lucy sobbed. She was very angry with 
 herseK for crying, but the tears would not 
 be kept back. Her little castle had just 
 crumbled away and vanished, and she could 
 not help weeping over it. 
 
 " I am sure Mr. Craik admired you very 
 much when he first came here. He told 
 mother that he didn't know how he should 
 get on without you in the parish," Augusta 
 said by way of comfort ; she couldn't think 
 of anything else to say. 
 
 "Oh, that's quite another thing," Lucy 
 interrupted impatiently. " He doesn't ad- 
 mire Nancy in that way. He — he loves 
 Nancy''
 
 60 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " Then I'm very sorry for him ! " Augusta 
 said, closing her book with a bang, "he 
 ought to know better. I've no patience 
 with men, sensible men like Mr. Craik, 
 who know, or who profess to know so 
 much about human nature and the higher 
 life, and all that sort of thing, being caught 
 by such shallow tricks as Nancy's ! " 
 
 " He is only like the rest," Lucy sobbed. 
 
 Augusta was very angry. She thought 
 so much of the Curate of St. Eadegund's. 
 
 " He ought not to be like the rest ! " she 
 said, puckering her forehead, and draw- 
 ing her thick drab eyebrows together — they 
 were bushy eyebrows like her father's, only 
 they were drab. " I'm dreadfully disap- 
 pointed in him ! I expected so much 
 better things of him ! I thought, with all 
 he has gone through in that dreadful 
 London slum — after all the work he has 
 done, the beautiful real work, and all the 
 lessons he has learnt there, after having been
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 61 
 
 brought face to face with the realities of 
 life ; having gone through so much and 
 found out for himself what is real and 
 abiding, and what is false and hollow, 
 having found out all this, and reaHsed it, 
 to fall so low. Oh ! I have no patience with 
 him ! " 
 
 Augusta was very angry. 
 
 Perhaps she was right ; the Curate of St. 
 Eadegund's ought to have known better. 
 What is the use of preaching to other 
 people about self-discipline and self-re- 
 straint, and all that sort of thing if a man 
 is not master of himself? 
 
 Nancy Coulcher began her violin lessons 
 at Miss Mallet's school the next day. " St. 
 John's in the Wilderness," as Miss Mallet's 
 estabhshment was called, was situated at 
 the other end of Stoke Edith. The 
 grammar school, which had recently been 
 rebuilt, and removed a mile out of the 
 town, lay beyond it. It was not Miss
 
 62 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 Mallet's fault that the grammar school was 
 in her immediate neighbourhood. The un- 
 desirable propinquity was none of her seek- 
 ing. 
 
 If the trustees of the old foundation 
 chose to carry the school out of the town, 
 where it had flourished for over two 
 centuries, and set it down at her back door, 
 they must take the consequences. 
 
 St. John's in the Wilderness had enjoyed 
 a high repute in the county as a first-class 
 boarding school for girls fifty years before 
 there was any talk of removing the grammar 
 school. It would not enjoy it much longer, 
 parents had already begun to talk of 
 taking aw^ay their girls. They could not 
 go outside the gates of the Wilderness 
 now for their long country w^alks with- 
 out encountering the boarders ; and they 
 could not walk in an opposite direction 
 without meeting the day boys, coming or 
 going to and from the school, and the
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 63 
 
 junior masters trooping up from their 
 lodgings in the town. 
 
 Lucy, who went to the Wilderness early, 
 and came back late, missed the troop of 
 boys going up from the town ; it was 
 generally a noisy party, and she was glad 
 to miss them. She had her lesson to think 
 about on the way, and she could not think 
 with a lot of boys shouting, and racing up 
 the hill like a lot of mad things all round 
 her. 
 
 It was unfortunate that Nancy should 
 have to go alone ; but Mrs. Coulcher 
 comforted herself with the thought that 
 she could go with the boys, and come 
 back with the boys. It would reaUy be 
 company for her. 
 
 Nancy didn't go with the boys after that 
 first morning. They were in such a 
 desperate hurry to reach the school, 
 though the bell had not begun to ring, 
 when they reached the foot of the hill, that
 
 64 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 they started off at a run, and left her to 
 walk the rest of the way alone. That is, 
 not quite alone : one of the masters walked 
 up the hill beside her to the gate of the 
 Wilderness, and by a strange chance, he 
 joined her at the same spot, when she was 
 coming back after the lesson. 
 
 The Curate met them coming back ; he 
 had remembered suddenly, just before 
 twelve o'clock, that he had a visit to make 
 in the neighbourhood of the Wilderness, 
 and he had started off up the hill with his 
 heart beating pit-a-pat and a ridiculous 
 pink colour in his face. He saw Nancy 
 and the schoolmaster coming gaily down 
 the hill when he was half-way up, and he 
 could do nothing less than go on his way, 
 as if the meeting were purely accidental. 
 
 It was Gilbert Earle, the mathematical 
 master, he remarked, who was coming 
 down the hill with Nancy, and he was 
 carrying her fiddle. Of course if he had
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 65 
 
 happened to have been in time to walk 
 back with her, he would have been 
 expected to carry the fiddle. The mathe- 
 matical tutor was not the least like the 
 little slender curate ; he was a head and 
 shoulders above him ; tall and handsome 
 and black-bearded ; no girl in her senses 
 would have hesitated between them. 
 
 Nancy's face was flushed and smiling, 
 she was blushing divinely he saw as he 
 passed her, and went on his solitary way. 
 The cloud he had seen on her face in 
 church on Sunday, had quite passed 
 away ; it had nothing at any rate to do 
 with the teaching at the Wilderness, or 
 with Geoflrey's trouble. 
 
 It was nothing unusual to see Gilbert 
 
 Earle talking to Nancy Coulcher. All the 
 
 masters at the grammar school, that is, all 
 
 the unmarried masters, were in love with 
 
 her, and she encouraged them all alike ; 
 
 she made no difference. It did not very 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 much matter to Nancy which it was ; the 
 tall wrangler, or the short classic ; the 
 fierce - looking German, who was the 
 professor of modern languages, or the 
 mild-eyed botanist who taught Natural 
 Science. She bewitched them all with 
 the same looks and the same tones, and 
 misled them with the same misleading 
 smiles. She took them all in. She liked 
 above all things to be admired, and she 
 unconsciously, with a quite artless art, 
 sought to win and charm every foolish 
 young man that she met. She was not 
 handicapped by any ridiculous delicacy of 
 feeling. 
 
 She began by liking all her admirers 
 universally, and, by-and-bye, when the 
 novelty wore off, and she got a little tired 
 of so much admiration, she began to 
 pick and choose. She had weeded out a 
 good many ; she had begun to pick and 
 choose.
 
 NEAKER AND NEARER. 67 
 
 She had picked out Gilbert Earle from 
 the number, and a classical master, who 
 had sailed for India a month ago — she 
 had a letter from him in her pocket at that 
 moment — and Mr. Asquith. 
 
 She had picked out these three ; she had 
 not included the curate in this inner circle 
 of first favourites, and she had to choose 
 between them. 
 
 The choice could not be far off; not so 
 far off as she desired, at least so it seemed 
 when she got back after that first morning's 
 teaching. 
 
 Augusta met her in the hall when she 
 came in flushed and smiling. 
 
 "Mamma wants you in the drawing- 
 room. Nan," she said in a mysterious 
 voice. " You are to go to her before 
 you take off your things." 
 
 Nancy went in gaily — to be more correct 
 
 she bounced into the room, but her face 
 
 fell when she saw a letter on the table 
 
 5*
 
 68 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 before her mother, a letter in a hand- 
 writing she knew well. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher took up the letter 
 nervously, and gave it to Nancy. Her 
 fingers were trembling the girl noticed 
 when she gave it to her. 
 
 " It is from Mr. Asquith, Nancy ; he left 
 it himself. He called soon after you had 
 gone, and — and asked for you, and when 
 he found you were not at home, he left 
 the letter." 
 
 " Whatever can he want to write to me 
 about ? " Nan said flippantly, and she 
 began to tear open the letter. 
 
 " I think you had better read it in — in 
 your own room, my dear. Take it up- 
 stairs, and read it by yourself. Eemember 
 it is only written for your eyes." 
 
 Nancy took the letter upstairs with her. 
 
 " I expect it is only about the kitchen 
 dresser," she said, in a most unfeeling 
 way.
 
 NEAEER AND NEARER. 69 
 
 She did not come down stairs for a longr 
 time ; not until after Lucy had come back, 
 and the dinner gong had sounded. She 
 came down stairs whistling — she was a 
 wonderful whistler — and she took her seat 
 at the dinner table. She did not notice 
 that they were all looking at her, and that 
 her mother was so nervous that she could 
 hardly carve the leg of mutton. 
 
 " Well ? " Lucy said in a whisper when 
 the servant had left the room. 
 
 " Well ? " Augusta repeated breathlessly. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher did not say " Well ? " — 
 not audibly, but she paused with her knife 
 in the joint, and the gravy running out, 
 while the three red-headed boys round the 
 table — they had all red hair, like their 
 father, stopped talking and wondered when 
 their dinner was coming. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher lifted up her eyes to the 
 portrait of her deceased husband over the 
 sideboard. It was a supreme moment.
 
 70 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 The Eev. Augustus keeping guard over 
 the pickles and the jam, seemed to be 
 screwing his eyelids together and whisper- 
 ing a ghostly " Well ? " 
 
 Nancy laughed. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she said, " why 
 are you all looking at me ? " 
 
 "Is — is it all settled?" Lucy said 
 eagerly, with a little break in her voice. 
 
 " Settled ?— what settled ? " 
 
 "Mr. Asquith's letter," Augusta said 
 solemnly, " it has taken you a long time 
 to read it." 
 
 " Oh, I had forgotten all about it," Nancy 
 said laughing, and she took the crumpled 
 letter out of her pocket and tossed it across 
 the table to Augusta ; " you can read it if 
 you like ; there's a message for you in it." 
 
 Augusta read it with her tell-tale face 
 growing white and red by turns, and when 
 she had finished she put it back in the 
 envelope.
 
 NEAEER AND NEAEER. 71 
 
 " Mr. Asquith has asked Nancy and me 
 to go up and look at his new house this 
 afternoon, mother," she said meekly. " His 
 sister is going up with him at three o'clock, 
 and he has asked us to join them there, 
 and walk back to the rectory to tea." 
 
 " I said it was getting nearer and nearer," 
 Lucy said solemnly. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher's face fell, and she went 
 on carving the leg of mutton. 
 
 "If — if Mr. Asquith's sister is there I 
 suppose you can go," she said stiffly, " but 
 I think he ought to have asked me." 
 
 She was just a little disappointed. She 
 had made up her mind it was an offer.
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 LADYLIFT. 
 
 " Go not, happy day, 
 Till the maiden yields." 
 
 The inspection of Ladylift, Mr. Asquith's 
 new house, was quite satisfactory. Nancy 
 went over it that afternoon from garret to 
 basement. She didn't tear through it, as 
 she generally tore through things she didn't 
 care much about. She went through it 
 conscientiously, opening the doors of all 
 the cupboards, examining the kitchen range, 
 peering into the pantries and cellars and 
 deciding the vexed question of the kitchen 
 dresser. 
 
 Mr. Asquith went through it with her, 
 explaining everything to her, and consult- 
 ing her about the furniture. It might have
 
 LADYLIIT. 73 
 
 been a settled thing. They might have 
 been engaged for months, and were on the 
 eve of setting up housekeeping. 
 
 It really was, as Lucy said, ''getting 
 nearer and nearer." 
 
 He might have proposed to her then, in 
 one of those empty rooms ; he had plenty 
 of opportunities ; in the attics with the 
 sloping roofs, where in one corner Nancy 
 could scarcely stand upright — they had 
 gone up alone to the attics. Miss Asquith 
 was a stout lady, rather short in the breath, 
 and she decHned to go a step farther than 
 the second floor, and Augusta stayed be- 
 hind to keep her company. 
 
 Nancy and her lover were so long 
 upstairs in that empty attic, they had quite 
 time enough to settle the matter — time and 
 opportunity. Augusta thought it was all 
 over when she saw them coming down the 
 narrow staircase. Nancy in her best frock, 
 with her brown hair with the red tints in
 
 74 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 it, all ablaze with the sunlight that poured 
 down upon it from the skylight in the roof, 
 and her bright face all aglow. She looked 
 so happy and radiant, she might have been 
 descending from the clouds. 
 
 " Am I to congratulate you ? " Augusta 
 asked her when they had got a moment 
 together. She could not ask the question 
 quite steadily, she could not keep a quiver 
 out of her voice. 
 
 " Congratulate me ! What for ? " 
 
 " Oh, I thought it was settled ! you were 
 so long up there." 
 
 " We were looking out of the window ; 
 there is a lovely view from that attic 
 window." 
 
 Nancy saw everything ; the beautiful 
 great house, the stables and coach-house 
 — there was room enough for two car- 
 riages, she remarked in the coach-house, 
 a brougham and a pony carriage, and 
 stabling for half-a-dozen horses, and a
 
 LADYLIFT. 75 
 
 harness room. The accommodation was 
 excellent. Augusta hadn't much interest 
 in the stables, and Miss Asquith preferred 
 the greenhouses, and Nancy and her lover 
 went through them alone. 
 
 There was ample opportunity for Mr. 
 Asquith to propose ; he could have pro- 
 posed in the loose box, which Nancy would 
 insist on going in. He would never find a 
 better chance. 
 
 He let the opportunity slip, as he had 
 let the chance in the attics slip ; perhaps he 
 thought the surroundings were unworthy. 
 Nancy was smiling upon him, and the hour 
 was propitious, but he let it slip. 
 
 They went through the gardens together 
 in the sweet Spring sunshine. Everything 
 was breaking into bud and blossom. The 
 chestnuts overhead had already burst 
 through their pale pink sheaths, they 
 would be blossoming presently, and the 
 lilac was already purple overhead, and the
 
 76 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 pear trees were in their white. There was 
 a fragrance of violets and hyacinths and 
 sweet-smelHng Spring flowers in the borders, 
 and the meadows beyond were green with 
 the new green of the year, and the sky 
 was blue overhead. 
 
 Nancy and her lover walked together 
 through the green alleys, between the 
 fragrant borders, with the branches meeting 
 above and the sunlight dropping down on 
 their path. It was a lovely opportunity ; 
 he would never have such another. 
 
 Nancy thought he was her Fate, and she 
 was ready — quite ready — to accept him. 
 How could she do otherwise, after going 
 through the house and the stables, the 
 sight of that loose box had moved her 
 deeply. She was fond of riding, she 
 loved it above everything. When she had 
 a horse of her own, she had always told 
 herself it should have a loose box. She 
 was like the Queen of Sheba, she had seen
 
 LADYLIPT. 77 
 
 SO much, she had no spirit left in her to say 
 "No." 
 
 If Mr. Asquith had asked her to-day, he 
 would have had a favourable answer. 
 
 The afternoon went on, and the golden 
 atmosphere of enchantment faded, and the 
 mists from the valley — Stoke Edith lay in 
 a valley — rose up to meet them as they 
 walked back to the rectory to tea. Nancy's 
 smiles were gone ; her low replies were 
 silenced : the opportunity was lost ; the 
 happy, happy moment was gone for ever. 
 
 " What is in those big cases ? " she asked 
 him as they passed through the hall when 
 they were going away. 
 
 " They are the cases containing my 
 specimens," he said. " They are not un- 
 packed yet ; when they are unpacked I am 
 promising myself great pleasure in going 
 through them with you. I have some 
 specimens of coleoptera that are rare 
 in private collections, that are almost
 
 78 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 unique. You are fond of entomology, I 
 think ? " 
 
 " I love it ! " Nancy said with rapture. She 
 wasn't thinking very much of what she was 
 saying. She was wondering why Augusta 
 and Miss Asquith were lagging behind. 
 
 " I'm very glad ; I was not sure whether 
 it was botany or entomology you were fond 
 of. I knew it was one of the two ; your 
 mother was telling me you had taken it up 
 as a pet study." 
 
 " Oh, that was botany, but I hke both. 
 I pressed a lot of flowers last year, and I 
 helped the boys arrange their butterflies. 
 I love butterflies." 
 
 Mr. Asquith smiled, a gentle, superior, 
 patronising smile, and looked at the bright 
 face of the girl by his side. It was really 
 worth looking at. Nancy had always a 
 delightful colour, and her profile was 
 charming ; he had never remarked until 
 to-day how blue her eyes were, blue as the
 
 LADYLIFT. 79 
 
 April skies above. He was smiling at her 
 ignorance — her ignorance and innocence ; 
 he would not have had her a bit wiser for 
 the world! He was picturing to himself 
 all through that walk back to the rectory, 
 when he ought to have been making love, 
 how delightful it would be to instruct her 
 in the mysteries of Lepidoptera, and 
 Neuroptera, and Coleoptera, in the future. 
 What a happy, happy time lay before him ! 
 He was glad that Nancy was an enthusiast ; 
 it would make the task so much"* easier ; 
 she had so much to learn ; it would take 
 him a Hfe-time to teach her that botany 
 did not wholly consist in pressing flowers, 
 or entomology in setting butterflies. 
 
 When Nancy got back to Cherry 
 Garden she was not in the best^of tempers. 
 She was angry, and disappointed, and bored 
 to death with Coleoptera. There was a 
 case of beetles at the rectory, and her 
 lover had insisted on going through them,
 
 80 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 teaching her their long, dreadful Latin 
 names. 
 
 " Oh, dear no, he hasn't proposed, and he 
 isn't going to ! " she said in answer to 
 Lucy's tender inquiry, as she was taking 
 off her things. Lucy was very anxious 
 that Mr. Asquith should propose; she 
 couldn't understand what he was waiting 
 for. 
 
 "I made sure that he would propose 
 to-day," she said, blushing guiltily as she 
 spoke. " I was so sure — that — that I told 
 Mr. Craik you were engaged." 
 
 " You told Mr. Craik I was engaged ! " 
 Nancy said in an awful voice, and she took 
 little Lucy by the shoulder and turned her 
 face round to the light. 
 
 " Why did you tell him that lie ? " she 
 demanded fiercely. 
 
 Her blue eyes were blazing with passion, 
 and her cheeks were crimson, and her lips 
 were quivering.
 
 LADYLIFT. 81 
 
 Lucy cowered before her ; she never 
 remembered having been afraid of Nancy 
 before. 
 
 " I did not think there was any harm," 
 she said meekly. " I thought, I made sure 
 he was going to ask you to-day. Why 
 should he ask you to look at his house, and 
 consult you about the furniture, if — if he 
 didn't intend to ask you to marry him ? " 
 
 " You had no right to say I was engaged 
 if he had asked me," Nancy said, not a 
 bit mollified by Lucy's miserable explana- 
 tion. " I don't know that I shall accept 
 him if he does. I don't know why you 
 are all in such a hurry to get rid of me. 
 I shall take my time. I am not going to 
 be forced into marrying anybody. There 
 are a dozen men in Stoke Edith ready — 
 dying to marry me, and — and I am going 
 to take my choice." 
 
 Nancy was as good as her word. She 
 
 refused to see ^Mr. Asquith when he 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 called the next day. He had brought a 
 book on beetles for her to read, and he 
 left it with a message — a message and a ' 
 note. The message was to the effect that 
 he would call at the same hour on the 
 following day, and that he hoped he 
 would find her at home ; and the letter — 
 well, it was a ridiculous letter for a lover 
 to write ; it was all about beetles, and the 
 pleasure with which he was looking 
 forward to devote the remainder of his 
 life to instructing Nancy in their ways and 
 habits. He proposed to himself the agree- 
 able task of forming her mind, and he was 
 going to begin with beetles. He couldn't 
 begin much lower. 
 
 That letter settled his fate. 
 
 Nancy met the Curate of St. Eadegund's 
 as she came back from Miss Mallet's that 
 morning. She did not go to the Wilderness 
 through the town to-day, with all the 
 grammar school boys at her heels. She
 
 LADYLIFT. 83 
 
 went by way of the meadows, whicli was a 
 quieter way, but at least half a mile 
 farther. She had to start earlier in the 
 morning, and she came back later at noon, 
 and she very seldom came back alone. It 
 was on her way back that she met the 
 Curate. She had not seen him, except in 
 church, since the day she met him coming 
 down the hill with one of the masters. 
 She had given the masters the slip, or she 
 would have had one of them with her now ; 
 they were always making Httle schemes to 
 walk back with her. 
 
 She had given them the slip to-day, and 
 she had left her fiddle behind ; she was 
 sauntering across the meadow alone when 
 the Curate met her. He saw her quite a 
 long way ofi* in her pretty Spring frock, 
 with the round sailor hat showing off the 
 lovely oval of her face, and the warm 
 tints in her brown hair, gleaming like 
 burnished gold in the sun. He had never
 
 84 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 seen her look so sweet before, so sweet and 
 simple, and womanly. He clasped his 
 hands, as he had a habit of doing, as he 
 saw her coming towards him, and waited 
 for her at the stile. He could do nothing 
 less ; he could not go on, and let her get 
 over the stile by herself. 
 
 A few days ago he would have fancied 
 as he waited there, that it was his Fate 
 coming towards him, but Lucy's words were 
 still ringing in his ears. They had not 
 been out of them, indeed, since that un- 
 lucky afternoon. He could hear them 
 quite plainly as Nancy came smiling across 
 the grass. 
 
 " My sister is engaged ; she is going to 
 marry Mr. Asquith." 
 
 He was repeating them drearily to himself 
 as Nancy came up to the stile. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad to see you, Mr. Craik," 
 she began, and then she stopped and 
 blushed.
 
 LADYLIFT. 85 
 
 "I wanted to see you so much — I — I 
 wanted to tell you " 
 
 There was a delicious little tremor in 
 her voice that he had never remarked in it 
 before. 
 
 It was rather difficult to go on ; she 
 didn't know how hard it was, until she 
 stood there beside the stile, with Douglas 
 Craik looking at her with his earnest eyes 
 that seemed to pierce her little shallow 
 soul. She was very glad the stile was 
 between them. 
 
 " What did you want to tell me ? " he 
 said, when he found she did not go on. 
 He thought it was something about the 
 parish, about Lucy, about that tiresome 
 old Sarah Strong, who was always sending 
 for him, and wouldn't hear a word he said 
 when he came to her. There was no 
 eagerness in his voice, no expectation in 
 his eyes ; he was watching her, as he had 
 a habit of watching everybody, as she
 
 86 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 spoke to him, and he was wondering what 
 a girl like this could find in Montagu 
 Asquith. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said drooping her head 
 rosily, and crushing with her heel the 
 flowers that were crowding up round the 
 stile, " it is about Mr. Asquith ; Lucy told 
 you something — yesterday — there is no 
 truth in it — it is a mistake." 
 
 It was very prettily done. She was so 
 confused, and her lips were trembling, 
 and there was a little throaty quaver in 
 her voice that touched him, that moved 
 him out of himself. It was quite as well 
 that Nancy did not look up, that she was 
 engaged in crushing those wretched daisy 
 buds that came in her way into the earth ; 
 she would have seen, if she had looked up 
 at that moment, that a flame had leaped 
 into Douglas Craik's eyes, and that they 
 were blazing upon her with — well, with a 
 look that she would not have mistaken.
 
 LADYLIFT. 87 
 
 " It was a mistake then ? " he said in a 
 voice he could scarcely keep steady. 
 
 " It was quite a mistake. I — I have no 
 intention of marrying Mr. Asquith." 
 
 His face flushed and faded ; his eyes 
 brightened and darkened. 
 
 " Your sister told me it was settled ; 
 that you had gone to look over his house 
 
 " he faltered ; he could not keep his 
 
 voice steady. 
 
 " I went with his sister to see the 
 gardens, and we came back to the rectory 
 to tea, and he showed me his beetles — you 
 know his beetles, Mr. Craik. Oh, how I 
 hate those beetles ! " 
 
 She ground her heel into the unoffending 
 daisies in the grass as if they were the 
 beetles, and she looked up into his face, 
 with the corners of her mouth drawn down 
 in that pretty pathetic way she had, 
 looking childish, and troubled, and about 
 to cry.
 
 88 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 He would have given the world to have 
 taken her in his arms and told her that 
 Mr. Asquith and his beetles should never, 
 never trouble her again. Fortunately the 
 stile was between them. 
 
 " I am very glad it was a mistake," he 
 said huskily ; it was all he could find to 
 say, though his heart was thumping dread- 
 fully, and then he had to help her over the 
 stile and walk back with her. He quite 
 forgot where he was going, and he walked 
 all the way back with Nancy, until he 
 came in sight of Cherry Garden. 
 
 Douglas Craik was immensely relieved ; 
 he really didn't know whether he was on 
 his head or his heels, as he walked back 
 to his lodgings to dinner. He quite forgot 
 that parochial visit he was going to make 
 when he met her ; it slipped quite out of his 
 mind. He could think of nothing but Nancy. 
 He was so full of her sweet confidence, of 
 the words she had dropped in her agitation.
 
 LADYLIFT. 89 
 
 Her shy, sad glances had thrilled him with 
 love, pity, and sympathy. He was quite 
 sure that her family were urging her on to 
 this sacrifice. He had heard of Mrs. 
 Coulcher's losses, and Geoffrey's extrava- 
 gance, and this angel — he called her an 
 angel — this meek, suffering Saint was to 
 be offered up a patient, uncomplaining 
 sacrifice to Moloch ! 
 
 Mr. Asquith and his beetles were 
 Moloch.
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 PAEADISE. 
 
 " Be near me when the sensuous frame 
 Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust." 
 
 Lucy CouLCHER went to see poor old Sarah 
 Strong that afternoon. Her visits to Sarah 
 Strong were undertaken rather in the form 
 of a penance. She particularly disliked 
 sitting by the hour in that dark, stuffy 
 room, listening to the groans and com- 
 plaints of the cantankerous old woman. 
 She could do her no good, she could 
 only listen to her complaints ; it was only 
 as a matter of duty she went to see her 
 at all, of duty and of penance. When 
 she had done anything that she thought 
 deserved a specially severe form of penance, 
 she went to Paradise, and sat an hour or 
 two with Sarah Strong.
 
 PAEADISE. 91 
 
 She was sitting with her that afternoon 
 when the curate came in, and Sarah was 
 holding her hand, as she had held it on 
 that morning when she had sapped all the 
 energy out of her, and she had gone home 
 and had a fit of hysterics. 
 
 Lucy looked up when she heard the 
 curate's step on the stairs outside ; the room 
 was so dark or he would have seen the 
 sudden colour leap into her pale cheeks 
 when he entered the room. He did not 
 see her at first in the obscurity of that dim 
 room, and with the poor old figure propped 
 up in the bed between them. Lucy would 
 have taken her hand away, and made room 
 for him at the bedside, but the old woman 
 would not release her. 
 
 "No, dearie, you mustn't go yet. I 
 couldn' gi'e you up yet ; I was jest 
 beginnin' to feel a little easy. I'm allers 
 easier if I've got a hand to hold to." 
 
 There really seemed to be something in
 
 92 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 what the old woman said ; she was not 
 groaning, the curate remarked, when he 
 came up the stairs ! 
 
 " You here ! " he said, when he saw 
 Lucy Coulcher sitting by the bedside 
 holding the old woman's hand. 
 
 There was something in the tone in 
 which he said those two words that Lucy 
 didn't like. There was a note of sur- 
 prise and distrust in them, that pierced 
 her little tender soul, and she drew back 
 into the shadow, with the old woman's 
 hand still clinging to her. She would not 
 let it go. 
 
 Douglas Craik had not come to see Lucy, 
 he had come to see Sarah Strong. He 
 had come to administer comfort and con- 
 solation, and to illumine with faith and 
 hope the dark way she would shortly have 
 to tread. She turned a deaf ear to his 
 words of comfort, and she decHned to see 
 a ray of light, to see a spark indeed. She
 
 PARADISE. 93 
 
 did nothing but groan and murmur all the 
 time he was in the room. 
 
 "I can't hear a word!" she moaned, 
 when he took out his little pocket Bible 
 and read a few verses to her. " I be worse 
 than ever to-day, an' my hearin's most 
 a-gone ! " 
 
 Douglas Craik read the portion of 
 Scripture he had selected to read to her, 
 whether she heard him or not ; he read 
 it unmoved to the end, while the poor old 
 creature on the bed mumbled and groaned, 
 and vowed she couldn't hear a word. 
 When he had finished the portion, he 
 closed the book and went on his knees 
 beside the bed and prayed aloud, and Lucy 
 knelt down beside him. 
 
 "I can't bear no prayin'," the old 
 woman whimpered, "it alius upsets me. 
 I'm past bearin' it. The Lord knows how 
 I've a-prayed for years an' years ! He 
 knows I be past it now."
 
 94 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 The curate went on praying whether the 
 old lady could bear it or not, and when he 
 had finished he got up from his knees. It 
 did not really seem worth while to take so 
 much trouble with an old woman who 
 refused to listen to a word he said, and 
 who was too obstinate to say " Amen " to 
 his petitions. 
 
 " I ought not to have told you what I 
 did about Nancy, Mr. Craik," Lucy said 
 timidly, as he was going away, " it was 
 rather premature. You must defer your 
 congratulations for a day or two." 
 
 " I shall certainly defer them until your 
 sister tells me I am at Hberty to offer them," 
 he said coldly, and then he bowed and went 
 away. 
 
 He didn't offer to shake hands with Lucy, 
 she couldn't have shaken hands with him if 
 he had, seeing that Sarah Strong had 
 possessed herself of her right hand, and 
 didn't mean to give it up for another hour.
 
 PAEADISE. 95 
 
 The tears sprang to Lucy's eyes ; she wasn't 
 used to being scolded and snubbed. Of 
 course she had been in the wrong to tell 
 him that Nancy was engaged, before Mr. 
 Asquith had proposed. She had made sure 
 that he was going to ask her that after- 
 noon ; it had been getting nearer and 
 nearer, as she expressed it, every day, and 
 she thought the climax had come at last. 
 It could only be a matter of days, hours. 
 Most likely he was proposing to her now. 
 She had left him at Cherry Garden talking 
 to her mother, and Nancy was smiling upon 
 him. She smiled upon every man, but it 
 was not every man, especially in Stoke 
 Edith, where the masters who were in love 
 with her, were all young and struggling for 
 a place on the ladder — it was not everyone 
 who had a beautiful house, and carriages, 
 and horses, and a handsome income to offer 
 her. 
 
 Lucy was vexed and angry with herself,
 
 96 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 she felt so small and miserable that she 
 couldn't keep her tears back. There was 
 no one to see them here, and she let them 
 fall silently on the bed, at least, she thought 
 they were falling on the bed, but one or 
 two dropped on the old woman's hand. 
 
 " He's bin a-scoldin' you, has he ? " Sarah 
 Strong said indignantly. She was not past 
 standing up for her friends. " It's about 
 all they parsons are good for. Eatin' an' 
 scoldin' poor folks for not being better nor 
 angels. I should like to see an angel go 
 through what I've a-gone through ! Lie 
 awake night after night, an' never a minit 
 wi'out pain, an' bear it patient ! Never you 
 mind, dearie, he'll get his reward ! " 
 
 When Lucy got back to Cherry Garden 
 Mr. Asquith had gone. He had only just 
 gone. He had spent the afternoon with 
 Mrs. Coulcher and Nancy. He had not 
 come empty-handed ; he had brought Nancy 
 another book, a book on botany this time,
 
 PARADISE. 97 
 
 a delightful book full of loner Latin names 
 and coloured plates of flowers. There was 
 not a picture worth looking at in it, Nancy- 
 declared, as she turned it over impatiently 
 when he was gone ; there were only ridicu- 
 lous bits of flowers, that were about as 
 interesting as his beetles. 
 
 He had spent two hours in Nancy's 
 society to-day, and he had not yet asked 
 her the important question. 
 
 He had asked her several questions 
 during those two hours that had a bear- 
 ing on the point ; he had asked her 
 whether she preferred oak to mahogany 
 for the dining-room furniture, and he had 
 consulted her about the prevailing colour 
 of the appointments of the drawing-room. 
 To both these important matters Nancy 
 had given her attention. She had settled 
 that oak was more desirable than mahog- 
 any for the dining-room, and that terra 
 cotta, pale — pale terra cotta, with a touch 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 of warmth in it, was the most delightful 
 tone for a drawing-room looking out 
 upon a green garden. She had gone so 
 far as to get out her colour box and 
 decide upon the exact shade — there are 
 so many shades in terra cotta — and Mr. 
 Asquith had folded the paper up and put 
 it in his pocket. 
 
 It was certainly getting, as Lucy said, 
 " nearer and nearer." 
 
 He had asked Nancy before he went 
 away, if he could see her alone the next 
 day, if she would give him an interview, 
 and he had asked her to name the time. 
 She had not named any time, but she had 
 intimated to him that she would be at 
 home all the afternoon, and then she had 
 gone into raptures with his book. 
 
 She had been called away from the room 
 for a few minutes while he was there, at 
 least she had gone down the garden to 
 gather some roses and she hadn't come back.
 
 PARADISE. 99 
 
 and Mr. Asquith had taken the opportunity 
 to speak to her mother. 
 
 It is rather an old-fashioned thing to 
 "ask mamma" now-a-days. Mamma is 
 generally consulted when things are quite 
 settled. Nancy's elderly lover was old- 
 fashioned, and he went about everything 
 in a deliberate and ceremonious way. 
 
 " You may have noticed — remarked, Mrs. 
 Coulcher," he began in his dry, wordy, 
 pompous fashion, " that your daughter, 
 your youngest daughter, Miss Nancy, is, or 
 rather, has been an — an object — of — of 
 considerable interest to — to me." 
 
 It was very hard to get out, much harder 
 than he had expected. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher inclined her head ; she 
 did not help him in the least, and there 
 followed an awkward pause. It would be 
 time enough for her to speak when he 
 came to the point. 
 
 His throat seemed to give him a good
 
 100 A TBAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 deal of trouble, it had been rather relaxed 
 lately ; he had left off his woollen com- 
 forter too early, and he was conscious that 
 for the last five minutes Nancy had left the 
 door open behind her. He had been sitting 
 in a draught. 
 
 "The — the time has come, Mrs. Coul- 
 cher," he said, clearing his throat, '* when I 
 feel it — it — is my duty to speak to you — to 
 — to explain the state of my feelings, and to 
 — ahem ! " his throat was getting worse and 
 worse — " to ask your permission, to get 
 your sanction, to my paying my addresses 
 to — to your daughter." 
 
 The murder was out, and Nancy's lover 
 sat — not hot and fainting — shivering in the 
 draught. It was as much as he could do 
 to keep himself from getting up and closing 
 that door. It would have been hardly 
 lover-like to have got up at that critical 
 moment. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher remembered her own
 
 PARADISE. 101 
 
 youth. Her thoughts went back to that 
 distant day when the Eev. Augustus had 
 wooed her in a somewhat different fashion. 
 It was all a question of temperament. 
 Augustus, if his portrait over the sideboard 
 in the dining-room did him justice, had been 
 red-headed, and of a more fiery nature 
 than this ceremonious wooer. 
 
 "I need not tell you, I'm sure, Mr. 
 Asquith," the widow murmured with a sigh 
 — it is always becoming to sigh at such 
 moments, it expresses a gentle reluctance — 
 " that I can have no personal objection 
 to you as a suitor for my dear child's hand. 
 She is very young and thoughtless, but she 
 has the best heart in the world, and has 
 been carefully trained. She is not so domes- 
 ticated as Augusta and Lucy, but she will 
 learn as she grows older, and — and I think 
 she has the qualities that would make a 
 home happy " 
 
 What more could a mother say ?
 
 102 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 "Then — then I have your consent to — 
 to ask your daughter — to ask Miss Nancy to 
 be my wife ? " the elderly lover said eagerly. 
 He was in a hurry to get the interview over. 
 He was catching a dreadful cold in that 
 draught. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher murmured a tremulous 
 assent. It would be a great thing for the 
 boys, she told herself ; and Nancy could not 
 expect to do better, but she would rather 
 he had chosen Augusta. 
 
 When Mr. Asquith came the next day 
 Nancy was not at home to receive him, but 
 she had left a missive with the servant who 
 opened the door to him, explaining that 
 she had forgotten yesterday, when she said 
 she would be at home, she had an engage- 
 ment — a previous engagement. 
 
 He read the dear little scented note on 
 the doorstep, and put it in his pocket 
 over his heart, while the maid waited. He 
 had brought Nancy another book on his
 
 PAEADISE. 103 
 
 favourite subject, which he left with a 
 message that he would call at the same 
 hour the next day. 
 
 Nancy made a Httle moue when she 
 opened the book, and put it on the shelf 
 with the others — her own little bookshelf 
 in the drawing-room — with her school 
 prizes, and quite a collection of volumes of 
 poetry her lovers had given her. Mr. 
 Asquith could not fail to see his books on 
 that favoured sheK the moment he came 
 into the room. 
 
 He did not come into the room the next 
 day, for Nancy was again away from home 
 when he called. She had changed the 
 hours of her music lessons at the Wilder- 
 ness ; she gave them in the afternoon now, 
 and she did not get back to Cherry Garden 
 until quite late, too late for anyone to 
 call. 
 
 Augusta and Lucy saw through the 
 flimsy riise and were very angry with her.
 
 104 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " I think you are behaving very badly," 
 her elder sister said severely, when Nancy 
 came back flushed and smiling from the 
 Wilderness, after Mr. Asquith had waited 
 patiently for her for at least two hours, and 
 had worn everybody's patience out in trying 
 to entertain him. 
 
 Nancy turned to her sister a smiling 
 face ; she was standing before the glass 
 taking off her hat, taking it off leisurely ; 
 she was never tired of seeing the face 
 reflected in the glass, it always made her 
 happy to see it, which is more than can be 
 said of most reflections. Perhaps it will 
 not always have the same effect. 
 
 The beautiful face in the glass was not 
 only looking back to her to-day happy and 
 smiling, it was looking more than happy — 
 it was looking radiant. It flushed rosily 
 as she smiled back at it, and her eyes 
 seemed to darken and brighten. 
 
 " I think she is behaving shamefully ! "
 
 PARADISE. 105 
 
 Lucy said in a little burst of anger and 
 vexation ; she had no patience with Nancy- 
 keeping that poor man in suspense so long, 
 encouraging him, and drawing him on, as 
 she had encouraged all the rest, playing 
 with him as a cat would play with a mouse. 
 " I expect she has been walking back with 
 one of the masters, Mr. Earle or that 
 German man ; she wouldn't be so late if she 
 hadn't been dawdling about the meadows 
 with one of them. I daresay she's got one 
 of them to propose ; I believe she gets a 
 man to propose to her every day, and she 
 doesn't give any of them an answer ; she 
 keeps them all dangling after her. I'm 
 quite ashamed of her ! " 
 
 Poor Lucy ! No one had ever proposed 
 to her. 
 
 " You are wrong for once, Lu ; it wasn't 
 a schoolmaster to-day, dear. Gilbert Earle 
 proposed yesterday, he couldn't propose 
 again to-day," Nancy said gaily. She took
 
 106 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 off her hat as she spoke, and shook out her 
 hair. It was beautiful, abundant brown 
 hair, with a good deal of curl in it, and it 
 fell over her face and hid her blushes — 
 she was positively blushing. 
 
 Lucy saw the action, and she noted the 
 unwonted colour, and the radiant happiness 
 of the face in the glass, and her heart sank 
 within her. 
 
 " It was not Mr. Earle," she said, " and 
 
 it was not the German master, it — it 
 
 Oh ! Nancy, it was not Mr. Craik ! " 
 
 There was a cry of pain in her 
 voice, and the colour dropped out of her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " It does not matter to you who it was ! " 
 Nancy said sharply, still shaking the cloud 
 of beautiful rich brown hair over her face, 
 "it was none of your lovers, Lu. He 
 wouldn't have proposed to you if there 
 had not been another woman in the 
 world ! "
 
 PAEADISE. 107 
 
 This was consoling, if not quite to the 
 point. 
 
 " It was Mr. Craik ! " Lucy said desper- 
 ately. " Oh, Nancy, how horrid, how mean 
 of you ! " 
 
 Nancy laughed. 
 
 "You must blame Mr. Craik, you must 
 not blame me ; it is not my fault," she said, 
 tossing back her hair for the pleasure of 
 seeing it fall in rich waves upon her 
 shoulders. " I can't help men running after 
 me ; there are hundreds of other girls in 
 the world for them to run after, and they 
 must take the consequences if they run 
 after me. I can't marry them all. I should 
 have to marry six at least, six or seven. I 
 should have to set up as a female Blue- 
 beard. I wonder which I should begin 
 with. I think I should begin with a little 
 one if I had to mince him up and pick his 
 bones — a big one mightn't agree with me." 
 
 Lucy wouldn't hear another word of
 
 108 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 such wicked frivolity ; she fled from the 
 room with her fingers in her ears to shut 
 out the mocking voice and the laughter. 
 She didn't quite shut it out when she got 
 into her own room, which was opposite 
 Nancy's, and had locked the door, and buried 
 her face in the pillow, she could still hear 
 Nancy laughing. She understood now 
 why Douglas Craik had snubbed her in 
 that unfeeling way when he had met her at 
 Sarah Strong's. 
 
 Mr. Asquith made Nancy an offer the 
 next day. He made it by letter. 
 
 He brought the letter himself the next 
 day. It is not usual for Cupid to be his 
 own postman — but except for the fact that 
 he was in love, he did not very much 
 resemble Cupid, unless Cupid had happened 
 to be a trifle bald, and sallow, and wore 
 glasses. Cupid, in the form of Mr. Asquith, 
 was much muffled up about the throat on 
 the occasion of delivering this missive ; the
 
 c. 
 
 PAEADISE. 109 
 
 wind had gone round to the East, and 
 it had brought back a touch of his old 
 bronchial complaint. 
 
 He reaUy wanted a woman to nurse him, 
 and coddle him up, and protect him from 
 the east wind, and study his digestion, and 
 take an interest in his pursuits. 
 
 He wanted a good unselfish woman who 
 would have room enough in her kind heart 
 to love him for his own true worth — gentle 
 scholar, and true Christian gentleman as he 
 was. 
 
 The world is full of good women ready 
 enough to love a good man — and with this 
 wealth of choice before him, Mr. Asquith 
 had chosen Nancy Coulcher. 
 
 He had called at the time he had ap- 
 pointed the previous day, but finding Nancy 
 out, he had left a letter. Augusta turned 
 it over when he was gone ; she was quite 
 sure what it contained. She heard him 
 cough as he went down the steps, after he
 
 110 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 had left it. She was sure by the way he 
 coughed that he had made up his mind at 
 last. She sighed and laid down the letter, 
 and then she went to the window to look 
 after him, to see that he had got his com- 
 forter on. 
 
 If he had only chosen Augusta ! 
 
 Mr. Asquith's letter was like himself, dry 
 and wordy, and to the purpose. He told 
 Nancy in his prosy, considerate, old- 
 fashioned way that his feelings for her had 
 been gradually ripening into love, and 
 that the discovery of their having so many 
 tastes in common — tastes and pursuits, led 
 him to hope for a favourable answer to his 
 suit. 
 
 " What on earth does he mean by 
 kindred pursuits ? " Nancy said, holding 
 the letter between her finger and thumb, 
 and reading it at arm's length. " Oh, I 
 know, he means the black beetles ! " 
 
 " What will you do, dear ? " Augusta
 
 PAEADISE. Ill 
 
 said softly. The sight of a love letter 
 always moved her, she couldn't giggle over 
 it like Nancy, and make fun of the writer. 
 It s.eemed such a sacred thing, a man laying 
 bare his heart to a girl, and offering her 
 his best — his very best. 
 
 " Do ? " repeated Nancy, with her eyes 
 darkening, " do ? why, refuse him of course. 
 You don't think I'm going to marry that 
 old stick ! " 
 
 " Nancy ! " 
 
 It quite took Augusta's breath away to 
 hear her. 
 
 " You don't mean that you are going to 
 refuse Mr. Asquith after — after all the 
 encouragement you have given him ? " 
 
 " Encouragement ? I'm sure I haven't 
 encouraged him. I didn't ask him to come 
 here." 
 
 " But you led him on, Nancy ; you knew 
 exactly why he was coming. You made 
 him believe every day that you liked him ;
 
 112 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 he would never have asked you to go over 
 his house, and decide about his furniture, 
 if he hadn't thought you were going to 
 accept him." 
 
 " That's his mistake, not mine : I couldn't 
 be rude to him when he came here bother- 
 ing me about his things. You wouldn't 
 have had me jump upon him ! " 
 
 " I wouldn't have had you mislead a 
 good, kind, considerate man, and persuade 
 him that you cared for him, and then, when 
 you had quite caught him, throw him over, 
 and say you hadn't meant anything. I 
 think it's shameful, Nancy, it's worse if 
 anything than shameful, it's mean and base 
 and horrid ! " 
 
 Augusta was dreadfully in earnest. 
 
 Mr. Asquith had made a mistake — men 
 generally do make mistakes. He had 
 overlooked the one woman in the world 
 who would have suited him exactly, who 
 would have made him the best of wives.
 
 PARADISE. 113 
 
 the most devoted of nurses, the intelligent 
 companion of his studies, who would never 
 have grown tired of pressing flowers, and 
 who would have adored beetles. 
 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 nancy's lovers. 
 
 " Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, 
 Meadows in which we met ! " 
 
 Nancy met Douglas Craik the next day as 
 she came across the meadows. 
 
 The writing of that letter of dismissal to 
 Mr, Asquith had not paled the roses on her 
 cheeks or the light in her blue eyes. 
 Douglas Craik thought he had never seen 
 any eyes look so sweet as they looked to- 
 day, as they smiled upon him, when he 
 came up to her in the meadows. 
 
 They had never looked so blue before, 
 so blue with a radiant quiver in them. 
 There was a piteous pathetic smile on 
 Nancy's face as she tried to speak to 
 him, and she faltered and hung down
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 115 
 
 her head with the words dying away on 
 her hps. 
 
 It was really very prettily done. 
 
 " What is it, dear ? " he said eagerly. 
 
 She did not speak, she only held out her 
 hands to him. He caught them both in 
 his and looked up into her sweet eyes. 
 
 " What is it ? " he said huskily. " You 
 
 don't mean " he did not finish the 
 
 question, he only stood holding her hands 
 in his and looking into her eyes. He had 
 a way of looking into people's eyes — his 
 own eyes were so dark and earnest — that 
 his poorer parishioners used to say that 
 they looked as if he could see through 
 them. 
 
 There was something besides earnestness 
 
 in his dark eyes to-day, as he stood there 
 
 looking through and through that shallow 
 
 little Nancy. Perhaps he saw in her the 
 
 ideal he had conjured up — his own ideal. 
 
 Men generally do ; they seldom see the real 
 
 8*
 
 116 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 woman ; the finer the nature the nobler the 
 ideal. 
 
 " Yes," she said, answering his thought. 
 " Mr. Asquith has proposed ; he wrote to 
 me last night." 
 
 " And you ? " he said, holding her 
 hand. 
 
 " I ? I hate him ! I wanted to tell him 
 that I hated him, but mamma would insist 
 on reading the letter. She is so angry with 
 me for refusing him. They are all so 
 angry. They say I am behaving shame- 
 fully because I have refused him! I 
 couldn't do anything else. I couldn't 
 marry one person caring for another — oh 1 
 what have I said ! " 
 
 She was covered with confusion. The 
 curate smiled ; he appreciated the girlish 
 simplicity of the avowal, and he pressed 
 the little gloved hand he held tenderly ; he 
 had released one hand, but he still held the 
 other, and he drew Nancy aside from the
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 117 
 
 beaten path where any one might come 
 across them at any moment, and led her 
 down towards the river, beneath the high 
 hawthorn hedge that was already white 
 with blossom. 
 
 " You have said enough, dear, to make 
 me very happy," he said softly, his heart 
 was thumping so ridiculously that he could 
 hardly get the words out — he had a heart 
 a great many sizes too large for him. 
 "You have said enough to give me 
 courage to speak. Loving you as I do, I 
 should not have dared to ask you to be 
 a poor curate's wife, if you hadn't given 
 me strength and courage. And you really, 
 really have refused Mr. Asquith for my sake, 
 Nancy?" 
 
 " Do you think I could have married 
 him P " she said, with a very pretty shiver, 
 " when I knew that — you — you " 
 
 She didn't finish the sentence, but she 
 looked down at him with her sweet eyes.
 
 118 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " That I loved you ! " he added, filling up 
 the gap with a gasp of happiness. 
 
 Douglas Craik would have liked to have 
 gone down on his knees in the grass, under 
 the hawthorn hedge, and thanked God for 
 this great happiness. Nancy saw him 
 looking up with his lips moving ; she did 
 not think Mr. Asquith would have thanked 
 God if she had accepted him. He wanted 
 to go back with her, he wanted to speak 
 to her mother at once, but Nancy begged 
 him to wait. 
 
 " They are all so angry at home, 
 mamma and the girls, you must not say 
 anything about it at present, Mr. Craik — 
 Douglas. You must wait till this dis- 
 appointment about Mr. Asquith has worn 
 off. It would be no use to speak to 
 mamma now. I will tell you when you 
 may speak. You will be silent, dear, till I 
 tell you ? " 
 
 Douglas Craik was ready to promise any-
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 119 
 
 thing. He was so full of his new, wonder- 
 ful happiness that Nancy could have 
 turned him round her finger. He promised 
 her that he would tell no one of his engage- 
 ment until he had her permission. He was 
 quite satisfied. He had her promise. 
 
 " No one need know," she said, before 
 she left him. " Let us keep this — this 
 happiness to ourselves, Douglas." 
 
 " No one shall know," he answered. 
 ***** 
 
 Mr. Asquith had not accepted Nancy's 
 refusal as final. He had written to her 
 again ; there was a letter awaiting her when 
 she came back from that walk by the river 
 with Douglas Craik. He had assured her 
 of his devotion, and pleaded for an 
 interview to explain the nature of his 
 feeHngs. 
 
 The poor man felt that there must be a 
 mistake — a great mistake ; he couldn't 
 understand a girl encouraging his atten-
 
 120 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 tions as Nancy had encouraged them, 
 accepting his gifts, and going over his 
 house planning his furniture, even to 
 choosing the colour of the hangings, and — 
 and refusing him. 
 
 There was some misapprehension, he was 
 sure, that wanted explaining away. 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher was of the same opinion, 
 she could not beHeve that Nancy would 
 refuse such an eligible offer. 
 
 She followed Nancy into her bedroom, 
 where she had flown up to, when she came in 
 to read her letter. It was still open before 
 her when her mother came into the room, 
 and closed the door behind her. 
 
 "Have you thought about the answer 
 you are going to give Mr. Asquith, 
 Nancy ? " she asked her daughter. 
 
 " I haven't any answer to give him, 
 mother, but the answer I gave him yester- 
 day. Nothing has happened to make me 
 change my mind," Nancy said in her
 
 NAKCY'S LOVERS. 121 
 
 flippant way. She could never see things 
 seriously. 
 
 " I don't think he understood that you 
 had quite made up your mind, Nancy. 
 You admitted in your answer, that you 
 liked him — that you liked him and admired 
 his great learning very much." 
 
 " Admiring his learning and his beetles 
 has nothing to do with liking him as a 
 husband. I only said I admired him be- 
 cause I thought it would be letting him 
 down easily." 
 
 " Letting him down easily ! " 
 
 Mrs. Coulcher was scandalized ; she 
 didn't know much of Nancy's little ways, 
 perhaps she would not see more than she 
 cared to see. She had a convenient way of 
 shutting her eyes to things, and her ears 
 too, if they happened to be unpleasant. 
 It hadn't mattered very much while it was 
 only the young masters at the grammar 
 school and the curates. These were a
 
 122 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 shifting population ; new masters were 
 always coming and going, and the curates 
 did not stay long in Stoke Edith ; but this 
 was the Eector's brother, the wealthy man 
 of the neighbourhood. Nancy would not 
 be likely to have such a chance as this 
 again. 
 
 " Mr. Asquith couldn't expect me to love 
 him, mamma," Nancy remonstrated in an 
 injured voice, " he's twice as old as I am, 
 and quite bald." 
 
 " Not quite bald, my dear." 
 
 " He's got a bald patch on the top of his 
 head as big as — as the bottom of a 
 tea-cup, and he stammers dreadfully, and 
 he has always got a cold, or a cough, or 
 something unpleasant." 
 
 " You knew all this before, Nancy," Mrs. 
 Coulcher said severely. " Mr. Asquith has 
 a great many admirable qualities that quite 
 counterbalance these trifling defects, and 
 he would give you a position in the county.
 
 NANCY'S LOVEES. 123 
 
 Ladylift is quite far enough away from the 
 town to rank with the county. He would 
 keep a brougham for you, and a landau 
 — he was telling me about the landau 
 yesterday ; he has ordered it of one of the 
 great London coachmakers, and he wanted 
 to know what colour you would like to 
 have the wheels painted." 
 
 " I hate landaus, they are so old- 
 fashioned ; I wouldn't have anything but a 
 Victoria, but I'm not likely to have either, 
 mamma," and then Nancy remembered 
 Douglas Craik and his ridiculous income, 
 and she sat on the edge of the bed and 
 laughed. 
 
 " I'm sure Mr. Asquith would be de- 
 lighted to give you a Victoria," Mrs. 
 Coulcher said, eagerly following up her 
 advantage. "He was asking me if you 
 rode ; he has been ordered by his doctor 
 to take horse exercise, and he hoped you 
 would ride with him. The horses are
 
 124 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 coming down to-morrow. There would be 
 no harm in your riding with him if you 
 were engaged. He told me about the 
 horses a week ago, but I forgot to mention 
 it to you." 
 
 "I don't think his horses or his 
 carriages would make me alter my mind, 
 mamma. They couldn't affect his stammer 
 or the bald patch on the top of his head, 
 or his liver. Oh ! yes, they might shake 
 up his liver ; but I don't think they would 
 make the hair grow on the top of his 
 head." 
 
 Nancy ran on in her frivolous way. 
 
 It was no use reasoning with such an 
 unreasonable girl, and Mrs. Coulcher left 
 the room with a sigh. She was not without 
 hope ; but she knew enough of Nancy to 
 feel that there was nothing to be gained by 
 opposition. 
 
 Nancy sat down on the edge of the bed 
 with a blotting book on her knees, and
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 125 
 
 wrote her letter to IMr. Asquith when her 
 mother was gone ; it was rather a curt 
 note, it positively refused an interview. She 
 was not likely to change her mind, she 
 told him. She was so full of those tender 
 passages with Douglas Craik, beneath the 
 hawthorn hedge, that she could say nothing 
 less. She really meant, or thought she 
 meant, what she said, which is much the 
 same thing. 
 
 Lucy, who was always watching her, 
 remarked her abstracted manner all through 
 that long evening ; it really seemed a long 
 evening, for Nancy, who was generally 
 the life of the party, was unusually silent. 
 
 She was thinking about Douglas Craik, 
 and how he had looked into her eyes — into 
 her soul — when he had asked her if she loved 
 him, really, really loved him, better than any- 
 one else in the whole world — he hadn't even 
 mentioned LIr. Asquith, and how he had 
 thanked God for the wonderful gift of her
 
 126 A TRAGIC HONEiTMOON. 
 
 love. There seemed sometliing like the 
 reflection of his great happiness on Nancy's 
 face as she sat at work, or pretending to 
 work, in the long sweet Spring evening. 
 Lucy watching her saw the smiles and the 
 blushes, and the radiant light of a great 
 happiness on Nancy's face, and she drew 
 her own conclusions. 
 
 It was more than a suspicion that had 
 crossed Lucy's mind, it was a certainty. 
 
 " Mr. Asquith has been here again this 
 afternoon, Nancy," she said sweetly ; " he 
 was here more than an hour; mother couldn't 
 get rid of him. He's been arranging 
 about the carriages and horses ; he's having 
 a horse sent down for you to ride, a light 
 chestnut. Do you like light chestnuts or 
 bays best ? " 
 
 Anyone would have thought that 
 Nancy had accepted him to hear Lucy 
 talk. 
 
 " I hate both, at least, I love both, only
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 127 
 
 I hate Mr. Asquith ! I wish you wouldn't 
 be continually harping upon him. I've 
 told him I'm not going to marry him, and 
 aU the carriages and horses in the world 
 won't make me alter my mind ! " 
 
 Lucy smiled, she was used to Nancy's 
 protestations. 
 
 "I wonder what he wiU do with the 
 horse," Lucy went on, not heeding her sister's 
 interruption. " He can't send it back, and 
 Miss Asquith is too heavy and too old to 
 ride. I wish he'd ask Augusta to ride it. 
 She used to ride beautifully in Cornwall. 
 Papa used to say she was a splendid horse- 
 woman. She broke in the grey mare, 
 you remember ; no one could ride it till 
 Augusta broke it in. I think mother 
 might suggest it to Mr. Asquith. Her 
 old habit would do very well with a little 
 alteration." 
 
 Nancy's brow clouded. 
 
 " It would be a great liberty to suggest
 
 128 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 anything of the kind," she said tartly. " It 
 will be quite time enough for Augusta to 
 alter her habit when Mr. Asquith asks her 
 to ride the chestnut," and then she gathered 
 up her work and went out of the room, 
 banging the door after her in a most un- 
 ladylike way. 
 
 Augusta was sitting with the boys in the 
 schoolroom while Lucy had been talking ; 
 she generally sat with the boys in the 
 evening, and helped them with their 
 lessons. She had a class of little boys of 
 her own by day that she was preparing for 
 the grammar school, and she helped her 
 brothers in the evening ; her hands were 
 always full. Mrs. Coulcher had gone 
 into the drawing-room to write a letter to 
 Mr. Asquith. She had fortunately inter- 
 cepted Nancy's curt letter to her rejected 
 lover, and she had put it discreetly into 
 the fire. She excused Nancy's hasty 
 rejection of his suit on account of her
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 129 
 
 youth — her youth and her diffidence — she 
 called it diffidence, and begged Mr. Asquith 
 to give her time. His proposal had startled 
 her by its suddenness — (she had been ex- 
 pecting it every day for a month past) — 
 and she was too young and inexperienced 
 to make up her mind. Mrs. Coulcher put 
 it beautifully ; no mother could have put it 
 better. On the whole, it was very fortunate 
 that she had stopped Nancy's letter in 
 time. 
 
 The horses really came down the next 
 day ; a beautiful chestnut and a roan. 
 Nancy met Mr. Asquith riding one, and 
 the groom the other a few days later, 
 when she was out with Augusta, and Mr. 
 Asquith drew up at the curb to speak to 
 her. He did not seem a bit hurt about the 
 letter, she remarked ; his manner was just 
 the same as ever. 
 
 It had never occurred to her that he 
 
 would stop his horse and speak to her, 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 after — after what had passed. A sort of 
 half-conscious, half- doubting look was in 
 her eyes as he drew up ; but she blushed 
 and smiled ; she did not attempt to run 
 away. He really looked much better on 
 horseback, she thought ; the stoop in his 
 shoulders did not matter so much, and he 
 had left off his woollen comforter, and the 
 exercise had brought some colour to his 
 sallow cheeks. 
 
 Nancy had never seen him looking so 
 well. 
 
 "I am so glad to meet you," he said 
 when he came up. " I have called two or 
 three times when you have been out ; this is 
 quite a happy chance." 
 
 " Oh, I am always out now in the after- 
 noon," Nancy said blushing brightly ; " I 
 thought you knew ; I have altered the 
 time of my music lessons. What a lovely 
 creature this is ! " 
 
 She was patting the horse and fondling
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 131 
 
 him, as if she had been used to horses all 
 her life, while Augusta, who was a splendid 
 horsewoman, stood by glum and silent. 
 
 " This is the lady's horse," Mr. Asquith 
 said, beckoning the groom to come up ; " it 
 is quite free from vice, and carries a lady 
 splendidly." 
 
 The beautiful chestnut came up to the 
 side of the path to be examined ; and 
 Nancy patted her, and admired her clean- 
 cut hmbs, and her graceful shining neck. 
 She would have given anything to be on 
 its back flying over the country. She 
 loved riding above everything. A ride 
 on the back of this superb creature would 
 have given her more pleasure, more real 
 happiness, than anything else in the world. 
 She only wanted to be happy, nothing 
 more ; she did not very much mind what 
 her happiness cost others ; that was their 
 business, not hers. 
 
 *• I wish you would try it some morning ;
 
 132 A TEAaiC HONEYMOON. 
 
 you have the mornings disengaged," Mr. 
 Asquith was saying as she fondled the 
 creature. 
 
 " I should like it immensely ! " she said, 
 lifting her radiant blue eyes to his, " only 
 I haven't got a habit." 
 
 " You can wear mine," Augusta said 
 sweetly. 
 
 " Oh, yours is old-fashioned and dowdy, 
 and besides, it wouldn't fit me ; it would 
 be yards too short for me." 
 
 " I don't think that need matter," Mr. 
 Asquith said promptly, and he mumbled 
 something about " Lumby." Lumby was 
 the tailor and habit maker of Stoke 
 Edith. 
 
 " No, thanks, I must give it up," Nance 
 said with a sigh, and she nodded to her 
 rejected lover, and looked back regretfully 
 after the shining steeds as they gallopped 
 up the road into the beautiful green 
 country.
 
 NANCY'S LOVERS. 133 
 
 She had forgotten all about the Curate of 
 St. Eadegund's. 
 
 She would have given anything to have 
 been on the back of that chestnut flying 
 across the country in the sweet May 
 weather, instead of walking along the 
 horrible dusty roads. 
 
 Mr. Asquith did not say anything about 
 Nancy's rejection of his suit. He was quite 
 willing to give her time. He would not 
 have hurried her for the world. He knew 
 nothing about girls. He had never asked 
 a woman to marry him before, and he 
 thought it was the way of the sex. He 
 certainly preferred that a girl should take 
 her time ; should not decide in a hurry, 
 jump down his throat, as it were. Nancy 
 had not jumped down his throat. He 
 could not understand her refusing him. 
 He had always hitherto got everything he 
 had made up his mind to in life ; he could 
 not understand being thwarted. Besides,
 
 134 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 he had settled to his own satisfaction that 
 a great object lay before him in life, an 
 object quite worth resigning his fellowship 
 for — the moulding of the character of the 
 girl he had decided to marry, and training 
 her youthful mind in those abstruse studies 
 that his soul delighted in.
 
 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 " THAT FORWARD MINX ! " 
 
 Augusta Coulcher was not the only person 
 in Stoke Edith who deplored Mr. Asquith's 
 choice. The matter was discussed openly, 
 at all the tea tables in Stoke ; there was no 
 secret made of it, and everybody had 
 decided that it was a mistake, that the 
 poor musty old college don was making a 
 fool of himself. 
 
 His sister, who was ten years his senior, 
 warned him in vain ; he was deaf to her 
 reasonings. Perhaps she was selfish, most 
 maiden sisters are selfish on one point. 
 They look with suspicion and dislike on 
 any forward minx who may lie in waiting 
 to snap up their unwary bachelor brothers. 
 
 Miss Asquith had kept house for her 
 elder brother, the Rector of Stoke Edith,
 
 136 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 for twenty years, and no one had snapped 
 him up yet. Perhaps the ladies of Stoke 
 Edith had grown weary of trying. They 
 let him alone now ; they had let him alone 
 for years, and the Eev. Cornelius was still 
 a bachelor. 
 
 Not so his brother, the wealthy and 
 learned Fellow of St. Catherine's ; they 
 had no intention of letting him alone. 
 
 There had been a flutter in the dovecotes 
 of Stoke ever since his coming, the elderly 
 dovecotes. The middle-aged spinsters of 
 Stoke Edith, and some of the widows, had 
 conceived a sudden surprising affection for 
 Martha Asquith, and an interest in parish 
 matters that ought to have delighted the 
 heart of the rector. But the prosy middle- 
 aged college don had not chosen one of 
 these. He had chosen a ruddy, laughing, 
 pert little minx, young enough to be his 
 daughter. 
 
 "If it had only been the elder sister,
 
 "THAT rOKWAKD MINX!" 137 
 
 that nice girl, Augusta," Miss Asquith said 
 to her friend and crony, Catherine Jayne, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 "Lucy, you mean," said Miss Jayne 
 sharply. "Lucy is worth a dozen of 
 Augusta ! " 
 
 " Lucy would have been better than — 
 than the other," the rector's sister admitted, 
 folding her fat hands meekly, and looking 
 like a martyr — a well-fed martyr. 
 
 " I don't see how Augusta Coulcher 
 could ever marry," Miss Jayne went on ; 
 she was very fond of arranging people's 
 affairs for them. " I don't see what that 
 poor woman could do without her, with 
 all those boys, and such an invahd as she 
 is. Augusta manages the whole household. 
 She is an excellent girl in her way, but I 
 prefer Lucy." 
 
 " Ye — es, either of them would be better 
 than that forward minx. I never saw a 
 girl give men so much encouragement
 
 138 A TRAaiC HONEYMOON. 
 
 in my life ! I cannot think how Montagu 
 can be so blind, so infatuated. The other 
 day it was that young man at the grammar 
 school, the man w^ho left in a hurry, it was 
 entirely on her account. I heard it from 
 Cornelius, he is one of the governors. There 
 would have been a scandal, but he hushed 
 it up for the sake of the mother. Now she 
 is flirting with another of the masters. I met 
 them coming down the hill together the 
 other day. You could hear them laughing 
 the other side of the street, and he was 
 carrying her fiddle ! And then there is 
 that poor curate " 
 
 " What poor curate ? You don't mean 
 Craik?" 
 
 Miss Jayne sat quite upright on her 
 chair, and pushed back her false curls, 
 which had a habit of falling forward over 
 her thin face, and her dark bright eyes 
 seemed to grow darker and brighter. 
 
 " Of course I mean Craik — who else
 
 "THAT FOEWAED MINX!" 139 
 
 should I mean ? " Miss Asquith said in an 
 injured voice. She hated to be tripped up, 
 and Miss Jayne would never let her finish 
 a story. She was always, she declared, 
 ready to take the words out of her mouth. 
 
 Catherine Jayne was a sharp, keen-witted, 
 rather flighty old lady, and the rector's 
 sister was a fat, slow, ponderous old 
 woman, who had always had her own 
 way, and had ruled everybody about her 
 as long as she could remember, and who 
 hated to be contradicted. 
 
 " Oh, that's all nonsense ! It's Lucy 
 Coulcher, if it's anybody," Miss Jayne said 
 in a superior way, with the manner of one 
 who knew. 
 
 " It is not Lucy ! She was here at a 
 working party yesterday, and Mr. Craik 
 didn't speak three words to her the whole 
 time. And he let her walk back alone, 
 though he was going her way, and she 
 had a big bundle of work she would
 
 140 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 carry home with her to finish. He would 
 have carried it fast enough if it had been 
 Nancy!" 
 
 " Nancy — Nancy Coulcher ! — " Miss 
 Jayne repeated to herself ; she had a habit 
 of talking to herself even when people were 
 present, as if she were thinking aloud. 
 " He has never mentioned her name to me 
 in his life, and he is always talking about 
 Lucy. He would never be able to get 
 through the work of the parish without 
 Lucy. I thought — I hoped — perhaps 
 some day " 
 
 " Then you thought quite wrong." 
 
 " I am not so sure — I am not very often 
 wrong — but I'll find out." 
 
 Miss Jayne got up and smoothed down 
 her skirts, they always wanted smoothing 
 down, as she wore a hoop ; at least she 
 wore a stifiener of some kind round the 
 bottom of her gown. She still clung to the 
 fashions of her youth. She smoothed down
 
 "THAT FORWARD MINX 1 " 141 
 
 her dress, and drew on her lilac cotton 
 gloves and went away. 
 
 " I shall not rest till I've found out," she 
 said, as she went down the stairs. 
 
 The rector's sister watched her from the 
 bow window of the rectory drawing room 
 go down the street. She saw the top of 
 her shabby green parasol — it had an ivory 
 handle elaborately carved that had been 
 brought from India — and the ridiculous 
 purple flower nodding in her black bonnet, 
 and her tall, spare figure, with the 
 distended skirt, going briskly down the 
 street. 
 
 " There will be mischief," she murmured 
 to herself, as she stood watching the tall, 
 upright, angular figure going down the 
 street, with that air of purpose in every 
 line of it. " I am sure there wiU be 
 mischief!" 
 
 It reaUy might have meant mischief, but 
 the Curate happened to be iU.
 
 142, A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 He was so ill that his landlady — he lived 
 over a music shop in the High Street — 
 wouldn't let any one go up to see him. 
 
 ''He's much too ill to see any one, 
 ma'am," she said to Miss Jayne when she 
 planted herself on the mat ; " the doctor 
 says he must keep quiet for two or three 
 days, and he mustn't be worried about 
 parish business." 
 
 " I should think not," said Miss Jayne 
 stoutly, " you are quite right to keep the 
 people off, and I'm sure those pianos in the 
 shop ought not to be going ; he can't be 
 kept quiet, with all that Babel in his 
 ears ! " 
 
 She did not stop to listen to the woman's 
 indignant protest ; she brushed by her and 
 went up the stairs to the Curate's room. 
 
 He really was ill. He had been over- 
 doing himself and he had broken down. 
 He could not do things reasonably like 
 other men; he could not keep back any-
 
 *'THAT FOKWARD MINX!" 143 
 
 thing : health or strength, or time or 
 money. Whatever he had he gave : he 
 kept nothing back. 
 
 He was not content to preach two 
 sermons in the church on Sundays, but 
 he must go out into the market place, 
 and hold an open-air meeting when the 
 evening service was over. It was all very 
 well to speak in the church, where the 
 walls and the roof gave back the sound, 
 but to go out into the open air, to stand 
 bare-headed in that draughty market place, 
 shouting himself hoarse for an hour, when 
 he was already worn out and exhausted, 
 was another thing. It brought on a touch 
 of his old lung trouble, and he was confined 
 to the house for a week, and the doctor for- 
 bade any more open-air meetings. 
 
 It did not seem, to look at him as he sat 
 coughing in that bare, chilly room on that 
 chilly Spring day, that he would hold many 
 more meetings, outdoor or indoor. There
 
 144 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 was a suspicious hectic colour on his thin 
 cheeks, and his cough was troublesome. 
 Miss Jayne had never remarked how thin 
 and hollow his cheeks were until she saw 
 him sitting there in that uncomfortable 
 leather armchair, with the light from the 
 two windows falling upon him. 
 
 He didn't half fill up the big, roomy 
 leather chair — it would have taken an 
 alderman to fill it up — and there were no 
 cushions in it to help him out, to fit into 
 the hollows. His face looked paler and 
 thinner against the high leather back than 
 she had ever seen it look before, and his 
 shoulders were limp and stooping. 
 
 His rooms had a bleak aspect, they were 
 on the wrong side of the road for an 
 invalid. 
 
 It was very uncertain May weather, warm 
 one day and cold the other, with a nip of 
 east wind in it. There was a nip of 
 east wind in it to-day, in spite of the sun-
 
 "THAT FOKWARD MINX 1 " 145 
 
 shine. The Curate's landlady had got her 
 spring cleaning over too early ; and she 
 had been in too great a hurry to put up 
 the lace curtains. The flimsy bit of white 
 musHn that hung up before the two 
 draughty, ill-fitting windows, let in the cold 
 wind, and there was no sunshine that side 
 of the street to warm it. The room was 
 chilly and draughty, and there was only a 
 mere handful of fire in the grate. 
 
 " Oh, dear, this will never do," Catherine 
 Jayne said, bustling about the bare, com- 
 fortless room, trying the window catches, 
 and drawing over the ridiculous lace cur- 
 tains ; " with that cough you ought to be in 
 bed ; you ought not to be sitting in this 
 draught, and what a poor fire ! " 
 
 She attacked the coal-scuttle, a deceiving, 
 
 ornamental, lodging-house afiair, with a lid 
 
 that concealed its nakedness, but it was 
 
 empty. 
 
 " Oh, this is very careless of Mrs. Bolt, 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 \ 
 
 146 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 she ought to see that you had plenty 
 of firing," she said indignantly. " Why do 
 you let her neglect you like this ? Why 
 don't you ring the bell and have some coals 
 brought up ? " 
 
 Then the Curate had to explain, and the 
 explanation brought on the cough. 
 
 " It's my fault," he stammered, or rather 
 coughed. " I — I don't feel I can afford it. 
 Coals cost so much, a shilling a scuttleful 
 I pay for them ; it is fairer to pay by 
 the scuttle, and then I only pay for what 
 I use, and there is so much better use I 
 can make of a shilling than wasting it on 
 coals." 
 
 Miss Catherine Jayne sniffed ; she had 
 an aggressive way of sniffing that meant 
 volumes — and she rang the bell. 
 
 " Will you bring up some coals ? " she 
 said to the servant who appeared, " a 
 scuttle of coals — a full scuttle. I never 
 heard such a thing," she said indignantly,
 
 "THAT FORWARD iUNX ! " 147 
 
 " as a shilling a scuttle for coals, and in 
 
 May, too ! If they cost a guinea a scuttle 
 
 you must have them ; I'm sure I don't 
 
 know what better use you can make of your 
 
 money than to buy necessaries. I know 
 
 exactly what you do ; you can't deceive 
 
 me, Mr. Craik, you deny yourself everything 
 
 that you may spend your money upon the 
 
 people in the parish. Don't tell me you 
 
 don't — I've seen it with my own eyes. I 
 
 went into Mary Love's cottage, the other 
 
 day when she was at dinner — I generally 
 
 drop in when the people are at dinner or at 
 
 tea, or when they don't expect me — and 
 
 she had a boiled chicken on the table — a 
 
 boiled chicken in May ! When I asked h^r 
 
 where it came from, she told me that you 
 
 had sent it — as if you didn't want boiled 
 
 chickens yourself as much as Mary Love, 
 
 who has the pay of the parish ! And old 
 
 Silas Hancock had a bottle of port wine 
 
 hidden away in the cupboard behind his 
 
 10*
 
 148 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 bed, that you had sent him. He couldn't 
 hide it away from me. I always look in that 
 cupboard when I go to see him, and I 
 made him tell me where it came from. I 
 have no patience with you giving away all 
 your money, and denying yourself common 
 necessaries." 
 
 The Curate's pale face flushed. 
 
 '* Mary Love has a daughter dying of 
 consumption," he said gravely ; " she will 
 not require boiled chickens long, and poor 
 old Hancock cannot turn in bed. It is 
 very little I can do, and there is so much 
 to be done. I cannot visit people and see 
 their need of help — a little help goes a long 
 way with the poor — without doing some- 
 thing for them, not much. You forget I 
 am only an Almoner." 
 
 Miss Jayne did not ask him whose 
 Almoner ; she blew her nose rather vigor- 
 ously and stirred up the unwilling embers 
 in the grate, dropping in with extreme
 
 •'THAT FORWARD MINX 1 " 149 
 
 caution some lumps of coal from the box 
 the girl had just brought up. 
 
 " Do you call this full ? " she said to the 
 servant, pointing indignantly to the open 
 box. 
 
 " It's as much as I could carry, mum," 
 the girl said sulkily ; " it's a lot of stairs to 
 carry it up, and Mr. Craik said I wasn't 
 to overfill it ; I oughtn't to carry so much." 
 
 " I've really no patience with you," the 
 old lady said, when the girl had gone, 
 " encouraging people to rob you ! You 
 want some one to look after you ; you are 
 not fit to take care of yourself. You ought 
 to have a sister or a wife " 
 
 She paused when she spoke of a wife and 
 remembered her errand. She had forgotten 
 it until now. 
 
 " A wife," he said with a smile, and his 
 lips quivering, and a lovely pink flush 
 spreading over his delicate face, " a wife ! 
 I am not likely to be in a position to keep
 
 150 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 a wife for years. What girl would marry 
 a curate with a hundred and fifty pounds 
 a year ? " 
 
 " No one but a fool would ! " Miss Jayne 
 said with great decision, " and only a very 
 foolish young man — a very wicked, selfish 
 young man — would ask a girl to share 
 such a lot. What isn't enough for one, can 
 never, by the greatest economy, be made 
 enough for two ; and girls of the present 
 day are not economical ; they think of 
 nothing but their clothes and their amuse- 
 ments, and when a family comes — and 
 the poorer the household the larger the 
 family — there is nothing but destitution 
 before them. They will wake up too 
 late to find the old adage true, that 
 ' when poverty comes in at the door it 
 drives love out of the window.' " 
 
 The Curate sighed. 
 
 " Yes," he said sadly, with all the beau- 
 tiful pink dying out of his face, and
 
 "THAT FOEWAKD MINX!" 151 
 
 his lip quivering, " a curate wlio has no 
 means of his own, has no right to marry. 
 He has no right to drag a girl down with 
 him." 
 
 There was nothing more said about 
 marrying — about marrying and courting. 
 Douglas Craik was much too conscientious 
 to ask a girl to share his poverty, too 
 honourable to ask a girl to lose all her best 
 days waiting for him, he had as good as 
 said so. Miss Catherine Jayne went 
 away satisfied, or almost satisfied. Her 
 protege, who denied himself a scuttle of 
 coals, would not be likely to think of 
 marriage. No, Martha Asquith's suspicions 
 were unfounded. She was jealous, quite 
 naturally jealous of " the minx " who had 
 beguiled her brother. 
 
 Before she went away Miss Jayne had an 
 interview with the landlady below stairs. 
 She asked if there was any soup or beef- 
 tea preparing for the curate's dinner.
 
 152 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 There was not any soup, but there was a 
 mutton chop. 
 
 A mutton chop she learned was an un- 
 usual delicacy. Mr. Craik did not often 
 indulge in a mutton chop ; he did not often 
 indulge in meat at all. He had a light 
 lunch, a very light lunch, and a late meat 
 tea, when the work of the day was over. 
 
 Miss Jayne, who had a habit of finding 
 out things, of getting at the bottom of 
 them, as she used to express it, ascertained 
 before she went away that the curate's late 
 meat tea usually took the form of a bloater 
 or a kidney, or some such nutritive dehcacy 
 as anchovy paste, or sardines. 
 
 It was all over the parish the next day 
 that Douglas Craik was starving himself, 
 that he was being robbed through thick 
 and thin by his landlady, and that the 
 piece de resistance of his frugal meal was a 
 red herring.
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 '^ TUM-TUM-TE-TUMTY." 
 
 But the stalwart old woman wlio acted the 
 part of Pro^ddence at Stoke Edith did not 
 stop with reports. She could not help 
 telling people how badly the curate was 
 served, and what a fool he made of himself. 
 Miss Jayne never minced matters — she 
 always spoke her mind, but she told them 
 also what a self-denying life he was leading, 
 how he was acting up to his profession. 
 He was not standing up in the pulpit 
 preaching one thing and in his everyday 
 life doing another. However strict the rule 
 he preached to others, he was practising it 
 himself, to the very letter. 
 
 Somehow the little white-faced curate was 
 a favourite at Stoke. People believed in 
 him. It does not take much to make
 
 154 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 people believe in the real thing when they 
 happen to get it. There is no mistaking it. 
 It has the true ring. His little earnest 
 sermons went straight to the heart of the 
 congregation of St. Radegund's. They 
 were not learned or scholarly discourses 
 like the sermons of the Eev. Cornelius, but 
 they went straight to the hearts of the 
 people. When they were sick or dying 
 they sent for the curate, and he helped 
 them through their trouble. It was a 
 comfort they used to say, a stay in the 
 time of extremit}^, to have someone near 
 who believed in what he taught, whose 
 bodily presence, however weak, was as a 
 strong tower in the face of the enemy. 
 
 There were a lot of old women at Stoke, 
 wealthy widows and well-endowed spinsters 
 who had profited by Douglas Craik's 
 ministrations. He used to drink tea with 
 one or the other of them nearly every day 
 in the week — little gossippy afternoon teas,
 
 " TUM-TUM-TE-TUMTY." 155 
 
 but their generosity, or hospitality rather, 
 had never gone beyond this. 
 
 It went beyond it after that visit of 
 Catherine Jayne's. It was astonishing how 
 many old women suddenly remembered that 
 the Curate wanted beef-tea and hot-house 
 grapes, and rich soups, and that carriage 
 drives would be beneficial to him. Several 
 of the old ladies sent him nicely-worded 
 notes with a crisp enclosure that rustled 
 delightfully when he opened them, begging 
 him to devote them — the crisp enclosures — 
 to carriage drives — and to getting well. 
 
 He devoted the first of these enclosures to 
 a present for Nancy, a gold bangle with a 
 heart attached to it — his own heart — and 
 he clasped it round her white arm with his 
 trembling hands. He could not keep them 
 from trembhng ; he was weak still from his 
 illness when he met her at the stile on that 
 first evening when he was weU enough to 
 get out, and that near contact with her sent
 
 156 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 thrills of inexpressible tenderness througli 
 him. 
 
 " You will wear it for my sake, darling," 
 he said, " it will remind you of your 
 promise. It will be a long time before I am 
 able to claim it, Nancy, it will be years 
 and years, perhaps, but you will wait for 
 me?" 
 
 There was just a suspicious catch in his 
 voice when he asked Nancy if she would 
 wait for him. He would not have had her 
 remark it for the world, it was as if he were 
 doubting her. 
 
 " Of course I'll wait for you ! " she said 
 sweetly, and then she went into raptures 
 with the bracelet. 
 
 It was not the only gold bracelet she had 
 with a heart attached to it. The master at 
 the grammar school, the young classical 
 master who had gone to India, had given 
 her a gold bracelet with a heart attached to 
 it before he went away.
 
 "TUM-TUM-TE-TUMTY." 157 
 
 There was a kev attached to the heart, 
 and he had locked it on her arm, and she 
 had promised to wear it till he came back, 
 — and she had promised to wait for him. 
 He wrote to her by every mail ; she had got 
 a letter from him only that morning, but 
 she had broken the lock of that ridiculous 
 heart long ago ; she could not break the 
 lock without breaking the heart, and she 
 had tossed it into a drawer with her 
 trinkets and laces. 
 
 The other enclosures Douglas Craik really 
 had applied to the purposes for which they 
 were sent. He had taken carriage drives 
 daily, he had taken the opportunity of 
 visiting all his neglected outlying parish- 
 ioners that he could not very well get at 
 on foot. He had not gone alone ; he had 
 taken all the old men who lived in 
 the alms houses just outside the town, 
 out with him, a carriage full at a 
 time, in his daily drives. He had picked
 
 158 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 them up and dropped them down at their 
 own doors before he came into the town, so 
 that no one was any the wiser. The circle 
 of blessing described by those crisp five- 
 pound notes had widened considerably 
 beyond the intention of their donors — 
 perhaps it is widening still. 
 
 The daily drives, or the soup, or the 
 beef-tea, or the rest, and giving up those 
 open-air meetings, worked miracles. Per- 
 haps it was the Spring weather ; it had 
 really come in warm, and a south wind 
 was blowing. Something had brought a 
 faint flush of colour back into Douglas 
 Craik's thin cheeks and his cough was 
 better. It was so much better that he 
 was able to preach a few Sundays later, 
 and when he stood up again in the pulpit 
 after his illness there was nothing to tell 
 of it but a little preliminary huskiness 
 which wore off as he warmed into his 
 sermon .
 
 "TUM-TUM-TK-TUMTY." 159 
 
 Some people remarked, looking up to 
 liim there, with his face outhned against 
 the grey stone wall of the church, that a 
 change had come over him since that last 
 attack. His eyes were brighter, they were 
 very bright dark eyes, and they looked 
 darker against the whiteness of his face. 
 It was a smooth, white face, like a girl's ; 
 it looked chiselled in marble, only that 
 there was a quiver about the lips, that no 
 marble ever had, and that no one had re- 
 marked before. 
 
 It was the face of a man who could do 
 noble things : it might be the face of a 
 saint. 
 
 The story of those five-pound notes had 
 got whispered about the parish — every- 
 thing gets whispered about a gossipping 
 country town. Lucy had heard of it 
 among the rest ; Miss Catherine Jayne had 
 told her ; she was a favourite of Miss 
 Catherine's, and she told her about her
 
 160 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 visit to the curate in his illness, and the 
 shower of five-pound notes that had been 
 the result of it. 
 
 " He is as poor as a church mouse, my 
 dear," she had told Lucy. Perhaps she 
 had her own reasons for telling her : " he 
 hadn't got a spark of fire in the grate, and 
 he was afraid to ring the bell for coals, and 
 that woman is robbing him shamefully! 
 He ought to have a wife to look after 
 him ; he is not fit to look after him- 
 self, but how can he ever marry on such 
 an income ? He has no private means ; a 
 man without private means has no right to 
 go into the Church. The Church is sup- 
 ported by the clergy now-a-days, not the 
 clergy by the Church. Talk of disestab- 
 lishment, what would the Church do with- 
 out their aid ? " 
 
 Lucy murmured a faint approval ; she 
 didn't care much about disestablishment ; 
 curates couldn't be worse paid if the
 
 "TUM-TUil-TE-TUMTY." 161 
 
 Church were disestablished to-morrow — 
 they couldn't get less pay or harder work. 
 
 " A man ought to have money or influ- 
 ence to go into the Church," Miss Catherine 
 continued, laying down the law as if she 
 were Archbishop of Canterbury, " and that 
 poor young man has neither. He is never 
 likely to get a living above two hundred a 
 year, and it would be nothing short of 
 madness to marry upon that. What is two 
 hundred a year to keep a wife upon — a wife 
 and family ? — there would be sure to be a 
 family — a dozen children perhaps — curates 
 always have large families ; their quivers 
 are always over-full, and very likely an 
 ailing wife — a woman cannot go on having 
 children without her health giving way — 
 and he such a poor fellow and wanting so 
 much nursing." 
 
 Lucy repeated this conversation when 
 
 she went back to Cherry Garden. She 
 
 repeated it when Nancy was present. 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 Nancy was making herself a summer frock ; 
 the Coulcher girls made their own frocks. 
 Somehow, whatever might be the state of 
 the family finances, Nancy managed to get 
 new frocks. It was a pink frock she was 
 making, and it matched her complexion, 
 and made it look more brilliant than ever. 
 She was trying it on before the glass, when 
 Lucy was pouring out the dismal tale of 
 the curate's fireless grate, and the empty 
 coal scuttle, and being afraid to ring the 
 bell, and the five-pound notes that the rich 
 old women had sent to him, and the beef- 
 tea and the soup. 
 
 Lucy kept nothing back. 
 
 Nancy was wearing the gold bracelet 
 with the pendant heart that Douglas Craik 
 had locked upon her arm, and of which he 
 had kept the key. There were no sleeves 
 to the pink frock yet, it was being tried on 
 a bit at a time, and the gold bracelet was 
 gleaming on Nancy's bare arm. She was
 
 " TUiT-TUM-TE-TUMTY." 163 
 
 admiring it in the glass, while Lucy was 
 talking — the gleam of the gold against the 
 fine smooth whiteness of her skin. It was 
 a lovely, plump, rounded arm. Lucy could 
 not help thinking of old Sarah Strong's 
 brown, wrinkled, skinny wrist, the wrist 
 that had clung to her with such terrible 
 tenacity, as she saw the beautiful, white, 
 rounded thing wreathing backwards and 
 forwards in the arrangement of the puffs 
 and plaits of that pink body, and the gold 
 bracelet slipping up and down. 
 
 " Where did you get that bracelet from, 
 Nancy ? " she asked suddenly. 
 " Oh, IVe had it a long time." 
 " You can't have had it long ; it's quite 
 a new one. Did Mr. Asquith give it to 
 
 you ? " 
 
 " Mr. Asquith ! I should think not. 
 
 It's my old one. I've had it for months ! " 
 
 " The one Gervase Scott gave you ? " 
 
 Nancy nodded, and laughed. She could 
 
 11*
 
 164 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 tell tarradiddles by the yard without a 
 change of countenance. 
 
 Lucy didn't believe her, she had a vision 
 of that discarded gold bracelet lying some- 
 where upstairs in a drawer, among a litter 
 of ribbons and laces. 
 
 " Miss Jayne is dreadfully distressed 
 about that poor Mr. Craik," Lucy went on 
 a little spitefully. " She thinks he ought 
 to marry a wealthy woman, he wants such 
 a lot of nursinof and nourishin^:^^ thincfs. 
 
 O (Do 
 
 He will never be able to marry a girl with- 
 out money ; he hasn't got a penny in the 
 world, and no influence ; he can't get a 
 living worth having without some money, 
 without influence. Think what a life it 
 would be for any poor girl who was 
 foolish enough to marry him, with nothing 
 to look forward to but poverty and 
 debts, and a dozen children and a sick 
 
 husband " 
 
 " Did she say a dozen children ? " Nancy
 
 « TUM-TUM-TE-TUMTY." 165 
 
 asked from before the looking-glass. " Are 
 you sure you haven't made a mistake in 
 the number ? " 
 
 " It doesn't matter whether it was six or 
 a dozen ! " Lucy said impatiently. " It 
 comes to the same thing ; whoever marries 
 the poor man will make a dreadful mistake 
 — she will ruin his life as well as her 
 own ! " 
 
 " Six children can never be the same as 
 a dozen," Nancy said flippantly, " it's a 
 serious difference. She must have made a 
 mistake somewhere. I wonder where she 
 got the number from, the exact number — I 
 shall ask her when I see her. Could Mr. 
 Craik have told her ? " 
 
 Despite her flippancy, Nancy Coulcher 
 was moved with the picture Lucy had 
 drawn of the Curate's wife. Twelve 
 children, and a sick husband, and a poor 
 home — the picture was too dreadful ! 
 
 How could Miss Jayne have conjured up
 
 166 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 such a picture ? She should have stopped 
 with the empty coal scuttle and the five 
 pound notes. 
 
 What would he do when the five-pound 
 notes ceased ? They would cease directly 
 he married, and the beef tea and the 
 grapes, and the slippers and all the knitted 
 things would cease too. There would be 
 no more gold bracelets. 
 
 Nancy threw off the pink frock im- 
 patiently — all the charm had gone out of 
 it. It didn't suit her at all. It was a horrid 
 shade of pink ; she couldn't think how she 
 could have chosen it ! Pink was a mistake 
 after all ; blue suited her complexion best, 
 blue that matched her eyes and provoked 
 comparisons. 
 
 She flung the pink frock down of a heap 
 on the chair and bounced out of the rooms 
 and the girls sitting at work at the open 
 window, heard her playing a jig on her 
 fiddle in the room below.
 
 " TQM-TUM-TE-TUMPTY." 167 
 
 Tum-tum-te-tumty ! 
 
 It was a hateful tune, it set their teeth 
 on edge as they listened to it, and Lucy 
 got up and shut the window with a bang. 
 Nancy heard her shut it, and she played a 
 little louder. 
 
 Tum-tum-te-tumty ! 
 
 " Has she got any heart ? " Lucy asked 
 angrily — she could not help being 
 angry. Old Miss Jayne's account of the 
 Curate's poverty and weakness, and 
 the dreary future that lay before him, 
 had moved her to tears, but it had only 
 provoked Nancy to laughter — laughter 
 and mockery. 
 
 "Yes, I think she has sometimes," 
 Augusta said slowly, holding her work 
 before her eyes that she might see the set 
 of it, " but it will not make any difference 
 — it will not prevent her marrying Mr. 
 Asquith." 
 
 " You think she will marry him after
 
 168 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 all ? " Lucy gasped. " She told me she had 
 quite given him up ! " 
 
 " Yes, she has given him up, but she will 
 marry him nevertheless." 
 
 And meanwhile Nancy was playing her 
 jig in the room below. 
 
 Tum-tum-te-tumty !
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 " DOUGLAS, DOUG-LAS, TENDER AND TRUE." 
 
 Douglas Craik had never been in love 
 before. It was his first, his very first love, 
 a sacred flame, burning on a pure altar. 
 
 There was something infinitely touching 
 and tender in his love for Nancy Coulcher ; 
 there was nothing earthy or gross in it — it 
 was scarcely material — it was a devotion, a 
 consecration, a surrender, all the more 
 complete because it was unconscious and 
 beyond his control. He could not have 
 helped loving her if he would. 
 
 He went about his daily duties after that 
 happy morning, like one in a dream — a 
 beautiful dream. He asked himself a 
 hundred times a day if it were true. He 
 could not understand how Nancy could 
 love him, what she could have seen in him
 
 170 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 to love, to give up Mr. Asquith — Mr. 
 
 Asquitli was his rector's brother — with his 
 
 horses and carriages, and his position in 
 
 the county, and be willing to marry him, a 
 
 poor Curate, with a hundred and fifty 
 
 pounds a year ! 
 
 It was past understanding. He could 
 
 only accept this great gift as from the 
 hand of the Great Giver. He accepted it 
 it humbly, thankfully ; he thanked God 
 for it every day — a thousand times a day 
 — and he kept silence. 
 
 He did not breathe a word to anyone of 
 his engagement ; he was content to trust 
 Nancy, and believe in her, and see her 
 whenever she would let him. She would 
 not let him walk back with her from the 
 Wilderness now so often as before her 
 engagement. She had begun to be care- 
 ful and think what people would say ; 
 she was quite sure everybody would be 
 talking about her if Douglas Craik were
 
 " DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE." 171 
 
 seen with her so often. He submitted with 
 a sigh and consoled himself by writing 
 letters to her daily. The postman used to 
 come to Cherry Garden at an unearthly 
 early hour, as it happened to be beyond 
 the town delivery and was on the round 
 of the country postman, who started at 
 daybreak. Nancy used to sli^^ downstairs 
 noiselessly when she heard him coming up 
 the steps, and secure her treasure and 
 come back to bed to devour it. 
 
 They were lovely letters, unlike any 
 love letters she had ever received before, 
 and she had received a good many. They 
 kept her awake at first, and sometimes she 
 would read them twice over — they were 
 closely written, and covered an enormous 
 number of pages, which was quite a test 
 of the depth of his affection. It was 
 wonderful what Dousflas Craik could find 
 to say in so many words and to cover so 
 much paper.
 
 172 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 Nothing ever happened at Stoke Edith, 
 and there is so httle really to be said, when 
 one comes to think of it. It is quite 
 astonishing in what a few sentences one 
 can sum up the longest love letter. It 
 is aU variations of the same air ; the verb 
 aimer conjugated ad infinitum. 
 
 Is anything more needed ? 
 
 Then had come his illness when his 
 letters were twice their usual length ; he 
 had no sermons to write, so that he could 
 spend all his time writing to Nancy. He 
 had said nothing about the five-pound 
 notes in his letters, only that the people 
 had been very, very, very good to him. 
 They had shown him a thousand times 
 more kindness than he deserved. They 
 had loaded him with gifts, beef tea, port 
 wine, soup, grapes ; he was surrounded 
 with luxuries. At least a dozen knitted 
 comforters had come in, and his room was 
 quite a bower of hot-house flowers. Nancy
 
 "DOUGLAS, DOUaLAS, TENDER AND TRUE." 173 
 
 had called at his lodgings and left a bunch 
 of flowers for him once : she had called 
 from her mother to make enquiries. It 
 was only a bunch of joints and double 
 stocks and sweet briar she had snatched 
 up as she passed through the garden ; 
 it was quite an afterthought to gather 
 them, and she hadn't even tied them 
 together. He had put the white pinks 
 and double stocks in water, and kept 
 them by his side until they tumbled to 
 pieces, and he had pressed the sweet briar 
 between the leaves of his sermons. 
 
 The least he could do after so much 
 attention being shown him by the parish, 
 was to get well again. He got well 
 without delay. He was in such a hurry 
 to get well. He was dying to see Nancy 
 again ; he could not see her in his 
 bachelor rooms, his only chance was to 
 get well. The first time he saw her after 
 his illness, he had clasped that gold
 
 174 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 bracelet round her arm. If he had told 
 her that he had bought it with the money 
 that was sent to him to spend in getting 
 well, in taking daily drives, she might not 
 have accepted it, so he held his tongue. 
 
 He had hesitated to talk about those 
 five-pound notes. He did not like to tell 
 Nancy that he had been an object of 
 charity. He had accepted them with 
 some hesitation, but he had not been 
 humiliated in accepting them, but with 
 Nancy it might be different; she might 
 take it as a humiliation, accepting gifts 
 of money. The time had gone on and he 
 had not spoken about the money, and it 
 was hard to speak now. Perhaps she 
 would think, if she heard of it, that if he 
 wanted help now, money help, when he 
 had only himself to keep, when there was 
 no one dependent upon him, that he would 
 want it more by-and-bye, when there was 
 a wife — and children — that he would have
 
 *' DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TEUE." 175 
 
 to go round with a bag. He was a 
 dreadful coward when it came to raising 
 obstacles in the way of his love for Nancy, 
 and he was afraid the money would be an 
 obstacle. He surprised Nancy just outside 
 the Wilderness gate, one afternoon a week 
 after that casual meeting with Mr. Asquith 
 by the roadside. Nancy knew exactly 
 why he had come ; it was not one of 
 the days he was allowed to meet her, 
 and he had said nothing about it in 
 his morning's letter. She saw by the 
 cloud on his brow as she came to him 
 across the grass, that there was something 
 amiss. 
 
 At the sight of the radiant vision coming 
 towards him in the sunshine, the cloud 
 ought to have disappeared. Nancy greeted 
 her lover as she greeted all her admirers, 
 with her brightest smile ; she made no 
 difference. 
 
 " You here ! " she said in a tone of
 
 176 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 surprise, as if he were the last person in 
 the world she expected to meet. 
 
 " Yes ! " he answered rather huskily, his 
 face unconsciously relaxing under her 
 smiles, and the cloud melting away — it 
 could not stay there long with her smiling 
 upon him, " yes, darling, I could not keep 
 away ! I — I wanted to ask you something 
 — something I have heard — if it were true, 
 that — that you had gone out riding this 
 morning with Mr. Asquith ? " 
 
 He couldn't ask the question quite 
 steadily ; he couldn't keep a tremor out 
 of his voice. 
 
 " Lucy has told you this ? " she said 
 turning upon him with a sudden anger in 
 her eyes, and the crimson colour leaping 
 into her face. It was quite a new thing to 
 see her angry, it was new and becoming. 
 
 "Yes," he said, *'I met your sister at 
 Sarah Strong's, and I asked after you, and 
 she told me you were riding with Mr.
 
 "DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE." 177 
 
 Asquith. Why should she not tell me ? 
 Is it a secret ? " 
 
 Something in his voice recalled her to 
 herself, and she laughed her little gay- 
 laugh. 
 
 " Secret ? Of course it's no secret, only 
 I hate people to talk about me. Mr. 
 Asquith asked me to try his new horse, 
 and I rode with him for an hour this 
 morning. There was no harm in my 
 riding with him ; Augusta would have 
 gone, but her habit was so shabby. 
 Lumby offered to lend me a habit that 
 exactly fitted me ; they hadn't got one to 
 fit Augusta." 
 
 He was not Hstening to the story about 
 the habit, he was looking into the girl's 
 eyes in that direct way he had, as if he 
 would read her heart. 
 
 " No," he said with a sigh, " there is no 
 
 harm in your riding with ]\Ir. Asquith, I 
 
 suppose, only — only " 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 He broke off lamely, and looked at the 
 girl with a question, a half doubt in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Only what ? " she interrupted gaily. 
 
 " After what has passed, after your 
 having so recently rejected him, I did 
 not think you would care to ride with 
 him," he said awkwardly. He knew he 
 was making a brute of himself; he was 
 ashamed of himself for doubting her for 
 a moment. 
 
 Nancy laughed. 
 
 " Oh, that is all over," she said sweetly, 
 " he has accepted his dismissal ; the dear 
 old thing did not say a single word about 
 it. We talked of nothing but the horses, 
 and the country ; the country was looking 
 lovely! I enjoyed it so much, I don't 
 know when I've enjoyed anything so much. 
 I love riding better than anything in the 
 world ! " 
 
 The Curate of St. Eadegund's sighed.
 
 "DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE." 179 
 
 He was thinking Nancy would not get 
 much riding as a Curate's wife ; he would 
 give her his best — his very best — but it 
 would never be likely to run to a horse. 
 The most he could ever hope to be able 
 to give her, would be a pony carriage, 
 or a " tub," and a quiet, sure-footed old 
 pony. Nancy was giving up a great deal 
 for him, a wealthy suitor, and a posi- 
 tion in the county, and the pleasure she 
 loved better than anything else in the 
 world ! 
 
 He could not be hard upon her when he 
 remembered what she was giving up for 
 him. 
 
 "When may I speak to your mother, 
 Nancy ? " he asked her before they parted, 
 when the cloud had quite dispersed, and he 
 had told himself that he was unreasonably 
 jealous, and was heartily ashamed of him- 
 self for his doubts and suspicions. " I am 
 
 sick of this suspense and secrecy, I want to 
 
 12*
 
 180 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 have the right to come openly. What is 
 there to wait for ? " 
 
 " Not yet, Douglas, not yet ; you would 
 have no chance with mamma yet. She has 
 not forgiven me about Mr. Asquith. You 
 must give her time to get over it. I will 
 tell you when to speak, dear. You can 
 trust me, Douglas ? " 
 
 Trust her — how could he help trusting 
 her, looking down at him with her 
 beautiful smile, and a tear, just a suspicion 
 of a tear, in her beautiful eyes ? How 
 could he wrong her with his base unworthy 
 suspicions ? 
 
 They were no longer in the meadows 
 now, they had wandered off into the lane, 
 and the hedges, the sweet hawthorn hedges 
 rose high on either side. There was not a 
 soul in sight, there would not be likely to 
 be a soul in sight in that unfrequented 
 lane, at that time in the day. There were 
 no jealous eyes watching them, only the
 
 •'DOUaLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE." 181 
 
 darling speedwell's innocent blue eyes 
 staring straight up into Heaven. Douglas 
 Craik took her in his arms, he could do 
 nothing else, and vowed he would never 
 doubt her again, never, never. Nancy was 
 moved in spite of herself by his devotion ; 
 her eyes were wet with real tears as her 
 face drooped on to his shoulder with a 
 sudden strange emotion that was quite new 
 to her. 
 
 This was really love ; something she 
 had never felt before, and for a moment, 
 while her head rested on Douglas Craik's 
 shoulder, Nancy felt she wouldn't have 
 married Mr. Asquith for the world ; that it 
 was all quite settled now, that there were 
 no more doubts, or bewilderment, or un- 
 certainty. Fate had chosen for her, and it 
 was all settled beyond recall. She had 
 drifted into a calm haven, with her lover's 
 arms around her, and his kisses on her lips, 
 and his dear voice in her ears ; she had
 
 182 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 drifted into a peaceful harbour : she was so 
 safe, so secure in his love ; she could not 
 keep her tears from falling, and her lips 
 were tremulous and tender. 
 
 " You must never doubt me again, 
 Douglas," she murmured, " I love you 
 better than anyone in the world ! I hate 
 Mr. Asquith and his horses and things ; 
 Oh ! if you only knew how I hate him. I 
 would rather live in a cottage with you, 
 Douglas — why shouldn't we live in a cot- 
 tage, a dear little rosey, bowery, cottage ? 
 I'm sure I would rather live in a dear little 
 cottage than a big house with a lot of tire- 
 some servants. I would rather marry you, 
 darling, and live in a tiny wee cottage, 
 than marry Mr. Asquith with his great 
 house and his carriages and horses." 
 
 She said it very prettily, and she really 
 thought she meant it. 
 
 Douglas Graik assured her that he would 
 never be jealous again, that, whatever
 
 "DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDEK AND TRUE." 183 
 
 happened, he would trust her ; how could 
 he help trusting her after that outspoken 
 confession ? 
 
 They walked back by the river ; it was 
 a long way round, but they had nothing to 
 hurry for. The afternoon sun was shining, 
 and the river was flashing in the sunlight, 
 and from the meadows came the fresh, 
 sweet smell of the new-mown hay ; the blue 
 forget-me-nots in the bank were crowding 
 up at their feet, and the lonely yellow iris 
 out in the stream, was unfolding its inmost 
 heart to the sun. A green, glowing valley 
 spread out before them, and above an 
 intense heaven was melting into hght. 
 
 They walked back to Stoke Edith in a 
 golden beatitude ; the air was full of sweet 
 scents and mysterious tones ; there was not 
 a single cloud on the horizon ; a change 
 had come over the whole world. 
 
 " I suppose he will have to ask mamma 
 soon," Nancy said to herself as she turned
 
 184 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 the corner of Cherry Garden alone. " Of 
 course I shall marry him. I don't mind the 
 dear little cottage a bit. I have never, 
 never loved any of the rest half so much. 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! " 
 
 She really meant it this time. She was 
 prepared for the sacrifice. This was before 
 she had heard that story of the five-pound 
 notes — and the twelve children.
 
 CHAPTEK X. 
 
 SARAH STRONG. 
 
 The Curate of St. Eadegund's got well as 
 suddenly as he had fallen ill. He looked 
 quite a new man after that illness, if ever 
 he could be said to look like a man at all. 
 His face was too white and clean-shaven 
 and delicate for a man's ; it was much more 
 like a girl's face. The face of a beautiful 
 woman who had suffered, who had gone 
 through trial and anguish, and vicarious 
 suffering, and who had come out of it puri- 
 fied, with increased capacities for self- 
 denial, and sacrifice if need be. 
 
 At least, so it looked to the admiring 
 female members of the congregation of St. 
 Eadegund's. The male portion took a 
 different view — they generally do — they 
 thought he was a poor washed-out kind of
 
 186 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 fellow, with no back-bone, only fit to be 
 petted and made much of by silly women. 
 He was a woman's curate, they said good- 
 naturedly, not a man's curate. 
 
 Perhaps he recognised his weakness him- 
 self. He had done good work in a crowded 
 London parish, but he was not doing much 
 work here. There were no temptations 
 there in that London slum to draw him 
 away from his work ; there was nothing 
 to keep him from throwing himself, heart 
 and soul, into it. 
 
 But here — here there was a siren with 
 drooping eyelids and a bewitching smile, 
 who was always using her wiles to draw 
 him away from his work, whose lovely 
 image was never out of his mind. 
 
 Douglas Craik could hardly believe his 
 happiness. To find himself with his heart's 
 desire, the full, rich fruition of his hopes, 
 within his grasp, was more than he could 
 understand. The bliss was so keen it
 
 SAR.iH STRONG. 187 
 
 was almost akin to pain. To wake up in 
 the morning and tell himself that Nancy 
 loved him, that she had passed by all the 
 rest, and chosen — him — seemed like a 
 dream, a beautiful dream ; he could hardly 
 believe he was waking ! He tried very hard 
 not to let his happiness — his great happiness 
 he called it — interfere with his work, but 
 he could not keep it out of it. It came 
 between him and his duty a thousand 
 times a day. When he was reading the 
 morning lesson — they had daily prayers at 
 St. Eadegund's — the beautiful face of his 
 betrothed would come between him and 
 the words he was reading, and he would 
 lose his place, and forget where he had 
 left off. He had, besides the daily service 
 at the church, and the meetings, a good 
 deal of visiting to do in the parish ; the 
 Eector never by any chance "visited," 
 so the Curate's hands were always full. 
 He used to map out a certain number of
 
 188 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 old men and women and sick folk to see 
 every day, and take the list up to the 
 rectory at the end of that week. He was 
 startled in adding up the list of his visits 
 at the end of that week of Elysium, to 
 find that he had fallen short of his usual 
 number. 
 
 His happiness, in fact, had been all his 
 own, no one else had benefited by it. 
 Happiness isn't much good if it doesn't 
 benefit other people. Love ought to have 
 been an inspiration, but it had only made 
 him selfish and neglect his duty. 
 
 A man with such a face as Douglas Craik, 
 with his experience, his lofty ideal, and his 
 little white soul, ought not to have been 
 drawn away from his duty by a shallow, 
 frivolous creature, with no other recom- 
 mendation than a trick of smiling. 
 
 If it had been a good woman who had 
 drawn him away, it would have been 
 difierent ; but a good woman would not
 
 SAEAH STKONG. 189 
 
 have drawn him away from his work. She 
 would have stimulated him to higher effort. 
 Perhaps this is a test, a crucial test of the 
 lower and the higher natures ; the lower 
 nature that enervates and drags down ; the 
 high strain that ennobles and stimulates to 
 effort and work. 
 
 It was the old story of St. Anthony and 
 his temptation. It was certainly not a 
 saint that tempted the good St. Anthony. 
 He is still represented in Anglican art, 
 attended by swine. It is his symbol, and 
 has its own significance. He has been 
 known by it through all the ages, as other 
 saints and holy men of old have been known 
 by the emblems of their sufferings and 
 temptation and victory. 
 
 Douglas Craik did not take the list of 
 his visits over to the rectory, as he was 
 accustomed to do, on that Saturday after- 
 noon. He usually went over early, 
 directly after lunch, and talked over
 
 190 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 parish matters with his rector, going 
 through the list of the sick and needy 
 parishioners he had visited during the 
 week, and explaining the notes he had 
 made against their names. There was 
 generally a good deal to explain. Although 
 the Eector did not visit himself, he was 
 careful to see that his flock was well 
 looked after, that they did not sufler from 
 his neglect. If he did not minister to the 
 spiritual wants of his poor people, he was 
 not backward in the matter of necks of 
 mutton when they were needed, or port 
 wine, or grapes ; his purse and his cellar 
 and his greenhouse were open to the sick 
 of the parish all the year round. Every 
 one allowed that he might have done more 
 for the parish, but he certainly might have 
 done less. 
 
 Douglas Craik didn't see how he could 
 spare time to go over to the rectory that 
 Saturday afternoon ; there were no urgent
 
 SAKAH STRONG. 191 
 
 cases in need of grapes and port wine, and 
 the necks of mutton could stand over. He 
 had lost enouo^h time this week dreaming^ 
 about his own wonderful happiness, he 
 could not afford to lose any more. He 
 could get in, he told himself, three, perhaps 
 four visits this afternoon, if he looked sharp 
 about it. 
 
 He got in more than four — looking sharp 
 about it — and he found he had just time 
 to get in another visit before tea. He 
 hadn't seen Sarah Strong since the day 
 when Lucy had told him that her sister 
 was riding with Mr. Asquith. He generally 
 met Lucy there ; the old woman was in 
 her district, and the more cantankerous 
 and disagreeable she grew, the more fre- 
 quently Lucy Coulcher visited her. The 
 poor old soul was faihng fast ; it did not seem 
 likely that she would be cantankerous 
 much longer. She would lose this infirmity 
 with the rest, with the rheumatism, and
 
 192 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 the pains, and the sleepless nights. She 
 wouldn't groan, or complain, or bully people 
 much longer — it was the only satisfaction 
 that was left to her in life, to grumble and 
 find fault with everybody. 
 
 She was finding fault with Lucy when 
 the Curate went in. 
 
 Lucy had been trying to show her that 
 she had had a great many things to be grate- 
 ful for in life, but the old woman had 
 refused to see it. She had been poor all 
 her life, and had" had to work hard — to toil 
 from morning' [ till night — to live on the 
 hardest and scantiest fare. She had known 
 grievous trouble, a drunken husband, and 
 an idiot dauo^hter ; the rest of her children 
 were dead or had gone away ; they had 
 died to her years ago. She had none left 
 — everyone belonging to her was gone — 
 she was left in her old age and her weakness 
 to sufier and complain alone. She refused 
 to see in the long sad history of her
 
 SARAH STRONG. 193 
 
 dreary past, the hand of a kind Providence 
 leading her by dark and difficult ways to 
 the peace and the rest beyond. The future 
 was as dark to her as the past ; it only 
 meant for her oblivion and rest. She didn't 
 trouble herself about judgment to come. 
 Perhaps in her heart she did not believe 
 that a God, who was always represented 
 to her as a God of Love, would visit on a 
 poor old creature, whose life had been 
 one long tale of suffering from beginning 
 to end, eternal torments and agonies. She 
 had some sense of justice — the poor always 
 have, and if she did not believe in the love 
 of God, she had a blind, dim faith in His 
 justice. In her ignorant, groping way she 
 believed, somehow, that the God she had 
 worshipped all these years was not small- 
 minded, and would not wrong the least and 
 meanest of his creatures. 
 
 " I've had my turn already," she was 
 
 saying to Lucy when the Curate went in. 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " I've gone through more'n most folks in 
 my time, an' I've come to the end. I'm 
 past bearin' more if the Lord puts it upon 
 me. I can't believe that He will — a poor, 
 broken old soul, worn out wi' her groanin's. 
 He's tooked from me all there was to take 
 — husband, and children — there's none 
 left. I can't think why He left me lyin' 
 here, and they that were young and strong 
 should be took." 
 
 Then Lucy tried to explain, but the old 
 woman would not hear ; perhaps it was 
 quite as weU that she wouldn't. There 
 are some questions that are so difficult to 
 answer. It is best to leave some things 
 unexplained. Then the Curate came for- 
 ward, rather humbly, and ofiered to put up 
 a little prayer for patience and faith. He 
 was shocked to see the change in the 
 old worn face on the pillow ; the end 
 could not be far off, and the poor old 
 soul was no more prepared for it than she
 
 SAEAH STRONG. 195 
 
 had been montlis ago. The disciphne of 
 pain hadn't seemed to have answered in 
 her case. 
 
 " I be past hearin' any prayers," she 
 groaned, when the Curate would have 
 knelt down by her side. " I've done 
 nothing but pray day an' night, while I've 
 laid here, an' the pain's worse instead of 
 better." 
 
 Then the Curate had to tell her that 
 the Heavens were not deaf as well as 
 dumb, but the assurance fell on unheeding 
 ears. 
 
 " I've a-prayed night an' day for years," 
 
 she said in her querulous, complaining 
 
 voice, " an' it's made no difference. P'r'aps 
 
 the fault's in me, God knows ! I've done my 
 
 best ; I couldn' do no more if I'd m}^ 
 
 time to go over again. I've brought up a 
 
 family, and kep' out of the workus for nigh 
 
 upon eighty years. I had a gal that was 
 
 crippley an' not right in her mind, an' my 
 
 13*
 
 196 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 husband was a bed-lier for years, an' I 
 nussed 'em both, an' buried 'em without a 
 penny from the parish. I couldn' do 
 more." 
 
 'No curate with a proper sense of duty 
 could encourage the obstinate old woman 
 in her ridiculous self righteousness. She 
 had gone through a good deal, no doubt ; 
 few people reach four score without going 
 through a good deal. They have their 
 compensations, maybe, but this stiff-necked 
 old creature had not had any compen- 
 sations to speak of. The love of husband 
 and children had been hers, but it had had 
 its drawbacks. Her husband had been 
 wont, when in health, to beat her black 
 and blue, and to spend all her earnings ; 
 and her children had not been the comfort 
 they might have been to her. Her life had 
 been a failure from beginning to end. 
 There was nothing she could remember in 
 it to be grateful for. Looking back, it
 
 SAEAH STKONa. 197 
 
 seemed to her that she had been more 
 sinned against than sinning. 
 
 The Curate looking down from the 
 height of his great happiness, at this poor 
 soul groaning on her bed of pain, couldn't 
 understand why he had been so supremely 
 blessed, and she had suffered so much, and 
 was still suffering. It was a mystery to 
 himself ; he couldn't pretend to understand 
 it. He was only sure that God knew what 
 was best for each, and had apportioned to 
 each the discipline that best suited his 
 case. To one the discipline of joy, to the 
 other the discipline of pain and sorrow and 
 loss. He couldn't explain this to Sarah 
 Strong ; she wouldn't have understood him 
 if he had. He could only tell her that one 
 day, no distant day, all these hard questions 
 would be answered, and she would see that 
 the Kind Hand that had brought her 
 through so many trials had not laid upon 
 her a single burden needlessly. It was not
 
 198 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 easy to tell her this when his own cup 
 was overflowing ; he felt in a blind, con- 
 fused way, with a sense of shame and un- 
 worthiness, that the decrees of Providence 
 were unequal ; that to one was given the 
 cup brimming over, to the other to wring 
 out the bitter dregs. 
 
 Feeling all this he hadn't the heart to 
 preach repentance and sorrow for sin ; the 
 poor old soul had had nothing but sorrow 
 all her life, and if she had to live it over 
 again, she would have done exactly the 
 same ; it didn't seem worth while to repent 
 and be sorry, when if opportunity had 
 served, she would have repeated the old 
 mistakes and misdoing. He went down on 
 his knees by the poor bed before he went 
 away, and asked God to have mercy upon 
 her — he couldn't think of anything better 
 to ask — have mercy upon her, and upon 
 him, and to give each the discipline He 
 saw fit, to afflict, or to bless, according to
 
 SAEAH STRONG. 199 
 
 His unerrins: wisdom and love. He com- 
 mitted poor old Sarah Strong, and he 
 committed himself, to the Love of God, 
 which is over all, and around all, and 
 makes no mistakes.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 
 " It is not worth the keeping ; let it go ! " 
 
 Lucy Coulcher was a trifle more glum 
 than usual when she got back to Cherry 
 Garden. She was distraite and impatient, 
 and out of sorts. It is not an uncommon- 
 malady, but it was new to Lucy. She 
 was not exactly a pattern of all the 
 virtues, but she ruled her spirit, or she 
 strove to rule her spirit, which was much 
 the same thing. She had an idea — it is 
 not an entirely new idea — that the inner life 
 is more to be considered than the outer, 
 everyday life that is always coming into 
 contact with the world, and chameleon-like, 
 taking varying hues from its surroundings. 
 The beautiful ideal inner life ever shaping 
 itself within, could never be touched by
 
 "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 201 
 
 these outside things. It had an inde- 
 pendent existence ; it was nourished by faith 
 and hope and love, and the chisel that 
 moulded it into shape was self-control. 
 
 Poor Lucy quite lost her self-control when 
 she came back from that visit to Paradise. 
 She was never quite herself after sitting an 
 hour or two with Sarah Strong. The old 
 woman insisted upon holding her hand all 
 the time she sat beside the bed, and — Lucy 
 would not have owned it for the world — it 
 seemed to her, that by some occult process, 
 hypnotic, mesmeric, or clairvoyant, that 
 Sarah Strong's doubts and ill-humours were 
 transferred to her during that long close 
 hand-clasp. She always came away 
 irritable and excited, with every nerve at 
 tension and with her mind full of doubts 
 and questionings. 
 
 She had come away in this abnormal 
 state to-day. She had been asking herself 
 all the way back, why the ways of Provi-
 
 202 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 dence were so unequal ? A good many 
 people have asked the same question, and 
 not found an answer ready to their hand. 
 
 Lucy had not found an answer when she 
 got back to Cherry Garden. 
 
 She could not understand why some 
 people should be so supremely blessed ; 
 should go through the world untouched 
 by care or trial or suffering, while others 
 should consume their lives away in pain. 
 The pathos of Sarah Strong's life, while it 
 moved her with infinite pity and com- 
 passion, aroused in her a smouldering sense 
 of injustice which she could not stifle. 
 What had Sarah Strong done that she 
 should be so horribly poor, and have 
 had such grievous trouble, and should 
 suffer such excruciating pains ? What had 
 she done more than others? More than 
 Nancy, for instance, who was singing down- 
 stairs, singing like a lark, whose life was 
 brimming over with jo}^, who had lovers by
 
 "A LITTLE EIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 203 
 
 the score — there was one going out of the 
 gate as Lucy stood at the window. She 
 could not understand why Nancy should 
 have all the world at her feet, and be 
 loved and petted and admired, while she and 
 Augusta hadn't a lover between them, and 
 never excited the least admiration, not the 
 least little flickering flame in the hearts of 
 the opposite sex. Lucy was not jealous ; 
 but she felt the injustice of Fate. With 
 Sarah Strong, she felt that the ways of 
 Providence were not equal. 
 
 " Mr. Asquith has only just left," 
 Augusta said, coming into the room where 
 Lucy was taking ofi' her things. " He has 
 been here all the afternoon. I believe 
 Nancy means to accept him after all." 
 
 Lucy flushed in her sudden way. " She 
 is only leading him on," she said scornfully. 
 She had no patience with Nancy, and her 
 tricks, and she could not keep the scorn and 
 impatience out of her voice.
 
 204 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " I think it is more serious than that this 
 time," Augusta said, stifling a sigh. "I 
 only went in for a minute for a cup of tea, 
 when I came back, and they were talking 
 about a new carriage. Mr. Asquith was 
 showing her a book with plates, and — and 
 she has chosen a Victoria." 
 
 " You don't mean she has decided ? " 
 Lucy spoke in quite an awe-stricken voice ; 
 she was thinking of that look of happiness 
 she had seen in Douglas Craik's face when 
 he came into Sarah Strong's room. He 
 couldn't keep his happiness out of his 
 eyes. Any one could see it who looked at 
 him, and could read the alphabet of love 
 aright. 
 
 There is a look that one sees on the 
 face of a girl in the early days of her first 
 engagement, and on the face of a man 
 sometimes, a man who is in love for the 
 first time ; having once seen it, one can 
 never mistake it.
 
 "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 205 
 
 " She must have decided, or she wouldn't 
 have chosen the colour," Augusta went on 
 in her deliberate way. " Mr. Asquith pre- 
 ferred claret, dark claret, but Nancy would 
 have blue." 
 
 " Then I suppose it's really settled." 
 
 It really looked as if it were settled. 
 
 Mr. Asquith was a constant visitor at 
 Cherry Garden during the next week, and 
 Nancy rode with him nearly every morning. 
 There was nothing she enjoyed so much as 
 riding, except dancing and playing tennis, 
 each in its way. She had plenty of tennis 
 at Stoke Edith, and dancing in the winter, 
 but she had not had any riding since she 
 left Cornwall, and then there had been 
 only one old pony between all the family. 
 The horse Mr. Asquith had got down for 
 her from London was a great success ; she 
 had never had such a splendid mount in 
 her life ; and the habit that Lumby had 
 lent her fitted her beautifully. It was quite
 
 206 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 the talk of Stoke Edith how well she looked 
 on horseback. 
 
 Douglas Craik heard of those raorning 
 rides, there was no secret made of them, 
 and smiled to himself when Nancy's engage- 
 ment to Mr. Asquith was canvassed at the 
 various tea tables, where it was a part of 
 his duty to show himself. He could have 
 thrown some light on that interesting 
 subject if he would, but he was content to 
 be silent. Why should he let these 
 foolish reports move him? He had 
 promised Nancy that he would trust her ; 
 that, whatever happened, he would trust 
 her, and keep silence. 
 
 Miss Jayne was full of the report of 
 Nancy's approaching marriage when the 
 day came round for the curate to drink 
 tea with her. There were so many duty 
 teas and luncheons that he had to take 
 with his parishioners, that he could not 
 get through them all under a fortnight.
 
 "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 207 
 
 He had to keep a list of days, and parcel 
 himself out. It was a form of parochial 
 visitation — an agreeable form, and it saved 
 his landlady a lot of trouble. 
 
 It was his day for visiting " The Bun- 
 galow," as Miss Jayne's myrtle - covered 
 cottage was called. There were two Miss 
 Jaynes, Catherine the elder, the sharp- 
 tongued, kind-hearted gossip of Stoke 
 Edith, and an invalid sister. Miss Grace, 
 who was seldom seen off her sofa. They 
 both clung to the traditions of their youth, 
 and wore distended skirts and the hideous 
 fashions of forty years ago. Miss Grace 
 wore her own hair, which was thin and 
 grey, in flat curls, fastened down with 
 tortoise-sheU combs on either side her kind 
 face ; but Catherine wore a front ; a 
 front of beautiful black glossy ringlets 
 like those that Nature had endowed her with 
 in her youth. 
 
 There was a painting of her over the
 
 208 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 mantel-piece of the pretty, old-fashioned 
 dining-room of the Bungalow, which was 
 full of flowers and pictures and sunshine. 
 It had been taken in her youth when the 
 curls were her own, and the roses were 
 blooming on her cheeks, and her eyes were 
 bright. Her eyes were bright still, with a 
 delightful old twinkle in them that no age 
 could dim ; but her cheeks had fallen in, 
 they were ruddy, wholesome old cheeks, 
 though their blooms had faded long ago, 
 and her curls came ready-made from the 
 perruquiers in the High Street. She had 
 been a beauty once, in her day — she had 
 had her day like the rest, she had not been 
 cheated out of it — and she had still her 
 bright eyes with the twinkle in them, and 
 her jet black curls — they were hers still, 
 though she paid Eobinson in the High 
 Street so much a quarter for keeping them 
 in order. 
 
 Miss Catherine's black curls were nod-
 
 "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 209 
 
 ding over the tea-cups when the Curate 
 came in, and her lilac cap ribbons were 
 bobbing about. She generally wore lilac 
 or puce, or some kindred tint — she clung 
 to the old colours as well as to the old 
 gowns. 
 
 Something had happened that afternoon 
 to excite her, and she was chirping over 
 the tea-cups when Douglas Craik came in, 
 and Miss Grace, propped up in an arm- 
 chair at the other end of the long table 
 with her silver trumpet to her ear — Miss 
 Grace was a little deaf — was listening. 
 
 There was always a proper set tea at the 
 
 Bungalow, none of the new-fashioned five 
 
 o'clock standing-up afiairs, but a sit-down 
 
 tea at a well-spread board. The long 
 
 dining table — Miss Catherine made tea in 
 
 the dining-room — was dazzling with silver 
 
 and china and flowers when the Curate 
 
 stepped in out of the dusk of the verandah. 
 
 The china was delightful old Derby china 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 A. TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 that had belonged to her mother, and the 
 beautiful old silver had been in the family 
 for generations, and the flowers had just 
 come in from the garden, and the grapes 
 and strawberries from the greenhouse. It 
 was quite early for strawberries, but there 
 was a lovely dish on the table, and cream 
 and cakes and dainty biscuits, and home- 
 made bread and butter. A dozen people 
 might have been expected, instead of one 
 small Curate. 
 
 " I am quite worn out," Miss Catherine 
 said cheerfully — she was nodding her head 
 and dropping in the lumps of sugar, and 
 chirping like a cricket — " I have been out 
 all the afternoon. I went for a drive with 
 Martha Asquith, and she insisted on taking 
 me over her brother's new house. She 
 would not be satisfied until I had been 
 over it from cellar to roof. She would not 
 rest until I had been in the kitchen and 
 seen the dresser that Nanc}^ Coulcher had
 
 "A LITTLE KIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 211 
 
 chosen. She has chosen everything in the 
 house, he consulted her about every- 
 thing " 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't speak so fast, 
 Catherine, I can't hear what you say ! " 
 grumbled Miss Grace at the other end of 
 the table ; " who did she say chose the 
 kitchen dresser, Mr. Craik ? " 
 
 She put the silver trumpet to her ear, 
 and leaned forward, and Douglas Craik 
 had to shout down it " Nancy Coulcher ! " 
 with the best grace he could. 
 
 " Nancy Coulcher ! " the old lady re- 
 peated, nodding and smiling, and the 
 Curate looked down at his plate. 
 
 " Martha had settled upon mahogany for 
 the dining-room," Sister Catherine went on 
 at her end of the table, not noticing the in- 
 terruption, " good solid Spanish mahogany, 
 there is nothing better, it lasts for genera- 
 tions." She glanced round as she spoke 
 
 at the old-fashioned Spanish mahogany 
 
 14*
 
 212 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 furniture of the room they were sitting in. 
 It had already lasted three generations, and 
 was as good as ever, " but Nancy would 
 hear of nothing but oak, so he had to 
 countermand the order." 
 
 "What is she saying, Mr. Craik? I 
 don't hear a word," grumbled Miss Grace 
 from her end of the table. She had put 
 down her trumpet to drink her tea, and 
 she had lost the thread of Catherine's dis- 
 course. 
 
 "Why wasn't he satisfied with a ma- 
 hogany coffin ; why did he want oak ? " 
 
 Then the Curate had to explain. 
 
 " And the hangings are to be terra-cotta," 
 Catherine continued unmoved from her end 
 of the table, " pale terra-cotta. Nancy 
 gave him the exact shade out of her colour 
 box, and he carries it about with him." 
 
 " Terra-cotta linings to a coffin ! " Miss 
 Grace exclaimed, bringing down her trum- 
 pet with quite a rattle among the tea
 
 "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 213 
 
 things. " I never heard of such a thing ; 
 the man must be going out of his mind ; 
 and why does he carry his coffin about with 
 him ? Someone ought to interfere." 
 
 Douglas Craik gave it up as quite hope- 
 less ; he couldn't explain any more, and 
 Miss Catherine went on chirping among 
 the tea-cups. 
 
 " The horses came in while we were 
 there. I saw the groom taking them round, 
 a chestnut and a roan. He bought the 
 chestnut on purpose for her ! he gave over 
 a hundred guineas for it. It is a perfectly- 
 trained lady's horse ; it will not carry a 
 gentleman ; it is only fit for a lady. Nancy 
 had been riding it all the afternoon, they 
 had been out together. They go out every 
 afternoon, now " 
 
 " A roan and a chestnut for a funeral, I 
 never heard such a thing ! It was always 
 black horses, coal black, in my time," Miss 
 Grace was complaining from her end of
 
 214 A TEAGIC HO^'EYMOON. 
 
 the table. She had got hopelessly mixed 
 with the kitchen dresser, and the mahogany 
 coffin that was exchanged for an oak one, 
 and nobody would explain. 
 
 The Curate had got up, he couldn't 
 stand it any longer, he couldn't swallow 
 another mouthful. The strawberries that 
 had been gathered on purpose for him, 
 that had been ripening for him for a 
 week past, were untouched, and the cake 
 that had been made for his especial benefit, 
 his favourite cake, was uncut. He re- 
 membered suddenly that he had a visit to 
 pay, and he got up and went away, and 
 left the two old women to wrangle it out 
 together. 
 
 Miss Catherine's black eyes saw that 
 something was amiss, and she followed him 
 out into the verandah to say good-bye. 
 
 "I thought you ought to know," she 
 said humbly. "I thought you ought to 
 know."
 
 "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." 215 
 
 She went back into the shaded room, 
 the silver and the china and the flowers 
 dazzled her, or else there was a mist before 
 her eyes that blurred them, and she turned 
 away from the tea-table with a sigh, and 
 took up some work she had laid aside 
 before the Curate came in. It was a house- 
 wife she was making for him, a black, soft 
 morocco housewife, and she was binding it 
 with puce ribbon. 
 
 " I spoke very plainly," she was saying 
 to herself, nodding her curls over the roll 
 of puce ribbon in her lap, " but I thought 
 it best. It is nothing more than the truth, 
 and I'm sure he ought to know." 
 
 She was playing Providence as usual, it 
 was her role, but sometimes she was in 
 doubt, not often, whether it would not be 
 better to let things take their course. She 
 was not in doubt to-night ; she was quite 
 sure that she was doing her duty. She 
 was sure that he ought to be warned.
 
 216 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 " I wish you would come nearer, Cathe- 
 rine, and tell me about that funeral," whim- 
 pered Miss Grace from her sofa. "I 
 couldn't catch who it was, and why he 
 wanted his coffin to be changed." 

 
 CHAPTEE Xn. 
 
 IN THE KAIN. 
 
 Douglas Ckaik couldn't help telling Nancy 
 what he had heard, the things that people 
 were saying about her, what Miss Catherine 
 had said about Ladyhft, about the oak 
 furniture and the terra-cotta hangino-s — 
 and — and the kitchen dresser. 
 
 It was a very small bit of gossip to tell 
 her ; he felt it was quite mean and paltry to 
 tell her, still she ought to know what 
 people were saying. 
 
 She was so thoughtless, so candid, so 
 open and unsuspecting, he told himself — 
 she was all the sweet, ingenuous things that 
 every woman is that a man is in love with 
 — that she would lay herself open to — to 
 unkind criticism, to harsh judgment, with- 
 out a thought.
 
 218 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 He met her one day when she was not 
 expecting him, returning by the meadows 
 from the Wilderness. She was not alone. 
 Gilbert Earle, the mathematical master, was 
 with her. He was not carrying her fiddle 
 to-day, she had left that behind. It was 
 raining a little, not much, not enough for a 
 man to care about — a mere sprinkle, but he 
 was carrying her umbrella. He couldn't 
 hold it over her without getting under it 
 himself. They were coming towards him 
 across the meadow beneath that umbrella, 
 and Earle was holding it rather forward, 
 too forward for them to see him until he 
 was close upon them. 
 
 He could hear their voices a long way 
 off. There was no mistaking Nancy's 
 voice, and her laugh. As Martha Asquith 
 had ill-naturedly remarked, they could be 
 heard '* shouting " the other side of the 
 road. 
 
 " Oh, hang it ! there's that little prig of a
 
 IN THE KAIN. 219 
 
 Curate," the schoolmaster said impatiently, 
 when he saw Douglas a few yards off. " I 
 hope you won't stop and speak to him, 
 Nan Miss Coulcher." 
 
 Nancy wouldn't have stopped to speak 
 to him if she could have helped it. He 
 stood right in her way, and he took off his 
 hat in the rain, and he held out his 
 little wet hand, and she was obliged to stop 
 and shake hands with him, and tell him 
 how her mother was. Mrs. Coulcher had 
 been confined to her bed with influenza, and 
 Lucy was nursing her. He had a message 
 for Lucy from old Sarah Strong, who 
 thought she was neglecting her, and he 
 stayed to deliver the message. While he 
 was delivering it the school bell rang and 
 Gilbert Earle had to go away. 
 
 It was as much as he would do to reach 
 the school before the bell stopped ; he had 
 come a long way out of his way with 
 Nancy, and he had to set off at a run to
 
 220 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 be back in time. Nancy turned round to 
 watch liim running back over the wet 
 springing grass. It did one good to see 
 him run. A splendid athletic fellow, 
 swinging along with great strides at the 
 rate of ten miles an hour. His feet hardly- 
 seemed to touch the grass, and he took 
 the hurdle that served for a gate, at a leap. 
 He went over it like a bird, nothing stood 
 in his way. 
 
 The Curate sighed as he watched him. 
 He would have given the world for that 
 splendid vitality, for that swinging step, 
 for that robust, magnificent physique. 
 
 He would never be able to run like that, 
 or to leap over a hurdle, if he lived till he 
 were a hundred. He would always be a 
 small, puny, frail creature, that could 
 hardly bear the wind to blow upon him. 
 This wetting — he was standing talking to 
 Nancy in the rain, she was not offering 
 him a bit of her umbrella — might cost him
 
 IN THE RAIN. 221 
 
 weeks of illness, miglit bring on another 
 attack. 
 
 It did not seem mucli use caring and 
 grieving, he had got to make the best of 
 himself. Everybody had their limitations ; 
 he had not nearly so much to complain of 
 as most people, Sarah Strong for instance. 
 
 Perhaps the thought of his own weak- 
 ness arrested the words on his lips ; the 
 words he had come to say to Nancy. A 
 flash of light, or rather a mist of rain, 
 had revealed himself to himself as he stood 
 there. His heart had been full of bitter- 
 ness as he came through the meadow with 
 the sound of their laughter in his ears, 
 their glad, healthy laughter. The sight of 
 that brawny giant flying across the grass 
 was a reproof and a revelation. 
 
 What was he, he asked himself with a 
 quick spasm of reproach, that this bright, 
 beautiful creature should tie herself to 
 him ?
 
 222 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 She was so strong and beautiful, 
 quivering in every nerve with life and 
 health ; everything was before her, all the 
 world, and the men were falling down at 
 her feet. He could not think how it was 
 that she had chosen him ! He could not 
 say any of the fine things he had come to 
 say ; the sight of her beauty, the touch of 
 her hand, thrilled him with unutterable 
 love and tenderness. What could he give 
 her in exchange for this great gift she had 
 given him ? — only his life, which he was 
 ready to spend in her service, to lay down 
 at her feet, if need be, and let her trample 
 over it. He was in her hands to use as 
 vshe liked. 
 
 " You have something to say to me, 
 Douglas,'* she said, looking at the little 
 white-faced Curate standim]^ there in the 
 rain, when the big, stalwart fellow was out 
 of sight ; " you didn't come all this way to 
 give me that message for Lucy."
 
 IN THE RAIN. 223 
 
 He couldn't hide anything from her sharp 
 eyes. 
 
 " No — o," he said slowly, reddening in a 
 ridiculous way, " no, darling, there was 
 something I wanted to say to you, to tell 
 you," he said awkwardly, " to put you on 
 your guard. People are so ready to put 
 a wroncf construction on things " 
 
 " What have other people's constructions 
 to do with me ? " Nancy said, bridhng up. 
 " I suppose you have been listening to a 
 lot of old women's gossip." 
 
 And then he told her what he had heard 
 at the Bungalow, about her choice of the 
 oak furniture for Mr. Asquith's new house, 
 and the terra-cotta hanoincrs, and the 
 kitchen dresser. They were such paltry 
 details, he was ashamed of himself for 
 mentioning them ; he was so sick of the 
 whole thing, that he did not say anything 
 about the horses, the chestnut she had 
 ridden, coming back to the stable. It
 
 224 A TKAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 was like complaining of her, as if she 
 had not the right to do as she liked. He 
 had no acknowledged claim upon her. 
 There was no link between them but the 
 one she held in her own hand. 
 
 " You have been telling that woman of 
 our engagement ! " she said reddening with 
 anger, and an impatient thrill in her 
 voice that jarred upon him ; ''if you have 
 told Catherine Jayne, it will be all over 
 Stoke in an hour." 
 
 "I have not told anyone, darling," he 
 said humbly. " I would give the world to 
 be able to speak openly, to tell Miss 
 Catherine and every one else that you 
 have promised to marry me, Nancy ! " 
 
 She turned upon him almost fiercely. 
 
 "If you are in such a hurry, if you 
 can't wait, Douglas, we had better give 
 it up. I would not have you tell people 
 now for the world ; what would be the 
 use ? — we can't be married for ages ! I am
 
 IN THE RAIN. 225 
 
 sure mamma would not consent to a long 
 engagement, to such a long engagement 
 as ours would have to be. I — I thought 
 you could trust me, Douglas " 
 
 What could he say ? 
 
 He would have given the world to have 
 taken her in his arms — under the umbrella 
 — and assured her that he would keep 
 silence for ever, until she gave him 
 permission to speak. He was yearning 
 for love and sympathy ; the tone of her 
 voice jarred upon him, her sharp words 
 cut him Uke a knife. He loved her with 
 such absolute devotion, that he couldn't 
 bear that there should be a momentary 
 cloud between them. 
 
 She let him walk back beneath her 
 umbrella, at least, she let him have all 
 the drippings of it down the collar of his 
 coat, and she suffered him to press her 
 hand when he left her at the foot of the 
 hill. She forgave him graciously for his 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 A TRAGIC HONEyMOON. 
 
 ill-temper, and his cruel suspicions, as she 
 called them, and she assured him that all 
 that advice and assistance that she had 
 given his Eector's brother in the choice of 
 his furniture, and the colour of his 
 hangings, meant nothing, that it was a 
 mere act of charity. 
 
 "I couldn't help answering the poor 
 man's questions, and telling him that 
 Eeckitt's blue wasn't good for the 
 complexion," she said in her flippant 
 way, as she wished him good-bye in the 
 rain. " You are sure you don't mind my 
 telHng him he had better let the kitchen 
 dresser alone ? He wanted it painted an 
 art colour, an sssthetic dresser, like those 
 in Walter Crane's picture books ; he was 
 nearly out of his mind about it. He made 
 Augusta quite ill, he used to bother her 
 every day about it. It was like the 
 Sphinx's riddle — to be, or not to be ? It 
 was out of pure charity I told him to let
 
 IN THE EAIN. 227 
 
 it alone. But perhaps you would rather 
 
 he had had it painted, Douglas " 
 
 She would not see things seriously. She 
 would persist in making fun of things in 
 her flippant, sprightly way. 
 
 He went away quite ashamed of his 
 doubts, his vague jealousy melted quite 
 away as he looked into the sweet bright 
 face beside him. 
 
 Nancy's good temper had disappeared 
 when she reached Cherry Garden. The 
 tender love and trust that shone in Douglas 
 Craik's steadfast eyes haunted her ; she 
 could not get them out of her mind. 
 
 Why would he take things so dreadfully 
 in earnest ? Why was he so horribly, so 
 unreasonably jealous of her ? 
 
 " He is dreadfully unreasonable and exact- 
 ing," she told herself, as she came fuming 
 up the hill ; " he did not half recognize the 
 sacrifices she was making for him." She 
 was giving up a man with two thousand a
 
 228 A TEAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 year, and a position in the county, to marry 
 a poor Curate who was dependent, or 
 almost dependent, upon charity — she was 
 thinking of those five-pound notes and the 
 beef tea. He didn't consider the sacrifice 
 she was making. She could marry any- 
 one in Stoke — Gilbert Earle had almost 
 asked her to marry him, he would have 
 asked her if Douglas had not come up 
 when he did ; and then she fell a-thinking 
 of the contrast between the two : the 
 brawny giant striding over the grass in the 
 lusty strength of his splendid manhood, 
 and the frail little Curate shivering in the 
 rain. 
 
 It was a cruel contrast. 
 
 When Nancy reached home rather drag- 
 gletailed with walking through the wet 
 grass, she found a letter from Mr. Asquith 
 awaiting her. The Victoria had come 
 down, and he wanted her to see it. He 
 was not sure that it was the exact shade of
 
 IN THE RAIN. 229 
 
 blue. He would have it brought round 
 the next day, and perhaps she would go 
 out in it, she and Mrs. Coulcher. It should 
 call for her at any time she would name. 
 He had also sent her another book on 
 beetles, one that he had edited, and he had 
 written her name on the front page. 
 
 There was a hideous brown bug, on the 
 frontispiece : he had called it by some long 
 Latin name, and Nancy insisted on detect- 
 ing a resemblance between it and the 
 author. She flung the book aside with a 
 shudder as she threw off her wet things. 
 " What will you do about the Victoria ? " 
 Augusta asked. Augusta was helping her 
 to take off her wet things. 
 
 " Oh, he can send it round if he likes ; 
 there's no harm in my seeing it. I needn't 
 go out in it if he does send it round." 
 
 "No — o," Augusta said slowly, with a 
 
 little catch in her voice, and her face 
 
 drooping. She was pulling off Nancy's wet 
 
 15*
 
 230 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 boots, and they were rather troublesome ta 
 unbutton, they were wet through with 
 walking in the grass ; " you need not go out 
 in it unless — unless you have made up 
 your mind. If you go out in it, you cannot 
 very well draw back " 
 
 Nancy laughed. 
 
 " How ridiculous and old-fashioned you 
 are, Gus ; as if anyone couldn't go out in a 
 carriage without marrying the man it 
 belonged to ! " 
 
 " It isn't that," Augusta said in her odd 
 jerky voice, with her drooping face grow- 
 ing pinker with the exertion of getting off 
 those wet boots, " it's taken with the rest. 
 You've helped him to decide about every- 
 thing ; the Victoria was got down for you ; 
 for a present to you. If you go out in it, 
 it will be a tacit consent, you can't refuse 
 him after that." 
 
 " Then I shan't go out in it," Nancy said 
 shortly. " Mother's iUness is quite a suffi-
 
 IN THE RAIN. 231 
 
 cient excuse. I can't think why he wanted 
 to bother me about his things ! I am sick of 
 it all ; no one knows what I've gone through 
 about that kitchen dresser." 
 
 She was angry and out of sorts for the 
 rest of the day. She forgot all about that 
 message to Lucy. She was angry with 
 Douglas for being unreasonable ; she was 
 angry with Catherine Jayne for talking 
 about her, for spreading those reports ; she 
 was angry with Mr. Asquith for sending 
 the Victoria. Why couldn't people let her 
 alone ? She only wanted to be happy — to 
 be let alone — to live in the present. Why 
 were people in such a hurry for her to get 
 married ? Why should she have to decide 
 in a hurry ? — there was plenty of time. 
 She knew exactly what it would be if she 
 were married — if she were married to Mr. 
 Asquith. She would be shut up with him 
 for the rest of her days in that great house, 
 with the oak furniture, and the terra-cotta
 
 232 A TRAGIC HONEYMOON. 
 
 hangings — they would never wear out ; he 
 would buy such strong, substantial material 
 that would never wear out, that would last 
 for ever, and he would talk to her all day 
 long about beetles and spiders, he would 
 be always trying to teach her things, and 
 she would get so sick of the sound of his 
 voice, and the sight of his knitted gloves, 
 and his cough, and his liver. The prospect 
 was depressing. Not even the thought of 
 the Victoria, and the chestnut in that loose 
 box at Ladylift dispelled the gloom. 
 
 " What answer will you send Mr. 
 Asquith, Nancy, about the carriage ? " her 
 mother asked her when she looked in for 
 a minute to see if there was anything she 
 could do for her. She hated nursing, 
 and she couldn't bear sitting in a darkened 
 room ; she only looked in at the door of 
 the sick room every day as a matter of 
 form. 
 
 " Oh, I shall tell him you are in bed,
 
 IN THE RAIN. 233 
 
 mamma ; he can't expect me to go without 
 
 you ! " 
 
 " There is Miss Asquith ; you could drive 
 with her." 
 
 " I wouldn't drive with her for the 
 world, the horrid old thing ! " 
 
 " I shall be better in a few days, and up 
 again — you had better sit down, Nancy, 
 and write to Mr. Asquith ; tell him I am 
 looking forward to a drive in the Victoria 
 the first day that I am allowed out." 
 
 It was her mother's message, not hers ; 
 it did not commit her in the least. She 
 added a postcript to the letter, thanking 
 him in her Uttle exaggerated way for the 
 lovely book he had sent her, that she was 
 longing to devour." 
 
 What could a lover desire more ? 
 
 END OF VOL. 1. 
 
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