THE CURATE OF ST. MATTHEW’S. (continued 2)

Close upon this Mr. Lake took a week’s holiday, leaving that interesting young deacon as his substitute, and a brother Rector to preach on the Sunday morning. No one could divine what on earth he had gone out for, as Mrs. Herriker put it, or what part of the world he had betaken himself to. Miss Deveen kept counsel; Mrs. Topcroft and Emma never opened their lips.

The frightful truth came out one morning, striking the parish all of a heap. They read it in the Times, amongst the marriages. “The Reverend William Lake, Rector of St. Matthew’s, to Emily Mary, eldest daughter of Edward Gibson, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons.” Indignation set in.

“I have heard of gay deceivers,” gasped Miss Barlow, who was at the least as old as Cattledon, and sat in the churchwarden’s pew at church, “but I never did hear of deceit such as this. And for a clergyman to be guilty of it!”

“I’m glad I sent him a doll,” giggled Daisy Dutton. “I dare say it is a doll he has gone and married.”

This was said in the porch, after morning prayers. Whilst they were all at it, talking as fast as they could talk, Emma Topcroft chanced to pass. They pounced upon her forthwith.

“Married! Oh yes, of course he is married; and they are coming home on Saturday,” said Emma, in response.

“Is she a doll?” cried Daisy.

“She is the nicest girl you ever saw,” returned Emma; “though of course not much of a girl now; and they have waited for one another fourteen years.”

Fourteen years! Thoughts went back, in mortification, to slippers and cushions. Mrs. Jonas cast regrets to her ginger-cordial.

“Of course he has a right to be engaged—and to have slyly kept it to himself, making believe he was a free man: but to go off surreptitiously to his wedding without a word to any one!—I don’t know what he may call it,” panted Mrs. Herriker, in virtuous indignation, “I call it conduct unbefitting a gentleman. He could have done no less had he been going to his hanging.”

“He would have liked to speak, I think, but could not get up courage for it; he is the shyest man possible,” cried Emma. “But he did not go off surreptitiously: some people knew of it. Miss Deveen knew—and Dr. Galliard knew—and we knew—and I feel nearly sure Mr. Chisholm knew, he simpered so the other day when he called for the books. I dare say Johnny Ludlow knew.”

All which was so much martyrdom to Jemima Cattledon, listening with a face of vinegar. Miss Deveen!—and Johnny Ludlow!—and those Topcrofts!—while she had been kept in the dark! She jerked up her skirts to cross the wet road, inwardly vowing never to put faith in surpliced man again.

We went to church on Sunday morning to the sound of the ting-tang. Mr. Lake, looking calm and cool as usual, was stepping into the reading-desk: in the Rector’s pew sat a quiet-looking and quietly dressed young lady with what Miss Deveen called, then and afterwards, a sweet face. Daisy Dutton took a violent fancy to her at first-sight: truth to say, so did I.

Our parish—the small knot of week-day church-goers in it—could not get over it at all. Moreover, just at this time they lost Mr. Chisholm, whose year was up. Some of them “went over” to St. Jude’s in a body; that church having recently set up daily services, and a most desirable new curate who could “intone.” “As if we would attend that slow old St. Matthew’s now, to hear that slow old parson Lake!” cried Mrs. Herriker, craning her neck disparagingly.

The disparagement did not affect William Lake. He proved as indefatigable as Rector as he had been as curate, earning the golden opinions he deserved. And he and his wife were happy.

But he would persist in declaring that all the good which had come to him was owing to me; that but for my visit to London at that critical time, Sir Robert Tenby would never have heard there was such a man as himself in the world.

“It is true, Johnny,” said Miss Deveen. “But you were only the humble instrument in the hand of God.”