Johnny Ludlow Fourth Series Part 98

William Lake sat, the picture of astonishment, wondering whether his ears were playing him false.

"_I!_" he exclaimed, scarcely above his breath. "I never thought of myself. I can hardly believe--believe--pardon me, Sir Robert--is there no mistake?"

"No mistake so far as I am concerned," replied Sir Robert, suppressing a smile. "I have heard of your many years' services at St. Matthew's, and of your worth. I do not think I could bestow it upon one who deserves it better than you--if as well. The living is yours, if you will accept it."

"You are very kind, sir," gasped the curate, not in the least recovering his senses. "May I presume to ask who it is that has been so kind as to speak of me?"

"The person from whom I first heard of you was young Johnny Ludlow,"

smiled Sir Robert. "Mr. Johnny presented himself to me here last Friday, in a state of mental commotion, not having been able to get any one else to come, evidently thinking, though not saying, that I should commit an act of singular injustice if the living did not find its way to one who, by dint of his hard and earnest work, so richly deserved it."

The tears stood in William Lake's eyes. "I can only thank you, sir, truly and fervently. I have no other means of testifying my grat.i.tude--save by striving ever to do my duty untiringly, under my Lord and Master."

"I am sure you will do it," spoke Sir Robert, impulsively--and he was not a man of impulse in general. "You are not a married man, I believe?"

A faint red light came into the curate's cheeks. "I have not had the means to marry, Sir Robert. It has seemed to me, until this morning, that I never should have them."

"Well, you can marry now," was the laughing rejoinder; "I dare say you will." And the faint light deepened to scarlet, as the curate heard it.

"Shall you give him the living, Robert?" asked Anne, when Mr. Lake had departed.

"Yes, love."

II.

When lawyers get a case into their hands, no living conjurer can divine when their clients will get it out again. The hardest problem in Euclid was never more difficult to solve than that. Mr. Brandon came up to town on the Monday morning, bringing me with him; he thought we might be detained a few days, a week at the utmost; yet the second week was now pa.s.sing, and nothing had been done; our business seemed to be no forwarder than it was at the beginning. The men of law in Lincoln's Inn laid the blame on the conveyancers; the conveyancers laid it on the lawyers. Any way, the upshot was the same--we were kept in London. The fact to myself was uncommonly pleasant, though it might be less so to Mr. Brandon.

The astounding news--that the Reverend William Lake was to have St.

Matthew's--and the return of Miss Cattledon from her visit to the sick lady at Chelmsford, rejoiced the ears and eyes of the parish on one and the same day. It was a Wednesday. Miss Cattledon got home in time for dinner, bringing word that her relative was better.

"Has anything been heard about the living?" she inquired, sitting, bonnet in hand, before going up to dress.

Miss Deveen shook her head. In point of fact, we had heard nothing at all of Sir Robert Tenby or his intentions since Mr. Lake's interview with him, and she was not going to tell Cattledon of that, or of Sir Robert's visit on the Sunday.

But, as it appeared, the decision had been made public that afternoon, putting the whole parish into a ferment. Dinner was barely over when Dr.

Galliard rushed in with the news.

"Only think of it!" he cried. "Such a piece of justice was never heard of before. Poor Lake has not the smallest interest in the world; and how Sir Robert Tenby came to pick him out is just a marvel. Such a stir it is causing! It's said--I don't know with what truth--that he came up here on Sunday morning to hear Lake preach. Mrs. Herriker saw a fine barouche draw up, high-stepping horses and powdered servants; a lady and gentleman got out of it and entered the church. It is thought now they might have been Sir Robert and Lady Tenby."

"I shouldn't wonder but they were," remarked Miss Deveen.

"Has Mr. Lake _really_ had the living given to him?" questioned Cattledon, her eyes open with surprise, her thin throat and waist all in a tremor, and unable to touch another strawberry.

"Really and truly," replied the doctor. "Chisholm tells me he has just seen the letter appointing him to it."

"Dear me!" cried Cattledon, quite faintly. "_Dear_ me! How very thankful we all ought to be--for Mr. Lake's sake."

"I dare say _he_ is thankful," returned the doctor, swallowing down the rest of his gla.s.s of wine, and preparing to leave. "Thank you, no, Miss Deveen; I can't stay longer: I have one or two sick patients on my hands to-night, and must go to them--and I promised Mrs. Selwyn to look in upon her. Poor thing! this terrible loss has made her really ill.

By-the-by," he added, turning round on his way from the room, "have you heard that she has decided upon her plans, and thinks of leaving shortly?"

"No--has she?" returned Miss Deveen.

"Best thing for her, too--to be up and doing. She has the chance of taking to a little boys' preparatory school at Brighton; small and select, as the advertis.e.m.e.nts have it. Some relative of hers has kept it hitherto, has made money by it, and is retiring----"

"Will Mrs. Selwyn like _that_--to be a schoolmistress?" interrupted Cattledon, craning her neck.

"Rather than vegetate upon her small pittance," returned the doctor briskly. "She is an active, capable woman; has all her senses about her.

Better teach little boys, and live and dress well, than enjoy a solitary joint of meat once a-week and a turned gown once a-year--eh, Johnny Ludlow?"

He caught up his hat, and went out in a bustle. I laughed. Miss Deveen nodded approvingly; not at my laugh, but at Mrs. Selwyn's resolution.

The stir abroad might have been pretty brisk that evening; we had Dr.

Galliard's word for it: it could have been nothing to what set in the next day. The poor, meek curate--who, however good he might have been to run after, could hardly have been looked upon as an eligible, bona-fide prospect--suddenly converted into a rich Rector: six hundred a-year and a parsonage to flourish in! All the ladies, elder and younger, went into a delightful waking-sleep and dreamed dreams.

"Such a mercy!" was the cry; "_such_ a mercy! We might have had some dreadful old drony man here, who does not believe in daily services, and wears a wig on his bald head. Now Mr. Lake, though his hair is getting a little grey, has a most luxuriant and curly crop of it.

Beautiful whiskers too."

It was little Daisy Dutton said that, meeting us in the Park road; she was too young and frivolous to know better. Miss Deveen shook her head at her, and Daisy ran on with a laugh. We were on our way to Mrs.

Topcroft's, some hitch having arisen about the frames for Emma's screens.

Emma was out, however; and Mrs. Topcroft came forward with tears in her eyes.

"I can hardly help crying since I heard it," she said, taking her handkerchief out of the pocket of her black silk ap.r.o.n. "It must be such a reward to him after his years of work--and to have come so unsought--so unexpectedly! I am sure Sir Robert Tenby must be a good man."

"I think he is one," said Miss Deveen.

"Mr. Lake deserves his recompense," went on Mrs. Topcroft. "No one can know it as I do. Poor Mr. Selwyn knew--but he is gone. I think G.o.d's hand must have been in this," she reverently added. "These good and earnest ministers deserve to be placed in power for the sake of those over whom they have charge. I have nothing to say against Mr. Selwyn, but I am sure the parish will find a blessing in Mr. Lake."

"You will lose him," remarked Miss Deveen.

"Yes, and I am sorry for it; but I should be selfish indeed to think of that. About the screens," continued Mrs. Topcroft; "perhaps you would like to see them--I am sorry Emma is out. One, I know, is finished."

Not being especially interested in the screens, I stepped into the garden, and so strolled round to the back of the house. In the little den of a room, close to the open window, sat Mr. Lake writing. He stood up when he saw me and held out his hand.

"It is, I believe, to you that I am indebted for the gift bestowed upon me," he said in a low tone of emotion, as he clasped my hand, and a wave of feeling swept over his face. "How came you to think of me--to be so kind? I cannot thank you as I ought."

"Oh, it's nothing; indeed, I did nothing--so to say," I stammered, quite taken aback. "I heard people say what a pity it was you stood no chance of the living, after working so hard in it all these years; so, as I knew Sir Robert, and knew very well Lady Tenby, I thought it would do no harm if I just told them of it."

"And it has borne fruit. And very grateful I am: to you, and to Sir Robert--and to One who holds all things, great and small, in His hands.

Do you know," he added, smiling at me and changing his tone to a lighter one, "it seems to me nothing less than a romance."

This was Thursday. The next day Mr. Lake paid a visit to the bishop--perhaps to go through some formality connected with his appointment, but I don't know--and on the following Sunday morning he "read himself in." No mistake about his being the Rector, after that. It was a lovely day, and Mr. Brandon came up in time for service. After he knew all about it--that I had actually gone to Sir Robert, and that Mr.

Lake had the living--he asked me five or six hundred questions, as though he were interested, and now he had come up to hear him preach.

You should have seen how crowded the church was. The ladies were in full force and flutter. Cattledon got herself up in a new bonnet; some of them had new rigging altogether. Each individual damsel looked upon the Rector as her especial prize, sure to be her own. Mr. Lake did every sc.r.a.p of the duty himself, including the reading of the articles; that delightful young deacon's cold had taken a turn for the worse, through going to a water-party, and he simply couldn't hear himself speak. Poor Mrs. Selwyn and her daughter sat in their pew to-day, sad as the c.r.a.pe robes they wore.

Did you ever feel nervous when some one belonging to you is going to preach--lest he should not come up to expectation, or break down, or anything of that sort? Mr. Lake did not belong to me, but a nervous feeling came over me as he went into the pulpit. For Mr. Brandon was there with his critical ears. I had boasted to him of Mr. Lake's preaching; and felt sensitively anxious that it should not fall short.