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'JUST AS I AM." j*

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'JUST AS I AM." j* BY MISS BRADDON. CHAPTER XXXIV.-AN EARNEST MAN. Never had that rude. barn-like structure, lusthorpe Church, looked prettier than on the Junday next after Easter. All those exotics fhic.i had glorified the village fane on Easter Jxmuay hnd been restored to the ladies andgentle* Den who had lent them, Mr Aspinall's arums •f1" azalias had been carted home to her hot- houses. Dulcie's gardenias and white tulips were fcfe on their shelves under the head gaidener a fare. or were adorning the rooms her mistress fved in. But the church looked no poorer for the loss of these expenive adornments. Altar and font, pulpit and reading desk, were beautiful with rders of freshest moss, in which were embedded dusters of p imroses, violets, and wood anemones. The base of the font was a mass ot daffodils, shining golden bright against the dark granite pedestal. uri led by time, To the villagers, who had known and loved these wild woodland blos- SBOUIB ever since their eyes first opened to an under- standing of nature's beauty, the simple adorn- ments of to-day were sweeter than the grand un- known flowers which had served for the pascal decorations. Flowers lent for the occasion by Mrs flowers with long Latin names which nobody could remember or pronounce, were not half so good as the modest little blossoms that glorified the woods near home, the woods which were—or seemed to be—public property. There Whs no sense of obligation or patronage to mar the villagers' delight in the de- corltiollS to to-day. As they lingered after the service to admire font or altar there was no need to say, "How kind of Mrs Aspinall," or "How ood of iVjiss Courtenay to contribute such lovely Bowers." Thev had only to lift up their hearts in lilent thankfulness to the Creator who gave his woodiand blossoms for all alike, and gave them with a plenteousness, an overflowing illimitable wealth which no earthly gardener, labour as he might, in the multiplication of slips and seedlings, could iiuitnte. Lady Frances and Dulcie had worked their hardest for several hours on Saturday to achieve even so simple a result. Lord Blatchmardean'a daughter had shrewdly determined that the only v ay to make Dulcie for- get her troubles was to employ her mind and fingers about something, no matter how trivial the task. When the church work was finished Lady Frances found she had a pressing necessity for shopping at Highclere, and entreated Dulcie to drive her there directly after luncheon. The drive and the shopping, which was a very small business as to actual expenditure, occupied the whole afternoon, for Frances insisted upon coming round by BlatcLmardean Castle on their way home, and running in to see if the dear old Sheik was well, and was resigned to his daughter pro- longing her visit at Fairview for a week or two. xhey were home in time for the afternoon tea, ,wliich Sir Everard, whether well or ill, always lhaied with them. But that friendly meal had lost something of its old pleasantness. Dulcie no longer hung over her father's chair as she minis- tered to him—no longer sat at his feet, or rested her bright head upon his knee, in childlike affec- tion. She brought him his cup of tea, and waited an him with respectful tenderness, but the old caressing ways were wanting, and he felt that his daughter and he had drifted wide apart since their return to Fairview. Dulcie sat in her comer by the hearth, joined politely in any conversation that Sir Everard or Lady Frances started, but it seemed somehow as if her thoughts were far away from them. Frances noticed that this curious restraint was always upon her in her father's pres- £ nce. She talked more freely, and seemed happier 'lien the two girls were alone together. "Yet she used to be so utterly devoted to her father." mused Frances. Morton once com- plained to me that he was only second in her love. put I suppose she has not forgiven Sir Everard ror breaking her engagement. I daresay that Would be a hard thing for any girl to for- give; and these gentle girls have an immense E>wer of resistance. I only wish she would 11 in love with Beville, and make a happy end of ton this perplexity. But that seeinBquite too good to happen." There was a twitter among the village children, a thrill of expectation even in older breasts, on the Sunday next after Easter, when the schoolmistress began her voluntary on the harmo- tHurn, and when every eye that could so turn Was directed to the low stone doorway of the em w^ence the ne.v curate was presently to T| clifi ly anyoTie» except Mr Gomersall, the to..u!2llWarden, had seen him, or had any idea prat j w,as ^e. He might be big or little, C; or. dark, or sandy. Those most interested in 8,8 .*n. an event which stirred the stag- tnrp, ^ai ?ra °. vil}age life, had made mental pic- to wtif v, lnvolu,ntarily, in the vagabond fancy ii an unemployed mind is inclined. All Lwi°Un?i ,Yomen in the village regretted Mr U k j all the young men ridiculed, and affected to despise him, yet were glad he waa gone. The cniddle-^ed, steady-going parishioners had sus- pected him of Papistical leanings, and hoped the new man would be of broader and less modern views, that he would snuffle and drawl less than the Reverend Lionel, and would be able to preach a. g-ood, plain-sailing practical sermon in twelve or fifteen minutes. And now the arpeggios" of the voluntary's welled with all the power of the loudest stops in the bar. monium, and heralded the entrance of the stranger, tie had to stoop a little as he came through the arched doorway, and when he lifted his head and looked around him with a swift, sweeping glance that surveyed the whole congregation in a flash, his parishioners saw that their pastor was a man wottii looking at. He looked somewhat older than his three-and- thirty years. He was tall, broad-shouldered, erec with a noble head nobly set on. His eyes were dark gray, his complexion was pale, and there were shadows about his eyes that told of over-work or ill-health. His mouth, shaded by a dark brown beard, was just seen enough to indi- cate an expression of indomitable will in the firmly moulded lips. He looked a. man born to command- and the congregation felt that he ought to have been a bishop, and was altogether too good for A.ust>'orpe. He 11 never stay in such a dead-and-alive p ace as Austhorpe," thought Mrs Gomersall, the onurchwarden's wife.a rosy-faced buxom matron, glorious in the freshness of her Easter Sunday new bonnet. Mr Haldimond walked slowly to the reading desk, looked with a pleasant smile at the prim- uses and violets in their mossy border, gl need once more round the church, and in that one Rlfuice saw the fair-haired, sad-faced girl in the Fairview pew, with downcast eyes upon her book, and the bright brunette face beside her, and wondered a little who these two girls could be, so different from the rest of the congregation, not even excepting the Honourable Mrs Aspinall, who Eenfronted the new-comer with the placid imper- tinence of her double eyeglass. Sir Everard had accompanied his daughter and Lady Frances to church, according to his unvarying habit. He Was looking ill and careworn, a fact which Mrs ft-spinall had noted without the aid of her eye- glass for although it was quite permissible to stare at a clerical nobody like Mr Haldimond, it Was not good form to scrutinise so important a personage as Sir Everard Courtenay with the same direct gaze. At the baronet Mrs Aspinall rtole an occasional glance, full of compassion. No wonder he looks so ill when he has nothing to interest him in life except that chit of daughter," she reflected. What a pity he uoesn't marry." Arthur Haldimond began the service in his low grave voice, which was distinctly heard in the urtliest corners Jof tbef old church. He read admirably, as everybody felt before the first part 3f the service was over. There was no attempt t intoning, no fashionable sing-song, no brisk cantering over the level ground of the liturgy, ^jitli a view of leaving more time for the decora- tive or musical portions thereof. All was sober, Serious, reverential. His sermon was brief, for the reading of the articles had prolonged the service, and he did not wish to detain those simple early- fining folk, some of whom had driven half a dozen, miles to hear him, but brief as the sermon Jvas it told his hearers a good deal. It told them that he had put his hand to the plough meaning to follow it with all his heart and all his strength; that he had come among them prepared to love them and to Work for them, as he had loved and worked for a large mass of people in one of the most notorious neighbourhoods of the biggest cities in the world. It is a place that has borne an evil name ever *mce it has been a place at all," he said, "yet I found plenty of kind hearts, plenty of willing bands, and much instinctive Christianity to help in my work. I found plenty of parishioners Worthy of a parish priest's love, of his confidence and respect, and hardly one who was not entitled o his pity not one so bad that there was no fair Tot in the evil nature not one so deeply fallen 8 to be unworthy a good man's effort to pick him P. I have left them, not because I was tired of them not because I ever for one single moment M my life among them despaired of doing good to them, and finding improvement in them; but be- Cause my physical health broke down under the strain of continual and anxious work, and because toe doctors warred me that if I went on mv Rental health must give way too. Forgive me gear friends, for talking to you about myself, but warit you all to know what manner of parson I that I am used to hard work, and love it, and *hat you never need be afraid to send for me, or to come to me, or to send your children r t me when you think they need more Instruction than the ordinary Sunday-school y>pn,tor car, give them. I love to teach the young, *°ve to talk with the old. I shall start mstruc- classes for boys and girls on four evenings o e week—two evenings for the boys, two for the for r J on'y keep them an hour at a time, don t want to weary them, or to make the Wa *riUre3 unpalatable to them by overdosing, I to show them what a lovely book their jin 1M.. and wlat Affable wisdom they may 11 d In lts Pases if they know how to seek, Count Otto ,ny brethren, as one of yourselves, frip^i m y°ur joys and your griefs, a jerpn* oin no trouk*e °f y°ur8 can be indif- £ rent who can never weary of working with you \n J ake our own little bit of this big world better 'nearer heaven." Preacher's words were so plain and straight- /v.- cbild in the church l^erstood him. His deep resonant voice, trained hA faking to large congregations, softened as *lxf*ue98ed little flock. He looked round WreaH ? his kindly grey eyes, as if he were «rj«Tv^ their friend. The grave, handsome face, Path f"-8 ever-varying expression the frank, sym- fifgt manner, won their hearts before his first f?°n was ended. This man was a priest Tyj ,y could revere and lore. •aid Mrn'l tell you he was the right sort, Jess," btrGOtnersall, as he ducked to prrope for his Ablifder .the bench in his comfortable, square rM tsjw^ Jard gatft barouche stood before the church- feadg ^e'l gray horses tossing Vfieir r*e villarT their bits, to the admiration of P get irsh; but Mrs Aspinall was in hurry 1 Coming er carriage and drive away, iky Sir w °u': the porch, she contrived to way- | Gerard and the two girls, Sir Everard, this is a 'jurprise I had returned. HpTvv cruel of you, to let nw know*. ^.should have rushed to call upon you directly if I had had remotest notion. How do you do, Lady Frances? Naughty girl. You haven't been to seen me for an age. But, dear Sir Everard, you are not looking quite so well as I had hoped to see you- "My friends are charmingly unanimous in that opinion," answered Sir Everard, rather wearily. I suppose the fact is that blue skies and southern coasts are no reihedy for chronic disoiders of long standing. A man may take his gout or his rheu- matism to the Fijis or the Phillipines but gout is gout and rheumatism is rheumatism to the end of the chapter." Well, I am very glad you have come home," said Mrs Aspinall, "and now you are all coming to lunch with me. Yes, you are," as Sir Everard began to excuse himself. I shall take no denial. Dulcie owes me some recompense for running awav just before my little d nice. It was a very nice little dance, « asn't it, Frances ?" It was awfully jolly," answered Lacty Frances. I am goir.g to ask the curate man to lun- cheon," said Mrs Aspinall. Do you know I never felt more inteiest in anybody at first sight. Quite an awakening sort of person, don't you know ? I only ho] e he won't make us feel uncom- fortable in our minds, and that he will confine himself to stirring up the poor people, who drink and swear to a shocking extent, I am told, and require to have their consciences worked upon. A remarkably nnelooking man, too, a handsome, intellectual head. I hear that he is a man with a history. He belonged to rich people, and was brought up in an extravagant manner, and began life in the very best society. And when he was three or four and twenty his people contrived to lose all their money, somehow, and he went into the church. Oh, here he comes." They had been standing on a bit of a level green- sward on one side of the porch, Mrs Aspinall murmuring her confidences to Sir Everard, Dulcie by her father's'side, with sad, serious face, and downcast eyes Fiances Grange, bright and animated, returning the greetings of the people that knew her with smiles and nods. Mr Haldimond came slowly along the path vith Mr Gomersall, the churchwarden by his side. This gave Mrs Aspinall her opportunity. "Mr Gomersall, pray make me known to our new pastor," she said, and the good tempered farmer stammered out an introduction, presenting the stranger in a confused form of words to Mrs Aspinall aud Kir Everarc" I have set my heart upon you taking your luncheon with me," said the lady. Sir Everard and his daughter, and Lady Frances Grange are coming. The barouche will hold us all five. It is a regular Noah's ark. Now, please, don't refuse me. You couldn't have a better opportunity for getting acquainted with ever so many of your parinhioners at once." Arthur Haldimond hesitated, stole a glance at Dulcie's sad, pale face, and accepted the fifth seat in the barouche. It was not Mrs Aspinall's over. powering manner, which few people could stand up against, that influenced his acceptance; but that second look at Dulcie had interested him curiously in the girl's character. Here surely was the heroine of some painful story. So young, so exquisitely girlish, yet with such deep sorrow written in every line of the fair fresh face. Mr Haldimond and the two girls sat with their backs to the horses. Sir Everard occupied the place of honour by Mrs Aspinall's side. The curate glanced from Dulcie's face to her father's, and there, too, he saw the impress of secret care. It was not ill-health alone that had drawn those deep lines about the handsome mouth, that per- pendicular wrinkle in the thoughtful brow. Much brooding over painful memories, the rankling misery of one great sorrow had moulded those features into a look of unspeakable melancholy. How charmed you must be at Morton's re- covery," began Mrs Aspinall, smiling benevolently at Dulcie, but a sharp kick from Lady Frances stopped this gush of sympathy, and turned the current of the lady's speech, "and how delicious it must have been for you to see the dear roman- tic Moors, with their mahogany complexions and their white drapery, and the sea, and the moan- tains, and the scenery in a general way. I suppose it is absolutely delicious." "It was very beautiful," answered Dulcie, with a mechanical air. "But you like home best, perhaps," suggested Mr Haldimond. ,> Yes. I used to be very fond of Austhorpe." Used to be ? Has your mind outgrown this little place ? d- No—only—since the doctor says papa must not spend another winter in England, I feel that Austhorpe is no longer our home," faltered Dulcie; "We must reconcile ourselves to be wanderers," And I suppose nest winter you will want to go still further afield. You will be asking Sir Everard to take you to Egypt or India." "1 shall be glad to go wherever is best for him." What has become of Miss Pawker?" asked Lady Frances. rl My poor dear Louisa had one or ner nresome headaches," said Mrs Aspinall, "but I daresay she will be well enough to take her luncheon with us." The fact was that poor dear Louisa had been coaxed to forego the morning service, in order that she might make herself generally useful in pre- panng an elegant-looking luncheon for the baronet and hs daughter, whom Mrs Aspinall, fully aware Qf their return, despite her affected surprise at teat fact, was determined to take home with her. Ihe consequence of this prudent arrangement was a luncheon table elegantly decorated with hot- house flowers, and a tasteful display of those -t rench-looking hoi's d cEuvres in the way of an- chovies, caviare, olives, tiny pink and white radishes, and other small dainties, which set forth a table at a moderate cost, and give colour and variety to the homely roast mutton, or the mono- tonous boiled chicken. ,< To all outward seeming, the luncheon party at Aspinall Towers was a success. Arthur Haldi- mond was a man of wide reading and considerable experience. He had travelled a good deal, he had lIved in society and out of society, and he was able to talk to anybody and of almost any subject. He contrived to interest Sir Everard he con- trived to interest Dulcie; Lady Frances was charmed with him; Mrs Aspinall told herself that the curate man was an acquisition Miss Pawker hung upon his words as if he were inspired. After luncheon there was a sauntermg half hour in the Italian garden, which looked its best under a cloudless blue sky and, as Mrs Aspinall and her guests strolled in and out of the narrow serpentine walks, or up and down a broad green alley, Mr Haldimond contrived to take his place at Dulcie's side. I bear that I shall find you a most valuable coadjutor, Miss Courtenay," he Said, when they were far enough from the rest of the party to be confidential. Mr Gomersall tells me that you have done wonders for the school, aud that all the poor people adore you." They are very good to think so much of such small kindnesses," answered Dulcie, with a sigh. U I have been very happy among them." Have been ? Why speak in a past tense ? I count upon your help as a. pillar of strength. Pray do not disappoint me." My life henceforward will be very uncertain. My father's health may oblige us to leave Aus- thoipe at any moment." _r. "Let us hope not. And even if you have to desert us sometimes, that is no reason why you should not interest yourself as warmly in your native village while you are here. Think what a glorious thing it is to be the dispenser of happi- ness to those whose joys are so few, to be a con- soler among those whose sorrows are so many." "jWe have all oar sorrows," answered Dulcie, with deepest despondency. Ihope that the griefs which shadow your bright young life are but passing clouds," said Mr Haldi- mond, contemplating the sweet sad face with infinite compassion. "Yet you speak as if all joy were gone from you for ever." "It has," answered Dulbie. "Believe me, no. Youth lives in the present, and deems every sorrow eternal. It is only when we have travelled some distance on the road of life that we know the meaning of hope. Your father's precarious health is the cause of your un- happiness, I apprehend." "It is one cause." "Can you not find comfort in the thought that yonr love has lightened his life, that the same filial love will console and cheer him to the eud, and that when the hour of parting shall come, as it must come to all of us, the severance will be but for a little while. We say good-bye to each other in a world whose brightest hours and fairest scenes are shadowed by the pain and travail of all nature, to meet where there is neither grief nor care." Are we afl to meet there?" asked Dulcie, with a despairing look. Will not the sinners be shut out of that happy world ?" The unpenitent sinner only. God's great love promises forgiveness to every sinner who honestly and really, not in a mere form of words, but with all his heart and mind and strength, and with every act of atonement in his power, repents his 8iD8«' • t "I see. It is not enough for him to be sorry in his heart of hearts. He must atone; he must bear the brunt of his sin. He must endure the consequence of his evil doing here if he wants to escape them hereafter." A man who is sorry in his heart of hearts would naturally do his utmost to atone for his sins. There was a striking instance of that in your own neighbourhood last year, in the case of that unhappy creature who gave himself up to justice for a murder committed twenty years ago. Ignorant, brutalised, as one might suppose such a man to be, yet even to bis blunted mind conscience spoke plainly, and showed him the only way to obtain pardon." He looted at Dulcie as he finished speaking, and was startled by the ghastly pallor in her face the horror in her eyes. Forgive me," he faltered, "I fear I have spoken of a topic which is in some way painful." y e, she answered hurriedly, it is a pain- ful subject. The Blakes are our friends." I understand. Pray forgive me. A man coming a stranger into a neighbourhood is sure to make mis- takes of this kind. Society is so interlinked and bound together. Let us talk of more cheerful sub- jects. I want you to tell me all about the sohools, Miss Courtenay. Mr Gomersall has given me some information but though he seems the best- natured of men, and ready to co-operate with me ?n every way, he has not the knack of expressing btaSwyNearly, and I h»n » great Jul j.t to learn. wBelf with an effort, and en- Dulcie rouaeOerseiiWtbe corate.# qup8tion8t dearoured to ans]V vj. manner, his evident The warm earnestnessofh her into a delight m the work 'troubles, ard for brief forgetfulness of her own tr her ex_ the next half hour she talked brig J fcta^er9 0f periences in schools, and among the c A"?YouPmust make friends with the elder Mws Blake," she said, "the lady whom almost every- body calls Aunt Dora. You will find her a more favourable ally than I can possiblv be. I am inclined to doubt that. But if you will introduce me to the lady I will do my best to 86"*I will leave someone else to do that," stam- mered DtJcie," I am not likely to see Miss Blake for sometime." — Mr Haldimond felt that he had agam touched unon some painful subject. It seemed to be his evil fate to distress this sweet girl, whose sadness he would so gladly have mitigated by any art m hiSir°Everard came up to them al this moment, f under convoy of Mrs Aspinall, who had j 2j;rtjnsr. all her fascinations w 91d saunter about the gardens, and bad succeeded-in makingjjfclie baronet's life a burden to him. My dear Dulcie, if you and Frances are ready, I shall be glad to take you home ? he said, strangling an incipient yawn,and Dulcie ran off to summon Lady Frances, who was enlivening the faithful Packer with her pleasant chat, and making th"t genteel drudge forgei her drudgery and her dependence. You don't think the walk across the park or through the fields will be too much fatigue for you 1 "asked Dulcie, when they were ready to start. Pray let my carriage take you home," urged Mrs Aspinall. "It can be ready in a quarter of an hour." You are very kind," said Sir Everard. No, I shall enjoy the walk this lovely afternoon." And so they departed, Mrs Aspinall, Miss Pawker, and Mr Haldimond walking with them to the little iron gate which divided the gardens from the park. Mr Haldimond would willingly have gone further with them, but he was bent upon getting a little enlightenment from Mrs Aspinall as to the social mysteries amidst which he had found himself blindly stumbling. Having parted from the baronet, Mrs Aspinall. who liked masculine society, was all sweetness to the curate. Don't be in a hurry to leave us," sheentreated. You have no afternoon service, aud you have hours to sp re before what Mr Mawk used to call vespers—much to the indignation of our country bumpkins." "You are very good, but I must go back to spend an hour in the Sunday-school. I mean to revive the old-fashioned afternoon service, for Mr Gomersall tells me it was the most popular service of the day, as it suited farmers aud people 1 who live a long way off." Pray don't make a slave of yourself," ex- postulated Mrs Aspinall, in a tone of friendly interest. Austhorpe people are horridly un- grateful. They will only revile you for your pains." When you do well and suffer for it, quoted Mr Haldimond. I must do my utmost accord- ing to my lights, and abide the issue. But I fear I have been doing very badly to-day. I had set my heart upon winning the friendship of that sweet-looking girl, Miss Uouitenay, and on two occasions I was idiot enough to say something that caused her extreme distress. Yet I have no idea why it should be so. The fiist time was when I spoke of the man who was tried at HighcIere for a murder, and condemned upon his oan con- fession. The second w as when I asked her to introduce me to a certain Miss Dora Blake." You poor foolish man, you could hardly have done worse," exclaimed Airs Aspinall. "This comes of not getting yourself coached by son;e one who knows the society you are coming into. Mr Mawk ought really to have given you a few parting ins!ruction?. However, in Miss Cour- tenay's case it was almost impossible to avoid coming to grief, for even I myself did not kno.v the real state of affairs till Lady Frances Grange enlightened me, just before luncheon." "Pray explain." Well, in the first place you ougnt not to have spoken of the murder, because the man who was murdered was Walter Blake, of Tangley, to whose only son, Morton, Miss Courtenay" as engaged." "Oh," said Mr Haldimond, "she is engaged, is she?" Don't interrupt, troublesome man," cried Mrs Aspinall, with girlish playfulness. "If you were listening properly you would have heard that I said, was engaged, not is engaged. To gratify some caprice of Sir Everard's the engagement has been broken off, and Dulcie is absolutely miser- able. And six months ago she was the brightest, gayest, happiest little creature." "But surely her father must have had some substantial reason for breaking the engagement," said Mr Haldimond. "He would not sacrifice his daughter's happiness to a whim." What reason could he have ? Morton fs alto- gether charming; he has horrid radical ideas, but still is excessively nice. He has a fiue estate, is entirely his own master, intellectual, ambitious. good-looking, high-principled. What more could the most exacting father demand in his daughter's Buitorr Yet there must be a hitch somewhere," said the curate, thoughtfully. No father would will- ingly make his daughter unhappy; and I fear that Miss Courtenay is really unhappy. Even in her conversation with me, a stranger, she uncon- sciously revealed the depth of her misery. And she is so girlish—childish almost in her freshness and simplicity. I feel intensely sorry for her." Sweetest child, my heart positively bleeds for her," said Mrs Aspinall with a sigh, which was al- most extinguished in a yawn. "Do come back to the houfe and take some tea." « Thanks, you are too good, but I must go to my school," and the curate shook hands with the two ladies, and went out at the little gate and across the grass with the steady, swinging pace of a man who l as walked half over England, and done no small portion of the Continent, at a sys- tematic five miles an hour. x (To be continued.)

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