jolly george gurwood's only child, tie little boy whom his grandfather, old john lorraine, made so much of during the latter years of his life, after having been educated at marlborough and oxford, was admitted into holy orders, and, at the time of our story, was vicar of lullington, a rural parish, about one hundred and twenty miles from london, on the great northern road. a pleasant place lullington for a lazy man. a quiet, sleepy little village of half a hundred houses, scattered here and there, with a chirpy little brook singing its way through what was supposed the the principal street, and hurrying onwards though great broad tracts of green pasturage, where in the summer time the red-brown cattle drank of it, and cooled their heated limbs in its refreshing tide, until it was finally swallowed up in the silver trent.

lullington church was not a particularly picturesque edifice, for it resembled a large barn, with a square, weather-beaten tower at one end of it; nor was the churchyard at all likely to be provocative of an elegy, or of anything but rheumatism, being a damp, dreary little spot, with most of its tombstones covered with green moss, and with a public footpath, with a stile at either end, running through the middle of it. but to the artists wandering through that part of the country (they were not numerous, for notts and lincoln have not much to offer to the sketcher), the vicarage made up for the shortcomings of the church. it was a square, old-fashioned, red-bricked house, standing in the midst of a garden full of greenery; and whereas the church looked time-worn and cold, and had even on the brightest summer day, a teeth-chattering, gruesome appearance, the vicarage had a jolly cheerful expression, and when the sun gleamed on its little diamond-shaped windows, with their leaden casements, you were inexplicably reminded of a red-faced, genial old gentleman, whose eyes were twinkling in delight at some funny story which he had just heard.

it was just the home for a middle-aged man with a wife and family; for it had a large number of rooms of all kinds and shapes, square bed-chambers, triangular nooks, long passages, large attics, wherein was accommodation for half-a-dozen servants, and ramshackle stables, where as many horses could be stowed away. it was just the house for a man of large means, who would not object to devoting a certain portion of his leisure to his parochial duties, but whose principal occupation would be in his garden or his greenhouses. such a man was martin gurwood's predecessor, who had held the living for fifty years, and had seen some half-score boys and girls issue from the vicarage into the world to marry and settle themselves in various ways of life. the reverend anthony camden was known as a rose-grower throughout three adjoining counties, and had even obtained special prizes at crystal-palace and botanical-garden shows. he was a bit of a fisherman too, and had been in his younger days something of a shot. not being much of a reader, except of the field and the gardeners' chronicle, he would have found the winter evenings dull, had it not been for the excitement of perpetually re-arranging his large collection of moths and butterflies, renewing their corks and pins, and putting fresh pieces of camphor into the corners of the glazed drawers which contained them. mr. camden knew all about crops and manure, and sub-soiling and drainage; the farmers for miles round used to come to the vicarage to consult him, and he always gave them beer and advice both of the best quality. he played long-whist and preached short sermons; and when he died in a green old age, it was universally voted in lullington and its neighbourhood, that it would be impossible to replace him.

certainly, there could not have been a more marked contrast than between him and his successor. martin gurwood was a man of six-and-twenty, unmarried, with apparently no thought in life beyond his sacred calling and the duties appertaining to it. only half the rooms in the vicarage were furnished; and, except on such rare occasions as his mother or some of his friends coming to stay with him, only two of them on the ground-floor, one the vicar's study, the other his bed-chamber, were used. the persistent entreaties of his old housekeeper had induced him to relent from his original intention of allowing the garden to go to rack and ruin, and it was accordingly handed over to the sexton, who in so small a community had but little work in his own particular line, and who kept up the old-fashioned flowers and the smooth-shaven lawns in which their late owner had so much delighted. but martin gurwood took no interest in the garden himself, and only entered it occasionally of an evening, when he would stroll up and down the lawn, or one of the gravel walks, with his head bent forward and his hands clasped behind him, deep in meditation. he kept a horse, certainly--a powerful big-boned irish hunter--but he only rode her by fits and starts, sometimes leaving her in the stable for weeks together, dependent on such exercise as she could obtain in the spare moments of her groom, at other times persistently riding her day after day, no matter what might be the weather. on those occasions the vicar did not merely go out for a mild constitutional, to potter round the outskirts of his parish, or to trot over to the market-town; he was out for hours at a stretch, and generally brought the mare home heated and foam-flecked. indeed, more than one of his parishioners had seen their spiritual guide riding across country, solitary indeed, but straight, as though he were marking out the line for a steeple-chase, stopping neither for hedge, bank, nor brook, the irish mare flying all in her stride, her rider sitting with his hands down on her withers, his lips compressed, and his face deadly pale. "tekkin it out of hisself, mebbe," said farmer barford, when his son described to him this sight which he had seen that afternoon; "for all he's so close, and so meek and religious, there's a spice of the devil in him as in every other man; and, bill, my boy, that's the way he takes it out of hisself." thus farmer barford, and to this effect spoke several of the parishioners in committee assembled over their pipes and beer at the dun cow.

they did not hint anything of the kind to the vicar himself, trust them for that! martin gurwood could not be called popular amongst the community in which his lot was cast; he was charitable to a degree, lavish with his money, thinking nothing of passing days and nights by the bedside of the sick, contributing more than half the funds necessary for the maintenance of the village schools, accessible at all times, and ready with such advice or assistance as the occasion demanded; but yet they called him "high and standoffish." old mr.. camden, making a house-to-house visitation perhaps once a year, when the fit so seized him, "going his rounds," as he called it, would sit down to dinner in a farm-house kitchen, or take a mug of beer with the farmer while they talked about crops, and occasionally would preside at a harvest-home supper, or a christmas gathering. martin gurwood did nothing of this kind; he was always polite, invariably courteous, but he never courted anything like fellowship or bonhomie. he had joined the village cricket-club on his first arrival, and showed himself an excellent and energetic player; but the familiarity engendered in the field seemed displeasing to him, and though he continued his subscription, he gradually withdrew from active membership. nor was his religious ardour particularly pleasing to the parishioners, who, under mr. camden's lax rule, had thought it sufficient if they put-in an appearance at morning service, and thus cleared off the debt of attendance until the succeeding sunday. they could not understand what the parson meant by having prayers at eight o'clock every morning: who did he expect would go at such a time, they wondered? not they, nor their men, who were far away in the fields before that time; not the missuses, who had the dairy and the house to attend to; not the girls, who were looking after the linen and minding the younger children; nor the boys, who, if not at school, were out at farm-work. it was all very well for the two miss dyneleys, the two maiden ladies living at ivy cottage, who had money coming in regular, paid them by the government (the lullington idea of consols was not particularly clear), and had naught to do from morning till night; it filled-up their time like, and was a kind of amusement to them. all very well for old mr. willis, who had made his fortune, it was said, by being a tailor in london, who had bought the larches where squire needham used to live in the good old times, who could not ride, or drive, or shoot, or fish, or do anything but walk about his garden with a spud over his shoulders, and who was said to be dying to get back to business. these and some two or three of the bigger girls from the miss gilks's seminary for young ladies, were all that attended at "mattins," as the name of the morning service stood in early-english type on the index-board in the churchyard; but martin garwood persevered and went through the service with as much earnestness and devotion as though the church had been full and the bishop of the diocese seated in the vicar's pew.

there was the usual element of squirearchy in the neighbourhood, and on martin's first introduction into its parish the squires' wives drove over, leaving their own and their husbands' cards, and invitations to dinner, duly arranged for a time when the moon was at its full. mr. gurwood responded to these invitations, and made his appearance at the various banquets. accustomed to old mr. camden with his red face, his bald head, his white whiskers, and black suit cut in the fashion of a quarter of a century ago, the county people were at first rather impressed with martin gurwood's thin handsome face, and small well-dressed figure. it was a relief, the women said, to see a gentleman amongst them, and they were all certain that mr. gurwood would be an acquisition to the local society; but as the guests were driving homeward from the first of these feasts, several of the male convives imparted to their wives their idea that the new vicar of lullington was not merely unfit to hold a candle to his predecessor, but was likely to prove a meddlesome, disagreeable fellow. it seemed that after the ladies had retired, the conversation becoming as usual rather free, mr. gurwood had sat in blank, stony silence, keeping his eyes steadily fixed upon the contents of his dessert plate, and neither by look nor word giving the slightest intimation that he was aware of what was going on. but when rallied from his silence by mr. lidstone, a man of low tastes and small education, but enormously wealthy, mr. gurwood had spoken out and declared that if by indulging in such conversation, and telling such stories, they chose to ignore the respect due to themselves, they ought at least, while he was among them, to recollect the respect due to him, and to the calling which he represented. he had no desire to assume the character of a wet blanket or a kill-joy, but they must understand that for the future they must chose between his presence and the indulgence in such conversation; and as they had evidently not expected any such demonstration in the present instance, he would relieve them of his company at once, and leave them to decide whether or not he should again come amongst them as a guest. so saying, the parson had walked out of the window on to the lawn as cool as a cucumber, and left the squirearchy gaping in astonishment.

they were boeotian, these county people, crass, ignorant, and rusted with prejudice from want of contact with the world, but they were by no means bad-hearted, and they took the parson's remonstrance in very good part. each one who had already sent martin gurwood an invitation, managed to grip his hand before the evening was over, and took occasion to renew it, declaring he should have no occasion to reiterate the remarks which he had just made, and which they perfectly understood. nor had he; he went a round of these solemn festivities, finding each one, both during the presence of the ladies and after their withdrawal, perfectly decorous, but unspeakably dull. he had not been sufficiently long in the neighbourhood for the local gossip to possess the smallest interest to him; he was not sufficient of an agriculturist to discuss the different methods of farming or the various qualities of food; he could talk about oxford indeed, where some of his hosts or their friends had young relations whom he had known; he could and did sing well certain italian songs in a rich tenor voice; and he discussed church architecture and decorations with the young ladies. but the old squires and the young squires cared for none of these things. they remembered how old anthony camden would sit by while the broadest stories were told, looking, save from the twinkle in his eye and the curling of his bulbous nether lip, as though he heard them not; with what feeling he would troll out a ballad of dibdin's, or a bacchanalian ditty; and how the brewing of the bowl of punch, the "stirrup-cup," was always intrusted to his practised hand. martin gurwood took a glass of cold water before leaving; and if he were dining out any distance always had the one hired fly of the neighbourhood to convey him back to the vicarage. no wonder that the laughter-loving, roisterous squires shook their heads when they thought of old anthony camden, and mourned over the glories of those departed days.

martin gurwood was not, however, at lullington just now. he had induced an old college friend to look after the welfare of his parishioners while he ran up, as he did once or twice in the year, to stay for a fortnight with his mother in great walpole-street. john calverley, who had a strong liking for martin, a feeling which the vicar cordially reciprocated, was anxious that his step-son should come to them at christmas; being an old-fashioned soul with a belief in holly and yule logs, and kindly greetings and open-hearted charities, at what he invariably spoke of as that "festive season," and having an intense desire to interpose at such a time a friendly aegis between him and the stony-faced gorgon, whom it was his lot through life to confront. but martin gurwood, regarding the christmas season in a very different light, urged that at such a time it would be impossible for him to absent himself from his duties, and after his own frigid manner refused to be tempted by the convivial blandishments which john held out to him, or to be scared by the picture of the grim loneliness of the vicarage which his stepfather drew for his edification. so, in the early days of november, when the lullington farmers were getting well into their hunting, and the london fogs, scarcely long enough to embrace the entire length of great walpole-street, blotted out its middle and its lower end, leaving the upper part comparatively bright and airy, martin gurwood came to town and took up his abode in mrs. calverley's best spare bedroom.

the other spare bedroom in the house was occupied by madame pauline du tertre, who had for some time been installed there, and had regularly taken up her position as the friend of the family and confidential adviser to the female head of the house. immediately on gaining her footing within the walls, pauline had succeeded in establishing herself in the good graces of the self-contained, silent woman, who hitherto had never known what it was to have any one to share her confidences, to listen patiently to her never-ceasing complaints, and to be able and willing to make little suggestions which chimed-in with mrs. calverley's thoughts and wishes. years ago, before her first marriage, jane calverley had had a surfeit of toadyism and flattery from her poor relations and dependants, and from the servants, who cringed to and fawned upon the young girl as though they had been southern slaves and she their owner. but in george gurwood's days, and since her marriage with her second husband, mrs. calverley had made no friends, and even those whose interest it was to stand well with her had found it impossible to break through the barriers of icy reserve with which she surrounded herself. they did not approach her in the proper manner perhaps, they did not go to work in the right way. commonly bred and ill-educated people as they were, they imagined that the direct road to jane calverley's favour lay in pitying her and speaking against her husband, with whom she was plainly at strife. as is usual with such people, they overacted their parts; they spoke strongly and bitterly in their denunciation of mr. calverley; they were coarse, and their loud-trumpeted compassion for their mistress jarred upon its recipient. jane calverley was a proud as well as a hard woman, and her mind revolted against the idea of being openly compassionated by her inferiors; so she kept her confidences rigidly locked in her own breast, and pauline's was the first hand to press a spring by which the casket was opened.

before the frenchwoman had been in the house twenty-four hours, she had learned exactly the relations of its inmates, and as much as has been already set forth in these pages of their family history. she had probed the characters of the husband and the wife, had listened to the mother's eulogies of her saintly son, and had sighed and shaken her head in seeming condolence over the vividly-described shortcomings of mr. calverley. without effusion, and with only the dumb sympathy conveyed by her eloquent eyes and gestures, pauline managed to lead her new-found friend, now that she comprehended her domestic troubles, and would do her best to aid her in getting rid of them, and in many other ways she made herself useful and agreeable to the cold, friendless woman who was her hostess. she re-arranged the furniture of the dreary drawing-room, lighting it up here and there with such flowers as were procurable, and with evergreens, which she bought herself; she covered the square formal chairs and couches with muslin antimacassars, and gave the room, what it had never hitherto had, the semblance of a woman's presence. she accomplished what everybody had imagined to be an impossibility, an alteration in the style of mrs. calverley's costume; she made with her own hands a little elegant cap with soft blond falling from it, which took away from that rigid outline of the chin; and instead of the wisp of black net round her throat, she induced mrs. calverley to wear a neat white muslin handkerchief across her chest. the piano, seldom touched, save when mrs. calverley, in an extraordinary good temper, would, for her husband's edification, thump and strum away at an overture in semiramide and other set pieces, which she had learned in her youth, was now regularly brought into use, and in the evening pauline would seat herself at it, playing long selections from mendelssohn and beethoven, or singing religious songs by mozart, the listening to which made john calverley supremely happy, and even brought something like moisture into his wife's steely eyes. it is probable that had mrs. calverley had any notion that these songs were the composition of a roman catholic, and were many of them used in what she was accustomed to speak of as "popish ceremonies," she would never have been induced even to listen to them; but with unerring judgment pauline had at once divined this phase in her employer's character, and, while the particular sect to which she belonged was of no importance to herself, had taken care to make mrs. calverley understand that luther had no more devoted adherent.

"she is a huguenot, my dear," said mrs. calverley to martin gurwood, shortly after his arrival, and before she had presented him to the new inmate of the house; "a huguenot of ancient family, who lost all their property a long time ago by the revocation of the edict of somebody--nancy, i think, was the name. you will find her a most amiable person, richly endowed with good gifts, and calculated, should she not suffer from the evil effects of mr. calverley's companionship, to prove an inestimable blessing to me."

martin gurwood expressed himself well pleased to hear this account of his mother's new-found friend; but, on being presented to pauline, he scarcely found the description realised. his natural cleverness had been sharpened by his public-school and university education; and, though during the last few years of his life he had been buried in comparative obscurity, he retained sufficient knowledge of the world to perceive that a woman like madame du tertre, bright, clever, to a certain degree accomplished, and possessing immense energy and power of will, would not have relegated herself to such a life as she was then leading without having a strong aim to gain. and what that aim was he was determined to find out.

but, though these were martin gurwood's thoughts, he never permitted a trace of them to appear in his manner to madame du tertre, which was scrupulously courteous, if nothing more. perhaps it was from his mother that he inherited a certain cold propriety of bearing and frigidity of demeanour, which his acquaintances generally complained of. the farmers of lullington, comparing it with the geniality of their previous pastor, found it insufferable; and his college friends, who had come in contact with him of late years, thought he was a totally changed being from the high-spirited fellow who had been one of the noisiest athletes of his day. certain it was that he was now pensive and reserved; nay more, that when out of lullington in company--that is to say, either with any of his former colleagues, or of a few persons who were visitors at the house in great walpole-street--he seemed desirous almost of shunning observation, and of studiously keeping in the back-ground, when his mother's pride in him would have made him take a leading part in any conversation that might be going on. before he had been two days in the house pauline's quick instinct had detected this peculiarity, and she had mentally noted it among the things which, properly worked, might help her to the elucidation of the plan to which she had devoted her life. she determined on making herself agreeable to this young man, on forcing him into a certain amount of intimacy and companionship; and so skilful were her tactics, that, without absolute rudeness, martin gurwood found it impossible entirely to withdraw from her advances.

one night she challenged him to chess, and during the intervals of the game she endeavoured to learn more of him than she had hitherto been able to do in mere desultory conversation in the presence of others.

mrs. calverley was hard at work at the berlin-wool frame, putting the final touches to jael and sisera; john calverley, with the newspaper in his lap, was fast asleep in his easy-chair; and the chess-players were at the far end of the room, with a shaded lamp between them.

they formed a strange contrast this couple: he, with his wavy chestnut hair, his thin red-and-white, clear-cut, whiskerless face, his shifting blue eyes, and his weak irresolute mouth; she, with her olive complexion, her blue-black hair, her steady earnest gaze, her square firm jaw, and the deep orange trimmings of her black silk dress, showing off strangely against her companion's sable-hued clerical dress.

"you are too strong for me, monsieur," said pauline, at the conclusion of the first game; "but i will not yield you the victory without a farther struggle."

"i was going to say you played an excellent game, madame du tertre; but after your remark, it would sound: as though i were complimenting myself," said martin. "i have but few opportunities for chess-playing now, but it was a favourite game of mine at college; and i knew many a man who prided himself on his play whose head for it was certainly not so good as yours."

"you have not many persons in your--what you call your parish--who play chess?"

"no, indeed," said martin; "cribbage i believe to be the highest flight in that line amongst the farmers."

"madame calverley has explained to me the style of place that it is. is it not wearisome to you to a degree to pass your existence in such a locale amongst such a set of people?"

"it is my duty, madame du tertre," said martin, "and i do not repine."

"ah, monsieur," said pauline, with an inclination of her head and downcast eyes, "i am the last person in the world to rebel against duty, or to allow that it should not be undertaken in that spirit of christianity which you have shown. but are you sure, monsieur martin, that you are acting rightly? however good your intentions may be, with your devotion to the cause you have espoused, and with your great talents, you should be taking a leading position in the great battle of religion; whereas, by burying yourself in this hole, there you lose for yourself the opportunity of fame, while the church loses a brilliant leader."

"i have no desire for fame, madame du tertre; and if i can only do my duty diligently, it is enough for me."

"yes; but there is another thing. pardon me, monsieur martin, i am a strange woman and some years older than you, so that you must not think me guilty of an impertinence in speaking freely to you. your church--our church--does not condemn its ministers to an ascetic or a celibate life--that is one of the wildest errors of romanism. has it never struck you that in consenting to remain amongst persons with whom you have nothing in common--where you are never likely to meet a woman calculated so to excite your admiration and affection as to induce you to make her your wife, you are rather following the roman than the protestant custom?"

a faint flush, duly marked by pauline's keen eyes, passed over martin gurwood's handsome features. "i have no intention of marrying," he said, in a low voice.

"not now perhaps," said pauline, "because you have not yet seen anyone whom you could love. a man of your taste and education is always fastidious; but, depend upon it, you will some day find some lovely girl of ancient family who--"

"it will be time enough then to speak of it, madame du tertre, would it not?" said martin gurwood, flushing again. "now, if you please, we will resume our game."

when pauline went to her bedroom that night she locked the door, threw herself into an easy-chair in front of the fire, and remained buried in contemplation. then she rose, and as she strolled towards the dressing-table, said half aloud: "that man is jealously guarding a secret--and it is his own!"