Land. He knew nothing of the burning ploughshares, the rack, and the bowstring; he knew nothing of that part of the battle-field in which I fought and bled; nothing of the captivity of the defeated soldier; nothing of the house of bondage. Desprey enjoyed the silence, the wayside rest, the quiet evening outside the world; but a month's sojourn in the valley would have made him acquainted with Phobētor and his serpents. Only during my earliest days in the valley saw I once or twice this terrible offspring and minister of Somnus. He came no more when the bitterness of my heart was sweetened by resignation and prayer and the certain hope and expectation of renewed youth and everlasting bliss.

CHAPTER VIII.

AT THE DEANERY.

I LAY awake, I remember, nearly all night, thinking of the dinner at the Dean's. I had never before dined at so famous a table and in such august company. Apart from the novelty of the situation in that respect, I wondered if Ruth would be present. In the intervals of my waking moments I dreamed that I sat beside Ruth at the piano and listened to the most delicious music. My only trouble was that the eye of Mary Oswald was upon us. By and by I would find myself wandering in the meadows with Ruth, to be awakened at last by the reality of cock-crow and the sunbeams struggling through the weird fruit trees of my father's garden and into my little room in the eastern wing of the Old House of Sidbree.

I shall never forget that morning. I got up very early and wandered into my father's studio to look at Ruth's work. She came to my father twice a week. Her master was in raptures with his pupil's progress. My father used to say that she had caught some of the inspiration of Salvator Rosa. There was a wonderful freedom in her style. Her trees seemed to stir with the motion of the wind. There was a breadth in her sketches that denoted genius of the highest order. Her foregrounds were worked in with courageous carelessness. On this summer morning I sat before a study of river, road, and meadow which she was finishing from half a dozen naturesketches. It seemed to me that there was a sort of tender melancholy in the tone of it; something that appealed to the fancy and touched the heart-a kind of pathos to wonder at in a mere landscape. It was an autumn scene. The foreground was thick with the leafy débris of the trees; the hedge-rows were red and brown with

hips and haws and fading leaves; the river was heavy with the shadows of October clouds. It seemed to me as if I could hear the voice of autumn in the flowing waters. The morning sun came streaming into the room. It fell upon Ruth's picture; it fell upon the painted story of Robin of Portingale's wife; it set the armour and models and vases and accoutrements of the soldier in a halo of misty splendour. No one could see me, only the sun, and I kissed Ruth's palette before I rambled out into the garden to commune with my strangely disturbed thoughts.

Nearly three years had elapsed since I first spoke to Ruth, and nothing in all that time had transpired to give promise of a return of my boyish love. I had taken off my college cap to her a hundred times, perhaps, and spoken to her half a dozen times in a year. Once I had picked up her fan at the annual sports of the college, and the old smile came into her face as I gave it to her. On another occasion I sat near her at a concert of the Cathedral choir. Seeing that she was without a programme, I mustered up sufficient courage to hand mine to the Dean, who thanked me and gave it to Ruth, and her eyes rested upon me, for a moment, full of tender recognition. Every Sunday at the Cathedral she filled my soul with her image. There never was a young man so completely the slave of the idol of his heart. Latterly I had begun to nurse the daring thought of declaring my passion. I had done it once or twice in rhyme, but my better judgment had always come to my rescue and consigned the love-sick verses to oblivion. I was miserably at a loss to know what I ought to do. I dared not make a confession to my father. No opportunity offered for me to say to Ruth herself what I felt. Had such a chance presented itself I question if I should have been bold enough to have exhibited the presumption of my heart to the mistress of its choice.

Time and the hour came sooner than I had expected.

"George," said my father, half an hour before we started for the Deanery, "George, I feel no concern about your behaviour to-day, but I may as well tell you that a dignified calmness and becoming self-possession are essential elements in the manners of a gentleman. I have noticed on one or two occasions when you have been speaking to the Dean that you have betrayed some confusion of thought and manner. You must guard against such a weakness. While the dignitaries of the Church, and, indeed, peers of the realm and others of high distinction, are entitled to our especial respect, we should never forget to respect ourselves, having, George, in our own veins blood perhaps equal to their own. Our ancestor, George, was a Lord

Chancellor of England, who in his turn was descended from a distinguished Norman family. I trust you will not forget this. No man is more ready to give rank all its due than I; no man is more jealous of what is due to himself."

"I will not forget, father."

"The Dean has shown us a delicate attention in asking us to dine on this day, the last of your stay in Wulstan for some time to You have not seen much of society, George-little beyond your own home-but the manners and customs of Sidbree House will stand you in good stead everywhere."

My father always dressed for dinner at home, and made that meal an event of importance. We frequently had guests. If any celebrated person visited Wulstan he was sure to come to the Old House of Sidbree. It was chiefly through these visitors that I imbibed a knowledge of London. My father sometimes became excited under the influence of their stories of the great world; but whenever for a moment the wish to be there again crept into his thoughts, that tombstone in the parish churchyard dismissed the intrusive desire, and reconciled him to the old house and its dear old studio.

We walked to the Deanery. My father rung and knocked a little more defiantly than seemed to me desirable or necessary. We were ushered into the drawing-room by a noiseless footman in a black livery. Two strange oak carvings in the hall watched us into the room of state. Our names were announced in solemn whispers. Miss Mary Oswald and Ruth received us. We were the first arrivals; it occurred to me that perhaps no one else was coming. I felt very much embarrassed. My father, in his courtly fashion, planted himself beside Miss Mary Oswald, and soon engaged her in a fine art discussion.

Ruth had evidently made up her mind to talk, and to me. I struggled hard, acting upon the precepts of my father, to maintain a becoming calmness. Ruth was wholly unembarrassed.

"You are going to Oxford, Mr. Himbleton ?" she said.

"Yes, Miss Ruth," I replied.

"To what college?"

"Balliol," I said.

"Oh, indeed; then you will meet my cousin, Mr. Drayton."

"I shall have great pleasure, I am sure," I said, resolving in my own mind to be jealous of him, and to hate or love him for her sake.

"Do you know Oxford ?" she asked, turning the leaves of an album. "I have been there several times," I said; "and think it a delightful city."

"You will like it better than Wulstan," she replied, looking up at me with an expression of interest.

"No, indeed I shall not, Miss Ruth; I like Wulstan above all cities in the world."

Ruth smiled, and bent her head over the album, but only to look up again, and say she liked to hear a good word said for Wulstan.

I began to feel wonderfully at my ease, with the exception of a sense of painful elation. My heart beat wildly, and my knees trembled. I felt a similar sensation when I preached my first sermon. My lips were dry, and my hands burnt feverishly.

"Mr. Erasmus Pensax," said the footman, ushering in a tall, gaunt, grey-eyed, brown-haired gentleman, with large hands and feet, prominent knees, and wearing a shabby, tight-fitting dress-coat.

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How do you do, ladies, how do you do? how do you do, Mister Himbleton? how do you do, Master Himbleton ?" said Mr. Pensax, more in a tone of complaint than greeting, as much as to say "I am the best man in the world, but nobody thinks so, and all the world's against me."

The Dean came in from the library at this moment.

He greeted us all in a friendly and kindly manner, and then sat down near Mr. Pensax.

"One moment, Mr. Dean, if you please," said Mr. Pensax, pointing to the library; "may we say two words, Miss Oswald-only two?”

He did not wait for Miss Oswald to reply, but shuffled into the library after the Dean, and trod upon Ruth's dress as he passed, without apologising.

"Peculiar man, Mr. Pensax," said Miss Mary Oswald, noticing the faintest expression of disapprobation upon my father's face. "He is very much misunderstood very much indeed. The world invariably reports unfavourably of those whom it does not know."

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say, Miss Oswald," said my father.

"Mrs. Stamford," whispered the servant at the door, and thereupon glided into the room a thin, washed-out lady, well known in Wulstan, the widow of a minor canon. The Rev. Canon Molineau followed-a gentleman beaming with smiles. "Honey and milk are under thy tongue."

"How do you do, Miss Oswald ? I am glad to see you looking so well-yes, looking so well."

Mr. Molineau had a peculiar echoing manner. He invariably repeated his last sentence in a confidential kind of way beneath his waistcoat.

"Yes, looking so very well; and Miss Ruth-Miss Ruth always looks charming-always looks charming! Mr. Himbleton, I am so glad to see you. I hoped to have called to see a wonderful picture you are painting-you are painting—yes, yes."

"I am always pleased to see you, Mr. Molineau," said my father. "Ah, my dear Mr. Dean, how do you do?" exclaimed Mr. Molineau, as the Dean and Mr. Pensax came from the library; "how do you do, Mister Dean?"

Mr. Canon Molineau, seizing the Dean's hand, beamed over it a thousand good wishes and a whole heartful of reverence and admiration.

"I am well, thank you, Mr. Canon Molineau-very well, I think. Mr. Pensax has been making a proposition to me which you will be glad to become acquainted with.”

“Indeed ?—yes, Mr. Pensax. I am so glad—so glad!"

And then Mr. Canon Molineau laid his head on one side, and listened so sweetly that Mrs. Stamford sighed in excess of admiration.

"Mr. Pensax asks for the authority of the Dean and Chapter to fill another of the windows in the aisle with stained glass." "Indeed! How very kind of Mr. Pensax-very kind. I wish we saw Mr. Pensax oftener at the Cathedral-yes, oftener. Very kind indeed!"

Mr. Molineau conveyed a rebuke and a compliment in the same honeyed tone and manner. It was impossible to say, unless you knew him well, when he intended to reprove and when to flatter. Mr. Pensax knew him.

"Yes, I quite deserve that, Mr. Canon Molineau; but, you see, it is a long way from my house to the Cathedral, and if I don't come often I show my love for the Church in another way."

"You do, you do, Mr. Pensax. I am sure the Church, sir, is greatly indebted to you-greatly indebted to you," said Mr. Molineau, rubbing his hands and smiling ineffably.

At this moment dinner was announced.

"Mr. Canon Molineau, you shall take me in to dinner," said Miss Oswald."

"With a great deal of pleasure—yes, yes, I am sure," said the Canon.

"Mrs. Stamford," said the Dean, offering his arm, "shall I have the pleasure?"

"Mr. Himbleton, will you bring in Ruth?"

My father made a low bow.