Part 53

"Can you say nothing more to me than that?" asked the curate, despondently.

Mary stretched out her hand. "I will be a sister to you."

"Oh, Miss Clibborn, how sad it is to think that your affections should be unrequited. Why am I not Captain Parsons? Miss Clibborn, can you give me no hope?"

"I should not be acting rightly towards you if I did not tell you at once that so long as Captain Parsons lives, my love for him can never alter."

"I wish I were a soldier!" murmured Mr. Dryland.

"Oh, it's not that. I think there's nothing so noble as a clergyman. If it is any consolation to you, I may confess that if I had never known Captain Parsons, things might have gone differently."

"Well, I suppose I had better go away now. I must try to bear my disappointment."

Mary gave him her hand, and, bending down with the utmost gallantry, the curate kissed it; then, taking up his low, clerical hat, hurriedly left her.

* * *

Mrs. Jackson was a woman of singular penetration, so that it was not strange if she quickly discovered what had happened. Mr. Dryland was taking tea at the Vicarage, whither, with characteristic manliness, he had gone to face his disappointment. Not for him was the solitary moping, nor the privacy of a bedchamber; his robust courage sent him rather into the field of battle, or what was under the circumstances the only equivalent, Mrs. Jackson's drawing-room.

But even he could not conceal the torments of unsuccessful love. He stirred his tea moodily, and his usual appetite for plum-cake had quite deserted him.

"What's the matter with you, Mr. Dryland?" asked the Vicar's wife, with those sharp eyes which could see into the best hidden family secret.

Mr. Dryland started at the question. "Nothing!"

"You're very funny this afternoon."

"I've had a great disappointment."

"Oh!" replied Mrs. Jackson, in a tone which half-a-dozen marks of interrogation could inadequately express.

"It's nothing. Life is not all beer and skittles. Ha! ha!"

"Did you say you'd been calling on Mary Clibborn this afternoon?"

Mr. Dryland blushed, and to cover his confusion filled his mouth with a large piece of cake.

"Yes," he said, as soon as he could. "I paid her a little call."

"Mr. Dryland, you can't deceive me. You've proposed to Mary Clibborn."

He swallowed his food with a gulp. "It's quite true."

"And she's refused you?"

"Yes!"

"Mr. Dryland, it was a noble thing to do. I must tell Archibald."

"Oh, please don't, Mrs. Jackson! I don't want it to get about."

"Oh, but I shall. We can't let you hide your light under a bushel. Fancy you proposing to that poor, dear girl! But it's just what I should have expected of you. That's what I always say. The clergy are constantly doing the most beautiful actions that no one hears anything about. You ought to receive a moral Victoria Cross. I'm sure you deserve it far more than that wicked and misguided young man."

"I don't think I ought to take any credit for what I've done," modestly remonstrated the curate.