Roylands Rectory was a comfortable-looking house, distant about a mile from the Grange, and near the village, which was an extremely small one. Indeed, although the parish was large, the Rector’s congregation was not, and his clerical occupation did not entail much work. Nevertheless, Stephen Carriston did his best to attend to the spiritual welfare of the souls under his charge; and if the hardest day’s work still left him with plenty of spare time on his hands, that could hardly be called his fault. The Rector abhorred idleness, which is said to be the mother of all the vices, and managed to fill up his unoccupied hours in a sufficiently pleasant manner by indulging in occupations congenial to his tastes. He was now engaged in translating the comedies of Aristophanes into English verse, and found the biting wit of the great Athenian playwright very delightful after the dull brains of his parishioners. For the rest, he pottered about his garden and attended to his roses, which were the pride of his heart, as well they might be, seeing that his small plot of ground was a perfect bower of loveliness.

It is at this point that the pen fails and the brush should come in; for it would be simply impossible to give in bald prose an adequate description of the paradise of flowers contained within the red brick walls which enclosed the garden on three sides. The fourth side was the house, a quaint, low-roofed, old-fashioned place, with deep diamond-paned lattices, and stacks of curiously-twisted chimneys. Built in the reign of the Second Charles, it yet bore the date of its erection, 1666, the annus mirabilis of Dryden, when half London was swept away by the fire, and half its inhabitants by the plague. Rector Carriston liked this house,—nay, like is too weak a word, he loved it,—as its antiquity, matching with his own, pleased him; and besides, having resided within its red-tiled roof for over thirty years, it was natural that he should be deeply attached to its quaint walls and still quainter rooms.

But the garden! oh, the garden was a miracle of beauty! and only Crispin, who deals in such lovelinesses, could describe its perfections, as he did indeed long afterwards, when the good Rector was dead, and could not read the glowing verse which eulogized his roses. Three moderately high brick walls, one running parallel to the high road, so that the Rector could keep a vigilant eye on the incomings and outgoings of his villagers, fenced in this modern garden of Alcinous, and these three walls were almost hidden by the foliage of peach and apricot and nectarine, for it was now midsummer, and nature was decked out in her gayest robes. A dial in the middle of the smooth lawn, with its warning motto, which the Rector did not believe, as Time only sauntered with him; a noble elm, wherein the thrush fluted daily, and a bower of greenery, in which the nightingale piped nightly: it was truly an ideal retreat, rendered still more perfect by the roses. The roses! oh, the red, white, and yellow roses! how they bloomed in profusion under the old red wall, which drew the heat of the sun into its breast, and then showered it second-hand on the delicate, warmth-loving flowers. Great creamy buds, trembling amid their green leaves at the caress of the wind, gorgeously crimson blossoms burning incense to the hot sun, pale-tinted flowers, which flushed delicately at the dawn hour, and bright yellow orbs, which looked as though the touch of Midas had turned them into gold. All the bees for miles around knew that garden, and the finest honey in the neighborhood owed its existence to the constant visits they paid to that wilderness of sweets.

Such a bright morning as it was! Above, the blue sky, in which the sun burned lustily, below, the green earth, pranked with flowers, and between these two splendors, the Rector, armed with a pair of scissors, strolling contentedly about his small domain. From the adjacent fields, where the corn was yet young, sprang a brown-feathered lark, which arose higher and higher in spiral circles, singing as though his throat would burst with melody, until, the highest point attained, he ceased his liquid warblings, and fell earthward like a stone. Indeed, the Rector had no lack of music, for the larks awoke him in the morning, the thrushes piped to him at noon, and when night fell the divine nightingale pouring forth her impassioned strains wooed him from his study, where he was reading the Aristophanic rendering of her song, to listen to the reality, before which even the magical Greek verse seemed harsh. ’Twas an ideal place, and in it the Rector lived an ideal existence, far away from the noise and restlessness of our modern civilization. In his study he had the books of genius, which he greatly loved, but in his garden he possessed the book of God, which he loved still more; and even had not he been a devout believer in the goodness of the Almighty, surely that garden would have converted him with its dewy splendors.

An odd figure looked Mr. Carriston, shuffling about in a pair of comfortable old slippers, a very raven in blackness, save for the wide-brimmed straw hat shading his gray hairs, his benevolent-looking face. With a green watering-pan in one hand, and the scissors in the other, he pried and peered among his beloved flowers, with his two pets—a cat and a magpie—at his heels, and clipped off a dead leaf here, plucked a withered blossom there, with the tenderest anxiety for the well-being of the roses.

“Dear, dear!” sighed the Rector, pausing before a drooping-looking Gloire de Dijon; “this does not seem at all healthy. It needs rain—in fact, I think the flowers would be none the worse of a shower or so; but there’s no sign of rain,” looking anxiously up to the cloudless sky. “I wonder if a little manure”—

Down went the Rector on his knees, and began grubbing about the roots of the plant, much to the discomfort of the magpie, who hopped about near him in an agitated manner.

“A brass thimble,” said Mr. Carriston, making a discovery, “a copper, and three blue beads. The roots of the plant wounded, too, with scratching. This is your work, Simon. I wish you would hide your rubbish somewhere else.”

The magpie, otherwise Simon, made a vicious peck at the Rector’s hand, to revenge himself for the discovery of his treasure; then, anxious to save something, snatched up the thimble and made off hastily.

“Too bad of Simon,” murmured Mr. Carriston, rubbing his nose in a vexed manner. “I will have to ask Mukle to keep him in the back yard. Ah, Mukle! what is it?”

Mukle—to the rector, Mrs. Mukle to her friends—was a hard-featured, bony woman, who looked as if she had been cut out of a deal board. Her cooking was much more agreeable than her appearance, and, having been with the rector—whom she adored—for many years, she knew to a turn what he liked and what he did not like, therefore suited him admirably in her double capacity of cook and housekeeper.

“Mr. Roylands, sir!” announced Mukle grimly.

“Oh, where is he?”

“Study, sir,” responded Mukle, who was a lady with a firm belief in the golden rule of silence.

“Ask him to come here.”

An assenting sniff was Mukle’s only reply, and, turning on her heel in a military fashion,—the late Mr. Mukle had been a soldier,—she strode back to the house like a grenadier.

Meanwhile, Mr. Carriston, having risen to his feet, was dusting his knees, and, while thus engaged, saw Maurice coming towards him. Assuredly the master of the Grange was a fine specimen of humanity, for he was over six feet in height, and, being arrayed in shooting-coat, knickerbockers, and deerstalker’s hat, looked a remarkably striking figure. He would have looked better had his face borne a smile, but, as it was, he came solemnly forward and took the rector’s outstretched hand as if he was chief mourner at a funeral.

“You shouldn’t be a country gentleman, Maurice,” said Mr. Carriston, after the usual greetings had been exchanged. “The occupation of a monk would suit you better.”

Maurice said nothing, but sighed wearily.

“Come now, my dear lad; if you sigh in that fashion, I shall suspect you of being a lover, in spite of your asseveration to the contrary.”

“A man can’t marry his aunt, and as Crispin wants to marry Eunice, no one is left for me but my honorable relation.”

“Try Mukle.”

“Too much of a grenadier.”

“I think you are the same—in height,” said the Rector, looking approvingly at his tall friend. “If old Father Fritz had seen the pair of ye, I think he would have insisted upon the marriage, so as to breed a race of giants. But, dear, dear! what nonsense we talk! Come and sit down, my lad. Will you smoke?”

“No, thank you, sir. I’m tired of smoking.”

“Maurice, if you go on in this fashion, I will be angry with you. It’s a beautiful day, so you ought to have a beautiful smile on your face. Listen to that lark! Does not its gush of song thrill your heart? Admire my roses! Where, even in the gorgeous East, will you see such splendor? The birds sing, the sun shines, the flowers bloom, and yet you are as discontented as if you were shut up between four bare walls. Maurice, I’m really and truly ashamed of your ingratitude to God for His many gifts.” Maurice made no reply, but punched holes in the gravel with his walking-stick. “Now you wait here, my lad,” said the Rector, recovering breath after his little lecture, “and see if yon lark will sing you into a better frame of mind. It may be the David to your Saul, and drive the evil spirit out of you. I am going away to wash my hands, which are somewhat grubby with my gardening, and will return in a few moments.”

Off went the Rector with a light step, as springy as that of a young man, and Maurice looked after him in sheer envy of such light-heartedness.

“Why cannot I be happy like that?” he sighed, baring his head to the cool breeze.

Did ever a man ask himself so ridiculous a question? Here was a healthy young man, of good personal appearance, with a superfluity of the gifts of fortune, yet he commiserated himself for nothing at all, and propounded riddles to himself which he was unable to answer. But all such misery came from incessant brooding and self-analysis, which is bound to make even the most complacent person dissatisfied with his advantages in the long-run. If Maurice, throwing aside his books, art, broodings, and everything else, had gone in for fishing, hunting, dancing, rowing, as he did in his earlier youth, his mind would soon have resumed its normal healthiness. Unluckily, the ten years’ life in Bohemia, where he had no money nor time to indulge in such sports, had weakened his interest in them, and he by no means seemed inclined to take up the broken thread of his life. This was a great mistake, as, had he reverted to his earlier mode of living, he would in a short time have come to look upon that weary decade as but a bad dream, and ultimately have recovered this mens sana in corpore sano condition, which is so essential to the happiness of one’s existence. If there is a person to be envied, ’tis a healthy man with an average stock of brains, for he does not live with shadows, he has no torturing dreams, he does not rack his soul with thinking out the problems of life; but simply takes the goods the gods provide, enjoys them to the full measure of his capacity, and throws all disturbing influences to the winds. Maurice Roylands was a man of this sort in many respects, but he had a trifle too much brain power, and therefore, in accordance with the great law of compensation, suffered from the excess, by using it to torture his otherwise healthy mind. Unfortunately, he did not reason in this way, but, feeling that he was miserable, hastily decided that such misery was incurable. Not a wise way of looking at the matter certainly, but then Maurice, though no fool in many ways, was not a Solomon for wisdom; and besides, Melancholia, who places all things in a dull light, had him in her grip, which prevented him from giving his diseased mind the medicine it required.

However, in accordance with his old tutor’s instructions, he sat there in silence, drinking in the odors of the flowers, and listening to the music of the lark. Not only that, but a thrush in the tree above him began to pour forth his mellow notes; and though it was nigh mid-June, he heard the quaint call of the cuckoo sound in the distance. Nature and Nature’s voices exercised their benign influence on his restless spirit, and even in that short space of time soothed him so much that, when Mr. Carriston returned, he missed the frowning face with which Maurice had greeted him.

“Ah,” said the Rector, with a nod of satisfaction, “you have benefited by the music of the birds already. I would undertake to cure you, if you would only let me be your physician. Now your soul is more at rest, but I have no doubt your nerves need soothing, so try this churchwarden and this excellent tobacco.”

Maurice burst out laughing at this odd cure for melancholy, but did not refuse the Rector’s hospitality; and any one who entered the garden a few minutes afterwards, would have discovered the venerable Rector and the youthful Squire puffing gravely at long clays, like two cronies in a village taproom.

They chatted in a desultory manner of little things, such as Mrs. Dengelton,—who would have been very angry to find herself placed in such a category,—Eunice, love-making, Crispin, the home farm, and such like trifles, when, after a short pause, Maurice abruptly turned to the Rector, who, lying back in luxurious ease, was watching the trembling of the leaves above his head.

“And the story, Rector?”

This question brought Mr. Carriston from heaven to earth, and he looked at the young man with a grave smile on his face.

“Ah, the story,” he repeated, laying aside his pipe. “Yes, I promised to tell you the one romance of my life. I am afraid it is a very prosaic romance, still it may show you how a man can find life endurable even after his heart is broken.”

“Why, Rector, is your heart broken?”

“I thought it was once, but I’m afraid ’twas mended long ago. Et ego in Arcadia fui, Maurice, although you would never think so to look at me. Tush! what has an old man pottering about among his flowers in common with Cupid, god of love? Yet I, too, have sported with Amaryllis in the shade, and piped love-songs to the careless ear of NeÆra.”

He sighed a trifle sadly, very probably somewhat regretful of that dead and gone romance which still looked bright through the mists of forty years, and glanced sorrowfully at the wrinkled hands which had once played with the golden tresses of Chloe. Ah, Chloe was old now, and her famous golden locks were white with the snows of many winters; or perchance she was dead, with the gentle winds blowing across her daisied grave, and piping songs as beautiful as those of her faithful shepherd. Is it not a painful thing to be old and gray and full of sad memories of our fine days? yet, mingled with such melancholics, we recall many bright dreams which then haunted our youthful brains. Alas, Arcady! why are we not permitted to dwell forever in thy flowery meadows, beneath thy blue sky, instead of being driven forth by the whip of Fate to crowded cities and desolate wastes, wherein sound no gleeful melodies.

“It was at Oxford that I first met her,” said the Rector in his mellow voice, which was touched with vague regret; “for she, too, dwelt in that grave scholastic city. I was not in holy orders then! No; my ambition was to be a soldier, and win the V.C.; but, alas! such dreams came to naught. You may not believe it, Maurice, but I was wild and light-hearted in those days—to be sure, it was Consula Planco, and youth is ever foolish. Her name was Miriam, and she was a dressmaker. Ah, you are astonished that I, Stephen Carriston, fixed my eyes on such a lowly damsel; but then, you see, I loved her dearly, and that, I think, is a sufficient answer to your unspoken objection. Love knows nothing of rank or position, and sees beauty in the wayside daisy as well as in the costly hothouse plant. I need not tell you she was very beautiful, for that is the common saying of lovers, who see no loveliness save in the nymph of their affections. What is it the poet says about a lover seeing Helen’s beauty in the brow of Egypt? Sure, my memory is weak with age, and I misquote. Still, the saying is true. Miriam was very beautiful, and I think must have had some Jewish blood in her veins, for her dark, imperial beauty was that of the East. Her hair was as dark as the wing of a raven, her eyes liquid wells of light, and her mouth was as the thread of scarlet spoken of in the song of the wise king. You see, Maurice, old as I am, I can still rhapsodize on Chloe’s perfections, though she basely deceived me. Alas, Strephon! how the years have destroyed thy goddess!—nay, she destroyed herself by her own act.”

“I did not know you were a poet, Rector.”

Mr. Carriston, whose brow was dark with bitter memories, aroused himself with a forced laugh, and strove to speak lightly of the past.

“Live and learn, Maurice. I no poet? Why, my dear lad, I am even now courting the Nine, and turning Aristophanes into good English verse. No poet? Why, every man is a poet when in love; and if he does not write a poem, he at least lives a poem. I, alas, have been in love these many years with a shadow—the shadow of Miriam before she left me!”

“Left you?”

“Yes. I call it my romance, but it is a painful story. A deceitful woman, a wronged man, a treacherous friend—a common enough tale, I think. Though, indeed, I need not include ‘friend,’ for to this day I know not for whom she left me.”

“She was your wife?”

“Yes. Wild as I was in those days, I was too honorable to deceive a woman. In spite of the difference of our position, I married her, and we were happy together for ten years.”

“Ten years!” replied Maurice in surprise. “Surely she did not leave you after all that time of married happiness.”

“Who knows the ways of women?” said the Rector bitterly. “Yes, she left me—took from me all I loved in the world, herself and her child.”

“Was there a child?”

“Yes. He was born in the tenth year of our marriage, just when I had given up all hope of being a father. If he is still alive, Maurice, he will be just five years younger than you,—thirty years old,—and for that I love you, my dear lad; you stand to me in the place of the son I have lost.”

“Did you not suspect any one of taking her away?”

“Yes; one man,” answered the Rector gloomily. “He was a tall, black-bearded fellow, who had just come back from the East; but I only saw him once. I was a hard-worked London curate in those days, and had but little time to spare. My wife met him—I think his name was Captain Malcolm—at the house of a mutual friend; but perhaps I am wrong, and it was not he who destroyed my happiness. She had so many friends. I can hardly wonder at that, for she was then in the full pride of her womanly beauty. There was a Frenchman, the Count de la Tour, I also suspected, but I was sure of no one. I suppose she grew tired of our poor life; for, in spite of the way in which she went into society, we were poor—that is, comfortable for a quiet life, but too poor for a social one. I, never suspecting any evil, was only too glad that she should go out and enjoy herself, although at times I remonstrated with her, saying that such gayety was not suited for the wife of a poor clergyman. She said she would give up such frivolities shortly, and I, like a fool, believed her. Then I was called down to see my father, who was very ill. At length he died, and I remained to attend to the funeral; but when I came back to London after a three weeks’ absence, I found she had gone with the child. She left no letter behind her to palliate her guilt; all I knew was that she had gone with some gentleman who had called for her in a brougham. The servants could not describe the man, as he did not enter the house, but remained in the carriage. My false wife told the servants she was called away by me, as her father-in-law was dying; and it was only when I returned that they learned the truth.”

“Did you ever see this Captain Malcolm again?”

“No, nor the Count de la Tour; so that is why I suspect one of those men as being the ruin of my life. Besides, I heard afterwards that she went a great deal about with them, sometimes with one, sometimes with the other. One of them I am sure it was, but I know not which. So you see, at one blow, Maurice, I was bereft of wife, child, home, and happiness. Afterwards I was offered this living, and, wishing to leave the scene of my former happiness, my former sorrow, my former disgrace, I accepted it, and came down here, where I have lived in peace for thirty years.”

“Did you get a divorce?”

“Yes; for the sake of my guilty wife. I did not wish to marry again myself, but I desired to leave her free, so that she might marry the partner of her guilt. I hope he behaved honorably to her and did so; but, alas! I know not.”

“And the boy?”

“I have never heard of him since. I was left rich by the death of my father, and all that money could do was done, but I heard nothing of either wife or child. Is it not a sad story, Maurice?”

“Yes, very sad! You must have suffered terribly.”

“I did suffer terribly; but I tell you this, dear lad, to show you how a man can force himself to be cheerful, even when he thinks life has no further joys for him. Look at me! When my wife left me, I thought that the sun of my life had set forever. I looked forward to years of misery; and probably my existence would have been miserable, had I not, with the aid of God, resisted the evil one. I did resist him, by accustoming myself to take an interest in all things; and, by schooling myself into patience, I found life, if not blissful, at least endurable. I now love my work among my parishioners, I enjoy my Greek studies, I interest myself in my garden, and am thus able to live a comparatively happy life. Had I given way weakly to my misery, I would have been an unhappy man all my life, and have done no good in my generation; but I fought against the evil spirit, with the aid of God I conquered him, and now can look back with thankfulness to the calamity which tried and chastened my soul.”

“And you are happy now?”

“Yes,” said the Rector firmly. “I am as happy as any mortal can hope to be. ‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,’ says Job; but if we did not fight against these troubles they would overwhelm us. So, my dear lad, do as I have done, fight against the evil spirit, and, with God’s grace, you will be victorious.”

“I thank you for your advice, sir, and I will try and follow it.”

“My story is but a dull one, I am afraid,” resumed the Rector, after a pause,—“dull and prosaic, with no romance to render it captivating; but I only told it to show to you what a man can do if he fights against his troubles, and does not yield weakly at the first attack of the enemy. You have no unhappy love, you have no regrets; therefore, my dear lad, show yourself to be a man, and do not thus weakly yield to a phantom of your own creation. Try to be interested in life, fall in love and marry if you can, and I promise you all will yet be well with you. Your troubles are but dreams of a disordered brain, which can be banished by an effort of will; so rouse yourself, Maurice, conquer your weak spirit, and with God’s help you will be a happy man.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Maurice, grasping the Rector’s hand; “I will do what you say. I have been weak, but I will be so no longer. I will take up the duties of life, and do my best to perform them well. Your sermon, your story, has done me good, Mr. Carriston; and I feel that I would be indeed a coward to flinch from the fray in which you have so bravely fought and conquered.”

“Good lad! good lad!” replied the delighted Rector. “I knew you would see things in their right light. But come, the lesson is over, and now is the time for play. You must look round at my roses, and the finest bud of the garden will adorn your buttonhole as ‘a reward for your determination.’”

Maurice gladly fell in with the Rector’s humor, and together they strolled round the garden to examine and admire his floral treasures. Carriston was like a child in his garden, and his bursts of delight at this or that particular rose tree would have made many a person smile. But Maurice did not smile; he loved his old tutor too well to smile at his simple pleasures, and took scarcely less interest than the Rector himself in the momentous question of transferring this tree over there, or ingrafting a hardy shoot in this sickly-looking plant. Suddenly the Rector stopped, and began to rummage in the pockets of his long black coat.

“Dear dear!” he said in a vexed tone; “it is not here, and yet I am sure I placed it in this pocket.”

“Placed what, sir?”

“A letter! a letter! No, I can’t find it. Maurice, I wish you to stay to luncheon. I have a friend coming.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, not exactly a friend; but, the fact is, a young man has arrived in the village with a letter of introduction to me from a mutual friend in London. He is at present staying at the Royland Arms, and sent his letter this morning, so I wrote back and asked him to come to luncheon. You must stay and meet him, Maurice, for I hear he is a most delightful man.”

“What is his name?”

“I cannot remember. He is a Greek. The letter must be in my study, so we will go and look for it. This young Greek is a great traveller, and is now on a visit to England. He had a letter of introduction to my friend, the Archdeacon of Eastminster, who gave him one to me.”

“But what does he come to this out-of-the-way place for?” asked Maurice, with that inherent suspicion he had acquired in Bohemia.

“I don’t know. I expect he will answer that question for himself at luncheon. Ah, here is the letter—I left it on the table.”

“Well, what is his name?” asked Maurice again.

The rector adjusted his pince-nez, and, smoothing open the letter, read the name aloud:—

“Count Constantine Caliphronas.”