The old Rector of Surley was duly buried, and all his friends and neighbours for miles round attended his burying. The Bishop was there, sympathetic and urbane. He talked most kindly to the Misses Cooper, and in such a way as once more to bring to their eyes those tears which the abundant business of the past few days had almost dried up. And he was closeted with Denis for nearly half an hour in the comfortable study of which the young man had made himself the occupant. Thereafter he retired to his niece's house, and spent a pleasant restful afternoon and evening, not too much overcome with melancholy to enjoy the little change.

Had he said anything? The sisters had hardly been able to restrain themselves from listening outside the door, and fastened upon Denis the moment their illustrious guest had left the house.

Denis frowned slightly. No, he had said nothing.

What had they talked about then? They were not going to be put off in that way, by the brother they had nursed, and smacked, not so many years before. They supposed, rather sharply, that he and the Bishop had not spent all that time together in silence.

Denis did not give them much information, but left them to infer that the Bishop's talk had just been that of a kind wise Father in God with a young man setting out upon his life's work. They construed this into a wish on his part to find out for himself whether this particular young man was a suitable object for his patronage, and hoped afresh. If he had not been going to offer Denis the living, he would certainly have said so, and advised him what to do when his curacy at Surley came to an end. For a new incumbent would not want a curate. Denis would either stay on as Rector or depart altogether.

Two or three days went past. Denis went to London on business connected with his father's estate, and having got there sent a telegram to say that he should not be returning until the following day.

His sisters did not quite like this. He had given no reason for staying away over the night, and, if they would have disclaimed the right to direct his movements, there was still a lingering idea in their minds that they ought to be consulted about them. He had taken up no clothes, and there was the hint of a suspicion that he had given them the slip; also that he had stayed up to amuse himself, which would not be becoming so soon after the sad event. Denis had always been extraordinarily well-behaved, and wise and steady beyond his years. They prided themselves a good deal on the way he had been brought up. He would not do anything actually wrong; that they were sure of. Still, it was a good thing that he would have them there to look after him. If he were appointed Rector of Surley, he would want all the advice, and direction, that they could give him, at his age. They had made it plain to the Bishop, without, of course, obtruding themselves or their desires, that he could rely upon them to give that advice and direction.

The next morning the long-expected letter came. There was no doubt about it. It was written in the episcopal hand and sealed with the episcopal seal. Really, it was extraordinarily tiresome of Denis not to be there to open it.

It did not, however, take them quite half a minute to decide to open it themselves. A longer period of hesitation would have made it appear that it was not the most natural thing to do, as of course it was. Denis would certainly have asked them to open it if he had known he would be absent when it came, and after all, the letter was as important to them as it was to him.

They drew a long breath of delight and relief as they devoured its contents together. As they told one another immediately afterwards, they had really not dared to hope, but now their fears were set at rest it was easy to see that nothing else could have happened. If only their dear father could have known!

They both thought of him, in the pleasure to which they now gave themselves up. It would have sent him out of the world happy, the dear old man. Really, if the Bishop had intended to present Denis all along, he might have stretched the point and relieved their father's mind of its anxiety.

When they had settled down to the news, and to their cooling breakfast, a slight reaction set in. They felt all the fears and doubts with which they had lived for so long rolling back upon them, though now they should have been set at rest. Really, it had scarcely seemed possible that the living should be given to Denis, considering his youth, and his Deacon's orders. Their talk for a time was almost as if they were blaming the Bishop for his presentation, and covered most of the ground that might have been taken by the Vicar of Abington, or other clerical critics, of such an appointment. But this state of mind, induced by fears too little allowed, and helped by the kind things the Bishop had said in his letter, soon disappeared. There would be a great deal of criticism to meet, and they at least must not show themselves to be influenced by any of it. The Bishop had made the appointment of his own free will, and on grounds that seemed good to him. They had done nothing to urge him, nor had they pulled any strings. That was a great comfort to them now, and they gave themselves and one another considerable credit for it. Then they decided that they had better not say anything about the appointment until Denis returned home. After all, the letter had been written to him, and the news could wait. This was their only reference to the fact of their having opened the letter, and they felt that it covered everything.

But as Denis did not arrive by the train that would have brought him home in time for lunch, and could not now be expected until six o'clock, the news began to sit heavily upon them. They had been busy indoors all the morning, and had had only to stifle the natural desire to tell the servants. In the afternoon they went about the parish, and could not forbear from encouraging several with whom they had dealings by telling them that it was quite possible that they would not have to leave them after all. But as they had said this before, though not perhaps with the same satisfied look in their eyes, the secret was kept.

They came home to tea, and now they longed for Denis's return, for the news had burnt itself right through their lightly formed purpose, and only the hour or so that they would have to wait for him prevented their summoning all the servants, indoor and outdoor, and imparting to them their triumph.

There came a ring at the bell, and presently Mr. and Mrs. Mercer were announced. Rhoda and Ethel cast a sharp and identical meaning glance at one another before they rose to receive them. It said as plain as if spoken: "You won't be able to keep it in."

Denis's absence was explained and commented upon.

"I wanted to see him particularly," said the Vicar. "An old friend of mine, who has somewhat broken down in health, needs an assistant priest to go to him and do just the work that Denis has been doing here for your dear father. It would be the very place for him, if—if he were free to take it." He mentioned the name of his friend, of the pretty village in Devonshire of which he was Rector, and the stipend offered, while Rhoda and Ethel listened politely with meaning smiles on their faces, and wondered how they could ever have liked this man.

Mrs. Mercer saw the smiles, and though she did not understand their full import divined something of their source. "Of course, dear," she said, "we know it is possible that Denis may be preferred to this living. In that case this offer would be of no use to him. We only thought that if he wasn't—! And my husband hasn't told you that there's a charming little house, big enough for all three of you."

"There was never really any chance of Denis's appointment here," said the Vicar, not without annoyance. "It was quite right to humour the poor old gentleman, as he so set his heart upon it; but Rhoda and Ethel are far too sensible to have any such ideas themselves; and it would be wrong too."

Rhoda had once boasted that there was nothing of the cat in her, but she enquired very sweetly, "And why wrong, Mr. Mercer?"

"My dear girl," said the Vicar, "you know as well as I do. It would be a job, and Bishops dare not perpetrate jobs in these days. And if you are inclined still to cherish hopes of that sort, as it is perhaps not altogether unnatural that you should, as you had to persuade your dear father of it for so long, let me tell you at once that the appointment has already been made, I am not at liberty to say in what quarter. But you will hear about it very soon."

It was Ethel who said, "Oh, really, Mr. Mercer! Did the Bishop tell you that himself?"

"You never told me, Albert, when you came back from the Palace yesterday," said Mrs. Mercer in an aggrieved voice.

"It was not the Bishop himself, of course," said the Vicar. "But I had it on the best authority. Please don't ask me any more. The conversation was confidential."

"It wasn't you it was offered to, dear, was it?" enquired his wife. "No, I'm sure you would have told me that. I suppose Mr. Burgoyne must have told you." Mr. Burgoyne was the Bishop's chaplain.

The Vicar, like most self-important but weak men, was incapable of keeping anything to himself under pressure, and when Rhoda said, as sweetly as before: "If you've told us as much as that I think you might tell us who the living has been offered to. Secrets are absolutely safe with us," he hummed and ha-ed, and then said: "Well, Burgoyne did not actually extract a promise from me to keep it to myself, but he gave me to understand,"—how grateful he was afterwards to have put it in that way—"that Leadbetter was to have it. It would be an appointment not altogether free from criticism. I believe that Leadbetter has never held a parochial charge, but he has been Precentor of the Cathedral for a great many years, and if good livings are to be given in that sort of way, which personally I think they should not be, I don't know that the Bishop can be greatly blamed for giving it to him."

"I think they should be given to men who have borne the burden and heat of the day in the poorer livings," said Mrs. Mercer with a sigh, for she had been encouraged to hope, and the hope was now dead. She didn't ask herself why her husband had left her for nearly twenty-four hours without telling her so. There were questions about him occasionally which she refrained from asking herself. She had asked him why he seemed so bent upon going over to Surley that afternoon, as they had previously decided to do something else. She would have demurred to going if she had known that this piece of news was to be imparted to Rhoda and Ethel.

The time had come to speak. "Well, Mr. Mercer," said Rhoda, "either Mr. Burgoyne didn't know what he was talking about, or else you misunderstood him. I don't know what you mean by a job; I can't see one in it myself, and I'm quite sure the Bishop wouldn't be capable of such a thing; but he has appointed Denis Rector of Surley, and in my opinion, a very good appointment it is."

"And in mine too," said Ethel. She did not add more, because the most interesting thing to do at the moment was to watch the Vicar's face.

There was no room for incredulity, with the announcement made in that fashion. He could only stare. But the quality of his stare was such as to give Rhoda and Ethel almost as much gratification as they had drawn from the Bishop's letter.

It was a gratification, however, that was broken in upon at once, for Mrs. Mercer, when she had once taken in the announcement, was so beaming and so sincere in her congratulations that they had to be met in something of the same spirit, and the full flavour of the triumph was lost.

The Vicar, also, when he had recovered himself, added his congratulations, and explained away as far as possible his previous unfortunate expressions; explained also that Mr. Burgoyne's assumption had been so near to being a direct statement that he must have been mistaken himself as to the Bishop's intentions. He was listened to with the utmost politeness, but was shown that he had not quite succeeded in wiping away the mark made by the word 'job,' and was left with the impression that if he was not very careful he would hear more of it.

He was not in fact able altogether to hide his chagrin, although he knew well that he was affording satisfaction in showing it. He took his wife away as soon as politeness permitted, and what he said to her on the way home did not add to her happiness in the stroke of good fortune that had come to her friends.

Rhoda and Ethel loudly, and almost indecently, exulted the moment their backs were turned. Really, it was too transparent. The man had got over his disappointment at having his own absurd hopes dispelled, and had come with no other purpose than to crow over them. She had let that out. Fancy not saying a word to her about it! She was a good little thing herself, and had really meant it when she had said she was pleased. She was worth a dozen of him, with his conceit and his spite. Thank goodness there were not many clergymen like him in the Church. That sort of spirit did more harm to religion than any other. It would really be almost better to have an evil-liver in a parish. Fancy ever thinking that the Bishop could be taken in by him! He knew better than that, at any rate. It had been a most painful exhibition, and the sooner it was forgotten the better.

It gave them something to talk about until Denis came home, when they both flew at him with the news, Rhoda brandishing the Bishop's letter. Questions as to what he had been doing, and why he hadn't let them know, could wait.

Denis's surprised displeasure at their action in opening the letter took them aback. In their eagerness to impart the news they had forgotten that there was anything irregular in the way they had obtained it. They were not accustomed to accept criticism from their brother, but whatever excuses may be made to one's self for opening letters addressed to somebody else, when there is strong curiosity to be satisfied, the doing so wears a different aspect when the excuses have to be made to that somebody else. Denis listened gravely to what they had to say, and then went off to his study, and his gravity and silence had this much effect that they did not follow him there, as they would have thought themselves justified in doing in almost any other circumstances.

Nor did they see him again until they all three met in the drawing-room before dinner.

By that time the effect upon him of their well-meant action might have been expected to have worn off, and they were ready to talk it all over in the way he should have been prepared to do when they had first told him. Really, he looked quite like a Rector already, standing up before the fire in his silk waist-coat, with a look of self-possession and dignity that gave them a new idea of him. Perhaps they felt, as they came in together and saw him standing there, that he was, after all, the source from which the importance that was still happily to be theirs was to be drawn, and that the manner in which they had hitherto borne themselves towards him might have to be altered in some respects.

Rhoda dropped a curtsey, and said: "Homage to the Rector of Surley"; and Ethel followed suit.

Denis did not smile. "Have you told anybody of the Bishop's offer?" he said.

Rhoda drew herself together. It was time this rebellious spirit was crushed. "My dear boy," she said, "if you are still nursing a grievance at our having opened the Bishop's letter, which, after all, concerns us as much as it does you, do please get rid of it. It isn't a pretty spirit. You have already shut yourself up for nearly two hours, in which we might have been talking of the good thing that has happened; and surely that is enough."

He repeated his question. "Have you told anybody of the offer?"

"We told nobody," said Ethel, "as the letter was written to you, until Mr. and Mrs. Mercer called this afternoon. He had got it into his head that the living had been offered to Mr. Leadbetter, and came over with no other purpose than to tell us that, and see how we should take it. He hadn't even told his wife. When he had crowed over us enough, of course we had to tell him."

"It would have been impossible to have kept it to ourselves without acting a lie," added Rhoda.

Denis considered this piece of information, and drew away from the fire. "I'm very sorry you told him," he said, with his face half averted from them. "I have already written to refuse the Bishop's offer. I don't feel myself equal yet to the responsibilities of a parish. I want to do some years' hard work in a town first."

After a pause of consternation and incredulity, both sisters set on him at once. How could he possibly have made such a decision? It was really too outrageous. And without giving them the slightest warning! Couldn't he trust the Bishop to know and do what was right? Why on earth hadn't he taken their advice before doing such a thing?

All the scandalised surprise came back to that, and it was the first thing he answered, when the flood of speech showed signs of abating.

"I didn't tell you," he said, "because I didn't think there was any chance of the offer being made to me, and I wanted to avoid this sort of discussion."

Dinner was announced at that moment, and further discussion had to be put off until the parlour-maid had left them to themselves and their food for a time. The interval had been spent in almost complete silence, all three of them nerving themselves for what was to come.

All three began to speak at the same time, when the maid had shut the door behind her; but it was Denis who continued his speech, his sisters relinquishing theirs to listen to him.

"You ought not to make this difficult for me," he said. "I made up my mind long ago, and I'm sure I was right to do it. I didn't want to tell our dear father, because his ideas on these things were old-fashioned, and I don't think he could have seen it in its true light. But you ought to be able to. I'm very sorry for your own disappointment, but you ought to be able to judge a matter like this on higher grounds."

This speech gave them plenty of material, and the sharp attack was renewed. How could he say such a wicked thing about their dear father! And the idea of accusing them of thinking about themselves in that worldly way! He must know very well that all their thoughts had been for him, and for the good of the parish in which they had worked nearly all their lives. Please drop that unworthy charge, if he could not see it all in its proper light yet.

There was plenty more of it, and he sat silent and flushed under the attack. But so far it had only stiffened him.

It is difficult for a domineering woman to relinquish the weapons which temperament thrusts into her hands, but they came to see that they could not move him by censure, and they descended to argument, as a half-way house to reasoning, but not without showing annoyance that they were forced to do so.

Surely the Bishop must know better than he what was the right thing to do in a matter like this! Wouldn't it be almost an impertinence to throw the offer back in his face? He could see that, couldn't he? And it was not only the Bishop; it was the dying wish of their dear father, which really it was preposterous to set aside as merely old-fashioned. And they had no doubt about its being the right thing to accept, whatever their opinion might be worth. Did he really feel justified in going against the opinions of people so much older and wiser than himself?

This was rather more difficult to meet. They were considerations that he had spent much anxious thought over, during the long hour that he had spent by himself. And he could not yet be quite certain that he had solved them in the right way, though he had conscientiously followed the light that was in him. Also, his sisters had established a considerable authority over him, and he was uncomfortable in withstanding them.

But he won through this stage, the contest being occasionally broken into by the intrusions of the maid, and the intervals being spent in bringing up more ammunition for the guns of argument.

He could only decide such a matter on his own conscience, which had given him a strong leading. He was quite sure that the Bishop would respect his decision. Couldn't they accept it now as having been made, and help him in looking forward and preparing for the new work he had undertaken?

This plea seemed to show a slight weakening. They drew from him the admission that his letter of refusal had not yet been posted, and set themselves ardently to induce him to reconsider it. Under the violence of the attack he seemed to waver, though the streak of obstinacy in him, almost more than the weight of his convictions, was all the time stiffening him under the appearance of indecision, which was only the result of not being able to find immediate answers to each and all of their arguments.

The battle moved its scene from the dining-room to the drawing-room, and raged with varying degrees of heat until it was nearly time for family prayers. It flared up hotly when Denis told them that he had spent the night with the Vicar of the London parish of whom he had already accepted a curacy; for he had to admit that he had been in negotiation about it for some time, and they pointed out to him with some truth that if he had told them of this, instead of keeping it himself as if it were a shameful secret, all the present trouble would have been avoided. And was it possible that he had said nothing to the Bishop about it, when he had had that long talk with him, and he had been so kind?

In their offence at having been kept in the dark themselves, they had not at once fastened upon this, the weakest of all places in the young man's armour. Why had he not told the Bishop, in that talk in which the announcement of such a decision would only have drawn the kindest sympathy and the wisest advice? He had asked himself that question many times during the hour he had spent by himself battling with his temptation, and there had been no answer to it for which he could take any credit to himself.

For the temptation of the world, as represented by the Rectory of Surley, had been almost overwhelming, and although he had set in hand his arrangements under the belief that there was little likelihood of its being offered to him, he had not had the courage to make the offer impossible. He had set out to burn his boats by entering into correspondence with the London Vicar, but he had not been able to bring himself to apply the match, and it is doubtful if he would have done so later if he had not spent that evening with the devoted priest who had fired his spiritual ambition afresh. Coming down in the train he had reproached himself greatly for his vacillation, and his boats had flared up behind him in a most illuminating conflagration. He reproached himself unsparingly for having, as he now saw, desired to gain from the Bishop's views defence for a young man's burying himself at the outset of his career in a comfortable country living, instead of trying to gain from him support for his higher ambitions. But he could not disguise from himself that his lack of frankness must appear most blameworthy to the man to whom in such a talk he had owed frankness above all things, and indeed, as he blushed hotly to think, simulated it.

Well, he had committed a grave fault, and must abide its consequences in lessened estimation of him by the man with whom he would have liked to stand well. But to disguise the fault by taking a reward for it would not help matters, and was an act which, in the sensitive state of conscience he had reached, would be impossible to him. The very fact that he had led the Bishop to imagine that he would be ready to accept the responsibilities and emoluments of Surley now prevented his doing so, more than any other fact.

But it may be imagined how much of this his sisters were able to accept, in their state of irritation and anger against him. They could only see the inexcusable fault, and it seemed to them the strongest reason yet advanced why he should obey their urging.

The poor badgered young man rose from his seat of purgation, saying that it was nearly time for prayers, but that he would rather not conduct them to-night, not feeling in tune for them, and would go to his study.

Then they fell upon him for wanting to avoid the very thing that would most help him to come to a right decision, and pointed out how very wrong his ideas must be since he could not even face his devotions.

So the servants were summoned, and he read and prayed before his household, and gained some solace and support from doing so.

When prayers were over he said, in a quieter voice than they had permitted him to use during the greater part of the contest, that he could not discuss the question any more. If he had done wrong, as he knew he had, he was now going to do right, and his letter of refusal would be sent to the Bishop the next morning.