MILDMAY left the house of the Ascotts hurriedly at this intimation. He thought them pleasant people enough—for who does not think those people pleasant who flatter and praise him?—but he would not allow himself to be persuaded out of his determination to return to the rectory. I must add however that his mind was in a more confused state than ever as he skirted the common by the way the curate had taken him on the previous night. There were two sides to every question; that could not be gainsaid. To leave Brentburn after passing twenty years here in arduous discharge of all the rector’s duties, but with the rank and remuneration only of the curate, was an injury too hard to contemplate to Mr. St. John; but then it was not Mildmay’s fault that he should interfere at his own cost to set it right. It was not even the fault of the parish. It was nobody’s fault but his own, foolish as he was, neglecting all chances of “bettering himself.” If a man would do nothing for himself, how could it be the duty of others, of people no way connected with him, scarcely knowing him, to do it for him? This argument was unanswerable; nothing could be more reasonable, more certain; and yet—Mildmay felt that he himself was young, that the rectory of Brentburn was not much to him one way or the other. He had wanted it as the means of living a more real life than that which was possible to him in his college rooms; but he had no stronger reason, no special choice of the place, no conviction that he could do absolute good here; and why should he then take so lightly what it would cost him nothing to reject, but which was everything to the curate? Then, on the other hand, there was the parish to consider. What if—extraordinary as that seemed—it did not want Mr. St. John? What if really his very poverty, his very gentleness, made him unsuitable for it? The argument seemed a miserable one, so far as the money went; but it might be true. The Ascotts, for instance, were the curate’s friends; but this was their opinion. Altogether Mr. Mildmay was very much perplexed on the subject. He wished he had not come to see for himself, just as an artist has sometimes been sorry for having consulted that very troublesome reality, Nature, who will not lend herself to any theory. If he had come without any previous inspection of the place, without any knowledge of the circumstances, how much better it would have been! Whereas now he was weighed down by the consideration of things with which he had really nothing to do. As he went along, full of these thoughts, he met the old woman whom he had first spoken to by the duck-pond on the day before, and who had invited him to sit down in her cottage. To his surprise—for he did not at first recollect who she was—she made him a curtsy, and stopped short to speak to him. As it was in the full blaze of the midday sunshine, Mildmay would very gladly have escaped—not to say that he was anxious to get back to the rectory, and to finish, as he persuaded himself was quite necessary, his conversation with Cicely. Old Mrs. Joel, however, stood her ground. She had an old-fashioned large straw bonnet on her head, which protected her from the sun; and besides, was more tolerant of the sunshine, and more used to exposure than he was.

“Sir,” she said, “I hear as you’re the new gentleman as is coming to our parish. I am a poor woman, sir, the widow o’ Job Joel, as was about Brentburn church, man and boy, for more than forty year. He began in the choir, he did, and played the fiddle in the old times; and then, when that was done away with, my husband he was promoted to be clerk, and died in it. They could not ezackly make me clerk, seeing as I’m nothing but a woman; but Dick Williams, as is the sexton, ain’t married, and I’ve got the cleaning of the church, and the pew-opening, if you please, sir; and I hope, sir, as you won’t think it’s nothing but justice to an old servant, to let me stay?”

“What do you think of Mr. St. John going away?” asked Mildmay abruptly.

The old woman stared, half alarmed, and made him another curtsy, to occupy the time till she could think how to answer. “Mr. St. John, sir? He’s a dear good gentleman, sir; as innocent as a baby. When he’s gone, sir, they will find the miss of him,” she said, examining his face keenly to see how he meant her to answer, which is one of the highest arts of the poor.

“If he goes away, after being here so long, why shouldn’t you be sent away, too?” said Mildmay. He felt how absurd was this questioning, as of an oracle, which came from the confused state of his own mind, not from any expectation of an answer; and then he could not but smile to himself at the idea of thus offering up a victim to the curate’s manes.

Mrs. Joel was much startled. “Lord bless us!” she said, making a step backwards. Then commanding herself, “It weren’t Mr. St. John, sir, as gave me my place; but the rector hisself. Mr. St. John is as good as gold, but he ain’t not to say my master. Besides, there’s a many as can do the parson’s work, but there ain’t many, not in this parish, as could do mine. Mr. St. John would be a loss—but me, sir——”

Here she made another curtsy, and Mildmay laughed in spite of himself. “You—would be a greater loss?” he said. “Well, perhaps so; but if there are any good reasons why he should leave, there must be the same for you.”

“I don’t see it, sir,” said Mrs. Joel promptly. “The parson’s old, and he’s a bit past his work; but I defy any one in the parish to say as the church ain’t as neat as a new pin. Mr. St. John’s getting a bit feeble in the legs; he can’t go long walks now like once he could. Me! I may be old, but as for my mop and my duster, I ain’t behind nobody. Lord bless you! it’s a very different thing with Mr. St. John from what it is with me. He’s got those girls of his to think upon, and those little children. What’s he got to do with little children at his age? But I’ve nobody but myself to go troubling my brains about. I thinks o’ my work, and nought else. You won’t get another woman in the parish as will do it as cheap and as comfortable as me.”

“But don’t you think,” said Mildmay—whose conduct I cannot excuse, and whose only apology is that his mind was entirely occupied with one subject—“don’t you think it is very hard upon Mr. St. John at his age, to go away?”

Mrs. Joel found herself in a dilemma. She had no desire to speak ill of the curate, but if she spoke too well of him, might not that annoy the new rector, and endanger her own cause? She eyed him very keenly, never taking her eyes off his face, to be guided by its changes. “Between gentlefolks and poor folks,” she said at last, philosophically, “there’s a great gulf fixed, as is said in the Bible. They can’t judge for us, nor us for them. He’s a deal abler to speak up for hisself, and settle for hisself, than the likes o’ me; and I reckon as he could stay on if he’d a mind to; but me, sir, it’s your pleasure as I’ve got to look to,” said the old woman, with another curtsy. This oracle, it was clear, had no response or guidance to give.

“Well,” he said, carelessly, “I will speak to Miss St. John—for I don’t know about the parish; and if she approves——”

A gleam of intelligence came into the keen old eyes which regarded him so closely; the old face lighted up with a twinkle of mingled pleasure, and malice, and kindness. “If that’s so, the Lord be praised!” she cried; “and I hope, sir, it’s Miss Cicely; for if ever there was a good wife, it’s her dear mother as is dead and gone; and Miss Cicely’s her very breathing image. Good morning to you, and God bless you, sir, and I hope as I haven’t made too bold.”

What does the old woman mean? Mildmay said to himself bewildered. He repeated the question over and over again as he pursued his way to the rectory. What was it to him that Cicely St. John was like her mother? The curate, too, had insisted upon this fact as if it was of some importance. What interest do they suppose me to take in the late Mrs. St. John? he said, with great surprise and confusion to himself.

Meanwhile, the girls in the rectory had been fully occupied. When their father went out, they held a council of war together, at which indeed Mab did not do much more than question and assent, for her mind was not inventive or full of resource as Cicely’s was. It was she, however, who opened the consultation. “What were you saying to Mr. Mildmay in the garden?” said Mab. “You told him something. He did not look the same to-day as he did last night.”

“I told him nothing,” said Cicely. “I was so foolish as to let him see that we felt it very much. No, I must not say foolish. How could we help but feel it? It is injustice, if it was the Queen herself who did it. But perhaps papa is right—if he does not come, some one else would come. And he has a heart. I do not hate him so much as I did last night.”

“Hate him! I do not hate him at all. He knows how to draw, and said some things that were sense—really sense—and so few people do that,” said Mab, thinking of her sketch. “I must have those mites again when the light is about the same as last time, and finish it. Cicely, what are you thinking of now?”

“So many things,” said the girl, with a sigh, “Oh, what a change, what a change, since we came! How foolish we have been, thinking we were to stay here always! Now, in six weeks or so, we must go—I don’t know where; and we must pay our debts—I don’t know how; and we must live without anything to live on. Mab, help me! Papa won’t do anything; we must settle it all, you and I.”

“You need not say you and I, Cicely. I never was clever at plans. It must be all yourself. What a good thing you are like mamma! Don’t you think we might go to Aunt Jane?”

“Aunt Jane kept us at school for three years,” said Cicely. “She has not very much herself. How can I ask her for more? If it were not so dreadful to lose you, I should say, Go, Mab—she would be glad to have you—and work at your drawing, and learn all you can, while I stay with papa here.”

Cicely’s eyes filled with tears, and her steady voice faltered. Mab threw her arms round her sister’s neck. “I will never leave you. I will never go away from you. What is drawing or anything if we must be parted?—we never were parted all our lives.”

“That is very true,” said Cicely, drying her eyes. “But we can’t do as we like now. I suppose people never can do what they like in this world. We used to think it was only till we grew up. Mab, listen—now is the time when we must settle what to do. Papa is no good. I don’t mean to blame him; but he has been spoiled; he has always had things done for him. I saw that last night. To ask him only makes him unhappy; I have been thinking and thinking, and I see what to do.”

Mab raised her head from her sister’s shoulder, and looked at Cicely with great tender believing eyes. The two forlorn young creatures had nobody to help them; but the one trusted in the other, which was a safeguard for the weaker soul; and she who had nobody to trust in except God, felt that inspiration of the burden which was laid upon her, which sometimes is the strongest of all supports to the strong. Her voice still faltered a little, and her eyes glistened, but she put what was worse first, as a brave soul naturally does.

“Mab, you must go—it is the best—you are always happy with your work, and Aunt Jane will be very kind to you; and the sooner you can make money, don’t you see? It would not do to go back to school, even if Miss Blandy would have us, for all we could do there was to keep ourselves. Mab, you are so clever, you will soon now be able to help; and you know, even if papa gets something, there will always be the little boys.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mab, subdued. “O Cicely, don’t be vexed! I should like it—I know I should like it—but for leaving you.”Cicely’s bosom heaved with a suppressed sob. “You must not mind me. I shall have so much to do, I shall have no time to think; and so long as one can keep one’s self from thinking!—There now, that is settled. I wanted to say it, and I dared not. After that—Mab, don’t ask me my plans! I am going round this very day,” cried Cicely, springing to her feet, “to all those people we owe money to.” This sudden movement was half the impulse of her vivacious nature, which could not continue in one tone, whatever happened, and, half an artifice to conceal the emotion which was too deep for her sister to share. Cicely felt the idea of the separation much more than Mab did, though it was Mab who was crying over it; and the elder sister dared not dwell upon the thought. “I must go round to them all,” said Cicely, taking the opportunity to get rid of her tears, “and ask them to have a little patience. There will be another half-year’s income before we leave, and they shall have all, all I can give them. I hope they will be reasonable. Mab, I ought to go now.”

“Oh, what will you say to them? Oh, how have you the courage to do it? O Cicely! when it is not your fault. It is papa who ought to do it!” cried Mab.

“It does not matter so much who ought to do it,” said Cicely, with composure. “Some one must do it, and I don’t know who will but me. Then I think there ought to be an advertisement written for the Guardian.”

“Cicely, you said you were to stay with papa!”

“It is not for me; it is for papa himself. Poor papa! Oh, what a shame, what a shame, at his age! And a young man, that young man, with nothing to recommend him, coming in to everything, and turning us out! I can’t talk about it,” cried Cicely. “The best thing for us is to go and do something. I can make up the advertisement on the way.”

And in the heat of this, she put on her hat and went out, leaving Mab half stupefied by the suddenness of all those settlements. Mab had not the courage to offer to go to Wilkins and the rest with her sister. She cried over all that Cicely had to do; but she knew very well that she had not the strength to do it. She went and arranged her easel, and set to work very diligently. That was always something; and to make money, would not that be best of all, as well as the pleasantest? Mab did not care for tiring herself, nor did she think of her own enjoyment. That she should be the brother working for both, and Cicely the sister keeping her house, had always been the girl’s ideal, which was far from a selfish one. But she could not do what Cicely was doing. She could not steer the poor little ship of the family fortunes or misfortunes through this dangerous passage. Though she was, she hoped, to take the man’s part of breadwinner, for the moment she shrank into that woman’s part which women too often are not permitted to hold. To keep quiet at home, wondering and working in obscurity—wondering how the brave adventurer was faring who had to fight for bare life outside in the world.

I dare not follow Cicely through her morning’s work; it would take up so much time; and it would not be pleasant for us any more than it was for her. “Don’t you make yourself unhappy, Miss,” said the butcher, “I know as you mean well by every one. A few pounds ain’t much to me, the Lord be praised! and I’ll wait, and welcome, for I know as you mean well.” Cicely, poor child! being only nineteen, cried when these kind words were said to her, and was taken into the hot and greasy parlour, where the butcher’s wife was sitting, and petted and comforted. “Bless you, things will turn out a deal better than you think,” Mrs. Butcher said; “they always does. Wait till we see the handsome young gentleman as is coming through the woods for you, Miss Cicely dear: and a good wife he’ll have, like your dear mother,” this kind woman added, smiling, yet wiping her eyes. But Wilkins the grocer was much more difficult to manage, and to him Cicely set her fair young face like a flint, biting her lips to keep them steady, and keeping all vestige of tears from her eyes. “Whatever you do,” she said with those firm pale lips, “we cannot pay you now; but you shall be paid if you will have patience;” and at last, notwithstanding the insults which wrung Cicely’s heart, this savage, too, was overcome. She went home all throbbing and aching from this last conflict, her heart full of bitterness and those sharp stings of poverty which are so hard to bear. It was not her fault; no extravagance of hers had swelled those bills; and how many people threw away every day much more than would have saved all that torture of heart and mind to this helpless and guiltless girl! Mildmay himself had paid for a Palissy dish, hideous with crawling reptiles, a great deal more than would have satisfied Wilkins and relieved poor Cicely’s delicate shoulders of this humiliating burden; but what of that? The young man whom she saw in the distance approaching the rectory from the other side could at that moment have paid every one of those terrible debts that were crushing Cicely, and never felt it; but I repeat, what of that? Under no pretence could he have done it; nothing in the world would have induced the proud, delicate girl to betray the pangs which cut her soul. Thus the poor and the rich walk together shoulder by shoulder every day as if they were equal, and one has to go on in hopeless labour like Sisyphus, heaving up the burden which the other could toss into space with the lifting of a finger. So it is, and so it must be, I suppose, till time and civilization come to an end.

Meanwhile these two came nearer, approaching each other from different points. And what Mildmay saw was not the brave but burdened creature we know of, dear reader, bleeding and aching from battles more bitter than Inkerman, with a whole little world of helpless beings hanging upon her, but only a fresh, bright-eyed girl, in a black and white frock, with a black hat shading her face from the sunshine, moving lightly in the animation of her youth across the white high road—a creature full of delicate strength, and variety, and brightness; like her mother! Mildmay could not help thinking that Mrs. St. John must have been a pretty woman, and there came a little pang of sympathy into his heart when he thought of the grave in the twilight where the curate had led him, from which the light in the girls’ windows was always visible, and to which his patient feet had worn that path across the grass. To be sure, across the pathos of this picture there would come the jar of that serio-comic reference to the other Mrs. St. John, who, poor soul! lay neglected down the other turning. This made the new rector laugh within himself. But he suppressed all signs of the laugh when he came up to Cicely, who, though she gave him a smile of greeting, did not seem in a laughing mood. She was the first to speak.

“Have you left papa behind you, Mr. Mildmay? He has always a great many places to go to, and parish work is not pleasant on such a hot day.”

Was there an insinuation in this that he had abandoned the unpleasant work, finding it uncongenial to him? Poor Cicely was sore and wounded, and the temptation to give a passing sting in her turn was great.

“Mr. St. John did not permit me to try its pleasantness or unpleasantness,” said Mildmay. “He took me over the parish indeed, and showed me the church and the school, and some other things; and then he left me at Mr. Ascott’s. I come from the Heath now.”

“Ah, from the Heath?” said Cicely, changing colour a little, and looking at him with inquiring eyes. What had they done or said, she wondered, to him? for she could not forget the projected petition to the Lord Chancellor, which had raised a fallacious hope in their hearts when she saw Mrs. Ascott last.

“They have a pretty house, and they seem kind people,” said Mildmay, not knowing what to say.

“Yes, they have a pretty house.” Cicely looked at him even more eagerly, with many questions on her lips. Had they said nothing to him? Had they received him at once as the new rector without a word? Kind! what did he mean when he said they were kind? Had they, too, without an effort, without a remonstrance, gone over to the enemy?

“Mr. St. John somewhat rashly introduced me as the new rector,” said Mildmay, “which was very premature; and they knew some relations of mine. Miss St. John, the Ascotts are much less interesting to me than our conversation of this morning. Since then my mind has been in a very confused state. I can no longer feel that anything is settled about the living.”

“Didn’t they say anything?” said Cicely, scarcely listening to him; “didn’t they make any objection?” This was a shock of a new kind which she was not prepared for. “I beg your pardon,” she cried; “they had no right to make any objection; but didn’t they say anything at least—about papa?”

What was Mildmay to answer? He hesitated scarcely a moment, but her quick eye saw it.

“A great deal,” he said eagerly; “they said, as every one must, that Mr. St. John’s long devotion——”

“Don’t try to deceive me,” said Cicely, with a smile of desperation. “I see you do not mean it. They did not say anything sincere. They were delighted to receive a new rector, a new neighbour, young and happy and well off——”

“Miss St. John——”

“Yes, I know; it is quite natural, quite right. I have nothing to say against it. Papa has only been here for twenty years, knowing all their troubles, doing things for them which he never would have done for himself; but—‘Le roi est mort; vive le roi!’” cried the impetuous girl in a flash of passion; in the strength of which she suddenly calmed down, and, smiling, turned to him again. “Is it not a pretty house? and Mrs. Ascott is very pretty too—has been, people say, but I think it is hard to say, has been. She is not young, but she has the beauty of her age.”

“I take very little interest in Mrs. Ascott,” said Mildmay, “seeing I never saw her till to-day; but I take a great deal of interest in what you were saying this morning.”

“You never saw any of us till yesterday, Mr. Mildmay.”

“I suppose that is quite true. I cannot help it—it is different. Miss St. John, I don’t know what you would think of the life I have been living, but yours has had a great effect upon me. What am I to do? you have unsettled me, you have confused my mind and all my intentions. Now tell me what to do.”

“I,” said Cicely aghast. “Oh, if I could only see a little in advance, if I could tell what to do myself!”

“You cannot slide out of it like this,” he said; “nay, pardon me, I don’t mean to be unkind; but what am I to do?”

Cicely looked at him with a rapid revulsion of feeling from indignation to friendliness. “Oh,” she cried, “can’t you fancy how a poor girl, so helpless as I am, is driven often to say a great deal more than she means? What can we do, we girls?—say out some of the things that choke us, that make our hearts bitter within us, and then be sorry for it afterwards? that is all we are good for. We cannot go and do things like you men, and we feel all the sharper, all the keener, because we cannot do. Mr. Mildmay, all that I said was quite true; but what does that matter? a thing may be wrong and false to every principle, and yet it cannot be helped. You ought not to have the living; papa ought to have it; but what then? No one will give it to papa, and if you don’t take it some one else will; therefore, take it, though it is wicked and a cruel wrong. It is not your fault, it is—I don’t know whose fault. One feels as if it were God’s fault sometimes,” cried Cicely; “but that must be wrong; the world is all wrong and unjust, and hard—hard; only sometimes there is somebody who is very kind, very good, who makes you feel that it is not God’s fault, and you forgive even the world.”

She put up her hand to wipe the tears from those young shining eyes, which indignation and wretchedness and tears only made the brighter. Cicely was thinking of the butcher—you will say no very elevated thought. But Mildmay, wondering, and touched to the heart, asked himself, with a suppressed throb of emotion, could she mean him?

“I am going back to Oxford,” he said hastily. “I shall not go to town. The first thing I do will be to see everybody concerned, and to tell them what you say. Yes, Miss St. John, you are right; it is wicked and wrong that I or any one should have it while your father is here. I will tell the Master so, I will tell them all so. It shall not be my fault if Mr. St. John does not have his rights.”

They were close to the rectory gate, and as fire communicates to fire, the passionate impulse and fervour of Cicely’s countenance had transferred themselves to Mr. Mildmay, whose eyes were shining, and his cheeks flushed with purpose like her own. Cicely was not used to this rapid transmission of energy. She gazed at him half frightened. Usually her interlocutor did all that was possible to calm her down—wondered at her, blamed her a little, chilled her vehemence with surprised or disapproving looks. This new companion who caught fire at her was new to the girl. She was half alarmed at what she had done.

“Will you do so, really?” she said, the tears starting to her eyes. “O Mr. Mildmay, perhaps I am wrong! Papa would not advise you so. He would say he never asked for anything in his life, and that he would not be a beggar for a living now. And think—perhaps I should not have said half so much if I could have done anything. I am too ignorant and too inexperienced for any one to be guided by me.”

“Yes, you are ignorant,” cried the young man. “You don’t know the sophistries with which we blind ourselves and each other. You dare to think what is right and what is wrong—and, for once in my life, so shall I.”

The moisture that had been gathering dropped all at once in two great unexpected tears out of Cicely’s eyes. Her face lighted like the sky when the sun rises, a rosy suffusion as of dawn came over her. Her emotion was so increased by surprise that even now she did not know what to think. In the least likely quarter all at once, in her moment of need, she had found sympathy and succour; and I think perhaps that even the most strong and self-sustaining do not know how much they have wanted sympathy and comprehension until it comes. It made Cicely weak, not strong. She felt that she could have sat down on the roadside and cried. She had an idiotic impulse to tell him everything, and especially about the butcher—how kind he had been. These impulses passed through her mind mechanically, or, as one ought to say nowadays, automatically; but Cicely, who had no notion of being an automaton, crushed them in the bud. And what she really would have said in the tumult of her feelings, beyond what the look in her eyes said, behind the tears, I cannot tell, if it had not been that the curate came forth leisurely at that moment from the rectory, making it necessary that tears and every other evidence of emotion should be cleared away.

“Cicely, it is just time for dinner,” he said. “You should not walk, my dear, in the heat of the day; and Mr. Mildmay, too, must be tired, and want something to refresh him. It is a long time since breakfast,” said the gentle curate, opening the door that his guest might precede him. Mr. St. John was not a great eater, but he had a mild, regular appetite, and did not like any disrespect to the dinner hour.