THE ''PREFERMENT" OF JOHN LEMARCHANT.

Otago Witness, Issue 2857, 16 December 1908, Page 90

THE ''PREFERMENT" OF JOHN LEMARCHANT.

Bt G. A. Greenwood.

"There's mote work to do in a big city," argued Mrs Lemarchant desperately. The Bishop smiled at her indulgently. "A country parish has its difficulties, its anxieties, itis problems," he observed, shaking his head, "has it not, John?"' John Lemarchant, vicar of Ambleham, in the county of Sussex, answered "Yes" v/ith a sigh and the shade of a shake of his head to his wife. The Bishop was inexorable. John fitted the position admirably. He had the breeding tc snub the parvenus at Horbr.rough and the tact to opsn their pursestrings. He had the brain to attract the count}-. And John was content. It was Isobelle. Isobelle Lemarchant, who had married the country vicar and had swept into Ambleham with a frdufrou of skirts and the ripple of wholesome laughter. A good lunch, a good novel, a good play are each and severally better than a fine view. Views abounded round Ambleham — but that wva all. Isohelle did not mind being dubbed worldly. John, was too wise and too tolerant to echo the opinion of his parishioners. It needed a far less gentle heart, a far loss shrewd intellect to realise the fact that Isobelle was being buried alive. So he acquiesced in his wife's endeavour to induce the Bishop to give him another parish. Pelhamhurst, Mrs Lemarchant coveted — Pelhamhurst on the main line, where the expresses stopped and took in water and dropped passengere, instead of .thundering disdainfully by, with a racket and roar and a whirl of following paper fragments. But the- Bishop, as we- have said, was inexorable. "John's wasted here," cried Mrs Lemarchant, while the Bishop raised his eyebrows. "He's too clever, too intellectual for Ambleham. A lees able man " "John is doing good work," observed the Bishop sternly. He was wondering why he permitted the vicar's wife to pursue the subject and to interfere. Other wives received him meekly and He glanced at Isobelle and smiled. Others had found it hard to be angry with her before. But although he did not snub her, the Bishop refused to allow her to rule him. Isobello'is persistence stiffened the Bishop's resolution. John Lemarehant should stay at Ambleham. Deftly the conversation was drawn from the circles of clerical preferment, Isobelle found herself and her argument? ousted, the dkcufision revolved on the heat requisito for the production of show blooms of Niphetos roses. Isobelle would rather have tended a dandelion in the small garden at Pelhamhurst, so she sulked — it must be said — and bit her red lipfe and lifted her head bwiftly — "toased"' some people call it — so thit the curls, which were at once the envy and disgust of Ambleham, tumbled backward from her forehead. It is> vain biavery even in a Bishop to ignore a woman, .especially a wilful one — if theie are any other? ! — and more especially one who showed her frame of mind •so openly as Isobelle Lemarchant. "You'll have to give it up," whispered John in his wife's ear ?s they strolled mind th<i gaiden, the Bishop stalking and talking before them. "We won't!" declared Isobelle energetically, the plural pronoun rallying her half-hearted husband. Isobelle foiirul herself alon' 3 with her gue.H latpr in the afternoon w hen John had departed villngewur-da.

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"I can't stand it," she said, standing before .he Bishop. "I really can't— it's driving me mad. The dulness " "You should have considered that before you married a, country vicar," remarked the Bishop. "I never knew," sighed Isobelle, who had only known poverty and Earl's Court before her marriage. "We must all have our burdens," said the Bishop, whereat his hearer laughed — almost wildly. "I'm sorry," apologised Isoballe humbly, ''but that's* what it's doing for me." "What?" queried the Bishop, nonplussed. ".Making me silly," said Isobelle ; "it is — it is, indeed ! I can't boar it — John knows I can't " "It is an improper thing to intrude your personal grievances in matteis of public weal," taid the Bishop. ''John is : too zealous a man, too upright a man, to ] let such considerations weigh with him." "I know," said Isobelle forlornly. "And would you have m« made of less solid stuff than he?" inquired the Bishop, patting her hand. ''I know you wouldn't. I've known John since lie was a baby.' I've his welfare and his wellbeing much — very, very much at heart. But I hope I know my duty " "Ie it your duty to make him miserable?" demanded isobelle. "Fm afraid that is yQur part," said the Bishop. His gentle voice belied his words. "I wish you were more content " "You're pitying him !" cried Isobelle, quivering. I "I'm very fond of him," said the Bishop. ; "You know that, my dear." Isobelle stretched out Jier hands in the warm air. palm upwards, and she drew a lonis; breath. She had built so much upon- the Bishop's visit, and, alas! her efforts had been in vain. I That evening the Ambleham Vicaorage was disturbed by the flutter of a redyellow envelope. Till you have lived many, many years in a village you cannot realise the thrill of the- advent of a telegram. .John's face lengthened and his eyes narrowed. "It's the Gov.," he said, twitching his fingers ; "they — they think it's all — all over ' ' "You must go," said the Bishop. "But to-morrow?" said John. "I'll take the services," said the Bishop. "How providential I was here ! There, my boy, things may not be so bad as you imagine " "There's no train," said John, stiffening his jaw. He pulled out his watch. "If I walked to Horborough I might catch the eleven-ten." '"Five miles, John!" ejaculated Isobelle. ! "I've got half an hour," eaid John ; "I ! can run " 1""Sou1 ""Sou always could," said the Bishop, remembering the youth at Cambridge and a magnificent sprint that lapped his only adversary at the finish of the three-mile race at the 'varsity sports. "Don't waste time on good-byes — be off, John " Since Isobelle could not travel at ten miles an hour, fate decreed that she and the Bishop should be left alone. The neoct morning brought a telegram to say that i the danger was less imminent, but that John's return would not be for a few days. j Tho. Bishop suggested Isobelle joining j her husband. He was astounded when he I saw her face suddenly light up and a smile 1 curve her lips and some hidden mirth set her eye* dancing. Phe Bishop was completely nonplussed, but since Mrs Lemarchant refuf-cd to leave her guest, he dropped the subject. On Monday morning a stranger was reported in th-a village. He had inquired liis way to the vicarage from the station, and had drunk a whisky and soda (which was almost counted immoral of itself in Ambleham, where hops and beer held almost undisputed sway) at the Ambleham Arms before setting off down the road. The Bishop, having received this much j information from the boy who "did" the J vicarage boots and knives, was strolling round the garden. Down by the summer-house he stopped — he had been leaning over a lily, and the shock had nearly precipitated him face foremost into the bed — for he could swear (only he never did) that he had discerned { Mrs Lemarchant's waist with an arm about it. ; The Bishop straightened his back — a habit when he encountered anything that Jhe considered crooked. Then from the summer-house emerged a young man j (doubtless the rascal who drank spirits . in tho morning, opined the Bishop), acJ companied by the wife of the incumbent ' of Ambleham, in the County of Sussex. Mrs Lemarchant did not even have thegrace to blush. "Oh, this is Mr Saunders," she cried quite gaily (considering her husband's -bdence and its cause, thought the ' Bishop). " I'm so glad for you to meet 1 him. This is the Bishop— our Bishop, Tt-d— Mr Saunders" (the Bishop stiffened a'l over a.s he felt her fleeting glance lest upon him) ; " he's a great friend of John ' I Somehow, the Bishop and Mr Saunders 'didn't seem to get o» veiy well together. The Bishop was frowning heavily. He continued to do so all day. j After dinner he frowned still moie. For awhile he listened to the chatter of his hostess and silly Mr Saunders, then purreptitioufcly he seized upon a book that | lay conveniently near. He hoped the ; action had been unobserved, but nothing ; seemed to escape the lynx eyes of Mrs j Lemarchant. I "We're disturbing the dear Bibhop!" , she cried, getting up. "How thoughtless 'of us! We'll leave you to your book in | peace. It's a lovely night, Ted— Mr Saunders, come out and count the stare !'' 1 She laugh**!, looking mischievously ! wicked, and before the Bishop could formulate- one of many protests she had gone, followed by the puppy Satmdftrs, and he was left alone. It was highly improper. Hei hu«biind vws away. He wat

her husband's oldest friend. It behoved him to make some move in the matter. .

The Bishop rose heavily from his chair. Slowly — infinitely averse to the task that lay before him, he paced to the open French window. . • .

Then he clutched at the curtains. The open vileness of it ! John — poor John-^r what a viper he had 1 warmed in his bosom ! The Bishop suddenly realised? that he would have respected! ' her more if she had been a little less -frank an*fc»s little more deceitful. Then while fh« turned over the ethics of the case, fragments of their conversation were wafted to him. There had been a pause. Only their postures — her hand in" his, hei head perilously near his shoulder — had" set the Bishop aghast and agape. But now they were speaking, and it was more than tho night air that made the Bishop shiver. "It's cruel, Ted," he heard her saying passionately ; "it's driving me mad ! I can't — I won't stand it ! I'd rather be wicked-^l'd rather d<y anything than go on as I have done till now. Oh, Ted, you Imew me in the old days, you were fond .of me " ''I am now,'" said the man, in steadfast tones. "Very fond — you know it." "Onee — once I thought I should — should live with you," continued the girl,..staring up into his face. "Yon were kind -«, and gentle— you, would have given me life — while Here- " She stretched ont her wliite fingers, and the Bishop bit his lips as Mr Saunders ]>cnt over and kissed them. "I lov© you, Isobelle," said the man " gravely. "Come back to me." The Bishop watched her — the girl's face was turned towards him, and a shaft of light from the drawing room lit up her working features. He s«r*. her eyes narrow in pain, saw confusion and chaos oi thought, and then gradually a smile broke on her trembling lips, her eyes opened steadfast, the horror dyiii(g out of thorn, and in a moment the Bishop knew the course she had chosen. "Isobelle," he said, ard stepped out on •to the verandah. Both of them seemed about to speak, but the Bishop held up his hand. "You're a good woman," he said ; "you won't go. There's John, and duty, and self-respect. I~I ~ know you' won't go. For the memory of the old days you spoke of," he continued, turning to the yonnjj nian, "-when love- between you two could have hallowed and blessed yotrr lives, leave her and don't let it- ruin and curse them. T don't know you, sir, but I'm an old man, and I confidently appeal "to the good in you. Let her stay —don't ask it of her. won't speak of right or wrong — I'm old enough to knowthat now—^in moments like theee-^-prin-ciples seem of such little importance, but I know she loves her husband " "It's killing her," eaid the young, man, Isauing forward in the gloom 1 . "She's a good woman — it is better to •-ie so," i>aid the Bishop. "Choose — Isobelle," said Saunders hoarsely. Isobelle stood up. Something of the same conflict- showed on her working face. The Bishop's teeth were clenched co that the}' ached, and his thumbs rubbed d-asparately on his clenched knuckles. "It's — it's Join," said Isobelle. The two men watched her sbVfht figure as she passed to the window. Then the Bishop turned to the man beside him. H«a did- not mean to do \t^ but hifl hand 1 went out. "You didn't plead with her," he said. "That — that will comfort you ; good -night."' But through the long night swift-revolv-ing thoughts raced through the Bishop's brain, .and in the morninp he sent for Mrs Lemarchant and waited for her in John's study. "I own I've been ?vrong." he said; "I own I've been obstinate. I fee no good leason why John should remain here " "Is — ie it oniy that?" she asked, strangely intense. , "Yes." '•Not — not for what — I — not for me?" "Oh, no," said the Bishop gently. "The past belongs to the past. We need' never refer to it again. Inscrutable are the ways of Providence, but I've learned a lesson. It's changed me ; I realise" John '6 wasted here " "Last — last niight — I want to *' "Please," said the Bishop, holding tip his hand. "I would prefer not to hear. Did. you heai from- John this morning. I hope he had belter news " The Bishop had congratulated John Lemarchant, and had been shown over the vicarage at Pelhamhurst. At the drawingroom door John had left liim, and when the Bishop entered his face changed and 1 giew stern. For it wps Mr Saunders who had risen from beside Mrs Lemarcbant. Isobelle went swiftly to the door and then to the steadfast, stern-eyed Bishop. ■ "I — 1 didn't lie," she said, speaking quickly. "I eaid I hoped to live withf him — I said he was kind and gentle ; hehe sr.:d he loved me^ — so — cc — so bo does " "I don't pretend to understand," eaid the Bishop stiffly. "You «iid it didn't alter your decision,** 1 she went on tremulously. "I wanted to— to confess then. I was desperate— and Ted •wss coming — I lrsard from him — so iE schemed " "Ifiobelle's my sister," said Mr Saunders, coming to the reacue. "I had to help her when she asked me^ " The Bishop looked very severe. "I didn't lie," pleaded Isobelle. "True," said the Bishop. "You said it didn't make any difference." "True," repeated the Bishop. "I wanted to tell you " • The Bishop began to smile. When Jolm came in he was quite indignant because they wouldn't tell hurt what they were laughing about. — M.A.P*

— Streets running due north and soutV aro tutted to be the healthiest-