This Man's Wife. Fenn George Manville

had allowed three or four days to pass.

      Work? No man could have worked harder or with a greater display of zeal. She would be pleased, he felt, to see how he had made changes in several matters that were foul with neglect. And it was no outer whitewashing of that which was unclean within. Christie Bayle was very young, and he had suddenly grown enthusiastic; so that when he commenced some work he never paused until it was either well in train or was done.

      “You’re just the man we wanted here,” said Doctor Luttrell. “Why, Bayle, you have wakened me up. I tried all sorts of reformations years ago, but I had not your enthusiasm, and I soon wearied and jogged on in the old way. I shall have to begin now, old as I am, and see what I can do.”

      “But it is shameful, papa, what opposition Mr Bayle meets with in the town,” cried Millicent warmly.

      “Yes, my dear, it is. There’s a great deal of opposition to everything that is for people’s good.”

      Millicent was willing enough to help, for there was something delightfully fresh and pleasant in her association with Christie Bayle.

      “He’s working too hard, my dear,” the doctor said. “He wants change. He’s a good fellow. You and your mother must coax him here more, and get him out.” Bayle wanted no coaxing, for he came willingly enough to work hard with the doctor in the garden; to inspect Mrs Luttrell’s jams, and see how she soaked the paper in brandy before she tied them down; to go for walks with Millicent, or, on wet days, read German with her, or practise some instrumental or vocal duet.

      How pleasantly, how happily those days glided by! Mr Hallam from the bank came just as often as of old, and once or twice seemed disposed to speak slightingly of the curate, but he saw so grave and appealing a look in Millicent’s eyes that he hastened, in his quiet, gentlemanly way, to efface the slight.

      Sir Gordon Bourne, as was his custom, when not at the Hall or away with his yacht, came frequently to the doctor’s evenings, heavy with the smartest of sayings and the newest of stories from town. Gravely civil to the bank manager, a little distant to the new curate, and then, by degrees, as the months rolled by, talking to him, inviting him to dinner, placing his purse at his disposal for deserving cases of poverty, and at last becoming his fast friend.

      “An uncommonly good fellow, doctor, uncommonly. Very young – yes, very young. Egad, Sir, I envy him sometimes, that I do.”

      “I’m glad you like him, Sir Gordon,” cried Millicent, one day.

      “Are you, my dear, are you?” he said, half sadly. “Well, why shouldn’t I? The man’s sincere. He goes about his work without fuss or pretence. He does not consider it his duty to be always preaching at you and pulling a long face; but seems to me to be doing a wonderful deal of good in a quiet way. Do you know – ”

      He paused, and looked from the doctor to Mrs Luttrell, and then at Millicent, half laughingly.

      “Do we know what?”

      “Well, I’ll confess. I’ve played chess with him, and we’ve had a rubber at whist here, and he never touched upon sacred subjects since I’ve known him, and it has had a curious effect upon me.”

      “A curious effect?” said Millicent wonderingly.

      “Yes, egad, it’s a fact; he makes me feel as if I ought to go and hear him preach, and if you’ll take me next Sunday, Miss Millicent, I will.”

      Millicent laughingly agreed; and Sir Gordon kept his word, going to the doctor’s on Sunday morning, and walking with the ladies to church.

      It is worthy of remark though, that he talked a good deal to himself as he went home, weary and uncomfortable from wearing tight boots, and bracing up.

      “It won’t do,” he said. “I’m old enough to know better, and if I can see into such matters more clearly than I could twenty years ago, Bayle’s in love with her. Well, a good thing too, for I’m afraid Hallam is taken too, and – no, that would not do. I’ve nothing whatever against the fellow; a gentleman in his manners, the very perfection of a manager, but somehow I should not like to see her his wife.”

      “Why?” he said after a pause.

      He shook his head.

      “I can’t answer that question,” he muttered; and he was as far off from the answer when six months had passed.

      Volume One – Chapter Seven.

      A Terrible Mistake

      “Going out for a drive?”

      “Yes, Mr Bayle; and it was of no use my speaking. No end of things to see to; but the doctor would have me come with him.”

      “I think the doctor was quite right, Mrs Luttrell.”

      “There you are. You see, my dear? What did I tell you? Plants must have air, mustn’t they, Bayle?”

      “Certainly.”

      “I wish you would not talk like that, my dear. I am not a plant.”

      “But you want air,” cried the doctor, giving his whip a flick, and making his sturdy cob jump.

      “Oh! do be careful, my dear,” cried Mrs Luttrell nervously as she snatched at the whip.

      “Oh, yes, I’ll be careful. I say, Bayle, I wish you would look in as you go by; I forgot to open the cucumber-frame, and the sun’s coming out strong. Just lift it about three inches.”

      “I will,” said the curate; and the doctor drove on to see a patient half-a-dozen miles away.

      “Well, you often tell me I’m a very foolish woman, my dear,” said Mrs Luttrell, buttoning and unbuttoning the chaise-apron with uneasy fingers, “but I should not have done such a thing as that.”

      “Thing as what?” cried the doctor.

      “As to send a gentleman on to our house where Milly’s all alone. It doesn’t seem prudent.”

      “What, not to ask a friend to look in and lift the cucumber-light?”

      “But, with Milly all alone; and I never leave her without feeling that something is going to happen.”

      “Pish! fudge! stuff!” cried the doctor. “I never did see such a woman as you are. I declare you think of nothing but courting. You ought to be ashamed of yourself at your time of life.”

      “Now, you ought not to speak like that, my dear. It’s very wrong of you, for it’s not true. Of course I feel anxious about Millicent, as every prudent woman should.”

      “Anxious! What is there to be anxious about? Such nonsense! Do you think Bayle is a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

      “No, of course I don’t. Mr Bayle is a most amiable, likeable young man, and I feel quite surprised how I’ve taken to him. I thought it quite shocking at first when he came, he seemed so young; but I like him now very much indeed.”

      “And yet you would not trust him to go to the house when we were away. For shame, old lady! for shame!”

      “I do wish you would not talk to me like that, my dear. I never know whether you are in earnest or joking.”

      “Now, if it had been Hallam, you might have spoken. – Ah! Betsy, what are you shying at? – Keep that apron fastened, will you? What are you going to do?”

      “I was only unfastening it ready – in case I had to jump out,” faltered Mrs Luttrell.

      “Jump out! Why, mother! There, you are growing into quite a nervous old woman. You stop indoors too much.”

      “But is there any danger, my dear?”

      “Danger! Why, look for yourself. The mare saw a wheelbarrow, and she was frightened. Don’t be so silly.”

      “Well, I’ll try not,” said Mrs Luttrell, smoothing down the cloth fold over the leather apron, but looking rather flushed and excited as the cob trotted rapidly over the road. “You were saying, dear, something about Mr Hallam.”

      “Yes.