The Tenants of Malory

day, Cleve Verney was

verend Isaac Dixie had come only a minute or two before, and wa

-piece, and a carved wainscotting embedding in its panels a symmetrical system of cupboards, closed the perspective, and, as Cleve entered at the door in the further wall, gave effect to the solitary figure of the Re

ty years old, rather tall than otherwise, broad, bland,

ments,” exclaimed Cleve. “Glad to see you,

d a little on one side, smiling rosily with nearly closed eyes, an

guished young pupil, to meet you, and congratulate you on your brilliant successe

ve, nevertheless shaking his great soft red hand kindly enough. “What was i

reeable conversations — colloquies — you and I, Mr. Verney, together, in other and very happy days,” said the clergyman, with a

by Jove, it was as large as a tea-pot. If I had hit you that time,

orgot that — yes, quite — you were always an

four pounds. I think you were glad it was broken; you never got one like it into the room again. I say

end Isaac Dixie took it in good part. It was his anci

By-the-by, who are those people you h

the house?” asked the clergyman, t

briskly, throwing himself back in his seat a

responsible; in fact

know tha

equest of Miss Sheckleton

Cleve. “There’s an old gentleman — there’s a

a little puzzled. He coughed, he looked

want to tel

my distinguished pupil. I’ve been always frank, quite

aughed

ay dropped his eyes and coloured a little and coughed. “

uper

term expresses it but too tru

re!” excla

too much trouble, like a dear

— and I hope I’m in the habit of speaking truth — and this secret, if so trifling

ixie. Have a weed?” he ad

d he, closing his eyes, and liftin

your bishop — I f

ns — very able lecture; y

n, and the smoke of the Bottomless pit, smelling of cheroots. You used not to be such a fool, old Dixie

s, just for once, only once;” and he s

u need not laugh. Upon my honour, I’m serious; you shall have your choice; I swear you shall,” said Cleve V

ffably and meekly with prospectiv

ars ago, yet, since the vicar’s — I must say, most unreasonable — claim has been allowed, it is really, I should be ashamed to say how trifling in emolument; we have all our crosses to bear, my dear pupil, frie

indow, across his broad, meek, and simpering countenance, helped the

conscious disdain. “And for the life of me, I don’t know why I intend doing anything for you, except that I promised, and your name’s lucky, I suppose; you used to keep telling me, don’t you remember, tha

affably, and even waggishly, as one who can bear to be quizzed, and has a confidence

you know. I say, you mustn’t snub your bishop; and, upon my honour, I’m perfectly serious, you shall never see my f

serious, Mr. Ver

can keep my word, as y

d possible position; pray consider whe

ke a poi

it is awkward, it is, in a measure right, inasmuch as you are connected with the property,

are they!” said Cl

that his name should not be disclosed, so I entreat you won’t ment

nd upon it, to mortal. I’ve just one reason for wishing to know, and I have brought you a journey,

omise, I tell you that the old gentleman now residing in very strict seclusion at Malory, is Sir Booth ——” he pa

Booth

t you

t mean Sir Bo

said the clergyman, looking down bash

ing Sir Booth Fanshawe to occupy our house at Malory, after

id strike me in that light — never in that point of view; and Sir Booth doesn’t know

uncle hears, he’ll not

o anything that could possibly have given a moment’s pain to my honoured

st us — getting up contests and petitions, and vilifying us wherever he could. He has left no stone unturned — but that’s all over; and I think you’ve committed an indiscretion

imple. To quiet the reader’s uneasiness, however, I may mention that this good man had taken particular care to secure himself against a possible lo

shawe was once a man who could give you a lift;

and melancholy consequences that I ventured, at some little ris

; for whatever the romance of Christianity may say, the practice of the apostles is, very much, nothing for nothing;

ve no hesitation in s

over to Ware, and dine with me? I’

ting in the morning at Clay school-house; the bishop was to be there; and the rect

Fleece, as he drove away; and the clergyman, who was not always quite celestial, and could, on safe occasions, be sharp and savage enough, exploded in a coarse soliloquy ov

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