“There was an oppressive sickly air about everything, strongest at the ball. I can’t forget it,” said Raymond, taking off his hat, so that the morning air might play about his temples. “We talked about meddling women, but the truth was that they were shaming us by doing what they could.”
“I hope others will see it so. Is not Whitlock to be mayor next time?”
“Yes. He may do something. Well, they will hardly unseat me! I should not like to see Moy in my place, and it would be a sore thing for my mother; but,” he continued, in the same strange, dreamy manner, “everything has turned out so wretchedly that I hardly know or care how it goes.”
“My dear old fellow!”
Raymond had stopped to lean over a gate, where he could look up to the old red house in the green park, set in brightly-tinted trees, all aglow in the morning sunshine. Tears had sprung on his cheeks, and a suppressed sob heaved his chest. Julius ventured to say, “Perhaps there may yet be a change of mind.”
“No!” was the answer. “In the present situation there is nothing for it but to sacrifice my last shred of peace to the one who has the chief right—in a certain way.”
They walked on, and he hardly spoke again till, as they reached the Rectory, Julius persuaded him to come in and have a cup of tea; and though he said he must go back and see his friend off, he could not withstand the sight of Rosamond at the window, fresh and smiling, with her child in her arms.
“Not a bit the worse for her dissipation,” she merrily said. “Oh, the naughty little thing!—to have begun with the turf, and then the ‘Three Pigeons’! Aren’t you ashamed of her, papa? Sit down, Raymond; how horribly tired you do look.”
“Ha! What’s this?” exclaimed Julius, who had been opening the post-bag. “Here’s a note from the Bishop, desiring me to come to the palace to-day, if possible.”
“Oh!” cried Raymond. “Where is there vacant—isn’t there a canonry or a chaplaincy?”