The New Mistress: A Tale

by George Manville Fenn

The Rev. Henry’s Temptation.

Now it so happened that the Rev. Henry Lambent, who had been greatly troubled in his mind of late concerning what he called parish matters, was out that very day making a few calls.

The parish matters that troubled him were relative to the schools, about which he thought more than he had ever thought before. In fact if he had not allowed his thoughts to dwell upon them, they would have been directed thereto by his sisters, who had reminded him several times about the unsatisfactory state of the girls’ school.

“I suppose it is useless to say so now, Henry,” said Miss Lambent, “since the new mistress is to be made the protégée of every one in the place, but I think the sooner she is dismissed the better. If she is not sent about her business there will be a great scandal in the place, as sure as my name is Rebecca. What do you think, Beatrice?”

There was a minute’s pause before Beatrice replied, and then her words were uttered in an extremely reserved manner.

“I prefer to say nothing upon the question, for I do not think this young person of sufficient importance for us to allow her to disturb the harmony of this peaceful home.”

The vicar winced a little, and Beatrice saw it Rebecca’s weapon was clumsy, coarse, blunt and notched; its effect upon him was that of a dull blow. The weapon of Beatrice, on the contrary, was keen and incisive. It inflicted a sharp pang, and it was venomed with spiteful contempt, that rankled in the wound after it was made. The effect was to produce a couple of red spots on his cheeks, but he said nothing; he merely thought of “this young person” as he had thought of her a good deal of late, and by comparison his sisters seemed to be petty, narrow-minded, and spiteful. He was greatly exercised in mind, too; and had he been a Roman Catholic priest he would probably have submitted himself to fastings and other penitential exercises. As it was, he sat alone and thought and combated the strange ideas that had taken possession of him of late. He trampled them beneath his feet—he would not even give them a name; but so sure as he—he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, M.A., vicar of Plumton All Saints, went into the retirement of his study to quell the fancies that he told himself were beneath his dignity as a teacher of men and a gentleman, he thought of Hazel Thorne, and her face became to him an absolute torture.

The idea was absurd, he knew it was ridiculous, and not to be thought of for a moment, and consequently he thought of it for hours every day; dreamed of it every night. It was his first waking thought in the morning; and in the quietude of the late evening, when he was seated alone, he found himself filling the chair before him with a well-known figure, and seeing the face smile upon his as the red lips parted, and sweet and pure, the simple little school song of the violet in its shady bed floated to his listening ears.

He told himself that it was absurd, and laughed at it, but it was a dismal kind of mirth that echoed hollowly in his ears, startling him, for he fancied that the laughter sounded mocking, and he began to recall the old legends that he had read about holy men being tempted of the emissaries of the Evil One, and of the strange guises they had been said to assume for the better leading of their victims astray.

Was he—he asked himself—being chosen for one of those terrible temptations? Was he to be the object of one of their assaults?