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The Rector of St. Marks

Page 13

It was to all intents and purposes "blue Monday" with the rector of

St. Mark's, for, aside from the weariness and exhaustion which always

followed his two services on Sunday, and his care of the Sunday

school, there was a feeling of disquiet and depression, occasioned

partly by that _rencontre_ with pretty Lucy Harcourt, and partly by

the uncertainty as to what Anna's answer might be. He had seen the

look of displeasure on her face as she stood watching him and Lucy,

and though to many this would have given hope, it only added to his

nervous fears lest his suit should be denied. He was sorry that Lucy

Harcourt was in the neighborhood, and sorrier still for her tenacious

memory, which had evidently treasured up every incident which he could

wish forgotten. With Anna Ruthven absorbing every thought and feeling

of his heart, it was not pleasant to remember what had been a genuine

flirtation between himself and the sparkling belle he had met among

the Alps.

It was nothing but a flirtation, he knew, for in his inmost soul he

absolved himself from ever having had a thought of matrimony connected

with Lucy Harcourt. He had admired her greatly and loved to wander

with her amid the Alpine scenery, listening to her wild bursts of

enthusiasm, and watching the kindling light in her blue eyes, and the

color coming to her thin, pale cheeks, as she gazed upon some scene of

grandeur, nestling close to him as for protection, when the path was

fraught with peril.

Afterwards, in Venice, beneath the influence of those glorious

moonlight nights, he had been conscious of a deeper feeling which, had

he tarried longer at the siren's side, might have ripened into love.

But he left her in time to escape what he felt would have been a most

unfortunate affair for him, for, sweet and beautiful as she was, Lucy

was not the wife for a clergyman to choose. She was not like Anna

Ruthven, whom both young and old had said was so suitable for him.

"And just because she is suitable, I may not win her, perhaps," he

thought, as he paced up and down his library, wondering when she would

answer his letter, and wondering next how he could persuade Lucy

Harcourt that between the young theological student, sailing in a

gondola through the streets of Venice, and the rector of St. Mark's,

there was a vast difference; that while the former might be Arthur

with perfect propriety, the latter should be Mr. Leighton, in Anna's

presence, at least.

And yet the rector of St. Mark's was conscious of a pleasurable

emotion, even now, as he recalled the time when she had, at his own

request, first called him Arthur, her bird-like voice hesitating just

a little, and her soft eyes looking coyly up to him, as she said: "I am afraid that Arthur is hardly the name by which to call a

clergyman."

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