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THE BISHOP'S BRIDE.
The Bishop was coming to Ryefield, — coming to spend six
long summer weeks in our pleasant little village, in search of
rest and quiet! Ryefield people are, for the most part, hospitable,
and they usually mind their own business, at least, half
the time; but, then, one does n't see a real, live bishop every day,
and I suppose this was why the young ladies all got together,
the day before he was expected, to form a league against his
peace and happiness.
It so chanced that our bishop had never obeyed the scriptural
injunction, to “be the husband of one wife.” He was thirty-five,
and a bachelor. He was accounted remarkably fine-looking, and
I remember I thought him even handsome, with his tall, firmly-knit
figure, his clear, blue eyes, and his heavy, waving curls of chestnut-brown
hair. He seemed, from all we could learn of him, to
be a man of the “St. John Rivers” order, somewhat cold and
stern, but indefatigably devoted to his calling. He had been
admitted to the priesthood at twenty-three, and nearly ten years
of his after life had been passed in the establishment of Indian
missions. The bishopric had fallen on his head unsought, and
in his daily life he still walked humbly, as one of the least of
Christ's disciples.
And yet all his Christian humility could not prevent us from
holding a sewing-society, and, as I have said, conspiring against
was resolved on, and a discussion was forthwith held as to ways
and means. “I shall be presented to him,” said the queenly
Ada Glengyle, “for I know his sister very well, and, beside, — ”
“And, beside,” interrupted dashing Kate Barclay, “you are
chief soprano singer; but that won't help us any. I say, girls,
what do you think of a picnic? We could ask the bishop's
protection, just hinting that we were all lambs of his flock.”
“Capital! capital!” cried several voices; and saucy May
Evelyn shook down her golden curls, and tossed her little head.
“I give you fair warning, girls,” she exclaimed, laughingly,
“fair warning. I am quite resolved Bishop Blake shall never
leave Ryefield without a wife. If any of the rest of you can do
better than I can, you 're welcome to try. But what do you
say, Lily White? you have n't spoken yet.”
“I say, that I hardly think it 's right to talk so about the
bishop. He seems to me like St. Paul, or one of the angels.
I don't ever expect to get much acquainted with him; I shall
be quite satisfied if, some time, he lays his hand on my head and
blesses me, and looks at me with his clear, blue eyes.”
“Dear, sweet, innocent Lily!” we all cried, and the white
Lily bowed her fair head, and stole away. Lily White was an
orphan — every one's darling. The whole village loved her, and
already, at sixteen years old, she had been for eighteen months
the teacher of the village children, and the guardian spirit of the
little country school-house. No strong man, with his rod of
iron, could have ruled the little ones half as skilfully as Lily,
with her sceptre of love. I never heard any one call her beautiful,
but, looking back, her fair face, rising up before me, leaves
you might pass a hundred times in a crowd without looking
after it, but, once really seen, it could never be forgotten. Every
feature was fashioned with a quiet, pensive grace, that left you
nothing to desire. Her eyes, a clear, dark gray, hardly deep
enough in tint for hazel, were fringed with golden lashes so long
they fairly cast a shadow on her pearl-like cheek; and her figure
was graceful, lithe, and almost too slight. Her whole beauty
was of the lily type, and she had been most fitly named.
Two days after the above conversation, we were all together,
upon the green, as was often our custom on summer evenings.
We were gathered in groups under the tall old elm-trees, and
were chatting merrily, when, glancing up, we perceived our beloved
gray-haired rector, and with him Bishop Blake. They had
come amongst us unperceived; but the bishop spoke.
“Good-evening, my dear young ladies,” he said, in his deep,
musical tones; “I must get acquainted with all of you, for I
believe you are all `lambs of my flock.'”
I don't know, to this day, whether this latter clause of the
sentence was a genuine expression of the good bishop's kindness
of heart, or whether he had by some means become
informed of our conversation at the sewing-society; but I do
know there was n't a girl present whose cheek did n't wear the
hue of a peony as she replied to the bishop's salutation.
After that, we found the bishop not at all formidable, and
really a delightful companion. Saucy May Evelyn declared
that he did flirt — that he was particularly attentive to everybody,
and yet not particularly attentive to anybody. It was
such an unusual thing for a bishop to hurry through with his
his health at a simple country village! No wonder the girls
determined he should not leave without getting married. But
time passed on, and his resolution did n't seem any nearer being
carried into effect. If one person was more frequently than
another his companion, it was May Evelyn. Her piquancy
seemed to amuse him, much as would the gambols of a favorite
child; and the little romp affirmed that she could never succeed
in convincing him that she was not his granddaughter.
The last day of July rose with a strange glory, like the clouds
that herald a tempest. The sun looked forth out of a heavy
mist, and sent before him clouds robed in gorgeous drapery of
gold and purple. The day passed over, scorching, sultry and
silent. But toward night the storm broke, and the evening set
in wild and wet. The gloom was impenetrable, save when the
darkness was rent apart by a fitful flash of lightning, brief, but
terribly bright.
It was nearly midnight, and still the bishop sat by the small
table in his pleasant study at the rectory. Sometimes he read;
then he would lay the book aside, and listen to the wail, the
desolate tramp, of the winds without. At last there came a
knock at the door, and the bishop, drawing his dressing-gown
about him, was going down stairs, when he heard it opened by
Jennie, the old housekeeper.
“Why, child, is it you, in this dreadful storm? and what do
you want?” he heard her ask; and then a low, sweet voice
made answer —
“Old Dame Margery is dying, Jennie, and I was staying with
her all alone. She kept shrieking out for a minister to pray by
her bed-side, and I felt that I could not hope for mercy in my
own last hour if I disregarded her prayer. There was no one
else to come, and I thought Tom would harness the horse, and
take the rector back with me.”
“Come in, come in, you strange child!” said Jennie, commandingly.
“As for you, you won't go back till day-light; and
the master is sick, and can't be disturbed, let alone the asking
him to go out in such a storm as this.”
“O, but Jennie, indeed you must not keep me! If no one
can go with me, I must go back alone. I should never rest
again, if I left poor Margery there to die, with no watcher but
the storm. No, no, Jennie, I must go!”
“You are right,” said Bishop Blake, advancing to the door.
“You shall go, and I will go with you,” and he laid his hand
upon Lily White's tresses, all wet with the storm. “Jennie,
you need not call Tom; just give me a lantern, and I can harness
my horse myself, as I have done, many a worse night than
this. Take this poor child into the study, in the mean time.
There is a good fire there, and she will get warm; and then give
her a glass of mulled wine, if you have it, — it will keep her from
taking cold.”
Never before had Lily White reverenced the bishop so deeply
as when he stood by her side at old Dame Margery's dying bed,
soothing the terror of the dying woman, and pointing her for
salvation to the cross on which her God had suffered. His clear,
deep tones rose above the wail of the blast, even as above all
the storms and temptations of life may be heard the “still,
heart was calmed, the weak faith strengthened, and
when at last Dame Margery fell asleep, it was with a smile on
her face.
Three weeks after, as Lily White walked alone in the clear
moonlight, a tall, stately figure joined her, and a rich, earnest
voice murmured, “Lily White, I love you, as I never before
loved woman. When I saw you standing at the rector's door, that
dreadful night, I wondered that I had never before noticed your
delicate and exceeding beauty. But it is not for that I love
you. If every thread of your sunny tresses is dear as my own
life, it is not because they are so beautiful in their golden
hue; but, Lily, there was a bond to knit your heart to mine,
in that night-watch, by the dying. I loved you then for your
earnest faith, your sublime, fearless courage, your unselfishness,
and strength of purpose. It is a love which would last, if the
fair lily should wither on the stalk, and the graceful figure be
bowed by age. Will you let me so love you, Lily? Will you
be my wife?”
I did not hear Lily White's answer. I only know that when
the harvest-moon smiled upon Ryefield she was poor and an
orphan no longer. She slept upon a true heart, strong arms
sheltered her, a fond voice called her name, and the bishop
did n't leave Ryefield without getting married.
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