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“You see, I know something of young men,” she explained.

CHAPTER V

AN UNFORESEEN CASE

“I wish to goodness,” remarked the Reverend Sigismund Taylor rubbing the bridge of his nose with a corner of the Manual, “that the Vicar had never introduced auricular confession. It may be in accordance with the practice of the Primitive Church, but–one does meet with such very curious cases. There’s nothing the least like it, in the Manual.”

He opened the book and searched its pages over again. No, the case had not been foreseen. It must be included in those which were “left to the discretion of the priest.”

“It’s a poor Manual,” said Mr. Taylor, throwing it down and putting his hands in the pocket of his cassock. “Poor girl! She was quite distressed, too. I must have something to tell her when she comes next week.”

Mr. Taylor had, in face of the difficulty, taken time to consider, and the penitent had gone away in suspense. To represent oneself as a dressmaker–well, there was nothing very outrageous in that; it was unbecoming, but venial, to tell sundry fibs by way of supporting the assumed character–the Manual was equal to that; but the rest of the disclosure was the crux. Wrong, no doubt, was the conduct–but how wrong? That made all the difference. And then there followed another question: What ought to be done? She had asked for advice about that also, and, although such counsel was not strictly incumbent on him, he felt that he ought not to refuse it. Altogether he was puzzled. At eight-and-twenty one cannot be ready for everything; yet she had implored him to consult nobody else, and decide for her himself. “I’ve such trust in you,” she had said, wiping away an incipient teardrop; and, although Mr. Taylor told her that the individual was nothing and the Office everything, he had been rather gratified. Thinking that a turn in the open air might clear his brain and enable him better to grapple with this very thorny question, he changed his cassock for a long tailed coat, put on his wide awake, and, leaving the precincts of St. Edward Confessor, struck across Park Lane and along the Row. He passed several people he knew, both men and women: Mrs. Marland was there, attended by two young men, and, a little farther on, he saw old Lord Thrapston tottering along on his stick. Lord Thrapston hated a parson, and scowled at poor Mr. Taylor as he went by. Mr. Taylor shrank from meeting his eye, and hurried along till he reached the Serpentine, where he stood still for a few minutes, drinking in the fresh breeze. But the breeze could not blow his puzzle out of his brain. Was it a crime, or merely an escapade? What had she said to the young man? What had her feelings been or become towards the young man? Moreover, what had she caused the young man’s feelings to be for her? When he came to think it over, Mr. Taylor discovered, with a shock of surprise, that on all these distinctly material points the confession had been singularly incomplete. He was ashamed of this, for, of course, it was his business to make the confession full and exhaustive. He could only plead that, at the moment, it had seemed thorough and candid–an unreserved revelation. Yet those points did, as a fact, remain obscure.

“I wish I knew a little more about human nature,” sighed Mr. Taylor: he was thinking of one division of human nature, and it is likely enough that he knew next to nothing of it.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and, with a start, he turned round. A tall young man, in a new frock-coat and a faultless hat, stood by him, smiling at him.

“What, Charlie, old fellow!” cried Taylor; “where do you spring from?”

Charlie explained that he was up in town for a month or two.