then chaplain to the marquis, and the vicarage had been conferred
on him by his patron. In late years none of the Wilkinsons had seen
anything of the Stapledean family. The marquis, though not an old
man, was reported to be very eccentric, and very cross. Though he had
a beautiful seat in the neighbourhood--not in the parish of Hurst
Staple, but in that of Deans Staple, which adjoins, and which was
chiefly his property--he never came to it, but lived at a much less
inviting mansion in the north of Yorkshire. Here he was said to
reside quite alone, having been separated from his wife; whereas,
his children had separated themselves from him. His daughters were
married, and his son, Lord Stanmore, might more probably be found
under any roof in the country than that of his father.

The living had now to be given away by the marquis, and the Wilkinson
family, who of late years had had no communication with him, did
not even think of thinking of it. But a fortnight after the funeral,
Arthur received a letter with the postmark of Bowes on it, which, on
being opened, was found to be from Lord Stapledean, and which very
curtly requested his attendance at Bowes Lodge. Now Bowes Lodge was
some three hundred miles from Hurst Staple, and a journey thither
at the present moment would be both expensive and troublesome. But
marquises are usually obeyed; especially when they have livings to
give away, and when their orders are given to young clergymen. So
Arthur Wilkinson went off to the north of England. It was the middle
of March, and the east wind was blowing bitterly. But at twenty-four
the east wind does not penetrate deep, the trachea is all but
invulnerable, and the left shoulder knows no twinges.

Arthur arrived at the cold, cheerless village of Bowes with a red
nose, but with eager hopes. He found a little inn there, but he
hardly knew whether to leave his bag or no. Lord Stapledean had said
nothing of entertaining him at the Lodge--had only begged him, if it
were not too much trouble, to do him the honour of calling on him.
He, living on the northern borders of Westmoreland, had asked a man
in Hampshire to call on him, as though their houses were in adjacent
streets; but he had said nothing about a dinner, a bed, or given any
of those comfortable hints which seem to betoken hospitality.

"It will do no harm if I put my bag into the gig," said Arthur; and
so, having wisely provided for contingencies, he started for Bowes
Lo