as well born. It got
about that his father was an Honourable, and all the young ladies of
Brayfield trembled at the thought that he was a bachelor. His looks were
also in his favour. Maurice was pale and tall, with black, smooth hair
parted in the middle, regular features, and large black eyes. The
expression he assumed suited him. It was curiously sad. But, at first,
this apparent pathos was a great success in Brayfield. It was only at a
later period that it was the cause of unkind tittle-tattle. In the
beginning of Maurice's residence at Brayfield eulogy attended it and
applause was never far off. People said that Maurice was impressionable,
and that the vision of pain upon which the medical student's eyes must
look so closely had robbed him of the natural buoyancy of youth. Poor
young man, they thought enthusiastically, he suffers with those who
suffer. And this was considered--and rightly considered--a very
touching trait in Maurice.

Brayfield was well satisfied with its new doctor, and set itself to be
ill for his benefit with a fine perseverance. But, as time went on, the
satisfaction of Brayfield became mingled with curiosity. The new doctor
was almost too melancholy. It would not be true to say that he never
smiled, but his smile was even sadder than his gravity. There was a
chill in it, as there is a chill in the first light of dawn. One or two
particularly impressionable people declared that it frightened them,
that it was uncanny. This idea, once started, developed. It went from
house to house. And so, gradually, a spirit of whispering awe arose in
the little town, and the vision of human pain ceased to be altogether
accountable for the pale sorrow of the young doctor. It was decided that
his habitual depression must take its rise from some more personal
cause, and, upon this decision, gossip naturally ran a wild course.
Since nobody knew anything about Maurice Dale except that his father was
an Honourable, rumour had plenty of elbow-room. It took advantage of the
situation, and Maurice was more talked about than anybody in Brayfield.
And Lily Alston, the daughter of Canon Alston, Rector of Brayfield,
launched out into surmises which, however, she kept to herself.

Lily, at this time, was a curious mixture of romance and religion, of
flightiness and faith. She read French novels all night and went to
early service in the morning. She studied Swinburne and taught in the
Sunday-school with almost equal ardour