The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1884-04-05

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the audacity to whisper in the Bishops ear for
that good man was disqUieted and rose from his
chair. The room seemed hot, Sc he opened the
door The hall looked cool so he walked into it.
There was no one there. Like Eugene Aram, he
took three hasty strides" and then stopped OPP
posite the oak letterbox, of which he and Pollard
had duplicate keys.
''Aftcr ALL there can be no harm in Just seeing
to whom he is writing; it might be some vile
money-lender; and besides added the Bishop
to himself, 81 may possibly have misdirected
some of my own letters" Still he paused,
and the little demon kept whispering: flake
it out! take it out" Finally, with quick
beating heart, the Bishop opened the box. Was
! that noise No, only the parrot. Hate par
rots," he thought, as he peeped in. Yes, there it
! was, right on the top of the pile addressed
| Feeling very like fraudulent bank secretary
borrowing securities from the ''strong room, but
still urging on his conscience that he doing
| it for the best" the Bishop put the letter in his
! pocket, slammed the door of the box and re-
treated with his prize to his study, just in time
! to hear Pollard painting up from the regions be-
low to send the post off. Would that old servitor
! discover the loss? Should he rush out and re-
store it, No, he would be firm; it was for the
| best"
The letter was addressed to
Miss Kitty Blewsby,
214A Cockerton Crescent
Corresponding with her secretly Monsrous
1t must be stopped at once. His fingers played
Wluu Jue eIlNe4Ope DIS ne nelu IL up between HIN
! and the fire. mo, no. can't do that; wouldn't be
| honest said the Bishop sternly; and having
comforted himself with the reflection, he locked
up the letter in his drawer and then the dress
ing bell rang
| Julian was very pleasant and bright that day
at dinner. He told his father old Oxford stories,
insisted pledging him in the old AZ, and
when he ran off to read (he never went to the
| theater now, he dropped into the drawing-room
and ran his fingers lightly ever the keys of the
Erard The Bishop heard the music as he sat,
brooding, and melancholy, and remorseful in
| the room below; for all that he hardened his
heart like Pharaoh, and would not let the letter
go, because sit was for the best'-a bit of jesuit
| zeal casuistry that he nevertheless derived but
| small comfort from 1t required much more
| Pharaoh like iintiness to endure Julians first
anxious, and then disappointed, face when the
early post next morning and several successive
! posts for the next two days. failed to bring him
something he evidently looked for. The in
qury, Anything for me, fatherl" and the in
| variable answer Nothing, Julian" became a
| little tragedy, in which the Bishop felt he was
cast for first murderer" and he was by no
means easy in the part
The piano was never opened now, and
| Julian stuck to his work quietly and pluckily.
At last he was duly called, and won the G100
| prize given by his Inn for an essay upon "Pro-
| bate and Divorce as Practically the Early Aryan
Races" He never slackened work for a mo-
ment, but went to court every day. and still
| preserved the same quiet mysterious manner
that so baffied and worried the Bishop His fun
seemed to have all evaporated, and in its place
he had a purpose. His father had a bad time of
it-passed sleepless nights, and even so far to
read the essay on probate and divorce. Once he
suggested in playful fashion to Julian that now
| that he was on the high-road to the Woosack it
was time for him to look about and settle, but
only elected a rather solemn Don't let's talk of
that subject, father and felt snuhbed.
| 1t was clear to the Bishop that he had sue
ceede6 in alternating Julians affection for Kitty;
| but he certainly never meant to make con
,-s.A tod ole
| him. and this was seemingly what had happened,
for dancing Belgravia knew him no more
1t was precisely at 9:45 on the evening that has
| been so much talked of that the Bishop
| strolling home after attending the great confer
! ence that met to discuss the long-vexed question
| concerning Archidiaconal functions. He had
once been an archdeacon himself, and he sympa-
thized with the rather vague position of the very
\ reverends, and he was really rather pleased with
! the resolution he had proposed, making CATERS
| and broad brims obligatory on them a class,
| although dear old Sawdust and Bran Ia brother
bishop had so stoutly opposed it, on the ground
| that 1t would lead to aprons. 1t is right to men
| ton this as it accounts for the Bishops preoccu-
| pied manner that evening. Passing up that
! pleasant little segment of circle that is called
! Dean street, the Bishop noticed carriage
! whisking rapidly westward. glance the
lights flashed by showed him glimpse of pale
| sad young face, with square line of stiff white
linen cutting across the brow, round which fell
| the black folds of nuns veil; the dress was
| that of a rellgleuse of SINE order.
| The Bishop thunderstruck. 1t was Kitty
| Blewsby, poor little Kitty and in that dress
The thought flashed quick upon him. of course
| she was going to a Notwithstanding her young
| life within the fatal walls, sinking all her love
| and all Julians hopes in the dread VOWS, sacri
feed in one of those mysterious Anglican sister
hoods against which he had so often inveighed,
\ renouncing-
Il renounce the devil and all his works." ex-
claimed the Right Reverend Lord of Everton and
| Tauphie, interrupting his own thoughts; and
| then, to the establishment of Sam Snapper, who
was passing at the time, and who, firmly be-
leve wrote all the stupid paragraphs about it,
the Bishop dashed after the retreating carriage,
with apron flying, mud scattering and small boys
cheering him. John Gilpin's ride was a crawling
Lord Mayors show compared to the episcopal
hundred yards, quite the best enthusiastically
on record. He didn't care. What were con
venances beside conscience and conventsl Away
he went toward Park Corner, and by dint of
most undignified shoutings succeeded in stop
| ping the carriage just it reached the big
! bronze warrior who now shelters himself in
sculptured sulkiness under four trees opposite
| st. Georges Hospital.
| 1t bishops charge with vengeance!
You, my Lord Bishop" cried out the little
white nun, shrinking back he pulled at the
window for she qrite familiar with his APP
pearance, although this was their first inter
| view.
Let me in, my dear Miss Blewsby; I must
| talk to you and at once;' and as he got in he
painted out "Home!" to the astonshed coach
man, who had never seen bishop in a hurry
before.
What does this all meanl"
80, I'm so sorry!" sobbed Sister Kitty. wiping
her eyes with her veil II never thought you
would find it out, and of course it was very
wrong; but you see, they made me prom
ise and there many other girls 1 know there,
and what could dol l loved him sol
| Now the Bishop would have vastly preferred
| to have been preached to death by wild curates,
as Sydney Smith once suggested, than face a
pretty girl in tears. However, he was bound to
go through with it now; so he nerved himself and
said: Miss Blewsby, listen to l never
pated such terrible catastrophe. That dress!
that veil! am bound as a good churchman to
earnestly protest against it; and what is more, as
a man, as father" there the Bishops voice per
| ceptiblY falteredl. II have a few serious words