



Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team











THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER

BY GEORGE MACDONALD






The Vicar's Daughter was originally published in 1872 by Tinsley Brothers,
London.




[Illustration: "I've brought you the baby to kiss," I said, unfolding the
blanket. Page 98.]



CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY

CHAPTER II.
I TRY

CHAPTER III.
MY WEDDING

CHAPTER IV.
JUDY'S VISIT

CHAPTER V.
GOOD SOCIETY

CHAPTER VI.
A REFUGE FROM THE HEAT

CHAPTER VII.
CONNIE

CHAPTER VIII.
CONNIE'S BABY

CHAPTER IX.
THE FOUNDLING REFOUND

CHAPTER X.
WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOR

CHAPTER XI.
A STUPID CHAPTER

CHAPTER XII.
AN INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER XIII.
MY FIRST DINNER PARTY.--A NEGATIVED PROPOSAL

CHAPTER XIV.
A PICTURE

CHAPTER XV.
RUMORS

CHAPTER XVI.
A DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XVII.
MISS CLARE

CHAPTER XVIII.
MISS CLARE'S HOME

CHAPTER XIX.
HER STORY

CHAPTER XX.
A REMARKABLE FACT

CHAPTER XXI.
LADY BERNARD

CHAPTER XXII.
MY SECOND DINNER PARTY

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE END OF THE EVENING

CHAPTER XXIV.
MY FIRST TERROR

CHAPTER XXV.
ITS SEQUEL

CHAPTER XXVI.
TROUBLES

CHAPTER XXVII.
MISS CLARE AMONGST HER FRIENDS

CHAPTER XXVIII.
MR. MORLEY

CHAPTER XXIX.
A STRANGE TEXT

CHAPTER XXX.
ABOUT SERVANTS

CHAPTER XXXI.
ABOUT PERCIVALE

CHAPTER XXXII.
MY SECOND TERROR

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CLOUDS AFTER THE RAIN

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE SUNSHINE

CHAPTER XXXV.
WHAT LADY BERNARD THOUGHT OF IT

CHAPTER XXXVI.
RETROSPECTIVE

CHAPTER XXXVII.
MRS. CROMWELL COMES

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
MRS. CROMWELL GOES

CHAPTER XXXIX.
ANCESTRAL WISDOM

CHAPTER XL.
CHILD NONSENSE

CHAPTER XLI.
"DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE"

CHAPTER XLII.
ROGER AND MARION

CHAPTER XLIII.
A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE

CHAPTER XLIV.
THE DEA EX




CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.


I think that is the way my father would begin. My name is Ethelwyn
Percivale, and used to be Ethelwyn Walton. I always put the Walton in
between when I write to my father; for I think it is quite enough to have
to leave father and mother behind for a husband, without leaving their name
behind you also. I am fond of lumber-rooms, and in some houses consider
them far the most interesting spots; but I don't choose that my old name
should lie about in the one at home.

I am much afraid of writing nonsense; but my father tells me that to see
things in print is a great help to recognizing whether they are nonsense or
not. And he tells me, too, that his friend the publisher, who,--but I will
speak of him presently,--his friend the publisher is not like any other
publisher he ever met with before; for he never grumbles at any alterations
writers choose to make,--at least he never says any thing, although it
costs a great deal to shift the types again after they are once set up. The
other part of my excuse for attempting to write lies simply in telling how
it came about.

Ten days ago, my father came up from Marshmallows to pay us a visit. He is
with us now, but we don't see much of him all day; for he is generally out
with a friend of his in the east end, the parson of one of the poorest
parishes in London,--who thanks God that he wasn't the nephew of any bishop
to be put into a good living, for he learns more about the ways of God from
having to do with plain, yes, vulgar human nature, than the thickness of
the varnish would ever have permitted him to discover in what are called
the higher orders of society. Yet I must say, that, amongst those I have
recognized as nearest, the sacred communism of the early church--a phrase
of my father's--are two or three people of rank and wealth, whose names are
written in heaven, and need not be set down in my poor story.

A few days ago, then, my father, coming home to dinner, brought with
him the publisher of the two books called, "The Annals of a Quiet
Neighborhood," and "The Seaboard Parish." The first of these had lain
by him for some years before my father could publish it; and then he
remodelled it a little for the magazine in which it came out, a portion
at a time. The second was written at the request of Mr. S., who wanted
something more of the same sort; and now, after some years, he had begun
again to represent to my father, at intervals, the necessity for another
story to complete the _trilogy_, as he called it: insisting, when my father
objected the difficulties of growing years and failing judgment, that
indeed he owed it to him; for he had left him in the lurch, as it were,
with an incomplete story, not to say an uncompleted series. My