



Produced by Charles Franks, Charles Aldarondo, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team







THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE.

By George MacDonald, LL.D.

IN THREE VOLUMES.


VOLUME I.




THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE.



CHAPTER I.

HELEN LINGARD.





A swift, gray November wind had taken every chimney of the house for
an organ-pipe, and was roaring in them all at once, quelling the more
distant and varied noises of the woods, which moaned and surged like a
sea. Helen Lingard had not been out all day. The morning, indeed, had
been fine, but she had been writing a long letter to her brother Leopold
at Cambridge, and had put off her walk in the neighbouring park till
after luncheon, and in the meantime the wind had risen, and brought with
it a haze that threatened rain. She was in admirable health, had never
had a day's illness in her life, was hardly more afraid of getting
wet than a young farmer, and enjoyed wind, especially when she was on
horseback. Yet as she stood looking from her window, across a balcony
where shivered more than one autumnal plant that ought to have been
removed a week ago, out upon the old-fashioned garden and meadows
beyond, where each lonely tree bowed with drifting garments--I was going
to say, like a suppliant, but it was AWAY from its storming enemy--she
did not feel inclined to go out. That she was healthy was no reason why
she should be unimpressible, any more than that good temper should be
a reason for indifference to the behaviour of one's friend. She always
felt happier in a new dress, when it was made to her mind and fitted
her body; and when the sun shone she was lighter-hearted than when it
rained: I had written MERRIER, but Helen was seldom merry, and had
she been made aware of the fact, and questioned why, would have
answered--Because she so seldom saw reason.

She was what