Thomas Wingfold, Curate

Thomas Wingfold, Curate

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Title: Thomas Wingfold, Curate
Author: George MacDonald
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THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE.
By George MacDonald, LL.D.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL 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 all her friends called a sensible girl; but, as I say, that
was no reason why she should be an insensible girl as well, and be
subject to none of the influences of the weather. She did feel those
influences, and therefore it was that she turned away from the window
with the sense, rather than the conviction, that the fireside in her own
room was rendered even, more attractive by the unfriendly aspect of
things outside and the roar in the chimney, which happily was not
accompanied by a change in the current of the smoke.
The hours between luncheon and tea are confessedly dull, but dulness
is not inimical to a certain kind of comfort, and Helen liked to be that
way comfortable. Nor had she ever yet been aware of self-rebuke
because of the liking. Let us see what kind and degree of comfort she
had in the course of an hour and a half attained. And in discovering this
I shall be able to present her to my reader with a little more
circumstance.
She sat before the fire in a rather masculine posture. I would not
willingly be rude, but the fact remains--a posture in which she would

not, I think, have sat for her photograph--leaning back in a
chintz-covered easy-chair, all the lines of direction about her parallel
with the lines of the chair, her arms lying on its arms, and the fingers of
each hand folded down over the end of each arm--square, straight,
right-angled,--gazing into the fire, with something of the look of a sage,