The New Rector

"Because the rector was not sure when Lord Dynmore meant to return to England," Clode explained readily. "And I thought he mentioned the date in his letter to you, Mrs. Hammond."

"I do not think so," said Mrs. Hammond.

"Might I look?"

"Of course," was the answer. "Will you find it, Laura? I think it is under the malachite weight in the other room."

It was, sitting there in solitary majesty. Laura opened it, and took the liberty of glancing through it first. Then she gave it to him. "There, you unbelieving man," she said, "you can look. But he does not say a word about his return."

The curate read rapidly until he came to one sentence, and on this his eye dwelt a moment. "I hear with regret," it ran, "that poor Williams is not long for this world. When he goes I shall send you an old friend of mine. I trust he will become an old friend of yours also." Clode barely glanced at the rest of the letter, but, as he handed it back, he informed himself that it was dated in America two days before Mr. Williams's death.

"No," he admitted, "I was wrong. I thought he had said when he would return."

"And you are satisfied?" said Laura.

"Perfectly," he answered. "Perfectly!" with a little unnecessary emphasis.

He lingered long enough to give them a personal description of the new-comer-speaking always of him in words of praise-and then he took his leave. As his hand met Laura's, his face flushed ever so slightly and his dark eyes glowed; and the girl, as she turned away, smiled furtively, knowing well, though he had never spoken, that she was the cause of this. So she was, but in part only. At that moment the curate saw something besides Laura-he saw across a narrow strait of trouble the fairer land of preferment, his footing on which once gained he might pretend to her and to many other pleasant things at present beyond his reach.

CHAPTER VI

THE BONAMYS AT HOME

Lindo made his first exploration of the neighborhood, not on the day after his arrival, which was taken up with his induction by the archdeacon and with other matters, but on the day after that. He chose to avoid the streets, in which he felt somewhat shy, so polite were the attentions and so curious the glances of his parishioners; and he selected instead a lane which, starting from the churchyard, seemed to plunge at once into the country. It was a pleasant lane. It lay deep sunk in a cutting through the sandstone rock-a cutting first formed, perhaps, when the great stones for the building of the church were dragged up that way. He paused halfway down the slope to look about him curiously, and was still standing when some one came round the corner before him. It was Kate Bonamy. He saw the girl's cheek-she was alone-flush ever so slightly as their eyes met; and he noticed, too, that to all appearance she would have passed him with a bow had he not placed himself in her way. "Come," he said, laughing frankly as he held out his hand, "you must not cut me, Miss Bonamy! Let me tell you, you have quite the aspect of an old friend, for until now I have not seen one face since I came here that was not absolutely new to me."

"It must feel strange, no doubt," she murmured.

"It is. I feel strange!" he replied. "I want you to tell me where this road goes to, if you please. I am so strange, I do not even know that."

"Kingsford Carbonel," she answered briefly.

"Ah! The archdeacon lives there, does he not?"

"Yes."

"And the distance, please, is-?"

"Three miles."

"Thank you," he said. "Really you are as concise as a mile-stone, Miss Bonamy. And now let me remind you," he continued-there was an air of "I am going on this moment" about her, which provoked him to detain her the longer-"that you have not yet asked me what I think of Claversham."

"I would rather ask you in a month's time," Kate answered quietly, holding out her hand to take leave. "Though it is already reported in the town that you will only stay a year, Mr. Lindo."

"I shall only stay a year!" the rector repeated in astonishment.

"Certainly," she answered, smiling, and relapsing for a moment into the pleasant frankness of that day at Oxford-"only a year; your days are already numbered."

"What do you mean?" he said point-blank.

"Have you never heard the old tradition that as many times as a clergyman sounds the bell at his induction, so many years will he remain in the living? And the report in Claversham is that you rang it only once."

"You did not hear it yourself?" he said, catching her eyes suddenly, a lurking smile in his own.

Her color rose faintly. "I am not sure," she said. Then, meeting his eyes boldly, she added in a different tone, "Yes, I did hear it."

"Only once?"

She nodded.

"Oh, that is sad," he answered. "Well, the tradition is new to me. If I had known it," he added, laughing, "I should have tolled the bell at least fifty times. Clode should have instructed me; but I suppose he thought I knew. I remember now that the archdeacon did say something afterward, but I did not understand the reference. You know the archdeacon, Miss Bonamy, I suppose?"

"No," said Kate, growing stiff again.

"Do you not? Well, at any rate you can tell me where Mrs. Hammond lives. She has kindly asked me to dine with her on Tuesday. I put my acceptance in my pocket, and thought I would deliver it myself when I came back from my walk."

"Mrs. Hammond lives at the Town House," Kate answered. "It is the large house among the trees by the top of the town. You cannot mistake it."

"Shall I have the pleasure of meeting you there?" he asked, holding out his hand at last.

"No; I do not know Mrs. Hammond," Miss Bonamy said with decision. "Good-day, Mr. Lindo." And she was gone; rather abruptly at last.

"That is odd-very odd," Lindo reflected as, continuing his walk, he turned to admire her graceful figure and the pretty carriage of her head. "I fancied that in these small towns every one knew every one. What sort of people are the Hammonds, I wonder? New, rich, and vulgar perhaps. It may be, and that would account for it. Yet Clode spoke highly of them."

Something which he did not understand in the girl's manner continued to pique the young man's curiosity after he had parted from her, and led him to dwell more intently upon her than upon the scenery, novel as this was to him. She had shown herself at one moment so frank, and at another so stiff and constrained, that it was equally impossible to ascribe the one attitude to shyness or the other to a naturally candid manner. The rector considered the question so long, and found it so puzzling-and interesting-that on his return to town he had come to one conclusion only-that it was his immediate duty to call upon his church wardens. He had made the acquaintance of Mr. Harper, his own warden, at his induction. It remained therefore to call upon Mr. Bonamy, the peoples' warden. When he had taken his lunch, it seemed to him that there was no time like the present.

He had no difficulty in finding Mr. Bonamy's house, which stood in the middle of the town, about halfway down Bridge Street. It was a substantial, respectable residence of brick, not detached nor withdrawn from the roadway. It had nothing aristocratic in its appearance, and was known by a number. Its eleven windows, of which the three lowest rejoiced in mohair blinds, were sombre, its doorway was heavy. In a word, it was a respectable middle-class house in a dull street in a country town-a house suggestive of early dinners and set teas. The rector felt chilled by its very appearance; but he knocked, and presently a maid-servant opened the door about a foot. "Is Mr. Bonamy at home?" he said.

"No, sir," the girl drawled, holding the door as if she feared he might attempt to enter by force, "he is not."

"Ah, I am sorry I have missed him," said the clergyman, handling his card-case. "Do you know at what time he is likely to return?"

"No, sir, I don't," replied the girl, who was all eyes for the strange rector; "but I expect Miss Kate does. Will you walk up-stairs, sir? and I will tell her."

"Perhaps I had better," he answered, pocketing his card-case. Accordingly he walked in, and followed the servant to the drawing-room, where she poked the sinking fire and induced a sickly blaze.

Left to himself-for Kate was not there-he looked round curiously, and as he looked the sense of disappointment which he had felt at sight of the house grew upon him. It was a cold, uncomfortable room. It had a set, formal look, which was not quaintness, nor harmony, and which was strange to the Londoner. It was so neat: every article in it had a place, and was in its place, and apparently never had been out of its place. There was a vase of chrysanthemums on the large centre table, but the rector thought they must be wax, they were so prim. There were other wax flowers-which he hated. He almost shivered as he looked at the four walls. He felt obliged to sit upright on his chair, and to place his hat exactly in the middle of a square of the carpet, and to ponder over the question of what the maid had done with the poker. For she had certainly not stirred the fire with the bright and shining thing which lay in evidence in the fender.

He was in the act of rising cautiously with the intention of solving this mystery, when the door opened and the elder sister came in, Daintry following her. "My father is not in, Mr. Lindo," Kate said, advancing to meet him, and shaking hands with him.

"No; so I learned down-stairs," he answered. "But I-"

The girl-she had scarcely turned from him-cut him short with an exclamation of dismay. "Oh, Daintry, you naughty girl!" she cried. "You have brought Snorum up."

"Well," said Daintry simply-a large white dog, half bull-dog, half terrier, with red-rimmed eyes and projecting teeth, had crept in at her heels-"he followed me."

"You know papa would be so angry if he found him here."

"But I only want him to see Mr. Lindo. You are unkind, Kate! You know he never gets a chance of seeing a stranger."