The New Rector. Weyman Stanley John

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СКАЧАТЬ resolution that in the wooden porch of the old rectory the new rector turned to him and shyly, yet with real feeling, besought his help and advice in the work before him. The young clergyman, commonly so self-confident, was moved, and moved deeply, by the evening light and his strange and solemn surroundings. Stephen Clode's answer was in the affirmative-it could hardly have been other; and it was spoken becomingly, if a little coldly, in view of the rector's advances; but, even while the curate spoke it, he was considering how he might best escape from Claversham. Still his Yea, yea, comforted his companion and lightened his momentary apprehensions.

      Nor was the curate, when he had recovered from the first shock of surprise and disgust, so foolish as to betray his feelings by wanton churlishness. He parted from his companion at the door, leaving him to the welcome of Mrs. Baker, the rector's London housekeeper, who had come down two days before; but at the same time he consented readily to return at half-past six and share his dinner, and gave him in the course of the meal all the information in his power. Left to himself, the rector went over the house under Mrs. Baker's guidance, and, as he trod the polished floors, could not but feel some access of self-importance. The panelled hall, with its wide oak staircase, fed this, and the spacious sombrely-furnished library, with its books and busts, its antique clock and one good engraving, and its lofty windows opening upon the garden. So, in a less degree, did the long oak-panelled dining-room and a smaller sitting-room which looked to the front and the churchyard; and the drawing-room, which was situated over the library, and seemed the larger because Mr. Williams had furnished it but scantily and lived in it less. Then there were six or seven bedrooms, and in the garden a stone basin and fountain. Altogether, when the rector descended after washing his hands, and stood on the library hearth-rug looking about him, he would have been more than human if he had not, with a feeling of thankfulness, entertained also some faint sense of self-congratulation and personal desert. Nor, probably, would Mr. Clode have been human if, coming in and finding the younger man standing on that hearth-rug, and betraying in his face and attitude something of his thoughts, he on his part had not felt a degree of envy and antagonism. The man was so prosperous, so self-contented, so conscious of his own merit and success.

      But the curate was too wise to betray this feeling; and, laying himself out to be pleasant, he had, before the little meal was over, so far ingratiated himself with his entertainer that the rector was greatly surprised when he presently learned that Clode had not been to a university. "You astonish me," he said, "for you have so completely the manner of a 'varsity-man!"

      The observation was a little too gracious, a little wanting in tact, but it would not have hurt the curate had he not been at the moment in a state of irritation. As it was, Clode treasured it up, and never got rid of the feeling that the Oxford man looked down upon him because he had been only at Wells; whereas Lindo, with some prejudices and sufficiently prone to judge his fellows, had far too high an opinion of himself to be bound by such distinctions, but was just as likely to make a friend of a ploughboy, if he liked him, as of a Christchurch man. After that speech, however, the curate was more than ever resolved to go, and go quickly.

      But, when dinner was over and he was about to take his leave, he happened to pick up, as he moved about the room, a small prayer-book which Lindo had just unpacked, and which was lying on the writing-table. Clode idly looked into it as he talked, and, seeing on the flyleaf "Reginald Lindo, 1850," took occasion, when he had done with the subject in hand, to discuss it. "Surely," he said, holding it up, "you did not possess this in 1850, Mr. Lindo!"

      "Hardly," Lindo answered, laughing. "I was not born until '54."

      "Then who?"

      "It was my uncle's," the rector explained. "I was his god-son, and his name was mine also."

      "Is he alive, may I ask?" the curate pursued, looking at the title-page as if he saw something curious there-though, indeed, what he saw was not new to him; only from it he had suddenly deduced a thought.

      "No, he died about a year ago-nearly a year ago, I think," Lindo answered carelessly, and without the least suspicion. "He was always particularly kind to me, and I use that book a good deal. I must have it rebound."

      "Yes," Clode said mechanically; "it wants rebinding If you value it."

      "I shall have it done. And a lot of these books," the rector continued, looking at old Mr. Williams's shelves, "want their clothes renewing. I shall have them all looked to, I think." He had a pleasant sense that this was in his power. The cost of the furniture and library had made a hole in his not very large private means; but that mattered little now. Eight hundred a year, paid quarterly, will bind a book or two.

      Had the curate been attending, he would have read Lindo's thoughts with ease. But Clode was pursuing a train of reflections of his own, and so was spared this pang. "Your uncle was an old man, I suppose," he said. "I think I observed in the Clergy List that he had been in orders about forty years."

      "Not quite so long as that," Lindo replied. "He was sixty-four when he died. He had been Lord Dynmore's private tutor you know, though they were almost of an age."

      "Indeed," the curate rejoined, still with that thoughtful look on his face. "You knew Lord Dynmore through him, I suppose, then, Mr. Lindo?"

      "Well, I got the living through him, if that what you mean," Lindo said frankly. "But I do not think that I ever met Lord Dynmore. Certainly I should not know him from Adam."

      "Ah!" said the curate, "ah! indeed!" He smiled as he gazed into the fire, and stroked his chin. In the other's place, he thought, he would have been more reticent. He would not have disclaimed, though he might not have claimed, acquaintance with Lord Dynmore. He would have left the thing shadowy, to be defined by others as they pleased. Thinking thus, he got up somewhat abruptly, and wished Lindo good-night. A cool observer, indeed, might have noticed-but the rector did not-a change in his manner as he did so-a little accession of familiarity, which did seem not far removed from a delicate kind of contempt. The change was subtle, but one thing was certain. Stephen Clode had no longer any intention of leaving Claversham in a hurry. That resolve was gone.

      Once out of the house, he passed quickly from the churchyard by a narrow lane leading to an irregular open space quaintly called "The Top of the Town." Here were his own lodgings, on the first-floor over a stationer's; but he did not enter them. Instead, he strode on toward the farther and darker side of the square, where were no buildings, but a belt of tall trees stood up, gaunt and rustling in the night wind above a line of wall. Through the trees the lights of a large house were visible. He walked up the avenue which led to the door and, ringing loudly, was at once admitted.

      The sound of the bell came to the ears of two ladies who had been for some time placidly expecting it. They were seated in a small but charming room filled with soft, shaded light and warmth and color, an open piano and dainty pictures and china, and a well-littered writing-table all contributing to the air of accustomed luxury which pervaded it. The elder lady-that Mrs. Hammond whom we saw talking to the curate on the day of the old rector's funeral-looked up expectantly as Mr. Clode entered, and, extending to him a podgy white hand covered with rings, began to chide him in a rich full voice for being so late. "I have been dying," she said cheerfully, "to hear what is the fate before us, Mr. Clode. What is he like?"

      "Well," he answered, taking with a word of thanks the cup of tea which Laura offered him, "I have one surprise in store for you. He is comparatively young."

      "Sixty?" said Mrs. Hammond interrogatively.

      "Forty?" said Laura, raising her eyebrows.

      "No," Clode replied, smiling and stirring his tea, "you must guess again. He is twenty-six."

      "Twenty-six! You are joking," exclaimed the elder lady. While Laura opened her eyes very wide, but said nothing yet.

      "No," said the curate. "He told me СКАЧАТЬ