The New Rector. Weyman Stanley John

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      The two ladies were loud in their surprise then, while for a moment the curate sipped his tea in silence. The brass kettle hissed and bubbled on the hob. The tea-set twinkled cheerfully on the wicker table, and faint scents of flowers and fabrics filled the room with an atmosphere which he had long come to associate with Laura. It was Laura Hammond, indeed, who had introduced him to this new world. The son of an accountant living in a small Lincolnshire town, he owed his clerical profession to his mother's ardent wish that he should rise in the world. His father was not wealthy, and, before he came as curate to Claversham, Mr. Clode had had no experience of society. Then, alighting: on a sudden in the midst of much such a small town as his native place, he found himself astonishingly transmogrified into a person of social importance. He found every door open to him, and among them the Hammonds', who were admitted to be the first people in the town. He fell in easily enough with the "new learning," but the central figure in the novel pleasant world of refinement continued throughout to be Laura Hammond.

      Much petting had somewhat spoiled him, and it annoyed him now, as he sat sipping his tea, to observe that the ladies were far from displeased with his tidings. "If he is a young man, he is sure not to be evangelical," said Mrs. Hammond decisively. "That is well. That is a comfort, at any rate."

      "He will play tennis, I dare say," said Laura.

      "And Mr. Bonamy will be kept in some order now," Mrs. Hammond continued. "Not that I am blaming you, Mr. Clode," she added graciously-indeed, the curate was a great favorite with her, "but in your position you could do nothing with a man so impracticable."

      "He really will be an acquisition," cried Laura gleefully, her brown eyes shining in the firelight. And she made her tiny lace handkerchief into a ball and flung it up-and did not catch it, for, with all her talk of lawn-tennis, she was no great player. Her rôle lay rather in the drawing-room. She was as fond of comfort as a cat, and loved the fire with the love of a dog, and was, in a word, pre-eminently feminine, delighting to surround herself with all such things as tended to set off this side of her nature. "But now," she continued briskly, when the curate had recovered her handkerchief for her, "tell me what you think of him. Is he nice?"

      "Certainly; I should say so," the curate answered, smiling.

      But, though he smiled, he became silent again. He was reflecting, with well-hidden bitterness, that Lindo would not only override him in the parish, but would be his rival in the particular inner clique which he affected-perhaps his rival with Laura. The thought awoke the worst nature of the man. Up to this time, though he had not been true, though he had kept back at Claversham details of his past history which a frank man would have avowed, though in the process of assimilating himself to his new surroundings he had been over-pliant, he had not been guilty of any baseness which had seemed to him a baseness, which had outraged his own conscience. But, as he reflected on the wrong which this young stranger was threatening to do him, he felt himself capable of much.

      "Mrs. Hammond," he said suddenly, "may I ask if you have destroyed Lord Dynmore's letter which you showed me last week?"

      "Destroyed Lord Dynmore's letter!" Laura answered, speaking for her mother in a tone of comic surprise. "Do you think, sir, that we get peers' autographs every day of the week?"

      "No," Mrs. Hammond said, waving aside her daughter's flippancy and speaking with some stateliness. "It is not destroyed, though such things are not so rare with us as Laura pretends. But why do you ask?"

      "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.

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