Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  He saw a girl, slightly above the middle height, graceful and rounded of figure, with a grave stateliness of carriage which oddly became her. Her complexion was rather pale, but it was clear and healthy, and there was even a freckle here and a freckle there which I never heard a man say that he would have had elsewhere. If her face was a trifle long, with a nose a little aquiline and curving lips too wide, yet it was a fair and dainty face, such as Englishmen love. The brown hair, which strayed on to the broad white brow and hung in a heavy loop upon her neck, had a natural waviness — the sole beauty on which she prided herself. For she could not see her eyes as others saw them — big gray eyes that from under long lashes looked out upon you, full of such purity and truth that men meeting their gaze straightway felt a desire to be better men and went away and tried — for half an hour. Such was Kate outwardly. Inwardly she had faults of course, and perhaps pride and a little temper were two of them.

  The rector was still admiring her askance, surprised to find that Jack Smith, who was not very handsome himself, had such a cousin, when Daintry roused him abruptly. For some moments she had been gazing at him, as at some unknown specimen, with no attempt to hide her interest. Now she said suddenly, “You are the new rector?”

  He answered stiffly that he was; being a good deal taken aback at being challenged in this way. Remonstrance, however, was out of the question, and Daintry for the moment said no more, though her gaze lost none of its embarrassing directness.

  But presently she began again. “I should think the dogs would like you,” she said deliberately, and much as if he had not been there to hear; “you look as if they would.”

  Silence again. The rector smiled fatuously. What was a beneficed clergyman, whose dignity was young and tender, to do, subjected to the criticism of unknown dogs? He tried to divert his thoughts by considering the pretty sage-green frock and the gray fur cape and hat to match which the elder girl was wearing. Doubtless she was taking the latest fashions down to Claversham, and fur capes and hats, indefinitely and mysteriously multiplying, would listen to him on Sundays from all the nearest pews. And Daintry was silent so long that he thought he had done with her. But no. “Do you think that you will like Claversham?” she asked, with an air of serious curiosity.

  “I trust I shall,” he said, a flush rising to his cheek.

  She took a moment to consider the answer conscientiously, and, thinking badly of it, remarked gravely, “I don’t think you will.”

  This was unbearable. The clergyman, full of a nervous dread lest the next question should be, “Do you think that they will like you at Claversham?” made a great show of resuming his newspaper. Kate, possessed by the same fear, shot an imploring glance at Daintry; but, seeing that the latter had only eyes for the stranger, hoped desperately for the best.

  Which was very bad. “It must be jolly,” remarked the unconscious tormentor, “to have eight hundred pounds a year, and be a rector!”

  “Daintry!” Kate cried in horror.

  “Why, what is the matter?” asked Daintry, turning suddenly to her sister with wide-open eyes. Her look of aggrieved astonishment at once overcame Lindo’s gravity, and he laughed aloud. He was not without a charming sense, still novel enough to be pleasing, that Daintry was right. It was jolly to be a rector and have eight hundred a year!

  That laugh came in happily. It seemed to sweep away the cobwebs of embarrassment which had lain so thickly about two of the party. Lindo began to talk pleasantly, pointing out this or that reach of the river, and Kate, meeting his cheery eyes, put aside a faint idea of apologizing which had been in her head, and replied frankly. He told them tales of summer voyages between lock and lock, and of long days idly spent in the Wargrave marshes; and, as the identification of Mapledurham and Pangbourne and Wittenham and Goring rendered it necessary that they should all cross and recross the carriage, they were soon on excellent terms with one another, or would have been if the rector had not still detected in Kate’s manner a slight stiffness for which he could not account. It puzzled him also to observe that, though they were ready, Daintry more particularly, to discuss the amusements of London and the goodness of cousin Jack, they both grew reticent when the conversation turned toward Claversham and its affairs.

  At Oxford he got out to go to the bookstall.

  “Jack was right,” said Daintry, looking after him. “He is nice.”

  “Yes,” her sister allowed, rising and sitting down again in a restless fashion. “But I wish we had not fallen in with him, all the same.”

  “It cannot be helped now,” said Daintry, who was evidently prepared to accept the event with philosophy.

  Not so her sister. “We might go into another carriage,” she suggested.

  “That would be rude,” said Daintry calmly.

  The question was decided for them by the young clergyman’s return. He came along the platform, an animated look in his face. “Miss Bonamy,” he said, stopping at the open door with his hand extended, “there is some one in the refreshment-room whom I think that you would like to see. Mr. Gladstone is there, talking to the Duke of Westminster, and they are both eating buns like common mortals. Will you come and take a peep at them?”

  “I don’t think that we have time,” she objected.

  “There is sure to be time,” Daintry cried. “Now, Kate, come!” And she was down upon the platform in a moment.

  “The train is not due out for five minutes yet,” Lindo said, as he piloted them through the crowd to the doorway. “There, on the left by the fireplace,” he added.

  Kate glanced, and turned away satisfied. Not so Daintry. With rapt attention in her face, she strayed nearer and nearer to the great men, her eyes growing larger with each step.

  “She will be talking to them next,” said Kate, in a fidget.

  “Perhaps asking him if he likes Downing Street,” Lindo suggested slyly. “There, she is coming now,” he added, as Miss Daintry turned and came to them at last.

  “I wanted to make sure,” she said simply, seeing Kate’s impatience, “that I should know them again. That was all.”

  “Quite so; I hope you have succeeded,” Kate answered drily. “But, if we are not quick, we shall miss our train.” And she led the way back with more speed than dignity.

  “There is plenty of time — plenty of time,” Lindo answered, following them. He could not bear to see her pushing her way through the mixed crowd, and accepting so easily a footing of equality with it. He was one of those men to whom their womenkind are sacred. He took his time, therefore, and followed at his ease; only to see, when he emerged from the press, a long stretch of empty platform, three porters, and the tail of a departing train. “Good gracious!” he stammered, with dismay in his face. “What does it mean?”

  “It means,” Kate said, in an accent of sharp annoyance — she did not intend to spare him— “that you have made us miss our train, Mr. Lindo. And there is not another which reaches Claversham today!”

  CHAPTER IV.

  BIRDS IN THE WILDERNESS.

  “There! That was your fault!” said Daintry, turning from the departing train.

  The young rector could not deny it. He would have given anything for at least the appearance of being undisturbed; but the blood came into his cheek, and in his attempt to maintain his dignity he only succeeded in looking angry as well as confused and taken aback. He had certainly made a mess of his escort duty. What in the world had led him to go out of his way to make a fool of himself? he wondered. And with these Claversham people!

  “There may be a special train to-day,” Kate suggested suddenly. She had got over her first vexation, and perhaps repented that she had betrayed it so openly. “Or we may be allowed to go on by a luggage-train, Mr. Lindo. Will you kindly see?”

  He snatched at the relief which her proposal held out to him, and went away to inquire. But almost at once he was back again. “It is most vexatious!” he said loudly. “It is only three o’clock, and yet there is no way of getting to
Claversham to-night! I am very sorry, but I never dreamed the company managed things so badly. Never!”

  “No,” said Kate drily.

  He winced and looked at her sharply, his vanity hurt again. But then he found that he could not keep it up. No doubt it was a ridiculous position for a beneficed clergyman, on his way to undertake the work of his life, to be delayed at a station with two girls; but, after all, for a young man to be angry with a young woman who is also pretty — well, the task is difficult. “I am afraid,” he said shyly, and yet with a kind of frankness, “that I have brought you into trouble, Miss Bonamy. As your sister says, it was my fault. Is it a matter of great consequence that you should reach home tonight?”

  “I am afraid that my father will be vexed,” she answered.

  “You must telegraph to him,” he rejoined. “I am afraid that is all I can suggest. And that done, you will have only one thing to consider — whether we shall stay the night here or go on to Birmingham.”

  Kate looked at him, her gray eyes very doubtful, and did not at once answer. He had clearly made up his mind to join his fortunes to theirs, while she, on her side, had reasons for shrinking from intimacy with him. But he seemed to consider it so much a matter of course that they should remain together and travel together, that she scarcely saw how to put things on a different footing. She knew, too, that she would get no help from Daintry, who already regarded their detention in the light of a capital joke.

  “What are you going to do yourself, Mr. Lindo?” she said at last, her manner rather chilling.

  He opened his eyes and smiled. “You discard me, then?” he said. “You have lost all faith in me, Miss Bonamy? Well, I deserve it after the scrape into which I have led you.”

  “I did not mean that,” she answered. “I wished to know if you had made any plans.”

  “Yes,” he replied— “to make amends, if you will let me take command of the party. We will stay in Oxford, and I will show you round the colleges.”

  “No?” exclaimed Daintry. “Will you? How jolly! And then?”

  “We will dine at the Mitre,” he answered, smiling, “if Miss Bonamy will permit me to manage everything. And then, if you leave here at nine-thirty to-morrow you will be at Claversham soon after twelve. Will that suit you?”

  Daintry’s face answered sufficiently for her. As for Kate, she was in a difficulty. She knew little of hotels: yet they must stop somewhere, and no doubt Mr. Lindo would take a great deal of trouble off her hands. But would it be proper to do as he proposed? She really did not know — only that it sounded odd. That it would not be wise she knew. She could answer that question at once. But how could she explain, and how tell him to go his way and leave them? And, after all, to see Oxford would be delightful; and he really was very pleasant, very different from the men she knew at home.

  “You are very good,” she said at length, with a grateful sigh— “if we have no choice but between Oxford and Birmingham.”

  “And no choice of guides at all,” he said, smiling, “you will take me.”

  “Yes,” she answered, looking away primly.

  Her reserve, however, did not last. Once through the station gates, that free holiday feeling which we have all experienced on being set down in an unknown town, with no duty before us save to explore it, soon possessed her; while he wished nothing better than to play the showman — a part we love. The day was fine and bright, though cold. She had eyes for beauty and a soul for the past, and soon forgot herself; and he, piloting the sisters through Magdalen Walks, now strewn with leaves, or displaying with pride the staircase of Christ Church, the quaint library of Merton, or the ancient front of John’s, forgot himself also, and especially his new-born dignity, in which he had lived rather too much, perhaps, during the last three weeks. He showed himself in his true colors — the colors known to his intimate friends — and was so bright and cheery that Kate found herself talking to him in utter forgetfulness of his position and theirs. The girl frankly sighed when darkness fell and they had to go into the house, their curiosity still unsated.

  She thought it was all over. But, lo! there was a cheery fire awaiting them in the “house” room (he had looked in for a few minutes on their first arrival and given his orders), and before it a little table laid for three was sparkling with plate and glass. Nay, there were two cups of tea ready on a side-table, for it wanted an hour yet of dinnertime. Altogether, as Daintry naïvely told him, “even Jack could not have made it nicer for us.”

  “Jack is a favorite of yours?” he said, laughing.

  “I should think so!” Daintry answered, in wonder. “There is no one like Jack.”

  “After that I shall take myself off,” he replied. “I really want to call on a friend, Miss Bonamy. But if I may join you at dinner — —”

  “Oh, do!” she said impulsively. Then, more shyly, she added, “We shall be very glad if you will, Mr. Lindo.”

  He felt singularly pleased with himself as he turned the windy corner of the Broad. It was pleasant to be in Oxford again, a beneficed clergyman. Pleasant to have such a future to look forward to, such a holiday moment to enjoy. Pleasant to anticipate the cheery meal and the girl’s smile, half shy, half grateful. And Kate? — she remained before the fire, saying little because Daintry’s tongue gave few openings, but thinking a good deal. Once she did speak. “It won’t last,” she said pettishly.

  “Why, Kate? Do you think he will be different at Claversham?” Daintry protested.

  “Of course he will!” She spoke with a little scorn in her voice, and that sort of decision which we use when we wish to crush down our own unwarranted hopes.

  “But he is nice,” Daintry persisted. “You do think so, Kate, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, he is very nice,” she said drily. “But he will be in the Hammond set at home, and we shall see nothing of him.”

  But presently he was back, and Kate found it impossible to resist the charm. He ladled the soup and dispensed the mutton-chops with a gaiety and boyish glee which were really the stored-up effervescence of weeks, the ebullition of the long-repressed delight which he took in his promotion. He learned casually that the girls had been in London for more than a month staying with Jack’s mother in Bayswater, and that they were very sorry to be upon their road home.

  “And yet,” he said — this was toward the end of dinner— “I have been told that your town is a very picturesque one. But I fancy that we never appreciate our home as we do a place strange to us.”

  “Very likely that is so,” Kate answered quietly. And then a little pause ensued, such as he had observed several times before, and come to connect with any mention of Claversham. The girls’ tongues would run on frankly and pleasantly enough about their London visit, or Mr. Gladstone; but let him bring the talk round to his parish and its people, and forthwith something of reserve seemed to come between him and them until the conversation strayed afield again.

  After the others had finished, he still toyed with his meal, partly in lazy enjoyment of the time, partly as an excuse for staying with them. They were sitting in a momentary silence, when a boy passed the window chanting a ditty at the top of his voice. The doggrel came clearly to their ears ——

  Here we sit like birds in the wilderness,

  Birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness;

  Here we sit like birds in the wilderness,

  Samuel asking for more.

  As the sound passed on the young man looked up, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and met their eyes, and all three burst into a merry peal of laughter. They were the birds in the wilderness, sitting there in the circle of light, in the strange room in the strange town, almost as intimate as if they had known one another for years, or had been a week at sea together.

  But Kate, having acknowledged by that pleasant outburst her sense of the oddity of the position, rose from the table, and the rector had to say good-night, explaining at the same time that he should not travel with them next morning, but int
ended to go on by a later train, as his friend wished to see more of him. Nevertheless, he said he should be up to breakfast with them and should see them off. And in this resolution he persisted, notwithstanding Kate’s protest, which perhaps was not very violent.

  Notwithstanding, he was a little late next morning. When he came down he found them already seated in the coffee-room. There were others breakfasting here and there in the room, chiefly upon toast-racks and newspapers, and he did not at once observe that the gentleman standing with his back set negligently against the mantelpiece was talking to Kate. Arrived at the table, however, he saw that it was so; and the cheery greeting on his lips faded into a commonplace “Good-morning, Miss Bonamy.” He took no apparent notice of the stranger as he added, “I am afraid I am rather late.”

  The intruder, a short dark-whiskered man between thirty and forty, seemed to the full as much surprised by the clergyman’s appearance as Lindo was by his, and as little able to hide the feeling as Kate herself to control the color which rose in her cheeks. She gave Mr. Lindo his tea in silence, and then with an obvious effort introduced the two men. “This is Dr. Gregg of Claversham — Mr. Lindo,” she said.

  Lindo rose and shook hands. “Mr. Lindo the younger, I presume?” said the doctor, with a bow and a swagger intended to show that he was quite at his ease.

  “The only one, I am afraid,” replied the rector, smiling. Though he by no means liked the look of the man.

  “Did I rightly catch your name?” was the answer—”’Mr. Lindo?’”

  “Yes,” said the rector again, opening his eyes.

  “But — you are not — you do not mean to say that you are the new rector?” pronounced the dark man abruptly, and with a kind of aggressiveness which seemed his most striking quality— “the rector of Claversham, I mean?”