At the wooden entrance gate he paused. The vicarage front door stood open, and across the rough gravel sweep he could see into the hall--see a stone-paved floor and an oak chest, with hats and coats hanging from hooks above it. A rose-scented peace enveloped the house and garden; he heard no sound save the high, clear calling of birds.
A sudden reluctance assailed him, kept him standing at the gate, his hand on the latch, his heart beating fast; a fateful feeling that if he disturbed this somnolent calm his whole life, his whole future, would be affected, whether for evil or for good. The horse nuzzled his shoulder gently, a yellow butterfly skimmed past. He thought of the girl's golden hair in the sunshine, and he swung open the gate.
Ivy hid the door-bell, but he found it and pulled boldly. The result was disconcerting; never had he known a house-bell create such a clamour; it clanged and re-echoed, and continued till he felt it must surely rouse not only the vicarage but the entire village. Long before its pealing ceased a door was opened within, and an elderly cleric, with a grey beard and a benevolent expression, appeared in the porch.
Coventry raised his hat, apologised for his intrusion, and explained.
"My horse," he said, "has got a stone in his hoof, and I'm a long way from home. Have you anything you could lend me to get it out?" That was the beginning. The vicar was cordially sympathetic, and at once went in search of some instrument, returning with a pruning knife, a skewer, and a chisel.
"Perhaps one of these?" he said, and then stood by, remarking upon the weather and the prospects of the fruit crop and the hay, and the unusual heat, while with much apparent effort the stone was extracted and cast aside.
Then Coventry stood up and mopped his forehead.
"Yes, the heat is extraordinary, I suppose, for England, though of course it's nothing compared with India."
"Ah! So you have had some experience of the tropics?"
"I'm home on leave from my regiment in India."