As he entered the house there came to his venerable ears the sounds of singing and the twanging of strings.
“Dear me, what is that?” he asked the maid, pausing in the hall.
“Oh, it’s only the master a-playing of ’is banjo,” the girl explained, smiling at the vicar, who had been her friend since her earliest childhood. “’E often gets took like that, sir. Cook says it’s ’is furrin blood.”
“But he has no foreign blood,” Mr. Glenning told her.
“’E looks a furrin gentleman,” she replied, “and ’is ways....” She paused, remembering her manners.
The vicar was shown into the drawing-room, and here he found the Squire seated upon the arm of the sofa, his guitar across his knees.
“Hullo, padre!” said Jim. “Excuse the music.” He was somewhat abashed at thus being taken unawares, for he had little idea that his singing was anything but an infernal noise, intended by Nature to be a vent to the feelings. And these feelings, just now, were of a somewhat violent character, for, though he was not yet aware of his plight, he was in love.
In the early part of the afternoon he had gone for a wandering walk in the woods adjoining the manor, in order to escape a sense of depression which had descended upon him. “It must be this old house,” he had said to himself, “with its weight of years. It feels like a trap in which I’ve been caught, a trap laid by the forefathers to catch the children and teach them their manners.” And therewith he had rushed out into the sunshine.
Mr. Glenning smiled indulgently. “I shall have to make use of your voice in church,” he said.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Jim laughed, pretending to edge away. “Your choir is bad enough as it is.”