“We are going to get up the cases of old books and china, and unpack them here. The carpenter is putting shelves in the library; but he is such a lazy fellow, I don’t expect he will come out in this weather.”
“There you are as usual, Susan, talking and idling people,” said her sister, entering with two notes and a list; and in another moment Wynyard had been dispatched.
First of all he went to the Rectory, and here the door was opened by Mr. Morven himself, attended by Mackenzie, who immediately stiffened from head to tail, and growled round the chauffeur’s legs, evidently recognising in him the ally of his mortal foe. Mr. Morven was a squarely built elderly man with a grey beard, a benevolent expression, and the eyes of the dreamer.
As he took the note he glanced at the messenger, and his eyes dilated with the intentness of a surprised stare. Wynyard’s type was not common in the parish; somehow Mrs. Hogben’s lodger did not correspond with his surroundings.
“I see this is for my daughter,” he said, and beckoning to a parlour-maid he handed it to her. “Just come into my study, will you, till the answer is written,” leading the way across a wide hall panelled in oak. Through an open door Wynyard caught a glimpse of the drawing-room, and was conscious of a faded carpet, fresh chintz, books, old china, a glowing fire, and a fragrant atmosphere. The general impression of the Rectory, with its oaken staircase, family portraits, and bowls of potpourri, was delightful but fleeting; it seemed a peaceful, flower-scented old house, of spotless neatness.
“You’re a newcomer, I believe?” said the Rector, preceding him into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling, and seating himself at a writing-table. “Miss Parrett’s chauffeur?” and he smiled to himself at some reminiscence. “I see they are making use of you. Church of England?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you have any sort of voice—tenor, baritone, or bass—we shall be glad to have you in the choir; our tenor is getting on; he must be close on seventy.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much good, sir.”
“Well, if you don’t sing, you look like a cricketer, eh? I must get something out of you, you know;” and he laughed pleasantly.