The two curates became redder and redder as they passed the column of young ladies. Miss Lindsay would not look to their side of the road, and Miss Wilson’s nod and smile were not quite sincere. She never spoke to curates, and kept up no more intercourse with the vicar than she could not avoid. He suspected her of being an infidel, though neither he nor any other mortal in Lyvern had ever heard a word from her on the subject of her religious opinions. But he knew that “moral science” was taught secularly at the college; and he felt that where morals were made a department of science the demand for religion must fall off proportionately.
“What a life to lead and what a place to live in!” exclaimed Agatha. “We meet two creatures, more like suits of black than men; and that is an incident—a startling incident—in our existence!”
“I think they’re awful fun,” said Jane, “except that Josephs has such large ears.”
The girls now came to a place where the road dipped through a plantation of sombre sycamore and horsechestnut trees. As they passed down into it, a little wind sprang up, the fallen leaves stirred, and the branches heaved a long, rustling sigh.
“I hate this bit of road,” said Jane, hurrying on. “It’s just the sort of place that people get robbed and murdered in.”
“It is not such a bad place to shelter in if we get caught in the rain, as I expect we shall before we get back,” said Agatha, feeling the fitful breeze strike ominously on her cheek. “A nice pickle I shall be in with these light shoes on! I wish I had put on my strong boots. If it rains much I will go into the old chalet.”
“Miss Wilson won’t let you. It’s trespassing.”
“What matter! Nobody lives in it, and the gate is off its hinges. I only want to stand under the veranda—not to break into the wretched place. Besides, the landlord knows Miss Wilson; he won’t mind. There’s a drop.”
Miss Carpenter looked up, and immediately received a heavy raindrop in her eye.
“Oh!” she cried. “It’s pouring. We shall be drenched.”