Freda obeyed, mute and ashamed. She crept downstairs, returned to the dining-room, and fed the hungry birds till the bell sounded. Running out to the court-yard gate, she drew back the two heavy bolts which fastened it. Waiting outside were a lady and gentleman whom she at once guessed to be the Vicar and his wife.
The Reverend Berkley Staynes was generally considered the greatest “character” in Presterby. A member of one of the county families, with a fairly good living and a better private income, he was an autocrat who considered his flock of very small account indeed compared with the well-being of their pastor. Although close upon eighty years of age, and quite unable to perform a tithe of his parish duties, he would never take a curate, partly from motives of economy, and partly because he feared that an assistant might introduce some “crank” of week-day services or early Communion, and wake up some of the parishioners into disconcerting religious activity. Never at any time over-burdened with brains, he had been at one time an exceedingly handsome man, athletic and muscular, and a great encourager of health-giving sports and pastimes. For these former good qualities, and from a natural, loyal conservatism, the good Yorkshire folk bore with him, maintained respectful silence while he droned out his antiquated sermons, and shut their eyes to his inefficiency. Mrs. Staynes belonged to a type of clergyman’s wife sufficiently common. She was much younger than her husband, and slavishly devoted to him, giving him the absurd homage which he believed to be his due, and working like a nigger to shield his deficiencies from the public notice.
Something of this was to be guessed even by inexperienced Freda as she opened the gate to them. A tall, but somewhat bent old gentleman, still handsome in his age, with silver-white hair and a good-looking, rather stupid face, dressed well and with scrupulous neatness, stood before her. Behind him rather than at his side was a small, middle-aged woman dressed in what looked like a black pillow-case, a long narrow black cloth jacket and a rusty black hat of the old mushroom shape. She had a fresh-coloured face and a simple-minded smile, and she habitually carried her left hand planted against her waist in a manner which emphasised the undesirable curves in her “stumpy” figure.
“H’m, a new servant!” said the Reverend Berkley Staynes, looking searchingly at Freda. “Well, what the Captain wanted more servants for, considering that he never received anybody or kept the place up, I’m sure I don’t know! Why don’t you wear a cap, young woman?”
“I’m not a servant,” said Freda. “I’m Captain Mulgrave’s daughter. Will you please come in?”
She led the way, without waiting for any more comments, across the court-yard, through the hall, and into the dining-room; and she noticed as she went how both her visitors peered about them and walked slowly, as if they had not been inside the house before, and were curious about it. In the dining-room they sat down, and the Vicar, glancing round the room inquisitively as he spoke, began a close interrogatory as to Freda’s history. His wife looked uncomfortable and he solemn when she mentioned the convent.
“Ah! Bad places, those convents,” he said, shaking his head, “nests of laziness and superstition.”
“Dear me, yes,” said Mrs. Staynes. “But we’ll cure you of all that. You shall come to the Sunday school and hear Mr. Staynes talking to the girls; and when you feel pretty firm in the doctrine, we’ll have you confirmed.”
“Thank you,” said Freda.
“I’ll come in again myself in a day or two, and perhaps we’ll have you round to tea. You’d like to come, I daresay.”