“Mr Chute is disposed to be rude, Miss Thorne,” said the vicar with a grave smile, as he laid his gloved hand upon the oak fence and seemed to be deeply interested in the way in which the grain carved round one knot. “I beg that you will not think me impertinent, but I take a great interest in your welfare. Miss Thorne.”
“I do not think you impertinent, sir,” she replied; “and I have to thank you for much kindness and consideration.”
“Then I may say a few words to you,” he said gravely; and there was an intensity in his manner that alarmed her.
“I beg—I must ask”—she began.
“A few words as a friend. Miss Thorne,” he said in a low, deep voice, and the grain of the oak paling seemed to attract him more than ever, for, save giving her a quick glance now and then, he did not look at her. “You are very young. Miss Thorne, and yours is a responsible position. It is my duty, as the head of this parish, to watch over the schools and those who have them in charge. In short,” he continued, changing from his slow, hesitating way, “I feel bound to tell you that I could not help noticing Mr Chute’s very marked attentions to you.”
“Mr Lambent,” began Hazel imploringly.
“Pray hear me out,” he said. “I feel it my duty to speak, and to ask you if it is wise of you—if it is your wish—to encourage these attentions? It is quite natural, I know—I do not blame you; but—but after that which I saw as I came up, I should be grateful, Miss Thorne, if you would speak to me candidly.”
Hazel longed to turn and flee, but she was driven to bay, and, after a few moments’ pause to command her voice, she said firmly—
“Mr Chute’s attentions to me, sir, have been, I own, very marked, and have given me much anxiety.”
“Have given you much anxiety?” he said softly, as if to himself.