“Hallo! How d’ye do, Crashaw?” was the squire’s casual greeting. “How is the Stoke microcosm?”
Crashaw smiled subserviently; he was never quite at his ease in Challis’s presence. “Rari nantes in gurgite vasto,” was the tag he found in answer to the question put. However great his contempt for Challis’s way of life, in his presence Crashaw was often oppressed with a feeling of inferiority, a feeling which he fought against but could not subdue. The Latin tag was an attempt to win appreciation, it represented a boast of equality.
Challis correctly evaluated the rector’s attitude; it was with something of pity in his mind that he turned and walked beside him.
There was but one item of news from Stoke, and it soon came to the surface. Crashaw phrased his description of Victor Stott in terms other than those he used in speaking to his wife or to his parishioners; but the undercurrent of his virulent superstition did not escape Challis, and the attitude of the villagers was made perfectly plain.
“Hm!” was Challis’s comment, when the flow of words ceased, “nigroque simillima cygno, eh?”
“Ah! of course, you sneer at our petty affairs,” said Crashaw.
“By no means. I should like to see this black swan of Stoke,” replied Challis. “Anything so exceptional interests me.”
“No doubt Mrs. Stott would be proud to exhibit the horror,” said Crashaw. He had a gleam of satisfaction in the thought that even the great Henry Challis might be scared. That would, indeed, be a triumph.
“If Mrs. Stott has no objection, of course,” said Challis. “Shall we go there, now?”