‘My dear, the children are present,’ said the Rector.
‘I am very well aware of that, Fred; but they have ears and eyes as well as the rest of us. After all, the infant-school and the Sunday-schools are not very much to be left to one; and there are only ten old people in the almshouses. And, I must say, my dear, considering that Mr. Sugden is able to walk a hundred miles a day, I do believe, when he has an object——’
‘Hush! hush!’ said the Rector, ‘we must not enter into personal discussions. He is fresh from University life, and has not quite settled down as yet to his work. University life is very different, as I have often told you. It takes a man some time to get accustomed to change his habits and ways of thinking. Sugden is rather lazy, I must say—he does not mean it, but he is a little careless. Did I tell you that he had forgotten to put down Farmer Thompson’s name in the Easter list? It was a trifle, you know—it really was not of any consequence; but, still, he forgot all about it. It is the negligent spirit, not the thing itself, that troubles me.’
‘A trifle!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, indignantly; and they entered so deeply into the history of this offence, that Kate, whose attention had been wandering, had to state her errand, and finish her luncheon without further reference to Bertie. But her curiosity was roused; and when, some time after, she met Mr. Sugden, the Curate, it was not in her to refrain from further inquiries. This time she was walking with her aunt and cousin, and could not have everything her own way; but the curate was only too well pleased to join the little party. He was a young man, tall and strong, looking, as Mrs. Rector said, as if he could walk a hundred miles a day; and his manner was not that of one who would be guilty of indolence. He was glad to join the party from the Cottage, because he was one of those who had been partially enslaved by Ombra—partially, for he was prudent, and knew that falling in love was not a pastime to be indulged in by a curate; but yet sufficiently to be roused by the sight of her into sudden anxiety, to look and show himself at his best.
‘Ask him to tea, auntie, please,’ said Kate, whispering, as the Curate divided the party, securing himself a place by the side of Ombra. Mrs. Anderson looked at the girl with amazement.
‘I have no objection,’ she said, wondering. ‘But why?’
‘Oh! never mind why—to please me,’ said the girl. Mrs. Anderson was not in the habit of putting herself into opposition; and besides, the little languor and vacancy caused by the departure of the Berties had not yet quite passed away. She gave the invitation with a smile and a whispered injunction. ‘But you must promise not to become one of the young ladies who worship curates, Kate.’
‘Me!’ said Kate, with indignation, and without grammar; and she gazed at the big figure before her with a certain friendly contempt. Mr. Sugden lived a dull life, and he was glad to meet with the pretty Ombra, to walk by her side, and talk to her, or hear her talk, and even to be invited to tea. His fall from the life of Oxford to the life of this little rural parish had been sudden, and it had been almost more than the poor young fellow’s head could bear. One day surrounded by young life and energy, and all the merriment and commotion of a large community, where there was much intellectual stir, to which his mind, fortunately for himself, responded but faintly, and a great deal of external activity, into which he had entered with all his heart; and the next day to be dropped into the grey, immovable atmosphere of rural existence—the almshouses, the infant-schools, and Farmer Thompson! The young man had not recovered it. Life had grown strange to him, as it seems after a sudden and bewildering fall. And it never occurred to anybody what a great change it was, except the Rector, who thought it rather sinful that he could not make up his mind to it at once. Therefore, though he had a chop indifferently cooked waiting for him at home, he abandoned it gladly for Mrs. Anderson’s bread and butter. Ombra was very pretty, and it was a variety in the monotonous tenor of his life.
When they had returned to the Cottage, and had seated themselves to the simple and lady-like meal, which did not much content his vigorous young appetite, Mr. Sugden began to be drawn out without quite understanding the process. The scene and circumstances were quite new to him. There was a feminine perfume about the place which subdued and fascinated him. Everything was pleasant to look at—even the mother, who was still a handsome woman; and a certain charm stole over the Curate, though the bread and butter was scarcely a satisfactory meal.
‘I hope you like Shanklin?’ Mrs. Anderson said, as she poured him out his tea.