‘Of course Mr. Sugden must say he does, whether or not,’ said Ombra. ‘Fancy having the courage to say that one does not like Shanklin before the people who are devoted to it! But speak frankly, please, for I am not devoted to it. I think it is dull; it is too pretty, like a scene at the opera. Whenever you turn a corner, you come upon a picture you have seen at some exhibition. I should like to hang it up on the wall, but not to live in it. Now, Mr. Sugden, you can speak your mind.’
‘I never was at an exhibition,’ said Kate, ‘nor at the opera. I never saw such a lovely place, and you know you don’t mean it, Ombra—you, who are never tired of sketching or writing poetry about it.’
‘Does Miss Anderson write poetry?’ said the Curate, somewhat startled. He was frightened, like most men, by such a discovery. It froze the words on his lips.
‘No, no—she only amuses herself,’ said the mother, who knew what the effect of such an announcement was likely to be; upon which the poor Curate drew breath.
‘Shanklin is a very pretty place,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I am not so used to pretty places as I ought to be. I come from the Fens myself. It is hilly here, and there is a great deal of sea; but I don’t think,’ he added, with a little outburst, and a painful consciousness that he had not been eloquent—‘I don’t think there is very much to do.’
‘Except the infant-schools and the almshouses,’ said Kate.
‘Good Lord!’ said the poor young man, driven to his wits’ end; and then he grew very red, and coughed violently, to cover, if possible, the ejaculation into which he had been betrayed. Then he did his best to correct himself, and put on a professional tone. ‘There is always the work of the parish for me,’ he said, trying to look assured and comfortable; ‘but I was rather thinking of you ladies; unless you are fond of yachting—but I suppose everybody is who lives in the Isle of Wight?’
‘Not me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I do not like it, and I would not trust my girls, even if they had a chance, which they have not. Oh! no; we content ourselves with a very quiet life. They have their studies, and we do what we can in the parish. I assure you a school-feast is quite a great event.’
Mr. Sugden shuddered; he could not help it; he had not been brought up to it; he had been trained to a lively life, full of variety, and amusement, and exercise. He tried to say faintly that he was sure a quiet life was the best, but the words nearly choked him. It was now henceforward his rôle to say that sort of thing; and how was he to do it, poor young muscular, untamed man! He gasped and drank a cup of hot tea, which he did not want, and which made him very uncomfortable. Tea and bread and butter, and a school-feast by way of excitement! This was what a man was brought to, when he took upon himself the office of a priest.
‘Mr. Sugden, please tell me,’ said Kate, ‘for I want to know—is it a very great change after Oxford to come to such a place as this?’