Kate sank back in her seat, her cheek a shade warmer. And in a moment he was alone upon the platform.
CHAPTER V.
“REGINALD LINDO, 1850.”
Long before the later train by which the rector came on arrived at the Claversham station, the Rev. Stephen Clode was waiting on the platform. The curate was a tall, dark man, somewhat over thirty, with a strong rugged face and a bush of stiff black hair standing up from his forehead. He had been at Claversham three years, enjoying all the importance which old Mr. Williams’s long illness naturally gave to his curate and locum tenens; and, though the town was agreed that his chagrin at having a new rector set over his head was great, it must be admitted that he concealed it with admirable skill. More than one letter had passed between him and the new incumbent, and, in securing for the latter Mr. Williams’s good old-fashioned furniture, and in other ways, he had made himself very useful to Lindo. But the two had not met, and consequently the curate viewed the approaching train with lively, though secret, curiosity.
It came, the bell rang, the porter cried, “Claversham! Claversham!” and the curate walked down it, past the carriage-windows, looking for the man he had come to meet. Half-a-dozen people stepped out, and for a moment there was a mimic tumult on the little platform; but nowhere amid it all could Clode see any one like the new rector. “He has missed another train!” he muttered to himself in contemptuous wonder; and he was already casting a last look round him before turning on his heel, when a tall, fair young man, in a clerical overcoat, who had been one of the first to alight, stepped up to him. “Am I speaking to Mr. Clode?” said the stranger pleasantly. And he lifted his hat.
“Certainly,” the curate answered. “I am Mr. Clode. But I fear I have not the——”
“No, I know,” replied the other, smiling, and at the same time holding out his hand. “Though, indeed, I hoped that you might have been here on purpose to meet me. My name is Lindo.”
The curate uttered an exclamation of surprise; and, hastily returning the proffered grip, fixed his black eyes curiously on his new friend. “Mr. Lindo did not mention that you were with him,” he answered in a tone of some embarrassment. “But, there, let me see to your luggage. Is it all here?”
“Yes, I think so,” Lindo answered, tapping one article after another with his umbrella, and giving the stationmaster a pleasant “Good-day!” “Is there an omnibus or anything?”
“Yes,” Clode said; “it will be all right. They know where to take it. You will walk up with me, perhaps. It is about a quarter of a mile to the rectory.”
The new comer assented gladly, and the two passed out of the station together. Lindo let his eye travel up the wide steep street before him, until it rested on the noble tower which crowned the little hill and looked down now, as it had looked down for five centuries, on the red roofs clustering about it. His tower! His church! Even his companion did not remark, so slight was the action, that, as he passed out of the station and looked up, he lifted his hat for a second.