“And where is your father?” Clode asked. “Was he delayed by business? Or perhaps,” he added, dubiously scanning him, “you are Mr. Lindo’s brother?”
“I am Mr. Lindo!” said our friend, turning in astonishment and looking at his companion.
“The rector?”
“Yes.”
It was the curate’s turn to stare now, and he did so—his face flushing darkly and his eyes wide opened for once. He even seemed for a moment to be stricken dumb with surprise and emotion. “Indeed!” he said at last, in a half stifled voice which he vainly strove to control. “Indeed! I beg your pardon. I had thought—I don’t know why—I mean that I had expected to see an older man.”
“I am sorry you are disappointed,” the rector replied, smiling ruefully. “I am beginning to think I am rather young, for you are not the first to-day who has made that mistake.”
The curate did not answer, and the two walked on in silence, feeling somewhat awkward. Clode, indeed, was raging inwardly. By one thing and another he had been led to expect a man past middle life, and the only Clergy List in the parish, being three years old and containing the name of Lindo’s uncle only, had confirmed him in the error. He had never conceived the idea that the man set over his head would be a fledgling, scarcely a year in priest’s orders, or he would have gone elsewhere. He would never have stayed to be at the beck and call of such a puppy as this! He felt now that he had been entrapped, and he chafed inwardly to such an extent that he did not dare to speak. To have this young fellow, six or seven years his junior, set over him would humiliate him in the eyes of all those before whom he had long played a different part!
In a minor degree Lindo was also vexed—not only because he was sufficiently sensitive to enter into the other’s feelings, but also because he foresaw trouble ahead. It was annoying, too, to be received at each new rencontre as a surprise—as the reverse of all that had been expected and all that had been, as he feared, hoped.
“You will find the rectory a very comfortable house,” said the curate at last, his mind fully made up now that he would leave at the earliest possible date. “Warm and old-fashioned. Rough-cast outside. Many of the rooms are panelled.”
“It looks out on the churchyard, I believe,” replied the rector, with the same labored politeness.