“Of course,” was the answer. “Will you find it, Laura? I think it is under the malachite weight in the other room.”
It was, sitting there in solitary majesty. Laura opened it, and took the liberty of glancing through it first. Then she gave it to him. “There, you unbelieving man,” she said, “you can look. But he does not say a word about his return.”
The curate read rapidly until he came to one sentence, and on this his eye dwelt a moment. “I hear with regret,” it ran, “that poor Williams is not long for this world. When he goes I shall send you an old friend of mine. I trust he will become an old friend of yours also.” Clode barely glanced at the rest of the letter, but, as he handed it back, he informed himself that it was dated in America two days before Mr. Williams’s death.
“No,” he admitted, “I was wrong. I thought he had said when he would return.”
“And you are satisfied?” said Laura.
“Perfectly,” he answered. “Perfectly!” with a little unnecessary emphasis.
He lingered long enough to give them a personal description of the new-comer—speaking always of him in words of praise—and then he took his leave. As his hand met Laura’s, his face flushed ever so slightly and his dark eyes glowed; and the girl, as she turned away, smiled furtively, knowing well, though he had never spoken, that she was the cause of this. So she was, but in part only. At that moment the curate saw something besides Laura—he saw across a narrow strait of trouble the fairer land of preferment, his footing on which once gained he might pretend to her and to many other pleasant things at present beyond his reach.
CHAPTER VI.
THE BONAMYS AT HOME.
Lindo made his first exploration of the neighborhood, not on the day after his arrival, which was taken up with his induction by the archdeacon and with other matters, but on the day after that. He chose to avoid the streets, in which he felt somewhat shy, so polite were the attentions and so curious the glances of his parishioners; and he selected instead a lane which, starting from the churchyard, seemed to plunge at once into the country. It was a pleasant lane. It lay deep sunk in a cutting through the sandstone rock—a cutting first formed, perhaps, when the great stones for the building of the church were dragged up that way. He paused halfway down the slope to look about him curiously, and was still standing when some one came round the corner before him. It was Kate Bonamy. He saw the girl’s cheek—she was alone—flush ever so slightly as their eyes met; and he noticed, too, that to all appearance she would have passed him with a bow had he not placed himself in her way. “Come,” he said, laughing frankly as he held out his hand, “you must not cut me, Miss Bonamy! Let me tell you, you have quite the aspect of an old friend, for until now I have not seen one face since I came here that was not absolutely new to me.”
“It must feel strange, no doubt,” she murmured.