The rector shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I do not know,” he said, a trifle of irritation in his manners. “He did, and there is an end of it. Is there any news?”
Mr. Clode seemed to find a difficulty in at once changing the direction of his thoughts. But he did so with an effort, and, after a pause, answered, “No, I think not. There is a good deal of interest felt in the question of the sheep out there, I fancy—whether you will take your course or comply with Mr. Bonamy’s whim.”
“I do not know myself,” said the young rector, turning and facing the curate, with his feet apart and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. “I do not, indeed. It is a serious matter.”
“It is. Still you have the responsibility,” said the curate with diffidence, “and, without expressing any view of my own on the subject, I confess——”
“Well?”
“I think if I bore the responsibility, I should feel called upon to do what I myself thought right in the matter.”
The younger man shook his head doubtfully. “There is something in that,” he said; “but, on the other hand, one cannot look on the point as an essential, and, that being so, perhaps one should prefer peace. But, there, enough of that now, Clode. I think you said you were not going to the Hammonds’ this evening?”
“No, I am not.”
The rector almost wished he were not. However sociable a man may be, a few days of solitude and a little temporary depression will render him averse from society if he be sensitive. Lindo as a man was not very sensitive; he held too good an opinion of himself. But as rector he was, and as he walked across to the Town House he anticipated anything but enjoyment.
In a few minutes, however—has it not some time or other happened to all of us?—everything was changed with him. He felt as if he had entered another world. The air of culture and refinement which surrounded him from the hall inward, the hearty kindness of Mrs. Hammond, the pretty rooms, the music and flowers, Laura’s light laughter and pleasant badinage, all surprised and delighted him. The party might almost have been a London party, it was so lively. The archdeacon, a red-faced, cherry, white-haired man, whose acquaintance Lindo had already made, and his wife, who was a mild image of himself, were of the number, which was completed by their daughter and four or five county people, all prepared to welcome and be pleased with the new rector. Lindo, sprung from gentlefolk himself, had the ordinary experience of society; but here he found himself treated as a stranger and a dignitary to a degree of notice and a delicate flattery of which he had not before tasted the sweets. Perhaps he was the more struck by the taste displayed in the house, and the wit and liveliness of his new friends, because he had so little looked for them—because he had insensibly judged his parish by his experience of Mr. Bonamy, and had come expecting this house to be as his.