“I am astonished that you did; I am astonished that you should have believed anything so absurd, Miss Bonamy!” he said severely. At that moment, as it happened, two people came round the flank of the church. The one was the curate; the other was Dr. Gregg. Kate looked at them, and her face flamed. The rector looked, and felt only relief. They would afford him an excuse to be gone. “Ah, there is Mr. Clode,” he said indifferently. “I was just looking for him. I think, if you will excuse me, Miss Bonamy, I will seize the opportunity of speaking to him now.” And raising his hat, with a formality which one of the men took to be a pretence and a sham, he left her and walked across to them.
CHAPTER XIII.
LAURA’S PROVISO.
When a mine has been laid, and the fuse lit, and the tiny thread of smoke has begun to curl upward, it is apt to seem a long time—so I am told by those who have stood and watched such things—before the earth flies into the air. So it seemed to Stephen Clode. The curate looked to see an explosion follow immediately upon the rector taking the decisive step of turning out the sheep. But week after week elapsed, until Christmas was some time gone, and nothing happened. Mr. Bonamy, with a lawyer’s prudence, wrote another letter, and for a time, perhaps out of regard to the season, held his hand. There was talk of Lord Dynmore’s return, but no sign of it as yet. And Dr. Gregg snapped and snarled among his intimates, but in public was pretty quiet.
It was noticeable, however, that the rector was invited to none of the whist-parties which were a feature of the town life at this season; and to those who looked closely into things and listened to the gossip of the place it was plain that the breach between him and the bulk of his parishioners was growing wider. The rector was much with the Hammonds, and carried his head high—higher than ever, one of his parishioners thought since a talk she had had with him in the churchyard. The habit of looking down upon a certain section of the town, because they were not quite so refined as himself, because they were narrow in their opinions, or because the Hammonds looked down upon them, was growing upon him. And he yielded to it none the less because he was all the time dissatisfied with himself. He was conscious that he was not acting up to the standard he had set himself on coming to the town. He was not living the life he had hoped to live. He visited his poor and gave almost too largely in the hard weather, and was diligent at services and sermon-writing. But there was a flaw in his life, and he knew it; and yet he had not the strength to set it right.
All this Mr. Clode might have observed—he was sagacious enough; but for the time his judgment was clouded by his jealousy, and in his impatience he fancied that the rector’s troubles were passing away. Each visit Lindo paid to the Town House, each time his name was coupled with Laura Hammond’s, as people were beginning to couple it, chafed the curate’s sore afresh and kept it raw. So that even Stephen Clode’s self-restraint and command of temper began to fail him, and more than once he said sharp things to his commanding-officer, which made Lindo open his eyes in unaffected surprise.
Clode began to feel indeed that the position was becoming intolerable; and though he had long ago determined that the waiting-game was the one he ought to play, he presently—in the first week of the new year—changed his mind.
Lindo had announced his intention of devoting the afternoon—it was Wednesday—to his district; and, taking advantage of this, the curate thought he might indulge himself in a call at the Town House without fear of unpleasant interruption. He would not admit that he had any other motive in going there than just to pay a visit—which he certainly owed. But in truth he was in a dangerous humor. And, alas! when he had been ushered along the thickly carpeted passage and entered the drawing-room, there, comfortably seated in the half-light before the fire, the tea-things gleaming beside them, were Laura and the rector!
The curate’s face grew dark. He almost felt that Lindo, who had really been driven in by the rain, had betrayed him; and he shook hands with Laura and sat down in complete silence, unable to trust himself to answer the rector’s cheery greeting by so much as a word. It was all he could do to answer “Thank you,” when Miss Hammond asked him if he would take tea. She, of course, saw that something was amiss, and felt not a little awkward between her two friends; but luckily the rector remained ignorant and at his ease—he saw nothing, and went on talking. It was the best thing he could have done, only, unfortunately, he had to do with a man whom nothing in his present mood could please.
“I am glad you have turned up at this particular moment,” Lindo said. “Let me have your opinion. Miss Hammond says that I am pauperizing the town by giving too much away.”
“If you are half as generous at our bazaar on the 10th,” she retorted, “you will do twice as much good.”