“Well, can you give me their address?” the rector continued.
“Certainly!” the curate answered. Indeed he leapt at the suggestion, for it seemed to offer some chance of escape—at least a way by which he might rid himself of his visitor.
“Just write it down, that is a good fellow, then,” said the rector, unconscious of what was passing in his mind.
The curate said he would, and tore off at random—-the rector was leaning his hand on the newspaper, and might at any moment be taken with a fancy to raise it—the back sheet of the first stray note that came to his fingers, and wrote the address upon it. “There, that is it,” he said; and as he gave it to Lindo—he had written it standing up and stooping—he almost pushed him away from the table. “That will serve you, I think. They may be trusted, I am told. The best you can do, I am sure, will be to place the matter in their hands at once.”
“I will write before I sleep!” the younger clergyman answered heartily. “You cannot think how the narrowness of these people provokes me! But I will not keep you now. I see you are busy. Come round early in the morning, will you, and talk it over?”
“I will come the moment I have had breakfast,” the curate answered, making no attempt to detain his visitor.
The rector thereupon going, he stood eyeing the newspaper askance until the other’s footsteps died away on the pavement outside. Then he swept it off and stood contemplating the half-dozen letters with abhorrence. He loathed and detested them. They had suddenly become to him such an incubus as his victim’s body becomes to the murderer. The desire which had tempted him to the crime was gone, and he felt them only as a burden. They were the visible proof of his shame. To keep them was to become a thief, and yet he shrank with a nervous terror quite new and strange to him from the task of returning them—of going to the study at the rectory and putting them back in the cupboard. It had been easy to get possession of them; but to return them seemed a task so thankless, and withal so perilous, that he quailed before it. With shaking hands he bundled them together and locked them in the lowest drawer of his writing table. He would return them to-morrow.
CHAPTER XV.
THE BAZAAR.
Long before noon on the next day the service of the writ at the rectory was pretty well known in the town, and the course which the churchwardens had taken was freely canvassed in more houses than one. But they had on their side all the advantages of prescription, while of the rector people said that there was no smoke without fire, and that he would not have become the subject of so many comments and strictures, and the centre of more than one dispute, without being in fault. There had been none of these squabbles in old Mr. Williams’s time, they said. Tongues had not wagged about him. But then, they added, he had not aspired to drive tandem with the Homfrays! The town had been good enough for him. He had not wanted to have everything his own way, or thought himself a little Jupiter in the place. His head had not been turned by a little authority conferred too early, and conferred, if all the town heard was true, in some very odd and unsatisfactory manner.
To know that all round you people are saying that your conceit has led you into trouble is not pleasant. And in one way and another this impression was brought home to the young rector more than once during these days, so that his cheek flamed as he passed the window of the reading-room, or caught the half-restrained sniggle in which Gregg ventured to indulge when in company. Nor were these annoyances all Lindo had to bear. The archdeacon scolded him roundly for placing the matter in the hands of the lawyers without consulting him. Mrs. Hammond looked grave. Laura seemed less friendly than a while back. Clode’s conduct was odd, too, and unsatisfactory. He was sometimes enthusiastic and loyal enough, ready to back up his superior as warmly as could be wished, and anon he would show himself the reverse of all this—sullen, repellent, and absolutely unsympathetic.