“So I saw,” Jack answered drily. “I am afraid your nerves are a little out of order.” The curate muttered something which was inaudible, and, raising his hand to the book-case, locked the cupboard door and put the key in his pocket. Then he went to the lamp and turned it up. At the same moment Jack, recovering his hat, advanced into the circle of light, and the two men looked at one another. “I am afraid if you wish to see the rector you will be disappointed,” the curate said, with something of hauteur in his voice, assumed to hide his mistrust. “He was to spend the evening at Mrs. Hammond’s. I doubt if he will be back before midnight.”
“Then I must call another time,” said Jack practically.
“If I see him first, can I tell him anything for you?” the curate persisted. Who was this man? Could he be a detective? he was wondering.
But Jack was so far from being a detective that he had already dismissed the suspicions he had at first entertained. “I think not, thank you,” he answered; “I will call again.”
“Can I give him any name?” Clode asked in despair.
“Well, you might say Jack Smith called,” the barrister answered, “if you will be so kind.”
They parted at the door, and Clode went back into the house, where he speedily learned all that Mrs. Baker knew of Mr. Smith. It dispelled his first fear. The man was not a detective; still it sent him home gloomy and ill at ease. What if so intimate a friend of the rector’s as this Smith seemed to be should tell him of his curate’s visit to the cupboard and the excuse which on the spur of the moment he had invented? It might go ill with him then. What explanation could he give? He tried to consider such a mishap impossible, or at all events unlikely; but not with complete success. More than ever he wished that he had not interfered with the letters.
To return to Jack. Such mild festivities as the bazaar were not uncommon in Claversham, but the Bonamy household at any rate had not been wont to look forward to them with anything approaching exhilaration. It is wonderful how some children growing up in any kind of social shadow learn the fact; and Daintry Bonamy, scarcely less than her sister, had come to regard the annual flower-show, the school sports, and the regatta with distaste and repugnance, as occasions of little pleasure and much humiliation. It was Mr. Bonamy’s will, however, that they should attend, though he never went himself; and times innumerable they had done so, outwardly in pretty dresses and becoming hats, inwardly in sack-cloth and ashes.
Jack’s presence changed all this, and for once the girls went up to dress quite gaily. If Kate reflected that Jack’s intimacy with the rector would be likely to bring them also into contact with him, she said nothing; and from Jack—for the present at least—it was mercifully hidden that, with all his kindness, his unfailing good-humor, his wit, his devotion to her, his chief attraction in the girl’s eyes lay in the fact that he was another man’s friend.
When they entered the Assembly Room it was already well filled, the main concourse being about the two stalls at the end of the room over which the archdeacon’s wife and Mrs. Hammond respectively ruled. Here the great people were mainly to be seen; and an acute observer would soon have discovered that between those who habitually hung about this end and those who surrounded the four lower stalls there was a great gulf fixed. Those on the one side of this examined the dresses of those on the other with indulgent interest, and, for the most part, through double eyeglasses; while those on the other hand either returned the compliment and made careful notes, or looked about deferentially for a glance of recognition. The man who should have bridged that gulf, who should have been equally at home with Mrs. Archdeacon and the hotel-keeper’s wife, was the rector. But as the rector had entered, the unlucky word “writ” had caught his ears, and he was in his most unpleasant humor. He felt that the whole room was talking of him—the majority with a narrow dislike, a few with sympathy. Was it unnatural that, forgetting his situation, he should throw in his lot with his friends, who were ever so much the pleasanter, the wittier, the more amusing, and present a smiling front of defiance to his opponents or those whom he thought to be such? At any rate, that was what he was doing, and no one could remark the carriage of his head or the direction of his eyes without feeling that there was something in the town complaint that the new clergyman was above his work.