Austin returned in plenty of time to spend a few minutes loitering in
the garden after he had dressed for dinner. It was a favourite habit
of his, and he said it gave him an appetite; but the truth was that he
always loved to be in the open air to the very last moment of the day,
watching the colours of the sky as they changed and melted into
twilight. On this particular evening the heavens were streaked with
primrose, and pale iris, and delicate limpid green; and so absorbed
was he in gazing at this splendour of dissolving beauty that he forgot
all about his appetite, and had to be called twice over before he
could drag himself away.
"Well, and did you have an interesting visit?" asked Aunt Charlotte,
when dinner was halfway through. "You found Mr St Aubyn at home?"
Austin had been unusually silent up till then, being somewhat
preoccupied with the experiences of the afternoon. He wanted to ask
his aunt all manner of questions, but scarcely liked to do so as long
as the servant was waiting. But now he could hold out no longer.
"Yes--even more interesting than I hoped," he answered. "I had plenty
of delightful chat with St Aubyn, and then a visitor came in. It's
that that I want to talk about."
"A visitor, eh?" said Aunt Charlotte, her attention quickening. "What
sort of a visitor? A lady?"
"Yes, an old lady," replied Austin, "who----"
"Did she come in an open fly?" pursued Aunt Charlotte, helping herself
to sauce.
"Why, how did you know? I believe she did," said Austin. "She had
driven over from Cleeve."
"Well, then, I must have seen her," said Aunt Charlotte. "A
queer-looking old person in a great bonnet. I happened to be walking
through the village, and she stopped the fly to ask me the way to the
Court, and I remember wondering who she could possibly be. I suppose
it was she whom you met there."
"What, was it _you_ she asked?" exclaimed Austin, opening his eyes.
"She told us the driver didn't know the way, and that she'd
enquired--oh dear, oh dear, how funny!"
"What's funny?" demanded Aunt Charlotte, abruptly.
"Oh, never mind, I can't tell you, and it doesn't matter in the
least," said Austin, beginning to giggle. "Only I shouldn't have known
it was you from her description."
"Why, what did she say?" Aunt Charlotte was getting suspicious.
"My dear auntie, she didn't know who you were, of course," replied
Austin, "and she bore high testimony to the respectability of your
appearance, that's all. Only it's so funny to think it was you. It
never occurred to me for a moment."
"What did she _say_, Austin?" repeated Aunt Charlotte, sternly. "I
insist upon knowing her exact words. Of course it doesn't really
matter what a poor old thing like that may have said, but I always
like to be precise, and it's just as well to know how one strikes a
stranger. It wasn't anything rude, I hope, for I'm sure I answered her
quite kindly."
The servant was out of the room. "No, auntie, I don't think it was
rude, but it was so comic----"
"Do stop giggling, and tell me what it was," interrupted Aunt
Charlotte, impatiently.
"Well, she only said you were a respectable-looking body," replied
Austin, as gravely as he could. "And so you are, you know, auntie,
though, perhaps, if I had to describe you I should put it in rather
different words. I'm sure she meant it as a compliment."
"Upon my word, I feel extremely flattered!" exclaimed Aunt Charlotte,
reddening. "A respectable-looking body, indeed! Well, it's something
to know I look respectable. And who was this very patronising old
person, pray? Some old nurse or other, I should say, to judge by her
appearance."
"She was the Countess of Merthyr Tydvil, St Aubyn's aunt," said
Austin, enjoying the joke.
"The Countess of Merthyr Tydvil!" echoed Aunt Charlotte, amazed.
"And she's staying with the Duke at Cleeve Castle," added Austin. "But
that's not the point. Just fancy, auntie, she actually knew my father!
She knew him before he was married, and they were tremendous friends.
It all came out because she said I was so like somebody, and she
couldn't think who it could be, and then she asked what my surname
was, and so on, till we found out all about it. Wasn't it curious? Did
you ever hear of her before?"
"Indeed I never knew of her existence till this moment," answered Aunt
Charlotte, beginning to get interested. "Your father had any number of
friends, and of course we didn't know them all. Well, it is curious, I
must say. But she didn't say you were like your father, did she?"
"No--my mother," replied Austin. "She didn't know her much, but she
remembers her very well. She said she was a very lovely person, too."
"Your father was good-looking in a way," said Aunt Charlotte, falling
into a reminiscent mood, "but not in the least like you. He used to go
a great deal into society, and no doubt it was there he met this Lady
Merthyr Tydvil, and any number of others. Did she tell you anything
about him--anything, I mean, that you didn't know before?"
"No, I don't think she did, except that she was very fond of him and
would like to have married him herself. But as she was married
already, and he was engaged to somebody else, of course it was too
late."
"What! She told you that?" cried Aunt Charlotte, scandalized. "What a
shameless old hussy she must be!"
"Not a bit of it," retorted Austin. "She's a sweet old woman, and I
love her very much. Besides, she only meant it in fun."
"Fun, indeed!" sniffed Aunt Charlotte, primly. "She may call me a
respectable-looking body as much as she likes now. It's more than I
can say for her."
"Auntie, you _are_ an old goose!" exclaimed Austin, with a burst of
laughter. "You never could see a joke. She called you a
respectable-looking body, and you called her a queer old woman like a
nurse. Now you say she's a shameless old hussy, and so, on the whole,
I think you've won the match."
Aunt Charlotte relapsed into silence, and did not speak again until
the dessert had been brought in. Austin helped himself to a plateful
of black cherries, while his aunt toyed with a peach. At last she
said, in rather a hesitating tone:
"Well, you've told me your adventures, so there's an end of that. But
I've had a little adventure of my own this afternoon; though whether
it would interest you to hear it----"
"Oh, do tell me!" said Austin, eagerly. "An adventure--you?"
"I'm not sure whether adventure is quite the correct expression,"
replied Aunt Charlotte, "and I don't quite know how to begin. You see,
my dear Austin, that you are very young."
"It isn't anything improper, is it?" asked Austin, innocently.
"If you say such things as that I won't utter another word," rejoined
his aunt. "I simply state the fact--that you are very young."
"And I hope I shall always remain so," Austin said.
"That being the case," resumed his aunt, impressively, "a great many
things happened long before you were born."
"I've never doubted that for a moment, even in my most sceptical
moods," Austin assured her seriously.
"Well, I once knew a gentleman," continued Aunt Charlotte, "of whom I
used to see a great deal. Indeed I had reasons for believing that--the
gentleman--rather appreciated my--conversation. Perhaps I was a little
more sprightly in those days than I am now. Anyhow, he paid me
considerable attention----"
"Oh!" cried Austin, opening his eyes as wide as they would go. "Oh,
auntie!"
"Of course things never went any further," said Aunt Charlotte,
"though I don't know what might have happened had it not been that I
gave him no encouragement whatever."
"But why didn't you? What was he like? Tell me all about him!"
interrupted Austin, excitedly. "Was he a soldier, like father? I'm
sure he was--a beautiful soldier in the Blues, whatever the Blues may
be, with a grand uniform and clanking spurs. That's the sort of man
that would have captivated you, auntie. Was he wounded? Had he a
wooden leg? Oh, go on, go on! I'm dying to hear all about it."
"That he had a uniform is possible, though I never saw him wear one,
and it may have been blue for anything I know; but that wouldn't imply
that he was in the Blues," replied his aunt, sedately. "No; the
strange thing was that he suddenly went abroad, and for
five-and-twenty years I never heard of him. And now he has written me
a letter."
"A letter!" cried Austin. "This _is_ an adventure, and no mistake. But
go on, go on."
"I never was more astounded in my life," resumed his aunt. "A letter
came from him this afternoon. He recalls himself to my remembrance,
and says--this is the most singular part--that he was actually staying
quite close to here only a short time ago, but had no idea that I was
living here. Had he known it he would most certainly have called, but
as he has only just discovered it, quite accidentally, he says he
shall make a point of coming down again, when he hopes he may be
permitted to renew our old acquaintance."
"Now look here, auntie," said Austin, sitting bolt upright. "Let him
call, by all means, and see how well you look after being deserted for
five-and-twenty years; but I don't want a step-uncle, and you are not
to give me one. Fancy me with an Uncle Charlotte! That wouldn't do,
you know. You won't give me a step-uncle, will you? Please!"
"Don't be absurd, my dear; and do, for goodness' sake, keep that
dreadful leg of yours quiet if you can. It always gives me the jumps
when you go on jerking it about like that. Of course I should never
dream of marrying now; but I confess I do feel a little curious to see
what my old friend looks like after all these years----"
"Your old admirer, you mean," interpolated Austin. "To think of your
having had a romance! You can't throw stones at Lady Merthyr Tydvil
now, you know. I believe you're a regular flirt, auntie, I do indeed.
This poor young man now; you say he disappeared, but _I_ believe you
simply drove him away in despair by your cruelty. Were you a 'cruel
maid' like the young women one reads about in poetry-books? Oh,
auntie, auntie, I shall never have faith in you again."
"You're a very disrespectful boy, that's what _you_ are," retorted
Aunt Charlotte, turning as pink as her ribbons. "The gentleman we're
speaking of must be quite elderly, several years older than I am, and,
for all I know, he may have a wife and half-a-dozen grown-up children
by this time. You let your tongue wag a very great deal too fast, I
can tell you, Austin."
"But what's his name?" asked Austin, not in the least abashed. "We
can't go on for ever referring to him as 'the gentleman,' as though
there were no other gentlemen in the world, can we now?"
"His name is Ogilvie--Mr Granville Ogilvie," replied his aunt. "He
belongs to a very fine old family in the north. There have been
Ogilvies distinguished in many ways--in literature, in the services,
and in politics. But there was always a mystery about Granville,
somehow. However, I expect he'll be calling here in a few days, and
then, no doubt, your curiosity will be gratified."
"Oh, I know what he'll be like," said Austin. "A lean, brown
traveller, with his face tanned by tropic suns and Arctic snows to the
colour of an old saddle-bag. His hair, of course, prematurely grey. On
his right cheek there'll be a lovely bright-blue scar, where a
charming tiger scratched him just before he killed it with unerring
aim. I know the sort of person exactly. And now he comes to say that
he lays his battered, weather-worn old carcase at the feet of the
cruel maid who spurned it when it was young and strong and beautiful.
And the cruel maid, now in the full bloom of placid maternity--I mean
maturity----"
"Hold your tongue or I'll pull your ears!" exclaimed Aunt Charlotte,
scarlet with confusion. "You'll make me sorry I ever said anything to
you on the subject. Mr Ogilvie, as far as I can judge from his letter,
is a most polished gentleman. There's a quaint, old-world courtesy
about him which one scarcely ever meets with at the present day. Just
remember, if you please, that we're simply two old friends, who are
going to meet again after having lost sight of each other for
five-and-twenty years; and what there is to laugh about in that I
entirely fail to see."
"Dear auntie, I won't laugh any more, I promise you," said Austin.
"I'm sure he'll turn out a most courtly old personage, and perhaps
he'll have an enormous fortune that he made by shaking pagoda-trees in
India. How do pagodas grow on trees, I wonder? I always thought a
pagoda was a sort of odalisque--isn't that right? Oh, I mean
obelisk--with beautiful flounces all the way up to the top. It seems a
funny way of making money, doesn't it. Where is India, by the bye?
Anywhere near Peru?"
"Your ignorance is positively disgraceful, Austin," said Aunt
Charlotte, with great severity. "I only hope you won't talk like that
in the presence of Mr Ogilvie. I expect you're right in surmising that
he's been a great traveller, for he says himself that he has led a
very wandering, restless life, and he would be shocked to think I had
a nephew who didn't know how to find India upon the map. There, you've
had quite as many cherries as are good for you, I'm sure. Let us go
and see if it's dry enough to have our coffee on the lawn, while
Martha clears away."
Now although Austin was intensely tickled at the idea of Aunt Charlotte
having had a love-affair, and a love-affair that appeared to threaten
renewal, the fact was that he really felt just a little anxious. Not
that he believed for a moment that she would be such a goose as to
marry, at her age; that, he assured himself, was impossible. But it is
often the very things we tell ourselves are impossible that we fear the
most, and Austin, in spite of his curiosity to see his aunt's old flame,
looked forward to his arrival with just a little apprehension. For some
reason or other, he considered himself partly responsible for Aunt
Charlotte. The poor lady had so many limitations, she was so hopelessly
impervious to a joke, her views were so stereotyped and conventional--in
a word, she was so terribly Early Victorian, that there was no knowing
how she might be taken in and done for if he did not look after her a
bit. But how to do it was the difficulty. Certainly he could not prevent
the elderly swain from calling, and, of course, it would be only proper
that he himself should be absent when the two first came together. A
_tête-à-tête_ between them was inevitable, and was not likely to be
decisive. But, this once over, he would appear upon the scene, take
stock of the aspirant, and shape his policy accordingly. What sort of a
man, he wondered, could Mr Ogilvie be? He had actually passed through
the town not so very long ago; but then so had hundreds of strangers,
and Austin had never noticed anyone in particular--certainly no one who
was in the least likely to be the gentleman in question. There was
nothing to be done, meanwhile, then, but to wait and watch. Perhaps the
gentleman would not want to marry Aunt Charlotte after all. Perhaps, as
she herself had suggested, he had a wife and family already. Neither of
them knew anything at all about him. He might be a battered old
traveller, or an Anglo-Indian nabob, or a needy haunter of Continental
pensions, or a convict just emerged from a term of penal servitude. He
might be as rich as Midas, or as poor as a church-mouse. But on one
thing Austin was determined--Aunt Charlotte must be saved from herself,
if necessary. They wanted no interloper in their peaceful home. And he,
Austin, would go forth into the world, wooden leg and all, rather than
submit to be saddled with a step-uncle.
As for Aunt Charlotte, she, too, deemed it beyond the dreams of
possibility that she would ever marry. In fact, it was only Austin's
nonsense that had put so ridiculous a notion into her head. It was
true that, in the years gone by, the attentions of young Granville
Ogilvie had occasioned her heart a flutter. Perhaps some faint,
far-off reverberation of that flutter was making itself felt in her
heart now. It is so, no doubt, with many maiden ladies when they look
back upon the past. But if she had ever felt a little sore at her
sudden abandonment by the mercurial young man who had once touched her
fancy, the tiny scratch had healed and been forgotten long ago. At the
same time, although the idea of marriage after five-and-twenty years
was too absurd to be dwelt on for a moment, the worthy lady could not
help feeling how delightful it would be to be _asked_. Of course, that
would involve the extremely painful process of refusing; and Aunt
Charlotte, in spite of her rough tongue, was a merciful woman, and
never willingly inflicted suffering upon anybody. Even blackbeetles,
as she often told herself, were God's creatures, and Mr Ogilvie,
although he had deserted her, no doubt had finer sensibilities than a
blackbeetle. So she did not wish to hurt him if she could avoid it;
still, a proposal of marriage at the age of forty-seven would be
rather a feather in her cap, and she was too true a woman to be
indifferent to that coveted decoration. But then, once more, it was
quite possible that he would not propose at all.
The next morning Austin put on his straw hat, and went and sat down by
the old stone fountain in the full blaze of the sun, as was his
custom. Lubin was somewhere in the shrubbery, and, unaware that anyone
was within hearing, was warbling lustily to himself. Austin
immediately pricked up his ears, for he had had no idea that Lubin was
a vocalist. Away he carolled blithely enough, in a rough but not
unmusical voice, and Austin was just able to catch some of the words
of the quaint old west-country ballad that he was singing.
"Welcome to town, Tom Dove, Tom Dove,
The merriest man alive,
Thy company still we love, we love,
God grant thee still to thrive.
And never will we, depart from thee,
For better or worse, my joy!
For thou shalt still, have our good will,
God's blessing on my sweet boy."
"Bravo, Lubin!" cried Austin, clapping his hands. "You do sing
beautifully. And what a delightful old song! Where did you pick it
up?"
"Eh, Master Austin," said Lubin, emerging from among the
rhododendrons, "if I'd known you was a-listening I'd 'a faked up
something from a French opera for you. Why, that's an old song as I've
known ever since I was that high--'Tom of Exeter' they calls it. It's
a rare favourite wi' the maids down in the parts I come from."
"Shows their good taste," said Austin. "It's awfully pretty. Who was
Tom Dove, and why did he come to town?"
"Nay, I can't tell," replied Lubin. "Tis some made-up tale, I doubt.
They do say as how he was a tailor. But there is folks as'll say
anything, you know."
"A tailor!" exclaimed Austin, scornfully, "That I'm sure he wasn't.
But oh, Lubin, there _is_ somebody coming to town in a day or
two--somebody I want to find out about. Do you often go into the
town?"
"Eh, well, just o' times; when there's anything to take me there,"
answered Lubin, vaguely. "On market-days, every now and again."
"Oh yes, I know, when you go and sell ducks," put in Austin. "Now
what I want to know is this. Have you, within the last three or four
weeks, seen a stranger anywhere about?"
"A stranger?" repeated Lubin. "Ay, that I certainly have. Any amount
o' strangers."
"Oh well, yes, of course, how stupid of me!" exclaimed Austin,
impatiently. "There must have been scores and scores. But I mean a
particular stranger--a certain person in particular, if you understand
me. Anybody whose appearance struck you in any way."
"Well, but what sort of a stranger?" asked Lubin. "Can't you tell me
anything about him? What'd he look like, now?"
"That's just what I want to find out," replied Austin. "If I could
describe him I shouldn't want you to. All I know is that he's a sort
of elderly gentleman, rather more than fifty. He may be fifty-five, or
getting on for sixty. Now, isn't that near enough? Oh--and I'm almost
sure that he's a traveller."
"H'm," pondered Lubin, leaning on his broom reflectively. "Well, yes,
I did see a sort of elderly gentleman some three or four weeks ago,
standing at the bar o' the 'Coach-and-Horses.' What his age might be I
couldn't exactly say, 'cause he was having a drink with his back
turned to the door. But he was a traveller, that I know."
"A traveller? I wonder whether that was the one!" exclaimed Austin.
"Had he a dark-brown face? Or a wooden leg? Or a scar down one of his
cheeks?"
"Not as I see," answered Lubin, beginning to sweep the lawn. "But a
traveller he was, because the barmaid told me so. Travelled all over
the country in bonnets."
"Travelled in bonnets?" cried Austin. "What _do_ you mean, Lubin? How
can a man go travelling about the country in a bonnet? Had he a bonnet
on when you saw him drinking in the bar?"
"Lor', Master Austin, wherever was you brought up?" exclaimed Lubin,
in grave amazement at the youth's ignorance. "When a gentleman
'travels' in anything, it means he goes about getting orders for it.
Now this here gentleman was agent, I take it, for some big millinery
shop in London, and come down here wi' boxes an' boxes o' bonnets, an'
tokes, and all sorts o' female headgear as women goes about in----"
"In short, he was a commercial traveller," said Austin, very mildly.
"You see, my dear Lubin, we have been talking of different things. I
wasn't thinking of a gentleman who hawks haberdashery. When I said
traveller, I meant a man who goes tramping across Africa, and shoots
elephants, and gets snowed up at the North Pole, and has all sorts of
uncomfortable and quite incredible adventures. They always have faces
as brown as an old trunk, and generally limp when they walk. That's
the sort of person I'm looking out for. You haven't seen anyone like
that, have you?"
"Nay--nary a one," said Lubin, shaking his head. "Would he have been
putting up at one o' the inns, now, or staying long wi' some o' the
gentry?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," acknowledged Austin.
"Might as well go about looking for a ram wi' five feet," remarked
Lubin. "Some things you can't find 'cause they don't exist, and other
things you can't find 'cause there's too many of 'em. And as you don't
know nothing about this gentleman, and wouldn't know him if you met
him in the street permiscuous, I take it you'll have to wait to see
what he looks like till he turns up again of his own accord. 'Tain't
in reason as you can go up to every old gentleman with a brown face
as you never see before an' ask him if he's ever been snowed up at the
North Pole and why he hasn't got a wooden leg. He'd think, as likely
as not, as you was trying to get a rise out of him. Don't you know
what the name may be, neither?"
"Oh yes, I do, of course," responded Austin. "He's a Mr Ogilvie."
"Never heard of 'im," said Lubin. "Might find out at one o' the inns
if any party o' that name's been staying there, but I doubt they
wouldn't remember. Folks don't generally stay more'n one night, you
see, just to have a look at the old market-place and the church, and
then off they go next morning and don't leave no addresses. Th' only
sort as stays a day or two are the artists, and they'll stay painting
here for more'n a week at a time. It may 'a been one o' them."
"I wonder!" exclaimed Austin, struck by the idea. "Perhaps he's an
artist, after all; artists do travel, I know. I never thought of that.
However, it doesn't matter. It's only some old friend of Aunt
Charlotte's, and he's coming to call on her soon, so it isn't worth
bothering about meanwhile."
He therefore dismissed the matter from his mind, and set about the far
more profitable employment of fortifying himself by a morning's
devotion to garden-craft, both manual and mental, against the
martyrdom (as he called it) that he was to undergo that afternoon. For
Aunt Charlotte had insisted on his accompanying her to tea at the
vicarage, and this was a function he detested with all his heart. He
never knew whom he might meet there, and always went in fear of
Cobbledicks, MacTavishes, and others of the same sort. The vicar
himself he did not mind so much--the vicar was not a bad little thing
in his way; but Mrs Sheepshanks, with her patronising disapproval and
affected airs of smartness, he couldn't endure, while the Socialistic
curate was his aversion. The reason he hated the curate was partly
because he always wore black knickerbockers, and partly because he was
such chums with the MacTavish boys. How any self-respecting individual
could put up with such savages as Jock and Sandy was a problem that
Austin was wholly unable to solve, until it was suggested to him by
somebody that the real attraction was neither Jock nor Sandy, but one
of their screaming sisters--a Florrie, or a Lottie, or an Aggie--it
really did not matter which, since they were all alike. When this
once dawned upon him, Austin despised the knickerbockered curate more
than ever.
On the present occasion, however, the MacTavishes were happily not
there; the only other guest (for of course the curate didn't count)
being a friend of the curate's, who had come to spend a few days with
him in the country. The friend was a harsh-featured, swarthy young
man, belonging to what may be called the muscular variety of high
Ritualism; much given to a sort of aggressive slang--he had been known
to refer to the bishop of his diocese as "the sporting old jester that
bosses our show"--and representing militant sacerdotalism in its most
blusterous and rampant form. He was also in the habit of informing
people that he was "nuts" on the Athanasian Creed, and expressing the
somewhat arbitrary opinion that if the Rev. John Wesley had had his
deserts he would have been exhibited in a pillory and used as a target
for stale eggs. There are a few such interesting youths in Holy
Orders, and the curate's friend was one of them.
The party were assembled in the garden, where Mrs Sheepshanks's best
tea-service was laid out. To say that the conversation was brilliant
would be an exaggeration; but it was pleasant and decorous, as
conversations at a vicarage ought to be. The two ladies compared notes
about the weather and the parish; the curate asked Austin what he had
been doing with himself lately; the friend kept silence, even from
good words, while the vicar, one of the mildest of his cloth, sat
blinking in furtive contemplation of the friend. Certainly it was not
a very exhilarating entertainment, and Austin felt that if it went on
much longer he should scream. What possible pleasure, he marvelled,
could Aunt Charlotte find in such a vapid form of dissipation? Even
the garden irritated him, for it was laid out in the silly Early
Victorian style, with wriggling paths, and ribbon borders, and shrubs
planted meaninglessly here and there about the lawn, and a dreadful
piece of sham rockwork in one corner. Of course the vicar's wife
thought it quite perfect, and always snubbed Austin in a very lofty
way if he ever ventured to express his own views as to how a garden
should be fitly ordered. Then his eye happened to fall upon the
curate's friend; and he caught the curate's friend in the act of
staring at him with a most offensive expression of undisguised
contempt.
Now, Austin was courteous to everyone; but to anybody he disliked his
politeness was simply deadly. Of course he took no notice of the young
parson's tacit insolence; he only longed, as fervently as he knew how
to long, for an opportunity of being polite to him. And the occasion
was soon forthcoming. The conversation growing more general by
degrees, a reference was made by the vicar, in passing, to a certain
clergyman of profound scholarship and enlightened views, whose
recently published book upon the prophet Daniel had been painfully
exercising the minds of the editor and readers of the _Church Times_;
and it was then that the curate's friend, without moving a muscle of
his face, suddenly leaned forward and said, in a rasping voice:
"The man's an impostor and a heretic. He ought to be burned. I would
gladly walk in the procession, singing the 'Te Deum,' and set fire to
the faggots myself."[A]
And there was no doubt he meant it. A dead silence fell upon the
party. The curate looked horribly annoyed. The ladies exclaimed "Oh!"
with a little shudder of dismay. The vicar started, fidgeted, and
blinked more nervously than ever. Then Austin, with the most charming
manner in the world, broke the spell.
"Really!" he exclaimed, turning towards the speaker, a bright smile of
interest upon his face. "That's a most delightfully original
suggestion. May I ask what religion you belong to?"
"What religion!" scowled the curate's friend, astounded at the
enquiry.
"Yes--it must be one I never heard of," replied Austin, sweetly. "I am
so awfully ignorant, you know; I know nothing of geography, and
scarcely anything about the religions of savage countries. Are you a
Thug?"
"Oh, Austin!" breathed Aunt Charlotte, faintly.
"I always do make such mistakes," continued Austin, with his most
engaging air; "I'm so sorry, please forgive me if I'm stupid. I
forgot, of course Thugs don't burn people alive, they only strangle
them. Perhaps I'm thinking of the Bosjesmans, or the Andaman
Islanders, or the aborigines of New Guinea. I do get so mixed up! But
I've often thought how lovely it would be to meet a cannibal. You
aren't a cannibal, are you?" he added wistfully.
"I'm a priest of the Church of England," replied the curate's friend,
with crushing scorn, though his face was livid. "When you're a little
older you'll probably understand all that that implies."
"Fancy!" exclaimed Austin, with an air of innocent amazement. "I've
heard of the Church of England, but I quite thought you must belong to
one of those curious persuasions in Africa, isn't it--or is it
Borneo?--where the services consist in skinning people alive and then
roasting them for dinner. It occurred to me that you might have gone
there as a missionary, and that the savages had converted you instead
of you converting the savages. I'm sure I beg your pardon. And have
you ever set fire to a bishop?"
"Austin! Austin!" came still more faintly from Aunt Charlotte.
The vicar, scandalised at first, was now in convulsions of silent
laughter. Mrs Sheepshanks's parasol was lowered in a most suspicious
manner, so as completely to hide her face; while the unfortunate
curate, with his head almost between his knees, was working havoc in
the vicarage lawn with the point of a heavy walking-stick. The only
person who seemed perfectly at his ease was Austin, and he was
enjoying himself hugely. Then the vicar, feeling it incumbent upon
him, as host, to say something to relieve the strain, attempted to
pull himself together.
"My dear boy," he said, in rather a quavering voice, "you may be
perfectly sure that our valued guest has no sympathy with any of the
barbarous religions you allude to, but is a most loyal member of the
Church of England; and that when he said he would like to 'burn' a
brother clergyman--one of the greatest Talmudists and Hebrew scholars
now alive--it was only his humorous way of intimating that he was
inclined to differ from him on one or two obscure points of historical
or verbal criticism which----"
"It was not," said the curate's friend.
Mrs Sheepshanks immediately turned to Aunt Charlotte, and remarked
that feather boas were likely to be more than ever in fashion when the
weather changed; and Aunt Charlotte said she had heard from a most
authoritative source that pleated corselets were to be the rage that
autumn. Both ladies then agreed that the days were certainly beginning
to draw in, and asked the curate if he didn't think so too. The curate
fumbled in his pocket, and offered Austin a cigarette, and Austin,
noticing the unconcealed annoyance of the unfortunate young man, who
was really not a bad fellow in the main, felt kindly towards him, and
accepted the cigarette with effusion. The vicar relapsed into silence,
making no attempt to complete his unfinished sentence; then he stole a
glance at the saturnine face of the stranger, and from that moment
became an almost liberal-minded theologian; He had had an
object-lesson that was to last him all his life, and he never forgot
it.
"Well, Austin," said Aunt Charlotte, when they were walking home, a
few minutes later, "of course you _ought_ to have a severe scolding
for your behaviour this afternoon; but the fact is, my dear, that on
this occasion I do not feel inclined to give you one. That man was
perfectly horrible, and deserved everything he got. I only hope it may
have done him good. I couldn't have believed such people existed at
the present day. The most charitable view to take of him is that he
can scarcely be in his right mind."
"What, because he wanted to burn somebody alive?" said Austin. "Oh,
that was natural enough. I thought it rather an amusing idea, to tell
the truth. The reason I went for him was that I caught him making
faces at me when he thought I wasn't looking. I saw at once that he
was a beast, so the instant he gave me an opportunity of settling
accounts with him I took it. Oh, what a blessing it is to be at home
again! Dear auntie, let's make a virtuous resolution. We'll neither of
us go to the vicarage again as long as we both shall live."
He strolled into the garden--the good garden, with straight walks, and
clipped hedges, and fair formal shape--and threw himself down upon a
long chair. He had already begun to forget the incidents of the
afternoon. Here was rest, and peace, and beauty. How tired he was! Why
did he feel so tired? He could not tell. A deep sense of satisfaction
and repose stole over him. Lubin was there, tidying up, but he did not
feel any inclination to talk to Lubin or anybody else. He liked
watching Lubin, however, for Lubin was part of the garden, and all his
associations with him were pleasant. The scent of the flowers and the
grass possessed him. The sun was far from setting, and a young
crescent moon was hovering high in the heavens, looking like a silver
sickle against the blue. From the distant church came the sound of
bells ringing for even-song, faint as horns of elf-land, through the
still air. He felt that he would like to lie there always--just
resting, and drinking in the beauty of the world.
Suddenly he half-rose. "Lubin!" he called out quickly, in an
undertone.
"Sir," responded Lubin, turning round.
"Who was that lady looking over the garden-gate just now?"
"Lady?" repeated Lubin. "I never saw no lady. Whereabouts was she?"
"On the path of course, outside. A second ago. She stood looking at me
over the gate, and then went on. Run to the gate and see how far she's
got--quick!"
Lubin did as he was bidden without delay, looking up and down the
road. Then he returned, and soberly picked up his broom.
"There ain't no lady there," he said. "No one in sight either way.
Must 'a been your fancy, Master Austin, I expect."
"Fancy, indeed!" retorted Austin, excitedly. "You'll tell me next it's
my fancy that I'm looking at you now. A lady in a large hat and a sort
of light-coloured dress. She _must_ be there. There's nowhere else for
her to be, unless the earth has swallowed her up. I'll go and look
myself."
He struggled up and staggered as fast as he could go to the gate. Then
he pushed it open and went out as far as the middle of the road from
which he could see at least a hundred yards each way. But not a living
creature was in sight.
"It's enough to make one's hair stand on end!" he exclaimed, as he
came slowly back. "Where can she have got to? She was here--here, by
the gate--not twenty seconds ago, only a few yards from where I was
sitting. Don't talk to me about fancy; that's sheer nonsense. I saw
her as distinctly as I see you now, and I should know her again
directly if I saw her a year hence. Of all inexplicable things!"
There was no more lying down. He was too much puzzled and excited to
keep still. Up and down he paced, cudgelling his brains in search of
an explanation, wondering what it could all mean, and longing for
another glimpse of the mysterious visitor. For one brief moment he had
had a full, clear view of her face, and in that moment he had been
struck by her unmistakable resemblance to himself.