BIRDS IN THE WILDERNESS.
“There! That was your fault!” said Daintry, turning from the departing
train.
The young rector could not deny it. He would have given anything for at
least the appearance of being undisturbed; but the blood came into his
cheek, and in his attempt to maintain his dignity he only succeeded in
looking angry as well as confused and taken aback. He had certainly
made a mess of his escort duty. What in the world had led him to go out
of his way to make a fool of himself? he wondered. And with these
Claversham people!
“There may be a special train to-day,” Kate suggested suddenly. She had
got over her first vexation, and perhaps repented that she had betrayed
it so openly. “Or we may be allowed to go on by a luggage-train, Mr.
Lindo. Will you kindly see?”
He snatched at the relief which her proposal held out to him, and went
away to inquire. But almost at once he was back again. “It is most
vexatious!” he said loudly. “It is only three o’clock, and yet there is
no way of getting to Claversham to-night! I am very sorry, but I never
dreamed the company managed things so badly. Never!”
“No,” said Kate drily.
He winced and looked at her sharply, his vanity hurt again. But then he
found that he could not keep it up. No doubt it was a ridiculous
position for a beneficed clergyman, on his way to undertake the work of
his life, to be delayed at a station with two girls; but, after all,
for a young man to be angry with a young woman who is also pretty—well,
the task is difficult. “I am afraid,” he said shyly, and yet with a
kind of frankness, “that I have brought you into trouble, Miss Bonamy.
As your sister says, it was my fault. Is it a matter of great
consequence that you should reach home tonight?”
“I am afraid that my father will be vexed,” she answered.
“You must telegraph to him,” he rejoined. “I am afraid that is all I
can suggest. And that done, you will have only one thing to
consider—whether we shall stay the night here or go on to Birmingham.”
Kate looked at him, her gray eyes very doubtful, and did not at once
answer. He had clearly made up his mind to join his fortunes to theirs,
while she, on her side, had reasons for shrinking from intimacy with
him. But he seemed to consider it so much a matter of course that they
should remain together and travel together, that she scarcely saw how
to put things on a different footing. She knew, too, that she would get
no help from Daintry, who already regarded their detention in the light
of a capital joke.
“What are you going to do yourself, Mr. Lindo?” she said at last, her
manner rather chilling.
He opened his eyes and smiled. “You discard me, then?” he said. “You
have lost all faith in me, Miss Bonamy? Well, I deserve it after the
scrape into which I have led you.”
“I did not mean that,” she answered. “I wished to know if you had made
any plans.”
“Yes,” he replied—“to make amends, if you will let me take command of
the party. We will stay in Oxford, and I will show you round the
colleges.”
“No?” exclaimed Daintry. “Will you? How jolly! And then?”
“We will dine at the Mitre,” he answered, smiling, “if Miss Bonamy will
permit me to manage everything. And then, if you leave here at
nine-thirty to-morrow you will be at Claversham soon after twelve. Will
that suit you?”
Daintry’s face answered sufficiently for her. As for Kate, she was in a
difficulty. She knew little of hotels: yet they must stop somewhere,
and no doubt Mr. Lindo would take a great deal of trouble off her
hands. But would it be proper to do as he proposed? She really did not
know—only that it sounded odd. That it would not be wise she knew. She
could answer that question at once. But how could she explain, and how
tell him to go his way and leave them? And, after all, to see Oxford
would be delightful; and he really was very pleasant, very different
from the men she knew at home.
“You are very good,” she said at length, with a grateful sigh—“if we
have no choice but between Oxford and Birmingham.”
“And no choice of guides at all,” he said, smiling, “you will take me.”
“Yes,” she answered, looking away primly.
Her reserve, however, did not last. Once through the station gates,
that free holiday feeling which we have all experienced on being set
down in an unknown town, with no duty before us save to explore it,
soon possessed her; while he wished nothing better than to play the
showman—a part we love. The day was fine and bright, though cold. She
had eyes for beauty and a soul for the past, and soon forgot herself;
and he, piloting the sisters through Magdalen Walks, now strewn with
leaves, or displaying with pride the staircase of Christ Church, the
quaint library of Merton, or the ancient front of John’s, forgot
himself also, and especially his new-born dignity, in which he had
lived rather too much, perhaps, during the last three weeks. He showed
himself in his true colors—the colors known to his intimate friends—and
was so bright and cheery that Kate found herself talking to him in
utter forgetfulness of his position and theirs. The girl frankly sighed
when darkness fell and they had to go into the house, their curiosity
still unsated.
She thought it was all over. But, lo! there was a cheery fire awaiting
them in the “house” room (he had looked in for a few minutes on their
first arrival and given his orders), and before it a little table laid
for three was sparkling with plate and glass. Nay, there were two cups
of tea ready on a side-table, for it wanted an hour yet of dinnertime.
Altogether, as Daintry naïvely told him, “even Jack could not have made
it nicer for us.”
“Jack is a favorite of yours?” he said, laughing.
“I should think so!” Daintry answered, in wonder. “There is no one like
Jack.”
“After that I shall take myself off,” he replied. “I really want to
call on a friend, Miss Bonamy. But if I may join you at dinner——”
“Oh, do!” she said impulsively. Then, more shyly, she added, “We shall
be very glad if you will, Mr. Lindo.”
He felt singularly pleased with himself as he turned the windy corner
of the Broad. It was pleasant to be in Oxford again, a beneficed
clergyman. Pleasant to have such a future to look forward to, such a
holiday moment to enjoy. Pleasant to anticipate the cheery meal and the
girl’s smile, half shy, half grateful. And Kate?—she remained before
the fire, saying little because Daintry’s tongue gave few openings, but
thinking a good deal. Once she did speak. “It won’t last,” she said
pettishly.
“Why, Kate? Do you think he will be different at Claversham?” Daintry
protested.
“Of course he will!” She spoke with a little scorn in her voice, and
that sort of decision which we use when we wish to crush down our own
unwarranted hopes.
“But he is nice,” Daintry persisted. “You do think so, Kate, don’t
you?”
“Oh, yes, he is very nice,” she said drily. “But he will be in the
Hammond set at home, and we shall see nothing of him.”
But presently he was back, and Kate found it impossible to resist the
charm. He ladled the soup and dispensed the mutton-chops with a gaiety
and boyish glee which were really the stored-up effervescence of weeks,
the ebullition of the long-repressed delight which he took in his
promotion. He learned casually that the girls had been in London for
more than a month staying with Jack’s mother in Bayswater, and that
they were very sorry to be upon their road home.
“And yet,” he said—this was toward the end of dinner—“I have been told
that your town is a very picturesque one. But I fancy that we never
appreciate our home as we do a place strange to us.”
“Very likely that is so,” Kate answered quietly. And then a little
pause ensued, such as he had observed several times before, and come to
connect with any mention of Claversham. The girls’ tongues would run on
frankly and pleasantly enough about their London visit, or Mr.
Gladstone; but let him bring the talk round to his parish and its
people, and forthwith something of reserve seemed to come between him
and them until the conversation strayed afield again.
After the others had finished, he still toyed with his meal, partly in
lazy enjoyment of the time, partly as an excuse for staying with them.
They were sitting in a momentary silence, when a boy passed the window
chanting a ditty at the top of his voice. The doggrel came clearly to
their ears——
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness,
Birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness;
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness,
Samuel asking for more.
As the sound passed on the young man looked up, a mischievous twinkle
in his eyes, and met their eyes, and all three burst into a merry peal
of laughter. They were the birds in the wilderness, sitting there in
the circle of light, in the strange room in the strange town, almost as
intimate as if they had known one another for years, or had been a week
at sea together.
But Kate, having acknowledged by that pleasant outburst her sense of
the oddity of the position, rose from the table, and the rector had to
say good-night, explaining at the same time that he should not travel
with them next morning, but intended to go on by a later train, as his
friend wished to see more of him. Nevertheless, he said he should be up
to breakfast with them and should see them off. And in this resolution
he persisted, notwithstanding Kate’s protest, which perhaps was not
very violent.
Notwithstanding, he was a little late next morning. When he came down
he found them already seated in the coffee-room. There were others
breakfasting here and there in the room, chiefly upon toast-racks and
newspapers, and he did not at once observe that the gentleman standing
with his back set negligently against the mantelpiece was talking to
Kate. Arrived at the table, however, he saw that it was so; and the
cheery greeting on his lips faded into a commonplace “Good-morning,
Miss Bonamy.” He took no apparent notice of the stranger as he added,
“I am afraid I am rather late.”
The intruder, a short dark-whiskered man between thirty and forty,
seemed to the full as much surprised by the clergyman’s appearance as
Lindo was by his, and as little able to hide the feeling as Kate
herself to control the color which rose in her cheeks. She gave Mr.
Lindo his tea in silence, and then with an obvious effort introduced
the two men. “This is Dr. Gregg of Claversham—Mr. Lindo,” she said.
Lindo rose and shook hands. “Mr. Lindo the younger, I presume?” said
the doctor, with a bow and a swagger intended to show that he was quite
at his ease.
“The only one, I am afraid,” replied the rector, smiling. Though he by
no means liked the look of the man.
“Did I rightly catch your name?” was the answer—“‘Mr. Lindo?’”
“Yes,” said the rector again, opening his eyes.
“But—you are not—you do not mean to say that you are the new rector?”
pronounced the dark man abruptly, and with a kind of aggressiveness
which seemed his most striking quality—“the rector of Claversham, I
mean?”
“I believe so,” said Lindo quietly. “You want some more water, do you
not, Miss Bonamy?” he continued. “Let me ring the bell.” He rose and
crossed the room to do so. The truth was, he hated the newcomer
already. His first sentence had been enough. His manner was not the
manner of the men with whom Lindo had mixed, and the rector felt almost
angry with Kate for introducing Gregg—-albeit his parishioner—to him,
and quite angry with her for suffering the doctor to address her with
the familiarity he seemed to affect.
And Kate, her eyes downcast, knew by instinct how it was with him, and
what he was thinking. “I have been telling Dr. Gregg,” she said
hurriedly, when he returned, “how we missed our train yesterday.”
“Rather how I missed it for you,” Lindo answered gravely, much engaged
apparently with his breakfast.
“Ah, yes, it was very funny!” fired off the doctor, watching each
mouthful they ate. Daintry had finished, and was sitting back in her
chair kicking the leg of the table monotonously; not in the best of
tempers apparently. “Very funny indeed!” the doctor continued. “An
accident, I hope?” with a little sniggling laugh.
“Yes!” said the rector, looking up at him with a black brow and
steadfast eyes—“it was an accident.”
Gregg was a little cowed by the look, and in a moment, with a muttered
word or two, fidgeted himself away, cursing the general
superciliousness of parsons and the quiet airs of this one in
particular. He was a little dog-in-the-mangerish man, ill-bred, and,
like most ill-bred men, resentful of breeding in others. The fact that
he had a sneaking liking for Kate did not tend to lessen his disgustful
wonder how the Bonamy girls and the new rector came to be travelling
together—which, indeed, to any Claversham person would have seemed a
portent. But, then, Lindo did not know that.
The objectionable item removed, and the temptation to remark upon him
overcome, Lindo soon recovered his good temper, and rattled away so
pleasantly that the train time seemed to all of them to come very
quickly. “There,” he said, as he handed the last of Kate’s books into
the railway-carriage, “now I have done something to make amends for my
fault, I trust. One thing more I can do. When you get home you need not
spare me. You can put it all on my shoulders, Miss Bonamy.”
“Thank you,” Kate answered demurely.
“You are going to do so, I see,” he said, laughing. “I fear my
character will reach Claversham before me.”
“I do not think we shall spread it very widely,” she answered in a
peculiar tone, which he naturally misunderstood.
The train was already in motion then, and he shook hands with her as he
walked beside it. “Goodbye,” he said. And then he added in a lower
tone—he was such a very young rector—“I hope to see very much of you in
the future, Miss Bonamy.”
Kate sank back in her seat, her cheek a shade warmer. And in a moment
he was alone upon the platform.