THE BONAMYS AT HOME.
Lindo made his first exploration of the neighborhood, not on the day
after his arrival, which was taken up with his induction by the
archdeacon and with other matters, but on the day after that. He chose
to avoid the streets, in which he felt somewhat shy, so polite were the
attentions and so curious the glances of his parishioners; and he
selected instead a lane which, starting from the churchyard, seemed to
plunge at once into the country. It was a pleasant lane. It lay deep
sunk in a cutting through the sandstone rock—a cutting first formed,
perhaps, when the great stones for the building of the church were
dragged up that way. He paused halfway down the slope to look about him
curiously, and was still standing when some one came round the corner
before him. It was Kate Bonamy. He saw the girl’s cheek—she was
alone—flush ever so slightly as their eyes met; and he noticed, too,
that to all appearance she would have passed him with a bow had he not
placed himself in her way. “Come,” he said, laughing frankly as he held
out his hand, “you must not cut me, Miss Bonamy! Let me tell you, you
have quite the aspect of an old friend, for until now I have not seen
one face since I came here that was not absolutely new to me.”
“It must feel strange, no doubt,” she murmured.
“It is. _I_ feel strange!” he replied. “I want you to tell me where
this road goes to, if you please. I am so strange, I do not even know
that.”
“Kingsford Carbonel,” she answered briefly.
“Ah! The archdeacon lives there, does he not?”
“Yes.”
“And the distance, please, is——?”
“Three miles.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Really you are as concise as a mile-stone, Miss
Bonamy. And now let me remind you,” he continued—there was an air of “I
am going on this moment” about her, which provoked him to detain her
the longer—“that you have not yet asked me what I think of Claversham.”
“I would rather ask you in a month’s time,” Kate answered quietly,
holding out her hand to take leave. “Though it is already reported in
the town that you will only stay a year, Mr. Lindo.”
“I shall only stay a year!” the rector repeated in astonishment.
“Certainly,” she answered, smiling, and relapsing for a moment into the
pleasant frankness of that day at Oxford—“only a year; your days are
already numbered.”
“What do you mean?” he said point-blank.
“Have you never heard the old tradition that as many times as a
clergyman sounds the bell at his induction, so many years will he
remain in the living? And the report in Claversham is that you rang it
only once.”
“You did not hear it yourself?” he said, catching her eyes suddenly, a
lurking smile in his own.
Her color rose faintly. “I am not sure,” she said. Then, meeting his
eyes boldly, she added in a different tone, “Yes, I did hear it.”
“Only once?”
She nodded.
“Oh, that is sad,” he answered. “Well, the tradition is new to me. If I
had known it,” he added, laughing, “I should have tolled the bell at
least fifty times. Clode should have instructed me; but I suppose he
thought I knew. I remember now that the archdeacon did say something
afterward, but I did not understand the reference. You know the
archdeacon, Miss Bonamy, I suppose?”
“No,” said Kate, growing stiff again.
“Do you not? Well, at any rate you can tell me where Mrs. Hammond
lives. She has kindly asked me to dine with her on Tuesday. I put my
acceptance in my pocket, and thought I would deliver it myself when I
came back from my walk.”
“Mrs. Hammond lives at the Town House,” Kate answered. “It is the large
house among the trees by the top of the town. You cannot mistake it.”
“Shall I have the pleasure of meeting you there?” he asked, holding out
his hand at last.
“No; I do not know Mrs. Hammond,” Miss Bonamy said with decision.
“Good-day, Mr. Lindo.” And she was gone; rather abruptly at last.
“That is odd—very odd,” Lindo reflected as, continuing his walk, he
turned to admire her graceful figure and the pretty carriage of her
head. “I fancied that in these small towns every one knew every one.
What sort of people are the Hammonds, I wonder? New, rich, and vulgar
perhaps. It may be, and that would account for it. Yet Clode spoke
highly of them.”
Something which he did not understand in the girl’s manner continued to
pique the young man’s curiosity after he had parted from her, and led
him to dwell more intently upon her than upon the scenery, novel as
this was to him. She had shown herself at one moment so frank, and at
another so stiff and constrained, that it was equally impossible to
ascribe the one attitude to shyness or the other to a naturally candid
manner. The rector considered the question so long, and found it so
puzzling—and interesting—that on his return to town he had come to one
conclusion only—that it was his immediate duty to call upon his church
wardens. He had made the acquaintance of Mr. Harper, his own warden, at
his induction. It remained therefore to call upon Mr. Bonamy, the
peoples’ warden. When he had taken his lunch, it seemed to him that
there was no time like the present.
He had no difficulty in finding Mr. Bonamy’s house, which stood in the
middle of the town, about halfway down Bridge Street. It was a
substantial, respectable residence of brick, not detached nor withdrawn
from the roadway. It had nothing aristocratic in its appearance, and
was known by a number. Its eleven windows, of which the three lowest
rejoiced in mohair blinds, were sombre, its doorway was heavy. In a
word, it was a respectable middle-class house in a dull street in a
country town—a house suggestive of early dinners and set teas. The
rector felt chilled by its very appearance; but he knocked, and
presently a maid-servant opened the door about a foot. “Is Mr. Bonamy
at home?” he said.
“No, sir,” the girl drawled, holding the door as if she feared he might
attempt to enter by force, “he is not.”
“Ah, I am sorry I have missed him,” said the clergyman, handling his
card-case. “Do you know at what time he is likely to return?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” replied the girl, who was all eyes for the strange
rector; “but I expect Miss Kate does. Will you walk up-stairs, sir? and
I will tell her.”
“Perhaps I had better,” he answered, pocketing his card-case.
Accordingly he walked in, and followed the servant to the drawing-room,
where she poked the sinking fire and induced a sickly blaze.
Left to himself—for Kate was not there—he looked round curiously, and
as he looked the sense of disappointment which he had felt at sight of
the house grew upon him. It was a cold, uncomfortable room. It had a
set, formal look, which was not quaintness, nor harmony, and which was
strange to the Londoner. It was so neat: every article in it had a
place, and was in its place, and apparently never had been out of its
place. There was a vase of chrysanthemums on the large centre table,
but the rector thought they must be wax, they were so prim. There were
other wax flowers—which he hated. He almost shivered as he looked at
the four walls. He felt obliged to sit upright on his chair, and to
place his hat exactly in the middle of a square of the carpet, and to
ponder over the question of what the maid had done with the poker. For
she had certainly not stirred the fire with the bright and shining
thing which lay in evidence in the fender.
He was in the act of rising cautiously with the intention of solving
this mystery, when the door opened and the elder sister came in,
Daintry following her. “My father is not in, Mr. Lindo,” Kate said,
advancing to meet him, and shaking hands with him.
“No; so I learned down-stairs,” he answered. “But I——”
The girl—she had scarcely turned from him—cut him short with an
exclamation of dismay. “Oh, Daintry, you naughty girl!” she cried. “You
have brought Snorum up.”
“Well,” said Daintry simply—a large white dog, half bull-dog, half
terrier, with red-rimmed eyes and projecting teeth, had crept in at her
heels—“he followed me.”
“You know papa would be so angry if he found him here.”
“But I only want him to see Mr. Lindo. You are unkind, Kate! You know
he never gets a chance of seeing a stranger.”
“You want to know if he likes me?” the rector said, laughing.
“That is it,” she answered, nodding.
But Kate, though she laughed, was inexorable. She bundled the big dog
out. “Do you know, she has two more like that, Mr. Lindo?” she said,
apologetically.
“Snip and Snap,” said Daintry. “But they are not like that. They are
smaller. Jack gave me Snorum, and Snip and Snap are Snorum’s sons.”
“It is quite a genealogy,” the rector said, smiling.
“Yes, and Jack was the Genesis. Genesis means beginning, you know,”
Daintry explained.
“Daintry, you must go down-stairs if you talk nonsense,” Kate said
imperatively. She was looking, the young man thought, prettier than
ever in a gray and blue plaid frock and the neatest of collars and
cuffs. As for Daintry, she shrugged her shoulders under the rebuke, and
lolled in one of the stiff-backed chairs, her attitude much like that
of a vine clinging to a telegraph-post.
Her wilfulness had one happy effect, however. The rector in his
amusement forgot the chill formality of the room and the dull
respectability of the house’s exterior. For half an hour he talked on
without a thought of the gentleman whom he had come to see. Some
inkling of the circumstances of the case which had entered his head
before the sisters’ appearance faded again, and in gazing on the pure
animated faces of the two girls he quickly lost sight of the evidences
of lack of taste which appeared in their surroundings. If Kate, on her
side, forgot for a moment certain chilling realities and surrendered
herself to the pleasure of the moment, it must be remembered that
hitherto—in Claversham, at least—her experience of men had been
confined to Dr. Gregg and his fellows, and also that none of us, even
the wisest and proudest, are always on guard.
Mr. Bonamy not appearing, Reginald left at last, perfectly assured that
the half-hour he had just spent was the pleasantest he had spent in
Claversham. He went out of the house in a gentle glow of enthusiasm.
The picture of Kate Bonamy, trim and neat, with her hair in a bright
knot, and laughter softening her eyes, remained with him, and he walked
half-way down the street lost in a delightful reverie.
He was aroused by the approach of a tall, elderly man who had just
turned the corner before him, and was now advancing along the pavement
with long, rapid strides. The stranger, who seemed about sixty, wore a
wide-skirted black coat, and had a tall silk hat, from under which the
gray hairs straggled thinly, set far back on his head. His figure was
spare, his face sallow, his features prominent. His mouth was peevish,
his eyes sharp and saturnine. As he walked he kept one hand in his
trousers’-pocket, the other swung by his side. The rector looked at him
a moment in doubt, and then stopped him. “Mr. Bonamy, I am sure?” he
said, holding out his hand.
“Yes, I am,” replied the other, fixing him with a penetrating glance.
“And you, sir?”
“May I introduce myself? I have just called at your house, and,
unluckily, failed to find you at home. I am Mr. Lindo.”
“Oh, the new rector!” said Mr. Bonamy, putting out a cold hand, while
the chill glitter of his eye lost none of its steeliness.
“Yes, and I am glad to have intercepted you,” Lindo continued, with a
little color in his cheek, and speaking quickly under the influence of
his late enthusiasm, which as yet was proof against the lawyer’s
reserve. “For I have been extremely anxious to make your acquaintance,
and, indeed, to say something particular to you, Mr. Bonamy.”
The elder man bowed to hide a smile. “As church warden, I presume?” he
said smoothly.
“Yes, and—and generally. I am quite aware, Mr. Bonamy,” continued the
rash young man in a fervor of frankness, “that you were not disposed to
look upon my appointment—the appointment of a complete stranger, I
mean—with favor.”
“May I ask who told you that?” said Bonamy abruptly.
The young clergyman colored. “Well, I—perhaps you will excuse me saying
how I learned it,” he answered, beginning to see that he would have
done better to be more reticent. There is no mistake which youth more
often makes than that of arousing sleeping dogs, and trying to explain
things which a wiser man would pass over in silence. Mr. Bonamy had his
own reasons for regarding the parson with suspicion, and had no mind to
be addressed in the indulgent vein. Nor was he propitiated when Lindo
added, “I learned your feeling, if I may say so, by an accident.”
“Then I think you should have kept knowledge so gained to yourself!”
the lawyer retorted.
The rector started and turned crimson under the reproof. His dignity
was new and tender, and the other’s tone was offensive in the last
degree. Yet the young man tried to control himself, and for the moment
succeeded. “Possibly,” he said, with some stiffness. “My only motive in
mentioning the latter, however, was this, that I hope in a short time,
by appealing to you for your hearty co-operation, to overcome any
prejudices you may have entertained.”
“My prejudices are rather strong,” the lawyer answered grimly. “You are
quite at liberty to try, however, Mr. Lindo. But I may as well warn you
of one thing now, as frankness seems to be in fashion. I have just been
told that you are meditating considerable changes in our church here.
Now, I must tell you this, that I object to anything new—anything new,
and not only to new incumbents!” with a smile which somewhat softened
his last words.
“But who informed you,” cried the rector in angry surprise, “that I
meditated changes, Mr. Bonamy?”
“Ah!” the lawyer answered in his dryest and thinnest voice. “That is
just what I cannot tell you. Let us say that I learned it—by accident,
Mr. Lindo!” And his sharp eyes twinkled.
“It is not true, however!” the rector exclaimed.
“Is it not? Well,” with a slight cough, “I am glad to hear it!”
Mr. Bonamy’s tone as he made this admission, however, was such that it
only irritated Lindo the more. “You mean that you do not believe me!”
he cried, speaking so fiercely that Clowes the bookseller, who had been
watching the interview from his shop-door, was able to repeat the words
to a dozen people afterward. “I can assure you that it is so. I am not
thinking of making any changes whatever—unless you consider the mere
removal of the sheep from the churchyard a change!”
“I do. A great change,” replied the church warden with grimness.
“But surely you do not object to it!” Lindo exclaimed in astonishment.
“Every one must agree that in these days, and in town churchyards at
any rate, the presence of sheep is unseemly.”
“I do not agree to that at all!” Mr. Bonamy answered calmly. “Neither
did Mr. Williams, the late rector, who had had long experience, act as
if he were of that mind.”
The present rector threw up his hands in disgust—in disgust and wonder.
Remember, he was very young. The thing seemed to him so clear that he
was assured the other was arguing for the sake of argument—a thing we
all hate in other people—and he lost patience. “I do not think you mean
what you say, Mr. Bonamy,” he blurted out at last. He was much
discomposed, yet he made an attempt to assume an air of severity which
did not sit well upon him at the moment.
Mr. Bonamy grinned. “That you will see when you turn out the sheep, Mr.
Lindo,” he said. “For the present I think I will bid you good evening.”
and taking off his hat gravely—to the rector the gravity seemed
ironical—he went his way.
Men take these things differently. To the lawyer there was nothing
disturbing in such a passage of arms as this. He was never so
happy—Claversham knew it well—as in and after a quarrel. “Master Lindo
thought to twist me round his finger, did he?” he muttered to himself
as he stopped on his own doorstep and thrust the key into the lock. “He
has found out his mistake now. We will have nothing new here—nothing
new while John Bonamy is warden, at any rate, my lad! It is well,
however,” continued Mr. Bonamy with a backward glance, “that Clode gave
me a hint in time. Set a beggar on horseback and he will ride—we know
whither!” And the lawyer went in and slammed the door behind him.
Meanwhile, what is sauce for the goose is not always sauce for the
gander. The younger man turned away, at the moment, indeed, in a white
heat, full of wrath at the other’s unreasonableness, folly,
churlishness. But the comfortable warmth which this engendered passed
away quickly—alas! much too quickly—and long before Lindo reached the
rectory, though the walk through the gray streets, where the shops were
just being lighted, did not take him two minutes, a chill depression
had taken its place. This was a fine beginning! This was a happy augury
of his future administration of the parish! To have begun by
quarrelling with his church warden—could anything have been worse? And
the check had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and at a time when he
had been on such good terms with himself, that he felt it the more
sorely. He went into the house with his head bent, and was not best
pleased to find Stephen Clode inquiring after him in the hall. He would
rather have been alone.
The curate, as he came forward, did not fail to note that something was
amiss, and a gleam of intelligence flashed for an instant across his
dark face. “Come into the study,” said the rector curtly. Since Clode
was here, and could not be avoided, he felt it would be a relief to
tell him all. And he did so, the curate listening and making no remark
whatever, so that the rector presently looked at him in surprise. “What
do you think of it?” he said, some impatience in his one. “It is
unfortunate, is it not?”
“Well, I don’t know,” the curate answered, leaning forward in his
chair, with his elbows on his knees and his eyes cast down upon the hat
which he was slowly revolving between his hands. “I am not astonished,
you know. What can you expect from a pig but a grunt?”
The rector got up, and, leaning his arm on the mantel-shelf, felt, if
the truth be told, rather uncomfortable. “I do not understand you,” he
said at length.
“It is what I should have expected from Bonamy. That is all.”
“Then you must think him a very ill-conditioned man!” Lindo retorted
warmly, scarcely knowing whether the annoyance he felt was a
reminiscence of his late conflict or caused by his companion’s manner.
“Well, again, what else can you expect?” Clode replied sagely, looking
up and shrugging his shoulders. “You know all about him, I suppose?”
“I know nothing,” said the rector, frowning slightly.
“He is not a gentleman, you know,” the curate answered, still looking
up and speaking with languid indolence as if what he said must be known
to everyone. “You have heard his history?”
“No, I have not.”
“He was an office-boy with Adams & Rooke, the old solicitors here,
swept out the office, and brought the coal, and so forth. He had his
wits about him, and old Adams gave him his articles, and finally took
him into partnership. Then the old men died off and it all came to him.
He is well off, and has power of a sort in the town; but, of course,”
the curate added, getting up lazily and yawning—“well, people like the
Hammonds do not visit with him.”
There was silence in the room for a full minute. The rector had left
the fireplace and, with his back to the speaker, was raising the
lamp-wick. “Why did you not tell me this before?” he said at length,
his voice hard.
“I did not see why I should prejudice you against the man before you
saw him,” replied the curate, with much reason. “Besides, I really was
not sure whether you knew his history or not. I am afraid I did not
give much thought to the matter.”
“Umph!”