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.
So that the rector was not having a very sunny time, albeit the heat of
conflict kept him warm; and he threw back his head and set his fair
pleasant face very hard as he strode about the town, his long-tailed
black coat flapping behind him. He hugged himself more than ever on the
one thing which his opponents could not take from him. When all was
said and done, he must still be rector of Claversham. If his promotion
had not brought him as much happiness as he had expected, if he had not
been able to do in his new position all he had hoped, the promotion and
the position were yet undeniable. Knowing so well all the circumstances
of his appointment, he never gave two thoughts to the curious story
Kate Bonamy had told him. He was sorry that he had treated her so
cavalierly, and more than once he had thought with a regret almost
tender of the girl and the interview. But, for the rest, he treated it
as the ignorant invention of the enemy. Possibly on the strength of
certain ’Varsity prejudices he was a little too prone to exaggerate the
ignorance of Claversham.
On the day before the bazaar a visitor arrived in Claversham, in the
shape of a small, dark, sharp-featured man, with a peculiarly alert
manner, whom the reader will remember to have met in the Temple. Jack
Smith, for he it was—we parted from him last at Euston Station—may have
come over on his own motion, or acting upon a hint from Mr. Bonamy,
who, since the refusal of Gregg’s offer, had thought more and more of
the future which lay before his girls. The house had seemed more and
more dull, not to him as himself, but to him considering it in the
night-watches through their eyes. Hitherto the lawyer had not
encouraged the young Londoner’s visits, perhaps because he dreaded the
change in his way of life he might be forced to make. But now, whether
he had given him a hint to come or not, he received him with undoubted
cordiality.
Almost the first question Jack asked, Daintry hanging over the back of
his chair and Kate smiling in more subdued radiance opposite him, was
about his friend, the rector. Fortunately, Mr. Bonamy was not in the
room. “And how about Lindo?” he asked. “Have you seen much of him,
Kate?”
“No, we have not seen much of him,” she answered, getting up to put
something straight which was not much awry before.
“Father has served him with a writ, though,” Daintry explained, nodding
her head seriously.
Jack whistled. “A writ!” he exclaimed. “What about?”
“About the sheep in the churchyard. Mr. Lindo turned them out,” Kate
explained hurriedly, as if she wished to hear no more upon the subject.
But Jack was curious; and gradually he drew from them the story of the
rector’s iniquities, and acquired, in the course of it, a pretty
correct notion of the state of things in the parish. He whistled still
more seriously then. “It seems to me that the old man has been putting
his foot in it here,” he said.
“He has,” Daintry answered solemnly, nodding any number of times. “No
end!”
“And yet he is the very best of fellows,” Jack replied, rubbing his
short black hair in honest vexation. “Don’t you like him?”
“I did,” said Daintry, speaking for both of them.
“And you do not now?”
The child reddened, and rubbed herself shyly against Kate’s chair.
“Well, not so much!” she murmured, Jack’s eyes upon her. “He is too big
a swell for us.”
“Oh, that is it, is it?” Jack said contemptuously.
He pressed it no farther, and appeared to have forgotten the subject;
but presently, when he was alone with Kate, he recurred to it. “So,
Lindo has been putting on airs, has he?” he observed. “Yet, I thought
when Daintry wrote to me, after you left us, that she seemed to like
him.”
“He was very kind and pleasant to us on our journey,” Kate answered,
compelling herself to speak with indifference. “But—well, you know, my
father and he have not got on well; so, of course, we have seen little
of him lately.”
“Oh, that is all, is it?” Jack answered, moving restlessly in his
chair.
“That is all,” said Kate quietly.
This seemed to satisfy Jack, for at tea he surprised her—and, for
Daintry, she fairly leapt in her seat—by calmly announcing that he
proposed to call on the rector in the course of the evening. “You have
no objection, sir, I hope,” he said, coolly looking across at his host.
“He has been a friend of mine for years, and though I hear you and he
are at odds at present, it seems to me that that need not make mischief
between us.”
“N—no,” said Mr. Bonamy slowly. “I do not see why it should.”
Nevertheless, he was greatly astonished. He had heard that Jack and Mr.
Lindo were acquainted, but had thought nothing of it. It is possible
that the discovery of this friendship existing between the two led him
to take new views of the rector. He continued, “I dare say in private
he is not an objectionable man.”
“Quite the reverse, I should say!” Jack answered stoutly.
“You have known him well?”
“Very well.”
“Umph! Then it seems to me it was a pity he did not confine himself to
private life,” ejaculated the lawyer, with some scorn. “As a rector I
do not like him.”
“I am sorry for that,” Jack answered cheerfully. “But I have not known
much of him as a rector, though indeed, as it happened, he brought the
offer of the living straight to me, and I was the first person who
congratulated him on his promotion.”
Mr. Bonamy lifted his eyes slowly from the teacup he was raising to his
lips, and looked fixedly at his visitor, an expression much resembling
strong curiosity in his face. If a question was on the tip of his
tongue he refrained from putting it, however, and Jack, who by no means
wished to hear the tale of his friend’s shortcomings repeated, said no
more until they rose from the table. Then he remarked, “Lindo dines
late, I expect.”
He put the question to Kate, but the lawyer answered it. “Oh, yes, he
does everything which is fashionable,” he answered drily. And Jack,
putting this and that together, began to see still more clearly how the
land lay, and on what shoals his friend had wrecked his popularity.
About half-past eight he went to the rectory, but found that Lindo was
not at home. The door was opened to him, however, by Mrs. Baker, who
had often seen the barrister in the East India Dock Road, and knew him
well; and she pressed him to walk in and wait. “He dined at home, sir,”
she explained. “I think he has only slipped out for a few minutes.”
He followed her accordingly across the panelled hall to the study,
where for a moment a whimsical smile played upon his face as he viewed
its spacious comfort. The curtains were drawn, the fire was burning
redly, and the lamp was turned half down. The housekeeper made as if
she would have turned it up, but he prevented her. “I like it as it
is,” he said genially. “This is better than No. 383, Mrs. Baker?”
“Well, sir,” she answered, looking round with an air of modest
proprietorship, “it is a bit more like.”
“What would you have, Mrs. Baker?” he asked, laughing. “The bishop’s
palace?”
“We may come to that in time, sir,” she answered, folding her arms
demurely. “But I do not know that I would wish it! He has a peck of
troubles now, and there would be more in a palace, I doubt.”
“I agree with you,” Jack replied, laughing. “Troubles come thick about
an apron, Mrs. Baker.”
“Ay, the men see to that!” retorted the good lady, getting the last
word and going away delighted.
Left alone, Jack lay back in an arm-chair, and, nursing his hat,
wondered what Mrs. Baker would say when she discovered his connection
with the Bonamys. He had not been seated in this posture two minutes
before he heard the door of the house open and shut, and a man’s tread
cross the hall. The next moment the study door opened, and a tall man
appeared at it, and stood holding it and looking into the room. The
hall lamp was behind the newcomer, and Jack, seeing that he was not the
rector, sat still.
The stranger, satisfied apparently that the room was empty, stepped in
and closed the door behind him; and, rapidly crossing the floor, stood
before one of the bookcases. He took something—a key Jack judged by
what followed—from his pocket, and with it he swiftly threw open a
cupboard among the books.
There was nothing remarkable in the action; but the stranger’s manner
was hurried and nervous, and the looker-on leaned forward, curious to
learn what he was about. He expected to see him take something from the
cupboard. Instead, the man appeared to put something in. What it was,
however, Jack could not discern, for, leaning forward too far in his
anxiety to do so, he upset his hat with some noise on to the floor.
The man turned on the instant as if he had been subjected to a galvanic
shock, and stood gazing in the direction of the sound. Jack heard him
draw in his breath with the sharp sound of sudden fear, and even by
that light could see that his face was drawn and white. The barrister
rose quietly in the gloom, the stranger at sight of him leaning back
against the book-case as if his legs refused to support him. Yet he was
the first to speak. “Who is there?” he said, almost in a whisper.
“A visitor,” Jack answered simply. “I have been waiting to see Mr.
Lindo.”
The curate—for he it was—drew a long breath, apparently of relief, and
in reality of such heartfelt thankfulness as he had never known before.
“What a start you gave me!” he murmured, his voice as yet scarcely
under his control. “I am Mr. Clode, Mr. Lindo’s curate. I was putting
up some parish papers, and thought the room was empty.”
“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.
Jack and his party did not at once come across him. They found enough
to amuse them at the lower end of the room—the more as to the barrister
the great and little with whom he rubbed shoulders were all one.
Strange to say, he did not discern any great difference even in their
dress! With Daintry hanging on his arm and Kate at his side he was
content, until, turning suddenly in the thick of the crowd to speak to
the elder girl, he saw her face turn crimson. At the same moment she
bowed slightly to some one behind him. He looked round quickly, with a
sharp jealous pang at his heart, to see who had called forth this show
of emotion, and found himself face to face with the rector.
Lindo had looked forward to this meeting; he had prepared himself for
it; and yet, occurring in this way, it shook him out of his
self-possession. He colored almost as deeply as the girl had, and,
though he held out his hand with scarcely a perceptible pause, the
action was nervous and jerky. “By Jove! is it you, Jack?” he exclaimed,
his tone a mixture of old cordiality and new antagonism. “How do you
do, Miss Bonamy?” and he held out his hand to the girl also, who just
touched it with her fingers and drew back. “It is pleasant to see your
cousin’s face again,” he went on more glibly, yet clearly not at his
ease even now. “I was sorry that I was not in last night when he
called.”
“Yes, I was sorry to miss you,” Jack answered slowly, his eyes on his
friend’s face. He could not quite understand matters. The girl’s
embarrassment had been almost a revelation to him, and yet it flashed
across his mind now that the cause of it might have been only the
quarrel between her father and the rector. The same thing might account
for Lindo’s shy, ungenial manner. And yet—and yet he could not quite
understand it, and, whether he would or no, his face grew hard. “You
heard I had looked in?” he added.
“Yes; Mrs. Baker told me,” Lindo answered, moving to let some one pass
him, and glancing aside to smile a recognition.
“She looks the better for the change, I think.”
“Yes; she gets more fresh air now.”
“It does not seem to have done you much good.”
“No?”
Certainly there was something amiss. These were old, tried college
friends, or had been so a few weeks back, and they had nothing more to
say to one another than this! The rector’s self-consciousness began to
infect the other, sowing in his mind he knew not what suspicions. So
that, if ever words of Daintry’s were welcome, they were welcome now.
“Jack is going to stay a week,” she said inconsequently, standing on
one leg the while with her arm through Jack’s and her big eyes on the
rector’s face.
“I am very glad to hear it,” Lindo rejoined. “He will find me at home
more than once in the week, I hope.”
“I will come and try,” said Jack.
“Of course you will!” replied the rector, with a flash of his old
manner. “I shall be glad if you will remind him of his promise, Miss
Bonamy.”
Kate murmured that she would.
“You like your house?” said Jack.
“Oh, very much—very much indeed.”
“It is an improvement on No. 383?” continued the barrister, rather
drily.
“It is—very much so!”
The words were natural. They were the words Jack would have expected.
But, unfortunately, Gregg at that moment passed the rector’s elbow, and
the latter’s manner was cold and shy—almost as if he resented the
reference to his old life. Jack thought he did, and his lip curled.
Fortunately, Daintry again intervened. “Here is Miss Hammond,” she
said. “She is looking for you, Mr. Lindo.”
The rector turned as Laura, threading her way through the press, came
smiling toward him. She glanced with some curiosity at Jack, and then
nodded graciously to Kate, whom she knew at the Sunday school and from
meeting her on such occasions as this. “How do you do, Miss Bonamy?”
she said pleasantly. “Will you pardon me carrying off the rector? We
want him to come to tea.”
Kate bowed, and the rector took off his hat to the girls. Then he waved
an awkward farewell toward Jack, muttered “See you soon!” and went off
with his captor.
And that was all! Jack turned away with his cousins to the nearest
stall, and bought and chatted. But he did both at random. His thoughts
were elsewhere. He was a keen observer, and he had seen too much for
comfort, yet not enough for comprehension. Nor did the occasional
glance which he shot at Kate’s preoccupied face, as she bent over the
wool-work and “guaranteed hand-paintings,” tend to clear up his doubts
or render his mood more cheerful.
Meanwhile the rector’s frame of mind, as he rejoined his party, was not
a whit more enviable. He was angry with himself, angry with his friend.
The sight of Jack standing by Kate’s side had made his own conduct to
the girl at his last interview with her appear in a worse light than
before—more churlish, more ungrateful. He wished now—but morosely, not
with any tenderness of regret—that he had sought some opportunity of
saying a word of apology to her. And then Jack? He fancied he saw
condemnation written on Jack’s face, and that he too, to whom, in the
old days, he had confided his aspirations and resolves, was on the
enemy’s side—was blaming him for being on bad terms with his church
wardens and for having already come to blows with half the parish.
It was not pleasant. But the more unpleasant things he had to face, the
higher he would hold his head. He disengaged himself presently—the
Hammonds had already preceded him—from the throng and bustle of the
heated room, and went down the stairs alone. Outside it was already
dark, and small rain was falling. The outlook was wretched, and yet in
his present mood he found a tiny satisfaction in the respect with which
the crowd of ragamuffins about the door fell back to give him passage.
With it all, he was some one. He was rector of the town.
At the Hammond’s door he found a carriage waiting in the rain. It was
not one he knew, and as he laid down his umbrella he asked the servant
whose it was.
“It is Lord Dynmore’s, sir,” the man answered, in his low trained
voice. “His lordship is in the drawing-room, sir.”