THE NEW RECTOR.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 7424, 25 November 1893, Page 4

THE NEW RECTOR.

Li TER AW"* 3

COKTI}nfEDI

' A living ? Clods was bound to get a living. And without c spitßl to invest in one, or the favour of a patron, bow was it to be done ? The bishop ? He had no claim there. He had not been long enough in the diocese. nor did be know anything-of the bishops wife. There was only »ne living be nou'd get,.only one living upon which he had a claim, and that was Olavetsbam. It all came back to that—with this added that be had now a stronger motive than ever for ejecting Lindo for it. and the absolute knowledge to boot that, L’ndo ej«cted, be would be bis successor. , Stephen Clode’s face grew dark and gloomy as he reached this stage in his reflections. He believed, or thought he believed, that the rector was enjoying what he had no right to enjoy, but still he would fain have had no distinct part in depriving bim of it. He would have much preferred to stand by and; save by a word here and there—by little acts scarcely palpable, and quite incapable of proof—do nothing himself to injure him. He knew what loyalty was, and would fain have been loyal in big things at leas>t But he did not see how it could be done. He fancied that the stir -against the rector was dying out. Bonaray had not moved, Gregg was a coward, and of this matter of the ‘ Free Foresters ’ he thought nothing. Probably they would return to their allegiance another year, and among the poor the rector’s liberality would soon make friends for bim. Altogether, the curate, as he rose and walked the room restlessly and with a knitted brow, was forced to the conviction that, if he would he helped, he must help himself* and that now was the time. The iron must be struck before it cooled Something must be done. . But what ? Clode’s mind reverted first to the discharged servant and he considered more than one way in which he might be used. There was an amount of danger, however, in tampering with him which the thinker’s astuteness did not fail to note, and which led him presently to determine to leave Felton alone. Perbaos he had made as much capital out of him as could be made with safety. From him the curate’s thoughts passed naturally to the packet of letters in the cupboard at the rectory, the letters which he had once held in his hand, and which he persuaded himself would prove the rector’s knowledge of the fraud he was committing. Those letters! They haunted the curate. Walking up and down the room, pishing and pshawing from time to time, he did not disentangle his thoughts from them. The narrow chance which had prevented him reading them before somehow made him feel the more certain of their value now __the more anxious to hold them gcrain in bis bands. n Were they still in the cupboard, he wondered. He had retained, not with any purpose, but in pure inadvertence the key which he had mentioned to the rector ; and he bad it now. He took it from the mantelshelf, toyed with it, dropped it into his pocket. Then took up his hat, and was going abruptly from the room when the little servant who waited on him met him. She was bringing up his simple dinner. The curate’s first impulse was to order it to be taken down and kept warm for him. His second to resume bis seat and eat it hastily. When he had finished—-he could not have said an hour later what he had bad—he took his hat again and went out. Two minutes saw him arrive at the rectory door, where he was just in time to see the rector going out. Lmdo’s face grew red as he saw who bis visitor was, and there was more than a suspicion of haughtiness iu his tone as he greeted him. ‘ Good-even-ing,’ he said. ‘Ho you want to see me, Mr Clode ? ’ ‘ If you plpa«e,’ he answered pimply. May i come in ? ’ For answer, Lindo silently held the door open, and Clode passed through the hall into the library. He was in the habit of entering this room a dozen times a week, hut he never did so after leaving his own small lodgings without being struck by its handsome proportions, by the grave, harmonious colour of its calf lined walls, and the air of studious quiet which always reigned within them. Of all the rector’s possessions, be envied him this room the most. The very sight of the shadud lamp standing on the revolving bookcase at the corner of the hearth, and of the little table beside it, which still bore the rector’s coffee-cup and a tiny silver ewer and basin, aroused his spleen afresh. But he gave no outward sign of this. He stood with Lis bat in one hand, his other Isaning on the table, and his bead slightly bent. * Rector,’ he said, ‘ I am afraid I behaved very badly thh afternoon.’ *1 certainly thought your manner father odd,’ replied the rector shortly ; and he stood erect and expectant. But be was half disarmed already.

1 1'"was annoyed, much annoyed, about a private matter,’ the curate proceeded in a low, rather despondent voice, *ltis a matter about which I expect I shall presently have to take yonr opinion. But for the present I «m not at liberty to name it. However, I was in trouble, and I foolishly wreaked my annoyance upon the first person I came across.' ‘ That was, unfortunately, myself,’ Lindo said, smiling. ‘lt would have been very unfortu-

nate indeed if you were as some rectors « I could name,’ the carats replied gravely, still with his eyes cast down. • As it is—-well, I think you will accept my apology.'

‘Say no more about it,’ the rector answered hastily. There was nothing be hated so much as a scene- ‘ Have a cup of coffee, my dear fallow. I will ping for a cup and j-aocer.’ And before the curate could protest his host was at the bell and bad rung it, his manner the manner of a b-'*y ‘ Sit down, sit down !’ be continued. ‘ Sarah, a cup and saucer, please.’ ‘ But you were going out,’ protested rbe curate, as be complied. * Only to the post with letters,' the rector explained. ‘ I will send Sarah instead.’

Clode sprang up again, a peculiar flush on his cheek, and a flicker as of excitement in his eye. ‘ No, no,’ he said, ‘I am putting you to trouble. If you were going to the post, pray go. You can leave me hera and come back to me, if that be all.’ The rector hesitated, his letters in his band. He might send Sarah. But it wanted a few minutes only of nine o’clock, and be did not approve of the maids going out so late. ‘ Well, I think I will do as you say,’ he answered, feeling that compliance was perhaps the truest politeness; ‘if you are sure that you do not mind.’

1 1 beg you will,’ ihe curate said warmly. The cup and saucer being at that moment brought in, the rector nodded assent. ‘ Very well ; I shall not be two minutes,’ be said. ‘ Take care of yourself while I am away.’ The curate, left alone, muttered to himself. * No, no, my friend. You will be at least four minutes I ’ and he waited with bis cup noised ontil he beard the outer door closed. Then he set it down. Assuring himself by a steady look that t ie windows were well shuttered, be rose and, quietly crossing the room, as a man might who wished to examine a book, be stood before the little cupboard among the shelves. Perhaps because he had done the thing before be did not hesitate. His band was as steady as it bad ever been. If it shook at all, it was with eagerness. His task was so easy and so devoid of danger, under the oircums'ances, that be even smiled darkly, as he set the key in the lock, at tbe thought of the more clumsy burglar whom he bad detected there. He turned the key and opened the door. Nothing could be more simple. The packet he wanted lay just where be expected to find it. He took it out and dropped it into bis breast-pocket, and, long before the time which he bad given himself was up, was hack in bis chair by the fire, with bis coffee-cup on his knee.

(To ie continued .)