Maudlin?”
“The Dean, if you mean him, is still at Magdalen College, sir,” said the clergyman, frigidly.
“Rum old fellow. How he used to sit upon me. Not a Maudlin man, I suppose?”
“I had the honour of being at that college, sir, when at Oxford.”
“Indeed! then it couldn’t have been very far from the time when I was there.”
“You – were you an Oxford man?” said the clergyman, staring blankly at his companion, who smiled at his astonishment.
“To be sure I was. You’ll find my name there – Geoffrey Trethick.”
“I – I have heard the name.”
“And I am addressing – ”
For answer, after a little hesitation, the clergyman drew out a small pocket-book, with red edges to the diary, and carefully extracted a card, on which the other read aloud, —
“‘Reverend Edward Lee, Carnac.’ Humph! that’s odd,” he said. “I’m going to live at Carnac. Do you know a Mr Penwynn there?”
“Penwynn, the banker, sir?” said the coachman, turning his head sharply, and pointing to a grey house just above the town, sheltered amongst some trees at the head of the little bay. “That’s his house, sir – An Morlock.”
“Thanks, coachman. Did you say you knew him, Mr Lee?”
“Not at present,” said the clergyman, still keeping up his reserve, but all the time feeling, in spite of himself, drawn towards his travelling-companion. “I am a stranger here.”
“I hope we shall be strangers no longer. Beautiful country, is it not?”
“Ye-es. Very picturesque,” said the clergyman, gazing vacantly around, the other watching him in an amused way, as, after letting his eyes rest for a few moments on the beautiful expanse of rocky hill, shady ravine, and glistening sea, he once more raised his book and went on reading.
“Books always, and not men’s minds,” muttered Geoffrey Trethick. Then, bending forwards, he once more engaged the coachman in conversation, to the clergyman’s great relief; and, putting a set of leading questions, he drew from the driver all the information he could about the neighbourhood and its people, the man finishing with, —
“Ah, sir, it’s as fine and good a country as any in England, if it wasn’t for the adventurers, and they about ruin it.”
“Indeed!” said the young man, with the air of being once more very much amused; and then the coach drew up at the door of the principal inn. There was a little bustle, and the occupants of the various seats climbed down, luggage was handed out of the boots, and the two travellers stood together on the rough paving-stones.
“Take my portmanteau in, boots,” said Trethick, sharply. “Do you breakfast here at the hotel, Mr Lee?”
“Sir,” said the clergyman, distantly, “I have not yet made my plans.”
“Oh! all right; no offence. I was going to say, let us breakfast together for company. I’m off to present my letters of introduction. Good-day; I dare say we shall meet again.”
“I hope not,” thought the Reverend Edward Lee, upon whom his travelling-companion seemed to act like a strong blast, bending him bodily and mentally as well, and he turned into the hotel, hearing, as he did so, the voice of one of the hangers-on exclaiming, in a sing-song tone, —
“Mr Penwynn’s, An Morlock, sir? Right up street, and out by the hill I’ll show you the way.”
“Thanks; no, my lad, I shall find it. Catch!” There was the ring of a small piece of silver falling upon the pavement, and the young clergyman sighed with relief to think his travelling-companion had gone.
Chapter Three
The Carnac Gazette
Rhoda Penwynn’s visitor was in the drawing-room at An Morlock, making the most use possible of her eyes while she was alone. She had seen who had called and left cards, and what book Rhoda was reading. She had also mentally taken the pattern of the new design of embroidery, and meant to work a piece exactly the same; and now she was filling up the time before Rhoda entered by gazing at herself in one of the large mirrors.
It was not a bad reflection – to wit, that of a refined, fair face, that must have been very pretty fifteen or twenty years before; but now there was an eager sharpness in the features, as if caused by expectancy never gratified; the fair white skin had a slight ivory – old ivory – tinge, and the pretty bloom that once hid beneath the down of her cheeks had coalesced and slightly tinted the lady’s nose. It was but slight, but it was unmistakable.
Miss Pavey was well and fairly, even fashionably, dressed, and generally she wore the aspect of what she was – a maiden lady who loved colour, and had, after sundry matrimonial disappointments, retired to a far-off west-country, sea-side place, where her moderate independency would be of so much more value than in a large town.
She sighed as she contemplated herself in the glass, and then held her handkerchief to her face and bent her eyes upon a book as she heard the rustle of a dress, and the door opened, when she rose to meet Rhoda with effusion, and an eager kiss.
“My dearest Rhoda, how well you do look!” she exclaimed. “What a becoming dress!”
“Do you think so, Miss Pavey,” said Rhoda, quietly. “Miss Pavey again! Why will you keep up this terrible distance? My dear Rhoda, is it never to be Martha?”
“Well then, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling. “I did not expect to see you so early.”
“It is early for visitors, my dear; but I thought you would like to know the news. We have so little here in Carnac.”
“Really, I trouble very little about the news, Miss Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling. “But what is the matter?” she added, as her visitor once more held her handkerchief to her face.
“That dreadful toothache again,” sighed Miss Pavey. “I really am a martyr to these nervous pains.”
“Why not boldly go to Mr Rumsey and have it out?”
“Oh, no! oh, dear no!” cried Miss Pavey, with a look of horror, “I could not bear for a man to touch my mouth like that. Don’t mind me, dear, it will be better soon;” and it seemed to be, for it was a pleasant little fiction kept up by Miss Pavey – that toothache, to add truthfulness to the complete set she wore, and whose extraction she carefully attended to herself.
“Of course you don’t care for news, my dear,” continued the lady; “I used not when I was your age. But when one comes to be thirty-two one’s ideas change so. One becomes more human, and takes more interest in humanity at large than in one’s self. You are such a happy contented girl, too; nothing seems to trouble you.”
“But your news,” said Rhoda, to change the conversation, as Miss Pavey smoothed down her blue silk dress.
“To be sure, yes, my dear. I saw the coach come over from the station – what a shame it is that we don’t have a branch railway! – and what do you think?”
“Think?” said Rhoda, looking amused,
