XIV
Mr. Perry-Henningtonwas troubled by many things, but he was tired out by his long day and fell asleep at once. He was still sleeping when Prince, the parlor maid, brought him a cup of tea at a quarter to seven. Another trying day was upon him. He had to take three services, and to give the children’s address in a neighboring parish in the afternoon. A hard but uninspired worker, he never flinched from his duty, but did the task next him. It pleased him to think that he got things done, and, like all men of his type, never allowed himself to doubt for a moment that they were worth the doing.
At the morning service Mr. Perry-Hennington preached a sermon that had done duty on many occasions. It was his custom to keep the new discourse for the evening, when the congregation was larger as a rule. “He came to His own and His own knew him not,” was the text of the morning homily. It had always been one of his favorites, and every time he rendered it he found some new embroidery to weaveupon that poignant theme. And this morning, in the emotional stress of a recent event which lurked a shadow at the back of his thoughts, his mind played upon it with a vigor that surprised even himself. He was at his best. Such a feeling of power came upon him as he had seldom known.
While the last hymn was being sung the vicar’s eyes strayed to the back of the church. He was surprised and a little disconcerted to see John Smith standing there. The young man was singing heartily, and as the bright rays from the window fell upon his face it became a center of light. Yet that unexpected presence cast a shadow across the vicar’s mind. It was as if a cloud had suddenly darkened the sun.
At the end of the service Mr. Perry-Hennington was the last to leave the church. By the time he had taken off his vestments the small congregation had dispersed. But one member of it still lingered near the lich gate, at the end of the churchyard, and as the vicar came down the path this person stopped him. A rather odd-looking man wearing a white hat, he gave the vicar an impression of being overdressed, but his strong face had an individuality that would have commanded notice anywhere.
This man, who had been scanning the tombstones in the churchyard, had evidently stayed behind tospeak to the vicar. Yet he was a total stranger to the neighborhood, whose presence among his flock Mr. Perry-Hennington had noted that morning for the first time. At the vicar’s slow approach the man in the white hat came forward with a hearty outstretched hand.
“Delighted to meet you, sir,” he said.
To the conventional mind of the vicar this was a very unconventional greeting on the part of one he had not seen before; and he took the proffered hand with an air of reserve.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your discourse,” said the stranger in an idiom which struck the vicar as rather unusual. “It was first-rate. And I’m a judge. I think I am anyway.” The man in the white hat spoke in such a cool, simple, forthcoming manner, that the vicar was nonplussed. And yet there was such a charm about him that even a spirit in pontificalibus could hardly resent it.
“Ah, I see,” said the stranger, noting the vicar’s stiffening of attitude with an amused eye, “you are waiting for an introduction. Well, I’m a neighbor, the new tenant of Longwood.”
“Oh, really,” said the vicar. The air of constraint lightened a little, but it was too heavy to vanish at once. “I am glad to meet you.”
“Let me give you a card.” The new neighbor suddenly dived into a hidden recess of a light gray frock coat, and whipped out a small case.
Mr. Perry-Hennington with a leisureliness half reluctant, and in almost comic contrast to the stranger’s freedom of gesture, accepted the card, disentangled his eyeglasses from his pectoral cross, and read it carefully. It bore the inscription: Mr. Gazelee Payne Murdwell, 94 Fifth Avenue, New York.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Murdwell,” said the vicar, with a note of reassurance coming into his tone. “Allow me to welcome you among us.” The voice, in its grave sonority, rose almost to a point. It didn’t quite achieve it, but the fact that the man was an American and also the new tenant of Longwood accounted for much. For the vicar was already quite sure that he didn’t belong to the island. The native article could not have had that particular manner, nor could it have dressed in that particular way, nor could it have shown that extraordinary, half quizzical self-security. A new man from the city might have achieved the white hat (with modifications), the gray frock coat, the white waistcoat, the white spats, the wonderful checked cravat, but he could not have delivered a frontal attack on an obviously reverend and honorable gentleman, for long generations indigenous to the soilof the county, on the threshold of his own parish church.
“Now look here, vicar,” said Gazelee Payne Murdwell, with an easy note of intimacy, “you and I have got to know one another. And it has got to be soon. This is all new to me.” Mr. Murdwell waved a jeweled and romantic hand, a fine gesture, which included a part of Kent, a part of Sussex, a suggestion of Surrey, and even a suspicion of Hampshire. “And I’m new to you. As I figure you out at the moment, even allowing a liberal discount for the state of Europe, you are rather like a comic opera”—the vicar drew in his lips primly—“and as you figure me out, if looks mean anything, I’m fit for a Mappin Terrace at the Zoo. But that’s a wrong attitude. We’ve got to come together. And the sooner the better, because you are going to find me a pretty good neighbor.”
“I have not the least doubt of that, Mr.—er—Murdwell,” said the vicar, glancing deliberately and augustly at the card in his hand.
“Well, as a guaranty of good intentions on both sides, suppose you and your daughter dine at Longwood on Wednesday? I am a bachelor at the moment, but Juley—my wife—and Bud—my daughter—will be down by then.”
“Wednesday!” The vicar’s left eyebrow was mobilizedin the form of a slight frown. But the invitation had come so entirely unawares that unless he pleaded an engagement which didn’t exist, and his conscience therefore would not have sanctioned, there really seemed no way of escape.
“You will? Wednesday. A quarter to eight. That’s bully.” And in order to clinch the matter, Mr. Murdwell slipped an arm through the vicar’s, and slowly accompanied him as far as the vicarage gate.