Part 12 (1/2)

To-night, however, she had appealed to him to give expression to the grat.i.tude which she felt to G.o.d. For a moment the spiritual life that was in her had touched his, and he trusted that the foundation of a deeper, truer, more lasting friends.h.i.+p had been laid--a friends.h.i.+p that might enable him, possibly, to give May Webster a helping hand on her road to Heaven.

Mr. Curzon was not one of those who believe that a clergyman's mission is fulfilled by looking after the poor who are committed to his care.

He had seen enough of society to realize both its fascination and its special temptations; and the well-to-do members of his flock were as frequently included in his prayers as the poor, the afflicted, the sick, or the unhappy.

It was of May and her needs that his heart was full as he turned from the drive into the road, but as he did so he stumbled against a man's figure propped against the gate-post. The man lurched heavily forward, and would have fallen had not Mr. Curzon caught him in his arms, peering at the same time into his face to see who it might be.

”Tom! Tom Burney! Poor lad,” he exclaimed, with a heavy sigh, for the mere touch of the inert body showed that Tom was not overcome by illness but by drink.

”Tom!” said the rector, giving him a slight shake of the shoulders, ”rouse yourself, and get home to bed. To-morrow we will talk this over, but you are in no fit state to listen to-night.”

The familiar voice roused the muddled brain to some sense of shame, and instinctively Tom's hand was raised to his cap.

”Beg your pardon, sir, but I won't go home; same roof shan't cover that beast Dixon and me!”

The words reminded Mr. Curzon that Dixon, Burney, and several other men employed at the Court were lodged in rooms over the coach-house and stables; evidently Tom and Dixon had quarrelled.

”That's sheer nonsense!” he answered sharply. ”I'm not going to leave you out here all night, for the sake of your own character. If you won't go without me, I shall take you.”

Tom made some show of sullen resistance, but a sober man always has the advantage over a tipsy one; and Mr. Curzon was physically so strong that, drunk as Tom was, he knew he could enforce obedience. Once more, therefore, the rector had to retrace his steps, and half supported, half led, he presently landed Tom Burney in the stable-yard of the Court. A light burning in one of the upper windows showed him that somebody was still awake, and a whistle readily attracted the attention of the occupant. The window was thrown wide and a head thrust out into the night.

”So it's you, is it?” said a voice, that the rector recognized as Dixon's. ”It would serve you right to keep you out there all night.”

”You hound! you mean hound!” hiccoughed Tom, trying to wrest himself from the strong restraining hand laid upon his collar. ”If only I can get at you, I'll----”

The threat was nipped in the bud by the rector. ”Is that you, Dixon?”

he asked, in a low, authoritative tones. ”Just come down and open the door, please. I found Burney like this, and brought him home; and keep out of sight, will you? I've no intention of being landed in a quarrel.”

There was a smothered exclamation of surprise, the window was closed, and, in another moment, the lower door was thrown wide to admit the rector and his charge. By a rapid signal Mr. Curzon directed Dixon to conceal himself in an angle of the staircase, whilst he gave Tom a helping hand up the staircase to the room which Dixon indicated with a nod. Once safely inside, he placed him on the bed and came away, closing the door behind him.

”He won't come out again to-night, I think,” he said to Dixon, who followed him to the door.

”Oh no, sir; I'll see to that,” replied the man, with a rather unpleasant smile. ”I'll turn the key on him, and unlock the door again before he wakes in the morning. I'm sorry you've had all this trouble.

I tried my best to get him to come along quietly with me, but I had to leave him to himself at last; he was so desperate quarrelsome. He's a quick temper at any time, and he's just mad when he's drunk.”

”Which has not been very often, I think,” interposed the rector. ”But in the last few months, I fear he has fallen into bad company. Good night, Dixon.”

”We shan't hear the end of this in a hurry. What business has he prowling about the place at this time of night, I should like to know?”

grumbled Dixon aloud, as he closed the door. ”Bad company, indeed!

He'll see for himself that I'm not drunk, whatever that fool Tom may be.”

Meanwhile the rector pursued his way home in less joyful mood than before he had stumbled across poor Tom Burney; he was sorely troubled about him as, for a long time, he had been one of the most promising young fellows in the place. He let himself quietly into the rectory, shading the light with his hand as he pa.s.sed the door of Kitty's room; but a half-stifled cry of ”Daddy!” arrested his steps. He pushed open the door and entered, crossing with swift, light tread to her bedside.

The frightened look in the child's eyes died away as she looked into the smiling face.

”What does my little Kitty mean by lying awake to this hour?”

”I've been frightened, daddy. I lay awake on purpose, at first, because you promised to come and kiss me when you came home after the meeting.”

”Oh, I shan't promise that any more if it keeps you awake. Well!”