Part 25 (2/2)
Paul left the talk almost entirely to the two girls; it was enough for him to sit and watch the play of May's beautiful features, and hear the sound of her voice. What could this sudden return of hers mean, he wondered? Was it a pa.s.sing whim, or was it?---- He left even the thought unfinished, and called himself a presumptuous fool!
The next morning he received a note from the rector asking him to call.
”There is a matter of extreme importance that I cannot decide until I have seen you, so will you kindly look in this evening?” he wrote.
Paul found him in his study, and noticed that the handsome face was thinner, and the dark lines under the eyes betrayed the suffering through which he had pa.s.sed.
”I wanted you to come for many reasons,” he said, pus.h.i.+ng an easy-chair near to the fire. ”To thank you, first of all, for the kindness you have poured on my Kitty from the day of your coming until now. There are not many men who would have taken so much trouble about a delicate little girl.”
”You need not thank me,” Paul answered with tears in his eyes. ”She was a friend I shall sorely miss.”
”And there is this letter I wish to show you,” continued the rector, not daring to talk further of Kitty.
It was a letter from the Bishop of the diocese, suggesting that Mr.
Curzon should accept the living of Norrington, a populous town some thirty miles away. In money value it was less than Rudham, but ”the needs of the place are great,” wrote the Bishop. ”You are in the heyday of your strength, and I believe you to be the man for the place.
Unless there be any very urgent reason for your refusing to move, I greatly wish you to undertake it.”
”Why can't the Bishop let well alone?” said Paul, as he returned the letter. ”Of course, you will not go. I don't pretend to const.i.tute myself a judge of a clergyman's work, but I should say that you have this place as well in hand as any man could. To move you, will be equal loss to yourself and Rudham.”
”I cannot decide it so quickly. I do not believe in things happening by chance,” said Mr. Curzon. ”This letter came the day that Kitty pa.s.sed away, and I telegraphed to the Bishop that I could decide nothing for a day or two; the one urgent reason that would have kept me here is gone, you see.”
”Kitty?” questioned Paul.
”Yes; I could not have taken her to live in the heart of a town.”
”Then you really had decided to leave us before you wrote to me.”
”Several things point to it: a less strong man than I could undertake the work here. If it is G.o.d's voice that calls, I would not disobey it. One thought holds me back. What will happen here? Is it impertinent to ask? The presentation to the living is yours.”
Paul smiled involuntarily. ”And you scarcely think me the man to appoint to a cure of souls. I confess I don't myself feel I know enough about it. I should do as my G.o.dfather did before me, hand over the nomination of a successor to the Bishop. I believe this offer jumps with your own inclination.”
”Only for one thing,” said the rector, quietly, ”that my house is 'left unto me desolate.'”
”And yet you call the G.o.d, who took your Kitty from you, a G.o.d of love.”
”Yes. Who, looking at her pitiful little frame, can doubt it? My selfish heart cries out for her yet; but what could her life have been but one of constant suffering.”
”But, I suppose, she was born like that?” said Paul, more to himself than to the rector.
Mr. Curzon's face twitched a little. ”Oh no; she was the brightest, healthiest little child you have ever seen; and then she was dropped.
And the girl who dropped her did not tell any one about it for months after--not until the child's back began to grow out.”
”How did you find it out at last?” asked Paul, deeply interested.
”The girl came of her own accord to confess it. She was pretty well heart-broken when she discovered that Kitty was injured for life.”
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