“Ay,” he muttered, taking no notice of me.
“This stone is cold,” I said, rising.
He got up too, and stretched his arms as if he were tired. It was quite dark, save for the waxing moon which leaned over the east.
“It is a very fine night,” I said. “Don’t you notice a smell of violets?”
“Ay! The moon looks like a woman with child. I wonder what Time’s got in her belly.”
“You?” I said. “You don’t expect anything exciting do you?”
“Exciting!—No—about as exciting as this rotten old place—just rot off—Oh, my God!—I’m like a good house, built and finished, and left to tumble down again with nobody to live in it.”
“Why—what’s up—really?”
He laughed bitterly, saying, “Come and sit down.”
He led me off to a seat by the north door, between two pews, very black and silent. There we sat, he putting his gun carefully beside him. He remained perfectly still, thinking.
“Whot’s up?” he said, at last, “Why—I’ll tell you. I went to Cambridge—my father was a big cattle dealer—he died bankrupt while I was in college, and I never took my degree. They persuaded me to be a parson, and a parson I was.
I went a curate to a little place in Leicestershire—a bonnie place, with not many people, and a fine old church, and a great rich parsonage. I hadn’t over-much to do, and the rector—he was the son of an Earl—was generous. He lent me a horse and would have me hunt like the rest. I always think of that place with a smell of honeysuckle while the grass is
