You should know them. Yes, Jim Trenchard, the man at
Clinton, is a few years senior to myself. He was priest when I was
deacon in--let me see--dear me, how the years fly--in--'pon my word, how
time goes!"
All of which gave Seymour to understand that the Rev. James Trenchard
was a failure in life, although a good enough fellow. Then it was that
suddenly, in the heart of that warm and cosy drawing-room, Hugh Seymour
was, sharply, as though by a douche of cold water, awakened to the fact
that he must see Clinton St. Mary again. It appeared to him, now, with
its lanes, its hedges, the village green, the moor, the Borhaze Road,
the pirates, yes, and the Scarecrow. It came there, across the Canon's
sumptuous Turkey carpet, and demanded his presence.
"I must go," Seymour said, getting up and speaking in a strange,
bewildered voice as though he were just awakening from a dream. He left
them, at last, promising to come and see them again.
He heard the Canon's voice in his ears: "Always a knife and fork, my
boy ... any time if you let us know." He stepped down into the little
lighted streets, into the town with its cosy security and some scent,
even then in the heart of winter, perhaps, from the fruit of its many
orchards.
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