Free The Wonder by J. D. Beresford Page A

oppressed with a feeling of inferiority, a feeling which he fought against but could not subdue. The Latin tag was an attempt to win appreciation, it represented a boast of equality.
    Challis correctly evaluated the rector’s attitude; it was with something of pity in his mind that he turned and walked beside him.
    There was but one item of news from Stoke, and it soon came to the surface. Crashaw phrased his description of Victor Stott in terms other than those he used in speaking to his wife or to his parishioners; but the undercurrent of his virulent superstition did not escape Challis, and the attitude of the villagers was made perfectly plain.
    “Hm!” was Challis’s comment, when the flow of words ceased, “nigroque simillima cygno, eh?”
    “Ah! of course, you sneer at our petty affairs,” said Crashaw.
    “By no means. I should like to see this black swan of Stoke,” replied Challis. “Anything so exceptional interests me.”
    “No doubt Mrs. Stott would be proud to exhibit the horror,” said Crashaw. He had a gleam of satisfaction in the thought that even the great Henry Challis might be scared. That would, indeed, be a triumph.
    “If Mrs. Stott has no objection, of course,” said Challis. “Shall we go there, now?”
III
    The visit of Henry Challis marked the first advent of Ellen Mary’s pride in the exhibition of her wonder. After the King and the Royal Family—superhuman beings, infinitely remote—the great landlord of the neighbourhood stood as a symbol of temporal power to the whole district. The budding socialist of the taproom might sneer, and make threat that the time was coming when he, the boaster, and Challis, the landlord, would have equal rights; but in public the socialist kow-towed to his master with a submission no less obsequious than that of the humblest conservative on the estate.
    Mrs. Stott dropped a deep curtsy when, opening the door to the autocratic summons of Crashaw’s rat-a-tat, she saw the great man of the district at her threshold. Challis raised his hat. Crashaw did not imitate his example; he was all officiousness, he had the air of a chief superintendent of police.
    “Oh! Mrs. Stott, we should like to come in for a few minutes. Mr. Challis would like to see your child.”
    “Damn the fool!” was Challis’s thought, but he gave it less abrupt expression. “That is, of course, if it is quite convenient to you, Mrs. Stott. I can come at some other time. …”
    “Please walk in, sir,” replied Mrs. Stott, and curtsied again as she stood aside.
    Superintendent Crashaw led the way. …
    Challis called again next day, by himself this time; and the day after he dropped in at six o’clock while Mr. and Mrs. Stott were at tea. He put them at their ease by some magic of his personality, and insisted that they should continue their meal while he sat among the collapsed springs of the horsehair armchair. He leaned forward, swinging his stick as a pendulum between his knees, and shot out questions as to the Stotts’ relations with the neighbours. And always he had an attentive eye on the cradle that stood near the fire.
    “The neighbours are not highly intelligent, I suspect,” said Challis. “Even Mr. Crashaw, I fancy, does not appreciate the—peculiarities of the situation.”
    “He’s worse than any,” interpolated Stott. Ellen Mary sat in the shadow; there was a new light in her eyes, a foretaste of glory.
    “Ah! a little narrow, a little dogmatic, no doubt,” replied Challis. “I was going to propose that you might prefer to live at Pym.”
    “Much farther for me,” muttered Stott. He had mixed with nobility on the cricket field, and was not overawed.
    “No doubt; but you have other interests to consider, interests of far greater importance.” Challis shifted his gaze from the cradle, and looked Stott in the face. “I understand that Mrs. Stott does not care to take her child out in the village. Isn’t that so?”
    “Yes, sir,” replied Ellen, to