Jack Yelverton's declaration held me dumb. He knew the truth, yet could
not divulge, because any confession made to him by one who sought
spiritual guidance was sacred.
I pressed him to tell me something which might give me a clue to the
truth, but he only grew additionally grave, and answered--
"Roddy was my friend, as well as yours, Clifton. If it were possible,
don't you think that I would bring the guilty to punishment? Ah! don't
speak of it," he sighed. "In this affair I've suffered enough. If you
knew how the possession of this secret oppresses me, you would be silent
on that sad topic always."
I said nothing. His face had grown haggard and drawn, and I could see
that his conscience was torn by a tumult of emotions.
It was certainly extraordinary, I reflected, as I smoked on in silence,
while he stood leaning against the mantel-shelf with his eyes fixed upon
the opposite wall. That day I had again met after years of separation
this man who had once been among my best friends, and he was actually in
possession of the secret which I had been longing through those winter
months to learn--the secret of the tragic death of poor Roddy Morgan.
But he was a clergyman. Had he been a member of any other profession he
might, in the interests of justice, betray the murderer--for there was
no doubt now that Roddy had been murdered--but he was a servant of his
Master, and words spoken in confidence into his ear by the penitent were
as the secrets of the Roman Catholic confessional. From him I could
hope for no word of the truth.
At last he spoke again, telling me that the real reason he had accepted
a country curacy was because of this terrible secret ever oppressing
him.
"But," he added quite resignedly, "it is, I suppose, a burden placed
upon me as a test. Now I know the truth I feel as an accessory to the
crime; but to divulge would be to break faith with both God and man."
His words admitted of no argument. I sat silent, oppressed, smoking and
thinking. Then at length I rose to go.
"We are friends still, Clifton," he said, as he gripped my hand warmly.
"But you understand my position, don't you?"
"Yes," I answered. "That you cannot speak is plain. Good night," and I
went forth into the quiet village street where the only light came from
the cottage windows here and there. The good people of Duddington go to
bed early and rise with the dawn, therefore there was little light to
guide my steps down the hill and up the road to the Hall. Nothing
stirred, and the only sound was the dismal howl of a distant sheep-dog.
During the fortnight that followed I saw plenty of the new curate. His
manner had, however, changed, and he had grown the same merry, buoyant
companion as he had been in our college days.
Into Duddington Jack Yelverton had come as a perfect revelation of the
ways and manners of the Church. For the past twenty years the estimable
rector had preached regularly once each Sunday, and been usually
assisted by a puny, consumptive-looking youth, fresh from college; but
the smart, clever, witty sermon from this ecclesiastical giant was
electrifying. People talked of it for days afterwards, discussed the
arguments he had put forward so boldly, and were compelled to admit that
he was an earnest, righteous, and upright man.
He dined with us once or twice, afterwards taking a hand at whist; we
cycled together over to Oundle by way of Newton and Fotheringhay; on
another occasion we rode to Uppingham to visit a man who had been with
us at Wadham and was now one of the masters at Uppingham School; and
several times I drove him to Peterborough and to Stamford. Thus we were
together a good deal, and the more I saw of him the more convinced I
became that he was thoroughly earnest in his purpose, and that he had
not adopted the Church from motives of gain, like so many men whose
relatives are ecclesiastical dignitaries.
A letter I received one morning from Muriel caused me to decide upon a
visit to town, and I left the same evening, returning once more to my
chambers in Charing Cross Mansions. Next day being Sunday, I sent
Simes, on my arrival, round to Madame Gabrielle's with a note inviting
Muriel to call at eleven and go with me to spend the day at Hampton
Court. I knew that she always liked a ramble in Bushey Park, for
town-stifled as she was, it reminded her of Burleigh, the great demesne
of the Cecils outside Stamford.
She accepted, and at eleven next morning Simes ushered her in. She was
quietly dressed in black, the dash of bright cerise in her hat well
suiting her complexion.
"Well," she said, putting forth her hand as she entered. "I really
thought you had quite forgotten me. Your note last night gave me a
great surprise."
"I suppose if the truth were known you were engaged for to-day, eh?" I
asked mischievously, for I took a keen delight in chaffing her about her
admirers.
"Well, you've pretty well guessed the truth," she laughed, blushing
slightly as she took the chair I offered her.
"What is he this time--dark or fair?" I asked.
"Dark. A rather nice fellow-cashier in a bank in the City."
"And he takes you out often, I suppose?"
"Two or three times a week," she answered, quite frankly. "We go to a
music-hall sometimes, or, if not, down to the Monico."
"The Monico!" I laughed, remembering how popular that restaurant was
with shop-assistants and clerks. "Why always the Monico?"
"Ah!" she smiled. "We can't afford Frascati's, the Cafe Royal, or
Yerrey's. We get a little life at the Monico at small cost, and it
doesn't matter to us whether our neighbours wear tweeds or not. A man
not in evening dress in the Cafe Royal, Verrey's, or Jimmy's is looked
upon as an outsider; so we avoid those places."
"And you like him, eh?" I inquired, amused.
"As much as I like all the others," she responded with a light,
irresponsible air, toying with the handle of her umbrella. "Life in
London is frightfully dull if a girl has nobody to take her out. She
can't go about alone as she can in the country, and girls in business
are not very friendly towards each other. You've no idea how many
jealousies exist among girls in shops."
"I suppose if a man goes to Madame Gabrielle's to buy a bonnet for a
present, or something, you all think he ought to take notice of you?" I
laughed.
"Of course," she replied. "But it's the travellers from the wholesale
houses who are most sought after by the girls; first, because they are
generally pretty well to do, and secondly, they often know of good
`cribs' of which they tell the girls who are their favourites, and give
them a recommendation into the bargain."
"I always used to think that the shop-walker in the drapery places had a
pretty lively time of it. Is that so?"
"They're always jealous of the travellers," she said. "The shop-walker
fancies himself a lady-killer because he's trained to do the amiable to
the customers, and he can get the girls in his department into awful hot
water if he likes; therefore he doesn't care much for the good-looking
town traveller, who comes in his brougham and has such a very gay and
easy life of it. Girls in drapers' shops are compelled to keep in with
the shop-walker, but they hate him because he's usually such a tyrant."
"Then you may thank your stars that you haven't a shop-walker," I
laughed.
"But we've got old Mrs Rayne and the manager, who are both quite as
nasty to us as any shop-walker could be," she protested quickly. "Rayne
is constantly nagging at one or other of us if we don't effect a sale.
And that's too bad, for, as you know, many ladies come in merely to look
round and price the hats. They have no intention whatever of buying,
and make lame excuses that the shape doesn't suit them, or that the
colour is too gaudy. It isn't fair to us."
"Of course not," I said. "But forget all your business worries for
to-day, and let's have a pleasant hour or two out in the country.
There's a train from Waterloo at twelve; so we'll go to Teddington and
walk across Bushey Park. Do you care for that?"
"Of course," she cried, delighted. "Why, it's fully ten or even eleven
months since we were there last time. Do you remember, we went down
last Chestnut Sunday? Weren't the trees in the avenue beautiful then?"
"Yes," I said, remembering the pleasant afternoon we had afterwards
spent on the river. But it was now too early in the season for boating
in comfort, therefore to wander about would, I knew, be far more
enjoyable.
Therefore, we took a cab over to Waterloo, and travelling down to
Teddington, lunched at the Clarence, and afterwards, in the bright
spring sunshine, strolled up the avenue, where already the trees were
bursting into leaf. There were but few people, for as yet the season
was considered too early. On summer Sundays, when London is dusty and
the streets of closed shops palpitate with heat, then crowds of workers
come there by all sorts of conveyances to get fresh air and obtain sight
of the cooling scenery. But in early spring it is too far afield. Yet
there is no more beautiful spot within easy reach of London, and in the
quietness of a bright spring day, when the grass is green, when
everything is bursting into bud, and the birds are singing merrily as if
thankful that winter has passed, I had always found it far more pleasant
than in the hot days, when omnibuses tear wildly along the avenue,
raising clouds of dust, when carts full of coarse-voiced gentlemen from
the East shout loudly, and chaff those who are seated on the tops of the
four-horsed 'buses, and when the public-houses are filled to overflowing
by crowds of ever-thirsty _bona-fide_ travellers.
In the warm sunshine, which reminded me of those perfect March days we
had had on the Riviera, we wandered together across the Park, chatting
merrily, she relating to me all the principal events of her toilsome
life during the past six months, which comprised that period when the
metropolis is at its worst, and when wet Sundays render the life of
London's workers additionally dismal. In winter the life of the
shop-assistant is truly a dreary, monotonous existence, working nearly
half the day by artificial light in an atmosphere unhealthily warmed by
one of those suffocating abominations called gas-stoves; and if Sunday
happens to be inclement there is absolutely nothing to do save to wait
for the opening of the big restaurants at six o'clock in the evening.
To sit idle in a cafe and be choked with tobacco-smoke is all the
recreation which shop-assistants in London can obtain if the Day of Rest
be wet.
Truly the shop-assistant's life is an intensely dismal one. Knowing all
this, I felt sorry for Muriel.
"Then the winter has been very dull," I observed, after she had been
telling me of the miserable weather and her consequent inability to get
out on Sundays.
"Yes," she answered. "I used to be envious when you wrote telling me of
the sunshine and flowers you had on the Riviera. It must be a perfect
Paradise. I should so like to go there and spend a winter."
"As far as natural beauties are concerned, the coast is almost as near
Paradise as you can get on this earth," I said, laughing. "But Monte
Carlo, although delightful, is far nearer an approach to the other
place--the place which isn't often mentioned in polite society--in fact,
somebody once said, and with a good deal of truth, that the door of the
Casino was the entrance-gate to hell."
"I'd like to see the gambling-rooms just once," she said.
"You are best away from them," I answered. "The moral influence of the
tables cannot fail to prove baneful."
"I was disappointed," she said, "when I heard you had left London
without wishing me good-bye. You had never done so before. I called at
your chambers, and Simes told me you had gone abroad. Surely you could
have spared ten minutes to wish me farewell," she added reproachfully.
I glanced at her and saw a look of regret and disappointment upon her
face. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful.