Her neighbour laughed outright. People were visibly smiling. Mr. Huhn
took the pile of coins from the stranger's hand.
"They are yours; take them." Him she obeyed with the docility of a
child. "Come let us go."
He led the way to the door which opened on to the terrace. She
followed, meekly. It seemed that the eight coins were more than she
could conveniently carry in one hand; for, as she went, she dropped one
on to the floor. An attendant, picking it up, returned it to her with a
grin. Indeed, the whole room was on the titter, the incident was so
very amusing. They asked themselves if she was mad, or just a
simpleton. And, in a fashion, considering that her first youth was
passed, she really was so pretty! Mr. Huhn was more moved than, in that
place, he would have cared to admit. Something in her attitude in the
way she looked at him when he bade her take the money, had filled him
with a sense of shame.
Between their going in and coming out the sky had changed. The shadows
were lowering. The autumnal day was drawing to a close. September had
brought more than a suggestion of winter's breath. A grey chill
followed the departing sun. They went up, then down, the terrace,
without exchanging a word; then, moving aside, he offered her one of
the wicker-seated chairs which stood against the wall. She sat on it.
He sat opposite, leaning on the handle of his stick. The thin mist
which was stealing across the leaden sea did not invite lounging out of
doors. They had the terrace to themselves. She let her five-franc
pieces drop with a clinking sound on to her lap. He, conscious of
something on her face which he was unwilling to confront, looked
steadily seaward. Presently she gave utterance to her pent-up feelings.
"I am a gambler."
Had she accused herself of the unforgivable sin she could not have
seemed more serious. Somewhere within him was a laughing sprite. In
view of her genuine distress he did his best to keep it in subjection.
"You exaggerate. Staking a five-franc piece--for the good of the
house--on the _petits chevaux_ does not make you that, any more than
taking a glass of wine makes you a drunkard."
"Why did you make me, why did you let me, do it?"
"I didn't know you felt that way."
"And yet you said you knew me!"
He winched. He had told a falsehood. He did know her--there was the
sting. In mischievous mood he had induced her to do the thing which he
suspected that she held to be wrong. He had not supposed that she would
take it so seriously, especially if she won, being aware that there are
persons who condemn gambling when they or those belonging to them lose,
but who lean more towards the side of charity when they win. He did not
know what to say to her, so he said nothing.
"My father once lost over four hundred pounds on a horse-race. I don't
quite know how it was, I was only a child. He was in business at the
time. I believe it ruined him, and it nearly broke my mother's heart. I
promised her that I would never gamble--and now I have."
He felt that this was one of those women whose moral eye is
single--with whom it is better to be frank.
"I confess I felt that you might have scruples on the point; but I
thought you would look upon a single stake of a single five-franc piece
as a jest. Many American women--and many Englishwomen--who would be
horrified if you called them gamblers, go into the rooms at Monte Carlo
and lose or win a louis or two just for the sake of the joke."
"For the sake of the joke! Gamble for the sake of the joke! Are you a
Jesuit?" The question so took him by surprise that he turned and stared
at her. "I have always understood that that is how Jesuits reason--that
they try to make out that black is white. I hope--I hope you don't do
that?"
He smiled grimly, his thoughts recurring to some of the "deals" in
which his success had made him the well-to-do man he was.
"Sometimes the two colours merge so imperceptibly into one another that
it's hard to tell just where the conjunction begins. You want keen
sight to do it. But here you're right and I'm wrong; there's no two
words about it. It was I who made you stake that five-franc piece; and
I'd no right to make you stake buttons if it was against your
principles. Your standard's like my mother's. I hope that mine will
grow nearer to it. I ask you to forgive me for leading you astray."
"I ought not to have been so weak."
"You had to--when I was there to make you."
She was still; though it is doubtful if she grasped the full meaning
his words conveyed. If he had been watching her he would have seen that
by degrees something like the suggestion of a smile seem to wrinkle the
corners of her lips. When she spoke again it was in half a whisper.
"I'm sorry, I should seem to you to be so silly."
"You don't. You mustn't say it. You seem to me to be the wisest woman I
ever met."
"That must be because you've known so few--or else you're laughing. No
one who has ever known me has thought me wise. If I were wise I should
know what to do with this."
"She motioned towards the money on her lap.
"Throw it into the sea."
"But it isn't mine."
"It's yours as much as anyone else's. If you come to first causes
you'll find it hard to name the rightful owner--in God's sight--for any
one thing. There's been too much swapping of horses. You'll find plenty
who are in need."
"It would carry a curse with it. Money won in gambling!"
He looked at his watch.
"It's time that you and I thought about dinner. We'll adjourn the
discussion as to what is to be done with the fruit of our iniquity. I
say 'our,' because that I'm the principal criminal is as plain as
paint. Sleep on it; perhaps you'll see clearer in the morning. Put it
in your pocket."
"Haven't I told you already that I haven't a pocket? And if I had I
shouldn't put this money in it. I should feel that that was half-way
towards keeping it."
"Then let me be the bearer of the burden."
"No; I don't wish the taint to be conveyed to you." He laughed
outright. "There now you are laughing!"
"I was laughing because--" he was on the verge of saying "because I
love you;" but something induced him to substitute--"because I love to
hear you talking."
She glanced at him with smiling eyes. His gaze was turned towards what
was now the shrouded sea. Neither spoke during the three minutes of
brisk walking which was required to reach the Hotel de Paris, she
carrying the money, four five-franc pieces, gripped tightly in either
hand.
In his phrase, she slept on it, though the fashion of the sleeping was
a little strange. The next morning she sallied forth to put into
execution the resolve at which she had arrived. I was early, though not
so early as she would have wished, because, concluding that all Dieppe
did not rise with the lark, she judged it as well to take her coffee
and roll before she took the air. It promised to be a glorious day. The
atmosphere was filled with a golden haze, through which the sun was
gleaming. As she went through the gate of the Port d'Ouest she came
upon a man who was selling little metal effigies of the flags of
various nations. From him she made a purchase--the Stars and Stripes.
This she pinned inside her blouse, on the left, smiling to herself as
she did so. Then she marched straight off into the Casino.
The _salle de jeu_ had but a single occupant, a _tourneur_ who was
engaged in dusting the little horses. To enable him to perform the
necessary offices he removed the steeds from their places one after the
other. As it chanced he was the identical individual who had been
responsible for the _course_ which had crowned 'Miss Doone' with victory.
With that keen vision which is characteristic of his class the man
recognised her on the instant. Bowing and smiling he held out to her
the horse which he was holding.
"_Vla madame, le numero cinq! C'est lui qui a porte le bonheur a
madame_."
It was, indeed, the horse which represented the number on which she had
staked her five-franc piece. By an odd accident she had arrived just as
its toilet was being performed. She observed what an excellent model it
was with somewhat doubtful eyes, as if fearful of its being warranted
neither steady nor free from vice.
"I have brought back the seven five-franc pieces which I--took away
with me."
She held out the coins. As if at a loss he looked from them to her.
"But, madame, I do not understand."
"I can have nothing to do with money which is the fruit of gambling."
"But madame played."
"It was a misunderstanding. A mistake. It was not my intention. It is
on that account I have come to return this money."
"Return?--to whom?--the administration? The administration will not
accept it. It is impossible. What it has lost it has lost; there is an
end."
"But I insist on returning it; and if I insist it must be accepted;
especially when I tell you it is all a mistake."
The _tourneur_ shrugged his shoulders.
"If madame does not want the money, and will give it to me, I will see
what I can do with it." She handed him the coins; he transferred them
to the board at his back. Then he held out to her the horse which he
had been dusting. "See, madame, is it not a perfect model? And feel how
heavy--over three kilos, more than six English pounds. When you
consider that there are nine horses, all exactly the same weight, you
will perceive that it is not easy work to be a _tourneur_. That toy
horse is worth much more to the administration than if it were a real
horse; it is from the Number Five that all this comes."
He waved his hand as if to denote the entire building.
"I thought that public gambling was prohibited in France and in all
Christian countries, and that it was only permitted in such haunts of
wickedness as Monte Carlo."
"Gambling? Ah, the little horses is not gambling! It is an amusement."
A voice addressed her from the other side of the table. It was Mr.
Huhn.
"Didn't I tell you it wasn't gambling? It's as this gentleman says--an
amusement; especially for the administration."
"Ah, yes--in particular for the administration."
The _tourneur_ laughed. Miss Donne and Mr. Huhn went out together by
the same door through which they had gone the night before. They sat on
the low wall. He had some towels on his arm; he had been bathing.
Already the sea was glowing with the radiance of the sun.
"So you've relieved yourself of your ill-gotten gains?"
"I have returned them to the administration."
"To the ---- did that gentleman say he would hand those five-franc
pieces to the administration?"
"He said that he would see what he could do with them."
"Just so. There's no doubt that that is what he will do. So you did
sleep upon that burning question?"
"I did."
"Then you got the better of me; because I didn't sleep at all."
"I am sorry."
"You ought to be, since the fault was yours."
"Mine! My fault that you didn't sleep!"
"Do you see what I've got here?"
He made an upward movement with his hand. For the first time she
noticed that in his buttonhole he had a tiny copy of the Union Jack.
"Did you buy that of the man outside the town gate?"
He nodded.
"Why, it was of that very same man that I bought this."
From the inside of her blouse she produced that minute representation
of the colours he knew so well. They looked at each other, and....
When some time after they were lunching, he forming a fourth at the
small table which belonged of right to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, he said to
Annie Moriarty, that was:--
"Since you're an old friend of Miss Donne you may be interested in
knowing that there's likely soon to be an International Alliance."
He motioned to the lady at his side and then to himself, as if to call
attention to the fact that in his buttonhole was the Union Jack, while
on Miss Donne's blouse was pinned the American flag. But keen-witted
Mrs. Palmer had realized what exactly was the condition of affairs some
time before.
"Skittles"
CHAPTER I
Mr. Plumber was a passable preacher. Not an orator, perhaps--though it
is certain that they had had less oratorical curates at Exdale. His
delivery was not exactly good. But then the matter was fair, at times.
Though Mr. Ingledew did say that Mr. Plumber's sermons were rather in
the nature of reminiscences--tit-bits collated from other divines.
According to this authority, listening to Mr. Plumber preaching was a
capital exercise for the memory. His pulpit addresses might almost be
regarded in the light of a series of examination papers. One might take
it for granted that every thought was borrowed from some one, the
question--put by the examiner, as it were--being from whom? On the
other hand, it must be granted that Mr. Ingledew's character was well
understood in Exdale. He was one of those persons who are persuaded
that there is no such thing as absolute originality in the present year
of grace. From his point of view, all the moderns are thieves. He read
a new book, not for the pleasure of reading it, but for the pleasure of
finding out, as a sort of anemonic exercise, from whom its various
parts had been pilfered. He held that, nowadays, nothing new is being
produced, either in prose or verse; and that the only thing which the
latter day writer does need, is the capacity to use the scissors and
the paste. So it was no new thing for the Exdale congregation to be
informed that the sermon which they had listened to had been preached
before.
Nor, Mrs. Manby declared, in any case, was that the point. She wanted a
preacher to do her good. If he could not do her good out of his own
mouth, then, by all means, let him do her good out of the mouths of
others. All gifts are not given to all men. If a man was conscious of
his incapacity in one direction, then she, for one, had no objection to
his availing himself, to the best of his ability, of his capacity in
another. But--and here Mrs. Manby held up her hands in the manner which
is so well known to her friends--when a man told her, from the pulpit,
on the Sunday, that life was a solemn and a serious thing, and then on
the Monday wrote for a comic paper--and such a comic paper!--that was
the point, and quite another matter entirely.
How the story first was told has not been clearly ascertained. The
presumption is, that a proof was sent to Mr. Plumber in one of those
wrappers which are open at both ends in which proofs sometimes are
sent; and that on the front of this wrapper was imprinted, by way of
advertisement, the source of its origin: "_Skittles: Not to mention the
Beer. A Comic Croaker for the Cultured Classes_."
The presumption goes on to suggest that, while it was still in the post
office, the proof fell out of the wrapper,--they sometimes are most
insecurely enclosed, and the thing might have been the purest accident.
One of the clerks--it is said, young Griffen--noticing it, happened to
read the proof--just glanced over it, that is--also, of course, by
accident. And then, on purchasing a copy of a particular issue of the
periodical in question, this clerk--whoever he was--perceived that it
contained the, one could not call it poem, but rhyming doggerel, proof
of which had been sent to the Reverend Reginald Plumber. He probably
mentioned it to a friend, in the strictest confidence. This friend
mentioned it to another friend, also in the strictest confidence. And
so everybody was told by everybody else, in the strictest confidence;
and the thing which was meant to be hid in a hole found itself
displayed on the top of the hill.
It was felt that something ought lo be done. This feeling took form and
substance at an informal meeting which was held at Mrs. Manby's in the
guise of a tea, and which was attended by the churchwardens, Mr.
Ingledew, and others, who might be expected to do something, when, from
the point of view of public policy, it ought to be done. The _pieces de
conviction_ were not, on that particular occasion, actually produced in
evidence, because it was generally felt that the paper, "_Skittles: Not
to mention the Beer, etc_." was not a paper which could be produced in
the presence of ladies.
"And that," Mrs. Manby observed, "is what makes the thing so very
dreadful. It is bad enough that such papers should be allowed to
appear. But that they should be supported by the contributions of our
spiritual guides and teachers, opens a vista which cannot but fill
every proper-minded person with dismay."
Miss Norman mildly hinted that Mr. Plumber might have intended, not so
much to support the journal in question, either with his contributions
or otherwise, as that it should aid in supporting him. But this was an
aspect of the case which the meeting simply declined to even consider.
Because Mr. Plumber chose to have an ailing wife and a horde of
children that was no reason, but very much the contrary, why, instead
of elevating, he should assist in degrading public morals. So the
resolution was finally arrived at that, without loss of time, the
churchwardens should wait upon the Vicar, make a formal statement of
the lamentable facts of the case, and that the Vicar should then be
requested to do the something which ought to be done.
So, in accordance with this resolution, the churchwardens waited on the
vicar. The Rev. Henry Harding was, at that time, the Vicar of Exdale.
He was not only an easy-going man and possessed of large private means,
but he was also one of those unfortunately constituted persons who are
with difficulty induced to make themselves disagreeable to any one. The
churchwardens quite anticipated that they might find it hard to
persuade him, even in so glaring a case as the present one, to do the
something which ought to be done. Nor were their expectations, in this
respect, doomed to meet with disappointment.
"Am I to understand," asked the vicar, when, to a certain extent, the
lamentable facts of the case had been laid before him, and as he leaned
back in his easy chair he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead,
"that you have come to complain to me because a gentleman, finding
himself in straitened circumstances, desires to add to his income by
means of contributions to the press?"
That was not what they wished him to understand at all. Mr. Luxmare,
the people's warden, endeavoured to explain.
"It is this particular paper to which we object. It is a vile, and a
scurrilous rag. Its very name is an offence. You are, probably, not
acquainted with its character. I have here----"
Mr. Luxmare was producing a copy of the offensive publication from his
pocket, when the vicar stopped him.
"I know the paper very well indeed," he said.
Mr. Luxmare seemed slightly taken aback. But he continued--.
"In that case you are well aware that it is a paper with which no
decent person would allow himself to be connected."
"I am by no means so sure of that." Mr. Harding pressed the tips of his
fingers together, with that mild, but occasionally exasperating, air of
beaming affability for which he was peculiar. "I have known some very
decent persons who have allowed themselves to become connected with
some extremely curious papers."
As the people's warden, Mr. Luxmare, was conscious of an almost
exaggerated feeling of responsibility. He felt that, in a peculiar
sense, he represented the parish. It was his duty to impress the
feelings of the parish upon the vicar. And he meant to impress the
feeling of the parish upon the vicar now. Moreover, by natural
constitution he was almost as much inclined to aggressiveness as the
vicar was inclined to placability. He at once assumed what might be
called the tone and manner of a prosecuting counsel.
"This is an instance," and he banged his right fist into his left palm,
"of a clergyman--a clergyman of our church, the national church,
associating himself with a paper, the avowed and ostensible purpose of
which is to pander to the depraved instincts of the lowest of the low.
I say, sir, and I defy contradiction, that such an instance in such a
man is an offence against good morals."
Mr. Harding smiled--which was by no means what the people's warden had
intended he should do.
"By the way," he said, "has Mr. Plumber been writing under his own
name?"
"Not he. The stuff is anonymous. It is inconceivable that any one could
wish to be known as its author?"
"Then may I ask how you know that Mr. Plumber is its author?"
Mr. Luxmare appeared to be a trifle non-plussed--as did his associate.
But the people's warden stuck to his guns.
"It is common report in the parish that Mr. Plumber is a contributor to
a paper which would not be admitted to a decent house. We are here as
church officers to acquaint you with that report, and to request you to
ascertain from Mr. Plumber whether or not it is well founded."
"In other words, you wish me to associate myself with vague scandal
about Queen Elizabeth, and to play the part of Paul Pry in the private
affairs of my friend and colleague."
Mr. Luxmare rose from his chair.
"If, sir, you decline to accede to our request, we shall go from you to
Mr. Plumber. We shall put to him certain questions. Should he decline
to answer them, or should his replies not be satisfactory, we shall
esteem it our duty to report the matter to the Bishop. For my own part,
I say, without hesitation, that it would be a notorious scandal that a
contributor to such a paper as _Skittles_ should be a minister in our
beloved parish church."
The vicar still smiled, though it is conceivable that, for once in a
way, his smile was merely on the surface.
"Then, in that case, Mr. Luxmare, you will take upon yourself a great
responsibility."
"Mr. Harding, I took upon myself a great responsibility when I suffered
myself to be made the people's warden. It is not my intention to
attempt to shirk that responsibility in one jot or in one tittle. To
the best of my ability, at any cost, I will do my duty, though the
heavens fall."
The vicar meditated some moments before he spoke again. Then he
addressed himself to both his visitors.
"I tell you what I will do, gentlemen. I will go to Mr. Plumber and
tell him what you say. Then I will acquaint you with his answer."
"Very good!" It was Mr. Luxmare who took upon himself to reply. "At
present that is all we ask. I would only suggest, that the sooner your
visit is paid the better."
"Certainly. There I do agree with you; it is always well to rid oneself
of matters of this sort as soon as possible. I will make a point of
calling on Mr. Plumber directly you are gone."
Possibly, when his visitors had gone, the vicar was inclined to the
opinion that he had promised rather hastily. Not only did he not start
upon his errand with the promptitude which his own words had suggested,
but even when he did start, he pursued such devious ways that several
hours elapsed between his arrival at the curate's and the departure of
the deputation.
Mr. Plumber lived in a cottage. It might have not been without its
attractions as a home for a newly-married couple, but as a residence
for a man of studious habits, possessed of a large and noisy family, it
had its disadvantages. It was the curate himself who opened the door.
Directly he did so the vicar became conscious that, within, there was a
colourable imitation of pandemonium. Some young gentlemen appeared to
be fighting upstairs; other young gentlemen appeared to be rehearsing
some unmusical selections of the nature of a Christy Minstrel chorus on
the ground floor at the back; somewhere else small children were
crying; while occasionally, above the hubbub, were heard the shrill
tones of a woman's agitated voice, raised in heartsick--because
hopeless,--expostulation. Mr. Plumber seemed to be unconscious of there
being anything strange in such discord of sweet sounds. Possibly he had
become so used to living in the midst of a riot that it never occurred
to him that there was anything in mere uproar for which it might be
necessary to apologise. He led the way to his study--a small room at
the back of the house, which was in uncomfortable proximity to the
Christy Minstrel chorus. Small though the room was, it was
insufficiently furnished. As he entered it, the vicar was struck, by no
means for the first time, by an unpleasant sense of the contrast which
existed between the curate's study and the luxurious apartment which
was his study at the vicarage. The vicar seated himself on one of the
two chairs which the apartment contained. A few desultory remarks were
exchanged. Then Mr. Harding endeavoured to broach the subject which had
brought him there. He began a little awkwardly.
"I hope that you know me well enough to be aware, Mr. Plumber, that I
am not a person who would wish to thrust myself into the affairs of
others."
The curate nodded. He was standing up before the empty fireplace. A
tall, sparely-built man, with scanty iron-grey hair, a pronounced
stoop, and a face which was a tragedy--it said so plainly that he was a
man who had abandoned hope. Its careful neatness accentuated the
threadbare condition of his clerical costume--it was always a mystery
to the vicar how the curate contrived to keep himself so neat,
considering his slender resources, and the life of domestic drudgery
which he was compelled to lead.
"Are you acquainted with a publication called _Skittles?_"
Mr. Plumber nodded again; Mr. Harding would rather he had spoken. "May
I ask if you are a contributor to such a publication?"
"May I inquire why you ask?"
"It is reported in the parish that you are. The parish does not relish
the report. And you must know yourself that it is not a paper"--the
vicar hesitated--"not a paper with which a gentleman would wish it to
be known that he was associated."
"Well?"
"Well, without entering into questions of the past, I hope you will
give me to understand that, at any rate, in the future, you will not
contribute to its pages."
"Why?"
"Is it necessary to explain? Are we not both clergymen?"
"Are you suggesting that a clergyman should pay occasional visits to a
debtor's prison rather than contribute to the pages of a comic paper?"
"It is not a question of a comic paper, but of this particular comic
paper."
The curate looked intently at the vicar. He had dark eyes which, at
times, were curiously full of meaning. Mr. Harding felt that they were
very full of meaning then. He so sympathised with the man, so realised
the burdens which he had to bear, that he never found himself alone
with him without becoming conscious of a sensation which was almost
shyness. At that moment, as the curate continued to fixedly regard him,
he was not only shy, but ashamed.
"Mr. Harding you are not here of your own initiative."
"That is so. But that will not help you. If you take my advice, of two
evils you will choose what I believe to be the lesser."
"And that is?"
"You will have no further connection with this paper."
"Mr. Harding, look here." Going to a cupboard which was in a corner of
the room, the curate threw the door wide open. Within were shelves. On
the shelves were papers. The cupboard seemed full of them, shelf above
shelf. "You see these. They are MSS.--my MSS. They have travelled
pretty well all round the world. They have been rejected everywhere. I
have paid postage for them which I could very ill afford, only to have
them sent back upon my hands, at last, for good. I show them to you
merely because I wish you to understand that I did not apply to the
editor of _Skittles_ until I had been rejected by practically every
other editor the world contains." The Vicar fidgetted on his chair.
"Surely, now that reading has become almost universal, it is always
possible to find an opening for good work."
"For good work, possibly. Though, even then, I suspect that the thing
is not so easy as you imagine. But mine is not good work. Very often it
is not even good hack work, as good hack work goes. I may have been
capable of good work once. But the capacity, if it ever existed, has
gone--crushed perhaps by the burdens which have crushed me. Nowadays I
am only too glad to do any work which will bring in for us a few extra
crumbs of bread."
"I sympathise with you, with all my heart."
"Thank you." The curate smiled, the vicar would almost have rather he
had cried. "There is one other point. If the paper were a bad paper, in
a moral or in a religious sense, under no sense of circumstances would
I consent to do its work or to take its wage. But if any one has told
you that it is a bad paper, in that sense, you have been misinformed.
It is simply a cheap so-called humorous journal. Perhaps not
over-refined. It is intended for the _olla podrida_. It is printed on poor
paper, and the printing is not good. The illustrations are not always
in the best of taste and are sometimes simply smudges. But looking at
the reading matter as a whole, it is probably equal to that which is
contained, week after week, in some of the high-priced papers which
find admission to every house."
"I am bound to say that sometimes when I have been travelling I have
purchased the paper myself, and I have never seen anything in it which
could be justly called improper."
"Nor I. I submit, sir, that we curates are already sufficiently
cribbed, cabined, and confined. If narrow-minded, non-literary persons
are to have the power to forbid our working for decent journals to
which they themselves, for some reason, may happen to object, our case
is harder still."
The vicar rose from his chair.
"Quite so. There is a great deal in what you say--I quite realise it,
Mr. Plumber. The laity are already too much disposed to trample on us
clerics. I will think the matter over--think the matter over, Mr.
Plumber. My dear sir, what is that?"
There was a crashing sound on the floor overhead, which threatened to
bring the study ceiling down. It was followed by such a deafening din,
as if an Irish faction fight was taking place upstairs, that even the
curate seemed to be disturbed.
"Some of the boys have been making themselves a pair of boxing gloves,
and I am afraid they are practising with them in their bedroom."
"Oh," said the vicar. That was all he did say, but the "Oh" was
eloquent.
"To think," he told himself as he departed, "that a scholar and a
gentleman should be compelled to live in a place like that, with a
helpless wife and a horde of unruly lads, and should be driven to
scribble nonsense for such a rag as _Skittles_ in order to provide
himself with the means to keep them all alive--it seems to me that it
must be, in some way, a disgrace to the English Church that such things
should be."
He not only said this to himself, but, later on, he said it to his
wife. His words had weight with Mrs. Harding, but not the sort of
weight which he desired. The fact is Mrs. Harding had views of her own
on the subject of curates. She held that curates ought not to marry.
Vicars, rectors, and the higher clergy might; but curates, no. For a
poor curate to marry was nothing else than a crime. Had she had her
way, Mr. Plumber would long ago have vanished from Exdale. But though
the vicar was ruled to a considerable extent by his wife, there was a
point at which he drew the line. That a man should be turned adrift on
to the world to quite starve simply because he was nearly starving
already was an idea which actually filled him with indignation.
If he supposed that his interview with Mr. Plumber had resulted in a
manner which was likely to appease those of his parishioners who had
objections to a curate who wrote for comic papers, he was destined soon
to learn his error. The following morning one of his churchwardens paid
another visit to the vicarage--the duty-loving Mr. Luxmare. Mr. Harding
was conscious of an uncomfortable twinge when that gentleman's name was
brought to him; he seemed to be still more uncomfortable when he found
himself constrained to meet the warden's eye. The story he had to tell
was not only in itself a slightly lame one, its lameness was emphasised
by the way in which he told it. It was plain that it was not going to
have the effect of inducing Mr. Luxmare to move one hair's breadth from
the path which he felt that duty required him to tread.
"Am I to understand, Mr. Harding, that Mr. Plumber, conscious of his
offence, has promised to offend no more? In other words, has he
undertaken to have no further connection with this off-scouring of the
press?"
Mr. Harding put his spectacles on his nose. He took them off again. He
fidgetted and fumbled with them with his fingers.
"The fact is, Mr. Luxmare--and this is entirely between ourselves--Mr.
Plumber is in such straitened circumstances----"
"Quite so. But because a man is a pauper, does that justify him in
becoming a thief?"
"Gently, Mr. Luxmare, let us consider our words before we utter them.
Here is no question of anything even distantly approaching to felony.
To be frank with you, I think you are unnecessarily hard on this
particular journal. The paper is merely a vulgar paper----"
"And Mr. Plumber is merely an ordained minister of the Established
Church. Are we, then, as churchmen, to expect our clergy to encourage,
not only passively, but, also, actively, the already superabundant
vulgarity of the public press?"
The vicar had the worst of it; when he was once more alone he felt that
there was no sort of doubt upon that point.
Whether, intentionally or not, Mr. Luxmare managed to convey the
impression that, in his opinion, the curate, while pretending to save
souls with one hand, was doing his best to destroy them with the other,
and that, in that singular course of procedure, he was being aided and
abetted by the vicar. Mr. Harding had strong forebodings that the
trouble, so far from being ended, was only just beginning. Those
forebodings became still stronger when, scarcely an hour after Mr.
Luxmare had left him, Mrs. Harding, entering the study like a passable
imitation of a hurricane, laid a printed sheet in front of her husband
with the air almost of a Jove hurling thunderbolts from the skies.
"Mr. Harding, have you seen that paper?"
It was the unescapable _Skittles_. The vicar groaned in spirit. He
regarded it with weary eyes.
"A copy of it now and then, my dear."
"I have just discovered its existence with feelings of horror. That
such a thing should be permitted to be is a national disgrace. Mr.
Harding, you will be astounded to learn that the curate of Exdale is
one of its chief contributors.
"Scarcely, I think, one of its chief contributors."
Mrs. Harding struck an attitude.
"Is it possible that you are already aware that your ostensible
colleague in the great task of snatching souls from the burning has all
the time been doing Satan's work?"
"My dear!--really!"
"You know very well that I have objected to Mr. Plumber from the first.
I have suspected the man. Now that my suspicions are more than
verified, it is certain that he must go. The question is, when? Of
course, before next Sunday."
"You move too fast, Sophia."
"In such a matter as this it is impossible to move too fast. Read
that."
Turning over a page of the paper, Mrs. Harding pointed to a "copy of
verses."
"Thank you, my dear, but, if you will permit me, I prefer to remain
excused. I have no taste for that species of literature just now."
"So I should imagine--either now or ever! The shameful and shameless
rubbish has been written by your curate. I am told that it has been cut
out and framed, and that it at present hangs in the taproom of 'The Pig
and Whistle,' with these words scrawled beneath it: 'The Curate's
Latest! Real Jam!' Is that the sort of handle which you wish to offer
to the scoffers? I shall not leave this room until you promise me that
before next Sunday Exdale Parish Church shall have seen the last of
him."
He did not promise that, but he promised something--with his fatal
facility for promising. He promised that a meeting should be held at
the vicarage before the following Sunday. That Mr. Plumber, the
churchwardens, and the sidesmen should be invited to attend. That
certain questions should be put to the curate. That he should be asked
what he had to say for himself. And, although the vicar did not
distinctly promise, in so many words, that the sense of the meeting
should then be allowed to decide his fate, the lady certainly inferred
as much.
The meeting was held. Mr. Harding wrote to the curate, explaining
matters as best he could--he felt that in trusting to his pen he would
be safer than in trusting to word of mouth. Probably because he was
conscious that he really had no choice, Mr. Plumber agreed to come. And
he came. Besides the clergy and officers of the church, the only person
present was the aforementioned Mr. Ingledew. He was a person of light
and leading in the parish, and when he asked permission to attend, the
vicar saw no sufficient ground to say him nay.
CHAPTER II
That was one of the unhappiest days of Mr. Harding's life. He was one
of those people who are possessed of the questionable faculty of being
able to see both sides of a question at once. He saw, too plainly for
his own peace of mind, what was to be said both for and against the
curate. He feared that the meeting would only see what was only to be
said against him. That the man would come prejudiced. And he felt--and
that was the worst of all!--that, for the sake of a peace which was no
peace, he was giving his colleague into the hands of his enemies, and
shifting on to the shoulders of others the authority which was his own.
The churchwardens were the first to arrive. It was plain, from the
start, that, so far as the people's warden was concerned, the curate's
fate was already signed and sealed. The sidesmen followed, one by one.
The vicar had had no personal communication with them on the matter;
but he took it for granted, from his knowledge of their characters,
that though they lacked his power of expression, they might be expected
to think as Mr. Luxmare thought. Mr. Ingledew's position was not
clearly defined, but everybody knew the point of view from which he
would judge the curate. He would pose as a critic of Literature--with a
capital L!--and Mr. Harding feared that, in that character, the
unfortunate Mr. Plumber might fare even worse with him than with the
others.
The curate was the last to arrive. He came into the room with his hat
and stick in his hand. Going straight up to the vicar, he addressed to
him a question which brought the business for which they were assembled
immediately to the front.
"What is it that you would wish to say to me, sir?"
"It is about your contributions to the well-advertised _Skittles_, Mr.
Plumber. There seems to be a strong feeling on the subject in the
parish. I thought that we might meet together here and arrive at a
common understanding."
Mr. Plumber bowed. He turned to the others. He bowed to them. There was
a pause, as if of hesitation as to what ought to be done. Then Mr.
Luxmare spoke.
"May I ask Mr. Plumber some questions?"
The vicar beamed, or endeavoured to.
"You had better, Mr. Luxmare, address that inquiry to Mr. Plumber."
Mr. Luxmare addressed himself to Mr. Plumber--not genially.
"The first question I would ask you, sir, is, whether it is true that
you are a contributor to the paper which the vicar has named. The
second question I would ask you, sir----"
The curate interrupted him.
"One moment, Mr. Luxmare. On what ground do you consider yourself
entitled to question me?"
"You are one of the parish clergy. I am one of its churchwardens. As
such, I speak to you in the name of the parish."
"I fail to understand you. Because I am one of the parish clergy it
does not follow that I am in any way responsible for my conduct to the
parish. My life would be not worth living if that were so. I am
responsible to my vicar alone. So long as he is satisfied that I am
doing my duty to him, you have no concern with me, and I have none with
you."
"Quite right, Mr. Plumber," struck in the vicar. "I have hinted as much
to Mr. Luxmare already."
The people's warden listened with lowering brows.
"Then why have you brought us here, sir?--to be played with?"
"The truth is, Mr. Luxmare--and you must forgive my speaking
plainly--you have an exaggerated conception of the magnitude of your
office. A churchwarden has certain duties to perform, but among them
is not the duty of sitting in judgment on his clergy."
"Then am I to understand that Mr. Plumber declines to answer my
questions?"
"It depends," said Mr. Plumber, "upon what your questions are. I trust
that I may be always found ready, and willing, to respond to any
inquiries, not savouring of impertinence, which may be addressed to me.
I have no objection, for instance, to inform you, or any one, that I
am, or rather, I have been, a contributor to _Skittles_."
"Oh, you have, have you! May I ask if you intend to continue to
contribute to that scandalous rag?"
"Now you go too far. I am unable to bind myself by any promise as to my
future intentions."
"Then, sir, I say that you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Mr. Luxmare!" cried the vicar.
But the people's warden had reached the explosive point; he was bound
to explode.
"I am not to be put down, nor am I to be frightened from doing what I
conceive to be my bounden duty. I tell you again, Mr. Plumber, sir,
that you ought to be ashamed of yourself. And I say further, that it is
to me a monstrous proposition, that a clergyman is to be at liberty to
contribute to the rising flood of public immorality, and that his
parishioners are not to be allowed to offer even a word of
remonstrance. You may take this from me, Mr. Plumber, that so long as
you continue one of its clergy, the parish church will be deserted. You
will minister, if you are to minister at all, to a beggarly array of
empty pews. And, since the parish is not to be permitted to speak its
mind in private, I will see that an opportunity is given it to speak
its mind in public. I will see that a public meeting is held. I promise
you that it will be attended by every decent-minded man and woman in
Exdale. Some home truths will be uttered which, I trust, will enlighten
you as to what is, and what is not, the duty of a parish clergyman."
"Have you quite finished, Mr. Luxmare?"
The vicar asked the question in a tone of almost dangerous quiet.
"Do not think," continued Mr. Luxmare, ignoring Mr. Harding, "that in
this matter I speak for myself. I speak for the whole parish." He
turned to his colleague, "Is that not so?"
The vicar's warden did not seem to be completely at his ease. He looked
appealingly at the vicar. He shuffled with his feet. But he spoke at
last, prefacing his remarks with a sort of deprecatory little cough.
"I am bound to admit that I consider it somewhat unfortunate that Mr.
Plumber should have contributed to a publication of this particular
class."
Mr. Luxmare turned to the sidesmen.
"What do you think?"
The sidesmen did not say much, but they managed, with what they did
say, to convey the impression that they thought as the churchwardens
thought.
"You see," exclaimed the triumphant Mr. Luxmare, "that here we are
unanimous, and I give you my word that our unanimity is but typical of
the unanimous feeling which pervades the entire parish."
"Has anybody else anything which he would wish to say?"
The vicar asked the question in the same curiously quiet tone of voice.
Mr. Ingledew stood up.
"Yes, vicar, I have something which I should rather like to say. I am
not pretending to have, in this matter, any _locus standi_. Nor do I
intend to assail Mr. Plumber on the lines which Mr. Luxmare has
followed. To me it seems to be a matter of comparative indifference to
which journal a man, be he cleric or layman, may choose to send his
contributions. Journals nowadays are very much of a muchness, their
badness is merely a question of degree. There is, however, one point on
which I should like to be enlightened by Mr. Plumber. I am told that he
is the author of some verses which were published in the issue of
_Skittles_, dated July 11th, and entitled 'The Lingering Lover.' Is
that so, Mr. Plumber?"
As Mr. Ingledew asked his question, the curate, for the first time,
showed signs of obvious uneasiness.
"That is so," he said.
Mr. Ingledew smiled. His smile did not seem to add to the curate's
comfort.
"I do not intend to criticise those verses. Probably Mr. Plumber will
admit that by no standard of criticism can they be adjudged first rate.
But, in this connection, I would make one remark--and here I think you
will agree with me, vicar--that even a clergyman should be decently
honest."
"Pray," asked the vicar, who possibly had noticed Mr. Plumber's
uneasiness, and had, thereupon, become uneasy himself, "what has
honesty to do with the matter?"
"A good deal, as I am about to show. Mr. Luxmare asked Mr. Plumber if
he intended to continue to contribute to _Skittles_. Mr. Plumber
declined to answer that question. I could have answered it; and now do.
No more of Mr. Plumber's contributions will appear in _Skittles_."
The curate started--indeed, everybody started--vicar, churchwardens,
sidesmen and all.
"What do you mean?" stammered Mr. Plumber.
"I base my statement on a letter which I have this morning received
from the editor of _Skittles_. In it that great man informs me that he
will take care that no more of Mr. Plumber's contributions appear in
the paper which he edits."
Mr. Plumber went white to the lips.
"What do you mean?" he repeated.
Mr. Ingledew looked the curate full in the face. As Mr. Plumber met his
glance, he cowered as if Mr. Ingledew's words had been so many blows
with a stick.
"Can you not guess my meaning, Mr. Plumber? Were you not aware that
there are such things as literary detectives? In future, I would advise
you to remember that there are. Directly I saw those verses I knew that
you had stolen them. I happened to have the original in my possession.
I sent that original to the editor of _Skittles_. The letter to which I
have referred is his response. The verses which you sent to him as
yours are no more yours than my watch is. Are you disposed contradict
me, Mr. Plumber?"
The curate was silent--with a silence which was eloquent.
"Mr. Plumber has given a sufficient answer," said Mr. Ingledew, as the
curate continued speechless. He turned to the vicar. "This is not one
of those cases of remote plagiarism which abound: it is a case of clear
theft, which are not so frequent. Mr. Plumber sent to this paper what
was, to all intents and purposes, a copy of another man's work. He
claimed it as his own. He received payment for it as if it had been his
own. If he chooses, the editor of _Skittles_ can institute against him
a criminal prosecution. If he does, Mr. Plumber will certainly be
sentenced to a turn of imprisonment. As an example of impudent
pilfering the affair is instructive. Perhaps, vicar, you would like to
study it. Here are what Mr. Plumber calls his verses, and here are the
verses from which his verses are stolen. As you will perceive, from a
literary point of view, Mr. Plumber has merely perpetrated a new
edition of another man's crime. Which is the worse, the original or the
copy, is more than I can say. Here are the verses as they appeared in
the peculiarly named paper of which you have, perhaps, already heard
too much, and which, while it professes to be humorous, at least
succeeds in being vulgar."
Mr. Ingledew handed Mr. Harding what was evidently a marked copy of the
paper which, no doubt, has its attractions for those who like that kind
of thing. Mr. Plumber remained silent. He leant on his stick. His eyes
were fixed on the floor. The vicar seemed almost afraid to glance in
his direction.
"And this," continued the softly speaking gentleman, who in spite of
his carefully modulated tones, seemed destined to work the curate more
havoc than the noisy parish mouthpiece, "is the publication in which the
verses originally appeared. As you will see, it is a copy of a
once-talked-of University magazine which is long since dead and done for.
Possibly Mr. Plumber relied upon that fact to shield him from exposure."
The vicar received the second paper with an air of what was
unmistakably amazement. He stared at it as if in doubt that he was not
being tricked by his eyes, or his spectacles, or something.
"What--what's this?" he said.
Mr. Ingledew explained,
"It is a copy of _Cam-Isis_; a magazine which was edited and written by
a body of Camford undergraduates some forty years ago."
The more the vicar stared at the paper, the more his amazement seemed
to grow. He was beginning to turn quite red.
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed.
"The original of Mr. Plumber's verses you will find on the page which I
have marked. They are quite equal to their title, 'The Lass and the
Lout.'"
The Vicar's hand which held the paper dropped to his side. He looked up
at the ceiling seemingly in a state of mind approaching stupefaction.
As if unaware, words came from his lips.
"It's a judgment."
Mr. Ingledew rubbed his chin. He seemed to be pleased.
"It certainly is a judgment, and one for which, I am afraid, Mr.
Plumber was not prepared. But I flatter myself that no man, if the
thing comes within my cognisance, is able to print another man's works
as his own without my being able to detect and convict him of his
guilt. I have not been on the look out for plagiarists all my life for
nothing."
The vicar's glance came down. He seemed all at once to become conscious
of his surroundings. He looked about him with a startled air, as if he
had been roused from a trance. He seemed quite curiously agitated. The
words which he uttered were spoken a little wildly, as if he himself
was not quite certain what it was that he was saying.
"I have to thank you for all that you have said, gentlemen, and I can
only assure you that the remarks which you have made demand, and shall
receive, my most serious consideration. With regard to the papers"--he
glanced at the two papers which he still was holding--"with regard to
these papers, with your permission, Mr. Ingledew, I will retain them
for the present. They shall be returned to you later." The owner of the
papers nodded assent. "And now that all has been said which there is to
say, I have to ask you, gentlemen, to leave me, and--and I wish you all
good-day."
The vicar himself opened the study door. He seemed almost to be
hustling his visitors out of the room, his anxiety to be rid of them
was so wholly undisguised. It is possible that both Mr. Luxmare and Mr.
Ingledew would have liked to have made a few concluding observations,
but neither of them was given a shred of opportunity. When, however,
Mr. Plumber made a movement as if to go, Mr. Harding motioned to him
with his hand to stay. And the vicar and the curate were left alone.
A stranger would have found it difficult to decide which of the two
seemed the more shame-faced. The curate still stood where he had been
standing all through, leaning on his stick, with his eyes on the
ground; while the vicar, with his grasp still on the handle of the
door, stood with his face turned towards the wall. It was with an
apparent effort that, moving towards his writing table, placing Mr.
Ingledew's two papers in front of him, he seated himself in his
accustomed chair. Taking off his spectacles, with his hands he gently
rubbed his eyes as if they were tired.
"Dear, dear!" he muttered, as if to himself. He sighed. He added, still
more to himself, "The Lord's ways are past our finding out." Then he
addressed himself to the curate.
"Mr. Plumber!" Although the vicar spoke so softly, his hearer seemed to
shrink away from him. "I have a confession which I must make to you."
The curate looked up furtively, as if in fear.
"When I was a young man I did many things of which I have since had
good reason to be ashamed. Among the things, I used to write what Mr.
Ingledew would say correctly enough it would be flattering to call
nonsense. I regret to have to tell you that I wrote those verses to
which Mr. Ingledew has just called our attention in that dead and gone
Camford magazine."
The curate stood up almost straight.
"Sir!--Mr. Harding!"
"I did. To my shame, I own it. I had nearly forgotten them. I had not
seen a copy for years and years. I had hoped that there was none in
existence. But it seems that that which a man does, which he would
rather have left undone, is sure to rise, and confront him, we will
trust, by the grace of God, not in eternity, but certainly in time."
Mr. Plumber was trembling. The vicar continued, in a voice, and with a
manner, the exquisite delicacy of which was indescribable.
"I have esteemed it my duty to make you this confession in order that
you may understand that I, too, have done that of which I have cause to
be ashamed. And in making you this confession I must ask you to respect
my confidence, as I shall respect yours."
Mr. Plumber made a movement as if to speak. But, possibly his tongue
was parched and refused its office. At any rate, he did nothing but
stare at the vicar, with blanched cheeks, and strangely distended eyes.
When Mr. Harding went on, his glance, which had hitherto been fixed
upon the curate, fell--it may be that he wished to avoid the other's
dreadful gaze.
"I think, Mr. Plumber, you might prefer to leave Exdale and seek
another sphere of duty. As it chances, I have had a recent inquiry from
a friend who desires to know if I am acquainted with a gentleman who
would care to accept a chaplaincy at a health resort in the Pyrenees.
One moment." The curate made another movement as if to speak; the vicar
checked him. "The stipend is guaranteed to be at least L200 a year;
and, as there are also tutorial possibilities, on such an income, in
that part of the world, a gentleman would be able to bring up his
family in decent comfort. If you like, I will mention your name, and,
in that case, I think I am in a position to promise that the post shall
be place at your disposal."
The curate's hat and stick dropped from his trembling hands. He seemed
unconscious of their fate. He moved, or rather, it would be more
correct to say, he lurched towards the vicar's table.
"Sir!" he gasped. "Mr. Harding."
It seemed that he would say more--much more; but that still his tongue
was tied. His weight was on the table, as if, without the aid of its
support, he would not be able to stand. Rising, leaning forward, the
vicar gently laid his two hands upon the curate's. His voice quavered
as he spoke.
"Believe me, Mr. Plumber, we clergymen are no more immaculate than
other men."
The curate still was speechless. But he sank on his knees, and laying
his face on the vicar's writing table, he cried like a child.
"Em"
CHAPTER I
THE MAJOR'S INSTRUCTIONS
"Don't tell me, miss; don't tell me, I say."
And Major Clifford stood up, and shook his fist and stamped his foot in
a way suggestive of the Black Country and wife beating. But Miss
Maynard, who sat opposite to him, meek and mild, being used to his
eccentric behaviour, was quite equal to the occasion. When he got very
red in the face and seemed on the point of breaking a blood vessel, she
just stood up, moved across the room, and put her hands upon his
shoulders.
"Uncle," she said, and her face was very close to his, "I'm sure I'm
very much obliged to you."
"It's all very well," the Major replied, pretending to struggle from
her grasp. "It's all very well, but I say----"
"Of course. That's exactly what you do say."
And she kissed him. Then it was all over.
When a young woman of a certain kind kisses an elderly gentleman of a
certain temperament, it soothes his savage breast, like oil upon the
troubled waters. And as Miss Maynard was a young woman whose influence
was not likely to be ineffective with any man whether young or old,
Major Clifford was tolerably helpless in her hands.
Now, they called her "Em." Emily was her name, Emily Maynard, but from
her babyhood the concluding syllables had been forgotten, and by
general consent among her intimates she was "Em." There could be no
doubt whether you called her Em or whether you did not, she was a young
woman it was not unpleasant to know.
She was pretty tall and pretty slender, quiet, like still waters
running deep. She never made a noise herself, being a model of good
behaviour, but she created in some people an irresistible inclination
to look upon life as a first-rate joke.
She had a tendency to throw everything into inextricable confusion by
the depth of her enthusiasm. She managed many things, and with complete
impartiality managed them all wrong. In that unassuming way of hers she
took the lead in all well-directed efforts, and had a wonderful genius
for setting her colleagues by the ears.
At the present moment things had occurred which were the cause to her
of no little sorrow. She was the treasurer of the District Visitor's
Fund, and at the same time of the Coal and Clothing Clubs. In that
capacity she had taken a view of the duties of her office which had
caused some dissatisfaction to her friends.
Being possessed of a bad memory, it had been her misfortune to receive
several subscriptions to the District Visitors' Fund, of which she had
forgotten to make any entry, and which she had paid away in a manner of
which she was totally incapable of giving any account. In moments of
generosity, too, she had bestowed the greater portion of the Coal Fund
on unfortunate persons who were not of her parish, nor, it was to be
feared, of any creed either. And in moments still more generous, the
funds of the Clothing Club she had applied to the purchase of books for
her Sunday School Library. Therefore, when the quarter ended and a
request was made to examine her accounts and rectify them, she was in a
position which was not exactly pleasant.
Now there happened to be at St. Giles's a curate who was a Low
Churchman. Miss Maynard had a tendency to "High;" and between these two
there was no good feeling lost. It was this curate who was causing all
the trouble. He had not only made some uncomfortable remarks, but he
had gone so far as to suggest that Miss Maynard should resign her
office, and on this particular morning he had made an appointment to
call in order that, as he said, some decision might be arrived at.
Major Clifford, I regret to say, was no churchgoer. In addition to
which he had an unreasonable objection to what he called "parsons," and
was wont to boast that he knew none of them, except the vicar, who was
a sociable gentleman of a somewhat older school, even by sight.
However, when he heard that the Rev. Philip Spooner was calling, and
what was the purport of his intended visit, he announced his intention
to favour the reverend gentleman with a personal interview, and to
present him with a piece of his mind. Hence the strong words which head
this chapter.
Miss Maynard was not at all unwilling that he should see the Rev.
Spooner, but she was exceedingly anxious that he should not wait for
him as he would for a deadly enemy.
"Uncle, promise me that you will be calm and gentle."
"Calm and gentle!" cried the Major, banging his fist upon the table.
"Calm and gentle! Do you mean to say, miss, that I would harm a fly!"
"But I am afraid, uncle, that Mr. Spooner will not understand you so
well as I do."
"Then," said the Major, "if the man doesn't understand me, he must be a
fool!"
In which Miss Maynard begged to differ, so put her hands upon his
shoulders, which was a favourite trick of hers, and said:
"Uncle, you do love me, don't you? And I am sure you wouldn't hurt my
feelings. You will be kind to Mr. Spooner for my sake, won't you?"
CHAPTER II
HIS NIECE'S WOOING
It was a warm morning in a pleasant country lane, and a young
gentleman, with a very broad brimmed hat, a very long frock-coat, and a
very small, stiff shirt collar, was pacing meditatively to and fro,
evidently waiting for someone. Every now and then he glanced up the
lane which seemed deserted by ordinary passengers, and if he had not
been a clergyman would no doubt have whistled.
At last his patience was rewarded. Over the top of the low hedge a
coquettish hat appeared sailing along, and presently a young woman came
meekly round the corner, enjoying the fresh country air. It was Miss
Maynard. The young gentleman advanced. He seemed to know her, for
taking off his broad-brimmed hat, he kissed her, much in the same
fashion as a short time before she had kissed the Major, only much more
forcibly, and apparently with much enjoyment.
"Em, I thought you were never coming."
"I don't know," she said, and sighed. "I don't know. It's all vanity. I
was thinking of your last Sunday's sermon," she continued as they
wandered on, seemingly unconscious that his arm was round her waist.
"It was so true."
They walked on till they reached a gate which opened into a little
woodland copse. Here, under the mighty trees, the shade was pleasant,
and the grass cool and refreshing to the eye. They sat at the foot of a
great old oak.
"Em," said Mr. Roland--by the way, the Rev. John Roland was the young
gentleman's name--"these meetings are very pleasant."
"Yes," said Em, who was always truthful, "they are."
"Therefore, I am afraid to run the risk of ending them."
"What do you mean?" cried she.
To be candid, four mornings out of five were taken up by these pleasant
little meetings, and to end them would be to rob her of one of her most
important occupations.
"Em, you know what I mean."
"I don't," said she.
"You do," said he.
"I do not," she said, and looked the other way.
"Then I'll tell you." And he told her. "Em, I can keep silence no
longer. I must tell your uncle all. And if he forbids me--"
"I don't mind saying," she observed, taking advantage of the pause,
"that I don't care if he does."
"What do you mean?"
"John," she whispered.
"Call me Jack."
"No; it's so undignified for a clergyman." Some people would call it
undignified for a young woman to lay her hand on a clergyman's
shoulder. "What do I care if he says no? He never does say what he
means the first time. I can just turn him round my finger. Whatever he
said to you he would never dare to say no to me; at least, when I had
done with him."
"Let us hope so," said Mr. Roland. "But whatever happens, I feel that I
have already been too long silent."
"I don't know," murmured Em, with a saintlike expression in her eyes.
"I rather like meeting you upon the sly."
Mr. Roland, as a curate and so on, perceived this to be a sentiment in
which, under any circumstances, it was impossible for him to
acquiesce--at least, verbally.
"No," he declared; "it must not be. This is a matter in which delay is
almost worse than dangerous. I must go to him at once and tell him all."
Miss Maynard yielded. She was not disinclined to have their little
mutual understanding publicly announced, if only to gratify Miss Gigsby
and one or two other young ladies.
"Yes, Em," he continued, "I will go at once, and doubt will be ended."
They went together to the end of the lane, then she departed to do a
few little errands in the town, and the Rev. John Roland went on his
visit to Major Clifford.
CHAPTER III
THE LADY'S LOVER
The Major waited for his visitor--waited in a mood which, in spite of
his promise to Miss Maynard, promised unpleasantness for Mr. Spooner.
Time passed on, and he did not come. The Major paced up and down
stairs, to and from the windows, and from room to room. Finally, he
took a large meerschaum pipe from the mantelshelf in the smoking-room
and smoked it in the drawing-room, a thing he would not have dared to
do--very properly--if Miss Maynard had been at home.
"I promised young Trafford I'd go and see what I thought of that new
gun of his," growled the Major, "and here's that jackanapes keeping me
in to listen to his insulting twaddle."
The Major probably forgot that at any rate the jackanapes in question
had no appointment with him.
At last he threw open the window, and thrusting his head out, looked up
and down the street to see if he could catch a glimpse of the expected
Spooner.
"The fellow's playing with me!" he told himself considerably above a
whisper. "Like his confounded impudence!"
Suddenly he caught sight of a shovel hat and clerical garments turning
the street corner, and re-entering the room with some loss of dignity,
commenced reading the "Broad Arrow" upside down. Presently there was a
knock at the street door, and a stranger was shown upstairs
unannounced.
"I have called," he began.
The Major rose.
"I am perfectly aware why you have called," said he. "My niece is not
at home."
"No," said the visitor. "I am aware--"
"But," continued the Major, who meant to carry the thing with a high
hand, and give Mr. Spooner clearly to understand what his opinions
were, "she has commissioned me to deal with the matter in her name."
The Rev. John Roland--for it was the Rev. John Roland--looked somewhat
mystified. He failed to see the drift of the Major's observation, and
also did not fail to see that, for some reason, his reception was not
exactly what he would have wished it to be.
"I regret," he began, with the Major standing bolt upright, glancing at
him with an air of a martinet lecturing an unfortunate sub for neglect
of duty, "that it is my painful duty--"
"Sir," said the Major, stiff as a poker, "you need regret nothing."
The Rev. John Roland looked at him. It was very kind of him to say so,
but a little premature.
"I was about to say," he went on, feeling more awkward than he had
intended to feel, "that owing to circumstances----"
"On which we need not enter," said the Major. "Quite so--quite so!"
He rose upon his toes, and sank back on his heels. Mr. Roland began to
blush. He was not a particularly shy man, but under the circumstances
the Major was trying.
"But I was about to remark that----"
"Sir," said the Major, shooting out his right hand towards Mr. Ronald
in an unexpected manner, "once for all, sir, I say that I know all
about it--once for all, sir! And the sooner we come to the point the
better."
"Really," murmured Mr. Roland, "I am at a loss--"
"Then," cried the Major, suddenly flaring up in a way that was even
startling, "let me tell you that I wonder you have the impertinence to
say so. And I may further remark that the sooner you say what you have
to say, and have done with it, the better for both sides."
Thereupon he went stamping up and down the room with heavy strides. Mr.
Roland was so taken aback, that for a moment he was inclined to think
that the Major had been drinking.
"Major Clifford," he said, with an air of dignity which he fondly hoped
would tell, "I came here to speak to you on a matter intimately
connected with your niece's future happiness."
"What the dickens do you mean by your confounded impudence? Do you mean
to insinuate, sir, that my niece's happiness can be affected by your
trumpery nonsense?"
"Sir," said Mr. Roland. "Major!"
There was no doubt about it, the Major must be intoxicated. It was
painful to witness in a man of his years, but what could you expect
from a person of his habits of life? He began to wish he had postponed
his visit to another day.
"Don't Major me! Don't attempt any of your palavering with me! I'm not
a fool, sir, and I am not an idiot, sir, and that's plain, sir!"
"Major," he said--"Major Clifford, I will not tell you----"
"You will not tell me, sir! What the dickens do you mean by you will
not tell me? Do you mean to insult me in my own house, sir?"
Mr. Roland was disposed to think that the insult was all on the other
side, and inclined to fancy that a man who abused another before he
knew either his name or errand, could be nothing but a hopeless
lunatic.
"This pains me," he observed--"pains me more than I can express."
"Well, upon my life!" shouted the Major. "A fellow comes to my house
with the deliberate intention of insulting me and mine, and yet he has
the confounded insolence to tell me that it pains him!"
"Major," Mr. Roland was naturally beginning to feel a little warm, "you
are not sober."
"Sober!" roared the Major. "Not sober! Confound it! this is too much!"
And before the curate knew what was coming, the Major took him by the
collar of his coat, led him from the room, and--let us say, assisted
him down the stairs. The front door was flung open, and, in broad
daylight, the astonished neighbours saw the Rev. John Roland, M.A., of
Caius College, Cambridge, what is commonly called "kicked-out," of
Major Clifford's house.
CHAPTER IV
THE MAJOR'S SORROW
After the Major had disposed of his offensive visitor, he went upstairs
to think the matter over. It began to suggest itself to him that, upon
the whole, he had not, perhaps, been so kind and gentle as Miss Maynard
had advised. But then, as he phrased it, the fellow had been so
confoundedly impertinent.
"Bully me, sir! Bully me!" cried the Major, taking a strong view of Mr.
Roland's, under the circumstances, exceedingly mild deportment. "And
the fellow said I wasn't sober! I never was so insulted in my life."
The Major felt the insinuation keenly, because--for prudential reasons
only--he was rigidly abstemious.
When Miss Maynard returned, she was met at the door by the respected
housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips, and her own maid, Mary Ann.
"Oh, Miss," began Mrs. Phillips, directly the door was opened, "such
goings on I never see in all my life--never in all my days. I thought I
should have fainted."
Miss Maynard turned pale. She thought of the mild, if aggravating,
Spooner, and was fearful that her affectionate relative might in some
degree have forgotten her emphasised directions.
"Oh, Miss Em!" chimed in Mary Ann. "Whatever will come to us I don't
know. If the police were to come and lock us all up, I shouldn't be
surprised. Not a bit, I shouldn't."
"Pray shut the door," observed Miss Maynard, who was still upon the
doorstep. "Come in here, Phillips, and tell me what is the matter."
Miss Maynard looked disturbed. Mr. Spooner was bad enough before, but
he might make things very unpleasant indeed if anything had occurred to
annoy him further.
"Oh, Miss Em, Mr. Roland has been here."
"Mr. Roland!"
"Yes, miss. And there was the Major and he a-shouting at each other,
and the next thing I see was the Major dragging of him downstairs and
a-shoving of him down the front steps."
Miss Maynard sank upon a chair. She seemed nearly fainting.
"Mrs. Phillips, this is awful."
"Awful ain't the word for it, miss. It's a case for the police."
"Mrs. Phillips, this is worse than you can possibly conceive. I must
see the Major."
"The Major's in the drawing-room. Can't you hear him, miss?"
Miss Maynard could hear him stamping overhead as though he were doing
his best to bring the ceiling down.
"Thank you; I will go to him."
She did go to him. But first she went to her own room, shutting the
door carefully behind her. Going to the dressing-table she put her arms
upon it and hid her face within her hands.
"Oh!" she said, "whatever shall I do?" Then she cried. "It's the most
dreadful thing I ever heard of. Oh, how could he find it in his heart
to treat me so?" She ceased crying and dried her eyes, "Never mind,
it's not over yet. If he drives me to despair he shall know it was his
doing."
Then she stood up, took off her hat and coat, washed her face and eyes,
and entered the drawing-room in her best manner.
The Major was alone. He was perfectly aware that Miss Maynard had
returned. He had seen her come up the street, he had heard her enter
the house, but for reasons of his own he had not gone to meet her with
that exuberant warmth with which, occasionally, it was his custom to
greet her. He was in a towering passion. At least, he fully intended to
be in a towering passion, but at the same time he was fully conscious
that, under the circumstances, a towering passion was a very difficult
thing to keep properly towering. And when Miss Maynard entered with the
expression of her countenance so sweet and saintlike, he knew that
there was trouble in the air. He looked at his watch.
"Five-and-twenty minutes to two. Five-and-twenty minutes to two. And we
lunch at half-past one. Those servants are disgraceful!"
And he crossed the room to ring the bell.
"Please don't ring," said Miss Maynard, quite up to the man[oe]uvre. "I
wish to speak to you."
"Oh, oh! Then perhaps you'll remember it is luncheon-time, and when
we're likely to have any regularity in this establishment, perhaps
you'll let me know."
Miss Maynard drew herself up.
"Pray don't attack me," she observed. "I don't wish to be kicked out of
the house."
The Major turned crimson. It was true that someone had been so kicked
that morning, but it was unkind of Miss Maynard to insinuate that he
had any desire to kick her.
"Look here!" he cried, actually shaking his fist at her.
"Don't threaten me," remarked Miss Maynard.
"Threaten you! You leave me at home to meet a scoundrel!"
"How dare you!" exclaimed Miss Maynard, who had momentarily forgotten
whom it was she had left him there to meet.
"How dare I. Well, upon my soul, this is a pretty thing!"
"I had never thought that in a matter in which my happiness was so
involved, my existence so bound up, you could have treated me so
cruelly!"
The Major stared. Like Mr. Roland, he was a little puzzled.
"You tell me that your existence is bound up in that fellow's?"
"Fellow! The fellow is worth twenty thousand such gentleman as you!"
The Major was astounded. The remark amazed him. He really thought Miss
Maynard must be demented, not knowing that Mr. Roland had thought the
same thing of him not long before.
"Oh, Major Clifford, when I am broken-hearted, and you follow me, if
you ever do, to a miserable tomb, then--then may you never know what it
is to be a savage!"
The Major began to be alarmed. He feared Miss Maynard must be seriously
unwell.
"Eh! ah! you--you're not well. You--you don't take enough care.
It's--it's indigestion."
"Indigestion!" cried Miss Maynard, and she sank upon the couch.
"Indigestion! He breaks my heart, and he says it's indigestion!"
She burst into a flood of tears. The Major was terrified.
"Mrs. Philips!" he shouted. "Mary Ann!"
"Don't!" exclaimed Miss Maynard. "Call no one. Let me die alone! You
have robbed me of the man I love!"
"Love!" cried the Major, racking his brains to think where the tinge of
insanity came in the family. "You love Spooner!"
"Spooner!" replied Miss Maynard with contempt. "I love John Roland."
"John Roland!" yelled the Major, thinking that he must be going mad as
well. "Who the deuce is he?"
"He asks me who he is, and he kicked him from his house this morning!"
"I kicked him!" cried the Major, indignant at the charge. "I kicked
Spooner!"
"You did not!" persisted Miss Maynard between her tears. "You kicked
Roland!"
"I kicked Spooner!" said the Major.
"Do you mean to say," enquired Miss Maynard, on whom a light was dimly
breaking, "that you didn't know the gentleman you kicked was Mr.
Roland?"
"Roland!" exclaimed the Major, staggered. "Roland! I swear I thought
the man was Spooner."
"Oh!" gasped Miss Maynard, overwhelmed by the discovery, "Major
Clifford, what have you done?"
"Heaven knows!" groaned the Major as he sank into a chair. "Chanced six
months' hard labour."
There was silence for a few moments then the Major spoke again:
"I know what I'll do, I'll write."
Miss Maynard was agreeable. Getting pens, ink and paper he sat down and
commenced his composition.
"My Dear Sir,
"As an unmitigated idiot and an ungentlemanly ruffian, I am only too
conscious that I am an ass----"
"I don't think I would put unmitigated idiot and ungentlemanly
ruffian," suggested Miss Maynard mildly. "Perhaps Mr. Roland would not
care to marry into a family which contained such characters as that."
"Marry?" said the Major, arresting his pen.
"Yes," replied Miss Maynard. "I think I would put it in this way: 'My
Dear Mr. Roland----'"
"But I never saw the man before. I don't know him from Adam."
"Never mind," said Miss Maynard; "I do."
So the Major wrote as he was told.
"My Dear Mr. Roland,
"I have to apologise for my conduct of this morning, which was entirely
owing to a gross misconception on my part. If you will kindly call at
your earliest convenience I will explain fully. I may say that your
proposition has my heartiest approval--"
"But I don't know what his proposition is," protested the Major.
"Mr. Roland's proposition is that he should marry me," explained Miss
Maynard. There was silence. Miss Maynard prepared to raise her
pocket-handkerchief to her eyes. "Of course, if you wish to break my
heart----"
Then the Major succumbed, and Miss Maynard continued her dictation.
----"and I shall have the greatest pleasure in welcoming you as my
nephew.
"Believe me, with repeated apologies,
Very faithfully yours,
"Arthur Clifford."
Miss Maynard possessed herself of the epistle, and while the Major was
addressing the envelope, added a postscript of her own:
"My Dear Jack,
"You see, I call you Jack for once--my silly old uncle has made a goose
of himself. Please, please come this instant to your own Em, because--I
will not say I want to kiss you. It would be most unseemly in the
afternoon.
"Ever, ever your own
"Em."
This choice epistle, containing additions of which he was unconscious,
the Major packed into an envelope, and, under Miss Maynard's
supervision, dispatched to its destination by a maid. Then they went
down, models of propriety, to luncheon.
It was after that meal, when they were again in the drawing-room, that
there came a knock at the street door. Steps were heard coming up the
stairs.
"It is he!" cried Miss Maynard, with that intuition bestowed upon true
love preparing to receive him in her arms.
Fortunately, however, he eluded her embrace, because the visitor
happened to be Mr. Spooner.
"Mr. Spooner!" cried Miss Maynard.
"Miss--Miss Maynard," said Mr. Spooner, "I--I beg your pardon."
"The Rev. William Spooner--Major Clifford."
Miss Maynard introduced them. The gentlemen looked at each other. At
least, the Major looked at Mr. Spooner. Mr. Spooner, after the first
shy glance, seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet.
"With regard to the purport of your visit," went on Miss Maynard, using
her finest dictionary words, "I have to place in your hands my
resignation of the offices I have hitherto so unworthily held. With
reference to the unfortunately mismanaged--er--book-keeping, to make
that all right"--it was rather a comedown--"Major Clifford wishes to
present you with a donation of," she paused, "of twenty-five guineas."
"Fifty," growled the Major, much disgusted. "For goodness sake, make it
fifty while you are about it!"
"Just so," said Miss Maynard blandly. "The Major is particularly
anxious to make it fifty guineas."
The Major glared at her. If they had been alone, and the circumstances
had been different, he would no doubt have given her a small piece of
his mind. As it was--well, discretion is the better part of valour.
Mr. Spooner began his speech:
"I--I am sure we shall be very happy; I--I should say we shall
exceedingly; that is, no doubt the donation is--is-- At the same time,
Miss--Miss Maynard's services, though--though--"
He went blundering on, Miss Maynard looking at him stonily, raising not
a finger to his help. The Major took his bearings. He was a tall, thin
young gentleman with a white face--which, however, was just now
pinkish--white hair upon the top of his head, and a faint suspicion of
more white hair upon his upper lip. It would have been cruel to apply
assault and battery to one so innocent.
While Mr. Spooner was still stammering, and stuttering there came
another knock at the street door. Miss Maynard gave a slight jump.
There was no mistake about it this time. Somebody came bolting up the
stairs apparently three steps at a time. The door was thrown open.
Somebody entered the room, and in about two seconds in spite of the
assembled company Miss Maynard and the Rev. John Roland were locked
breast to breast. To do the young man justice it was not his idea of
things at all. He was plainly taken a little aback. But the young
woman's enthusiasm was not to be restrained.
"This," explained Miss Maynard, holding Mr. Roland by his coat sleeve,
"this is the Rev. John Roland. John, this is my uncle."
There was a striking difference between the tones in which she made the
two announcements. The two gentlemen bowed. They had had the pleasure
of meeting before. One, if not both, felt a little awkward. But Miss
Maynard did not care two pins how they felt. She transferred her
attentions to Mr. Spooner.
"I am going to leave St. Giles's," she observed; "the service is too
low. I am going to St. Simon Stylites. I suppose, John, I may as well
tell Mr. Spooner that you are going to be my husband."
John was silent. So was Mr. Spooner. The latter was gentleman amazed
not to say indignant. In his heart of hearts he had been persuaded that
Miss Maynard was consumed by a hopeless passion for William Spooner.
"Perhaps Miss Maynard will become treasurer of the Clothing Club at St.
Simon Stylites."
Had it not been a case of two clergyman, Mr. Roland might possibly have
liked to have had a try at knocking Mr. Spooner down. As it was he
refrained.
"If Miss Maynard does so honour us, she at least need fear no insults
from the clergy."
Miss Maynard favoured him with a lovely smile, and Mr. Spooner was
annihilated.
Since then Mr. Roland and Miss Maynard have been united in the bonds of
holy matrimony. The ceremony was performed at St. Simon Stylites, and
the Rev. William Spooner was, after all, one of the officiating clergy.
Mr. Roland is at present Vicar of a parish in the neighbourhood of
Stoke-cum-Poger, of which parish Mrs. Roland is also Vicaress. He is
very "High," and it is darkly whispered that certain courts possessing
very nicely defined spiritual powers have their eyes upon him. Of that
we know nothing, but we do know that he is possessed of a promising
family, and that, not so very long ago, Mrs. Roland presented him with
a second Em.
A Relic of the Borgias
CHAPTER I
Vernon's door was opened, hastily, from within, just as I had my hand
upon the knocker. Someone came dashing out into the street. It was not
until he had almost knocked me backwards into the gutter that I
perceived that the man rushing out of Vernon's house was Crampton.
"My dear Arthur!" I exclaimed. "Whither away so fast?"
He stood and stared at me, the breath coming from him with great
palpitations. Never had I seen him so seriously disturbed.
"Benham," he gasped, "our friend, Vernon, is a scoundrel."
I did not doubt it. I had had no reason to suppose the contrary. But I
did not say so. I held my tongue. Crampton went on, gesticulating, as
he spoke, with both fists clenched; dilating on the cause of his
disorder with as much freedom as if the place had been as private as
the matters of which he treated; apparently forgetful that, all the
time, he stood at the man's street door.
"You know he stole from me my Lilian--promised she should be his wife!
They were to have been married in a month. And now he's jilted
her--thrown her over--as if she were a thing of no account. Made her the
laughing stock of all the town! And for whom do you think, of all the
women in the world? Mary Hartopp--a widow that should know better! It's
not an hour since I was told. I came here straight. And now Mr. Vernon
knows something of my mind."
I could not help but think, as he went striding away, as if he were
beside himself with rage--without giving me a chance to say a
word--that all the world would quickly learn something of it too.
The moment seemed scarcely to be a propitious one for interviewing
Decimus Vernon. He would hardly be in a mood to receive a visitor. But,
as the matter of which I wished to speak to him was of pressing
importance, and another opportunity might not immediately occur, I
decided to approach him as if unconscious of anything untoward having
happened.
As I began to mount the stairs there came stealing, rather than walking
down them, Vernon's man, John Parkes. At sight of me, the fellow
started.
"Oh, Mr. Benham, sir, it's you! I thought it was Mr. Crampton back
again."
I looked at Parkes, who seemed sufficiently upset. I had known the
fellow for years.
"There's been a little argument, eh, Parkes?"
Parkes raised both his hands.
"A little argument, sir! There's been the most dreadful quarrel I ever
heard."
"Where is Mr. Vernon?"
"He's in the library, sir, where Mr. Crampton left him. Shall I go and
tell him that you would wish to see him?"
Parkes eyed me in a manner which plainly suggested that, if he were in
my place, he should wish to do nothing of the kind. I declined his
unspoken suggestion, preferring, also, to announce myself.
I rapped with my knuckles at the library door. There was no answer. I
rapped again. As there was still no response, I opened the door and
entered.
"Vernon?" I cried.
I perceived at a glance that the room was empty. I was aware that,
adjoining this apartment was a room which he fitted up as a bedroom,
and in which he often slept. I saw that the door of this inner room was
open. Concluding that he had gone in there, I went to the threshold and
called "Vernon!"
My call remained unanswered. A little wondering where the man could he,
I peeped inside. My first impression was that this room, like the
other, was untenanted. A second glance, however, revealed a booted
foot, toe upwards, which was thrust out from the other side of the bed.
Thinking that he might be in one of his wild moods, and was playing me
some trick, I called out to him again.
"Vernon, what little game are you up to now?"
Silence. And in the silence there was, as it were, a quality which set
my heart in a flutter. I became conscious of there being, in the air,
something strange. I went right into the room, and I looked down on
Decimus Vernon.
I thought that I had never seen him look more handsome than he did
then, as he lay on his back on the floor, his right arm raised above
his head, his left lying lightly across his breast, an expression on
his face which was almost like a smile, looking, for all the world as
if he were asleep. But I was enough of a physician to feel sure that he
was dead.
For a moment or two I hesitated. I glanced quickly about the room. What
had been his occupation when death had overtaken him seemed plain. On
the dressing table was an open case of rings. Three or four of them lay
in a little heap upon the table. He had, apparently, been trying them
on. I called out, with unintentional loudness--indeed, so loudly, that,
in that presence, I was startled by the sound of my own voice.
"Parkes?"
Parkes came hurrying in.
"Did you call, sir?"
He knew I had called. The muscles of the fellow's face were trembling.
"Mr. Vernon's dead."
"Dead!"
Parkes' jaw dropped open. He staggered backwards.
"Come and look at him."
He did as I told him, unwillingly enough. He stood beside me, looking
down at his master as he lay upon the floor. Words dropped from his
lips.
"Mr. Crampton didn't do it."
I caught the words up quickly.
"Of course he didn't, but--how do you know?"
"I heard Mr. Vernon shout 'Go to the devil' to him as he went
downstairs. Besides, I heard Mr. Vernon moving about the room after Mr.
Crampton had gone."
I gave a sigh of relief. I had wondered. I knelt at Vernon's side. He
was quite warm, but I could detect no pulsation.
"Perhaps, Mr. Benham, sir," suggested Parkes, "Mr. Vernon has fainted,
or had a fit, or something."
"Hurry and fetch a doctor. We shall see."
Parkes vanished. Although my pretensions to medical knowledge are but
scanty, I had no doubt whatever that a doctor would pronounce that
Decimus Vernon was no longer to be numbered with the living. How he had
come by his death was another matter. His expression was so tranquil,
his attitude, as of a man lying asleep upon his back, so natural; that
it almost seemed as if death had come to him in one of those
commonplace forms in which it comes to all of us. And yet----
I looked about me to see if there was anything unusual which
might catch the eye. A scrap of paper, a bottle, a phial, a
syringe--something which might have been used as a weapon. I could detect
no sign of injury on Vernon's person; no bruise upon his head or face; no
flow of blood. Stooping over him, I smelt his lips. There are certain
poisons the scent of which is unmistakable, the odour of some of those
whose effect is the most rapid lingers long after death has intervened.
I have a keen sense of smell, but about the neighbourhood of Decimus
Vernon's mouth there was no odour of any sort or kind. As I rose, there
was the sound of some one entering the room beyond.
"Decimus?"
The voice was a woman's. I turned. Lilian Trowbridge was standing at
the bedroom door. We exchanged stares, apparently startled by each
other's appearance into momentary speechlessness. She seemed to be in a
tremor of excitement. Her lips were parted. Her big, black eyes seemed
to scorch my countenance. She leaned with one hand against the side of
the door, as if seeking for support to enable her to stand while she
regained her breath.
"Mr. Benham--You! Where is Decimus? I wish to speak to him."
Her unexpected entry had caused me to lose my presence of mind. The
violence of her manner did not assist me in regaining it. I stumbled in
my speech.
"If you will come with me into the other room, I will give you an
explanation."
I made an awkward movement forward, my impulse being to conceal from
her what was lying on the floor. She detecting my uneasiness,
perceiving there was something which I would conceal, swept into the
room, straight to where Vernon lay.
"Decimus! Decimus!"
She called to him. Had the tone in which she spoke, then, been in her
voice when she enacted her parts in the dramas of the mimic stage, her
audiences would have had no cause to complain that she was wooden. She
turned to me, as if at a loss to comprehend her lover's silence.
"Is he sleeping?" I was silent. Then, with a little gasp, "Is he dead?"
I still made no reply. She read my meaning rightly. Even from where I
was standing, I could see her bosom rise and fall. She threw out both
her arms in front of her. "I am glad!" she cried, "I am glad that he is
dead!"
She took me, to say the least of it, aback.
"Why should you be glad?"
"Why? Because, now, she will not have him!"
I had forgotten, for the instant, what Crampton had spluttered out upon
the doorstep. Her words recalled it to my mind. "Don't you know that he
lied to me, and I believed his lies."
She turned to Vernon with a gesture of scorn so frenzied, so intense,
that it might almost have made the dead man writhe.
"Now, at any rate, if he does not marry me, he will marry no one else."
Her vehemence staggered me. Her imperial presence, her sonorous voice,
always were, theatrically, among her finest attributes. I had not
supposed that she had it in her to display them to such terrible
advantage. Feeling, as I did feel, that I shared my manhood with the
man who had wronged her, the almost personal application of her fury I
found to be more than a trifle overwhelming. It struck me, even then,
that, perhaps, after all, it was just as well for Vernon that he had
died before he had been compelled to confront, and have it out with,
this latest illustration of a woman scorned.
Suddenly, her mood changed. She knelt beside the body of the man who so
recently had been her lover. She lavished on him terms of even fulsome
endearment.
"My loved one! My darling! My sweet! My all in all!"
She showered kisses on his lips and cheeks, and eyes, and brow. When
the paroxysm had passed--it was a paroxysm--she again stood up.
"What shall I have of his, for my very own? I will have something to
keep his memory green. The things which he gave me--the things which he
called the tokens of his love--I will grind into powder, and consume
with flame."
In spite of herself, her language smacked of the theatre. She looked
round the room, as if searching for something portable, which it might
be worth her while to capture. Her glance fell upon the open case of
rings. With eager eyes she scanned the dead man's person. Kneeling down
again, she snatched at the left hand, which lay lightly on his breast.
On one of the fingers was a cameo ring. On this her glances fastened.
She tore, rather than took it from its place.
"I'll have that! Yes! That!"
She broke into laughter. Rising she held out the ring towards me. I
regarded it intently. At the time, I scarcely knew why. It was, as I
have said, a cameo ring. There was a woman's head cut in white relief,
on a cream ground. It reminded me of Italian work which I had seen, of
about the sixteenth century. The cameo was in a plain, and somewhat
clumsy, gold setting. The whole affair was rather a curio, not the sort
of ring which a gentleman of the present day would be likely to care to
wear.
"Look at it. Observe it closely! Keep it in your mind, so that you may
be sure to know it should you ever chance on it again. Isn't it a
pretty ring--the prettiest ring you ever saw? In memory of him"--she
pointed to what was on the floor behind her--"I will keep it till I
die!"
Again she burst into that hideous, and, as it seemed to me, wholly
meaningless laughter. Her bearing, her whole behaviour, was rather that
of a mad woman, than a sane one. She affected me most unpleasantly. It
was with feelings of unalloyed relief that I heard footsteps entering
the library, and turning, perceived that Parkes had arrived with the
doctor.
CHAPTER II
When Vernon's death became generally known, a great hubbub arose. Mrs.
Hartopp went almost, if not quite, out of her senses. If I remember
rightly, nearly twelve months elapsed before she was sufficiently
recovered to marry Phillimore Baines. The cause of Vernon's death was
never made clear. The doctors agreed to differ; the post-mortem
revealed nothing. There were suggestions of heart-disease; the jury
brought it in valvular disease of the heart. There were whispers of
poison, which, as no traces of any were found in the body, the coroner
pooh-poohed. And, though there were murmurs of its being a case of
suicide, no one, so far as I am aware, hinted at its being a case of
murder.
To the surprise of many people, and to the amusement of more, Arthur
Crampton married Lilian Trowbridge. He had been infatuated with her
all along. His infatuation even survived her yielding to Decimus
Vernon--bitter blow though that had been--and I have reason to believe
that, on the very day on which Vernon was buried, he asked her to be
his wife. Whether she cared for him one snap of her finger is more than
I should care to say; I doubt it, but, at least, she consented. At very
short notice she quitted the stage, and, as Mrs. Arthur Crampton, she
retired into private life. Her married life was a short, if not a merry
one. Within twelve months of her marriage, in giving birth to a daughter,
Mrs. Crampton died.
I had seen nothing since their marriage either of her or her husband. I
was therefore the more surprised when, about a fortnight after her
death, there came to me a small package, accompanied by a note from
Arthur Crampton. The note was brief almost to the point of curtness.
Dear Benham,--
My wife expressed a wish that you should have, as a memorial of her, a
sealed packet which would be found in her desk.
I hand you the packet precisely as I found it.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur Crampton.
Within an outer wrapper of coarse brown paper was an inner covering of
cartridge paper, sealed with half a dozen seals. Inside the second
enclosure was a small, duodecimo volume, in a tattered binding. Half a
dozen leaves at the beginning were missing. There was nothing on the
cover. What the book was about, or why Mrs. Crampton had wished that I
should have it, I had not the faintest notion. The book was printed in
Italian--my acquaintance with Italian is colloquial, of the most
superficial kind. It was probably a hundred years old, and more. Nine
pages about the middle of the volume were marked in a peculiar fashion
with red ink, several passages being trebly underscored. My curiosity
was piqued. I marched off with the volume there and then, to a bureau
of translation.
There they told me that the book was an old, and possibly, valuable
treatise, on Italian poisons and Italian poisoners. They translated for
me the passages which were underscored. The passages in question dealt
with the pleasant practice with which the Borgias were credited of
having destroyed their victims by means of rings--poison rings. One
passage in particular purported to be a minute description of a famous
cameo ring which was supposed to have belonged to the great Lucrezia
herself.
As I read a flood of memory swept over me--what I was reading was an
exact description, so far as externals went at any rate, of the cameo
ring, which I had seen Lilian Trowbridge remove after he was dead from
one of the fingers of Decimus Vernon's left hand. I recalled the
frenzied exultation with which she had thrust it on my notice, her
almost demoniac desire that I should impress it on my recollection.
What did it mean? What was I to understand? For three or four days I
was in a state of miserable indecision. Then I resolved I would keep
still. The man and the woman were both dead. No good purpose would be
served by exposing old sores. I put the book away, and I never looked
at it again for nearly eighteen years.
The consciousness that his wife had spoken to me, with such a voice
from the grave, did not tend to increase my desire to cultivate an
acquaintance with Arthur Crampton. But I found that circumstances
proved stronger than I. Crampton was a lonely man, his marriage had
estranged him from many of his friends; now that his wife had gone he
seemed to turn more and more to me as the one person on whose friendly
offices he could implicitly rely. I learned that I was incapable of
refusing what he so obviously took for granted. The child, which had
cost the mother her life, grew and flourished. In due course of time
she became a young woman, with all her mother's beauty, and more
than her mother's charms: for she had what her mother had always
lacked--tenderness, sweetness, femininity. Before she was eighteen she
was engaged to be married. The engagement was in all respects an ideal
one. On her eighteenth birthday, it was to be announced to the world.
A ball was to be given, at which half the county was expected to be
present, and the day before, I went down, prepared to take my share in
the festivities.
In the evening, Crampton, his daughter, Charlie Sandys, which was the
name of the fortunate young gentleman, and I were together in the
drawing-room. Crampton, who had vanished for some seconds, re-appeared,
bearing in both his hands, with something of a flourish, a large
leather case. It looked to me like an old-fashioned jewel case. Which,
indeed, it was. Crampton turned to his daughter.
"I am going to give you part of your birthday present to-day,
Lilian--these are some of your mother's jewels."
The girl was in an ecstacy of delight, as what girl of her age would
not have been? The case contained jewels enough to stock a shop. I
wondered where some of them had come from--and if Crampton knew more of
the source of their origin than I did. Wholly unconscious that there
might be stories connected with some of the trinkets which might not be
pleasant hearing, the girl, girl-like, proceeded to try them on. By the
time she had finished they were all turned out upon the table. The box
was empty. She announced the fact.
"There! That's all!"
Her lover took up the empty case.
"No secret repositories, or anything of that sort? Hullo!--speak of
angels!--what's this?"
"What's what?"
The young girl's head and her lover's were bent together over the empty
box. Sandys' fingers were feeling about inside it.
"Is this a dent in the leather, or is there something concealed beneath
it?"
What Sandys referred to was sufficiently obvious. The bottom of the box
was flat, except in one corner, where a slight protuberance suggested,
as Sandys said, the possibility of there being something concealed
beneath. Miss Crampton, already excited by her father's gift, at once
took it for granted that it was the case.
"How lovely!" she exclaimed. She clapped her hands. "I do believe
there's a secret hiding-place."
If there was, it threatened to baffle our efforts at discovery. We all
tried our hands at finding, it, but tried in vain. Crampton gave it up.
"I'll have the case examined by an expert. He'll soon be able to find
your secret hiding-place, though, mind you, I don't say that there is
one."
There was an exclamation from young Sandys.
"Don't you? Then you'd be safe if you did, because there is!"
Miss Crampton looked eagerly over his shoulder.
"Have you found it? Yes! Oh, Charlie! Is there anything inside?"
"Rather, there's a ring. What a queer old thing! Whatever made your
mother keep it hidden away in there?"
I knew, in an instant. I recognised it, although I had only seen it
once in my life, and that once was sundered by the passage of nineteen
years. Mr. Sandys was holding in his hand the cameo ring which I had
seen Lilian Trowbridge remove from Decimus Vernon's finger, and which
was own brother to the ring described in the tattered volume, which she
had directed her husband to send me--"as a memory"--as having been one
of Lucrezia Borgia's pretty playthings. I was so confounded by the rush
of emotions occasioned by its sudden discovery, that, for the moment, I
was tongue-tied.
Sandys turned to Miss. Crampton.
"It's too large for you. It's large enough for me. May I try it on?"
I hastened towards him. The prospect of what might immediately ensue
spurred me to inarticulate speech.
"Don't! For God's sake, don't! Give that ring to me, sir!"
They stared at me, as well they might. My sudden and, to them,
meaningless agitation was a bolt from the blue. Young Sandys withdrew
from me the hand which held the ring.
"Give it to you?--why?--is it, yours?"
As I confronted the young fellow's smiling countenance, I felt myself
to be incapable, on the instant, of arranging my thoughts in sufficient
order to enable me to give them adequate expression. I appealed for
help to Crampton.
"Crampton, request Mr. Sandys to give me that ring. I implore you to do
as I ask you. Any explanation which you may require, I will give you
afterwards."
Crampton looked at me, open-mouthed, in silence. He never was
quick-witted. My excitement seemed to amuse his daughter.
"What is the matter with you, Mr. Benham?" She turned to her lover.
"Charlie, do let me see this marvellous ring."
I renewed my appeal to her father.
"Crampton, by all that you hold dear, I entreat you not to allow your
daughter to put that ring upon her finger."
Crampton assumed a judicial air--or what he intended for such.
"Since Benham appears to be so very much in earnest--though I confess
that I don't know what there is about the ring to make a fuss
for--perhaps, Lilian, by way of a compromise, you will give the ring
to me."
"One moment, papa: I think that, as Charley says, it is too large for
me."
I dashed forward. Mr. Sandys, mistaking my purpose, or, possibly,
supposing I was mad, interposed; and, in doing so, killed the girl he
was about to marry. Before I could do anything to prevent her, she had
slipped the ring upon her finger. She held out her hand for us to see.
"It is too large for me--look."
She touched the ring with the fingers of her other hand. In doing so,
no doubt, unconsciously, she pressed the cameo. A startled look came on
her face. She gazed about her with a bewildered air. And she cried, in
a tone of voice which, long afterwards, was ringing in my ears.
"Mamma!"
Ere we could reach her, she had fallen to the ground. We bent over her,
all three of us, by this time, sufficiently in earnest. She lay on her
back, her right hand above her head; her left, on one of the fingers of
which was the ring, resting lightly on her breast. There was the
expression of something like a smile upon her face, and she looked as
if she slept. But she was dead.
THE END
* * * * *
W. JOLLY & SONS PRINTERS ABERDEEN
End of Project Gutenberg's Between the Dark and the Daylight, by Richard Marsh