THE CUP AT THE LIP.
The ten days which followed the events just described were long
remembered in Claversham with fondness and regret. The accident at
Baerton, and the strange position of affairs at the rectory, falling
out together, created intense excitement in the town. The gossips had
for once as much to talk about as the idlest could wish, and found,
indeed, so much to say on the one side and the other that the grocer,
it was rumored, ordered in a fresh supply of tea, and the two bakers
worked double tides at making crumpets and Sally Lunns, and still
lagged behind the demand. Old Peggy from the almshouse hung about the
churchyard half the day, noting who called at the rector’s, and took as
much interest in her task as if her weekly dole had depended on Mr.
Lindo’s fortunes; while every one who could lay the least claim to
knowing more than his neighbors became for the time the object of as
many attentions as a London belle.
The archdeacon drove in and out daily. Once the rumor got abroad that
he had gone to see Lord Dynmore; and more than once it was said that he
was away at the palace conferring with the bishop. Those most concerned
walked the streets with the faces of sphinxes. The curate and the
rector were known to be on the most distant terms; and to put an edge
on curiosity, already keen, Mrs. Hammond was twice seen talking to Mr.
Bonamy in the street.
Even the poor colliers’ funeral, though a great number of the townsmen
trooped out to the bleak little churchyard on Baer Hill to witness
it—and to be rewarded by the sight of the young rector reading the
service in the midst of a throng of bareheaded pitmen such as no
Claversham eye had ever seen before—even this, which in ordinary times
would have furnished food for talk for a month, at least, went for
little now. It was discussed, indeed, for an evening, and then recalled
only for the sake of the light which it was supposed to throw upon the
rector’s fate.
That gentleman, indeed, continued to present to the public an unmoved
face. But in private, in the seclusion of his study—the lordly room
which he had prized and appreciated from the first, taking its spacious
dignity as the measure of his success—he wore no mask. There he had—as
all men have, the man of destiny and the conscript alike—his solitary
hours of courage and depression, anxiety and resignation. Of hope also;
for even now—let us not paint him greater than he was—he clung to the
possibility that Lord Dynmore, whom every one agreed in describing as
irascible and hasty, but generous at bottom, would refuse to receive
his resignation of the living, and this in such terms as would enable
him to remain without sacrificing his self-respect. There would be a
victory indeed, and at times he could not help dwelling on the thought
of it.
Consequently, when Mrs. Baker, four days after the funeral, ushered in
the archdeacon, and the young rector, turning at his writing-table,
read his fate in the old gentleman’s eyes, the news came upon him with
crushing weight. Yet he did not give way. He rose and welcomed his
visitor with a brave face. “So the bearer of the bow-string has come at
last!” he said lightly, as the two met on the hearth-rug.
The archdeacon held his hand a few seconds longer than was necessary.
“Yes,” he said, “I am afraid that is about what I am. I am sorry to
bring you such news, Lindo—more sorry than I can tell you.” And, having
got so far, he dropped his hat and picked it up again in a great hurry,
and for a moment did not look at his companion.
“After all,” the rector said manfully, “it is the only news I had a
right to expect.”
“There is something in that,” the archdeacon admitted, sitting down.
“That is so, perhaps. All the same,” he went on, looking about him
unhappily, and rubbing his head in ill-concealed irritation, “if I had
known how the earl would take it, I should not have advised you to make
any concessions. No, I should not. But, there, he is an odd man—odder
than I thought.”
“He accepts my offer to resign, of course?”
“Yes.”
“And that is all?” the rector said, a little huskiness in his tone.
“That is all,” the archdeacon replied, rubbing his head again. It was
plain that he had hard work to keep his vexation within bounds.
“Well, I must not complain because he has taken me at my word,” the
rector said, recovering himself a little.
“Well, I hoped the bishop might have had a word to say to it,” the
archdeacon grumbled. “But he had not, and I could not get to see his
wife. He spoke very highly of your conduct, but he did not see his way
clear, he said, to interfering.”
“I scarcely see how he could,” Lindo answered slowly.
“Well, I do not know. Bonamy’s representation in the church-wardens’
names was very strong—very strong indeed, coming from them, you know.”
Lindo reddened. “There is an odd man for you, if you like,” he said
impulsively. He was glad, perhaps, to change the subject. “He has
scarcely said a civil word to me since I came. He even began an action
against me. Yet when this happened he turned round and in his way
fought for me.”
“Well, that is Bonamy all over!” the archdeacon answered, almost with
enthusiasm. “He is rough and crabbed, but he has the instincts of a
gentleman, which are the greater credit to him, since he is a self-made
man. I think I can tell you something about him, though, which you do
not know.”
“Indeed?” said Lindo mechanically.
“Yes. It has to do with your letter, too. I had it from Lord Dynmore.
In the first flush of his anger, it seems, he went to Bonamy and
directed him to take the necessary steps to eject you. He is not the
earl’s solicitor, and he must have seen an excellent opportunity of
getting hold of the Dynmore business through this. He could not but see
it. Nevertheless, he declined.”
“Why?” asked the rector shortly.
The archdeacon shrugged his shoulders. “Ah! that I cannot say,” he
answered. “I only know that he did, putting forward some scruple or
other which sent the earl off almost foaming with rage; and, of course,
sent off with him Bonamy’s chance of his business.”
“He is a strange man!” Lindo sighed as he spoke.
The archdeacon took a turn up the room. “Now,” he said, coming back, “I
want to talk to you about another man.”
“Clode?” muttered the rector.
“Well, yes; you have guessed it,” the elder clergyman assented. “The
truth is, I am to offer him the living if you report well of him.”
“I do not like him,” Lindo said briefly.
“To be candid,” replied the other as briefly, “neither do I, now.”
To that Lindo for a moment said nothing. The young man had fallen into
an old attitude, and stood with his foot on the fender, his head bent,
his eyes fixed on the fire. He was passing through a temptation. Here
was a brave vengeance ready to his hand. The man who had behaved badly,
heartlessly, disloyally to him, who had taken part against him, and
been hard and unfriendly from the moment of Lord Dynmore’s return, was
now in his power. He had only to say that he distrusted Clode, that he
suspected him of being unscrupulous, even that their connection had not
been satisfactory to himself—and the thing was done. Clode would not
have the living.
Yet he hesitated to say those words. He felt that the thing was a
temptation.
He remembered that Clode had worked well in the parish, and that his
only offence was a private one. And, not at once, but after a pause, he
gulped down the temptation, and, looking up with a flushed face, spoke.
“Yes,” he said, “I must report well of him—in the parish, that is. He
is a good worker. I am bound to say as much as that, I think.”
The archdeacon shrugged his shoulders once more. “Right!” he said, with
a certain curtness which hid his secret disgust. “I suppose that is
all, then. Will you come with me and tell him?”
“No,” the rector answered very decidedly, “certainly I will not.”
“It will look well,” the other still suggested.
“No,” Lindo replied again, almost in anger, “I cannot sincerely
congratulate the man, and I will not!”
Nor would he budge from that resolve; and when the archdeacon called at
the curate’s lodgings a few minutes later, he called alone. The man he
sought was out, however. “Mr. Clode is at the Reading-Room, I think,
sir,” the landlady said, with her deepest courtesy. And thither,
accordingly, after a moment’s hesitation, the archdeacon went.
The gas in the big, barely-furnished room, which we have visited more
than once, had just been lit, but the blinds still remained up; and in
this mingling of lights the place looked less home-like and more
uncomfortable than usual. There were three people in the room when the
archdeacon entered. Two sat reading by the fire, their backs to the
door. The third—the future rector—was standing up near one of the
windows, taking advantage of the last rays of daylight to read the
_Times_, which he held open before him. The archdeacon cast a casual
glance at the others, and then stepped across to him and touched him on
the shoulder.
Clode turned with a start. He had not heard the approaching footstep.
One glance at the newcomer’s face, however, set his blood in a glow. It
told him, or almost told him, all; and instinctively he dropped his
eyes, that the other might not read in them his triumph and exultation.
The archdeacon’s first words confirmed him in his hopes. “I have some
good news for you, Mr. Clode,” he said, smiling benevolently. He had of
late distrusted the curate, as we have seen; but he was a man of kindly
nature, and such a man cannot convey good tidings without entering into
the recipient’s feelings. “I saw Lord Dynmore yesterday,” he continued.
“Indeed,” said the curate a little thickly. His face had grown hot, but
the increasing darkness concealed this.
“Yes,” the archdeacon resumed, in a confidential tone which was yet
pretty audible through the room. “You have heard, no doubt, that Mr.
Lindo has resigned the living?”
The curate nodded. At that moment he dared not speak. A dreadful
thought was in his mind. What if the archdeacon’s good news was news
that the earl declined to receive the resignation? Some people might
call that good news! The mere thought struck him dumb.
The archdeacon’s next words resolved his doubts. “Frankly,” the elder
man said in a genial tone, “I am sorry—sorry that circumstances have
forced him to take so extreme a step. But having said that, Mr. Clode,
I have done for the present with regret, and may come to pleasanter
matter. I have to congratulate you. I am happy to say that Lord
Dynmore, whom I saw yesterday, has authorized me to offer the living to
you.”
The newspaper rustled in the curate’s grasp, and for a moment he did
not answer. Then he said huskily, “To me?”
“Yes,” the archdeacon answered expansively—it was certainly a pleasant
task he had in hand, and he could not help beaming over it. “To you,
Mr. Clode. On one condition only,” he continued, “which is usual enough
in all such cases, and I venture to think is particularly natural in
this case. I mean that you have your late rector’s good word.”
“Mr. Lindo’s good word?” the curate stammered.
“Of course,” the unconscious archdeacon answered.
The curate’s jaw dropped; but by an effort he forced a ghastly smile.
“To be sure,” he said. “There will be no difficulty about that, I
think.”
“No,” replied the other, “for I have just seen him, and can say at once
that he is prepared to give it you. He has behaved throughout in a most
generous manner, and the consequence is that I have nothing more to do
except to offer you my congratulations on your preferment.”
For a moment Clode could scarcely believe in his happiness. In the
short space of two minutes he had tasted to the full both the pleasure
of hope and the pang of despair. Could it be that all that was over
already? That the period of waiting and uncertainty was past and gone?
That the prize to which he had looked so long—and with the prize the
woman he loved—was his at last?—was actually in his grasp?
His head reeled, great as was his self-control, and a haze rose before
his eyes. As this passed away he became conscious that the archdeacon
was shaking his hand with great heartiness, and that the thing was
real! He was rector, or as good as rector, of Claversham. The object of
his ambition was his! He was happy: perhaps it was the happiest moment
of his life. He had even time to wonder whether he could not do Lindo a
good turn—whether he could not somehow make it up to him.
“You are very good,” he muttered, gratefully pressing the archdeacon’s
hand.
“I am glad it is not a stranger,” that gentleman replied heartily.
“Oh,” he continued, turning and speaking in a different tone, “is that
you, Mr. Bonamy? Well, there can be no harm in your hearing the news
also. You are people’s warden, of course, and have a kind of claim to
hear it early. To be sure you have.”
“What is the news?” Mr. Bonamy asked rather shortly. He had risen and
drawn near unnoticed, Jack Smith behind him. “Do I understand that Lord
Dynmore has accepted the rector’s resignation?”
“That is so.”
“And that he proposes to present Mr. Clode?” the lawyer continued,
looking at the curate as he named him.
“Precisely,” replied the archdeacon, without hesitation.
“I hope you have no objection, Mr. Bonamy,” said the curate, bowing
slightly with a gracious air. He could afford to be gracious now. He
even felt good—as men in such moments do.
But in the lawyer’s response there was no graciousness, nor much
apparent goodness. “I am afraid,” he said, standing up gaunt and stiff,
with a scowl on his face, “that I must take advantage of that saving
clause, Mr. Clode. I am people’s warden, as the archdeacon says, and
frankly I object to your appointment—to your appointment as rector
here.”
“You object!” the curate stammered, between wrath and wonder.
“Bless me!” exclaimed the archdeacon in unmixed astonishment. “What do
you mean?”
“Just what I say. I object,” repeated the lawyer firmly. This time
Clode said nothing, but his eyes flashed, and he drew himself up, his
face dark with passion. “Shall I state my objection now?” Mr. Bonamy
continued, with the utmost gravity. “It is not quite formal, but—very
well, I will do so. I have rather a curious story to tell, and I must
go back a short time. When Mr. Lindo’s honesty in accepting the living
was called in question about a month ago, he referred to the letters in
which Lord Dynmore’s agents conveyed the offer to him. He had those
letters by him. Naturally, he had preserved them with care, and he
began to regard them in the light of valuable evidence on his behalf,
since they showed the facts brought to his knowledge when he accepted
the living. I have said that he had preserved them with care; and,
indeed, he is prepared to say to-day, that from the time of his arrival
here until now, they have never, with his knowledge or consent, passed
out of his possession.”
The lawyer’s rasping voice ceased for a moment. Stephen Clode’s face
was a shade paler, but away from the gas-jets this could not be
distinguished. He was arming himself to meet whatever shock was to
come, while below this voluntary action of the brain his mind ran in an
undercurrent of fierce, passionate anger against himself—anger that he
had ever meddled with those fatal letters. Oh, the folly, the
uselessness, the danger of that act, as he saw them now!
“Nevertheless,” Mr. Bonamy resumed in the same even, pitiless tone,
“when Mr. Lindo referred to these letters—which he kept, I should add,
in a locked cupboard in his library—he found that the first in date,
and the most important of them all, had been mutilated.”
The curate’s brow cleared. “What on earth,” he broke out, “has this to
do with me, Mr. Bonamy?” And he laughed—a laugh of relief and triumph.
The lawyer’s last words had lifted a weight from his heart. They had
found a mare’s nest after all.
“Quite so!” the archdeacon chimed in with good-natured fussiness. “What
has all this to do with the matter in hand, or with Mr. Clode, Mr.
Bonamy? I fail to see.”
“In a moment I will show you,” the lawyer answered. Then he paused,
and, taking a letter-case form his pocket, leisurely extracted from it
a small piece of paper. “I will first ask Mr. Clode,” he continued, “to
tell us if he supplied Mr. Lindo with the names of a firm of Birmingham
solicitors.”
“Certainly I did,” replied the curate haughtily.
“And you gave him their address, I think?”
“I did.”
“Perhaps you can tell me, then, whether that is the address you wrote
for him,” continued the lawyer smoothly, as he held out the paper for
the curate’s inspection.
“It is,” Clode answered at once. “I wrote it for Mr. Lindo, in my own
room, and gave it him there. But I fail to see what all this has to do
with the point you have raised,” he continued with considerable heat.
“It has just this to do with it, Mr. Clode,” the lawyer answered drily,
a twinkle in his eyes—“that this address is written on the reverse side
of the very piece of paper which is missing from Mr. Lindo’s letter—the
important letter I have described. And I wish to ask you, and I think
it will be to your interest to give as clear an answer to the question
as possible, how you came into possession of this scrap of paper.”
The curate glared at his questioner. “I do not understand you,” he
stammered. And he held out his hand for the paper.
“I think you will when you look at both sides of the sheet,” replied
the lawyer, handing it to him. “On one side there is the address you
wrote. On the other are the last sentence and signature of a letter
from Messrs. Gearns & Baker to Mr. Lindo. The question is a very simple
one. How did you get possession of this piece of paper?”
Clode was silent—silent, though he knew that the archdeacon was looking
at him, and that a single hearty spontaneous denial might avert
suspicion. He stood holding the paper in his hand, and gazing stupidly
at the damning words, utterly unable to comprehend for the moment how
they came to be there. Little by little, however, as the benumbing
effects of the surprise wore off, his thoughts went back to the evening
when the address was written, and he remembered how the rector had come
in and surprised him, and how he had huddled away the letters. In his
disorder, no doubt, he had left one lying among his own papers, and
made the fatal mistake of tearing from it the scrap on which he had
written the address.
He saw it all as he stood there, still gazing at the piece of paper,
while his rugged face grew darkly red and then again a miserable
sallow, and the perspiration sprang out upon his forehead. He felt that
the archdeacon’s eyes were upon him, that the archdeacon was waiting
for him to speak. He saw the mistake he had made, but his brain,
usually so ready, failed to supply him with the explanation he
required.
“You understand?” Mr. Bonamy said slowly. “The question is, how this
letter came to be in your room that evening, Mr. Clode. That is the
question.”
“I cannot say,” he answered huskily. He was so shaken by the unexpected
nature of the attack, and by the strange and ominous way in which the
evidence against him had arisen, that he had not the courage to look up
and face his accuser. “I think—nay, I am sure, indeed—that the rector
must have given me the paper,” he explained, after an awkward pause.
“He is positive he did not,” Mr. Bonamy answered.
Then Clode recovered himself and looked up. After all, it was only his
word against another’s. “Possibly he is,” he said, “and yet he may be
mistaken. I cannot otherwise see how the paper could have come into my
hands. You do not really mean,” he continued with a smile, which was
almost easy, “to charge me with stealing the letter, I suppose?”
“Well, to be quite candid, I do,” Mr. Bonamy replied curtly. Nor was
this unexpected slap in the face rendered more tolerable by the
qualification he hastened to add—“or getting it stolen.”
The curate started. “This is not to be borne,” he cried hotly. He
looked at the archdeacon as if expecting him to interfere. But he found
that gentleman’s face grave and troubled, and, seeing he must expect no
help from him at present, he continued, “Do you dare to make so serious
an accusation on such evidence as this, Mr. Bonamy?”
“On that,” the lawyer replied, pointing to the paper, “and on other
evidence besides.”
The curate flinched. Had they found Felton, the earl’s servant? Had
they any more scraps of paper—any more self-wrought damning evidence of
that kind? It was only by an effort, which was apparent to one at least
of his hearers, that he gathered himself together, and answered, with a
show of promptitude and ease, “Other evidence? What, I ask? Produce
it!”
“Here it is,” said Mr. Bonamy, pointing to Jack Smith, who had been
standing at his elbow throughout the discussion.
“What has he to do with it?” Clode muttered with dry lips.
“Only this,” the barrister said quietly, addressing himself to the
archdeacon. “That some time ago I saw Mr. Clode replace a packet in the
cupboard in the rector’s library. He only discovered my presence in the
room when the cupboard door was open, and his agitation on observing me
struck me as strange. Afterward I made inquiries of Mr. Lindo, without
telling him my reason, and learned that Mr. Clode had no business at
that cupboard—which was, in fact, devoted to the rector’s private
papers.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Clode, you will explain that,” said the lawyer with quiet
triumph.
He might have denied it had he spoken out at once. He might have given
Jack the lie. But he saw with sudden and horrible clearness how this
thing fitted that other thing, and this evidence corroborated that; and
he lost his presence of mind, and for a moment stood speechless,
glaring at his new accuser. He did not need to look at the archdeacon
to be sure that his face was no longer grave only, but stern and
suspicious. The gas-jets flared before his eyes and dazzled him. The
room seemed to be turning. He could not answer. It was only when he had
stood for an age, as it seemed to him, dumb and self-convicted before
those three faces, that he summoned up courage to mutter, “It is false.
It is all false, I say!” and to stamp his foot on the floor.
But no one answered him, and he quailed. His nerves were shaken. He,
who on ordinary occasions prided himself on his tact and management,
dared not now urge another word in his own defence lest some new piece
of evidence should arise to give him the lie. The meaning silence of
his accusers and his own conscience were too much for him. And,
suddenly snatching up his hat, which lay on a chair beside him, he
rushed from the room.
He had not gone fifty yards along the pavement before he recognized the
mad folly of this retreat—the utter surrender of all his hopes and
ambitions which it meant. But it was too late. The strong man had met a
stronger. His very triumph and victory had gone some way toward undoing
him, by rendering him more open to surprise and less prepared for
sudden attack. Now it was too late to do more than repent. He saw that.
Hurrying through the darkness, heedless whither he went, he invented a
dozen stories to explain his conduct. But always the archdeacon’s grave
face rose before him, and he rejected the clever fictions and the
sophisms in support of them, which his ingenuity was now so quick to
suggest.
How he cursed the madness, the insensate folly, which had wrecked him!
Had he only let matters take their own course and stood aside, he would
have gained his ends! For a minute and a half he had been as good as
rector of Claversham. And now!
Laura Hammond, crossing the hall after tea, heard the outer door open
behind her, and, feeling the cold gust of air which entered, stopped
and turned, and saw him standing on the mat. He had let himself in in
this way on more than one occasion before, and it was not that which in
a moment caused her heart to sink. She had been expecting him all day,
for she knew the crisis was imminent, and had been hourly looking for
news. But she had not been expecting him in this guise. There was a
strange disorder in his air and manner. He was wet and splashed with
mud. He held his hat in his hand, as if he had been walking bareheaded
in the rain. His eyes shone with a wild light, and he looked at her
oddly. She turned and went toward him. “Is it you?” she said timidly.
“Oh, yes, it is I,” he answered, with a forced laugh. “I want to speak
to you.” And he let drop the _portière_, which he had hitherto held in
his hand.
There was a light in the breakfast-room, which opened on the hall, and
she led the way into that room. He followed her and closed the door
behind him. She pointed to a chair, but he did not take it. “What is
it?” she said, looking up at him in real alarm. “What is the matter,
Stephen?”
“Everything!” he answered, with another laugh. “I am leaving
Claversham.”
“You are leaving?” she said incredulously.
“Yes, leaving!” he answered.
“To-night?” she stammered.
“Well, not to-night,” he answered, with rude irony. “To-morrow. I have
been within an ace of getting the living, and I—I have lost it. That is
all.”
Her cheek turned a shade paler, and she laid one hand on the table to
steady herself. “I am so sorry,” she murmured.
He did not see her tremor; he heard only her words, and he resented
them bitterly. “Have you nothing more to say than that?” he cried.
She had much more to say—or, rather, had she said all that was in her
mind she would have had. But his tone helped her to recover
herself—helped her to play the part on which she had long ago decided.
In her way she loved this man, and her will had melted at sight of him,
standing downcast and defeated before her. Had he attacked her on the
side of her affections he might have done much—he might have prevailed.
But his hard words recalled her to her natural self. “What would you
have me say?” she answered, looking steadily across the table at him.
Something, she began to see, had happened besides the loss of the
living—something which had hurt him sorely. And as she discerned this,
she compared his dishevelled, untidy dress with the luxury of the room,
and shivered at the thought of the precipice on the brink of which she
had paused.
He did not answer.
“What would you have me say?” she repeated more firmly.
“If you do not know, I cannot teach you,” he retorted, with a sneer.
“You have no right to say that,” she replied bravely. “You remember our
compact.”
“You intend to keep to it?” he answered scornfully.
She had no doubt about that now, and she summoned up her courage by an
effort. “Certainly I do,” she murmured. “I thought you understood me. I
tried to make my meaning clear.”
Clode did not answer her at once. He stood looking at her, his eyes
glowing. He knew that his only hope, if hope there might be, lay in
gaining some word from her now—now, before any rumor to his
disadvantage should get abroad in the town. But his temper, long
restrained, was so infuriated by disappointment and defeat, that for
the moment love did not prevail with him. He knew that a tender word
might do much, but he could not frame it. When he did at last find
tongue it was only to say, “And that is your final decision?”
“It is,” she answered in a low voice. She did not dare to look up at
him.
“And all you have to say to me?”
“Yes. Except that I wish you well. I shall always wish you well, Mr.
Clode,” she muttered.
“Thank you,” he answered coldly.
So coldly, and with so much composure, that she did not guess the gust
of hatred of all things and all men which was in his heart. He was
beside himself with love, rage, disappointment. For a moment longer he
stood gazing at her downcast face. But she did not look up at him; and
presently, in a strange silence, he turned and went out of the room.