Between the Dark and the Daylight

by Richard Marsh

  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, ho 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 £200 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 s
oothes 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—"