Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “What does she want, Mrs. Baxter?” he asked.

  “Husband is dying, sir,” the old lady replied briefly.

  “Do you know her at all?”

  “No, sir. She is as poor a piece as I have ever seen. She says that she could not have come out, for want of clothes, if it had not been for the fog. And they are not particular here, as I know — the hussies!”

  “Say that I shall be ready to go with her in less than five minutes,” the young clergyman answered. “And here! Give her some tea, Mrs. Baxter. The pot is half full.”

  He bustled about; but nevertheless the message and the business he was now upon had sobered him, and as he buttoned up the letter in his breast-pocket, his face was grave. He was a tall young man, fair, with regular features, and curling hair cut rather short. His eyes were blue and pleasantly bold; and in his every action and in his whole carriage there was a great appearance of confidence and self-possession. Taking a book and a small case from a side-table, he put on his overcoat and went out. A moment, and the dense fog swallowed him up, and with him the tattered bundle of rags, which had a husband, and very likely had nothing else in the world of her own. Tamplin’s Rents not affecting us, we may skip a few hours, and then go westward with him as far as the Temple, which in the East India Dock Road is considered very far west indeed by those who have ever heard of it.

  Here he sought a dingy staircase in Fig-tree Court, and, mounting to the second floor, stopped before a door which was adorned by about a dozen names, painted in white on a black ground. He knocked loudly, and, a small boy answering his summons with great alacrity and importance, our friend asked for Mr. Smith, and was promptly ushered into a room about nine feet square, in which, at a table covered with papers and open books, sat a small, dark-complexioned man, very keen and eager in appearance, who looked up with an air of annoyance.

  “Who is it, Fred?” he said impatiently, moving one of the candles, which the fog still rendered necessary, although it was high noon. “I am engaged at present.”

  “Mr. Lindo to see you, sir,” the boy announced, with a formality very funny in a groom of the chambers about four feet high.

  The little man’s countenance instantly changed, and he jumped up grinning. “Is it you, old boy?” he said. “Sit down, old fellow! I thought it might be my own solicitor, and it is well to be prepared, you know.”

  “But you are not really busy?” said the visitor, looking at him doubtfully.

  “Well, I am and I am not,” replied Mr. Smith; and, deftly tipping aside the books, he disclosed some slips of manuscript. “It is an article for the ‘Cornhill,’” he continued; “but whether it will ever appear there is another matter. You have come to lunch, of course? And now, what is your news?”

  He was so quick and eager that he reminded people who saw him for the first time of a rat. When they came to know him better, they found that a stauncher friend than Jack Smith was not to be found in the Temple. With this he had the reputation of being a clever, clear-headed man, and his sound common-sense was almost a proverb. Observing that Lindo did not answer him, he repeated, “Is anything amiss, old fellow?”

  “Well, not quite amiss,” Lindo answered, his face flushing a little. “But the fact is” — taking the letter from the breast-pocket— “that I have had the offer of a living, Jack.”

  Smith leaped up and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “By Jove! old man,” he exclaimed heartily, “I am glad of it! Right glad of it! You must have had enough of that slumming. But I hope it is a better living than mine,” he continued, with a comical glance round the tiny room. “Let us have a look! What is it? Two hundred and a house?”

  Lindo handed the letter to him. It was written from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and was dated the preceding day. It ran thus:

  “Dear Sir: — We are instructed by our client, the Right Honorable the Earl of Dynmore, to invite your acceptance of the living of Claversham in the county of Warwick, vacant by the death on the 15th instant of the Rev. John Williams, the late incumbent. The living, of which his lordship is the patron, is a town rectory, of the approximate value of 810l per annum and a house. Our client is travelling in the United States, but we have the requisite authorities to proceed in due form and without delay, which in this matter is prejudicial. We beg to have the pleasure of receiving your acceptance at as early a date as possible,

  “And remain, dear Sir,

  “Your obedient servants,

  “Gearns & Baker.

  “To the Rev. Reginald Lindo, M.A.”

  The barrister read this letter with even greater surprise than seemed natural, and, when he had done, looked at his companion with wondering eyes. “Claversham!” he ejaculated. “Why, I know it well!”

  “Do you? I have never heard you mention it.”

  “I knew old Williams!” Jack continued, still in amaze. “Knew him well, and heard of his death, but little thought you were likely to succeed him. My dear fellow, it is a wonderful piece of good fortune! Wonderful! I shake you by the hand! I congratulate you heartily! But how did you come to know the high and mighty earl? Unbosom yourself, my dear boy!”

  “I do not know him — do not know him from Adam!” replied the young clergyman gravely.

  “You don’t mean it?”

  “I do. I have never seen him in my life.”

  Jack Smith whistled. “Are you sure it is not a hoax?” he said, with a serious face.

  “I think not,” the rector-elect replied. “Perhaps I have given you a wrong impression. I have had nothing to do with the earl; but my uncle was his tutor.”

  “Oh!” said Smith slowly, “that makes all the difference. What uncle?”

  “You have heard me speak of him. He was vicar of St. Gabriel’s, Aldgate. He died about a year ago — last October, I think. Lord Dynmore and he were good friends, and my uncle used often to stay at his place in Scotland. I suppose my name must have come up some time when they were talking.”

  “Likely enough,” assented the lawyer. “But for the earl to remember it, he must be one in a hundred!”

  “It is certainly very good of him,” Lindo replied, his cheek flushing. “If it had been a small country living, and my uncle had been alive to jog his elbow, I should not have been so much surprised.”

  “And you are just twenty-five!” Jack Smith observed, leaning back in his chair, and eyeing his friend with undisguised and whimsical admiration. “You will be the youngest rector in the Clergy List, I should think! And Claversham! By Jove, what a berth!”

  A queer expression of annoyance for a moment showed itself in Lindo’s face. “I say, Jack, stow that!” he said gently, and with a little shamefacedness. “I mean,” he continued, smoothing down the nap on his hat, “that I do not want to look at it altogether in that way, and I do not want others to regard it so.”

  “As a berth, you mean?” Jack said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Well, from the loaves and fishes point of view,” Lindo commenced, beginning to walk up and down the room. “I do not think an officer, when he gets promotion, looks only at the increase in his pay. Of course I am glad that it is a good living, and that I shall have a house, and a good position, and all that. But I declare to you, Jack, believe me or not as you like, that if I did not feel that I could do the work as I hope, please God, to do it, I would not take it up — I would not, indeed. As it is, I feel the responsibility. I have been thinking about it as I walked down here, and upon my honor for a while I thought I ought to decline it.”

  “I would not do that!” said Gallio, dismissing the twinkle from his eye, and really respecting his old friend, perhaps, a little more than before. “You are not the man, I think, to shun either work or responsibility. Did I tell you,” he continued in a different tone, “that I had an uncle at Claversham?”

  “No,” said Lindo, surprised in his turn.

  “Yes, and I think he is one of your church wardens. His name is Bonamy, and he is a solicitor. His London agent is
my only client,” Jack said jerkily.

  “And he is one of the church wardens! Well, that is strange — and jolly!”

  “Umph! Don’t you be too sure of that!” retorted the barrister sharply. “He is a — well, he has been very good to me, and he is my uncle, and I am not going to say anything against him. But I am not quite sure that I should like him for my church warden. Your church warden! Why, it is like a fairy tale, old fellow!”

  And so it seemed to Lindo when, an hour later, the small boy, with the same portentous gravity of face, let him out and bade him good-day. As the young parson started eastward, along Fleet Street first, he looked at the moving things round him with new eyes, from a new standpoint, with a new curiosity. The passers-by were the same, but he was changed. He had lunched, and perhaps the material view of his position was uppermost, for those in the crowd who specially observed the tall young clergyman noticed in his bearing an air of calm importance and a strong sense of personal dignity, which led him to shun collisions, and even to avoid jostling his fellows, with peculiar care. The truth was that he had all the while before his eyes, as he walked, an announcement which was destined to appear in the “Guardian” of the following week:

  “The Rev. Reginald Lindo, M.A., St. Barnabas’ Mission, London, to be Rector of Claversham. Patron, the Earl of Dynmore.”

  CHAPTER III.

  AN AWKWARD MEETING.

  A fortnight after this paragraph in the “Guardian” had filled Claversham with astonishment and Mr. Clode with a modest thankfulness that he was spared the burden of office, a little dark man — Jack Smith, in fact — drove briskly into Paddington Station, and, disregarding the offers of the porters, who stand waiting on the hither side of the journey like Charon by the Styx, and see at a glance who has the obolus, sprang from the hansom without assistance, and bustled on to the platform.

  Here he looked up and down as if he expected to meet some one, and then, glancing at the clock, found that he had a quarter of an hour to spare. He made at once for the bookstall, and, with a lavishness which would have surprised some of his friends, bought “Punch,” a little volume by Howells, the “Standard,” and finally, though he blushed as he asked for it, the “Queen.” He had just gathered his purchases together and was paying for them, when a high-pitched voice at his elbow made him start. “Why, Jack! what in the world are you buying all those papers for?” The speaker was a girl about thirteen years old, who in the hubbub had stolen unnoticed to his side.

  “Hullo, Daintry,” he answered. “Why did you not say that you were here before? I have been looking for you. Where is Kate? Oh, yes, I see her,” as a young lady turning over books at the farther end of the stall acknowledged his presence by a laughing nod. “You are here in good time,” he went on, while the younger girl affectionately slipped her arm through his.

  “Yes,” she said. “Your mother started us early. And so you have come to see us off, after all, Jack?”

  “Just so,” he answered drily. “Let us go to Kate.”

  They did so, the young lady meeting them halfway. “How kind of you to be here, Jack!” she said. “As you have come, will you look us out a comfortable compartment? That is the train over there. And please to put this, and this, and Daintry’s parcel in the corners for us.”

  This and this were a cloak and a shawl, and a few little matters in brown paper. In order to possess himself of them, Jack handed Kate the papers he was carrying.

  “Are they for me?” she said, gratefully indeed, but with a placid gratitude which was not perhaps what the donor wanted. “Oh, thank you. And this too? What is it?”

  “‘Their Wedding Journey,’” said Jack, with a shy twinkle in his eyes.

  “Is it pretty?” she answered dubiously. “It sounds silly; but you are supposed to be a judge. I think I should like ‘A Chance Acquaintance’ better, though.”

  Of course the little book was changed, and Jack winced. But he had not time to think much about it, for he had to bustle away through the rising babel to secure seats for them in an empty compartment of the Oxford train, and see their luggage labelled and put in. This done, he hurried back, and pointed out to them the places he had taken. “Oh, dear, they are in a through carriage,” Kate said, stopping short and eyeing the board over the door.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I thought that that was what you wanted.”

  “No, I would rather go in another carriage, and change. We shall get to Claversham soon enough without travelling with Claversham people.”

  “Indeed we shall,” Daintry chimed in. “Let us go and find seats, and Jack will bring the things after us.”

  He assented meekly — very meekly for sharp Jack Smith — and presently came along with his arms full of parcels, to find them ensconced in the nearer seats of a compartment, which contained also one gentleman who was already deep in the “Times.” Jack, standing at the open door, could not see his face, for it was hidden by the newspaper, but he could see that his legs wore a youthful and reckless air; and he raised his eyebrows interrogatively. “Pooh!” whispered Daintry in answer. “How stupid you are! It is all right. I can see he is a clergyman by his boots!”

  Jack smiled at this assurance, and, putting in the things he was holding, shut the door and stood outside, looking first at the platform about him, on which all was flurry and confusion, and then at the interior of the carriage, which seemed in comparison peaceful and homelike. “I think I will come with you to Westbourne Park,” he said suddenly.

  “Nonsense, Jack!” Kate replied, with crushing decision. “We shall be there in five minutes, and you will have all the trouble of returning for nothing.”

  He acquiesced meekly — poor Jack! “Well,” he said, with a new effort at cheerfulness, “you will soon be at home, girls. Remember me to the governor. I am afraid you will be rather dull at first. You will have one scrap of excitement, however.”

  “What is that?” said Kate, very much as if she were prepared to depreciate it before she knew what it was.

  “The new rector!”

  “He will make very little difference to us!” the girl answered, with an accent almost of scorn. “Papa said in his letter that he thought it was a great pity a local man had not been appointed — some one who knew the place and the old ways. You say he is clever and nice; but either way it will not affect us much.”

  No one noticed that the “Times” newspaper in the far corner of the compartment rustled suspiciously, and that the clerical boots became agitated on a sudden, as though their wearer meditated a move; and, in ignorance of this, “I expect I shall hate him!” said Daintry calmly.

  “Come, you must not do that,” Jack remonstrated “You must remember that he is not only a very good fellow, but a great friend of mine.”

  “Then we ought indeed to spare him!” Kate said frankly, “for you have been very good to us and made our visit delightful.”

  His face flushed with pleasure even at those simple words of praise. “And you will write and tell me,” he continued eagerly, “that you have reached your journey’s end safely.”

  “One of us will,” was the answer. “Daintry,” Kate went on calmly, “will you remind me to write to Jack to-morrow evening?”

  His face fell sadly. So little would have made him happy. He looked down and kicked the step of the carriage, and made his tiny moan to himself before he spoke again. “Good-bye,” he said then. “They are coming to look at your tickets. You are due out in one minute. Good-bye, Daintry.”

  “Good-bye, Jack. Come and see us soon,” she cried earnestly, as she released his hand.

  “Good-bye, Kate.” Alas! Kate’s cheek did not show the slightest consciousness that his clasp was more than cousinly. She uttered her “Good-bye, Jack, and thank you so much,” very kindly, but her color never varied by the quarter of a tone, and her grasp was as firm and as devoid of shyness as his own.

  He had not much time to be miserable, however, then, for, the ticket-collector coming to the window, Jack h
ad to fall back, and in doing so made a discovery. Kate, hunting for her ticket in one of those mysterious places in which ladies will put tickets, heard him utter an exclamation, and asked, “What is it, Jack?”

  To her surprise, the collector having by this time disappeared, he stretched out his hand through the window to some one beyond her. “Why, Lindo!” he cried, “is that you? I had not a notion of your identity. Of course you are going down to take possession.”

  Kate, trembling already with a horrible presentiment, turned her head. Yes, it was the clergyman in the corner who answered Jack’s greeting and rose to shake hands with him, the train being already in motion. “I did not recognize your voice out there,” he said, looking rather hot.

  “No? And I did not know you were going down to-day,” Jack answered, walking beside the train. “Let me introduce you to my cousins, Miss Bonamy and Daintry. I am sorry that I did not see you before. Good luck to you! Good-bye, Kate!”

  The train was moving faster and faster, and Jack was soon left behind on the platform gazing pathetically at the black tunnel which had swallowed it up. In the carriage there was silence, and in the heart of one at least of the passengers the most horrible vexation. Kate could have bitten out her tongue. She was conscious that the clergyman had bowed in acknowledgment of Jack’s introduction and had muttered something. But then he had sunk back in his corner, his face wearing, as it seemed to her, a frown of scornful annoyance. Even if nothing awkward had been said, she would still have shunned, for a certain reason, such a meeting as this with a new clergyman who did not yet know Claversham. But now she had aggravated the matter by her heedlessness. So she sat angry, and yet ashamed, with her lips pressed together and her eyes fixed upon the opposite cushion.

  For the Rev. Reginald, he had been by no means indifferent to the criticisms he had unfortunately overheard. Always possessed of a fairly good opinion of himself, he had lately been raising his standard to the rectorial height; and, being very human, he had come to think himself something of a personage. If Jack Smith had introduced him under the same circumstances to his aunt, there is no saying how far the acquaintance would have progressed or how long the new incumbent might have fretted and fumed. But presently he stole a look at Kate Bonamy and melted.