“Congratulate me? What do you mean?” Clode replied, turning on him with the uncompromising directness which is more “upsetting” to a man uncertain of himself than any retort, however discourteous.
“What do I mean?” the doctor answered, striving to cover his discomfiture with a feeble smile. “Well, no harm, at any rate, Clode. I hope I shall have to congratulate you. But if you are going to — —”
“On what?” interrupted the curate sternly. “On what are you going to congratulate me?”
“Haven’t you heard the news?” Gregg said in surprise.
“What news? Of the pit accident?” Clode answered, restraining with difficulty a terrible outburst of passion. “Why I should think there is not a fool within three counties has not heard it by this time!”
He almost swore at the man, and was turning away, when something in the doctor’s “No, no!” struck him, excited as he was, as peculiar. “Then what is it?” he said, hanging on his heel, half curious and half in scorn.
“You have not heard about the rector?”
The curate glared. “About the rector?” he said in a mechanical way. A sudden stillness fell on his face and tone at mention of the name. “No, what of him?” he continued, after another pause.
“You have not heard that he is resigning?” Gregg asked.
The curate’s eyes flashed with returning anger. “No,” he said grimly. “Nor any one else out of Bedlam!”
“But it is so! It is true, I tell you!” the doctor answered in the excitement of conviction. “I have just seen a man who had it from the archdeacon, who left the rectory not an hour ago. He is going to resign at once.”
The curate did not again deny the truth of the story. But he seemed to Gregg, watching eagerly for some sign of appreciation, to take the news coolly, considering how important it was to him. He stood silent a moment, looking thoughtfully down the street, and then shrugged his shoulders. That was all. Gregg did not see the little pulse which began to beat so furiously and suddenly in his cheek, nor hear the buzzing which for a few seconds rendered him deaf to the shrill cries of the schoolboys playing among the pillars of the market hall.
“Mr. Lindo has changed his mind since yesterday, then,” Clode said at last, speaking in his ordinary rather contemptuous tone.
“Yes, I heard he was talking big then,” replied the doctor, delighted with his success. “Defying the earl, and all the rest of it. That was quite in his line. But I never heard that much came of his talking. However, you are bound to stick up for him, I suppose.”
The curate frowned a little at that — why, the doctor did not understand — and then the two parted. Gregg went on his way to carry the news to others, and Clode, after standing a moment in thought, turned his steps toward the Town House. The sky had grown cloudy, the day cold and raw. The leafless avenue and silent shrubberies through which he strode presented but a wintry prospect to the common eye, but for him the air was full of sunshine and green leaves and the songs of birds. From despair to hope, from a prison to a palace, he had leapt at a single bound. In the first intoxication of confidence he could even spare a moment to regret that his hands were not quite clean. He felt a passing remorse for the doing of one or two things, as needless, it now turned out, as they had been questionable. Nay, he could afford to shudder, with a luxurious sense of danger safely passed, at the risks he had been so foolish as to run; thanking Providence that his folly had not landed him, as he now saw that it easily might have landed him, in such trouble as would have effectually tripped up his rising fortunes.
He reached the Town House in a perfect glow of moral worth and self-gratulation; and he was already half-way across the drawing-room before he perceived that it contained, besides Mrs. Hammond and her daughter, a third person. The third person was the rector. Except in church the two men had not met since the day of the bazaar, and both were unpleasantly surprised. Lindo rose slowly from a seat in one of the windows, and, without stepping forward, stood silently looking at his curate, as one requiring an explanation, not offering a greeting; while Clode felt something of a shock, for he discerned at once that the situation would admit of no half measures. In the presence of Mrs. Hammond, to whom he had expressed his view of the rector’s conduct, he could not adopt the cautious apologetic tone which he would probably have used had he met Lindo alone. He was fairly caught. But he was not a coward, and before the tell-tale flush had well mounted to his brow he had determined on his rôle.
Half-way across the room he stopped, and looked at Mrs. Hammond. “I thought you were alone,” he said with an air of constraint, partly real, partly assumed.
“There is only the rector here,” she answered bluntly. And then she added, with a little spice of malice, for Mr. Clode had not been a favorite with her since his defection, “I suppose you are not afraid to meet him?”
“Certainly not,” the curate answered, thus challenged. And he turned haughtily to meet the rector’s angry gaze. “I am not aware that I have any need to be. I am glad to see that you are none the worse for your gallant conduct last night,” he added with perfect aplomb.
“Thank you,” Lindo answered, choking down his indignation with an effort. For a week — for a whole week — this, his chosen lieutenant, had not been near him in his trouble! “I am much obliged to you,” he continued, “but I am rather surprised that your anxiety on my account did not lead you to come and see me at the rectory.”
“I called, and failed to find you,” Clode answered, sitting resolutely down.
Lindo followed his example. “I believe you did once,” he replied contemptuously. Had a friend been about to succeed him, he could have borne even to congratulate him. But the thought of this man entering on the enjoyment of all the good things he was resigning was well-nigh unendurable. Though he knew that it would best consort with his dignity to be silent, he could not refrain from pursuing the subject. “You thought,” he went on, the same gibe in his tone, “that a non-committal policy was best, I suppose?”
The curate for a moment sat silent, his dark face glowing with resentment. “If you mean,” he said at last, neither Mrs. Hammond nor her daughter venturing to interfere — the former because she thought he was only getting his deserts, and the latter because she felt no call to champion him at present— “if you mean that I did not wish to publish my opinion, you are right, Mr. Lindo.”
“I think you published it sufficiently for your purpose’” the young rector retorted with bitterness.
“Then why throw my non-committal policy in my teeth?” replied the curate deftly. Thereby winning at least a logical victory.
Lindo sneered and grew, of course, twice as angry as before. “Very neatly put!” he said. “I do not doubt that you would have got out of your confession of faith — or lack of faith — as cleverly, if circumstances had required it.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Miss Hammond rose in a marked way and left the room; while Clode for a moment glared at him as though he would resent the insult — for it was little less — in a practical manner. Fortunately the curate’s, calculating brain told him that nothing could be gained by this, and with an admirable show of patience and forbearance he waved the words aside. “I really do not understand you,” he said with a maddening air of superiority. “I cannot be blamed for having formed an opinion of my own on a subject which affected me. Then, having formed it, what was I to do? Publish it, or keep it to myself? As a fact, I did not publish it.”
“Except by your acts,” said the rector.
“Take it that way, then,” the curate replied, still with patience. “Do I gather that you would have had me, though I held an opinion adverse to you, come to you as before, be about you, treat you in all respects as if I were on your side? Is that your complaint? That I did not play the hypocrite?”
The rector felt that he was fairly defeated and out-manœuvred; so much so that Mrs. Hammond, whose sympathies were entirely on his side, expected him to break into a f
urious passion. But the very skill and coolness of his adversary acted as a warning and an example, and by a mighty effort he controlled himself. He rose from his chair with outward calmness, and, saying contemptuously, “Well, I am glad that I know what your opinion is — an open foe is less dangerous than a secret one,” he turned from Clode. Holding out his hand to his hostess, he muttered some form of leave-taking, and walked out of the room with as much dignity as he could muster. He had certainly had the worst of the encounter.
And he felt very bitter about it, as he crossed the top of the town. Whether the curate knew of his intention of resigning or not, his conduct in turning upon him and openly expressing his disbelief in his honesty was alike cruel and brutal. The man was false. The rector felt sure of it. But the pain which he experienced on this account — the pain of a generous man misunderstood and ill-requited — soon gave way to self-reproach. He had brought the thing on himself by his indiscreet passion. He had acted like a boy! He was not fit to be in a responsible position.
While he was still full of this, chewing the cud of his imprudence, he saw a slender figure, which he recognized, crossing the street a little way before him. He knew it at the first glance. In a moment he recognized the graceful lines, the half-proud, half-gentle carriage of the head, the glint of the cold February sun in the fair hair. It was Kate Bonamy; and the rector, as he increased his pace, became conscious, with something like a shock, of the pleasure it gave him to see her, though he had parted from her not twenty-four hours before. In a moment he was at her side, and she, turning suddenly, saw him with a start of glad surprise. “Mr. Lindo!” she stammered, holding out her hand before he offered his, and uttering the first words which rose to her lips, “I am so glad!”
She was thinking of the pit accident, of the risk and his safety, and perhaps a little of his good name. And he understood. But he affected not to do so. “Are you indeed, Miss Bonamy?” he answered. “Glad that I am going?”
His eyes met hers, and then both his and hers fell. “No,” she said gently and slowly. “But I am very glad, Mr. Lindo, that you have done what seemed right to you without considering your own advantage.”
“I have done a great deal since I saw you yesterday,” he answered, taking refuge in a jest.
“You have, indeed.”
“Including taking your advice.”
“I am quite sure you had made up your mind before you asked my opinion,” she answered earnestly.
“No,” he said, “I am sure I had not. It was your hint which led me to think the position out from the beginning. When I did so it struck me that, irritated by Lord Dynmore’s words and manner, I had considered the question only as it affected him and myself. Going on to think of the parish, I came to the conclusion, that I was quite unfit for the position.”
Kate started. The end of his sentence was a surprise to her. They were walking along side by side now — very slowly — and she looked at him, mute interrogation in her eyes.
“I am too young,” he said. “Your father, you know, was of that opinion from the first.”
“Oh, but” — she answered hurriedly, “I — —”
“You do not think so?” he said with a droll glance. “Well, I am glad of that. What? You were not going to say that, Miss Bonamy?”
“No,” she answered, blushing. “I was going to say that my father’s opinion might not now be the same, Mr. Lindo.”
“I expect it is. However, the opinion on which I acted was my own. I have a very hasty temper, do you know. This very afternoon I have been quarrelling, and have put my foot into it! I confess I thought when I came here that I could manage. Now I see I am not fit for it — for the living, I mean.”
“Perhaps,” she answered slowly and in a low voice, “you are the more fit because you feel unfit.”
“Well, I do not think I dare act on that,” he cried gaily. “So you now see before you, Miss Bonamy, a very humble personage — a kind of clerical man-of-all-work out of place! You do not know an incumbent of easy temper who wants a curate, do you?”
He spoke lightly, without any air of seeking or posing for admiration. Yet there was a little inflection of bitterness in his voice which did not escape her ear, and perhaps spoke to it — and to her heart — more loudly, because it was not intended for either. She suddenly looked at him, and her face quivered, and then she looked away. But he had seen and understood. He marked the color rising to the roots of her hair, and was as sure as if he had seen them that her eyes were wet with tears.
And then he knew. He felt a sudden answering yearning toward her, a forgetfulness of all her surroundings, and of all his surroundings save herself alone. What a fool, what an ingrate, what a senseless clod he had been, not to have seen months before — when it was in his power to win her, when he might have asked for something besides her pity, when he had something to offer her — that she was the fairest, purest, noblest of women! Now, when it was too late, and he had sacrificed all to a stupid conventionality, a social prejudice — what was her father to her save the natural crabbed foil of her grace and beauty — now he felt that he would give all, only he had nothing to give, to see her wide gray eyes grow dark with tenderness, and — and love.
Yes, love. That was it. He knew now. “Miss Bonamy,” he said hurriedly. “Will you — —”
Kate started. “Here is my cousin,” she said quietly, and yet with suspicious abruptness. “I think he is looking for me, Mr. Lindo.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
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.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 39