Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “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 continue
d, 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, pointin
g 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.