by Syrie James
“Papa!” cried Rebecca with delight. “I knew you had nearly approached your goal, but I had no idea of your reaching it already. You truly have the amount entire—one hundred and fifty pounds?”
“I do. It was that last generous contribution from Mr. Brudenell, our neighbour at Farleigh, which helped put us over the top. I cannot tell you how delighted I am.—After two long years, to have the money at last! Your mother would be very proud.”
“Indeed she would.” Rebecca could not forget how often and how earnestly Mrs. Stanhope had applied to her husband on the subject, insisting that their existing bells were too small and too ancient, and so badly cracked as to be unsightly. Three brand-new bells, she said, would be a welcome addition, and far more sonorous than two. To that end, and in her memory, Mr. Stanhope and the churchwarden had been working tirelessly the past two years, to raise the money for their purchase.
“There is just one matter that distresses me,” said Mr. Stanhope. “To commission the bells, I am obliged to go to the foundry in London, John Warner and Sons, and deliver the required sum in advance.”
“Oh.” Rebecca understood his unexpressed concern; for in the years since she had been born, Mr. Stanhope had never once left the county of Hampshire.
“It requires a journey of two days in each direction,” added Mr. Stanhope, “with an overnight stop en route, and a night in town—which means I shall be gone five full days.”
“What is five days?” said Rebecca, in an encouraging tone. “Truly, papa, it is nothing. You will be gone and back again before you know it.”
“But travel subjects one to all kinds of dirt. The roads are so dusty, and there is the danger of the vehicle overturning, or becoming stuck in mire. The beds in the coaching inns have been slept on by countless strangers, and as to dining—I hate to think of it.”
Rebecca was pained to see him so distressed. “You can bring your own plate and linens, papa. And I could accompany you, if you wish—if I might be of any help, to keep your things tidy and ease your burden.”
“Oh! No, child! I would not think of it. Naturally, I would be glad of your company, but I should never subject you to the rigours of a long journey. You would not like London. It is a very dirty city. And in any case, it is impractical. If you came, it would more than double the expense. We should require two chambers or a suite of rooms at the inns, and I should be obliged to hire a post-chaise. On my own, I can travel by stage.”
“By stage! Papa, you detest public coaches.”
“I do, but I must practise economy wherever I can. I am still in debt for all the recent improvements to the house. That new bow window,” said he, pointing, as they passed, to the fashionable addition which provided both space and light in his study, “cost a pretty penny, not to mention the repairs to the roof.”
“Well, if we cannot afford it,” said Rebecca, truly very relieved that she did not have to go, “then I suppose you must go without me. And papa, consider that although you may be obliged to undergo some discomfort, it is all for a good purpose.”
“How right you are, my dear Rebecca,” said he with a nod, his smile slowly returning. “Pray, forgive the complaints and peculiarities of an old man. I have a duty, and I shall perform it. I am humbled by the sacrifices which our parishioners have made on the way to this achievement, and comforted by the knowledge that we shall at long last realise your dear mother’s dream.”
Rebecca cheerfully plunged her energies into assisting Mr. Stanhope with the preparations for his journey, and learning what she must do while he was away. Although the greatest portion of the money for the three new bells had been raised in coin, Mr. Stanhope had been regularly changing the money into pound notes at the bank. He corresponded with the foundry, and a fortnight later saw Rebecca kissing him good-bye on the door-step, where a hired gig was to take him to Atherton, from whence he intended to catch the public coach.
“Your plate and linen are packed in your trunk,” said Rebecca, “and I made a small luncheon for you; it is in your bag.”
“Thank you, my dearest,” said he, giving her an affectionate embrace. “Do not worry about me. I shall return on Friday night.”
As he boarded the conveyance, Rebecca realised how much she would miss him during his absence, for in the past eight years, she had not been parted from him for so much as twenty-four hours; and she began counting the days until she would see his smile again.
To her surprise and dismay, the event occurred far sooner than anticipated. On Tuesday evening—the very day after his departure—Mr. Stanhope returned in a state of great anxiety. A calamity had struck. He had broken his journey, as planned, with an overnight stay at the King’s Arms at Leatherhead, Surrey; his progress there by stage had been uneventful; he had enjoyed a good dinner, and had slept soundly in a chamber that was surprisingly clean. But that morning, when he went to pay his bill, he discovered that nearly all the money in his pocketbook was gone!
CHAPTER II
“Dear God!” cried Rebecca. “Gone?”
“Gone! Not only my money, but the hundred and fifty pounds belonging to the church. Only a single one-pound note remained.”
“Papa, this is terrible! Could the money have been stolen while on the stage-coach?”
“No.” Mr. Stanhope paced back and forth in the parlour, wringing his hands as he spoke, his eyes quite wild with anguish. “I had it with me when I arrived. I distinctly recall it, for I paid for my dinner, and—” He hesitated, blushing slightly. “Afterwards, I played a game of cards with two well-dressed, congenial fellows.”
“Could you have accidentally left the money at the card-table?”
He shook his head. “All day, and all evening, I was very conscious of the fact that I had the church’s money with me, and was very protective of it. We only played speculation, and only for an hour, for I was tired. I bet very little—less than the price of my meal. I know I had my pocketbook with me, and all the money intact, when I returned to my room.”
“Let us think this through together, papa,” said Rebecca, striving to be calm. “Did you place the money somewhere for safe-keeping, before you retired?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you did, and have just forgotten. Did you search the room?”
“I checked every inch of the room. I went through all my pockets and my bag, but could not find the money anywhere. And I tell you: it was in my pocketbook.”
“When was the last time you saw your pocketbook?”
“I cannot recall exactly. I may have placed it on the bedside table before I slept—although I might have left it in my coat pocket.”
“Well then, some one must have stolen the money while you slept.”
“That is impossible, for I made certain to lock the chamber door, and I slept with the key beside me. It is a mystery, Rebecca. I applied to the innkeeper this morning, and made enquiries of the chambermaid, and all the guests at breakfast. No one knew a thing about it. Dear God! What am I to do? All those people’s hard-earned money—vanished! An hundred and fifty pounds! Two years it took to raise it! I had barely the resources to pay my bill. I am obliged to the innkeeper, who took pity on me, and was kind enough to loan me my return fare.”
“Oh, papa.” Rebecca sank down onto a chair, very distraught. “This is a horrible turn of events.”
“What am I to tell the parishioners? How can I face them?”
“You will; you must. Papa, it is not your fault.”
“Indeed it is. I am entirely responsible for this mis fortune.”
“But how can you be, if the money simply disappeared?”
He stared at the carpet, a mortified look on his countenance. “Over supper at the inn, I chatted with the people at my table. They asked the purpose of my journey, and being in a conversational mood, I recounted it—all about the new bells, and how much money we had raised. Any one could have overheard. I engaged in a similar conversation with the gentlemen at the card-table. I suppose I should have been mo
re discreet; but I was not. Somehow, this morning, I cannot think how or when, the money was taken from me.” Shaking his head in perplexity, he added, “I must tell Sir Percival immediately.”
That evening, Mr. Stanhope went to Claremont Park to secure an audience with his patron. Rebecca waited in a state of such fevered anticipation, that she was unable to concentrate on her needlework, or on the book she attempted to read.
The clock in the hall was just striking nine when Mr. Stanhope returned. Rebecca ran to meet him in the entry hall. The drawn look on his countenance, and the hunched attitude of his shoulders as he hung his hat, were so out of the ordinary, and conveyed such mute distress, that Rebecca knew at once he had received no positive reception, and she acutely felt his pain. She embraced him and led him into the parlour, where she ensured that he was seated comfortably before asking what had happened. It was some moments before he was composed enough to speak, and when he did, she learned thus:
He met with Sir Percival. He gave him a full and honest account of all that had occurred. In view of the circumstances, he felt it would be honourable to offer to tender his resignation—fully expecting that his patron would refuse such a notion outright, and respond with sympathy and support. To his dismay, the opposite took place.
Sir Percival, after a lengthy silence, during which time he seemed to be processing the news with both surprise and deliberation, issued the following pronouncement: that it was a very sorry business, but he believed Mr. Stanhope’s offer to be entirely correct and proper; that his tenants, in view of the circumstances—in particular, the fact that Mr. Stanhope had played cards the night of the money’s disappearance—would no doubt demand it; that Mr. Stanhope was rapidly approaching the age of retirement in any case; that he himself had thought for some time that the infusion of fresh, young blood to run the parish would not be a bad idea; that a new man with new ideas, who did not gamble, and who would not be averse to collecting tithes, would improve the value of the incumbency; and that, in short, Mr. Stanhope should resign, and as soon as possible.
Rebecca listened to all this with astonishment, and when he had finished, cried,
“I cannot believe it! After all that you have done for this community—after an unblemished twenty-eight-year career in the parish, where you are loved by one and all—Sir Percival wants you to resign at such an early age, over some stolen funds? You are only sixty! Many clergymen retain their positions well into their seventies or eighties. It is most unfair! It was bad enough to complain about the tithes—for why should he care if you enrich yourself or not, by taxing his tenants? But to cite, as an example of unacceptable behaviour, that you played at cards—when you and he have engaged together in that harmless entertainment every Thursday evening for nearly three decades, at his very own house—it is unconscionable! With this ridiculous invective, papa, Sir Percival did not directly accuse you of incompetence, but he very clearly implied it!”
“Yes,” replied her father, frowning, “and yet I understand his position. There are many who will agree with him. Even though I have never in all my life lost more than six shillings at any game—for you know that is where I stop, say good-night, and go home—there is in general a prejudice against clergymen who gamble. Suspicion will be aroused. But that is not the worst of it; the worst is not how the money came to be lost, but that it is gone. I am sure I shall never be forgiven for this. I could never hold my head up in church again. I have no wish to resign, Rebecca; yet it is clearly time for me to go. Which is why I have acquiesced to Sir Percival’s demands.”
“You did not!” cried Rebecca in anguish.
“It is done. Sir Percival insisted that he himself will find a new man to take charge in a timely fashion. I admit, I am very much grieved. I admire the good people of this parish. I love my work here. I will greatly miss it.” With a deep sigh, he continued, “My other regret is on your account, my dear: for in giving up my post, I must also give up this house.”
Rebecca nodded and lapsed into a brief, unhappy silence. To leave the rectory, where she had lived all her life! To leave Elm Grove for ever! It was unthinkable! Tears started in her eyes, and she looked away, not wanting her own suffering to add to her father’s pain. “Surely you will not be out of work for long, papa. You will find a new post somewhere.”
“That is unlikely. Oxford and Cambridge are producing more ordained clergymen to-day than there are positions to fill. Another benifice will be difficult, if not impossible to find, particularly in the circumstances in which I now find myself. How can I apply to a bishop or any other person of influence and power, with my career and reputation so blemished?” His face was so haggard, it seemed that ten years had been added to his age. “No, my dear Rebecca; I am afraid that my clerical career is finished.”
Rebecca hardly knew how to reply; her mind was in a whirl, and she was filled with grief. “Where will we go?” asked she at length, her voice catching.
“I hardly know. I have very little in the way of savings. Without my regular income, our circumstances will be severely reduced. We will not even have enough to rent a house.”
“Oh!”
He was silent a moment. Then, exerting himself, with resolution he said, “The Lord giveth, and he taketh away. This is indeed a great blow; but he has a plan, which we can not comprehend now, but shall understand in time. Somehow, we shall make do.”
“No!” cried Rebecca, rising and shaking her head. “We shall not make do. I will not stand for this, papa. It is not just! I shall speak with Sir Percival myself, and see what can be done.”
Although Mr. Stanhope attempted to dissuade her from a pursuit which he deemed to be fruitless, Rebecca was determined: she would go to Claremont Park the next morning, confront Sir Percival herself, and plead their case.
CHAPTER III
Walking briskly, Rebecca covered the distance to the gates of Claremont Park in a quarter of an hour; from there, it was another quarter mile through the park to the manor-house itself. The sun was shining, and birds sang in the trees, but Rebecca was insensible of it, her thoughts entirely consumed by the ill treatment her father had received at the hands of his patron. Mr. Stanhope was normally so self-assured and buoyant. To see him cast down, possessed by worry and doubt, was distressing indeed. She was angry, very angry; and she meant to make her feelings known to the instrument of all the evil, with a view to changing the dreadful conclusion which had been drawn.
The park lane curved in its downward slope towards the magnificent edifice of brick and stone. Rebecca took her customary shortcut across the great lawn, and was halfway to the residence when she perceived three men approaching from the woods beyond, having just gone fishing. The first was Sir Percival himself, a tall, robust man with thick grey hair, dark, piercing eyes, and a red face.
He was accompanied by his only son and heir, Brook Mountague, a boisterous man of three-and-twenty, who had a predilection for sport, and was well liked by his peers for his friendly disposition and easy, unaffected manners. By no means a scholar, Mr. Mountague had devoted the majority of his time at Oxford to cultivating his social life, and embarking on a riotous career of pranks, dares, and wagers, which had resulted in his being suspended and rusticated for part of several terms—a consequence he had always laughed off, while happily spending his free time hunting and fishing. He had managed to graduate, and was then established by his indulgent father in comfortable gentleman’s lodgings in the West End of London. Mr. Mountague currently divided his time between country and town, enjoying the life of the well-bred and financially independent bachelor, until that day, a year or two hence, when it had been decreed that he would settle down and please his parents by marrying a particular, selected cousin.
The third man was Mr. Philip Clifton, the handsome, youngest son of Sir Percival’s favourite sister;—who must be visiting, Rebecca reflected, as she knew he lived in West Sussex. She had met Philip Clifton on occasions too numerous to count over the years, when he had visited at Cla
remont Park with or without his family. As children, she and Sarah had played often and happily with him and the other Mountague and Clifton offspring, who made up a sizeable group when all assembled.
When Rebecca was nine years old, however (and Philip a lad of thirteen), he had done two things which were now carved into her memory. Her family had been invited to the manor-house for a Christmas party. While gathered with the other girls and engaged in drawing, Philip had made fun of her picture, calling it a terrible scribble. Later, he behaved even more poorly. Rebecca had been asked to sing. Although self-conscious and uncertain at that young age with regard to her ability, she stood up before every one, and sang as well as she could. Throughout her performance, Philip and Brook made rude faces at her; and when every body else told her how well she had done, Philip said she had sounded like two cats fighting. Both boys had run away laughing. Rebecca was mortified and went home in tears.
In the years that followed, Philip did his best to avoid her whenever he came to visit at Claremont Park. He appeared to be amiable around others, but while in her presence he was moody and silent. She did not understand from whence this dislike sprung, for she had done nothing that she could recall to offend him.
When the young men went off to Oxford, Rebecca saw less and less of them. Having matured herself, she could now laugh at those early incidents as merely foolish acts of youth, although it still made her smart just a bit to think of them. Whenever she encountered Brook at the manor-house, she smiled at his lively behaviour and took no offence at his jokes. Of Philip Clifton, she had also hoped to form a new and more favourable opinion, but she had not seen him these three years past; she only knew that he had finished at university, had been ordained, and was settled in a curacy some distance away.
Upon catching sight of her, the group exchanged a discomfited glance, which conveyed to Rebecca that the young men were already acquainted with her father’s misfortune. How, she wondered, had the subject been broached? Had Sir Percival made her father the villain in the piece? She prayed that the words she had practised in her mind through a sleepless night should come to her aid and prove both civil and persuasive.
