by Syrie James
To which Mr. Mountague replied, “I freely proclaim to have heard Miss Stanhope perform so many times since we were children, that I cannot pretend to be astonished. However, I will acknowledge that her pipes are as pretty as any of the birds I have heard in town, and she moves her fingers over the keys and strings with great speed and agility.”
“Shame on you, Mr. Mountague!” cried Miss Davenport. “To speak of speed and agility, rather than ability. I declare, you have no appreciation for music whatsoever.”
“I appreciate music as much as the next man,” returned he, “as long as it comes after a fine meal and port, and does not go on longer than a quarter of an hour.”
“And what have you to say to this, Mr. Clifton?” persisted Miss Davenport.
Mr. Clifton did not immediately reply. Rebecca grew warm with mortification, wishing that her friend would give up the subject; but finally he said, “It is a long while since I have heard Miss Stanhope play and sing. She was skilled as a youth; and her talents have indeed improved since then.”
“I cannot decide if that is a compliment or not,” said Miss Davenport, “since you do not say how much her talents have improved, or if you enjoyed her performance, then or now.”
Mr. Clifton seemed about to reply, but was interrupted by Rebecca’s uttering emphatically, “I implore you; let us talk of something else. Pray tell me, Mr. Clifton, what news have you of Elm Grove? How was the dear village when you left it?”
“All was well, and quiet,” responded Mr. Clifton.
Starved for news of her old friends and surroundings, Rebecca could not prevent herself from continuing. “How are Martha and Eliza, and Mr. Gower?”
“Very well, and capable. I am grateful for their services.”
“And Mrs. Wilson? How does she fare? She had hurt her arm just before I left, and two of her children had the croup; I have been concerned about them.”
“I am not yet acquainted with Mrs. Wilson or her family.”
“She lives at Long Meadow Farm.”
Mr. Clifton shook his head apologetically.
“Have you met Mr. Coulthard? He and my father are great friends.”
“Good God!” cried Mr. Mountague. “Are we going to talk about Elm Grove all night? Who cares about a yeoman and a farmer’s wife?”
“I have the greatest respect for yeomen and their wives,” responded Mr. Clifton. “They are the salt of the earth. Where would you be if they did not work your father’s land and pay their rent?”
“Let them pay their rent, then, and let us play cards.”
Dutifully playing a card, Mr. Clifton asked Rebecca, “Is Mr. Coulthard a tall man with dark hair, of about forty years of age?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. I believe he introduced himself at church on Sunday—he seems a very decent fellow—but we have not yet had a chance to chat.”
“I used to stop in once a week at the Wilsons’ farm, weather permitting. I was teaching their oldest, Susan, to read. Both the mother and daughter enjoy having the Psalms read to them.”
“Thank you, Miss Stanhope; I shall try to remember.”
“You cannot expect Philip to be bosom friends with every body already,” commented Miss Davenport. “He has barely been in Elm Grove two weeks.”
“True,” replied Rebecca. “I admit, Mr. Clifton, I am surprised that you were able to leave the parish so soon after having become employed. My father was rarely absent in the eight-and-twenty years that he was rector.” Rebecca felt all the impertinence of her remark, and knew she ought not to have said it, particularly when she had vowed to be gracious; yet she could feel no regret.
“Oh!” interjected Mr. Mountague with a renewed smile. “Now there is a well-placed barb. How will you reply, cousin?”
Mr. Clifton coloured slightly, and answered, “It was my uncle’s particular wish that I accompany Brook here, and Aunt Harcourt was also most insistent. I found a suitable substitute to conduct the Sunday services while I am away.”
“I hope you do not resent Philip for retaining his position, Miss Stanhope,” observed Mr. Mountague.
Rebecca could vouchsafe no answer.
“My father was obliged to appoint some one,” continued Mr. Mountague. “He could hardly allow Mr. Stanhope to continue as rector after what happened. Your father brought his misfortunes upon himself.”
Rebecca found her voice. “He did no such thing!”
“You ought not to disparage Mr. Stanhope,” remarked Miss Davenport. “Miss Stanhope assures me that he was a victim, not a perpetrator.”
“I wish that were so,” said Mr. Clifton quietly. “It would be preferable to the truth.”
“What makes you think you know the truth, sir?” demanded Rebecca.
Mr. Clifton hesitated, then said, “Forgive me. I see that you are distressed, Miss Stanhope; let us speak of this no further.”
“Pray, do speak of it,” insisted Rebecca. “I wish to hear what you think is the truth, that I may offer a defence on my father’s behalf.”
Mr. Clifton reluctantly went on in a lowered voice, “It is common knowledge that Mr. Stanhope is guilty of behaviour unbecoming to any man, but particularly a clergyman—that he indulged his proclivity for gambling and behaved very recklessly with church funds which had been entrusted to his care, resulting in a disastrous loss.”
“That, sir, is a malicious fallacy,” said Rebecca with rising anguish. “You have met my father on numerous occasions. He is a good and responsible man! How can you think he would behave in such an infamous manner?”
“I do not like to think it; and yet he did,” replied Mr. Clifton calmly.
“A mistake of some kind has been made. I insist upon it. If you had only seen how distraught my father was when he came home that day! So confused and uncertain. ‘All those people’s hard-earned money—vanished!’ he cried. He was utterly beside himself!”
“Is that his claim?” said Mr. Clifton, surprised. “That he has no idea what happened to the money?”
“No idea at all. He went to bed with the funds in his pocketbook, and when he awoke, the money was gone.”
“My uncle said nothing of this,” mused Mr. Clifton.
“Yet your father admits to engaging in a betting game with a group of gentlemen earlier in the evening, does not he?” said Mr. Mountague.
“Yes,” admitted Rebecca, “but his stay was brief, and involved only the smallest amount from his own pocket.” She explained how long it had taken her father to raise the money, and what its sacred purpose had been. “He would never, could never dispose of it in one ill-conceived night of gambling. Some one must have stolen it—how or when, I cannot say; but it must have been stolen. It is not in my father’s character to behave as you have suggested. And yet, despite his innocence in the matter, he felt it his duty to pay back every penny of the lost funds before we left Elm Grove.”
Mr. Clifton frowned as he listened to this impassioned discourse, and looked particularly surprised by her last statement; but he made no further comment.
Mr. Mountague, however, shook his head with impatience, and said, “You insist that it is not in your father’s character to behave thus, Miss Stanhope; but how can you be certain? Even a man of the greatest integrity can be susceptible to a lapse of judgment.” With lifted eyebrows and a tilt of his head, he gestured across the room towards the card-table where Mr. Stanhope was engaged in a game of Commerce—and was at that very moment betting heavily on a hand, with great enthusiasm.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you do not know your father quite so well as you think.”
VOLUME TWO
CHAPTER I
During the return journey from Grafton Hall, as the conveyance jostled her companions to sleep, Rebecca sat in silent confusion, brooding over all that which had just transpired. For the first time, doubt began to creep in beneath the solid layer of confidence which had pervaded her every thought regarding her father’s innocence.
Could her faith in him ha
ve been misguided? Could there be any truth at all to the dreadful accusation against him? If so, it would mean that her father had been lying to her these many weeks, about all that had happened that fateful night—that he was the worst sort of gambler, a man without scruples, and a discredit to his profession! This, Rebecca could not accept nor believe; yet when she tried to regain her former resolve, she encountered only increasing confusion, anxiety, and uncertainty.
Sarah, opening her eyes sleepily, glanced at Rebecca, and whispered, “Dearest, what is wrong? Are you ill?”
Rebecca softly replied that she was only tired. The distressing subject consumed her thoughts all night, however, and still weighed heavily on her mind at breakfast. After Mr. Stanhope left with Mr. Morris on church business, Sarah sent the children out to play in the garden with the nurse maid, and proposed that she and Rebecca take a walk.
No sooner had the two ladies set off, than Sarah said, “It was a lovely party last night—quite a success for you in particular. Every body loved your performance. I believe you have made a new conquest.”
“A new conquest? What do you mean?”
“Any one with eyes could see that Dr. Jack Watkins is interested in you. Regardless of what you said to Mrs. Harcourt, I believe you like him, too?”
“I do like him,” admitted Rebecca, colouring slightly.
“There! I thought so. I am very happy for you. He is a charming young man. It would be an excellent match.”
“Please do not speak of matches! I barely know him.”
“Well then, it is a good beginning.” Sarah paused, and with a gently inquiring look said, “Something is troubling you—something quite apart from this. What is it?”
Unable to keep her worries to herself any longer, Rebecca shared the details of the conversation which had ensued the evening before, with regard to their father.
“No wonder you looked so distressed when we took our leave. But my dear Rebecca: surely you do not agree with this interpretation of events?”
“I never before considered that it could be so, but ever since last night, the question has tormented me! What if it is true? What if papa did invent the story about the money’s being stolen?”
“I cannot believe that.”
“I have only the greatest respect for papa; you know I love him with all my heart. But if he is guilty, it would explain why he was so ready and willing to leave Elm Grove without a fuss; he believed he did not deserve to remain. It is a fact that he enjoys playing cards, and always has. It is also a fact that we have long had money problems at home. We always attributed it to insufficient income, and his habit of giving so generously to the poor. But what if he did not tell all? What if, all these years, the troubled state of our finances actually derived from another source?”
“Are you implying that papa has had a gambling problem of long standing?”
“It is possible, is not it?”
“No. No; it is not possible. He is too good a gentleman; too highly principled; too worthy.”
“I have always thought the same; but perhaps our unwavering faith in his good nature has blinded us to the truth. How do we know what went on at all those weekly games of cards over the years? If papa had a tendency to bet too heavily, and if Sir Percival was privy to it, surely that would explain his immediate proclivity to believe in papa’s guilt in this affair.”
“I refuse to accept that. We have known papa’s sterling character and unselfish heart all our lives.”
“Even the best of men can make a mistake, Sarah.”
“Why are you losing faith in papa, over the unfounded accusations and suppositions of others? They do not know him as we do.”
Rebecca hesitated, then said, “You are right, as always. There is no proof of his wrong-doing; none whatsoever! Dear God, Sarah. What can I have been thinking?”
“Mrs. Harcourt was very taken with papa last night, and very approving—and the community will follow her lead.”
Rebecca sighed with relief, ashamed now of what her thoughts had been. “I hope that is true. In the meantime, I shall pray that one day, the true facts of the affair will come to light, and papa will be fully exonerated.”
On the morrow, a note arrived from Mr. Spangle, making good on his promise, and requesting the company of Rebecca, Mr. Stanhope, and Mr. and Mrs. Morris, to a garden and boating party to be held at Finchhead Downs a week from Saturday. The invitation was accepted.
Shortly thereafter, as Rebecca happily ran after the children up and down the passage in a chasing game, she found Mr. Stanhope writing a letter at a small table by the sitting-room window.
“To whom are you writing?” inquired she, stopping to catch her breath, as Christopher clutched at her skirts, and George struggled to seize his grandfather’s pen from his hand.
“To a cousin of mine,” replied her father, shaking his head calmly at little George.
“A cousin? Who? Have I met him?”
“No. Nor have I. He is called Thomas Newgate. He is distantly related to me, on my father’s side.” To the children, he added, “Be good boys. Run along now.”
There was a sharp edge and a grimness to his tone that alarmed Rebecca. “George, Christopher, go out to the garden. I will catch up with you in a moment, and we shall continue our game.” With squeals of delight, the children raced out the door. “Papa,” continued she quietly, once they were alone, “why are you writing to a man we have never met?”
“I think you may guess, my dear.” He finished inscribing a line and dipped his pen. “I am grown too old to live in a house full of young children. The vicarage is not as clean and tidy as I would like—there is dust and clutter every where, and I am constantly sneezing or tripping over something—and my peace of mind is daily disrupted by all the noise and bustle. But more importantly, I keenly feel how much our presence is a disruption to those who reside here. We are in the way.”
“And so—you are writing to find some one else who might take us in?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca’s cheeks burned with shame. “If only we were not so dependent on the charity of others, papa. If only there was some way in which I could earn a living. I do so wish that I could help!”
“You are a great help to me every day, my dearest Rebecca. Just your presence makes me smile. I cannot think what I should do without you. Now do not worry your head about any of this. I will find us another place to live, and soon.”
Rebecca went out to play with the children, but her thoughts were now distracted, and her heart no longer in it. To be obliged to leave Medford—to undergo yet another substantial change in their lives, just as she was growing accustomed to and fond of this place—it was disheartening indeed. And where should they go? Upon what new family—what strangers—would they be obliged to trespass? No matter who or where it was, she could not imagine that she should feel as welcome as she did here, in her dear sister and brother’s home.
As the week wore on, Rebecca tried to dismiss these unhappy thoughts from her mind, and to enjoy what little time she might have left in Medford. She and Sarah called again on the Miss Wabshaws. Accepting a kind offer from Mrs. Harcourt and Miss Davenport, Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope made two visits to Grafton Hall, where Rebecca played for an hour or two on the pianoforte and the harp, and Mr. Stanhope read aloud from a book of poems, exercises which afforded both performers and listeners a great deal of enjoyment.
Rebecca looked forward to the impending party at Finchhead Downs with anticipation. She had always loved going out in a boat on the river at home, but could not recall the last time she had been on a lake. Even the knowledge that Mr. Clifton and Mr. Mountague would be in attendance could not dampen her spirits, for Miss Davenport had confirmed that Dr. Jack Watkins would be there.
On the morning of the party itself, a parcel arrived at the vicarage for Mr. Stanhope. Its contents were received by him with the greatest surprise and delight: for it was none other than a copy of Life of Johnson. As there was no card or
note accompanying the book, and no return direction on the wrapper, there was no way to determine who had sent it.
“Why, it is the very book which you have been so desirous of obtaining!” observed Rebecca. “What a fine edition.”
“Some one must think very highly of you, papa, to send such a lovely gift,” said Sarah.
“But who can have sent it?” said Mr. Stanhope, puzzled. “If it is a gift, why have they not put their name on it?”
“Perhaps it is from Mr. Spangle,” conjectured Rebecca. “You expressed your wish to him so eloquently at dinner on Thursday last. He must have found the book in his library.”
“Why should Mr. Spangle go to all the trouble and expense of sending it to me, when we are visiting his house this very day?” countered Mr. Stanhope.
“Mr. Spangle does not strike me as the sort to give anonymous gifts,” added Charles. “If he was your benefactor, he would surely delight in letting you know all about it.”
“I agree. Moreover—forgive my impertinence—but I should be rather surprised if Mr. Spangle had the facility to recall the title of the book I mentioned the other night. He is not—he did not seem to me—the most literary of men.”
Rebecca laughed. “You both make excellent points. But if it is not Mr. Spangle, then who can it be?”
“Who else was privy to our conversation, other than ourselves?”
“The Miss Wabshaws are kind women, with good hearts,” suggested Sarah.
“The Miss Wabshaws could not afford to purchase such an expensive edition as this, my dear,” returned her husband.
“What about Mrs. Harcourt?” asked Rebecca. “She has an excellent library.”
“She was busy talking with her niece and nephews, at the other end of the table,” said Charles. “I doubt she overheard.”
With a little gasp, Rebecca exclaimed, “Oh! It must have been Dr. Jack Watkins. He was sitting directly beside me, and he is an enthusiast of literature.”
“Dr. Watkins?” repeated Mr. Stanhope with a nod. “Now there is a thought.”
