Leaven of Malice tst-2

by Robertson Davies

  This, too, should have been a satisfactorily dramatic moment, but it failed. For, as every eye turned upon him, Bevill Higgin’s face changed from its usual bright pink to a deep red, crinkled into a mask of misery, and with embarrassing noise and openness, the little man cried. Cried so that tears ran down his cheeks and dropped upon his threadbare blue serge jacket. Cried so that Mr Marryat and Ronnie Fitzalan looked away from him in deep embarrassment. Cried for what seemed an age, but what was perhaps ninety seconds. Cried until a clear ball of mucus formed at the end of his nose, then swung by a thin string in mid-air. He did not raise his hands to his face, nor did he close his eyes. He wept with the abandon of a guilty child, but his whole figure spoke of failure, of genteel poverty, of hopeless middle age. The sound worked horribly upon Ridley’s nerves, and just as he was about to shout at the man, to shout that all would be forgiven him if only he would stop that dreadful weeping, Mr Swithin Shillito drew a very large, very clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket, and handed it to Higgin, deftly fielding the pendulous nose-drop as he did so. At the same moment Fitzalan, taking the water glass from Mr Snelgrove, who still nursed it, offered it to the stricken man. By less than two minutes of weeping Higgin had washed all the starch out of his judges.

  Mr Snelgrove was the first to act; his quick legal mind saw in this a chance to recover the prestige which he had lost in the matter of Cobbler. He pounced.

  “You admit your guilt?”

  Higgin, mopping his eyes, nodded, but said nothing.

  “Well, then we have X at last,” said Mr Snelgrove, looking round the room with the air of a man who has at last triumphed over the stupidity and obscurantism of others. He continued, with heavy irony: “Now, Mr Higgin, perhaps you will have no objection to explaining your motive for inserting that advertisement?”

  Higgin mumbled something, in a voice still thick with tears.

  “Hey?” said Mr Snelgrove, cupping his hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you. Speak up. Let us all hear what you have to say.”

  Again Higgin spoke, somewhat more loudly, but again Mr Snelgrove shook his head.

  “He says it was only a joke, sir,” said Ronnie Fitzalan.

  “A joke!” said Mr Snelgrove in what was almost a whisper of horror. “Have you any conception, man, of the mischief you have made? Of the trouble you have brought into the life of my client, Professor Vambrace? Have you any notion of this?”

  “Never meant any harm to Professor Vambrace,” said Higgin, his voice tripping over a sob as he spoke. “Haven’t the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

  “God bless my soul!” said the Professor. It was a strange comment from a professed agnostic, and it rose to his lips unbidden.

  “And if your joke, as you choose to call it, was not directed at my client, just what did you expect to gain by it?” asked Mr Snelgrove.

  “Permit me to point out that I also represent injured parties in this matter,” said Mr Balmer. “On behalf of The Bellman, Mr Higgin, I put this question to you: Did you realize when you inserted that advertisement, that you were involving this newspaper in a fraud, and a possible action for libel? Did you think of that?”

  Higgin shook his head.

  “Do you realize that at this moment you stand on the brink of suit both by my client and this newspaper?” asked Mr Snelgrove. “Well, man? Say something! And don’t attempt to impose upon us by any more tears. They will have no effect upon me. None whatever. I can assure you of that.”

  Higgin raised his head, and spoke with more self-possession than before. “It was only my little joke,” said he. “I never thought it would cause any real trouble. I just wanted to play a little joke on Professor Bridgetower. No real harm meant.”

  “And what moved you to involve my daughter in your joke?” said Professor Vambrace, menacingly.

  Higgin giggled weakly, and blushed. “I really do assure you, sir, I meant no harm,” said he.

  “Do you know my daughter?”

  “I only had the pleasure of meeting Miss Vambrace once. In the Waverley Library. A charming young lady.”

  “You meant this to be a joke on Mr Bridgetower and Miss Vambrace?” said Balmer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No one else involved? No reference to Professor Vambrace at all?”

  “Oh, none, I assure you.”

  “I think you also meant it to be a joke on me,” said Gloster Ridley. “And I think I know why. It was because I refused to publish and pay you for articles about yourself, which you wanted to write for this newspaper. Wasn’t that it?”

  “Oh, no, Mr Ridley.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr .Higgin. I recall your visit here very clearly. You got Mr Shillito to introduce you. This advertisement was to make trouble for me because I ignored you. Isn’t that right?”

  “Oh, no, Mr Ridley.”

  “Oh yes, Mr Higgin. You did it to spite me, didn’t you?”

  Higgin was silent, but a nervous grin flitted across his face, and disappeared.

  “If it was spite against me, was it spite against Mr Bridgetower and Miss Vambrace? Was it spite against Professor Vambrace?”

  “No indeed. I have never met Professor Vambrace until now.”

  Then it was spite against my daughter,” said the Professor. “And what reason had you to play this vile trick upon her, you scoundrel?”

  Again Higgin was silent, but again he smiled, the imploring, sick smile of one who strives to avert another stroke of the lash.

  “Had she ignored you at some time?” said Ridley. “Had Mr Bridgetower ignored you?”

  Still Higgin said nothing, but looked from face to face, still with his imploring smile, a figure of cringing abjection.

  “Are we to understand that this whole matter was prompted by malice?” asked the editor.

  There was a longer pause, and at last the sickly smile faded from Higgin’s face, and he nodded.

  No one spoke for a time, and it was Mr Marryat who first broke the silence. “Well, what are we going to do about that?” said he.

  “Malice is a very ugly charge,” said Mr Snelgrove. “A rare charge in law, but a horrible one. The law brings us face to face with some detestable things—things from which the minds of decent men withdraw in loathing—but few more detestable than the charge of malice.”

  “But is it a possible charge at all?” The question came, to the surprise of everyone, from Dean Jevon Knapp, who had been forgotten in his corner.

  “Rather an obscure offence,” said Mr Balmer. “You recall what I told you about malice, Mr Ridley. I’ve never met with it, as an isolated charge, before.”

  “And may that not be because it is an offence more in my realm than in yours?” said the Dean. “I don’t find malice so horrible as you, Mr Snelgrove; perhaps because I see more of it; or perhaps I should say because I recognize it more readily than you do. But it is horrible enough, certainly. In the Prayer Book you will find a special plea to be preserved from it, appointed for the first Sunday after Easter: “Grant us so to put away the leaven of malice and wickedness that we may always serve Thee in pureness of living and truth”. The writer of that prayer understood malice. It works like a leaven; it stirs, and swells, and changes all that surrounds it. If you seek to pin it down in law, it may well elude you. Who can separate the leaven from the lump when once it has been mixed? But if you learn to know it by its smell, you find it very easily. You find it, for instance, in unfounded charges brought against people that we dislike. It may cause the greatest misery and distress in many unexpected quarters. I have even known it to have quite unforeseen good results. But those things which it invades will never be quite the same again. I assure you that you will always have the greatest difficulty in isolating the leaven, once it has set to work. I do not wish to preach out of my pulpit, but I doubt if any of us here can truthfully say that he has not been touched by the leaven of malice, either in the remoter past, or during the past week.”

  What might have been said in reply to the
Dean must always remain a matter of conjecture, for as he finished speaking, there was another tap at the door, and this time Miss Green admitted Solly and Pearl. Professor Vambrace started to his feet at once.

  “Pearl,” said he, pointing at Higgin, “do you know this man?”

  Pearl was taken aback, but after a moment she spoke. “No, Father,” said she, “I have never seen him before.”

  “And what have you to say to that?” demanded the Professor of Higgin.

  “Some mistake,” said he. “I thought Miss Vambrace was a short, stout lady with reddish hair.”

  “My God,” said Solly, “he’s got you mixed up with Tessie Forgie!” And to the astonishment of the others, he and Pearl began to laugh.

  “Though I would ordinarily be pleased to see you,” said Ridley, “I must ask if you can wait for a few minutes. As you see, I have rather an important conference here at the moment, and if you have not come to join it, I hope that you will not be offended if I ask you to retire.”

  “We have come to join the conference,” said Solly. “We know what it’s all about, of course. We’ve come to ask you not to do anything about a law case, or a retraction of that engagement notice, for at least a week. We want time to discuss several important matters.”

  “And what, precisely, do you mean by that?” said the Professor.

  “Surely it’s plain enough,” said Mr Marryat. “They mean that they may become engaged after all. I can tell by looking at them.”

  Pearl went to her father. “Please don’t say anything now,” she said; “let us talk to you tonight.”

  It was a critical moment. The Professor looked black, but for the first time in a week his daughter was talking to him with earnest affection. Her hands were on the lapels of his coat. Suddenly, moved by some deep wisdom, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth, a thing she had not done in several years.

  The Professor’s face did not seem to relax greatly, but a look of nobility and almost of peace came over it. His eye was bright, and he said, “Of course I shall do nothing further until my daughter and I have talked the matter over thoroughly.”

  “Well, that blows the whole case sky-high,” said Mr Balmer, rising and putting papers back into his briefcase.

  “How so?” asked Mr Snelgrove, whose emotional apprehensions had never been keen, and who was still chewing over the Dean’s lecture on malice, and wondering if any of it could possibly have been directed at him.

  “Because if these two young people are engaged, or become engaged, there is no libel in that advertisement. Justification is a perfect defence. Not that I think that there would be much sense in suing this man,” said Mr Balmer, looking at Higgin.

  “I have exactly nine dollars and twenty-five cents in the world,” said Bevill Higgin, and for the first time that afternoon he had a touch of dignity.

  “Let me warn you, my friend, that poverty is a poor protection, if you choose to make a hobby of public mischief. You’ve had a very narrow escape, and you’ll never be so lucky again.” With these minatory words, Mr Balmer nodded to Ridley and Marryat, and left the room.

  “May I go now?” asked, Higgin.

  Ridley nodded. The little man, some of his usual jauntiness restored, looked about him, as though to take his leave. No one would meet his eye. At last he turned to Swithin Shillito, and put out his hand. “Shall I give you a call in a few days?” said he.

  “No, Mr Higgin,” said the old gentleman; “in future neither I nor Mrs Shillito will be at home to you.”

  Bevill Higgin drew on his thin, mended cloth gloves, and went.

  Professor Vambrace and Mr Snelgrove walked down the stairs a few steps behind the Dean.

  “May I offer you a lift, Professor?” said the lawyer. “Fitzalan will be happy to drop you anywhere you want to go.”

  “I prefer to walk, thank you.”

  “An extraordinary business, that. I could have sworn Cobbler was the guilty party. It was on the tip of my tongue to accuse him directly. But of course, one learns to be cautious in our profession; I merely put it to him as a possibility. As for that other fellow—Beneath contempt. However, I am deeply indignant, Professor, on your behalf. Deeply indignant.”

  They were on the pavement by this time. The Professor faced Mr Snelgrove, very much the cousin of Mourne and Derry.

  “Your indignation, sir, is a purchasable commodity; it will be healed by tomorrow. Mine, I assure you, is made of more lasting stuff. Be good enough to send me your statement at your earliest convenience.”

  The Professor walked away, leaving Mr Snelgrove gaping. But though the Professor had spoken of indignation, his head was high, and there was even a proud smile on his face. His daughter had been restored to him. He would talk to Pearl that evening. Yes—perhaps he would even talk to young Bridgetower. He had never really had anything personal against the boy.

  As he overtook and passed the Dean, he raised his hat with a sweeping gesture. “An uncommonly fine day, Mr Dean,” said he; “we are having a wonderful autumn.”

  Outside the offices of The Bellman Solly and Pearl were tucking themselves into the little English car when. Cobbler hurried up to them.

  “Let me come with you,” said he.

  “We’re going for a drive in the country. We’ll be glad to drop you at your house.”

  “No, no; I don’t want to be dropped. I’ll go with you on your drive.”

  “But we have several things to talk about.”

  “I know you have. I’ll help you.”

  “They’re private.”

  “Not from me, surely? Not from your old friend? I’ll be a great help. Let me come along.”

  “You won’t be a great help at all. Anyhow, you’ve got a cold. You want to go right back to bed.”

  “Not a bit of it. I found that meeting most refreshing. You missed the cream of it, when old Snelgrove tried to put the finger on me; he thought I put that piece in the paper. The desire to think ill of me completely submerged his judgement. I led him on, I’m afraid. Very wrong of me, but utterly irresistible. I’ll have no trouble with him, for a while.”

  “Cobbler, Miss Vambrace and I want to be alone. Can you understand that?”

  “Worst thing in the world for you. You’ll brood, and upset each other. I’ll just hop in the back seat.”

  He did so.

  “I’m taking you straight home,” said Solly, pulling away from the curb.

  “If you do, I’ll lean right out of the window and shout ‘Solly Bridgetower loves Pearl Vambrace’ over and over again, and the whole place will know. I warn you.”

  “By God, I believe you would.”

  “Of course I would. I want to go for a drive. My cold has reached that stage where it absolutely demands a drive. Let’s go out across the bridge.”

  Solly turned a corner. They were passing the Deanery, and at that instant Miss Puss Pottinger was hastening up the steps. Thrusting all of the upper half of his body out of the window, Cobbler waved to her.

  “Yoo-hoo, Miss Pottinger, looking for news? I’m free! Free! Not a stain on my character! Bye-bye!” He pulled himself back into the car. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when the Dean talks to her,” said he. “The old boy is very hot on malice this afternoon; she won’t enjoy her sandwich and bit of seed-cake, I’ll bet.”

  Until they were out of the city, Cobbler sat quietly in his place, and no one spoke. But as soon as they had crossed the river he hitched himself forward on the back seat, and thrust his smiling face between Solly and Pearl.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s get down to business. When are you going to announce your engagement? Perhaps I should say, when are you going to confirm Higgin’s premature announcement? Listen, Bridgetower, what has he got his knife into you for?”

  Briefly, Solly told him of his first encounter with Bevill Higgin.

  “Well, well,” said the organist. “And he thought Miss Vambrace was Tessie Forgie. Now why, I wonder?”

  “I think
that she must have been sitting at my desk on my day off, and refused him library privileges, or something like that,” said Pearl. “She has a very short way with people she thinks don’t matter.”

  “Remarkable! Obviously a very impetuous fellow. And full of conceit, I suppose. Thought he’d show you all that you couldn’t slight him. Poor bleeder! I’m sorry for him.”

  “I could cheerfully kill him,” said Solly.

  “Oh no! You’ll be grateful to him in a little while. And years from now, as you sit at the door of your rose-entwined cottage, with your grandchildren tumbling on the grass before you, you’ll be saying, ‘I wonder whatever became of Bevill Higgin, that fragrant old soul who brought us together.’ “

  “Listen, Cobbler,” said Solly; “get this through your head. We’re not even engaged. It seems remotely possible that we may be, but we’re not yet. We have a great deal to discuss, before we can contemplate any such step. So will you please stop your nonsense? It’s embarrassing.”

  “My dear children, I’m only trying to be helpful. Most couples who are going to get engaged think that they have a lot to talk over before they really do it. Utter waste of time. Forget all I said to you the other night about Miss Vambrace not being suitable, Solly. I was wrong. Now the scales have fallen from my eyes. Not only is the hand of Fate discernible in this affair; Fate has been leaving fingerprints all around the place ever since Higgin got his bright idea. Miss Vambrace—or may I call you Pearl?—”

  “I’d rather you called me Veronica,” said she.

  “How very wise. Much, much better. Well, Veronica, help me to bring this fellow to his senses. I’m sure that you, with your infinitely superior emotional grasp, see that this marriage is fated. Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of couples get engaged, and they could cut down their time by three-quarters if they would just stop talking and creating absolutely artificial difficulties once the thing was in the bag. You’ll enjoy being married, you know. You can help Solly with Heavysege.”