Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Lindo had looked forward to this meeting; he had prepared himself for it; and yet, occurring in this way, it shook him out of his self-possession. He colored almost as deeply as the girl had, and, though he held out his hand with scarcely a perceptible pause, the action was nervous and jerky. “By Jove! is it you, Jack?” he exclaimed, his tone a mixture of old cordiality and new antagonism. “How do you do, Miss Bonamy?” and he held out his hand to the girl also, who just touched it with her fingers and drew back. “It is pleasant to see your cousin’s face again,” he went on more glibly, yet clearly not at his ease even now. “I was sorry that I was not in last night when he called.”

  “Yes, I was sorry to miss you,” Jack answered slowly, his eyes on his friend’s face. He could not quite understand matters. The girl’s embarrassment had been almost a revelation to him, and yet it flashed across his mind now that the cause of it might have been only the quarrel between her father and the rector. The same thing might account for Lindo’s shy, ungenial manner. And yet — and yet he could not quite understand it, and, whether he would or no, his face grew hard. “You heard I had looked in?” he added.

  “Yes; Mrs. Baker told me,” Lindo answered, moving to let some one pass him, and glancing aside to smile a recognition.

  “She looks the better for the change, I think.”

  “Yes; she gets more fresh air now.”

  “It does not seem to have done you much good.”

  “No?”

  Certainly there was something amiss. These were old, tried college friends, or had been so a few weeks back, and they had nothing more to say to one another than this! The rector’s self-consciousness began to infect the other, sowing in his mind he knew not what suspicions. So that, if ever words of Daintry’s were welcome, they were welcome now. “Jack is going to stay a week,” she said inconsequently, standing on one leg the while with her arm through Jack’s and her big eyes on the rector’s face.

  “I am very glad to hear it,” Lindo rejoined. “He will find me at home more than once in the week, I hope.”

  “I will come and try,” said Jack.

  “Of course you will!” replied the rector, with a flash of his old manner. “I shall be glad if you will remind him of his promise, Miss Bonamy.”

  Kate murmured that she would.

  “You like your house?” said Jack.

  “Oh, very much — very much indeed.”

  “It is an improvement on No. 383?” continued the barrister, rather drily.

  “It is — very much so!”

  The words were natural. They were the words Jack would have expected. But, unfortunately, Gregg at that moment passed the rector’s elbow, and the latter’s manner was cold and shy — almost as if he resented the reference to his old life. Jack thought he did, and his lip curled. Fortunately, Daintry again intervened. “Here is Miss Hammond,” she said. “She is looking for you, Mr. Lindo.”

  The rector turned as Laura, threading her way through the press, came smiling toward him. She glanced with some curiosity at Jack, and then nodded graciously to Kate, whom she knew at the Sunday school and from meeting her on such occasions as this. “How do you do, Miss Bonamy?” she said pleasantly. “Will you pardon me carrying off the rector? We want him to come to tea.”

  Kate bowed, and the rector took off his hat to the girls. Then he waved an awkward farewell toward Jack, muttered “See you soon!” and went off with his captor.

  And that was all! Jack turned away with his cousins to the nearest stall, and bought and chatted. But he did both at random. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was a keen observer, and he had seen too much for comfort, yet not enough for comprehension. Nor did the occasional glance which he shot at Kate’s preoccupied face, as she bent over the wool-work and “guaranteed hand-paintings,” tend to clear up his doubts or render his mood more cheerful.

  Meanwhile the rector’s frame of mind, as he rejoined his party, was not a whit more enviable. He was angry with himself, angry with his friend. The sight of Jack standing by Kate’s side had made his own conduct to the girl at his last interview with her appear in a worse light than before — more churlish, more ungrateful. He wished now — but morosely, not with any tenderness of regret — that he had sought some opportunity of saying a word of apology to her. And then Jack? He fancied he saw condemnation written on Jack’s face, and that he too, to whom, in the old days, he had confided his aspirations and resolves, was on the enemy’s side — was blaming him for being on bad terms with his church wardens and for having already come to blows with half the parish.

  It was not pleasant. But the more unpleasant things he had to face, the higher he would hold his head. He disengaged himself presently — the Hammonds had already preceded him — from the throng and bustle of the heated room, and went down the stairs alone. Outside it was already dark, and small rain was falling. The outlook was wretched, and yet in his present mood he found a tiny satisfaction in the respect with which the crowd of ragamuffins about the door fell back to give him passage. With it all, he was some one. He was rector of the town.

  At the Hammond’s door he found a carriage waiting in the rain. It was not one he knew, and as he laid down his umbrella he asked the servant whose it was.

  “It is Lord Dynmore’s, sir,” the man answered, in his low trained voice. “His lordship is in the drawing-room, sir.”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  “LORD DYNMORE IS HERE.”

  When Lord Dynmore, a few minutes before the rector found his carriage at the door, trotted at the heels of the servant into Mrs. Hammond’s drawing-room, his entrance, unexpected as it was, caused a flutter among those assembled there. Lords are still lords in the country, and in the case of his hostess the sensation was wholly one of pleasure. She was pleased to see him. She was still more pleased that he had chosen to call at so opportune a moment, when his light would not be hidden, and James had on his best waistcoat. Consequently she rose to meet him with a beaming smile, and a cordiality only chastened by the knowledge that Mrs. Homfray and the archdeacon’s wife were observing her with critical jealousy. “Why, Lord Dynmore,” she exclaimed, “this is most kind of you!”

  “How d’ye do? how d’ye do?” said the peer as he advanced. He was a slight, short man with bushy gray whiskers and grizzled hair which, being rather long, strayed over the fur collar of his overcoat. A noble aquiline nose and keen eyes helped to give him, despite his shortness, an air of being somebody. “How d’ye do? Why,” he continued, locking round, “you are quite en fête here.”

  “We have been at a bazaar, Lord Dynmore,” Laura answered. She was rather a favorite with him and could “say things.” “I think you ought to have been there too, to patronize it. We did not know that you were in the country, but we sent you a card.”

  “Never heard a word of it!” replied his lordship positively.

  “But you must have had the card,” Laura persisted.

  “Never heard a word of it!” repeated his lordship, who had by this time shaken hands with everyone in the room. When the company was not too large he made a rule of doing this, thereby obviating the ill results of a bad memory, and earning considerable popularity. “Archdeacon, you are looking very well,” he continued.

  “I think I may say the same of you,” answered the clerical dignitary. “You have had good sport?”

  “Capital! capital!” replied the peer in his jerky way. “But it won’t last my time! In two years there will not be a head of buffalo in the States! By the way, I saw your nephew.”

  “My nephew!” echoed the archdeacon.

  “Yes. Had him up to dinner in Kansas city. A good fellow — a very good fellow. He put me up to one or two things worth knowing.”

  “But, Lord Dynmore, you must be thinking of some one else!” replied the archdeacon in a fretful tone. “It could not be my nephew: I have not a nephew out there.”

  “No?” replied the earl. “Then it must have been the dean’s. Or perhaps it was old Canon Frampton’s —
I am not sure now. But he was a good fellow, an excellent fellow!” And my lord looked round and wagged his head knowingly.

  The archdeacon’s niece, a young lady who had not seen the peer before, nor indeed any peers, and who consequently was busy making a study of him, looked astonished. Not so the others who knew him and his ways. It was popularly believed that Lord Dynmore could keep two things, and two only, in his mind — the head of game he had killed in each and every year since he first carried a gun, and the amount of his annual income from the time of the property coming to him.

  “There have been changes in the parish since you were here last,” said Mrs. Hammond, deftly intervening. She saw that the archdeacon looked a little put out. “Poor Mr. Williams is gone.”

  “Ah! to be sure! to be sure!” replied the earl. “Poor old chap. He was a friend of my fathers’, and now you have a friend of mine in his place. From generation to generation, you know. I remember now,” he continued, tugging at his whiskers peevishly, “that I meant to see Lindo before I called here. I must look him up by-and-by.”

  “I hope he will save you the trouble,” Mrs. Hammond answered. “I am expecting him every minute.”

  “Capital! capital! He is a good fellow now, isn’t he? A really good fellow! I am sure you ought to be much obliged to me for sending you such a cheery soul, Mrs. Hammond. And he is not so very old,” the earl added waggishly. “Not too old, you know, Miss Hammond. Young for his years, at any rate.”

  Laura laughed and colored a little — what would offend in a commoner is in a peer pure drollery; and, as it happened, at this moment the rector came in. The news of the earl’s presence had kindled a spark of elation in his eye. He had not waited for the servant to announce him; and as he stood a second at the door, closing it, he confronted the company with an air of modest dignity which more than one remarked. His glance rested momentarily upon the figure of the earl, who was the only stranger in the room, so that he had no difficulty in identifying him; and he seemed in two minds whether he should address him. On second thoughts he laid aside the intention, and advanced to Mrs. Hammond. “I am afraid I scarcely deserve any tea,” he said pleasantly, “I am so late.”

  Laura, who had risen, touched his arm. “Lord Dynmore is here,” she said in a low voice, which was nevertheless distinctly heard by all. “I do not think you have seen him.”

  He took it as an informal introduction, and turned to Lord Dynmore, who was leaning against the fireplace, toying with his teacup and talking to Mrs. Homfray. The young rector advanced a step and held out his hand, a slight flush on his cheek. “There is no one whom I ought to be better pleased to see than yourself, Lord Dynmore,” he said with some feeling. “I have been looking forward for some time to this meeting.”

  “Ah, to be sure,” replied the peer, holding out his hand readily, though he was somewhat mystified by the other’s earnestness. “I am pleased to meet you, I am sure. Greatly pleased.”

  The listeners, who had heard what he had just said about his great friend, the rector, stared. Only the person to whom the words were addressed saw nothing odd in them. “You have not long returned to England, I think?” he answered.

  “No; came back last Saturday night. And how is the rector? Where is he? Why does he not show up? I understood Mrs. Hammond to say he was coming.”

  The archdeacon, Mrs. Hammond, and the others were dumb with astonishment. Even Lindo was surprised, thinking it very dull in the earl not to guess at once that he was the new incumbent. So no one answered, and the peer, glancing sharply round, discerned that every one was at a loss. “Eh! Oh, I see,” he resumed in a different tone. “You are not one of his curates? I made a mistake, I suppose. Took you for one of his curates, do you see? That was all. Beg your pardon. Beg your pardon, I am sure. But where is he?”

  “This is the rector, Lord Dynmore,” said the archdeacon in an uncertain, puzzled way.

  “No, no, no, no,” replied the great man fretfully. “I mean the old rector — my old friend.”

  “He has forgotten that poor Mr. Williams is dead,” Laura murmured to her mother, amid the general pause of astonishment.

  He overheard her. “Nothing of the kind, young lady!” he answered irritably. “Nothing of the kind. Bless my soul, do you think I do not know whom I present to my own livings? My memory is not so bad as that! I thought this gentleman was Lindo’s curate, that was all. That was all.”

  They stared at one another in awkward silence. The rector was the first to speak. “I am afraid we are somehow at cross purposes still, Lord Dynmore,” he stammered, his manner constrained. “I am not my own curate — well, because I am myself Reginald Lindo, whom you were kind enough to present to this living.”

  “To Claversham, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you say you are Reginald Lindo?” The peer grew very red in the face as he put this question.

  “Yes, certainly I am.”

  “Then, sir, I say that certainly you are not!” was the rapid and startling answer. “Certainly you are not! You are no more Reginald Lindo than I am!” the peer repeated, striking his hand upon the table by his side. “What do you mean by saying that you are, eh? What do you mean by it?”

  “Lord Dynmore — —”

  But the peer would not listen. “Who are you, sir? Answer me that question first!” he cried. He was a choleric man, and he saw already that there was something seriously amiss; so that the shocked, astonished faces round him tended rather to increase than lessen his wrath. “Answer me that!”

  “I think, Lord Dynmore, that you must be mad,” replied the rector, his lips quivering. “I am as certainly Reginald Lindo as you are Lord Dynmore!”

  “But what are you doing here?” retorted the other, storming down the interruption which the archdeacon would have effected. “That is what I want to know. Who made you rector of Claversham?”

  “The bishop, my lord,” answered the young man sternly.

  “Ay, but on whose presentation?”

  “On yours.”

  “On mine?”

  “Most assuredly,” replied the clergyman doggedly— “as the archdeacon here, who indicted me, can bear witness.”

  “It is false!” Lord Dynmore almost screamed. He turned to the panic-stricken listeners, who had instinctively grouped themselves round the two, and appealed to them. “I presented a man nearly thrice his age, do you hear! — a man of sixty. As for this — this Reginald Lindo, I never heard of him in my life! Never! If he had letters of presentation, I did not give them to him.”

  The young clergyman’s eyes flashed, and his face grew hard as a stone. He guessed already the misfortune which had happened to him, and his heart was sore, as well as full of wrath. But in his pride he betrayed only the anger. “Lord Dynmore,” he said fiercely, “you will have to answer for these insinuations. If there has been any error, the fault has not lain with me!”

  “An error, you call it, do you? Let me — —”

  “Oh, Lord Dynmore!” Mrs. Hammond gasped.

  “One moment, Lord Dynmore, if you please.” This from the archdeacon; and he pressed his interruption, placing himself between the two men, and almost laying his hands on the excited peer. “If there has been a mistake,” he urged, “a few words will make it clear. I fully believe — nay, I feel sure, that my friend here is not in fault, whoever is.”

  “Ask your questions,” grunted my lord, breathing hard, and eyeing the young clergyman as a terrier eyes the taller dog it means to attack. “He will not answer them, trust me!”

  “I think he will,” replied the archdeacon with decision. His esprit de corps was rising. The earl’s rude insistance disgusted him. He remarked, his eyes wandering for a moment while he considered how he should frame his question, that another person, Mr. Clode, had silently entered the room, and was listening with a darkly thoughtful face. It occurred to the archdeacon to suggest that the ladies should withdraw, but then again it seemed fair that, as they had heard the c
harges, they should hear what answer the rector had to make; and he proceeded. “First, Lord Dynmore,” he said, “I must ask you whom you intended to present.”

  “My old friend, Reginald Lindo, of course.”

  “His address, please,” continued the archdeacon rather curtly.

  “Somewhere in the East End of London,” the earl answered. “Oh, I remember now, St. Gabriel’s, Aldgate.”

  The archdeacon turned silently to the clergyman. “He was my uncle,” Lindo explained gravely. “He died a year ago last October.”

  “Died!” The exclamation was Lord Dynmore’s.

  “Yes, died,” the young man retorted bitterly. “Your lordship keeps a watchful eye upon your friends!”

  The shaft went home. The earl caught a quick breath, and his face changed. The words awoke a slumbering chord in his memory and recalled — not as might have been expected, old days of frolic and sport spent with the friend whose death was thus coldly flung in his face — but a scene in another world. He saw upon the instant a rock-bound valley, inclosed by hills that rose in giant steps to the snowy line of the Andes; and in its depths a tiny hunter’s camp. He saw an Indian fishing in the brook, and near him a white man wandering away — a letter in his hand. Then had come a shot, an alarm, a hasty striking of the tent, and for many hours — even days — a rapid, dangerous march. In the excitement the letter had been forgotten, to be recalled with its tidings here — and now.

  He winced, and muttered, “Good heavens, and I had heard it.” The clergyman caught the words, and his resentment waxed hot. “My uncle’s death,” he continued grimly, in the tone of one rather making than answering an accusation, “occurred a year before the presentation was offered to me by your solicitors!”