Between the Dark and the Daylight Part 39

"I have esteemed it my duty to make you this confession in order that you may understand that I, too, have done that of which I have cause to be ashamed. And in making you this confession I must ask you to respect my confidence, as I shall respect yours."

Mr. Plumber made a movement as if to speak. But, possibly his tongue was parched and refused its office. At any rate, he did nothing but stare at the vicar, with blanched cheeks, and strangely distended eyes.

When Mr. Harding went on, his glance, which had hitherto been fixed upon the curate, fell--it may be that he wished to avoid the other's dreadful gaze.

"I think, Mr. Plumber, you might prefer to leave Exdale and seek another sphere of duty. As it chances, I have had a recent inquiry from a friend who desires to know if I am acquainted with a gentleman who would care to accept a chaplaincy at a health resort in the Pyrenees.

One moment." The curate made another movement as if to speak; the vicar checked him. "The stipend is guaranteed to be at least 200 a year; and, as there are also tutorial possibilities, on such an income, in that part of the world, a gentleman would be able to bring up his family in decent comfort. If you like, I will mention your name, and, in that case, I think I am in a position to promise that the post shall be place at your disposal."

The curate's hat and stick dropped from his trembling hands. He seemed unconscious of their fate. He moved, or rather, it would be more correct to say, he lurched towards the vicar's table.

"Sir!" he gasped. "Mr. Harding."

It seemed that he would say more--much more; but that still his tongue was tied. His weight was on the table, as if, without the aid of its support, he would not be able to stand. Rising, leaning forward, the vicar gently laid his two hands upon the curate's. His voice quavered as he spoke.

"Believe me, Mr. Plumber, we clergymen are no more immaculate than other men."

The curate still was speechless. But he sank on his knees, and laying his face on the vicar's writing table, he cried like a child.

"Em"

CHAPTER I

THE MAJOR'S INSTRUCTIONS

"Don't tell me, miss; don't tell me, I say."

And Major Clifford stood up, and shook his fist and stamped his foot in a way suggestive of the Black Country and wife beating. But Miss Maynard, who sat opposite to him, meek and mild, being used to his eccentric behaviour, was quite equal to the occasion. When he got very red in the face and seemed on the point of breaking a blood vessel, she just stood up, moved across the room, and put her hands upon his shoulders.

"Uncle," she said, and her face was very close to his, "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you."

"It's all very well," the Major replied, pretending to struggle from her grasp. "It's all very well, but I say----"

"Of course. That's exactly what you do say."

And she kissed him. Then it was all over.

When a young woman of a certain kind kisses an elderly gentleman of a certain temperament, it soothes his savage breast, like oil upon the troubled waters. And as Miss Maynard was a young woman whose influence was not likely to be ineffective with any man whether young or old, Major Clifford was tolerably helpless in her hands.

Now, they called her "Em." Emily was her name, Emily Maynard, but from her babyhood the concluding syllables had been forgotten, and by general consent among her intimates she was "Em." There could be no doubt whether you called her Em or whether you did not, she was a young woman it was not unpleasant to know.

She was pretty tall and pretty slender, quiet, like still waters running deep. She never made a noise herself, being a model of good behaviour, but she created in some people an irresistible inclination to look upon life as a first-rate joke.

She had a tendency to throw everything into inextricable confusion by the depth of her enthusiasm. She managed many things, and with complete impartiality managed them all wrong. In that una.s.suming way of hers she took the lead in all well-directed efforts, and had a wonderful genius for setting her colleagues by the ears.

At the present moment things had occurred which were the cause to her of no little sorrow. She was the treasurer of the District Visitor's Fund, and at the same time of the Coal and Clothing Clubs. In that capacity she had taken a view of the duties of her office which had caused some dissatisfaction to her friends.

Being possessed of a bad memory, it had been her misfortune to receive several subscriptions to the District Visitors' Fund, of which she had forgotten to make any entry, and which she had paid away in a manner of which she was totally incapable of giving any account. In moments of generosity, too, she had bestowed the greater portion of the Coal Fund on unfortunate persons who were not of her parish, nor, it was to be feared, of any creed either. And in moments still more generous, the funds of the Clothing Club she had applied to the purchase of books for her Sunday School Library. Therefore, when the quarter ended and a request was made to examine her accounts and rectify them, she was in a position which was not exactly pleasant.

Now there happened to be at St. Giles's a curate who was a Low Churchman. Miss Maynard had a tendency to "High;" and between these two there was no good feeling lost. It was this curate who was causing all the trouble. He had not only made some uncomfortable remarks, but he had gone so far as to suggest that Miss Maynard should resign her office, and on this particular morning he had made an appointment to call in order that, as he said, some decision might be arrived at.

Major Clifford, I regret to say, was no churchgoer. In addition to which he had an unreasonable objection to what he called "parsons," and was wont to boast that he knew none of them, except the vicar, who was a sociable gentleman of a somewhat older school, even by sight.

However, when he heard that the Rev. Philip Spooner was calling, and what was the purport of his intended visit, he announced his intention to favour the reverend gentleman with a personal interview, and to present him with a piece of his mind. Hence the strong words which head this chapter.

Miss Maynard was not at all unwilling that he should see the Rev.

Spooner, but she was exceedingly anxious that he should not wait for him as he would for a deadly enemy.

"Uncle, promise me that you will be calm and gentle."

"Calm and gentle!" cried the Major, banging his fist upon the table.

"Calm and gentle! Do you mean to say, miss, that I would harm a fly!"

"But I am afraid, uncle, that Mr. Spooner will not understand you so well as I do."

"Then," said the Major, "if the man doesn't understand me, he must be a fool!"

In which Miss Maynard begged to differ, so put her hands upon his shoulders, which was a favourite trick of hers, and said:

"Uncle, you do love me, don't you? And I am sure you wouldn't hurt my feelings. You will be kind to Mr. Spooner for my sake, won't you?"

CHAPTER II

HIS NIECE'S WOOING

It was a warm morning in a pleasant country lane, and a young gentleman, with a very broad brimmed hat, a very long frock-coat, and a very small, stiff s.h.i.+rt collar, was pacing meditatively to and fro, evidently waiting for someone. Every now and then he glanced up the lane which seemed deserted by ordinary pa.s.sengers, and if he had not been a clergyman would no doubt have whistled.

At last his patience was rewarded. Over the top of the low hedge a coquettish hat appeared sailing along, and presently a young woman came meekly round the corner, enjoying the fresh country air. It was Miss Maynard. The young gentleman advanced. He seemed to know her, for taking off his broad-brimmed hat, he kissed her, much in the same fas.h.i.+on as a short time before she had kissed the Major, only much more forcibly, and apparently with much enjoyment.

"Em, I thought you were never coming."

"I don't know," she said, and sighed. "I don't know. It's all vanity. I was thinking of your last Sunday's sermon," she continued as they wandered on, seemingly unconscious that his arm was round her waist.

"It was so true."

They walked on till they reached a gate which opened into a little woodland copse. Here, under the mighty trees, the shade was pleasant, and the gra.s.s cool and refres.h.i.+ng to the eye. They sat at the foot of a great old oak.

"Em," said Mr. Roland--by the way, the Rev. John Roland was the young gentleman's name--"these meetings are very pleasant."

"Yes," said Em, who was always truthful, "they are."

"Therefore, I am afraid to run the risk of ending them."

"What do you mean?" cried she.

To be candid, four mornings out of five were taken up by these pleasant little meetings, and to end them would be to rob her of one of her most important occupations.

"Em, you know what I mean."