The Bond of Black Part 18

"Yes, it's me," he answered cheerily. "I certainly didn't think that I should ever get an appointment in your country."

"But how is it?" I cried, after I had explained to my mother how we had been chums at Wadham.

"I never thought you'd go in for the Church."

"Nor did I," he admitted, laughing. "But I'm curate of Duddington, and this is my first visit to your mother. I had no idea that this was your home. There are many Cleeves, you know."

He was a merry, easy-going fellow, this old college companion of mine, a veritable giant in stature, fair, with a long, drooping moustache that a cavalry officer might have envied, broad shouldered, burly, a magnificent type of an Englishman. As he stood there towering above me, he looked strangely out of place in his long, black coat and clerical collar. An officer's uniform would have suited him better.

I had left Oxford a couple of terms before he had, and on going abroad lost sight of him. He had been accredited by all as a coming man on account of his depth of learning. When I had last seen him, some six years before, he was living in Lincoln's Inn, and reading for the Bar.

I referred to that occasion when we had met in the Strand, and he replied--

"Yes, but I preferred the Church. My uncle, you know, is Bishop of Galway."

Then I recollected that such was the case. He had no doubt been induced to go in for a clerical life by this relative. Maternal uncles are responsible for a good deal in shaping a man's career.

"Well, you're always welcome to Tixover, my dear old fellow," I said, "and I'm sure my mother will always be very pleased to see you."

"Of course," she said, smiling sweetly. "Any friend of Clifton's is always welcome here. I hope you won't treat us formally, Mr Yelverton, but look in and see us whenever you can spare time."

Yelverton thanked her warmly, and as I took my tea I began to chat about the parish, about the shortcomings of his predecessor, an abominable young prig who lisped, flirted outrageously, thought of nothing but tennis, and whose sermons were distinct specimens of oratorical rubbish.

To all the countryside he was known as "Mother's darling," an appellation earned by the fact that his mother, a fussy old person, used to live with him and refer to him as her "dear boy."

But Jack Yelverton was of an entirely different stamp--a manly, good-humoured, even-tempered fellow who had no "side," and whose face and figure showed him to be designed as a leader among men. At college he had been noted for his careful judgment, his close and diligent studies of abstruse subjects, and his remarkable grasp of things which even the Dons found difficult. Yet he was an inveterate practical joker, and more than once got into an ugly sc.r.a.pe, from which, however, he always managed to ingeniously wriggle out.

I was extremely glad to find my old friend installed in Duddington, for during the years that had pa.s.sed I had often wondered what had become of him. More than once poor Roddy, who had been one of us at Wadham, had expressed a wish that we could find him, for we had all three been closest friends in the old days. And yet he had actually been appointed our curate and spiritual adviser, and had come to visit Tixover without knowing it was my home.

We laughed heartily over the situation.

He told me how he had taken lodgings with Mrs Walker, a cheerful old soul who lived at a pleasant cottage halfway up the village street, an old-fas.h.i.+oned place with a flower-garden in front and a little paved walk leading up to the rustic porch. a.s.sisted by her daughter, old Mrs Walker had lodged curates in Duddington for many years, knew all their wants, and was well versed in the diplomatic treatment of callers, and the means by which her lodger could be prevented from being disturbed when working at his sermon.

We chatted on for half an hour, and when he rose to leave he invited me to walk up to the village after dinner, and have a smoke with him.

"My rooms are not palatial, you know, my dear fellow," he said, "but I can give you a good cigar, if you'll come."

"Certainly; I shall be delighted," I answered, and we parted.

Soon after eight that evening I knocked at Mrs Walker's door, and was ushered by her daughter into the small, clean, but rather shabbily-furnished best room. It smelt strongly of the geraniums, which grew high in a row before the window, and as I entered Jack Yelverton rose and greeted me cheerily, giving me his easy chair, taking down a box of cigars from the shelf, and producing a surrept.i.tious bottle of whiskey, a syphon, and a couple of gla.s.ses from a little cupboard in the wall.

"I'm jolly glad you've come," he said, when he had reseated himself, and I had got my weed under way. "The surprise to-day has indeed been a pleasant one. Lots of times I have thought of you, and wondered where and how you were. But in the world men drift apart, and even the best resolutions of correspondence made at college are mostly broken.

However, it is a very pleasant meeting this, for I feel already that I'm among friends."

"Of course you are, old chap," I answered. "My people will always be pleased to see you. Like yourself, I'm awfully glad we've met. But you're the very last man I should have imagined would have gone in for the Church. It isn't your first appointment, I suppose?"

"No," he answered reflectively, gazing at the end of his cigar. "It came about in this way. I studied for a couple of years at Lincoln's Inn, but somehow I didn't care much for the law, and one day it occurred to me that with my knowledge of theology I might have a chance of doing good among my fellow-men. I don't know what put it into my head, I'm sure, but straight away I saw my uncle the Bishop, and the result was that very soon afterwards I was appointed curate at Framlingham, in Suffolk. This disappointed me. I felt that I ought to work in one of the overcrowded cities; that I might, with the income my father had left me, alleviate the sufferings of some of the deserving poor; that I might be the means of effecting some good in the world. At last I was successful in obtaining an appointment under the Vicar of Christ Church, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, where I can tell you I had plenty of opportunity for doing that which I had set my mind upon. A curate's life in the East End isn't very pleasant if he does his duty, and mine was not a very salubrious locality. The air of the slums is poisonous.

For three years I worked there," he went on after a slight pause. "Then I exchanged to St Peter's, Walworth, and then, owing to ill-health, I was compelled to come here, into the country again. That's briefly been my life since we parted."

"Well," I said, convinced of his earnestness of purpose in the life he had adopted, for a man does not seek an appointment in a London slum unless he feels a strong incentive to work in the interests of his fellow-men, "you'll get all right very soon here, I hope. The air is fresh, your parish isn't very large, and old Layton, the rector, is an easy-going old chap--one of the old school."

"Yes, I know," he said; "I've been here already ten days, and I've seen that the work is mere child's play. The rector has got into a groove, like all rural rectors. But, to tell the truth, I only accepted the appointment because the doctor ordered me a change. When I'm quite strong again I shall go back, I hope, to London. When I entered the Church it wasn't with any thought of gain. I've enough to keep me comfortably. I had, and have still, in view work which I must achieve."

Jack Yelverton was an enthusiast. I was rather surprised, I confess, at finding him so energetic in religious work, for when at Wadham he had been quite the reverse. Still, there was an air of deep sincerity in his words. His face, too, was pale and lined, as if he had worked until his const.i.tution had become jaded and worn. On his mantel-shelf was a marble clock, with the neat inscription on a silver plate stating that it had been subscribed for by the paris.h.i.+oners of the poor East End parish as a token of their esteem.

He rose to turn down the lamp, which was smoking, and as he did so sighed. Then casting himself in his chair again, he remarked--

"I don't know how long I shall be able to stand this rusticating. You know, Clifton, I wasn't born to rusticate."

"No, I know that," I said. "Like myself, you prefer town."

"Ah, you have your clubs, your friends, theatres, concerts, river-parties, merry little dinners, all that makes life worth living,"

he said. "But if you worked with me for a week your heart would bleed to see the appalling poverty and distress; how the poor strive and struggle to live; how their landlords, with hearts like stone, sell them up and drive them to the last extremity; how the keepers of the low-cla.s.s public-houses sell them intoxicants which drive them mad, and how at last the police lay hands upon them as drunkards and thieves.

You don't know, my dear fellow--you can't know--how lower London lives.

When I reflect upon some of the painful scenes of poverty and distress to which I have been witness, and remember the heartfelt grat.i.tude with which any slight a.s.sistance I have given has been accepted, I feel somehow angry with the wealthy--those who spend their money recklessly within that small area around Charing Cross, and will contribute to any Mansion House fund to aid foreigners because their names will be printed as donors in the daily papers, but, alas! who begrudge a single sixpence to the starving poor in the giant city which brings them their wealth.

They are fond of talking of missions to the East End and all that, but it isn't religion half these people want, it's bread for their starving wives and children, or some little necessities for the sick."

"Yes," I observed, "I suppose all sorts of absurd bunk.u.m is talked about religious work among the London poor. Poor Roddy Morgan used to hold a similar opinion to yourself. He was an ardent supporter of a philanthropic movement which had its headquarters somewhere in the Mile End Road."

"Ah! poor Roddy!" he sighed. "His was, indeed, a sad end. That such a good, honest, upright fellow should have been murdered like that was truly a most melancholy circ.u.mstance."

"Murdered!" I exclaimed. "How do you know he was murdered?"

There had been no suggestion in the papers of foul play, therefore my friend's declaration was extremely remarkable.

"I know the truth!" he answered, very gravely.

"What do you mean?" I exclaimed, starting forward quickly. "Are you actually aware of the cause of poor Roddy's death? Tell me."

"No, Clifton," he responded, shaking his head, as rising he stood determinedly before me, his brows knit in a thoughtful att.i.tude. "A confession made to me by one who seeks the forgiveness of G.o.d I may not divulge. Remember," he added in a firm voice, "remember that I am a clergyman; and confidences reposed in me I must not abuse. Therefore do not seek the truth from me. My lips are sealed."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

PURELY CONFIDENTIAL.

Jack Yelverton's declaration held me dumb. He knew the truth, yet could not divulge, because any confession made to him by one who sought spiritual guidance was sacred.

I pressed him to tell me something which might give me a clue to the truth, but he only grew additionally grave, and answered--

"Roddy was my friend, as well as yours, Clifton. If it were possible, don't you think that I would bring the guilty to punishment? Ah! don't speak of it," he sighed. "In this affair I've suffered enough. If you knew how the possession of this secret oppresses me, you would be silent on that sad topic always."

I said nothing. His face had grown haggard and drawn, and I could see that his conscience was torn by a tumult of emotions.

It was certainly extraordinary, I reflected, as I smoked on in silence, while he stood leaning against the mantel-shelf with his eyes fixed upon the opposite wall. That day I had again met after years of separation this man who had once been among my best friends, and he was actually in possession of the secret which I had been longing through those winter months to learn--the secret of the tragic death of poor Roddy Morgan.

But he was a clergyman. Had he been a member of any other profession he might, in the interests of justice, betray the murderer--for there was no doubt now that Roddy had been murdered--but he was a servant of his Master, and words spoken in confidence into his ear by the penitent were as the secrets of the Roman Catholic confessional. From him I could hope for no word of the truth.

At last he spoke again, telling me that the real reason he had accepted a country curacy was because of this terrible secret ever oppressing him.