Part 59 (1/2)

Meynell pa.s.sed that evening in his study, after some hours spent in the Christmas business of a large parish. His mind was full of agitation, and when midnight struck, ushering in Christmas Eve, he was still undecided as to his precise course.

Among the letters of the day lying scattered beside him on the floor there was yet further evidence of the power of Barron's campaign. There were warm expressions indeed of sympathy and indignation to be found among them, but on the whole Meynell realized that his own side's belief in him was showing some signs of distress, while the attack upon him was increasing in violence. His silence even to his most intimate friends, even to his Bishop; the disappearance from England of the other persons named in the scandal; the constant elaborations and embellishments of the story as it pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth--these things were telling against him steadily and disastrously.

As he hung over the fire, he anxiously reconsidered his conduct toward the Bishop, while Catharine's phrase--”He, too, has his rights!” lingered in his memory. He more than suspected that his silence had given pain; and his affection for the Bishop made the thought a sore one.

But after all what good would have been done had he even put the Bishop in possession of the whole story? The Bishop's bare denial would have been added to his; nothing more. There could have been no explanation, public or private; nothing to persuade those who did not wish to be persuaded.

His thought wandered hither and thither. From the dim regions of the past there emerged a letter....

”My dear old Meynell, the thing is to be covered up. Ralph will acknowledge the child, and all precautions are to be taken. I think what he does he will do thoroughly. Alice wishes it--and what can I do, either for her or for the child? Nothing. And for me, I see but one way out--which will be the best for her too in the end, poor darling. My wife's letter a week ago destroyed my last hope. I am going out to-night--and I shall not come back. Stand by her, Richard. I think this kind of lie on which we are all embarked is wrong (not that you had anything to do with it!) But it is society which is wrong and imposes it on us. Anyway, the choice is made, and now you must support and protect her--and the child--for my sake. For I know you love me, dear boy--little as I deserve it. It is part of your general gift of loving, which has always seemed to me so strange. However--whatever I was made for, you were made to help the unhappy. So I have the less scruple in sending you this last word. She will want your help. The child's lot in that household will not be a happy one; and Alice will have to look on. But, help her!--help her above all to keep silence, for this thing, once done, must be irrevocable. Only so can my poor Alice recover her youth--think, she is only twenty now!--and the child's future be saved. Alice, I hope, will marry. And when the child marries, you may--nay, I think you must--tell the husband. I have written this to Ralph. But for all the rest of the world, the truth is now wiped out. The child is no longer mine--Alice was never my love--and I am going to the last sleep. My sister f.a.n.n.y Meryon knows something; enough to make her miserable; but no names or details. Well!--good-bye. In your company alone have I ever seemed to touch the life that might have been mine. But it is too late.

The will in me--the mainspring--is diseased. This is a poor return--but forgive me!--my very dear Richard! Here comes the boat; and there is a splendid sea rising.”

There, in a locked drawer, not far from him, lay this letter. Meynell's thought plunged back into the past; into its pa.s.sionate feeling, its burning pity, its powerless affection. He recalled his young hero-wors.h.i.+p for his brilliant kinsman; the hour when he had identified the battered form on the sh.o.r.e of the Donegal Lough; the sight of Alice's young anguish; and all the subsequent effort on his part, for Christ's sake, for Neville's sake, to help and s.h.i.+eld a woman and child, effort from which his own soul had learnt so much.

Pure and sacred recollections!--mingled often with the moral or intellectual perplexities that enter into all things human.

Then--at a bound--his thoughts rushed on to the man who, without pity, without shame, had dragged all these sad things, these helpless, irreparable griefs, into the cruel light of a malicious publicity--in the name of Christ--in the name of the Church!

To-morrow! He rose, with a face set like iron, and went back to his table to finish a half-written review.

”Theresa--after eleven--I shall be engaged. See that I am not disturbed.”

Theresa murmured a.s.sent, but when her father closed the door of her sitting-room, she did not go back immediately to her household accounts.

Her good, plain face showed a disturbed mind.

Her father's growing excitability and irritation, and the bad accounts of Maurice, troubled her sorely. It was only that morning Mr. Barron had become aware that Maurice had lost his employment, and was again adrift in the world. Theresa had known it for a week or two, but had not been allowed to tell. And she tried not to remember how often of late her brother had applied to her for money.

Going back to her accounts with a sigh, she missed a necessary receipt and went into the dining-room to look for it. While she was there the front door bell rang and was answered, unheard by her. Thus it fell out that as she came back into the hall she found herself face to face with Richard Meynell.

She stood paralyzed with astonishment. He bowed to her gravely and pa.s.sed on. Something in his look seemed to her to spell calamity. She went back to her room, and sat there dumb and trembling, dreading what she might see or hear.

Meanwhile Meynell had been ushered into Barron's study by the old butler, who was no less astonished than his mistress.

Barron rose stiffly to meet his visitor. The two men stood opposite each other as the door closed.

Barron spoke first.

”You will, I trust, let me know, Mr. Meynell, without delay to what I owe this unexpected visit. I was of course quite ready to meet your desire for an interview, but your letter gave me no clue--”

”I thought it better not,” said Meynell quietly. ”May we sit down?”

Barron mechanically waved the speaker to a chair, and sat down himself.

Meynell seemed to pause a moment, his eyes on the ground. Then suddenly he raised them.

”Mr. Barron, what I have come to say will be a shock to you. I have discovered the author of the anonymous letters which have now for nearly three months been defiling this parish and diocese.”

Barron's sudden movement showed the effect of the words. But he held himself well in hand.