Part 19 (1/2)
”But,” he added quite resignedly, ”it is, I suppose, a burden placed upon me as a test. Now I know the truth I feel as an accessory to the crime; but to divulge would be to break faith with both G.o.d and man.”
His words admitted of no argument. I sat silent, oppressed, smoking and thinking. Then at length I rose to go.
”We are friends still, Clifton,” he said, as he gripped my hand warmly.
”But you understand my position, don't you?”
”Yes,” I answered. ”That you cannot speak is plain. Good night,” and I went forth into the quiet village street where the only light came from the cottage windows here and there. The good people of Duddington go to bed early and rise with the dawn, therefore there was little light to guide my steps down the hill and up the road to the Hall. Nothing stirred, and the only sound was the dismal howl of a distant sheep-dog.
During the fortnight that followed I saw plenty of the new curate. His manner had, however, changed, and he had grown the same merry, buoyant companion as he had been in our college days.
Into Duddington Jack Yelverton had come as a perfect revelation of the ways and manners of the Church. For the past twenty years the estimable rector had preached regularly once each Sunday, and been usually a.s.sisted by a puny, consumptive-looking youth, fresh from college; but the smart, clever, witty sermon from this ecclesiastical giant was electrifying. People talked of it for days afterwards, discussed the arguments he had put forward so boldly, and were compelled to admit that he was an earnest, righteous, and upright man.
He dined with us once or twice, afterwards taking a hand at whist; we cycled together over to Oundle by way of Newton and Fotheringhay; on another occasion we rode to Uppingham to visit a man who had been with us at Wadham and was now one of the masters at Uppingham School; and several times I drove him to Peterborough and to Stamford. Thus we were together a good deal, and the more I saw of him the more convinced I became that he was thoroughly earnest in his purpose, and that he had not adopted the Church from motives of gain, like so many men whose relatives are ecclesiastical dignitaries.
A letter I received one morning from Muriel caused me to decide upon a visit to town, and I left the same evening, returning once more to my chambers in Charing Cross Mansions. Next day being Sunday, I sent Simes, on my arrival, round to Madame Gabrielle's with a note inviting Muriel to call at eleven and go with me to spend the day at Hampton Court. I knew that she always liked a ramble in Bushey Park, for town-stifled as she was, it reminded her of Burleigh, the great demesne of the Cecils outside Stamford.
She accepted, and at eleven next morning Simes ushered her in. She was quietly dressed in black, the dash of bright cerise in her hat well suiting her complexion.
”Well,” she said, putting forth her hand as she entered. ”I really thought you had quite forgotten me. Your note last night gave me a great surprise.”
”I suppose if the truth were known you were engaged for to-day, eh?” I asked mischievously, for I took a keen delight in chaffing her about her admirers.
”Well, you've pretty well guessed the truth,” she laughed, blus.h.i.+ng slightly as she took the chair I offered her.
”What is he this time--dark or fair?” I asked.
”Dark. A rather nice fellow-cas.h.i.+er in a bank in the City.”
”And he takes you out often, I suppose?”
”Two or three times a week,” she answered, quite frankly. ”We go to a music-hall sometimes, or, if not, down to the Monico.”
”The Monico!” I laughed, remembering how popular that restaurant was with shop-a.s.sistants and clerks. ”Why always the Monico?”
”Ah!” she smiled. ”We can't afford Frascati's, the Cafe Royal, or Yerrey's. We get a little life at the Monico at small cost, and it doesn't matter to us whether our neighbours wear tweeds or not. A man not in evening dress in the Cafe Royal, Verrey's, or Jimmy's is looked upon as an outsider; so we avoid those places.”
”And you like him, eh?” I inquired, amused.
”As much as I like all the others,” she responded with a light, irresponsible air, toying with the handle of her umbrella. ”Life in London is frightfully dull if a girl has n.o.body to take her out. She can't go about alone as she can in the country, and girls in business are not very friendly towards each other. You've no idea how many jealousies exist among girls in shops.”
”I suppose if a man goes to Madame Gabrielle's to buy a bonnet for a present, or something, you all think he ought to take notice of you?” I laughed.
”Of course,” she replied. ”But it's the travellers from the wholesale houses who are most sought after by the girls; first, because they are generally pretty well to do, and secondly, they often know of good `cribs' of which they tell the girls who are their favourites, and give them a recommendation into the bargain.”
”I always used to think that the shop-walker in the drapery places had a pretty lively time of it. Is that so?”
”They're always jealous of the travellers,” she said. ”The shop-walker fancies himself a lady-killer because he's trained to do the amiable to the customers, and he can get the girls in his department into awful hot water if he likes; therefore he doesn't care much for the good-looking town traveller, who comes in his brougham and has such a very gay and easy life of it. Girls in drapers' shops are compelled to keep in with the shop-walker, but they hate him because he's usually such a tyrant.”
”Then you may thank your stars that you haven't a shop-walker,” I laughed.
”But we've got old Mrs Rayne and the manager, who are both quite as nasty to us as any shop-walker could be,” she protested quickly. ”Rayne is constantly nagging at one or other of us if we don't effect a sale.