CHAPTER V
AN UNFORESEEN CASE
"I wish to goodness," remarked the Reverend Sigismund Taylor rubbingthe bridge of his nose with a corner of the Manual, "that the Vicar hadnever introduced auricular confession. It may be in accordance with thepractice of the Primitive Church, but--one does meet with such verycurious cases. There's nothing the least like it, in the Manual."
He opened the book and searched its pages over again. No, the case hadnot been foreseen. It must be included in those which were "left to thediscretion of the priest."
"It's a poor Manual," said Mr. Taylor, throwing it down and putting hishands in the pocket of his cassock. "Poor girl! She was quitedistressed, too. I must have something to tell her when she comes nextweek."
Mr. Taylor had, in face of the difficulty, taken time to consider, andthe penitent had gone away in suspense. To represent oneself as adressmaker--well, there was nothing very outrageous in that; it wasunbecoming, but venial, to tell sundry fibs by way of supporting theassumed character--the Manual was equal to that; but the rest of thedisclosure was the crux. Wrong, no doubt, was the conduct--but howwrong? That made all the difference. And then there followed anotherquestion: What ought to be done? She had asked for advice about thatalso, and, although such counsel was not strictly incumbent on him, hefelt that he ought not to refuse it. Altogether he was puzzled. Ateight-and-twenty one cannot be ready for everything; yet she hadimplored him to consult nobody else, and decide for her himself. "I'vesuch trust in you," she had said, wiping away an incipient teardrop;and, although Mr. Taylor told her that the individual was nothing andthe Office everything, he had been rather gratified. Thinking that aturn in the open air might clear his brain and enable him better tograpple with this very thorny question, he changed his cassock for along tailed coat, put on his wide awake, and, leaving the precincts ofSt. Edward Confessor, struck across Park Lane and along the Row. Hepassed several people he knew, both men and women: Mrs. Marland wasthere, attended by two young men, and, a little farther on, he saw oldLord Thrapston tottering along on his stick. Lord Thrapston hated aparson, and scowled at poor Mr. Taylor as he went by. Mr. Taylor shrankfrom meeting his eye, and hurried along till he reached the Serpentine,where he stood still for a few minutes, drinking in the fresh breeze.But the breeze could not blow his puzzle out of his brain. Was it acrime, or merely an escapade? What had she said to the young man? Whathad her feelings been or become towards the young man? Moreover, whathad she caused the young man's feelings to be for her? When he came tothink it over, Mr. Taylor discovered, with a shock of surprise, that onall these distinctly material points the confession had been singularlyincomplete. He was ashamed of this, for, of course, it was his businessto make the confession full and exhaustive. He could only plead that,at the moment, it had seemed thorough and candid--an unreservedrevelation. Yet those points did, as a fact, remain obscure.
"I wish I knew a little more about human nature," sighed Mr. Taylor: hewas thinking of one division of human nature, and it is likely enoughthat he knew next to nothing of it.
A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and, with a start, he turned round.A tall young man, in a new frock-coat and a faultless hat, stood byhim, smiling at him.
"What, Charlie, old fellow!" cried Taylor; "where do you spring from?"
Charlie explained that he was up in town for a month or two.
"It's splendid to meet you first day! I was going to look you up," hesaid.
Sigismund Taylor and Charlie had been intimate friends at Oxford,although Charlie was, as time counts there, very considerably thejunior. For the last two or three years they had hardly met.
"But what are you up for?"
"Oh, well, you see, my uncle wants me to get called to the Bar, orsomething, so I ran tip to have a look into it."
"Will that take a month?"
"Look here, old fellow, I've got nothing else to do--I don't see why Ishouldn't stretch it to three months. Besides, I want to spend sometime with my ancestors."
"With your ancestors?"
"In the British Museum: I'm writing a book about them. Queer lot someof them were, too. Of course I'm specially interested in AgathaMerceron; but I suppose you never heard of her."
Mr. Taylor confessed his ignorance, and Charlie, taking his arm, walkedhim up and down the bank, while he talked on his pet subject. AgathaMerceron was always interesting, and just now anything about the Poolwas interesting; for there was one reason for his visit to London whichhe had not disclosed. Nettie Wallace had, when he met her one day,incautiously dropped a word which seemed to imply that the other Agathawas often in London. Nettie tried to recall her words; but the mischiefwas done, and Charlie became more than ever convinced that he wouldgrow rusty if he stayed always at Langbury Court. In fact, he couldsuffer it no longer, and to town he went.
For a long while Sigismund Taylor listened with no more than averageinterest to Charlie's story, but it chanced that one word caught hisnotice.
"She comes out of the temple," said Charlie, in the voice of hushedreverence with which he was wont to talk of the unhappy lady.
"Out of where?" asked Mr. Taylor.
"The temple. Oh, I forgot, the temple is--" and Charlie gave adescription which need not be repeated.
Temple! temple! Where had he heard of a temple lately? Mr. Taylorcudgelled his brains. Why--why--yes, she had spoken of a temple. Shesaid they met in a temple. It was a strange coincidence: the word hadstruck him at the time. But then everybody knows that, at a certainperiod, it was common enough to put up these little classical erectionsas a memorial or merely as an ornament to pleasure-grounds. It must bea mere coincidence. But--Mr. Taylor stopped short.
"What's up?" asked Charlie, who had finished his narrative, and was nowstudying the faces of the ladies who rode past.
"Nothing," answered Mr. Taylor.
And really it was not much--taken by itself, entirely unworthy ofnotice; even taken in conjunction with the temple, of no realsignificance, that he could see. Still, it was a whimsical thing that,as had just struck him, Charlie's spectre should be named Agatha. Butit came; to nothing: how could the name of Charlie's spectre haveanything to do with that of his penitent?
Presently Charlie, too, fell into silence. He beat his stick moodilyagainst his leg and looked glum and absent.
"Ah, well," he said at last, "poor Agatha was hardly used: she paidpart of the debt we owe woman."
Mr. Taylor raised his brows and smiled at this gloomily misogynisticsentiment. He had the perception to grasp in a moment what itindicated. His young friend was, or had lately been, or thought he waslikely to be, a lover, and an unhappy one. But he did not pressCharlie. Confessions were no luxury to him.
Presently they began to walk back, and Charlie, saying he had to dinewith Victor Button, made an appointment to see Taylor again, and lefthim, striking across the Row. Taylor strolled on, and, finding Mrs.Marland still in her seat, sat down by her. She was surprised andpleased to hear that Charlie was in town.
"I left him at home in deep dumps. You've never been to Langbury Court,have you?"
Taylor shook his head.
"Such a sweet old place! But, of course, rather dull for a young man,with nobody hut his mother and just one or two slow country neighbors."
"Oh, a run 'll do him good."
"Yes; he was quite moped;" and Mrs. Marland glanced at her companion.She wanted only a very little encouragement to impart her suspicions tohim. It must, in justice to Mrs. Marland, be remembered that she hadalways found the simplest explanation of Charlie's devotion to the Poolhard to accept, and the most elaborate demonstration of how a Canadiancanoe may be upset unconvincing.
"You're a great friend of his, aren't you?" pursued Mrs. Marland. "So Isuppose there's no harm in mentioning my suspicions to you. Indeed, Idaresay you could be of use to him--I mean, persuade him to be wise.I'm afraid, Mr. Taylor, that he is in some entanglement."
"Dear, dear!" murmured Mr. Taylor.
"Oh, I've n
o positive proof, but I fear so--and a very undesirableentanglement, too, with someone quite beneath him. Yes, I think I hadbetter tell you about it."
Mr. Taylor sat silent and, save for a start or two, motionless whilehis companion detailed her circumstantial evidence. Whether it wasenough to prove Mrs. Marland's case or not--whether, that is, it isinconceivable that a young man should go to any place fourteen eveningsrunning, and upset a friend of his youth out of a canoe, except therebe a lady involved, is perhaps doubtful; but it was more than enough toshow Mr. Sigismund Taylor that the confession he had listened to wasbased upon fact, and that Charlie Merceron was the other party to thosestolen interviews, into whose exact degree of heinousness he was nowinquiring. This knowledge caused Mr. Taylor to feel that he was in anawkward position.
"Now," asked Mrs. Marland, "candidly, Mr. Taylor, can you supposeanything else than that our friend Charlie was carrying on a verypronounced flirtation with this dressmaker?"
"Dressmaker?"
"Her friend was, and I believe she was too. Something of the kind,anyhow."
"You--you never saw the--the other person?"
"No; she kept out of the way. That looks bad, doesn't it? No doubt shewas a tawdry vulgar creature. But a man never notices that!"
At this moment two people were seen approaching. One of them was a manof middle height and perhaps five-and-thirty years of age; he was stoutand thick-built; he had a fat face with bulging cheeks; his eyes wererather like a frog's; he leant very much forward as he walked, andswayed gently from side to side with a rolling swagger; and as his bodyrolled, his eye rolled too, and he looked this way and that with ajovial leer and a smile of contentment and amusement on his face. Thesmile and the merry eye redeemed his appearance from blank ugliness,but neither of them indicated a spiritual or exalted mind.
By his side walked a girl, dressed, as Mrs. Marland enviously admitted,as really very few women in London could dress, and wearing, in virtueperhaps of the dress, perhaps of other more precious gifts, an air ofassured perfection and dainty disdain. She was listening to hercompanion's conversation, and did not notice Sigismund Taylor, withwhom she was well acquainted.
"Dear me, who are those, I wonder?" exclaimed Mrs. Marland. "She's verydistinguee."
"It's Miss Glyn," answered he.
"What--Miss Agatha, Glyn?"
"Yes," he replied, wondering whether that little coincidence as to the'Agatha' would suggest itself to anyone else.
"Lord Thrapston's granddaughter?"
"Yes."
"Horrid old man, isn't he?"
"I know him very slightly."
"And the man--who's he?"
"Mr. Calder Wentworth."
"To be sure. Why, they're engaged, aren't they? I saw it in the paper."
"I'm sure I don't know," said Mr. Taylor, in a voice more troubled thanthe matter seemed to require. "I saw it in the paper too."
"He's no beauty, at any rate; but he's a great match, I suppose?"
"Oh, perhaps it isn't true."
"You speak as if you wished it wasn't. I've heard about Mr. Wentworthfrom Victor Sutton--you know who I mean?" and Mrs. Marland proceeded togive some particulars of Calder Wentworth's career.
Meanwhile that gentleman himself was telling Agatha Glyn a veryhumorous story. Agatha did not laugh. Suddenly she interrupted him.
"Why don't you ask me more about it?"
"I thought you'd tell me if you wanted me to know," he answered.
"You are the most insufferable man. Don't you care in the least what Ido or where I go?"
"Got perfect confidence in you," said Calder politely.
"I don't deserve it."
"Oh, I daresay not; but it's so much more comfortable for me."
"I disappeared--simply disappeared--for a fortnight; and you've neverasked where I went, or what I did, or--or anything."
"Haven't I? Where did you go?"
"I can't tell you."
"There, you see! What the dickens was the good of my asking?"
"If you knew what I did I suppose you'd never speak to me again."
"All right. Keep it dark then, please."
"For one tiling, I met--No, I won't."
"I never asked you to, you know."
They walked on a little way in silence.
"Met young Sutton at lunch," observed Calder. "He's been rusticatingwith some relations of old Van Merceron's. They've got a nice placeapparently."
"I particularly dislike Mr. Sutton."
"All right. He sha'n't come when we're married. Eh? What?"
"I didn't speak," said Miss Glyn, who had certainly done something.
"Beg pardon," smiled Calder. "Victor told me rather a joke. It appearsthere's a young Merceron, and the usual rustic beauty, don't youknow--forget the name--but a fat girl, Victor said, and awfully gone onyoung Merceron. Well, there's a pond or something----"
"How long will this story last?" asked Miss Glyn with a tragic air.
"It's an uncommon amusing one," protested Calder. "He upset her in thepond, and----"
"Do you mind finishing it some other time?"
"Oh, all right. Thought it'd interest you."
"It doesn't."
"Never knew such a girl! No sense of humor!" commented Calder, with ashake of his head and a backward roll of his eye towards his companion.
But it makes such a difference whether a story is new to the hearer.