Kitabı oku: «Between the Dark and the Daylight», sayfa 13

"I sympathise with you, with all my heart."

"Thank you." The curate smiled, the vicar would almost have rather he had cried. "There is one other point. If the paper were a bad paper, in a moral or in a religious sense, under no sense of circumstances would I consent to do its work or to take its wage. But if any one has told you that it is a bad paper, in that sense, you have been misinformed. It is simply a cheap so-called humorous journal. Perhaps not over-refined. It is intended for the olla podrida. It is printed on poor paper, and the printing is not good. The illustrations are not always in the best of taste and are sometimes simply smudges. But looking at the reading matter as a whole, it is probably equal to that which is contained, week after week, in some of the high-priced papers which find admission to every house."

"I am bound to say that sometimes when I have been travelling I have purchased the paper myself, and I have never seen anything in it which could be justly called improper."

"Nor I. I submit, sir, that we curates are already sufficiently cribbed, cabined, and confined. If narrow-minded, non-literary persons are to have the power to forbid our working for decent journals to which they themselves, for some reason, may happen to object, our case is harder still."

The vicar rose from his chair.

"Quite so. There is a great deal in what you say-I quite realise it, Mr. Plumber. The laity are already too much disposed to trample on us clerics. I will think the matter over-think the matter over, Mr. Plumber. My dear sir, what is that?"

There was a crashing sound on the floor overhead, which threatened to bring the study ceiling down. It was followed by such a deafening din, as if an Irish faction fight was taking place upstairs, that even the curate seemed to be disturbed.

"Some of the boys have been making themselves a pair of boxing gloves, and I am afraid they are practising with them in their bedroom."

"Oh," said the vicar. That was all he did say, but the "Oh" was eloquent.

"To think," he told himself as he departed, "that a scholar and a gentleman should be compelled to live in a place like that, with a helpless wife and a horde of unruly lads, and should be driven to scribble nonsense for such a rag as Skittles in order to provide himself with the means to keep them all alive-it seems to me that it must be, in some way, a disgrace to the English Church that such things should be."

He not only said this to himself, but, later on, he said it to his wife. His words had weight with Mrs. Harding, but not the sort of weight which he desired. The fact is Mrs. Harding had views of her own on the subject of curates. She held that curates ought not to marry. Vicars, rectors, and the higher clergy might; but curates, no. For a poor curate to marry was nothing else than a crime. Had she had her way, Mr. Plumber would long ago have vanished from Exdale. But though the vicar was ruled to a considerable extent by his wife, there was a point at which he drew the line. That a man should be turned adrift on to the world to quite starve simply because he was nearly starving already was an idea which actually filled him with indignation.

If he supposed that his interview with Mr. Plumber had resulted in a manner which was likely to appease those of his parishioners who had objections to a curate who wrote for comic papers, he was destined soon to learn his error. The following morning one of his churchwardens paid another visit to the vicarage-the duty-loving Mr. Luxmare. Mr. Harding was conscious of an uncomfortable twinge when that gentleman's name was brought to him; he seemed to be still more uncomfortable when he found himself constrained to meet the warden's eye. The story he had to tell was not only in itself a slightly lame one, its lameness was emphasised by the way in which he told it. It was plain that it was not going to have the effect of inducing Mr. Luxmare to move one hair's breadth from the path which he felt that duty required him to tread.

"Am I to understand, Mr. Harding, that Mr. Plumber, conscious of his offence, has promised to offend no more? In other words, has he undertaken to have no further connection with this off-scouring of the press?"

Mr. Harding put his spectacles on his nose. He took them off again. He fidgetted and fumbled with them with his fingers.

"The fact is, Mr. Luxmare-and this is entirely between ourselves-Mr. Plumber is in such straitened circumstances-"

"Quite so. But because a man is a pauper, does that justify him in becoming a thief?"

"Gently, Mr. Luxmare, let us consider our words before we utter them. Here is no question of anything even distantly approaching to felony. To be frank with you, I think you are unnecessarily hard on this particular journal. The paper is merely a vulgar paper-"

"And Mr. Plumber is merely an ordained minister of the Established Church. Are we, then, as churchmen, to expect our clergy to encourage, not only passively, but, also, actively, the already superabundant vulgarity of the public press?"

The vicar had the worst of it; when he was once more alone he felt that there was no sort of doubt upon that point.

Whether, intentionally or not, Mr. Luxmare managed to convey the impression that, in his opinion, the curate, while pretending to save souls with one hand, was doing his best to destroy them with the other, and that, in that singular course of procedure, he was being aided and abetted by the vicar. Mr. Harding had strong forebodings that the trouble, so far from being ended, was only just beginning. Those forebodings became still stronger when, scarcely an hour after Mr. Luxmare had left him, Mrs. Harding, entering the study like a passable imitation of a hurricane, laid a printed sheet in front of her husband with the air almost of a Jove hurling thunderbolts from the skies.

"Mr. Harding, have you seen that paper?"

It was the unescapable Skittles. The vicar groaned in spirit. He regarded it with weary eyes.

"A copy of it now and then, my dear."

"I have just discovered its existence with feelings of horror. That such a thing should be permitted to be is a national disgrace. Mr. Harding, you will be astounded to learn that the curate of Exdale is one of its chief contributors.

"Scarcely, I think, one of its chief contributors."

Mrs. Harding struck an attitude.

"Is it possible that you are already aware that your ostensible colleague in the great task of snatching souls from the burning has all the time been doing Satan's work?"

"My dear! – really!"

"You know very well that I have objected to Mr. Plumber from the first. I have suspected the man. Now that my suspicions are more than verified, it is certain that he must go. The question is, when? Of course, before next Sunday."

"You move too fast, Sophia."

"In such a matter as this it is impossible to move too fast. Read that."

Turning over a page of the paper, Mrs. Harding pointed to a "copy of verses."

"Thank you, my dear, but, if you will permit me, I prefer to remain excused. I have no taste for that species of literature just now."

"So I should imagine-either now or ever! The shameful and shameless rubbish has been written by your curate. I am told that it has been cut out and framed, and that it at present hangs in the taproom of 'The Pig and Whistle,' with these words scrawled beneath it: 'The Curate's Latest! Real Jam!' Is that the sort of handle which you wish to offer to the scoffers? I shall not leave this room until you promise me that before next Sunday Exdale Parish Church shall have seen the last of him."

He did not promise that, but he promised something-with his fatal facility for promising. He promised that a meeting should be held at the vicarage before the following Sunday. That Mr. Plumber, the churchwardens, and the sidesmen should be invited to attend. That certain questions should be put to the curate. That he should be asked what he had to say for himself. And, although the vicar did not distinctly promise, in so many words, that the sense of the meeting should then be allowed to decide his fate, the lady certainly inferred as much.

The meeting was held. Mr. Harding wrote to the curate, explaining matters as best he could-he felt that in trusting to his pen he would be safer than in trusting to word of mouth. Probably because he was conscious that he really had no choice, Mr. Plumber agreed to come. And he came. Besides the clergy and officers of the church, the only person present was the aforementioned Mr. Ingledew. He was a person of light and leading in the parish, and when he asked permission to attend, the vicar saw no sufficient ground to say him nay.

CHAPTER II

That was one of the unhappiest days of Mr. Harding's life. He was one of those people who are possessed of the questionable faculty of being able to see both sides of a question at once. He saw, too plainly for his own peace of mind, what was to be said both for and against the curate. He feared that the meeting would only see what was only to be said against him. That the man would come prejudiced. And he felt-and that was the worst of all! – that, for the sake of a peace which was no peace, he was giving his colleague into the hands of his enemies, and shifting on to the shoulders of others the authority which was his own.

The churchwardens were the first to arrive. It was plain, from the start, that, so far as the people's warden was concerned, the curate's fate was already signed and sealed. The sidesmen followed, one by one. The vicar had had no personal communication with them on the matter; but he took it for granted, from his knowledge of their characters, that though they lacked his power of expression, they might be expected to think as Mr. Luxmare thought. Mr. Ingledew's position was not clearly defined, but everybody knew the point of view from which he would judge the curate. He would pose as a critic of Literature-with a capital L! – and Mr. Harding feared that, in that character, the unfortunate Mr. Plumber might fare even worse with him than with the others.

The curate was the last to arrive. He came into the room with his hat and stick in his hand. Going straight up to the vicar, he addressed to him a question which brought the business for which they were assembled immediately to the front.

"What is it that you would wish to say to me, sir?"

"It is about your contributions to the well-advertised Skittles, Mr. Plumber. There seems to be a strong feeling on the subject in the parish. I thought that we might meet together here and arrive at a common understanding."

Mr. Plumber bowed. He turned to the others. He bowed to them. There was a pause, as if of hesitation as to what ought to be done. Then Mr. Luxmare spoke.

"May I ask Mr. Plumber some questions?"

The vicar beamed, or endeavoured to.

"You had better, Mr. Luxmare, address that inquiry to Mr. Plumber."

Mr. Luxmare addressed himself to Mr. Plumber-not genially.

"The first question I would ask you, sir, is, whether it is true that you are a contributor to the paper which the vicar has named. The second question I would ask you, sir-"

The curate interrupted him.

"One moment, Mr. Luxmare. On what ground do you consider yourself entitled to question me?"

"You are one of the parish clergy. I am one of its churchwardens. As such, I speak to you in the name of the parish."

"I fail to understand you. Because I am one of the parish clergy it does not follow that I am in any way responsible for my conduct to the parish. My life would be not worth living if that were so. I am responsible to my vicar alone. So long as he is satisfied that I am doing my duty to him, you have no concern with me, and I have none with you."

"Quite right, Mr. Plumber," struck in the vicar. "I have hinted as much to Mr. Luxmare already."

The people's warden listened with lowering brows.

"Then why have you brought us here, sir? – to be played with?"

"The truth is, Mr. Luxmare-and you must forgive my speaking plainly-you have an exaggerated conception of the magnitude of your office. A churchwarden has certain duties to perform, but among them is not the duty of sitting in judgment on his clergy."

"Then am I to understand that Mr. Plumber declines to answer my questions?"

"It depends," said Mr. Plumber, "upon what your questions are. I trust that I may be always found ready, and willing, to respond to any inquiries, not savouring of impertinence, which may be addressed to me. I have no objection, for instance, to inform you, or any one, that I am, or rather, I have been, a contributor to Skittles."

"Oh, you have, have you! May I ask if you intend to continue to contribute to that scandalous rag?"

"Now you go too far. I am unable to bind myself by any promise as to my future intentions."

"Then, sir, I say that you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Mr. Luxmare!" cried the vicar.

But the people's warden had reached the explosive point; he was bound to explode.

"I am not to be put down, nor am I to be frightened from doing what I conceive to be my bounden duty. I tell you again, Mr. Plumber, sir, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself. And I say further, that it is to me a monstrous proposition, that a clergyman is to be at liberty to contribute to the rising flood of public immorality, and that his parishioners are not to be allowed to offer even a word of remonstrance. You may take this from me, Mr. Plumber, that so long as you continue one of its clergy, the parish church will be deserted. You will minister, if you are to minister at all, to a beggarly array of empty pews. And, since the parish is not to be permitted to speak its mind in private, I will see that an opportunity is given it to speak its mind in public. I will see that a public meeting is held. I promise you that it will be attended by every decent-minded man and woman in Exdale. Some home truths will be uttered which, I trust, will enlighten you as to what is, and what is not, the duty of a parish clergyman."

"Have you quite finished, Mr. Luxmare?"

The vicar asked the question in a tone of almost dangerous quiet.

"Do not think," continued Mr. Luxmare, ignoring Mr. Harding, "that in this matter I speak for myself. I speak for the whole parish." He turned to his colleague, "Is that not so?"

The vicar's warden did not seem to be completely at his ease. He looked appealingly at the vicar. He shuffled with his feet. But he spoke at last, prefacing his remarks with a sort of deprecatory little cough.

"I am bound to admit that I consider it somewhat unfortunate that Mr. Plumber should have contributed to a publication of this particular class."

Mr. Luxmare turned to the sidesmen.

"What do you think?"

The sidesmen did not say much, but they managed, with what they did say, to convey the impression that they thought as the churchwardens thought.

"You see," exclaimed the triumphant Mr. Luxmare, "that here we are unanimous, and I give you my word that our unanimity is but typical of the unanimous feeling which pervades the entire parish."

"Has anybody else anything which he would wish to say?"

The vicar asked the question in the same curiously quiet tone of voice. Mr. Ingledew stood up.

"Yes, vicar, I have something which I should rather like to say. I am not pretending to have, in this matter, any locus standi. Nor do I intend to assail Mr. Plumber on the lines which Mr. Luxmare has followed. To me it seems to be a matter of comparative indifference to which journal a man, be he cleric or layman, may choose to send his contributions. Journals nowadays are very much of a muchness, their badness is merely a question of degree. There is, however, one point on which I should like to be enlightened by Mr. Plumber. I am told that he is the author of some verses which were published in the issue of Skittles, dated July 11th, and entitled 'The Lingering Lover.' Is that so, Mr. Plumber?"

As Mr. Ingledew asked his question, the curate, for the first time, showed signs of obvious uneasiness.

"That is so," he said.

Mr. Ingledew smiled. His smile did not seem to add to the curate's comfort.

"I do not intend to criticise those verses. Probably Mr. Plumber will admit that by no standard of criticism can they be adjudged first rate. But, in this connection, I would make one remark-and here I think you will agree with me, vicar-that even a clergyman should be decently honest."

"Pray," asked the vicar, who possibly had noticed Mr. Plumber's uneasiness, and had, thereupon, become uneasy himself, "what has honesty to do with the matter?"

"A good deal, as I am about to show. Mr. Luxmare asked Mr. Plumber if he intended to continue to contribute to Skittles. Mr. Plumber declined to answer that question. I could have answered it; and now do. No more of Mr. Plumber's contributions will appear in Skittles."

The curate started-indeed, everybody started-vicar, churchwardens, sidesmen and all.

"What do you mean?" stammered Mr. Plumber.

"I base my statement on a letter which I have this morning received from the editor of Skittles. In it that great man informs me that he will take care that no more of Mr. Plumber's contributions appear in the paper which he edits."

Mr. Plumber went white to the lips.

"What do you mean?" he repeated.

Mr. Ingledew looked the curate full in the face. As Mr. Plumber met his glance, he cowered as if Mr. Ingledew's words had been so many blows with a stick.

"Can you not guess my meaning, Mr. Plumber? Were you not aware that there are such things as literary detectives? In future, I would advise you to remember that there are. Directly I saw those verses I knew that you had stolen them. I happened to have the original in my possession. I sent that original to the editor of Skittles. The letter to which I have referred is his response. The verses which you sent to him as yours are no more yours than my watch is. Are you disposed contradict me, Mr. Plumber?"

The curate was silent-with a silence which was eloquent.

"Mr. Plumber has given a sufficient answer," said Mr. Ingledew, as the curate continued speechless. He turned to the vicar. "This is not one of those cases of remote plagiarism which abound: it is a case of clear theft, which are not so frequent. Mr. Plumber sent to this paper what was, to all intents and purposes, a copy of another man's work. He claimed it as his own. He received payment for it as if it had been his own. If he chooses, the editor of Skittles can institute against him a criminal prosecution. If he does, Mr. Plumber will certainly be sentenced to a turn of imprisonment. As an example of impudent pilfering the affair is instructive. Perhaps, vicar, you would like to study it. Here are what Mr. Plumber calls his verses, and here are the verses from which his verses are stolen. As you will perceive, from a literary point of view, Mr. Plumber has merely perpetrated a new edition of another man's crime. Which is the worse, the original or the copy, is more than I can say. Here are the verses as they appeared in the peculiarly named paper of which you have, perhaps, already heard too much, and which, while it professes to be humorous, at least succeeds in being vulgar."

Mr. Ingledew handed Mr. Harding what was evidently a marked copy of the paper which, no doubt, has its attractions for those who like that kind of thing. Mr. Plumber remained silent. He leant on his stick. His eyes were fixed on the floor. The vicar seemed almost afraid to glance in his direction.

"And this," continued the softly speaking gentleman, who in spite of his carefully modulated tones, seemed destined to work the curate more havoc than the noisy parish mouthpiece, "is the publication in which the verses originally appeared. As you will see, it is a copy of a once-talked-of University magazine which is long since dead and done for. Possibly Mr. Plumber relied upon that fact to shield him from exposure."

The vicar received the second paper with an air of what was unmistakably amazement. He stared at it as if in doubt that he was not being tricked by his eyes, or his spectacles, or something.

"What-what's this?" he said.

Mr. Ingledew explained,

"It is a copy of Cam-Isis; a magazine which was edited and written by a body of Camford undergraduates some forty years ago."

The more the vicar stared at the paper, the more his amazement seemed to grow. He was beginning to turn quite red.

"Good gracious!" he exclaimed.

"The original of Mr. Plumber's verses you will find on the page which I have marked. They are quite equal to their title, 'The Lass and the Lout.'"

The Vicar's hand which held the paper dropped to his side. He looked up at the ceiling seemingly in a state of mind approaching stupefaction. As if unaware, words came from his lips.

"It's a judgment."

Mr. Ingledew rubbed his chin. He seemed to be pleased.

"It certainly is a judgment, and one for which, I am afraid, Mr. Plumber was not prepared. But I flatter myself that no man, if the thing comes within my cognisance, is able to print another man's works as his own without my being able to detect and convict him of his guilt. I have not been on the look out for plagiarists all my life for nothing."

The vicar's glance came down. He seemed all at once to become conscious of his surroundings. He looked about him with a startled air, as if he had been roused from a trance. He seemed quite curiously agitated. The words which he uttered were spoken a little wildly, as if he himself was not quite certain what it was that he was saying.

"I have to thank you for all that you have said, gentlemen, and I can only assure you that the remarks which you have made demand, and shall receive, my most serious consideration. With regard to the papers" – he glanced at the two papers which he still was holding-"with regard to these papers, with your permission, Mr. Ingledew, I will retain them for the present. They shall be returned to you later." The owner of the papers nodded assent. "And now that all has been said which there is to say, I have to ask you, gentlemen, to leave me, and-and I wish you all good-day."

The vicar himself opened the study door. He seemed almost to be hustling his visitors out of the room, his anxiety to be rid of them was so wholly undisguised. It is possible that both Mr. Luxmare and Mr. Ingledew would have liked to have made a few concluding observations, but neither of them was given a shred of opportunity. When, however, Mr. Plumber made a movement as if to go, Mr. Harding motioned to him with his hand to stay. And the vicar and the curate were left alone.

A stranger would have found it difficult to decide which of the two seemed the more shame-faced. The curate still stood where he had been standing all through, leaning on his stick, with his eyes on the ground; while the vicar, with his grasp still on the handle of the door, stood with his face turned towards the wall. It was with an apparent effort that, moving towards his writing table, placing Mr. Ingledew's two papers in front of him, he seated himself in his accustomed chair. Taking off his spectacles, with his hands he gently rubbed his eyes as if they were tired.

"Dear, dear!" he muttered, as if to himself. He sighed. He added, still more to himself, "The Lord's ways are past our finding out." Then he addressed himself to the curate.

"Mr. Plumber!" Although the vicar spoke so softly, his hearer seemed to shrink away from him. "I have a confession which I must make to you." The curate looked up furtively, as if in fear.

"When I was a young man I did many things of which I have since had good reason to be ashamed. Among the things, I used to write what Mr. Ingledew would say correctly enough it would be flattering to call nonsense. I regret to have to tell you that I wrote those verses to which Mr. Ingledew has just called our attention in that dead and gone Camford magazine."

The curate stood up almost straight.

"Sir! – Mr. Harding!"

"I did. To my shame, I own it. I had nearly forgotten them. I had not seen a copy for years and years. I had hoped that there was none in existence. But it seems that that which a man does, which he would rather have left undone, is sure to rise, and confront him, we will trust, by the grace of God, not in eternity, but certainly in time."

Mr. Plumber was trembling. The vicar continued, in a voice, and with a manner, the exquisite delicacy of which was indescribable.

"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.