Strand, and hereplied--
"Yes, but I preferred the Church. My uncle, you know, is Bishop ofGalway."
Then I recollected that such was the case. He had no doubt been inducedto go in for a clerical life by this relative. Maternal uncles areresponsible 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 isalways 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 aboutthe parish, about the shortcomings of his predecessor, an abominableyoung prig who lisped, flirted outrageously, thought of nothing buttennis, and whose sermons were distinct specimens of oratorical rubbish.To all the countryside he was known as "Mother's darling," anappellation earned by the fact that his mother, a fussy old person, usedto 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 faceand figure showed him to be designed as a leader among men. At collegehe had been noted for his careful judgment, his close and diligentstudies of abstruse subjects, and his remarkable grasp of things whicheven the Dons found difficult. Yet he was an inveterate practicaljoker, and more than once got into an ugly scrape, from which, however,he always managed to ingeniously wriggle out.
I was extremely glad to find my old friend installed in Duddington, forduring the years that had passed I had often wondered what had become ofhim. More than once poor Roddy, who had been one of us at Wadham, hadexpressed a wish that we could find him, for we had all three beenclosest friends in the old days. And yet he had actually been appointedour curate and spiritual adviser, and had come to visit Tixover withoutknowing it was my home.
We laughed heartily over the situation.
He told me how he had taken lodgings with Mrs Walker, a cheerful oldsoul who lived at a pleasant cottage halfway up the village street, anold-fashioned place with a flower-garden in front and a little pavedwalk leading up to the rustic porch. Assisted by her daughter, old MrsWalker had lodged curates in Duddington for many years, knew all theirwants, and was well versed in the diplomatic treatment of callers, andthe means by which her lodger could be prevented from being disturbedwhen working at his sermon.
We chatted on for half an hour, and when he rose to leave he invited meto 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 Ican 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 wasushered by her daughter into the small, clean, but rathershabbily-furnished best room. It smelt strongly of the geraniums, whichgrew high in a row before the window, and as I entered Jack Yelvertonrose and greeted me cheerily, giving me his easy chair, taking down abox of cigars from the shelf, and producing a surreptitious bottle ofwhiskey, a syphon, and a couple of glasses from a little cupboard in thewall.
"I'm jolly glad you've come," he said, when he had reseated himself, andI had got my weed under way. "The surprise to-day has indeed been apleasant one. Lots of times I have thought of you, and wondered whereand how you were. But in the world men drift apart, and even the bestresolutions of correspondence made at college are mostly broken.However, it is a very pleasant meeting this, for I feel already that I'mamong friends."
"Of course you are, old chap," I answered. "My people will always bepleased to see you. Like yourself, I'm awfully glad we've met. Butyou're the very last man I should have imagined would have gone in forthe Church. It isn't your first appointment, I suppose?"
"No," he answered reflectively, gazing at the end of his cigar. "Itcame about in this way. I studied for a couple of years at Lincoln'sInn, but somehow I didn't care much for the law, and one day it occurredto me that with my knowledge of theology I might have a chance of doinggood among my fellow-men. I don't know what put it into my head, I'msure, but straight away I saw my uncle the Bishop, and the result wasthat very soon afterwards I was appointed curate at Framlingham, inSuffolk. This disappointed me. I felt that I ought to work in one ofthe overcrowded cities; that I might, with the income my father had leftme, alleviate the sufferings of some of the deserving poor; that I mightbe the means of effecting some good in the world. At last I wassuccessful in obtaining an appointment under the Vicar of Christ Church,Commercial Street, Spitalfields, where I can tell you I had plenty ofopportunity for doing that which I had set my mind upon. A curate'slife in the East End isn't very pleasant if he does his duty, and minewas 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. "ThenI exchanged to St Peter's, Walworth, and then, owing to ill-health, Iwas compelled to come here, into the country again. That's briefly beenmy life since we parted."
"Well," I said, convinced of his earnestness of purpose in the life hehad adopted, for a man does not seek an appointment in a London slumunless he feels a strong incentive to work in the interests of hisfellow-men, "you'll get all right very soon here, I hope. The air isfresh, your parish isn't very large, and old Layton, the rector, is aneasy-going old chap--one of the old school."
"Yes, I know," he said; "I've been here already ten days, and I've seenthat 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 theappointment because the doctor ordered me a change. When I'm quitestrong again I shall go back, I hope, to London. When I entered theChurch it wasn't with any thought of gain. I've enough to keep mecomfortably. I had, and have still, in view work which I must achieve."
Jack Yelverton was an enthusiast. I was rather surprised, I confess, atfinding him so energetic in religious work, for when at Wadham he hadbeen quite the reverse. Still, there was an air of deep sincerity inhis words. His face, too, was pale and lined, as if he had worked untilhis constitution had become jaded and worn. On his mantel-shelf was amarble clock, with the neat inscription on a silver plate stating thatit had been subscribed for by the parishioners of the poor East Endparish as a token of their esteem.
He rose to turn down the lamp, which was smoking, and as he did sosighed. Then casting himself in his chair again, he remarked--
"I don't know how long I shall be able to stand this rusticating. Youknow, 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 bleedto see the appalling poverty and distress; how the poor strive andstruggle to live; how their landlords, with hearts like stone, sell themup and drive them to the last extremity; how the keepers of thelow-class public-houses sell them intoxicants which drive them mad, andhow 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 distressto which I have been witness, and remember the heartfelt gratitude withwhich any slight assistance I have given has been accepted, I feelsomehow angry with the wealthy--those who spend their money recklesslywithin that small area around Charing Cross, and will contribute to anyMansion House fund to aid foreigners because their names will be printedas donors in the daily papers, but, alas! who begrudge a single sixpenceto 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, butit isn't religion half these people want, it's bread for their starvingwives and children, or some little necessities for the sick."
"Yes," I observe
d, "I suppose all sorts of absurd bunkum is talked aboutreligious work among the London poor. Poor Roddy Morgan used to hold asimilar opinion to yourself. He was an ardent supporter of aphilanthropic movement which had its headquarters somewhere in the MileEnd Road."
"Ah! poor Roddy!" he sighed. "His was, indeed, a sad end. That such agood, honest, upright fellow should have been murdered like that wastruly a most melancholy circumstance."
"Murdered!" I exclaimed. "How do you know he was murdered?"
There had been no suggestion in the papers of foul play, therefore