myfriend's declaration was extremely remarkable.
"I know the truth!" he answered, very gravely.
"What do you mean?" I exclaimed, starting forward quickly. "Are youactually aware of the cause of poor Roddy's death? Tell me."
"No, Clifton," he responded, shaking his head, as rising he stooddeterminedly before me, his brows knit in a thoughtful attitude. "Aconfession made to me by one who seeks the forgiveness of God I may notdivulge. Remember," he added in a firm voice, "remember that I am aclergyman; and confidences reposed in me I must not abuse. Therefore donot seek the truth from me. My lips are sealed."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
PURELY CONFIDENTIAL.
Jack Yelverton's declaration held me dumb. He knew the truth, yet couldnot divulge, because any confession made to him by one who soughtspiritual guidance was sacred.
I pressed him to tell me something which might give me a clue to thetruth, but he only grew additionally grave, and answered--
"Roddy was my friend, as well as yours, Clifton. If it were possible,don't you think that I would bring the guilty to punishment? Ah! don'tspeak of it," he sighed. "In this affair I've suffered enough. If youknew how the possession of this secret oppresses me, you would be silenton that sad topic always."
I said nothing. His face had grown haggard and drawn, and I could seethat his conscience was torn by a tumult of emotions.
It was certainly extraordinary, I reflected, as I smoked on in silence,while he stood leaning against the mantel-shelf with his eyes fixed uponthe opposite wall. That day I had again met after years of separationthis man who had once been among my best friends, and he was actually inpossession of the secret which I had been longing through those wintermonths to learn--the secret of the tragic death of poor Roddy Morgan.
But he was a clergyman. Had he been a member of any other profession hemight, in the interests of justice, betray the murderer--for there wasno doubt now that Roddy had been murdered--but he was a servant of hisMaster, and words spoken in confidence into his ear by the penitent wereas the secrets of the Roman Catholic confessional. From him I couldhope for no word of the truth.
At last he spoke again, telling me that the real reason he had accepteda country curacy was because of this terrible secret ever oppressinghim.
"But," he added quite resignedly, "it is, I suppose, a burden placedupon me as a test. Now I know the truth I feel as an accessory to thecrime; but to divulge would be to break faith with both God and man."
His words admitted of no argument. I sat silent, oppressed, smoking andthinking. 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 Iwent forth into the quiet village street where the only light came fromthe cottage windows here and there. The good people of Duddington go tobed early and rise with the dawn, therefore there was little light toguide my steps down the hill and up the road to the Hall. Nothingstirred, 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. Hismanner had, however, changed, and he had grown the same merry, buoyantcompanion as he had been in our college days.
Into Duddington Jack Yelverton had come as a perfect revelation of theways and manners of the Church. For the past twenty years the estimablerector had preached regularly once each Sunday, and been usuallyassisted by a puny, consumptive-looking youth, fresh from college; butthe smart, clever, witty sermon from this ecclesiastical giant waselectrifying. People talked of it for days afterwards, discussed thearguments he had put forward so boldly, and were compelled to admit thathe was an earnest, righteous, and upright man.
He dined with us once or twice, afterwards taking a hand at whist; wecycled together over to Oundle by way of Newton and Fotheringhay; onanother occasion we rode to Uppingham to visit a man who had been withus at Wadham and was now one of the masters at Uppingham School; andseveral times I drove him to Peterborough and to Stamford. Thus we weretogether a good deal, and the more I saw of him the more convinced Ibecame that he was thoroughly earnest in his purpose, and that he hadnot adopted the Church from motives of gain, like so many men whoserelatives are ecclesiastical dignitaries.
A letter I received one morning from Muriel caused me to decide upon avisit to town, and I left the same evening, returning once more to mychambers in Charing Cross Mansions. Next day being Sunday, I sentSimes, on my arrival, round to Madame Gabrielle's with a note invitingMuriel to call at eleven and go with me to spend the day at HamptonCourt. I knew that she always liked a ramble in Bushey Park, fortown-stifled as she was, it reminded her of Burleigh, the great demesneof the Cecils outside Stamford.
She accepted, and at eleven next morning Simes ushered her in. She wasquietly dressed in black, the dash of bright cerise in her hat wellsuiting her complexion.
"Well," she said, putting forth her hand as she entered. "I reallythought you had quite forgotten me. Your note last night gave me agreat surprise."
"I suppose if the truth were known you were engaged for to-day, eh?" Iasked mischievously, for I took a keen delight in chaffing her about heradmirers.
"Well, you've pretty well guessed the truth," she laughed, blushingslightly as she took the chair I offered her.
"What is he this time--dark or fair?" I asked.
"Dark. A rather nice fellow-cashier 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 amusic-hall sometimes, or, if not, down to the Monico."
"The Monico!" I laughed, remembering how popular that restaurant waswith shop-assistants and clerks. "Why always the Monico?"
"Ah!" she smiled. "We can't afford Frascati's, the Cafe Royal, orYerrey's. We get a little life at the Monico at small cost, and itdoesn't matter to us whether our neighbours wear tweeds or not. A mannot in evening dress in the Cafe Royal, Verrey's, or Jimmy's is lookedupon 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 inLondon is frightfully dull if a girl has nobody to take her out. Shecan't go about alone as she can in the country, and girls in businessare not very friendly towards each other. You've no idea how manyjealousies exist among girls in shops."
"I suppose if a man goes to Madame Gabrielle's to buy a bonnet for apresent, or something, you all think he ought to take notice of you?" Ilaughed.
"Of course," she replied. "But it's the travellers from the wholesalehouses who are most sought after by the girls; first, because they aregenerally pretty well to do, and secondly, they often know of good`cribs' of which they tell the girls who are their favourites, and givethem a recommendation into the bargain."
"I always used to think that the shop-walker in the drapery places had apretty lively time of it. Is that so?"
"They're always jealous of the travellers," she said. "The shop-walkerfancies himself a lady-killer because he's trained to do the amiable tothe customers, and he can get the girls in his department into awful hotwater if he likes; therefore he doesn't care much for the good-lookingtown traveller, who comes in his brougham and has such a very gay andeasy life of it. Girls in drapers' shops are compelled to keep in withthe 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," Ilaughed.
"But we've got old Mrs Rayne and the manager, who are both quite asnasty to us as any shop-walker could be," she protested quickly. "Rayneis constantly nagging at one or other of us if we don't effect a sale.And that's too bad, for, as you know, many ladies come in merely to lookround and price the hats. They have no intention whatever of buying,and make lame excuses that the shape d
oesn't suit them, or that thecolour is too gaudy. It isn't fair to us."
"Of course not," I said. "But forget all your business worries forto-day, and let's have a pleasant hour or two out in the country.There's a train from Waterloo at twelve; so we'll go to Teddington andwalk across Bushey Park. Do you care for that?"
"Of course," she cried, delighted. "Why, it's fully ten or even elevenmonths since we were there last time. Do you remember, we went downlast Chestnut Sunday? Weren't the trees in the avenue beautiful then?"
"Yes," I said, remembering the