When some time after they were lunching, he forming a fourth at the small table which belonged of right to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, he said to Annie Moriarty, that was:--
"Since you're an old friend of Miss Donne you may be interested in knowing that there's likely soon to be an International Alliance."
He motioned to the lady at his side and then to himself, as if to call attention to the fact that in his buttonhole was the Union Jack, while on Miss Donne's blouse was pinned the American flag. But keen-witted Mrs. Palmer had realized what exactly was the condition of affairs some time before.
Mr. Plumber was a passable preacher. Not an orator, perhaps--though it is certain that they had had less oratorical curates at Exdale. His delivery was not exactly good. But then the matter was fair, at times. Though Mr. Ingledew did say that Mr. Plumber's sermons were rather in the nature of reminiscences--tit-bits collated from other divines. According to this authority, listening to Mr. Plumber preaching was a capital exercise for the memory. His pulpit addresses might almost be regarded in the light of a series of examination papers. One might take it for granted that every thought was borrowed from some one, the question--put by the examiner, as it were--being from whom? On the other hand, it must be granted that Mr. Ingledew's character was well understood in Exdale. He was one of those persons who are persuaded that there is no such thing as absolute originality in the present year of grace. From his point of view, all the moderns are thieves. He read a new book, not for the pleasure of reading it, but for the pleasure of finding out, as a sort of anemonic exercise, from whom its various parts had been pilfered. He held that, nowadays, nothing new is being produced, either in prose or verse; and that the only thing which the latter day writer does need, is the capacity to use the scissors and the paste. So it was no new thing for the Exdale congregation to be informed that the sermon which they had listened to had been preached before.
Nor, Mrs. Manby declared, in any case, was that the point. She wanted a preacher to do her good. If he could not do her good out of his own mouth, then, by all means, let him do her good out of the mouths of others. All gifts are not given to all men. If a man was conscious of his incapacity in one direction, then she, for one, had no objection to his availing himself, to the best of his ability, of his capacity in another. But--and here Mrs. Manby held up her hands in the manner which is so well known to her friends--when a man told her, from the pulpit, on the Sunday, that life was a solemn and a serious thing, and then on the Monday wrote for a comic paper--and such a comic paper!--that was the point, and quite another matter entirely.
How the story first was told has not been clearly ascertained. The presumption is, that a proof was sent to Mr. Plumber in one of those wrappers which are open at both ends in which proofs sometimes are sent; and that on the front of this wrapper was imprinted, by way of advertisement, the source of its origin: "Skittles: Not to mention the Beer. A Comic Croaker for the Cultured Classes."
The presumption goes on to suggest that, while it was still in the post office, the proof fell out of the wrapper,--they sometimes are most insecurely enclosed, and the thing might have been the purest accident. One of the clerks--it is said, young Griffen--noticing it, happened to read the proof--just glanced over it, that is--also, of course, by accident. And then, on purchasing a copy of a particular issue of the periodical in question, this clerk--whoever he was--perceived that it contained the, one could not call it poem, but rhyming doggerel, proof of which had been sent to the Reverend Reginald Plumber. He probably mentioned it to a friend, in the strictest confidence. This friend mentioned it to another friend, also in the strictest confidence. And so everybody was told by everybody else, in the strictest confidence; and the thing which was meant to be hid in a hole found itself displayed on the top of the hill.
It was felt that something ought lo be done. This feeling took form and substance at an informal meeting which was held at Mrs. Manby's in the guise of a tea, and which was attended by the churchwardens, Mr. Ingledew, and others, who might be expected to do something, when, from the point of view of public policy, it ought to be done. Thepièces de convictionwere not, on that particular occasion, actually produced in evidence, because it was generally felt that the paper, "Skittles: Not to mention the Beer, etc." was not a paper which could be produced in the presence of ladies.
"And that," Mrs. Manby observed, "is what makes the thing so very dreadful. It is bad enough that such papers should be allowed to appear. But that they should be supported by the contributions of our spiritual guides and teachers, opens a vista which cannot but fill every proper-minded person with dismay."
Miss Norman mildly hinted that Mr. Plumber might have intended, not so much to support the journal in question, either with his contributions or otherwise, as that it should aid in supporting him. But this was an aspect of the case which the meeting simply declined to even consider. Because Mr. Plumber chose to have an ailing wife and a horde of children that was no reason, but very much the contrary, why, instead of elevating, he should assist in degrading public morals. So the resolution was finally arrived at that, without loss of time, the churchwardens should wait upon the Vicar, make a formal statement of the lamentable facts of the case, and that the Vicar should then be requested to do the something which ought to be done.
So, in accordance with this resolution, the churchwardens waited on the vicar. The Rev. Henry Harding was, at that time, the Vicar of Exdale. He was not only an easy-going man and possessed of large private means, but he was also one of those unfortunately constituted persons who are with difficulty induced to make themselves disagreeable to any one. The churchwardens quite anticipated that they might find it hard to persuade him, even in so glaring a case as the present one, to do the something which ought to be done. Nor were their expectations, in this respect, doomed to meet with disappointment.
"Am I to understand," asked the vicar, when, to a certain extent, the lamentable facts of the case had been laid before him, and as he leaned back in his easy chair he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, "that you have come to complain to me because a gentleman, finding himself in straitened circumstances, desires to add to his income by means of contributions to the press?"
That was not what they wished him to understand at all. Mr. Luxmare, the people's warden, endeavoured to explain.
"It is this particular paper to which we object. It is a vile, and a scurrilous rag. Its very name is an offence. You are, probably, not acquainted with its character. I have here----"
Mr. Luxmare was producing a copy of the offensive publication from his pocket, when the vicar stopped him.
"I know the paper very well indeed," he said.
Mr. Luxmare seemed slightly taken aback. But he continued--.
"In that case you are well aware that it is a paper with which no decent person would allow himself to be connected."
"I am by no means so sure of that." Mr. Harding pressed the tips of his fingers together, with that mild, but occasionally exasperating, air of beaming affability for which he was peculiar. "I have known some very decent persons who have allowed themselves to become connected with some extremely curious papers."
As the people's warden, Mr. Luxmare, was conscious of an almost exaggerated feeling of responsibility. He felt that, in a peculiar sense, he represented the parish. It was his duty to impress the feelings of the parish upon the vicar. And he meant to impress the feeling of the parish upon the vicar now. Moreover, by natural constitution he was almost as much inclined to aggressiveness as the vicar was inclined to placability. He at once assumed what might be called the tone and manner of a prosecuting counsel.
"This is an instance," and he banged his right fist into his left palm, "of a clergyman--a clergyman of our church, the national church, associating himself with a paper, the avowed and ostensible purpose of which is to pander to the depraved instincts of the lowest of the low. I say, sir, and I defy contradiction, that such an instance in such a man is an offence against good morals."
Mr. Harding smiled--which was by no means what the people's warden had intended he should do.
"By the way," he said, "has Mr. Plumber been writing under his own name?"
"Not he. The stuff is anonymous. It is inconceivable that any one could wish to be known as its author?"
"Then may I ask how you know that Mr. Plumber is its author?"
Mr. Luxmare appeared to be a trifle non-plussed--as did his associate. But the people's warden stuck to his guns.
"It is common report in the parish that Mr. Plumber is a contributor to a paper which would not be admitted to a decent house. We are here as church officers to acquaint you with that report, and to request you to ascertain from Mr. Plumber whether or not it is well founded."
"In other words, you wish me to associate myself with vague scandal about Queen Elizabeth, and to play the part of Paul Pry in the private affairs of my friend and colleague."
Mr. Luxmare rose from his chair.
"If, sir, you decline to accede to our request, we shall go from you to Mr. Plumber. We shall put to him certain questions. Should he decline to answer them, or should his replies not be satisfactory, we shall esteem it our duty to report the matter to the Bishop. For my own part, I say, without hesitation, that it would be a notorious scandal that a contributor to such a paper asSkittlesshould be a minister in our beloved parish church."
The vicar still smiled, though it is conceivable that, for once in a way, his smile was merely on the surface.
"Then, in that case, Mr. Luxmare, you will take upon yourself a great responsibility."
"Mr. Harding, I took upon myself a great responsibility when I suffered myself to be made the people's warden. It is not my intention to attempt to shirk that responsibility in one jot or in one tittle. To the best of my ability, at any cost, I will do my duty, though the heavens fall."
The vicar meditated some moments before he spoke again. Then he addressed himself to both his visitors.
"I tell you what I will do, gentlemen. I will go to Mr. Plumber and tell him what you say. Then I will acquaint you with his answer."
"Very good!" It was Mr. Luxmare who took upon himself to reply. "At present that is all we ask. I would only suggest, that the sooner your visit is paid the better."
"Certainly. There I do agree with you; it is always well to rid oneself of matters of this sort as soon as possible. I will make a point of calling on Mr. Plumber directly you are gone."
Possibly, when his visitors had gone, the vicar was inclined to the opinion that he had promised rather hastily. Not only did he not start upon his errand with the promptitude which his own words had suggested, but even when he did start, he pursued such devious ways that several hours elapsed between his arrival at the curate's and the departure of the deputation.
Mr. Plumber lived in a cottage. It might have not been without its attractions as a home for a newly-married couple, but as a residence for a man of studious habits, possessed of a large and noisy family, it had its disadvantages. It was the curate himself who opened the door. Directly he did so the vicar became conscious that, within, there was a colourable imitation of pandemonium. Some young gentlemen appeared to be fighting upstairs; other young gentlemen appeared to be rehearsing some unmusical selections of the nature of a Christy Minstrel chorus on the ground floor at the back; somewhere else small children were crying; while occasionally, above the hubbub, were heard the shrill tones of a woman's agitated voice, raised in heartsick--because hopeless,--expostulation. Mr. Plumber seemed to be unconscious of there being anything strange in such discord of sweet sounds. Possibly he had become so used to living in the midst of a riot that it never occurred to him that there was anything in mere uproar for which it might be necessary to apologise. He led the way to his study--a small room at the back of the house, which was in uncomfortable proximity to the Christy Minstrel chorus. Small though the room was, it was insufficiently furnished. As he entered it, the vicar was struck, by no means for the first time, by an unpleasant sense of the contrast which existed between the curate's study and the luxurious apartment which was his study at the vicarage. The vicar seated himself on one of the two chairs which the apartment contained. A few desultory remarks were exchanged. Then Mr. Harding endeavoured to broach the subject which had brought him there. He began a little awkwardly.
"I hope that you know me well enough to be aware, Mr. Plumber, that I am not a person who would wish to thrust myself into the affairs of others."
The curate nodded. He was standing up before the empty fireplace. A tall, sparely-built man, with scanty iron-grey hair, a pronounced stoop, and a face which was a tragedy--it said so plainly that he was a man who had abandoned hope. Its careful neatness accentuated the threadbare condition of his clerical costume--it was always a mystery to the vicar how the curate contrived to keep himself so neat, considering his slender resources, and the life of domestic drudgery which he was compelled to lead.
"Are you acquainted with a publication calledSkittles?"
Mr. Plumber nodded again; Mr. Harding would rather he had spoken. "May I ask if you are a contributor to such a publication?"
"May I inquire why you ask?"
"It is reported in the parish that you are. The parish does not relish the report. And you must know yourself that it is not a paper"--the vicar hesitated--"not a paper with which a gentleman would wish it to be known that he was associated."
"Well?"
"Well, without entering into questions of the past, I hope you will give me to understand that, at any rate, in the future, you will not contribute to its pages."
"Why?"
"Is it necessary to explain? Are we not both clergymen?"
"Are you suggesting that a clergyman should pay occasional visits to a debtor's prison rather than contribute to the pages of a comic paper?"
"It is not a question of a comic paper, but of this particular comic paper."
The curate looked intently at the vicar. He had dark eyes which, at times, were curiously full of meaning. Mr. Harding felt that they were very full of meaning then. He so sympathised with the man, so realised the burdens which he had to bear, that he never found himself alone with him without becoming conscious of a sensation which was almost shyness. At that moment, as the curate continued to fixedly regard him, he was not only shy, but ashamed.
"Mr. Harding you are not here of your own initiative."
"That is so. But that will not help you. If you take my advice, of two evils you will choose what I believe to be the lesser."
"And that is?"
"You will have no further connection with this paper."
"Mr. Harding, look here." Going to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, the curate threw the door wide open. Within were shelves. On the shelves were papers. The cupboard seemed full of them, shelf above shelf. "You see these. They are MSS.--my MSS. They have travelled pretty well all round the world. They have been rejected everywhere. I have paid postage for them which I could very ill afford, only to have them sent back upon my hands, at last, for good. I show them to you merely because I wish you to understand that I did not apply to the editor ofSkittlesuntil I had been rejected by practically every other editor the world contains." The Vicar fidgetted on his chair.
"Surely, now that reading has become almost universal, it is always possible to find an opening for good work."
"For good work, possibly. Though, even then, I suspect that the thing is not so easy as you imagine. But mine is not good work. Very often it is not even good hack work, as good hack work goes. I may have been capable of good work once. But the capacity, if it ever existed, has gone--crushed perhaps by the burdens which have crushed me. Nowadays I am only too glad to do any work which will bring in for us a few extra crumbs of bread."
"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 theolla 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 asSkittlesin 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 unescapableSkittles. 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.
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-advertisedSkittles, 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 toSkittles."
"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, anylocus 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 ofSkittles, 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 toSkittles. Mr. Plumber declined to answer that question. I could have answered it; and now do. No more of Mr. Plumber's contributions will appear inSkittles."
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 ofSkittles. 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 ofSkittles. 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 ofSkittlescan 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 ofCam-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.