Meynell pa.s.sed that evening in his study, after some hours spent in the Christmas business of a large parish. His mind was full of agitation, and when midnight struck, ushering in Christmas Eve, he was still undecided as to his precise course.
Among the letters of the day lying scattered beside him on the floor there was yet further evidence of the power of Barron"s campaign. There were warm expressions indeed of sympathy and indignation to be found among them, but on the whole Meynell realized that his own side"s belief in him was showing some signs of distress, while the attack upon him was increasing in violence. His silence even to his most intimate friends, even to his Bishop; the disappearance from England of the other persons named in the scandal; the constant elaborations and embellishments of the story as it pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth--these things were telling against him steadily and disastrously.
As he hung over the fire, he anxiously reconsidered his conduct toward the Bishop, while Catharine"s phrase--"He, too, has his rights!" lingered in his memory. He more than suspected that his silence had given pain; and his affection for the Bishop made the thought a sore one.
But after all what good would have been done had he even put the Bishop in possession of the whole story? The Bishop"s bare denial would have been added to his; nothing more. There could have been no explanation, public or private; nothing to persuade those who did not wish to be persuaded.
His thought wandered hither and thither. From the dim regions of the past there emerged a letter....
"My dear old Meynell, the thing is to be covered up. Ralph will acknowledge the child, and all precautions are to be taken. I think what he does he will do thoroughly. Alice wishes it--and what can I do, either for her or for the child? Nothing. And for me, I see but one way out--which will be the best for her too in the end, poor darling. My wife"s letter a week ago destroyed my last hope. I am going out to-night--and I shall not come back. Stand by her, Richard. I think this kind of lie on which we are all embarked is wrong (not that you had anything to do with it!) But it is society which is wrong and imposes it on us. Anyway, the choice is made, and now you must support and protect her--and the child--for my sake. For I know you love me, dear boy--little as I deserve it. It is part of your general gift of loving, which has always seemed to me so strange. However--whatever I was made for, you were made to help the unhappy. So I have the less scruple in sending you this last word. She will want your help. The child"s lot in that household will not be a happy one; and Alice will have to look on. But, help her!--help her above all to keep silence, for this thing, once done, must be irrevocable. Only so can my poor Alice recover her youth--think, she is only twenty now!--and the child"s future be saved. Alice, I hope, will marry. And when the child marries, you may--nay, I think you must--tell the husband. I have written this to Ralph. But for all the rest of the world, the truth is now wiped out. The child is no longer mine--Alice was never my love--and I am going to the last sleep. My sister f.a.n.n.y Meryon knows something; enough to make her miserable; but no names or details. Well!--good-bye. In your company alone have I ever seemed to touch the life that might have been mine. But it is too late.
The will in me--the mainspring--is diseased. This is a poor return--but forgive me!--my very dear Richard! Here comes the boat; and there is a splendid sea rising."
There, in a locked drawer, not far from him, lay this letter. Meynell"s thought plunged back into the past; into its pa.s.sionate feeling, its burning pity, its powerless affection. He recalled his young hero-worship for his brilliant kinsman; the hour when he had identified the battered form on the sh.o.r.e of the Donegal Lough; the sight of Alice"s young anguish; and all the subsequent effort on his part, for Christ"s sake, for Neville"s sake, to help and shield a woman and child, effort from which his own soul had learnt so much.
Pure and sacred recollections!--mingled often with the moral or intellectual perplexities that enter into all things human.
Then--at a bound--his thoughts rushed on to the man who, without pity, without shame, had dragged all these sad things, these helpless, irreparable griefs, into the cruel light of a malicious publicity--in the name of Christ--in the name of the Church!
To-morrow! He rose, with a face set like iron, and went back to his table to finish a half-written review.
"Theresa--after eleven--I shall be engaged. See that I am not disturbed."
Theresa murmured a.s.sent, but when her father closed the door of her sitting-room, she did not go back immediately to her household accounts.
Her good, plain face showed a disturbed mind.
Her father"s growing excitability and irritation, and the bad accounts of Maurice, troubled her sorely. It was only that morning Mr. Barron had become aware that Maurice had lost his employment, and was again adrift in the world. Theresa had known it for a week or two, but had not been allowed to tell. And she tried not to remember how often of late her brother had applied to her for money.
Going back to her accounts with a sigh, she missed a necessary receipt and went into the dining-room to look for it. While she was there the front door bell rang and was answered, unheard by her. Thus it fell out that as she came back into the hall she found herself face to face with Richard Meynell.
She stood paralyzed with astonishment. He bowed to her gravely and pa.s.sed on. Something in his look seemed to her to spell calamity. She went back to her room, and sat there dumb and trembling, dreading what she might see or hear.
Meanwhile Meynell had been ushered into Barron"s study by the old butler, who was no less astonished than his mistress.
Barron rose stiffly to meet his visitor. The two men stood opposite each other as the door closed.
Barron spoke first.
"You will, I trust, let me know, Mr. Meynell, without delay to what I owe this unexpected visit. I was of course quite ready to meet your desire for an interview, but your letter gave me no clue--"
"I thought it better not," said Meynell quietly. "May we sit down?"
Barron mechanically waved the speaker to a chair, and sat down himself.
Meynell seemed to pause a moment, his eyes on the ground. Then suddenly he raised them.
"Mr. Barron, what I have come to say will be a shock to you. I have discovered the author of the anonymous letters which have now for nearly three months been defiling this parish and diocese."
Barron"s sudden movement showed the effect of the words. But he held himself well in hand.
"I congratulate you," he said coldly. "It is what we have all been trying to discover."
"But the discovery will be painful to you. For the author of these letters, Mr. Barron--is--your son Maurice."
At these words, spoken with an indescribable intensity and firmness, Barron sprang from, his seat.
"It was not necessary, I think, sir, to come to my house in order to insult my family and myself! It would have been better to write. And you may be very sure that if you cannot punish your slanderers we can--and will!"
His att.i.tude expressed a quivering fury. Meynell took a packet from his breast-pocket and quietly laid it on the table beside him.
"In this envelope you will find a doc.u.ment--a confession of a piece of wrongdoing on Maurice"s part of which I believe you have never been informed. His poor sister concealed it--and paid for it. Do you remember, three years ago, the letting loose of some valuable young horses from Farmer Grange"s stables--the hue and cry after them--and the difficulty there was in recapturing them on the Chase?"
Barron stared at the speaker--speechless.
"You remember that a certain young fellow was accused--James Aston--one of my Sunday school teachers--who had proposed to Grange"s daughter, and had been sent about his business by the father? Aston was in fact just about to be run in by the police, when a clue came to my hands. I followed it up. Then I found out that the ringleader in the whole affair had been your son Maurice. If you remember, he was then at home, hanging about the village, and he had had a quarrel with Grange--I forget about what. He wrote an anonymous post-card accusing Aston. However, I got on the track; and finally I made him give me a written confession--to protect Aston. Heavy compensation was paid to Grange--by your daughter--and the thing was hushed up. I was always doubtful whether I ought not to have come to you. But it was not long after the death of your wife. I was very sorry for you all--and Maurice pleaded hard. I did not even tell Stephen; but I kept the confession. I came upon it a night or two ago, in the drawer where I had also placed the letter to Dawes which I got from you. Suddenly, the likeness in the handwritings struck me; and I made a very careful comparison."
He opened the packet, and took out the two papers, which he offered to Barron.
"I think, if you will compare the marked pa.s.sages, you will see at least a striking resemblance."
With a shaking hand Barron refused the papers.
"I have no doubt, sir, you can manufacture any evidence you please!--but I do not intend to follow you through it. Handwriting, as we all know, can be made to prove anything. Reserve your doc.u.ments for your solicitor.
I shall at once instruct mine."
"But I am only at the beginning of my case," said Meynell with the same composure. "I think you had better listen ... A pa.s.sage in one of the recent letters gave me a hint--an idea. I went straight to East the publican, and taxed him with being the accomplice of the writer. I bl.u.s.tered a little--he thought I had more evidence than I had--and at last I got the whole thing out of him. The first letter was written"--the speaker raised his finger, articulating each word with slow precision, "by your son Maurice, and posted by East, the day after the cage-accident at the Victoria pit; and they have pursued the same division of labour ever since. East confesses he was induced to do it by the wish to revenge himself on me for the attack on his license; and Maurice occasionally gave him a little money. I have all the dates of the letters, and a statement of where they were posted. If necessary, East will give evidence."
A silence. Barron had resumed his seat, and was automatically lifting a small book which lay on a table near him and letting it fall, while Meynell was speaking. When Meynell paused, he said thickly--
"A plausible tale no doubt--and a very convenient one for you. But allow me to point out, it rests entirely on East"s word. Very likely he wrote the letters himself, and is attempting to make Maurice the scapegoat."
"Where do you suppose he could have got his information from?" said Meynell, looking up. "There is no suggestion that _he_ saw Judith Sabin before her death."
Barron"s face worked, while Meynell watched him implacably. At last he said:
"How should I know? The same question applies to Maurice."
"Not at all. There the case is absolutely clear. Maurice got his information from you."
"A gratuitous statement, sir!--which you cannot prove."
"From you"--repeated Meynell. "And from certain spying operations that he and East undertook together. Do you deny that you told Maurice all that Judith Sabin told you--together with her identification of myself?"
The room seemed to wait for Barron"s reply. He made none. He burst out instead--
"What possible motive could Maurice have had for such an action? The thing isn"t even plausible!"