“Well, Mr. Taxater,” he said, “I must now leave you. I have other distinguished gentlemen to call upon before I retire. But I thank you for your promised support.
“It would be better, perhaps”—here he lowered his voice and looked jocose and crafty—“not to refer to our little conversation. It might be misunderstood. There is a certain prejudice, you know — unjustifiable, of course, but unfortunately, very prevalent, which makes it wiser — but I need say no more. Good-bye, Mr. Taxater — good night, sir, good night!”
And he bowed himself off and proceeded up the street to find the next victim of his evangelical discretion.
As soon as he had gone, Mr. Taxater summoned his housekeeper.
“The next time that person comes,” he said, “will you explain to him, very politely, that I have been called to London? If this seems improbable, or if he has caught a glimpse of me through the window, will you please explain to him that I am engaged upon a very absorbing literary work.”
Mrs. Wotnot nodded. “I kept my eyes open yesterday,” the old woman remarked, in the manner of some veteran conspirator in the service of a Privy Counsellor.
“As you happened to be looking for laurel-leaves, I suppose?” said Mr. Taxater, drawing the red curtains across the window, with his expressive episcopal hand. “For laurel-leaves, Mrs. Wotnot, to flavour that excellent custard?”
The old woman nodded. “And you saw?” pursued her master.
“I saw Mr. Luke Andersen and Miss Gladys Romer.”
“Were they as happy as usual — these young people,” asked the theologian mildly, “or were they — otherwise?”
“They were very much what you are pleased to call otherwise,” answered the old lady.
“Quarrelling in fact?” suggested the diplomat, seating himself deliberately in his arm-chair.
“Miss Gladys was crying and Mr. Luke was laughing.”
The Papal Apologist waved his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Wotnot, thank you. These things will happen, won’t they — even in Nevilton? Mr. Luke laughing, and Miss Gladys crying? Your laurel-leaves were very well chosen, my friend. Let me have the rest of that custard to-night! I hope you have not brought back your rheumatism, Mrs. Wotnot, by going so far?”
The housekeeper shook her head and retired to prepare supper.
Mr. Taxater took up the book by his side and opened it thoughtfully. It was the final volume of the collected works of Joseph de Maistre.
Mr. Wone had not advanced far in the direction of the church, when he overtook Vennie Seldom walking slowly, with down-cast head, in the same direction.
Vennie had just passed an uncomfortable hour with her mother, who had been growing, during the recent days, more and more fretful and suspicious. It was partly to allay these suspicions and partly to escape from the maternal atmosphere that she had decided to be present that evening at the weekly choir-practice, a function that she had found herself lately beginning to neglect. Mr. Wone had forgotten the choir-practice. It would interfere, he was afraid, with his desired interview with Mr. Clavering. Vennie assured him that the clergyman’s presence was not essential at these times.
“He is not musical, you know. He only walks up and down the aisle and confuses things. Everybody will be glad if you take him away.”
She was a little surprised at herself, even as she spoke. To depreciate her best friend in this flippant way, and to such a person, showed that her nerves were abnormally strained.
Mr. Wone did not miss the unusual tone. He had never been on anything but very distant terms with Miss Seldom, and his vanity was hugely delighted by this new manner.
“I am coming into my own,” he thought to himself. “My abilities are being recognized at last, by all these exclusive people.”
“I hope,” he said, tentatively, “that you and your dear mother are on our side in this great national struggle. I have just been to see Mr. Taxater and, he has promised me his energetic support.”
“Has he?” said Vennie in rather a startled voice. “That surprises me — a little. I know he does not admire Mr. Romer; but I thought—”
“Oh, he is with us — heart and soul with us!” repeated the triumphant Nonconformist. “I am glad I went to him. Many of us would have been too narrow-minded to enter his house, seeing he is a papist. But I am free from such bigotry.”
“And you hope to convert Mr. Clavering, too?”
“Certainly; that is what I intend. But I believe our excellent vicar needs no conversion. I have often heard him speak — at the Social Meeting, you know — and I assure you he is a true friend of the working-classes. I only wish more of his kind were like him.”
“Mr. Clavering is too changeable,” remarked Vennie, hardly knowing what she said. “His moods alter from day to day.”
“But you yourself, dear Miss Seldom,” the candidate went on. “You yourself are, I think, entirely with us?”
“I really don’t know,” she answered. “My interests do not lie in these directions. I sometimes doubt whether it greatly matters, one way or the other.”
“Whether it matters?” cried Mr. Wone, inhaling the night-air with a sigh of protestation. “Surely, you do not take that indifferent and thoughtless attitude? A young lady of your education — of your religious feeling! Surely, you must feel that it matters profoundly! As we walk here together, through this embalmed air, full of so many agreeable scents, surely you must feel that a good and great God is making his power known at last, known and respected, through the poor means of our consecrated efforts? Forgive my speaking so freely to one of your position; but it seems to me that you must — you at least — be on our side, simply because what we are aiming at is in such complete harmony with this wonderful Love of God, diffused through all things.”
It is impossible to describe the shrinking aversion which these words produced upon the agitated nerves of Vennie. Something about the Christian candidate seemed to affect her with an actual sense of physical nausea. She could have screamed, to feel the man so near her — the dragging sound of his feet on the road, the way he breathed and cleared his throat, the manner in which his hat was tilted, all combined to irritate her unendurably. She found herself fantastically thinking how much sooner she would have married even the egregious John Goring — as Lacrima was going to do — than such a one as this. What a pass Nevilton had brought itself to — when the choice lay between a Mr. Romer and a Mr. Wone!
An overpowering wave of disgust with the whole human race swept over her — what wretched creatures they all were — every one of them! She mentally resolved that nothing — nothing on earth — should stop her entering a convent. The man talked of agreeable odours on the air. The air was poisoned, tainted, infected! It choked her to breathe it.
“I am so glad — so deeply glad, Mr. Wone continued, “to have enjoyed the privilege of this little quiet conversation. I shall never forget it. I feel as though it had brought us wonderfully, beautifully, near each other. It is on such occasions as this, that one feels how closely, how entirely, in harmony, all earnest-minded people are! Here are you, my dear young lady, the descendant of such a noble and ancient house, expressing in mute and tender silence, your sympathy with one who represents the aspirations of the poorest of the people! This is a symbolic moment. I cannot help saying so. A symbolic and consecrated moment!”
“We had better walk a little faster,” remarked Miss Seldom.
“We will. We will walk faster,” agreed Mr. Wone. “But you must let me put on record what this conversation has meant to me! It has made me more certain, more absolutely certain than ever, that without a deep ethical basis our great movement is doomed to hopeless failure.”