Chapter Twenty Two.
The Bad Name.
Percy was riotously greeted by Scarfe’s two friends. “Hullo, old man!” cried one of them; “then you thought better of it, after all, and mean to join us! That’s the style!”
“Bring your handsome friend with you. More the merrier. There’ll be champagne enough for the lot.”
“Look alive,” said Percy; “you’ll lose your train. Jeff and I aren’t coming.”
“Why not?” said they.
“Because we’re going the other way,” replied Percy, who, when his mind was made up, did not appreciate anybody’s importunity. “I’ve not seen Jeff for a week.”
“Who is this precious Jeff?” said one of Scarfe’s friends, pointing over his shoulder to the librarian.
“He’s a gentleman employed by the month to look after Percy’s morals,” said Scarfe, with a sneer.
“A parson! What a game! No wonder Percy draws in his horns a bit when he comes home. Anyhow, we must save him from the paws of the lion if we can. I say, Percy, you must come, old man. We made all the arrangements for four, boat and everything; and if you don’t want to stay late we’ll give up the supper. Only don’t spoil our day, there’s a good fellow. You’ll be able to see lots of your friend when we’ve gone.”
“You be hanged,” observed Percy, now in an uncomplimentary mood; “haven’t I told you I’m not coming? What more do you want?”
“Oh, of course, if you’re so taken up with this reverend thing of beauty,” said one of them sulkily, “we’re out of it. I should have thought he could have snuffled to himself for a day without wanting you to help him.”
Scarfe all this time stood by in a rage. The sight of Jeffreys was to him like the dead fly in the apothecary’s ointment. It upset him and irritated him with everybody and everything. He had guessed, on receiving no reply to his recent polite letter, that he had exposed his own poor hand to his enemy, and he hated him accordingly with a double hatred.
He contrived, however, to keep up an appearance of scornful indifference.
“You are still reaping the rewards of virtue, pious homicide,” he sneered.
“I still envy the upright man who does his duty,” replied Jeffreys, scarcely less bitterly.
“What do you mean, you—”
“I mean what I say,” said Jeffreys, turning on his heel, and taking Percy’s arm.
They walked home, and before Clarges Street was reached Percy had told his friend an unvarnished story of the follies of the last few days, and enlisted his support in his determination to pull up.
There was something touching in the mingled shame and anger of the proud boy as he made his confession, not sparing himself, and full of scorn at those who had tempted him. Jeffreys was full of righteous wrath on his behalf, and ran up a score against Scarfe which would have astonished that worthy, listlessly loafing about at Windsor, had he guessed it.
“I’ve promised to go and see the Boat Race with them,” said Percy; “but you must come too. I know you’ll hate it, and so will they; but somehow I can’t do without a little backing up.”
“I’ll back you up, old fellow, all I can, I only wish,” added he, for the boy’s confidence in him humiliated him, “I had a better right to do it.”
“Why, Jeff, I don’t suppose you ever did a bad thing in your life.”
“Don’t say that,” said Jeffreys almost appealingly, “I have!”
The boy looked up at him, startled for a moment by his tone. Then he said, with a return of his old look of confidence—
“Poor old Jeff! That’s what makes you so blue sometimes. If it weren’t for you, I’d have a precious good right to be in the blues too.”
Jeffreys, who had not entered the house since his interview with Mrs Rimbolt, felt anything but comfortable as he again set foot within it; and had it not been for Percy’s countenance, he would have felt it still more of an ordeal.
He had, however, plenty to occupy his mind during the hour or two which followed. Mr Rimbolt was waiting for him eagerly, to hear all about the sale and the purchases which had been made.
“You’ve done a capital stroke of business for me, Jeffreys,” said he, when the report had been concluded. “Those three Caxtons I would not have missed for anything. I am quite glad that business will take me North next week, as I shall be able to run over to Wildtree and see some of the treasures unpacked. I shall, however, leave them for you finally to arrange when we all go back in June. You’ve seen Percy? I fancy he has been racketing rather too much with these friends of his; but I imagine Scarfe would see he went into no mischief. However, I am glad you have come back, for the boy’s sake, as you understand him. This summer I think you should take him a little run in Normandy or Switzerland. It would do him good, and you, too, to knock about abroad for a week or two. However, there’s time enough to talk about that. And I dare say you will be glad now to get a little rest after your journey.”
Jeffreys returned to his room very contentedly. The confidence Mr Rimbolt reposed in him was soothing to his spirits, and went far to obliterate the memory of that hideous interview last week.
Percy was out when, after washing and changing his travelling garb, he came down to the morning-room, which he usually occupied during the afternoon.
To his surprise, and even consternation, Raby was there, writing.
She rose, brightly, almost radiantly, as he entered.
“Oh, Mr Jeffreys, how glad I am to see you back! Poor Percy has been in such want of you! These Oxford friends of his, I am certain, have not been doing him any good. Have you seen him? I am so happy you have come back!”
Jeffreys was not made of adamant, and a greeting like this, even though it was offered on some one else’s behalf, was enough to drive Mrs Rimbolt completely out of his head.
“I am very fortunate to be able to make you happy so easily,” said he. “Yes, I have seen Percy, and heard all his troubles. How could any one help being grateful for a confidence like his? You know, Miss Atherton, I would do anything for him.”
“I believe you,” said she warmly. “You are good and unselfish.”
“Do you mind my saying,” said Jeffreys, colouring, “that it is an additional pleasure to do what I can for Percy if it makes you happy?”
“I don’t mind your saying it if it is true. It does make me happy.”
And her face was the best witness to her sincerity.
Jeffreys was not the only person who saw that bright smile. Mrs Rimbolt, entering the room at that moment, saw it too, and heard the words which it accompanied.
She glared round witheringly on Jeffreys.
“So, Mr Jeffreys, you are here. What brings you here?”
“Mr Jeffreys—” began Raby, feeling and looking very confused.
“Silence, Raby, I asked Mr Jeffreys.”
“I came here not knowing the room was occupied. It was a pleasant surprise to find Miss Atherton here, and she has been making me happy by talking to me about Percy.”
“Mr Jeffreys,” said the lady, “allow me to say I do not believe you.”
“Auntie!” exclaimed Raby, firing up in a manner unusual to her; “it is true. Mr Jeffreys always tells the truth!”
“Raby, my dear, you had better leave the room.”
“No, auntie!” exclaimed the girl. “You have no right to charge Mr Jeffreys with saying what is not true. It’s not fair—it’s wrong—it’s wicked!”
“You forget, my dear, of all persons you should not address me like this.”
“No,” said the girl, going to the door, which Jeffreys opened for her. “I don’t forget, and I shall not forget. You have no right to say it. I wish father was home again, and would take me away!”
In the midst of his own indignation, Jeffreys could not help admiring this outbreak of righteous indignation on the part of the spirited girl.
Mrs Rimbolt little guessed how much she herself was doing to defeat her own ends.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, after Raby had gone, “after our interview last week, your conduct is both disgraceful and dishonourable. I should not have believed it even of you.”
“Pardon me, madam. You have charged me with telling you a lie just now. Is that so?”
His tone was strangely peremptory. Mrs Rimbolt had never seen him like this before—and for the moment it disconcerted her.
“What I heard as I entered the room had no reference to Percy,” said she.
“Excuse me—it had. Miss Atherton—”
“If it had, I must believe you. I wish to hear no more about it. But after your promise last week—”
“I made no promise, and should decline to do so. I am quite aware of my position here, and am ready to give it up when called upon. But while I stay here and do my work, Mrs Rimbolt, I claim to be protected from insult.”
“It is useless to prolong this interview, Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Rimbolt, half-scared by the turn things had taken. “I never expected to be addressed in this way in my own house by one who is dependent on my husband for his living. You can leave me, sir.”
Jeffreys bowed, and retired to his room, where he awaited as calmly as he could what appeared to him the inevitable end of the scene—a notice to quit.
But it did not come. Mrs Rimbolt knew herself to be in the wrong. Her husband, she knew, if she laid the case before him, would judicially inquire into its merits, and come to the same conclusion. In that case her dominion would be at an end. Even the Mrs Rimbolts have an eye to the better half of valour sometimes, and so Jeffreys was left sitting for an ultimatum which did not come.
Raby had a still worse ordeal before her. At first her indignation had reigned supreme and effaced all other emotions. Gradually, however, a feeling of vague misery ensued. She longed to be away in India with her dear soldier father; she wished Jeffreys had never come under the Wildtree roof to bring insult on himself and wretchedness to her. She dreaded the future for her boy cousin without his protector, and half wished him dead and safe from temptation.
In due time her brave spirit came back. She despised herself for her weakness, and, resolved boldly to face her aunt and every one, she came down to dinner.
It was strictly a family party, with Mrs Scarfe added; for the other three visitors had not yet returned from Windsor. Raby sought protection from her aunt by devoting herself to Mrs Scarfe, and quite delighted that good lady by her brightness and spirit. Mrs Scarfe took occasion in the drawing-room afterwards to go into rhapsodies to her young friend regarding her son; and when about ten o’clock the holiday-makers arrived home, in high spirits and full of their day’s sport, she achieved a grand stroke of generalship by leaving the two young people together in the conservatory, having previously, by a significant pressure of her son’s arm, given him to understand that now was his time for striking while the iron was hot.
Scarfe was in an unusually gay mood, and still a little elevated by the festivities of the day.
“I’m sure you missed us,” said he, “didn’t you?”
“The house was certainly much quieter,” said Raby.
“Do you know,” said he, “it’s rather pleasant to feel that one is missed?”
Raby said nothing, but began to feel a desire to be safely back in the drawing-room.
“Do you know we drank toasts to-day, like the old knights, to our lady loves?” continued Scarfe.
“Indeed,” replied Raby, as unconcernedly as she could.
“Yes—and shall I tell you the name I pledged? Ah, I see you know, Raby.”
“Mr Scarfe, I want to go back to the drawing-room; please take me.”
Scarfe took her hand. His head was swimming, partly with excitement, partly with the effects of the supper.
“Not till I tell you I love you, and—”
“Mr Scarfe, I don’t want to hear all this,” said Raby, snatching her hand away angrily, and moving to the door.
He seized it again rudely.
“You mean you don’t care for me?” asked he.
“I want to go away,” said she.
“Tell me first,” said he, detaining her; “do you mean you will not have me—that you don’t love me?”
“I don’t,” said she.
“Then,” said he, sober enough now, and standing between her and the door, “there is another question still Is the reason because some one else in this house has—”
“Mr Scarfe,” said Raby quietly, “don’t you think, when I ask you to let me go, it is not quite polite of you to prevent me?”
“Please excuse me,” he said apologetically. “I was excited, and forgot; but, Raby, do let me warn you, for your sake, to beware of this fellow Jeffreys. No, let me speak,” said he, as she put up her hand to stop him. “I will say nothing to offend you. You say you do not care for me, and I have nothing to gain by telling you this. If he has—”
“Mr Scarfe, you are quite mistaken; do, please, let me go.”
Scarfe yielded, bitterly mortified and perplexed. His vanity had all along only supposed one possible obstacle to his success with Raby, and that was a rival. That she would decline to have him for any other reason had been quite beyond his calculations, and he would not believe it now.
Jeffreys may not have actually gone as far as to propose to her, but, so it seemed, there was some understanding between them which barred Scarfe’s own chance. The worst of it all was that to do the one thing he would have liked to do would be to spoil his own chance altogether. For Raby, whether she cared for Jeffreys or not, would have nothing to say to Scarfe if he was the means of his ruin.
The air during the next few days seemed charged with thunder. Mrs Rimbolt was in a state of war with every one, Mrs Scarfe was poorly, the two Oxford visitors began to vote their visit slow, Scarfe was moody, Raby was unhappy, Jeffreys felt continually half-choked, Percy alone kept up his spirits, while Mr Rimbolt, happiest of all, went up North to look at his old books.
No one was particularly sorry when the visits came to an end. Even the Sports and Boat Race had failed to revive the drooping spirits of the Oxonians, and on the Monday following it was with a considerable stretch of politeness that they all thanked Mrs Rimbolt for a very pleasant visit.
Scarfe, taking farewell of Raby, begged that some time, later on, he might come to see her again, but was quite unable to gather from her reply whether she desired it or not. Jeffreys wisely kept out of the way while the departures were taking place, despite Mrs Rimbolt’s suggestion that he should be sent for to help the cabman carry out the boxes.
The first evening after they were all gone the house seemed another place. Even Jeffreys felt he could breathe, despite Mr Rimbolt’s absence, and the hostile proximity of his lady.
As to Raby and Percy, they made no concealment of the relief they felt, and went off for a row on the river to celebrate the occasion.
Jeffreys judiciously excused himself from accompanying them, and went a long walk by himself.
Two days later, after lunch, just as Percy and Raby had departed for a ride in the park, and Jeffreys had shut himself up in Mr Rimbolt’s study to write, a letter was delivered by the post addressed to Mrs Rimbolt, bearing the Oxford post-mark. It was from Scarfe, and Mrs Rimbolt opened her eyes as she perused it:—
“Christchurch, April 2.”
Dear Mrs Rimbolt,—I reached here from home this morning, and hasten to send you a line to thank you for the very pleasant visit I spent in London last week. I should have written sooner, but that I was anxious to write you on another and less pleasant subject, which I felt should not be done hurriedly. You will, I dare say, blame me for not having told you earlier what I now feel it my duty to tell, and I trust you will understand the feelings which have prevented my doing so. John Jeffreys, who is in Mr Rimbolt’s employment, is, as you know, an old schoolfellow of mine. I was surprised to see him at Wildtree last Christmas, and took the trouble to inquire whether he had come to you with a character, or whether you had any knowledge of his antecedents. I imagined you had not, and supposed that, as he was only engaged as a librarian, inquiries as to his character were not considered necessary. But when I saw that he was being admitted as a member of your household, and specially allowed to exercise an influence on Percy, I assure you I felt uncomfortable, and it has been on my mind ever since to tell you what I feel you ought to know. Jeffreys ran away from school after committing a cruel act which, to all intents and purposes, was murder. His victim was a small boy whom we all loved, and who never did him harm. The details of the whole affair are too horrible to dwell upon here, but I have said enough to show you what sort of person it is who is at present entrusted with the care of your own son, and allowed to associate on a footing of equality with your niece, Miss Atherton. I can assure you it is very painful to me to write this, for I know how it will shock you. But I feel my conscience would not give me peace till I told you all. May I now ask one special favour from you? It is well known, and you probably have noticed it yourself, that Jeffreys and I naturally dislike one another. But I want you to believe that I write this, not because I dislike Jeffreys, but because I like you all, and feel that Percy particularly is in peril. What I ask is that if you think it right to take any action in the matter, my name may not be mentioned. It would be considered an act of spite on my part, which it is not; and perhaps I may mention to you that I have special reasons for wishing that Miss Atherton, at least, should not think worse of me than I deserve. She would certainly misunderstand it if my name were mentioned. I feel I have only done my duty, and I assure you it will be a great relief to me to know that you are rid of one who cannot fail to exercise a fatal influence on the pure and honest mind of my friend Percy.
“Believe me, dear Mrs Rimbolt, most sincerely yours,—
“E. Scarfe.”
The shock which this astounding communication gave to Mrs Rimbolt can be more easily imagined than described. It explained everything—her instinctive dislike of the man from the first, his moroseness and insolence, and the cunning with which he had insinuated himself first into her husband’s and then into Percy’s confidence! How blind she had been not to see it all before! She might have known that he was a villain! Now, however, her duty was clear, and she would be wicked if she delayed to act upon it a moment. If Mr Rimbolt had been at home, it would have fallen on him to discharge it, but he was not, and she must do it for him.
Whereupon this worthy matron girded herself for the fray, and stalked off to the study.
Jeffreys was busy transcribing some bibliographical notes which he had brought away with him from Exeter. The work was not very engrossing, and he had leisure now and then to let his mind wander, and the direction his thoughts took was towards Mr Rimbolt’s little plan of a run on the Continent for Percy and himself this summer. Jeffreys had been afraid to acknowledge to himself how much the plan delighted him. He longed to see the everlasting snows, and the lakes, and the grand old mediaeval cities, and the prospect of seeing them with Percy, away from all that could annoy or jar—
He had got so far when the door opened, and Mrs Rimbolt stood before him.
The lady was pale, and evidently agitated beyond her wont. She stood for a moment facing Jeffreys, and apparently waiting for words. The librarian’s back went up in anticipation. If it was more about Raby, he would leave the room before he forgot himself.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said the lady, and her words came slowly and hoarsely, “I request you to leave this house in half an hour.”
It was Jeffreys’ turn to start and grow pale.
“May I ask why?” he said.
“You know why, sir,” said the lady. “You have known why ever since you had the meanness to enter Wildtree on false pretences.”
“Really, Mrs Rimbolt,” began Jeffreys, with a cold shudder passing through him, “I am at a loss—”
“Don’t speak to me, sir! You knew you had no right to enter the house of honest, respectable people—you knew you had no right to take advantage of an accident to insinuate yourself into this family, and impose upon the unsuspecting good-nature of my husband. No one asked you for your character; for no one imagined you could be quite so hypocritical as you have been. You, the self-constituted friend and protector of my precious boy—you, with the stain of blood on your hands and the mark of Cain on your forehead! Leave my house at once; I desire no words. You talked grandly about claiming to be protected from insult in this house. It is we who claim to be protected from a hypocrite and a murderer! Begone; and consider yourself fortunate that instead of walking out a free man, you are not taken out to the punishment you deserve!”
When Jeffreys, stunned and stupefied, looked up, the room was empty.
Mechanically he finished a sentence he had been writing, then letting the pen drop from his hand, sat where he was, numbed body and soul. Mrs Rimbolt’s words dinned in his ears, and with them came those old haunting sounds, the yells on the Bolsover meadows, the midnight shriek of the terrified boy, the cold sneer of his guardian, the brutal laugh of Jonah Trimble. All came back in one confused hideous chorus, yelling to him that his bad name was alive still, dogging him down, down, mocking his foolish dreams of deliverance and hope, hounding him out into the night to hide his head indeed, but never to hide himself from himself.
How long he sat there he knew not. When he rose he was at least calm and resolved.
He went up to his own room and looked through his little stock of possessions. The old suit in which he had come to Wildtree was there; and an impulse seized him to put it on in exchange for the trim garments he was wearing. Of his other goods and chattels he took a few special favourites. His Homer—Julius’s collar—a cricket cap—a pocket compass which Percy had given him, and an envelope which Raby had once directed to him for her uncle. His money—his last quarter’s salary—he took too, and his old stick which he had cut in the lanes near Ash Cottage. That was all. Then quietly descending the deserted stairs, and looking neither to the right hand nor the left, he crossed the hall and opened the front door.
A pang shot through him as he did so. Was he never to see Percy again, or her? What would they think of him?
The thought maddened him; and as he stood in the street he seemed to hear their voices, too, in the awful clamour, and rushed blindly forth, anywhere, to escape it.