  The chronicle must now go back a few days and follow another up-express. “I must either be a clergyman or a policeman,” Mr Bunker reflected, in the corner of his carriage; “they seem to me to be on the whole the two least molested professions. Each certainly has a livery which, if its occupier is ordinarily judicious, ought to serve as a certificate of sanity. To me all policemen are precisely alike, but I daresay they know them apart in the force, and as all the beats and crossings are presumably taken already, I might excite suspicion by my mere superfluity. Besides, a theatrical costumier’s uniform would possibly lack some ridiculous but essential detail.” He lit another cigar and looked humorously out of the window. “I shall take orders. An amateur theatrical clergyman’s costume will be more comfortable, and probably less erroneous. They allow them some latitude, I believe; and I don’t suppose there are any visible ordination scars whose absence would give me away. I shall certainly study the first reverend brother I meet to see.” Thus wisely ruminating, he arrived in London at a very early hour on a chilly morning, and drove straight to a small hotel near King’s Cross, where the landlord was much gratified at receiving so respectable a guest as the [pg 188] It is true the reverend gentleman was in evening clothes, while his hat and coat had a singularly secular, not to say fashionable, appearance; but, as he mentioned casually in the course of some extremely affable remarks, he had been dining in a country house, and had not thought it worth while changing before he left. After breakfasting he dressed himself in an equally secular suit of tweeds and went out, he mentioned incidentally, to call at his tailor’s for his professional habit, which he seemed surprised to learn had not yet been forwarded to the hotel. A visit to a certain well-known firm of theatrical costumiers was followed by his reappearance in a cab accompanied by a bulky brown paper parcel; and presently he emerged from his room attired more consistently with his office, much to his own satisfaction, for, as he observed, “I cannot say I approve of clergymen masquerading as laymen.” His opinion on the converse circumstance was not expressed. Much to his landlord’s disappointment, he informed him that he should probably leave again that afternoon, and then he went out for a walk. About half an hour later he was once more in the street where, not so very long ago, a very exciting cab-race had finished. He strolled slowly past Dr Twiddel’s house. The blinds of the front room were down; at that hour there was no sign of life about it, and he saw nothing at all to arrest his attention. Then he looked down the [pg 189] He rang the bell, and in a moment a rotund and loquacious landlady appeared. Yes, the drawing-room was to let; would the reverend gentleman come up and see it? Mr Bunker went up, and approved. They readily agreed upon terms, and the landlady, charmed with her new lodger’s appearance and manners, no less than with the respectability of his profession, proceeded to descant at some length on the quiet, comfort, and numerous other advantages of the apartments. “Just the very plice you wants, sir. We ’ave ’ad clerical gentlemen ’ere before, sir; in fact, there’s one a-staying ’ere now, second floor,—you may know of ’im, sir,—the Reverend Mr John Duggs; a very pleasant gentleman you’ll find him, sir. I’ll tell ’im you’re ’ere, sir; ’e’d be sure to like to meet another gentleman of the syme cloth, has they say.” Somehow or other the Rev. Mr Butler failed to display the hearty pleasure at this announcement that the worthy Mrs Gabbon had naturally expected. Aloud he merely said, “Indeed,” politely, but with no unusual interest. Within himself he reflected, “The deuce take Mr John Duggs! However, I want the rooms, and a man must risk something.” As a precautionary measure he visited a second-hand bookseller on his way back, and purchased a small assortment of the severest-looking works on theology they kept [pg 190] He looked carefully out of his sitting-room window, but the doctor’s blinds were still down, and he saw no one coming or going about the house; so he began his inquiries by calling up his landlady. “I have been troubled with lumbago, Mrs Gabbon,” he began. “Dearie me, sir,” said Mrs Gabbon, “I’m sorry to ’ear that; you that looks so ’ealthy too! Well, one never knows what’s be’ind a ’appy hexterior, does one, sir?” “No, Mrs Gabbon,” replied Mr Bunker, solemnly; “one never knows what even a clergyman’s coat conceals.” “That’s very true, sir. In the midst of life we are in——” “Lumbago,” interposed Mr Bunker. Mrs Gabbon looked a trifle startled. “Well,” he continued with the same gravity, “I may unfortunately have occasion to consult a doctor——” “There’s Dr Smith,” interrupted Mrs Gabbon, her equanimity quite restored by his ecclesiastical tone and the mention of ailments; “’e attended my poor dear ’usband hall through his last illness; an huncommon clever doctor, sir, as I ought to know, sir, bein’——” “No doubt an excellent man, Mrs Gabbon; but I should like to know of one as near at hand as possible. Now I see the name of a Dr Twiddel——” “I wouldn’t recommend ’im, sir,” said Mrs Gabbon, pursing her mouth. [pg 191]“’E attended Mrs Brown’s servant-girl, sir,—she bein’ the lady as has the ’ouse next door,—and what he give ’er didn’t do no good. Mrs Brown tell me ’erself.” “Still, in an emergency——” “Besides which, he ain’t at ’ome, sir.” “Where has he gone?” “Abroad, they do say, sir; though I don’t rightly know much about ’im.” “Has he been away long?” Mrs Gabbon considered. “It must ’ave bin before the middle of November he went, sir.” “Ha!” exclaimed Mr Bunker, keenly, though apparently more to himself than his landlady. “I beg your pardon, sir?” “The middle of November, you say? That’s a long holiday for a doctor to take.” “’E ’avn’t no practice to speak of,—not as I knows of, leastways.” “What sort of a man is he—young or old?” “By my opinion, sir, ’e’s too young. I don’t ’old by them young doctors. Now Dr Smith, sir——” “Dr Twiddel is quite a young man, then?” “What I’d call little better than a boy, sir. They tell me they lets ’em loose very young nowadays.” “About twenty-five, say?” “’E might be that, sir; but I don’t know much about ’im, sir. Now Dr Smith, sir, ’e’s different.” In fact at this point Mrs Gabbon showed such a tendency [pg 192] “Before the middle of November,” he said to himself. “It is certainly a curious coincidence.” To a gentleman of Mr Bunker’s sociable habits and active mind, the prospect of sitting day by day in the company of his theological treatises and talkative landlady, and watching an apparently uninhabited house, seemed at first sight even less entertaining than a return to Clankwood. But, as he said of himself, he possessed a kind of easy workaday philosophy, and, besides that, an apparently irresistible attraction for the incidents of life. He had barely finished his cup of tea, and was sitting over the fire smoking one of the Baron’s cigars and looking through one of the few books he had brought that bore no relation to divinity, his feet high upon the side of the mantelpiece, his ready-made costume perhaps a little more unbuttoned than the strictest propriety might approve, and a stiff glass of whisky-and-water at his elbow, when there came a rap at his door. In response to his “Come in,” a middle-aged gentleman, dressed in clerical attire, entered. He had a broad, bearded face, a dull eye, and an indescribably average aspect. “The devil! Mr John Duggs himself,” thought Mr Bunker, hastily adopting a more conventional attitude and feeling for his button-holes. [pg 193]“Ah—er—Mr Butler, I believe?” said the stranger, with an apologetic air. “The same,” replied Mr Bunker, smiling affably. “I,” continued his visitor, advancing with more confidence, “am Mr Duggs. I am dwelling at present in the apartment immediately above you, and hearing of the arrival of a fellow-clergyman, through my worthy friend Mrs Gabbon, I have taken the liberty of calling. She gave me to understand that you were not undesirous of making my acquaintance, Mr Butler.” “The deuce, she did!” thought Mr Butler. Aloud he answered most politely, “I am honoured, Mr Duggs. Won’t you sit down?” First casting a wary eye upon a chair, Mr Duggs seated himself carefully on the edge of it. “It is quite evident,” thought Mr Bunker, “that he has spotted something wrong. I believe a bobby would have been safer after all.” He assumed the longest face he could draw, and remarked sententiously, “The weather has been unpleasantly cold of late, Mr Duggs.” He flattered himself that his guest seemed instantly more at his ease. Certainly he replied with as much cordiality as a man with such a dull eye could be supposed to display. “It has, Mr Butler; in fact I have suffered from a chill for some weeks. Ahem!” “Have something to drink,” suggested Mr Bunker, sympathetically. “I’m trying a little whisky myself, as a cure for cold.” [pg 194]“I—ah—I am sorry. I do not touch spirits.” “I, on the contrary, am glad to hear it. Too few of our clergymen nowadays support the cause of temperance by example.” Mr Bunker felt a little natural pride in this happily expressed sentiment, but his visitor merely turned his cold eye on the whisky bottle, and breathed heavily. “Confound him!” he thought; “I’ll give him something to snort at if he is going to conduct himself like this.” “Have a cigar?” he asked aloud. Mr Duggs seemed to regard the cigar-box a little less unkindly than the whisky bottle; but after a careful look at it he replied, “I am afraid they seem a little too strong for me. I am a light smoker, Mr Butler.” “Really,” smiled Mr Bunker; “so many virtues in one room reminds me of the virgins of Gomorrah.” “I beg your pardon? The what?” asked Mr Duggs, with a startled stare. Mr Bunker suspected that he had made a slip in his biblical reminiscences, but he continued to smile imperturbably, and inquired with a perfect air of surprise, “Haven’t you read the novel I referred to?” Mr Duggs appeared a little relieved, but he answered blankly enough, “I—ah—have not. What is the book you refer to?” “Oh, don’t you know? To tell the truth, I forget the title. It’s by a somewhat well-known lady writer of religious fiction. A Miss—her name escapes me at this moment.” In fact, as Mr Bunker had no idea how long his friend [pg 195] “I am no great admirer of religious fiction of any kind,” replied Mr Duggs, “particularly that written by emotional females.” “No,” said Mr Bunker, pleasantly; “I should imagine your own doctrines were not apt to err on the sentimental side.” “I am not aware that I have said anything to you about my—doctrines, as you call them, Mr Butler.” “Still, don’t you think one can generally tell a man’s creed from his coat, and his sympathies from the way he cocks his hat?” “I think,” replied Mr Duggs, “that our ideas of our vocation are somewhat different.” “Mine is, I admit,” said Mr Bunker, who had come to the conclusion that the strain of playing his part was really too great, and was now being happily carried along by his tongue. Mr Duggs for a moment was evidently disposed to give battle, but thinking better of it, he contented himself with frowning at his younger opponent, and abruptly changed the subject. “May I ask what position you hold in the church, Mr Butler?” “Why,” began Mr Bunker, lightly: it was on the tip of his tongue to say “a clergyman, of course,” when he suddenly recollected that he might be anything from the rank of curate up to the people who wear gaiters (and who these [pg 196] “I regret to say I have not hitherto had the opportunity.” “Thank the Lord for that,” thought Mr Bunker. “I have been a missionary,” he said quietly, and looked dreamily into the fire. It was a happy move. Mr Duggs was visibly impressed. “Ah?” he said. “Indeed? I am much interested to learn this, Mr Butler. It—ah—gives me perhaps a somewhat different view of your—ah—opinions. Where did your work lie?” “China,” replied Mr Bunker, thinking it best to keep as far abroad as possible. “Ha!” exclaimed Mr Duggs. “This is really extremely fortunate. I am at present, Mr Butler, studying the religions and customs of China at the British Museum, with a view to going out there myself very shortly. I already feel I know almost as much about that most interesting country as if I had lived there. I should like to talk with you at some length on the subject.” Mr Bunker saw that it was time to put an end to this conversation, at whatever minor risk of perturbing his visitor. He had been a little alarmed, too, by noticing that Mr Duggs’ dull eye had wandered frequently to his theological library, which with his usual foresight he had strewn conspicuously on the table, and that any expression it had was rather of suspicious curiosity than gratification. [pg 197]“I should like to hear some of your experiences,” Mr Duggs continued. “In what province did you work?” “In Hung Hang Ho,” replied Mr Bunker. His visitor looked puzzled, but he continued boldly, “My experiences were somewhat unpleasant. I became engaged to a mandarin’s daughter—a charming girl. I was suspected, however, of abetting an illicit traffic in Chinese lanterns. My companions were manicured alive, and I only made my escape in a pagoda, or a junk—I was in too much of a hurry to notice which—at the imminent peril of my life. Don’t go to China, Mr Duggs.” Mr Duggs rose. “Young man,” he said, sternly, “put away that fatal bottle. I can only suppose that it is under the influence of drink that you have ventured to tell me such an irreverent and impossible story.” “Sir,” began Mr Bunker, warmly,—for he thought that an outburst of indignation would probably be the safest way of concluding the interview,—when he stopped abruptly and listened. All the time his ears had been alive to anything going on outside, and now he heard a cab rattle up and stop close by. It might be at Dr Twiddel’s, he thought, and, turning from his visitor, he sprang to the window. Remarking distantly, “I hear a cab; it is possibly a friend I am expecting,” Mr Duggs stepped to the other window. It was only, however, a hansom at the door of the next house, out of which a very golden-haired young lady was stepping. [pg 198] Mr Duggs gave him one look of his dull eyes, and walked straight for the door. As he went out he merely remarked, “Our acquaintance has been brief, Mr Butler, but it has been quite sufficient.” “Quite,” thought Mr Bunker. |
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