The next time I walked to the weekly tea-party at Doyles, bunches of scarlet berries glowed like embers against the deep green of the wayside hollies -- or so I believe, for I recall nothing of the walk. I was deep in thought.
How would Handscombe move against me when I defied his threats? He was sure to reveal the incriminating tintype, but given that it was unique, he had a careful choice to make. I decided that in his mind the immediate danger must be that I would win Lydia's hand; therefore he would send it anonymously to Lydia. But I knew that, far from being shocked, she would find it very much to her liking. True, it implied unfaithfulness, but it would only take a repeat of our last, passionate encounter to put her in forgiving mood. So most likely I had nothing to fear. And his very eagerness to best me, might yet give Science a victory over superstition.
A lull in conversation during the tea-party was my opening. The whole company turned to me as I said in a good-natured tone, "You know, Reverend, you're a modest man -- I see you published your book anonymously." Privately thinking, modest be d----d, you're the vainest man I know.
"Oh well," he replied, "I tried to, but these things have a way of leaking out. Still, I think my authorship remains unknown outside of Cambridge."
I'd have wagered five pounds to a sixpence he had let it "leak out" himself, but I merely continued, "Modest indeed, but I hope that won't stop you publicly debating Evolution with me. I've rather set my heart on defeating you."
"Not at all," he replied heartily. "Though," he added with a steady, meaning look, "I rather think you'll admit defeat before you even get to the debating-chamber. Still, let us two have a chat soon about arrangements."
Meanwhile I saw Lydia, who sat beside him, gazing warmly at me -- as she had been doing discreetly from the moment I arrived.
*
It was the next day that events took an intriguing turn. Handscombe and I met at the hall in Cambridge where he gave his Christian talks. On inspection I agreed that it was suitable for our debate: I was keen to illustrate my arguments with lantern slides, while Handscombe, as it turned out, had much the same idea. He urged that we hold the debate soon, within a fortnight; clearly he was eager to impress Lydia before New Year's Day, when she was to choose between us. I raised no objections.
So far, so straightforward. After we left the hall a trivial-seeming incident occurred. We were still settling some details as we strolled along a busy footway. Handscombe stopped, reached inside his coat to fish out a silver half-hunter, consulted the dial and said, "Apologies, Jaspers, I forgot -- I should be elsewhere. I'd best take this Hansom." These words were spoken, mind you, with perfect calmness. I had not seen a Hansom, but when he mentioned it I noticed the rattle of an empty cab, coming up briskly behind us. He hailed it, called to the cabman, "The Railway Hotel if you please," and as he swung himself inside said to me, "We can settle the remaining points in just a minute or two, if you'll join me."
I had barely taken my seat beside him when Handscombe brought down the front glass to close it. I said, "Is that not Mrs Threlfall approaching, some way up ahead?" A widow in blackest mourning was in view.
"No, no," said Handscombe dismissively. I glanced at him, and saw that he was now peering out of his side-window, his face rather turned away from the woman in question. I looked at her again and realised that her strong, tall silhouette -- yet not unshapely, and in truth very different from that of the prosperous Threlfall -- was the reason she had caught my eye.
A pie- or muffin-seller with his tray on his head happened to be preceding her. He moved to cross the road, and a shorter widow by her side was disclosed. Was Handscombe's urge to absent himself caused by these ominous-looking figures? But it might equally have been caused by any of the passers-by.
The cab drew closer to the pair, and I observed a curious phenomenon. The heavy veils worn by respectable widows cannot, of course, be entirely impenetrable to light. It was one of those bright winter's afternoons when all the clouds are luminous. One would expect a blurred glimpse of pale
visage
beneath the ladies' wide, loose hoods. But -- and at the time it seemed almost uncanny -- nothing did I see. It was as if I was viewing a pair of wraiths, cloaked and draped to give form to the invisible. The which would at least explain Handscombe's urge to seek sanctuary in a cab.
By the time he disappeared through the doors of the hotel our arrangements were all agreed, and that appeared to be that. But strange to tell, from then on Handscombe, having been seen far too frequently for my taste, became exceedingly scarce. It was soon the talk of the village that, having been an almost daily caller upon Miss Lydia Courtenay, he was now -- nowhere. After a few days, to be sure, a scribbled note of apology, headed only "London, Tuesday", reached Doyle. [