Part 11 (2/2)

”I think we had better get rid of our friend here before we discuss the matter, my lord,” the lawyer answered bluntly. ”Do you hear, Felton?” he continued, turning to the servant. ”You may go now. Come to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, and I will tell you what Lord Dynmore proposes to do.”

The ex-valet would have demurred to being thus set aside, but the earl roaring ”Go, you scoundrel!” in a voice he had been accustomed to obey, and Mr. Bonamy opening the door for him, he submitted and went. The streets were wet and gloomy, and he was more sober than he had been for a week. In other words, his nerves were shaky, and he soon began, as he slunk homeward, to torment himself with doubts. Had he made the best of his story? Might it not have been safer to make a last appeal to the rector? Above all, would Mr. Clode, whose game he did not understand, hold his hand, or play the trump by disclosing that little burglary we know of? Altogether Felton was not happy, and saw before him but one resource--to get home as quickly as possible and get drunk.

Meanwhile the lawyer, left alone with his client, seemed as much averse as before to speaking out. Lord Dynmore had again to take the initiative. ”Well, it is good enough, sir, is it not?” he said, frowning impatiently on his new adviser. ”There is a clear case, I suppose!”

”I think your lords.h.i.+p had better hear first,” Mr. Bonamy answered, ”how your late servant came to bring his story to me.” He proceeded to explain the course which the young clergyman had pursued in the parish from the first, and the opposition and ill-will it had provoked. He told the story from his own point of view, but with more fairness than might have been expected, although, as was natural, when he came to the matter of the sheep-grazing and the writ he took care to make his own case good. The earl listened and chuckled, and at last interrupted him.

”So you have been at him already?” he said, grinning.

”Yes,” the lawyer answered slowly. ”I may say, indeed, that I have been in constant opposition to him since his arrival. Felton (the man who has just left us) knew that, and it led him to bring his tale to me this evening.”

”When he could get no more money out of the parson!” the earl replied with a sneer. ”But, now, what is to be done, Mr. Bonamy?”

Mr. Bonamy did not at once answer, but stood looking much disturbed. His doubt and uneasiness, in fact, visibly increased as the seconds flew by, and still Lord Dynmore's gaze, bent on him at first in impatience and later in surprise, seemed to be striving to probe his thoughts. He looked down at the table and frowned, as if displeased by the scrutiny; and when he at length spoke, his voice was harsher than usual. ”I do not think, my lord,” he said, ”that I can answer that question.”

”Do you want to take counsel's opinion?”

”No, my lord,” Mr. Bonamy answered curtly. ”I mean something different. I do not think, in fact, that I can act for your lords.h.i.+p in this matter.”

”Cannot act for me?” the earl gasped.

”That is what I mean,” Mr. Bonamy answered doggedly, a slight flush as of shame on his sallow cheek. ”I have explained, my lord, that I have been constantly opposed to this young man, but my opposition has been of a public nature and upon principle. I have no doubt that he and others consider me his chief enemy in the place, and to that I have no objection. But I am unwilling that he or others should think that private interest has had any part in my opposition, and therefore, being churchwarden, I would prefer, though I must necessarily offend your lords.h.i.+p, to decline undertaking the business.”

”But why? Why?” cried the earl, between anger and astonishment.

”I have tried to explain,” Mr. Bonamy rejoined with firmness. ”I am afraid I cannot make my reasons clearer.”

The earl swore softly and took up his hat. He really was at a loss to understand; princ.i.p.ally because, knowing that Mr. Bonamy had risen from the ranks, he did not credit him with any fineness of feeling. He had heard only that he was a clever and rather sharp pract.i.tioner, and a man who might be trusted to make things unpleasant for the other side. So he took up his hat and swore softly. ”You are aware,” he said, turning at the door and looking daggers at the solicitor, ”that by taking this course you are throwing away a share of my work?”

Mr. Bonamy, wearing a rather more gaunt and grim air than usual, simply bowed.

”You will act for the other side, I suppose?” my lord snarled.

”I shall not act professionally for any one, my lord!”

”Then you are a d.a.m.ned quixotic fool--that is all I have to say!” was the earl's parting shot. Having fired it, he flung out of the room and in great amaze roared for his carriage.

A man is seldom so much inclined--on the surface, at any rate--to impute low motives to others as when he has just done something which he suspects to be foolish and quixotic. When Mr. Bonamy, a few minutes later, entered his rarely used drawing-room and discovered Jack and the two girls playing at Patience, he was in his most cynical mood. He stood for a moment on the hearth-rug, his coat-tails on his arms, and presently he said to Jack, ”I am surprised to see you here.”

Jack looked up. The girls looked up also. ”I wonder you are not at the rectory,” Mr. Bonamy continued ironically, ”advising your friend how to keep out of jail!”

”What on earth do you mean, sir?” Jack exclaimed, laying down his cards and rising from the table. He saw that the lawyer had some news and was anxious to tell it.

”I mean that he is in very considerable danger of going there!” was Mr. Bonamy's answer. ”There has been a scene at Mrs. Hammond's this afternoon. By this time the story must be all over the town. Lord Dynmore turned up there and met him--denounced him as a scoundrel, and swore he had never presented him to the living.”

For a brief moment no one spoke. Then Daintry found her voice. ”My goody!” she exclaimed, her eyes like saucers. ”Who told you, father?”

”Never you mind, young lady!” Mr. Bonamy retorted with good-humored sharpness. ”It is true. What is more, I am informed that Lord Dynmore has evidence that Mr. Lindo has been paying a man, who was aware of this, a certain sum every week to keep his mouth shut.”

”My goody!” cried Daintry again. ”I wonder, now, what he paid him! What do you think, Jack?” And she turned to Jack to learn what he was doing that he did not speak.

Poor Jack! Why did he not speak? Why did he stand silent, gazing hard into the fire? Because he resented his friend's coldness? Because he would not defend him? Because he thought him guilty? No, but because in the first moment of Mr. Bonamy's disclosure he had looked into Kate's face--his cousin's face, who the moment before had been laughing over the cards at his side, in all things so near to him--and he had read in it, with the keen insight, the painful sympathy which love imparts, her secret. Poor Kate! No one else had seen her face fall or discovered her embarra.s.sment. A few seconds later even her countenance had regained its ordinary calm composure, even the blood had gone back to her heart. But Jack had seen and read aright. He knew, and she knew that he knew. When at last--but not before Mr. Bonamy's attention had been drawn to his silence--he turned and spoke, she avoided his eyes. ”That is rather a wild tale, sir, is it not?” he said with an effort and a pale smile.

If Mr. Bonamy had not been a man of great shrewdness, he would have been tempted to think that Jack had been in the secret all the time. As it was, he only answered, ”I have reason to think that there is something in it, wild as it sounds. At any rate, the man in question has himself told the story to Lord Dynmore.”

”The pensioner?”

”Precisely.”

”Well, I should like to ask him a few questions,” Jack answered drearily. But for the chill feeling at his heart, but for the knowledge he had just gained, he would have treated the matter very differently. He would have thought of his friend only--his feelings, his possible misery. He would not have condescended in this first moment to the evidence. But he could not feel for his friend. He could not even pity him. He needed all his pity for himself.

”I do not answer for the story,” Mr. Bonamy continued. ”But there is no doubt of one thing--that Mr. Lindo was appointed in error, whether he was aware of the mistake or not. I do not know,” the lawyer added thoughtfully, ”that I shall pity him greatly. He has been very mischievous here. And he has held his head very high.”

”He is the more likely to suffer now,” Jack answered almost cynically.

”Possibly,” the lawyer replied. Then he added, ”Daintry, fetch me my slippers, there is a good girl. Or, stay. Get me a candle and take them to my room.”

He went out after her, leaving the cousins alone. Neither spoke. Jack stood near the corner of the mantel-shelf, gazing rigidly, almost sullenly, into the fire. What was Lindo to him? Why should he be sorry for him? A far worse thing had befallen himself. He tried to harden his heart, and to resolve that nothing of his suffering should be visible even to her. But he had scarcely formed the resolution when, his eyes wandering despite his will to the pale set face on the other side of the hearth, he sprang forward and, almost kneeling, took her hand in both his own. ”Kate,” he whispered, ”is it so? Is there no hope for me, then?”

She, too, had been looking into the fire. She could feel for him now. She no longer thought his attentions ”nonsense” as at the station a while back. But she could not speak. She could only shake her head, the tears in her eyes.

Jack laid down the hand and rose and went back to the fire, and stood looking into it sorrowfully; but his thoughts were no longer wholly of himself. Brave heart, the rarest of gentlemen, though he was neither six feet high nor an Adonis, he had scarcely felt the weight of the blow which had fallen on himself, before he began to think what he could do to help her. Presently he put his thought into words. ”Kate,” he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, ”can I do anything?”

She had made no attempt to deny the inference he had drawn. She seemed content, indeed, that he should have her secret, though the knowledge of it by another would have covered her with shame. But at the sound of his question she only shook her head with a sorrowful smile.

It was all dark to him. He knew nothing of the past--only that the faint suspicion he had felt at the bazaar was justified, and that Kate had given away her heart. He did not dare to ask whether there was any understanding between her and his friend; and, not knowing that, what could he do? Nothing, he was afraid.

Then a n.o.ble thought came into his head. ”I am afraid,” he said slowly, looking at his watch, ”that Lindo is in great trouble. I think I will go to him. It is not ten o'clock.”

He tried not to look at her as he spoke, but all the same he saw the crimson tide rise slowly over cheek and brow, which his prayer had left so pure and pale. Her lip trembled and she rose hurriedly, muttering something inaudible. Poor Jack!

For a moment self got the upper hand, and he stood still, frowning. Then he said gallantly, ”Yes, I think I will go. Will you let my uncle know in case I should be late.”

He did not look at her again, but hurried out of the room. It was a stiff, formal room, we know--a set, comfortless, middle-cla.s.s room, which had given the rector quite a shock on his first introduction to it--but if it had grafted all the grace of the halls of Abencerrages upon the stately comfort of a sixteenth-century dining-hall it would have been no more than worthy of the man who quitted it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

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