Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “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 lordship 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 lordship, 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; principally 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 practitioner, 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 damned 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 embarrassment. 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 noble 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-class 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.

  I have heard that the bitterest pang a boy feels on returning to school after his first holidays is reserved for the moment when he opens his desk and recalls the happy hour, full of joyous anticipation, when he had closed that desk with a bang. Oh, the pity of it! The change from that boy to this, from that morning to this evening! How meanly, how inadequately — so it seems to the urchin standing with smudged cheeks before the well-remembered grammar — did the lad who turned the key estimate his real happiness! How little did he enter into it or deserve it!

  Just such a pang shot through the young rector’s heart as he passed into the rectory porch after that momentous scene at Mrs. Hammond’s. His rage had had time to die down. With reflection had come a full sense of his position. As he entered the house he remembered — remembered only too well, grinding his teeth over the recollection — how secure, how free from embarrassments, how happy had been his situation when he last issued from that door a few, a very few, hours before. Such troubles as had then annoyed him seemed trifles light as air now. Mr. Bonamy’s writ, the dislike of one section in the parish — how could he have let such things as these make him miserable for a moment?

  How, indeed? Or, if there were anything grave in his situation then, what was it now? He had held his head high; henceforward he would be a by-word in the parish, a man under a cloud. The position in which he had placed himself would still be his, perhaps, but only because he would cling to it to the last. Under no circumstances could it any longer be a source of pride to him. He had posed, will he, nill he, as the earl’s friend; he must submit in the future to be laughed at by the Greggs and avoided by the Homfrays. It seemed to him indeed that his future in Claversham could be only one long series of humiliations. He was a proud man, and as he thought of this he sprang from his chair and strode up and down the room, his cheeks flaming. Had there ever been such a fall before!

  Mrs. Baker, as yet ignorant of it all, though the news was by this time spreading through the town, brought him his dinner, and he ate something in the dining-room. Then he went back to the study and sat idle and listless before his writing-table. There was a number of “Punch” lying on it, and he took this up and read it through drearily, extracting a faint pleasure from its witticisms, but never for an instant forgetting the cloud of trouble brooding over him. Years afterward he could recall some of the jokes in that “Punch” — with a shudder. Presently he laid it down and began to think. And then, before his thoughts became quite insufferable, they were interrupted by the sound of a voice in the hall.

  He rose and stood with his back to the fire, and as he waited, his eyes on the door, his face grew hot, his brow defiant. He had little doubt that the visitor was Clode. He had expected the curate before, and even anticipated the relief of pouring his thoughts into a friendly ear. None the less, now the thing had come, he dreaded the first moment of meeting, scarcely knowing how to bear himself in these changed circumstances.

  It was not Clode, however, who entered, but Jack Smith. The rector started, and, uncertain whether the barrister had heard of the blow which had fallen on him or no, stepped forward awkwardly, and held out his hand in a constrained fashion. Jack, on his side, had his own reasons for being ill at ease with his friend. But the moment the men’s hands met they somehow closed on one another in the old hearty fashion, and the grip told the rector that the other knew all. “You have heard?” he muttered.

  “Mr. Bonamy told me,” the barrister answered. “I came across almost at once.”

  “You do not believe that I was aware of the earl’s mistake, then?” Lindo said, with a faint smile.

  “I should as soon believe that I knew of it myself!” Jack replied warmly. He was glad beyond measure now that he had come. As he and Lindo stood half facing one another, each with an elbow on the mantel-shelf, he felt that he could defy the chill at his own heart — that, notwithstanding all, his old friend was still dear to him. Perhaps if the rector had been prospering as before, if no cloud had arisen in his sky, it might have been different. But as it was, Jack’s generous heart went out to him. “Tell me what happened, old fellow,” he said cheerily— “that is, if you have no objection to taking me into your confidence.”

  “I shall be only too glad of your help,” Lindo answered thankfully, feeling indeed — so potent is a single word of sympathy — happier already. “I would ask you to sit down, Jack,” he continued, in a tone of rather sheepish raillery, “and have a cup of coffee or some whiskey, but I do not know whether I ought to do so, now that Lord Dynmore says the things are not mine.”

  “I will take the responsibility,” Jack answered, briskly ringing the bell. “Was my lord very rude?”

  “Confoundedly!” the rector answered, and proceeded to tell his story. Jack was surprised to find him at first more placable than he had expected, but presently he learned that this moderation was only assumed. The rector rose as he went on, and began to pace the room, and, the motion freeing his tongue, he gradually betrayed the indignation and resentment which he really felt. Jack asked him, with a view to clearing the ground, whether he had quite made up his mind not to resign, and was astonished by the force and anger with which he repudiated the thought of doing so. “Resign? No never!” he cried, standing still, and almost glaring at his companion. “Why should I? What have I done? Was it my mistake, that I am to suffer for it? Was it my fault, that for penalty I am to have the tenor of my life broken? Do you think I can go back to the Docks the same man I left them? I cannot. Nor is that all, or nearly all,” he added still more warmly— “I have been called a swindler and an impostor. Am I by resigning to plead guilty to the charge?”

  “No!” said Jack, himself catching fire, “certainly not! I did not intend for a moment to advise that course. I think you would be acting very foolishly if you resigned under these circumstances.”

  “I am glad of that,” the rector said, sitting down with a sigh of relief. “I feared you did not quite enter into my feelings.”

  “I do thoroughly,” the barrister answered, with feeling, “but I want to do more — I want to help you. You must not go into this business blindly, old man. And, first, I think you ought to take the archdeacon or some other clergyman into your confidence. Show him the whole of your case, I mean, and — —”

  “And act upon his advice?” said the young
rector, rebellion already flashing in his eye.

  “No, not necessarily,” the barrister answered, skilfully adapting his tone to the irritability of his patient. “Of course your bona fides at the time you accepted the living is the point of importance to you, Lindo. You did not see their solicitors — the earl’s people, I mean — did you?”

  “No,” the rector answered somewhat sullenly.

  “Then their letter conveyed to you all you knew of the living and the offer?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Let us see them, then,” replied Jack, rising briskly from his chair. He had already determined to say nothing of the witness whom Mr. Bonamy had mentioned to him as asserting that the rector had bribed him. He knew enough of his friend to utterly disbelieve the story, and he considered it as told to him in confidence. “There is no time like the present,” he continued. “You have kept the letters, of course?”

  “They are here,” Lindo answered, rising also, and unlocking as he spoke the little cupboard among the books; “I made them into a packet and indorsed them soon after I came. They have been here ever since.”

  He found them after a moment’s search and without himself examining them, pitched them to Jack, who had returned to his seat. The barrister untied the string and glancing quickly at the dates of the letters, arranged them in order and flattened them out on his knee. “Now,” he said, “number one! That I think I have seen before.” He mumbled over the opening sentences, and turned the page. “Hallo!” he exclaimed, holding the letter from him, and speaking in a tone of surprise — almost of consternation— “how is this?”

  “What?” said the rector.

  “You have destroyed the latter part of this letter! Why on earth did you do that?”

  “I never did,” Lindo answered incredulously. Obeying Jack’s gesture he came, and, standing by his chair, looked over his shoulder. Then he saw that part of the latter half of the sheet had been torn off. The signature and the last few words of the letter, were gone. He looked and wondered. “I never did it,” he said positively, “whoever did. You may be sure of that.”