OIL IS TO BE THROWN UPON THE WATERS.
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Messrs. Boothby in Lincoln's Inn had for very many years been the
lawyers of the Stowte family, and probably knew as much about
the property as any of the Stowtes themselves. They had not been
consulted about the giving away of the bit of land for the chapel
purposes, nor had they been instructed to draw up any deed of gift.
The whole thing had been done irregularly. The land had been only
promised, and not in truth as yet given, and the Puddlehamites, in
their hurry, had gone to work and had built upon a promise. The
Marquis, when, after the receipt of Mr. Fenwick's letter, his first
rage was over, went at once to the chambers of Messrs. Boothby, and
was forced to explain all the circumstances of the case to the senior
partner before he could show the clergyman's wicked epistle. Old Mr.
Boothby was a man of the same age as the Marquis, and, in his way,
quite as great. Only the lawyer was a clever old man, whereas the
Marquis was a stupid old man. Mr. Boothby sat, bowing his head, as
the Marquis told his story. The story was rather confused, and for
awhile Mr. Boothby could only understand that a dissenting chapel had
been built upon his client's land.
"We shall have to set it right by some scrap of a conveyance," said
the lawyer.
"But the Vicar of the parish claims it," said the Marquis.
"Claims the chapel, my lord!"
"He is a most pestilent, abominable man, Mr. Boothby. I have brought
his letter here." Mr. Boothby held out his hand to receive the
letter. From almost any client he would prefer a document to an oral
explanation, but he would do so especially from his lordship. "But
you must understand," continued the Marquis, "that he is quite unlike
any ordinary clergyman. I have the greatest respect for the church,
and am always happy to see clergymen at my own house. But this is a
litigious, quarrelsome fellow. They tell me he's an infidel, and he
keeps--! Altogether, Mr. Boothby, nothing can be worse."
"Indeed!" said the lawyer, still holding out his hand for the letter.
"He has taken the trouble to insult me continually. You heard how a
tenant of mine was murdered? He was murdered by a young man whom this
clergyman screens, because,--because,--he is the brother of,--of,--of
the young woman."
"That would be very bad, my lord."
"It is very bad. He knows all about the murder;--I am convinced he
does. He went bail for the young man. He used to associate with him
on most intimate terms. As to the sister;--there's no doubt about
that. They live on the land of a person who owns a small estate in
the parish."
"Mr. Gilmore, my lord?"
"Exactly so. This Mr. Fenwick has got Mr. Gilmore in his pocket.
You can have no idea of such a state of things as this. And now he
writes me this letter! I know his handwriting now, and any further
communication I shall return." The Marquis ceased to speak, and the
lawyer at once buried himself in the letter.
"It is meant to be offensive," said the lawyer.
"Most insolent, most offensive, most improper! And yet the bishop
upholds him!"
"But if he is right about the bit of land, my lord, it will be rather
awkward." And as he spoke, the lawyer examined the sketch of the
vicarage entrance. "He gives this as copied from the terrier of the
parish, my lord."
"I don't believe a word of it," said the Marquis.
"You didn't look at the plan of the estate, my lord?"
"I don't think we did; but Packer had no doubt. No one knows the
property in Bullhampton so well as Packer, and Packer said--"
But while the Marquis was still speaking the lawyer rose, and begging
his client's pardon, went to the clerk in the outer room. Nor did
he return till the clerk had descended to an iron chamber in the
basement, and returned from thence with a certain large tin box.
Into this a search was made, and presently Mr. Boothby came back
with a weighty lump of dusty vellum documents, and a manuscript map,
or sketch of a survey of the Bullhampton estate, which he had had
opened. While the search was being made he had retired to another
room, and had had a little conversation with his partner about
the weather. "I am afraid the parson is right, my lord," said Mr.
Boothby, as he closed the door.
"Right!"
"Right in his facts, my lord. It is glebe, and is marked so here very
plainly. There should have been a reference to us,--there should,
indeed, my lord. Packer, and men like him, really know nothing. The
truth is, in such matters nobody knows anything. You should always
have documentary evidence."
"And it is glebe?"
"Not a doubt of it, my lord."
Then the Marquis knew that his enemy had him on the hip, and he laid
his old head down upon his folded arms and wept. In his weeping it
is probable that no tears rolled down his cheeks, but he wept inward
tears,--tears of hatred, remorse, and self-commiseration. His enemy
had struck him with scourges, and, as far as he could see at present,
he could not return a blow. And he must submit himself,--must restore
the bit of land, and build those nasty dissenters a chapel elsewhere
on his own property. He had not a doubt as to that for a moment.
Could he have escaped the shame of it,--as far as the expense was
concerned he would have been willing to build them ten chapels. And
in doing this he would give a triumph, an unalloyed triumph, to a
man whom he believed to be thoroughly bad. The Vicar had accused the
Marquis of spreading reports which he, the Marquis, did not himself
believe; but the Marquis believed them all. At this moment there was
no evil that he could not have believed of Mr. Fenwick. While sitting
there an idea, almost amounting to a conviction, had come upon
him, that Mr. Fenwick had himself been privy to the murder of old
Trumbull. What would not a parson do who would take delight in
insulting and humiliating the nobleman who owned the parish in which
he lived? To Lord Trowbridge the very fact that the parson of the
parish which he regarded as his own was opposed to him, proved
sufficiently that that parson was,--scum, dregs, riff-raff, a low
radical, and everything that a parson ought not to be. The Vicar had
been wrong there. The Marquis did believe it all religiously.
"What must I do?" said the Marquis.
"As to the chapel itself, my lord, the Vicar, bad as he is, does not
want to move it."
"It must come down," said the Marquis, getting up from his chair.
"It shall come down. Do you think that I would allow it to stand
when it has been erected on his ground,--through my error? Not for a
day!--not for an hour! I'll tell you what, Mr. Boothby,--that man has
known it all through;--has known it as well as you do now; but he has
waited till the building was complete before he would tell me. I see
it all as plain as the nose on your face, Mr. Boothby."
The lawyer was meditating how best he might explain to his
angry client that he had no power whatsoever to pull down the
building,--that if the Vicar and the dissenting minister chose
to agree about it the new building must stand, in spite of the
Marquis,--must stand, unless the churchwardens, patron, or
ecclesiastical authorities generally should force the Vicar to
have it removed,--when a clerk came in and whispered a word to the
attorney. "My lord," said Mr. Boothby, "Lord St. George is here.
Shall he come in?"
The Marquis did not wish to see his son exactly at this minute;
but Lord St. George was, of course, admitted. This meeting at the
lawyer's chambers was altogether fortuitous, and father and son were
equally surprised. But so great was the anger and dismay and general
perturbation of the Marquis at the time, that he could not stop to
ask any question. St. George must, of course, know what had happened,
and it was quite as well that he should be told at once.
"That bit of ground they've built the chapel on at Bullhampton, turns
out to be--glebe," said the Marquis. Lord St. George whistled. "Of
course, Mr. Fenwick knew it all along," said the Marquis.
"I should hardly think that," said his son.
"You read his letter. Mr. Boothby, will you be so good as to show
Lord St. George the letter? You never read such a production.
Impudent scoundrel! Of course he knew it all the time."
Lord St. George read the letter. "He is very impudent, whether he be
a scoundrel or not."
"Impudent is no word for it."
"Perhaps he has had some provocation, my lord."
"Not from me, St. George;--not from me. I have done nothing to him.
Of course the chapel must be--removed."
"Don't you think the question might stand over for a while?"
suggested Mr. Boothby. "Matters would become smoother in a month or
two."
"Not for an hour," said the Marquis.
Lord St. George walked about the room with the letter in his hand,
meditating. "The truth is," he said, at last, "we have made a
mistake, and we must get out of it as best we can. I think my father
is a little wrong about this clergyman's character."
"St. George! Have you read his letter? Is that a proper letter to
come from a clergyman of the Church of England to--to--to--" the
Marquis longed to say to the Marquis of Trowbridge; but he did not
dare so to express himself before his son,--"to the landlord of his
parish?"
"A red-brick chapel, just close to your lodge, isn't nice, you know."
"He has got no lodge," said the Marquis.
"And so we thought we'd build him one. Let me manage this. I'll see
him, and I'll see the minister, and I'll endeavour to throw some oil
upon the waters."
"I don't want to throw oil upon the waters."
"Lord St. George is in the right, my lord," said the attorney; "he
really is. It is a case in which we must throw a little oil upon the
waters. We've made a mistake, and when we've done that we should
always throw oil upon the waters. I've no doubt Lord St. George
will find a way out of it." Then the father and the son went away
together, and before they had reached the Houses of Parliament Lord
St. George had persuaded his father to place the matter of the
Bullhampton chapel in his hands. "And as for the letter," said St.
George, "do not you notice it."
"I have not the slightest intention of noticing it," said the
Marquis, haughtily.