THE LAWYER AT HOME.
If Mr. Clode, when he stepped forward to open the door for Lord
Dynmore, had any thought beyond that of facilitating his departure—if,
for instance, as is just possible, he had set his mind on having a
little private talk with the peer—he was disappointed. Lord Dynmore,
after what had happened, was in no mood for conversation. As, still
muttering and mumbling, he seized his hat from the hall table, he did
indeed notice his companion, but it was with the red angry glare of a
bull about to charge. The next moment he plunged headlong into his
brougham, and roared “Home.”
The carriage plunged away into the darkness of the drive, as if it
would reach the Park at a leap. But it had barely cleared Mrs.
Hammond’s gates, and was still rattling over the stony pavement of the
top of the town, when the footman heard his master lower the window and
shout “Stop!” The horses were pulled up as suddenly as they had been
started, and the man got down and went to the door. “Do you know where
Mr. Bonamy the lawyer’s offices are?” Lord Dynmore said curtly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then drive there!”
The footman got upon the box again. “What has bitten him now, I
wonder?” he grumbled to his companion as he passed on the order. “He is
in a fine tantrum in there!”
“Who cares?” retorted the coachman, with a coachman’s fine
independence. “If old Bonamy is in, there will be a pair of them!”
Mr. Bonamy was in. In that particular Lord Dynmore had better luck than
he perhaps deserved. Late as it was for business—it was after seven—the
gas was still burning in the lawyer’s offices, illuminating the
fanlight over the door and the windows of one of the rooms on the
ground floor—the right-hand room. The servant jumped down and rapped,
and his summons was answered almost immediately by Mr. Bonamy himself,
who jerked open the door, and stood holding it ajar, with the air of a
man interrupted in the middle of his work, and bent on sending the
intruder off with a flea in his ear. Catching sight of the earl’s
carriage, however, and the servant murmuring that my lord wished to see
him on business, the lawyer stepped forward, his expression changing to
one of extreme surprise.
The Dynmore business had been hitherto monopolized by the London
solicitors to the estate. In cases where a country agent had been
necessary they had invariably employed a firm in Birmingham. Neither
Mr. Bonamy nor the other Claversham lawyer had ever risen to the
dignity of being concerned for Lord Dynmore, nor could Mr. Bonamy
recall any occasion in the past on which the great man had crossed the
threshold of his office.
His appearance now, therefore, was almost as welcome as it was
unexpected. Yet from some cause, probably the lateness of the hour,
though that seems improbable, there was a visible embarrassment in the
lawyer’s manner as he recognized him; and Mr. Bonamy only stepped aside
to make way for him to enter upon hearing from his own lips that he
desired to speak with him.
Then he opened the door of the room on the left of the hall. “If your
lordship will take a seat here,” he said, “I will be with you in a
moment.”
The room was in darkness, but he struck a match and lit the gas,
placing a chair for Lord Dynmore, who, fretting and fuming and more
than half inclined as he took it to walk out again, said sharply that
he had only a minute to spare.
“I shall not be a minute, my lord,” the lawyer answered. He retired at
once with that, closing the door behind him, and went, as his visitor
could hear, into the opposite room. Lord Dynmore looked round
impatiently. He had not so high as opinion of his own importance as
have some who are no peers. But he was choleric and accustomed to have
his own way, and he thought that at least this local man whom he was
going to patronize might receive him with more respect.
Mr. Bonamy, however, was as good as his word. In less than a minute he
was back. Closing the door carefully behind him, he sat down at the
table. “I am entirely at your lordship’s service now,” he said, bowing
slightly.
The earl laid his hat on the table. “Very well,” he answered abruptly.
“I have heard that you are a sharp fellow, Mr. Bonamy, and a good
lawyer, and that is why I have come to you—that and the fact that my
business will not wait and I have a mind to punish those confounded
London people who have let me into this mess!”
That it was rather impatience than anything else which had brought him
he betrayed by getting up and striding across the room. Meanwhile the
lawyer, golden visions of bulky settlements and interminable leases
floating before his eyes, murmured his anxiety to be of service, and
waited to hear more.
“It is about that confounded sneak of a rector of yours!” my lord
exclaimed, coming to a stand before the table.
Mr. Bonamy started, his visions fading rapidly away. “What rector?” he
replied, gazing at his client in great astonishment. “Our rector, my
lord?”
“The man who calls himself your rector!” the earl growled. “He is no
more a rector than I am, and pretty fools you were to be taken in by
him!”
“Now that is odd!” the lawyer answered. He spoke absently, his eyes
resting on the peer’s face as if his thoughts were far away.
“Odd or not,” Lord Dynmore replied, stamping on the floor with
undiminished irritation, “it is the fact, sir! And now if you will
listen to me I will tell you what I want you to do.”
The lawyer bowed slightly again, and the earl proceeded to tell his
tale. Passing lightly over his own forgetfulness and negligence, he
laid stress on all the facts which seemed to show that Lindo could not
have accepted the living in good faith. He certainly made out a
plausible case, but his animus in telling it was so apparent that, when
he had finished and wound up by announcing his firm resolve to eject
the young man from his cure, Mr. Bonamy only shook his head with a
doubtful smile. “You will have to prove guilty knowledge on his part,
my lord,” he said gravely.
“So I will!” quoth the earl roundly.
Mr. Bonamy seemed for a moment inclined to shake his head again, but he
thought better of it. “Well, you may be right, my lord,” he answered.
“At any rate—without going further into the matter at this moment, or
considering what course your lordship, could or should adopt—I think I
can do one thing. I can lay some information on this point before you
at once.”
“What! To show that he knew?” cried the earl eagerly.
“Yes, I think so. But as to its weight——”
“What is it? What is it? Let me hear it!” was the impatient
interruption. The earl was on his feet in a moment. “Why, gadzooks, we
may have him in a corner before the day is out, Mr. Bonamy,” he
continued. “True? I will be bound it is true!”
Mr. Bonamy looked as if he very much doubted that, but he offered no
further opposition. Begging Lord Dynmore—who could not look upon him
with sufficient admiration, so much was he struck with this strange
preparedness—to excuse him for a moment, he left the room. He returned
almost immediately, however, followed by a man whom the earl at once
recognized, and recognized with the utmost astonishment. “Why, you
confounded rascal!” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”
It was Felton. Yet not the same Felton whose surreptitious visit to the
rectory had been cut short by Mr. Clode. A few weeks of idleness and
drinking, a month or two at the Bull and Staff had much changed the
once sleek and respectable servant. Had he gone to the rectory for help
now, his tale could not have passed muster even for a moment. His coat
had come to hang loosely about him, and he wore no tie. His hands were
dirty and tremulous, his eyes shifty and bloodshot. His pasty face had
grown puffy and was stained with blotches which it was impossible to
misinterpret. He had gone down the hill fast.
Seeing his old master before him he began to whimper, but the lawyer
cut him short. “This man, who says he was formerly your servant, has
come to me with a strange story, Lord Dynmore,” he said.
“Ten to one it’s a lie!” replied the peer, scowling darkly at the poor
wretch.
“So I think likely!” Mr. Bonamy rejoined with the utmost dryness.
“However, what he says is this: that when he landed in England without
a character he considered what he should do, and, remembering that he
had heard you say that Mr. Lindo the elder, whom he knew, had been
appointed to this living, he came down here to see what he could get
out of him.”
“That is likely enough!” cried the peer scornfully.
“When he called at the rectory, however, he found Mr. Lindo, the
younger, in possession. He had an interview with him, and he states
that Mr. Lindo, to purchase his silence, undertook to pay him ten
shillings a week until your return.”
“Phaugh!” my lord exclaimed in astonishment.
The servant mistook his astonishment for incredulity. “He did, my
lord!” he cried passionately. “It is heaven’s own truth I am telling! I
can bring half a dozen witnesses to prove it.”
“You can?”
“I can, my lord.”
“Yes, but to prove what?” said the lawyer sharply.
“That he paid me ten shillings a week down to last week, my lord.”
“That will do! That will do!” cried the earl in great glee. “Set a
thief to catch a thief—that is the plan!”
Mr. Bonamy looked displeased. “I think you are a little premature, my
lord,” he said with some sourness.
“Premature? How?”
“At present you have only this man’s word for what is on the face of it
a very improbable story.”
“Improbable? I do not see it,” replied the peer quickly, but with less
heat. “He says that he has witnesses to prove that this fellow paid him
the money. If that be so, explain the payment if you can. And, mark
you, Mr. Bonamy, the allowance stopped last week—on my arrival, that
is.”
The man cried eagerly that that was so; the earl at once bidding him be
silent for a confounded rascal as he was. Mr. Bonamy stood rubbing his
chin thoughtfully and looking on the floor, but said nothing; so that
the great man presently lost patience. “Don’t you agree with me?” he
cried irascibly.
“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 lordship 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 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.