"Very bad indeed, Lord St. George."
"Now I'm not going to measure out censure, or to say that we have been wrong, or that you have been wrong."
"If you do I shall defend myself," said the Vicar.
"Exactly so. But if bygones can be bygones there need be neither offence nor defence."
"What can a clergyman think, Lord St. George, when the landlord of his parish writes letters against him to his bishop, maligning his private character, and spreading reports for which there is not the slightest foundation?"
"Mr. Fenwick, is that the way in which you let bygones be bygones?"
"It is very hard to say that I can forget such an injury."
"My father, at any rate, is willing to forget,—and, as he hopes, to forgive. In all disputes each party of course thinks that he has been right. If you, for the sake of the parish, and for the sake of Christian charity and goodwill, are ready to meet him half way, all this ill-will may be buried in the ground."
What could the Vicar do? He felt that he was being cunningly cheated out of his grievance. He would have had not a minute's hesitation as to forgiving the Marquis, had the Marquis owned himself to be wrong. But he was now invited to bury the hatchet on even terms, and he knew that the terms should not be even. And he resented all this the more in his heart because he understood very well how clever and cunning was the son of his enemy. He did not like to be cheated out of his forgiveness. But after all, what did it matter? Would it not be enough for him to know, himself, that he had been right? Was it not much to feel himself free from all pricks of conscience in the matter?
"If Lord Trowbridge is willing to let it all pass," said he, "so am I."