“You did not.”
“I say so now,” said Glyde, and stirred the Court. Mr. Bazalguet interfered.
“You mustn't talk like that, Glyde. We can't have it, you know.” Colonel Vero added, “Certainly not,” and stretched his long legs out.
Glyde recovered himself, and begged pardon. He was told that he might go on, in reason, but declined. “Thank you, sir. I think I'll leave it so. I own to what I did.”
He was told that he could be dealt with summarily, or sent for trial. “I'll take it from you, gentlemen,” he said, and settled himself reposefully. The Bench drew together, with the Clerk intervening.
Mr. Bazalguet, double-chinned and comfortable squire, was disturbed by this case. What troubled him was that Ingram had not been straightforward. What was this dismissal of a servant? He knew, and therefore he asked the question. Fortnaby knew also, but didn't intend to say. Everybody, indeed, knew. Romance appeals to us all in diverse ways; and it was actually romance which settled Clyde's romantic affair.
Fortnaby, Maximilian Fortnaby, had been a schoolmaster, had succeeded to an estate at forty, and retired. He, with his keen face and trim whiskers, leaning his head on his hand, thus spoke in undertones, and carried the day. “The case is clear. The young man's taught himself tongues, and has poetry. He's been taught other things, too, and has got some of them wrongly. One thing he ought to learn is that to relieve your feelings is not the way to help the oppressed. He's set himself up for a champion, and tongues have got to work. I should give him three months.” Mr. Bazalguet looked at the Clerk, who said it was a bad case. Mr. Ingram was a magistrate and—the maximum was two years. The third magistrate saw his way to impressing himself,—“Make it six months,” he said. The Chairman agreed with him, until Colonel Vero said, “I should give him a year.” That shocked him. “It'll take a long time for it to blow over, you know,” he whispered to Fortnaby, who smiled and shrugged. “I don't suppose six will hurt him. He'll be able to write after a bit.” “Ingram will go abroad, you know,” said Mr. Bazalguet. “Did you happen to know the—party?” Fortnaby looked up quickly. “I? Oh, dear no. But I gather that the less we say the better. It was not an ordinary servant.” Mr. Weir, the third magistrate, said, “A lady, I hear;” but his colleagues ignored him. Then they all sat up, and the Clerk sank into the well.
“Clyde,” said Mr. Bazalguet, “you will have to go to prison for three months, with hard labour. I hope this will be a warning to you. I do indeed.”
The prisoner was removed amid murmurs. There was some cheering outside the court—at which Ingram grimly smiled. But he was very pale, and did not leave the Sessions house until late in the afternoon. Old Mr. Bazalguet was very cool with him after court. He grunted when they met in the hall. “You go abroad?” he asked him. Ingram said, it was probable.