James Eastwood nudged the merchant that he should hold his peace; and by and by the magistrate hummed softly, as if at something interior to himself, and punctuated his remarks with delicate touchings of his fingers.
“Hum, hum! Do you happen, James (but possibly you won’t)—do you happen to remember a conversation we had a little while ago, about saying Yes when No is meant?—Surely it was to you I was speaking of that?”
“To be sure,” said Eastwood (though he remembered no such thing). “It’s odd ye should mention it, for I was thinking of it to-day. I’ve oft noticed that to speak o’ things seems in a way to bring ’em about a’most.”
“Ah! I thought my memory had not failed me! Well, I had an instance only this morning, a trifle of business; briefly, it was this: Among my many letters was one from the solicitor to the Mint; two letters, to be precise, and they come pat on that conversation of ours. I was struck by the way in which these highly-placed law-officers can talk (so to put it), and say nothing. You will excuse me that I do not show you the letters themselves; and certainly I expected news in them. Perfectly formal, courteous letters—” he mused long, “—and yet so entirely superfluous as almost to seem blinds—puttings-off——” His eyes closed; he seemed to be tasting something delicate on his tongue; and Matthew Moon opened his mouth to speak. Again Eastwood nudged him.
“Ay,” said the flockmaster unctuously, “when letters doesn’t say anything ye ha’ to be sharpish to understand ’em.”
“Yes—yes and no,” mused the magistrate. “Ah, this Law!—You make a full confession of a thing, the Law finds it insufficient; you deny, and the Law murmurs ‘Indeed?’ and presently takes you by the heels. I have long letters sometimes, full of words, and all they say is this ‘Indeed?’—And so much for our recent conversation, James.”
This time Matthew Moon struck bluntly in.
“Do ye mean, i’ plain words, that they’re setting ye aside?” he said; and at that moment an accident befell the magistrate’s glass of wine. It overturned at his elbow, and Emmason rose hastily for a napkin. He dabbed up the spilt liquid, and then crossed to the window, putting his hand against the crack of the shutter.
“I think the wind is north, for this room is uncommonly draughty,” he muttered. “You will pardon me, I’m sure, but I am just recovering from an ear-ache——” He took some morsels of cotton-wool from his pocket and stuffed them into his ears.
The merchant made a little exclamation of contempt, and turned to Eastwood.