“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.”