“I should as soon believe that I knew of it myself!” Jack replied warmly. He was glad beyond measure now that he had come. As he and Lindo stood half facing one another, each with an elbow on the mantel-shelf, he felt that he could defy the chill at his own heart—that, notwithstanding all, his old friend was still dear to him. Perhaps if the rector had been prospering as before, if no cloud had arisen in his sky, it might have been different. But as it was, Jack’s generous heart went out to him. “Tell me what happened, old fellow,” he said cheerily—“that is, if you have no objection to taking me into your confidence.”
“I shall be only too glad of your help,” Lindo answered thankfully, feeling indeed—so potent is a single word of sympathy—happier already. “I would ask you to sit down, Jack,” he continued, in a tone of rather sheepish raillery, “and have a cup of coffee or some whiskey, but I do not know whether I ought to do so, now that Lord Dynmore says the things are not mine.”
“I will take the responsibility,” Jack answered, briskly ringing the bell. “Was my lord very rude?”
“Confoundedly!” the rector answered, and proceeded to tell his story. Jack was surprised to find him at first more placable than he had expected, but presently he learned that this moderation was only assumed. The rector rose as he went on, and began to pace the room, and, the motion freeing his tongue, he gradually betrayed the indignation and resentment which he really felt. Jack asked him, with a view to clearing the ground, whether he had quite made up his mind not to resign, and was astonished by the force and anger with which he repudiated the thought of doing so. “Resign? No never!” he cried, standing still, and almost glaring at his companion. “Why should I? What have I done? Was it my mistake, that I am to suffer for it? Was it my fault, that for penalty I am to have the tenor of my life broken? Do you think I can go back to the Docks the same man I left them? I cannot. Nor is that all, or nearly all,” he added still more warmly—“I have been called a swindler and an impostor. Am I by resigning to plead guilty to the charge?”
“No!” said Jack, himself catching fire, “certainly not! I did not intend for a moment to advise that course. I think you would be acting very foolishly if you resigned under these circumstances.”
“I am glad of that,” the rector said, sitting down with a sigh of relief. “I feared you did not quite enter into my feelings.”
“I do thoroughly,” the barrister answered, with feeling, “but I want to do more—I want to help you. You must not go into this business blindly, old man. And, first, I think you ought to take the archdeacon or some other clergyman into your confidence. Show him the whole of your case, I mean, and——”
“And act upon his advice?” said the young rector, rebellion already flashing in his eye.
“No, not necessarily,” the barrister answered, skilfully adapting his tone to the irritability of his patient. “Of course your bona fides at the time you accepted the living is the point of importance to you, Lindo. You did not see their solicitors—the earl’s people, I mean—did you?”
“No,” the rector answered somewhat sullenly.