“Yes, here it is torn,” Jack admitted, gazing thoughtfully at it; “that is true.”
For a few moments the two sat silent, Jack fingering the letter, Lindo with his eyes fixed gloomily on the fire. Suddenly the rector broke out without warning or preface. “What a fool I have been!” he exclaimed, his tone one of abrupt overwhelming conviction. “Good heavens, what a fool I have been!”
His friend looked at him in surprise, and saw that his face was crimson. “Is it about the letter?” he asked, leaning forward, his tone sharp with professional impatience. “You do not mean to say, Lindo, that you really——”
“No, no!” replied the young clergyman, ruthlessly interrupting him. “It has nothing to do with the letter.”
He said no more, and Jack waited for further light, but none came, and the barrister reapplied his thoughts to the problem before him. He had only just hit upon a new idea, however, when he was again diverted by an interruption from Lindo. “Jack,” said the latter impressively, “I want you to give a message for me.”
“Not a cartel to Lord Dynmore, I hope?” the barrister muttered.
“No,” Lindo answered, getting up and poking the fire unnecessarily—what a quantity of embarrassment has been liberated before now by means of pokers—“no, I want you to give a message to your cousin—Miss Bonamy, I mean.” The rector paused, the poker still in his hand, and stole a sharp glance at his companion; but, reassured by the discovery that he was to all appearance buried in the letter, he continued: “Would you mind telling her that I am sorry I misjudged her a short time back—she will understand—and behaved, I feel, very ungratefully to her? She warned me that there was a rumor afloat that something was amiss with my title, and I am afraid I was very rude to her. I should like you to tell her, if you will, that I—that I am particularly ashamed of myself,” he added, with a gulp.
He did not find the words easy of utterance—far from it; but the effort they cost him was slight and trivial compared with that which poor Jack found himself called upon to make. For a moment, indeed, he was silent, his heart rebelling against the task assigned to him. To carry his message to her! Then his nobler self answered to the call, and he spoke. His words, “Yes, I’ll tell her,” came, it is true, a little late, in a voice a trifle thick, and were uttered with a coldness which Lindo would have remarked had he not been agitated himself. But they came—at a price. The Victoria Cross for moral courage can seldom be gained by a single act of valor. Many a one has failed to gain it who had strength enough for the first blow. “Yes, I will tell her,” Jack repeated a few seconds later, folding up the letter and laying it on the table, but so contriving that his face was hidden from his friend. “To-morrow will do, I suppose?” he added, the faintest tinge of irony in his tone. He may be pardoned if he thought the apology he was asked to carry came a little late.
“Oh, yes, to-morrow will do,” Lindo answered with a start; he had fallen into a reverie, but now roused himself. “I am afraid you are very tired, old fellow,” he continued, looking gratefully at his friend. “A friend in need is a friend indeed, you know. I cannot tell you”—with a sigh—“how very good I think it was of you to come to me.”
“Nonsense!” Jack said briskly. “It was all in the day’s work. As it is, I have done nothing. And that reminds me,” he continued, facing his companion with a smile—“what of the trouble between my uncle and you? About the sheep, I mean. You have put it in some lawyer’s hands, have you not?”