“Well, you may think yourself lucky to be well out of it,” the lawyer rejoined, with a dry smile. “To be here at all, indeed,” he continued, with a gesture of the hand which seemed meant to indicate the sunshine and the upper air. “When a man does a foolhardy thing he does not always escape, you know.”
The younger man reddened. But this morning he had his temper well under control and he merely answered, “I thought I was called upon to do what I did, Mr. Bonamy. But of course that is a matter of opinion. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps right. I did what I thought best at the moment, and I am satisfied.”
Mr. Bonamy shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, well, every man to his notion,” he said. “I do not approve, myself, of people running risks which do not lie within the scope of their business. And as nothing has happened to you——”
“The risk of anything happening,” the rector rejoined, with warmth, “was so small that the thing is not worth discussing, Mr. Bonamy. There is a matter, however,” he continued, changing the subject on a sudden impulse, “which I think I may as well mention to you now as later. You, as churchwarden, have in fact, a right to be informed of it. I——”
“You are cold,” said Mr. Bonamy abruptly. “Allow me to turn with you.”
The rector bowed and complied. The request, however, had checked the current of his speech, even the current of his thoughts, and he did not finish his sentence. He felt, indeed, for a moment a temptation as sudden as it was strong. He saw at a glance what his resolve meant. He discerned that what had appeared to him in the isolation of the night an act of dignified self-surrender must, and would, seem to others an acknowledgment of defeat—almost an acknowledgment of dishonor. He recalled, as in a flash, all the episodes of the struggle between himself and his companion. And he pictured the latter’s triumph. He wavered.
But the events of the night had not been lost upon him, and, after a brief hesitation, he set the seal on his purpose. “You are aware, I know, Mr. Bonamy,” he said, “of the circumstances under which, in Lord Dynmore’s absence, I accepted the living here.”
“Perfectly,” said the lawyer drily.
“He has made those circumstances the subject of a grave charge against me,” the rector continued, a touch of hauteur in his tone. “That you have heard also, I know. Well, I desire to say once more that I repudiate that charge in the fullest and widest sense.”
“So I understand,” Mr. Bonamy murmured. He walked along by his companion’s side, his face set and inscrutable. If he felt any surprise at the communication now being made to him he had the skill to hide it.