“What is the news?” Mr. Bonamy asked rather shortly. He had risen and drawn near unnoticed, Jack Smith behind him. “Do I understand that Lord Dynmore has accepted the rector’s resignation?”
“That is so.”
“And that he proposes to present Mr. Clode?” the lawyer continued, looking at the curate as he named him.
“Precisely,” replied the archdeacon, without hesitation.
“I hope you have no objection, Mr. Bonamy,” said the curate, bowing slightly with a gracious air. He could afford to be gracious now. He even felt good—as men in such moments do.
But in the lawyer’s response there was no graciousness, nor much apparent goodness. “I am afraid,” he said, standing up gaunt and stiff, with a scowl on his face, “that I must take advantage of that saving clause, Mr. Clode. I am people’s warden, as the archdeacon says, and frankly I object to your appointment—to your appointment as rector here.”
“You object!” the curate stammered, between wrath and wonder.
“Bless me!” exclaimed the archdeacon in unmixed astonishment. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. I object,” repeated the lawyer firmly. This time Clode said nothing, but his eyes flashed, and he drew himself up, his face dark with passion. “Shall I state my objection now?” Mr. Bonamy continued, with the utmost gravity. “It is not quite formal, but—very well, I will do so. I have rather a curious story to tell, and I must go back a short time. When Mr. Lindo’s honesty in accepting the living was called in question about a month ago, he referred to the letters in which Lord Dynmore’s agents conveyed the offer to him. He had those letters by him. Naturally, he had preserved them with care, and he began to regard them in the light of valuable evidence on his behalf, since they showed the facts brought to his knowledge when he accepted the living. I have said that he had preserved them with care; and, indeed, he is prepared to say to-day, that from the time of his arrival here until now, they have never, with his knowledge or consent, passed out of his possession.”
The lawyer’s rasping voice ceased for a moment. Stephen Clode’s face was a shade paler, but away from the gas-jets this could not be distinguished. He was arming himself to meet whatever shock was to come, while below this voluntary action of the brain his mind ran in an undercurrent of fierce, passionate anger against himself—anger that he had ever meddled with those fatal letters. Oh, the folly, the uselessness, the danger of that act, as he saw them now!