“But has he none?” she murmured, in the same tone. He noticed that her manner was conscious and embarrassed; but naturally he set this down to the former topic. He thought she was trying to avoid a scene, and he admired her for it.
“Well, I doubt if he has,” he answered, “though I am not quite sure that people have not lit upon a mare’s nest. It is the talk of the town that there was some mistake in his presentation, and there is a disreputable fellow hanging on his heels, and apparently living on him, who is said to be in the secret, and to be making the most of it. I do not believe that now, however,” the lawyer continued, falling into a brown study and speaking as much to himself as to her. “If he knew he were insecure he would live more quietly than he does. All the same, he is likely to learn a lesson he will not forget.”
“How?” she asked, her spoon tinkling tremulously against the side of the cup, and her head bent low over it, as though she saw something interesting in the lees.
Mr. Bonamy laughed in his out-of-door manner. “How?” he said grimly. “Well, if there be any mistake he is going the right way to suffer by it. If he kept quiet, and went softly, and made no enemies, very little might be said and nothing done when the mistake came out. But as it is—well, he has made a good many enemies, and the chances are that he will lose the best berth he will ever get into. It will be bad for him, but the better for the parish.”
“Don’t you think,” said Kate very gently, “that he means well?”
Mr. Bonamy grunted. “Perhaps so; but he does not go the right way to do it,” he rejoined. “His good fortune has turned his head, and he has put himself in the hands of the Hammond set, and that does not do at Claversham.” The lawyer ended with a harsh laugh, which said more plainly than any words, that it never would do while John Bonamy was church warden at Claversham.
“It seems a pity,” Kate said, almost under her breath. She had never raised her eyes from the tea-tray since the subject was introduced, and if her father had looked closely he would have seen that her very ears were scarlet. “Could you not give him a word of warning?”
“I!” said the lawyer, with asperity. “Certainly not; why should I?”
Kate did not say, and her father, with another impatient word or two, rose from the table, and presently went out. She rang the bell mechanically and had the table cleared, and in the same mood turned to the fire and, putting her feet on the fender, began to brood over the coals, which were burning red and low in the grate.
Five times—five times only, counting the Oxford escapade as one, she had spoken to him; and they—“they” meant Claversham, for it was her chief misery to believe that the whole town was talking of her—had made this of it! They had noticed his attentions, and had seen them scornfully withdrawn when he learned who she was. Oh, it was cowardly of him—cowardly! And yet—and yet—so her thoughts ran, taking a fresh turn—had he ever said a word or cast a glance at her which meant anything—which all the world might not have heard and seen? No, never. And, with that, her anger changed its course and ran against Gregg. Him she would never forgive. It was his evil imagination, his base suspicions, which had built it all up; and Mr. Lindo was no more to blame—though she a little despised him for his weakness and conventionality—than she was herself.