The rector was too full of the news he had brought to observe the other’s agitation, the more as the lamp was between them, and his eyes were dazzled by the light. “Why, what do you think Bonamy has done?” he answered excitedly, as he closed the door behind him. He was breathing quickly with the haste he had made, and, uninvited, he dropped into a chair.
“What?” said the curate hoarsely. He dared not look down at the table lest he should direct the other’s eyes to what lay there, but he was racked as he stood there with the fear that some damning corner of the paper, some scrap of the writing, should still be visible. The shame of possible discovery poured like a flood over his soul. “What is it?” he repeated mechanically. He had not yet recovered enough presence of mind to wonder why the rector should have paid this untimely call.
“He has served me with a writ!” Lindo replied, his face hot with haste and indignation, his lips curling. “At this hour of the night, too! A writ for trespass in driving out the sheep from the churchyard.”
“A writ!” the curate echoed. “It is very late for serving writs.”
“Yes. His clerk, who handed it to me—he came five minutes after you left—apologized, and took the blame for that on himself, saying he had forgotten to deliver it on leaving the office.”
“For trespass!” said the curate stupidly. What a fool he had been to meddle with those letters! Why had he not had a little patience? Here, after all, was the catastrophe for which he had been longing.
“Yes, in the Queen’s Bench Division, and all the rest of it!” replied the rector; and then he waited to hear what the curate had to say.
But Clode had nothing to say, except “What shall you do?”
“Fight!” replied Lindo briskly, getting up and approaching the table. “That of course. And it was about that I came to you. I do not think there is any lawyer here I should like to employ. Did not you tell me the other day who the archdeacon’s were? Some people in Birmingham, I think?”
“I think I did,” the curate answered. He had overcome his first fear, and, as he spoke, looked down at the table, on which he was still leaning. His hasty movement had disordered his own papers, but none of the tell-tale letters were visible so far as he could see. But what if the rector took up the newspaper? Or casually put it aside? The curate grew hot again, despite his great self-control. He felt himself on the edge of a precipice down which he dared not cast his eye.