so.
‘What a dreadful man.’
‘He is terrible. I believe he is an elder of the Dissenting chapel at Sleaford, and that it has gone to his head.’ Mr Davenant shook his own head at the iniquities of a legal system that allowed a Methodist attorney to come and patronise him in his own study. There was an odd look on his face. ‘You knew my wife, didn’t you, Glenister?’
‘Certainly I did.’
‘This house was everything to her. When I think of her it is to remember her walking in the garden there. Can you conceive what she would have thought of Mr Silas coming here and poking his finger at the spines of the books and sitting in my grandfather’s chair?’
‘It is not so bad as that, I think.’
‘You would think it so if you had a letter from Mr Silas.’
Looking at his friend as he pronounced these words, Mr Glenister thought that some graver trouble afflicted him, and that it was not merely Mr Silas and his schedule that had extinguished his spirits. He liked Mr Davenant – liked him perhaps better than anyone else in the world – remembered his wife and her walking in the garden, sympathised with him and thought him hard done by, but he knew that he did not quite grasp the extent of his afflictions.
‘But you should not let it disturb you. A few hundred pounds would settle it, surely?’
‘No doubt they would. But it is worse than that.’
‘How so?’
‘There are other bills owing. Quite apart from Mr Silas’s. And’ – it was clearly a torture to Mr Davenant to say these things – ‘there are people confederate against me.’
‘What kind of people?’
‘People in London. I scarcely know their names. It is all to do with the horse.’
Mr Glenister looked around the stable yard and into the sky beyond it, where there were grey clouds blowing in off the wolds, heard the cries of the rooks assembled in the eaves and a little melancholy drip of water that pattered somewhere in the distance. His friend lived in a very desolate place.
‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Wait you a minute and let me speak to Silas. You are prejudiced against the man – I am not blaming you, but it is so – and not prepared to hear him.’
‘You should not take such trouble over me.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Glenister, and went back along the passage to the study door. ‘A nice enough fellow,’ he heard Mr Silas say, as he stepped inside, ‘but he ain’t got distangey manners, not by a long chalk.’
‘Well now, Mr Silas,’ Mr Glenister said, resuming his chair – Mr Silas’s clerk bent his head meekly over the papers on the desk – and taking up a copy of the schedule. He had an idea of how Mr Silas might be conciliated. ‘You must excuse my friend’s ill humour.’
‘Nothing to excuse, sir,’ Mr Silas said, quite delighted. ‘Of course a gentleman is not going to take kindly to his debts being parcelled up and left on his doorstep, so to speak.’
‘Certainly he is not. By the by,’ said Mr Glenister easily, ‘I think I heard of you from Lady Mary Desmond.’
‘Did you, sir?’ replied Mr Silas, who had never talked to Lady Mary in his life. ‘Well, if Lady Mary has spoken of me, I take that as a great compliment.’
‘As to Mr Davenant,’ Mr Glenister went on, ‘I think he feels that his creditors oppress him unduly. Why’ – he picked up the schedule and studied it for a moment – ‘there’s not more than six hundred pounds owing here.’
‘No more there isn’t, sir. But you see, there’s that account with Loveday the saddler in Lincoln that’s been due for ever so many months. Not to mention what’s owed to the lawyers still. Tradesmen – professional men too – do like to be paid, sir. It’s only human nature.’
‘I think Mr Davenant feels, too, that there is some kind of conspiracy set against him.’
Mr Silas and his clerk exchanged glances.
‘That’s it. That’s it exactly, sir. But it’s none of our doing, indeed it isn’t. He’s nothing to fear from
‘What a dreadful man.’
‘He is terrible. I believe he is an elder of the Dissenting chapel at Sleaford, and that it has gone to his head.’ Mr Davenant shook his own head at the iniquities of a legal system that allowed a Methodist attorney to come and patronise him in his own study. There was an odd look on his face. ‘You knew my wife, didn’t you, Glenister?’
‘Certainly I did.’
‘This house was everything to her. When I think of her it is to remember her walking in the garden there. Can you conceive what she would have thought of Mr Silas coming here and poking his finger at the spines of the books and sitting in my grandfather’s chair?’
‘It is not so bad as that, I think.’
‘You would think it so if you had a letter from Mr Silas.’
Looking at his friend as he pronounced these words, Mr Glenister thought that some graver trouble afflicted him, and that it was not merely Mr Silas and his schedule that had extinguished his spirits. He liked Mr Davenant – liked him perhaps better than anyone else in the world – remembered his wife and her walking in the garden, sympathised with him and thought him hard done by, but he knew that he did not quite grasp the extent of his afflictions.
‘But you should not let it disturb you. A few hundred pounds would settle it, surely?’
‘No doubt they would. But it is worse than that.’
‘How so?’
‘There are other bills owing. Quite apart from Mr Silas’s. And’ – it was clearly a torture to Mr Davenant to say these things – ‘there are people confederate against me.’
‘What kind of people?’
‘People in London. I scarcely know their names. It is all to do with the horse.’
Mr Glenister looked around the stable yard and into the sky beyond it, where there were grey clouds blowing in off the wolds, heard the cries of the rooks assembled in the eaves and a little melancholy drip of water that pattered somewhere in the distance. His friend lived in a very desolate place.
‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Wait you a minute and let me speak to Silas. You are prejudiced against the man – I am not blaming you, but it is so – and not prepared to hear him.’
‘You should not take such trouble over me.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Glenister, and went back along the passage to the study door. ‘A nice enough fellow,’ he heard Mr Silas say, as he stepped inside, ‘but he ain’t got distangey manners, not by a long chalk.’
‘Well now, Mr Silas,’ Mr Glenister said, resuming his chair – Mr Silas’s clerk bent his head meekly over the papers on the desk – and taking up a copy of the schedule. He had an idea of how Mr Silas might be conciliated. ‘You must excuse my friend’s ill humour.’
‘Nothing to excuse, sir,’ Mr Silas said, quite delighted. ‘Of course a gentleman is not going to take kindly to his debts being parcelled up and left on his doorstep, so to speak.’
‘Certainly he is not. By the by,’ said Mr Glenister easily, ‘I think I heard of you from Lady Mary Desmond.’
‘Did you, sir?’ replied Mr Silas, who had never talked to Lady Mary in his life. ‘Well, if Lady Mary has spoken of me, I take that as a great compliment.’
‘As to Mr Davenant,’ Mr Glenister went on, ‘I think he feels that his creditors oppress him unduly. Why’ – he picked up the schedule and studied it for a moment – ‘there’s not more than six hundred pounds owing here.’
‘No more there isn’t, sir. But you see, there’s that account with Loveday the saddler in Lincoln that’s been due for ever so many months. Not to mention what’s owed to the lawyers still. Tradesmen – professional men too – do like to be paid, sir. It’s only human nature.’
‘I think Mr Davenant feels, too, that there is some kind of conspiracy set against him.’
Mr Silas and his clerk exchanged glances.
‘That’s it. That’s it exactly, sir. But it’s none of our doing, indeed it isn’t. He’s nothing to fear from
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