“The man is an utter blackguard, you know,” said Larry. “Last year he threatened to shoot the foxes in Dillsborough Wood.”
“No!” said Kate, quite horrified.
“I’m afraid he’s a bad sort of fellow all round,” said the attorney.
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t claim what he thinks due to him,” said Mrs. Masters.
“I’m told that his lordship offered him seven-and-six an acre for the whole of the two fields,” said the gentleman-farmer.
“Goarly declares,” said Mrs. Masters, “that the pheasants didn’t leave him four bushels of wheat to the acre.”
Goarly was the man who had proposed himself as a client to Mr. Masters, and who was desirous of claiming damages to the amount of forty shillings an acre for injury done to the crops on two fields belonging to himself which lay adjacent to Dillsborough Wood, a covert belonging to Lord Rufford, about four miles from the town, in which both pheasants and foxes were preserved with great care.
“Has Goarly been to you?” asked Twentyman.
Mr. Masters nodded his head. “That’s just it,” said Mrs. Masters. “I don’t see why a man isn’t to go to law if he pleases—that is, if he can afford to pay for it. I have nothing to say against gentlemen’s sport; but I do say that they should run the same chance as others. And I say it’s a shame if they’re to band themselves together and make the county too hot to hold anyone as doesn’t like to have his things ridden over, and his crops devoured, and his fences knocked to Jericho. I think there’s a deal of selfishness in sport and a deal of tyranny.”
“Oh, Mrs. Masters!” exclaimed Larry.
“Well, I do. And if a poor man—or a man whether he’s poor or no,” added Mrs. Masters, correcting herself, as she thought of the money which this man ought to have in order that he might pay for his lawsuit—“thinks hisself injured, it’s nonsense to tell me that nobody should take up his case. It’s just as though the butcher wouldn’t sell a man a leg of mutton because Lord Rufford had a spite against him. Who’s Lord Rufford?”
“Everybody knows that I care very little for his lordship,” said Mr. Twentyman.
“Nor I; and I don’t see why Gregory should. If Goarly isn’t entitled to what he wants he won’t get it; that’s all. But let it be tried fairly.”
Hereupon Mr. Masters took up his hat and left the room, and Mr. Twentyman followed him, not having yet expressed any positive opinion on the delicate matter submitted to his judgment. Of course, Goarly was a brute. Had he not threatened to shoot foxes? But, then, an attorney must live by lawsuits, and it seemed to Mr. Twentyman that an attorney should not stop to inquire whether a new client is a brute or not.
IV
The Dillsborough Club
The club, so called at Dillsborough, was held every Saturday evening in a back parlour at the Bush, and was attended generally by seven or eight members. It was a very easy club. There was no balloting, and no other expense attending it other than that of paying for the liquor which each man chose to drink. Sometimes, about ten o’clock, there was a little supper, the cost of which was defrayed by subscription among those who partook of it. It was one rule of the club, or a habit, rather, which had grown to be a rule, that Mr. Runciman might introduce into it anyone he pleased. I do not know that a similar privilege was denied to anyone else; but as Mr. Runciman had a direct pecuniary advantage in promoting the club, the newcomers were generally ushered in by him. When the attorney and Twentyman entered the room Mr. Runciman was seated as usual in an armchair at the corner of the fire nearest to the door, with the bell at his right hand. He was a hale, good-looking man about fifty, with black hair, now turning grey at the edges, and a clean-shorn chin. He had a pronounced strong face of his own, one capable of evincing anger and determination when necessary, but equally apt for smiles or, on occasion, for genuine laughter. He was a masterful but a pleasant man, very civil to customers and to his friends generally while they took him the right way; but one who could be a Tartar if he were offended, holding an opinion that his position as landlord of an inn was one requiring masterdom. And his wife was like him in everything—except in this, that she always submitted to him. He was a temperate man in the main; but on Saturday nights he would become jovial, and sometimes a little quarrelsome. When this occurred the club would generally break itself up and go home to bed, not in the least offended. Indeed Mr. Runciman was the tyrant of the club, though it was held at his house expressly with the view of putting money into his pocket. Opposite to his seat was another armchair—not so big as Mr. Runciman’s, but still a soft and easy chair—which was always left for the attorney. For Mr. Masters was a man much respected through all Dillsborough, partly on his own account, but more perhaps for the sake of his father and grandfather. He was a round-faced, clean-shorn man, with straggling grey hair, who always wore black clothes and a white cravat. There was something in his appearance which recommended him among his neighbours, who were disposed to say he “looked the gentleman;” but a stranger might have thought his cheeks to be flabby and his mouth to
