“I don’t mean to be offended by anything you say,” said John, cheerfully. “I feel that it means kindness. There is nothing more to come. It is not a part, but the whole. It is the truth, and everything I know.”
Mr. Monypenny did not look up; he was drumming his foot softly against the table, and hanging his head with a despondent air as he listened. He did not stop the one nor raise the other, but went on working his under lip, which projected slightly. There is no such tacit evidence of dissatisfaction or unbelief. Some little sign invariably breaks the stillness of attention when the teller of a tale comes to its end, if his story has been believed. There is, if no words, some stir, however slight—movement of one kind or another, if only the change of an attitude. But Mr. Monypenny did not pay this usual tribute when John’s voice stopped. It was a stronger protest than if he had said, “I don’t believe you,” in ordinary words.
“I understand,” said John, after a pause of a full minute, which seemed to him an hour. He laughed with something between despair and defiance. “Your mode of communication is very unmistakable, Mr. Monypenny. It is Scotch, I suppose. One has always heard of Scotch caution and cannyness.” If he had not been very bitter and sore at heart he would not have snatched at this aimless weapon of offence.
“Mr. Erskine,” said the agent, “a sneer is always easy. Gibes break no bones, but neither have they any healing in them. You may say what you like to me, but an argument like that will do you terrible little good with them that will have to judge at the end. I am giving no opinion myself. On my own account I will speak frankly. I would rather not have heard this story—unless I was to hear—”
“What?” cried John, in the heat of personal offence.
“More,” said Mr. Monypenny, regretfully—“more; just another dozen words would have been enough; but if there is no more to say—”
“I am not a man to make protestations of truth. There is no more to say, Mr. Monypenny.”
“Well-a-well,” said the agent gloomily, shaking his head; “we must take just what is given—we must try to make the best of it. And you think there’s nothing can be proved against you?” he said, with a slight emphasis. It required all John’s self-command to keep his temper. He had to remind himself forcibly of the true and steady and long-tried kindness with which this doubter had stood by him, and cared for his interests all his life—a wise steward, a just guardian. These thoughts kept unseemly expressions from his lips, but he was not the less sore at heart. Even after the first blow of the criminal examination and his detention in prison, it had all seemed to him so simple. What could be necessary but to tell his story with sufficient distinctness (in which he thought he had failed before the sheriff)? Surely truth and falsehood were distinguishable at a glance, especially by those who are accustomed to discriminate between them. But the blank of unbelief and disappointment with which Mr. Monypenny heard his story chilled him to the heart. If he did not believe him, who would? He was angry, but anger is but a temporary sentiment when the mind is fairly at bay and finds itself hemmed in by difficulties and danger. He began to realise his position, the place in which he was, the circumstances surrounding him, as he had not yet done. The sheriff himself had been very civil, and deeply concerned to be the means of inflicting such an affront upon a county family; and he had added encouragingly that, on his return to Dunearn, in less than a week, when all the witnesses were got together, there was little doubt that a different light might be thrown on the affair; but Mr. Monypenny’s question was not so consolatory. “You think there’s nothing can be proved against you?” John had been gazing at his agent across the table while all these painful reflections went through his mind.
“I must be careful what I say. I am not speaking as a lawyer,” he said, with an uncomfortable smile. “What I meant was, that nothing could be proved which was untrue.”
The agent shook his head. “When it’s circumstantial evidence, you can never build upon that,” he said. “No man saw it, you may say; but if all the facts point that way, it goes far with a jury. There are some other things you will perhaps tell me. Had you any quarrel ever with poor Tinto? Was there ill blood between you? Can any man give evidence, for example, ‘I heard the panel say that he would have it out with Pat Torrance’? or—”
“For heaven’s sake, what is the panel? and what connection is there between poor Torrance and—”
“Sir,” said Mr. Monypenny, sternly, “this is no time for jests; the panel is a Scotch law term, meaning the defender; or what you call the defendant in England. It’s a terrible loss to a young man to be unacquainted even with the phraseology of his own country.”
“That is very true,” John said, with a laugh; “but at least it is no fault of mine. Well, suppose I am the panel, as you say—that does not make me a vulgar brawler, does it, likely to display hostile intentions in that way? You may be sure no man can say of me that I threatened to have it out with Pat Torrance—”
“It was inadvertent—it was inadvertent,” said Mr. Monypenny, waving his hand, with a slight flush of confusion; “I daresay you never said
