There had been at first the usual talk. He himself had discussed Mrs. Bundle's lumbago with affection. On the other hand, there had been the news that Mr. Payne was going on another of his trips to London for a legal conference. Mr. Rankin had dwelt upon this fact in the most impressive terms, and mentioned mysterious brief-cases which were as awesome as the wigs of judges. What impressed them all most about the legal profession was that you had to read so many books in order to become a member of it. Mrs. Payne was in a rare bad temper, but what could you expect, she being her?
Then, again, it had been bruited about the village that — the rector's uncle from Auckland was coming to visit him.
One of Sir Benjamin Arnold's oldest friends, he was; got the rector his appointment, he did; and he (the uncle) and Sir Benjamin had been with Cecil Rhodes in the Kimberley diamond-fields years ago. There was speculation about that. There was also a little speculation about the murder, but a very little, because the Rankins respected Mr. Budge's feelings. Budge felt grateful for that. He was morally certain Mr. Herbert had committed the murder, but he refused to think about it. Each time the ugly subject popped up in his mind, he closed it like the lid of a jack-in-the-box repressed, but it could be held down….
No, what he was thinking about most concerned the rumour of an Affair. The capital letter was logical; it had a much more sinister sound, even in the imagination, and sounded almost French. An affair between Miss Dorothy and the young American who was stopping at Dr. Fell's.
At first Budge had been shocked. Not about the affair, but about the American. Odd — very odd, Budge reflected with a sudden start. Walking here, under the swishing tireless trees in the moonlight, things seemed different from their normal appearance at the Hall. Possibly it was Budge the swashbuckler, who could wink at an indiscretion as easily as ("canaille!") he spitted a varlet on a rapier-point. The Hall was as stuffy and orderly as a game of whist. Here you wanted to kick over the table and sweep off the cards. It was only… well, these confounded Americans, and Miss Dorothy!
Good Lord! Miss Dorothy!
His earlier words came back to him, as they had formed in his mind that night Mr. Martin was murdered. Miss Dorothy: he had almost said a cold little piece. Dominating everything, what would Mrs. Bundle say? The idea would have turned him cold at the Hall. But here the beams of the silver screen made the soul of Mr. Budge gleam like armour.
He chuckled.
Now he was passing some hayricks, monstrous black shadows against the moon, and he wondered that he had come so far. His boots must be covered with dust, and his blood was heating from the rapid walk. After all, the young American had seemed a gentleman. There had been moments, certainly, when Budge had suspected him of the murder. He came from America;. Mr. Martin had spent several years in America; there was an ominous inference. Even, for a delightful moment, there had been the suspicion that he might have been what Mrs. Bundle described as a gunster.
But the hayricks had turned to castles for the Due de Guise's cannon, and the night as soft as the velvet a swordsman wore; — and Mr. Budge grew sentimental. He remembered Tennyson. He could not at the moment think of anything Tennyson said, but he was sure Tennyson would have approved a love-affair between Miss Dorothy and the Yankee. Besides, Lord! what a secret satisfaction to see somebody bring her to life! — Ah! She had been absent from the Hall that afternoon, saying she wanted no tea. She had been absent from tea-time almost until the hour Budge had left for Chatterham. Ha! Budge was her protector by this time. (Had she been absent, demanded the police magistrate, deadly notebook at attention. And the dauntless Budge smiled at disaster, and replied, No.