st he began to ask
himself whether the accusation made against him could possibly be
based on truth. When the question of giving the land had been under
consideration, it had never occurred to any one concerned that it
could belong to the glebe. There had been some momentary suspicion
that the spot might possibly have been so long used as common land as
to give room for a question on that side; but no one had dreamed that
any other claimant could arise. That the whole village of Bullhampton
belonged to the Marquis was notorious. Of course there was the glebe.
But who could think that the morsel of neglected land lying on the
other side of the road belonged to the vicarage? The Marquis did not
believe it now. This was some piece of wickedness concocted by the
venomous brain of the iniquitous Vicar, more abominable than all his
other wickednesses. The Marquis did not believe it; but he walked up
and down his room all the morning thinking of it. The Marquis was
sure that it was not true, and yet he could not for a moment get the
idea out of his mind. Of course he must tell St. George. The language
of the letter which had been sent to him was so wicked, that St.
George must at least agree with him now in his anger against this
man. And could nothing be done to punish the man? Prosecutions in
regard to anonymous letters, threatening letters, begging letters,
passed through his mind. He knew that punishment had been inflicted
on the writers of insolent letters to royalty. And letters had been
proved to be criminal as being libellous,--only then they must be
published; and letters were sometimes held to form a conspiracy;--but
he could not quite see his way to that. He knew that he was not
royal; and he knew that the Vicar neither threatened him or begged
aught from him. What if St. George should tell him again that this
Vicar had right on his side! He cast the matter about in his mind all
the day; and then, late in the afternoon, he got into his carriage,
and had himself driven to the chambers of Messrs. Boothby, the family
lawyers.

CHAPTER LVII.

OIL IS TO BE THROWN UPON THE WATERS.

[Illustration]

Messrs. Boothby in Lincoln's Inn had for very many years been the
lawyers of the Stowte family, and probably knew as much about
the property as any of the Stowtes themselves. They had not been
consulted about the giving away of the bit of land for the chapel
purposes, nor had they been instructed to draw up any dee