John Emmason, the magistrate, circuitously through James Eastwood (who, better than anyone else, had the magistrate's humour), came a word that set Matthew Moon's brows a-pucker and started him pacing with his fists doubled deep in his breeches pockets. Emmason, meeting the flockmaster near the Piece Hall, had put it after his own fashion.
“Willis is looking very well,” he had remarked, allowing his eyelids to flutter and fall.
Eastwood's own eyes had narrowed suddenly. “Who is?” he had asked.
“Willis. Parker's clerk at Ford. I saw him in conversation with our supervisor on one of the feast days.”
“Oh, aye?” Eastwood had replied. “Well, your health's a grand thing to keep.... How if me and Matthew was to look in for a bit of a chat this evening, John?”
“You'd be very welcome, James,” the magistrate had answered; and Eastwood had straightway sought Matthew Moon.
They repaired to the magistrate's house at eight that evening; they found him in his blandest mood. His lids drooped more than ever; his finger-tips met silkily; and he rang for wine.
“We must have wine,” he remarked. “You, James, or your daughter, or our good friend Monjoy (or all three), are to be congratulated, I believe? We must drink their healths. A happy event! I should have liked well to assist at the ceremony, but business—His Majesty's business”
“To be sure; I thank ye, John. Ay, there were stirrings; ye'd ha' laughed to see Cope o' th' pile o' fleeces”
“Ah, Cope was there? An oddity, that man; a crooked sort of personage; a man, I should say, not readily understood.”
Matthew Moon was frowning at his untasted wine. He looked up.
“What's that you told James about Cope?” he demanded; and again the magistrate's horse-face grew bland.
“I told James? Surely not!... Ah! I remember; I did mention that Willis seemed in excellent health and spirits. A very capable fellow, that Willis—zealous. I wish I had his like for a clerk. A clerk who can be trusted on a delicate errand”
“What sort o' delicate errand?” Moon demanded again; and the magistrate's brows rose.
“—who can be trusted on a delicate errand, why, I've been looking for one this five years!”
James Eastwood nudged the merchant that he should hold his peace; and by and by the magistrate hummed softly, as if at something interior to himself, and punctuated his remarks with delicate touchings of his fingers.
“Hum, hum! Do you happen, James (but possibly you won't)—do you happen to remember a conversation we had a little while ago, about saying Yes when No is meant?—Surely it was to you I was speaking of that?”
“To be sure,” said Eastwood (though he remembered no such thing). “It's odd ye should mention it, for I was thinking of it to-day. I've oft noticed that to speak o' things seems in a way to bring 'em about a'most.”
“Ah! I thought my memory had not failed me! Well, I had an instance only this morning, a trifle of business; briefly, it was this: Among my many letters was one from the solicitor to the Mint; two letters, to be precise, and they come pat on that conversation of ours. I was struck by the way in which these highly-placed law-officers can talk (so to put it), and say nothing. You will excuse me that I do not show you the letters themselves; and certainly I expected news in them. Perfectly formal, courteous letters—” he mused long, “—and yet so entirely superfluous as almost to seem blinds—puttings-off” His eyes closed; he seemed to be tasting something delicate on his tongue; and Matthew Moon opened his mouth to speak. Again Eastwood nudged him.
“Ay,” said the flockmaster unctuously, “when letters doesn't say anything ye ha' to be sharpish to understand 'em.”
“Yes—yes and no,” mused the magistrate. “Ah, this Law!—You make a full confession of a thing, the Law finds it insufficient; you deny, and the Law murmurs 'Indeed?' and presently takes you by the heels. I have long letters sometimes, full of words, and all they say is this 'Indeed?'—And so much for our recent conversation, James.”
This time Matthew Moon struck bluntly in.
“Do ye mean, i' plain words, that they're setting ye aside?” he said; and at that moment an accident befell the magistrate's glass of wine. It overturned at his elbow, and Emmason rose hastily for a napkin. He dabbed up the spilt liquid, and then crossed to the window, putting his hand against the crack of the shutter.
“I think the wind is north, for this room is uncommonly draughty,” he muttered. “You will pardon me, I'm sure, but I am just recovering from an ear-ache” He took some morsels of cotton-wool from his pocket and stuffed them into his ears.