THE RECTOR’S DECISION.
The church clock was striking nine as the rector, jogging along behind
the little pony, came in sight of the turnpike-house outside the town.
He had no overcoat, and the drive had chilled him; and, anxious at once
to warm himself and to reach the rectory as quietly as possible, he
bade the driver stop at the gate and set him down. The lad had been
strictly charged to see the parson home, and would have demurred, but
Lindo persisted good-humoredly, and had his way. In two minutes he was
striding briskly along the road, his shoulders squared, and the night’s
reflections still running like a rich purple thread through the common
stuff of his every-day thoughts.
In this mood, which the pure morning air and crisp sunshine tended to
favor and prolong, he came at a corner plump upon Mr. Bonamy, who, like
all angular, uncomfortable men, was an early riser, and had this
morning chosen to extend his before-breakfast walk in the direction of
Baerton. The lawyer’s energy had already been rewarded. He had met Mr.
Keogh, and learned not only the earlier details of the accident—which
were, indeed, known to all Claversham, for the town had sat up into the
small hours listening for wheels and discussing the catastrophe—but had
further received a minute description of the rector’s conduct.
Consequently his thoughts were already busy with the clergyman when,
turning a corner, he came unexpectedly upon him.
Lindo met his glance and looked away hastily. The rector had been
anxious to avoid, by going home at once, any appearance of parading
what he had done, and he would have passed on with a brief
good-morning. But the lawyer seemed to be differently disposed. He
stopped short in the middle of the path, so that the clergyman could
not pass him without rudeness, and nodded a jerky greeting. “You have
not walked all the way, I suppose, Mr. Lindo?” he said, his keen small
eyes reading the other’s face like a book.
“No,” the rector answered, coloring uncomfortably under his gaze. “I
drove as far as the turnpike, Mr. Bonamy.”
“Well, you may think yourself lucky to be well out of it,” the lawyer
rejoined, with a dry smile. “To be here at all, indeed,” he continued,
with a gesture of the hand which seemed meant to indicate the sunshine
and the upper air. “When a man does a foolhardy thing he does not
always escape, you know.”
The younger man reddened. But this morning he had his temper well under
control and he merely answered, “I thought I was called upon to do what
I did, Mr. Bonamy. But of course that is a matter of opinion. Perhaps I
was wrong, perhaps right. I did what I thought best at the moment, and
I am satisfied.”
Mr. Bonamy shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, well, every man to his notion,”
he said. “I do not approve, myself, of people running risks which do
not lie within the scope of their business. And as nothing has happened
to you——”
“The risk of anything happening,” the rector rejoined, with warmth,
“was so small that the thing is not worth discussing, Mr. Bonamy. There
is a matter, however,” he continued, changing the subject on a sudden
impulse, “which I think I may as well mention to you now as later. You,
as churchwarden, have in fact, a right to be informed of it. I——”
“You are cold,” said Mr. Bonamy abruptly. “Allow me to turn with you.”
The rector bowed and complied. The request, however, had checked the
current of his speech, even the current of his thoughts, and he did not
finish his sentence. He felt, indeed, for a moment a temptation as
sudden as it was strong. He saw at a glance what his resolve meant. He
discerned that what had appeared to him in the isolation of the night
an act of dignified self-surrender must, and would, seem to others an
acknowledgment of defeat—almost an acknowledgment of dishonor. He
recalled, as in a flash, all the episodes of the struggle between
himself and his companion. And he pictured the latter’s triumph. He
wavered.
But the events of the night had not been lost upon him, and, after a
brief hesitation, he set the seal on his purpose. “You are aware, I
know, Mr. Bonamy,” he said, “of the circumstances under which, in Lord
Dynmore’s absence, I accepted the living here.”
“Perfectly,” said the lawyer drily.
“He has made those circumstances the subject of a grave charge against
me,” the rector continued, a touch of hauteur in his tone. “That you
have heard also, I know. Well, I desire to say once more that I
repudiate that charge in the fullest and widest sense.”
“So I understand,” Mr. Bonamy murmured. He walked along by his
companion’s side, his face set and inscrutable. If he felt any surprise
at the communication now being made to him he had the skill to hide it.
“I repudiate it, you understand!” the clergyman repeated, stepping out
more quickly in his excitement, and glaring angrily into vacancy. “It
is a false and wicked charge! But it does not affect me. I do not care
a jot for it. It does not in any sense force me to do what I am going
to do. If that were all, I should not dream of resigning the living,
but, on the contrary, would hold it, as a few days ago I had determined
to hold it, in the face of all opposition. However,” he continued,
lowering his tone, “I have now examined my position in regard to the
parish rather than the patron, and I have come to a different
conclusion, Mr. Bonamy—namely, to place my resignation in the proper
hands as speedily as possible.”
Mr. Bonamy nodded gently and silently. He did not speak, he did not
even look at the clergyman; and this placid acquiescence irritated the
young man into adding a word he had not intended to say. “I tell you
this as my church-warden, Mr. Bonamy,” he continued stiffly, “and not
as desiring or expecting any word of sympathy or regret from you. On
the contrary,” he added, with some bitterness, “I am aware that my
departure can be only a relief to you. We have been opposed to one
another since my first day here.”
“Very true,” said Mr. Bonamy. “I suppose you have considered——”
“What?”
“The effect which last night’s work may have on the relations between
you and Lord Dynmore?”
“I do not understand you,” the rector answered haughtily, and yet with
some wonder. What did the man mean?
“You know, I suppose,” Mr. Bonamy retorted, turning slightly so as to
command a view of his companion’s face, “that he is the owner of the
Big Pit at Baerton from which you have just come?”
“Lord Dynmore is?”
“To be sure.”
A flush of crimson swept over the rector’s brow and left him red and
frowning. “I did not know that!” he said, his teeth set together.
“So I perceive,” the lawyer replied, with a nod. “But I can reassure
you. It is not at all likely to affect the earl’s plans. He is an
obstinate man, though in some points a good-natured one, and he will
most certainly accept your resignation if you send it in. But here you
are at home.” He paused, standing awkwardly by the clergyman’s side.
Then he added, “It is a comfortable house. I do not think that there is
a more comfortable house in Claversham.”
He retired a few steps into the churchyard as he spoke, and stood
looking up at the massive old-fashioned front of the rectory, as if he
had never seen the house before. The clergyman, anxious to be indoors
and alone, shot an impatient glance at him, and waited for him to go.
But he did not go, and presently something in his intent gaze drew
Lindo, too, into the churchyard, and the two ill-assorted companions
looked up together at the old gray house. The early sun shone aslant on
it, burnishing the half-open windows. In the porch a robin was hopping
to and fro. “It is a comfortable, roomy house,” the lawyer repeated.
“It is,” the rector answered slowly, as if the words were wrung from
him. And he, too, stood looking up at it as if he were fascinated.
“A man might grow old in it,” murmured Mr. Bonamy. There was a slight,
but very unusual, flush on his parchment-colored face, and his eyes,
when he turned with an abrupt movement to his companion, did not rise
above the latter’s waistcoat. “Comfortably too, I should say,” he added
querulously, rattling the money in his pockets. “I think if I were you
I would reconsider my determination. I think I would, do you know? As
it is, what you have told me will not go any farther. You did one
foolish thing last night. I would not do another to-day, if I were you,
Mr. Lindo.”
And he turned abruptly away—his head down, his coat-tails swinging, and
both his hands thrust deep into his trouser-pockets—such a shrewd,
angular, ungainly figure as only a small country town can show. He left
the rector standing before his rectory in a state of profound surprise
and bewilderment. The young man felt something very like a lump in his
throat as he turned to go in. He discerned that the lawyer had meant to
do a kind, nay, a generous action; and yet if there was a man in the
world whom he had judged incapable of such magnanimity it was Mr.
Bonamy! He went in not only touched, but ashamed. Here, if he had not
already persuaded himself that the world was less ill-conditioned than
he had lately thought it, was another and a surprising lesson!
Meanwhile Mr. Bonamy went home, and finding his family already at
breakfast, sat down to the meal in a very snappish humor. The girls
were quick to detect the cloud on his brow, and promptly supplied his
wants, forbearing, whatever their curiosity, to make any present
attempt to satisfy it. Jack was either less observant or more hardy. He
remarked that Mr. Bonamy was late, and elicited only a grunt. A further
statement that the morning was more like April than February gained no
answer at all. Still undismayed, Jack tried again, plunging into the
subject which the three had been discussing before the lawyer entered.
“Did you hear anything of Lindo, sir?” he asked, buttering his toast.
“I saw him,” the lawyer said curtly.
“Was he all right?”
“More right than he deserved to be!” Mr. Bonamy snarled. “What right
had he down the pit at all? Gregg did not go.”
“More shame to Gregg, I think!” Jack said.
Mr. Bonamy prudently shifted his ground, and got back to the rector.
“Well, all I can say is that a more foolish, reckless, useless piece of
idiocy I never heard of in my life!” he declared in a tone of scorn.
“I call it glorious!” said Daintry, looking dreamily across the table
and slowly withdrawing an egg-spoon from her mouth. “I shall never say
anything against him again.”
Mr. Bonamy looked at her for an instant as if he would annihilate her.
And then he went on with his breakfast.
Apparently, however, the outburst had relieved him, for presently he
began on his own account.
“Has your friend any private means?” he asked, casting an ungracious
glance at the barrister, and returning at once to his buttered toast.
“Who? Lindo, do you mean?” Jack replied in surprise.
“Yes.”
“Something, I should say. Perhaps a hundred a year. Why?”
“Because, if that is all he has,” the lawyer growled, buttering a fresh
piece of toast and frowning at it savagely, “I think that you had
better see him and prevent him making a fool of himself. That is all.”
His tone meant more than his words expressed. Kate’s eyes sought Jack’s
in alarm, only to be instantly averted. Though she had the urn before
her, she turned red and white, and had to bury her face in her cup to
hide her discomposure. Yet she need not have feared. Mr. Bonamy was
otherwise engaged, and as for Jack, her embarrassment told him nothing
of which he was not already aware. He knew that his service was and
must be a thankless and barren service—that to him fell the empty part
of the slave in the triumph. Had he not within the last few hours—when
the news that the rector had descended the Big Pit to tend the wounded
and comfort the dying first reached the town, and a dozen voices were
loud in his praise—had he not seen Kate’s face now bright with triumph
and now melting with tender anxiety. Had he not felt a bitter pang of
jealousy as he listened to his friend’s praises? and had he not crushed
down the feeling manfully, bravely, heroically, and spoken as loudly,
ay, and as cordially after an instant’s effort, as the most fervent?
Yes, he had done all this and suffered all this, being one of those who
believe that
Loyalty is still the same,
Whether it win or lose the game:
True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shone upon.
And he was not going to flinch now. He put no more questions to Mr.
Bonamy, but, when breakfast was finished, he got up and went out. It
needed not the covert glance which he shot at Kate as he disappeared,
to assure her that he was going about her unspoken errand.
Five minutes saw him face to face with the rector on the latter’s
hearth-rug. Or, rather, to be accurate, five minutes saw him staring
irate and astonished at his host while Lindo, with one foot on the
fender and his eyes on the fire, seemed very willing to avoid his gaze.
“You have made up your mind to resign!” Jack exclaimed, in accents
almost awe-stricken. “You are joking!”
But the rector, still looking down, shook his head. “No, Jack, I am
not,” he said slowly. “I am in earnest.”
“Then may I ask when you came to this extraordinary resolution?” the
barrister retorted. “And why?”
“Last night; and because—well, because I thought it right,” was the
answer.
“You thought it right?”
Jack’s tone was a fine mixture of wonder, contempt, and offence. It
made Lindo wince, but it did not shake his resolution. “Yes,” he said
firmly. “That is so.”
“And that is all you are going to tell me, is it? You put yourself in
my hands a few days ago. You took my advice and acted upon it, and now,
without a word of explanation, you throw me over! Good heavens! I have
no patience with you!” Jack added, beginning to walk up and down the
room. “Is not the position the same to-day as yesterday? Tell me that.”
“Well,” the rector began, turning and speaking slowly, “the truth is——”
“No!” cried the barrister, interrupting him ruthlessly. “Tell me this
first. Is not the position the same to-day as yesterday?”
“It is, but the view I take of it is different,” the young clergyman
answered earnestly. “Let me explain, Jack. When I agreed with you a few
days ago that the proper course for me to follow, the course which
would most fitly assert my honesty and good faith, was to retain the
living in spite of threats and opposition, I had my own interests and
my own dignity chiefly in view. I looked upon the question as one
solely between Lord Dynmore and myself; and I felt, rightly as I still
think, that, as a man falsely accused by another man, I had a right to
repel the charge by the only practical means in my power—by maintaining
my position and defying him to do his worst.”
He paused.
“Well,” said Jack drily.
But the rector did not continue at once, and when he did speak it was
with evident effort. He first went back to the fire, and stood gazing
into it in the old attitude, with his head slightly bowed and his foot
on the fender. The posture was one of humility, and so unlike the man,
that it struck Jack and touched him strangely. At last Lindo did
continue. “Well,” he said slowly, “that was all right as far as it
went. My mistake lay in taking too narrow a view. I thought only of
myself and Lord Dynmore, when I should have been thinking of the parish
and of—a word I know you are not very fond of—the Church. I should have
remembered that with this accusation hanging over me I could not hope
to do much good among my people; and that to many of them I should seem
an interloper, a man clinging obstinately to something not his own nor
fairly acquired. In a word, I ought to have remembered that for the
future I should be useless for good and might, on the other hand,
become a stumbling-block and occasion for scandal—both inside the
parish and outside. You see what I mean, I am sure.”
“I see,” quoth Jack contemptuously, “that you need a great many words
to make out your case. What I do not think you have considered is the
inference which will be drawn from your resignation—you will be taken
to have confessed yourself in the wrong.”
“I cannot help that.”
“Will not that be a scandal?”
“It will, at any rate, be one soon forgotten.”
“Now, I tell you what!” Jack exclaimed, standing still and confronting
the other with the air of a man bent on speaking his mind though the
heavens should fall. “This is just a piece of absurd Quixotism, Lindo.
You are a poor man, without means and without influence; and you are
going, for the sake of a foolish idea—a mere speculative scruple—to
give up an income and a house and a useful sphere of work such as you
will never get again! You are going to do that, and go back—to what? To
a miserable curacy—don’t wince, my friend, for that is what you are
going to do—and an income one-fifth of that which you have been
spending for the last six months! Now the sole question is, are you
quite an idiot?”
“You are pretty plain-spoken,” said the rector, smiling feebly.
“I mean to be!” was Jack’s uncompromising retort. “I have asked you,
and I want an answer—are you a fool?”
“I hope not.”
“Then you will give up this fool’s notion?” Jack replied viciously.
But the rector’s only answer was a shake of the head. He did not look
round. Had he done so, he would have seen that, though Jack’s keen face
was flushed with anger and annoyance, his eyes were moist and wore an
expression at variance with his tone.
He missed that, however; and Jack made one more attempt. “Look here,”
he said bluntly; “have you considered that if you stop you will find
your path a good deal smoothed by last night’s work?”
“No, I have not,” the rector answered stubbornly.
“Well, you will find it so, you may be sure of that! Why, man alive!”
Jack continued with vehemence, “you are going to be the hero of the
place for the time. No one will believe anything against you, except,
perhaps, Gregg and a few beasts of his kind. Whereas, if you go now, do
you know who will get your berth?”
“No.”
Jack rapped out the name. “Clode! Clode, and no one else, I will be
bound!” he said. “And you do not love him.”
The rector had not expected the reply. He started, and, removing his
foot from the fender, turned sharply so as to face his friend. “No,” he
said slowly, “I do not think I do like him. I consider that he has
behaved badly, Jack. He has not stood by me as he should have done, or
as I would have stood by him had our positions been reversed. I do not
think he has called here once since the bazaar, except on business, and
then I was out. I had planned, indeed, to see him to-day and ask him
what it meant, and, if I found he had come to an adverse opinion in my
matter, to give him notice. But now——”
“You will make him a present of the living instead,” Jack said grimly.
“I do not know why he should get it,” the rector answered, with a
frown, “more than any one else.”
“It is the common report that he will,” Jack retorted. “As for that,
however——”
But why follow him through all the resources of his art? He put forth
every effort—perhaps against his own better judgment, for a man will do
for his friend what he will not do for himself—to persuade the rector
to recall his decision. And he failed. He succeeded, indeed, in
wringing the young clergyman’s heart and making him wince at the
thought of his barren future and his curate’s triumph; but there his
success ended. He made no progress toward inducing him to change his
mind; and presently he found that all the arguments he advanced were
met by a set formula, to which the rector seemed to cling as in
self-defence.
“It is no good, Jack,” he answered—and if he said it once, he said it
half a dozen times—“it is no good! I cannot take any one’s advice on
this subject. The responsibility is mine, and I cannot shift it! I must
try to do right according to my own conscience!”
Jack did not know that the words were Kate’s, and that every time the
rector repeated them he had Kate in his mind. But he saw that they were
unanswerable; and when he had listened to them for the sixth time he
took up his hat in a huff. “Well, have our own way!” he said. “After
all, you are right. It is your business and not mine. Give Clode the
living if you like!”
And he went out sharply.