He rapped out the negative, leaning back in his chair. Much of the starch was out of him; native obstinacy remained. To his credit, let it be recorded that he was not unmoved by Hamlin’s simple, sincere statement. He could appreciate—none better—the Parson’s transparent honesty. And Hamlin’s thrust had almost reached a vital spot. The “no,” in fine, would have been taken by a keener psychologist and one less personally interested than Hamlin as a sign of weakness, not strength. It meant really that the Squire was not prepared to argue his case upon ground chosen by Hamlin. Joyce had been made welcome in his house; more, she had worked faithfully and well in his parish; had he foreseen the possibility of an entanglement, he might have kept her at a distance. Such thoughts filtered through his mind. Back of them remained the conviction that he had the right to interfere in such matters, that he was exercising—reluctantly, if you will—a cherished privilege. Royalties were constrained by law to marry members of their own caste. The same law, unwritten, obtained in his order. You broke that law at your peril. Till now the Pomfrets had held it inviolate.
The judicious will agree that the Parson should have “dug himself in” after taking by surprise the first trench. Another man would have done so. Unfortunately, Hamlin’s moral courage was habitually exercised at the expense of his judgment. The curt “no” provoked him terribly. It stood for what he despised and condemned in the Squire and others of his class. It meant the scrapping of argument and reason, the abuse of Authority. But he was fully prepared for it. His manner changed instantly. He, too, assumed authority, vested in him by the touch of Apostolic Hands, an authority he held to be indisputable and omnipotent.
“You say ‘no,’ Sir Geoffrey. Then you force me to speak not as man to man, but as your vicar who would consider himself recreant to his vows if he held his peace at such a moment.”
The Squire was “touched,” as fencers put it. What did the fellow mean? What the devil was he up to now? Hamlin continued austerely:
“You are a member of my congregation, and as such neither greater nor less than any other in this parish. I tell you plainly that you are in danger of mortal sin, for such unwarrantable interference with the welfare of others, an interference which in the case of Alfred and Prudence Rockley may lead to actual sin, is a crime against God and man. I charge you to pause before you exercise powers vested in you, as you admit, and for which you will be held ultimately to strict account.”
The Squire rose.
“I accept that responsibility, Mr. Hamlin. Good night.”
The Parson rose with him. He bowed with grim dignity. The Squire rang the bell and opened the library door. As Hamlin passed through, he said quietly:
“Lionel is passing the night at the Vicarage.”
To this the Squire made no reply.