“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.