“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.”