Even the poor colliers’ funeral, though a great number of the townsmen trooped out to the bleak little churchyard on Baer Hill to witness it—and to be rewarded by the sight of the young rector reading the service in the midst of a throng of bareheaded pitmen such as no Claversham eye had ever seen before—even this, which in ordinary times would have furnished food for talk for a month, at least, went for little now. It was discussed, indeed, for an evening, and then recalled only for the sake of the light which it was supposed to throw upon the rector’s fate.
That gentleman, indeed, continued to present to the public an unmoved face. But in private, in the seclusion of his study—the lordly room which he had prized and appreciated from the first, taking its spacious dignity as the measure of his success—he wore no mask. There he had—as all men have, the man of destiny and the conscript alike—his solitary hours of courage and depression, anxiety and resignation. Of hope also; for even now—let us not paint him greater than he was—he clung to the possibility that Lord Dynmore, whom every one agreed in describing as irascible and hasty, but generous at bottom, would refuse to receive his resignation of the living, and this in such terms as would enable him to remain without sacrificing his self-respect. There would be a victory indeed, and at times he could not help dwelling on the thought of it.
Consequently, when Mrs. Baker, four days after the funeral, ushered in the archdeacon, and the young rector, turning at his writing-table, read his fate in the old gentleman’s eyes, the news came upon him with crushing weight. Yet he did not give way. He rose and welcomed his visitor with a brave face. “So the bearer of the bow-string has come at last!” he said lightly, as the two met on the hearth-rug.
The archdeacon held his hand a few seconds longer than was necessary. “Yes,” he said, “I am afraid that is about what I am. I am sorry to bring you such news, Lindo—more sorry than I can tell you.” And, having got so far, he dropped his hat and picked it up again in a great hurry, and for a moment did not look at his companion.
“After all,” the rector said manfully, “it is the only news I had a right to expect.”
“There is something in that,” the archdeacon admitted, sitting down. “That is so, perhaps. All the same,” he went on, looking about him unhappily, and rubbing his head in ill-concealed irritation, “if I had known how the earl would take it, I should not have advised you to make any concessions. No, I should not. But, there, he is an odd man—odder than I thought.”
“He accepts my offer to resign, of course?”
“Yes.”
“And that is all?” the rector said, a little huskiness in his tone. “That is all,” the archdeacon replied, rubbing his head again. It was plain that he had hard work to keep his vexation within bounds.
“Well, I must not complain because he has taken me at my word,” the rector said, recovering himself a little.