“Is it not? Well,” with a slight cough, “I am glad to hear it!”
Mr. Bonamy’s tone as he made this admission, however, was such that it only irritated Lindo the more. “You mean that you do not believe me!” he cried, speaking so fiercely that Clowes the bookseller, who had been watching the interview from his shop-door, was able to repeat the words to a dozen people afterward. “I can assure you that it is so. I am not thinking of making any changes whatever—unless you consider the mere removal of the sheep from the churchyard a change!”
“I do. A great change,” replied the church warden with grimness.
“But surely you do not object to it!” Lindo exclaimed in astonishment. “Every one must agree that in these days, and in town churchyards at any rate, the presence of sheep is unseemly.”
“I do not agree to that at all!” Mr. Bonamy answered calmly. “Neither did Mr. Williams, the late rector, who had had long experience, act as if he were of that mind.”
The present rector threw up his hands in disgust—in disgust and wonder. Remember, he was very young. The thing seemed to him so clear that he was assured the other was arguing for the sake of argument—a thing we all hate in other people—and he lost patience. “I do not think you mean what you say, Mr. Bonamy,” he blurted out at last. He was much discomposed, yet he made an attempt to assume an air of severity which did not sit well upon him at the moment.
Mr. Bonamy grinned. “That you will see when you turn out the sheep, Mr. Lindo,” he said. “For the present I think I will bid you good evening.” and taking off his hat gravely—to the rector the gravity seemed ironical—he went his way.
Men take these things differently. To the lawyer there was nothing disturbing in such a passage of arms as this. He was never so happy—Claversham knew it well—as in and after a quarrel. “Master Lindo thought to twist me round his finger, did he?” he muttered to himself as he stopped on his own doorstep and thrust the key into the lock. “He has found out his mistake now. We will have nothing new here—nothing new while John Bonamy is warden, at any rate, my lad! It is well, however,” continued Mr. Bonamy with a backward glance, “that Clode gave me a hint in time. Set a beggar on horseback and he will ride—we know whither!” And the lawyer went in and slammed the door behind him.
Meanwhile, what is sauce for the goose is not always sauce for the gander. The younger man turned away, at the moment, indeed, in a white heat, full of wrath at the other’s unreasonableness, folly, churlishness. But the comfortable warmth which this engendered passed away quickly—alas! much too quickly—and long before Lindo reached the rectory, though the walk through the gray streets, where the shops were just being lighted, did not take him two minutes, a chill depression had taken its place. This was a fine beginning! This was a happy augury of his future administration of the parish! To have begun by quarrelling with his church warden—could anything have been worse? And the check had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and at a time when he had been on such good terms with himself, that he felt it the more sorely. He went into the house with his head bent, and was not best pleased to find Stephen Clode inquiring after him in the hall. He would rather have been alone.
The curate, as he came forward, did not fail to note that something was amiss, and a gleam of intelligence flashed for an instant across his dark face. “Come into the study,” said the rector curtly. Since Clode was here, and could not be avoided, he felt it would be a relief to tell him all. And he did so, the curate listening and making no remark whatever, so that the rector presently looked at him in surprise. “What do you think of it?” he said, some impatience in his one. “It is unfortunate, is it not?”