“Well, let him go for the d—d dissipated gambling parson he is!” said Gregg coarsely, carried away by the unusual agreement with him. “And the sooner the better, say I!”
The man beside him, a little startled by the doctor’s violence, turned round to make sure that they were not overheard, and found himself face to face with the rector, who, seeking to go out—as was not his custom, for he generally used the vestry door—by the porch, had walked into the midst of the group, even as Gregg opened his mouth. A glance at the young man’s reddening cheek and compressed lips apprised the startled group that he had overheard something at least.
In one way it was the crisis of Lindo’s fate at Claversham. But he did not know it. If he had been wise—if he had been such a man as his curate, for instance; or if, without being wise, he had learned a little of the prudence which comes of necessity with years—he would have passed through them in silence, satisfied with such revenge as mute contempt could give him. But he was not old, nor very wise; and perhaps certain things had lately jarred on his nerves, so that he was not quite himself. He did not pass by in silence, but, instead, stood for a moment. Then, singling Gregg out with a withering glance, “I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,” he said to him; “but I should be still more obliged if you would swear elsewhere, sir, and not in the porch of my church. Leave the building! Go at once!” And he pointed toward the churchyard with the air of an angry schoolmaster.
But Gregg did not move. He was astounded by this direct attack, but he had the courage of numbers on his side, and, though he did not dare to answer, he did not budge. Neither did the others, though they felt ashamed of themselves, and looked all ways at once. Only one of them all met the rector’s glance fairly, and that was Mr. Bonamy. “I think the least said the soonest mended, Mr. Lindo,” he replied, with an acrid smile.
“I am sorry that you did not think of that before,” retorted the young man, standing before them with his fair head thrown back, his clerical coat hanging loose, and his brow dark with indignation—for he had heard enough to be able to guess the cause of Gregg’s remark. “Do you come to church only to cavil and backbite?—to put the worst construction on what you cannot understand?”
“Speaking for myself,” replied the church warden coolly, “the sole thing with which I can charge myself is the remark that you were somewhat late for service this morning, Mr. Lindo.”
“And if I was?” said the clergyman in his haughtiest tone.
“Well, of course there may have been a good cause for it,” the lawyer replied drily. “But it is a thing I have not known happen here for twenty years.”
An altercation with these men, none of whom were well disposed toward him, and half of whom were tradespeople, was the last thing which the young rector should have allowed himself to enter upon, and the last thing indeed to which he would have condescended in his normal frame of mind. But on this unlucky morning he was nervous and irritable; and, finding himself thus bearded and defied, he spoke foolishly. “You trouble yourself too much, Mr. Bonamy,” he said impulsively, “with things which do not concern you! The parish, among other things. You have set yourself, as I know, to thwart and embarrass me; but I warn you that you are not strong enough! I shall find means to——”
“To put me down, in fact?” said Mr. Bonamy.