“He has also bequeathed a certain sum to be used by me in the parish—to be used, my dear, at my own discretion.”
“Excellent man.”
“I must confess, Pomponia, that Zeus Gildersedge is departing this world with a chastened and regenerate soul.”
“Due, my dear Jacob, to your Christian zeal.”
“I shall bury him in Saltire church-yard, and make no charge for it upon his estate.”
Mrs. Mince beamed on him out of the fulness of her heart.
“You are a good man, Jacob,” she said; “may Heaven recompense you according to your deserts. I am a proud woman and a proud wife. You fulfil my ideals. Let me give you some more tea.”
“Only one more cup, my dear,” said the vicar, “and then I must complete my Sabbath sermon.”
XXXVIII
UP the long road from Rilchester came Joan, her wet skirt blown about her by the wind. Weary though she was, the breeze had kissed fresh color into her face, and her eyes were brave under the faded roses in her old straw hat. Overhead the sky hurried, gray and sullen, unsilvered by the sun. Rain fell in swift, hurrying showers, dimming the landscape, wiping out the sea. The trees moaned and waved to one another, troubled by the restless melancholy of the wind.