Indeed,
they respected him the more that he was their Rector, and could not
be removed, and were glad that theirs was no common Vicar like that of
Coldingham, dependent on the caprices of others. For, with the exception
of two bad characters and one atheist, the whole village, Conservatives
or Liberals (there were Liberals now that they were beginning to believe
that the ballot was really secret), were believers in the hereditary
system.
Insensibly the Rector directed himself towards Bletchingham, where there
was a temperance house. At heart he loathed lemonade and gingerbeer in
the middle of the day, both of which made his economy cold and uneasy,
but he felt he could go nowhere else. And his spirits rose at the sight
of Bletchingham spire.
'Bread and cheese,' he thought. 'What's better than bread and cheese?
And they shall make me a cup of coffee.'
In that cup of coffee there was something symbolic and fitting to
his mental state. It was agitated and thick, and impregnated with the
peculiar flavour of country coffee. He swallowed but little, and resumed
his march. At the first turning he passed the village school, whence
issued a rhythmic but discordant hum, suggestive of some dull machine
that had served its time. The Rector paused to listen. Leaning on the
wall of the little play-yard, he tried to make out the words that, like
a religious chant, were being intoned within.
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