Rumour, at the same time, began to trot like a jackal round the figure
of Silas. There was the incident, never very clear to the village, of
the fire. Loyalty of course silenced Nan and Morgan; and Hambley, to a
very large extent silenced through fear, dared do no more than drop
hints that Silas could scarcely trace back to him. Nevertheless, a taste
of the story got about, a taste that the village relished and rolled
over on its tongue, both in the workshops and the public bar,—for gossip
that penetrated the fiercely secluded house of the Denes, and brought to
light even the tip of one of their buried secrets, had a legendary smack
denied to topics more vulgar and more frequently accessible.
Also, Lady Malleson’s name was murmured, behind the shelter of a raised
hand.
Nan was aware of the curious looks, thrown at her because she had been
with Silas during the fire; and Morgan, aware of similar looks, met them
with a contemptuous impatience; but Silas for some days knew of nothing
amiss. Only when he stood up to speak at the debating-club, down in the
concert-room, he heard a murmur pass through his audience, a murmur of
resentment and disapproval. It was as though the accumulated resentment
of the men, repressed hitherto out of a lack of understanding, a certain
awe, and even a grudging admiration, had now broken its bonds under a
definite provocation that had submerged their submission by arousing
their disgust. It was a low murmur, compounded of irritation, criticism,
and of mutiny under a tyranny they no longer respected and were
therefore no longer prepared to admit. Silas heard it, and with his fist
already lifted for his peroration, stopped himself dead.
He faced them, standing alone under the dark frown of many sulky and
rebellious looks.
“Some one spoke?” he demanded.
He was accustomed to exact silence when he took up the debate.
He had very little time to decide his course of action; he knew that
they were against him; knew, obscurely, why; and dared not press home
the question.
Morgan was not present, or he might have tided over the matter, out of
pity for Silas, who in his defiance looked so extraordinarily gaunt and
solitary, and so undefeatably proud.
Morgan, however, was busy elsewhere, so that Silas faced only a lowering
throng, that sat obstinate, chins thrust forward into palms and murmured
still, with deliberate intent to affront, but without the courage to
bring clear accusation.
“This isn’t the treatment I’m accustomed to receive here,” Silas bayed
at them finally, “and until I’m invited I’ll no longer trouble you.
Invited I said, and invited I meant. If I’m sought up at my own house
perhaps I’ll reconsider it, and come back to you. For the present,
good-night to you all.”
One, more kind-hearted than the rest, and perhaps ashamed, rose clumsily
to intercept him as he went towards the door.
“I’ll help you, Dene.”
Silas thrust him aside, and strode away alone.