I
This wound, this gash, to be exposed to the village! How greedily they
would lick up his blood! they would set upon him with claw and fang as
upon a lion brought low. No delight could equal the delight over the
dictator shamed, or the eagerness with which those in subjection would
pounce upon the infallible taken in fault. But, while knowing the story
of the fire to be common gossip, he would grant no concessions; he
stalked about the streets in challenging pride, more than usually
unkempt, more than usually fierce, an object of whispered comment for
all those who had expected him to keep himself at last within bounds. It
was noticed that when spoken to, he threw back his head as though it had
been crowned with a mane, and his answers were too haughty to be set
down as the cheaper insolence. The men were a little impressed, but to
give themselves determination they continued to mutter against him.
Calthorpe knew it, and was concerned. He hinted something to Sir Robert
Malleson, but Malleson had received an anonymous letter which disturbed
and occupied every energy of his mind, and was unsympathetic. The only
person with whom Calthorpe could get a hearing was Mr. Medhurst, who
called at Silas’s cottage, and came away saying blandly that Dene was an
altered being. Why had Calthorpe so distressed himself over Dene’s state
of mind, and the attitude of the village? He could not understand.
Calthorpe in his kind-heartedness had surely been mistaken.
“Why, Dene, I am very happy to find you in so Christian a spirit.” Poor
Mr. Medhurst suffered greatly from the trap of his phraseology; it made
all intercourse with his fellows a source of self-consciousness so acute
that he felt justified in counting every visit as a mortification. Yet
he was unable to control it. Visits to Silas Dene were a special
mortification; he had to pray for strength before setting out, and now
Mrs. Gregory Dene, a good little soul, was not there to help him. “Of
course, you are a church-goer; I often see you in the abbey,” Mr.
Medhurst pursued.
“Yes, sir,” Silas replied gravely.
“You seem to prefer the evening services? Ah well, I dare say they fit
in better with your work.” Silas made no reply, but sat smiling to
himself. Mr. Medhurst started another topic, “What pretty flowers you
have always in here, Dene.”
“Yes, sir, my sister-in-law does that.”
“She must be a great comfort to you, Dene, since ... well, since you
have been by yourself ... you know....”
“Since my wife was killed, sir.”
“Well ... yes; yes, after all, that is what I meant. I should like to
say, Dene, that I admire extremely the courage you have displayed under
your sorrow; I think I may claim that I am not unobservant—although, God
knows, sorely wanting in other qualities, I add in all humility. I will
confess that your conduct at the inquest impressed me most painfully,
but we need not dwell upon that; since then I have had nothing but
praise for your demeanour.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes, indeed. I was saying so to Sir Robert Malleson only the other day.
It gives me great pleasure to say so to you now. You are a brave man,
Dene.” He pronounced the words “brave man” separately and with emphasis,
and allowed a suitable emotion to rise through his tone.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all, Dene, not at all. It is only your due.”
“Well, sir, perhaps we all have liftings towards honour,” said Silas
demurely.
“H’m!” said Mr. Medhurst. What strange phrases the man employed!
“Liftings towards honour.” What could that mean? But he was certainly
quieter; quieter and better-mannered, and his frequent presence at
evening service was a hopeful sign, though Mr. Medhurst had noticed with
a vague misgiving that he took no part in the responses.