The dullest dog that ever wrote a novel (and, _entre nous_, reader--but
let it go no farther--we have a good many dogs among the fraternity
that are not Munitos,[8]) might have seen with half an eye that the
Parson's discourse had produced a very genial and humanising effect
upon his audience. When all was over, and the congregation stood up to
let Mr Hazeldean and his family walk first down the aisle, (for that
was the custom at Hazeldean,) moistened eyes glanced at the Squire's
sun-burned, manly face with a kindness that bespoke revived memory of
many a generous benefit and ready service. The head might be wrong now
and then--the heart was in the right place after all. And the lady,
leaning on his arm, came in for a large share of that gracious good
feeling. True, she now and then gave a little offence when the cottages
were not so clean as she fancied they ought to be--and poor folks don't
like a liberty taken with their houses any more than the rich do; true,
that she was not quite so popular with the women as the Squire was,
for, if the husband went too often to the alehouse, she always laid
the fault on the wife, and said, "No man would go out of doors for his
comforts, if he had a smiling face and a clean hearth at his home;"
whereas the Squire maintained the more gallant opinion, that "if Gill
was a shrew, it was because Jack did not, as in duty bound, stop her
mouth with a kiss!" Still, notwithstanding these more obnoxious notions
on her part, and a certain awe inspired by the stiff silk gown and the
handsome aquiline nose, it was impossible, especially in the softened
tempers of that Sunday afternoon, not to associate the honest, comely,
beaming countenance of Mrs Hazeldean with comfortable recollections of
soups, jellies, and wine in sickness, loaves and blankets in winter,
cheering words and ready visits in every little distress, and pretexts
afforded by improvement in the grounds and gardens (improvements which,
as the Squire, who preferred productive labour, justly complained,
"would never finish") for little timely jobs of work to some veteran
grandsire, who still liked to earn a penny, or some ruddy urchin in
a family that "came too fast." Nor was Frank, as he walked a little
behind, in the whitest of trousers and the stiffest of neckcloths--with
a look of suppressed roguery in his bright hazel eye, that contrasted
his assumed stateliness of mien--without his portion of the silent
blessing. Not that he had done anything yet to deserve it; but we all
give youth so large a credit in the future. As for Miss Jemima, her
trifling foibles only rose from too soft and feminine a susceptibility,
too ivy-like a yearning for some masculine oak, whereon to entwine her
tendrils; and so little confined to self was the natural lovingness
of her disposition, that she had helped many a village lass to find
a husband, by the bribe of a marriage gift from her own privy purse;
notwithstanding the assurances with which she accompanied the marriage
gift,--viz., that "the bridegroom would turn out like the rest of his
ungrateful sex; but that it was a comfort to think that it would be
all one in the approaching crash." So that she had her warm partisans,
especially amongst the young; while the slim Captain, on whose arm she
rested her forefinger, was at least a civil-spoken gentleman, who had
never done any harm, and who would doubtless do a deal of good if he
belonged to the parish. Nay, even the fat footman, who came last with
the family Prayerbook, had his due share in the general association of
neighbourly kindness between hall and hamlet. Few were there present
to whom he had not extended the right-hand of fellowship, with a full
horn of October in the clasp of it: and he was a Hazeldean man, too,
born and bred, as two-thirds of the Squire's household (now letting
themselves out from their large pew under the gallery) were.
On his part, too, you could see that the Squire was 'moved withal,' and
a little humbled moreover. Instead of walking erect, and taking bow
and curtsey as matter of course, and of no meaning, he hung his head
somewhat, and there was a slight blush on his cheek; and as he glanced
upward and round him--shyly, as it were--and his eye met those friendly
looks, it returned them with an earnestness that had in it something
touching as well as cordial--an eye that said, as well as eye could
say, "I don't quite deserve it, I fear, neighbours; but I thank you for
your goodwill with my whole heart." And so readily was that glance of
the eye understood, that I think, if that scene had taken place out of
doors instead of in the church, there would have been an hurrah as the
Squire passed out of sight.
Scarcely had Mr Hazeldean got well out of the churchyard, ere Mr Stirn
was whispering in his ear. As Stirn whispered, the Squire's face grew
long, and his colour changed. The congregation, now flocking out of
the church, exchanged looks with each other; that ominous conjunction
between Squire and man chilled back all the effects of the Parson's
sermon. The Squire struck his cane violently into the ground. "I
would rather you had told me Black Bess had got the glanders. A young
gentleman, coming to visit my son, struck and insulted in Hazeldean;
a young gentleman--'sdeath, sir, a relation--his grandmother was a
Hazeldean. I do believe Jemima's right, and the world's coming to an
end! But Leonard Fairfield in the Stocks! What will the Parson say? and
after such a sermon! 'Rich man, respect the poor!' And the good widow
too; and poor Mark, who almost died in my arms. Stirn, you have a heart
of stone! You confounded, lawless, merciless miscreant, who the deuce
gave you the right to imprison man or boy in my parish of Hazeldean
without trial, sentence, or warrant? Run and let the boy out before any
one sees him: run, or I shall."--The Squire elevated the cane, and his
eyes shot fire. Mr Stirn did not run, but he walked off very fast. The
Squire drew back a few paces, and again took his wife's arm. "Just wait
a bit for the Parson, while I talk to the congregation. I want to stop
'em all, if I can, from going into the village; but how?"
Frank heard, and replied readily--
"Give 'em some beer, sir."
"Beer! on a Sunday! For shame, Frank!" cried Mrs Hazeldean.
"Hold your tongue, Harry. Thank you, Frank," said the Squire, and his
brow grew as clear as the blue sky above him. I doubt if Riccabocca
could have got him out of his dilemma with the same ease as Frank had
done.
"Halt there, my men--lads and lasses too--there, halt a bit. Mrs
Fairfield, do you hear?--halt! I think his reverence has given us a
capital sermon. Go tip to the Great House all of you, and drink a
glass to his health. Frank, go with them; and tell Spruce to tap one of
the casks kept for the haymakers. Harry, [this in a whisper,] catch the
Parson, and tell him to come to me instantly."
"My dear Hazeldean, what has happened? you are mad."
"Don't bother--do what I tell you."
"But where is the Parson to find you?"
"Where, gad zooks, Mrs H.,--at the Stocks to be sure!"