He thought this as the clock was striking, and he walked to the reading-desk, glanced through the Prayer-Book and Bible, where the markers were, to see that Jacky Budd, whose memory was erratic, had made no mistakes, and given him wrong psalms and lessons to read, and then turned to the opening sentences, and was about to commence; but the presence of Richard Glaire troubled him. He was glad at heart that he should be there, and now that he had come he wished to influence him for good,--to bring him to a different way of thinking, for Eve's sake; and now these sentences all seemed, as of course they were, personal, and such as would make Richard Glaire think that they were selected and aimed specially at him.

"When the wicked man," read the vicar to himself. No. "I acknowledge."

No, no, no, one after the other they seemed warnings to the sinner, such a one as Richard Glaire, and in the hurried glance down he came to, "I will arise."

"More pointed still," he thought, and having no time to study the question, he read the two last, beginning, "Enter not into judgment,"

etc., and "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves," etc.

As the service went on the vicar's eyes took in by turns the members of his congregation, and at last he let them light on the Glaires' pew.

There stood Mrs Glaire, looking old and careworn; in another corner, Eve Pelly, with her sweet, innocent face, looking to him angelic in her rapt absorption, as she listened to his words, and there, with his back to them, and leaning over the edge of the pew in a negligent _degage_ att.i.tude, as if bent on showing the congregation the whiteness of the hands he held up for inspection, stood Richard Glaire, gazing at him with half-closed eyes, in a supercilious, sneering manner.

"Poor boy!" thought Murray Selwood, as his eyes met those of the young man for a moment, and then, like a sudden flash, a thought occurred to the vicar, which made the blood flush to his face, and then seem to run back to his heart.

It was the time for reading the first lesson, and his hand was seeking the book-mark in the Bible.

"Sixth Sunday after Trinity," he thought.

He will think it chosen, and directed at him. What should he do?

Change it and read the lesson for that day of the month. No, that would look as if he had purposely avoided it, and it would take some few minutes to find, for his calmness was leaving him, and he could not recall the date. No, he must read it--it was his duty, and it was like a stroke of fate that Richard Glaire should come there upon such a day.

His voice shook slightly, and his eyes dimmed as he read the first words of the beautiful old story, and then moved to the very core, and in deep rich tones, he read on in the midst of a stillness only broken by the soft chirp of some sparrow on the roof; while Mrs Glaire's head went lower and lower, Eve Pelly's hand stole softly across to touch her, and the young man sat with his back to the congregation, now white with rage, now burning with shame.

"A coward--a sneak!" he muttered between his ground teeth. "He has chosen that chapter to shame me before all the people. I won't stand it. I'll get up and go out."

But to do that was not in Richard Glaire's power. He had not the strength of mind and daring for so defiant an act, and he sat on, thrilled in every fibre, as the deep, mellow voice went on telling how the Lord sent Nathan unto David, and he told him of the rich man, who in his wealth spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, but took the poor man's lamb, who was to him as a daughter; and as these words were told, there came from the body of the church the stifled sobs of one of the women of the congregation who could not control her feelings.

And at last, in spite of himself, Murray Selwood was moved to such an extent by the words he was reading, that he spoke as if he were the prophet of old, his voice rising and falling as it thrilled his hearers, till it was deep and denunciatory, as he exclaimed:--

"And Nathan said unto David--Thou art the man."

There was an audible sigh of relief as the lesson ended, and the vicar wiped the dew from his forehead, for it had been to him a trial, and his voice was low and troubled as he continued the service, but feeling glad at heart that he had not chosen that lesson for the strong, suitable discourse which he afterwards delivered.

It is needless to do more than refer to it here, even though Joey Tight stood up with his hand to his ear so as not to miss a word, and winked and blinked ecstatically, and though it, too, struck Richard Glaire home, inasmuch as it was in allusion to the trade troubles in the town, and ended with a prayer that the blessings of unity and brotherly love might come among them, and peace and plenty once more reign in their homes.

Old Bult.i.tude and Jessie were waiting at the door as the vicar came out, to look in a troubled way up the High Street, after Richard Glaire and his companions; but there was nothing to fear, the street was deserted, save by the people leaving church.

"He's raight enew to-day, parson," said the old farmer, divining his thought. "n.o.body will touch him o' Sunday, and wi' the women. Zoonds, but you gi'e it him hot, and no mistake. That were clever o' ye. Dal it all, parson, I could like to ha' offended you, for the sake of getting such a tongue thrashing."

"My dear Mr Bult.i.tude," said the vicar sadly, "if you will look at your Prayer-book, you will find that this was no plan of mine, but a matter of accident, or fate--who can say which."

"Weer it, though?" said the farmer, as they walked on, his road lying by the vicarage, and he stared round-eyed at his companion. "Think o'

that, Jess. I wouldn't ha' believed it: it's amazing. By the way, parson, I want a few words wi' you. Jess, la.s.s, walk on a bit. Theer, ye needn't hurry. I don't want ye to o'ertake John Maine."

Jessie blushed, and the tears came into her eyes as she went on a few paces; and the farmer, as soon as she was out of ear-shot, pointed at her with his thumb.

"Bit touched, parson, courting like. She's fond o' that lad, John Maine, and I want her to wed young Brough."

"Maine seems to me a very good worthy young fellow," said the vicar.

"Hem!" said the farmer. "I don't know so much about that, and t'other's got the bra.s.s."

"Money won't bring happiness, Mr Bult.i.tude."

"Raight, parson, raight; but it's main useful. Me and my poor missis, as lies there in chutchyard, hedn't nowt when we began; but we made some," he continued, proudly.

"By sheer hard work, no doubt."

"Ay, we hed to work, but that's nowt after all. I wouldn't gi' a straw for a lad as can't work, and is skeart of it. Why, when I went to the bit o' farm, 'Boottherboomp' they used to call it then, cause of the 'boottherboomps.'"

"Let me see, that's your local name for the bittern, is it not?"

"Yes; big brown bird, some'at like a hern," said old Bult.i.tude. "They lives in wet, swampy places. Well, parson, that place was all one swamp when I went, and I says to mysen, where rushes is a growing now, I mean to grow wheat; and so every year I used to do nowt but spend i'

dreaning, and now there isn't a finer farm i' the county."

"It's perfect," said the vicar, "perfect."

"Well, I'm glad to hear thee say it, parson, because I know thee sayst what thee means, and thou'rt as good a judge of a crop and stack as iver I see, for a man as isn't a farmer. It isn't ivery man as comes fro'

the wild parts 'bout London as can tell as a hog or a hogget isn't a pig, but a ship, and knows what he's worth to a shilling or two. But just hearken to me, going on like that, when I wanted to say a word or two 'bout our John Maine."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, parson. I'm mortal feard that lad's going wrong. He's got some 'at on his mind, and he's always in confab wi' young Podmore as was Daisy Banks' sweetheart, and there's some mystery about it. Young Brough says he's mixed up wi' a blackguard low lot, poaching or some'at o' that sort; but I don't tak' much notice o' he, for he's a bit jealous of him. But what I want you to do is to get hold of John and talk to him, for he's upsetting our Jess, and I shall hev to get shoot of him if things don't alter, and I doan't want to do that, parson, for I rayther like the lad, if he'd go back to what he weer. Good day; you'll see him, will you?"

"Indeed I will."

"And young Podmore, too, parson?"

"Yes, if it's necessary."

"Oh, it is; and you'll put 'em raight, I know. But I say, parson--but that was a hot one for d.i.c.ky Glaire. Good-bye."

They parted at the gate, and the vicar went in, just as Sim Slee went by with a man dressed in black--a heavy, white-faced man, with a good deal of black whiskers, who looked as if his clothes did not fit him, and as if he was uncomfortable out of a workman's suit, and could not find a place for his hands, with which, by the aid of a great cotton handkerchief, he kept wiping his face.

"I shouldn't wonder if that's the deputation," said the vicar. "Well, I hope they'll settle the dispute."

Unfortunately, though the vicar's guess was right, the deputation was not a man to further the prospects of peace.

END OF VOLUME TWO.

Volume 3, Chapter I.

RICHARD BEGINS TO WOO.

The vicar's visits to the Big House became fewer, for he could not but see that Richard Glaire, in spite of all that had pa.s.sed, was more and more embittered against him. He was very quiet, and ceased to be insulting, but there was a malicious look in his eye, an ill-concealed air of jealousy in his glance, whenever the vicar spoke to Eve, that told of his feelings. In fact, Richard vowed that the lesson was chosen because he went to church that day, and if ever opportunity served he would be revenged.

Opportunity was serving him, for, like Mrs Glaire, he saw but too plainly what the vicar's feelings were towards Eve--feelings that made him grind his teeth whenever they were together, and which finally brought on a fresh quarrel with his mother.

It was one morning when Mrs Glaire had been appealing to him to reopen the works.