CHAPTER X.
The dullest dog that ever wrote a novel (and, /entre nous/, reader)--but
let it go no further,--we have a good many dogs among the fraternity that
are not Munitos might have seen with half an eye that the parson's
discourse had produced a very genial and humanizing effect upon his
audience.
[Munito was the name of a dog famous for his learning (a Porson of a
dog) at the date of my childhood. There are no such dogs nowadays.]
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 ale-house, 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,--namely, 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 Prayer-book, 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
courtesy as a 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
good-will 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 a hurrah as the squire
passed out of sight.
Scarcely had Mr. Hazeldean got clear of the churchyard, ere Mr. Stirn was
whispering in his ear. As Stirn whispered, the squire's face grew long,
and his colour rose. 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,--
's death, 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 up 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? gadzooks, Mrs. H.,--at the stocks, to be sure!"
