Mother and daughter were left alone in the Vicarage drawing-room, pending the arrival of Grimshaw, who was likely to come in at any moment. The parson bustled off to collogue with an ancient parlour-maid, who exacted tactful treatment. Long ago the parson’s wife had passed to a much-needed rest, a fact, indeed, stated positively upon her tombstone.

Lady Selina sank pathetically into a comfortable arm-chair. Cicely regarded her anxiously, but admiringly. She bent down to kiss her cheek, murmuring:

“Dear mother, you are brave.”

Lady Selina sighed, leaning her head upon her uninjured hand. It was difficult to interpret the expression upon her fine face. Behind the physical weariness, an odd look of bewilderment revealed itself. When she spoke, something else—was it acrimony or amazement?—challenged Cicely’s attention.

“How smug this room is!”

Cicely glanced round. Her mother had hit the right word. Smug, indeed! But, familiar as she was from childhood with every stick of furniture, Cicely had never till this moment realised the smugness. And that, of course, jumped to the eye when it was mentioned. Every room has its particular message. Cicely knew that nothing in that prim apartment had been changed during five-and-twenty years. AnÆmic water-colour drawings adorned the walls, which were demurely grey, a lasting tint. The curtains and the seats of sundry chairs were excellent samples of Mrs. Goodrich’s tireless needlework. They seemed to say, modestly: “See what patient industry can achieve!” The steel fender and fire-irons were more vocal “Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.” The well-worn carpet was immaculate; not a speck of dust could be detected upon the china ornaments or upon the rosewood furniture. A betting man would have laid heavy odds against finding cobwebs under the upright piano, starkly upright, naked and not ashamed. Cicely could remember the parson’s wife playing hymns and sonatinas upon it. Surely it would explode with indignation if the syncopated rhythm of rag-time were blasphemously imposed upon the ivory keys——! It was terrible to reflect that such an instrument, sanctified, so to speak, to Divine Service, might be debased—after a defiling public sale—to a worst inn’s best room, to be banged by trippers.

These thoughts flashed into Cicely’s mind.

“It is smug,” she assented. “It knows, probably, that it’s just right. Yes, self-righteousness is the note.”

She laughed a little, but Lady Selina remained unamused.

“Cicely, some of my people didn’t help at the fire.”

This was an arresting statement, impossible to assimilate at a gulp. Cicely replied hastily:

“I saw many helping.”

“I saw some—laughing.”

“I laughed myself a moment ago. It’s just excitement. I felt hysterical.”

Lady Selina appeared to be wandering down a maze of introspection, picking her way in and out of blind alleys. She asked a question.

“How long has this bitter feeling of the Farleighs against me been smouldering?”

“I—I suppose ever since his little girls died.”

“You were aware of it?”

“Ye—es.”

“Then, why didn’t you warn me?”

“I—I don’t know.”

After a pause Lady Selina continued heavily:

“I am forced to the conclusion that things—important things—have been kept from me. Why? Why?”

Cicely blushed faintly, thinking of Grimshaw’s phrase: “the conspiracy of silence.”

“Perhaps, Mother, those who loved you wanted to spare you.”

Lady Selina nodded.

“I understand. I have been regarded by those who loved me as a fool content in her paradise.”

As she spoke Grimshaw was ushered in. He crossed to his patient, saying courteously:

“Forgive an unavoidable delay, Lady Selina. I had to dress your coachman’s hand.”

“My poor Hutchings——! Is he much hurt?”

“He thinks so. It’s nothing. He hasn’t your pluck.”

As he spoke, he took from his bag a roll of absorbent cotton wool and a bottle of picric acid solution, which he placed upon a table where such articles were eyed askance by a Parian-marble lady under a glass dome. Deftly, he removed the sling.

“Tell me if I hurt you.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.”

In the presence of a comparative stranger, Lady Selina had reassumed her manner, so natural to her, so indisputably her shining armour. The sudden change confounded Cicely. Which was the real woman?

Grimshaw addressed Cicely professionally:

“More light, Miss Chandos.”

Cicely pulled back the curtains, which always slightly obscured the light, because ample folds revealed the needlework.

“That’s much better.”

He examined the burn, and then cut off a pad of the sterilised cotton, which he wetted with the picric solution.

“How red the burn looks!” remarked Cicely. She could see that her mother was not only grateful to the doctor, but pleased with the man. Lady Selina murmured approval.

“Your touch is as light as a woman’s. What are you using?”

“Picric acid solution.”

She never winced as he dressed the burn. Her tones were as light as his touch:

“Dear me! You were going to dine with us this evening! And I had ordered such a nice little dinner.”

Behind Lady Selina a French window opened upon the lawn, which faced the village green. Through this window floated noises culminating in cheers.

“Please shut that window,” commanded Grimshaw.

“Please don’t,” said the Lady of the Manor. “The atmosphere of this room is slightly oppressive. I suppose the dear souls are cheering me.”

“Safety-pin, Miss Chandos.”

The parson entered, blandly beaming.

“Your chauffeur has come back from Wilverley, Lady Selina. The fire engine is at the Hall, under Lord Wilverley’s direction. Lord Wilverley has put the Court at your disposal, but I told him that you had accepted my own more modest shelter.”

“Many thanks.”

Grimshaw interposed.

“I should like you to go to bed at once.”

“My dear doctor! After I have dined.”

“Before. You have sustained a shock.”

“I have.” She smiled ironically. “But I am myself again.”

Goodrich went out. From the green came raucous laughter, punctuated by groans and cat-calls. Lady Selina sat upright, frowning.

“I don’t understand this noise.”

“Nor I,” said Cicely.

“It sounds like a sort of—a—demonstration.”

She glanced interrogatively at Grimshaw, who was apparently intent upon his dressing. He said pleasantly:

“I think I can promise you that there won’t be any scar.”

“Not on my arm, you mean?”

“Not on your arm.”

Attempting to interpret the derisive inflection of her voice, he asked lightly:

“I hope your house was well insured?”

“Oh, yes. Fully. This noise is very extraordinary.”

“I think I must insist upon shutting that window, Lady Selina. It would be unwise to run risks of taking cold, you know.”

“I don’t take cold.”

Grimshaw went to the window and closed it. Lady Selina submitted.

Stimson appeared, much perturbed.

“What is it, Stimson?”

“I’ve been on the green, my lady, and—and——” he broke off gaspingly.

“Bless the man! What’s the matter with him?”

“Nothing, my lady. They left me alone, my lady. It’s Mr. Gridley. He—he wanted to break up the crowd. He said ...”

“Well, what did he say?”

The unhappy Stimson, dirty and dishevelled, grasping the rags of his former dignity, replied austerely:

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon; I must be excused from repeating what Mr. Gridley said. Very rough tongue he has.”

Beside herself with impatience, Lady Selina rapped out:

“Am I never to get the plain truth from my own people? What has happened?”

“As I left the green, my lady, they were chasing Mr. Gridley into the pond. It isn’t a deep pond, my lady, but full of horseleeches.”

“I must go out at once.”

“No,” said Grimshaw as positively.

Cicely signed to Stimson to leave the room; he obeyed deprecatingly.

“The Riot Act must be read by me, Mr. Grimshaw. When you crossed the green just now did you notice bad temper on the part of the crowd?”

“Well, yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He replied quietly:

“Because you are my patient.”

“What has caused this?”

“John Exton’s arrest.”

“I must go at once.”

She stood up. Grimshaw said firmly:

“Forgive me—it isn’t safe.”

Lady Selina smiled incredulously. At the same time she was sensible of Grimshaw’s sympathy, of his unmistakable solicitude, expressed not so much by his voice, but by his eyes. She thought to herself: “This young man is considerate; he has the old-fashioned protective instincts about women.”

“Not safe, you mean, for your patient?”

Grimshaw never answered the question, because Goodrich came in through the French window, closing it after him; but significant sounds entered with him. Obviously some of the unruly were trespassing upon the Vicarage lawn, stamping down the moss.

“This is a revolt,” said the Lady of the Manor.

Goodrich might have replied: “No, madame; it’s revolution,” but he was beyond quotation. In a troubled voice he delivered a message.

“Timothy Farleigh wants to see you.”

“Don’t see him, Mother,” entreated Cicely. “You’re not up to it.”

“Not up to it? What an idea! I will see any of my people, or all of them, at any time.”

“He is on my lawn,” said Goodrich. “My privet fence is broken down.”

“Can I see him here, Mr. Goodrich?”

“Certainly, if you insist.”

He went out, carrying a head out of which distressed and congested eyes bulged prominently. When he came back, Timothy accompanied him. Agatha and the softy followed. Nobody noticed them. The parson shut the window. Timothy approached Lady Selina, very erect in her chair.

“What do you want?” she asked quietly.

Timothy confronted her with a dignity quite as impressive, in its way, as hers. The despairing fury had burnt itself out, partly, possibly, because his Mary was mending, partly, also, because it had served its purpose, whether designed or not—it had fired others.

“I want justice.”

Lady Selina replied scornfully:

“You shall have it, I promise you. So you, you have raised my own people against me?”

“Aye.”

He spoke impersonally, as if he were aware that he had but served as an instrument. And he continued in a low voice, pathetically apathetic:

“I ha’ waited fifteen year for this hour—fifteen year.”

Agatha stood beside him, still defiant. Nick, unnoticed, save by Grimshaw, crept furtively to the fireplace, apparently astonished and distressed to find no fire in it. Grimshaw leapt to the conclusion that the softy had been brought to the Vicarage purposely. Presently he would serve as an object-lesson, a notable part of Timothy’s indictment.

“You can say what you have to say,” observed Lady Selina. “Apparently you are here to speak for some of your neighbours?” He nodded. “Very well—speak.”

Timothy prepared himself for a tremendous effort, how tremendous none can understand who is not intimately acquainted with the rustic mind, almost atrophied by disuse, when it attempts to measure itself against authority. Grimshaw, watching him closely, reflected that his attitude and expression were more eloquent than any speech could be. Bent and bowed by interminable toil, his gnarled hands trembling with agitation, he spoke very slowly:

“You might ha’ been burned this day along wi’ your gert house....”

“True.”

No rancour could be detected in her voice. Grimshaw wondered what she was feeling. Her perfect manners might have misled a less acute observer, but he divined somehow that she, also, was intensely affected, blind for the moment because a cataract had been torn from her eyes.

“Be you prepared to die, my lady?”

At this the parson raised a protesting finger. To break through his privet fence was a grave misdemeanour; to trespass upon his spiritual domain in his presence palsied a tongue apter at asking rather than answering such direct questions. However, Lady Selina replied courteously:

“Why do you put such a question?”

“I puts it to ’ee. We brings nothing into this world, and we takes nothing out. But the reckonin’ must be paid. What ha’ you done, my lady, wi’ us? We’ve worked for ’ee ... crool hard, at a low wage.”

He stretched out his rough hands, palms uppermost, revealing the scars and callouses, but quite unconscious of them.

“You could have left my service, Timothy Farleigh, if you thought the work too hard and the wage too low.”

“Aye. Fair warning I had fifteen years ago, when my lil’ maids died. I might ha’ gone then, but someways I couldn’t leave the old land, and so—God forgi’ me—I stayed. We pore souls, my lady, bain’t free.... We be, seemin’ly, just beasts o’ burden, your beasts—under your yoke.”

Lady Selina never flinched from his intent gaze. Grimshaw was unable to decide whether indeed her clear blue eyes were fixing upon the trembling speaker or upon herself. Could she see him as he thus revealed himself? Could she see herself with anything approximating to true definition? She said firmly enough:

“My yoke has not been heavy; you know that.”

His hands fell to his sides.

“I knows what you ha’ done; and I knows what you ha’ left undone. We be housed lil’ better than the beasts o’ the field. We be kept helpless a-purpose.”

Lady Selina glanced at Agatha’s tense face.

“No. Your niece here has risen above her station, and I helped her. Whether such help was wisely given is another matter.”

“Aggie be a clever maid. I speaks for us as bain’t clever. I speaks,” his voice rang out emphatically, “for every man in Upworthy as has a wife and lil’ ’uns to lose, if so be as you remains blind and deaf to the writin’ on your own smoulderin’ walls. Better, I says, far better that you should ha’ perished this day wi’ your grand house than live on wi’ your heel upon our bodies and our hearts.”

His words, coming from such a man, amazed Grimshaw. And yet they confirmed an ever-increasing conviction that true inspiration is kindled from without, that Man is indeed but the receiver and transmitter of a purpose far transcending finite intelligence. No trained orator could have chosen better words than these which had fallen, like water from a rock, out of the mouth of a peasant. Grimshaw watched their effect. They had brought softening dews to the eyes of Agatha and Cicely; they had penetrated the parson’s hide-bound understanding. He stood agape in his own drawing-room, deflated, thinking, possibly, of Balaam’s ass. Lady Selina seemed to be petrified. Nick alone remained indifferent, the usual grin upon his face. He had taken from a pocket a match, and was contemplating the neatly laid fire, obsessed—so Grimshaw decided—with the desire to light it.

Lady Selina replied, after a pause. What she said came from within, as sincere, in one sense, as the message from without. Grimshaw realised that she was delivering a message, a tradition rather, entrusted to her keeping. Her brother, her father, all her distinguished ancestors would have spoken the same words in exactly the same tone.

“I have listened to you patiently, Timothy Farleigh. Listen to me. I am not blind to the writing on my smouldering walls. And one word stands out flaming—Ingratitude! You come here asking for justice. Justice shall be meted out to you. And now go!”

She pointed to the door. Timothy hesitated.

“You be a hard ’ooman. But Johnny Exton be innocent. Let ’un out—let ’un out, I says.”

“My house has been burnt. If John Exton didn’t do it, who did?”

“I dunno.”

“Exactly.”

Grimshaw moved nearer to her.

“I think I know,” he said, almost in a whisper, because he was humbly aware that inspiration had descended upon him. Lady Selina repeated his words:

“You think you know, Mr. Grimshaw?”

He beckoned to Nick, saying in his kindliest tone:

“Come you here, my lad.”

The softy shambled up to him. Grimshaw sat down upon a chair near the fireplace, assuming an easy attitude, but his eyes caught and held the eyes of the boy.

“I bain’t afeard of ’ee, I bain’t.”

“Of course not. I wish I was as brave as you, Nicky.”

The softy swelled with pride. The others stared at Grimshaw, who dominated them as he did the stunted intelligence in front of him. He continued lightly:

“Shall I tell you a secret?”

“Ah-h-h!”

“I am a bit afeard of somebody. Guess.”

An unexpected answer introduced a touch of comedy. Nick grinned broadly:

“I knows—Miss Cicely.”

For an instant Grimshaw was disconcerted; Cicely blushed. Fortunately nobody perceived this.

“No, no. I am afeard of George Ball, the constable.”

The shot went home. Nick squirmed.

“George Ball!”

“Aye. Sit on that stool, my lad. Listen to me.” Nick obeyed, staring up at the keen face bent over his own. “Let’s have a little chat. I like you, Nicky.”

“Do ’ee, now? I likes you; yas, I do.” He grinned again, adding slily: “An’ so does Miss Cicely.”

This second allusion challenged Lady Selina’s attention. She turned to glance at her daughter, but, happily, the tell-tale blushed had faded.

“Do you ever smoke cigarettes, Nick?”

“Times, I do, when fellers gi’ me some.”

“Have one with me.”

He held out his cigarette-case. Nick selected one; Grimshaw took another, saying lightly:

“Have you a match?”

“Yas.”

A murmur from Agatha nearly broke the spell. Nick, however, intent upon Grimshaw, opened his left hand, and revealed a match, a wax vesta. Grimshaw took it, looked at it, and smiled ingratiatingly:

“What a nice wax match!”

“Aye, same as quality use.”

Grimshaw struck the match on his heel.

“Light up!”

He leaned forward and downward. Nick lighted his cigarette, puffing at it complacently. Grimshaw lighted his, and then blew out the match. With his face still close to Nick’s, he asked suddenly:

“But where is the match-box?”

“I dunno. I lost ’un.”

“What bad luck! You found a silver match-box this afternoon and lost it inside of—of an hour?”

“Yas, I did. How do ’ee know that?”

“I’m a doctor. I can see inside your head. Shall I give you a shilling?”

“Yas.”

Grimshaw took a shilling from his pocket, flicked it into the air, and caught it. Then, with a laugh, he held it out. Nick tried to take it. Grimshaw deftly palmed it. Nick was confounded.

“It be gone. You be a wondersome man, you be.”

“Hallo! Here it is again—in your ear, by Jove!”

He exhibited the shilling to the excited boy, flicked it up again and allowed it to drop on the carpet.

“It’s yours, Nicky.”

Nick picked up the shilling, going down on his knees. As he rose to his feet Grimshaw stood up, taking him gently by the shoulder:

“I say, tell me something. Why did you set my lady’s house afire?”

Once more, inarticulate murmurs from those present might have broken the spell, but Nick was too absorbed in his possession of the shilling. He answered seriously:

“I dunno.”

Grimshaw was not satisfied. He tried another tack, saying lightly:

“You know, Nick, I often want to burn houses myself.”

“Do ’ee?”

“Why did you do it, my lad?”

“To please father.”

“To please father, eh? Did he ask you to do it?”

“No-o-o.”

“Johnny Exton may say that he burnt the big house.”

Nick replied jealously:

“Not he. Johnny bain’t brave enough for that. ’Twas me done it. I be allers ready for a lark.”

Grimshaw turned to Lady Selina.

“Are you satisfied?”

“Yes. I—I am infinitely obliged to you.”

Agatha exclaimed fervently:

“God bless you, sir!”

Lady Selina had spoken stiffly, still erect in her chair. And she gazed mournfully at Nick, not at Grimshaw.

“Nick.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Do you hate me?”

All softies are extremely sensitive to the tones of the voice. Nick must have felt the hostility which Lady Selina had purposely veiled. He replied sullenly:

“I be saft along o’ you. You bain’t so good as the Lard.”

“The Lord?”

“Him as lives Wilverley way. Upworthy pegs we be called by Wilverley folk.”

His fatuous grin was unendurable. Lady Selina winced. Grimshaw interposed hastily:

“That will do, Nick.”

Agatha added as quickly:

“You come home along with father and me.”

“Yes,” murmured Lady Selina. “Take him away. John Exton shall be released from custody at once.” She added bitterly to Timothy: “You see what your words have done.”

He replied starkly:

“Upworthy be a whited sepulchre, naught but a whited sepulchre.”