The squire rose hurriedly and left the room. After him, one by one, trailed the tenants. At length, two only remained—M'Adam, sitting solitary with a long array of empty chairs on either hand; and, at the far end of the table, Parson Leggy, stern, upright, motionless.
When the last man had left the room the parson rose, and with lips tight-set strode across the silent hall.
“M'Adam,” he said rapidly and almost roughly, “I've listened to what you've said, as I think we all have, with a sore heart. You hit hard—but I think you were right. And if I've not done my duty by you as I ought—and I fear I've not—it's now my duty as God's minister to be the first to say I'm sorry.” And it was evident from his face what an effort the words cost him.
The little man tilted back his chair, and raised his head.
It was the old M'Adam who looked up. The thin lips were curled; a grin was crawling across the mocking face; and he wagged his head gently, as he looked at the speaker through the slits of his half-closed eyes.
“Mr. Hornbut, I believe ye thocht me in earnest, 'deed and I do!” He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. “Ye swallered it all down like best butter. Dear, dear! to think o' that!” Then, stretching forward:
“Mr. Hornbut, I was playin' wi' ye.”
The parson's face, as he listened, was ugly to watch. He shot out a hand and grabbed the scoffer by his coat; then dropped it again and turned abruptly away.
As he passed through the door a little sneering voice called after him:
“Mr. Hornbut, I ask ye hoo you, a minister o' the Church of England, can reconcile it to yer conscience to think—though it be but for a minute—that there can be ony good in a man and him no churchgoer? Sir, ye're a heretic—not to say a heathen!” He sniggered to himself, and his hand crept to a half-emptied wine decanter.