"You can't 'ave the guest-room, Sir," said Mrs. Squire, opening a door, "seein' as the Vicar's sleepin' there, because he would have Mr. Dormer put in his room, but Mr. Johnson he's away, and I'll have 'is room ready in 'alf-an-hour. If you'll please to step in here, Sir."
A lamp was already burning in the study, but the fire demanded her attention. The visitor meanwhile began to divest himself of his greatcoat. The light showed him pleasant to look upon, fair rather than dark, with a small sunburnt moustache and a very lively expression, while the removal of his outer garment revealed a tiny scrap of red ribbon in his buttonhole.
"Now, Sir, you make yourself comfortable here, and I'll have a snack of something ready for you when they come in." At this point a thought appeared to strike Mrs. Squire, for she shut the door and advanced mysteriously on the young man.
"I think I ought to warn you, Sir, that when you see Mr. Dormer, you may have a shock."
"I've had it!" said Maurice with a little grimace. "I saw him in the church. Tell me about it quickly, before he comes in. It was an accident, I suppose? My mother heard that he had not been well, but no more than that."
Mrs. Squire sniffed. "That's what they told her Ladyship, no doubt, and that's what they told more than one! Mr. Dormer he hates to have it mentioned, but he'll carry the mark to his dying day. Nothing to be ashamed of, rather the opposite, I says, but you know what Mr. Dormer is. Nor I wouldn't say nothing about it to the Vicar, Sir, if I was you—Not well, indeed, and 'im unconscious for twenty-four hours, and the Vicar, when 'e 'eard about it, in such a taking as I've never seen 'im, and off up to London at once, and..."
"But what was it, Mrs. Squire?"
"A brick, Sir."
"A brick!" repeated Maurice, mystified. "Do you mean off a house?"
"Thrown at 'im, Sir, and cruel hard! Ah, there's wicked people in this world! In London it was, at one of them nasty places by the docks, St. George's-in-the-East. They've got what they calls a mission there, and there was dreadful disturbances going on all summer, even in the church itself, if you'll believe me, so that they could 'ardly 'old their services. A very low lot, Sir, and paid to do it, roughs 'ired by them as keeps bad 'ouses thereabouts and the like, so I've 'eard. Well, Mr. Dormer goes there in August to preach for them, and coming out of the church there was a terrible riot. Fancy 'im alone in an 'owlin' mob without so much as an umberella in 'is 'and!—not, I'm sure, that 'e'd 'ave used anything if 'e'd 'ad it. A pity you wasn't there, Sir, with them queer baggy soldiers of yours. Well, the end of it was one of these villains throws a brick at 'im—pretty near did for 'im altogether, I believe. This 'ere's the first time he've preached since." Mrs. Squire paused, and then added judicially, "Of course I don't deny we've 'ad trouble 'ere before now, as your Grace knows, though not for a long time, and I can't say as I approves of all the 'igh Church goings on. Not that I'm saying anything against the Vicar, for I wouldn't leave him not if he was to turn Papist to-morrow. Where 'e goes I goes, if it's to the Pope of Rome 'imself—the Lord forgive me for saying so."