“You’ve no right to be so hard, Ned; you that were content to let the man who murdered your sister lie peacefully in his bed these ten years!”
“That’s different. If I’d come over next day I couldn’t have brought her back to life again,” said he, in a dogged tone. But the man’s conscience was uneasy, and this made him the more harsh towards Martha. “Why didn’t you tell this yarn you’ve been pitching me to somebody that would have seen into things?”
“I did tell it to Sam. But you know Sam, how timid he was, and slow at things. And his wife never could abide Nell, and nothing would ever persuade her the girl hadn’t gone off with somebody; and, indeed, many people believe that now, and say Nell Mitchell was always a light sort, and it was just what they’d expected, for her to make a bolt of it with somebody. But I know better.”
“How about the parsons? How did they take it?”
“Well, I can tell you the rights of a little story that’s not generally known. Next morning, before anybody knew Nell had disappeared, Parson Vernon was at Matherham Railway Station in time for the first train to London. His brother Meredith, who’d been called out of his bed in the small hours to see a dying man, came up with him while he was standing on the platform. My cousin Dick—you remember Dick, the miller’s son—saw the meeting; and he says he never saw such a contrast between brothers as those two made; the one coming up all fresh and smiling, and surprised; the other pale and ghastly, with bloodshot eyes, and a wild, hunted look in his face already. ‘Why, Vernie,’ says the vicar, ‘what are you doing here at this time in the morning?’ Dick says the other looked as scared as if the hangman’s rope was about his neck. He stammered and said something about a morning paper; for Dick had edged near enough to hear. But then the railway ticket fell from his fingers on to the ground, and Mr. Meredith picked it up sharp as a needle. Dick saw by the color it was a third class ticket to London. Then the brothers looked at each other, and Mr. Vernon saw it wouldn’t do. The other took his arm and led him from the station, and I suppose Vernon made a clean breast of it, and told him how bad it would look for him to run away. And sure enough, when the inquiry was made, the best point in Vernon’s favor was that he had done nothing to escape it. Dick kept his own counsel, except to me that he could trust; and the few people that was about just then had no wish to come forward. For though Mr. Vernon was looked upon as a bit wild for a parson, he was popular too in a way, and then if not for him they’d have held their tongues for the vicar’s sake. So there was just a fuss and a scandal and an inquiry, and Mr. Vernon was had up on suspicion, because some one had heard cries of ‘Murder!’ near St. Cuthbert’s that night. And then it all died away, and everything was the same as before except Mr. Vernon and me; the shock made me what you see; and as for Mr. Vernon, he’s been a changed man, and he’s that loved now that if you was to have him up again, on something stronger than suspicion, it’s my belief the miners would lynch you.”
“I shall take my chance of that,” said Ned Mitchell, stolidly, as he rose to go. “So this precious vicar that everybody thinks so much of does all he can to shield his brother?”
“You can hardly blame him for that. You’d do the same yourself.”
“Blest if I should! Let those suffer that do wrong, say I. My sister did wrong; but she had her punishment, else I’d not have lifted a finger for her. As for these sermon vampers, it would be small harm if they both swung together, I expect. I’ve not much respect for parsons out of their proper place, the pulpit.”
But Martha looked scandalized at this speech, and seemed to regret her frankness.
“You’ll not go insulting the vicar, I hope, Ned,” she said, uneasily. “‘By their works ye shall know them,’ the Scripture says, and if so, you’ve got nothing against the vicar but a weakness for his own flesh and blood.”