“Well, what are his ‘works?’ What does he do? Does he live in a poor house, to have more to spare for folks poorer than himself? Does he deny himself a wife and children, that he may be a better father to his flock? Or, if he despises temporal things for his parishioners, if not for himself, does he trudge it on foot, all weathers, to give spiritual consolation to people too ill to come for it?”
“No-o; that’s Mr. Vernon that does all that. But Mr. Meredith is—just what a vicar ought to be.”
“A pretty figure for a pulpit? I see. Oh, I’ll let him alone. Nothing I shall say shall take a single one of the well-to-do creases out of his fat face. I’ve other fish to fry than to go hurting the feelings of your pretty vicar: never fear. Good-evening.”
He did not wait for his curt salutation to be returned; but slightly touching the hat it had not occurred to him take off, he opened the door, and walked out with his usual ponderous, deliberate step. But after going a few paces he stopped short, and returning to the cottage, thrust open the door and addressed Martha again—
“You say some one heard the cry of ‘Murder!’ on the night my sister disappeared. Who was it?”
“A lass that was coming back from Sheffield with her young man—Jane Askew. They’re married now, and she’s Mrs. Tims. They both heard it.”
“And they saw nothing, and looked for nothing?”
“They couldn’t agree as to where the sound came from; and perhaps neither of them’s over brave, and near a churchyard at night too. But going along they met somebody that knew more than them, they think; for he was limping along at a great rate with a scared look on his face, and he came straight from the churchyard.”
“Hey, and who was that?” asked Mitchell, with strong interest.
“A tramp called Abel Squires.”