And he turned and began to walk up the hill. Abel hopped after him, assuming his most persuasive mien.
“Doan’t ’e, Mester Mitchell—doan’t ’e,” he entreated. “It’s naught but cruelty to him as hasn’t done it; an’ as for him as has, you’ve got plenty in store for him wi’out worriting of him now.”
Ned paid not the slightest heed to these remonstrances, but went on his way, still closely attended by Abel the length of the Vicarage garden wall.
Abel redoubled his pleadings as they caught sight of the two brothers and Mrs. Brander walking in the garden.
“Look ’e here, Mester Mitchell,” said he, in a rough voice that, plead as he would, could get no softer. “Ah’ve kept away from Rishton ten year fur to please parson Vernon, ’cause Ah’m t’ only chap as see what happened that neight, an’ he wouldn’t trust me to hawd ma toongue. What Ah could do fur ten year, couldn’t you do fur a neight?”
Still Ned walked stolidly on, vouchsafing no answer, until the party in the garden caught sight of them, and the Vicar of Rishton came down to the side gate to meet them. As he drew near, Abel, after one futile attempt to drag Ned bodily away, tried to escape himself. But Mr. Brander was too quick and too strong for him.
“Why, who have we here?” he said, curiously, seizing Squires by the arm, and looking into his wooden face. “Isn’t it Abel Squires, the man who picked up my father’s signet ring on the Sheffield road?”
“Ay, sir,” said Abel, very bashfully, while he persistently avoided meeting the vicar’s eye.
“I thought so,” said the vicar, good-humoredly. And without noticing the lowering expression of Ned’s face, he turned and shook his hand. “Glad to see you about again, Mr. Mitchell. I must tell you a story about our friend here,” he continued, putting a kind hand on the tramp’s shoulder. “Years ago, when I was scarcely more than a boy, my father lost a signet ring one night as he was returning home from a sick bed. It was an old-fashioned thing; much too large for his finger. He never expected to see it again; but a fortnight afterwards who should turn up but Abel Squires, inquiring of the servants if anybody in the house had lost a ring. He had picked it up, and having no means of advertising his find, had perseveringly called at house after house on the outskirts of Sheffield where he found it, until he at last got directed to my father as the owner. He was so much struck by the circumstance that he declared it should be treasured up for ever by the head of the family as a reminder that the world had contained at least one ideally honest man.”
“You’re t’ head of t’ family, yet you don’t wear it though, parson,” said Abel, glancing at his hands.