His hands fell to his sides.
“I knows what you ha’ done; and I knows what you ha’ left undone. We be housed lil’ better than the beasts o’ the field. We be kept helpless a-purpose.”
Lady Selina glanced at Agatha’s tense face.
“No. Your niece here has risen above her station, and I helped her. Whether such help was wisely given is another matter.”
“Aggie be a clever maid. I speaks for us as bain’t clever. I speaks,” his voice rang out emphatically, “for every man in Upworthy as has a wife and lil’ ’uns to lose, if so be as you remains blind and deaf to the writin’ on your own smoulderin’ walls. Better, I says, far better that you should ha’ perished this day wi’ your grand house than live on wi’ your heel upon our bodies and our hearts.”
His words, coming from such a man, amazed Grimshaw. And yet they confirmed an ever-increasing conviction that true inspiration is kindled from without, that Man is indeed but the receiver and transmitter of a purpose far transcending finite intelligence. No trained orator could have chosen better words than these which had fallen, like water from a rock, out of the mouth of a peasant. Grimshaw watched their effect. They had brought softening dews to the eyes of Agatha and Cicely; they had penetrated the parson’s hide-bound understanding. He stood agape in his own drawing-room, deflated, thinking, possibly, of Balaam’s ass. Lady Selina seemed to be petrified. Nick alone remained indifferent, the usual grin upon his face. He had taken from a pocket a match, and was contemplating the neatly laid fire, obsessed—so Grimshaw decided—with the desire to light it.
Lady Selina replied, after a pause. What she said came from within, as sincere, in one sense, as the message from without. Grimshaw realised that she was delivering a message, a tradition rather, entrusted to her keeping. Her brother, her father, all her distinguished ancestors would have spoken the same words in exactly the same tone.
“I have listened to you patiently, Timothy Farleigh. Listen to me. I am not blind to the writing on my smouldering walls. And one word stands out flaming—Ingratitude! You come here asking for justice. Justice shall be meted out to you. And now go!”
She pointed to the door. Timothy hesitated.
“You be a hard ’ooman. But Johnny Exton be innocent. Let ’un out—let ’un out, I says.”