“He’ll do, and that’s my verdict.”
John Dallington was looking at the villagers with an interest scarcely less keen than that with which they regarded him. He knew more about them than might be imagined. Newspapers, magazines, reviews, and other floating literature dealing with the questions of the day had been regularly transmitted to him during his absence, and he was, therefore, well acquainted with things as they were. He had read of bad harvests in England while lingering among the cornfields of America; and “the bitter cry” of London had reached him in New Zealand. Perhaps, as he looked at these subjects from a distance, and studied them very impartially by the aid of both Liberal and Conservative journals, he was as able to decide concerning them as those who had remained upon the scene. In any case, with the usual sanguine confidence of youth, he quite believed he was; and had already fully made up his mind in regard to his course of action. One of the first things he meant to do next morning was to go over the estate and “see to things,” especially keeping his eyes open to the needs of the cottage tenants on the farm.
“John, this is rather a trying ordeal,” said Mrs. Hunter, as they entered the churchyard. “Everybody seems to be looking at us.”
“Never mind, mother; they are looking very kindly. And here is Emerson, appearing not a day older than when I went away. I suppose he is as good as ever. He used to work as hard and live on as little as if he were the curate instead of the vicar. How strange it will feel to be in the old pew once more.”
The next minute they had taken their places; and as the last strokes of the bells died away the sounds of the organ were heard; and John knelt as he used to kneel when a little boy at his mother’s side, to join in the General Confession, and listen to the Absolution.
John Dallington had frequently availed himself of the opportunities afforded him in distant lands of attending religious services, but he never joined more heartily in the prayers than he did on this occasion. They expressed exactly what he felt, and the grand old Psalms and the Te Deum filled the little old Darentdale church with strains that were sweeter to his ears than any that he had heard in the grand cathedrals of the Continent. But now his heart was full of peace and goodwill, and he was in the mood to enjoy anything. How could he help wishing to be good when he had so much for which to be thankful? We hear plenty of talk about the salutary effects of sorrow, but is not joy salutary too? It is the miserable who are the most tempted to wickedness. If there were only more happiness in the world, it is almost certain that there would be more goodness also.
The services at Darentdale church were never unnecessarily lengthened, and before long the congregation was filing out. Most people waited to give some sort of respectful greeting to Mrs. Hunter and her son. Considerable sympathy was felt for the widow, though very little affection had been manifested toward her late husband, and the villagers managed to let the lady feel this.
“Things are looking very much the same, mother. I miss one or two of the older people, and some of the boys and girls have grown up like myself; but, on the whole, there is little change. How are the Dissenters getting on? Are there any more chapels built?”
“Oh, yes; one or two Methodists, besides the old Baptist and the Salvation Army.”
“I must turn into one of them this evening, and see how things look there!”