The stranger lent back in his chair, and fixing his eyes on the fire, seemed inclined to leave the conversation, which the wounded feelings of those present appeared likely to render too heated.
"Things never went right," said a little old man in the chimney-corner, in a deep husky voice, for he prided himself on being a sort of prophet in the village, "since he went to France, and I never had no very great opinion of Frenchmen before—ha, ha, ha!" There did not seem much to call for laughter; but he generally accompanied his speeches with that peculiar chuckle, which sounded anything but pleasantly to those who were not accustomed to him. "I saw him many times after that," continued he, "and he warn't the same open-hearted gentleman he was afore. He often looked as if he'd got some one looking over his shoulder as he didn't over relish—ha, ha!"
The sepulchral chuckle which followed this remark produced a short, uneasy silence, which was broken by Martin, who enquired—
"Do you think his religion has anything to do with our houses and wages?"
"Yes," replied Giles, "can we expect that he who has proved disloyal to his Maker, would be thoughtful for his fellow men."
He spoke in a tone of such gentle authority, that even Martin was silent, and, for a few seconds, the ticking of the old-fashioned clock, and the crackling of the wood on the fire, were the only sounds.
"I can call to mind," resumed the old man, interrupting the silence, which had followed his last remark, "a time of much sorrow to me, and I never think of it without trembling. It is some years since, now, when I worked on the Manor, and I used to be something of a favorite of my young master's; and I am sure, at that time, I would have given my life to serve him; he had such a way with him; no one had anything to do with him without loving him. Well I remember how glad I was when he ordered me to go out with him to beat up the bushes for game. But the time I said I was sorry to remember, was when, one Saturday night late, he came down here in a great hurry, and he said he must go again on the Monday, and so he would look about him. I can't tell how it was we took so to each other; but I was strong and hearty then, though 'tis but a few years ago. Martin speaks truth when he says I have served the family fifty years, for I began by running errands for the servants, when I was but a little boy, and I am now nearly seventy; but I was quite a strong man at that time I have been talking about, and I used often to go out shooting with Master Hargrave, to carry his game, and such like. Well, on this Sunday morning, he told me to take his gun, and wait for him at the entrance of the wood. Nobody ever said no to him then, and I had not the courage, and, though I knew that I was doing wrong all the while, I took the gun; and went as he bade me. We had a regular good day's sport, and we went to the woods furthest from the village, for fear the guns or dogs might be heard. 'Twas a beautiful autumn afternoon, I know, as we came home, and, when we came to the wood overlooking the church, the bells rang out such a merry peal. I had forgot 'twas Sunday, for my blood was hot, and the sport was good; but now, as we stopped on the top of the hills, like thieves, I could not help wishing we had never been out, and I said so with a dogged, frightened air, for I was afraid of him all the while. He laughed at my fright, and began talking as if going to church were all mummery. Well, I could not help listening—what he said seemed so clever and funny, I could not answer him. After that day, I began to doubt and doubt, till I believed nothing the minister said, and left off going to church."
"And what turned ye?" enquired the little man in the chimney-corner.
"I was wretched," replied Giles; "I felt that I had no comfort upon earth, and no hope beyond it. Till, at last, I thought that this unbelief was only a curse for having done wrong. So I took to prayer, and never gave it up till better thoughts came."