“Wutever's Lamentations got to do wi't?”
“A gurt deal, I tell 'ee. What do'st thou know o' Lamentations?”
“Lamentations cums afore Ezekiel in the Bible.”
“That ain't no kin to the Statut o' Lamentations. But ther's summut like to't in the Bible,” said the constable, stopping his work to consider a moment. “Do'st mind the year when the land wur all to be guv back to thaay as owned it fust, and debts wur to be wiped out?”
“Ees, I minds summut o' that.”
“Well, this here statut says, if so be as a man hev bin to the wars, and sarved his country like; as nothin' shan't be reckoned agen he, let alone murder. Nothin' can't do away wi' murder.”
“No, nor oughtn't. Hows'mdever, you seems clear about the law on't. There's Miss a callin'.”
And old Simon's head disappeared as he descended the ladder to answer the summons of his young mistress, not displeased at having his fears as to the safety of his future son-in-law set at rest by so eminent a legal authority as the constable. Fortunately for Harry, the constable's law was not destined to be tried. Young Wurley was away in London. Old Tester was bedridden with an accumulation of diseases brought on by his bad life. His illness made him more violent and tyrannical than ever; but he could do little harm out of his own room, for no one ever went to see him, and the wretched farm-servant who attended him was much too frightened to tell him anything of what was going on in the parish. There was no one else to revive proceedings against Harry.
David pottered on at his bees and his flowers till old Simon returned, and ascended his ladder again.
“You be ther' still, be 'ee?” he said, as soon as he saw David.