We trust that certain expressions which Mr. Yorke made use of on hearing this story will not be remembered against him on the day of final reckoning. They were not pious expressions, nor mild, nor, indeed, very polished ones; but they were strong. He put on his hat with an emphasis which left a large dent in the crown, refused to take any breakfast, and started for the town.
“What does he mean to do?” cried his wife, wringing her hands. “I must go after him. Oh! if Carl were here. Girls, it is of no use to oppose me. I must know what goes on.”
The breakfast was left untouched, and the whole household gathered about the mother, coaxing and soothing her. Patrick should go down, they said, and keep his master in view.
“What protection would an Irish
Catholic be to him?” cried the lady.
Betsey would go, she declared, standing with arms akimbo and her fierce head raised. She would like to see the man that would stand in her way when she was roused!
But, no; Betsey was too pugilistic. If Mr. Yorke were to see her, he would be irritated. Some one more conciliating and politic was wanted.
Clara cut the matter short by appearing in walking dress. She would go down and see what the trouble was, and send a messenger home immediately.
Meantime, Mr. Yorke was in no danger whatever. People were, indeed, more good-natured than usual after the success of the night before. He encountered mocking smiles, but no threats. His first visit was to one of the selectmen. “What are you going to do with the rascals who broke Father Rasle’s windows, last night?” he demanded, without any ceremony of greeting.
The man assumed an air of pompous indifference. “I do not propose to do anything,” he said. “If they were brought before me, as a justice, I should try them. But I am not called on to take any step in the matter.”