“Yes, you come ’ome and tell mammy!” sobbed the child, who seemed to have some vague belief in Franceline’s power to avert the threatened doom.
“I dare say that will be the safest way, and I’m sure it’s the kindest,” said Miss Merrywig; “but it will be a dreadfully hot walk for you on the road, my dear, with no shelter but your sunshade. I had better go with you. I don’t mind the heat; you see I’m used to it.” Franceline could not exactly see how this fact of Miss Merrywig’s company would lessen the heat to her; but it was meant in kindness, so she assented. The meadowlands went flowering down to the river, richly planted with fine old trees, and only separated from the garden and its adjoining fields by an invisible iron rail, so that the little cottage looked as if it were in the centre of a great private park. A short cut through the fields took you out on the road in a few minutes, and the trio had not gone far when they saw Mr. Langrove walking at a brisk pace on before them, his umbrella tilted to one side to screen him from the sun, that was striking him obliquely on the right ear. Franceline clapped her hands and called out, and they soon came up to him.
“What are you doing down here, may I ask? Having your face burned, eh?” said the vicar familiarly.
Franceline burst out with her story at once. The vicar made a short, impatient gesture, and they all walked on together, Bessy holding fast by Franceline’s gown with one hand, while the other was doing duty with the bread and jam.
“Really, my dear Mr. Langrove,” broke in Miss Merrywig, “you ought to take steps; excuse me for saying so, but you really ought. It’s quite dreadful to think of the man’s frightening the poor people in this way. You really should put a stop to it.”
“My good lady,” replied the vicar, “if you can tell me how it’s to be done, there’s nothing will give me greater pleasure.”
“Well, of course you know best; but it seems to me something ought to be done. The poor people are all falling into dissent as fast as they can; it’s quite melancholy to think of it—it really is. You’ll excuse me for saying so—for it must be very painful to your feelings, and I never do interfere with what doesn’t concern me; though of course what concerns you, as our pastor, and the Church of England, does concern us, all of us—but I really think you are too forbearing. You ought to enforce your authority a little more strictly.”
“Authority!” echoed the vicar with a mild, ironical laugh. “What authority have I to enforce? Show me that first!”
“Dear me! But an ordained minister of the church, the church of the realm—surely, that gives you authority?”
“Just as much as you and other members of the church choose to accredit me with, and no more,” said Mr. Langrove, with as much bitterness in the emphasis as he was capable of. “If Griggs thinks fit to set himself up as a preacher, and every man, woman, and child in my parish choose to desert me and go over to him, I can no more prevent them than I can prevent their buying their sugar at market instead of getting it from the grocers.”