In Thy garner evermore...."
And, anyway, it had not been as though he, Coast, had done anything outrageous. A word here and a hint there to the men, warning them against premature compliance with a barely concealed tyranny.... Rossitur himself might have done the same. Supposing Coast did dislike the Robsons, to refrain from performing an obvious social duty because its performance exposed him to the charge of personal enmity would have been nothing short of cowardice. Of that, at least, he was certain.
He pulled out the stops for the final crescendo. The congregation abandoned all genteel restraint, and unburdened its accumulation of emotion in a flood of exultant song. It was pleasant to know that in spite of apprehensions this business of unions and strikes and progress made very little difference after all. There had been a good deal of talk by the bridge on Saturday nights, and several superfluous pints of beer had been drunk over heated political discussions, and for six weeks a few wives had knitted their brows over unreplenished purses; but all that was over now, and Mr. Slater in a clean white surplice was encouraging the wicked man to turn away from his wickedness, as though there had never been any unprecedented scenes in the back yard of the Wold Farm, and no queer speechifyings by a black haired man called Hunting, and a red haired man called Rossitur.
On the whole, Anderby was pleased with itself. Foreman from the Wold Farm and Ezra Dawson, who only deserted the seclusion of the Primitives once a year to climb the hill for the harvest festival, propped their foreheads on their hands and praised the Almighty for His estimable promptitude in restoring order to the village. Violet, wearing a new silk blouse, almost twisted her neck, in her effort to catch Fred Stephens's eye where he stood, white surpliced and chastened in the choir stalls, no longer an enemy of respectability, but a very nice young man with whom anyone might be seen walking out after service. Bert Armstrong flung out his chest and boomed the hymns with tremendous relish. Really, everything was about as satisfactory as it well could be. Some people, of course, did not seem very pleased, but then fellows like Waite never were satisfied about anything. In other parts of the world, strikes might lead to permanent hostilities and riots, and general discomfort. It merely confirmed the conviction of Anderby's superiority to the rest of the world, to realize how quickly and easily it recovered from this decease of industrial enterprise.
Mr. Coast, it is true, differed from the majority in his appreciation of Mr. Rossitur's intervention. The village could see how throughout the service he had sat huddled on the organ seat, chewing the ends of his moustache. Well, of course, being the chief supporter of the union, even if you couldn't be recognized officially because you weren't an agricultural labourer, it must be rather trying to have your public aspirations checked at their outset.
The sermon was over and the last hymn announced. From the choir stalls, an arm reached out and tapped Coast on the shoulder. He turned irritably. A slip of paper was thrust into his hand. He read the note scrawled on it by the vicar with increasing indignation:
"Dear Coast,
"Would you kindly manage not to go quite so fast with the hymns? I'm sure it's very gratifying to see you know them so well, but the choir cannot keep pace with you.
"Yours,
"E. C. Slater."
Well, of all the outrageous impertinence! Coast crumpled it savagely into a ball, and turned to the organ. "We plough the fields, and scatter" moaned like a funeral dirge, with long-drawn wails at the end of every line.