“Gentlemen, I congratulate you on the firmness with which you have this day asserted the rights of the people of this place to the use of one of the few scraps of mother earth of which they have not been despoiled.”
“Gentlemen,” shouted an excited member of the procession, “three cheers for the resumption of the land of England by the people of England! Hip, hip, hurrah!”
The cheers were given with much spirit, Sir Charles’s cheeks becoming redder at each repetition. He looked angrily at the clergyman, now distracted by the charms of Lady Brandon, whose scorn, as she surveyed the crowd, expressed itself by a pout which became her pretty lips extremely.
Then a middleaged laborer stepped from the road into the field, hat in hand, ducked respectfully, and said: “Look ‘e here, Sir Charles. Don’t ‘e mind them fellers. There ain’t a man belonging to this neighborhood among ‘em; not one in your employ or on your land. Our dooty to you and your ladyship, and we will trust to you to do what is fair by us. We want no interlopers from Lunnon to get us into trouble with your honor, and—”
“You unmitigated cur,” exclaimed Trefusis fiercely, “what right have you to give away to his unborn children the liberty of your own?”
“They’re not unborn,” said Lady Brandon indignantly. “That just shows how little you know about it.”
“No, nor mine either,” said the man, emboldened by her ladyship’s support. “And who are you that call me a cur?”
“Who am I! I am a rich man — one of your masters, and privileged to call you what I please. You are a grovelling famine-broken slave. Now go and seek redress against me from the law. I can buy law enough to ruin you for less money than it would cost me to shoot deer in Scotland or vermin here. How do you like that state of things? Eh?”
The man was taken aback. “Sir Charles will stand by me,” he said, after a pause, with assumed confidence, but with an anxious glance at the baronet.
“If he does, after witnessing the return you have made me for standing by you, he is a greater fool than I take him to be.”
“Gently, gently,” said the clergyman. “There is much excuse to be made for the poor fellow.”
“As gently as you please with any man that is a free man at heart,” said Trefusis; “but slaves must be driven, and this fellow is a slave to the marrow.”
“Still, we must be patient. He does not know—”
“He knows a great deal better than you do,” said Lady Brandon, interrupting. “And the more shame for you, because you ought to know best. I suppose you were educated somewhere. You will not be satisfied with yourself when your bishop hears of this. Yes,” she added, turning to Trefusis with an infantile air of wanting to cry and being forced to laugh against her will, “you may laugh as much as you please — don’t trouble to pretend it’s only coughing — but we will write to his bishop, as he shall find to his cost.”
“Hold your tongue, Jane, for God’s sake,” said Sir Charles, taking her horse by the bridle and backing him from Trefusis.
“I will not. If you choose to stand here and allow them to walk away with the walls in their pockets, I don’t, and won’t. Why cannot you make the police do something?”
“They can do nothing,” said Sir Charles, almost beside himself with humiliation. “I cannot do anything until I see my solicitor. How can you bear to stay here wrangling with these fellows? It is SO undignified!”
“It’s all very well to talk of dignity, but I don’t see the dignity of letting people trample on our grounds without leave. Mr. Smilash, will you make them all go away, and tell them that they shall all be prosecuted and put in prison?”
“They are going to the crossroads, to hold a public meeting and — of course — make speeches. I am desired to say that they deeply regret that their demonstration should have disturbed you personally, Lady Brandon.”
“So they ought,” she replied. “They don’t look very sorry. They are getting frightened at what they have done, and they would be glad to escape the consequences by apologizing, most likely. But they shan’t. I am not such a fool as they think.”
“They don’t think so. You have proved the contrary.”
“Jane,” said Sir Charles pettishly, “do you know this gentleman?”
“I should think I do,” said Lady Brandon emphatically.
Trefusis bowed as if he had just been formally introduced to the baronet, who, against his will, returned the salutation stiffly, unable to ignore an older, firmer, and quicker man under the circumstances.
“This seems an unneighborly business, Sir Charles,” said Trefusis, quite at his ease; “but as it is a public question, it need not prejudice our private relations. At least I hope not.”
Sir Charles bowed again, more stiffly than before.
“I am, like you, a capitalist and landlord.”
“Which it seems to me you have no right to be, if you are in earnest,” struck in Chester, who had been watching the scene in silence by Sir Charles’s side.
“Which, as you say, I have undoubtedly no right to be,” said Trefusis, surveying him with interest; “but which I nevertheless cannot help being. Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Chichester Erskine, author of a tragedy entitled ‘The Patriot Martyrs,’ dedicated with enthusiastic devotion to the Spirit of Liberty and half a dozen famous upholders of that principle, and denouncing in forcible language the tyranny of the late Tsar of Russia, Bomba of Naples, and Napoleon the Third?”
“Yes, sir,” said Erskine, reddening; for he felt that this description might make his drama seem ridiculous to those present who had not read it.
“Then,” said Trefusis, extending his hand — Erskine at first thought for a hearty shake— “give me half-a-crown towards the cost of our expedition here to-day to assert the right of the people to tread the soil we are standing upon.”
“You shall do nothing of the sort, Chester,” cried Lady Brandon. “I never heard of such a thing in my life! Do you pay us for the wall and fence your people have broken, Mr. Smilash; that would be more to the purpose.”
“If I could find a thousand men as practical as you, Lady Brandon, I might accomplish the next great revolution before the end of this season.” He looked at her for a moment curiously, as if trying to remember; and then added inconsequently: “How are your friends? There was a Miss — Miss — I am afraid I have forgotten all the names except your own.”
“Gertrude Lindsay is staying with us. Do you remember her?”
“I think — no, I am afraid I do not. Let me see. Was she a haughty young lady?”
“Yes,” said Lady Brandon eagerly, forgetting the wall and fence. “But who do you think is coming next Thursday? I met her accidentally the last time I was in town. She’s not a bit changed. You can’t forget her, so don’t pretend to be puzzled.”
“You have not told me who she is yet. And I shall probably not remember her. You must not expect me to recognize everyone instantaneously, as I recognized you.”
“What stuff! You will know Agatha fast enough.”
“Agatha Wylie!” he said, with sudden gravity.
“Yes. She is coming on Thursday. Are you glad?”
“I fear I shall have no opportunity of seeing her.”
“Oh, of course you must see her. It will be so jolly for us all to meet again just as we used. Why can’t you come to luncheon on Thursday?”
“I shall be delighted, if you will really allow me to come after my