courtesy as matter of course, and of no meaning, he hung his head
somewhat, and there was a slight blush on his cheek; and as he glanced
upward and round him--shyly, as it were--and his eye met those friendly
looks, it returned them with an earnestness that had in it something
touching as well as cordial--an eye that said, as well as eye could say,
"I don't quite deserve it, I fear, neighbors; but I thank you for your
good-will with my whole heart." And so readily was that glance of the
eye understood, that I think, if that scene had taken place out of doors
instead of in the church, there would have been an hurrah as the Squire
passed out of sight.

Scarcely had Mr. Hazeldean got well out of the churchyard, ere Mr. Stirn
was whispering in his ear. As Stirn whispered, the Squire's face grew
long, and his color changed. The congregation, now flocking out of the
church, exchanged looks with each other; that ominous conjunction
between Squire and man chilled back all the effects of the Parson's
sermon. The Squire struck his cane violently into the ground. "I would
rather you had told me Black Bess had got the glanders. A young
gentleman, coming to visit my son, struck and insulted in Hazeldean; a
young gentleman--'sdeath, sir, a relation--his grandmother was a
Hazeldean. I do believe Jemima's right, and the world's coming to an
end! But Leonard Fairfield in the stocks! What will the Parson say? and
after such a sermon! 'Rich man, respect the poor!' And the good widow,
too; and poor Mark, who almost died in my arms. Stirn, you have a heart
of stone! You confounded, lawless, merciless miscreant, who the deuce
gave you the right to imprison man or boy in my parish of Hazeldean
without trial, sentence, or warrant? Run and let the boy out before any
one sees him: run, or I shall"--The Squire elevated his cane, and his
eyes shot fire. Mr. Stirn did not run, but he walked off very fast. The
Squire drew back a few paces, and again took his wife's arm. "Just wait
a bit for the Parson, while I talk to the congregation. I want to stop
'em all, if I can, from going into the village; but how?"

Frank heard, and replied readily--

"Give 'em some beer, sir."

"Beer! on a Sunday! For shame, Frank!" cried Mrs. Hazeldean.

"Hold your tongue, Harry. Thank you Frank," said the Squire, and his
brow grew as clear as the blue sky above him. I doubt if Riccabocca
could have got him out of his dilemma with the same ease as Frank had
done.