by George Eliot
of an ordinary whiskerless blond, and it seemed difficult to refer a certain air
of distinction about him to anything in particular, unless it were his delicate
hands and well-shapen feet.
It was a great anomaly to the Milby mind that a canting evangelical parson, who
would take tea with tradespeople, and make friends of vulgar women like the
Linnets, should have so much the air of a gentleman, and be so little like the
splayfooted Mr Stickney of Salem, to whom he approximated so closely in
doctrine. And this want of correspondence between the physique and the creed had
excited no less surprise in the larger town of Laxeter, where Mr Tryan had
formerly held a curacy; for of the two other Low Church clergymen in the
neighbourhood, one was a Welshman of globose figure and unctuous complexion, and
the other a man of atrabiliar aspect, with lank black hair, and a redundance of
limp cravat�in fact, the sort of thing you might expect in men who distributed
the publications of the Religious Tract Society and introduced Dissenting hymns
into the Church.
Mr Tryan shook hands with Mrs Linnet, bowed with rather a preoccupied air to the
other ladies, and seated himself in the large horse-hair easychair which had
been drawn forward for him, while the ladies ceased from their work, and fixed
their eyes on him, awaiting the news he had to tell them.
"It seems," he began, in a low and silvery tone, "I need a lesson of patience;
there has been something wrong in my thought or action about this evening
lecture. I have been too much bent on doing good to Milby after my own plan�too
reliant on my own wisdom."
Mr Tryan paused. He was struggling against inward irritation.
"The delegates are come back, then?" "Has Mr Prendergast given way?" "Has
Dempster succeeded?"�were the eager questions of three ladies at once.
"Yes; the town is in an uproar. As we were sitting in Mr Landor's drawing-room
we heard a loud cheering, and presently Mr Thrupp, the clerk at the bank, who
had been waiting at the Red Lion to hear the result, came to let us know. He
said Dempster had been making a speech to the mob out of the window. They were
distributing drink to the people, and hoisting placards in great letters,�'Down
with the Tryanites!' 'Down with cant!' They had a hideous caricature of me being
tripped-up and pitched head foremost out of the pulpit. Good old Mr Landor would
insist on sending me round in the carriage; he thought I should not be safe from
the mob; but I got down at the Crossways. The row was evidently preconcerted by
Dempster before he set out. He made sure of succeeding."
Mr Tryan's utterance had been getting rather louder and more rapid in the course
of this speech, and he now added, in the energetic chest-voice, which, both in
and out of the pulpit, alternated continually with his more silvery notes,�
"But his triumph will be a short one. If he thinks he can intimidate me by
obloquy or threats, he has mistaken the man he has to deal with. Mr Dempster and
his colleagues will find themselves checkmated after all. Mr Prendergast has
been false to his own conscience in this business. He knows as well as I do that
he is throwing away the souls of the people by leaving things as they are in the
parish. But I shall appeal to the Bishop�I am confident of his sympathy."
"The Bishop will be coming shortly, I suppose," said Miss Pratt, "to hold a
confirmation?"
"Yes; but I shall write to him at once, and lay the case before him. Indeed, I
must hurry away now, for I have many matters to attend to. You, ladies, have
been kindly helping me with your labours, I see," continued Mr Tryan, politely,
glancing at the canvass-covered books as he rose from his seat. Then, turning to
Mary Linnet: "Our library is really getting on, I think. You and your sister
have quite a heavy task of distribution now."
Poor Rebecca felt it very hard to bear that Mr Tryan did not turn towards her
too. If he knew how much she entered into his feelings about the lecture, and
the interest she took in the library. Well! perhaps it was her lot to be
overlooked� and it might be a token of mercy. Even a good man might not always
know the heart that was most with him. But the next moment poor Mary had a pang,
when Mr Tryan turned to Miss Eliza Pratt, and the preoccupied expression of his
face melted into that beaming timidity with which a man almost always addresses
a pretty woman.
"I have to thank you, too, Miss Eliza, for seconding me so well in your visits
to Joseph Mercer. The old man tells me how precious he finds your reading to
him, now he is no longer able to go to church."
Miss Eliza only answered by a blush, which made her look all the handsomer, but
her aunt said,
"Yes, Mr Tryan, I have ever inculcated on my dear Eliza the importance of
spending her leisure in being useful to her fellow-creatures. Your example and
instruction have been quite in the spirit of the system which I have always
pursued, though we are indebted to you for a clearer view of the motives that
should actuate us in our pursuit of good works. Not that I can accuse myself of
having ever had a self-righteous spirit, but my humility was rather instinctive
than based on a firm ground of doctrinal knowledge, such as you so admirably
impart to us."
Mrs Linnet's usual entreaty that Mr Tryan would "have something�some
wine-and-water and a biscuit," was just here a welcome relief from the necessity
of answering Miss Pratt's oration.
"Not anything, my dear Mrs Linnet, thank you. You forget what a Rechabite I am.
By the by, when I went this morning to see a poor girl in Butcher's Lane, whom I
had heard of as being in a consumption, I found Mrs Dempster there. I had often
met her in the street, but did not know it was Mrs Dempster. It seems she goes
among the poor a good deal. She is really an interesting-looking woman. I was
quite surprised, for I have heard the worst account of her habits�that she is
almost as bad as her husband. She went out hastily as soon as I entered. But,"
(apologetically) "I am keeping you all standing, and I must really hurry away.
Mrs Pettifer, I have not had the pleasure of calling on you for some time; I
shall take an early opportunity of going your way. Good evening, good evening."
CHAPTER IV.
Mr Tryan was right in saying that the "row" in Milby had been preconcerted by
Dempster. The placards and the caricature were prepared before the departure of
the delegates; and it had been settled that Mat Paine, Dempster's clerk, should
ride out on Thursday morning to meet them at Whitlow, the last place where they
would change horses, that he might gallop back and prepare an oration for the
triumvirate in case of their success. Dempster had determined to dine at
Whitlow: so that Mat Paine was in Milby again two hours before the entrance of
the delegates, and had time to send a whisper up the back streets that there was
promise of a "spree" in the Bridge Way, as well as to assemble two knots of
picked men�one to feed the flame of orthodox zeal with gin-and-water, at the
Green Man, near High Street; th
e other to solidify their church principles with
heady beer at the Bear and Ragged Staff, in the Bridge Way.
The Bridge Way was an irregular straggling street, where the town fringed off
raggedly into the Whitlow road: rows of new red-brick houses, in which
ribbon-looms were rattling behind long lines of window, alternating with old,
half-thatched, half-tiled cottages�one of those dismal wide streets where dirt
and misery have no long shadows thrown on them to soften their ugliness. Here,
about half-past five o'clock, Silly Caleb, an idiot well known in Dog Lane, but
more of a stranger in the Bridge Way, was seen slouching along with a string of
boys hooting at his heels; presently another group, for the most part out at
elbows, came briskly in the same direction, looking round them with an air of
expectation; and at no long interval, Deb Traunter, in a pink flounced gown and
floating ribbons, was observed talking with great affability to two men in
sealskin caps and fustian, who formed her cortege. The Bridge Way began to have
a presentiment of something in the wind. Phib Cook left her evening wash-tub and
appeared at her door in soap-suds, a bonnet-poke, and general dampness; three
narrow-chested ribbon-weavers, in rusty black streaked with shreds of
many-coloured silk, sauntered out with their hands in their pockets; and Molly
Beale, a brawny old virago, descrying wiry Dame Ricketts peeping out from her
entry, seized the opportunity of renewing the morning's skirmish. In short, the
Bridge Way was in that state of excitement which is understood to announce a
"demonstration" on the part of the British public; and the afflux of remote
townsmen increasing, there was soon so large a crowd that it was time for Bill
Powers, a plethoric Goliath, who presided over the knot of beerdrinkers at the
Bear and Ragged Staff, to issue forth with his companions, and, like the
enunciator of the ancient myth, make the assemblage distinctly conscious of the
common sentiment that had drawn them together. The expectation of the delegates'
chaise, added to the fight between Molly Beale and Dame Ricketts, and the
illadvised appearance of a lean bull-terrier, were a sufficient safety-valve to
the popular excitement during the remaining quarter of an hour; at the end of
which, the chaise was seen approaching along the Whitlow road, with oak boughs
ornamenting the horses' heads, and, to quote the account of this interesting
scene which was sent to the Rotherby Guardian, "loud cheers immediately
testified to the sympathy of the honest fellows collected there, with the
public-spirited exertions of their fellow-townsmen." Bill Powers, whose
bloodshot eyes, bent hat, and protuberant altitude, marked him out as the
natural leader of the assemblage, undertook to interpret the common sentiment by
stopping the chaise, advancing to the door with raised hat, and begging to know
of Mr Dempster, whether the Rector had forbidden the "canting lecture."
"Yes, yes," said Mr Dempster. "Keep up a jolly good hurray."
No public duty could have been more easy and agreeable to Mr Powers and his
associates, and the chorus swelled all the way to the High Street, where, by a
mysterious coincidence often observable in these spontaneous "demonstrations,"
large placards on long poles were observed to shoot upwards from among the
crowd, principally in the direction of Tucker's Lane, where the Green Man was
situated. One bore, "Down with the Tryanites!" another, "No Cant!" another,
"Long live our venerable Curate!" and one in still larger letters, "Sound Church
Principles and no Hypocrisy!" But a still more remarkable impromptu was a huge
caricature of Mr Tryan in gown and band, with an enormous aur�ole of yellow hair
and upturned eyes, standing on the pulpit stairs and trying to pull down old Mr
Crewe. Groans, yells, and hisses�hisses, yells, and groans�only stemmed by the
appearance of another caricature representing Mr Tryan being pitched
head-foremost from the pulpit stairs by a hand which the artist, either from
subtilty of intention or want of space, had left unindicated. In the midst of
the tremendous cheering that saluted this piece of symbolical art, the chaise
had reached the door of the Red Lion, and loud cries of "Dempster for ever!"
with a feebler cheer now and then for Tomlinson and Budd, were presently
responded to by the appearance of the public-spirited attorney at the large
upper window, where also were visible a little in the background the small sleek
head of Mr Budd, and the blinking countenance of Mr Tomlinson.
Mr Dempster held his hat in his hand, and poked his head forward with a butting
motion by way of bow. A storm of cheers subsided at last into dropping sounds of
"Silence!" "Hear him!" "Go it, Dempster!" and the lawyer's rasping voice became
distinctly audible.
"Fellow Townsmen! It gives us the sincerest pleasure�I speak for my respected
colleagues as well as myself�to witness these strong proofs of your attachment
to the principles of our excellent Church, and your zeal for the honour of our
venerable pastor. But it is no more than I expected of you. I know you well.
I've known you for the last twenty years to be as honest and respectable a set
of rate-payers as any in this county. Your hearts are sound to the core! No man
had better try to thrust his cant and hypocrisy down your throats. You're used
to wash them with liquor of a better flavour. This is the proudest moment in my
own life, and I think I may say in that of my colleagues, in which I have to
tell you that our exertions in the cause of sound religion and manly morality
have been crowned with success. Yes, my fellow Townsmen! I have the
gratification of announcing to you thus formally what you have already learned
indirectly. The pulpit from which our venerable pastor has fed us with sound
doctrine for half a century is not to be invaded by a fanatical, sectarian,
double-faced, Jesuitical interloper! We are not to have our young people
demoralised and corrupted by the temptations to vice, notoriously connected with
Sunday evening lectures! We are not to have a preacher obtruding himself upon
us, who decries good works, and sneaks into our homes perverting the faith of
our wives and daughters! We are not to be poisoned with doctrines which damp
every innocent enjoyment, and pick a poor man's pocket of the six-pence with
which he might buy himself a cheerful glass after a hard day's work, under
pretence of paying for bibles to send to the Chicktaws!
"But I'm not going to waste your valuable time with unnecessary words. I am a
man of deeds" ("Ay, damn you, that you are, and you charge well for 'em too,"
said a voice from the crowd, probably that of a gentleman who was immediately
afterwards observed with his hat crushed over his head.) "I shall always be at
the service of my fellow-townsmen, and whoever dares to hector over you, or
interfere with your innocent pleasures, shall have an account to settle with
Robert Dempster.
"Now, my boys! you can't do better than disperse and carry the good news to all
your fellow-townsmen, whose hearts are as sound as your ow
n. Let some of you go
one way and some another, that every man, woman, and child in Milby may know
what you know yourselves. But before we part, let us have three cheers for True
Religion, and down with Cant!"
When the last cheer was dying, Mr Dempster closed the window, and the
judiciously instructed placards and caricatures moved off in divers directions,
followed by larger or smaller divisions of the crowd. The greatest attraction
apparently lay in the direction of Dog Lane, the outlet towards Paddiford
Common, whither the caricatures were moving; and you foresee, of course, that
those works of symbolical art were consumed with a liberal expenditure of dry
gorse-bushes and vague shouting.
After these great public exertions, it was natural that Mr Dempster and his
colleagues should feel more in need than usual of a little social relaxation;
and a party of their friends was already beginning to assemble in the large
parlour of the Red Lion, convened partly by their own curiosity, and partly by
the invaluable Mat Paine. The most capacious punch-bowl was put in requisition;
and that born gentleman, Mr Lowme, seated opposite Mr Dempster as "Vice,"
undertook to brew the punch, defying the criticisms of the envious men out of
office, who, with the readiness of irresponsibility, ignorantly suggested more
lemons. The social festivities were continued till long past midnight, when
several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one
of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter.
Mr Dempster had done as much justice to the punch as any of the party; and his
friend Boots, though aware that the lawyer could "carry his liquor like Old
Nick," with whose social demeanour Boots seemed to be particularly well
acquainted, nevertheless thought it might be as well to see so good a customer
in safety to his own door, and walked quietly behind his elbow out of the
inn-yard. Dempster, however, soon became aware of him, stopped short, and,
turning slowly round upon him, recognised the well-known drab waistcoat sleeves,
conspicuous enough in the starlight.
"You twopenny scoundrel! What do you mean by dogging a professional man's
footsteps in this way? I'll break every bone in your skin if you attempt to
track me, like a beastly cur sniffing at one's pocket. Do you think a gentleman
will make his way home any the better for having the scent of your
blacking-bottle thrust up his nostrils?"
Boots slunk back, in more amusement than illhumour, thinking the lawyer's "rum
talk" was doubtless part and parcel of his professional ability; and Mr Dempster
pursued his slow way alone.
His house lay in Orchard Street, which opened on the prettiest outskirt of the
town�the church, the parsonage, and a long stretch of green fields. It was an
old-fashioned house, with an overhanging upper story; outside, it had a face of
rough stucco, and casement windows with green frames and shutters; inside, it
was full of long passages, and rooms with low ceilings. There was a large heavy
knocker on the green door, and though Mr Dempster carried a latch-key, he
sometimes chose to use the knocker. He chose to do so now. The thunder resounded
through Orchard Street, and, after a single minute, there was a second clap
louder than the first. Another minute, and still the door was not opened;
whereupon Mr Dempster, muttering, took out his latch-key, and, with less
difficulty than might have been expected, thrust it into the door. When he
opened the door the passage was dark.
"Janet!" in the loudest rasping tone, was the next sound that rang through the
house.
"Janet!" again�before a slow step was heard on the stairs, and a distant light
began to flicker on the wall of the passage.
"Curse you! you creeping idiot! Come faster, can't you?"
Yet another few seconds, and the figure of a tall woman, holding aslant a
