Shirley Read Free

minutes since.«
    »I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone,« began Mr. Donne; »take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of wine?«
    His civilities received no answer: the falcon in the black coat proceeded: –
    »What do I talk about the gift of tongues? Gift, indeed! I mistook the chapter, and book, and testament: – Gospel for law, Acts for Genesis, the city of Jerusalem for the plain of Shinar. It was no gift, but the confusion of tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a post.
You,
apostles? What! – you three? Certainly not: – three presumptuous Babylonish masons, – neither more nor less!«
    »I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat together over a glass of wine, after a friendly dinner: settling the Dissenters.«
    »Oh! settling the Dissenters – were you? Was Malone settling the Dissenters? It sounded to me much more like settling his co-apostles. You were quarrelling together; making almost as much noise – you three alone – as Moses Barraclough, the preaching tailor, and all his hearers, are making in the methodist chapel down yonder, where they are in the thick of a revival. I know whose fault it is – it is yours, Malone.«
    »Mine! sir?«
    »Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting were quiet before you came, and would be quiet if you were gone. I wish when you crossed the Channel, you had left your Irish habits behind you. Dublin student ways won't do here: the proceedings which might pass unnoticed in a wild bog and mountain district in Connaught will, in a decent English parish, bring disgrace on those who indulge in them, and what is far worse, on the sacred institution of which they are merely the humble appendages.«
    There was a certain dignity in the little elderly gentleman's manner of rebuking these youths; though it was not, perhaps, quite the dignity most appropriate to the occasion. Mr. Helstone – standing straight as a ramrod – looking keen as a kite, presented, despite his clerical hat, black coat, and gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer chiding his subalterns, than of a venerable priest exhorting his sons in the faith. Gospel mildness – apostolic benignity, never seemed to have breathed their influence over that keen brown visage; but firmness had fixed the features, and sagacity had carved her own lines about them.
    »I met Supplehough,« he continued, »plodding through the mud this wet night, going to preach at Milldean opposition shop. As I told you, I heard Barraclough bellowing in the midst of a conventicle like a possessed bull; and I find
you,
gentlemen, tarrying over your half pint of muddy port-wine, and scolding like angry old women. No wonder Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult converts in a day – which he did a fortnight since; no wonder Barraclough, scamp and hypocrite as he is, should attract all the weaver-girls, in their flowers and ribbons, to witness how much harder are his knuckles than the wooden brim of his tub; as little wonder that
you,
when you are left to yourselves, without your rectors – myself, and Hall, and Boult-by – to back you, should too often perform the holy service of our church to bare walls, and read your bit of a dry discourse to the clerk, and the organist, and the beadle. But enough of the subject: I came to see Malone – I have an errand unto thee, O captain!«
    »What is it?« inquired Malone discontentedly; »there can be no funeral to take at this time of day.«
    »Have you any arms about you?«
    »Arms, sir? – yes, and legs:« and he advanced the mighty members.
    »Bah! weapons, I mean.«
    »I have the pistols you gave me yourself; I never part with them: I lay them ready cocked on a chair by my bedside at night. I have my blackthorn.«
    »Very good. Will you go to Hollow's-mill?«
    »What is stirring at Hollow's-mill?«
    »Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will be; but Moore is alone there. He has sent all the workmen he can trust to Stilbro'; there are only two women left about the place. It would be a nice opportunity for