It was only a dream,
but dreams are the hieroglyphics of the other world if we had the key
to them; and at any rate the influences they leave behind are real
enough. "Poor Martha!" was the squire's first thought on rousing
himself. "I know now what t' heart-ache she spoke of is like. I'm
feared I heven't been as sorry as I might hev been for her."
Yet that very night, while the squire was suffering from the first
shock of wounded, indignant amazement, God had taken Martha's case
in his own hand. The turn in Ben's trouble began just when the
preacher spoke to Martha. At that hour Bill Laycock entered the village
ale-house and called for a pot of porter. Three men, whom he knew well,
were sitting at a table, drinking and talking. To one of them Bill
said, "It's a fine night," and after a sulky pause the man answered,
"It ails nowt." Then he looked at his mates, put down his pot, and
walked out. In a few minutes the others followed.
Laycock went back to his house and sat down to think. There was no
use fighting popular ill-will any longer. Mary would not walk on the
same side of the street with him. It was the evident intention of the
whole village to drive him away. He remembered that Swale had told
him there was "a feeling against him," and advised him to leave. But
Swale had offered to buy his house and forge for half their value,
and he imagined there was a selfish motive in the advice.
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