Put Yourself in His Place | Page 4

distance. Nothing
would have pleased them better than to break the sacred windows time
had spared, and defile the graves of their forefathers with pitch-farthing
and other arts; but it was three miles off, and there was a lion in the
way: they must pass in sight of Squire Raby's house; and, whenever
they had tried it, he and his groom had followed them on swift horses
that could jump as well as gallop, had caught them in the churchyard,
and lashed them heartily; and the same night notice to quit had been
given to their parents, who were all Mr. Raby's weekly tenants: and this
had led to a compromise and flagellation.
Once or twice every summer a more insidious foe approached. Some
little party of tourists, including a lady, who sketched in water and
never finished anything, would hear of the old church, and wander up
to it. But Mr. Raby's trusty groom was sure to be after them, with
orders to keep by them, under guise of friendship, and tell them
outrageous figments, and see that they demolished not, stole not,
sculptured not.
All this was odd enough in itself, but it astonished nobody who knew
Mr. Raby. His father and predecessor had guarded the old church
religiously in his day, and was buried in it, by his own orders; and, as
for Guy Raby himself, what wonder he respected it, since his own mind,
like that old church, was out of date, and a relic of the past?
An antique Tory squire, nursed in expiring Jacobitism, and cradled in
the pride of race; educated at Oxford, well read in books, versed in
county business, and acquainted with trade and commerce; yet puffed
up with aristocratic notions, and hugging the very prejudices our
nobility are getting rid of as fast as the vulgar will let them.
He had a sovereign contempt for tradespeople, and especially for
manufacturers. Any one of those numerous disputes between masters
and mechanics, which distinguish British industry, might have been
safely referred to him, for he abhorred and despised them both with
strict impartiality.
The lingering beams of a bright December day still gilded the moss-

clad roof of that deserted church, and flamed on its broken panes, when
a young man came galloping toward it, from Hillsborough, on one of
those powerful horses common in that district.
He came so swiftly and so direct, that, ere the sun had been down
twenty minutes, he and his smoking horse had reached a winding gorge
about three furlongs from the church. Here, however, the bridle- road,
which had hitherto served his turn across the moor, turned off sharply
toward the village of Cairnhope, and the horse had to pick his way over
heather, and bog, and great loose stones. He lowered his nose, and
hesitated more than once. But the rein was loose upon his neck, and he
was left to take his time. He had also his own tracks to guide him in
places, for this was by no means his first visit; and he managed so well,
that at last he got safe to a mountain stream which gurgled past the
north side of the churchyard: he went cautiously through the water, and
then his rider gathered up the reins, stuck in the spurs, and put him at a
part of the wall where the moonlight showed a considerable breach.
The good horse rose to it, and cleared it, with a foot to spare; and the
invader landed in the sacred precincts unobserved, for the road he had
come by was not visible from Raby House, nor indeed was the church
itself.
He was of swarthy complexion, dressed in a plain suit of tweed, well
made, and neither new nor old. His hat was of the newest fashion, and
glossy. He had no gloves on.
He dismounted, and led his horse to the porch. He took from his pocket
a large glittering key and unlocked the church-door; then gave his horse
a smack on the quarter. That sagacious animal walked into the church
directly, and his iron hoofs rang strangely as he paced over the brick
floor of the aisle, and made his way under the echoing vault, up to the
very altar; for near it was the vestry- chest, and in that chest his corn.
The young man also entered the church; but soon came out again with a
leathern bucket in his hand. He then went round the church, and was
busily employed for a considerable time.
He returned to the porch, carried his bucket in, and locked the door,
leaving the key inside.
That night Abel Eaves, a shepherd, was led by his dog, in search of a
strayed sheep, to a place rarely trodden by the foot of man