manor, and a county magnate of the very
first order, the village folk could not
understand a man of no particular birth or
breeding, and whose money, it was well
known, had been made in trade—which,
to the Helmingham limited comprehension,
meant across a counter in a shop, "just
like Tom Boucher, the draper"—attaining
such a position. They did not like the
idea of being patronised by one whom they
considered to be of their own order, and the
foolish face which had been transmitted
through ten generations, and the stupid
head which had never had a wise idea or a
kindly thought in it, received the homage
which was denied to the clever man who
had been the founder of his own fortune,
and who was the best landlord and the
kindest neighbour in the country round.
But this prejudice soon wore away. The
practical good sense which had gained for
Mr. Creswell his position soon made itself
felt among the Helmingham folk, and the
"canny" ones soon grew as loud in his
praise as they had been in his disparagement.
Even Jack Forman, the ne'er-do-
weel of the village, who was always
sunning his fat form at alehouse doors, and
who had but few good words for any one,
save for the most recent "stander" of beer,
had been heard to declare outside that Mr.
Creswell was the "raight soort," a phrase
which, in Jack's limited vocabulary, stood
for something highly complimentary. The
young ladies, too, were exceedingly popular.
They were pretty, of a downright English
prettiness, expressed in hair and eyes and
complexion, a prettiness commending itself
at once to the uneducated English rustic
taste, which is apt to find classical features
"peaky," and romantic expression "fal-lal."
They were girls about whom there was
"no nonsense"—cheerful, bright, and
homely. The feelings which congealed
into cold politeness under the influence of
Marian Ashurst's supposed "superiority"
overflowed with womanly tenderness when
their possessor was watching Widow Halton
through the fever, or tending little Madge
Mason's crippled limb. The bright faces
of "the young ladies" were known for
miles through the country round, and
whenever sickness or distress crossed the
threshold they were speedily followed by
these ministering angels. If human prayers
for others' welfare avail on high, Mr. Creswell
and his nieces had them in scores.

But the Helmingham folk did not pray
much for young Tom; on the contrary,
their aspirations towards him were, it is to
be feared, of a malignant kind. The
warfare which always existed between the
village folk and the Grammar School boys
was carried on without rancour. The farmers
whose orchards were robbed, whose
growing wheat was trampled down, whose
ducks were dog-hunted, contented
themselves with putting in an occasional
appearance with a cart-whip, fully knowing,
at the same time, the impossibility of
catching their young and active
tormentors, and with "darng-ing" the rising
generation in general, and the youth then
profiting by Sir Ranulph Clinton's
generosity in particular. The village tradesmen
whose windows were broken, when
they discovered who were the offenders,
laid on an additional item to their parents'
account; when they could not bring the
crime home to any boy in particular,
laid on an additional item to Mr.
Ashurst's account, and thus consoled
themselves. Moreover there was a general
feeling that somehow, in a way that they
could not and never attempted to explain,
the school, since Mr. Ashurst had had it
in hand, had been a credit to the place,
and the canny folk, in their canniness,
liked something which brought them credit
and cost them nothing, and had friendly
feelings to the masters and the boys. But
not to young Tom Creswell. They hated
him, and they said so roundly. What was
youthful merriment and mischief in other
boys was, they averred, "bedevilment" in
young Tom. Standing at their doors on
fine summer evenings, the village folk
would pause in their gossip to look after
him as he cantered by on his chesnut pony
—an animal which Banks, the farrier,
declared to be as vicious and as cross-grained
as its master. Eyes were averted as he
passed, and no hat was raised in salutation;
but that mattered little to the rider. He
noticed it, of course, as he noticed
everything in his hang-dog manner, with furtive
glances under his eyebrows; and he thought
that when he came into his kingdom—he
often speculated upon that time—he would
make these dogs pay for their insolence.
Jack Forman was never drunk, no given
amount of beer—and it was always given
in Jack's case, as he never paid for it—
could make him wholly intoxicated; but
when he was in that state, which he
explained himself as having "an extry pint
in him," Jack would stand up, holding on
by the horse-trough in front of the Seven
Stars, and shake his disengaged fist at
young Tom riding past, and express his