After service, however, the whole mystery was cleared up.  Bainton, in his Sunday best, with hat in hand, presented himself at the garden gate on his master’s return from the church to the rectory, and after a word or two was admitted into the study.  Bainton, honest as the daylight, and sturdy in his principles as an oak in its fibres, had determined to have ‘no humbuggin’ wi’ Passon.’  And in a few words, spoken with a great deal of feeling and rough eloquence, he had told all,—­how Miss Vancourt had gone away ‘suddint-like’ from the Manor,—­and how it was said and reported all through the county and neighbourhood that she had gone because her engaged husband, Lord Roxmouth, had caught her ‘makin’ love’ to a parson, that parson being no other than St. Rest’s own beloved ‘man o’ God,’ John Walden.  And that Lord Roxmouth had at once gone after her, and that neither of the twain ‘weren’t never comin’ back no more.’  So said Bainton, twirling his cap round, and fixing his eyes sympathetically on his master’s face,—­eyes as faithful as those of the dog Nebbie, who clambered at his master’s knee, equally gazing up at him with a fondness exceeding all speech.

John Walden sat, white and rigid, in his chair and heard the tale out to its end.

“Is that all?” he asked, when Bainton had concluded.

“That’s all, an’ ain’t it enough, Passon?” queried Bainton in somewhat dismal accents.  “Not that I takes in ’arf wot I hears, but from the fust I sez you should know every bit on it, an’ if no one else ’ad the ’art or the pluck to tell ye straight out, I’d tell ye myself.  For that old Miss Tabitha’s got a tongue as long as a tailor’s yard-measure wot allus measures a bit oif to ’is own good, an’ Sir Morton Pippitt he do nothin’ but run wild-like all over the place a-talkin’ of it everywhere, an’ old Putty Leveson, he’s up at the ‘All, day in, an’ day out, tellin’ ‘ow you was goin’ to hit ’im in the eye—­hor-hor-hor!—­an’ why didn’t ye do it, Passon?—­’twould a’ been a real Gospel mercy!—­an’ ’ow ’twas all about Miss Vancourt, till Mr. Hadderley ’e come up an throwed ’im over in the road on ’is back which makes me think all the better o’ that young man, ’owsomever, I never took to ‘im afore.  But though he’s all skin an’ bone an’ long ’air as red as a biled carrot, he’s got a fist of ’is own, that’s pretty plain, an’ if he knocked down old Putty Leveson it shows ’e’s got some sense in ’im as well as sperrit.  For it’s all over the place that there’s trouble about Miss Vancourt, an’ you may take my wurrd for it, Passon, they don’t leave the poor little leddy alone, nor you neither, an’ never takes into their minds as ’ow you’re old enough to be ’er father.  That Miss Tabitha don’t spare no wurrds agin ‘er—­an’ as ye know, Passon, she’s a leddy wot’s like curdled cream all gone wrong in a thunderstorm.  Anyways, I thought it best to tell ye straight out an’ no lyin’ nor trickin’—­an’ if I’ve stepped over my dooty, I ’umbly axes pardin, but I means well, Passon,—­I means well,—­I do reely now!”