Mr. Stirn had not yet recovered his wonted intelligence, which, to do him
justice, was usually prompt enough, when the squire, followed hard by the
parson, arrived at the spot. Indeed, Mrs. Hazeldean's report of the
squire's urgent message, disturbed manner, and most unparalleled
invitation to the parishioners, had given wings to Parson Dale's
ordinarily slow and sedate movements. And while the squire, sharing
Stirn's amazement, beheld indeed a great pair of feet projecting from the
stocks, and saw behind them the grave face of Dr. Riccabocca under the
majestic shade of the umbrella, but not a vestige of the only being his
mind could identify with the tenancy of the stocks, Mr. Dale, catching
him by the arm, and panting hard, exclaimed with a petulance he had never
before been known to display,--except at the whisttable,--

"Mr. Hazeldean, Mr. Hazeldean, I am scandalized,--I am shocked at you.
I can bear a great deal from you, sir, as I ought to do; but to ask my
whole congregation, the moment after divine service, to go up and guzzle
ale at the Hall, and drink my health, as if a clergyman's sermon had been
a speech at a cattle-fair! I am ashamed of you, and of the parish! What
on earth has come to you all?"

"That's the very question I wish to Heaven I could answer," groaned the
squire, quite mildly and pathetically,--"What on earth has come to us
all? Ask Stirn:" (then bursting out) "Stirn, you infernal rascal, don't
you hear? What on earth has come to us all?"

"The Papisher is at the bottom of it, sir," said Stirn, provoked out of
all temper. "I does my duty, but I is but a mortal man, arter all."

"A mortal fiddlestick! Where's Leonard Fairfield, I say?"