Bess of the Woods by Warwick Deeping

Jeffray, much impressed by Mr. Lancelot's brotherly ardor, trudged down across the park that evening and took the road to Rodenham village. The Shrovetide cock-throwing was at an end, and beer had succeeded to brutality. Villagers were shouting and singing in front of the inn, where a fuddled old fiddler with a wooden leg sat perched on a barrel, scraping away at his violin. The red, hairy faces, with their animal laughter and their vociferous mouths, made the master of Rodenham shudder. A number of lads and wenches were racing and scrimmaging on the green, tumbling one another upon the grass, their coarse laughter sounding through the village. Jeffray pushed through the crowd towards the inn, holding his head high and turning his flushed face neither to the right nor the left. He found Wilson in the private parlor dining on steak and potatoes, with a pot of porter at his elbow. The painter sprang up and gripped Jeffray's hand as the lad blurted out the result of his conference with Mr. Lot. Wilson's rough face brightened. He wiped his great mouth, and looked at Richard with affection.

"Ah, sir," he said, "I am glad to hear the sky is clearing. There is a weight, Richard, a great weight off my mind. I was not afraid, sir, of Mr. Hardacre's sword, but I was afraid of injuring your happiness."