"A fine clashing it was!" cried Mrs. West. "I have heard something else
this afternoon, George, worse than that: Bean's furniture is being taken
away."
"What?" cried the Vicar.
"It's true. Sarah went out on an errand and passed the cottage. The
chairs and tables were being put outside the door by two men, she says:
brokers, I conclude."
Mr. West made short work of his tea and started for the scene. Thomas
Bean was a very small farmer indeed, renting about thirty acres. What
with the heavy rates, as he said, and other outgoings and bad seasons,
and ill-luck altogether, he had been behind in his payments this long
while; and now the ill-luck seemed to have come to a climax. Bean and
his wife were old; their children were scattered abroad.
"Oh, sir," cried the old lady when she saw the Vicar, the tears raining
from her eyes, "it cannot be right that this oppression should fall upon
us! We had just managed--Heaven knows how, for I'm sure I don't--to pay
the Midsummer rent; and now they've come upon us for the rates, and have
took away things worth ten times the sum."
"For the rates!" mechanically spoke the Vicar.
She supposed it was a question. "Yes, sir; two of 'em we had in the
house. One was for putting up the chimes; and the other--well, I can't
just remember what the other was. The beadle, old Crow, comes in, sir,
this afternoon.
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