He had come to England at this period,—­and in the small provincial town where his final rupture with the illiterate theatrical manager had taken place, there was a curious, silent contest going on between the inhabitants and their vicar.  The vicar was an extremely unpopular person,—­and the people were striving against him, and fighting him at every possible point of discussion.  For so small a community the struggle was grim,—­and Aubrey for some time could not understand it, till one day an explanation was offered him by a man engaged in stitching leather, in a dirty evil-smelling little hole of a shop under a dark archway.

“You see, sir, it’s this way,” he said, “Bessie Morton,—­she wor as good a girl as ever stepped—­bright and buxom and kind hearted—­yes, that was Bessie, till some black scoundrel got her love at a soft moment, and took the better of her.  Well!—­I suppose some good Christian folk would say she wor a bad ’un—­but I’ll warrant she worn’t bad at heart, but only just soft-like—­and she an orphan, with no one to look after her, or say she done ill or well.  And there was a little child born—­the prettiest little creature ye ever saw—­Bessie’s own copy—­all blue eyes and chestnut hair—­and it just lived a matter of fower year, and then it took sick and died.  Bessie went nigh raving mad; that she did.  And now, what do you think, sir?  The passon refused to bury that there little child in consecrated ground, cos’twas born out of wedlock!  What d’ye think of that for a follower of Jesus with the loving heart?  What d’ye think of that?”

“Think!” said Aubrey indignantly, with an involuntary clenching of his hand, “Why, that it is abominable—­disgraceful!  I should like to thrash the brute!”

“So would a many,” said his informant with an approving chuckle, “So would a many!  But that’s not all—­there’s more behind—­and worse too—­”

“Why, what can be worse?”

“Well, sir, we thinks—­we ain’t got proofs to go on—­for Bessie keeps her own counsel—­but we thinks the passon hisself is the father of that there little thing he winnot lay in a holy grave!”

“Good God!” cried Aubrey.

“Ay, ay—­you may say ‘Good God!’ with a meaning, sir,” said the leather-seller—­“And that’s why, as we ain’t got no facts and no power with bishops, and we ain’t able to get at the passon anyhow, we’re just making it as unpleasant for him in our way as we can.  That’s all the people can do, sir, but what they does, they means!”

This incident deeply impressed Aubrey Leigh, and proved to be the turning point in his career.  Like a flash of light illumining some divinely written scroll of duty, he suddenly perceived a way in which to shape his own life and make it of assistance to others.  He began his plan of campaign by going about among the poorer classes, working as they worked, living as they lived, and enduring what they endured.  Disguised as a tramp, he wandered with tramps.