The girl coloured, but kept her countenance marvellously.
“I am right glad he hath recovered,” she said, in an even, carefully-controlled voice. “Hath he rejoined Sir William Waller?”
“Not yet,” said the Doctor, admiring her self-command, yet longing to know what her thoughts really were. “He hopes to be strong enough to return next month, and, till then, remains at Notting Hill.”
Just then the sound of loud and angry voices in the entrance lobby startled them all, and the next minute the door was opened by Mrs. Durdle, who was installed as housekeeper at the Vicarage.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “here’s Zachary the clerk, beside himself, with Peter Waghorn, and I do think, sir, they’ll soon come to blows.”
“What’s amiss?” said the Vicar, setting his college cap straight and hastily rising from his elbow-chair. “I believe, sir, you know this man Waghorn,” he added, glancing at the Doctor, who followed him out of the room, thinking that perhaps he might help to pacify the fanatic.
“That hateful Waghorn gives my uncle no peace,” said Hilary, indignantly. “Let us come and hear what the dispute is about, Frances.”
Now, if there was a man upon earth whom the girl cordially detested it was this village wood-carver, for she had an instinctive consciousness that he was their bitter enemy. Moreover, her earliest dispute with Gabriel after their betrothal had been caused by him, as well as the bitterness of their last interview in the parvise porch at Hereford, an interview which she never recalled without pangs of remorse.
“Hold your peace, Zachary,” said the Vicar, “an you rail at the man like that I can understand nothing. What is the dispute betwixt yourself and the clerk, Waghorn?”
“I have no dispute with him,” said Waghorn. “I did but cast a stone at the idolatrous painted window in the church, when Zachary fell upon me with railing and abuse and haled me to your presence.”