‘Why, to church, Nell, of course. What makes you think we should change our religion? You go to church too, I hope?’
Nell waived the question.
‘Only because of Hugh Owen,’ she said. ‘You spoke so well of his preaching, that I thought you might have gone over to the Dissenters.’
‘No, no, my lass. No going over for us. Father and I were born and bred church people, and we’ll be buried as such, eh, father?’
‘Why, certainly,’ replied the farmer. ‘I never hold with chopping and changing. Live as you’ve been bred. That’s my motto.’
‘Of course the Owens have always been Dissenters,’ continued Mrs Llewellyn, ‘so I would never say anything against Hetty going to chapel with her husband, for where he goes it’s her duty to follow; but we only went to hear Hugh preach for friendship’s sake. But there, it was beautiful and no mistake. The words seemed to come flowing out of his mouth like milk and honey. They say as Mr Johnson, the curate, is quite jealous of the way that Hugh draws his congregation away to chapel. You must come with me and hear him one evening, Nell. It’s mostly Wednesday evenings that he takes the open-air service in Mr Tasker’s field. He stands on a high bench, and the people crowd round to hear him. He seems to speak so much from his heart. I’m sure if there was one woman crying, last Wednesday, there was a dozen.’
‘Including Mrs Llewellyn,’ remarked the farmer, as he rose from table, and shook the crumbs from his coat.
‘Well, I don’t deny it, and I’m not ashamed of it,’ replied his wife, ‘Nell will cry too, maybe, when she hears her old sweetheart talk. It’s not much of a match for Hetty, Nell—not such a match as I hope to see you make some day, my girl—but they’re good people, the Owens, and she’s safe under their care.’
‘And what do you want more?’ demanded the farmer. ‘It’s far better than if she’d married some half-and-half fellow, who’d have brought her down to poverty, or worse. All I want for my girls is respectable husbands, men as will stick to them and work for them, not fashionable popinjays that would give ’em fine clothes and fine words for awhile, and then maybe desert ’em for another woman. You had better make a lot of Will Owen, wife, for you won’t get another son-in-law as good as he in a hurry.’
With which Mr Llewellyn took his thick, crabthorn walking-stick, and went on his way.