“If you’ll promise to marry me—seriously, mind—I’ll persuade my father not to build the new tower to St. Cuthbert’s. Nobody but me can stop him. That chap Mitchell is egging him on to it with all his might.”
“He’s changed his mind,” said Olivia, quietly.
“Oh, has he? Since when, I should like to know? He met me sitting here five minutes ago, on his way down to St. Cuthbert’s, where you’ve just come from” (with another knowing nod), “and he gave me this note for my father. I opened it. Won’t you read it? All right; but you shall hear what it says.”
Fred was holding a part of the old envelope, which had been scribbled on in pencil and folded. He read it aloud:—
“Dear Mr. Williams—Hurry on the rebuilding of St. Cuthbert’s Tower as fast as you can. I hear there is a proposal afloat to be beforehand with you, and to deprive you of all the credit of the thing by getting it up by subscription.—Yours, E. Mitchell.”
Poor Olivia was aghast at Ned’s breach of faith, but she affected unconcern.
“I don’t see how the rebuilding of St. Cuthbert’s tower can affect either me or Mr. Vernon Brander.”
“Nor do I. But I can see it does. Anyhow, I’ll give you till to-morrow morning to consider the thing, and I’ll meet you in the poultry run when you feed the chickens—if I can get up early enough. And as I see you want to think over it by yourself, I’ll take myself off for the present. Good-evening, Miss Denison.”
He sauntered away in the opposite direction to Rishton, his mischievous good humor perfectly undisturbed; while Olivia, more concerned for Mr. Vernon Brander than ever, hurried home, and sneaked up to her room to consider the new position of affairs, and to write a pleading note to Ned Mitchell.