Richard started, and turned of a sickly hue as he confronted the sturdy old foreman.
“Think I didn’t know you, my lad, eh?” he whispered; and driving his elbow at the same time into the young man’s chest, he puckered up his face, and gave him a knowing smile. “No, you wean’t start me, Richard Glaire, I know. But I say, my lad, don’t be so hard on the poor lass there, your cousin.”
“Will you hold your tongue?” gasped Richard. “They’ll hear you.”
“Well, what if they do?” said the sturdy old fellow. “Let ’em. There’s nowt to be ashamed on. But there, you’re popped now, and no wonder. Get you home with your moother.”
“But I can’t go through the streets.”
“Yes, you can; nobody ’ll say a word to you now. Get her home, lad; get her home.”
It was good advice, but Richard Glaire would not take it, and his mother gladly availed herself of the vicar’s arm.
“You’ll come home now, Richard,” said Mrs Glaire, feebly; and she looked uneasily from her son to the foreman, as she recalled their conversation in the garden, and felt unwilling to leave them alone together.
“I shall come home when the streets are safe,” said Richard, haughtily. “They are safe enough for you, but I’m not going to subject myself to another attack from a set of brute beasts.”
“I don’t think you have anything to fear now,” said the vicar, quietly.