He broke off, staring at the kindled face of the priest, who had risen, and stood facing him.
"That's just where you make your mistake, Bert," said his friend earnestly. "I do believe you capable of the best. Listen! When I came first to Slabbert's Poort, I found you a loafer. You were idle and good-for-nothing and intemperate. Now you have shown me what you are capable of. Your love for Millie has made you a different man. You have fought for her, saved her, respected her! ... I rather wish you had heard tell of one Caponsacchi; but never mind. It's better to do knightly deeds than to read about 'em. Anyhow, you have set your foot on the road to become a true gentleman; why turn back now? Hubert Mestaer"—his voice took on the deep note it sometimes had in the pulpit—"by the memory of your mother, I ask you, why turn back now?"
CHAPTER X
FRANSDALE
"Ankle-deep in English grass I leaped,
And clapped my hands, and called all very fair."
—ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
It was mid-October. St. Luke's summer brooded over the solitary acres of heather, which crowned the hills that flung encradling arms about Fransdale.
The golden bracken was turning brown, but the heather still carried its glory of purple. The woodlands were forsaking their devotion to pure green, and rioted in every hue of red and yellow, and the light air sang and hummed about the uplands of the glorious land. All the summer had been fine; the becks had sunk to musical murmurings; one might walk from Tod's Trush to the Three Howes, across country, without getting bogged.
In a stable-yard surrounded by grey stone out-buildings stood the Reverend Edmund Chetwynd-Cooper, harnessing his horse to the dog-cart. Near him a big, loose-limbed, clumsy girl, who had evidently outgrown her strength, stood listlessly watching him through half-shut eyes.
"How old is Cousin Melicent?" she asked, in a voice which always sounded fretful.
"I have told you I believe her to be about sixteen."