“Thank you very much, ma’am,” said she, “but I’m awful fearful about it.  Davy may say what he pleases, but my mother never will let me marry him if the vicar’s agen it; and Davy wouldn’t have been here to-day if she hadn’t gone to town; and the vicar’s a hard man and a strong Tory, and he’ll always be agen it, I fear.”

When I went out into the front yard I found Mr. Poplington and Jone sitting on a little stone bench, for they was tired, and I told them about that young woman and Davy.

“Humph,” said Mr. Poplington, “I know the vicar of the parish.  He is the Rev. Osmun Green.  He’s a good Conservative, and is perfectly right in trying to keep that poor girl from marrying a wretched Radical.”

I looked straight at him and said: 

“Do you mean, sir, to put politics before matrimonial happiness?”

“No, I don’t,” said he, “but a girl can’t expect matrimonial happiness with a Radical.”

I saw that Jone was about to say something here, but I got in ahead of him.

“I will tell you what it is, sir,” said I, “if you think it is wrong to be a Radical the best thing you can do is to write to your friend, that vicar, and advise him to get those two young people married as soon as possible, for it is easy to see that she is going to rule the roost, and if anybody can get his Radicalistics out of him she will be the one to do it.”

Mr. Poplington laughed, and said that as the man looked as if he was a fit subject to be henpecked it might be a good way of getting another Tory vote.

“But,” said he, “I should think it would go against your conscience, being naturally opposed to the Conservatives, to help even by one vote.”

“Oh, my conscience is all right,” said I.  “When politics runs against the matrimonial altar I stand up for the altar.”

“Well,” said he, “I’ll think of it.”  And we started off, walking down the hill, Jone holding on to my tricycle.

When we got to level ground, with about two miles to go before we would stop for luncheon, Jone took a piece of thin rope out of his pocket—­he always carries some sort of cord in case of accidents—­and he tied it to the back part of my machine.

“Now,” said he, “I’m going to keep hold of the other end of this, and perhaps your tricycle won’t run away with you.”

I didn’t much like going along this way, as if I was a cow being taken to market, but I could see that Jone had been so troubled and frightened about me that I didn’t make any objection, and, in fact, after I got started it was a comfort to think there was a tie between Jone and me that was stronger, when hilly roads came into the question, than even the matrimonial tie.

Letter Number Ten

CHEDCOMBE, SOMERSETSHIRE

The place we stopped at on the first night of our cycle trip is named Porlock, and after the walking and the pushing, and the strain on my mind when going down even the smallest hill for fear Jone’s rope would give way, I was glad to get there.