Being but human, Alfred naturally embraced the heaven-sent chance of dawdling, passing the time of day with various cronies, and rapturously assisting to hound a couple of wild, sweating and snorting steers along the dusty lane, behind the churchyard, to Butcher Cleave’s slaughter-house:  with the consequence that his menial duties devolved upon Laura and Lizzie, who, supported by the heads of their respective departments, combined to “give him the what for,” in no measured terms upon his eventual and very tardy return.

It is not too much to say that, by luncheon time Theresa—­whether wilfully or not—­had succeeded in setting the entire household by the ears; while any inclinations towards peace-making, with which Damaris might have begun the day, were effectively dissipated, leaving her strengthened and confirmed in revolt.  Around the stables, and the proposed indignity put upon Patch and the horses, this wretched quarrel centred so—­as at once a vote of confidence and declaration of independence—­to the stables Damaris finally went and ordered the dog-cart at three o’clock.  For she would drive, and drive, throughout the course of this gilded September afternoon.  Drive far away from foolishly officious and disingenuous Theresa, far from Deadham, so tiresome just now in its irruption of tea-parties and treats.  She would behold peaceful inland horizons, taste the freedom of spirit and the content which the long, smooth buff-coloured roads, leading to unknown towns and unvisited country-side, so deliciously give.

She stood at the front door, in blue linen gown, white knitted jersey and white sailor hat, buttoning her tan doeskin driving-gloves, a gallant, gravely valiant young creature, beautifully unbroken as yet by any real assent to the manifold foulness of life—­her faith in the nobility of human nature and human destiny still finely intact.  And that was just where her revolt against poor Theresa Bilson came in.  For Theresa broke the accepted law, being ignoble; and thereby spoiled the fair pattern, showed as a blot.—­Not that she meant to trouble any more about Theresa just now.  She was out simply to enjoy, to see and feel, rather than reason, analyse or think.  So she settled herself on the sloping high-cushioned seat, bracing her feet against the driving iron, while Mary, reaching up, tucked the dust-rug neatly about her skirts.  Patch—­whose looks and figure unmistakably declared his calling—­short-legged and stocky, inclining to corpulence yet nimble on his feet, clean shaven, Napoleonic of countenance, passed reins and whip into her hands as Tolling, the groom, let go the horse’s head.