“It was not in consideration of my own safety that I sought this interview with you,” said Richard, head erect.

“Grant ye that,” the farmer responded.  “Grant ye that!  Yer bold enough, young gentleman—­comes of the blood that should be!  If y’ had only ha’ spoke trewth!—­I believe yer father—­believe every word he said.  I do wish I could ha’ said as much for Sir Austin’s son and heir.”

“What!” cried Richard, with an astonishment hardly to be feigned, “you have seen my father?”

But Farmer Blaize had now such a scent for lies that he could detect them where they did not exist, and mumbled gruffly,

“Ay, we knows all about that!”

The boy’s perplexity saved him from being irritated.  Who could have told his father?  An old fear of his father came upon him, and a touch of an old inclination to revolt.

“My father knows of this?” said he, very loudly, and staring, as he spoke, right through the farmer.  “Who has played me false?  Who would betray me to him?  It was Austin!  No one knew it but Austin.  Yes, and it was Austin who persuaded me to come here and submit to these indignities.  Why couldn’t he be open with me?  I shall never trust him again!”

“And why not you with me, young gentleman?” said the farmer.  “I sh’d trust you if ye had.”

Richard did not see the analogy.  He bowed stiffly and bade him good afternoon.

Farmer Blaize pulled the bell.  “Company the young gentleman out, Lucy,” he waved to the little damsel in the doorway.  “Do the honours.  And, Mr. Richard, ye might ha’ made a friend o’ me, sir, and it’s not too late so to do.  I’m not cruel, but I hate lies.  I whipped my boy Tom, bigger than you, for not bein’ above board, only yesterday,—­ay! made ’un stand within swing o’ this chair, and take’s measure.  Now, if ye’ll come down to me, and speak trewth before the trial—­if it’s only five minutes before’t; or if Sir Austin, who’s a gentleman, ’ll say there’s been no tamperin’ with any o’ my witnesses, his word for’t—­well and good!  I’ll do my best to help off Tom Bakewell.  And I’m glad, young gentleman, you’ve got a conscience about a poor man, though he’s a villain.  Good afternoon, sir.”

Richard marched hastily out of the room, and through the garden, never so much as deigning a glance at his wistful little guide, who hung at the garden gate to watch him up the lane, wondering a world of fancies about the handsome proud boy.

CHAPTER X

To have determined upon an act something akin to heroism in its way, and to have fulfilled it by lying heartily, and so subverting the whole structure built by good resolution, seems a sad downfall if we forget what human nature, in its green weedy spring, is composed of.  Young Richard had quitted his cousin Austin fully resolved to do his penance and drink the bitter cup; and he had drunk it; drained many cups to the