Here, looking towards the lawn, he saw his master walking slowly up and down on the grass in front of his study window, with head bent and hands loosely clasped behind his back, apparently lost in thought.

“Passon ain’t hisself,—­seems all gone to pieces like,” he mused—­ “He don’t do nothin’ in the garden,—­he ain’t a bit partikler or fidgetty—­an all he cares about is the bits o’ glass which comes on approval from all parts o’ the world for the rose window.  I sez to him t’other day—­’Ain’t ye got enough old glass yet, Passon?’—­and he sez all absent-minded like, ’No, Bainton—­not yet!  There are many difficulties to be conquered—­one must have patience.  It’s almost like piecing a life together,’ sez he—­’one portion is good—­another bad—­one’s got the true colour—­the other’s false—­and so on—­it’s hard work to get all the little bits of love an’ charity an’ kindness to fit into their proper places.  Don’t you understand?’ ‘No, Passon,’ sez I, ‘I can’t say as I do!’ Then he laughed, but sad like—­an’ went away with his ’ead down as he’s got it now.  Something’s wrong with him—­an’ it’s all since Miss Vancourt came.  She’s a real worry to ’im I ‘spect,—­an’ it’s true enough the place ain’t like what it was a month ago.  Yet there’s no denyin’ she’s a sweet little lady for all one can say!”

Bainton’s sentiments were a fair reflection of the general village opinion, though in the town of Riversford the tide of feeling ran high, and controversy raged furiously, over the ways and doings of Miss Vancourt and her society friends.  A certain vague awe stole over the gossips, however, when they heard that, whether rapid or non-rapid, ‘Maryllia Van,’ as Sir Morton Pippitt persisted in calling her, was likely to be the future Duchess of Ormistoune.  Lord Roxmouth had been seen in Riversford just once, and many shop-girls had declared him ‘so distinguished looking!’ Mordaunt Appleby, the brewer, had thrown out sundry hints to Sir Morton Pippitt that he ’should be pleased to see his lordship at Appleby House’—­Appleby House being the name of his, the brewer’s, residence—­but somehow his lordship had not yet availed himself of the invitation.  Sufficient, however, was altogether done and said by all concerned to weave a web of worry round Maryllia,—­and to cause her to heartily regret that she had ever asked any of her London acquaintances down to her house.

“I did it as a kind of instruction to myself,—­a lesson and a test,” she said—­“But I had far better have run the risk of being called an old maid and a recluse than have got these people round me,—­all of whom I thought were my friends,—­but who have been more or less tampered with by Aunt Emily and Roxmouth, and pressed in to help carry on the old scheme against me of a detestable alliance with a man I hate.  Well!—­I have learned the falsity of their protestations of liking and admiration and affection for me,—­and I’m sorry for it!  I should like to believe in the honesty of at least a few persons in the world—­if that were possible!—­I don’t want to have myself always ‘on guard’ against intrigue and humbug!”