"I don't think the vicar will think anything about the matter," said Alice candidly. "Mrs. Trevel is a heretic in his eyes!"

"Simply because she won't believe blindly against her better reason.

There is a great want of logic about priestly authority. With the teachers of exoteric knowledge it is 'Obey or be d.a.m.ned!' which is something like the reported motto of the French Revolution: 'Be my brother, or I'll kill you.'"

"But Mr. Sparrow is a good man, Douglas."

"I admitted long ago that he was a good man, my dear. But a good man with a limited understanding can do more harm than a bad man. There are other ways of teaching a child than by boxing his ears until he is stupid with pain."

"I don't think Dame Trevel would like to be called a child," said Alice, with an amused laugh.

"My dear, the majority of human beings _are_ children. The longer I live, the more I see that. I am a child myself in many ways, although, as Eberstein is widening my limitations, I am beginning to grow up.

Children," Montrose spoke half to himself and half to his companion, "what else? Instead of cake and toys, we want gold and lands, and power and pleasure. Whether we deserve them or not we clamour for them, just like a child. We become cross when things don't go as we wish them, and slap the bad naughty table that has hurt baby in the shape of anything which impedes our getting what we desire. Good Lord, how can any man be angry with another man, when he knows that his enemy is but a child? But to know that one must be more than a child oneself."

"Do you call me a child?" asked Alice, pouting.

At the very door of Dame Trevel's cottage Montrose bent to kiss her. "A very charming child, who shall never be put into the corner by me."

"You talk as though you were the only wise man in existence."

"Yes!" a.s.sented Montrose, laughing. "I speak as though I were the judge of the earth instead of being a denizen. La Rochefoucauld says that. Go in, Alice, and let us get our interview over. We haven't overmuch time."

Mrs. Trevel received her visitors in a clean little room, poorly furnished but fairly comfortable. She was a gaunt old creature, London born and London bred, so she did not speak in the Cornish way. But indeed, thanks to the authority of school-boards, the local dialects are fast disappearing, and the girl idly remembered at the moment how ordinary was the wording of Rose Penwin and her fisherman-lover. The sight of Dame Trevel seated in her big chair suggested the names, as the absence of the West Country shibboleth in her speech suggested the thought of the younger generation whose dialect had been, so to speak, wiped out. The old woman was glad, as usual, to see her nursling and highly approved of the handsome young man who was to marry her, as all Polwellin knew by this time.

"I hope it will be all sunshine with you two," said Mrs. Trevel, when her visitors were seated. "And that you'll live to see your children's children playing about your knees, my dears."

"With Alice beside me it is bound to be sunshine," replied Douglas heartily. "She is an angel."

"Ah, my young sir, men always call women so before marriage; but what do they call them afterwards?"

"That depends mainly on the woman, I fancy," said Montrose dryly. "A wife can make her husband whatever she chooses."

"A silk purse out of a sow's ear," retorted Miss Enistor saucily. "But Douglas and I understand one another, nurse, and there will be no cause for quarrels."

"I wish I could say the same about my lad and the girl he has set his heart on marrying," sighed Dame Trevel, laying down her knitting and removing her spectacles. "It's more her fault than his, though. Rose is a flighty piece."

"She won't listen to reason," said Alice, shaking her head wisely.

"Does any woman ever listen to reason?" inquired Montrose with a shrug.

"From a man she won't; but from a woman she will. Don't be cynical. But I have talked to Rose without success," ended Alice, turning to her nurse.

"So have I, my dearie, and then she told me to mind my own business; as if it wasn't my business to see that my lad got a decent wife."

"There's no real harm in Rose," cried Alice hastily.

"I'm not saying there is. But why she should take jewels from that foreign gentleman and make Job wild, I don't understand."

"Women are fond of jewels," suggested Douglas.

"And why not if they get them in the right way?" snapped Mrs. Trevel ungraciously. "But Rose is to marry my lad, and he don't want her visiting that old gentleman and taking presents."

"Old is the word, nurse," said Alice swiftly. "Job can't be jealous."

"But he is, and his jealousy is dangerous, just as his father's was before him, dearie. And the foreign gentleman puzzles me," added the old woman, taking up her knitting again. "They did say he was to marry you, my love--by your father's wish, I swear, and never by your own will.

December and May. Ha! A pretty match that would be."

"I marry Douglas and no one else, nurse, whatever my father may say or do."

"He's a dour gentleman is the Squire," said Mrs. Trevel, shaking her head, "and not pleasant to cross. He never treated your mother well, and she faded like a delicate flower blown upon by cold winds. To me, dearie, he behaves cruel in the way of rent, for all my bringing you up."

"He doesn't mean to," said Alice, distressed, and driven to defending her father, although she knew only too well his high-handed methods with tenants who could not or would not pay.

"Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh," quoted Mrs.

Trevel in a sour way. "If he doesn't mean it, why does he do it?"

"Do what?"

"Says he'll turn me out bag and baggage if I don't pay the rent," cried the old woman excitedly. "How can I when the fishing's been bad and Job can't earn enough to keep things going? I make a trifle by my knitting, but that won't boil the pot. And winter's approaching too. Oh, what's to be done?"

Montrose glanced at Alice and handed a piece of paper to the speaker.

"Pay the rent with that, and use what is over to buy food and coal."

Mrs. Trevel grasped the banknote, with a vivid spot of colour on each faded cheek, and could scarcely speak in her excitement. "What is it: oh, what is it?"

"The answer to your prayer," said Alice, rising and looking solemn.

"My prayer! Why, it's a fifty-pound note. Oh, sir, I can't take such a large sum of money from you."

"It is not from me," said Montrose hastily. "I am merely the instrument.

G.o.d sends the money because you asked Him to help you."

The tears fell down the worn old face. "And I told the pa.s.son as it wasn't no use praying," she moaned regretfully.

"Well, you see it is. He takes His own time and means, but in the end every pet.i.tion receives the answer He deems best. Thank Him, Mrs.

Trevel."

"I thank Him, and I thank you too, sir. Bless you, how the sight of this money do set my mind at rest. If it wasn't for Job and the contrary ways of that silly girl I'd be as happy as an angel."

"Pray for Job and Rose," advised Alice gently.

"Well, it do seem worth it, dearie. If He sends me this, He may turn Rose into a reasonable girl, which she isn't at present." Mrs. Trevel was about to put away her treasure-trove when she hesitated. "Should I take it, Miss Alice?"

"Yes. Of course you must take it. Mr. Montrose is rich and can well afford to give it to you."

"And the riches I have," said Douglas quietly, "are but given to me as a steward of Christ to dispense according to His will."

He did not say this priggishly, although to an ordinary man of the world such a way of regarding wealth would seem priggish. Nine people out of ten would have considered the speech as one made for effect, but Alice was the tenth and knew the absolutely impersonal way in which her lover looked at the money. With joyful tears Dame Trevel showered blessings on the young couple when they left her house, and was a happy woman for the rest of the day. Even the prospect of Rose's behaviour rousing Job's jealousy to the extent of leading to serious trouble ceased to cause her anxiety for the moment. Angels had come and left their gifts behind them. The old woman resolved to go to the vicarage and confess with penitent tears that she had been wrong to doubt the efficacy of prayer.