‘I can’t believe that, Mr. Trevanard,’ said Maurice, cheerily. ‘The master’s eye—you know the old adage?’ ‘Bridget was the ruling mind, sir. Bridget was worth twenty of me!’ It was a cold and blusterous morning—the dead leaves falling fast from the few trees about Borcel, but Michael and his companion were fond of the open air, so they went out into the neglected garden, a wilderness where Muriel had been wont to range alone and at liberty for the last twenty years. Here, in a narrow path screened by hazel bushes, the farmer and Maurice Clissold paced up and down while Maurice told his story, taking care to soften Bridget Trevanard’s part in the domestic tragedy, and to demonstrate that, when erring most, she had been actuated only by regard for the family honour, and a mistaken family pride. Michael heard him with deepest emotion. ‘My poor girl!—my beautiful Muriel! You don’t know how proud I was of her—how I doted on her and to think that I should never have suspected that all was not well, that my poor child was being ill-used in her own home.’ ‘Not ill-used,’ remonstrated Maurice, pleading for the dead wife who had trusted him with her secret. ‘There was no unkindness.’ ‘No unkindness? They made her suffer shame, they refused to believe in her purity; was that no unkindness? They robbed her of her child! For what? The world’s good word! I would have stood between my darling and the world. None should have dared to slander her while I was near. What right had my wife to take this matter into her own hands—to hoodwink me with her secrecies and suppressions? I would have stood by my child. Muriel would have trusted me. Yes, she would have trusted her indulgent old father, even if she feared to confide in her mother. Bridget was always too severe.’ ‘Remember that your wife erred in her anxiety for your good name.’ ‘Yes, yes, I know that. God knows, it goes hard with me to speak against her in her grave—poor faithful soul! She was faithful according to her notion of right. But she took too much heed of the world—her world—half a dozen families within five miles of Borcel. The sun, and moon, and heaven, and all God’s angels were not so much account to her. Poor soul! She must have suffered. I’ve seen the lines of trouble growing deeper in her face, and never knew why they came there. My poor, trampled-upon Muriel! It was a cruel thing to send away the child. I could have loved it dearly!’ ‘You will love her dearly still, when I bring her to you.’ ‘Yes, but not as I could have loved her twenty years ago—when she was a helpless infant. My firstborn grandchild.’