‘The world would say that the penniless curate played a crafty game, and that, knowing Christian Harefield would never consent beforehand to receive him as a son-in-law, he had hazarded his chances on a clandestine marriage, counting upon Mr. Harefield’s being won over to receive him and forgive his daughter afterwards. That is what the world would say of any man, Beatrix, who married under such circumstances; and that is what the world shall not say of me.’ ‘Then you value the world’s opinion more than you value me,’ said Beatrix. ‘“I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more,”’ answered her lover. ‘I shall call upon your father to-morrow.’ The church clock and the stable clock at the Water House began to strike eleven. ‘Good night, Cyril, you must be the manager of our destiny, but I’m afraid you will bring about nothing but sorrow and parting.’ ‘I will do what is right, my dear. I will trust in Him who rules and governs all hearts--even your father’s when he seems hardest to you.’ ‘Good night, Cyril.’ ‘Good night, my best and dearest.’ He would not take her to his heart, or kiss the proud lips that were so near his own as they stood side by side in the shadow of the wide archway, though the discreet Parker kept his distance. He only took her hand and pressed it gently, and, with a murmured blessing, left her, just as the little low door in the archway opened, and the light shone faintly from within, making a kind of aureole round the bald head of the old gardener who lived in the mediæval gateway. CHAPTER V. HIS ITALIAN WIFE. THAT deep shadow of gloom which had fallen upon Christian Harefield’s life seemed to have descended also upon the house he lived in. The house--with its low ceilings, narrow corridors, strange ins and outs, odd corners, and black oak panelling--had doubtless been more or less gloomy of aspect for the last two hundred years. But an old world gloom like this contrasts pleasantly with the movement and bustle of glad domestic life--the flashes of sudden colour--the glow of many hearths--winter’s yule log and summer’s wealth of flowers--the fresh shrill voices of young children--the hospitalities of eventide, the passing in and out of many figures, varied yet recurrent as the combinations of a kaleidoscope. For the last fifty years the Water House had been known to all Little Yafford, and within a radius of twenty miles, as a grave and sober mansion, where high jinks of any kind were as little to be expected as a reappearance of white-robed, oak-crowned Druids in that stony circle on the moor which had once reeked with the blood of human victims.