With twelve of the clock came Darden, quite sober, distrait in manner and uneasy of eye, and presently interrupted Mistress Stagg’s flow of conversation by a demand to speak with his wife alone. At that time of day the garden was a solitude, and thither the two repaired, taking their seats upon a bench built round a mulberry-tree. “Well?” queried Mistress Deborah bitterly. “I suppose Mr. Commissary showed himself vastly civil? I dare say you’re to preach before the Governor next Sunday? Or maybe they’ve chosen Bailey? He boasts that he can drink you under the table! One of these fine days you’ll drink and curse and game yourself out of a parish!” Darden drew figures on the ground with his heavy stick. “On such a fine day as this,” he said, in a suppressed voice, and looked askance at the wife whom he beat upon occasion, but whose counsel he held in respect. She turned upon him. “What do you mean? They talk and talk, and cry shame,--and a shame it is, the Lord knows! But it never comes to anything”-- “It has come to this,” interrupted Darden, with an oath: “that this Governor means to sweep in the corners; that the Commissary--damned Scot!--to-day appointed a committee to inquire into the charges made against me and Bailey and John Worden; that seven of my vestrymen are dead against me; and that ‘deprivation’ has suddenly become a very common word!” “Seven of the vestry?” said his wife, after a pause. “Who are they?” Darden told her. “If Mr. Haward”--she began slowly, her green eyes steady upon the situation. “There’s not one of that seven would care to disoblige him. I warrant you he could make them face about. They say he knew the Governor in England, too; and there’s his late gift to the college,--the Commissary wouldn’t forget that. If Mr. Haward would”--She broke off, and with knit brows studied the problem more intently. “If he would, he could,” Darden finished for her. “With his interest this cloud would go by, as others have done before. I know that, Deborah. And that’s the card I’m going to play.” “If you had gone to him, hat in hand, a month ago, he’d have done you any favor,” said his helpmate sourly. “But it is different now. He’s over his fancy; and besides, he’s at Westover.” “He’s in Williamsburgh, at Marot’s ordinary,” said the other. “As for his being over his fancy,--I’ll try that. Fancy or no fancy, if a woman asked him for a fairing, he would give it her, or I don’t know my gentleman. We’ll call his interest a ribbon or some such toy, and Audrey shall ask him for it.” “Audrey is a fool!” cried Mistress Deborah. “And you had best be careful, or you’ll prove yourself another! There’s been talk enough already. Audrey, village innocent that she is, is the only one that doesn’t know it. The town’s not the country; if he sets tongues a-clacking here”--