The Lady Letitia’s philosophy was not vastly cheering to her nephew’s spirit, but then the sordid truth is never welcome to the ardent soul of youth. He pitied her for the poverty of her sentiments, and yet felt uncomfortably conscious all the while that there was much shrewd wisdom in her words. His money, yes! Would Miss Jilian Hardacre have loved him if he had been without a penny? Would Sir Peter have waxed so amiable and hearty? Would the rough boors touch their hats to him and the farmers wax obsequious in his presence? Richard smiled somewhat sadly over these thoughts, like a man finding his creed light in the balance. Yet there was Dick Wilson, the rough knave whose tongue was clumsy. Jeffray believed in him. And Bess? Why should he think of Bess at such a moment? Bess Grimshaw was inclined to pout and quarrel with his wealth because—and Richard flushed at the conviction—because his gentility threw up a barrier between them. Jeffray had never contrasted Miss Jilian and the forest child in this bright light before. The morning after his talk with Aunt Letitia, Jeffray walked in his garden and watched the spring flowers that were spearing through the brown earth in the borders. The snowdrops had melted away, and gaudy crocuses, purple and gold, blazed beyond the hedges of close-clipped box. Hyacinths were thrusting up, tulips spreading their stout leaves. On the lawns below the terrace daffodils were nodding in the wind, lighting the sombreness of the yews and cedars. As Richard walked his gravel-paths, thinking of Bess and of her shrouded history, a short, sturdy figure in black appeared upon the terrace and came down the steps towards the garden. It was Dr. Sugg, the fat rector of Rodenham, whose red face shone forth with fiery solemnity under his powdered wig. Dr. Barnabas Sugg was a favorite with the villagers. He could drink good beer, preach short sermons, and refrain from poking his amiable nose too parsonically into his parishoners’ affairs. He was a good man, though no ascetic, a round and rich-voiced gentleman, who was ready to put his hand into his pocket on occasions, and to give comfort to such as came to see him in his stuffy and smoke-haunted little parlor. Dr. Sugg was a high authority with the women. Had he not “churched” them and baptized their babies? Who could handle an erring wench and her lad so well, or persuade them to satisfy the prejudices of society? Who could sit and listen more good-naturedly to the small woes of the rough cottagers? The rector was no fire-fly, no sweating, shrieking Jonah, making hell lurid to the frightened oafs and wenches. A very human rogue, he lived his life among the rustics, worked with them, ay, swore at them when the occasion called for unshrinking eloquence. As for Mr. Wesley and his preachers, they had made no conquests in the rector’s kingdom. More than one gospeller had sampled the bottom of the village pond.