“Now go your way,” said Gatliffe. “You are smarting under some real or imaginary wrong; hence it is, I suppose, that you have fallen foul of me.” “I haven’t done with you――depend upon that,” cried Peace. “You’ve got the better of me now, I admit, but that does not settle the difference between us.” “Get away, you stupid fellow,” returned Gatliffe; “you don’t suppose I’m afraid of a man like you. Be off, and give me no more of your impudence, for if you do, I tell you candidly you wont escape again with a whole skin.” Peace made another hideous face, after which he jumped over the stile and threaded his way through a narrow pathway which ran by the side of a corn-field. Gatliffe watched him for some little time――he then turned towards the two farm labourers and laughed. “He’s a spiteful, vindictive rascal,” said he; “there’s no doubt of that.” “He be vicious, an’ I should say from the look on ’un a bad lot,” observed the ploughman. “There aint much on ’im, but what there is is all fire and brimstone, an’ it dont take much to set it alight.” CHAPTER XI. THE PROPOSAL――MRS. MAITLAND BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE. Humiliated and crestfallen, Peace returned to his old haunts at Sheffield. He solaced himself by writing a long and affectionate letter to Bessie Dalton, of whom he had taken but little notice for some time past; now he endeavoured to make amends for his neglect. The excuses he made for this were, as a matter of course, mainly drawn from his own imagination, which, as far as false statements were concerned, was at all times fertile enough. He mixed freely with his boon companions and played the violin nightly at one or more of the sing-songs held at the public-houses in the town. He had “the gift of the gab,” as it is termed, could converse glibely enough upon most topics, in addition to which he had quaint sayings and amusing ways, which went far towards ensuring him a cordial reception from the frequenters of the houses he chose to honour with a visit. In many ways Peace was a remarkable man. He was a consummate scoundrel from the outset to the close of his career, but he could be, when he chose, a very plausible one. Had he not been this he could never have imposed upon so many persons as he did. But, despite his well-affected hilarity, grief lay heavy at his heart when he thought of the beauteous Aveline Maitland. Her image was for ever presenting itself to his vision. “But she’s far beyond my reach,” he would murmur. “She never would have listened to me under any circumstances. No, she’s too far removed from such as me.” The more he thought over the matter the more he became impressed with the fact. The only wonder is that he had not arrived at this conclusion from the very first.