“And wherefore not?” continued the parson in his gentle accents, while his eyes smouldered. “A merciless, grinding bailiff and a profligate landlord make for a suffering tenantry.” “You are the Reverend Mr. Hartop, I think, sir?” questioned Sir John, bowing. “The same, sir,” answered the parson, returning the salute. “And I, who know and love these rustic folk, say again that for the general good, an evil landlord is better dead.... And consider Sir John Dering’s reputation, his scandalous life!” “True!” sighed Sir John; “his reputation doth show him a very monster of iniquity.” “God forgive him!” sighed the parson. “Duellist and man of blood, desperate gambler and of wild, unholy life.... A few poor hundreds of the guineas he throws away at the gaming-table or wastes on nameless evil would mean all the difference ’twixt misery and happiness, sickness and health to the folk of High Dering. Heaven forgive the Wicked Dering the evil he hath wrought.” “Amen!” added Sir John. “How potent and far-reaching is a man’s reputation, Rose!” “How different the son from his honoured sire!” sighed Mr. Hartop. “Alas, yes, sir!” answered Sir John. “And yet, sir, I have it on excellent authority that this most iniquitous gentleman hath lately become a ‘respectable young man.’” “Sir,” exclaimed the parson, opening his mild eyes a little wider than usual, “sir, you amaze me! Heaven send it be indeed so, for his own sake and the future welfare of his neglected people.” Saying which, Mr. Hartop lifted shabby hat and rode gloomily away. “‘For the general good,’” repeated Sir John wistfully, “‘for the general good an evil landlord were better dead.’ Here is an arresting thought, child ... and how bitterly true!” “But you are alive!” said she, staring towards the quiet village beneath wrinkled brows. “Live, then, to better purpose.” “Ah, Rose,” he sighed, “thy pretty moralities fall so trippingly from thy rosy, innocent lip; thou art in thy simple wisdom such an angel of inspiration that I would we had met ... five weary years ago!” “Five years ago?” she repeated, turning upon him. “Have you forgot——?” Here, beholding his grim-smiling mouth, the mockery of his eyes, she caught her breath and was silent. “Five long years ago, child, I killed a man—by accident. Ah, sweet Rose, gentle maid, if only thou hadst come to me then ... to soothe my bitter grief! Dear, lovely Rose, that little ‘if’ held, then as now, a world of possibilities even for such an abandoned wretch as ‘the Wicked Dering.’ But we are still alive, and to live is to hope.... And Dame Haryott desires speech with me. And thou would’st behold a witch, so come thy ways with thy loving, gentle John.” “Gentle?” cried she angrily. “Aye, with the eyes of a mocking fiend!” “But the heart of a respectable young man, Rose!” “Your crime brought its own consequences, sir.” “It did!” he sighed. “And not the least of ’em, thyself! When wilt marry me?” “Never!”