About two o'clock Geoffrey rose， and with some slight assistance from his reverend host， struggled into his clothes. Then he lunched， and while he did so Mr. Granger poured his troubles into his sympathetic ear.
"My father was a Herefordshire farmer， Mr. Bingham，" he said， "and Iwas bred up to that line of life myself. He did well， my father did， as in those days a careful man might. What is more， he made some money by cattle-dealing， and I think that turned his head a little； anyway， he was minded to make 'a gentleman of me，' as he called it. So when Iwas eighteen I was packed off to be made a parson of， whether I liked it or no. Well， I became a parson， and for four years I had a curacy at a town called Kingston， in Herefordshire， not a bad sort of little town--perhaps you happen to know it. While I was there， my father， who was getting beyond himself， took to speculating. He built a row of villas at Leominster， or at least he lent a lawyer the money to build them， and when they were built nobody would hire them. It broke my father； he was ruined over those villas. I have always hated the sight of a villa ever since， Mr. Bingham. And shortly afterwards he died， as near bankruptcy as a man's nose is to his mouth.
"After that I was offered this living， ā150 a year it was at the best， and like a fool I took it. The old parson who was here before me left an only daughter behind him. The living had ruined him， as it ruins me， and， as I say， he left his daughter， my wife that was， behind him， and a pretty good bill for dilapidations I had against the estate. But there wasn't any estate， so I made the best of a bad business and married the daughter， and a sweet pretty woman she was， poor dear， very like my Beatrice， only without the brains. I can't make out where Beatrice's brains come from indeed， for I am sure I don't set up for having any. She was well born， too， my wife was， of an old Cornish family， but she had nowhere to go to， and I think she married me because she didn't know what else to do， and was fond of the old place. She took me on with it， as it were. Well， it turned out pretty well， till some eleven years ago， when our boy was born， though Idon't think we ever quite understood each other. She never got her health back after that， and seven years ago she died. I remember it was on a night wonderfully like last night--mist first， then storm.
The boy died a few years afterwards. I thought it would have broken Beatrice's heart； she has never been the same girl since， but always full of queer ideas I don't pretend to follow.
"And as for the life I've had of it here， Mr. Bingham， you wouldn't believe it if I was to tell you. The living is small enough， but the place is as full of dissent as a mackerel-boat of fish， and as for getting the tithes--well， I cannot， that's all. If it wasn't for a bit of farming that I do， not but what the prices are down to nothing， and for what the visitors give in the season， and for the help of Beatrice's salary as certificated mistress， I should have been in the poor-house long ago， and shall be yet， I often think. I have had to take in a border before now to make both ends meet， and shall again， Iexpect.
"And now I must be off up to my bit of a farm； the old sow is due to litter， and I want to see how she is getting on. Please God she'll have thirteen again and do well. I'll order the fly to be here at five， though I shall be back before then--that is， I told Elizabeth to do so. She has gone out to do some visiting for me， and to see if she can't get in two pounds five of tithe that has been due for three months. If anybody can get it it's Elizabeth. Well， good-bye； if you are dull and want to talk to Beatrice， she is up and in there. Idaresay you will suit one another. She's a very queer girl， Beatrice， quite beyond me with her ideas， and it was a funny thing her holding you so tight， but I suppose Providence arranged that. Good-bye for the present， Mr. Bingham，" and this curious specimen of a clergyman vanished， leaving Geoffrey quite breathless.
It was half-past two o'clock， and the doctor had told him that he could see Miss Granger at three. He wished that it was three， for he was tired of his own thoughts and company， and naturally anxious to renew his acquaintance with the strange girl who had begun by impressing him so deeply and ended by saving his life. There was complete quiet in the house； Betty， the maid-of-all-work， was employed in the kitchen， both the doctors had gone， and Elizabeth and her father were out. To-day there was no wind， it had blown itself away during the night， and the sight of the sunbeams streaming through the windows made Geoffrey long to be in the open air. He had no book at hand to read， and whenever he tried to think his mind flew back to that hateful matrimonial quarrel.
It was hard on him， Geoffrey thought， that he should be called upon to endure such scenes. He could no longer disguise the truth from himself --he had buried his happiness on his wedding-day. Looking back across the years， he well remembered how different a life he had imagined for himself. In those days he was tired of knocking about and of youthful escapades； even that kind of social success which must attend a young man who was handsome， clever， a good fellow， and blessed with large expectations， had， at the age of six-and-twenty， entirely lost its attractiveness. Therefore he had turned no deaf ear to his uncle， Sir Robert Bingham， who was then going on for seventy， when he suggested that it might be well of Geoffrey settled down， and introduced him to Lady Honoria.
