tears came up into her eyes, she knew not why; and she walked off
by herself amidst the garden shrubs. Mrs. Fenwick watched her as she
went, but could not quite understand it. Those tears had not been for
a second cousin who had never been known. And then, during the last
few weeks, Mary, in regard to herself, had been prone to do anything
that Mr. Gilmore would advise, as though she could make up by
obedience for the want of that affection which she owed to him. Now,
when she was told that she ought to consult Mr. Gilmore, she flatly
refused to do so.

Mary came up the garden a few minutes afterwards, and as she passed
towards the house, she begged to be excused from going into lunch
that day. Lord St. George was coming up to lunch at the vicarage, as
will be explained in the next chapter.

CHAPTER LX.

LORD ST. GEORGE IS VERY CUNNING.

Lord St. George began to throw his oil upon the waters in reference
to that unfortunate chapel at Bullhampton a day or two after his
interview with his father in the lawyer's chambers. His father had
found himself compelled to yield; had been driven, as it were, by the
Fates, to accord to his son permission to do as his son should think
best. There came to be so serious a trouble in consequence of that
terrible mistake of Packer's, that the poor old Marquis was unable to
defend himself from the necessity of yielding. On that day, before he
left his son at Westminster, when their roads lay into the different
council-chambers of the state, he had prayed hard that the oil might
not be very oily. But his son would not bate him an inch of his
surrender.

"He is so utterly worthless," the Marquis had said, pleading hard as
he spoke of his enemy.

"I'm not quite sure, my lord, that you understand the man," St.
George had said. "You hate him, and no doubt he hates you."

"Horribly!" ejaculated the Marquis.

"You intend to be as good as you know how to be to all those people
at Bullhampton?"

"Indeed I do, St. George," said the Marquis, almost with tears in his
eyes.

"And I shouldn't wonder if he did, too."

"But look at his life," said the Marquis.

"It isn't always easy to look at a man's life. We are always looking
at men's lives, and always making mistakes. The bishop thinks he
is a good sort of fellow, and the bishop isn't the man to like a
debauched, unbelieving, reckless parson, who, according to your
ideas, must be leading a life of open shame and profligacy. I'