Geoffrey looked upon this abject suppliant with the most unmitigated
scorn. There is always something contemptible in the sight of one
man pleading to another for assistance in his love affairs--that is a
business which he should do for himself. How much greater, then, is the
humiliation involved when the amorous person asks the aid of one whom he
believes to be his rival--his successful rival--in the lady's affection?

"Do you know, Mr. Davies," Geoffrey said, "I think that I have had
enough of this. I am not in a position to force Miss Granger to accept
advances which appear to be unwelcome according to your account. But if
I get an opportunity I will do this: I will tell her what you say.
You really must manage the rest for yourself. Good morning to you, Mr.
Davies."

He turned sharply and went while Owen watched him go.

"I don't believe him," he groaned to himself. "He will try to make her
his lover. Oh, God help me--I cannot bear to think of it. But if he
does, and I find him out, let him be careful. I will ruin him, yes,
I will ruin him! I have the money and I can do it. Ah, he thinks me a
fool, they all think me a fool, but I haven't been quiet all these years
for nothing. I can make a noise if necessary. And if he is a villain,
God will help me to destroy him. I have prayed to God, and God will help
me."

Then he went back to the Castle. Owen Davies was a type of the class of
religious men who believe that they can enlist the Almighty on the side
of their desires, provided only that those desires receive the sanction
of human law or custom.

Thus within twenty-four hours Geoffrey received no less than three
appeals to help the woman whom he loved to the arms of a distasteful
husband. No wonder then that he grew almost superstitious about the
matter.

CHAPTER XXII

A NIGHT OF STORM

That afternoon the whole Vicarage party walked up to the farm to inspect
another litter of young pigs. It struck Geoffrey, remembering former
editions, that the reproductive powers of Mr. Granger's old sow were
something little short of marvellous, and he dreamily worked out a
calculation of how long it would take her and her progeny to produce a
pig to every square yard of the area of plucky little Wales. It seemed
that the thing could be done in six years, which was absurd, so he gave
up calculating.

He had no words alone with Beatrice that afternoon. Indeed, a certain
coldness seemed to have sprung up betw