"But it had real egret plumes," Marianne mourned.

She struggled with her windblown hair, trying to bundle it back into the net that dangled from a few pins. As he watched her, Carlton's face assumed its most disagreeable expression, eyes narrowed, lips curled in a sneer.

"One would think, after the serious matters we have discussed, that you would have no time for egret plumes or hats. But women's minds are incapable of intellectual concentration; and yours is really one of the most -"

If he was attempting to provoke her, he succeeded; the quick temper Marianne had acquired from her father flared up, and she interrupted Carlton's insult with a wild swing. He avoided the blow with an easy turn of his head.

"Temper, temper," he said. "You'll fall if you continue to bounce around that way."

Marianne became aware that her lacings were too tight. She could not get enough breath to shout. This was just as well, since she might have used some of the words she had heard the squire employ when he was in a rage. Finally she managed to say, "I would rather dispense with your escort, Mr. Carlton. Leave me."

"I can safely do so, I suppose, since we are in sight of the village. Remember my advice, Miss Carlton, and don't go dashing off after your egret plumes."

He lifted his hat, made her a genteel bow, and trotted off down the road.

Realizing that Stella was moving uneasily as she sensed her rider's agitation, Marianne calmed herself. She did not regret trying to slap Carlton; she only regretted missing. She waited until he had vanished around a turn in the road before following. By the time she reached the first houses of the village he was out of sight.

There were few people abroad, despite the unseasonably mild weather. The cottage windows were tightly sealed. Presumably the hard-working peasants had no time to enjoy nature. The men would be at work, the women tending children and preparing the evening meal. The only signs of activity were at the Devenbrook Arms. Marianne could see through the open gates into the innyard, where a coach and horses stood waiting for some traveler. This reminded her of Bagshot and of Carlton's warning. Ridiculous, she told herself angrily. Bagshot would not dare to show his face in such a small place as this, where every stranger was immediately observed.

The houses thinned out; only the church and the vicarage, a neat stone house somewhat larger than the others, remained to be passed before she turned into the drive leading to the castle. Though she had convinced herself she was in no danger, she felt nervous and had lifted the reins, preparatory to urging Stella into a trot, when she saw the church doors open and a familiar form appear. The sunlight caught its cap of golden hair and set it aglow.

Without any conscious intent on her part, Marianne's hands tightened and Stella came to a stop. The vicar saw her at the same time. Lifting a hand as if to ask her to wait, he quickly descended the steps and came toward her.

He had to speak to me, Marianne thought, her heart pounding. He saw me stop – why was I so forward? – and felt obliged to greet me. But the glow of pleasure on St. John's face made her hope that this depressing idea was wrong.

"What a welcome and unlooked-for surprise," he exclaimed. "If I thought the Almighty concerned himself with such trivial matters, I would almost believe this meeting to be an answer to prayer."

Marianne did not quite like being considered trivial, but the speech was otherwise so gracious she decided to overlook that part of it.

"It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. St. John. I hope you are well?"

"Splendid, thank you. But you are wondering why I stopped you."

"Not at all," Marianne murmured.

"I wished, first, to apologize for the unpleasantness that marred what was otherwise a delightful evening."

"You have no need to apologize. I am only sorry -"

"No, no, the fault was mine. I was too abrupt. Her Grace was quite right in accusing me of a lack of tolerance. I assure you, I have been berating myself ever since."

Indeed, Marianne could now see the delicate strains of sleeplessness and worry marking his eyelids. They only made him look more romantic.

"I hate to see you in distress," she said impulsively. "The Duchess is the kindest woman in the world; if you go to her and tell her you have changed your mind -"

"But I cannot. I have not." He looked up at her, his hand resting on Stella's neck. "That is where my trouble lies, Miss Ransom. You do understand, don't you?"

"I am not sure -"

"Prayers for the dead – that is sheer popery!" His eyes glowed with a fiery light. "Her Grace may call it a memorial service, but she wants more, more than I can in conscience give. Yet I might be tempted to do something of the sort if I sincerely believed that she had abandoned her heathen practices. Oh, Miss Ransom, I must say this, hard as it is – I must warn you. Do not, I beg you, participate in those actions which can only endanger your immortal soul."

Before the burning intensity of his look Marianne's eyes fell. She would like to have disclaimed any knowledge of what he meant, but she could not; those clear eyes seemed to see straight into her heart.

"I owe her so much," she murmured.

"She took me in when I was friendless, poor -"

One more minute and she would have confessed the whole shameful story. But Mr. St. John did not give her the opportunity.

"You owe her gratitude, companionship, devotion. But your soul you owe to no man – or woman," he added punctiliously.

Marianne wanted to promise anything he asked. His voice thrilled her; mind, heart, and soul responded. But her buried streak of obstinacy made her say, "I can't see that there is any harm in it."

"I tell you these manifestations are of the Devil! Have you read that splendid pamphlet, Table-moving Tested and Proved to be the Result of Satanic Agency} Or Tableturning, the Devil's Modern Masterpiece?"

"No," Marianne admitted.

"The table confessed," Mr. St. John said solemnly, "that it was moved by the spirit of a lost soul sent from Hell."

"Oh, dear."

"Will you read these books if I give them to you?"

"Yes; but -"

"Wait here. Wait only a moment."

Any other man would have looked foolish running at such a pace, his coattails flapping; but Mr. St. John – his admirer thought -even ran beautifully. He vanished into the parsonage; in a moment he came pelting back, waving several small volumes.

"Here," he panted, pressing them into her hand. "Read and heed the blessed words in them. Read and pray, my dear Miss Ransom. And if you should ever require spiritual guidance, I am at your service – at any hour of the day or night."

A thrill ran down Marianne's spine. "Thank you," she said. "I… I must go now."

"Yes, you must." The young man stepped back. "I have kept you too long. But it was well done, if my words bear fruit. Remember."

"I will."

He looked as if he would have said more, but a burst of distant laughter from the inn made him recollect himself. He made her a formal bow and turned to return to the house.

Stella looked inquiringly at her new mistress. "May we go on now?" she seemed to say. Marianne said absently, "Yes, Stella, go on, do," and they trotted sedately off, with Marianne's head craned to watch the vicar until he disappeared inside.

Stella knew her way home, which was fortunate, because her rider was daydreaming.

They had passed into the drive before Marianne realized it would never do to let the Duchess see the books the vicar had given her. She thrust them into the front of her jacket. They made an unseemly bulge, but at least their titles were not visible.

She found one of the grooms waiting by the front steps, sent, he said, by Mr. Carlton, who had promised she would be along directly. After an affectionate farewell to Stella, Marianne crossed both arms awkwardly over her breast to hide the books and made a dash for her room. She thrust the dangerous little volumes into her wardrobe under a heap of undergarments, and just in time – a tap at the connecting door heralded the arrival of the Duchess.