The folk at Chidhurst village and at the outlying farms talked a good deal when they heard that Mrs. Barton was going to be married to Gerald Vincent—for somehow it soon came to be known. He was a stranger, and nearly eight years her junior; they had discovered this, and one or two other things concerning him, that he had two hundred pounds a year, and did no work save writing—writing books, perhaps, which was not work at all, but the sort of thing that people did when they had nothing else to do. And then he never went to church or chapel. It was a strange and awful thing to them to see in the living flesh, to have as a neighbor, even though they saw but little of him, some one who was certainly going to be damned hereafter. They were sorry for him in a way; for he was good-looking, and when occasion offered gave his money freely; moreover, they felt sure that his people had been above the common. So they tried to make things a little pleasant to him in this world by showing him politeness and extra consideration; but the fact of what was in store for him could not be doubted.

When the Petersfield relations heard the news they thought it their bounden duty to promptly take the train to Haslemere, and then to commit the untold extravagance of hiring a fly to carry them to Woodside Farm. They would have told their daughter-in-law to send the brown cart to meet them; but they hoped by not giving notice of their coming to catch the unbeliever in his iniquity. They had a vague idea that he was horned and carried a pitchfork; and they would not have been surprised at finding a faint odor of brimstone about the place. They looked sharply round on arriving, and were disappointed at not seeing him; then they made the best of the situation by at once sitting down in the living-room and arguing with Mrs. Barton. In ten minutes at most they hoped to make her see the folly of her position, and that it would not only be flying in the face of Providence, which had always made her comfortable in this world, but a disrespect to James Barton, dead and gone to the next, if she married a man not good enough to lie in the family grave if it pleased the Lord to take him also.

"But one of the things I like him for," she said, "is that he is a good deal younger than I am, so most likely it's he that will have the burying to do this time—it'll save me a world of trouble."

This was a point of view they had not considered, and were unprepared to argue, so they tried a fresh one. There was Hannah. Had she remembered that Hannah would have to live in the same house with him, too? Oh yes; and after being used to a man about the place at Petersfield, she thought it would be so good for Hannah to feel there was one over her at Woodside Farm—an indirect compliment that somewhat pacified old Mr. Barton. Moreover he was touched with the respect with which his daughter-in-law listened to all he had to say, and the sincerity in her voice when she regretted that Mr. Vincent had walked over to Lynchmere and would not be back till past tea-time. She was sure he would have liked to meet James's relations; but perhaps they would be able to stay till he returned?

"When he comes," said Mrs. Barton the elder, "I hope you will see that it is your duty to give him up, especially after the trouble that we have taken in coming over. We should like to hear you tell him so before we leave."

But the younger woman was quite calm and collected, and tried to change the subject. "Won't you sit a little nearer to the fire, father?" she asked the old man; "it's a rough road from Haslemere, and you must be tired with your drive. You should have come in time for dinner; you will have to be starting so soon after you have done your tea."

"We didn't come over for meals, Annie, but on more important business," he answered.

Mrs. Barton went to the oak chest and took out a fresh damask tablecloth and put it on the table. Then she stood up beside it, as she had done on the first day that Gerald Vincent came to the farm.

"I don't want to show you any want of respect," she said, firmly; "but it's no good saying anything about Mr. Vincent, for I am going to marry him, and his religion makes no difference. He has given up a great deal because he would not make a pretence; he has thought about things, and read and studied, and if he thinks they are not true he has a right to say it. I think God will respect a man who says out honestly what he feels. There are some who haven't courage to do it, and I know this—I'd rather have his chance in the next world than the chance of many a man who lifts his voice in Petersfield chapel at prayer-meeting on Sunday nights. If he doesn't get to heaven because he has faith, why, he'll get there because he's honest."

"And what do you think James would say?" asked old Mrs. Barton.

"James knew it would be hard for me to manage alone. I'll be proud to stand up and tell him how Mr. Vincent came and took care of me after I was left—he'll be glad enough."

"Not when it's an unbeliever, Annie—"

"A man that's honest and speaks the truth, even though it makes people turn against him, mother."

The old people began to feel uncomfortable. Tears or excitement they could have done with, but this quiet determination was more difficult to fight.

"Have you thought of the example for Hannah?" they asked, harking back to what they felt to be a strong point in their favor.

"I have thought of everything," she said, lifting her calm eyes. "He'll not interfere with Hannah; she'll be allowed to go to Petersfield whenever you want her, and she'll go to church just the same; and so shall I." She turned to old Mrs. Barton and went on: "Hannah is James's child, and she'll be brought up as James's people wish. She is a girl that will have a will of her own—she has got it already, and it will grow. There is no occasion to be anxious about her."

"And what's to become of the farm?"

"The farm will stand where it is. I shall deal fairly by it for Hannah, if that's what you are thinking of."

Then the old man came to the rescue. "God will not have mercy on you hereafter, Annie, if you marry this unbeliever."

"Father, I will trust God to deal fairly by me. He'll not do less than man." She paused a moment and then went on: "You mustn't think I haven't thought it over, for I have. We must all work out our salvation for ourselves, and if we start from different points, and if Mr. Vincent has chosen a different road that we don't go along ourselves, why, I think the end will be the same for us all who try to do our best. It would be shaking one's confidence in God to think different. But you'll be wanting your tea, and it will be better than arguing about a man you don't understand, and one that I am going to marry, say what you will."

"I never thought you'd be so obstinate, Annie," Mrs. Barton said.

But nothing moved the mistress of Woodside Farm, and the old people felt their visit to be a mistake. They had not gained their point by coming; on the contrary, they were going away beaten, and they didn't like the position. They even began to cherish a latent hope that Mr. Vincent would not return before they left, lest they should come off second best in argument with him too. Meanwhile, they made a large and mournful meal with the air of folk at a funeral feast, for they felt that it might be the last time they would sit round the big oak table. Luckily the tea was strong and the cream thick. Towsey's scones were admirable, the strawberries in the jam were whole, and the poached eggs and ham done to a turn. Then the fly was brought to the door, a reproachful farewell taken of Mrs. Barton, and the disconsolate pair drove away towards Haslemere station.

Gerald Vincent and Mrs. Barton were married a month later. Outwardly it made little difference in their relations. The best parlor was still his own retreat, and his books and papers were scattered about with a happy confidence that no hands but his own would touch them. In the evening he generally sat in the living-place with his wife; he liked its gauntness, the big fireplace, the old oak table, the comfortable chairs, and the heavy door that in the summer-time stood wide open and let in, from the Dutch garden beyond the porch, the scent of flowers, the stir of leaves, and the rustling sound from the tall trees behind. In the winter there was the crackle of the beech logs, the flickering of the candles in the double candlesticks with japanned shades, and the long, deep shadows on the walls. It was all old-world-like and peaceful. He wondered that he had ever endured the hurry and noise of towns. In the first year he used to read to his wife—Scott and Kingsley and other authors that he thought might interest her. She was always appreciative, and from her pure-hearted outlook even gave some criticism that was worth hearing, though she never became cultured in any sense. But simple though she remained, Gerald Vincent was never ashamed of her, and she never bored him. He felt that daily life, or such portion of it as he spent with her, was to his soul pretty much what a cool bath was to his body. After a time there was Margaret, a babe with blue eyes and little double fists, and then, seeing that the child took up much of its mother's time and thought, he drew back into the isolation of the best parlor without fear of being thought neglectful.

The Petersfield relations kept Hannah with them till she was sixteen. Then, since she had left school, and her hair, that always looked scanty on the temples, was done up into a knot behind, and one of her eye-teeth had decayed, they thought it well to send her back to the farm. But old Mr. Barton had not talked to her in vain, and she went home with a smothered resentment in her heart that had a touch of horror in it towards the stranger, and a shrinking she could never overcome towards his child. She kept herself well in hand, it is true, and, except that he could never get behind her reserve and somewhat snappy manner, she and Mr. Vincent got on pretty well together, seeing that they inhabited the same house. She developed into a thrifty young woman with a distinct capacity for that state of life in which she found herself, and with dissent so strong within her that, within a month of her going back to Woodside Farm for good, she had begun secretly to store such little sums as she could honestly consider her own in order some day to build a chapel at Chidhurst. Meanwhile, she contented herself with the somewhat dreary service at the little church on the hill.

To Mrs. Vincent the years after her marriage were the happiest of her life. She gave her husband a quiet, self-contained worship that expressed itself in many creature comforts, for which, from sheer blindness, he was never sufficiently grateful. But he knew that he was the whole world to her, and, as time went on, this knowledge was not untouched with dismay at finding that sometimes he wanted more intellectual sympathy than she was able to give him. But she never guessed this, and after her little Margaret was born it seemed sometimes as if only tears would prevent her joy from being more than she could bear.

It was during these years that Hannah saw her opportunity, and little by little managed to govern her mother and every one on the farm with the exception of Mr. Vincent. Even Margaret was made to feel that Hannah was mistress of the situation, and the putting on of a best frock or the arranging of a little holiday could not be done peacefully without asking her consent.