say the truth, pressing him hard. Father Leadham even, his director, upon
whom during the earlier stages of their correspondence on the matter
Helbeck seemed to have impressed his own waiting view with success, had
lately become more exacting and more peremptory. The Squire was
uncomfortable at the thought of his impending visit. It was hardly
wise--had better have been deferred. Laura's quick, shrinking look when
it was announced had not been lost upon her lover. Father Leadham should
be convinced--must be convinced--that all would be imperilled--nay,
lost--by haste. Yet unconsciously Helbeck himself was wavering--was
changing ground.

He had come out, indeed, determined somehow to break down the barrier he
felt rising between them. But it was not easy. They talked for long of
the most obvious and mundane things. There were salmon in the Greet this
month, and Helbeck had been waging noble war with them in the intervals
of much business, with Laura often beside him, to join in the madness of
the "rushes" down stream, to watch the fine strength of her lover's
wrist, to shrink from the gaffing, and to count the spoil. The shooting
days at Bannisdale were almost done, since the land had dwindled to a
couple of thousand acres, much of it on the moss. But there were still
two or three poor coverts along the upper edge of the park, where the old
Irish keeper and woodman, Tim Murphy, cherished and counted the few score
pheasants that provided a little modest November sport. And Helbeck,
tying the pony to a tree, went up now with Laura to walk round the woods,
showing in all his comments and calculations a great deal of shrewd
woodcraft and beastcraft, enough to prove at any rate that the Esau of
his race--_feras consumere nati_, to borrow the emendation of Mr.
Fielding--had not yet been wholly cast out by the Jacob of a mystical
piety.