"As I told you before, I know nothing about her return," replied Leach, obstinately; "I am not supposed to know. And whether she's here or away, makes no difference to me. I know what's to be done, and I shall do it."
Walden's eyes flashed. Strive as he would, he could not disguise his inward contempt for this petty jack-in-office,--and his keen glance was, to the perverse nature of the ill-conditioned boor he addressed, like the lash of a whip on the back of a snarling cur.
"I know what's to be done, and I shall do it," Leach repeated in a louder tone; "And all the sentimental rot ever talked in the village about the Five Sisters won't make me change my mind,--no, nor all the sermons on meek and quiet spirits neither! That's my last word, Mr. Walden, and you may take it for what it is worth!"
Walden swung round on his heel and went his way without replying. Outwardly, he was calm enough, but inwardly he was in a white heat of anger. His thoughts dwelt with a passionate insistence on the grand old trees with their great canopies of foliage, where hundreds of happy birds annually made their homes,--where, with every recurring Spring, the tender young leaves sprouted forth from the aged gnarled boughs, expressing the joy of a life that had outlived whole generations of men--where, in the long heats of summer broad stretches of shade lay dense on the soft grass, offering grateful shelter from the noon-day sun to the browsing cattle,--and where with the autumn's breath, the slow and glorious transformation of green leaves to gold, with flecks of scarlet between, made a splendour of colour against the pale grey-blue sky, such as artists dream of and with difficulty realise. All this wealth of God-granted natural beauty,--the growth of centuries,--was to perish in a single morning! Surely it was a crime!--surely it was a wicked and wanton deed, for which, there could be no sane excuse offered! Sorrowfully, and with bitterness, did Walden relate to his gardener, Bainton, the failure of his attempt to bring Oliver Leach to reason,--solemnly, and in subdued silence did Bainton hear the tale.
"Well, well, Passon," he said, when his master had finished; "You doos your best for us, and no man can't say but what you've done it true ever since you took up with this 'ere village,--and you've tried to save the Five Sisters, and if 'tain't no use, why there's no more to be said. Josey Letherbarrow was for walkin' up to the Manor an' seein' Miss Vancourt herself, as soon as iver she gets within her own door,--but Lord love ye, he'd take 'arf a day to jog up there on such feet as he's got left after long wear and tear, an' there ain't no liftin' 'im into a cart nohow. Sez he to me: 'I'll see the little gel wot I used to know, and I'll tell 'er as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked, an' she'll listen to me--you see if she don't!' I was rather took with the idee myself, but I sez, sez I: 'Let alone, Josey,--you be old as Methusaleh, and you can't get up to the Manor nohow; let Passon try what he can do wi' Leach,'--and now you've been and done your best, and can't do nothin', why we must give it up altogether."