"
Mrs. Barfield, or the Saint, as she was called, belonged, like Esther, to
the sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. She was the daughter of one of
the farmers on the estate--a very old man called Elliot. He had spent his
life on his barren down farm, becoming intimate with no one, driving hard
bargains with all, especially the squire and the poor flint-pickers. He
could be seen still on the hill-sides, his long black coat buttoned
strictly about him, his soft felt hat crushed over the thin, grey face.
Pretty Fanny Elliot had won the squire's heart as he rode across the down.
Do you not see the shy figure of the Puritan maiden tripping through the
gorse, hastening the hoofs of the squire's cob? And, furnished with some
pretext of estate business, he often rode to the farm that lay under the
shaws at the end of the coombe. The squire had to promise to become one of
the Brethren and he had to promise never to bet again, before Fanny Elliot
agreed to become Mrs. Barfield. The ambitious members of the Barfield
family declared that the marriage was social ruin, but more dispassionate
critics called it a very suitable match; for it was not forgotten that
three generations ago the Barfields were livery-stable keepers; they had
risen in the late squire's time to the level of county families, and the
envious were now saying that the Barfield family was sinking back whence
it came.
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