“That’s his usual occupation,” said Mrs. Wooler, with a meaning smile. “I told you he was called Peeping Peter. He’s the sort of man who will have his nose in everybody’s affairs. But,” she added, with a shake of the head which seemed to mean a good deal more than the smile, “he doesn’t often come here. This is almost the only house in Scarhaven that doesn’t belong to the Greyle estate. This house, and the land round it, have belonged to the Wooler family as long as the rest of the place has belonged to the Greyles. And many a Greyle has wanted to buy it, and every Wooler has refused to sell it—and always will!”
“That’s very interesting,” said Copplestone. “Does the present Greyle want to buy?”
The landlady picked up a piece of sewing and sat down in a chair which seemed to be purposely placed so that she could keep an eye on the adjacent bar-parlour on one side and the hall on the other.
“I don’t know much about what the present Squire would like,” she said. “Nobody does. He’s a newcomer, and nobody knows anything about him. You saw him this afternoon?”
“I met a young lady on the sands who turned out to be his cousin, and he came up while I was talking to her,” replied Copplestone. “Yes, I saw him. I’m afraid Mr. Stafford, who came in here with me, you know, offended him,” he continued, and gave Mrs. Wooler an account of what had happened. “Is he rather—touchy?” he concluded.
“I don’t know that he is,” she said. “No one sees much of him. You see he’s a stranger: although he’s a Greyle, he’s not a Scarhaven man. Of course, I know all his family history—I’m Scarhaven born and bred. In my time there have been three generations of Greyles. The first one I knew was this Squire’s grandfather, old Mr. Stephen Greyle: he died when I was a girl in my teens. He had three sons and no daughters. The three sons were all different in their tastes and ideas; the eldest, Stephen John, who came into the estates on his father’s death, was a real home bird—he never left Scarhaven for more than a day or two at a time all his life. And he never married—he was a real old bachelor, almost a woman-hater. The next one, Marcus, went out to America and settled there—he was the father of this present Squire, Mr. Marston Greyle. Then there was the third son, Valentine—he went to live in London. And years after he came back here, very poor, and settled down in a little house near Scarhaven Church with his wife and daughter—that was the daughter you met this afternoon, Miss Audrey. I don’t know why, and nobody else knows, either, but the last Squire, Stephen John, never had anything to do with Valentine and his family; what’s more, when Valentine died and left the widow and daughter very poorly off, Stephen John did nothing for them. But he himself died very soon after Valentine, and then of course, as Marcus had already died in America, everything came to this Mr. Marston. And, as I said, he’s a stranger to Scarhaven folk and Scarhaven ways. Indeed, you might say to England and English ways, for I understand he’d never been in England until he came to take up the family property.”
“Is he more friendly with the mother and daughter than the last Squire was?” asked Copplestone, who had been much interested in this chapter of family history.
Mrs. Wooler made several stitches in her sewing before she answered this direct question, and when, she spoke it was in lower tones and with a glance of caution.
“He would be, if he could!” she said. “There are those in the village who say that he wants to marry his cousin. But the truth is—so far as one can see or learn it—that for some reason or other, neither Mrs. Valentine Greyle nor Miss Audrey can bear him! They took some queer dislike to the young man when he first came, and they’ve kept it up. Of course, they’re outwardly friendly, and he occasionally, I believe, goes to the cottage, but they rarely go to the big house, and it’s very seldom they’re ever seen together. I have heard—one does hear things in villages—that he’d be very glad to do something handsome for them, but they’re both as proud as they’re poor, and not the sort to accept aught from anybody. I believe they’ve just enough to live on, but it can’t be a great deal, for everybody knows that Valentine Greyle made ducks and drakes of his fortune long before he came back to Scarhaven, and old Stephen John only left them a few hundreds of pounds. However—there it is. However much the new Squire wants to marry his cousin, it’s very flat she’ll not have anything to say to him. I’ve once or twice had an opportunity of seeing those two together, and it’s my private opinion that Miss Audrey dislikes that young man just about as heartily as she possibly could!”
“What does Mr. Marston Greyle find to do with himself in this place?” asked Copplestone, turning the conversation. “Can’t be very lively for him if he’s a man of any activity.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Wooler. “I think he’s a good deal like his uncle, the last squire—he certainly never goes anywhere, except out to sea in his yacht. He shoots a bit, and fishes a bit, and so on, and spends a lot of time with Peeping Peter—he’s a widower, is Chatfield, and lives alone, except when his daughter runs down to see him. And that daughter, by the by, Mr. Copplestone, is on the stage.”
“Dear me!” said Copplestone. “That is surprising! Her father made several contemptuous references to playactors when he was talking to me.”
“Oh, he hates them, and all connected with them!” replied
