“I haven’t heard any news this twelvemonth,” he replied.
“Laws, that is so like you, Mr. Reginald. The young squire is to be here next week.”
“Who is the young squire? I didn’t know there was any squire now.”
“Mr. Reginald!”
“A squire as I take it, Mrs. Hopkins, is a country gentleman who lives on his own property. Since my grandfather’s time no such gentleman has lived at Bragton.”
“That’s true, too, Mr. Reginald. Anyway Mr. Morton is coming down next week.”
“I thought he was in America.”
“He has come home, for a turn like—and is staying up in town with the old lady.” The old lady always meant the Honourable Mrs. Morton.
“And is the old lady coming down with him?”
“I fancy she is, Mr. Reginald. He didn’t say as much, but only that there would be three or four—a couple of ladies he said, and perhaps more. So I am getting the east bedroom, with the dressing-room, and the blue room for her ladyship.” People about Bragton had been accustomed to call Mrs. Morton her ladyship. “That’s where she always used to be. Would you come in and see, Mr. Reginald?”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Hopkins. If you were asking me into a house of your own, I would go in and see all the rooms and chat with you for an hour; but I don’t suppose I shall ever go into this house again unless things change very much indeed.”
“Then I’m sure I hope they will change, Mr. Reginald.” Mrs. Hopkins had known Reginald Morton as a boy growing up into manhood—had almost been present at his birth, and had renewed her friendship while he was staying with Lady Ushant; but of the present squire, as she called him, she had seen almost nothing, and what she had once remembered of him had now been obliterated by an absence of twenty years. Of course she was on Reginald’s side in the family quarrel, although she was the paid servant of the Foreign Office paragon.
“And they are to be here next week. What day next week, Mrs. Hopkins?” Mrs. Hopkins didn’t know on what day she was to expect the visitors, nor how long they intended to stay. Mr. John Morton had said in his letter that he would send his own man down two days before his arrival, and that was nearly all that he had said.
Then Morton started on his return walk to Dillsborough, again taking the path across the bridge. “Ah!” he said to himself with a shudder as he crossed the stile, thinking of his own softened feelings as he had held out his hand to help Mary Masters, and then of his revulsion of feeling when she declared her purpose of walking home with Mr. Twentyman. And he struck the rail of the bridge with his stick as though he were angry with the place altogether. And he thought to himself that he would never come there any more, that he hated the place, and that he would never cross that bridge again.
Then his mind reverted to the tidings he had heard from Mrs. Hopkins. What ought he to do when his cousin arrived? Though there had been a long lawsuit, there had been no actual declared quarrel between him and the heir. He had, indeed, never seen the heir for the last twenty years, nor had they ever interchanged letters. There had been no communication whatever between them, and therefore there could hardly be a quarrel. He disliked his cousin; nay, almost hated him; he was quite aware of that. And he was sure also that he hated that Honourable old woman worse than anyone else in the world, and that he always would do so. He knew that the Honourable old woman had attempted to drive his own mother from Bragton, and of course he hated her. But that was no reason why he should not call on his cousin. He was anxious to do what was right. He was specially anxious that blame should not be attributed to him. What he would like best would be that he might call, might find nobody at home—and that then John Morton should not return the courtesy. He did not want to go to Bragton as a guest; he did not wish to be in the wrong himself; but he was by no means equally anxious that his cousin should keep himself free from reproach.
The bridge path came out on the Dillsborough road just two miles from the town, and Morton, as he got over the last stile, saw Lawrence Twentyman coming towards him on the road. The man, no doubt, had gone all the way into Dillsborough with the girls, and was now returning home. The parish of Bragton lies to the left of the high road as you go into the town from Rufford and the direction of London, whereas Chowton Farm, the property of Mr. Twentyman, is on the right of the road, but in the large parish of St. John’s, Dillsborough. Dillsborough Wood lies at the back of Larry Twentyman’s land, and joining on to Larry’s land and also to the wood is the patch of ground owned by “that scoundrel Goarly.” Chowton Farm gate opens on to the high road, so that Larry was now on his direct way home. As soon as he saw Morton he made up his mind to speak to him. He was quite sure from what had passed between him and the girls, on the road home, that he had done something wrong. He was convinced that he had interfered in some ill-bred way, though he did not at all know how. Of Reginald Morton he was not in the least jealous. He, too, was of a jealous temperament, but it had never occurred to him to join Reginald Morton and Mary Masters together. He was very much in love with Mary, but had no idea that she