So the old Squire stormed on more serenely than he had done for a long time.
“Make another tankard o’ that thing, Tom; make a big one, and brew it well, and fetch a rummer for yourself, lad.”
“Beggar’s breed for rich men to feed,” resumed the Squire. “A son at the Grange o’ Carwell, no less! Well, I ’a taken enough, and too much, on my shoulders in my day, and ’tis often the least boy carries the biggest fiddle. She’s a sly lass—Alice. She’ll find fools enough to help her. I ’a done wi’ her—she’s a bad un. Look at that harpsichord thing there she used to play on,” he pointed to the piano. “I got that down from Lunnon for her to jingle tunes at as long as she liked, and I’d a had it smashed up and pitched in the river, only ’twould a made her think I cared enough about her to take that trouble about her lumber. She turned her back on me when she liked, and I’ll not turn my face on her when she lists. A graceless hussy she was and is, and grace lasts but beauty blasts, and so let it be for me. That’s enough. I take it there’s no more to tell. So take ye a candle if ye’re sleepy, man, no use dawdlin’ sluggard’s guise, loath to bed, and loath to rise,” and so, with a gruff nod, he dismissed him, and in came Tom Ward with the punch before very long.
“That’s good, Tom; that’ll warm yer ribs. How long a’ you been here? Wyvern always, but a long time in the house, Tom, a long time wi’ the family. ’Tis sixty years ago, Tom. I remember you in our livery, Isabel and Blue—them’s the old colours. They don’t know the name now—‘salmon,’ they calls it. We ’a seen Christmas pretty often in the old house. We’ll not see many more, I’m thinking. The tale’s nigh done. ’Twasn’t bad times wi’ ye here, Tom; we can’t complain; we ’a had our share, and after cheese comes nothing, as the old folks used to say. Take the rummer and sit ye down by the door, Tom. There’s Master Harry. I’d rather ha’ a glass wi’ you, Tom, than a dozen wi’ him, a d⸺d pippin’-squeezing rascal. Tom, ain’t he a sneak, and no Fairfield, Tom, ain’t he, ain’t he, d⸺ ye?”
“I won’t say that all out, sir. He’s a tall, handsome lad, and Master Harry can sit down and drink his share like a man.”
“Like a beast, ye mean. He never tells ye a pleasant story, nor laughs like a man, and what liquor he swallows, it goes into a bad skin, Tom. He’s not hot and hearty in his cups, like a Fairfield; he has no good nature, Tom; he’s so closefisted and cunnin’. I hate them fellows that can’t buy at the market and sell at the fair, and drink when he’s drinkin’; d⸺ him, he’s always a watching to do ye, just like his mother; a screw she was, and her son’s like her, crooked to sell, and crooked to buy. I hate him sober, Tom, and I hate him drunk. Bring your glass here, old lad; a choice mug-full ye’ve brewed tonight. Hold it straight, you fool!
“What was I sayin’? The old things is out o’ date, Tom; the world’s changin’, and ’tain’t in nature, Tom, to teach old dogs tricks. I do suppose there’s fun goin’, though I don’t see it, and the old folks beginning to be in the way, as they were always, and things won’t change for us. We were brave lads, we Fairfields, but there’s no one to come now. There won’t be no one after me in Wyvern house. To the wrestlin’ on Wyvern Fair Green when I was a boy, I mind the time when lords and ladies id come ridin’ down for twenty miles round, and all the old stock o’ the country, some on horseback, and some in coaches, and silks and satins, to see the belt played for and singlestick and quarterstaves. They were manly times, Tom, and a Fairfield ever first in the field, and—what year is this? ay, I was twenty the week before that day—’tis sixty-four years ago—when I threw Dick Dutton over my shoulder and broke his collarbone, and Dutton was counted the best man they ever brought down here, and Meg Weeks—ye’ll mind Meg Weeks wi’ the hazel eyes—was lookin’ on; and the wrestlin’s gone, and not a man left in the country round that could tell a quarterstaff from a flail; and when I’m gone to my place in the churchyard, there’s not a Fairfield in Wyvern no longer, for I don’t count Harry one, he’s not a Fairfield, by no chance, and never was. Charlie had it in him, handsome Charlie. I seen many a turn in him like me, I did; and that Captain Jolliffe’s died only t’other day that he shot in the arm at Tewkesbury only twenty years ago for sayin’ a wry word o’ me; old Morton read it yesterday, he says, in the Lun’on paper. But it’s all over wi’ Charlie, and—stand up, Tom, and fill yer glass, and we’ll drink to him.”
Old Tom Ward was the first to speak after.
“Hot blood and proud, sir, and a bit wild, when he was young; more than that, there’s nout to be said by any. A brave lad, sir, and the good-naturedest I ever see. He shouldn’t be buried where he is, alone. I don’t like that, nohow. He wouldn’t a done so by you, Squire; he liked ye well; he liked everyone that was ever kind to him. I mind how he cried after poor Master Willie. They two was very like and loving. Master Willie was tall, like him, and handsome.”
“Don’t ye
