So said Mrs. Ford of the George Inn at Wyvern—but what she called pride was in reality shyness.
About Miss Maybell there was a very odd rumour afloat in the town. It had got about that this beautiful young lady was in love with old Squire Fairfield—or at least with his estate of Wyvern.
The village doctor was standing with his back to his drawing-room fire, and the newspaper in his left hand lowered to his knee—as he held forth to his wife, and romantic old Mrs. Diaper—at the tea-table.
“If she is in love with that old man, as they say, take my word for it, she’ll not be long out of a madhouse.”
“How do you mean, my dear?” asked his wife.
“I mean it is not love at all, but incipient mania. Her lonely life up there at Wyvern would make any girl odd, and it’s setting her mad—that’s how I mean.”
“My dear sir,” remonstrated fat Mrs. Diaper, who was learned as well as romantic, “romance takes very whimsical shape at times; Vanessa was in love with Dean Swift, and very young men were passionately in love with Ninon de l’Enclos.”
“Tut—stuff—did I ever hear!” exclaimed Mrs. Buttle, derisively, “who ever thought of love or romance in the matter? The young lady thinks it would be very well to be mistress of Wyvern, and secure a comfortable jointure, and so it would; and if she can make that unfortunate old man fancy her in love with him, she’ll bring him to that, I have very little doubt. I never knew a quiet minx that wasn’t sly—smooth water.”
In fact, through the little town of Wyvern, shut out for the most part from the forest grounds, and old gray manor-house of the same name, it came to be buzzed abroad and about that, whether for love, or from a motive more sane, though less refined, pretty Miss Alice Maybell had set her heart on marrying her surly old benefactor, whose years were enough for her grandfather.
It was an odd idea to get into people’s heads; but why were her large soft gray eyes always following the Squire by stealth?
And, after all, what is incredible of the insanities of ambition? or the subtlety of women?
In the stable-yard of Wyvern Master Charles had his foot in the stirrup, and the old fellow with a mulberry-coloured face, and little gray eyes, who held the stirrup-leather at the other side, said, grinning—
“I wish ye may get it.”
“Get what?” said Charles Fairfield, arresting his spring for a moment and turning his dark and still handsome face, with a hard look at the man, for there was something dry and sly in his face and voice.
“What we was talking of—the old house and the land,” said the man.
“Hey, is that all?” said the young squire as he was still called at four-and-forty, throwing himself lightly into the saddle. “I’m pretty easy about that. Why, what’s the matter?”
“What if the old fellow took it in his head to marry?”
“Marry—eh? well, if he did, I don’t care; but what the devil makes you talk like that? why, man, there’s black and white, seal and parchment for that, the house and acres are settled, Tom; and who do you think would marry him?”
“You’re the last to hear it; any child in the town could tell you, Miss Alice Maybell.”
“Oh! do they really? I did not think of that,” said the young squire, first looking in old Tom’s hard gray eyes. Then for a moment at his own boot thoughtfully, and then he swung himself into the saddle, and struck his spur in his horse’s side, and away he plunged, without another word.
“He don’t like it, not a bit,” said Tom, following him with askance look as he rode down the avenue. “No more do I, she’s always a-watching of the Squire, and old Harry does throw a sheep’s eye at her, and she’s a likely lass; what though he be old, it’s an old rat that won’t eat cheese.”
As Tom stood thus, he received a poke on the shoulder with the end of a stick, and looking round saw old Squire Harry.
The Squire’s face was threatening. “Turn about, d⸺n ye, what were you saying to that boy o’ mine?”
“Nothin’ as I remember,” lied Tom, bluntly.
“Come, what was it?” said the hard old voice, sternly.
“I said Blackie’d be the better of a brushin-boot, that’s all, I mind.”
“You lie, I saw you look over your shoulder before you said it, and while he was talkin’ he saw me a-comin’, and he looked away—I caught ye at it, ye pair of false, pratin’ scoundrels; ye were talkin’ o’ me—come, what did he say, sirrah?”
“Narra word about ye.”
“You lie; out wi’ it, sir, or I’ll make your head sing like the church bell.”
And he shook his stick in his great tremulous fist, with a look that Tom well knew.
“Narra word about you from first to last,” said Tom; and he cursed and swore in support of his statement, for a violent master makes liars of his servants, and the servile vices crop up fast and rank under the shadow of tyranny.
“I don’t believe you,” said the Squire irresolutely, “you’re a liar, Tom, a black liar; ye’ll choke wi’ lies some day—you—fool!”
But the Squire seemed partly appeased, and stood with the point of his stick now upon the ground, looking down on little Tom, with a somewhat grim and dubious visage, and after a few moments’ silence he asked—
“Where’s Miss Alice?”
“Takin’ a walk, sir.”
“Where, I say?”
“She went towards the terrace-garden,” answered Tom.
And toward the terrace-garden walked with a stately, tottering step the old Squire, with his great mastiff at his heels. Under the shadow of tall trees, one side of their rugged stems lighted with the yellow sunset, the other in soft gray, while
