“At your books for ever,” said Cairns discontentedly. “And whatever in the world is the use?”
“Hannah wouldn’t let me go out, and one can’t sit idle. Reading keeps me happy, father, if there’s no other use.”
“I should just think I wouldn’t,” responded Hannah.
“It’s a sharp wind. Best take care,” said old Cairns. He seemed to fall into a musing fit; his brows knitted. Hannah presently moved out of the room, and he said then—“Met old Elton just now; and he couldn’t let me pass without stopping.”
“Elton?” said Jervis.
“You don’t remember him, of course. Used to be butler at Woodleigh Hall—time our troubles began. You were a little chap then. He broke down in his health after, and Mr. Rutherford pensioned him off. That’s some eighteen years ago, I should reckon. I didn’t know but he might be dead before this; but he isn’t. I shouldn’t have known him, but he knew me.”
“Staying near here?” asked Jervis.
“Yes; he’s got a daughter married and come lately to live in Woodleigh. I met him near there.”
“Have you been so far? And did he tell you any news?” Jervis, in his secluded, sickly life, liked an occasional voice from the outside world.
“Not much. Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford’s been away, he said—to Wales, I think—and they’re expected back this evening. I told him I hadn’t spoken to Mr. Rutherford for years, and he said he could hardly believe it. He asked why I didn’t go to the Hall; and I said I’d no wish. I cut it short, and got away as soon as I could.”