William Valentine's forefathers had owned this farm, and indeed the whole little village, during generations past; and the property had been a valuable one: but with depreciation of land had come heavy losses, and the present owner was a far poorer man than his father or grandfather. It was all he could do to hold things together, and his children's expectations had dwindled to a fine thread. Notwithstanding pecuniary embarrassments, the man was thoroughly liked, thoroughly esteemed, in the country round; not so much for his position as for himself.
He was squire of the village as well as farmer: to the cottagers a very grand personage indeed; and the friend of each one among them. His wife called him always, with great particularity, "a gentleman-farmer," while Mr. Valentine was rarely at the pains to tack on that preliminary descriptive word. He prided himself on being "a plain farmer, one of the good old yeomanry!" And while in truth a gentleman at heart: in sincerity, in kindliness, in honourable feeling and right principle, he lacked polish of manner, and was bluntly straightforward, even to a fault.
All the same, William Valentine knew, and delighted in knowing, that his sweet old lady wife came from a far more refined stock than his own; and nothing pleased him better than to trace her refinement of look and bearing in some—not all!—of his children. With aught of affectation, he had no patience: but he could recognise real refinement where it existed, though he would congratulate himself with a chuckle that his only son, and still more his youngest girl, were "chips of the old block." By which term, he did not designate his wife.
"She knows nothing in that room is ever changed," repeated Mrs. Valentine, looking with tender eyes upon her broad-shouldered husband. "Prue dusts every inch of it herself, and won't let a servant go in when Bertha is away. Bertha does love that room."
"Shouldn't wonder!"
"And when she comes back she is so happy. I hope she'll give us a few weeks at home now: before she goes out nursing again. But there is no knowing. Bertha always seems ready for work. If anything turns up, she'll want to do it."
"She wouldn't be my child, if she wanted to loll in an arm-chair all her days."
"But I hope she won't put off. Such a storm! And it is four months since we had her here last. Prue, do you think Bertha will come?"
An upright and self-controlled young woman entered, the eldest daughter, not far from thirty in age. Prudence Valentine was counted by some people rather estimable than lovable: perhaps only by those who did not know her well. Few did know her thoroughly well, however.
"Bertha will come," she said, moving towards the bay window.