Biddy knew well where he was gone, but did not hint at it, for fear of injuring his character before the ladies. The stranger, meantime, quietly tethered the horses securely to the strong fence, and, raising his cap to the young ladies, said to Biddy, 'I will find your grandson, and send him; they will stand quite safely,' looking at the horses, and then turned towards the inn, where he expected to see him.
Miss Brimble watched him out of sight; but her sister Flora scarcely allowed him to be beyond hearing before she asked who he was, adding, 'I thought it was one of the farm people.'
'He's my lodger, miss, and quite a gentleman, for all he's put up here,' said Biddy. 'Please walk in, ladies. The chickens are all alive, Miss Flora—I'm proud to say I haven't lost one; you'll please to come and look at them; and belike Miss Brimble will look at the beautiful pictures as Mr. Jobson have put up in the parlour.'
'Beautiful indeed!' said Miss Brimble, standing before a rough water-colour drawing of an extensive country scene. 'Oh, Flora, look! how exceedingly clever!' she exclaimed, and pointed out the merits of distance, colour, etc. Flora had no doubt it was all true, but did not examine it with much interest. While Miss Brimble stood before it in silent admiration, she went with Biddy to visit her chickens, plying her with innumerable questions about her lodger.
'Jobson—what a name! poor old man! I daresay he's some map-maker, or surveyor, or that kind of thing. And so he plays the flute? Why, how entertaining he must be! And you don't know where he came from, nor where he is going, nor what he wants here, nor how long he is going to stay? Well, if he had but a better name, he would be delightfully mysterious; but Jobson—and Matthew Jobson, too—there's no harmonizing that with mystery.'
Miss Brimble had well surveyed, not only the drawing described but several others,—some unintelligible to a common eye, from their roughness,—and seemed disinclined to leave them, when Flora returned from her visit to her pet chickens. As they rode through the long narrow lane that formed with its overhanging boughs an avenue almost private to the Hall, Flora upbraided her sister with not having visited her pets—' the sweetest little creatures in the world,' she said.
'Who can this person be?' said Miss Brimble, musingly, and not noticing her sister's reproaches.
'Oh, some poor old broken-down artist—or—or—but what does it signify? I do believe, Charity, you are more interested in him than in my little darlings.'
'I wish,' said Miss Brimble, 'I had asked more questions of Biddy about him.'
'Don't be unhappy,' said Flora; 'I asked every conceivable question while you were looking at those things on the wall. His name is Matthew Jobson; he gets up at some unearthly hour—four or five—after sleeping on a mat on the floor, miserable man, with his window open; when the milk comes in, he drinks one long draught, and eats brown bread, and that's his breakfast; then he shuts himself up in the parlour, and makes those smudges and scratches—I should call them—but of course you know best; then he starts off with hard-boiled eggs and brown bread, and walks no one knows where, and doesn't return till evening, and finishes the day with a solo on the flute, and some more bread and milk. Well, stop—I haven't done; he is undoubtedly very poor, but very honest, for he pays his reckoning every evening, which makes Biddy afraid he won't stay very long. He gives John the best advice—he knows everything, and has been everywhere—there!'