"Great folks!—great! Ay, there it is. Why, if they be great folks, they have great houses of their own, Mr. Justis."
The steward stared. "Perhaps, your honour," he put in, deprecatingly, "they be Mr. Merton's family: they come very often when the London gentlemen are with them."
"Merton!—oh, the cringing parson. Harkye! one word more with me, sir, and you quit my service to-morrow."
Mr. Justis lifted his eyes and hands to heaven; but there was something in his master's voice and look which checked reply, and he turned slowly to the door—when a voice of such heavenly sweetness was heard without that it arrested his own step and made the stern Maltravers start in his seat. He held up his hand to the steward to delay his errand, and listened, charmed and spell-bound. His own words came on his ear,—words long unfamiliar to him, and at first but imperfectly remembered; words connected with the early and virgin years of poetry and aspiration; words that were as the ghosts of thoughts now far too gentle for his altered soul. He bowed down his head, and the dark shade left his brow.
The song ceased. Maltravers moved with a sigh, and his eyes rested on the form of the steward with his hand on the door.
"Shall I give your honour's message?" said Mr. Justis, gravely.
"No; take care for the future; leave me now."
Mr. Justis made one leg, and then, well pleased, took to both.
"Well," thought he, as he departed, "how foreign parts do spoil a gentleman! so mild as he was once! I must botch up the accounts, I see,—the squire has grown sharp."
As Evelyn concluded her song, she—whose charm in singing was that she sang from the heart—was so touched by the melancholy music of the air and words, that her voice faltered, and the last line died inaudibly on her lips.