But the old woman’s eagerness to earn sixpence had impressed me unfavorably as to the character of the master. “Here,” thought I, “are all the signs of riches; and yet this poor old woman, living on the very threshold of opulence, is in want of a sixpence.”
These surmises, in the indulgence of which I piqued myself on my penetration, were strengthened into convictions by the few sentences which I succeeded at last in eliciting from the old woman.
“Mr. Trevanion must be a rich man?” said I. “Oh, ay, rich eno’!” grumbled my guide.
“And,” said I, surveying the extent of shrubbery or dressed ground through which our way wound, now emerging into lawns and glades, now belted by rare garden-trees, now (as every inequality of the ground was turned to advantage in the landscape) sinking into the dell, now climbing up the slopes, and now confining the view to some object of graceful art or enchanting Nature,—“and,” said I, “he must employ many hands here: plenty of work, eh?”
“Ay, ay! I don’t say that he don’t find work for those who want it. But it ain’t the same place it wor in my day.”
“You remember it in other hands, then?”
“Ay, ay! When the Hogtons had it, honest folk! My good man was the gardener,—none of those set-up fine gentlemen who can’t put hand to a spade.”
Poor faithful old woman!
I began to hate the unknown proprietor. Here clearly was some mushroom usurper who had bought out the old simple, hospitable family, neglected its ancient servants, left them to earn tizzies by showing waterfalls, and insulted their eyes by his selfish wealth.
“There’s the water all spilt,—it warn’t so in my day,” said the guide.