“Excuse me, master, but don’t ye think ye turn your mind too much to the gold and silver and forget the more precious things that’s laid up for all on us in heaven?”
There was a silence; and Florence stayed her light footstep on the gravel to listen for her father’s reply. It was spoken with unusual earnestness:
“My friend, I’m afraid you are right. I’m terribly afraid that I have not thought half so much of these things as I ought to have done. But I’ll alter, Heaven helping me. I tell you what we’ll do, my good Daniel: every night before we sleep my daughter shall read to us all. It will do me good. I always sleep better when her sweet voice is the last sound in my ears.”
Florence moved noiselessly away, and, lifting her face to the calm sky above, prayed that her father’s resolves might not be futile ones, but that the simple remonstrance of old Daniel might induce him to try and subdue the feverish craving for wealth which blighted their otherwise peaceful existence.
Mrs. Bick, who had been to Kirton on an errand, came to the gate as she approached it, and, leaning her arms upon it, stood there to rest.
“It’s been a terrible hot walk,” she panted. “I was glad enough to get back again; but I heerd a bit o’ news in the town as’ll s’prise my Dannle. Orwell Court’s let—that big house through the turnpike as I told ye Dannle used to work at when he were a boy.”
Florence remembered it directly, for in one of the few walks she had persuaded her father to take they had approached this untenanted mansion, and had been civilly invited to enter the grounds by the person in charge. Orwell Court was an old house of most irregular form, for it had been originally a mere cottage, to which one after another of its owners had made additions. But the situation was excellent, and the half orchard, half park which surrounded it was so full of exquisite bits of scenery that Florence regretted her inability to stay and sketch them.
“I am glad to hear that it is let. It was a thousand pities for so charming a spot to remain empty. Who has taken it?”
She smiled at herself for asking this question, as she was not likely to recognize any name Mrs. Bick might mention; but the answer had an unexpected interest of its own.
“He’s a Mr. Ayl——something—Ayling or Aylwinne; yes, that’s it—Aylwinne. He’s a very rich Ingyman, and a friend o’ Mr. Lumley’s at the little church in the village just beyond. He’s a dark-faced gentleman, with a beard as thick and as dark as I dunno what, and such a pair of eyes! You’ve seen him, ain’t ye?”