“Not much. When I was at school, Tony, whenever in our New Testament examination they asked me who it was did this or said that, I always answered John the Baptist, and in eight times out of ten it was a hit; and so in secular matters, whenever I was puzzled about a fellow's parentage, I invariably said—and you 'll find as a rule it is invaluable—he's a son of George IV., or his father was. It accounts for everything,—good looks, plenty of cash, air, swagger, mystery. It explains how a fellow knows every one, and is claimed by none.”
“And is this Maitland's origin?”
“I can't tell; perhaps it is. Find me a better, or, as the poet says, 'bas accipe mecum.' I say, is that the gate-lodge? Tony, old fellow, I hope I'll have you spending your Christmas here one of these days, with Skeff Darner your host!”
“More unlikely things have happened!” said Tony, quietly.
“What a cold northernism is that! Why, man, what so likely—what so highly probable—what, were I a sanguine fellow, would I say so nearly certain? It was through a branch of the Darners—no, of the Nevils, I mean—who intermarried with us, that the Maxwells got the estate. Paul Nevil was Morton Maxwell's mother—aunt, I should say—”
“Or uncle, perhaps,” gravely interposed Tony.
“Yes, uncle,—you 're right! but you 've muddled my genealogy for all that! Let us see. Who was Noel Skeffington? Noel was a sort of pivot in our family-engine, and everything seemed to depend on him; and such a respect had we for his intentions, that we went on contesting the meaning of his last will till we found out there was nothing more left to fight for. This Noel was the man that caught King George's horse when he was run away with at the battle of Dettingen; and the King wanted to make him a baronet, but with tears in his eyes, he asked how he had ever incurred the royal displeasure to be visited with such a mark of disgrace? 'At all events,' said he, 'my innocent child, who is four years old, could never have offended your Majesty. Do not, therefore, involve him in my shame. Commute the sentence to knighthood, and my dishonor will die with me.'”
“I never heard of greater insolence,” said Tony.
“It saved us, though; but for this, I should have been Sir Skeffington to-day. Is that the house I see yonder?”
“That's a wing of it.”