“And will Mrs. Million dine with us in the Hall, Marquess?” asked Cynthia Courtown.
“Mrs. Million will do what she likes; I only know that I shall dine in the Hall, whatever happens, and whoever comes; and so, I suppose, will Miss Cynthia Courtown?”
Vivian rode out alone, immediately after breakfast, to cure his melancholy by a gallop.
Returning home, he intended to look in at a pretty farm-house, where lived one John Conyers, a great friend of Vivian’s. This man had, about a fortnight ago, been of essential service to our hero, when a vicious horse, which he was endeavouring to cure of some ugly tricks, had nearly terminated his mortal career.
“Why are you crying so, my boy?” asked Vivian of a little Conyers, who was sobbing bitterly at the floor. He was answered only with desperate sobs.
“Oh, ‘tis your honour,” said a decent-looking woman, who came out of the house; “I thought they had come back again.”
“Come back again! why, what is the matter, dame?”
“Oh! your honour, we’re in sad distress; there’s been a seizure this morning, and I’m mortal fear’d the good man’s beside himself.”
“Good heavens! why did not you come to the Castle?”
“Oh! your honour, we a’nt his Lordship’s tenants no longer; there’s been a change for Purley Mill, and now we’re Lord Mounteney’s people. John Conyers has been behind-hand since he had the fever, but Mr. Sedgwick always gave time: Lord Mounteney’s gem’man says the system’s bad, and so he’ll put an end to it; and so all’s gone, your honour; all’s gone, and I’m mortal fear’d the good man’s beside himself.”