“N–o,” said Faith with a sob, having eaten nearly half of it.
“Nor any more sausage?”
“Oh no!” she answered, heaving a weary sigh.
“Nor sucketts (sweetmeats; subsequently spelt succadet) neither?”
Faith shook her head dolefully.
“Then I’ll help you to a little of one other thing, which you need sorely; and that’s a bit of advice.”
Faith moaned behind her handkerchief.
“As to quitting home, that’s your own choice; so don’t go and pretend to fret over it. And as to sparing you, you’ve been spared a deal too much, and I’ve been a fool to do it. And just bethink you, Faith, that if we are now to make one family with my Lady Lettice and Edith, you’d best be thinking how you can spare them. My Lady Lettice is a deal newer widow than you, and she’s over seventy years on her back, and you’ve but forty—”
“Thirty-nine,” corrected Faith in a choked voice.
“And she’s leaving her home not from choice, but because she has no choice; and she has spent over fifty years in it, and is like an old oak which can ill bear uprooting. I only trust those Newcastle Louvaines will get what they deserve. I say it’s a burning shame, never to come forward nor claim aught for fifty years, until Sir Aubrey and both his sons were gone, and then down they pounce like vultures on the widow and her orphan grandson, and set up a claim, forsooth, to the estate—after all these years! I don’t believe they have any right—or at any rate, they’ve no business to have it: and if my Lady Lettice had been of my mind, she’d have had a fight for it, instead of giving in to them; and if Aubrey Banaster had had a scrap of gumption, he’d have seen to it. He is the eldest man of the family, and they’re pretty nigh all lads but him. Howbeit, let that pass. Only I want you, Faith, to think of it, and not go treating my Lady Lettice to a dish of tears every meal she sits down to, or she’ll be sorry you’re her daughter-in-law, if she isn’t now; and if her name were Temperance Murthwaite it’s much if she wouldn’t be.”