He jerked up his head with an odd movement of defiance. “There’s one thing I would like you to know,” he said. “Though I am no more than a country clod and grind my living out of the stones, I’ve made a success of it. There’s not a single farmer hereabouts who can say that he has a better show than mine. In fact, they know quite well that Tetherstones beats them all.”
“That was worth doing,” said Frances.
“Yes. It was worth doing. But now that it’s done, anyone could run it—anyone with any experience. Oliver could run it.” He spoke contemptuously.
“Then why not let him,” suggested Frances, “and take a holiday yourself?”
“Let him!” He turned upon her almost violently. “Leave Oliver to run this show! You don’t know—” He pulled himself up. “Of course you don’t know. How should you? Oliver is very useful, but he is only a labourer after all. I don’t see myself putting him in my place. He thinks too much of himself as it is.”
“Ah!” Frances said, with an unpleasant feeling of duplicity at her heart. “But you like him, don’t you? He is a good sort?”
“I hope he is a good sort,” Arthur said grimly. “He needs to be kept in his place. I know that much. And I’ll see that it’s done, too.”
He looked at her hard with the words, as if challenging a reply. But Frances made none. Her years of rigorous work had taught her to maintain silence where she felt speech to be futile. She never wasted her words.
And in a moment Arthur relaxed. “I couldn’t leave my post in any case,” he said. “There are—other reasons.”
“Yes,” Frances said, glad of the change of topic. “I realize that.”