“And what does Miss Clara say about it, young gentleman?” inquired the old man, fixing his eyes on me with a scrutinising glance.
“Miss Saville dislikes Richard Cumberland, and dreads the idea of being forced to marry him above everything.” “Ah! I know she does, poor lamb; and well she may, for there ain't a more dissipateder young scoundrel to be found nowhere than Mr. Wernor's precious 'nephew,' as he calls him, tho' it's my belief he might call him 'son' without telling a lie.”
“Indeed! I was not aware that Mr. Vernor had ever been married.”
“No; I never heard that he was reg'lar downright married; but he may be his son, for all that. Howsurn-ever, p'raps it is so, or p'raps it ain't; I'm only a tellin' you what I fancies, sir,” was the reply. “But what I wanted to know,” he continued, again fixing his eyes on my face, “is, what does Miss Clara say to you? eh!”
“You put home questions, my friend,” replied I, colouring slightly; “however, as Miss Saville tells me you are faithful and trustworthy, and as half-confidences are never of any use, I suppose you must hear all about it.” I then told him as concisely as possible of my love for Clara, and my hopes of one day calling her my own; pointing out to him the difficulties that stood in the way, and explaining to him that the only one which appeared to me insurmountable was the probability of Mr. Vernor's attempting to force Clara into an immediate marriage with Cumberland. Having thus given him an insight into the true state of affairs, I showed him the necessity of establishing some means of communication between Clara and myself, as it was essential that I should receive the earliest possible information in regard to Mr. Vernor's proceedings.
“I understand, sir,” interrupted Peter, “you want to be able to write to each other without the old 'un getting hold of your letters: well, that's very easily managed; only you direct to Mr. Barnett, to be left at the Pig and Pony, at Barstone; and anything you send for Miss Clara, I'll take care and give her when nobody won't be none the wiser for it; and any letters she writes I'll put into the post myself. I'd do anything rather than let that young villain Cumberland have her, and make her miserable, which his wife is safe to be, if ever he gets one; and if you likes her and she likes you, as seems wery probable, considering you saved her from being burnt to death, as they tell me, and is wery good-looking into the bargain—which goes a great way with young ladies, if you'll excuse the liberty I takes in mentioning of it—why, the best thing as you can do, is to get married as soon as you can.”
“Very pleasant advice, friend Peter,” returned I, “but not so easily acted upon; people cannot marry nowadays without something to live upon.”
“Well, ain't Miss Clara got Barstone Priory, and plenty of money to keep it up with? Won't that do to live upon?”
“And do you imagine I could ever feel content to be the creature of my wife's bounty? prove myself a needy fortune-hunter, as that old man dared to term me?” exclaimed I, forgetting the character of my auditor.
“Barstone Priory to live in, and more money than you know what to do with, ain't to be sneezed at neither,” was the answer; “though I likes your independent spirit too, sir: but how do you mean to manage, then?”