There was quite an excitement in the village when Mr. Beveridge was seen coming down. Occasionally during his wife’s lifetime he had come down with her to look into questions of repairs or erection of new cottages in lieu of old ones, but since that time he had never entered the village. Personally his tenants did not suffer from the cessation of his visits, for his steward had the strictest injunctions to deal in all respects liberally with them, to execute all necessary repairs, to accede to any reasonable request; while in case of illness or misfortune, such as the loss of a boat or nets, the rent was always remitted. That Mr. Beveridge was to a certain extent mad to shut himself up as he did the villagers firmly believed, but they admitted that no better landlord was to be found in all that part of the country.
Mrs. Beveridge had been greatly liked, and the people were pleased at Horace being down so much among them; but it was rather a sore subject that their landlord himself held so entirely aloof from them. Men touched their hats, the women curtsied as he came down the street, looking almost with pity at the man who, in their opinion, so terribly wasted his life and cut himself off from the enjoyments of his position.
Mr. Beveridge returned their salutes kindly. He was scarce conscious of the time that had passed since he was last in the village; the years had gone by altogether unmarked save by the growth of Horace, and by the completion of so many works.
“I suppose you know most of their names, Horace?”
“All of them, I think, father.”
“That is right, boy. A landlord ought to know all his tenants. I wish I could find time to go about among them a little more, but I think they have everything they want as far as I can do for them; still, I ought to come. In your mother’s time I did come sometimes. I must try to do it in future. Zaimes, you must see that I do this once a fortnight. I authorize you to bring me my hat and coat after lunch and say to me firmly, ‘This is your afternoon for going out.’”
“Very well, sir,” the Greek said. “I will tell you; and I hope you will not say, as you always do to me when I beg you to go out: ‘I must put it off for another day, Zaimes, I have some work that must be done.’”
“I will try not to, Zaimes, I will indeed. I think this is a duty. You remind me of that, will you?”
By this time they had reached the little port, where a number of the fishermen were still lounging discussing the Surf, which was lying the picture of neatness and good order among the fishing-boats, with every rope in its place, the sails in their snow-white covers, and presenting the strongest contrast to the craft around her.
“She is really a very pretty little yacht,” Mr. Beveridge said with more animation than Horace ever remembered to have heard him speak with. “She does great credit to your choice, Marco, and I should think she is a good sea-boat. Why, Zaimes, this almost seems to take one back to the old time. She is about the size of the felucca we used to cruise about in; it is a long time back, nearly eighteen years, and yet it seems but yesterday.”