But all the while the storm-clouds were gathering, and a distant muttering of thunder told that the tempest threatened to break over the pleasant west-country land.
“There’s going to be a big change o’ some kind, Master Scarlett,” said Nat, the gardener; “and if there is, it won’t be any too soon, for it will put my brother Samson in his proper place, and keep him there.”
“Yes, Master Fred, I went and had a mug o’ cider down in the village last night, poor winegar wee sort o’ stuff—three apples to a bucket o’ water—such as my brother Nat makes up at the Hall; and there they all were talking about it. People all taking sides all over England. Some’s Cavaliers and some’s Roundheads, so they say, and one party’s for the king, and the other isn’t. Precious awful, aren’t it?”
“Perhaps it’s only talk, Samson?”
“No, Master Fred, sir, I don’t think it’s all talk; but there is a deal o’ talk.”
“Ah, well, it’s nothing to do with us, Samson. Let them quarrel. We’re too busy out here to bother about their quarrels.”
“Well, I dunno, sir. I’m not a quarrelsome chap, but I heard things as my brother Nat has said quite bad enough to make me want to go again him, for we two never did agree; and when it comes to your own brother telling downright out-and-out lies about the Manor vegetables and fruit, I think it’s time to speak, don’t you?”
“Oh, I wish you and Nat would meet some day, and shake hands, or else fight it out and have done with it; brothers oughtn’t to quarrel.”
“I dunno, Master Fred, I dunno.”
“Ah, well, I think all quarrels are a bother, whether they’re big ones or whether they’re little ones. They say the king and Parliament have fallen out; well, if I had my way, I’d make the king and Parliament shake hands, just as Scar Markham and I will make you and Nat shake yours.”