That was all, but the tones of the men’s voices spoke volumes.
Twice a year or so, once for the shooting in the autumn, and again in spring, as a rule, Sir Anthony Gyde came down to Throstle Hall, bringing with him his French valet, his cook, and in the autumn half a dozen friends.
He was a good landlord, and open-handed enough, but he had never gained the esteem of the country folks; they touched their hats to him, but they called him a stracklin.[[1]]
[1]. A bad un.
Certain incidents of his youth lingered in their memory. In the country the past dies slowly; if you leave a reputation there to-day, you will find it there ten years hence, not much the worse for the wear.
Leaving Blencarn, Sir Anthony struck over the lower fells; he did not trouble about roads or gates, when he met with a wall of loose stones he put his horse at it, and the horse, an Irish hunter, tipped it with his fore hoofs and passed over.
On Gamblesby Fell he drew rein. It was a still grey day; there was scarcely a sound on the breeze; one could hear the call of a shepherd, the bark of his dog, and, far away, the drumming sound of driven sheep.
The master of millions sat with the reins hanging loose upon his horse’s neck, gazing at the scene before him. Then, touching his horse with the spur, he resumed his way, making towards the plain and home.
He had only come down from London the day before, and he intended returning on the morrow; he had spent the day in going over the estate, and he intended passing the evening in consultation with his land-agent, Gristlethwaite.
Two miles from home he took a short cut, and struck across the fields into a very strange and desolate place.