‘The place had been bought by his father, who made money in trade at Ironopolis, an’ he’d just got himself elected into Parliament, an’ was like to get on at it, ’twas said, bein’ one of them ready-witted, oily-tongued chaps that never go quite straight, but gallop along t’ roads an’ sneak through gates, an’ then swagger on at t’ kill. Ay, there’s none “who-oops” an’ “tally-hos” louder than them.
‘T’owd Squire, on t’other hand, was one of t’ owd-fashioned sort, and said what he meant always, an’ clapped an oath on t’ back of it; hated Lunnon, an’ Lunnon ways, lived for huntin’ an’ shootin’ an’ country pursuits, an’ drank a bottle of port wine reg’lar every evenin’ to his own cheek. He wasn’t over well educated neither, havin’ all his life lived almost entirely at home; no scholar savin’ a vast knowledge of the stud-book, farriery, an’ horse-breedin’, which was a sort o’ larnin’ that Mistress Heron didn’t care a button about. Well, things went gradually askew between the two, she always wantin’ fresh company in t’ house, an’ him hatin’ society ways like poison.
‘Amongst others she took up with was this young Member o’ Parliament, Cunliffe, an’ often he would be over an’ dinin’ with them; he could sing a bit, an’ she was fond of t’ piano, an’ they would play on together in t’ drawing-room while t’ Squire sat over his mahog’ny passin’ t’ bottle round, talkin’ over t’ ’untin’, layin’ wagers with his own particular cronies of the red-faced, good-hearted, rough-tongued, fox-’untin’ Yorkshire style.
‘Well, t’owd Squire couldn’t stomach young Cunliffe at all; for in the first place he was a poor rider to ’ounds, never jumped owt if he could help it, was a mean chap with his brass, an’ had a supercilious way o’ talk about him that angered t’ Squire fearful. Add to this that he was always comin’ over to sweetheart his missus, an’ you can imagine how ill the two men would agree.
‘Well, one night they was sitting playin’ cards after dinner, an’ Mistress Heron was lookin’ on at them. T’ Squire was nowt of a scholar, as I said before, but he had a good head for cards, an’ loved to take t’ shekels off young Cunliffe, who hated losin’, but was generally the one who had to pay up.
‘It was a game they call Pickit they were playin’; grandfather told me—for in after days t’ Squire let out a good bit of his troubles to my grandfather, havin’ been playmates together, an’ grandfather bein’ a god-child o’ t’owd Squire’s father beside that—an’ Cunliffe bein’ flustered had forgot when it came to t’ last two cards—there bein’ a ticklish bit at stake—what had been played previously.
‘He looked this way and that, then all of a sudden he catches Mistress Heron’s eye, sees something in it that tells him somewhat, claps doon t’ right card an’ wins.
‘T’owd Squire, he keeps extraordinary quiet, just gives one swift look round under his eyelids at his wife standin’ there above him, an’ says softly, “Ye’ve a wonderful memory, Mr. Cunliffe,” says he, at which the other gets very red, an’ begins to talk of getting home.
‘“Mistress Heron and I,” says t’ Squire, “were talking on this afternoon about t’ private steeplechase we’re going to hold shortly in t’ Park here, an’ she was all for layin’ out t’ course for first two miles straight west till it almost touches Towers gates. ‘It will just take inside of ten minutes from t’ Ford,’ says she, ‘to Towers turn, and beautiful going all the way over grass with t’ big jump an’ t’ black beck in t’ middle of it.’ ‘Ay,’ says I, ‘and that will stop one or two that I know of—I’ll lay a monkey.’ ‘Not a bit of it,’ says she, ‘not a bit; an’ I’ll take evens with ye that everybody tries it.’
‘“Now, as Mistress Heron is going to ask ye to ride one of her nominations for her at the race, it might be helpful to ye to have a preliminary trial, an’ as t’ night is bright as day wi’ moonlight, perhaps ye’d like a ride home to-night across country, an’ I’ll lay ye double of what ye’ve won to-night that ye don’t get to your own gate-ends in, say, twelve minutes from t’ Ford’s paddock. An’ ye can have your pick o’ what’s in my stable,” adds t’ Squire, as he looks from one to t’ other of them, “while Mistress Heron an’ I will watch ye from t’ battlements an’ take time for ye; or, of course, if ye’re afraid,” he adds, as Cunliffe, hemming an’ hawing, says something about “not likin’ to take a horse out at that time o’ night,” an’ dwells heavy on the words, “we can send ye home in the landau, like a lady,” says t’ Squire.