“Nay, that she is not, I’ll warrant me,” said the doctor. “I have never heard a word of it, but I dare swear that she has never lifted a finger to win him, and that she will never marry him, at any rate until she has received full permission from your own lips. She is made of far finer material than that.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” replied Squire Fuller. “I wish I could believe it, for that permission she will never get between now and the day of judgment; but I confess that I am very sceptical as to her adoption of any such policy. If my Phil were to be such a double-dyed fool as to ask her, I’ve no doubt she would jump at him like a hen at a gooseberry, and rejoice that she had played her cards so well. A squire’s son is not to be hooked by a blacksmith’s daughter every day.”
The plain-spoken doctor was inclined to get angry, as he listened to these reflections on the high-toned character of his young friend and favourite, but commanding his temper, he simply responded,—
“Well, I’m no advocate for young people marrying out of their rank and station, and I’m not sure, even if Lucy returned his affection, that the alliance would end happily, all things considered. At the same time, I say again, and I never spoke more soberly in my life, the youth that marries Lucy Blyth will get a wife that may compete in every way with the noblest lady in the land.”
So saying he took his departure, and the hoofs of his high-bred horse were soon heard ringing over the Kesterton road.
