“Master comes very seldom. Oh! ve-ry. Just when he thinks to find Master Henry here, maybe once in a season.”
“And where does he live—at home or where?” asked the tall visitor.
“Well, I can’t say, I’m sure, if it baint at Wyvern. At Wyvern, I do suppose, mostly. But I daresay he travels a bit now and again. I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“Because I wrote to him to Wyvern to meet me here. Is he at Wyvern?”
“Well, faith, I can’t tell. I know no more than you, ma’am, where Master Charles is,” said Mildred, with energy, relieved in the midst of her rosary of lies to find herself free to utter one undoubted truth.
“You have been a long time in the family, Mrs. Tarnley?” drawled the visitor, listlessly.
“Since I was the height o’ that—before I can remember. I was born in Carwell gate-house here. My mother was here in old Squire’s time, meanin’ the father o’ the present Harry Fairfield o’ Wyvern that is, and grandfather o’ the two young gentlemen, Master Charles and Master Harry. Why, bless you, my grandfather, that is my mother’s father, was in charge o’ the house and farm, and the woods, and the tenants, and all; there wasn’t a tree felled, nor a cow sold, nor an acre o’ ground took up, but jest as he said. They called him honest Tom Pennecuick; he was thought a great deal of, my grandfather was, and Carwell never turned in as good a penny to the Fairfields as in his time; not since, and not before—never, and never will, that’s sure.”
“And which do you like best, Squire Charles or Squire Harry?” inquired the languid lady.
“I likes Charles,” said Mrs. Tarnley, with decision.
“And why so?”