CHAPTER LVI.
THE OLD SQUIRE LEAVES WYVERN.
The old folk can’t go on living always. The King’s messenger had called at Wyvern, and the old Squire must needs get up and go.
Sickness was a cross he had never been used to bear, and now that it was laid on his old shoulders he knew that he could not keep his feet very long.
He had the Wyvern lawyer, who did the business of the estate, up to his room, and the parson and his own son, Harry Fairfield. He made the attorney read the will, which he had told him to bring up with him, and the Squire listened as it was read slowly.
After the clergyman had gone—
“Have ye ought to say to that, son Harry?” said the old Squire.
“’Tis an old will, father,” said Harry.
“It ain’t,” said the Squire.
“Eight years less two months,” said the lawyer.
“About the age rum’s fit to drink,” said the old Squire. “What say ye to it—now’s your time, son?”