“Priests, women, and poultry, they say, has never enough. There’s bin changes since, and I don’t see why Wyvern should be charged so heavy.”
“There’s three hundred a year to Alice, that’s what ye mean!” said the old Squire.
His son was silent.
“Well, I don’t owe her nothin’, that’s true, but I’ll let it stand, mind. And Harry, lad, the day ye do a good thing there will be seven new moons.”
“What was parson a whisperin’ about in the window wi’ ye?” he asked of the attorney after a time.
“Some claim upon the vicarage which he thought you said you meant to remit by will.”
“I ’a thought upon it, and I won’t. Paternoster built churches, and Our Father pulled ’em down. There’s o’er many parsons for the churches, and o’er many churches for the people—tell him I won’t.”
“What the devil made you talk about that to him?” said Harry, with a dark look, when he and the attorney had got out of the room.
“My dear sir,” said the lawyer, “we must be true to our clients, and beside, don’t you remember the clergyman said he’d be here to-morrow at one to administer the Lord’s Supper, and he’ll be certain to speak of it then to our client.”
At nightfall the Squire grew worse, and his head wandered.