“Tell that white-faced Vicar Maybell, there’s never a one but the thankless in hell—I’ll not sit under none o’ his sermons—Ay, he frowns at that.”
“Hey, dear?” whispered the housekeeper, gazing at him from the hearth where they were sitting.
“And who does he mean, ma’am?” asked the nurse.
“God knows—old times, I suppose,” she answered.
“There’s a glass broke, Tom, who’s kicking up the row?” mumbled the Squire,—“Play, women, and wine undoes men, laughin’—Ay, light it, I’m very dark—Who’s he, ye fool?—Joan and my lady’s all one in the dark.”
“That’s Tom Ward he’s thinkin’ on?” said the nurse.
“Ay, he liked Tom ever. He wouldn’t think ’twas Wyvern without Tom,” answered the housekeeper.
In a little time he said more distinctly and sternly—
“The dead should do nothing.—So that’s the bishop.—Ay—ay—The devil, mind ye, isn’t always at one door.—If there was a good man here he’d put a clout over that face—Ye’ll never do it.”
Then it would sink into mumbling, and then again grow more distinct.