“Now, John, you need not speak so indignantly. I trust you have not imbibed any of those socialistic notions that seem to be prevalent. It will be so much the worse for you if you have, for you will find that the wages are higher than you can afford to pay; and besides, the men are neither better nor happier for receiving them.”
“I am not a Socialist,” said John, and then a diversion occurred.
“Why, who is this? Old Benham, isn’t it? Then he is still at work about the place. How are you, George?”
“I’m hearty, thank you, Master John, sir, and how’s yourself? How you have altered to be sure; but I knowed it was you when I seed you going down the lane this morning. And how did you like them furrin parts, sir?”
“Oh, I liked them very much; but there’s no place like home.”
“Werry true, sir, and I’m glad you think so, and it’s a beautiful morning to welcome you back. We’re a going to have a better season this year, Mr. John, you take my word for it. When that ’ere tree in the holler is covered in leaves by the fifteenth of April we allus gets a good summer. I’ve noticed it, bless yer heart, hundreds of times.”
“Have you though?” said John, laughingly. “I should not have thought it. You really look young for your years.”
Benham did not understand where the joke was, but he saw that he must have said a good thing, and laughed too. “And I hope it will be a good season,” he added, “since it’s the first in your home, and we be all glad, every man and boy on the estate, as you’ve come into your own, and long may you enjoy it.”
It was all very pleasant to John Dallington, who would not soon forget the first Sunday spent in his own place. In the afternoon he walked across the fields where the young corn was springing, and into the woods where bursting buds and merry songs were eloquent of spring. The delight of possession was very keen within him, and it, perhaps, more than anything else, made this sunny Sunday in the country to be for ever a delightful memory with him.
In the evening he did as he had said he would, and attended the service at one of the Darentdale chapels. There, as at the church, he was recognised, and cordially welcomed. There was something in the young man’s appearance that bespoke for him the universal favour of his kind. His eyes were so frank and clear, the smile upon his lips was so cheery and real, the tones of his voice were so hearty, that people trusted him and liked him at once. His presence at the chapel doors excited the liveliest approbation. Was the young squire a Dissenter? If so, then good times were coming for the little “cause” at Darentdale.