"Look here, Mrs. Jones," said the clerk, decisively; "I don't choose to have my shutters listened at: it might give the house a bad name, for quarrelling, or something of that sort. So I'll trouble you not to repeat what you have done to-night, or I shall forbid your coming here. A secret, indeed!"
"Yes, a secret!" persisted Mrs. Jones. "And if I don't come at what it is one of these days, my name's not Lydia Jones. And I'll tell you why. It strikes me—I may be wrong—but it strikes me it concerns me and my husband and my household, which some folks are ever ready to interfere with. I'll take myself off now; and I would recommend you, as a parting warning, to denounce Pike to the police for an attempt at housebreaking, before you're both murdered in your bed. That'll be the end on't."
She went away, and Clerk Gum wished he could denounce her to the police. Mirrable laughed again; and Mrs. Gum, cowardly and timid, fell back in her chair as one seized with ague.
Beyond giving an occasional dole to Mrs. Jones for her children—and to tell the truth, she clothed them all, or they would have gone in rags—Mirrable had shaken her cousin off long ago: which of course did not tend to soothe the naturally jealous spirit of Mrs. Jones. At Hartledon House she was not welcomed, and could not go there; but she watched for the visits of Mirrable at the clerk's, and was certain to intrude on those occasions.
"I'll find it out!" she repeated to herself, as she went storming through the garden-gate; "I'll find it out. And as to that poacher, he'd better bring his black face near mine again!"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WAGER BOATS.
Tuesday morning rose, bright and propitious: a contrast to the two previous days arranged for the boat-race. All was pleasure, bustle, excitement at Hartledon: but the coolness that had arisen between the brothers was noticed by some of the guests. Neither of them was disposed to take the first step towards reconciliation: and, indeed, a little incident that occurred that morning led to another ill word between them. An account that had been standing for more than two years was sent in to Lord Hartledon's steward; it was for some harness, a saddle, a silver-mounted whip, and a few trifles of that sort, supplied by a small tradesman in the village. Lord Hartledon protested there was nothing of the sort owing; but upon inquiry the debtor proved to be Mr. Percival Elster. Lord Hartledon, vexed that any one in the neighbourhood should have waited so long for his money, said a sharp word on the score to Percival; and the latter retorted as sharply that it was no business of his. Again Val was angry with himself, and thus gave vent to his temper. The fact was, he had completely forgotten the trifling debt, and was as vexed as Hartledon that it should have been allowed to remain unpaid: but the man had not sent him any reminder whilst he was away.
"Pay it to-day, Marris," cried Lord Hartledon to his steward. "I won't have this sort of thing at Calne."