“It’s the way he goes on all day, masters,” whispered Nanny when we went out. “His heart’s a-breaking—and I wish it was that knave of a Pell’s instead. All these purty flowers to be left,” pointing to the clusters of roses and geraniums and honeysuckles within the gate, “and the chairs and tables to be sold, and the very beds to be took from under us!”
“Nay, nay, Nanny, it may turn out better than that,” spoke the Squire.
“Why, how can it turn out better, sirs?” she asked. “Pell didn’t pay the dividends this two times past: and the master, believing as all his excuses was gospel, never thought of pressing for it. If we be in debt to the landlord and others, is it our fault? But the sticks and stones must be sold to pay, and the place be given up. There be the work’us for me; I know that, and it don’t much matter; but it’ll be a crying shame if the poor master have to move into it.”
So it would be. And there were others in a similar plight to his; nothing else but the workhouse before them.
“He won’t never live to go—that’s one consolation,” was Nanny’s last comment as she held the gate open. “Good evening to ye, sirs; good evening, Master Johnny.”
What with talking to Dobbs the blacksmith, and staying with Duffham to drink what he called a dish of tea, it was almost dark when I set out home; the Squire and Mr. Brandon having gone off without me. I was vaulting over the stile the near way across the fields, expecting to catch it for staying, when a man shot into my path from behind the hedge.
“Johnny Ludlow.”
Well, I did feel surprised. It was Gusty Pell!
“Halloa!” said I. “I thought you were in Scotland.”
“I was there,” he answered. And then, while we looked at one another, he began to tell me the reason of his coming away. Why it is that all kinds of people seem to put confidence in me and trust me with matters they’d never speak of to others, I have never found out. Had it been Tod, for instance, Gusty Pell would never have shown himself out of the hedge to talk to him.