“Why, supposing he is a great grandson, a great, great, great grandson—oh, more than that—there has been time for six or seven generations—supposing he is a descendant of Mawde’s, he may have something to do with this neighbourhood, and that may have brought him here.”
“We should have heard of him before this,” objected Lilias. “Papa knows every land-owner of any consequence in the country by name, and I never heard of any one called Beverley.”
“Here is papa,” said Mary, looking back just as Mr Western emerged from the church, where he had been detained later than usual by some little official discussion, “let us wait for him and ask him. Papa,” she continued, as her father came up to them, “do you know that one of those gentlemen who came to church is called Beverley?”
“And Mary is making up quite a romance about his being descended from the old woman on the tablet,” said Lilias, laughing, but yet not without interest. “There are no people of the name hereabouts now?”
“Beverley,” repeated Mr Western, “how do you know that is his name?”
The girls explained.
“No, there are no gentle-people of that name hereabouts nowadays,” said Mr Western. “The old Hathercourt Beverleys have quite died out, except, by-the-bye,—I was told the other day that old John Birley, who died at Hathercourt Edge last year, was a lineal descendant of theirs.”
“That rough old farmer!” exclaimed Mary, her thoughts flying back to “Mawde.”
“Yes, you remember him? It was Greville, I think, that was telling me about it. The name ‘Birley’ he said was only a corruption of Beverley. The old man was very proud of his descent. He left the farm and what money he had saved to a Mr Beverley, whom he believed to be of the same family—no one in this neighbourhood. By-the-bye, that may be the young man you are telling me about, Mary, which was he—the fair or the dark one?”
“The fair one,” replied Mary, “the other was a Mr Cheviott.”