“You were to tell me something about Mr. Meredith,” she said stiffly.
“After burning the Pope and the bill, ’t was suggested by some to empty the pot of tar on the fire. But objection was made, because
“Because?” questioned Janice.
“Someone said ’t would be needed shortly to properly season green wood, and therefore must not be wasted.”
“You don’t think they—?” cried Janice, in alarm.
The servant nodded his head. “The feeling against the squire is far deeper than you suspect. ’T will find vent in some violence, I fear, unless he yield to public sentiment.”
“He’ll never truckle to the country licks and clouted shoons of Brunswick,” asserted Janice, proudly.
“’T will fare the worse for him. ’T is as sensible to run counter to public opinion as ’t is to cut roads over mountains.”
“’T is worse still to be a coward,” cried Janice, contemptuously. “I fear, Charles, you are very mean-spirited.”
Fownes shrugged his shoulders. “As a servant should be,” he muttered bitterly.