“Amen to that,” the steward answered.
So that for the first time my curiosity was aroused as to what manner of woman this could be of whom they spoke in such terms.
“Aye, it will be a bad day for us all if she should marry this Frenchman,” he continued, shaking his head.
“The devil take all Frenchmen!” the old man burst out in his thin, quavering voice, and with true insular prejudice. “She will wed a man—a man, I tell thee—not a tricked-out, scented popinjay. Frenchman indeed,” he continued with fine contempt. “Mark my words, lad! Eight and sixty year I’ve lived here, boy and man, and I’ve never seen a Frenchman yet that was a man! It’s not in ’em, lad! It’s not born in ’em!”
“I misdoubt you have seen one at all before, old Reuben!” answered the other, but the old man only continued to nod and mutter to himself. “But every one to their taste,” the steward added. “My lady will make a good match, and a good wife.”
“Aye,” the man Reuben answered, “when she is tamed, lad; when she is tamed—and Lord help the tamer!” he added with a chuckle that trailed off into a fit of coughing. The steward waited until he had recovered his breath, then:
“There be some at the house yonder who think ’tis Mistress Grace he would be wedding,” he said slowly, but the old man only shook his head.
“It’s not my lady,” he answered doggedly. “I’ll take my oath of that! No, nor Mistress Grace either.”
“Then why is he here?” cried the steward eagerly. “Tell me that!” The other raised his head with a cunning look on his wrinkled face.
“I have heard it said that James Stuart is in Ireland,” he said slowly.