“You know me, master, better’n that,” the old man replied. “An’ I bin with you fifty years and more. But, certain sure, times is changed and we’re no better for the change.”
“But you get as much?”
“Mebbe in malt, but not in meal. In money, mebbe—I’m not saying a little more, master. But here’s where ’tis. We’d the common before the war, and run for a cow and geese, and wood for the picking, and if a lad fancied to put up a hut on the waste ’twas five shillings a year; and a rood o’ potato ground—it wasn’t missed. ’Twas neither here nor there. But ’tisn’t so now. Where be the common? Well, you know, Squire, laid down in wheat these twenty years, and if a lad squatted now, he’d not be long of hearing of it. We’ve the money, but we’re not so well off. That’s where ’tis.”
The Squire scowled. “Well, I’m d—d!” he said. “You’ve been with me fifty years, and——” and then fortunately or unfortunately the curricle came round and the Squire, despising Fewtrell’s hint, turned his wrath upon the groom, called him a lazy scoundrel, and cursed him up hill and down dale.
The man took it in silence, to the bailiff’s surprise, but his sullen face did not augur well for the day, and when he had climbed to the back-seat—with a scramble and a grazed knee, for the Squire started the horses with no thought for him—he shook his fist at the old man’s back. Fewtrell saw the gesture, and felt a vague uneasiness, for he had heard Thomas say ugly things. But then the man had been in liquor, and probably he didn’t mean them.
The Squire rattled the horses down the steep drive with the confidence of one who had done the same thing a thousand times. Turning to the left a furlong beyond the gate, he made for Garthmyle where, at the bridge, he fell into the highway. He had driven a mile along this when he saw a horseman coming along the road to meet him, and he fell to wondering who it was. His sight was good at a distance, and he fancied that he had seen the young spark before, though he could not put a name to him. But he saw that he rode a good nag, and he was not surprised when the other reined up and, raising his hat, showed that he wished to speak.
It was Clement, of course, and with a little more wisdom or a little less courage he would not have stopped the old man. He would have seen that the moment was not propitious, and that his business could hardly be done on the highway. But in his intense eagerness to set himself right, and his anxiety lest chance should forestall him, he dared not let the opportunity pass, and his hand was raised before he had well considered what he would say.
The Squire pulled up his horses. “D’you want me?” he asked, civilly enough.
“If I may trouble you, sir,” Clement answered as bravely as he could. “It’s on important business, or—or I wouldn’t detain you.” Already, his heart in his mouth, he saw the difficulty in which he had placed himself. How could he speak before the man? Or on the road?
The Squire considered him. “Business, eh?” he said. “With me? Well, I know your face, young gentleman, but I can’t put a name to you.”