"How do you get on with the dairy, Mrs. Rushmere?" asked Mrs. Barford. "Heath Farm was always celebrated for its butter and cheese."
"I have given all that up," returned Mrs. Gilbert. "I can tell old Rushmere and his son that they won't make a dairy-maid of me."
"But how will you live without it? The farm is fit for nothing else?"
"I don't care. I just get Martha to make enough butter to supply the house. The old fellow grumbles and says, it's only fit for cart grease. But if I can eat it, I am sure he may. I won't put up with his airs."
"Poor old man!" sighed Mrs. Barford, as they left the house. "It's very plain to me how all this will end. Gilbert can't work, and this wife of his won't, and the old place will soon come to the hammer, if all we hear of Gilbert's constant visits to the ale-house be true."
"How dirty and untidy everything looks," said Miss Watling. "I was afraid the dusty chairs would spoil my black silk dress. How neat and clean the house used to be."
"In Dorothy's time," suggested Mrs. Barford. "Rushmere did a foolish thing, when he hindered Gilbert from marrying her. However, the poor girl will be much better off."
"Oh, don't talk about her. I hate her very name."
"Nancy, it is all envy," returned Mrs. Barford, laughing; "you will like her very much when she is Countess of Wilton."
What Mrs. Barford had hinted about Gilbert's visits to the public-house in the village, was but too true. The young man had no peace or happiness at home. His wife and her mother insulted and abused his old father, who gave way alternately to fits of passion and sullen gloom. He would appeal to Gilbert, when he felt himself unusually aggrieved, but for the sake of peace, for he was really afraid of his wife, Gilbert chose to remain neutral.