Burgo had the knack, when he chose to exercise it, which was not always by any means, of putting those who, in no offensive sense, might be termed his inferiors, at their ease, and in five minutes Mr. Tyson felt himself quite at home, while at the same time perfectly aware that there was an invisible line drawn between himself and the man seated opposite him which he must on no account attempt to overpass. But the landlord was one of the last men to have attempted anything of the kind.
A turf fire had been lighted which, if it did not throw out much heat, imparted an air of cheerfulness to the homely sitting-room, for in September on the Cumberland seaboard the nights often strike sojourners from the South as being unpleasantly chilly. On this particular evening a cold rain was falling outside, and the incoming tide had brought with it a wind which tore in fitful gusts down the village street and smote each diamond-paned window with a watery lash in passing. A couple of wax candles, reserved by Mrs. Tyson for very special occasions, in brass candlesticks of amazing brilliancy, stood on the oaken three-legged table, together with all the appliances for the manufacture of toddy after the most approved recipe.
When the landlord, at Mr. Lumsden's request, had mixed a couple of steaming jorums, the first thing he did was to drink his guest's health, and the second to help himself to a cigar from the latter's case. A comfortable hassock had been supplied Burgo on which to rest his lame ankle, and as he basked in front of the little fire he told himself that the "Golden Owl" was a bird of which he should retain a pleasant recollection as long as he lived.
"And which is the most picturesque and interesting mansion, castle, or ruin within an easy walk of Crag End, Mr. Tyson?" queried Burgo, after having duly tested the quality of his grog.
"Well, sir, I'm afraid we're rather destitute hereabouts of the things you speak of. After you've sketched Garion Keep you'll find nothing worth looking at nearer than Kippsley Castle, eight miles away."
"And this Garion Keep that you speak of, is it a ruin, or does any one live in it?
"It had been in a partially ruinous condition for longer than I remember it till about a year ago, when the present owner, Sir Everard Clinton, took into his head to have it thoroughly restored and made fit to live in."
"With the usual result, I suppose, of spoiling its old-time picturesqueness. But I seem to know the name of Sir Everard Clinton. Was he not married a few months ago to a lady much younger than himself?"
"The same man, sir. Report has it that he's a good bit over sixty, whereas the lady looks young enough to be his daughter."
"So I have been told: such things get talked about in London. And are Sir Everard and his wife now in residence at the Keep?"