“Little good it’ll do me,” said he, “as have known this place, man and boy, seventy-five years, Missy. Never a word did they say to me till now. The old squire had allers his nod for Hodder, and when times was bad he let the rent stand. And young Master Roger was of the same sort.”
“Oh, Roger is your friend still,” said Rosalind; “he’s doing everything to help you.”
“I don’t mean him. He’s good enough; but he’s a boy. But young Master Roger as was, he had a will of his own, Missy. Not one of ’em durst stand up to him.”
Rosalind became interested. “Do you mean the one who died?” said she.
“Ay, they say he died. They said as much and wrote it on the tombstone.”
“Do you mean that there was ever a doubt about it?” said the young lady uncomfortably.
“They said he died, so he must have died,” said old Hodder, sipping his tea. “It was all talk to the likes of me. Young Master Roger wasn’t of the dying sort.”
“He went abroad, I hear?” she asked.
“So they say. It’s a score of years or more since. I tell ’ee, Missy, young Master Roger wouldn’t have stood by to see me turned out like this; he’d have—”
Here there was a click at the gate and a long shadow fell on the footpath. It was Mr Armstrong in his flannels. He looked somewhat alarmed to find Miss Rosalind in possession. Still more to perceive that she proposed to remain where she was. His impulse was to make a feeble excuse and say he would call again. But his courage revived on second thoughts.