“Some seven or eight years, I should think,” says I, sitting down before him at the table.
“Aye, it must be all that,” says he. “And how goes the old knight, my worshipful uncle—od’s zounds, he and I had a sore difference the last time we met, Dick. But you’ll know all there is to know of that, no doubt.”
“Nay,” says I, “I don’t—Sir Nicholas can be as close as any man when he likes.”
“I should ha’ thought he’d have had no secrets from thee,” says he. “Art a lucky man, Dick, to be heir to so snug a little property, and I lay the old knight has a nice warm sum put away in some old stocking. As for me,” he says, spreading out his hands, “here I sit, as needy a poor devil as any scare-crow in a road-side field.”
Now I know not what it was that moved me to it, but there was something in me that morning which prompted me to say all that I thought, whether it were wise to say it or not. It may be that my parting with Sir Nicholas, and that last stinging epithet bestowed upon me by Mistress Alison, had disposed me to seek consolation from the first person I met; certain it is, that sitting there with Anthony Dacre, who was well-nigh a stranger to me, I had no more sense than to tell him all that was in my mind.
“Aye,” says he again, “as needy as any scare-crow, Dick, and maybe needier, seeing that he wants naught, and I want all.”
“Why?” says I, “I don’t know that you’re alone there, Anthony. Your estate——”
“A patch of stones and bog,” grumbles he.
“It will feed something,” says I.
“A score miserable cattle,” says he.