“I suppose sae,” replied Nashon, eyeing Græme expressively; “there’s nae want o’ them in ony quarter; but they’re easily got quit o’; for, whar there’s nae fules, there’s nae foxes. We had nane o’ them at Conybarns.”
“You seem to have a grateful recollection of that place,” said Græme. “Old Langbane, the laird of it, would, I understand, sell it. You should purchase it.”
“I hae aneugh o’ property,” replied Nashon; “when I hae Outfieldhaugh—maybe owre muckle.”
“You do not understand me,” said Græme. “I mean that you should sell Outfieldhaugh, and buy Conybarns with the price.”
“That wadna be ill to do,” said Nashon; “for they say the laird of Eyrymount has a keen ee to the place; but dinna ye think I should just be doin wi’t? There’s owre muckle wood on’t, but that can be easily mended wi’ a guid axe; an’ I can get a breed o’ conies frae Conybarns.”
“Useful improvements,” said Græme, staring at Nashon, and unable to ascertain whether he was an idiot or a wag.
“I hae ither changes i’ my head,” replied Nashon, “if I could be at the trouble o’ bringin them oot. I like a stir aboot a place. There’s some fine waterfa’s i’ the dell yonder; but what’s a waterfa withoot a mill? Folk rin after thae things, an’ seem to like the noise o’ the dashin waters; but hoo muckle mair noise wad there be if there was a guid birlin spinnin mill alangside o’ them? Besides, there’s some life aboot a mill—the swearin o’ the men spinners, the screighin o’ the hizzies, their love-makins i’ the green haughs, their penny waddins i’ the ale-houses. It’s thae things that mak a country place lichtsome. I wonder that Eyrymount hasna mair sense than to keep his place sae quiet. I’ll shew him an example.”
“That may not suit his taste,” replied Græme, at a loss what to say; for he had some suspicions that Nashon knew him; and the introduction of himself was now made a difficult matter.
“It is impossible, sir,” said Nashon: “would it no suit his taste to mak siller? They say he spends weel; and, while his waters are rinnin to the sea, withoot ca’in a single mill, he may rin dry—unless, indeed, Benjamin Rice marries his bonny dochter, Dione.”
“I am thinking Esther Maclean has been giving you the news of the place,” said Græme, trying to smile, but unable to get beyond a grin.