“Suppose I had good news to report of her?”
“How so?” cried Mr. Langrove with sudden vivacity. “She’s not going to marry Sparks, is she?”
“Not just yet; but the next best thing to that. She is going to leave the neighborhood.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“I do indeed. How is it you’ve not heard of it before? She’s been pestering Anwyll these two years about some repairs or improvements she wants done in her house—crotchets, I dare say, that would have to be pulled to pieces for the next tenant. He has always politely referred her to his agent, which means showing her to the door; but at last she threatened to leave if he did not give in and do what she wants.”
“Oh! is that all?” exclaimed the vicar, crestfallen. “I might have waited a little before I hallooed; we are not out of the woods yet. Anwyll is sure to give in rather than let her go.”
“Nothing of the sort. He dislikes the old lady, and so does his mother, and so particularly does your venerable confrère of Rydal Rectory. I met Anwyll this morning at the club, and he told me he had made up his mind to let her go. It happens—luckily for you, I suspect—that he has a tenant in view to take her place. Come, now, cheer up! Is not that good news?”
“Most excellent!” said the vicar emphatically. “I wonder where she will move to?”
“Perhaps I could tell you that too. She is in treaty with Charlton for a dilapidated old hunting lodge of his in the middle of a fir-wood the other side of Axmut Common, about twenty miles the other side of Moorlands; it is as good as settled, I believe, and if so we are all safe from her.”