"Now I shall dance with somebody else!" he exclaimed, suddenly quitting Lady Anne, and snatching hold of a sweet little thing, Miss Berton, standing modestly beside him. The discarded beauty walked with a stately air, and a swelling heart, towards Mrs. Aubrey, who sat beside her husband on the sofa; and on reaching her, stood for a few moments silently watching her fickle partner busily and gayly engaged with her successor—Then she burst into tears.
"Charles!" called out Mrs. Aubrey; who had watched the whole affair, and could hardly keep her countenance—"come hither directly, Charles!"
"Yes, mamma!" he exclaimed—quite unaware of the serious aspect which things were assuming—and without quitting the dance, where he was (as his jealous mistress too plainly saw, for, despite her grief, her eye seemed to follow all his motions) skipping about with infinite glee with a third partner—a laughing sister of her for whom he had quitted Lady Anne.
"Do you hear your mamma, Charles!" said Mr. Aubrey, somewhat peremptorily; and in an instant his little son, all flushed and breathless, was at his side.
"Well, dear papa!" said he, keeping his eye fixed on the merry throng he had just quitted, and where his deserted partner was skipping about alone.
"What have you been doing to Lady Anne, Charles?" said his father.
"Nothing, dear papa!" he replied, still wistfully eying the dancers.
"You know you left me, and went to dance with Miss Berton; you did, Charles!" said the offended beauty, sobbing.
"That is not behaving like a little gentleman, Charles," said his father. The tears came to the child's eyes.
"I'm very sorry, dear papa, I will dance with her."
"No, not now," said Lady Anne, haughtily.
"Oh, pooh! pooh!—kiss and be friends," said Mrs. Aubrey, laughing, "and go and dance as prettily as you were doing before." Little Aubrey put his arms around Lady Anne, kissed her, and away they both started to the dance again. While the latter part of this scene was going on, Mr. Aubrey's eye caught the figure of a servant who simply made his appearance at the door and then retired, (for such had been Mr. Aubrey's orders, in the event of any messenger arriving from Grilston.) Hastily whispering that he should speedily return, he left the room. In the hall stood a clerk from Mr. Parkinson; and on seeing Mr. Aubrey, he took out a packet and retired—Mr. Aubrey, with evident trepidation, repairing to his library. With a nervous hand he broke the seal, and found the following letter from Mr. Parkinson, with three other enclosures:—
"Grilston, 12th Jan. 18—.
"My dear Sir,
"I have only just received, and at once forward to you, copies of the three opinions given by the Attorney-General, Mr. Mansfield, and Mr. Crystal. I lament to find that they are all of a discouraging character. They were given by their respective writers without any of them having had any opportunity of conferring together—all the three cases having been laid before them at the same time: yet you will observe that each of them has hit upon precisely the same point, viz. that the descendants of Geoffrey Dreddlington had no right to succeed to the inheritance till there was a failure of the heirs of Stephen Dreddlington. If, therefore, our discreditable opponents should have unhappily contrived to ferret out some person satisfying that designation, (I cannot conjecture how they can ever have got upon the scent,) I really fear (it is no use disguising matters) we must prepare for a very serious struggle. I have been quietly pushing my inquiries in all directions, with a view to obtaining a clew to the case intended to be set up against us, and which you will find very shrewdly guessed at by the Attorney-General. Nor am I the only party, I find, in the field, who has been making pointed inquiries in your neighborhood; but of this more when we meet to-morrow.
"I remain,
"Yours most respectfully,
"J. Parkinson.
"Charles Aubrey, Esq., M. P. &c. &c. &c."
Having read this letter, Mr. Aubrey sank back in his chair, and remained motionless for more than a quarter of an hour. At length he roused himself, and read over the opinions; the effect of which—as far as he could comprehend their technicalities—he found had been but too correctly given by Mr. Parkinson. Some suggestions and inquiries put by the acute and experienced Mr. Crystal, suddenly revived recollections of one or two incidents even of his boyish days, long forgotten, but which, as he reflected upon them, began to reappear to his mind's eye with sickening distinctness. Wave after wave of apprehension and agony passed over him, chilling and benumbing his heart within him; so that, when his little son came some time afterwards running up to him, with a message from his mamma, that she hoped he could come back to see them all play at snap-dragon before they went to bed, he replied mechanically, hardly seeming sensible even of the presence of the laughing and breathless boy, who quickly scampered back again. At length, with a groan that came from the depths of his heart, Mr. Aubrey rose and walked to and fro, sensible of the necessity of exertion, and preparing himself, in some degree, for encountering his mother, his wife, and his sister. Taking up his candle, he hastened to his dressing-room, where he hoped, by the aid of refreshing ablutions, to succeed in effacing at least the stronger of those traces of suffering which his glass displayed to him, as it reflected the image of his agitated countenance. A sudden recollection of the critical and delicate situation of his idolized wife, glanced through his heart like a keen arrow. He sank upon the sofa, and, clasping his hands, looked indeed forlorn. Presently the door was pushed hastily but gently open; and, first looking in to see that it was really he of whom she was in search, in rushed Mrs. Aubrey, pale and agitated, having been alarmed by his long-continued absence from the drawing-room, and the look of the servant, from whom she had learned that his master had been for some time gone up-stairs.
"Charles! my love! my sweet love!" she exclaimed, rushing in, sitting down beside him, and casting her arms round his neck. Overcome by the suddenness of her appearance and movements, for a moment he spoke not.
"For mercy's sake—as you love me!—tell me, dearest Charles, what has happened!" she gasped, kissing him fervently.
"Nothing—love—nothing," he replied; but his look belied his speech.
"Oh! am not I your wife, dearest? Charles, I shall really go distracted if you do not tell me what has happened!—I know that something—something dreadful"—He put his arm round her waist, and drew her tenderly towards him. He felt her heart beating violently. He kissed her cold forehead, but spoke not.
"Come, dearest!—my own Charles!—let me share your sorrows," said she, in a thrilling voice. "Cannot you trust your Agnes? Has not Heaven sent me to share your anxieties and griefs?"
"I love you, Agnes! ay, perhaps more than ever man loved woman!" he faltered, as he felt her arms folding him in closer and closer embrace; and she gazed at him with wild agitation, expecting presently to hear of some fearful catastrophe.
"I cannot bear this much longer, dearest—I feel I cannot," said she, rather faintly. "What has happened? What, that you dare not tell me? I can bear anything, while I have you and my children! You have been unhappy—you have been wretched, Charles, for many days past. I have felt that you were!—I will not part with you till I know all!"
"You soon must know all, my sweet love; and I take Heaven to witness, that it is principally on your account, and that of my children, that I– in fact, I did not wish any of you to have known it till"–
"You—are never going—to fight a duel?" she gasped, turning white as death.
"Oh! no, no, Agnes! I solemnly assure you! If I could have brought myself to engage in such an unhallowed affair, would this scene ever first have occurred? No, no, my own love! Must I then tell you of the misfortune that has overtaken us?" His words somewhat restored her, but she continued to gaze at him in mute and breathless apprehension. "Let me then conceal nothing, Agnes—they are bringing an action against me, which, if successful, may cause us all to quit Yatton—and it may be, forever."
"Oh, Charles!" she murmured, her eyes riveted upon his, while she unconsciously moved still nearer to him and trembled. Her head drooped upon his shoulder.
"Why is this?" she whispered, after a pause.
"Let us, dearest, talk of it another time. I have now told you what you asked me."—He poured her out a glass of water. Having drank a little, she appeared revived.
"Is all lost?—And—why? Do, my own Charles—let me know really the worst!"
"We are young, my Agnes! and have the world before us! Health and integrity are better than riches! You and our little loves—the children which God has given us—are my riches," said he, gazing at her with unspeakable tenderness. "Even should it be the will of Heaven that this affair should go against us—so long as they cannot separate us from each other, they cannot really hurt us!" She suddenly kissed him with frantic energy, and an hysteric smile gleamed over her pallid excited features.
"Calm yourself, Agnes!—calm yourself, for my sake!—as you love me!" His voice quivered. "Oh, how very weak and foolish I have been to yield to"–
"No, no, no!" she gasped, evidently laboring with hysteric oppression. "Hush!" said she, suddenly starting, and wildly leaning forward towards the door which opened into the gallery leading to the various bedrooms. He listened—the mother'S ear had been quick and true. He presently heard the sound of many children's voices approaching: they were the little party, accompanied by Kate, and their attendants, on their way to bed; and little Charles's voice was loudest, and his laugh the merriest, of them all. A dreadful smile gleamed on Mrs. Aubrey's face; her hand grasped her husband's with convulsive pressure; and she suddenly sank, rigid and senseless, upon the sofa. He seemed for a moment stunned at the sight of her motionless figure. Soon, however, recovering his presence of mind, he rang the bell, and one or two female attendants quickly appeared, by whose joint assistance Mrs. Aubrey was carried to her bed in the adjoining room, where, by the use of the ordinary remedies, she was, after a brief interval, restored to consciousness. Her first languid look was towards Mr. Aubrey, whose hand she slowly raised to her lips. She tried to throw a smile over her wan features—but 't was in vain; and, after a few heavy and half-choking sobs, her overcharged feelings found relief in a flood of tears. Full of the liveliest apprehensions as to the effect of this violent emotion upon her, in her critical condition, he remained with her for some time, pouring into her ear every soothing and tender expression he could think of. He at length succeeded in bringing her into a somewhat more tranquil state than he could have expected. He strictly enjoined the attendants, who had not quitted their lady's chamber, and whose alarmed and inquisitive looks he had noticed for some time with anxiety, to preserve silence concerning what they had so unexpectedly witnessed, adding, that something unfortunate had happened, of which they would hear but too soon.
"Are you going to tell Kate?" whispered Mrs. Aubrey, sorrowfully. "Surely, love, you have suffered enough through my weakness. Wait till to-morrow. Let her—poor girl!—have a few more happy hours!"
"No, Agnes—it was my own weakness which caused me to be surprised into this premature disclosure to you. And now I must meet her again to-night, and I cannot control either my features, or my feelings. Yes, poor Kate, she must know all to-night! I shall not be long absent, Agnes." And directing her maid to remain with her till he returned, he withdrew, and with slow step and heavy heart descended to the library; preparing himself for another heart-breaking scene—plunging another innocent and joyous creature into misery, which he believed to be inevitable. Having looked into the drawing-room as he passed it, and seen no one there—his mother having, as usual, retired at a very early hour—he rang his library bell, and desired Miss Aubrey's maid to request her mistress to come down to him there, as soon as she should be at leisure. He was glad that the only light in the room was that given out by the fire, which was not very bright, and so would in some degree shield his features from, at all events, immediate scrutiny. His heart ached as, shortly afterwards, he heard Kate's light step crossing the hall. When she entered, her eyes sparkled with vivacity, and a smile was on her beauteous cheek. Her dress was slightly disordered, and her hair half uncurled—the results of her sport with the little ones whom she had been seeing to bed.
"What merry little things, to be sure!" she commenced laughingly—"I could not get them to lie still a moment—popping their little heads in and out of the clothes. A fine time I shall have of it, by-and-by, with Sir Harry! for he is to be my tiny little bed-fellow, and I dare say I shall not sleep a wink all night!—Why, Charles, how very—very grave you look!" she added, quickly observing his eye fixed moodily upon her.
"'Tis you who are so very gay," he replied, endeavoring to smile. "I want to speak to you, dear Kate," he commenced affectionately—at the same time rising and closing the door—"on a serious matter. I have received some letters to-night"–
Kate colored suddenly and violently, and her heart beat; but, sweet soul! she was mistaken—very, very far off the mark her troubled brother was aiming at. "And, relying on your strength of mind, I have resolved to put you at once in possession of what I myself know. Can you bear bad news well, Kate?"
She turned very pale, and drawing her chair nearer to her brother, said, "Do not keep me in suspense, Charles—I can bear anything but suspense—that is dreadful! What has happened? Oh dear," she added, with sudden alarm, "where are mamma and Agnes?" She started to her feet.
"I assure you they are both well, Kate. My mother is now doubtless asleep, and as well as she ever was; Agnes is in her bedroom—certainly much distressed at the news which I am going"–
"Oh why, Charles, did you tell anything distressing to her?" exclaimed Miss Aubrey, with an alarmed air.
"We came together by surprise, Kate! Perhaps, too, it would have been worse to have kept her in suspense; but she is recovering!—I shall soon return to her. And now, my dear Kate—I know your strong sense and spirit—a very great calamity hangs over us. Let you and me," he grasped her hands affectionately, "stand it steadily, and support those who cannot!"
"Let me at once know all, Charles. See if I do not bear it as becomes your sister," said she, with forced calmness.
"If it should become necessary for all of us to retire into obscurity—into humble obscurity, dear Kate—how do you think you could bear it?"
"If it will be an honorable obscurity—nay, 'tis quite impossible it can be a dishonorable obscurity," said Miss Aubrey, with a momentary flash of energy.
"Never, never, Kate! The Aubreys may lose everything on earth but the jewel honor, and love for one another!"
"Let me know all, Charles: I see that something or other shocking has happened," said Miss Aubrey, in a low tone, with a look of the deepest apprehension.
"I will tell you the worst, Kate– a strange claim is set up—by one I never heard of—to the whole of the property we now enjoy!"
Miss Aubrey started, and the slight color that remained faded entirely from her cheek. Both were silent for very nearly a minute.
"But is it a true claim, Charles?" she inquired, faintly.
"That remains to be proved. I will, however, disguise nothing from you—I have woful apprehensions"–
"Do you mean to say that Yatton is not ours?" inquired Miss Aubrey, catching her breath.
"So, alas! my dearest Kate, it is said!"
Miss Aubrey looked bewildered, and pressed her hand to her forehead.
"How shocking!—shocking!—shocking!" she gasped—"What is to become of mamma?"
"God Almighty will not desert her in her old age. He will desert none of us, if we only trust in him," said her brother.
Miss Aubrey remained gazing at him intently, and continued perfectly motionless.
"Must we then all leave Yatton?" said she, faintly, after a while.
"If this claim succeeds—but we shall leave it together, Kate."
She threw her arms around his neck, and wept bitterly.
"Hush, hush, Kate!" said he, perceiving the increasing violence of her emotions, "restrain your feelings for the sake of my mother—and Agnes."
His words had the desired effect: the poor girl made a desperate effort. Unclasping her arms from her brother's neck, she sat down in her chair, breathing hard, and pressing her hand upon her heart. After a few minutes' pause, she said faintly, "I am better now. Do tell me more, Charles! Let me have something to think about—only don't say anything about—about—mamma and Agnes!" In spite of herself a visible shudder ran through her frame.
"It seems, Kate," said he, with all the calmness he could assume—"at least they are trying to prove—that our branch of the family has succeeded to the property prematurely—that there is living an heir of the elder branch—that his case has been taken up by powerful friends; and—let me tell you the worst at once—even the lawyers consulted by Mr. Parkinson on my behalf, take a most alarming view of the possibilities of the case that may be brought against us"–
"But is mamma provided for?" whispered Miss Aubrey, almost inarticulately. "When I look at her again, I shall drop at her feet insensible!"
"No, no, Kate, you won't! Heaven will give you strength," said her brother, in a tremulous voice. "Remember, my only sister—my dearest Kate! you must support me in my trouble, as I will support you—we will try to support each other"–
"We will—we will!" interrupted Miss Aubrey—instantly checking, however, her rising excitement.
"You bear it bravely, my noble girl!" said Mr. Aubrey, fondly, after a brief interval of silence.
She turned from him her head, and moved her hand—in deprecation of expressions which might utterly unnerve her. Then she convulsively clasped her hands over her forehead; and, after a minute or two, turned towards him with tears in her eyes, but tranquillized features. The struggle had been dreadful, though brief—her noble spirit had recovered itself.
––'T was like some fair bark, in mortal conflict with the black and boiling waters and howling hurricane; long quivering on the brink of destruction, but at last outliving the storm, righting itself, and suddenly gliding into safe and tranquil waters!–
The distressed brother and sister sat conversing for a long time, frequently in tears, but with infinitely greater calmness and firmness than could have been expected. They agreed that Dr. Tatham should very early in the morning be sent for, and implored to take upon himself the bitter duty of breaking the matter as gradually and safely as possible to Mrs. Aubrey; its effects upon whom, her children anticipated with the most vivid apprehension. They both considered that an event of such publicity and importance could not possibly remain long unknown to her, and that it was, on the whole, better that the dreaded communication should be got over as soon as possible. They then retired—Kate to a sleepless pillow, and her brother to spend a greater portion of the night in attempts to soothe and console his suffering wife; each of them having first knelt in humble reverence, and poured forth the breathings of a stricken and bleeding heart, before Him who hath declared that he is ever present to hear and to answer prayer.
Ah! who can tell what a day or an hour may bring forth?
"It won't kindle—not a bit on't—it's green and full o' sap. Go out, and get us a log that's dry and old, George—and let's try to have a bit of a blaze in t'ould chimney, this bitter night," said Isaac Tonson, the gamekeeper at Yatton, to the good-natured landlord of the Aubrey Arms, the little—and only—inn of the village. The suggestion was instantly attended to.
"How Peter's a-feathering of his geese to-night, to be sure!" exclaimed the landlord on his return, shaking the snow off his coat, and laying on the fire a great dry old log of wood, which seemed very acceptable to the hungry flames, for they licked it cordially the moment it was placed among them, and there was very soon given out a cheerful blaze. 'T was a snug room. The brick floor was covered with fresh sand; and on a few stools and benches, with a table in the middle, on which stood a large can and ale-glasses, with a plate of tobacco, sat some half-dozen men, enjoying their pipe and glass. In the chimney corner sat Thomas Dickons, the faithful under-bailiff of Mr. Aubrey, a big broad-shouldered, middle-aged man, with a hard-featured face and a phlegmatic air. In the opposite corner sat the little grizzle-headed clerk and sexton, old Hallelujah—(as he was called, but his real name was Jonas Higgs.) Beside him sat Pumpkin, the gardener at the Hall, a very frequent guest at the Aubrey Arms o' nights—always attended by Hector, the large Newfoundland dog already spoken of, and who was now lying stretched on the floor at Pumpkin's feet, his nose resting on his fore feet, and his eyes, with great gravity, watching the motions of a skittish kitten under the table. Opposite to him sat Tonson the gamekeeper—a thin, wiry, beetle-browed fellow, with eyes like a ferret; and there were also, one or two farmers, who lived in the village.
"Let's ha' another can o' ale, afore ye sit down," said Tonson, "we can do with another half gallon, I'm thinking!" This order also was quickly attended to; and then the landlord, having seen to the door, fastened the shutters close, and stirred the crackling fire, took his place on a vacant stool, and resumed his pipe.
"So she do take a very long grave, Jonas?" inquired Dickons of the sexton, after some little pause.
"Ay, Mr. Dickons, a' think she do, t'ould girl! I always thought she would—I used to measure her (as one may say) in my mind, whenever I saw her! 'Tis a reg'lar man's size, I warrant you; and when parson saw it, a' said, he thought 'twere too big; but I axed his pardon, and said I hadn't been sexton for thirty years without knowing my business—he, he!"
"I suppose, Jonas, you mun ha' seen her walking about i' t' village, in your time!—Were she such a big-looking woman?" inquired Pumpkin, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe, and replenished it.
"Forty year ago I did use to see her—she were then an old woman, wi' white hair, and leaned on a stick—I never thought she'd a' lasted so long," replied Higgs, emptying his glass.
"She've had a pretty long spell on't," quoth Dickons, after slowly emptying his mouth of smoke.
"A hundred and two," replied the sexton; "so saith her coffin-plate—a' see'd it to-day."
"What were her name?" inquired Tonson—"I never knew her by any name but Blind Bess."
"Her name be Elizabeth Crabtree on the coffin," replied Higgs; "and she be to be buried to-morrow."
"She were a strange old woman," said Hazel, one of the farmers, as he took down one of the oatcakes hanging overhead; and breaking off a piece, held it with the tongs before the fire to toast, and then put it into his ale.
"Ay, she were," quoth Pumpkin; "I wonder what she thinks o' such things now—maybe—God forgive me!—she's paying dear for her tricks!"
"Tut, Pumpkin," said Tonson, "let t'ould creature rest in her grave, where she's going to, peaceably!"
"Ay, Master Tonson," quoth the clerk, in his reading-desk twang—"There be no knowledge, nor wisdom, nor device!"
"'Tis very odd," observed Pumpkin, "but this dog that's lying at my feet never could a' bear going past her cottage late o' nights—hang me if he could; and the night she died—Lord! you should have heard the howl Hector gave—and a' didn't then know she were gone—it's as true as the gospel—it is—actually!"
"No! but were't really so?" inquired Dickons—several of the others taking their pipes out of their mouths, and looking earnestly at Pumpkin.
"I didn't half like it, I can tell you," quoth Pumpkin.
"Ha, ha, ha!—ha, ha!" laughed the gamekeeper—
"Ay, marry, you may laugh," quoth Pumpkin, "but I'll stake half-a-gallon o' ale you daren't go by yourself to the cottage where she's lying—now, mind—i' the dark."
"I'll do it," quoth Higgs, eagerly, preparing to lay down his pipe.
"No, no—thou'rt quite used to dead folk—'tis quite in thy line!" replied Pumpkin—and, after a little faint drollery, silence ensued for some moments.
"Bess dropped off sudden like, at the last, didn't she?" inquired the landlord.
"She went out, as, they say, like the snuff of a candle," replied Jobbins, one of the farmers; "no one were with her but my Missis at the time. The night afore, she had took to the rattles all of a sudden. My Sall (that's done for her, this long time, by Madam's orders,) says old Bess were a good deal shaken by a chap from London, which cam' down about a week afore Christmas."
"Ay, ay," quoth one, "I've heard o' that—what was it?—what passed atwixt them?"
"Why, a' don't well know—but he seemed to know summat about t'ould girl's connections, and he had a book, and wrote down something, and he axed her, so Sall do tell me, such a many things about old people, and things that are long gone by!"
"What were the use on't?" inquired Dickons; "for Bess hath been silly this ten years, to my sartin knowledge."
"Why, a' couldn't tell. He seemed very 'quisitive, too, about t'ould creature's Bible and prayer-book (she kept them in that ould bag of hers)—and Sall said she had talked a good deal to the chap in her mumbling way, and seemed to know some folk he asked her about. And Sall saith she hath been, in a manner, dismal ever since, and often a-crying and talking to herself."
"I've heard," said the landlord, "that squire and parson were wi' her on Christmas-day—and that she talked a deal o' strange things, and that the squire did seem, as it were, struck a little, you know—struck, like!"
"Why, so my Sall do say; but it may be all her own head," replied Jobbins.
Here a pause took place.
"Madam," said the sexton, "hath given orders for an uncommon decent burying to-morrow."
"Well, a' never thought any wrong of ould Bess, for my part," said one—and another—and another; and they smoked their pipes for some short time in silence.
"Talking o' strangers from London," said the sexton, presently—"who do know anything o' them two chaps that were at church last Sunday? Two such peacock chaps I never see'd afore in my time—and grinning all sarvice-time! the heathen!"
"Ay, I'll tell you something of 'em," said Hazel—a big broad-shouldered farmer, who plucked his pipe out of his mouth with sudden energy—"They're a brace o' good ones, to be sure, ha, ha! Some week or ten days ago, as I were a-coming across the field leading into the lane behind the church, I see'd these same two chaps, and on coming nearer, (they not seeing me for the hedge,) Lord bless me! would you believe it?—if they wasn't a-teasing my daughter Jenny, that were coming along wi' some physic from the doctor for my old woman! One of 'em seemed a-going to put his arm round her neck and t' other came close to her on t' other side, a-talking to her and pushing her about." Here a young farmer, who had but seldom spoken, took his pipe out of his mouth, and exclaiming, "Lord bless me!" sat listening with his mouth wide open. "Well," continued the former, "a' came into the road behind 'em, without their seeing me; and"—(here he stretched out a thick, rigid, muscular arm, and clinched his teeth)—"a' got hold of each by the collar, and one of 'em I shook about, and gave him a kick i' the breech that sent him spinning a yard or two on the road, he clapping his hand behind him, and crying, to be sure—'You'll smart for this—a good hundred pound damages!' or summat o' that sort. T' other dropped on his knees, and begged for mercy; so a' just spit in his face, and flung him under t' hedge, telling him if he stirred till I were out o' sight, I'd crack his skull for him; and so I would!" Here the wrathful speaker pushed his pipe again between his lips, and began puffing away with great energy; while he who had appeared to take so great an interest in the story, and who was the very man who had flown to the rescue of Miss Aubrey, when she seemed on the point of being similarly treated, told that circumstance exactly as it occurred, amid the silent but excited wonder of those present—all of whom, at its close, uttered vehement execrations, and intimated the summary and savage punishment which the cowardly rascal would have experienced at the hands of each and every one of them, had they come across him.
"I reckon," said the landlord, as soon as the swell had a little subsided, "they must be the two chaps that put up here, some time ago, for an hour or so. You should ha' seen 'em get on and off the saddle—that's all! Why, a' laughed outright! The chap with the hair under his chin got on upon the wrong side, and t'other seemed as if he thought his beast would a' bit him!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed all.
"I thought they'd a' both got a fall before they'd gone a dozen yards!"
"They've taken a strange fancy to my churchyard," said the sexton, setting down his glass, and then preparing to fill his pipe again; "they've been looking about among 'em—among t'ould gravestones, up behind t'ould yew-tree yonder; and one of them writ something, now and then, in a book; so they're book-writers, in coorse!"
"That's scholars, I reckon," quoth Dickons; "but rot the larning of such chaps as them!"
"I wonder if they'll put a picture o' the Hall in their book," quoth the sexton. "They axed a many questions about the people up there, especially about the squire's father, and some ould folk, whose names I knew when they spoke of 'em—but I hadn't heard o' them for this forty year. And one of 'em (he were the shortest, and such a chap, to be sure!—just like the monkey that were dressed i' man's clothes, last Grilston fair) talked uncommon fine about young Miss"–