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I told him that myself so plainly, that he can want no further intimation." Then Mrs Grantly knew that she was absolved from the burden of yesterday's message, and she plumed herself on the prudence of her conduct. On the same morning the archdeacon wrote the following note: My man tells me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell's farm, just outside the coppices.
"When it came to black and white, the value that he has in it doesn't come to so much as I thought." Still Ralph said nothing, nothing, at least, as to the work that had been done up in London. He merely made some observation as to Darvell's farm; suggesting that a clear half year's rent should be given to the man. "I have pretty well arranged it all in my mind," continued the Squire.
It will be much better for him to be bought out while there is still something left for him to sell. Nothing can be worse than a man sticking on to land without a shilling of capital." "Of course it's bad. His father did very well there." "His father did very well there till he took to drink and died of it. You know where the road parts Darvell's farm and Brownriggs?
When I look at Darvell I keep on rememberin' as how, if he'd bin more patient with the boy we should ha' had him with us still. Darvell's been a good man to me, but I can't help speaking sharp to him; though maybe I'm sorry after I done it, for there's only the two on us now, and we'll have to worry along together." The vicar shook his head.
It won't do to let the frost catch us," said the Squire. Miles touched his hat, and assented. "The house will look very well from here," said the Squire, pointing down through a line of trees. Ralph assented cheerily; and yet he thought that his father was spending more money than Darvell's house need to have cost him.
"I never liked that man on Darvell's farm," said the archdeacon. "Nor I either," said Flurry. "No farmer ought to be on that land who don't have a horse of his own. And if I war Squire Thorne, I wouldn't have no farmer there who didn't keep no horse. When a farmer has a horse of his own, and follies the hounds, there ain't no rabbit-traps; never. How does that come about, Mr Henry? Rabbits!
Two or three pieces of oak furniture, brought to a high state of polish by Mrs Darvell's industrious hands, gave an air of comfort to the room, though the floor was red-brick and bare of carpet; a tall brazen-faced clock ticked deliberately behind the door.
The two were out together, as was usual with them, and were on the road which divided the two parishes, Bostock from Newton. On the left of them was Walker's farm, called the Brownriggs; and on the right, Darvell's farm, which was in their own peculiar parish of Newton. "I was talking to Darvell while you were away," said Ralph. "What does he say for himself?" "Nothing. It's the old story.
Such a thing had been known before now; and as the first streaks of light appeared in the sky, and she saw the dim figure of her husband returning alone, Mrs Darvell's courage quite forsook her. "I shall never see him no more," she said to herself, and cried bitterly. And where was "our Frank" meanwhile?
Whether the major intended to remain at home or to live at Pau, the subject of Mr Harding's health was a natural topic for conversation between him and his father; but when his father stopped suddenly, and began to tell him how a fox had been trapped on Darvell's farm, "and of course it was a Plumstead fox, there can be no doubt that Flurry is right about that;" when the archdeacon spoke of this iniquity with much warmth, and told his son how he had at once written off to Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, and how Mr Thorne had declared that he didn't believe a word of it, and how Flurry had produced the pad of the fox, with the marks of the trap on the skin, then the son began to feel that the ground was becoming very warm, and that he could not go on much longer without rushing into details about Grace Crawley.
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