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Updated: June 26, 2025
"And Darvell has about seventy; but the land should be made to bear the same produce per acre." The Squire paused a moment, and then asked a question. "What should you say if I proposed to sell Brownriggs?" Now there were two or three matters which made the proposition to sell Brownriggs a very wonderful proposition to come from the Squire.
And when the man began to speak there was a mixture of assurance and intended complaisance, an effected familiarity and an attempt at ease, which made the master of the house quite sure that his guest was not all that Darvell had represented. The man soon told his story. His name was Bollum, Richard Bollum, and he had connections with Australia; was largely concerned in Australian gold-mines.
"Hard blows are bad things, Mrs Darvell, but hard words do quite as much mischief in their way. If your husband has driven Frank from home, does it mend matters for you to drive your husband to the public-house?" "There's truth in what you say, sir," said Mrs Darvell, rubbing her arms with her apron; "but I don't seem as if I cared to do any different now the boy's gone.
The vicar nodded his head slowly, as though Darvell's conduct was not quite incomprehensible under such circumstances, and Mrs Darvell continued in a lower tone: "You know, sir, it wur because my man lifted his hand to Frank that the lad went off; and I don't seem as how I can forget it.
'Darvell, said the squire, 'open the gate for these gentlemen. Darvell of course knew that they had been brought from the church to the house, and had been invited in to the christening breakfast. 'If I were Darvell I wouldn't take wages from such a skunk as you, said Crinkett.
"Late at work, Mrs Darvell, eh?" was the vicar's greeting as he stood on the threshold. Mrs Darvell got up quickly, and dropped her usual brisk courtesy, but her face looked dull and spiritless. "I'm in too much of a muss to ask you in, sir," she said, glancing round. "Oh, never mind," said the clergyman; "where's Darvell? Isn't he back from work yet?"
"Can't you let the lad bide?" he said; "ye'll not rest till ye make him a greater ninny nor he is by natur. He might as well ha' bin a gell, an better, for all the good he'll ever be." "How did he tackle the ploughin'?" asked Mrs Darvell, pausing in the act of setting aside Frank's supper on the dresser. "Worser nor ever," replied her husband contemptuously.
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