“It du spile the vine weather vor I,” he would frequently grumble to his greatest crony, James Coachman, who, for his part, bitterly resented the abnormal length of the daily drives.  “Zure as vate, when I zits down tu my tea, cumes a message from one are t’other on ’em, an’ oop I goes.  ‘Yu bain’t been lukin’ round zo careful as ’ee shude; there be a bit o’ magnolia as want nailding oop, my gude man.’  ’Oh, be there, mum?’ zays I.  ‘Yiss, there be; an’ thart I’d carl yure attention tu it,’ zess she, are zum zuch.  ‘Thanky, mum, I’m zure,’ zezz I.”

“I knows how her goes on,” groaned James Coachman.

“Mother toime ’tis zummat else,” said the aggrieved gardener. “’Thic ’ere geranum’s broke, Willum; but ef yu tuke it vor cuttings, zo vast’s iver yu cude, ’twon’t take no yarm, Willum.  Yu zee as how us du take a turble interest.’  Ah! ‘tis arl I can du tu putt oop wi’ ’un; carling a man from’s tea, tu tark zuch vamous vule’s tark.”

Lady Mary was not much less weary than the gardener and coachman of the old sisters’ habits of criticism.  But only the shadow of their former power of vexing her remained, now that they could no longer appeal to Sir Timothy to join them in reproving his wife.  She was no more to be teased or exasperated into alternate submission and rebellion.

Their cousin John, the administrator of Barracombe, had chosen from the first to place her opinions and wishes above all their protests or advice.  They said to each other that John, before he grew tired of her and went away, had spoilt poor dear Mary completely; but their hopes were centred on Peter, who was a true Crewys, and who would soon be his own master, and the master of Barracombe; when he would, doubtless, revert to his father’s old ways.

They chose to blame his mother for his sudden departure to London, and remarked that the changes in his home had so wrought upon the poor fellow, that he could not bear to look at them until he had the power of putting them right again.

A deeply resented innovation was the appearance of the tea-table on the lawn before the windows, in the shade of the ilex-grove, which sheltered the western end of the terrace from the low rays of the sun.

During the previous summer, on their return from a drive, they had found their cousin John in his white flannels, and Lady Mary in her black gown, serenely enjoying this refreshment out-of-doors; and the poor old ladies had hardly known how to express their surprise and annoyance.

In vain did their sister-in-law explain that she had desired a second tea to be served in the hall, in their usual corner by the log fireplace.

It had never been the custom in the family.  What would Ash say?  What would he think?  How could so much extra trouble be given to the servants?

“The servants have next to nothing to do,” Lady Mary had said; and young John had actually laughed, and explained that he had had a conversation with Ash which had almost petrified that tyrant of the household.