“Was I?  True, so I was.  Well, she and the young Squire was for all the world like a deer with her fawn—­all tenderness and timidity, so long as he was let alone; but when this ’ere woman came, as she considered his enemy, she was as bold as a red stag—­nay, as one of our wild-cattle.  It was through her, I say, that the bride got the sack at last; and when that was done the old lady seemed to have done her work, and was content enough when her son portioned her off, and persuaded her to live at the dower-house at Morden; and indeed she could hardly have staid at Crompton, with such goings on as there are now—­feastings and fightings and flirtings—­”

“Just so,” interrupted the young painter; “she got her way, I know.  But with respect to the younger lady, Mrs. Charles Carew, what was she like, and what did people say of her?”

“Well, not much good, I reckon.  What could they say of a school-mistress who marries her pupil?”

“A school-mistress, was she?” said Yorke, in a strange husky voice.  “We never heard that in London.”

“Well, she was summut of that sort, Sir, though I don’t know exactly what.  Young as he was, Carew was not quite child enough to be at a dame’s school, that’s true.  But she was not a mere servant-girl, as some said, any way, for she could play and sing—­ay, songs that pleased him too—­and she had book-learning, I’ve heard, such as would have astonished you; so that some folks said she was a witch, and had the devil’s help to catch Carew.  But a woman don’t want magic, bless you, to come over a lad of seventeen—­not she.  What nonsense people talk!  If any pretty girl about Crompton was to take a fancy to you now, as is like enough, do you suppose—­”

“But I thought you said that Mrs. Charles Carew was not a girl?”

“Nor more she was:  she was five-and-thirty if she was a day; and yet—­there was the wonder of it—­she did not look much over twenty!  I’ve heard our gentlemen, when out shooting, liken her to some fine Frenchwoman as never grew old, and was fell in love with unbeknown by her grandson.  Now, what was her name?  I got it written down somewhere in my old pocket-book; it was summut like Longclothes.”

“Ninon de l’Enclos?” suggested Yorke, without a smile.

“Ay, that’s the name.  Well, Mrs. Charles Carew, as you call her, was just like her, and a regular everlasting!  She was not what you would call pretty, but very “taking” looking, and with a bloom and freshness on her as would have deceived any man.  Her voice was like music itself, and she moved like a stag o’ ten; and the Squire being always manly looking and swarthy, like yourself, there was really little difference between them to look at.  I dare say she’s gone all to pieces now, as women will do, while the Squire looks much the same as he did then.”

“I have never even seen him,” said the landscape-painter, moodily.