“She can make puddens and pies,” the farmer went on, regardless of his auditor’s gloom.  “She’s a lady, as good as the best of ’em.  I don’t care about their being Catholics—­the Desb’roughs o’ Dorset are gentlemen.  And she’s good for the pianer, too!  She strums to me of evenin’s.  I’m for the old tunes:  she’s for the new.  Gal-like!  While she’s with me she shall be taught things use’l.  She can parley-voo a good ’un and foot it, as it goes; been in France a couple of year.  I prefer the singin’ of ’t to the talkin’ of ’t.  Come, Luce! toon up—­eh?—­Ye wun’t?  That song abort the Viffendeer—­a female”—­Farmer Blaize volunteered the translation of the title—­“who wears the—­you guess what! and marches along with the French sojers:  a pretty brazen bit o’ goods, I sh’d fancy.”

Mademoiselle Lucy corrected her uncle’s French, but objected to do more.  The handsome cross boy had almost taken away her voice for speech, as it was, and sing in his company she could not; so she stood, a hand on her uncle’s chair to stay herself from falling, while she wriggled a dozen various shapes of refusal, and shook her head at the farmer with fixed eyes.

“Aha!” laughed the farmer, dismissing her, “they soon learn the difference ’twixt the young ’un and the old ’un.  Go along, Luce! and learn yer lessons for to-morrow.”

Reluctantly the daughter of the Royal Navy glided away.  Her uncle’s head followed her to the door, where she dallied to catch a last impression of the young stranger’s lowering face, and darted through.

Farmer Blaize laughed and chuckled.  “She an’t so fond of her uncle as that, every day!  Not that she an’t a good nurse—­the kindest little soul you’d meet of a winter’s walk!  She’ll read t’ ye, and make drinks, and sing, too, if ye likes it, and she won’t be tired.  A obstinate good ’un, she be!  Bless her!”

The farmer may have designed, by these eulogies of his niece, to give his visitor time to recover his composure, and establish a common topic.  His diversion only irritated and confused our shame-eaten youth.  Richard’s intention had been to come to the farmer’s threshold:  to summon the farmer thither, and in a loud and haughty tone then and there to take upon himself the whole burden of the charge against Tom Bakewell.  He had strayed, during his passage to Belthorpe, somewhat back to his old nature; and his being compelled to enter the house of his enemy, sit in his chair, and endure an introduction to his family, was more than he bargained for.  He commenced blinking hard in preparation for the horrible dose to which delay and the farmer’s cordiality added inconceivable bitters.  Farmer Blaize was quite at his ease; nowise in a hurry.  He spoke of the weather and the harvest:  of recent doings up at the Abbey:  glanced over that year’s cricketing; hoped that no future Feverel would lose a leg to the game.  Richard saw and heard Arson in it all.  He blinked harder as he neared the cup.  In a moment of silence, he seized it with a gasp.