“I suppose we shall,” said the squire.

“We must have the mason to the flues of that little grape-house, sir, before I can do any good with a fire there.”

“Which grape-house?” said the squire, crossly.

“Why, the grape-house in the other garden, sir.  It ought to have been done last year by rights.”  This Hopkins said to punish his master for being cross to him.  On that matter of the flues of Mrs Dale’s grape-house he had, with much consideration, spared his master during the last winter, and he felt that this ought to be remembered now.  “I can’t put any fire in it, not to do any real good, till something’s done.  That’s sure.”

“Then don’t put any fire in it,” said the squire.

Now the grapes in question were supposed to be peculiarly fine, and were the glory of the garden of the Small House.  They were always forced, though not forced so early as those at the Great House, and Hopkins was in a state of great confusion.

“They’ll never ripen; sir; not the whole year through.”

“Then let them be unripe,” said the squire, walking about.

Hopkins did not at all understand it.  The squire in his natural course was very unwilling to neglect any such matter as this, but would be specially unwilling to neglect anything touching the Small House.  So Hopkins stood on the terrace, raising his hat and scratching his head.  “There’s something wrong amongst them,” said he to himself, sorrowfully.

But when the squire had walked to the end of the terrace and had turned upon the path which led round the side of the house, he stopped and called to Hopkins.

“Have what is needful done to the flue,” he said.

“Yes, sir; very well, sir.  It’ll only be re-setting the bricks.  Nothing more ain’t needful, just this winter.”

“Have the place put in perfect order while you’re about it,” said the squire, and then he walked away.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Doctor Crofts Is Turned Out

“Have you heard the news, my dear, from the Small House?” said Mrs Boyce to her husband, some two or three days after Mrs Dale’s visit to the squire.  It was one o’clock, and the parish pastor had come in from his ministrations to dine with his wife and children.

“What news?” said Mr Boyce, for he had heard none.

“Mrs Dale and the girls are going to leave the Small House; they’re going into Guestwick to live.”

“Mrs Dale going away; nonsense!” said the vicar.  “What on earth should take her into Guestwick?  She doesn’t pay a shilling of rent where she is.”

“I can assure you it’s true, my dear.  I was with Mrs Hearn just now, and she had it direct from Mrs Dale’s own lips.  Mrs Hearn said she’d never been taken so much aback in her whole life.  There’s been some quarrel, you may be sure of that.”

Mr Boyce sat silent, pulling off his dirty shoes preparatory to his dinner.  Tidings so important, as touching the social life of his parish, had not come to him for many a day, and he could hardly bring himself to credit them at so short a notice.