Mr. Marmaduke Manners and his lady came to fetch Dorothy home.  He was a foppish little gentleman who thought more of the cut of his waistcoat than of the affairs of the province, and would rather have been bidden to lead the assembly ball than to sit in council with his Excellency the Governor.  My first recollection of him is of contempt.  He must needs have his morning punch just so, and complained whiningly of Scipio if some perchance were spilled on the glass.  He must needs be taken abroad in a chair when it rained.  And though in the course of a summer he was often at Carvel Hall he never tarried long, and came to see Mr. Carvel’s guests rather than Mr. Carvel.  He had little in common with my grandfather, whose chief business and pleasure was to promote industry on his farm.  Mr. Marmaduke was wont to rise at noon, and knew not wheat from barley, or good leaf from bad; his hands he kept like a lady’s, rendering them almost useless by the long lace on the sleeves, and his chief pastime was card-playing.  It was but reasonable therefore, when the troubles with the mother country began, that he chose the King’s side alike from indolence and contempt for things republican.

Of Mrs. Manners I shall say more by and by.

I took a mischievous delight in giving Mr. Manners every annoyance my boyish fancy could conceive.  The evening of his arrival he and Mr. Carvel set out for a stroll about the house, Mr. Marmaduke mincing his steps, for it had rained that morning.  And presently they came upon the windmill with its long arms moving lazily in the light breeze, near touching the ground as they passed, for the mill was built in the Dutch fashion.  I know not what moved me, but hearing Mr. Manners carelessly humming a minuet while my grandfather explained the usefulness of the mill, I seized hold of one of the long arms as it swung by, and before the gentlemen could prevent was carried slowly upwards.  Dorothy screamed, and her father stood stock still with amazement and fear, Mr. Carvel being the only one who kept his presence of mind.  “Hold on tight, Richard!” I heard him cry.  It was dizzy riding, though the motion was not great, and before I had reached the right angle I regretted my rashness.  I caught a glimpse of the Bay with the red sun on it, and as I turned saw far below me the white figure of Ivie Rawlinson, the Scotch miller, who had run out.  “O haith!” he shouted.  “Hand fast, Mr. Richard!”—­And so I clung tightly and came down without much inconvenience, though indifferently glad to feel the ground again.

Mr. Marmaduke, as I expected, was in a great temper, and swore he had not had such a fright for years.  He looked for Mr. Carvel to cane me stoutly:  But Ivie laughed heartily, and said:  “I wad yell gang far for anither laddie wi’ the spunk, Mr. Manners,” and with a sly look at my grandfather, “Ilka day we hae some sic whigmeleery.”

I think Mr. Carvel was not ill pleased with the feat, or with Mr. Marmaduke’s way of taking it.  For afterwards I overheard him telling the story to Colonel Lloyd, and both gentlemen laughing over Mr. Manners’s discomfiture.