16 A JACOBITE EXILE

“There is no doubt something in what you say, Sir Mar-
maduke,” John Dormay said blandly, “and I will make it
my business that, should the boys meet again as antago-
nists, Alured shall be able to give a better account of him-
self.””

“Fre is a disagreeable fellow,” Sir Marmaduke said to
himself, as he watched John Dormay ride slowly away
through the park, “and if it were not that he is husband to
my cousin Celia, I would have nought to do with him.
She is my only kinswoman, and were aught to happen to
Charlie, that lout, her son, would be the heir of Lynnwood.
I should never rest quiet in my grave were a Whig master
here. I would much rather that he had spoken wrathfully
when I straightly gave him my opinion of the boy, who is
growing up an ill-conditioned cub; it would have been
more honest. I hate to see a man smile when I know that
he would fain swear. I like my cousin Celia, and I like
her little daughter Ciceley, who takes after her, and not
after John Dormay; but I would that the fellow lived on
the other side of England. He is out of his place here,
and though men do not speak against him in my presence,
knowing that he is a sort of kinsman, I have never heard
one say a good word for him.

“It is not only because he is a Whig; there are other
Whig gentry in the neighbourhood against whom I bear no
ill-will, and can meet at a social board in friendship. It
would be hard if politics were to stand between neighbours.
It is Dormay’s manner that is against him. If he were any
one but Celia’s husband, I would say that he is a smooth-
faced knave, though I altogether lack proof of my words,
beyond that he has added half a dozen farms to his estate,
and in each case there were complaints that, although there
was nothing contrary to the law, it was by sharp practice
that he obtained possession, lending money freely in order
to build houses and fences and drains, and then directly a
pinch came demanding the return of his advance,