e she answered this
direct question, and when, she spoke it was in lower tones and with a
glance of caution.

"He would be, if he could!" she said. "There are those in the village who
say that he wants to marry his cousin. But the truth is--so far as one
can see or learn it--that for some reason or other, neither Mrs.
Valentine Greyle nor Miss Audrey can bear him! They took some queer
dislike to the young man when he first came, and they've kept it up. Of
course, they're outwardly friendly, and he occasionally, I believe, goes
to the cottage, but they rarely go to the big house, and it's very seldom
they're ever seen together. I have heard--one does hear things in
villages--that he'd be very glad to do something handsome for them, but
they're both as proud as they're poor, and not the sort to accept aught
from anybody. I believe they've just enough to live on, but it can't be a
great deal, for everybody knows that Valentine Greyle made ducks and
drakes of his fortune long before he came back to Scarhaven, and old
Stephen John only left them a few hundreds of pounds. However--there it
is. However much the new Squire wants to marry his cousin, it's very flat
she'll not have anything to say to him. I've once or twice had an
opportunity of seeing those two together, and it's my private opinion
that Miss Audrey dislikes that young man just about as heartily as she
possibly could!"

"What does Mr. Marston Greyle find to do with himself in this place?"
asked Copplestone, turning the conversation. "Can't be very lively for
him if he's a man of any activity."

"Oh, I don't know," replied Mrs. Wooler. "I think he's a good deal like
his uncle, the last squire--he certainly never goes anywhere, except out
to sea in his yacht. He shoots a bit, and fishes a bit, and so on, and
spends a lot of time with Peeping Peter--he's a widower, is Chatfield, and
lives alone, except when his daughter runs down to see him. And that
daughter, bye-the-bye, Mr. Copplestone, is on the stage."

"Dear me!" said Copplestone. "That is surprising! Her father made several
contemptuous references to play-actors when he was talking to me."

"Oh, he hates them, and all connected with them!" replied Mrs. Wooler,
laughing. "All the same, his own daughter has been on the stage for a
good five years, and I fancy she's doing well. A fine, handsome girl she
is, too--she's been down here a good deal lately, and--"

The landlady suddenly paused, hearing a light