Mrs. Noah, the housekeeper at Aikenside, was slicing vegetable oysters
for the nice little dish intended for her own supper, when the head of
Sorrel came around the corner of the building, followed by the square-
boxed wagon containing Grandpa Markham, who, bewildered by the beauty
and spaciousness of the grounds, and wholly uncertain as to where he
ought to stop, had driven over the smooth-graveled road around to the
front kitchen door, Mrs. Noah's spacious domain, as sacred as Betsey
Trotwood's patch of green.
"In the name of wonder, what codger is that? and what is he doing
here?" was Mrs. Noah's exclamation, as she dropped the bit of salsify
she was scraping, and hurrying to the door, called out: "I say, you,
sir, what made you drive up here, when I've said over and over again,
that I wouldn't have wheels tearing up turf and gravel?"
"I--I beg your pardon. I lost my way, I guess, there was so many
turnin's, I'm sorry, but a little rain will fetch it right," grandpa
said, glancing ruefully at the ruts in the gravel and the marks on the
turf.
Mrs. Noah was not at heart an unkind woman, and something in the
benignant expression of grandpa's face, or in the apologetic tone of
his voice, mollified her somewhat, and without further comment she
stood waiting for his next remark. It was a most unfortunate one, for
though as free from weakness as most of her sex, Mrs. Noah was
terribly sensitive as to her age, and the same census-taker would
never venture twice within her precincts. Glancing at her dress, which
was this leisure afternoon much smarter than usual, grandpa concluded
she could not be a servant; and as she seemed to have a right to say
where he should drive and where he should not, the meek old man
concluded she was a near relation of Guy--mother, perhaps; but no,
Guy's mother was dead, as grandpa well knew, for all Devonshire had
heard of the young bride Agnes, who had married Guy's father for money
and rank. To have been mistaken for Guy's mother would not have
offended Mrs. Noah particularly; but how was she shocked when Grandpa
Markham said: "I come on business with Squire Guy. Are you his gran'marm?" "His
gran'marm!" and Mrs. Noah bit off the last syllable spitefully. "Bless
you, man, Squire Guy, as you call him, is twenty-five years old."
As Grandpa Markham was rather blind, he failed to see the point, but
knew that in some way he had given offense.