"
"There ought to be a swift remedy for wretches like Blagg," Mrs.
Chiverton indignantly exclaimed when they were clear of the
foul-smelling hamlet. "Why cannot it be an item of duty for the rural
police to give information of his extortion and neglect? Those poor
women are robbed, and they are utterly helpless to resist it. It is a
greater crime than stealing on the highway."
"Do any of grandpapa's people live at Morte?" Bessie asked.
"No, I think not; they are ours and Mr. Gifford's, and a colony of
miserable gentry who exist nobody can tell how, but half their time in
jail. It was a man from Morte who shot our head-keeper last September.
Poor wretch! he is waiting his trial now. When I have paid a visit to
Morte I always feel indifferent to my beautiful home."
Bessie Fairfax felt a sharp pang of compunction for her former hard
judgment of Mrs. Chiverton. If it was ever just, time and circumstances
were already reversing it. The early twilight overtook them some miles
from Castlemount, but it was still clear enough to see a picturesque
ivied tower not far removed from the roadside when they passed
Carisfort.
Bessie looked at it with interest. "That is not the dwelling-house--that
is the keep," Mrs. Chiverton said. "The house faces the other way, and
has the finest view in the country. It is an antiquated place, but
people can be very good and happy there."
The coachman had slackened speed, and now stopped.
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