' For the
rest of that woman's life, Mr. Franklin, I never had to cook my dinner
again! Moral: You have put up with Miss Rachel in London; don't put up
with her in Yorkshire. Come back to the house!"
Quite unanswerable! I could only assure my good friend that even HIS
powers of persuasion were, in this case, thrown away on me.
"It's a lovely evening," I said. "I shall walk to Frizinghall, and stay
at the hotel, and you must come to-morrow morning and breakfast with me.
I have something to say to you."
Betteredge shook his head gravely.
"I am heartily sorry for this," he said. "I had hoped, Mr. Franklin, to
hear that things were all smooth and pleasant again between you and
Miss Rachel. If you must have your own way, sir," he continued, after a
moment's reflection, "there is no need to go to Frizinghall to-night
for a bed. It's to be had nearer than that. There's Hotherstone's
Farm, barely two miles from here. You can hardly object to THAT on Miss
Rachel's account," the old man added slily. "Hotherstone lives, Mr.
Franklin, on his own freehold."
I remembered the place the moment Betteredge mentioned it. The
farm-house stood in a sheltered inland valley, on the banks of the
prettiest stream in that part of Yorkshire: and the farmer had a spare
bedroom and parlour, which he was accustomed to let to artists, anglers,
and tourists in general.
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