at five shillings an acre.”
“Ah, sir, that’s the best way. Bad as times be, it will go hard if I can’t make the interest and the rent out of it too. Besides, Squire, if you give way about this here farm, all the others will come down on you. I’m not saying a word agin your tinants, but where there’s money to be made you can’t trust not no man.”
“Well, well,” said the Squire, “perhaps you are right and perhaps you ain’t. Right or wrong, you always talk like Solomon in all his glory. Anyway, be off with that note and let me have the answer as soon as you get back. Mind you don’t go loafing and jawing about down in Boisingham, because I want my answer.”
“So he means to borrow the money if he can get it,” said Ida to herself as she sat, an invisible auditor, doing her hair by the open window. “George can do more with him in five minutes than I can do in a week, and I know that he hates Janter. I believe Janter threw up the farm because of his quarrelling with George. Well, I suppose we must take our chance.”
Meanwhile George had mounted his cart and departed upon the road to Boisingham, urging his fat pony along as though he meant to be there in twenty minutes. But so soon as he was well out of reach of the Squire’s shouts and sight of the Castle gates, he deliberately turned up a bye lane and jogged along for a mile or more to a farm, where he had a long confabulation with a man about thatching some ricks. Thence he quietly made his way to his own little place, where he proceeded to comfortably get his breakfast, remarking to his wife that he was of opinion that there was no hurry about the Squire’s letter, as the “lawyers” wasn’t in the habit of coming to office at eight in the morning.
Breakfast over, the philosophic George got into his cart, the fat pony having been tied up outside, and leisurely drove into the picturesque old town which lay at the head of the valley. All along the main street he met many acquaintances, and with each he found it necessary to stop and have a talk, indeed with two he had a modest half-pint. At length, however, his labour o’er, he arrived at Mr. Quest’s office, that, as all the Boisingham world knows, was just opposite the church, of which Mr. Quest was one of the churchwardens, and which but two years before was beautifully restored, mainly owing to his efforts and generous contributions. Driving up to the small and quiet-looking doorway of a very unpretentious building, George descended and knocked. Thereon a clerk opened the door, and in answer to his inquiries informed him that he believed Mr. Quest had just come over to the office.
In another minute he was shown into an inner room of the ordinary country lawyer’s office stamp, and there at the table sat Mr. Quest himself.
Mr. Quest was a man of about forty years of age, rather under than over, with a pale ascetic cast of face, and a quiet and pleasant, though somewhat reserved, manner. His features were in no way remarkable, with the exception of his eyes, which seemed to have been set in his head owing to some curious error of nature. For whereas his general tone was dark, his hair in particular being jet black, these eyes were grey, and jarred extraordinarily upon their companion features. For the rest, he was a man of some presence, and with the manners of a gentleman.
“Well, George,” he said, “what is it that brings you to Boisingham? A letter from the Squire. Thank you. Take a seat, will you, will I look through it? Umph, wants me to come and see him at eleven o’clock. I am very sorry, but I can’t manage that anyway. Ah, I see, about the Moat Farm. Janter told me that he was going to throw it up, and I advised him to do nothing of the sort, but he is a dissatisfied sort of a fellow, Janter is, and Major Boston has upset the whole country side by his very ill-advised action about the College lands.”
“Janter is a warmint and Major Boston, begging his pardon for the language, is an ass, sir. Anyway there it is, Janter has thrown up, and where I am to find a tinant between now and Michaelmas I don’t know; in fact, with the College lands going at five shillings an acre there ain’t no chance.”
“Then what does the Squire propose to do—take the land in hand?”
“Yes, sir, that’s it; and that’s what he wants to see you about.”
“More money, I suppose,” said Mr. Quest.
“Well, yis, sir. You see there will be covenants to meet, and then the farm is three hundred acres, and to stock it proper as it should be means nine pounds an acre quite, on this here heavy land.”
“Yes, yes, I know, a matter of four thousand more or less, but where is it to come from, that’s the question? Cossey’s do not like land now, any more than other banks do. However, I’ll see my principal about it. But, George, I can’t possibly get up to the Castle at eleven. I have got a churchwardens’ meeting at a quarter to, about that west pinnacle, you know. It is in a most dangerous condition, and by-the-way, before you go I should like to have your opinion, as a practical man, as to the best way to deal with it. To rebuild it would cost a hundred and twenty pounds, and that is more than we see our way to at present, though I can promise fifty if they can scape up the rest. But about the Squire. I think that the best thing I can do will be to come up to the Castle to lunch, and then I can talk over matters with him. Stay, I will just write him a note. By-the-way, you would like a glass of wine, wouldn’t you, George? Nonsense man, here it is in the cupboard, a glass of wine is a good friend to have handy sometimes.”
George, who like most men of his stamp could put away his share of liquor and feel thankful for it, drank his glass of wine while Mr. Quest was engaged in writing the note, wondering meanwhile what made the lawyer so civil to him. For George did not like Mr. Quest. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that he hated him. But this was a feeling which he never allowed to appear; he was too much afraid of the man for that, and in his queer way too much devoted to the old Squire’s interests to run the risk of imperilling them by the exhibition of any aversion to Mr. Quest. He knew more of his master’s affairs than anybody living, unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Quest himself, and was aware that the lawyer held the old gentleman in a bondage that could not be broken. Now, George was a man with faults. He was somewhat sly, and, perhaps within certain lines, at times capable of giving the word honesty a liberal interpretation. But amongst many others he had one conspicuous virtue: he loved the old Squire as a Highlandman loves his chief, and would almost, if not quite, have died to serve him. His billet was no easy one, for Mr. de la Molle’s temper was none of the best at times, and when things went wrong, as they pretty frequently did, he was exceedingly apt to visit his wrath on the head of the devoted George, saying things to him which he should not have said. But his retainer took it all in the day’s work, and never bore malice, continuing in his own cadging pigheaded sort of way to labour early and late to prop up his master’s broken fortunes. “Lord, sir,” as he once said to Harold Quaritch when the Colonel condoled with him after a violent and unjust onslaught made by the Squire in his presence, “Lord, sir, that ain’t nawthing, that ain’t. I don’t pay no manner of heed to that. Folk du say how as I wor made for he, like a safety walve for a traction engine.”
Indeed, had it not been for George’s contrivings and procrastinations, Honham Castle and its owner would have parted company long before.
CHAPTER VII. — EDWARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE
After George had drunk his glass of wine and given his opinion as to the best way to deal with the dangerous pinnacle on the Boisingham Church, he took the note, untied the fat pony, and ambled off to Honham, leaving the lawyer alone. As soon as he was gone, Mr. Quest threw himself back in his chair—an old oak one, by-the-way, for he had a very pretty taste in old oak and a positive mania for collecting it—and plunged into a brown study.
