been half over Europe.”
“You are very much afraid, are not you, Frank?” said she, her face bright with blushes, and her gray eyes smiling up at him. “I have a great idea that if I could see that Harry Bish that Edward is always talking about, I should be charmed. He must wear such beautiful waistcoats! Don’t you think I had better see him before our engagement is quite, quite final?”
But Frank would not smile. In fact, like all angry persons, he found fresh matter for offence in every sentence. She did not consider the engagement as quite final: thus he chose to understand her playful speech. He would not answer. She spoke again:
“Dear Frank, you are not angry with me, are you? It is nonsense to think that we are to go about the world, picking and choosing men and women as if they were fruit and we were to gather the best; as if there was not something in our own hearts which, if we listen to it conscientiously, will tell us at once when we have met the one of all others. There now, am I sensible? I suppose I am, for your grim features are relaxing into a smile. That’s right. But now listen to this. I think your father would come round sooner, if he were not irritated every day by the knowledge of your visits to me. If you went away, he would know that we should write to each other yet he would forget the exact time when; but now he knows as well as I do where you are when you are up here; and I fancy, from what Erminia says, it makes him angry the whole time you are away.”
Frank was silent. At last he said: “It is rather provoking to be obliged to acknowledge that there is some truth in what you say. But even if I would, I am not sure that I could go. My father does not speak to me about his affairs, as he used to do; so I was rather surprised yesterday to hear him say to Erminia (though I’m sure he meant the information for me), that he had engaged an agent.”
“Then there will be the less occasion for you to be at home. He won’t want your help in his accounts.”
“I’ve given him little enough of that. I have long wanted him to have somebody to look after his affairs. They are very complicated and he is very careless. But I believe my signature will be wanted for some new leases; at least he told me so.”
“That need not take you long,” said Maggie.
“Not the mere signing. But I want to know something more about the property, and the proposed tenants. I believe this Mr. Henry that my father has engaged, is a very hard sort of man. He is what is called scrupulously honest and honorable; but I fear a little too much inclined to drive hard bargains for his client. Now I want to be convinced to the contrary, if I can, before I leave my father in his hands. So you cruel judge, you won’t transport me yet, will you?”
“No” said Maggie, overjoyed at her own decision, and blushing her delight that her reason was convinced it was right for Frank to stay a little longer.
The next day’s post brought her a letter from Edward. There was not a word in it about her inquiry or remonstrance; it might never have been written, or never received; but a few hurried anxious lines, asking her to write by return of post, and say if it was really true that Mr. Buxton had engaged an agent. “It’s a confounded shabby trick if he has, after what he said to me long ago. I cannot tell you how much I depend on your complying with my request. Once more, write directly. If Nancy cannot take the letter to the post, run down to Combehurst with it yourself. I must have an answer tomorrow, and every particular as to who — when to be appointed, &c. But I can’t believe the report to be true.”
Maggie asked Frank if she might name what he had told her the day before to her brother. He said:
“Oh, yes, certainly, if he cares to know. Of course, you will not say anything about my own opinion of Mr. Henry. He is coming tomorrow, and I shall be able to judge how far I am right.”
Chapter VII.
The next day Mr. Henry came. He was a quiet, stern-looking man, of considerable intelligence and refinement, and so much taste for music as to charm Erminia, who had rather dreaded his visit. But all the amenities of life were put aside when he entered Mr. Buxton’s sanctum — his “office,” as he called the room where he received his tenants and business people. Frank thought Mr. Henry was scarce commonly civil in the open evidence of his surprise and contempt for the habits, of which the disorderly books and ledgers were but too visible signs. Mr. Buxton himself felt more like a school-boy, bringing up an imperfect lesson, than he had ever done since he was thirteen.
“The only wonder, my good sir, is that you have any property left; that you have not been cheated out of every farthing.”
“I’ll answer for it,” said Mr. Buxton, in reply, “that you’ll not find any cheating has been going on. They dared not, sir; they know I should make an example of the first rogue I found out.”
Mr. Henry lifted up his eyebrows, but did not speak.
“Besides, sir, most of these men have lived for generations under the Buxtons. I’d give you my life, they would not cheat me.”
Mr. Henry coldly said:
“I imagine a close examination of these books by some accountant will be the best proof of the honesty of these said tenants. If you will allow me, I will write to a clever fellow I know, and desire him to come down and try and regulate this mass of papers.”
“Anything — anything you like,” said Mr. Buxton, only too glad to escape from the lawyer’s cold, contemptuous way of treating the subject.
The accountant came; and he and Mr. Henry were deeply engaged in the office for several days. Mr. Buxton was bewildered by the questions they asked him. Mr. Henry examined him in the worrying way in which an unwilling witness is made to give evidence. Many a time and oft did he heartily wish he had gone on in the old course to the end of his life, instead of putting himself into an agent’s hands; but he comforted himself by thinking that, at any rate, they would be convinced he had never allowed himself to be cheated or imposed upon, although he did not make any parade of exactitude.
What was his dismay when, one morning, Mr. Henry sent to request his presence, and, with a cold, clear voice, read aloud an admirably drawn up statement, informing the poor landlord of the defalcations, nay more, the impositions of those whom he had trusted. If he had been alone, he would have burst into tears, to find how his confidence had been abused. But as it was, he became passionately angry.
“I’ll prosecute them, sir. Not a man shall escape. I’ll make them pay back every farthing, I will. And damages, too. Crayston, did you say, sir? Was that one of the names? Why, that is the very Crayston who was bailiff under my father for years. The scoundrel! And I set him up in my best farm when he married. And he’s been swindling me, has he?”
Mr. Henry ran over the items of the account —“421l, 13s. 4–3/4d. Part of this I fear we cannot recover”——
He was going on, but Mr. Buxton broke in: “But I will recover it. I’ll have every farthing of it. I’ll go to law with the viper. I don’t care for money, but I hate ingratitude.”
“If you like, I will take counsel’s opinion on the case,” said Mr. Henry, coolly.
“Take anything you please, sir. Why this Crayston was the first man that set me on a horse — and to think of his cheating me!”
A
