KNOCKLEY HOLT.
About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The
Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without
Tom’s society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more and
more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at
home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now
and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as
occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an
important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of
things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at
Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott’s arrival was he there less
frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively
company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to
say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she
overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty
gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about
which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself
expressed it, “he wanted to know the length of his sister’s tongue.”
But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of
buffer between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit
questions, and a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to whatever
topic Mrs. McDermott might be dilating on, he generally succeeded in
drawing the full torrent of her conversation on his own devoted head,
thereby affording the Squire a breathing space for which he was truly
grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let the demon of mischief
get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would lead Mrs. McDermott
on by one artful question after another till she began to contradict
herself and eat her own words, and ended by floundering helplessly in a
sort of mental quagmire, and so relapsing into sulky silence, with a
dim sense upon her that she had somehow been coaxed into making an
exhibition of herself by that demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow,
who seemed hand and glove with both her brother and her niece after a
fashion that she neither liked nor understood.
Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs.
McDermott’s nature, that by the time of Tom’s next visit to Pincote she
was ready to fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined to
lead her on.
“Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?” she
asked her brother one day. “I don’t seem to recollect any family of
that name hereabouts.”
“Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it,” growled the
Squire. “He’s the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte in her
last illness. He’s a sharp young fellow who has got his head screwed on
the right way, and he’s been useful to me in one or two business
matters, and may be so again; so there’s no harm in asking him to
dinner now and then.”
“Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,”
sneered Mrs. McDermott.
“And what if it does?” retorted the Squire. “As long as I can call the
house my own, I’ll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as I
like.”
“Only if I were you, I wouldn’t forget that I’d a daughter who was just
at a marriageable age.”
“Nor a sister who wouldn’t object to a husband number two,” chuckled
the Squire.
“Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.
He’s young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own, he’s
just the right sort to look well after yours.”
Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. “You never were very
refined, Titus,” she said; “but you certainly get coarser every time I
see you.”
Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.
“I’ll have that young Bristow out of this house before I’m three weeks
older!” vowed the ‘widow to herself. “The way he and Jane carry on
together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother of mine
can’t see it.”
From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more particularly
than she had done before. Not satisfied with watching them herself, she
induced her maid Emma to act as a spy on their actions. With her
assistance, Mrs. McDermott was not long in gathering sufficient
evidence to warrant her, as she thought, in seeking a private interview
with her brother on the subject. “And high time too,” she said grimly
to herself. “That minx of a Jane is carrying on a fine game under the
rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for that young Bristow—of course
it’s Jane’s money that he’s after. Titus must be as blind as a bat, or
he would have seen it all long ago. I’ve no patience with him—none!”
Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she bounced
and burst into the Squire’s private room—commonly called his study. She
burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had crossed the
threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom Bristow was with
him. The two were in deep consultation—so much she could see at a
glance—bending towards each other over the little table, and speaking,
as it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The Squire turned with a
gesture of impatience at the opening of the door. “Oh, is that you,
Fanny?” he said. “I’ll see you presently; I’m busy with Mr. Bristow,
just now.”
She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil
look came into her eyes. “That’s the way you treat your only sister,
Mr. Titus Culpepper, is it?” she muttered under her breath. “Not a
penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours.”
Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire
respecting the building going on at Prior’s Croft. When their
conference had come to an end, said the Squire to Tom: “You know that
scrubby bit of ground of mine—Knockley Holt?”
Tom started. “Yes, I know it very well,” he said. “It is rather
singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it was
partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning to
see you.”
“Ay—ay—how’s that?” said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from the
apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.
“Why, it doesn’t seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that
perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me have a lease of it.”
The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several weeks.
“And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to ask your
advice about it!”
Tom’s face flushed suddenly. “And do you really think of selling
Knockley Holt?” he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the
Squire’s face more keenly than usual.
“Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn’t have said what I have
said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to me
than the land is ever likely to be. It won’t fetch much I know, but
then I didn’t give much for it, and whoever may get it won’t have much
of a bargain.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t object to have me for a purchaser?”
“You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I
should want money down, and—— But I needn’t say more about it.”
“If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve
hundred pounds for it, cash down.”
The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at anything
that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a moment or two
in blank amazement.
“Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!” were his first words.
“And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve
hundred pounds?”
“Oh, I’m worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds,” said Tom,
with a smile. “Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one
little stroke in cotton.”
“Well done, young one,” said the Squire, heartily. “You are not such a
fool as you look. And now take an old man’s advice. Don’t speculate any
more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don’t tempt
her again. Be content with what you’ve got, and speculate no more.”
“At any rate, I won’t forget your advice, sir,” said Tom. “I wonder,”
he added to himself, “what he would think and say if he knew that it
was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese.”
“And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?”
“I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it.”
“Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do
with it when you have got it?”
“Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask
me,” said Tom, laughingly. “If I buy it, it will be entirely on
speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a big
success.”
“Well, well, that will be your look out,” said the Squire,
good-naturedly. “But, Bristow, it’s not worth twelve hundred pounds,
nor anything like that sum.”
“I think it is, sir—at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay that
amount for it.”
“I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a
clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied.”
“I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are
willing to accept it.”
“Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to
get, I’m not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing
yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that’s what I don’t like to see.”
“I think, sir, that I’m pretty well able to look after my own
interests,” said Tom, with a meaning smile. “Am I to consider that
Knockley Holt is to become my property?”
“Of course you are, boy—of course you are. But I must say that you are
a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you might
have it for a thousand.”
“An offer’s an offer, and I’ll abide by mine.”
“Then there’s nothing more to be said: I’ll see my lawyer about the
deeds to-morrow.”
Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.
“Perhaps I may come in now,” said Mrs. McDermott five minutes later, as
she opened the door of her brother’s room.
“Of course you may,” said the Squire. “Young Bristow and I were talking
over some business affairs before, that would have had no interest for
you, and that you know nothing about.”
“It’s about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see you
this morning.”
“Oh, indeed,” said the Squire drily. Then he took off his spectacles,
and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle a
tune under his breath.
Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added tone
of asperity when she spoke again. “I suppose you are aware that your
protégé is making violent love to your daughter, or else that your
daughter is making violent love to him: I hardly know which it is!”
“What!” thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet. “What is that
you say, Fanny McDermott?”
“Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane
and Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another
word to say. But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can
only say that you must have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an
owl.”
“Thank you, Fanny—thank you,” said the Squire sadly, as he sat down in
his chair again. “I dare say I have been both blind and stupid; and if
what you tell me is true, I must have been.”
“Miss Jane couldn’t long deceive me,” said the widow spitefully.
“Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody.”
“Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit then
becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name.”
Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.
“The young vagabond!” he said at last. “So that’s the way he’s been
hoodwinking me, is it? But I’ll teach him: I’ll have him know that I’m
not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to my daughter, indeed!
I’ll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a bit of my mind
that will astonish him considerably.”
“Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?”
“Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.
“Oh, you would not have far to send for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present
moment.”
The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. “How do you
know that?” he said at last, speaking very quietly.
“Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking
there, arm in arm.” She paused, as if expecting her brother to say
something, but he did not speak. “I have not had my eyes shut, I assure
you,” she went on. “But in these matters women are always more
quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them
together I had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together
couldn’t be for nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into
each other’s eyes couldn’t be without a meaning.”
The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.
“Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;
and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes.”
Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be
seen there by Tom. “I am glad you have sent for him,” she said. “I hope
matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty.”
He looked up in a little surprise. “There will be no difficulty. Why
should there be?” he said.
“No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now bid
you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I
think, for you to mention my name in the affair.”
“There will be no need to mention anybody’s name. Good-morning.”
Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. “Breaking
fast, poor man,” she said to herself. “He’s not long for this world,
I’m afraid. Well, I’ve the consolation of knowing that I’ve always done
a sister’s duty by him. I wonder what he’ll die worth. Thousands, no
doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We are not allowed
to hate one another, or else I’m afraid I should hate that girl.”
She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and
gave her maid a good blowing-up.
Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once
through the restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said
something which made Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face
down to his and kiss it: what he said was simply, “Good-night, my
darling.” Nothing more, but quite enough to be understood by her to
whom the words were spoken. But since that evening not one syllable
more of love had been breathed by Tom. For anything that had since
passed between them Jane might have imagined that she had merely dreamt
the words—that the speaking of them was nothing more than a fancy of
her own lovesick brain.
Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered
themselves aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in so
thinking, But Jane had no intention whatever of adopting an injured
tone even in her own inmost thoughts. She had never been in the habit
of looking upon herself in the light of a victim, and she had no
intention of beginning to do so now. Surprised—slightly surprised—she
might be, but that was all. In Tom’s manner towards her, in the way he
looked at her, in the very tone of his voice, there was that
indescribable something which gave her the sweet assurance that she was
still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she was well
satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover’s silence had a meaning,
that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time should come
he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should keep a
finger on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.
“So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?” said the Squire,
sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Tom, looking at him in sheer amazement.
“Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know what I mean.”
“It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance.”
“You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the
house, and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making
love to my daughter!”
“It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few
people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her.”
“That’s all very well, but you don’t get over me in that way, young
sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That’s what I
want to know.”
“I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so.”
“Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?”
“Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour.”
“A good thing for you that you haven’t. The sooner you get that love
tomfoolery out of your head the better.”
“I promise you one thing, sir,” said Tom; “if I ever do marry Miss
Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes.”
The Squire could not help chuckling. “In that case, my boy, you will
never have her—not if you live to be as old as Methuselah.”
“Time will prove, sir.”
“And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no
more gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer.”
“I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but
it’s time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry in
a very different sphere from yours.”
“Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward
Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as
Mr. Cope—quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter’s hand.”
“Then I don’t. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance of
getting her if he hadn’t been the son of my oldest friend; the son of
the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it to
his father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement to
Miss Culpepper.”
“I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott,” said Tom to
himself, as he walked homeward through the park. “It will only have the
effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I
intended, but it will not alter my plans in the least.”
“Fanny has been exaggerating as usual,” was the Squire’s comment.
“There was something in it, no doubt, and it’s just as well to have
crushed it in the bud; but I think it’s hardly worth while to say
anything to Jenny about it.”
A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along
the high road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his
intense astonishment, he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw
the smoke of a steam engine that was apparently hard at work behind a
clump of larches in the distance. Riding up to the spot, he found some
score or so of men all busily engaged. They were excavating a hole in
the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports as they got deeper
down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the earth in big
bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.
“What’s all this about?” inquired the Squire of one of the men; “and
who’s gaffer here?”
“Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his
orders.”
“Oh, ho! that’s it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the hole,
and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?”
“I don’t rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for
water.”
“A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for
when we haven’t had a dry day for seven weeks?”
“Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole
dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of
the world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work.”
The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. “What queer
crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?” he muttered
to himself. “It’s just possible, though, that there may be a method in
his madness.”