HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.
After Mrs. McDermott’s departure from Pincote, life there slipped back
into its old quiet groove—into its old dull groove which was growing
duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company:
when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and on
the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent to
him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these
invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would
be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in
the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of
things—a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in
giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is
what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a miser
was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his
daughter’s sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more
ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme
of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous
chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to
many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality
for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he
could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now
the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of giving
every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no longer
felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending so many
pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom he cared
little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount, trifling
though it might seem, to that other trifling amount—only some few
hundreds of pounds when all was told—which he had already managed to
scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he should be gone
from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be her home? “If I
had only died a year ago,” he would sometimes say to himself, “then
Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her own. Now she’s next
door to being a pauper.”
Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank—not to Sugden’s
Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County—and he gloated over
every five pounds added to the fund invested in his daughter’s name as
something more added to the nest-egg; and to be able to put away fifty
pounds in a lump now afforded him far more genuine delight than the
putting away of a thousand would have done six months previously.
There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father
respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the
Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more
anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between
them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began
to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen
of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so;
letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as
pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his
famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of
his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She guessed,
but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his reasons
for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his enjoyment had
now become a very limited one. If it gave him pleasure—and she could
not doubt that it did—to live penuriously so as to be enabled to put
away a few extra pounds per annum, she would not mar the edge of that
pleasure by seeming even to notice what was going on, much less make
any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on his part, had many a good
chuckle in the solitude of his own room. “After I’m gone, she’ll know
what it all means,” he would say to himself. “She’s puzzled now—they
are all puzzled. They call me a miser, do they? Let ’em call me what
they like. Another twenty put away to-day. That makes——” and out would
come his passbook and his spectacles.
The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went into
society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his example.
There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she could still
go without its being thought strange that there was no return
invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school friends
whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room without
their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to dinner. But
of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw little or
nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she was far too
deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.
Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father’s
no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by
no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott’s warning words, nor Tom’s frank
confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of
his intention to encourage Tom’s visits to Pincote after the widow’s
abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next
day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his
appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been
French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom’s health in a
bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when they
parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front door,
shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a sort of
half intimation that some considerable time would probably elapse
before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote again. In
the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his sister, the
Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home of an evening
with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been content and
happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so thinking he had
overlooked one very important point. The Titus Culpepper of six months
ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do gentleman, satisfied with himself
and all the world, in tolerable health, and excited by the prospect of
making a magnificent fortune without trouble or anxiety. The Titus
Culpepper of to-day was a broken-down gambler—a gambler who had madly
speculated with his daughter’s fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down,
too, was he in health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of
all, a man who no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own
thoughts, and who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour
at a time. Of this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected
nothing: how few of us do know of such changes! Other people may
change—nay, do we not see them changing daily around us, and smile
good-naturedly as we note how querulous and hard to please poor Jones
has become of late? But that we—we—should so change, becoming a burden
to ourselves and a trial to those around us, with our queer,
cross-grained ways, our peevish, variable tempers, and our general
belief that the sun shines less brightly, and that the world is less
beautiful than it was a little while ago—that is altogether impossible.
The change is always in others, never in our immaculate selves.
The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men’s company to
that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all æsthetic. He liked
to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets; to talk
a little about imperial politics—chiefly confined to blackguarding “the
other side of the House”—and a great deal about local politics. He had
been in the habit of talking by the hour together about paving, and
lighting, and sewage, and the state of the highways: all useful matters
without a doubt, but hardly topics calculated to interest a lady.
Though he liked to have Jane play to him now and then—but never for
more than ten minutes at any one time—he always designated it as
“tinkling;” and as often as not, when he asked her to sing, he would
say, “Now, Jenny, lass, give us a squall.” But for all this, in former
times Jane and he had got on very well together on the occasions when
they had been without company at Pincote. He was moving about a good
deal in the world at that time, mixing with various people, talking to
and being talked to by different friends and acquaintances, and was at
no loss for subjects to talk about, even though those subjects might
not be particularly interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a
capital listener, and could always give him a good commonplace answer,
and that was all he craved—that and three-fourths of the talk to
himself.
Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but given
up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the source
from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his conversational
ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found himself with
nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was nothing left
for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes tiresome after a
time, especially when the person to whom such complainings are
addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you, and is incapable
of being grumbled at herself.
It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to
Jane, “We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to see
him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner. So you
had better drop him a line.”
The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was
too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man’s
lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next
morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself as
she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom from
coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep him
away. “Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am,” she said to
herself. “He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to
find out his mistake.”
Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a hearty
greeting, and took him into the study before he had an opportunity of
seeing Jane. “I’ve heard nothing more from those railway people about
the Croft,” he said. “Penfold was here yesterday and wanted to know
whether he was to go on with the villas—all the foundations are now in,
you know. I hardly knew what instructions to give him.”
“If you were to ask me, sir,” said Tom, “I should certainly say, let
him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to
know that the company must have the Croft—that they cannot possibly do
without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to go
to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to
come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the
difference.”
“I don’t think you are far wrong in your views,” said Mr. Culpepper.
“I’ll turn over in my mind what you’ve said.” Which meant that the
Squire would certainly adopt Tom’s advice.
“No lovemaking, you know, Bristow,” whispered the old man, with a dig
in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.
“You may trust me, sir,” said Tom.
“I’m not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty
girl is in question.”
Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old man
his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources in
that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully
introduced topics sufficed. The Squire’s own long-winded remarks,
unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made
a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready
with his “I quite agree with you, sir;” or his “Just so, sir;” or his
“Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.” To be able to talk for half an
hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that
interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly enjoyed.
After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by
himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the
drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the
dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though he
might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of that
illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly cautioned.
As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into
the drawing-room, and whispered, “None of your tomfoolery, remember.”
Five minutes later he was fast asleep.
They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so
they fell back upon chess. “There’s to be no lovemaking, you know,
Jenny,” whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.
“None, whatever,” whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the head,
and a demure smile.
A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for
any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game,
which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of
studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her eyes,
quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her opponent,
while Tom’s hand, wandering purposelessly about the board, frequently
found itself taking hold of Jane’s hand instead of a knight or a pawn;
so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself out to an
ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with certainty
which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke up, smiling
and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each other, and
there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of chess. If he
were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.
After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as
often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of
himself the old man’s heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when
it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three
days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane’s tact
and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried
her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and
see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain.
Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked upon
himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in every
possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a sensible
fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony, or be at
any extra expense—a man who was content with a chop and a rice pudding,
and a glass of St. Julien. “He doesn’t come here for what he gets to
eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine. He finds that he
can learn a good many things from me, and he’s not above learning.”
All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily
forward, much to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people of
Duxley. They were aggravated, and they considered they had a right to
be aggravated, because they could not understand, and had not been
told, what it was that was intended to be done there. In a small town
like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put before his
fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and
then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct
merits the severest social reprehension.
Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior’s
Croft, was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt. After
much discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople—chiefly over
sundry glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after business
hours—it seemed to be settled that Culpepper’s Hole, as some wag had
christened it, could be intended for nothing else than an artesian
well—though what was the exact nature of an artesian well it would have
puzzled some of the Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water should be
bored for there, and to what uses it could be put when so obtained,
they would have been still more at a loss to say. The Squire could not
drive into Duxley without being tackled by one or another of his
friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the old man would
only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say, “It
doesn’t do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me and the
post—this is in confidence, mind—I’m digging a tunnel to the
Antipodes.” Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and
Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or
amused, as the case might be.
It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire’s lawyer, that
Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works there
were under Tom’s direction was a well-known fact, but he was merely
looked upon as Mr. Culpepper’s foreman in the matter. “Gets a couple of
hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire’s affairs,” one
wiseacre would remark to another. “If not, how does he live? Seems to
have nothing to do when he’s not at Pincote. A poor way of getting a
living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old Hoskyns when
he had the chance, and not have thought he was going to set the Thames
on fire with his six thousand pounds.”
No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire
himself to know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having
asked once and asked in vain, his pride would not allow him to make any
further direct inquiry. Not a day passed on which he saw Tom, that he
did not try, by one or two vague hints, to lead up to the subject, but
when Tom turned the talk into another channel, then the old man would
see that the time for him to be enlightened had not yet come.
But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long
waiting. On a certain afternoon—to be precise in our dates, it was the
fifth of May—Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire. He
found him in his study, wearying his brain over a column of figures,
which would persist in coming to a different total every time it was
added up. The first thing Tom did was to take the column of figures and
bring it to a correct total. This done, his next act was to produce
something from his pocket that was carefully wrapped up in a piece of
brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to the Squire. “Will
you oblige me, sir,” he said, “by opening that paper, and giving me
your opinion as to the contents?”
“Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of
coal!” said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.
“Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a lump
of coal. But where do you think it came from?”
“There you puzzle me. Though I don’t know that it can matter much to me
where it came from.”
“But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from
Knockley Holt.”
The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. “Well, what is there so
wonderful about that?” he said. “I dare say it was stolen by some of
those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved.”
“What I mean is this, sir,” answered Tom, with just a shade of
impatience in his tone. “This piece of coal is but a specimen of a
splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the
shaft at Knockley Holt.”
The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. “Do you mean to
say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you
have been digging at Knockley Holt?”
“That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I
have been trying to find from the first.”
“I see it all now!” said the Squire. “What a lucky young scamp you are!
But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal at
Knockley Holt?”
“I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying
with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an
engineer—he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a
constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend
was struck with its appearance—so different from that of the country
around. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,’ he said,
‘and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner ought to
think himself a lucky man—that is, if he knows the value of it.’ Well,
sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy fee and had
one of the most eminent geologists of the day down from London to
examine and report upon it. His report coincided exactly with my
friend’s opinion. You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a view of
getting a lease of the ground, and found you desirous of selling it. I
was only too glad to have the chance of buying it. I set a lot of men
and a steam engine to work without a day’s delay, and that lump of
coal, sir, is the happy result.”
The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.
“Bristow, that’s an old head of yours on those young shoulders,” he
said at last. “With all my heart congratulate you on your good fortune.
I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes, Bristow, I
congratulate you, though I can’t help saying that I wish that I had had
a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have the
ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune.”
“That is just what I have come to see you about, sir,” said Tom, as he
rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in
surprise. “Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation, I
had a pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find below
the surface. If I had not found what I expected, my bargain would have
been a dear one; but having found what I expected, it is just the
opposite. In fact, sir, you have lost a fortune, and I have found one.”
“I know it—I know it,” groaned the Squire. “But you needn’t twit me
with it.”
“So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as speculations
go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish to exist between
you and me. You have been very kind to me in many ways, and I have much
to thank you for. I could not bear to treat you in this matter as I
should treat a stranger. I could not bear to think that I was making a
fortune out of a piece of ground that but a few short weeks ago was
your property. The money so made would seem to me to bring a curse with
it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if nothing would ever
prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have this coal mine. There
are plenty of other channels open to me for making money. Here are the
title deeds of the property. I give them back to you. You shall repay
me the twelve hundred pounds purchase-money, and reimburse me for the
expenses I have been put to in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit
itself, I will have nothing to do with it.”
Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on
the table while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire. Then
he took the deed of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments into
the grate.
It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished in
the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For a
little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did
speak, his words were not lacking in force.
“Bristow, you are a confounded fool!” he said with emphasis.
“I have been told that many times before.”
“You are a confounded fool—but you are a gentleman.”
Tom merely bowed.
“You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after
having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there—eh?”
“I don’t propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the
title deeds,” pointing to the table. “There is the deed of sale,”
pointing to the fire-grate.
“And do you think, sir,” said the Squire, with dignity, “that Titus
Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity from
one who is little more than a boy! Not so.—It would be impossible for
me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind The property is
fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain.”
“It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title
deeds. Do with them as you will.” He buttoned his coat, and took up his
hat, and turned to leave the room.
“Stop, Bristow, stop!” said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom
halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back
to the table.
Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for full
three minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and beckoned Tom
to go to him.
“Bristow,” he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom’s shoulder,
“as I said before, you are a gentleman—a gentleman in mind and feeling.
More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or new. You
propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on one
condition.”
“Name it, sir,” said Tom briefly.
“I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something like
an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you would
care to receive at my hands—and that is the most precious thing I have
on earth. Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back Knockley
Holt from you, if you will take in exchange for it—my daughter Jane.”
“Oh! Mr. Culpepper.”
“That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is
equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man
who so thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you
have.”