"What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?" she asked.
"Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum."
"I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least," she said ungraciously. "My man of business tells me that seven is quite a common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per cent. on real property, without any difficulty."
"I should advise you to be careful what you are about," said the Squire, gravely. "Big profits, big risks; little profits, little risks."
"I know perfectly3 well what I'm doing," said Mrs. McDermott, with a toss of her antiquated4 curls. "It's you slow, sleepy, country folks, who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come to people who keep their eyes wide open."
The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned5 in spirit when he thought what his "golden chance" had done for him.
"Let her buy her experience as I've bought mine," he said to himself. "From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it."
"Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?" he asked Jane, a day or two later.
"No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one."
"I hope not, with all my heart," sighed the Squire.
Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to make her presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying. Consideration for the comfort of others was a thought that never entered her mind. From the day of her arrival at Pincote she began to interfere6 with the existing arrangements of the house; finding fault with everything: changing this, altering the other, and evidently determined7 to have her own way in all. The first thing she did was to find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane herself with a view to her aunt's comfort. But it was not the best bedroom--the state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none of it. Into the state bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north, which was never used above once or twice in half a dozen years, she migrated at once with all her belongings9. Her next act, she being without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct one of the Pincote servants into that office, taking her altogether from her proper duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any one but herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner hour to be altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire grumbled10 to himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time to go to bed. Then the Squire must never appear at dinner without a dress coat, and a white tie--articles which, or late years, he had been tacitly allowed to dispense11 with when dining en famille. A white cravat12 especially was to him an abomination. He never could tie the knot properly, and after crumpling13 three or four, and throwing them across the room in a rage, Jane's services would generally have to be called into requisition as a last resource.
One other infliction14 there was which the Squire found it very difficult to bear patiently. After dinner, when there was no particular company at Pincote, it was an understood thing that the Squire should have the dining-room to himself for half an hour, in order that he might enjoy the post-prandial snooze which long custom had made almost a necessity with him. But this was an arrangement that failed to meet with the approbation15 of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted that the Squire should either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she herself would keep him company in the dining-room; and woe16 be to him if he dared so much as close an eye for five seconds! It was "Where are your manners, sir? I'm thoroughly17 ashamed of you;" or else, "Falling asleep, sir, in the presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do no more than that!" till the Squire felt as if his life were being slowly tormented18 out of him.
Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt's strictures. Mrs. McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child. Firstly, her hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt's ideas of propriety19 in such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a somewhat antiquated school. Then the girl was altogether too bright and sunny-looking, with her bows of ribbon and bits of lace showing daintily here and there. And she was too forward in introducing topics of conversation at meal-times, instead of allowing the introduction of appropriate themes to come from her elders and her betters. Then Jane was addicted20 to the heinous21 offence of laughing too heartily22, and too often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need of reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured indifference23. "The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much further she will go," she said to herself. But when the cook came to her one morning and said: "If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that for the future I am to take my dinner orders from her," then Jane thought that the time to speak was drawing very near indeed.
"Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you," she said quietly to the astonished cook.
"Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than that," said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.
Next day brought the coachman. "Beg pardon, miss," he said, with a touch of his hair; "but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the brougham and gray mare24 is to be ready for her every afternoon at three o'clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?"
"Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary."
Next came the gardener. "Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give notice--I shall really."
"Why, what's amiss now, Gibson?"
"It's all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so. Why will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been at it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault with this, that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor you, miss, ever thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but gives orders, ridiculous orders, about things she knows nothing of. I can't stand it, miss, I really can't."
"Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day. You can go back to your work with an easy mind."
Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained25 that her aunt had again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked straight into the breakfast-room where she knew that she should find Mrs. McDermott alone, and busy with her correspondence--for she was a great letter writer at that hour of the morning.
"What a noisy girl you are," she said crossly, as her niece drew up a chair and sat down beside her. "I was just writing a few lines to dear Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my ideas to flight."
"They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily frightened away," said Jane.
"Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or two that I don't at all approve of. Flippancy27 in young people is easily acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid of yours the better I shall be pleased."
Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey. "Is it not almost time, aunt," she said quietly, "that you gave up treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?"
"If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in many of your ways."
"You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt."
"Don't be impertinent, young lady."
"I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago."
"What about that?" asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. "In what way does it concern you?"
"It concerns me very materially indeed," answered Jane. "You have ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some, in fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal28 cutlets--articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to supplement your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl29 à la marquise. I have also told her that for the future she will receive from me every evening the menu for next day. Should my list contain nothing that you care about, the cook has orders to obtain specially8 for you any articles that you may wish to have."
"Upon my word! what next?" was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp30 out at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.
"This next," said Jane. "From to-day the dinner hour will be altered back to six o'clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me. Should the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your dinner served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine at six."
"I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain26 from his own lips whether I am to be dictated31 to and insulted by a chit like you."
"That is just what I must forbid you to do," said Jane. "Papa's health has not been what it ought to be for a long time past.
"Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept carefully from him. You know how little things will often excite him; and if you begin to worry him about any petty differences that may arise between you and me, you will do so at your peril32, and must be satisfied to take whatever consequences may arise from your so doing."
Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.
"Perhaps you have something more to say to me," she gasped33 out.
"Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck and call every day at three o'clock, it might, perhaps, be just as well to make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has taken to using it rather frequently of late."
"Oh, indeed; I'll make due inquiry," was all that Mrs. McDermott could find to say.
"And if I were you, I wouldn't go quite so often into the greenhouses, or near the men at work in the garden."
"Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while you are about it."
"Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot do without it. This is most imperative34."
"I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life."
"Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here as papa's guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper."
And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had bent35 over her, kissed her, and swept from the room.
For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary36 state, at half-past seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly37 wretched to have no one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution failed her; and when six o'clock came round she found herself in the dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling of a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven.
Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid38 and stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she imperceptibly thawed39, and the old familiar intimacy40 was gradually resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was something--a restraint, a coldness--which no time could altogether remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.
It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed over to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to her. It was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say much to Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his secret heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by what occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six thousand pounds on Prior's Croft. He had hinted more than once that he should like to know the secret by means of which a result so remarkable41 had been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly impervious42.
Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said: "With regard to Prior's Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in the matter: perhaps you won't object to it a second time."
"What is it, Bristow, what is it?" said the Squire, graciously. "I shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say."
"What I want you to do, sir," said Tom, "is to have some plans at once drawn43 up, and have the foundations laid of a number of houses--twenty to thirty at the least--on Prior's Croft."
"I thought you crazy about the mortgage," said the Squire, with a twinkle in his eye. "Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?"
"I am just as sane44 now as I was then."
"But to build houses on Prior's Croft! Why, nobody would ever live in them. The place is altogether out of the way."
"That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only take my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an hour's unnecessary delay."
"And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor45 came to me for the first instalment of his money?"
"All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound in the market, and that is the one thing indispensable."
"But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious proceedings46?"
"Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave47 your indulgence, and ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer. If you have sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not--you will simply be missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so."
"And that is what I can by no means afford to do," said the Squire with emphasis.
The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily at work cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of grand new villas48 which Mr. Culpepper had decided49 on building at Prior's Croft.
Everybody's verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas, indeed! Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to occupy the houses that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.
"That may be," said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his notice; "but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious50, and so healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens51 will at once be deserted52, and I shall not have house-room for half the people who will want to become my tenants53." So spoke54 the Squire, putting a brave face on the matter, but really as much in the dark as any one.
But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that within a few days of their interview--their very painful interview, he termed it to himself--his quondam friend had actually become the purchaser of Prior's Croft; and what was a still greater marvel55, had actually paid down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now the town's talk was of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire was going to build on his new purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit it all till he went and saw with his own eyes the men hard at work. Still, it was altogether incomprehensible to him. Could the Squire have merely been playing him a trick; have only been testing the strength of his friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five thousand pounds? No, that could hardly be; else why had his balance at the bank been allowed to dwindle57 to a mere56 nothing? Besides which, he knew from words that the Squire had let drop at different times, that he must have been speculating heavily. Could it be possible that his speculations58 had, after all, proved successful? If not, how account for this sudden flood of prosperity? For several days Mr. Cope failed to enjoy his dinner in the hearty59 way that was habitual60 with him: for several nights Mr. Cope's sleep failed to refresh him as it usually did.
Although the Squire's heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind with the payment of his sister's money, he had by no means forgotten the loss of his daughter's dowry. And now that his mind was easy on one point, this lesser61 trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had not possessed62 before. He could not get rid of the thought that there was nothing but his own frail63 life between his daughter and all but absolute penury64. A few hundred pounds Jane would undoubtedly65 have, but what would that be to a young lady brought up as she had been brought up? "Not enough," as the Squire put it in his homely66 way, "to find her in bread-and-cheese and cotton gowns."
But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He was too old and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of the estate. It was true that he might thin the timber a little and make a few hundreds that way; but the heir-at-law had too shrewd an eye to his own ultimate interests to allow very much to be done in that line. Besides which, the Squire himself could not for very shame have impaired67 what was the chief beauty of the Pincote property--its magnificent array of timber.
There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of cutting down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be dispensed68 with indoors. The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be sent about their business. The gray mare and the brougham might be disposed of. The wine merchant's bill might be lightened a little; and fewer coals, perhaps, might be burnt in winter--and that was nearly all.
But even such reductions as these, trifling69 though they were, could not be made secretly--could not be made, in fact, without becoming the talk of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire detested70 more than another, it was having his private affairs challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle71, as he said to himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled72, too, with asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever.
There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed73 estate--the piece of ground on which his new mansion74 was to have been built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny's name whatever money it might fetch--not that it would command a very high price, being a poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg, though only a little one, for a rainy day.
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1
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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72
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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