There could hardly be a more unhappy man than was the Squire¹ on his journey home. He had buoyed² himself up with hope till he had felt certain that he would return to Newton Priory its real and permanent owner, no longer a lodger³ in the place, as he had called himself to the lawyer, but able to look upon every tree as his own, with power to cut down every oak upon the property; though, as he knew very well, he would rather spill blood from his veins⁴ than cut down one of them. But in that case he would preserve the oaks,—preserve them by his own decision,—because they were his own, and because he could give them to his own son. His son should cut them down if he pleased. And then the power of putting up would be quite as sweet to him as the power of pulling down. What pleasure would he have in making every deficient⁵ house upon the estate efficient, when he knew that the stones as he laid them would not become the property of his enemy. He was a man who had never spent his full income. The property had been in his hands now for some fifteen years, and he had already amassed⁶ a considerable sum of money,—a sum which would have enabled him to buy out his nephew altogether, without selling an acre,—presuming the price already fixed⁷ to have been sufficient. He had determined⁸ to sell something, knowing that he could not do as he would do with the remainder if his hands were empty. He had settled it all in his mind;—how Ralph, his Ralph, must marry, and have a separate income. There would be no doubt about his Ralph's marriage when once it should be known that his Ralph was the heir to Newton. The bar sinister⁹ would matter but little then;—would be clean forgotten. His mind had been full of all this as he had come up to London. It had all been settled. He had

分享到：