Now it must be explained that when, in former years, his son’s debts had accumulated on old Mr. Reginald Morton, so that he had been obliged to part with some portion of his unentailed property, he had sold that which lay in the parish of St. John’s, Dillsborough. The lands in Bragton and Mallingham he could not sell;—but Chowton Farm which was in St. John’s had been bought by Larry Twentyman’s grandfather. For a time there had been some bitterness of feeling; but the Twentymans had been well-to-do respectable people, most anxious to be good neighbours, and had gradually made themselves liked by the owner of Bragton. The present Squire had of course known nothing of Chowton as a part of the Morton property, and had no more desire for it than for any of Lord Rufford’s acres which were contiguous to his own. He shook hands cordially with his neighbour, as though this visit were the most natural thing in the world, and asked some questions about Goarly and the hunt.
“I believe that’ll all come square, Mr. Morton. I’m not interesting myself much about it now.” Larry was not dressed like himself. He had on a dark brown coat, and dark pantaloons and a chimney-pot hat. He was conspicuous generally for light-coloured close-fitting garments and for a billycock hat. He was very unlike his usual self on the present occasion.
“I thought you were just the man who did interest himself about those things.”
“Well; yes; once it was so, Mr. Morton. What I’ve got to say now, Mr. Morton, is this. Chowton Farm is in the market! But I wouldn’t say a word to anyone about it till you had had the offer.”
“You going to sell Chowton!”
“Yes, Mr. Morton, I am.”
“From all I have heard of you I wouldn’t have believed it if anybody else had told me.”
“It’s a fact, Mr. Morton. There are three hundred and twenty acres. I put the rental at 30s. an acre. You know what you get, Mr. Morton, for the land that lies next to it. And I think twenty-eight years’ purchase isn’t more than it’s worth. Those are my ideas as to price, Mr. Morton. There isn’t a halfpenny owing on it—not in the way of mortgage.”
“I dare say it’s worth that.”
“Up at auction I might get a turn more, Mr. Morton;—but those are my ideas at present.”
John Morton, who was a man of business, went to work at once with his pencil and in two minutes had made out a total. “I don’t know that I could put my hand on £14,000 even if I were minded to make the purchase.”
“That needn’t stand in the way, sir. Any part you please could lie on mortgage at 4½ percent.” Larry in the midst of his distress had certain clear ideas about business.
“This is a very serious proposition, Mr. Twentyman.”
“Yes, indeed, sir.”
“Have you any other views in life?”
“I can’t say as I have any fixed. I shan’t be idle, Mr. Morton. I never was idle. I was thinking perhaps of New Zealand.”
“A very fine colony for a young man, no doubt. But, seeing how well you are established here—.”
“I can’t stay here, Mr. Morton. I’ve made up my mind about that. There are things which a man can’t bear—not and live quiet. As for hunting, I don’t care about it any more than—nothing.”
“I am sorry that anything should have made you so unhappy.”
“Well;—I am unhappy. That’s about the truth of it. And I always shall be unhappy here. There’s nothing else for it but going away.”
“If it’s anything sudden, Mr. Twentyman, allow me to say that you ought not to sell your property without grave consideration.”
“I have considered it—very grave, Mr. Morton.”
“Ah—but I mean long consideration. Take a year to think of it. You can’t buy such a place back in a year. I don’t know you well enough to be justified in inquiring into the circumstances of your trouble;—but unless it be something which makes it altogether inexpedient, or almost impossible that you should remain in the neighbourhood, you should not sell Chowton.”
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Morton,” said Larry almost weeping. Poor Larry whether in his triumph or his sorrow had no gift of reticence and now told his neighbour the whole story of his love. He was certain it had become quite hopeless. He was sure that she would never have written him a letter if there had been any smallest chance left. According to his ideas a girl might say “no” half-a-dozen times and yet not mean much; but when she had committed herself to a letter she could not go back from it.
“Is there anybody else?” asked Morton.
“Not as I know. I never saw anything like—like lightness with her, with any man. They said something about the curate but I don’t believe a word of it.”
“And the family approve of it?”
“Every one of them—father and stepmother and sisters and all. My own mother too! There ain’t a ha’porth against it. I don’t want anyone to give me sixpence in money. And she should live just like a lady. I can keep a servant for her to cook and do every mortal thing. But it ain’t nothing of all that, Mr. Morton.”
“What is it then?”
The poor man paused before he made his answer; but when he did, he made it plain enough. “I ain’t good enough for her! Nor more I ain’t, Mr. Morton. She was brought up in this house, Mr. Morton, by your own grandaunt.”
“So I have heard, Mr. Twentyman.”
“And there’s more of Bragton than there is of Dillsborough about her;—that’s just where it is. I know what I am and I know what she is, and I ain’t good enough for her. It should be somebody that can talk books to her. I can tell