Then Flurry came up, and produced the identical pad out of his pocket. “I don’t suppose it was intended,” said the major, looking at the interesting relic with scrutinizing eyes. “I suppose it was caught in a rabbit-trap—eh, Flurry?”
“I don’t see what right a man has with traps at all, when gentlemen is particular about their foxes,” said Flurry. “Of course they’d call it rabbits.”
“I never liked that man on Darvell’s farm,” said the archdeacon.
“Nor I either,” said Flurry. “No farmer ought to be on that land who don’t have a horse of his own. And if I war Squire Thorne, I wouldn’t have no farmer there who didn’t keep no horse. When a farmer has a horse of his own, and follies the hounds, there ain’t no rabbit-traps;—never. How does that come about, Mr. Henry? Rabbits! I know very well what rabbits is!”
Mr. Henry shook his head, and turned away, and the archdeacon followed him. There was an hypocrisy about this pretended care for the foxes which displeased the major. He could not, of course, tell his father that the foxes were no longer anything to him; but yet he must make it understood that such was his conviction. His mother had written to him, saying that the sale of furniture need not take place. It might be all very well for his mother to say that, or for his father; but, after what had taken place, he could consent to remain in England on no other understanding than that his income should be made permanent to him. Such permanence must not be any longer dependent on his father’s caprice. In these days he had come to be somewhat in love with poverty and Pau, and had been feeding on the luxury of his grievance. There is, perhaps, nothing so pleasant as the preparation for self-sacrifice. To give up Cosby Lodge and the foxes, to marry a penniless wife, and go and live at Pau on six or seven hundred a year, seemed just now to Major Grantly to be a fine thing, and he did not intend to abandon this fine thing without receiving a very clear reason for doing so. “I can’t quite understand Thorne,” said the archdeacon. “He used to be so particular about the foxes, and I don’t suppose that a country gentleman will change his ideas because he has given up hunting himself.”
“Mr. Thorne never thought much of Flurry,” said Henry Grantly, with his mind intent upon Pau and his grievance.
“He might take my word at any rate,” said the archdeacon.
It was a known fact that the archdeacon’s solicitude about the Plumstead covers was wholly on behalf of his son the major. The major himself knew this thoroughly, and felt that his father’s present special anxiety was intended as a corroboration of the tidings conveyed in his mother’s letter. Every word so uttered was meant to have reference to his son’s future residence in the country. “Father,” he said, turning round shortly, and standing before the archdeacon in the pathway, “I think you are quite right about the covers. I feel sure that every gentleman who preserves a fox does good to the country. I am sorry that I shall not have a closer interest in the matter myself.”
“Why shouldn’t you have a closer interest in it?” said the archdeacon.
“Because I shall be living abroad.”
“You got your mother’s letter?”
“Yes; I got my mother’s letter.”
“Did she not tell you that you can stay where you are?”
“Yes, she said so. But, to tell you the truth, sir, I do not like the risk of living beyond my assured income.”
“But if I justify it?”
“I do not wish to complain, sir, but you have made me understand that you can, and that in certain circumstances you will, at a moment, withdraw what you give me. Since this was said to me, I have felt myself to be unsafe in such a house as Cosby Lodge.”
The archdeacon did not know how to explain. He had intended that the real explanation should be given by Mrs. Grantly, and had been anxious to return to his old relations with his son without any exact terms on his own part. But his son was, as he thought, awkward, and would drive him to some speech that was unnecessary. “You need not be unsafe there at all,” he said, half angrily.
“I must be unsafe if I am not sure of my income.”
“Your income is not in any danger. But you had better speak to your mother about it. For myself, I think I may say that I have never yet behaved to any of you with harshness. A son should, at any rate, not be offended because a father thinks that he is entitled to some consideration for what he does.”
“There are some points on which a son cannot give way even to his father, sir.”
“You had better speak to your mother, Henry. She will explain to you what has taken place. Look at that plantation. You don’t remember it, but every tree there was planted since you were born. I bought that farm from old Mr. Thorne, when he was purchasing St. Ewold’s Downs, and it was the first bit of land I ever had of my own.”
“That is not in Plumstead, I think?”
“No: this is Plumstead, where we stand, but that’s in Eiderdown. The parishes run in and out here. I never bought any other land as cheap as I bought that.”
“And did old Thorne make a good purchase at St. Ewold’s?”
“Yes, I fancy he did. It gave him the whole of the parish, which was a great thing. It is astonishing how land has risen in value since that, and yet rents are not so very much higher. They who buy land now can’t have above two-and-a-half for their money.”
“I wonder people are so fond of land,” said the major.
“It is a comfortable feeling to know that you
