The Everlasting Arms. Hocking Joseph
best, sir," persisted M'Neal, who was somewhat of a character, "but I'll not deny that we shall all be the better for a master. Personally I'm not satisfied with the way things are looking."
"No? I thought they looked beautiful."
"Ah, but nothing to what they can look. We are, as you may say, in a kind of between time now. We've not planted out the beds, although we've prepared them. If you'll – "
"Of course I will," Dick interrupted him, with a laugh, "but you must give me time before making definite promises."
"If I might show you around," suggested M'Neal, "I think I could explain – "
"Later, later," laughed Dick, moving away. "Mr. Bidlake, will you come over here with me? I want to speak to you privately."
"Do you know," Mr. Bidlake told him, "that your uncle discharged M'Neal several times during the time he lived here?"
"Why?"
"Because he followed him like a dog whenever he came into the grounds, and insisted on talking to him. He said the fellow gave him no rest."
"But why did he take him on again?"
"He didn't. But M'Neal took no notice of the discharges. He always turned up on the following morning, and went on with his work as though nothing had happened."
"And my uncle paid him his wages?"
"Yes. You see, the fellow is as faithful as a dog, although he's a nuisance. My word, what a view!"
The lawyer made this exclamation as a turn in the path revealed a landscape they had not hitherto seen. It was one of those stretches of country peculiar to that part of Surrey, and as Dick looked he did not wonder at the lawyer's enthusiasm. Beyond the park, which was studded with giant oaks, he saw a rich, undulating country. Here and there were farmsteads nestling among the trees; again he saw stretches of woodland, while in the distance rose fine commanding hills. The foliage had far from reached its glory, but the tinge of green which was creeping over every hedgerow and tree contained a promise, and a charm that no poet could describe. And the whole scene was all bathed in spring sunlight, which the birds, delighting in, made into a vast concert hall.
"My word, it is ripping!" cried Dick.
"It's glorious! it's sublime!" cried the lawyer. "You are a fortunate man, Mr. Richard Faversham. Do you know, sir, that all you can see is yours?"
"All mine?" Dick almost gasped.
"Yes, all this and much more."
For the first time Dick had a real feeling of possession, and something to which he had hitherto been a stranger entered his life. Up to now he had been poor. His life, ever since his father died, had been a struggle. He had dreamed dreams and seen visions, only to be disappointed. In spite of ambition, endeavour, determination, everything to which he had set his hand had failed him. But now, as if some fabled genii had come to his aid, fortune had suddenly poured her favours into his lap.
And here was the earnest of it!
This glorious countryside, containing farms, houses, villages, and wide-spreading lands, was his. All his! Gratified desire made his heart beat wildly. At last life was smiling and joyous. What a future he would have! With wealth like his, nothing would be impossible!
"Yes, and much more," repeated the lawyer. "On what chances a man's fortunes turn."
"What do you mean?" asked Dick, who scarce knew what he was saying.
"Only this," said Mr. Bidlake. "If that fellow had not been killed in a drunken brawl, none of this would be yours. As it is, you are one of the most fortunate men in England."
"Yes, by Jove, I am."
The lawyer looked at his watch. "Excuse me, Mr. Faversham, but it is lunch-time, and I must leave you at five o'clock."
"I'm sorry you can't stay a few days."
"Impossible, my dear sir, much as I'd like to. But I've made a little programme for you this afternoon, if it is quite convenient to you."
"Yes?" queried Dick.
"Yes; I've arranged for your steward, your head gamekeeper, and the other principal men on the estate to call here. I thought you might like to see them. There, I hear the lunch-gong."
Dick went back to the house like a man in a dream.
CHAPTER VII
Lady Blanche makes her Appearance
At six o'clock that evening Dick Faversham was alone. He had had interviews with his steward, his bailiff, his gamekeeper, his forester, his head gardener, and his head stableman, and now he was left to himself. Mr. Bidlake, after promising to come again in three days, had gone back to London, while the others had each gone to their respective homes to discuss the new master of Wendover Park and the changes which would probably take place.
Dick had also gone over the house, and had taken note of the many features of his new dwelling-place. He had examined the library, the billiard-room, the dancing-room, the minstrels' gallery, the banqueting hall, and the many other apartments belonging to this fine old mansion. Evidently many of the rooms had for years been unused, but, as Mrs. Winkley had said, everything was "in perfect condition."
His uncle belonged to that order of men who could not bear to let anything deteriorate for lack of attention, and he had spent his money freely. In a way, too, Charles Faversham had a sense of fitness. In all the improvements he had made, he saw to it that the character and spirit of the old place should in no way be disturbed. Thus, while every room was hygienic, and every fireplace fitted according to the most modern ideas, the true character of everything was maintained. Electric light was installed, but not a single fitting was out of accord with the age of the building. Modern science had in everything been perfectly blended with the spirit of the men who had erected this grand old pile centuries before.
And Dick felt it all. He was enough of an artist to realise that nothing was out of place, that it was a home to rejoice in, to be proud of. If John Ruskin had been alive, and had accompanied him on his tour of inspection, there was little that the author of The Seven Lamps of Architecture would have found fault with.
Most of the furniture, too, was old, and had belonged to the Wendovers. When Mr. Charles Faversham had bought the estate, he had taken over everything practically as it stood. Pictures, tapestry, antique articles of furniture which had been in the house for centuries still remained.
"Everything has such a homely, cosy feeling!" he exclaimed to himself, again and again. "The place is not one of those great, giant, homeless barracks; it's just an ideal home. It's perfect!"
And it was all his! That was the thought that constantly came to his mind. This fact was especially made real to him during his interview with Mr. Boase, the steward. That worthy gentleman, a lawyer who lived in a little town, most of which belonged to the Wendover estate, made this abundantly plain by every word he spoke, by every intonation of his voice.
Mr. Boase unrolled maps and plans in abundance. He placed before him lists of tenants, with nature and condition of their tenancy. He told him how much each farmer paid in rent, how much the house property was worth, what amount was spent each year in repairs, and finally the net amount of his rent-roll. And this was all apart from his investments elsewhere. It was simply fabulous. He who had always been poor, and had often been hard put to it to pay for food and clothes, found himself ridiculously wealthy. He had money to burn. Aladdin of romantic renown was not so much filled with wonder when the slave of the lamp appeared, ready to do his bidding, as was Dick as he realised his position.
And he revelled in thought of it all. He was not of a miserly nature, but he gloried in the influence of the power of wealth, and he painted glowing pictures of his future. He saw the doors of the rich and the great open to him; he saw himself courted by people possessing old names and a great ancestry; he fancied himself occupying positions of eminence in the life of the nation; he saw proud beauties smiling on him.
Nothing was impossible! He knew he had more than an average share of brains; his late employers had admitted as much to him. He also had the gift of oratory. On the few occasions he had attempted to address his