“He gave the cart the go-by? On that road?” demanded Mr Banningham, awed.
Young Mr Mickleby shook his head. “I wouldn’t have cared to attempt it: not just there!”
“I should rather think you wouldn’t!” said Mr Banningham, with a crack of rude laughter.
This unkind reference to his late mishap made Arthur flush angrily; but before he could utter a suitable retort Courtenay said impatiently: “Oh, sneck up! He gave it the go-by just as though—just as though he had yards to spare! More like inches! I never saw anything like it in my life! I’ll tell you another thing: he catches the thong of his whip over his head. I mean to practise that.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Banningham knowledgeably. “Nervous wheelers! Cousin of mine says it’s the quietest way, but there ain’t many people that can do it. Shouldn’t think you could. Was the Nonesuch wearing F. H. C. toggery?”
“No—at least, I don’t know, for he had on a white drab box coat. Looked as trim as a trencher, but nothing to make one stare. Greg says the out-and-outers all have as many as a dozen or more capes to their box coats, but I didn’t notice anything like that. No nosegay inhis buttonhole, either: just a few whip-points thrust through it.”
Meanwhile, the Nonesuch, as yet unaware of the interest he was creating, had found enough to do at Broom Hall to keep him in Yorkshire for much longer than he had anticipated. The house itself was in better repair than he had been led to expect, the main part of it, though sadly in need of renovation, being, as Wedmore anxiously assured him, quite dry. Wedmore made no such claim either for the eastern wing, which contained a number of rooms bare of furnishings, or for the servants’ wing. Of late years, he said, the Master hadn’t taken much account of them. There were slates missing from the roofs: they did the best they could with pails set to catch the worst leaks, but there was no denying those parts of the house were a trifle damp.
“I only hope dry-rot may not have set in,” said Sir Waldo. “We must get a surveyor to come and inspect it immediately. Did your master employ a bailiff?”
“Well, sir, no!” Wedmore replied apologetically. “There used to be one—Mr Hucking, a very respectable man—but—but—”
“Not of late years?” suggested Sir Waldo.
Neither the defective roofs nor the lack of a bailiff was any concern of the old butler’s; but he was a meek, nervous man, and was so much in the habit of bearing the blame for every shortcoming in the establishment that it was several moments before he could believe that Sir Waldo really was smiling. Much relieved, he responded with an answering smile, and said: “The Master got to be very eccentric, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression. Mr Hucking thought there were things that needed doing, but he couldn’t prevail upon the Master to lay out any money, and he quite lost heart. He was used to say that bad landlords make bad tenants, and I’m bound to own—Well, sir, I daresay you’ll see for yourself how things are!”
“I’ve already seen enough to prove to me that I shall be kept pretty busy for the next few weeks,” said Sir Waldo, rather grimly. “Now I should like to discuss with Mrs Wedmore what are the most pressing needs here: will you desire her to come to me, if you please?”
“Waldo, you’re never going to lay out your blunt, bringing this rackety place into order?” demanded Lord Lindeth, as Wedmore departed. “I may be a green ’un, and I know I haven’t sat in my own saddle for very long yet, but I’m not a widgeon, and only a widgeon could fail to see that this old lickpenny of a cousin of ours has let the estate go to rack! It’s true we haven’t had time to do more than throw a glance over it, but don’t you tell me that old Joseph ever spent a groat on his land that wasn’t wrenched from him, or that he hasn’t let out the farms on short leases to a set of ramshackle rascals that dragged what they might from the land, and never ploughed a penny back! I don’t blame them! Why—why—if one of my tenants was living in the sort of tumbledown ruin I saw when we rode round the place yesterday, I’d—I’d—lord, I’d never hold up my head again!”
“Very true: I hope you wouldn’t! But with good management I see no reason why the estate shouldn’t become tolerably profitable: profitable enough to pay for itself, at all events.”
“Not without your tipping over the dibs in style!” countered Julian.
“No, Master Nestor! But do you imagine that I mean to throw the place on the market in its present state? What a very poor opinion you must hold of me!”
“Yes!” Julian said, laughing at him. “For thinking you can gammon me into believing you mean to bring the place into order so that you may presently sell it at a handsome profit! Don’t throw your cap after that one: I know you much too well to be bamboozled! You are going to bring it into order so that it will support some more of your wretched orphans. I daresay it may, but I’d lay you long odds that it won’t also give you back what you’ll spend on it!”
“If only old Joseph had known how much after his own heart you were, Julian—!” said Sir Waldo, shaking his head. “No, no, don’t try to mill me down! You know you can’t do it—and we shall have Mrs Wedmore upon us at any moment! Take comfort from the thought that I haven’t yet decided whether the place is what I want for my wretched orphans: all I have decided is that it would go too much against the pluck with me to shrug off this—er—honeyfall!”
“Honeyfall? An obligation, more like!” exclaimed Julian.
“Just so!” agreed Sir Waldo, quizzing him. “You’ve nicked the nick—as usual, of course! No,you pretentious young miller! Most certainly not!”
Lord Lindeth, his spirited attempt at reprisals foiled, said hopefully: “No, but I dashed nearly popped in a hit over your guard, didn’t I?”
“Country work!” mocked Sir Waldo, releasing his wrists as the door opened. “Ah, Mrs Wedmore! Come in!”
“Yes, sir,” said the housekeeper, dropping a curtsy. “And if it is about the sheet which his lordship put his foot through last night, I’m very sorry, sir, but they’re worn so thin, the linen ones—”
“About that, and a great many other things,” he interrupted, smiling reassuringly down at her. “Why didn’t you confess like a man, Lindeth? Afraid to give your head to Mrs Wedmore for washing, no doubt! Go away, and I’ll try what I can do to make your peace with her!”
“Oh, sir—!” protested Mrs Wedmore, much flustered. “As though I would think of such a thing! I was only wishful to explain to you—”
“Of course you were! It’s quite unnecessary, however. What I wish is that you will tell me what must be purchased to make this house habitable, and where it may be most quickly obtained.”
Mrs Wedmore could not remember when more welcome words had fallen on her ears. She gave a gasp, and said in a strangled voice that quite failed to conceal her emotions: “Yes, sir! I shall be most happy to—if you mean it, sir!” She read confirmation in his face, drew a deep breath, and launched into a catalogue of her more pressing needs.
The outcome of this interview would have vexed him very much, had he known of it; but as his staff at Manifold had always taken it for granted that whatever was needed in the house might instantly be ordered, and none of his neighbours considered anything less than the installation (by his mother) of the very newest and most revolutionary of closed kitchen-stoves to be worthy of interest, he had no idea that the carte blanche he gave the Wedmores would instantly become a topic for wonder and discussion in the district.
It was Mrs Underhill who brought the news back to Staples, after visiting the Rectory one day for a comfortable gossip with Mrs Chartley. Mrs Wedmore, of Broom Hall, and Mrs Honeywick, of the Rectory, were old cronies, and into her friend’s receptive ear had Mrs Wedmore poured forth every detail of a never-to-be-forgotten orgy of spending in Leeds.