Farrington Hall was an excellent specimen of our sixteenth century domestic architecture. It was a long low red-bricked building, with white stone mullions, and it stood on a gentle eminence, which dominated the far-reaching, low-lying fat lands of the Farrington estate. It had all the conventional surroundings which confer dignity on an old place; magnificent trees, in which lived a prosperous colony of rooks; a great park of velvety grass; a broad, slow stream at the foot of the slope on which stood the Hall.

There had been Farringtons of Farrington from time immemorial. The transmission[167] of the title and estates had long been direct from father to son; only at rare intervals, as in the case of the present baronet, Sir Rupert, did distant relatives succeed. But now at last the race was nearly run. There were no males left, not even a far-off cousin twenty times removed, and after Sir Rupert’s death the title would be extinct. There was an heir for the property certainly, but only through the female branch. Letitia Diggle would come into everything of course, and after her, her children; but although her eldest boy, under Sir Rupert’s will, would probably assume the Farrington name and arms, the baronetcy could not be his, and in consequence Mrs. Diggle was very much aggrieved.

The Cavendish-Diggles had by this time taken up their residence at the Hall. They came, in the first instance, by invitation,[168] but remained afterwards as a matter of course. The old people liked to hear the patter of their grandchildren’s feet and their merry shrill trebles as they played about the place. This had to some extent dispelled the fixed gloom which had settled on Lady Farrington after her son’s death. Even black Sir Rupert was softened, and seemed to take a pleasure in their prattle and merry ways. But then Letitia had always been an especial favourite of his. Her cast of character was in harmony with his. She reproduced many of his own peculiar traits; she was as unforgiving, as determined, and as hard. She showed pretty plainly what she would be if she lived to inherit the estates, and already exercised a kind of second-hand authority, such as heirs-apparent often usurp when allowed. She knew the estate by heart,[169] every inch, every tenant. She had her own views as to the rentals and the outgoings. She kept a sharp look-out on the bailiff, and gave him to understand that she was up to every move. Sir Rupert, to a great extent, let her have her own way. It pleased him to think that the property would fall into good hands, and Letitia’s ideas were so much in accord with his own that they seldom fell out or disagreed.

It was amusing to see how the great Diggle comported himself at Farrington Hall. He was a curious example of how low the once mighty may fall. From having been a tremendous personage he had sunk to the position of a mere hanger-on. He was not even prince consort to a reigning queen. His wife looked upon him as an appendage, a person useful in his way, but not entitled to have any voice in[170] the management of affairs, or, indeed, any opinions of his own. He might have resented this, and refused the rather ignominious r?le, but for two reasons. The first was that his health was very indifferent, and he had no spirit to battle for his rights; the second, that Mrs. Diggle had made certain discoveries as to his family and antecedents which left him very much in her power. The fact was that Cavendish really belonged to the great tea firm trading and largely advertising under the name of Diggle; and what was more, the firm was in a very bad way. To have married a Diggle at all was in itself a condescension, but to have become the wife of a pauper Diggle was something like a ‘sell.’ There had been settlements, of course, but not to a large amount, as Diggle declared he had but little ready cash, although his prospects[171] were excellent. Moreover, his hopes, undoubtedly well-grounded at the time, of professional advancement, which had been not the least potent inducement to the match, were now fading into nothingness, and there seemed every reason to fear that, owing to his wretched health, Colonel Diggle would continue a half-pay officer for the rest of his life. A parvenu who is poor and without any chances of obtaining social distinction has no raison d’être at all, and Diggle was fast degenerating into a mere cipher, a poor creature who had no other claims to respect but that of being father to the Diggle-Farrington who would some day be the master of Farrington Hall.

They were at breakfast at Farrington Hall one morning, when the post-bag arrived, and, as usual, was opened at the table. The letters were served out like[172] alms, grudgingly given, by Sir Rupert to each, but he still kept the lion’s share to himself. All were soon deep in their correspondence. Lady Farrington’s were gossipy letters, filling several sheets; Letitia’s the same, with a large sprinkling of tradesmen’s circulars and bills. The colonel heard only from old soldier friends, short but often pithy notes, having mostly the same refrain—the writer’s grievances or his forcibly expressed conviction that the service was going to the dogs. These last were the soonest read, and Diggle was therefore the only one free to notice what passed among the others at table.

It was quite clear that Sir Rupert was very much put out by his morning’s news. Although little given to betray what was passing in his mind, his demeanour after he had opened and read the first few lines[173] of one of his letters, was that of a man in whom indignation, excitement, and ill-concealed rage combined to considerably disturb. His black eyebrows contracted, his hard mouth was drawn down at the corners; he looked up and around with fierce bloodshot eyes, and as quickly looked down again when he saw that he was observed by Diggle. After that he ‘took a pull on himself,’ so to speak, and folding up the evidently offensive missive, put it with the others, then lapsed into moody, preoccupied silence until the breakfast was over.

‘I should like to speak to you, Letitia, in the justice room, as soon as you conveniently can come.’

He often consulted her, and there was nothing strange, therefore, in this request, except in the abrupt and peremptory tone in which it was made.

[174]

The justice room, in which Sir Rupert gave audience to constables and administered the law when urgently required, was also his library, study, and place of business. It was a cheerless, formal, barely-furnished room, which took, as rooms usually do, the colour and temper of its occupant, and was, like him, cold and uncompromising.

Sir Rupert seated himself at his official table, in his high magisterial chair, and sorting his letters carefully, selected that which had so evidently disturbed him, read and re-read it several times.

Then Letitia joined him—

‘Yes, father?’

‘Sit down please. What I h............