After Mrs. McDermott\'s departure from Pincote, life there slipped back into its old quiet groove--into its old dull groove which was growing duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company: when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and on the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent to him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of things--a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a miser was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his daughter\'s sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of giving every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no longer felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending so many pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom he cared little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount, trifling though it might seem, to that other trifling amount--only some few hundreds of pounds when all was told--which he had already managed to scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he should be gone from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be her home? "If I had only died a year ago," he would sometimes say to himself, "then Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her own. Now she\'s next door to being a pauper."
Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank--not to Sugden\'s Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County--and he gloated over every five pounds added to the fund invested in his daughter\'s name as something more added to the nest-egg; and to be able to put away fifty pounds in a lump now afforded him far more genuine delight than the putting away of a thousand would have done six months previously.
There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so; letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She guessed, but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his reasons for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his enjoyment had now become a very limited one. If it gave him pleasure--and she could not doubt that it did--to live penuriously so as to be enabled to put away a few extra pounds per annum, she would not mar the edge of that pleasure by seeming even to notice what was going on, much less make any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on his part, had many a good chuckle in the solitude of his own room. "After I\'m gone, she\'ll know what it all means," he would say to himself. "She\'s puzzled now--they are all puzzled. They call me a miser, do they? Let \'em call me what they like. Another twenty put away to-day. That makes----" and out would come his passbook and his spectacles.
The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went into society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his example. There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she could still go without its being thought strange that there was no return invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school friends whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room without their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to dinner. But of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw little or nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she was far too deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.
Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father\'s no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott\'s warning words, nor Tom\'s frank confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of his intention to encourage Tom\'s visits to Pincote after the widow\'s abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom\'s health in a bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when they parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front door, shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a sort of half intimation that some considerable time would probably elapse before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote again. In the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his sister, the Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home of an evening with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been content and happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so thinking he had overlooked one very important point. The Titus Culpepper of six months ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do gentleman, satisfied with himself and all the world, in tolerable health, and excited by the prospect of making a magnificent fortune without trouble or anxiety. The Titus Culpepper of to-day was a broken-down gambler--a gambler who had madly speculated with his daughter\'s fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down, too, was he in health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of all, a man who no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own thoughts, and who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour at a time. Of this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected nothing: how few of us do know of such changes! Other people may change--nay, do we not see them changing daily around us, and smile good-naturedly as we note how querulous and hard to please poor Jones has become of late? But that we--we--should so change, becoming a burden to ourselves and a trial to those around us, with our queer, cross-grained ways, our peevish, variable tempers, and our general belief that the sun shines less brightly, and that the world is less beautiful than it was a little while ago--that is altogether impossible. The change is always in others, never in our immaculate selves.
The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men\'s company to that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all ?sthetic. He liked to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets; to talk a little about imperial politics--chiefly confined to blackguarding "the other side of the House"--and a great deal about local politics. He had been in the habit of talking by the hour together about paving, and lighting, and sewage, and the state of the highways: all useful matters without a doubt, but hardly topics calculated to interest a lady. Though he liked to have Jane play to him now and then--but never for more than ten minutes at any one time--he always designated it as "tinkling;" and as often as not, when he asked her to sing, he would say, "Now, Jenny, lass, give us a squall." But for all this, in former times Jane and he had got on very well together on the occasions when they had been without company at Pincote. He was moving about a good deal in the world at that time, mixing with various people, talking to and being talked to by different friends and acquaintances, and was at no loss for subjects to talk about, even though those subjects might not be particularly interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a capital listener, and could always give him a good commonplace answer, and that was all he craved--that and three-fourths of the talk to himself.
Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but given up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the source from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his conversational ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found himself with nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was nothing left for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes tiresome after a time, especially when the person to whom such complainings are addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you, and is incapable of being grumbled at herself.
It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to Jane, "We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to see him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner. So you had better drop him a line."
The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man\'s lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself as she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom from coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep him away. "Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am," she said to herself. "He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to find out his mistake."
Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a hearty greeting, and took him into the study before he had an opportunity of seeing Jane. "I\'ve heard nothing more from those railway people about the Croft," he said. "Penfold was here yesterday and wanted to know whether he was to go on with the villas--all the foundations are now in, you know. I hardly knew what instructions to give him."
"If you were to ask me, sir," said Tom, "I should certainly say, let him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to know that the company must have the Croft--that they cannot possibly do without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to go to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the difference."
"I don\'t think you are far wrong in your views," said Mr. Culpepper. "I\'ll turn over in my mind what you\'ve said." Which meant that the Squire would certainly adopt Tom\'s advice.
"No lovemaking, you know, Bristow," whispered the old man, with a dig in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.
"You may trust me, sir," said Tom.
"I\'m not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty girl is in question."
Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old man his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources in that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully introduced topics sufficed. The Squire\'s own long-winded remarks, unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready with his "I quite agree with you, sir;" or his "Just so, sir;" or his "Those are my sentiments exactly, sir." To be able to talk for half an hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly enjoyed.
After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though he might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of that illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly cautioned.
As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into the drawing-room, and whispered, "None of your tomfoolery, remember." Five minutes later he was fast asleep.
They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so they fell back upon chess. "There\'s to be no lovemaking, you know, Jenny," whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.
"None, whatever," whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the head, and a demure smile.
A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there............