rolling down the slope. ‘I did not know things were so bad.’
‘They are bad – very. There is a governess coming this afternoon – to see to Evie – my sister, Mrs Cantrip, advised it – and it’s likely I shan’t be able to pay her salary.’
‘It is all on account of that horse, I suppose?’
Mr Davenant passed his hand over his face to remove some of the water that had dripped there from the brim of his hat. ‘That horse. That law business. A dozen things,’ he said bitterly. They had begun to walk down from the knoll to a pathway that led to the gravel drive which abutted the front of the house. ‘As for the horse, there wasn’t a man in the county wouldn’t have counselled me to buy him. Curbishley’ – Curbishley was the sporting gentleman Mr Davenant employed – ‘said the same. And then he went at that fence as if he meant to eat it and destroyed himself. It is very hard.’
‘It is very hard – certainly,’ said Mr Glenister, who had two thousand a year from his estate and never spent the half of it.
‘And then there was that lawsuit. I don’t think a man was ever more infernally used. Everyone knew that Scratchby was taking the sand. Why, his counsel admitted as much himself. And here am I to pick up the bill.’
By this stage they had reached the front of the house where the gravel drive curved around a patch of grass in the midst of which a disreputable caryatid balanced above a stone fountain. Mr Glenister looked up at the eaves and the distant chimneys, black and smoking beneath the lowering sky, and felt that they oppressed him. He felt, too, that there was an almost piteous tone in his friend’s voice that he had not heard before. In the distance they could hear the noise of the gig beginning to crunch up the gravel at the further end of the drive.
‘They have made good time, I think.’
‘It’s that Macadamed road I subscribed twenty guineas to,’ Mr Davenant said. ‘I tell you what, Glenister, I should have kept my money – and the potholes, too – and let them break their necks in a ditch.’
‘Very gratifying to you, no doubt, but it don’t stop an execution. Well, here they are – you had better talk to them.’
‘I suppose I better had … Damnation! It is that fellow Silas.’
‘He does not look so very terrible to me. What is the matter with him?’
What Mr Davenant said in reply was drowned out by the noise of the gig grinding up the stones of the driveway as it came to rest a yard or so from where they stood. Certainly Mr Silas, the Sleaford attorney, did not look so very terrible as, taking care of his coat, trousers, bag and feet, he climbed out of his equipage. He was a small, neat, demure little man, whose hat sat very solemnly on his head and whose spectacles oddly diminished the size of the eyes behind them, so that they looked like pebbles lying very far away on the beach. There was a clerk with him to deal with the driver, who now rattled off in the direction of the stables, and certain other cases and account books that were unpacked from the gig, and it would have been apparent to the smallest child from the look that Mr Silas gave him that he loved the clerk for the deference he showed.
‘Dear me,’ Mr Silas said, almost to himself, as he held out a little white hand for Mr Davenant to shake, ‘the impudence of those drivers. If it wasn’t that we have to go back to Sleaford, I should have Jones here pay him off. But how are you, Squire, and how are you keeping? That’s a nasty flood you have on your road out there where it meets the common land. I wonder you don’t have it drained.’
And Mr Glenister saw immediately what was so terrible about Mr Silas.
‘This is Mr Glenister,’ Mr Davenant said, with what sounded very like anguish in his voice. ‘I trust you have no objection to his joining us?’
‘Not at all! The more the merrier is what I always say. Know of you, sir,’ said Mr Silas, gravely shaking hands with his
‘They are bad – very. There is a governess coming this afternoon – to see to Evie – my sister, Mrs Cantrip, advised it – and it’s likely I shan’t be able to pay her salary.’
‘It is all on account of that horse, I suppose?’
Mr Davenant passed his hand over his face to remove some of the water that had dripped there from the brim of his hat. ‘That horse. That law business. A dozen things,’ he said bitterly. They had begun to walk down from the knoll to a pathway that led to the gravel drive which abutted the front of the house. ‘As for the horse, there wasn’t a man in the county wouldn’t have counselled me to buy him. Curbishley’ – Curbishley was the sporting gentleman Mr Davenant employed – ‘said the same. And then he went at that fence as if he meant to eat it and destroyed himself. It is very hard.’
‘It is very hard – certainly,’ said Mr Glenister, who had two thousand a year from his estate and never spent the half of it.
‘And then there was that lawsuit. I don’t think a man was ever more infernally used. Everyone knew that Scratchby was taking the sand. Why, his counsel admitted as much himself. And here am I to pick up the bill.’
By this stage they had reached the front of the house where the gravel drive curved around a patch of grass in the midst of which a disreputable caryatid balanced above a stone fountain. Mr Glenister looked up at the eaves and the distant chimneys, black and smoking beneath the lowering sky, and felt that they oppressed him. He felt, too, that there was an almost piteous tone in his friend’s voice that he had not heard before. In the distance they could hear the noise of the gig beginning to crunch up the gravel at the further end of the drive.
‘They have made good time, I think.’
‘It’s that Macadamed road I subscribed twenty guineas to,’ Mr Davenant said. ‘I tell you what, Glenister, I should have kept my money – and the potholes, too – and let them break their necks in a ditch.’
‘Very gratifying to you, no doubt, but it don’t stop an execution. Well, here they are – you had better talk to them.’
‘I suppose I better had … Damnation! It is that fellow Silas.’
‘He does not look so very terrible to me. What is the matter with him?’
What Mr Davenant said in reply was drowned out by the noise of the gig grinding up the stones of the driveway as it came to rest a yard or so from where they stood. Certainly Mr Silas, the Sleaford attorney, did not look so very terrible as, taking care of his coat, trousers, bag and feet, he climbed out of his equipage. He was a small, neat, demure little man, whose hat sat very solemnly on his head and whose spectacles oddly diminished the size of the eyes behind them, so that they looked like pebbles lying very far away on the beach. There was a clerk with him to deal with the driver, who now rattled off in the direction of the stables, and certain other cases and account books that were unpacked from the gig, and it would have been apparent to the smallest child from the look that Mr Silas gave him that he loved the clerk for the deference he showed.
‘Dear me,’ Mr Silas said, almost to himself, as he held out a little white hand for Mr Davenant to shake, ‘the impudence of those drivers. If it wasn’t that we have to go back to Sleaford, I should have Jones here pay him off. But how are you, Squire, and how are you keeping? That’s a nasty flood you have on your road out there where it meets the common land. I wonder you don’t have it drained.’
And Mr Glenister saw immediately what was so terrible about Mr Silas.
‘This is Mr Glenister,’ Mr Davenant said, with what sounded very like anguish in his voice. ‘I trust you have no objection to his joining us?’
‘Not at all! The more the merrier is what I always say. Know of you, sir,’ said Mr Silas, gravely shaking hands with his
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