CHAPTER X. A LAWYER’S LETTER.

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 have to say will take some time.’ He paused—

‘A letter has reached me this morning from Lady Farrington’s—the dowager’s—lawyer.[175] It may be all a hoax; let us hope that it is; but I confess I am greatly disturbed by what it says.’

Letitia looked at him, keenly interrogative, but said nothing.

‘You remember, no doubt, the circumstances of the old dowager’s craze? It was no secret in the family. She pretended that a grandchild of hers was in existence, who was the rightful heir to the title and estates; all that you knew, of course?’

‘I had heard the absurd story. Idiotic old woman! I cannot understand why you ever let her out,’ said Letitia, as though her father had full powers to commit to durance indefinite every individual likely to injure the Farrington family or whose brain was touched, the two being synonymous terms.

‘I did not wish to let her out, I assure[176] you. It was done in spite of me, and by the person who is, I believe, at the bottom of the newest attempt to defraud us of our rights.’

‘Are they threatened?—by whom?’ Letitia was like a lioness who, with her whelps, was about to be robbed of her prey.

‘The old lady, you must know, did not fabricate her story without something to go upon. There was some semblance of probability. She produced the rightful heir—not quite at the right time, perhaps, but there he was.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘I did; so did you; you knew him, well.’

‘I, father? Preposterous; where, pray, did we meet?’

‘He served as a private in the Duke’s[177] Own. His name—the name he went by, at least—was Larkins.’

‘Larkins! the sergeant? Poor Ernest’s champion? Never!’

‘This Mr. Larkins whom I received here at your mother’s express desire, whom I treated with the utmost consideration, proved a snake in the grass. He first thwarted me with regard to old Lady Farrington’s release from confinement; then, with her, concocted a scheme of which I have only to-day learnt the real intent. This letter from the lawyers is nothing more or less than a notice to quit—a regular notice of ejectment, in favour of Herbert Farrington, son of Herbert of the same name, and grandson of the last baronet.’

‘It’s a swindle, of course, from beginning to end; a trumped-up story. You won’t[178] submit, father, I trust, to such a barefaced imposition?’

Letitia was in arms at once; for the threatened action struck at her more, perhaps, than any one else.

‘I shall defend myself and you, you may depend upon it. I shall not submit tamely to any attempt at extortion. It is really life and death to me.’

‘Is it not the same to me, and to my children—to my Rupert, who some day will be your heir? Are we to be robbed with impunity? Certainly not.’

‘They have not told me much of their case, of course; a mere outline, nothing more. But it is evidently a strong one. They have discovered, so they say, old Herbert Farrington’s marriage—if it’s a bona fide discovery we are bound to accept it, after due verification, at least.’

[179]

‘What do they pretend?’

‘That the real Herbert Farrington, when serving in the 12th Lancers as Corporal Smith, married Ann Orde, and had issue.’

‘This Larkins? Sergeant Larkins of the Duke’s Own? I’ll never believe it; not if I live to a hundred. But, father, what do you mean to do? You will resist, surely; for my sake—for that of my children, you will not give in?’

‘If we could effect a compromise—’

‘Never!’ cried Letitia. ‘Never, with my consent. I protest against any compromise at all.’

‘It might be wise.’

Was it possible that Sir Rupert had reasons for dreading a law-suit? No one knew more about the case than himself. Was he in possession of any information—damaging[180] facts—which he had so far kept secret, but which would be certain to come out on a trial?

‘But a long law-suit! It would eat up the whole estate. No doubt this pretender, this Mr. Larkins, would gladly come to terms. A few thousands paid on the nail would silence him for good.’

‘Don’t, father; don’t dream of making such concessions,’ Letitia almost shrieked. The idea of parting thus coolly with thousands out of the future heritage of her children! ‘No, no; better to fight it out, to resist to the bitter end.’

‘I think I must consult your mother and Conrad.’

‘What have they to say to it? I am the person principally concerned—I and mine—we shall be the greatest sufferers.’

‘Letitia,’ said her father very gravely[181] to her, ‘it was not only to speak to you concerning this letter that I asked you to come here; it was to break some worse news.’

‘Affecting us?’

‘Us all, but more particularly you.’

‘Go on; quick, father.’

‘Till very lately I had thought that after me there would be an end of the Farringtons. You would be sole heiress to the estates, to which your children would succeed, but the title would become extinct, and the name, unless specially assumed. Within the last month or two I have discovered that I have a lawful male heir, who must inevitably come between you in the entail. Ernest, poor Ernest, left a son.’

‘By that person, that woman? Father, how dare you mention her name in my presence?[182] What claims can such a creature as her offspring have upon you?’

‘Poor Ernest married her, Letitia. There is not a shadow of a doubt of it. The whole of the proofs are in my possession. The child I have not seen, and will not see. But your mother has; indeed, the whole thing has come out through her.’

‘Ernest was always her favourite,’ said Letitia bitterly. It was being borne into her gradually how much she was about to lose. ‘But I shall not surrender my rights except upon compulsion, father. We have lawyers too, you must remember; and where a large property is at stake, people must look out for themselves.’

‘I wish, for your sake, the case was not so clear.’

‘I am not at all satisfied as yet, father. There will be two law-suits, perhaps; and I[183] shall not accept any compromise, you may depend.’

There was now a prospect of much discord in the family at Farrington Hall.