Chapter VII.

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      The next day Mr. Henry came. He was a quiet, stern-looking man, of considerable intelligence and refinement, and so much taste for music as to charm Erminia, who had rather dreaded his visit. But all the amenities of life were put aside when he entered Mr. Buxton’s sanctum — his “office,” as he called the room where he received his tenants and business people. Frank thought Mr. Henry was scarce commonly civil in the open evidence of his surprise and contempt for the habits, of which the disorderly books and ledgers were but too visible signs. Mr. Buxton himself felt more like a school-boy, bringing up an imperfect lesson, than he had ever done since he was thirteen.

      “The only wonder, my good sir, is that you have any property left; that you have not been cheated out of every farthing.”

      “I’ll answer for it,” said Mr. Buxton, in reply, “that you’ll not find any cheating has been going on. They dared not, sir; they know I should make an example of the first rogue I found out.”

      Mr. Henry lifted up his eyebrows, but did not speak.

      “Besides, sir, most of these men have lived for generations under the Buxtons. I’d give you my life, they would not cheat me.”

      Mr. Henry coldly said:

      “I imagine a close examination of these books by some accountant will be the best proof of the honesty of these said tenants. If you will allow me, I will write to a clever fellow I know, and desire him to come down and try and regulate this mass of papers.”

      “Anything — anything you like,” said Mr. Buxton, only too glad to escape from the lawyer’s cold, contemptuous way of treating the subject.

      The accountant came; and he and Mr. Henry were deeply engaged in the office for several days. Mr. Buxton was bewildered by the questions they asked him. Mr. Henry examined him in the worrying way in which an unwilling witness is made to give evidence. Many a time and oft did he heartily wish he had gone on in the old course to the end of his life, instead of putting himself into an agent’s hands; but he comforted himself by thinking that, at any rate, they would be convinced he had never allowed himself to be cheated or imposed upon, although he did not make any parade of exactitude.

      What was his dismay when, one morning, Mr. Henry sent to request his presence, and, with a cold, clear voice, read aloud an admirably drawn up statement, informing the poor landlord of the defalcations, nay more, the impositions of those whom he had trusted. If he had been alone, he would have burst into tears, to find how his confidence had been abused. But as it was, he became passionately angry.

      “I’ll prosecute them, sir. Not a man shall escape. I’ll make them pay back every farthing, I will. And damages, too. Crayston, did you say, sir? Was that one of the names? Why, that is the very Crayston who was bailiff under my father for years. The scoundrel! And I set him up in my best farm when he married. And he’s been swindling me, has he?”

      Mr. Henry ran over the items of the account —“421l, 13s. 4–3/4d. Part of this I fear we cannot recover”——

      He was going on, but Mr. Buxton broke in: “But I will recover it. I’ll have every farthing of it. I’ll go to law with the viper. I don’t care for money, but I hate ingratitude.”

      “If you like, I will take counsel’s opinion on the case,” said Mr. Henry, coolly.

      “Take anything you please, sir. Why this Crayston was the first man that set me on a horse — and to think of his cheating me!”

      A few days after this conversation, Frank came on his usual visit to Maggie.

      “Can you come up to the thorn-tree, dearest?” said he. “It is a lovely day, and I want the solace of a quiet hour’s talk with you.”

      So they went, and sat in silence some time, looking at the calm and still blue air about the summits of the hills, where never tumult of the world came to disturb the peace, and the quiet of whose heights was never broken by the loud passionate cries of men.

      “I am glad you like my thorn-tree,” said Maggie.

      “I like the view from it. The thought of the solitude which must be among the hollows of those hills pleases me particularly today. Oh, Maggie! it is one of the times when I get depressed about men and the world. We have had such sorrow, and such revelations, and remorse, and passion at home today. Crayston (my father’s old tenant) has come over. It seems — I am afraid there is no doubt of it — he has been peculating to a large amount. My father has been too careless, and has placed his dependents in great temptation; and Crayston — he is an old man, with a large extravagant family — has yielded. He has been served with notice of my father’s intention to prosecute him; and came over to confess all, and ask for forgiveness, and time to pay back what he could. A month ago, my father would have listened to him, I think; but now, he is stung by Mr. Henry’s sayings, and gave way to a furious passion. It has been a most distressing morning. The worst side of everybody seems to have come out. Even Crayston, with all his penitence and appearance of candor, had to be questioned closely by Mr. Henry before he would tell the whole truth. Good God! that money should have such power to corrupt men. It was all for money, and money’s worth, that this degradation has taken place. As for Mr. Henry, to save his client money, and to protect money, he does not care — he does not even perceive — how he induces deterioration of character. He has been encouraging my father in measures which I cannot call anything but vindictive. Crayston is to be made an example of, they say. As if my father had not half the sin on his own head! As if he had rightly discharged his duties as a rich man! Money was as dross to him; but he ought to have remembered how it might be as life itself to many, and be craved after, and coveted, till the black longing got the better of principle, as it has done with this poor Crayston. They say the man was once so truthful, and now his self-respect is gone; and he has evidently lost the very nature of truth. I dread riches. I dread the responsibility of them. At any rate, I wish I had begun life as a poor boy, and worked my way up to competence. Then I could understand and remember the temptations of poverty. I am afraid of my own heart becoming hardened as my father’s is. You have no notion of his passionate severity today, Maggie! It was quite a new thing even to me!”

      “It will only be for a short time,” said she. “He must be much grieved about this man.”

      “If I thought I could ever grow as hard and different to the abject entreaties of a criminal as my father has been this morning — one whom he has helped to make, too — I would go off to Australia at once. Indeed, Maggie, I think it would be the best thing we could do. My heart aches about the mysterious corruptions and evils of an old state of society such as we have in England. — What do you say Maggie? Would you go?”

      She was silent — thinking.

      “I would go with you directly, if it were right,” said she, at last. “But would it be? I think it would be rather cowardly. I feel what you say; but don’t you think