Domestic fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction; Wales -- Fiction
"My will has been made, and there will be so little now for you, that
we must save what we can before I die."
"Oh, bother me!" said Isabel, laughing.
"Do you suppose it is not dreadful to me to have to reflect how
little I can do for you? I may, perhaps, live for two years, and we
may save six or seven hundred a year. I have put a charge on the
estate for four thousand pounds. The property is only a small thing,
after all;--not above fifteen hundred a year."
"I will not hear of the horses being sold, and there is an end of it.
You have been taken out about the place every day for the last twenty
years, and it would crush me if I were to see a change. You have done
the best you can, and now leave it all in God's hands. Pray,--pray
let there be no more talking about it. If you only knew how welcome
he is to it!"
CHAPTER II
Isabel Brodrick
When Mr Indefer Jones spoke of living for two years, he spoke more
hopefully of himself than the doctor was wont to speak to Isabel. The
doctor from Carmarthen visited Llanfeare twice a week, and having
become intimate and confidential with Isabel, had told her that the
candle had nearly burnt itself down to the socket. There was no
special disease, but he was a worn-out old man. It was well that he
should allow himself to be driven out about the place every day. It
was well that he should be encouraged to get up after breakfast, and
to eat his dinner in the middle of the day after his old fashion.
It was well to do everything around him as though he were not a
confirmed invalid. But the doctor thought that he would not last
long. The candle, as the doctor said, had nearly burnt itself out in
the socket.
And yet there was no apparent decay in the old man's intellect. He
had never been much given to literary pursuits, but that which he had
always done he did still. A daily copy of whatever might be the most
thoroughly Conservative paper of the day he always read carefully
from the beginning to the end; and a weekly copy of the _Guardian_
nearly filled up the hours which were devoted to study. On Sunday
he read two sermons through, having been forbidden by the doctor to
take his place in the church because of the draughts, and thinking,
apparently, that it would be mean and wrong to make that an excuse
for shirking an onerous duty. An hour a day was devoted by him
religiously to the Bible. The rest of his time was occupied by the
care of his property. Nothing gratified him so much as the coming
in of one of his tenants, all of whom were so intimately known to
him that, old as he was, he never forgot the names even of their
children. The idea of raising a rent was abominable to him. Around
the house there were about two hundred acres which he was supposed to
farm. On these some half-dozen worn-out old labourers were maintained
in such a manner that no return from the land was ever forthcoming.
On this subject he would endure remonstrance from no one,--not even
from Isabel.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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