The late squire had apparently been as well aware of the neglected state of his ancestral halls as of his tangled and overgrown woods; but he had also, it seemed, been unable to make up his mind to take any steps towards amending the condition of either—­or to part with his ever-increasing balance at his bankers’.

Sir Timothy had carried both his obstinacy and his dullness into his business affairs.

The family solicitor, Mr. Crawley, backed up the new administrator with all his might.

“Over sixty thousand pounds uninvested, and lying idle at the bank,” he said, lifting his hands and eyes, “and one long, miserable grumbling over the expense of keeping up Barracombe.  One good tenant after another lost because the landlord would keep nothing in repair; gardener after gardener leaving for want of a shilling increase in weekly wages.  In case Sir Peter should turn out to resemble his father, we had best not let the grass grow under our feet, Mr. Crewys,” said the shrewd gentleman, chuckling, “but take full advantage of the powers entrusted to you for the next two years and a quarter.  Sir Peter, luckily, does not come of age until October, 1902.”

“That is just what I intend to do,” said John.

“Odd, isn’t it,” said the lawyer, confidentially, “how often a man will put unlimited power into the hands of a comparative stranger, and leave his own son tied hand and foot?  Not a penny of all this capital will Sir Peter ever have the handling of.  Perhaps a good job too.  Oh, dear! when I look at the state of his affairs in general, I feel positively guilty, and ashamed to have had even the nominal management of them.  But what could a man do under the circumstances?  He paid for my advice, and then acted directly contrary to it, and thought he had done a clever thing, and outwitted his own lawyer.  But now we shall get things a bit straight, I hope.  What about buying Speccot Farm, Mr. Crewys?  It’s been our Naboth’s vineyard for many a day; but we haggled over the price, and couldn’t make up our minds to give what the farmer wants.  He’ll have to sell in the end, you know; but I suppose he could hold out a few years longer if we don’t give way.”

“He’s been to me already,” said John.  “The price he asked is no doubt a bit above its proper value; but it’s accommodation land, and it would be disappointing if it slipped through our fingers.  I propose to offer him pretty nearly what he asks.”

“He’ll take it,” said Mr. Crawley, with satisfaction.  “I could never make Sir Timothy see that it wouldn’t pay the fellow to turn out unless he got something over and above the value of his mortgages.”

“The next thing I want you to arrange is the purchase of those twenty acres of rough pasture and gorse, right in the centre of the property,” said John, “rented by the man who lives outside Youlestone, at what they call Pott’s farm, for his wretched, half-starved beasts to graze upon.  He’s saved us the trouble of exterminating the rabbits there, I notice.”