CHAPTER I.
“What a blessing it is to be the father of such a family of children!” said farmer Frankland, as he looked round at the honest affectionate faces of his sons and daughters, who were dining with him on his birthday. “What a blessing it is to have a large family of children!”
“A blessing you may call it, if you will, neighbour,” said farmer Bettesworth; “but if I were to speak my mind, I should be apt to call it a curse.”
“Why, as to that, we may both be right and both be wrong,” replied Frankland; “for children are either a blessing or a curse according as they turn out; and they turn out according as they are brought up. ‘Bring up a child in the way it should go;’ that has ever been my maxim: show me a better, show me a happier family than my own; and show me a happier father than myself,” continued the good old man, with pleasure sparkling in his eyes. Observing, however, that his neighbour Bettesworth looked blank and sighed deeply, he checked himself, and said, in a more humble tone, “To be sure, it is not so mannerly for a man to be praising his own, except it just come from the heart unawares, amongst friends who will excuse it, especially upon such a day as this. This day I am seventy years of age, and never was heartier or happier! So, Fanny, love, fill neighbour Bettesworth a glass of your sister’s cider. ‘Tis my Patty’s making, sir; and better never was drunk. Nay, nay, sit ye still, neighbour; as you happened to call in just as we were all dining, and making merry together, why you cannot do better than to stay and make one of us, seeing that you are heartily welcome.” Mr. Bettesworth excused himself, by saying that he was in haste to get home.
No happy home had he, no affectionate children to welcome his return. Yet he had as numerous a family as Mr. Frankland; three sons and two daughters: Idle Isaac, Wild Will, Bullying Bob, Saucy Sally, and Jilting Jessy. Such were the names by which they were called by all who knew them in the town of Monmouth, where they lived. Alliteration had “lent its artful aid” in giving these nicknames; but they were not misapplied.
Mr. Bettesworth was an indolent man, fond of his pipe, and fonder of building castles in the air by his fireside. Mrs. Bettesworth was a vain, foolish vixen; fond of dress, and fonder of her own will. Neither of them took the least care to breed up their children. Whilst they were young, the mother humoured them: when they grew up, she contradicted them in every thing, and then wondered how they could he so ungrateful as not to love her.
The father was also surprised to find that his boys and girls were not as well-mannered, nor as well-tempered, nor as clever, nor as steady, nor as dutiful and affectionate, as his neighbour Frankland’s; and he said to himself, “Some folks have the luck of having good children. To be sure, some children are born better than others.”
He should rather have said, “To be sure, some children are bred better than others.”
Mr. Frankland’s wife was a prudent, sensible woman, and had united with him in constant endeavours to educate their family. Whilst they were yet infants, prattling at their mother’s knee, she taught them to love and help one another, to conquer their little froward humours, and to be obedient and tractable. This saved both them and herself a great deal of trouble afterward; and their father often said, both to the boys and girls, “You may thank your mother, and so may I, for the good tempers you have.”
The girls had the misfortune to lose this excellent mother, when one was about seventeen, and the other eighteen; but she was always alive in their memory. Patty, the eldest sister, was homely in her person; but she was so neat in her dress, and she had such a cheerful agreeable temper, that people forgot she was not handsome; particularly as it was observed that she was very fond of her sister Fanny, who was remarkably pretty.
Fanny was neither prudish nor censorious; neither a romp nor a flirt: she was so unaffected and unassuming, that most of her neighbours loved her; and this is saying a great deal in favour of one who had so much the power to excite envy.
Mr. Frankland’s eldest son, George, was bred to be a farmer; and he understood country business uncommonly well for a young man of his age. He constantly assisted his father in the management of the farm; and, by this means, acquired much experience with little waste of time or money. His father had always treated him so much as his friend, and had talked to him so openly of his affairs, that he ever looked upon his father’s business as his own; and he had no idea of having any separate interest.
James, the second son, was bred to trade. He had been taught whatever was necessary and useful for a man in business; he had habits of punctuality, civil manners, and a thorough love of fair dealing.
Frank, the youngest son, was of a more lively disposition than his brothers; and his father used often to tell him, when he was a boy, that, if he did not take care, his hasty temper would get him into scrapes; and that the brightest parts, as they are called, will be of little use to a man, unless he has also steadiness to go through with whatever he begins. These hints, from a father whom he heartily loved, made so strong an impression upon Frank, that he took great pains to correct the natural violence of his temper, and to learn patience and industry. The three brothers were attached to one another; and their friendship was a source of improvement, as well as of pleasure.
The evening of Mr. Frankland’s birthday the whole family retired to an arbour in their garden, and began to talk over their affairs with open hearts.
“Well, Frank, my boy,” said the happy father, who was the confidant of his children, “I am sure, if your heart is set upon this match with Jessy Bettesworth, I will do my best to like the girl; and her not being rich shall be no objection to me; we can make that up amongst us, some way or other. But, Frank, it is fair to tell you my opinion of the girl, plainly and fully, beforehand, as I have done. She that has jilted others, I think, would be apt to jilt you, if she met with a better offer.”
“Why then, father, I’ll not be in a hurry: I’ll take time to consider, before I speak to her any more; and I thank you for being so kind, which I hope I shall not forget.”
The morning after this conversation passed, Jilting Jessy, accompanied by her sister, Saucy Sally, came to pay Patty and Fanny Frankland a visit. They were full of some piece of news, which they were eager to tell.
“Well, to be sure, I dreamed I had a diamond ring put on my finger by a great lord, not a week ago,” cried Jessy; “and who knows but it may come true? You have not heard the news, Fanny Frankland? Hey, Patty?”
“Not they: they never hear any news!” said Sally.
“Well, then, I’ll tell you,” cried Jessy. “Rich Captain Bettesworth, our relation, who made the great fortin abroad, over seas, has just broken his neck out a-hunting; and the fortin all comes to us.”
“We shall now see whether Mrs. Craddock will push by me again, as she did yesterday in the street! We’ll see whether I shan’t make as good a fine lady as herself, I warrant it, that’s all. It’s my turn to push by folk now,” said Saucy Sally.
Fanny and Patty Frankland, with sincere good-nature, congratulated their neighbours on this increase of fortune; but they did not think that pushing by Mrs. Craddock could be one of the most useful or agreeable consequences of an increase in fortune.
“Lord, Patty! how you sit moping yourself there at your work,” continued Sally; “but some people must work, to be sure, that can’t afford to be idle. How you must envy us, Patty!”
Patty assured her she did not in the least envy those who were idle.
“Fine talking! Fine airs, truly, Miss Patty! This is by way of calling me over the coals for being idle, I suppose!” said Sally: “but I’ve no notion of being taken to task this way. You think you’ve had a fine education, I suppose, and so are to get a pattern for all Monmouthshire, indeed: but you’ll find some people will be as much thought of now as other people, and may hold their heads as high. Edication’s a fine thing, no doubt; but fortin’s a better, as the world goes, I’ve a notion: so you may go moping on here as long as you please, being a good child all the days of your life!
‘Come when you’re call’d;
And do as you’re bid;
Shut the door after you;
And you’ll never be chid.’
I’m sure, I would not let my nose be kept to the grindstone, as yours is, for any one living. I’ve too much spirit, for my part to be made a fool of as some people are; and all for the sake of being called a vastly good daughter, or a vastly good sister, forsooth!”
Nothing but the absolute want of breath could have suspended the remainder of this speech; for she was so provoked to see Patty did not envy her, that she was determined to say every thing she could invent to try her. Patty’s temper, however, was proof against the trial; and Saucy Sally, despairing of success against one sister, turned to the other.
“Miss Fanny, I presume,” said she, “won’t give herself such high and mighty airs, as she used to do, to one of her sweethearts, who shall be nameless.”
Fanny blushed, for she knew this speech alluded to Wild Will, who was an admirer of hers, but whom she had never encouraged.
“I hope,” said she, “I never gave myself airs to anybody: but, if you mean to speak of your brother William, I assure you that my opinion of him will not be changed by his becoming richer; nor will my father’s.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Frank, who had just heard, from one of the Bettesworths, of their good fortune. He was impatient to see how Jessy would behave in prosperity. “Now,” said he to himself, “I shall judge whether my father’s opinion of her or mine is right.”
Jilting Jessy had certainly given Frank reason to believe she was very fond of him; but the sudden change in her fortune quite altered her views and opinions. As soon as Frank came in, she pretended to be in great haste to be gone; and, by various petty manoeuvres, avoided giving him an opportunity of speaking to her; though she plainly saw he was anxious to say something to her in private. At length, when she was looking out of the window, to see whether a shower was over, he went behind her and whispered, “Why are you in such haste? Cannot you stay a few minutes with us? You were not always in such a hurry to run away!”
“Lord, nonsense! Mr. Frank. Why will you always plague me with nonsense, Mr. Frank?”
She opened the lattice window as she spoke, put out her beautiful neck as far as possible, and looked up eagerly to the clouds.
“How sweet this jasmine smells!” said Frank, pulling a bit of it which hung over the casement. “This is the jasmine you used to like so much. See, I’ve nailed it up, and it’s finer than ever it was. Won’t you have a sprig of it?” offering to put some in her hat, as he had done before; but she now drew back disdainfully, saying:
“Lord! Mr. Frank, it’s all wet, and will spoil my new lilac ribbons. How awkward and disagreeable you are always!”
“Always! you did not always think so; at least, you did not say so.”
“Well, I think so, and say so now; and that’s enough.”
“And too much, if you are in earnest; but that I can hardly believe.”
“That’s your business, and not mine. If you don’t choose to believe what I say, how can I help it? But this you’ll remember, if you please, sir.”
“Sir!!! Oh, Jessy! is it come to this?”.
“To what, sir? For I vow and declare I don’t understand you!”
“I have never understood you till now, I am afraid.”
“Perhaps not: it’s well we understand one another at last. Better late than never.”
The scornful lady walked off to a looking-glass, to wipe away the insult which her new lilac ribbons had received from Frank’s sprig of jasmine.
“One word more, and I have done,” said Frank, hastily following her. “Have I done anything to displease you? Or does this change in you proceed from the change in your fortune, Jessy?”
“I’m not obliged, sir, to account for my proceedings to any body; and don’t know what right you have to question me, as if you were my lord and judge: which you are not, nor ever will be, thank God!”
Frank’s passion struggled with his reason for a few instants. He stood motionless; then, in an altered voice, repeated, “Thank God!” and turned from her with proud composure. From this time forward he paid no more court to Jessy.
“Ah, father!” said he, “you knew her better than I did. I am glad I did not marry her last year, when she would have accepted of me, and when she seemed to love me. I thought you were rather hard upon her then. But you were not in love with her as I was, and now I find you were right.”
“My dear Frank,” said the good old man, “I hope you will not think me hard another time, when I do not think just the same as you do. I would, as I told you, have done every thing in my power to settle you well in the world, if you had married this girl. I should never have been angry with you; but I should have been bitterly grieved if you had, for the whim of the minute, made yourself unhappy for life. And was it not best to put you upon your guard? What better use can an old man make of his experience than to give it to his children?”
Frank was touched by the kind manner in which his father spoke to him; and Fanny, who was present, immediately put a letter into her father’s hand, saying, “I have just received this from Will Bettesworth: what answer do you think I had best give him?”
Now, Fanny, though she did not quite approve of Wild Will’s character, felt a little partiality for him, for he seemed to be of a generous temper, and his manners were engaging. She hoped his wildness was only the effect of good spirits, and that he would soon settle to some business. However, she had kept these hopes and this partiality a secret from all but her father, and she had never given Will Bettesworth any encouragement. Her father had not a good opinion of this young man; and she had followed his advice, in keeping him at a distance. His letter was written in so vile a hand, that it was not easy to decipher the meaning:
“MY SWEET PRETTY FANNY,
“Notwithstanding your cruelty, I ham more in love with you than hever; and now I ham come in for a share in a great fortin; and shall ask no questions from father nor mother, if you will marry me, having no reason to love or care for either. Mother’s as cross as hever, and will never, I am shure, agre to my doing any thing I like myself; which makes me more set upon having my own whay, and I ham more and more in love with you than hever, and would go through fire and water to get you.
“Your true love (in haste),
“WILL BETTESWORTH.”
At first reading the letter, Fanny was pleased to find that her lover did not, like Jilting Jessy, change his mind the moment that his situation was altered; but, upon looking over it again, she could not help considering that such an undutiful son was not likely to make a very good husband; and she thought even that Wild Will seemed to be more and more in love with her than ever, from the spirit of opposition; for he had not been much attached to her, till his mother, as he said, set herself against the match. At the end of this letter were the words turn over; but they were so scrawled and blotted, that Fanny thought they were only one of the strange flourishes which he usually made at the end of his name; and consequently she had never turned over, or read the postscript, when she put the epistle into her father’s hands. He deciphered the flourish, and read the following addition:
“I know your feather does not like me; but never mind his not being agreuble. As shure as my name’s Will, I’d carry you hoff, night or day; and Bob would fight your brothers along with me, if they said a word: for Bob loves fun. I will be at your windor this night, if you are agreuble, like a gurl of spirit.”
Fanny was shocked so much that she turned quite pale, and would have sunk to the ground, if she had not been supported by her father. As soon as she recovered herself sufficiently to be able to think, she declared that all the liking she had ever felt for William Bettesworth was completely conquered; and she thanked her father for having early warned her of his character. “Ah! father,” said she, “what a happiness it has been to me that you never made me afraid of you! Else, I never should have dared to tell you my mind; and in what a sad snare might I have been at this instant! If it had not been for you, I should perhaps have encouraged this man; I might not then, may be, have been able to draw back; and what would have become of me?”
It is scarcely necessary to say that Fanny wrote a decided refusal to Wild Will. All connexion between the Bettesworths and Franklands was now broken off. Will was enraged at being rejected by Fanny; and Jessy was equally incensed at finding she was no longer admired by Frank. They, however, affected to despise the Franklands, and to treat them as people beneath their notice. The fortune left by Captain Bettesworth to his relations, was said to be about twenty thousand pounds: with this sum they thought, to use their own expression, they were entitled to live in as great style, and cut as grand a dash, as any of the first families in Monmouthshire. For the present we shall leave them to the enjoyment of their new grandeur, and continue the humble history of farmer Frankland and his family.
By many years of persevering industry, Mr. Frankland had so improved the farm upon which he lived, that he was now affluent, for a man in his station of life. His house, garden, farm-yard, every thing about him, were so neat and comfortable, that travellers, as they passed by, never failed to ask, “Who lives there?” Travellers, however, only saw the outside; and that was not, in this instance, the best part. They would have seen happiness, if they had looked within these farm-house walls: happiness which may be enjoyed as well in the cottage as in the palace; that which arises from family union.
Mr. Frankland was now anxious to settle his sons in the world. George had business enough at home, in taking care of the farm; and James proposed to set up a haberdasher’s shop in Monmouth: accordingly, the goods were ordered, and the shop was taken.
There was a part in the roof of the house which let in the wet, and James would not go into it till this was completely repaired; so his packages of goods were sent from London to his father’s house, which was only a mile distant from Monmouth. His sisters unpacked them by his desire, to set shop-marks upon each article. Late at night, after all the rest of the family were asleep, Patty was sitting up to finish setting the marks on a box full of ribbons; the only thing that remained to be done. Her candle was just burnt out; and as she was going for another, she went by a passage window that faced the farm-yard, and suddenly saw a great light without. She looked out, and beheld the large hay-rick all in flames. She ran immediately to awaken her brothers and her father. They used every possible exertion to extinguish the fire, and to prevent it from communicating to the dwelling-house; but the wind was high; it blew directly towards the house. George poured buckets of water over the thatch, to prevent its catching fire; but all was in vain: thick flakes of fire fell upon it faster than they could be extinguished, and in an hour’s time the dwelling-house was in a blaze.
The first care of the sons had been to get their father and sisters out of danger; then, with great presence of mind, they collected every thing that was most valuable and portable, and laboured hard to save poor James’s stock of haberdashery. They were all night hard at work: towards three o’clock the fire was got under, and darkness and silence succeeded. There was one roof of the house saved, under which the whole family rested for a few hours, till the return of daylight renewed the melancholy spectacle of their ruin. Hay, oats, straw, corn-ricks, barn, every thing that the farm-yard contained, was utterly consumed: the walls and some half-burnt beams remained of the dwelling-house, but it was no longer habitable. It was calculated that six hundred pounds would not repair the loss occasioned by this unfortunate accident. How the hay-rick had caught fire nobody knew.
George, who had made up the hay-stack, was most inclined to think that the hay had not been sufficiently dried, and that the rick had heated from this cause. He blamed himself extremely; but his father declared he had seen, felt, and smelt the hay, when the rick was making, and that it was as well saved hay as ever was brought into a farm-yard. This, in some measure, quieted poor George’s conscience: and he was yet more comforted by Patty’s good-nature, who showed him a bucket of ashes which had been left very near the spot where the hay-rick stood. The servant-girl, who, though careless, was honest, confessed she recollected having accidentally left this bucket in that dangerous place the preceding evening; that she was going with it across the yard to the ash-hole, but she heard her lover whistle to her from the lane, and she set down the bucket in a hurry, ran to meet him, and forgot the ashes. All she could say in her own defence was, that she did not think there was any fire in the bucket.
Her good master forgave her carelessness; he said he was sure she reproached herself enough for it, as indeed she did, and the more so when her master spoke to her so kindly; she cried as if her heart would break; and all that could be done to comfort her, was to set her to work as hard as possible for the family.
They did not, any of them, spend their time in vain lamentations: ready money was wanting to rebuild the house and barns, and James sold to a haberdasher in Monmouth all of his stock which had been saved out of the fire, and brought the money to his father.
“Father,” said he, “you gave this to me when you were able to afford it; you want it now, and I can do very well without it. I will go and be shopman in some good shop in Monmouth; and by degrees I shall get on, and do very well in the world. It would be strange if I did not, after the education you have given me.”
The father took the money from his son with tears of pleasure. “It is odd enough.” said he, “that I should feel pleasure at such a time; but this is the blessing of having good children. As long as we all are ready to help one another in this manner, we can never be very miserable, happen what may. Now let us think of rebuilding our house,” continued the active old man. “Frank, reach me down my hat. I’ve a twinge of the rheumatism in this arm: I caught a little cold the night of the fire, I believe; but stirring about will do me good, and I must not be lazy: I should be ashamed to be lazy amongst so many active young men.” The father and sons were very busy at work, when an ill-looking man rode up to them; and, after asking if their name was Frankland, put a paper into each of their hands. These papers were copies of a notice to quit their farm, before the ensuing first of September, under pain of paying double rent for the same.
“This is some mistake, sir,” said old Frankland, mildly.
“No mistake, sir,” replied the stranger. “You will find the notice is a good notice, and duly served. Your lease I have seen myself within these few days: it expired last May; and you have held over, contrary to law and justice, eleven months, this being April.”
“My father never did anything contrary to law and justice in his whole life,” interrupted Frank; whose eyes flashed with indignation.
“Softly, Frank,” said his father, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder; “softly, my dear boy: let this gentleman and I come to an understanding quietly.—Here is some mistake, sir. It is very true that my lease expired last May; but I had a promise of a renewal from my good landlord.”
“I don’t know, sir, anything of that,” replied the stranger, as he looked over a memorandum-book. “I do not know whom you denominate your good landlord; that being no way of describing a man in the eye of the law: but if you refer to the original grantor, or lessor, Francis Folingsby, of Folingsby-place, Monmouthshire, Esq., I am to inform you that he died at Bath the 17th instant.”
“Died! My poor landlord dead! I am very sorry for it.”
“And his nephew, Philip Folingsby, Esq., came into possession as heir at law,” continued the stranger, in an unvaried tone; “and under his orders I act, having a power of attorney for that purpose.”
“But, sir, I am sure Mr. Philip Folingsby cannot know of the promise of renewal, which I had from his uncle.”
“Verbal promises, you know, are nothing, sir; mere air, without witnesses: and, if gratuitous on the part of the deceased, are no ways binding, either in common law or equity, on the survivor or heir. In case the promise had been in writing, and on a proper stamp, it would have been something.” “It was not in writing, to be sure, sir,” said Frankland, “but I thought my good landlord’s word was as good as his bond; and I said so.”
“Yes,” cried Frank; “and I remember when you said so to him, I was by; and he answered, ‘You shall have my promise in writing. Such things are of little use between honest men: but who knows what may happen, and who may come after me? Everything about business should be put into writing. I would never let a tenant of mine be at an uncertainty. You have improved your farm, and deserve to enjoy the fruits of your own industry, Mr. Frankland.’ Just then company came in, and our landlord put off writing the promise. He next day left the country in a hurry; and I am sure thought, afterwards, he had given us the promise in writing.”
“Very clear evidence, no doubt, sir; but not at all to the point at present,” said the stranger. “As an agent, I am to know nothing but what is my employer’s intent. When we see the writing and stamp, I shall be a better judge,” added he with a sneer. “In the mean time, gentlemen, I wish you a good morning: and you will please to observe that you have been duly served with notice to quit, or pay double rent.”
“There can be no doubt, however,” said Frank, “that Mr. Folingsby will believe you, father. He is a gentleman, I suppose, and not like this new agent, who talks like an attorney. I hate all attorneys.”
“All dishonest attorneys, I suppose you mean, Frank,” said the benevolent old man; who, even when his temper was most tried, never spoke, or even felt with acrimony.
The new landlord came into the country; and a few days after his arrival, old Frankland went to wait upon him. There was little hope of seeing young Mr. Folingsby; he was a man whose head was at this time entirely full of gigs, and tandems, and unicorns: business was his aversion; pleasure was his business. Money he considered only as the means of pleasure; and tenants only as machines, who make money. He was neither avaricious nor cruel; but thoughtless and extravagant.
Whilst he appeared merely in the character of a young man of fashion, these faults were no offence to his equals, to whom they did no injury: but when he came into possession of a large estate, and when numbers were dependent upon him, they were severely felt by his inferiors.
Mr. Folingsby had just gathered up the reins in hand, and was seated in his unicorn, when farmer Frankland, who had been waiting some hours to see him, came to the side of the carriage. As he took off his hat, the wind blew his grey hair over his face.
“Put on your hat, pray, my good friend; and don’t come near these horses, for I can’t answer for them. Have you any commands with me?”
“I have been waiting some hours to speak to you, sir; but, if you are not at leisure, I will come again to-morrow morning,” said old Frankland.
“Ay, do so; call to-morrow morning; for now I have not one moment to spare,” said young Folingsby, as he whipped his horses, and drove off, as if the safety of the nation had depended upon twelve miles an hour.
The next day, and the next, and the next, the old tenant called upon his young landlord, but without obtaining an audience; still he was desired to call to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. He wrote several letters to him, but received no answer: at last, after giving half a guinea to his landlord’s gentleman, he gained admittance. Mr. Folingsby was drawing on his boots, and his horses were coming to the door. Frankland saw it was necessary to be concise in his story: he slightly touched on the principal circumstances, the length of time he had occupied his farm, the improvements he had made upon the land, and the misfortune which had lately befallen him. The boots were on by the time that he got to the promise of renewal, and the notice to quit.
“Promise of renewal: I know of no such thing. Notice to quit: that’s my agent’s business; speak to him; he’ll do you justice. I really am sorry for you, Mr. Frankland; very sorry, extremely sorry. Damn the rascal who made these boots!—but you see how I’m circumstanced; haven’t a moment to myself; only came to the country for a few days; set out for Ascot-races to-morrow; really have not a moment to think of any thing. But speak to Mr. Deal, my agent. He’ll do you justice, I’m sure. I leave all these things to him. Jack, that bay horse is coming on——”
“I have spoken to your agent, sir,” said the old tenant, following his thoughtless young landlord; “but he said that verbal promises, without a witness present, were nothing but air; and I have nothing to rely on but your justice. I assure you, sir, I have not been an idle tenant: my land will show that I have not.”
“Tell Mr. Deal so; make him understand it in this light. I leave every thing of this sort to Mr. Deal. I really have not time for business, but I’m sure Mr. Deal will do you justice.”
This was all that could be obtained from the young landlord. His confidence in his agent’s sense of justice was somewhat misplaced. Mr. Deal had received a proposal from another tenant for Frankland’s farm; and with this proposal a bank note was sent, which spoke more forcibly than all that poor Frankland could urge. The agent took the farm from him; and declared he could not, in justice to his employer, do otherwise; because the new tenant had promised to build upon the land a lodge fit for any gentleman to inhabit, instead of a farm-house.
The transaction was concluded without Mr. Folingsby’s knowing any thing more of the matter, except signing the leases, which he did without reading them; and receiving half a year’s rent in hand, as a fine, which he did with great satisfaction. He was often distressed for ready money, though he had a large estate; and his agent well knew how to humour him in his hatred of business. No interest could have persuaded Mr. Folingsby deliberately to commit so base an action as that of cheating a deserving old tenant out of a promised renewal; but, in fact, long before the leases were sent to him, he had totally forgotten every syllable that poor Frankland had said to him on the subject.