The late Mrs. Mayne, had been a woman of fortune, and her money had assisted to maintain Maynesfort, as a sort of show place.—Its mullioned windows and heavy chimney stacks, were a great feature on the local post cards.
As the long May days went by, the heir of Maynesfort found time to hang heavily on his hands,—although he successfully concealed the fact. There was no shooting, except a few pigeon of an evening; naturally there was no hunting, he was not a fisherman; most of the neighbours were in London for the season, and the Parsonage was in quarantine with scarlet fever. Mayne rode about the lanes on an elderly cob, strolled through the park and gardens, played cricket with the village team,—but still the days were long and empty.
He read the papers to his uncle, played dominoes and backgammon, and even "cut-throat" Bridge with him and the nurse. He smoked many pipes, and listened to many stories: descriptions of the season's good runs, and best days' shooting.
Strange to say, the old gentleman exhibited but little or no interest in Indian sport,—nor wished to hear, in what way his nephew had passed the last four years? It was sufficient for him to know that he was there, sitting opposite to him, looking a little older,—but both hale, and hearty.
Richard Mayne was a man of one idea at a time,—but that idea, excluded all others, and would occasionally hold the fort of his mind for months. His present obsession, was, that Mayne should, could, and must, marry,—and that without delay. At first his nephew had put the suggestion aside with a joke, and a laugh; but he soon realized that indifference and frivolity raised his uncle's ire; the flexible eyebrows went up and down, or met, alarmingly; the "'um, 'um, 'ums" came thick, and fast,—he resigned himself to the situation, and suffered the old gentleman to talk and talk, and even to arrange a formal, and imaginary parade of all the available spinsters in the county!
"You see, my dear boy," he urged, "that time, when I was lying on my back, and they were not quite sure, if I was internally injured, I could not help thinking of this dear old place,—and its new master."
"What nonsense, Uncle Dick," protested Mayne, "you will be master here for years, and years."
"No, no," waving away the idea, "if I'd snuffed out, you would have had to come back, and take over my shoes, and sit here all alone; no mistress for the house; so I made up my mind, that if I recovered, I'd take right good care to see you married; married to some nice girl with money; family not so important, you have enough family for both! Now tell me, Derek, is there any young woman, you have a fancy for?"
"No, not one."
"Well, then, my dear boy, you must look round, now you are at home, and find a pretty girl, with a pretty fortune, that will keep the old place on its legs,—otherwise it might have to be let, and if that came to pass, I believe I'd come out of the family vault! You know your aunt's money goes back to her own people; the property itself is not worth much. There is the grazing, and the woods, and Jones sells some of the garden stuff, but the men's wages and coal and coke, run into hundreds a year; our gambling ancestors staked farms and livings, and fishing rights on the length of a straw, or the activity of a snail, and I tell you, my blood boils when I think of them!"