“Oh! they are beautiful!” cried Janet, “all laid out in ribbon gardens and with the most beautiful terrace, and a fountain—only that doesn’t play except when you give the gardener half-a-crown, and mamma says, that is exorbitant—and statues standing all round—real marble statues.”
“Like the groves of Blarney,” muttered Janet:
“Heathen goddesses most rare,
Homer, Venus, and Nebuchadnezzar,
All standing naked in the open air.”
Allen, seeing Jessie scandalised, diverted her attention by asking, “Whom does it belong to?”
“Mr. Barnes,” said Jessie; “but he is hardly ever there. He is an old miser, you know—what they call a millionaire, or mill-owner; which is it?”
“One is generally the French for the other,” put in Janet.
“Never mind her, Jessie,” said Allen, with a look of infinite displeasure at his sister. “What does he do which keeps him away?”
“I believe he is a great merchant, and is always in Liverpool,” said Jessie. “Any way, he is a very cross old man, and won’t let anybody go into his park and gardens when he comes down here; and he is very cruel too, for he disinherited his own nephew and niece for marrying. Only think Mrs. Watson at the grocer’s told our Susan that there’s a little girl, who is his own great-niece, living down at River Hollow Farm with Mr. and Mrs. Gould, just brought up by common farmers, you know, and he won’t take any notice of her, nor give one farthing for bringing her up. Isn’t it shocking? And even when he is at home, he only has two chops or two steaks, or just a bit of kidney, and that when he is literally rolling in gold.”
Jessie opened her large brown eyes to mark her horror, and Allen, made a gesture of exaggerated sympathy, which his sister took for more earnest than it was, and she said, scornfully, “I should like to see him literally rolling in gold. It must be like Midas. Do you mean that he sleeps on it, Jessie? How hard and cold!”
“Nonsense,” said Jessie; “you know what I mean.”