“It’s a bit rough, isn’t it?” Bluecaster put in ruefully. “Seems pretty intimate Up Above, doesn’t he? Of course, one isn’t such a Borgia as to want to risk anybody’s life or set death-traps, or anything such rotten bad form as that—I’d sooner let the sea suck up the whole blessed income and have done with it—but your father always said the new land would make money for us eventually, and the Lloyd-Georgian era is very expensive. Surely he’s rambling a bit, Lancaster?”
“He’s certainly quite unnecessarily anxious. I can’t understand what has worked him to this pitch. Sounds almost on the verge of brain-fever about it! We had a few words when he took the farm—there may be something of that at the back of it. Sneered at our old-fashioned methods—we’ve scarcely any agreements in writing, you know—and said he was a business-man, anyway, and didn’t trust anybody. Of course, after that, I had everything down with him in black and white. This may be just his way of trumping up a grudge on that account. He can’t really consider the Lugg a danger, in spite of this fervent epistle. It’s stood the test—both ways—for so long. I’ve heard my father say that nothing short of an earthquake wave could take the bank. I’ve heard him swear that the head farms were as safe as Heaven. He would never have risked a yard of the land he loved. My father’s word is good enough for me.”
“And for me!” Bluecaster added bluntly. “It was a big undertaking, though,” he went on, with the recurring nervousness in his voice. “I’d never have had the pluck to broach it myself. The bay does look a bit caught by the throat. I suppose it’s just possible that a heavy flood with an exceptional gale behind it—well, well, that’s all settled, isn’t it? What’s to be done with this man? If he’s worrying, can’t he change farms or something?”
“I hardly think he’ll do that.” Lancaster looked again at the letter. “I can’t help feeling that there’s something more that we’ll get at, presently. Of course, as a marsh-tenant, he’s entitled to a hearing. He might have put his views rather more delicately, but that’s neither here nor there. Will you write him, or shall I see him? And, if the latter, have you any instructions?”
“Oh, see him, certainly!” Bluecaster looked alarmed. “And of course you’ll know streets better than I do what to say. As long as you think the Lugg’s all right, it can’t be wrong. I’ll stop on a few days, now I’m here, in case you want me, but you’ll manage as you think best.” He heaved a sigh, looking away. “I’m glad you’re sure about the old bank! I thought it couldn’t be anything but a false alarm, but one never knows. You do, though! A Lancaster always knows. It’s a jolly good thing for me I’ve a Lancaster to know for me!”
Lanty sighed, too, when he got outside, but it was a little impatiently. Bluecaster was a splendid chap, considerate, generous, reasonable even when he couldn’t see the point, but he so often not only did not see the point but made violent haste to escape it. Difficulties that it was his special province to unravel were transferred from his fingers to his agent’s with the rapidity of cat’s-cradle. He was no support in any problem; generally, indeed, an added factor to the puzzle. In the growing atmosphere of trouble Lancaster longed earnestly for his father.
On the gravel, a thought struck him, and he retraced his steps. Bluecaster was playing billiards by himself, and urged him to have a game. He looked resigned but amiable when Lancaster reverted to the tiresome subject he had thought happily dropped.
“With your permission, my lord, we’ll have the matter out with all the marsh-tenants. There may be something more behind, as I said. Not but what I’m sure they all trust the Lugg to a man, barring Brack. Still, they shall have their chance of speaking, if you’re willing.”
“Of course. Get ’em together when you like. Need I be there?”
“I should prefer it. It isn’t a question for me to handle alone. It wouldn’t be fair to ask me.”