Willoughby had done what he could. But when he came back from the War, things were in evil case.
A cold rain of demands beat upon his diminished income; the stream of outgoings was like to burst its banks: over all, the cloud of a heavy mortgage, once no bigger than a man’s hand, was blotting out the heaven.
Of his passionate love for Chancery, Willoughby took his capital and gambled upon the Exchange. The franc was bound to appreciate. . . .
Mr. Harp’s offer was a bad one, as offers go. Chancery was a show place. Charles the First had stayed there, and Cromwell too. The latter had crossed the body of a Gray Bagot to gain admittance. Some of Chancery’s furniture had stood in the same corners for more than three hundred years. The library had been collected by a Bagot in the reign of Queen Anne. Mr. Harp’s offer was absurd. Still . . . Offers were hard to come by nowadays. Mr. Harp’s was the first that had been made in seven months.
When all that had to be paid had been discharged, of the forty-five thousand there would remain five thousand pounds. This, safely invested, would bring in two hundred a year. And a man could live on that—even one who had been a Captain in His Majesty’s Household Brigade.
Sic transit . . .
Willoughby posted his letter and then walked round the park, and in by the western gate. He passed about the lodge, marking its bulwarks. After a final look, he turned slowly away.
“What a thought,” he said. “Two hundred and fifty a year and rent-free. If it comes off, I shall be on panne velvet.”
Two months had gone by, and Mr. and Mrs. Harp were beginning to grow accustomed to the thrilling reflection that Chancery was theirs. Their possession of the place was peaceful; their enjoyment of it quiet. But their unconcealed delight in their acquisition was almost childish. For days together they never went outside the gates. . . . After a week or two of private revelry in their surroundings, they pressed invitations upon a pack of friends and relatives, whose company they did not desire, because their pride of ownership simply had to be served. This was clamouring for the meat and drink of stares and ejaculations and bated breath. Their precious toy had to be admired. As for the Groom of the Chambers, not to advertise their employment of such a paragon would have been tantamount to suppressing the Kohinoor. He was the light of their eyes.