“Mr. Francis Radcliffe!” read he aloud, in his squeaky voice. “What, is he down here again? You can bring him in, Abel—though I’m sure I don’t know what he wants with me.” And Abel went and brought him.
“We heard you were ill, young man,” said Mr. Brandon, peering up into Frank’s handsome face as he shook hands, and detecting all sorts of sickly signs in it.
“So I have been, Mr. Brandon; very ill. But I have left London and its dissipations for good, and have come here to settle. It’s about time I did,” he added, with the candour natural to him.
“I should say it was,” coughed old Brandon. “You’ve been on the wrong tack long enough.”
“And I have come to you—I hope I am first in the field—to ask you to let me have the lease of Pitchley’s Farm.”
Mr. Brandon could not have felt more surprised had Frank asked for a lease of the moon, but he did not show it. His head went up a little, and the purple tassel took a sway backwards.
“Oh,” said he. “You take Pitchley’s Farm! How do you think to stock it?”
“I shall take to the stock at present on it, as far as my means will allow, and give a bond for the rest. Pitchley’s executors will make it easy for me.”
“What are your means?” curtly questioned old Brandon.
“In all, they will be two thousand pounds. Taking mine and Miss Skate’s together.”