Sir Thomas shook his head. “I suspect that’s it,” he said. “I don’t think she does. Well, as I was saying, she told me all she knew. The actual facts did not look so bad, but she made me uncomfortable by owning that she had known for long that Methvyn was far from easy in his mind about his affairs. The telegram which brought on the attack was telling of the smash of that great mining company—the Brecknock Mining Company. I saw something about it in yesterday’s paper, but I paid very little attention to it. I always thought it a rotten affair. I had not the faintest notion that Methvyn had anything to do with it, and I told her I did not think it possible that he could be in it to any tremendous extent. Nor was he, if that had been all! But when I saw this man from town and heard what he had to say—! My dear boy, it is something frightful. You would hardly believe that any sane man could have made such a mess of his affairs as Methvyn has been doing. No wonder the news of this last smash killed him. It was his very last cast.”
Mr. Fawcett sat up in his chair and stared at his father in amazement. “He must have lost his head!” he exclaimed.
“It looks like it,” said Sir Thomas. “I quite think that terrible fall must have weakened his brain as well as his spine. I can account for it in no other way—in no other way,” he repeated slowly, pausing a little between each word.
“And this man of business of his; what has he been about to let things go so far?” exclaimed Trevor. “Why did he not advise Colonel Methvyn better?”
“He did his best, I think,” said Sir Thomas; “but if a man will ruin himself—? And even he, this Mr. Knox, has not known all, by any means, till quite recently. Methvyn was most persistent in managing for himself, and he has had no one thoroughly in his confidence. And you see he was quite free. Greystone and everything he had was absolutely his own to do what he liked with. If he had had a son it might have been different—but no, I hardly think so. I am certain he meant to act for the best. He was quite as anxious for Cicely as if she had been a boy. Upon my soul, there’s a good deal to be said for tying up property—even a little place like Greystone! Why if it had been entailed on to the Carling Methvyns, Cicely would at least have been sure of her daughter’s portion, whereas now she has nothing.”
“Then Greystone must be sold?” asked Trevor sadly.
“Sold, of course—it is not theirs—at least, very little of the price of it will come to them. I can show you some of the details I got from Knox. It is right you should know.”
Mr. Fawcett hardly felt as if he wished to hear more. He was a poor man of business—an unworthy descendant of his self-made grandsire. But to please his father he listened, wearily enough, to the dreary recital of how poor Philip Methvyn had made ducks and drakes of his patrimony—a commonplace story enough, after all.
“Yes, I see,” he said, when Sir Thomas had come to an end of his history. “I see, at least, that it’s as bad as can be. Excepting Mrs. Methvyn’s settlements, and they are not large, she and Cicely have nothing.”
“Nothing, or next to nothing,” answered Sir Thomas gloomily. And for a few minutes both men remained silent. Then the father spoke again.