Mr. Mountford took no notice of his look; he said, still more abruptly than before, ‘What about the entail?’
‘Pardon me if I say it,’ said Heathcote. ‘Mount is quite new to me; it does not attract me’ (what a fib that was, he felt in his heart). ‘I shall never marry. I have suffered the time for forming new connections to pass, and my brother has indifferent health and no liking for country life. On the other hand, it is natural that my cousin should prefer to be succeeded by his own family. What I have to say is that I am very willing, if you like it, to join with you in breaking the entail.’
‘In breaking the entail!’ Mr. Loseby’s mouth grew rounder and rounder: he seemed to be forming one whistle after another, which came to nothing. But he did not take time to express his own surprise or his own opinion, so much was he occupied in watching the effect of this announcement upon Mr. Mountford. The latter was dumbfoundered; he stood and stared at the speaker with blank dismay and consternation. But it did not apparently produce any livelier or happier impression upon his mind. He was not eager to snatch at the opportunity of putting his own child in his place.
‘You must be cracked,’ he said; ‘do you know how long the Mountfords have been at Mount?—the oldest house in the county, and, if not the richest or the largest, in some ways by far the most interesting. Heathcote, there must be something under this. If you are pressed for money, if there is anything you want to do, I dare say Loseby will manage it for you.’
‘I will do anything that is in reason,’ Mr. Loseby said, not without a little emphasis which brought a tinge of red on his client’s countenance. They could not yet give up their duel with each other, however important the other communication might be.
‘Heathcote Mountford will not ask you to do anything out of reason,’ cried the other; ‘and in case he should exceed that limit, here am I ready to be his security. No, we must not hear anything more about breaking the entail.’
‘I am afraid you must consent to hear something more,’ said Heathcote, half pleased, half angry; ‘it is not a sudden fancy. I have considered it thoroughly; there are numberless advantages, and, so far as I can see, nothing of substantial weight to be brought forward on the other side.’
‘Oh, come, this is too much!’ cried the lawyer, moved to professional interest; ‘nothing on the other side! But this is not a place to discuss so serious a subject. Step into my office, and let us have it out.’
‘I have had enough of your office for one day,’ said Mr. Mountford (at which the lawyer barely restrained a chuckle); ‘I have had quite enough of your office, I’ll go and see about the horses. If there is anything wrong, Heathcote, have it out, as he says, with Loseby. He’ll make it all right for you. He may not always be satisfactory to deal with for those who prefer to judge for themselves sometimes; but if it is anything you want, he’ll give you trustworthy advice.’
‘Thank you for your good word, squire,’ said the lawyer, laughing and putting his hand to his forehead with the duck of a country bumpkin. ‘Now take a seat,’ he added, as he led the stranger into a trim wainscoted room with cupboards hid behind half the panels, and the secrets of half the families of the county in them, ‘and let us talk this over. I cannot understand why Mountford does not jump at it (yes, I do; I can understand, now), but why you should wish to do it! Pardon me, if I say on your side it is mere madness. What good can it do you? If you want money, as your cousin says, I can get you as much money as you like—at least,’ he said, pausing to survey him with dubious looks, as if with a momentary apprehension that his new acquaintance might turn out a sporting man in difficulties or something of that disreputable kind, ‘almost as much as you like.’