Admiral Sir John Villiers was of all landowners the most peppery. He could not keep on terms with the farmers, his tenants; he never attempted to be on terms with his relations, and his warlike attitude toward the owner of the adjacent property of Torres was notorious. A man so revelling in storms as the admiral must needs have some quarrel with his next-door neighbor, and the subject-matter is easily found. A bit of land contested, a dubiousness of fence, and behold Sir John Villiers rampant. The makings of a despot had the admiral; he was kindness itself (in his imperious way) so long as he was not crossed; but oppose the most reasonable of wills to his and England itself, let alone Devonshire, was not large enough to contain him.
Unfortunately, it was Roscoria who happened to be the next-door neighbor, and very warm the admiral made the neighborhood.
Roscoria loved every inch of Torres, and held his own with an iron grip. The admiral took it into his head that a corner on the boundary of the two properties belonged to himself, and he set himself to wrest it from Roscoria. A little representation and cajolery he tried first, then threats, for he did not mean to be ousted by an impudent young puppy like Louis Roscoria. But the owner of Torres stood firm.
The relations were thus a little strained, when a glorious piece of strategy occurred to Louis the lover. He had just declared himself to Lyndis, and had received her assurance that she loved him in return, and would marry him gladly could the admiral be squared.
So Roscoria arranged a dinner at Torres Hall, Tregurtha and two or three others to be present, and then went over himself to invite the admiral. Sir John Villiers hemmed and ha'd, and would have curtly declined to enter the young man's house, but, scenting the battle afar off, and hoping for a good rousing tussle, he consented, grimly.
Some fine old port came up from the cellar of Torres, and a very jolly party Roscoria and Tregurtha managed to make of it. The admiral, who came in at first snuffing haughtily and twirling his eyeglass with the most warlike aspect imaginable, was soothed and smoothed as the wine went round, and at last began to tell stories.
Propitious circumstance! Need we say how the young men roared with laughter at indifferent naval anecdotes, and greeted one effort at an august pun with clamorous applause? Tregurtha burst forth at last, followed by the others, into the Lobgesang, "For he's a jolly good fellow!" and this was the signal for Roscoria to edge himself confidentially close to the admiral and insinuate:
"Indeed, sir, we are all convinced of this, and it makes me all the more regretful that there should be any—any small mis—mis—understanding." (Roscoria here grew very nervous, and stammered a good deal.) "Fact is, Sir John, we all think here that things could be most comfortably settled if—if you could be content to make one small sacrifice. You have a niece——"
"The sacrifice, sir, if any is made, must be on your side," quoth the admiral, kindling; "though I don't deny that if you were to marry my niece it might thus be made to my full and complete satisfaction."
"Precisely, Sir John; and in that case, without further difficulty, I give up to you the 'boundary-plot,' which, I am afraid, you have long wished to possess."