“I am not so sure about that,” said Mr. Culpepper, dryly. “Cope has not been like the same man to me of late that he used to be. The old ship is beginning to leak, and the rats are deserting it. I suppose I shall be compelled to ask him, but I would almost sooner lose my right hand than do it.”
“There’s Mr. Bristow,” suggested Jane, timidly. “Why not speak to him? He might, perhaps, find some means of helping you out of your difficulty.”
“How can a man that’s not worth five thousand pence be of any use to a man who wants five thousand pounds?” asked the Squire, contemptuously. “No, no; Bristow’s all very well in his way. A decent, good-natured young fellow, with all his wits about him, but of no use whatever at a crisis like the present.”
“Is there not such a thing as a mortgage?” asked Jane. “Could you not raise some money on the estate?”
“When my father lay on his deathbed,” said the Squire, gravely, “he made me take a solemn oath that I would never raise a penny by mortgage on the estate, and I would rather suffer anything and everything than break that promise. But it’s high time we were both in bed. You look worn-out for want of sleep, and I don’t feel over bright myself. Kiss me, dearie, and let us say good-night, or rather good-morning. We must hope for the best, and at present that seems the only thing we can do.”
The following post brought a letter from Mrs. McDermott. After mentioning on what day and by what train she might be expected to arrive, she wrote: “You won’t forget the five thousand pounds, brother. I have bought some house property, and want to remit the money immediately on my arrival. I suppose it would not be reasonable to expect more than five per cent. interest on the amount?” The Squire tossed the letter across the table to Jane without a word.