Part 67 (1/2)
”Of course. Do you know if Mr. Fegan is still at Stormly Foundry?”
”I can ascertain.”
”Do so. If he is, tell him to come and see me here to-morrow. And who is the best builder you employ?”
”Builder? What kind of builder, sir?”
”Bricks and mortar. Cottages. I don't want an architect. I'll employ the man we used in Hamps.h.i.+re.”
”You mean to build?”
”I mean to build.”
Mr. Clisson coughed. ”The late Mr. Masters found it did not pay----”
”Mr. Clisson,” said Christopher firmly, ”let us understand one another from the beginning. I do not intend to work on the same lines as my father worked. I intend to do many things which he would not have done, but I am inclined to think he knew it would be so. I believe I am a very rich man. At all events I mean to spend a lot of money. You would have no objection to my spending it on yachts and motors and grouse moors, I suppose? These things do not, however, interest me.
You probably won't approve of my hobbies, and I've no doubt I shall make heaps of mistakes, but I've got to find them out myself. You can help me make them, but once for all, never try to prevent me. Those are all the letters I can manage to-day. You can take the others. I'll answer these myself.”
The flabbergasted Mr. Clisson rose, trembling a little in his agitation.
”I hope, Mr. Masters, I should know better than ever attempt to dictate to you on any matter.”
Christopher gave him one of his rare half-shy, half-boyish smiles and leant forward over the big desk.
”Mr. Clisson, I shall need your help and advice every hour of the day.
I haven't the slightest doubt you could dictate to me to my great material advantage on every point, only I don't care for this material advantage and I don't want us to misunderstand each other, that is all.”
Mr. Clisson thawed, but his soul was troubled. He looked at the letters as he gathered them up. It was a goodly pile yet left to his decision, but he missed one that Christopher had pa.s.sed over without comment.
”The application for the post of gardener at Stormly Park, sir. Did you wish to attend to that yourself?”
”What has happened to Timmins? Wasn't that his name? Is he dead?”
”Oh, no.”
”He wishes to go?”
Mr. Clisson shook his head. ”It is simply a matter of routine, sir.
Timmins is a very excellent man, but the invariable rule is that no one remains after they are fifty-five.”
”After they are fifty-five?” repeated Christopher slowly.
”Not those employed in manual labour: with very few exceptions that is. Timmins will be fifty-five next month. He suffers from rheumatism already, I find.”
Christopher never took his eyes from the other's face.
”He would be pensioned, I suppose.”