The Portland daily press., 1881-03-22
THE PRESS.
CONCLUDED FROM MoSpAY.l
Touch-and-go With a Great Es-
tate.
London Society ]


s'Three wears ago? Three times three
times three-twenty-seven years ago. More
fool not to have found it out ages ago! l
broke the old cove's heart, believe. Rum
things hearts must be, to be sure. And as
for having no claim-oho! Old Jones, of
the Brambles, who died twenty-seven years
back, was my father, and Pm young Jones,
old Jones's son. Twig now%'
Was the fellow mad or drunk, thought 1.
Certainly he was right in saying that Mr..
Jones of the Brambles had died twenty-sev-
en- years ago. But that was long ago, ac-
cording to something more important than
years. That was when the Brambles, near
Durham, was nothing better than an old
farm house on the edge of large, rough
piece of moorland, which was collectively
known by that appropriate name. But Mr.
Jones the first's son was dead too, as have
said, three years ago; and Mr.. Jones the
second had died when the Brambles-
The Brambles, otherwise called Easton
Field, was farm just beyond the last dwell
ing house in the High street of Burgham !;
that is to say, the continuity of High street
ends abruptly at its eastern end, and the
open country begins at once, without any
shading of of villas and cottages as is usual
even in smaller towns, and as is the case at
the streets western extremity. l am now,
of course, speaking of the Brambles-as Eas-
ton Field was commonly called-as it was
when was a child, and when its clumps
and patches of heather and thorny bottoms
were the playground of the town. Indeed,
it must have been sort of town playground
in quite ancient times, for there was broad
meadow still called "the Butts" from days
long before those of the rifle volunteers.
This rather nondescript tract had belonged
to Wildwood Priory, and that being dissolved
had gone to one of the colleges forget
Wilhelm the University of Oxford. 1t
was valueless as land; for building space
was then practically worthless at place
like Burgham, though the case would be
very different now; and to turn it to agri-
cultural purposes would have required an
exceedingly large capital, with very little
prospect of speedy return. should say
its net annual value to the Oxford College
might have been as much as SIS or Sc a
year.
But there happened to be in Burgham,
about fifty years before the time of my sto-
ry, an uncommonly sharp fellow, a land sur
veyor, of the name of John Jones. l think
he must have been the cleverest fellow that
was ever born in Burgham. Anyhow, he
bought the whole interest of the Oxford
College in the land for a mere song, let a
part Of it to neighboring farmer for some
trifie brother, and left his son, Wilfred
Jones, a-coal-feld.
The Brambles became great estate in
next to no time, and it brought the railway
to Burgham, and the railway helped it on at
its own speed. The old farmhouse in the
corner grew into park and mansion. 1
can remember, better than yesterday, how
the whole town was thrown into kind of
collapse when Wilfred Jones of the Bran
bles-he wonld stick to the old local name
died at the early age of 47-no more. Ev-
cry man, woman and child in the place had
lost private as we'll as public friend. My
father drew his will, which left everything
he had Except certain large legacies which
the estate could well afford) to his only
child, Miss Margaret Jones, now-at the
time of which write-a charmingly pretty
and amiable girl of %. She was the great
est heiress in the county, bar none; and the
she had come in with King William the Con-
queror, instead of, as my father used to say,
with old King Coal.
Somehow l never now seem to see girls as
pretty or as nice as Miss Margaret Every
man in the town was, at an humble and re-
spectful distance, in love with her; and what
is really the strangest thing in my whole
story, so were all the women too. She was
wonderfully like her father (her mother had
died at her BIRTH in feminine way. There
was a sort of public anxiety as to if, when,
and whom she would marry-not that there
was so much question about the s'if'' as the
whom 1t would be misfortune for all
Burgham if. as clever and charming girls
have way of doing, she married wrong.
Well, for wonder she had taken it into her
head and heart to choose as wisely as her
mother did before her. Mr.. Evelyn Viner
was only younger son of one of the best
but not the best off-families in the county;
and no doubt Miss Margaret's hand would
be an excellent thing for him. But nobody,
somehow, ever looked upon him in the light
OF fortune hunter, and you may be sure,
there were plenty of people who would be
ready enough to do it if he were. In fact,
he was the most popular man in the county,
she should make match of it was as natu-
raj as that he should represent Burgham in
Parliament on the first opportunity.
So, striking out all my digressions, Miss
Margaret's title TO that great mine of wealth
called the Brambles, was this, and it was as
clear as day: She took it both under her
fathers will and as his heir-at-law; her
father had taken it from his father as heir
at-law; he, John Jones, had bought it from
an Oxford college that had held it more than
two hundred years.
drunk, or mad, or both in one?
"No,' said 1, Il do not twig now"
"And that's fameD' said he. "Well. I'm
not going to be long-winded; for Pm dry.
Eve come to you because, in the first place,
your firms got good name about here and
good names the thing want more than
anything, and because as our family lawyer,
you'll see things without bother. Here you
are then. Pm the son of old John Jones
~
81 see. You died three years ago, and
now you've come to life again with new
Christian name, and l can't say you are
much the better for the company you've
been keeping in the other world. Well?"
"You mean my travels have made me
rough and ready, eh? So they have-ready
for everything can get, too. Pocket as dry
as my throat; and no wonder. But, hang it,
and wouldn't risk losing good job if 1
were you. Pm Horace Jones, eldest son of
old John Jones, of the Brambles. Well, you
see, the old boy and didn't hit it off very
well together. He was slow old coach and
l wasn't very slow young 'un. He was a
skinfiint, too, and, you wouldn't believe it,
but the unnatural old villain put me to such
shifts that actually had to take the kings
shilling; and took means to let him think
Ia died OF the yellow fever in Barbados
just to prevent him making new will
and cutting me off with another. I've
knocked about since then here and there,
but Pve been COMPOUNDED unlucky sort of
devil, must say. Pm married man, too,
and family man; four of 'em, MIR. Key,
with a mother wouldn't live with another
day if it wasn't that she keeps things going
while Pm waiting for things to mend Now
the question is, what do 1 come in for, eh?
Pm thinking of taking public down Dept
ford way. Mrs. Jones was in that line when
l first knew her; and 1 want capital. the
more the merrier. What's the figure? Three
figures? Maybe four?"
What was l to say? If this fellow were
telling the truth, it was not capital of three
figures or four figures, but an estate bring
ing in an annual incoWe of five figures, to
which he, broken-down shameless drunk
ard, with barmaid for a wife, was heir-at-
law. For John Jones, having only his son
Winfred to follow him, and little but the
then undeveloped Brambles to leave, had
not made will. Yes, and if there were
grain of truth at the bottom of the mans
story, if he were not An impostor from first
to last, the great estate would be no longer
Miss Margarets, it would no more be a
blessing to the country; it would no Ion ger
give fit career to man like Evelyn Viner;
it would no longer be fountain of charity
and honor; it would no longer be-but why
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