Philip knew that none of the neighboring aristocrats, who had the reputation of being rich, was in possession of even half of his father’s income and it was with a feeling of bitterness in his heart that he listened to the passionate words, which cascaded from his father’s lips. The lord stopped in front of his son’s chair.

  “What possessions I have,” he said in a hoarse voice, “is nothing compared to the unlimited amounts of money these businessmen and bankers are able to make. Then they set up as gentlemen and imitate not our virtues, but our vices. And we, the high-born, we’re not of this time. We’re poor. Without money, you’re nothing. To hold his own against these snakes, a Swaffham should possess millions. Neither you nor I, my son, will see accounts overflowing with millions, but our sons will reap the benefit of our hard work. Our ancestors gained their name, their honor and their glory by their determination to fight for what was theirs. Let us show them that we’re worthy of the blood flowing through our veins.”

  As he talked about the plans, which had occupied his mind entirely for years, the old man’s voice quivered and shook.

  “I’ve done my duty,” he said, calming himself with some effort. “It’s now your turn to do yours. You will marry a rich heiress and you will bring up your son as I’ve reared you. You will be able to leave him fifteen million shilling and if he follows our example, he will be able to bequeath to his son a fortune that a monarch will envy. This must happen!”

  The strange show of emotion scared Philip.

  “Your task is heavy and painful,” continued the lord, “but it’s one that can be accomplished. We, who want to revive the fallen fortunes of our once mighty house must live only in the future and have no thought but for the prosperity of our descendants. More than once I’ve stammered, but I’ve conquered my weaknesses and now I only live to make the house of Swaffham the richest in England. You have seen me haggle for an hour over a wretched shilling, but it was so that at a future day one of our sons may throw it to a beggar from the window of his luxury car. Next year I will take you to London and show you our house there. You will see in it the most beautiful paintings by the best masters, because I’ve improved it like a lover, who adorns a house for a mistress and that house, Philip, is the home that your grandsons will live in.”

  The old man said these words in a tone of ecstatic triumph.

  “I’ve said this to you,” he continued, after a short pause, “because you’re now of an age to understand the truth and because I want you to understand the rules by which you will have to live. You are now old enough to understand that you must do of your own free will what you have up to this time done at my command. This is all that I have to say. Tomorrow, take twenty-five sacks of grain to the miller in Bourne on Trent.”

  Like all tyrants, the lord never contemplated for a moment the possibility of anyone disobeying his orders. Yet at that very moment Philip was taking a silent solemn oath that he would never again follow his father’s orders. When he had left the house to cool his face in the cold air of the night, his anger, which his fear for his father had long restrained, now burst open. So long as he had only looked on his father as a mere miser, he had waited patiently for him to die to get what he wanted, but now that he understood him better and saw that his misery was part of a life-long plan, he knew he had to do something about it. “My father is insane,” he said. “His insanity has destroyed my mother’s life and now it will destroy my life too.”

  Newton was not a native of that part of the country and no one knew where he came from. He said that he had worked as a banker’s clerk in London. He was a large man of sixty years of age, clean shaved and with a sharp and cunning expression on his face. His elongated face, with its long nose, restless eyes and thin lips, attracted attention at first sight. His whole behavior aroused a feeling of distrust. He had come to Bourne on Trent fifteen years before by train, carrying all his worldly possessions in a single wooden trunk, which he carried on his shoulder. He was willing to do everything to gain more money and he prospered. He owned farmland, shops and a cottage, which was at the juncture of the highway to Nottingham and the road that led to Bourne on Trent. His ambition was to be seen everywhere, to know everyone worth knowing and to have a finger in every pie in the district. If a farmer or shopkeeper needed a small loan, they went to him and he gave them the loans at exorbitant rates of interest. If they complained, he had every article of law at his fingers’ ends. He sailed as close to the wind as possible and yet was beyond the reach of the law. He said he was anxious to improve the lot of the working poor and yet he was taking huge sums from them by way of interest. He roused by every means in his power their feelings of animosity against both the rich and the privileged classes. His artful way of talking and the long fur coat he wore, had given him the nickname of “Weasel.” He hated Lord Swaffham, because the latter had more than once taken him before the court of justice, from which Newton only escaped by bribing the witnesses. He had vowed that he would take revenge for these slights and for five years he had been waiting for an opportunity to come his way. This was the man whom Philip met, after he had delivered his grain to the miller. As he was driving back with his empty lorry, Newton asked for a lift back as far as the road that led to his cottage.

  “I trust, Viscount,” he said with servile courtesy, “that you will take pity on me and excuse the liberty I take to address you, but I’m so crippled with rheumatism that I can hardly walk.”

  Newton had read somewhere that the eldest son of a Lord was entitled to be called “Viscount” and it was the first time that Philip had been addressed as such.

  “All right, I will give you a lift,” Philip said and the Weasel clambered into the lorry.

  While he was showering thanks on Philip for his courtesy he was watching the young man’s face carefully.

  “Something is the matter with this young man,” thought the Weasel to himself. “Something unusual is taking place at Swaffham Manor. Was this his opportunity for revenge?”

  He decided that through the son he could strike the father, but only if he was cautious.

  “You must have been up very early, Viscount,” he said.

  The young man didn’t reply.

  “Lord Swaffham,” resumed Newton, “is very fortunate to have a son such as you. I know many men, who tell their children, “See what an excellent example the young Viscount Swaffham sets to you all. He’s not afraid to work hard, though he’s aristocratic by birth and he shouldn’t have to soil his hands with common labor.”

  The lorry hit a rough spot in the road and brought the Weasel’s eloquent speech to a sudden halt, but he resumed it again quickly.

  “I was watching you as you carried the sacks. Heavens! What muscles you have!”

  At any other moment Philip would have accepted such praise, but now he felt furious and annoyed and showed his anger by taking a sharp turn to the left.

  “When people say that you’re as innocent as a woman,” continued Newton, “I always tell them that there is nothing effeminate about being a sensible young man. If you choose to lead a sheltered life, it’s far better than wasting your money on wine, billiards, cards or women.”

  “Who says I don’t do any of the kind,” answered Philip.

  “What did you say?” asked his wily companion.

  “I said that I live as all other young men.”

  The young man stopped abruptly. Newton’s eyes beamed with delight.

  “Aha,” he murmured to himself. “I have the game in my own hands. I will teach that devil Swaffham to interfere with me.”

  He continued, “Of course some fathers are far too strict and don’t allow a young man to be a young man.”

  A sudden gesture from Philip showed him that he had hit the young man deeply in his heart.

  “Let me tell you,” said the wily Weasel, “as the heads grow bald and the blood begins to cool, they forget the days, when they were young men. They conveniently forget the time, when they sowed their wild oats so lavishly. When your father was twenty-five, he was wild. Ask your old man, if you don’t wish to believe me.”

  At this moment the lorry had reached the road leading to Newton’s cottage and Philip stopped.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Viscount,” said the Weasel as he stepped out of the lorry with difficulty, “but if you would deign to come and taste my gin, I would surely consider it a great honor.”

  Philip hesitated for an instant. His brain told him to decline the offer, but he refused to listen to it and parked his lorry at the side of the road. He followed Newton down the by-road. The cottage was beautiful and well furnished. A woman, who acted as Newton’s housekeeper, served the drinks. His library was a strange-looking place. On one side was a desk covered with ledgers and against the wall were sacks of seed. A number of books on legal matters were on the shelves and from the ceiling hung dried herbs. The Weasel welcomed the heir to the House of Swaffham with the greatest deference, seated him in his own huge leather arm-chair and pressed the gin which he had at first refused on him.

  “I received this gin from a man down Birmingham way in return for a kindness that I did him. Without boasting, I can tell you that I’ve done kindnesses for many people in my time.” He raised his glass to his lips as he spoke. “It’s good, is it not?” he said. “You can’t get stuff like this here.”

  The politeness of the man, coupled with the excellence of the beverage, opened Philip’s heart. Without knowing anything of the Weasel’s character or reputation, he poured out all the secrets of his own heart and those recently entrusted to him by his father, while Newton laughed inside, preserving at the same time the composed face of a doctor called in to examine a sick patient.

  “Dear me!” he said. “This is really too bad. Poor man! I really pity you. Were it not for the deep respect that I hold for your father, I would say that he was not quite in his right mind.”

  “What can I say?” continued Philip, the tears welling up in his eyes. “This is just how things stand at the moment. My future has been planned out for me and I’m helpless to change it.”

  A strange smile on Newton’s lips made him pause for a moment.

  “Perhaps,” he went on, “you think that I’m childish in talking like this?”

  “Not at all, Viscount, you have suffered deeply at the hands of your father. Forgive me, though, if I say to you that you’re a fool to despair your lot in life, when all your future lies before you.”

  “Future?” said Philip angrily. “What is the use of speaking to me of my future, when I am kept in this horrible poverty for the next thirty years by my father?”

  “You will be of age soon and then you will have full right to claim your mother’s inheritance.”

  The surprise displayed by Philip at hearing this information convinced the Weasel that he was even less sophisticated than he had thought him to be.

  “A man,” he continued, “when he’s twenty-one can dispose of his inheritance as he thinks fit and your mother’s money will make you independent of your father.”

  “It’s of no use. I don’t dare to claim it.”

  “You don’t have to assert your rights personally. A solicitor can manage all that for you. That’s what they are for.” He sighed. “But, of course, you must wait.”

  “I cannot wait until then,” said Philip. “I must free myself from his tyranny right now.”

  “You’re lucky. There are ways.”

  “Do you really think so, Newton?” asked the young man, looking up at the other man.

  “Yes! It’s done every day. Nothing is more common in aristocratic families than this. Would you like to be a soldier?”

  “No, I don’t care for fighting and all that.”

  “That is your way out, Viscount. Because then we could lay a claim before the court.”

  The young man had not heard the subtle change from the “you” to the “we.”

  “A claim?”

  “Certainly! Do you think that our laws don’t provide for such cases as fathers exceeding their proper roles as parents? Tell me, has your father ever struck you?”

  “Never! Not once.”

  “Well, that’s a pity. Let’s say that your father’s properties are worth two million and yet you receive hardly any allowance from this. You’re known everywhere as the “Savage of Swaffham.”

  Philip sprang to his feet.

  “Who dares talk of me like that?” he inquired furiously. “Tell me his name.”

  This outburst of emotion didn’t in the smallest degree disturb Newton.

  “Your father has many enemies, Viscount,” he continued, “because he is overbearing and exacting. You, on the other hand, have many friends and among them none is more devoted to you than myself, humble though my position may be. Many young men of high-birth take great interest in you. Only a day or two ago some persons were speaking of you in the presence of young Miss Worrall and she blushed crimson at your name. Do you know Miss Jane?”

  Philip’s face flushed.

  “Ah, I understand,” replied Newton, nodding. “When you have broken the chains that now bind you, I will see what I can do for you.”

  Philip’s eyes caught the clock that hung on the wall. He sprang to his feet.

  “It’s dinner-time!” he said. “What will my father say?”

  “Does your father really keep you on such a short leash?”

  But Philip didn’t listen to the biting remark. He rushed to his lorry and drove away at full speed.

  Newton had not exaggerated, when he said that Philip was called the “Savage of Swaffham.” No one, however, used this nickname as a manner to insult him. At first the kids had made fun of him, but this didn’t affect him at all and as he grew older people began to see his dogged perseverance and will to work hard. The fire that shone from his eyes gave a bright glow to his shabby clothes. They no longer wished to waste their pity on a man, who would eventually come into a huge fortune.

  Mothers with daughters took great interest in the young man. To get a daughter married to the Lord of Swaffham Manor would be a feat to be proud of. Unluckily for them, his father watched his young son with all the vigilance of a mother hen. But there was a young woman, who had made her own plans for her future and this courageous beauty was named Miss Jane Worrall. That she had received the name of the “Belle of Nottingham,” was only justice. She was tall and fair, with a dazzling mass of golden-brown hair. Her eyes fired with a suppressed fire, which gave a glimpse of her true nature. She had been brought up in a boarding school and her parents, who wished her to get married as soon as possible, had only been induced to remove her owing to her obstinate refusal to marry any of the eligible men presented to her. Her father was rich, but all the property went over to her brother, who was ten years older than herself and so Jane found herself without a plump dowry, with the exception of a paltry sum of forty thousand shilling.

  “My child,” her mother said to her on the first day of her return from boarding school, “you have come back to us, but it would have been much better, if you had found a kindred soul at the neighboring gents’ school and married him. You had a lot of time at your disposal. Fascinating some gentleman, who is your equal in position and has plenty of money, will be much harder now, as now they are old enough to experience more women than will be good for you.”

  “Time will tell,” answered the young woman with a smile. “At present I’m quite happy being home with you and father.”

  Lord Worrall had spoken with some anger on the conduct of Lord Swaffham towards his son, but he was perfectly willing to sacrifice his daughter’s heart for a suitable marriage with no matter who.

  Miss Jane had heard a friend of hers speak of Philip and his future expectations.

  “Why should only my brother be rich?” she asked of her own mind and not her heart. With skill, she applied herself to the execution of her design. The idea of having an income of two hundred thousand shilling a year, more than her bother would stand to gain, was an appealing one. Philip was pointed out to her one day at Mass by the same friend and she was struck by his beauty and by his attitude, which even his shabby clothes couldn’t hide. With the mystical perception, which women possess, she saw into Philip’s heart and soul and her examination of him brought with it the dawn of love and by the time she had left church she had vowed solemnly that she would one day be Philip’s wife. But she didn’t tell her parents about her plans, preferring to carry them out without their help or advice. Miss Jane was shrewd and practical. The open and friendly expression of her face hid a mind of superior intellect and one, which well knew how to carry oneself, when out hunting for a man of high social rank and position. She affected a sudden sympathy for the poor and visited them constantly. Many times she could be found in the streets carrying food and clothes to them. Her father would declare with a laugh, that she was the new Florence Nightingale. No one noticed the fact that all Jane’s work of charity took place in the vicinity of Swaffham Manor. But it was in vain that she wandered around, exposing her hands to blisters and her body to diseases. The “Savage of Swaffham” was never to be seen, nor was he even a regular attendant at Mass.

  At last a mere trifle changed the life of the young man. A week after the conversation in which his father had told him about his scheme to restore the House of Swaffham to its former glory, he again referred to it. It was after their dinner, sitting at the same table as the forty laborers, who had been hired to bring in the harvest.

  “Son,” began the old man, “you don’t have to go back to the fields with the laborers today.”

  “But, sir, we have…”

  “My conversation with you the other night was merely the beginning of my plans for your future. I don’t expect you to work on the land as you have hitherto done, because I want you to perform a duty, which is less hard, but carries more responsibility. From now on you will act as my overseer.”

  Philip looked up in his father’s face.

  “I want you to become usual to your independence. I want you to know what to do after I die.”