His brown suit, though worn and frayed, had once been such a suit as
Messrs. Carter, tailors, of Pengarth, were accustomed to sell to their
farmer clients, and it was crossed by an old-fashioned chain and seal.
The suit was heavily splashed with mud; so were the thick boots; and on
the drooped brow shone beads of sweat. John Brand was not much over
fifty, but he was tired out in mind and body; and his soul was bitter
within him.
A year before this date he had been still the nominal owner of a small
freehold farm between Pengarth and Carlisle, bordering on the Threlfall
property. But he was then within an ace of ruin, and irreparable calamity
had since overtaken him.
How it was that he had fallen into such a plight was still more or less
mysterious to a dull brain. Up to the age of forty-seven, he had been
employed on his father's land, with little more than the wages of a
labourer, possessing but small authority over the men working on the
farm, and no liberty but such as the will of a tyrannical master allowed
him. Then suddenly the father died, and Brand succeeded to the farm. All
his long-checked manhood asserted itself. There was a brief period of
drinking, betting, and high living. The old man had left a small sum of
ready money in the bank, which to the son, who had always been denied the
handling of money, seemed riches. It was soon spent, and then unexpected
burdens and claims disclosed themselves. There was a debt to the bank,
which there were no means of paying.
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