About this time Tatham, the Squire's body-servant, fell ill, and at his own request was allowed to leave Stanbrook for awhile and go to stay with his married sister, who lived in the next county. Hitherto he and Miss Baynard had shared the duties of the sick-room between them, and as the Squire, instead of gathering strength, seemed to be slowly losing what little was left him, it was evident that some one must be found to fill Tatham's place during his unavoidable absence.
Now in the village--a populous and thriving one--the outlying houses of which lay within a bowshot of the park gates of Stanbrook, there dwelt at this time a certain Mrs. Dinkel, herself English, but the widow of a Dutchman who had formerly been head gardener at Heronscourt, the seat of Sir Willoughby Freke. Mrs. Dinkel had been left with enough to keep her comfortably in humble village fashion, but being at the time of her husband's death scarcely beyond middle age, and of an active disposition, she presently began to cast about for some way not merely of adding to her limited income, but of banishing from her life the idleness which her soul abhorred.
Being determined to find work, she took the first chance that came in her way, which was to nurse a young lady laid up with a virulent fever. And thus it fell out that within a couple of years of that time Mrs. Dinkel's name had become well known throughout a wide circle of provincial society as that of a woman with a born gift for nursing. Like many others of both sexes, she had not discovered hermétiertill late in life, but having once found it, she stuck to it. Still, her services were not at the beck and call of anybody, nor were they to be bought merely by the offer of a certain number of guineas. She would only go out to nurse among gentlefolk, or, as she termed them, "the quality," and whenever none of the quality stood in need of her services she preferred to stay at home with folded hands, doing nothing, till they should send for her.
When a message from Stanbrook one day reached her, she responded to it with alacrity.
To the Squire it seemed very inconsiderate on Tatham's part that he should choose to fall ill at such a time, but as he supposed there was no help for it, it mattered not a jot to him, he said, whom they supplied him with by way of temporary substitute. So, at the express instance of Dr. Banks, Mrs. Dinkel was sent for.
She was a woman of few words and strong nerve, who seemed never to require more than two hours' sleep out of the twenty-four. All her thoughts and attention were given to her patient; she moved about the sick room almost as silently as a shadow, and before long the Squire found her presence far more soothing, and her ministrations far more gentle, than those of Tatham had been. Nell took to Mrs. Dinkel from the first. They seemed to understand each other instinctively. The sick man was the bond between them. Each in her separate way had for the time being vowed herself to his service.
A few days later, and Mr. Cortelyon had finally made up his mind, bitter as the need for doing so was to him. But it was indeed high time that he should come to some conclusion, for the sands of life were now beginning to run very low indeed, and he knew it. What but a little while before had been a suggestion--not emanating from any outside source, but his own suggestion to himself--had now become a determination. To Mrs. Bullivant in the first place, and to her son after her, he would bequeath three-fourths of everything he was worth.
He was quite aware that, in the ordinary course of things--his grandson being out of the running--his niece's claim upon him ought to have had priority of that of everybody else. And he told himself that it should have had if only Nell had been a clear-headed, sensible, businesslike woman of the type of Onoria Bullivant. Unfortunately, she was nothing of the kind. Instead, her head was crammed full of high-flown, sentimental, and quixotic notions (he prided himself on having read her thoroughly), and he felt morally sure that if he were to leave her any large lump sum, say fifteen or twenty thousand pounds, by way of legacy, she would be quite capable, when she found that Master Evan had been left out in the cold, of making over a big slice, perhaps even the whole of it, for the benefit of the brat. Such a result as that must on no account be allowed to come to pass. What he would do was, to invest a certain number of thousands in her name in the Funds, just enough to bring in about three hundred a year, and allow her the interest to live upon. With such an income she could not do much harm, or what the Squire designated to himself as harm. Should she be fool enough to take the boy to live with her, and assume the responsibility of his future, why, she was welcome to do so. But owner of Stanbrook and Barrowmead, and of his latest purchase, that big property on the Yorkshire border, his grandson never should be.
Thus it one day came to pass that Mrs. Bullivant received a note written by Andry Luce, asking her, if convenient, to drive over next day to Stanbrook in time for luncheon, and take her son with her. The widow was a shrewd woman, and it seemed to her that such a note was capable of but one interpretation, and as she drove through the country lanes next day on her way to the Hall her heart beat high with hopes, which, however wanting in substance they might be, were none the lesscouleur de rose.
In point of fact, before causing his testamentary dispositions to be recorded in black and white the Squire was desirous of taking stock of the youngster whom he was proposing to constitute his heir. If he should prove to be a weak, puling child, or betray any signs of delicacy of constitution, why, in that case that there would be good reason for reconsidering his decision.
As it turned out, the Squire had no cause for uneasiness on that score. Young Gavin Bullivant, who had just entered on his fifth year, looked as strong and sturdy as an oak sapling. He was a bright-eyed, apple-cheeked lad, both inquisitive and acquisitive by natural disposition, and not knowing what shyness meant. He was very like his mother, but more in expression than features, and at times one caught a far-off hint of something in his face, at once hard and cunning, which seemed curiously out of keeping with his years. It was as though a very old man--and not a good old man either--was peering at you from behind a beautiful mask of childhood.
"Not much likeness here to the late lamented--hey?" queried the Squire after a good stare at him, which the boy returned with interest.
Mr. Cortleyon had only met the Hon. Hector on one occasion, at a sale of some of Lord Cossington's stock, and had felt no desire to cultivate his acquaintance.
"It may seem like self-flattery to say so," replied Mrs. Bullivant with a complacent smile, "but both in looks and disposition dear Gavin takes wholly after me. Even his grandfather cannot help admitting as much."
Then the Squire proceeded to put several questions to the lad, which he answered with promptitude and aplomb. He betrayed no timidity in the presence of the sick man, although to many a child of his age the latter would have seemed a sufficiently formidable object, with his parchment-like skin, his hollow cheeks, his heavy, grizzled eyebrows, which seemed bent in a perpetual frown, and the strange half-fierce, half-pathetic eyes beneath them, in which the flame of life seemed to burn all the more strongly just now because it was so soon to be extinguished forever.
After that Gavin was planted in the big easy-chair, with a supply of sweet cakes to keep him quiet while his mother and the Squire talked together in confidential fashion.
But it was not in Gavin to keep quiet for any length of time, and hardly had the last cake gone the way of the rest before he had slid from his perch to the ground, bent on a more minute inspection of the room and its contents than he had yet been able to give them. So, while the two elder people talked together in low tones, he went about his self-imposed task, examining this object and the other, opening every drawer that was unlocked in the big escritoire and making a study of its contents, and in all respects making himself thoroughly at home.
At the end of three-quarters of an hour Mrs. Bullivant rose to take her leave, for the Squire was showing signs of fatigue. There was upon her a sense of disappointment, for nothing of a confidential nature had fallen from the sick man's lips, and she was still at a loss to imagine not merely why she had been sent for, but why she had been asked to bring Gavin with her. Sick people are subject to strange whims, but surely there was something more than a whim at the back of Mr. Cortelyon's request to see her son!
The Squire's keen eyes seemed to be reading her thoughts. "Onoria," he said--and he was holding her hand as he spoke--"Onoria, I am about to make my will, a new one, for I destroyed the old one some years ago and I have sent for you to-day in order to tell you that it is my intention to bequeath you the sum of three thousand pounds. Nor will the boy be forgotten, as you will find when my testament comes to be read. No thanks, please--they would only worry me, and--and I can't afford to be worried nowadays."
Mrs. Bullivant raised the hand that was holding hers to her lips and kissed it. "Dear Mr. Cortelyon," she said, and for once her voice had, or seemed to have, a tremor in it, "although you forbid me to thank you for your act of noble generosity to me and my son, you cannot, at any rate, hinder me from remembering you in my prayers."
p77"His mother now produced theSquire's watch and appendages."
A cynical smile lighted up the Squire's haggard face. Perhaps the picture of Mrs. Bullivant on her knees, returning thanks for a thumping legacy--for that was the form her remembrance of him would take, if it took any--struck him as being a trifle incongruous.
Next moment an exclamation escaped him. He had suddenly missed his big gold watch, with its pendant of seals and trinkets, which he was in the habit of keeping within reach on the little table by his bedside. That it had been there only a few minutes before he was fully convinced. Whither, then, had it vanished?
Mrs. Bullivant at once began a search for the missing article, but at the end of two or three minutes she gave it up as a bad job. Then her eyes fell on Gavin, who had gone back to his perch on the easy-chair, and had been watching her movements with much apparent interest. She knew from previous experience that when he looked the most cherubic he was usually most in fault. It seemed to her that he appeared too unconscious to be wholly innocent. "Come here," she said, beckoning him with her finger. He obeyed without hesitation.
He had only lately been breeched, and very proud he was at having been emancipated from petticoats. Pockets had not been omitted from his jean trousers--cut short in the leg, as was the fashion, so as to leave displayed an amplitude of white stocking--and from one of them his mother now produced the Squire's watch and appendages. He flushed a little and threw a timorous glance at the sick man, but, on the whole, his mother was the more put about of the two.
"I cannot imagine what made him do such a thing," she said, with tears of vexation in her eyes. "But you may rest assured, dear Mr. Cortelyon, that I will not fail to chastise him most severely when we reach home."
But the Squire was sniggering. "I trust, Onoria, you will do no such thing," he said. "It was merely the trick of a child too young to know the difference betweenmeumandtuum. The best course will be to overlook it as if it were a matter of no consequence and so leave him to forget it. Indeed, I am rather glad than otherwise to have had such a proof of the young rascal's acquisitive faculty. It goes, I think, to prove that he will not grow up a prodigal like his father."
When his visitors had left him the Squire lay for some time deep in thought. At length he said, speaking aloud, for he had just taken his cordial and was alone: "The more I see of her, the more confirmed I am in my decision. Her views in all that relates to the great question of property are almost the counterpart of my own. She is a woman of a thousand. What an admirable daughter-in-law she would have made! If only that poor headstrong lad of mine had---- But why go back to that business even in thought? The past is dead and buried; we have now to deal with the present and to arrange for the future. I would give something to be able to see Onoria's face while she is hearing the will read. I told her about the legacy of three thousand pounds, but I said nothing about a life-interest in my landed estate. I have left that by way of a surprise, and what a joyful surprise it will be to her! Well, well, to-morrow I will send for Piljoy."
It was in the course of the afternoon of the second day after Mrs. Bullivant's last visit that Mr. Piljoy arrived at Stanbrook. He was genuinely shocked at the condition in which he found the Squire, whose confidential business agent he had been for more than a quarter of a century. The sick man's lamp of life had indeed flickered down to a very feeble flame. Evidently no time must be lost in having the all-important document drawn up and then signed and witnessed in due form.
So for a full hour or more the two men, lawyer and client, were closeted together in the latter's bedroom. The will itself, engrossed and ready for signature, was to be brought by Mr. Piljoy three days later.
The lawyer was to dine and stay the night at Stanbrook, as he had done many times before; and in order that he should not lack company, his old acquaintance Mr. Herries, the vicar, had been asked to meet him.
Miss Baynard and Mrs. Budd honored the two gentlemen with their company at dinner, but left them to their own devices as soon as the meal was over. Then the lawyer and the vicar--the latter of whom was a jovial, fox-hunting parson of what we are accustomed to term "the old school!"--drew their chairs closer, in anticipation of a pleasant evening over their long pipes and a steaming bowl of punch, and in all likelihood they were not disappointed.
At ten o'clock the vicar's man came with a lantern to light his master home. By this time Mr. Piljoy was not quite so steady on his feet as he customarily was, and when Andry Luce brought him his bed-candle and proffered his arm to help him upstairs, he accepted it without demur, for he had sense enough to know that at his time of life it would not do to risk a fall. But, indeed, Andry had helped him in similar fashion on more than one occasion before.
Nor did the thoughtful Andry leave him till he had helped him off with his coat, waistcoat, cravat, gaiters, and shoes. He also wound up his watch, and placed it, together with his purse and bunch of keys, on the dressing-table. One of the abominations of those days, known as a rushlight, was left to burn itself away.
An hour later, Andry, minus his shoes, stole into the bedroom, having, earlier in the evening, taken the precaution to abstract the key of the door. The lawyer's measured, long-drawn breathing convinced him that he had nothing to fear. Inside the small valise Mr. Piljoy had brought with him he found the paper of instructions for the drawing-up of the Squire's will. To make himself master of its contents was the object of his nocturnal intrusion. Five minutes by the dim aid of the rushlight sufficed for his purpose. Then he put the paper back and went his way as silently as he had come.
Mr. Piljoy left Stanbrook immediately after breakfast, and without seeing the Squire again, travelling, as he always did on such occasions, by post-chaise.
In the course of the same forenoon Andry Luce sought Miss Baynard with the view of making a certain private communication to her. Talking on Andry's part was, of course, done by means of his fingers, but long practice had made Nell an adept at reading the language of the dumb.
Andry, who retained no recollection of his parents, in his brooding, self-contained fashion had never really cared but for two people, to-wit, his young master, Dick Cortelyon, and Miss Baynard. One of them was dead, and to the other was now given a double measure of that love and devotion which had sprung full-grown from his heart the moment he first set eyes on her, and had burnt there with a steady, unflickering flame ever since. She was the secret goddess at whose shrine he worshipped daily. His love was unmixed with any taint of ordinary passion, and was as absolutely pure as that of a father for his child. It was the one well-spring of living water his maimed life knew. There was nothing in the wide world he would not have done, or have attempted, at Miss Baynard's bidding.
His object in seeing her this morning was to enlighten her with regard to the provisions of the Squire's new will, which Mr. Piljoy was to bring a couple of days hence for the purpose of having it signed and witnessed. He did not tell her through what channel he had obtained his information, and, naturally enough, Nell imagined that it was he and not Mr. Piljoy who had drawn up the instructions, or, at any rate, that he had been present at their specification by her uncle. But before Andry's fingers, working although they were at their quickest, had got more than half through their tale, Nell's thoughts were otherwise engaged.
She was rendered terribly indignant, as Andry knew full well she would be, by the thought of the gross and cruel injustice of which Mr. Cortelyon meditated making his innocent grandson the victim. She was made both to love strongly and to hate strongly, and there was nothing she hated more than aught that savored of cruelty or injustice. She had loved poor dead and gone Dick as a younger sister loves a handsome, generous, kind-hearted elder brother, and it made her blood boil to think that his child should be treated as an outcast from the hearth to which he ought to have been welcomed as the pride and the heir.
But what could be done? How could the purpose of this most iniquitous will be defeated? She could discern no way--none. She was as helpless in the matter as a new-born babe. Tears hot and passionate were shed by her in the privacy of her own room. But of what avail are a girl's tears? They fall, only to be dried up as quickly as a summer shower.
Now, it so happened that about this time a certain peripatetic dealer in rare books, coins, and curios of different kinds, of whom Mr. Cortelyon had made sundry purchases at various times, called at Stanbrook on purpose to submit to the Squire a choice illuminated MS. of the fifteenth century, for which he was desirous of finding a customer. The price asked was a high one, but after a little haggling--he was too weak to hold out long--the Squire agreed to pay it rather than let the treasure go.
It was not so much that he had fallen in love with it on his own account, as he believed that in it he had secured a rarity, to possess which his friend Mr. Delafosse, who was also a bibliophile and a numismatist, but more of the former than the latter, would be willing to give in exchange a certain unique stater of Epaticcus which he, Ambrose Cortelyon, had long coveted. Although he believed himself to be so near his end, it seemed to him that he should die happier with the precious stater shut up in his palm, and the knowledge that at last it was his own.
Yes, Nell should go to Dene House, taking the MS. with her and negotiate the exchange. She was already known to Mr. Delafosse, who was no stranger at Stanbrook, and, in point of fact, was a special favorite of the old collector. Dene House was some twenty-five miles away across country. She could go on horseback, accompanied by John Dyce by way of escort.
So great became his impatience that he would have her set out that very afternoon. The days were already long, and she could reach Dene House soon after sunset, stay there overnight--Mrs. Delafosse would give her a hearty welcome--and be back home before noon on the morrow.
So Nell was sent for, and the manuscript given into her charge. By this time her uncle's weakness had become so extreme that his wishes and instructions had perforce to be limited to a few whispered sentences. But Nell gave him to understand that she knew exactly what he wanted done, and he was satisfied. She would set out in the course of the afternoon, and be back by midday on the morrow.
About an hour later Dr. Banks arrived, accompanied by Dr. Mills. The Squire had expressed a wish to see the latter about once a week, and although all the doctors in the world could have done nothing for him, that was no reason why his whim should not be humored. But there was no need for a lengthened visit, and the pair had come and gone in the course of half an hour.
This was the day fixed for the return of Mr. Piljoy with the will, and about half-past two a post-chaise drove up, from which, however, there alighted not the lawyer himself, but his managing clerk, Mr. Tew. Mr. Piljoy, he reported, was laid up with gout, and unable to come, but he, Mr. Tew, was just as competent to see to the proper signing of the will.
Mr. Tew was not sorry to be told that the Squire was asleep and must on no account be disturbed. He was both tired and hungry, and was glad to be able to put the hospitality of Stanbrook to the proof before having to attend to the business which had taken him there.
It was not till close upon five o'clock that he was summoned to the Squire's presence. The sick man was alone, propped up in bed as usual, but Andry Luce had been instructed to keep within hearing of his master's bell.
Mr. Tew, having explained the cause of his employer's absence, went on, at the Squire's request, to read the will aloud, slowly and deliberately, the testator giving a nod of approval at the end of each clause. Five or six minutes brought the reading to an end, and as he took off his spectacles Mr. Tew said: "I presume, sir, that your witnesses are in readiness?"
The Squire nodded. "Ask Andry to summon the gardener and the groom. They have been told to hold themselves in readiness," he whispered.
The two subordinates in question were not long in making their appearance, and very self-important, albeit somewhat sheepish, they looked. They did not know they had been chosen as witnesses because most of the older servants were legatees under the will, whereas they were not mentioned in it. Besides, it had been ascertained that they could actually sign their names, which, for persons of their class, was regarded in those days as a very considerable accomplishment.
Then Andry, who had charge of the proceedings, brought in the Squire's big leaden inkstand, together with a couple of quill pens, which he had cut and trimmed specially for the occasion. All being in readiness, Andry put a stalwart arm round his master, and held him in a firm support while the latter, with slow and painful elaborateness, wrote his name at the foot of the will, which Mr. Tew held for him in a convenient position. That done, the groom and the gardener in turn followed their master's example, not without many strange facial contortions as the pen travelled shakily over the parchment. Then they touched their forelocks and shuffled out of the room, glad the ceremony was over, and yet feeling themselves to be much more important persons than they had been a quarter of an hour before. As they shambled downstairs they whispered to each other that they had set eyes on "th' owd Squire" for the last time. Of the contents of the document signed by them they knew nothing. They had been told it was their employer's will, and that was enough for them.
Mr. Tew was not allowed to leave Stanbrook till after dinner, nor, indeed, had he any particular desire to do so. He could not stay overnight, as Mr. Piljoy would have done, but so long as he was back at business by nine o'clock on the morrow, that was all that would be expected of him. He was carrying back with him the signed will, in an envelope sealed with the Squire's own seal, to be retained in the custody of his employer till the time should have come for it to be made public.
Mrs. Budd and he dined alone. He was told that Miss Baynard, to whom he had been introduced earlier in the afternoon, had in the meantime left the Hall on some private business for her uncle, and was not expected back till next day.
Shortly after seven o'clock, Mr. Tew, who was beginning to be a little muddled with the quantity of old port he had imbibed, bade Mrs. Budd an almost affectionate farewell (she was a widow, and, to his thinking, still a charming woman), climbed into his chaise, and was driven off on his return to Arkrigg.
Night settled down over the old house. In those remote country parts people kept early hours, and when the hall clock chimed the half-hour past ten the only light left burning in the Hall was the one in the sick man's room. Near it sat Nurse Dinkel busily knitting--for she could not bear her fingers to be idle--but watchful and alert, as she always was. The Squire did not like to be looked at as he lay there, and from where she sat she could not see him for the heavy curtains that shrouded the head of the bed, but the slightest movement of his fingers on the counterpane drew her to his side.
She was a woman of some education, and had a low and pleasant voice, and as Mr. Cortelyon's nights were often restless and wakeful, he had got into the way of occasionally asking her to read aloud to him. Her doing so took him for a time out of the dungeon of his own thoughts and sometimes brought in its train the sleep he longed for.
So to-night, after lying awake for some time, as motionless as if he were already dead, he said, "Nurse!"
"Yes, sir?"
"I want you to read to me." His voice was still very feeble, but stronger than it had been in the afternoon; such fluctuations were frequent with him.
"Yes, sir. What would you like? Shall I go on with Mr. Pope from where we left off the night before last?"
"Aye, you can't improve on him. Draw back this curtain that I may the better hear you."
When the curtain had been drawn back Nurse Dinkel did not return to her chair, but stood there, looking at her patient, nursing an elbow in either hand.
"Mr. Cortelyon, sir," she said after a brief pause, "I have something on my mind which I wish most particularly to say to you, if you will kindly give me leave to do so."
"Surely, Mrs. Dinkel, I will listen to anything you may have to say. But don't stand there while you talk. Go back to your chair."
"Thank you, sir," she said, as she resumed her seat. "I will try not to tire you, although what I wish to say may at the beginning seem a bit tedious. You may or may not be aware, sir, that I have a son, Cornelius by name, who is now turned thirty years of age. When he was quite a boy--and a clever boy he was, though 'tis I who say it--the late Sir Willoughby Freke took a great fancy to him. In the course of time he went to London, at Sir Willoughby's expense, for he was bent on studying to become a doctor. And study he did to such good purpose that he passed all his examinations with flying colors. Hardly, however, had he obtained his diploma before a very good offer was made him to go out to Java, where he has relations on his father's side engaged in business. It was an offer he felt bound to accept. That was ten years ago, and now he has come back to England and is not going abroad any more. His home will be in London, but before settling down there he has come to spend a little time with his old mother, from whom he has been so long parted. And now, sir, I come to the reason why I have taken on myself to trouble you with all these dry particulars.
"My son has brought a wonderful discovery back with him from the East. According to his account, it will cure certain diseases after all other medicines have been tried in vain, and, in some cases, will almost bring dead people back to life. What the drug consists of I cannot tell you, because that is my son's secret, and one which he would not think of opening his lips about even to me. All I know is that the chief ingredient is the powdered bark of a certain tree, of which he has brought a considerable supply back with him. Cornelius feels as sure as it is possible for a man to be of anything that he has only to introduce his discovery to the medical world of London to find himself on the high road to a big fortune. His heart is buoyed up not merely by hope but by certainty.
"Well, sir, no longer ago than last Sunday afternoon, when you and Miss Baynard were good enough to spare me from my duties for a few hours, I had a long talk with my son, and took the liberty of telling him about your illness. And what do you think he said, sir? Why this: 'If Mr. Cortelyon could only be persuaded into trying my drug, I feel sure that it would give him a new lease of life.' Those were his very words, sir--'a new lease of life.'"
The Squire lay silent for a little while. Then he said, "And it is your opinion that I ought to allow myself to be experimented upon by this vaunted remedy of your son?"
"Most emphatically it is, sir. Cornelius is no idle boaster; he always knows what he is talking about, and he would not have said what he did without good reason. He tried the drug again and again in several desperate cases before he left Batavia, and in no instance was it a failure."
"But I am an old man, Mrs. Dinkel, and my case is not one of any particular disorder, but a gradual decay of the vital forces, which can have but one end--and that is now close at hand."
"Don't say that, sir, I beg. Who can say what wonder my son's remedy might not effect even in your case, as it has already done in those of others? It is true that neither Dr. Banks nor Dr. Mills seems able to do anything for you, but that is no reason why you should refuse the help now offered you from another source. My son knows your age within a year or two; I described to him all about your illness, and yet for all that, it is his deliberate opinion that he can give you a fresh lease of life."
Again the Squire lay for some time without speaking. "Only one quack the more," he murmured to himself with a touch of his old cynicism. "Well, why not? From the highest to the lowest they're quacks, every mother's son of 'em. As it is, I'm at death's door already, and if the fellow can do me no good, I'll defy him to do me much harm."
Then he said aloud: "D'you know, I'm half inclined to let this son of yours experiment upon me, if only to take some of the brag out of him and prove to him that in such a case as mine his wonder-working stuff is no more effectual than a dose of senna would be."
"Then youwilltry it, sir! That is all I ask. In any case, no harm can come of it."
"My own opinion exactly"--with a dismal attempt at a chuckle. "Yes, I agree to try it. Only, the affair must be kept secret; outside this room nobody must know about it, unless it be my man, Andry Luce. And now, when can this son of yours be smuggled into the house?"
"It's only a little past eleven o'clock, sir, and if you think you can spare me, I will go at once and bring him back with me. The servants are all abed, and my son could come and go without one of them being a whit the wiser."
"That's a very good notion of yours, damme! Go at once, my dear woman; but first give me a drink of that cordial. I shall want nothing till you get back. And if I can coax that shy dog, Morpheus, to keep me company meanwhile, so much the better."
It was with a bitter sense of helplessness that Miss Baynard continued to brood over the news brought her by Andry Luce. The knowledge that, with the exception of a certain legacy to herself and sundry small bequests to old servants, the whole of her uncle's wealth, both in land and money, would go to Mrs. Bullivant and her son, who were not even cousins six times removed, cut her to the quick. The amazing injustice of the thing, so to speak, struck her dumb. To think that a man who knew full well his span of life had dwindled to a few brief hours should, in cold blood, choose to perpetrate so black a sin--for in her eyes it was nothing less--was to Nell wholly inconceivable. And all for what? Merely because his son had married beneath him, and had thereby brought to naught a certain ambitious scheme on which his heart had been set. And now the innocent child was to suffer for its father's fault, if fault it were. Oh, it was monstrous--monstrous!
Of one thing she was quite sure: she would never touch her uncle's legacy. Every shilling of it should go to the boy. But what was such a pittance in comparison with the income which, when he should come of age, ought to be his of inalienable right? Yet his name was not once mentioned in the will! The last of the Cortelyons--bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh--might die in a gutter or come to the gallows for anything the old man cared. Such a revenge was more than human; it was fiendish, and could only have been prompted by the devil. Nell burnt from head to foot with a fine flame of indignation when she thought of these things, and for the next forty-eight hours she could think of nothing else.
It was in the course of the second afternoon after Andry Luce had told her that she happened--herself unseen--to overhear the two doctors talking together as they stood for a few moments in the corridor after coming out of her uncle's room. "I give him three days at the outside," one of them said. To which the other replied: "Hum! I daresay you are right. But I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he were to go off in his sleep between now and to-morrow."
Nell gave one quick gasp, and a shudder ran through her from head to foot. She had known for some time what each day was bringing nearer, but to hear from the lips of those who knew that the end was so close came upon her with a shock, and for a moment or two made her feel as if she had suddenly come face to face with a skeleton.
It was the day Mr. Piljoy had promised to bring the will for the purpose of having it signed, and as she remembered this she could not help saying to herself: "If I could only get hold of it and destroy it, my uncle would hardly live to sign another in its stead, and Evan, as his grandfather's heir-at-law, would succeed to everything!"
Then a little derisive laugh at her folly broke from her lips. Get hold of the will, forsooth! Why, she would not be allowed to so much as set eyes on it. Her brain must be softening even to imagine such a thing.
About an hour later her uncle sent for her. It was in connection with the errand to Mr. Delafosse that he wanted to see her. Having received her instructions--given brokenly and in whispers--and had the precious MS. committed to her charge, she left the room. He gazed after her, a little wistfully as it seemed, thinking, perhaps, that she might have kissed him before going--for in his heart he loved the girl--as at another time she most likely would have done; but her proud, set face had never changed while he gave her his message, and when he had done she simply inclined her head and went. She felt that even if she were never to see him alive again she could not forgive him; but he did not know that.
About two o'clock Mr. Tew, in Mr. Piljoy's stead, arrived with the will. In the absence of Mrs. Budd, who had gone into the village, he was received by Miss Baynard, to whom he explained the nature of his business and apologized for his employer's absence.
Nell's heart grew cold as she listened. Why did not Providence intervene, and not allow so black a deed to be consummated? If only Mr. Tew's arrival had been delayed for two or three days--she would not have cared by what means--then would he have come too late, and all would have been well. As it was, she could but wring her hands in sheer helplessness.
She was going sadly upstairs to her own room (after seeing Mr. Tew planted in front of a pigeon pie), when an idea flashed across her brain which for a moment or two seemed mentally to blind her. But it was a notion at once so wild and extravagant that, after drawing one long breath, her hands went involuntarily to her head, and she said to herself, "My reason must be deserting me." For all that, she could not thrust the notion from her; indeed, it had taken such a firm grip of her that when she reached her room she found herself under compulsion to sit down and face it, and, however bizarre and impracticable it had at first seemed, to consider it dispassionately from a common-sense point of view. The idea which had so startled her, and without any conscious leading up to it on her own part, was nothing less than, in the guise of a highwayman, to stop Mr. Tew when on his way back to Arkrigg and despoil him of the will.
When a young spark of nineteen or twenty, Dick Cortelyon, on the occasion of one of his brief visits at home, had attended a fancy ball in the neighborhood in the character of a gentleman of the road. In the wardrobe in his room upstairs--a room left untouched since the date of his quarrel with his father--the dress, wig, mask, pistols, and other items of his make-up on that occasion were stored to the present day, a fact which was within Nell's cognizance. The picture of her cousin, masked and ready to set out for the ball, had impressed her girlish imagination very vividly at the time, and had often recurred to her memory since; and this recollection it must have been, acting through some sub-conscious channel, which, while asking herself despairingly how she could get possession of the will, had inspired her with the idea of turning highwayman in reality--for one night only.
We know at what decision she arrived. Instead of scouting the idea and casting it from her, as ninety-nine young women out of every hundred would have done, she determined,coûte que coûte, to put it to a practical issue. Whatever risks might be connected with, or follow on, the affair she was prepared to face, if only she could thereby insure the destruction of her uncle's iniquitous will.
Fortunately for her, when she came to consider, several things seemed to work in favor of her scheme, desperate as at first sight it had appeared.
In the first place, everything in the way of dress and accessories needful for the part she had made up her mind to play were there ready to her hand. In the second, John Dyce, who was to act as her escort, had known her from childhood, was devoted to her, and could be thoroughly depended upon to keep any secret she might think well to entrust him with. In point of fact, John had originally been one of her father's servants, and he it was who had brought her, a girl of twelve, to Stanbrook, where he had remained ever since, filling the part of man-of-all-work in the Squire's establishment. Then, again, it was a good thing, so far as her purpose was concerned, that a married cousin of John should be keeper of the first toll-bar on the Whinbarrow road, which was the road she would have to journey by on her errand to Mr. Delafosse.
For the last time she asked herself, "Shall I adventure it, or shall I not?" knowing all the while what the answer would be. By now the afternoon was so far advanced that she must no longer delay her preparations. She knew already that Mr. Tew would not set off on his return journey till dinner should be well over. She herself would start in the early dusk about an hour in advance of him.
She made it her first business to see John Dyce and have a little private talk with him. Next she invented an errand for her maid to a neighboring village which would keep that elderly damsel out of the way till after her own departure. Next came one of the most essential features of the programme she was bent on carrying out: the transformation of Miss Baynard into the guise of a young man.
The change was affected in due course, and a very handsome and dashing young blade she looked. She took a long survey of herself in the cheval glass, blushing and smiling as she did so. Nell was a tall, Juno-like young woman, and as her cousin Dick had been a somewhat slender, medium-sized young fellow, his clothes fitted her almost as if they had been made for her.
But servants have prying eyes, and not thus would it do for her to be seen leaving the house; besides, there was the risk of encountering some one in the village to whom her face was known. So, over her man's dress she now proceeded to put on certain articles of feminine attire, to wit, a long riding-skirt, and a mantle with a hood to it, the latter of which she drew over her head. It was a common enough costume for ladies travelling on horseback.
Into a couple of saddle-bags, which John Dyce had supplied her with, she had already stowed away a number of things. Then, when all was ready, she went down by way of the back staircase, and so out of the house, unseen by any one save a gaping kitchen wench. In the court near the stables were two horses in readiness, one of them being her mare Peggy, a birthday gift, two years before, from her godmother, Lady Carradine. John helped her into the saddle, then mounted his own horse, and two minutes later they were cantering down the avenue.
They rode through the village, and so on their way for a couple of miles or more till they reached a little wooded hollow somewhat removed from the high-road. There Nell, having doffed her riding skirt and hooded mantle (her hair having been previously brushed back from her forehead and fashioned into a queue), substituted for them the three-cornered hat worn by her cousin at the fancy ball, with, by way of overall, an ample riding cloak, well worn, which poor Dick had been used to travel in. These articles she produced from the saddle-bags. Neither was the mask forgotten. Although she had never seen Mr. Tew before that day, and then only for a few minutes, it would not do to leave the slightest opening for his recognition of her in the part she was bent on playing.
John, meanwhile, had been changing Peggy's sidesaddle for an ordinary one. That done, he again helped her to mount. It was as well for Nell in her new character that her mare had been thoroughly trained, and that she was a fearless horsewoman. Whatever awkwardness or embarrassment she might feel at first the friendly night covered up; but presently she had other things to think of than any little hot and cold shivers of her own. In the holsters in front of her were stuck a brace of unloaded pistols. John's pistols, however, were fully charged.
How Miss Baynard sped on her hare-brained expedition has already been told: how she mistook the chaise of a stranger for that of Mr. Tew; how she was fired at, but escaped with nothing worse than a fright; and how the notorious Captain Nightshade appeared in the nick of time and acted as her guide as far as Rockmount, where, under the name of Mr. Frank Nevill (that of a cousin in India) she was made welcome, and found shelter for the night.
We left her just after Mr. Cope-Ellerslie's housekeeper had shown her to her chamber; and now that the two threads of our narrative have been brought together we will take up her history from the following morning.
When "Mr. Frank Nevill" went downstairs he found an excellent breakfast awaiting him in the same room into which he had been shown overnight. He was waited upon by Mrs. Dobson, who expressed much concern at the smallness of his appetite. When the meal had come to an end she said, "At what o'clock, sir, would you like your horse to be brought round?"
"As soon as it can be got ready, for I am anxious to get on my way."
In ten more minutes he was in the saddle. In accordance with Mr. Ellerslie's promise, a serving-man on horseback was in readiness to show him the way as far as the Whinbarrow road. He did not part from Mrs. Dobson without asking her to convey to her master his warmest thanks for the hospitality which had been extended to him; nor did he forget to press a guinea into her palm, reluctant though she was to take it.
As he turned away from the house he gave it a long backward look. It was a two-storied domicile, plain to the verge of ugliness, built of roughly-hewn blocks of the dark gray stone of the country. Its walls were of great thickness, and it was roofed with huge slabs of slate, well fitted to withstand the fierce gales which assailed it during the winter months. It stood alone in the centre of a great plateau of stony, desolate moorland, which spread away on every side till it was lost in the distance. No other homestead or sign of man's occupancy or vicinage was anywhere visible. A narrow rutted lane, originally, no doubt, nothing more than a sheep track, passed close by it, seemingly coming from nowhere and leading to nowhere. Frank Nevill shuddered as he looked. What must it be like, he asked himself, to live there in winter? What man in his proper senses would think of building a house on such a spot? And yet Mr. Cope-Ellerslie seemed well satisfied to live there!
After traversing the lane for a matter of three or four miles, Frank and his conductor emerged on one of the great highways running due north and south. Crossing this, they found themselves after a little while in a tangle of country roads, among which a stranger would infallibly have lost himself. Frank's guide, however, evidently knew every foot of the way, and at the end of a couple of hours, at a point where the cross-road they had been traversing debouched into one much wider, he pulled up his horse and said: "This is the Whinbarrow road, sir; six miles straight ahead will bring you to Dunthale Prior. Do you wish me to go any further with you, sir?"
They were almost the first words the man had spoken, and Frank, as in honor bound, had refrained from putting any questions to him.
He now dismissed him with thanks and a little present for himself. Twenty minutes later he drew rein and dismounted at the first toll-bar, at which place it had been arranged that John Dyce should await his arrival.
And there honest John was, and a glad man was he to set eyes again on his young mistress. Never before had he passed so wretched a night. Fear and anxiety had rendered him half crazy, and had put all thought of sleep out of his head.
As already stated, the keeper of the toll-bar was a cousin of John Dyce; and Mrs. Nixon, his wife, now proceeded to show "Mr. Nevill" into a neat little bedroom. It was the last time that young gentleman was seen by mortal eye. At the end of half-an-hour Miss Baynard--stately and gracious, but with a defiant sparkle in her eye which seemed to say, "Challenge me who dare!"--issued from the chamber and made her way downstairs.