It was the evening of the day on which Jack Newcombe had parted from Gideon and Una, and the young moon fell peacefully on the irregular pile of the ancient mansion known familiarly for twenty miles of its neighborhood as The Hurst.
The present owner was one Ralph Davenant, or Squire Davenant, as Jack Newcombe had called him, and as he was called by the county generally.
He was an old man of eighty, who had lived one-half his life in the wildest and most dissipated fashion, and the other half in that most unprofitable occupation known as repenting thereof.
I say “known as,” for if old Squire Davenant had really repented, this story would never have been written.
If half the stories which were told of him were true, Ralph Davenant, the present owner of Hurst, deserves a niche in the temple of fame—or infamy—which holds the figures of the worst men of his day. He had been a gambler, a spendthrift, a rogue of the worst kind for one half his life; a miser, a cynic, a misanthrope for the other.
And he now lay dying in his huge, draughty bed-chamber, hung with the portraits of his ancestors—all bad and filled with the ghosts of his youth and wasted old age.
As it was, he lay quite still—so still that the physician, brought down from London at a cost of—say, ten guineas an hour, was often uncertain whether he was alive or dead.
There was a third person in the room—a tall, thin young man, who stood motionless beside the bed, watching the old man, with half-closed eyes and tightly compressed lips. This was Stephen Davenant, the old man’s nephew, and, as it was generally understood, his heir. Stephen Davenant was called a handsome man, and at first sight he seemed to merit that description. It was not until you had looked at him closely that you began to grow critical and to find fault. He was dark; his hair, which was quite black, was smooth, and clung to his head with a sleek, slimy closeness that only served to intensify the paleness, not to say pallor, of the face. Pallor was, indeed, the prevailing characteristic, his lips even being of a subdued and half-tintedred; they were not pleasant lips, although for every forty minutes out of the sixty they wore a smile which just showed a set of large and even teeth, which were, if anything, too faultless and too white. Jack said that when Stephen smiled it was like a private view of a cemetery.
In short, to quote the Savage again, Stephen Davenant was an admirable example, as artists would say, of “a study in black and white.”
As he stood by the bed, motionless, silent, with the fixed regard of his light gray eyes on the sick man, he looked not unlike one of those sleek and emaciated birds which one sees standing on the bank of the Ganges, waiting for the floating by of stray dead bodies.
And yet he was not unhandsome. At times he looked remarkably well; when, for instance, he was delivering a lecture or an address at some institute or May meeting. His voice was low and soft, and not seldom insinuating, and some of his friends had called him, half in jest, half in earnest, “Fascination Davenant.”
It will be gathered from this description that to call all the race of Davenants bad was unfair; every rule has its exception, and Stephen Davenant was the exception to this. He was “a good young man.”
Fathers held him up as a pattern to their wayward sons, mothers patronized and lauded him, and their daughters regarded him as almost too good to live.
The minutes, so slow for the watchers, so rapid to the man for whom they were numbered, passed, and the old cracked clock in the half-ruined stables wheezed out the hour, when, as if the sound had roused him, old Ralph moved slightly, and opening his eyes, looked slowly from one upright figure to the other.
Dark eyes that had not even yet lost all their fire, and still shone out like a bird’s from their wrinkled, cavernous hollows.
Stephen unlocked his wrist, bent down, and murmured, in his soft, silky voice:
“Uncle, do you know me?”
A smile, an unpleasant smile to see on such a face, glimmered on the old man’s lips.
“Here still, Stephen?” he said, slowly and hollowly. “You’d make a good—mute.”
A faint, pink tinge crept over Stephen’s pale face, but he smiled and shook his head meekly.
“Who’s that?” asked Ralph, half turning his eyes to the physician.
“Sir Humphrey, uncle—the doctor,” replied Stephen, and the great doctor came a little nearer and felt the faint pulse.
“What’s he stopping for?” gasped the old man. “What can he do, and—why don’t he go?”
“We must not leave you, uncle, till you are better.”
A faint flame shot up in the old man’s eyes.
“Better, that’s a lie, you know. You always were——” Then a paroxysm of faintness took him, but he struggled with and overcame it.
“Is—is—Jack here?” he asked.
“I regret to say,” he replied, “that he is not. I cannot understand the delay. I hope, I fervently hope, that he has not willfully——”
“Did you tell him I was dying?” asked Ralph, watching him keenly.
“Can you doubt it?” murmured Stephen, meekly. “I particularly charged the messenger to say that my cousin was not to delay.”
The old man looked up with a sardonic smile.
“I’ll wait,” he muttered, and he closed his eyes resolutely. The minutes passed, and presently there was a low knock at the door, and a servant crept up to Stephen.
“Mr. Newcombe is below, sir.”
Stephen looked warningly at the bed, and stole on tiptoe from the room—not that there was any occasion to go on tiptoe, for his ordinary walk was as noiseless as a cat’s—down the old treadworn stairs, into the neglected hall, and entered the library.
Bolt upright, and looking very like a Savage indeed, stood Jack Newcombe.
With noiseless step and mournful smile, Stephen entered, closed the door, and held out his hand.
“My dear Jack, how late you are!”
With an angry gesture Jack thrust his hands in hispockets, and glared wrathfully at the white, placid face.
“Late!” he echoed, passionately. “Why didn’t you tell me that he was dying?”
“Hush!” murmured Stephen, with a shocked look—though if Jack had bellowed in his savagest tone, his voice would not have reached the room upstairs. “Pray, be quiet, my dear Jack. Tell you! Didn’t my man give you my message? I particularly told him to describe the state of my uncle’s health. Slummers is not apt to forget or neglect messages!”
“Messages!” said Jack, with wrathful incredulity; “he gave me none—left none, rather, for I was out. He simply said that the squire wanted to see me.”
“Dear, dear me,” murmured Stephen, regretfully. “I cannot understand it. Do you think the person who took the message delivered it properly? Slummers is so very careful and trustworthy.”
“Oh,” said Jack, contemptuously. “Do you suppose anyone would have forgotten to tell me if your man had told them that the squire was dying? I don’t if you do, and I don’t believe you do. You’re no fool, Stephen, though you have made one of me,” and he moved toward the door.
“Stay,” said Stephen, laying his white hand gently on Jack’s arm. “Will you wait a few minutes? Though by some unfortunate accident you were not told how ill my uncle is, I assure you that he is too ill now to be harassed——”
“Oh, I know what you mean without so many words,” interrupted Jack, scornfully. “Make your mind easy, I am not going to split upon you. Bah!” he added, as Stephen shook his head with sorrowful repudiation. “Do you suppose that I don’t know that your man was instructed to keep it from me? What were you afraid of—that I should cut you out at the last moment? You judge me by your own standard, and you make a vast mistake. It isn’t on account of the money—you are welcome to that—and you deserve it, for you’ve worked hard enough for it; no, it’s not on that account, it’s—but you wouldn’t understand if I told you. I am going up now,” and he sprang up the stairs quickly.
Stephen followed him, and entered the room close behind him. The old man looked up, motioned with his hand to Jack, looked at the other two and quietly pointed to the door.
Stephen’s eyes closed and his lips shut as he hesitated for a moment, then he turned and left with the physician.
“I think,” said Sir Humphrey, blandly, and looking at his watch—one of a score left him by departed patients, “I think that I will go now, Mr. Davenant; I can do no good and my presence appears only to irritate your uncle.”
The great doctor departed, just thirty guineas richer than when he came, and Stephen went into the library and closed the door, and as he did so it almost seemed as if he had taken off a mask and left it on the mat outside.
The set, calm expression of the face changed to one of fierce, uncontrollable anxiety and malice. With sullen step he paced up and down the room, gnawing—but daintily—at his nails, and grinding the white tombstones.
“Another half hour,” he muttered, “and the fool would have been too late? Will he tell the old man? Curse him; how I hate him! I was a fool to send for him—an idiot! What is he saying to him? What are they doing? Thank Heaven, that old knave Hudsley isn’t there! They can’t do anything—can’t, can’t! No, I am safe.”
Stephen Davenant need not have been so uneasy; Jack was not plotting against him, nor was the old man making a will in the Savage’s favor.
Jack stood beside the bed, waiting for one of the attacks of faintness to pass, looking down regretfully at the haggard, death-marked face, recalling the past kindnesses he had received from the old man, and remorsefully remembering their many quarrels and eventful separation.
“Bad lot” as he was, no thought of lucre crossed the Savage’s mind; he forgot even Stephen and the cowardly trick he had played him, and remembered only that he was looking his last on the old man, who, after his kind, had been good, and so far as his nature would allow it, generous to him.
At last old Ralph opened his eyes.
“Here at last,” he said; and by an effort of the resolutewill, he made himself heard distinctly, though every word cost him a breath.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he said; and his voice was husky. “I didn’t know——”
The old man looked at him shrewdly.
“So Stephen didn’t send? It was just like him. A good stroke.”
“Yes, he sent,” said Jack; “but——”
The old man waved his hand to show that he understood.
“A sharp stroke. A clever fellow, Stephen. You always were a fool.”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” he said quietly.
“But Stephen is a knave, and a fool, too,” murmured the old man. “Jack, I wish—I wish I could come back to the funeral.”
“To see his face when the will’s read,” explained old Ralph, with a grim smile.
Jack colored, and, I am ashamed to say, grinned.
A sardonic smile flitted over the old man’s face.
“Be sure you are there, Jack; don’t let him keep you away.”
“Not that you will be disappointed—much,” said the old man.
“Don’t think of me, sir,” said Jack, with a dim sense of the discordance in such talk from such lips.
“I have thought of you as far—as—as I dared. Jack, you are an honest fool. Why—why did you give thatpost obit?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack, quietly. “Don’t worry about that now.”
“Stephen told me,” said the old man, grimly. “He has told me every piece of wickedness you have done. He is a kind-hearted man, is—Ste—phen.”
“We never were friends, sir,” he said. “But don’t talk now.”
“I must,” murmured the old man. “Now or never, and—give me your hand, Jack.”
“I’ve had yours ever since I came in,” said Jack, simply.
“Oh, I didn’t know it. Good-by, boy—don’t—don’t end up like this. It—and—for Heaven’s sake don’t cry!”for Jack emitted a suspicious little choking sound, and his eyes were dim. “Good-by; don’t be too disappointed. Justice, Jack, justice. Where is Stephen?—send him to me. I”—and the old sardonic smile came back—“I like to see him—he amuses me!”
The eyes closed; Jack waited a moment, then pressed the cold hand, and crept from the room.
Half way down the stairs he leaned his arm on the balustrade and dropped his face on it for a minute or two, then choking back his tears, went into the library—where Stephen was sitting reading a volume of sermons—and pointed up-stairs.
“My uncle wants me?” murmured Stephen. “I will go. Might I recommend this book to you, my dear Jack; it contains——”
Jack, I regret to say, chucked the volume into a corner of the room, and Stephen, with a mournfully reproachful sigh, shook his head and left the room.
“Villains,” says an old adage, “are made by accident.” Now mark how accident helped to make a villain of the good Stephen Davenant.
He passed up the stairs and entered the bedroom. As he did so his foot struck against a chair and caused a little noise. The dying man heard it, however, and opening his eyes, said, almost inaudibly:
“Is that you, Hudsley?”
Stephen was about to reply, “No, it is I—Stephen,” but stopped, hesitated, and as if struck by a sudden idea, drew back behind the bed-curtains.
Whatever that idea was, he was considerably moved by it; his hands shook, and his lips trembled during the interval of silence before the old man repeated the question:
“Is that you, Hudsley?”
Then Stephen, wiping his lips, answered in a dry voice utterly unlike his own, but very remarkably resembling that of the old solicitor, Hudsley:
“Yes, squire, it’s Hudsley.”
The dying man’s hearing was faint, his senses wanderingand dimmed; he caught the sense of the words, however, for with an effort he turned his head toward the curtains.
“Where are you?” he asked, almost inaudibly; “I can’t see you; my sight has gone. You have been a long while coming. Hudsley, you thought you—knew—everything about the man who lies here; you were wrong. There’s a surprise for you as well as the rest. Did you see Jack?”
Stephen had no need to reply: the old man rambled on without waiting, excepting to struggle for breath.
“He is down-stairs. Poor boy! it’s a pity he is such a fool. There was always one like him in the Newcombe family. But the other—Stephen—the man who has been hanging about me all this time, eager to lick my boots so that he might step into them when I was gone; he is a fool and a knave.”
Stephen’s face went white and his lips twitched. It is probable that he remembered the adage: “Listeners hear no good of themselves.”
“He is the first of his kind we have had in the family. Plenty of fools and scamps, Hudsley, but no hypocrites till this one. Well, he’ll get his deserts. I’d give a thousand pounds to come back and hear the will read, and see his face. He makes so sure of it, too, the oily eel!”
Stephen writhed like an eel, indeed, and his lips blanched. Was the old man delirious, or had he, Stephen, really played the part of sycophant, toady and boot-licker all these years for nothing?
Great drops of sweat rolled down his face, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and his knees shook so that he had to steady himself by holding the curtain.
“Yes, disappointed all. You don’t understand. You think that you know everything. But no; I trusted you with a great deal, but not with all. How dark it is! Hudsley, you are an old man; don’t finish up like—like this. Only one soul in the wide world is sorry that I’m going; and he’s a fool. Poor Jack! I remember——”
Then followed, half inaudibly, a string of names belonging to the companions of his youth. Most of them were dead and forgotten by him until this hour, when he was about to join their shades.
“Ah, the old time! the old time. But—but—what was it I was saying? I—I—Hudsley—quick! for Heaven’s sake! I—the key—the key——”
Stephen came round, in his eagerness risking recognition.
“The key?” he asked, so hoarsely that his voice might well be taken for an old man’s. “What key?”
“Feel—under my pillow!” gasped Ralph Davenant.
Stephen thrust his trembling hand under the pillow, and, with a leap of the heart, felt a key.
“The safe!” murmured a faltering voice. “The bottom drawer. Bring them to me! Quick!”
Stephen glided snake-like across the room to a small safe that stood in a recess, opened the door, and with trembling hands drew out the drawer. His hands shook so, his heart beat to such an extent, that as a movement in the next room struck upon his ears, he could scarcely refrain from shrieking aloud; but it was only the nurse, whom the old man would only allow to enter the room at intervals; and setting his teeth hard, and fighting for calm, Stephen took out two documents.
One was a parchment of goodly proportions.
Both were folded and endorsed on the back—the parchment with the inscription, “Last will and testament of Ralph Davenant, Gent., Jan. 18—.”
With eyes that almost refused to do their task, Stephen turned the other paper to the light, and read, “Will, July 18—.” This inscription was written in an old man’s hand—the parchment was engrossed as usual.
Two wills! The one—the parchment, however, was useless; the other—the sheet of foolscap—was the last.
“Well,” rose the voice from the bed, hollow and broken, “have you got them?”
Stephen came up and stood behind the curtain, and held the wills up.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “The first is—is in whose favor?”
The old man struggled for breath. White, breathless himself with the agony of anxiety and fear—for any moment someone might enter the room—Stephen stood staring beside him. He dared not undo the tapes and glance at the wills, in case of interruption—dared not concealthem, for Hudsley might appear on the scene. With the wills clasped in his hand, he stood and waited.
The faintness passed—old Ralph regained his voice.
“One is parchment—the other is paper. The parchment one you drew up; you know its contents—I want it destroyed, or, stay, keep it. It will add to the deceitful hound’s disappointment. The other—ah, my God—it is too late—Hudsley, there is a cruel history in that paper. No hand but mine could pen it. But—but—I have done justice. Too late!—why do you say—too late? Why do you mock a dying man? Mind, Hudsley, I trust to you. It is a sound will, made in sound body—and—mind. Don’t leave that hypocritical hound a chance of setting it aside. I trust to you. Stop, better burn the first will; burn it here now—now,” and in his excitement he actually raised his head. Raised it to let it drop upon the pillow again with exhaustion.
Stephen stood and glared, torn this way and that by doubt and uncertainty.
“Justice,” he whispered hoarsely. “The first will, my will leaves all to——”
“To that hound Stephen!” gasped the old man. “I did it in a weak moment and repented of it. Leaves all to him; but not now.”
Stephen hesitated no longer. With the quick, gliding movement of a cat he reached the iron safe, replaced the parchment in the drawer and locked the outer door, and thrust the paper will into his pocket.
Scarcely had he done so, before he had time to get to his place, the door opened and Hudsley, the lawyer, entered.
He was an old man, as thin and bent as a withy branch, with a face seamed and wrinkled, like his familiar parchment, with the like spots; his dark, keen gray eyes, which looked out from under his shaggy eyebrows, like stars in a cloudy sky.
As he entered, Stephen came forward, his back to the light, his face in the shadow, and held out his hand.
Hudsley took it, held it for a moment, and dropped it with a little, irritable shudder—the slim, white hand wasas cold as ice—and, turning to the bed, looked anxiously at the dying man.
“Great heaven!” he said, “is he dead?”
A savage hope shot up in Stephen’s heart, but he looked and shook his head.
“No. You have been a long time coming, Mr. Hudsley.”
“I have, sir, thanks to your man’s stupidity,” said the lawyer, in an angry whisper. “He came for me in a confounded dogcart!”
“The quickest vehicle to get ready,” murmured Stephen. “I told him, to take the first that came to hand.”
“And the result,” said the lawyer impatiently. “The result is that we lost half an hour on the road! Does your man drink, Mr. Stephen?”
“Drink! Slummers drink!” murmured Stephen. “A most steady, respectable—I may say conscientious—man.”
“He may be conscientious, but he’s a very bad driver. I never saw such a clumsy fellow. He drove into a ditch half a mile after we had started.”
“Dear, dear,” murmured Stephen regretfully. “Poor Slummers. It is not his fault. He is a worthy fellow, but too sympathetic, and my uncle’s illness quite upset him——”
“Hush!” interrupted Mr. Hudsley, holding up his finger and bending down.
“Squire, do you know me? I am Hudsley.”
The dying man moved his hand faintly in assent.
“Yes. Have you done as I told you?”
“You have told me nothing yet.”
“The safe!—the key!—the pillow!” said the Squire.
Hudsley caught his meaning and felt under the pillow, and Stephen, as if to assist, thrust his hand under, and withdrew it with the key in his fingers.
“Why—again?” came the voice, broken and impatient. “You have done it! you have burnt the first.”
“What is he saying?” he asked.
“You have burned it; show me the other—the last; let me—touch it.”
Hudsley opened the safe and took the first will from the drawer.
“Two, did he say?” he muttered: “there is only one here—the will;” and he came to the bed with it.
“There is only one will here, of course, squire,” he said, bending down and speaking slowly and distinctly.
“Yes—you, you have—burned the other. Speak. I cannot see, but I can hear you.”
“I have burned none,” said Hudsley. “Have only just come—there is only one will here.”
“Which?” gasped the dying man.
“The will of January—Mr. Stephen——”
Before they could finish, they saw, with horror, the dying man half raise himself, his face livid, his hands wildly clutching the air, his eyes, by accident, turned toward Stephen.
“You—you thief!” he gasped. “Give it to me!—give—give—oh, God! Too late?—too la——”
It was too late. Before the nurse and Jack could rush into the room, horrified by the shriek which rang from Stephen’s white lips, old Ralph Davenant had fallen back dead!
Half an hour afterward Stephen Davenant passed down the stairs on tiptoe, though the tramp of an armed host could not disturb old Ralph Davenant now—passed down with his hand pressed against his breast pocket, in which lay the stolen will. Had the sheet of blue foolscap been composed of red-hot iron instead of paper, Stephen could not have felt its presence more distinctly and uncomfortably; it seemed to burn right through his clothes and scorch his heart; he could almost fancy, in his overstrained state, that it could be seen through his coat.
He paused a moment outside the library door, one white hand fingering his pale lips, the other vainly striving to keep away from his breast pocket, and listened to the tramp, tramp of Jack as he walked up and down the room. Any other face would have been more endurable than Jack’s, with its fiercely frank gaze and outspoken contempt.
At last he opened the door and entered, his handkerchief in his hand. Jack stopped and looked at him.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said.
“My poor uncle!”
Jack looked at him with keen scrutiny, mingled with unconcealed scorn.
“I have been waiting for you, in case you wished to say anything before I went.”
“What?” murmured Stephen, with admirably feigned surprise and regret. “You will not go, my dear Jack! not to-night.”
“Yes, to-night,” said Jack quietly. “I couldn’t stop in the house—I shall go to the inn.”
“But——”
“No, thanks!” said Jack, cutting him short.
“Oh, do not thank me,” murmured Stephen, meekly. “I may have no right to offer you hospitality, the house may be yours.”
“Well, I think you could give a pretty good guess on that point,” said Jack, bluntly; “but let that pass. I am going to the ‘Bush.’ If you or Mr. Hudsley want me—where is Hudsley?” he broke off to inquire.
“Mr. Hudsley is up-stairs sealing up the safe and things,” said Stephen humbly. “He wished me to assist him, but I had rather that he should do it alone—perhaps you would go through the house with him?”
Jack shook his head.
“As you please,” murmured Stephen, with a resigned sigh. “Mr. Hudsley is quite sufficient; he knows where everything of importance is kept. You will have some refreshments after your journey, my dear Jack?”
“No, thanks,” said Jack; “I want nothing—I couldn’t eat anything. I’ll go now.”
“Are you going, Mr. Newcombe?” said Mr. Hudsley, entering and looking from one to the other keenly.
“I am going to the ‘Bush;’ I shall stay there in case I am wanted.”
“The funeral had better be fixed for Saturday. You and Mr. Stephen will be the chief mourners.” Then he turned to Stephen. “I have sealed up most of the things. Is there anything you can suggest?”
“You know all that is required; we leave everything to you, Mr Hudsley. I think I may speak for my cousin—may I not, Jack?”
Jack did not reply, but put on his gloves.
“I will go now,” he said. “Good-night, Mr. Hudsley.”
The old lawyer looked at him keenly as he took his hand.
“I shall find you at the ‘Bush?’” he said.
“Yes,” replied Jack, and was leaving the room when Stephen rose and followed him.
“Good-night, my dear Jack,” he said. “Will you not shake hands on—on such an occasion?”
Jack strode to the door and opened it without reply, then turned and, as if with an effort, took the hand which Stephen had kept extended.
“Good-night,” he said, dropping the cold fingers, and strode out.
Stephen looked after him a moment with his meek, long-suffering expression of face changed into a malignant smile of triumph, and his hand went up to his breast pocket.
“Good-night, beggar!” he murmured, and closed the door.
Mr. Hudsley was still standing by the library-table, toying absently with the keys, a thoughtful frown on his brow, which did not grow any lighter as Stephen entered, making great play with the pocket-handkerchief.
“I think I also may go now, Mr. Stephen,” he said. “Nothing more can be done to-night. I will be here in the morning with my clerk.”
“I suppose nothing more can be done. You have sealed up all papers and jewels? I am particularly anxious that nothing shall be left informal.”
“I don’t think there is anything unsealed that should have been.”
“A very strange scene, the final one, Mr. Stephen.”
“Awful, awful, Mr. Hudsley. My poor uncle seemed quite delirious at the last.”
“Hem!” grunted the old lawyer, putting his hat to his lips and looking over it at the white, smooth face. “You think he was delirious——”
“Don’t you, Mr. Hudsley? Do you think that he wasconscious of what he was saying? You have been his legal adviser and confidant for years; you would know whether there was any meaning in his wild and incoherent statement about the will. As you are no doubt aware, my poor uncle never broached the subject of his intentions to me.”
“I know of only one will—that of last year. That will I executed for him; it is the will locked up in the safe up-stairs. I have a copy at the office,” he added, dryly.
“You—you don’t think there is any other—any other later will?” he asked, softly.
“I didn’t think so until an hour ago. I am not sure that I think so now. Do you?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “My uncle was not the man to draw up a will with his own hand, and his confidence, and I may say affection for you, were so great that he would not have gone to any other legal adviser to do it for him. No, I do not think there is any other will; of course, I do not know the contents of the will in the safe.”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Hudsley, in a tone so dry that it seemed to rasp his throat.
“And yet I cannot understand, my poor uncle’s outbreak, except by attributing it to delirium.”
“Hem!” said Mr. Hudsley. “Well, in case there should have been any meaning and significance in it, my clerk and I will make a careful search to-morrow.”
“Yes,” murmured Stephen, “and I devoutly trust that should a later will be in existence, you may find it.”
“I hope we may,” said Mr. Hudsley. “Good-night!”
Stephen accompanied him to the door as he had accompanied the doctor and Jack, and saw him into the brougham, and then turned back into the house with a look of release, which, however, gradually changed to one of lurking fear and indefinite dread.
“Conscience makes cowards of us all.”
It makes a worse coward of Stephen Davenant than he was naturally.
As he stood in the deserted hall, and looked round, at its vast dimness, at the carved gallery and staircase, somber and dull for want of varnish, and listened to the faint, ghostly noises made by the awe-strickenservants moving to and fro overhead, a chill crept over him, and he wished that he had kept one of them, even Jack, to bear him company.
With fearful gaze he peered into the darkness, scarcely daring to cross the hall and enter the library. For all the stillness, he fancied he could hear that last shriek of the dying man ringing through the house; for all the darkness, the slim, bent figure seemed to be moving to and fro, the dark piercing eyes turned upon him with furious accusation. Even when he had summoned up courage to enter the library, locking the door after him, the eyes seemed to follow him, and with a shudder that shook him from head to foot he poured out a glass of brandy and drank it down.
The Spirit of Evil certainly invented brandy for cowards.
Stephen set down the empty glass and looked round the room—another man.
He even smiled in a ghostly kind of fashion as he took the will from his pocket and opened it.
“Poor Jack!” he murmured, with a sardonic display of the white teeth. “This no doubt makes you master of Hurst Leigh; but Providence has decreed that the spendthrift shall be disappointed. Yes, I am the humble instrument chosen. I am——”
He stopped suddenly with a start, for he had been reading as he soliloquized, and he had come upon words that struck him to the very heart’s core.
Was he dreaming, or had his senses taken leave of him?
With beating heart and white, parched lips he stared at the paper until the lines of crabbed handwriting danced before his astounded eyes.
If brevity is the soul of wit, old Ralph Davenant’s will was wit itself. It consisted of five paragraphs.
The first was merely the usual preamble declaring the testator to be of sound mind.
The second ran thus:
“To John Newcombe I will and bequeath the sum of fifty thousand pounds, the said sum to be realized by the sale or transfer of bonds and stocks, at the discretion of James Hudsley.”
Enough in this to move Stephen, but it paled into insignificance before what followed:
“To my nephew, Stephen Davenant, I will and bequeath the set of Black’s sermons in twenty-nine volumes, standing on the second shelf in the library, having remarked the affection which the said Stephen Davenant bore the said volumes, and accepting his repeated assertions that his attendance upon me was wholly disinterested.”
An ugly flash and an evil glitter swept over Stephen’s white face and eyes, and his teeth ground together maliciously.
“To each and every one of my servants I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds, such sum to be forfeited by each and every one who assumes mourning for my death, which each and every one has anxiously looked forward to.
“And lastly, I will and bequeath the remainder of my property of whatsoever kind, be it money, houses, lands, or property of any description, to my only daughter and child, Eunice Davenant, the same to be held in trust for her sole use and benefit by James Hudsley.
“And I hereby inform him, and the world at large, that the said Eunice Davenant is the only issue of my marriage with Caroline Hatfield; that the said marriage was celebrated in secret at the Church of Armfield, in Sussex, in June, 18—. And that the said Eunice Davenant, my daughter, is in the keeping of one Gideon Rolfe, woodman, of Warden Forest, who has reared her as his own child, and who is unacquainted with the facts of my secret marriage, and I decree and appoint James Hudsley sole guardian, trustee, and ward of the aforesaid Eunice Davenant, and at her hands I crave forgiveness for my neglect of her mother and herself.
“(Signed)Ralph Davenant,“Hurst Leigh.“Witness—George Goodman,“Coachman, Hurst Leigh.“Martha Goodman,“Cook, Hurst Leigh.”
White, breathless, Stephen held the paper in his clinched hands and stared at the astounding contents.
Eunice Davenant the squire’s daughter.
His overstrained brain refused to realize it.
Old Ralph Davenant married! Married! It was impossible.
Oh, yes, that was it.A smile, a ghastly smile shone on his face.It was a joke—a vile, malicious joke, worthy of the crabbed, misanthropical old man! A villainous joke, set down just to bring about litigation, and create trouble and confusion between the two young men, himself and Jack Newcombe. And yet—and the smile died away and left his face fearful and haggard—and yet that awful fury of the dying man when he knew that the will had been stolen.
No, it was no jest. The marriage had taken place; therewasa daughter, and she was the heiress of all that immense, untold wealth, except the fifty thousand pounds left to Jack Newcombe, while he—he, Stephen Davenant, the next of kin, the man who had been working, lying, toadying for the money, was left with a set of musty sermons.
Rage filled his heart; stifling, choking with fury, the disappointed schemer struck the senseless paper with his clinched fist, and ground his teeth at it; then, suddenly, as if by a swift inspiration, he remembered that this accursed will, which would reduce him to beggary, and leave an unknown girl and his hated cousin wealthy, was in his hands; that he and he only knew of its existence. With a sudden revulsion of feeling he sprang to his feet, and held the paper at arm’s length and laughed softly at it, as if it were endued with sense, and could appreciate its helplessness.
Then he drew the candle near, folded the paper into a third of its size, held it to the candle—and drew it back again, overcome by that fascination which almost invariably exercises itself on such occasions—that peculiar reluctance to destroy the thing whose existence can destroy the possessor.
The flame flickered and licked the frail paper; the smoke curled round its edge; and yet—and yet he could not destroy it.
Instead, he sat down, and with clinched teeth unfoldedthe will and read it—read it again and again, until every word was burned and seared into his brain.
“Eunice Davenant! Eunice Davenant! Curse her!” he groaned out.
But even as the words left his lips a sound rose, the unmistakable tap—tap of something—some finger striking the window-pane.
Biting his bloodless lips to prevent himself calling out in his ecstasy of fear, he thrust the will into his pocket, caught up the candle, swept the curtains aside, and started back.
The light fell full upon the face of a young girl.
The face at the window was that of a young girl of about two-and-twenty.
It would be hard to say whether Stephen Davenant was pleased or annoyed by this apparition. That he was surprised there could be no doubt, for he almost dropped the candle in his astonishment, and fumbled at the lock of the window for some moments before he could open it.
“Laura!” he exclaimed, “can it be you? Great Heavens! Impossible!”
With a little gasp of relief and suppressed excitement, the girl stepped into the room, and leaned upon his arm, panting with a commingling of weariness and fear.
“My dear Laura,” he said, still holding the candle, “how did you come here? Why——”
“Oh, Stephen, is it really you? I was afraid that I had made some mistake—that I had come all this way——”
“You do not mean to say you have come all the way from London alone—alone!”
“Yes, I have come all the way from London. Do not be angry with me, Stephen. I—I could not wait any longer. It seemed so long! Why did you leave me without a word? I did not know whether you were alive or dead. Three weeks—think, three weeks! How could you do it?”
“Hush! hush! Do not speak so loud,” he whispered. “Did anyone see you come in?”
“No one. I have been waiting in the shrubs for—oh, hours! I saw the visitors go away—an old gentleman and a young one—and I saw your shadow behind the blind,” and she pointed to the window. “I have been outside waiting, and dreading to knock in case you should not be alone.”
“You—you saw my shadow?” he said, with an uneasy smile. “Did you see—I mean, what was I doing?”
“I did not see distinctly; I was listening for voices. Oh, Stephen, I am so weary!”
He drew a chair for her, and, motioning her to sit, mixed a glass of brandy-and-water, and stood over her holding her wrist and looking down at her with an uneasy smile.
“Now,” he said, taking the glass from her, “tell me all about it—how you came, and why? Speak in a whisper.”
“You don’t need to ask me why, Stephen,” she said, leaning forward and laying her hand upon his arm, her dark eyes fixed on his half-hidden ones. “Why did you leave me so long without a word?”
“I will tell you directly,” he answered. “Tell me how you came—alone! Great Heaven!”
“Alone, yes; why not? I was not afraid. I came by the train.”
“But—but——” he said, with a little flush and a shifting glance, “how did you know where I was?”
“You would never guess! You do not deserve that I should tell you. Well, I followed Slummers!”
“Followed Slummers!” he echoed, with a forced smile.
“Yes, I met him in the street; you are going to ask me why I did not ask him where you were,” she broke off with a smile and a shake of her head.
“Because I knew he would not tell me. Stephen, I do not like that man, and he does not like me. Why do you trust him so?”
“You followed Slummers—well?”
“To the station. I was behind him when he took his ticket, and I took one for the same place. I was quite close behind him, but he did not see me. I got into the train at the last moment, and I followed him from the station here.”
“My dear Laura,” he murmured, soothingly; “how rash, how thoughtless!”
“Was it?” she said. “Perhaps it was. I did not stop to think.”
“But now—now what are you to do?”
“Don’t be angry with me, Stephen, now Iamhere. You must tell me what I am to do.” Then her eyes wandered round the house. “What a large house! Is it yours, Stephen?”
“Eh?” he said, starting slightly. “I—I—don’t know—I mean it was my uncle’s. I was going to write to-night and tell you where I was, and why I did not write before.”
“Why didn’t you?” she said, with gentle reproach.
“Because,” he replied, “I could not—it was impossible. I could not leave the house, and could not trust the letter to a servant. My uncle has been very ill: he—he—lies dead up-stairs.”
“Up-stairs! Oh, Stephen!”
“You see,” he exclaimed reproachfully, “that I have a good excuse, that I have not desert—left you without a word for no cause.”
“Forgive me, Stephen, dear!” she murmured, penitently. “Do not be angry with me. Say you are glad to see me now I have come.”
“Of course I am glad to see you, but I am not glad you have come, my dear Laura. What am I to do with you? I am not alone here, you know. The house is full of servants; any moment someone may come in. Think of the awkward position in which your precipitancy has placed me—has placed both of us!”
“I never thought of that—I did not know. Why did you not tell me you were with your uncle? Oh, Stephen, why have you hidden things from me?”
“Hidden things?” he echoed, with ill-concealed impatience. “I did not think that it was worth telling. I did not know that I was coming—I was fetched suddenly. Now that I come to think of it, I told Slummers to call and tell you.”
“And he forgot it—on purpose. I hate Slummers!”
“Poor Slummers!” murmured Stephen. “Never mind him, however. We must think now of what is to be done with you. You—you cannot stay here.”
“Can I not? No, I suppose not. I can go back,” she added, with a touch of bitterness.
“My darling,” he said, coaxingly, “I am afraid you must go back. There is an up-train—the last—in half an hour.”
The girl leaned back and clasped her hands in her lap.
“I am very sorry,” he said, grasping her arm; “but what can I do? You cannot stay here. That’s impossible. There is only one inn in the place, and your appearance there would arouse curiosity, and—oh,that, too, is quite impossible! My poor Laura, why did you come?”
“Yes,” she said, slowly, “it was foolish to come. You are not glad to see me, Stephen.”
He bent over her and kissed her, but she put him from her with a touch of her hand, and rose wearily.
“I will go,” she said. “Yes, I was wrong to come. Tell me the way,” and she drew her jacket close.
“Don’t look so grieved, dear,” he murmured. “What am I to do? If there was any place—but there is not. See, I will come with you to the station. We shall have to walk, I am afraid; I dare not order a carriage. My poor child, if you had only foreseen these difficulties.”
“Do not say any more,” she interrupted coldly. “I am quite convinced of my folly and am ready to go.”
“Sit down and wait while I get my hat. We must get away unobserved. Suspicious eyes are watching my every movement to-night. I can’t tell you all, but I will soon. Sit down, my darling; I will not be gone a moment. If anyone comes to the door, step through the window and conceal yourself.”
Unlocking the door noiselessly he went out, turning the key after him.
Barely a minute elapsed before he was in the room again.
Warm though the night was he put on an overcoat and turned up the collar so that it hid the lower part of his face.
Locking the door after him, he came up to the table,poured out another glass of brandy-and-water, and got some biscuits.
“Come,” he said, “you must eat some of these. Put some in your pocket. And you must drink this, my poor darling, or you will be exhausted.”
She put back the glass and plate from her with a gesture of denial.
“I could not eat,” she said. “I do not want anything, and I shall not be exhausted. Let us go; this house makes me shudder,” and she moved to the window and passed out.
“Laura, my dear Laura,” murmured Stephen, in his most dulcet tones, “why are you angry with me?”
“I am not angry with you,” she said, and the voice, cold and constrained, did not seem the same as that in which she had greeted him a quarter of an hour ago. “I am angry with myself; I am filled with self-scorn.”
“My dear Laura,” he began, soothingly, but she interrupted him with a gesture.
“You are quite right; I was wrong to come. You have not said so in so many words, but your face, your eyes, your very smile have told me so plainly.”
“What have I said?”
“Nothing,” she answered, without hesitation, and with the same air of cold conviction. “If you had said angry words, had been harsh and annoyed openly, and yet been glad to see me, I could have forgiven myself, but you were not glad to see me. If I had been in your place—but I am a woman. Don’t say any more. Is the station near?”
“My dear Laura,” murmured Stephen for the third time, and now more softly than ever, “more must be said. I am anxious, naturally anxious, to learn whether this—this sudden journey can be concealed.”
It was quite true, he was anxious, very anxious—on his own account.
“Come,” he said; “it is all right, then. Do not take the matter so seriously, my darling Laura. The worst part of it is that you should have made such a journey alone, and have to go back alone, and at night! That is what grieves me. If I could but go with you—and yet that would scarcely be wise—but it is impossible under the circumstances. Come, give me your arm, my dear Laura.”
A little shiver ran through her frame, and she caught her breath with a stifled sob.
“Come, come, my darling,” he murmured; “don’t look back, look forward. In an hour or two you will be home.”
“Do you think I am afraid?” she asked, and her voice trembled, but not with fear. “No, I am looking back. Oh, Stephen, do you remember when we met first?”
“Yes, yes,” said Stephen, soothingly, and with an anxious, sidelong look about—to be seen promenading the high road with a young woman on his arm on the night of his uncle’s death would be the ruin of his carefully built-up reputation. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “Shall I ever forget? How fortunate you lost your way, Laura, and that you should have come up to me to ask it, and that I should have been going in that direction. And yet the thoughtless speak of chance!”
And he cast up his eyes with unctuous solemnity, though there was no one in the dark road to be impressed by it.
“Chance,” said the girl, sadly—“an evil or a good chance for me—which? Stephen, I sometimes wish that we had never met—that I had not crossed your path, and so have left the old life, with its dull, quiet and sober grayness; but the die was cast that afternoon. I went back to the quiet home, to the old man who had been my father, mother and all to me, and life was changed.”
“Your grandfather has no suspicion?”
“No, he trusts me entirely. If he asks a question when I go to meet you, he is satisfied when I tell him that I am going to a neighbor. Stephen, if I had had a mother, do you think I should have deceived her also?”
“Deceived? Deceived is too harsh a word, my dear Laura. We have been obliged, for various reasons, to use some reserve—let us say candidly, to conceal our engagement. You have not mentioned my name to anyone?” he broke off.
“To no one,” she answered.
“Such concealment was necessary. My uncle was a man of rough and hasty temper, ill-judging and merciless.”
“But,” she said, with a sudden eagerness, and a slight shudder, “he—he is dead now, Stephen. There is no need for further concealment.”
“Softly, softly, dear Laura. We must be patient—must keep our little secret a little while longer. I can trust my darling to confide in me—yes, yes, I know that——”
“Stephen, to-night for the first time—why, I know not—I have doubted—no, not doubted, for I have fought hard against the suspicion that I was wrong to trust you.”
“My dearest!” he murmured reproachfully.
“You were wrong to leave me for so long without a word—you put my love to too severe a test. I—I cannot say whether it has stood it or not. To-night I am full of doubt. Stephen—look at me!”
He turned his face and looked down. He had not far to look, for she was tall, and in the moment of excitement had drawn herself to her full height. The moon, sailing from amongst the clouds, shone on her upturned face; her lips were set, and the dark eyes gleamed from the white face.
“Look at me, Stephen. If—I say if—there is the faintest idea of treachery lurking in your mind——”
“My dearest——”
“Cast it out! Here, to-night, I warn you to cast it out! Such love as mine is like a two-edged sword, it cuts both ways, for love—or hate! Stephen, I have loved, I have trusted you—for mine, for your own sake, be true to me!”
He was more impressed than alarmed. This side of her character had been presented to him to-night for thefirst time. Hitherto the beautiful girl had been all smiles and humble devotion. Was she bewitched, or had he been mistaken in her. Perhaps it was the moon, but suddenly his face looked paler than ever, and the white eyelids drooped until they hid the shifting eyes, as he put his arm around her.
“My dearest! What can you mean? Deceive you! Treachery! Can you deem me—me—capable of such things. My dearest, you are overtired! And your jacket has become unbuttoned. Listen, that is the railway bell. Laura, you will not leave me with such words on your lips?”
“Forgive me, Stephen.”
“I have done so already, dearest, and now we must part! It is very hard—but—I cannot even go with you to the platform. Someone might see us. It is for your sake, darling.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, with a sigh. “Good-bye—you will write or come to me—when?”
“Soon, in a day or two,” he said. “Do not be impatient. There is much to be done; my poor uncle’s funeral, you know. Good-bye. See! I will stay here and watch the train off. Good-bye, dear, dear Laura!”
She put her arm round him and returned his kiss, and glided away, but at the turn of the road leading to the station she turned and, holding up her hand, sent a word back to him.
It was:
“Remember!”
Stephen waited until the train puffed out of the station, and not until it had flashed some distance did the set smile leave his face.
Then, with a rather puzzled and uneasy expression, he turned and walked swiftly back to the house.
His brain was in a whirl, the sudden appearance of the young girl coming on the top of the other causes of excitement bewildered him, and he felt that he had need of all his accustomed coolness. The sudden peril and danger of this accursed will demanded all his attention, and yet the thought of the girl would force itself upon him. He had met her, as she had said, in thestreets, and had commenced an acquaintance which had resulted in an engagement. Alone and unprotected, save for an old grandfather, and innocent of the world, Laura Treherne had been, as it were, fascinated by the smooth, soft-spoken Stephen, from whose ready tongue vows of love and devotion rolled as easily as the scales from a serpent in spring-time. And he, for his part, was smitten by the dark eyes and quick, impulsive way of the warm-hearted girl.
But there had come upon him of late a suspicion that in binding himself to marry her he had committed a false step; to-night the suspicion grew into something like certainty.
To tell the truth, she had almost frightened him. Hitherto the dark eyes had ever turned on his with softened gaze of love and admiration; to-night, for the first time, the hot, passionate nature had revealed itself.
The deep-toned “Remember!” which came floating down the lane as she disappeared rang unpleasantly in his ears. Had he been a true-hearted man the girl’s spirit would have made her more precious in his eyes; but, coward-like, he felt that hers was a stronger nature than his, and he began to fear.
“Yes,” he muttered, as he unlocked the library window, and sank into a chair. “It was a weak stroke, a weak stroke! But I can’t think of what is to be done now, not now!”
No, for to-night all his attention must be concentrated on the will.
Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he lit another candle. This time nothing should prevent him from destroying the accursed thing which stood between him and wealth; he would burn it at once—at once. With feverish eagerness he thrust his hand in his coat, then staggered and fell back white as death.
The pocket was empty. The will was not there.
“I—I am a fool!” he muttered, with a smile. “I put it in the other coat,” and he snatched up the overcoat, but a glance, a touch showed him that it was not there either.
Wildly, madly he searched each pocket in vain, went onhis knees and felt, as if he could not trust his sight alone, every inch of the carpet; turned up the hearth-rug, almost tore up the carpet itself, shook the curtains, and still hunted and searched long after the conviction had forced itself upon his mind that in no part of the room could the thing be hidden.
Then he paused, pressing his hand to his brow and biting his livid lips. Let him think—think—think! Where could it be? He had not dropped it on the stairs or in any other part of the house, for he remembered, he could swear, that he had felt the thing as he stood in the study buttoning up his overcoat. If not in the house, where then?
Throwing aside all caution in his excitement, he unfastened the window, and, candle in hand, examined the grand terrace, traced every step which he had taken across the lawn—and all to no purpose.
“It is lying in the road,” he muttered, the sweat dropping from his face. “Heaven! lying glaring there, for any country clown to pick up and ruin me. I must—I will find it! Brandy—I must have some brandy—this—this is maddening me!”
And indeed he seemed mad, for though he knew he had not passed it, he went back, still peering on the ground, the candle held above his head. Suddenly he stumbled up against some object, and, looking up, saw the tall figure of a man standing right in his path. With a wolfish cry of mingled fear and rage, he dropped the candle and sprang on to him.
“You—you thief!” he cried, hoarsely; “give it to me—give it me!”
The man made an effort to unlock the mad grasp of the hands round his throat, then scientifically and coolly knocked his assailant down, and, holding him down writhing, struck a match.
Gasping and foaming, Stephen looked up and saw that it was Jack Newcombe—Jack Newcombe regarding him with cool, contemptuous surprise and suspicion.
“Well,” he said contemptuously, “so it’s you! Are you out of your mind?” and he flung the match away and allowed Stephen to rise.
Trembling and struggling for composure, Stephen brushed the dust from his black coat and stood rubbing his chest, for Jack’s blow had been straight from the shoulder.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” said Jack, sternly. “I asked you if you had gone mad. What are you doing here with a candle, and behaving like a lunatic?”
Stephen made a mighty effort for composure, and a ghastly smile struggled to his face.
“My dear Jack, how you startled me!” he gasped. “I was never so frightened in my—my life!”
“So it appeared,” said Jack, with strong disgust in his voice. “Pick up the candle—there it is.”
And he pointed with his foot. But Stephen was by no means anxious for a light.
“Never mind the candle,” he said. “You are quite right—I must have seemed out of my mind. I—I am very much upset, my dear Jack.”
“Are you hurt?” inquired Jack, but with no great show of concern.
“No, no!” gasped Stephen; “don’t distress yourself, my dear Jack—don’t, I beg of you. It was my fault, entirely. The—the fact is that I——”
He paused, for Jack had got the candle, lit it, and held it up so that the light fell upon Stephen’s face.
“Now,” he said, his tone plainly intimating that he would prefer to see Stephen’s face while he made his explanation.
“The fact is,” Stephen began again, “I have had the misfortune to lose a pocketbook—no, not a pocketbook, that is scarcely correct, but a paper which I fancied I had put in my pocketbook, and which must have dropped out. It—it was a draft of a little legal document which my lawyer had sent me—of no value, utterly valueless—oh, quite——”
“So I should judge from the calm way in which you accused the first man you met of stealing it,” said Jack, with quiet scorn.
Stephen bit his lip, and a glance of hate and suspicion shot from under his eyelids.
“Pray forgive me, my dear Jack,” he said, pressing his hand to his brow, and sighing. “If you had sat up for so many nights, and were so worn and overwrought, you would have some sympathy with my overstrained nerves. I am much shaken to-night, my dear Jack—very much shaken.”
And indeed he was, for the Savage’s fist was by no means a soft one.
Jack looked at him in silence for a moment, then held the candle toward him.
“You had better go to the house and get some of the servants to help you look for the paper,” he said. “Good-night.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence,” said Stephen, eagerly. “Don’t go—stop a moment, my dear Jack. I—I will walk with you as far as the inn.”
“No, thanks,” said Jack, curtly; then, as a suspicious look gleamed in Stephen’s eyes, he added: “Oh, I see! you are afraid I should pick it up in the road. You had better come.”
Stephen smiled, and laid his hand on Jack’s arm.
“You—you are not playing a joke with me, my dear Jack? You haven’t got the—document in your pocket all the time?”
“If I said that I hadn’t you wouldn’t believe me, you know,” he replied. “There, take your hand off my coat!”
“Stop! stop!” exclaimed Stephen, with a ghostly attempt at a laugh. “Don’t go, my dear Jack; stop at the house to-night. I should feel very much obliged, indeed, if you would. I am so upset to-night that I—I want company. Let me beg of you to stop.”
And in his dread lest Jack should escape out of sight, he held on to his arm.
Jack shook him with so emphatic a movement of disgust that Stephen was in imminent danger of making a further acquaintance with the lawn.
“Go indoors,” he said sternly, “and leave me alone. I’d rather not sleep under the same roof with you. As for your lost paper, whatever it may be, you had better look for it in the morning, unless you want to get into further trouble,” and he turned on his heel and disappeared.
Stephen waited until he had got at a safe distance, and, blowing out the candle, followed down the road with stealthy footsteps, keeping a close watch on the rapidly-striding figure, and examining the road at the same time. But all to no purpose; Jack reached and entered the inn without stopping, and neither going nor returning could Stephen see anything of the missing will.
Two hours afterward he crept back and staggered into the library more dead than alive, one question rankling in his disordered brain.
Had Jack Newcombe found the will, and, if not, where was it?
After a time the paroxysm of fear and despair passed, and left him calmer. His acute brain, overwhelmed but not crushed out, began to recover itself, and he turned the situation round and round until he had come to a plan of action.
It was not a very definite one, it was rather vague, but it was the most reasonable one he could think of.
There in Warden Forest, living as the daughter of a woodman, who was himself ignorant of her legitimacy, was the girl. I am sorry to say that he cursed her as he thought of her. Where was the will? Whoever had got it would no doubt come to him first to make terms, and, failing to make them, would go to the real heiress.
Stephen, quick as lightning, resolved to take her away.
But where?
He did not much care for the present, so that it was somewhere under his eyes, or in the charge—the custody, really—of a trustworthy friend.
The only really trustworthy friend whom Stephen knew was his mother.
“Yes, that is it,” he muttered. “Mother shall take this girl as—as—a companion. Poor mother, some great ignorant, clodhopping wench who will frighten her into a nervous fit. Poor mother!” And he smiled with a feeble, malicious pleasure.
There are some men who take a delight in causing pain even to those who are devoted to them.
“Dear mother,” he wrote, “I have to send you the sad news of my uncle’s death. Need I say that I am utterlyoverwhelmed in grief. I have indeed lost a friend!” (“The malicious, mean old wolf,” he muttered, in parenthesis.) “How good he was to me! But, mother, even in the midst of our deepest sorrows, we must not forget the calls of charity. I have a little duty to perform, in which I require your aid. I fear it will necessitate your making a journey to Wermesley station on this line. If you will come down by the 10:20 on Wednesday, I will meet you at Wermesley station. Do not mention your journey, my dear mother; we must not be forgetful that we are enjoined to do good by stealth.