'That I believe, in most things. For myself, I hope it sincerely; but in this particular I do not quite see your meaning.'
'Yes, you do; you don't take me in with your mock simplicity. You know how I've helped you, and your grandmother before you.'
'I am no mocker, Mr. Bloodworth,' said Shady with dignity; 'and I deny that you have ever helped me; how you helped my grandmother Elizabeth you best know.'
'Ah! there it is, there's the gratitude I get,' said Bloodworth, who felt that Shady was in no spirit to be tampered with. 'I wish I'd never seen one of your name!' he growled, as he was leaving the apartment.
'Mr. Bloodworth,' said Shady, with a slight cough, 'you'll excuse my calling you back, but I should be sorry to forget my duty, through any natural rising of the heart against your very unmerited and unexpected attack, and therefore, in order to save you unnecessary trouble, may I ask whether you require that key for the same purposes which induced you to demand it before?'
'Of course I do,' said Bloodworth quickly.
'Ah!' said Shady, 'I guessed it might be so; then permit me to say that the gentleman whose name I could not catch is no longer there.'
'Not there!'
'No,' said Shady, again turning to his plants; 'having pledged myself to preserve him in privacy, and concluding that you would again demand the key, I informed him of my dilemma—which was that I must fail in respect either to him or to you; upon which he departed.'
'Which way?' muttered the steward, as soon as he could control his voice to utter the words.
'I didn't think he would wish to be followed,' said Shady coolly, 'and therefore did not observe him.'
'Let him go!' said the steward, with an oath, throwing the key to Shady; 'I'll remember you for this!'
'And I'll do my best to forget you for this,' said Shady, rubbing his leg, against which the key had struck with some force. 'In some way or other, I fear he is a bad man. How pleasant to turn to these innocent things!' tenderly looking at the flowers, 'after contention with the rude passions of men—yes, and even of women,' he mentally added, as Mrs. Gillies crossed his mind.
'The fact is, Jobson,' said Mr. Brimble, 'there's a skeleton cupboard in every man's house, and mine hasn't escaped that ugly piece of furniture.'
The squire was at his dinner-table, which the ladies had not long left, and at which the stranger had that day been a guest.
'I married to please myself, and not my father, and he took an effectual way of showing me that he had that view of it, by disinheriting me. It did not happen to be of any consequence, as far as the money went, for Mrs. Brimble had more than we wanted. I was obliged to part with my name, and take hers, before I could lay hold of her property; but as I have no sons, that is a trifle. When a man gets to grey hairs, he knows what a name is worth; though I believe the girls would rather be poor De la Marks than rich Brimbles—at least they fancy so now; but money is a vastly comfortable thing, Jobson, and glory without it is very hungry work.'
'You had another brother?' said the stranger, moving aside the wine which the squire pushed towards him.
'I had,' said the squire sorrowfully; 'did you ever hear of him?'
'Yes; I knew one who was intimate with him abroad; he was strongly attached to you.'
'Attached!' said the squire, with an agitated voice; 'we had but one heart. He ought now to be at Parker's Dew; instead of that—there,' said the squire, emptying his glass; 'I won't say any more, and I give myself great credit. Come,' he continued cheerfully, 'who was it that knew Eustace?'
'A stranger to you,' was the reply; 'but, Mr. Brimble, I knew your brother myself.'
'Hah!' said the squire starting; 'knew him, and you never told me.'
'No,' said the stranger; 'the truth is, I loved him, and you reminded me of him so much, when first I saw you, that I should have found it difficult to speak of him.'
'They always thought us alike,' said the squire gently, leaning his head down to hide the tears that filled his eyes. 'Well'—stretching out his hand—'we have now indeed a bond of union. Tell me all you remember about him.'
'All I remember of him?' said the stranger, with a smile, grasping the proffered hand; 'I cannot do that to-night; it is now'—
A violent ringing and the sudden entrance of a servant put a stop to the conversation, 'Dr. Cruden, sir, has just come from Parker's Dew, and wishes to see you alone. I have shown him into your room.'
'I am alone,' said the squire; 'tell him I've only a particular friend with me, and the wine's on the table. He's one of the best little fellows in the world, the doctor is,' he said, as the door closed; 'but he's continually croaking at me about a reconciliation with that fellow that turned poor Eustace out of his place to get into it. Every time he starves himself into a low fever, he comes here telling me he is going to die. I won't see him alone.'
The servant re-entered, 'Dr. Cruden, sir, cannot see you in the presence of anybody; his compliments, and he will not detain you.' And, having received no answer, the man respectfully closed the door.
'Don't you go to the ladies yet, Jobson,' said the squire, as he reluctantly followed the servant. 'I shall soon dispose of the doctor's confab, and send him into the drawing-room for some music, and then you and I can finish our wine and our talk together.'
'My dear sir,' said Dr. Cruden, as soon as he saw him, 'I've something most important to communicate.'
'I'm very sorry for it; people should never talk of important things at this time of night—it's the way to get nightmare, and you ought to know that. Come now, put it off till to-morrow; they are all in fine order for music in the drawing-room; and there's your sister, that you haven't seen for this fortnight, and your bed is ready always. Come now,' laying his hand upon his shoulder, with a heartiness that shook the doctor's frame, but not his purpose.
'My good friend,' he said solemnly, 'I do assure you what I have to say cannot be put off; your brother is ill, seriously ill.'
'So he has been once a fortnight, regularly, for the last three years, according to your account.'
'I beg you to be serious,' said the doctor, shaking his head; 'I question if he will recover this attack.'
'Oh, you are a capital hand at questioning; but what do you want me to do?'
'I want you'—said the doctor slowly; 'but you will promise me to be calm?' he said, laying his hand on the squire's arm, for he could not reach his shoulder.
'Now, don't beimpressive,' said the squire, 'but out with it. I'll forgive him, send him anything, do anything for him but go there.'
'Thevery thing I wish you to do,' said the doctor.
'Pshaw, nonsense! What! turn out at this time of night, to see a man that you kill regularly with every full moon—not I. Now, doctor, you know I've no illwill towards him, old screw as he is—and that is not saying the worst of him. And as to poor little Marjory, I would do for her as for my own child; but I haven't forgotten how you served me before. I said then that while he lived I'd never darken the doors of Parker's Dew.'
'My dear squire,' said the doctor, 'I can assure you he was entirely innocent of that; I believe Bloodworth was at the bottom of it.'
'I wish he were at the bottom of the sea.'
'We can't spare him just yet, to go so far,' said the doctor drily; 'but now let me tell you, we have made a little progress into an important discovery. All Sir Valary's strange conduct, I think, may be accounted for. There is a mystery which we are beginning to unravel, and I hope with your help'—
'Come and have some wine,' said the squire. 'Iunravel a mystery! cut it up, that's my advice.'
'Dear, dear,' said the doctor, much vexed, 'you will spoil everything by your impetuosity. I tell you the truth; I think Sir Valary will die unless his mind is relieved. Bloodworth must be discharged from the stewardship, and we have no means of getting rid of him.'
'Shoot him!' said the squire angrily.
'Shoot him, and send him to the bottom of the sea! That would be a severe dismissal.'
'No more than he deserves,' muttered the squire.
'Let us keep to common sense,' said the doctor. 'I feel sure that if you would come to see him, Sir Valary would hold out to you the right hand of brotherly fellowship. I do assure you he is a poor, shattered creature; and if you would but befriend that poor girl now, by helping him to get rid of Bloodworth, you would be thankful for having done it all the days of your life. Come now,' he continued, seeing that the squire was relenting, 'I have scarcely been at home for these three days; I have come in my own chaise now, thinking to save time, to take you back at once. Every hour is of consequence,' he said quickly, in answer to the squire's unpromising look and shrug.
'Come and have a glass of wine, and we'll talk about it, and I'll introduce you to Jobson; he was an intimate friend of poor Eustace. We were just talking about him when you came.'
The doctor made a faint protestation that he wanted neither wine nor Mr. Jobson; but when once Mr. Brimble had entered upon action it was not a little that could stop him; so, with a sigh of regret, he followed the squire to the dining-room. What occurred there shall appear in the next chapter.
'Mr. Cruden—Mr. Jobson, an intimate friend of poor Eu. Now, doctor, draw to the fire—the nights are getting quite chilly;' and the squire rang the bell.
'Have the horses taken from the doctor's chaise, and let them be well attended to.'
'My dear sir, no, no!' urged the doctor, attempting to stop the order.
'Why, man, you would never disgrace yourself by taking those poor brutes back again to-night: the merciful man is kind to his beast.'
'But I must go back,' cried the doctor.
'Well, then, put the greys in when the doctor is ready. One of our fellows can take yours back to-morrow—they shan't go away to-night; I'll answer for it they have done enough for to-day. So, now, sit down, and tell me your story; but first taste this claret—it's the king of my cellar at present. Jobson says it's excellent; but I can't make him drink any.'
The doctor gave himself up in despair for the time being, feeling that there was no possibility of stemming the tide; so he sat down in silence, filled with chagrin, taking little notice of Mr. Jobson, whose back was towards the light, obscuring his face. This circumstance, the difference in his dress, and the absence of all idea of seeing him there, together with the perturbation of his spirits, prevented immediate recognition of the stranger on the part of the doctor.
'So Bloodworth has been at his tricks, has he? Well, I'm glad there is an idea of ousting him; but you will never get it done. The best thing that could be done for Valary would be to bankrupt him, and send him to the Union; he would live better there, and so would all his family, than they do in that grim old place: it has never been the same since he had it.'
'Come, come,' said the doctor, giving a glance at the stranger; 'it is neither the time nor the place to take up old grievances.'
'Not the time? Why, hasn't his gruel disagreed with him, and made his conscience troublesome, and sent you to fetch me out to quiet it! I say it's just the time. As to the place, it's a very comfortable one, and the only thing to make such an uncomfortable subject tolerable; so begin at once. Don't wink towards Jobson,' he added, with a mischievous laugh; 'he may as well know what all the world knows.'
As to being angry with the squire, it was impossible under the greatest provocation; he managed to keep all personal ill-feeling at bay; he overcame every one with a certain frank benevolence that was irresistible.
The doctor and the stranger joined in the laugh, and for the first time the former looked fairly at the latter; he was struck with doubt and surprise.
'You'll excuse me,' he said; 'has Mr. Jobson been long with you?'
The stranger placed himself in the light and bowed, enjoying the effect of his silent answer.
'Well, this is marvellous,' said the doctor. 'I shall begin to believe I have been in fairyland.'
'Ha, ha, ha! a bright set of fairies you have been among,' said the squire. 'Somebody said they had worn out all their clothes, and Val had made them take to the old armour. Fancy fairies flying about in old armour!' and again he laughed. But the doctor's face grew more and more solemn—a fact which only increased the squire's merriment.
'Sir,' said the doctor with earnest gravity, 'may I ask who you are?'
'Now, that's your way of putting a question. I should have said, "When I have asked, will you tell me?"' said the squire, not recovered from his laugh.
'Oh, really, squire, this is very ill-timed,' said the doctor; 'and—and I may say unfeeling. I beg your pardon, but really it is'—
'As to unfeeling,' said Mr. Brimble, now serious, 'I've told you I don't believe a word about Valary's dying; he'll outlive us all—the worst always stay till the last; he will starve his own party out of the world, and then remain to plague us. You may shake your head; you are not the only man that shakes his head when there is nothing in it.'
'I believe I must turn you out of the conference, and take to Mr. Jobson,' said the doctor good-humouredly, for gravity, he saw, was of no avail. 'I wish I could starve you into a sober mind.'
'Sober nonsense!—drink some claret: I'm sure you must want some, for there's nothing but sawdust in Valary's cellar, I'll answer for it.'
'Well, now, listen to me,' said the doctor. 'I know I have given some false alarms; but this is no false alarm; and I promise you, if I am proved an ignoramus this time, to let things go as they will hereafter without interfering. As to seeing poor Marjory wither away without stirring a hand to help, or raising a voice for her, that man is not a man who could do it.'
'I honour you. Chivalry for ever! And poor little Madge, that I haven't spoken to since she was a few inches long, shall have help, and we'll all go to their rescue—say to-morrow morning.'
'Ah! that's of no use. Sir Valary had a bad fit yesterday. If another should come, his mind may not be clear, and he wishes for reconciliation: he does, I am convinced.'
'Ah! but you have a happy knack of being convinced of whatever you happen to wish. Now, I daresay you were quite convinced that I should return with you to-night.'
'Till I saw you, I confess,' said the doctor somewhat ruefully; 'but I might have known better.'
'Of course you might; hasn't he had the same fits for years, and is his intellect any the worse?'
The stranger interposed. 'You'll excuse my speaking' (to Mr. Brimble); 'but what if Dr. Cruden were to give a narrative of the facts that brought him to-night? If you'd give a patient hearing, you might judge whether the doctor's anxiety has magnified the necessity for prompt measures.'
'Capital plan,' said the squire. 'Go on, doctor; I'll listen. Jobson, pass the wine: it'll be a new story to you, but an old one to me; but mind, facts—no mysteries: they're altogether out of my way.'
'Well, there is a mystery now at Parker's Dew,' said the doctor.
'No doubt, and that is how Valary ever got there,' said the squire quickly.
'I believe you are right; and, as this gentleman is a friend of yours, and was the friend of your brother, perhaps I may speak about that very thing before him?'
The stranger rose to leave the room.
'Sit down,' said the squire, holding his arm. 'Go on, doctor.'
'The facts, then, are these. A short time since, Bloodworth went to the Dew and saw Sir Valary, and whatever passed between them had such an effect on him that he was placed in a most critical situation. During his rambling state of mind, when the violence of the attack was passing, Marjory noticed that he repeatedly asked for Elizabeth Higgs. You remember her, squire?'
'Old Bet? of course,' said the squire, with a nod.
'"She is dead, long ago dead, father," said Marjory, over and over again; but he moaned out, "No, she is not; she will rob you of everything," or something to that effect.'
'He ought to be ashamed of himself,' said the squire; 'old Bet was as honest as the day; but he fancies every one is like himself and Bloodworth.'
'Pray, don't!' expostulated the doctor. 'Well, when he was quite well and calm, Marjory told him of this; he looked vexed, at first, that he had disclosed so much, but afterwards confessed to her that there were reasons why the life or death of that woman was a matter of great importance to him, and that he had lately heard she was living; and Marjory gathered that Bloodworth had told him so. The first time I was alone with Sir Valary after Marjory had told me this,—which was on the very day that she met with you, sir,—I gently led the way to the subject, having first discovered, through the medium of Mr. Jobson, who knew the old woman, that she was really dead.'
'What! knew Bet Eggs?' said the squire, 'Why, Jobson, I shall get quite afraid of you, and begin to talk about fairies myself.'
'It was not very remarkable, when you know how the acquaintance was brought about,' said the stranger, smiling.
'Go on, doctor,' said the squire, who was beginning to get interested.
'Well, as I said, I led to the subject indirectly—gently.'
'Leave you alone for finessing,' said the squire; 'now, I should have gone straight at him at once.'
'And missed your aim, squire—I knew better. Very gently I got him to talk of old times, and then I brought the woman Higgs upon the carpet, and mentioned, just incidentally, that I had met with a person who had actually seen her buried—not assuming, you understand me, that Sir Valary had any interest in her death, nor even hinting at such a thing.'
'Well,' said the squire, 'go on.'
'Well, he didn't speak at first; he became much agitated, which I pretended not to notice; and after I had changed the subject, and he had recovered, he said, "Are yousureof that woman's death? I heard lately that she was living." I told him I believed there was no doubt of it, but if he had any interest in her, as an old servant, I would get indubitable proof for him. He said quickly, "I wish you could." Now this gentleman, my informant, has been the object of my search ever since, but I could get no clue to him. I was afraid of making direct inquiry, lest I should excite suspicion in Bloodworth, who has been very uneasy and changed in his manner lately. Yesterday morning he went to the Dew, and had a long interview with Sir Valary, the result of which was the severest attack I ever saw him in. I really can't see what Bloodworth has to do with it; the man is reasonable enough to speak to; but Sir Valary's state last night, and the whole of to-day, plainly indicates that theremustbe interference—that Sir Valary must be treated as incapable of conducting his own affairs, and Bloodworth made accountable to others, or else altogether ejected.'
'Now, do you see,' said the squire, when the doctor had finished, 'I have had this story, almost word for word, except Bet Eggs, over and over again; Valary quarrels with Bloodworth, gets into a rage, has a fit, and frightens them all. Well, that is as far as the play has gone yet. Now comes the second part. Bloodworth comes, begs pardon, is forgiven, and they are thicker than ever. I tell you, doctor, I would as soon interfere between a man and his wife as between those two.'
'You are hard to convince,' said the doctor. 'Mr. Jobson, you seem an authority with Mr. Brimble. I wish you would say a word; at any rate, I wish you would give me some evidence that Sir Valary will believe, of the death of that woman.'
The stranger fixed his eyes for a moment on the fire, then turning to the squire said, 'The death of that woman is of importance—at least, so Sir Valary thinks. Bloodworth is a desperate villain, as I have good reason to know.'
'You!' said the squire, almost breathless.
'Yes, I haveknownhim for many years, though I never saw him till lately.'
'Well,' said the squire, throwing back his head and putting his hands in his pockets, 'I give you up.'
'Don't do that; you have shown such generosity in taking me almost entirely on my own testimony, that you must not stumble at trifles.'
'You are an odd fellow,' said the squire, looking at him; 'but I believe in you.'
'Do you know this?' asked the stranger, taking a miniature from his pocket.
'Know it!' said the squire; 'why, it's Eu; I remember the case. It was done before he was married.'
A knock at the door, and the entrance of a servant with a note, almost made the squire angry. 'What does this mean?' he said, looking at the address.
'What! —— Vandercroft, Esquire! What did you bring it here for?'
The servant said it was for the gentleman who lodged at Biddy Sparks'.
'THIS IS FROM SHADY EGGS. I SHALL READ IT ALOUD.''THIS IS FROM SHADY EGGS. I SHALL READ IT ALOUD.'
Mr. Brimble looked inquiringly at the stranger, who immediately took the note. 'Leave it with me,' he said to the servant. 'This,' he continued, 'is from Shady Eggs. I shall read it aloud.'
'"RESPECTED SIR,—I trust you will excuse the incorrectness of putting a dash before your name, also any mistake I may have made in spelling it, should it be erroneously written. I have to inform you that Mr. Bloodworth, the steward to Sir Valary de la Mark, has pertinaciously endeavoured to discover your address, which I have, to the best of my poor ability, kept from him. If you desire to avoid an interview with him, as I divined was the case from your manner in the portrait gallery, I warn you that he now knows of your abode; that is, if it continues to be in the apartments at Mrs. Sparks', which you bespoke when I had the honour of being with you in the public vehicle. I do not love to interfere in other men's matters; and truly, with no malice to Mr. Bloodworth, but with respectful consideration for you, I write these few lines,
"And am, your servant to command,"SHADRACH HIGGS.
'"I send this by a trusty messenger, who will return it to me if you are not to be found."'
'Higgs all over,' said Dr. Cruden.
'Stop,' said the squire; 'let us begin at the beginning. What makes him call you Vandercroft?'
'It is not the first name,' said the stranger, 'that has been gratuitously assigned to me, over and above that with which my parents honoured me.'
'Then your name is not Vandercroft?' said Dr. Cruden.
'No.'
'Why, then, assume it?'
'I did not; Bloodworth bestowed it on me through a natural misconstruction of his, and I did not think it worth while to undeceive him.'
'Capital!' said the squire. 'I'll wager anything that you are not Jobson.'
The stranger smiled.
'Are you?' asked the squire eagerly.
'According to you and Biddy Sparks I am.'
'According to me! why, you told me it was so.'
'On the contrary, it was you told me.'
'Why,' said the squire, starting from his seat, 'don't you remember that morning?'—
'Perfectly,' interrupted the stranger,—'when you addressed me as Mr. Jobson.'
'Well, you never contradicted me.'
'A man hasn't lived to grey hairs,' said the stranger, with a smile, pointing to the changing colour of his own, 'without knowing the worth of a name, as you observed just now; and as you were satisfied with Jobson, it quite contented me.'
'But how did Biddy get hold of it?'
'Like many others, Biddy is satisfied with slight evidence; she saw "Matthew Jobson" on the brass plate of a portmanteau which by an accident I had exchanged for my own in travelling, and she settled the matter at once without question.'
Mr. Brimble, holding the miniature in his hand, looked alternately at it and the stranger, while Dr. Cruden asked, 'Will you favour us with your true name?'
The stranger looked at the squire and replied, 'I think my uncle knows it—Eustace De la Mark.'
'Ididknow it,' said the squire, almost breathless; 'Ididknow it—I was sure of it; even while I called him Jobson I felt drawn to him. My dear boy, what right have you with grey hairs?' he said, affectionately grasping both his hands; 'and why have you served us in this way?'
'I have a very long story to tell,' said Eustace—no longer 'the stranger'—after the first agitation had passed; 'but it is of the utmost importance, remember, that I should not be known to any but yourselves for the present. My intention was to remain altogether concealed for some time yet; but I could not withstand it,' he said, again grasping his uncle's hand.
'You'll let me tell my wife? Up to this moment she believes you an impostor, and me a dupe.
'Let her think so still; the longer she is deceived the more complete the triumph will be.'
'Well, I may tell Char, at all events. How delighted she will be! she has never doubted you a minute.
A smile of satisfaction brightened the face of Eustace.
'No;' he said; 'let me have the pleasure of telling her myself, at some future time.'
'Pooh!' said the squire, who hated secrets; 'I almost wish I didn't know it; I must tell somebody.'
'When you have heard what I have to tell you, you will see the importance of secrecy; and, to prevent you from indiscretion, I think, with Dr. Cruden, if Sir Valary is indeed so very ill, we had better all three go to Parker's Dew; and on our journey you shall have a full account of all my history. You know Sir Valary believes me to be dead?'
'Not a bit of it,' said the squire; 'and I never believed it.'
'I give you my honour he does,' said Dr. Cruden.
'Have it your own way; but, Eu, is it necessary to go to-night? why not start the first thing in the morning? You know they have no beds, no supper; I doubt if they have even a rushlight.'
'It is growing late,' said Dr. Cruden; 'if we had gone when I first came'—
'I should not have found my nephew,' said the squire, looking with beaming affection on Eustace.
'You anticipate me, squire, but not correctly; I meant we should have had time to go without alarming them at so unseasonable an hour as we should now arrive at.'
'All right; then you think it is better to go to-morrow morning?'
'I am sorry for the delay.'
'Its importance,' said Eustace, 'depends on Sir Valary's state. Is he expecting my uncle?'
'Oh no; and he has nothing to fear from Bloodworth to-night. I trust, indeed, he will be kept calm till morning; and on the whole, perhaps'—
'Beaten, fairly beaten,' said the squire. 'Now that is settled; so draw close, and, Eustace, begin.'
'Need I remind you,' began Eustace, 'of my father's high, indomitable spirit?
'No, no,' said the squire hastily; 'he was the finest'—
'Now, squire,' said Dr. Cruden, laying his hand gently on his knee, 'let us agree, before Mr. De la Mark begins, that there shall be no interruptions, or we shall not finish to-night.'
'Go on,' said the squire.
'He could never brook the stern temper of my grandfather, and constant contention created serious disaffection between them.'
'That was all through Bloodworth,' said the squire; 'he was at the bottom of it all; he is a very'—
'Now, do hush,' said the doctor in a deprecating tone.
'Go on, Eu,' said the squire impatiently.
'He married—that you know—and I was born before he was twenty-one.'
'Yep, you must be pretty near thirty by this time.'
'I am thirty-five.'
'Why, that makes me fifty-three. How time flies! Well, lad!'
'You are aware that the discovery of his marriage was the cause of the final rupture.'
'Ah! Eu was wrong there; I was but a boy then, and did not understand things, and took his part through thick and thin; but it was a very foolish thing to fly in the old man's face that way.'
'Squire, squire,' said the doctor, 'what right have you to talk?'
'Well, that's true; but I thought he would get over mine, and Mary's property made it of little consequence, as far as money went.'
Eustace took the miniature from his uncle, and, opening the case on the other side, showed the portrait of a lady. 'That was my mother,' he said quietly.
'Ay, to the life; yes, she was a lovely creature, and as good as she was beautiful. Eu was perfectly right to marry her; but then he should have waited a little.'
'Bloodworth hurried him into it,' said Eustace, 'by telling him, in confidence, of another match which Sir Eustace had determined to effect between him and some lady distantly connected with his family.'
'Now, Eu,' said the squire, rising in his chair, 'if you expect me to keep my temper, don't mention that—pshaw! nonsense!' pushing away the doctor's hand—'that fellow's name more than you can help.'
'No. My father left his birthplace with a parent's curse ringing in his ears.'
'Shocking, shocking!' said the squire.
'You know nay mother,' continued Eustace, 'scarcely outlived my birth.'
'Poor Eu! Poor girl!' sighed the squire.
'At that time my father, as he afterwards told me, broken down with grief, wrote to Sir Eustace, entreating a reconciliation and a revocation of his curse.'
'I'll answer for it, my father never had that letter. I know he was hard, but he could not have stood that.'
'An answer came to it, written by Bloodworth, who complained bitterly of being made the medium of so painful a message. It was to the effect that Sir Eustace would pardon and receive him upon condition of his marrying again immediately, according to his choice; and it was couched in such arbitrary terms, so devoid of all natural feeling, so insulting to my mother's memory, and casting such unworthy reflections on my father's motive for making the advance, that he spurned the thought of replying to it. In that letter, too, Bloodworth confirmed what he had often insinuated in his former letters—that his brothers had helped to embitter the mind of Sir Eustace against him.'
'Oh, my dear sir,' said the doctor, laying his hand on Mr. Brimble, 'what is the use of chafing so? Pray, pray be pacified!'
The squire leant back in his chair in silence.
'I must tell you, my dear uncle, that my father did not believe it of you,—you were then about seventeen or eighteen,—and he could not credit that selfish interest could so have altered your heart, full of affection as he had left it, in the very bloom of youth. But, you excepted, he determined to forget all England and devote himself to me. My mother's slender fortune, and an estate to which he became entitled when of age'—
'Yes, Itterdale,' interrupted the squire.
'Left him by old Jasper Honeyman, some fiftieth cousin of my mother's—this enabled him to live at ease, though not in affluence. He converted the estate into money, and, without any settled home, wandered from country to country as inclination led him.'
'Eu, I could never understand why he did not write to me,' cried the squire, 'especially as we were in the same box; he married for love a woman of high family; I, for something of the sort, a woman of no particular "family,"'—involuntarily glancing round at the door,—'and glorious fortune, so we both came under the ban; he knew it, and I am puzzled to this day to know why he remained silent.'
'I am afraid of telling you the cause,' said Eustace.
'Go on,' said the squire, clenching his fist, and flushing with indignation.
'Yes; he was wholly deceived by that man, who wrote, adjuring him to be patient, entreating him to communicate all his proceedings to him, mourning over the conduct of his unnatural relatives, and promising'—
'Now don't, pray don't!' said the squire; 'if you love me, don't!'
'At last came the announcement of the death of Sir Eustace, and of his will, by which you and my father were disinherited, and Parker's Dew, with all other property, was left to Sir Valary.'
'Eu,' said the squire, starting up, 'I never believed in that will. I saw my father not long before his death; he entirely forgave me, and told me it lay sore on his heart that he could not see Eu before he closed his eyes. I gathered from what he said—but he was too ill to talk much—that he had tried to get at him for years, but without success. That will was a forgery!' continued the squire, striking the table with a vehemence that made the glasses dance.
'My father did not think so. We were in Rome when we received the news, and he determined on returning to England, that he might see you and find the truth of what he had heard. I was then eighteen, and rejoiced in the prospect of seeing my own country—the only one in Europe that I had not visited; but after a three days' illness my father fell a victim to malaria, and I was so ill as to be reported dead.'
'Of course,' said the squire; 'everybody said you were.'
'I think I should have justified the report, if it had not been for an excellent Protestant clergyman, who felt deeply for me, having just buried his wife in the same disease; he became a father to me, though I had no other claim upon his sympathy than needing it.'
'Where is he now?' asked the squire eagerly.
Eustace was silent.
'Ha!' said the squire; 'go on.'
'Like me, he was, as far as human ties go, alone in the world, and determined to spend the remainder of his life as a missionary in the East. I resolved to accompany him; for when we paid our last visit to the little Protestant burial-place, which contained the two who had been all to us on earth, it seemed as if nature and heaven had marked us out for companions. Eight years we wandered together through the East, he by his life and preaching teaching Christianity, I learning it. I cannot pretend to enter now into the labours and pleasures of those eight years. His health broke down. He died at Beirut, on our return westward, and again I was alone. Now my heart yearned for England. Was I to wander a stranger through life with mere chance companions? I embarked on board a vessel bound for Alexandria, intending to shape my course finally to my own country; but a doctor from Frankfort, our fellow-traveller through part of Syria, who had shown great kindness to my friend in his illness, and had skilfully soothed his sufferings, being my fellow-passenger now, won so upon my regard, which was before his, from gratitude, that I was induced to change my purpose, and try the Western world, where he designed to settle. Seven long years I spent in the two Americas, till, weary of the wide, wide world, I once more determined on seeking a home in the hearts of some who, strange to me, yet seemed to beckon me from the distance. It was you, uncle.'
'Ay, my lad; if I had known your whereabouts, I should have done more than beckon, I can tell you.'
'It happened, singularly enough, that the Frankfort doctor and I became again passengers in the same vessel. He had married an American lady, and was taking her home to Fatherland, preferring the small gains he expected to get in Dusseldorf, where he had a connection, to any amount of money away from it.'
'In the right of it!' said the squire. 'I would rather live on bread and cheese in England than have all the treasures of the Great Mogul in any other country.'
'You never did live on bread and cheese, squire,' said the doctor, with a smirk.
'Again his importunity overcame me,' continued Eustace, 'and for a time I deferred coming to England, and went instead with him to a country, many scenes in which were familiar to me, all my early education having been in Germany. Fascinated with old associations, I wandered about from place to place, as memory led me, feeling a happier nearness to my father there than I did when standing beside his grave. One day the fall of an old house in Dusseldorf, to which I had for a short time returned, induced me, with many passers-by, to assist in examining the ruins, lest any unfortunates should have been buried under them. Here I met with an accident, and was too much injured to speak. As a stranger, I was carried to the nearest hotel, I may call it. As soon as I could give an account of myself, my friend the doctor was sent for, and by his advice I was not moved to his house, but remained there under his care. Hearing that a pious Lutheran minister was visiting a sick woman in the same house, I requested to see him. In the course of conversation he told me he wished he could understand and speak English well, for the poor woman he was visiting, he said, was much restrained by feeling him to be foreign, and his words had less weight with her than they thought they otherwise would. "She is much troubled in mind," he said, "and I would thankfully give her relief."
'I immediately offered, as soon as I should be sufficiently recovered, to visit her for him; and I did so. I saw she had not very long to live, and had a burdened conscience; but I little suspected what she was about to confide to me. She had been nurse in the family of Sir Valary, having previously lived for many years with Sir Eustace. She revealed to me the whole of Bloodworth's villainy, in which she was deeply implicated, and gave me all the history of his contrivance to keep her away—of what she had suffered in banishment and in leaving Lady De la Mark and her infant—in fact, she left nothing untold, her great anxiety being to know if there were any pardon for sin like hers. She seemed reckless of exposure, and declared that if she lived she would willingly receive any punishment, provided she might have a hope of mercy hereafter. Her gratitude, when I disclosed to her who I was, was beyond bounds. She said she thought that having been permitted to restore me to my rights in so strange a manner was almost like a merciful assurance that there was pardon for her.'
OLD BET REVEALS THE WHOLE OF BLOODWORTH'S VILLAINY.OLD BET REVEALS THE WHOLE OF BLOODWORTH'S VILLAINY.
'Poor old Bet!' said the squire; 'I don't know what she did, but I'll answer for it, Bloodworth put her up to it.'
'And what was it?' said the doctor, breathless with interest.
'That I cannot divulge just now, and it is equally necessary that Bloodworth knows nothing of me until I convict him.'
'Let us go to-night,' said the squire.
'Too late, too late now!' said the doctor, shaking his head. 'Will you let me ask Mr. De la Mark'—
'He is Sir Eustace,' exclaimed the squire, 'and Valary has no right at Parker's Dew, and I always said so!'
'It is quite true, uncle; but at present I prefer to waive the honour; his infirmity, perhaps nearness to death, and poor Marjory's forlorn condition, have kept me back from taking any steps for the recovery of my rights. Of course I have taken legal means; but they are yet in abeyance. My intention in coming to England was to see those who would now be forced to acknowledge me as kin, without apprising them of the obligation.'
'Then the will is an absolute forgery?' said the doctor.
'An absolute forgery,' was the reply.
'And Sir Valary knows it?'
'He has known it for many years; but he did not at the time of taking possession.'
'Well, I'm glad of that, for the honour of the family,' said the squire huskily.
'And for his conscience' sake,' said the doctor.
'Well, it makes it a shade lighter. Pray, does Bloodworth know you are living?'
'He is uncertain about it; he has had glimpses of me now and then, but has not been able to follow me up.'
'And Valary—does he know it?'
'He also is uncertain. Bloodworth holds me over him, as nurses frighten children with spectres; and no doubt the attacks from which he has lately suffered have been in some way connected with the failure of their plans to ascertain the fact.'
'How came Bloodworth to call you Mr.—what was it?' asked the doctor.
'I purposely obtained a draft for him from a person in Dusseldorf with whom he has invested some of his ill-gotten gains. I was able to do this through the information given me by the woman Higgs. Vandercroft was the name of the person to whom the draft had been committed, and, not knowing that I was his substitute, he naturally gave the name to me. He had never received communications of the kind in so careless and open a manner, and became alarmed, I saw at once.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Brimble, 'our being so late is entirely Mr. Jobson's fault. He has been telling us such astonishing things that all we have heard before from him has vanished into what Char calls, "blue distance." Eh, Char?' he continued, putting his arm fondly round her; 'wouldn't you have enjoyed being in my waistcoat pocket? Miss Cruden,' he added, addressing that lady, 'your brother has been almost as bad as Jobson, and I shall turn him over to you for correction.'
Mrs. Brimble looked stately, so far as her peevishness would allow her; Mora was half asleep over some embroidery—Miss Cruden, rather more than half, and hardly awoke to reply.
'Valary is very ill,' said the squire, advancing to his wife, 'and we are going in a body to see him to-morrow morning, first thing.'
'What do you mean by going in a body?'
'Why, I mean Eu and I and the doctor.'
'I?' exclaimed Mrs. Brimble.
'You—no,' said the squire, recollecting himself, 'Jobson I meant.'
'A strange mistake!' said the lady superciliously. 'You said, "you and I and the doctor."'
'Now, Mary,' said the squire in a whisper, 'just look athim, as he is standing between the two girls; isn't he a fine, handsome fellow? did you ever see any one like him?'
'Dear me, Mr. Brimble! I never saw any one like him but Saunders, our last footman, and he had just the same kind of nose. I see nothing particular in him; and I think it very forward of him to talk to the girls when there is Miss Cruden by.'
The squire laughed; he was afraid of going further; but Mrs. Brimble had not finished. 'Indeed, Mr. Brimble, your indiscretion is beyond everything. Here is a perfect stranger, who, because he happens to be agreeable to you, and is able to talk, is made quite at home among us, and we are expected to treat him like a friend. If you have no regard for your daughters, I have; it surprises me, after all the cautions I have given you, and the number of things I have saved you from, that you will not learn prudence.'
'My dear, you have enough for us all. It's seldom that more than a fair share of wisdom falls to the lot of any family, and you have monopolized all that was intended for the Brimbles. But tell me,' he said, trying to be grave, though the many mischievous twinkles of his eye ought to have betrayed him to so keen a judge of appearances as Mrs. Brimble considered herself to be,—'tell me, Mary, do you really look on Jobson as an impostor?'
'Mr. Brimble,' returned the lady, with an impressive shake of the head, 'I say nothing, but as toproofof the contrary, why, withmethere isnone, and there is a something about him that is very much Like an adventurer. I may be wrong—I would not be uncharitable; but'—
'Then you wouldn't advise me to let him visit here? in short, you would have me cut him?'
'All I desire is caution, Mr. Brimble. He has a manner I do not admire, and I think I may be allowed to be a judge of such things.'
'Well, I will be careful. He has rather a designing look, now I come to examine him,' said the squire, putting up his eyeglass; 'and he seems to me to be just now taking the bearings of Bessie Cruden's cap. I think I must go and put her on scent of danger.'
'Ah! you will be surprised one day, Mr. Brimble, and then you will remember my words, as you have often done before.'
'Well, Mary, if I'm wrong this time, you shall be right without question for ever, and administer lynch law to your heart's delight; but ifIshould be right, what then? It's just possible, though, he may turn out an adventurous "footman"—some spirited Saunders, as you fancy.'
'Charity!' said the lady impatiently, as she saw the object of her suspicion approaching her daughter. 'Mr. Brimble, pray go and entertain your guest, and send Charity to me—I wish to speak to her.'
The squire obeyed, and so did Charity, very reluctantly. Florence, having heard from Dr. Cruden of the intended expedition to Parker's Dew, assailed him with innumerable questions as to what was the matter—what would happen if Sir Valary died, where Marjory would go, etc.; and there was much wonderment among all the ladies as to the merits of the case, when they separated for the night.
* * * * *
In a room, dimly lighted by the early sun, streaming through narrow windows in a heavy wall, sat the sick man, with Marjory at his side.
'It is growing into day, Marjory,' he said in a feeble voice, raising himself from his half-recumbent posture.
Marjory, tenderly kissing his forehead, prepared the draught which Dr. Cruden had left for her father to take on his awaking.
Poor Marjory! all night she had been watching; every sound had made her heart beat. It might be Dr. Cruden; he promised to return—promised to bring her uncle; but the night had worn away; her father, sleeping and waking, had on the whole been more restful, more at ease, than she could have hoped. 'Something has kept him away,' she thought; but fatigue and anxiety, added to disappointment, had for the time quelled much of her dauntless spirit.
'Yours has been a dreary life, my child,' said the old man—old, not by years, but through the ravages of an embittered spirit; 'your youth buried in this gloomy place—no companionship'—
'No companionship!' exclaimed Marjory, nearly letting the medicine fall in her surprise.
More groaning out his feelings than addressing her, the old man continued, 'I have many sins on my head—my greatest—my love for you—drove me to— Alas! what a delusion! I see it now; he was right. I have been cruelly unjust—I have crushed your youth.'
'Who is right? who dares to say so? Cruel! are you not the very life of my heart, my father—my own, own father?' cried Marjory, closely embracing him.
'It has been delusion—strange delusion—fears for your future have driven me hither and thither. Oh, conscience! oh, the wrongs that I have done! Marjory, I implore you, beware of sin; poverty cannot make a hell, sin can. If I had resisted the tempter, I should not have been thus—blighted, cursed!'
Never had Marjory heard words like these from her father's lips. The suspicions she had allowed herself in were faint, compared with these vague confessions. Lost in pain and wonder, she mingled her tears with his, entreating him to be comforted, and to remember how precious to her was his love, how burdensome life would be without it. After a short pause, she said in a gentle tone, 'Father, dear father, have you any secret trouble on your mind? will you hide it from me—from Marjory?'
Sir Valary was long silent; while Marjory fondly smoothed the long white locks that strayed upon his shoulder. 'Perhaps, father, while the world counts you rich, you are poor, or you fear to be so, for my sake.'
Sir Valary laid his hand upon her head as she knelt by his side, but made no reply.
'I hear footsteps,' said Marjory, opening the door.
'Mistress Gillies, madam, entreats you so far to consider your health as to retire for a short time for refreshment, allowing me to take your place. I should not have left it till now to proffer my unworthy services, but I feared disturbing either your or my honoured master's sleep. I have been some time assuring myself that I heard your voices.'
Poor Shady had the whole of that night made the passage his chamber, sitting bolt upright with his back near his master's door, fearing that Marjory might require help before it could be rendered, unless he were a wakeful watcher.
Marjory saw plainly enough that something more than the request he had made had brought him, and immediately guessed that the doctor and her uncle had arrived.
'Where?' she said quietly, as she passed from the room, Sir Valary having entreated her to obey the summons of Mrs. Gillies.
'In the hall below,' replied Shady in the same tone.
Much exhausted, she gathered up her spirits, and, descending the stairs, had her hand upon the door, when Mrs. Gillies, who was awaiting her, lifted it off hastily. 'Are they not there?' said Marjory in surprise.
Instead of answering, the housekeeper laid her finger on her lips, and, taking Marjory's hand, led her through the passage that led to the kitchen. She followed unresistingly, too weary almost for curiosity. When safe within her own precincts, the housekeeper said, 'My dear young lady, Bloodworth is in the hall; he has got Shady's books and many papers, and wants to see Sir Valary as soon as he can; for he says he has a long journey before him, and has nothing but pleasant news, and that everything is going well, and Sir Valary will not be fretted, and many more fine speeches; so I thought it was better to leave him quiet, for I knew Dr. Cruden would be as good as his word, and be here soon, and then his chance of doing mischief would be over. I have turned the key outside the door, without his knowing it.'
Mrs. Gillies was so pleased with her own adroitness that she scarcely noticed the colourless lips and sunken eyes of Marjory at first. 'Ah!' cried she; 'here am I chattering, and you too ill to listen.'
Warmth, restoratives, and an hour's rest brought back some colour, some sign of life, some spirit in the eye of Marjory, and the first return of power took her again to the side of her father. His head, a little on one side, rested on the back of his chair, and his eyes were closed as though in sleep. Shady had arranged his pillow, adjusted the room, and, with all the ingenuity of affection, tried to give an air of cheerfulness and comfort to the apartment. With his usual deferential bow he left the room as she entered it, determined, whatever might come, that if the doctor did not appear till midnight, Bloodworth should not have access without him to Sir Valary. Marjory sat down silently in her old place at her father's feet, leaning her head upon his knee, having told Shady not to allow them to be disturbed until Dr. Cruden's arrival. 'It cannot be long,' she said, 'before he comes.'
A gentle sigh escaped the sleeper. 'He is awaking,' said Marjory, kissing the hand that lay close beside her cheek; but sleep seemed to return again, no other sound followed; and, resting her face against him, while she clasped the hand in her own, overcome with weariness she slept.
'Take the chaise down to the inn,' said the squire.
'That is advisable,' said Dr. Cruden. 'I never bring a servant here.'
'I haven't seen poor Shady for a long time,' said the squire. 'He's a good fellow, but has lived so long alone that strange faces would scare him; and as to horses, I would not trust one in such a miserable wilderness of starvation for the world. How are we to get in? In my time we went in and out at the front door like other folks; the last time I came, you took me through the little door in the tower.'
'I think it would be more prudent if we entered the kitchen way—Sir Valary is less likely to hear us;' for the doctor knew perfectly well that when the squire meant to be exceedingly quiet he carried a considerable amount of bustle, which seemed as necessary to him as his breath.
'All right; we might have a worse place than the kitchen at breakfast-time, and I should think we must all of us be pretty nearly ready for a second. What a miserable place it is!' he continued, as they entered the courtyard; 'doesn't it look as if it had had the nightmare for the last fifty years? Well, stone walls are not worth crying about; but I can't say this is a very promising introduction to the home of your ancestors, Eu.'
Mrs. Gillies, who had seen their advance, met them, making her lowest curtsey to the squire, for whom, in common with all, she entertained a hearty regard.
'What! you haven't forgotten me then!' he said good-humouredly.
'Forgotten you, sir!' was the reply. A few questions put them in possession of all they wanted to know concerning Sir Valary, and of more than they expected in respect of Bloodworth's opportune visit.
'Capital! we can settle the whole affair at once; I like finishing up. Now, how shall we proceed?'
'My advice is that I go in to Sir Valary directly he awakes, and prepare him for an interview with you. By degrees we must unfold the cause of our visit as he is able to bear it, and'—
'And then Eu is to come in. I see.' Shady, who had been listening at Sir Valary's door for sounds within and sounds without, heard the squire's voice, and, gently descending, made his appearance among them. Bloodshot eyes from a sleepless night had not increased the vivacity of his countenance.
'Shady,' said the squire, shaking him kindly by the hand, 'why, what have they been doing to you? I hope your master does not look as bad as you do.'
'He is tranquilly sleeping,' said Shady, moved to tears by the squire's kindness. 'I have but now left his door, and there is not the sound of a breath within; but Miss De la Mark requested that when Dr. Cruden arrived he might be taken to the chamber.'
'Good,' said the squire; 'I am glad we are going to proceed to action. Go, doctor; tell him to cheer up, and he'll soon come right again.'
The doctor was halfway up-stairs before the squire's parting charge was over. Mr. Brimble and his nephew were engaged in such conversation as their circumstances naturally suggested, questioning Shady on points on which he could perchance throw light. The doctor returned, looking exceedingly pale.
'What! back already!' said the squire.
'My dear friend,' he replied, unable to restrain his tears, 'it is all over; such a scene may I never witness again!'
Exclamations of shocked surprise burst from Sir Eustace and his uncle, while Shady stood transfixed and seemed ready to faint.
'Come,' said the doctor; and he returned, leading the way to the chamber of death.
Leaning in his chair, his attitude unchanged, his eyes still closed, rested all that remained of Sir Valary De la Mark, while Marjory, with the hand still clasped in hers, slept that heavy sleep which nature sometimes claims to repair extreme exhaustion.
'This is too much!' said the squire; 'how shall we get her away?'
'Leave me, leave me,' replied the doctor. 'I will do it.'
Willingly Mr. Brimble relinquished to him the task, and the doctor, gently releasing the cold hand from Marjory's grasp, raised her from her father's side.
'My dear child,' he said tenderly, 'you must not remain here now. Your uncle is come, and we need to be alone with—in this room; and you shall lie down, my dear—Mrs. Gillies—rest on me—this way;' and he attempted to lead her from the room, but Marjory was now awake, and resisted the movement at first. 'Need I leave him?' she whispered. 'I have slept, I am quite strong now, and he must be better, for he has slept so long.'
Importunity at last prevailed. She consented to go for a while. 'But let me see him first,' she said; just one look. He was so calm, so peaceful, when he first sank into sleep. How could I sleep when I ought to have been watching him?'
Finding it vain to resist, the doctor yielded, and she advanced.
Not a cry—not a word—but one long settled look of horror and despair. She stood motionless before the body.
* * * * *
'Leave me to deal with him,' said Eustace. 'But you,' turning to the doctor, 'had better be with me. We will spare you, my dear uncle; there is no necessity to arouse your feelings by bringing you in contact with him.'
'Good!' said the squire, who had been leaning silently on the window-frame, looking out on the neglected garden, and living over again the scenes of his youth. There had never existed any brotherly affection between him and Sir Valary; entire contrariety of character, and the treatment of Eustace, which the squire had always attributed to him, had early separated them, and the influence of Bloodworth had succeeded in keeping them apart, even to the end. It was not grief for the dead, therefore, that gave the saddened expression to his fine manly countenance. There were, no doubt, regrets, but they were for Eustace, whom he had dearly loved. But there were uneasy thoughts—unwelcome reminders—that he alone remained of that generation, and that he too must die.
From subjects pointing this way Mr. Brimble ever studiously turned. He had faced death often in the pursuit of pleasure, for he was still so fearless a rider that his escapes while hunting were often the marvel of the neighbourhood.
Yet to see the destroyer close, in calmness and quiet, was more than he could bear! indeed, if truth were told, that ever joyous face was sometimes but a mask hiding gloomy, heart-sickening misgivings. He had a deep-seated respect for religion. He fully, honestly, intended one day to be ready to die, and hoped, or thought he did, to go to heaven, when he could no longer live on earth. But that day he put off as an evil day, and avoided everything that reminded him of its necessity. It was, therefore, very acceptable to him to be released from a scene that was every way adverse to his comfort.
'If I could be of any use,' he said; 'but I am no man of business, and as to poor Madge, I couldn't see her yet; I should only make her worse.'
Ah! it is at such times that the truth of human nature comes out. The squire was benevolent to a proverb—open-handed as the day, kind as a father—up to a certain point, in earthly relationships and dealings, blameless. Yet, after all, his was a most refined selfishness. He enjoyed the happiness of others, for it unconsciously helped to make his own, and this gave the glowing colours to his universally admired character. But to deny himself, to suffer with others, to descend into darkness with them, and bear their sorrows—oh no! Yet this shrinking from the griefs of others was looked on as a finishing mark of his great amiability. Thus, even in regard to his fellow-men, his love was one-sided; and in regard to the higher love, without which all earthly excellencies are vain, his heart had it not. Every mile that took him from Parker's Dew lightened his spirit, for his constant habit of suppressing all painful or serious thoughts had made the effort a very easy one.
The heavy walls and high windows of the apartment in which Bloodworth had remained forgotten had prevented him from hearing the hurry and confusion of the last two or three hours, and he was chafing with rage against the housekeeper and Shady for their insolence in thus detaining him, if done purposely, when the door opened and the doctor and Sir Eustace entered. Various emotions in turn took the place of anger, but fear was predominant. He looked with a cowering, questioning expression, but was silent.
'Mr. Bloodworth,' said Dr. Cruden, 'your accounts will be required—your late master's affairs'—
The doctor always failed in a set speech: he could get no further. The shock, compassion for Marjory, sympathy with the heart-stricken Shady and the faithful housekeeper, had left him no time to feel; but now that he came to announce the death of his friend, whose sickness he had so long anxiously watched, and for whom he had from boyhood had a very sincere attachment, he was overcome.
Bloodworth's eyes moved quickly from one to the other. He was by no means taken by surprise. He had long expected it. He had intended to make his final visit to his master that morning, hoping so to profit by it as to remove all fear and establish his future fortunes.
'Am I to understand,' he said, 'that Sir Valary'—
'You understand aright,' said Sir Eustace, interrupting him. 'And now, sir, where is the original will of Sir Eustace De la Mark? Understand me. By the original will, I mean that which was set aside to make way for the instrument that put your late master in possession of his father's property, to the exclusion of his brother. Are you prepared to produce it?' he continued, waving his hand, as he saw that Bloodworth was about to assert a denial.
'Really,' said the steward, pale with terror, but trying to recover his effrontery, 'this is very strange conduct. Sir Valary, whom I have served so faithfully for so many years, and for whom I have sacrificed my comfort and earned a bad name, is no longer alive to protect me, and therefore I am to be attacked with base charges,—unjust charges,—and that by strangers. Where is Mr. Brimble? I know that he is executor to Sir Valary; I always begged that he would make him so.Heis the proper person to inquire into all the affairs, and I hold myself answerable to him, and to no one else.'
'You talk beside the mark,' said Sir Eustace coolly; 'you will certainly be called upon to account for your stewardship. But you know perfectly well that the estates which Sir Valary was supposed to possess did not belong to him. We need not waste words; the will to which you were last a witness was a forgery. You are now required to produce that for which it was substituted, and which I know is not destroyed.'
'I will take my oath,' said Bloodworth after a pause, 'that I saw that will signed by Sir Eustace's own hand, and that I was a true witness to the signature. There was indeed a previous will,' he continued, rather reassured by the silence that followed this declaration, 'to which I and my fellow-witness in the last both subscribed also. Sir Eustace suddenly had another one drawn up, in consequence of certain reports that reached him concerning his two sons.'
'Who drew up the will?'
'Nicholas Harris, a clerk of mine bred to the law.'
'Where is he to be found?'
'That would be unimportant,' said Bloodworth carelessly; 'he died, however, shortly afterwards.'
'Bloodworth,' said Sir Eustace, 'the deed was soon done, and will take little time to confess. Make a clean breast, and saywhosigned that second will that you attested?'
'Sir Eustace De la Mark.'