It came to the knowledge of Sir Francis, during the ensuing week, that
Mr. Grant was going to have a business interview with Fillmore. He
thereupon took pen and paper, and wrote Mr. Grant a very polite note. He
said that he had been thinking over their relations with each other, and
had come to certain conclusions thereon, which he wished to communicate
to Mr. Grant, in the confident belief that Mr. Grant would not find them
distasteful. To do this by letter, however, would be, for several
reasons, inexpedient; word of mouth, in matters of this kind, was a more
convenient and flexible way of coming to an understanding. Sir Francis
went on to say that he possessed a villa in Twickenham, whither he
occasionally repaired during the summer to get a breath of fresh air. It
chanced that he had arranged to drive out to this villa on the afternoon
of Friday next; and if Mr. Grant did not object, he would call for him
on the way, at any place which Mr. Grant would please to indicate. They
would dine together at the villa, and Sir Francis would then provide his
friend with a horse to ride home on. Hoping for a favorable reply, he
had the honor to be Mr. Grant’s faithful friend and servant, Francis
Bendibow.
Mr. Grant replied by return of post that he would be happy to accept Sir
Francis Bendibow’s invitation, and that Sir Francis might call for him
at four o’clock at the chambers of Mr. Fillmore in the city.
When Sir Francis read this answer, he flushed up to the roots of his
hair, and sat quite still in his chair, staring fixedly at the letter
which he held in his hand, and breathing in a labored and irregular
manner. Presently the color faded out of his face, and he became
extremely pale, and his hands cold. He rang the bell, and told the
servant to bring him a decanter of wine, the greater part of which he
drank, though it wanted but an hour of dinner. But the baronet had been
in a nervous and anxious state for several days past; he had been
worried, probably, by some of the exigencies and disappointments which
are inseparable even from the most sagaciously conducted business; and
he had moreover been seriously harassed by the odd behavior of his son
Thomas, who, since the night of the Marquise’s party, had not been
behaving like himself. He had been moody, reticent and inactive; had
attended no cock-fights or rat-catchings; had foregone his customary
horseback exercise, and had even gone so far as to refuse to drink more
than half his usual quantity of wine. When his father addressed him, he
had replied curtly and evasively; and yet Sir Francis had several times
detected his son in the act of watching him with a very intent and
peculiar expression. What was the matter with him? Had he contracted a
secret marriage? or had he suffered a disappointment in love? or had he
been losing money at play? These questions, which the baronet could not,
and his son evidently would not answer, occasioned the former a good
deal of disquietude. But all this would scarcely account for his vivid
emotion at the receipt of so commonplace a thing as an acceptance of an
invitation. Had he expected Mr. Grant to refuse?
On the forenoon of Friday, Mr. Grant put into his pocket a leathern
wallet containing a variety of papers, and betook himself to the city.
Previous to starting he had a short colloquy with Marion.
“I shall not return until after you are all in bed and asleep,” he
said. “You must on no account sit up or keep awake for me.”
“What are you going to do?” inquired Marion, point blank.
“Something which will perhaps give you a chance to display your
magnanimity,” Mr. Grant answered with a smile.
The girl gave him a deep and somewhat troubled look.
“I shall be glad when there are no more mysteries,” she said. “Nothing
good comes of them.”
“It depends in some measure upon yourself how soon this mystery is
dissipated,” returned Mr. Grant. “Have you no mysteries of your own?”
“Oh, housekeeping mysteries--how to boil a potato, or starch a frill; I
shall never have any other kind,” answered Marion with a laugh, and
turning away.
“To-morrow,” said Mr. Grant, after a pause, “you and I will have a chat
about mysteries, and perhaps we may clear each other up. Good-by, my
dear.” He took her hand, and drawing her a little toward him, kissed her
cheek. She looked at him, reddening, and said:
“Be careful of yourself. Good-by.”
“Proud and jealous,” said the old gentleman to himself, as he marched
down the street to the corner where the coach passed; “but we shall
circumvent that, I hope. What is the use of my twenty thousand pounds if
she will not be my daughter? But there is common sense at the bottom of
Philip’s romance, that will counteract and persuade her stubbornness--if
it comes to that.”
The coach came along, and in due time landed Mr. Grant in the city; and
ten minutes later he had entered Merton Fillmore’s private office, which
had witnessed many singular revelations, but none more so, perhaps, than
the one which was now going to take place.
“Good day, sir,” said the lawyer, rising ceremoniously as his visitor
entered. “Is your business likely to occupy us long?”
“It chiefly concerns the drawing up of my will,” replied Mr. Grant. “And
since the dispositions that I wish to make are somewhat precise and
complicated, we may as well put the limit at not less than two hours.”
“I am at your disposal, then, until four o’clock.” Here Fillmore took
out some blank sheets of paper, which he placed before him on the desk.
Resting his hands upon these, with the tips of the fingers meeting each
other, he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Grant and said slowly:
“Before we begin, I wish to put one question to you. You will, of
course, decide whether or not it be worth your while to answer it.”
“I am at your service,” said the other courteously.
Fillmore paused a moment, looking down at his hands. Then, raising his
head, he asked abruptly, “What is your name?”
“I had intended to inform you on that point as soon as the occasion
required,” answered the old man quietly. “The name by which I have
chosen to be known here is not mine. I am Charles John Grantley. My
father was Thomas Grantley, of whom you have doubtless heard.”
Fillmore leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. Presently he
said, “Sir Francis Bendibow spoke to me regarding your identity a few
weeks ago; and, taking all the circumstances into consideration, I own
that I shared the surprise he seemed to feel at your reappearance in
England.”
“I can understand that,” was the composed reply; “but it has always been
my intention to end my days in my native land.”
“It seems you have amassed a fortune during the interval?”
“I have laid by some twenty thousand pounds.”
“Which you now propose to dispose of by will?”
“With your assistance, sir.”
“You are a man of the world, Mr. Grantley, and acquainted with the
general rules by which society is regulated. I cannot suppose you to be
ignorant that a person in the peculiar position which you are understood
to occupy might find it difficult to establish a claim to this, or any
other property.”
“I shall not affect to misapprehend your meaning, sir,” returned the old
gentleman, with a manner of grave kindliness; “and I will answer you
with as much openness as justice to myself and others allows. I left
England twenty years ago under a cloud of disaster and contumely. I
chose exile in preference to inquiry, and the results which such an
inquiry would produce. My reasons for taking that course I did not
disclose then, nor shall I willingly do so now. I do not apprehend that
I shall be called upon to alter this purpose; but, should it turn out
otherwise, I have the means to meet the emergency, and I shall know how
to use them.” Here he laid his right hand upon the leathern pocket-book
which he had placed upon the table. “It is far from being my wish,
however,” he continued, “to become the occasion of any disturbance or
controversy. I rather desire that such small influence as I may still be
able to exercise over my fellow beings may be in the direction of making
some of them happy.”
“Am I to infer that you contemplate anything in the way of restitution?”
the lawyer demanded.
“No.”
“You are quite right, of course, in withholding your confidence,”
rejoined the other, with a coldness that was partly assumed to veil his
perplexity. “But--is it your intention to present yourself hereafter
under your true name?”
“There is only one other person beside yourself, to whom it was
necessary I should declare myself--I mean Sir Francis Bendibow; and I
took an early opportunity of doing that. To the rest of the world I
intend at present to be Mr. Grant. The fulfillment of the bequests of my
will may hereafter necessitate the revelation of who I really am; but I
trust that may not occur during my lifetime. And, even in the
alternative event, I doubt not the revelation could be so managed as not
to incommode any one.”
“Well, Mr. Grantley,” said the lawyer, taking up a pen and turning it
between his fingers, “your attitude is unexpected and, so far as my
information would lead me to judge, unaccountable. But that is none of
my affair. I need only to put it to you whether you feel so secure in
that attitude as to warrant a belief that the directions of your will
have a reasonable chance of getting themselves fulfilled--whether you
feel confident that third parties may not interfere to thwart your
intentions?”
“On that point I have no misgivings whatever,” replied Mr. Grantley,
with a slight smile. “My only apprehension would respect the principal
legatee.”
“I will not attempt to understand you,” said Fillmore, smiling also. “If
you please, we will proceed to the particulars.”
Hereupon the two entered upon a prolonged discussion, into which we
shall not be obliged to follow them; since what is of import in it will
appear in its proper place. At a few minutes after four o’clock the
colloquy ended, and Mr. Grant, after shaking hands very cordially with
the lawyer, bade him farewell and went down stairs.