THEY MEET AN AUTHOR.
"People maybe taken in _once_, who imagine that an author is greater
in private life than other men. Uncommon parts require uncommon
opportunities for their exertion."
Dr. Johnson.
Mrs. Henfrey in taking leave of Amelia had expressed her pleasure at the
prospect of shortly seeing her again. They were all coming by invitation
to lunch, the next day, at her Uncle Augustus Mortimer's house, because
in the afternoon there was to be a horticultural show in the town. They
always went to these shows, she continued, and this one would have a
particular interest for them, as John Mortimer's gardener, who had once
been their gardener, was to carry off the first prize. "And if you ask
him what the prize is for," said one of the girls, "he will tell you it
is for 'airly 'tates.'"
Accordingly the next day there was a gathering of Mortimers and their
families. Augustus Mortimer was not present, he generally took his
luncheon at the bank; but his son John, to Peter's delight, appeared
with the twins, and constituting himself master of the ceremonies, took
the head of the table, and desired his cousin Valentine to take the
other end, and make himself useful.
Peter asked after his little love, Anastasia.
"Oh, she is very happy," said Gladys Mortimer; "she and Janie have got a
WASH."
"Got what?" asked Mrs. Henfrey.
"A wash, sister," said Valentine. "I passed through the garden, and saw
them with lots of tiny dolls' clothes that they had been washing in the
stream spread out to bleach on the grass."
"It's odd," observed Brandon, "that so wise as children are, they should
be fond of imitating us who are such fools."
"Janie has been drawing from the round, in imitation of her sisters,"
observed John Mortimer. "She brought me this morning a portrait of a
flat tin cock, lately bought for a penny, and said, 'I drew him from the
round, father.'"
By this time the dishes were uncovered and the servants had withdrawn.
Laura was very happy at first. She had been taken in to luncheon by the
so-called St. George, he was treating her with a sort of deference that
she found quite to her mind, and she looked about her on these
newly-known relatives and connections with much complacency. There was
John Mortimer, with Amelia at his right hand, in the place of honour;
then there were the two Miss Grants (in fresh muslin dresses), with a
certain Captain Walker between them, whose twin brother, as Laura
understood, had married their elder sister. This military person was
insignificant in appearance and small of stature, but he was very
attentive to both the young ladies. Then there was Valentine, looking
very handsome, between Mrs. Henfrey and Miss Christie Grant, and being
rebuked by one and advised by the other as to his carving, for he could
not manage the joint before him, and was letting it slip about in the
dish and splash the white sauce.
"You must give your mind to it more," said Mrs. Henfrey, "and try to hit
the joints."
"It's full of bones," exclaimed Valentine in a deeply-injured voice.
"Well, laddie," said Miss Christie, "and if I'm not mistaken, ye'll find
when you get more used to carving, that a breast of veal always is full
of bones."
"Nobody must take any notice of him till he has finished," said
Brandon. "Put up a placard on the table, 'You are requested not to speak
to the man at the veal.' Now, Aunt Christie, you should say, 'aweel,
aweel,' you often do so when there seems no need to correct me."
"Isn't it wonderful," observed Valentine, "that he can keep up his
spirits as he does, when only last week he was weighed in the columns of
the _Wigfield Advertiser and True Blue_, and expressly informed that he
was found wanting."
"If you would only let politics alone," observed Mrs. Henfrey, "the
_True Blue_ would never interfere with you. I always did hate politics,"
she continued, with peaceable and slow deliberation.
"They are talking of some Penny Readings that St. George has been
giving," said John Mortimer, for he observed a look of surprise on
Laura's face.
"'Our poet,' though, has let him alone lately," remarked Valentine. "Oh
I wish somebody would command Barbara to repeat his last effusion. I am
sure by the look in her eyes that she knows it by heart."
"We all do," said John Mortimer's eldest daughter.
"Ah! it's a fine thing to be a public character," observed her father;
"but even I aspire to some notice from the _True Blue_ next week in
consequence of having old Nicholas for my gardener."
"I am very fond of poetry," said Laura simpering. "I should like to hear
the poem you spoke of."
Thereupon the little girl immediately repeated the following verses:--
"If, dear friends, you've got a penny
(If you haven't steal one straight),
Go and buy the best of any
Penn'orth that you've bought of late.
"At the schoolroom as before
(Up May Lane), or else next door
(As last Monday) at the Boar,
Hear the Wigfield lion roar.
"What a treat it was, good lack!
Though my bench had ne'er a back,
With a mild respectful glee
There to hear, and that to see.
"Sweetly slept the men and boys,
And the girls, they sighed meanwhile
'O my goodness, what a voice!
O my gracious, what a smile!'"
The man with no ear for music feels his sense of justice outraged when
people shudder while his daughter sings. Why won't they listen to her
songs as to one another's? There is no difference.
With a like feeling those who have hardly any sense of humour are
half-offended when others laugh, while they seem to be shut out for not
perceiving any cause. Occasionally knowing themselves to be sensible
people, they think it evident that their not seeing the joke must be
because it is against them.
Laura and Mrs. Melcombe experienced a certain discomfort here. Neither
would have been so rude as to laugh; in fact, what was there to laugh
at? They were shut out not only from the laugh, but from that state of
feeling which made these cousins, including the victim, enjoy it,
against one of themselves.
As for Mrs. Henfrey, who also was without any perception of the humorous
side of things, she looked on with a beaming countenance; pleased with
them all for being in such good spirits, whatever might be the reason,
for, as she always expressed it, she did so love to see young people
happy.
"It's capital," said John, but not so good as the prose reviewing they
give you; and all this most excellent fun we should lose, you know,
Giles, if you might have your way, and all sorts of criticism and
reviewing had to be signed with the writer's name."
"But it would make the thing much more fair and moderate," said Brandon
"(not that I intended to include such little squibs as this); besides,
it would secure a man against being reviewed by his own rivals--or his
enemies."
"Yes," said Valentine; "but that sort of thing would tell both ways."
As he spoke with great gravity Mrs. Melcombe, mainly in the kind hope of
helping dear Laura's mistake into the background, asked with an air of
interest what he meant.
"Well," said Valentine, with calm audacity, "to give an example. Suppose
a man writes something, call it anything you please--call it a lecture
if you like--say that it is partly political, and that it is published
by request; and suppose further that somebody, name unknown, writes an
interesting account of its scope and general merits, and it is put into
some periodical--you can call it anything you please--say a county
paper, for instance. The author is set in the best light, and the
reviewer brings forward also some of his own views, which is quite
fair----"
As he seemed to be appealing to Laura, Laura said, "Yes; perfectly
fair."
"His own views--on--on the currency or anything else you like to
mention." Here John Mortimer asked Mrs. Melcombe if she would take some
more wine, Valentine proceeding gravely: "Now do you or do you not think
that if that review had been signed by the lecturer's father, brother,
or friend almost as intimate as a brother, it would have carried more
weight or less in consequence?"
As several of them smiled, Mrs. Melcombe immediately felt uncomfortable
again.
"If what he said was true," she said, "I cannot exactly see----" and
here she paused.
"Well," said John Mortimer, observing that the attention of his
keen-witted little daughter was excited, and being desirous, it seemed,
to give a plainer example of what it all meant, "let us say now, for
once, that I am a poet. I send out a new book, and sit quaking. The
first three reviews appear. Given in little they read thus:--
"One. 'He copied from Snooks, whose immortal work, "The Loves of the
Linendraper," is a comfort and a joy to our generation.'
"Two. 'He has none of the culture, the spontaneity, the suavity, the
reticence, the _abandon_, the heating power, the cooling power, the
light, the shade, or any of the other ingredients referred to by the
great Small in his noble work on poesy,'
"Three. 'This man doesn't know how to write his own language.'
"As I am a poet, fancy my state of mind! I am horribly cast down; don't
like to go out to dinner; am sure my butler, having read these reviews,
despises me as an impostor; but while I sit sulking, in comes a dear
friend and brother-poet. 'How do you know,' says he, 'that Snooks didn't
write number one himself? Or perhaps one of his clique did, for whom he
is to do the same thing.' I immediately shake hands with him. This is
evidently his candid opinion, and I love candour in a friend; besides,
we both hate Snooks. 'And it is a well-known fact,' he continues with
friendly warmth, 'that Small's great work won't sell; how do you know
that number two was not written by a brother or friend of the
publisher's, by way of an advertisement for it?' By this time I am
almost consoled. Something strikes me with irresistible force. I
remember that that fellow Smith, who contested with me the election for
the borough of Wigfield in eighteen hundred and fifty or sixty, has
taken to literature. He was at the head of the poll on that occasion,
but my committee proving that he bribed, he lost his seat. I came in. It
was said that I bribed too; but to discuss that now would be out of
place. I feel sure that Smith must have written number three. In fact he
said those very words concerning me on the hustings."
"Gladys," said Brandon, observing the child's deep attention, "it is
right you should know that the brother-poet had written a tragedy on
tin-tacks. Your father reviewed it, and said no family ought to be
without it."
"But you didn't bribe father, and you didn't copy from Snooks, I am
sure," said Gladys, determined to defend her father, even in his assumed
character.
"What was the name of your _thing_, papa?" asked Barbara.
"I don't know, my dear, I have not considered that matter."
"It was called 'The Burglar's Betrothal,'" said Valentine.
"And do you think that Snooks really wrote that review?" she continued,
contemplating her father through her eyeglass, for she was shortsighted.
"If you ask my sincere opinion, my dear, I must say that I think he did
not; but if some other man had signed it, I should have been sure. Which
now I never shall be."
Here the door was slowly opened, and the portly butler appeared, bearing
in his own hands a fine dish of potatoes; from the same plot, he
remarked to John, with those that had obtained the prize. The butler
looked proud.
"I feel as much elated," said John, "as if I had raised them myself. Is
Nicholas here?"
"Yes, sir, and he has been saying that if the soil of your garden could
only be kept dry, they would be finer still."
"Dry!" exclaimed Valentine, "you can't keep anything dry in such a
climate as this--not even your jokes."
"Hear, hear," said John Mortimer; "if the old man was not a teetotaler,
and I myself were not so nearly concerned in this public recognition of
_our_ merits, I should certainly propose his health."
"Don't let such considerations sway you," exclaimed Valentine rising.
"Jones, will you tell him that you left me on my legs, proposing his
health in ginger-pop--'Mr. Nicholas Swan.'"
Mr. Nicholas Swan. Not one word of the ridiculous speech which followed
the toast was heard by Laura, nor did she observe the respectful glee
with which the butler retired, saying, "I think we've got a rise out of
the _True Blue_ now, sir. I'm told, sir, that the potatoes shown by the
_other side_, compared with these, seemed no bigger than bullets."
Mr. Nicholas Swan. A sudden beating at the heart kept Mrs. Melcombe
silent, and as for Laura, she had never blushed so deeply in her life.
Joseph's name was Swan, and it flashed into her mind in an instant that
he had told her his father was a gardener.
She sat lost in thought, and nervous, scarcely able to answer when some
casual remark was made to her, and the meal was over before she had
succeeded in persuading herself that this man could not be Joseph's
father, because her coming straight to the place where he lived was
_too_ improbable.
"There goes Swanny across the lawn, father," said one of the twins, and
thereupon they all went to the bow-window, and calling the old man,
began to congratulate him, while he leaned his arms on the window-frame,
which was at a convenient height from the ground, and gave them an
account of his success.
They grouped themselves on the seats near. Mrs. Melcombe took the chair
pushed up for her where, as John Mortimer said, she could see the view.
Laura followed, having snatched up a book of photographs, with which she
could appear to be occupied, for she did not want to attract the
gardener's attention by sitting farther than others did from the window;
and as she mechanically turned the leaves, she hearkened keenly to
Swan's remarks, and tried to decide that he was not like Joseph.
"The markiss, sir? Yes, sir, his gardener, Mr. Fergus, took the best
prize for strawberries and green peas. You'll understand that those
airly tates were from seedlings of my own--that's where their great
merit lies, and why they were first. They gave Blakis the cottagers'
prize for lettuce; that I uphold was wrong. Said I, 'Those lettuce heads
that poor Raby shows air the biggest ever I set my eyes on,' 'Swan,'
says Mr. Tikey, 'we must encourage them that has good characters.'
'Well, now, if you come to think, sir,' says I, 'it's upwards of ten
years since Raby stole that pair of boots,' and I say (though they was
my boots) that should be forgot now, and he should have the cottagers'
prize, but stealing never gets forgiven."
"Because it's such an inconvenient vice to those that have anything to
lose," said Miss Christie.
"Yes, that's just it, ma'am. You see the vices and virtues have got
overhauled again, and sorted differently to suit our convenience.
Stealing's no worse _probly_ in the eyes of our Maker than lying and
slandering; not so bad, mayhap, as a deep _sweer_. But folks air so
tenacious like, they must have every stick and stone respected that they
reckon theirs."
"We shouldn't hear ye talking in this _pheelosophical_ way," said Miss
Christie, "if yere new potatoes had been stolen last night, before ye
got them to the show."
Laura took a glance at the gardener, as, with all the ease of intimacy,
he leaned in at the window and gave his opinion on things in general. He
was hale, and looked about sixty years of age. He was dressed in his
Sunday suit, and wore an orange bandana handkerchief loosely tied round
his neck. He had keen grey eyes. Joseph's eyes were dark and large, and
Joseph was taller, and had a straighter nose.
"Swan's quite right," remarked Valentine; "we are a great deal too
tenacious about our belongings. Now I've heard of a fellow who was
waiting about, to horsewhip another fellow, and when this last came out
he had a cane in his hand. His enemy snatched it from him, and laid it
about his back as much as he liked, split it and broke it on him, and
then carried off the bits. Now what would you have done, Swan, in such a
case?"
"Well, sir, in which case? I can't consider anyhow as I could be in the
case of him that was whipped."
"I mean what would you have done about the cane?--the property? A
magistrate had to decide. The man that had been horsewhipped said the
other had spoilt his cane, which was as good as new, and then had stolen
it. The other said he did not carry off the cane till it had been so
much used that it was good for nothing, and he didn't call that
stealing."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Swan, observing a smile on the face of one and
another, "I think I'll leave that there magistrate to do the best he can
with that there case, and I'll abide by his decision."
"When ye come out in the character of Apollo," said Miss Christie to
Valentine, "ye should compose yourself into a grander attitude, and not
sit all of a heap while ye're drawing the long-bow. Don't ye agree with
me, Mrs. Melcombe?"
Mrs. Melcombe looked up and smiled uneasily; but the gardener had no
uncomfortable surmises respecting her, as she had respecting him, and
when he caught her eye he straightened himself up, and said with
pleasant civility, while putting on his hat on purpose to touch it and
take it off again, "'Servant, ma'am; my son Joseph has had a fine spell
of work, as I hear from him, at your place since I saw you last autumn,
and a beautiful place it is, I'm told."
Mrs. Melcombe answered this civil speech, and John Mortimer said, "How
is Joseph getting, on, Swan?"
"Getting on first-rate, thank you kindly, sir," replied Swan, leaning
down into his former easy attitude, and keeping his Sunday hat under his
arm.
"That boy, though I say it, allers was as steady as old Time. He's at
Birmingham now. I rather expect he'll be wanting to _settle_ shortly."
As he evidently wished to be asked a further question, Mrs. Henfrey did
ask one.
"No, ma'am, no," was the reply; "he have not told me nor his mother the
young woman's name; but he said if he got her he should be the luckiest
fellow that ever was." Here, from intense confusion and shyness, Laura
dropped the book, St. George picked it up for her, and nobody thought of
connecting the fall with the story, the unconscious Nicholas continuing.
"So thereby his mother judged that it would come to something, for
that's what a young chap mostly says when he has made up his mind; but I
shall allers say, sir," he went on, "that with the good education as I
gave him, it's a pity he took to such a poor trade. He airly showed a
bent for it; I reckon it was the putty that got the better of him."
"Ah," said John Mortimer, "and I only wonder, Swan, that it didn't get
the better of me! I used to lay out a good deal of pocket-money in it at
one time, and many a private smash have I perpetrated in the panes of
out-houses, and at the back of the conservatory, that I might afterwards
mend them with my own putty and tools. I can remember my father's look
of pride and pleasure when he would pass and find me so quietly, and, as
he thought, so meritoriously employed."
And now this ordeal was over. The gardener was suffered to depart, and
the ladies went up-stairs to dress for the flower-show.
"Oh, Amelia!" exclaimed Laura, pressing her cold hands to her burning
cheeks, "I feel as if I almost hated that man. What business had he to
talk of Joseph in that way?"
Amelia, on the contrary, was very much pleased with Swan, because he had
clearly shown that he was ignorant of this affair. "He seems a very
respectable person," she replied. "His cottage, I know, is near the end
of John Mortimer's garden. I've seen it; but I never thought of asking
his name. It certainly would be mortifying for you to have to go and
stay there with him and Joseph's mother. I suppose, though, that the
Mortimers would have to call."
Amelia felt a certain delight in presenting this picture to Laura.
"I would never go near them!" exclaimed Laura, very angry with her
sister-in-law.
"Why not?" persisted Amelia, determined to make Laura see things as they
were. "You could not possibly wish to divide a man from his own family;
they have never injured you."
"Oh that he and I were on a desert island together," said Laura. She had
often said that before to Amelia. She now felt that if Joseph's father
and mother were there also, and there was nobody else to see, she should
not mind their presence; besides, it would be convenient, they would act
almost as servants.
Amelia very seldom had intuitions; but one seemed to visit her then. "Do
you know, Laura, it really seems to me _less shocking_ that you should
be attached to Joseph (if you are, which I don't believe), than that you
should be so excessively ashamed of it, with no better cause."
This she said quite sincerely, having risen for the moment into a
clearer atmosphere than that in which she commonly breathed. It was a
great advance for her; but then, on the other hand, she had never felt
so easy about the result as that old man's talk had now made her. Laura
never could do it!
So off they set to the flower-show, which was held under a large tent in
a field. Laura heard the hum and buzz about her; the jolly wives of the
various gardeners and florists admiring their husbands' prizes; the band
of the militia playing outside; Brandon's delightful voice--how she
wished that Joseph's was like it!--all affected her imagination;
together with the strong scent of flowers and strawberries and trodden
grass, and the mellow light let down over them through the tent, and the
moving flutter of dresses and ribbons as the various ladies passed and
repassed, almost all being adorned with little pink and blue flowers,
if only so much as a rose-bud or a forget-me-not--for a general election
was near, and they were "showing their colours" (a custom once almost
universal, and which was still kept up in that old-fashioned place).
Wigfield was a droll little town, and in all its ways was intensely
English. There was hardly a woman in it or round it who really and
intelligently concerned herself about politics; but they were all
"blues" or "pinks," and you might hear them talk for a week together
without finding out which was the Liberal and which was the Conservative
colour; but the "pinks" all went to the pink shops, and the "blues"
would have thought it WRONG not to give their custom to those tradesmen
who voted "blue."
You might send to London for anything you thought you wanted; but the
Marchioness herself, the only great lady in the neighbourhood, knew
better than to order anything in Wigfield from a shop of the wrong
colour.
The "pinks" that day were happy. "Markiss," in the person of his
gardener, had three prizes; "Old Money-Bags" (Mr. Augustus Mortimer's
name at election time) had two prizes, in the person of his son's
gardener; in fact, the "pinks" triumphed almost at the rate of two to
one, and yet, to their immortal honour, let it be recorded that the
"blues" said it was all fair.
John Mortimer shortly went to fetch his father, and returned with him
and all his own younger children. Mr. Mortimer had long been allowed to
give three supplementary prizes, on his own account, to some of the
exhibitors who were cottagers, and on this occasion his eyes, having
been duly directed by his son, were observed to rest with great
admiration on the big lettuces. Raby's wife could hardly believe it when
she saw the bright sovereign laid on the broad top of one of them; while
Mr. Swan, as one of the heroes of the day, and with Mrs. Swan leaning on
his arm, looked on approvingly, the latter wearing a black silk gown
and a shawl covered with fir-cones. She was a stout woman, and had been
very pretty--she was supposed by her husband to be so still. On this
occasion, pointing out the very biggest and brightest bunch of
cut-flowers he saw, Mr. Swan remarked complacently--
"They remind me of you, Maria."
"And which on 'em came from our garden, dear," said Mrs. Swan, meaning
which came from Mr. John Mortimer's garden.
Swan pointed out several. "Mr. Fergus came to me yesterday, and said he,
'We want a good lot of flowers to dress up the tent. You'll let us have
some?' 'Certain,' said I; 'we allers do.' Then he marches up to my
piccotees. 'Now these,' said he, 'would just suit us. We could do very
well with pretty nigh all of 'em.' 'Softly,' said I; 'flowers you'll
have; but leave the rest to me. If I'm to have one of my teeth drawn,
it's fair I should say which.' Yes, William Raby air improved; but I
shall allers say as nothing ever can raise that idle dog Phil. Raby. I
don't hope for folks that take parish pay."
The said William Raby came in the evening and brought the big
vegetables, wrapped in an old newspaper, for Mr. Mortimer's acceptance,
and when the old man came out into his hall to speak to him, Raby said--
"It wer' not only the money. My wife, _her_ feels, too--when a man's
been down so long--as it does him a sight o' good to get a mouthful o'
pride, and six penn'orth o' praise to make him hold his head up."
"St. George was dull yesterday," observed John Mortimer, when he and his
father were alone the next morning in the bank parlour. "He was not like
himself; he flashed out now and then, but I could see that it was an
effort to him to appear in good spirits. I thought he had got over that
attachment, for he seemed jolly enough some time ago."
"When does he sail for Canada?" asked the old man.
"At the end of this week, and I believe mainly for the sake of having
something to do. It is very much to be lamented that my uncle did not
manage to make him take up some profession. Here are his fine talents
almost wasted; and, besides that, while he is running about on his
philanthropic schemes, Valentine steals the heart of the girl he loves."
"But," said his father, "I think the young fellow is quite unconscious
that St. George likes her."
"My dear father, then he has no business to be. He ought to know that
such a thing is most probable. Here is St. George shipwrecked, floating
on a raft, and half starved, when this impudent little yacht, that
seems, by the way she flies about, to know the soundings of all harbours
by special intuition--this impudent little yacht comes and looks round
the corner of every wave, and actually overhauls the high seas till she
finds him, and there the first time he opens his eyes is that sweet,
quaint piece of innocence leaning over him. He is shut up with her for
ten days or so; she is as graceful as a sylph, and has a tender sort of
baby face that's enough to distract a man, and I don't see how he could
possibly leave that vessel without being in love with her, unless some
other woman had already got hold of his heart. No, even if St. George
did not know himself that he cared for her, he ought to have been
allowed time to find it out before any one else spoke. And there is Val
in constant correspondence with her, and as secure as possible!"
Conversation then turned to the Melcombes. Old Augustus spoke uneasily
of the boy, said he looked pale, and was not grown.
"He gets that pallor from his mother," said John. "I should not like to
see any of my children such complete reproductions of either parent as
that boy is of her. Family likeness is always strongest among the
uncultivated, and among lethargic and stupid people. If you go down into
the depths of the country, to villages, where the parents hardly think
at all, and the children learn next to nothing, you'll find whole
families of them almost exactly alike, excepting in size."
His father listened quietly, but with the full intention of bringing the
conversation back to Peter as soon as he could.
"It is the same with nations," proceeded John, "those who have little
energy and no keen desire for knowledge are ten times more alike in
feature, complexion, and countenance than we are. No! family likeness is
all very well in infancy, before the mind has begun to work on the face;
but as a man's children grow, they ought to be less and less alike every
year."
"That little fellow," said the father, "seems to me to be exactly like
what he was a year ago."
"I observe no change."
"Do you think he is an average child, John?"
John laughed. "I think that little imp of mine, Hughie, could thrash
him, if they chose to fight, and he is nearly three years the younger of
the two. No, I do not think he is an average child; but I see nothing
the matter with him."
Grand was not exempt from the common foibles of grandfathers, and he was
specially infatuated in favour of the little Hugh, who was a most
sweet-tempered and audacious child, and when his son went on, "Those two
little scamps are getting so troublesome, that they will have to be sent
to school very shortly," he said, almost in a grumbling tone, "They're
always good enough when they're with _me_."
So, in course of time, Mrs. and Miss Melcombe set forth on their
travels; it was their ambition to see exactly the same places and things
that everybody else goes to see, and they made just such observations on
them as everybody else makes.
In the meantime Brandon, not at all aware that several people besides
John Mortimer had noticed that he was out of spirits--Brandon also
prepared to set forth on his travels. He had persuaded several families
to emigrate, and had also persuaded himself that he must go to their
destination himself, that he might look out for situations for them, and
settle them before the winter came on. He was very busy for some days
arranging his affairs; he meant to be away some time. Mr. Mortimer knew
it--perhaps he knew more, for he said not a word by way of dissuasion,
but only seemed rather depressed. The evening, however, before Brandon
was to start, as, at about eight o'clock, he sat talking with his
step-father, the old man lifted up his head and said to him--
"You find me quite as clear in my thoughts and quite as well able to
express them as usual, don't you, St. George?"
"Yes," answered the step-son, feeling, however, a little dismayed, for
the wistful earnestness with which this was said was peculiar.
"If you should ever be asked," continued Daniel Mortimer, "you would be
able to say that you had seen no signs of mental decay in me these last
few months?"
"Yes, I should."
"Don't disturb yourself, my dear fellow. I am as well as usual; better
since my illness than I was for some time before. I quite hope to see
you again; but in case I do not, I have a favour to ask of you."
The step-son assured him with all affection and fervour that he would
attend to his wish, whatever it might be.
"I have never loved anything that breathed as I loved your mother,"
continued the old man, as if still appealing to him, "and you could
hardly have been dearer to me if you had been my own."
"I know it," said Brandon.
"When you were in your own study this morning at the top of the
house----"
"Yes, my liege?"
"I sent Valentine up to you with a desk. You were in that room, were you
not?"
"Oh, yes."
"A small desk, that was once your mother's--it has a Bramah lock."
"I noticed that it had, and that it was locked."
"What have you done with it?"
"Valentine said you wished me to take particular care of it, so I locked
it into my cabinet, where my will is, as you know, and where are most of
my papers."
"Thank you; here is the key. You think you shall never forget where that
desk is, Giles?"
"Never! such a thing is quite impossible."
"If I am gone when you return, you are to open that desk. You will find
in it a letter which I wrote about three years ago; and if I have ever
deserved well of you and yours, I charge you and I implore you to do
your very best as regards what I have asked of you in that letter."