"I really must and will remonstrate, my dear Winkworth," said Charles
Marston, entering the room where his old yellow-faced friend was
sitting. "How you can risk your health and your life by neglecting the
express directions of a surgeon you have called in to attend you, I
cannot conceive, unless you wish to make people believe you are quite
mad, or meditating suicide."
"We are all mad, Charles," said Mr. Winkworth, "every one after his
own fashion; and every man, judging his neighbour by his own madness,
thinks him insane on account of the very actions which most show his
sanity. You are by nature, habit, and education, utterly idle.
Idleness is your madness; and you would not put yourself the least out
of your way to perform the most important business in the world.
Therefore it is you think me mad for neglecting advice in which I have
no confidence, in order to transact business which I thought
important. Business, business took me out, I tell you. Look there;"
and he pointed to an ocean of old papers by which he was surrounded;
"and if I choose to kill myself, Charles Marston, what is that to you?
I am not your son, nor your ward, nor your wife; and no man, let me
tell you, has a right to meddle with another man's actions, unless he
is affected by them."
"But I am affected by this," replied his young companion. "You have
promised to take a journey with me into the country; and if you lay
yourself up on a sick bed, you will not only defraud me of your
society, but you will prevent me from going too, for I must stop to
nurse you."
"Pooh! pooh!" cried the old man: "I can nurse myself; I have nursed
many other people, too, long before you were born; and I think I can
do so still in my own case. But I tell you I don't intend to be ill.
And now, what are you going to do? for, as soon as I get through these
papers, which will take me about half-an-hour more, I may want to talk
to you."
"I shall wait here, then," replied Charles; "for my uncle Scriven sent
to say he would call about this time."
"I won't see him!" exclaimed Mr. Winkworth, impetuously. "Have him
taken into another room. I won't see him: at all events, not yet. It
would do me more harm than all the journeys in the world."
"Ho, ho!" cried Charles, laughing; "so then you have come to the
conclusion that my opinion of my worthy uncle is not quite so wrong as
you at first thought it?"
"I never thought it wrong," said Mr. Winkworth, who was in one of his
polemical humours. "I had no business to think about it, because I had
no data; and all I concluded was that it was either a great pity a
nephew should think so of his uncle, or a great pity that an uncle
should give a nephew reasonable cause so to think. Now I have data;"
and he laid his hand upon some of the papers before him. "These
documents belong to that poor thing we met upon the common, Miss
Hayley. How she has saved them, how she has preserved them, in all she
has gone through, I don't know; but it now seems to me very clear why
your uncle wants to keep her in a madhouse."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Charles Marston, a frown coming upon his brow and
a flush into his cheek. "Pray let me hear, my dear sir; for although I
do not doubt that Mr. Scriven is a very honourable man, as the world
goes, yet I know he always has his motives. Be good enough to tell me
what they are in this instance."
"No, I won't," answered Mr. Winkworth, abruptly; "at least, not at
present, Charlie. You shall hear more by-and-by; but before I speak
upon any subject, I like to know it thoroughly myself; and before I
act in any matter, I like to consider how I had best act."
"But where is Miss Hayley? How did you find out?" exclaimed Charles
Marston.
"She is in a madhouse at Brooke Green," replied Mr. Winkworth; "and I
found out by the boy Jim, who tracked her with the instinct of true
affection. Now, that is all that you need know for the present."
Charles thought for a moment, and then said, in a mild tone--
"I wish, Winkworth, you would tell me more; for your words lead me to
believe, in some degree, that the honour of one member of my family,
at least, is somewhat affected by this business. Yet I cannot insist,
as I am debarred from acting as I should like to act in behalf of this
poor thing."
"Why debarred?" said Mr. Winkworth.
"By my father's unfortunate situation," replied Charles. "I look upon
it as my duty, my dear sir, to make over the income of my poor
mother's whole property, which my father assigned to me, to him for
his life. I have thus nothing on earth to bestow upon poor Miss
Hayley. Otherwise I had proposed, out of old affection for her and
hers, to settle upon her what would make her independent."
Mr. Winkworth got up and walked once or twice across the room; then,
turning sharply round, he said--
"You shall do it, my dear Charles. Do you know I intend to leave you
all I possess? There--no words about it. I told Lady Anne so, a little
while ago; and now tell me what your father allowed you. Not a word
about any other subject."
Charles paused for a moment, as if overpowered by his emotions; but
Mr. Winkworth waved his hand impatiently, and he replied--
"Nearly two thousand a-year, my dear sir: the whole interest, in fact,
of my mother's fortune."
"Then I will allow you the same," said Mr. Winkworth. "I adopt you as
a son. You won't be the worse for two fathers, especially when one is
away; and I am a nabob, you know, who could eat gold if I liked, were
it not that the food is indigestible; and, to tell the truth, I've
been so long accustomed to feed upon rice, and to wear one coat the
whole year, that I fear anything like dainty diet and rich apparel
would be the death of me. Hark! there is somebody coming to the
door--that's your uncle, I'll warrant. Take him quickly through the
room to that one beyond: don't introduce him, and let me finish what I
am about."
The last words were spoken just as Mr. Scriven was entering the room;
and as he was by no means deaf, he must have heard them. He gazed
coldly upon Mr. Winkworth, however, as he advanced towards his nephew;
but the old gentleman merely raised his head for an instant, made a
slight bow, and resumed the reading of the papers before him, while
Charles led his uncle into a small room beyond.
As may be supposed from all that had lately passed between uncle and
nephew, Charles did not feel very cordial towards Mr. Scriven; but
that gentleman cared very little about it. He did not trouble himself
about affections. They were not in his way of business.
"Well, Charles," he said, "a lawyer has been to me to inquire into the
particulars of the property settled upon you. I hope you are not going
to borrow money."
"Not a penny," replied Charles Marston, drily.
"Then what is this lawyer's object?" asked Mr. Scriven. "Was he sent
by you? If so, why?"
"He was sent by me," replied Charles, "and for this reason: my father,
on my coming of age, having plenty of money himself, settled upon me
the income of my mother's property, to which he was entitled during
his life. Now he has not plenty of money, and I am going to give him
back what he gave to me. It must be done legally, and therefore I have
employed a lawyer. You, as the trustee, have the papers, and he must
see them."
"Very good," said Mr. Scriven; "and pray how do you intend to live
yourself?"
"By my wits," answered Charles, "as many other people do, I believe."
"Oh, plenty, plenty!" said Mr. Scriven. "Pray, have you seen your
friend Colonel Middleton lately?"
"Yes; I walked with him for an hour this morning," answered Charles,
his colour a good deal heightened at the insinuation which lay couched
in his uncle's abrupt question.
"Then he has not gone down to Frimley again, to look for Miss Hayley?"
said Mr. Scriven, with a meaning smile.
Charles paused, a good deal struck. This was a new link in the chain
of evidence proving that Henry Hayley and Frank Middleton were one;
but he feared the use his uncle might make of the fact, if he could
once establish it, and replied--
"You still suspect him of being Henry Hayley, I see; but I fancy you
would have great difficulty in proving it."
"I have no interest in proving it," replied Mr. Scriven, in an
indifferent tone; "it would not benefit me. However, as you have now
explained what this lawyer wants, he shall have copies of the deeds.
Of course, you have a right to do what you like with your own; but, if
you will follow my advice, you will take care what you are about; for
if your father's creditors get hold of the capital, it will benefit
neither him nor you."
"I will take care," replied Charles.
And merely saying "Good-bye," Mr. Scriven walked away, passing Mr.
Winkworth without taking any notice.
When Charles Marston rejoined his old friend in the other room, which
he did not do till he had stood and pondered for several minutes, Mr.
Winkworth looked up suddenly, and addressed himself at once to the
very point which had been the subject of his young companion's
meditations.
"Can you tell me anything, Charles," he said, "of a young man whom I
find frequently mentioned in these papers--a nephew of Miss Hayley's,
named Henry?"
"I can tell you much, my dear sir," replied Charles; "and, strange to
say, I was thinking of him at that very moment, from some words that
my uncle let fall. Henry Hayley was the son of my uncle's partner, and
an old schoolfellow of mine. He was accused, when he was little more
than sixteen----"
"I know all that; I know all that," said Mr. Winkworth, hastily: "it
is all written down here, and I remember seeing something of the story
in the newspapers. He fled to the Continent from the pursuit of
justice; but what became of him then?"
"It was said he died," replied Charles Marston; "and the officer who
was sent in pursuit of him declared that he had seen his dead body at
Ancona. My uncle, however, contends that he is still alive; and
certainly the likeness between him and our friend Colonel Middleton is
very extraordinary."
Mr. Winkworth mused for a minute or two, turned over the papers before
him, and examined some passages carefully.
"From what I know of Middleton," he said at length, "your uncle's
suspicions must be wrong. Henry Hayley would have sought for the aunt
who seems to have loved him so well."
"Middleton went down to Frimley a few nights ago," replied Charles. "I
had told my good aunt Fleetwood of our meeting with Miss Hayley on the
common, and I doubt not that she mentioned the fact in his presence."
Mr. Winkworth mused again, but he was uncommonly taciturn upon the
subject.
"I must speak to Middleton about all this," he said. "There is some
mystery here, which should be solved. I wish, Charles, you would send
your fellow to see if he can find Middleton and bring him hither."
Charles immediately acceded; but the servant returned with an
intimation that Colonel Middleton had gone into Hertfordshire.
"I left the message, however, sir," he said; "and the waiter assured
me it should be delivered as soon as the gentleman came back."
Some hours passed in the usual occupations of the day. Mr. Winkworth
sat and read, wrote, and thought, while Charles Marston went in and
out upon various matters of business, dined with his aunt Fleetwood
and Maria, and returned somewhat late to the hotel.
To his surprise, Charles found Mr. Winkworth still up; and, as he was
going to commence a serious remonstrance, the old gentleman lifted up
his finger with a smile, saying--
"Middleton has been here, and the surgeon; so say not a word, or I
disinherit you--cut you off with a shilling. Listen, therefore, to my
new resolution. Lady Anne Mellent sets out to-morrow morning."
"I know she does," replied Charles.
"Your aunt and cousin go at six on the following day," continued Mr.
Winkworth; "but they are young people, especially Lady Fleetwood--I
never saw any one so young in my life. You, I, and Middleton, are old,
and cannot bear travelling; therefore we will all take our departure
about five to-morrow evening. Not a word! It is all settled--Middleton
and I arranged it all, and the surgeon said it was a capital plan;
for, as I told him I must and would go, either that night or the
following day, having made up my mind to be at Belford on Thursday
next, he declared it would be better for me to travel slowly than
quickly, and to begin in the cool of evening. In short, he perfectly
approved, declared I was going on quite well, and left me with an
impression which I never entertained before--that he is an honest man
and a clever doctor."
Charles saw that it would be vain to oppose, and contented himself
with asking--
"But what did Middleton say of himself? Could you make anything of his
history?"
"My dear Charles, he is an enigma," replied Mr. Winkworth; "and, as I
am the least of an [OE]dipus of any man that ever lived, I very soon
gave him up. One thing, however, is clear: he is a gentleman in every
respect, and a very distinguished one. He is, moreover, as rich as
Cr[oe]sus, a Jew, or a nabob. I told him plainly the doubts, or rather
suspicions, which have been entertained; and he merely laughed at
them, seeming to be highly amused at your uncle's conduct at Lady
Fleetwood's house, which by his account must have been exceedingly
strange."
"Very strange indeed, and by no means agreeable," replied Charles;
"but did Middleton tell you nothing at all about himself?"
The old gentleman laughed.
"Oh, yes," he said: "he told me many things; but the most important he
would not tell, and so the rest was of little use. Now, Charles, I
shall go to bed; for you know it is quite needful for a feeble old man
like me, with a bad habit of getting wounded in the shoulder, to take
care of himself."
"Which of course you never do," replied his young companion, smiling.
"I shall not meet you at breakfast, however, sir, for I go early to
Lady Anne's to see her off."
"Good, very good!" said Mr. Winkworth, and walked away into his
bed-room, while Charles remained for a moment or two, with that strong
inclination to think which often comes upon a man about midnight. He
soon found, however, that thinking was a most fruitless occupation,
and he too retired to rest.