THE CLOVEN FOOT
THE CLOVEN FOOT
A Novel
BY THE AUTHOR OF
‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,’ ‘AURORA FLOYD,’
ETC.
Stereotyped Edition.
LONDON
JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL
MILTON HOUSE, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET
[_All rights reserved_]
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. The Heir Presumptive 7
II. Jasper Treverton’s Will 19
III. A Mysterious Visitor 24
IV. La Chicot 33
V. A Disappointed Lover 45
VI. La Chicot has her Own Way 51
VII. ‘A Little While such Lips as Thine to Kiss’ 60
VIII. ‘Days that are Over, Dreams that are Done’ 76
IX. ‘And art Thou Come! and art Thou True!’ 86
X. Engaged 94
XI. No Trousseau 102
XII. An Ill-Omened Wedding 107
XIII. The Settlement 117
XIV. ‘You have but to say the Word’ 120
XV. Edward Clare Discovers a Likeness 126
XVI. Shall it be ‘Yes’ or ‘No’? 134
XVII. Murder 140
XVIII. What the Diamonds were Worth 146
XIX. ‘To a Deep Lawny Dell they Came’ 156
XX. The Church near Camelot 163
XXI. Halcyon Days 169
XXII. A Village Iago 174
XXIII. ‘In the Meanwhile the Skies ’gan Rumble Sore’ 183
XXIV. ‘And Purple Light Shone over All’ 188
XXV. The Children’s Party 192
XXVI. A Disinterested Parent 196
XXVII. Desrolles is not Communicative 211
XXVIII. Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovery 217
XXIX. George Gerard 228
XXX. Thou art the Man 233
XXXI. Why don’t You trust Me? 241
XXXII. On His Defence 246
XXXIII. At the Morgue 255
XXXIV. George Gerard in Danger 260
XXXV. On a Voyage of Discovery 268
XXXVI. Kergariou’s Wife 274
XXXVII. The Tenant from Beechampton 280
XXXVIII. Celia’s Lovers 285
XXXIX. On Suspicion 301
XL. Mr. Leopold asks Irrelevant Questions 307
XLI. Mrs. Evitt makes a Revelation 312
XLII. The Undertaker’s Evidence 325
XLIII. An Old Lady’s Diary 332
XLIV. Three Witnesses 338
XLV. The Hunt for Desrolles 341
Epilogue 349
THE CLOVEN FOOT.
CHAPTER I.
THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.
The air was thick with falling snow, and the country side looked a
formless mass of chilly whiteness, as the south-western mail train
carried John Treverton on a lonely midnight journey. There were not
many people in the train on that bleak night, and Mr. Treverton had a
second-class compartment to himself.
He had tried to sleep, but had failed ignominiously in the endeavour,
waking with a start, after five minutes’ doze, and remaining broad
awake for an hour at a time pondering upon the perplexities of his
life, and hating himself for the follies that had made it what it was.
It had been a very hard life of late, for the world had gone ill with
John Treverton. He had begun his career with a small fortune and a
commission in a crack regiment, and, after wasting his patrimony and
selling his commission, he was now a gentleman at large, living as best
he might, no one but himself knew how.
He was going to a quiet village in Devonshire, a far-away nook under
the shadow of Dartmoor, in obedience to a telegram that told him a rich
kinsman was dying, and summoned him to the death-bed. The day had been
when he hoped to inherit this kinsman’s property; not because the old
man had ever cared for him, but because he, John, was the only relative
Jasper Treverton had in the world; but that hope had vanished when the
lonely old bachelor adopted an orphan girl to whom he was reported to
have attached himself strongly. The _ci-devant_ Captain had never
seen this young person, and it is not to be supposed that he cherished
very kindly feelings towards her. He had made up his mind that she was
a deep and designing creature, who would, of course, play her cards in
such a manner as to induce old Jasper Treverton to leave her everything.
‘He never bore me or mine much goodwill,’ John Treverton said to
himself, ‘but he might have left his money to me for want of anyone
else to leave it to, if it hadn’t been for this girl.’
During almost the whole of that dreary night journey he was meditating
on this subject, half inclined to be angry with himself for having
taken such useless trouble for the sake of a man who was not likely to
leave him sixpence.
He was not an utterly bad fellow, this John Treverton, though his
better and purer feelings had been a good deal blunted by rough
contact with the world. He had a frank, winning manner, and a handsome
face, a face which had won him the love of more than one woman, with
little profit to himself. He was a man of no strong principle, and
with a self-indulgent nature that had led him into wrong-doing very
often during the last ten years of his life. He had an easy temper,
a habit of looking at the pleasanter side of things so long as there
was any pleasantness in them, and a chronic avoidance of all serious
thought--qualities which do not serve to make up a strong character.
But the charm of his manner was none the less because of this latent
weakness of character, and he was better liked than many better men.
The train stopped at a little rustic station, forty miles westward of
Exeter, about an hour after midnight--a dreary building with an open
platform, across which the wind blew and the snow drifted as John
Treverton alighted, the one solitary passenger to be deposited at this
out-of-the-way place. He knew that the house to which he had to go was
some miles from the station, and he applied himself at once to the
sleepy station-master to ascertain if there were any possibility of
procuring a conveyance at that time of night.
‘There’s a gig waiting for a gentleman from London,’ the man answered,
stifling a yawn. ‘I suppose you are the party, sir.’
‘A gig from Treverton Manor?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thanks, yes; I am the person that is expected. Civil, at any rate,’
John Treverton added to himself, as he walked off to the gig, wrapped
to the eyes in his great coat, and with a railway rug across his
shoulder.
He found a gig, with a rough-looking individual of the gardener species
waiting for him in the snow.
‘Here I am, my man,’ he cried cheerily. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘No, sir. Miss Malcolm said as how you’d come by this train.’
‘Miss Malcolm sent you for me, then?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And how is Mr. Treverton to-night?’
‘Mortal bad, sir. The doctors say as th’ old gentleman hasn’t many
hours to live. And Miss Malcolm, she says to me, “Jacob, you’re to
drive home as fast as th’ horse can go, for papa is very anxious to see
Mr. John before he dies.” She allus calls the old gentleman papa, you
see, sir, he having adopted of her ten years ago, and brought her up as
his own daughter like ever since.’
They had jolted over the uneven stones of a narrow street, the high
street of a small settlement which evidently called itself a town,
for here, at a point where two narrow lanes branched off from the
central thoroughfare, there stood a dilapidated old building of the
town-hall species, and a vaulted market-place with iron railings and
closely-locked gates shutting in emptiness. John Treverton perceived
dimly through the winter darkness an old stone church, and at least
three Methodist chapels. Then, all in a moment, the town was gone, and
the gig was rattling along a Devonshire lane, between high banks and
still higher hedges, above which rose a world of hill and moor, that
melted far off into the midnight sky.
‘And your master is very fond of this young lady, Miss Malcolm?’ John
Treverton inquired presently, when the horse, after rattling along
for a mile and a half at a tremendous pace, was slowly climbing a
hill which seemed to lead nowhere in particular, for one could hardly
imagine any definite end or aim in a lane that went undulating like a
snake amidst a chaos of hills.
‘Oncommon, sir. You see, she’s about the only thing he has ever cared
for.’
‘Is she as much liked by other people?’
‘Well, yes, sir, in a general way Miss Malcolm is pretty well liked,
but there is some as think her proud--think her a little set up as you
may say, by Mr. Treverton’s making so much of her. She’s not one to
make friends very easy; the young ladies in the village, Squire Carew’s
daughters, and such like, haven’t taken to her as much as they might
have done. I’ve heard my wife--as has been parlour-maid at the Manor
for the last twenty years--say as much many a time. But Miss Malcolm
is a pleasant-spoken young lady, for all that, to those she likes, and
my Susan has had no fault to find with her. You see all of us has our
peculiarities, sir, and it ain’t to be supposed as Miss Malcolm would
be without hers,’ the man concluded in an argumentative tone.
‘Humph!’ muttered John Treverton. ‘A stuck-up young lady, I dare
say--and a deep one into the bargain. Did you ever hear who she
was--what her position was, and so on--when my cousin Jasper adopted
her?’ he asked aloud.
‘No, sir. Mr. Treverton has kept that oncommon close. He’d been away
from the Manor a twelvemonth when he brought her home without a word
of warning to any one in the house, and told his old housekeeper as how
he’d adopted this little girl--who was an orphan--the daughter of an
old friend of his, and that’s all he ever said about her from that time
to this. Miss Malcolm was about seven or eight year old at that time,
as pretty a little girl as you could see--and she has grown up to be a
beautiful young woman.’
Beautiful. Oh, this artful young person was beautiful, was she? John
Treverton determined that her good looks should have no influence upon
his opinions.
The man was quite willing to talk, but his companion asked no more
questions. He felt, indeed, that he had already asked more than he was
warranted in asking, and felt a little ashamed of himself for having
done so. The rest of the drive, therefore, passed for the most part in
silence. The journey had seemed long to John Treverton, partly because
of his own impatience, partly on account of the numerous ups and downs
of that everlasting lane, but it was little more than half-an-hour
after leaving the station when they entered a village street where
there was not a glimmer of light at this hour, except one solitary lamp
shining feebly before the door of the general shop and post-office.
This was the village of Hazlehurst, near which Hazlehurst Manor-house
was situated. They drove to the end of this quiet street and along a
high road bordered by tall elms which looked black against the night
sky, till they came to a pair of great iron gates.
The man handed the reins to his companion, and then dismounted and
opened these gates. John Treverton drove slowly into a winding carriage
drive that led up to the house, a great red-brick mansion with many
long, narrow windows, and a massive carved stone shell over the door,
which was approached on each side by a flight of broad stone steps.
There was light enough from the stars for John Treverton to see all
this as he drove slowly up to the hall door. His coming had evidently
been awaited anxiously, as the door was opened before he had alighted
from the gig, and an old man-servant peered out into the night. He
opened the door wide when he saw John Treverton. The gardener--or
groom, whichever he might happen to be--led the gig slowly away to
a gate at the side of the house, opening into a stable yard. John
Treverton went into the hall, which looked very bright and cheerful
after his dreary drive--a great, square hall hung with family portraits
and old armour, and with crimson sheep-skins and tawny hides of savage
beasts lying about on the black and white marble pavement. There was a
roomy old fireplace on one side of this hall, with a great fire burning
in it, a fire which was welcome as meat and drink to a traveller this
cold night. There were ponderous carved oak chairs with dark-red velvet
cushions, looking more comfortable and better adapted for the repose
of the human frame than such chairs are wont to be, and at the end of
the hall there was a great antique buffet adorned with curious bowls
and bottle-shaped jars in Oriental china.
John Treverton had time to see these things as he sat before the fire
with his long legs stretched out upon the hearth, while the old servant
went to announce his arrival to Miss Malcolm.
‘A pleasant old place,’ he said to himself. ‘And to think of my never
having seen it before, thanks to my father’s folly in having quarrelled
with old Jasper Treverton, and never having taken the trouble to
heal the breach, as he might have done, I dare say, with some slight
exercise of diplomacy. I wonder whether the old fellow is very rich.
Such a place as this might be kept up on a couple of thousand a year,
but I have a notion that Jasper Treverton has six times as much as
that.’
The old butler came downstairs in about five minutes to say that Miss
Malcolm would be pleased to see Mr. Treverton, if he liked. His master
had fallen asleep, and was sleeping more peacefully than he had done
for some time.
John Treverton followed the man up a broad staircase with massive oak
bannisters. Here, as in the hall, there were family portraits on the
walls, and armour and old china in every available corner. At the top
of this staircase was a gallery, lighted by a lantern in the roof,
and with numerous doors opening out of it. The butler opened one of
these doors and ushered John Treverton into a bright-looking, lamp-lit
sitting-room, with panelled walls. A heavy green damask curtain hung
before a door opening into an adjoining room. The mantelpiece was high,
and exquisitely carved with flowers and cupids, and was ornamented
by a row of eggshell cups and saucers, and the quaintest of Oriental
teapots. The room had a comfortable, homelike look, John Treverton
thought--a look that struck him all the more perhaps because he had no
settled home of his own, nor had ever known one since his boyhood.
A lady was sitting by the fire, dressed in a dark-blue gown, which
contrasted wonderfully with the auburn tints of her hair, and the
transparent pallor of her complexion. As she rose and turned her face
towards John Treverton, he saw that she was indeed a very beautiful
young woman, and there was something in her beauty which took him a
little by surprise, in spite of what he had heard from his companion in
the gig.
‘Thank God you have come in time, Mr. Treverton,’ she said
earnestly--an earnestness which John Treverton was inclined to consider
hypocritical. What interest could she have in his arrival? What feeling
could there be between them but jealousy?
‘I suppose she feels so secure about the old man’s will that she can
afford to be civil,’ he thought as he seated himself by the fireside,
after two or three polite commonplaces about his journey. ‘There is no
hope of my cousin’s recovery, I suppose?’ he hazarded presently.
‘Not the faintest,’ Laura Malcolm answered, very sadly. ‘The London
physician was here for the last time to-day. He has been down every
week for the last two months. He said to-day that there would be no
occasion for him to come any more; he did not think papa--I have always
called your cousin by that name--could live through the night. He has
been less restless and troubled since then, and he is now sleeping very
quietly. He may linger a little longer than the physician seemed to
think likely; but beyond that I have no hope whatever.’
This was said with a quiet, restrained manner that was more indicative
of sorrow than any demonstrative lamentation could have been. There was
something almost like despair in the girl’s look and tone--a dreary
hopelessness--as if there were nothing left for her in life when the
friend and protector of her girlhood should be taken from her. John
Treverton watched her closely as she sat looking at the fire, with her
dark eyes shrouded by their long lashes. Yes, she was very beautiful.
That was a fact about which there was no possibility of doubt. Those
large hazel eyes alone would have given a charm to the plainest face,
and in this face there was no fault to be redeemed.
‘You seem to be much attached to my cousin, Miss Malcolm,’ Mr.
Treverton said presently.
‘I love him dearly,’ she answered, looking up at him with those deep,
dark eyes, which had a melancholy expression to-night. ‘I have had no
one else to care for since I was quite a child; and he has been very
good to me. I should be something worse than ungrateful if I did not
love him as I do.’
‘And yet your life must have been a trying one, as the sole companion
of an old man of Jasper Treverton’s eccentric temper. I speak of him as
I have heard him described by my father. You must have found existence
with him rather troublesome now and then, I should think.’
‘I very soon learnt to understand him, and to bear all the little
changes in his humour. I knew that his heart was noble.’
‘Humph!’ thought John Treverton. ‘Women can do these things better than
men. I couldn’t stand being shut up with a crusty old fellow for a
week.’
And after having made this reflection, he thought that no doubt Miss
Malcolm was of the usual type of sycophants and interlopers, able to
endure anything in the present for the chance of a stupendous advantage
in the future, able to wait for the fruition of her hopes with a dull,
grovelling patience.
‘This appearance of grief is all put on, of course,’ he said to
himself. ‘I am not going to think any better of her because she has
fine eyes.’
They sat for a little time in silence; Laura Malcolm seemed quite
absorbed by her own thoughts, and in no way disturbed by the presence
of John Treverton. It was a proud face which he looked at every now and
then so thoughtfully, not a lovable face by any means, in spite of its
beauty. There was a coldness of expression, a self-contained air about
Miss Malcolm which her new acquaintance was inclined to dislike. He
had come to that house prepared to think unfavourably of her; had come
there, indeed, with a settled dislike to her.
‘I think it is to you I am indebted for the telegram that summoned me
here?’ he said by-and-by.
‘Oh, no, not to me directly. It was your cousin’s wish that you should
be sent for--a wish he only expressed on Monday, though I had asked
him many times if he would not like to see you, his only surviving
relative. Had I known your address, or where a letter would reach you,
I think I should have ventured to ask you to come down without his
permission, but I had no knowledge of this.’
‘And it was only the day before yesterday that my cousin spoke of me
for the first time?’
‘Only the day before yesterday. On every previous occasion he gave me a
short, impatient answer, telling me not to worry him, and that he had
no wish to see anyone, but on Monday he mentioned your name, and told
me he wanted particularly to see you. He had no idea where you were
to be found, but he thought a telegram addressed to your father’s old
lawyer would reach you. I sent the message as he directed.’
‘The lawyer had some difficulty in hunting me out, but I lost no time
after I got your message. I cannot, of course, pretend any attachment
to a man whom I never saw in my life, but I am pleased that Jasper
Treverton should have thought of me at the last, nevertheless. I
am here to testify my respect for him, in a perfectly independent
character, having not the faintest expectation of inheriting one
shilling of his wealth.’
‘I don’t know why you should not expect to inherit his estate, Mr.
Treverton,’ Laura Malcolm answered, quietly. ‘To whom else should he
leave it, if not to you?’
John Treverton thought this question a piece of gratuitous hypocrisy.
‘Why, to you, of course,’ he replied, ‘his adopted daughter, who have
earned his favour by years of patient submission to all his whims and
fancies. Surely you must be quite aware of his intentions upon this
point, Miss Malcolm, and this affected ignorance of the subject is
intended to hoodwink me.’
‘I am sorry you should think so badly of me, Mr. Treverton. I do not
know how your cousin has disposed of his money, but I do know that none
of it has been left to me.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I have been assured of it by his own lips, not once but many times.
When he first adopted me he made a vow that he would leave me no part
of his wealth. He had been treated with falsehood and ingratitude by
those he had loved, and had found out their mercenary feelings about
him. This had soured him a good deal, and he was determined--when he
took me under his care out of motives of the purest charity--that he
would have one person about him who should love him for his own sake,
or not pretend to love him at all. He took an oath to this effect on
the night he first brought me home to this house, and fully explained
the meaning of that oath to me, though I was quite a child at that
time. “I have had toadies and sycophants about me, Laura,” he said,
“until I have come to distrust every smiling face. Your smiles shall
be true, my dear, for you shall have no motive for falsehood.” On my
eighteenth birthday he placed in trust six thousand pounds for my
benefit, in order that his death should not leave me unprovided for,
but he took occasion at the same time to remind me that this gift was
all I must ever expect at his hands.’
John Treverton heard this with a quickened breath, and a new life and
eagerness in the expression of his face. The aspect of affairs was
quite altered by the fact of this oath sworn long ago by the eccentric
old man. He must leave his money to some one. What if he should,
indeed, leave it to him, John Treverton?
For some few minutes his heart beat high with a new hope, and then sank
again suddenly. Was it not much more likely that Jasper Treverton would
find some means of evading the letter of his vow, for the benefit of a
beloved adopted daughter, than that he should bequeath his fortune to a
kinsman who was a stranger to him?
‘Don’t let me be a fool,’ John Treverton said to himself; ‘there’s
not the faintest chance of any such luck for me, and I dare say this
girl knows as much, though she is artful enough to pretend complete
ignorance of the old man’s designs.’
The butler came in presently to announce that supper was ready for Mr.
Treverton in the dining-room below. He went downstairs in answer to
this summons, after begging Miss Malcolm to send for him the moment the
invalid awoke.
The dining-room was handsomely furnished with massive sideboard and
chairs of carved oak, the long, narrow windows draped with dark-red
velvet. There was a fine old Venetian glass over the sideboard, and a
smaller circular mirror above the old inlaid bureau that occupied the
space between the windows opposite. There were a few good cabinet
pictures of the Dutch school on the panelled walls, and a pair of fine
blue-and-white Delft jars on the high carved oak chimney-piece. A wood
fire burned cheerily in the wide grate, and the small round table on
which the traveller’s supper had been laid was wheeled close to the
edge of the Turkey hearthrug, and had a very comfortable appearance
in the eyes of Mr. John Treverton as he seated himself in one of the
capacious oak chairs.
In his disturbed state of mind he had little inclination to eat,
though the cook had prepared a cosy supper that might have tempted an
anchorite; but he did justice to a bottle of excellent claret, and sat
for some time, sipping his wine and looking about him thoughtfully,
now at the curious old silver tankards and rose-water dishes on the
sideboard, now at the Cuyps and Ostades on the dark oak walls. To
whom would all these things belong when Jasper Treverton was no more?
Throughout the house there were indications of wealth that inspired
an almost savage longing in this man’s mind. What a changed life his
would be if he should inherit only half of his cousin’s possessions!
He thought, with a weary sigh, of the wretched hand-to-mouth existence
that he had led of late years, and then thought of the things that he
would do if he came in for any share of the old man’s money. He sat
meditating thus until the servant came to tell him that Mr. Treverton
was awake and had asked to see him. He followed the man back to the
study, where he had found Miss Malcolm. The room was empty now, but the
curtain was drawn aside from the door of communication, and he passed
through this into Jasper Treverton’s bedroom.
Laura Malcolm was seated at the bedside, but she rose as John entered,
and slipped quietly away by another door, leaving him alone with his
cousin.
‘Sit down, John,’ the old man said in a feeble voice, pointing to the
empty chair by the bedside.
‘It is rather late in the day for us two to meet,’ he went on, after a
brief pause, ‘but perhaps it is better for us to see each other once
before I die. I won’t speak of your father’s quarrel with me. You know
all about that, I dare say. We were both in the wrong, very likely;
but it has long been too late to undo that. I loved him once, God
knows!--Yes, there was a day when I loved Richard Treverton dearly.’
‘I have heard him say as much, sir,’ John answered in subdued tones. ‘I
regret that he should have quarrelled with you; I regret much more that
he should not have sought a reconciliation.’
‘Your father was always a proud man, John. Perhaps I liked him all the
better for that. Most men in his position would have courted me for the
sake of my money. He never did that.’
‘It was not in him to do it, sir. He had his faults, I have no doubt,
but a sordid nature was not one of them.’
‘I know that,’ answered Jasper Treverton, ‘nor have you ever sought me
out, John, or tried to worm yourself into my favour. Yet I suppose you
know that you are my sole surviving relative.’
‘Yes, sir, I am quite aware of that.’
‘And you have left me in peace, and have been content to take your
chance. Well, you will find yourself none the worse off for having
respected yourself and not worried me.’
John Treverton’s face flushed, and the beating of his heart quickened
again, as it had quickened when Laura Malcolm told him of his kinsman’s
vow.
‘My death will make you a rich man,’ returned Jasper, always speaking
with a painful effort, and in so low a voice that John was obliged
to bend over his pillow in order to hear him, ‘on one condition--a
condition which I do not think you will find it difficult to comply
with.’
‘You are very good, sir,’ faltered the young man, almost too agitated
to speak. ‘Believe me, I had no expectation of this.’
‘I dare say not,’ replied the other. ‘I took a foolish oath some years
ago, and bound myself not to leave my fortune to the only creature I
really love. To whom else should I leave it then, but to you--my next
of kin? I know nothing against you. I have lived too remote from the
world to hear its scandals, and I know not whether you have won good
or evil repute among your fellow men; but I do know that you are the
son of a man I once loved, and that it will be in your power to carry
out my wishes in the spirit, if not in the letter. The rest I trust to
Providence.’
After having said this the dying man lay back upon the pillows,
and remained silent for some minutes, resting after the exertion
involved in so long a speech. John Treverton waited for him to speak
again--waited with a tumultuous sense of gladness in his breast,
looking round the room now and then. It was a spacious apartment, with
handsome antique furniture, and panelled walls hung with old pictures,
like those in the dining-room below. Dark-green velvet curtains were
closely drawn before the three lofty windows, and in the spaces between
them there were curious old cabinets of carved ebony, inlaid with
silver. John Treverton looked at all these things, which seemed to be
his already, after what the dying man had said to him. How different
from the home he had left, the shabby-genteel London lodging, with its
tawdry finery and decrepit chairs and tables!
‘What do you think of my adopted daughter, John Treverton?’ the old man
asked presently, turning his dim eyes towards his cousin.
The younger man hesitated a little before replying. The question
had taken him by surprise. His thoughts had been far away from Laura
Malcolm.
‘I think she is very handsome, sir,’ he said, ‘and I dare say she is
amiable; but I really have had very little opportunity of forming any
opinion about the young lady.’
‘No, you have seen nothing of her as yet. You will like her better when
you come to know her. I cannot doubt that. Her father and I were warm
friends, once upon a time. We were at Oxford together, and travelled
a good deal in Spain and Italy together, and loved each other well
enough, I believe, till circumstances parted us. I need have no shame
in owning the cause of our parting now. We loved the same woman, and
Stephen Malcolm won her. I thought--whether rightly or wrongly--that I
had not been fairly treated in the matter, and Stephen and I parted,
never to meet as friends again till Stephen was on his death-bed. The
lady jilted him after all, and he did not marry until some years later.
When I heard of him next he was in reduced circumstances. I sought him
out, found him in a pitiable condition and adopted his daughter--an
only child--doubly orphaned. I cannot tell you how dear she soon became
to me, but I had made an oath I would leave her nothing, and I have not
broken that oath, dearly as I love her.’
‘But you have made some provision for her future, sir?’
‘Yes, I have striven to provide for her future. God grant it may be a
happy one. And now call my servant, if you please, John. I have talked
a great deal too much as it is.’
‘Only one word before I call the man. Let me tell you, sir, that I
am grateful,’ said John Treverton, kneeling down beside the bed, and
taking the old man’s wasted hand in his.
‘Prove it when I am gone, John, by trying to carry out my wishes. And
now good-night. You had better go to bed.’
‘Will you allow me to sit with you for the rest of the night, sir? I
have not the least inclination to sleep.’
‘No, no, there would be no use in your sitting up. If I am well enough
to see you again in the morning I will do so. Till then, good-bye.’
The old man’s tone was decisive. John Treverton went out of the room
by a door that opened on the gallery. Here he found Jasper Treverton’s
valet, a grave-looking, grey-haired man, dozing upon a window seat. He
told this man that he was wanted in the sick room, and then went to the
study.
Miss Malcolm was still there, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, looking
at the fire.
‘What do you think of him?’ she asked, looking up suddenly, as John
Treverton entered the room.
‘He does not seem to me so ill as I expected to see him from your
account. He has spoken to me with perfect clearness.’
‘I am very glad of that. He seemed a good deal better after that long
sleep. I will ring for Trimmer to show you your room, Mr. Treverton.’
‘Are you not going to bed yourself, Miss Malcolm? It is nearly three
o’clock.’
‘No. I cannot sleep during this time of suspense. Besides, he may want
me at any moment. I shall lie down on that sofa, perhaps, a little
before morning.’
‘Have you been keeping watch like this many nights?’
‘For more than a week; but I am not tired. I think when the mind is so
anxious the body has no capability of feeling fatigue.’
‘You will find the reaction very severe by-and-by, I fear,’ Mr.
Treverton replied; and Trimmer, the old butler, having appeared by this
time with a candle, he wished Miss Malcolm good-night.
The room to which Trimmer led John Treverton was on the other side
of the house--a large room, with a comfortable fire blazing on the
hearth, and reflecting itself in a border of old Dutch tiles. Late as
it was, Mr. Treverton sat by the fire thinking for a long time before
he went to bed, and even when he did lie down under the shadow of the
damask curtains that shrouded the gloomy-looking four-post bed, sleep
kept aloof from him. His mind was busy with thoughts of triumph and
delight. Innumerable schemes for the future--selfish ones for the most
part--crowded and jostled each other in his brain. It was a feverish
night altogether--a night which left him unrefreshed and haggard when
the cold wintry light came creeping in between the window curtains, and
a great clock in the stable yard struck eight.
A countryfied-looking young man, a subordinate of the butler’s, brought
the visitor his shaving water, and, on being questioned, informed him
that Mr. Treverton the elder had passed a restless night, and was worse
that morning.
John Treverton dressed quickly, and went straight to the study next
the invalid’s room. He found Laura Malcolm there, looking very wan
and pale after her night’s watching. She confirmed the young man’s
statement. Jasper Treverton was much worse. His mind had wandered
towards daybreak, and he now seemed to recognise no one. His old friend
the vicar had been with him, and had read the prayers for the sick, but
the dying man had been able to take no part in them. The end was very
near at hand, Laura feared.
Mr. Treverton stopped with Miss Malcolm a little while, and then
wandered down to the dining-room, where he found an excellent breakfast
waiting for him in solitary state. He fancied that the old butler
treated him with a peculiar deference, as if aware that he was to be
the new master of Treverton Manor. After breakfast he went out into
the gardens, which were large, and laid out in an old-fashioned style;
straight walks, formal grass-plats, and flower-beds of geometrical
design. John Treverton walked here for some time, smoking his cigar
and looking up thoughtfully at the great red-brick house with its
many windows glittering in the chill January sunshine, and its air of
old-world repose.
‘It will be the beginning of a new life,’ he said to himself. ‘I feel
myself ten years younger since my interview with the old man last
night. Let me see--I shall be thirty on my next birthday. Young enough
to begin life afresh--old enough to use wealth wisely.’