CONVERGING THREADS.
In the course of the same forenoon Andry Luce sought Miss Baynard with
the view of making a certain private communication to her. Talking on
Andry's part was, of course, done by means of his fingers, but long
practice had made Nell an adept at reading the language of the dumb.
Andry, who retained no recollection of his parents, in his brooding,
self-contained fashion had never really cared but for two people,
to-wit, his young master, Dick Cortelyon, and Miss Baynard. One of
them was dead, and to the other was now given a double measure of that
love and devotion which had sprung full-grown from his heart the
moment he first set eyes on her, and had burnt there with a steady,
unflickering flame ever since. She was the secret goddess at whose
shrine he worshipped daily. His love was unmixed with any taint of
ordinary passion, and was as absolutely pure as that of a father for
his child. It was the one well-spring of living water his maimed life
knew. There was nothing in the wide world he would not have done, or
have attempted, at Miss Baynard's bidding.
His object in seeing her this morning was to enlighten her with regard
to the provisions of the Squire's new will, which Mr. Piljoy was to
bring a couple of days hence for the purpose of having it signed and
witnessed. He did not tell her through what channel he had obtained
his information, and, naturally enough, Nell imagined that it was he
and not Mr. Piljoy who had drawn up the instructions, or, at any rate,
that he had been present at their specification by her uncle. But
before Andry's fingers, working although they were at their quickest,
had got more than half through their tale, Nell's thoughts were
otherwise engaged.
She was rendered terribly indignant, as Andry knew full well she would
be, by the thought of the gross and cruel injustice of which Mr.
Cortelyon meditated making his innocent grandson the victim. She was
made both to love strongly and to hate strongly, and there was nothing
she hated more than aught that savored of cruelty or injustice. She
had loved poor dead and gone Dick as a younger sister loves a
handsome, generous, kind-hearted elder brother, and it made her blood
boil to think that his child should be treated as an outcast from the
hearth to which he ought to have been welcomed as the pride and the
heir.
But what could be done? How could the purpose of this most iniquitous
will be defeated? She could discern no way--none. She was as helpless
in the matter as a new-born babe. Tears hot and passionate were shed
by her in the privacy of her own room. But of what avail are a girl's
tears? They fall, only to be dried up as quickly as a summer shower.
Now, it so happened that about this time a certain peripatetic dealer
in rare books, coins, and curios of different kinds, of whom Mr.
Cortelyon had made sundry purchases at various times, called at
Stanbrook on purpose to submit to the Squire a choice illuminated MS.
of the fifteenth century, for which he was desirous of finding a
customer. The price asked was a high one, but after a little
haggling--he was too weak to hold out long--the Squire agreed to pay
it rather than let the treasure go.
It was not so much that he had fallen in love with it on his own
account, as he believed that in it he had secured a rarity, to possess
which his friend Mr. Delafosse, who was also a bibliophile and a
numismatist, but more of the former than the latter, would be willing
to give in exchange a certain unique stater of Epaticcus which he,
Ambrose Cortelyon, had long coveted. Although he believed himself to
be so near his end, it seemed to him that he should die happier with
the precious stater shut up in his palm, and the knowledge that at
last it was his own.
Yes, Nell should go to Dene House, taking the MS. with her and
negotiate the exchange. She was already known to Mr. Delafosse, who
was no stranger at Stanbrook, and, in point of fact, was a special
favorite of the old collector. Dene House was some twenty-five miles
away across country. She could go on horseback, accompanied by John
Dyce by way of escort.
So great became his impatience that he would have her set out that
very afternoon. The days were already long, and she could reach Dene
House soon after sunset, stay there overnight--Mrs. Delafosse would
give her a hearty welcome--and be back home before noon on the morrow.
So Nell was sent for, and the manuscript given into her charge. By
this time her uncle's weakness had become so extreme that his wishes
and instructions had perforce to be limited to a few whispered
sentences. But Nell gave him to understand that she knew exactly what
he wanted done, and he was satisfied. She would set out in the course
of the afternoon, and be back by midday on the morrow.
About an hour later Dr. Banks arrived, accompanied by Dr. Mills. The
Squire had expressed a wish to see the latter about once a week, and
although all the doctors in the world could have done nothing for him,
that was no reason why his whim should not be humored. But there was
no need for a lengthened visit, and the pair had come and gone in the
course of half an hour.
This was the day fixed for the return of Mr. Piljoy with the will, and
about half-past two a post-chaise drove up, from which, however, there
alighted not the lawyer himself, but his managing clerk, Mr. Tew. Mr.
Piljoy, he reported, was laid up with gout, and unable to come, but
he, Mr. Tew, was just as competent to see to the proper signing of the
will.
Mr. Tew was not sorry to be told that the Squire was asleep and must
on no account be disturbed. He was both tired and hungry, and was glad
to be able to put the hospitality of Stanbrook to the proof before
having to attend to the business which had taken him there.
It was not till close upon five o'clock that he was summoned to the
Squire's presence. The sick man was alone, propped up in bed as usual,
but Andry Luce had been instructed to keep within hearing of his
master's bell.
Mr. Tew, having explained the cause of his employer's absence, went
on, at the Squire's request, to read the will aloud, slowly and
deliberately, the testator giving a nod of approval at the end of each
clause. Five or six minutes brought the reading to an end, and as he
took off his spectacles Mr. Tew said: "I presume, sir, that your
witnesses are in readiness?"
The Squire nodded. "Ask Andry to summon the gardener and the groom.
They have been told to hold themselves in readiness," he whispered.
The two subordinates in question were not long in making their
appearance, and very self-important, albeit somewhat sheepish, they
looked. They did not know they had been chosen as witnesses because
most of the older servants were legatees under the will, whereas they
were not mentioned in it. Besides, it had been ascertained that they
could actually sign their names, which, for persons of their class,
was regarded in those days as a very considerable accomplishment.
Then Andry, who had charge of the proceedings, brought in the Squire's
big leaden inkstand, together with a couple of quill pens, which he
had cut and trimmed specially for the occasion. All being in
readiness, Andry put a stalwart arm round his master, and held him in
a firm support while the latter, with slow and painful elaborateness,
wrote his name at the foot of the will, which Mr. Tew held for him in
a convenient position. That done, the groom and the gardener in turn
followed their master's example, not without many strange facial
contortions as the pen travelled shakily over the parchment. Then they
touched their forelocks and shuffled out of the room, glad the
ceremony was over, and yet feeling themselves to be much more
important persons than they had been a quarter of an hour before. As
they shambled downstairs they whispered to each other that they had
set eyes on "th' owd Squire" for the last time. Of the contents of the
document signed by them they knew nothing. They had been told it was
their employer's will, and that was enough for them.
Mr. Tew was not allowed to leave Stanbrook till after dinner, nor,
indeed, had he any particular desire to do so. He could not stay
overnight, as Mr. Piljoy would have done, but so long as he was back
at business by nine o'clock on the morrow, that was all that would be
expected of him. He was carrying back with him the signed will, in an
envelope sealed with the Squire's own seal, to be retained in the
custody of his employer till the time should have come for it to be
made public.
Mrs. Budd and he dined alone. He was told that Miss Baynard, to whom
he had been introduced earlier in the afternoon, had in the meantime
left the Hall on some private business for her uncle, and was not
expected back till next day.
Shortly after seven o'clock, Mr. Tew, who was beginning to be a little
muddled with the quantity of old port he had imbibed, bade Mrs. Budd
an almost affectionate farewell (she was a widow, and, to his
thinking, still a charming woman), climbed into his chaise, and was
driven off on his return to Arkrigg.
Night settled down over the old house. In those remote country parts
people kept early hours, and when the hall clock chimed the half-hour
past ten the only light left burning in the Hall was the one in the
sick man's room. Near it sat Nurse Dinkel busily knitting--for she
could not bear her fingers to be idle--but watchful and alert, as she
always was. The Squire did not like to be looked at as he lay there,
and from where she sat she could not see him for the heavy curtains
that shrouded the head of the bed, but the slightest movement of his
fingers on the counterpane drew her to his side.
She was a woman of some education, and had a low and pleasant voice,
and as Mr. Cortelyon's nights were often restless and wakeful, he had
got into the way of occasionally asking her to read aloud to him. Her
doing so took him for a time out of the dungeon of his own thoughts
and sometimes brought in its train the sleep he longed for.
So to-night, after lying awake for some time, as motionless as if he
were already dead, he said, "Nurse!"
"Yes, sir?"
"I want you to read to me." His voice was still very feeble, but
stronger than it had been in the afternoon; such fluctuations were
frequent with him.
"Yes, sir. What would you like? Shall I go on with Mr. Pope from where
we left off the night before last?"
"Aye, you can't improve on him. Draw back this curtain that I may the
better hear you."
When the curtain had been drawn back Nurse Dinkel did not return to
her chair, but stood there, looking at her patient, nursing an elbow
in either hand.
"Mr. Cortelyon, sir," she said after a brief pause, "I have something
on my mind which I wish most particularly to say to you, if you will
kindly give me leave to do so."
"Surely, Mrs. Dinkel, I will listen to anything you may have to say.
But don't stand there while you talk. Go back to your chair."
"Thank you, sir," she said, as she resumed her seat. "I will try not
to tire you, although what I wish to say may at the beginning seem a
bit tedious. You may or may not be aware, sir, that I have a son,
Cornelius by name, who is now turned thirty years of age. When he was
quite a boy--and a clever boy he was, though 'tis I who say it--the
late Sir Willoughby Freke took a great fancy to him. In the course of
time he went to London, at Sir Willoughby's expense, for he was bent
on studying to become a doctor. And study he did to such good purpose
that he passed all his examinations with flying colors. Hardly,
however, had he obtained his diploma before a very good offer was made
him to go out to Java, where he has relations on his father's side
engaged in business. It was an offer he felt bound to accept. That was
ten years ago, and now he has come back to England and is not going
abroad any more. His home will be in London, but before settling down
there he has come to spend a little time with his old mother, from
whom he has been so long parted. And now, sir, I come to the reason
why I have taken on myself to trouble you with all these dry
particulars.
"My son has brought a wonderful discovery back with him from the East.
According to his account, it will cure certain diseases after all
other medicines have been tried in vain, and, in some cases, will
almost bring dead people back to life. What the drug consists of I
cannot tell you, because that is my son's secret, and one which he
would not think of opening his lips about even to me. All I know is
that the chief ingredient is the powdered bark of a certain tree, of
which he has brought a considerable supply back with him. Cornelius
feels as sure as it is possible for a man to be of anything that he
has only to introduce his discovery to the medical world of London to
find himself on the high road to a big fortune. His heart is buoyed up
not merely by hope but by certainty.
"Well, sir, no longer ago than last Sunday afternoon, when you and
Miss Baynard were good enough to spare me from my duties for a few
hours, I had a long talk with my son, and took the liberty of telling
him about your illness. And what do you think he said, sir? Why this:
'If Mr. Cortelyon could only be persuaded into trying my drug, I feel
sure that it would give him a new lease of life.' Those were his very
words, sir--'a new lease of life.'"
The Squire lay silent for a little while. Then he said, "And it is
your opinion that I ought to allow myself to be experimented upon by
this vaunted remedy of your son?"
"Most emphatically it is, sir. Cornelius is no idle boaster; he always
knows what he is talking about, and he would not have said what he did
without good reason. He tried the drug again and again in several
desperate cases before he left Batavia, and in no instance was it a
failure."
"But I am an old man, Mrs. Dinkel, and my case is not one of any
particular disorder, but a gradual decay of the vital forces, which
can have but one end--and that is now close at hand."
"Don't say that, sir, I beg. Who can say what wonder my son's remedy
might not effect even in your case, as it has already done in those of
others? It is true that neither Dr. Banks nor Dr. Mills seems able to
do anything for you, but that is no reason why you should refuse the
help now offered you from another source. My son knows your age within
a year or two; I described to him all about your illness, and yet for
all that, it is his deliberate opinion that he can give you a fresh
lease of life."
Again the Squire lay for some time without speaking. "Only one quack
the more," he murmured to himself with a touch of his old cynicism.
"Well, why not? From the highest to the lowest they're quacks, every
mother's son of 'em. As it is, I'm at death's door already, and if the
fellow can do me no good, I'll defy him to do me much harm."
Then he said aloud: "D'you know, I'm half inclined to let this son of
yours experiment upon me, if only to take some of the brag out of him
and prove to him that in such a case as mine his wonder-working stuff
is no more effectual than a dose of senna would be."
"Then you _will_ try it, sir! That is all I ask. In any case, no harm
can come of it."
"My own opinion exactly"--with a dismal attempt at a chuckle. "Yes, I
agree to try it. Only, the affair must be kept secret; outside this
room nobody must know about it, unless it be my man, Andry Luce. And
now, when can this son of yours be smuggled into the house?"
"It's only a little past eleven o'clock, sir, and if you think you can
spare me, I will go at once and bring him back with me. The servants
are all abed, and my son could come and go without one of them being a
whit the wiser."
"That's a very good notion of yours, damme! Go at once, my dear woman;
but first give me a drink of that cordial. I shall want nothing till
you get back. And if I can coax that shy dog, Morpheus, to keep me
company meanwhile, so much the better."