by Ellen Wood
“He ain’t here, sir,” cried the woman. “It’s the one with the black hair, and he was six year old yesterday. He’s gone to Farmer Johnson’s to take care o’ the pigs in the field. He’s to get a shilling a week.”
Lionel moved from his position. “Grind,” he said, “don’t you think it would be better if you gave yourself complete rest, not attempting to go out to work until you are stronger?”
“I couldn’t afford it, sir. And as to its being better for me, I don’t see that. If I can work, sir, I’m better at work. I know it tires me, but I believe I get stronger the sooner for it. Mr. Jan, he says to me, says he, ‘Don’t lie by never, Grind, unless you be obliged to it; it only rusts the limbs.’ And he ain’t far out, sir. Folks gets more harm from idleness nor they do from work.”
“Well, good-day, Grind,” said Lionel, “and I heartily hope you’ll soon be on your legs again. Lady Verner shall send you something more nourishing than bread, while you are still suffering.”
“Thank ye kindly, sir,” replied Grind. “My humble duty to my lady.”
Lionel went out. “What a lesson for me!” he involuntarily exclaimed. “This poor half-starved man struggling patiently onward through his sickness; while I, who had every luxury about me, spent my time in repining. What a lesson! Heaven help me to take it to my heart!”
He lifted his hat as he spoke, his feeling at the moment full of reverence; and went on to Frost’s. “Where’s Robin?” he asked of the wife.
“He’s in the back room, sir,” was the answer. “He’s getting better fast. The old father, he have gone out a bit, a-warming of himself in the sun.”
She opened the door of a small back room as she spoke; but it proved to be empty. Robin was discerned in the garden, sitting on a bench; possibly to give himself a warming in the sun — as Mrs. Frost expressed it. He sat in a still attitude, his arms folded, his head bowed. Since the miserable occurrence touching Rachel, Robin Frost was a fearfully changed man; never, from the hour that the coroner’s inquest was held and certain evidence had come out, had he been seen to smile. He had now been ill with ague, in the same way as Grind. Hearing the approach of footsteps, he turned his head, and rose when he saw it was Lionel.
“Well, Robin, how fares it? You are better, I hear. Sit yourself down; you are not strong enough to stand. What an enemy this low fever is! I wish we could root it out!”
“Many might be all the healthier for it, sir, if it could be done,” was Robin’s answer, spoken indifferently — as he nearly always spoke now. “As for me, I’m not far off being well again.”
“They said in the village you were going to die, Robin, did they not?” continued Lionel. “You have cheated them, you see.”
“They said it, some of ‘em, sir, and thought it, too. Old father thought it. I’m not sure but Mr. Jan thought it. I didn’t, bad as I was,” continued Robin, in a significant tone. “I had my oath to keep.”
“Robin!”
“Sir, I have sworn — and you know I have sworn it — to have my revenge upon him that worked ill to Rachel. I can’t die till that oath has been kept.”
“There’s a certain sentence, Robin, given us for our guidance, amid many other such sentences, which runs somewhat after this fashion: ‘Vengeance is mine,’” quietly spoke Lionel. “Have you forgotten who it is says that?”
“Why did he — the villain — forget them sentences? Why did he forget ’em and harm her?” retorted Robin. “Sir, it’s of no good for you to look at me in that way. I’ll never be baulked in this matter. Old father, now and again, he’ll talk about forgiveness; and when I say, ‘weren’t you her father?’ ‘Ay,’ he’ll answer, ‘but I’ve got one foot in the grave, Robin, and anger will not bring her back to life.’ No, it won’t,” doggedly went on Robin. “It won’t undo what was done, neither: but I’ll keep my oath — so far as it is in my power to keep it. Dead though he is, he shall be exposed to the world.”
The words “dead though he is” aroused the attention of Lionel. “To whom do you allude, Robin?” he asked. “Have you obtained any fresh clue?”
“Not much of a fresh one,” answered the man, with a stress upon the word “fresh.” “I have had it this six or seven months. When they heard he was dead, then they could speak out and tell me their suspicions of him.”
“Who could? What mystery are you talking?” reiterated Lionel.
“Never mind who, sir. It was one that kept the mouth shut, as long as there was any good in opening it. ‘Not to make ill-blood,’ was the excuse gave to me after. If I had but knowed at the time!” added the man, clenching his fist, “I’d have went out and killed him, if he had been double as far off!”
“Robin, what have you heard?”
“Well, sir, I’ll tell you — but I have not opened my lips to a living soul,-not even to old father — The villain that did the harm to Rachel was John Massingbird!”
Lionel remained silent from surprise.
“I don’t believe it,” he presently said, speaking emphatically. “Who has accused him?”
“Sir, I have said that I can’t tell you. I passed my word not to do it. It was one that had cause to suspect him at the time. And it was never told me — never told me — until John Massingbird was dead!”
Robin’s voice rose to a sound of wailing pain, and he raised his hands with a gesture of despair.
“Did your informant know that it was John Massingbird?” Lionel gravely asked.
“They had not got what is called positive proof, such as might avail in a Court of Justice; but they was morally certain,” replied Robin; “and so am I. I am only waiting for one thing, sir, to tell it out to all the world.”
“And what’s that?”
“The returning home of Luke Roy. There’s not much doubt that he knows all about it; I have my reasons for saying so, and I’d like to be quite sure before I tell out the tale. Old Roy says Luke may be expected home by any ship as comes; he don’t think he’ll stop there, now John Massingbird’s dead.”
“Then, Robin, listen to me,” returned Lionel. “I have no positive proof, any more than it appears your informant has; but I am perfectly convinced in my own mind that the guilty man was not John Massingbird, but another. Understand me,” he emphatically continued, “I have good and sufficient reason for saying this. Rely upon it, whoever it may have been, John Massingbird it was not.”
Robin lifted his eyes to the face of Lionel.
“You say you don’t know this, sir?”
“Not of actual proof. But so sure am I that it was not he, that I could stake all I possess upon it.”
“Then, sir, you’d lose it,” doggedly answered Robin. “When the time comes that I choose to speak out—”
“What are you doing there?” burst forth Lionel, in a severely haughty tone.
It caused Robin to start from his seat.
In a gap of the hedge behind them, Lionel had caught sight of a human face, its stealthy ears complacently taking in every word. It was that of Roy the bailiff.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE PACKET IN THE SHIRT-DRAWER.
Mrs. Tynn, the housekeeper at Verner’s Pride, was holding one of those periodical visitations that she was pleased to call, when in familiar colloquy with her female assistants, a “rout out.” It appeared to consist of turning a room and its contents topsy-turvy, and then putting them straight again. The chamber this time subjected to the ordeal was that of her late master, Mr. Verner. His drawers, closets, and other places consecrated to clothes, had not been meddled with since his death. Mrs. Verner, in some moment unusually (for her) given to sentiment, had told Tynn she should like to “go over his dear clothes” herself. Therefore Tynn left them alone for that purpose. Mrs. Verner, however, who loved her personal ease better than any earthly thing, and was more given to dropping off to sleep in her chair than ever, not only after dinner but all day long, never yet had ventured upon the task. Tynn suggested that she had better do it herself, after all; and Mrs. Ve
rner replied, perhaps she had. So Tynn set about it.
Look at Mrs. Tynn over that deep, open drawer full of shirts. She calls it “Master’s shirt-drawer.” Have the shirts scared away her senses? She has sat herself down on the floor — almost fallen back as it seems — in some shock of alarm, and her mottled face has turned as white as her master’s was, when she last saw him lying on that bed at her elbow.
“Go downstairs, Nancy, and stop there till I call you up again,” she suddenly cried out to her helpmate.
And the girl left the room, grumbling to herself; for Nancy at Verner’s Pride did not improve in temper.
Between two of the shirts, in the very middle of the stack, Mrs. Tynn had come upon a parcel, or letter. Not a small letter — if it was a letter — but one of very large size, thick, looking not unlike a government despatch. It was sealed with Mr. Verner’s own seal, and addressed in his own handwriting— “For my nephew, Lionel Verner. To be opened after my death.”
Mrs. Tynn entertained not the slightest doubt that she had come upon the lost codicil. That the parcel must have been lying quietly in the drawer since her master’s death, was certain. The key of the drawer had remained in her own possession. When the search after the codicil took place, this drawer was opened — as a matter of form more than anything else — and Mrs. Tynn herself had lifted out the stack of shirts. She had assured those who were searching that there was no need to do so, for the drawer had been locked up at the time the codicil was made, and the deed could not have been put into it. They accepted her assurance, and did not look between the shirts. It puzzled Mrs. Tynn, now, to think how it could have got in.
“I’ll not tell Tynn,” she soliloquised — she and Tynn being somewhat inclined to take opposite sides of a question, in social intercourse— “and I’ll not say a word to my mistress. I’ll go straight off now and give it into the hands of Mr. Lionel. What a blessed thing! — If he should be come into his own!”
The inclosed paved court before Lady Verner’s residence had a broad flower-bed round it. It was private from the outer world, save for the iron gates, and here Decima and Lucy Tempest were fond of lingering on a fine day. On this afternoon of Mary Tynn’s discovery, they were there with Lionel. Decima went indoors for some string to tie up a fuchsia plant, just as Tynn appeared at the iron gates. She stopped on seeing Lionel.
“I was going round to the other entrance, sir, to ask to speak to you,” she said. “Something very strange has happened.”
“Come in,” answered Lionel. “Will you speak here, or go indoors? What is it?”
Too excitedly eager to wait to go indoors, or to care for the presence of Lucy Tempest, Mrs. Tynn told her tale, and handed the paper to Lionel. “It’s the missing codicil, as sure as that we are here, sir.”
He saw the official-looking nature of the document, its great seal, and the superscription in his uncle’s handwriting. Lionel did not doubt that it was the codicil, and a streak of scarlet emotion arose to his pale cheek.
“You don’t open it, sir!” said the woman, as feverishly impatient as if the good fortune were her own.
No. Lionel did not open it. In his high honour, he deemed that, before opening, it should be laid before Mrs. Verner. It had been found in her house; it concerned her son. “I think it will be better that Mrs. Verner should open this, Tynn,” he quietly said.
“You won’t get me into a mess, sir, for bringing it out to you first?”
Lionel turned his honest eyes upon her, smiling then. “Can’t you trust me better than that? You have known me long enough.”
“So I have, Mr. Lionel. The mystery is, how it could ever have got into that shirt-drawer!” she continued. “I can declare that for a good week before my master died, up to the very day that the codicil was looked for, the shirt-drawer was never unlocked, nor the key of it out of my pocket.”
She turned to go back to Verner’s Pride, Lionel intending to follow her at once. He was going out at the gate when he caught the pleased eyes of Lucy Tempest fixed on him.
“I am so glad,” she simply said. “Do you remember my telling you that you did not look like one who would have to starve on bread-and-cheese.”
Lionel laughed in the joy of his heart. “I am glad also, Lucy. The place is mine by right, and it is just that I should have it.”
“I have thought it very unfair, all along, that Verner’s Pride should belong to her husband, and not to you, after — after what she did to you,” continued Lucy, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“Things don’t go by fairness, Lucy, in this world,” said he, as he went through the gate. “Stay,” he said, turning back from it, a thought crossing his mind. “Lucy, oblige me by not mentioning this to my mother or Decima. It may be as well to be sure that we are right, before exciting their hopes.”
Lucy’s countenance fell. “I will not speak of it. But, is it not sure to be the codicil?”
“I hope it is,” cordially answered Lionel.
Mrs. Tynn had got back before him. She came forward and encountered him in the hall, her bonnet still on.
“I have told my mistress, sir, that I had found what I believed to be the codicil, and had took it off straight to you. She was not a bit angry; she says she hopes it is it.”
Lionel entered. Mrs. Verner, who was in a semi-sleepy state, having been roused up by Mary Tynn from a long nap after a plentiful luncheon, received Lionel graciously — first of all asking him what he would take — it was generally her chief question — and then inquiring what the codicil said.
“I have not opened it,” replied Lionel.
“No!” said she, in surprise. “Why did you wait?”
He laid it on the table beside her. “Have I your cordial approval to open it, Mrs. Verner?”
“You are ceremonious, Lionel. Open it at once; Verner’s Pride belongs to you, more than to Fred; and you know I have always said so.”
Lionel took up the deed. His finger was upon the seal when a thought crossed him; ought he to open it without further witnesses? He spoke his doubt aloud to Mrs. Verner.
“Ring the bell and have in Tynn,” said she; “his wife also; she found it.”
Lionel rang. Tynn and his wife both came in, in obedience to the request. Tynn looked at it curiously; and began rehearsing mentally a private lecture for his wife, for acting upon her own responsibility.
The seal was broken. The stiff writing-paper of the outer cover revealed a second cover of stiff writing-paper precisely similar to the first; but on this last there was no superscription. It was tied round with fine white twine. Lionel cut it, Tynn and Mrs. Tynn waited with the utmost eagerness; even Mrs. Verner’s eyes were open wider than usual.
Alas! for the hopes of Lionel. The parcel contained nothing but a glove, and a small piece of writing-paper, folded once. Lionel unfolded it, and read the following lines: —
“This glove has come into my possession. When I tell you that I know where it was found and how you lost it, you will not wonder at the shock the discovery has been to me. I hush it up, Lionel, for your late father’s sake, as much as for that of the name of Verner. I am about to seal it up that it may be given to you after my death; and you will then know why I disinherit you. S.V.”
Lionel gazed on the lines like one in a dream. They were in the handwriting of his uncle. Understand them, he could not. He took up the glove — a thick, fawn-coloured riding-glove — and remembered it for one of his own. When he had lost it, or where he had lost it, he knew no more than did the table he was standing by. He had worn dozens of these gloves in the years gone by, up to the period when he had gone in mourning for John Massingbird, and, subsequently, for his uncle.
“What is it, Lionel?”
Lionel put the lines in his pocket, and pushed the glove toward Mrs. Verner. “I do not understand it in the least,” he said. “My uncle appears to have found the glove somewhere, and he writes to say that he returns it to me. The chief matter that concerns us is” — turning his eye
s on the servants— “that it is not the codicil!”
Mrs. Tynn lifted her hands. “How one may be deceived!” she uttered. “Mr. Lionel, I’d freely have laid my life upon it.”
“It was not exactly my place to speak, sir: to give my opinion beforehand,” interposed Tynn; “but I was sure that was not the lost codicil, by the very look of it. The codicil might have been about that size, and it had a big seal like that; but it was different in appearance.”
“All that puzzled me was, how it could have got into the shirt-drawer,” cried Mrs. Tynn. “As it has turned out not to be the codicil, of course there’s no mystery about that. It may have been lying there weeks and weeks before the master died.”
Lionel signed to them to leave the room: there was nothing to call for their remaining in it. Mrs. Verner asked him what the glove meant.
“I assure you I do not know,” was his reply. And he took it up, and examined it well again. One of his riding gloves, scarcely worn, with a tear near the thumb; but there was nothing upon it, not so much as a trace, a spot, to afford any information. He rolled it up mechanically in the two papers, and placed them in his pocket, lost in thought.
“Do you know that I have heard from Australia?” asked Mrs. Verner.
The words aroused him thoroughly. “Have you? I did not know it.”
“I wonder Mary Tynn did not tell you. The letters came this morning. If you look about” — turning her eyes on the tables and places— “you will find them somewhere.”
Lionel knew that Mary Tynn had been too much absorbed in his business to find room in her thoughts for letters from Australia. “Are these the letters?” he asked, taking up two from a side-table.
“You’ll know them by the post-marks. Do sit down and read them to me, Lionel. My sight is not good for letters now, and I couldn’t read half that was in them. The ink’s as pale as water. If it was the ink Fred took out, the sea must have washed into it. Yes, yes, you must I read both to me, and I shall not let you go away before dinner.”