Sir Brook Fossbrooke Volume Ii Part 24

Though his lips still moved rapidly, no sound came forth, but his hands were continually in motion, and his lean arms twitched with short convulsive jerks. Sewell now crept quietly round towards the side of the bed, on which several sheets of paper and writing-materials lay. One of the sheets alone was written on; it was in the large bold hand of the old Judge, who even at his advanced age wrote in a vigorous and legible character. It was headed, "Directions for my funeral," and began thus: "As Irishmen may desire to testify their respect for one who, while he lived, maintained with equal energy the supremacy of the law and the inviolability of the man, and as my obsequies may in some sort become an act of national homage, I write these lines to convey my last wishes, legacies of which my country will be the true executors.

"First, I desire that I may be buried within the nave of St. Patrick's Cathedral. The spot I have selected is to the right of Swift's monument, under the fifth window, and for this purpose that hideous monument to Sir Hugh Brabazon may be removed, and my interment will, in this way, confer a double benefit upon my country. Secondly, as by my will, dated this twenty-eighth day of October, 18--, I have bequeathed, with exception of certain small legacies, all my estate, real and personal, to Dudley Sewell, Esq., late Colonel in her Majesty's service, it is my wish that he alone should--" Here the writing finished.

Three several times Sewell read over the lines, and what a thrill of delight ran through him! It was like a reprieve to a man on the very steps of the scaffold! The Judge was not rich, probably, but a considerable sum of money he still might have, and it was money,--cash.

It was not invested in lands or houses or s.h.i.+ps; it was all available for that life that Sewell led, and which alone he liked.

If he could but see this will,--it must be close at hand somewhere,--what a satisfaction it would be to read over the details by which at last--at last!--he was to be lifted above the casualties of a life of struggle! He tried three or four drawers of the large ebony cabinet in which the Chief used to throw his papers, with the negligence of a man who could generally rewrite as easily as he could search for a missing doc.u.ment. There were bills and receipts, notes of trials, and letters in abundance--but no will. The c.u.mbrous old writing-desk, which Sir William rarely used, was not in its accustomed place, but stood on the table in the centre of the room, and the keys beside it. The will might possibly be there. He drew nigh the bed to a.s.sure himself that the old man was still sleeping, and then he turned towards the nurse, whose breathings were honest vouchers for insensibility; and thus fortified, he selected the key--he knew it well--and opened the desk. The very first paper he chanced upon was the will. It was a large sheet of strong post-paper, labelled "My last Will and Testament.--W. L." While Sewell stood examining the writing, the door creaked gently, and his wife moved softly and noiselessly into the room. If the sentiment that overcame him was not shame, it was something in which shame blended with anger. It was true she knew him well: she knew all the tortuous windings of his plotting, scheming nature; she knew that no sense of honor, no scruple of any kind, could ever stand between him and his object. He had done those things which, worse than deep crimes, lower a man in the eyes of a woman, and that woman his wife, and that she thus knew and read him he was well aware; but, strangely enough, there is a world of s.p.a.ce between being discovered through the results of a long inquiry, and being detected _flagrante delicto_,--taken in the very act, red-handed in iniquity; and so did this cold-hearted, callous man now feel it.

"What are you doing here?" said she, calmly and slowly, as she came forward.

"I wanted to see this. I was curious to know how he treated us," said he, trembling as he spoke.

She took the paper from his hand, replaced it in the desk, and locked it up, with the calm determination of one who could not be gainsaid.

"But I have not read it," whispered he, in a hissing voice.

"Nor need you," said she, placing the keys under the old man's pillow.

"I heard you coming here,--I heard you enter the room. I am thankful it is no worse."

"What do you mean by no worse?" cried he, seizing her by the wrist, and staring savagely at her,--"say what you mean, woman!" She made no reply; but the scornful curl of her lip, and the steady unflinching stare of her eyes showed that neither his words nor his gesture had terrified her.

"You shall hear more of this to-morrow," said he, bending on her a look of intense hate; and he stole slowly away, while she seated herself at the bedside, and hid her face in the curtain.

CHAPTER XVII. AN UNGRACIOUS ADIEU

When Dr. Beattie came at seven o'clock in the morning, he found his patient better. The nurse gave her account, as nurses know well how to do, of a most favorable night,--told how calmly he slept, how sensibly he talked, and with what enjoyment he ate the jelly which he had never tasted.

At all events, he was better; not stronger, perhaps,--there was no time for that,--but calmer and more composed.

"You must not talk, nor be talked to yet awhile," said Beattie; "and I will station Haire here as a sentinel to enforce my orders."

"Yes, I would like Haire," whispered the old man, softly. "Let him come and sit by me."

"Can I see Mrs. Sewell? or is it too early to ask for her?" inquired the doctor of a maid.

"She has been up all night, sir, and only just lain down."

"Don't disturb her, then. I will write a line to her, and you can give it when she awakes."

He went into the library, and wrote: "Sir William is better, but not out of danger. It is even more important now than before that he have perfect quiet. I will change the nurse, and meanwhile I desire that you alone should enter the room till I return."

"What letter was that the doctor gave you as he went away?" said Sewell, who during Beattie's visit had been secretly on the watch over all that occurred.

"For my mistress, sir," said the girl, showing the note.

Sewell s.n.a.t.c.hed it impatiently, threw his eyes over it, and gave it back. "Tell your mistress I want to see her when she is dressed.

It's nothing to hurry for, but to come down to my room at her own convenience."

"Better, but not out of danger! I should think not," muttered he, as he strolled out into the garden.

"What is the meaning of stationing old Haire at the bedside? Does Beattie suspect? But what could he suspect? It would be a very, convenient thing for me, no doubt, if he would die; but I 'd scarcely risk my neck to help him on the way. These things are invariably discovered; and it would make no difference with the law whether it was the strong cord of a vigorous life were snapped, or the frail thread of a wasted existence unravelled. Just so; mere unravelling would do it here. No need of bold measures. A good vigorous contradiction,--a rude denial of something he said,--with a sneer at his shattered intellect, and I 'd stake my life on it his pa.s.sion would do the rest. The blood mounts to his head at the slightest insinuation. I 'd like to see him tried with a good round insult. Give me ten minutes alone with him, and I 'll let Beattie come after me with all his bottles; and certainly no law could make this murder. Bad-tempered men are not to be more carefully guarded by the State than better-natured ones. It would be a strange statute that made it penal to anger an irascible fellow. I wonder if some suspicion of this kind has crossed Beattie's mind? Is it for that Haire has been called to keep the watch on deck,--and if so, who is to replace him? He'll tire at last,--he must sleep some time; and what are they to do then? My wife, perhaps. Yes; she would play their game willingly enough. If she has heard of this will, it will alarm her.

She has always tried to have the children provided for. She dreads--she 's not so wrong there--she dreads leaving everything in my power. And of late she has dared to oppose me openly. My threat of suing for a divorce, that used to keep her so submissive once, is failing now. Some one has told her that I could not succeed. I can see in her manner that her mind is rea.s.sured on this score. She could have no difficulty in filching an opinion,--this house is always full of lawyers; and certainly nothing in the habits of the place would have imposed any restraint in discussing it." And he laughed--actually laughed--at the conceit thus evoked. "If I had but a little time before me now, I should work through all my difficulties. Only to think of it! One fortnight, less perhaps, to arrange my plans, and I might defy the world. This is Tuesday. By Thursday I shall have to meet those two acceptances for three hundred and two hundred and fifty. The last, at all events, I must pay, since Walcott's name was not in his own handwriting. How conscientiously a man meets a bill when he has forged the endors.e.m.e.nt!"

And again he laughed at the droll thought. "These troubles swarm around me," muttered he, impatiently. "There is Fossbrooke, too. Malevolent old fool, that will not see how needless it is to ruin me. Can't he wait,--can't he wait? It's his own prediction that I'm a fellow who needs no enemy; my own nature will always be Nemesis enough. Who's that?--who is there?" cried he, as he heard a rustling in the copse at his side.

"It's me, your honor. I came out to get sight of your honor before I went away," said O'Reardon, in a sort of slavish cringing tone.

"Away! and where to?"

"They 're sending me out of the way, your honor, for a week or two, to prevent that ould man I arrested charging me with parjury. That's what they purtend, sir," said he, in a lower voice. "But the truth is, that I know more than they like, ay, and more than they think; for it was in my house at Cullen's Wood that the Lord-Liftenant himself came down, one evening, and sat two hours with this ould man."

"Keep these sort of tales for other people, Master O'Reardon; they have no success with me. You are a capital terrier for rat-hunting, but you cut a sorry figure when you come out as a boar-hound. Do you understand me?"

"I do, sir, right well. Your honor means that I ought to keep to informations against common people, and not try my hand against the gentlemen."

"You 've hit it perfectly. It's strange enough how sharp you can be in some things, and what a cursed fool in others."

"You never was more right in your life, sir. That's my character in one sentence;" and he gave a little plaintive sigh, as though the thought were a painful one.

"And how do you mean to employ your leisure, Mr. O'Reardon? Men of your stamp are never thoroughly idle. Will you write your memoirs?"

"Indeed, no, your honor; it might hurt people's feelings the names I 'd have to bring in; and I 'm just going over to France for the present."

"To France?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. Harman's tuk heart o' grace, and is going to sue for a divorce, and he 's sending me over to a place called Boulogne to get up evidence against the Captain."

"You like that sort of thing?"

"I neither like it nor dislike it," said O'Reardon, while his eye kindled angrily, for he thought that he who scoffed at him should stand on higher moral ground than Sewell's.

"You once lived with Captain Peters, I think?"

"Yes, sir; I was his valet for four years. I was with him at Malta and Corfu when he was in the Rifles."

"And he treated you well?"

"No man better, that I 'll say for him if he was in the dock to-morrow.

He gave me a trunk of his clothes--mufti he called them--and ten pounds the day I left him."

"It's somewhat hard, isn't it, to go against a man after that? Doesn't your fine nature rather revolt at the ingrat.i.tude?"

"Well, then, to tell your honor the truth, my 'fine nature' never was rich enough to afford itself that thing your honor calls grat.i.tude. It's a sort of thing for my betters."

"I 'm sorry to hear you say so, O'Reardon. You almost shock me with such principles."

"Well, that's the way it is, sir. When a man 's poor, he has no more right to fine feelin's than to fine feeding."