Part 27 (2/2)

”And you've got her money?”

”Yes,” he said; ”but I've been walking into it.”

”Make the most of it,” said Madge. ”Your father's dead.”

”Dead!”

”Ay, dead. And, what's worse, lad, he lived long enough to alter his will.”

”Oh, Lord! What do you mean?”

”I mean,” she said, ”that he has left all his money to your cousin. He found out everything, all in a minute, as it were; and he brought a new will home from Exeter, and I witnessed it. And he turned me out of doors, and, next morning, after I was gone, he was found dead in his bed. I got to London, and found no trace of you there, till, by an accident, I heard that you had been seen down here, so I came on. I've got my living by casting fortins, and begging, and cadging, and such like. Sometime I've slept in a barn, and sometime in a hedge, but I've fought my way to you, true and faithful, through it all, you see.”

”So he's gone,” said George, between his teeth, ”and his money with him. That's awful. What an unnatural old villain!”

”He got it into his head at last, George, that you weren't his son at all.”

”The lunatic!--and what put that into his head?”

”He knew you weren't his wife's son, you see, and he had heard some stories about me before I came to live with him, and so, at the last, he took to saying he'd nought to do with you.”

”Then you mean to say----”

”That you are my boy,” she said, ”my own boy. Why, lad, who but thy own mother would a' done for thee what I have? And thou never thinking of it all these years! Blind lad!”

”Good G.o.d!” said George. ”And if I had only known that before, how differently I'd have gone on. How I'd have sneaked and truckled, and fetched and carried for him! Bah, it's enough to drive one mad. All this hide-and-seek work don't pay, old woman. You and I are bowled out with it. How easy for you to have given me a hint of this years ago, to make me careful! But you delight in mystery and conglomeration, and you always will. There--I ain't ungrateful, but when I think of what we've lost, no wonder I get wild. And what the devil am I to do now?”

”You've got the girl's money to go on with,” she said.

”Not so very much of it,” he replied. ”I tell you I've been playing like--never mind what, this last month, and I've lost every night. Then I've got another woman in tow, that costs--oh curse her, what don't she cost, what with money and bother?--In short, if I don't get something from somewhere, in a few months I shall be in Queer Street. What chance is there of the parson's dying?”

”It don't matter much to you when he dies, I expect,” said she, ”for you may depend that those that's got hold of him won't let his money come into your hands. He's altered his will, you may depend on it.”

”Do you really think so?”

”I should think it more probable than not. You see that old matter with the Bank is known all over the country, although they don't seem inclined to push it against you, for some reason. Yet it's hardly likely that the Vicar would let his money go to a man who couldn't be seen for fear of a rope.”

”You're a raven, old woman,” he said. ”What am I to do?”

”Give up play, to begin with.”

”Well?”

”Start some business with what's left.”

”Ha, ha! Well, I'll think of it. You must want some money, old girl!

Here's a fipunnote.”

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