Part 36 (2/2)

”Well,” said Grand, in a dull, quiet voice, as of one satisfied and persuaded, ”perhaps it is no duty of mine, then, to mention it. But what was it that you and John were talking of just before he went away?”

”You and John were going to send your cards, to inquire after Mrs.

A'Court, because she is ill. I asked if mine might go too, and as it was handed across you took notice of what was on it, and said it pleased you; do you remember? But John laughed about it.”

”Yes; and what did you answer, Val?”

”I said that if everybody had his rights, that ought not to have been my name at all. You ought to have been Mr. Mortimer now, and I Mr.

Melcombe.”

”I thought it was that,” answered Grand, cogitating. ”Yes, it was never intended that you should touch a s.h.i.+lling of that property.”

”I know that, uncle,” said Valentine. ”My father always told me he had no expectations from his mother. It was unlucky for me, that's all. I don't mean to say,” he continued, ”that it has been any particular disappointment, because I was always brought up to suppose I should have nothing; but as I grow older I often think it seems rather a shame I should be cut out; and as my father was, I am sure, one of the most amiable of men, it is very odd that he never contrived to make it up with the old lady.”

”He never had any quarrel with her,” answered old Augustus. ”He was always her favourite son.”

Valentine looked at him with surprise. He appeared to be oppressed with the la.s.situde of sleep, and yet to be struggling to keep his eyes open and to say something. But he only managed to repeat his last words.

”I've told John all that I wish him to know,” he next said, and then succ.u.mbed and was asleep again.

”The favourite son, and natural heir!” thought Valentine. ”No quarrel, and yet not inherit a s.h.i.+lling! That is queer, to say the least of it.

I'll go up to London and have another look at that will. And he has told John something or other. Unless his thoughts are all abroad then, he must have been alluding to two perfectly different things.”

Valentine now went to the carriage and fetched in the footman, hoping that at sight of him his uncle might be persuaded to come home; but this was done with so much difficulty that, when at last it was accomplished, Valentine sent the carriage on to fetch John, and sat anxiously watching till he came, and a medical man with him.

Sleep and weakness, but no pain, and no disquietude. It was so at the end of a week; it was so at the end of a fortnight, and then it became evident that his sight was failing; he was not always aware whether or not he was alone; he often prayed aloud also, but sometimes supposed himself to be recovering.

”Where is Valentine?” he said one afternoon, when John, having left him to get some rest, Valentine had taken his place. ”Are we alone?” he asked, when Valentine had spoken to him. ”What time is it?”

”About four o'clock, uncle; getting dusk, and snow falls.”

”Yes, I heard you mention snow when the nurse went down to her tea. I am often aware of John's presence when I cannot show it. Tell him so.”

”Yes, I will.”

”He is a dear good son to me.”

”Yes.”

”He ought not to make a sorrow of my removal. It disturbs me sometimes to perceive that he does. He knows where my will is, and all my papers.

I have never concealed anything from him; I had never any cause.”

”No, indeed, uncle.”

”Till now,” proceeded old Augustus. Valentine looked attentively in the failing light at the majestic wreck of the tall, fine old man. He made out that the eyes were closed, and that the face had its usual immobile, untroubled expression, and the last words startled him. ”I have thought it best,” he continued, ”not to leave you anything in my will.”

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