After having said this the dying man lay back upon the pillows, and remained silent for some minutes, resting after the exertion involved in so long a speech. John Treverton waited for him to speak again—waited with a tumultuous sense of gladness in his breast, looking round the room now and then. It was a spacious apartment with handsome antique furniture, and panelled walls hung with old pictures, like those in the dining-room below. Dark green velvet curtains were closely drawn before the three lofty windows, and in the spaces between them there were curious old cabinets of carved ebony, inlaid with silver. John Treverton looked at all these things, which seemed to be his already, after what the dying man had said to him. How different from the home he had left, the shabby-genteel London lodging, with its tawdry finery, and decrepit chairs and tables.
“What do you think of my adopted daughter, John Treverton?” the old man asked presently, turning his dim eyes towards his cousin.
The younger man hesitated a little before replying. The question had taken him by surprise. His thoughts had been far away from Laura Malcolm.
“I think she is very handsome, sir,” he said, “and I daresay she is amiable; but I really have had very little opportunity of forming any opinion about the young lady.”
“No, you have seen nothing of her as yet. You will like her better when you come to know her. I cannot doubt that. Her father and I were warm friends, once upon a time. We were at Oxford together, and travelled a good deal in Spain and Italy together, and loved each other well enough, I believe, till circumstances parted us. I need have no shame in owning the cause of our parting now. We loved the same woman, and Stephen Malcolm won her. I thought—whether rightly or wrongly—that I had not been fairly treated in the matter, and Stephen and I parted, never to meet as friends again till Stephen was on his deathbed. The lady jilted him after all, and he did not marry until some years later. When I heard of him next he was in reduced circumstances. I sought him out, found him in a pitiable condition and adopted his daughter—an only child—doubly orphaned. I cannot tell you how dear she soon became to me, but I had made an oath I would leave her nothing, and I have not broken that oath, dearly as I love her.”
“But you have made some provision for her future, sir!”
“Yes, I have striven to provide for her future. God grant it may be a happy one. And now call my servant, if you please, John. I have talked a great deal too much as it is.”
“Only one word before I call the man. Let me tell you, sir, that I am grateful,” said John Treverton, kneeling down beside the bed, and taking the old man’s wasted hand in his.
“Prove it when I am gone, John, by trying to carry out my wishes. And now good night. You had better go to bed.”
“Will you allow me to sit with you for the rest of the night, sir? I have not the least inclination to sleep.”
“No, no, there would be no use in your sitting up. If I am well enough to see you again in the morning I will do so. Till then, goodbye.”
The old man’s tone was decisive. John Treverton went out of the room by a door that opened on the gallery. Here he found Jasper Treverton’s valet, a grave-looking, grey-haired man, dozing upon a window seat. He told this man that he was wanted in the sick room, and then went to the study.
Miss Malcolm was still there, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, looking at the fire.
“What do you think of him?” she asked, looking up suddenly, as John Treverton entered the room.
“He does not seem to me so ill as I expected to see him from your account. He has spoken to me with perfect clearness.”
“I am very glad of that. He seemed a good deal better after that long sleep. I will ring for Trimmer to show you your room, Mr. Treverton.”
“Are you not going to bed yourself, Miss Malcolm? It is nearly three o’clock.”
“No. I cannot sleep during this time of suspense. Besides, he may want me at any moment. I shall lie down on that sofa, perhaps, a little before morning.”
“Have you been keeping watch like this many nights?”
“For more than a week; but I am not tired. I think when the mind is so anxious the body has no capability of feeling fatigue.”
“You will find the reaction very severe by-and-bye, I fear,” Mr. Treverton replied; and Trimmer, the old butler, having appeared by this time with a candle, he wished Miss Malcolm good night.
The room to which Trimmer led John Treverton was on the other side of the house—a large room with a comfortable fire blazing on the hearth, and reflecting itself in a border of old Dutch tiles. Late as it was, Mr. Treverton sat by the fire thinking for a long time before he went to bed, and even when he did lie down under the shadow of the damask curtains that shrouded the gloomy-looking four-post bed, sleep kept aloof from him. His mind was busy with thoughts of triumph and delight. Innumerable schemes for the future—selfish ones for the most part—crowded and jostled each other in his brain. It was a feverish night altogether—a night which left him unrefreshed and haggard when the cold wintry light came creeping in between the window curtains, and a great clock in the stable-yard struck eight.
A countryfied-looking young man, a subordinate of the butler’s, brought the visitor his shaving water, and, on being questioned, informed him that Mr. Treverton the elder had passed a
