"There is something the matter with you," I said. "Why won't you tell me? Is it private?" My arm seemed naturally to slip through his as I asked the question, and perhaps the action, simple as it was, gave him a fresh a.s.surance of my friendship, and influenced him to unburden himself of what was on his mind.

"There's no harm in my telling you, Sylvester," he replied. "I know you won't let it go any further. I'm upset by what's happened at home."

"Something that has happened since I stayed with you?" I asked.

"Well, yes," he answered--"that is, it's come to a head since your visit. I daresay while you were with us you noticed that there was something wrong, and that my mother often seemed worried and depressed.

It was not till after you'd gone that I found out what was really the matter."

He paused as though expecting me to speak, but I made no interruption.

"As I've already told you, my father made a will about two years ago,"

continued Miles. "He signed it at Mr. Denny's office, and took it away with him; but now it can't be found. My mother always thought that it was in the secret drawer of the bureau; but it proved to be empty when she went to look. Then, as I've mentioned before, the idea occurred to her and Mr. Denny that it had been put away for safety in the secret place. If that's the case, then goodness knows if either the papers or the hidden chamber will ever be discovered. At least so far all attempts have proved a failure. Mr. Denny even goes so far as to suggest that the so-called hiding-place may be nothing but a small cavity in the wall behind some sliding panel; though he admits that, from a remark he once heard my father make, he had always believed it was a place large enough to conceal a man. If it's only a little hole somewhere in the stonework, we might pull the house down before we found it."

"But see here," I interrupted. "I don't understand anything about lawyers' business; but even if your father's will were lost, I suppose the property will come to you all the same, seeing that you are his only son."

"Wait a moment till I have finished the story," continued my companion.

"When I talked to you about this once before, I described how my uncle came to Coverthorne soon after my father's funeral, and spoke to my mother about a secret reconciliation between the brothers, and hinted at a matter of business which he would discuss at some future time, when she should have recovered somewhat from the shock of her loss. My mother was surprised, and thought it very strange, as she had heard no word from her husband to lead her to suppose that he had made up the quarrel with his brother. The matter, I say, puzzled her a good bit, but did not cause her any actual uneasiness till Mr. Denny came one day and told her privately of an extraordinary rumour he had heard in Rockymouth, to the effect that Uncle Nicholas had told some one that my father had made a will leaving him half the property, that being the fair share which he ought to have had after my grandfather's death.

This rumour, coupled with what my uncle had already said to her, caused my mother to begin to fear that something was wrong. She wanted to write to Uncle Nicholas right away; but Mr. Denny advised her to say nothing till she heard from him. In the meantime they made further attempts to find the will which my father had signed in the lawyer's office, Mr. Denny knowing the terms of this one, and hoping it would bear a more recent date than any other which my father might have made.

You see, if a man makes more than one will it's the last that counts, and the others are worth nothing."

I nodded to show that I understood this explanation.

"About a week or ten days after you left," went on Miles, "one afternoon Uncle Nicholas called, and out came the whole affair. He produced the will of which we had already heard the rumour, and said that my father had executed it at the time that they had made up their quarrel. The terms were exactly what Mr. Denny had already hinted--that if my father died first, half the estate was to go to Nicholas; in case, however, Nicholas did not survive his brother, the whole property would come to my mother and myself. Having read the paper, he once more described how my father had been prompted to take this step out of a sense of justice; and then he added that, after all, it would make very little difference to any of us, since he himself had no children, and I should be his heir. He would only enjoy his share during the rest of his life, which at most would not be many years.

From the first my mother was amazed and incensed at this disclosure.

Though she saw the signature at the foot of the doc.u.ment, and recognized it as my father's handwriting, yet she could not but regard the whole thing as an unfair and wicked attempt on my uncle's part to rob us of our possessions. My father had been so open in his dealings, and she had always shared his confidence; it seemed, therefore, almost impossible that he should have taken such a step without at least telling her of his intentions. The interview soon became a stormy one.

Uncle Nicholas, in a cold, half-ironical manner, said he felt sure that my mother would not oppose her dead husband's wishes; and gave as the reason for our not finding another will that my father had no doubt destroyed the first before making the second. He pooh-poohed the idea of any doc.u.ment being deposited in the hidden chamber, saying that the so-called secret place was merely a hole in one of the chimneys, which had been built up in my grandfather's time to prevent the birds building there and making a mess. My mother, however, would not be convinced, though this fresh will was clearly of a later date than the one for which she had been searching. She would not admit the justice of my uncle's claims, reminding him that he had received his portion from his father in money. She accused him of attempting to deprive his brother's widow and only son of their heritage, and at length refused to discuss the subject any further, directing him to communicate in future with our lawyer, Mr. Denny.

"'Very well,' answered my uncle shortly. 'If you are determined not to listen to reason, I can say no more; but I had much rather have settled the matter amicably between ourselves without creating a public scandal.' His face was black as thunder as he left the house, and I could see at once that all his former pleasant manners had been simply put on for the time being to suit his own purpose. Two days later Mr.

Denny called to see us, and he and my mother had a long talk in the dining-room. I wasn't present myself, but I learned afterwards that my uncle had gone straight from us to the lawyer. The latter had seen the will, and was obliged to confess that it seemed genuine and in order, and was dated at least eighteen months after the one executed at his office. I think old Denny was as much surprised at my father's conduct as my mother had been, and he questioned her closely to find out whether anything had ever happened which could in any way have brought my father into Nicholas's power, so that he might have been induced by threats of any kind to make such a disposition of his property. Of course my mother knew nothing of the kind; but in calling to mind everything she could remember, she recollected that a few months back she had seen my father address and send a large sealed envelope to his brother, and as this would have been just about the time when Nicholas a.s.serted that the reconciliation had taken place, it seemed possible that this very letter might have contained the will. The doc.u.ment, I should say, was witnessed by a housekeeper of my uncle's who had since died, and by a sea captain who had often stayed at Stonebank, but whose vessel had foundered in a storm, with all hands. The fact that both of the witnesses were dead seemed suspicious, but there was no flaw in the signatures, and Nicholas had a witness who could prove that my father and Rhodes, the master-mariner, had met at Stonebank on the day the will was signed."

"Then what is going to be done?" I asked.

"What can be done?" returned Miles, with a shrug of his shoulders. "My uncle poses as a model of forbearance, and says he will allow us to remain in possession of the whole estate till the beginning of the New Year, at which date the property will be duly divided."

"At least you'll have the old house," I remarked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes; but look here, Sylvester," my friend exclaimed. "We shall never be able to live on at Coverthorne as we're doing now if half the property is taken away from us. I believe Uncle Nicholas knows that,"

continued the speaker excitedly. "He wants to force us to leave, and then he'll raise or borrow money from somewhere, and so come to be owner of the whole place. He's a bad man--you can see it in his face--and how ever he induced my father to make the will I can't imagine."

"I can't either," I replied. "I disliked your uncle the first time I saw him. I believe he's a villain."

A sudden rush of boys towards the spot where we stood talking put an end to our conversation, but the substance of it was constantly recurring to my mind. I had quite made up my mind that Nicholas Coverthorne was an unscrupulous rascal, and a few days later an incident happened which not only tended to increase my dislike of the man, but to invest him and his doings with a certain sinister air of mystery.

Dr. Bagley had been expecting a parcel to be left by the coach at Round Green, and knowing that Miles was accustomed to horses, he asked him to drive over with the pony and trap and bring home the package--Sparrow, who usually performed these errands, having injured his hand. At my friend's request I was allowed to accompany him, and we set off in high spirits, a number of envious "Foxes" and "Eagles" shouting after us as we pa.s.sed the playground wall.

Nothing of any importance happened till we reached the Sportsman, where, having fastened up the pony, we went inside to inquire about the parcel. It being the middle of the afternoon the little inn seemed deserted. The only occupant of the taproom was a young country lad, who sat on a big settle, just inside the door, munching a crust of bread and cheese. He turned his head as we entered, and Miles immediately accosted him with,--

"Hullo, Tom Lance! what brings you here?"

The lad was evidently confused at the meeting. His sunburnt face flushed a deeper red, and he mumbled something which we did not hear.

"What brings you in this part of the world?" asked Miles. "Are you tramping it all the way back to Stonebank?"

It had dawned on me by this time who the boy was and where I had seen him before. I remembered now that he was an orphan, and in the employ of Mr. Nicholas Coverthorne. He lived in the house, and made himself generally useful about the farm. Miles had to repeat his question a second time before he got any answer; then the boy, seeming to realize that he could not avoid an explanation sooner or later, blurted out,--

"I'm on the way to Welmington, sir, to go for a soldier."

"To go for a soldier!" cried Miles. "You aren't old enough to enlist."

"I'm big enough, though," replied the boy with a grin; and this seemed likely to prove true, for he was well grown, and might easily have persuaded a recruiting sergeant that he was two years beyond his real age.

"But what are you doing that for?" asked my friend. "Why are you leaving Stonebank?"

Lance hesitated, toying with his huge clasp-knife, and moving uneasily on his seat.

"Well, sir," he said at length, "I've run away. And it's no use your telling Mr. Nicholas or the rest where I'm gone, for I ain't going back, not if they send a wagon and horses to fetch me."

"I'm not going to tell my uncle," was the reply. "All I asked was what made you leave."

"Well, sir," continued the lad, "the master's been so queer of late, I believe he bears ill-will towards me for something, and that some day he'll do me an injury."

By dint of many questions we at length got out of Tom something like a connected account of his troubles. The story as he told it was so disjointed, and at times so incoherent, that I shall make no attempt to repeat it in his own words, but rather give the sum and substance of the narrative which was laid before us when we at length came to the end of our inquiry.

Soon after his brother's death the servants had noticed some change in Mr. Nicholas's manner and behaviour, which they regarded as the effect of his sudden bereavement. He became preoccupied and silent, and of an evening would lock the door of his sitting-room and stay there far into the night, though hitherto he had been very regular in his habits, and had almost invariably retired to bed soon after ten. One afternoon Tom had gone on an errand to Tod's Corner, and being delayed did not return till late. It was nearly eleven when he reached the farm. He saw a light in the parlour as he approached the house, and on entering went at once to inform his master of the result of his mission.

Proceeding to the sitting-room, he found the door standing ajar, and the room unoccupied. The lamp was burning on the table, beside it was a large bra.s.s-bound box, and a spirit decanter and gla.s.s stood hard by.

Tom lingered, note in hand, then determined to leave the message where his master would be sure to see it on his return. To do this he approached the table, but had hardly done so when Mr. Coverthorne burst into the room in a towering rage.

"Who told you to come here?" he shouted, seizing Tom by the throat, as though with the intention of strangling him. "I'll teach you to come prying and meddling about my house when you ought to be in bed, you rascal!"

Nicholas Coverthorne, as any one could have told at a glance, was a powerful man, and the wonder was that in his blind rage he did not do the lad some injury before the latter had time to explain that he had merely stepped inside the room a moment before to deliver his message.

"You've been prying into the drawers and cupboards after tobacco, or anything you could find, that's my opinion," cried his master. "If so, you'd better speak the truth before I find it out for myself."

Tom, equally astonished at this unreasonable outburst, and at the fact of his honesty being called in question--a thing which had never occurred before--was for the time at a loss to find words in which to excuse himself, a fact which seemed to increase all the more his master's suspicions. At length, after a long wrangle and many threats, he was dismissed to bed, whither he gladly betook himself, having by this time arrived at the conclusion that his master had either drunk too much brandy or was losing his reason.

A few days later Mr. Coverthorne sent for the lad, and told him to go to the cottage of the hind and bring back an answer to some inquiry about the sheep.

"If I'm not in the parlour when you return," Mr. Coverthorne had said, "step inside, and wait there till I come back."

In obedience to his orders Tom went to the hind, and returning entered the parlour, only to find that his master was not there. The room presented an exactly similar appearance to what it had done on the occasion of his previous visit: the lamp was lit, and beside it was the bra.s.s-bound box, while a little further along was the tray with gla.s.s and decanter. Cap in hand, the boy remained standing just inside the door, wondering how long he would have to wait. It was while thus employed that his attention became attracted towards a curtain which covered the bay window at the end of the room. Almost in the centre of the drapery, which was old and faded, was a hole, and behind this something sparkled in the ray of the lamp. It did not take Tom long to discover that this something was an eye peering at him from behind the screen. Startled at the knowledge that he was being watched, the lad was about to run from the room and raise an alarm of robbers, when the curtain was flung aside, and with a laugh Mr. Coverthorne stepped out into the room, and asked the boy in a jocular manner what he was staring at. Nicholas was not given to joking with any man, least of all with his servants, and this erratic behaviour served to strengthen in Tom's mind the impression that his master was certainly going mad.

"Ever since that time I've seen him a-watching, watching me wherever I goes and whatever I does," concluded the boy. "Once he told me what he'd do to any one as couldn't mind their own business, though I'm sure I've not been prying into other folk's affairs. He follows me about; he's got a grudge against me for something--I can see it in his evil eye--and some day he'll pay it off. I won't stay there any longer; I'm going for a soldier."

It was in vain that we tried to dissuade Tom Lance from his purpose, and induce him to return to Stonebank. He stubbornly refused to listen to our arguments. It was evident that he had been some time making up his mind, and was now doggedly determined to carry out his purpose.

Finding it impossible to do anything else, we wished him good luck, at the same time giving him a shilling and some loose coppers, which was all the money we had in our pockets.

Having found the doctor's parcel, we returned to the pony carriage, and drove some little distance on our homeward way without speaking. It is probable, however, that the thoughts of both of us were busy with the same subject.