Devereux — Complete, Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton [ereader with android TXT] 📗
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“Blessed, blessed, are they,” I cried through my tears, “on whose souls there is as little stain as there is on yours!”
“Faith, Morton, that’s kindly said; and thou knowest not how strangely it sounds, after their exhortations to repentance. I know I have had my faults, and walked on to our common goal in a very irregular line; but I never wronged the living nor slandered the dead, nor ever shut my heart to the poor,—‘t were a burning sin if I had,—and I have loved all men and all things, and I never bore ill-will to a creature. Poor Ponto, Morton, thou wilt take care of poor Ponto, when I’m dead,—nay, nay, don’t grieve so. Go, my child, go: compose thyself while I see the priest, for ‘t will please thy poor mother; and though she thinks harshly of me now, I should not like her to do so to-morrow! Go, my dear boy, go.”
I went from the room, and waited by the door, till the office of the priest was over. My mother then came out, and said Sir William had composed himself to sleep. While she was yet speaking, Gerald surprised me by his appearance. I learned that he had been in the house for the last three days, and when I heard this, I involuntarily accounted for the appearance of Montreuil. I saluted him distantly, and he returned my greeting with the like pride. He seemed, however, though in a less degree, to share in my emotions; and my heart softened to him for it. Nevertheless we stood apart, and met not as brothers should have met by the death-bed of a mutual benefactor.
“Will you wait without?” said my mother.
“No,” answered I, “I will watch over him.” So I stole in, with a light step, and seated myself by my uncle’s bed-side. He was asleep, and his sleep was as hushed and quiet as an infant’s. I looked upon his face, and saw a change had come over it, and was increasing sensibly: but there was neither harshness nor darkness in the change, awful as it was. The soul, so long nurtured on benevolence, could not, in parting, leave a rude stamp on the kindly clay which had seconded its impulses so well.
The evening had just set in, when my uncle woke; he turned very gently, and smiled when he saw me.
“It is late,” said he, and I observed with a wrung heart, that his voice was fainter.
“No, Sir, not very,” said I.
“Late enough, my child; the warm sun has gone down; and ‘tis a good time to close one’s eyes, when all without looks gray and chill: methinks it is easier to wish thee farewell, Morton, when I see thy face indistinctly. I am glad I shall not die in the daytime. Give me thy hand, my child, and tell me that thou art not angry with thine old uncle for thwarting thee in that love business. I have heard tales of the girl, too, which made me glad, for thy sake, that it is all off, though I might not tell thee of them before. ‘Tis very dark, Morton. I have had a pleasant sleep. Ods fish, I do not think a bad man would have slept so well. The fire burns dim, Morton: it is very cold. Cover me up; double the counterpane over the legs, Morton. I remember once walking in the Mall; little Sid said, ‘Devereux’—it is colder and colder, Morton; raise the blankets more over the back; ‘Devereux,’ said little Sid—faith, Morton, ‘tis ice now—where art thou?—is the fire out, that I can’t see thee? Remember thine old uncle, Morton—and—and—don’t forget poor—Ponto. Bless thee, my child; bless you all!”
And my uncle died!
CHAPTER III. A GREAT CHANGE OF PROSPECTS.
I SHUT myself up in the apartments prepared for me (they were not those I had formerly occupied), and refused all participation in my solitude, till, after an interval of some days, my mother came to summon me to the opening of the will. She was more moved than I had expected. “It is a pity,” said she, as we descended the stairs, “that Aubrey is not here, and that we should be so unacquainted with the exact place where he is likely to be that I fear the letter I sent him may be long delayed, or, indeed, altogether miscarry.”
“Is not the Abbe here?” said I, listlessly.
“No!” answered my mother, “to be sure not.”
“He has been here,” said I, greatly surprised. “I certainly saw him on the day of my arrival.”
“Impossible!” said my mother, in evident astonishment; and seeing that, at all events, she was unacquainted with the circumstance, I said no more.
The will was to be read in the little room where my uncle had been accustomed to sit. I felt it as a sacrilege to his memory to choose that spot for such an office, but I said nothing. Gerald and my mother, the lawyer (a neighbouring attorney, named Oswald), and myself were the only persons present. Mr. Oswald hemmed thrice, and broke the seal. After a preliminary, strongly characteristic of the testator, he came to the disposition of the estates. I had never once, since my poor uncle’s death, thought upon the chances of his will; indeed, knowing myself so entirely his favourite, I could not, if I had thought upon them, have entertained a doubt as to their result. What then was my astonishment when, couched in terms of the strongest affection, the whole bulk of the property was bequeathed to Gerald; to Aubrey the sum of forty, to myself that of twenty thousand pounds (a capital considerably less than the yearly income of my uncle’s princely estates), was allotted. Then followed a list of minor bequests,—to my mother an annuity of three thousand a year, with the privilege of apartments in the house during her life; to each of the servants legacies sufficient for independence; to a few friends, and distant connections of the family, tokens of the testator’s remembrance,—even the horses to his carriage, and the dogs that fed from his menials’ table, were not forgotten, but were to be set apart from work, and maintained in indolence during their remaining span of life. The will was concluded: I could not believe my senses; not a word was said as a reason for giving Gerald the priority.
I rose calmly enough. “Suffer me, Sir,” said I to the lawyer, “to satisfy my own eyes.” Mr. Oswald bowed, and placed the will in my hands. I glanced at Gerald as I took it: his countenance betrayed, or feigned, an astonishment equal to my own. With a jealous, searching, scrutinizing eye, I examined the words of the bequest; I examined especially (for I suspected that the names must have been exchanged) the place in which my name and Gerald’s occurred. In vain: all was smooth and fair to the eye, not a vestige of possible erasure or alteration was visible. I looked next at the wording of the will: it was evidently my uncle’s; no one could have feigned or imitated the peculiar turn of his expressions; and, above all, many parts of the will (the affectionate and personal parts) were in his own handwriting.
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