Kitabı oku: «The Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly», sayfa 37

“How do you pretend to know all this?”

“I know it, chapter and verse. I have gone over the whole history with that old painter’s journal before me. I have seen several studies of that girl’s face, – ‘Enrichetta Lami,’ she was called, – and I have read the entry of her marriage with your grandfather in the parish register. A terrible fact for your poor brother, for it clenches his ruin. Was there ever as singular a chance in life as the reappearance of this face here?”

“Coming as though to taunt us with our downfall; though certainly that lovely brow and those tearful eyes have no scorn in them. She must have been a great beauty.”

“Pracontal raves of her beauty, and says that none of these pictures do her justice, except one at Urbino. At least, he gathers this from the journal, which he swears by as if it were gospel.”

“I ‘d call her handsomer in that picture than in our fresco. I wonder if this were painted earlier or later?”

“I can answer that question, for the old sacristan who came up here yesterday, and fell to talking about the chapel, mentioned how the painter – a gran’ maestro he called him – bargained to be buried at the foot of the altar, and the Marchese had not kept his word, not liking to break up the marble pavement, and had him interred outside the walls, with the prior’s grave and a monk at either side of him. His brushes and colors, and his tools for fresco-work, were all buried in the chapel; for they had been blessed by the Pope’s Nuncio, after the completion of the basilica at Udine. Have n’t I remembered my story well, and the old fellow didn’t tell it above nine times over? This was old Lami’s last work, and here his last resting-place.”

“What is it seems so familiar to me in that name? Every time you have uttered it I am ready to say I have heard it before.”

“What so likely, from Augustus or your sister.”

“No. I can answer for it that neither of them ever spoke of him to me. I know it was not from them I heard it.”

“But how tell the story of this suit without naming him?”

“They never did tell me the story of the suit, beyond the fact that my grandfather had been married privately in early life, and left a son whom he had not seen nor recognized, but took every means to disavow and disown. Wait now a moment; my mind is coming to it. I think I have the clew to this old fellow’s name. I must go back to the villa, however, to be certain.”

“Not a word of our discovery here to any one,” cried Cutbill. “We must arrange to bring them all here, and let them be surprised as we were.”

“I ‘ll be back with you within an hour,” said Jack. “My head is full of this, and I ‘ll tell you why when I return.”

And they parted.

Before Cutbill could believe it possible, Jack, flushed and heated, re-entered the room. He had run at top-speed, found what he sought for, and came back in intense eagerness to declare the result.

“You ‘ve lost no time, Jack; nor have I, either. I took up the flags under the altar-steps, and came upon this oak box. I suppose it was sacrilege, but I carried it off here to examine at our leisure.”

“Look here,” cried Jack, “look at this scrap of paper. It was given to me at the galleys at Ischia by the fellow I was chained to. Read these names: Giacomo Lami, – whose daughter was Enrichetta, – I was to trace him out, and communicate, if I could, with this other man, Tonino Baldassare or Pracontal, – he was called by both names. Bolton of Naples could trace him.”

A long low whistle was Cutbill’s only reply as he took the paper and studied it long and attentively.

“Why, this is the whole story,” cried he at last. “This old galley-slave is the real claimant, and Pracontal has no right, while Niccolo, or whatever his name be, lives. This may turn out glorious news for your brother, but I ‘m not lawyer enough to say whether it may not be the Crown that will benefit, if his estates be confiscated for felony.”

“I don’t think that this was the sort of service Old Nick asked me to render him when we parted,” said Jack, dryly.

“Probably not. He only asked you to help his son to take away your brother’s estate.”

“Old Nick knew nothing about whose brother I was. He trusted me to do him a service, and I told him I would.”

Though Cutbill paid but little attention to him, Jack talked on for some time of his old comrade, recounting the strange traits of his nature, and remembering with gratitude such little kindness as it was in his power to show.

“I ‘d have gone clean out of my mind but for him,” said he, at last.

“And we have all believed that this fellow was lost at sea,” muttered Cutbill. “Bolton gave up all his papers and the remnant of his property to his son in that belief.”

“Nor does he wish to be thought living now. He charged me to give no clew to him. He even said I was to speak of him as one I had met at Monte Video years ago.”

“These are things for a ‘cuter head than yours or mine, Jack,” said Cutbill, with a cunning look. “We ‘re not the men to see our way through this tangle. Go and show that scrap of paper to Sedley, and take this box with you. Tell him how you came by each. That old fox will soon see whether they confirm the case against your brother or disclose a flaw in it.”

“And is that the way I’m to keep my word to Old Nick?” said Jack, doggedly.

“I don’t suppose you ever bound yourself to injure your own flesh and blood by a blank promise. I don’t believe there ‘s a family in Europe with as many scruples, and as little sense how to deal with them.”

“Civil that, certainly.”

“Not a bit civil, only true; but let us not squabble. Go and tell Sedley what we have chanced upon. These men have a way of looking at the commonest events – and this is no common event – that you nor I have never dreamed of. If Pracontal’s father be alive, Pracontal cannot be the claimant to your estates; that much, I take it, is certain. At all events, Sedley’s the man to answer this.”

Half pushing Jack out of the room while he deposited the box in his hands, Cutbill at last sent him off, not very willingly indeed, or concurringly, but like one who, in spite of himself, saw he was obliged to take a particular course, and travel a road without the slightest suspicion of where it led to.

CHAPTER LXV. THE LIGHT STRONGER

“Sedley asks for the best Italian scholar amongst us,” said Augustus the next morning, at breakfast, “and the voice of public opinion calls upon you, Julia.”

“You know what Figaro said of ‘common report.’ I’ll not repeat it,” said she, laughing, “and I ‘ll even behave as if I did n’t believe it. And now what is wanted of me, or my Italian scholarship?”

“The matter is thus: Sedley has received some papers” – here a look of intelligence passed between Augustus and Jack – “which he imagines may be of consequence, but being in Italian, he can’t read them. He needs a translator – ”

“I am equal to that,” broke she in, “but why don’t we do it in committee, as you political people call it? Five heads are better than one.”

“Mr Sedley is absolute, and will have but one.”

“And am I to be closeted for a whole morning with Mr. Sedley? I declare it seems compromising. Jack frowns at me. There is nothing so prudish as a sailor. I wish any one would tell me why it is so.”

“Well, the matter is as you have stated it,” said Augustus. “Mr. Sedley says, ‘Let me have the aid of some one who will not grudge me two hours, mayhap three. ‘”

“What if the documents should turn out love-letters?”

“Julia! Julia!” cried Jack, reprovingly; for in reality her sallies kept him in constant anxiety.

“I can’t help it, Jack; I must be prudent, even if I shock you by my precautions. I repeat, if these be love-letters?”

“Well, I can answer so far,” said Augustus. “They are not, – at least, I can almost assert they are not.”

“I wish Nelly would go,” said Julia, with mock seriousness. “I see Jack is wretched about it; and, after all, Mr. Sedley, though not exactly a young man – ”

“I declare this is too bad,” said Jack, rising angrily from the table, and then throwing himself back in his chair, as in conflict with his own temper.

“She is provoking, there is no doubt of it, and on board ship we ‘d not stand that sort of thing five minutes,” said Julia, with a demure air; “but on land, and amongst terrestrial creatures, Master Jack, I know nothing for it but patience.”

“Patience!” muttered he, with an expression that made them all burst out laughing.

“So I may tell Sedley you will aid him?” asked Bramleigh.

“I’m ready, now. Indeed, the sooner begun the better; for we have a long walk project – haven ‘t we, Jack? – for this afternoon.”

“Yes, if we have patience for it,” said he. And once more the laugh broke forth as they arose from table and separated into little knots and groups through the room.

“I may tell you, Julia,” said Augustus, in a half whisper, “that though I have given up hoping this many a day, it is just possible there may be something in these papers of moment to me, and I know I have only to say as much to secure your interest in them.”

“I believe you can rely upon that,” said she; and within less than five minutes afterwards she was seated at the table with Mr. Sedley in the study, an oblong box of oak clasped with brass in front of them, and a variety of papers lying scattered about.

“Have you got good eyes, Miss L’Estrange?” said Sedley, as he raised his spectacles, and turned a peering glance towards her.

“Good eyes?” repeated she, in some astonishment.

“Yes; I don’t mean pretty eyes, or expressive eyes. I mean, have you keen sight?”

“I think I have.”

“That’s what I need from you at this moment; here are some papers with erasures and re-writings, and corrections in many places, and it will take all your acuteness to distinguish between the several contexts. Aided by a little knowledge of Latin, I have myself discovered some passages of considerable interest. I was half the night over them; but with your help, I count on accomplishing more in half an hour.”

While he spoke he continued to arrange papers in little packets before him, and, last of all, took from the box a painter’s palette and several brushes, along with two or three of those quaintly shaped knives men use in fresco-painting.

“Have you ever heard of the painter Giacomo Lami?” asked he.

“Of course I have. I know the whole story in which he figures. Mr. Bramleigh has told it to me.”

“These are his tools. With these he accomplished those great works which have made him famous among modern artists, and by his will – at least I have spelled out so much – they were buried along with him.”

“And where was he buried?”

“Here! here in Cattaro. His last work was the altar-piece of the little chapel of the villa.”

“Was there ever so strange a coincidence!”

“The world is full of them, for it is a very small world after all. This old man, driven from place to place by police persecutions, – for he had been a great conspirator in early life, and never got rid of the taste for it, – came here as a sort a refuge, and painted the frescos of the chapel at the price of being buried at the foot of the altar, which was denied him afterwards; for they only buried there this box, with his painting utensils and his few papers. It is to these papers I wish now to direct your attention, if good luck will have it that some of them may be of use. As for me, I can do little more than guess at the contents of most of them.

“Now these,” continued he, “seem to me bills and accounts; are they such?”

“Yes, these are notes of expenses incurred in travelling; and he would seem to have been always on the road. Here is a curious note: ‘Nuremberg: I like this old town much; its staid propriety and quietness suit me. I feel that I could work here; work at something greater and better than these daily efforts for mere bread. But why after all should I do more? I have none now to live for, – none to work for! Enrichetta, and her boy, gone! and Carlotta – ‘”

“Wait a moment,” said the lawyer, laying his hand on hers. “Enrichetta was the wife of Montague Bramleigh, and this boy their son.”

“Yes, and subsequently the father of Pracontal.”

“And how so, if he died in boyhood?” muttered he; “read on.”

“‘Now, Carlotta has deserted me! and for whom? For the man who betrayed me! for that Niccolo Baldassare who denounced five of us at Verona, and whose fault it is not that I have not died by the hangman.’”

“This is very important; a light is breaking on me through this cloud, too, that gives me hope.”

“I see what you mean. You think that probably – ”

“No matter what I think; search on through the papers. What is this? here is a drawing. Is it a mausoleum?”

“Yes; and the memorandum says, ‘If I ever be rich enough, I shall place this over Enrichetta’s remains at Louvain, and have her boy’s body laid beside her. Poor child, that if spared might have inherited a princely state and fortune, he lies now in the pauper burial-ground at St. Michel. They let me, in consideration of what I had done in repairing their frescos, place a wooden cross over him. I cut the inscription with my own hands, – G. L. B., aged four years; the last hope of a shattered heart.’

“Does not this strengthen your impression?” asked Julia, turning and confronting him.

“Aged four years: he was born, I think, in ‘99, – the year after the rebellion in Ireland; this brings us nigh the date of his death. One moment. Let me note this.” He hurriedly scratched off a few lines. “St. Michel; where is St. Michel? It may be a church in some town.”

“Or it may be that village in Savoy, at the foot of the Alps.”

“True! We shall try there.”

“These are without interest; they are notes of sums paid on the road, or received for his labor. All were evidently leaves of a book and torn out.”

“What is this about Carlotta here?”

“Ah, yes. ‘With this I send her all I had saved and put by. I knew he would ill-treat her; but to take her boy from her, – her one joy and comfort in life, – and to send him away, she knows not whither, his very name changed, is more than I believed possible. She says that Niccolo has been to England, and found means to obtain money from M. B.’”

“Montague Bramleigh,” muttered Sedley; but she read on: “‘This is too base; but it explains why he stole all the letters in poor Enrichetta’s box, and the papers that told of her marriage.’”

“Are we on the track now?” cried the old lawyer, triumphantly. “This Baldassare was the father of the claimant, clearly enough. Enrichetta’s child died, and the sister’s husband substituted himself in his place.”

“But this Niccolo who married Carlotta,” said Julia, “must have been many years older than Enrichetta’s son would have been had he lived.”

“Who was to detect that? Don’t you see that he never made personal application to the Bramleighs? He only addressed them by letter, which, knowing all Enrichetta’s story, he could do without risk or danger. Kelson could n’t have been aware of this,” muttered he; “but he had some misgivings, – what were they?”

While the lawyer sat in deep thought, his face buried in his hands, Julia hurriedly turned over the papers. There were constant references to Carlotta’s boy, whom the old man seemed to have loved tenderly; and different jottings showed how he had kept his birthday, which fell on the 4th of August. He was born at Zurich, where Baldassare worked as a watchmaker, his trade being, however, a mere mask to conceal his real occupation, – that of conspirator.

“No,” said Sedley, raising his head at last, “Kelson knew nothing of it. I’m certain he did not. It was a cleverly planned scheme throughout; and all the more so by suffering a whole generation to lapse before litigating the claim.”

“But what is this here?” cried Julia, eagerly. “It is only a fragment; but listen to it: ‘There is no longer a doubt about it. Baldassare’s first wife – a certain Marie de Pracontal – is alive, and living with her parents at Aix, in Savoy. Four of the committee have denounced him, and his fate is certain.

“‘I had begun a letter to Bramleigh, to expose the fraud this scoundrel would pass upon him; but why should I spare him who killed my child?’”

“First of all,” said Sedley, reading from his notes, “we have the place and date of Enrichetta’s death; secondly, the burial-place of Godfrey Lami Bramleigh set down as St. Michel, perhaps in Savoy. We have then the fact of the stolen papers, the copies of registries, and other documents. The marriage of Carlotta is not specified, but it is clearly evident, and we can even fix the time; and, last of all, we have this second wife, whose name, Pracontal, was always borne by the present claimant.”

“And are you of opinion that this same Pracontal was a party to the fraud?” asked Julia.

“I am not certain,” muttered he. “It is not too clear; the point is doubtful.”

“But what have we here? It is a letter, with a postmark on it.” She read, “Leghorn, February 8, 1812.” It was addressed to the Illustrissimo Maestro Lami, Porta Rossa, Florence, and signed N. Baldassare. It was but a few lines, and ran thus: —

“Seeing that Carlotta and her child now sleep at Pisa, why deny me your interest for my boy Anatole? You know well to what he might succeed, and how. Be unforgiving to me if you will. I have borne as hard things even as your hatred, but the child that has never wronged you deserves no part of this hate. I want but little from you; some dates, a few names, – that I know you remember, – and, last of all, my mind refreshed on a few events which I have heard you talk of again and again. Nor is it for me that you will do this; for I leave Europe within a week, – I shall return to it no more. Answer this Yes or No at once, as I am about to quit this place. You know me well enough to know that I never threaten, though I sometimes counsel; and my counsel now is, consent to the demand of – N. Baldassare.”

Underneath was written, in Lami’s hand, “I will carry this to my grave, that I may curse him who wrote it, here and hereafter.”

“Now the story stands out complete,” said Julia, “and this Pracontal belonged to neither Bramleigh nor Lami.”

“Make me a literal translation of that letter,” said Sedley. “It is of more moment than almost all we have yet read. I do not mean now, Miss Julia,” said he, seeing she had already commenced to write, “for we have these fragments still to look over.”

While the lawyer occupied himself with drawing up a memorandum for his own guidance, Julia, by his directions, went carefully over the remaining papers. Few were of any interest; but these she docketed accurately, and with such brevity and clearness combined, that Sedley, little given to compliments, could not but praise her skill. It was not till the day began to decline that their labors drew to a close. It was a day of intense attention and great work; but only when it was over did she feel the exhaustion of overwrought powers.

“You are very, very tired,” said Sedley. “It was too thoughtless of me. I ought to have remembered how unused you must be to fatigue like this.”

“But I couldn’t have left it; the interest was intense, and nothing would have persuaded me to leave the case without seeing how it ended.”

“It will be necessary to authenticate these,” said he, laying his hand on the papers; “and then we must show how we came by them.”

“Jack can tell you this,” said she; and now her strength failed her outright, and she lay back, overcome, and almost fainting. Sedley hurriedly rang for help; but before any one arrived Julia rallied, and with a faint smile, said, “Don’t make a fuss about me. You have what is really important to occupy you. I will go and lie down till evening;” and so she left him.

CHAPTER LXVI. SEDLEY’S NOTES

Julia found herself unable to come down to dinner, and Mr. Sedley had to confess that he had overtaxed her strength and imposed too far upon her zeal. “To tell truth,” added he, “I forgot she was not a colleague. So shrewd and purpose-like were all her remarks, such aptitude she displayed in rejecting what was valueless, and such acuteness in retaining all that was really important, it went clean out of my head that I was not dealing with a brother of the craft, instead of a very charming and beautiful young lady.”

“And you really have fallen upon papers of importance?” asked Nelly, eagerly; for Julia had already, in answer to the same question, said, “Mr. Sedley has pledged me to silence.”

“Of the last importance, Miss Bramleigh.” He paused for an instant, and then added, “I am well aware that I see nothing but friends, almost members of one family, around this table, but the habits of my calling impose reserve; and, besides, I am unwilling to make revelations until, by certain inquiries, I can affirm that they may be relied on.”

“Oh, Mr. Sedley, if you have a gleam – even a gleam – of hope, do give it us. Don’t you think our long-suffering and patience have made us worthy of it?”

“Stop, Nelly,” cried Augustus, “I will have no appeals of this kind. Mr. Sedley knows our anxieties, and if he does not yield to them he has his own good reasons.”

“I don’t see that,” broke in Jack. “We are not asking to hear our neighbor’s secrets, and I take it we are of an age to be intrusted with our own.”

“You speak sharply, sir,” said Sedley, “but you speak well. I would only observe that the most careful and cautious people have been known to write letters, very confidential letters, which somehow get bruited about, so that clews are discovered and inferences traced which not unfrequently have given the most serious difficulties to those engaged in inquiry.”

“Have no fears on that score, Mr. Sedley,” said Jack. “There are no four people in Europe at this moment with fewer correspondents. I believe I might say that the roof of this house covers our whole world.”

“Jack is right, there,” added Augustus. “If we don’t write to the ‘Times’ or the ‘Post,’ I don’t see to whom we are to tell our news.”

“George has n’t even a pulpit here to expound us from,” cried Jack, laughingly.

“You have an undoubted right to know what is strictly your own concern. The only question is, shall I be best consulting your interests by telling it?”

“Out with it, by all means,” said Jack. “The servants have left the room now, and here we are in close committee.”

Sedley looked towards Augustus, who replied by a gesture of assent; and the lawyer, taking his spectacles from his pocket, said, “I shall simply read you the entry of my notebook. Much of it will surprise, and much more gratify you; but let me entreat that if you have any doubts to resolve or questions to put, you will reserve them till I have finished. I will only say that for everything I shall state as fact there appears to me to be abundant proofs, and where I mention what is simply conjecture I will say so. You remember my condition, then? I am not to be interrupted.”

“Agreed,” cried Jack, as though replying for the most probable defaulter. “I ‘ll not utter a word, and the others are all discretion.”

“The case is this,” said Sedley. “Montague Bramleigh, of Cossenden Manor, married Enrichetta, daughter of Giacomo Lami, the painter. The marriage was celebrated at the village church of Portshandon, and duly registered. They separated soon after, – she retiring to Holland with her father, who had compromised himself in the Irish rebellion of ‘98. A son was born to this marriage, christened and registered in the Protestant church at Louvain as Godfrey Lami Bramleigh. To his christening Bramleigh was entreated to come; but under various pretexts he excused himself, and sent a costly present for the occasion. His letters, however, breathed nothing but affection, and fully recognized the boy as his son and his heir. Captain Bramleigh is, I know, impatient at the length of these details, but I can’t help it. Indignant at the treatment of his daughter, Lami sent back the gift with a letter of insulting meaning. Several letters were interchanged of anger and recrimination; and Enrichetta, whose health had long been failing, sunk under the suffering of her desertion, and died. Lami left Holland, and repaired to Germany, carrying the child with him. He was also accompanied by a younger daughter, Carlotta, who, at the time I refer to, might have been sixteen or seventeen years of age. Lami held no intercourse with Bramleigh from this date, nor, so far as we know, did Bramleigh take measures to learn about the child, – how he grew up, or where he was. Amongst the intimates of Lami’s family was a man whose name is not unfamiliar to newspaper readers of some thirty or forty years back, – a man who had figured in various conspiracies, and contrived to escape scathless where his associates had paid the last penalty of their crimes. This man became the suitor of Carlotta, and won her affections, although Giacomo neither liked nor trusted Niccolo Baldassare – ”

“Stop, there,” cried Jack, rising, and leaning eagerly across the table. “Say that name again.”

“Niccolo Baldassare.”

“My old companion, – my comrade at the galleys,” exclaimed Jack; “we were locked to each other, wrist and ankle, for eight months.”

“He lives, then?”

“I should think he does. The old beggar is as stout and hale as any one here. I can’t guess his age; but I’ll answer for his vigor.”

“This will be all important hereafter,” said Sedley, making a note. “Now to my narrative. From Lami, Baldassare learned the story of Enrichetta’s unhappy marriage and death, and heard how the child, then a playful little boy of three years or so, was the rightful heir of a vast fortune, – a claim the grandfather firmly resolved to prosecute at some future day. The hope was, however, not destined to sustain him, for the boy caught a fever and died. His burial-place is mentioned, and his age, four years.”

“So that,” cried Augustus, “the claim became extinct with him?”

“Of course; for though Montague Bramleigh re-married, it was not till six years after his first wife’s death.”

“And our rights are unassailable?” cried Nelly, wildly.

“Your estates are safe; at least, they will be safe.”

“And who is Pracontal de Bramleigh?” asked Jack.

“I will tell you. Baldassare succeeded in winning Carlotta’ s heart, and persuaded her to elope with him. She did so, carrying with her all the presents Bramleigh had formerly given to her sister, – some rings of great price, and an old watch with the Bramleigh arms in brilliants, among the number. But these were not all. She also took the letters and documents that established her marriage, and a copy of the registration. I must hasten on, for I see impatience on every side. He broke the heart of this poor girl, who died, and was buried with her little boy, in the same grave, leaving old Lami desolate and childless. By another marriage, and by a wife still living, Marie Pracontal, Baldassare had a son; and he bethought him, armed as he was with papers and documents, to prefer the claim to the Bramleigh estates for this youth; and had even the audacity to ask Lami’s assistance to the fraud, and to threaten him with his vengeance if he betrayed him.

“So perfectly propped was the pretension by circumstances of actual events, – Niccolo knew everything, – that Bramleigh not only sent several sums of money to stifle the demand, but actually despatched a confidential person abroad to see the claimant, and make some compromise with him; for it is abundantly evident that Montague Bramleigh only dreaded the scandal and the éclat such a story would create, and had no fears for the title to his estates, he all along believing that there were circumstances in the marriage with Enrichetta which would show it to be illegal, and the issue consequently illegitimate.”

“I must say, I think our respected grandfather,” said Augustus, gravely, “does not figure handsomely in this story.”

“With the single exception of old Lami,” cried Jack, “they were a set of rascals, – every man of them.”

“And is this the way you speak of your dear friend Niccolo Baldassare?” asked Nelly.

“He was a capital fellow at the galleys; but I suspect he ‘d prove a very shady acquaintance in more correct company.”

“And, Mr. Sedley, do you really say that all this can be proven?” cried Nelly. “Do you believe it all yourself?”

“Every word of it. I shall test most of it within a few days. I have already telegraphed to London for one of the clever investigators of registries and records. I have ample means of tracing most of the events I need. These papers of old Lami’s are full of small details; they form a closer biography than most men leave behind them.”

“There was, however, a marriage of my grandfather with Enrichetta Lami?” asked Augustus.

“We give them that,” cried the lawyer, who fancied himself already instructing counsel. “We contest nothing, – notice, registry, witnesses, all are as legal as they could wish. The girl was Mrs. Bramleigh, and her son, Montague Bramleigh’s heir. Death, however, carried away both, and the claim fell with them. That these people will risk a trial now is more than I can believe; but if they should, we will be prepared for them. They shall be indicted before they leave the court, and Count Pracontal de Bramleigh be put in the dock for forgery.”

“No such thing, Sedley!” broke in Bramleigh, with an energy very rare with him. “I am well inclined to believe that this young man was no party to the fraud, – he has been duped throughout; nor can I forget the handsome terms he extended to us when our fortune looked darkest.”

“A generosity on which late events have thrown a very ugly light,” muttered Sedley.

“My brother is right. I ‘ll be sworn he is,” cried Jack. “We should be utterly unworthy of the good luck that has befallen us, if the first use we made of it was to crush another.”

“If your doctrines were to prevail, sir, it would be a very puzzling world to live in,” said Sedley, sharply.

“We ‘d manage to get on with fewer lawyers, anyway.”

“Mr. Sedley,” said Nelly, mildly, “we are all too happy and too gratified for this unlooked-for deliverance to have a thought for what is to cause suffering anywhere. Let us, I entreat you, have the full enjoyment of this great happiness.”