Chapter XV · —CONCLUSION.

Miss Wakefield surveyed the group with an air of stony deliberation, and the sharkiness of her uneven teeth displayed itself with distinct unpleasantness. There was a cunning look in her eyes, a look of hate and greed strangely blended with avarice.

Mr Carver, after a premonitory cough, addressed her. ‘Pray, be seated, madam,’ he said with his severest professional manner. ‘The business which has brought us here to-day is not likely to be protracted, and I see no reason why we should not commence at once. I presume you would wish to get it over?’

‘Certainly,’ she said; ‘I see nothing to detain us. I presume the thing is concealed somewhere in the house.’

‘On the contrary, madam; no. Had such been the case, doubtless it would have been discovered long since. I do not suppose you would have been behindhand in the search; and if I remember, at the time of my late client’s decease, no pains were spared to find his effects. I think that is so?’

Miss Wakefield emitted a grim smile, and nodded.

‘Very good,’ the lawyer continued—‘very good.—Mr Slimm, I suppose you have the implements at hand? Nothing remains now for it but immediately to set to work and accomplish our mission. I have seen some extraordinary things in the course of my professional career, but I must say that since I have had the honour to be on the rolls, I never encountered anything like this.’

‘How did it come out?’ asked Miss Wakefield acidly.

‘Margaret Boulton—you remember her, of course—she was charged with a paper disclosing this secret. If I mistake not, it was given her on the day of Mr Morton’s death.’

Miss Wakefield drew her breath sharply. ‘Had I but known!’ she said slowly—‘ah, had I but known!’

There are spots, astronomers inform us, on the sun—a metaphorical expression which, in the language of the day, implies that nothing is perfect. The expression used by Miss Wakefield therefore proved her to be after all but human, and, I am afraid, raised a feeling of gratulation in her listeners’ breasts that she had not known.

‘We are wasting time here,’ said Mr Carver shortly.

At this signal, every one rose, and made their way out of the house, and thence on to the lawn. They were secluded entirely from observation, and it was impossible for passers-by to see the operations. Mr Slimm presently appeared bearing a pickaxe and spade, and without delay commenced operations. He was an old miner, and went to work in a scientific manner, which could not fail to win the entire approval of the spectators. Miss Wakefield, who, be it remembered, was entirely in the dark, watched his proceedings with a thrilling interest entirely lost in contemplating the workman.

The spot where they were standing was in the centre of the lawn, and there stood the figure of Niobe in the centre. Truly, the last place to look for a fortune.

Mr Slimm’s first act was to clear away the weeds and rubbish which had in time sprung up round Niobe’s feet—a task in which he was heartily aided by the onlookers, Mr Carver doing great feats with the thistles; and even Bates joined in the task, covering himself with distinction by his desperate onslaught upon sundry dandelions which time had sown there. This task being accomplished, the real work commenced.

‘I do not think we need move that ancient lady,’ said Mr Slimm, touching the Niobe. ‘We will break earth here in front of her.’

By this time, excitement reigned supreme. Mr Carver hopped about like an animated cork, giving the most contrary directions, and sadly interfering with the task in hand by his well-meant interference. After narrowly escaping sudden death from a hearty swing of Mr Slimm’s pickaxe, he retired to a safe distance, and there directed the work in safety, giving instructions which were totally ignored by the worker.

‘I never calculated,’ said the American, as he worked, ‘to be prospecting for pay dirt on a gentleman’s lawn. As an ordinary rule, such is not the place to look for dust. The symptoms don’t indicate gold,’ he continued, digging away with great heartiness; ‘but we never can tell what’s going to turn up, as the philosopher said. Nothing like faith in these little operations. Faith, we are told, will remove mountains. It isn’t a mountain exactly that I want to move; but this is precious slow work. Perhaps I’m out of practice, perhaps it’s my impatience, but this heap don’t seem to be increasing to any powerful extent. It can’t be very much farther down, and that’s a fact, or my old comrade must have been a much more powerful man than I took him for.’

By this time he had excavated the earth to some depth, but as yet nothing was visible. He resumed his task heartily, but as he got deeper and deeper, his anxiety increased.

‘I hope we are not going to be sold,’ Mr Slimm said at length.

‘Under the statue, remember,’ said Edgar; ‘you are going too deep.’

‘I believe you are right,’ replied Mr Slimm, as he directed a few blows almost viciously at the side of the hole he had dug. At that moment the point of the pick struck on some hard surface. Expectation was on tiptoe, and the utmost pitch of excitement was reached: in other words, every one became intensely quiet—if quiet can be intense—and watched the worker closely. A few more blows given with hearty good-will, and the spade plied with equal zest, brought to light a square box, directly beneath the statue, but only a few inches underground. A few touches of the spade completed its liberation, and Charles Morton’s hiding-place was no longer an uncertainty, but a pleasant reality.

There, after so long an interment, it lay. The treasure which had caused so much jealousy and scheming, disappointment and misery, care and sorrow, avarice and cunning, was there. For that money one life had been lost; for that treasure, two proud hearts had suffered four years’ misery and deprivation. For that poor dross, one man’s dying bed was imbittered and poisoned; for the loss of it, one woman had wept and raved in vain. Hidden from fear, found by that mysterious agency poor mortals call chance, let us hope at last that it is destined to work some good in a world of tears.

It was no dream. The contents were shaken out unceremoniously upon the grass, and certified by Mr Carver. Neat piles of papers and securities, chiefly American, were wrapped in water-proof, in a careful manner. Their previous estimate of Mr Morton’s fortune was found not to have been far wrong; for when the amount of the securities came to be counted, the sum came to no less than thirty-eight thousand five hundred and ten pounds.

‘Good!’ exclaimed Miss Wakefield, first to break the silence, and speaking in a voice as nearly approaching satisfaction as it was possible for that estimable female to reach. ‘I presume the rest is merely formal.—Mr Carver, I shall expect nineteen thousand two hundred and fifty-five pounds, free of costs, to be paid into my bankers at once. I certainly take credit for my generosity in this matter.’

No one answered this remark; the idea of Miss Wakefield’s generosity being sufficient to provide every mind with abundance of speculation. But Mr Slimm’s sharp eye had caught sight of an envelope, which the others, in the anxiety to count the spoil, had entirely overlooked. With a quiet smile upon his lips, he listened to the last speaker’s gracious remark, and then handing the paper to Mr Carver, said: ‘I am afraid, madam, we shall have to tax your generosity still further. If a will was found in our favour, I think you were to be content with five thousand pounds. If I don’t mistake, the paper I have given to our estimable friend is that interesting document.’

Meanwhile, Mr Carver was fluttering about in a state of great jubilation. His first act, as soon as he had attracted the attention of the group, was to shake hands with Bates with great and elaborate ceremony. This gratifying operation being concluded, he put on his spectacles and said: ‘Bates, I owe you an apology. I spoke of your intellect disparagingly, I believe, not long since; and now, in the presence of this distinguished circle, I beg leave, in all due humility, to retract my words. It was I who had lost my wits.—No—no contradictions, please. I say it was I. The paper I hold in my hand is the last will and testament of my late client, Charles Morton, the owner of this house. After giving a few brief reasons for disposing of his money in this extraordinary manner, and after a few small legacies, he says: “And as to the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate both real and personal, and of what description or kind soever and of which I may die possessed, I give and bequeath to my niece, Eleanor Seaton, for her absolute use and benefit.” It is signed and witnessed by John Styles and Aaron Gray, both names being familiar to me.—Miss Wakefield, I congratulate you; I do, indeed. You have done really well.’

It was evident, from the expression of that lady’s face, that she was very far from sharing this opinion. Her upper lip went up, and her saw-like teeth came down in a manner evil to see. ‘It is a conspiracy!’ she hissed, ‘a low, cunning conspiracy.—Oh, you shall pay for it—you shall pay for it. Do you think you are going to rob me with impunity, with your lawyer schemes? I will fight the will,’ she screamed, ‘if I am ruined for it. I will ruin you all! I will have you struck off the rolls! Oh, you hoary-headed, lying old reptile, you!’

‘Madam,’ said Mr Slimm sternly, ‘you forget yourself. Do you not know it is in our power to count the money you have had into the sum we propose to give you? Have a care—have a care!’

These last words, uttered with peculiar emphasis, had a wonderful effect upon the ‘woman scorned.’ With a violent effort, she collected herself, and when she spoke again, it was without the slightest trace of her late abandoned, reckless manner.

‘Be it so,’ she said slowly—‘be it so. You are not likely to hear from me again.—Good-morning.—Mr Slimm, I see my cab is waiting. If you will be good enough to give me your arm, I shall be obliged to you.’

‘One moment,’ said Mr Carver. ‘We do not propose to deduct the few hundreds you have from the stipulated sum to be paid to you. You shall hear from me in a few days.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied with strange humility.—‘Mr Slimm, are you ready?—Again, good-morning.’

When the American returned, his face was grave and stern. What passed between him and Miss Wakefield was never known. And so she passes from our history. Her cunning and deceit—if it was not something worse—had availed her nothing. Baffled and defeated, as vice should always be, she retired to her dingy lodging, and was never more seen by our friends. Whether there had been any foul-play was never known. If the shrewd American had any such suspicions, he kept them to himself. It was best, he thought, to let the past dead bury its dead, and not stir up bitterness and the shadow of a crime, where nought but peace and sunshine should be.

Mr Carver was still puzzled. Why his client should have taken such a strange course with his money, and why he had not come to him and made his last will in a straightforward manner, was a circumstance he could not fathom. But wiser men than the astute lawyer have been puzzled ere now by the idiosyncrasies of man, and Mr Carver was only pondering upon a subject which has been and will be a theme with philosophers for all time.

‘Why could he not have come to me?’ he asked at length.

‘I think it is easily understood,’ explained Felix; ‘and the principal reason was fear. According to your own showing, Mr Morton was moody and fanciful, possessing a highly-strung nervous system, and easily impressed. That woman’s stronger will stifled his. I am under no obligation to her, but she possesses a mesmeric eye which has a peculiar effect upon me. Besides this, it is evident he never trusted her. He must have known, had he communicated with you, that she would sooner or later discover it, hence his strange conduct. The method, to me, savours strongly of a madman’s cunning. It is proverbial that such men trust no one.’

‘It is rather idle to speculate upon it now,’ Edgar said cheerfully. ‘Justice has been done at last, and we are satisfied.’

‘We are all satisfied,’ exclaimed Mr Carver. ‘You have your money, and Bates has his partnership.—Eh, Bates?’ slapping that individual with great heartiness on the back—‘eh, Bates?’

‘I suppose so, sir,’ replied that misanthrope gravely; ‘but the whole matter is highly unprofessional. There is a lack of business form about it.’

‘Ah, ah!’ laughed Mr Carver—‘just like Bates; no sentiment—no poetry’——

‘And no romance,’ put in Edgar.

It was a merry group. Mr Slimm was talking to Eleanor, making her laugh at his quaint American saws, and she was telling him of her strange dream, and how it had all come true. Edgar and Mr Carver were badgering Bates upon his gloomy state; and Felix was amusing and instructing little Nelly with a bewildering, awe-inspiring fairy tale—the little one, who had been a silent spectator of the proceedings, and knew by some childish instinct that some happy event had happened.

‘Ring down the curtain—the thing is played out,’ Edgar said; ‘and now back again to London town, Nelly.’

‘Papa,’ she said after a pause, ‘has some day come?’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘Really and truly?’

‘Yes, darling. Some day has come at last, little one.’

Sunshine and laughter, mirth and joy, instead of misery and despair, gloom and smoke. Eastwood again two months later, and high revels are being held, for is it not little Nelly’s birthday! The blue sky, flecked with little white clouds, smiles overhead, and the birds are making merry in the trees. Niobe still stands in the centre of the lawn, as ready to keep a secret as ever, and saying nothing either of the future or the past.

A pattering throng of little ones are trying to play at tennis, and Eleanor and her husband are watching them with amused eyes. Eleanor looks very sweet and fair to-day, with the light of happiness in her eyes; and there is an expression of peace on her face, as she leans upon her husband’s chair, which is good and pleasant to see. Mr Bates is looking on at the group with meditative looks, speculating, no doubt, upon marriage settlements, which these little chatterers will want some day. Jolly Mr Carver is in the midst of a group of little ones, making himself an object of ridicule and contempt on account of his lack of knowledge touching the mysteries of ‘hunt the slipper.’ ‘Fancy an old gentleman like that knowing nothing of the game!’—an opinion which one golden-haired fairy tenders him without hesitation, and to which he listens with becoming humility and contriteness. Noble-hearted Felix has established a court, where he is doing his best to emulate the wonders of the eastern storytellers, and, to judge from the rapt attention of his audience and the extreme roundness of their eyes, his imagination is by no means faulty. Lying full length on the grass, watching the various groups, is Mr Slimm. There is a depth of sadness in his eyes to-day, for he is thinking of another home—that was—thousands of miles away, and the echo of other voices than these rings in his ears.

‘I did hope,’ he said, rising up, ‘that I should spend my old age with my own children; but I suppose it was not to be.’

‘Do not think of that now,’ Eleanor said with womanly tenderness.

‘Perhaps it is selfish,’ he replied, with a great heave of his chest. ‘It is all for the best, and I have my happiness in yours. Had I not lost my dear ones, I should never have brought you your joy.’

‘Dear old fellow!’ Edgar said, pressing his hand warmly. ‘Try and forget that for to-day. How good providence has been to us!’

‘It is not every man who has a wife like yours, Seaton,’ replied the American, heedless of the blushing Eleanor.

‘True for you, old friend,’ Edgar replied, looking at his wife lovingly. ‘I have one in a million;’ and he kissed her fondly.

The American regarded them for a moment with something in his eyes suspiciously like tears. ‘It was not to be,’ he said at length—‘it was not to be!’

Eleanor came forward and took his hands in her own. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘You have always a home and welcome here. Stay with us, and we will give to you what we can. Now, promise.’

And he promised.