Had a cannon gone off in the ear of Mr. Robert Beaufort, it could not have shocked or stunned him more than that simple word with which his companion closed his sentence. He fell back in his chair—his lips apart, his eyes fixed on the stranger. He sought to speak, but his tongue clove to his mouth.
“That wife had two sons, born in wedlock!”
“It is false!” cried Mr. Beaufort, finding a voice at length, and springing to his feet. “And who are you, sir? and what do you mean by—”
“Hush!” said the stranger, perfectly unconcerned, and regaining the dignity of his haw-haw enunciation, “better not let the servants hear aunything. For my pawt, I think servants hauve the longest pair of ears of auny persons, not excepting jauckasses; their ears stretch from the pauntry to the parlour. Hush, sir!—perticler good madeira, this!”
“Sir!” said Mr. Beaufort, struggling to preserve, or rather recover, his temper, “your conduct is exceedingly strange; but allow me to say that you are wholly misinformed. My brother never did marry; and if you have anything to say on behalf of those young men—his natural sons—I refer you to my solicitor, Mr. Blackwell, of Lincoln’s Inn. I wish you a good evening.”
“Sir!—the same to you—I won’t trouble you auny farther; it was only out of koindness I called—I am not used to be treated so—sir, I am in his maujesty’s service—sir, you will foind that the witness of the marriage is forthcoming; you will think of me then, and, perhaps, be sorry. But I’ve done, ‘Your most obedient humble, sir!’” And the stranger, with a flourish of his hand, turned to the door. At the sight of this determination on the part of his strange guest, a cold, uneasy, vague presentiment seized Mr. Beaufort. There, not flashed, but rather froze, across him the recollection of his brother’s emphatic but disbelieved assurances—of Catherine’s obstinate assertion of her son’s alleged rights—rights which her lawsuit, undertaken on her own behalf, had not compromised;—a fresh lawsuit might be instituted by the son, and the evidence which had been wanting in the former suit might be found at last. With this remembrance and these reflections came a horrible train of shadowy fears,—witnesses, verdict, surrender, spoliation—arrears—ruin!
The man, who had gained the door, turned back and looked at him with a complacent, half-triumphant leer upon his impudent, reckless face.
“Sir,” then said Mr. Beaufort, mildly, “I repeat that you had better see Mr. Blackwell.”
The tempter saw his triumph. “I have a secret to communicate which it is best for you to keep snug. How mauny people do you wish me to see about it? Come, sir, there is no need of a lawyer; or, if you think so, tell him yourself. Now or never, Mr. Beaufort.”
“I can have no objection to hear anything you have to say, sir,” said the rich man, yet more mildly than before; and then added, with a forced smile, “though my rights are already too confirmed to admit of a doubt.”