“I need no such assurance, sir,” said Lord Clydesfold, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder tenderly.
“Thank you, thank you!” faltered the squire. “Will you take it and restore it? You see, I still come to you in my trouble.”
“Will you always do so? Let me see it.”
He opened the paper, and looked at it; then went to his desk and compared it with some letters and papers.
“It is a large sum. There may be near relations to inherit the unhappy wretch’s ill-got gold——”
“No man will be the richer for this,” said Clydesfold, solemnly. “It is useless. It is—a forgery.”
The squire started and looked at him with horror.
“A forgery!” repeated Lord Clydesfold. “I know the manager’s writing quite well. See—there are his signatures to these papers. Compare them with this one on the voucher. It is a forgery.” He took it from the squire’s trembling hand and tore it in pieces, which he threw on the fire. “Do not tell her this,” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “It is better that she should not know it. From this moment do not permit her to mention his name in anything connected with her”—he paused; he was going to say “marriage”—“with anything connected with him. Let the past die out—as it will, please God!” He pointed to the ashes of the paper as they fluttered on the hearth. “Let that be the last remembrance of Bartley Bradstone!”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CONCLUSION.
He could not approach her. Though he longed to see her, to hear her voice, to touch her hand, ah! and to hold her in his arms as he had done for that one short moment in the woods, he felt that for the present it would be well for him to keep away from her.