“Do you remember the day you swam across the mill-pond, and fished my little boy out, Master Jack?”
“You take care I shan’t forget it, Skettle,” said Jack, with a smile. “It was a noble deed, wasn’t it? Every time you mention it, I try to feel like a hero, but it won’t come. How is little Ned?”
“He’s well, sir; he’s in London now, working his way up. He’d have been in the church-yard if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Why, Skettle, this is worse than ‘’Twas seven long years ago!’” exclaimed Jack.
“On that day, Master Jack, I swore that if ever a time came when I’d a chance of serving you, I’d do it. It did not seem very likely then, for we all thought you’d be the next squire; but now, Master Jack, I should be grateful if you’d borrow ten pounds of me.”
“Nonsense,” cried Jack. “Don’t be an idiot, Skettle. You a lawyer! why, you’re too soft for anything but a washerwoman. There, good-bye; remember me to little Ned when you write, and tell him I hope he’ll grow up a little harder than his father. Good-bye,” and he shook the thin, skinny claw heartily.
Old Skettle stood and looked after him, his right hand fumbling in his waistcoat pocket; and when Jack had got quite out of sight he pulled the hand out, and with it a small scrap of paper with a few words written on it, and a seal. It was just such a scrap of paper which might have been torn from a letter, and the seal was the Davenant seal, with its griffin and spear plainly stamped.
Old Skettle looked at it a moment curiously, then shook his head.
“No, I was right after all in not giving it to him; it may be nothing—nothing at all. And yet—it’s the squire’s handwriting, for it’s his seal, and what was it lying outside the terrace for? Where’s the other part of it, and what was the other part like? I’ll keep it. I don’t say that there’s any good in it, but I’ll keep it. Not a mourning-ring or a walking-stick! All—house, lands, money—to Mr. Stephen, with the sneaking face and the silky tongue. Poor Master Jack! I—I wish he’d taken that ten-pound note; it burns a hole in my pocket. Not—a—mourning-ring,” he muttered. “It’s not like the squire, for he was fond of Master Jack, and if I’m not half the idiot he called me, the old man hated Mr. Stephen. I seem to feel that there’s something wrong. I’ll keep this bit of paper;” and he restored the scrap to its place and returned to the “Bush” with as much expression on his face as one might expect to see on a blank skin of parchment.
Jack was more moved than he would have liked to admit by old Skettle’s sympathy and offer of assistance, and in a softened mood, produced by the little incident, sat and smoked his pipe with a lighter spirit.