It was in a curious reverie—a kind of inquiring within himself, “How came it that qualities so calculated to make social intercourse delightful in days of happiness, should prove positively offensive in moments of trial and affliction?” for such he felt to be the case as regarded Gabriac—that MacNaghten lay, when a servant came to inform him that Mr. Crowther had just arrived at the Castle, and earnestly requested to see him.
“At once,” replied he, “show him up to me here;” and in a few moments that most bland and imperturbable of solicitors entered, and, drawing a chair to the bedside, sat down.
“This is a sad occasion, Mr. MacNaghten. I little thought when I last saw you here that my next visit would have been on such an errand.”
MacNaghten nodded sorrowfully, and Crowther went on:
“Sad in every sense, sir,” sighed he, heavily. “The last of his name—one of our oldest gentry—the head of a princely fortune—with abilities, I am assured, of a very high order, and, certainly, most popular manners.”
“You may spare me the eulogy,” said MacNaghten, bluntly. “He was a better fellow than either you or I should be able to describe, if we spent an hour over it.”
Crowther took the rebuke in good part, and assented to the remark with the best possible grace. Still, he seemed as if he would like to dwell a little longer on the theme before he proceeded to other matters. Perhaps he thought by this to secure a more favorable acceptance for what he had to say; perhaps he was not fully made up in mind how to approach the subject before him. MacNaghten, who always acted through life as he would ride in a steeplechase, straight onward, regardless of all in his way, stopped him short, by saying,—
“Carew has left a will in your hands, I believe?”
“You can scarcely call it a will, sir. The document is very irregular, very informal.”
“It was his act, however; he wrote or dictated it himself?”