“But I have not.”
“Humph! let us to roost. To-morrow, at break of day, we will be off for Rathelin Hall. See that our arms are in order. And now to what rest nature and good consciences will afford us.”
Chapter Sixty Nine.
Mr Pigtop believeth in ghosts, and hath some trust in witches, but none at all in lawyers—A consultation after supper, and, after supper, action.
Early next morning, Mr Pigtop and myself were seated in a post-chaise, making the best of our way towards the western extremity of England. When we had arrived at Exeter, where we found it necessary to sleep, in order to gain some little restoration from the fatigues of our incessant travelling, we made up our minds to hire three horses and a groom, and, having very accurately ascertained the exact site of Rathelin Hall, which was situated a few miles to the north-eastward of Barnstaple, we arrived there towards the close of the day, and put up at a very decent inn in an adjoining village.
The old and large house was distinctly visible, notwithstanding the well-wooded park in which it was situated, from the windows of our inn. A conference with our host fully realised our worst fears. He informed us that Sir Reginald was not expected to live many days; that his whole deportment was very edifying; and, moreover, that his dying hours were solaced and sweetened by the presence and the assiduities of his only and long-disowned, but now acknowledged, son Ralph. We, moreover, learned that this Ralph came attended by a London attorney; and that they, with the priest Thomas, in the intervals between rest, refection, and prayer, were actively employed in settling his sublunary affairs, very much to the dissatisfaction of a Mr Seabright, the family solicitor, and land-steward of the estate.
“Where does Mr Seabright live?” was my question, instantly.
“Why, here, sir, to be sure, in our town of Antwick; and mortally in dudgeon he has taken all this.”