CHAPTER IV.—SHUFFLING, DEALING, AND TURNING UP A KNAVE AND A TRUMP.
“Take this to Sir Thomas Crawley, and tell him I am waiting.”
The servant to whom the above direction was given, carried the card to which it referred to his master, who, lifting it from the silver waiter on which it was presented, read the following name—“The Rev. Ernest Carrington.”
“Show the gentleman into the library, and bring candles there directly,” said Sir Thomas; then, thrusting his fingers through the short, stiff, grey bristles, suggestive of a venerable and well-worn scrubbing-brush, which constituted his head of hair—an action which, to any one acquainted with his habits, would have proved that he was anxious and excited—he turned, and left the apartment.
When he entered the library, his excitement seemed to have increased and taken a crabbed turn, for it was in no very cordial tone of voice that he addressed his visitor.
“If, as I presume, you have come here in consequence of my letter, I must say you have chosen a somewhat late hour for a business visit, young gentleman.”
“I lost no time, sir, in making the necessary inquiries,” was the reply. “Immediately on receiving your letter I hastened to London, saw your solicitor, perused my grandfather’s will, obtained the information I required, and came down by the first train that stopped at the Flatville station; and, as your man of business informed me time was of importance, I would not wait till to-morrow, lest the delay might cause you inconvenience. If that is not sufficient apology for my untimely visit, I have none other to offer.”
The calm, respectful, but at the same time perfectly self-possessed manner of the speaker, appeared to have the same land of effect upon his auditor that the keeper’s eye has upon some savage animal, for he replied, in a more civil tone than he had yet used,—
“Yes, well—I see—yes. I am obliged to you for the prompt attention you have paid to my letter.” He paused, then added, with affected indifference,—“About the entail; you find, of course, that the point raised was a wholly unnecessary one, and that your signature is a mere matter of form, to satisfy the absurd scruples of the party negotiating for the purchase; some people are so ridiculously cautious, ha! ha!” and here he laughed a forced, uneasy laugh.
“Such was by no means the view the solicitor whom I consulted in town appeared to take of the matter,” was Ernest’s quiet reply. “So far from it, that he declared, without my signature, the title was worthless; and that, if I were inclined to litigate the question, he had not a doubt that I should gain my cause. The estates, he said, were clearly entailed; and, therefore, my grandfather could not alienate them without my father’s consent, which, I need scarcely tell you, he never attempted to obtain.”