“You see,” said Matt, “you ought to have gone to Doctors’ Commons, and entered a something against your uncle, and done a something else, and had a lawyer to engage counsel, and then this precious uncle of yours couldn’t have touched the property till the matter had been tried in the Court of Probate; when, of course, you must have come out with flying colours. But here, you see, you do nothing; first letting one month slip away, and then another, and all the while he goes to work, gets uninterrupted possession, sticks tighter and tighter to it, and for aught you know, he’s spent it all by this time. You ought, you know, to have carried on the war at once.”
“And about the sinews?” said Septimus drearily, without raising his head.
“Blame them sinews!” cried the old man; “they’re about the tightest, and hardest, and toughest things in the whole world. It seems to me, you know, sir, thinking it over—and I’ve had it in bed with me scores of nights—it seems to me that your uncle rather reckoned on his meeting no opposition; and on your—snuff, snuff, snuff,” muttered the old man in a confused way, as he fumbled about in his pockets.
“Say it out, Matt,” said Septimus with a sad smile, “my weakness—no doubt of it, for he could never have believed his own words.”
“Well, that was the word, certainly, sir,” said Matt; “and after all your fuss, I don’t know that a man’s any the better for being strong, mind you. I wasn’t going to say weakness, for I was hanging fire for a word that meant the same with the corners rubbed off a bit; but there wasn’t letter enough in the case to make it up.”
“Can’t help it, Matt,” said Septimus, removing a hair from his pen by wiping it upon his coat-tail, and then smearing his forehead with his inky fingers, ready for Lucy, who entered the room directly after, to take his careworn head upon her arm, wet a corner of her handkerchief between her rosy lips, and then wipe away the obstinate smear—Septimus the while as still and patient as possible, till the fair girl concluded her performance with a kiss, when he went on with his task. “Exors—ecutors—and assigns,” muttered Septimus, writing. “Can’t help it, Matt, I suppose it’s my nature to be weak.”
“And let everyone kick you,” said Matt to himself.—“Well, sir,” he continued aloud, “it’s my belief that this uncle of yours, not to put too fine a point upon it, is a rogue. He’s a deep one, that’s what he is; but then, you know, he isn’t the only deep one in the world, and if you’d begun when you should have done—there, I won’t say so any more,” he exclaimed hastily, for Septimus made an impatient movement. “Now, you see, you’ve taken this sudden whim—very well, sir, all right—we’ve talked you into it, say then—and you mean now to see if you can’t go on with the matter. Better late than never, say I; so now, how does it stand? He has possession, and that’s what they call nine points of the law; and he’s had possession for above a year, and you haven’t taken a step to dispute his right.—Well, I can’t go into the thing without speaking of the rights and wrongs of it, can I?” exclaimed the old man in an injured tone, for Septimus shuffled nervously in his seat.
“There, go on!” said Septimus.
“But, there, p’raps I’m making too free,” said the old man, snatching at the string so angrily that he broke the other leg of the figure he had brought the child.—“Never mind, my man,” he whispered; “I’ll bring you such a good un next time I come.”
“Go on, Matt,” said Septimus quietly; “you ought to make allowances for me.”