“That was a noisy Bulgarian,” said one—“but he had a fine seat on a horse.”
The vicar of Cavil had long owed a grudge against the castle for the evil things that therein were done, or said to be done—indeed, it had caused much sly winking and nodding amongst the bucolic wits. But, for his dignity’s sake and the sake of the soil that had bred him, his sermon left the dead lord severely alone; however, he improved the occasion of the young man’s death to point out the evils that come of the pursuit of art by a youth who should have been devoting himself to a gentleman’s life; and in particular he laid it down that had this youth not been leaving the immoral precincts of a London theatre on the night on which he met his violent death, he would not have met that death.
Which, of a truth, was as it might have been.
CHAPTER XCIII
Wherein our Hero comes into a Wide Heritage
The sunny morning was well spent, but Noll was pacing restlessly up and down his little bedroom at the hotel. His breakfast, scarce tasted, lay on a tray at the foot of his bed. His design of finding Betty before he discovered himself to his own people threatened to be baulked; and defeat fretted his impatient will. So he paced—leopard-like—when there came a tap at his door, and the maid screamed through the panels that a gentleman waited upon him below.
When Noll, descending the stairs, entered the dingy sitting-room of the little hotel, an old gentleman rose to meet him; and Noll found himself in the presence of the best and most loyal friend his house knew, or was destined to know—the head of the legal firm of Overshaw.
“You must be Oliver Baddlesmere,” said the old lawyer—“you are so like your mother;” and the courtesies passed.