"Nail it up,—nail 'em all up," growled Gilbert; "nobody'll live here now; or else set fire to 't. It'll make a rare bonfire to burn that ugly old will in."
A boisterous laugh here broke from the remorseless Gilbert. It fell upon my ear as something with which I had once been disagreeably familiar. The voice of the first speaker, too, seemed the echo of one that had been heard in childhood. A friendly chink permitted me to gain the information I sought; there stood my uncle and his trusty familiar. In my youth I had contracted a somewhat unaccountable aversion to the latter personage. I well remembered his downcast grey eye,
deprived of its fellow; and the malignant pleasure he took in thwarting and disturbing my childish amusements. This prepossessing Cyclop held a tinder-box, and was preparing to light a match. My uncle's figure I could not mistake: a score of winters had cast their shadows on his brow since we had separated; but he still stood as he was wont—tall, erect, and muscular, though age had slightly drooped his proud forehead; and I could discern his long-lapped waistcoat somewhat less conspicuous in front. He was my mother's brother, and the only surviving relation on whom I had any claim. My fears were set at rest, but curiosity stole into their place. I felt an irrepressible inclination to watch their proceedings, though eaves-dropping was a subterfuge that I abhorred. I should, I am confident—at least I hope so—have immediately discovered myself, had not a single word which I had overheard prevented me. The "will" to which they alluded might to me, perhaps, be an object of no trivial importance.
"I wish with all my heart it were burnt!" said mine uncle.
"The will, or the house?" peevishly retorted Gilbert.
"Both!" cried the other, with an emphasis and expression that made me tremble.
"If we burn the house, the papers will not rise out of it, depend on 't, master," continued Gilbert; "and that box in the next closet will not prove like Goody Blake's salamander."
I began to feel particularly uncomfortable.
"I wish they had all been burnt long ago," said mine honest uncle. After a pause he went on: "This scapegrace nephew of mine will be here shortly. For fear of accidents—accidents, I say,—Gilbert—it were better to have all safe. Who knows what may be lurking in the old house, to rise up some day as a witness against us! I intend either to pull it down or set fire to it. But we'll make sure of the will first."
"A rambling jackanapes of a nephew!" said Gilbert; "I hoped the fishes had supped on him before now. We never thought, master, he could be alive, as he sent no word about his being either alive or dead. But I guess," continued this amiable servant, "he might ha' staid longer, and you wouldn't ha' fretted for his company."