"I am only thinking what a lucky fellow you would be if this grief that has fallen upon your uncle were to be fatal to his life."
"Don't talk like that, Carrington. I won't think of such a thing. I am had enough, I know; but not quite so bad as to wish my uncle dead."
"You would be sorry if he were dead, I suppose? Sorry—with this domain your own! with all power and pleasure that wealth can purchase for a man! You would be sorry, would you? You wish well to the kind kinsman to whom you have been such a devoted nephew! You would prefer to wait thirty years for your heritage—if you should live so long!"
"Victor Carrington," cried Reginald, passionately, "you are the fiend himself, in disguise! Let me pass. I will not stop to listen to your hateful words."
"Wait to hear one question, at any rate. Why do you suppose I made you sign that promissory note at a twelvemonth's date?"
"I don't know; but you must know, as well as I do, that the note will be waste-paper so long as my uncle lives."
"I do know that, my dear Reginald; but I got you to date the document as you did, because I have a kind of presentiment that before that date you will be master of Raynham!"
"You mean that my uncle will die within the year?"
"I am subject to presentiments of that kind. I do not think Sir Oswald will see the end of the year!"
"Carrington!" exclaimed Reginald. "Your schemes are hateful. I will have no further dealings with you."