"Certainly. My heir."
The contingency had never, in the whole course of his life, entered into the imagination of simple Roland. He sat in speechless bewilderment.
"The moment the breath goes out of this poor frail body--and the doctors tell me it will not be many more hours in it now--you will be Sir Roland Yorke. The fourth baronet, and the possessor of the Yorke estates--such as they are."
"Oh, my gracious!" uttered Roland, a vast deal more startled at the prospect than he had been at that of crying hot-pies in Poplar. "Do you mean it, Vincent?"
"Mean it! Where are your wits gone, that you need ask? You must know as well as I do that you come next in succession."
"I never thought of it; never once. I don't want it, Vincent, old fellow; I don't, indeed. I hope, with all my heart, you'll get well, and hold it for yourself. Oh, Dick, I hope you will!"
Roland had risen and caught the outstretched hand. As Sir Vincent heard the earnest tones, and saw the face of genuine concern shining out in all its guileless simplicity, the tears in the honest eyes, he came to the conclusion that Roland had been somewhat depreciated among them.
"Nothing can save me, Roland; the doctors have pronounced me to be past human skill, and I feel for myself that I am so. It has not been long, one day, 'to set my house in order,' has it?"
Amidst Roland's general confusion, nothing had struck him more than the change in Vincent's tone. The old, mincing affectation was utterly gone. A man cannot retain such when brought face to face with death.
"If you could but get well!" repeated poor Roland, rubbing his hot face as he got back to his chair.