“Upon my word, young lady, you try a man’s patience,” cried my respectable adviser—“I did find it out—what concern have you with the how? If you are disposed to take advantage of my information, it is at your service—but I will not be badgered by the person for whose sole benefit I have taken so much trouble. Will that convince you, look?”
He almost threw at me one of the papers in his hand—I lifted it up mechanically—I was so sure what it would say from his description, that I almost fancied I had read it before. It was a will, bequeathing all the personal property of the writer to Harry Southern, the son of the late George Southern, Lieutenant R.N., on condition of his assuming the name of Southcote; I read it over twice, and it struck me strongly enough, that after the first words of the bequest there was a parenthesis, “(if he survives me),” which was repeated every time the name of Harry Southern occurred. I held it out—holding it fast, however—to Saville, and asked him what it meant.
“A mere point of law,” he answered indifferently, “what could it be else! Ladies, I know, never understand business; but these trifling matters have nothing to do with the main question—you see very clearly who this child was, there can be no mistake about that.”
“I see nothing to identify him with Edgar Southcote,” I said.
“You are sceptical,” said Saville—“let me see if I can convince you there are some papers which throw light upon the matter.”
These papers were letters—three of them bearing dates very near each other—all referring in terms of tender fondness to some little Harry; the first was signed “Maria Southern,” the other two “Maria Southcote,” but little Harry had quite as much part in the former as in the latter, and these documents were evidently true. I was greatly disturbed;—could it be so? could it be so? Was my husband only the heir, and not the son of Brian Southcote? The evidence was very startling to my unused and ignorant eyes. I kept the papers closely in my hand, resolved not to give them up again. I did not know what arguments to use to myself to cast off this fear;—at last I cried abruptly—“If this was the case he could not be like the Southcotes, he would be like your family—but he is like Edgar the Scholar; I found out the resemblance at once.”
“It is easy to find resemblances when your mind is turned to it,” said Saville. “Is he as like now?—and suppose he had been introduced to you as Harry Southern, would you ever have cared to examine who he was like?”
Harry Southern! the idea was intolerable. I started from my seat—I could not bear it any longer. “I will think over this, and let you know what I will do,” I said hurriedly. “It is very startling news—I must have some time to accustom myself to it, and then I will be able to tell you what I can do.”
“Be so good as to return me my papers then,” said Saville; “by all means think it over—it is no joke—you had best be prudent; but, in the meantime, let me have my papers—they are my property, not yours.”
“I will not give them back—they concern me too nearly,” said I. “Stay—if you try to take them I shall call your brother. I will not endure your touch, sir;—stand back—these letters are Miss Saville’s—I will undertake that no harm shall happen to them, that you shall come to no loss—but I will not give them back.”