Southwold emits a very wicked word; his wife groans aloud. Cicely Seymour, who has gone back to the roses, listens with a face grown bright with interest and approval.
“Miss Seymour does not blame me?” says Bertram, softly.
“No; I should do as you have done.”
“Thanks,” says Bertram, very gravely. Then he takes a registered letter out of his pocket.
“I have just received this,” he continues. “Will you allow me to read it to you? It was sent to me by the poor vicar of a village in the Pontine marshes, near which my cousin met his death. He says that my cousin dictated it as he lay dying in his presbytery, and the priest wrote it; it has been sent to me through the Embassy in Rome. Hence the delay. To Folliott of course the man of business had telegraphed. The letter which he dictated to this priest is, of course, in Italian. I propose to translate it to you, for I think my uncle and you do not know that language. It is very short.”
He speaks to his aunt, but he looks at Cicely Seymour.
“‘I am a dead man,’” he reads aloud from the letter. “‘An old tusker has let life out of me for ever. You will get this when I am gone. I wish we had known each other. I have left you all I possess, not because you are a relative, but because I think you will do good with it. I have not been a student, but I have seen some numbers of your journal, and though I do not agree with you in all your opinions, I see you care for the poor. Come and live on my lands, and you’ll have work enough cut out for you. I have not done my duty—do yours.’ It is signed by him, and the signature is witnessed.”
They are all silent.
Lady Southwold has tears in her eyes.
“There is a postscript,” continues Bertram, “‘Take care of my horses and dogs.’ The priest adds that the poor fellow had desired him to send it to the English Embassy, and died half an hour after dictating it. That is all.”