A postman at that moment comes through the antechamber into the room, and tenders a registered letter with the receipt book for signature.
“What am I to do?” asks Bertram, helplessly. “Critchett has always seen to things of this kind.”
“You’re to sign your name in the book, sir,” says Mrs. Brown. He signs; and the postman retires.
“I’ll leave ye to read your letter, sir,” says Mrs. Brown; “and if a poor woman may give ye a word of advice, take them cobwebs out of your brain, sir, and open your eyes and see the world as ’tis. That ere man as ye thought so much on was a raskill, as rotten as shellfish o’ Saturday nights. Ye’ve too good a ’eart, Mr. Bertram, a deal too good a ’eart; and if you make yourself honey flies will eat yer; that’s true as gospel, sir.”
“Wilfrid! Wilfrid!” shouts an excited voice in the anteroom, as a robust form and a ruddy face, the face and form of a country gentleman, are visible in the distance.
Mrs. Brown discreetly retires.
“My dear Wilfrid, is it possibly true what I heard in the Marlborough this moment?” cries Southwold, out of breath. “Have you actually inherited the whole fortune of those Italian Erringtons, and have never said a syllable about it to your aunt and myself? It is really—really—most extraordinary conduct.”
“I do not see that the matter concerns you,” says Bertram, tranquilly.
“Not concern us?” repeats Southwold, considerably astonished. “Well, anything so very fortunate occurring in my wife’s family must concern every member of it. I never knew this young man, nor his father. There was that unfortunate dissension between your people and his. But it is very consoling that the grave has now closed on all past feud; and that the poor fellow did not allow his father’s animosity to alienate him from his kith and kin. I really cannot congratulate you sufficiently.”
“There is nothing to congratulate me upon,” replies Bertram, impatiently.