"Oh Lord! oh Lord! oh Lord!" suddenly exclaimed Titmouse, with a shudder—"I wish I were dead and forgotten! oh Lord! what shall I do? 'Pon my soul"—he struck his forehead with some violence—"I'm going mad"——
"Consider, Mr. Titmouse, calmly, how reasonable and moderate is my offer"—proceeded Gammon; who now and then, however, experienced changes of color, on the sudden recurrence of a sense of his last misfortune.
"Here's Lady Cicely to have £3,000 a-year," passionately interposed Titmouse.
"Not till after your death, my dear sir"——
"Then she shall have it directly; for curse me if I don't kill myself!"——
"Then she would never have a farthing—for I should instantly produce the real heir"——
"Yah!" exclaimed Titmouse, uttering a sound like the sharp, furious bark of a cur, foiled at all points. He threw himself on the sofa, and folded his arms on his breast, compressing them, as it were, with convulsive vehemence.
"Do not excite yourself, Mr. Titmouse—you are still one of the most fortunate men upon earth, to have fallen into hands like mine, I can assure you! You will still enjoy a truly splendid income—little short of nine thousand a-year—for I will undertake to raise the Yatton rental, within a few short months, to twelve or thirteen thousand a-year, as I have often told you—I have explained to you over and over again, how absurdly under their value they were let in the time of"——
"And you've perhaps forgotten that I've borrowed nearly fifty thousand pounds—that costs nothing, I suppose!"