As Kester was dressing in the morning, his eye was caught by the figure of a man who was lounging slowly through the winding garden paths, plucking a flower here and there as he went. He gave a great start of surprise and his face blanched for a moment when his eyes first rested on the man. At that instant Hewitt, General St. George’s valet, came in with Kester’s hot water for shaving. “Who is that?” said Mr. St. George sharply, as he pointed to the figure in the garden.
“That gentleman, sir, is Mr. Richard Dering, a younger brother of the late Mr. Lionel,” answered Hewitt.
“And how long has he been here?”
“He arrived here from India eight days ago.”
“In time to see his brother alive?”
“Oh, yes, sir. It is only five days since Mr. Lionel died.”
“Was Mr. Richard with his brother when he died?”
“I believe so, sir. But not being there myself, I cannot say for certain. Mr. Richard has come from India for the benefit of his health. We had been expecting him nearly two months before he came.”
“I suppose this fellow will step into his brother’s shoes and inherit the few thousands my uncle will have to leave when he dies,” muttered Kester to himself when Hewitt had left the room. “But what does that matter to me now—to me, the owner of Park Newton and eleven thousand a year?”
It was with a sense of dignity and importance such as he had never experienced before, that Kester St. George walked downstairs that morning to his uncle’s breakfast-room. He felt himself to be a very different individual, both in his own estimation and in that of the world, from the despairing, impecunious wretch who, but a few short hours before, was sitting in the smoke-room of his club, deliberating as to the easiest mode of bidding farewell to a world in whose economy there no longer seemed to be a place for him.