"Rather unfortunate, indeed, Mr. Tims!" replied Mr. Wilkinson, dryly, "especially as Mr. Beauchamp drew for the money. His letter was couched in such terms as to permit of our handing over the assets that were in our hands; but we can not tell that he has not been put to great inconvenience. Lord Ashborough's note was of course protested--here it is! I hope you have come to retire it."
"I am directed by my Lord Ashborough to do so," answered the lawyer; "but I rather imagine that Mr. Beauchamp could not be put to much inconvenience; for I find by this document that he has obtained that sum, and four hundred and thirty-two pounds more, from my late unfortunate uncle, to whose property I have taken out letters of administration, and therefore, retaining the ten thousand pounds now in hand, I request you would hand me over the four hundred and thirty-two pounds at your convenience, when I will give you a receipt in full."
"Sir, this is somewhat unprecedented," replied Mr. Wilkinson, "and I think you will find that money can not thus be stopped, _in transit_, without form of law. Such proceedings, if once admitted, would open a door to the most scandalous abuses. You acknowledge that you are commissioned to pay us this money, on account of Lord Ashborough. Having done so, you will have every right to present your claim against Mr. Beauchamp, which will of course, be immediately examined and attended to."
Mr. Tims replied, and Mr. Wilkinson rejoined; but as it is more than probable that the reader may already have heard more than he desires of such a discussion, it will be unnecessary to say more than that Mr. Tims adhered to his first resolution, and carried off the sum he had in hand, leaving Mr. Wilkinson to send down to Lord Ashborough his protested bill, and Beauchamp's note of hand, if he pleased.
In the mean time, that noble lord proceeded, as fast as a light chariot and good horses could carry him, down to Emberton. It was dark, however, ere he arrived; and the first object that met his sight the following morning, as he looked forth from the windows of the inn, was the old mansion, at the end of its wide and solitary park, with the stream flowing calmly on, through the midst of the brown grass and antique trees, and the swans floating upon its bosom in the early light. He had not seen it since he was a mere youth, and the finger of time had written that sad word _decay_ on the whole aspect of the place. To the earl, through whose whole frame the same chilly hand had spread the growing stiffness of age, the sight was awfully sad, of the place where he had spent the most elastic days of life, and it was long ere he could withdraw his eyes, as he paused and contemplated every feature of the scene, and woke a thousand memories that had long slept in the night of the past.
There was a change over all he saw since last he had beheld it--a gloom, a desolation, a darkness; and he felt, too, that there was a change as great in himself. But there was something more in his thoughts; the decay in his own frame was greater, more rapid, more irremediable. The scene might flourish again under some cultivating hand; the mansion, repaired with care, and ornamented with taste, might assume a brighter aspect, but nothing could restore life's freshness or the body's strength to him. Each day that passed must see some farther progress in the downfall of his powers; and few, few brief months and years would behold him in the earth, without leaving a being behind him to carry on his lineage into time, if Henry Beauchamp were, indeed, as his fears anticipated. It was the first time that he had thought in such a sort for long; and most unfortunate was it that there was no voice, either in his own heart, or from without, to point the moral at the moment, and to lead the vague ideas excited, of life, and death, and immortality, to their just conclusion. He thought of death and of his own decay, indeed; but he never thought of using better the life that still remained--for he scarcely knew that he had used the past amiss; and after indulging for some minutes those meditations that will at times have way, he found that they only served to make him melancholy, and turned again to the every-day round of life.
When he was dressed and had breakfasted, he set out for the small village near which Henry Beauchamp's hat had been found. In his way, he stopped also at the house where the hunter had been left, identified the horse, and listened attentively to the replies which the landlord and his servants made to the shrewd questions of an officer he brought with him from London.
The man's tale was very simple, and quite the same that he had given to Mr. Tims. He described Henry Beauchamp very exactly, declared that he had appeared grave and melancholy when he came there, and that he had never heard any thing of him since. The servants told the same story; and Lord Ashborough only acquired an additional degree of gloom, from ascertaining in person the accuracy of the lawyer's report.
"Oh, he is gone!" he thought, as he returned to his carriage, giving way to despair in regard to his nephew. "He is gone! This Sidney Delaware is destined to be the blight of all my hopes and expectations. If it had not been for his vile intrigues to get quit of that annuity, all this never would have happened; but I will make him rue it, should it cost me half my fortune."
It may be asked, whether the earl did never for a moment allow the remembrance, that his own intrigues might have something to do with the business, to cross his mind. Perhaps he did--perhaps, indeed, he could not prevent such thoughts from intruding. But that made him only the more bitter against Sir Sidney Delaware. Have you never remarked a nurse, when a child has fallen down and hurt itself, bid it beat the naughty ground against which it fell? Have you never seen a boy when he has cut his finger, throw the knife out of the window, or even a man curse the instrument that he has used clumsily? It is the first impulse of pampered human nature, to attribute the pangs we suffer to any thing but our own errors, and to revenge the pain, which we have inflicted on ourselves, upon the passive instrument. Lord Ashborough did no more, although, as he rolled on toward the sea-side, he meditated every sort of evil against Sir Sidney Delaware.