“Who?”
“Me, if you please – under your escort, of course. I know exactly what to do.”
“Yes. I suppose I have no choice now but to give you an opportunity. And the west rooms are still habitable.”
“Oh, how kind of you! How pleased I shall be! How I shall enjoy the old place! I was only five years old, Lenny, when we left Porthgenna, and I am so anxious to see what I can remember of it, after such a long, long absence as mine. I never saw that ruinous north side of the house. I prophesy that we shall see ghosts, and find treasures, and hear mysterious noises!”
“Rosamond, let us be serious for one moment. It is clear to me that these repairs of the north rooms will cost a large sum of money. But what to do? If it procures you pleasure… I am with you heart and soul.”
He paused.
“Go on, Lenny.”
“Rosamond,” he whispered, “Your father will pass his days happily with us at Porthgenna. We may all live in the north rooms for the future. Is the loss of your mother the only sad association he has with the place?”
“Not quite. There is another association, which has never been mentioned, but which I may tell you, because there are no secrets between us. My mother had a favorite maid who lived with her from the time of her marriage. She was the only person present in her room when she died. Well, on the morning of my mother's death, she disappeared from the house. She left a mysterious letter to my father. She wrote about a Secret which she was charged to divulge to her master when her mistress was no more. And she added that she was afraid to mention this secret. Our neighbors and servants all thought that the woman was mad; but my father never agreed with them. I know that he has neither destroyed nor forgotten the letter.”
“A strange event, Rosamond.”
“Oh, Lenny, the servants and the neighbors were right – the woman was mad. Anyway, however, it was certainly a singular event in our family. All old houses have their romance – and that is the romance of our house. But years and years have passed since then. I have no fear that my dear, good father will spoil our plans. Just give him a new garden at Porthgenna, where he can walk, and give him new north rooms to live in! But all this is in the future; let us get back to the present time. When shall we go to Porthgenna, Lenny?”
“We have three weeks more to stay here, Rosamond.”
“Yes; and then we must go back to Long Beckley.”
“So, Rosamond, write to Mr. Horlock then – and appoint a meeting in two months' time at the old house.”
Rosamond sat down at the table, and dipped her pen in the ink with a little flourish of triumph.
“In two months,” she exclaimed joyfully, “I shall see the dear old place again!”
Chapter VII
Andrew Treverton's misanthropy was genuine. He was an incorrigible hater of mankind. He was a phenomenon in the nursery, a butt at school, and a victim at college.
At school, Andrew became fond of one among his school-fellows. Nobody could discover the smallest reason for it, but it was nevertheless a notorious fact that Andrew's pocket-money was always at this boy's service. But when his purse grew light in his friend's hand, the hero of his simple admiration abandoned him to embarrassment, to ridicule, and to solitude, without a word of farewell.
Andrew left home to travel. The life he led, the company he kept, during his long residence abroad, did him permanent and fatal harm. When he at last returned to England, he believed in nothing. At this period of his life, his only chance for the future lay in the good results which his brother's influence over him produced. But the quarrel occasioned by Captain Treverton's marriage broke it off forever. From that time, for all social interests and purposes, Andrew was a lost man.
“My dearest friend forsook and cheated me,” he said. “My only brother has quarreled with me for the sake of an actress. What to expect of the rest of mankind after that? I have suffered twice for my belief in others – I will never suffer again. My business in this world is to eat, drink, sleep, and die! “
After his brother's marriage, Andrew lived in the neighborhood of Bayswater. He bought a cottage and he was living like a miser. He had got an old man-servant, named Shrowl, who was even a greater enemy to mankind than himself.
His contempt for his own wealth was quite as hearty as his contempt for the wealth of his neighbors. Andrew Treverton and Shrowl sustained life with the least possible dependence on the race of men who, as they conceived, cheated them infamously.
They ate like primitive men, and they lived in all other respects like primitive men also. They had pots, pans, and pipkins, two deal tables, two chairs, two old sofas, two short pipes, and two long cloaks. They had no carpets and bedsteads, no cabinets, book-cases, or ornamental knickknacks of any kind, no laundress. When either of the two wanted to eat and drink, he cut off his crust of bread, cooked his bit of meat, drew his drop of beer, without the slightest reference to the other. When either of the two needed a clean shirt, which was very seldom, he went and washed one for himself. And when either of the two wanted to go to sleep, he wrapped himself up in his cloak, lay down on one of the sofas, and took what repose he required, early in the evening or late in the morning, just as he pleased.
Sometimes they sat down opposite each other, and smoked for hours, generally without a word. Whenever they did speak, they quarreled.
On a certain morning, Mr. Treverton descended from the upper regions of the cottage to one of the rooms on the ground-floor. Like his elder brother, he was a tall, well-built man. But his bony, haggard, sallow face did not bear the slightest resemblance to the handsome, open, sunburnt face of the Captain. With unbrushed hair and unwashed face, with a tangled gray beard, and an old, patched, dirty flannel dressing-gown this descendant of a wealthy and ancient family looked as if his birthplace was the work-house.
It was breakfast-time. Mr. Treverton took a greasy knife out of the pocket of his dressing-gown, cut off a rasher of bacon, jerked the gridiron onto the fire, and began to cook his breakfast. The door opened, and Shrowl entered the room, with his pipe in his mouth.
Neither master nor servant exchanged a word or took the smallest notice of each other on first meeting. Mr. Treverton finished his cooking, took his bacon to the table, and began to eat his breakfast. Then he looked up at Shrowl, who was at that moment opening his knife and approaching the bacon with greedy eyes.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Mr. Treverton and pointed with indignant surprise at Shrowl's breast. “You ugly brute, you've got a clean shirt on!”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Shrowl. “This is a joyful occasion, it's my master's birthday. Many happy returns, Sir. Perhaps you think I forget that today is your birthday? How old are you today? It's a long time ago, Sir, since you were a plump little boy, with a frill round your neck, and marbles in your pocket, and kisses and presents from Pa and Ma and uncle and aunt, on your birthday. Don't you be afraid of me. I will put this shirt on your next birthday; or your funeral, Sir.”
“Don't waste a clean shirt on my funeral,” retorted Mr. Treverton. “I won't left you any money in my will, Shrowl. You'll be on your way to the work-house when I'm on my way to the grave.”
“Have you really made your will at last, Sir?” inquired Shrowl. “I humbly beg pardon, but I always thought you were afraid to do it.”
Mr. Treverton thumped his crust of bread on the table, and looked up angrily at Shrowl.
“You fool!” said he. “I don't make it, and I won't make it, on principle[16]. Rich men who leave money behind them are the farmers who raise the crop of human wickedness. When a man is bad, if you want to make him worse, leave him a legacy!”
Shrowl chuckled sarcastically.
“Whom will get my money?” cried Mr. Treverton. “My brother, who thinks