lived. They will only love him now. My dear old friend!"
And the rector's eyes were very dim just then.
"Let me see," he said. "What did I say when the poor Colonel was taken from us? Let me look out that sermon."
There was only one drawback to the general grief of the neighbourhood at the death of Mr. Hadfield of the Grange. It soon began to be bruited about that Mr. Wilford, the eldest son, was disinherited. It would be vain to ask how this fact became known, even before the funeral and the formal reading of the will by the family solicitor. But the world must be, by this time, pretty well aware that the occurrences of the drawing-room and parlour do not take place without the cognisance of the butler's pantry and the kitchen. When we begin to have servants we leave off possessing secrets. We live in glass houses; we throw ourselves open to public inspection, like so many picture galleries. You have only to get a ticket from Thomas or James, and you can walk round and examine us as though we belonged to you. It is a servant's privilege to have the most notable circumstances in his employer's biography at his fingers' ends, and to be able to comment upon them boldly and freely. Does the Oriental plan answer? Do the mute servitors refrain from revealing by gesticulations and the dumb alphabet the secrets of their employers? I doubt it. Certainly the occidental servants use their tongues enough, and if those organs were removed, I believe they would yet manage—perhaps with their toes—to narrate of their masters, and to canvass their conduct. Say that the servants of the Grange knew all about their late master's will, and then there will be no wonder that all the good folks of Grilling Abbots were well acquainted with it, too. And, be it told, they disapproved the testator's disposition of his property. Conservatism was very strong in Grilling Abbots. They had entirely orthodox views concerning the rights of primogeniture. They deemed it only right that estates should descend from father to son in one uninterrupted line. They could not understand this cutting off the lawful heir. And they sympathised with Mr. Wilford, and were very sorry for him. He might have been a bit wild, they admitted; but what then? A good many of the Hadfields had been a bit wild in their youth, and what harm had come of it, after all? Nothing to speak of. And he was much more like the old Hadfields—the living image of the picter in the long room at the Grange, of the Hadfield as went to Indy—they would call it Indy,—much more like the old Hadfields than Mr. Stephen, who was a nice civil-spoken gentleman to be sure, they all admitted; but not so much of a Hadfield as Mr. Wilford—no—and not the eldest son, neither.
Before a roaring fire in the library Mr. Wilford sat scorching his thin white face. Mr. Tressell was up-stairs. He was consulting with, and taking instructions from Stephen as to the funeral. Stephen had endeavoured to interest his elder brother in these proceedings; indeed, had appeared anxious to cede to him the chief place in the household. But Wilford had declined all intervention.
"Do what you think best, Steenie. I am sure what you do will be right. I cannot counsel you. Indeed I am useless here. But you are the master of the Grange. I cannot think or speak. My head is so heavy, and I cannot get warm. Would I were dead! Let them bring me some more wine."
He had not spoken so much since the death of the old man. Stephen led Gertrude to him.
"Say something to him, Gertrude," he whispered to her. "Try and rouse him from this torpor he has fallen into. Try and comfort him."
A calm, handsome, blonde woman, with long flowing skirts, Gertrude Hadfield, approached her brother-in-law. She was very elegant and refined. Perhaps these qualities necessitate a certain reticence, if not an absence of feeling. Yet in her impassive way she was deeply attached to her husband and her children, and she had been a favourite with the late Mr. Hadfield. She brought her children with her, and stooped before Wilford.
"Be comforted, brother," she said to him in a soft voice. He looked at her with a wan smile.
"Steenie's wife," he murmured, "and his children. How old this makes one seem!"
"Go, Saxon," she said to her baby son, "go and kiss your uncle."
"I don't like to," cried the boy. "I'm afraid."
"What? Why I am quite ashamed of you. What will be thought of you? Not kiss poor Uncle Wilford?"
"Don't," said Wilford, with a dark frown, "don't teach them that. Don't teach them what they'll have to unlearn in a week. They mustn't call me uncle. Never, never. I am no more a Hadfield!"
The poor lady, rather terrified, shrunk back with her children.
"What does he mean?" she asked herself. "Is he mad?"
"Mamma," said one of the children, "why is the room so dark?—why mayn't we open the shutters?—why mayn't we play at horses?"
"Hush, Agnes: don't ask such questions, or I must ring for nurse. Come away."
CHAPTER VI. CRAPE.
