water began to mount, and attained a certain height, his life would be gone.
“How many hours have I to live?” he inquired of Dr. West.
“Probably for some days,” was the answer.
What could it have been that was troubling the mind of Mr. Verner? That it was worldly trouble was certain. That other trouble, which has been known to distract the minds of the dying, to fill them with agony, was absent from his. On that score he was in perfect peace. But that some very great anxiety was racking him might be seen by the most casual observer. It had been racking him for a long time past, but it was growing worse now. And it appeared to be what he could not, or would not, speak of.
The news of the dangerous change in the master of Verner’s Pride circulated through the vicinity, and it brought forth, amidst other of his friends, Mr. Bitterworth. This was on the second day of the change. Tynn received Mr. Bitterworth in the hall.
“There’s no hope, sir, I’m afraid,” was Tynn’s answer to his inquiries. “He’s not in much pain of body, but he’s dreadfully anxious and uneasy.”
“What about?” asked Mr. Bitterworth: who was a little man with a pimpled face.
“Nobody knows, sir: he doesn’t say. For myself, I can only think it must be about something connected with the estate. What else can it be?”
“I suppose I can see him, Tynn?”
“I’ll ask, sir. He refuses visitors in his room, but I dare say he’ll admit you.”
Lionel came to Mr. Bitterworth in the drawing-room. “My uncle will see you,” he said, after greetings had passed.
“Tynn informs me that he appears to be uneasy in his mind,” observed Mr. Bitterworth.
“A man so changed, as he has been in the last two years, I have never seen,” replied Lionel. “None can have failed to remark it. From entire calmness of mind, he has exhibited anxious restlessness: I may say irritability. Mrs. Verner is ill,” Lionel added, as they were ascending the stairs. “She has not been out of bed for two days.”
Not in his study now; he had done with the lower part of the house for ever; but in his bedchamber, never to come out of it alive, was Mr. Verner. They had got him up, and he sat in an easy chair by the bed side, partially dressed, and wrapped in his dressing-gown. On his pale, worn face there were the unmistakeable signs of death. He and Mr. Bitterworth were left alone.
“So you have come to see the last of me, Bitterworth!” was the remark of Mr. Verner.
“Not the last yet, I hope,” heartily responded Mr. Bitterworth, who was an older man than Mr. Verner, but hale and active. “You may rally from this attack and get about again. Remember how many serious attacks you have had.”
“None like this. The end must come; and it has come now. Hush, Bitterworth! To speak of recovery to me is worse than child’s play. I know my time has come. And I am glad to meet it, for it releases me from a world of care.”
“Were there any in this world who might be supposed to be exempt from care, it is you,” said Mr. Bitterworth, leaning towards the invalid, his hale old face expressing the concern he felt. “I should have judged you to be perfectly free from earthly care. You have no children: what can be troubling you?”
“Would to heaven I had children!” exclaimed Mr. Verner: and the remark appeared to break from him involuntarily, in the bitterness of his heart.
“You have your brother’s son; your heir, Lionel.”
“He is no heir of mine,” returned Mr. Verner, with, if possible, double bitterness.
“No heir of yours!” repeated Mr. Bitterworth, gazing at his friend, and wondering whether he had lost his senses.
Mr. Verner, on his part, gazed on vacancy: his thoughts evidently cast inwards. He sat in his old favourite attitude: his hands clasped on the head of his stick, and his face bent down upon it. “Bitterworth,” said he, presently, “when I made my will years ago, after my father’s death, I appointed you one of the executors.”
“I know it,” replied Mr. Bitterworth. “I was associated—as you gave me to understand—with Sir Rufus Hautley.”
“Ay. After the boy came of age,”—and Mr. Bitterworth knew that he alluded to Lionel—“I added his name to that of yours and Sir Rufus. Legacies apart, the estate was all left to him.”
“Of course it was,” assented Mr. Bitterworth.
“Since then I have seen fit to make an alteration,” continued Mr. Verner. “I mention it to you, Bitterworth, that you may not be surprised when you hear the will read. Also I would tell you that I made the change of my own free act and judgment, unbiassed by any one, and that I did not make it without ample cause. The estate is not left to Lionel Verner, but to Frederick Massingbird.”
Mr. Bitterworth had small round eyes, but they opened now to their utmost width. “What did you say?” he repeated, after a pause; like a man out of breath.
“Strictly speaking, the estate is not bequeathed to Frederick Massingbird: he will inherit it in consequence of John’s death,” quietly went on Mr. Verner. “It is left to John Massingbird, and to Frederick after him, if he survives myself. Failing them both—.”
“And I am still executor?” interrupted Mr. Bitterworth, in a tone raised rather above the orthodox key for a sick room.
“You and Sir Rufus. That, so far, is not altered.”
“Then I will not act. No, Stephen Verner, long and close as our friendship has been, I will not countenance an act of injustice. I will not be your executor: unless Verner’s Pride goes, as it ought, to Lionel Verner.”
“Lionel has forfeited it.”
“Forfeited it!—how can he have forfeited it? Is this”—Mr. Bitterworth was given to speak in plain terms when excited—“is this the underhand work of Mrs. Verner?”
“Peace, Bitterworth! Mrs. Verner knows nothing of the change. Her surviving son knows nothing of it; John knew nothing of it. They