shirt-drawer.” Have the shirts scared away her senses? She has sat herself down on the floor—almost fallen back as it seems—in some shock of alarm, and her mottled face has turned as white as her master’s was, when she last saw him lying on that bed at her elbow.
“Go down-stairs, Nancy, and stop there till I call you up again,” she suddenly cried out to her helpmate.
And the girl left the room.
Between two of the shirts, in the very middle of the stack, Mrs. Tynn had come upon a parcel, or letter. Not a small letter—if it was a letter—but one of very large size, thick, looking not unlike a government despatch. It was sealed with Mr. Verner’s own seal, and addressed in his own handwriting—“For my nephew, Lionel Verner. To be opened after my death.”
Mrs. Tynn entertained not the slightest doubt that she had come upon the lost codicil. That it—the parcel—must have been lying quietly in the drawer since her master’s death, was certain. The key of the drawer had remained in her own possession. When the search after the codicil took place, this drawer was opened—as a matter of form more than anything else—and Mrs. Tynn herself had lifted out the stack of shirts. There was no need to do it, she had assured those who were searching, for the drawer had been locked up at the time the codicil was made, and the deed could not have been put into it. They accepted her assurance, and did not look between the shirts. It puzzled Mrs. Tynn, now, to think how it could have got in.
“I’ll not tell Tynn,” she soliloquised—she and Tynn being somewhat inclined to take opposite sides of a question, in social intercourse—“and I’ll not say a word to my mistress. I’ll go straight off now and give it into the hands of Mr. Lionel. What a blessed thing!—If he should be come into his own!”
The enclosed paved court before Lady Verner’s residence had a broad flower-bed round it. It was private from the outer world, save for the iron gates, and here Decima and Lucy Tempest were fond of lingering on a fine day. On this afternoon of Mary Tynn’s discovery, they were there with Lionel. Decima went in-doors for some string to tie up a fuchsia plant, just as she, Tynn, appeared at the iron gates. She stopped on seeing Lionel.
“I was going round to the other entrance, sir, to ask to speak to you,” she said. “Something very strange has happened.”
“Come in,” answered Lionel. “Will you speak here, or go in-doors? What is it?”
Too excitedly eager to wait to go in-doors, or to care for the presence of Lucy Tempest, Mrs. Tynn told her tale, and handed the paper to Lionel. “It’s the missing codicil, as sure as that we are here, sir.”
He saw the official-looking nature of the document, its great seal, and the superscription in his uncle’s handwriting. Lionel did not doubt that it was the codicil, and a streak of scarlet emotion arose to his pale cheek.
“You don’t open it, sir!” said the woman, as feverishly impatient as if the good-fortune were her own.
No. Lionel did not open it. In his high honour, he deemed that, before opening, it should be laid before Mrs. Verner. It had been found in her house; it concerned her son. “I think it will be better that Mrs. Verner should open this, Tynn,” he quietly said.
“You won’t get me into a mess, sir, for bringing it out to you first?”
Lionel turned his honest eyes upon her, smiling then. “Can’t you trust me better than that? You have known me long enough.”
“So I have, Mr. Lionel. The mystery is, how it could ever have got into that shirt-drawer!” she continued. “I can declare that for a good week before my master died, up to the very day that the codicil was looked for, the shirt-drawer was never unlocked, nor the key of it out of my pocket.”
She turned to go back to Verner’s Pride, Lionel intending to follow her at once. He was going out at the gate when he caught the pleased eyes of Lucy Tempest fixed on him.
“I am so glad,” she simply said. “Do you remember my telling you that you did not look like one who would have to starve on bread-and-cheese?”
Lionel laughed in the joy of his heart. “I am glad also, Lucy. The place is mine by right, and it is just that I should have it.”
“I have thought it very unfair, all along, that Verner’s Pride should belong to her husband, and not to you, after—after what she did to you,” continued Lucy, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“Things don’t go by fairness, Lucy, in this world,” cried he; and he went through the gate. “Stay,” he said, turning back from it, as a thought crossed his mind. “Lucy, oblige me by not mentioning this to my mother or Decima. It may be as well to be sure that we are right, before exciting their hopes.”
Lucy’s countenance fell. “I will not speak of it. But, is it not sure to be the codicil?”
“I hope it is,” cordially answered Lionel, as he finally walked away.
Mrs. Tynn had got back before him. She came forward and encountered him in the hall, her bonnet still on.
“I have told my mistress, sir, that I had found what I believed to be the codicil, and had took it off straight to you. She was not a bit angry: she says she hopes it is it.”
Lionel entered. Mrs. Verner, who was in a semi-sleepy state, having been roused up by Mary Tynn from a long nap after a plentiful luncheon, received Lionel graciously. First of all asking him what he would take—it was generally her chief question—and then inquiring what the codicil said.
“I have not opened it,” replied Lionel.
“No!” said she, in surprise. “Why did you wait?”
He laid it on the table beside her. “Have I your cordial approval to open it, Mrs. Verner?”
“You are ceremonious, Lionel. Open it at once. Verner’s Pride belongs to you, more than to Fred; and you know I have always said so.”
