“I shall take possession of this,” said Jan Verner.
The first thing on the following morning the codicil was handed over to Mr. Matiss. He immediately recognised it by its appearance. But it would be opened officially later, in the presence of John Massingbird. Jan betook himself to Verner’s Pride to carry the news, and found Mr. Massingbird astride on a pillar of the terrace steps, smoking away with gusto. The day was warm and sunshiny as the previous one had been.
“What, is it you?” cried he, when Jan came in sight. “You are up here betimes. Anybody dying, this way?”
“Not this morning,” replied Jan. “I say, Massingbird, there’s ill news in the wind for you.”
“What’s that?” composedly asked John, tilting some ashes out of his pipe.
“That codicil has come to light.”
John puffed on vigorously, staring at Jan, but never speaking.
“The thief must have been old West,” went on Jan. “Only think! it has been hidden all this while in that bureau of his, in my bed-room.”
“What has unhidden it?” demanded Mr. Massingbird, in a half-satirical tone, as if he doubted the truth of the information.
“An explosion did that. Cheese got meddling with dangerous substances, and there was a blow-up. The bureau was thrown down and broken, and the codicil was dislodged. To talk of it, it sounds like an old stage trick.”
“Did Cheese blow himself up?” asked John Massingbird.
“Yes. But he came down again. He is in bed with burnt hands and a scorched face. If I had told him once to let that dangerous play alone—dangerous in his hands—I had told him ten times.”
“Where’s the codicil?” inquired Mr. Massingbird, smoking away.
“In Matiss’s charge. You’d like to be present, I suppose, at the time of its being opened?”
“I can take your word,” returned John Massingbird. “This does not surprise me. I have always had an impression that the codicil would turn up.”
“It is more than I have have had,” dissented Jan.
As if by common consent, they spoke no further on the subject of the abstraction and its guilty instrument. It was a pleasant theme to neither. John Massingbird, little refinement of feeling that he possessed, could not forget that Dr. West was his mother’s brother: or Jan, that he was his late master, his present partner—that he was connected with him in the eyes of Deerham. Before they had spoken much longer, they were joined by Lionel.
“I shall give you no trouble, old fellow,” was John Massingbird’s salutation. “You gave me none.”
“Thank you,” answered Lionel. Though what precise trouble it lay in John Massingbird’s power to give him, he did not see, considering that things were now so plain.
“You’ll accord me house-room for a bit longer, though, won’t you?”
“I will accord it you as long as you like,” replied Lionel, in the warmth of his heart.
“You know I would have had you stop on here all along,” remarked Mr. Massingbird; “but the bar to it was Sibylla. I am not sorry the thing’s found. I am growing tired of my life here. It has come into my mind at times lately to think whether I should not give up to you, Lionel, and be off over the seas again. It’s tame work, this, to one who has roughed it at the diggings.”
“You’d not have done it,” observed Jan, alluding to the giving up.
“Perhaps not,” said John Massingbird; “but I have owed a debt to Lionel for a long while. I say, old chap, didn’t you think I clapped on a good sum for your trouble when I offered you the management of Verner’s Pride?”
“I did,” answered Lionel.
“Ay! I was in your debt; am in it still. Careless as I am, I thought of it now and then.”
“I do not understand you,” said Lionel. “In what way are you in my debt?”
“Let it go for now,” returned John. “I may tell you some time perhaps. When shall you take up your abode here?”
Lionel smiled. “I will not invade you without warning. You and I will take counsel together, John, and discuss plans and expediencies.”
“I suppose, you’ll be for setting about your improvements now?”
“Yes,” answered Lionel, his tone changing to one of deep seriousness, not to say reverence; “without loss of time.”
“I told you they could wait until you came into the estate. It has not been long first, you see.”
“No; but I never looked for it,” said Lionel.
“Ah! Things turn up that we don’t look for,” concluded John Massingbird, smoking on as serenely as though he had come into an estate, instead of having lost one. “There’ll be bonfires all over the place to-night, Lionel. A left-handed compliment to me. Here comes Luke Roy. I told him to be here this morning. What nuts this will be for old Roy to crack! He has been fit to stick me ever since I refused him the management of Verner’s Pride.”
TAR AND FEATHERS.
Tar and Feathers! The two substances have nothing in common; they are, in fact, not friends, but enemies, for on being brought into contact they mutually destroy each other’s usefulness, yet do they cling together with a tenacity of affection which renders them thenceforth inseparable. It is impossible to say whose was the master-mind which first conceived the brilliant idea of their combined, or rather successive, application to the human form as a mode of punishment, that, to a large amount of bodily suffering, adds the extremes of ridicule and disgrace. The first trace of what has latterly been somewhat grandiloquently named the Plumeopicean code of laws, is to be found nearly seven hundred years ago. When Richard
