“It’s old Bedlington, Cousin, for I craned out of my window and had the plainest view of him! Lord, I wonder what he will say when he finds you here! I wish Ned were here still to enjoy the jest!”
She ran to the door and opened it. “Oh, Nicky, what \ shall I say to him? Where is your brother?”
“Oh, he is gone back to the Hall! He and Finsbury took all Eustace’s papers away with them and wasted I do not know how much time trying to discover what his keys might fit. I dare say the most of them belong to things in Cork Street—he had rooms there, you know. Oh, and Ned told me to say that he begged pardon, but had forgot to inform you that he took the liberty of paying off Eustace’s valet when he went to Cork Street yesterday because you will scarcely need him, and he is a mean sort of a fellow, up to every trick. By Jove, Cousin Elinor, if that gown is not the most bang-up thing I ever saw! You look all the crack!”
“Nicky, pray come downstairs with me!” she begged. “I am quite at a loss to know what I shall say to Lord Bedlington!”
“Well, I don’t mind owning I would give a monkey only to see his face,” said Nicky frankly. “But Ned said, if he should chance to arrive here I was not to show myself on account of the awkwardness of its being my fault that Eustace is dead.”
“Good God, yes, indeed! I had quite forgotten that circumstance! My dependence must be all on Becky. Is my cap quite straight?”
He assured her that it was and she went down the stairs, taking some comfort in the imposing rustle of her silk skirts, but pale enough from fright to pass for an inconsolable widow.
Barrow had ushered the visitor into the front parlor, where Miss Beccles was engaged in disposing the chairs more comfortably round the newly kindled fire. Mrs. Cheviot, softly entering the room, was in time to hear her assuring his lordship with unshaken placidity that Mrs. Cheviot would be downstairs directly.
“Here she is, indeed!” she said, catching sight of Elinor. “My dear Mrs. Cheviot, here is my Lord Bedlington come to pay you a visit of condolence!”
Elinor curtsied, wondering at her meek little chaperon’s effrontery.
“Mrs. Cheviot!” ejaculated Bedlington. “Upon my word, I do not know what to say! I am quite at a loss!”
He passed his handkerchief across his face as he spoke, and she was able to steal a look at him. He was a portly gentleman of some fifty years, of medium stature and a round face in which small blue eyes were habitually open to their widest. He wore very tight inexpressibles and very high and rigidly starched shirt points which made it hard for him to turn his head, and when he bowed, a slight creaking betrayed that a swelling paunch was confined by stays. The yellow lining to his coat and the prince’s buttons which embellished it proclaimed his office.
“My dear ma’am—this shocking intelligence—my poor nephew! I was so much upset I was obliged to have half a pint of blood taken from me!” he uttered.
“Ah, a wise precaution, my lord!” nodded Miss Beccles. “I have the greatest faith in the good effects of judicious cupping.”
He turned to her eagerly. “There is nothing like it!” he assured her. “My dear friend, his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, swears by it, you know! I do not know how many pints he has not had taken from him! But this is not to the point! My poor nephew! Ah, no one but myself had a value for the boy!”
Elinor thought it prudent to keep her gaze discreetly lowered.
His lordship applied his handkerchief to his eyes again. “Carried off so young!” he sighed. “I had always a kindness for him, for you must know he was so like my dear brother it could not but affect me profoundly! But I do not properly understand—in short, ma’am, I had no notion he was married! Indeed, I doubted that it could be so, but I perceive—It is very strange!”
“My marriage to Mr. Cheviot, sir,” said Elinor, in a low tone, “took place when he lay upon his deathbed. Our—our betrothal was a secret known only to—known only to my Lord Carlyon!”
He looked much struck. “Known to Carlyon! You amaze me, ma’am! I had not supposed—He cannot have known of this marriage!”
She replied with more firmness, “You are mistaken: I owe my marriage solely to Lord Carlyon’s exertions to bring it about.”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed. “Why, it cuts up all his hopes! That is, if the poor boy made his will before he died, but I dare say he had no time.”
“On the contrary, my lord, Mr. Cheviot drew up his will in my favor.”
“You do not mean it! This is most astonishing news! A strange man, Carlyon! There is no understanding him at all! Ah, my dear, had my poor sister-in-law left things otherwise, who shall say that I should be standing here today, upon this melancholy occasion!”
She was constrained to say, “I believe my Lord Carlyon cannot be blamed for your—for my husband’s untimely death, sir.”
“Ah, I dare say not, but I shall always say that he used the poor lad with unmerited harshness! But how did it come about? I saw Eustace in town not five days since, and he was in good health! But I collect he met with some accident?”
“Yes. That is—Pardon me, but it is painful to me to be obliged to discuss—I am sure my Lord Carlyon will inform you better than I can how it was!”
“Ah, no wonder!” he sighed, taking her hand and squeezing it feelingly. “This is painful for you indeed! A secret betrothal! It is easy to see why it must have been so! Yet poor Eustace might have told me! I have always stood his friend. And you say Carlyon assisted at your marriage? Well! I am all admiration, do not pretend to understand how it can have been so! But, my dear, tell me! Who is there to support and advise you in all the business to be undertaken now? I speak to you without reserve: I fear poor Eustace’s affairs will be found to be in a sad tangle. It is well that I was able to snatch a day to journey down to visit you! You will let me relieve you of the burden—the sad duty—of settling the effects! It is proper that I should help you, ma’am, for you must know that I was greatly attached to Eustace. In spite of his youthful follies, be it understood! I do not deny that he has not always conducted himself as he should, but we shall not speak ill of the dead.”
“You are very good, sir,” she managed to say. “But I believe—that is, I know—that my Lord Carlyon is an executor of the will, and has taken all into his hands. I have nothing to do.”
He looked to be a good deal affronted by this, and reddened, exclaiming, “Without a word to me! I hope I am not one to rate my claims too high, but as poor Eustace’s nearest relative I might have expected to be consulted before Carlyon took it upon himself—But so it has been always! He is a man of so little sensibility that I dare say he may not even think that there are relics I must wish to possess! The Wincanton interest is all he cares for, but my poor brother was Eustace’s father, little though any of the Wincantons or the Carlyons may have regarded him! I do not care to think of Carlyon’s turning over papers that can be of no interest to anyone but my brother’s own kin! My letters to him—I believe all were preserved! I should wish them to be destroyed or handed back to me.”
She could only suggest to him that he should approach Carlyon in the matter. His little red mouth pouted disconsolately. He said that he wondered he had not been sent for and seemed to be laboring under such a sense of wounded dignity that. She found herself apologizing to him for an oversight which was none of hers. Upon learning from her that Carlyon had removed all Eustace Cheviot’s papers from Highnoons, he said something about encroaching ways which she judged it better to ignore. Miss Beccles suggested solicitously that he must need some refreshment after his drive, and while a tray of wine and cakes was sent for, he was induced to sit down by the fire. He seemed to be very much put out by the discovery that his support and advice were not needed by the widow, and she soon perceived that he was a man with a very high notion of his own consequence. She said all that was conciliatory and had the satisfaction of seeing him grow more mellow toward her. He offered to remain at Highnoons until after the funeral, and she was hard put to it to know how to decline without giving offence. He was evidently much affected by his nephew’s death and sat sighing gustily and shaking his head over it until she began to wonder whether he would ever take himself off. But in the end he did so, saying that he should drive to the Hall and demand the whole truth from Carlyon. He told Elinor that although he was much occupied with state affairs he should certainly attend the funeral, and, once more taking her hand between both of his, said that he should claim the privilege of an uncle in desiring her to allow him to put up at Highnoons for a night. Civility compelled her to assure him that he would be welcome. He thanked her and at last climbed up again into his chaise and was driven away.