“I am not certain, Wallingford, that I ought to receive so large a sum—­I do not know that my father, or Lucy or indeed the world, would altogether approve of it.”

“Neither your father, nor Lucy, nor the world will know anything about it, sir, unless you see fit to acquaint them I shall not speak of the bequest; and I confess that, on my sister’s account, I should prefer that you would not.”

“Well, Mr. Hardinge,” answered Rupert, coolly putting the note into his wallet, “I will think of this request of poor Grace’s, and if I can possibly comply with her wishes, I will certainly do so.  There is little that she could ask that I would deny, and my effort will be to honour her memory.  As I see you are distressed, I will now retire; you shall know my determination in a few days.”

Rupert did retire, taking my note for $20,000 with him.  I made no effort to detain him, nor was I sorry to hear he had returned to the rectory to pass the night, whither his sister went with him.  The next day he proceeded to New York, without sending me any message, retaining the note however; and, a day or two later, I heard of him on his way to the springs to rejoin the party of the Mertons.

John Wallingford left me the morning of the day after the funeral, promising to see me again in town.  “Do no forget the will, Miles,” said that singular man, as he shook my hand, “and be certain to let me see that provision in it about Clawbonny, before I go west of the bridge, again.  Between relations of the same name, there should be no reserves in such matters.”

I scarce knew whether to smile or to look grave, at so strange a request; but I did not change my determination on the subject of the will, itself:  feeling that justice required of me such a disposition of the property.  I confess there were moments when I distrusted the character of one who could urge a claim of this nature in so plain a manner; and that, too, at an instant when the contemplated contingency seemed the more probable from the circumstance that death had so recently been among us.  Notwithstanding, there was so much frankness in my kinsman’s manner, he appeared to sympathize so sincerely in my loss, and his opinions were so similar to my own, that these unpleasant twinges lasted but for brief intervals.  On the whole, my opinion was very favourable to John Wallingford, and, as will be seen in the sequel, he soon obtained my entire confidence.

After the departure of all my kindred, I felt, indeed, how completely I was left alone in the world.  Lucy passed the night at the rectory, to keep her brother company, and good Mr. Hardinge, though thinking he remained with me to offer sympathy and consolation, found so many demands on his time, that I saw but little of him.  It is possible he understood me sufficiently well to know that solitude and reflection, while the appearance of the first was avoided, were better for one of my temperament than any set forms of condolence.  At any rate, he was at hand, while he said but little to me on the subject of my loss.