“I am aware that it is in the last degree improbable that Carew will be persuaded to make a will in any body’s favor at present.  He imagines, I think, that the whole world is made for his sole enjoyment—­it almost might be so, for all he sees to the contrary—­and never dreams that he will die.  But it is also certain that he will die early; and more than likely that he will come to grief, when he has lost his nerve, in one or other of the mad exploits which he will be too proud to discontinue.  Then will your Richard become the most assiduous and painstaking of nurses that ever humored crack-brained patient.  But there!  I have made a dozen programmes of what is to happen, and this is but a specimen.  Who can tell?  I may be heir of Crompton yet, or I may come back to you to-morrow like a bad penny, and with what the vulgar describe as a flea in my ear.”

“It will not surprise you to learn that you are personally held in great disfavor here, though the chaplain (who has heard all from the Squire’s lips) speaks of you with due respect.  The last thing that is desired at Crompton is, of course, the return of its lawful mistress.  Carew himself is very bitter against you, which is doubtless owing to the good offices of grandmamma.  The clock has just struck four, which bids me close this letter, though of all the Squire’s guests, to judge by the wrangling that is going on in the Library below stairs, the first to retire will be your affectionate son, RICHARD YORKE.”

“P.S.—­I forgot to say that Carew made the most pointed inquiries as to whether I had any other profession than that of landscape-painting.  Would it not be strangely comical if he should bestir himself to get me some Civil appointment!  I almost fancied he must have been thinking of doing so, from some scraps of talk I heard him let fall at dinner.  Curiously enough, by-the-by, who should have been sitting at his right-hand, but Frederick Chandos, Jack’s brother!  ‘Good Heaven!’ (you will say), ‘suppose it had been Jack himself;’ however, it was not.”

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW BENEDICT BECAME A BACHELOR.

Notwithstanding the late hour at which Yorke retired to his sumptuous couch, he was up the next morning betimes.  He was restless, and eager to explore the splendors of the house, that had been so nearly his inheritance, for it was not without a stubborn contest that the law had deprived him of what he still believed to be his rights.  Nor had Crompton, in his eyes (as we have hinted), only the interest of Might-have-been; it had that of Might-be also.  If not absolutely sanguine, he was certainly far from hopeless of fortune making him that great amends; at all events, while the opportunity was afforded him, which he well knew might be lost forever by his own imprudence, or through the caprice of another, he resolved not to neglect it.  It was broad daylight, yet not a soul was stirring in all the stately place;