Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise. Quite ignorant and unconscious of all that was going on in London, Stephen remained down at the Hurst.

What he had written to his mother was quite true; as a matter of fact Stephen was far too clever to write direct falsehoods—he was kept at Hurst Leigh very much against his will.

Squire Ralph had left him everything—money, house, lands, everything excepting the few legacies to servants, and Stephen had been hard at work, and was still hard at work ascertaining how much that everything was.

And, as day followed day, and disclosure succeeded disclosure, he became fascinated and possessed by the immense wealth which had fallen into his hands, or, say rather, which he had seized upon.

For many years the old squire had lived upon less than half his income; the remainder he had invested and speculated with, and as often happens to the miser, the luck of Midas had fallen upon him.

Everything he touched had turned to gold. The most unlikely speculations had proved successful; properties which he had bought for a mere song, and which had been regarded by the most wary as dangerous and profitless, had become profitable and valuable.

Some of these risky speculations he had, not unnaturally, kept concealed from the prudent Hudsley, who only now, by the discovery of scrip and bonds in out-of-the-way desks and bureaus, learned what kind of man his old friend had really been.

Not a day passed but it brought to light some addition to the old man’s gains, and served to swell the immense total.

Even the lands round Hurst had been manipulated by the old man, so that leases ran out almost at his death, and rents were raised.

One speculation will serve as an instance; he had purchased, some fifteen years before his death, the freehold of an estate bordering upon London; and in a locality which was then regarded as hopelessly unfashionable. A great capitalist had ruined himself by building large houses on the property, foreseeing that at some time or other the tide of the great city would reach this hitherto high and dry spot. But he had made a miscalculation, and he died before the tide which was to bring him wealth reached his property; old Ralph had then stepped in and bought it—houses, land, everything. In ten years’ time the tide of fashion rolled that way, and now what had once been a neglected and forgotten quarter was the center of fashionable London.

It reads like a romance, but like many other romances, it was true.

Old Ralph himself had no idea of his own wealth, and that when he died he should leave behind him one of the most colossal fortunes in England.

Almost stunned by the immense total—so far as it had been arrived at—Stephen went about the place silent and overwhelmed.

But one thought was always ringing like a bell in his brain—“And I had nearly lost all this!”

Sometimes, in the quiet of the library, where he sat surrounded by books and papers, by accountants’ statements and estimates, he would grow pale and tremble as he reflected by what a narrow chance he had secured this Midas-like wealth.

But had he secured it? and when the question presented itself, as it did a hundred, aye, a thousand times a day, he would turn ashy pale, and clutch the edge of the table to keep himself from reeling.

Where was that will—the real, true, valid will—which left everything away from him to Una?

Day by day, while going over the accounts, he found himself waiting, watching, expecting someone—whom he could not imagine—coming in and saying: “This is not yours; here is the will. I found it so and so, at such and such a time!” and he felt that if such a moment occurred it would kill him.

But as the days passed and no one came to contest his claim to the property, he grew more confident and assured, and at last he nearly succeeded in convincing himself that he really had burned the will.

“After all,” he mused, over and over again, “that is the only probable, the only possible explanation. Is it likely that if anyone had the accursed thing they would keep it hidden? No! If they were honest, they would have declared it at once; if dishonest, they would have brought it to me and traded upon it. Yes, I was half mad that night. I must have destroyed it at the moment Laura knocked at the window.”

But all the same he determined to make his position secure. Immediately he had arranged matters at the Hurst he would go to London and marry Una.

“She is all safe and sound there,” he mused, with a satisfied smile. “My mother leads the life of a hermit. The girl herself has no friends—not one single soul in London. I shall be her only friend, and—the rest is easy.”

Poor Stephen!

Then he would give a passing thought to Laura, and now and then would take from his pocket half a dozen letters, which she had written to him since the night of her journey to Hurst.

To not one of these had he replied, and the last was dated a week back.

“By this time,” he thought, “she has forgotten me, or what is better, has learned that plain Stephen Davenant and Squire Davenant of Hurst Leigh are two very different men. Poor Laura! Well, well, I must do something for her. I’ll make her a handsome present. Say a thousand pounds; perhaps find a husband for her. She’s a sensible girl, too sensible to dream that I should think of marrying her now. After all, what harm is done? We were very happy, and amused ourselves with innocent flirtation. A mere flirtation, that is all.”

And he tried to forget the pale face and flashing eyes which turned toward him that night at parting with such a strange look of warning. But he did not always succeed in forgetting. Sometimes the remembrance of that face rose like a vision between his eyes and the endless rows of figures, and made him shudder with mingled fear and annoyance.

“It has been a lesson to me,” he would say, after awhile. “It is the only weakness I have ever been guilty of, and see how I am punished. I deserve it, and I must bear it.”

It punished him, and it told upon him. The pallor which had come upon his face the day the will was read had settled there. The old look of composed serenity and “oiliness,” as Jack called it, had gone, and in the place was a look of strained intentness, as if he were always listening, and watching, and waiting.

He was a fine actor, and would have made a fortune on the boards, and he managed to suppress this look at times, but the effort of suppression was palpable; he showed that he was affecting a calmness and serenity which he did not possess.

By two men, of all others, this change in him was especially noticed—by Mr. Hudsley and old Skettle.

The old lawyer and his clerk were necessarily with him every day; Stephen could not move a step without them. He hated Hudsley, whose keen, steel-like eyes seemed to penetrate to his inmost heart; and he detested Skettle, whose quiet, noiseless way of moving about and watching him from under his wrinkled lids, irritated Stephen to such an extent that sometimes he felt an irresistible desire to fling something at him.

But both of the men were indispensable to him at present, and he determined to wait until everything was straight before he cut all connections with them.

“Once let me get matters settled,” he muttered to himself over and over again, “and those two vultures shall never darken my doors again.”

And yet Hudsley was always scrupulously polite and civil, and Skettle always respectful.

With his characteristic graveness, Mr. Hudsley went through the work systematically and machine-like.

But Stephen noticed when he came to announce some fresh edition to the great Davenant property, he never even uttered a formal congratulation, or seemed pleased and gratified.

One day Stephen, nettled beyond his usual caution, said: “You must be tired of all this, Mr. Hudsley. I notice that it seems to annoy you.”

And the old lawyer had looked up with grim impassibility.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Stephen. I am never tired, and I am never annoyed.”

“At least you must be surprised,” said Stephen; “you had no idea that my uncle had left so much.”

“No, I am not even surprised,” retorted Mr. Hudsley, if his calm reply could be called a retort. “I have lived too long to be surprised by anything.”

And there was something in his keen, icy look which silenced Stephen, and made him bend over his papers suddenly.

Others noticed the change which had come over the once sleek, smooth-spoken young man. It got to be remarked that he rarely left the Hurst grounds, and that what exercise he took was on the terrace in front of the library, or on the lawn below it. It was said that he paced up and down this lawn for hours.

It was said, too, that he rarely addressed a servant in or out of the house. All the orders came through the valet Slummers.

Mention has been made of Slummers. It would have been difficult to describe him. He was called in the village “the Shadow,” because he was so thin and noiseless, so silent and death-like.

In addition to his noiselessness, he had a trick of going about with closed eyes, or with his lids so lowered that it looked as if his eyes were closed.

Bets had been made upon the supposed color of those visional organs, but had never been decided, for never by any chance did he look anyone in the face when speaking; and when by some accident those sphinx-like lids were raised they were dropped again so quickly that examination of what lay behind them was impossible.

Secretiveness was part and parcel of this man. He never did anything openly. When he gave an order it was in a round-about way. The simplest action of his daily life was enveloped in mystery. Even his meals were taken in a room apart; only a few of the servants knew the room he occupied. Then he seemed ubiquitous. He was everywhere at once, and turned up when least expected.

With noiseless step he came and went about the house; now in the servants’ hall, now in the library closeted with his master, now in the stables looking under his lids at the horses, counting, so said the grooms, every oat that went into the mangers. Not a thing was done in the house but he was acquainted with it.

And he knew everything! Not a secret was kept from him. Had anyone in the village an episode in his life, which he hoped and deemed hidden and forgotten, Slummers knew it, and managed by some dropped word or look to let the miserable man know that he knew it.

Before he had been at Hurst a week he had half the servants and villagers in his power.

Power! That was the secret mainspring of the man’s existence. He loved power.

Give even the fiend his due. This man had one good quality, he was devoted to his master. Saving this one great event of his life—the theft and loss of his will—Stephen trusted him in everything.

And Slummers admired him. In his eyes Stephen was the cleverest man on earth, and being the cleverest man on earth Slummers was content to serve him. Yes, Slummers was devoted to his master, but he made up for it in his detestation of the rest of mankind in general, and of one man in particular—Jack Newcombe.

Between Jack—honest, frank, and reckless Jack—and the serpent-like Slummers there had been a feud which had commenced from the moment of their first introduction.

On that occasion Slummers had been sent with a message to Jack’s room. Jack happened to be out, and Slummers whiled away the tediousness of waiting by opening a drawer in Leonard’s table and reading some unimportant letters. Jack, coming in with his usual suddenness, caught him and kicked him. Jack had forgotten it long ago, but Slummers had not, and he waited for the time till he could return that kick in his own fashion.

The days passed, and Mr. Hudsley’s task appeared to be nearing a conclusion.

One morning he came up to the Hurst, his hands behind his back, his head bent as usual, and asked for Stephen.

Stephen was in the library, and Slummers noiselessly ushered in the lawyer. It happened to be what Stephen would have called one of his bad mornings. He was seated at the table, not at work, but looking at the pile of papers with lack-luster eyes, that saw nothing, and pale, drawn face.

Hudsley had seen him like this before, but his keen eyes looked like steel blades.

Stephen started and put his thin, white hand across his brow.

“Good morning,” he said. “Good morning. Any news? Sit down.”

But Hudsley remained standing.

“I have no news,” he said. “I think I may say that there are no more surprises for us. You know the extent of the fortune which you hold!”

He did not say “which is yours,” or “which your uncle left you.” Simply “which you hold.” On Stephen’s strained mind the phrase jarred. He nodded and kept his eyes downcast.

“The business that lies within my province,” continued Mr. Hudsley, “is completed. What remains is the work of an accountant. My task is done.”

“I am sure,” said Stephen, smoothly, “that you do not need any assurance of my gratitude——”

The old man waved his wrinkled hand.

“I have been the legal adviser of the Davenant family for the last forty years,” he said, “and I know my duty. I trust I have done it so far as you are concerned,” he said, sternly. “And now I have come to you to request you to receive what papers and documents are in my charge—my clerk, Skettle, will hand them to you and take your receipt—and to inform you that I wish to withdraw from my position as your legal adviser.”

Stephen’s pale face winced and shrunk, and he raised his eyes suspiciously.

“Mr. Hudsley, you surprise me! May I ask your reasons for this abrupt withdrawal?”

“My reasons are my own,” said Hudsley, dryly; “I may say that I am growing old, and that I am disinclined to undertake the charge of so large an estate.”

“Oh!” said Stephen, with a sickly smile. “Such a reason is unanswerable. But I deeply regret it—deeply. My uncle always trusted you.”

“He did nothing of the sort,” interrupted Mr. Hudsley, sternly. “He trusted no man.”

“At any rate, I have placed implicit and well-merited confidence in you,” said Stephen.

The old man looked at him and Stephen trembled.

“I—I hope I shall find your bill of costs among the papers?” he said, hoarsely.

“No,” said Mr. Hudsley. “What service I have rendered you I consider as rendered to the estate. The estate has paid me sufficiently hitherto. I need, I will receive no other payment.”

“But——” urged Stephen.

Mr. Hudsley waved his hand.

“I am quite resolved, sir. If you should need any information respecting any business that has occurred up to the present, I am at your service; but for the future I beg to withdraw. Good-morning.”

Stephen rose, and held out his hand.

“At least, Mr. Hudsley,” he said, “we part as friends, notwithstanding this hasty resolution of yours?”

“It is not hasty, sir,” said Hudsley, and just touching the cold, thin hand, he bowed and left the room.

Stephen sank into a chair, and wiped the drops of cold sweat that had accumulated on his brow.

“He suspects me,” he muttered. “He suspects! But he suspects only, and he can do nothing, or he would have done it. Yes; he is powerless. Let him go! let him go!” he repeated; and he paced the room.

Gradually the relief of Hudsley’s withdrawal broke upon him, and his step grew lighter.

“Yes, let him go! Now I am free—I am my own master! master of wealth undreamed of! And I’ll use it! By Heaven, I’ll be happy! Let him go! I meant to get rid of him—he has saved me an unpleasant scene. And now to work, to work!”

He ran rather than walked across the room, and rang the bell.

Slummers opened the door almost instantly and stood motionless and silent.

“Has—has that old idiot gone?” asked Stephen.

“Yes, sir,” said Slummers.

Stephen laughed hoarsely.

“Let the past go with him!” he said. “Slummers, go to my room and bring a roll of papers from my bureau-drawer. You know what they are! Plans and estimates. Do you know what I am going to do?”

Slummers raised his eyes.

“Of course you do!” said Stephen with the same laugh. “I’m going to make a clean sweep here, Slummers. I’m going to pull half this beastly place to the ground. Alterations, Slummers—alterations that will make Hurst a place for a man to live in, not a tomb, as it is at present.”

“You are right, sir, it is a tomb,” said Slummers, in his low, hollow voice.

Stephen shuddered.

“Yes, yes; but I mean to alter that. I’ll make it fit to live in, fit to bring a young bride to. Fetch the plans, Slummers; I’ll go over them at once, this minute. Yes, I will change the place till the very trees shall not know it. Fetch the plans! I’ll pull the whole of it down, every stick and stone! I hate it—hate it! I’ll change the name! I can do it. I can do anything now, or what is the use of this money? Fetch the plans! Fetch——” He broke off suddenly and staggered.

Slummers sprang nervously forward and caught him, and putting him into a chair, poured out some neat brandy and gave it to him.

Stephen tugged at his collar and struggled for a moment, then sank back helplessly.

“Stop!” he said, “stay here. Don’t go. I—I can hear voices—an old man’s voice—what is it?”

“Nothing—nothing,” said Slummers. “Be calm, sir.”

“Calm—I am calm!” retorted Stephen. “It’s this beastly house, it’s full of noises! Give me some brandy—and—get the time table. I’ll go to London to-morrow, Slummers. Yes, I’ll go to London!”

And the master of Hurst, the owner of a million and more, sank back in his chair and fingered the time table with trembling fingers.