CHAPTER VI.

STARTLING NEWS.

The first of June. A day destined to be an eventful one at Eagles' Nest. At five o'clock in the morning the house was aroused from its peaceful slumbers by a commotion. Mrs. Raynor's bell was ringing violently; Mrs. Raynor's voice was calling for help in loud and anxious tones. Major Raynor had been taken ill.

Frank was first at the bedside. His uncle lay unconscious, or partly so, exhibiting alarming symptoms. An attack of some kind seemed imminent; Frank thought it would prove apoplexy. Other advice was sent for.

Long before the usual hour for breakfast, breakfast had been taken, and the family hardly knew what to do with themselves. Dr. Selfe, a clever man, residing near, had seen Major Raynor--who now seemed to be somewhat better. The doctor quite agreed with Frank that the symptoms were indicative of apoplexy; but he thought that it might be warded off, at least for the present, by the aid of powerful remedies. These remedies had been applied, and the patient was decidedly improving. He spoke little, but was quite conscious. On these occasions, when one out of the home circle is lying upstairs in sudden and dangerous illness, the house becomes utterly unsettled. Ordinary habits are changed; no one knows what to be at.

"I shall ring for some more coffee," said Charles, rising as he spoke. "There's nothing else to do."

Lamb came in and received the order. The breakfast-things were still on the table. This was one of the pleasantest rooms in the house: small and cosy, with glass-doors opening to the garden. It faced the west, so was free from the morning sun: but, beyond the shade cast by the house, that sun shone brightly on the smooth green grass and clustering flowers.

Whilst waiting for the coffee, which had to be made, Charles leaned against the window, half in, half out-of-doors, whistling softly and keeping a good look-out around, lest any Philistine should be approaching unawares. This illness of his father's terribly complicated matters. In the midst of Charley's worst apprehensions there had lain, down deep in his heart, the vista of a possible refuge. He had whispered to himself, "When things come to a crisis, my father will no doubt find a way to help me;" and the hope had been as a healing balm to his spirit. But his father, lying in this state, could not be applied to: his repose of mind must not be disturbed: and if Charley fell into some tiger's clutches now, what on earth was he to do?

Whistling softly and unconsciously, Charley indulged in these highly agreeable reflections. His mother had not come downstairs at all. Alice had gone up to Daisy: Kate and Mademoiselle were reading French under the distant walnut-tree. Only Frank was there.

"I do think I can smell haymaking!" cried Charley, suddenly.

"Yes," assented Frank. "Some of the fields are down."

"Is it not early for it?"

"We have had an early season."

No more was said. There flashed into Charley's mind a remembrance of the day he had first seen Eagles' Nest: when he had stood at one of the windows, though not this one, gazing out at the charming scenery, the lovely flowers; inhaling their perfume and that of the new-mown hay. Association of ideas is powerful, and probably that scent of the hay had brought the day to his memory now. Barely a twelvemonth had passed since then: and yet--how hopes and anticipations had changed! He had believed then that peace, ease, prosperity must inevitably attend them as the possessors of Eagles' Nest: he remembered picturing to himself the calamity it would have been had the beautiful place passed into others' hands. But he had lived to learn that care and worry could penetrate even there.

"There's the postman!" cried Charley. And glad, probably, of the interruption, he went out, and crossed the lawn to meet the man.

"Only one letter this morning," he exclaimed, coming back, his eyes fixed on it. "I say, Frank, what is to be done? It is from old Street, and he has put 'immediate' on it."

"You had better open the letter yourself, I should say, Charles: my uncle cannot," said Frank, decisively.

"I wonder what he has to write about: it is not often we hear from him. Nothing particular, I dare say: the good old father has not, I am sure, a secret in the world. Or--do you think," added Charley, his face lighting with eager hope, "that the money can have turned up? What a glorious thought! Yes, I will open it."

He broke the seal of the letter. At that moment Lamb came in with fresh coffee. Frank, standing near the mantelpiece, watched the man put it down, and set two or three things in order on the table before going out again. As the door closed, Frank's glance chanced to stray to Charley's face.

What was the matter with it? The eager flush of hope had been succeeded by a look of dismay: nay, almost of horror. The letter seemed very short. Charley was reading it twice over, growing paler the while.

"Can it be a hoax?" he cried, in a voice scarcely raised above a whisper, as he held the letter out. "It cannot be true."

Frank took the letter reluctantly. There was no help for it. But a spasm seized his own face, and a very terrible spasm seized his heart. When we are nourishing some great dread, any new and unexplained event seems to bear upon it. His fears had flown back to that dreadful night at Trennach. Had this letter come to betray him?

But the letter proved in no way connected with that. The news it brought was of a nature perfectly open and tangible. Frank's own fears gave place to consternation and dismay as he read the lawyer's words: dismay for his uncle's sake.

"My Dear Sir,

"I have just heard a very painful rumour, and I think it my duty to communicate it to you. It is said that the will, under which you succeeded to Mrs. Atkinson's estate, proves to have been worthless; a fresh will having been discovered. By this later will, it is Mr. George Atkinson who inherits Eagles' Nest. My information is, I fear, authentic; but I do not yet know full particulars.

"This is but a brief note to convey such tidings, but the evening post is on the point of closing, and I do not wish to lose it. I would have run down, instead of writing, but am not equal to it, having for the past week or two been confined to the house.

"Believe me, dear sir,

"Sincerely yours,

"JOHN STREET.

"Major Raynor."

They stood looking at one another, Charles and Frank, with questioning eyes and dismayed faces. Could it be true? No, surely not. Street the lawyer, in spite of the boasted authenticity of his information, must have been misinformed.

So thought, so spoke Charles. "You see," cried he, "he speaks of it at first as only a rumour."

But Frank, in spite of his sanguine nature, regarded the information differently. He began looking at portions of the letter again, and did not answer.

"Can't you say something, Frank?"

"Charley, I fear it is true. Street would never have written this dismal news to your father whilst there was any doubt about it."

"But it has no right to be true; it ought not to be true," disputed Charley, in his terrible perplexity. "Who is George Atkinson that he should inherit Eagles' Nest? The fellow lives at the other end of the world. In Australia, or somewhere. Frank, it's not _likely_ to be true. It would be frightful injustice; a cruel shame. It has been ours for twelve months: who will wrest it from us now?"

And truly, having enjoyed Eagles' Nest for all that time, regarding it as theirs, living at it in perfect security, it did appear most improbable that it should now pass away from them; almost an impossibility.

"Charley, we must keep this letter to ourselves until we know more. I am almost glad my uncle is ill; it would have shocked him so----"

"And how long will it be before we know more?" broke in Charles, who was in a humour for finding fault with every one, especially the lawyer. "Street ought to have come down, no matter at what inconvenience. A pretty state of suspense, this, to be placed in!"

"Drink your coffee, Charley."

"Coffee? Oh, I don't want it now."

The unfortunate news left Charles no inclination for coffee. Of all the calamities, actual or threatened, that had been making his life uneasy, this was the worst. The worst? The rest now seemed as passing shadows in comparison. Frank, with all his sunny nature, could impart no comfort to him. The only possible ray to be discerned, lay in the hope that the tidings would turn out to be untrue. A hope which grew fainter with every moment's thought.

To remain in this suspense was nothing less than torture. It was hastily decided between them that Frank should go up to town, see Mr. Street, and learn more. He had no scruple in doing this: Major Raynor was decidedly better; in no immediate danger, as Frank believed; and Dr. Selfe was at hand in case of need.

Frank lost no time; hastening to the station, and looking in on Dr. Selfe on his way, to explain that important business was calling him for a few hours to London. Mr. Street's residence was near Euston Square, and his offices were in the same house. The morning was well advanced when Frank arrived there and was shown into the lawyer's presence. He seemed less genial than of yore, as he sat half turned from a table covered with papers, his right foot on a rest: his hair was certainly more scanty; his light eyes, seen so clearly through his spectacles, were colder. Frank, who, as it chanced, had never seen him, thought what a hard little man he looked.

"Ah, yes; a sad affair," he remarked, as Frank in a few words introduced himself and his business. "Very embarrassing for the major."

"But I hope that it cannot be true, Mr. Street?"

"That what cannot be true?--that a later will is in existence? Oh, that is true enough. And the major has had an attack, you say? Misfortunes never come singly."

"May I ask how the fact--that there is a later will--has come to your knowledge?"

Mr. Street turned over a few of the papers on the table, and took up a letter lying amongst them. "I received this note from my brother, the banker, yesterday afternoon," he said, running his eyes over it. "It tells me that a will, of later date than the one by which Major Raynor holds Eagles' Nest, has been produced, leaving the estate to Mr. George Atkinson. George Atkinson is now on his homeward voyage from Australia, to take possession of the property."

"What a mercy if the ship should go down with him!" thought Frank, in his dismay, as the faint remnant of hope died out. "Then--I presume you consider that this unpleasant report may be relied on, Mr. Street?"

"Certainly it may. My brother is one of the most cautious men living; he would not have written so decisively"--touching the note with his finger--"had any doubt existed. Most likely he has heard from George Atkinson himself: he would of course write before sailing. Atkinson is virtually his chief partner, you know, head of the bank. I had thought my brother would perhaps call here last night, but he did not. Something or other has come to my ankle, and I can't get out."

"Then--this note from Mr. Edwin Street is all the information you as yet possess?"

"Yes, all. But I know it is to be relied on. I thought it better to write at once and acquaint the major: he will have little time, as it is, to prepare for the change, and see what can be done."

Frank rose. "I will go down and question Mr. Edwin Street," he said. "I suppose I am at liberty to do so?"

"Oh, quite at liberty," was the reply. "He no doubt wrote to me with a view to preparing your family, Mr. Raynor. You will find him at the bank."

The banker received Frank coldly; he seemed just the same hard, ungenial, self-contained sort of man that his brother was. Harder, in fact. This was indeed his general manner: but somehow, Frank caught up an idea that he had a dislike to the name of Raynor.

"I beg to refer you to Callard and Priestleigh, Mr. Atkinson's solicitors," spoke the banker to Frank, as soon as the latter entered on his business. "They will be able to afford you every necessary information."

"But won't you tell me how it has all come about?" cried Frank, his genial manner presenting a contrast to that of the banker. "If Mrs. Atkinson made a later will, where has the will been all this while? Why should it turn up at a twelvemonth's end, and not at the time of her death?"

"The will, as I am informed, has been lying in the hands of Callard and Priestleigh."

"Then why did Callard and Priestleigh not produce it at the proper time?" reiterated Frank.

"Callard and Priestleigh may themselves be able to inform you," was the short, stiff answer.

Apparently no satisfaction could be extracted from Mr. Edwin Street. Frank wished him good-morning, and betook himself to Callard and Priestleigh, who lived near the Temple. "From pillar to post, from post to pillar," thought he. "I ought to arrive at something presently."

Mr. Callard was a white-haired old gentleman; a little reserved in manner also; but nevertheless sufficiently cordial with Frank, and not objecting to give him information. He took him for the son of Major Raynor; and though Frank twice set him right upon the point, the old man went back to his own impression, and persisted in thinking Frank to be the--late--heir to Eagles' Nest. It was a mistake of no consequence.

The reader may remember that when Mrs. Atkinson expressed her intention of making a fresh will in Mr. George Atkinson's favour and leaving Major Raynor's name out of it, she had summoned Street the lawyer to Eagles' Nest to draw it up. Street, as he subsequently informed the major, had represented the injustice of this to Mrs. Atkinson, and prevailed upon her--as he supposed--to renounce her intention, and to let the old will stand. The lawyer went back to London in this belief; and nothing whatever transpired, then or subsequently, to shake it. However, after his departure from Eagles' Nest, it appeared that Mrs. Atkinson had sent for a local solicitor, and caused him to draw up a fresh will, in which she made George Atkinson her heir, and cut off the major. This will she had kept by her until just before her death, when she sent it, sealed up, to Callard and Priestleigh, requesting them to put it amongst Mr. George Atkinson's papers, and hold it at his disposal. There could be no doubt, Mr. Callard thought, that she also, either at the time the new will was made, or close upon her death, wrote to George Atkinson and informed him of what she had done: namely, made her will in his favour, and placed it with his solicitors.

"But, sir," exclaimed Frank to Mr. Callard when he had listened to this explanation, "how was it that you did not bring the will forward at Mrs. Atkinson's death? Why did you suffer the other will to be proved and acted upon, when you knew you held this one?"

"But we did not know it," replied the old man: "you have misunderstood me, my young friend. When Mrs. Atkinson sent the document to us she did not inform us of its nature. I assure you we never suspected that it was a will. It was sealed up in a parchment envelope, and bore no outward indication of its contents."

"Then--how do you know it now?"

"Because we have received written instructions from Mr. George Atkinson to open the parchment, and prove the will. It is by these instructions we gather the fact that Mrs. Atkinson must have written to inform him such a will existed."

"He has taken his time in coming to verify it!"

"It appears--as we hear from Edwin Street--that he was travelling for months in some remote parts of Australia, and did not receive his letters. However, he is on his way home now."

"Is the will opened? Have you seen it?" asked Frank.

"Both seen it and read it," replied the old man, smoothing back his white hair, and looking at Frank with concern. "It will be proved in a day or two. I sympathize with you and your father."

"Who are the executors?"

"George Atkinson and Street the banker. The latter is acting."

"And Mr. Atkinson is really on his way from Australia."

"Yes: by ship. We expect him to land in the course of two or three weeks. His written instructions were received by this last mail, and were conveyed to us through Edwin Street, to whom they were sent. Mr. Atkinson desires that all necessary preliminaries may be executed without delay, as he intends to take possession of Eagles' Nest on his arrival."

"He cannot know that my uncle is in it!"

"I dare say he does. He knew that Major Raynor succeeded to it, for we wrote him to that effect at the time. And he is in regular correspondence with his partner, Edwin Street."

"Then the worst is true!" cried Frank, as he fully realized what this meant for the poor major and his family. "I _wonder_ that George Atkinson should accept the estate!--should wrest it from them! from the little I have heard of him, I drew the conclusion that he was a kind and a just man."

Mr. Solicitor Callard opened his eyes very widely. The words surprised him "Kind! Just!" cried he. "Well, he is so: we know him well: but, my good sir, a will is a will. You can't ignore a will as you might a verbal message."

"It will be a terrible shock to my uncle and his family. Utter ruin."

The old gentleman shook his head in pity.

"Ay, it's sad, no doubt; very sad. We lawyers often have to inflict grievous blows; and we cannot help ourselves."

"One last question," said Frank, as he prepared to leave. "In the old will, Major Raynor was left residuary legatee,--and therefore came in for all the accumulated money--though in point of fact the bulk of it has not yet been found. Who comes in for it now?"

"George Atkinson. My good young friend, George Atkinson comes in for _everything_. The one will may be called a counterpart of the other; in regard to the small legacies, and all else; excepting that George Atkinson's name is substituted for Major Raynor's.

"Is nothing left to the major in this later one?"

"Nothing."

Frank Raynor went back to Eagles' Nest, carrying his deplorable news with him. Careless and sanguine-natured though he was, he could not close his eyes to the dark future. It was not only the loss of the estate. That would have been bad enough, in all conscience; but there was also the money the major had spent. The ready-money that had been lying at Eagles' Nest and at her banker's at the time of Mrs. Atkinson's death; and also this past year's revenues from the estate. The major had spent it all: and for this he was now accountable to George Atkinson; he could be legally called upon to refund it. A fear crossed Frank that he would be so called upon: a hard man, as he was now judging George Atkinson to be--perhaps without just cause--would most likely exact his full rights, no matter what misery and ruin they might involve to others. In Frank Raynor's chivalrous good-nature, he was thinking that George Atkinson, already a wealthy man, might have refused Eagles' Nest, and left the major in peaceable possession of it. Perhaps very few men would agree with him: as the old lawyer said, a will was a will. This was certain: that, no matter how large a sum the law might claim from Major Raynor, he had not a shilling to meet it with. Would they confiscate his annuity until it was paid--that five hundred a-year; which was all he and his children would now have to fall back upon? "I wish with all my heart I had a home to offer them, and a good practice to keep it up!" concluded Frank.

Poor Major Raynor! He was never to be subjected to this trouble; or to any other trouble in this world. It was past six when Frank got back to Eagles' Nest, and he found his uncle dying. The attack that was dreaded had seized him about an hour before: just twelve hours after the first threatening in the morning; and there was now little, if any, hope.

"Oh, my dear," gasped Mrs. Raynor, in her pitiable distress, letting her head fall on Frank's shoulder, as her tears rained down, "it is so sudden! If he could only recover consciousness, and speak to us!"

"Aunt," he said, his own eyes misty, "don't you think we had better send for Edina? She would be a comfort to you."

"Edina!" was the sobbing answer. "My dear, she was telegraphed for this morning. Lamb went to the station just after you left. I knew she would come off at once: she is on her way now. I could never bear up under this trouble without Edina."

"But she does not know of the other trouble," thought Frank, looking on Mrs. Raynor, with pitying eyes. "It must be broken to her by Edina."