now, old sir george rodney, grandfather of the present baronet, had two sons, geoffrey and george. now, geoffrey he loved, but george he hated. and so great by years did this hatred grow that after a bit he sought how he should leave the property away from his eldest-born, who was george, and leave it to geoffrey, the younger,—which was hardly fair; for "what," says aristotle, "is justice?—to give every man his own." and surely george, being the elder, had first claim. the entail having been broken during the last generation, he found this easy to accomplish; and so after many days he made a will, by which the younger son inherited all, to the exclusion of the elder.
but before this, when things had gone too far between father and son, and harsh words never to be forgotten on either side had been uttered, george, unable to bear longer the ignominy of his position (being of a wild and passionate yet withal generous disposition), left his home, to seek another and happier one in foreign lands.
some said he had gone to india, others to van diemen's land, but in truth none knew, or cared to know, save elspeth, the old nurse, who had tended him and his father before him, and who in her heart nourished for him an undying affection.
there were those who said she clung to him because of his wonderful likeness to the picture of his grandfather in the south gallery, sir launcelot by name, who in choicest ruffles and most elaborate queue, smiled gayly down upon the passers-by.
for this master of the towers (so the story ran) elspeth, in her younger days, had borne a love too deep for words, when she herself was soft and rosy-cheeked, with a heart as tender and romantic as her eyes were blue, and when her lips, were for all the world like "cherries ripe."
but this, it may be, was all village slander, and was never borne out by anything. and elspeth had married the gardener's son, and sir launcelot had married an earl's daughter; and when the first baby was born at the "big house," elspeth came to the towers and nursed him as she would have nursed her own little bairn, but that death, "dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just, shining nowhere but in the dark," sought and claimed her own little one two days after its birth.
after that she had never again left the family, serving it faithfully while strength stayed with her, knowing all its secrets and all its old legends, and many things, it may be, that the child she nursed at her bosom never knew.
for him—strange as it may seem—she had ever but little love. but when he married, and george, the eldest boy, was given into her arms, and as he grew and developed and showed himself day by day to be the very prototype of his grandsire, she "took to him," as the servants said, and clung to him—and afterwards to his memory—until her dying day.
when the dark, wayward, handsome young man went away, her heart went with him, and she alone perhaps knew anything of him after his departure. to his father his absence was a relief; he did not disguise it; and to his brother (who had married, and had then three children, and had of late years grown estranged from him) the loss was not great. nor did the young madam,—as she was called,—the mother of our present friends, lose any opportunity of fostering and keeping alive the ill will and rancor that existed for him in his father's heart.
so the grudge, being well watered, grew and flourished, and at last, as i said, the old man made a will one night, in the presence of the gardener and his nephew, who witnessed it, leaving all he possessed—save the title and some outside property, which he did not possess—to his younger son. and, having made this will, he went to his bed, and in the cold night, all alone, he died there, and was found in the morning stiff and stark, with the gay spring sunshine pouring in upon him, while the birds sang without as though to mock death's power, and the flowers broke slowly into life.
but when they came to look for the will, lo! it was nowhere to be found. each drawer and desk and cabinet was searched to no avail. never did the lost document come to light.
day after day they sought in vain; but there came a morning when news of the lost george's demise came to them from australia, and then the search grew languid and the will was forgotten. and they hardly took pains even to corroborate the tidings sent them from that far-off land but, accepting the rightful heir's death as a happy fact, ascended the throne, and reigned peacefully for many years.
and when sir george died, sir nicholas, as we know, governed in his stead, and "all went merry as a marriage-bell," until a small cloud came out of the south, and grew and grew and waxed each day stronger, until it covered all the land.
for again news came from australia that the former tidings of george rodney's death had been false; that he had only died a twelvemonth since; that he had married almost on first going out, and that his son was coming home to dispute sir nicholas's right to house and home and title.
and now where was the missing will? almost all the old servants were dead or scattered. the gardener and his nephew wore no more; even old elspeth was lying at rest in the cold churchyard, having ceased long since to be even food for worms. only her second nephew—who had lived with her for years in the little cottage provided for her by the rodneys, when she was too old and infirm to do aught but sit and dream of days gone by—was alive, and he, too, had gone to australia on her death and had not been heard of since.
it was all terrible,—this young man coming and the thought that, no matter how they might try to disbelieve in his story, still it might be true.
and then the young man came, and they saw that he was very dark, and very morose, and very objectionable. but he seemed to have more money than he quite know what to do with; and when he decided on taking a shooting-box that then was vacant quite close to the towers, their indignation knew no bounds. and certainly it was execrable taste, considering he came there with the avowed determination to supplant, as lord and master, the present owner of the towers, the turrets of which he could see from his dining room windows.
but, as he had money, some of the county, after the first spasm, rather acknowledged him, as at least a cousin, if not the cousin. and because he was somewhat unusual, and therefore amusing, and decidedly liberal, and because there was no disgrace attaching to him, and no actual reason why he should not be received, many houses opened their doors to him. all which was bitter as wormwood to lady rodney.
indeed, sir nicholas himself had been the very first to set the example. in his curious, silent, methodical fashion, he had declared to his mother (who literally detested the very mention of the australian's name, as she called him, looking upon him as a clean-born indian might look upon a pariah) his intention of being civil to him all round, as he was his father's brother's child; and as he had committed no sin, beyond trying to gain his own rights, he would have him recognized, and treated by every one, if not with cordiality, at least with common politeness.
but yet there were those who did not acknowledge the new-comer, in spite of his wealth and the romantic story attaching to him, and the possibility that he might yet be proved to be the rightful baronet and the possessor of all the goodly lands that spread for miles around. of these the duchess of lauderdale was one; but then she was always slow to acknowledge new blood, or people unhappy enough to have a history. and lady lilias eaton was another; but she was a young and earnest disciple of æstheticism, and gave little thought to anything save gothic windows, lilies, and unleavened bread. there were also many of the older families who looked askance upon paul rodney, or looked through him, when brought into contact with him, in defiance of sir nicholas's support, which perhaps was given to this undesirable cousin more in pride than generosity.
and so matters stood when mona came to the towers.
