I had a carrier for the purpose, which was luckily just large enough to take the whole—as a matter of fact it was a wicker basket that we used at home for carting cabbages, and Mr. Couch winced as he put the precious boxes into it, one by one.
“It would have been far better, Mr. Ashley,” he said, “had I sent the packages to the house, in proper fashion.
We have a brougham, you know, belonging to the bank, more suitable for the purpose.”
Yes, I thought, and what a clatter of tongues there would have been then.
The bank brougham, driving to Mr. Ashley’s residence, with a top-hatted manager within.
Far better the vegetable basket in a dogcart.
“That is all right, Mr. Couch,” I said, “I can manage very well.”
I staggered from the bank in triumph, bearing the basket upon my shoulder, and ran full tilt into Mrs. Pascoe, a daughter on either side.
“Good gracious, Mr. Ashley,” she remarked, “you appear well loaded.”
Holding the basket with one hand, I swept off my hat with a flourish.
“You observe me fallen on evil days,” I said to her.
“I am sunk so low that I needs must sell cabbages to Mr. Couch and his clerks.
Repairing the roof at home has well nigh ruined me, and I am obliged to hawk my produce about the town.”
She stared at me, her mouth agape, and the two daughters opened their eyes wide.
“Unfortunately,” I said, “this basketful that I have here is due to another customer.
Otherwise I would have pleasure in selling you some carrots.
But in future, when you lack vegetables at the rectory, remember me.”
I went off to find the waiting dogcart, and as I heaved the carrier into it, and climbed up and took the reins, while the groom jumped up beside me, I saw her still staring at me, at the street corner, her face dumbfounded.
Now the story would go round that Philip Ashley was not only eccentric, drunk, and mad, but a pauper in the bargain.
We drove home by the long avenue from Four Turnings, and while the boy put away the dogcart I went into the house the back way—the servants were at dinner—and, going upstairs by their staircase, I tiptoed through to the front and to my room.
I looked the vegetable basket in my wardrobe, and went downstairs to eat some lunch.
Rainaldi would have closed his eyes and shuddered. I wrought havoc upon a pigeon pie, and washed it down with a great tankard of ale.
Rachel had been in and waited—she left a note to say so—and, thinking I would not return, had gone up to her room.
For this once I did not mind her absence.
I think my guilty delight would have shown too plainly on my face.
No sooner had I swallowed my meal than I was off again, this time on horseback, to Pelyn.
Safe in my pocket I had the document, which the attorney, Mr. Trewin, had sent to me, as he had promised, by special messenger.
I also had the will.
The prospect of this interview was not as pleasing as that of the morning had been; nevertheless, I was undaunted.
My godfather was at home, and in his study.
“Well, Philip,” he said, “if I am a few hours premature, no matter.
Let me wish you a happy birthday.”
“Thank you,” I said, “and I would also thank you, in return, for your affection for me and for Ambrose, and for your guardianship over these past years.”
“Which,” he said smiling, “ends tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I said, “or rather, tonight, at midnight.
And as I do not want to rouse you from your sleep at such an hour, I would like you to witness my signature to a document I wish to sign, which will come into effect at that precise moment.”
“H’m,” he said, reaching for his spectacles, “a, document, what document?”
I brought the will from my breast pocket.
“First,” I said, “I would like you to read this.
It was not given to me willingly, but only after much argument and discussion.
I had long felt such a paper must be in existence, and here it is.”
I passed it to him.
He placed his spectacles on his nose and read it through.
“It is dated, Philip,” he said, “but it is not signed.”
“Quite so,” I answered, “but it is in Ambrose’s hand, is it not?”
“Why, yes,” he replied, “undoubtedly.
What I do not understand is why he never had it witnessed and sent to me.
I had expected such a will as this from the first days he was married, and told you so.”
“It would have been signed,” I said, “but for his illness, and for the fact that he expected, any month, to be home here and give it to you in person.
That I know.”