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<h3>Chapter Six.</h3> <h4>A Fit of Generosity.</h4> “Mr Paul Capel,” said the old solicitor, “allow me to add my congratulations, and my hope that your fortune may prove a blessing.” “But it is like a dream—a romance,” cried Paul Capel. “All that wealth here—in this house! I wonder that he was not robbed.” “My old friend took great precautions against that,” said Mr Girtle. “As you will see, it was impossible for any one to have stolen the valuables and notes.” “But ought not this money to have been banked?” “Of course—or invested. I have told him so, often; but he used to say he preferred to keep it as it was. He had plenty for his wants and charities. Your uncle was an eccentric man, Mr Capel; there is no denying that.” “Eccentric!” cried Artis. “Mad. Well, I give you all warning. I shall take action, and throw it into chancery.” He walked to the end of the room, and Paul Capel looked after him uneasily as he saw Katrine follow. “You foolish boy!” she whispered; “am not I as badly used as you? Be patient. Wait.” “What do you mean?” he whispered, hastily. She looked full in his eyes, and he tried to read the mystery in their depths, but without avail. “Why don’t you speak?” he cried. “Some things are better left unspoken,” she replied. “Don’t be rash.” “I’ll wait.” he whispered, “if you wish it.” “I do wish it. Take no notice of what I say or do. Promise me that.” “Promise me you will not make me jealous, and I’ll wait.” “But maybe I shall make you jealous,” she said. “Still, you know me. Wait.” “I’m sorry for one thing, Mr Girtle,” said Paul Capel, while this was going on. “May I ask what that is?” “Oh, yes. Your simple bequest of a ring. Will you—you will not be offended, Mr Girtle—out of this immense wealth allow me to make you some suitable—” “Stop,” said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon the speaker’s arm. “My old friend wished to leave me a large sum, but I chose that ring in preference. Thank you all the same, my dear young friend, and I beg you will count upon me for help.” “Well, then, there is something I should like to do at once. Look here, Mr Girtle—a million and a half—” “With its strange burden.” “Oh, I don’t mind that. I want to do something over this money. Miss Lawrence is well provided for, but Miss D’Enghien—” “Well, you had better marry her.” “Do—do you mean that?” “No,” said the old man, sternly; “I do not.” “There is Mr Artis, too. I should like—” “To find him in funds to carry on a legal war against you for what he would call his rights. My dear Mr Capel, may I, as lawyer, give you a bit of advice?” “Certainly; I ask it of you.” “Then wait.” Capel drew back as the old gentleman proceeded to fold the will and lay it with other papers in the tin box, while Ramo, standing alone in the gloom, with folded arms and apparently seeing nothing, but observing every motion, hearing almost every word, noticed that Gerard Artis was watching the deposition of the will, his hungry looks seeming to devour it as he felt that he would like to destroy it on the spot. Ramo noted, too, that Paul Capel took a step or two towards where Katrine was talking eagerly to Artis. Then he hesitated and turned off to where Lydia sat alone. She, too, had been watching Paul Capel’s actions, and now that he turned to her she seemed to shrink back in her seat, as if his coming troubled her. “Let me congratulate you, Mr Capel,” she said, rather coldly. “Thank you,” he said with a sigh; and she saw him glance in the direction of Katrine. “I think,” said Mr Girtle, loudly, “that we will now proceed to fulfil the next part of my instructions.” There was a sharp click heard here, as he locked a little padlock on the tin box, and Gerard Artis watched him, thinking what a little there was between him and the obnoxious will. “Miss D’Enghien, Miss Lawrence, will you kindly follow me? Ramo, lead the way.” It was like going from one gloom into another far deeper, as the door was thrown open, and Ramo led the way along the short, wide passage, bearing a silver candlestick, whose light played softly on the great stained window when he stopped, and illuminated the bronze club of the centaur, still raised to strike. The eyes of Gerard Artis were fixed upon the tin box containing the will—the keen look of Katrine D’Enghien on the old Indian servant, as he took a key from his cummerbund—while Paul Capel gazed, with his soul in his glance, on Katrine, ignorant that, with spirit sinking lower and lower, Lydia was watching him. The solicitor gave a glance around full of solemnity and awe, as if to ask were all ready. Then, as if satisfied, he made a sign to Ramo. The Indian raised the candlestick above his head, softly thrust in the key, turned it, and threw open the door, when once more, from the darkness within, the strange aromatic odour floated forth. “Mr Capel, you are master here,” said the old lawyer softly. “Enter first.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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