Time does not hang heavily on my hands now, as it did while he was here. Are you perfectly satisfied with your position?”
“Perfectly, Sir Clement,” was my reply. “I am quite comfortable now,” laying, perhaps, a slight stress on the last word.
“Ah,” said he, laughing, “that now means, I suppose, since our daily prandial disputes have ceased. I must confess that you kept your temper admirably, and have thereby secured my respect. I hope, Milburn,” added he, more gravely, “that you will stay with me to the last, for I feel I am not long for this world.”
I endeavoured to divert him from dwelling on such gloomy thoughts, and assured him that if he were careful, he might live many years. He smiled languidly, and replied:
“After all, though it is but a sorry life I ead, I ought not to repine, for I have ample means of alleviating my own sufferings, and relieving the wants of others. Were I a poor man it would not be so.”
After a while, I succeeded in changing the conversation, and left him in pretty good spirits. I must here remark, that Sir Clement’s charity was unbounded, and he often requested me, as a favour, to give advice to those of his poorer tenants who needed it. He was also scrupulously attentive to his religious duties, and kept the little church at Monkton Bassett (a tumble-down edifice, built of lath and plaster, which I never entered without fearing that a sudden gust of wind might blow it down), in repair at his own expense. I gathered from words dropped here and there, that he had been “crossed in love,” as the old lodge-keeper expressed it, and that a great disappointment had soured his temper and destroyed his health. But he entirely left off showing temper towards me. He made me his amanuensis, and I either read or talked to him, as he preferred. I received cheering news from Australia, three of my sisters were well married, and the fourth on the point of following their example, and for six years I was comparatively happy. At the end of that time, as I was reading to Sir Clement one morning, the steward desired to speak to him. On entering the room, he informed his master that the Elms, a cottage ornée, belonging to the estate, was let to a foreign gentleman—a Mr. Rander.
Sir Clement said:
“Rander does not sound like a foreign name, Rogers; does it, Milburn?” appealing to me.
“No, indeed,” I answered.
“You must have made a mistake, Rogers,” said the baronet.
“Well, Sir Clement, that is what he calls himself,” said Rogers. “But I have his card somewhere. Ah, here it is.”
And he presented Sir Clement with a card, on which was engraved: “Don Pablo de Garate y Aranda,” which Sir Clement read aloud, after which he said:
“Oh! I see. A Spaniard, I should fancy.”
Rogers said he was quite the gentleman. So liberal in everything! He did not wish Sir Clement to lay out a penny, but would do all that was necessary himself.
“Quite a phœnix of a tenant;” said Sir Clement, smiling.
And presently Rogers departed. Sir Clement called on Señor de Aranda, but he was not at home. The latter returned the call when Sir Clement was driving out with me, and there all communication ceased. An invitation to dine at Monkton Bassett was declined on the plea of Madame de Aranda’s delicate health, but Sir Clement said:
“I would wager anything that it is pride that keeps this Spanish hidalgo at a distance. Well! He must have his own way, I suppose!”
And he thought no more of the De Arandas. But one day I was sent for in a great hurry by Madame de Aranda. Mr. Aranda had been thrown from his horse, and carried home insensible. I set off immediately, and found Madame de Aranda watching for me. I observed that she appeared almost beside herself with grief, and followed her into the room where her husband lay still unconscious. I found that he had sustained serious but not dangerous injuries on the head, and had cut his cheek severely. I said to Madame de Aranda,—
“His whisker and chin must be shaved before I can dress the wound.”
She directed her husband’s valet to perform the operation, while I busied myself in endeavouring by cold applications to restore animation. As soon as his cheek was cleared of its hirsute appendage, I looked at the pale face before me, and the perception gradually dawned on me that I had seen it before, years ago, and finally I recognised, in Don Pablo de &c., &c., &c., my old fellow-student at Bartholomew’s, Paul Garrett!
As I became more certain of his identity, I wondered what this disguise could mean. I resolved, however, to respect his secret, and gave no sign of ever having seen him before, until finding him restored to consciousness, I whispered to his wife to speak to him, as he might not like to see a stranger.
She approached him and spoke in Spanish.
He looked dreamily at her, and then appeared to recollect himself. She said something else, and he stared wildly round him, at the same time raising his hand and passing it over his chin. I advanced towards him and said,
“My dear sir, if you wish to recover, you must dismiss all anxiety from your mind—all groundless fears. Make yourself quite easy about the consequences of your slight accident, and you will soon recover. Allow me to feel your pulse. This will never do! Have you some vinegar, hartshorn, or sal volatile at hand?” I asked.
“I will fetch some directly,” said Madame de Aranda, and hurried from the room, while I still held Paul’s hand in mine. He gave me an imploring look, and then with a gasp said, in an unnatural tone of voice,
“Milburn! I will trust you! Keep my secret!”
“I will,” replied I, pressing his hand.
He appeared quite satisfied, and remained quiet. His wife returned with the sal volatile, of which I administered a few drops in water, and after remaining with him some time, left him perfectly sensible and collected. I promised to call again in the