id not feel as
much moved at having brought my long trusteeship to a satisfactory
conclusion as Ernest did at finding himself owner of more than 70,000
pounds. When he did speak it was to jerk out a sentence or two of
reflection at a time. "If I were rendering this moment in music," he
said, "I should allow myself free use of the augmented sixth." A little
later I remember his saying with a laugh that had something of a family
likeness to his aunt's: "It is not the pleasure it causes me which I
enjoy so, it is the pain it will cause to all my friends except yourself
and Towneley."

I said: "You cannot tell your father and mother--it would drive them
mad."

"No, no, no," said he, "it would be too cruel; it would be like Isaac
offering up Abraham and no thicket with a ram in it near at hand. Besides
why should I? We have cut each other these four years."

CHAPTER LXXXII

It almost seemed as though our casual mention of Theobald and Christina
had in some way excited them from a dormant to an active state. During
the years that had elapsed since they last appeared upon the scene they
had remained at Battersby, and had concentrated their affection upon
their other children.

It had been a bitter pill to Theobald to lose his power of plaguing his
first-born; if the truth were known I believe he had felt this more
acutely than any disgrace which might have been shed upon him by Ernest's
imprisonment. He had made one or two attempts to reopen negotiations
through me, but I never said anything about them to Ernest, for I knew it
would upset him. I wrote, however, to Theobald that I had found his son
inexorable, and recommended him for the present, at any rate, to desist
from returning to the subject. This I thought would be at once what
Ernest would like best and Theobald least.

A few days, however, after Ernest had come into his property, I received
a letter from Theobald enclosing one for Ernest which I could not
withhold.

The letter ran thus:--

"To my son Ernest,--Although you have more than once rejected my
overtures I appeal yet again to your better nature. Your mother, who
has long been ailing, is, I believe, near her end; she is unable to
keep anything on her stomach, and Dr Martin holds out but little hopes
of her recovery. She has expressed a wish to see you, and says she
knows you will not refuse to come to her, which, considering her
condition, I am unwilling to su