never have gained during his life, my impassiveness
was more than excusable; under similar
circumstances, many persons would have found it
hard to repress sentiments of glee and rejoicing.
Now, though I was not glad, I should have
earned my own contempt had I feigned sorrow;
so, after a pause of somewhat awkward silence,
I repeated, " I have never seen my uncle, but I
should like to see him—there can be no objection,
I presume."

"None whatever. You can even take up your
abode at once in the house, if you wish it,"
replied the lawyer. I have no doubt he began to
think me a most unwomanly woman. If I had
been only tolerably young and good-looking he
might have advanced some words of dissuasion,
but entire freedom of action might safely be
accorded to so plain-featured and plain-mannered
a person.

It was a motive of curiosity rather than any
softer sentiment that actuated me in my desire
to see my uncle. I wanted to get a personal
idea of him; to judge, if I could from the clay mask,
of the living and acting man, the fruits of whose
busy labours I am to enjoy. I was not fatigued
by my journey, and as soon as Mr. Worsley
acceded to my proposition, I assumed my bonnet
and cloak, and walked across with him to
Russell-square. It was not dark, but it was darkening,
and when we entered the hall of the house
where our poor mother's brother had lived and
died, it seemed to me filled with a dismalness
that might be felt. The door was opened by a
thick-set, white-headed, one-eyed little man, in
plain clothes, who respectfully acknowledged Mr.
Worsley, and then glanced with furtive curiosity
at myself.

"This lady is your late master's niece,
Roberts," said the lawyer. Roberts performed a
stiff obeisance, and waggled bow-legged to throw
open the dining-room door. Mr. Worsley had
partaken of many sumptuous feasts at that
mahogany, now reflecting the chandelier in a blank
lake of polish. He is not given to sentiment—
few of his age and profession are— but the silence
and dimness of the familiar room seemed to strike
him with a poignant regret. Mr. Burfield had
been his friend from a boy, and though he might
not entertain a very profound respect for his
client's private character, he had for him the
liking that grows out of long and intimate habit.
There were several choice modern pictures on
the walls; for, in his way, Mr. Burfield must
have been a man of taste, and while Roberts, in
obedience to the lawyer's explanations, went to
summon Mrs. Proby, the housekeeper, I walked
slowly round the room and examined them, as well
as the twilight would permit. In a few minutes
an elderly respectable woman appeared at the
door, carrying a green-shaded lamp, and
intimated that she was ready to conduct me up-stairs.
Mr. Worsley glanced at my face as I turned
to go, but he saw no more emotion expressed
in it, than he had done when I stood before a
landscape of Gainsborough's, or a sea-piece of
Stansfield's. He remained below, thinking,
probably, what a queer woman his old client's
country heiress was, while I followed the
housekeeper up the echoing stairs.

Without a word, Mrs. Proby unlocked the door
of a large bare room, uncarpeted and uncurtained;
there was nothing beyond the necessary articles
of furniture, a few Indian straw mats, and a
great bath. Quite at the further end was a
narrow iron bedstead, scarcely raised a foot
above the floor, covered by a single mattress, on
which rested the coffined remains of a man who
was reported to have left upwards of half a million
of money. I advanced and stood beside it; and
the housekeeper, holding the lamp high in one
hand, so as to throw down the most light, with the
other uncovered the face.

It was a very handsome face, large-featured and
shapely; what it might have worn in life of
compression and sternness had now disappeared from
it. You would have said a man once of keen
intellect, generous dispositions, warm feelings,
lay before you. I had not anticipated a countenance
with any trace of nobleness whatever.
Well, perhaps nature had meant him to be of one
character, and his experience of the world had
made him of another: in almost every life there
is something maimed, something crushed,
undeveloped, or concealed.

"He is not much changed," said Mrs. Proby,
now speaking for the first time. " When he was
alive he was as fine-looking a gentleman as you
could wish to see. He stood six foot two in his
stockings." I asked if there was any portrait of
him in the house. She replied, " No; the master
was not one who thought much of himself, as I
might tell from his room, which was as bare as a
barrack." She afterwards added, that he died of
a disease of the heart, and would have been
seventy-one had he lived until his next birthday.
He was, probably, a cold, reserved man to his
inferiors, for Mrs. Proby said no single word in
honour of her master's memory, neither did she
insinuate anything to his prejudice. We
descended the stairs as silently as we had gone up,
and found Mr. Worsley talking to Roberts at the
open street door. He met me and asked if I
intended to take up my abode in the house, for,
if so, the servants had better prepare for me. I
said not until after the funeral; and then we left
the square together.

Mr. Worsley accompanied me to my hotel, and
then took leave, promising to see me again
on the morrow. When he was gone, to my surprise,
the waiter, with great accession of deference
in his manner, led the way to a comfortable room,
explaining that on my arrival it had not been
ready for occupation, and apologising for having
put me to the temporary inconvenience of my
first lodging. I received what he said with an
air of implicit good faith, and afterwards paid
for it in the bill. The curtains were drawn, a
fire and wax-candles lighted, and a second edition
of tea on the table. On the whole, perhaps, I
was not wrong in deciding that it is pleasant to