Sydney Cove by J.H.M. Abbott — Read

THE colonel rose from his chair, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and walked over to a corner of the room where there stood a carved oak desk of that high kind that necessitates the use of a long-legged stool. He unlocked and raised the lid, and, after a few moments' search of its interior, came back to the table with a folded document of parchment, upon which was inscribed, in the legal flourishes beloved of old-time lawyer firms, "The Last Will and Testament of Lieutenant-Colonel John Magnus Cartwright, Lately of His Majesty's 46th Foot, 1786."

He smiled affectionately at his nephew, and waved the document in his direction. Long afterwards, thousands of miles away from the old Kentish manor house, Patrick Cartwright often recalled the scene in the little, dark room, its sombre paneling of ancient oak gleaming dully in the candlelight, the two portraits of his parents looking down from their position above the tall chimney-piece, the shadows in the gloomy corners advancing and receding in the uncertain illumination of the wax tapers--more than all, the wistful, kindly smile on the face of the good old soldier as he spoke. The scene always remained for him the most abiding recollection of his uncle--indeed, it was the last time that he could recall when the good old man had smiled upon him, as he pondered the events of that night of horror in the after years.