DECISION
The sun was well down and away behind the great fell at the back of the
house, and the large and heavily furnished room was feebly lit by four
wax candles, and the glow of the west reflected as a gleam into eastern
windows. The lawyer was pleased to have it so, and to speak with a
dimly lighted face. The ladies looked beautiful; that was all that
Mr. Jellicorse could say, when cross-examined by his wife next day
concerning their lace and velvet. Whether they wore lace or net was
almost more than he could say, for he did not heed such trifles; but
velvet was within his knowledge (though not the color or the shape),
because he thought it hot for summer, until he remembered what the
climate was. Really he could say nothing more, except that they looked
beautiful; and when Mrs. Jellicorse jerked her head, he said that he
only meant, of course, considering their time of life.
The ladies saw his admiration, and felt that it was but natural. Mrs.
Carnaby came forward kindly, and offered him a nice warm hand; while the
elder sister was content to bow, and thank him for coming, and hope that
he was well. As yet it had not become proper for a gentleman, visiting
ladies, to yawn, and throw himself into the nearest chair, and cross
his legs, and dance one foot, and ask how much the toy-terrier cost.
Mr. Jellicorse made a fine series of bows, not without a scrape or two,
which showed his goodly calf; and after that he waited for the gracious
invitation to sit down.
“If I understood your letter clearly,” Mistress Yordas began, when these
little rites were duly accomplished, “you have something important
to tell us concerning our poor property here. A small property, Mr.
Jellicorse, compared with that of the Duke of Lunedale, but perhaps a
little longer in one family.”
“The duke is a new-fangled interloper,” replied hypocritical Jellicorse,
though no other duke was the husband of the duchess of whom he indited
daily; “properties of that sort come and go, and only tradesmen notice
it. Your estates have been longer in the seisin of one family, madam,
than any other in the Riding, or perhaps in Yorkshire.”
“We never seized them!” cried Mrs. Carnaby, being sensitive as to
ancestral thefts, through tales about cattle-lifting. “You must be aware
that they came to us by grant from the Crown, or even before there was
any Crown to grant them.”
“I beg your pardon for using a technical word, without explaining it.
Seisin is a legal word, which simply means possession, or rather
the bodily holding of a thing, and is used especially of corporeal
hereditaments. You ladies have seisin of this house and lands, although
you never seized them.”
“The last thing we would think of doing,” answered Mrs. Carnaby, who was
more impulsive than her sister, also less straightforward. “How often
we have wished that our poor lost brother had not been deprived of them!
But our father's will was sacred, and you told us we were helpless. We
struggled, as you know; but we could do nothing.”
“That is the question which brought me here,” the lawyer said, very
quietly, at the same time producing a small roll of parchment sealed in
cartridge paper. “Last week I discovered a document which I am forced
to submit to your judgment. Shall I read it to you, or tell its purport
briefly?”
“Whatever it may be, it can not in any way alter our conclusions. Our
conclusions have never varied, however deeply they may have grieved us.
We were bound to do justice to our dear father.”
“Certainly, madam; and you did it. Also, as I know, you did it as kindly
as possible toward other relatives, and you only met with perversity.
I had the honor of preparing your respected father's will, a model of
clearness and precision, considering--considering the time afforded,
and other disturbing influences. I know for a fact that a copy was laid
before the finest draftsman in London, by--by those who were displeased
with it, and his words were: 'Beautiful! beautiful! Every word of it
holds water.' Now that, madam, can not be said of many; indeed, of not
one in--”
“Pardon, me for interrupting you, but I have always understood you to
speak highly of it. And in such a case, what can be the matter?”
“The matter of all matters, madam, is that the testator should have
disposing power.”
“He could dispose of his own property as he was disposed, you mean.”
“You misapprehend me.” Mr. Jellicorse now was in his element, for he
loved to lecture--an absurdity just coming into vogue. “Indulge me one
moment. I take this silver dish, for instance; it is in my hands, I have
the use of it; but can I give it to either of you ladies?”
“Not very well, because it belongs to us already.”
“You misapprehend me. I can not give it because it is not mine to give.”
Mrs. Carnaby looked puzzled.
“Eliza, allow me,” said Mistress Yordas, in her stiffer manner, and
now for the first time interfering. “Mr. Jellicorse assures us that his
language is a model of clearness and precision; perhaps he will prove it
by telling us now, in plain words, what his meaning is.”
“What I mean, madam, is that your respected father could devise you a
part only of this property, because the rest was not his to devise. He
only had a life-interest in it.”
“His will, therefore, fails as to some part of the property? How much,
and what part, if you please?”
“The larger and better part of the estates, including this house and
grounds, and the home-farm.”
Mrs. Carnaby started and began to speak; but her sister moved only to
stop her, and showed no signs of dismay or anger.
“For fear of putting too many questions at once,” she said, with a
slight bow and a smile, “let me beg you to explain, as shortly as
possible, this very surprising matter.”
Mr. Jellicorse watched her with some suspicion, because she called it
so surprising, yet showed so little surprise herself. For a moment he
thought that she must have heard of the document now in his hands; but
he very soon saw that it could not be so. It was only the ancient
Yordas pride, perversity, and stiffneckedness. And even Mrs. Carnaby,
strengthened by the strength of her sister, managed to look as if
nothing more than a tale of some tenant were pending. But this, or
ten times this, availed not to deceive Mr. Jellicorse. That gentleman,
having seen much of the world, whispered to himself that this was all
“high jinks,” felt himself placed on the stool of authority, and even
ventured upon a pinch of snuff. This was unwise, and cost him dear,
for the ladies would not have been true to their birth if they had not
stored it against him.
He, however, with a friendly mind, and a tap now and then upon his
document, to give emphasis to his story, recounted the whole of it, and
set forth how much was come of it already, and how much it might lead
to. To Scargate Hall, and the better part of the property always enjoyed
therewith, Philippa Yordas and Eliza Carnaby had no claim whatever,
except on the score of possession, until it could be shown that their
brother Duncan was dead, without any heirs or assignment (which might
have come to pass through a son adult), and even so, his widow might
come forward and give trouble. Concerning all that, there was time
enough to think; but something must be done at once to cancel the
bargain with Sir Walter Carnaby, without letting his man of law get
scent of the fatal defect in title. And now that the ladies knew all,
what did they say?
In answer to this, the ladies were inclined to put the whole blame upon
him, for not having managed matters better; and when he had shown that
the whole of it was done before he had any thing to do with it, they
were firmly convinced that he ought to have known it, and found a proper
remedy. And in the finished manner of well-born ladies they gave him
to know, without a strong expression, that such an atrocity was a black
stain on every legal son of Satan, living, dead, or still to issue from
Gerizim.
“That can not affect the title now--I assure you, madam, that it can
not,” the unfortunate lawyer exclaimed at last; “and as for damages,
poor old Duncombe has left no representatives, even if an action would
lie now, which is simply out of the question. On my part no neglect can
be shown, and indeed for your knowledge of the present state of things,
if humbly I may say so, you are wholly indebted to my zeal.”
“Sir, I heartily wish,” Mrs. Carnaby replied, “that your zeal had been
exhausted on your own affairs.”
“Eliza, Mr. Jellicorse has acted well, and we can not feel too much
obliged to him.” Miss Yordas, having humor of a sort, smiled faintly at
the double meaning of her own words, which was not intended. “Whatever
is right must be done, of course, according to the rule of our family.
In such a case it appears to me that mere niceties of laws, and quips
and quirks, are entirely subordinate to high sense of honor. The first
consideration must be thoroughly unselfish and pure justice.”
The lawyer looked at her with admiration. He was capable of large
sentiments. And yet a faint shadow of disappointment lingered in the
folios of his heart--there might have been such a very grand long suit,
upon which his grandson (to be born next month) might have been enabled
to settle for life, and bring up a legal family. Justice, however, was
justice, and more noble than even such prospects. So he bowed his head,
and took another pinch of snuff.
But Mrs. Carnaby (who had wept a little, in a place beyond the
candle-light) came back with a passionate flush in her eyes, and a
resolute bearing of her well-formed neck.
“Philippa, I am amazed at you,” she said, “Mr. Jellicorse, my share
is equal with my sister's, and more, because my son comes after me.
Whatever she may do, I will never yield a pin's point of my rights, and
leave my son a beggar. Philippa, would you make Pet a beggar? And his
turtle in bed, before the sun is on the window, and his sturgeon jelly
when he gets out of bed! There never was any one, by a good Providence,
less sent into the world to be a beggar.”
Mrs. Carnaby, having discharged her meaning, began to be overcome by it.
She sat down, in fear of hysteria, but with her mind made up to stop it;
while the gallant Jellicorse was swept away by her eloquence, mixed with
professional views. But it came home to him, from experience with his
wife, that the less he said the wiser. But while he moved about, and
almost danced, in his strong desire to be useful, there was another who
sat quite still, and meant to have the final say.
“From some confusion of ideas, I suppose, or possibly through my own
fault,” Philippa Yordas said, with less contempt in her voice than in
her mind, “it seems that I can not make my meaning clear, even to my
own sister. I said that we first must do the right, and scorn all legal
subtleties. That we must maintain unselfish justice, and high sense of
honor. Can there be any doubt what these dictate? What sort of daughters
should we be if we basely betrayed our own father's will?”
“Excellent, madam,” the lawyer said; “that view of the case never struck
me. But there is a great deal in it.”
“Oh, Philippa, how noble you are!” her sister Eliza cried; and cried no
more, so far as tears go, for a long time afterward.