CHAPTER XX._In Trust: The Story of a Lady and Her Lover

THE WILL.

It is needless to dwell upon the gloom of the days that followed this

event. Mr. Loseby came over from Hunston, as pale as he was rosy on

ordinary occasions, and with a self-reproach that was half pathetic,

half ludicrous. ‘I said every word of that new will of his would be a

nail in his coffin, God forgive me,’ he said. ‘How was I to know? A man

should never take upon himself to prophesy. God knows what a murdering

villain he feels if it chances to come true.’

‘But nothing you said could have made the horse put his foot in that

rabbit-hole,’ Heathcote said.

‘That is true, that is true,’ said the little lawyer: and then he began

the same plaint again. But he was very active and looked after

everything, managing the melancholy business of the moment, the inquest,

and the funeral. There was a great deal to do. Telegrams flew about the

country on all sides, warning the guests invited to the ball of what had

happened--yet at least one carriage full of ladies in full ball dress

had to be turned back from the lodge on the night when so much gaiety

had been expected at Mount. Charley Ashley had come up from the rectory

at once and took the position of confidential agent to the ladies, in a

way that Heathcote Mountford could not do. He thought it wrong to

forsake them, and his presence was needed as mourner at his cousin’s

funeral; otherwise he would have been glad to escape from the chill

misery and solitude that seemed to shut down upon the house which had

been so cheerful. He saw nothing of the ladies, save that now and then

he would cross the path of Anne, who did not shut herself up like her

stepmother and sister. She was very grave, but still she carried on the

government of the house. When Heathcote asked her how she was, she

answered with a serious smile, though with quick-coming moisture in her

eyes: ‘I am not ill at all; I am very well, Mr. Heathcote. Is it not

strange one’s grief makes no difference to one in that way? One thinks

it must, one even hopes it must; but it does not; only my heart feels

like a lump of lead.’ She was able for all her work, just as usual, and

saw Mr. Loseby and gave Charley Ashley the list of all the people to be

telegraphed to, or to whom letters must be written. But Mrs. Mountford

and Rose kept to their rooms, where all the blinds were carefully closed

and every table littered with crape. Getting the mourning ready was

always an occupation, and it did them good. They all went in a close

carriage to the village church on the day of the funeral, but only Anne

followed her father’s coffin to the grave. It was when Heathcote stood

by her there that he remembered again suddenly the odiousness of the

idea that some man or other, a fellow whom nobody knew, had managed to

get between Anne Mountford and all the rest of the world. It was not a

place for such a thought, yet it came to him in spite of himself, when

he saw her falter for a moment and instinctively put out his arm to

sustain her. She looked round upon him with a look in which gratitude

and something like a proud refusal of his aid were mingled. That look

suggested to him the question which suddenly arose in his mind, though,

as he felt, nothing could be more inappropriate at such a time and

place. Where was the fellow? Why was he not here? If he had permitted

Anne to be disinherited for his sake, why had he not hurried to her side

to support her in her trouble? Heathcote was not the only person who had

asked himself this question. The Curate had not looked through Anne’s

list of names before he sent intelligence of Mr. Mountford’s death to

his friend. The first person of whom he had thought was Cosmo. ‘Of

course you will come to the rectory,’ he telegraphed, sending him the

news on the evening of the occurrence. He had never doubted that Cosmo

would arrive next morning by the earliest train. All next day while he

had been working for them, he had expected every hour the sound of the

arrival, saying to himself, when the time passed for the morning and for

the evening trains, that Cosmo must have been from home, that he could

not have received the message, that of course he would come to-morrow.

But when even the day of the funeral arrived without Cosmo, Charley

Ashley’s good heart was wrung with mingled wrath and impatience. What

could it mean? He was glad, so far as he himself was concerned, for it

was a kind of happiness to him to be doing everything for Anne and her

mother and sister. He was proud and glad to think that it was natural he

should do it, he who was so old a friend, almost like a brother to the

girls. But the other, who had a closer claim than that of any brother,

who had supplanted Charley and pushed him aside, where was he? On this

subject Anne did not say a word. She had written and received various

letters, but she did not take anyone into her confidence. And yet there

was a something in her eyes, a forlorn look, a resistance of any

support, as if she had said to herself, ‘Since I have not his arm I will

have no one else’s support.’ Heathcote withdrew from her side with a

momentary sense of a rebuff. He followed her down the little churchyard

path and put her into the carriage, where the others were waiting for

her, without a word. Then she turned round and looked at him again. Was

it an appeal for forgiveness, for sympathy--and yet for not too much

sympathy--which Anne was making? These looks of mingled feeling which

have so much in them of the poetry of life, how difficult they are to

interpret! how easily it may be that their meaning exists only in the

eyes that see them! like letters which may be written carelessly,

hastily, but which we weigh, every word of them, in balances of the

sanctuary, too fine and delicate for earthly words, finding out so much

more than the writer ever thought to say. Perhaps it was only

Heathcote’s indignant sense that the lover, for whom she had already

suffered, should have been by Anne’s side in her trouble that made him

see so much in her eyes. Charley Ashley had been taking a part in the

service; his voice had trembled with real feeling as he read the psalms;

and a genuine tear for the man whom he had known all his life had been

in his eye; but he, too, had seen Anne’s looks and put his own

interpretation upon them. When all was over, he came out of the vestry

where he had taken off his surplice and joined Heathcote. He was going

up to Mount, the general centre of everything at this moment. The

mourners were going there to luncheon, and afterwards the will was to

be read. Already, Mr. Mountford being safely in his grave, covered with

wreaths of flowers which everybody had sent, the interest shifted, and

it was of this will and its probable revelations that everybody thought.

‘Have you any idea what it is?’ the Curate said; ‘you were in the house,

you must have heard something. It is inconceivable that a just man

should be turned into an unjust one by that power of making a will. He

was a good man,’ Charley added, with a little gulp of feeling. ‘I have

known him since I was _that_ high. He never talked very much about it,

but he never was hard upon anyone. I don’t think I ever knew him to be

hard on anyone. He said little, but I am sure he was a good man at

heart.’

Heathcote Mountford did not make any answer; he replied by another

question: ‘Mr. Douglas is a friend of yours, I hear?’

‘Oh, yes, he is a friend of mine: it was I--we are such fools--that

brought him. Just think--if it brings harm to Anne, as everybody seems

to believe--that I should have to reflect that _I_ brought him! I who

would cut off a hand!--I see you are thinking how strange it is that he

is not here.’

‘It is strange,’ Heathcote said.

‘Strange! strange is not the word. Why, even Willie is here: and he that

could have been of such use----. But we must remember that Anne has her

own ways of thinking,’ the Curate added. ‘He wrote half-a-dozen lines to

me to say that he was at her orders, that he could not act of himself.

Now, whether that meant that she had forbidden him to come--if so, there

is a reason at once.’

‘I don’t think I should have been inclined to take such a reason,’

Heathcote said.

The Curate sighed. How could he consider what he would have done in such

circumstances? he knew that he would not have stopped to consider. ‘You

don’t know Anne,’ he said: ‘one couldn’t go against her--no, certainly

one couldn’t go against her. If she said don’t come, you’d obey, whether

you liked it or not.’

‘I don’t think I should. I should do what I thought right without

waiting for anyone’s order. What! a woman that has suffered for you, not

to be there, not to be by, when she was in trouble! It is inconceivable.

Ashley, your friend must be a--he must be, let us say the least----’

‘Hush! I cannot hear any ill of him, he has always been my friend; and

Anne--do you think anything higher could be said of a man than that

Anne--you know what I mean.’

Heathcote was very sympathetic. He gave a friendly pressure to the arm

that had come to be linked in his as they went along. The Curate had not

been able to disburden his soul to anyone in these days past, when it

had been so sorely impressed upon him that, though he could work for

Anne, it was not his to stand by her and give her the truest support.

Heathcote was sympathetic, and yet he could scarcely help smiling within

himself at this good faithful soul, who, it was clear, had ventured to

love Anne too, and, though so faithful still, had an inward wonder that

it had been the other and not himself that had been chosen. The

looker-on could have laughed, though he was so sorry. Anne, after all,

he reflected, with what he felt to be complete impartiality, though only

a country girl, was not the sort of young woman to be appropriated by a

curate: that this good, heavy, lumbering fellow should sigh over her

choice of another, without seeing in a moment that he and such as he was

impossible! However, he pressed Charley’s arm in sympathy, even though

he could not refrain from this half derision in his heart.

‘He might have stayed at the rectory,’ Charley continued; ‘that is what

I proposed--of course he could not have gone to Mount without an

invitation. I had got his room all ready; I sent our old man up to meet

two trains. I never for a moment supposed--Willie, of course, never

thought twice. He came off from Cambridge as a matter of course.’

‘As any one would----’ said Heathcote.

‘Unless they had been specially forbidden to do it--there is always that

to be taken into account.’

Thus talking, they reached the house, where, though the blinds had been

drawn up, the gloom was still heavy. The servants were very solemn as

they served at table, moving as if in a procession, asking questions

about wine and bread in funereal whispers. Old Saymore’s eyes were red

and his hand unsteady. ‘Thirty years butler, and before that ten years

in the pantry,’ he said to everyone who would listen to him. ‘If I don’t

miss him, who should? and he was always the best of masters to me.’ But

the meal was an abundant meal, and there were not many people there

whose appetites were likely to be affected by what had happened. Mr.

Loseby, perhaps, was the one most deeply cast down, for he could not

help feeling that he had something to do with it, and that St. John

Mountford might still have been living had he not said that about the

words of an unjust will being nails in the coffin of the man who made

it. This recollection prevented him from enjoying his meal; but most of

the others enjoyed it. Many of the luxurious dainties prepared for the

ball supper appeared at this less cheerful table. The cook had thought

it a great matter, since there was no ball, that there was the funeral

luncheon when they could be eaten, for she could not bear waste. After

the luncheon most of the people went away; and it was but a small party

which adjourned into the room where Mr. Mountford had spent most of his

life, to hear the will read, to which everybody looked forward with

excitement. Except Heathcote and the Rector, and Mr. Loseby, there was

nobody present save the family. When Anne came, following her stepmother

and sister, who went first, clinging together, she saw Charley Ashley in

the hall, and called to him as she passed. ‘Come,’ she said softly,

holding out her hand to him, ‘I know you will be anxious--come and hear

how it is.’ He looked wistfully in her face, wondering if, perhaps, she

asked him because he was Cosmo’s friend; and perhaps Anne understood

what the look meant; he could not tell. She answered him quietly,

gravely. ‘You are our faithful friend--you have been like our brother.

Come and hear how it is.’ The Curate followed her in very submissively,

glad, yet almost incapable of the effort. Should he have to sit still

and hear her put down out of her natural place? When they were all

seated Mr. Loseby began, clearing his throat:

‘Our late dear friend, Mr. Mountford, made several wills. There is the

one of 1868 still in existence--it is not, I need scarcely say, the will

I am about to propound. It was made immediately after his second

marriage, and was chiefly in the interests of his eldest daughter, then

a child. The will I am about to read is of a very different kind. It is

one, I am bound to say, against which I thought it my duty to protest

warmly. Words passed between us then which were calculated to impair the

friendship which had existed between Mr. Mountford and myself all our

lives. He was, however, magnanimous. He allowed me to say my say, and he

did not resent it. This makes it much less painful to me than it might

have been to appear here in a room so associated with him, and make his

will known to you. I daresay this is all I need say, except that after

this will was executed, on the day indeed of his death, Mr. Mountford

gave to me in my office at Hunston two sealed packets, one addressed to

Miss Mountford and the other to myself, with a clause inserted on the

envelope to the effect that neither was to be opened till Miss Rose

should have attained her twenty-first birthday. I calculated accordingly

that they must have something to do with the will. Having said this, I

may proceed to read the will itself.’

The first part of the document contained nothing very remarkable. Many

of the ordinary little bequests, legacies to servants, one or two to

public institutions, and all that was to belong to his widow, were very

fully and clearly enumerated. The attention of the little company was

lulled as all this was read. There was nothing wonderful in it after

all. The commonplace is always comforting: it relieves the strained

attention far better than anything more serious or elevated. An

unconscious relief came to the minds of all. But Mr. Loseby’s voice grew

husky and excited when he came to what was the last paragraph--

‘All the rest of my property of every kind, including----[and here

there was an enumeration of the unentailed landed property and money in

various investments, all described] I leave to my eldest daughter, Anne

Mountford----.’ Here the reader made a little involuntary half-conscious

pause of excitement--and all the anxious people round him testified the

strain relieved, the wonder satisfied, and yet a new rising of wonder

and pleasant disappointment. What did it mean? why then had their

interest been thus raised, to be brought, to nothing? Everything, then,

was Anne’s after all! There was a stir in which the next words would

have been lost altogether, but for a louder clearing of the voice on the

part of the reader, calling as it seemed for special attention. He

raised his hand evidently with the same object. ‘I leave,’ he repeated,

‘to my eldest daughter, Anne Mountford--in trust for her sister,

Rose----’

Mrs. Mountford, who had been seated in a heap in her chair, a mountain

of crape, had roused up at the first words. She raised herself up in her

chair forgetful of her mourning, not believing her ears; ‘To Anne!’ she

said under her breath in strange dismay. Had it meant nothing then? Had

all this agitation both on her own part and on that of her husband, who

was gone, come to nothing, meant nothing? She had suffered much, Mrs.

Mountford remembered now. She had been very unhappy; feeling deeply the

injustice which she supposed was being done to Anne, even though she

knew that Rose was to get the advantage--but now, to think that Rose had

no advantage and Anne everything! So many things can pass through the

mind in a single moment. She regretted her own regrets, her

remonstrances with him (which she exaggerated), the tears she had shed,

and her compunctions about Anne. All for nothing. What had he meant by

it? Why had he filled her with such wild hopes to be all brought to

nothing? The tears dried up in a moment. She faced Mr. Loseby with a

scared pale face, resolving that, whatever happened, she would contest

this will, and declare it to be a falsehood, a mistake. Then she, like

all the others, was stopped by the cough with which Mr. Loseby

recommenced, by the lifting of his finger. ‘Ah!’ she said unconsciously;

and then among all these listening, wondering people, fell the other

words like thunderbolts out of the skies, ‘in trust--for her sister,

Rose----’ They sat and listened all in one gasp of suspended breathing,

of eagerness beyond the power of description; but no one took in the

words that followed. Anne was to have an income of five hundred a year

charged on the property till Rose attained her twenty-first year. Nobody

paid any attention to this--nobody heard it even, so great grew the

commotion; they began to talk and whimper among themselves before the

reader had stopped speaking. Anne to be set aside, and yet employed,

made into a kind of steward of her own patrimony for her sister’s

benefit; it was worse than disinheritance, it was cruelty. The Rector

turned round to whisper to Heathcote, and Rose flung her arms about her

mother. The girl was bewildered. ‘What does it mean? what does it mean?’

she cried. ‘What is that about Anne--and me?’

‘Mr. Loseby,’ the Rector said, with a trembling voice, ‘this cannot be

so: there must be some mistake. Our dear friend, whom we have buried

to-day, was a good man; he was a just man. It is not possible; there

must be some mistake.’

‘Mistake! I drew it out myself,’ Mr. Loseby said. ‘You will not find any

mistake in it. There was a mistake in his own mind. I don’t say anything

against that; but in the will there’s no mistake. I wish there was. I

would drive a coach and six through it if I could; but it’s all fast and

strong. Short of a miracle, nobody will break that will--though I

struggled against it. He was as obstinate as a mule, as they all

are--all the Mountfords.’

‘Mr. Loseby,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘I did not approve any more than you

did. It was not any doing of mine. I protested against it; but my

husband--my husband had his reasons.’

‘There are no reasons that could justify this,’ said the tremulous old

Rector; ‘it is a shame and a sin; it ought not to be. When a man’s will

is all wrong, the survivors should agree to set it right. It should not

be left like that; it will bring a curse upon all who have anything to

do with it,’ said the old man, who was so timid and so easily abashed.

‘I am not a lawyer. I don’t know what the law will permit; but the

Gospel does not permit such injustice as this.’

Mr. Loseby had pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and listened

with an astonishment which was tinctured first with awe, then with

amusement. The old Rector, feeblest of men and preachers! The lawyer

gazed at him as at a curiosity of nature. It was a fine thing in its

way. But to attack a will of his, John Loseby’s! He smiled at the folly,

though he sympathised with the courage. After all, the old fellow had