THE WILL.
Sara Davenal in her sick restlessness was early in the
breakfast-room. The disappointment touching her brother was weighing
down her heart. Since the arrival of the unsatisfactory note the
previous evening, she had felt a conviction similar to Dr. Davenal's,
that Edward would not come. Neither had spoken of it to the other;
great griefs cannot be talked of; and to Sara this was a grief
inexpressible. It seemed that she would give half her remaining years
of life for only one five minutes' interview with him.
If he came at all he would come today, Friday; and she got up, hoping
against hope; saying to herself aloud, in contradiction to the fear
lying upon her heart, and which she _would not_ glance at, "He will be
sure to come; he will never embark on that long voyage without first
coming. He will remember Richard's fate." For the time being, the
eager anxiety to see him almost seemed to deaden that other trouble
which lay within her--the trouble that had taken possession of her on
the Sunday night, never again to quit its tenement.
"Is the post in?" asked Dr. Davenal, as he entered the breakfast-room.
"No, it is not made," sharply replied Miss Davenal from her presiding
place at the table. "Neal has but this minute brought in the urn. I am
making it quickly as I can."
"I asked whether the post was in, Bettina. Because, if Edward is not
coming, I should think there'd be a letter from him."
Sara looked up eagerly. "Don't you hope he will come, papa? Don't you
think he will?"
"Well, Sara, after his letter of last night, my hopes upon the point
are not very strong."
"O papa! I want to see him! I must see him before he sails."
"Hush, child!" She had spoken in a distressed tone, and her small
white hands were trembling. "Agitating yourself will not bring him."
By and by the letters came in: two. Neal handed one to his master, the
other to Sara. Both bore the same handwriting--Captain Davenal's.
Sara, in her bitter disappointment, let hers lie by her plate
untouched, but the doctor opened his.
Miss Bettina looked up. "Is he coming, Richard?"
"No. He says he can't come. That it is an impossibility."
"What else does he say?"
Dr. Davenal folded his letter and put it in his pocket, to read at his
leisure. "Ask Sara what he says," was his answer, "All the gossip is
in hers."
"And this is what he calls affection!" exclaimed Miss Bettina. "To
leave his native land, his home, without a farewell! That's gratitude!
Richard Davenal, were I you, he should carry out my displeasure with
him."
"I don't know," said the doctor, his voice sadly subdued. "Send out
displeasure with one whom we may never see again! No, Bettina. And it
may be as he says--that he is unable to come."
He was looking straight before him as he spoke it, in a far-off,
dreamy gaze. His thoughts had flown to one who had gone out under a
sort of displeasure, gone out but for a short time--and had never come
home again.
The hour for the funeral approached, and the doctor in his black
attire stepped into his close carriage to be conveyed to the residence
of Lady Oswald. He found all the mourners assembled, for he was late,
with the exception of Mark Cray. Sir Philip Oswald and his eldest son;
Oswald Cray; the Reverend Mr. Stephenson and his brother Mr. Joseph
Stephenson. All were there, now the doctor had come, except Mark. The
funeral was to be at the church at eleven.
The time went on. The hearse and mourning coaches stood before the
door, the horses restless. It was close upon eleven.
"For whom do we wait?" inquired Sir Philip Oswald.
"For Mr. Cray, Sir Philip," answered the undertaker, who was gliding
about, handing gloves and fixing hatbands.
"Mr. Cray?" repeated Sir Philip, as though he did not understand who
Mr. Cray was.
"Lady Oswald's late medical attendant, Sir Philip, in conjunction with
Dr. Davenal."
"Oh--ah--yes," said Sir Philip. He was very friendly with Dr. Davenal,
exceedingly so; and condescended not to ignore Mr. Cray as the
doctor's partner. It was the first time that Oswald had ever been in a
room with Sir Philip. Sir Philip had bowed to him coldly enough upon
his entrance, but the son, Henry Oswald, went up to him and held out
his hand in a cordial manner. Oswald, haughtily self-possessed, stood
before Sir Philip with his impassive face, looking more of a gentleman
than the baronet did.
The clock struck eleven. "I suppose Mr. Cray _is_ coming?" remarked
Sir Philip.
He looked at Dr. Davenal. The doctor supposed he was coming as a
matter of course: he believed he was coming. He had not seen Mr. Cray
that morning.
It was suggested by the undertaker that they should proceed. Mr. Cray,
he observed, would possibly join them at the church; he might have
been kept back unexpectedly.
So the funeral started. All that remained of poor Lady Oswald was
carried out of her house, never more to return to it. Not a week ago
yet, on that past Saturday morning, she had gone forth in health and
strength, and now--there! What a lessen it told of the uncertainty of
life!
The funeral made its way through lines of curious gazers to the
church. Mark Cray was not there, and the service was performed without
him. At its conclusion the gentlemen returned to the house.
A lawyer from a neighbouring town, Lady Oswald's legal adviser, was
there with the will, and they were invited to enter and hear the will
read.
"It cannot concern me," remarked Sir Philip. Nevertheless he went in.
"And I am sure it cannot concern me," added Oswald.
The clergyman, Mr. Stephenson, looked up with a crimson hectic
on his cheek. It was next to impossible to mistake his eager
glance--betraying the hope within him, sure and steadfast, that it did
concern him. In point of fact he and that gentleman by his side, his
brother, had the chief right to any money she might have left. It may
be said the sole right. How they needed it their threadbare clothes
and sunken cheeks betrayed. Gentlemen born, they had to keep up an
appearance before the world; at least, they strove to keep it. But
they were weary with the struggle. The brother was of no particular
profession. He had been reared for the church and could never get to
college, and he contrived to make a living--that is, he contrived not
to starve--by writing articles for any paper or periodical that could
be persuaded into taking them. Each was of good repute in the world,
bearing up manfully and doing the best he could do with his lot,
sanguinely hoping, humbly trusting, that time would better it. They
each had a large family, and indulged the vain and wild hope of
bringing up their sons as gentlemen, as they themselves had been
brought up. Not as gentlemen in the matter of abstaining from labour;
that would have been foolish; but they hoped to bring them up educated
men, capable of doing their duty in any walk of life they might be
called to. How they had looked forward to the prospect of some time
possessing this money of Lady Oswald's, their hearts alone knew. If
ever the excuse for cherishing such a wish could be pleaded, it surely
might be by them.
"I suppose these people, the Stephensons, will chiefly inherit what
she has left," whispered the baronet's son confidentially to Oswald
Cray. "Perhaps you know? You have seen a good deal of Lady Oswald, I
believe."
"I don't at all know how her affairs are left," was the reply of
Oswald Cray.
"I should think they will inherit," continued Mr. Oswald. "Shouldn't
you?"
"I should think--yes--I---should think they will. Being her only
relatives, they have undoubtedly the greatest right to do so."
Why did Oswald Cray hesitate in his answer?--he so generally decisive
of speech. Because in the very moment that the acquiescence was
leaving his lips there flashed over his mind the words spoken to him
by Lady Oswald the previous Saturday. He had not understood those
words at the time, did not understand them now: but if he could
interpret them at all, they certainly did not point to her nephews,
the brothers Stephenson. He remembered them well: at least, their
substance. "When my will comes to be read, you may feel surprised at
its contents. You may deem that you had more legal claim upon me than
he who will inherit: I do not think so. He to whom my money is left
has most claim in my judgment: I am happy to know that he will be
rewarded, and he knows it."
Not a week ago! not a week ago that she had said it. How little did
Oswald foresee that he should so soon be called upon to hear that will
read!
But still the words did not seem to point to either of her nephews,
with whom she had not lived on any terms of friendship, and Oswald
began to feel a little curious as to the inheritor.
They were waiting for the lawyer, who had not yet come into the room.
He might be getting the will. His name was Wedderburn, a stout man
with a pimpled face. Sir Philip Oswald had a pimpled face too; but he
was not stout; he was as thin and as tall as a lath.
Dr. Davenal took out his watch. He found it later than he thought, and
turned to Sir Philip.
"I cannot remain longer," he said. "I have a consultation at half-past
twelve, and must not miss it. I am not wanted here: there's nothing
for me to stay for: so I'll wish you good-morning."
"For that matter, I don't see that any of us are wanted," responded
Sir Philip. "I'm sure I am not. Good-morning, doctor."
Nodding his salutation to the room generally, the doctor went out.
Soon afterwards Mr. Wedderburn made his appearance, the will in his
hand, which he prepared to read. Clearing his voice, he threw his eyes
round the room, as if to see that his audience were ready. The absence
of one appeared then to strike him, and he pushed his spectacles to
the top of his brow and gazed again.
"Where's Dr. Davenal?"
"He is gone," replied Sir Philip Oswald.
"Gone!" repeated the lawyer, in consternation. "Why--he--Dr. Davenal
should have stopped, of all people."
"He said he had a consultation. What does it signify?"
"Well, Sir Philip, he--at any rate, I suppose there's no help for it
now. It must be read without him."
Not one present but looked at the lawyer with surprise, not one but
thought him a strangely punctilious man to suppose Dr. Davenal's
presence, as Lady Oswald's medical man and attendant at her funeral,
was in any degree essential to the reading of Lady Oswald's will. They
soon learned the cause.
First of all, the will bequeathed a few legacies. Very small ones.
Twenty pounds to each of her servants; forty pounds and all her
clothes to Parkins; fifty pounds each to her nephews John and Joseph
Stephenson, with the furniture of her house to be divided between them
"amicably;" a beautiful diamond ring and a little plate to Oswald
Oswald Cray; the rest of the plate, by far the most valuable portion,
to Sir Philip Oswald of Thorndyke; and another diamond ring to Dr.
Richard Davenal. So far, so good: but now came the disposal of the
bulk of her money. It was bequeathed, the whole of it, to Dr. Davenal,
"my faithful friend and medical attendant for so many years."
The will was remarkably short, taking but a few minutes in the
reading; and at its conclusion Mr. Wedderburn laid it open on the
table that anybody might look at it who chose.
It would be difficult to say which of the countenances around him
exhibited the greatest surprise. The lawyer's voice died away in a
deep silence. It was broken by the clergyman, the Reverend John
Stephenson.
"It is not just! It is not just!"
The wailing tone, not of passion or anger but of meek despair, struck
upon them all, and told how bitter was the disappointment. Every heart
in the room echoed the cry, the lawyer's probably excepted. Lawyers,
as a whole, don't think much of justice. This one took out his
snuffbox and inhaled a pinch with equanimity.
"I am ready to answer questions, should any gentleman wish to put
them. It was Lady Oswald's desire that I should. When this will was
made she said to me, 'Some of them will be for making a fuss,
Wedderburn; you can explain my motives if they care to hear them.'
Those motives lay in this; her ladyship knew her health and comfort to
have been so materially benefited of late years by the skill and
kindness of Dr. Davenal, that she considered it her duty in gratitude
to reward him."
"Nevertheless it is not just," murmured the poor clergyman again. "Dr.
Davenal does not want the money as we want it."
Oswald Cray awoke as from a dream. He took a step forward and
addressed the lawyer. "Did Dr. Davenal know that the money was left to
him?"
"I am unable to say, sir. Lady Oswald may have told him, or she may
not. He did not know it from me."
Oswald Cray said no more. He leaned against the window, half-hidden by
the curtain, and plunged into thought.
"Well, I must say I am surprised," remarked Sir Philip. "Not but that
Lady Oswald had a perfect right to do as she pleased with her money,
and she might have signalled out a less worthy man as inheritor. How
much is the amount, Mr. Wedderburn? Do you know?"
"Somewhere between six and seven thousand pounds, I believe, Sir
Philip. It would have been considerably more, but that her ladyship, a
few years ago, was persuaded by an evil counsellor to sell out a large
sum from the funds and invest elsewhere, for the sake of better
interest."
"And she lost it?"
"Every shilling," replied the lawyer, with satisfaction: for it was
done without his concurrence. "She would have had double the money to
leave behind her but for that."
"Ah!" Sir Philip spoke the monosyllable shortly, and dropped the
point. Not so very long ago _he_ had been seduced to invest money in
some grand and very plausible scheme--one of those to be heard of
daily, promising a fortune in twelve months at the most--and he had
burnt his fingers. The topic, consequently, was not palatable to his
ears.
"Ask him how long this will has been made, John," whispered the
literary man to his brother. Of a retiring timid nature himself, he
rarely spoke but when he was obliged, and he shrank from putting the
question. The clergyman obeyed, and the lawyer pointed to the date of
the will.
"Only in April last. Lady Oswald was fond of making wills. Some people
are so. I have made her, I should think, half-a-dozen, if I have made
one."
"And the bulk of the money was always left to Dr. Davenal?"
"O dear no. It never was left to him until this last was made."
"Was I--were we--was it ever left to us?" asked the poor clergyman,
tremblingly.
"Yes it was," replied Mr. Wedderburn. "I don't see why I should not
avow it. It can't make any difference, one way or the other. In the
first will she ever made after Sir John's death it was left to you.
And in the last will preceding this, it was again left to you. Once it
was left"--the lawyer looked towards the window--"to Mr. Oswald Cray."
Oswald gave his shoulders a haughty shrug. "I should never have
accepted the legacy," he said in a distinct, deliberate tone. "I had
no claim whatever to Lady Oswald's money, and should not have taken
it."
Henry Oswald laughed; a pleasant, cordial laugh, as he turned to
Oswald. "You don't know, Mr. Oswald Cray. We are all so ready to be
chivalrous in theory: but when it comes to practice--the best of us
are apt to fall off."
"True," quietly remarked Oswald: but he did not pursue the theme.
There was nothing more to be said or done then. Of what profit to
remain talking of the wills that had been, while the present one was
before them and must be put in force? Sir Philip made the first move;
he went out, taking a formal leave; Henry Oswald with a more cordial
one. Oswald Cray was the next to leave. He shook hands with the
brothers, and spoke a few kind words of sympathy for their
disappointment.
"It is the disappointment of a life," replied the clergyman in a low
tone. "Our struggle has been continued long; and we had--there's no
denying it--looked forward to this. It is a hard trial when relatives
find themselves passed over for strangers."
"It is, it is;" said Oswald Cray. "I could wish Lady Oswald had been
more mindful of legitimate claims."
As he was going out, Parkins waylaid him in her new mourning. "There
will be a dinner ready at five o'clock, sir. Would you be pleased to
stay for it?"
"Not today," replied Oswald.