FRANK AND THE WILL.
Frank knew she had found the will, but he did not at all realize the
effect which the finding of it would have upon his future. He had not
read it like Magdalen,—he did not know that by virtue of what was
recorded there, he, and not Roger, was the heir of Millbank. He only
knew that Magdalen lay unconscious at his feet, her white forehead
touching his boot, and one of her hands clutching at his knee where it
had fallen when she raised it imploringly toward him, with a pleading
word for Roger. To lift her in his arms and bear her to the window,
which he opened so that the wind and rain might fall upon her face and
neck, was the work of an instant; and then, still supporting her upon
his shoulder, he rubbed and chafed her pale fingers and pushed her hair
back from her face, and bent over her with loving, anxious words, which
she did not hear and would scarcely have heeded if she had. Gradually as
the rain beat upon her face she came back to consciousness, and with a
cry tried to free herself from Frank’s embrace. But he held her fast,
while he asked what was the matter,—what had she found or seen to affect
her so powerfully?
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you read it?” she gasped; and Frank replied,
“No, Magdalen, I have not read it. My first care was for you,—always for
you, darling.”
She freed herself from him then, and struggling to her feet stood before
him with dilating nostrils and flashing eyes. She knew that the tone of
his voice meant _love_,—love for her who had refused it once,—aye, who
would refuse it a thousand times more now than she had before. He could
not have Millbank and her too. There was no Will on earth which had
power to take her from Roger and give her to Frank, and by some subtle
intuition Magdalen recognized for a moment all she was to Roger, and
felt that possibly he would prefer poverty with her to wealth without
her; just as a crust shared with him would be sweeter to her than the
daintiest luxury shared with Frank, who had called her his darling and
who would rival Roger in everything. Magdalen could have stamped her
foot in her rage that Frank should presume to think of love then and
there, when he must know what it was she had found for him,—what it was
he held in his hand. And here she wronged him; for he did not at all
realize his position, and he looked curiously at her, wondering to see
her so excited.
“Are you angry, Magdalen?” he asked. “What has happened to affect you
so? Tell me. I don’t understand it at all.”
Then Magdalen _did_ stamp her foot, and coming close to him, said,
“Don’t drive me mad with your stupidity, Frank Irving. You know as well
as I that I have found what when a child you once asked me to search
for,—you to whom Roger was so kind,—you, who would deal so treacherously
with Roger in his own house; and I promised I would do it,—I, who was
ten times worse than you. I was a beggar whom Roger took in, and I’ve
wounded the hand that fed me. I have found the will; but, Frank Irving,
if I had guessed what it contained I would have plucked out both my eyes
before they should have looked for it. You deceived me. You said it gave
you a _part_,—only a part. You told me false, and I hate you for it.”
She was mad now with her excitement, which increased as she raved on,
and she looked so white and terrible, with the fire flashing out in
gleams from her dark eyes, that Frank involuntarily shrank back from her
at first, and kept out of reach of the hands which made so fierce
gestures toward him as if they would do him harm. Then as he began to
recover himself, and from her words get some inkling of the case, he
drew her gently to him, saying as he did so, “Magdalen, you wrong me
greatly. Heaven is my witness that I always meant to give you the same
impression of the will which I received from my mother, though really
and truly I never had much idea that there was one, and am as much
astonished to find there is as you can be. I have not read it yet, and I
am not responsible for what there is in it. I knew nothing of it, had
nothing to do with it; please don’t blame me for what I could not help.”
There was reason in what he said, and Magdalen saw it, and softened
toward him as she replied, “Forgive me, Frank, if in my excitement I
said things which sounded harshly, and blamed you for what you could not
help. But, oh! Frank, I am _so_ sorry for Roger, poor Roger. Say that
you won’t wrong him. Be merciful; be kind to him as he has been to you.”
Frank’s perceptions were not very acute, but he would have been indeed a
fool if in what Magdalen said he had failed to detect a deeper interest
in Roger than he had thought existed. He did detect it, and a fierce
pang of jealousy shot through his heart as he began to see what the
obstacle was which stood between himself and Magdalen.
“I do not understand why you should be so distressed about Roger, or beg
of _me_ to be merciful,” he said; but Magdalen interrupted him with a
gesture of impatience.
“Read that paper and you will know what I mean. You will see that it
makes Roger a beggar, and gives you all his fortune. He has
nothing,—nothing comparatively.”
Frank understood her now. He knew before that the lost will was found,
and he supposed that possibly he shared equally with Roger, but he never
dreamed that to him was given all, and to Roger nothing; and as Magdalen
finished speaking he opened the paper nervously and read it through,
while she sat watching him, her eyes growing blacker and brighter and
more defiant, as she fancied she saw a half-pleased expression flit
across his face when he read that _he_ was the lawful heir of Millbank.
He had been defrauded of his rights for years, had murmured against his
poverty and his dependence, and thought hard things of the old man in
his grave who had left him only five thousand dollars. But that was over
now. Poverty and dependence were things of the past. The old man in his
grave had willed to Frank, his beloved grandchild, all his property
except a few legacies similar to those in the older will, and the paltry
sum left to “the boy known as Roger Lennox Irving.” That was the way it
was worded, not “My son Roger,” but “the boy known as Roger Lennox
Irving.” To him was bequeathed the sum of Five Thousand dollars, and the
farm among the New Hampshire hills known as the “Morton” place. That was
all Roger’s inheritance, and it is not strange that Frank sat for a
moment speechless. Had he shared equally with Roger he would not have
been surprised; but why he should have the whole and Roger nothing, he
did not understand. The injustice of the thing struck him at first quite
as forcibly as it did Magdalen, and more to himself than her, he said,
“There must be some mistake. My grandfather would never have done this
thing in his right mind. Where did you find it, Magdalen?”
He did not seem elated, as she feared he might. She had done him
injustice, and with far more toleration than she had felt for him at
first, Magdalen told him where she had found it and why she chanced to
look there, and pointed to the signatures of Hester and Aleck Floyd as
witnesses to the will.
“Hester hid it,” she said, “because she knew it was unjust, and it was
the fear of its being found which troubled her so much.”
“That is probable,” Frank rejoined; “but still I can see no reason for
my grandfather’s cutting Roger off with a mere pittance. It is cruel. It
is unjust.”
“Oh, Frank,” Magdalen cried, and the tears which glittered in her eyes
softened the fiery expression they had worn a few moments before.
“Forgive me; I was harsh towards you at first, but now I know you mean
to do right. You _will_, Frank. You certainly _will_ do right.”
Magdalen had recovered her powers of speech and she talked rapidly,
begging Frank to be generous with Roger, to leave him Millbank, to let
him stay in the beautiful home he loved so much. “Think of all he has
done for you,” she said, clasping her hands upon his arm and looking at
him with eyes from which the tears were dropping fast. “Were you his son
he could hardly have done more; and he has been so kind to me,—me who
have requited his kindness so cruelly. Oh, Roger, Roger, I would give my
life to spare him this blow!”
She covered her face with her hands, while Frank sat regarding her
intently, his affection for her at that moment mastering every other
emotion and making him indifferent to the great fortune which had so
suddenly come to him. Love for Magdalen was the strongest sentiment of
which he was capable, and it was intensified with the suspicion that
Roger was preferred to himself. He could interpret her distress and
concern for his uncle in no other way. Gratitude alone could never have
affected her as she was affected, and Frank’s heart throbbed with
jealousy and fear and intense desire to secure Magdalen for himself.
There had been a momentary feeling of exultation when he thought of his
poverty as a thing of the past, but Magdalen’s love was worth more to
him than a dozen Millbanks, and in his excitement no sacrifice seemed
too great which would secure it.
“Oh, Roger, Roger, I would give my life to spare him this blow!”
Magdalen had cried; and with these words still ringing in his ears,
Frank said to her at last, “Magdalen, you need not give your life; there
is a far easier way by which Roger can be spared the pain of knowing
that Millbank is not his. He never need to know of this will; no one
need to know of it but ourselves,—you and me, Magdalen. We will keep the
secret together, shall we?”
Magdalen had lifted up her head, and was listening to him with an eager,
wistful expression in her face, which encouraged him to go on.
“But, Magdalen, my silence must have its price, and that price is
_yourself_!”
She started from him then as if he had stung her, but soon resumed her
former attitude, and listened while he continued:
“I asked you once, and you refused me, and I meant to try and abide by
your decision, but I cannot give you up; and when I found that Roger
favored my suit and would be glad if you could give me a favorable
answer, I resolved to try again, and came home this very afternoon with
that object in view.”
Frank stopped abruptly, struck with the look of anguish and pain and
surprise which crept into Magdalen’s eyes as he spoke of “Roger’s
favoring his suit.”
“Roger consent; oh no, not that. Roger never wished that,” Magdalen
exclaimed, in a voice full of bitter disappointment. “Did Roger wish it,
Frank? _Did_ he say so, sure?”
Few men, seeing Magdalen moved as she was then, would have urged their
own claims upon her; but Frank was different from most men. He had set
his hopes on Magdalen, and he must win her, and the more obstacles he
found in his way the more he was resolved to succeed. He would not see
the love for Roger which was so apparent in all Magdalen said and did.
He would ignore that altogether, and he replied, “Most certainly he
wishes it, or he would not have given his consent for me to speak to you
again. I talked with him about it the last thing this morning before he
started for New York. Did I tell you he had gone there? He has, and
expects it to be settled before his return. I am well aware that this is
not the time or place for love-making, but your great desire to spare
Roger from a knowledge of the will wrung from me what otherwise I would
have said at another time. Magdalen, I have always loved you, from the
morning I put you in your candle-box and knelt before you as my
princess. You were the sweetest baby I ever saw. You have ripened into
the loveliest woman, and I want you for my wife. I have wanted money
badly, but now that I have it, I will gladly give it all for you. Only
say that you will be mine, and I’ll burn this paper before your eyes,
and swear to you solemnly that not a word regarding it shall ever pass
my lips. Shall I do it?”
Magdalen was not looking at him now. When he assured her of Roger’s
consent to woo her for himself, and that he “expected it to be settled
before his return,” she had turned her face away to hide the bitter pain
she knew was written upon it. She had been terribly mistaken. She had
believed that Roger cared for her, and the knowing that he did not, that
he could even give his consent for her to marry _Frank_, was more than
she could bear, and she felt for a moment as if every ray of happiness
had, within the last hour, been stricken from her life.
“Shall I do it? only speak the word, and every trace of the will shall
be destroyed.”
That was what Frank said to her a second time, and then Magdalen turned
slowly toward him, but made him no reply. She scarcely realized what he
was asking, or what he meant to do, as he took a match from his pocket
and struck it across the floor. Gradually a ring of smoke came curling
up and floated toward Magdalen, who sat like a stone gazing fixedly at
the burning match, which Frank held near to the paper.
“Tell me, Magdalen, will you be my wife, if I burn the will?” he asked
again; and then Magdalen answered him, “Oh, Frank, don’t tempt me thus.
How can I? Oh, Roger, Roger!”
She was beginning to waver, and Frank saw it, and too much excited
himself to know what he was doing, held the match so near the paper that
it began to scorch, and in a moment more would have been in a blaze.
Then Magdalen came to herself, and struck the match from Frank’s hand,
and snatching the paper from him, said, vehemently, “You must not do it.
Roger would not suffer it, if he knew. Roger is honorable, Roger is
just. _I_ found the paper, Frank. _I_ will carry it to Roger, and tell
him it was I who ruined him. I will beg for his forgiveness, and then go
away and die, so I cannot witness his fall.”
She had risen to her feet, and was leaving the garret, but Frank held
her back. He could not part with her thus; he could not risk the
probable consequences of her going to Roger, as she had said she would.
But one result could follow such a step, and that result was death to
all Frank most desired. Millbank weighed as nothing when compared with
Magdalen, and Frank made her listen to him again, and worked upon her
pity for Roger until, worried and bewildered, and half-crazed with
excitement, she cried out, “I’ll think about it, Frank. I will love you,
if I can. Give me a week in which to decide; but let me go now, or I
shall surely die.”
She tore herself from him, and was hurrying down the stairs with the
will grasped in her hands, when suddenly she stopped, and, offering it
to Frank, said to him, “Put it under the floor where I found it. Let it
stay there till the week is up.”
There was hope in what she said, and Frank hastened to do her bidding,
and then went softly down the stairs, and passed unobserved through the
hall out into the rain, which seemed so grateful to him after his recent
excitement. He did not care to meet his mother just then, and so he
quietly left the house, and walked rapidly down the avenue toward the
village, intending to strike into the fields and go back to Millbank at
the usual dinner hour, so as to excite no suspicions.
To say that Frank felt no elation at the thought of Millbank belonging
to him, would be wrong; for, as he walked along, he was conscious of a
new and pleasant feeling of importance, mingled with a feeling that he
was very magnanimous, too, and was doing what few men in his position
would have done.
“All mine, if I choose to claim it,” he said to himself once, as he
paused on a little knoll and looked over the broad acres of the Irving
estate, which stretched far back from the river toward the eastern
hills. “All mine, if I choose to have it so.”
Then he looked away to the huge mill upon the river, the shoe-shop
farther on, and thought of the immense revenue they yielded, and then
his eye came back to Millbank proper,—the handsome house, embowered in
trees, with its velvety lawn and spacious grounds, and its ease and
luxury within. “All his,” unless he chose to throw it away for a girl,
who did not love him, and who, he believed, preferred Roger and poverty
and toil, to luxury and Millbank and himself. Had he believed otherwise,
had no suspicion of her preference for Roger entered his mind, he might
have hesitated a moment ere deciding to give up the princely fortune
which had come so suddenly to him. But the fact that she was hard to win
only enhanced her value, and he resolutely shut his eyes to the
sacrifice he was making for her sake, and thought instead how he would
work for her, deny himself for her, and become all that her husband
ought to be.
“She _shall_ love me better than she loves Roger. She shall never regret
her choice if she decides for me,” he said, as he went back to the
house, which he reached just as dinner was announced.
Mrs. Walter Scott had not seen him when he first came home in the
afternoon, but she saw him leave the house and hurry down the avenue,
while something in his manner indicated an unusual degree of
perturbation and excitement A few moments later she found Magdalen in
her own room, lying upon the sofa, her face as white as marble, and her
eyes wearing so scared a look that she was greatly alarmed, and asked
what was the matter.
“A headache; it came on suddenly,” Magdalen said, while her lip quivered
and her eyes filled with tears, which ran down her cheeks in torrents,
as Mrs. Irving bent to kiss her, smoothing her forehead and saying to
her, “Poor child, you look as if you were suffering so much. I wish I
could help you. Can I?”
“No, nobody can help me,—nobody. Oh, is it a sin to wish I had never
been born?” was Magdalen’s reply, which confirmed Mrs. Walter Scott in
her suspicion that Frank had something to do with her distress.
Frank had spoken again and been refused, and they might lose the hundred
thousand after all. Mrs. Walter Scott could not afford to lose it. She
had formed too many plans which were all depending upon it to see it
pass from her without an effort to keep it, and bringing a little stool
to Magdalen’s side, she sat down by her and began to caress, and pity,
and soothe her, and at last said to her, “Excuse me, darling, but I am
almost certain that Frank has had more or less to do with your headache.
I know he has been here; did you see him?”
Magdalen made no reply, only her tears fell faster, and she turned her
face away from the lady, who continued, in her softest, kindest manner,
“My poor boy, I know all about it; can’t you love him? Try, darling, for
my sake as well as his. We could be so happy together. Tell me what you
said to him.”
“No, no, not now. Please don’t talk to me now. I am so miserable,” was
Magdalen’s reply, and with that Mrs. Walter Scott was obliged to be
content, until she found herself alone with her son at the dinner table.
Dismissing the servant the moment dessert was brought in, she asked him
abruptly “what had transpired between him and Magdalen to affect her so
strangely.”
Frank’s face was very pale, and he betrayed a good deal of agitation as
he asked in turn what Magdalen herself had said.
He had a kind of intuition that if his mother knew of the will, no power
on earth could keep her quiet. He believed she liked Magdalen, but he
knew she liked money better; and he was alarmed lest she should discover
his secret, and be the instrument of his losing what seemed more and
more desirable as one obstacle after another was thrown in his way.
Mrs. Irving repeated all that had passed between herself and Magdalen,
and then Frank breathed more freely, and told on his part what he
thought necessary to tell.
“Magdalen had been a good deal excited,” he said, “and had asked for a
week in which to consider the matter, and he had granted it. And
mother,” he added, “please let her alone, and not bother her with
questions, and don’t mention me to her above all things. ’Twill spoil
everything.”
Frank had finished his pudding by this time, and without waiting for his
mother’s answer he left the dining room and went at once to his own
chamber, where he passed the entire evening, thinking of the strange
discovery which had been made, wondering what Magdalen’s final decision
would be, and occasionally sending a feeling of longing and regret after
the fortune he was giving up.