Sir Vernon’s Will
“All of us here,” began Sir Vernon, with a well-satisfied look round
the table, “are such good friends that we can be absolutely frank one
with another. I am an old man; and I expect that almost all of you
have at one time or another wondered—I put it bluntly—what you will
get when I die. It is very natural that you should do so; and I have
come to the conclusion that you had better know exactly how you stand.
Carter here has, of course, as my legal adviser, known from the first
what is in my will; and now I want all of you to know, in order that
you may expect neither too much nor too little. I fear I am still a
moderately healthy old man, or so my doctor tells me, and you may,
therefore, still have some time to wait; but at my age it is well to
be prepared, and I felt that you ought not to be left any longer in
the dark.”
At this point several of Sir Vernon’s auditors attempted to speak, but
he waved them into silence.
“No, let me have my say without telling me what I know already,” he
continued. “I know that you would tell me truly that nothing is
further from your thoughts than to wish me out of the way. It is not
because I am in any doubt on that head that I am speaking to you; but
because this is a business matter, and it is well to know in advance
what one’s prospects are. Listen to me, then, and I will tell you, as
far as I can, exactly how the thing stands.
“To several of you I have already made substantial gifts. You, John,
and you, George, have each received £50,000 in shares of the Company.
You, Joan, have £10,000 worth of shares standing in your name. These
sums are apart from my will, and the bequests which I propose to make
are in addition to these.
“As nearly as Carter here can tell me, I am now worth, on a
conservative estimate, some eight or nine hundred thousand pounds.
Carter works it out that, when all death duties have been paid, there
will be at least £600,000 to be divided among you. In apportioning my
property I have worked on the basis of this sum. I have divided it,
first, into two portions—£100,000 for smaller legacies, and £500,000
to be shared by my residuary legatees.
“First, let me tell you my smaller bequests, which concern most of
you. To you, Lucas, my oldest and closest friend, I have left nothing
but a few personal mementoes. You have enough already; and it is at
your express wish that I do as I have done. To my young friend and
your ward, Ellery, I leave £5000. I understand that he will have
enough when you die; but this sum may be welcome to him if, as I
expect, I am the first to go. To you, Carter, I leave £20,000. You,
too, have ample means; but our close connection and the work you have
done so well for me and for the Company call for recognition. To Mrs.
Carter—to you, Helen—I have left no money—you will share in what your
husband receives—but I will show you later the jewels which will be
yours when I die. To you, Mary, who, with Joan, have lived with me and
cared for me, I leave £20,000, enough to make you independent. There
are but two more of my smaller legacies I need mention. The rest are
either to servants or to charitable institutions. But you all know
that, for many years past, I have not been on good terms with my
brother Walter. I have no mind, since I have other relatives who are
far dearer to me, to leave him another fortune to squander like the
last; but I am leaving in trust for him the sum of £10,000, of which
he will receive the income during his life. On his death, the sum will
pass to my dear niece, Joan, to whom I shall also leave absolutely the
sum of £40,000. This, with the £10,000 which she had already, will
make her independent, but not rich.
“You may be surprised, Joan, that I leave you no more; but, when I
tell you of my principal bequests, you will understand the reason. The
residue, then, of my property, amounting to at least £500,000, I leave
equally between my two nephews, John Prinsep and George Brooklyn. You
too, therefore, will both be rich men. As so large a sum is involved,
I have thought it right to make provision for the decease of either of
you. Should George die before me, which God forbid, you, Marian, as
his wife, will receive half the sum which he would have received under
my will. The other half will pass to John, as the surviving residuary
legatee. Should John die, the half of his share will pass to Joan—a
provision the reason for which you will all, I think, readily
appreciate. I have not made provision for the death of both my
nephews—for an event so unlikely hardly calls for precaution. But
should God bring so heavy a misfortune upon us, the residue of my
property would then pass, as the will now stands, to my nearest
surviving relative.”
While Sir Vernon was still speaking Joan had been trying to break in
upon him. Prinsep was able to check her for a moment, but at this
point she insisted on speaking. “Uncle,” she said, “there is something
I must say to you in view of what you have just told us. I am very
sorry if my saying it spoils your birthday; but I must say it all the
same. What you have left to me is more than enough, and certainly all
that I expect, or have any right to expect. But I cannot bear that you
should misunderstand me, or that I should seem, by saying nothing now,
to accept the position. I want you to understand quite definitely that
I have no intention of marrying John. I am not engaged to him; and I
never shall be. It’s not that I have anything against him—it’s simply
that I don’t want—and don’t mean—to marry him. I’m sorry if it hurts
you to hear me say this; but you have publicly implied that we are to
be married, and I couldn’t keep silent after that.”
Sir Vernon’s face had flushed when Joan began to speak, and he had
seemed on the point of breaking in upon her. But he had evidently
thought better of it; for he let her have her say. But now he answered
coldly, and with a suppressed but obvious irritation.
“My dear Joan, you know quite well that this marriage has been an
understood thing among us all. I don’t pretend to know what fancy has
got into your head just lately. But, at all events, let us hear no
more of it to-night. Already what you have said has quite spoilt the
evening for me.”
Then, as Joan tried to speak, he added, “No, please, no more about it
now. If you wish you can speak to me about it in the morning.”
Joan still tried to say something; but at this point Lucas cut quickly
into the conversation. Actor-managers, he said, had all the luck. You
would not find a poor devil of a playwright with the best part of a
million to leave to his descendants. And then, with obvious relief,
the rest helped to steer the talk back to less dangerous topics. Sir
Vernon seemed to forget his annoyance and launched into a stream of
old theatrical reminiscence, Lucas capping each of his stories with
another. The cheerfulness of the latter part of the evening was,
perhaps, a trifle forced, and there were two, Joan herself and young
Ellery, who took in it only the smallest possible part. But Prinsep,
Lucas, and Carter Woodman made up for these others; and an outsider
would have pronounced Sir Vernon’s party a complete success.
There was no withdrawal of the ladies that evening, for, after her
discomfiture, Joan made no move towards the drawing-room. In the end
it was Prinsep who broke up the party with a word to Sir Vernon.
“Come, uncle,” he said, “ten o’clock and time for our roystering to
end. I have work I must do about the theatre and it’s time some of us
were getting home.”
Then Joan seemed to wake up to a sense of her duties, and Sir Vernon
was promptly bustled off upstairs, the guests gradually taking their
leave.
Most of them had not far to go. Lucas had his car waiting to run him
back to his house at Hampstead. Ellery had rooms in Chelsea, and
announced his intention, as the night was fine, of walking back by the
parks. The George Brooklyns and the Woodmans, who lived in the outer
suburbs at Banstead and Esher, were staying the night in town, at the
famous Cunningham, on the opposite side of Piccadilly, the best hotel
in London in the estimation of foreign potentates and envoys as well
as of Londoners themselves. George Brooklyn, saying that he had an
appointment, asked Woodman to see his wife home, and left Marian and
the Woodmans outside the front door of the Piccadilly theatre, while
they crossed the road towards their hotel.
The guests having departed, Liskeard House began to settle down for
the night. On the ground floor, indeed, there began a scurry of
servants clearing up after the dinner. On the first floor Joan, having
seen Sir Vernon to his room, sat in the long-deserted drawing-room,
talking over the evening’s events with her friend, Mary Woodman, and
reiterating, to a sympathetic listener, her determination never to
marry John Prinsep. Meanwhile, upstairs on the second floor, John
Prinsep sat at his desk in his remote study with a heavy frown on his
face, very unlike the seemingly light-hearted and amiable expression
he had worn all the evening. Sir Vernon’s birthday party was over, but
there were strange things preparing for the night.