"Hush," said my mother. "We must not talk about it before your father.
Hush, Rosamund. Why, Rosamund, my dear, why should _you_ cry?"
"No, I won't cry," I said, "only I am stunned, and--shocked."
"Come in to supper," said my mother. "We will talk of this presently.
Your father must not notice anything unusual. Keep all your feelings to
yourself, my darling."
Then she got up and kissed me. She was not a woman to kiss any one,
even her own child, often. She was the sweetest woman in the world, but
she found it difficult to give expression to her feelings. Her tender
caress now did much to make up for the sore and absolutely certain fall
of all my castles in the air.
The next day, I learned from one of my brothers that Cousin Geoffrey
Rutherford had been found seated by his desk, quite dead. A policeman
had found him. He had seen that hall-door, which was practically never
off its chain, a little ajar, and had gone in and found Cousin Geoffrey.
The day but one after the news reached us, my mother got a letter from
Cousin Geoffrey's lawyer.
"As you are one of the nearest of kin of the deceased, it would be
advisable that you should be present at the reading of the will."
"I think, Andrew," said my mother, handing this letter across the table
to my father, "that I will go, and take Rosamund with me; I am quite
sure Geoffrey cannot have left me anything," she continued, a vivid pink
coming into her cheek. "Indeed, I may add," she continued, "that under
the circumstances I should not _wish_ him to leave me anything, but it
would give me gratification to show him the slight respect of attending
his funeral--and I own that it would also give me pleasure to see the
old house and the furniture again."
I had never heard my mother make such a long speech before, and I fully
expected my father to interrupt it with a torrent of angry words. Even
the boys turned pale as they listened to my mother.
To our great astonishment her words were followed by half a moment of
absolute silence. Then my father said in a quiet voice:--
"You will please yourself, of course, Mary. I have not a word of advice
to give on this matter."
We buried Cousin Geoffrey in Kensal Green. After the funeral was over
we all returned to the old house.
When I say "we all," I include a very goodly company. I am almost sure
that fifty people came home in mourning-coaches to Cousin Geoffrey's
desolate house.
It presented, however, anything but a desolate appearance on the day of
his funeral. No one who saw that long train of mourning relatives could
have said that Cousin Geoffrey had gone unsorrowed to his grave. Now,
these sorrowing relatives wandered over his house, and after a cold
collation, provided by the lawyers out of some of Cousin Geoffrey's
riches, they assembled to hear the will read in the magnificent
drawing-room, where the Paul Veronese hung.
Mr Gray was the name of Cousin Geoffrey's lawyer. He was a most
judicious man, and extremely polite to all the relatives. Of course he
knew the secret which they were most of them burning to find out, but
not by voice, gesture, or expression did he betray even an inkling of
the truth. He was scrupulously polite to every one, and if he said a
nice thing to an excitable old lady on his right, he was careful to say
quite as nice a thing to an anxious-faced gentleman on his left.
Nevertheless I felt sure that he could be irascible if he liked, and I
soon saw that his politeness was only skin-deep.
My mother and I did not join the group who sat round an enormous centre
table. My mother looked terribly pale and sad, and she would keep me by
her side, and stay herself quite in the background, rather to the
disgust of some of the more distant relatives, who could not make out
who my mother was, nor what brought her there.
At last Mr Gray cleared his throat, put on his glasses, and looked down
at an imposing-looking parchment which lay on the table at his side.
Instead of opening the parchment, however, as every one expected, he
suddenly took off his glasses again, and made a little speech to all the
relatives.
"I may as well premise," he said, "that my good friend who has passed
away was extremely eccentric."
"Ah, yes, that he was, poor dear! Undoubtedly eccentric, but none the
worse for that," murmured the red-faced old lady at Mr Gray's right.
He turned and frowned at her.
"I should feel obliged to you not to interrupt me, madam," he said.
"Quite right, too," said the testy old man on the left.
He got a deeper frown from the lawyer, who, after a moment's pause,
resumed his speech.
"Our friend was eccentric. I make this remark with a reason. I am
about to communicate some news which will astonish--and disappoint--
every individual in this room."
This short speech made a profound sensation. All the relatives began
muttering, and I cannot say that I once heard poor Cousin Geoffrey
spoken of as "dear."
"I repeat for the third time," continued the lawyer, "the remarks I have
already made. Our friend Geoffrey Rutherford was extremely eccentric.
He was not the least out of his mind, his brain was as sound, his reason
as clear as any man could desire. Nevertheless he was a very uncommon
character. He lived a queer, lonely, inhospitable life. As regards
money he was miserly. And yet, and yet," continued the lawyer, "I have
known him generous--generous to a fault."
"Perhaps you will oblige us by coming to the point, sir," here
interrupted the testy old man.
Mr Gray favoured him with a short, impatient glance.
"I will," he said. "Yes, I will come to the point without further
delay. The point is the will. I am about now to speak of my friend's
will."
Here all the company settled down into a hushed, expectant state. Their
interest was so keen that the proverbial pin might have been heard to
drop.
"If Geoffrey Rutherford was more eccentric in one particular than
another," continued Mr Gray, clearing his voice, "it was on the subject
of wills. In the course of his long life he made several--to each of
these wills he added codicils. The wills and the codicils were all
peculiar, but none, none so peculiar as the last. It is with regard to
the last will and testament of my esteemed friend that I am now going to
speak."
"You will read us the will, perhaps, Mr Gray," interposed an
anxious-looking relative.
Mr Gray gave her a long glance.
"Under the circumstances, no," he said. "My friend's last will is long,
and full of technicalities. It is without a flaw anywhere; but to hear
it read would be tedious, and you must excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,
if I refuse to gratify what can only, at the present moment at least, be
regarded as idle curiosity. For the will as it now stands affects no
one present."
"It is scarcely fair not to read it, however," said the red-faced lady.
"After a funeral the will is always read. This is, I think, ordained by
law, and ought to be enforced."
"I am sorry," repeated Mr Gray, taking no notice of the old lady's
remark, which made her frightfully irate. "It would be tedious to read
the will, so I decline to do so. I have, however, a letter from my late
client, which embodies the principal provisions in it, and that I shall
be happy to read aloud for the benefit of every one present."
Here Mr Gray cleared his throat, and putting on his glasses, began to
read.