The _Carmarthen Herald_
There was a great deal said at Carmarthen about the old Squire's
will. Such scenes as that which had taken place in the house, first
when the will was produced, then when the search was made, and
afterwards when the will was read, do not pass without comment.
There had been many present, and some of them had been much moved by
the circumstances. The feeling that the Squire had executed a will
subsequent to that which had now been proved was very strong, and
the idea suggested by Mr Apjohn that the Squire himself had, in the
weakness of his latter moments, destroyed this document, was not
generally accepted. Had he done so, something of it would have been
known. The ashes of the paper or the tattered fragments would have
been seen. Whether Mr Apjohn himself did or did not believe that it
had been so, others would not think it. Among the tenants and the
servants at Llanfeare there was a general feeling that something
wrong had been done. They who were most inclined to be charitable
in their judgment, such as John Griffith of Coed, thought that the
document was still hidden, and that it might not improbably be
brought to light at last. Others were convinced that it had fallen
into the hands of the present possessor of the property, and that it
had been feloniously but successfully destroyed. No guess at the real
truth was made by any one. How should a man have guessed that the
false heir should have sat there with the will, as it were, before
his eyes, close at his hand, and neither have destroyed it nor
revealed its existence?
Among those who believed the worst as to Cousin Henry were the two
Cantors. When a man has seen a thing done himself he is prone to
believe in it,--and the more so when he has had a hand in the doing.
They had been selected for the important operation of witnessing
the will, and did not in the least doubt that the will had been in
existence when the old Squire died. It might have been destroyed
since. They believed that it had been destroyed. But they could not
be brought to understand that so great an injustice should be allowed
to remain on the face of the earth without a remedy or without
punishment. Would it not be enough for a judge to know that they,
two respectable men, had witnessed a new will, and that this new
will had certainly been in opposition to the one which had been so
fraudulently proved? The younger Cantor especially was loud upon the
subject, and got many ears in Carmarthen to listen to him.
The _Carmarthen Herald_, a newspaper bearing a high character through
South Wales, took the matter up very strongly, so that it became a
question whether the new Squire would not be driven to defend himself
by an action for libel. It was not that the writer declared that
Cousin Henry had destroyed the will, but that he published minute
accounts of all that had been done at Llanfeare, putting forward in
every paper as it came out the reason which existed for supposing
that a wrong had been done. That theory that old Indefer Jones had
himself destroyed his last will without saying a word of his purpose
to any one was torn to tatters. The doctor had been with him from day
to day, and must almost certainly have known it had such an intention
been in his mind. The housekeeper would have known it. The nephew
and professed heir had said not a word to any one of what had passed
between himself and his uncle. Could they who had known old Indefer
Jones for so many years, and were aware that he had been governed
by the highest sense of honour through his entire life, could they
bring themselves to believe that he should have altered the will made
in his nephew's favour, and then realtered it, going back to his
intentions in that nephew's favour, without saying a word to his
nephew on the subject? But Henry Jones had been silent as to all
that occurred during those last weeks. Henry Jones had not only
been silent when the will was being read, when the search was being
made, but had sat there still in continued silence. "We do not say,"
continued the writer in the paper, "that Henry Jones since he became
owner of Llanfeare has been afraid to mingle with his brother men. We
have no right to say so. But we consider it to be our duty to declare
that such has been the fact. Circumstances will from time to time
occur in which it becomes necessary on public grounds to inquire into
the privacy of individuals, and we think that the circumstances now
as to this property are of this nature." As will be the case in such
matters, these expressions became gradually stronger, till it was
conceived to be the object of those concerned in making them to drive
Henry Jones to seek for legal redress,--so that he might be subjected
to cross-examination as to the transactions and words of that last
fortnight before his uncle's death. It was the opinion of many that
if he could be forced into a witness-box, he would be made to confess
if there were anything to confess. The cowardice of the man became
known,--or was rather exaggerated in the minds of those around him.
It was told of him how he lived in the one room, how rarely he left
the house, how totally he was without occupation. More than the truth
was repeated as to his habits, till all Carmarthenshire believed that
he was so trammelled by some mysterious consciousness of crime as to
be unable to perform any of the duties of life. When men spoke to him
he trembled; when men looked at him he turned away.
All his habits were inquired into. It was said of him that the
_Carmarthen Herald_ was the only paper that he saw, and declared
of him that he spent hour after hour in spelling the terrible
accusations which, if not absolutely made against him, were
insinuated. It became clear to lawyers, to Mr Apjohn himself,
that the man, if honest, should, on behalf of the old family and
long-respected name, vindicate himself by prosecuting the owner of
the paper for libel. If he were honest in the matter, altogether
honest, there could be no reason why he should fear to encounter
a hostile lawyer. There were at last two letters from young
Joseph Cantor printed in the paper which were undoubtedly
libellous,--letters which young Cantor himself certainly could not
have written,--letters which all Carmarthen knew to have been written
by some one connected with the newspaper, though signed by the young
farmer,--in which it was positively declared that the old Squire had
left a later will behind him. When it was discussed whether or no
he could get a verdict, it was clearly shown that the getting of a
verdict should not be the main object of the prosecution. "He has
to show," said Mr Apjohn, "that he is not afraid to face a court of
justice."
But he was afraid. When we last parted with him after his visit to
Coed he had not seen the beginning of these attacks. On the next day
the first paper reached him, and they who were concerned in it did
not spare to send him the copies as they were issued. Having read
the first, he was not able to refuse to read what followed. In each
issue they were carried on, and, as was told of him in Carmarthen, he
lingered over every agonizing detail of the venom which was entering
into his soul. It was in vain that he tried to hide the paper, or to
pretend to be indifferent to its coming. Mrs Griffith knew very well
where the paper was, and knew also that every word had been perused.
The month's notice which had been accepted from her and the butler in
lieu of the three months first offered had now expired. The man had
gone, but she remained, as did the two other women. Nothing was said
as to the cause of their remaining; but they remained. As for Cousin
Henry himself, he was too weak, too frightened, too completely
absorbed by the horrors of his situation to ask them why they stayed,
or to have asked them why they went.
He understood every word that was written of him with sharp, minute
intelligence. Though his spirit was cowed, his mind was still alive
to all the dangers of his position. Things were being said of him,
charges were insinuated, which he declared to himself to be false. He
had not destroyed the will. He had not even hidden it. He had only
put a book into its own place, carrying out as he did so his innocent
intention when he had first lifted the book. When these searchers had
come, doing their work so idly, with such incurious futility, he had
not concealed the book. He had left it there on its shelf beneath
their hands. Who could say that he had been guilty? If the will were
found now, who could reasonably suggest that there had been guilt on
his part? If all were known,--except that chance glance of his eye
which never could be known,--no one could say that he was other than
innocent! And yet he knew of himself that he would lack strength to
stand up in court and endure the sharp questions and angry glances
of a keen lawyer. His very knees would fail to carry him through the
court. The words would stick in his jaws. He would shake and shiver
and faint before the assembled eyes. It would be easier for him to
throw himself from the rocks on which he had lain dreaming into the
sea than to go into a court of law and there tell his own story as
to the will. They could not force him to go. He thought he could
perceive as much as that. The action, if action there were to be,
must originate with him. There was no evidence on which they could
bring a charge of felony or even of fraud against him. They could
not drag him into the court. But he knew that all the world would
say that if he were an honest man, he himself would appear there,
denounce his defamers, and vindicate his own name. As day by day he
failed to do so, he would be declaring his own guilt. Yet he knew
that he could not do it.
Was there no escape? He was quite sure now that the price at which he
held the property was infinitely above its value. Its value! It had
no value in his eyes. It was simply a curse of which he would rid
himself with the utmost alacrity if only he could rid himself of all
that had befallen him in achieving it. But how should he escape? Were
he now himself to disclose the document and carry it into Carmarthen,
prepared to deliver up the property to his cousin, was there one
who would not think that it had been in his possession from before
his uncle's death, and that he had now been driven by his fears to
surrender it? Was there one who would not believe that he had hidden
it with his own hands? How now could he personate that magnanimity
which would have been so easy had he brought forth the book and
handed it with its enclosure to Mr Apjohn when the lawyer came to
read the will?
He looked back with dismay at his folly at having missed an
opportunity so glorious. But now there seemed to be no escape. Though
he left the room daily, no one found the will. They were welcome to
find it if they would, but they did not. That base newspaper lied
of him,--as he told himself bitterly as he read it,--in saying that
he did not leave his room. Daily did he roam about the place for an
hour or two,--speaking, indeed, to no one, looking at no one. There
the newspaper had been true enough. But that charge against him
of self-imprisonment had been false as far as it referred to days
subsequent to the rebuke which his housekeeper had given him. But
no one laid a hand upon the book. He almost believed that, were the
paper left open on the table, no eye would examine its contents.
There it lay still hidden within the folds of the sermon, that weight
upon his heart, that incubus on his bosom, that nightmare which
robbed him of all his slumbers, and he could not rid himself of its
presence. Property, indeed! Oh! if he were only back in London, and
his cousin reigning at Llanfeare!
John Griffith, from Coed, had promised to call upon him; but when
three weeks had passed by, he had not as yet made his appearance.
Now, on one morning he came and found his landlord alone in the
book-room. "This is kind of you, Mr Griffith," said Cousin Henry,
struggling hard to assume the manner of a man with a light heart.
"I have come, Mr Jones," said the farmer very seriously, "to say a
few words which I think ought to be said."
"What are they, Mr Griffith?"
"Now, Mr Jones, I am not a man as is given to
interfering,--especially not with my betters."
"I am sure you are not."
"And, above all, not with my own landlord." Then he paused; but as
Cousin Henry could not find an appropriate word either for rebuke or
encouragement, he was driven to go on with his story. "I have been
obliged to look at all those things in the _Carmarthen Herald_." Then
Cousin Henry turned deadly pale. "We have all been driven to look
at them. I have taken the paper these twenty years, but it is sent
now to every tenant on the estate, whether they pay or whether they
don't. Mrs Griffith, there, in the kitchen has it. I suppose they
sent it to you, sir?"
"Yes; it does come," said Cousin Henry, with the faintest attempt at
a smile.
"And you have read what they say?"
"Yes, the most of it."
"It has been very hard, sir." At this Cousin Henry could only affect
a ghastly smile. "Very hard," continued the farmer. "It has made my
flesh creep as I read it. Do you know what it all means, Mr Jones?"
"I suppose I know."
"It means--that you have stolen--the estates--from your cousin--Miss
Brodrick!" This the man said very solemnly, bringing out each single
word by itself. "I am not saying so, Mr Jones."
"No, no, no," gasped the miserable wretch.
"No, indeed. If I thought so, I should not be here to tell you what
I thought. It is because I believe that you are injured that I am
here."
"I am injured; I am injured!"
"I think so. I believe so. I cannot tell what the mystery is, if
mystery there be; but I do not believe that you have robbed that
young lady, your own cousin, by destroying such a deed as your
uncle's will."
"No, no, no."
"Is there any secret that you can tell?"
Awed, appalled, stricken with utter dismay, Cousin Henry sat silent
before his questioner.
"If there be, sir, had you not better confide it to some one?
Your uncle knew me well for more than forty years, and trusted me
thoroughly, and I would fain, if I could, do something for his
nephew. If there be anything to tell, tell it like a man."
Still Cousin Henry sat silent. He was unable to summon courage at the
instant sufficient to deny the existence of the secret, nor could
he resolve to take down the book and show the document. He doubted,
when the appearance of a doubt was in itself evidence of guilt in the
eyes of the man who was watching him. "Oh, Mr Griffith," he exclaimed
after a while, "will you be my friend?"
"I will indeed, Mr Jones, if I can--honestly."
"I have been cruelly used."
"It has been hard to bear," said Mr Griffith.
"Terrible, terrible! Cruel, cruel!" Then again he paused, trying to
make up his mind, endeavouring to see by what means he could escape
from this hell upon earth. If there were any means, he might perhaps
achieve it by aid of this man. The man sat silent, watching him, but
the way of escape did not appear to him.
"There is no mystery," he gasped at last.
"None?" said the farmer severely.
"No mystery. What mystery should there be? There was the will. I
have destroyed nothing. I have hidden nothing. I have done nothing.
Because the old man changed his mind so often, am I to be blamed?"
"Then, Mr Jones, why do you not say all that in a court of law,--on
your oath?"
"How can I do that?"
"Go to Mr Apjohn, and speak to him like a man. Bid him bring an
action in your name for libel against the newspaper. Then there will
be an inquiry. Then you will be put into a witness-box, and be able
to tell your own story on your oath."
Cousin Henry, groaning, pale and affrighted, murmured out something
signifying that he would think of it. Then Mr Griffith left him. The
farmer, when he entered the room, had believed his landlord to be
innocent, but that belief had vanished when he took his leave.