Cousin Henry Makes Another Attempt
When Mr Apjohn had gone, Cousin Henry sat for an hour, not
thinking,--men so afflicted have generally lost the power to
think,--but paralysed by the weight of his sorrow, simply repeating
to himself assertions that said no man had ever been used so cruelly.
Had he been as other men are, he would have turned the lawyer out of
the house at the first expression of an injurious suspicion, but his
strength had not sufficed for such action. He confessed to himself
his own weakness, though he could not bring himself to confess his
own guilt. Why did they not find it and have done with it? Feeling
at last how incapable he was of collecting his thoughts while he sat
there in the book-room, and aware, at the same time, that he must
determine on some course of action, he took his hat and strolled out
towards the cliffs.
There was a month remaining to him, just a month before the day
named on which he was to put himself into the witness-box. That, at
any rate, must be avoided. He did after some fashion resolve that,
let the result be what it might, he would not submit himself to a
cross-examination. They could not drag him from his bed were he to
say that he was ill. They could not send policemen to find him, were
he to hide himself in London. Unless he gave evidence against himself
as to his own guilty knowledge, they could bring no open charge
against him; or if he could but summon courage to throw himself from
off the rocks, then, at any rate, he would escape from their hands.
What was it all about? This he asked himself as he sat some way down
the cliff, looking out over the sea. What was it all about? If they
wanted the property for his Cousin Isabel, they were welcome to
take it. He desired nothing but to be allowed to get away from this
accursed country, to escape, and never more to be heard of there or
to hear of it. Could he not give up the property with the signing of
some sufficient deed, and thus put an end to their cruel clamour?
He could do it all without any signing, by a simple act of honesty,
by taking down the book with the will and giving it at once to the
lawyer! It was possible,--possible as far as the knowledge of any one
but himself was concerned,--that such a thing might be done not only
with honesty, but with high-minded magnanimity. How would it be if
in truth the document were first found by him on this very day? Had
it been so, were it so, then his conduct would be honest. And it was
still open to him to simulate that it was so. He had taken down the
book, let him say, for spiritual comfort in his great trouble, and
lo, the will had been found there between the leaves! No one would
believe him. He declared to himself that such was already his
character in the county that no one would believe him. But what
though they disbelieved him? Surely they would accept restitution
without further reproach. Then there would be no witness-box, no
savage terrier of a barrister to tear him in pieces with his fierce
words and fiercer eyes. Whether they believed him or not, they would
let him go. It would be told of him, at any rate, that having the
will in his hands, he had not destroyed it. Up in London, where men
would not know all the details of this last miserable month, some
good would be spoken of him. And then there would be time left to him
to relieve his conscience by repentance.
But to whom should he deliver up the will, and how should he frame
the words? He was conscious of his own impotence in deceit. For such
a purpose Mr Apjohn, no doubt, would be the proper person, but there
was no one of whom he stood so much in dread as of Mr Apjohn. Were he
to carry the book and the paper to the lawyer and attempt to tell his
story, the real truth would be drawn out from him in the first minute
of their interview. The man's eyes looking at him, the man's brow
bent against him, would extract from him instantly the one truth
which it was his purpose to hold within his own keeping. He would
find no thankfulness, no mercy, not even justice in the lawyer. The
lawyer would accept restitution, and would crush him afterwards.
Would it not be better to go off to Hereford, without saying a word
to any one in Carmarthenshire, and give up the deed to his Cousin
Isabel? But then she had scorned him. She had treated him with foul
contempt. As he feared Mr Apjohn, so did he hate his Cousin Isabel.
The only approach to manliness left in his bosom was a true hatred of
his cousin.
The single voice which had been kind to him since he had come to this
horrid place had been that of old Farmer Griffith. Even his voice
had been stern at last, but yet, with the sternness, there had been
something of compassion. He thought that he could tell the tale to Mr
Griffith, if to any one. And so thinking, he resolved at once to go
to Coed. There was still before him that other means of escape which
the rocks and the sea afforded him. As he had made his way on this
morning to the spot on which he was now lying that idea was still
present to him. He did not think that he could do a deed of such
daring. He was almost sure of himself that the power of doing it
would be utterly wanting when the moment came. But still it was
present to his mind. The courage might reach him at the instant. Were
a sudden impulse to carry him away, he thought the Lord would surely
forgive him because of all his sufferings. But now, as he looked at
the spot, and saw that he could not reach the placid deep water, he
considered it again, and remembered that the Lord would not forgive
him a sin as to which there would be no moment for repentance. As
he could not escape in that way, he must carry out his purpose with
Farmer Griffith.
"So you be here again prowling about on father's lands?"
Cousin Henry knew at once the voice of that bitter enemy of his,
young Cantor; and, wretched as he was, he felt also something of the
spirit of the landlord in being thus rebuked for trespassing on his
ground. "I suppose I have a right to walk about on my own estate?"
said he.
"I know nothing about your own estate," replied the farmer's son.
"I say nothin' about that. They do be talking about it, but I say
nothin'. I has my own opinions, but I say nothin'. Others do be
saying a great deal, as I suppose you hear, Mr Jones, but I say
nothin'."
"How dare you be so impudent to your landlord?"
"I know nothin' about landlords. I know father has a lease of this
land, and pays his rent, whether you get it or another; and you
have no more right, it's my belief, to intrude here nor any other
stranger. So, if you please, you'll walk."
"I shall stay here just as long as it suits me," said Cousin Henry.
"Oh, very well. Then father will have his action against you for
trespass, and so you'll be brought into a court of law. You are bound
to go off when you are warned. You ain't no right here because you
call yourself landlord. You come up here and I'll thrash you, that's
what I will. You wouldn't dare show yourself before a magistrate,
that's what you wouldn't."
The young man stood there for a while waiting, and then walked off
with a loud laugh.
Any one might insult him, any one might beat him, and he could seek
for no redress because he would not dare to submit himself to the
ordeal of a witness-box. All those around him knew that it was so.
He was beyond the protection of the law because of the misery of his
position. It was clear that he must do something, and as he could not
drown himself, there was nothing better than that telling of his tale
to Mr Griffith. He would go to Mr Griffith at once. He had not the
book and the document with him, but perhaps he could tell the tale
better without their immediate presence.
At Coed he found the farmer in his own farmyard.
"I have come to you in great trouble," said Cousin Henry, beginning
his story.
"Well, squire, what is it?" Then the farmer seated himself on a low,
movable bar which protected the entrance into an open barn, and
Cousin Henry sat beside him.
"That young man Cantor insulted me grossly just now."
"He shouldn't have done that. Whatever comes of it all, he shouldn't
have done that. He was always a forward young puppy."
"I do think I have been treated very badly among you."
"As to that, Mr Jones, opinion does run very high about the squire's
will. I explained to you all that when I was with you yesterday."
"Something has occurred since that,--something that I was coming on
purpose to tell you."
"What has occurred?" Cousin Henry groaned terribly as the moment for
revelation came upon him. And he felt that he had made the moment
altogether unfit for revelation by that ill-judged observation as to
young Cantor. He should have rushed at his story at once. "Oh, Mr
Griffith, I have found the will!" It should have been told after that
fashion. He felt it now,--felt that he had allowed the opportunity to
slip by him.
"What is it that has occurred, Mr Jones, since I was up at Llanfeare
yesterday?"
"I don't think that I could tell you here."
"Where, then?"
"Not yet to-day. That young man, Cantor, has so put me out that I
hardly know what I am saying."
"Couldn't you speak it out, sir, if it's just something to be said?"
"It's something to be shown too," replied Cousin Henry, "and if you
wouldn't mind coming up to the house to-morrow, or next day, then I
could explain it all."
"To-morrow it shall be," said the farmer. "On the day after I shall
be in Carmarthen to market. If eleven o'clock to-morrow morning won't
be too early, I shall be there, sir."
One, or three, or five o'clock would have been better, or the day
following better still, so that the evil hour might have been
postponed. But Cousin Henry assented to the proposition and took his
departure. Now he had committed himself to some revelation, and the
revelation must be made. He felt acutely the folly of his own conduct
during the last quarter of an hour. If it might have been possible to
make the old man believe that the document had only been that morning
found, such belief could only have been achieved by an impulsive
telling of the story. He was aware that at every step he took he
created fresh difficulties by his own folly and want of foresight.
How could he now act the sudden emotion of a man startled by
surprise? Nevertheless, he must go on with his scheme. There was
now nothing before him; but still he might be able to achieve
that purpose which he had in view of escaping from Llanfeare and
Carmarthenshire.
He sat up late that night thinking of it. For many days past he had
not touched the volume, or allowed his eye to rest upon the document.
He had declared to himself that it might remain there or be taken
away, as it might chance to others. It should no longer be anything
to him. For aught that he knew, it might already have been removed.
Such had been his resolution during the last fortnight, and in
accordance with that he had acted. But now his purpose was again
changed. Now he intended to reveal the will with his own hands, and
it might be well that he should see that it was there.
He took down the book, and there it was. He opened it out, and
carefully read through every word of its complicated details. For it
had been arranged and drawn out in a lawyer's office, with all the
legal want of punctuation and unintelligible phraseology. It had
been copied verbatim by the old Squire, and was no doubt a properly
binding and effective will. Never before had he dwelt over it so
tediously. He had feared lest a finger-mark, a blot, or a spark might
betray his acquaintance with the deed. But now he was about to give
it up and let all the world know that it had been in his hands. He
felt, therefore, that he was entitled to read it, and that there was
no longer ground to fear any accident. Though the women in the house
should see him reading it, what matter?
Thrice he read it, sitting there late into the night. Thrice he read
the deed which had been prepared with such devilish industry to rob
him of the estate which had been promised him! If he had been wicked
to conceal it,--no, not to conceal it, but only to be silent as to
its whereabouts,--how much greater had been the sin of that dying old
man who had taken so much trouble in robbing him? Now that the time
had come, almost the hour in which he had lately so truly loathed,
there came again upon him a love of money, a feeling of the privilege
which attached to him as an owner of broad acres, and a sudden
remembrance that with a little courage, with a little perseverance,
with a little power of endurance, he might live down the evils of
the present day. When he thought of what it might be to be Squire
of Llanfeare in perhaps five years' time, with the rents in his
pocket, he became angry at his own feebleness. Let them ask him what
questions they would, there could be no evidence against him. If he
were to burn the will, there could certainly be no evidence against
him. If the will were still hidden, they might, perhaps, extract that
secret from him; but no lawyer would be strong enough to make him own
that he had thrust the paper between the bars of the fire.
He sat looking at it, gnashing his teeth together, and clenching his
fists. If only he dared to do it! If only he could do it! He did
during a moment, make up his mind; but had no sooner done so than
there rose clearly before his mind's eye the judge and the jury, the
paraphernalia of the court, and all the long horrors of a prison
life. Even now those prying women might have their eyes turned upon
what he was doing. And should there be no women prying, no trial,
no conviction, still there would be the damning guilt on his own
soul,--a guilt which would admit of no repentance except by giving
himself up to the hands of the law! No sooner had he resolved to
destroy the will than he was unable to destroy it. No sooner had he
felt his inability than again he longed to do the deed. When at three
o'clock he dragged himself up wearily to his bed, the will was again
within the sermon, and the book was at rest upon its old ground.
Punctually at eleven Mr Griffith was with him, and it was evident
from his manner that he had thought the matter over, and was
determined to be kind and gracious.
"Now, squire," said he, "let us hear it; and I do hope it may be
something that may make your mind quiet at last. You've had, I fear,
a bad time of it since the old squire died."
"Indeed I have, Mr Griffith."
"What is it now? Whatever it be, you may be sure of this, I will take
it charitable like. I won't take nothing amiss; and if so be I can
help you, I will."
Cousin Henry, as the door had been opened, and as the man's footstep
had been heard, had made up his mind that on this occasion he could
not reveal the secret. He had disabled himself by that unfortunate
manner of his yesterday. He would not even turn his eyes upon the
book, but sat looking into the empty grate. "What is it, Mr Jones?"
asked the farmer.
"My uncle did make a will," said Cousin Henry feebly.
"Of course he made a will. He made a many,--one or two more than was
wise, I am thinking."
"He made a will after the last one."
"After that in your favour?"
"Yes; after that. I know that he did, by what I saw him doing; and so
I thought I'd tell you."
"Is that all?"
"I thought I'd let you know that I was sure of it. What became of it
after it was made, that, you know, is quite another question. I do
think it must be in the house, and if so, search ought to be made.
If they believe there is such a will, why don't they come and search
more regularly? I shouldn't hinder them."
"Is that all you've got to say?"
"As I have been thinking about it so much and as you are so kind to
me, I thought I had better tell you."
"But there was something you were to show me."
"Oh, yes; I did say so. If you will come upstairs, I'll point out the
very spot where the old man sat when he was writing it."
"There is nothing more than that?"
"Nothing more than that, Mr Griffith."
"Then good morning, Mr Jones. I am afraid we have not got to the end
of the matter yet."