Again at Hereford
Some of the people at Carmarthen were taking a great deal of trouble
about the matter. One copy of the _Herald_ was sent regularly to
Mr Brodrick, another to Isabel, and another to Mr Owen. It was
determined that they should not be kept in ignorance of what was
being done. In the first number issued after Mr Apjohn's last visit
to Llanfeare there was a short leading article recapitulating all
that was hitherto known of the story. "Mr Henry Jones," said the
article in its last paragraph, "has at length been induced to
threaten an action for libel against this newspaper. We doubt much
whether he will have the courage to go on with it. But if he does, he
will have to put himself into a witness-box, and then probably we may
learn something of the truth as to the last will and testament made
by Mr Indefer Jones." All this reached Hereford, and was of course
deeply considered there by persons whom it concerned.
Mr Owen, for some days after the scene which has been described
between him and Isabel, saw her frequently, and generally found means
to be alone with her for some moments. She made no effort to avoid
him, and would fain have been allowed to treat him simply as her
dearest friend. But in all these moments he treated her as though she
were engaged to be his wife. There was no embracing, no kiss. Isabel
would not permit it. But in all terms of affectionate expression he
spoke of her and to her as though she were his own; and would only
gently laugh at her when she assured him that it could never be so.
"Of course you can torment me a little," he said, smiling, "but the
forces arrayed against you are too strong, and you have not a chance
on your side. It would be monstrous to suppose that you should go on
making me miserable for ever,--and yourself too."
In answer to this she could only say that she cared but little for
her own misery, and did not believe in his. "The question is," she
said, "whether it be fitting. As I feel that it is not fitting, I
certainly shall not do it." In answer to this he would again smile,
and tell her that a month or two at furthest would see her absolutely
conquered.
Then the newspapers reached them. When it became clear to him that
there existed in Carmarthenshire so strong a doubt as to the validity
of the will under which the property was at present held, then Mr
Owen's visits to the house became rarer and different in their
nature. Then he was willing to be simply the friend of the family,
and as such he sought no especial interviews with Isabel. Between him
and Isabel no word was spoken as to the contents of the newspaper.
But between Mr Brodrick and the clergyman many words were spoken. Mr
Brodrick declared at once to his intended son-in-law his belief in
the accusations which were implied,--which were implied at first,
but afterwards made in terms so frightfully clear. When such words
as those were said and printed there could, he urged, be no doubt as
to what was believed in Carmarthen. And why should it be believed
without ground that any man had done so hideous a deed as to destroy
a will? The lawyer's hair stood almost on end as he spoke of the
atrocity; but yet he believed it. Would a respectable newspaper such
as the _Carmarthen Herald_ commit itself to such a course without the
strongest assurance? What was it to the _Carmarthen Herald_? Did not
the very continuance of the articles make it clear that the readers
of the paper were in accordance with the writer? Would the public of
Carmarthen sympathise in such an attack without the strongest ground?
He, the attorney, fully believed in Cousin Henry's guilt; but he was
not on that account sanguine as to the proof. If, during his sojourn
at Llanfeare, either immediately before the old squire's death or
after it, but before the funeral, he had been enabled to lay his hand
upon the will and destroy it, what hope would there be of evidence
of such guilt? As to that idea of forcing the man to tell such a
tale against himself by the torment of cross-examination, he did not
believe it at all. A man who had been strong enough to destroy a will
would be too strong for that. Perhaps he thought that any man would
be too strong, not having known Cousin Henry. Among all the possible
chances which occurred to his mind,--and his mind at this time was
greatly filled with such considerations,--nothing like the truth
suggested itself to him. His heart was tormented by the idea that
the property had been stolen from his child, that the glory of being
father-in-law to Llanfeare had been filched from himself, and that
no hope for redress remained. He sympathised altogether with the
newspaper. He felt grateful to the newspaper. He declared the editor
to be a man specially noble and brave in his calling. But he did not
believe that the newspaper would do any good either to him or to
Isabel.
Mr Owen doubted altogether the righteousness of the proceeding as
regarded the newspaper. As far as he could see there was no evidence
against Cousin Henry. There seemed to him to be an injustice in
accusing a man of a great crime, simply because the crime might have
been possible, and would, if committed, have been beneficial to the
criminal. That plan of frightening the man into self-accusation by
the terrors of cross-examination was distasteful to him. He would not
sympathise with the newspaper. But still he found himself compelled
to retreat from that affectation of certainty in regard to Isabel
which he had assumed when he knew only that the will had been proved,
and that Cousin Henry was in possession of the property. He had
regarded Isabel and the property as altogether separated from each
other. Now he learned that such was not the general opinion in
Carmarthenshire. It was not his desire to push forward his suit
with the heiress of Llanfeare. He had been rejected on what he had
acknowledged to be fitting grounds while that had been her position.
When the matter had been altogether settled in Cousin Henry's favour,
then he could come forward again.
Isabel was quite sure that the newspaper was right. Did she not
remember the dying words with which her uncle had told her that
he had again made her his heir? And had she not always clearly
in her mind the hang-dog look of that wretched man? She was
strong-minded,--but yet a woman, with a woman's propensity to follow
her feelings rather than either facts or reason. Her lover had told
her that her uncle had been very feeble when those words had been
spoken, with his mind probably vague and his thoughts wandering.
It had, perhaps, been but a dream. Such words did not suffice as
evidence on which to believe a man guilty of so great a crime. She
knew,--so she declared to herself,--that the old man's words had
not been vague. And as to those hang-dog looks,--her lover had told
her that she should not allow a man's countenance to go so far in
evidence as that! In so judging she would trust much too far to her
own power of discernment. She would not contradict him, but she felt
sure of her discernment in that respect. She did not in the least
doubt the truth of the evidence conveyed by the man's hang-dog face.
She had sworn to herself a thousand times that she would not covet
the house and property. When her uncle had first declared to her his
purpose of disinheriting her, she had been quite sure of herself that
her love for him should not be affected by the change. It had been
her pride to think that she could soar above any consideration of
money and be sure of her own nobility, even though she should be
stricken with absolute poverty. But now she was tempted to long that
the newspaper might be found to be right. Was there any man so fitted
to be exalted in the world, so sure to fill a high place with honour,
as her lover? Though she might not want Llanfeare for herself, was
she not bound to want it for his sake? He had told her how certain he
was of her heart,--how sure he was that sooner or later he would win
her hand. She had almost begun to think that it must be so,--that her
strength would not suffice for her to hold to her purpose. But how
sweet would be her triumph if she could turn to him and tell him that
now the hour had come in which she would be proud to become his wife!
"I love you well enough to rejoice in giving you something, but too
well to have been a burden on you when I could give you nothing."
That would be sweet to her! Then there should be kisses! As for
Cousin Henry, there was not even pity in her heart towards him. It
would be time to pity him when he should have been made to give up
the fruits of his wickedness and to confess his faults.
Mrs Brodrick was not made to understand the newspapers, nor did she
care much about the work which they had taken in hand. If Isabel
could be made to accept that smaller legacy, so that Mr Owen might
marry her out of hand and take her away, that would be enough to
satisfy Mrs Brodrick. If Isabel were settled somewhere with Mr Owen,
their joint means being sufficient to make it certain that no calls
would be made on the paternal resources, that would satisfy Mrs
Brodrick's craving in regard to the Welsh property. She was not sure
that she was anxious to see the half-sister of her own children
altogether removed from their sphere and exalted so high. And then
this smaller stroke of good fortune might be so much more easily made
certain! A single word from Isabel herself, a word which any girl
less endowed with wicked obstinacy would have spoken at once, would
make that sure and immediate. Whereas this great inheritance which
was to depend upon some almost impossible confession of the man who
enjoyed it, seemed to her to be as distant as ever.
"Bother the newspapers," she said to her eldest daughter; "why
doesn't she write and sign the receipt, and take her income like any
one else? She was getting new boots at Jackson's yesterday, and where
is the money to come from? If any of you want new boots, papa is sure
to tell me of it!"
Her spirit was embittered too by the severity of certain words which
her husband had spoken to her. Isabel had appealed to her father when
her step-mother had reproached her with being a burden in the house.
"Papa," she had said, "let me leave the house and earn something. I
can at any rate earn my bread."
Then Mr Brodrick had been very angry. He too had wished to accelerate
the marriage between his daughter and her lover, thinking that she
would surely accept the money on her lover's behalf. He too had been
annoyed at the persistency of her double refusal. But it had been
very far from his purpose to drive his girl from his house, or to
subject her to the misery of such reproaches as his wife had cast
upon her.
"My dear," he had said, "there is no necessity for anything of the
kind. I and your mother are only anxious for your welfare. I think
that you should take your uncle's money, if not for your own sake,
then for the sake of him to whom we all hope that you will soon be
married. But putting that aside you are as well entitled to remain
here as your sisters, and, until you are married, here will be your
home."
There was comfort in this, some small comfort, but it did not tend
to create pleasant intercourse between Isabel and her step-mother.
Mrs Brodrick was a woman who submitted herself habitually to her
husband, and intended to obey him, but one who nevertheless would
not be deterred from her own little purposes. She felt herself to be
ill-used by Isabel's presence in the house. Many years ago Isabel had
been taken away, and she had been given to understand that Isabel
was removed for ever. There was to be no more expense, no more
trouble,--there should be no more jealousies in regard to Isabel.
The old uncle had promised to do everything, and that sore had been
removed from her life. Now Isabel had come back again, and insisted
on remaining there,--so unnecessarily! Now again there were those
boots to be bought at Jackson's, and all those other increased
expenditures which another back, another head, another mouth, and
another pair of feet must create. And then it was so palpable that
Hereford thought much of Isabel, but thought little or nothing of
her own girls. Such a one as Mrs Brodrick was sure to make herself
unpleasant in circumstances such as these.
"Isabel," she said to her one day, "I didn't say anything about you
being turned out of the house."
"Who has said that you did, mother?"
"You shouldn't have gone to your father and talked about going out as
a housemaid."
"I told papa that if he thought it right, I would endeavour to earn
my bread."
"You told him that I had complained about you being here."
"So you did. I had to tell him so, or I could not explain my purpose.
Of course I am a burden. Every human being who eats and wears clothes
and earns nothing is a burden. And I know that this is thought of the
more because it had been felt that I had been--been disposed of."
"You could be disposed of now, as you call it, if you pleased."
"But I do not please. That is a matter on which I will listen to
no dictation. Therefore it is that I wish that I could go away and
earn my own bread. I choose to be independent in that matter, and
therefore I ought to suffer for it. It is reasonable enough that I
should be felt to be a burden."
Then the other girls came in, and nothing more was said till, after
an hour or two, Mrs Brodrick and Isabel were again alone together.
"I do think it very odd that you cannot take that money; I certainly
do," said Mrs Brodrick.
"What is the use of going on about it? I shall not be made to take
it."
"And all those people at Carmarthen so sure that you are entitled to
ever so much more! I say nothing about burdens, but I cannot conceive
how you can reconcile it to your conscience when your poor papa has
got so many things to pay, and is so little able to pay them."
Then she paused, but as Isabel would not be enticed into any further
declaration of independence, she continued, "It certainly is a
setting up of your own judgment against people who must know better.
As for Mr Owen, of course it will drive him to look for some one
else. The young man wants a wife, and of course he will find one.
Then that chance will be lost."
In this way Isabel did not pass her time comfortably at Hereford.