Isabel's Petition
The news was soon all about Carmarthen. A new will had been found, in
accordance with which Miss Brodrick was to become owner of Llanfeare,
and,--which was of more importance to Carmarthen at the present
moment,--there was to be no trial! The story, as told publicly, was
as follows;--Mr Apjohn, by his sagacity, had found the will. It had
been concealed in a volume of sermons, and Mr Apjohn, remembering
suddenly that the old man had been reading these sermons shortly
before his death, had gone at once to the book. There the will
had been discovered, which had at once been admitted to be a true
and formal document by the unhappy pseudo-proprietor. Henry Jones
had acknowledged his cousin to be the heiress, and under these
circumstances had conceived it to be useless to go on with the trial.
Such was the story told, and Mr Apjohn, fully aware that the story
went very lame on one leg, did his best to remedy the default by
explaining that it would be unreasonable to expect that a man should
come into court and undergo an examination by Mr Cheekey just when he
had lost a fine property.
"Of course I know all that," said Mr Apjohn when the editor of the
paper remarked to him that the libel, if a libel, would be just
as much a libel whether Mr Henry Jones were or were not the owner
of Llanfeare. "Of course I know all that; but you are hardly to
expect that a man is to come and assert himself amidst a cloud of
difficulties when he has just undergone such a misfortune as that!
You have had your fling, and are not to be punished for it. That
ought to satisfy you."
"And who'll pay all the expenses?" asked Mr Evans.
"Well," said Mr Apjohn, scratching his head; "you, of course, will
have to pay nothing. Geary will settle all that with me. That poor
devil at Llanfeare ought to pay."
"He won't have the money."
"I, at any rate, will make it all right with Geary; so that needn't
trouble you."
This question as to the expense was much discussed by others in
Carmarthen. Who in truth would pay the complicated lawyers' bill
which must have been occasioned, including all these flys out to
Llanfeare? In spite of Mr Apjohn's good-natured explanations, the
public of Carmarthen was quite convinced that Henry Jones had in
truth hidden the will. If so, he ought not only to be made to pay
for everything, but be sent to prison also and tried for felony. The
opinion concerning Cousin Henry in Carmarthen on the Thursday and
Friday was very severe indeed. Had he shown himself in the town, he
would almost have been pulled in pieces. To kill him and to sell his
carcase for what it might fetch towards lessening the expenses which
he had incurred would not be too bad for him. Mr Apjohn was, of
course, the hero of the hour, and, as far as Carmarthen could see, Mr
Apjohn would have to pay the bill. All this, spoken as it was by many
mouths, reached Mr Brodrick's ears, and induced him to say a word or
two to Mr Apjohn.
"This affair," said he, "will of course become a charge upon the
property?"
"What affair?"
"This trial which is not to take place, and the rest of it."
"The trial will have nothing to do with the estate," said Mr Apjohn.
"It has everything to do with it. I only mention it now to let you
know that, as Isabel's father, I shall make it my business to look
after that."
"The truth is, Brodrick," said the Carmarthen attorney, with that
gleam of triumph in his eye which had been so often seen there since
the will had tumbled out of the volume of sermons in the book-room,
"the whole of this matter has been such a pleasure to me that I don't
care a straw about the costs. If I paid for it all from beginning to
end out of my own pocket, I should have had my whack for my money.
Perhaps Miss Isabel will recompense me by letting me make her will
some day."
Such were the feelings and such were the words spoken at Carmarthen;
and it need only be said further, in regard to Carmarthen, that the
operations necessary for proving the later will and annulling the
former one, for dispossessing Cousin Henry and for putting Isabel
into the full fruition of all her honours, went on as quickly as it
could be effected by the concentrated energy of Mr Apjohn and all his
clerks.
Cousin Henry, to whom we may be now allowed to bid farewell, was
permitted to remain within the seclusion of the house at Llanfeare
till his signature had been obtained to the last necessary document.
No one spoke a word to him; no one came to see him. If there
were intruders about the place anxious to catch a glimpse of the
pseudo-Squire, they were disappointed.
Mrs Griffith, under the attorney's instructions, was more courteous
to him than she had been when he was her master. She endeavoured to
get him things nice to eat, trying to console him by titbits. None of
the tenants appeared before him, nor was there a rough word spoken to
him, even by young Cantor.
In all this Cousin Henry did feel some consolation, and was greatly
comforted when he heard from the office in London that his stool at
the desk was still kept open for him.
The _Carmarthen Herald_, in its final allusion to the state of things
at Llanfeare, simply declared that the proper will had been found at
last, and that Miss Isabel Brodrick was to be restored to her rights.
Guided by this statement, the directors in London were contented to
regard their clerk as having been unfortunate rather than guilty.
For the man himself, the reader, it is hoped, will feel some
compassion. He had been dragged away from London by false hopes.
After so great an injury as that inflicted on him by the last change
in the Squire's purpose it was hardly unnatural that the idea of
retaliation should present itself to him when the opportunity came in
his way. Not to do that which justice demands is so much easier to
the conscience than to commit a deed which is palpably fraudulent!
At the last his conscience saved him, and Mr Apjohn will perhaps be
thought to have been right in declaring that much was due to him in
that he had not destroyed the will. His forbearance was recompensed
fully.
As soon as the money could be raised on the property, the full sum
of £4000 was paid to him, that having been the amount with which the
Squire had intended to burden the property on behalf of his niece
when he was minded to put her out of the inheritance.
It may be added that, notorious as the whole affair was at
Carmarthen, but little of Cousin Henry's wicked doings were known up
in London.
We must now go back to Hereford. By agreement between the two
lawyers, no tidings of her good fortune were at once sent to Isabel.
"There is so many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip," said Mr Apjohn
to her father. But early in the following week Mr Brodrick himself
took the news home with him.
"My dear," he said to her as soon as he found himself alone with
her,--having given her intimation that an announcement of great
importance was to be made to her,--"it turns out that after all your
Uncle Indefer did make another will."
"I was always quite sure of that, papa."
"How were you sure?"
"He told me so, papa."
"He told you so! I never heard that before."
"He did,--when he was dying. What was the use of talking of it? But
has it been found?"
"It was concealed within a book in the library. As soon as the
necessary deeds can be executed Llanfeare will be your own. It is
precisely word for word the same as that which he had made before he
sent for your cousin Henry."
"Then Henry has not destroyed it?"
"No, he did not destroy it."
"Nor hid it where we could not find it?"
"Nor did he hide it."
"Oh, how I have wronged him;--how I have injured him!"
"About that we need say nothing, Isabel. You have not injured him.
But we may let all that pass away. The fact remains that you are the
heiress of Llanfeare."
Of course he did by degrees explain to her all the
circumstances,--how the will had been found and not revealed, and how
far Cousin Henry had sinned in the matter; but it was agreed between
them that no further evil should be said in the family as to their
unfortunate relative. The great injury which he might have done to
them he had abstained from doing.
"Papa," she said to her father when they were again together alone
that same evening, "you must tell all this to Mr Owen. You must tell
him everything, just as you have told me."
"Certainly, my dear, if you wish it."
"I do wish it."
"Why should you not have the pleasure of telling him yourself?"
"It would not be a pleasure, and therefore I will get you to do it.
My pleasure, if there be any pleasure in it, must come afterwards. I
want him to know it before I see him myself."
"He will be sure to have some stupid notion," said her father,
smiling.
"I want him to have his notion, whether it be stupid or otherwise,
before I see him. If you do not mind, papa, going to him as soon as
possible, I shall be obliged to you."
Isabel, when she found herself alone, had her triumph also. She was
far from being dead to the delights of her inheritance. There had
been a period in her life in which she had regarded it as her certain
destiny to be the possessor of Llanfeare, and she had been proud of
the promised position. The tenants had known her as the future owner
of the acres which they cultivated, and had entertained for her and
shown to her much genuine love. She had made herself acquainted with
every homestead, landmark, and field about the place. She had learnt
the wants of the poor, and the requirements of the little school.
Everything at Llanfeare had had an interest for her. Then had come
that sudden change in her uncle's feelings,--that new idea of
duty,--and she had borne it like a heroine. Not only had she never
said a word of reproach to him, but she had sworn to herself that
even in her own heart she would throw no blame upon him. A great blow
had come upon her, but she had taken it as though it had come from
the hand of the Almighty,--as it might have been had she lost her
eyesight, or been struck with palsy. She promised herself that it
should be so, and she had had strength to be as good as her word. She
had roused herself instantly from the effect of the blow, and, after
a day of consideration, had been as capable as ever to do the work
of her life. Then had come her uncle's last sickness, those spoken
but doubtful words, her uncle's death, and that conviction that
her cousin was a felon. Then she had been unhappy, and had found
it difficult to stand up bravely against misfortune. Added to this
had been her stepmother's taunts and her father's distress at the
resolution she had taken. The home to which she had returned had been
thoroughly unhappy to her. And there had been her stern purpose not
to give her hand to the man who loved her and whom she so dearly
loved! She was sure of her purpose, and yet she was altogether
discontented with herself. She was sure that she would hold by her
purpose, and yet she feared that her purpose was wrong. She had
refused the man when she was rich, and her pride would not let her go
to him now that she was poor. She was sure of her purpose,--but yet
she almost knew that her pride was wrong.
But now there would be a triumph. Her eyes gleamed brightly as she
thought of the way in which she would achieve her triumph. Her eyes
gleamed very brightly as she felt sure within her own bosom that she
would succeed. Yes: he would, no doubt, have some stupid notion, as
her father said. But she would overcome his stupidity. She, as a
woman, could be stronger than he as a man. He had almost ridiculed
her obstinacy, swearing that he would certainly overcome it. There
should be no ridicule on her part, but she would certainly overcome
his obstinacy.
For a day or two Mr Owen was not seen. She heard from her father
that the tidings had been told to her lover, but she heard no more.
Mr Owen did not show himself at the house; and she, indeed, hardly
expected that he should do so. Her stepmother suddenly became
gracious,--having no difficulty in explaining that she did so because
of the altered position of things.
"My dearest Isabel, it does make such a difference!" she said; "you
will be a rich lady, and will never have to think about the price
of shoes." The sisters were equally plain-spoken, and were almost
awe-struck in their admiration.
Three or four days after the return of Mr Brodrick, Isabel took her
bonnet and shawl, and walked away all alone to Mr Owen's lodgings.
She knew his habits, and was aware that he was generally to be found
at home for an hour before his dinner. It was no time, she said to
herself, to stand upon little punctilios. There had been too much
between them to let there be any question of a girl going after her
lover. She was going after her lover, and she didn't care who knew
it. Nevertheless, there was a blush beneath her veil as she asked at
the door whether Mr Owen was at home. Mr Owen was at home, and she
was shown at once into his parlour.
"William," she said;--throughout their intimacy she had never called
him William before;--"you have heard my news?"
"Yes," he said, "I have heard it;"--very seriously, with none of
that provoking smile with which he had hitherto responded to all her
assertions.
"And you have not come to congratulate me?"
"I should have done so. I do own that I have been wrong."
"Wrong;--very wrong! How was I to have any of the enjoyment of my
restored rights unless you came to enjoy them with me?"
"They can be nothing to me, Isabel."
"They shall be everything to you, sir."
"No, my dear."
"They are to be everything to me, and they can be nothing to me
without you. You know that, I suppose?" Then she waited for his
reply. "You know that, do you not? You know what I feel about that, I
say. Why do you not tell me? Have you any doubt?"
"Things have been unkind to us, Isabel, and have separated us."
"Nothing shall separate us." Then she paused for a moment. She had
thought of it all, and now had to pause before she could execute her
purpose. She had got her plan ready, but it required some courage,
some steadying of herself to the work before she could do it. Then
she came close to him,--close up to him, looking into his face as he
stood over her, not moving his feet, but almost retreating with his
body from her close presence. "William," she said, "take me in your
arms and kiss me. How often have you asked me during the last month!
Now I have come for it."
He paused a moment as though it were possible to refuse, as though
his collected thoughts and settled courage might enable him so to
outrage her in her petition. Then he broke down, and took her in
his arms, and pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, and
her forehead, and her cheeks,--while she, having once achieved her
purpose, attempted in vain to escape from his long embrace.
"Now I shall be your wife," she said at last, when her breath had
returned to her.
"It should not be so."
"Not after that? Will you dare to say so to me,--after that? You
could never hold up your head again. Say that you are happy? Tell me
that you are happy. Do you think that I can be happy unless you are
happy with me?" Of course he gave her all the assurances that were
needed, and made it quite unnecessary that she should renew her
prayer.
"And I beg, Mr Owen, that for the future you will come to me, and not
make me come to you." This she said as she was taking her leave. "It
was very disagreeable, and very wrong, and will be talked about ever
so much. Nothing but my determination to have my own way could have
made me do it." Of course he promised her that there should be no
occasion for her again to put herself to the same inconvenience.