"Villains," says an old adage, "are made by accident." Now mark how
accident helped to make a villain of the good Stephen Davenant.
He passed up the stairs and entered the bedroom. As he did so his foot
struck against a chair and caused a little noise. The dying man heard
it, however, and opening his eyes, said, almost inaudibly:
"Is that you, Hudsley?"
Stephen was about to reply, "No, it is I--Stephen," but stopped,
hesitated, and as if struck by a sudden idea, drew back behind the
bed-curtains.
Whatever that idea was, he was considerably moved by it; his hands
shook, and his lips trembled during the interval of silence before the
old man repeated the question:
"Is that you, Hudsley?"
Then Stephen, wiping his lips, answered in a dry voice utterly unlike
his own, but very remarkably resembling that of the old solicitor,
Hudsley:
"Yes, squire, it's Hudsley."
The dying man's hearing was faint, his senses wandering and dimmed; he
caught the sense of the words, however, for with an effort he turned his
head toward the curtains.
"Where are you?" he asked, almost inaudibly; "I can't see you; my sight
has gone. You have been a long while coming. Hudsley, you thought
you--knew--everything about the man who lies here; you were wrong.
There's a surprise for you as well as the rest. Did you see Jack?"
Stephen had no need to reply: the old man rambled on without waiting,
excepting to struggle for breath.
"He is down-stairs. Poor boy! it's a pity he is such a fool. There was
always one like him in the Newcombe family. But the other--Stephen--the
man who has been hanging about me all this time, eager to lick my boots
so that he might step into them when I was gone; he is a fool and a
knave."
Stephen's face went white and his lips twitched. It is probable that he
remembered the adage: "Listeners hear no good of themselves."
"He is the first of his kind we have had in the family. Plenty of fools
and scamps, Hudsley, but no hypocrites till this one. Well, he'll get
his deserts. I'd give a thousand pounds to come back and hear the will
read, and see his face. He makes so sure of it, too, the oily eel!"
Stephen writhed like an eel, indeed, and his lips blanched. Was the old
man delirious, or had he, Stephen, really played the part of sycophant,
toady and boot-licker all these years for nothing?
Great drops of sweat rolled down his face, his tongue clove to the roof
of his mouth, and his knees shook so that he had to steady himself by
holding the curtain.
"Yes, disappointed all. You don't understand. You think that you know
everything. But no; I trusted you with a great deal, but not with all.
How dark it is! Hudsley, you are an old man; don't finish up like--like
this. Only one soul in the wide world is sorry that I'm going; and he's
a fool. Poor Jack! I remember----"
Then followed, half inaudibly, a string of names belonging to the
companions of his youth. Most of them were dead and forgotten by him
until this hour, when he was about to join their shades.
"Ah, the old time! the old time. But--but--what was it I was saying?
I--I--Hudsley--quick! for Heaven's sake! I--the key--the key----"
Stephen came round, in his eagerness risking recognition.
"The key?" he asked, so hoarsely that his voice might well be taken for
an old man's. "What key?"
"Feel--under my pillow!" gasped Ralph Davenant.
Stephen thrust his trembling hand under the pillow, and, with a leap of
the heart, felt a key.
"The safe!" murmured a faltering voice. "The bottom drawer. Bring them
to me! Quick!"
Stephen glided snake-like across the room to a small safe that stood in
a recess, opened the door, and with trembling hands drew out the drawer.
His hands shook so, his heart beat to such an extent, that as a movement
in the next room struck upon his ears, he could scarcely refrain from
shrieking aloud; but it was only the nurse, whom the old man would only
allow to enter the room at intervals; and setting his teeth hard, and
fighting for calm, Stephen took out two documents.
One was a parchment of goodly proportions.
Both were folded and endorsed on the back--the parchment with the
inscription, "Last will and testament of Ralph Davenant, Gent., Jan.
18--."
With eyes that almost refused to do their task, Stephen turned the other
paper to the light, and read, "Will, July 18--." This inscription was
written in an old man's hand--the parchment was engrossed as usual.
Two wills! The one--the parchment, however, was useless; the other--the
sheet of foolscap--was the last.
"Well," rose the voice from the bed, hollow and broken, "have you got
them?"
Stephen came up and stood behind the curtain, and held the wills up.
"Yes, yes," he said. "The first is--is in whose favor?"
The old man struggled for breath. White, breathless himself with the
agony of anxiety and fear--for any moment someone might enter the
room--Stephen stood staring beside him. He dared not undo the tapes and
glance at the wills, in case of interruption--dared not conceal them,
for Hudsley might appear on the scene. With the wills clasped in his
hand, he stood and waited.
The faintness passed--old Ralph regained his voice.
"One is parchment--the other is paper. The parchment one you drew up;
you know its contents--I want it destroyed, or, stay, keep it. It will
add to the deceitful hound's disappointment. The other--ah, my God--it
is too late--Hudsley, there is a cruel history in that paper. No hand
but mine could pen it. But--but--I have done justice. Too late!--why do
you say--too late? Why do you mock a dying man? Mind, Hudsley, I trust
to you. It is a sound will, made in sound body--and--mind. Don't leave
that hypocritical hound a chance of setting it aside. I trust to you.
Stop, better burn the first will; burn it here now--now," and in his
excitement he actually raised his head. Raised it to let it drop upon
the pillow again with exhaustion.
Stephen stood and glared, torn this way and that by doubt and
uncertainty.
"Justice," he whispered hoarsely. "The first will, my will leaves all
to----"
"To that hound Stephen!" gasped the old man. "I did it in a weak moment
and repented of it. Leaves all to him; but not now."
Stephen hesitated no longer. With the quick, gliding movement of a cat
he reached the iron safe, replaced the parchment in the drawer and
locked the outer door, and thrust the paper will into his pocket.
Scarcely had he done so, before he had time to get to his place, the
door opened and Hudsley, the lawyer, entered.
He was an old man, as thin and bent as a withy branch, with a face
seamed and wrinkled, like his familiar parchment, with the like spots;
his dark, keen gray eyes, which looked out from under his shaggy
eyebrows, like stars in a cloudy sky.
As he entered, Stephen came forward, his back to the light, his face in
the shadow, and held out his hand.
Hudsley took it, held it for a moment, and dropped it with a little,
irritable shudder--the slim, white hand was as cold as ice--and,
turning to the bed, looked anxiously at the dying man.
"Great heaven!" he said, "is he dead?"
A savage hope shot up in Stephen's heart, but he looked and shook his
head.
"No. You have been a long time coming, Mr. Hudsley."
"I have, sir, thanks to your man's stupidity," said the lawyer, in an
angry whisper. "He came for me in a confounded dogcart!"
"The quickest vehicle to get ready," murmured Stephen. "I told him, to
take the first that came to hand."
"And the result," said the lawyer impatiently. "The result is that we
lost half an hour on the road! Does your man drink, Mr. Stephen?"
"Drink! Slummers drink!" murmured Stephen. "A most steady,
respectable--I may say conscientious--man."
"He may be conscientious, but he's a very bad driver. I never saw such a
clumsy fellow. He drove into a ditch half a mile after we had started."
"Dear, dear," murmured Stephen regretfully. "Poor Slummers. It is not
his fault. He is a worthy fellow, but too sympathetic, and my uncle's
illness quite upset him----"
"Hush!" interrupted Mr. Hudsley, holding up his finger and bending down.
"Squire, do you know me? I am Hudsley."
The dying man moved his hand faintly in assent.
"Yes. Have you done as I told you?"
"You have told me nothing yet."
"The safe!--the key!--the pillow!" said the Squire.
Hudsley caught his meaning and felt under the pillow, and Stephen, as if
to assist, thrust his hand under, and withdrew it with the key in his
fingers.
"Why--again?" came the voice, broken and impatient. "You have done it!
you have burnt the first."
"What is he saying?" he asked.
"You have burned it; show me the other--the last; let me--touch it."
Hudsley opened the safe and took the first will from the drawer.
"Two, did he say?" he muttered: "there is only one here--the will;" and
he came to the bed with it.
"There is only one will here, of course, squire," he said, bending down
and speaking slowly and distinctly.
"Yes--you, you have--burned the other. Speak. I cannot see, but I can
hear you."
"I have burned none," said Hudsley. "Have only just come--there is only
one will here."
"Which?" gasped the dying man.
"The will of January--Mr. Stephen----"
Before they could finish, they saw, with horror, the dying man half
raise himself, his face livid, his hands wildly clutching the air, his
eyes, by accident, turned toward Stephen.
"You--you thief!" he gasped. "Give it to me!--give--give--oh, God! Too
late?--too la----"
It was too late. Before the nurse and Jack could rush into the room,
horrified by the shriek which rang from Stephen's white lips, old Ralph
Davenant had fallen back dead!