THE WILL.
Candles lighted, shutters closed, curtains drawn, and a small but
cheerful fire flickering in the grate. The old-fashioned room looked
pleasant; Richard Marston was nervous, and not like himself. He looked
over the "deaths" in the papers, but Sir Harry's was not among them. He
threw the papers one after the other on the table, and read nothing.
He got up and stood with his back to the fire. He looked like a man who
had got a chill, whom nothing could warm, who was in for a fever. He was
in a state he had not anticipated--he almost wished he had left undone
the things he had done.
He bolted the door--he listened at it--he tried it with his hand. He had
something in his possession that embarrassed and almost frightened him,
as if it had been some damning relic of a murdered man.
He sat down and drew from his breastpocket a tolerably bulky paper, a
law-paper with a piece of red tape about it, and a seal affixing the
tape to the paper. The paper was endorsed in pencil, in Sir Harry's
hand, with the words, "Witnessed by Darby Mayne and Hugh Fenwick," and
the date followed.
A sudden thought struck him; he put the paper into his pocket again, and
made a quiet search of the room, even opening and looking into the two
old cupboards, and peeping behind the curtains to satisfy his nervous
fancy that no one was concealed there.
Then again he took out the paper, cut the tape, broke the seal, unfolded
the broad document, and holding it extended in both hands, read, "The
last will and testament of Sir Harry Rokestone, of Dorracleugh, in the
County of ----, Baronet."
Here, then, was the great sacrilege. He stood there with the spoils of
the dead in his hands. But there was no faltering now in his purpose.
He read on: "I, Harry Rokestone, etc., Baronet, of Dorracleugh, etc.,
being of sound mind, and in good health, do make this my last will,"
etc.
And on and on he read, his face darkening.
"Four trustees," he muttered, and read on for awhile, for he could not
seize its effect as rapidly and easily as an expert would. "Well, yes,
two thousand two hundred pounds sterling by way of annuity--annuity!--to
be paid for the term of his natural life, in four equal sums, on the
first of May, the first of August--yes, and so on--as a first charge
upon all the said estates, and so forth. Well, what else?"
And so he went on humming and humming over the paper, his head slowly
turning from side to side as he read.
"And Blount to have two hundred a year! I guessed that old Methodist
knew what he was about; and then there's the money. What about the
money?" He read on as before. "Five thousand pounds. Five thousand for
me. Upon my soul! out of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds in
government stock. That's modest, all things considered, and an annuity
just of two thousand two hundred a year for my life, the rental of the
estates, as I happen to know, being nearly nine thousand." This he said
with a sneering, uneasy chuckle. "And that is all!"
And he stood erect, holding the paper by the corner between his finger
and thumb, and letting it lie against his knee.
"And everything else," he muttered, "land and money, without exception,
goes to Miss Ethel Ware. She the lady of the fee; I a poor annuitant!"
Here he was half stifled with rage and mortification.
"I see now, I see what he means. I see the drift of the whole thing. I
see my way. I mustn't make a mistake, though--there can't be any.
Nothing can be more distinct."
He folded up the will rapidly, and replaced it in his pocket.
Within the last half hour his forehead had darkened, and his cheeks had
hollowed. How strangely these subtle muscular contractions correspond
with the dominant moral action of the moment!
He took out another paper, a very old one, worn at the edges, and
indorsed "Case on behalf of Richard Rokestone Marston, Esquire." I
suppose he had read it at least twenty times that day, during his
journey to Dorracleugh. "No, nothing on earth can be clearer or more
positive," he thought. "The whole thing is as plain as that two and two
make four. It covers everything."
There were two witnesses to this will corresponding with the
indorsement, each had signed in presence of the other; all was
technically exact.
Mr. Marston had seen and talked with these witnesses on his arrival at
Dorracleugh, and learned enough to assure him that nothing was to be
apprehended from them. They were persons in Sir Harry's employment, and
Sir Harry had called them up on the day that the will was dated, and got
them to witness in all about a dozen different documents, which they
believed to be leases, but were not sure. Sir Harry had told them
nothing about the nature of the papers they were witnessing, and had
never mentioned a will to them. Richard Marston had asked Mrs.
Shackelton also, and she had never heard Sir Harry speak of a will.
While the news of Sir Harry's death rested only upon a telegraphic
message, which might be forged or precipitate, he dared not break the
seal and open the will. Mr. Blount's and Mr. Jarlcot's letters, which he
had read this evening, took that event out of the possibility of
question.
He was safe also in resolving a problem that was now before him. Should
he rest content with his annuity and five thousand pounds, or seize the
entire property, by simply destroying the will?
If the will were allowed to stand he might count on my fidelity, and
secure possession of all it bequeathed by marrying me. He had only to
place the will somewhere in Sir Harry's room, where it would be sure to
be found, and the affair would proceed in its natural course without
more trouble to him.
But Mr. Blount was appointed, with very formidable powers, my guardian,
and one of his duties was to see, in the event of my marrying, that
suitable settlements were made, and that there was no reasonable
objection to the candidate for my hand.
Mr. Blount was a quiet but very resolute man in all points of duty.
Knowing what was Sir Harry's opinion of his nephew, would he, within the
meaning of the will, accept him as a suitor against whom no reasonable
objection lay? And even if this were got over, Mr. Blount would
certainly sanction no settlement which did not give me as much as I
gave. My preponderance of power, as created by the will, must therefore
be maintained by the settlement. I had no voice in the matter; and thus
it seems that in most respects, even by marriage, the operation of the
will was inexorable. Why, then, should the will exist? and why, with
such a fortune and liberty within his grasp, should he submit to
conditions that would fetter him?
Even the pleasure of depriving Mr. Blount of his small annuity,
ridiculous as such a consideration seemed, had its influence. He was
keenly incensed with that officious and interested agent. The vicar, in
their first conversation, had opened his eyes as to the action of that
pretended friend.
"Mr. Blount told me, just before he left this," said the good vicar,
"that he had been urging and even entreating Sir Harry for a long time
to execute a will which he had by him, requiring nothing but his
signature, but, as yet, without success, and that he feared he would
never do it."
Now approached the moment of decision. He had read a trial in the
newspapers long before, in which a curious case was proved. A man in the
position of a gentleman had gone down to a deserted house that belonged
to him, for the express purpose of there destroying a will which would
have injuriously affected him.
He had made up his mind to destroy it, but he was haunted with the idea
that, do it how he might in the village where he lived, one way or
other the crime would be discovered. Accordingly he visited, with many
precautions, this old house, which was surrounded closely by a thick
wood. From one of the chimneys a boy, in search of jackdaws, saw one
little puff of smoke escape, and his curiosity being excited, he climbed
to the window of the room to which the chimney corresponded, and peeping
in, he saw something flaming on the hob, and near it a man, who started,
and hurriedly left the room on observing him.
Fancying pursuit, the detected man took his departure, without venturing
to return to the room.
The end of the matter was that his journey to the old house was tracked,
and not only did the boy identify him, but the charred pieces of burnt
paper found on the hob, having been exposed to chemical action, had
revealed the writing, a portion of which contained the signatures of the
testator, and the witnesses, and these and other part thus rescued,
identified it with the original draft in possession of the dead man's
attorney. Thus the crime was proved, and the will set up and
supplemented by what, I believe, is termed secondary evidence.
Who could be too cautious, then, in such a matter? It seemed as hard to
hide away effectually all traces of a will destroyed as the relics of a
murder.
Again he was tempted to spare the will, and rest content with an annuity
and safety. It was but a temptation, however, and a passing one.
He unbolted the door softly, and rang the bell. The waiter found him
extended on a sofa, apparently deep in his magazine.
He ordered tea--nothing else; he was precise in giving his order--he did
not want the servant pottering about his room--he had reasons for
choosing to be specially quiet.
The waiter returned with his tea-tray, and found him buried, as before,
in his magazine.
"Is everything there?" inquired Richard Marston.
"Everything there? Yes, sir, everything."
"Well, then, you need not come again till I touch the bell."
The waiter withdrew.
Mr. Marston continued absorbed in his magazine for just three minutes.
Then he rose softly, stepped lightly to the door, and listened. He
bolted it again; tried it, and found it fast.
In a moment the will was in his hand. He gave one dark, searching look
round the room, and then he placed the document in the very centre of
the embers. He saw it smoke sullenly, and curl and slowly warp, and
spring with a faint sound, that made him start more than ever cannon
did, into sudden flame. That little flame seemed like a bale-fire to
light up the broad sky of night with a vengeful flicker, and throw a
pale glare over the wide parks and mosses, the forests, fells, and mere,
of dead Sir Harry's great estate; and when the flame leaped up and died,
it seemed that there was no light left in the room, and he could see
nothing but the myriad little worms of fire wriggling all over the black
flakes which he thrust, like struggling enemies, into the hollow of the
fire.
Richard Marston was a man of redundant courage, and no scruple. But have
all men some central fibre of fear that can be reached, and does the
ghost of the conscience they have killed within them sometimes rise and
overshadow them with horror? Richard Marston, with his feet on the
fender and the tongs in his hands, pressed down the coals upon the ashes
of the will, and felt faint and dizzy, as he had done on the night of
the shipwreck, when, with bleeding forehead, he had sat down for the
first time in the steward's house at Malory.
An event as signal had happened now. After nearly ten minutes had
passed, during which he had never taken his eyes off the spot where the
ashes were glowing, he got up and took the candle down to see whether a
black film of the paper had escaped from the grate. Then stealthily he
opened the window to let out any smell of burnt paper.
He lighted his cigar, and smoked; and unbolted the door, rang the bell,
and ordered brandy-and-water. The suspense was over, and the crisis
past.
He was resolved to sit there till morning, to see that fire burnt out.