SEARCH FOR THE WILL.
The funeral was over; but the old house of Dorracleugh was not quiet
again till the night fell, and there was no more to-ing and fro-ing in
the stable-yard, and the last tenant had swallowed his last draught of
beer, and mounted and ridden away through the mist, over the fells, to
his distant farm.
The moon shone peacefully over mere and fell, and on the time-worn
church of Golden Friars, and through the window, bright, on the grey
flags that lie over Sir Harry Rokestone. Never did she keep serener
watch over the first night of a mortal's sleep in his last narrow bed.
Richard Marston saw this pure light, and musing, looked from the window.
It shone, he thought, over his wide estate. Beyond the mere, all but
Clusted, for many a mile was his own. At this side, away in the
direction of distant Haworth, a broad principality of moss and heath,
with scattered stretches of thin arable and pasture, ran side by side
with the Mardykes estate, magnificent in vastness, if not in rental.
His dreams were not of feudal hospitality and the hearty old-world life.
His thoughts were far away from this grand scenery or lonely
Dorracleugh. Ambition built his castles in the air; nothing very noble.
It was not even the tawdry and tradesman-like ambition of modern times.
He had no taste for that particular form of meanness, nor patience for
its drudgery. He would subscribe to election funds, place his county
influence at the disposal of the minister; spend money on getting and
keeping a seat; be found in his place whenever a critical vote was
impending; and by force of this, and of his county position, and the old
name--for he would take the name of Rokestone, in spite of his uncle's
awkward direction about his epitaph, and no one could question his
relationship--by dint of all this, with, I daresay, the influence of a
high marriage, he hoped to get on, not from place to place, but what
would answer him as well, from title to title. First to revive the
baronetage, and then, after some fifteen or twenty years more of
faithful service, to become Baron Rokestone, of Dorracleugh.
It was not remorse, then, that kept the usurper's eyes wide open, as he
lay that night in the dark in his bed, his brain in a fever. His
conscience had no more life in it than the window-stone. It troubled him
with no compunction. There was at his heart, on the contrary, a
vindictive elation at having defeated with so much simplicity the
unnatural will of his uncle.
Bright rose the sun next morning over Dorracleugh, a sun of good omen.
Richard Marston had appointed three o'clock as the most convenient hour
for all members of the conference, for a meeting and a formality. A mere
formality, in truth, it was, a search for the will of Sir Harry
Rokestone. Mr. Blount had slept at Dorracleugh. Mr. Jarlcot, a short,
plump man, of five-and-fifty, with a grave face and a bullet head,
covered with short, lank, black hair, accompanied by his confidential
man, Mr. Spaight, arrived in his gig, just as the punctual clock of
Dorracleugh struck three.
Very soon after the old vicar rode up, on his peaceable pony, and came
into the drawing-room, where the little party were assembled, with sad,
kind face, and gentle, old-fashioned ceremony, with a little powdering
of dust in the wrinkles of his clerical costume.
It was with a sense of pleasant satire that Richard Marston had observed
old Lemuel Blount ever since he had been assured that the expected will
was not forthcoming. These holy men, how they love an annuity! Not that
they like money, of course; that's Mammon; but because it lifts them
above earthy cares, and gives them the power of relieving the wants of
their fellow-Christians. How slyly the old gentleman had managed it! How
thoughtful his appointing himself guardian to the young lady! What
endless opportunities his powers over the settlements would present of
making handsome terms for himself with an intending bridegroom!
On arriving, in full confidence that the will was safe in its iron
repository, Christian could not have looked more comfortable when he
enjoyed his famous prospect from the delectable mountains. But when it
turned out that the will was nowhere, the same Christian, trudging on up
the hill of difficulty in his old "burdened fashion," could not have
looked more hang-dog and overpowered than he.
His low spirits, his sighs and ejaculations, amused Richard Marston
extremely. When he heard him say to himself, when first he learned that
the vicar had looked into the safe and found nothing, "How sad! How
strange! How very sad!" as he stood at the window, with his head
lowered, and his fingers raised, he was tempted to rebuke his audacity
with some keen and cautious irony; but those who win may laugh--he could
afford to be good-humoured, and a silent sneer contented him.
Mr. Blount, having, as I said, heard that the vicar had searched the
"safe," and that Mr. Spaight, accompanied by Mr. Marston, and the
housekeeper, had searched all the drawers, desks, boxes, presses, and
other lock-up places in the house in vain, for any paper having even a
resemblance to a will, said: "It is but a form; but as you propose it,
be it so."
And now this form was to be complied with. Mr. Marston told the servant
to send Mrs. Shackelton with the keys. Mr. Marston led the way, and four
other gentlemen followed, attended by the housekeeper.
There was not much talking; a clatter of feet on uncarpeted floors, the
tiny jingle of small keys, the opening of doors, and clapping of lids,
and now and then Mrs. Shackelton's hard treble was heard in answer to an
interrogatory.
This went on for more than twenty minutes up-stairs, and then the
exploring party came down the stairs again, Richard Marston talking to
the vicar, Mr. Blount to Mr. Spaight, while Mr. Jarlcot, the attorney,
listened to Mrs. Shackleton, the housekeeper.
Richard Marston led the party to Sir Harry's room. The carpet was still
on the floor, the curtains hanging still, in gloomy folds, to the
ground. Sir Harry's hat and stick lay on the small round table, where he
had carelessly thrown them when he came in from his last walk about
Dorracleugh, his slippers lay on the hearthrug before his easy-chair,
and his pipe was on the mantelpiece.
The party stood in this long and rather gloomy room in straggling
disarray, still talking.
"There's Pixie," said old Mr. Spaight, who had been a bit of a
sportsman, and loved coursing in his youth, as he stopped before a
portrait of a greyhound, poking his long nose and spectacles, with a
faint smirk, close into the canvas. "Sir Harry's dog; fine dog, Pixie,
won the cup twice on Doppleton Lea thirty-two years ago." But this was a
murmured meditation, for he was a staid man of business now, and his
liking for dogs and horses was incongruous, and no one in the room heard
him. Mr. Jarlcot's voice recalled him.
"Mr. Marston was speaking to you, Mr. Spaight."
"Oh! I was just saying I think nothing could have been more careful,"
said Mr. Marston, "than the search you made upstairs, in the presence of
me and Mrs. Shackleton, on Thursday last?"
"No, sir--certainly nothing--it could not possibly have escaped us,"
answered Mr. Spaight.
"And that is your opinion also?" asked Mr. Jarlcot of Richard Marston.
"Clearly," he answered.
"I'll make a note of that, if you'll allow me," said Mr. Jarlcot; and he
made an entry, with Mr. Marston's concurrence, in his pocket-book.
"And now about this," said Mr. Jarlcot, with a clumsy bow to Mr.
Marston, and touching the door of the safe with his open hand.
"You have got the key, sir?" said Marston to the good vicar with silver
hair, who stood meekly by, distrait and melancholy, an effigy of saintly
contemplation.
"Oh, yes," said the vicar wakening up. "Yes; the key, but--but you know
there's nothing there."
He moved the key vaguely about as he looked from one to the other, as if
inviting any one who pleased to try.
"I think, sir, perhaps it will be as well if you will kindly open it
yourself," said Marston.
"Yes, surely--I suppose so--with all my heart," said the vicar.
The door of the safe opened easily, and displayed the black iron void,
into which all looked.
Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed.
Of course no one was surprised. But Mr. Blount shook his head, lifted up
his hands, and groaned audibly, "I am very sorry."
Mr. Marston did not affect to hear him.