A DISAPPOINTMENT.
"I think," said Mr. Jarlcot, "it will be desirable that I should take a
note of any information which Mr. Marston and the vicar may be so good
as to supply with respect to the former search in the same place. I
think, sir," he continued, addressing the vicar, "you mentioned that the
deceased, Sir Harry Rokestone, placed that key in your charge on the
evening of his departure from this house for London?"
"So it was, sir," said the vicar.
"Was it out of your possession for any time?"
"For about three quarters of an hour. I handed it to Mr. Marston on his
way to this house; but as I was making a sick-call near this, I started
not many minutes after he left me, and on the way it struck me that I
might as well have back the key. I arrived here, I believe, almost as
soon as he, and he quite agreed with me that I had better get the key
again into----"
"Into your own custody," interposed Marston. "You may recollect that it
was I who suggested it the moment you came."
"And the key was not out of your possession, Mr. Marston, during the
interval?" said Mr. Jarlcot.
"Not for one moment," answered Richard Marston, promptly.
"And you did not, I think you mentioned, open that safe?"
"Certainly not. I made no use whatever of that key at any time. I never
saw that safe open until the vicar opened it in my presence, and we
both saw that it contained nothing; so did Mrs. Shackleton, as
intelligent a witness as any. And, I think, we can all--I know I can,
for my part--depose, on oath, to the statements we have made."
Mr. Jarlcot raised his eyebrows solemnly, slowly shook his head, and
having replaced his note-book in his pocket, drew a long breath in
through his rounded lips, with a sound that almost amounted to a
whistle.
"Nothing could be more distinct; it amounts to demonstration," he said,
raising his head, putting his hands into his trousers-pockets, and
looking slowly round the cornice. "Haven't you something to say?" he
added, laying his hand gently on Mr. Blount's arm, and then turning a
step or two away; while Marston, who could not comprehend what he
fancied to be an almost affected disappointment at the failure to
discover a will, thought he saw his eyes wander, when he thought no one
was looking, curiously to the grate and the hobs; perhaps in search, as
he suspected, of paper ashes.
"I am awfully sorry," exclaimed Mr. Blount, throwing himself into a
chair in undisguised despondency. "The will, as it was drafted, would
have provided splendidly for Miss Ethel Ware, and left you, Mr. Marston,
an annuity of two thousand five hundred a year, and a sum of five
thousand pounds. For two or three years I had been urging him to execute
it; it is evident he never did. He has destroyed the draft, instead of
executing it. That hope is quite gone--totally."
Mr. Blount stood up and said, laying his hand upon his forehead, "I am
grieved--I am shocked--I am profoundly grieved."
Mr. Marston was strongly tempted to tell Mr. Blount what he thought of
him. Jarlcot and he, no doubt, understood one another, and had intended
making a nice thing of it.
He could not smile, nor even sneer, just then, but Mr. Marston fixed on
Lemuel Blount a sidelong look of the sternest contempt.
"There is, then," said Mr. Blount, collecting himself, "no will."
"That seems pretty clear," said Mr. Marston, with, in spite of himself,
a cold scorn in his tone. "I think so; and I rather fancy you think so
too."
"Except this," continued Mr. Blount, producing a paper from his pocket,
at which he had been fumbling. "Mr. Jarlcot will hand you a copy. I
urged him, God knows how earnestly, to revoke it. It was made at the
period of his greatest displeasure with you; it leaves everything to
Miss Ethel Ware, and gives you, I grieve to say, but an annuity of four
hundred a year. It appoints me guardian to the young lady, in the same
terms that the latter will would have done, and leaves me, besides, an
annuity of five hundred a year, half of which I shall, if you don't
object, make over to you."
"Oh! oh! a will! That's all right," said Marston, trying to smile with
lips that had grown white; "I, of course, you--we all wish nothing but
what is right and fair."
Mr. Jarlcot handed him a new neatly-folded paper, endorsed "Copy of the
Will of the late Sir Harry Rokestone, Bart." Richard Marston took it
with a hand that trembled, a hand that had not often trembled before.
"Then, I suppose, Mr. Blount, you will look in on me, by-and-by, to
arrange about the steps to be taken about proving it," said Mr. Jarlcot.
"It's all right, I dare say," said Mr. Marston, vaguely, looking from
man to man uncertainly. "I expected a will, of course: I don't suppose I
have a friend among you, gentlemen, why should I? I am sure I have some
enemies. I don't know what country attorneys, and nincompoops, and
Golden Friars' bumpkins may think of it, but I know what the world will
think, that I'm swindled by d--d conspiracy, and that that old man,
who's in his grave, has behaved like a villain."
"Oh, Mr. Marston, your dead uncle!" said the good vicar, lifting his
hand in deprecation, with gentle horror. "You wouldn't, you can't!"
"What the devil is it to you, sir?" cried Marston, with a look as if he
could have struck him. "I say it's all influence, and d--d juggling--I'm
not such a simpleton. No one expected, of course, that opportunities
like those should not have been improved. The thing's transparent. I
wish you joy, Mr. Blount, of your five hundred a year, and you, Mr.
Jarlcot, of your approaching management of the estates and the money. If
you fancy a will like that, turning his own nephew adrift on the world
in favour of methodists and attorneys, and a girl he never saw till the
other day, is to pass unchallenged, you're very much mistaken; it's just
the thing that always happens when an old man like that dies--there's a
will of course--every one understands it. I'll have you all where you
won't like."
Mrs. Shackleton, with her mouth pursed, her nose high in the air, and
her brows knit over a vivid pair of eyes, was the only one of the group
who seemed ready to explode in reply; Mr. Blount looked simply shocked
and confounded; the vicar maintained his bewildered and appealing stare;
Mr. Spaight's eyebrows were elevated above his spectacles, and his mouth
opened, as he leaned forward his long nose; Mr. Jarlcot's brow looked
thunderous, and his chops a little flushed; all were staring for some
seconds in silence on Mr. Marston, whose concluding sentences had risen
almost to a shriek, with a laugh running through it.
"I think, Mr. Marston," said Jarlcot, after a couple of efforts, "you
would do well to--to consider, a little, the bearing of your language; I
don't think you can quite see its force."
"I wish you could--I mean it; and I'm d--d but you shall feel it too!
You shall hear of me sooner than you all think. I'm not a fellow to be
pigeoned so simply."
With these words, he walked into the hall, and a few moments after they
heard the door shut with a violent clang.
A solemn silence reigned in the room for a little time; these peaceable
people seemed stunned by the explosion.
"Evasit, erupit," murmured the vicar, sadly, raising his hands, and
shaking his head. "How very painful!"
"I don't wonder--I make great allowances," said Mr. Blount, "I have been
very unhappy myself, ever since it was ascertained that he had not
executed the new will. I am afraid the young man will never consent to
accept a part of my annuity--he is so spirited."
"Don't be uneasy on that point," said Mr. Jarlcot; "if you lodge it,
he'll draw it; not--but I think--you might do--better--with your money."
There was something in the tone, undefinable, that prompted a dark
curiosity.
Mr. Blount turned on him a quick look of inquiry. Mr. Jarlcot lowered
his eyes, and then turned them to the window, with the remark that the
summer was making a long stay this year.
Mr. Blount looked down and slowly rubbed his forehead, thinking, and
sighing deeply, as he said, "It's a wonderful world, this--may the Lord
have mercy on us all!"