waste paper. When do you say my uncle entrusted it to you?'
'Shortly before he left the house on the night that he disappeared. I
am quite sure he thought it was of importance, from his manner towards
me in commending it. He said it was a trust, an important trust.'
'Then,' said Philip, 'there is some mystery behind unsolved.'
'Read it,' urged Mrs. Sidebottom; 'and see if that will clear it up.'
'I will read it, certainly,' said Philip; 'but it is a document entirely
devoid of legal force.'
Philip began to run his eye over it before reading aloud.
'Well, upon my word,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'you are inclined to keep us
on tenterhooks. The will, if not valid, is still interesting, no
doubt.'
'This,' said Philip, in a tone that had harshness in it, 'this is a most
extraordinary document. It is in the first place clearly made up from
some of those formulas which are found in popular handbooks; for aught I
know picked out of "Inquire Within for Everything," or the "Family
Save-All." The last portion is also clearly taken from no formula at
all, but is the expression of my uncle's peculiar idiosyncrasies.'
'Well, read it, and pass your comments on it later,' said Mrs.
Sidebottom, shifting her position in her seat and rearranging her
skirts.
Before reading, Philip cast a searching glance at Salome. He now seated
himself at the table, and proceeded to read:
'I, Jeremiah Pennycomequick, of Mergatroyd, in the County of York, and
the West Riding of said county, manufacturer, being in sound health and
in full possession of my faculties, do give, bequeath, and devise all
the real and personal estate of which I shall be possessed or entitled
at the time of my decease, together with my factory, my house with
garden, which are all leasehold for twenty-one years, together with all
the appurtenances thereof, unto Salome Cusworth, my adopted daughter,
absolutely; chargeable, however, with such sum annually to be paid out
of the profits, _pro rata_, to my half-sister, Louisa Sidebottom, as was
agreed by her marriage settlement. And I further direct and bequeath to
my nephew, Lambert Sidebottom, and to my nephew, Philip Pennycomequick,
to each severally an annuity of one hundred pounds, to be paid to the
said Lambert Sidebottom and the said Philip Pennycomequick during their
respective lives, in half-quarterly payments. And I hereby request my
executor to invest a sufficient sum in the purchase of such annuities
out of the moneys arising from my personal estate. And I further
appoint the aforesaid Salome Cusworth, my adopted daughter, sole
executrix of my will, and revoke all former wills by me at any time
heretofore made.
'And whereas I have been during the whole course of my lifetime an enemy
to lawsuits, and what little I leave I desire may not be squandered away
on the gentlemen of the long robe, for whom all the veneration I have is
at a distance, and wishing that there was more justice and less law in
the world, I devise that should any legatee trouble my executor by going
to law, by commencing any suit of law, in any tribunal whatsoever, the
said person be deprived of the benefit of the legacy hereby
bequeathed.'[#]
[#] The conclusion of this will is taken verbatim from one made by a
member of the author's family, and proved in the Prerogative Court of
Canterbury (Bedford, f. 167).
Philip paused, then added: 'The will is dated about a twelvemonth ago,
and is witnessed by Marianne Cusworth, widow, of Mergatroyd, and John
Dale, surgeon, of Bridlington.' The silence that had been maintained
during the reading continued unbroken for a couple of minutes after it
was concluded.
The first to break it was the captain, who said: 'A bad job for me. I
lose my hundred a year, and am left as before, dependent on my mother's
apron-string.'
Philip looked at Salome; she saw by the contraction of the irises of his
eyes that there was aversion in his heart.
'Miss Cusworth,' he said in metallic tones, 'there is but one
explanation of this extraordinary matter; this explanation that presents
itself to my mind is not to your credit. Shall I say what I think, or
shall I forbear?'
'Tell me what your opinion is,' she said quietly.
'This will was drawn up, clearly without advice and by his own hand, by
my uncle, Mr. Jeremiah Pennycomequick. What can have induced him to
make such an unjust disposition of his property in your favour you can
best tell.'
'I cannot tell. It is unjust. I am glad that the will is worthless.'
'Sour grapes,' muttered Mrs. Sidebottom to her son.
'That undue influence was exercised, I make no doubt. Had this will
been perfect, with signature complete, Mrs. Sidebottom, who risks
nothing by the outrageous proviso in the second part, would have
contested it; this I doubt no more than I doubt that pressure was
brought to bear on an old, and perhaps feeble man, to make this will.'
Salome's blood flamed up to the roots of her hair.
'After this will had been made and duly attested, my uncle on thinking
the matter over calmly, considered the injustice he had done, and
cancelled his signature. He had changed his mind. You, I presume,
still exercised pressure on him, and to relieve himself of this, he gave
the will into your custody; it was a deception probably justifiable
under the circumstances. He unquestionably intended to make another will
with quite different provisions, but was prevented by death from
executing his intentions.'
'You think,' exclaimed Salome, her bosom heaving and her colour changing
rapidly--'you think I could behave so unworthily.'
'I can find no other solution.'
She was cut, wounded to her heart's core.
'You say that the will was given you to keep. For what reason? Because
it interested you extraordinarily?'
'Yes,' said Salome, 'so Mr. Pennycomequick said when he gave it me.'
'But why did he think it necessary to give it you when he knew it was
invalid? He must have done it to quiet your importunities. I can see
no other reason.'
'You wrong me,' said the girl, with pain and dignity. 'I am sure that
he did not know it was worthless when he handed it to me. His manner
was so serious.'
'You do not suppose it was tampered with after it came into your
possession?'
'Oh no, certainly not. It was locked up in my workbox under the tray
where are my cottons and needles.'
Mrs. Sidebottom watched their faces and followed the dialogue with
almost breathless attention. Now she smiled sarcastically.
'It is disappointing,' she said, 'after the toils have been laid to lose
the game.'
Salome again crimsoned.
'You think that I used my position in this house, took advantage of my
nearness to Mr. Pennycomequick, to induce him to commit an injustice?'
Philip bowed stiffly.
'You charge me with the grossest breach of honour, with wicked
ingratitude to the man who has been to me as a father?'
'We do not accuse you personally,' said Lambert, who thought that, as he
would have expressed it, his cousin and mother were 'down on the girl
too hard,' 'but we think it awfully queer that uncle should have made
such a will. Your mother, for instance----'
'My mother is as incapable of such meanness as myself,' said Salome.
'To such as can think of me so basely, no justification I could make
would be of any avail. With your leave----'
She bowed, and now white as ivory, with spots of fire in her temples,
she swept out of the room.
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*WHAT NEXT?*
What was to be done?
Mrs. Sidebottom was the first to see what was to be done.
'I shall take out an administration at once,' she said.
Philip said nothing. Of course she must do what she said. She was the
proper person to take out an administration as nearest of kin. But he
was not thinking of her and of what she proposed to do. He was standing
still with the will in his hand. Salome had not reclaimed it, as it was
worthless. He proceeded to fold it and replace it in the cover. Philip
was not easy in his mind. He had spoken in a rude manner to the girl,
throwing a gross charge against her, and had grievously hurt her.
Was the charge just? Was it possible to explain the peculiar
circumstances in any other way than that which had occurred to him?
Suddenly looking up at Mrs. Sidebottom, and then at the captain, he
looked down again, and this time with great attention at the envelope.
'The envelope has been tampered with,' he said.
'In what way?' asked Mrs. Sidebottom.
'It has been opened by means of a heated penknife. Here are the marks of
the smoke that have been rubbed off the blade upon the paper; and here
are cuts made by the knife in the paper. The envelope, after having
been sealed, was opened carefully, even cunningly.'
'Why carefully or cunningly I cannot tell, but of course opened it has
been,' said Mrs. Sidebottom. 'You do not suppose Jeremiah could destroy
his signature without opening the envelope?'
'Certainly not. But I should not have supposed he would take pains to
do it in such a manner. He had plenty of long envelopes at hand. Then,
again, to refasten it a different sealing-wax was employed to what had
been used before, a slight difference in tint of scarlet, and one
impression of the stamp can be traced over the other, the earlier not
being wholly obliterated. Excuse me one moment, Aunt Louisa, I should
like to have a look at my uncle's study.'
'Philip--the room is in disorder!' said Mrs. Sidebottom, starting to her
feet and flushing, 'I cannot, really; upon my word, I will not
permit----'
But he had left the room before she could prevent him. She moved to
follow him, but reconsidered herself and turned back.
'Fiddlesticks!' she said angrily; 'nothing but fiddlesticks.'
'I am the sufferer,' grumbled Lambert; 'I shall be left in the cold.
You and Philip take everything.'
'What I have serves to make you comfortable,' retorted the mother.
'That may be,' answered Lambert, 'but it is one thing to have money of
one's own, and another thing to have to come to one's mammy for every
penny, and to find that the mammy rarely has any pennies in her purse.'
'Hitherto I have been pinched in circumstances. It will be different
now, Lamb, you will see.' After a pause, she added, 'Unless that
meddlesome, vexatious prig, Philip, prove an obstruction.
Presently Philip returned.
'It is as I thought,' said he. 'The sealing-wax employed the second
time is that now in the pen-tray on my uncle's desk; not only so, but
his knife is there also, bearing on it the traces of exposure to fire.
It was probably thrust into the flame of the gas to heat it so as to
enable it to dissolve the wax off the seal.'
'No doubt about it,' said Mrs. Sidebottom; 'and this proves that
Jeremiah cancelled his will shortly before his death. I should not be
surprised if he did it the same night that he died, immediately before
giving it to Salome.'
'The case is a most extraordinary one,' said Philip.
'Not at all; it is clear as day.'
Philip did not care to debate the matter with his aunt, so he left the
room, and taking his hat, entered the garden.
The garden, as already said, descended from the house to the valley. It
consisted of two slopes, divided by a wall; the upper slope ended in a
terrace-walk, with the coping of the wall serving as a parapet to it.
Access to the lower garden was obtained by a flight of steps at each
end. The upper of the two divisions was devoted to flowers, the lower
to vegetables, and fruit-trees were trained against the wall that
buttressed up the terrace.
Philip paced the upper terrace for several minutes, and was unable to
come to a decision; he could not see that the matter was as simple as
his aunt pretended. For, as he argued, why should his uncle have taken
pains to preserve the original envelope when there was no apparent
necessity for so doing. If anyone else had opened the envelope, then he
could understand the care taken to preserve it with its superscription,
'The Last Will and Testament of Jeremiah Pennycomequick,' and to conceal
the fact that it had been adroitly unclosed.
But who would have been likely to commit such an act? Certainly not
Salome, in whose keeping, under lock and key, the will had been. It was
hardly possible that it had been tampered with since it was given to
her. Was it possible that it had been cancelled before, unknown to
Jeremiah?
Philip saw that he had not the data, or had not data sufficient, on
which to come to a decision. He must have another interview with
Salome. He therefore returned to the house, and meeting a servant in
the hall, asked her to request Miss Cusworth to speak with him a few
minutes in the garden.
Without delay Salome came. She had not put on a bonnet, but had thrown
a gray shawl over her head, and pinned it under her chin like a
mill-girl. Some of her burnished hair, like autumn oak-leaves flaming
in the evening sun, shone out from under the shawl, and the gray wool
contrasted pleasantly with the delicately beautiful complexion, now no
longer white, but with flying tinges of colour in it, like a sunset sky
in which are drifts of vapour, high aloft, undefined, yet sensitive to
the rays of the declining orb. She was deeply wounded, and the changes
in her colour followed the fluctuations of resentment, humiliation,
anger and pain in her heart.
She had been crying--Philip saw that--for though she had wiped her eyes,
the tears were still near the surface, and with difficulty restrained
from overflowing.
'Miss Cusworth,' said Philip, with stiffness, but an attempt at
graciousness, 'I regret that I addressed you a few moments ago without
that charity which I was bound to entertain. I was surprised,
indignant, and rushed to a conclusion which may prove to have been
formed too precipitately. I shall be greatly--very greatly obliged, if
you will accept my apology, and allow me to ask you a series of
questions on the subject of the will, to enable me to form a matured
opinion as to the manner in which it was cancelled, and by whom it was
done; two points that appear to me at this moment by no means as clear
as they did a quarter of an hour ago, because a close examination of the
envelope has shown me that it was opened recently, and in a manner that
seems to me suspicious.'
'I will answer any questions you put--as far as it is in my ability to
answer them.'
'And--we shall be more at our ease, more in private, if we take the
lower walk at the foot of the wail,' said Philip, 'as from the windows
everyone can see us here and comment on our interview. May I ask you to
do me the further favour of walking with me below the steps?'
'Certainly,' answered Salome, and began to descend.
Philip would have been devoid of the elementary faculties by which
beauty is perceived and admired, if he had not been struck at this time
by the young and graceful figure that preceded him, and by the perfect
sweetness of the innocent, sad face that turned at the bottom and looked
back at him. She did not reproach him with her eyes, and yet, when he
caught them, his own eyes fell, and he became uncomfortable and
conscious of having wronged her. She puzzled him. Was she tricky,
double, self-seeking? or was she what she looked--sincere and
straightforward?
A consciousness stole over Philip that had he lived in the same house
with her for sixteen or seventeen years, as had Uncle Jeremiah, and had
come to make his will, then without her uttering a word of persuasion,
he would be leaving her everything he had--just as Jeremiah had at one
time done; only he would never have worded his will in such a clumsy,
absurd, and unusual fashion. As soon as he reached the foot of the
steps, he took his place at her side. Here was a broad walk parallel to
that above, facing the sun, sheltered, with the trained trees against
the wall on one side, and a box-edging on the other, with, in summer, a
border of herbaceous flowers fringing the beds of cabbage, onions,
brussels sprouts, and carrots.
'I am at your service,' said Salome.
'Then I will begin my catechism at once,' said Philip. 'Please to give
me an exact account of what passed in your last interview with Mr.
Pennycomequick.'
'Do you mean actually the last--as he went out for his walk by the
canal, or when he gave me the will to keep?'
'I mean the latter.'
'He had been out to dinner. I sat up awaiting him, thinking he might
want something before he went to bed. It was most unusual for him to
accept invitations to dine out. When he came back----'
'He had been dining with Mrs. Sidebottom, I think?'
'Yes; when he came back it was early--that is to say, earlier than I
expected. But he was out of spirits, and told me he left as soon as he
could get away for that reason.'
'Had anything occurred to disturb him?'
'Not that I know. But he certainly was in a more desponding mood than I
had seen him in at any time previously.'
'Did he give any reason for it?'
Salome hesitated.
'What reason did he give for his depressed spirits?'
'He did not exactly give a reason for it, but he was a little
mistrustful--perhaps of the world in general.'
'And of anyone in particular?'
Salome coloured; her hand caught her shawl below her chin and worked
nervously at it.
'I had rather you did not force me to answer that question,' she said
timidly.
'Very well,' said Philip, 'only let me observe that this is not
answering me with the fulness that was promised.'
'I think he was unjust--and I had rather that little ebullition of
injustice was forgotten.'
'Go on,' said Philip. 'Did he give you the will, then?--and was it in
anyway in connection with the mistrust he expressed?'
'I cannot say that. He started up, said he would confide to me a most
solemn trust, that concerned me nearly, and went out of the room----'
'Whither did he go?'
'To the study, I fancy; and in a moment returned----'
'Excuse me. In a moment?'
'Yes, almost directly, returned with the paper.'
'It was in the envelope?'
'Oh yes, just as I gave it you.'
'You do not think he would have had time to open the envelope, tear off
his signature, and reseal the cover before coming back to the room where
you were?'
'Oh no! He went upstairs and came down again immediately.'
'Now tell me. Are you quite sure that he believed the will was intact
when he gave it you?'
'I am sure of it from his manner.'
'And where did he keep it before he gave it you?'
'I do not know.'
'Had you any previous knowledge of the will and its contents?'
'None whatever. I have not even heard my mother speak of it; and she
must have known, because she witnessed it. But I am sure also she had
no idea as to its contents, or she would have joined with me in
entreating him not to make such an unjust disposition of his property.
I am glad the will is worthless, because I never could have felt that I
had a right to receive all uncle--I mean Mr. Pennycomequick--left me in
that will. I should have felt that I was robbing the relations, and I
would have refused to benefit by the will.'
'Who is the John Dale who signed as witness along with your mother?'
'Mr. Dale! Oh, he was a dear friend of Mr. Pennycomequick. He always
spent his Christmas here, and uncle went at Whitsuntide to spend a few
days with him at Bridlington. Mr. Dale is trustee to Janet. We both
like him.'
Salome spoke so openly, so quietly, and with such self-possession, that
again his suspicions began to yield to the charm of her honesty, as they
had before.
'One matter further,' said Philip. 'After Mr. Pennycomequick had given
you the will, you locked it up in--I remember you said--a workbox.'
'Yes, in my workbox.'
'And the workbox--was that put away anywhere?'
'Oh no. I use it every day.'
'Then--the same box is unlocked very often?'
'Yes.'
'And left unlocked?'
Salome hesitated a moment, then said: 'Yes--but it is in my room. No
one would meddle with my things--no one has any interest in my little
odds and ends. Besides, no one would be so mean.' Then after a pause,
'Mr. Pennycomequick, you charged me with a piece of baseness which'--she
shook her head impatiently, as if to shake off the imputation--'which it
is a stain on me to think of as possible. I could not--I would die
rather than do what is mean. Mean!' She turned her face suddenly round
on him; it was flushed, and the eyes sparkled. 'No, Mr. Pennycomequick,
I could be wicked, but not mean--no, not that on any account, under
whatever provocation--no, not mean!'
'I beg your pardon, Miss Cusworth, most sincerely. I committed myself to
a rash charge, which I withdraw.'
She paid no attention to his apology, but went on: 'No, I would not have
taken advantage of the will had it been in form and right; for that
would have been mean. Dear Mr. Pennycomequick I loved and love still
from the depths of my heart; but he had his faults, and one was that he
was not forgiving to his own relations--to you. And he thought harshly
of his sister, Mrs. Sidebottom, and despised Captain Pennycomequick. I
had no claim on him at all, and if he saw that he had done wrong, and
had himself cancelled the will, no one would rejoice more than myself;
for it would show me that he had returned to a more kindly view of you
all.'
'But how do you account for the signature being torn off?'
'I have not thought much about it since. I thought only of the hurt you
had done me.'
'Is it possible that he can have changed his mind, invalidated his will,
and then forgotten that he had done so? No, that is impossible. The
act was too recent,' Philip argued aloud.
'I would not have had people think ill of dear old uncle,' said Salome,
pursuing her own train of thought, little concerned how the will was
invalidated, concerned only with her solicitude for the memory of the
deceased. 'He had been unspeakably kind to my mother and my sister and
me. Everyone would talk, all would say he had been unjust, supposing
that will had stood. Over his grave--that was not he who was buried
to-day--his grave, wherever it may be, heart-burnings would have arisen,
and reproachful words would have been cast at his memory. He wrote that
will in some queer mood when he was not quite himself. He never, I must
say it, quite valued Mrs. Sidebottom as a sister, and he was ill-pleased
when she left York and settled at Mergatroyd. The captain, he thought,
had not much brains and was imprudent about money. You he did not know,
and he had a mistaken prejudice against lawyers. But there--how the
will was made of no effect; whether by himself or--or how, matters
little; the deed is done, and no one can ever say that he wronged his
own flesh and blood.'
She had spoken quickly, eagerly, without pause, and with a heightened
colour.
A sudden idea came into Philip's mind with a flash.
'You--Miss Cusworth! For the sake of his memory did you meddle with the
will?'
This was a repetition of the charge. First, he charged her with coarse
self-seeking, now with blind self-effacement.
'I--I--oh! Mr. Pennycomequick, of course not. It was a trust. I could
not touch it, even to save his dear name from reproach.'
'Miss Cusworth,' said Philip, 'have you any objection to my seeing your
mother?'
'Not in the least. Only remember she is frail. She suffers from her
heart.'
'Will you take me to her at once?'
'Certainly. Follow me.'
She led Philip up the steps, through the upper garden; Philip's eyes,
which had watched her descend the steps with admiration, saw her mount
them with even greater. She conducted him to the room occupied oy her
mother as a parlour.