Part 90 (1/2)
A will is a mighty thing, and requires nice handling. Would that I were lawyer enough to give you this particular one in full, with all its many bequests and curious directions. But, alas! ignorance forbids. The sense lingers with me, but all the technicalities and running phrases and idiotic repet.i.tions have escaped me.
To most of those present Mr. Amherst has left bequests; to Lady Stafford five thousand pounds; to Plantagenet Potts two thousand pounds; to Mrs. Darley's son the same; to all the servants handsome sums of money, together with a year's wages; to Mrs. Nesbit, the housekeeper, two hundred pounds a year for her life. And then the attorney pauses and a.s.sumes an important air, and every one knows the end is nigh.
All the rest of his property of which he died possessed--all the houses, lands, and moneys--all personal effects--”I give and bequeath to----”
Here Mr. Buscarlet, either purposely or otherwise, stops short to cough and blow a sonorous note upon his nose. All eyes are fixed upon him; some, even more curious or eager than the others, are leaning forward in their chairs. Even Philip has turned from the window and is waiting breathlessly.
”To my beloved grandchild, Eleanor Ma.s.sereene!”
Not a sound follows this announcement, not a movement. Then Marcia half rises from her seat; and Mr. Buscarlet, putting up his hand, says, hurriedly, ”There is a codicil,” and every one prepares once more to listen.
But the codicil produces small effect. The old man at the last moment evidently relented so far in his matchless severity as to leave Marcia Amherst ten thousand pounds (and a sealed envelope, which Mr. Buscarlet hands her), on the condition that she lives out of England; and to Philip Shadwell ten thousand pounds more,--and another sealed envelope,--which the attorney also delivers on the spot.
As the reading ceases, another silence, even more profound than the first, falls upon the listeners. No one speaks, no one so much as glances at the other.
Marcia, ghastly, rigid, rises from her seat.
”It is false,” she says, in a clear, impa.s.sioned tone. ”It is the will of an imbecile,--a madman. It shall not be.” She has lost all self-restraint, and is trembling with fear and rage and a terrible certainty of defeat.
”Pardon me, Miss Amherst,” says Mr. Buscarlet, courteously, ”but I fear you will find it unwise to lay any stress on such a thought. To dispute this will would be madness indeed: all the world knows my old friend, your grandfather, died in perfect possession of his senses, and this will was signed three months ago.”
”You drew up this will, sir?” she asks in a low tone, only intended for him, drawing closer to him.
”Certainly I did, madam.”
”And during all these past months understood thoroughly how matters would be?”
”Certainly, madam.”
”And knowing, continued still--with a view to deceive me--to treat me as the future mistress of Herst?”
”I trust, madam, I always treated you with proper respect. You would not surely have had me as rude to you as you invariably were to me? I may not be a gentleman, Miss Amherst, in your acceptation of that term, but I make it a rule never to be--offensive.”
”It was a low--a mean revenge,” says Marcia, through her teeth, her eyes aflame, her lips colorless; ”one worthy of you. I understand you, sir; but do not for an instant think you have crushed _me_.”
Raising her head haughtily, she sweeps past him back to her original seat.
Molly has risen to her feet. She is very pale and faint; her eyes, large and terrified, like a fawn's, are fixed, oddly enough, upon Philip. The news has been too sudden, too unexpected, to cause her even the smallest joy as yet. On the contrary, she knows only pity for him who, but a few minutes before, she was reviling in her thoughts.
Perhaps the sweetness of her sympathy is the one thing that could have consoled Philip just then.
”'Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness,'” he says, with a little sneering laugh, shrugging his shoulders. Then, rousing himself, he draws a long breath, and goes straight up to Molly.
”Permit me to congratulate you,” he says, with wonderful grace, considering all things. He is standing before her, with his handsome head well up, a certain pride of birth about him, strong enough to carry him successfully through this great and lasting disaster. ”It is, after all, only natural that of the three you should inherit. Surprise should lie in the fact that never did such a possibility occur to us.
We might have known that even our grandfather's worn and stony heart could not be proof against such grace and sweetness as yours.”
He bows over her hand courteously, and, turning away, walks back again to the window, standing with his face hidden from them all.
Never has he appeared to such advantage. Never has he been so thoroughly liked as at this moment. Molly moves as though she would go to him; but Cecil, laying her hand upon her arm, wisely restrains her.
What can be said to comfort him, who has lost home, and love, and all?
”It is all a mistake; it cannot be true,” says Molly, piteously. ”It is a mistake.” She looks appealingly at Cecil, who, wise woman that she is, only presses her arm again meaningly, and keeps a discreet silence.