They were now, at length, at Dykham. A porter in waiting, from the inn called the “Three Nuns,” took Marston’s bag and rug, and led the way to that house, only fifty yards off, where he took up his quarters for the night.
He found Mr. Blount’s promised letter from London there. He did not wait for candles and his sitting-room. In his hat and overcoat, by the gaslight at the bar, he read it breathlessly. It said substantially what Mr. Jarlcot’s letter had already told him, and nothing more. It was plain, then, that Sir Harry had left every one in the dark as to whether he had or had not executed the will.
In answer to the waiter’s hospitable inquiries about supper, he said he had dined late. It was not true; but it was certain that he had no appetite.
He got a sitting-room to himself; he ordered a fire, for he thought the night chilly. He had bought a couple of books, two or three magazines, and as many newspapers. He had his window-curtains drawn; and their agreeable smell of old tobacco smoke assured him that there would be no objection to his cigar.
“I’ll ring when I want anything,” he said; “and, in the meantime, let me be quiet.”
It was here, when he had been negotiating for Sir Harry the renewal of certain leases to a firm in Dykham, that the telegraph had brought him the startling message, and Mr. Blount said in the same message that he was writing particulars by that day’s post.
Mr. Marston had not allowed grass to grow under his feet, as you see; and he was now in the same quarters, about to put the case before himself, with a thorough command of its facts.
CHAPTER LXIV.
THE WILL.
Candles lighted, shutters closed, curtains drawn, and a small but cheerful fire flickering in the grate. The oldfashioned 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 hi
m?
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.
CHAPTER LXV.
THE SERPENT’S SMILE.
There came on a sudden a great quiet over Dorracleugh — the quiet of death.
There was no longer any doubt, all the country round, as to the fact that the old baronet was dead. Richard Marston had placed at all the gates notices to the effect that the funeral would not take place for a week, at soonest — that no day had yet been fixed for it, and that early notice should be given.
The slight fuss that had prevailed within doors, for the greater part of a day, had now quite subsided — and, quiet as it always was, Dorracleugh was now more silent and stirless than ever.
I could venture now to extend my walks anywhere about the place, without the risk of meeting any stranger.
If there is a melancholy there is also something sublime and consolatory in the character of the scenery that surrounds it. Every one has felt the influence of lofty mountains near. This region is all beautiful; but the very spirit of solitude and grandeur is over it.
I was just consulting with my maid about some simple provisional mourning, for which I was about to despatch her to the town, when our conference was arrested by the appearance of Richard Marston before the window.
I had my things on, for I thought it not impossible he might arrive earlier than he had the day before.
I told my maid to come again by-and-by; and I went out to meet him.
Well, we were now walking on the wild path, along the steep side of the cleugh, towards the lake. What kind of conversation is this going to be? His voice and manner are very gentle — but he looks pale and stern, like a man going into a battle. The signs are very slight, but dreadful. Oh! that the next half-hour was over! What am I about to hear?
We walked on for a time in silence.
The first thing he said was:
“You are to stay here at Dorracleugh — you must not go — but I’m afraid you will be vexed with me.”
Then we advanced about twenty steps; we were walking slowly, and not a word was spoken during that time.
He began again:
“Though, after all, it need not make any real difference. There is no will, Ethel; the vicar can tell you that; he had the key, and has made search — no will; and you are left unprovided for — but that shan’t affect you. I am heir-at-law, and nearest-of-kin. You know what that means. Everything he possessed, land or money, comes to me. But — I’ve put my foot into it; it is too late regretting. I can’t marry.”
There was an interval of silence — he was looking in my face.
“There! the murder’s out. I knew you would be awfully vexed. So am I — miserable — but I can’t. That is, perhaps, for many years.”
There was another silence. I could no more have spoken than I could, by an effort of my will, have lifted the mountain at the other side of the lake from its foundation.
Perhaps he misinterpreted my silence.
“I ought to have been more frank with you, Ethel — I blame myself very much, I assure you. Can’t you guess? Well, I was an awful fool — I’ll tell you everything. I feel that I ought to have done so, long ago; but
you know, one can’t always make up one’s mind to be quite frank, and tell a painful story. I am married. In an evil hour, I married a woman in every way unsuited to me — pity me. In a transitory illusion, I sacrificed my life — and, what is dearer, my love. I have not so much as seen her for years, and I am told she is not likely to live long. In the meantime I am yours only — yours entirely and irrevocably, your own. I can offer you safety here, and happiness, my own boundless devotion and adoration, an asylum here, and all the authority and rights of a wife. Ethel — dearest — you won’t leave me?”
I looked up in his face, scared — a sudden look, quite unexpected. I saw a cunning, selfish face gloating down on me, with a gross, confident, wicked simper.
That odious smile vanished, his eye shrank; he looked detected or disconcerted for a moment, but he rallied.
“I say, I look on myself, in the sight of heaven, as married to you. You have pledged yourself to me by every vow that can tie woman to man; you have sworn that no obstacle shall keep us apart. That oath was not without a meaning, and you know it wasn’t; and, by heaven! you shan’t break my heart for nothing! Come, Ethel, be a girl of sense — don’t you see we are controlled by fate? Look at the circumstances. Where’s the good in quarrelling with me? Don’t you see the position I’m placed in, about that miserable evidence? Don’t you see that I am able and anxious to do everything for you? Could a girl in your situation do a better or a wiser thing than unite her interests with mine, indissolubly? For God’s sake, where’s the use of making me desperate? What do you want to drive me to? Why should you insist on making me your enemy? How do you think it’s all to end?”
Could I have dreamed that he could ever have looked at me with such a countenance, and spoken to me in such a tone? I felt myself growing colder and colder; I could not move my eyes from him. His image seemed to swim before me; his harsh, frightful tones grow confused. My hands were to my temples, I could not speak; my answer was one piteous scream.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 653
