On the table in her room was the letter to her brother which she had forgotten to send to the post. Slipping down the stairs again, she went in search of Kate to see if it were too late to send it to the village. Now that it was written, she had almost a superstitions feeling that it was important that it should catch the first foreign mail.
As she passed the door of the drawing-room, she could hear James Wickham's voice raised above its normal pitch. Were they already quarreling over the spoils!
CHAPTER III
Nora's surmise had been very nearly correct; the Wickhams were quarreling, but not, as yet, over the spoils. James Wickham had waited until the door had closed behind his aunt's companion to rebuke his wife's untimely frivolity.
"I say, Dorothy, you oughtn't to be facetious before Miss Marsh. She was extremely attached to Aunt Louisa."
"Oh, what nonsense!" jeered Mrs. Wickham, throwing herself pettishly into a chair. "I find it's always a very good rule to judge people by oneself, and I'm positive she was just longing for the old lady to die."
"She was awfully upset at the end, you know that yourself."
"Nerves! Men are so idiotic. They never understand that there are tears and tears. I cried myself, and Heaven knows I didn't regret her death."
"My dear Dorothy, you oughtn't to say that."
"Why not?" retorted his wife. "It's perfectly true. Aunt Louisa was a detestable person and no one would have stood her for a minute if she hadn't had money. I can't see the use of being a hypocrite now that it can't make any difference either way. Oh, why doesn't that man hurry up!" She resumed once more her impatient walk about the room.
"I wish Wynne would come," said her husband, glad to change the subject, particularly as he felt that he had failed to be very impressive. "It'll be beastly inconvenient if we miss that train," he finished, glancing again at his watch.
"And another thing," said Mrs. Wickham, turning sharply as she reached the end of the room, "I don't trust that Miss Marsh. She looks as if she knew what was in the will."
"I don't for a moment suppose she does. Aunt Louisa wasn't the sort of person to talk."
"Nevertheless, I'm sure she knows she's been left something."
"Oh, well, I think she has the right to expect that. Aunt Louisa led her a dog's life."
Mrs. Wickham made an angry gesture. "She had her wages and a comfortable home. If she didn't like the place, she could have left it," she said pettishly. "After all," she went on in a quieter tone, "it's family money. In my opinion, Aunt Louisa had no right to leave it to strangers."
"I don't think we ought to complain if Miss Marsh gets a small annuity," said her husband soothingly. "I understand Aunt Louisa promised her something of the sort when she had a chance of marrying a couple of years ago."
"Miss Marsh is still quite young. It isn't as if she had been here for thirty years," protested Mrs. Wickham.
"Well, anyway, I've got an idea that Aunt Louisa meant to leave her about two hundred and fifty a year."
"Two hundred and fif---- But what's the estate amount to; have you any idea?"
"About nineteen thousand pounds, I believe."
Mrs. Wickham, who had seated herself once more, struck her hands violently together.
"Oh, it's absurd. It's a most unfair proposition. It will make all the difference to us. On that extra two hundred and fifty a year we could keep a car."
"My dear, be thankful if we get anything at all," said her husband solemnly. For a moment she stared at him aghast.
"Jim! Jim, you don't think---- Oh! that would be too horrible."
"Hush! Take care."
He crossed to the window as the door opened and Kate came in softly with the tea things.
"How lucky it is that we had a fine day," he said, endeavoring to give the impression that they had been talking with becoming sobriety of light topics. He hoped his wife's raised voice had not been heard in the passageway.
But Mrs. Wickham was beyond caring. Her toneless "Yes" in response to his original observation betrayed her utter lack of interest in the subject. But as Kate was still busy setting out the things on a small table, he continued his efforts. Really, Dorothy should 'play up' more.
"It looks as if we were going to have a spell of fine weather."
"Yes."
"It's funny how often it rains for weddings."
"Very funny."
"The tea is ready, sir."
As Kate left the room, Mrs. Wickham crossed slowly over to where her husband was standing in front of the window leading to the garden. Her voice shook with emotion. It was evident that she was very near tears. He put his arm around her awkwardly, but with a certain suggestion of protective tenderness.
"I've been counting on that money for years," she said, hardly above a whisper. "I used to dream at night that I was reading a telegram with the news of Aunt Louisa's death. And I've thought of all we should be able to do when we get it. It'll make such a difference."
"You know what she was. She didn't care twopence for us. We ought to be prepared for the worst," he said soberly.
"Do you think she could have left everything to Miss Marsh?"
"I shouldn't be greatly surprised."
"We'll dispute the will," she said, once more raising her voice. "It's undue influence. I suspected Miss Marsh from the beginning. I hate her. Oh, how I hate her! Oh, why doesn't Wynne come?"
A ring at the bell answered her.
"Here he is, I expect."
"The suspense is too awful."
"Pull yourself together, old girl," said Wickham, patting his wife encouragingly on the shoulder. "And I say, look a bit dismal. After all, we've just come from a funeral."
Mrs. Wickham gave a sort of suppressed wail. "Oh, I'm downhearted enough, Heaven knows."
"Mr. Wynne, sir," said Kate from the doorway.
Mr. Wynne, the late Miss Wickham's solicitor, was a jovial, hearty man, tallish, bald and ruddy-looking. In his spare time he played at being a country gentleman. He had a fine, straightforward eye and a direct manner that inspired one with confidence. He was dressed in complimentary mourning, but for the moment his natural hearty manner threatened to get the better of him.
"Helloa," he said, holding out his hand to Wickham. But the sight of Mrs. Wickham, seated on the sofa dejectedly enough, recalled to him that he should be more subdued in the presence of such genuine grief. He crossed the room to take Dorothy's hand solemnly.
"I didn't have an opportunity of shaking hands with you at the cemetery."
"How do you do," she said rather absently.
"Pray accept my sincerest sympathy on your great bereavement."
Mrs. Wickham made an effort to bring her mind back from the all-absorbing fear that possessed her.
"Of course the end was not entirely unexpected."
"No, I know. But it must have been a great shock, all the same."
He was going on to say what a wonderful old lady his late client had been in that her faculties seemed perfectly unimpaired until the very last, when Wickham interrupted him. Not only was he most anxious to hear the will read himself and have it over, but he saw signs in his wife's face and in the nervous manner in which she rolled and unrolled her handkerchief, that she was nearing the end of her self-control, never very great.
"My wife was very much upset, but of course my poor aunt had suffered great pain, and we couldn't help looking upon it as a happy release."
"Naturally," responded the solicitor sympathetically. "And how is Miss Marsh?" He was looking at James Wickham as he spoke, so that he missed the sudden 'I told you so' glance which Mrs. Wickham flashed at her husband.
"Oh, she's very well," she managed to say with a careless air.
"I'm glad to learn that she is not completely prostrated," said Mr. Wynne warmly. "Her devotion to Miss Wickham was perfectly wonderful. Dr. Evans--he's my brother-in-law, you know--told me no trained nurse could have been more competent. She was like a daughter to Miss Wickham."
> "I suppose we'd better send for her," said Mrs. Wickham coldly.
"Have you brought the----" Wickham stopped in embarrassment.
"Yes, I have it in my pocket," said the solicitor quickly. He had noted before now how awkward people always were about speaking of wills. There was nothing indelicate about doing so. Heavens, all right-minded persons made their wills and they meant to have them read after they were dead. Everybody knew that, and yet they always acted as if it were indecent to approach the subject. He had no patience with such nonsense.
With an eloquent look at her husband, Mrs. Wickham slowly crossed the room to the bell.
"I'll ring for Miss Marsh," she said in a hard voice.
"I expect Mr. Wynne would like a cup of tea, Dorothy."
She frowned at her husband behind the solicitor's broad back. More delays. Could she bear it? "Oh, I'm so sorry, I quite forgot about it."
"No, thank you very much, I never take tea," protested that gentleman. He took from his pocket a long blue envelope and slowly drew from it the will, which he smoothed out with a deliberation which was maddening to Mrs. Wickham. She could hardly tear her fascinated eyes away from it long enough to tell the waiting Kate to ask Miss Marsh to be good enough to come to them.
"What's the time, Jim?" she asked nervously.
"Oh, there's no hurry," he said, looking at his watch without seeing it. Then turning to Wynne, he added: "We've got an important engagement this evening in London and we're very anxious not to miss the fast train."
"The train service down here is rotten," said Mrs. Wickham harshly.
"That's all right. The will is very short. It won't take me two minutes to read it," Mr. Wynne reassured them.
"What on earth is Miss Marsh doing?" said Mrs. Wickham, half to herself. An endless minute passed.
"How pretty the garden is looking now," said the solicitor cheerfully, gazing out through the window.
"Very," Wickham managed to say.
"Miss Wickham was always so interested in her garden."
"Yes."
"My own tulips aren't so advanced as those."
"Aren't they?" Wickham's tone suggested irritation.
Mr. Wynne addressed his next observation to Mrs. Wickham.
"Are you interested in gardening?"
"No, I hate it. At last!"
The exclamation was called forth by the appearance of Nora in the doorway. The two men both, rose; Wynne to go forward and shake Nora's hand with unaffected cordiality, Wickham to whisper in his wife's ear, beseeching her to exercise more self-control.
"How do you do, Miss Marsh? I'm rejoiced to see you looking so fit."
"Oh, I'm very well, thank you. How do you do?"
"Will you have a cup of tea?" asked Wickham in response to what he thought was a signal from his wife.
But Mrs. Wickham had reached the point where further waiting was simply impossible.
"Jim," she remonstrated, "Miss Marsh would much prefer to have tea quietly after we're gone."
Nora understood and for the moment found it in her heart to be sorry for the woman, much as she disliked her.
"I won't have any tea, thank you," she said simply.
"Mr. Wynne has brought the will with him," explained Mrs. Wickham. Her tone was almost appealing as if she begged Nora if she knew of its contents to say so without further delay.
"Oh, yes?"
Nothing should induce her to show such agitation as this woman did. She managed to assume an air of polite interest and find a chair for herself quite calmly. And yet she was conscious that her heart was beating wildly beneath her bodice. But she would not betray herself, she would not. And yet her stake was as great as any. Her whole future hung on the contents of that paper Mr. Wynne was caressing with his long fingers.
"Miss Marsh," questioned Mr. Wynne as soon as she was seated, "so far as you know there is no other will?"
"How do you mean?"
"Miss Wickham didn't make a later one--without my assistance, I mean? You know of nothing in the house, for instance?"
"Oh, no," said Nora positively. "Miss Wickham always said you had her will. She was extremely methodical."
"I feel I ought to ask you," the solicitor went on with unwonted gentleness, "because Miss Wickham consulted me a couple of years ago about making a new will. She told me what she wanted to do, but gave me no actual instructions to draw it. I thought perhaps she might have done it herself."
"I heard nothing about it. I am sure that her only will is in your hands."
"Then I think that we may take it that this----"
Mrs. Wickham's set face relaxed. The light of triumph was in her eyes. She understood.
"When was that will made?" she asked eagerly.
"Eight or nine years ago. The exact date was March 4th, 1904."
The date settled it. Nora, too, realized that. She was left penniless. What a refinement of cruelty to deceive--but she must not think of that now. She would have all the rest of her life in which to think of it. But here before that woman, whose searching glance was even now fastened on her face to see how she was taking the blow, she would give no sign.
"When did you first come to Miss Wickham?" Mrs. Wickham's voice was almost a caress.
"At the end of nineteen hundred and three." There was no trace of emotion in that clear voice. After a moment Mr. Wynne spoke again.
"Shall I read it, or would you just like to know the particulars? It is very short."
"Oh, let us know just roughly." Mrs. Wickham was still eager.
"Well, Miss Wickham left one hundred pounds to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, and one hundred pounds to the General Hospital at Tunbridge Wells, and the entire residue of her fortune to her nephew, Mr. James Wickham."
Mrs. Wickham drew her breath sharply. Once more she looked at her late aunt's companion, but nothing was to be read in that calm face. She was a designing minx, none the less. But she did yield her a grudging admiration, for her self-control in the shipwreck of all her hopes. Now they could have their car. Oh, what couldn't they have! She felt she had earned every penny of it in that last dreadful half hour.
"And Miss Marsh?" she heard her husband ask.
"Miss Marsh is not mentioned."
Somehow, Nora managed a smile. "I could hardly expect to be. At the time that will was drawn I had been Miss Wickham's companion for only a few months."
"That is why I asked whether you knew of any later will," said Mr. Wynne almost sadly. "When I talked to Miss Wickham on the subject she said her wish was to make adequate provision for you after her death. I think she had spoken to you about it."
"Yes, she had."
"She mentioned three hundred a year."
"That was very kind of her." Nora's voice broke a little. "I'm glad she wished to do something for me."
"Oddly enough," continued the solicitor, "she spoke about it to Dr. Evans only a few days before she died."
"Perhaps there is a later will somewhere," said Wickham.
"I honestly don't think so."
"Oh, I'm sure there isn't," affirmed Nora.
"Dr. Evans was talking to Miss Wickham about Miss Marsh. She was completely tired out and he wanted Miss Wickham to have a professional nurse. She told him then that I had the will and that she had left Miss Marsh amply provided for."
"That isn't legal, of course," said Mrs. Wickham decidedly.
"What isn't?"
"I mean no one could force us--I mean the will stands as it is, doesn't it?"
"Certainly it does."
"I'm afraid it's a great disappointment to you, Miss Marsh," Wickham said, not unkindly.
"I never count my chickens before they're hatched." This time Nora smiled easily and naturally. The worst was over now.
"It would be very natural if Miss Marsh were disappointed in the circumstances. I think she'd been led to expect----" Mr. Wynne's voice was almost pleading.
Mrs. Wickham detected a certain disapproval in the tone. She ha
stened to justify herself. He might still be useful. When the estate was once settled, they would of course put everything in the hands of their London solicitor. But it would be better not to antagonize him for the moment.
"Our aunt left a very small fortune, I understand, and I suppose she felt it wouldn't be fair to leave a large part of it away from her own family."
"Of course," said her husband, following her lead, "it is family money. She inherited it from my grandfather, and--but I want you to know, Miss Marsh, that my wife and I thoroughly appreciate all you did for my aunt. Money couldn't repay your care and devotion You've been perfectly wonderful."
"It's extremely good of you to say so."
"I think everyone who saw Miss Marsh with Miss Wickham must be aware that during the ten years she was with her she never spared herself." Mr. Wynne's eyes were on Mrs. Wickham.
"Of course my aunt was a very trying woman----" began James Wickham feebly. His wife headed him off.
"Earning one's living is always unpleasant; if it weren't there'd be no incentive to work."
This astonishing aphorism was almost too much for Nora's composure. She gave Mrs. Wickham an amused glance, to which that lady responded by beaming upon her in her most agreeable manner.
"My wife and I would be very glad to make some kind of acknowledgment of your services."
"I was just going to mention it," echoed Mrs. Wickham heartily.
Mr. Wynne's kindly face brightened visibly. He was glad they were going to do the right thing, after all. He had been a little fearful a few moments before. "I felt sure that in the circumstances----"
But Mrs. Wickham interrupted him quickly.
"What were your wages, may I ask, Miss Marsh?"
The Land of Promise: A Comedy in Four Acts (1922) Page 3
