in the house?”
“You mean of your own relations, sir,” said Mary, well used to the old man’s way of speech. He nodded slightly and she went on.
“Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here.”
“Oh ay, they stick, do they? and the rest—they come every day, I’ll warrant—Solomon and Jane, and all the young uns? They come peeping, and counting and casting up?”
“Not all of them every day. Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule are here every day, and the others come often.”
The old man listened with a grimace while she spoke, and then said, relaxing his face, “The more fools they. You hearken, missy. It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’ve got all my faculties as well as ever I had in my life. I know all my property, and where the money’s put out, and everything. And I’ve made everything ready to change my mind, and do as I like at the last. Do you hear, missy? I’ve got my faculties.”
“Well, sir?” said Mary, quietly.
He now lowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning. “I’ve made two wills, and I’m going to burn one. Now you do as I tell you. This is the key of my iron chest, in the closet there. You push well at the side of the brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt: then you can put the key in the front lock and turn it. See and do that; and take out the topmost paper—Last Will and Testament— big printed.”
“No, sir,” said Mary, in a firm voice, “I cannot do that.”
“Not do it? I tell you, you must,” said the old man, his voice beginning to shake under the shock of this resistance.
“I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to do anything that might lay me open to suspicion.”
“I tell you, I’m in my right mind. Shan’t I do as I like at the last? I made two wills on purpose. Take the key, I say.”
“No, sir, I will not,” said Mary, more resolutely still. Her repulsion was getting stronger.
“I tell you, there’s no time to lose.”
“I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will.” She moved to a little distance from the bedside.
The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding the one key erect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to work with his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him.
“Missy,” he began to say, hurriedly, “look here! take the money— the notes and gold—look here—take it—you shall have it all— do as I tell you.”
He made an effort to stretch out the key towards her as far as possible, and Mary again retreated.
“I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don’t ask me to do it again. If you do, I must go and call your brother.”
He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a tone as she could command, “Pray put up your money, sir;” and then went away to her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him that it was useless to say more. Presently he rallied and said eagerly—
“Look here, then. Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy.”
Mary’s heart began to beat more quickly. Various ideas rushed through her mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply. She had to make a difficult decision in a hurry.
“I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others with him.”
“Nobody else, I say. The young chap. I shall do as I like.”
“Wait till broad daylight, sir, when every one is stirring. Or let me call Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer? He can be here in less than two hours.”
“Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer? Nobody shall know—I say, nobody shall know. I shall do as I like.”
“Let me call some one else, sir,” said Mary, persuasively. She did not like her position—alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and again without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to push unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. “Let me, pray, call some one else.”
“You let me alone, I say. Look here, missy. Take the money. You’ll never have the chance again. It’s pretty nigh two hundred— there’s more in the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as I tell you.”
Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man, propped up on his pillows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding out the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgot that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way in which he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with harder resolution than ever.
“It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will not touch your money. I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I will not touch your keys or your money.”
“Anything else anything else!” said old Featherstone, with hoarse rage, which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only just audible. “I want nothing else. You come here—you come here.”
Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well. She saw him dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked at her like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with the effort of his hand. She paused at a safe distance.
“Let me give you some cordial,” she said, quietly, “and try to compose yourself. You will perhaps go to sleep. And to-morrow by daylight you can do as you like.”
