chattering to everybody else in a company, and not saying a word to each other, no longer appealed to Bursley’s sense of humour. The silent scenes at which Maggie assisted every day did not, either, appeal to Maggie’s sense of humour, because she had none. So the famous feud grew into a sort of elemental fact of Nature. It was tolerated as the weather is tolerated. The brothers acquired pride in it; even Bursley regarded it as an interesting municipal curiosity. The sole imperfection in a lovely and otherwise perfect quarrel was that John and Robert, being both employed at Roycroft’s Majolica Manufactory, the one as works manager and the other as commercial traveller, were obliged to speak to each other occasionally in the way of business. Artistically, this was a pity, though they did speak very sternly and distantly. The partial truce necessitated by Roycroft’s was confined strictly to Roycroft’s. And when Robert was not on his journeys, these two tall, strong, dark, bearded men might often be seen of a night walking separately and doggedly down Oldcastle Street from the works, within five yards of each other.
And no one suggested the lunatic asylum. Such is the force of pride, of rank stupidity, and of habit.
The slate-scratching was scarcely over that evening when Mr Powell Liversage appeared. He was a golden- haired man, with a jolly face, lighter and shorter in structure than the two brothers. His friendship with them dated from school-days, and it had survived even the entrance of Liversage into a learned profession. Liversage, who, being a bachelor like the Hessians, had many unoccupied evenings, came to see the brothers regularly every Saturday night, and one or other of them dropped in upon him most Wednesdays; but this particular night was a Thursday.
‘How do?’ John greeted him succinctly between two puffs of a pipe.
‘How do?’ replied Liversage.
‘How do, Pow?’ Robert greeted him in turn, also between two puffs of a pipe.
And ‘How do, little ‘un?’ replied Liversage.
A chair was indicated to him, and he sat down, and Robert poured out some coffee into a third cup which Maggie had brought. John pushed away the extra special of the Staffordshire Signal, which he had been reading.
‘What’s up these days?’ John demanded.
‘Well,’ said Liversage, and both brothers noticed that he was rather ill at ease, instead of being humorous and lightly caustic as usual, ‘the will’s turned up.’
‘The devil it has!’ John exclaimed. ‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
And then, as there was a pause, Liversage added: ‘Yes, my sons, the will’s turned up.’
‘But where, you cuckoo, sitting there like that?’ asked Robert. ‘Where?’
‘It was in that registered letter addressed to your sister that the Post Office people wouldn’t hand over until we’d taken out letters of administration.’
‘Well, I’m dashed!’ muttered John. ‘Who’d have thought of that? You’ve got the will, then?’
Liversage nodded.
The Hessians had an elder sister, Mrs Bott, widow of a colour merchant, and Mrs Bott had died suddenly three months ago, the night after a journey to Manchester. (Even at the funeral the brothers had scandalized the town by not speaking to each other.) Mrs Bott had wealth, wit, and wisdom, together with certain peculiarities, of which one was an excessive secrecy. It was known that she had made a will, because she had more than once notified the fact, in a tone suggestive of highly important issues, but the will had refused to be found. So Mr Liversage had been instructed to take out letters of administration of the estate, which, in the continued absence of the will, would be divided equally between the brothers. And twelve or thirteen thousand pounds may be compared to a financial beef-steak that cuts up very handsomely for two persons. The carving-knife was about to descend on its succulence, when, lo! the will!
‘How came the will to be in the post?’ asked Robert.
‘The handwriting on the envelope was your sister’s,’ said Liversage. ‘And the package was posted in Manchester. Very probably she had taken the will to Manchester to show it to a lawyer or something of that sort, and then she was afraid of losing it on the journey back, and so she sent it to herself by registered post. But before it arrived, of course, she was dead.’
‘That wasn’t a bad scheme of poor Mary Ann’s!’ John commented.
‘It was just like her!’ said Robert, speaking pointedly to Liversage. ‘But what an odd thing!’
Now, both these men were, no doubt excusably, agonized by curiosity to learn the contents of the will. But would either of them be the first to express that curiosity? Never in this world! Not for the fortune itself! To do so would scarcely have been Bursleyish. It would certainly not have been Hessianlike. So Liversage was obliged at length to say—
‘I reckon I’d better read you the will, eh?’
The brothers nodded.
‘Mind you,’ said Liversage, ‘it’s not my will. I’ve had nothing to do with it; so kindly keep your hair on. As a matter of fact, she must have drawn it up herself. It’s not drawn properly at all, but it’s witnessed all right, and it’ll hold water, just as well as if the blooming Lord Chancellor had fixed it up for her in person.’
He produced the document and read, awkwardly and self-consciously—
‘“This is my will. You are both of you extremely foolish, John and Robert, and I’ve often told you so. Nobody has ever understood, and nobody ever will understand, why you quarrelled like that over Annie Emery. You are punishing yourselves, but you are punishing her as well, and it isn’t fair her waiting all these years. So I give all my estate, no matter what it is, to whichever of you marries Annie. And I hope this will teach you a lesson. You need it more than you need my money. But you must be married within a year of my death. And if the one that marries cares to give five thousand pounds or so to the other, of course there’s nothing to prevent him. This is just a hint. And if you don’t either of you marry Annie within a year, then I just leave everything I have to Miss Annie Emery (spinster), stationer and fancy-goods dealer, Duck Bank, Bursley. She deserves something for her disappointment, and she shall have it. Mr Liversage, solicitor, must kindly be my executor. And I commit my soul to God, hoping for a blessed resurrection. 20th January, 1896. Signed Mary Ann Bott, widow.” As I told you, the witnessing is in order,’ Liversage finished.
