“According to you, she must be the most malicious old woman that ever was allowed to live!”
“I don’t think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you’ll find out for yourself. I shouldn’t be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece.”
“I shouldn’t think that such very hard lines either,” said Brooke Burgess.
“I’ve no doubt you may have her if you like,” said Barty, “in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first.”
When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man’s name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man’s declared intention when he left the house. “It seems odd to me,” said Brooke, “that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it.”
“I don’t know anything about your Uncle Barty’s manner of living.”
“No;—I suppose not. You and he are not friends.”
“By no means, Brooke.”
“He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?”
“I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don’t want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I’d rather you didn’t tell me of your visits afterwards.”
“There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret,” said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury’s secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him.
“If you are anxious to know—” she said, becoming very red in the face.
“I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me.”
“He has chosen to believe—or to say that he believed—that I wronged him in regard to his brother’s will. I nursed his brother when he was dying—as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell.”
“I quite believe that.”
“But your Uncle Barty chose to think—indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke’s will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him—after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?”
“It was womanly.”
“But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;—never even yet.”
“He could not bring himself to do that, I should say.”
“The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke’s money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken.” She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. “But when the man was dead,” she continued, “and the will was there—the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money.” She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him.
“Of course it was your own.”
“Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;—both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not
