“I think that you should keep the keys till after the will has been read,” said the doctor.
“Even though he should ask for them?”
“Even though he should ask for them,” said the doctor. “He will not press such a request if you tell him that I say it ought to be so. If there be any difficulty, send for Mr. Apjohn.”
Mr. Apjohn was the lawyer; but there had been quite lately some disagreement between her uncle and Mr. Apjohn, and this advice was not palatable to her.
“But,” continued Dr. Powell, “you will not find any difficulty of that kind. The funeral had better be on Monday. And the will, I suppose, can be read afterwards. Mr. Apjohn will come out and read it. There can be no difficulty about that. I know that Mr. Apjohn’s feelings are of the kindest towards your uncle and yourself.”
Mr. Apjohn had taken upon himself to “scold” her uncle because of the altered will—the will that had been altered in favour of Cousin Henry. So much the old man had said to Isabel himself. “If I think it proper, he has no right to scold me,” the old man had said. The “scolding” had probably been in the guise of that advice which a lawyer so often feels himself justified in giving.
Isabel thought that she had better keep those words to herself, at any rate for the present. She almost resolved that she would keep those words altogether to herself, unless other facts should come out which would explain their meaning and testify to their truths. She would say nothing of them in a way that would seem to imply that she had been led by them to conceive that she expected the property. She did certainly think that they alluded to the property. “It is all right. It is done.” When her uncle had uttered these words, using the last effort of his mortal strength for the purpose, he no doubt was thinking of the property. He had meant to imply that he had done something to make his last decision “right” in her favour. She was, she thought, sure of so much. But then she bore in mind the condition of the old man’s failing mind—those wandering thoughts which would so naturally endeavour to fix themselves upon her and upon the property in combination with each other. How probable was it that he would dream of something that he would fain do, and then dream that he had done it! And she knew, too, as well as the lawyer would know himself, that the words would go for nothing, though they had been spoken before a dozen witnesses. If a later will was there, the later will would speak for itself. If no later will was there, the words were empty breath.
But above all was she anxious that no one should think that she was desirous of the property—that no one should suppose that she would be hurt by not having it. She was not desirous, and was not hurt. The matter was so important, and had so seriously burdened her uncle’s mind, that she could not but feel the weight herself; but as to her own desires, they were limited to a wish that her uncle’s will, whatever it might be, should be carried out. Not to have Llanfeare, not to have even a shilling from her uncle’s estate, would hurt her but little—would hurt her heart not at all. But to know that it was thought by others that she was disappointed—that would be a grievous burden to her! Therefore she spoke to Dr. Powell, and even to her cousin, as though the estate were doubtless now the property of the latter.
Henry Jones at this time—during the days immediately following his uncle’s death—seemed to be so much awestruck by his position, as to be incapable of action. To his Cousin Isabel he was almost servile in his obedience. With bated breath he did suggest that the keys should be surrendered to him, making his proposition simply on the ground that she would thus be saved from trouble; but when she told him that it was her duty to keep them till after the funeral, and that it would be her duty to act as mistress in the house till after that ceremony, he was cringing in his compliance.
“Whatever you think best, Isabel, shall be done. I would not interfere for a moment.”
Then some time afterwards, on the following day, he assured her that whatever might be the nature of the will, she was to regard Llanfeare as her home as long as it would suit her to remain there.
“I shall go back to papa very soon,” she had said, “as soon, indeed, as I can have my things packed up after the funeral. I have already written to papa to say so.”
“Everything shall be just as you please,” he replied; “only, pray, believe that if I can do anything for your accommodation it shall be done.”
To this she made some formal answer of courtesy, not, it may be feared, very graciously. She did not believe in his civility; she did not think he was kind to her in heart, and she could not bring herself to make her
