“Now,” said Mr. Apjohn, rising from the table when the eating and drinking had ceased, “I think we might as well go into the next room. Miss Brodrick, who has consented to be present, will probably be waiting for us.”
They passed through the hall into the parlour in a long string, Mr. Apjohn leading the way, followed by Cousin Henry. There they found Isabel sitting with the housekeeper beside her. She shook hands in silence with the attorney, the doctor, and all the tenants, and then, as she took her seat, she spoke a word to Mr. Apjohn. “As I have felt it hard to be alone, I have asked Mrs. Griffith to remain with me. I hope it is not improper?”
“There can be no reason on earth,” said Mr. Apjohn, “why Mrs. Griffith should not hear the will of her master, who respected her so thoroughly.” Mrs. Griffith bobbed a curtsey in return for this civility, and then sat down, intently interested in the coming ceremony.
Mr. Apjohn took from his pocket the envelope containing the key, and, opening the little packet very slowly, very slowly opened the drawer, and took out from it a bundle of papers tied with red tape. This he undid, and then, sitting with the bundle loosened before him, he examined the document lying at the top. Then, slowly spreading them out, as though pausing over every operation with premeditated delay, he held in his hand that which he had at first taken; but he was in truth thinking of the words which he would have to use at the present moment. He had expected, but had expected with some doubt, that another document would have been found there. Close at his right hand sat Dr. Powell. Round the room, in distant chairs, were ranged the six farmers, each with his hat in hand between his knees. On a sofa opposite were Isabel and the housekeeper. Cousin Henry sat alone, not very far from the end of the sofa, almost in the middle of the room. As the operation went on, one of his hands quivered so much that he endeavoured to hold it with the other to keep it from shaking. It was impossible that anyone there should not observe his trepidation and too evident discomfort.
The document lying at the top of the bundle was opened out very slowly by the attorney, who smoothed it down with his hand preparatory to reading it. Then he looked at the date to assure himself that it was the last will which he himself had drawn. He knew it well, and was cognizant with its every legal quiddity. He could judiciously have explained every clause of it without reading a word, and might probably have to do so before the occasion was over; but he delayed, looking down upon it and still smoothing it, evidently taking another minute or two to collect his thoughts. This will now under his hand was very objectionable to him, having been made altogether in opposition to his own advice, and having thus created that “scolding” of which the Squire had complained to Isabel. This will bequeathed the whole of the property to Cousin Henry. It did also affect to leave a certain sum of money to Isabel, but the sum of money had been left simply as a sum of money, and not as a charge on the property. Now, within the last few days, Mr. Apjohn had learnt that there were no funds remaining for the payment of such a legacy. The will, therefore, was to him thoroughly distasteful. Should that will in truth be found to be the last will and testament of the old Squire, then it would be his duty to declare that the estate and everything upon it belonged to Cousin Henry, and that there would be, as he feared, no source from which any considerable part of the money nominally left to Miss Brodrick could be defrayed. To his thinking nothing could be more cruel, nothing more unjust, than this.
He had heard tidings which would make it his duty to question the authenticity of this will which was now under his hand; and now had come the moment in which he must explain all this.
“The document which I hold here,” he said, “purports to be the last will of our old friend. Every will does that as a matter of course. But then there may always be another and a later will.” Here he paused, and looked round the room at the faces of the farmers.
“So there be,” said Joseph Cantor the younger.
“Hold your tongue, Joe, till you be asked,” said the father.
At this little interruption all the other farmers turned their hats in their hands. Cousin Henry gazed round at them, but said never a word. The lawyer looked into the heir’s face, and saw the great beads of sweat standing on his brow.
“You hear
