Thus the story was told—at least, all that there was to tell as yet. The drawer was opened and ransacked, as were also the other drawers belonging to the table. Then a regular search was made by the attorney, accompanied by the doctor, the butler, and the housemaid, and continued through the whole afternoon—in vain. The farmers were dismissed as soon as the explanation had been given as above described. During the remainder of the day Cousin Henry occupied a chair in the parlour, looking on as the search was continued. He offered no help, which was natural enough; nor did he make any remark as to the work in hand, which was, perhaps, also natural. The matter was to him one of such preponderating moment that he could hardly be expected to speak of it. Was he to have Llanfeare and all that belonged to it, or was he to have nothing? And then, though no accusation was made against him, though no one had insinuated that he had been to blame in the matter, still there was apparent among them all a strong feeling against him. Who had made away with this will, as to the existence of which at one time there was no doubt? Of course the idea was present to his mind that they must think that he had done so. In such circumstances it was not singular that he should say nothing and do nothing.
Late in the evening Mr. Apjohn, just before he left the house, asked Cousin Henry a question, and received an answer.
“Mrs. Griffith tells me, Mr. Jones, that you were closeted with your uncle for about an hour immediately after the Cantors had left him on that Tuesday—just after the signatures had been written. Was it so?”
Again the drops of sweat came out and stood thick upon his forehead. But this Mr. Apjohn could understand without making an accusation against the man, even in his heart. The unexpressed suspicion was so heavy that a man might well sweat under the burden of it! He paused a moment, and tried to look as though he were thinking. “Yes,” said he; “I think I was with my uncle on that morning.”
“And you knew that the Cantors had been with him?”
“Not that I remember. I think I did know that somebody had been there. Yes, I did know it. I had seen their hats in the hall.”
“Did he say anything about them?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Of what was he talking? Can you tell me? I rather fancy that he did not talk much to you.”
“I think it was then that he told me the names of all the tenants. He used to scold me because I did not understand the nature of their leases.”
“Did he scold you then?”
“I think so. He always scolded me. He did not like me. I used to think that I would go away and leave him. I wish that I had never come to Llanfeare. I do;—I do.”
There seemed to be a touch of truth about this which almost softened Mr. Apjohn’s heart to the poor wretch. “Would you mind answering one more question, Mr. Jones?” he said. “Did he tell you that he had made another will?”
“No.”
“Nor that he intended to do so?”
“No.”
“He never spoke to you about another will—a further will, that should again bestow the estate on your cousin?”
“No,” said Cousin Henry, with the perspiration still on his brow.
Now it seemed to Mr. Apjohn certain that, had the old man made such a change in his purpose, he would have informed his nephew of the fact.
VII
Looking for the Will
The search was carried on up to nine o’clock that evening, and then Mr. Apjohn returned to Carmarthen, explaining that he would send out two men to continue the work on the Tuesday, and that he would come out again on the Wednesday to read whatever might then be regarded as the old Squire’s will—the last prepared document if it could be found, and the former one should the search have been unsuccessful. “Of course,” said he, in the presence of the two cousins, “my reading the document will give it no force. Of those found, the last in date will be good—until one later be found. It will be well, however, that some steps should be taken, and nothing can be done till the will has been read.” Then he took his leave and went back to Carmarthen.
Isabel had not shown herself during the whole of the afternoon. When Mr. Apjohn’s explanation had been given, and the search commenced, she retired and went to her own room. It was impossible for her to take a part in the work that was being done, and almost equally impossible for her to remain without seeming to take too lively an interest in the proceeding. Every point of the affair was clear to her imagination. It could not now be doubted by her that her uncle, doubly actuated by the presence of the man he disliked and the absence of her whom he so dearly loved, had found himself driven to revoke the decision to which he had been brought. As she put it to herself, his love had got the better of his conscience during the weakness of his latter days. It was a pity—a pity that it should have been so! It was to be regretted that there should have been no one near him to comfort him in the misery which had produced such a lamentable result. A will, she thought, should be the outcome of a man’s strength, and not of his weakness. Having obeyed his conscience, he should have
