Cousin Henry

And then, added to all this, there was the terrible question of money! When last at Hereford, she had told her father that, though her uncle had revoked his grand intention in her favour, still there would be coming to her enough to prevent her from being a burden on the resources of her family. Now that was all changed. If her father should be unable or unwilling to support her, she would undergo any hardship, any privation; but would certainly not accept bounty from the hands of her cousin. Some deed had been done, she felt assured⁠—some wicked deed, and Cousin Henry had been the doer of it. She and she alone had heard the last words which her uncle had spoken, and she had watched the man’s face narrowly when her uncle’s will had been discussed in the presence of the tenants. She was quite sure. Let her father say what he might, let her stepmother look at her ever so angrily with her greedy, hungry eyes, she would take no shilling from her Cousin Henry. Though she might have to die in the streets, she would take no bread from her Cousin Henry’s hand.

She herself began the question of the money on the day after her arrival. “Papa,” she said, “there is to be nothing for me after all.”

Now Mr. Apjohn, the lawyer, like a cautious family solicitor as he was, had written to Mr. Brodrick, giving him a full account of the whole affair, telling him of the legacy of four thousand pounds, explaining that there was no fund from which payment could be legally exacted, but stating also that the circumstances of the case were of such a nature as to make it almost impossible that the new heir should refuse to render himself liable for the amount. Then had come another letter saying that the new heir had assented to do so.

“Oh, yes, there will, Isabel,” said the father.

Then she felt that the fighting of the battle was incumbent upon her, and she was determined to fight it. “No, papa, no; not a shilling.”

“Yes, my dear, yes,” he said, smiling. “I have heard from Mr. Apjohn, and understood all about it. The money, no doubt, is not there; but your cousin is quite prepared to charge the estate with the amount. Indeed, it would be almost impossible for him to refuse to do so. No one would speak to him were he to be so base as that. I do not think much of your Cousin Henry, but even Cousin Henry could not be so mean. He has not the courage for such villainy.”

“I have the courage,” said she.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, papa, do not be angry with me! Nothing⁠—nothing shall induce me to take my Cousin Henry’s money.”

“It will be your money⁠—your money by your uncle’s will. It is the very sum which he himself has named as intended for you.”

“Yes, papa; but Uncle Indefer had not got the money to give. Neither you nor I should be angry with him; because he intended the best.”

“I am angry with him,” said the attorney in wrath, “because he deceived you and deceived me about the property.”

“Never; he deceived no one. Uncle Indefer and deceit never went together.”

“There is no question of that now,” said the father. “He made some slight restitution, and there can, of course, be no question as to your taking it.”

“There is a question, and there must be a question, papa. I will not have it. If my being here would be an expense too great for you, I will go away.”

“Where will you go?”

“I care not where I go. I will earn my bread. If I cannot do that, I would rather live in the poorhouse than accept my cousin’s money.”

“What has he done?”

“I do not know.”

“As Mr. Apjohn very well puts it, there is no question whatsoever as to gratitude, or even of acceptance. It is a matter of course. He would be inexpressibly vile were he not to do this.”

“He is inexpressibly vile.”

“Not in this respect. He is quite willing. You will have nothing to do but to sign a receipt once every half-year till the whole sum shall have been placed to your credit.”

“I will sign nothing on that account; nor will I take anything.”

“But why not? What has he done?”

“I do not know. I do not say that he has done anything. I do not care to speak of him. Pray do not think, papa, that I covet the estate, or that I am unhappy about that. Had he been pleasant to my uncle and good to the tenants, had he seemed even to be like a man, I could have made him heartily welcome to Llanfeare. I think my uncle was right in choosing to have a male heir. I should have done so myself⁠—in his place.”

“He was wrong, wickedly wrong, after his promises.”

“There were no promises made to me: nothing but a suggestion, which he was, of course, at liberty to alter if he pleased. We need not, however, go back to that, papa. There he is, owner of Llanfeare, and from him, as owner of Llanfeare, I will accept nothing. Were I starving in the street I would not take a crust of bread from his fingers.”

Over and over again the conversation was renewed, but always with the same result. Then there was a correspondence between the two attorneys, and Mr. Apjohn undertook to ask permission from the Squire to pay the money to the father’s receipt without asking any acknowledgement from the daughter. On hearing this, Isabel declared that if this were done she would certainly leave her father’s house. She would go out of it, even though she should not know whither she was going. Circumstances should not be made so to prevail upon her as to force her to eat meat purchased by her cousin’s money.

Thus it came to pass that Isabel’s new home was not made comfortable to her