He sat up late that night thinking of it. For many days past he had not touched the volume, or allowed his eye to rest upon the document. He had declared to himself that it might remain there or be taken away, as it might chance to others. It should no longer be anything to him. For aught that he knew, it might already have been removed. Such had been his resolution during the last fortnight, and in accordance with that he had acted. But now his purpose was again changed. Now he intended to reveal the will with his own hands, and it might be well that he should see that it was there.
He took down the book, and there it was. He opened it out, and carefully read through every word of its complicated details. For it had been arranged and drawn out in a lawyer’s office, with all the legal want of punctuation and unintelligible phraseology. It had been copied verbatim by the old Squire, and was no doubt a properly binding and effective will. Never before had he dwelt over it so tediously. He had feared lest a fingermark, a blot, or a spark might betray his acquaintance with the deed. But now he was about to give it up and let all the world know that it had been in his hands. He felt, therefore, that he was entitled to read it, and that there was no longer ground to fear any accident. Though the women in the house should see him reading it, what matter?
Thrice he read it, sitting there late into the night. Thrice he read the deed which had been prepared with such devilish industry to rob him of the estate which had been promised him! If he had been wicked to conceal it—no, not to conceal it, but only to be silent as to its whereabouts—how much greater had been the sin of that dying old man who had taken so much trouble in robbing him? Now that the time had come, almost the hour in which he had lately so truly loathed, there came again upon him a love of money, a feeling of the privilege which attached to him as an owner of broad acres, and a sudden remembrance that with a little courage, with a little perseverance, with a little power of endurance, he might live down the evils of the present day. When he thought of what it might be to be Squire of Llanfeare in perhaps five years’ time, with the rents in his pocket, he became angry at his own feebleness. Let them ask him what questions they would, there could be no evidence against him. If he were to burn the will, there could certainly be no evidence against him. If the will were still hidden, they might, perhaps, extract that secret from him; but no lawyer would be strong enough to make him own that he had thrust the paper between the bars of the fire.
He sat looking at it, gnashing his teeth together, and clenching his fists. If only he dared to do it! If only he could do it! He did during a moment, make up his mind; but had no sooner done so than there rose clearly before his mind’s eye the judge and the jury, the paraphernalia of the court, and all the long horrors of a prison life. Even now those prying women might have their eyes turned upon what he was doing. And should there be no women prying, no trial, no conviction, still there would be the damning guilt on his own soul—a guilt which would admit of no repentance except by giving himself up to the hands of the law! No sooner had he resolved to destroy the will than he was unable to destroy it. No sooner had he felt his inability than again he longed to do the deed. When at three o’clock he dragged himself up wearily to his bed, the will was again within the sermon, and the book was at rest upon its old ground.
Punctually at eleven Mr. Griffith was with him, and it was evident from his manner that he had thought the matter over, and was determined to be kind and gracious.
“Now, squire,” said he, “let us hear it; and I do hope it may be something that may make your mind quiet at last. You’ve had, I fear, a bad time of it since the old squire died.”
“Indeed I have, Mr. Griffith.”
“What is it now? Whatever it be, you may be sure of this, I will take it charitable like. I won’t take nothing amiss; and if so be I can help you, I will.”
Cousin Henry, as the door had been opened, and as the man’s footstep had been heard, had made up his mind that on this occasion he could not reveal the secret. He had disabled himself by that unfortunate manner of his yesterday. He would not even turn his eyes upon the book, but sat looking into the empty grate. “What is it, Mr. Jones?” asked the farmer.
“My uncle did make a will,” said Cousin Henry feebly.
“Of course he made a will. He made a many—one or two more than was wise, I am thinking.”
“He made a will after the last one.”
“After that in your favour?”
“Yes; after that. I know that he did, by what I saw him doing; and so I thought I’d tell you.”
“Is that all?”
“I thought I’d let you know that I was sure of it. What became of it after it was made, that, you know, is quite another question. I do think it must be in the house, and if so, search ought to be made. If they believe there is such a will, why don’t they come and search more regularly? I shouldn’t hinder them.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“As I have
