COUSIN HENRY

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

First published in serial form in the _Manchester Weekly Times_ andthe _North British Weekly Mail_ in the spring of 1879 and in bookform in October, 1879

CONTENTS

 I. Uncle Indefer II. Isabel Brodrick III. Cousin Henry IV. The Squire's Death V. Preparing for the Funeral VI. Mr Apjohn's Explanation VII. Looking for the Will VIII. The Reading of the Will IX. Alone at Llanfeare X. Cousin Henry Dreams a Dream XI. Isabel at Hereford XII. Mr Owen XIII. The _Carmarthen Herald_ XIV. An Action for Libel XV. Cousin Henry Makes Another Attempt XVI. Again at Hereford XVII. Mr Cheekey XVIII. Cousin Henry Goes to Carmarthen XIX. Mr Apjohn Sends for Assistance XX. Doubts XXI. Mr Apjohn's Success XXII. How Cousin Henry Was Let Off Easily XXIII. Isabel's Petition XXIV. Conclusion

CHAPTER I

Uncle Indefer

"I have a conscience, my dear, on this matter, " said an old gentlemanto a young lady, as the two were sitting in the breakfast parlour ofa country house which looked down from the cliffs over the sea on thecoast of Carmarthenshire. 

"And so have I, Uncle Indefer; and as my conscience is backed by myinclination, whereas yours is not--"

"You think that I shall give way?"

"I did not mean that. "

"What then?"

"If I could only make you understand how very strong is myinclination, or disinclination--how impossible to be conquered, then--"

"What next?"

"Then you would know that I could never give way, as you call it, andyou would go to work with your own conscience to see whether it beimperative with you or not. You may be sure of this, --I shall neversay a word to you in opposition to your conscience. If there be aword to be spoken it must come from yourself. "

There was a long pause in the conversation, a silence for an hour, during which the girl went in and out of the room and settled herselfdown at her work. Then the old man went back abruptly to the subjectthey had discussed. "I shall obey my conscience. "

"You ought to do so, Uncle Indefer. What should a man obey but hisconscience?"

"Though it will break my heart. "

"No; no, no!"

"And will ruin you. "

"That is a flea's bite. I can brave my ruin easily, but not yourbroken heart. "

"Why should there be either, Isabel?"

"Nay, sir; have you not said but now, because of our consciences?Not to save your heart from breaking, --though I think your heartis dearer to me than anything else in the world, --could I marrymy cousin Henry. We must die together, both of us, you and I, orlive broken-hearted, or what not, sooner than that. Would I not doanything possible at your bidding?"

"I used to think so. "

"But it is impossible for a young woman with a respect for herselfsuch as I have to submit herself to a man that she loathes. Do asyour conscience bids you with the old house. Shall I be less tenderto you while you live because I shall have to leave the place whenyou are dead? Shall I accuse you of injustice or unkindness inmy heart? Never! All that is only an outside circumstance to me, comparatively of little moment. But to be the wife of a man Idespise!" Then she got up and left the room. 

A month passed by before the old man returned to the subject, whichhe did seated in the same room, at the same hour of the day, --atabout four o'clock, when the dinner things had been removed. 

"Isabel, " he said, "I cannot help myself. "

"As to what, Uncle Indefer?" She knew very well what was the matterin which, as he said, he could not help himself. Had there beenanything in which his age had wanted assistance from her youth therewould have been no hesitation between them; no daughter was ever moretender; no father was ever more trusting. But on this subject it wasnecessary that he should speak more plainly before she could reply tohim. 

"As to your cousin and the property. "

"Then in God's name do not trouble yourself further in looking forhelp where there is none to be had. You mean that the estate ought togo to a man and not to a woman?"

"It ought to go to a Jones. "

"I am not a Jones, nor likely to become a Jones. "

"You are as near to me as he is, --and so much dearer!"

"But not on that account a Jones. My name is Isabel Brodrick. A womannot born to be a Jones may have the luck to become one by marriage, but that will never be the case with me. "

"You should not laugh at that which is to me a duty. "

"Dear, dear uncle!" she said, caressing him, "if I seemed tolaugh"--and she certainly had laughed when she spoke of the luck ofbecoming a Jones--"it is only that you may feel how little importanceI attach to it all on my own account. "

"But it is important, --terribly important!"

"Very well. Then go to work with two things in your mind fixed asfate. One is that you must leave Llanfeare to your nephew HenryJones, and the other that I will not marry your nephew Henry Jones. When it is all settled it will be just as though the old place wereentailed, as it used to be. "

"I wish it were. "

"So do I, if it would save you trouble. "

"But it isn't the same;--it can't be the same. In getting back theland your grandfather sold I have spent the money I had saved foryou. "

"It shall be all the same to me, and I will take pleasure in thinkingthat the old family place shall remain as you would have it. I can beproud of the family though I can never bear the name. "

"You do not care a straw for the family. "

"You should not say that, Uncle Indefer. It is not true. I careenough for the family to sympathise with you altogether in what youare doing, but not enough for the property to sacrifice myself inorder that I might have a share in it. "

"I do not know why you should think so much evil of Henry. "

"Do you know any reason why I should think well enough of him tobecome his wife? I do not. In marrying a man a woman should be ableto love every little trick belonging to him. The parings of his nailsshould be a care to her. It should be pleasant to her to serve him inthings most menial. Would it be so to me, do you think, with HenryJones?"

"You are always full of poetry and books. "

"I should be full of something very bad if I were to allow myself tostand at the altar with him. Drop it, Uncle Indefer. Get it out ofyour mind as a thing quite impossible. It is the one thing I can'tand won't do, even for you. It is the one thing that you ought not toask me to do. Do as you like with the property, --as you think right. "

"It is not as I like. "

"As your conscience bids you, then; and I with myself, which is theonly little thing that I have in the world, will do as I like, or asmy conscience bids me. "

These last words she spoke almost roughly, and as she said them sheleft him, walking out of the room with an air of offended pride. But in this there was a purpose. If she were hard to him, hard andobstinate in her determination, then would he be enabled to be soalso to her in his determination, with less of pain to himself. Shefelt it to be her duty to teach him that he was justified in doingwhat he liked with his property, because she intended to do whatshe liked with herself. Not only would she not say a word towardsdissuading him from this change in his old intentions, but she wouldmake the change as little painful to him as possible by teaching himto think that it was justified by her own manner to him. 

For there was a change, not only in his mind, but in his declaredintentions. Llanfeare had belonged to Indefer Joneses for manygenerations. When the late Squire had died, now twenty years ago, there had been remaining out of ten children only one, the eldest, to whom the property now belonged. Four or five coming in successionafter him had died without issue. Then there had been a Henry Jones, who had gone away and married, had become the father of the HenryJones above mentioned, and had then also departed. The youngest, adaughter, had married an attorney named Brodrick, and she also haddied, having no other child but Isabel. Mr Brodrick had marriedagain, and was now the father of a large family, living at Hereford, where he carried on his business. He was not very "well-to-do" in theworld. The new Mrs Brodrick had preferred her own babies to Isabel, and Isabel when she was fifteen years of age had gone to her bacheloruncle at Llanfeare. There she had lived for the last ten years, making occasional visits to her father at Hereford. 

Mr Indefer Jones, who was now between seventy and eighty years old, was a gentleman who through his whole life had been disturbed byreflections, fears, and hopes as to the family property on which hehad been born, on which he had always lived, in possession of whichhe would certainly die, and as to the future disposition of whichit was his lot in life to be altogether responsible. It had beenentailed upon him before his birth in his grandfather's time, whenhis father was about to be married. But the entail had not beencarried on. There had come no time in which this Indefer Jones hadbeen about to be married, and the former old man having been given toextravagance, and been generally in want of money, had felt it morecomfortable to be without an entail. His son had occasionally beeninduced to join with him in raising money. Thus not only since he hadhimself owned the estate, but before his father's death, there hadbeen forced upon him reflections as to the destination of Llanfeare. At fifty he had found himself unmarried, and unlikely to marry. His brother Henry was then alive; but Henry had disgraced thefamily, --had run away with a married woman whom he had married aftera divorce, had taken to race courses and billiard-rooms, and had beenaltogether odious to his brother Indefer. Nevertheless the boy whichhad come from this marriage, a younger Henry, had been educated athis expense, and had occasionally been received at Llanfeare. Hehad been popular with no one there, having been found to be a slyboy, given to lying, and, as even the servants said about the place, unlike a Jones of Llanfeare. Then had come the time in which Isabelhad been brought to Llanfeare. Henry had been sent away from Oxfordfor some offence not altogether trivial, and the Squire had declaredto himself and others that Llanfeare should never fall into hishands. 

Isabel had so endeared herself to him that before she had beentwo years in the house she was the young mistress of the place. Everything that she did was right in his eyes. She might haveanything that she would ask, only that she would ask for nothing. Atthis time the cousin had been taken into an office in London, and hadbecome, --so it was said of him, --a steady young man of business. Butstill, when allowed to show himself at Llanfeare, he was unpalatableto them all--unless it might be to the old Squire. It was certainlythe case that in his office in London he made himself useful, and itseemed that he had abandoned that practice of running into debt andhaving the bills sent down to Llanfeare which he had adopted early inhis career. 

During all this time the old Squire was terribly troubled aboutthe property. His will was always close at his hand. Till Isabelwas twenty-one this will had always been in Henry's favour, --witha clause, however, that a certain sum of money which the Squirepossessed should go to her. Then in his disgust towards his nephew hechanged his purpose, and made another will in Isabel's favour. Thisremained in existence as his last resolution for three years; butthey had been three years of misery to him. He had endured but badlythe idea that the place should pass away out of what he regarded asthe proper male line. To his thinking it was simply an accident thatthe power of disposing of the property should be in his hands. Itwas a religion to him that a landed estate in Britain should go fromfather to eldest son, and in default of a son to the first male heir. Britain would not be ruined because Llanfeare should be allowed to goout of the proper order. But Britain would be ruined if Britons didnot do their duty in that sphere of life to which it had pleased Godto call them; and in this case his duty was to maintain the old orderof things. 

And during this time an additional trouble added itself to thoseexisting. Having made up his mind to act in opposition to his ownprinciples, and to indulge his own heart; having declared both to hisnephew and to his niece that Isabel should be his heir, there cameto him, as a consolation in his misery, the power of repurchasinga certain fragment of the property which his father, with hisassistance, had sold. The loss of these acres had been always a sorewound to him, not because of his lessened income, but from a feelingthat no owner of an estate should allow it to be diminished duringhis holding of it. He never saw those separated fields estranged fromLlanfeare, but he grieved in his heart. That he might get them backagain he had saved money since Llanfeare had first become his own. Then had come upon him the necessity of providing for Isabel. Butwhen with many groans he had decided that Isabel should be the heir, the money could be allowed to go for its intended purpose. It hadso gone, and then his conscience had become too strong for him, andanother will was made. 

It will be seen how he had endeavoured to reconcile things. Whenit was found that Henry Jones was working like a steady man at theLondon office to which he was attached, that he had sown his wildoats, then Uncle Indefer began to ask himself why all his dearestwishes should not be carried out together by a marriage between thecousins. "I don't care a bit for his wild oats, " Isabel had said, almost playfully, when the idea had first been mooted to her. "Hisoats are too tame for me rather than too wild. Why can't he look anyone in the face?" Then her uncle had been angry with her, thinkingthat she was allowing a foolish idea to interfere with the happinessof them all. 

But his anger with her was never enduring; and, indeed, before thetime at which our story commenced he had begun to acknowledge tohimself that he might rather be afraid of her anger than she of his. There was a courage about her which nothing could dash. She had grownup under his eyes strong, brave, sometimes almost bold, with a dashof humour, but always quite determined in her own ideas of wrongor right. He had in truth been all but afraid of her when he foundhimself compelled to tell her of the decision to which his consciencecompelled him. But the will was made, --the third, perhaps the fourthor fifth, which had seemed to him to be necessary since his mind hadbeen exercised in this matter. He made this will, which he assuredhimself should be the last, leaving Llanfeare to his nephew oncondition that he should prefix the name of Indefer to that of Jones, and adding certain stipulations as to further entail. Then everythingof which he might die possessed, except Llanfeare itself and thefurniture in the house, he left to his niece Isabel. 

"We must get rid of the horses, " he said to her about a fortnightafter the conversation last recorded. 

"Why that?"

"My will has been made, and there will be so little now for you, thatwe must save what we can before I die. "

"Oh, bother me!" said Isabel, laughing. 

"Do you suppose it is not dreadful to me to have to reflect howlittle I can do for you? I may, perhaps, live for two years, and wemay save six or seven hundred a year. I have put a charge on theestate for four thousand pounds. The property is only a small thing, after all;--not above fifteen hundred a year. "

"I will not hear of the horses being sold, and there is an end of it. You have been taken out about the place every day for the last twentyyears, and it would crush me if I were to see a change. You have donethe best you can, and now leave it all in God's hands. Pray, --praylet there be no more talking about it. If you only knew how welcomehe is to it!"

CHAPTER II

Isabel Brodrick

When Mr Indefer Jones spoke of living for two years, he spoke morehopefully of himself than the doctor was wont to speak to Isabel. Thedoctor from Carmarthen visited Llanfeare twice a week, and havingbecome intimate and confidential with Isabel, had told her that thecandle had nearly burnt itself down to the socket. There was nospecial disease, but he was a worn-out old man. It was well that heshould allow himself to be driven out about the place every day. Itwas well that he should be encouraged to get up after breakfast, andto eat his dinner in the middle of the day after his old fashion. It was well to do everything around him as though he were not aconfirmed invalid. But the doctor thought that he would not lastlong. The candle, as the doctor said, had nearly burnt itself out inthe socket. 

And yet there was no apparent decay in the old man's intellect. Hehad never been much given to literary pursuits, but that which he hadalways done he did still. A daily copy of whatever might be the mostthoroughly Conservative paper of the day he always read carefullyfrom the beginning to the end; and a weekly copy of the _Guardian_nearly filled up the hours which were devoted to study. On Sundayhe read two sermons through, having been forbidden by the doctor totake his place in the church because of the draughts, and thinking, apparently, that it would be mean and wrong to make that an excusefor shirking an onerous duty. An hour a day was devoted by himreligiously to the Bible. The rest of his time was occupied by thecare of his property. Nothing gratified him so much as the comingin of one of his tenants, all of whom were so intimately known tohim that, old as he was, he never forgot the names even of theirchildren. The idea of raising a rent was abominable to him. Aroundthe house there were about two hundred acres which he was supposed tofarm. On these some half-dozen worn-out old labourers were maintainedin such a manner that no return from the land was ever forthcoming. On this subject he would endure remonstrance from no one, --not evenfrom Isabel. 

Such as he has been here described, he would have been a happyold man during these last half-dozen years, had not his mind beenexercised day by day, and hour by hour, by these cares as to theproperty which were ever present to him. A more loving heart than hiscould hardly be found in a human bosom, and all its power of love hadbeen bestowed on Isabel. Nor could any man be subject to a strongerfeeling of duty than that which pervaded him; and this feeling ofduty induced him to declare to himself that in reference to hisproperty he was bound to do that which was demanded of him by theestablished custom of his order. In this way he had become an unhappyman, troubled by conflicting feelings, and was now, as he wasapproaching the hour of his final departure, tormented by the thoughtthat he would leave his niece without sufficient provision for herwants. 

But the thing was done. The new will was executed and tied in on thetop of the bundle which contained the other wills which he had made. Then, naturally enough, there came back upon him the idea, hardlyamounting to a hope, that something might even yet occur to setmatters right by a marriage between the cousins. Isabel had spokento him so strongly on the subject that he did not dare to repeat hisrequest. And yet, he thought, there was no good reason why they twoshould not become man and wife. Henry, as far as he could learn, hadgiven up his bad courses. The man was not evil to the eye, a somewhatcold-looking man rather than otherwise, tall with well-formedfeatures, with light hair and blue-grey eyes, not subject to bespoken of as being unlike a gentleman, if not noticeable as beinglike one. That inability of his to look one in the face when he wasspeaking had not struck the Squire forcibly as it had done Isabel. Hewould not have been agreeable to the Squire had there been no bondbetween them, --would still have been the reverse, as he had beenformerly, but for that connexion. But, as things were, there was roomfor an attempt at love; and if for an attempt at love on his part, why not also on Isabel's? But he did not dare to bid Isabel even totry to love this cousin. 

"I think I would like to have him down again soon, " he said to hisniece. 

"By all means. The more the tenants know him the better it will be. Ican go to Hereford at any time. "

"Why should you run away from me?"

"Not from you, Uncle Indefer, but from him. "

"And why from him?"

"Because I don't love him. "

"Must you always run away from the people you do not love?"

"Yes, when the people, or person, is a man, and when the man has beentold that he ought specially to love me. "

When she said this she looked into her uncle's face, smiling indeed, but still asking a serious question. He dared to make no answer, butby his face he told the truth. He had declared his wishes to hisnephew. 

"Not that I mean to be in the least afraid of him, " she continued. "Perhaps it will be better that I should see him, and if he speaks tome have it out with him. How long would he stay?"

"A month, I suppose. He can come for a month. "

"Then I'll stay for the first week. I must go to Hereford before thesummer is over. Shall I write to him?" Then it was settled as shehad proposed. She wrote all her uncle's letters, even to her cousinHenry, unless there was, by chance, something very special to becommunicated. On the present occasion she sent the invitation asfollows:--

 Llanfeare, 17th June, 187--, Monday. 

 MY DEAR HENRY, Your uncle wants you to come here on the 1st July and stay for a month. The 1st of July will be Monday. Do not travel on a Sunday as you did last time, because he does not like it. I shall be here the first part of the time, and then I shall go to Hereford. It is in the middle of the summer only that I can leave him. Your affectionate cousin, ISABEL BRODRICK. 

She had often felt herself compelled to sign herself to him in thatway, and it had gone much against the grain with her; but to acousin it was the ordinary thing, as it is to call any different man"My dear sir, " though he be not in the least dear. And so she hadreconciled herself to the falsehood. 

Another incident in Isabel's life must be told to the reader. Itwas her custom to go to Hereford at least once a year, and there toremain at her father's house for a month. These visits had been madeannually since she had lived at Llanfeare, and in this way she hadbecome known to many of the Hereford people. Among others who hadthus become her friends there was a young clergyman, William Owen, aminor canon attached to the cathedral, who during her last visit hadasked her to be his wife. At that time she had supposed herself tobe her uncle's heiress, and looking at herself as the future ownerof Llanfeare had considered herself bound to regard such an offer inreference to her future duties and to the obedience which she owedto her uncle. She never told her lover, not did she ever quite tellherself, that she would certainly accept him if bound by no suchconsiderations; but we may tell the reader that it was so. Had shefelt herself to be altogether free, she would have given herself tothe man who had offered her his love. As it was she answered himanything but hopefully, saying nothing of any passion of her own, speaking of herself as though she were altogether at the disposal ofher uncle. "He has decided now, " she said, "that when he is gone theproperty is to be mine. " The minor canon, who had heard nothing ofthis, drew himself up as though about to declare in his pride that hehad not intended to ask for the hand of the lady of Llanfeare. "Thatwould make no difference in me, " she continued, reading plainlythe expression in the young man's face. "My regard would be swayedneither one way nor the other by any feeling of that kind. But as hehas chosen to make me his daughter, I must obey him as his daughter. It is not probable that he will consent to such a marriage. "

Then there had been nothing further between them till Isabel, on herreturn to Llanfeare, had written to him to say that her uncle haddecided against the marriage, and that his decision was final. 

Now in all this Isabel had certainly been hardly used, though herill-usage had in part been due to her own reticence as to her ownfeelings. When she told the Squire that the offer had been made toher, she did so as if she herself had been almost indifferent. 

"William Owen!" the Squire had said, repeating the name; "hisgrandfather kept the inn at Pembroke!"

"I believe he did, " said Isabel calmly. 

"And you would wish to make him owner of Llanfeare?"

"I did not say so, " rejoined Isabel. "I have told you what occurred, and have asked you what you thought. "

Then the Squire shook his head, and there was an end of it. Theletter was written to the minor canon telling him that the Squire'sdecision was final. 

In all this there had been no allusion to love on the part of Isabel. Had there been, her uncle could hardly have pressed upon her theclaims of his nephew. But her manner in regard to the young clergymanhad been so cold as to leave upon her uncle an impression that thematter was one of but little moment. To Isabel it was matter ofinfinite moment. And yet when she was asked again and again toarrange all the difficulties of the family by marrying her cousin, she was forced to carry on the conversation as though no such personexisted as her lover at Hereford. 

And yet the Squire remembered it all, --remembered that when he hadthus positively objected to the grandson of the innkeeper, he haddone so because he had felt it to be his duty to keep the grandson ofan innkeeper out of Llanfeare. That the grandson of old Thomas Owen, of the Pembroke Lion, should reign at Llanfeare in the place ofan Indefer Jones had been abominable to him. To prevent that hadcertainly been within his duties. But it was very different now, whenhe would leave his girl poorly provided for, without a friend andwithout a roof of her own over her head! And yet, though her name wasBrodrick, she, too, was a Jones; and her father, though an attorney, had come of a family nearly as good as his own. In no case couldit be right that she should marry the grandson of old Thomas Owen. Therefore, hitherto, he had never again referred to that proposal ofmarriage. Should she again have spoken of it his answer might perhapshave been less decided; but neither had she again spoken of theclergyman. 

All this was hard upon Isabel, who, if she said nothing, stillthought of her lover. And it must be acknowledged also that thoughshe did not speak, still she thought of her future prospects. She hadlaughed at the idea of being solicitous as to her inheritance. Shehad done so in order that she might thereby lessen the trouble ofher uncle's mind; but she knew as well as did another the differencebetween the position which had been promised her as owner ofLlanfeare, and that to which she would be reduced as the stepdaughterof a stepmother who did not love her. She knew, too, that she hadbeen cold to William Owen, giving him no sort of encouragement, having seemed to declare to him that she had rejected him becauseshe was her uncle's heiress. And she knew also, --or thought thatshe knew, --that she was not possessed of those feminine gifts whichprobably might make a man constant under difficulties. No more hadbeen heard of William Owen during the last nine months. Every now andthen a letter would come to her from one of her younger sisters, whonow had their own anxieties and their own loves, but not a word wasthere in one of them of William Owen. Therefore, it may be said thatthe last charge in her uncle's purpose had fallen upon her withpeculiar hardness. 

But she never uttered a complaint, or even looked one. As forutterance there was no one to whom she could have spoken it. Therehad never been many words between her and her own family as to theinheritance. As she had been reticent to her father so had he toher. The idea in the attorney's house at Hereford was that she wasstubborn, conceited, and disdainful. It may be that in regard to herstepmother there was something of this, but, let that be as it might, there had been but little confidence between them as to matters atLlanfeare. It was, no doubt, supposed by her father that she was tobe her uncle's heir. 

Conceited, perhaps, she was as to certain gifts of character. She didbelieve herself to be strong of purpose and capable of endurance. Butin some respects she was humble enough. She gave herself no creditfor feminine charms such as the world loves. In appearance she wasone calculated to attract attention, --somewhat tall, well set on herlimbs, active, and of good figure; her brow was broad and fine, hergrey eyes were bright and full of intelligence, her nose and mouthwere well formed, and there was not a mean feature in her face. But there was withal a certain roughness about her, an absence offeminine softness in her complexion, which, to tell the truth of her, was more conspicuous to her own eyes than to any others. The farmersand their wives about the place would declare that Miss Isabel wasthe finest young woman in South Wales. With the farmers and theirwives she was on excellent terms, knowing all their ways, and anxiousas to all their wants. With the gentry around she concerned herselfbut little. Her uncle's habits were not adapted to the keeping ofmuch company, and to her uncle's habits she had fitted herselfaltogether. It was on this account that neither did she know theyoung men around, nor did they know her. And then, because no suchintimacies had grown up she told herself that she was unlike othergirls, --that she was rough, unattractive, and unpopular. 

Then the day came for the arrival of Henry Jones, during the approachto which Uncle Indefer had, from day to day, become more and moreuneasy. Isabel had ceased to say a word against him. When he had beenproposed to her as a lover she had declared that she had loathedhim. Now that suggestion had been abandoned, or left in abeyance. Therefore she dealt with his name and with his coming as she mightwith that of any other guest. She looked to his room, and askedquestions as to his comfort. Would it not be well to provide aseparate dinner for him, seeing that three o'clock would be regardedas an awkward hour by a man from London? "If he doesn't like it, hehad better go back to London, " said the old Squire in anger. But theanger was not intended against his girl, but against the man who bythe mere force of his birth was creating such a sea of troubles. 

"I have told you what my intentions are, " the Squire said to hisnephew on the evening of his arrival. 

"I am sure that I am very much obliged to you, my dear uncle. "

"You need not be in the least obliged to me. I have done what Iconceive to be a duty. I can still change it if I find that you donot deserve it. As for Isabel, she deserves everything that can bedone for her. Isabel has never given me the slightest cause fordispleasure. I doubt whether there is a better creature in theworld living than Isabel. She deserves everything. But as you arethe male heir, I think it right that you should follow me in theproperty--unless you show yourself to be unworthy. "

This was certainly a greeting hard to be endured, --a speech verydifficult to answer. Nevertheless it was satisfactory, if only theold Squire would not again change his mind. The young man had thoughtmuch about it, and had come to the resolution that the best way toinsure the good things promised him would be to induce Isabel to behis wife. 

"I'm sure she is all that you say, Uncle Indefer, " he replied. 

Uncle Indefer grunted, and told him that if he wanted any supper, hehad better go and get it. 

CHAPTER III

Cousin Henry

Cousin Henry found his position to be difficult and precarious. Thatsuggestion of his uncle's, --or rather assertion, --that he could stillchange his mind was disagreeable. No doubt he could do so, and, asCousin Henry thought, would be the very man to do it, if angered, thwarted, or even annoyed. He knew that more than one will hadalready been made and set aside. Cousin Henry had turned the wholematter very much in his mind since he had become cognizant of hisuncle's character. However imprudent he might have been in hisearlier days, he was now quite alive to the importance of beingSquire of Llanfeare. There was nothing that he was not ready to do toplease and conciliate his uncle. Llanfeare without Isabel as a burdenwould no doubt be preferable, but he was quite ready to marry Isabelto-morrow, if Isabel would only accept him. The game he had to playwas for Llanfeare. It was to be Llanfeare or nothing. The positionoffered to him was to come, not from love, but from a sense of dutyon the part of the old man. If he could keep the old man firm to thatidea, Llanfeare would be his own; but should he be excluded fromthat inheritance, there would be no lesser prize by which he mightreconcile himself to the loss. His uncle would not leave him anythingfrom love. All this he understood thoroughly, and was therefore notunnaturally nervous as to his own conduct at the present crisis. 

It was only too manifest to him that his uncle did in fact dislikehim. At their very first interview he was made to listen to praisesof Isabel and threats against himself. He was quite prepared to putup with both, or with any other disagreeable hardship which mightbe inflicted upon him, if only he could do so successfully. But hebelieved that his best course would be to press his suit with Isabel. Should he do so successfully, he would at any rate be safe. Shouldshe be persistent in refusing him, which he believed to be probable, then he would have shown himself desirous of carrying out his uncle'swishes. As to all this he was clear-sighted enough. But he did notquite perceive the state of his uncle's mind in regard to himself. Hedid not understand how painfully the old man was still vacillatingbetween affection and duty; nor did he fathom the depth of the lovewhich his uncle felt for Isabel. Had he been altogether wise in thematter, he would have kept out of his uncle's presence, and havedevoted himself to the tenants and the land; but in lieu of this, heintruded himself as much as possible into his uncle's morning room, often to the exclusion of Isabel. Now it had come to pass that UncleIndefer was never at his ease unless his niece were with him. 

"Nobody can be more attached to another than I am to Isabel, "said the nephew to his uncle on the third morning of his arrival. Whereupon Uncle Indefer grunted. The more he saw of the man, the lesshe himself liked the idea of sacrificing Isabel to such a husband. "Ishall certainly do my best to carry out your wishes. "

"My wishes have reference solely to her. "

"Exactly, sir; I understand that completely. As she is not to be theheiress, the best thing possible is to be done for her. "

"You think that marrying you would be the best thing possible!" Thisthe uncle said in a tone of scorn which must have been very hard tobear. And it was unjust too, as the unfortunate nephew had certainlynot intended to speak of himself personally as being the best thingpossible for Isabel. 

But this too had to be borne. "I meant, sir, that if she would acceptmy hand, she would have pretty nearly as great an interest in theproperty as I myself. "

"She would have much more, " said Uncle Indefer angrily. "She knowsevery man, woman, and child about the place. There is not one of themwho does not love her. And so they ought, for she has been their bestfriend. As far as they are concerned it is almost cruel that theyshould not be left in her hands. "

"So it will be, sir, if she will consent to do as you and I wish. "

"Wish! Pshaw!" Then he repeated his grunts, turning his shoulderround against his nephew, and affecting to read the newspaperwhich he had held in his hand during the conversation. It must beacknowledged that the part to be played by the intended heir was verydifficult. He could perceive that his uncle hated him, but he couldnot understand that he might best lessen that hatred by relieving hisuncle of his presence. There he sat looking at the empty grate, andpretending now and again to read an old newspaper which was lying onthe table, while his uncle fumed and grunted. During every momentthat was so passed Uncle Indefer was asking himself whether thatBritish custom as to male heirs was absolutely essential to thewelfare of the country. Here were two persons suggested to hismind, one of whom was to be his future successor. One of them wasundoubtedly the sweetest human being that had ever crossed his path;the other, --as he was inclined to think at the present moment, --wasthe least sweet. And as they were to him, would they not be to thetenants whose welfare was to depend so much on the future owner ofthe property? The longer that he endured the presence of the man themore desirous did he feel of turning to the drawer which was close athand, and destroying the topmost of those documents which lay theretied in a bundle together. 

But he did not allow himself to be at once driven to a step sounreasonable. The young man had done nothing which ought to offendhim, --had, indeed, only obeyed him in coming down to South Wales. That custom of the country was good and valid, and wise. Ifhe believed in anything of the world worldly, he believed inprimogeniture in respect of land. Though Isabel was ever so sweet, duty was duty. Who was he that he should dare to say to himself thathe could break through what he believed to be a law on his consciencewithout a sin? If he might permit himself to make a special exemptionfor himself in the indulgence of his own affection, then why mightnot another, and another, and so on? Did he not know that it wouldhave been better that the whole thing should have been settled forhim by an entail? And, if so, how could it be right that he shouldact in opposition to the spirit of such an entail, merely because hehad the power to do so? Thus he argued with himself again and again;but these arguments would never become strong till his nephew hadrelieved him of his presence. 

While he was so arguing, Cousin Henry was trying his hand withIsabel. There had been but a week for him to do it, and three dayshad already passed away. At the end of the week Isabel was to go toHereford, and Henry, as far as he knew, was still expected by hisuncle to make an offer to his cousin. And, as regarded himself, he was well enough disposed to do so. He was a man with no strongaffections, but also with no strong aversions, --except that atpresent he had a strong affection for Llanfeare, and a strongaversion to the monotonous office in which he was wont to earn hisdaily bread up in London. And he, too, was desirous of doing hisduty, --as long as the doing of his duty might tend to the desiredpossession of Llanfeare. He was full of the idea that a great dealwas due to Isabel. A great deal was certainly due to Isabel, if only, by admitting so much, his possession of Llanfeare was to be assured. 

"So you are going away in two or three days?" he said to her. 

"In four days. I am to start on Monday. "

"That is very soon. I am so sorry that you are to leave us! But Isuppose it is best that dear Uncle Indefer should not be left alone. "

"I should have gone at this time in any case, " said Isabel, who wouldnot allow it to be supposed that he could fill her place near theiruncle. 

"Nevertheless I am sorry that you should not have remained while I amhere. Of course it cannot be helped. " Then he paused, but she had nota word further to say. She could see by the anxiety displayed in hisface, and by a more than usually unnatural tone in his voice, that hewas about to make his proposition. She was quite prepared for it, andremained silent, fixed, and attentive. "Isabel, " he said, "I supposeUncle Indefer has told you what he intends?"

"I should say so. I think he always tells me what he intends. "

"About the property I mean. "

"Yes; about the property. I believe he has made a will leaving it toyou. I believe he has done this, not because he loves you the best, but because he thinks it ought to go to the male heir. I quite agreewith him that these things should not be governed by affection. He isso good that he will certainly do what he believes to be his duty. "

"Nevertheless the effect is the same. "

"Oh yes; as regards you, the effect will be the same. You will havethe property, whether it comes from love or duty. "

"And you will lose it. "

"I cannot lose what never was mine, " she said, smiling. 

"But why should we not both have it, --one as well as the other?"

"No; we can't do that. "

"Yes, we can; if you will do what I wish, and what he wishes also. Ilove you with all my heart. "

She opened her eyes as though driven to do so by surprise. She knewthat she should not have expressed herself in that way, but she couldnot avoid the temptation. 

"I do, indeed, with all my heart. Why should we not--marry, you know?Then the property would belong to both of us. "

"Yes; then it would. "

"Why should we not; eh, Isabel?" Then he approached her as thoughabout to make some ordinary symptom of a lover's passion. 

"Sit down there, Henry, and I will tell you why we cannot do that. Ido not love you in the least. "

"You might learn to love me. "

"Never; never! That lesson would be impossible to me. Now let therebe an end of it. Uncle Indefer has, I dare say, asked you to makethis proposition. "

"He wrote a letter, just saying that he would like it. "

"Exactly so. You have found yourself compelled to do his bidding, andyou have done it. Then let there be an end of it. I would not marryan angel even to oblige him or to get Llanfeare; and you are not anangel, --to my way of thinking. "

"I don't know about angels, " he said, trying still to begood-humoured. 

"No, no. That was my nonsense. There is no question of angels. Butnot for all Llanfeare, not even to oblige him, would I undertake tomarry a man even if I were near to loving him. I should have to lovehim entirely, without reference to Llanfeare. I am not at all nearloving you. "

"Why not, Isabel?" he asked foolishly. 

"Because--because--because you are odious to me!"

"Isabel!"

"I beg your pardon. I should not have said so. It was very wrong;but, then, why did you ask so foolish a question? Did I not tell youto let there be an end of it? And now will you let me give you onelittle bit of advice?"

"What is it?" he asked angrily. He was beginning to hate her, thoughhe was anxious to repress his hatred, lest by indulging it he shouldinjure his prospects. 

"Do not say a word about me to my uncle. It will be better for younot to tell him that there has been between us any such interview asthis. If he did once wish that you and I should become man and wife, I do not think that he wishes it now. Let the thing slide, as theysay. He has quite made up his mind in your favour, because it is hisduty. Unless you do something to displease him very greatly, he willmake no further change. Do not trouble him more than you can help bytalking to him on things that are distasteful. Anything in regard tome, coming from you, will be distasteful to him. You had better goabout among the farms, and see the tenants, and learn the conditionof everything. And then talk to him about that. Whatever you do, never suggest that the money coming from it all is less than it oughtto be. That is my advice. And now, if you please, you and I need nottalk about it any more. " Then she got up and left the room withoutwaiting for a reply. 

When he was alone he resolved upon complying with her advice, at anyrate in one respect. He would not renew his offer of marriage; norwould he hold any further special conversation with her. Of course, she was hateful to him, having declared so plainly to him her ownopinion regarding himself. He had made the offer, and had therebydone his duty. He had made the offer, and had escaped. 

But he did not at all believe in the sincerity of her advice as totheir uncle. His heart was throbbing with the desire to secure theinheritance to himself, --and so he thought, no doubt, was hers as toherself. It might be that the old man's intention would depend uponhis obedience, and if so, it was certainly necessary that the old manshould know that he had been obedient. Of course, he would tell theold man what he had done. 

But he said not a word till Isabel had gone. He did take her adviceabout the land and the tenants, but hardly to much effect. If therewere a falling roof here or a half-hung door there, he displayed hiszeal by telling the Squire of these defaults. But the Squire hatedto hear of such defaults. It must be acknowledged that it would haverequired a man of very great parts to have given satisfaction in theposition in which this young man was placed. 

But as soon as Isabel was gone he declared his obedience. 

"I have asked her, sir, and she has refused me, " he said in amelancholy, low, and sententious voice. 

"What did you expect?"

"At any rate, I did as you would have me. "

"Was she to jump down your throat when you asked her?"

"She was very decided, --very. Of course, I spoke of your wishes. "

"I have not any wishes. "

"I thought that you desired it. "

"So I did, but I have changed my mind. It would not do at all. Ialmost wonder how you could have had the courage to ask her. I don'tsuppose that you have the insight to see that she is different fromother girls. "

"Oh, yes; I perceived that. "

"And yet you would go and ask her to be your wife off-hand, just asthough you were going to buy a horse! I suppose you told her that itwould be a good thing because of the estate?"

"I did mention it, " said the young man, altogether astounded and putbeyond himself by his uncle's manner and words. 

"Yes; just as if it were a bargain! If you will consent to put upwith me as a husband, why, then you can go shares with me in theproperty. That was the kind of thing, wasn't it? And then you comeand tell me that you have done your duty by making the offer!"

The heir expectant was then convinced that it would have been betterfor him to have followed the advice which Isabel had given him, butyet he could not bring himself to believe that the advice had beendisinterested. Why should Isabel have given him disinterested advicein opposition to her own prospects? Must not Isabel's feeling aboutthe property be the same as his own?

CHAPTER IV

The Squire's Death

With a sore heart Isabel went her way to Hereford, --troubled becauseshe saw nothing but sorrow and vexation in store for her uncle. 

"I know that I am getting weaker every day, " he said. And yet it wasnot long since he had spoken of living for two years. 

"Shall I stay?" asked Isabel. 

"No; that would be wrong. You ought to go to your father. I supposethat I shall live till you come back. "

"Oh, Uncle Indefer!"

"What if I did die? It is not that that troubles me. " Then shekissed him and left him. She knew how vain it was to ask any furtherquestions, understanding thoroughly the nature of his sorrow. Theidea that this nephew must be the master of Llanfeare was so bitterto him that he could hardly endure it; and then, added to this, wasthe vexation of the nephew's presence. That three weeks should bepassed alone with the man, --three weeks of the little that was leftto him of life, seemed to be a cruel addition to the greater sorrow!But Isabel went, and the uncle and nephew were left to do the bestthey could with each other's company. 

Isabel had not seen Mr Owen or heard from him since the writing ofthat letter in which she had told him of her uncle's decision. Now itwould be necessary that she should meet him, and she looked forwardto doing so almost with fear and trembling. On one point she had madeup her mind, or thought that she had made up her mind. As she hadrefused him when supposed to be heiress of Llanfeare, she certainlywould not accept him, should he feel himself constrained by a senseof honour to renew his offer to her now that her position was sodifferent. She had not accused him in her own heart of having cometo her because of her supposed wealth. Thinking well of him in othermatters, she thought well of him also in that. But still there wasthe fact that she had refused him when supposed to be an heiress; andnot even to secure her happiness would she allow him to think thatshe accepted him because of her altered circumstances. And yet shewas in love with him, and had now acknowledged to herself that it wasso. Her position in this as in all things seemed to be so cruel! Hadshe been the heiress of Llanfeare she could not have married him, because it would then have been her duty to comply with the wishes ofher uncle. No such duty would now be imposed upon her, at any rateafter her uncle's death. As simple Isabel Brodrick she might marrywhom she would without bringing discredit upon the Indefer Joneses. But that which she had been constrained to do before her uncle hadchanged his purpose now tied her hands. 

It did seem to her cruel; but she told herself that it was peculiarlyher duty to bear such cruelty without complaint. Of her uncle'sintense love to her she was fully aware, and, loving him as warmly, was prepared to bear everything on his account. His vacillation hadbeen unfortunate for her, but in everything he had done the bestaccording to his lights. Perhaps there was present to her mindsomething of the pride of a martyr. Perhaps she gloried a little inthe hardship of her position. But she was determined to have herglory and her martyrdom all to herself. No human being should everhear from her lips a word of complaint against her Uncle Indefer. 

The day after her arrival her father asked her a few questions as toher uncle's intentions in reference to the property. 

"I think it is all settled, " she said. "I think it has been left tomy Cousin Henry. "

"Then he has changed his mind, " said her father angrily. "He did meanto make you his heiress?"

"Henry is at Llanfeare now, and Henry will be his heir. "

"Why has he changed? Nothing can be more unjust than to make apromise in such a matter and then to break it. "

"Who says that he made a promise? You have never heard anythingof the kind from me. Papa, I would so much rather not talk aboutLlanfeare. Ever since I have known him, Uncle Indefer has been alllove to me. I would not allow a thought of mine to be polluted byingratitude towards him. Whatever he has done, he has done because hehas thought it to be the best. Perhaps I ought to tell you that hehas made some charge on the property on my behalf, which will preventmy being a burden upon you. "

A week or ten days after this, when she had been nearly a fortnightat Hereford, she was told that William Owen was coming in to drinktea. This communication was made to her by her stepmother, inthat serious tone which is always intended to convey a matter ofimportance. Had any other minor canon or any other gentleman beencoming to tea, the fact would have been announced in a differentmanner. 

"I shall be delighted to see him, " said Isabel, suppressing with herusual fortitude any slightest symptom of emotion. 

"I hope you will, my dear. I am sure he is very anxious to see you. "

Then Mr Owen came and drank his tea in the midst of the family. Isabel could perceive that he was somewhat confused, --not quite ableto talk in his usual tone, and that he was especially anxious asto his manner towards her. She took her part in the conversationas though there were nothing peculiar in the meeting. She spoke ofLlanfeare, of her uncle's failing health, and of her cousin's visit, taking care to indicate by some apparently chance word, that Henrywas received there as the heir. She played her part well, evincing nosign of special feeling but her ear was awake to the slightest tonein his voice after he had received the information she had givenhim. She knew that his voice was altered, but she did not read thealteration altogether aright. 

"I shall call in the morning, " he said, as he gave her his handat parting. There was no pressure of the hand, but still he hadaddressed himself especially to her. 

Why should he come in the morning? She had made up her mind, at thespur of the moment, that the news which he had heard had settled thatmatter for ever. But if so, why should he come in the morning? Thenshe felt, as she sat alone in her room, that she had done him a foulinjustice in that spur of the moment. It must be that she had donehim an injustice, or he would not have said that he would come. Butif he could be generous, so could she. She had refused him when shebelieved herself to be the heiress of Llanfeare, and she certainlywould not accept him now. 

On the next morning about eleven o'clock he came. She had becomeaware that it was the intention of all the family that she should seehim alone, and she made no struggle against that intention. As suchintention existed, the interview must of course take place, and aswell now as later. There was no confidence on the matter betweenherself and her stepmother, --no special confidence between evenherself and her half-sisters. But she was aware that they allsupposed that Mr Owen was to come there on that morning for the sakeof renewing his offer to her. It was soon done when he had come. 

"Isabel, " he said, "I have brought with me that letter which youwrote to me. Will you take it back again?" And he held it out in hishand. 

"Nay; why should I take back my own letter?" she answered, smiling. 

"Because I hope--I do not say I trust--but I hope that I may receivean altered answer. "

"Why should you hope so?" she asked, foolishly enough. 

"Because I love you so dearly. Let me say something very plainly. Ifit be a long story, forgive me because of its importance to myself. Idid think that you were--well, inclined to like me. "

"Like you! I always liked you. I do like you. "

"I hoped more. Perhaps I thought more. Nay, Isabel, do not interruptme. When they told me that you were to be your uncle's heir, I knewthat you ought not to marry me. "

"Why not?"

"Well, I knew that it should not be so. I knew that your uncle wouldthink so. "

"Yes, he thought so. "

"I knew that he would, and I accepted your answer as conveying hisdecision. I had not intended to ask the heiress of Llanfeare to be mywife. "

"Why not? Why not?"

"I had not intended to ask the heiress of Llanfeare to by my wife, "he said, repeating the words. "I learned last night that it was notto be so. "

"No; it is not to be so. "

"Then why should not Isabel Brodrick be the wife of William Owen, if she likes him, --if only she can bring herself to like him wellenough?"

She could not say that she did not like him well enough. She couldnot force herself to tell such a lie! And yet there was her settledpurpose still strong in her mind. Having refused him when shebelieved herself to be rich, she could not bring herself to take himnow that she was poor. She only shook her head mournfully. 

"You cannot like me well enough for that?"

"It must not be so. "

"Must not? Why must not?"

"It cannot be so. "

"Then, Isabel, you must say that you do not love me. "

"I need say nothing, Mr Owen. " Again she smiled as she spoke to him. "It is enough for me to say that it cannot be so. If I ask you not topress me further, I am sure that you will not do so. "

"I shall press you further, " he said, as he left her; "but I willleave you a week to think of it. "

She took the week to think of it, and from day to day her mind wouldchange as she thought of it. Why should she not marry him, if thusthey might both be happy? Why should she cling to a resolution madeby her when she was in error as to the truth? She knew now, she wasnow quite certain, that when he had first come to her he had knownnothing of her promised inheritance. He had come then simply becausehe loved her, and for that reason, and for that reason only, he hadnow come again. And yet--and yet, there was her resolution! And therewas the ground on which she had founded it! Though he might notremember it now, would he not remember hereafter that she had refusedhim when she was rich and accepted him when she was poor? Where thenwould be her martyrdom, where her glory, where her pride? Were she todo so, she would only do as would any other girl. Though she wouldnot have been mean, she would seem to have been mean, and would soseem to his eyes. When the week was over she had told herself thatshe must be true to her resolution. 

There had been something said about him in the family, but verylittle. The stepmother was indeed afraid of Isabel, though she hadendeavoured to conquer her own fear of using authority; and herhalf-sisters, though they loved her, held her in awe. There was solittle that was weak about her, so little that was self-indulgent, solittle that was like the other girls around them! It was known thatMr Owen was to come again on a certain day at a certain hour, and itwas known also for what purpose he was to come; but no one had daredto ask a direct question as to the result of his coming. 

He came, and on this occasion her firmness almost deserted her. Whenhe entered the room he seemed to her to be bigger than before, andmore like her master. As the idea that he was so fell upon her, shebecame aware that she loved him better than ever. She began to knowthat with such a look as he now wore he would be sure to conquer. She did not tell herself that she would yield, but thoughts flittedacross her as to what might be the best manner of yielding. 

"Isabel, " he said, taking her by the hand, "Isabel, I have comeagain, as I told you that I would. "

She could not take her hand from him, nor could she say a word to himin her accustomed manner. As he looked down upon her, she felt thatshe had already yielded, when suddenly the door was opened, and oneof the girls hurried into the room. 

"Isabel, " said her sister, "here is a telegram for you, just comefrom Carmarthen. "

Of course she opened it instantly with perturbed haste and quiveringfingers. The telegram was as follows:--"Your uncle is very ill, veryill indeed, and wishes you to come back quite immediately. " Thetelegram was not from her Cousin Henry, but from the doctor. 

There was no time then either for giving love or for refusing it. The paper was handed to her lover to read, and then she rushed outof the room as though the train which was to carry her would startinstantly. 

"You will let me write to you by-and-by?" said Mr Owen as she lefthim; but she made no answer to him as she rushed out of the room;nor would she make any answer to any of the others as they expressedeither hope or consolation. When was the next train? When shouldshe reach Carmarthen? When would she once more be at the old man'sbedside? In the course of the afternoon she did leave Hereford, andat about ten o'clock that night she was at Carmarthen. Some oneconcerned had looked into this matter of the trains, and there at thestation was a fly ready to take her to Llanfeare. Before eleven heruncle's hand was in hers, as she stood by his bedside. 

Her Cousin Henry was in the room, and so was the housekeeper who hadbeen with him constantly almost ever since she had left him. She hadseen at once by the manner of the old servants as she entered thehouse, from the woeful face of the butler, and from the presence ofthe cook, who had lived in the family for the last twenty years, thatsomething terrible was expected. It was not thus that she would havebeen received had not the danger been imminent. 

"Dr Powell says, Miss Isabel, that you are to be told that he will behere quite early in the morning. "

This coming from the cook, told her that her uncle was expected tolive that night, but that no more was expected. 

"Uncle Indefer, " she said, "how is it with you? Uncle Indefer, speakto me!" He moved his head a little upon the pillow; he turned hisface somewhat towards hers; there was some slight return to the graspof her hand; there was a gleam of loving brightness left in his eye;but he could not then speak a word. When, after an hour, she lefthis room for a few minutes to get rid of her travelling clothes, and to prepare herself for watching by him through the night, thehousekeeper, whom Isabel had known ever since she had been atLlanfeare, declared that in her opinion her uncle would never speakagain. 

"The doctor, Miss Isabel, thought so, when he left us. "

She hurried down, and at once occupied the place which the old womanhad filled for the last three days and nights. Before long she hadbanished the woman, so that to her might belong the luxury of doinganything, if aught could be done. That her cousin should be therewas altogether unnecessary. If the old man could know any one at hisdeathbed, he certainly would not wish to see the heir whom he hadchosen. 

"You must go--you must indeed, " said Isabel. 

Then the cousin went, and so at last, with some persuasion, did thehousekeeper. 

She sat there hour after hour, with her hand lying gently upon his. When she would move it for a moment, though it was to moisten hislips, he would give some sign of impatience. For hours he lay in thatway, till the early dawn of the summer morning broke into the roomthrough the chink of the shutters. Then there came from him somesign of a stronger life, and at last, with a low muttered voice, indistinct, but not so indistinct but that the sounds were caught, hewhispered a word or two. 

"It is all right. It is done. "

Soon afterwards she rang the bell violently, and when the nurseentered the room she declared that her old master was no more. Whenthe doctor arrived at seven, having ridden out from Carmarthen, therewas nothing for him further to do but to give a certificate as to themanner of death of Indefer Jones, Esq. , late of Llanfeare, in thecounty of Carmarthen. 

CHAPTER V

Preparing for the Funeral

Isabel, when she was left alone, felt that a terrible weight ofduty was imposed on her. She seemed to be immediately encompassedby a double world of circumstances. There was that world of griefwhich was so natural, but which would yet be easy, could she onlybe allowed to sit down and weep. But it was explained to her thatuntil after the funeral, and till the will should have been read, everything about Llanfeare must be done by her and in obedience toher orders. This necessity of action, --of action which in her presentcondition of mind did not seem clear to her, --was not at all easy. 

The doctor was good to her, and gave her some instruction before heleft her. "Shall I give the keys to my cousin?" she said to him. Buteven as she said this there was the doubt on her mind what those lastwords of her uncle had been intended to mean. Though her grief wasvery bitter, though her sorrow was quite sincere, she could not keepherself from thinking of those words. It was not that she was anxiousto get the estate for herself. It was hardly in that way that thematter in these moments presented itself to her. Did the meaning ofthose words impose on her any duty? Would it be right that she shouldspeak of them, or be silent? Ought she to suppose that they had anymeaning, and if so, that they referred to the will?

"I think that you should keep the keys till after the will has beenread, " said the doctor. 

"Even though he should ask for them?"

"Even though he should ask for them, " said the doctor. "He will notpress such a request if you tell him that I say it ought to be so. Ifthere be any difficulty, send for Mr Apjohn. "

Mr Apjohn was the lawyer; but there had been quite lately somedisagreement between her uncle and Mr Apjohn, and this advice was notpalatable to her. 

"But, " continued Dr Powell, "you will not find any difficulty of thatkind. The funeral had better be on Monday. And the will, I suppose, can be read afterwards. Mr Apjohn will come out and read it. Therecan be no difficulty about that. I know that Mr Apjohn's feelings areof the kindest towards your uncle and yourself. "

Mr Apjohn had taken upon himself to "scold" her uncle because of thealtered will, --the will that had been altered in favour of CousinHenry. So much the old man had said to Isabel himself. "If I thinkit 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 alawyer so often feels himself justified in giving. 

Isabel thought that she had better keep those words to herself, atany rate for the present. She almost resolved that she would keepthose words altogether to herself, unless other facts should come outwhich would explain their meaning and testify to their truths. Shewould say nothing of them in a way that would seem to imply that shehad been led by them to conceive that she expected the property. Shedid certainly think that they alluded to the property. "It is allright. It is done. " When her uncle had uttered these words, using thelast effort of his mortal strength for the purpose, he no doubt wasthinking of the property. He had meant to imply that he had donesomething to make his last decision "right" in her favour. She was, she thought, sure of so much. But then she bore in mind the conditionof the old man's failing mind, --those wandering thoughts which wouldso naturally endeavour to fix themselves upon her and upon theproperty in combination with each other. How probable was it that hewould dream of something that he would fain do, and then dream thathe had done it! And she knew, too, as well as the lawyer would knowhimself, that the words would go for nothing, though they had beenspoken before a dozen witnesses. If a later will was there, the laterwill would speak for itself. If no later will was there, the wordswere empty breath. 

But above all was she anxious that no one should think that she wasdesirous of the property, --that no one should suppose that she wouldbe hurt by not having it. She was not desirous, and was not hurt. Thematter was so important, and had so seriously burdened her uncle'smind, that she could not but feel the weight herself; but as toher 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 herbut little, --would hurt her heart not at all. But to know that itwas thought by others that she was disappointed, --that would be agrievous burden to her! Therefore she spoke to Dr Powell, and even toher cousin, as though the estate were doubtless now the property ofthe latter. 

Henry Jones at this time, --during the days immediately following hisuncle's death, --seemed to be so much awe-struck by his position, asto be incapable of action. To his Cousin Isabel he was almost servilein his obedience. With bated breath he did suggest that the keysshould be surrendered to him, making his proposition simply on theground that she would thus be saved from trouble; but when she toldhim that it was her duty to keep them till after the funeral, andthat it would be her duty to act as mistress in the house till afterthat ceremony, he was cringing in his compliance. 

"Whatever you think best, Isabel, shall be done. I would notinterfere for a moment. "

Then some time afterwards, on the following day, he assured her thatwhatever might be the nature of the will, she was to regard Llanfeareas 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 alreadywritten 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 bedone. "

To this she made some formal answer of courtesy, not, it may befeared, very graciously. She did not believe in his civility; shedid not think he was kind to her in heart, and she could not bringherself to make her manner false to her feelings. After that, duringthe days that remained before the funeral, very little was saidbetween them. Her dislike to him grew in bitterness, though shefailed to explain even to herself the cause of her dislike. She didknow that her uncle had been in truth as little disposed to love himas herself, and that knowledge seemed to justify her. Those lastwords had assured her at any rate of that, and though she was quitesure of her own conscience in regard to Llanfeare, though she wascertain that she did not covet the possession of the domain, stillshe was unhappy to think that it should become his. If only for thetenants' sake and the servants, and the old house itself, there werea thousand pities in that. And then the belief would intrude itselfupon her that her uncle in the last expression of his wishes had notintended his nephew to be his heir. 

Then, in these days reports reached her which seemed to confirm herown belief. It had not been the habit of her life to talk intimatelywith the servants, even though at Llanfeare there had been no otherwoman with whom she could talk intimately. There had been about hera sense of personal dignity which had made such freedom distastefulto herself, and had repressed it in them. But now the housekeeperhad come to her with a story to which Isabel had found it impossiblenot to listen. It was reported about the place that the Squire hadcertainly executed another will a few days after Isabel had leftLlanfeare. 

"If so, " said Isabel sternly, "it will be found when Mr Apjohn comesto open the papers. "

But the housekeeper did not seem satisfied with this. Though shebelieved that some document had been written, Mr Apjohn had notbeen sent for, as had always been done on former similar occasions. The making of the Squire's will had been a thing always known andwell understood at Llanfeare. Mr Apjohn had been sent for on suchoccasions, and had returned after a day or two, accompanied by twoclerks. It was quite understood that the clerks were there to witnessthe will. The old butler, who would bring in the sherry and biscuitsafter the operation, was well acquainted with all the testamentarycircumstances of the occasions. Nothing of that kind had occurrednow; but old Joseph Cantor, who had been a tenant on the property forthe last thirty years, and his son, Joseph Cantor the younger, hadbeen called in, and it was supposed that they had performed the dutyof witnessing the document. The housekeeper seemed to think thatthey, when interrogated, had declined to give any information on thesubject. She herself had not seen them, but she had seen others ofthe tenants, and she was certain, she said, that Llanfeare generallybelieved that the old Squire had executed a will during the absenceof his niece. 

In answer to all this Isabel simply said that if a new will, whichshould turn out to be the real will, had actually been made, it wouldbe found among her uncle's papers. She knew well the manner in whichthose other wills had been tied and deposited in one of the drawersof her uncle's tables. She had been invited to read them all, and hadunderstood from a thousand assurances that he had wished that nothingshould be kept secret from her. The key of the very drawer was atthis moment in her possession. There was nothing to hinder her fromsearching, should she wish to search. But she never touched thedrawer. The key which locked it she placed in an envelope, and putit apart under another lock and key. Though she listened, though shecould not but listen, to the old woman's narrative, yet she rebukedthe narrator. "There should be no talking about such things, " shesaid. "It had been, " she said, "her uncle's intention to make hisnephew the owner of Llanfeare, and she believed that he had done so. It was better that there should be no conversation on the matteruntil the will had been read. "

During these days she did not go beyond the precincts of the garden, and was careful not to encounter any of the tenants, even when theycalled at the house. Mr Apjohn she did not see, nor Dr Powell again, till the day of the funeral. The lawyer had written to her morethan once, and had explained to her exactly the manner in which heintended to proceed. He, with Dr Powell, would be at the house ateleven o'clock; the funeral would be over at half-past twelve; theywould lunch at one, and immediately afterwards the will should be"looked for" and read. The words "looked for" were underscored in hisletter, but no special explanation of the underscoring was given. Hewent on to say that the tenants would, as a matter of course, attendthe funeral, and that he had taken upon himself to invite some fewof those who had known the Squire most intimately, to be present atthe reading of the will. These he named, and among them were JosephCantor the elder, and Joseph Cantor the younger. It immediatelyoccurred to Isabel that the son was not himself a tenant, and thatno one else who was not a tenant was included in the list. From thisshe was sure that Mr Apjohn had heard the story which the housekeeperhad told her. During these days there was little or no intercoursebetween Isabel and her cousin. At dinner they met, but only atdinner, and even then almost nothing was said between them. What hedid with himself during the day she did not even know. At Llanfearethere was a so-called book-room, a small apartment, placed betweenthe drawing-room and the parlour, in which were kept the few hundredvolumes which constituted the library of Llanfeare. It had not beenmuch used by the late Squire except that from time to time he wouldenter it for the sake of taking down with his own hands some volumeof sermons from the shelves. He himself had for years been accustomedto sit in the parlour, in which he ate his meals, and had hated theceremony of moving even into the drawing-room. Isabel herself had asitting-room of her own upstairs, and she, too, had never used thebook-room. But here Cousin Henry had now placed himself, and here heremained through the whole day, though it was not believed of himthat he was given to much reading. For his breakfast and his supperhe went to the parlour alone. At dinner time Isabel came down. Butthrough all the long hours of the day he remained among the books, never once leaving the house till the moment came for receiving MrApjohn and Dr Powell before the funeral. The housekeeper would saylittle words about him, wondering what he was doing in the book-room. To this Isabel would apparently pay no attention, simply remarkingthat it was natural that at such a time he should remain inseclusion. 

"But he does get so very pale, Miss Isabel, " said the housekeeper. "He wasn't white, not like that when he come first to Llanfeare. " Tothis Isabel made no reply; but she, too, had remarked how wan, howpallid, and how spiritless he had become. 

On the Monday morning, when the men upstairs were at work on theirghastly duty, before the coming of the doctor and the lawyer, shewent down to him, to tell him something of the programme for the day. Hitherto he had simply been informed that on that morning the bodywould be buried under the walls of the old parish church, and thatafter the funeral the will would be read. Entering the room somewhatsuddenly she found him seated, vacant, in a chair, with an open bookindeed on the table near him, but so placed that she was sure that hehad not been occupied with it. There he was, looking apparently atthe bookshelves, and when she entered the room he jumped up to greether with an air of evident surprise. 

"Mr Apjohn and Dr Powell will be here at eleven, " she said. 

"Oh, ah; yes, " he replied. 

"I thought I would tell you, that you might be ready. "

"Yes; that is very kind. But I am ready. The men came in just now, and put the band on my hat, and laid my gloves there. You will notgo, of course?"

"Yes; I shall follow the body. I do not see why I should not go aswell as you. A woman may be strong enough at any rate for that. Thenthey will come back to lunch. "

"Oh, indeed; I did not know that there would be a lunch. "

"Yes; Dr Powell says that it will be proper. I shall not be there, but you, of course, will be present to take the head of the table. "

"If you wish it. "

"Of course; it would be proper. There must be some one to seem at anyrate to entertain them. When that is over Mr Apjohn will find thewill, and will read it. Richard will lay the lunch here, so that youmay go at once into the parlour, where the will will be read. Theytell me that I am to be there. I shall do as they bid me, thoughit will be a sore trouble to me. Dr Powell will be there, and someof the tenants. Mr Apjohn has thought it right to ask them, andtherefore I tell you. Those who will be present are as follows:--JohnGriffith, of Coed; William Griffith, who has the home farm; MrMortimer Green, of Kidwelly; Samuel Jones, of Llanfeare Grange; andthe two Cantors, Joseph Cantor the father, and Joseph the son. Idon't know whether you know them by appearance as yet. "

"Yes, " said he, "I know them. " His face was almost sepulchral as heanswered her, and as she looked at him she perceived that a slightquiver came upon his lips as she pronounced with peculiar clearnessthe two last names on the list. 

"I thought it best to tell you all this, " she added. "If I find itpossible, I shall go to Hereford on Wednesday. Most of my things arealready packed. It may be that something may occur to stop me, but ifit is possible I shall go on Wednesday. "

CHAPTER VI

Mr Apjohn's Explanation

The reader need not be detained with any elaborate account of thefuneral. Every tenant and every labourer about the place was there;as also were many of the people from Carmarthen. Llanfeare Church, which stands on a point of a little river just as it runs into acreek of the sea, is not more than four miles distant from the town;but such was the respect in which the old squire was held that alarge crowd was present as the body was lowered into the vault. Thenthe lunch followed, just as Isabel had said. There was Cousin Henry, and there were the doctor and the lawyer, and there were the tenantswho had been specially honoured by invitation, and there was JosephCantor the younger. The viands were eaten freely, though the occasionwas not a happy one. Appetites are good even amidst grief, and thefarmers of Llanfeare took their victuals and their wine in funerealsilence, but not without enjoyment. Mr Apjohn and Dr Powell also werehungry, and being accustomed, perhaps, to such entertainments, didnot allow the good things prepared to go waste. But Cousin Henry, though he made an attempt, could not swallow a morsel. He took aglass of wine, and then a second, helping himself from the bottle asit stood near at hand; but he ate nothing, and spoke hardly a word. At first he made some attempt, but his voice seemed to fail him. Notone of the farmers addressed a syllable to him. He had before thefuneral taken each of them by the hand, but even then they had notspoken to him. They were rough of manner, little able to concealtheir feelings; and he understood well from their bearing that he wasodious to them. Now as he sat at table with them, he determined thatas soon as this matter should be settled he would take himself awayfrom Llanfeare, even though Llanfeare should belong to him. Whilethey were at the table both the lawyer and the doctor said a word tohim, making a struggle to be courteous, but after the first strugglethe attempt ceased also with them. The silence of the man, and eventhe pallor of his face might be supposed to be excused by the natureof the occasion. 

"Now, " said Mr Apjohn, rising from the table when the eating anddrinking had ceased, "I think we might as well go into the next room. Miss Brodrick, who has consented to be present, will probably bewaiting for us. "

They passed through the hall into the parlour in a long string, MrApjohn leading the way, followed by Cousin Henry. There they foundIsabel sitting with the housekeeper beside her. She shook hands insilence 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 feltit hard to be alone, I have asked Mrs Griffith to remain with me. Ihope it is not improper?"

"There can be no reason on earth, " said Mr Apjohn, "why Mrs Griffithshould not hear the will of her master, who respected her sothoroughly. " Mrs Griffith bobbed a curtsey in return for thiscivility, and then sat down, intently interested in the comingceremony. 

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 heundid, and then, sitting with the bundle loosened before him, heexamined the document lying at the top. Then, slowly spreading themout, as though pausing over every operation with premeditated delay, he held in his hand that which he had at first taken; but he was intruth thinking of the words which he would have to use at the presentmoment. He had expected, but had expected with some doubt, thatanother document would have been found there. Close at his right handsat Dr Powell. Round the room, in distant chairs, were ranged thesix farmers, each with his hat in hand between his knees. On a sofaopposite were Isabel and the housekeeper. Cousin Henry sat alone, notvery 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 heendeavoured to hold it with the other to keep it from shaking. It wasimpossible that any one there should not observe his trepidation andtoo evident discomfort. 

The document lying at the top of the bundle was opened out veryslowly by the attorney, who smoothed it down with his handpreparatory to reading it. Then he looked at the date to assurehimself that it was the last will which he himself had drawn. He knewit well, and was cognizant with its every legal quiddity. He couldjudiciously have explained every clause of it without reading a word, and might probably have to do so before the occasion was over; buthe delayed, looking down upon it and still smoothing it, evidentlytaking another minute or two to collect his thoughts. This willnow under his hand was very objectionable to him, having been madealtogether in opposition to his own advice, and having thus createdthat "scolding" of which the Squire had complained to Isabel. Thiswill bequeathed the whole of the property to Cousin Henry. It didalso affect to leave a certain sum of money to Isabel, but the sumof money had been left simply as a sum of money, and not as a chargeon the property. Now, within the last few days, Mr Apjohn had learntthat there were no funds remaining for the payment of such a legacy. The will, therefore, was to him thoroughly distasteful. Should thatwill in truth be found to be the last will and testament of the oldSquire, then it would be his duty to declare that the estate andeverything upon it belonged to Cousin Henry, and that there would be, as he feared, no source from which any considerable part of the moneynominally left to Miss Brodrick could be defrayed. To his thinkingnothing could be more cruel, nothing more unjust, than this. 

He had heard tidings which would make it his duty to question theauthenticity of this will which was now under his hand; and now hadcome the moment in which he must explain all this. 

"The document which I hold here, " he said, "purports to be the lastwill 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 hepaused, 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 hatsin their hands. Cousin Henry gazed round at them, but said never aword. The lawyer looked into the heir's face, and saw the great beadsof sweat standing on his brow. 

"You hear what young Mr Cantor has said, " continued the lawyer. "Iam glad that he interrupted me, because it will make my task easier. "

"There now, feyther!" said the young man triumphantly. 

"You hold your tongue, Joe, till you be asked, or I'll lend ye acuff. "

"Now I must explain, " continued Mr Apjohn, "what passed between meand my dear old friend when I received instructions from him in thisroom as to this document which is now before me. You will excuse me, Mr Jones, "--this he said addressing himself especially to CousinHenry--"if I say that I did not like this new purpose on the Squire'spart. He was proposing an altogether new arrangement as to thedisposition of his property; and though there could be no doubt, nota shadow of doubt, as to the sufficiency of his mental powers forthe object in view, still I did not think it well that an old man infeeble health should change a purpose to which he had come in hismaturer years, after very long deliberation, and on a matter of suchvital moment. I expressed my opinion strongly, and he explained hisreasons. He told me that he thought it right to keep the property inthe direct line of his family. I endeavoured to explain to him thatthis might be sufficiently done though the property were left to alady, if the lady were required to take the name, and to confer thename on her husband, should she afterwards marry. You will probablyall understand the circumstances. "

"We understand them all, " said John Griffith, of Coed, who wassupposed to be the tenant of most importance on the property. 

"Well, then, I urged my ideas perhaps too strongly. I am bound to saythat I felt them very strongly. Mr Indefer Jones remarked that it wasnot my business to lecture him on a matter in which his consciencewas concerned. In this he was undoubtedly right; but still I thoughtI had done no more than my duty, and could only be sorry that he wasangry with me. I can assure you that I never for a moment entertaineda feeling of anger against him. He was altogether in his right, andwas actuated simply by a sense of duty. "

"We be quite sure of that, " said Samuel Jones, from The Grange, anold farmer, who was supposed to be a far-away cousin of the family. 

"I have said all this, " continued the lawyer, "to explain why itmight be probable that Mr Jones should not have sent for me, if, inhis last days, he felt himself called on by duty to alter yet onceagain the decision to which he had come. You can understand that ifhe determined in his illness to make yet another will--"

"Which he did, " said the younger Cantor, interrupting him. 

"Exactly; we will come to that directly. "

"Joe, ye shall be made to sit out in the kitchen; ye shall, " saidCantor the father. 

"You can understand, I say, that he might not like to see me againupon the subject. In such case he would have come back to the opinionwhich I had advocated; and, though no man in his strong health wouldhave been more ready to acknowledge an error than Indefer Jones, of Llanfeare, we all know that with failing strength comes failingcourage. I think that it must have been so with him, and that forthis reason he did not avail himself of my services. If there be suchanother will--"

"There be!" said the irrepressible Joe Cantor the younger. Upon thishis father only looked at him. "Our names is to it, " continued Joe. 

"We cannot say that for certain, Mr Cantor, " said the lawyer. "Theold Squire may have made another will, as you say, and may havedestroyed it. We must have the will before we can use it. If he leftsuch a will, it will be found among his papers. I have turned overnothing as yet; but as it was here in this drawer and tied in thisbundle that Mr Jones was accustomed to keep his will, --as the lastwill which I made is here, as I expected to find it, together withthose which he had made before and which he seems never to havewished to destroy, I have had to explain all this to you. It is, Isuppose, true, Mr Cantor, that you and your son were called upon bythe Squire to witness his signature to a document which he purportedto be a will on Monday the 15th of July?"

Then Joseph Cantor the father told all the circumstances as theyhad occurred. When Mr Henry Jones had been about a fortnight atLlanfeare, and when Miss Isabel had been gone a week, he, Cantor, hadhappened to come up to see the Squire, as it was his custom to do atleast once a week. Then the Squire had told him that his services andthose also of his son were needed for the witnessing of a deed. MrJones had gone on to explain that this deed was to be his last will. The old farmer, it seemed, had suggested to his landlord that MrApjohn should be employed. The Squire then declared that this wouldbe unnecessary; that he himself had copied a former will exactly, andcompared it word for word, and reproduced it with no other alterationthan that of the date. All that was wanted would be his signature, efficiently witnessed by two persons who should both be presenttogether with the testator. Then the document had been signed bythe Squire, and after that by the farmer and his son. It had beenwritten, said Joseph Cantor, not on long, broad paper such as thatwhich had been used for the will now lying on the table before thelawyer, but on a sheet of square paper such as was now found in theSquire's desk. He, Cantor, had not read a word of what had there beenset down, but he had been enabled to see that it was written in thatpeculiarly accurate and laborious handwriting which the Squire wasknown to use, but not more frequently than he could help. 

Thus the story was told, --at least, all that there was to tell asyet. The drawer was opened and ransacked, as were also the otherdrawers belonging to the table. Then a regular search was made by theattorney, accompanied by the doctor, the butler, and the housemaid, and continued through the whole afternoon, --in vain. The farmerswere dismissed as soon as the explanation had been given as abovedescribed. During the remainder of the day Cousin Henry occupied achair in the parlour, looking on as the search was continued. Heoffered no help, which was natural enough; nor did he make any remarkas to the work in hand, which was, perhaps, also natural. The matterwas to him one of such preponderating moment that he could hardlybe expected to speak of it. Was he to have Llanfeare and all thatbelonged to it, or was he to have nothing? And then, though noaccusation was made against him, though no one had insinuated thathe had been to blame in the matter, still there was apparent amongthem all a strong feeling against him. Who had made away with thiswill, as to the existence of which at one time there was no doubt? Ofcourse the idea was present to his mind that they must think that hehad done so. In such circumstances it was not singular that he shouldsay nothing and do nothing. 

Late in the evening Mr Apjohn, just before he left the house, askedCousin Henry a question, and received an answer. 

"Mrs Griffith tells me, Mr Jones, that you were closeted with youruncle for about an hour immediately after the Cantors had left himon that Tuesday, --just after the signatures had been written. Was itso?"

Again the drops of sweat came out and stood thick upon his forehead. But this Mr Apjohn could understand without making an accusationagainst the man, even in his heart. The unexpressed suspicion was soheavy that a man might well sweat under the burden of it! He paused amoment, 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 beenthere. 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 didnot 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 theirleases. "

"Did he scold you then?"

"I think so. He always scolded me. He did not like me. I used tothink that I would go away and leave him. I wish that I had nevercome to Llanfeare. I do;--I do. "

There seemed to be a touch of truth about this which almost softenedMr Apjohn's heart to the poor wretch. "Would you mind answering onemore question, Mr Jones?" he said. "Did he tell you that he had madeanother will?"

"No. "

"Nor that he intended to do so?"

"No. "

"He never spoke to you about another will, --a further will, thatshould 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 achange in his purpose, he would have informed his nephew of the fact. 

CHAPTER VII

Looking for the Will

The search was carried on up to nine o'clock that evening, and thenMr Apjohn returned to Carmarthen, explaining that he would send outtwo men to continue the work on the Tuesday, and that he would comeout again on the Wednesday to read whatever might then be regardedas the old Squire's will, --the last prepared document if it could befound, and the former one should the search have been unsuccessful. "Of course, " said he, in the presence of the two cousins, "my readingthe document will give it no force. Of those found, the last in datewill be good--until one later be found. It will be well, however, that some steps should be taken, and nothing can be done tillthe will has been read. " Then he took his leave and went back toCarmarthen. 

Isabel had not shown herself during the whole of the afternoon. WhenMr Apjohn's explanation had been given, and the search commenced, sheretired and went to her own room. It was impossible for her to take apart in the work that was being done, and almost equally impossiblefor her to remain without seeming to take too lively an interestin the proceeding. Every point of the affair was clear to herimagination. It could not now be doubted by her that her uncle, doubly actuated by the presence of the man he disliked and theabsence of her whom he so dearly loved, had found himself driven torevoke the decision to which he had been brought. As she put it toherself, his love had got the better of his conscience during theweakness of his latter days. It was a pity, --a pity that it shouldhave been so! It was to be regretted that there should have been noone near him to comfort him in the misery which had produced sucha lamentable result. A will, she thought, should be the outcomeof a man's strength, and not of his weakness. Having obeyed hisconscience, he should have clung to his conscience. But all thatcould not affect what had been done. It seemed to be certain to herthat this other will had been made and executed. Even though itshould have been irregularly executed so as to be null and void, still it must for a time at least have had an existence. Where was itnow? Having these thoughts in her mind, it was impossible for her togo about the house among those who were searching. It was impossiblefor her to encounter the tremulous misery of her cousin. That heshould shiver and shake and be covered with beads of perspirationduring a period of such intense perturbation did not seem to her tobe unnatural. It was not his fault that he had not been endowed withespecial manliness. She disliked him in his cowardice almost morethan before; but she would not on that account allow herself tosuspect him of a crime. 

Mr Apjohn, just before he went, had an interview with her in her ownroom. 

"I cannot go without a word, " he said, "but its only purport will beto tell you that I cannot as yet express any decided opinion in thismatter. "

"Do not suppose, Mr Apjohn, that I am anxious for another will, " shesaid. 

"I am;--but that has nothing to do with it. That he did make a will, and have it witnessed by these two Cantors, is, I think, certain. That he should afterwards have destroyed the will without telling thewitnesses, who would be sure hereafter to think and talk of what theyhad done, seems to be most unlike the thoughtful consideration ofyour uncle. But his weakness increased upon him very quickly just atthat time. Dr Powell thinks that he was certainly competent on thatday to make a will, but he thinks also he may have destroyed it a dayor two afterwards when his mind was hardly strong enough to enablehim to judge of what he was doing. If, at last, this new will shallnot be forthcoming, I think we must be bound to interpret the matterin that way. I tell you this before I go in order that it may assistyou perhaps a little in forming your own opinion. " Then he went. 

It was impossible but that she should bethink herself at that momentthat she knew more than either Dr Powell or Mr Apjohn. The lastexpression of the old man's thoughts upon that or upon any matter hadbeen made to herself. The last words that he had uttered had beenwhispered into her ears; "It is all right. It is done. " Let the lightof his failing intellect have been ever so dim, let his strengthhave faded from him ever so completely, he would not have whisperedthese words had he himself destroyed that last document. Mr Apjohnhad spoken of the opinion which she was to form, and she felt howimpossible to her it would be not to have an opinion in the matter. She could not keep her mind vacant even if she would. Mr Apjohn hadsaid that, if the will were not found, he should think that theSquire had in his weakness again changed his mind and destroyed it. She was sure that this was not so. She, and she alone, had heardthose last words. Was it or was it not her duty to tell Mr Apjohnthat such words had been uttered? Had they referred to the interestof any one but herself, of course it would have been her duty. Butnow, --now she doubted. She did not choose to seem even to put forth aclaim on her own account. And of what use would be any revelation asto the uttering of these words? They would be accepted in no courtof law as evidence in one direction or another. Upon the whole, shethought she would keep her peace regarding them, even to Mr Apjohn. If it was to be that her cousin should live there as squire and ownerof Llanfeare, why should she seek to damage his character by callingin question the will under which he would inherit the property? Thusshe determined that she would speak of her uncle's last words to noone. 

But what must be her opinion as to the whole transaction? At thepresent moment she felt herself bound to think that this missingdocument would be found. That to her seemed to be the only solutionwhich would not be terrible to contemplate. That other solution, --ofthe destruction of the will by her uncle's own hands, --she altogetherrepudiated. If it were not found, then--! What then? Would it notthen be evident that some fraud was being perpetrated? And if so, bywhom? As these thoughts forced themselves upon her mind, she couldnot but think of that pallid face, those shaking hands, and the greatdrops of sweat which from time to time had forced themselves onto the man's brow. It was natural that he should suffer. It wasnatural that he should be perturbed under the consciousness of thehostile feeling of all those around him. But yet there had hardlybeen occasion for all those signs of fear which she had found itimpossible not to notice as she had sat there in the parlour while MrApjohn was explaining the circumstances of the two wills. Would aninnocent man have trembled like that because the circumstances aroundhim were difficult? Could anything but guilt have betrayed itself bysuch emotions? And then, had the will in truth been made away withby human hands, what other hands could have done it? Who else wasinterested? Who else was there at Llanfeare not interested in thepreservation of a will which would have left the property to her? Shedid not begrudge him the estate. She had acknowledged the strength ofthe reasons which had induced the Squire to name him as heir; but shedeclared to herself that, if that latter document were not found, adeed of hideous darkness would have been perpetrated by him. Withthese thoughts disturbing her breast she lay awake during the longhours of the night. 

When Mr Apjohn had taken his departure, and the servants had gone totheir beds, the butler having barred and double-barred the door afterhis usual manner, Cousin Henry still sat alone in the book-room. After answering those questions from Mr Apjohn, he had spoken to noone, but still sat alone with a single candle burning on the tableby his elbow. The butler had gone to him twice, asking him whetherhe wanted anything, and suggesting to him that he had better go tohis bed. But the heir, if he was the heir, had only resented theintrusion, desiring that he might be left alone. Then he was leftalone, and there he sat. 

His mind at this moment was tormented grievously within him. Therewas a something which he might do, and a something which he might notdo, if he could only make up his mind. "Honesty is the best policy!""Honesty is the best policy!" He repeated the well-known words tohimself a thousand times, without, however, moving his lips orforming a sound. There he sat, thinking it all out, trying to thinkit out. There he sat, still trembling, still in an agony, for hourafter hour. At one time he had fully resolved to do that by which hewould have proved to himself his conviction that honesty is the bestpolicy, and then he sat doubting again--declaring to himself thathonesty itself did not require him to do this meditated deed. "Letthem find it, " he said to himself at last, aloud. "Let them find it. It is their business: not mine. " But still he sat looking up at therow of books opposite to him. 

When it was considerably after midnight, he got up from his chair andbegan to walk the room. As he did so, he wiped his brow continuallyas though he were hot with the exertion, but keeping his eye stillfixed upon the books. He was urging himself, pressing upon himselfthe expression of that honesty. Then at last he rushed at one of theshelves, and, picking out a volume of Jeremy Taylor's works, threw itupon the table. It was the volume on which the old Squire had beenengaged when he read the last sermon which was to prepare him for aflight to a better world. He opened the book, and there between theleaves was the last will and testament which his uncle had executed. 

At that moment he heard a step in the hall and a hand on the door, and as he did so with quick eager motion he hid the document underthe book. 

"It is near two o'clock, Mr Henry, " said the butler. "What are youdoing up so late?"

"I am only reading, " said the heir. 

"It is very late to be reading. You had better go to bed. He neverliked people to be a-reading at these contrairy hours. He liked folkto be all a-bed. "

The use of a dead man's authority, employed against him by one whowas, so to say, his own servant, struck even him as absurd andimproper. He felt that he must assert himself unless he meant to sinklower and lower in the estimation of all those around him. "I shallstay just as late as I please, " he said. "Go away, and do not disturbme any more. "

"His will ought to be obeyed, and he not twenty-four hours under theground, " said the butler. 

"I should have stayed up just as long as I had pleased even had hebeen here, " said Cousin Henry. Then the man with a murmur took hisdeparture and closed the door after him. 

For some minutes Cousin Henry sat perfectly motionless, and then hegot up very softly, very silently, and tried the door. It was closed, and it was the only door leading into the room. And the windowswere barred with shutters. He looked round and satisfied himselfthat certainly no other eye was there but his own. Then he took thedocument up from its hiding-place, placed it again exactly betweenthe leaves which had before enclosed it, and carefully restored thebook to its place on the shelf. 

He had not hidden the will. He had not thus kept it away fromthe eyes of all those concerned. He had opened no drawer. He hadextracted nothing, had concealed nothing. He had merely carried thebook from his uncle's table where he had found it, and, in restoringit to its place on the shelves, had found the paper which itcontained. So he told himself now, and so he had told himself athousand times. Was it his duty to produce the evidence of a grossinjustice against himself? Who could doubt the injustice who knewthat he had been summoned thither from London to take his place atLlanfeare as heir to the property? Would not the ill done against himbe much greater than any he would do were he to leave the paper therewhere he had chanced to find it?

In no moment had it seemed to him that he himself had sinned in thematter, till Mr Apjohn had asked him whether his uncle had told himof this new will. Then he had lied. His uncle had told him of hisintention before the will was executed, and had told him again, when the Cantors had gone, that the thing was done. The old manhad expressed a thousand regrets, but the young one had remainedimpassive, sullen, crushed with a feeling of the injury done to him, but still silent. He had not dared to remonstrate, and had foundhimself unable to complain of the injustice. 

There it was in his power. He was quite awake to the strength of hisown position, --but also to its weakness. Should he resolve to leavethe document enclosed within the cover of the book, no one couldaccuse him of dishonesty. He had not placed it there. He had nothidden it. He had done nothing. The confusion occasioned by theabsence of the will would have been due to the carelessness of aworn-out old man who had reached the time of life in which he wasunfit to execute such a deed. It seemed to him that all justice, allhonesty, all sense of right and wrong, would be best served by theeverlasting concealment of such a document. Why should he tell of itshiding-place? Let them who wanted it search for it, and find it ifthey could. Was he not doing much in the cause of honesty in that hedid not destroy it, as would be so easy for him?

But, if left there, would it not certainly be found? Though it shouldremain week after week, month after month, --even should it remainyear after year, would it not certainly be found at last, and broughtout to prove that Llanfeare was not his own? Of what use to him wouldbe the property, --of what service;--how would it contribute to hishappiness or his welfare, knowing, as he would know, that a casualaccident, almost sure to happen sooner or later, might rob him of itfor ever? His imagination was strong enough to depict the misery tohim which such a state of things would produce. How he would quiverwhen any stray visitor might enter the room! How terrified he wouldbe at the chance assiduity of a housemaid! How should he act if thereligious instincts of some future wife should teach her to followout that reading which his uncle had cultivated?

He had more than once resolved that he would be mad were he to leavethe document where he found it. He must make it known to those whowere searching for it, --or he must destroy it. His common sensetold him that one alternative or the other must be chosen. He couldcertainly destroy it, and no one would be the wiser. He could reduceit, in the solitude of his chamber, into almost impalpable ashes, andthen swallow them. He felt that, let suspicion come as it might intothe minds of men, let Apjohn, and Powell, and the farmers--let Isabelherself--think what they might, no one would dare to accuse him ofsuch a deed. Let them accuse him as they might, there would be notittle of evidence against him. 

But he could not do it. The more he thought of it, the more he had toacknowledge that he was incapable of executing such a deed. To burnthe morsel of paper;--oh, how easy! But yet he knew that his handswould refuse to employ themselves on such a work. He had alreadygiven it up in despair; and, having told himself that it wasimpossible, had resolved to extricate the document and, callingIsabel up from her bed in the middle of the night, to hand it over toher at once. It would have been easy to say he had opened one bookafter another, and it would, he thought, be a deed grand to do. Thenhe had been interrupted, and insulted by the butler, and in his angerhe had determined that the paper should rest there yet another day. 

CHAPTER VIII

The Reading of the Will

On the whole of the next day the search was continued. In spite ofhis late watches, Cousin Henry rose up early, not looking at anythingthat was being done while the search was continued in other rooms, but still sitting, as he had heretofore sat, among the books. The twomen whom Mr Apjohn had sent from his office, together with the butlerand Mrs Griffith, began their work in the old man's bed-room, andthen carried it on in the parlour. When they came to the book-room, as being the next in turn, Cousin Henry took his hat and went outinto the garden. There, as he made short turns upon the gravel path, he endeavoured to force himself away from the close vicinity of thewindow; but he could not do it. He could not go where he would havebeen unable to see what was being done. He feared, --he trembled inhis fear, --lest they should come upon the guilty volume. And yet heassured himself again and again that he wished that they might findit. Would it not in every way be better for him that they should findit? He could not bring himself to destroy it, and surely, sooner orlater, it would be found. 

Every book was taken from its shelf, apparently with the object oflooking into the vacant spaces behind them. Through the window hecould see all that was done. As it happened, the compartment in whichwas the fatal shelf, --on which was the fatal volume, --was the lastthat they reached. No attempt was made to open the books one by one;but then this volume, with so thick an enclosure to betray it, wouldcertainly open of itself. He himself had gone to the place so oftenthat certainly the enclosure would betray itself. Well, let it betrayitself! No one could say that he had had guilty cognizance of itswhereabouts! But yet he knew that he would have been unable to speak, would have gasped, and would surely have declared himself to beguilty by his awe-struck silence. 

Three by three the books came down, and then were replaced. And nowthey were at the shelf! Why could he not go away? Why must he standthere fixed at the window? He had done nothing, --nothing, nothing;and yet he stood there trembling, immovable, with the perspirationrunning off his face, unable to keep his eyes for a moment from whatthey were doing! At last the very three came down, in the centre ofwhich was the volume containing the will. There was a tree againstwhich he leaned, unable to support himself, as he looked into theroom. The vacant place was searched, and then the three books werereplaced! No attempt was made to examine the volumes. The men who didthe work clearly did not know that these very volumes had been inconstant use with the old Squire. They were replaced, and then thesearch, as far as the room was concerned, was over. When they weregone, Cousin Henry returned again to the room, and there he remainedduring the rest of the day. The search as it was carried on elsewherehad no interest for him. 

Whatever harm might be done to others, whoever else might be injured, certainly no one was ill-treated as he had been ill-treated. It wasthus he thought of it. Even should the will never be found, how cruelwould be the injustice done to him! He had not asked to be made heirto the property! It was not his doing. He had been invited to come inorder that he might be received as the heir, and since he had come, every one about the place had misused him. The tenants had treatedhim with disdain; the very servants had been insolent; his CousinIsabel, when he had offered to share everything with her, haddeclared that he was hateful to her; and his uncle himself had heapedinsult upon injury, and had aggravated injustice with scorn. 

"Yes; I had intended that you should be my heir, and have called youhither for that purpose. Now I find you to be so poor a creature thatI have changed my mind. " That in truth was what his uncle had saidto him and had done for him. Who, after that, would expect him to goout of his way in search of special magnanimity? Let them find thewill if they wanted it! Even though he should resolve himself to havenothing to do with the property, even though he should repudiate anywill in his own favour, still he would not tell them where this willmight be found. Why should he help them in their difficulty?

Every carpet was taken up, every piece of furniture was moved, everytrunk and box in the house was examined, but it occurred to no onethat every book should be opened. It was still July, and the day wasvery long. From six in the morning till nine at night they were atwork, and when the night came they declared that every spot about theplace had been searched. 

"I think, Miss, that the old Squire did destroy it. He was a littlewandering at last. " It was thus that Mrs Griffith had expressed heropinion to Isabel. 

Isabel was sure that it was not so, but said nothing in reply. 

If she could only get away from Llanfeare and have done with it, shewould be satisfied. Llanfeare had become odious to her and terrible!She would get away, and wash her hands of it. And yet she was awarehow sad would be her condition. Mr Apjohn had already explained toher that the Squire had so managed his affairs as to have left nofunds from which could be paid the legacy which had nominally beenleft to her. She had told her father when at Hereford that heruncle had taken such care of her that she would not become a burdenupon him. Now it seemed that she would have to return home withouta shilling of her own. For one so utterly penniless to think ofmarrying a man who had little but his moderate professional incomewould, she felt, be mean as well as wrong. There must be an end toeverything between her and Mr Owen. If her father could not supporther, she must become a governess or, failing that, a housemaid. Buteven the poor-house would be better than Llanfeare, if Llanfeare wereto be the property of Cousin Henry. 

Mr Apjohn had told her that she could not now leave the place on theWednesday as she had intended. On the Wednesday he again came toLlanfeare, and then she saw him before he proceeded to his business. It was his intention now to read the last will which had been found, and to explain to those who heard it that he proposed, as jointexecutor with Dr Powell, to act upon that as the last will;--butstill with a proviso that another will might possibly be forthcoming. Though he had in a measure quarrelled with the Squire over the makingof that will, nevertheless, he had been appointed in it as theexecutor, such having been the case in the wills previously made. Allthis he explained to her up in her room, assenting to her objectionto be again present when the will should be read. 

"I could not do it, " she said; "and of what use could it be, as Iknow everything that is in it? It would be too painful. "

He, remembering the futile legacy which it contained for herself, andthe necessity which would be incumbent upon him to explain that therewere no funds for paying it, did not again ask her to be present. 

"I shall go to-morrow, " she said. 

Then he asked her whether she could not remain until the beginning ofnext week, urging objections to this final surrender of Llanfeare;but she was not to be turned from her purpose. "Llanfeare will havebeen surrendered, " she said; "the house will be his to turn me out ofif he pleases. "

"He would not do that. "

"He shall not have the chance. I could not hide it from you if Iwould. He and I do not love each other. Since he has been here I havekept away from him with disgust. He cannot but hate me, and I willnot be a guest in his house. Besides, what can I do?"

"The will will not have been proved, you know. "

"What difference will there be in that? It will be proved at once. Of course he will have the keys, and will be master of everything. There are the keys. " As she said this she handed over to him variousbunches. "You had better give them to him yourself when you have readthe will, so that I need have nothing to say to him. There are somebooks of mine which my uncle gave me. Mrs Griffith will pack them, and send them to me at Hereford, --unless he objects. Everything elsebelonging to me I can take with me. Perhaps you will tell them tosend a fly out for me in time for the early train. "

And so it was settled. 

Then that will was read, --that will which we know not to have beenthe last will, --in the presence of Cousin Henry, of Dr Powell, whohad again come out with Mr Apjohn, and of the farmers, who werecollected as before. 

It was a long, tedious document, in which the testator set forth atlength his reasons for the disposition which he made of the property. Having much considered the matter, he had thought the estate shoulddescend to the male heir, even in default of a regular deed ofentail. Therefore, although his love for his dearest niece, IsabelBrodrick, was undiminished, and his confidence in her as perfect asever, still he had thought it right to leave the old family propertyto his nephew, Henry Jones. Then, with all due circumstances ofdescription, the legacy was made in favour of his nephew. There wereother legacies; a small sum of money to Mr Apjohn himself, for thetrouble imposed upon him as executor, a year's wages to each of hisservants and other matters of the kind. There was also left to Isabelthat sum of four thousand pounds of which mention has been made. Whenthe lawyer had completed the reading of the document, he declaredthat to the best of his knowledge no such money was in existence. Thetestator had no doubt thought that legacies so made would be paid outof the property, whereas the property could be made subject to nosuch demand unless it had, by proper instrument to that effect, beencharged with the amount. 

"But, " he said, "Mr Henry Jones, when he comes into possession of theestate, will probably feel himself called upon to set that matterright, and to carry out his uncle's wishes. "

Upon this Cousin Henry, who had not as yet spoken a word throughoutthe ceremony, was profuse in his promises. Should the estate becomehis, he would certainly see that his uncle's wishes were carried outin regard to his dear cousin. To this Mr Apjohn listened, and thenwent on to explain what remained to be said. Though this will, whichhe had now read, would be acted upon as though it were the last willand testament of the deceased, --though, in default of that for whichfutile search had been made, it certainly was what it purported tobe, --still there existed in full force all those reasons which he hadstated on the Monday for supposing that the late Squire had executedanother. Here Joseph Cantor, junior, gave very strong symptoms of hisinclination to reopen that controversy, but was stopped by the jointefforts of his father and the lawyer. If such a document should everbe found, then that would be the actual will and not the one whichhe had now read. After that, when all due formalities had beenperformed, he took his leave, and went back to Carmarthen. 

The keys were given up to Cousin Henry, and he found himself tobe, in fact, the lord and master of the house, and the owner ofeverything within it. The butler, Mrs Griffith, and the gardenergave him notice to quit. They would stay, if he wished it, for threemonths, but they did not think that they could be happy in the housenow that the old Squire was dead, and that Miss Isabel was goingaway. There certainly did not come to him at the present momentany of the pleasures of ownership. He would have been willing, --hethought that he would have been willing, --to abandon Llanfearealtogether, if only it could have been abandoned without any of theoccurrences of the last month. He would have been pleased that thereshould have been no Llanfeare. 

But as it was, he must make up his mind to something. He must hidethe paper in some deeper hiding place, or he must destroy it, orhe must reveal it. He thought that he could have dropped the bookcontaining the will into the sea, though he could not bring himselfto burn the will itself. The book was now his own, and he might dowhat he liked with it. But it would be madness to leave the paperthere!

Then again there came to him the idea that it would be best forhim, and for Isabel too, to divide the property. In one way it washis, --having become his without any fraudulent doing on his part. Sohe declared to himself. In another way it was hers, --though it couldnot become hers without some more than magnanimous interference onhis part. To divide it would certainly be best. But there was noother way of dividing it but by a marriage. For any other division, such as separating the land or the rents, no excuse could be made, nor would any such separation touch the fatal paper which lay betweenthe leaves of the book. Were she to consent to marry him, then hethought he might find courage to destroy the paper. 

It was necessary that he should see her on that afternoon, if onlythat he might bid her adieu, and tell her that she should certainlyhave the money that had been left her. If it were possible he wouldsay a word also about that other matter. 

"You did not hear the will read, " he said to her. 

"No, " she answered abruptly. 

"But you have been told its contents?"

"I believe so. "

"About the four thousand pounds?"

"There need be no question about the four thousand pounds. There isnot a word to be said about it, --at any rate between you and me. "

"I have come to tell you, " said he, --not understanding her feelingin the least, and evidently showing by the altered tone of hisvoice that he thought that his communication would be received withfavour, --"I have come to tell you that the legacy shall be paid infull. I will see to that myself as soon as I am able to raise a pennyon the property. "

"Pray do not trouble yourself, Cousin Henry. "

"Oh, certainly I shall. "

"Do not trouble yourself. You may be sure of this, that on no earthlyconsideration would I take a penny from your hands. "

"Why not?"

"We take presents from those whom we love and esteem, not from thosewe despise. "

"Why should you despise me?" he asked. 

"I will leave that to yourself to judge of; but be sure of this, thatthough I were starving I would take nothing from your hands. "

Then she got up, and, retiring into the inner room, left him alone. It was clear to him then that he could not divide the property withher in the manner that he had suggested to himself. 

CHAPTER IX

Alone at Llanfeare

On the day after the reading of the will, Henry Indefer Jones, Esq. , of Llanfeare, as he was now to be called, was left alone in hishouse, his cousin Isabel having taken her departure from the placein the manner proposed by her. And the lawyer was gone, and thedoctor, and the tenants did not come near him, and the butler and thehousekeeper kept out of his way, and there was probably no man in allSouth Wales more lonely and desolate than the new Squire of Llanfeareon that morning. 

The cruelty of it, the injustice of it, the unprecedented hardness ofit all! Such were the ideas which presented themselves to him as hourafter hour he sat in the book-room with his eyes fixed on the volumeof Jeremy Taylor's sermons. He had done nothing wrong, --so he toldhimself, --had not even coveted anything that did not belong to him. It was in accordance with his uncle's expressed desire that he hadcome to Llanfeare, and been introduced to the tenants as their futurelandlord, and had taken upon himself the place of the heir. Thenthe old man had announced to him his change of mind; but had notannounced it to others, had not declared his altered purpose to theworld at Llanfeare, and had not at once sent him back to his Londonoffice. Had he done so, that would have been better. There would havebeen a gross injustice, but that would have been the end of it, andhe would have gone back to his London work unhappy indeed, but withsome possibility of life before him. Now it seemed as though any modeof living would be impossible to him. While that fatal paper remainedhidden in the fatal volume he could do nothing but sit there andguard it in solitude. 

He knew well enough that it behoved him as a man to go out about theestate and the neighbourhood, and to show himself, and to take somepart in the life around him, even though he might be miserable anda prey to terror whilst he was doing so. But he could not move fromhis seat till his mind had been made up as to his future action. Hewas still in fearful doubt. Through the whole of that first day hedeclared to himself that his resolution had not yet been made, --thathe had not yet determined what it would be best that he should do. It was still open to him to say that at any moment he had just foundthe will. If he could bring himself to do so he might rush off toCarmarthen with the document in his pocket, and still appear beforethe lawyer as a man triumphant in his own honesty, who at the firstmoment that it was possible had surrendered all that which was notlegally his own, in spite of the foul usage to which he had beensubjected. He might still assume the grand air of injured innocence, give back the property to the young woman who had insulted him, andreturn to his desk in London, leaving behind him in Carmarthenshirea character for magnanimity and honour. Such a line of conduct hadcharms in his eyes. He was quite alive to the delight of heapingcoals of fire on his cousin's head. She had declared that she wouldreceive nothing at his hands, because she despised him. After thatthere would be a sweetness, the savour of which was not lost upon hisimagination, in forcing her to take all from his hands. And it wouldbecome known to all men that it was he who had found the will, --hewho might have destroyed it without the slightest danger ofdiscovery, --he who without peril might thus have made himself ownerof Llanfeare. There would be a delight to him in the character whichhe would thus achieve. But then she had scorned him! No bittererscorn had ever fallen from the lips or flashed from the eyes ofa woman. "We take presents from those we love, not from those wedespise!" He had not resented the words at the moment; he had notdared to do so; but not the less had they entered upon his verysoul, --not the less he hated the woman who had dared so to reply tothe generous offer which he had made her. 

And then there was an idea present to him through it all thatabstract justice, if abstract justice could be reached, would declarethat the property should be his. The old man had made his will withall the due paraphernalia of will-making. There had been the lawyerand the witnesses brought by the lawyer; and, above all, there hadbeen the declared reason of the will and its understood purpose. He had been sent for, and all Carmarthenshire had been made tounderstand why it was to be so. Then, in his sickness, the old manhad changed his mind through some fantastic feeling, and almoston his death-bed, with failing powers, in a condition probablyaltogether unfit for such a duty, had executed a document which thelaw might respect, but which true justice, if true justice could beinvoked, would certainly repudiate. Could the will be abolished, nomore than justice would be done. But, though the will were in his ownpower, it could not be abolished by his own hands. 

As to that abolishing he was perfectly conscious of his own weakness. He could not take the will from its hiding-place and with his ownhand thrust it into the flames. He had never as yet even suggested tohimself that he would do so. His hair stood on end as he thought ofthe horrors attendant on such a deed as that. To be made to stand inthe dock and be gazed at by the angry eyes of all the court, to bewritten of as the noted criminal of the day, to hear the verdict ofguilty, and then the sentence, and to be aware that he was to be shutup and secluded from all comforts throughout his life! And then, andthen, the dread hereafter! For such a deed as that would there notbe assured damnation? Although he told himself that justice demandedthe destruction of the will, justice could not be achieved by his ownhand after such fashion as that. 

No; he could not himself destroy the document, though it shouldremain there for years to make his life a burden to him. As to thathe had made up his mind, if to nothing else. Though there might beno peril as to this world, --though he might certainly do the deedwithout a chance of detection from human eyes, --though there would intruth be no prospect of that angry judge and ready jury and crushingsentence, yet he could not do it. There was something of a consciencewithin him. Were he to commit a felony, from the moment of the doingof the deed the fear of eternal punishment would be heavy on hissoul, only to be removed by confession and retribution, --and then bythe trial with the judge, and the jury, and the sentence! He couldnot destroy the document. But if the book could get itself destroyed, what a blessing it would be! The book was his own, or would be in afew days, when the will should have been properly proved. But if hewere to take away the book and sink it in a well, or throw it intothe sea, or bury it deep beneath the earth, then it would surelyreappear by one of those ever-recurring accidents which are alwaysbringing deeds of darkness to the light. Were he to cast the bookinto the sea, tied with strings or cased in paper, and leaded, thatit should surely sink, so that the will should not by untoward chancefloat out of it, the book tied and bound and leaded would certainlycome up in evidence against him. Were he to move the book, the vacantspace would lead to suspicion. He would be safe only by leaving thebook where it was, by giving no trace that he had ever been consciousof the contents of the book. 

And yet, if the document were left there, the book would certainlydivulge its dread secret at last. The day would come, might come, ah!so quickly, on which the document would be found, and he would bethrust out, penniless as far as any right to Llanfeare was concerned. Some maid-servant might find it; some religious inmate of his housewho might come there in search of godly teaching! If he could onlybring himself to do something at once, --to declare that it was there, so that he might avoid all these future miseries! But why had shetold him that she despised him, and why had the old man treated himwith such unexampled cruelty? So it went on with him for three orfour days, during which he still kept his place among the books. 

There would be great delight in possessing Llanfeare, if he couldin very truth possess it. He would not live there. No; certainlynot that. Every tenant about the place had shown him that he wasdespised. Their manner to him before the old Squire's death, theirfaces as they had sat there during the ceremonies of the will, andthe fact that no one had been near him since the reading of the will, had shown him that. He had not dared to go to church during theSunday; and though no one had spoken to him of his daily life, hefelt that tales were being told of him. He was sure that Mrs Griffithhad whispered about the place the fact of his constant residencein one room, and that those who heard it would begin to say amongthemselves that a practice so strange must be connected with themissing will. No, he would not willingly live at Llanfeare. But if hecould let Llanfeare, were it but for a song, and enjoy the rents upin London, how pleasant would that be! But then, had ever any mansuch a sword of Damocles to hang over his head by a single hair, aswould be then hanging over his head were he to let Llanfeare or evento leave the house, while that book with its inclosure was thereupon the shelves? It did seem to him, as he thought of it, that lifewould be impossible to him in any room but that as long as the willremained among the leaves of the volume. 

Since the moment in which he had discovered the will he had felt thenecessity of dealing with the officials of the office in London atwhich he had been employed. This was an establishment called the Sickand Healthy Life Assurance Company, in which he held some shares, andat which he was employed as a clerk. It would of course be necessarythat he should either resign his place or go back to his duties. Thatthe Squire of Llanfeare should be a clerk at the Sick and Healthywould be an anomaly. Could he really be in possession of his rents, the Sick and Healthy would of course see no more of him; but werehe to throw up his position and then to lose Llanfeare, how sad, how terrible, how cruel would be his fate! But yet something mustbe done. In these circumstances he wrote a letter to the manager, detailing all the circumstances with a near approach to the truth, keeping back only the one little circumstance that he himself wasacquainted with the whereabouts of the missing will. 

"It may turn up at any moment, " he explained to the manager, "sothat my position as owner of the property is altogether insecure. Ifeel this so thoroughly that were I forced at the present to choosebetween the two I should keep my clerkship in the office; but as thecondition of things is so extraordinary, perhaps the directors willallow me six months in which to come to a decision, during which Imay hold my place, without, of course, drawing any salary. "

Surely, he thought, he could decide on something before the sixmonths should be over. Either he would have destroyed the will, orhave sunk the book beneath the waves, or have resolved to do thatmagnanimous deed which it was still within his power to achieve. Theonly one thing not possible would be for him to leave Llanfeare andtake himself up to the delights of London while the document was yethidden within the volume. 

"I suppose sir, you don't know yet as to what your plans are goingto be?" This was said by Mrs Griffith as soon as she made her wayinto the book-room after a somewhat imperious knocking at the door. Hitherto there had been but little communication between Cousin Henryand his servants since the death of the old Squire. Mrs Griffithhad given him warning that she would leave his service, and he hadsomewhat angrily told her that she might go as soon as it pleasedher. Since that she had come to him once daily for his orders, andthose orders had certainly been very simple. He had revelled in noluxuries of the table or the cellar since the keys of the house hadbeen committed to his charge. She had been told to provide him withsimple food, and with food she had provided him. The condition of hismind had been such that no appetite for the glories of a rich man'stable had yet come to him. That accursed book on the opposite shelfhad destroyed all his taste for both wine and meat. 

"What do you want to know for?" he asked. 

"Well, sir; it is customary for the housekeeper to know something, and if there is no mistress she can only go to the master. We alwayswere very quiet here, but Miss Isabel used to tell me something ofwhat was expected. "

"I don't expect anything, " said Cousin Henry. 

"Is there anybody to come in my place?" she asked. 

"What can that be to you? You can go when you please. "

"The other servants want to go, too. Sally won't stay, nor yet MrsBridgeman. " Mrs Bridgeman was the cook. "They say they don't like tolive with a gentleman who never goes out of one room. "

"What is it to them what room I live in? I suppose I may live in whatroom I please in my own house. " This he said with an affectation ofanger, feeling that he was bound to be indignant at such inquiriesfrom his own servant, but with more of fear than wrath in his mind. So they had in truth already begun to inquire why it was that he satthere watching the books!

"Just so, Mr Jones. Of course you can live anywhere you like, --inyour own house. "

There was an emphasis on the last words which was no doubt intendedto be impertinent. Every one around was impertinent to him. 

"But so can they, sir, --not in their own house. They can look forsituations, and I thought it my duty just to tell you, because youwouldn't like to find yourself all alone here, by yourself like. "

"Why is it that everybody turns against me?" he asked suddenly, almost bursting into tears. 

At this her woman's heart was a little softened, though she diddespise him thoroughly. "I don't know about turning, Mr Jones, butthey have been used to such different ways. "

"Don't they get enough to eat?"

"Yes, sir; there's enough to eat, no doubt. I don't know as you haveinterfered about that; not but what as master you might. It isn't thevictuals. "

"What is it, Mrs Griffith? Why do they want to go away?"

"Well, it is chiefly because of your sitting here alone, --nevermoving, never having your hat on your head, sir. Of course agentleman can do as he pleases in his own house. There is nothingto make him go out, not even to see his own tenants, nor his ownfarm, nor nothing else. He's his own master, sir, in course;--butit is mysterious. There is nothing goes against them sort ofpeople, "--meaning the servants inferior to herself, --"likemysteries. "

Then they already felt that there was a mystery! Oh! what a fool hehad been to shut himself up and eat his food there! Of course theywould know that this mystery must have some reference to the will. Thus they would so far have traced the truth as to have learnt thatthe will had a mystery, and that the mystery was located in thatroom!

There is a pleasant game, requiring much sagacity, in which, by afew answers, one is led closer and closer to a hidden word, till oneis enabled to touch it. And as with such a word, so it was with hissecret. He must be careful that no eye should once see that his facewas turned towards the shelf. At this very moment he shifted hisposition so as not to look at the shelf, and then thought that shewould have observed the movement, and divined the cause. 

"Anyways, they begs to say respectful that they wishes you to takea month's warning. As for me, I wouldn't go to inconvenience my oldmaster's heir. I'll stay till you suits yourself, Mr Jones; but theold place isn't to me now what it was. "

"Very well, Mrs Griffith, " said Cousin Henry, trying to fix his eyesupon an open book in his hands. 

CHAPTER X

Cousin Henry Dreams a Dream

From what had passed with Mrs Griffith, it was clear to Cousin Henrythat he must go out of the house and be seen about the place. Thewoman had been right in saying that his seclusion was mysterious. It was peculiarly imperative upon him to avoid all appearance ofmystery. He ought to have been aware of this before. He ought tohave thought of it, and not to have required to be reminded by arebuke from the housekeeper. He could now only amend the fault forthe future, and endeavour to live down the mystery which had beencreated. Almost as soon as Mrs Griffith had left him, he prepared tomove. But then he bethought himself that he must not seem to haveobeyed, quite at the moment, the injunctions of his own servant;so he re-seated himself, resolved to postpone for a day or two hisintention of calling upon one of the tenants. He re-seated himself, but turned his back to the shelf, lest the aspect of his countenanceshould be watched through the window. 

On the following morning he was relieved from his immediatedifficulty by the arrival of a letter from Mr Apjohn. It wasnecessary that a declaration as to the will should be made beforea certain functionary at Carmarthen, and as the papers necessaryfor the occasion had been prepared in the lawyer's office, he wassummoned into Carmarthen for the purpose. Immediately after that hewould be put into full possession of the property. Mr Apjohn alsoinformed him that the deed had been prepared for charging the estatewith four thousand pounds on behalf of his Cousin Isabel. By this hewould bind himself to pay her two hundred a year for the next twoyears, and at the end of that period to hand over to her the entiresum. Here was an excuse provided for him to leave the house andtravel as far as Carmarthen. There were the horses and the carriagewith which his uncle had been accustomed to be taken about theestate, and there was still the old coachman, who had been in theservice for the last twenty years. So he gave his orders, anddirected that the carriage should be ready soon after two, in orderthat he might keep the appointment made by the lawyer at three. Theorder was sent out to the stable through the butler, and as he gaveit he felt how unable he was to assume the natural tone of a masterto his servants. 

"The carriage, sir!" said the butler, as though surprised. Then theowner of Llanfeare found himself compelled to explain to his own manthat it was necessary that he should see the lawyer in Carmarthen. 

Should he or should he not take the book with him as he went? Itwas a large volume, and could not well be concealed in his pocket. He might no doubt take a book, --any book, --with him for his ownrecreation in the carriage; but were he to do so, the special bookwhich he had selected would be marked to the eyes of the servants. Itrequired but little thought to tell him that the book must certainlybe left in its place. He could have taken the will and kept it safe, and certainly unseen, in the pocket of his coat. But then, to takethe will from its hiding-place and to have it on his person, unlesshe did so for the purpose of instant and public revelation, would, ashe thought, be in itself a felony. There would be the doing of a deedin the very act of abstracting the document; and his safety lay inthe abstaining from any deed. What if a fit should come upon him, or he should fall and hurt himself and the paper be found in hispossession? Then there would at once be the intervention of thepolice, and the cell, and the angry voices of the crowd, and thescowling of the judge, and the quick sentence, and that dwellingamong thieves and felons for the entire period of his accursed life!Then would that great command, "Thou shalt not steal, " be soundingalways in his ear! Then would self-condemnation be heavy upon him!Not to tell of the document, not to touch it, not to be responsiblein any way for its position there on the shelf, --that was not tosteal it. Hitherto the word "felon" had not come home to his soul. But were he to have it in his pocket, unless with that purpose ofmagnanimity of which he thought so often, then he would be a felon. 

Soon after two he left the room, and at the moment was unable not toturn a rapid glance upon the book. There it was, safe in its place. How well he knew the appearance of the volume! On the back near thebottom was a small speck, a spot on the binding, which had been sofar disfigured by some accident in use. This seemed to his eyes tomake it marked and separate among a thousand. To him it was almostwonderful that a stain so peculiar should not at once betray thevolume to the eyes of all. But there it was, such as it was, and heleft it amidst its perils. Should they pounce upon it the moment thathe had left the room, they could not say that he was guilty becauseit contained the will. 

He went to Carmarthen, and there his courage was subjected to aterrible trial. He was called upon to declare before the officialthat to the best of his belief the will, which was about to beproved, was the last will and testament of Indefer Jones. Had thisbeen explained to him by the lawyer in his letter, he might probablyhave abstained from so damning a falsehood. There would have beentime then for some resolution. Had Mr Apjohn told him what it wasthat he was about to be called upon to perform, even then, beforethe necessity of performance was presented to him, there would havebeen a moment for consideration, and he might have doubted. Had hehesitated in the presence of the lawyer, all would have been madeknown. But he was carried before the official not knowing that thelie was to be submitted to him, and before he could collect histhoughts the false declaration had been made!

"You understand, Mr Jones, " said the lawyer in the presence of theofficial, "that we still think that a further will may eventually befound?"

"I understand that, " croaked the poor wretch. 

"It is well that you should bear it in mind, " said Mr Apjohnseverely;--"for your own sake, I mean. "

There was nothing further spoken on the subject, and he was givento understand that Llanfeare was now in truth his own;--his own, whatever chance there might be that it should be wrested from himhereafter. 

Then followed the business as to the charge upon the property whichwas to be made on behalf of Isabel. The deeds were prepared, and onlyrequired the signature of the new Squire. 

"But she has refused to take a penny from me, " said the Squire, hesitating with a pen in his hand. Let us give him his due bydeclaring that, much as he hated his cousin, he did not doubt as tobestowing the money upon her. As far as he was concerned, she waswelcome to the four thousand pounds. 

But the lawyer misinterpreted his client's manner. "I should think, Mr Jones, " he said, with still increased severity, "that you wouldhave felt that under the peculiar circumstances you were bound torestore to your cousin money which was expended by your uncle under amisconception in purchasing land which will now be yours. "

"What can I do if she will not take it?"

"Not take it? That is an absurdity. In a matter of such importance asthis she will of course be guided by her father. It is not a matterrequiring gratitude on her part. The money ought to be regarded asher own, and you will only be restoring to her what is in truth herown. "

"I am quite willing. I have made no difficulty, Mr Apjohn. I don'tunderstand why you should speak to me in that way about it, as thoughI had hesitated about the money. " Nevertheless, the lawyer maintainedthe severe look, and there was still the severe tone as the poorwretch left the office. In all this there was so great an aggravationof his misery! It was only too manifest that every one suspected himof something. Here he was ready to give away, --absolutely anxiousto give away out of his own pocket, --a very large sum of money tohis cousin who had misused and insulted him, by signing the documentwithout a moment's hesitation as soon as it was presented to him, andyet he was rebuked for his demeanour as he did it. Oh, that accursedwill! Why had his uncle summoned him away from the comparativecomfort of his old London life?

When he returned to the book-room, he made himself sure that thevolume had not been moved. There was a slight variation in thepositions of that and the two neighbouring books, the centre onehaving been pushed a quarter of an inch further in; and all this hehad marked so accurately that he could not but know whether any handhad been at the shelf. He did not go near to the shelf, but could seethe variation as he stood at the table. His eye had become minutelyexact as to the book and its position. Then he resolved that he wouldnot look at the book again, would not turn a glance on it unless itmight be when he had made up his mind to reveal its contents. Hisneck became absolutely stiff with the efforts necessary not to lookat the book. 

That night he wrote a letter to his cousin, which was as follows:--

 MY DEAR ISABEL, I have been into Carmarthen to-day, and I have signed a document in the presence of Mr Apjohn, by which four thousand pounds is made over to you as a charge upon the property. He stated that you had what might be called a right to that money, and I perfectly agreed with him. I have never doubted about the money since my uncle's will was read. The agent who receives the rents will remit to you one hundred pounds half yearly for the next two years. By that time I shall have been able to raise the money, and you shall then be paid in full. 

 I don't want you to take this as any favour from me. I quite understood what you said to me. I think that it was undeserved, and, after all that I have suffered in this matter, cruel on your part. It was not my fault that my uncle changed his mind backwards and forwards. I never asked him for the estate. I came to Llanfeare only because he bade me. I have taken possession of the property only when told to do so by Mr Apjohn. If I could not make myself pleasant to you, it was not my fault. I think you ought to be ashamed of what you said to me, --so soon after the old man's death!

 But all that has nothing to do with the money, which, of course, you must take. As for myself, I do not think I shall continue to live here. My uncle has made the place a nest of hornets for me, and all through no fault of my own. Should you like to come and live here as owner, you are welcome to do so on paying me a certain sum out of the rents. I am quite in earnest, and you had better think of it. 

 Yours truly, HENRY JONES. 

His resolution as to the first portion of the above letter was takenas he returned in the carriage from Carmarthen; but it was not untilthe pen was in his hand, and the angry paragraph had been written inwhich he complained of her cruelty, that he thought of making thatoffer to her as to the residence. The idea flashed across his mind, and then was carried out instantly. Let her come and live there, andlet her find the will herself if she pleased. If her mind was givento godly reading, this might be her reward. Such conduct would, atany rate, show them all that he was afraid of nothing. He would, hethought, if this could be arranged, still remain at his office; wouldgive up that empty title of Squire of Llanfeare, and live in suchcomfort as might come to him from the remittances which would be madeto him on account of the rents, till--that paper had been found. Suchwas his last plan, and the letter proposing it was duly sent to thepost office. 

On the following day he again acknowledged the necessity of goingabout the place, --so that the feeling of mystery might, if possible, be gradually dissipated, --and he went out for a walk. He roamed downtowards the cliffs, and there sat in solitude, looking out upon thewaters. His mind was still intent upon the book. Oh, if the bookcould be buried there below the sea, --be drowned and no hand of hisbe necessary for the drowning! As he sat there, feeling himselfconstrained to remain away from the house for a certain period, hefell asleep by degrees and dreamed. He dreamt that he was out therein a little boat all alone, with the book hidden under the seats, andthat he rowed himself out to sea till he was so far distant from theshore that no eye could see him. Then he lifted the book, and wasabout to rid himself for ever of his burden, --when there came by astrong man swimming. The man looked up at him so as to see exactlywhat he was doing, and the book was not thrown over, and the face ofthe swimming man was the face of that young Cantor who had been sodetermined in his assertion that another will had been made. 

The dream was still vivid as a reality to his intellect when he wasawakened suddenly, whether by a touch or a sound he did not know. Helooked up, and there was the young man whom he had seen swimming tohim across the sea. The land he was on was a portion of old Cantor'sfarm, and the presence of the son need not have surprised him had hethought of it; but it was to him as though the comer had read everythought of his mind, and had understood clearly the purport of thedream. 

"Be that you, Squire?" said the young man. 

"Yes, it is I, " said Cousin Henry, as he lay trembling on the grass. 

"I didn't know you was here, sir. I didn't know you ever com'd here. Good morning, sir. " Then the young man passed on, not caring to haveany further conversation with a landlord so little to his taste. 

After this he returned home almost cowed. But on the followingmorning he determined to make a still further effort, so that hemight, if possible, return to the ways of the world, which werealready becoming strange to him from the desolation of the life whichhe had been leading. He went out, and, taking the road by the church, up the creek, he came at about a distance of two miles from his ownhouse to Coed, the farmstead of John Griffith, the farmer who heldthe largest number of acres on the property. At the garden gatehe found his tenant, whom he was inclined to think somewhat morecivil, --a little, perhaps, more courteous, --than others who had methim. 

"Yes, sir, " said John Griffith, "it's a fine day, and the crops aredoing well enough. Would you like to come in and see the missus?She'll take it civil. "

Cousin Henry entered the house and said a few words to the farmer'swife, who was not, however, specially gracious in her demeanour. Hehad not the gift of saying much to such persons, and was himselfaware of his own deficiency. But still he had done something, --hadshown that he was not afraid to enter a tenant's house. As he wasleaving, the farmer followed him to the gate, and began to offer himsome advice, apparently in kindness. 

"You ought to be doing something, sir, with those paddocks betweenthe shrubberies and the road. "

"I suppose so, Mr Griffith; but I am no farmer. "

"Then let them, sir. William Griffith will be glad enough to havethem and pay you rent. The old Squire didn't like that the land hehad held himself should go into other hands. But he never did muchgood with them lately, and it's different now. "

"Yes, it's different now. I don't think I shall live here, MrGriffith. "

"Not live at Llanfeare?"

"I think not. I'm not quite fitted to the place. It isn't my doing, but among you all, I fear, you don't like me. " As he said this hetried to carry it off with a laugh. 

"You'd live down that, Squire, if you did your duty, and was goodto the people;--and took no more than was your own. But perhaps youdon't like a country life. "

"I don't like being where I ain't liked; that's the truth of it, MrGriffith. "

"Who'll come in your place, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"Miss Brodrick shall, --if she will. It was not I who asked my uncleto bring me here. "

"But she is not to have the property?"

"Not the property;--at least I suppose not. But she shall have thehouse and the grounds, and the land adjacent. And she shall manage itall, dividing the rents with me, or something of that kind. I haveoffered it to her, but I do not say that she will agree. In themeantime, if you will come up and see me sometimes, I will take itas a kindness. I do not know that I have done any harm, so as to beshunned. "

Then Farmer Griffith readily said that he would go up occasionallyand see his landlord. 

CHAPTER XI

Isabel at Hereford

Isabel had not been many hours at home at Hereford before, as wasnatural, her father discussed with her the affairs of the propertyand her own peculiar interest in the will which had at last beenaccepted. It has to be acknowledged that Isabel was received somewhatas an interloper in the house. She was not wanted there, at anyrate by her stepmother, --hardly by her brothers and sisters, --andwas, perhaps, not cordially desired even by her father. She and herstepmother had never been warm friends. Isabel herself was clever andhigh-minded; but high-spirited also, imperious, and sometimes hard. It may be said of her that she was at all points a gentlewoman. Somuch could hardly be boasted of the present Mrs Brodrick; and, aswas the mother, so were that mother's children. The father was agentleman, born and bred as such; but in his second marriage hehad fallen a little below his station, and, having done so, hadaccommodated himself to his position. Then there had come manychildren, and the family had increased quicker than the income. So ithad come to pass that the attorney was not a wealthy man. This wasthe home which Isabel had been invited to leave when, now many yearssince, she had gone to Llanfeare to become her uncle's darling. Thereher life had been very different from that of the family at Hereford. She had seen but little of society, but had been made much of, andalmost worshipped, by those who were around her. She was to be, --wasto have been, --the Lady of Llanfeare. By every tenant about theplace she had been loved and esteemed. With the servants she hadbeen supreme. Even at Carmarthen, when she was seen there, shewas regarded as the great lady, the acknowledged heiress, who wasto have, at some not very distant time, all Llanfeare in her ownhands. It was said of her, and said truly, that she was possessedof many virtues. She was charitable, careful for others, in noway self-indulgent, sedulous in every duty, and, above all things, affectionately attentive to her uncle. But she had become imperious, and inclined to domineer, if not in action, yet in spirit. She hadlived much among books, had delighted to sit gazing over the sea witha volume of poetry in her hand, truly enjoying the intellectual giftswhich had been given her. But she had, perhaps, learnt too thoroughlyher own superiority, and was somewhat apt to look down upon the lessrefined pleasure of other people. And now her altered position inregard to wealth rather increased than diminished her foibles. Now, in her abject poverty, --for she was determined that it should beabject, --she would be forced to sustain her superiority solely byher personal gifts. She determined that, should she find herselfcompelled to live in her father's house, she would do her dutythoroughly by her stepmother and her sisters. She would serve them asfar as it might be within her power; but she could not giggle withthe girls, nor could she talk little gossip with Mrs Brodrick. Whilethere was work to be done, she would do it, though it should be hard, menial, and revolting; but when her work was done, there would be herbooks. 

It will be understood that, such being her mood and such hercharacter, she would hardly make herself happy in her father'shouse, --or make others happy. And then, added to all this, there wasthe terrible question of money! When last at Hereford, she had toldher father that, though her uncle had revoked his grand intention inher favour, still there would be coming to her enough to prevent herfrom being a burden on the resources of her family. Now that was allchanged. If her father should be unable or unwilling to support her, she would undergo any hardship, any privation; but would certainlynot accept bounty from the hands of her cousin. Some deed had beendone, she felt assured, --some wicked deed, and Cousin Henry had beenthe doer of it. She and she alone had heard the last words which heruncle had spoken, and she had watched the man's face narrowly whenher uncle's will had been discussed in the presence of the tenants. She was quite sure. Let her father say what he might, let herstepmother look at her ever so angrily with her greedy, hungry eyes, she would take no shilling from her Cousin Henry. Though she mighthave to die in the streets, she would take no bread from her CousinHenry's hand. 

She herself began the question of the money on the day after herarrival. "Papa, " she said, "there is to be nothing for me after all. "

Now Mr Apjohn, the lawyer, like a cautious family solicitor as hewas, had written to Mr Brodrick, giving him a full account of thewhole affair, telling him of the legacy of four thousand pounds, explaining that there was no fund from which payment could be legallyexacted, but stating also that the circumstances of the case wereof such a nature as to make it almost impossible that the new heirshould refuse to render himself liable for the amount. Then had comeanother 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; butyour cousin is quite prepared to charge the estate with the amount. Indeed, it would be almost impossible for him to refuse to do so. Noone would speak to him were he to be so base as that. I do not thinkmuch of your Cousin Henry, but even Cousin Henry could not be somean. 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 meto take my Cousin Henry's money. "

"It will be your money, --your money by your uncle's will. It is thevery sum which he himself has named as intended for you. "

"Yes, papa; but Uncle Indefer had not got the money to give. Neitheryou nor I should be angry with him; because he intended the best. "

"I am angry with him, " said the attorney in wrath, "because hedeceived you and deceived me about the property. "

"Never; he deceived no one. Uncle Indefer and deceit never wenttogether. "

"There is no question of that now, " said the father. "He made someslight restitution, and there can, of course, be no question as toyour taking it. "

"There is a question, and there must be a question, papa. I will nothave it. If my being here would be an expense too great for you, Iwill go away. "

"Where will you go?"

"I care not where I go. I will earn my bread. If I cannot do that, Iwould rather live in the poor-house 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 asto gratitude, or even of acceptance. It is a matter of course. Hewould 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 todo but to sign a receipt once every half-year till the whole sumshall 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 careto 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 uncleand good to the tenants, had he seemed even to be like a man, Icould have made him heartily welcome to Llanfeare. I think my unclewas right in choosing to have a male heir. I should have done somyself--in his place. "

"He was wrong, wickedly wrong, after his promises. "

"There were no promises made to me: nothing but a suggestion, whichhe 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 Istarving in the street I would not take a crust of bread from hisfingers. "

Over and over again the conversation was renewed, but always withthe same result. Then there was a correspondence between the twoattorneys, and Mr Apjohn undertook to ask permission from theSquire to pay the money to the father's receipt without asking anyacknowledgement from the daughter. On hearing this, Isabel declaredthat 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 shewas going. Circumstances should not be made so to prevail upon her asto force her to eat meat purchased by her cousin's money. 

Thus it came to pass that Isabel's new home was not made comfortableto her on her first arrival. Her stepmother would hardly speak toher, and the girls knew that she was in disgrace. There was Mr Owen, willing enough, as the stepmother knew, to take Isabel away andrelieve them all from this burden, and with the £4000 Mr Owen would, no doubt, be able at once to provide a home for her. But Mr Owencould hardly do this without some help. And even though Mr Owenshould be so generous, --and thus justify the name of "softie" whichMrs Brodrick would sometimes give him in discussing his characterwith her own daughters, --how preferable would it be to have arelation well-provided! To Mrs Brodrick the girl's objection wasaltogether unintelligible. The more of a Philistine Cousin Henry was, the more satisfaction should there be in fleecing him. To refusea legacy because it was not formal was, to her thinking, an actof insanity. To have the payment of one refused to her because ofinformality would have been heart-breaking. But the making of sucha difficulty as this she could not stomach. Could she have had herwill, she would have been well pleased to whip the girl! ThereforeIsabel's new home was not pleasant to her. 

At this time Mr Owen was away, having gone for his holiday to theContinent. To all the Brodricks it was a matter of course that hewould marry Isabel as soon as he came back. There was no doubt thathe was "a softie. " But then how great is the difference betweenhaving a brother-in-law well off, and a relation tightly constrainedby closely limited means! To refuse, --even to make a show ofrefusing, --those good things was a crime against the husband whowas to have them. Such was the light in which Mrs Brodrick lookedat it. To Mr Brodrick himself there was an obstinacy in it whichwas sickening to him. But to Isabel's thinking the matter was verydifferent. She was as firmly resolved that she would not marry MrOwen as that she would not take her cousin's money;--almost as firmlyresolved. 

Then there came the angry letter from Cousin Henry, containing twopoints which had to be considered. There was the offer to her to cometo Llanfeare, and live there as though she was herself the owner. That, indeed, did not require much consideration. It was altogetherout of the question, and only dwelt in her thoughts as showing howquickly the man had contrived to make himself odious to every oneabout the place. His uncle, he said, had made the place a nest ofhornets to him. Isabel declared that she knew why the place was anest of hornets. There was no one about Llanfeare to whom so unmanly, so cringing, so dishonest a creature would not be odious. She couldunderstand all that. 

But then there was the other point, and on that her mind rested long. 

"I think you ought to be ashamed of what you said to me, --so soonafter the old man's death. "

She sat long in silence thinking of it, meditating whether he hadbeen true in that, --whether it did behove her to repent her harshnessto the man. She remembered well her words;--"We take presents fromthose we love, not from those we despise. "

They had been hard words--quite unjustifiable unless he had madehimself guilty of something worse than conduct that was simplydespicable. Not because he had been a poor creature, not because hehad tormented the old man's last days by an absence of all generousfeeling, not because he had been altogether unlike what, to herthinking, a Squire of Llanfeare should be, had she answered him withthose crushing words. It was because at the moment she had believedhim to be something infinitely worse than that. 

Grounding her aversion on such evidence as she had, --on such evidenceas she thought she had, --she had brought against him her heavyaccusation. She could not tell him to his face that he had stolenthe will, she could not accuse him of felony, but she had used suchquick mode of expression as had come to her for assuring him thathe stood as low in her esteem as a felon might stand. And this shehad done when he was endeavouring to perform to her that which hadbeen described to him as a duty! And now he had turned upon her andrebuked her, --rebuked her as he was again endeavouring to perform thesame duty, --rebuked her as it was so natural that a man should do whohad been subjected to so gross an affront!

She hated him, despised him, and in her heart condemned him. Shestill believed him to have been guilty. Had he not been guilty, thebeads of perspiration would not have stood upon his brow; he wouldnot have become now red, now pale, by sudden starts; he would nothave quivered beneath her gaze when she looked into his face. Hecould not have been utterly mean as he was, had he not been guilty. But yet, --and now she saw it with her clear-seeing intellect, nowthat her passion was in abeyance, --she had not been entitled toaccuse him to his face. If he were guilty, it was for others to findit out, and for others to accuse him. It had been for her as a lady, and as her uncle's niece, to accept him in her uncle's house as heruncle's heir. No duty could have compelled her to love him, no dutywould have required her to accept even his friendship. But she wasaware that she had misbehaved herself in insulting him. She wasashamed of herself in that she had not been able to hide her feelingswithin her own high heart, but had allowed him to suppose that shehad been angered because she had been deprived of her uncle's wealth. Having so resolved, she wrote to him as follows:--

 MY DEAR HENRY, Do not take any further steps about the money, as I am quite determined not to accept it. I hope it will not be sent, as there would only be the trouble of repaying it. I do not think that it would do for me to live at Llanfeare, as I should have no means of supporting myself, let alone the servants. The thing is of course out of the question. You tell me that I ought to be ashamed of myself for certain words that I spoke to you. They should not have been spoken. I am ashamed of myself, and I now send you my apology. 

 Yours truly, ISABEL BRODRICK. 

The reader may perhaps understand that these words were written byher with extreme anguish; but of that her Cousin Henry understoodnothing. 

CHAPTER XII

Mr Owen

In this way Isabel spent four very uncomfortable weeks in her newhome before Mr Owen returned to Hereford. Nor was her discomfort muchrelieved by the prospect of his return. She knew all the details ofhis circumstances, and told herself that the man would be wrong tomarry without any other means than those he at present possessed. Nordid she think of herself that she was well qualified to be the wifeof a poor gentleman. She believed that she could starve if it wererequired of her, and support her sufferings with fortitude. Shebelieved that she could work, --work from morning till night, fromweek to week, from month to month, without complaining; but she didnot think that she could make herself sweet as a wife should be sweetto a husband with a threadbare coat, or that she could be tenderas a mother should be tender while dividing limited bread amongher children. To go and die and have done with it, if that mightbe possible, was the panacea of her present troubles most commonlypresent to her mind. Therefore, there was no comfort to her in thatpromised coming of her lover of which the girls chattered to hercontinually. She had refused her lover when she held the proudposition of the heiress of Llanfeare, --refused him, no doubt, inobedience to her uncle's word, and not in accordance with her ownfeelings; but still she had refused him. Afterwards, when she hadbelieved that there would be a sum of money coming to her from heruncle's will, there had been room for possible doubt. Should themoney have proved sufficient to cause her to be a relief rather thana burden to the husband, it might have been her duty to marry him, seeing that she loved him with all her heart, --seeing that she wassure of his love. There would have been much against it even then, because she had refused him when she had been a grand lady; but, hadthe money been forthcoming, there might have been a doubt. Now therecould be no doubt. Should she who had denied him her hand becauseshe was her uncle's heiress, --on that avowed ground alone, --shouldshe, now that she was a pauper, burden him with her presence? He, no doubt, would be generous enough to renew his offer. She was wellaware of his nobility. But she, too, could be generous, and, as shethought, noble. Thus it was that her spirit spoke within her, biddingher subject all the sweet affections of her heart to a stubbornpride. 

The promised return, therefore, of Mr Owen did not make her veryhappy. 

"He will be here to-morrow, " said her stepmother to her. "MrsRichards expects him by the late train to-night. I looked in thereyesterday and she told me. " Mrs Richards was the respectable ladywith whom Mr Owen lodged. 

"I dare say he will, " said Isabel wearily--sorry, too, that Mr Owen'sgoings and comings should have been investigated. 

"Now, Isabel, let me advise you. You cannot be so unjust to Mr Owenas to make him fancy for a moment that you will refuse your uncle'smoney. Think of his position, --about two hundred and fifty a yearin all! With your two hundred added it would be positive comfort;without it you would be frightfully poor. "

"Do you think I have not thought of it?"

"I suppose you must. But then you are so odd and so hard, so unlikeany other girl I ever saw. I don't see how you could have the face torefuse the money, and then to eat his bread. "

This was an unfortunate speech as coming from Mrs Brodrick, becauseit fortified Isabel in the reply she was bound to make. Hitherto thestepmother had thought it certain that the marriage would take placein spite of such maiden denials as the girl had made; but now thedenial had to be repeated with more than maiden vigour. 

"I have thought of it, " said Isabel, --"thought of it very often, tillI have told myself that conduct such as that would be inexpressiblybase. What! to eat his bread after refusing him mine when it wasbelieved to be so plentiful! I certainly have not face enough to dothat, --neither face nor courage for that. There are ignoble thingswhich require audacity altogether beyond my reach. "

"Then you must accept the money from your cousin. "

"Certainly not, " said Isabel; "neither that nor yet the positionwhich Mr Owen will perhaps offer me again. "

"Of course he will offer it to you. "

"Then he must be told that on no consideration can his offer beaccepted. "

"This is nonsense. You are both dying for each other. "

"Then we must die. But as for that, I think that neither men noryoung women die for love now-a-days. If we love each other, we mustdo without each other, as people have to learn to do without most ofthe things that they desire. "

"I never heard of such nonsense, such wickedness! There is the money. Why should you not take it?"

"I can explain to you, mother, " she said sternly, it being her wontto give the appellation but very seldom to her stepmother, "why Ishould not take Mr Owen, but I cannot tell you why I cannot take mycousin's money. I can only simply assure you that I will not do so, and that I most certainly shall never marry any man who would acceptit. "

"I consider that to be actual wickedness, --wickedness against yourown father. "

"I have told papa. He knows I will not have the money. "

"Do you mean to say that you will come here into this house as anadditional burden, as a weight upon your poor father's shoulder, whenyou have it in your power to relieve him altogether? Do you not knowhow pressed he is, and that there are your brothers to be educated?"Isabel, as she listened to this, sat silent, looking upon the ground, and her stepmother went on, understanding nothing of the nature ofthe mind of her whom she was addressing. "He had reason to expect, ample reason, that you would never cost him a shilling. He had beentold a hundred times that you would be provided for by your uncle. Doyou not know that it was so?"

"I do. I told him so myself when I was last here before UncleIndefer's death. "

"And yet you will do nothing to relieve him? You will refuse thismoney, though it is your own, when you could be married to Mr Owento-morrow?" Then she paused, waiting to find what might be the effectof her eloquence. 

"I do not acknowledge papa's right or yours to press me to marry anyman. "

"But I suppose you acknowledge your right to be as good as your word?Here is the money; you have only got to take it. "

"What you mean is that I ought to acknowledge my obligation to be asgood as my word. I do. I told my father that I would not be a burdento him, and I am bound to keep to that. He will have understood thatat the present moment I am breaking my promise through a mistake ofUncle Indefer's which I could not have anticipated. "

"You are breaking your promise because you will not accept money thatis your own. "

"I am breaking my promise, and that is sufficient. I will go out ofthe house and will cease to be a burden. If I only knew where I couldgo, I would begin to-morrow. "

"That is all nonsense, " said Mrs Brodrick, getting up and burstingout of the room in anger. "There is a man ready to marry you, andthere is the money. Anybody can see with half an eye what is yourduty. "

Isabel, with all the eyes that she had, could not see what was herduty. That it could not be her duty to take a present of money fromthe man whom she believed to be robbing her of the estate she feltquite sure. It could not be her duty to bring poverty on a man whomshe loved, --especially not as she had refused to confer wealth uponhim. It was, she thought, clearly her duty not to be a burden uponher father, as she had told him that no such burden should fall uponhim. It was her duty, she thought, to earn her own bread, or else toeat none at all. In her present frame of mind she would have gone outof the house on the moment if any one would have accepted her even asa kitchenmaid. But there was no one to accept her. She had questionedher father on the matter, and he had ridiculed her idea of earningher bread. When she had spoken of service, he had become angry withher. It was not thus that he could be relieved. He did not want tosee his girl a maid-servant or even a governess. It was not thus thatshe could relieve him. He simply wanted to drive her into his views, so that she might accept the comfortable income which was at herdisposal, and become the wife of a gentleman whom every one esteemed. But she, in her present frame of mind, cared little for any disgraceshe might bring on others by menial service. She was told that shewas a burden, and she desired to cease to be burdensome. 

Thinking it over all that night, she resolved that she would consultMr Owen himself. It would, she thought, be easy, --or if not easy atany rate feasible, --to make him understand that there could be nomarriage. With him she would be on her own ground. He, at least, had no authority over her, and she knew herself well enough to beconfident of her own strength. Her father had a certain right toinsist. Even her stepmother had a deputed right. But her lover hadnone. He should be made to understand that she would not marryhim, --and then he could advise her as to that project of beinggoverness, housemaid, schoolmistress, or what not. 

On the following morning he came, and was soon closeted with her. When he arrived, Isabel was sitting with Mrs Brodrick and hersisters, but they soon packed up their hemmings and sewings, and tookthemselves off, showing that it was an understood thing that Isabeland Mr Owen were to be left together. The door was no sooner closedthan he came up to her, as though to embrace her, as though to putan arm round her waist before she had a moment to retreat, preparingto kiss her as though she were already his own. She saw it all in amoment. It was as though, since her last remembered interview, therehad been some other meeting which she had forgotten, --some meeting atwhich she had consented to be his wife. She could not be angry withhim. How can a girl be angry with a man whose love is so good, sotrue? He would not have dreamed of kissing her had she stood therebefore him the declared heiress of Llanfeare. She felt more thanthis. She was sure by his manner that he knew that she had determinednot to take her cousin's money. She was altogether unaware thatthere had already been some talking that morning between him and herfather; but she was sure that he knew. How could she be angry withhim?

But she escaped. "No, not that, " she said. "It must not be so, MrOwen;--it must not. It cannot be so. "

"Tell me one thing, Isabel, before we go any further, and tell metruly. Do you love me?"

She was standing about six feet from him, and she looked hard intohis face, determined not to blush before his eyes for a moment. Butshe could hardly make up her mind as to what would be the fittinganswer to his demand. 

"I know, " said he, "that you are too proud to tell me a falsehood. "

"I will not tell you a falsehood. "

"Do you love me?" There was still a pause. "Do you love me as a womanshould love the man she means to marry?"

"I do love you!"

"Then, in God's name, why should we not kiss? You are my love andI am yours. Your father and mother are satisfied that it should beso. Seeing that we are so, is it a disgrace to kiss? Having won yourheart, may I not have the delight of thinking that you would wish meto be near you?"

"You must know it all, " she said, "though it may be unwomanly to tellso much. "

"Know what?"

"There has never been a man whose touch has been pleasant to me;--butI could revel in yours. Kiss you? I could kiss your feet at thismoment, and embrace your knees. Everything belonging to you is dearto me. The things you have touched have been made sacred to me. ThePrayer-Book tells the young wife that she should love her husbandtill death shall part them. I think my love will go further thanthat. "

"Isabel! Isabel!"

"Keep away from me! I will not even give you my hand to shake tillyou have promised to be of one mind with me. I will not become yourwife. "

"You shall become my wife!"

"Never! Never! I have thought it out, and I know that I am right. Things have been hard with me. "

"Not to me! They will not have been hard to me when I shall havecarried my point with you. "

"I was forced to appear before your eyes as the heiress of my uncle. "

"Has that made any difference with me?"

"And I was forced to refuse you in obedience to him who had adoptedme. "

"I understand all that very completely. "

"Then he made a new will, and left me some money. "

"Of all that I know, I think, every particular. "

"But the money is not there. " At this he nodded his head as thoughsmiling at her absurdity in going back over circumstances which wereso well understood by both of them. "The money is offered to me by mycousin, but I will not take it. "

"As to that I have nothing to say. It is the one point on which, whenwe are married, I shall decline to give you any advice. "

"Mr Owen, " and now she came close to him, but still ready to springback should it be necessary, "Mr Owen, I will tell you what I havetold no one else. "

"Why me?"

"Because I trust you as I trust no one else. "

"Then tell me. "

"There is another will. There was another will rather, and he hasdestroyed it. "

"Why do you say that? You should not say that. You cannot know it. "

"And, therefore, I say it only to you, as I would to my own heart. The old man told me so--in his last moments. And then there is thelook of the man. If you could have seen how his craven spirit coweredbeneath my eyes!"

"One should not judge by such indications. One cannot but see themand notice them; but one should not judge. "

"You would have judged had you seen. You could not have helpedjudging. Nothing, however, can come of it, except this, --that not forall the world would I take his money. "

"It may be right, Isabel, that all that should be discussed betweenyou and me, --right if you wish it. It will be my delight to thinkthat there shall be no secret between us. But, believe me, dearest, it can have no reference to the question between us. "

"Not that I should be absolutely penniless?"

"Not in the least. "

"But it will, Mr Owen. In that even my father agrees with me. " Inthis she was no doubt wrong. Her father had simply impressed upon herthe necessity of taking the money because of her lover's needs. "Iwill not be a burden at any rate to you; and as I cannot go to youwithout being a burden, I will not go at all. What does it matterwhether there be a little more suffering or a little less? What doesit matter?"

"It matters a great deal to me. "

"A man gets over that quickly, I think. "

"So does a woman, --if she be the proper sort of woman for gettingover her difficulties of that kind. I don't think you are. "

"I will try. "

"I won't. " This he said, looking full into her face. "My philosophyteaches me to despise the grapes which hang too high, but to make themost of those which come within my reach. Now, I look upon you asbeing within my reach. "

"I am not within your reach. "

"Yes; pardon me for my confidence, but you are. You have confessedthat you love me. "

"I do. "

"Then you will not be so wicked as to deny to me that which I have aright to demand? If you love me as a woman should love the man who isto become her husband, you have no right to refuse me. I have madegood my claim, unless there be other reasons. "

"There is a reason. "

"None but such as I have to judge of. Had your father objected, thatwould have been a reason; or when your uncle disapproved because ofthe property, that was a reason. As to the money, I will never askyou to take it, unless you can plead that you yourself are afraid ofthe poverty--. " Then he paused, looking at her as though he defiedher to say so much on her own behalf. She could not say that, but satthere panting, frightened by his energy. 

"Nor am I, " he continued very gently, "the least in the world. Thinkof it, and you will find that I am right; and then, when next I come, then, perhaps, you will not refuse to kiss me. " And so he went. 

Oh, how she loved him! How sweet would it be to submit her pride, her independence, her maiden reticences to such a man as that! Howworthy was he of all worship, of all confidence, of all service! Howdefinitely better was he than any other being that had ever crossedher path! But yet she was quite sure that she would not marry him. 

CHAPTER XIII

The _Carmarthen Herald_

There was a great deal said at Carmarthen about the old Squire'swill. Such scenes as that which had taken place in the house, firstwhen the will was produced, then when the search was made, andafterwards when the will was read, do not pass without comment. There had been many present, and some of them had been much moved bythe circumstances. The feeling that the Squire had executed a willsubsequent to that which had now been proved was very strong, andthe idea suggested by Mr Apjohn that the Squire himself had, in theweakness of his latter moments, destroyed this document, was notgenerally accepted. Had he done so, something of it would have beenknown. The ashes of the paper or the tattered fragments would havebeen seen. Whether Mr Apjohn himself did or did not believe that ithad been so, others would not think it. Among the tenants and theservants at Llanfeare there was a general feeling that somethingwrong had been done. They who were most inclined to be charitablein their judgment, such as John Griffith of Coed, thought that thedocument was still hidden, and that it might not improbably bebrought to light at last. Others were convinced that it had falleninto the hands of the present possessor of the property, and that ithad been feloniously but successfully destroyed. No guess at the realtruth was made by any one. How should a man have guessed that thefalse heir should have sat there with the will, as it were, beforehis eyes, close at his hand, and neither have destroyed it norrevealed its existence?

Among those who believed the worst as to Cousin Henry were the twoCantors. When a man has seen a thing done himself he is prone tobelieve in it, --and the more so when he has had a hand in the doing. They had been selected for the important operation of witnessingthe will, and did not in the least doubt that the will had been inexistence when the old Squire died. It might have been destroyedsince. They believed that it had been destroyed. But they could notbe brought to understand that so great an injustice should be allowedto remain on the face of the earth without a remedy or withoutpunishment. Would it not be enough for a judge to know that they, two respectable men, had witnessed a new will, and that this newwill had certainly been in opposition to the one which had been sofraudulently proved? The younger Cantor especially was loud upon thesubject, and got many ears in Carmarthen to listen to him. 

The _Carmarthen Herald_, a newspaper bearing a high character throughSouth Wales, took the matter up very strongly, so that it became aquestion whether the new Squire would not be driven to defend himselfby an action for libel. It was not that the writer declared thatCousin Henry had destroyed the will, but that he published minuteaccounts of all that had been done at Llanfeare, putting forward inevery paper as it came out the reason which existed for supposingthat a wrong had been done. That theory that old Indefer Jones hadhimself destroyed his last will without saying a word of his purposeto any one was torn to tatters. The doctor had been with him from dayto day, and must almost certainly have known it had such an intentionbeen in his mind. The housekeeper would have known it. The nephewand professed heir had said not a word to any one of what had passedbetween himself and his uncle. Could they who had known old IndeferJones for so many years, and were aware that he had been governedby the highest sense of honour through his entire life, could theybring themselves to believe that he should have altered the will madein his nephew's favour, and then realtered it, going back to hisintentions in that nephew's favour, without saying a word to hisnephew on the subject? But Henry Jones had been silent as to allthat occurred during those last weeks. Henry Jones had not onlybeen silent when the will was being read, when the search was beingmade, but had sat there still in continued silence. "We do not say, "continued the writer in the paper, "that Henry Jones since he becameowner of Llanfeare has been afraid to mingle with his brother men. Wehave no right to say so. But we consider it to be our duty to declarethat such has been the fact. Circumstances will from time to timeoccur in which it becomes necessary on public grounds to inquire intothe privacy of individuals, and we think that the circumstances nowas to this property are of this nature. " As will be the case in suchmatters, these expressions became gradually stronger, till it wasconceived to be the object of those concerned in making them to driveHenry Jones to seek for legal redress, --so that he might be subjectedto cross-examination as to the transactions and words of that lastfortnight before his uncle's death. It was the opinion of many thatif he could be forced into a witness-box, he would be made to confessif there were anything to confess. The cowardice of the man becameknown, --or was rather exaggerated in the minds of those around him. It was told of him how he lived in the one room, how rarely he leftthe house, how totally he was without occupation. More than the truthwas repeated as to his habits, till all Carmarthenshire believed thathe was so trammelled by some mysterious consciousness of crime as tobe unable to perform any of the duties of life. When men spoke to himhe trembled; when men looked at him he turned away. 

All his habits were inquired into. It was said of him that the_Carmarthen Herald_ was the only paper that he saw, and declaredof him that he spent hour after hour in spelling the terribleaccusations which, if not absolutely made against him, wereinsinuated. It became clear to lawyers, to Mr Apjohn himself, that the man, if honest, should, on behalf of the old family andlong-respected name, vindicate himself by prosecuting the owner ofthe paper for libel. If he were honest in the matter, altogetherhonest, there could be no reason why he should fear to encountera hostile lawyer. There were at last two letters from youngJoseph Cantor printed in the paper which were undoubtedlylibellous, --letters which young Cantor himself certainly could nothave written, --letters which all Carmarthen knew to have been writtenby some one connected with the newspaper, though signed by the youngfarmer, --in which it was positively declared that the old Squire hadleft a later will behind him. When it was discussed whether or nohe could get a verdict, it was clearly shown that the getting of averdict should not be the main object of the prosecution. "He hasto show, " said Mr Apjohn, "that he is not afraid to face a court ofjustice. "

But he was afraid. When we last parted with him after his visit toCoed he had not seen the beginning of these attacks. On the next daythe first paper reached him, and they who were concerned in it didnot spare to send him the copies as they were issued. Having readthe first, he was not able to refuse to read what followed. In eachissue they were carried on, and, as was told of him in Carmarthen, helingered over every agonizing detail of the venom which was enteringinto his soul. It was in vain that he tried to hide the paper, or topretend to be indifferent to its coming. Mrs Griffith knew very wellwhere the paper was, and knew also that every word had been perused. The month's notice which had been accepted from her and the butler inlieu of the three months first offered had now expired. The man hadgone, but she remained, as did the two other women. Nothing was saidas to the cause of their remaining; but they remained. As for CousinHenry himself, he was too weak, too frightened, too completelyabsorbed by the horrors of his situation to ask them why they stayed, or to have asked them why they went. 

He understood every word that was written of him with sharp, minuteintelligence. Though his spirit was cowed, his mind was still aliveto all the dangers of his position. Things were being said of him, charges were insinuated, which he declared to himself to be false. Hehad not destroyed the will. He had not even hidden it. He had onlyput a book into its own place, carrying out as he did so his innocentintention when he had first lifted the book. When these searchers hadcome, doing their work so idly, with such incurious futility, he hadnot concealed the book. He had left it there on its shelf beneaththeir hands. Who could say that he had been guilty? If the will werefound now, who could reasonably suggest that there had been guilt onhis part? If all were known, --except that chance glance of his eyewhich never could be known, --no one could say that he was other thaninnocent! And yet he knew of himself that he would lack strength tostand up in court and endure the sharp questions and angry glancesof a keen lawyer. His very knees would fail to carry him through thecourt. The words would stick in his jaws. He would shake and shiverand faint before the assembled eyes. It would be easier for him tothrow himself from the rocks on which he had lain dreaming into thesea than to go into a court of law and there tell his own story asto the will. They could not force him to go. He thought he couldperceive as much as that. The action, if action there were to be, must originate with him. There was no evidence on which they couldbring a charge of felony or even of fraud against him. They couldnot drag him into the court. But he knew that all the world wouldsay that if he were an honest man, he himself would appear there, denounce his defamers, and vindicate his own name. As day by day hefailed to do so, he would be declaring his own guilt. Yet he knewthat he could not do it. 

Was there no escape? He was quite sure now that the price at which heheld the property was infinitely above its value. Its value! It hadno value in his eyes. It was simply a curse of which he would ridhimself with the utmost alacrity if only he could rid himself of allthat had befallen him in achieving it. But how should he escape? Werehe now himself to disclose the document and carry it into Carmarthen, prepared to deliver up the property to his cousin, was there onewho would not think that it had been in his possession from beforehis uncle's death, and that he had now been driven by his fears tosurrender it? Was there one who would not believe that he had hiddenit with his own hands? How now could he personate that magnanimitywhich would have been so easy had he brought forth the book andhanded it with its enclosure to Mr Apjohn when the lawyer came toread the will?

He looked back with dismay at his folly at having missed anopportunity so glorious. But now there seemed to be no escape. Thoughhe left the room daily, no one found the will. They were welcome tofind it if they would, but they did not. That base newspaper liedof him, --as he told himself bitterly as he read it, --in saying thathe did not leave his room. Daily did he roam about the place for anhour or two, --speaking, indeed, to no one, looking at no one. Therethe newspaper had been true enough. But that charge against himof self-imprisonment had been false as far as it referred to dayssubsequent to the rebuke which his housekeeper had given him. Butno one laid a hand upon the book. He almost believed that, were thepaper left open on the table, no eye would examine its contents. There it lay still hidden within the folds of the sermon, that weightupon his heart, that incubus on his bosom, that nightmare whichrobbed him of all his slumbers, and he could not rid himself of itspresence. Property, indeed! Oh! if he were only back in London, andhis cousin reigning at Llanfeare!

John Griffith, from Coed, had promised to call upon him; but whenthree weeks had passed by, he had not as yet made his appearance. Now, on one morning he came and found his landlord alone in thebook-room. "This is kind of you, Mr Griffith, " said Cousin Henry, struggling hard to assume the manner of a man with a light heart. 

"I have come, Mr Jones, " said the farmer very seriously, "to say afew words which I think ought to be said. "

"What are they, Mr Griffith?"

"Now, Mr Jones, I am not a man as is given tointerfering, --especially not with my betters. "

"I am sure you are not. "

"And, above all, not with my own landlord. " Then he paused; but asCousin Henry could not find an appropriate word either for rebuke orencouragement, he was driven to go on with his story. "I have beenobliged to look at all those things in the _Carmarthen Herald_. " ThenCousin Henry turned deadly pale. "We have all been driven to lookat them. I have taken the paper these twenty years, but it is sentnow to every tenant on the estate, whether they pay or whether theydon't. Mrs Griffith, there, in the kitchen has it. I suppose theysent it to you, sir?"

"Yes; it does come, " said Cousin Henry, with the faintest attempt ata smile. 

"And you have read what they say?"

"Yes, the most of it. "

"It has been very hard, sir. " At this Cousin Henry could only affecta ghastly smile. "Very hard, " continued the farmer. "It has made myflesh creep as I read it. Do you know what it all means, Mr Jones?"

"I suppose I know. "

"It means--that you have stolen--the estates--from your cousin--MissBrodrick!" This the man said very solemnly, bringing out each singleword by itself. "I am not saying so, Mr Jones. "

"No, no, no, " gasped the miserable wretch. 

"No, indeed. If I thought so, I should not be here to tell you whatI thought. It is because I believe that you are injured that I amhere. "

"I am injured; I am injured!"

"I think so. I believe so. I cannot tell what the mystery is, ifmystery there be; but I do not believe that you have robbed thatyoung lady, your own cousin, by destroying such a deed as youruncle's will. "

"No, no, no. "

"Is there any secret that you can tell?"

Awed, appalled, stricken with utter dismay, Cousin Henry sat silentbefore his questioner. 

"If there be, sir, had you not better confide it to some one?Your uncle knew me well for more than forty years, and trusted methoroughly, and I would fain, if I could, do something for hisnephew. If there be anything to tell, tell it like a man. "

Still Cousin Henry sat silent. He was unable to summon courage at theinstant sufficient to deny the existence of the secret, nor couldhe resolve to take down the book and show the document. He doubted, when the appearance of a doubt was in itself evidence of guilt in theeyes of the man who was watching him. "Oh, Mr Griffith, " he exclaimedafter a while, "will you be my friend?"

"I will indeed, Mr Jones, if I can--honestly. "

"I have been cruelly used. "

"It has been hard to bear, " said Mr Griffith. 

"Terrible, terrible! Cruel, cruel!" Then again he paused, trying tomake up his mind, endeavouring to see by what means he could escapefrom this hell upon earth. If there were any means, he might perhapsachieve it by aid of this man. The man sat silent, watching him, butthe way of escape did not appear to him. 

"There is no mystery, " he gasped at last. 

"None?" said the farmer severely. 

"No mystery. What mystery should there be? There was the will. Ihave destroyed nothing. I have hidden nothing. I have done nothing. Because the old man changed his mind so often, am I to be blamed?"

"Then, Mr Jones, why do you not say all that in a court of law, --onyour oath?"

"How can I do that?"

"Go to Mr Apjohn, and speak to him like a man. Bid him bring anaction in your name for libel against the newspaper. Then there willbe an inquiry. Then you will be put into a witness-box, and be ableto tell your own story on your oath. "

Cousin Henry, groaning, pale and affrighted, murmured out somethingsignifying that he would think of it. Then Mr Griffith left him. Thefarmer, when he entered the room, had believed his landlord to beinnocent, but that belief had vanished when he took his leave. 

CHAPTER XIV

An Action for Libel

When the man had asked him that question, --Is there any secret youcan tell?--Cousin Henry did, for half a minute, make up his mindto tell the whole story, and reveal everything as it had occurred. Then he remembered the lie which he had told, the lie to which hehad signed his name when he had been called upon to prove the willin Carmarthen. Had he not by the unconsidered act of that momentcommitted some crime for which he could be prosecuted and sentto gaol? Had it not been perjury? From the very beginning he haddetermined that he would support his possession of the property byno criminal deed. He had not hidden the will in the book. He hadnot interfered in the search. He had done nothing incompatible withinnocence. So it had been with him till he had been called upon, without a moment having been allowed to him for thinking, to sign hisname to that declaration. The remembrance of this came to him as healmost made up his mind to rise from his seat and pull the book downfrom the shelf. And then another thought occurred to him. Could henot tell Mr Griffith that he had discovered the document since hehad made that declaration, --that he had discovered it only on thatmorning? But he had felt that a story such as that would receive nobelief, and he had feared to estrange his only friend by a palpablelie. He had therefore said that there was no secret, --had said soafter a pause which had assured Mr Griffith of the existence of amystery, --had said so with a face which of itself had declared thetruth. 

When the farmer left him he knew well enough that the man doubtedhim, --nay, that the man was assured of his guilt. It had come tobe so with all whom he had encountered since he had first reachedLlanfeare. His uncle who had sent for him had turned from him; hiscousin had scorned him; the tenants had refused to accept him whenthere certainly had been no cause for their rejection. Mr Apjohn fromthe first had looked at him with accusing eyes; his servants werespies upon his actions; this newspaper was rending his very vitals;and now this one last friend had deserted him. He thought that ifonly he could summon courage for the deed, it would be best for himto throw himself from the rocks. 

But there was no such courage in him. The one idea remaining tohim was to save himself from the horrors of a criminal prosecution. If he did not himself touch the document, or give any sign of hisconsciousness of its presence, they could not prove that he had knownof its whereabouts. If they would only find it and let him go! Butthey did not find it, and he could not put them on its trace. As tothese wicked libels, Mr Griffith had asked him why he did not haverecourse to a court of law, and refute them by the courage of hispresence. He understood the proposition in all its force. Why did henot show himself able to bear any questions which the ingenuity of alawyer could put to him? Simply because he was unable to bear them. The truth would be extracted from him in the process. Though heshould have fortified himself with strongest resolves, he would beunable to hide his guilty knowledge. He knew that of himself. Hewould be sure to give testimony against himself, on the strength ofwhich he would be dragged from the witness-box to the dock. 

He declared to himself that, let the newspaper say what it would, he would not of his own motion throw himself among the lion's teethwhich were prepared for him. But in so resolving he did not knowwhat further external force might be applied to him. When the oldtenant had sternly told him that he should go like a man into thewitness-box and tell his own story on his oath, that had been hardto bear. But there came worse than that, --a power more difficult toresist. On the following morning Mr Apjohn arrived at Llanfeare, having driven himself over from Carmarthen, and was at once showninto the book-room. The lawyer was a man who, by his friends and byhis clients in general, was considered to be a pleasant fellow aswell as a cautious man of business. He was good at a dinner-table, serviceable with a gun, and always happy on horseback. He couldcatch a fish, and was known to be partial to a rubber at whist. Hecertainly was not regarded as a hard or cruel man. But Cousin Henry, in looking at him, had always seen a sternness in his eye, some curveof a frown upon his brow, which had been uncomfortable to him. Fromthe beginning of their intercourse he had been afraid of the lawyer. He had felt that he was looked into and scrutinised, and found tobe wanting. Mr Apjohn had, of course, been on Isabel's side. AllCarmarthenshire knew that he had done his best to induce the oldsquire to maintain Isabel as his heiress. Cousin Henry was well awareof that. But still why had this attorney always looked at him withaccusing eyes? When he had signed that declaration at Carmarthen, theattorney had shown by his face that he believed the declaration to befalse. And now this man was there, and there was nothing for him butto endure his questions. 

"Mr Jones, " said the lawyer, "I have thought it my duty to call uponyou in respect to these articles in the _Carmarthen Herald_. "

"I cannot help what the _Carmarthen Herald_ may say. "

"But you can, Mr Jones. That is just it. There are laws which enablea man to stop libels and to punish them if it be worth his whileto do so. " He paused a moment, but Cousin Henry was silent, and hecontinued, "For many years I was your uncle's lawyer, as was myfather before me. I have never been commissioned by you to regardmyself as your lawyer, but as circumstances are at present, I amobliged to occupy the place until you put your business into otherhands. In such a position I feel it to be my duty to call upon you inreference to these articles. No doubt they are libellous. "

"They are very cruel; I know that, " said Cousin Henry, whining. 

"All such accusations are cruel, if they be false. "

"These are false; damnably false. "

"I take that for granted; and therefore I have come to you to tellyou that it is your duty to repudiate with all the strength of yourown words the terrible charges which are brought against you. "

"Must I go and be a witness about myself?"

"Yes; it is exactly that. You must go and be a witness aboutyourself. Who else can tell the truth as to all the matters inquestion as well as yourself? You should understand, Mr Jones, that you should not take this step with the view of punishing thenewspaper. "

"Why, then?"

"In order that you may show yourself willing to place yourself thereto be questioned. 'Here I am, ' you would say. 'If there be any pointin which you wish me to be examined as to this property and thiswill, here I am to answer you. ' It is that you may show that you arenot afraid of investigation. " But it was exactly this of which CousinHenry was afraid. "You cannot but be aware of what is going on inCarmarthen. "

"I know about the newspaper. "

"It is my duty not to blink the matter. Every one, not only in thetown but throughout the country, is expressing an opinion that righthas not been done. "

"What do they want? I cannot help it if my uncle did not make a willaccording to their liking. "

"They think that he did make a will according to their liking, andthat there has been foul play. "

"Do they accuse me?"

"Practically they do. These articles in the paper are only an echo ofthe public voice. And that voice is becoming stronger and strongerevery day because you take no steps to silence it. Have you seenyesterday's paper?"

"Yes; I saw it, " said Cousin Henry, gasping for breath. 

Then Mr Apjohn brought a copy of the newspaper out of his pocket, andbegan to read a list of questions which the editor was supposed toask the public generally. Each question was an insult, and CousinHenry, had he dared, would have bade the reader desist, and haveturned him out of the room for his insolence in reading them. 

"Has Mr Henry Jones expressed an opinion of his own as to what becameof the will which the Messrs Cantor witnessed?"

"Has Mr Henry Jones consulted any friend, legal or otherwise, as tohis tenure of the Llanfeare estate?"

"Has Mr Henry Jones any friend to whom he can speak inCarmarthenshire?"

"Has Mr Henry Jones inquired into the cause of his own isolation?"

"Has Mr Henry Jones any idea why we persecute him in every freshissue of our newspaper?"

"Has Mr Henry Jones thought of what may possibly be the end of allthis?"

"Has Mr Henry Jones any thought of prosecuting us for libel?"

"Has Mr Henry Jones heard of any other case in which an heir has beenmade so little welcome to his property?"

So the questions went on, an almost endless list, and the lawyer readthem one after another, in a low, plain voice, slowly, but with clearaccentuation, so that every point intended by the questioner might beunderstood. Such a martyrdom surely no man was ever doomed to bearbefore. In every line he was described as a thief. Yet he bore it;and when the lawyer came to an end of the abominable questions, hesat silent, trying to smile. What was he to say?

"Do you mean to put up with that?" asked Mr Apjohn, with the curve ofhis eyebrow of which Cousin Henry was so much afraid. 

"What am I to do?"

"Do! Do anything rather than sit in silence and bear such injuriousinsult as that. Were there nothing else to do, I would tear the man'stongue from his mouth, --or at least his pen from his grasp. "

"How am I to find him? I never did do anything of that rough kind. "

"It is not necessary. I only say what a man would do if there werenothing else to be done. But the step to be taken is easy. Instructme to go before the magistrates at Carmarthen, and indict the paperfor libel. That is what you must do. "

There was an imperiousness in the lawyer's tone which was almostirresistible. Nevertheless Cousin Henry made a faint effort atresisting. "I should be dragged into a lawsuit. "

"A lawsuit! Of course you would. What lawsuit would not be preferableto that? You must do as I bid you, or you must consent to have itsaid and have it thought by all the country that you have been guiltyof some felony, and have filched your cousin's property. "

"I have committed nothing, " said the poor wretch, as the tears randown his face. 

"Then go and say so before the world, " said the attorney, dashing hisfist down violently upon the table. "Go and say so, and let men hearyou, instead of sitting here whining like a woman. Like a woman! Whathonest woman would ever bear such insult? If you do not, you willconvince all the world, you will convince me and every neighbouryou have, that you have done something to make away with that will. In that case we will not leave a stone unturned to discover thetruth. The editor of that paper is laying himself open purposelyto an action in order that he may force you to undergo thecross-questioning of a barrister, and everybody who hears of it saysthat he is right. You can prove that he is wrong only by acceptingthe challenge. If you refuse the challenge, as I put it to you now, you will acknowledge that--that you have done this deed of darkness!"

Was there any torment ever so cruel, ever so unjustifiable as this!He was asked to put himself, by his own act, into the thumbscrew, onthe rack, in order that the executioner might twist his limbs andtear out his vitals! He was to walk into a court of his own accordthat he might be torn by the practised skill of a professionaltormentor, that he might be forced to give up the very secrets of hissoul in his impotence;--or else to live amidst the obloquy of allmen. He asked himself whether he had deserved it, and in that momentof time he assured himself that he had not deserved such punishmentas this. If not altogether innocent, if not white as snow, he haddone nothing worthy of such cruel usage. 

"Well, " said Mr Apjohn, as though demanding a final answer to hisproposition. 

"I will think of it, " gasped Cousin Henry. 

"There must be no more thinking. The time has gone by for thinking. If you will give me your instructions to commence proceedings againstthe _Carmarthen Herald_, I will act as your lawyer. If not, I shallmake it known to the town that I have made this proposition to you;and I shall also make known the way in which it has been accepted. There has been more than delay enough. "

He sobbed, and gasped, and struggled with himself as the lawyer satand looked at him. The one thing on which he had been intent was theavoiding of a court of law. And to this he was now to bring himselfby his own act. 

"When would it have to be?" he asked. 

"I should go before the magistrates to-morrow. Your presence wouldnot be wanted then. No delay would be made by the other side. Theywould be ready enough to come to trial. The assizes begin here atCarmarthen on the 29th of next month. You might probably be examinedon that day, which will be a Friday, or on the Saturday following. You will be called as a witness on your own side to prove the libel. But the questions asked by your own counsel would amount to nothing. "

"Nothing!" exclaimed Cousin Henry. 

"You would be there for another purpose, " continued the lawyer. "Whenthat nothing had been asked, you would be handed over to the otherside, in order that the object of the proceedings might be attained. "

"What object?"

"How the barrister employed might put it I cannot say, but he wouldexamine you as to any knowledge you may have as to that missingwill. "

Mr Apjohn, as he said this, paused for a full minute, looking hisclient full in the face. It was as though he himself were carryingon a cross-examination. "He would ask you whether you have suchknowledge. " Then again he paused, but Cousin Henry said nothing. "Ifyou have no such knowledge, if you have no sin in that matter on yourconscience, nothing to make you grow pale before the eyes of a judge, nothing to make you fear the verdict of a jury, no fault heavy onyour own soul, --then you may answer him with frank courage, then youmay look him in the face, and tell him with a clear voice that as faras you are aware your property is your own by as fair a title as anyin the country. "

In every word of this there had been condemnation. It was as thoughMr Apjohn were devoting him to infernal torture, telling him that hisonly escape would be by the exercise of some herculean power whichwas notoriously beyond his reach. It was evident to him that MrApjohn had come there under the guise of his advisor and friend, butwas in fact leagued with all the others around him to drive him tohis ruin. Of that he felt quite sure. The voice, the eyes, the face, every gesture of his unwelcome visitor had told him that it was so. And yet he could not rise in indignation and expel the visitor fromhis house. There was a cruelty, an inhumanity, in this which to histhinking was infinitely worse than any guilt of his own. "Well?" saidMr Apjohn. 

"I suppose it must be so. "

"I have your instructions, then?"

"Don't you hear me say that I suppose it must be so. "

"Very well. The matter shall be brought in proper course before themagistrates to-morrow, and if, as I do not doubt, an injunction begranted, I will proceed with the matter at once. I will tell youwhom we select as our counsel at the assizes, and, as soon as I havelearnt, will let you know whom they employ. Let me only implore younot only to tell the truth as to what you know, but to tell all thetruth. If you attempt to conceal anything, it will certainly bedragged out of you. "

Having thus comforted his client, Mr Apjohn took his leave. 

CHAPTER XV

Cousin Henry Makes Another Attempt

When Mr Apjohn had gone, Cousin Henry sat for an hour, notthinking, --men so afflicted have generally lost the power tothink, --but paralysed by the weight of his sorrow, simply repeatingto himself assertions that said no man had ever been used so cruelly. Had he been as other men are, he would have turned the lawyer out ofthe house at the first expression of an injurious suspicion, but hisstrength had not sufficed for such action. He confessed to himselfhis own weakness, though he could not bring himself to confess hisown guilt. Why did they not find it and have done with it? Feelingat last how incapable he was of collecting his thoughts while he satthere in the book-room, and aware, at the same time, that he mustdetermine on some course of action, he took his hat and strolled outtowards the cliffs. 

There was a month remaining to him, just a month before the daynamed on which he was to put himself into the witness-box. That, atany rate, must be avoided. He did after some fashion resolve that, let the result be what it might, he would not submit himself to across-examination. They could not drag him from his bed were he tosay that he was ill. They could not send policemen to find him, werehe to hide himself in London. Unless he gave evidence against himselfas to his own guilty knowledge, they could bring no open chargeagainst him; or if he could but summon courage to throw himself fromoff the rocks, then, at any rate, he would escape from their hands. 

What was it all about? This he asked himself as he sat some way downthe cliff, looking out over the sea. What was it all about? If theywanted the property for his Cousin Isabel, they were welcome totake it. He desired nothing but to be allowed to get away from thisaccursed country, to escape, and never more to be heard of there orto hear of it. Could he not give up the property with the signing ofsome sufficient deed, and thus put an end to their cruel clamour?He could do it all without any signing, by a simple act of honesty, by taking down the book with the will and giving it at once to thelawyer! It was possible, --possible as far as the knowledge of any onebut himself was concerned, --that such a thing might be done not onlywith honesty, but with high-minded magnanimity. How would it be ifin truth the document were first found by him on this very day? Hadit been so, were it so, then his conduct would be honest. And it wasstill open to him to simulate that it was so. He had taken down thebook, let him say, for spiritual comfort in his great trouble, andlo, the will had been found there between the leaves! No one wouldbelieve him. He declared to himself that such was already hischaracter in the county that no one would believe him. But whatthough they disbelieved him? Surely they would accept restitutionwithout further reproach. Then there would be no witness-box, nosavage terrier of a barrister to tear him in pieces with his fiercewords and fiercer eyes. Whether they believed him or not, they wouldlet him go. It would be told of him, at any rate, that having thewill in his hands, he had not destroyed it. Up in London, where menwould not know all the details of this last miserable month, somegood would be spoken of him. And then there would be time left to himto relieve his conscience by repentance. 

But to whom should he deliver up the will, and how should he framethe words? He was conscious of his own impotence in deceit. For sucha purpose Mr Apjohn, no doubt, would be the proper person, but therewas no one of whom he stood so much in dread as of Mr Apjohn. Were heto carry the book and the paper to the lawyer and attempt to tell hisstory, the real truth would be drawn out from him in the first minuteof their interview. The man's eyes looking at him, the man's browbent against him, would extract from him instantly the one truthwhich it was his purpose to hold within his own keeping. He wouldfind no thankfulness, no mercy, not even justice in the lawyer. Thelawyer would accept restitution, and would crush him afterwards. Would it not be better to go off to Hereford, without saying a wordto any one in Carmarthenshire, and give up the deed to his CousinIsabel? But then she had scorned him. She had treated him with foulcontempt. As he feared Mr Apjohn, so did he hate his Cousin Isabel. The only approach to manliness left in his bosom was a true hatred ofhis cousin. 

The single voice which had been kind to him since he had come to thishorrid place had been that of old Farmer Griffith. Even his voicehad been stern at last, but yet, with the sternness, there had beensomething of compassion. He thought that he could tell the tale to MrGriffith, if to any one. And so thinking, he resolved at once to goto Coed. There was still before him that other means of escape whichthe rocks and the sea afforded him. As he had made his way on thismorning to the spot on which he was now lying that idea was stillpresent to him. He did not think that he could do a deed of suchdaring. He was almost sure of himself that the power of doing itwould be utterly wanting when the moment came. But still it waspresent to his mind. The courage might reach him at the instant. Werea sudden impulse to carry him away, he thought the Lord would surelyforgive him because of all his sufferings. But now, as he looked atthe spot, and saw that he could not reach the placid deep water, heconsidered it again, and remembered that the Lord would not forgivehim a sin as to which there would be no moment for repentance. Ashe could not escape in that way, he must carry out his purpose withFarmer Griffith. 

"So you be here again prowling about on father's lands?"

Cousin Henry knew at once the voice of that bitter enemy of his, young Cantor; and, wretched as he was, he felt also something of thespirit of the landlord in being thus rebuked for trespassing on hisground. "I suppose I have a right to walk about on my own estate?"said he. 

"I know nothing about your own estate, " replied the farmer's son. "I say nothin' about that. They do be talking about it, but I saynothin'. I has my own opinions, but I say nothin'. Others do besaying a great deal, as I suppose you hear, Mr Jones, but I saynothin'. "

"How dare you be so impudent to your landlord?"

"I know nothin' about landlords. I know father has a lease of thisland, and pays his rent, whether you get it or another; and youhave no more right, it's my belief, to intrude here nor any otherstranger. So, if you please, you'll walk. "

"I shall stay here just as long as it suits me, " said Cousin Henry. 

"Oh, very well. Then father will have his action against you fortrespass, and so you'll be brought into a court of law. You are boundto go off when you are warned. You ain't no right here because youcall yourself landlord. You come up here and I'll thrash you, that'swhat I will. You wouldn't dare show yourself before a magistrate, that's what you wouldn't. "

The young man stood there for a while waiting, and then walked offwith a loud laugh. 

Any one might insult him, any one might beat him, and he could seekfor no redress because he would not dare to submit himself to theordeal of a witness-box. All those around him knew that it was so. He was beyond the protection of the law because of the misery of hisposition. It was clear that he must do something, and as he could notdrown himself, there was nothing better than that telling of his taleto Mr Griffith. He would go to Mr Griffith at once. He had not thebook and the document with him, but perhaps he could tell the talebetter without their immediate presence. 

At Coed he found the farmer in his own farmyard. 

"I have come to you in great trouble, " said Cousin Henry, beginninghis story. 

"Well, squire, what is it?" Then the farmer seated himself on a low, movable bar which protected the entrance into an open barn, andCousin Henry sat beside him. 

"That young man Cantor insulted me grossly just now. "

"He shouldn't have done that. Whatever comes of it all, he shouldn'thave done that. He was always a forward young puppy. "

"I do think I have been treated very badly among you. "

"As to that, Mr Jones, opinion does run very high about the squire'swill. I explained to you all that when I was with you yesterday. "

"Something has occurred since that, --something that I was coming onpurpose to tell you. "

"What has occurred?" Cousin Henry groaned terribly as the moment forrevelation came upon him. And he felt that he had made the momentaltogether unfit for revelation by that ill-judged observation as toyoung Cantor. He should have rushed at his story at once. "Oh, MrGriffith, I have found the will!" It should have been told after thatfashion. He felt it now, --felt that he had allowed the opportunity toslip by him. 

"What is it that has occurred, Mr Jones, since I was up at Llanfeareyesterday?"

"I don't think that I could tell you here. "

"Where, then?"

"Not yet to-day. That young man, Cantor, has so put me out that Ihardly know what I am saying. "

"Couldn't you speak it out, sir, if it's just something to be said?"

"It's something to be shown too, " replied Cousin Henry, "and if youwouldn't mind coming up to the house to-morrow, or next day, then Icould explain it all. "

"To-morrow it shall be, " said the farmer. "On the day after I shallbe in Carmarthen to market. If eleven o'clock to-morrow morning won'tbe too early, I shall be there, sir. "

One, or three, or five o'clock would have been better, or the dayfollowing better still, so that the evil hour might have beenpostponed. But Cousin Henry assented to the proposition and took hisdeparture. Now he had committed himself to some revelation, and therevelation must be made. He felt acutely the folly of his own conductduring the last quarter of an hour. If it might have been possible tomake the old man believe that the document had only been that morningfound, such belief could only have been achieved by an impulsivetelling of the story. He was aware that at every step he took hecreated fresh difficulties by his own folly and want of foresight. How could he now act the sudden emotion of a man startled bysurprise? Nevertheless, he must go on with his scheme. There wasnow nothing before him; but still he might be able to achievethat purpose which he had in view of escaping from Llanfeare andCarmarthenshire. 

He sat up late that night thinking of it. For many days past he hadnot touched the volume, or allowed his eye to rest upon the document. He had declared to himself that it might remain there or be takenaway, as it might chance to others. It should no longer be anythingto him. For aught that he knew, it might already have been removed. Such had been his resolution during the last fortnight, and inaccordance with that he had acted. But now his purpose was againchanged. Now he intended to reveal the will with his own hands, andit might be well that he should see that it was there. 

He took down the book, and there it was. He opened it out, andcarefully read through every word of its complicated details. For ithad been arranged and drawn out in a lawyer's office, with all thelegal want of punctuation and unintelligible phraseology. It hadbeen copied verbatim by the old Squire, and was no doubt a properlybinding and effective will. Never before had he dwelt over it sotediously. He had feared lest a finger-mark, a blot, or a spark mightbetray his acquaintance with the deed. But now he was about to giveit up and let all the world know that it had been in his hands. Hefelt, therefore, that he was entitled to read it, and that there wasno longer ground to fear any accident. Though the women in the houseshould see him reading it, what matter?

Thrice he read it, sitting there late into the night. Thrice he readthe deed which had been prepared with such devilish industry to robhim of the estate which had been promised him! If he had been wickedto conceal it, --no, not to conceal it, but only to be silent as toits whereabouts, --how much greater had been the sin of that dying oldman who had taken so much trouble in robbing him? Now that the timehad 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 privilegewhich attached to him as an owner of broad acres, and a suddenremembrance that with a little courage, with a little perseverance, with a little power of endurance, he might live down the evils ofthe present day. When he thought of what it might be to be Squireof Llanfeare in perhaps five years' time, with the rents in hispocket, he became angry at his own feebleness. Let them ask him whatquestions they would, there could be no evidence against him. If hewere to burn the will, there could certainly be no evidence againsthim. If the will were still hidden, they might, perhaps, extract thatsecret from him; but no lawyer would be strong enough to make him ownthat he had thrust the paper between the bars of the fire. 

He sat looking at it, gnashing his teeth together, and clenching hisfists. If only he dared to do it! If only he could do it! He didduring a moment, make up his mind; but had no sooner done so thanthere rose clearly before his mind's eye the judge and the jury, theparaphernalia of the court, and all the long horrors of a prisonlife. Even now those prying women might have their eyes turned uponwhat he was doing. And should there be no women prying, no trial, no conviction, still there would be the damning guilt on his ownsoul, --a guilt which would admit of no repentance except by givinghimself up to the hands of the law! No sooner had he resolved todestroy the will than he was unable to destroy it. No sooner had hefelt his inability than again he longed to do the deed. When at threeo'clock he dragged himself up wearily to his bed, the will was againwithin the sermon, and the book was at rest upon its old ground. 

Punctually at eleven Mr Griffith was with him, and it was evidentfrom his manner that he had thought the matter over, and wasdetermined to be kind and gracious. 

"Now, squire, " said he, "let us hear it; and I do hope it may besomething 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 takeit charitable like. I won't take nothing amiss; and if so be I canhelp you, I will. "

Cousin Henry, as the door had been opened, and as the man's footstephad been heard, had made up his mind that on this occasion he couldnot reveal the secret. He had disabled himself by that unfortunatemanner of his yesterday. He would not even turn his eyes upon thebook, 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 waswise, 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 soI thought I'd tell you. "

"Is that all?"

"I thought I'd let you know that I was sure of it. What became of itafter it was made, that, you know, is quite another question. I dothink 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 searchmore regularly? I shouldn't hinder them. "

"Is that all you've got to say?"

"As I have been thinking about it so much and as you are so kind tome, I thought I had better tell you. "

"But there was something you were to show me. "

"Oh, yes; I did say so. If you will come upstairs, I'll point out thevery spot where the old man sat when he was writing it. "

"There is nothing more than that?"

"Nothing more than that, Mr Griffith. "

"Then good morning, Mr Jones. I am afraid we have not got to the endof the matter yet. "

CHAPTER XVI

Again at Hereford

Some of the people at Carmarthen were taking a great deal of troubleabout the matter. One copy of the _Herald_ was sent regularly toMr Brodrick, another to Isabel, and another to Mr Owen. It wasdetermined that they should not be kept in ignorance of what wasbeing done. In the first number issued after Mr Apjohn's last visitto Llanfeare there was a short leading article recapitulating allthat was hitherto known of the story. "Mr Henry Jones, " said thearticle in its last paragraph, "has at length been induced tothreaten an action for libel against this newspaper. We doubt muchwhether he will have the courage to go on with it. But if he does, hewill have to put himself into a witness-box, and then probably we maylearn something of the truth as to the last will and testament madeby Mr Indefer Jones. " All this reached Hereford, and was of coursedeeply considered there by persons whom it concerned. 

Mr Owen, for some days after the scene which has been describedbetween him and Isabel, saw her frequently, and generally found meansto be alone with her for some moments. She made no effort to avoidhim, and would fain have been allowed to treat him simply as herdearest friend. But in all these moments he treated her as though shewere engaged to be his wife. There was no embracing, no kiss. Isabelwould not permit it. But in all terms of affectionate expression hespoke of her and to her as though she were his own; and would onlygently laugh at her when she assured him that it could never be so. 

"Of course you can torment me a little, " he said, smiling, "but theforces arrayed against you are too strong, and you have not a chanceon your side. It would be monstrous to suppose that you should go onmaking me miserable for ever, --and yourself too. "

In answer to this she could only say that she cared but little forher own misery, and did not believe in his. "The question is, " shesaid, "whether it be fitting. As I feel that it is not fitting, Icertainly shall not do it. " In answer to this he would again smile, and tell her that a month or two at furthest would see her absolutelyconquered. 

Then the newspapers reached them. When it became clear to him thatthere existed in Carmarthenshire so strong a doubt as to the validityof the will under which the property was at present held, then MrOwen's visits to the house became rarer and different in theirnature. Then he was willing to be simply the friend of the family, and as such he sought no especial interviews with Isabel. Between himand Isabel no word was spoken as to the contents of the newspaper. But between Mr Brodrick and the clergyman many words were spoken. MrBrodrick declared at once to his intended son-in-law his belief inthe accusations which were implied, --which were implied at first, but afterwards made in terms so frightfully clear. When such wordsas those were said and printed there could, he urged, be no doubt asto what was believed in Carmarthen. And why should it be believedwithout ground that any man had done so hideous a deed as to destroya will? The lawyer's hair stood almost on end as he spoke of theatrocity; but yet he believed it. Would a respectable newspaper suchas the _Carmarthen Herald_ commit itself to such a course without thestrongest assurance? What was it to the _Carmarthen Herald_? Did notthe very continuance of the articles make it clear that the readersof the paper were in accordance with the writer? Would the public ofCarmarthen sympathise in such an attack without the strongest ground?He, the attorney, fully believed in Cousin Henry's guilt; but he wasnot on that account sanguine as to the proof. If, during his sojournat Llanfeare, either immediately before the old squire's death orafter it, but before the funeral, he had been enabled to lay his handupon the will and destroy it, what hope would there be of evidenceof such guilt? As to that idea of forcing the man to tell such atale against himself by the torment of cross-examination, he did notbelieve it at all. A man who had been strong enough to destroy a willwould be too strong for that. Perhaps he thought that any man wouldbe too strong, not having known Cousin Henry. Among all the possiblechances which occurred to his mind, --and his mind at this time wasgreatly filled with such considerations, --nothing like the truthsuggested itself to him. His heart was tormented by the idea thatthe property had been stolen from his child, that the glory of beingfather-in-law to Llanfeare had been filched from himself, and thatno hope for redress remained. He sympathised altogether with thenewspaper. He felt grateful to the newspaper. He declared the editorto be a man specially noble and brave in his calling. But he did notbelieve that the newspaper would do any good either to him or toIsabel. 

Mr Owen doubted altogether the righteousness of the proceeding asregarded the newspaper. As far as he could see there was no evidenceagainst Cousin Henry. There seemed to him to be an injustice inaccusing a man of a great crime, simply because the crime might havebeen possible, and would, if committed, have been beneficial to thecriminal. That plan of frightening the man into self-accusation bythe terrors of cross-examination was distasteful to him. He would notsympathise with the newspaper. But still he found himself compelledto retreat from that affectation of certainty in regard to Isabelwhich he had assumed when he knew only that the will had been proved, and that Cousin Henry was in possession of the property. He hadregarded Isabel and the property as altogether separated from eachother. Now he learned that such was not the general opinion inCarmarthenshire. It was not his desire to push forward his suitwith the heiress of Llanfeare. He had been rejected on what he hadacknowledged to be fitting grounds while that had been her position. When the matter had been altogether settled in Cousin Henry's favour, then he could come forward again. 

Isabel was quite sure that the newspaper was right. Did she notremember the dying words with which her uncle had told her thathe had again made her his heir? And had she not always clearlyin her mind the hang-dog look of that wretched man? She wasstrong-minded, --but yet a woman, with a woman's propensity to followher feelings rather than either facts or reason. Her lover had toldher that her uncle had been very feeble when those words had beenspoken, with his mind probably vague and his thoughts wandering. It had, perhaps, been but a dream. Such words did not suffice asevidence on which to believe a man guilty of so great a crime. Sheknew, --so she declared to herself, --that the old man's words hadnot been vague. And as to those hang-dog looks, --her lover had toldher that she should not allow a man's countenance to go so far inevidence as that! In so judging she would trust much too far to herown power of discernment. She would not contradict him, but she feltsure of her discernment in that respect. She did not in the leastdoubt the truth of the evidence conveyed by the man's hang-dog face. 

She had sworn to herself a thousand times that she would not covetthe house and property. When her uncle had first declared to her hispurpose of disinheriting her, she had been quite sure of herself thather love for him should not be affected by the change. It had beenher pride to think that she could soar above any consideration ofmoney and be sure of her own nobility, even though she should bestricken with absolute poverty. But now she was tempted to long thatthe newspaper might be found to be right. Was there any man so fittedto be exalted in the world, so sure to fill a high place with honour, as her lover? Though she might not want Llanfeare for herself, wasshe not bound to want it for his sake? He had told her how certain hewas of her heart, --how sure he was that sooner or later he would winher hand. She had almost begun to think that it must be so, --that herstrength would not suffice for her to hold to her purpose. But howsweet would be her triumph if she could turn to him and tell him thatnow the hour had come in which she would be proud to become his wife!"I love you well enough to rejoice in giving you something, but toowell to have been a burden on you when I could give you nothing. "That would be sweet to her! Then there should be kisses! As forCousin Henry, there was not even pity in her heart towards him. Itwould be time to pity him when he should have been made to give upthe fruits of his wickedness and to confess his faults. 

Mrs Brodrick was not made to understand the newspapers, nor did shecare much about the work which they had taken in hand. If Isabelcould be made to accept that smaller legacy, so that Mr Owen mightmarry her out of hand and take her away, that would be enough tosatisfy Mrs Brodrick. If Isabel were settled somewhere with Mr Owen, their joint means being sufficient to make it certain that no callswould be made on the paternal resources, that would satisfy MrsBrodrick's craving in regard to the Welsh property. She was not surethat she was anxious to see the half-sister of her own childrenaltogether removed from their sphere and exalted so high. And thenthis smaller stroke of good fortune might be so much more easily madecertain! A single word from Isabel herself, a word which any girlless endowed with wicked obstinacy would have spoken at once, wouldmake that sure and immediate. Whereas this great inheritance whichwas to depend upon some almost impossible confession of the man whoenjoyed it, seemed to her to be as distant as ever. 

"Bother the newspapers, " she said to her eldest daughter; "whydoesn't she write and sign the receipt, and take her income like anyone else? She was getting new boots at Jackson's yesterday, and whereis the money to come from? If any of you want new boots, papa is sureto tell me of it!"

Her spirit was embittered too by the severity of certain words whichher husband had spoken to her. Isabel had appealed to her father whenher step-mother had reproached her with being a burden in the house. 

"Papa, " she had said, "let me leave the house and earn something. Ican at any rate earn my bread. "

Then Mr Brodrick had been very angry. He too had wished to acceleratethe marriage between his daughter and her lover, thinking that shewould surely accept the money on her lover's behalf. He too had beenannoyed at the persistency of her double refusal. But it had beenvery far from his purpose to drive his girl from his house, or tosubject her to the misery of such reproaches as his wife had castupon her. 

"My dear, " he had said, "there is no necessity for anything of thekind. I and your mother are only anxious for your welfare. I thinkthat you should take your uncle's money, if not for your own sake, then for the sake of him to whom we all hope that you will soon bemarried. But putting that aside you are as well entitled to remainhere as your sisters, and, until you are married, here will be yourhome. "

There was comfort in this, some small comfort, but it did not tendto create pleasant intercourse between Isabel and her step-mother. Mrs Brodrick was a woman who submitted herself habitually to herhusband, and intended to obey him, but one who nevertheless wouldnot be deterred from her own little purposes. She felt herself to beill-used by Isabel's presence in the house. Many years ago Isabel hadbeen taken away, and she had been given to understand that Isabelwas removed for ever. There was to be no more expense, no moretrouble, --there should be no more jealousies in regard to Isabel. The old uncle had promised to do everything, and that sore had beenremoved from her life. Now Isabel had come back again, and insistedon remaining there, --so unnecessarily! Now again there were thoseboots to be bought at Jackson's, and all those other increasedexpenditures which another back, another head, another mouth, andanother pair of feet must create. And then it was so palpable thatHereford thought much of Isabel, but thought little or nothing ofher own girls. Such a one as Mrs Brodrick was sure to make herselfunpleasant in circumstances such as these. 

"Isabel, " she said to her one day, "I didn't say anything about youbeing turned out of the house. "

"Who has said that you did, mother?"

"You shouldn't have gone to your father and talked about going out asa housemaid. "

"I told papa that if he thought it right, I would endeavour to earnmy bread. "

"You told him that I had complained about you being here. "

"So you did. I had to tell him so, or I could not explain my purpose. Of course I am a burden. Every human being who eats and wears clothesand earns nothing is a burden. And I know that this is thought of themore because it had been felt that I had been--been disposed of. "

"You could be disposed of now, as you call it, if you pleased. "

"But I do not please. That is a matter on which I will listen tono dictation. Therefore it is that I wish that I could go away andearn my own bread. I choose to be independent in that matter, andtherefore I ought to suffer for it. It is reasonable enough that Ishould be felt to be a burden. "

Then the other girls came in, and nothing more was said till, afteran hour or two, Mrs Brodrick and Isabel were again alone together. 

"I do think it very odd that you cannot take that money; I certainlydo, " said Mrs Brodrick. 

"What is the use of going on about it? I shall not be made to takeit. "

"And all those people at Carmarthen so sure that you are entitled toever so much more! I say nothing about burdens, but I cannot conceivehow you can reconcile it to your conscience when your poor papa hasgot so many things to pay, and is so little able to pay them. "

Then she paused, but as Isabel would not be enticed into any furtherdeclaration of independence, she continued, "It certainly is asetting up of your own judgment against people who must know better. As for Mr Owen, of course it will drive him to look for some oneelse. The young man wants a wife, and of course he will find one. Then that chance will be lost. "

In this way Isabel did not pass her time comfortably at Hereford. 

CHAPTER XVII

Mr Cheekey

A month had been left for Cousin Henry to consider what he woulddo, --a month from the day in which he had been forced to accede to MrApjohn's proposal up to that on which he would have to stand beforethe barrister at Carmarthen, should he be brave enough at last toundergo the ordeal. He had in truth resolved that he would notundergo the ordeal. He was quite sure of himself that nothing shortof cart-ropes or of the police would drag him into the witness-box. But still there was the month. There were various thoughts fillinghis mind. A great expense was being incurred, --most uselessly, ifhe intended to retreat before the day came, --and who would pay themoney? There was hardly a hope left in his bosom that the propertywould remain in his hands. His hopes indeed now ran in altogetheranother direction. In what way might he best get rid of the property?How most readily might he take himself off from Llanfeare and havenothing more to do with the tenants and their rents? But still itwas he who would be responsible for this terrible expense. It hadbeen explained to him by the lawyer, that he might either indictthe proprietor of the newspaper on a criminal charge or bring acivil action against him for damages. Mr Apjohn had very stronglyrecommended the former proceeding. It would be cheaper, he hadsaid, and would show that the man who brought it had simplywished to vindicate his own character. It would be cheaper in thelong-run, --because, as the lawyer explained, it would not be so muchhis object to get a verdict as to show by his presence in the courtthat he was afraid of no one. Were he to sue for damages, and, as wasprobable, not to get them, he must then bear the double expense ofthe prosecution and defence. Such had been the arguments Mr Apjohnhad used; but he had considered also that if he could bind the man toprosecute the newspaper people on a criminal charge, then the poorvictim would be less able to retreat. In such case as that, shouldthe victim's courage fail him at the last moment, a policeman couldbe made to fetch him and force him into the witness-box. But in theconduct of a civil action no such constraint could be put upon him. Knowing all this, Mr Apjohn had eagerly explained the superiorattractions of a criminal prosecution, and Cousin Henry had falleninto the trap. He understood it all now, but had not been readyenough to do so when the choice had been within his power. He hadnow bound himself to prosecute, and certainly would be dragged intoCarmarthen, unless he first made known the truth as to the will. Ifhe did that, then he thought that they would surely spare him thetrial. Were he to say to them, "There; I have at last myself foundthe will. Here, behold it! Take the will and take Llanfeare, and letme escape from my misery, " then surely they would not force him toappear in reference to a matter which would have been already decidedin their own favour. He had lost that opportunity of giving up thewill through Mr Griffith, but he was still resolved that some othermode must be discovered before the month should have run by. Everyday was of moment, and yet the days passed on and nothing was done. His last idea was to send the will to Mr Apjohn with a letter, inwhich he would simply declare that he had just found it amongst thesermons, and that he was prepared to go away. But as the days flewby the letter was left unwritten, and the will was still among thesermons. 

It will be understood that all this was much talked of in Carmarthen. Mr Henry Jones, of Llanfeare, was known to have indicted Mr GregoryEvans, of the _Carmarthen Herald_, for the publication of variouswicked and malicious libels against himself; and it was knownalso that Mr Apjohn was Mr Jones's attorney in carrying on theprosecution. But not the less was it understood that Mr Apjohn and MrEvans were not hostile to each other in the matter. Mr Apjohn wouldbe quite honest in what he did. He would do his best to prove thelibel, --on condition that his client were the honest owner of theproperty in question. In truth, however, the great object of them allwas to get Henry Jones into a witness-box, so that, if possible, thevery truth might be extracted from him. 

Day by day and week by week since the funeral the idea had grown andbecome strong in Carmarthen that some wicked deed had been done. Itirked the hearts of them all that such a one as Henry Jones shoulddo such a deed and not be discovered. Old Indefer Jones had beenrespected by his neighbours. Miss Brodrick, though not personallywell known in the county, had been spoken well of by all men. Theidea that Llanfeare should belong to her had been received withfavour. Then had come that altered intention in the old squire'smind, and the neighbours had disapproved. Mr Apjohn had disapprovedvery strongly, and though he was not without that reticence soessentially necessary to the character of an attorney, his opinionhad become known. Then the squire's return to his old purpose waswhispered abroad. The Cantors had spoken very freely. Everything doneand everything not done at Llanfeare was known in Carmarthen. MrGriffith had at length spoken, being the last to abandon all hope asto Cousin Henry's honesty. 

Every one was convinced that Cousin Henry had simply stolen theproperty; and was it to be endured that such a deed as that shouldhave been done by such a man and that Carmarthen should not find itout? Mr Apjohn was very much praised for his energy in having forcedthe man to take his action against Mr Evans, and no one was moreinclined to praise him than Mr Evans himself. Those who had seen theman did believe that the truth would be worked out of him; and thosewho had only heard of him were sure that the trial would be a time ofintense interest in the borough. The sale of the newspaper had risenimmensely, and Mr Evans was quite the leading man of the hour. 

"So you are going to have Mr Balsam against me?" said Mr Evans to MrApjohn one day. Now Mr Balsam was a very respectable barrister, whofor many years had gone the Welsh circuit, and was chiefly known forthe mildness of his behaviour and an accurate knowledge of law, --twogifts hardly of much value to an advocate in an assize town. 

"Yes, Mr Evans. Mr Balsam, I have no doubt, will do all that wewant. "

"I suppose you want to get me into prison?"

"Certainly, if it shall be proved that you have deserved it. Thelibels are so manifest that it will be only necessary to read them toa jury. Unless you can justify them, I think you will have to go toprison. "

"I suppose so. You will come and see me, I am quite sure, Mr Apjohn. "

"I suppose Mr Cheekey will have something to say on your behalfbefore it comes to that. "

Now Mr John Cheekey was a gentleman about fifty years of age, who hadlately risen to considerable eminence in our criminal courts of law. He was generally called in the profession, --and perhaps sometimesoutside it, --"Supercilous Jack, " from the manner he had of movinghis eyebrows when he was desirous of intimidating a witness. He wasa strong, young-looking, and generally good-humoured Irishman, whohad a thousand good points. Under no circumstances would he bully awoman, --nor would he bully a man, unless, according to his own modeof looking at such cases, the man wanted bullying. But when that timedid come, --and a reference to the Old Bailey and assize reports ingeneral would show that it came very often, --Supercilious Jack wouldmake his teeth felt worse than any terrier. He could pause in hiscross-examination, look at a man, projecting his face forward bydegrees as he did so, in a manner which would crush any false witnesswho was not armed with triple courage at his breast, --and, alas! notunfrequently a witness who was not false. For unfortunately, thoughMr Cheekey intended to confine the process to those who, as he said, wanted bullying, sometimes he made mistakes. He was possessed also ofanother precious gift, --which, if he had not invented, he had broughtto perfection, --that of bullying the judge also. He had found that bydoing so he could lower a judge in the estimation of the jury, andthus diminish the force of a damnatory charge. Mr Cheekey's serviceshad been especially secured for this trial, and all the circumstanceshad been accurately explained to him. It was felt that a great daywould have arrived in Carmarthen when Mr Cheekey should stand up inthe court to cross-examine Cousin Henry. 

"Yes, " said Mr Evans, chuckling, "I think that Mr Cheekey will havesomething to say to it. What will be the result, Mr Apjohn?" he askedabruptly. 

"How am I to say? If he can only hold his own like a man, there will, of course, be a verdict of guilty. "

"But can he?" asked he of the newspaper. 

"I hope he may with all my heart, --if he have done nothing that heought not to have done. In this matter, Mr Evans, I have altogether adivided sympathy. I dislike the man utterly. I don't care who knowsit. No one knows it better than he himself. The idea of his cominghere over that young lady's head was from the first abhorrent tome. When I saw him, and heard him, and found out what he was, --sucha poor, cringing, cowardly wretch, --my feeling was of courseexacerbated. It was terrible to me that the old squire, whom I hadalways respected, should have brought such a man among us. But thatwas the old squire's doing. He certainly did bring him, and ascertainly intended to make him his heir. If he did make him his heir, if that will which I read was in truth the last will, then I hopemost sincerely that all that Mr Cheekey may do may be of no availagainst him. If that be the case, I shall be glad to have anopportunity of calling upon you in your new lodgings. "

"But if there was another will, Mr Apjohn, --a later will?"

"Then of course, there is the doubt whether this man be aware of it. "

"But if he be aware of it?"

"Then I hope that Mr Cheekey may tear him limb from limb. "

"But you feel sure that it is so?"

"Ah; I do not know about that. It is very hard to be sure ofanything. When I see him I do feel almost sure that he is guilty; butwhen I think of it afterwards, I again have my doubts. It is not bymen of such calibre that great crimes are committed. I can hardlyfancy that he should have destroyed a will. "

"Or hidden it?"

"If it were hidden, he would live in agony lest it were discovered. Iused to think so when I knew that he passed the whole day sitting inone room. Now he goes out for hours together. Two or three times hehas been down with old Griffith at Coed, and twice young Cantor foundhim lying on the sea cliff. I doubt whether he would have gone so farafield if the will were hidden in the house. "

"Can he have it on his own person?"

"He is not brave enough for that. The presence of it there wouldreveal itself by the motion of his hands. His fingers would always beon the pocket that contained it. I do not know what to think. And itis because I am in doubt that I have brought him under Mr Cheekey'sthumbscrew. It is a case in which I would, if possible, force a manto confess the truth even against himself. And for this reason Ihave urged him to prosecute you. But as an honest man myself, I ambound to hope that he may succeed if he be the rightful owner ofLlanfeare. "

"No one believes it, Mr Apjohn. Not one in all Carmarthen believesit. "

"I will not say what I believe myself. Indeed I do not know. But I dohope that by Mr Cheekey's aid or otherwise we may get at the truth. "

In his own peculiar circle, with Mr Geary the attorney, with Mr Jonesthe auctioneer, and Mr Powell, the landlord of the Bush Hotel, MrEvans was much more triumphant. Among them, and indeed, with thegentlemen of Carmarthen generally, he was something of a hero. Theydid believe it probable that the interloper would be extruded fromthe property which did not belong to him, and that the doing of thiswould be due to Mr Evans. "Apjohn pretends to think that it is verydoubtful, " said he to his three friends. 

"Apjohn isn't doubtful at all, " said Mr Geary, "but he is a littlecautious as to expressing himself. "

"Apjohn has behaved very well, " remarked the innkeeper. "If it wasn'tfor him we should never have got the rascal to come forward at all. He went out in one of my flies, but I won't let them charge for it ona job like that. "

"I suppose you'll charge for bringing Cousin Henry into the court, "said the auctioneer. They had all got to call him Cousin Henry sincethe idea had got abroad that he had robbed his Cousin Isabel. 

"I'd bring him too for nothing, and stand him his lunch into thebargain, rather than that he shouldn't have the pleasure of meetingMr Cheekey. "

"Cheekey will get it out of him, if there is anything to get, " saidMr Evans. 

"My belief is that Mr Cheekey will about strike him dumb. If he hasgot anything in his bosom to conceal, he will be so awe-struck thathe won't be able to open his mouth. He won't be got to say he did it, but he won't be able to say he didn't. " This was Mr Geary's opinion. 

"What would that amount to?" asked Mr Powell. "I'm afraid theycouldn't give the place back to the young lady because of that. "

"The jury would acquit Mr Evans. That's about what it would amountto, " said the attorney. 

"And Cousin Henry would go back to Llanfeare, and have all histroubles over, " remarked Mr Jones. This they deemed to be adisastrous termination to all the trouble which they were taking, butone which seemed by no means improbable. 

They all agreed that even Mr Cheekey would hardly be able to extractfrom the man an acknowledgment that he had with his own handsdestroyed the will. Such a termination as that to a cross-examinationhad never been known under the hands of the most expert of advocates. That Cousin Henry might be stricken dumb, that he might faint, thathe might be committed for contempt of court, --all these events werepossible, or perhaps, not impossible; but that he should say, "Yes, Idid it, I burnt the will. Yes, I, with my own hands, "--that they alldeclared to be impossible. And, if so, Cousin Henry would go backagain to Llanfeare confirmed in his possession of the property. 

"He will only laugh at us in his sleeve when it is over, " said theauctioneer. 

They little knew the torments which the man was enduring, or howunlikely it was that he should laugh in his sleeve at any one. We aretoo apt to forget when we think of the sins and faults of men howkeen may be their conscience in spite of their sins. While they werethus talking of Cousin Henry, he was vainly endeavouring to consolehimself with the reflection that he had not committed any greatcrime, that there was still a road open to him for repentance, thatif only he might be allowed to escape and repent in London, he wouldbe too glad to resign Llanfeare and all its glories. The reader willhardly suppose that Cousin Henry will return after the trial to laughin his sleeve in his own library in his own house. 

A few days afterwards Mr Apjohn was up in town and had an interviewwith Mr Balsam, the barrister. "This client of mine does not seem tobe a nice sort of country gentleman, " said Mr Balsam. 

"Anything but that. You will understand, Mr Balsam, that my onlyobject in persuading him to indict the paper has been to put him intoa witness-box. I told him so, of course. I explained to him thatunless he would appear there, he could never hold up his head. "

"And he took your advice. "

"Very unwillingly. He would have given his right hand to escape. ButI gave him no alternative. I so put it before him that he could notrefuse to do as I bade him without owning himself to be a rascal. Shall I tell you what I think will come of it?"

"What will come of it?"

"He will not appear. I feel certain that he will not have the courageto show himself in the court. When the day comes, or, perhaps, a dayor two before, he will run away. "

"What will you do then?"

"Ah, that's the question. What shall we do then? He is bound toprosecute, and will have to pay the penalty. In such a case as thisI think we could have him found and brought into court for the nextassizes. But what could we do then? Though we were ever so rough tohim in the way of contempt of court and the rest of it, we cannottake the property away. If he has got hold of the will and destroyedit, or hidden it, we can do nothing as to the property as long as heis strong enough to hold his tongue. If he can be made to speak, thenI think we shall get at it. "

Mr Balsam shook his head. He was quite willing to believe that hisclient was as base as Mr Apjohn represented him to be; but he wasnot willing to believe that Mr Cheekey was as powerful as had beenassumed. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Cousin Henry Goes to Carmarthen

On his return from London Mr Apjohn wrote the following letter to hisclient, and this he sent to Llanfeare by a clerk, who was instructedto wait there for an answer:--

 MY DEAR SIR, --

 I have just returned from London, where I saw Mr Balsam, who will be employed on your behalf at the assizes. It is necessary that you should come into my office, so that I may complete the instructions which are to be given to counsel. As I could not very well do this at Llanfeare without considerable inconvenience, I must give you this trouble. My clerk who takes this out to you will bring back your answer, saying whether eleven in the morning to-morrow or three in the afternoon will best suit your arrangements. You can tell him also whether you would wish me to send a fly for you. I believe that you still keep your uncle's carriage, in which case it would perhaps be unnecessary. A message sent by the clerk will suffice, so that you may be saved the trouble of writing. 

 Yours truly, NICHOLAS APJOHN. 

The clerk had made his way into the book-room in which Cousin Henrywas sitting, and stood there over him while he was reading theletter. He felt sure that it had been arranged by Mr Apjohn that itshould be so, in order that he might not have a moment to considerthe reply which he would send. Mr Apjohn had calculated, traitor thathe was to the cause of his client, --so thought Cousin Henry, --thatthe man's presence would rob him of his presence of mind so as toprevent him from sending a refusal. 

"I don't see why I should go into Carmarthen at all, " he said. 

"Oh, sir, it's quite essential, --altogether essential in a case suchas this. You are bound to prosecute, and of course you must give yourinstructions. If Mr Apjohn were to bring everything out here for thepurpose, the expense would be tremendous. In going there, it willonly be the fly, and it will all be done in five minutes. "

"Who will be there?" asked Cousin Henry after a pause. 

"I shall be there, " answered the clerk, not unnaturally puttinghimself first, "and Mr Apjohn, and perhaps one of the lads. "

"There won't be any--barrister?" asked Cousin Henry, showing theextent of his fear by his voice and his countenance. 

"Oh, dear, no; they won't be here till the assizes. A barrister neversees his own client. You'll go in as a witness, and will have nothingto do with the barristers till you're put up face to face before themin the witness-box. Mr Balsam is a very mild gentleman. "

"He is employed by me?"

"Oh, yes; he's on our side. His own side never matters much to awitness. It's when the other side tackles you!"

"Who is the other side?" asked Cousin Henry. 

"Haven't you heard?" The voice in which this was said struck terrorto the poor wretch's soul. There was awe in it and pity, andsomething almost of advice, --as though the voice were warning him toprepare against the evil which was threatening him. "They have got MrCheekey!" Here the voice became even more awful. "I knew they wouldwhen I first heard what the case was to be. They've got Mr Cheekey. They don't care much about money when they're going it like that. There are many of them I have known awful enough, but he's theawfullest. "

"He can't eat a fellow, " said Cousin Henry, trying to look like a manwith good average courage. 

"No; he can't eat a fellow. It isn't that way he does it. I've knownsome of 'em who looked as though they were going to eat a man; but helooks as though he were going to skin you, and leave you bare for thebirds to eat you. He's gentle enough at first, is Mr Cheekey. "

"What is it all to me?" asked Cousin Henry. 

"Oh, nothing, sir. To a gentleman like you who knows what he's aboutit's all nothing. What can Mr Cheekey do to a gentleman who has gotnothing to conceal? But when a witness has something to hide, --andsometimes there will be something, --then it is that Mr Cheekey comesout strong. He looks into a man and sees that it's there, and then heturns him inside out till he gets at it. That's what I call skinninga witness. I saw a poor fellow once so knocked about by Mr Cheekeythat they had to carry him down speechless out of the witness-box. "

It was a vivid description of all that Cousin Henry had pictured tohimself. And he had actually, by his own act, subjected himself tothis process! Had he been staunch in refusing to bring any actionagainst the newspaper, Mr Cheekey would have been powerless inreference to him. And now he was summoned into Carmarthen to preparehimself by minor preliminary pangs for the torture of the auto-da-féwhich was to be made of him. 

"I don't see why I should go into Carmarthen at all, " he said, havingpaused a while after the eloquent description of the barrister'spowers. 

"Not come into Carmarthen! Why, sir, you must complete theinstructions. "

"I don't see it at all. "

"Then do you mean to back out of it altogether, Mr Jones? I wouldn'tbe afeared by Mr Cheekey like that!"

Then it occurred to him that if he did mean to back out of italtogether he could do so better at a later period, when they mighthardly be able to catch him by force and bring him as a prisonerbefore the dreaded tribunal. And as it was his purpose to avoid thetrial by giving up the will, which he would pretend to have found atthe moment of giving it up, he would ruin his own project, --as hehad done so many projects before, --by his imbecility at the presentmoment. Cheekey would not be there in Mr Apjohn's office, nor thejudge and jury and all the crowd of the court to look at him. 

"I don't mean to back out at all, " he said; "and it's veryimpertinent of you to say so. "

"I didn't mean impertinence, Mr Jones;--only it is necessary youshould come into Mr Apjohn's office. "

"Very well; I'll come to-morrow at three. "

"And about the fly, Mr Jones?"

"I can come in my own carriage. "

"Of course. That's what Mr Apjohn said. But if I may make so bold, MrJones, --wouldn't all the people in Carmarthen know the old Squire'scarriage?"

Here was another trouble. Yes; all the people in Carmarthen wouldknow the old Squire's carriage, and after all those passages in thenewspapers, --believing, as he knew they did, that he had stolen theproperty, --would clamber up on the very wheels to look at him! Theclerk had been right in that. 

"I don't mean it for any impertinence, Mr Jones; but wouldn't it bebetter just to come in and to go out quiet in one of Mr Powell'sflies?"

"Very well, " said Cousin Henry. "Let the fly come. "

"I thought it would be best, " said the clerk, taking cowardlyadvantage of his success over the prostrate wretch. "What's the useof a gentleman taking his own carriage through the streets on such anoccasion as this? They are so prying into everything in Carmarthen. Now, when they see the Bush fly, they won't think as anybodyparticular is in it. " And so it was settled. The fly should be atLlanfeare by two o'clock on the following day. 

Oh, if he could but die! If the house would fall upon him and crushhim! There had not been a word spoken by that reptile of a clerkwhich he had not understood, --not an arrow cast at him the sting ofwhich did not enter into his very marrow! "Oh, nothing, sir, to agentleman like you. " The man had looked at him as he had uttered thewords with a full appreciation of the threat conveyed. "They've gota rod in pickle for you, --for you, who have stolen your cousin'sestate! Mr Cheekey is coming for you!" That was what the miscreantof a clerk had said to him. And then, though he had found himselfcompelled to yield to that hint about the carriage, how terriblewas it to have to confess that he was afraid to be driven throughCarmarthen in his own carriage!

He must go into Carmarthen and face Mr Apjohn once again. That wasclear. He could not now send the will in lieu of himself. Why had henot possessed the presence of mind to say to the clerk at once thatno further steps need be taken? "No further steps need be taken. Ihave found the will. Here it is. I found it this very morning amongthe books. Take it to Mr Apjohn, and tell him I have done withLlanfeare and all its concerns. " How excellent would have been theopportunity! And it would not have been difficult for him to act hispart amidst the confusion to which the clerk would have been broughtby the greatness of the revelation made to him. But he had allowedthe chance to pass, and now he must go into Carmarthen!

At half-past two the following day he put himself into the fly. During the morning he had taken the will out of the book, determinedto carry it with him to Carmarthen in his pocket. But when heattempted to enclose it in an envelope for the purpose, his mindmisgave him and he restored it. Hateful as was the property to him, odious as were the house and all things about it, no sooner did thedoing of the act by which he was to release himself from them comewithin the touch of his fingers, than he abandoned the idea. At suchmoments the estate would again have charms for him, and he wouldremember that such a deed, when once done, would admit of no recall. 

"I am glad to see you, Mr Jones, " said the attorney as his cliententered the inner office. "There are a few words which must besettled between you and me before the day comes, and no time hasto be lost. Sit down, Mr Ricketts, and write the headings of thequestions and answers. Then Mr Jones can initial them afterwards. "

Mr Ricketts was the clerk who had come out to Llanfeare. Cousin Henrysat silent as Mr Ricketts folded his long sheet of folio paper witha double margin. Here was a new terror to him; and as he saw thepreparations he almost made up his mind that he would on no accountsign his name to anything. 

The instructions to be given to Mr Balsam were in fact very simple, and need not here be recapitulated. His uncle had sent for him toLlanfeare, had told him that he was to be the heir, had informed himthat a new will had been made in his favour. After his uncle's deathand subsequent to the funeral, he had heard a will read, and underthat will had inherited the property. As far as he believed, orat any rate as far as he knew, that was his uncle's last will andtestament. These were the instructions which, under Mr Apjohn'sadvice, were to be given to Mr Balsam as to his (Cousin Henry's)direct evidence. 

Then Cousin Henry, remembering his last communication to FarmerGriffith, remembering also all that the two Cantors could prove, added something on his own account. 

"I saw the old man writing up in his room, " he said, "copyingsomething which I knew to be a will. I was sure then he was going tomake another change and take the property from me. " "No; I asked himno questions. I thought it very cruel, but it was of no use for me tosay anything. " "No; he didn't tell me what he was about; but I knewit was another will. I wouldn't condescend to ask a question. Whenthe Cantors said that they had witnessed a will, I never doubtedthem. When you came there to read the will, I supposed it would befound. Like enough it's there now, if proper search were made. I cantell all that to Mr Balsam if he wants to know it. "

"Why didn't you tell me all this before?" said Mr Apjohn. 

"It isn't much to tell. It's only what I thought. If what the Cantorssaid and what you all believed yourselves didn't bring you to thewill, nothing I could say would help you. It doesn't amount to morethan thinking after all. "

Then Mr Apjohn was again confused and again in doubt. Could it bepossible after all that the conduct on the part of the man which hadbeen so prejudicial to him in the eyes of all men had been producedsimply by the annoyances to which he had been subjected? It was stillpossible that the old man had himself destroyed the document whichhe had been tempted to make, and that they had all of them been mostunjust to this poor fellow. He added, however, all the details ofthis new story to the instructions which were to be given to MrBalsam, and to which Cousin Henry did attach his signature. 

Then came some further conversation about Mr Cheekey, which, however, did not take an official form. What questions Mr Cheekey might askwould be between Mr Cheekey and the other attorney, and formed nopart of Mr Apjohn's direct business. He had intended to imbue hisclient with something of the horror with which his clerk had beenbefore him in creating, believing that the cause of truth wouldbe assisted by reducing the man to the lowest condition of meanterror. But this new story somewhat changed his purpose. If theman were innocent, --if there were but some small probability ofhis innocence, --was it not his duty to defend him as a client fromill-usage on the part of Cheekey? That Cheekey must have his way withhim was a matter of course, --that is, if Cousin Henry appeared atall; but a word or two of warning might be of service. 

"You will be examined on the other side by Mr Cheekey, " he said, intending to assume a pleasant voice. At the hearing of the awfulname, sweat broke out on Cousin Henry's brow. "You know what his linewill be?"

"I don't know anything about it. "

"He will attempt to prove that another will was made. "

"I do not deny it. Haven't I said that I think another will wasmade?"

"And that you are either aware of its existence--" here Mr Apjohnpaused, having resumed that stern tone of his voice which was sodisagreeable to Cousin Henry's ears--"or that you have destroyed it. "

"What right has he got to say that I have destroyed it? I havedestroyed nothing. "

Mr Apjohn marked the words well, and was again all but convincedthat his client was not innocent. "He will endeavour to make a jurybelieve from words coming out of your own mouth, or possibly by yoursilence, that you have either destroyed the deed, --or have concealedit. "

Cousin Henry thought a moment whether he had concealed the will ornot. No! he had not put it within the book. The man who hides a thingis the man who conceals the thing, --not a man who fails to tell thathe has found it. 

"Or--concealed it, " repeated Mr Apjohn with that peculiar voice ofhis. 

"I have not concealed it, " said the victim. 

"Nor know where it lies hidden?" Ghastly pale he became, --livid, almost blue by degrees. Though he was fully determined to give up thewill, he could not yield to the pressure now put upon him. Nor couldhe withstand it. The question was as terrible to him as though he hadentertained no idea of abandoning the property. To acknowledge thathe knew all along where it was hidden would be to confess his guiltand to give himself up to the tormentors of the law. 

"Nor know where it lies hidden?" repeated Mr Apjohn, in a low voice. "Go out of the room, Ricketts, " he said. "Nor know where it lieshidden?" he asked a third time when the clerk had closed the doorbehind him. 

"I know nothing about it, " gasped the poor man. 

"You have nothing beyond that to say to me?"

"Nothing. "

"You would rather that it should be left to Mr Cheekey? If there beanything further that you can say, I should be more tender with youthan he. "

"Nothing. "

"And here, in this room, there is no public to gaze upon you. "

"Nothing, " he gasped again. 

"Very well. So be it. Ricketts, see if the fly be there for MrJones. " A few minutes afterwards his confidential clerk was alonewith him in the room. 

"I have learned so much, Ricketts, " said he. "The will is still inexistence. I am sure of that. And he knows its whereabouts. We shallhave Miss Brodrick there before Christmas yet. "

CHAPTER XIX

Mr Apjohn Sends for Assistance

The last words in the last chapter were spoken by Mr Apjohn to hisconfidential clerk in a tone of triumph. He had picked up somethingfurther, and, conscious that he had done so by his own ingenuity, was for a moment triumphant. But when he came to think over it allalone, --and he spent many hours just at present in thinking of thismatter, --he was less inclined to be self-satisfied. He felt that agreat responsibility rested with him, and that this weighed uponhim peculiarly at the present moment. He was quite sure not onlythat a later will had been made, but that it was in existence. Itwas concealed somewhere, and Cousin Henry knew the secret of itshiding-place. It had existed, at any rate, that morning; but now camethe terrible question whether the man, driven to his last gasp in hismisery, would not destroy it. Not only had Mr Apjohn discovered thesecret, but he was well aware that Cousin Henry was conscious that hehad done so, and yet not a word had been spoken between them which, should the will now be destroyed, could be taken as evidence that ithad ever existed. Let the paper be once burnt, and Cousin Henry wouldbe safe in possession of the property. Mr Cheekey might torment hisvictim, but certainly would not extract from him a confession such asthat. The hiding of the will, the very place in which it was hidden, might possibly be extracted. It was conceivable that ingenuity onone side and abject terror on the other might lead a poor wretch tobetray the secret; but a man who has committed a felony will hardlyconfess the deed in a court of law. Something of all this would, thought Mr Apjohn, occur to Cousin Henry himself, and by this veryaddition to his fears he might be driven to destroy the will. Thegreat object now should be to preserve a document which had lived asit were a charmed life through so many dangers. If anything were tobe done with this object, --anything new, --it must be done at once. Even now, while he was thinking of it, Cousin Henry was being takenslowly home in Mr Powell's fly, and might do the deed as soon ashe found himself alone in the book-room. Mr Apjohn was almostsure that the will was concealed somewhere in the book-room. Thatlong-continued sojourn in the chamber, of which the whole country hadheard so much, told him that it was so. He was there always, watchingthe hiding-place. Would it be well that searchers should again besent out, and that they should be instructed never to leave that roomtill after Cousin Henry's examination should be over? If so, it wouldbe right that a man should be sent off instantly on horseback, so asto prevent immediate destruction. But then he had no power to takesuch a step in reference to another man's house. It was a questionwhether any magistrate would give him such a warrant, seeing thatsearch had already been made, and that, on the failure of suchsearch, that Squire's will had already been proved. A man's houseis his castle, let the suspicion against him be what it may, unlessthere be evidence to support it. Were he to apply to a magistrate, hecould only say that the man's own manner and mode of speech had beenevidence of his guilt. And yet how much was there hanging, perhaps, on the decision of the moment! Whether the property should go tothe hands of her who was entitled to enjoy it, or remain in thepossession of a thief such as this, might so probably depend on theaction which should be taken, now, at this very instant!

Mr Ricketts, his confidential clerk, was the only person with whomhe had fully discussed all the details of the case, --the only personto whom he had expressed his own thoughts as they had occurred tohim. He had said a word to the clerk in triumph as Cousin Henry lefthim, but a few minutes afterwards recalled him with an altered tone. "Ricketts, " he said, "the man has got that will with him in thebook-room at Llanfeare. "

"Or in his pocket, sir, " suggested Ricketts. 

"I don't think it. Wherever it be at this moment, he has not placedit there himself. The Squire put it somewhere, and he has found it. "

"The Squire was very weak when he made that will, sir, " said theclerk. "Just at that time he was only coming down to the dining-room, when the sun shone in just for an hour or two in the day. If he putthe will anywhere, it would probably be in his bed-room. "

"The man occupies another chamber?" asked the attorney. 

"Yes, sir; the same room he had before his uncle died. "

"It's in the book-room, " repeated Mr Apjohn. 

"Then he must have put it there. "

"But he didn't. From his manner, and from a word or two that hespoke, I feel sure that the paper has been placed where it is byother hands. "

"The old man never went into the book-room. I heard every detail ofhis latter life from Mrs Griffith when the search was going on. Hehadn't been there for more than a month. If he wanted anything out ofthe book-room, after the young lady went away, he sent Mrs Griffithfor it. "

"What did he send for?" asked Mr Apjohn. 

"He used to read a little sometimes, " said the clerk. 

"Sermons?" suggested Mr Apjohn. "For many years past he has readsermons to himself whenever he has failed in going to church. I haveseen the volumes there on the table in the parlour when I have beenwith him. Did they search the books?"

"Had every volume off the shelves, sir. "

"And opened every one of them?"

"That I can't tell. I wasn't there. "

"Every volume should have been shaken, " said Mr Apjohn. 

"It's not too late yet, sir, " said the clerk. 

"But how are we to get in and do it? I have no right to go into hishouse, or any man's, to search it. "

"He wouldn't dare to hinder you, sir. "

Then there was a pause before anything further was said. 

"The step is such a strong one to take, " said the lawyer, "when oneis guided only by one's own inner conviction. I have no tittle ofevidence in my favour to prove anything beyond the fact that the oldSquire in the latter days of his life did make a will which has notbeen found. For that we have searched, and, not finding it, have beenforced to admit to probate the last will which we ourselves made. Since that nothing has come to my knowledge. Guided partly by theman's ways while he has been at Llanfeare, and partly by his ownmanner and hesitation, I have come to a conclusion in my own mind;but it is one which I would hardly dare to propose to a magistrate asa ground for action. "

"But if he consented, sir?"

"Still, I should be hardly able to justify myself for such intrusionif nothing were found. We have no right to crush the poor creaturebecause he is so easily crushable. I feel already pricks ofconscience because I am bringing down Jack Cheekey upon him. If itall be as I have suggested, --that the will is hidden, let us say insome volume of sermons there, --what probability is there that he willdestroy it now?"

"He would before the trial, I think. "

"But not at once? I think not. He will not allow himself to be drivento the great crime till the last moment. It is quite on the cardsthat his conscience will even at last be too strong for it. "

"We owe him something, sir, for not destroying it when he first foundit. "

"Not a doubt! If we are right in all this, we do owe himsomething, --at any rate, charity enough to suppose that the doing ofsuch a deed must be very distasteful to him. When I think of it Idoubt whether he'll do it at all. "

"He asked me why they didn't come and search again. "

"Did he? I shouldn't wonder if the poor devil would be glad enough tobe relieved from it all. I'll tell you what I'll do, Ricketts. I'llwrite to Miss Brodrick's father, and ask him to come over here beforethe trial. He is much more concerned in the matter than I am, andshould know as well what ought to be done. "

The letter was written urging Mr Brodrick to come at once. "I haveno right to tell you, " Mr Apjohn said in his letter, "that there isground for believing that such a document as that I have describedis still existing. I might too probably be raising false hope were Ito do so. I can only tell you of my own suspicion, explaining to youat the same time on what ground it is founded. I think it would bewell that you should come over and consult with me whether furthersteps should be taken. If so, come at once. The trial is fixed forFriday the 30th. " This was written on Thursday the 22nd. There was, therefore, not much more than a week's interval. 

"You will come with me, " said Mr Brodrick to the Rev. William Owen, after showing to him the letter from the attorney at Hereford. 

"Why should I go with you?"

"I would wish you to do so--on Isabel's behalf. "

"Isabel and I are nothing to each other. "

"I am sorry to hear you say that. It was but the other day that youdeclared that she should be your wife in spite of herself. "

"So she shall, if Mr Henry Jones be firmly established at Llanfeare. It was explained to me before why your daughter, as owner ofLlanfeare, ought not to marry me, and, as I altogether agreed withthe reason given, it would not become me to take any step in thismatter. As owner of Llanfeare she will be nothing to me. It cannottherefore be right that I should look after her interests in thatdirection. On any other subject I would do anything for her. "

The father no doubt felt that the two young people were self-willed, obstinate, and contradictory. His daughter wouldn't marry theclergyman because she had been deprived of her property. Theclergyman now refused to marry his daughter because it was presumedthat her property might be restored to her. As, however, he couldnot induce Mr Owen to go with him to Carmarthen, he determined to goalone. He did not give much weight to this new story. It seemed tohim certain that the man would destroy the will, --or would alreadyhave destroyed it, --if in the first instance he was wicked enoughto conceal it. Still the matter was so great and the question soimportant to his daughter's interest that he felt himself compelledto do as Mr Apjohn had proposed. But he did not do it altogether asMr Apjohn had proposed. He allowed other matters to interfere, andpostponed his journey till Tuesday the 27th of the month. Late onthat evening he reached Carmarthen, and at once went to Mr Apjohn'shouse. 

Cousin Henry's journey into Carmarthen had been made on the previousThursday, and since that day no new steps had been taken to unravelthe mystery, --none at least which had reference to Llanfeare. Nofurther search had been made among the books. All that was known inCarmarthen of Cousin Henry during these days was that he remainedaltogether within the house. Were he so minded, ample time wasallowed to him for the destruction of any document. In the town, preparation went on in the usual way for the assizes, at whichthe one case of interest was to be the indictment of Mr Evans fordefamation of character. It was now supposed by the world at largethat Cousin Henry would come into court; and because this wasbelieved of him there was something of a slight turn of publicopinion in his favour. It would hardly be the case that the man, ifreally guilty, would encounter Mr Cheekey. 

During the days that had elapsed, even Mr Apjohn himself had lostsomething of his confidence. If any further step was to be taken, whydid not the young lady's father himself come and take it? Why had hebeen so dilatory in a matter which was of so much greater importanceto himself than to any one else? But now the two attorneys weretogether, and it was necessary that they should decide upon doingsomething, --or nothing. 

"I hoped you would have been here last week, " said Mr Apjohn. 

"I couldn't get away. There were things I couldn't possibly leave. "

"It is so important, " said Mr Apjohn. 

"Of course it is important, --of most vital importance, --if there beany hope. "

"I have told you exactly what I think and feel. "

"Yes, yes. I know how much more than kind, how honourable you havebeen in all this matter. You still think that the will is hidden?"

"I did think so. "

"Something has changed your opinion?"

"I can hardly say that either, " said Mr Apjohn. "There was ground onwhich to form my opinion, and I do not know that there is any groundfor changing it. But in such a matter the mind will vacillate. I didthink that he had found the will shut up in a volume of sermons, in avolume which his uncle had been reading during his illness, and thathe had left the book in its place upon the shelf. That, you will say, is a conclusion too exact for man to reach without anything in theshape of absolute evidence. "

"I do not say so; but then as yet I hardly know the process by whichthat belief has been reached. "

"But I say so;--I say that is too exact. There is more of imaginationin it than of true deduction. I certainly should not recommendanother person to proceed far on such reasoning. You see it hasbeen in this way. " Then he explained to his brother attorney theprocess of little circumstances by which he had arrived at his ownopinion;--the dislike of the man to leave the house, his clingingto one room, his manifest possession of a secret as evinced by hisconversations with Farmer Griffith, his continual dread of something, his very clinging to Llanfeare as a residence which would not havebeen the case had he destroyed the will, his exaggerated fear of thecoming cross-examination, his ready assertion that he had destroyednothing and hidden nothing, --but his failure to reply when he wasasked whether he was aware of any such concealment. Then the factthat the books had not been searched themselves, that the old Squirehad never personally used the room, but had used a book or one or twobooks which had been taken from it; that these books had been volumeswhich had certainly been close to him in those days when the lostwill was being written. All these and other little details known tothe reader made the process by which Mr Apjohn had arrived at theconclusion which he now endeavoured to explain to Mr Brodrick. 

"I grant that the chain is slight, " said Mr Apjohn, "so slight that afeather may break it. The strongest point in it all was the look onthe man's face when I asked him the last question. Now I have toldyou everything, and you must decide what we ought to do. "

But Mr Brodrick was a man endowed with lesser gifts than those of theother attorney. In such a matter Mr Apjohn was sure to lead. "What doyou think yourself?"

"I would propose that we, you and I, should go together over toLlanfeare to-morrow and ask him to allow us to make what furthersearch we may please about the house. If he permitted this--"

"But would he?"

"I think he would. I am not at all sure but what he would wish tohave the will found. If he did, we could begin and go through everybook in the library. We would begin with the sermons, and soon knowwhether it be as I have suggested. "

"But if he refused?"

"Then I think I would make bold to insist on remaining there whileyou went to a magistrate. I have indeed already prepared Mr Evans ofLlancolly, who is the nearest magistrate. I would refuse to leavethe room, and you would then return with a search warrant and apoliceman. But as for opening the special book or books, I could dothat with or without his permission. While you talk to him I willlook round the room and see where they are. I don't think much of itall, Mr Brodrick; but when the stake is so high, it is worth playingfor. If we fail in this, we can then only wait and see what theredoubtable Mr Cheekey may be able to do for us. "

Thus it was settled that Mr Brodrick and Mr Apjohn should go out toLlanfeare on the following morning. 

CHAPTER XX

Doubts

"I know nothing about it, " Cousin Henry had gasped out when askedby Mr Apjohn, when Ricketts, the clerk, had left the room, whetherhe knew where the will was hidden. Then, when he had declared he hadnothing further to say, he was allowed to go away. 

As he was carried back in the fly he felt certain that Mr Apjohnknew that there had been a will, knew that the will was still inexistence, knew that it had been hidden by some accident, and knewalso that he, Henry Jones, was aware of the place of concealment. That the man should have been so expert in reading the secret of hisbosom was terrible to him. Had the man suspected him of destroyingthe will, --a deed the doing of which might have been so naturallysuspected, --that would have been less terrible. He had done nothing, had committed no crime, was simply conscious of the existence of apaper which it was a duty, not of him, but of others to find, andthis man, by his fearful ingenuity, had discovered it all! Now it wassimply necessary that the place should be indicated, and in orderthat he himself might be forced to indicate it, Mr Cheekey was to belet loose upon him!

How impossible, --how almost impossible had he found it to produce aword in answer to that one little question from Mr Apjohn! "Nor knowwhere it is hidden?" He had so answered it as to make it manifestthat he did know. He was conscious that he had been thus weak, thoughthere had been nothing in Mr Apjohn's manner to appal him. How wouldit be with him when, hour after hour, question after question shouldbe demanded of him, when that cruel tormentor should stand thereglaring at him in presence of all the court? There would be no needof such hour, --no need of that prolonged questioning. All that waswanted of him would be revealed at once. The whole secret would bescrewed out of him by the first turn of the tormentor's engine. 

There was but one thing quite fixed in his mind. Nothing shouldinduce him to face Mr Cheekey, unless he should have made himselfcomparatively safe by destroying the will. In that way he almostthought he might be safe. The suffering would be great. The rack andthe thumbscrew, the boots and the wheel, would, to the delight of allthose present, be allowed to do their work upon him for hours. Itwould be a day to him terrible to anticipate, terrible to endure, terrible afterwards in his memory; but he thought that not even MrCheekey himself would be able to extract from him the admission ofsuch a deed as that. 

And then by the deed he would undoubtedly acquire Llanfeare. Theplace itself was not dear to him, but there was rising in his heartso strong a feeling of hatred against those who were oppressing himthat it seemed to him almost a duty to punish them by continuedpossession of the property. In this way he could triumph over themall. If once he could come down from Mr Cheekey's grasp alive, if hecould survive those fearful hours, he would walk forth from the courtthe undoubted owner of Llanfeare. It would be as though a man shouldendure some excruciating operation under the hands of a surgeon, withthe assured hope that he might enjoy perfect health afterwards forthe remainder of his life. 

To destroy the will was his only chance of escape. There was nothingelse left to him, knowing, as he did, that it was impossible for himto put an end to his own life with his own hands. These little plotsof his, which he had planned for the revelation of his secret withoutthe acknowledgment of guilt, had all fallen to pieces as he attemptedto execute them. He began to be aware of himself that anything thatrequired skill in the execution was impossible to him. But to burnthe will he was capable. He could surely take the paper from itshiding-place and hold it down with the poker when he had thrust itbetween the bars. Or, as there was no fire provided in these summermonths, he could consume it by the light of his candle when thedead hours of the night had come upon him. He had already resolvedthat, when he had done so, he would swallow the tell-tale ashes. Hebelieved of himself that all that would be within his power, if onlyhe could determine upon the doing of it. 

And he thought that the deed when done would give him a new courage. The very danger to which he would have exposed himself would makehim brave to avoid it. Having destroyed the will, and certain thatno eye had seen him, conscious that his safety depended on his ownreticence, he was sure that he would keep his secret even before MrCheekey. 

"I know nothing of the will, " he would say; "I have neither seen it, nor hidden it, nor found it, nor destroyed it. "

Knowing what would be the consequences were he to depart from theassertion, he would assuredly cling to it. He would be safer then, much safer than in his present vacillating, half-innocent position. 

As he was carried home in the fly, his mind was so intent upon this, he was so anxious to resolve to bring himself to do the deed, that hehardly knew where he was when the fly stopped at his hall door. Ashe entered his house, he stared about him as though doubtful of hiswhereabouts, and then, without speaking a word, made his way into thebook-room, and seated himself on his accustomed chair. The woman cameto him and asked him whether money should not be given to the driver. 

"What driver?" said he. "Let him go to Mr Apjohn. It is Mr Apjohn'sbusiness, not mine. " Then he got up and shut the door violently asthe woman retreated. 

Yes; it was Mr Apjohn's business; and he thought that he could put aspoke into the wheel of Mr Apjohn's business. Mr Apjohn was not onlyanxious to criminate him now, but had been anxious when such anxietyon his part had been intrusive and impertinent. Mr Apjohn had, fromfirst to last, been his enemy, and by his enmity had created thatfatal dislike which his uncle had felt for him. Mr Apjohn was nowdetermined to ruin him. Mr Apjohn had come out to him at Llanfeare, pretending to be his lawyer, his friend, his advisor, and hadrecommended this treacherous indictment merely that he might be ableto subject him to the torments of Mr Cheekey's persecution. CousinHenry could see it all now! So, at least, Cousin Henry told himself. 

"He is a clever fellow, and he thinks that I am a fool. Perhaps he isright, but he will find that the fool has been too many for him. "

It was thus that he communed with himself. 

He had his dinner and sat by himself during the whole evening, as hadbeen his practice every day since his uncle's death. But yet thispeculiar night seemed to him to be eventful. He felt himself to belifted into some unwonted eagerness of life, something approachingto activity. There was a deed to be done, and though he was not asyet doing it, though he did not think that he intended to do it thatvery night, yet the fact that he had made up his mind made him insome sort aware that the dumb spirit which would not speak had beenexorcised, and that the crushing dullness of the latter days hadpassed away from him. No; he could not do it that night; but he wassure that he would do it. He had looked about for a way of escape, and had been as though a dead man while he could not find it. He hadlived in terror of Mrs Griffith the housekeeper, of Farmer Griffith, of the two Cantors, of Mr Apjohn, of that tyrant Cheekey, of his ownshadow, --while he and that will were existing together in the sameroom. But it should be so no longer. There was one way of escape, andhe would take it!

Then he went on thinking of what good things might be in store forhim. His spirit had hitherto been so quenched by the vicinity of thewill that he had never dared to soar into thoughts of the enjoymentof money. There had been so black a pall over everything that he hadnot as yet realised what it was that Llanfeare might do for him. Ofcourse he could not live there. Though he should have to leave thehouse untenanted altogether, it would matter but little. There was nolaw to make a man live on his own estate. He calculated that he wouldbe able to draw £1500 a year from the property;--£1500 a year! Thatwould be clearly his own; on which no one could lay a finger; andwhat enjoyment could he not buy with £1500 a year?

With a great resolve to destroy the will he went to bed, and sleptthrough the night as best he could. In the dark of his chamber, whenthe candle was out, and he was not yet protected by his bed, therecame a qualm upon him. But the deed was not yet done, and the qualmwas kept under, and he slept. He even repeated the Lord's Prayer tohimself when he was under the clothes, struggling, however, as he didso, not to bring home to himself that petition as to the leading intotemptation and the deliverance from evil. 

The next day, the Friday, and the Saturday were passed in the sameway. The resolution was still there, but the qualms came every night. And the salve to the qualm was always the same remembrance that thedeed had not been done yet. And the prayer was always said, morningand night, with the same persistent rejection of those words which, in his present condition, were so damning to him, --rejection from theintelligence though with the whispering voice the words were spoken. But still there was the resolve the same as ever. There was no otherway of escape. A stag, when brought to bay, will trample upon thehounds. He would trample upon them. Llanfeare should all be hisown. He would not return to his clerk's desk to be the scorn of allmen, --to have it known that he had fraudulently kept the will hidden, and then revealed it, not of grace, but because he was afraid of MrCheekey. His mind was quite made up. But the deed need not be yetdone. The fewer nights that he would have to pass in that house, after the doing of the deed, the better. 

The trial was to be on the Friday. He would not postpone the deedtill the last day, as it might be then that emissaries might come tohim, watching him to see that he did not escape. And yet it would bewell for him to keep his hands clean from the doing of it up to thelast moment. He was quite resolved. There was no other escape. Andyet--yet--yet, who would say what might not happen? Till the deedshould have been done, there would yet be a path open to the sweeteasiness of innocence. When it should have been done, there would bea final adieu to innocence. There would be no return to the whiteway, no possibility of repentance! How could a man repent while hewas still holding the guilty prize which he had won? Or how could hegive up the prize without delivering himself as a criminal to thelaw? But, nevertheless, he was resolved, and he determined that thedeed should be done on the Tuesday night. 

During the whole Tuesday he was thinking of it. Could he bringhimself to believe that all that story of a soul tormented for itswickedness in everlasting fire was but an old woman's tale? If hecould but bring himself to believe that! If he could do that, thencould he master his qualms. And why not? Religious thoughts hadhitherto but little troubled his life. The Church and her serviceshad been nothing to him. He had lived neither with the fear norwith the love of God at his heart. He knew that, and was but littledisposed to think that a line of conduct which had never beenhitherto adopted by him would be embraced in his later life. He couldnot think of himself as being even desirous to be religious. Why, then, should qualms afflict him?

That prayer which he was accustomed to repeat to himself as hewent to rest was but a trick of his youth. It had come down to himfrom old, innocent days; and though it was seldom omitted, withouta shiver, nevertheless it was repeated with contempt. In broaddaylight, or when boon companions had been with him round thecandles, blasphemy had never frightened him. But now, --now in histroubles, he remembered that there was a hell. He could not shakefrom himself the idea. For unrepented sin there was an eternityof torment which would last for ever! Such sin as this which hepremeditated must remain unrepented, and there would be torment forhim for ever. Nevertheless, he must do it. And, after all, did notmany of the wise ones of the earth justify him in thinking that thatthreat was but an old woman's tale?

Tuesday night came, --the late hours of Tuesday night, --the midnighthour at which he was sure that the women were in bed, and the willwas taken out from its hiding-place. He had already trimmed the wickand placed the candle on an outspread newspaper, so that no fragmentof the ash should fall where it might not be collected. He had walkedround the room to make himself sure that no aperture might possiblybe open. He put out the candle so as to see that no gleam of lightfrom any source was making its way into the room, and then relightedit. The moment had come for the destruction of the document. 

He read it all through yet again;--why he knew not, but in truthcraving some excuse for further delay. With what care the dying oldman had written every word and completed every letter! He sat therecontemplating the old man's work, telling himself that it was for himto destroy it utterly by just a motion of his wrist. He turned roundand trimmed the candle again, and still sat there with the paper inhis hand. Could it be that so great a result could come from so shortan act? The damning of his own soul! Would it in truth be the givingup of his own soul to eternal punishment? God would know that he hadnot meant to steal the property! God would know that he did not wishto steal it now! God would know that he was doing this as the onlymeans of escape from misery which others were plotting for him! Godwould know how cruelly he had been used! God would know the injusticewith which the old man had treated him! Then came moments in which healmost taught himself to believe that in destroying the will he wouldbe doing no more than an act of rough justice, and that God wouldcertainly condemn no one to eternal punishment for a just act. Butstill, whenever he would turn round to the candle, his hand wouldrefuse to raise the paper to the flame. When done, it could not beundone! And whether those eternal flames should or should not getpossession of him, there would be before him a life agonised by thedread of them. What could Mr Cheekey do worse for him than that?

The Wednesday would at any rate do as well. Why rob himself of thecomfort of one day during which his soul would not be irretrievablycondemned? Now he might sleep. For this night, at any rate, he mightsleep. He doubted whether he would ever sleep again after the doingof the deed. To be commonly wicked was nothing to him, --nothing tobreak through all those ordinary rules of life which parents teachtheir children and pastors their flocks, but as to which the worldis so careless. To covet other men's goods, to speak evil of hisneighbours, to run after his neighbour's wife if she came in hispath, to steal a little in the ordinary way, --such as selling a lamehorse or looking over an adversary's hand at whist, to swear to alie, or to ridicule the memory of his parents, --these peccadilloshad never oppressed his soul. That not telling of the will had beenburdensome to him only because of the danger of discovery. But toburn a will, and thereby clearly to steal £1500 a year from hiscousin! To commit felony! To do that for which he might be confinedat Dartmoor all his life, with his hair cut, and dirty prisonclothes, and hard food, and work to do! He thought it would be wellto have another day of life in which he had not done the deed. Hetherefore put the will back into the book and went to his bed. 

CHAPTER XXI

Mr Apjohn's Success

Early on the Wednesday morning Mr Apjohn and Mr Brodrick were onfoot, and preparing for the performance of their very disagreeableday's work. Mr Brodrick did not believe at all in the day's work, andin discussing the matter with Mr Apjohn, after they had determinedupon their line of action, made his mind known very clearly. To himit was simply apparent that if the will had fallen into the powerof a dishonest person, and if the dishonest man could achieve hispurpose by destroying it, the will would be destroyed. Of CousinHenry he knew nothing. Cousin Henry might or might not be ordinarilyhonest, as are other ordinary people. There might be no such will asthat spoken of, or there might be a will accidentally hidden, --or thewill might have been found and destroyed. But that they should beable to find a will, the hiding-place of which should be known toCousin Henry, was to his thinking out of the question. The subtlerintellect of the other lawyer appreciating the intricacies of aweak man's mind saw more than his companion. When he found thatMr Brodrick did not agree with him, and perceived that the otherattorney's mind was not speculative in such a matter as this, heceased to try to persuade, and simply said that it was the duty ofboth of them to leave no stone unturned. And so they started. 

"I'll take you about half a mile out of our way to show you MrEvans's gate, " Mr Apjohn said, after they had started. "His house isnot above twenty minutes from Llanfeare, and should it be necessaryto ask his assistance, he will know all about it. You will find apoliceman there ready to come back with you. But my impression isthat Cousin Henry will not attempt to prevent any search which we mayendeavour to make. "

It was about ten when they reached the house, and, on being showninto the book-room, they found Cousin Henry at his breakfast. Thefront door was opened for them by Mrs Griffith, the housekeeper; andwhen Mr Apjohn expressed his desire to see Mr Jones, she made nodifficulty in admitting him at once. It was a part of the misery ofCousin Henry's position that everybody around him and near to himwas against him. Mrs Griffith was aware that it was the purpose ofMr Apjohn to turn her present master out of Llanfeare if possible, and she was quite willing to aid him by any means in her power. Therefore, she gave her master no notice of the arrival of the twostrangers, but ushered them into the room at once. 

Cousin Henry's breakfast was frugal. All his meals had been frugalsince he had become owner of Llanfeare. It was not that he did notlike nice eating as well as another, but that he was too much afraidof his own servants to make known his own tastes. And then thegeneral discomforts of his position had been too great to admit ofrelief from delicate dishes. There was the tea-pot on the table, andthe solitary cup, and the bread and butter, and the nearly naked boneof a cold joint of mutton. And the things were not set after thefashion of a well-to-do gentleman's table, but were put on as theymight be in a third-rate London lodging, with a tumbled tablecloth, and dishes, plates, and cups all unlike each other. 

"Mr Jones, " said the attorney from Carmarthen, "this is your uncle, Mr Brodrick, from Hereford. " Then the two men who were so nearlyconnected, but had never known each other, shook hands. "Of course, this matter, " continued Mr Apjohn, "is of great moment, and MrBrodrick has come over to look after his daughter's interests. "

"I am very glad to see my uncle, " said Cousin Henry, turning hiseye involuntarily towards the shelf on which the volume of sermonswas resting. "I am afraid I can't offer you much in the way ofbreakfast. "

"We breakfasted before we left Carmarthen, " said Mr Apjohn. "If youdo not mind going on, we will talk to you whilst you are eating. "Cousin Henry said that he did not mind going on, but found itimpossible to eat a morsel. That which he did, and that which heendured during that interview, he had to do and had to endurefasting. "I had better tell you at once, " continued Mr Apjohn, "whatwe want to do now. "

"What is it you want to do now? I suppose I have got to go into theassizes all the same on Friday?"

"That depends. It is just possible that it should turn out to beunnecessary. "

As he said this, he looked into Cousin Henry's face, and thought thathe discerned something of satisfaction. When he made the suggestion, he understood well how great was the temptation offered in theprospect of not having to encounter Mr Cheekey. 

"Both Mr Brodrick and I think it probable that your uncle's last willmay yet be concealed somewhere in the house. " Cousin Henry's eye, asthis was said, again glanced up at the fatal shelf. 

"When Mr Apjohn says that in my name, " said Mr Brodrick, opening hismouth for the first time, "you must understand that I personally knownothing of the circumstances. I am guided in my opinion only by whathe tells me. "

"Exactly, " said Mr Apjohn. "As the father of the young lady who wouldbe the heiress of Llanfeare if you were not the heir, I have ofcourse told him everything, --even down to the most secret surmises ofmy mind. "

"All right, " said Cousin Henry. 

"My position, " continued Mr Apjohn, "is painful and very peculiar;but I find myself specially bound to act as the lawyer of thedeceased, and to carry out whatever was in truth his last will andtestament. "

"I thought that was proved at Carmarthen, " said Cousin Henry. 

"No doubt. A will was proved, --a will that was very genuine if nosubsequent will be found. But, as you have been told repeatedly, the proving of that will amounts to nothing if a subsequent one beforthcoming. The great question is this; Does a subsequent willexist?"

"How am I to know anything about it?"

"Nobody says you do. "

"I suppose you wouldn't come here and bring my uncle Brodrick down onme, --giving me no notice, but coming into my house just when I am atbreakfast, without saying a word to any one, --unless you thought so. I don't see what right you have to be here at all!"

He was trying to pluck up his spirit in order that he might get ridof them. Why, oh! why had he not destroyed that document when, onthe previous night, it had been brought out from its hiding-place, purposely in order that it might be burned?

"It is common, Mr Jones, for one gentleman to call upon another whenthere is business to be done, " said Mr Apjohn. 

"But not common to come to a gentleman's house and accuse him ofmaking away with a will. "

"Nobody has done that, " said Mr Brodrick. 

"It is very like it. "

"Will you allow us to search again? Two of my clerks will be herejust now, and will go through the house with us, if you will permitit. "

Cousin Henry sat staring at them. Not long ago he had himself askedone of Mr Apjohn's clerks why they did not search again. But then theframing of his thoughts had been different. At that moment he hadbeen desirous of surrendering Llanfeare altogether, so that he mightalso get rid of Mr Cheekey. Now he had reached a bolder purpose. Nowhe was resolved to destroy the will, enjoy the property, and face thebarrister. An idea came across his mind that they would hardly insistupon searching instantly if he refused. A petition to that effect hadalready been made, and a petition implies the power of refusal on thepart of him petitioned. 

"Where do you want to look?" he asked. 

Upon this Mr Brodrick allowed his eyes to wander round the room. AndCousin Henry's eyes followed those of his uncle, which seemed to himto settle themselves exactly upon the one shelf. 

"To search the house generally; your uncle's bed-room, for instance, "said Mr Apjohn. 

"Oh, yes; you can go there. " This he said with an ill-formed, crudeidea which sprang to his mind at the moment. If they would ascendto the bed-room, then he could seize the will when left alone anddestroy it instantly, --eat it bit by bit if it were necessary, --gowith it out of the house and reduce it utterly to nothing before hereturned. He was still a free agent, and could go and come as hepleased. "Oh, yes; you can go there. "

But this was not at all the scheme which had really formed itself inMr Apjohn's brain. "Or perhaps we might begin here, " he said. "Thereare my two clerks just arrived in the fly. "

Cousin Henry became first red and then pale, and he endeavouredto see in what direction Mr Brodrick had fixed his eye. Mr Apjohnhimself had not as yet looked anywhere round the books. He had satclose at the table, with his gaze fixed on Cousin Henry's face, asCousin Henry had been well aware. If they began to search in theroom, they would certainly find the document. Of that he was quitesure. Not a book would be left without having been made to discloseall that it might contain between its leaves. If there was anychance left to him, it must be seized now, --now at this very moment. Suddenly the possession of Llanfeare was endeared to him by athousand charms. Suddenly all fear of eternal punishment passedaway from his thoughts. Suddenly he was permeated by a feeling ofcontrition for his own weakness in having left the document unharmed. Suddenly he was brave against Mr Cheekey, as would be a tiger againsta lion. Suddenly there arose in his breast a great desire to save thewill even yet from the hands of these Philistines. 

"This is my private room, " he said. "When I am eating my breakfast Icannot let you disturb me like that. "

"In a matter such as this you wouldn't think of your own comfort!"said Mr Apjohn severely. "Comfort, indeed! What comfort can you havewhile the idea is present to you that this house in which you livemay possibly be the property of your cousin?"

"It's very little comfort you've left me among you. "

"Face it out, then, like a man; and when you have allowed us to doall that we can on her behalf, then enjoy your own, and talk ofcomfort. Shall I have the men in and go on with the search as Ipropose?"

If they were to find it, --as certainly they would, --then surely theywould not accuse him of having hidden it! He would be enabled to actsome show of surprise, and they would not dare to contradict him, even should they feel sure in their hearts that he had been aware ofthe concealment! There would be great relief! There would be an endof so many troubles! But then how weak he would have been, --to havehad the prize altogether within his grasp and to have lost it! Aburst of foul courage swelled in his heart, changing the very colourof his character for a time as he resolved that it should not be so. The men could not search there, --so he told himself, --without furtherauthority than that which Mr Apjohn could give them. "I won't betreated in this way!" he said. 

"In what way do you mean, Mr Jones?"

"I won't have my house searched as though I were a swindler and athief. Can you go into any man's house and search it just as youplease, merely because you are an attorney?"

"You told my man the other day, " said Mr Apjohn, "that we might renewthe search if we pleased. "

"So you may; but you must get an order first from somebody. You arenobody. "

"You are quite right, " said Mr Apjohn, who was not at all disposed tobe angry in regard to any observation offered personally to himself. "But surely it would be better for you that this should be doneprivately. Of course we can have a search-warrant if it be necessary;but then there must be a policeman to carry it out. "

"What do I care for policemen?" said Cousin Henry. "It is you whohave treated me badly from first to last. I will do nothing furtherat your bidding. "

Mr Apjohn looked at Mr Brodrick, and Mr Brodrick looked at Mr Apjohn. The strange attorney would do nothing without directions from theother, and the attorney who was more at home was for a few moments alittle in doubt. He got up from his chair, and walked about the room, while Cousin Henry, standing also, watched every movement which hemade. Cousin Henry took his place at the further end of the tablefrom the fire, about six feet from the spot on which all his thoughtswere intent. There he stood, ready for action while the attorneywalked up and down the room meditating what it would be best that heshould do next. As he walked he seemed to carry his nose in the air, with a gait different from what was usual to him. Cousin Henry hadalready learned something of the man's ways, and was aware that hismanner was at present strange. Mr Apjohn was in truth looking alongthe rows of the books. In old days he had often been in that room, and had read many of the titles as given on the backs. He knew thenature of many of the books collected there, and was aware that butvery few of them had ever been moved from their places in the oldSquire's time for any purpose of use. He did not wish to stand andinspect them, --not as yet. He walked on as though collecting histhoughts, and as he walked he endeavoured to fix on some long set ofsermons. He had in his mind some glimmering of remembrance that therewas such a set of books in the room. "You might as well let us do aswe propose, " he said. 

"Certainly not. To tell you the truth, I wish you would go away, andleave me. "

"Mr Cheekey will hear all about it, and how will you be able toanswer Mr Cheekey?"

"I don't care about Mr Cheekey. Who is to tell Mr Cheekey? Will youtell him?"

"I cannot take your part, you know, if you behave like this. "

As he spoke, Mr Apjohn had stopped his walk, and was standing withhis back close to the book-shelves, with the back of his head almosttouching the set of Jeremy Taylor's works. There were ten volumesof them, and he was standing exactly in front of them. Cousin Henrywas just in front of him, doubting whether his enemy's position hadnot been chosen altogether by accident, but still trembling at thenear approach. He was prepared for a spring if it was necessary. Anything should be hazarded now, so that discovery might be avoided. Mr Brodrick was still seated in the chair which he had at firstoccupied, waiting till that order should be given to him to go forthe magistrate's warrant. 

Mr Apjohn's eye had caught the author's name on the back of the book, and he remembered at once that he had seen the volume, --a volumewith Jeremy Taylor's name on the back of it, --lying on the old man'stable. "Jeremey Taylor's Works. Sermons. " He remembered the volume. That had been a long time ago, --six months ago; but the old man mightprobably take a long time over so heavy a book. "You will let me lookat some of these, " he said, pointing with his thumb over his back. 

"You shall not touch a book without a regular order, " said CousinHenry. 

Mr Apjohn fixed the man's eye for a moment. He was the smaller man ofthe two, and much the elder; but he was wiry, well set, and strong. The other was soft, and unused to much bodily exercise. There couldbe no doubt as to which would have the best of it in a personalstruggle. Very quickly he turned round and got his hand on one ofthe set, but not on the right one. Cousin Henry dashed at him, and inthe struggle the book fell to the ground. Then the attorney seizedhim by the throat, and dragged him forcibly back to the table. "Takethem all out one by one, and shake them, " he said to the otherattorney, --"that set like the one on the floor. I'll hold him whileyou do it. "

Mr Brodrick did as he was told, and, one by one, beginning from thelast volume, he shook them all till he came to volume 4. Out of thatfell the document. 

"Is it the will?" shouted Mr Apjohn, with hardly breath enough toutter the words. 

Mr Brodrick, with a lawyer's cautious hands, undid the folds, andexamined the document. "It certainly is a will, " he said, --"and issigned by my brother-in-law. "

CHAPTER XXII

How Cousin Henry Was Let Off Easily

It was a moment of great triumph and of utter dismay, --of triumphto Mr Apjohn, and of dismay to Cousin Henry. The two men at thismoment, --as Mr Brodrick was looking at the papers, --were strugglingtogether upon the ground. Cousin Henry, in his last frantic efforts, had striven to escape from the grasp of his enemy so as to seizethe will, not remembering that by seizing it now he could retrievenothing. Mr Apjohn had been equally determined that ample time shouldbe allowed to Mr Brodrick to secure any document that might be found, and, with the pugnacity which the state of fighting always produces, had held on to his prey with a firm grip. Now for the one man thereremained nothing but dismay; for the other was the full enjoyment ofthe triumph produced by his own sagacity. "Here is the date, " saidMr Brodrick, who had retreated with the paper to the furthest cornerof the room. "It is undoubtedly my brother-in-law's last will andtestament, and, as far as I can see at a glance, it is altogetherregular. "

"You dog!" exclaimed Mr Apjohn, spurning Cousin Henry away from him. "You wretched, thieving miscreant!" Then he got up on to his legsand began to adjust himself, setting his cravat right, and smoothinghis hair with his hands. "The brute has knocked the breath out ofme, " he said. "But only to think that we should catch him after sucha fashion as this!" There was a note of triumph in his voice whichhe found it impossible to repress. He was thoroughly proud of hisachievement. It was a grand thing to him that Isabel Brodrick shouldat last get the property which he had so long been anxious to securefor her; but at the present moment it was a grander thing to have hitthe exact spot in which the document had been hidden by sheer forceof intelligence. 

What little power of fighting there had ever been in Cousin Henryhad now been altogether knocked out of him. He attempted no furtherstruggle, uttered no denial, nor did he make any answer to the wordsof abuse which Mr Apjohn had heaped on his head. He too raisedhimself from the floor, slowly collecting his limbs together, andseated himself in the chair nearest at hand, hiding his face with hishand. 

"That is the most wonderful thing that ever came within myexperience, " said Mr Brodrick. 

"That the man should have hidden the will?" asked Mr Apjohn. 

"Why do you say I hid it?" moaned Cousin Henry. 

"You reptile!" exclaimed Mr Apjohn. 

"Not that he should have hidden it, " said the Hereford attorney, "butthat you should have found it, and found it without any search;--thatyou should have traced it down to the very book in which the old manmust have left it!"

"Yes, " said Cousin Henry. "He left it there. I did not hide it. "

"Do you mean, " said Mr Apjohn, turning upon him with all the severityof which he was capable, "do you mean to say that during all thistime you have not known that the will was there?" The wretched manopened his mouth and essayed to speak, but not a word came. "Do youmean to tell us that when you refused us just now permission tosearch this room, though you were willing enough that we shouldsearch elsewhere, you were not acquainted with the hiding-place? WhenI asked you in my office the other day whether you knew where thewill was hidden, and you wouldn't answer me for very fear, thoughyou were glib enough in swearing that you had not hidden it yourself, then you knew nothing about the book and its enclosure? When you toldMr Griffith down at Coed that you had something to divulge, were younot then almost driven to tell the truth by your dastardly cowardiceas to this threatened trial? And did you not fail again because youwere afraid? You mean poltroon! Will you dare to say before us, now, that when we entered the room this morning you did not know what thebook contained?" Cousin Henry once more opened his mouth, but noword came. "Answer me, sir, if you wish to escape any part of thepunishment which you have deserved. "

"You should not ask him to criminate himself, " said Mr Brodrick. 

"No!" shrieked Cousin Henry; "no! he shouldn't ask a fellow to tellagainst himself. It isn't fair; is it, Uncle Brodrick?"

"If I hadn't made you tell against yourself one way or another, " saidMr Apjohn, "the will would have been there still, and we should allhave been in the dark. There are occasions in which the truth must bescrewed out of a man. We have screwed it out of you, you miserablecreature! Brodrick, let us look at the paper. I suppose it is allright. " He was so elated by the ecstasy of his success that he hardlyknew how to contain himself. There was no prospect to him of anyprofit in all this. It might, indeed, well be that all the expensesincurred, including the handsome honorarium which would still haveto be paid to Mr Cheekey, must come out of his own pocket. But theglory of the thing was too great to admit of any considerations suchas those. For the last month his mind had been exercised with thequestion of this will, whether there was such a will or not, and, if so, where was its hiding-place? Now he had brought his month'slabour, his month's speculation, and his month's anxiety to a supremesuccess. In his present frame of mind it was nothing to him whomight pay the bill. "As far as I can see, " said Mr Brodrick, "it isaltogether in order. "

"Let us look at it. " Then Mr Apjohn, stretching out his hand, tookthe document, and, seating himself in Cousin Henry's own chair at thebreakfast-table, read it through carefully from beginning to end. Itwas wonderful, --the exactness with which the old Squire had copied, not only every word, but every stop and every want of a stop in thepreceding will. "It is my own work, every morsel of it, " said MrApjohn, with thorough satisfaction. "Why on earth did he not burnthe intermediate one which he made in this rascal's favour, "--thenhe indicated the rascal by a motion of his head--"and make it allstraight in that way?"

"There are men who think that a will once made should never bedestroyed, " suggested Mr Brodrick. 

"I suppose it was something of that kind. He was a fine old fellow, but as obstinate as a mule. Well, what are we to do now?"

"My nephew will have to consult his lawyer whether he will wish todispute this document or not. "

"I do not want to dispute anything, " said Cousin Henry, whining. 

"Of course he will be allowed time to think of it, " said Mr Apjohn. "He is in possession now, and will have plenty of time. He will haveto answer some rather difficult questions from Mr Cheekey on Friday. "

"Oh, no!" shouted the victim. 

"I am afraid it must be 'oh, yes, ' Mr Jones! How are you to get outof it; eh? You are bound over to prosecute Mr Evans, of the _Herald_, for defamation of character. Of course it will come out at the trialthat we have found this document. Indeed, I shall be at no trouble toconceal that fact, --nor, I suppose, will be Mr Brodrick. Why shouldwe?"

"I thought you were acting as my lawyer. "

"So I was, --and so I am, --and so I will. While you were supposed tobe an honest man, --or, rather, while it was possible that it might beso supposed, --I told you what, as an honest man, you were bound todo. The _Carmarthen Herald_ knew that you were not honest, --and saidso. If you are prepared to go into the court and swear that you knewnothing of the existence of this document, that you were not awarethat it was concealed in that book, that you did nothing to preventus from looking for it this morning, I will carry on the case foryou. If I am called into the witness-box against you, of course Imust give my evidence for what it is worth;--and Mr Brodrick must dothe same. "

"But it won't go on?" he asked. 

"Not if you are prepared to admit that there was no libel in allthat the newspaper said. If you agree that it was all true, then youwill have to pay the costs on both sides, and the indictment can bequashed. It will be a serious admission to make, but perhaps thatwon't signify, seeing what your position as to character will be. "

"I think you are almost too hard upon him, " said Mr Brodrick. 

"Am I? Can one be too hard on a man who has acted as he has done?"

"He is hard, --isn't he, Mr Brodrick?"

"Hard! Why, yes;--I should think I am. I mean to be hard. I mean togo on trampling you to pieces till I see your cousin, Miss Brodrick, put into full possession of this estate. I don't mean to leave you aloop-hole of escape by any mercy. At the present moment you are HenryJones, Esq. , of Llanfeare, and will be so till you are put out by thehard hand of the law. You may turn round for anything I know, and saythat this document is a forgery. "

"No, no!"

"That Mr Brodrick and I brought it here with us and put it in thebook. "

"I sha'n't say anything of the kind. "

"Who did put it there?" Cousin Henry sobbed and groaned, but saidnothing. "Who did put it there? If you want to soften our hearts toyou in any degree, if you wish us to contrive some mode of escape foryou, tell the truth. Who put the will into that book?"

"How am I to know?"

"You do know! Who put it there?"

"I suppose it was Uncle Indefer. "

"And you had seen it there?" Again Cousin Henry sobbed and groaned. 

"You should hardly ask him that, " said Mr Brodrick. 

"Yes! If any good can be done for him, it must be by making him feelthat he must help us by making our case easy for us. You had seenit there? Speak the word, and we will do all we can to let you offeasily. "

"Just by an accident, " said he. 

"You did see it, then?"

"Yes;--I chanced to see it. "

"Yes; of course you did. And then the Devil went to work with you andprompted you to destroy it?" He paused as though asking a question, but to this question Cousin Henry found it impossible to make anyanswer. "But the Devil had not quite hold enough over you to make youdo that? It was so;--was it not? There was a conscience with you?"

"Oh, yes. "

"But the conscience was not strong enough to force you to give it upwhen you found it?" Cousin Henry now burst out into open tears. "Thatwas about it, I suppose? If you can bring yourself to make a cleanbreast of it, it will be easier for you. "

"May I go back to London at once?" he asked. 

"Well; as to that, I think we had better take some little time forconsideration. But I think I may say that, if you will make ourway easy for us, we will endeavour to make yours easy for you. Youacknowledge this to be your uncle's will as far as you know?"

"Oh, yes. "

"You acknowledge that Mr Brodrick found it in this book which I nowhold in my hand?"

"I acknowledge that. "

"This is all that I ask you to sign your name to. As for the rest, it is sufficient that you have confessed the truth to your uncle andto me. I will just write a few lines that you shall sign, and thenwe will go back to Carmarthen and do the best we can to preventthe trial for next Friday. " Thereupon Mr Apjohn rang the bell, andasked Mrs Griffith to bring him paper and ink. With these he wrote aletter addressed to himself, which he invited Cousin Henry to sign assoon as he had read it aloud to him and to Mr Brodrick. The lettercontained simply the two admissions above stated, and then wenton to authorise Mr Apjohn, as the writer's attorney, to withdrawthe indictment against the proprietor of the _Carmarthen Herald_, "in consequence, " as the letter said, "of the question as to thepossession of Llanfeare having been settled now in an unexpectedmanner. "

When the letter was completed, the two lawyers went away, and CousinHenry was left to his own meditation. He sat there for a while, so astounded by the transaction of the morning as to be unable tocollect his thoughts. All this that had agitated him so profoundlyfor the last month had been set at rest by the finding of the will. There was no longer any question as to what must be done. Everythinghad been done. He was again a London clerk, with a small sum of moneybesides his clerkship, and the security of lowliness into which tofall back! If only they would be silent;--if only it might be thoughtby his fellow-clerks in London that the will had been found by themwithout any knowledge on his part, --then he would be satisfied. Aterrible catastrophe had fallen upon him, but one which would notbe without consolation if with the estate might be made to passaway from him all responsibilities and all accusations as to theestate. That terrible man had almost promised him that a way ofretreat should be made easy to him. At any rate, he would not becross-examined by Mr Cheekey. At any rate, he would not be broughtto trial. There was almost a promise, too, that as little should besaid as possible. There must, he supposed, be some legal form ofabdication on his part, but he was willing to execute that as quicklyas possible on the simple condition that he should be allowed todepart without being forced to speak further on the matter to anyone in Wales. Not to have to see the tenants, not to have to sayeven a word of farewell to the servants, not to be carried intoCarmarthen, --above all, not to face Mr Cheekey and the Court, --thiswas all he asked now from a kind Fate. 

At about two Mrs Griffith came into the room, ostensibly to take awaythe breakfast things. She had seen the triumphant face of Mr Apjohn, and knew that some victory had been gained. But when she saw that thebreakfast had not been touched, her heart became soft. The way tomelt the heart of a Mrs Griffith is to eat nothing. "Laws, Mr Jones, you have not had a mouthful. Shall I do you a broil?" He assented tothe broil, and ate it, when it was cooked, with a better appetitethan he had enjoyed since his uncle's death. Gradually he came tofeel that a great load had been taken from off his shoulders. Thewill was no longer hidden in the book. Nothing had been done of whichhe could not repent. There was no prospect of a life before him madehorrid by one great sin. He could not be Squire of Llanfeare; norwould he be a felon, --a felon always in his own esteem. Upon thewhole, though he hardly admitted as much to himself, the man'scondition had been improved by the transactions of the morning. 

"You don't quite agree with all that I have done this morning, " saidMr Apjohn, as soon as the two lawyers were in the fly together. 

"I am lost in admiration at the clearness of your insight. "

"Ah! that comes of giving one's undivided thoughts to a matter. Ihave been turning it over in my mind till I have been able to see itall. It was odd, wasn't it, that I should have foretold to you allthat happened, almost to the volume?"

"Quite to the volume!"

"Well, yes; to the volume of sermons. Your brother-in-law readnothing but sermons. But you thought I shouldn't have asked thosequestions. "

"I don't like making a man criminate himself, " said Mr Brodrick. 

"Nor do I, --if I mean to criminate him too. My object is to let himoff. But to enable us to do that we must know exactly what he knewand what he had done. Shall I tell you what occurred to me when youshook the will out of the book? How would it be if he declared thatwe had brought it with us? If he had been sharp enough for that, thevery fact of our having gone to the book at once would have beenevidence against us. "

"He was not up to it. "

"No, poor devil! I am inclined to think that he has got as bad as hedeserves. He might have been so much worse. We owe him ever so muchfor not destroying the will. His cousin will have to give him the£4000 which he was to have given her. "

"Certainly, certainly. "

"He has been hardly used, you know, by his uncle; and, upon my word, he has had a bad time of it for the last month. I wouldn't have beenhated and insulted as he has been by those people up there, --not forall Llanfeare twice over. I think we've quenched him now, so thathe'll run smooth. If so, we'll let him off easily. If I had treatedhim less hardly just now, he might have gathered courage and turnedupon us. Then it would have been necessary to crush him altogether. Iwas thinking all through how we might let him off easiest. "

CHAPTER XXIII

Isabel's Petition

The news was soon all about Carmarthen. A new will had been found, inaccordance with which Miss Brodrick was to become owner of Llanfeare, and, --which was of more importance to Carmarthen at the presentmoment, --there was to be no trial! The story, as told publicly, wasas follows;--Mr Apjohn, by his sagacity, had found the will. It hadbeen concealed in a volume of sermons, and Mr Apjohn, rememberingsuddenly that the old man had been reading these sermons shortlybefore his death, had gone at once to the book. There the willhad been discovered, which had at once been admitted to be a trueand formal document by the unhappy pseudo-proprietor. Henry Joneshad acknowledged his cousin to be the heiress, and under thesecircumstances had conceived it to be useless to go on with the trial. Such was the story told, and Mr Apjohn, fully aware that the storywent very lame on one leg, did his best to remedy the default byexplaining that it would be unreasonable to expect that a man shouldcome into court and undergo an examination by Mr Cheekey just when hehad lost a fine property. 

"Of course I know all that, " said Mr Apjohn when the editor of thepaper remarked to him that the libel, if a libel, would be justas much a libel whether Mr Henry Jones were or were not the ownerof Llanfeare. "Of course I know all that; but you are hardly toexpect that a man is to come and assert himself amidst a cloud ofdifficulties when he has just undergone such a misfortune as that!You have had your fling, and are not to be punished for it. Thatought to satisfy you. "

"And who'll pay all the expenses?" asked Mr Evans. 

"Well, " said Mr Apjohn, scratching his head; "you, of course, willhave to pay nothing. Geary will settle all that with me. That poordevil at Llanfeare ought to pay. "

"He won't have the money. "

"I, at any rate, will make it all right with Geary; so that needn'ttrouble you. "

This question as to the expense was much discussed by others inCarmarthen. Who in truth would pay the complicated lawyers' billwhich must have been occasioned, including all these flys out toLlanfeare? In spite of Mr Apjohn's good-natured explanations, thepublic of Carmarthen was quite convinced that Henry Jones had intruth hidden the will. If so, he ought not only to be made to payfor everything, but be sent to prison also and tried for felony. Theopinion concerning Cousin Henry in Carmarthen on the Thursday andFriday was very severe indeed. Had he shown himself in the town, hewould almost have been pulled in pieces. To kill him and to sell hiscarcase for what it might fetch towards lessening the expenses whichhe had incurred would not be too bad for him. Mr Apjohn was, ofcourse, the hero of the hour, and, as far as Carmarthen could see, MrApjohn would have to pay the bill. All this, spoken as it was by manymouths, reached Mr Brodrick's ears, and induced him to say a word ortwo to Mr Apjohn. 

"This affair, " said he, "will of course become a charge upon theproperty?"

"What affair?"

"This trial which is not to take place, and the rest of it. "

"The trial will have nothing to do with the estate, " said Mr Apjohn. 

"It has everything to do with it. I only mention it now to let youknow that, as Isabel's father, I shall make it my business to lookafter that. "

"The truth is, Brodrick, " said the Carmarthen attorney, with thatgleam of triumph in his eye which had been so often seen there sincethe will had tumbled out of the volume of sermons in the book-room, "the whole of this matter has been such a pleasure to me that I don'tcare a straw about the costs. If I paid for it all from beginning toend out of my own pocket, I should have had my whack for my money. Perhaps Miss Isabel will recompense me by letting me make her willsome day. "

Such were the feelings and such were the words spoken at Carmarthen;and it need only be said further, in regard to Carmarthen, that theoperations necessary for proving the later will and annulling theformer one, for dispossessing Cousin Henry and for putting Isabelinto the full fruition of all her honours, went on as quickly as itcould be effected by the concentrated energy of Mr Apjohn and all hisclerks. 

Cousin Henry, to whom we may be now allowed to bid farewell, waspermitted to remain within the seclusion of the house at Llanfearetill his signature had been obtained to the last necessary document. No one spoke a word to him; no one came to see him. If therewere intruders about the place anxious to catch a glimpse of thepseudo-Squire, they were disappointed. 

Mrs Griffith, under the attorney's instructions, was more courteousto him than she had been when he was her master. She endeavoured toget him things nice to eat, trying to console him by titbits. None ofthe tenants appeared before him, nor was there a rough word spoken tohim, even by young Cantor. 

In all this Cousin Henry did feel some consolation, and was greatlycomforted when he heard from the office in London that his stool atthe desk was still kept open for him. 

The _Carmarthen Herald_, in its final allusion to the state of thingsat Llanfeare, simply declared that the proper will had been found atlast, and that Miss Isabel Brodrick was to be restored to her rights. Guided by this statement, the directors in London were contented toregard their clerk as having been unfortunate rather than guilty. 

For the man himself, the reader, it is hoped, will feel somecompassion. He had been dragged away from London by false hopes. After so great an injury as that inflicted on him by the last changein the Squire's purpose it was hardly unnatural that the idea ofretaliation should present itself to him when the opportunity came inhis way. Not to do that which justice demands is so much easier tothe conscience than to commit a deed which is palpably fraudulent!At the last his conscience saved him, and Mr Apjohn will perhaps bethought to have been right in declaring that much was due to him inthat he had not destroyed the will. His forbearance was recompensedfully. 

As soon as the money could be raised on the property, the full sumof £4000 was paid to him, that having been the amount with which theSquire had intended to burden the property on behalf of his niecewhen he was minded to put her out of the inheritance. 

It may be added that, notorious as the whole affair was atCarmarthen, but little of Cousin Henry's wicked doings were known upin London. 

We must now go back to Hereford. By agreement between the twolawyers, no tidings of her good fortune were at once sent to Isabel. "There is so many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, " said Mr Apjohnto her father. But early in the following week Mr Brodrick himselftook the news home with him. 

"My dear, " he said to her as soon as he found himself alone withher, --having given her intimation that an announcement of greatimportance was to be made to her, --"it turns out that after all yourUncle Indefer did make another will. "

"I was always quite sure of that, papa. "

"How were you sure?"

"He told me so, papa. "

"He told you so! I never heard that before. "

"He did, --when he was dying. What was the use of talking of it? Buthas it been found?"

"It was concealed within a book in the library. As soon as thenecessary deeds can be executed Llanfeare will be your own. It isprecisely word for word the same as that which he had made before hesent for your cousin Henry. "

"Then Henry has not destroyed it?"

"No, he did not destroy it. "

"Nor hid it where we could not find it?"

"Nor did he hide it. "

"Oh, how I have wronged him;--how I have injured him!"

"About that we need say nothing, Isabel. You have not injured him. But we may let all that pass away. The fact remains that you are theheiress of Llanfeare. "

Of course he did by degrees explain to her all thecircumstances, --how the will had been found and not revealed, and howfar Cousin Henry had sinned in the matter; but it was agreed betweenthem that no further evil should be said in the family as to theirunfortunate relative. The great injury which he might have done tothem he had abstained from doing. 

"Papa, " she said to her father when they were again together alonethat same evening, "you must tell all this to Mr Owen. You must tellhim everything, just as you have told me. "

"Certainly, my dear, if you wish it. "

"I do wish it. "

"Why should you not have the pleasure of telling him yourself?"

"It would not be a pleasure, and therefore I will get you to do it. My pleasure, if there be any pleasure in it, must come afterwards. Iwant him to know it before I see him myself. "

"He will be sure to have some stupid notion, " said her father, smiling. 

"I want him to have his notion, whether it be stupid or otherwise, before I see him. If you do not mind, papa, going to him as soon aspossible, I shall be obliged to you. "

Isabel, when she found herself alone, had her triumph also. She wasfar from being dead to the delights of her inheritance. There hadbeen a period in her life in which she had regarded it as her certaindestiny to be the possessor of Llanfeare, and she had been proud ofthe promised position. The tenants had known her as the future ownerof the acres which they cultivated, and had entertained for her andshown to her much genuine love. She had made herself acquainted withevery homestead, landmark, and field about the place. She had learntthe wants of the poor, and the requirements of the little school. Everything at Llanfeare had had an interest for her. Then had comethat sudden change in her uncle's feelings, --that new idea ofduty, --and she had borne it like a heroine. Not only had she neversaid a word of reproach to him, but she had sworn to herself thateven in her own heart she would throw no blame upon him. A great blowhad come upon her, but she had taken it as though it had come fromthe hand of the Almighty, --as it might have been had she lost hereyesight, or been struck with palsy. She promised herself that itshould be so, and she had had strength to be as good as her word. Shehad roused herself instantly from the effect of the blow, and, aftera day of consideration, had been as capable as ever to do the workof her life. Then had come her uncle's last sickness, those spokenbut doubtful words, her uncle's death, and that conviction thather cousin was a felon. Then she had been unhappy, and had foundit difficult to stand up bravely against misfortune. Added to thishad been her stepmother's taunts and her father's distress at theresolution she had taken. The home to which she had returned had beenthoroughly unhappy to her. And there had been her stern purpose notto give her hand to the man who loved her and whom she so dearlyloved! She was sure of her purpose, and yet she was altogetherdiscontented with herself. She was sure that she would hold by herpurpose, and yet she feared that her purpose was wrong. She hadrefused the man when she was rich, and her pride would not let her goto him now that she was poor. She was sure of her purpose, --but yetshe almost knew that her pride was wrong. 

But now there would be a triumph. Her eyes gleamed brightly as shethought of the way in which she would achieve her triumph. Her eyesgleamed very brightly as she felt sure within her own bosom that shewould succeed. Yes: he would, no doubt, have some stupid notion, asher father said. But she would overcome his stupidity. She, as awoman, could be stronger than he as a man. He had almost ridiculedher obstinacy, swearing that he would certainly overcome it. Thereshould be no ridicule on her part, but she would certainly overcomehis obstinacy. 

For a day or two Mr Owen was not seen. She heard from her fatherthat the tidings had been told to her lover, but she heard no more. Mr Owen did not show himself at the house; and she, indeed, hardlyexpected that he should do so. Her stepmother suddenly becamegracious, --having no difficulty in explaining that she did so becauseof the altered position of things. 

"My dearest Isabel, it does make such a difference!" she said; "youwill be a rich lady, and will never have to think about the priceof shoes. " The sisters were equally plain-spoken, and were almostawe-struck in their admiration. 

Three or four days after the return of Mr Brodrick, Isabel took herbonnet and shawl, and walked away all alone to Mr Owen's lodgings. She knew his habits, and was aware that he was generally to be foundat home for an hour before his dinner. It was no time, she said toherself, to stand upon little punctilios. There had been too muchbetween them to let there be any question of a girl going after herlover. She was going after her lover, and she didn't care who knewit. Nevertheless, there was a blush beneath her veil as she asked atthe door whether Mr Owen was at home. Mr Owen was at home, and shewas shown at once into his parlour. 

"William, " she said;--throughout their intimacy she had never calledhim William before;--"you have heard my news?"

"Yes, " he said, "I have heard it;"--very seriously, with none ofthat provoking smile with which he had hitherto responded to all herassertions. 

"And you have not come to congratulate me?"

"I should have done so. I do own that I have been wrong. "

"Wrong;--very wrong! How was I to have any of the enjoyment of myrestored rights unless you came to enjoy them with me?"

"They can be nothing to me, Isabel. "

"They shall be everything to you, sir. "

"No, my dear. "

"They are to be everything to me, and they can be nothing to mewithout you. You know that, I suppose?" Then she waited for hisreply. "You know that, do you not? You know what I feel about that, Isay. Why do you not tell me? Have you any doubt?"

"Things have been unkind to us, Isabel, and have separated us. "

"Nothing shall separate us. " Then she paused for a moment. She hadthought of it all, and now had to pause before she could execute herpurpose. She had got her plan ready, but it required some courage, some steadying of herself to the work before she could do it. Thenshe came close to him, --close up to him, looking into his face as hestood over her, not moving his feet, but almost retreating with hisbody from her close presence. "William, " she said, "take me in yourarms and kiss me. How often have you asked me during the last month!Now I have come for it. "

He paused a moment as though it were possible to refuse, as thoughhis collected thoughts and settled courage might enable him so tooutrage her in her petition. Then he broke down, and took her inhis arms, and pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, andher forehead, and her cheeks, --while she, having once achieved herpurpose, attempted in vain to escape from his long embrace. 

"Now I shall be your wife, " she said at last, when her breath hadreturned to her. 

"It should not be so. "

"Not after that? Will you dare to say so to me, --after that? Youcould never hold up your head again. Say that you are happy? Tell methat you are happy. Do you think that I can be happy unless you arehappy with me?" Of course he gave her all the assurances that wereneeded, and made it quite unnecessary that she should renew herprayer. 

"And I beg, Mr Owen, that for the future you will come to me, and notmake me come to you. " This she said as she was taking her leave. "Itwas very disagreeable, and very wrong, and will be talked about everso much. Nothing but my determination to have my own way could havemade me do it. " Of course he promised her that there should be nooccasion for her again to put herself to the same inconvenience. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Conclusion

Isabel spent one pleasant week with her lover at Hereford, andthen was summoned into Carmarthenshire. Mr Apjohn came over at herfather's invitation, and insisted on taking her back to Llanfeare. 

"There are a thousand things to be done, " he said, "and the sooneryou begin to do them the better. Of course you must live at the oldhouse, and you had better take up your habitation there for a whilebefore this other change is made. " The other change was of course thecoming marriage, with the circumstances of which the lawyer had beenmade acquainted. 

Then there arose other questions. Should her father go with her orshould her lover? It was, however, at last decided that she should goalone as regarded her family, but under the care of Mr Apjohn. It wasshe who had been known in the house, and she who had better now beseen there as her uncle's representative. 

"You will have to be called Miss Jones, " said the lawyer, "MissIndefer Jones. There will be a form, for which we shall have to pay, I am afraid; but we had better take the name at once. You will haveto undergo a variety of changes in signing your name. You will becomefirst Miss Isabel Brodrick Indefer Jones, then Mrs William Owen, then, when he shall have gone through the proper changes, Mrs WilliamOwen Indefer Jones. As such I hope you may remain till you shall beknown as the oldest inhabitant of Carmarthenshire. "

Mr Apjohn took her to Carmarthen, and hence on to Llanfeare. At thestation there were many to meet her, so that her triumph, as she gotinto the carriage, was almost painful to her. When she heard thebells ring from the towers of the parish churches, she could hardlybelieve that the peals were intended to welcome her back to her oldhome. She was taken somewhat out of her way round by the creek andCoed, so that the little tinkling of her own parish church mightnot be lost upon her. If this return of hers to the estate was soimportant to others as to justify these signs, what must it be to herand how deep must be the convictions as to her own duties?

At the gate of Coed farmyard the carriage stopped, and the old farmercame out to say a few words to her. 

"God bless you, Miss Isabel; this is a happy sight to see. "

"This is so kind of you, Mr Griffith. "

"We've had a bad time of it, Miss Isabel;--not that we wished toquarrel with your dear uncle's judgment, or that we had a right tosay much against the poor gentleman who has gone;--but we expectedyou, and it went against the grain with us to have our expectationsdisappointed. We shall always look up to you, miss; but, at the sametime, I wish you joy with all my heart of the new landlord you'regoing to set over us. Of course that was to be expected, but you'llbe here with us all the time. " Isabel, while the tears ran down hercheeks, could only press the old man's hand at parting. 

"Now, my dear, " said Mr Apjohn, as they went on to the house, "he hasonly said just what we've all been feeling. Of course it has beenstronger with the tenants and servants than with others. But allround the country it has been the same. A man, if an estate belongto himself personally, can do what he likes with it, as he can withthe half-crowns in his pocket; but where land is concerned, feelingsgrow up which should not be treated rudely. In one sense Llanfearebelonged to your uncle to do what he liked with it, but in anothersense he shared it only with those around him; and when he wasinduced by a theory which he did not himself quite understand tobring your cousin Henry down among these people, he outraged theirbest convictions. "

"He meant to do his duty, Mr Apjohn. "

"Certainly; but he mistook it. He did not understand the root of thatidea of a male heir. The object has been to keep the old family, andthe old adherences, and the old acres together. England owes muchto the manner in which this has been done, and the custom as to amale heir has availed much in the doing of it. But in this case, insticking to the custom, he would have lost the spirit, and, as faras he was concerned, would have gone against the practice which hewished to perpetuate. There, my dear, is a sermon for you, of which, I dare say, you do not understand a word. "

"I understand every syllable of it, Mr Apjohn, " she answered. 

They soon arrived at the house, and there they found not only MrsGriffith and the old cook, who had never left the premises, but theold butler also, who had taken himself off in disgust at CousinHenry's character, but had now returned as though there had been nobreak in his continuous service. They received her with triumphantclamours of welcome. To them the coming of Cousin Henry, and thedeath of the old Squire, and then the departure of their youngmistress, had been as though the whole world had come to an end forthem. To serve was their only ambition, --to serve and to be madecomfortable while they were serving; but to serve Cousin Henry wasto them altogether ignominious. The old Squire had done somethingwhich, though they acknowledged it to be no worse on his part thana mistake, had to them been cruelly severe. Suddenly to be toldthat they were servants to such a one as Cousin Henry, --servants tosuch a man without any contract or agreement on their part;--to behanded over like the chairs and tables to a disreputable clerk fromLondon, whom in their hearts they regarded as very much inferior tothemselves! And they, too, like Mr Griffith and the tenants, hadbeen taught to look for the future reign of Queen Isabel as a thingof course. In that there would have been an implied contract, --anunderstanding on their part that they had been consulted and hadagreed to this destination of themselves. But Cousin Henry! Now thisgross evil to themselves and to all around them had been remedied, and justice was done. They had all been strongly convinced that theSquire had made and had left behind him another will. The butler hadbeen quite certain that this had been destroyed by Cousin Henry, andhad sworn that he would not stand behind the chair of a felon. Thegardener had been equally violent, and had declined even to cut acabbage for Cousin Henry's use. The women in the house had onlysuspected. They had felt sure that something was wrong, but haddoubted between various theories. But now everything was right;now the proper owner had come; now the great troubles had beenvanquished, and Llanfeare would once again be a fitting home forthem. 

"Oh, Miss Isabel! oh, Miss Isabel!" said Mrs Griffith, absolutelysobbing at her young mistress's feet up in her bed-room; "I did saythat it could never go on like that. I did use to think that the LordAlmighty would never let it go on like that! It couldn't be that MrHenry Jones was to remain always landlord of Llanfeare. "

When she came downstairs and took her seat, as she did by chance, in the old arm-chair which her uncle had been used to occupy, MrApjohn preached to her another sermon, or rather sang a loud pæan ofirrepressible delight. 

"Now, my dear, I must go and leave you, --happily in your own house. You can hardly realise how great a joy this has been to me, --howgreat a joy it is. "

"I know well how much we owe you. "

"From the first moment in which he intimated to me his wish to makea change in his will, I became so unhappy about it as almost to losemy rest. I knew that I went beyond what I ought to have done in thethings that I said to him, and he bore it kindly. "

"He was always kind. "

"But I couldn't turn him. I told him what I told you to-day on theroad, but it had no effect on him. Well, I had nothing to do but toobey his orders. This I did most grudgingly. It was a heartbreakto me, not only because of you, my dear, but for the sake of theproperty, and because I had heard something of your cousin. Then camethe rumour of this last will. He must have set about it as soon asyou had left the house. "

"He never told me that he was going to do it. "

"He never told any one; that is quite certain. But it shows how hismind must have been at work. Perhaps what I said may have had someeffect at last. Then I heard from the Cantors what they had beenasked to do. I need not tell you all that I felt then. It would havebeen better for him to send for me. "

"Oh, yes. "

"So much better for that poor young man's sake. " The poor young manwas of course Cousin Henry. "But I could not interfere. I could onlyhear what I did hear, --and wait. Then the dear old man died!"

"I knew then that he had made it. "

"You knew that he had thought that he had done it; but how is one tobe sure of the vacillating mind of an old dying man? When we searchedfor the one will and read the other, I was very sure that the Cantorshad been called upon to witness his signature. Who could doubt asto that? But he who had so privately drawn out the deed might asprivately destroy it. By degrees there grew upon me the convictionthat he had not destroyed it; that it still existed, --or that yourcousin had destroyed it. The latter I never quite believed. He wasnot the man to do it, --neither brave enough nor bad enough. "

"I think not bad enough. "

"Too small in his way altogether. And yet it was clear as the sun atnoonday that he was troubled in his conscience. He shut himself up inhis misery, not knowing how strong a tale his own unhappiness toldagainst him. Why did he not rejoice in the glory of his position?Then I said to myself that he was conscious of insecurity. "

"His condition must have been pitiable. "

"Indeed, yes. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. The contumelywith which he was treated by all went to my heart even after I knewthat he was misbehaving. I knew that he was misbehaving;--but how? Itcould only be by hiding the will, or by being conscious that it washidden. Though he was a knave, he was not cunning. He failed utterlybefore the slightest cunning on the part of others. When I asked himwhether he knew where it was hidden, he told a weak lie, but toldthe truth openly by the look of his eyes. He was like a little girlwho pauses and blushes and confesses all the truth before she halfmurmurs her naughty fib. Who can be really angry with the child wholies after that unwilling fashion? I had to be severe upon him tillall was made clear; but I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. "

"You have been good to all of us. "

"At last it became clear to me that your uncle had put it somewherehimself. Then came a chance remembrance of the sermons he used toread, and by degrees the hiding-place was suggested to me. When atlast he welcomed us to go and search in his uncle's bed-room, butforbade us to touch anything in the book-room, --then I was convinced. I had but to look along the shelves till I found the set, and Ialmost knew that we had got the prize. Your father has told you howhe flew at me when I attempted to lift my hand to the books. Theagony of the last chance gave him a moment of courage. Then yourfather shook the document out from among the leaves. "

"That must have been a moment of triumph to you. "

"Yes;--it was. I did feel a little proud of my success. And I amproud as I see you sitting there, and feel that justice has beendone. "

"By your means!"

"That justice has been done, and that every one has his own again. I own to all the litigious pugnacity of a lawyer. I live by suchfighting, and I like it. But a case in which I do not believe crushesme. To have an injustice to get the better of, and then to trampleit well under foot, --that is the triumph that I desire. It does notoften happen to a lawyer to have had such a chance as this, and Ifancy that it could not have come in the way of a man who would haveenjoyed it more than I do. " Then at last, after lingering about thehouse, he bade her farewell. "God bless you, and make you happyhere, --you and your husband. If you will take my advice you willentail the property. You, no doubt, will have children, and will takecare that in due course it shall go to the eldest boy. There can beno doubt as to the wisdom of that. But you see what terrible miserymay be occasioned by not allowing those who are to come after you toknow what it is they are to expect. "

For a few weeks Isabel remained alone at Llanfeare, during which allthe tenants came to call upon her, as did many of the neighbouringgentry. 

"I know'd it, " said young Cantor, clenching his fist almost in herface. "I was that sure of it I couldn't hardly hold myself. To thinkof his leaving it in a book of sermons!"

Then, after the days were past during which it was thought well thatshe should remain at Llanfeare to give orders, and sign papers, andmake herself by very contact with her own property its mistress andowner, her father came for her and took her back to Hereford. Thenshe had incumbent upon her the other duty of surrendering herselfand all that she possessed to another. As any little interest whichthis tale may possess has come rather from the heroine's materialinterests than from her love, --as it has not been, so to say, a lovestory, --the reader need not follow the happy pair absolutely to thealtar. But it may be said, in anticipation of the future, that in duetime an eldest son was born, that Llanfeare was entailed upon himand his son, and that he was so christened as to have his somewhatgrandiloquent name inscribed as William Apjohn Owen Indefer Jones.