Works of Ellen Wood, page 511
CHAPTER XXII.
THE WILL.
SARA DAVENAL in her sick restlessness was early in the breakfast-room. The disappointment touching her brother was weighing down her heart. Since the arrival of the unsatisfactory note the previous evening, she had felt a conviction similar to Dr. Davenal’s, that Edward would not come. Neither had spoken of it to the other; great griefs cannot be talked of; and to Sara this was a grief inexpressible. It seemed that she would give half her remaining years of life for only one five minutes’ interview with him.
If he came at all he would come to-day, Friday; and she got up, hoping against hope; saying to herself aloud, in contradiction to the fear lying upon her heart, and which she would not glance at, “He will be sure to come; he will never embark on that long voyage without first coming. He will remember Richard’s fate.” For the time being, the eager anxiety to see him almost seemed to deaden that other trouble which lay within her — the trouble that had taken possession of her on the Sunday night, never again to quit its tenement “Is the post in?” asked Dr. Davenal, as he entered the breakfast-room.
“No, it is not made,” sharply replied Miss Davenal from her presiding place at the table. “Neal has but this minute brought in the urn. I am making it quickly as I can.”
“I asked whether the post was in, Bettina. Because, if Edward is not coming, I should think there’d be a letter from him.”
Sara looked up eagerly. “Don’t you hope he will come, papa? Don’t you think he will?”
“Well, Sara, after his letter of last night, my hopes upon the point are not very strong.”
“O papa! I want to see him! I must see him before he sails.”
“Hush, child!” She had spoken in a distressed tone, and her small white hands were trembling. “Agitating yourself will not bring him.”
By and by the letters came in: two. Neal handed one to his master, the other to Sara. Both bore the same handwriting — Captain Davenal’s. Sara, in her bitter disappointment, let hers lie by her plate untouched, but the doctor opened his.
Miss Bettina looked up. “Is he coming, Richard?”
“No. He says he can’t come. That it is an impossibility.”
“What else does he say?”
Dr. Davenal folded his letter and put it in his pocket, to read at his leisure. “Ask Sara what he says,” was his answer. “All the gossip is in hers.”
“And this is what he calls affection!” exclaimed Miss Bettina. “To leave his native land, his home, without a farewell! That’s gratitude! Richard Davenal, were I you, he should carry out my displeasure with him.”
“I don’t know,” said the doctor, his voice sadly subdued.
“Send out displeasure with one whom we may never see again! No, Bettina. And it may be as he says — that he is unable to come.”
He was looking straight before him as he spoke it, in a far-off, dreamy gaze. His thoughts had flown to one who had gone out under a sort of displeasure, gone out but for a short time — and had never come home again.
The hour for the funeral approached, and the doctor in his black attire stepped into his close carriage to be conveyed to the residence of Lady Oswald. He found all the mourners assembled, for he was late, with the exception of Mark Cray. Sir Philip Oswald and his eldest son; Oswald Cray; the Reverend Mr. Stephenson and his brother Mr. Joseph Stephenson. All were there, now the doctor had come, except Mark. The funeral was to be at the church at eleven.
The time went on. The hearse and mourning coaches stood before the door, the horses restless. It was close upon eleven.
“For whom do we wait?” inquired Sir Philip Oswald.
“For Mr. Cray, Sir Philip,” answered the undertaker, who was gliding about, handing gloves and fixing hatbands.
“Mr. Cray?” repeated Sir Philip, as though he did not understand who Mr. Cray was.
“Lady Oswald’s late medical attendant, Sir Philip, in conjunction with Dr. Davenal.”
“Oh — ah — yes,” said Sir Philip. He was very friendly with Dr. Davenal, exceedingly so; and condescended not to ignore Mr. Cray as the doctor’s partner. It was the first time that Oswald had ever been in a room with Sir Philip. Sir Philip had bowed to him coldly enough upon his entrance, but the son, Henry Oswald, went up to him and held out his hand in a cordial manner. Oswald, haughtily self-possessed, stood before Sir Philip with his impassive face, looking more of a gentleman than the baronet did.
The dock struck eleven. “I suppose Mr. Cray is coming?” remarked Sir Philip.
He looked at Dr. Davenal. The doctor supposed he was coming as a matter of course: he believed he was coming. He had not seen Mr. Cray that morning.
It was suggested by the undertaker that they should proceed. Mr. Cray, he observed, would possibly join them at the church; he might have been kept back unexpectedly.
So the funeral started. All that remained of poor Lady Oswald was carried out of her house, never more to return to it. Not a week ago yet, on that past Saturday morning, she had gone forth in health and strength, and now — there! What a lesson it told of the uncertainly of life!
The funeral made its way through lines of curious gazers to the church. Mark Cray was not there, and the service was performed without him. At its conclusion the gentlemen returned to the house.
A lawyer from a neighbouring town, Lady Oswald’s legal adviser, was there with the will, and they were invited to enter and hear the will read.
“It cannot concern me,” remarked Sir Philip. Nevertheless he went in.
“And I am sure it cannot concern me,” added Oswald.
The clergyman, Mr. Stephenson, looked up with a crimson hectic on his cheek. It was next to impossible to mistake his eager glance — betraying the hope within him, sure and steadfast, that it did concern him. In point of fact he and that gentleman by his side, his brother, had the chief right to any money she might have left. It may be said the sole right. How they needed it their threadbare clothes and sunken cheeks betrayed. Gentlemen born, they had to keep up an appearance before the world; at least, they strove to keep it But they were weary with the struggle. The brother was of no particular profession. He had been reared for the church and could never get to college, and he contrived to make a living — that is, he contrived not to starve — by writing articles for any paper or periodical that could be persuaded into taking them. Each was of good repute in the world, bearing up manfully and doing the best he could do with his lot, sanguinely hoping, humbly trusting, that time would better it. They each had a large family, and indulged the vain and wild hope of bringing up their sons as gentlemen, as they themselves had been brought up. Not as gentlemen in the matter of abstaining from labour; that would have been foolish; but they hoped to bring them up educated men, capable of doing their duty in any walk of life they might be called to. How they had looked forward to the prospect of some time possessing this money of Lady Oswald’s, their hearts alone knew. If ever the excuse for cherishing such a wish could be pleaded, it surely might be by them.
“I suppose these people, the Stephensons, will chiefly inherit what she has left,” whispered the baronet’s son confidentially to Oswald Cray. “ Perhaps you know? You have seen a good deal of Lady Oswald, I believe.”
“I don’t at all know how her affairs are left,” was the reply of Oswald Cray.
“I should think they will inherit,” continued Mr. Oswald. “Shouldn’t you?”
“I should think — yes — I — should think they will. Being her only relatives, they have undoubtedly the greatest right to do so.”
Why did Oswald Cray hesitate in his answer? — he so generally decisive of speech. Because in the very moment that the acquiescence was leaving his lips there flashed over his mind the words spoken to him by Lady Oswald the previous Saturday. He had not understood those words at the time, did not understand them now: but if he could interpret them at all, they certainly did not point to her nephews, the brothers Stephenson. He remembered them well: at least, their substance. “When my will comes to be read, you may feel surprised at its contents. You may deem that you bad more legal claim upon me than he who will inherit: I do not think so. He to whom my money is left has most claim in my judgment: I am happy to know that he will be rewarded, and he knows it.”
Not a week ago! not a week ago that she had said it. How little did Oswald foresee that he should so soon be called upon to hear that will read!
But still the words did not seem to point to either of her nephews, with whom she had not lived on any terms of friendship, and Oswald began to feel a little curious as to the inheritor.
They were waiting for the lawyer, who had not yet come into the room. He might be getting the will. His name was Wedderburn, a stout man with a pimpled face. Sir Philip Oswald had a pimpled face too; but he was not stout; he was as thin and as tall as a lath.
Dr. Davenal took out his watch. He found it later than he thought, and turned to Sir Philip.
“I cannot remain longer,” he said. “I have a consultation at half-past twelve, and must not miss it. I am not wanted here: there’s nothing for me to stay for: so I’ll wish you good-morning.”
“For that matter, I don’t see that any of us are wanted,” responded Sir Philip. “I’m sure I am not. Good-morning, doctor.”
Nodding his salutation to the room generally, the doctor went out Soon afterwards Mr. Wedderburn made his appearance, the will in his hand, which he prepared to read. Clearing his voice, he threw his eyes round the room, as if to see that his audience were ready. The absence of one appeared then to strike him, and he pushed his spectacles to the top of his brow and gazed again.
“Where’s Dr. Davenal?”
“He is gone,” replied Sir Philip Oswald.
“Gone!” repeated the lawyer, in consternation. “Why — he — Dr. Davenal should have stopped, of all people.”
“He said he had a consultation. What does it signify?”
“Well, Sir Philip, he — at any rate, I suppose there’s no help for it now. It must be read without him.”
Not one present but looked at the lawyer with surprise, not one but thought him a strangely punctilious man to suppose Dr. Davenal’s presence, as Lady Oswald’s medical man and attendant at her funeral, was in any degree essential to the reading of Lady Oswald’s will They soon learned the cause.
First of all, the will bequeathed a few legacies. Very small ones. Twenty pounds to each of her servants; forty pounds and all her clothes to Parkins; fifty pounds each to her nephews John and Joseph Stephenson, with the furniture of her house to be divided between them “amicably;” a beautiful diamond ring and a little plate to Oswald Oswald Cray; the rest of the plate, by far the most valuable portion, to Sir Philip Oswald of Thorndyke; and another diamond ring to Dr. Richard Davenal. So far, so good: but now came the disposal of the bulk of her money. It was bequeathed, the whole of it, to Dr. Davenal, “my faithful Mend and medical attendant for so many years.”
The will was remarkably short, taking but a few minutes in the reading; and at its conclusion Mr. Wedderburn laid it open on the table that anybody might look at it who chose.
It would be difficult to say which of the countenances around him exhibited the greatest surprise. The lawyer’s voice died away in a deep silence. It was broken by the clergyman, the Reverend John Stephenson.
“It is not just! It is not just!”
The wailing tone, not of passion or anger but of meek despair, struck upon them all, and told how bitter was the disappointment. Every heart in the room echoed the cry, the lawyer’s probably excepted. Lawyers, as a whole, don’t think much of justice. This one took out his snuff-box and inhaled a pinch With equanimity.
“I am ready to answer questions, should any gentleman wish to put them. It was Lady Oswald’s desire that I should. When this will was made she said to me, ‘Some of them will be for making a fuss, Wedderburn; you can explain my motives if they care to hear them.’ Those motives lay in this; her ladyship knew her health and comfort to have been so materially benefited of late years by the skill and kindness of Dr. Davenal, that she considered it her duty in gratitude to reward him.”
“Nevertheless it is not just,” murmured the poor clergyman again. “ Dr. Davenal does not want the money as we want it.”
Oswald Cray awoke as from a dream. He took a step forward and addressed the lawyer. “Did Dr. Davenal know that the money was left to him?”
“I am unable to say, sir. Lady Oswald may hare told him, or she may not He did not know it from me.”
Oswald Cray said no more. He leaned against the window, halfhidden by the curtain, and plunged into thought.
“Well, I must say I am surprised,” remarked Sir Philip. “Not but that Lady Oswald had a perfect right to do as she pleased with her money, and she might have signalled out a less worthy man as inheritor. How much is the amount, Mr. Wedderburn? Do you know?”
“Somewhere between six and seven thousand pounds, I believe, Sir Philip. It would have been considerably more, but that her ladyship, a few years ago, was persuaded by an evil counsellor to sell out a large sum from the funds and invest elsewhere, for the sake of better interest.”
“And she lost it?”
“Every shilling,” replied the lawyer, with satisfaction: for it was done without his concurrence. “She would have had double the money to leave behind her but for that.”
“Ah!” Sir Philip spoke the monosyllable shortly, and dropped the point Not so very long ago he had been seduced to invest money in some grand and very plausible scheme — one of those to be heard of daily, promising a fortune in twelve months at the most — and he had burnt his fingers. The topic, consequently, was not palatable to his ears.
“Ask him how long this will has been made, John,” whispered the literary man to his brother. Of a retiring timid nature himself, he rarely spoke but when he was obliged, and he shrank from putting the question. The clergyman obeyed, and the lawyer pointed to the date of the will “Only in April last. Lady Oswald was fond of making wills. Some people are so. I have made her, I should think, half-a-dozen, if I have made one.”
“And the bulk of the money was always left to Dr. Davenal?”
“O dear no. It never was left to him until this last was made.”
“Was I — were we — was it ever left to us!” asked the poor clergyman, tremblingly.
“Yes it was,” replied Mr. Wedderburn. “I don’t see why I should not avow it. It can’t make any difference, one way or the other. In the first will she ever made after Sir John’s death it was left to you. And in the last will preceding this, it was again left to you. Once it was left” — the lawyer looked towards the window—” to Mr. Oswald Cray.”
Oswald gave his shoulders a haughty shrug. “I should never have accepted the legacy,” he said in a distinct, deliberate tone. “I had no claim whatever to Lady Oswald’s money, and should not have taken it.”
Henry Oswald laughed; a pleasant, cordial laugh, as he turned to Oswald. “You don’t know, Mr. Oswald Cray. We are all so ready to be chivalrous in theory: but when it comes to practice — the best of us are apt to fall off.”
“True,” quietly remarked Oswald: but he did not pursue the theme.
There was nothing more to be said or done then. Of what profit to remain talking of the wills that had been, while the present one was before them and must be put in force? Sir Philip made the first move; he went out, taking a formal leave; Henry Oswald with a more cordial one. Oswald Cray was the next to leave. He shook hands with the brothers, and spoke a few kind words of sympathy for their disappointment “It is the disappointment of a life,” replied the clergyman in a low tone. “Our struggle has been continued long; and we had — there’s no denying it — looked forward to this. It is a hard trial when relatives find themselves passed over for strangers.”
“It is, it is,” said Oswald Cray. “I could wish Lady Oswald had been more mindful of legitimate claims.”
As he was going out, Parkins waylaid him in her new mourning. “There will be a dinner ready at five o’clock, sir. Would you be pleased to stay for it?”
“Not to-day,” replied Oswald.
CHAPTER XXIII.
NEAL’S VISIT.
CAUSING the sweeping crape to be taken from his hat, for he preferred to depart on foot, Oswald Cray proceeded through the town to the house of his brother. Just as he reached the door Mark rode up on horseback and leaped off with a hasty spring, throwing his bridle to the man who waited.
“Of course I am too late!” he exclaimed.
“Of course you are, by pretty near two hours. How did it happen, Mark?” —
“Well — I can hardly tell how it happened,” was the answer of Mark. “I had a patient to see in the country — more than one, in fact — and I thought I could do it all first and be back in time. But I suppose I must have stayed later than I purposed, for before I was ready to return I found it was half-past eleven, and the funeral no doubt over. And then I did not hurry myself.”
They were walking across the hall to the dining-room as he said this. Caroline was seated at the table, her work-box before her, doing some embroidery. She flung the work down, rose, and confronted her husband.
“Mark, why did you do this? You went into the country to avoid the funeral!”
“I — I did what?” exclaimed Mark. “Nonsense, Carrie! Why should I wish to avoid the funeral? I have attended plenty of funerals in my time.”
Oswald turned quickly and looked at Mark. It was not the accusation of Mrs. Cray that had aroused his attention — that went for nothing; but something peculiar in Mark’s tone as he answered it. To Oswald’s ears it spoke of evasion. He could not see his face. It was bent, and he was slapping his dusty boots with his riding-whip.
“But why DID you go into the country?” pursued Caroline. “It was half-past ten when you were here, and I warned you then it was getting time to dress. When I saw your horse brought to the door and you gallop off on him, I could not believe my eyes.”
