by Ellen Wood
“Why, that must have been a paradox!” exclaimed Mr. Bitterworth. “Lionel Verner should inherit before all, or not inherit at all. What your ground of complaint against him is, I know not; but whatever it may be, it can be no excuse for your willing away from him Verner’s Pride. Some youthful folly of his came to your knowledge, I conclude.”
“Not folly. Call it sin — call it crime,” vehemently replied Mr. Verner.
“As you please; you know its proper term better than I. For one solitary instance of — what you please to name it — you should not blight his whole prospects for life. Lionel’s general conduct is so irreproachable (unless he be the craftiest hypocrite under the sun) that you may well pardon one defalcation. Are you sure you were not mistaken?”
“I am sure. I hold proof positive.”
“Well, I leave that. I say that you might forgive him, whatever it may be, remembering how few his offences are. He would make a faithful master of Verner’s Pride. Compare him to Fred Massingbird! Pshaw!”
Mr. Verner did not answer. His face had an aching look upon it, as it leaned out over the top of his stick. Mr. Bitterworth laid his hand upon his friend’s knee persuasively.
“Do not go out of the world committing an act of injustice; an act, too, that is irreparable, and of which the injustice must last for ever. Stephen, I will not leave you until you consent to repair what you have done.”
“It has been upon my mind to do it since I was taken worse yesterday,” murmured Stephen Verner. “Our Saviour taught us to forgive. Had it been against me only that he sinned, I would have forgiven him long ago.”
“You will forgive him now?”
“Forgiveness does not lie with me. It was not against me, I say, that he sinned. Let him ask forgiveness of God and of his own conscience. But he shall have Verner’s Pride.”
“Better that you should see it in its proper light at the eleventh hour, than not at all, Stephen,” said Mr. Bitterworth. “By every law of right and justice, Verner’s Pride, after you, belongs to Lionel.”
“You speak well, Bitterworth, when you call it the eleventh hour,” observed Mr. Verner. “If I am to make this change you must get Matiss here without an instant’s delay. See him yourself, and bring him back. Tell him what the necessity is. He will make more haste for you than he might for one of my servants.”
“Does he know of the bequest to the Massingbirds?”
“Of course he knows of it. He made the will. I have never employed anybody but Matiss since I came into the estate.”
Mr. Bitterworth, feeling there was little time to be lost, quitted the room without more delay. He was anxious that Lionel should have his own. Not so much because he liked and esteemed Lionel, as that he possessed a strong sense of justice within himself. Lionel heard him leaving the sick-room, and came to him, but Mr. Bitterworth would not stop.
“I cannot wait,” he said. “I am bound on an errand for your uncle.”
CHAPTER XVI.
AN ALTERED WILL.
Mr. Bitterworth was bound to the house of the lawyer, Mr. Matiss, who lived and had his office in the new part of Deerham, down by Dr. West’s. People wondered that he managed to make a living in so small a place; but he evidently did make one. Most of the gentry in the vicinity employed him for trifling things, and he held one or two good agencies. He kept no clerk. He was at home when Mr. Bitterworth entered, writing at a desk in his small office, which had maps hung round it. A quick-speaking man, with dark hair and a good-natured face.
“Are you busy, Matiss?” began Mr. Bitterworth, when he entered; and the lawyer looked at him through the railings of his desk.
“Not particularly, Mr. Bitterworth. Do you want me?”
“Mr. Verner wants you. He has sent me to bring you to him without delay. You have heard that there’s a change in him?”
“Oh, yes, I have heard it,” replied the lawyer. “I am at his service, Mr. Bitterworth.”
“He wants his last will altered. Remedied, I should say,” continued Mr. Bitterworth, looking the lawyer full in the face, and nodding confidentially.
“Altered to what it was before?” eagerly cried the lawyer.
Mr. Bitterworth nodded again. “I called in upon him this morning, and in the course of conversation it came out what he had done about Verner’s Pride. And now he wants it undone.”
“I am glad of it — I am glad of it, Mr. Bitterworth. Between ourselves — though I mean no disrespect to them — the young Massingbirds were not fit heirs for Verner’s Pride. Mr. Lionel Verner is.”
“He is the rightful heir as well as the fit one, Matiss,” added Mr. Bitterworth, leaning over the railings of the desk, while the lawyer was hastily putting his papers in order, preparatory to leaving them, placing some aside on the desk, and locking up others. “What was the cause of his willing it away from Lionel Verner?”
“It’s more than I can tell. He gave no clue whatever to his motive. Many and many a time have I thought it over since, but I never came near fathoming it. I told Mr. Verner that it was not a just thing, when I took his instructions for the fresh will. That is, I intimated as much; it was not my place, of course, to speak out my mind offensively to Mr. Verner. Dr. West said a great deal more to him than I did; but he could make no impression.”
“Was Dr. West consulted, then, by Mr. Verner?”
“Not at all. When I called at Verner’s Pride with the fresh will for Mr. Verner to execute, it happened that Tynn was out. He and one of the other servants were to have witnessed the signature. Dr. West came in at the time, and Mr. Verner said he would do for a witness in Tynn’s place. Dr. West remonstrated most strongly when he found what it was; for Mr. Verner told him in confidence what had been done. He, the doctor, at first refused to put his hand to anything so unjust. He protested that the public would cry shame, would say John Massingbird had no human right to Verner’s Pride, would suspect he had obtained it by fraud, or by some sort of underhand work. Mr. Verner replied that I — Matiss — could contradict that. At last the doctor signed.”
“When was this?”
“It was the very week after John started for Australia. I wondered why Mr. Verner should have allowed him to go, if he meant to make him his heir. Dr. West wondered also, and said so to Mr. Verner, but Mr. Verner made no reply.”
“Mr. Verner has just told me that neither the Massingbirds nor Mrs. Verner knew anything of the fresh will. I understood him to imply that no person whatever was cognisant of it but himself and you.”
“And Dr. West. Nobody else.”
“And he gave no reason for the alteration — either to you or to Dr. West?”
“None at all. Beyond the assertion that Lionel had displeased him. Dr. West would have pressed him upon the point, but Mr. Verner repulsed him with coldness. He insisted upon our secrecy as to the new will; which we promised, and I dare say have never violated. I know I can answer for myself.”
They hastened back to Verner’s Pride. And the lawyer, in the presence of Mr. Bitterworth, received instructions for a codicil, revoking the bequest of the estate to the Massingbirds, and bestowing it absolutely upon Lionel Verner. The bequests to others, legacies, instructions in the former will, were all to stand. It was a somewhat elaborate will; hence Mr. Verner suggested that that will, so far, could still stand, and the necessary alteration be made by a codicil.
“You can have it ready by this evening?” Mr. Verner remarked to the lawyer.
“Before then, if you like, sir. It won’t take me long to draw that up. One’s pen goes glibly when one’s heart is in the work. I am glad you are willing it back to Mr. Lionel.”
“Draw it up then, and bring it here as soon as it’s ready. You won’t find me gone out,” Mr. Verner added, with a faint attempt at jocularity.
The lawyer did as he was bid, and returned to Verner’s Pride about five o’clock in the afternoon. He found Dr. West there. It was somewhat singular that the doctor should again be present, as he had been at the previous
signing. And yet not singular, for he was now in frequent attendance on the patient.
“How do you feel yourself this afternoon, sir?” asked Mr. Matiss, when he entered, his greatcoat buttoned up, his hat in his hand, his gloves on; showing no signs that he had any professional document about him, or that he had called in for any earthly reason, save to inquire in politeness after the state of the chief of Verner’s Pride.
“Pretty well, Matiss. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll do it at once, then. Dr. West,” Mr. Verner added, turning to the doctor, “I have been making an alteration in my will. You were one of the former witnesses; will you be so again?”
“With pleasure. An alteration consequent upon the death of John Massingbird, I presume?”
“No. I should have made it, had he been still alive. Verner’s Pride must go to Lionel. I cannot die easy unless it does.”
“But — I thought you said Lionel had done — had done something to forfeit it?” interrupted Dr. West, whom the words appeared to have taken by surprise.
“To forfeit my esteem and good opinion. Those he can never enjoy again. But I doubt whether I have a right to deprive him of Verner’s Pride. I begin to think I have not. I believe that the world generally will think I have not. It may be that a Higher Power, to whom alone I am responsible, will judge I have not. There’s no denying that he will make a more fitting master of it than would Frederick Massingbird; and for myself I shall die the easier knowing that a Verner will succeed me. Mr. Matiss, be so kind as read over the deed.”
The lawyer produced a parchment from one of his ample pockets, unfolded, and proceeded to read it aloud. It was the codicil, drawn up with all due form, bequeathing Verner’s Pride to Lionel Verner. It was short, and he read it in a clear, distinct voice.
“Will you like to sign it, sir?” he asked, as he laid it down.
“When I have read it for myself,” replied Mr. Verner.
The lawyer smiled as he handed it to him. All his clients were not so cautious. Some might have said, “so mistrustful.”
Mr. Verner found the codicil all right, and the bell was rung for Tynn. Mrs. Tynn happened to come in at the same moment. She was retreating when she saw business a-gate, but her master spoke to her.
“You need not go, Mrs. Tynn. Bring a pen and ink here.”
So the housekeeper remained present while the deed was executed. Mr. Verner signed it, proclaiming it his last will and testament, and Dr. West and Tynn affixed their signatures. The lawyer and Mrs. Tynn stood looking on.
Mr. Verner folded it up with his own hands, and sealed it.
“Bring me my desk,” he said, looking at Mrs. Tynn.
The desk was kept in a closet in the room, and she brought it forth. Mr. Verner locked the parchment within it.
“You will remember where it is,” he said, touching the desk, and looking at the lawyer. “The will is also here.”
Mrs. Tynn carried the desk back again; and Dr. West and the lawyer left the house together.
Later, when Mr. Verner was in bed, he spoke to Lionel, who was sitting with him.
“You will give heed to carry out my directions, Lionel, so far as I have left directions, after you come into power.”
“I will, sir,” replied Lionel, never having had the faintest suspicion that he had been near losing his inheritance.
“And be more active abroad than I have been. I have left too much to Roy and others. You are young and strong; don’t you leave it to them. Look into things with your own eyes.”
“Indeed I will. My dear uncle,” he added, bending over the bed, and speaking in an earnest tone, “I will endeavour to act in all things as though in your sight, accountable to God and my own conscience. Verner’s Pride shall have no unworthy master.”
“Try to live so as to redeem the past.”
“Yes,” said Lionel. He did not see what precise part of it he had to redeem, but he was earnestly anxious to defer to the words of a dying man. “Uncle, may I dare to say that I hope you will live yet?” he gently said.
“It is of no use, Lionel. The world is closing for me.”
It was closing for him even then, as he spoke — closing rapidly. Before another afternoon had come round, the master of Verner’s Pride had quitted that, and all other pride, for ever.
CHAPTER XVII.
DISAPPEARED.
Sweeping down from Verner’s Pride towards the church at Deerham came the long funeral train — mutes with their plumes and batons, relays of bearers, the bier. It had been Mr. Verner’s express desire that he should be carried to the grave, that no hearse or coaches should be used.
“Bury me quietly; bury me without show,” had been his charge. And yet a show it was, that procession, if only from its length. Close to the coffin walked the heir, Lionel; Jan and Dr. West came next; Mr. Bitterworth and Sir Rufus Hautley. Other gentlemen were there, followers or pall-bearers; the tenants followed; the servants came last. A long, long line, slow and black; and spectators gathered on the side of the road, underneath the hedges, and in the upper windows at Deerham, to see it pass. The under windows were closed.
A brave heir, a brave master of Verner’s Pride! was the universal thought, as eyes were turned on Lionel, on his tall, noble form, his pale face stilled to calmness, his dark hair. He chose to walk bare-headed, his hat, with its sweeping streamers, borne in his hand. When handed to him in the hall he had not put it on, but went out as he was, carrying it. The rest, those behind him, did not follow his example; they assumed their hats; but Lionel was probably unconscious of it, probably he never gave it a thought.
At the churchyard entrance they were met by the Vicar of Deerham, the Reverend James Bourne. All hats came off then, as his voice rose, commencing the service. Nearly one of the last walked old Matthew Frost. He had not gone to Verner’s Pride, the walk so far was beyond him now, but fell in at the churchyard gate. The fine, upright, hale man whom you saw at the commencement of this history had changed into a bowed, broken mourner. Rachel’s fate had done that. On the right as they moved up the churchyard, was the mound which covered the remains of Rachel. Old Matthew did not look towards it; as he passed it he only bent his head the lower. But many others turned their heads; they remembered her that day.
In the middle of the church, open now, dark and staring, was the vault of the Verners. There lay already within it Stephen Verner’s father, his first wife, and the little child Rachel, Rachel Frost’s foster-sister. A grand grave this, compared to that lowly mound outside; there was a grand descriptive tablet on the walls to the Verners; while the mound was nameless. By the side of the large tablet was a smaller one, placed there to the memory of the brave Sir Lionel Verner, who had fallen near Moultan. Lionel involuntarily glanced up at it, as he stood now over the vault, and a wish came across him that his father’s remains were here, amidst them, instead of in that far-off grave.
The service was soon over, and Stephen Verner was left in his resting-place. Then the procession, shorn of its chief and prominent features, went back to Verner’s Pride. Lionel wore his hat this time.
In the large drawing-room of state, in her mourning robes and widow’s cap, sat Mrs. Verner. She had not been out of her chamber, until within the last ten minutes, since before Mr. Verner’s death; scarcely out of her bed. As they passed into the room — the lawyer, Dr. West, Jan, Mr. Bitterworth, and Sir Rufus Hautley — they thought how Mrs. Verner had changed, and how ill she looked; not that her florid complexion was any paler. She had, indeed, changed since the news of John Massingbird’s death; and some of them believed that she would not be very long after Mr. Verner.
They had assembled there for the purpose of hearing the will read. The desk of Mr. Verner was brought forward and laid upon the table. Lionel, taking his late uncle’s keys from his pocket, unlocked it, and delivered a parchment which it contained to Mr. Matiss. The lawyer saw at a glance that it was the old will, not the codicil, and he waited for Lionel to
hand him also the latter.
“Be so kind as read it, Mr. Matiss,” said Lionel, pointing to the will.
It had to be read; and it was of no consequence whether the codicil was taken from the desk before reading the original will, or afterwards, so Mr. Matiss unfolded it, and began.
It was a somewhat elaborate will — which has been previously hinted. Verner’s Pride, with its rich lands, its fine income, was left to John Massingbird; in the event of John’s death, childless, it went to Frederick; in the event of Frederick’s death, childless, it passed to Lionel Verner. There the conditions ended; so that, if it did lapse to Lionel, it lapsed to him absolutely. But it would appear that the contingency of both the Massingbirds dying had been only barely glanced at by Mr. Verner. Five hundred pounds were left to Lionel: five hundred to Jan; five hundred to Decima; nothing to Lady Verner. Mrs. Verner was suitably provided for, and there were bequests to servants. Twenty-five pounds for “a mourning ring” were bequeathed to each of the two executors, Sir Rufus Hautley, and Mr. Bitterworth; and old Matthew Frost had forty pounds a year for his life. Such were the chief features of the will; and the utter astonishment it produced on the minds and countenances of some of the listeners was a sight to witness. Lionel, Mrs. Verner, Jan, and Sir Rufus Hautley were petrified.
Sir Rufus rose. He was a thin, stately man, always dressed in hessian boots and the old-fashioned shirt-frill. A proud, impassive countenance was his, but it darkened now. “I will not act,” he began. “I beg to state my opinion that the will is an unfair one—”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Rufus,” interrupted the lawyer. “Allow me a word. This is not the final will of Mr. Verner; much of it has been revoked by a recent codicil. Verner’s Pride comes to Mr. Lionel. You will find the codicil in the desk, sir,” he added to Lionel.