Chapter XXVII: The Reading of the Will

THE first part of the will was dated a few years back,—within a year of Uncle Briscoe’s death. “The Gables,” and all furniture in the house, and all money in the funds, bringing in nearly seven hundred pounds yearly, were left to my husband, with only a few small legacies to friends taken out.

Then came a codicil, dated just three months before Mrs. Briscoe’s death, undoing the whole of this, and leaving to Churton house, furniture, money,—all, with the exception of the few legacies I have mentioned, and five hundred pounds to Robert.

Churton showed extreme satisfaction. He tried hard to seem astonished, and to accept his good fortune as if it were unexpected, but without much success. My husband sat with bent head, making no remark. I do not doubt that it was to him, as to me, a moment of bitter disappointment.

Maimie raised her eyes, and looked earnestly at us all round, not seemingly either grieved or gratified, but with a certain calm content. I wondered at her, and my heart beat with something like anger. Was she glad to step in and rob us of our inheritance? For unless Churton should marry again, Maimie might reasonably expect that one day all this would pass to her.

It is strange how quickly thoughts can flash through the mind. I suppose I felt all that I have just written, and more besides, in the space of two or three seconds. The lawyer’s pause could hardly have lasted longer.

“Stay,” he said, lifting one hand, as Churton seemed about to rise. “I have not done.”

He read aloud yet another codicil, dated less than three weeks back. This codicil entirely reversed all that was in the other codicil, and reverted to the first arrangement, everything being again left to my husband, with the exception of a few small legacies, and also with the exception of one thousand pounds to Jack.

I heard Maimie utter a little “Oh!” of pleasure at that. Evidently she had not known it beforehand.

Robert’s drooped head was lifted, while Churton sprang to his feet. I never saw a face so changed in a few seconds. He seemed in a fury.

“What! what! what!” he shouted. “What’s that? It’s a trick,—a shame. I don’t believe it.”

“Look for yourself, Mr. Hazel,” the lawyer said composedly, keeping the will in his own hand, but pointing to the last paragraph.

“I don’t believe it,” repeated Churton, pacing to and fro. “Why, the old lady herself told me—” There he broke off, as if he had not meant to say so much, and condescended to examine the codicil. “What does it mean? Three weeks ago! And I to be told nothing!”

“That was hardly necessary,” the lawyer said, with considerable dryness. “Legatees are not always informed as to the exact amount which they may expect to receive at a testator’s death.”

“It’s a rascally shame,” cried Churton, almost beside himself. Then he turned sharply upon Maimie. “Three weeks ago! Since you came? Girl, this is your doing?”

She stood up and faced him, pale, but otherwise unmoved.

“This is your doing!” he shouted. “You hear?”

“I hear you, father,” she replied.

“And you allow that it is true? If you did, I’ll—”

Robert stepped forward, and took his stand by Maimie’s side.

“Yes, I don’t doubt,—done by you two! I was a fool ever to trust the girl, I might have guessed—”

“Father, you might have guessed that you could not trust me to help forward a wrong.”

“No violence here, Churton,” my husband said, for his gestures spoke of uncontrollable wrath.

“I’ll do as I like with my own girl,” he said roughly.

Maimie looked fearlessly at him. “Not your own,” she said.

“I’ve done as much for you as if you were! But I’m not going to bandy words with you, girl. The old lady was free to will her property as she chose; and if she chose to will it to me, nobody had a right to meddle. Is this your doing?”

“Miss Browne, you are not bound to answer questions put in such a manner as this,” the lawyer said.

“She’s bound to answer me, if I choose to insist,” Churton said, in his harshest manner. “Speak, girl! is this your doing?”

The lawyer spoke again. “Mrs. Briscoe was, as you have just stated, free to leave her property where she pleased. Some cause induced a passing change of plan: but about a month ago she reverted to her former intentions, and wrote to tell me so. It was not her wish that you should be made acquainted with the change.”

“When did she sign the codicil?” demanded Churton.

“Nearly three weeks ago,—as you may see by the date. I came here, but did not see you or Miss Browne.”

“My father and I were out for the day,” observed Maimie.

“Yes, no doubt; you took care of that,” said Churton.

“Aunt Briscoe settled it herself. I did not know it was to be on that day until we came back.”

“You have not answered my question yet. Is this, or is it not, your doing?”

She hesitated a moment, and then spoke out distinctly. “I found Aunt Briscoe offended with Uncle Robert for no reason. She seemed to think he had treated her wrongly; and he had not. I was able to set that right. How could I do less?”

A strong expression broke from Churton’s lips. “You did enough, any way,” he said fiercely. “Enough for yourself and for me too! I’ll have nothing more to do with you! Do you hear? You may find a home where you will. I’ll have no more to say to you. And if ever you’re in trouble, you needn’t come to me! I don’t want to see your face again. Do you hear?”

He pushed her roughly from him, and strode out of the room. But for Robert’s quick support she would have lost her balance, and fallen backwards. He threw an arm round her protectingly, and she burst into tears.

“Poor child!” the old lawyer said kindly. “She is well out of his hands.”

“Maimie, dear child, never mind; you are ours now,” Robert whispered. “He gives you up to us.”

But I think the strain of the last few weeks must have been severe. Maimie seemed so shaken and hysterical, that I made her go upstairs and lie down on her bed. She held my hand tightly, whispering,—“Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”