one he made before that?”
“If I remember rightly we executed two before this.”
“And where are they?”
“It is not my business to know, Mr Vavasor. I believe that I saw him destroy one, but I have no absolute knowledge. As to the other, I can say nothing.”
“And what do you mean to do?” said George, turning to his uncle.
“Do! I shall carry out the will. I have no alternative. Your sister is the person chiefly interested under it. She gets five hundred a year for her life; and if she marries and you don’t, or if she has a son and you don’t, her son will have the whole property.”
George stood for a few moments thinking. Might it not be possible that by means of Alice and Kate together,—by marrying the former,—perhaps, he might still obtain possession of the property? But that which he wanted was the command of the property at once,—the power of raising money upon it instantly. The will had been so framed as to make that impossible in any way. Kate’s share in it had not been left to her unconditionally, but was to be received even by her through the hands of her uncle John. Such a will shut him out from all his hopes. “It is a piece of d–––– roguery,” he said.
“What do you mean by that, sir?” said Gogram, turning round towards him.
“I mean exactly what I say. It is a piece of d–––– roguery. Who was in the room when that thing was written?”
“The signature was witnessed by—”
“I don’t ask as to the signature. Who was in the room when the thing was written?”
“I was here with your grandfather.”
“And no one else?”
“No one else. The presence of any one else at such a time would be very unusual.”
“Then I regard the document simply as waste paper.” After saying this, George Vavasor left the room, and slammed the door after him.
“I never was insulted in such a way before,” said the attorney, almost with tears in his eyes.
“He is a disappointed and I fear a ruined man,” said John Vavasor. “I do not think you need regard what he says.”
“But he should not on that account insult me. I have only done my duty. I did not even advise his grandfather. It is mean on his part and unmanly. If he comes in my way again I shall tell him so.”
“He probably will not put himself in your way again, Mr Gogram.”
Then the attorney went, having suggested to Mr Vavasor that he should instruct his attorney in London to take steps in reference to the proving of the will. “It’s as good a will as ever was made,” said Mr Gogram. “If he can set that aside, I’ll give up making wills altogether.”
Who was to tell Kate? That was John Vavasor’s first thought when he was left alone at the hall-door, after seeing the lawyer start away. And how was he to get himself back to London without further quarrelling with his nephew? And what was he to do at once with reference to the immediate duties of proprietorship which were entailed upon him as executor? It was by no means improbable, as he thought, that George might assume to himself the position of master of the house; that he might demand the keys, for instance, which no doubt were in Kate’s hands at present, and that he would take possession with violence. What should he do under such circumstances? It was clear that he could not run away and get back to his club by the night mail train. He had duties there at the Hall, and these duties were of a nature to make him almost regret the position in which his father’s will had placed him. Eventually he would gain some considerable increase to his means, but the immediate effect would be terribly troublesome. As he looked up at the melancholy pines which were slowly waving their heads in the wind before the door he declared to himself that he would sell his inheritance and his executorship very cheaply, if such a sale were possible.
In the dining-room he found his sister alone. “Well, John,” said she; “well? How is it left?”
“Where is Kate?” he asked.
“She has gone out with her brother.”
“Did he take his hat?”
“Oh, yes. He asked her to walk, and she went with him at once.”
“Then, I suppose, he will tell her,” said John Vavasor. After that he explained the circumstances of the will to Mrs Greenow. “Bravo,” exclaimed the widow. “I’m delighted. I love Kate dearly: and now she can marry almost whom she pleases.”
Chapter LVI.
Another Walk on the Fells
George when he left the room in which he had insulted the lawyer, went immediately across to the parlour in which his aunt and sister were sitting. “Kate,” said he, “put on your hat and come and walk with me. That business is over.” Kate’s hat and shawl were in the room, and they were out of the house together within a minute.
They walked down the carriage-road, through the desolate, untenanted grounds, to the gate, before either of them spoke a word. Kate was waiting for George to tell her of the will, but did not dare to ask any question. George intended to tell her of the will, but was not disposed to do so without some preparation. It was a thing not to be spoken of openmouthed, as a piece of ordinary news. “Which way shall we go?” said Kate, as soon as they had passed through the old rickety gate, which swung at the entrance of the place. “Up across the fell,” said George; “the day is fine, and I want to get away from my uncle for a time.” She turned round, therefore, outside the hill of firs, and led the way back to the beacon wood through which she and Alice had walked across to Haweswater upon a memorable occasion. They had reached the top of the beacon hill, and were out upon the Fell, before George had begun his story. Kate was half beside herself with curiosity, but still she was afraid to ask. “Well,” said George, when they paused a moment as they stepped over a plank that crossed the boundary ditch of the wood: “don’t you want to know what that dear old man has done for you?” Then he looked into her face very steadfastly. “But perhaps you know already,” he added. He had come out determined not to quarrel with his sister. He had resolved, in that moment of thought which had been allowed to him, that his best hope for the present required that he should keep himself on good terms with her, at any rate till he had settled what line of conduct he would pursue. But he was, in truth, so sore with anger and disappointment,—he had become so nearly mad with that continued, unappeased wrath in which he now indulged against all the world, that he could not refrain himself from bitter words. He was as one driven by the Furies, and was no longer able to control them in their driving of him.
“I know nothing of it,” said Kate. “Had I known I should have told you. Your question is unjust to me.”
“I am beginning to doubt,” said he, “whether a man can be safe in trusting any one. My grandfather has done his best to rob me of the property altogether.”
“I told you that I feared he would do so.”
“And he has made you his heir.”
