It was, “Papa, won’t Harry do it better?” or, “Papa, Harry knows all about the crops, and will be a more amusing companion.”
These observations were, unlike some others of the young lady’s, perfectly true; and the Squire was gradually and unconsciously beginning to act upon them. His great affliction made it hard for him to bear with the caprices of his daughter, and day after day he became less able to endure Harry out of his sight. He was growing prematurely old and prematurely peevish, and his exactions taxed all the patience of his dutiful nephew.
Miss Bessie’s temper, too, grew worse instead of better. Once she had even flown into a passion before her crippled father, and had not been calmed by his appealing look. She remembered the day when she was all in all to her parent, and now she was as nothing. Nor were there wanting those evil influences of gossip and flattery which are never wanting in a court or in a large household. There were voices which whispered, “Madam, look out for the estate, the Squire’s health is fast failing. Will you like to leave the manor, or live in it as Master Harry’s guest? For to Master Harry the Squire will assuredly leave it.”
At this Mistress Elizabeth Gwynne quite forgot that she desired nothing better than to stay at Gwynne all her life, with this treacherous Harry, as his wife, and forgot also her firm faith that his wishes entirely agreed with her own. She only remembered that she was the daughter of the elder branch: that there was a suspicion that she was to be disinherited; that—that—indeed she was not very clear what. But enough had been said to rouse all her rage, and from that day the notion of a will never failed to raise the devil at her heart.
She and her cousin dined daily in her father’s own study. It was the only occasion on which the three were long together. On a certain day, in the course of the meal, the Squire looked across the table contrived to fasten to his couch, and said:
“Harry, lad, has Griffiths gone to Minchester?”
“He went at ten o’clock, sir. He rode Brown Hanover. He wanted to have Strawberry, but I know she isn’t up to his”
“Papa, what have you sent Griffiths to Minchester for? You know I was going to ride over this afternoon.”
“Something that Griffiths could do better than you, my Bessie.”
There was a significant look in the invalid’s eyes.
“Harry, what did he go for? Oh! very well. If you won’t tell me! pray keep your secret!”
And she cooked her spleen. It was not, indeed, a very merry meal.
“Hannah, do you know why Griffiths has gone to Minchester?”
“Griffiths, ma’am? Minchester, ma’am? I think I heard him say he was going to take a letter to Mr. Deeds.”
Now Deeds was the family lawyer. The plot was out. The Squire was going to make a will in Harry’s favour. The despised daughter of the house sat brooding in her own room, and her face grew very dark. The groom brought round her mare, but she said she had changed her mind. She would not ride that day.
Late in the afternoon she saw Mr. Deeds and a clerk drive up the avenue in a chaise. She heard them ushered into her father’s bed-room. The Squire had felt weaker than usual, and had retired to his room immediately after his mid-day meal. The noise of the footsteps on the marble, and the shutting of the doors, was as oil on fire. Elizabeth Gwynne was all but in the last stage of passion. She chafed and fumed in her own room till suspense became unbearable. She rang a hand-bell that summoned a maid, and sent a message.
“Tell some of the people to ask Mr. Harry if he will speak with me immediately.”
Presently the girl returned.
“Mr. Harry was busy with the Squire, and could not come.” Had it come to this? Was she, the once-loved daughter, to remain silent in her room, while her natural father was signing away her patrimony to her cousin? Had not she a right to be with her father? He was doing something important, or he would not have sent for Deeds. It was her plain duty to be with him.
“He shall not do it!—he shall not do it!” she muttered between her teeth, and in a violent paroxysm of passion, stalked along the corridor to her father’s rooms. As she crossed the hall she met Deeds and his acolyte, conducted by a lackey, on their way to their chaise. The old lawyer bowed low.
“Hypocrite!” she hissed, and passed on.
She flung open her father’s door. When all motion had become irksome to him, he had taken up his quarters in what was called the state bed-room, on the ground-floor. Queen Anne had passed a night at Gwynne, and the room had been sumptuously furnished for her. On the lofty bed, rich with curious needlework, and canopied by dingy plumes, lay the old chief of his clan, helpless and wan. A fire burned louringly on the cunning smith’s work that lay at the bottom of the huge fire-place, and threw a changeful light on the high-backed chairs, the black cabinets, the heavy hangings, and the painted ceiling of the great gloomy room. At the side of the bed stood a table littered with pens and writing materials. An extinguished taper still poisoned the air. At the foot of the bed stood Harry, holding in his hand a clean, new, parchment document, folded, tied, and sealed.
All her fears were then realised. She was the despised and disinherited dependant. There lay the father who had abandoned her. There stood the scheming villain who had ousted her from her own. Her cousin stood still for an instant, startled by her sudden appearance, and awed by the white passion of her face. She strode to where he stood, snatched the packet from his hand, and flung it into the glowing coals. Ere her cousin had recovered from the shock, she had thrust the vellum deep into the great fire. He started forward to rescue his charge before it was consumed, but she stood with outstretched arm before the