years back—sane? As sane as any man in the county—no evidence to go to the jury—eccentric perhaps—a little, now and then. But I don't think it would be possible to colour that into madness. Yet he might try. If I were in his shoes I should. The judges don't like upsetting wills, but we needn't go so far as that. We might settle the case out of court. If I were he, I should attempt a compromise, and commence legal proceedings—that of course. They have a wonderful effect sometimes, have legal proceedings, especially in families; all the women get up en masse. Oh, don't let it go into the newspapers! Divide the money—anything! Yes, if he were well advised he might get very good terms—very good indeed—an exceedingly nice slice of the Hadfield property. But, of course, it isn't for Parkinson, Bartlett & Co. to make any stir in the matter. They indeed would probably be engaged on the other side—on behalf of the family—in support of the will."
And Mr. Bartlett smilingly contemplated a long and charming vista of legal proceedings, paved with bills of costs, the Lord Chancellor in the extreme distance giving judgment on an appeal to the House of Lords in the suit of Hadfield and Hadfield. What a beautiful tree of litigation and entanglement he pictured to himself growing out of the long will settled by Mr. Spinbury of Old Square! But he had to snap off his day-dream quite short, for it was growing dark—a glass of sherry and a biscuit to refresh himself after his long labours, and then to be driven back to Mowle in his hired fly. Again he glanced at Wilford, but he made no sign.
"He'll think it over, and I dare say I shall hear something definite in a few days. When he wakes up to-morrow and finds himself a beggar, why he wont like it—and—and he'll act accordingly."
The remark was cautious, if vague. Mr. Bartlett muttered on his way homewards. He was meditating an item in his attendance-book.
"Let me see. 3rd January. To long attendance reading over the will of the late G. R. S. C. Hadfield to the family, and explaining the different points thereof, when we pointed out the immediate effect of the provisions of the will and the various contingencies arising therefrom, and long conference thereupon. Engaged 4½ hours, about, let us say, 5; 2 guineas? I think I might say 3. There's plenty of money in the case. Ah! and add—hire of fly to the Grange and back, what will that be? Eight and six, perhaps,—well, we'll say a guinea. No one can complain of that."
Mr. Bartlett gone, Mrs. Stephen with a thankful heart hurried to her children. She found Saxon with his face puckered up, from a strong inclination to cry, and his knees very red from a recent fall. But there was no material harm done.
Stephen advanced to his brother.
"You heard the will?" he asked. Wilford nodded.
"I regret the terms of it very much," said Stephen, "for I feel that an injustice has been done to you. But indeed this need make no difference, really. The Grange is yours, if you will have it. During our lives it shall be the home of both of us, as it was, years ago, in our boyhood. All that the will gives me shall be quite as much yours as mine, brother. There has been no difference between us—ever. Let there be none now."
"You are very generous, Stephen, but—"
"Had there been no will, brother, you would have welcomed me, I'm sure. You would have opened your doors to me—you would have bade me make your house my home. There is alteration in words, but there is little change in fact—only it is for me, now, to do what you would have done then. Come, Wilford, look up—be consoled—make the Grange your home—look upon the Hadfield lands as your own—they shall be as much yours as mine, and if there is need for form in the matter, why we'll have a lawyer in, and make the matter secure with parchment and sealing-wax."
"You are very kind, Stephen, but indeed this must not be. The estates are yours—honestly yours—"
"Then may I not do what I will with them," Stephen interrupted. "May I not share them with you, Wil?"
"No, Stephen. There's a duty to be considered in the matter. Are we not bound to obey our father's will? If he pleased to leave his property with the express view of my receiving no benefit from it, are we justified in seeking to evade his determination? No. I was disobedient enough while he lived, let me at least obey him now that he is dead."
"But it was a mere freak, Wilford—an impulse of passion against you which, had he lived, he would have sorely repented of, and made you amends for."
"I cannot think so, Steenie," the elder brother said sorrowfully. "The will was made deliberately enough, years ago. Had he no opportunity of altering its provisions, do you think, in all that time? Well, he had, and he did alter them. He made a new will, restoring me to my position as his eldest son. He saw me—Heaven knows what new wrong there was to him in my presence, or what he wished me to say or do more than I said and did. But he cast me off anew—he destroyed the new will before my face; he told me that not one halfpenny of his money should I ever touch; he forbade me to look upon myself as his son. Let it be so. Let me never receive a fraction of benefit from his property—let me no more be accounted his son or your brother."
Wilford spoke almost fiercely at last, and his manner rather alarmed Stephen.
"What will you do, Wilford?"
"Leave here at once—to-day—to-morrow—as soon as I feel a little better and stronger. I don't know how it is, but I am strangely shattered and broken of late. I am so weak that I can barely stand, and I tremble all over. My throat is so parched and burning, and such strange things dance before my eyes, that I feel at times quite giddy, as though my brain were going. But this will wear off. Then I quit this place for ever."
"Where will you go?"
"God knows. It will matter little. I will turn my back upon Grilling Abbots for ever. They