“Could he not write?” inquired George, in a troubled voice.
“No; he made an effort, and with his poor shaking hand, strove to scrawl a name; but I could not read it; Madame came in while I was trying to make it out. With an angry glance at him, she took it from my hand and tore it up.
“My poor father’s eyes turned upon her with an expression that would have melted a heart of iron. I have heard of wounded stags, weeping while under the torment of a pack of hounds, George. The great tears which came again to that old man’s eyes, when his wife—I will not call her mother with this feeling upon me—tore up the name he had tried to write, seemed as if shed under like torture.”
“All this fills me with self-reproach. I ought to have been by my poor father’s death-bed. I being older than you, might have comprehended his wishes,” said George De Marke, sadly.
“I cannot tell, George; it might have been a wish to redeem the injustice of his will; sometimes I think it was only his lawyer’s name that he wrote; for Madame looked like death when she read it. I am sure she did read it, illegible as it was, for she muttered something that made the sick man struggle in his bed. Nothing but the fear of losing her grasp on the property could have disturbed her so!”
“It was a strange will, and unjust as strange,” said George. “Why should our father have feared to trust my intellect more than yours, Louis? If at thirty I have never given proofs of insanity, and am the father of a lawful son, then and not till then can I demand an equal share of the property with yourself. This is a strange clause against an elder son, who has never offended him, or deserved anything but kindness at his hands.”
“It is indeed. The anxieties of his death-bed must have arisen from this cause. But it was all needless; for though I had a hard struggle to get my portion from Madame at the time of my majority, it is safe from her control now, and the income is enough for us both.”
George reached forth his hand, grasping that of his brother with grateful warmth.
“You forget,” he said, pointing to his portmanteau, “that I am just from the gold region, and though not able to compete with my rich brother, there will be found yonder enough of gold and bills of exchange for my moderate wants, till the time appointed by my father’s will arrives.”
“Are you so rich as that, George? I am glad of it; independence is the right of every man, but I should have liked to divide with you, after all.”