RICHARD.
No: my father died without the consolations of the law.
HAWKINS.
Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. (Preparing to read) Are you ready, sir?
RICHARD.
Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead.
HAWKINS.
(reading). “This is the last will and testament of me Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the road from Springtown to Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of September, one thousand seven hundred and seventy seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made by me and declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am doing and that this is my real will according to my own wish and affections.”
RICHARD.
(glancing at his mother). Aha!
HAWKINS.
(shaking his head). Bad phraseology, sir, wrong phraseology. “I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to him on the day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of his children up to the number of five.”
RICHARD.
How if she won’t have him?
CHRISTY.
She will if I have fifty pounds.
RICHARD.
Good, my brother. Proceed.
HAWKINS.
“I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dudgeon, born Annie Primrose”—you see he did not know the law, Mr. Dudgeon: your mother was not born Annie: she was christened so—“an annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for life (Mrs. Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively rigid) to be paid out of the interest on her own money”—there’s a way to put it, Mr. Dudgeon! Her own money!