“But, look—they’re addressed to me. Look! ‘Miss Strange,’ ‘Miss Lilian Strange,’” cried she, triumphantly, with her bright, witching laugh. “What do you say to that?”
“That young party has ceased to exist, I tell you; so, in the logical sequence of events, we ought to return those to the Dead Letter Office. What do you say to that, Mrs Arthur Claverton?”
“This is from that dear Annie Payne,” she went on, not heeding him, as she extracted a closely-written and crossed sheet from its cover.
“Wants a microscope to read. We haven’t got one here—ergo, it can stand over,” he rejoined. “Why, Lilian; what on earth’s the matter?”
For she had opened the blue envelope last of all, and her face wore a very curious expression indeed, as she mastered its contents—a little surprise and a great deal of amusement. It was a lawyer’s letter, even as she had conjectured, and it informed her, in dry, concise phraseology, that she was entitled to the sum of nine thousand pounds under the will of her distant cousin, “my late esteemed client, Mr Herbert Spalding,” which bequest reverted to her, being forfeited by the present legatee, Mr Arthur Claverton, that gentleman having failed to observe the conditions under which he enjoyed the legacy, etcetera, etcetera. The writer begged to know her wishes in respect of this bequest, and remained her obedient servant, Robert Smythe.
Blank astonishment was the only feeling Claverton was sensible of as he sat staring at the bit of paper which she had put into his hand. He had written to the lawyer on the day of his marriage, as a matter of course, renouncing all further claim to the bequest, and sending in all the necessary papers; as nearly three years were wanting to the time when it should be his irrevocably; and had expected to hear nothing more about the matter, beyond a brief acknowledgment. It was a nuisance, of course, being docked of about half his means, but he had quite enough left to go on with; and weighed in the balance of recent events this one was a mere trifle. And, now, the legacy had simply reverted to his wife. But how the deuce had it come about—that was the question?
“Good God!” was all he could ejaculate.
“Don’t be profane, sir,” retorted Lilian, with such a merry peal of laughter. “Why don’t you congratulate me on my good fortune?”
“Eh—what? Hang it, this beats me. I don’t understand it at all!”
“Don’t you? Well, then, poor Herbert Spalding was my cousin—a very distant one—and I hardly knew much about him. He was very pleasant and kind, though, the little I did see of him at Dynevard Chase; but at the last he seems to have had the bad taste to prefer you to me. Undue influence, sir, undue influence—isn’t that what the lawyers call it?” concluded she, in a playfully reproachful tone.