Old Ralph Davenant married! Married! It was impossible.
Oh, yes, that was it. A smile, a ghastly smile shone on his face. It was a joke—a vile, malicious joke, worthy of the crabbed, misanthropical old man! A villainous joke, set down just to bring about litigation, and create trouble and confusion between the two young men, himself and Jack Newcombe. And yet—and the smile died away and left his face fearful and haggard—and yet that awful fury of the dying man when he knew that the will had been stolen.
No, it was no jest. The marriage had taken place; there was a daughter, and she was the heiress of all that immense, untold wealth, except the fifty thousand pounds left to Jack Newcombe, while he—he, Stephen Davenant, the next of kin, the man who had been working, lying, toadying for the money, was left with a set of musty sermons.
Rage filled his heart; stifling, choking with fury, the disappointed schemer struck the senseless paper with his clinched fist, and ground his teeth at it; then, suddenly, as if by a swift inspiration, he remembered that this accursed will, which would reduce him to beggary, and leave an unknown girl and his hated cousin wealthy, was in his hands; that he and he only knew of its existence. With a sudden revulsion of feeling he sprang to his feet, and held the paper at arm’s length and laughed softly at it, as if it were endued with sense, and could appreciate its helplessness.
Then he drew the candle near, folded the paper into a third of its size, held it to the candle—and drew it back again, overcome by that fascination which almost invariably exercises itself on such occasions—that peculiar reluctance to destroy the thing whose existence can destroy the possessor.
The flame flickered and licked the frail paper; the smoke curled round its edge; and yet—and yet he could not destroy it.
Instead, he sat down, and with clinched teeth unfolded the will and read it—read it again and again, until every word was burned and seared into his brain.
“Eunice Davenant! Eunice Davenant! Curse her!” he groaned out.
But even as the words left his lips a sound rose, the unmistakable tap—tap of something—some finger striking the window-pane.
Biting his bloodless lips to prevent himself calling out in his ecstasy of fear, he thrust the will into his pocket, caught up the candle, swept the curtains aside, and started back.