Cuthbert took up the blue envelope, opened it, and put the long parchment it contained into Guy’s hand, helping him to raise himself a little. Godfrey hid his face in his hands.
Guy looked down the page with his lips set hard. He laughed a little as he read to himself, then flung the parchment towards his brother.
“You can act for yourself, now, Godfrey,” he said. “Aunt Margaret has followed out her principles. You are the one least likely to follow the sins of our fathers, and you are master of Waynflete. So—so—that couldn’t have been what ‘He’ wanted?”
“She meant to burn it—and I will,” cried Godfrey, seizing the paper. “So help me, God, I’ll never—”
“Hold hard!” cried Guy, starting up and seizing his arm, “don’t be such an infernal fool! Stop him, Cuthbert!”
But Cuthbert had already laid detaining hands on the parchment.
“Stop—stop. That’s no earthly good. I’ve seen it. I’ll not allow it to be done. Hang it all, Godfrey, come to your senses, and control yourself!”
“Guy,” cried Godfrey, rushing back and throwing himself on his knees beside him. “You know—you know I did not want it. Say you know it, or I shall go mad. I wanted to keep you from Moorhead—I never thought—I did not know— If I had—and now it is too late—”
“What’s all this?” said a new voice, as the doctor came into the room. “Funeral? You’ll have two funerals to arrange for, Mr Godfrey if you can’t settle this one without your brother. Go at once, and take all your confounded business papers with you.”
But Cuthbert, not thinking Godfrey’s hands safe ones, put both the wills into his own pocket, and giving the stupefied, half-maddened youth the paper of directions, told him to give it to Mrs Palmer, and pushed him out of the room, shutting the door behind him.