“I cannot—Anne, will you? God knows, brothers and sisters”—and he looked all round the circle with an eagerly appealing gaze—“God knows I never knew or dreamed of this. Anne, read.”
“Shall I read, Major Harper?”
He was gazing out of the window with an absent air. At the sound of her voice he started, and gave some mechanical assent.
Anne read the date—of only twelve days back.
“That was the very day that he was taken ill, you know,” whispered Mary.
The codicil began:
“I, Nathanael Harper, being in sound mind and body, do hereby make my last will and testament, utterly revoking all others, in so far as relates to my two sons. I leave to my younger son, Nathanael Locke Harper, all my landed, real, and personal estate, praying that he may long live and maintain our name in honour at Kingcombe Holm. To my eldest son—having no desire to expose to ruin the family estate, or link the family name with more dishonour than it already bears—to my eldest son, Frederick Harper, I leave the sum of One Shilling.”
Anne's reading ceased. Dead silence, utter, frightened silence, followed. Then arose a chorus of women's voices—“Oh, Frederick!—oh, Frederick!”
Frederick rose, feebly smiling. “It is a mistake—all a mistake. My father was not in his right mind.”
The sisterly tide turned. “Oh, hush, Frederick! How wicked of you to say so!”