“Anne, for God's sake don't speak of my father.” He leant his elbow on the table and covered his eyes.
Nathanael and Agatha exchanged looks, then both smiled—the happy smile of a clear conscience and a heart at rest. “Tell him now,” whispered the wife to her husband.
“Brother!”
Major Harper lifted up his head.
“My elder brother!” And Nathanael offered the hand of peace, which, in spite of all outward and necessary association, neither had offered or grasped since Frederick's return to Dorset.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are my elder brother—my father's favourite always. If he had lingered but another day he would doubtless have proved that, and have done—what I intend to do, just as if he had himself accomplished it. Do you understand me?”
“No!” And Major Harper looked thoroughly amazed.
“Do you see this? which you, either from forgetfulness, or trust in me—I had rather believe the latter—left in my hands on that day.” And he drew from his pocket the will which had been read. “You spoke of throwing it into Chancery, and there would be scope for a century of Chancery business here. But I choose rather to respect the honour and unity of the family. Therefore, with my wife's entire consent in her presence, Anne's and yours, I here do what my father, had he lived, would certainly have done.”
He took up the codicil, separated it from the will to which it was fastened by seals, and quietly, as if it had been a fragment of worthless paper, put it into the fire.