Uncomfortable time! why camest thou now
To murder—murder our solemnity?
—Shakspere.
It was two days before the appointed wedding day, and General Garnet sat in his library, over his wine, in deep consultation with his lawyer.
“And, you say, sir, that my will might be successfully contested?” he asked, setting down his empty glass, and looking anxiously, half angrily, at the attorney.
“I give it, sir, as my best digested legal opinion, that in the event of your death, should the will by which you bequeath all this vast property to your adopted daughter be contested, it would probably be set aside in favor of Alice Chester Hardcastle, the only living representative of the old Chester family, who have held the land from the first settlement of the country to the present time—upward of two hundred years. You know, sir, that the decision of the case would rest finally with the jury, and such are the prejudices in favor of wealth, rank, hereditary descent, and——”
“Well! speak out—justice, you would add, I suppose,” said General Garnet, filling his glass and passing the bottle.
The lawyer bowed.
“Well, sir! what of these prejudices? Finish your sentence.”
“That scarce a jury could be found to give a verdict against your legal daughter—a Chester—and in favor of your—I beg your pardon—adopted daughter—a stranger and an alien.”