‘Jane—try and control yourself, my dear. Let’s talk it over, Jane.’
‘I feel as if it would break my heart. I thought I had that one thing to comfort me. It’s like losing him again—losing his confidence. To think I should have disappointed him in just what he hoped more than anything!’
‘But you’re mistaken,’ Joseph exclaimed, a generous feeling for once getting the better of prudence. ‘Listen, my dear, and I’ll explain to you. I hadn’t finished when you interrupted me.’
She clasped her hands upon her lap and gazed at him in eager appeal.
‘Did he say anything to you, father?’
‘No—and you may be quite sure that if he hasn’t trusted you, he would have said something. What’s more, on the very day before his death he wrote a letter to Mr. Percival, to say that he wanted to make his will again. He was going to do it on the Monday—there now. It was only an accident; he hadn’t time to do what he wished.’
This was making a concession which he had expressly resolved to guard against; but Joseph’s designs ripened, lost their crudity, as he saw more and more of his daughter’s disposition. He was again grateful to her; she had made things smoother than he could have hoped.
‘You really think, father, that he would have made the same will as before?’
‘Not a doubt about it, my love; not a doubt of it. In fact—now let me set your poor little mind at rest—only two days before his death—when was it I saw him last? Friday? Thursday?—he said to me that he had a higher opinion of you than ever. There now, Jane!’
She would have deemed it impossible for anyone to utter less than truth in such connection as this. Her eyes gleamed with joy.