As the judge ceased reading, and folded the document, Mrs. Markson sprang at him as if she were a wild beast.
"Give it to me!" she screamed—hissed, rather; "'tis a vile, hateful forgery!"
"Madame," said the judge, hastily putting the will in his pocket, and taking off his glasses, "that is a matter which the law wisely provides shall not be decided by interested parties. When I present it for probate—"
"I'll break it!" interrupted Mrs. Markson, glaring, as my family cat does when a mouse is too quick for her.
Mrs. Markson's lawyer asked permission to look at the newer will, which the judge granted. He looked carefully at the signature of Markson and the witnesses, and returned the document with a sigh.
"Don't attempt it, madame—no use," said he. "I know all the signatures; seen them a hundred times. I'm sorry, very—affects my pocket some, for it cuts some of my prospective fees, but—that will can't be broken."
Mrs. Markson turned, looked at Helen a second, and then dashed at her, as if "to scatter, tear and slay," as the old funeral hymn says. Helen stumbled and cowered a little toward me, seeing which I—how on earth I came to do it I don't know—put my arm around her, and looked indignantly at Mrs. Markson.
"You treacherous hussy!" said Mrs. Markson, stamping her foot—"you scheming little minx! I could kill you! I could tear you to pieces! I could drink your very heart's blood—I could—"
What else she could do she was prevented from telling, for she fell into a fit, and was carried out rigid and foaming at the mouth.
I am generally sorry to see even wicked people suffer, but I wasn't a bit sorry to see Mrs. Markson; for, while she was talking, poor Helen trembled so violently that it seemed to me she would be scared to death if her cruel stepmother talked much longer.