That broke the spell, and Lawyer Schofield began to read Squire Irving’s last will and testament. It was dated five years before, at a time when the Squire lay on his sick bed, from which he never expected to rise, and not long after his purchase of the house on Lexington Avenue for Mrs. Walter Scott. There was mention made of his deceased son having received his entire portion, but the sum of four hundred dollars was annually to be paid for Frank’s education until he was of age, when he was to receive from the estate five thousand dollars to “set himself up in business, provided that business had nothing to do with horses.”
The old man’s aversion to the rock on which his son had split was manifest even in his will, but no one paid any heed to it then. They were listening too eagerly to the reading of the document, which, after remembering Frank, and leaving a legacy to the church in Belvidere, and another to an orphan asylum in New York, and another to his servants, with the exception of Aleck and Hester, gave the whole of the Irving possessions, both real and personal, to the boy Roger, who was as far as possible from realizing that he was the richest heir for miles and miles around. He was feeling sorry that Frank had not fared better, and wondering why Aleck and Hester had not been remembered. They were witnesses of the will, and there was no mistaking Hester’s straight up and down letters, or Aleck’s back-hand.
Mrs. Walter Scott was confounded,—utterly, totally confounded, and for a moment deprived of her powers of speech. That she had not listened to the Squire’s last will and testament,—that there was foul play somewhere, she fully believed, and she scanned the faces of those present to find the guilty one. But for the fact that Aleck and Hester were not remembered in this will, she might have suspected them; but the omission of their names was in their favor, while the stolid, almost stupid look of Aleck’s face, was another proof of his innocence. Hester, too, though slightly restless, appeared as usual. Nobody showed guilt but Roger, whose face had turned very red, and was very red still as he sat fidgeting in his chair and looking hard at Frank. The locked drawer and the package taken from it, recurred now to the lady’s mind, and made her sure that Roger had the real will in his pocket; and, in a choking voice, she said to the lawyer, as he was about to congratulate the boy on his brilliant fortune: “Stop, please, Mr. Schofield; I think—yes, I know—there was another will—a later one—in which matters were reversed—and—and Frank—was the heir.”
Her words rang through the room, and, for an instant, those who heard them sat as if stunned. Roger’s face was white now, instead of red, but he didn’t look as startled as might have been expected. He did not realize that if what his sister said was true, he was almost a beggar;—he only thought how much better it was for Frank, toward whom he meant to be so generous; and he looked kindly at the little white-haired boy who had, in a certain sense, come up as his rival. Mrs. Walter Scott had risen from her chair and locked the door; then, going to the table where the lawyer was sitting, she stood leaning upon it, and gazing fixedly at Roger. The lawyer, greatly surprised at the turn matters were taking, said to her a little sarcastically: “I fancied, from something you said, that you did not know there was a will at all. Why do you think there was a later one? Did you ever see it, and why should Squire Irving do injustice to his only son?”
Mrs. Walter Scott detected in the lawyer’s tone that he had forsaken her, and it added to her excitement, making her so far forget her character as a lady, that her voice was raised to an unnatural pitch, and shook with anger as she replied, “I never saw it, but I know there was one, and that your father drew it. It was made some months ago, when I was visiting at Millbank. I went to Boston for a few days, and when I came back, Squire Irving told me what he had done.”
“Who witnessed the will?” the lawyer asked.
“That I do not know. I only know there was one, and that Frank was the heir.”
“A most unnatural thing to cut off his own son for a grandchild whose father had already received his portion,” young Schofield said; and, still more exasperated, Mrs. Walter Scott replied, “I do not know that Roger was cut off. I only know that Frank was to have Millbank, with its appurtenances, and I’ll search this room until I find the stolen paper. What was that you took from the drawer, boy?”
Roger was awake now to the situation. He understood that Mrs. Walter Scott believed his father had deprived him of Millbank, the beautiful home he loved so much, and he understood another fact, which, if possible, cut deeper than disinheritance. She suspected him of stealing the will. The Irving blood in the boy was roused. His eyes were not like Jessie’s now, but flashed indignantly as he, too, rose to his feet, and, confronting the angry woman, demanded what she meant.
“Show me that paper in your pocket, and tell me why that drawer was locked this morning, and why you had the key,” she said; and Roger replied, “You tried the drawer then, it seems, and found it locked. Tell me, please, what business you had with my father’s private drawer and papers?”