Frank knew she had found the will, but he did not at all realize the effect which the finding of it would have upon his future. He had not read it like Magdalen,—he did not know that by virtue of what was recorded there, he, and not Roger, was the heir of Millbank. He only knew that Magdalen lay unconscious at his feet, her white forehead touching his boot, and one of her hands clutching at his knee where it had fallen when she raised it imploringly toward him, with a pleading word for Roger. To lift her in his arms and bear her to the window, which he opened so that the wind and rain might fall upon her face and neck, was the work of an instant; and then, still supporting her upon his shoulder, he rubbed and chafed her pale fingers and pushed her hair back from her face, and bent over her with loving, anxious words, which she did not hear and would scarcely have heeded if she had. Gradually as the rain beat upon her face she came back to consciousness, and with a cry tried to free herself from Frank’s embrace. But he held her fast, while he asked what was the matter,—what had she found or seen to affect her so powerfully?
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you read it?” she gasped; and Frank replied, “No, Magdalen, I have not read it. My first care was for you,—always for you, darling.”
She freed herself from him then, and struggling to her feet stood before him with dilating nostrils and flashing eyes. She knew that the tone of his voice meant love,—love for her who had refused it once,—aye, who would refuse it a thousand times more now than she had before. He could not have Millbank and her too. There was no Will on earth which had power to take her from Roger and give her to Frank, and by some subtle intuition Magdalen recognized for a moment all she was to Roger, and felt that possibly he would prefer poverty with her to wealth without her; just as a crust shared with him would be sweeter to her than the daintiest luxury shared with Frank, who had called her his darling and who would rival Roger in everything. Magdalen could have stamped her foot in her rage that Frank should presume to think of love then and there, when he must know what it was she had found for him,—what it was he held in his hand. And here she wronged him; for he did not at all realize his position, and he looked curiously at her, wondering to see her so excited.
“Are you angry, Magdalen?” he asked. “What has happened to affect you so? Tell me. I don’t understand it at all.”
Then Magdalen did stamp her foot, and coming close to him, said, “Don’t drive me mad with your stupidity, Frank Irving. You know as well as I that I have found what when a child you once asked me to search for,—you to whom Roger was so kind,—you, who would deal so treacherously with Roger in his own house; and I promised I would do it,—I, who was ten times worse than you. I was a beggar whom Roger took in, and I’ve wounded the hand that fed me. I have found the will; but, Frank Irving, if I had guessed what it contained I would have plucked out both my eyes before they should have looked for it. You deceived me. You said it gave you a part,—only a part. You told me false, and I hate you for it.”
She was mad now with her excitement, which increased as she raved on, and she looked so white and terrible, with the fire flashing out in gleams from her dark eyes, that Frank involuntarily shrank back from her at first, and kept out of reach of the hands which made so fierce gestures toward him as if they would do him harm. Then as he began to recover himself, and from her words get some inkling of the case, he drew her gently to him, saying as he did so, “Magdalen, you wrong me greatly. Heaven is my witness that I always meant to give you the same impression of the will which I received from my mother, though really and truly I never had much idea that there was one, and am as much astonished to find there is as you can be. I have not read it yet, and I am not responsible for what there is in it. I knew nothing of it, had nothing to do with it; please don’t blame me for what I could not help.”
There was reason in what he said, and Magdalen saw it, and softened toward him as she replied, “Forgive me, Frank, if in my excitement I said things which sounded harshly, and blamed you for what you could not help. But, oh! Frank, I am so sorry for Roger, poor Roger. Say that you won’t wrong him. Be merciful; be kind to him as he has been to you.”
Frank’s perceptions were not very acute, but he would have been indeed a fool if in what Magdalen said he had failed to detect a deeper interest in Roger than he had thought existed. He did detect it, and a fierce pang of jealousy shot through his heart as he began to see what the obstacle was which stood between himself and Magdalen.
“I do not understand why you should be so distressed about Roger, or beg of me to be merciful,” he said; but Magdalen interrupted him with a gesture of impatience.
“Read that paper and you will know what I mean. You will see that it makes Roger a beggar, and gives you all his fortune. He has nothing,—nothing comparatively.”