Edina: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"Coffee? Oh, I don't want it now."

The unfortunate news left Charles no inclination for coffee. Of all the calamities, actual or threatened, that had been making his life uneasy, this was the worst. The worst? The rest now seemed as passing shadows in comparison. Frank, with all his sunny nature, could impart no comfort to him. The only possible ray to be discerned, lay in the hope that the tidings would turn out to be untrue. A hope which grew fainter with every moment's thought.

To remain in this suspense was nothing less than torture. It was hastily decided between them that Frank should go up to town, see Mr. Street, and learn more. He had no scruple in doing this: Major Raynor was decidedly better; in no immediate danger, as Frank believed; and Dr. Selfe was at hand in case of need.

Frank lost no time; hastening to the station, and looking in on Dr. Selfe on his way, to explain that important business was calling him for a few hours to London. Mr. Street's residence was near Euston Square, and his offices were in the same house. The morning was well advanced when Frank arrived there and was shown into the lawyer's presence. He seemed less genial than of yore, as he sat half turned from a table covered with papers, his right foot on a rest: his hair was certainly more scanty; his light eyes, seen so clearly through his spectacles, were colder. Frank, who, as it chanced, had never seen him, thought what a hard little man he looked.

"Ah, yes; a sad affair," he remarked, as Frank in a few words introduced himself and his business. "Very embarrassing for the major."

"But I hope that it cannot be true, Mr. Street?"

"That what cannot be true?—that a later will is in existence? Oh, that is true enough. And the major has had an attack, you say? Misfortunes never come singly."

"May I ask how the fact—that there is a later will—has come to your knowledge?"

Mr. Street turned over a few of the papers on the table, and took up a letter lying amongst them. "I received this note from my brother, the banker, yesterday afternoon," he said, running his eyes over it. "It tells me that a will, of later date than the one by which Major Raynor holds Eagles' Nest, has been produced, leaving the estate to Mr. George Atkinson. George Atkinson is now on his homeward voyage from Australia, to take possession of the property."

"What a mercy if the ship should go down with him!" thought Frank, in his dismay, as the faint remnant of hope died out. "Then—I presume you consider that this unpleasant report may be relied on, Mr. Street?"