“Won’t you go on with what you were telling me?” he said, with a slight touch of diffidence, “that is to say, if you are sure you don’t in the least mind doing so. Perhaps you wouldn’t think so of me,” he went on, “but there’s something of the antiquary about me. Old bits of family history always have a fascination for me.”
“This bit,” said Frances, “is, as I was saying, rather commonplace. It is simply that an ancestress of ours—no, scarcely an ancestress—a certain Elizabeth Morion, a grand-aunt of my father’s, in whom the whole of the family possessions at that time centred, played his father false by promising what she never did. That is, by leaving a will which gave everything to the elder of her two nephews, the—yes, the great-grandfather of your—” here she hesitated and looked up inquiringly. “What is the present Mr Morion to you, by-the-by?” she asked.
“Nothing, nothing whatever,” said Mr Littlewood. “A brother’s brother-in-law is no relation.”
“N-no,” Frances half agreed, “but it’s a connection. Let me see, your brother married his sister?”
“Yes, that’s it,” he answered. “Ryder Morion’s sister is my sister-in-law. There, now, that puts it neatly. Then, this capricious spinster broke her word to your grandfather, did she?”
“Well, yes, we must suppose so, unless—there has always been the alternative possibility that she did make the right will, and that it got lost or mislaid.”
“H-m-m!” murmured Mr Littlewood thoughtfully. “I suppose that does happen sometimes, but rarely, I should think. I don’t know if I have peculiarly little faith in human nature, but in a general way there’s been something worse than accident at work in such cases. Was the old lady on good terms with both nephews?”
“I believe so,” Frances replied. “Though she was much more in awe of the elder. He had made an extremely good marriage, and, besides coming into the more important Morion place, his wife had heaps of money. I have always thought,” she went on, “that great-grand-aunt Elizabeth was a little afraid of telling him that she had left this property, small as it is, away from him. For, you see, it has the family name; yet, elder branch though they are, its owners have never cared for it. So,” with a slightly rising colour which it was too dark for him to see, and a half-deprecating tone in her voice which he was quick to hear, “there is some excuse for the way we feel about it, though certainly Betty need not have blurted it out as she did the other day for your benefit!”
“On the contrary,” exclaimed her companion, “I enter most thoroughly into her feelings. And it is delightful to come across some one that isn’t afraid to speak out her mind. But—now, do scold me if I am indiscreet—considering these very natural feelings, which your father must realise to the full, is it not rather a pity to have settled down here, in constant, hourly view of what should have been your home?”
“Well, yes,” said Frances, “on the face of it I can understand it striking you so, but circumstances often lead up to the very things one would originally have avoided. So it has been with us. My grandfather bought our present little house, which did not belong to the Morions though surrounded by the property, for a very small sum: he kept a sort of foothold in the place I fancy, in case—just in case—of the will, in whose existence he never lost faith, turning up; and also perhaps out of a sort of not unnatural self-assertion. And when papa retired—he was many years in India, you know, and married rather late—it seemed the best place for us to come to. We three were tiny children, and Anglo-Indians of all people believe in country air for their children, and here we have been ever since, our income, unfortunately, having creased as time went on, instead of improving.”