“I don’t believe you’ll get a jury against Winnie,” said George, shaking his head.
“Why shouldn’t we get a jury against Winnie? She has stolen into my place and your place, and set the governor against us.”
“Perhaps she has,” said George; “but you won’t get a jury against her.”
“Why not? There is no man in the world that would say otherwise than that ours was a hard case.”
“Oh yes, it is a very hard case; but you would not get a jury against Winnie,” George repeated, with that admirable force of passive resistance and blunted understanding which is beyond all argument.
This was what they talked of when they walked up and down the conservatory together in the afternoon. Tom was eager, George doubtful; but yet they were more or less of accord on this subject. It was a hard case—no one would say otherwise; and though George could not in his heart get himself to believe that any argument would secure a verdict against Winnie, yet it was a case, it was evident, in which something ought to be done, and he began to yield to Tom’s certainty. When Mr. Babington arrived, they both met him with a certain expectation.
“We can’t stand this, you know,” said Tom. “It is not in nature to suppose that we could stand it.”
“Oh, can’t you?” Mr. Babington said.
“Tom thinks,” his brother explained in his slow way, “that there has been undue influence.”
“The poor old governor must have been going off his head. It is as clear as daylight: he never could have made such a will if he hadn’t been off his head; and Winnie and this doctor one on each side of him. Such a will can never stand,” said Tom.