“Surely as your elder brother’s son,” said Mr. Bradbury. “My honoured and lamented client’s will—signed by his hand this night—and taken by me from this house and lodged in safety, will be produced and read by me in due course.”
“By what authority?” cried my uncle, with bitter anger. “Answer my question, Bradbury!”
“Till I read this will, and divulge its provisions to you,” said Mr. Bradbury steadily, “may I say that Mr. John Craike must enjoy in this house an authority not inferior to your own? By no means inferior, my dear sir!”
But ere my uncle might retort, there came a sound of scuffling from the door—a shrill scream—one of the runners growling, “You’ll not go in, mistress—I tell you you’ll not go in!”
And the shrill voice piping, “I’ll see Mr. Charles, I will see Mr. Charles!”—with a string of oaths ending in choking, coughing; surely ’twas Mother Mag.
My uncle rose from his chair, and demanded angrily, “What’s this to-do? What does the woman want? Let her come in!”
“Let her come in!” repeated Mr. Bradbury; and, while I stared, Mother Mag, escaping from the runner, was in the room. She stood there, bent nigh double, her skinny hands clawing at her shawl; she said no word, but spying Charles, crept forward to him.
“What is it, woman?” Mr. Bradbury asked, sharply; she blinked still at Charles, muttering, “I’ve a word for Mr. Craike—no more!”
“Speak!” said my uncle, indifferently.
“Martin would have me come!” croaked she. “Martin would have me come every step o’ the way, though it’s a weary, weary way, and the devil’s loose to-night. With a word for Mr. Charles.”