The man at that moment looked so ill, so small and spiteful, that Jane's heart gave a sudden wrench of pity. It was a cruel, brutal thing, she felt, in her to stop him on the edge of the grave and demand his money. She put her hand to his forehead: it was cold and clammy. "Don't wrong my father in this way," she said in a lower voice than before. "You have had our money all the time, and our life has been hard—hard. I never said that before, but it is true."
He looked at her now, his courage flickering up to meet the crisis: "I hear you. Go on!"
"My father's life depends upon your honesty. I only ask you to remember that."
"You use plain words. So shall I." He thrust his hand into a drawer of the table before him, drew out a folded paper and pushed it toward her: "There is your answer. That is my will. My property is left in the way it will do God service. You can read it if you choose."
"And my father—?"
"I have not left him a dollar."
She turned on him, silent, a moment: he cowered and evaded her eyes.
"You shall not wrong him. He shall not die for the want of the money if I can help it," in the same quiet voice. She took up the paper, passed him and laid it on the fire, then watched it shrivel and burn to ashes. He could not have detained her, any more than he could stay the scorching flame with his hand.
She threw her cloak about her without a word, and drew the hood over her head.
He pulled the bell violently: "You have only given me the trouble of preparing a second copy. It shall be identical with the first."