"Yes—what?" said Hardwicke, looking up at the young man, who rested both his quivering hands on the table to support himself. All eyes were turned to the one erect figure.
"That"—Horace nodded at the will—"that makes me master here, eh?"
"Undoubtedly," Hardwicke replied, wondering whether Horace was unusually slow of comprehension.
"Nothing can alter it?" said Horace. "I may do what I please in everything? I want to be sure."
"You can't sell it, if you mean that," said the lawyer. "Didn't you understand? You have only—"
"I know—I know that." The interruption was hasty, as if the speaker would not be reminded of an unpleasant truth.
Hardwicke's eyes rested on the two hands which were pressed on the table. They were painfully weak and white. "You are master here," he said gently. "Certainly. Your grandfather has made no conditions whatever. Brackenhill is yours for your life."
Horace looked fixedly at him, and half opened his lips as if to speak, but no sound came. It was so evident that he had something to say that the others waited in strained anxiety, and no one spoke except Mrs. James. She laid her fingers on his and said, "Now—why not now?"
"Leave me to manage it," he answered, and drew his hand away, provoking a lofty "Oh, very well!" He walked hurriedly to the hearth-rug and stood in the master's place with an air of having taken possession. Hardwicke moved his chair a little, so as to look sideways at the new squire: Hammond put up his glass.
Mrs. James was like a living explanation of the text, "As an adamant harder than flint have I made thy forehead." Though she was sulky and persistently silent, there was a lurking triumph in her eyes, and it was easy to see that she listened eagerly for the words which seemed to die on her son's lips. He glanced quickly round, stepped back, and rested his elbow on the chimney-piece so awkwardly that a small china cup fell and was shivered to atoms on the hearth.