'Two years ago—or somewhere about that time—I made the same proposal to him. I offered him £3,000 down for his share of an estate which might never be his—or only after long years—I offered him £3,000 down. It was a large sum of money. He refused. A day or two afterwards he found himself in the King's Bench Prison. I would recall that coincidence to you. Four or five weeks ago I made a similar offer. This time I proposed £4,000 down. He refused again, blind to his own interest. A few days afterwards he found himself within these walls on a capital charge. A third time, and the last time, I make him another offer. This time I raise the sum to £5,000 in order to cover the losses of those two witnesses, and in addition to the money, which is a large sum, enough to carry you on in comfort and in credit, I offer your husband the crowning gift of life. Life—do you hear, woman! Life: and honour: and credit—life—life—life—I say.'
His face was troubled: his accents were eager: he was not acting: he felt that he was offering me far more than anything he had ever offered me before.
'Hush,' whispered Jenny, keeping me quiet again—for all the time I was longing to spring to my feet and to let loose a tongue of fiery eloquence. But to sit quite quiet and to say nothing was galling.
'Take it, Will, take it,' said Tom. 'If the gentleman can do what he promises, take it. Life and liberty—I say—before all.'
'Sir,' said Alice—her voice was gentle, but it was strong: her face was sweet, but it was firm. The man saw and listened—and misunderstood. I know the mind of my husband in this matter. For reasons which you understand, he will not speak to you. The money that was devised by his father to the survivor of the two—his cousin or himself—has always been accepted by him as a proof that at the end his father desired him to understand that he was not wholly unforgiven: that there was a loophole of forgiveness, but he did not explain what that was: that should my husband, who has no desire to see the death of his cousin, survive Mr. Matthew, he will receive the fortune as a proof that a life of hard and honest work has been accepted by his father in full forgiveness. Sir, my husband considers his father's wishes as sacred. Nothing—no pressure of poverty—no danger such as the present will ever make him consent to sign the document you have so often submitted to him.'
'Then'—Mr. Probus put back his paper—'if this is your last word—remember—you have but a few days left. Nothing can save you—nothing—nothing—nothing. You have but a few days before you are condemned—a week or two more of life. Is this your last word?'
'It is our last word, Sir,' said Alice.
'She is right—Will is right,' cried Tom. 'Hark ye—Mr. Attorney. There is foul play here. We may find it out yet, with the help of God. Shall I put him out of the door, Alice?'
'He will go of his own accord, Tom. Will you leave us, Sir?'
'Yes, I will leave you.' He shook his long forefinger in my face. 'Ha! I leave you to be hanged: you shall have your miserable neck twisted like a chicken, and your last thought shall be that you threw your life away—no—that by dying you give your cousin all.'