The ferns were grouped at the entrance, leading from the library to the conservatory. They had certainly not escaped the notice of the lawyer, who possessed a hot-house of his own, and who was an enthusiast in botany. It now occurred to him—if he innocently provoked embarrassing results—that ferns might be turned to useful and harmless account as a means of introducing a change of subject. “Even when she hasn’t spoken a word,” thought Mr. Mool, consulting his recollections, “I have felt her eyes go through me like a knife.”
“Spare us the technicalities, please,” Mrs. Gallilee continued, pointing to the documents on the table. “I want to be exactly acquainted with the duties I owe to Carmina. And, by the way, I naturally feel some interest in knowing whether Lady Northlake has any place in the Will.”
Mrs. Gallilee never said “my sister,” never spoke in the family circle of “Susan.” The inexhaustible sense of injury, aroused by that magnificent marriage, asserted itself in keeping her sister at the full distance implied by never forgetting her title.
“The first legacy mentioned in the Will,” said Mr. Mool, “is a legacy to Lady Northlake.” Mrs. Gallilee’s face turned as hard as iron. “One hundred pounds,” Mr. Mool continued, “to buy a mourning ring.”’ Mrs. Gallilee’s eyes became eloquent in an instant, and said as if in words, “Thank Heaven!”
“So like your uncle’s unpretending good sense,” she remarked to her son. “Any other legacy to Lady Northlake would have been simply absurd. Yes, Mr. Mool? Perhaps my name follows?”
Mr. Mool cast a side-look at the ferns. He afterwards described his sensations as reminding him of previous experience in a dentist’s chair, at the awful moment when the operator says “Let me look,” and has his devilish instrument hidden in his hand. The “situation,” to use the language of the stage, was indeed critical enough already. Ovid added to the horror of it by making a feeble joke. “What will you take for your chance, mother?”
Before bad became worse, Mr. Mool summoned the energy of despair. He wisely read the exact words of the Will, this time: “‘And I give and bequeath to my sister, Mrs. Maria Gallilee, one hundred pounds.”’
Ovid’s astonishment could only express itself in action. He started to his feet.
Mr. Mool went on reading. “‘Free of legacy duty, to buy a mourning ring—“’
“Impossible!” Ovid broke out.