The Canadian. W. Somerset MaughamЧитать онлайн книгу.
Wickham coldly.
"Have you brought the——" Wickham stopped in embarrassment.
"Yes, I have it in my pocket," said the solicitor quickly. He had noted before now how awkward people always were about speaking of wills. There was nothing indelicate about doing so. Heavens, all right-minded persons made their wills and they meant to have them read after they were dead. Everybody knew that, and yet they always acted as if it were indecent to approach the subject. He had no patience with such nonsense.
With an eloquent look at her husband, Mrs. Wickham slowly crossed the room to the bell.
"I'll ring for Miss Marsh," she said in a hard voice.
"I expect Mr. Wynne would like a cup of tea, Dorothy."
She frowned at her husband behind the solicitor's broad back. More delays. Could she bear it? "Oh, I'm so sorry, I quite forgot about it."
"No, thank you very much, I never take tea," protested that gentleman. He took from his pocket a long blue envelope and slowly drew from it the will, which he smoothed out with a deliberation which was maddening to Mrs. Wickham. She could hardly tear her fascinated eyes away from it long enough to tell the waiting Kate to ask Miss Marsh to be good enough to come to them.
"What's the time, Jim?" she asked nervously.
"Oh, there's no hurry," he said, looking at his watch without seeing it. Then turning to Wynne, he added: "We've got an important engagement this evening in London and we're very anxious not to miss the fast train."
"The train service down here is rotten," said Mrs. Wickham harshly.
"That's all right. The will is very short. It won't take me two minutes to read it," Mr. Wynne reassured them.
"What on earth is Miss Marsh doing?" said Mrs. Wickham, half to herself. An endless minute passed.
"How pretty the garden is looking now," said the solicitor cheerfully, gazing out through the window.
"Very," Wickham managed to say.
"Miss Wickham was always so interested in her garden."
"Yes."
"My own tulips aren't so advanced as those."
"Aren't they?" Wickham's tone suggested irritation.
Mr. Wynne addressed his next observation to Mrs. Wickham.
"Are you interested in gardening?"
"No, I hate it. At last!"
The exclamation was called forth by the appearance of Nora in the doorway. The two men both, rose; Wynne to go forward and shake Nora's hand with unaffected cordiality, Wickham to whisper in his wife's ear, beseeching her to exercise more self-control.
"How do you do, Miss Marsh? I'm rejoiced to see you looking so fit."
"Oh, I'm very well, thank you. How do you do?"
"Will you have a cup of tea?" asked Wickham in response to what he thought was a signal from his wife.
But Mrs. Wickham had reached the point where further waiting was simply impossible.
"Jim," she remonstrated, "Miss Marsh would much prefer to have tea quietly after we're gone."
Nora understood and for the moment found it in her heart to be sorry for the woman, much as she disliked her.
"I won't have any tea, thank you," she said simply.
"Mr. Wynne has brought the will with him," explained Mrs. Wickham. Her tone was almost appealing as if she begged Nora if she knew of its contents to say so without further delay.
"Oh, yes?"
Nothing should induce her to show such agitation as this woman did. She managed to assume an air of polite interest and find a chair for herself quite calmly. And yet she was conscious that her heart was beating wildly beneath her bodice. But she would not betray herself, she would not. And yet her stake was as great as any. Her whole future hung on the contents of that paper Mr. Wynne was caressing with his long fingers.
"Miss Marsh," questioned Mr. Wynne as soon as she was seated, "so far as you know there is no other will?"
"How do you mean?"
"Miss Wickham didn't make a later one—without my assistance, I mean? You know of nothing in the house, for instance?"
"Oh, no," said Nora positively. "Miss Wickham always said you had her will. She was extremely methodical."
"I feel I ought to ask you," the solicitor went on with unwonted gentleness, "because Miss Wickham consulted me a couple of years ago about making a new will. She told me what she wanted to do, but gave me no actual instructions to draw it. I thought perhaps she might have done it herself."
"I heard nothing about it. I am sure that her only will is in your hands."
"Then I think that we may take it that this——"
Mrs. Wickham's set face relaxed. The light of triumph was in her eyes. She understood.
"When was that will made?" she asked eagerly.
"Eight or nine years ago. The exact date was March 4th, 1904."
The date settled it. Nora, too, realized that. She was left penniless. What a refinement of cruelty to deceive—but she must not think of that now. She would have all the rest of her life in which to think of it. But here before that woman, whose searching glance was even now fastened on her face to see how she was taking the blow, she would give no sign.
"When did you first come to Miss Wickham?" Mrs. Wickham's voice was almost a caress.
"At the end of nineteen hundred and three." There was no trace of emotion in that clear voice. After a moment Mr. Wynne spoke again.
"Shall I read it, or would you just like to know the particulars? It is very short."
"Oh, let us know just roughly." Mrs. Wickham was still eager.
"Well, Miss Wickham left one hundred pounds to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, and one hundred pounds to the General Hospital at Tunbridge Wells, and the entire residue of her fortune to her nephew, Mr. James Wickham."
Mrs. Wickham drew her breath sharply. Once more she looked at her late aunt's companion, but nothing was to be read in that calm face. She was a designing minx, none the less. But she did yield her a grudging admiration, for her self-control in the shipwreck of all her hopes. Now they could have their car. Oh, what couldn't they have! She felt she had earned every penny of it in that last dreadful half hour.
"And Miss Marsh?" she heard her husband ask.
"Miss Marsh is not mentioned."
Somehow, Nora managed a smile. "I could hardly expect to be. At the time that will was drawn I had been Miss Wickham's companion for only a few months."
"That is why I asked whether you knew of any later will," said Mr. Wynne almost sadly. "When I talked to Miss Wickham on the subject she said her wish was to make adequate provision for you after her death. I think she had spoken to you about it."
"Yes, she had."
"She mentioned three hundred a year."
"That was very kind of her." Nora's voice broke a little. "I'm glad she wished to do something for me."
"Oddly enough," continued the solicitor, "she spoke about it to Dr. Evans only a few days before she died."
"Perhaps there is a later will somewhere," said Wickham.
"I honestly don't think so."
"Oh, I'm sure there isn't," affirmed Nora.
"Dr. Evans was talking to Miss Wickham about Miss Marsh. She was completely tired out and he wanted Miss Wickham to have a professional nurse. She told him then that I had the will