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“Come and see.”

‘Lizabeth rose. Her contempt of this foolish, faded creature recoiled upon herself, until she could bear to sit still no longer. With William’s wife at her heels, she mounted the stair, their shoeless feet making no sound. The door of the old man’s bed-room stood ajar, and a faint ray of light stole out upon the landing. ‘Lizabeth looked into the room, and then, with a quick impulse, darted in front of her companion.

It was too late. Mrs. Transom was already at her shoulder, and the eyes of the two women rested on the sorry spectacle before them.

Candle in hand, the prodigal was kneeling by the dead man’s bed. He was not praying, however; but had his head well buried in the oaken chest, among the papers of which he was cautiously prying.

The faint squeal that broke from his wife’s lips sufficed to startle him. He dropped the lid with a crash, turned sharply round, and scrambled to his feet. His look embraced the two women in one brief flicker, and then rested on the blazing eyes of ‘Lizabeth.

“You mean hound!” said she, very slowly.

He winced uneasily, and began to bluster:

“Curse you! What do you mean by sneaking upon a man like this?”

“A man!” echoed ‘Lizabeth. “Man, then, if you will–couldn’t you wait till your father was cold, but must needs be groping under his pillow for the key of that chest? You woman, there–you wife of this man–I’m main grieved you should ha’ seen this. Lord knows I had the will to hide it!”

The wife, who had sunk into the nearest chair, and lay there huddled like a half-empty bag, answered with a whimper.

“Stop that whining!” roared William, turning upon her, “or I’ll break every bone in your skin.”

“Fie on you, man! Why, she tells me you haven’t struck her for a whole year,” put in ‘Lizabeth, immeasurably scornful.

“So, cousin, you’ve found out what I meant by ‘we.’ Lord! you fancied you was the one as was goin’ to settle down wi’ me an’ be comfortable, eh? You’re jilted, my girl, an’ this is how you vent your jealousy. You played your hand well; you’ve turned us out. It’s a pity–eh?–you didn’t score this last trick.”

“What do you mean?” The innuendo at the end diverted her wrath at the man’s hateful coarseness.

“Mean? Oh, o’ course, you’re innocent as a lamb! Mean? Why, look here.”

He opened the chest again, and, drawing out a scrap of folded foolscap, began to read :–

“I, Ebenezer Transom, of Compton Burrows, in the parish of Compton, yeoman, being of sound wit and health, and willing, though a sinner, to give my account to God, do hereby make my last will and testament.”

“My house, lands, and farm of Compton Burrows, together with every stick that I own, I hereby (for her good care of me) give and bequeath to Elizabeth Rundle, my dead sister’s child”

–“Let be, I tell you!”

But ‘Lizabeth had snatched the paper from him. For a moment the devil in his eye seemed to meditate violence. But he thought better of it; and when she asked for the candle held it beside her as she read on slowly.

” . . . to Elizabeth Rundle, my dead sister’s child, desiring that she may marry and bequeath the same to the heirs of her body; less the sum of one shilling sterling, which I command to be sent to my only surviving son William–“

“You needn’t go on,” growled William.

” . . . because he’s a bad lot, and he may so well know I think so. And to this I set my hand, this 17th day of September, 1856.”

“Signed”
“Ebenezer Transom.”

“Witnessed by”
“John Hooper.”
“Peter Tregaskis.”

The document was in the old man’s handwriting, and clearly of his composition. But it was plain enough, and the signatures genuine. ‘Lizabeth’s hand dropped.