“Show him,” said Gideon Rolfe.
Stephen waved his hand contemptuously.
“A stale trick,” he said. “A clumsy forgery. You cannot connect it with my uncle’s death. Go to your lawyer – Hudsley, if you will; he will be ready enough to help you – and he will tell you that proof is impossible.”
As he spoke his voice grew clearer. It was a relief to his overwrought brain to fight them on ground he had often mentally surveyed. With an insolent smile on his face he leaned both hands on the table and looked at them.
“Come,” he said, “you have not won everything yet. The Hurst is mine; I laugh your forgery to scorn. I will spend every penny of the estate to contest it. I assert that this paper was forged – last night – if you like. You cannot prove it was in existence an hour sooner; I defy you. You have overreached yourselves. Take care! This is your hour. Mine will come when I see you in the dock.”
In his excitement he had not noticed the entrance of the bent figure of Skettle, and he turned with a start as the thin, dry voice, close to his elbow, croaked:
“Quite right, Mr. Stephen. That’s their weak point – want of connection. If they could carry it back, say to the night of the squire’s death, now, it would be different.”
Stephen looked round with a cunning smile of defiance.
“This old fool will bear me out. Show him your will.”
“A daring forgery this, Mr. Stephen, if it is a forgery. Leaves the Hurst to Miss Una, the squire’s legitimate daughter. Fifty thousand to Master Jack; and a set of sermons to you.”
“No doubt,” he said, with a hoarse laugh; “it was not worth their while to do things by halves.”
“Been scorched, too,” said Skettle. “Bit torn out by the seal. Now, if they could find that bit in the possession of a respectable man, who could prove that he found it on the night, say, of the squire’s death, well – it would go hard with you, Mr. Stephen.”
“But they cannot.”
“I don’t know,” said Skettle; and slowly drawing out a leather pocket book of ancient date, he took out a piece of paper and fitted it to the will.
“It is a conspiracy!”
“It is the will I saw you looking for the night of the squire’s death.”
“Let me go.” And leaning heavily on the arm of his fellow-knave, he moved with the gait and bearing of an old man, to the door.
“Great Heaven, this is awful!” said Jack.
********
Winter had passed and spring had clothed the earth with her soft, green mantle, and in her glad sunlight that sat like a benediction on the great elms and smooth lawn of Hurst, a party of ladies and gentlemen were standing on the stone steps that led up to the entrance.
It was, in a word, the wedding day of Squire Jack Newcombe and Miss Una Davenant, and these good and tried friends were waiting about the steps to see the bride and bridegroom start for their honeymoon.
That Len and Laura and Lady Bell should be there calls for no surprise, but how comes it that Gideon Rolfe should be a willing witness to the marriage of Una with one of the hated race of Davenants? Well, when the cause of hatred is removed, all hate vanishes from the heart of an honest man.
On the day he learned that the old squire had not wronged the girl he had stolen from Gideon, Gideon’s hatred had flown, and in its place had sprung up a longing for atonement; and what better step could he take toward burying the old animosity than in giving his adopted daughter to the man of her choice – the man who would make her, as her mother had been before her, the Squire of Hurst’s wife?
And thus it came to pass that he stood silently, but not grimly waiting for his daughter – for she was still his daughter – to pass out to the new life of happiness. And presently there rose a buzz and a hum of excitement in the house, and the stalwart figure of Jack appeared on the top step. A moment later and the beautiful face of Una was by his side. No longer pale, but bright with blushes, and glowing with health and happiness, she stood, half timidly, pressing close to the proud fellow beside her.
Is it all a dream in her eyes, dimmed as they are by happy tears? Can it be true that Jack is all her own – that these good friends and true are really clustering round her, bidding her Godspeed and yet hindering her going as if they were loth to let her go? Perhaps she does not realize it all until they part and let her pass to where the old bent figure of Stephen’s mother stands waiting to see the last of the girl whom she has loved and still loves as a daughter.
Then as Una takes the trembling figure in her arms and kisses the pale face, she realizes it all, and through sobs she hears the faltering voice murmuring:
“God bless you, my darling! God bless and keep you!”
And as the broken benediction falls from the trembling lips, the crowd stand back, silent and tearful, and Jack and his bride are allowed to enter the carriage at last. Then breaks forth the cheer from outside the gates, and so, wafted around by blessings and good wishes, they commence their real life. A month later they will come back to find those friends who saw them depart, eager to welcome them back.
“No coming home to a silent house, my wild bird!” says Jack. “We’ll have them all here, everyone of them. I’d have all the world to see my darling, if I could.”
“My darling! my darling! they might take all the rest if they would leave me you.”
And Stephen? There is no difficulty in finding Stephen – he is too public a man. You can see and hear him any evening during the month of charitable meetings, if you will but go to the proper places.
There amongst philosophers and social reformers, you will see a tall, thin gentleman, with a white face and spotless linen, who, when he comes forward to make his speech, is received with deafening cheers, and who never fails to draw tears from the audience by his pathos and tender-souled eloquence; and when the meeting is over, if you wait beside the private entrance to the hall, you will see another tall, thin, black-coated man, who is like a reflection of the great philanthropist for whom he is waiting, and who, when he emerges, will take him by the arm and lead him to his brougham. For, excepting when he is before the public, Stephen is an injured, broken-down man, only at times able to whine out the story of the wrongs wrought him by the hands of those he most trusted. By his own account he has been robbed of his wife, his estate, his all, and left to the charity of a generous public; and it is only Slummers, besides Stephen himself, who knows that a check arrives punctually each quarter from Jack’s lawyer for the support of the man who returns forgiveness and generosity with undying hate and calumny. Yes, Stephen Davenant is regarded as a deeply injured man, and when he appears, with his pale face, and soft, mournful voice, there is always a show of handkerchiefs.
But Jack and Una are quite content, and whenever his name is mentioned, it is with more pity than anger. There is no room for aught else in their hearts but love.