Again Mr. Grainger laid down the will, and again he regarded me
over the rim of his spectacles.
"Good God!" cried Sir Richard, leaping to his feet, "the man must
have been mad. Ten guineas--why, it's an insult--damme!--it's an
insult--you'll never take it of course, Peter."
"On the contrary, sir," said I.
"But--ten guineas!" bellowed the baronet; "on my soul now, George
was a cold-blooded fish, but I didn't think even he was capable
of such a despicable trick--no--curse me if I did! Why, it would
have been kinder to have left you nothing at all--but it was like
George--bitter to the end--ten guineas!"
"Is ten guineas," said I, "and when one comes to think of it,
much may be done with ten guineas."
Sir Richard grew purple in the face, but before he could speak,
Mr. Grainger began to read again: "'Moreover, the sum of five hundred thousand pounds, now vested
in the funds, shall be paid to either Maurice or Peter Vibart
aforesaid, if either shall, within one calendar year, become the
husband of the Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne.'"
"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Richard.
"'Failing which,'" read Mr. Grainger, "'the said sum, namely,
five hundred thousand pounds, shall be bestowed upon such charity
or charities as the trustees shall select. Signed by me, this
tenth day of April, eighteen hundred and--, GEORGE VIBRART. Duly
witnessed by ADAM PENFLEET, MARTHA TRENT."' Here Mr. Grainger's voice stopped, and I remember, in the silence
that followed, the parchment crackled very loudly as he folded it
precisely and laid it on the table before him. I remember also
that Sir Richard was swearing vehemently under his breath as he
paced to and fro between me and the window.
"And that is all?" I inquired at last.
"That," said Mr. Grainger, not looking at me now, "is all."
"The Lady Sophia," murmured Sir Richard as if to "himself, "the
Lady Sophia!" And then, stopping suddenly before me in his walk,
"Oh, Peter!" said he, clapping his hand down upon my shoulder,
"oh, Peter, that settles it; you're done for, boy--a crueller
will was never made."
"Marriage!" said I to myself. "Hum!"
"A damnable iniquity," exclaimed Sir Richard, striding up and
down the room again.
"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!" said I, rubbing my chin.
"Why, that's just it," roared the baronet; "she's a reigning
toast--most famous beauty in the country, London's mad over
her--she can pick and choose from all the finest gentlemen in
England. Oh, it's 'good-by' to all your hopes of the inheritance,
Peter, and that's the devil of it."