fellow? We should have no chance—eh?—not the ghost of a chance—of upsetting tins will?”
Mr. Didlington gravely bowed and buttoning his overcoat with his free hand pensively picked a leaf from the lemon verbena with the one that held his stick.
“Not the ghost of a chance, eh?” repeated Philip.
The man straightened and looked him in the face.
“I am acting,” he said, “for all parties concerned.” He paused, and resumed with real dignity. “My position as executor is a difficult one. Mr. Geard recognises its difficulty. His departure for Glastonbury proves that he does so. I hope that there may arise no occasion for the introduction of further advice and Mr. Geard hopes so too.”
“I warrant he does,” thought Philip. But he only said: “I confess to be startled, Didlington. You must have expected us to be startled.”
The lawyer continued crumpling up between his fingers the lemon verbena leaf. “Mr. Geard has been your grandfather's valet,” he said, “his secretary, his confidant, and, I might say, if you'll permit the word, his friend, for the last ten years. No opinion you called in would advise you to contest the will.”
Philip Crow bent down and smelt a heliotrope. “Won't you change your mind, Didlington, after all, and let my good wife give you a cup of tea? She was over-excited just now. It was a surprise, you know; and ladies always take things hard. I expect if Mr. Geard wasn't ., . • hadn't been . . . well-known to us in Glastonbury as a rather trying local preacher, she wouldn't have felt------”
The lawyer shook his head. “In case there arose,” he said, “in the mind of any of your family, a wish for further advice, I would like to point out that the late Canon's doctor, a good friend of mine, feels as I do, that your grandfather's mind was never clearer than during the time he made this will. No reputable firm would take up this case, Sir, on the grounds of undue influence. Everybody knows—if you'll allow me to be quite frank—that his family left the late Canon very much alone; and it is natural enough that under these circumstances------”
“Well—well—I'm afraid I must be getting back to my guests,” interrupted Philip coldly. “I wish you a pleasant walk home, Mr. Didlington.” He opened the door of the conservatory and bowed the man out.
No sooner had he entered the dining-room than Tilly Crow, peering at him round the great copper urn which stood on the table in front of her, with a little blue flame burning below it, cried out to him in a tearful, plaintive voice. “It was our own doing, Philip. That's what hurts me most. Oh, why, why did we ever let that man go to him?”
“What kind of a man is he, this lucky wretch?” Percy Spear enquired, as the head of the family sat down at the end of the table.
“He was an open-air preacher who lived in Glastonbury, Perse,” Philip explained. “He was always out of luck and had a wife and two children. He was a nuisance to the whole town; and when your grandfather wanted a lay-reader, or someone who'd combine the duties of a valet and a curate, we packed him off to him. No one would have dreamed of this being the result.”
“Perhaps he isn't a bad sort of chap after all,” remarked Dave Spear. “Did you ever see him, Mary?”
Mary shook her head.
“I suppose,” said John in a low voice, as if speaking rather to himself than to anyone in particular, “there is no way he could be persuaded to give up some of it?”
Philip gave him a swift glance of infinite disgust. “One doesn't do that sort of thing in England, Mr. Crow,” he said, “not, at any rate, people in our position.”
“A will is a funny thing,” said Dave Spear meditatively. “A dead man arbitrarily gives to some living person the power that he has robbed the community of! The mere existence of a thing like a will is enough to prove the unnaturalness of private property.”
Aunt Elizabeth looked anxiously at Philip.
Mr. Didlington gravely bowed and buttoning his overcoat with his free hand pensively picked a leaf from the lemon verbena with the one that held his stick.
“Not the ghost of a chance, eh?” repeated Philip.
The man straightened and looked him in the face.
“I am acting,” he said, “for all parties concerned.” He paused, and resumed with real dignity. “My position as executor is a difficult one. Mr. Geard recognises its difficulty. His departure for Glastonbury proves that he does so. I hope that there may arise no occasion for the introduction of further advice and Mr. Geard hopes so too.”
“I warrant he does,” thought Philip. But he only said: “I confess to be startled, Didlington. You must have expected us to be startled.”
The lawyer continued crumpling up between his fingers the lemon verbena leaf. “Mr. Geard has been your grandfather's valet,” he said, “his secretary, his confidant, and, I might say, if you'll permit the word, his friend, for the last ten years. No opinion you called in would advise you to contest the will.”
Philip Crow bent down and smelt a heliotrope. “Won't you change your mind, Didlington, after all, and let my good wife give you a cup of tea? She was over-excited just now. It was a surprise, you know; and ladies always take things hard. I expect if Mr. Geard wasn't ., . • hadn't been . . . well-known to us in Glastonbury as a rather trying local preacher, she wouldn't have felt------”
The lawyer shook his head. “In case there arose,” he said, “in the mind of any of your family, a wish for further advice, I would like to point out that the late Canon's doctor, a good friend of mine, feels as I do, that your grandfather's mind was never clearer than during the time he made this will. No reputable firm would take up this case, Sir, on the grounds of undue influence. Everybody knows—if you'll allow me to be quite frank—that his family left the late Canon very much alone; and it is natural enough that under these circumstances------”
“Well—well—I'm afraid I must be getting back to my guests,” interrupted Philip coldly. “I wish you a pleasant walk home, Mr. Didlington.” He opened the door of the conservatory and bowed the man out.
No sooner had he entered the dining-room than Tilly Crow, peering at him round the great copper urn which stood on the table in front of her, with a little blue flame burning below it, cried out to him in a tearful, plaintive voice. “It was our own doing, Philip. That's what hurts me most. Oh, why, why did we ever let that man go to him?”
“What kind of a man is he, this lucky wretch?” Percy Spear enquired, as the head of the family sat down at the end of the table.
“He was an open-air preacher who lived in Glastonbury, Perse,” Philip explained. “He was always out of luck and had a wife and two children. He was a nuisance to the whole town; and when your grandfather wanted a lay-reader, or someone who'd combine the duties of a valet and a curate, we packed him off to him. No one would have dreamed of this being the result.”
“Perhaps he isn't a bad sort of chap after all,” remarked Dave Spear. “Did you ever see him, Mary?”
Mary shook her head.
“I suppose,” said John in a low voice, as if speaking rather to himself than to anyone in particular, “there is no way he could be persuaded to give up some of it?”
Philip gave him a swift glance of infinite disgust. “One doesn't do that sort of thing in England, Mr. Crow,” he said, “not, at any rate, people in our position.”
“A will is a funny thing,” said Dave Spear meditatively. “A dead man arbitrarily gives to some living person the power that he has robbed the community of! The mere existence of a thing like a will is enough to prove the unnaturalness of private property.”
Aunt Elizabeth looked anxiously at Philip.
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