The slate-scratching was scarcely over that evening when Mr Powell Liversage appeared. He was a golden-haired man, with a jolly face, lighter and shorter in structure than the two brothers. His friendship with them dated from school-days, and it had survived even the entrance of Liversage into a learned profession. Liversage, who, being a bachelor like the Hessians, had many unoccupied evenings, came to see the brothers regularly every Saturday night, and one or other of them dropped in upon him most Wednesdays; but this particular night was a Thursday.
‘How do?’ John greeted him succinctly between two puffs of a pipe.
‘How do?’ replied Liversage.
‘How do, Pow?’ Robert greeted him in turn, also between two puffs of a pipe.
And ‘How do, little ‘un?’ replied Liversage.
A chair was indicated to him, and he sat down, and Robert poured out some coffee into a third cup which Maggie had brought. John pushed away the extra special of the Staffordshire Signal, which he had been reading.
‘What’s up these days?’ John demanded.
‘Well,’ said Liversage, and both brothers noticed that he was rather ill at ease, instead of being humorous and lightly caustic as usual, ‘the will’s turned up.’
‘The devil it has!’ John exclaimed. ‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
And then, as there was a pause, Liversage added: ‘Yes, my sons, the will’s turned up.’
‘But where, you cuckoo, sitting there like that?’ asked Robert. ‘Where?’
‘It was in that registered letter addressed to your sister that the Post Office people wouldn’t hand over until we’d taken out letters of administration.’
‘Well, I’m dashed!’ muttered John. ‘Who’d have thought of that? You’ve got the will, then?’
Liversage nodded.
The Hessians had an elder sister, Mrs Bott, widow of a colour merchant, and Mrs Bott had died suddenly three months ago, the night after a journey to Manchester. (Even at the funeral the brothers had scandalized the town by not speaking to each other.) Mrs Bott had wealth, wit, and wisdom, together with certain peculiarities, of which one was an excessive secrecy. It was known that she had made a will, because she had more than once notified the fact, in a tone suggestive of highly important issues, but the will had refused to be found. So Mr Liversage had been instructed to take out letters of administration of the estate, which, in the continued absence of the will, would be divided equally between the brothers. And twelve or thirteen thousand pounds may be compared to a financial beef-steak that cuts up very handsomely for two persons. The carving-knife was about to descend on its succulence, when, lo! the will!
‘How came the will to be in the post?’ asked Robert.
‘The handwriting on the envelope was your sister’s,’ said Liversage. ‘And the package was posted in Manchester. Very probably she had taken the will to Manchester to show it to a lawyer or something of that sort, and then she was afraid of losing it on the journey back, and so she sent it to herself by registered post. But before it arrived, of course, she was dead.’
‘That wasn’t a bad scheme of poor Mary Ann’s!’ John commented.
‘It was just like her!’ said Robert, speaking pointedly to Liversage. ‘But what an odd thing!’
Now, both these men were, no doubt excusably, agonized by curiosity to learn the contents of the will. But would either of them be the first to express that curiosity? Never in this world! Not for the fortune itself! To do so would scarcely have been Bursleyish. It would certainly not have been Hessianlike. So Liversage was obliged at length to say—
‘I reckon I’d better read you the will, eh?’
The brothers nodded.
‘Mind you,’ said Liversage, ‘it’s not my will. I’ve had nothing to do with it; so kindly keep your hair on. As a matter of fact, she must have drawn it up herself. It’s not drawn properly at all, but it’s witnessed all right, and it’ll hold water, just as well as if the blooming Lord Chancellor had fixed it up for her in person.’
He produced the document and read, awkwardly and self-consciously—
‘“This is my will. You are both of you extremely foolish, John and Robert, and I’ve often told you so. Nobody has ever understood, and nobody ever will understand, why you quarrelled like that over Annie Emery. You are punishing yourselves, but you are punishing her as well, and it isn’t fair her waiting all these years. So I give all my estate, no matter what it is, to whichever of you marries Annie. And I hope this will teach you a lesson. You need it more than you need my money. But you must be married within a year of my death. And if the one that marries cares to give five thousand pounds or so to the other, of course there’s nothing to prevent him. This is just a hint. And if you don’t either of you marry Annie within a year, then I just leave everything I have to Miss Annie Emery (spinster), stationer and fancy-goods dealer, Duck Bank, Bursley. She deserves something for her disappointment, and she shall have it. Mr Liversage, solicitor, must kindly be my executor. And I commit my soul to God, hoping for a blessed resurrection. 20th January, 1896. Signed Mary Ann Bott, widow.” As I told you, the witnessing is in order,’ Liversage finished.
‘Give it here,’ said John shortly, and scanned the sheet of paper.
And Robert actually walked round the table and looked over his brother’s shoulder—ample proof that he was terrifically moved.
‘And do you mean to tell me that a will like that is good in law?’ exclaimed John.
‘Of course it’s good in law!’ Liversage replied. ‘Legal phraseology is a useful thing, and it often saves trouble in the end; but it ain’t indispensable, you know.’
‘Humph!’ was Robert’s comment as he resumed his seat and relighted his pipe.
All three men were nervous. Each was afraid to speak, afraid even to meet the eyes of the other two. An unmajestic silence followed.
‘Well, I’ll be off, I think,’ Liversage remarked at length with difficulty.
He rose.
‘I say,’ Robert stopped him. ‘Better not say anything about this to Miss—to Annie, eh?’
‘I will say nothing,’ agreed Liversage (infamously and unprofessionally concealing the fact that he had already said something).
And he departed.
The brothers sat in flustered meditation over the past and the future.
Ten years before, Annie Emery had been an orphan of twenty-three, bravely starting in business for herself amid the plaudits of the admiring town; and John had fallen in love with her courage and her sense and her feminine charm. But alas, as Ovid points out, how difficult it is for a woman to please only one man! Robert also had fallen in love with Annie. Each brother had accused the other of underhand and unbrotherly practices in the pursuit of Annie. Each was profoundly hurt by the accusations, and each, in the immense fatuity of his pride, had privately sworn to prove his innocence by having nothing more to do with Annie. Such is life! Such is man! Such is the terrible egoism of man! And thus it was that, for the sake of wounded pride, John and Robert not only did not speak to one another for ten years, but they spoilt at least one of their lives; and they behaved ignobly to Annie, who would certainly have married either one or the other of them.
At two o’clock in the morning John pulled a coin out of his pocket and made the gesture of tossing.
‘Who shall go first!’ he explained.
Robert had a queer sensation in his spine as his elder brother spoke to him for the first time in ten years. He wanted to reply vocally. He had a most imperious desire to reply vocally. But he could not. Something stronger even than the desire prevented his tongue from moving.
John tossed the coin—it was a sovereign—and covered it with his hands.
‘Tail!’ Robert murmured, somewhat hoarsely.
But it was head.
Then they went to bed.
II