The Canadian. W. Somerset Maugham

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      "Jim," she remonstrated, "Miss Marsh would much prefer to have tea quietly after we're gone."

      Nora understood and for the moment found it in her heart to be sorry for the woman, much as she disliked her.

      "I won't have any tea, thank you," she said simply.

      "Mr. Wynne has brought the will with him," explained Mrs. Wickham. Her tone was almost appealing as if she begged Nora if she knew of its contents to say so without further delay.

      "Oh, yes?"

      Nothing should induce her to show such agitation as this woman did. She managed to assume an air of polite interest and find a chair for herself quite calmly. And yet she was conscious that her heart was beating wildly beneath her bodice. But she would not betray herself, she would not. And yet her stake was as great as any. Her whole future hung on the contents of that paper Mr. Wynne was caressing with his long fingers.

      "Miss Marsh," questioned Mr. Wynne as soon as she was seated, "so far as you know there is no other will?"

      "How do you mean?"

      "Miss Wickham didn't make a later one—without my assistance, I mean? You know of nothing in the house, for instance?"

      "Oh, no," said Nora positively. "Miss Wickham always said you had her will. She was extremely methodical."

      "I feel I ought to ask you," the solicitor went on with unwonted gentleness, "because Miss Wickham consulted me a couple of years ago about making a new will. She told me what she wanted to do, but gave me no actual instructions to draw it. I thought perhaps she might have done it herself."

      "I heard nothing about it. I am sure that her only will is in your hands."

      "Then I think that we may take it that this——"

      Mrs. Wickham's set face relaxed. The light of triumph was in her eyes. She understood.

      "When was that will made?" she asked eagerly.

      "Eight or nine years ago. The exact date was March 4th, 1904."

      The date settled it. Nora, too, realized that. She was left penniless. What a refinement of cruelty to deceive—but she must not think of that now. She would have all the rest of her life in which to think of it. But here before that woman, whose searching glance was even now fastened on her face to see how she was taking the blow, she would give no sign.

      "When did you first come to Miss Wickham?" Mrs. Wickham's voice was almost a caress.

      "At the end of nineteen hundred and three." There was no trace of emotion in that clear voice. After a moment Mr. Wynne spoke again.

      "Shall I read it, or would you just like to know the particulars? It is very short."

      "Oh, let us know just roughly." Mrs. Wickham was still eager.

      "Well, Miss Wickham left one hundred pounds to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, and one hundred pounds to the General Hospital at Tunbridge Wells, and the entire residue of her fortune to her nephew, Mr. James Wickham."

      Mrs. Wickham drew her breath sharply. Once more she looked at her late aunt's companion, but nothing was to be read in that calm face. She was a designing minx, none the less. But she did yield her a grudging admiration, for her self-control in the shipwreck of all her hopes. Now they could have their car. Oh, what couldn't they have! She felt she had earned every penny of it in that last dreadful half hour.

      "And Miss Marsh?" she heard her husband ask.

      "Miss Marsh is not mentioned."

      Somehow, Nora managed a smile. "I could hardly expect to be. At the time that will was drawn I had been Miss Wickham's companion for only a few months."

      "That is why I asked whether you knew of any later will," said Mr. Wynne almost sadly. "When I talked to Miss Wickham on the subject she said her wish was to make adequate provision for you after her death. I think she had spoken to you about it."

      "Yes, she had."

      "She mentioned three hundred a year."

      "That was very kind of her." Nora's voice broke a little. "I'm glad she wished to do something for me."

      "Oddly enough," continued the solicitor, "she spoke about it to Dr. Evans only a few days before she died."

      "Perhaps there is a later will somewhere," said Wickham.

      "I honestly don't think so."

      "Oh, I'm sure there isn't," affirmed Nora.

      "Dr. Evans was talking to Miss Wickham about Miss Marsh. She was completely tired out and he wanted Miss Wickham to have a professional nurse. She told him then that I had the will and that she had left Miss Marsh amply provided for."

      "That isn't legal, of course," said Mrs. Wickham decidedly.

      "What isn't?"

      "I mean no one could force us—I mean the will stands as it is, doesn't it?"

      "Certainly it does."

      "I'm afraid it's a great disappointment to you, Miss Marsh," Wickham said, not unkindly.

      "I never count my chickens before they're hatched." This time Nora smiled easily and naturally. The worst was over now.

      "It would be very natural if Miss Marsh were disappointed in the circumstances. I think she'd been led to expect——" Mr. Wynne's voice was almost pleading.

      Mrs. Wickham detected a certain disapproval in the tone. She hastened to justify herself. He might still be useful. When the estate was once settled, they would of course put everything in the hands of their London solicitor. But it would be better not to antagonize him for the moment.

      "Our aunt left a very small fortune, I understand, and I suppose she felt it wouldn't be fair to leave a large part of it away from her own family."

      "Of course," said her husband, following her lead, "it is family money. She inherited it from my grandfather, and—but I want you to know, Miss Marsh, that my wife and I thoroughly appreciate all you did for my aunt. Money couldn't repay your care and devotion You've been perfectly wonderful."

      "It's extremely good of you to say so."

      "I think everyone who saw Miss Marsh with Miss Wickham must be aware that during the ten years she was with her she never spared herself." Mr. Wynne's eyes were on Mrs. Wickham.

      "Of course my aunt was a very trying woman——" began James Wickham feebly. His wife headed him off.

      "Earning one's living is always unpleasant; if it weren't there'd be no incentive to work."

      This astonishing aphorism was almost too much for Nora's composure. She gave Mrs. Wickham an amused glance, to which that lady responded by beaming upon her in her most agreeable manner.

      "My СКАЧАТЬ