READING THE WILL.
Although the funeral of Mr. Rand was not largely attended,—for his
seclusion had prevented his making many acquaintances in the city,—no
expense was spared upon it. Lewis was determined that, so far as money
went, every respect should be paid to his uncle’s memory. Perhaps he
thought in this way to atone for the grievous wrong which he had done
him. To his cousin and Helen he was sedulously polite and even
deferential, so that those who could look no deeper than the surface
might well suppose him to be all that a kind and affectionate relation
ought to be.
On the day succeeding the funeral the will was appointed to be read.
“Of course you will be present, Robert,” said Lewis, “you and your
daughter. I need hardly say that I am entirely ignorant of the manner in
which my uncle had seen fit to dispose of his property. I have reason,
indeed, to think that he has made some small provision for me. But
whatever may be the purport of the will which is to be read to-morrow, I
pledge myself in advance to interpose no obstacle to its provisions.”
Perhaps he expected a similar declaration from Robert, but his cousin
kept silence.
The next morning at ten o’clock the will was read. A small company was
gathered in the library of the deceased. Lewis leaned his arm upon the
table by which he sat, with a downcast look but a throbbing heart. One
brief form more, and the object of his life would be attained.
The document was not a long one. After the usual introduction, the
testator bequeathed all his property, real and personal, without
reserve, to his dear nephew, Lewis Rand, for whom he cherished a strong
affection.
There was a slight flush upon the face of Robert Ford, or Robert Rand,
as we should now call him. It was not strange that he should display
some emotion at being thus publicly ignored, and his birthright
transferred to another. As he looked up, he thought he could detect a
momentary gleam of exultation in the face of Lewis. But it was
immediately repressed.
The lawyer, who had previously been made acquainted with the fact that
Robert was a son of the deceased, looked surprised.
“Was this expected?” he asked. “How shall we account for no mention
being made of your name,” addressing Robert, “as his son, and direct
heir? such an omission is extraordinary.”
“My father,” said Robert, calmly, “was not aware of my existence. He had
not seen me for many years, and had been led to believe me dead. It was
only accidentally”—his glance rested for a moment on his cousin, who
strove to look unconcerned—“that I was enabled to discover his residence
in this city, and make myself known to him before he died.”
He was proud enough to wish to keep concealed the long estrangement
between them, desiring to shield his father’s memory from any reproach
which this omission might be thought to cast upon it.
“My cousin is quite right,” said Lewis. “His father and myself believed,
on what we supposed to be reliable evidence, that he died some years
since in Chicago. It is a source of regret to me that our mistake was
discovered at so late a period, when in consequence of the near approach
of death, it was impossible for my uncle to make any change in the
disposition of his estate.”
The lawyer who, without having any definite grounds of suspicion,
distrusted Lewis and his smooth professions, answered, coldly, “Your
regret will no doubt be considerably lessened when you reflect that the
property which you acknowledge has come to you by mistake, is at your
absolute disposal, and that it is therefore in your power to remedy this
unintended wrong.”
The sallow face of Lewis flushed beneath the penetrating gaze of the
lawyer, who, he saw, suspected the real nature which he kept concealed
beneath a flimsy veil of deception and hypocrisy.
But he was prepared even for this emergency.
“That is true,” he said, “and although my reverence for the expressed
wishes of the deceased will not permit me to interfere materially with
the disposition which he has made, I shall take care that my cousin is
provided for. Robert, if you will do me the favor to remain after this
form is over, I shall be glad to explain what I propose to do.”
Lewis had been thinking of this contingency. He saw that it would be
absolutely necessary to make some provision for his cousin, as well to
quiet the world’s censure as more effectually to ward off suspicion from
himself.
In the western part of Pennsylvania there was a small farm, worth, with
the buildings upon it, three or four thousand dollars. This was but an
insignificant item in the list of Mr. Rand’s possessions. It was this
farm that Lewis proposed bestowing upon his cousin. It would, he
thought, be a cheap way of securing his acquiescence in the provisions
of the will, and remove him to an obscure neighborhood, where he would
have little power of doing him harm.
When all, save Helen and her father, had departed, Lewis turned to his
cousin, and after repeating, at some length, his expressions of regret
that his uncle had not been spared to make a change in the disposition
of his property, concluded by tendering him, as a free gift, the farm in
question, together with two hundred dollars in money, which he judged
would be sufficient to convey them hither, and pay any little debts
which they might have incurred.
Robert listened in surprise to this disgraceful proposition. He was not
a practical man, and in business matters he was very liable to be
deceived. But he knew sufficient of the extent of his father’s wealth to
divine, that the pittance which his cousin offered was less than the
hundredth part of the entire estate.
Knowing this, his pride rose in indignant rebellion at this insult.
“Do you think, Lewis,” he said, scornfully, “that if my father had lived
long enough to change his will according to the desire which you have
several times seen fit to express, that _this_ is the provision which he
would have made for me?”
“If you do not consider it sufficient,” said Lewis, evasively, “I will
say a thousand dollars, in addition to the farm. That will enable you to
stock it amply, and live quite independently.”
“You are generous,” said Robert, with sarcasm, for his spirit was now
fully roused; “but think not that I will become a pensioner upon your
bounty. One tenth part even of the pittance which you offer me, if it
came from my father, I would gratefully accept. But for you, who bestow
your alms upon me as if I were a beggar, instead of the son of the man
from whom all your wealth is wrongfully derived, I scorn your gift, and
reject it.”
“You are hasty, and may regret your decision. Think of your
daughter,—would you leave her penniless?”
“Let her decide that question. Helen, shall we accept what this man
offers, or shall we preserve our humble independence, as we have done
heretofore?”
“So long as I have you, papa, it is enough. God will take care of us.”
“You hear her answer, Lewis Rand. I have but one thing to say to you
before we part,—it may be for the last time upon earth. I am not
ignorant of the arts by which you have brought about and kept up the
estrangement between my father and myself; how many overtures towards
reconciliation on either side have been defeated through your
machinations; how carefully you have kept alive in my father’s heart the
belief that I was dead, though you knew it to be false. By such means
you have compassed your object. I do not envy you your reward. Far less
will I be indebted to you for a miserable pittance of that wealth which
you have wrested from me by a systematic course of treachery and deceit.
Come, Helen, let us go.”
Lewis Rand turned red and white by turns during this unexpected address,
which satisfied him that Mr. Sharp had proved faithless to his trust.
But flushed as he was with success, he could afford to disregard it all
now.
“Do as you please,” he said, coldly. “At any rate, you cannot deny that
I have made the offer. You may, some day, regret not having accepted
it.”
“Never!” said his cousin, vehemently.
“Very well; that is your affair. In reference to the grave charges which
you have seen fit to bring against my character, I have only to say,
that I defy you to prove them. Farewell! I would have been your friend.
Since you would have me for your enemy, so let it be.”
“I care as little for the one as for the other,” said Robert, proudly.
So saying, he held out his hand to Helen, and together they left the
stately dwelling, with its costly furniture and appointments, and took
their way slowly to their humble lodging, with its bare floor and hard
wooden chairs, contrasting, in its plainness, so vividly with the
dwelling they had left. There was another difference. The one was dark
and gloomy in spite of its luxury. Here the warm and cheerful sunshine
entered in at the open window, and flung its radiance all over the room.
Helen breathed a sigh of relief as she entered.
“Oh, how much pleasanter it is here,” she said, “than in that great
gloomy house!”
And she began preparing supper with unwonted lightness of heart, as if a
sudden weight had been removed from her spirit.
“I am well rid of him,” muttered Lewis, as his cousin left the room. “He
really has more spirit than I suspected. As for that Sharp, he has
served me a scurvy trick, but he has overshot his mark this time. I can
fancy his disappointment when he discovers that Robert is still a
beggar.”
Lewis laughed sardonically, and gave himself up to the intoxicating
dream of power which his wealth would give him.