he was once more alone, ‘this is getting rather too warm. The fellow
gave me quite a turn. If he takes _that_ notion into his head, things
may become awkward.’ And Mr Blackford decided that the time had arrived
for communicating with Willoughby’s friends in Cape Town. He would have
tried to induce the police to move in the matter at once; but this
remedy, as he knew, was difficult and uncertain, and should it fail,
would but add to the danger. He wrote off then and there, representing
in feeling language the condition of his unfortunate client, which he
stated he had only just discovered, and urging that some one should
come to England immediately, with a view to putting the lunatic’s
person and property under proper control. Of course he said nothing
about the money he had extorted for his phantom services. Fortunately,
it was against his principles to give receipts unless they were
demanded, which in this case they had not been, and all the payments
had been made in cash; so he left it to be inferred that his exertions
had been gratuitously rendered entirely from a sense of duty, and
delicately hinted at their continuance on a different footing. Practice
‘In Lunacy’ is very lucrative; and Mr Blackford was not the man to
neglect such chances as came in his way.
After this, owing to certain instructions which Mr Blackford gave to
his staff, Willoughby found it surprisingly difficult to obtain a
satisfactory interview with his solicitor. If he made an appointment
by letter, Mr Blackford had always been unavoidably called out, and
the time of his return was certain only in that it would be very late.
If the client called unexpectedly, he always found the lawyer putting
on his hat and gloves in a violent hurry, to attend some important
appointment; and the interview was restricted to a short conversation
as they walked through the streets, with ready assistance at hand on
all sides. Willoughby’s manner under this treatment grew more and more
unsatisfactory. Jobson, the clerk, who knew nothing of the business in
hand, never suspected the visitor’s peculiar condition, and cheerfully
assured him, according to orders, that all was going on well. But
this did not satisfy him; and on the few occasions of his seeing the
lawyer in person, he made that gentleman extremely uncomfortable by the
growing gloom and wildness of his looks, and by persistent references
to the hints of treachery which his mysterious foes continued to throw
out.
Suddenly, he discontinued his visits. A fortnight went by, during which
he made no sign; and then something happened which drove him entirely
out of Mr Blackford’s mind. This was the receipt of a letter written
by Lucy Wedlake, at the request of her uncle, who wished to see his
solicitor at once on important business. It was added that Mr Franklin
had been seriously ill, but was now much better, and it was hoped that
with care he would soon recover.
Mr Blackford found his client in his bedroom, propped up with pillows
in a chair by the fireside. It was evident at the first glance that he
had received a heavy blow. His face was anxious and watchful, like that
of one who expects from hour to hour the advent of a dreaded enemy, and
fears to be taken unprepared. It was with little trace of his ordinary
rough irritability, and with a tremulous and feeble voice, that he bade
the solicitor sit down, for there was a deal to talk about. He had had
‘an attack,’ he said; the doctors told him it was the heart, and he
must be very careful. They had to say something for their money, of
course; still, it might be true. We must all go some time; and his time
might be short. He had committed an injustice, which must be put right
at once. His niece had done her duty by him, and he had broken his
promise to her. It was his wish to make a fresh will at once, leaving
her the whole of his property, according to his original intention.
‘I’ve planned it all in my mind,’ said he. ‘It is to be for her alone,
mind you; her husband shall never touch a penny that I can keep from
him. He’s an impudent upstart. He spoke to me as no man ever ventured
to speak before; and I doubt he’s brought me to my grave, through being
upset the way I was. Take that pen and paper, Blackford, and set it
down just as I tell you. The money is to be invested, and the income to
be paid to my niece Lucy Wedlake as long as she lives; after her death,
the capital is to be divided equally among the children. If she has no
children, it’s all to go to the Vintners’ Company. That cuts out Thomas
Wedlake, doesn’t it? That’s all right.—Now about yourself. I suppose
you consider that you’re an injured man, don’t you—hey?’
To this question, put with some approach to Uncle Franklin’s usual
manner and tone, Mr Blackford found it difficult, in the then state of
his emotions, to make any reply whatever. He managed to stammer out,
with a ghastly attempt at a smile, that he was aware that he had no
right to expect——
‘No more you had,’ interrupted Mr Franklin; ‘that’s very true; so
there’s little harm done. Though I don’t say but what I’ll do something
for you too. That has happened to me which makes a man think of things
he usen’t to mind. Maybe I’ve no right to disappoint you altogether,
after what I led you to expect. I might have employed another lawyer to
make this will; but I thought you were entitled to have what business
was to be got out of the thing. And you shan’t say I was unhandsome.
Put yourself down for a thousand pounds.’
Mr Blackford expressed his gratitude as well as he could, which was
not very well; but it was a great deal more than he felt under the
circumstances.
‘You have named no trustees,’ said he, recovering himself a little; ‘it
will be necessary to do so. I myself should be very happy’——
‘No,’ said the old man; ‘I don’t care for lawyers as trustees; they
never seem to run straight. Let me see—put down William Brown, of the
Stock Exchange, and James Harberton, of Leadenhall Street, merchant.
Give them each a hundred pounds for their services. They won’t refuse
to act when they find their names in the will; if they were to be asked
beforehand, they’d say no; so don’t you tell either of them till I’m
gone. And talking of that—don’t let my niece or any one else hear a
word about this. I shall keep the will myself this time, and you will
be the only person to know where it is to be found. Otherwise, they’ll
all be scrabbling after it as soon as the breath is out of me—perhaps
before; and it may be a whim, but I don’t like the notion. Lucy’s a
good sort; but then she is only a woman, and curious, like the rest of
’em. I shall tell her to send for you when the right time comes; and
then you can lay your hand upon the will and do what’s needful—which
will bring a little more grist to your mill, to console you. Get the
thing ready by to-morrow at this time, and bring it here with two
witnesses, as before. Bring the old will as well; I wish to destroy it
myself.’
‘That is hardly necessary,’ said the solicitor, catching at he knew
not what straw of hope; ‘it will be effectually revoked by the later
document.’
‘Don’t you argue with me; do as I tell you. I say I shall destroy it
with my own hands; then there can’t be any question about it.—Don’t
fail to come to-morrow; I want to get it over. I don’t think there’s
much time to waste. If you were to take me anywhere near a churchyard
and lay me down, I doubt I shouldn’t be in a hurry to get up again.’
Mr Blackford attempted a politely deprecatory murmur, but was testily
interrupted. ‘Oh, I daresay you won’t be sorry to get your money. I’m
tired talking. Mind you do just as I have told you.—Good-day.’
It was not until he found himself sitting in his own room, staring
blankly at the opposite wall, that the solicitor realised the full
weight of his misfortune. He had no feeling of anger; the blow, though
he had all along had a lurking presentiment of it, was too cruel
and staggering, now that it had fallen, to arouse any such emotion.
He was bitterly disappointed. A thousand pounds! But a few months
ago, a thousand pounds would have seemed a fortune, and the windfall
would have set him planning innumerable ways of turning it to the
best advantage. But what was it now to him, who had been deprived
of the expectation of a sum which would have rendered all planning
unnecessary, only to be resorted to as a recreation, for the remainder
of his life? Nothing, and worse than nothing—a mere tantalising taste
of the good fortune which ought in justice—so it really appeared
to him—to have been his. And must he now give up all his hopes?
Must he remain for ever a mere plodding man of business of doubtful
reputation—even with a thousand pounds of capital? Were the delights
of unlimited leisure, of freedom from thought for the morrow, of
unstinted gratification of animal appetites, of worldly consideration,
never to be his, after all? He was fast approaching middle life;
the time remaining to him for the enjoyment of all these things was
growing shorter and shorter. To the purer pleasures of honest labour,
to the noble ambition of building up a modest fortune by dauntless
perseverance and undeviating rectitude, in the hope that some day,
with folded hands, he might fearlessly await the end in the quiet of
an old age free from reproach—to all this he was utterly a stranger;
nor would the prospect, had it been suggested, have at all allured
him. His life had been one of poverty tempered by knaveries too petty
to attract punishment; his dream of success had been one of sudden
and unearned wealth, coming without effort, to be applied only to
selfish gratification. To such men, crime, as crime, presents nothing
repulsive; they abstain from it only so long as it offers no advantage
commensurate with the risk. Given advantage and opportunity, crime
follows with the certainty of a mathematical demonstration. He would
not give way without a struggle. He could not. Something must be done.
But what?
He opened his safe, and took out the will which was to have made him
rich, and by that time to-morrow would be a mere piece of waste paper.
He read it through, dwelling on every word with the bitterness of one
who takes leave of hope for ever. When he came to the end, he gave a
slight start of surprise—the date was blank. It had been left blank,
he remembered, when the document was signed. He had intended to fill
it in on his return to the office, but he had forgotten to do so. It
should have been the 28th of November. What did it matter now! He threw
the will on his desk with a despairing gesture, and walked up and down,
trying to think. His brain was in a whirl; he could see no loophole of
escape from the impending sacrifice. Then he remembered—and it came to
him as an additional stab—that he had his bread to earn; whatever else
he might do, he must at present carry out his client’s instructions. He
must with his own hands prepare the instrument which was to rob him—so
he put it to himself—of his just expectations.
As he turned to the table, his eye again fell upon the blank space at
the end of the will where the date should have been inserted; and at
that moment, the crime which was to come to his aid stepped up softly
behind him and whispered its first hint into his ear.
It was a revelation. Mr Blackford, as he sat and thought out the
details, though by no means a religious man, almost considered it to be
providential. No shrinking from the cruel wrong he was about to commit,
no sentiment of justice or compassion interfered with his determination
to avail himself of it to its fullest extent. He set to work at once.
His first step was to walk across to the law-stationer and inform him
that the writer who had witnessed a will on a former occasion would
be required for a like service to-morrow. The testator, he explained,
was the same; he was making a fresh will; he was an eccentric old
gentleman, who insisted that the very persons who had attested the old
will should also attest the new one; and he took the precaution of
seeing the writer himself and making sure of his attendance. As he went
back to the office, he warned Jobson that he, too, would be required
for the same purpose.
He got down his books and set to work. He drew the new will with the
greatest care and accuracy, according to the instructions which he had
just received. Everything was vested in the trustees named, in trust to
pay the income to the testator’s dear niece Lucy, the wife of Thomas
Wedlake, for her life, for her separate use, free from the debts,
control, or engagements of her present or any future husband. After her
death, the fund was to be divided amongst her children as she should
direct; in default of children, the whole to be paid to the Vintners’
Company of London. Nothing was neglected; all the usual and proper
powers and provisos were inserted with careful attention to detail.
The previous will he had fair-copied with his own hand, instead of
handing it to his clerk or law-stationer. He did the same in this
case, though the document was longer and the transcription involved
considerable labour. His next proceeding, in the eyes of another
lawyer, would have seemed very curious, for lawyers are extremely
particular about the preservation, for future reference, of the draft
of any deed or other document which they prepare; but the draft of
this will Mr Blackford tore to fragments, which he afterwards burned
in the grate. He was taking unusual pains, in fact, to carry out the
testator’s wishes, that no one beside himself and his solicitor should
be aware of the contents of the will.
It was now past his usual lunch-time; and he strolled into the outer
office, and sent his boy to get him a dry biscuit and a glass of
brandy-and-water. Until this arrived, he stood chatting to Jobson on
indifferent subjects; and then intimating to him that he was going to
be extremely busy with private affairs, and must not be disturbed on
any account whatever, he retired with his spare meal. He locked the
door of his room behind him; he was about to enter on an important
part of his operation. He took up the old will—that which was to be
destroyed on the morrow—and examined it carefully as he ate and drank.
It was copied on a piece of the paper known as ‘demy;’ it occupied the
whole of the first page and four lines of the second. Then followed the
long and cumbrous attestation clause, with Mr Franklin’s straggling and
irregular signature against it. Taking a paper of the same size, shape,
and quality, the solicitor made an exact and laboured copy, or rather
fac-simile. It had the same number of lines, and each line contained
the same words as in the original. One or two unimportant erasures and
carelessly formed letters were faithfully repeated. The signature, ‘Wm.
Franklin,’ was transferred by means of tracing and carbonised paper,
and then gone over and touched up with the pen, until a most successful
imitation was produced. Two small blots, or rather splutters, had
been made by the testator in writing his name. Their positions were
accurately ascertained by measurement, their outlines transferred
with the tracing-paper and then filled in with ink; a final touch of
which Mr Blackford was reasonably proud, as indicating real genius.
The result was a duplicate, which only a very careful scrutiny could
have distinguished from the original of the will which was in his own
favour. This ended his labours for the present.
Next day, Mr Blackford presented himself and his two witnesses before
his client with the new will for signature. The old man, who was in
much the same condition, read it through for himself and expressed his
approval. The usual formalities were gone through, and the witnesses
dismissed.
‘Now,’ said Mr Franklin, ‘have you brought the other will?’
‘I have, as you requested me to do so,’ said the solicitor, producing
it; ‘though, as I said at the time, it was not necessary.’
‘Never mind,’ said his client, taking it from his hand; ‘it’s just as
well out of the way. How do I know what tricks a lawyer might be up to?’
To this speech, in Mr Franklin’s best style, the solicitor made no
reply; he was conscious of being ‘up to tricks’ of a rather elaborate
nature. His client read the revoked will through with the same care
as he had bestowed on that which superseded it. When he came to the
signature, something about it seemed to arrest his attention; he turned
it to the light and inspected it closely. Mr Blackford’s heart thumped
uncomfortably against his ribs.
‘Curious!’ said Mr Franklin slowly; ‘I never knew myself to miss
dotting an _i_ before.’
He continued to pore over the signature, making grumbling comments,
in an undertone, for some seconds, during which Mr Blackford felt an
almost irresistible desire to snatch the document from him and knock
his venerable head against the wall. At last, to the solicitor’s
intense relief, he tore it across and across and threw it upon the
fire, where it was quickly destroyed.
‘That’s done with,’ said Mr Franklin. ‘The next thing is to put this
one away where no one but you and I will know where to find it. I
prefer to keep it here, because then I shall know it’s all safe. As to
the last, it didn’t so much matter; you were the person most interested
in its safety, so it was very well that you should have the custody
of it. It’s different now.—D’ye see that half-dozen of books on the
shelf in the recess? At this end, you’ll find a big old illustrated
Prayer-book. Put the will in there, and remember the page.’
Mr Blackford took down the book, which opened of itself—ominously
enough—at the service for the Burial of the Dead. He did not mention
this circumstance, but put the folded paper in its place and closed and
replaced the volume.
‘That’s well,’ said Mr Franklin in a weary voice. ‘I’m weaker than I
thought; all this has tired me out.—Good-bye, Blackford; shake hands.
You’ll do your part at the proper time; I shall tell ’em to send for
you. Don’t forget—the old Prayer-book at this end of the shelf.’
‘I won’t forget,’ replied the lawyer; ‘but I hope it may be many a long
day yet before I am called on to remember.—Good-bye, sir.’
Uncle Franklin did not reply; he was lying back on his pillows with
closed eyes; and so Mr Blackford left him.
The first steps of his scheme had been well planned, well carried
out, and had met with entire success. He had been obliged, it is
true, to forge a duplicate of the former will; but the forgery had
just been put out of evidence by the testator himself. There was
nothing to bear witness against him on that score. There were now two
wills in existence, both bearing the testator’s genuine signature,
both attested by the same witnesses, and both dated—or shortly to be
dated—on the same day; the only difference between them being the
trifling one, that the will which was between the leaves of the old
Prayer-book was in favour of Lucy Wedlake, while that which remained
in Mr Blackford’s possession constituted him the sole legatee. The
witnesses, having merely signed their names to two documents of very
similar appearance on two different occasions, would be quite unable to
say which they had last attested, for they knew nothing of the contents
of either.
So far, so good. What was to be the next step? That, as Mr Blackford
perceived, was a matter requiring very careful consideration.
BIG UNDERTAKINGS.
Nothing seems too big for the present age, for we are continually being
startled with something new and something immense, which has either
been just completed, or is about to be carried out, or, at anyrate,
is projected or proposed. Within the last few weeks three new schemes
have been either commenced or suggested in Switzerland, Greece, and
Canada. The first-named scheme in Switzerland is proposed by an Italian
engineer named Agudio, of Milan, for making a way through the Simplon,
which he declares he can do by a tunnel of only six thousand and fifty
metres, the traction and haulage being done by hydraulic power. He says
that by this means from three to four thousand tons of goods could be
safely transported without any breaking-up or trans-shipment of trains;
while the cost of the whole proceeding would be only twenty-eight
millions of francs.
Number Two project consists of the bold but practical scheme of
draining the Lake of Copaïs, near Thebes, in Bœotia, by which an area
of a hundred square miles will be added to the territory of Greece.
The acquiring of so very large a piece of land, which may be put to
useful purposes, though undoubtedly one of vast importance, is not the
only object intended to be effected by the proposal—the other being
the destruction of one of the greatest fever-producing places in the
country by reason of the pestilential malaria always arising from the
waters of this lake. This alone would be an unspeakable blessing to the
country round, and money should be readily forthcoming for the carrying
out of so beneficial an undertaking. The rivers now flowing into the
lake would be employed for irrigation and other purposes of practical
utility.
Number Three project proposes to connect Prince Edward Island with the
Canadian mainland by means of a submarine railway tunnel, by which
all communication can be kept open with the inhabitants of the island
during the winter, a circumstance at present almost impossible, from
the terribly rigorous nature of the winter climate of Canada; but
Canada is bound legally to do everything that is possible to keep open
a communication with this island at all times and by all means, for the
accommodation and assistance of the hundred and twenty-five thousand
persons who constitute the present population. The distance of the
island is only six miles and a half, and the bed of the Northumberland
Straits, under which the railway will be carried, presents no very
apparent difficulties. The depth of water is on the island side
thirty-six feet; and ten feet six inches on the New Brunswick side; and
about eighty feet in the middle. The tunnel will be eighteen feet in
diameter, and will be made of ‘chilled white cast-iron,’ in sections,
these latter being bolted together with inside flanges, exactly in
the same way in which the little tunnel for foot-passengers under the
Thames, and known as the ‘Tower Subway,’ was constructed some years
ago. The cost of this undertaking is estimated at about one million
sterling. It has been well considered and highly commended, and will be
brought before the Canadian parliament very speedily, when the scheme
will no doubt be fully sanctioned, as it has many warm supporters in
the Legislative Assembly. Canada will therefore have her ‘submarine
railway’ long before her illustrious ‘mother’ on this side the Atlantic.
AUTUMN DAYS.
A wealth of beauty meets my eye—
Yellow and green, and brown and white,
In one vast blaze of glory fill
My happy sight.
The rich-robed trees, the ripening corn,
Bright coloured with September fire—
Fulfilment of the farmer’s hope,
And year’s desire.
Sweet in the air are joyous sounds
Of bird and bee and running brook;
And plenteous fruits hang ripening round,
Where’er I look.
The mellow splendour softly falls
On morning mists and evening dews,
And colours trees and flowers and clouds
With thousand hues.
O dreaming clouds, with silver fringed!
I watch ye gathering side by side,
Like armies, in the solemn skies,
In stately pride.
I love the woods, the changing woods,
Fast deepening down to russet glow,
When Autumn, like a brunette Queen,
Rules all below.
The soul of Beauty haunts the heavens,
Nor leaves for long the warm-faced Earth,
And like a mother, the kind air
To life gives birth.
But Death rides past upon the gale,
And blows the rustling golden leaves;
They whirl and fall, and rot and die,
And my heart grieves.
Farewell! O Autumn days—farewell!
Ye go; but we shall meet again,
As old friends, who are parted long
By the wild main.
WILLIAM COWAN.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._