BLACKWOOD’S
Edinburgh
MAGAZINE
VOL. LXXXIX.
JANUARY--JUNE, 1861.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH;
AND
37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
1861.
THE EXECUTOR.
CHAPTER I.
“THE woman was certainly mad,” said John Brown.
It was the most extraordinary of speeches, considering the circumstances
and place in which it was spoken. A parlour of very grim and homely
aspect, furnished with dark mahogany and black haircloth, the blinds of
the two windows solemnly drawn down, the shutters of one half-closed;
two traditional decanters of wine standing reflected in the shining
uncovered table; half-a-dozen people all in mourning, in various
attitudes of surprise, disappointment, and displeasure; and close by one
of the windows Mr Brown, the attorney, holding up to the light that
extraordinary scrap of paper, which had fallen upon them all like a
thunderbolt. Only half an hour ago he had attended her funeral with
decorum and perfect indifference, as was natural, and had come into this
parlour without the slightest idea of encountering anything which could
disturb him. Fate, however, had been lying in wait for the unsuspecting
man at the moment he feared it least. He had not been employed to draw
out this extraordinary document, nor had he known anything about it. It
was a thunderbolt enclosed in a simple envelope, very securely sealed
up, and delivered to him with great solemnity by the next of kin, which
carried him off his balance like a charge of artillery, and made
everybody aghast around him. The sentiment and exclamation were alike
natural; but the woman was not mad.
By the side of the table, very pale and profoundly discomposed, sat the
next of kin; a woman, of appearance not unaccordant with that of the
house, over fifty? dark-complexioned and full of wrinkles, with a
certain cloud of habitual shabbiness, not to be cast aside, impairing
the perfection of her new mourning. Her _new_ mourning, poor soul! got
on the strength of that letter containing the will, which had been
placed in her safe keeping. She was evidently doing everything she could
to command herself, and conceal her agitation. But it was not a very
easy matter. Cherished visions of years, and hopes that this morning had
seemed on the point of settling into reality, were breaking up before
her, each with its poignant circumstances of mortification and
bitterness and dread disappointment. She looked at everybody in the room
with a kind of agonised appeal--could it really be true, might not her
ears have deceived her?--and strained her troubled gaze upon that paper,
not without an instinctive thought that it was wrongly read, or
misunderstood, or that some mysterious change had taken place on it in
the transfer from her possession to that of Mr Brown. His amazement and
dismay did not convince the poor dismayed woman. She stretched out her
hand eagerly to get the paper to read it for herself. He might have
changed it in reading it; he might have missed something, or added
something, that altered the meaning. Anything might have happened,
rather than the reality that her confidence had been deceived and her
hopes were gone.
“Did you know of this, Mrs Christian?” said the rector, who stood at the
other end of the room with his hat in his hand.
Did she know! She could have gnashed her teeth at the foolish question,
in her excitement and exasperation. She made a hysterical motion with
her head to answer. Her daughter, who had come to the back of her chair,
and who knew the rector must not be offended, supplied the words that
failed to her mother--“No; we thought we were to have it,” said the
poor girl, innocently. There was a little movement of sympathy and
compassion among the other persons present. But mingled with this came a
sound of a different description; a cough, not an expression of physical
weakness, but of moral sentiment; an irritating, critical, inarticulate
remark upon that melancholy avowal. It came from the only other woman
present, the servant of the house. When the disappointed relation heard
it, she flushed into sudden rage, and made an immediate identification
of her enemy. It was not dignified, but it was very natural. Perhaps,
under the circumstances, it was the only relief which her feelings could
have had
“But I know whose doing it was!” said poor Mrs Christian, trembling all
over, her pale face reddening with passion. There was a little movement
at the door as the servant-woman stepped farther into the room to take
her part in the scene which interested her keenly. She was a tall woman,
thin and dry, and about the same age as her accuser. There was even a
certain degree of likeness between them. As Nancy’s tall person and
white apron became clearly visible from among the little group of
gentlemen, Mrs Christian rose, inspired with all the heat and passion of
her disappointment, to face her foe.
“Did _you_ know of this?” said the excellent rector, with his concerned
malaprop face. Nancy did not look at him. The three women stood
regarding each other across the table; the others were only
spectators--they were the persons concerned. The girl who had already
spoken, and who was a little fair creature, as different from the
belligerents as possible, stood holding her mother’s hand tightly. She
had her eyes on them both, with an extraordinary air of control and
unconscious authority. They were both full of rage and excitement, the
climax of a long smouldering quarrel; but the blue eyes that watched,
kept them silent against their will. The crisis lasted only for a
moment. Poor Mrs Christian, yielding to the impulse of the small fingers
that closed so tightly on her hand, fell back on her chair, and
attempted to recover her shattered dignity. Nancy withdrew to the door;
and Mr Brown repeated the exclamation in which his dismay and trouble
had at first expressed itself, “Certainly the woman must have been mad!”
“Will you have the goodness to let me see it?” said Mrs Christian, with
a gasp. It is impossible to say what ideas of tearing it up, or throwing
it into the smouldering fire, might have mingled with her desire; but,
in the first place, she was eager to see if she could not make something
different out of that paper than those astounding words she had heard
read. Mr Brown was an honest man, but he was an attorney; and Mrs
Christian was an honest woman, but she was next of kin. If she had known
what was in that cruel paper, she might not, perhaps, have preserved it
so carefully. She read it over, trembling, and not understanding the
very words she muttered under her breath. Bessie read it also, over her
shoulder. While they were so occupied, Mr Brown relieved his perplexed
mind with a vehemence not much less tragical than that of the
disappointed heir.
“I have known many absurd things in the way of wills,” said Mr Brown,
“but this is the crown of all. Who on earth ever heard of Phœbe Thomson?
Who’s Phœbe Thomson? Her daughter? Why, she never had any daughter in
the memory of man. I should say it is somewhere like thirty years since
she settled down in Carlingford--with no child, nor appearance of ever
having had one--an old witch with three cats, and a heart like the
nether millstone. Respect? don’t speak to me! why should I respect her?
Here she’s gone, after living a life which nobody was the better for;
certainly _I_ was none the better for it; why, she did not even employ
me to make this precious will; and saddled me--me, of all men in the
world--with a burden I wouldn’t undertake for my own brother. I’ll have
nothing to do with it. Do you suppose I’m going to give up my own
business, and all my comfort, to seek Phœbe Thomson? The idea’s
ridiculous! the woman was mad!”
“Hush! for we’re in the house of our departed friend, and have just laid
her down,” said the inappropriate rector, “in the sure and certain
hope----”
Mr Brown made, and checked himself in making, an extraordinary grimace.
“Do you suppose I’m bound to go hunting Phœbe Thomson till that day
comes?” said the attorney. “Better to be a ghost at once, when one could
have surer information. I’m very sorry, Mrs Christian; I have no hand in
it, I assure you. Who do you imagine this Phœbe Thomson is?”
“Sir,” said Mrs Christian, “I decline to give you any information. If my
son was here, instead of being in India, as everybody knows, I might
have some one to act for me. But you may be certain I shall take advice
upon it. You will hear from my solicitor, Mr Brown; I decline to give
you any information on the subject.”
Mr Brown stared broadly at the speaker; his face reddened. He watched
her get up and make her way out of the room with a perplexed look, half
angry, half compassionate. She went out with a little of the passionate
and resentful air which deprives such disappointments of the sympathy
they deserve--wrathful, vindictive, consoling herself with dreams that
it was all a plot, and she could still have her rights; but a sad
figure, notwithstanding her flutter of bitter rage--a sad figure to
those who knew what home she was going to, and how she had lived. Her
very dress, so much better than it usually was, enhanced the melancholy
aspect of the poor woman’s withdrawal. Her daughter followed her
closely, ashamed, and not venturing to lift her eyes. They were a
pathetic couple to that little group that knew all about them. Nancy
threw the room-door open for them, with a revengeful satisfaction. One
of the funeral attendants who still lingered outside opened the outer
one. They went out of the subdued light, into the day, their hearts
tingling with a hundred wounds. At least the mother’s heart was pierced,
and palpitating in every nerve. There was an instinctive silence while
they went out, and after they were gone. Even Mr Brown’s “humph!” was a
very subdued protest against the injustice which Mrs Christian had done
him. Everybody stood respectful of the real calamity.
“And so, there they are just where they were!” cried the young surgeon,
who was one of the party; “and pretty sweet Bessie must still carry her
father on her shoulders, and drag her mother by her side wherever she
goes; it’s very hard--one can’t help thinking it’s a very hard burden
for a girl of her years.”
“But it is a burden of which she might be relieved,” said Mr Brown, with
a smile.
The young man coloured high and drew back a little. “Few men have
courage enough to take up such loads of their own will,” he said, with a
little heat--“I have burdens of my own.”
A few words may imply a great deal in a little company, where all the
interlocutors know all about each other. This, though it was simple
enough, disturbed the composure of the young doctor. A minute after he
muttered something about his further presence being unnecessary, and
hastened away. There were now only left the rector, the churchwarden,
and Mr Brown.
“Of course you will accept her trust, Mr Brown,” said the rector.
The attorney made a great many grimaces, but said nothing. The whole
matter was too startling and sudden to have left him time to think what
he was to do.
“Anyhow the poor Christians are left in the lurch,” said the
churchwarden; “for, I suppose, Brown, if you don’t undertake it, it’ll
go into Chancery. Oh! I don’t pretend to know; but it’s natural to
suppose, of course, that it would go into Chancery, and stand empty
with all the windows broken for twenty years. But couldn’t they make you
undertake it whether you pleased or no? I am only saying what occurs to
me; of course, I’m not a lawyer--I can’t know.”
“Well, never mind,” said Mr Brown; “I cannot undertake to say just at
this identical moment what I shall do. I don’t like the atmosphere of
this place, and there’s nothing more to be done just now that I know of.
We had better go.”
“But the house--and Nancy--some conclusion must be come to directly.
What will you do about them?” said the rector.
“To be sure! I don’t doubt there’s plate and jewellery and such things
about--they ought to be sealed and secured, and that sort of thing,”
said the still more energetic lay functionary. “For anything we know,
she might have money in old stockings all about the house. I shouldn’t
be surprised at anything, after what we’ve heard to-day. Twenty thousand
pounds! and a daughter! If any one had told me that old Mrs Thomson had
either the one or the other yesterday at this time, I should have said
they were crazy. Certainly, Brown, the cupboards and desks and so forth
should be examined and sealed up. It is your duty to Phœbe Thomson. You
must do your duty to Phœbe Thomson, or she’ll get damages of you. I
suppose so--_you_ ought to know.”
“Confound Phœbe Thomson!” said the attorney, with great unction; “but
notwithstanding, come along, let us get out of this. As for her
jewellery and her old stockings, they must take their chance. I can’t
stand it any longer--pah! there’s no air to breathe. How did the old
witch ever manage to live to eighty here?”
“You must not call her by such improper epithets. I have no doubt she
was a good woman,” said the rector; “and recollect, really, you owe a
little respect to a person who was only buried to-day.”
“If she were to be buried to-morrow,” cried the irreverent attorney,
making his way first out of the narrow doorway, “I know one man who
would have nothing to do with the obsequies. Why, look here! what right
had that old humbug to saddle me with her duties, after neglecting them
all her life; and, with that bribe implied, to lure me to undertake the
job, too. Ah, the old wretch! don’t let us speak of her. As for respect,
I don’t owe her a particle--that is a consolation. I knew something of
the kind of creature she was before to-day.”
So saying, John Brown thrust his hands into his pockets, shrugged up his
shoulders, and went off at a startling pace up the quiet street. It was
a very quiet street in the outskirts of a very quiet little town. The
back of the house which they had just left was on a line with the
road--a blank wall, broken only by one long staircase-window. The front
was to the garden, entering by a little side-gate, through which the
indignant executor had just hurried, crunching the gravel under his
rapid steps. A line of such houses, doleful and monotonous, with all the
living part of them concealed in their gardens, formed one side of the
street along which he passed so rapidly. The other side consisted of
humbler habitations, meekly contented to look at their neighbours’
back-windows. When John Brown had shot far ahead of his late companions,
who followed together, greatly interested in this new subject of talk,
his rapid course was interrupted for a moment. Bessie Christian came
running across the street from one of the little houses. She had no
bonnet on, and her black dress made her blonde complexion and light hair
look clearer and fairer than ever; and when the lawyer drew up all at
once to hear what she had to say, partly from compassion, partly from
curiosity, it did not fail to strike him how like a child she was,
approaching him thus simply with her message. “Oh, Mr Brown,” cried
Bessie, out of breath, “I want to speak to you. If you will ask Nancy, I
am sure she can give you whatever information is to be had about--about
aunt’s friends. She has been with aunt all her life. I thought I would
tell you in case you might think, after what mamma said------”
“I did not think anything about it,” said Mr Brown.
“That we knew something, and would not tell you; but we don’t know
anything,” said Bessie. “I never heard of Phœbe Thomson before.”
Mr Brown shrugged up his shoulders higher than ever, and thrust his
hands deeper into his pockets. “Thank you,” he said, a little
ungraciously. “I should have spoken to Nancy, of course, in any case;
but I’m sure its very kind of you to take the trouble--good-by.”
Bessie went back blushing and disconcerted; and the rector and the
churchwarden, coming gradually up on the other side of the road, seeing
her eager approach and downcast withdrawal, naturally wondered to each
other what she could want with Brown, and exchanged condolences on the
fact that Brown’s manners were wonderfully bearish--really too bad.
Brown, in the mean time, without thinking anything about his manners,
hurried along to his office. He was extremely impatient of the whole
concern; it vexed him unconsciously to see Bessie Christian; it even
occurred to him that the sight of her and of her mother about would make
his unwelcome office all the more galling to him. In addition to all the
annoyance and trouble, here would be a constant suggestion that he had
wronged these people. He rushed into his private sanctuary the most
uncomfortable man in Carlingford. An honest, selfish, inoffensive
citizen, injuring no one, if perhaps he did not help so many as he might
have done--what grievous fault had he committed to bring upon him such a
misfortune as this?
The will which had caused so much conversation was to this purport. It
bequeathed all the property of which Mrs Thomson of Grove Street died
possessed, to John Brown, attorney in Carlingford, in trust for Phœbe
Thomson, the only child of the testatrix, who had not seen or heard of
her for thirty years; and in case of all lawful means to find the said
Phœbe Thomson proving unsuccessful, at the end of three years the
property in question was bequeathed to John Brown, his heirs and
administrators, absolutely and in full possession. No wonder it raised a
ferment in the uncommunicative bosom of the Carlingford attorney, and
kept the town in talk for more than nine days. Mrs Thomson had died
possessed of twenty thousand pounds: such an event had not happened at
Carlingford in the memory of man.