Thomas Craik lay ill in his great house, listening for the failing
beatings of his heart as the last glow of the February afternoon faded
out of the curtains and withdrew its rich colour from the carved panels
on the walls. He lay upon his pillows, an emaciated old man with a waxen
face and head, sunken eyes that seemed to have no sight in them. Short
locks of yellowish grey hair strayed about his forehead and temples,
like dry grasses scattered over a skull. There was no beard upon his
face, and the hard old lips were tightly drawn in a set expression, a
little apart, so that the black shadow of the open mouth was visible
between them. The long, nervous hands lay upon the counterpane together,
the fingers of the one upon the wrist of the other feeling the sinking
pulse, searching with their numbed extremities for a little flutter of
motion in the dry veins. Thomas Craik lay motionless in his bed, not one
outward sign betraying the tremendous conflict that was taking place in
his still active brain. He was himself to the last, such as he had
always been in the great moments of his life, apparently cool and
collected, in reality filled with the struggle of strong, opposing
passions.
He was not alone. Two great physicians were standing in silence, side by
side, before the magnificent chimney-piece, beneath which a soft fire of
dry wood was burning steadily with a low and unvarying musical roar. An
attendant sat upright upon a carved chair at the foot of the bed, not
taking his eyes from the sick man’s face.
The room was large and magnificent in its furniture and appointments.
The high wainscot had been carved in rare woods after the designs of a
great French artist. The walls above were covered with matchless Cordova
leather from an Italian palace. The ceiling was composed of rich panels
that surrounded a broad canvas from the hand of a famous Spanish master,
dead long ago. The chimney-piece was enriched with old brass work from
Cairo, and with exquisite tiles from Turkish mosques. Priceless eastern
carpets of which not one was younger than the century, covered the
inlaid wooden floor. Diana of Poitiers had slept beneath the canopy of
the princely bedstead; it was said that Louis the Fourteenth had eaten
off the table that was placed beside it, and Benvenuto Cellini had
carved the silver bell which stood within reach of the patient’s hand.
There was incongruity in the assemblage of different objects, but the
great value of each and all saved the effect from vulgarity, and lent to
the whole something of the odd harmony peculiar to certain collections.
It was the opinion of the two doctors that Tom Craik was dying. They had
done what they could for him and were waiting for the end. As to his
malady it was sufficiently clear to both of them that his vitality was
exhausted and that even if he survived this crisis he could not have
long to live. They agreed that the action of the heart had been much
impaired by a life of constant excitement and that the nerves had lost
their elasticity. They had taken pains to explain to his sister, Mrs.
Sherrington Trimm, that there was very little to be done and that the
patient should be advised to make his last dispositions, since a little
fatigue more or less could make no material difference in his state,
whereas he would probably die more easily if his mind were free from
anxiety. Totty had spent the day in the house and intended to return in
the evening. She bore up very well under the trial, and the physicians
felt obliged to restrain her constant activity in tending her brother
while she was in the room, as it seemed to make him nervous and
irritable. She had their fullest sympathy, of course, as persons who are
supposed to be sole legatees of the dying very generally have, but so
far as their professional capacity was concerned, the two felt that it
went better with the patient when his faithful sister was out of the
house.
From time to time inquiries were made on the part of acquaintances,
generally through their servants, but they were not many. Though the
other persons in the room scarcely heard the distant ringing of the
muffled bell, and the careful opening and shutting of the street door,
the feeble old man never failed to catch the sound of both and either
with his eyes or half-uttered words asked who had called. On receiving
the answer he generally moved his head a little wearily and his lids
drooped again.
“Is there anybody you expect? Anybody you wish to see?” one of the
physicians once asked, bending low and speaking softly. He suspected
that something was disquieting the dying man’s mind.
But there was no answer, and the lids drooped again. It was now dusk and
it would soon be night. Many hours might pass before the end came, and
the doctors consulted in low tones as to which of them should remain.
Just then the faint and distant rattle of the bell was heard.
Immediately Tom Craik stirred, and seemed to be listening attentively.
The two men ceased speaking and they could hear the front door softly
open in the street below, and close again a few seconds later. One of
the physicians glanced at the patient, saw the usual look of inquiry in
his face and quickly left the room. When he returned he held a card in
his hand, which he took to the bedside after looking at it by the
fireside. Bending down, he spoke in a low tone.
“Mr. George Winton Wood has called,” he said.
Tom Craik’s sunken eyes opened suddenly and fixed themselves on the
speaker’s face.
“Any message?” he asked very feebly.
“He said he had only just heard of your illness, and was very
sorry—would call again.”
A strange look of satisfaction came into the old man’s colourless face,
and a low sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes again.
“Would you like to see him?” inquired the doctor.
The patient shook his head without raising his lids, and the room was
still once more. Presently the other physician departed and the one who
was left installed himself in a comfortable chair from which he could
see the bed and the door. During half an hour no sound was heard save
the muffled roar of the wood fire. At last the sick man stirred again.
“Doctor—come here,” he said in a harsh whisper.
“What is it, Mr. Craik?”
“Send for Trimm at once.”
“Mrs. Trimm, did you say?”
“No—Sherry Trimm himself—make my will—see? Quick.”
The physician stared at his patient for a moment in very considerable
surprise, for he thought he had reason to suppose that Thomas Craik’s
will had been made already, and now he half suspected that the old man’s
mind was wandering. He hesitated.
“You think I’m not able, do you?” asked Craik, his rough whisper rising
to a growl. “Well, I am. I’m not dead yet, so get him quickly.”
The doctor left the room without further delay, to give the necessary
orders. When he returned, Mr. Craik was lying with his eyes wide open,
staring at the fire.
“Give me something, can’t you?” he said with more energy than he had
shown that day.
The doctor began to think that it was not yet all up with his patient,
as he mixed something in a glass and gave it to him. Craik drank eagerly
and moved his stiffened lips afterwards as though he had enjoyed the
taste of the drink.
“I may not jockey the undertaker,” he grumbled, “but I shall last till
morning, anyhow.”
Nearly half an hour elapsed before Sherrington Trimm reached the house,
but during all that time Thomas Craik did not close his eyes again. His
face looked less waxen, too, and his sight seemed to have recovered some
of the light that had been fading out of it by degrees all day. The
doctor watched him with interest, wondering, as doctors must often
wonder, what was passing in his brain, what last, unspent remnant of
life’s passions had caused so sudden a revival of his energy, and
whether this manifestation of strength were the last flare of the dying
lamp, or whether Tom Craik, to use his own words, would jockey the
undertaker, as he had jockeyed many another adversary in his stirring
existence.
The door opened, and Sherrington Trimm entered the room. He was a short,
active man, slightly inclined to be stout, bald and very full about the
chin and neck, with sharp, movable blue eyes, and a closely-cut,
grizzled moustache. His hands were plump, white and pointed, his feet
were diminutive and his dress was irreproachable. He had a habit of
turning his head quickly to the right and left when he spoke, as though
challenging contradiction. He came briskly to the bedside and took one
of Craik’s wasted hands in his, with a look of honest sympathy.
“How are you, Tom?” he inquired, suppressing his cheerful voice to a
sort of subdued chirp.
“According to him,” growled Craik, glancing at the doctor, “I believe I
died this afternoon. However, I want to make my will, so get out your
tools, Sherry, and set to. Please leave us alone,” he added, looking up
at the physician.
The latter went out, taking the attendant with him.
“Your will!” exclaimed Sherry Trimm, when the door had closed behind the
two. “I thought——”
“Bad habit, thinking things. Don’t. Put that drink where I can reach
it—so. There’s paper on the table. Sit down.”
Trimm saw that he had better not argue the matter, and he did as he was
bidden. He was indeed very much surprised at the sudden turn of affairs,
for he was perfectly well aware that Tom Craik had made a will some
years previously in which he left his whole fortune to his only sister,
Trimm’s wife. The lawyer wondered what his brother-in-law intended to do
now, and as the only means of ascertaining the truth seemed to be to
obey his orders, he lost no time in preparing to receive the dictation.
“This the last will and testament of me, Thomas Craik,” said the sick
man, sharply. “Got that? Go on. I do hereby revoke and annul all former
wills made by me. That’s correct isn’t it? No, I’m not wandering—not a
bit. Very important that clause—very. Go ahead about the just debts and
funeral expenses. I needn’t dictate that.”
Trimm wrote rapidly on, nervously anxious to get to the point.
“Got that? Well. I bequeath all my worldly possessions, real and
personal estate of all kinds—go on with the stock phrases—include house
and furniture, trinkets and everything.”
Trimm’s hand moved quickly along the ruled lines of the foolscap.
“To whom?” he asked almost breathlessly, as he reached the end of the
formal phrase.
“To George Winton Wood,” said Craik with an odd snap of the lips. “His
name’s on that card, Sherry, beside you, if you don’t know how to spell
it. Go on. Son of Jonah Wood of New York, and of Fanny Winton deceased,
also of New York. No mistake about the identity, eh? Got it down? To
have and to hold—and all the rest of it. Let’s get to the signature—look
sharp! Get in the witness clause right—that’s the most important—don’t
forget to say, in our presence and in the presence of each other—there’s
where the hitch comes in about proving wills. All right. Ring for the
doctor and we’ll have the witnesses right away. Make the date clear.”
Sherrington Trimm had not recovered from his surprise, as he pressed the
silver button of the bell. The physician entered immediately.
“Can you be the other witness yourself, Sherry? Rather not? Doctor, just
send for Stubbs, will you please? He’ll do, won’t he?”
Trimm nodded, while he and the physician set a small invalid’s table
upon the sick man’s knees, and spread upon it the will, of which the ink
was not yet dry. Trimm dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Mr.
Craik.
“Let me drink first,” said the latter. He swallowed the small draught
eagerly, and then looked about him.
“Will you sign?” asked Trimm nervously.
“Is Stubbs here? Wait for him. Here, Stubbs—you see—this is my will. I’m
going to sign it, and you’re a witness.”
“Yes, sir,” said the butler, gravely. He moved forward cautiously so
that he could see the document and recognise it if he should ever be
called upon to do so.
The sick man steadied himself while the doctor thrust his arm behind the
pillows to give him more support. Then he set the pen to the paper and
traced his name in large, clear characters. He did not take his eyes
from the paper until the doctor and the servant had signed as witnesses.
Then his head fell back on the pillows.
“Take that thing away, Sherry, and keep it,” he said, feebly, for the
strength had gone out of him all at once. “You may want it to-morrow—or
you may not.”
Mechanically he laid his fingers on his own pulse, and then lay quite
still. Sherrington Trimm looked at the doctor with an expression of
inquiry, but the latter only shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
After such a manifestation of energy as he had just seen, he felt that
it was impossible to foresee what would happen. Tom Craik’s nerves might
weather the strain after all, and he might recover. Mr. Trimm folded the
document neatly, wrapped it in a second sheet of paper and put it into
his pocket. Then he prepared to take his leave. He touched the sick
man’s hand gently.
“Good-night, Tom,” he said, bending over his brother-in-law. “I will
call in the morning and ask how you are.”
Craik opened his eyes.
“Tell nobody what I have done, till I’m dead,” he answered in a whisper.
“Good-night.”
Mr. Trimm felt no inclination to divulge the contents of the will. He
was a very shrewd and keen man, who could certainly not be accused of
having ever neglected his own interest, but he was also scrupulously
honest, not only with that professional honesty which is both politic
and lucrative, but in all his thoughts and reasonings with himself. At
the present moment, his position was not an agreeable one. It is true
that neither he nor his wife were in need of Craik’s money, for they had
plenty of their own; but it is equally certain that during several years
past they had confidently expected to inherit the old man’s fortune, if
he died before them. Trimm had himself drawn up the will by which his
wife was made the heir to almost everything Craik possessed. There had
been a handsome legacy provided for this same George Winton Wood, but
all the rest was to have been Totty’s. And now Trimm had seen the whole
aspect of the future changed by a stroke of the pen, apparently during
the last minutes of the old man’s life. He knew that the testator was in
full possession of his senses, and that the document was as valid as any
will could be. Conscientious as he was, if he had believed that Craik
was no longer sane, he would have been quite ready to take advantage of
the circumstance, and would have lost no time in consulting the
physician with a view to obtaining evidence in the case that would
arise. But it was evident that Craik’s mind was in no way affected by
his illness. The thing was done, and if Craik died it was irrevocable.
Sherry and Totty Trimm would never live in the magnificent house of
which they had so often talked.
“Not even the house!” he whispered to himself as he went down stairs.
“Not even the house!”
For a legacy he would not have cared. A few thousands were no object to
him, and he was unlike his wife in that he did not care for money
itself. The whole fortune, or half of it, added to what the couple
already had, would have made in their lives the difference between
luxury and splendour; the possession of the house alone, with what it
contained, would have given them the keenest pleasure, but in Trimm’s
opinion a paltry legacy of ten thousand dollars, or so, would not have
been worth the trouble of taking. Of course it was possible that Tom
Craik might recover, and make a third will. Trimm knew by experience
that a man who will once change his mind completely, may change it a
dozen times if he have time. But Craik was very ill and there seemed
little likelihood of his ever getting upon his legs again.
Trimm had known much of his brother-in-law’s affairs during the last
twenty years, and he was far less surprised at the way in which he had
now finally wound them up, before taking his departure from life, than
most people would have been. He knew better than any one that Craik was
not so utterly bad-hearted as he was generally believed to be, and he
knew that as the man grew older he felt twinges of remorse when he
thought of Jonah Wood. That he cordially detested the latter was not
altogether astonishing, since he had so greatly injured him, but the
natural contrariety of his nature forced him into an illogical
situation. He hated Wood and yet he desired to make him some sort of
restitution, not indeed out of principle or respect for any law, human
or divine, but as a means of pacifying his half-nervous,
half-superstitious conscience. He could not have done anything openly in
the matter, for that would have been equivalent to acknowledging the
unwritten debt, so that the only way out of his difficulty lay in the
disposal of his fortune after his death. But although he suffered
something very like remorse, he hated Jonah Wood too thoroughly to
insert his name in his will. There was nothing to be done but to leave
money to George. It had seemed to him that a legacy of a hundred
thousand dollars would be enough to procure his own peace of mind, and
having once made that arrangement he had dismissed the subject.
But as he lay in this illness, which he believed was to be his last,
further change had taken place in his view of the matter. He was
naturally suspicious, as well as shrewd, and the extreme anxiety
displayed by his sister had attracted his attention. They had always
lived on excellent terms, and Totty was distinctly a woman of
demonstrative temperament. It was assuredly not surprising that she
should show much feeling for her brother and spend much time in taking
care of him. It was quite right that she should be at his bedside in
moments of danger, and that she should besiege the doctors with
questions about Tom’s chances of recovery. But in Tom’s opinion there
was a false note in her good behaviour and a false ring in her voice.
There was something strained, something not quite natural, something he
could hardly define, but which roused all the powers of opposition for
which he had been famous throughout his life. It was a peculiarity of
his malady that his mental faculties were wholly unimpaired, and were,
if anything, sharpened by his bodily sufferings and by his anxiety about
his own state. The consequence was that as soon as the doubt about
Totty’s sincerity had entered his mind, he had concentrated his
attention upon it, had studied it and had applied himself to accounting
for her minutest actions and most careless words upon the theory that
she was playing a part. In less than twenty-four hours the suspicion had
become a conviction, and Craik felt sure that Totty was overdoing her
show of sisterly affection in order to hide her delight at the prospect
of her brother’s death. It is not too unjust to say that there was a
proportion of truth in Mr. Craik’s suppositions, and that Mrs.
Sherrington Trimm’s perturbation of spirits did not result so much from
the dread of a great sorrow as from the prospect of a very great
satisfaction when that sorrow should have spent itself. She was not in
the least ashamed of her heartlessness, either. Was she not doing
everything in her power to soothe her brother’s last days, sacrificing
to his comfort the last taste of gaiety she could enjoy until the
mourning for him should be over, submitting to a derangement of her
comfortable existence which was nothing short of distracting? It was not
her fault if Tom had not one of those lovable natures whose departure
from this life leaves a great void in the place where they have dwelt.
But from being convinced that Totty cared only for the money to the act
of depriving her of it was a long distance for the old man’s mind to
pass over. He was just enough to admit that in a similar position he
would have felt very much as she did, though he would certainly have
acted his part more skilfully and with less theatrical exaggeration.
After all, money was a very good thing, and a very desirable thing, as
Thomas Craik knew, better than most people. After all, too, Totty was
his sister, his nearest relation, the only one of his connections with
whom he had not quarrelled at one time or another. The world would think
it very natural that she should have everything, and there was no reason
why she should not, unless her anxiety to get it could be called one. He
considered the case in all its bearings. If, for instance, that young
fellow, George Wood, whom he had not seen since he had been a boy, were
to be put in Totty’s place, what would he feel, and what would he do? He
would undoubtedly wish that Tom Craik might die speedily, and his eyes
would assuredly gleam when he thought of moving into the gorgeous house,
a month after the funeral. That was only human nature, simple,
unadorned, everyday human nature. But the boy supposed that he had no
chance of getting anything, and did not even think it worth while to
ring at the door and ask the news of his dying relation. Of course not;
why should he? And yet, thought the sour old man, if George Wood could
guess how near he was to being made a millionaire, how nimbly his feet
would move in the appropriate direction, with what alacrity he would
ring the bell, with what an accent of subdued sympathy he would question
the servant! Truly, if by any chance he should take it into his head to
make inquiries, there would be an instance of disinterested good
feeling, indeed. He would never do that. Why then should the money be
given to him rather than to Totty?
But the idea had taken possession of the old man’s active brain, and
would not be chased away. As he thought about it, too, it seemed as
though he might die more easily if such full restitution were made. No
one could tell anything about the future state of existence. Thomas
Craik was no atheist, though he had never found time or inclination to
look into the question of religion, and certain peculiarities in his
past conduct had made any such meditations particularly distasteful to
him. When once the end had come the money could be of no use to him, and
if George Wood had it, Thomas Craik might stand a better chance in the
next world. Totty had received her share of the gain, too, and had no
claim to any more of it. He had managed her business with his own and
had enriched her while enriching himself, with what had belonged to
Jonah Wood, and to a great number of other people. At all events, if he
left everything to George no one could accuse him hereafter—whatever
that might mean—with not having done all he could to repair the wrong.
He said to himself philosophically that one of two things must happen;
either he was to die, and in that case he would do well to die with as
clear a conscience as he could buy, or he was to recover, and would then
have plenty of time to reflect upon his course without having deprived
himself of what he liked.
At last, between the two paths that were open to him, he became
confused, and with characteristic coolness he determined to leave the
matter to chance. If George Wood showed enough interest in him to come
to the door and make inquiries, he would change his will. If the young
fellow did not show himself, Totty should have the fortune.
“That’s what I call giving Providence a perfectly fair chance,” he said
to himself. A few hours after he had reached this conclusion George
actually came to the house.
Then Tom Craik hesitated no longer. The whole thing was done and
conclusively settled without loss of time, as Craik had always loved to
do business.
It is probable that if George had guessed the importance of the simple
act of asking after his relation’s condition, he would have gone home
without passing the door, and would have spent so much time in
reflecting upon his course, that it would have been too late to do
anything in the matter. The problem would not have been an easy one to
solve, involving, as it did, a question of honesty in motive on the one
hand, and a consideration of true justice on the other. If any one had
asked him for his advice in a similar case he would have answered with a
dry laugh that a man should never neglect his opportunities, that no one
would be injured by the transaction, and that the money belonged by
right to the family of the man from whom it had been unjustly taken. But
though George could affect a cynically practical business tone in
talking of other people’s affairs he was not capable of acting upon such
principles in his own case. To extract profit of any sort from what was
nothing short of hypocrisy would have been impossible to him.
He had been unable to resist the temptation of asking the news, because
he sincerely hoped that the old man was about to draw his last breath,
and because there seemed to him to be something attractively ironical in
the action. He even expected that Mr. Craik would understand that the
inquiry was made from motives of hatred rather than of sympathy, and
imagined with pleasure that the thought might inflict a sting and
embitter his last moments. There was nothing contrary to George’s
feelings in that, though he would have flushed with shame at the idea
that he was to be misunderstood and that what was intended for an insult
was to be rewarded with a splendid fortune.
Very possibly, too, there was a feeling of opposition concerned in his
act, for which he himself could not have accounted. He was not fond of
advice, and Constance Fearing had seemed very anxious that he should not
do what he had done. Being still very young, it seemed absurd to him
that a young girl whom he scarcely knew and had only seen twice should
interfere with his free will.
This contrariety was wholly unreasoning, and if he had tried to
understand it, he would have failed in the attempt. He would certainly
not have attributed it to the beginning of a serious affection, for he
was not old enough to know how often love’s early growth is hidden by
what we take wrongly for an antagonism of feeling.
However all these things may be explained, George Wood felt that he was
in a humour quite new to him, when he rang at Tom Craik’s door. He was
elated without knowing why, and yet he was full of viciously combative
instincts. His heart beat with a pleasant alacrity, and his mind was
unusually clear. He would have said that he was happy, and yet his
happiness was by no means of the kind which makes men at peace with
their surroundings or gentle toward those with whom they have to do.
There was something overbearing in it, that agreed with his natural
temper and that found satisfaction in what was meant for an act of
unkindness.
He found his father reading before the fire. The old gentleman read, as
he did everything else, with the air of a man who is performing a
serious duty. He sat in a high-backed chair with wooden arms, his
glasses carefully adjusted upon his nose, his head held high, his lips
set in a look of determination, his long hands holding the heavy volume
in the air before his sight and expressive in their solid grasp of a
fixed and unalterable purpose. George paused on the threshold, wondering
for the thousandth time that so much resolution of character as was
visible in the least of his father’s actions, should have produced so
little practical result in the struggles of a long life.
“Won’t you shut that door, George?” said Jonah Wood, not looking away
from his book nor moving a muscle.
George did as he was requested and came slowly forward. He stood still
for a moment before the fireplace, spreading his hands to the blaze.
“Tom Craik is dying,” he said at last, looking at his father’s face.
There was an almost imperceptible quiver in the strong hands that held
the book. A very slight colour rose in the massive grey face. But that
was all. The eyes remained fixed on the page, and the angle at which the
volume was supported did not change.
“Well,” said the mechanical voice, “we must all die some day.”