business-like step, he left the room, and was half-way up the stairs
before any one had the presence of mind to follow him. As he went, he
drew a paper from his breast-pocket and carried it cautiously just
within his coat. He was in the room scarcely a quarter of a minute
before Tom and Lucy, followed by the whole of the company, came
hurrying after him; but those precious seconds served his purpose. They
found him looking up at the shelf of books in the recess, rather pale,
a little out of breath, but entirely self-possessed. The master of the
house was about to comment sharply on his strange behaviour; but the
solicitor gave him no time.
‘The will,’ said he, ‘is in one of the largest of these books; but upon
my word I don’t exactly remember which. Cruden’s _Concordance_—yes,
I think it must have been Cruden’s _Concordance_. I think I should
prefer, under all the circumstances, that some one else should make
the search.—Mr Wedlake, perhaps, would oblige us by trying Cruden’s
_Concordance_?’
Tom took down the big book, held it by its covers, and shook it
vigorously, producing no other result than a shower of dust.
‘Dear me!’ said Mr Blackford, ‘it is very strange.—Will you try the
next book, Mr Wedlake? It is a Prayer-book, I think.’
The same process was repeated; this time a folded paper fell to the
floor. The solicitor picked it up.
‘We are right this time,’ he answered, reading the indorsement. ‘Will
of William Franklin, Esquire.—And now, I think, we may go down-stairs
again.’
The excited crowd, angrily expectant of they knew not what, rustled and
fluttered down the stairs once more, and settled on the dining-room
chairs like a flight of crows. Standing at the table, Mr Blackford
opened and read the will with dignified deliberation, but with a slight
tremor in his voice, and an almost imperceptible catching of the breath
which he could not control, and which were perhaps excusable under the
circumstances.
It is not easy to describe the scene which followed. Decency was thrown
to the winds; poor human nature stood out in startling nudity from
under the conventional trappings of woe. There was a perfect storm of
ejaculations and threats; the women cried, the men raved; one reverend
gentleman of hitherto irreproachable behaviour actually shook his fist
in Mr Blackford’s face.
‘It is a fraud, a forgery!’ cried Dr Franklin, a younger brother of the
deceased. ‘William would never have made such a will. He might have
left his money to some public body, rather than to his own flesh and
blood; but to a lawyer—never!’
Meanwhile, Tom Wedlake, who, having consistently expected nothing, was
the less disappointed, and therefore able to keep his head, had taken
the document in his own hands and carefully inspected the signature. He
now raised his voice above the general hubbub.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! I think we are rather forgetting what we have
been doing to-day. If you have no respect for the dead, perhaps you
will be good enough to show a little for my wife’s dining-room.’
These words, sharply spoken, produced a sudden lull, of which Tom took
advantage.
‘One thing is certain—this is no forgery. Most of you know Mr William
Franklin’s writing better than I do. Look for yourselves. It is a
perfectly genuine signature.’
A dozen necks were instantly craned over the paper. There was nothing
to be said. Every one had to confess that Tom was right; but the fact
only added fuel to the family wrath, as rendering their chances all the
more desperate.
Tom continued: ‘My wife’s uncle has lived with us, as you know, for
some months past, and my wife has taken care of him and nursed him in
his last illness. He was grateful, or seemed so; and he promised to
provide for her. He repeated his promise in the last words he ever
spoke.’
‘I suppose, sir, that _you_ will consequently consider yourself
entitled to contest the will?’ fiercely interrupted the angry clergyman.
‘One moment, if you please. I shall do nothing of the kind; neither
will my wife, with my consent. Mr Franklin had a right to do as he
chose with his money; and I must say I never put any faith in his
promises. This gentleman is welcome to what he has got, if he can
arrange with his conscience—which I daresay he can. How and why he
has got it, I don’t profess to understand; but I shall certainly not
endanger my peace of mind by trying to take it from him.’
Mr Blackford had felt himself a little overborne by the general
animosity; but he did not want for spirit, and now spoke up coolly and
defiantly. ‘If anybody thinks fit to waste his time and money in trying
to upset this will, he is quite welcome. I shall defend my rights.—And
my conscience is quite easy, thank you, Mr Wedlake.’ Mr Blackford,
having fired his shot, took himself off with his prize.
Tom had to devote the rest of the day to consoling his wife, who
was fairly broken down by the revelation of Uncle Franklin’s cruel
duplicity.
‘I can’t think he would have done it, Tom,’ she said. ‘I really
believe he did get to like me at last; and what object could he have
had in behaving in such a wicked way? I am quite certain that that Mr
Blackford has cheated us, somehow. Did you notice how his voice shook,
and how pale he was? and what made him run up-stairs as he did, without
waiting for our leave?’
Tom was silent for a few seconds. ‘There is a great deal about the
whole business that is strange and unaccountable,’ said he—‘a great
deal that I can’t understand—and I don’t mean to try, Lucy dear. We
needn’t break our hearts about Uncle Franklin’s money. We love one
another—we are young and strong—let us put all this away from us like a
bad dream, and settle down once more in the old happy way.’
Meanwhile, Mr Blackford was walking fast and far through London
streets in a perfect delirium of self-gratulation, unshadowed by one
thought of remorse or any dread of retribution. All was safely over;
everything had fallen out well for him and his wicked scheme. The prize
was fairly in his clutches at last, apparently beyond the power of
any man to wrest it from him. The will by which he benefited was no
clumsy forgery; it bore the testator’s genuine signature; it had been
executed in the presence of disinterested witnesses, and, for all those
witnesses could say, on the very date which it purported to bear.
No wonder that Mr Blackford exulted in the impregnability of his
position, and indulged in castle-building to a considerable extent. He
could not bring himself to return at present to his dull and dingy
office, gloomy with the recollections of failure and poverty. In a
very short time he would leave it for ever; he would continue his
career in more cheerful quarters and under very different conditions.
A professional man with plenty of money has no need to run after
patients or clients; they, on the contrary, will run after him. His
fortune should double and treble itself in his careful hands; municipal
distinctions should be his; some day, perhaps, a seat in parliament.
He would make a good marriage; he would shake hands with lords—most
fascinating of dreams to him as a professed Radical—his working hours
should be spent in easy and pleasant labour, and his leisure in
carefully regulated dissipation. And so he strode through the lighted
streets, intoxicating himself with the pleasures of imagination.
* * * * *
Another man, at the same time, was prowling about London streets, not
through the broad and blazing main thoroughfares, but by gloomy byways,
half lit by the feeble glimmer of thinly scattered lamps, where only
an occasional footstep sounded upon the flags—a man who shrank from
the presence of his kind, whom he insanely imagined were all leagued
in a cruel and inexplicable conspiracy against his reputation and his
life—a man accompanied wherever he went by mocking persecutors, who
dinned into his ears, themselves unseen, furious denouncings, hideous
blasphemies, fiendish jests; daring him to face them, and eluding his
every effort to do so; threatening him continually with exposure and
punishment for impossible crimes; taunting him with the universal
enmity of mankind. And one name formed the ever-recurring burden of
this diabolical chant—the name of the man in whom he had trusted, and
who had betrayed him to his foes; the name of the man who was in their
secrets, and was helping them to bring their victim to ruin; who had
taken his money for pretended aid, only to join his persecutors in
laughing at his misery.
The unhappy wretch stood still and listened, like a hare to the yelping
of the pack. Presently he turned and went away, no longer with the
uneven and desperate gait which had caused several passers-by to look
curiously after him, but with the rapid and determined step of a man
who had a thing to do and was on his way to do it.
Mr Blackford dined sumptuously in a well-known restaurant. Afterwards,
he thought, he would go to his office, there in secrecy and safety to
put the finishing stroke to his fortunes by destroying, carefully and
completely, the second will. He had not cared to do this anywhere else;
something might be seen and suspected; a bird of the air might carry
the matter. Where so much was at stake, it was not worth while to leave
anything to chance. When he had dined, he sat awhile and smoked his
cigar with the air and sensations of a millionaire; while his visions
of the future grew yet more roseate under the influence of a bottle of
old Tokay. At last he took his hat and coat and departed.
The outer door of the house in which his offices were situated was
closed; all the other occupants, with the exception of the old
housekeeper, had long since gone home. He knocked and rang.
‘Law! Mr Blackford, sir, I couldn’t think who it could be at this time
o’ night,’ said the woman, as she peered into his face by the light of
her flaring and guttering candle. ‘Are you goin’ to your rooms? I’m
afraid the fire’s out, some time. Shall I light it up again, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Smith,’ returned the solicitor. ‘I shall not be
very long; I have a few letters to write, that’s all. Give me two or
three matches to light the gas; I shall want nothing else.’
‘There’s been a gentleman here for you, about half an hour ago,
sir,’ said Mrs Smith, as she lighted him up the stairs. ‘He seemed
disappointed that you were gone; but I told him you wouldn’t be back
to-night, and he went away.’
‘I should think he might have known that this was no time to find a man
at his office. What sort of gentleman was he?’ inquired Mr Blackford
carelessly.
‘Well, sir, I really couldn’t say; the wind blowed out my candle as I
opened the door,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘He was a tallish gentleman, I think;
but I didn’t notice no more than that.’
‘Ah—well, I daresay I shall know him when I see him. I suppose he will
call to-morrow.’ And the solicitor entered his office and closed the
door. He opened it again almost directly.
‘Mrs Smith, what has become of the key?’ he called sharply.
‘Mr Jobson took it away with him, sir, to get a new one made. The lock
is that stiff, he twisted the handle off the key trying to turn it, and
he had a job to get it out again.’
Mr Blackford seemed much annoyed. ‘Very careless of him. The lock has
always gone well enough before. However, it can’t be helped.—Mind,
you don’t come up here to disturb me, do you hear? My letters are
important, and I want to be very quiet while I write them.’
‘I’ll take care, sir,’ answered the housekeeper humbly; and the door
closed once more.
The old woman set down her candle and put her head out into the street.
A sudden desire had come over her to solace her loneliness with the
luxury of a bloater for supper. There was a dried-fish shop just round
the corner. She could get there and back in a minute, and she would
leave the door on the latch, to save herself the trouble of fetching
her key. No harm could come to the house in that time; so she set off
at a shuffling run along the pavement.
A tall figure came from the shadow of the opposite houses into the
middle of the road. It paused and looked up for a moment at the now
lighted windows of the solicitor’s office; then it advanced to the
door, cautiously pushed it open, and disappeared within.
The housekeeper returned almost immediately. She did not notice that
the door was a little wider ajar than she had left it; had she done
so, the same high wind which had already extinguished her candle once
that evening would have sufficiently accounted for the fact. Taking
her light, she vanished into the subterranean region where she lived,
whence presently arose the savoury odour of the toasting bloater.
Mr Blackford, on entering his inner room, sat down at his table. He
left the door slightly open behind him, in order that he might hear any
footstep on the landing, any attempt to enter the outer office. Taking
both the wills from his pocket, he spread them before him. Again a wild
feeling of exultation surged through his brain and made his pulses
bound; he could not resist the pleasure of reading through the document
so unavailingly designed to rob him of his hopes, before he put it for
ever beyond the power of mischief. After that, he read the will which
was in his favour; then he fell once more into a delicious reverie.
There was no reason for hurry; he was quite alone and in safety.
He was so absorbed that he did not hear the outer door open with a
caution which might well have escaped greater watchfulness. Neither did
he hear the catlike step which crossed the floor of the clerks’ office,
nor the tiny creak as his own door was pushed open. After this, the
silence was deathlike; it was only accentuated by the slight hiss of
the burning gas over his head.
Mrs Smith had long finished her bloater, and sat yawning by the dying
fire in the nether regions, wondering how long it would be before
‘her gentleman’ took his departure, so that she might lock up and go
to bed. Once already she had heard, as she thought, a footstep on
the stairs, and the street door quietly closed; so sure had she been
of this, that she had gone up to the first floor to see that all was
right. But Mr Blackford’s gas was still burning; and through the outer
and inner doors, both of which, a little to her surprise, were open,
she could see the figure of the solicitor seated in his chair with
his back towards her, bending low and intently over his desk; so she
had concluded that her old ears had deceived her, and mindful of Mr
Blackford’s warning, had stolen back to the basement. That was nearly
two hours ago, and her patience was becoming exhausted.
At last she thought that he must either have fallen asleep over his
writing, or that he had left without her hearing him; so she once more
went up-stairs.
He was sitting just as she had last seen him; but this time she thought
that there was something strange about his unaltered posture. He must
certainly be asleep. She walked gingerly into the outer office, and
spoke to him—no answer. She spoke louder—still silence. Then she went
up to the motionless figure and touched it on the shoulder. The next
instant, she jumped back with a ringing shriek, stumbled out on to the
landing, and got herself down the stairs and into the street with an
agility which would have done credit to a younger and lighter woman;
and in fifteen minutes the house was in the occupation of the police.
Mr Blackford had fallen forward on his desk, the papers on which were
spattered with his blood. The top and back of his head were smashed
in by blows from some heavy blunt instrument. He had been horribly
murdered; and before dawn the murderer was in the hands of the police—a
raving maniac, flourishing the blood-incrusted life-preserver with
which he had done the deed, and boasting of having silenced for ever
the most dangerous of all his foes. It was ascertained that his name
was Charles Willoughby; and from the papers found at his lodgings,
it was easy to communicate with his friends. He is now in a lunatic
asylum, hopelessly incurable, and his property is in the hands of
trustees.
Both wills were found on the dead man’s table; and before many hours
were over, Tom and Lucy Wedlake were informed of the interposition
which had taken place in their favour. When the first shock at the
terrible nature of that interposition was over, Lucy could not help
triumphing a little over her husband at the complete fulfilment of
her prophecy, and Uncle Franklin’s exoneration from the suspicion of
ingratitude and treachery. Tom was beyond measure astonished, and
confessed to his wife’s superior acumen.
They lost no time in putting themselves in competent professional
hands; and the will which constituted Lucy sole legatee was established
without much difficulty. There was a little trouble at first with the
dead man’s relations; but they were fairly respectable people, and when
the hopelessness of their case was made apparent to them, they withdrew
their opposition to the document which bore the clear impress of the
testator’s real intentions.
Tom Wedlake has purchased a partnership in a flourishing commercial
house, and is now richer than Uncle Franklin ever was, and a far
greater object of respect to his own and his wife’s families.
Towards them, however, he by no means enacts the old gentleman’s
ill-conditioned part, being open-handed and generous to the last
degree; and he is at this moment the head of as happy a household as
can be found within the four-mile radius or outside it, a fact which he
prizes far beyond all his wealth.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
THE HESSIAN FLY.
The following suggestions have been prepared by Mr Charles Whitehead,
F.L.S., F.G.S., at the request of the Lords of the Committee of Council
for Agriculture, for the information of agriculturists:
The Hessian fly is terribly destructive to corn crops in the United
States, Canada, and parts of Germany. In some years it has almost
entirely destroyed the wheat crops in large districts in these
countries. In the upper counties of Georgia Packard States ‘the fly
has committed such ravages upon the wheat as scarcely to leave enough
seed for another year.’ It had not been found in Great Britain until
this present year, though in 1800 fears were entertained that it had
been introduced. In 1788 the importation of wheat from America was
prohibited by the British government until it was ascertained that it
was not likely that the insect could be brought over in this way. Now,
however, without any doubt it has appeared here, and all effort must be
made, and at once made, to stamp out this dangerous intruder. To effect
this, if possible, information is given below as to the nature of the
attack of the Hessian fly, and a description of it in its various
stages, as well as methods of preventing it from spreading in this
country.
The plants of wheat and barley infested with this insect turn yellow,
and become stunted and unhealthy. Plants upon sharp gravelly patches,
‘pinnocky places,’ ‘stone-brash,’ or ‘stone-shatter,’ and upon the
poorest parts of fields, show the attack first and most seriously.
As the plants ripen, the straw becomes root-fallen and scrawled, the
ears are small, and the grains misshapen and shrivelled. Corn-plants
thus affected should be carefully examined, especially their leaves or
blades, just at the points where they cover the second points of the
stems from the ground. Upon corn-plants thus injured, either the larvæ
of the Hessian fly or its pupæ will be found close to the lower joints
between the stems and the leaves or blades. The larvæ, which are the
authors of the mischief, as they suck out the juices of the plants, are
clear, white, or translucent maggots about the fifteenth of an inch
long, having stripes of a greenish hue under their skins. They remain
in this state from four to six weeks, and then assume the pupal or
semi-pupal form. The pupæ are called ‘flax-seeds’ in America, because
they are like small elongated flax-seeds. They are a little longer than
the larvæ, and are of a chestnut colour. It is in this state alone that
the Hessian fly has been seen in England. These pupæ are unmistakable,
and when once discovered, immediate steps should be taken to prevent
them from transforming into flies, which would lay eggs upon the
corn-plants either in the coming autumn or in the spring.
Crops of wheat and barley in whose straw the ‘flax-seeds’ have been
found should be cut above the second joint, either by setting the
reaping-machines high, or by reaping them by hand, so as to leave a
long stubble. Where barley is short and must be cut with scythes, the
mowers should be instructed to keep them as high as possible. Land upon
which the crops have been infested should be cultivated or broad-shared
immediately after harvest. The stubble and rubbish should be collected
most carefully and burnt; after this the land should be deeply
ploughed, or the stubble might be ploughed in at once deeply. Straw
from infested fields should be closely inspected when thrashed. If pupæ
are found, the straw should be used on the spot if possible for litter,
and all passed through ‘mixens,’ that heat may destroy them. The chaff
and ‘cavings’ from such straw should be burnt, and the corn screened in
the most careful manner. Corn from infested fields should on no account
be used for seed. Where manure is obtained from the cow-sheds and
stables of London and other cities and towns, it should be ‘mixened’
for some time, as it is very probable that the pupæ of the insect might
be imported in packing-cases and with straw crates from America and
Canada. Wheat-plants and barley-plants that show yellowness and other
signs of disorder in the autumn or spring should be closely examined
for larvæ or pupæ of the Hessian fly. Should it be discovered that the
larvæ or maggots are injuring young wheat-plants in November, or that
pupæ—‘flax-seed’—are present upon these, it would be well to feed them
down hard with sheep.
THEORIES OF DEW.
Referring to our recent article on ‘A New Theory of Dew’ (No. 126), a
correspondent at Beaumaris writes as follows:
‘You will see from the following experiment, one of many carried out by
Mr Du Fay in Paris towards the end of last century, that Mr Aitken’s
ideas regarding the origin of dew are not strikingly new, and only go
to prove the old adage that “There is nothing new under the sun.”—“Mr
Du Fay, at Paris, placed two ladders against one another, meeting
at their upper ends, and spreading wide asunder below. Their height
was thirty-two feet. To the several steps of these he fastened large
panes of glass, so disposed as not to overshade one another. With this
apparatus exposed to the air, he found that the lower surface of the
lowest pane of glass was first wetted with dew, then its upper surface,
then the lower surface of the pane next above it was wetted, and so
on, until all the panes to the very top of the ladders became covered
with dew. Mr Du Fay maintained that this was an unanswerable proof
that dew was formed from vapours ascending from the earth during the
night, rather than from the descent of such as had been raised in the
course of the day.” Dr Wells’s theory is doubtless the more generally
accepted; but many men, more especially such as have sojourned in
tropical climes, hold to Du Fay’s opinion, namely, that the moisture
causing dew emanates more from the soil than from the circumambient
air.’
SOLITUDE.
Not in the deepest tangles of the wood,
The turtle’s haunt, the timid squirrel’s lair;
Not on the ocean beaches, rough and bare
With never-ending battles, unsubdued
In war of winds and waters hoar and rude;
Not in the mountain-passes, where the air
Sobs low, and life is like a long despair—
Thy home is not in these, O Solitude!
But in the busy concourse, long and loud,
Where not one pulse of human sympathy
Beats through the grasping spirits of the crowd—
Where each is rapt in snatching greedily
His brother’s portion—’neath a shallow shroud,
We know thy truest haunt, and weep for thee.
ARTHUR L. SALMON.
* * * * *
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CONTRIBUTORS to the following notice:
_1st._ All communications should be addressed to the ‘Editor, 339 High
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_3d._ To secure their safe return if ineligible, ALL MANUSCRIPTS,
whether accompanied by a letter of advice or otherwise, _should
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_If the above rules are complied with, the Editor will do his best to
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* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
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