by which Mr Brown has succeeded in exploring the unknown ‘Interior’ of
British Guiana. In the course of them he has penetrated into recesses
of nature untrodden previously by any human foot, and made acquaintance
with plants, animals, birds, and fishes of which only the names had
previously been known to a few of the specially learned in such
matters. Our insufficient sketch of the nature of the book in which he
has narrated his experiences, is not designed to satisfy, but to excite
curiosity on the subject, and to direct the attention of such readers
as are interested in the revelation of nature, for which our age will
be celebrated in the history of intellectual labour, to Mr Barrington
Brown’s monograph of British Guiana.
ROBERT BRAMLEIGH’S WILL.
Last will and testament! Words of solemn import—and of unreasonable
terror to some people. How foolish and even culpable is it to leave
a matter of so much importance to the last hours of life, when the
strongest intellect must be incapable of fully considering and well
weighing the final disposition of our worldly goods and effects—a
disposition which is to affect the welfare and perhaps the happiness of
those we love the best.
Most people have heard the well-worn aphorism which tells us that the
man who is his own lawyer has a fool for his client. In the incident I
am about to relate, a woman—I suppose the aphorism applies to either
sex—proved to the contrary. It is the exception, however, that proves
the rule. Had she remained her own lawyer, instead of consulting me,
the probability is that she would have succeeded in her designs upon a
large fortune, designs which I happily succeeded in frustrating.
It had been a busy day with me. I had been working hard getting up
evidence in a railway accident case, and was putting up my papers with
a sigh of relief. Another forty minutes and I should be at home. I
could almost smell the boiled capon and oyster-sauce which I knew were
being prepared for me. ‘There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the
lip,’ says the proverb; and in my case it proved only too true; for
just as I was tying up the last bundle of papers, the office boy put
his head in at the door and dispelled the tempting vision.
‘A woman to see you, if you please, sir. She won’t give no name. Says
she’s a stranger.’
‘A stranger!’ I repeated. ‘What is she like? Is she a common person?’
‘Not exactly, sir,’ replied the lad.
‘A lady?’ I asked.
‘O no, sir.’
‘What is she, then?’
Arthur was a droll lad. I had brought him to London from the country,
to oblige an old college friend. I am afraid that he was not of much
use in the office, but he used to keep the other clerks in a good
temper by his amusing ways and dry remarks.
Arthur paused, as if considering, and then, with a look of
intelligence, as much as to say that he had hit the nail on the head
this time, he answered: ‘Well, sir, she’s a sort of betwixt and
between.’
‘Not a bad definition, Arthur. Ask the “betwixt and between” up-stairs.’
A tall middle-aged woman entered and took the seat I placed for her.
She appeared to belong to the class Arthur had so happily designated
as ‘betwixt and between;’ a person, rather than a lady. I rather pride
myself on my power of reading faces, but I confess that hers puzzled
me. It was absolutely void of expression. The features were hard and
immovable, as if carved out of stone. She wore a closely fitting
bonnet, under which the gray hair was neatly brushed in two smooth
bands. I generally form my opinion of any one’s character from the
expression of the eyes and mouth; but here I was at fault. An ugly scar
on the left cheek extended across the lips, distorting the mouth, and
the eye on the same side was sightless. I always feel at a disadvantage
with one-eyed people; I never know what they are driving at. It is so
hard to fathom their thoughts.
My visitor removed her gloves and, carefully smoothing them, placed
them on the table beside her. She then produced from her pocket a
large foolscap envelope, from which she drew a piece of paper folded
longways. This she handed to me, explaining, in a hard monotonous
voice, that she had been sent to me by her master, Mr Robert Bramleigh
of Coleman Street, who was dangerously ill—in fact was not expected
to live many hours. The paper, she said, had been written by his
direction, and signed by him for his will that afternoon. Fearing lest
it should not be in a proper form, he had desired her to take it to
the nearest lawyer, and have one prepared according to the law.
I unfolded the paper, and read as follows:
‘In the name of God, Amen. I leave my body to the ground and my
soul to Almighty God who gave it. Now this is the will of me,
ROBERT BRAMLEIGH of 559 Coleman Street. I give and leave all
my houses, lands, money, and everything that I have, to HANNAH
CHURTON, my housekeeper, as a reward for her long and faithful
services. Signed by me on Tuesday, December 12th, 1868.
_Witnesses_— ROBERT BRAMLEIGH.
JAMES BURN.
MARGARET SIMS.’
I examined the writing carefully. The signature ‘Robert Bramleigh’ was
weak and shaky. The will itself was written in a masculine-looking hand
of singular decision and boldness. The characters were large and well
formed.
The will had evidently been prepared by some one who had had but an
imperfect knowledge of the form to be used for such a purpose. The
solemn appeal to the Deity and the bequest of the testator’s body
and soul was an old form, much in vogue with our grandfathers, who
generally headed a will with one or two pious phrases.
The document shewn to me was, however, sufficient to give Hannah
Churton all Mr Bramleigh’s property. There were the requisite number of
witnesses, and the Principal Registry of Her Majesty’s Court of Probate
would have granted letters of administration with the will annexed (the
appointment of an executor having been omitted, the ordinary probate
could not have been obtained), on one of the attesting witnesses making
an affidavit that the will had been executed by the testator in the
presence of himself and the other attesting witness, and that they had
at the same time, and in the presence of each other, subscribed their
names thereto as witnesses.
Now I am always very particular about wills; I think they are too
serious to be settled in a hurry. I never will allow a client to
execute one until I am convinced that its purport is perfectly
understood.
‘You are Mrs Churton, I presume?’ I asked.
‘I am,’ she replied, looking me unflinchingly in the face. Somehow
I felt suspicious that things were not so fair as they should be.
I questioned her rather closely; but the only admission I obtained
from her was that _she_ had written the will, but that it was at her
master’s dictation. I asked her if he had any family, but could get
nothing from her save that he did not care to have his private affairs
discussed by strangers. Worsted, I gave up the contest. I offered to
prepare a more formal document; but before doing so, I declared that
it was necessary I should see Mr Bramleigh. I named the omission of
the appointment of an executor. This seemed rather to nonplus her.
She asked whether _she_ could not be named as executrix. The more
aversion she shewed to my seeing her master the more convinced I felt
that something was wrong; and seeing that I was not to be moved from
my purpose, she at last gave in; proposing, however, that I should
accompany her back, as she greatly feared it would be too late if left
till the morning.
A cab soon took us to No. 559 Coleman Street. It was a large gloomy
old-fashioned house with a spacious entrance-hall. I was taken into the
dining-room, and asked to wait while Mr Bramleigh was being prepared
for my visit. The furniture in the room was old and very massive. Some
handsome oil-paintings graced the walls. I am very fond of pictures, so
raising the lamp, I walked round the room slowly inspecting them. On
the right of the fire-place I came upon a picture with its face turned
towards the wall. I think I must have the bump of inquisitiveness—if
there is such a bump—largely developed, for anything approaching a
mystery is sure to raise my curiosity. I turned the picture. It was
the portrait in oils of a young and very beautiful girl in a dark
riding-habit. Hearing footsteps outside the door, I restored the
picture to the position in which I had found it, and as I did so I saw
written at the bottom of the frame ‘Magdalen Bramleigh.’
The footsteps I had heard were those of the housemaid, who had come
to announce that Mr Bramleigh was ready to see me. I followed her
up-stairs, and was ushered into a large comfortable-looking bedroom.
A cheerful fire burned in the grate. Facing it was a large four-post
bedstead hung with white curtains, and at the head of the bed Mrs
Churton was standing, with a small table in front of her, on which were
placed an inkstand and some paper. She pulled back the curtain, and I
saw an old man propped up by pillows, his face drawn and the eyes very
much sunk. I almost feared that he was too far gone to make a will; but
after speaking with him for a little time, I felt satisfied that the
intellect was quite clear.
Turning to Mrs Churton, I told her that she need not wait; I would ring
if I wanted anything.
‘Yes, go—go, Hannah!’ cried the sick man; and I fancied that I could
detect an eagerness in his voice, as if he desired her absence rather
than her presence. As Mrs Churton left the room I caught sight of the
reflection of her face in the glass over the chimney-piece, but I do
not think she would have scowled quite so much had she known that I
was looking. I began by asking Mr Bramleigh what were his wishes with
regard to his will. In low tones he told me that he desired to leave
everything to Hannah Churton, his housekeeper, as a reward for her long
and faithful services. I will not tire the reader by repeating the
whole of our conversation. After great difficulty I extracted from him
that he had no relatives save an only daughter, whom he had discarded,
her fault being that she had married a young fellow in the army to whom
her father had taken an unaccountable aversion. My own opinion was—and
as the result turned out, it proved to be correct—that his mind had
been poisoned against him by Hannah Churton, whose influence over her
master was evidently very great. I thought of the sweet face of the
portrait I had seen in the dining-room—doubtless that of the discarded
daughter—and deserving or not deserving, I determined to fight a battle
on her behalf.
I spoke gravely to the old man, although without much hope of success,
but at last I got him to confess that he had had no intention of making
his housekeeper his sole heiress until she had herself broached the
subject to him. Her plan had been to artfully insinuate that the love
of the newly married couple would not last very long on a lieutenant’s
pay; and that as he had only married Miss Bramleigh for her money, he
would soon tire of her when he found that she had nothing. She had
then pledged herself to procure a separation, when she would make over
everything left her by Mr Bramleigh, to his daughter. She certainly
must have had great power over the old man to induce him to agree to
such a scheme. I proposed to Mr Bramleigh that he should leave his
property to some one on whom he could rely, in trust for his daughter.
I also volunteered, although I have an aversion to the trouble and
responsibility of a trusteeship, my services as trustee for this
purpose. My arguments prevailed. He assented; and I prepared a will
accordingly, the old man requesting that his medical man, Dr Ramsey,
should be nominated as my co-trustee, and that an annuity of fifty
pounds should be paid to Hannah Churton for life. I inwardly rebelled
at this. My dislike to this woman was now so great that I could
cheerfully have seen her cut out of the will without a farthing. The
doctor arrived just as I had finished, and expressed his willingness to
share the responsibility with me, which seemed to please Mr Bramleigh
very much. Our names were therefore included as trustees.
I read the will to him very carefully, explaining, as I did so, its
full effect. When I had finished, he muttered: ‘Quite right—quite
right; but I am afraid Hannah will not be pleased.’ I counselled him
not to mention it to her; and my advice seemed to satisfy him.
Ringing the bell, I requested Mrs Churton to summon James Burn and
Margaret Sims, the two servants who had witnessed the first will. As
soon as they were in the room, I gave Mr Bramleigh a pen, and placing
the document before him, I said distinctly, so that all might hear:
‘This which I have just read to you is your final will, and you request
James Burn and Margaret Sims to witness your execution of it?’ ‘It is—I
do,’ he solemnly said, as with feeble fingers he wrote his name. The
two awe-stricken domestics then added theirs, and I think their hands
shook more than the testator’s. Hannah Churton was a silent spectator
of the whole of this; but I could not see her face, as she stood in the
background, out of the light of the lamp.
Before allowing any one to leave the room, I placed the will in a large
envelope. Fastening it with wax, I impressed it with Mr Bramleigh’s
monogram and crest by means of a seal that was in the tray of the
inkstand. The old man watched me closely, and when I had finished,
he said: ‘Keep it—till it is wanted;’ thus relieving me of a great
embarrassment, for I did not like leaving it in the power of Hannah
Churton, lest she should tamper with it.
On our way down-stairs, Dr Ramsey told me that his patient was rapidly
sinking, and that he doubted whether he would live another twenty-four
hours.
Taking him into the dining-room and shutting the door, I told him my
suspicions of the housekeeper, and that I felt afraid of leaving Mr
Bramleigh alone with her all night. He agreed with me, and promised to
send his assistant to watch till the morning, when, if Mr Bramleigh
should still be living, he would on his own responsibility place a
trustworthy nurse in charge. The housekeeper opened the door to let us
out.
‘It is all right, Mrs Churton,’ I maliciously said as the doctor wished
her good-night. ‘I am quite satisfied now. The will will be safe in my
keeping. By-the-bye,’ I added, looking her sharply in the face, ‘had
you not better let your master’s friends know of the danger he is in?
Dr Ramsey says he does not think he will last much longer.’
She mumbled something in reply, but I could not catch what it was. I
stayed talking upon indifferent subjects, to while away the time until
the arrival of Dr Ramsey’s assistant. Mrs Churton, however, was, unlike
her sex, remarkably reticent; I could only get the shortest replies
from her. She seemed very much astonished and rather displeased when Dr
Ramsey returned with his assistant. He explained to her that although
there was no chance of saving his patient’s life, yet his last moments
might be alleviated by skilled attendance; and therefore, as he himself
could not stay all night, he had brought his assistant for that purpose.
In one’s experience of mankind we find that it is possible to be
sometimes too clever. Mrs Hannah Churton was very clever, but she
committed two great mistakes. The first was in consulting a lawyer. The
will drawn by her—for so it really had been—might have been upset on
the ground of undue influence. I say ‘might have been,’ for there is
nothing so hard to prove as undue influence. The great point against
her was the ousting of a child in favour of a stranger. Yet it would
have been far from easy to prove that she was responsible for this,
as Mr Bramleigh’s strange aversion to the army was well known; he
often had been heard to threaten to discard his daughter if she ever
should engage herself to a military man—doubtless thereby defeating
his purpose, for the female mind is such that from Eve to the present
generation the thing forbidden is the most desired. I think the
probabilities are that the matter would have been compromised, and
Hannah Churton enriched by a few thousands of her master’s wealth.
Mistake number two was as follows. The doctor had gone up-stairs
to install his assistant, leaving me standing in the hall with
the housekeeper. Fumbling in her pocket she pulled out a roll of
bank-notes; thrusting these into my hands, she told me that it was her
master’s wish that I should take them for my trouble. I unrolled them,
and found two for ten, and one for five, pounds. Twenty-five pounds!
This was sharp, and yet foolish of Hannah. Had I been as great a rogue
as she was—and I suppose by her offering them to me that she thought I
was—she was retaining an important witness on her side, and therefore
there was a certain amount of sharpness about it. On the other hand it
was exceedingly foolish. The sum was so much out of proportion to my
services that it was palpably a bribe. I am afraid that had it come out
in evidence, it would have lost her the case and perhaps struck me off
the rolls.
A long legal experience has taught me that in all dealings with
doubtful people one’s safety lies in having a good witness. I waited
till the doctor came down-stairs, occupying myself by entering the
numbers of the notes in my pocket-book.
‘Look, doctor!’ I cried as he appeared, shewing him the notes. ‘Mr
Bramleigh is a liberal paymaster.’ Turning to Mrs Churton, I said:
‘This will amply repay me.’
Retaining the note for five pounds, I returned her the other two. She
took them from me without saying a word, but a black look came over her
face. I think she began to suspect me. I got home very late that night.
The capon was more than done, and so was the oyster sauce!
Mr Bramleigh died the next morning at ten o’clock. Soon after I had
left he became unconscious, in which state he remained till shortly
before his death, when there was a rally. Opening his eyes with an
eager look, as if he missed something, he threw one arm outside the
coverlet, and crying ‘Magdalen, Magdalen!’ he obeyed the summons which
bade him thole his assize—yea, in that dread court where ‘Not proven’
is unknown. Guilty or not guilty? Who shall say?
The funeral took place on the Saturday, but an engagement prevented me
from following. Mrs Churton had written requesting that I would attend
with the will, which still remained in my possession with the one drawn
by her.
I arrived at the house a little after one o’clock, and was at once
taken into the dining-room, where I found Dr Ramsey, Mr Robson (a
brother-practitioner), and a handsome young fellow, who was introduced
to me as Lieutenant Maitland, the late Mr Bramleigh’s son-in-law.
The door opened, and a young lady entered. It did not require any
introduction to tell me that she was the original of the portrait,
still with its front turned towards the wall. Her face was very
beautiful, notwithstanding its extreme paleness and the tear-swollen
eyelids. She seated herself by the fire, her husband standing behind
her, leaning his arms on the back of the chair.
Mrs Churton had closely followed Magdalen Maitland into the room. She
was dressed in deep mourning, and wore a black crape cap; thus offering
a marked contrast to Mrs Maitland, who was wearing a gray dress rather
travel-soiled. Apparently she had had no time to prepare her mourning.
Dr Ramsey politely pulled forward a chair for the housekeeper. Taking
it from him with a cold ‘Thank you,’ she placed it at the end of the
table, directly facing me. Very stern and forbidding she looked in her
black garments—her features immovable, her hands resting on her knees.
I was about to unseal the envelope containing the will, when Lieutenant
Maitland interrupted me.
‘One moment, if you please,’ he said, placing his hand on my arm.
‘Before this will is read, I wish to say a few words. Mrs Churton tells
me that Mr Bramleigh has left her everything unconditionally. I simply
wish to express my firm belief that Mr Bramleigh could only have been
induced to make such a will by unfair and foul means. Although I have
been the cause of an estrangement between father and daughter, I cannot
think that he could so far forget his love for her as to strip her of
everything. It is my intention, for her sake, to contest this will; and
it is with that view that I have requested my old friend, Mr Robson, to
be present to-day as my legal adviser.’
His frank manly face was flushed with honest excitement as, leaning
over the back of his wife’s chair, he took her face between his hands
and kissed it. ‘For your sake—not mine, dearest,’ I heard him whisper.
Mr Robson bowed when his name was mentioned. Mrs Churton still retained
her position. A painful silence succeeded, unbroken save by the
rustling of the paper as I broke the seal.
Magdalen Maitland had stolen her hand into her husband’s protecting
clasp. I withdrew the will from its cover, and looked at Mrs Churton.
Would that firm face quiver when the lottery proved a blank, and the
fair castle fell because its foundations had been built in the sand? I
could not help admiring the courage of the woman, and certainly felt
curious as to how she would stand the ordeal through which she had to
pass.
I read the will slowly and distinctly. It was very short. Save the
annuity of fifty pounds to Hannah Churton for life, everything was left
to Dr Ramsey and myself, in trust for Magdalen Maitland, to be settled
on her as we in our discretion should think fit.
Astonishment is a mild word to express the feelings of those present,
nor will I attempt to do so. My tale lies with Hannah Churton. Starting
to her feet, she pushed the chair from her, and stretching out one arm,
gave utterance to a fierce torrent of invective. The veil was lifted,
and the native coarseness of the woman’s nature stood revealed. It was
as I had feared. Unmindful of the bounty of but too generous a master,
she heaped obloquy on his memory, and fearlessly asserted that she had
wasted the best years of her life in his service!
Magdalen Maitland covered her ears with her hands, to shut out the
hard words. Her husband led her towards the door; but Hannah Churton
intercepted them. Tearing her cap from her head, she threw it on the
ground before the frightened girl.
‘Trample on it!’ she cried in a frenzied voice. ‘Your father’s victim
has no right to wear it!’ I must admit that she looked grandly tragic
as she declaimed these fierce words. I felt half sorry for the poor
defeated creature.
We had not a little trouble before the will was proved. It was strongly
opposed by a sharp young fellow, who took up the case for Hannah
Churton. It was, however, ultimately settled by an addition of another
fifty pounds being made to the annuity she was to receive.
Lieutenant Maitland sold out of the army; and a rich relative of his
dying soon afterwards, he inherited a large estate in Devonshire, where
he and his wife went to reside.
Nine years have passed since then; and Mrs Maitland declares that there
are ‘silver threads among the gold.’ The cares of a young family have
somewhat marred her good looks, but they will live again in my little
god-daughter Magdalen, who promises to rival her mother in beauty.
THE OLD HOME.
It is not a castle olden,
Standing in the sunlight golden,
Relic of the Past,
With a deep moat mossed and hoary,
And a ray from bygone glory
O’er its ruin cast.
But a mansion fair and pleasant,
Known alike of peer and peasant
For its kindly cheer,
With its glades and leafy covers,
Ferny haunts of loitering lovers,
And the shy wild-deer.
Crimson blossoms redly glowing,
Flickering shadows o’er it throwing,
Veil the lichen’s stain;
Sunset gleams of rose and amber,
Where the ivy tendrils clamber,
Flush each casement pane.
Lurks no ghost behind the arras,
Happy midnight dreams to harass,
Wakes no Banshee’s wail;
Tapestry, nor antique lumber,
Doth its sunny hall encumber,
Shield, nor suit of mail.
Morning wakes its household noises,
Busy footsteps, laughing voices,
As in days of yore;
Burns its warm hearth too, brightly,
Where the gay groups gather nightly,
Though it knows no more
Hearts, by other loves supplanted;
Steps, that once its precincts haunted,
Hushed by mount and sea;
Only my sad heart remembers
Flowery Junes and dark Decembers,
Spent, old home, in thee!
Shadows pace the garden alleys,
Wander with me through the valleys,
Join my woodland walk;
And by streamlets willow-shaded,
Where the song-birds serenaded,
Parted lovers talk—
Idly talking, idly dreaming,
With the sunlit waters gleaming
Golden at their feet,
While the fair-haired children plunder,
Rosy-mouthed, with blue-eyed wonder,
Fruitage wild and sweet.
When I stretch my hands in greeting,
Each familiar name repeating,
Straightway from my sight,
Back to angel bowers they vanish,
Even as beams of morning banish
Visions of the night.
J. I. L.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *