matter-of-fact way in which these impossibilities were related;
with agitation, indeed, but with nothing in the nature of abnormal
excitement or maniacal frenzy. He spoke as a man who found great matter
for trouble, but none for astonishment, in the nightly irruption into
his lodgings of hundreds or thousands of abusive persons, whose numbers
were no hindrance to their remaining effectually concealed in the
space of two small rooms. But he surveyed the walls and floor at more
frequent intervals in his dazed manner, as though he suddenly found
himself in a strange place, while his moist and shaking hands nervously
and convulsively worked his handkerchief into a compact ball.
Actuated at first by the best motives, Mr Blackford began to question
him cautiously as to his connections and private affairs. It seemed
that, with the exception of some distant relatives at the Cape, he was
alone in the world; nor did he appear to have any friends in England
upon whom he could rely. Having elicited the further fact that he had
an income of five hundred pounds a year, derived from funded property,
the solicitor ceased his questions and delivered himself up to
reflection, while his client anxiously awaited the voice of the oracle.
There are many members of the junior branch of the legal profession
who are of unbending uprightness and fastidious honour; there are a
few downright knaves; and there are others who stand neither on the
upper nor on the lower rungs of the moral ladder, but occupy a position
somewhere about the middle. These last are equally prepared to be
honest should honesty be made easy for them, or rogues in the face of
difficulty or temptation; and among their number was Mr Blackford. He
was not altogether favourably known to his brother practitioners; but
neither could any definite charge be brought against him. He had done
things which were certainly worthy of condemnation; but he had hitherto
kept clear of any offence which would endanger his position on the
rolls. He dressed neatly, he had a good manner and a correct accent,
and he did not drink. His business was small, and not of a high class,
lying mostly among the smaller sort of tradesmen; yet he had a certain
connection, and even a few clients of means and fair position; and he
was said to understand his work. He was quite without capital, and
lived a hand-to-mouth life; and he had certain extravagant tastes of
the lower kind. Money was always scarce with him, and he was prepared
to acquire it in any way which offered, so that it was unattended with
risk; for he was quite unburdened with scruples, considering all profit
fair which could be safely gained. And he thought that in this case he
saw a chance of such profit. Willoughby had answered all his questions,
some of them bordering on impertinence, in the most open and unreserved
fashion; he was evidently disposed to place the fullest confidence in
his legal adviser, looking to him for sympathy and deliverance. Mr
Blackford felt more at his ease in thus parleying with a probably
dangerous lunatic, than a few minutes before he would have thought
possible.
The upshot of his meditations was that he concluded to abandon, at
all events for the present, his first very proper and humane purpose
of communicating with the police, and trying to induce them to deal
with the case as that of a lunatic at large, so that the poor fellow
might be properly cared for until his friends could be communicated
with. For this he substituted a different plan of action with admirable
readiness, and with an entire absence of pity or compunction. It was
clear that there was money to be made out of the man by judicious
handling; and Mr Blackford was of opinion that no one could be better
qualified to make it, or more deserving of it when made, than himself.
He accordingly advised that the threats and accusations should for
the present be treated with contempt. No doubt they were made for
the purpose of extorting money; any sign that they were producing an
effect would only cause the annoyance to be redoubled. In the meantime
he, Blackford, would use his wide experience and not inconsiderable
abilities in his client’s behalf, and had no doubt of the ultimate
success of his endeavours to discover the offenders and bring them to
justice. The poor madman, with tears in his eyes, thanked him for his
kindness and attention, declared that a load had been lifted from his
mind, and was about to withdraw, when the solicitor stopped him with an
air of having suddenly recollected something.
‘By the way,’ said he, ‘it’s hardly worth mentioning—but cases of
this nature involve considerable expense to begin with, in the way of
inquiries and so forth. It is generally the custom—— Well, to put it
plainly, I think I must ask you for a small present payment on account;
say five pounds or so.’
‘Of course, of course—certainly,’ said the other, fumbling nervously
in his pocket. ‘I am much obliged to you for mentioning it; this is
my first experience of the kind, I am happy to say. I have not quite
the sum you mention with me at this moment. Would three pounds ten be
enough for the present? and I will send the rest by post.’
‘O yes, that will do very well; only a matter of form, you know,’ said
the solicitor carelessly, but laying an eager grasp upon the coins. ‘I
hope to write to you satisfactorily before long—till then, good-bye.’
So soon as his new client had left, Mr Blackford assumed his coat and
hat and went off to keep his appointment with Mr Franklin, who lived in
Camden Town with his married niece and her husband. As the solicitor
strode rapidly along, he felt a different being from the man who, but a
short half-hour before, had been reading his letters in so despondent a
mood. The sudden and unwanted accession of business from two quarters
at once on the same day gave him a feeling of importance; and the
consciousness of the four unexpected gold coins in his pocket thrilled
through him with a comforting glow, like that of a glass of old ale on
a frosty day. Willoughby, if properly managed, might prove a small gold
mine before his madness should develop itself to an extent incompatible
with attention to legal matters; and visions arose before him of a
possible inquiry _de lunatico_, with its expensive accompaniments of
the appointment of a ‘committee’ and the administration of a nice
little estate; all to be conducted, in the not distant future, to
his great pecuniary profit, by that trustworthy and able man of law,
James Blackford. His castle-building extended to an important family
connection thence to arise; to the hiring of more commodious offices in
a better situation, necessitated by a rapidly increasing business; and
by the time that he found himself at the end of his walk, the unpaid
rent and the uncompromised compensation action had faded in a glow of
splendid possibilities.
Mr William Franklin was a tall and gaunt old man, with a red face,
on which dwelt continually a savage and sardonic smile, framed
in a bristling fringe of silvery-white hair. His character might
almost be summed up in the expressive phrase of certain of his
acquaintance—friends he had none—by whom it was predicated of him
that he was ‘an ugly customer.’ He was, in fact, an evil-tempered and
malicious bully, whose selfish and tyrannical disposition had been
fostered by an undue consciousness of the twenty-five thousand pounds
which he had made in business, and by the assiduous court which his
wealth caused to be paid to him by expectant relatives, with all of
whom he took pleasure in quarrelling in turn, enjoying with a fiendish
glee their subsequent agonies of self-abasement.
‘So, it’s you at last!’ said this amiable old gentleman, when Mr
Blackford was shown into his presence. ‘Thought you were never coming.
What’s kept you?’
The solicitor, with great humility of manner, apologised for the
unavoidable delay, and alluded to the overwhelming pressure of business
and the constant calls upon his time.
‘Oh, I’m sure—I’m sorry to have put you about so,’ said Mr Franklin
with vast politeness. ‘I couldn’t think of detaining you when you’re
so busy. It’s a matter of no consequence, after all. Pray, don’t wait;
I’ll send to Jones and Crowder; I daresay _they_ won’t be too much
engaged to come at once.’
Greatly alarmed, Mr Blackford hastened to protest that his time was
entirely at Mr Franklin’s disposal.
‘Then don’t tell me a pack of lies!’ roared the client with an
instantaneous change of manner, facing round from the fireplace, poker
in hand, with every apparent intention of committing a violent assault
upon his solicitor. ‘Man alive! don’t I know that it’s just as much
as you can do to keep body and soul together in that poky little hole
of an office of yours?—_Business_, indeed! As if I wasn’t about the
only decent client you have! And why I _am_ your client, goodness only
knows. It’s compassion, I suppose. I always was too soft-hearted for
this world.’
His visitor could have furnished him with a better reason—namely, that
no other lawyer had ever been found capable of putting up with his
insolence and tyranny. But Mr Blackford had plenty of self-control, and
could bear a good deal where anything was to be got by doing so.
The soft-hearted gentleman smote the coals violently, fulminating
subdued anathemas the while with a dreadful grin. The solicitor,
knowing his man, remained perfectly quiet; and presently Mr Franklin
spoke again, abruptly, but in a quieter tone.
‘Here! I want to make my will. I’m going to do it at last—in a fashion
that will astonish some of ’em. They’ve been anxious enough about it
these ten years and more. I hope it’ll please ’em when it’s done. A set
of hungry hounds! Ready to lick the dirt off my boots for the money,
and nothing too bad to say of me behind my back. I know it as well as
if I heard it. Not a penny—not a penny for one of ’em! I’d rather take
it into my grave with me—not but what they’d grub me up again, if I was
in the middle of the earth.’
There was again a short silence. Mr Blackford awaited his instructions.
‘Then there’s this young Tom Wedlake been giving me his sauce, just
because I spoke a word to that lazy young baggage of a wife of his—said
he wasn’t going to stand it—_he_ wasn’t going to stand it—the beggar!
and if I didn’t like it, I could go. _Will_ I! I’ll stay here, just to
spite him. Besides, I’m a deal too comfortable to move. _She_ won’t let
him turn me out—the artful minx. “Dear uncle—don’t be cross with me,
dear uncle!”’ said Mr Franklin with an access of fury, and a ludicrous
assumption of a feminine falsetto. “Leave all your money to your niece,
dear uncle; that’s what you’ve got to do.” Not a brass farthing, by
Jove! He doesn’t want my money, doesn’t he? and he has the impudence to
tell me so! Very good, Mr Thomas Wedlake; I’ll take you at your word.
I’ll pay you out, you—you—rapscallion!’
The furious monologue seemed to have spun itself out; so Mr Blackford
ventured a word.
‘Then I gather, sir, that you do not intend to leave any portion
of your property to your nephew and niece—and I have no doubt you
are exercising a sound discretion, as always. But as you are justly
offended with your other relations, what disposition do you think of
making?’
‘Mind your own business!’ was the unexpected retort.
Mr Blackford felt rather aggrieved, as the matter _was_ clearly
his business; but he said nothing. The old man continued his jerky
discourse, addressed more to himself than to his visitor.
‘You’re right, though.—What shall I do with it? I’ve been asking myself
the same question ever since I wrote to you last night; and now you’re
here, I’m no nearer the answer. It’s a deal of money, hard got, and
soon spent; and I don’t know who it’s to go to. Plaguy hard to leave
it at all. No good grumbling about that, though. I won’t give it to an
hospital, or build a church, or endow almshouses; I’ve no patience with
that sort of humbug. As if a man hadn’t been robbed enough all these
years, what with rates and what with taxes. I can’t keep the money
myself, and there’s no one to give it to—no one.’
Perhaps, through that heart, all seared and scorched with evil
passions, eaten through and through with corroding suspicion, there
darted a momentary pang at the thought that there was not a human being
from whom the gift of all his painfully acquired wealth would buy one
tear of sorrow, or even one grateful remembrance of the giver.
He sat brooding with a gloomy brow; and this time the silence was so
long that Mr Blackford was about to break it at the risk of another
rebuke, when Mr Franklin smote his hand upon his thigh and laughed—a
harsh and cackling laugh, devoid of mirth or geniality.
‘Blackford,’ said he, ‘I’ll leave it to you!’
Had the lawyer received a blow from the ready poker which stood in
the nearest corner of the fireplace, he could hardly have been more
thoroughly stunned. ‘To me!’ he managed to gasp out, after a moment’s
astounded silence.
‘I’ll leave it to you!’ repeated Mr Franklin, nodding emphatically.
‘Ain’t you willing, that you stare like a stuck pig? It’s not
because of any regard for you—don’t think it. I’ll leave it to you,
just because it will be about the worst kind of sell for ’em all I
could anyhow invent. I hate ’em—every one! and the thought of their
faces when they come to hear the will read, will be about the only
consolation I shall have for being obliged to part with it at all.
And mind you, I shall make it a condition that they do hear it read.
You are to call them all together for the purpose, and you’re not to
breathe a word beforehand of the nice little surprise in store for
’em. Every man-Jack will think he’s been “remembered”—and so he has,
I assure you! You’ll have a nice time of it with ’em, Blackford. D’ye
quail at the thought of it—eh? If so, say the word, and we’ll think of
something else.’
‘Not on my account, I beg,’ said the solicitor, recovering his senses.
‘I daresay I shall be equal to the occasion. But Mr Franklin, my _dear_
sir, how am I to thank you for such munifi’——
‘You’d better not thank me at all, if you’re wise,’ said the eccentric
testator; ‘you may sicken me like the rest, and then I shall alter my
mind. Bosh! I know you well enough. You’ll try to double the money as
soon as you get it; and you’ll either lose it all and hang yourself, or
you’ll get mixed up in some piece of rascality that will bring you to
penal servitude. You have my instructions. Go and make the will; and
bring it here to-morrow, and I’ll sign it. And look here! bring two
witnesses with you; I don’t want any one in this house to know what
I’ve been about. Here’s a list of the securities. Be off! Good-bye—get
out!’ And with this unceremonious dismissal, the interview came to an
end.
As he hurried back to his office, Mr Blackford was able at last to
realise the immensity of the good luck which had befallen him in this
extraordinary manner. Twenty-five thousand pounds, all invested in
sound Stock Exchange securities! Good-bye to the strife for bread;
to the trap-net of petty pecuniary embarrassments which meets and
deadens effort at every struggle; to the haunting care which makes hard
the nightly pillow and drives away slumber before the dawn; to the
hand-to-mouth existence, and the thousand-and-one daily degradations of
a struggling professional man. Good-bye to one and all—if Mr Franklin’s
suddenly conceived purpose would but hold until he should in good
time, the best of time, betake himself to a region where codicils are
an impossibility. But one thought was present to the lawyer’s mind
at that moment—to get the will drawn and signed with all possible
expedition; but one hope was his—that his client might thereafter make
an edifying end with as little delay as possible.
AVALANCHES.
The word avalanche carries with it a sound of terror and dismay, which
may well appal any mind. Happily, avalanches are unknown in Great
Britain; but in Switzerland they are sadly too frequent. They are known
also under other names in some parts of Italy and Germany. Avalanches
consist of large accumulations of snow, set free by some means,
descending from an elevated region to the valley. Their action is more
or less twofold: chiefly by the mass of the snow sweeping away or
overwhelming everything which comes in its course; but also, sometimes,
by so violently disturbing the air as to cause a hurricane, which in
its destructive force kills men and cattle, and tears up trees and even
houses from their solid foundations.
Avalanches have been divided into four classes. There are powdery
avalanches, in which the snow and ice break up into powder, forming
a kind of silver cloud, sparkling like quicksilver, and making a
noise like distant thunder. This kind is more dangerous by reason of
the commotion produced in the air, than by its weight or power to
overwhelm. There are what are called creeping avalanches. The mass
of snow, being disengaged, moves down a more gentle slope, as on an
inclined plane, and so is sluggish in its course. Then there is the
glacier avalanche, which consists of a large mass of ice detached
from the glacier above, which descends to the valley. This is the
least dangerous kind, and is more common in summer. Lastly, there
is the avalanche proper, which is the most dangerous of all, and
consists of vast accumulations of snow set free from above, which
increase in force as they descend, overthrowing houses, tearing up
trees, burying villages, and swallowing up forests, cattle, and human
beings. Sometimes, however, an avalanche may change its character in
its descent; as, for instance, a creeping avalanche may reach a steep
declivity, and the mass of snow falling on the sharp angles of a rock,
it may be shattered, and its mass dispersed in a cloud of powdery
snow. Cases occur sometimes in which, instead of burying the objects
with which they come in contact, they drive them into the valley, and
deposit them at a considerable distance from their original position. A
remarkable case of this kind occurred in 1806; an avalanche which fell
in the Val Calanca, transferred an entire forest to the other side of
the valley, and planted a fir-tree on the roof of the rector’s house!
An instance may be given of the effects of a powdery avalanche which
occurred in the Oberland, in the canton of Berne. It was on the 12th of
December 1808, about six o’clock, that the avalanche descended on the
village of Shärmatt, sweeping away three houses, and carrying one of
them fully three hundred yards, and some portions of it more than half
a mile. In one house two persons were smothered by the snow, and five
in the other. The third house contained six children and their uncle.
Some of the children were in bed, and the rest were sitting at a table
learning their catechism. All at once the light was put out, a thick
darkness surrounded them, they felt themselves enveloped in snow, and
whirled along they knew not whither. Presently a deep ditch stopped
the progress of the house. The uncle, soon recovering his presence of
mind, began to grope about the snow for the children. After a long
search, he found them—all alive, and not seriously injured. He took
them to a barn near by, where they were obliged to spend the remainder
of the night, some of them almost naked, though the cold was intense.
The father of the children was engaged with his cows at a shed at some
distance, and was horror-struck, when he returned to where his house
had stood, to find it gone—swallowed up, as he supposed, with the whole
of his family. But his fears were soon exchanged for joy; and the sight
of the meeting of the father and his children and brother affected the
roughest of the bystanders to tears.
On the same evening, a second avalanche fell, and was fatal to the
inhabitants of another house. The only living thing which survived was
a little dog which had taken refuge in the cellar. As soon as the ruins
of the house were removed, he jumped out of his hiding-place, barking
at the workmen.
In this case was an instance of the hurricane produced by the agitation
of the air by means of the descending cloud of powdery snow. Several
cattle-houses, with the cattle, were torn from the ground and driven
like chaff before the wind. There was also another instance of the
wonderful power of the hurricane in the case of a barn full of hay,
which was carried more than a quarter of a mile, and deposited on the
opposite side of the river in its right position, with its contents
uninjured!
It has sometimes happened that the snow has not fallen to a sufficient
thickness to crush the houses, in which event the inmates have more
chance of being saved, as the porous character of the powdered snow
allows of sufficient air to sustain respiration. This was the case
when, in 1749, the entire village of Tauetsch, in the Grisons, was
one night overwhelmed by a powdery avalanche, which descended so
noiselessly that the inhabitants were not aware of the calamity, and
wondered in the morning why the day did not break. One hundred persons
were covered in by the snow in their houses, sixty of whom were got out
unhurt.
But perhaps the most remarkable instance of imprisonment in the snow
of a descending avalanche occurred in the hamlet of Bergoletto, in the
valley of the Upper Stura, at the foot of the Alps, near the fortress
of Demonte, in Piedmont. Three persons survived an incarceration of
five weeks. It was in the winter of 1755, when the falls of snow had
been so very heavy that there was danger that its weight would break
through the roofs of the houses. On the 19th of March, therefore, some
of the people tried to avoid the danger by removing the snow from
their house-tops. Among those so engaged were a man named Roccia,
and his son, a lad of fifteen. The village clergyman was at this
time leaving his house for his church, when he saw two avalanches
descending. Calling to Roccia and his son, he returned speedily to his
own dwelling. Father and son instantly fled towards the church. They
had not run more than forty yards when the lad fell close behind his
father, who, turning round to assist his son, was seized with horror on
seeing that his own house and the houses of his neighbours were buried
beneath an enormous pile of snow. His earthly all was swallowed up—his
wife, his sister, his children, gone! The shock overcame him, and he
fainted. His son soon recovered himself, and helped his father to the
house of a friend; but he was five days before he was sufficiently
restored to make any exertions in seeking his lost ones. Thirty houses
were destroyed, and twenty-two persons were missing, among them the
clergyman who gave the alarm. The snow lay over the village to a depth
of more than forty feet, and extended its destruction some ninety yards
in length by twenty broad.
The news of the disaster brought more than three hundred men from the
neighbouring valleys. With iron rods, they sought to discover where
the houses were; and then they commenced digging vigorously; but the
depth of snow was so great (another heavy fall coming on) that they
could make little or no progress, and were compelled to desist, after
toiling for several days. No hope could they entertain of any one being
preserved alive; and as the warm winds were expected to set in in less
than a month, they resolved to wait until the mass should be partly
melted.