I.

Standing at right angles between North Crabb and South Crabb, and from

two to three miles distant, was a place called Islip. A large village

or small town, as you might please to regard it; and which has not a

railroad as yet.

Years and years before my days, one Thomas Chandler, who had served his

articles to a lawyer in Worcester, set up in practice for himself at

Islip. At the same time another lawyer, one John Paul, also set up at

Islip. The two had no wish to rival one another; but each had made his

arrangements, and neither of them would give way. Islip felt itself

suddenly elevated to pride, now that it could boast of two established

lawyers, when until then it had not possessed one, but concluded that

both of them would come to grief in less than a twelve-month. At the

twelve-month's end, however, each was bearing steadily onwards, and had

procured one or two valuable land agencies; in addition to the legal

practice, which, as yet, was not much. So they kept themselves afloat:

and if they had sometimes to eat bread-and-cheese for dinner, it was

nothing to Islip.

In the second or third year, Mr. Chandler took his brother Jacob, who

had qualified for a solicitor, into the office; and subsequently made

him a partner, giving him a full half share. Islip thought it was an

extravagantly generous thing of Mr. Chandler to do, and told him he had

better be careful. And, after that, the years went on, and the Chandlers

flourished. The business, what with the land agencies and other things,

increased so much that it required better offices: and so Mr. Chandler,

who had always lived on the premises, moved into a larger and a

handsomer house some doors further up the street. Jacob Chandler had a

pretty little place called North Villa, just outside Crabb, and walked

to and fro night and morning. Both were married and had children. Their

only sister, Mary Ann Chandler, had married a farmer in Gloucestershire,

Stephen Cramp. Upon his death, a year or two afterwards, she came back

and settled herself in a small farm near Islip, where she hoped to get

along, having been left but poorly off. And that is enough by way of

explanation.

I was only a little shaver, but I remember the commotion well. We were

staying for the autumn at Crabb Cot; and, one afternoon, I, with Tod and

the Squire, found myself on the Islip Road. I suppose we were going for

a walk; perhaps to Islip; but I know nothing about that. All in a moment

we saw a gig coming along at a frightful pace. The horse had run away.

"Here, you boys, get out of harm's way!" cried the Squire, and bundled

us over the fence into the field. "Bless my heart and mind, it is

Chandler!" he added, as the gig drew nearer. "Chandler and his brother!"

Mr. Chandler was driving: we could see that as the gig flew past. He was

a tall, strong man; and, perched up on the driving-cushion, looked like

a giant compared with Jacob, who seemed no bigger than a shrimp beside

him. Mr. Chandler's face wore its usual healthy colour, and he appeared

to retain all his presence of mind. Jacob sat holding on to the

driving-cushion with his right hand and to the gig-wing with the left,

and was just as white as a sheet.

"Dear me, dear me, I hope and trust there will be no accident!" groaned

the Squire. "I hope Chandler will be able to hold in the horse!"

He set off back to North Crabb at nearly as fleet a pace as the horse,

Tod after him, and I as fast as my small legs would take me. At the

first turning we saw what had happened, for there was a group lying in

the road, and people from the village were running up to it.

The horse had dashed at the bank, and turned them over. He was not hurt,

the wretched animal. Jacob stood shivering in the highway, quitte pour

la peur, as the French say; Mr. Chandler lay in a heap.

Jacob's house was within a stone's-throw, and they carried Mr. Chandler

to it on a hurdle, and sent for Cole. The Squire went in with the rest;

Tod and I sat on the opposite stile and waited. And if I am able to tell

you what passed within the doors, it is owing to the Squire's having

been there and staying to the end. No need was there for Cole to tell

Thomas Chandler that the end was at hand: he knew it himself. There

remained no hope for him: no hope. Some complicated injury had been

done him inwardly, through that fiend of a horse trampling on him; and

neither Cole nor all the doctors in the world could save him.

He was carried into one of the parlours and laid upon a mattress,

hastily placed upon the carpet. Somebody got another gig and drove

fiercely off to fetch his wife and son from Islip. He had two sons only,

Thomas and George. Thomas, sixteen years old now, was in the office,

articled to his father; George was at school, too far off to be sent

for. Mrs. Chandler was soon with him. She had been a farmer's daughter,

and was a meek, patient kind of a woman, who gave you the idea of never

having a will of her own. The office clerks went posting about Islip to

find Tom; he having been out when the gig and messenger arrived.

It chanced that Jacob Chandler's wife had gone abroad that day, taking

her daughters; so the house was empty, save for the two maid-servants.

The afternoon wore on. Cole had done what he could (which was nothing),

and was now waiting in the other parlour with the clergyman; who had

also done all that was left to do. The Squire stayed in the room;

Chandler seemed to wish it; they had always liked one another. Mrs.

Chandler knelt by the mattress, holding the dying hand: Jacob stood

leaning against the book-case with folded arms and looking the very

picture of misery: the Squire sat on the other side, nursing his knees.

"There's no time to alter my will, Betsy," panted poor Chandler, who

could only speak by snatches: "and I don't know that I should alter

it if I had the time. It was made when the two lads were little ones.

Everything is left to you without reserve. I know I can trust you to

do a mother's part by them."

"Always," responded Mrs. Chandler meekly, the silent tears rolling down

her cheeks.

"You will have enough for comfort. Thoughts have crossed me at times of

making a fortune for you and the lads: I was working on and laying by

for it. How little we can foresee the future! God alone knows what that

will be, and shapes it out. Not a day, not a day can we call our own: I

see it now. With your own little income, and the interest of what I have

been able to put by, you can live. There will also be money paid to you

yearly from the practice----"

He was stopped by want of breath. Could not go on.

"Do not trouble yourself to think of these things," she said, catching

up a sob, for she did not want to give way before him. "We shall have

quite plenty. As much as I wish for."

"And when Tom is out of his articles he will take my place, you know,

and will be well provided for and help you," said Mr. Chandler, taking

up the word again. "And George you must both of you see to. If he has

set his heart upon being a farmer instead of a clergyman, as I wished,

why, let him be one. 'If you are a clergyman, Georgy, you will always

be regarded as a gentleman,' I said to him the other day when he was

at home, telling me he wanted to be a farmer. But now that I am going,

Betsy, I see how valueless these distinctions are. Provided a man

does his duty in the world and fears God, it hardly matters what his

occupation in it is. It is for so short a time. Why, it seems only the

other day that I was a boy, and now my few poor years are over, and I

am going into the never-ending ages of immortality!"

"It shall all be as you wish, Thomas," she whispered.

"Ay," he answered. "Jacob, come here."

Jacob let his arms drop, and left the book-case to stand close over his

brother. Mr. Chandler lifted his right hand, and Jacob stooped and took

it.

"When we drew up our articles of partnership, Jacob, a clause was

inserted, that upon the death of either of us, the survivor should pay

a hundred and fifty pounds a-year out of the practice to those the other

should leave behind him, provided the business could afford it. You

remember that?"

"Yes," said Jacob. "I wish it had been me to go instead of you, Thomas."

"The business will afford it well, as you know, and more than afford it:

you might well double it, Jacob. But I suppose you will have to take an

additional clerk in my place, some efficient man, and he must be paid.

So we will let it be at the hundred and fifty, Jacob. Pay that sum to my

wife regularly."

"To be sure I will," said Jacob.

"And when Tom shall be of age he must take my place, you know, and draw

his full half share. _That_ was always an understood thing between you

and me, Jacob, if I were taken. Your own son will, I suppose, be coming

in shortly: so that in later years, when you shall have followed me to

a better world, the old firm will be perpetuated in them--Chandler and

Chandler. Tom and Valentine will divide the profits equally, as we have

divided them."

"To be sure," said Jacob.

"Yes, yes; my mind is at rest on the score of worldly things. I would

that all dying men could be as much at ease. God bless and prosper you,

Jacob! You'll give a fatherly eye over Tom and George in my place, and

lead them in straightforward paths."

"That I will," said Jacob. "I wish with all my heart this dreadful day's

work had never happened!"

"And so will I too," put in the Squire. "I'll look a bit after your two

boys myself, Chandler."

Mr. Chandler, drawing his hand from his brother, held it towards the

Squire. At that moment, a suppressed stir was heard outside, and an

eager voice. Tom had arrived: having run all the way from Islip.

"Where's papa?--where's he lying? Is he hurt very much?"

Cole appeared, marshalling him in. A well-grown young fellow for

sixteen, with dark eyes, a fresh colour, and a good-natured face;

altogether, the image of his father. Cole took a look down at the

mattress, and saw how very much nearer something was at hand than it

had been only a few minutes before.

"Hush, Tom," he said, hastily pouring some drops into half a wine-glass

of water. "Gently, lad. Let me give him this."

Poor Tom Chandler, aghast at what he beheld, was too frightened to

speak. A sudden stillness fell upon him, and he knelt down by the side

of his mother. Cole's drops did no good. There could be only a few last

words.

"I never thought it would end thus--that I should not have time granted

me for even a last farewell," spoke the dying man in a faint voice and

with a gasp between every word, as he took Tom's hand. "Tom, my boy, I

cannot say to you what I would."

Tom gave a great burst as though he were choking, and was still the next

minute.

"Do your duty, my boy, before God and man with all the best strength

that Heaven gives you. You must some time lie as I am lying, Tom; it may

be with as little warning of it as I have had: at the best, this life

will last such a little while as compared with life eternal. Fear God;

find your Saviour; love and serve your fellow-creatures. Make up your

accounts with your conscience morning and evening. And--Tom----"

"Yes, father; yes, father?" spoke poor Tom, entreatingly, as the voice

died away, and he was afraid that the last words were dying away too and

would never be spoken.

"Take care of your mother and be dutiful to her. And do you and George

be loving brothers to each other always: tell him I enjoined it with my

closing breath. Poor George! if I could but see him! And--and--and----"

"Yes, oh yes, I will; I will indeed! What else, father?"

But there was nothing else. Just two or three faint words as death came

in, and a final gasp to close them.

"God be with you ever, Tom!"

That was all. And the only other thing I recollect was seeing the

sister, Mrs. Cramp, come up in a yellow chaise from the Bell at Islip,

and pass into the house, as we sat on the gate. But she was just too

late.

You may be sure that the affair caused a commotion. So grave a calamity

had never happened at North Crabb. Mr. Chandler and his brother had

started from Islip in their gig to look at some land that was going

to be valued, which lay a mile or two on the other side Crabb on the

Worcester Road. They had driven the horse a twelvemonth and never had

any trouble with him. It was supposed that something must have been

wrong with the harness. Any way, he had started, kicked, backed, and

finally run away.

I saw the funeral: standing with Tod in the churchyard amidst many

other spectators, and reading the inscriptions on the grave-stones

while we waited. Mr. Chandler had been taken back to his house at

Islip, and was brought from thence to Crabb to be buried. Tom and

George Chandler came in the first mourning-coach with their Uncle

Jacob and his son Valentine. In the next sat two other relatives,

with the Squire and Mr. Cole.

Changes followed. Mrs. Chandler left the house at Islip, and Jacob

Chandler and his family moved into it. She took a pretty cottage at

North Crabb, and Tom walked to the office of a morning and home again

at night. Valentine, Jacob's only son, was removed from school at once

to be articled to his father. He was fifteen, just a year younger

than Tom.

Years passed on. Tom grew to be four-and-twenty, Valentine

three-and-twenty. Both of them were good-looking young men, tall and

straight; but Tom had the pleasanter face, address, and manners. Every

one liked him. Crabb had thought when Tom attained his majority, and got

his certificate as a solicitor, that his uncle would have taken him into

partnership. The Squire had said it publicly. Instead of that, old Jacob

gave him a hundred a-year salary to start with, and said to him, "Now

we shall go on comfortably, Tom." Tom, who was anything but exacting,

supposed his uncle wished him to add a year or two to his age and some

more experience, before taking him in. So he thanked old Jacob for the

hundred a-year, and was contented.

George Chandler had emigrated to Canada. Which rather gave his mother

a turn. Some people they knew had gone out there, purchased land, and

were doing well on it; and George resolved to follow them. George had

been placed with a good farmer in Gloucestershire and learnt farming

thoroughly. That accomplished, he began to talk to his mother about

his prospects. What he would have liked was, to take a farm on his own

account. But he had no money to stock it, and his mother had none to

give him. Her income, including the hundred and fifty paid to her from

the business, was about four hundred pounds, all told: home living

and her sons' expenses had taken it all, leaving no surplus. "There's

nothing for me but going to Canada, mother," said George: "I don't see

any opening for me in England. I shall be sure to get on, over there. I

am healthy and steady and industrious; and those are the qualities that

make way in a new country. If the worst comes to the worst, and I do not

succeed, I can but come back again." His arguments prevailed at length,

and he sailed for Canada, their friends over there promising to receive

and help him.

All this while Jacob Chandler had flourished. His practice had gradually

increased, and he had become a great man. Great in show and expense. It

was not his fault; it was that of his family: of his own will, he would

never have put a foot forward out of his plain old groove. Mrs. Jacob

Chandler, empty-headed, vain, and pretty, had but two thoughts in the

world: the one to make her way amidst fashionable people, the other to

marry her daughters well. Originally a small tradesman's daughter in

Birmingham, she was now ridiculously upstart, and put on more airs and

graces in an hour than a lady born and bred would in a lifetime. Mrs.

Jacob Chandler's people had sold brushes and brooms, soaps and pickles:

she had occasionally stood behind the counter and served out the soap

with her own hands; and Mrs. Jacob now looked down upon Birmingham

itself and every one in it.

North Villa had not been given up, though they did move to Islip. Jacob

Chandler held a long lease of it, and he sub-let it for three or four

years. At the end of that period it occurred to Mrs. Jacob that she

should like to keep it for herself, as a sort of country house to retire

to at will. As she was the grey mare, this was done; though Jacob

grumbled. So North Villa was furbished up, and some new furniture put

into it; and the garden, a very nice one, improved: and Mrs. Jacob, with

one or other or all three of her daughters, might be frequently seen

driving her pony-carriage with its handsome ponies between North Villa

and Islip, streamers flying, ribbons fluttering: you would have taken it

for a rainbow coming along. The girls were not bad-looking, played and

sang with open windows loud enough to frighten the passers-by, and

were given to speak to one another in French at table. "Voulez-vouz

donner-moi la sel, Clementina?" "Voulez-vous passer-moi le moutarde,

Georgiana?" "Voulez-vous envoyer-moi les poivre, Julietta?" For, as Mrs.

Jacob would have told you, they had learnt French at school; and to

converse in it was of course only natural to themselves, and most

instructive to any visitor who might chance to be present. Added to

these advantages Mrs. and the Miss Chandlers adored dress, their

out-of-door toilettes being grander than a queen's.

All this: the two houses and the company received in them; the ponies

and the groom; the milliners' bills and the dress-makers', made a hole

in Jacob Chandler's purse. Not too much of a hole in one sense of the

word; Jacob took care of that: but it prevented him from putting by all

the money he wished. He made plenty of it: more than the world supposed.

In this manner matters had gone on since the departure of George

Chandler for Canada. Mrs. Chandler living quietly in her home making

it a happy one for her son Tom, and treasuring George's letters from

over the sea: Mrs. Jacob Chandler and her daughters keeping the place

alive; Valentine getting to be a very fine gentleman indeed; old Jacob

sticking to business and pocketing his gains. The first interruption

came in the shape of a misfortune for Mrs. Chandler. She lost a

good portion of her money through a calamity that you have heard of

before--the bursting-up of Clement Pell. It left her with very little,

save the hundred and fifty pounds a-year paid to her regularly by

Jacob. Added to this was the hundred a-year Tom earned, and which his

uncle had not increased. And this brings us down to the present time,

when Tom was four-and-twenty.

Jacob Chandler sat one morning in his own room at his office, when a

clerk came in and said Mrs. Chandler from Crabb was asking to see him.

Cordiality had always subsisted between the two families, though they

were not much together; Mrs. Chandler disliking their show; Mrs. Jacob

and her daughters intensely despising one who wore black silk for best,

and generally made her puddings with her own fingers. "So low-lived, you

know, my dears," Mrs. Jacob would say, with a toss of her bedecked head.

Jacob heard his clerk's announcement with annoyance; the lines on his

brow grew deeper. He had always been a shrimp of a man, but he looked

like a shrivelled one now. His black clothes sat loosely upon him; his

white neckcloth, for he dressed like a parson, seemed too large for his

thin neck.

"Mrs. Chandler can come in," said he, after a few moments' hesitation.

"But say I am busy."

She came in, putting back her veil: she had worn a plain-shaped bonnet

with a white border ever since her husband died. It suited her meek,

kind, and somewhat homely face, on which the brown hair, streaked with

grey, was banded.

"Jacob, I am sorry to disturb you, especially as you are busy; but I

have wanted to speak to you for some time now and have not liked to

come," she began, taking the chair that stood near the table at which

he sat. "It is about Tom."

"What about him?" asked Jacob. "Has he been up to any mischief?"

"Mischief! Tom! Why, Jacob, I hardly think there can be such another

young man as he, for steadiness and good conduct; and, I may say, for

kindness. I have never heard anything against him. What I want to ask

you is, when you think of making a change?"

"A change?" echoed Jacob, as if the words puzzled him, biting away at

the feather of his pen. "A change?"

"Is it not time that he should be taken into the business? I--I

thought--and Tom I know also thought, Jacob--that you would have done

it when he was twenty-one."

"Oh, did you?" returned Jacob, civilly.

"He is twenty-four, you know, now, Jacob, and naturally wishes to

get forward in life. I am anxious that he should; and I think it is

time--forgive me for saying it, Jacob--that something was settled."

"I was thinking of raising Tom's salary," coolly observed Jacob; "of

giving him, say, fifty pounds a-year more. Valentine has been bothering

me to do the same by him; so I suppose I must."

The fixed colour on Mrs. Chandler's thin cheeks grew a shade deeper.

"But, Jacob, it was his father's wish, you know, that he should be taken

into partnership, should succeed to his own share of the business; and

I thought you would have arranged it ere this. An increase of salary is

not the thing at all: it is not that that is in question."

"Nothing can be so bad for a young man as to make him his own master too

early," cried Jacob. "I've known it ruin many a one."

"You promised my husband when he was dying that it should be so," she

gently urged. "Besides, it is Tom's right. I understood that when he

was of a proper age, he was to come in, in accordance with a previous

arrangement made between you and poor Thomas."

Jacob bit the end of the pen right off and nearly swallowed it. "Thomas

left all things in my hands," said he, coughing and choking. "Tom must

acquire some further experience yet."

"When do you propose settling it, then? How long will it be first?"

"Well, that depends, you know. I shall see."

"Will it be in another year? Tom will be five-and-twenty then."

"Ay, he will: and Val four-and-twenty. How time flies! It seems but the

other day that they were in jackets and trousers."

"But will it be then--in another year? You have not answered me, Jacob."

"And I can't answer you," returned Jacob. "How can I? Don't you

understand me when I say I must wait and see?"

"You surely will do what is right, Jacob?"

"Well now, can you doubt it, Betsy? Of course I shall. When did you hear

from George?"

Mrs. Chandler rose, obliged to be satisfied. To urgently press any

interest of her own was not in her nature. As she shook hands with Jacob

she was struck with the sickly appearance of his face.

"Are you feeling quite well, Jacob? You look but poorly."

"I have felt anything but well for a long time," he replied, in a

fretful tone. "I don't know what ails me: too much work, perhaps, but

I seem to have strength for nothing."

"You should give yourself a rest, Jacob, and take some bark."

"Ay. Good-day."

Now it came to pass that in turning out of the house, after nodding to

Tom and Valentine, who sat at a desk side by side in the room to the

left, the door of which stood open, Mrs. Chandler saw the Squire on the

opposite side of the street, and crossed over to him. He asked her in

a joking way whether she had been in to get six and eightpenceworth

of law. She told him what she had been in for, seeing no reason for

concealing it.

"Bless me, yes!" cried he, in his impulsive way. "I'm sure it's quite

time Tom was in the firm. I'll go and talk to Jacob."

And when he got in--making straight across the street with the words,

and through the passage, and so to the room without halt or ceremony--he

saw Jacob leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust into his black

side-pockets, and his head bent on his chest in deep thought. The Squire

noticed how deep the lines in his brow had grown, just as Mrs. Chandler

had.

"But you know, Jacob Chandler, that it was an agreement with the dead,"

urged the Squire, in his eagerness, after listening to some plausible

(and shuffling) remarks from Jacob.

"An agreement with the dead!" repeated Jacob, looking up at the Squire

for explanation. They were both standing on the matting near the fender:

which was filled with an untidy mass of torn and twisted scraps of

paper. "What do you mean, Squire? I never knew before that the dead

could make an agreement."

"You know what I mean," cried the Squire, hotly. "Poor Thomas was close

upon death at the time you and he had the conversation: he wanted but

two or three minutes of it."

"Oh, ah, yes; that's true enough, so far as it goes, Squire," replied

Jacob, pulling up his white cravat as if his throat felt cold.

"Well," argued the Squire. "Did not you and he agree that Tom was to

come in when he was twenty-one? Both of you seemed to imply that there

existed a previous understanding to that effect."

"There never was a word said about his coming in when he was

twenty-one," contended Jacob.

"Why, bless my heart and mind, do you suppose my ears were shut, Jacob

Chandler?" retorted the Squire, beginning to rub his head with his red

silk handkerchief. "I heard the words."

"No, Squire. Think a bit."

Jacob spoke so calmly that the Squire began to rub up his memory as well

as his head. He had no cause to suppose Jacob Chandler to be other than

an honourable man.

"'When Tom shall be of age, he must take my place:' those were I think

the very words," repeated the Squire. "I can see your poor brother's

face now as he lay down on the floor and spoke them. It had death in

it."

"Yes, it had death in it," acquiesced Jacob, in a tone of discomfort.

"What he said was this, Squire: 'When Tom shall be of an age.' Meaning

of course a suitable age to justify the step."

"I don't think so: I did not hear it so," persisted the Squire. "There

was no 'an' in it. 'When Tom shall be of age:' that was it. Meaning

when he should be twenty-one."

"Oh dear, no; quite a mistake. You can't think my ears would deceive me

at such a time as that, Mr. Todhetley. And about our own business too."

"Well, you ought to know best, of course, though my impression is that

you are wrong," conceded the Squire. "Put it that it was as you say:

don't you think Tom Chandler is now quite old enough for it to be acted

upon?"

"No, I don't," replied Jacob. "As I have just told his mother, nothing

can be more pernicious for a young man than to be made his own master

too early. Nine young fellows out of every ten would get ruined by it."

"Do you think so?" asked the Squire, dubiously.

"I am sure so, Squire. Tom Chandler is steady now, for aught I know to

the contrary; but just let him get the reins into his hands, and you'd

see what it would be. That is, what it might be. And I am not going to

risk it."

"He is as steady-going a young man as any one could wish for; diligent,

straightforward. Not at all given to spending money improperly."

"Because he has not had it to spend. I have known many a young blade to

be quiet and cautious while his pockets were empty; and as soon as they

were filled, perhaps all at once, he has gone headlong to rack and ruin.

How do we know that it would not be the case with Tom?"

"Well, I--I don't think it would be," said the Squire, with hesitation,

for he was coming round to Jacob's line of argument.

"But I can't act upon 'thinking,' Squire; I must be sure. Tom will just

stay on with me at present as he is; so there's an end of it. His salary

is going to be raised: and I--I consider that he is very well off."

"Well, perhaps he'll be none the worse for a little longer spell

of clerkship," repeated the Squire, coming wholly round. "And now

good-morning. I'm rather in a hurry to-day, but I thought it right to

put in a word for Tom's sake, as I was present when poor Thomas died."

"Good-morning, Mr. Todhetley," answered Jacob, as he sat down to his

desk again.

But he did not get to work. He bent his head on his neckcloth as before,

and set on to think. What had just passed did not please him at all: for

Jacob Chandler was not devoid of conscience; though it was an elastic

one, and he was in the habit of deadening it at will. It was not his

intention to take his nephew into partnership at all; then or later.

Almost ever since the day of his brother's funeral he had looked at

matters after his own fashion, and soon grew to think that Tom had no

manner of right to a share in the business; that as Thomas was dead and

gone, it was all his, and ought to be all his. He and Thomas had shared

it between them: therefore it was only just and proper that he, the

survivor, should take it. That's how Jacob Chandler, who was the essence

of covetousness, had been reasoning, and his mind was made up.

It was therefore very unpleasant to be pounced upon in this way by two

people in one morning. Their application as regarded Tom himself would

not have troubled him: he knew how to put disputants off civilly, saying

neither yes nor no, and promising nothing: but what annoyed him was the

reminiscence they had called up of his dying brother. Jacob intended to

get safely into the world above, some day, by hook or by crook; he went

to church regularly, and considered himself a model of good behaviour.

But these troublesome visitors had somehow contrived to put before

his conscience the fact that he might be committing a lifelong act

of injustice on Tom; and that, to do so, was not the readiest way of

getting to heaven. Was that twelve o'clock? How the morning had passed!

"Uncle Jacob, I am going over to Brooklands about that lease. Have you

any particular instructions to give me?"

It was Tom himself who had entered. A tall, good-looking, fresh-coloured

young man, who had honesty and kindliness written on every line of his

open face.

Jacob lifted his bent head, and drew his chair nearer his table as if he

meant to set to work in earnest. But his mouth took a cross look.

"Who told _you_ to go? I said Valentine was to go."

"Valentine has stepped out. He asked me to go for him."

"Where has he stepped to?"

"He did not say," replied Tom, evasively. For he knew quite well where

Valentine was gone: to the Bell inn over the way. Valentine went to the

Bell a little too much, and was a little too fond of the Bell's good

liquor.

"I suppose you can go, then. No, I have no instructions: you know what

to say as well as I do. We don't give way a jot, mind. Oh, and--Tom!"

added Jacob, calling him back as he went out.

"Yes, sir."

"I am intending to raise your salary. From the beginning of next month,

you will have a hundred and fifty a-year."

"Oh, thank you, Uncle Jacob."

Tom spoke as he in his ready good-nature felt--brightly and gratefully.

Nevertheless, a shade of disappointment did cross his mind, for he

thought his position in the house ought to be a different one.

"And I am _sure_ it is quite as much as I ought to do for him," argued

Jacob with his conscience. And he put away unpleasant prickings and set

to work like a house on fire.

It was one o'clock when Valentine came in. He had an excuse ready for

his father: the latter, turning out of the clerks' room, chanced to see

him enter. "He had been down to Tyler's to see if he could get that

money from them." It was an untruth, for he had stayed all the while at

the Bell; and his father noticed that his face was uncommonly flushed.

Old Jacob had had his suspicions before; yes, and spoken of them to

Valentine: he now motioned him to go before him into the private room.

"You have been drinking, sir!"

"I!--good gracious, no," returned Valentine, boldly, his blue eyes

fearlessly meeting his father's. "What fancies you do pick up!"

"Valentine, when I was your age I never drank a drop of anything till

night, and then it was only a glass of beer with my supper. It seems to

me that young men of the present day think they can drink at all hours

with impunity."

"I don't drink, father."

"Very well. Take care you do not. It is a habit more easily acquired

than left off. Look here: I am going to give you fifty pounds a-year

more. Mind you _make it do_: and do not spend it in waste."

It was not very long after this that Jacob Chandler had a shock: a few

months, or so. During that time he had been growing thinner and weaker,

and looked so shrivelled up that there seemed to be nothing left of

him. Islip, small place though it was, had a market-day--Friday;--when

farmers would drive or walk in and congregate at the Bell. One

afternoon, just as the ordinary was over, Jacob went to the inn, as was

his general custom: he had always some business or other to transact

with the farmers; or, if not, something to say. His visit to them over,

he said good-day and left: but the next minute he turned back, having

forgotten something. Some words fell on his ear as he opened the door.

"Ay. He is not long for this world."

They were spoken by old Farmer Blake--a big, burly, kind-hearted man.

And Jacob Chandler felt as certain that they were meant to apply to

himself as though his name had been mentioned. He went into a cold

shiver, and shut the door again without entering.

Was it true, he asked himself, as he walked across the street to his

office: was it indeed a fact that he was slowly dying? A great fear fell

upon him: a dread of death. What, leave all this beautiful sunshine,

this bright world in which he was so busy, and pass into the cold dark

grave! Jacob turned sick at the thought.

It was true that he had long been ailing; but not with any specific

ailment. He could not deny that he was now more like a shadow than a

man, or that every day seemed to bring him less of strength. Passing

into his dining-parlour instead of into his private business room, he

drank two glasses of wine off at once, and it seemed to revive him. He

was a very abstemious man in general.

Well, if Farmer Blake did say it--stupid old idiot!--it was not obliged

to be true, reflected Jacob then. People judged by his spareness: he

wished he could get a little fatter. And so he reasoned and persuaded

himself out of his fears, and grew sufficiently reassured to transact

his business, always pressing on a Friday.

But that same evening, Jacob Chandler drove to North Villa in his gig,

telling his wife he should sleep there for a week or two, for the sake

of the fresh air. And the next morning, before he went to Islip, he sent

for the doctor--Cole.

"People are saying you won't live!" repeated Cole, having listened to

Jacob's confidential communication. "I don't see why you should not

live. Let's examine you a bit. You should not take up fancies."

Cole could find nothing particular the matter with him. He recommended

him rest from business, change of air, and a generous diet. "Try it for

a month," said he.

"I can't try it--except the diet," returned Jacob. "It's all very well

for you to talk about rest from business, Cole, but how am I to take

rest? My business could not get on without me. Business is a pleasure to

me; it's not a pain."

"You want rest from it all the same," said Cole. "You have stuck closely

to it this many a year."

"My mother died without apparent cause," said Jacob, dreamily. "She

seemed just to drift out of life. About my age, too."

"That's no reason why you should," argued Cole.

Well, they went on, talking at one another; but nothing came of it. And

Cole left, saying he would send him in some tonics to take.

By the evening it was known all over the place that Jacob Chandler was

ill and had sent for Cole. People talked of it the next morning as they

went to church. Jacob appeared, looking much as usual, and sat down in

his pew. The next to come in was Mrs. Cramp; who walked over to our

church sometimes. She stayed to dine with the Lexoms, and went to call

at North Villa after dinner; finding Mrs. Jacob and the rest of them at

dessert with a guest or two. Jacob was somewhere in the garden.

Mrs. Cramp found him in the latticed arbour, and sat down opposite to

him, taking up her brown shot-silk gown, lest the seat should be dusty.

When she told him it was the hearing of his illness which had brought

her over to Crabb, he turned cross. He was not ill, he said; only a

trifle out of sorts, as every one else must be at times and seasons. By

dint of questioning, Mrs. Cramp, who was a stout, comely woman, fond of

having her own way, got out of him all Cole had said.

"And Cole is right, Jacob: it is rest and change you want," she

remarked. "You are sure you do not need it? don't tell me. A stitch in

times saves nine, remember."

"You know nothing about it, Mary Ann."

"I know that you look thinner and thinner every time I see you. Be wise

in time, brother."

"Cole told me to go away to the seaside for a month. Why, what should I

do, mooning for a whole month in a strange place by myself? I should be

like a fish out of water."

"Take your wife and the girls."

"I dare say! They would only worry me with their fine doings. And look

at the expense."

"I will go with you if you like, Jacob, rather than you should go alone,

though it would be an inconvenience to me. And pay my own expenses."

"Mary Ann, I am not going at all; or thinking of it. It would be

impossible for me to leave my business."

Mrs. Cramp, turning over matters in her mind, determined to put the case

plainly before him, and did so; telling him that it would be better to

leave his business for a temporary period now, than to find shortly that

he must leave it for ever. Jacob sat gazing out straight before him

at the Malvern Hills, the chain of which lay against the sky in the

distance.

"If you took my advice, brother, you would retire from business

altogether. You have made enough to live without it, I suppose----"

"But I have not made enough," he interrupted.

"Then you ought to have made it, Jacob."

"Oughts don't go for much."

"What I mean is, that you ought to have made it, judging by the style in

which you live. Two houses, a carriage and ponies (besides your gig),

expensive dress, parties: all that should never be gone into, brother,

unless the _realized_ income justifies it."

"It is the style we live in that has not let me put by, Mary Ann. I

don't tell you I have put nothing by: I have put a little by year by

year; but it is not enough to live upon."

"Then make arrangements for half the proceeds of the business to be

given over to you. Let the two boys take to it, and----"

"_Who?_" cried Jacob.

"The two boys, Tom and Valentine. It will be theirs some time, you know,

Jacob: let them have it at once. Tom's name must be first, as it ought

to be. Valentine----"

"I have no intention of doing anything of the kind," interposed Jacob,

sharply. "I shall keep the business in my own hands as long as I live.

Perhaps I may take Valentine into it: not Tom."

Mrs. Cramp sat for a full minute staring at Jacob, her stout hands,

from which the gloves had been taken, and her white lace ruffles lying

composedly on her brown gown.

"Not take Tom into the business!" she repeated, in a slow, astonished

tone. "Why, Jacob, what do you mean?"

"_That_," said Jacob. "Tom will stay on at a good salary: I shall

increase it, I dare say, every two years, or so; but he will not come

into the firm."

"You can't mean what you say."

"I have meant it this many a year past, Mary Ann. I have never intended

to take him in."

"Jacob, beware! No luck ever comes of fraud."

"Of what? _Fraud?_"

"Yes; I say fraud. If you deprive Tom of the place that is justly his,

it will be a cheat and a fraud, and nothing short of it."

"You have a queer way of looking at things, Mrs. Cramp. Who has kept the

practice together all these years, but me? and added to it little by

little, and made it worth double what it was; ay, and more than double?

It is right--_right_, mind you, Mary Ann--that my own son should succeed

to it."

"Who made the practice in the first place, and took you into it out of

brotherly affection, and made you a full partner without your paying a

farthing, and for seventeen or eighteen years was the chief prop and

stay of it?" retorted Mrs. Cramp. "Why, poor Thomas; your elder brother.

Who made him a promise when he was lying dying in that very parlour

where your wife and children are now sitting, that Tom should take his

proper place in the firm when he was of age, and his half-share with it,

according to agreement? Why you. You did, Jacob Chandler."

"That was all a mistake," said Jacob, shuffling his thin legs and

wrists.

"I will leave you," said Mrs. Cramp. "I don't care to discuss questions

while you are in this frame of mind. Is this all the benefit you got

from the parson's sermon this morning, and the text he gave out before

it? That text: think of it a bit, brother Jacob, and perhaps you'll see

your way to acting differently. Remember," she added, turning back to

him for the last word, which she always had, somehow, "that cheating

never prospers in the long run. It never does, Jacob; never: for where

it is crafty cheating, hidden away from the sight of man, it is seen

and noted by God."

Her brown skirts (all the shades of a copper tea-kettle) disappeared

round the corner by the mulberry-tree, leaving Jacob very angry and

uncomfortable. Angry with her, uncomfortable in himself. Do what he

would, he could not get that text out of his mind--and what right

had she to bring it cropping up to him in that inconvenient way, he

wondered, or to speak to him about such matters at all. The verse was

a beautiful verse in itself; he had always thought so: but it was not

pleasant to be tormented by it--and all through Mary Ann! There it was

haunting his memory again!

"Keep innocency, and take heed unto the thing that is right: for that

shall bring a man peace at the last."

* * * * *

Jacob Chandler grew to look a little fresher, though not stouter, as

the weeks went on: the drive, night and morning, seemed to do him good.

Meeting Cole one day, he told him he felt stronger, and did not see why

he should not live to be ninety. With all his heart, Cole answered, but

most people found seventy long enough.

All at once, without warning, a notice appeared in the local papers,

stating that Jacob Chandler had taken his son Valentine into

partnership. Mrs. Chandler read it as she sat at breakfast.

"What does it mean, Tom?" she asked.

"I don't know what it means, mother. We have heard nothing about it at

the office."

"Tom, you may depend your uncle Jacob _has done it_, and that he does

not intend to take you in at all," spoke Mrs. Chandler, in her strong

conviction. "I shall go to him."

She finished her breakfast and went off there and then, catching Jacob

just as he was turning out of the white gate at North Villa to mount his

gig: for he still came over to Crabb to sleep. The newspaper was in her

hand, and she pointed to the advertisement.

"What does it mean, Jacob?" she asked, just as she had a few minutes

before asked of Tom.

"Mean!" said Jacob. "It can't have more than one meaning, can it? I've

thought it best to let Val's name appear in the practice, and made over

to him a small share of the profits. Very small, Betsy. He won't draw

much more than he has been drawing as salary."

"But what of Tom?" questioned poor Mrs. Chandler.

"Of Tom? Well, what of him?"

"When is he to be taken in?"

"Oh, there's time enough for that. I can't make two moves at once; it

could not be expected of me, Betsy. My son is my son, and he had to come

in first."

"But--Jacob--don't you think you ought to carry out the agreement made

with Tom's father--that you are bound in honour?" debated Mrs. Chandler,

in her meek and non-insisting way.

"Time enough, Betsy. We shall see. And look there, my horse won't stand:

he's always fresh in the morning."

Shaking her hand hastily, he stepped up, took the reins from the man,

and was off in a trice, bowling along at a quicker pace than usual. The

poor woman, left standing there and feeling half-bewildered, saw Mrs.

Jacob at one of the open windows, and crossed the lawn to speak.

"I came up about this announcement," she said. "It is so strange a

thing; we can't understand it at all. Jacob should take Tom into

partnership. Especially now that he has taken Valentine."

"Do you think so?" drawled Mrs. Jacob; who wore a pink top-knot and

dirty morning wrapper, and minced her words more than usual, for she

thought the more she minced them the finer she was. "Dear me! I'm sure I

don't know anything about it. All well at home, I hope? I won't ask you

in, for I'm going to be busy. My daughters are invited to a garden-party

this afternoon, and I must give directions about the trimming of their

dresses. Good-morning."

Back went Mrs. Chandler, and found her son watching for her at the door,

waiting to hear what news she brought, before setting out on his usual

walk.

"Your uncle slips through it like an eel, Tom," she began. "I can make

nothing of him one way or another. He does not say he will not take you

in, but he does not say he will. What is to be done?"

"Nothing can be done that I know of, mother," replied Tom; "nothing at

all. Uncle Jacob holds the power in his own hands, you see. If it does

not please him to give me my lawful share, we cannot oblige him to do

it."

"But how unjust it will be if he does not!"

"Yes. _I_ think so. But, it seems to me there's little else but

injustice in the world," added Tom, with a light smile. "You would say

so if you were in a lawyer's office and had to dive into the cases

brought there. Good-bye, mother mine."

Pretty nearly a year went on after this, bringing no change. "Jacob

Chandler and Son, Solicitors, Conveyancers, and Land Agents," flourished

in gilt letters on the front-door at Islip, and Jacob Chandler and Son

flourished inside, in the matter of business. But never a move was made

to take in Tom. And when Jacob was asked about it, as he was once or

twice, he civilly shuffled the topic off.

But, before the year had well elapsed, Jacob was stricken down. To look

at him you would have said he had been growing thinner all that while,

only that it seemed impossible. This time it was for death. He had not

much grace given him, either: just a couple of days and a night.

He went to bed one night as well as usual, but the next morning did not

get up, saying he felt "queer," and sent for Cole. Jacob Chandler was

a rare coward in illness. That fining-down process he had been going

through so long had not troubled him: he thought it was only his natural

constitution: and when real illness set in his fears sprang up.

"You had better stay in bed to-day," said Cole. "I will send you a

draught to take."

"But what is it that's the matter with me?" asked Jacob.

"I don't know," said Cole.

"Is it ague? Or intermittent fever coming on? See how I am shaking."

"N--o," hesitated Cole, either in doubt, or else because he would not

say too much. "I'll look in again by-and-by."

Towards midday Jacob thought he'd get up, and see what that would do for

him. It seemed to do nothing, except make him worse; and he went to bed

again. Cole looked in three times during the day, but did not say what

he thought.

In the middle of the night a paroxysm of illness came on again, and a

servant ran to knock up the doctor. Jacob was shaking the very bed, and

seemed in awful fear.

And in the morning he appeared to know that he had not many hours to

live. Knew it by intuition, for Cole had not told him. An express

went flying to Worcester for Dr. Malden: but Cole knew--and told it

later--that all the physicians in the county could not save him.

And the state of mind that Jacob Chandler went into with the knowledge,

might have read many a careless man a lesson. It seemed to him that he

had a whole peck of suddenly-recollected sins on his head, and misdeeds

to be accounted for. He remembered Tom Chandler then.

"I have not done by him as I ought; it lies upon me with an awful

weight," he groaned. "Valentine, you must remedy the wrong. Take him in,

and give him his proper share. I should like to see Tom. Some one fetch

him."

Tom had to be fetched from Islip. He came at once, his long legs

skimming over the ground quickly; and he entered the sick-chamber with

the cordial smile on his open face, and took his uncle's hand.

"It shall all be remedied, Tom; all the injustice; and you shall have

your due rights. I see now how unjust it was: I don't know what God's

thinking of me for it. I wanted to make a good provision for my old age,

you see; to be able to live at ease; and now there is no old age for me:

God is taking me before it has come on."

"Don't distress yourself, Uncle Jacob; it will be all right. And I'm

sure I have not thought much about it."

"But others have," groaned Jacob. "Your mother; and Mary Ann; and--and

Squire Todhetley. They have all been on at me at times. But I shut my

ears. Oh dear! I wish God would let me live a few years over again! I'd

try and be different. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"

And that was how he kept on the best part of the day. Then he called out

that he wanted his will altered. Valentine brought in pen and ink, but

his father motioned him away and said it must be done by Paul. So Paul

the lawyer was got over from Islip, and was shut up alone with the

sick man for a quarter-of-an-hour. Next the parson came, and read some

prayers. But Jacob still cried out his piteous laments, at having no

time to redeem the past, until his voice was too weak to speak. At nine

o'clock in the evening all was over.

The disease that killed him must have been making silent progress for a

good while, Cole said, when the truth was ascertained: but he had never

seen it develop itself with so little warning, or prove fatal so quickly

as in the case of Jacob Chandler.