Jacob Chandler, solicitor, conveyancer, and land-agent, had died: and
his son Valentine (possibly taking a leaf out of the history of Jonas
Chuzzlewit) determined that he should at least be borne to the grave
with honours, if he had never had an opportunity to specially bear them
in life. Crabb churchyard was a show of mutes and plumes, and Crabb
highway was blocked up with black coaches. As it is considered a
compliment down with us to get an invitation to a funeral, and a great
slight on the dead to refuse it, all classes, from Sir John Whitney,
down to Massock, the brickmaker, and little Farmer Bean, responded to
Valentine Chandler's notes. Some people said that it was Valentine's
mother, the new widow, who wished for so much display; and probably they
were right.
It took place on a Saturday. I can see the blue sky overhead now, and
the bright sun that shone upon the scene and lighted up the feathers. It
was thought he must have died rich, and that the three daughters he left
would have good portions. His son Valentine had the practice: so, at any
rate, _he_ was provided for. Tom Chandler, the nephew, made one of the
mourners: and the spectators talked freely enough in an undertone,
as he passed them in his place when the procession walked up the
churchyard path. It seemed but the other day, they said, that his poor
father was buried, killed by that lamentable accident. Time flew. Years
passed imperceptibly. But Jacob--lying so still under that black and
white pall, now slowly disappearing within the church--had not done the
right thing by his dead brother's son. The practice had been made by
Thomas, the elder brother. Thomas took Jacob into full partnership
without fee or recompense; and there was an understanding entered into
between them later (but no legal agreement) that if the life of either
failed his son should succeed to his post. If Thomas, the elder, died,
his son Tom was to take his father's place as senior partner in due
time. Thomas did die; died suddenly; but from that hour to this, Jacob
had never attempted to carry out the agreement: he had taken his own
son, Valentine, into partnership, but not Tom. And Crabb knew, both
North and South, for such things get about curiously, that the injustice
had troubled Jacob when he was dying, and that he had charged Valentine
to remedy it.
Sunday morning was not so fine: leaden clouds, threatening rain, had
overshadowed the summer sky. But all the family mourners came to
church, Valentine wearing his long crape hatband and shoulder scarf
(for that was our custom); the widow in her costly mourning, and the
three girls in theirs. The mourning was furnished, Miss Timmens took
the opportunity of whispering to Mrs. Todhetley, from a fashionable
black shop at Worcester: and, to judge by the frillings and furbelows,
very fashionable indeed the shop must have been. Mrs. Chandler and her
son Tom sat together in their own pew, Mrs. Cramp, Jacob's sister,
with them. It chanced that we were staying at Crabb Cot at the time of
Jacob's death, just as we had been at Thomas's, and so saw the doings
and heard the sayings, and the Squire was at hand for both funerals.
The next morning, Monday, Valentine Chandler took his place in the
office as master for the first time, and seated himself in his late
father's chair in the private room. He and his mother had already held
some conversation as to arrangements for the future. Valentine said he
should live at the office at Islip: now that there was only himself
he should have more to do, and did not want the bother of walking or
driving to and fro morning and evening. She would live entirely at
North Villa.
Valentine took his place in his father's room; and the clerks, who had
been hail-fellow-well-met with him hitherto, put on respect of manner,
and called him Mr. Chandler. Tom had an errand to do every Monday
morning connected with the business, and did not enter until nearly
eleven o'clock. Before settling to his desk, he went in to Valentine.
They shook hands. In times of bereavement we are apt to observe more
ceremony than at others. Tom sat down: which caused the new master to
look towards him inquiringly.
"Valentine, I want to have a bit of talk with you. Upon what footing am
I to be on here?"
"How do you mean?" asked Valentine: who was leaning back in the green
leather chair with the air of his new importance full upon him, his
elbows on the low arms, and an ivory paper-knife held between his
fingers.
"My uncle Jacob told me that from henceforth I was to assume my right
place here, Valentine. I suppose it will be so."
"What do you call your right place?" cried Valentine.
"Well, my right place would be head of the office," replied Tom,
speaking, as he always did, cordially and pleasantly. "But I don't wish
to be exacting. Make me your partner, Valentine, and give me the second
place in the firm."
"Can't do it, old fellow," said Valentine, in tones which seemed to say
he would like to joke the matter off. "The practice was my father's, and
it is now mine."
"But you know that part of it ought to have been mine from the first,
Valentine. That is, from the time I have been of an age to succeed to
it."
"I don't know it, I'm sure, Tom. If it 'ought' to have been yours, I
suppose my father would have given it to you. He was able to judge."
Tom dropped his voice. "He sent for me that last day of his life, you
know, Valentine. It was to tell me he had not done the right thing by
me, but that it should be done now: that he had charged _you_ to do it."
"Ah," said Valentine, carelessly, "worn-out old men take up odd
fancies--fit for a lunatic asylum. My poor father must have been spent
with disease, though not with age: but we did not know it."
"Will you make me your partner?"
"No, Tom, I can't. The practice was all my father's, and the practice
must be mine. Look here: on that same day you speak of he sent for John
Paul to add a codicil to his will. Now it stands to reason that if he
had wished me to take you into the firm, he would have mentioned it in
that codicil and bound me down to do it."
"And he did not?"
"Not a word of it. You are quite welcome to read the will. It is a very
short and simple one: leaving what property he had to my mother, and
the business and office furniture to me. The codicil Paul wrote was to
decree that I should pay my mother a certain sum out of the profits.
Your name is not mentioned in the will at all, from beginning to end."
Tom made no reply. Valentine continued.
"The object of his tying me down to pay over to my mother a portion of
the profits is, because she has not enough to live on without it. There
need be no secret about it. I am to give her a third of the income I
make, whatsoever it may be."
"One final word, Valentine: will you be just and take me in?"
"No, Tom, I cannot. And there's another thing. I don't wish to be mean,
I'm sure; it's not in my nature: but with all my own expenses upon me
and this third that I must hand over to my people, I fear I shall not be
able to continue to give your mother the hundred and fifty a-year that
my father has allowed her so long."
"You cannot help yourself, Valentine. That much is provided for in the
original partnership deed, and you are bound by it."
"No," dissented Valentine, flicking a speck off the front of his black
coat. "My father might have been bound by it, but I am not. Now that the
two original partners are dead, the deed is cancelled, don't you see. It
is not binding upon me."
"I think you are mistaken: but I will leave that question for this
morning. Is your decision, not to give me a share, final?"
"It is."
"Let me make one remark. You say the codicil stipulates that you shall
pay a third of the profits to your mother--and it is a very just and
right thing to do. Valentine, rely upon it, that your father's last
intentions were that, of the other two-thirds left, one of them should
be mine."
Valentine flushed red. He had a florid complexion at all times,
something like salmon-colour. Very different from Tom's, which was
clear and healthy.
"We won't talk any more about it, Tom. How you can get such crotchets
into your head, I can't imagine. If you sit there till midday, I can say
no more than I have said: I cannot take you into partnership."
"Then I shall leave you," said Tom, rising. He was a fine-looking young
fellow, standing there with his arm on the back of the client's chair,
in which he had sat; tall and straight. His good, honest face had a
shade of pain in it, as it gazed straight out to Valentine's. He looked
his full six-and-twenty years.
"Well, I wish you would leave me, Tom," replied Valentine, carelessly.
"I have heaps to do this morning."
"Leave the office, I mean. Leave you for good."
"Nonsense!"
"Though your father did not give me the rights that were my just due,
I remained on, expecting and hoping that he would give them some time.
It was my duty to remain with him; at least, my mother told me so; and
perhaps my interest. But the case is changed now. I will not stay with
you, Valentine, unless you do me justice; I shall leave you now. Now,
this hour."
"But you can't, Tom. You would put me to frightful inconvenience."
"And what inconvenience--inconvenience for life--are you putting me to,
Valentine? You take my prospects from me. The position that ought to be
mine, here at Islip, you refuse to let me hold. This was my father's
practice; a portion of it, at least, ought to be mine. I will not
continue to be a servant where I ought to be a master."
"Then you must go," said Valentine.