Mrs Forsyth had another brother, named Richard, living in Ireland.
When Ralph Burke--the Sheikh Burrachee of to-day--was in trouble, and
lost his Indian appointment, he went to his brother, whom he had not met
since boyhood, and who welcomed him at first cordially. But Ralph,
possessed by the one idea of injury received from the Government,
engaged in seditious plots, and nearly involved his host in serious
trouble. The brothers quarrelled about it, and Ralph left in anger, and
never afterwards mentioned his brother's name.
Probably he did not know at present whether he was dead or alive. But
alive he was, though in failing health. He was the eldest of the
family, ten years senior to Ralph, and seventeen to his sister, Mrs
Forsyth. In spite of Ralph's story about Oliver Cromwell, the elder
brother had some land, though whether it was part of the original
estates, or had been acquired since, I know not. He had no tenants, but
farmed himself, and was therefore not shot at. The farming consisted
principally, however, in breeding horses, in which he was very
successful.
It was not that he realised such large profits, or grew rich rapidly,
but he always made more than he spent in the course of the year, and
invested the balance judiciously. And in twenty years hundreds grow to
thousands in that way.
Rather late in life Mr Burke had married a widow with a son, an only
child. He lost her early, and, having no children of his own, attached
himself to her boy for her sake, and made a will leaving him sole heir
to his property, after a legacy had been paid to his sister, Mrs
Forsyth, and a provision of 200 pounds a year made for Reginald
Kavanagh, an orphan cousin for whom Richard Burke had stood godfather,
and was now educating at his own expense, the boy spending all his
holidays with him in Ireland, and becoming a greater favourite with him
as time went on.
For his step-son, Stephen Philipson, had disappointed him grievously,
developing idle, dissipated, and extravagant habits as he grew into
manhood. Mr Burke bore with him for some years, hoping that he would
sow his wild oats and reform. But instead of this, he became worse and
worse, till at last it was evident that he would make the worst possible
use of any money which came to him.
And then Mr Burke had an accident in the hunting field, and, while he
lay between life and death, his step-son behaved and spoke in a
heartless and ungrateful manner, which was reported to him on his
unexpected recovery; and in his indignation he determined to take a step
which he had for some time contemplated. For, though he was able to get
about again, he felt that he had received injuries which would bring him
to the grave before very long, and that he would never be the man he had
been. And, indeed, when pressed, his doctor did not deny that he had
reason for his conclusion.
So as soon as he was strong enough to get about, he wrote to secure a
room at the hotel he used in Dublin, and took the train to that city.
And the next day called upon his solicitor, Mr Burrows, of the firm of
Burrows and Fagan.
Mr Burrows, a sleek little man, particular about his dress, and as
proud of his small hands and feet as a cat is of her fur, was waiting
for him in his private room.
"I am going to alter my will," said Mr Burke.
"Exactly," said the lawyer, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, which
intimated that he was not at all surprised.
"I have drawn up a rough copy of what I want put into legal terms; it is
very short and simple; we can get it done to-day, can we not?"
"Certainly, I expect so. Let me see what you wish," replied Mr
Burrows, taking the sheet of note-paper.
Now, do not skip, reader, if you please. If you do you will either have
to turn back again from a more interesting chapter, or you will fail to
follow the thread of my story. I promise not to bore you with legal
terms; only read straight on, as Mr Burrows did.
"I revoke my former will. I now leave to two trustees as much money as
will yield 240 pounds a year to be paid monthly to Stephen Philipson,
the son of my late wife by a former husband. My land to be sold, and
that, with the rest of my property, to be equally divided between my
sister, Mary Forsyth, or her heirs, and Reginald Kavanagh."
"Not long, certainly, as you have put it," said Mr Burrows, with a
smile. "But here is land to be sold, and other descriptions of property
to be entered correctly. Can you not give us till the day after to-
morrow? If not, I will send the will to you, and you can sign it, and
get it witnessed at home."
"No, no; I had sooner remain in Dublin, and get the thing off my mind at
once. The day after to-morrow, then, at this time."
"It will be all ready by then."
As he passed through the outer office, the head clerk came from his
desk, smiling and bowing obsequiously. He was a young man of dark
complexion, and black hair, worn rather long.
"Ah, Daireh, how do you do?" said Mr Burke with a nod, but not offering
to shake hands, as the other evidently expected.
Daireh was an Egyptian _protege_ of Mr Forsyth, who had employed him as
a boy-clerk, brought him to England with him, and placed him in a
lawyer's office. He was clever, sharp, and a most useful servant; and,
entering the employ of Messrs Burrows and Fagan, had ingratiated himself
with both of them, so that he was trusted to an extraordinary degree.
He professed great gratitude to Mr Burke, as the brother-in-law of his
benefactor, and as having spoken for him when he was seeking his present
engagement. But Mr Burke did not like the look of him. He was
prejudiced, however, against all foreigners, especially Greeks and
Egyptians, so that his dislike did not go for much. But certainly an
acute physiognomist would have said that Daireh looked sly.
Mr Burke had friends to call on, and business to transact, so the delay
did not really matter to him; and he called at the lawyer's office again
at the appointed time, Daireh, bowing obsequiously as usual, ushering
him into Mr Burrows' private room.
"Well, we have put your good English into what you profanely call legal
jargon," said that gentleman.
"Just listen, and try to understand your own directions while I read
them over."
It was all plain enough, and short enough, in spite of Mr Burrows'
little joke, and then Mr Burke put his mouth to a speaking-tube, and
called Daireh to come and witness the document. Then there was some
signing, and the new will was consigned to the tin box bearing the name
of Richard Burke, Esquire, upon it.
"Better destroy the old one," said he.
"Certainly," replied Mr Burrows. "Throw it behind the fire, Daireh."
Then Daireh did a curious thing. He took another parchment, exactly
like the old will, out of his breast coat pocket, and managed,
unperceived, to exchange it for the document; so that the object which
Mr Burke and the lawyer watched curling, blazing, sputtering, till it
was consumed, was not the old will at all, but a spoilt skin of some
other matter, and the old will was lying snugly in Daireh's pocket.
What motive could he have? What earthly use could this old will be,
when one of more recent date lay in that tin box? Daireh could not have
answered the question. He kept it on the off-chance of being able to
make something out of it. He was a thorough rogue, though not found out
yet, and he knew that Stephen Philipson, who had just been disinherited,
was both rogue and fool.
So he carried off the now valueless document, which would not eat or
drink, he reckoned, and might be put to some purpose some day.
Mr Burke returned home and wrote to his sister, and to Stephen
Philipson, telling them what he had done. He did not write about it to
Reginald Kavanagh, not thinking it necessary to take from him any
inducement to exert himself, for though he was a good-enough lad in most
respects, he certainly was not studious. He was also accused by his
schoolfellows of what they called "putting on a good deal of swagger," a
weakness not likely to be improved by the knowledge of his godfather's
kind intentions towards him.
So that altogether Mr Richard Burke was, perhaps, judicious.