Chapter Thirteen.
The Rich Man’s Will.
Jessop Reed took good care that his brother should have no opportunity for meeting him to bring him to book, and during the interval before Grantham Reed’s funeral the only news Clive heard of Janet was that she would be back to accompany her father to old Mr Reed’s burial.
“There! my dear boy,” said the Doctor; “I can do no more. You see she does not even give me her address. I believe, though, that she is down at Weymouth with the Hartleys.”
This was on the day before the funeral, and Clive had to exercise a little more patience till after all was over.
He was calmer now. There was that awful presence in the gloomy old house, and he felt that it was no time to think of his own troubles or to attack his brother. These matters, in spite of the suffering they caused him, were put aside, and he sat in the study thinking of all that had passed with the stern, kindly-hearted old man lying above there in his last sleep. Of how he had fought the world to amass wealth, and of this his last speculation, whose success he had been fated not to witness, cut off as he was just after his son’s announcement of the wealth it must of a certainty produce.
It seemed to Clive to be a hard lesson in the vanity of human hopes; but he did not flinch from his task.
“It was his wish,” he said to himself, “that the mine should come out triumphant, and it shall, for all our sakes.”
As he mused, he thought of different business friends who had embarked in the speculation upon the base of his father’s credit, but mainly upon the reports which he had sent home, his father having made these announcements to him during his absence in the replies to letters, the last being that the Doctor had bought heavily just before the shares bounded up and were still rising.
“Poor old father!” he said to himself; “he shall find that I will do my duty by it to the end, for I suppose he will leave me the management—perhaps fully to take his place.”
These business matters would intrude, and he did not cavil at them, for he knew that he was carrying out the old man’s wishes.
Then came the thoughts of Janet again, and they were mingled with a bitter feeling of indignation against her for her readiness to think evil of one whose every thought had been true. But he knew that the reconciliation would be very sweet, and told himself that she was still but a girl, and that her character would ripen by and by.
“And be full of trust,” he muttered.
Then the scene of her leaving that room, angry, jealous, and proud, leaning upon his brother’s arm, came back, and a sensation of fierce anger thrilled him.
“A coward!” he muttered, “a base, miserable coward! Well, we shall meet to-morrow, and afterward the less we see one another in the future the better for both.”
Then he hurriedly devoted himself to his father’s papers, so as to change the current of his thoughts and try to check the throbbing of his brain.
The next day broke gloomy and chill, well in accordance with the solemn occasion. Grantham Reed had instructed that his funeral should be perfectly quiet, and that few people should be asked, but many came unbidden to show their respect for a business friend whose name had been a power in the City, his word as good as any bond.
Jessop came late, and took his place in the darkened drawing-room without a word; and, nearly the last, Doctor Praed arrived with Janet, in deep mourning, and her face hidden behind a thick crape veil, without a word passing between her and either of the brothers, from both of whom she seemed to shrink.
A few of the oldest friends went up to see the dead; then Janet placed her hand upon her father’s arm, and went to the solemn chamber, staying some time, and being led back hanging heavily upon her father’s arm, sobbing bitterly and covering her face beneath her veil as she sank down in her seat.
Clive’s heart throbbed and his eyes grew dim.
“God bless her!” he murmured to himself; “she did love him dearly.”
He felt softened, and as if he could rush across the room, clasp her to his heart, and whisper that he was true, as staunch as steel to her, the darling of his heart, his first and only love.
But it was neither time nor place for such an action, and turning to his brother, he signed to him to come, and, in the midst of a silence broken only by Janet’s sobs, they two went out and upstairs without a word, to stand by the open coffin where their father lay calmly as if in sleep.
“How can I feel enmity now!” thought Clive, “as we stand here before you, father, whom I shall see no more on earth? Am I to forgive him and wipe away the past?”
As the young man bent down in that solemn moment, the words of the old prayer came to him, and he breathed out, “As we forgive them that trespass against us,” and tenderly kissed the broad forehead.
Then half-blinded he went out, conscious that his brother followed him closely down to the drawing-room, to listen, as Janet’s sobs still rose from time to time, to the heavy footsteps overhead, the hurried rustling on the stairs, and then to rise when the door was opened, and pass out with his brother to the mourning-coach.
Two hours, and the party were back in the long, gloomy dining-room, well filled now, for of the many who followed, those most intimate had entered to hear the reading of the deceased’s will.
The brothers were widely separated now, while the Doctor, who looked old and careworn, was seated near the family lawyer, who sat there at a table with a tin despatch-box by his elbow, the most important personage present. Janet was by her father’s side, clinging to his hand, still closely veiled, but trembling and weak, while a faint, half-suppressed sob escaped from her lips at intervals.
A few remarks were made by old friends, but the importance of the occasion acted as a check, and there was a sigh of relief as the deceased’s old legal friend cleared his throat, put on his glasses, and took them off again twice to rub away imaginary blurrings which obscured his sight.
Then he began to read the various clauses of the will, which was singularly free from repetition, being concise, business-like, and clear in the extreme.
Clive, as he sat back in his chair, half closed his eyes, for to him it was as if his father were speaking, and all sounded so matter-of-fact that he felt that he had nothing to learn at first. Everything nearly was as he expected to hear; while Jessop, who kept his eyes rigidly fixed upon the lawyer’s lips, smiled in a peculiar way as he found how prophetic he had been.
There were the minor bequests to servants of small sums and six or twelve months’ wages; a snuff-box to this old friend, a signet ring to another, the watch and chain “to my dear trusty old friend Peter Praed, doctor of medicine; also one hundred pounds as a slight remuneration for his services as co-executor.” And so on, and so on, till the lawyer turned over a sheet and paused for a few moments before beginning again, amidst profound silence now, for the more interesting portion of the will was to come.
In brief. “To my son Jessop Reed, the interest of twenty-one thousand pounds, two and a half per cent, bank-stock, to be paid to him during the term of his life quarterly by my executors, the aforesaid Peter Praed and Clive Reed, the capital sum of twenty-one thousand pounds reverting at the death of my said son Jessop Reed to my estate.”
“Exactly what I expected,” said Jessop, with a smile of indifference. “Five hundred a year, eh?”
“About, sir,” said the old lawyer gravely. Then, after sitting attent, as if expecting another question, he coughed again, and went on.
“I give and bequeath to my son, Clive Reed, the whole of my interest in the ‘White Virgin’ mine, together with everything of which I die possessed in shares, bank-stocks, freehold and leasehold property, begging him that he will act in his possession thereof as a true and just man, and the steward of a large estate committed to his charge. I do this believing that he will carry out my wishes in connection with the said property for his own benefit, as well as for that of many friends who have embarked their money in my last enterprise, the aforesaid ‘White Virgin’ mine.”
The lawyer read the few remaining words connected with the signature amidst a murmur of congratulations, in the midst of which Jessop started up, black with fury and disappointment.
“Shame!” he cried. “I protest!” and a dead silence fell.
“May I ask why, sir?” said the lawyer coldly. “My deceased friend has done more than his duty by you.”
“Your words are uncalled-for and insolent, sir,” cried Jessop. “Recollect that you are only a paid professional man.”
“And Grantham Reed’s trusted confidential friend, sir. Dr Praed and I were the two men to whom he opened his heart—eh, Doctor?”
“Yes, in all things.”
“I was not speaking about my own beggarly, tied-up legacy,” cried Jessop, who was now deadly pale, “but of the cruel, disgraceful way in which my father has behaved to a young lady whom he professed to love as a daughter, and led to expect that she would stand high in his will.”
Janet’s hands were extended deprecatingly toward the speaker, and Clive half rose in his chair, but sank back as the lawyer said coldly—
“Perhaps Mr Jessop Reed will listen to the codicil before he adds to a long list of injuries by casting aspersions upon the generosity of my dear dead friend.”
“What! is there a codicil?” cried Jessop.
The lawyer bowed his head.
“Then why have you kept it back, sir?”
“Because it comes last,” said the lawyer, with a faint smile, “and also because I have had no opportunity to read it on account of interruptions.”
A dead silence fell once more, and Clive darted a glance across to Janet, whose eyes, as far as he could see, appeared to be directed at his brother.
“The codicil,” began the lawyer, “is dated six months before our lamented friend’s death.”
He paused, and then read on, after the customary preliminaries—
“I give and bequeath to Janet Praed, daughter of my old friend, Peter Praed, the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, standing in Bank of England and Government of India stock, free of legacy duty.”
“Hah!” cried Jessop, in a triumphant tone; and unable to contain himself, he rose and crossed to Janet to take her hands, which she resigned to him, while Clive felt as if he had received a thrust from a knife, as the old lawyer raised his head and gazed curiously at the group before him.
Then, as a low murmur once more arose, the lawyer coughed loudly, and went on; every ear being again attent to his words, as he raised his voice and sent a galvanic shock through the semicircle of his listeners.
“Conditionally—”
He paused, and Jessop dropped Janet’s hands, while his lips parted, displaying his white teeth.
“Conditionally,” repeated the lawyer, “upon her becoming the wife of my son, Clive Reed. In the event of her refusing to fulfil these my wishes, the above legacy of one hundred thousand pounds to become null and void.”
Jessop muttered an oath beneath his breath as he literally staggered at this announcement.
Then, recovering himself—
“Stop!” he cried hoarsely; “there is another codicil.”
“No, sir,” said the old lawyer gravely; and he began slowly to double up the will.
“Wait a minute, sir,” cried Jessop, whose hand, as he stretched it out in the midst of a painful silence, was trembling visibly.
“Jessop—dear Jessop,” said Janet faintly, as she tore off her veil, “be calm;” and she took a step or two towards the infuriated man, while Clive felt sick, as if from some terrible blow, and sat gazing at the shrinking girl as, with her face drawn with misery and white as ashes, she touched his brother on the arm.
“Silence, woman!” he cried. “Here you!” and he turned to the lawyer, “give me that will.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the lawyer gravely. “I have read the document.”
“Give it to me, I say. I want to see for myself.”
“It is not customary, sir,” replied the lawyer. “You have heard its contents, and I am custodian, the representative of every one whose name is mentioned there.”
“Give it to me, I say,” cried Jessop, stepping forward. “I will read it aloud again—myself.”
There was a dull sound, a snap, and the rattle of a key being withdrawn.
“No, sir,” said the lawyer, placing the key in his pocket. “In your excited state, and as the elder son, I would not trust that document in your hand a moment.”
“And quite right,” said Dr Praed firmly.
Quick as lightning Jessop made a dash at the lawyer; but a strong hand was upon his arm, and he was swung aside by Clive.
“Are you mad—and at a time like this!”
“Call it what you like,” cried Jessop, “but don’t you think I am going to be cheated and juggled out of my—of her rights. You have your share and are out of court. I’ll have that will and read it over again.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Clive, “and you will not make a scene in this—in my house.”
“Indeed! Oh, yes, I know it is your house, but you’ve got too strong a man to deal with.”
“Mr Jessop,” said the old lawyer gravely, “you have the remedy in your hands. There is no underhand work possible with a will like that. If you are dissatisfied, go and consult your own legal adviser. The will of course has to be proved, and in a very short time you will find it accurately copied at Somerset House. Under all the circumstances, as my deceased friend’s trusted adviser, I cannot let it pass from my hands into yours. I think, gentlemen, the executors, you agree with my action.”
“Quite!” came in unison, in company with a murmur of approval from the old friends present.
“Then my duties are at an end,” said the solicitor, while Jessop stood panting, speechless, and biting his lips. “Clive Reed, my dear sir, I have made many wills in my time—”
“And you influenced the old man in this,” said Jessop.
The lawyer shook his head and looked at the disappointed man tolerantly.
“No, my dear sir. Your worthy, father was too strong-minded a man to be influenced. You have listened to his own clear, concise words and well-thought-out intentions. As I was going to say, my dear Clive Reed, I never made a will with whose principles I could more thoroughly coincide. God bless you, my dear boy! I congratulate you, and I know how well you will carry out poor old Grantham’s wishes. Ah! Doctor,” he continued sadly, “one dear old companion gone. Many’s the good bottle of port we three cracked together in this room, and many’s the sterling hour of enjoyment, rational and social, we had together.”
“Ay,” said the Doctor, with tears in his eyes, “and our turn must come before long.”
“Yes! He half apologised to me for not putting you down for a big lump sum; but he said you did not want it, and he was favouring you in your children.”
“God bless me! I didn’t want his money,” said the Doctor warmly. “What’s the use of money to me? But a hundred thousand pounds to Janet. Great heavens, what a sum!”
“Yes, and in her husband’s trust,” said the old lawyer, with a tender, paternal smile, as he advanced to Janet, held out his hands, and she nestled with a sob to him, the old family friend, upon whose knee she had sat as a child scores of times. “Hah!” sighed the old man, patting her shoulder gently, “a woman grown, Janet, but still only the little girl to me. Bless you, my dear! May you be very happy!”
“Happy!” she moaned, as Jessop engaged fiercely in conversation with some of the old family friends, and Clive stood silent and watchful, fighting against the horrible despair in his breast.
“Yes, happy, my dear—eh, Doctor? We old fellows grow to think that death when it comes is not a horror, but a restful ending to a busy life, if we go down to the quiet grave loving and beloved, honoured, too, by all our friends.”
There was a subdued murmur of approval here, for the old lawyer had looked round as he spoke.
“Come, come, wipe those pretty eyes.”
“I tell you I will,” cried Jessop fiercely; and he wrenched himself away from an elderly man who tried to restrain him.
“Oh, Jessop, Jessop,” sighed Janet, as she shrank from the lawyer’s arms, and then hurriedly turned her head away as she met Clive’s searching eyes.
“But I tell you, you haven’t a leg to stand on, man.”
“Then, curse it!” cried Jessop, “I’ll fight on crutches. It’s a false will, got out of the old man when he was imbecile. He would never have invented it himself.”
“What!” cried the Doctor warmly; and Janet burst into tears.
“I say it’s all a made-up, blackguardly concoction, schemed by my smug, smooth brother, who has always been fighting against me. Miner—underminer he ought to be called. But it shan’t stand. I’ll throw the whole thing into Chancery, and fight it year after year till there isn’t a penny left.”
“And you have been shut up in a lunatic asylum, and the best place for you,” said the Doctor angrily.
“Oh, now you’ve begun,” cried Jessop, with quite a snarl. “You think your child’s going to have a hundred thousand, do you, and that you will be able to have your coin all to yourself.”
“Jessop,” began Clive excitedly.
“No, no, my dear boy,” said the lawyer, “there must be no brotherly quarrel. It is so unseemly at a time like this. Let me try and settle it.”
“What, make terms?” cried Jessop. “No; those are for me to make, for I’ve got the whip hand of you, and you shall beg to me if all the old man’s cursed money is not to go to the lawyers. Now, then, what have you to say?”
“Oh, Jessop, Jessop,” whispered Janet, laying her hand upon his arm.
“Will you be silent, fool!” cried Jessop, seizing her by the wrist, and giving her a rough shake.
He had gone too far. Clive uttered a cry of rage, and flew to save the woman he loved from this indignity, but, as he dashed forward, his brother, with a mocking laugh, full of triumphant pride, snatched the yielding girl to his breast, and held her there.
“No, you don’t,” he said coolly: “not you, my clever schemer. You can’t hit a man through his wife.”
“What!” cried Clive wildly.
“Yes, father-in-law,” said Jessop, turning to the Doctor. “I am fighting for our legacy. Janet and I were married three days ago, and this is part of our honeymoon.”