With a smile of indescribable scorn, the invalid touched the bell.
“Stop! We’ll call it five hundred,” groaned the conveyancer.
A louder ring by the lady, and the old negro’s step was heard on the stairs.
“Seven hundred,—eight hundred: O, I couldn’t possibly afford more than eight hundred!” said Charlton, in a tone the pathos of which was no longer feigned.
The invalid now rang the bell with energy.
“It shall be a thousand, then!” exclaimed Charlton, just as Toussaint entered the room.
“Toussaint,” said the invalid, “Mr. Charlton has a paper he wishes me to sign. I have promised to do it on his paying you a thousand dollars. Accept it without demur. Do you understand?”
Toussaint bowed his assent; and Charlton, leaving the room, returned with his three witnesses. The sum stipulated was paid to Toussaint, and the will was duly signed and witnessed. Possessed of the document, Charlton’s first impulse was to vent his wrath upon his wife; but he discreetly remembered that, while life remained, it was in her power to revoke what she had done; so he dismissed his witnesses, and began to play the fawner once more. But he was checked abruptly.
“There! you weary me. Go, if you please,” said she. “If I have occasion, I will send for you.”
“May I not call daily to see how you are getting on?” whined Charlton.