John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

by George E. Sargent

And old Matthew was troubled—so troubled that he could not rest; and on one of the days previous to the funeral, while he was pondering over it, and balancing probabilities, it came into his mind that Walter's portmanteau was in the death-chamber, together with the coffin; and also that a pocket-book which he had seen in his son's hands was probably in the coat which he had worn on the day of his seizure, and which had been brought to Low Beech on the removal of the corpse.

Strange that Matthew had never thought of this until now! What more likely than that in those receptacles lay hidden some clue to the mystery which was troubling him—or at least some scrap of information which would help to set his mind at rest. And who had a better right than he to look into his son's personal belongings now that he (Walter) was beyond any further need of them? To be sure, there was the dead man's daughter, to whom they properly belonged, perhaps. But she was only a girl, and could know nothing about the rights of proprietorship; and besides, wasn't he (Matthew) the poor child's natural guardian—always supposing there should be anything to keep guard over? And then came his old suspicion of John Tincroft having kept back some knowledge about Walter's affairs of which he was custodian. Else why was he so willing to take charge of Helen, as he had promised to do?

Matthew was out on his farm when these thoughts came into his head; but he soon retraced his steps homewards; and stealing in at the back entrance to the farm, unobserved as he believed, he crept up the stairs while his wife and daughter and maid-servant were engaged below, and softly entered the room which contained the coffin of his dead son. As noiselessly as he could, he closed the door, and would have locked himself in, probably, but that the key had long been lost.

The portmanteau was on the floor, locked; and the garments of the dead hung on pegs near the bed's head. To search the pockets for the key of the portmanteau, and also for the pocket-book, was, no doubt, the old farmer's first impulse. These were found; and then, kneeling down on the floor for greater convenience in the meanness he contemplated, he applied the key.

There was nothing in the portmanteau to reward his search until, carefully removing, one by one, the changes of raiment which it contained, he came at last to two small parchment-bound and brass-clasped books, with Walter Wilson's name written on the covers. Trembling with excitement, the old man loosed the clasp of one of these books, and turned over one or two leaves.

Marvellous! There were entries there which made old Matthew turn giddy. Entries of investments in the funds, in stock of various kinds, in railway shares (it was in the early days of railroads, be it remembered)—investments to the amount of thousands of pounds, bearing interest (as the keen-eyed old man saw at a glance) that would reach up to six or seven hundred pounds a year, if not considerably more!

With a hasty movement, Matthew closed this book, reclasped it, and opened the other. It was a bank-book—some London bank—in which a respectable sum had been placed to the credit side of the account, with only one or two small items on the opposite page, indicating that these sums only had been drawn out since the account was opened.

Almost beside himself with excitement, the avaricious old man carefully replaced these precious volumes, and refilled the portmanteau before he ventured to turn to the pocket-book which lay on the floor within his reach. This was soon accomplished, however, and the book was opened. It had many divisions in it, forming separate cases, and there were folded papers in several of these receptacles. But Matthew, after his former discoveries, cared little for these in comparison with the contents of one of these pockets, which attracted his glistening eyes.

"Bank notes! One, two, three. Ten! Twenty! Fifty!" gasped the covetous old man, as he unfolded and held them up to the light. "Who would have thought of this, now!"

Who shall tell the force of the temptation that whirled through that sordid brain, and quickened the sluggish pulses Of that throbbing heart?—The temptation which whispered to his grasping thoughts and desires that his son, being dead, needed money no longer; that no one knew of his having that amount of portable wealth about his person, that his grand-daughter was of course well provided for, and that, at all events, he himself was the proper person to take care of this property—till it was claimed, if it ever should be; and if not claimed—well, what then?