‘It’s all very well, little woman,’ said he; ‘and so far he has behaved with tolerable decency. But I don’t think he’s exactly a person to be trusted. You see, he is very comfortable here, thanks to you, and he is undeniably selfish. Naturally, he would like to stay; and some men will say or promise anything to get what they want at the moment. Let him stay, by all means; we must not throw away such a chance. But don’t allow yourself to build too much on his promises, my dear. I, for my part, shall not be at all surprised if he gets tired of us, and quarrels with us, as he has with the rest; nor even if we find, after he has ended his days here and got all he can out of us, that his money is left elsewhere.’
Lucy said little, but she could not bring herself to believe in the existence of such duplicity, and in her heart she was convinced of her uncle’s bona fides. She even felt a little shocked that her husband, whom she so loved and admired, could entertain such narrow and unworthy suspicions; and she resolved that, so far as it depended on her, the old man should have no just cause to reconsider his testamentary intentions.
But it is to be feared that this attack of amiability, coupled with the repression of the past few weeks, had put a strain upon Uncle Franklin which he was unable to bear. Perhaps he thought that his munificent promise entitled him to relax a little; perhaps he considered that he had now made his footing in the house absolutely safe. However that may have been, within a very few days after this conversation, the old Adam began to appear in him once more. In Tom’s presence, he was still on his good behaviour, having an instinctive fear of him, as one not likely to submit tamely to oppression. But Tom was absent all day at his office; and when Uncle Franklin had no one to withstand him but a woman, and a very timid and gentle one to boot, he began to ‘let himself out.’ His powers of fault-finding were perfectly microscopic; he passed his time in devising vexations and enjoying them with the keenest relish. As for his language, it daily increased in majesty and ornament. He spoke to the servants in such a manner that one of them—the new one—threatened to give warning, and was with difficulty persuaded to remain; and Lucy was obliged to keep them as much as possible from contact with her guest. He would begin with a grumble at some trifle, round which he would gradually crystallise his grievances, and work himself up by their contemplation into a condition of insane rage, in which he would amble about the room like an angry baboon, knocking down chairs and scattering verbal brimstone all around. On these occasions, his liking for Lucy seemed to disappear altogether, and he would indulge in the most unpleasant criticisms on her appearance, her intellect, and her housekeeping abilities. Neither would he spare her husband, whom he was accustomed to sum up with similarly uncomplimentary results, inviting Lucy to report his comments to their object—a course which, he understood very well, nothing would induce her to take.
She bore it all heroically. She knew what the consequence would be if the slightest hint of the treatment to which she was subjected should ever reach Tom’s ears; so she contented herself with uncomplaining good-temper so long as that was possible, and tears—which added fuel to her uncle’s wrath—when endurance was pushed beyond its limits. Of her own profit she thought little; or rather, the loss of her expectations would have seemed to her humble and contented nature but a small price to pay for release from her sufferings. But for Tom’s sake—in the hope of seeing him relieved of that anxiety for her future which she knew to be always present to his mind—for the sake of those who might hereafter cling around her knees—she was prepared to endure silently the worst that Uncle Franklin could do to her.
This state of things, however, came to a sudden end in a manner to her most unwelcome. Her husband came home one afternoon much earlier than usual. He had thought of late that his wife looked rather pale and worn, and had resolved to treat her to a little dinner at a restaurant, and to take her afterwards to the theatre, in the hope that the outing might give her a much-needed fillip. The consequence was that he met her unexpectedly, as she came out of the dining-room. Could she have had a few moments’ time, she would have utilised it in sponging her eyes and generally smoothing down her ruffled plumage, for this was one of the days on which she had given way under Uncle Franklin’s inflictions; her face was all blurred with tears, and she was sobbing so that she could not immediately stop. All that he had heard of the old man rushed into Tom’s mind, and he suspected at once the state of the case. He took her up-stairs, and then and there had it all out of her, with that gentle and perfectly unbending firmness which she could never resist. He said no more than to bid his little wife dry her eyes and be comforted, kissed her, and went down-stairs, quite deaf to her feeble efforts to excuse the offender. Uncle Franklin had a bad half-hour of it that afternoon; he probably heard more solid truth than he had been favoured with for many years. It was never exactly known what Tom said to him; but before bedtime that night, it was quite understood by all the household that their guest was under orders to quit within a week. Uncle Franklin did not utter a word all the evening, but sat in his armchair, blinking furtively at his host, feeling guilty and detected, but yet unrepentant. Before he went to bed, he announced his intention of keeping to his own room for the remainder of his stay, and requested that a fire might be lit there in the morning. Also, he wrote a letter, and sent a servant to post it. This letter it was which occasioned Mr Blackford’s visit.
That worthy solicitor prepared the will, which was very short and simple, with the care demanded by a document of such importance to his own interests. He even took the precaution to fair-copy it for signature himself, so as to pay strict regard to the desire of the testator that no inkling of its purport should leak out prematurely; and with it he next day repaired to Camden Town, taking with him, as requested, two witnesses—his own clerk, and a writer in the employ of his law-stationer.
Mr Franklin chuckled a great deal as he wrote his name. ‘You can take it away and keep it yourself, Blackford,’ said he, after the witnesses had done their part and retired; ‘I’ll warrant you to take good care of it.—By the way, I don’t think the date’s inserted.’
The solicitor began to unbutton the greatcoat, in an inner pocket of which he had buried the precious piece of paper.
‘Oh, bother that! Do it when you get back. It’s your concern—not mine. I’ve had enough of you for one while; and I feel confoundedly queer. I suppose this business has upset me, though I don’t know why it should. It wouldn’t have done so, once on a time.—Good-day.’ And, nothing loth, Mr Blackford took himself off with his treasure.
The prize was his; but only conditionally. This unreliable testator might alter his mind at any moment and undo his freak. Mr Blackford, with all his faults, was not murderously inclined; but it is to be feared that if some burglar in the pursuit of his calling had found it necessary to eliminate Mr Franklin that night, and had confided his intentions beforehand to the solicitor, something would have happened to prevent that gentleman from warning the police. He re-entered his office with a sigh. Never had it appeared to him so gloomy as at this moment, when, with the possibility of future wealth in his pocket, he found himself still confronted with the necessity of solving that difficult and importunate bread-and-cheese problem.