IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
Uncle Franklin drew towards his end. It soon became evident that that grim churchyard experiment which he had suggested would in his case be entirely unnecessary. As he sank lower and lower, and the cruel, icy grasp clutched his labouring heart more often and more fiercely, Lucy found herself almost a fixture at his side. He could hardly bear her absence, however short; and when the fits of palpitation were upon him, he seemed to hold on to life by her hand alone. He would talk to her when he was able—talk of business, nothing but business and money, always money, until the gold seemed to jingle in her brain as though it were the inside of a till. It was very trying and wearing; but tenderness of heart and compassion for this unloved and desolate old money-worshipper, whose idol had failed him at his need, this spoiler whom a hand more ruthless than his own was spoiling, kept her staunch to her post. She thought little of her expectations, and that only for her husband’s sake; in the presence of this aimless, endless money-babble from the lips of a suffering and dying man, the idea of her possible and probable inheritance had grown almost distasteful to her; and Uncle Franklin had not as yet broached the subject of his will.
There came, however, a day when, with the last words he ever spoke, he for the first time broke his silence in this respect. The doctor had paid his daily visit, and had gone away with that shake of the head and significant look which tells that human skill has done its utmost. The patient was lying in a half-doze, and Lucy was sitting by the bedside, when he suddenly opened his eyes and fixed them full upon her. ‘It’s nearly over, my girl,’ he said. ‘You have done your duty by me, and I thank you. You’ll find I have kept my promise. When the time comes, send to my solicitor, Blackford of Southampton Buildings—he’ll know what to do.’ He closed his eyes after speaking these words, and seemed to sleep again. That night he died, quietly and without a struggle. It was in the third week after the making of the second will.
Those were days of anxious reflection for Mr Blackford. Business was more than commonly ‘slack’ with him, so that he was able to give his undivided attention to his little scheme. Even Willoughby had failed to renew his visits, a circumstance which almost escaped the lawyer’s notice, so preoccupied was he with things of greater moment.
What course should he now adopt? How should he best use his advantage? Nobody save himself knew of the hiding-place, or even of the existence of the later will, unless the testator should have altered his mind. Somehow or other, he must manage to substitute the earlier will for the later. But how? There appeared to be but one way in which to do what must be done; it was a way which demanded courage, self-possession, and unflinching nerve; for a moment’s faltering or bungling would in all probability bring about a shameful and disastrous failure. That way Mr Blackford determined to take; and so waited as patiently as he might for the news of Mr Franklin’s death and the expected summons to the house.
Both came together; the latter in a form which he did not expect, and which discomposed him a good deal—in the form, namely, of an invitation to the funeral. Lucy said in her letter that Mr Franklin had stated that his solicitor would know how to act with reference to his affairs; and that both she and her husband felt that it would be more seemly to defer any such action until the dead man had been laid in his grave. But on reflection, Mr Blackford was less dissatisfied than at first with this arrangement. It was a delicate and difficult operation which he had to perform; possibly it might be carried out with greater ease in the confusion and excitement of a crowd, than under the undistracted scrutiny of only two pairs of eyes. All that he had to do was to slightly amend his plan of action to suit the altered circumstances. He replied to the letter with graceful condolence, asking that, in pursuance of the testator’s wishes as communicated to himself, all the family might be summoned to hear the will read after the funeral.
This was done accordingly; and when the company had returned from the ceremony, Mr Blackford found himself in the presence of a tolerably numerous and not too good-tempered assemblage, in Tom Wedlake’s dining-room. By this general invitation, vanished hopes had been revived, almost forgotten jealousies and suspicions had blossomed anew; and in every face, repressed truculence and ready defiance were thinly varnished over with the expression proper to the occasion. The general hostility brought itself to a focus upon Tom and Lucy, who were treated by all but the latter’s own parents with severely guarded affection.
The solicitor rose from his chair and addressed the expectant relatives with decorous gravity. He had carefully weighed and rehearsed every word which was to be spoken, for he had to pass through an ordeal which would test his coolness and readiness to the utmost. It was necessary in the first place to clear his way—to make sure that there was no unsuspected information in the possession of any present which might upset all his calculations in a moment.
‘It is now my duty,’ said he, ‘to read the will of the late Mr Franklin. But may I first ask, whether any one here happens to be aware of the intentions of the deceased with regard to the disposition of his property?’
There was no reply. All eyes were turned significantly and mistrustfully upon Tom and Lucy; but neither felt inclined to speak the word which should let loose upon them the pent-up storm.