George Fenn - Mad - A Story of Dust and Ashes

“There, Tom, there; that’s nectar, Tom; that’s son, and daughter, and wife, and brother, and doctor, and friend, and everything but lawyer. That’s how I doctor myself, Tom; that’s how I doctor myself. ’Tain’t lawyer, Tom; but I can manage that myself and arrange about my few bits of things. You’d like my mourning-ring when I’m gone, wouldn’t you now, my dear brother?”

Doctor Hardon did not speak, but again shuffled in his chair, glancing uneasily at the sneering face before him; and as he thought of the goodly lands lying fallow, and the tenements in ruins, belonging to his brother, he recalled a case where he had been one of the certifiers respecting the sanity of an elderly lady; and then he wondered whether his brother had made a will, and what it specified.

“That’s how I doctor myself, Tom. That’s a cure for every kind of ache, Tom; try it. It’s good for runaway scoundrels of sons, and it’s good for runaway daughters, Tom, and runaway nieces, Tom. It’s good for everything, Tom; and I live on it,” chuckled the old man. “I didn’t want you for that, you see. You all left me; Septimus, and your jade of a girl, and you keep away; so I have it all to myself.”

“You are not going to take any more of that now?” said the doctor, as his brother once more drew the stopper from the bottle.

“No, no; not yet, not yet, Tom,” said the old man, placing the bottle on the chimney-piece. “Not yet, Tom, till after business. I wanted you about my will, Tom. D’ye hear? about my will.”

Doctor Hardon could not conceal the start he gave at hearing this last sentence; but he made an effort, and began to take snuff from a massive gold box.

“Ha, ha! I thought that would interest you, Tom,” chuckled the old man, watching his brother narrowly, and shading his keen eyes with his hand. “My will, Tom, my will, and what I shall do with my money; for I haven’t a soul belonging to me; not a soul, Tom. So you were coming to see me, Tom, were you, eh? Then you want money, don’t you? What have you been at, now? Mining-shares, eh? Just like one of your fool’s tricks.”

“Hadn’t you better refer to your solicitor?” said the doctor with assumed nonchalance, and not noticing the latter part of the speech.

“What for – what for, eh? No, no; I can do what I want with little help; and I have had nearly all I want done; and you can do the rest. It’s about money, Tom; and you always worshipped it – always – always. Now look here, Tom,” he continued, going back to the bureau and taking out a large envelope; “that’s my will, Tom, and I want it witnessed; d’ye hear, Tom? – witnessed. I’ve had it made for years; and it only wants another signature and then I think it will do, and it will be off my mind and be at rest; for I want to finish my reform work, Tom, – reform – reform – reform. Now look here, Tom; but see first that there’s no one listening at the door.”

Doctor Hardon rose and went across the room upon the points of his toes, peered out into the passage, closed the door silently, and then returned smiling, without having made a sound. But the smile of self-satisfaction at his successful management gave way the next moment to a look of astonishment, and then of anger, as Octavius exclaimed, “You sleek-looking, tom-cat humbug, you! I almost wish I had not sent for you – you treacherous-looking, smooth-coated rascal!”

Doctor Hardon turned almost purple with rage, but by an effort he choked it down.

“So you are, Tom; so you are,” snarled the old man, watching him keenly, and enjoying his discomfiture; “but you can’t afford to be affronted, Tom, can you?”

The doctor tried to laugh it off. “You always did love to tease me, Octy,” he said, with a twist of his whole body, as if the mental torture shot through every nerve.

“Tease!” snarled the old man – “yes; call it teasing if you like; but look here,” he said, drawing out the will, and folding it back so that only the bottom was visible – “bring that pen and ink, and come to the table here and sign;” and then he placed both hands tightly upon the paper, holding it down upon the table, and just leaving room for his brother to sign his name, all the while watching him suspiciously.

Doctor Hardon took the inkstand from a side-table, and placed it beside the will, glancing as he did so at the paper, but only to gaze upon the blank space. He then drew out a morocco case, and set at liberty an elaborate pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, ignoring for the time being the hand some double eyeglass hanging by a black ribbon from his neck. The glasses were wiped upon a delicately-scented cambric handkerchief; there was a soft professional cough given as they were fitted in their place; and then, taking a fresh dip of ink, the doctor again advanced majestically towards the table.

All this while Octavius Hardon had been watching his every action with a cynical smile upon his withered face, apparently deriving great pleasure from the ostentatious performance of his brother.

“Why don’t you purr, eh, Tom?” he snarled; “why don’t you purr, eh?”

Doctor Hardon tried to laugh pleasantly, but it was only a fat copy of his brother’s snarl; and then, once more dipping the pen, he leant over the table, placing a hand upon the paper, while at the same moment Octavius slid one of his own on one side, to give more room – perhaps to save it from touching the doctor’s plump, white, beringed digits.

The lamp was shaded, and cast a light full down upon the paper; and as the doctor stooped to write, he suddenly started as if he had been stung, and then stood trembling and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

“Humbug, Tom! humbug!” snarled his brother; “that’s your baggage of a girl’s name; but it don’t upset you like that? What did you act like a brute for, and drive her away, eh? You did, Tom; you did!”

“But I cannot sign the paper without knowing its contents,” stammered the doctor.

“Bah, fool! tom-cat! humbug!” snarled the old man, snatching up the paper, and trying with trembling hands to force it back into the envelope. “It’s my will, I tell you. There, be off!” and he began to shuffle back again to his chair.

“I’ll sign,” said the doctor reluctantly.

Octavius took not the slightest notice, only reseated himself.

“I’ll sign the paper, Octy,” said the doctor, in a tone of voice that seemed to prove his brother’s words – that he could not afford to offend him.

“You can do as you like,” croaked Octavius, shuffling the envelope into the breast-pocket of his dressing-gown, where it stuck out tantalisingly before the doctor, who would have given a week’s income to have known its contents. “You can do as you like, Tom – as you like.”

“I know that,” growled the doctor, in an undertone; but the old man heard him.

“There, go!” he shouted, in a harsh, cracked voice.

“Don’t I tell you I’ll sign?” said the doctor, in a lachrymose, injured tone.

The old man looked at him from beneath his hand for a few moments, with a cynical grin wrinkling up his eyes, and then, slowly leaving his seat, he took out and replaced the paper upon the table, jealously holding it down with both hands; and then the doctor signed his name just beneath the fair, clear characters of his daughter’s writing, while he ended with a flourish and a ponderous “MD.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Octavius, snatching the paper up hastily, and then holding it over the lamp, and afterwards to the fire to dry the ink.

“MD! Ha, ha, ha! Got your diploma framed and glazed, Tom? you purring, sleek, tom-cat humbug, you!” Then, without waiting to double the will in its original folds, the old man hastily replaced it in the envelope, took the shade and globe from the lamp, an old gold signet-ring and a stick of wax from the bureau; and then with his half-palsied hand he sealed the great envelope, and stamped the sprawling, blotchy patch of wax with the crest in the ring.