Walter Besant - The Orange Girl

The procession had not far to go: the parish church, that of St. Michael Paternoster Royal, is but a short distance down the street: it is the church in which Whittington was buried, his tomb and his ashes being destroyed in the Great Fire a hundred years ago. The Church, like the house, was hung with black and lit by wax candles and our torches. The Rector read the service with a solemnity which, I believe, affected all hearts. After the reading of that part which belongs to the Church we carried the body to the churchyard at the back – a very small churchyard: there we lowered the coffin into the grave – I observed that the mould seemed to consist entirely of skulls and bones – and when dust was given to dust and ashes to ashes, we dashed our torches upon the ground and extinguished the flames. Then in darkness we separated and went each his own way. I observed that the lady who walked with Matthew left him when the ceremony was over. The weeping of the women ceased and the whispers of the men: everybody talked aloud and cheerfully. No more mourning for my father: pity and regret were buried in the grave with him: they became the dust and ashes which were strewed upon the coffin. He had gone hence to be no more seen: to be no more wept over. But, as you shall shortly hear, the dead man still retained in his hands the power of doing good or evil.

Matthew spoke to me as we left the Churchyard.

'Cousin,' he said, with more civility than I expected, 'if you can come to the counting-house to-morrow morning you will learn your father's testamentary dispositions. The will is to be opened and read at ten o'clock.'

'We will make him sell his Reversionary interest' – the voice was curiously harsh and grating – 'and you will then be able to take the whole.'

You know how, sometimes, one hears things in a mysterious way which one could not hear under ordinary circumstances. I was standing in the outer counting-house in the room assigned to the accountants. In the inner counting-house, I knew, my cousin was sitting. Without being told any thing more, I guessed that the voice belonged to the tall lean man who was present at the funeral, and that he was addressing Matthew, and that he was talking about me. And, without any reason, I assumed a mental attitude of caution. They were going to make me sell something, were they?

When I was called into the room I found that I was so far right, inasmuch as the only two persons in the room were my cousin and the lean man who by his black dress I perceived to be an attorney.

Now, I daresay that there are attorneys in the City of London whose lives are as holy as that of any Bishop or Divine. At the same time it is a matter of common notoriety that the City contains a swarm of vermin – if I may speak plainly – who are versed in every kind of chicanery: who know how to catch hold of every possible objection: and who spend the whole of their creeping lives in wresting, twisting, and turning the letter of the law to their own advantage, under the pretense of advantage to their clients. These are the attorneys who suggest and encourage disputes and lawsuits between persons who would otherwise remain friends: there are those who keep cases running on for years, eating up the estates: when they fasten upon a man, it is the spider fastening on a big fat fly: they never leave him until they land him in a debtor's prison, naked and destitute. I have observed that a course of life, such as that indicated above, presently stamps the face with a look which cannot be mistaken: the eyes draw together: the mouth grows straight and hard: the lips become thin: the nose insensibly, even if it be originally a snub, becomes like the beak of a crow – the creature which devours the offal in the street: the cheeks are no longer flesh and skin, but wrinkled parchment: the aspect of the man becomes, in a word, such as that of the man who sat at the table, a bundle of papers before him.

I knew, I say, that Mr. Probus – which was his name – was an attorney at the outset. His black coat: his wig: his general aspect: left no doubt upon my mind. And from the outset I disliked and distrusted the man.

The last time I had entered this room was to make my choice between my father and my music. The memory of the dignified figure in the great chair behind the table: his voice of austerity: his expectation of immediate obedience made my eyes dim for a moment. Not for long, because one would not show any tenderness before Matthew.

With some merchants the counting-house is furnished with no more than what is wanted: in this wharf it was a substantial house of brick in which certain persons slept every night for the better security of the strong-room in the cellars below. The principal room, that which had been my father's, had two windows looking out upon the river: the room was carpeted: family portraits hung upon the walls: the furniture was solid mahogany: no one who worked in such a room could be anything but a substantial merchant.

My cousin looked up and sulkily pointed to a chair.

At this time Matthew Halliday presented the appearance of a responsible City Merchant. His dress was sober yet of the best: nobody had whiter ruffles at his wrist or at his shirt-front: nobody wore a neck-cloth of more costly lace: his gold buttons, gold buckles, and gold laced hat proclaimed him an independent person: he carried a large gold watch and a gold snuff-box: he wore a large signet-ring on his right thumb, his face was grave beyond his years: this morning it presented an appearance which in lesser men is called sulky. I knew the look well, from old experience. It meant that something had gone wrong. All my life long I had experienced at the hands of this cousin an animosity which I can only explain by supposing a resentment against one who stood between himself and a rich man's estate. As a boy – I was four or five years younger than himself – he would take from me, and destroy, things I cherished: he invented lies and brought false accusations against me; he teased, pinched, bullied me when no one was looking. When I grew big enough I fought him. At first I got beaten: but I went on growing and presently I beat him. Then, if he attempted any more false accusations he knew that he would have to fight me again; a consideration which made him virtuous.

'Cousin,' he said coldly, 'this gentleman is Mr. Probus, the new attorney of the House. Mr. Littleton, his late attorney, is dead. Mr. Probus will henceforth conduct our affairs.'

'Unworthily,' said Mr. Probus.

'That is my concern,' Matthew replied with great dignity. 'I hope I know how to choose and to appoint my agents.'

'Sir' – Mr. Probus turned to me – 'it has ever been the business of my life to study the good of my fellow man. My motto is one taken from an ancient source – you will allow one of the learned profession to have some tincture of Latin. The words are – ahem! — Integer vitæ scelerisque Probus . That is to say: Probus – Probus, Attorney-at-Law; vitæ , lived; integer , respected; scelerisque , and trusted. Such, Sir, should your affairs ever require the nice conduct of one who is both guide and friend to his clients, you will ever find me. Now, Mr. Matthew, Sir, my honoured patron, I await your commands.'

'We are waiting, cousin,' said Matthew, 'for my father. As soon as he arrives Mr. Probus will read the Will. The contents are known to me – in general terms – such was the confidence reposed in me by my honoured uncle – in general terms. I believe you will find that any expectations you may have formed – '

'Pardon me, Sir,' interrupted the attorney. 'Not before the reading of the Will – '

'Will be frustrated. That is all I intended to say. Of course there may be a trifle. Indeed I hope there may prove to be some trifling legacy.