Walter Besant - The Orange Girl

'Perhaps a shilling. Ha, ha!' The attorney looked more forbidding when he became mirthful than when he was serious.

Then some of my cousins arrived and sat down. We waited a few minutes in silence, until the arrival of my uncle the Alderman with his wife and daughters.

The ladies stared at me without any kind of salutation. The Alderman shook his head.

'Nephew,' he said, 'I am sorry to see you here. I fear you will go away with a sorrowful heart – '

'I am sorrowful already, because my father was not reconciled to me. I shall not be any the more sorrowful to find that I have nothing. It is what I expect. Now, sir, you may read my father's will as soon as you please.'

In spite of my brave words I confess that, for Alice's sake, I did hope that something would be left me.

Then all took chairs and sat down with a cough of expectation. There was no more wailing from the ladies.

Mr. Probus took up from the table a parchment tied with red tape and sealed. He solemnly opened it.

'This,' he said, 'is the last will and testament of Peter Halliday, Knight, and Alderman, late Lord Mayor, Citizen and Lorimer.'

My uncle interposed. 'One moment, sir.' Then he turned to me. 'Repentance, nephew, though too late to change a parent's testamentary dispositions, may be quickened by the consequences of a parent's resentment. It may therefore be the means of leading to the forgiveness – ahem – and the remission – ahem – of more painful consequences – ahem – at the hands of Providence.'

I inclined my head. 'Now, sir, once more.'

'This will was made four years ago when the late Mr. Littleton was the deceased gentleman's attorney. It was opened three months ago in order to add a trifling codicil, which was entrusted to my care. I will now read the will.'

There is no such cumbrous and verbose document in the world as the will of a wealthy man. It was read by Mr. Probus in a harsh voice without stops in a sing-song, monotonous delivery, which composed the senses and made one feel as if all the words in the Dictionary were being read aloud.

At last he finished.

'Perhaps,' I said, 'someone will tell me in plain English what it means?'

'Plain English, Sir? Let me tell you,' Mr. Probus replied, 'that there is no plainer English in the world than that employed by lawyers.'

I turned to my uncle. 'Will you, Sir, have the goodness to explain to me?'

'I cannot recite the whole. As for the main points – Mr. Probus will correct me if I am wrong – my lamented brother leaves bequests to found an almshouse for eight poor men and eight poor widows, to bear his name; he also founds at his Parish Church an annual Lecture, to bear his name: he establishes a New Year's dole, to bear his name, of coals and bread, for twenty widows of the Parish. He has founded a school, for twelve poor boys, to bear his name. He has ordered his executors to effect the release of thirty poor prisoners for debt, in his name. Is there more, Mr. Probus?'

'He also founds a scholarship for a poor and deserving lad, to assist him at Cambridge. The same scholarship to bear his name and to be in the gift of his Company.'

'What does he say about me?'

'I am coming to that,' Mr. Probus replied. 'He devises many bequests to his nephews and nieces, his cousins and his personal friends, with mourning rings to all: there are, I believe, two hundred thus honoured: two hundred – I think, Mr. Paul, that it is a long time since the City lost one so rich and so richly provided with friends.'

'But what does he say about me?' I insisted.

'Patience. He then devises the whole of his remaining estate: all his houses, investments, shares, stocks: all his furniture and plate: to his nephew Matthew.'

'I expected it. And nothing said about me at all.'

'It is estimated that the remainder, after deducting the monies already disposed of, will not amount to more than £100,000, because there is a reservation – '

'Oh!'

'It is provided that the sum of £100,000 be set aside: that it be placed in the hands of trustees whom he names – the Master of his Company and the Clerk of the Company. This money is to accumulate at compound interest until one of two events shall happen – either the death of his son, in which case Mr. Matthew will have it all: or the death of Mr. Matthew, in which case the son is to have it all. In other words, this vast sum of money with accumulations will go to the survivor of the two.'

I received this intelligence in silence. At first I could not understand what it meant.

'I think, Sir,' Mr. Probus addressed the Alderman, 'we have now set forth the terms of this most important document in plain language. We ought perhaps to warn Mr. William against building any hopes upon the very slender chance of succeeding to this money. We have here' – he indicated Matthew – 'health, strength, an abstemious life: on the other hand we have' – he indicated me – 'what we see.'

I laughed. At all events I was a more healthy subject, to look at, than my cousin, who this morning looked yellow instead of pale.

'The span of life,' the attorney went on, 'accorded to my justly esteemed client, will probably be that usually assigned to those who honour their parents – say eighty, or even ninety. You, sir, will probably be cut off at forty. I believe that it is the common lot in your class. Above all things, do not build upon the chances of this reversion.'

Suddenly the words I had heard came back to me. What were they? 'We will make him sell his reversion.' 'Sell his reversion.' Then the reversion must not be sold.

Mr. Probus went on too long. You may destroy the effect of your words by too much repetition.

'A shadowy chance,' he said, 'a shadowy chance.'

'I don't know. Why should not my cousin die before me? Besides, it means that my father in cutting me off would leave a door for restitution.'

'Only an imaginary door, sir – not a real door.'

'A very real door. I shall live as long as I can. My cousin will do as he pleases. Mr. Probus, the "shadowy chance," as you call it, is a chance that is worth a large sum of money if I would sell my reversion.' Mr. Probus started and looked suspicious. 'But I shall not sell it. I shall wait. Matthew might die to-morrow – to-day, even – '

'Fie, Sir – oh, fie! – to desire the death of your cousin! This indeed betokens a bad heart – a bad heart. How dreadful is the passion of envy! How soul-destroying is the thirst for gold!'

I rose. I knew the worst.

'Do not,' Mr. Probus went on, 'give, I entreat you, one thought to the thing. Before your cousin's life lies stretched what I may call a charming landskip with daisies in the grass, and – and – the pretty warblers of the grove. It is a life, I see very plainly, full of goodness, which is Heavenly Wealth, stored up for future use; and of success on Change, which is worldly wealth. Happy is the City which owns the possessor of both!'

The moralist ceased and began to tie up his papers. When his strident voice dropped, the air became musical again, so to speak. However, the harsh voice suited the sham piety.

'Cousin Matthew,' I rose, since there was nothing to keep me longer. 'Could I remember, in your seven-and-twenty years of life, one single generous act or one single worthy sentiment, then I could believe this fustian about the length of days and the Heavenly Wealth. Live as long as you can. I desire never to see you again, and never to hear from you again. Go your own way, and leave me to go mine.'

The whole company rose: they parted right and left to let me pass: as the saying is, they gave me the cold shoulder with a wonderful unanimity. There was a common consent among them that the man who had become a fiddler had disgraced the family. As for Matthew, he made no reply even with looks. He did not, however, present the appearance of joy at this great accession to wealth. Something was on his mind that troubled him.