Читать книгу A Miner's Million - John Monk Foster - Страница 5

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"Is that you Walter! What a while you've been away—why you are crying! What is the matter with you, lad?"

"I thought—I thought," the young man stammered, rising from his knees and trying to hide his tear-stained face from his uncle.

"Thought what!" Jacob Gray interrupted, gazing inquisitively at his nephew.

Walter remained silent; he did not wish to tell his uncle he had thought him dead, and he was not a ready hand at coining lies or evasive answers. But Jacob seemed to understand what had been the cause of Walter's sorrow, for he said:

"So you thought I was gone, lad, did you, and you were crying? Well, never mind, Walter," he continued, evidently touched by his nephew's emotion, "I'm livin', you see. I dropped asleep as soon an you left the room. Did you find the will?"

"Yes, it's here," Walter replied picking up the sheet of paper from the floor, and handing it to his uncle.

When Walter Gray dropped on his knees beside the bed he felt convinced that his uncle had passed away. In the intensity of his sorrow he pressed his face against the side of the bed, the hot, bitter tears flowing freely and moistening the coverlet. Suddenly he was startled by his uncle's voice speaking to him, and he realized that his uncle was still alive. Afterwards he learned that the housemaid who cannonaded against him at the bottom of the staircase had peeped into the sick room, and all being deathly still in the chamber, and seeing Jacob Gray lying motionless on the bed she imagined her master was dead and fled from the place in affright.

Jacob Gray examined the will keenly for a few moments, then he handed it back to his young kinsman.

"I can see it's the will I made nearly fifteen years since, Walter, but I can't read it. My eyesight's goin' fast. Sit down, lad, and read it to me."

Walter drew a chair close to the bed, sat down on it, smoothed out the sheet of paper, and wondering how his relative had disposed of his vast riches, he commenced to read the "home made" will, which ran as follows:—

"THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF JACOB GRAY, MINEOWNER, TORLEIGH, LANCASHIRE."

I, Jacob Gray, being in sound health and mind, do freely give all I possess to my nephew, Walter Gray, the only son of my brother, James Gray, of Bolton, Lancashire. All my mines at Torleigh; all my railway shares; all my houses in this town; everything in which I have right, claim, or interest I give and bequeath to my adopted child, the above-mentioned Walter Gray, subject to the following bequeaths:—

To my housekeeper, Nancy Makins, five hundred pounds, free of legacy duty;

and to my old friend and workman, Adam Bates, a like sum, also duty free.

Should my son, Robert Wilson Gray, return to England alive he shall receive five hundred pounds a year as long as he lives from my nephew, Walter Gray.

"JACOB GRAY,

"DANIEL WATERS, Witness, "JOSIAH BARNES, Witness, "July 25,1850."

"It's not a very long will, Walter, is it? But I think it'll do, eh?"

"It's short enough, certainly," the young man replied, very quietly.

"Short and sweet, lad; short and sweet; and I did it all myself; but it took me a goodish while. I borrowed a copy of a will from old Mawton, the 'torney—you'll not remember him, Walter—and I managed somehow. What do you think about it, eh?"

"I do not like it at all, uncle."

"What? Not like it? Why, what's amiss with it?"

Jacob Gray's voice expressed great wonderment, and he glanced suspiciously at his nephew, who sat stiffly on the chair, gazing fixedly upon the will he had just read, and which he still held open before him.

"I dislike it, uncle, because I think it the outcome of an attack of resentment which was, perhaps, only natural at the time it was made, but is——"

"Outcome of resentment—what do you mean?"

"You say you made it nearly fifteen years ago—at a time when you were very much vexed and grieved by my cousin's behaviour, and you resolved to punish his follies by disinheriting him?"

"True, quite true, lad."

"Then don't you see that this will is unjust both to yourself and my cousin Wilson?"

"I don't see it, Walter."

"I see it plain enough. What you wrote many years ago in a fit of anger you are about to grave in adamant now. When my cousin capped all his follies by forging your name and leaving the country, it was but natural that you should make a will like this, but it would be both cruel and unnatural to adhere to a resolution made so long ago."

"But, Walter, the will you have in your hands meets all my wishes now. I was vexed when I made it, but I have no wish to change it at all. There's not a word I want alterin'."

"But surely, uncle," Walter said warmly, "you don't mean to give me so much and your son so little?"

"My son!" Jacob Gray burst out with feeble bitterness, "where is he? what is he? A broken down gambler, a forger, and God knows what beside. He disgraced me and killed his mother, but his Maker has very likely punished him for all his sins long ago."

"Don't agitate yourself, uncle. I will speak no more of this matter if it displeases you."

"It doesn't displease me, Walter, and you'll say whatever you like. I know that your words come right from your heart—who's that?"

There was a tap at the chamber door, it opened, and the nurse appeared in the doorway.

"Send her out, Walter, send her out," Jacob Gray exclaimed, "I've plenty to say to you yet."

"My uncle says that you may rest yourself a little longer, Mrs. Dobbs. I will ring when you are wanted."

The woman went away, and when the door closed behind her the great coalmaster continued the former conversation by saying—

"Go on, Walter; speak out. It's not every one that would stand in his own light as you are doin'. You ought to have spoken against Wilson, and not in his favour, if you had been thinkin' of your own ends."

"I prefer to speak my honest thoughts, uncle," Walter replied quietly.

"Well, well, go on, lad. You know I always consider what you say."

"What I have to say is this," Walter said in a low, emphatic tone, "I disapprove altogether of this will so far as it relates to me and my cousin. You've left me all and Wilson nothing. He may turn up some day, and what do you think he will think of you and of me when he finds that I have robbed him of what he naturally considers his birthright?"

"What will he think?—what can he say?"

"He will think and say that I have wormed myself into your favour by all kinds of low and despicable tricks. He will imagine that I have played the part of 'the good young man' who never went astray, thus affording you a contrast to his own follies in order to displace him in your will and affections."

"It doesn't matter what he thinks, lad. He has forfeited all claim to my respect and love, and as to money, he never helped me to get a penny of it, so he has not the least right to it. Surely a man can do as he likes with his own?"

"But the world will think with Wilson that he had the greater right to your fortune."

"What the world thinks, and what Wilson thinks," said Jacob irritably, "is nothing to me. The world has nothing to do with it, and Wilson has had a fortune already. I paid fifteen thousand pounds worth of his debts, and after that he forged my name for ten thousand more. That's five-and-twenty thousand he has had, besides his allowance. Isn't that enough, considering how shamefully he has behaved?"

"He is your son," was all that Walter answered.

"So he is, and on that account I forgave him for forging my name, when I would have prosecuted anybody else."

Uncle and nephew were silent for the space of ten seconds. The conversation seemed to have tired Jacob Gray, for he lay panting on his pillows, and Walter was walking thoughtfully about the bedside, his feet falling noiselessly on the thick carpet. Passing beside the bed, the young man said—

"Do you think of making a fresh will, uncle?"

"Makin' a fresh will? No. Why should I make one? Won't this do?"

"No!" rejoined Walter emphatically. "I don't want your money—I will not have it. It belongs to——"

"Tush! tush! lad, what rubbish you talk. Your cousin in dead long ago, or we should have heard of him before now——"

"I feel sure he is alive."

"If I were sure of it I wouldn't leave my money to him. Do you think that after I have worked and slaved all these years that I would let my money be wasted away in gamblin' and drinkin'—to be spent on bad men and worse women, and God knows what beside?"

"But Wilson may come back a better man. Give him a chance when he comes. Alter this will—or rather make a new one. Let Wilson and myself change places—five hundred a year will be as much as I shall ever need."

"You're a bigger fool than I thought you, Walter," grunted Jacob, shifting uneasily on his pillows, "It's a nice thing that I can't do what I want with my own. It's a nice thing, it is."

"Do you want Wilson to curse you when you are lying in your grave?" Walter demanded abruptly.

"Curse me when I'm lyin' in my grave?" the old man echoed, sharply, glancing at his nephew with frightened eyes, "No! no! certainly not; whatever made you ask such a question?"

"Because if you do not make a fresh will he will curse you if ever he returns. He is your only son, and, right or wrong, he expects to be your heir——"

"But, Walter——"

"Hear me out, uncle, and then I've done with this matter altogether. Wilson has not been a good son I know, but don't you think that he has been punished sufficiently already? Do not carry your vengeance to the grave with you. Forgive Wilson—let me telegraph to Manchester for your solicitor, Mr. Braile—or fetch a local attorney—and have a new will made. Give the bulk of your fortune to my cousin, put me in one corner, and I shall be satisfied. Then when Wilson returns—as he will return some day—he will bless instead of cursing you, and you will rest all the easier in your grave for his blessing. Don't you think so, uncle?"

"I think that I ought to have made a parson of you instead of a mining engineer; that's what I'm thinkin'," grunted Jacob.

"But you will have a new will made, uncle, won't you?" the young man persisted.

"I don't know," the elder man retorted in a tone which implied that he did not relish giving way.

"Shall I go for Mr. Mawton, or telegraph for Mr. Braile?" Walter asked. He perceived that his uncle was giving way, and he resolved to mould his relative to his wishes while he was in a plastic mood.

"You must do neither yet, Walter. I don't like the thought of having a new will made at all. If I do alter my mind it will only be to please you. It's all nonsense making a new will in your cousin's interest for he's been dead long enough, I know, or he'd have been at me for money before this."

"He may be hiding in some far away country—America or Australia?" Walter suggested.

"I doubt it," Jacob retorted querulously. "No country's big enough to hold a poor devil who's got a rich father save the country the father lives in. But you'll have your own way, I suppose. Well, I'll promise to think about what you wish me to do and let you know in a day or two."

"Sir David Manselle said that you had only a few days to live," Walter remarked quietly, "and a little while ago you remarked that you felt he had spoken the truth. Why not do the thing at once while there is time? A good action cannot be done too soon, as you have told me often. Who shall I fetch? Your own solicitor, or the local attorney, Mr. Mawton?"

"Fetch whoever you like," cried Jacob, wearied by the long talk, and overmastered by his nephew's pertinacity. "If you won't have the fortune at once it's your own fault, that's all."

"Then I'll go for Mawton at once," Walter said, glad that he had won his way. "He'll be able to draw up a new will as well as your own solicitor, I daresay."

"Don't fetch Mawton, Walter. Send for Mr. Braile."

"All right. I'll wire him at once, and he'll be here in an hour or two. I'll go to the telegraph office myself."

Walter Gray hurried from the sick room quite elated with his success. He experienced as great a satisfaction in having persuaded his uncle to leave his fortune to Wilson as most men would have felt in having won the fortune for themselves. Untainted yet with the slavish adulation of money which characterises the youth of the day, he felt a sincere pleasure thrilling him through because his uncle's many thousands were to be left to his cousin, Wilson Gray.

Half-an-hour after leaving the sick chamber Walter had handed to the telegraph clerk at Torleigh Railway Station the following message:—

"From Walter Gray, The Platts, Torleigh. "To John Braile, solicitor, Market-street, Manchester. "Come down here at once. My uncle is seriously ill. Wants to see you on business. Come to-day if you can possibly do so."

A couple of hours later a dapper little man of perhaps fifty, whose collar and cuffs were immaculate, and whose boots fitted him like the gloves of a lady of fashion, presented himself at the front door of The Platts, giving the door bell a quick tug. Then the gentleman gazed critically on his shapely feet, arranged his tie and cuffs, and complacently awaited the answer to his summons.

There was very little of the proverbial mustiness of the old lawyer, and much of the dandy about Mr. John Braile, solicitor. The man of law's weakest points were self-esteem and love of dress. He loved to be mistaken for a gentleman of fashion, and the royal road to his good opinion was easily reached by complimenting him on his taste, address, and appearance.

Walter Gray was expecting Mr. Braile, and the lawyer was shown into the room where the young man was awaiting him.

"You got my telegram, Mr. Braile?"

"Certainly, sir; that is why I am here. I trust that your uncle is better. His ailment is not dangerous, I hope."

"I fear that he will not live much longer. Sir David Manselle, who has been called in, says he won't last more than a few days."

"I need not say how deeply I regret to hear this. I suppose you know the nature of the business on which your uncle wishes to see me?"

"Yes. It is respecting a will."

"Ah, I see. Mr. Gray wishes to make one?"

"Yes."

"I thought so when I received your urgent message, and I may tell you that I have always thought it singular that your relative had not made one long ago. I consider it extremely foolish and hazardous on the part of a wealthy man to put off making a will so long as your uncle has done."

"But he has made one will already."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, so long ago as eighteen-fifty. He desires you to draw up a new one."

"May I ask if you have seen the old will?"

"Oh, yes. My uncle and I were discussing it at some length this morning."

"Indeed; and who drew it up, may I venture to enquire?"

"My uncle himself—here is the old will; read it and then we'll go together to my uncle's room."

The dapper lawyer remarked on the danger and folly of people drawing up their Last Testaments themselves; then he subsided into silence and bestowed his attention on the sheet of paper Walter had placed in his hands.

"Ah! just as I expected. The nephew made the sole heir—the son cut off according to his deserts. And now, I suppose, your uncle wishes me to embody the gist of this paper—pardon me, I can scarcely call it a will—into the new will I am to draw up?"

"Well, not exactly. The new will is to be like this one in every particular save one."

"And what is that, may I ask? Some legacy to some old friend, or some bequest to some charitable institution, I suppose?"

"No! I and Wilson Gray are to change places. He is to inherit the bulk of the fortune, I five hundred a year."

"Bless me!" ejaculated the solicitor surprised out of his composure, "What a change. Whatever has happened to cause your uncle to change his mind? You've been quarrelling, I suppose, and he's going to put you in his son's place for the same reason that he put his son there when he made this will. I must talk to him. If he leaves his money to his son there won't be a shilling of it in half a dozen years."

"I beg of you not to mention the matter to my uncle at all, Mr. Braile. I——"

"But I shall be able to convince him of his error," Braile interrupted.

"I do not want you to convince him," said Walter. "It was I who induced him to consent to the change, and I only managed to do so after a long talk."

Mr. Braile forgot himself so much as to stare in a manner he would have thought vulgar in another, and he blurted out—

"Do you mean to say that you persuaded your uncle to give the bulk of his fortune to your cousin when he had already made a will in your favour?"

"Yes. I thought, and still think, that my cousin has a nearer claim than I have, and I merely prevented a wrong being done."

"But, my dear sir——"

"We will not discuss the matter if you please," Walter replied, rising. "Shall we go to my uncle? Perhaps he will be awake now."

They left the room together, and on reaching the sick chamber found Jacob Gray still dozing. The nurse was dismissed, and then Walter said—

"We will not awake him. I think you had better make a draft of a new will, something like this one, only remember that Wilson and I are to change places; and when he awakes we can submit it to him."

"Yes, yes," said Braile as he prepared to do what Walter had suggested, wondering the while if this young man were quite sane who so pleasantly gave up a fortune.

Mr. Braile was busy writing by the window, and Walter Gray who stood beside him watching the progress of the draft of the new will, when they were both startled by a cough, and turning round they found Jacob, awake and regarding them intently.

"So you've got Mr. Braile here, Walter, I see," said Jacob.

"Yes," replied Walter, going to the bedside; "when we came in you were asleep, so we thought it better not to disturb you. I told Mr. Braile of the old will—in fact he has read it—and I've mentioned the change you contemplate making. I suggested that he should sketch the new will, making it something like the other, with the exception that Wilson and I were to change places."

"Change places?" Jacob muttered.

"Yes. Isn't that what you mean?" Walter asked.

"No! no! certainly not. I believe that your cousin is dead, and if I leave all to him, and he doesn't turn up, what then? That'll not do at all—come here, Mr. Braile."

"Yes, yes," replied the solicitor, and he was beside the bed in a moment. "What can I do for you?" he asked. "Am sorry to see you so ill."

"Hear what I've to say, then you'll learn what I want you to do. I want to leave my money and other things so that my son can have them if he's living, and if he's dead—which I believe him to be—then I want the will arranging so that all will go to Walter, here."

"I understand—I understand," murmured Braile.

"Wilson will soon turn up," Jacob Gray continued, "when he knows there's a fortune waitin' for him—that's if he's alive. If he doesn't turn up in twelve months after I die I want the will makin' so that all will go to Walter, with the exception of £300 a year to be paid to Wilson, supposin' he turns up after, which isn't likely."

"But, uncle," interposed Walter, "twelve months is not long enough. Wilson may be in some far away place, where the news of his heirship will not reach him easily, and I think he ought to have five years at least—don't you think so, Mr. Braile?"

"I think with you, Walter, that Wilson may be living, and, as you say, might not hear of the fortune he will inherit in a year's time."

"I differ from you both," Jacob exclaimed petulantly. "Twelve months is plenty long enough, but make it five years, or twelve years, if Walter wants you. He will have all the longer to wait, that's all."

"I am content," said Walter, "to give my cousin a fair chance. When he comes I shall not be ashamed to meet him, or hold out my hand to him."

A light table was carried to the bedside, and Mr. Braile seated thereat. After the expenditure of some time and considerable trouble the solicitor succeeded in drawing up a will to suit Jacob Gray. According to the new will Robert Wilson Gray was to inherit the bulk of his father's wealth, provided that he returned within the space of five years after his father's death, and his cousin, Walter, was to have a thousand a year for life, and if Wilson Gray died without issue Walter was to inherit the property.

If Wilson Gray did not return to claim his fortune within the specified time Walter was to take immediate possession at the expiration of that period, and if Jacob Gray's son turned up afterwards he was to receive a thousand a year for life.

These provisions, with a few bequests to servants and old friends, constituted the new will, and when it was made out and duly attested, both Jacob Gray and his young kinsman felt easier in their minds. Jacob Gray felt that he had played the closing part of his life well, and he awaited the coming of the "reaper" with composure.

Walter had done his duty to the cousin he had never seen, and his conscience was clear and easy, and that with him was everything.

Sir David Manselle's prognostication regarding his wealthy patient, the great Lancashire coalmaster, was not very far wrong. Jacob Gray lingered about a fortnight, then he died, gently and painlessly, like a child sinking to sleep after a hard day's tumbling on the grass or sands.

The Torleigh Telegraph appeared on the following Saturday edged with a broad border of deep black, and a large portion of its space was occupied by an exhaustive biographical notice of the deceased mineowner. Of course, the writer of this article—a new reporter who had never seen Jacob Gray in his life—dilated on the consummate mining talent and great perseverance of the dead man, pointing out how the very town itself owed its existence to his daring spirit.

The town honoured Jacob Gray's memory with a public funeral, Mayor, Aldermen, and Town Councillors following his remains to the grave, dressed in their newest black, and wearing their most respectable manners. Everybody talked to everybody else of the wonderful success which had crowned Jacob Gray's labours; his riches were often adverted to, and most people thought that the deceased must have lived and died a supremely happy man. He was rich, and to the poor riches and happiness appear synonymous.

A few weeks after his uncle's death, Walter consulted Mr. Braile. He thought something ought to be done to acquaint his cousin of the fortune that was awaiting him, and he wanted the solicitor to advise him as to the best means of finding Wilson.

"You know, Mr. Braile," said Walter, "that I wish my cousin to have his father's fortune if he is alive, and I want your advice as to how I am to find him, no matter in which part of the world he may be."

"I know of only two methods of searching for your cousin," said the solicitor, "and they are the employment of private detectives and advertising in the newspapers."

"And which method do you think the better one—but perhaps it would be advisable to use both?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Gray," the solicitor answered. "I fail to see of what use any number of detectives would be in this case. Your cousin has been away such a great length of time, and to attempt to find him by the aid of detectives would be expensive and——"

"What matters the expense!" Walter broke in warmly. "There's over a million awaiting my cousin's coming, and we need feel no hesitance about spending a few thousands to acquaint him of the fact."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Braile in his blandest manner, "permit me to conclude my sentence. I was about to say that the employment of detectives is not only an expense, but a clumsy method. What are detectives! Very common people, indeed, I assure you. The majority of those I know are dull, uneducated men, who having failed to master some handicraft or business through laziness or inaptness, join the police force, and thence wriggle into the detective department because the work is less and the pay better."

"Then we must advertise, I suppose?"

"Certainly. This case is exactly suited for advertising, and unsuited for the employment of detectives. When a criminal is wanted, of course, detectives must be used, for you cannot expect a murderer or a forger to answer an advertisement; but when you want a man to answer an advertisement for a large fortune, all that is necessary is to advertise extensively, and if he's alive it will reach his ears."

"Then we most lose no time in sending advertisements to all the principal papers in England, America, and Australia," Walter replied, "and I believe that in a few months, perhaps sooner, we shall have the pleasure of seeing my cousin."

"Then we had better draw up the advertisement now," said Braile, "and I will have copies of it dispatched immediately to the various papers in which it is to appear."

Walter signified his assent, the advertisement was made out, and shortly afterwards hundreds of people in various parts of the world were wondering where the fortunate individual was who was wanted for a fortune.

Curious people indulged in various speculations regarding the advertisement and the man to whom it referred, and to many an ambitious young novelist on the look out for a plot the advertisement suggested a novel of the sensational type.