The Finger of Fate: A Romance. Reid Mayne
the General, without even prefixing the word “please.”
The lawyer, still obsequious, signified assent, at the same time seizing a pen, and placing a sheet of blue foolscap before him.
“I hereby will and bequeath to my eldest son, Nigel Harding, all my real and personal estate, comprising my houses and lands, as also my stock in personal securities, excepting one thousand pounds, to be sold out of the last, and paid over to my other and youngest son, Henry Harding, as his sole legacy left from my estate.”
To this extent the lawyer finished the writing, and waited for his client to proceed.
“You have done, have you?” asked the General.
“So far as you dictated, General, I have.”
“Have you written down the date?”
“Not yet, General.”
“Then put it in.”
Woolet took up his pen, and complied.
“Have you a witness at hand? If not, I can bring in my footman.”
“You need not do that, General. My clerk will do for one witness.”
“Oh! it wants two, does it?”
“That is the law, General; but I myself can be the second.”
“All right, then; let me sign.”
And the General rose from his seat, and leaned towards the table.
“But, General,” interposed the lawyer, thinking the will a somewhat short one, “is this all? You have two sons?”
“Of course I have. Haven’t I said so in my will?”
“But, surely – ”
“Surely what?”
“You are not going to – ”
“I am going to sign my will, if you will allow me; if not, I must get it made elsewhere.”
Mr Woolet was too much a man of business to offer any further opposition. It was no affair of his beyond giving satisfaction to his new client; and to accomplish this he at once pushed the paper before the General, at the same time presenting him with the pen.
The General signed; the lawyer and his clerk – summoned from the cupboard – attested; and the will was complete.
“Now make me a copy of it,” demanded the General. “The original you may keep till called for.”
The copy was made; the General buttoned it up in the breast of his surtout; and then, without even cautioning the lawyer to secrecy, stepped back into his carriage, and was soon rolling along the four miles of road lying between the village and his own residence.
“There’s something queer about all this,” soliloquised the pettifogger, when left alone in his office. “Queer he should come to me, instead of going to his own solicitor; and queerer still he should disinherit the younger son – or next thing to it. His property cannot be worth less than a cool hundred thousand pounds, and all to go to that half-negro, while the other, as most people thought, would have a half share of it. After all, it’s not so strange. He’s angry with the younger son; and in making this will he comes to me instead of going to Lawson, who he knows might say something to dissuade him from his purpose. I have no doubt he will stick to it, unless the young scamp leaves off his idle ways. General Harding is not a man to be trifled with, even by his own son. But whether this will is to remain good or not, it’s my duty to make it known to a third party, who for certain reasons will be deeply interested in its contents; and who, whether she may ever be able to thank me for communicating them, will, at all events, keep the secret of my doing so. She shall hear of it within the hour.”
“Mr Robson!”
The pale face of the unarticled clerk appeared within the doorway – prompt as a stage spirit summoned through a trap.
“Tell the coachman to clap the horses into my carriage – quick as tinder.”
The spirit disappeared without making any reply, and just as his invoker had finished the folding of the lately attested will, and made a minute of what had transpired between him and the testator, carriage wheels were heard outside the door of the office.
In six seconds after Mr Woolet was in his “trap” – as he used condescendingly to call it – and rattling along a country road, the same taken ten minutes before by the more ostentatious equipage of the retired Indian officer.
Although driving the same way, the destination of the two vehicles was different. The chariot was bound for Beechwood Park, the “trap” for a less pretentious residence outside its enclosure – the villa-cottage occupied by the widow Mainwaring.
Chapter Ten
The Bait Taken
The relict of the late colonel, who had left his hones in the Punjaub and herself with only a slight maintenance, had nevertheless sufficient to maintain a “turn-out.” True it was but a pony and phaeton; but the pony was spirited, the phaeton a neat one, and with the charming Belle in it, hat on head, whip and ribbons in hand, it might have been termed stylish. The appearance was improved by a boy in buttons, who sat upon the back seat, well trained to sustain the dignity of the situation.
This choice little tableau of country life might have been seen at the gate of Mrs Mainwaring’s villa at eleven o’clock of that same day, on which the conversation already reported had passed between herself and her daughter in the breakfast-room.
It was an early hour for a drive; but it was to be a journey upon business to her lawyer. It was never made; for just as the sprightly Belle had taken her seat in the phaeton, adjusted her drapery, and commenced “catching flies” with her whip, what should appear coming up the road, and at a spanking pace, but the two-horse trap of that lawyer himself, Mr Woolet.
The trap was evidently en route for the widow’s residence, where more than once it had brought its owner upon matters of business. Its approach was a fortunate circumstance; so thought Mrs Mainwaring, so thought her daughter, neither of whom on that particular day desired to go to the town. It was not one that had been set apart for shopping; more important matters were on the tapis, and these could be arranged with Mr Woolet on the spot. The phaeton was at once abandoned, “Buttons” receiving orders to keep the pony by the gate, and the ladies, followed by the lawyer, returned into the cottage. The attorney was received in the drawing-room; but, as the business could have nothing to do with the beautiful Belle, her presence was excused, and she sauntered out again, leaving her mother alone with Mr Woolet.
Though there was still a certain obsequiousness about the lawyer’s manner, it was very different from that he had exhibited when dealing with General Harding. There was a vast distinction between a live General, possessed of a clear hundred thousand pounds, and a defunct colonel’s widow, with scarce so many pence. Still, Mrs Mainwaring was a lady of acknowledged social position, with a daughter who might at no distant day have the control of a gentleman who had a hundred thousand pounds, and who might become a profitable client of whoever chanced at the time to be her mother’s solicitor. Mr Woolet was a sharp, far-seeing individual, and this forecast had not escaped him. If he showed himself more at ease in the presence of the colonel’s widow than he had done in that of the General, it was simply because he recognised in the lady a nature like his own – less scrupulous upon points of honour or etiquette.
“Have you any business with me, Mr Woolet?” asked the lady, without making known the fact that she was about going on business to him.
“Well, Mrs Mainwaring, scarce enough to make it worth while my calling on you – at all events, interrupting your drive. What I have to say may be of no importance – but five minutes will suffice for saying it.”
“Take what time you please, Mr Woolet; our drive had no object – a little shopping affair of my daughter’s, that can be disposed of at any hour. Please be seated.”
The lawyer took a chair; the lady sank into a couch.
“Something, I suppose, connected with the