The Orange Girl

'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.

My uncle the Alderman spoke for the family.

'Nephew,' he said, 'believe me, it is with great sorrow that we see thee thus cast out: yet we cannot but believe the acts of my brother to be righteous. I rejoice not that my son has taken thine inheritance. I lament that thou hast justly been deprived. The will cuts thee off from the family.' He looked round. A murmur of approval greeted him. A disinherited son who is also a fiddler by profession cannot be said to belong to a respectable City family. 'We wish thee well – in thy lower sphere – among thy humble companions. Farewell.' I passed through them all with as much dignity as I could assume. 'Alas!' I heard him saying as I stepped out. 'Alas! that cousins should so differ from each other in grain – in grain!'

His daughters, my dear cousins, turned up their noses, coughed and flattened themselves against the wall so that I should not touch so much as a hoop – and I saw these affectionate creatures no more, until – many things had happened.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TEMPTATION

One morning, about six weeks after the funeral, I was sitting at the harpsichord, picking out an anthem of my own composition. The theme was one of thanksgiving and praise, and my heart was lifted to the level of the words. All around was peace and tranquillity: on the river bank outside Alice walked up and down carrying our child, now nearly a year and a half old: the boy crowed and laughed: the mother would have been singing, but she would not disturb me at work. Can mortal man desire greater happiness than to have the work of his own choice; the wife who is to him the only woman in the world: a strong and lovely child: and a sufficiency earned by his own work? As for my chance of ever getting that huge fortune by my cousin's death, I can safely aver that I never so much as thought of it. We never spoke of it: we put it out of our minds altogether.

I heard steps outside: steps which disturbed me: I turned my head. It was Mr. Probus the attorney. He stood hat in hand before Alice.

'Mr. William's wife I believe,' he was saying. 'And his child? A lovely boy indeed, Madam. I bring you news – nothing less in short than a fortune – a fortune – for this lovely boy.'

'Indeed, Sir? Are you a friend of my husband?'

'A better friend, I warrant, Madam, than many who call him friend.'

'He is within, Sir. Will you honour our poor cottage?' He stood in the open door.

'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have your permission to enter?'

At sight of him the whole of the anthem vanished: harmony, melody, solo, chorus. It was as if someone was singing false: as if all were singing false. I put down my pen. 'Sir,' I said, 'I know not if there is any business of mine which can concern you.'

'Dear Sir,' he tried to make his grating voice mellifluous: he tried to smile pleasantly. 'Do not, pray, treat me as if I was an adviser of the will by which your father deprived you of your inheritance.'

'I do not say that you were. Nevertheless, I cannot understand what business you have with me.'

'I come from your cousin. You have never, I fear, regarded your cousin with kindly feelings' – this was indeed reversing the position – 'but of that we will not speak. I come at the present moment as a messenger of peace – a messenger of peace. There is Scripture in praise of the messenger of peace. I forget it at the moment: but you will know it. Your good lady will certainly know it.' Alice, who had followed him, placed a chair for him and stood beside him. 'I bear the olive-branch like the turtle-dove,' he continued, smiling. 'I bring you good tidings of peace and wealth. They should go together, wealth and peace.'

'Pray, Sir, proceed with your good tidings.'

Alice laid her hand on my shoulder. 'Husband,' she said, 'it would be no good tidings which would deprive us of the happiness which we now enjoy. Think well before you agree to anything that this gentleman, or your cousin, may offer.' So she left us, and carried the boy out again into the fresh air.

'Now, Sir, we are alone.'

He looked about him curiously. 'A pretty room,' he said, 'but small. One would take it for the cottage of a fisherman. I believe there are some of these people in the neighbourhood. The prospect either over the river or over the marsh is agreeable: the trees are pleasant in the summer. The Dog and Duck, which is, I believe, easily accessible, is a cheerful place, and the company is polite and refined, especially that of the ladies. No one, however, would think that a son of the great Sir Peter Halliday, ex-Lord Mayor and Alderman, West India Merchant, was living in this humble place.'

'Your good tidings, Sir?'

'At the same time the position has its drawbacks. You are almost within the Rules. And though not yourself a prisoner, you are in the company of prisoners.'