this astounding piece of generosity?'
I said nothing. Only suddenly there returned to my mind the words I had overheard in the outer counting-house.
'We will make him sell his reversion.'
What connection had these words with me? There was no proof of any connection: no proof except that jumping of the wits which wants no proof.
'With £3,000,' Mr. Probus continued, 'you can take a more convenient residence of your own – here, or elsewhere: near the Dog and Duck, or further removed: you can live where you please: with the interest, which would amount to £150 a year at least, and what you make by your honest labour, you will be, for one of your profession, rich. It will be a noble inheritance for your children. Why, Sir, you are a made man!'
He threw himself back in his chair and puffed his cheeks with the satisfaction that naturally follows on the making of a man.
I was tempted: I saw before me a life of comparative ease: with £150 a year there would be little or no anxiety for the future.
Mr. Probus perceived that I was wavering. He pulled a paper out of his pocket – he slapped it on the table and unrolled it: he looked about for ink and pen.
'You agree?' he asked with an unholy joy lighting up his eyes. 'Why – there – I knew you would! I told Mr. Matthew that you would. Happy man! Three thousand pounds! And all your own! And all for nothing! Where is the ink? Because, Sir – I can be your witness – that cousin of yours, I may now tell you, is stronger than any bull – sign here, then, Sir – here – he will live for ever.'
His eagerness, which he could not conceal, to obtain my signature startled me. Again I remembered the words:
'We will make him sell his reversion.'
'Stop, Mr. Probus,' I said. 'Not so quick, if you please.'
'Not so quick! Why, dear Sir, you have acceded. You have acceded. Where is the ink?'
'Not at all.'
'If you would like better terms I might raise it another fifty pounds.'
'Not even another fifty will persuade me.' At that moment I heard Alice singing,
'The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And lead me with a shepherd's care.'
The Lord – not Mr. Probus. I took the words for a warning.
'We shall not want any ink,' I said, 'nor any witness. Because I shall not sign.'
'Not sign? Not sign? But Mr. William – Sir – surely – have a care – such an offer is not made every day. You will never again receive such an offer.'
'Hark ye, Mr. Probus. By that clause in his will my father signified his desire, although he would punish me for giving up the City – to show that he was not implacable and that if it be Heaven's will that I should survive my cousin I should then receive his forgiveness and once more be considered as one of the family. Sir, I will not, for any offer that you may make, act against my father's wish. I am to wait, God knows I desire not the death of my cousin – I wait: it is my father's sentence upon me. I shall obey my father. He forgives me after a term of years – long or short – I know not. He forgives me by that clause. I am not cursed with my father's resentment.'
'Oh! He talks like a madman. With £3,000 waiting for him to pick up!'
'I repeat, Sir. In this matter I shall leave the event to Providence, in obedience to my father's wishes. Inform my cousin, if you please, of my resolution.'
More he said, because he was one of those tenacious and obstinate persons who will not take 'No,' for an answer. Besides, as I learned afterwards, he was most deeply concerned in the success of his mission. He passed from the stage of entreaty to that of remonstrance and finally to that of wrath.
'Sir,' he said, 'I perceive that you are one of those crack-brained and conceited persons who will not allow anyone to do them good: you throw away every chance that offers, you stand in your own light, you bring ruin upon your family.'
'Very well,' I said, 'very well indeed.'
'I waste my words upon you.'
'Why then waste more?'
'You are unworthy of the name you bear. You are only fit for the beggarly trade you follow. Well, Sir, when misery and starvation fall upon you and yours, remember what you have thrown away.'
I laughed. His cunning face became twisted with passion.
'Sir,' he said, 'all this talk is beside the mark. There are ways. Do not think that we are without ways and means.' Then he swore a great round oath. 'We shall find a way, somehow, to bring you to reason.'
'Well Mr. Integer Vitæ scelerisque Probus,' I said. 'If you contemplate rascality you will have to change your motto.'
He smoothed out his face instantly, and repressed the outward signs of wrath. 'Mr. Will,' he said, 'forgive this burst of honest indignation. You will do, of course, what you think fit. Sir, I wish you a return to better sense. I think I may promise you' – he paused and clapped his forefinger to his nose, 'I am sure that I can so far trespass on the forbearance of your cousin as to promise that this offer shall be kept open for three weeks. Any day within the next three weeks you shall find at my office the paper ready for your signature. After that time the chance will be gone – gone – gone for ever,' he threw the chance across the river with a theatrical gesture and walked away.
What did it mean? Why did Matthew want to buy my share? We might both live for forty years or even more. Neither could touch that money till the other's death. He might desire my early death in which case all would be his. But to buy my share – it meant that if I died first he would have paid a needless sum of money for it: and that if he died first it would not be in his power to enjoy that wealth. I asked Ramage on the Sunday why Matthew wanted it. He said that merchants sometimes desire credit and that perhaps it would strengthen Matthew if it were known that this great sum of money would be added to his estate whenever either his cousin or he himself should die. And with this explanation I must be content. There was another possibility but that I learned afterwards.
'We will make him sell his reversion.' What was the meaning of those words? Perhaps they did not apply to me. But I was sure that they did. Like a woman I was certain that they did: and for a woman's reason – which is none.
CHAPTER IX
THE CLAIM AND THE ARREST
You have heard how my old friend David Camlet, musical instrument maker, of Dowgate Street, presented me – or my wife – on our marriage, with a handsome harpsichord. Shortly after my father's death, this good old gentleman also went the way of all flesh: a melancholy event which I only learned by receiving a letter from Mr. Probus. Imagine, if you can, my amazement when I read the following:
'Sir,
'I have to call your immediate attention to your debt of fifty-five pounds for a harpsichord supplied to you by David Camlet of Dowgate Street, deceased. I shall be obliged if you will without delay discharge this liability to me as attorney for the executors —
'Why,' said Alice. 'Mr. Camlet gave us the instrument. It was a free gift.'
'It
