style="font-size:15px;"> “What for – what for, eh? No, no; I can do what I want with little help; and I have had nearly all I want done; and you can do the rest. It’s about money, Tom; and you always worshipped it – always – always. Now look here, Tom,” he continued, going back to the bureau and taking out a large envelope; “that’s my will, Tom, and I want it witnessed; d’ye hear, Tom? – witnessed. I’ve had it made for years; and it only wants another signature and then I think it will do, and it will be off my mind and be at rest; for I want to finish my reform work, Tom, – reform – reform – reform. Now look here, Tom; but see first that there’s no one listening at the door.”
Doctor Hardon rose and went across the room upon the points of his toes, peered out into the passage, closed the door silently, and then returned smiling, without having made a sound. But the smile of self-satisfaction at his successful management gave way the next moment to a look of astonishment, and then of anger, as Octavius exclaimed, “You sleek-looking, tom-cat humbug, you! I almost wish I had not sent for you – you treacherous-looking, smooth-coated rascal!”
Doctor Hardon turned almost purple with rage, but by an effort he choked it down.
“So you are, Tom; so you are,” snarled the old man, watching him keenly, and enjoying his discomfiture; “but you can’t afford to be affronted, Tom, can you?”
The doctor tried to laugh it off. “You always did love to tease me, Octy,” he said, with a twist of his whole body, as if the mental torture shot through every nerve.
“Tease!” snarled the old man – “yes; call it teasing if you like; but look here,” he said, drawing out the will, and folding it back so that only the bottom was visible – “bring that pen and ink, and come to the table here and sign;” and then he placed both hands tightly upon the paper, holding it down upon the table, and just leaving room for his brother to sign his name, all the while watching him suspiciously.
Doctor Hardon took the inkstand from a side-table, and placed it beside the will, glancing as he did so at the paper, but only to gaze upon the blank space. He then drew out a morocco case, and set at liberty an elaborate pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, ignoring for the time being the hand some double eyeglass hanging by a black ribbon from his neck. The glasses were wiped upon a delicately-scented cambric handkerchief; there was a soft professional cough given as they were fitted in their place; and then, taking a fresh dip of ink, the doctor again advanced majestically towards the table.
All this while Octavius Hardon had been watching his every action with a cynical smile upon his withered face, apparently deriving great pleasure from the ostentatious performance of his brother.
“Why don’t you purr, eh, Tom?” he snarled; “why don’t you purr, eh?”
Doctor Hardon tried to laugh pleasantly, but it was only a fat copy of his brother’s snarl; and then, once more dipping the pen, he leant over the table, placing a hand upon the paper, while at the same moment Octavius slid one of his own on one side, to give more room – perhaps to save it from touching the doctor’s plump, white, beringed digits.
The lamp was shaded, and cast a light full down upon the paper; and as the doctor stooped to write, he suddenly started as if he had been stung, and then stood trembling and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
“Humbug, Tom! humbug!” snarled his brother; “that’s your baggage of a girl’s name; but it don’t upset you like that? What did you act like a brute for, and drive her away, eh? You did, Tom; you did!”
“But I cannot sign the paper without knowing its contents,” stammered the doctor.
“Bah, fool! tom-cat! humbug!” snarled the old man, snatching up the paper, and trying with trembling hands to force it back into the envelope. “It’s my will, I tell you. There, be off!” and he began to shuffle back again to his chair.
“I’ll sign,” said the doctor reluctantly.
Octavius took not the slightest notice, only reseated himself.
“I’ll sign the paper, Octy,” said the doctor, in a tone of voice that seemed to prove his brother’s words – that he could not afford to offend him.
“You can do as you like,” croaked Octavius, shuffling the envelope into the breast-pocket of his dressing-gown, where it stuck out tantalisingly before the doctor, who would have given a week’s income to have known its contents. “You can do as you like, Tom – as you like.”
“I know that,” growled the doctor, in an undertone; but the old man heard him.
“There, go!” he shouted, in a harsh, cracked voice.
“Don’t I tell you I’ll sign?” said the doctor, in a lachrymose, injured tone.
The old man looked at him from beneath his hand for a few moments, with a cynical grin wrinkling up his eyes, and then, slowly leaving his seat, he took out and replaced the paper upon the table, jealously holding it down with both hands; and then the doctor signed his name just beneath the fair, clear characters of his daughter’s writing, while he ended with a flourish and a ponderous “MD.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Octavius, snatching the paper up hastily, and then holding it over the lamp, and afterwards to the fire to dry the ink.
“MD! Ha, ha, ha! Got your diploma framed and glazed, Tom? you purring, sleek, tom-cat humbug, you!” Then, without waiting to double the will in its original folds, the old man hastily replaced it in the envelope, took the shade and globe from the lamp, an old gold signet-ring and a stick of wax from the bureau; and then with his half-palsied hand he sealed the great envelope, and stamped the sprawling, blotchy patch of wax with the crest in the ring.
“There, Tom; that’s done!” chuckled the old man, replacing the will in the bureau, turning the key, and dropping it on the carpet as he tried to place it in his pocket. “Now, look here, Tom,” he said, taking the poker, and making a hole in the fire, “that envelope isn’t to be opened till I’m gone, Tom; and I’ll tell you this – you’re one of the executors, and then you’ll know what’s in it, eh? – what’s in it. Now, I won’t tamper with it any more, and no one else shall.” As he spoke he dropped the fine old ring into the hot pit he had prepared for its reception, and sat down, chuckling at his brother.
Doctor Hardon sat down breathing heavily, with strange thoughts in his heart, as he looked upon the weak old man before him, and thought of his possessions.
“Now, Tom,” said Octavius, chuckling and placid, as he took the little bottle and spoon from the chimney-piece, “there’s a decanter with some old port in that sideboard cellaret, and a glass with it. Help yourself, Tom; help yourself; this is my wine.”
“But you took a quantity of that laudanum just now,” said the doctor.
“You’re a fool, Tom! You’re a purring, sleek-coated fool!” chuckled the old man, hastily filling the spoon again, and swallowing its contents, “Help yourself – you like port, Tom – and then go, and don’t come here any more till you’re sent for.”
Doctor Hardon drew himself up to display his offended dignity, but the old man only watched him and chuckled sneeringly; so he slowly rose, and with his professional roll walked to the sideboard and back, filled his glass, and then placed the decanter upon the table. He then sat down, curiously watching his brother, who lay back in his chair, apparently gazing into the fire. The doctor raised the glass to his lips, lowered it once more, and then his fat white hand played nervously round his mouth, for there were strange thoughts
