Part 3

‘I declare to you solemnly that I can reproach myself with nothing which, if known, would produce the consequences with which I am threatened. But you know persistent slander is sure to make its mark sooner or later; it is impossible to say what harm may have been done already.’

‘Who are the people?’

‘I don’t know.’ Before giving this unexpected answer, Willoughby looked down on the floor and round the room with the same lost and puzzled air as before.

‘You don’t know who they are!’ said Mr Blackford with incredulity. ‘That’s rather strange, isn’t it?—Come, Mr Willoughby; we are quite alone. Who are they?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ repeated the client; ‘I wish I could.’ He looked at the lawyer with a pitiably anxious expression, and beads of perspiration began to appear on his forehead.

‘When and where do they attack you?’

‘Incessantly and everywhere. I am never safe from them. Principally at my lodgings, and after I am in bed at night. They keep me awake with their outcry.’

Mr Blackford began to be puzzled. His new acquaintance continued to regard him with the same eager and helpless look, and wiped his forehead with a tremulous hand.

‘But—but—bless me,’ said the lawyer, ‘if they come and annoy you in your lodgings, why don’t you give them in charge?—How many are there of them?’

Willoughby shook his head gloomily. ‘They are too cunning for that,’ he answered. ‘They are careful to keep out of my sight. I never set eyes on them; I only hear their voices. And they are in hundreds—in thousands, for all I can tell.’

Mr Blackford of course at once understood the true state of the case, and the discovery was not a pleasant one. He was by no means a nervous man, yet he experienced an electrical sensation in the scalp of his head at the idea that he was sitting within a yard of an athletic madman. Clearly, it would not do to contradict so opinionated a person as this was likely to be; he must be humoured, and induced, if possible, to go away quietly.

‘That’s awkward—very awkward,’ said the solicitor in a reflective tone. ‘If we can’t see them, you know, how can we get at them so as to set the law in motion?’

‘I can’t tell what to do,’ said the other despondently; ‘that is why I have come to consult you. All I know is that they continue to denounce and threaten me night and day, and that it cannot go on without being noticed. In that case, my character will be materially injured, and they will have attained their object. Besides, they are killing me, Mr Blackford. A man can’t exist without sleep, and I have had but little for weeks past. And now I learn that they are contriving a plan to relieve one another at night, so as to keep me awake.’

There was something inexpressibly grim in the earnest yet matter-of-fact way in which these impossibilities were related; with agitation, indeed, but with nothing in the nature of abnormal excitement or maniacal frenzy. He spoke as a man who found great matter for trouble, but none for astonishment, in the nightly irruption into his lodgings of hundreds or thousands of abusive persons, whose numbers were no hindrance to their remaining effectually concealed in the space of two small rooms. But he surveyed the walls and floor at more frequent intervals in his dazed manner, as though he suddenly found himself in a strange place, while his moist and shaking hands nervously and convulsively worked his handkerchief into a compact ball.

Actuated at first by the best motives, Mr Blackford began to question him cautiously as to his connections and private affairs. It seemed that, with the exception of some distant relatives at the Cape, he was alone in the world; nor did he appear to have any friends in England upon whom he could rely. Having elicited the further fact that he had an income of five hundred pounds a year, derived from funded property, the solicitor ceased his questions and delivered himself up to reflection, while his client anxiously awaited the voice of the oracle.

There are many members of the junior branch of the legal profession who are of unbending uprightness and fastidious honour; there are a few downright knaves; and there are others who stand neither on the upper nor on the lower rungs of the moral ladder, but occupy a position somewhere about the middle. These last are equally prepared to be honest should honesty be made easy for them, or rogues in the face of difficulty or temptation; and among their number was Mr Blackford. He was not altogether favourably known to his brother practitioners; but neither could any definite charge be brought against him. He had done things which were certainly worthy of condemnation; but he had hitherto kept clear of any offence which would endanger his position on the rolls. He dressed neatly, he had a good manner and a correct accent, and he did not drink. His business was small, and not of a high class, lying mostly among the smaller sort of tradesmen; yet he had a certain connection, and even a few clients of means and fair position; and he was said to understand his work. He was quite without capital, and lived a hand-to-mouth life; and he had certain extravagant tastes of the lower kind. Money was always scarce with him, and he was prepared to acquire it in any way which offered, so that it was unattended with risk; for he was quite unburdened with scruples, considering all profit fair which could be safely gained. And he thought that in this case he saw a chance of such profit. Willoughby had answered all his questions, some of them bordering on impertinence, in the most open and unreserved fashion; he was evidently disposed to place the fullest confidence in his legal adviser, looking to him for sympathy and deliverance. Mr Blackford felt more at his ease in thus parleying with a probably dangerous lunatic, than a few minutes before he would have thought possible.

The upshot of his meditations was that he concluded to abandon, at all events for the present, his first very proper and humane purpose of communicating with the police, and trying to induce them to deal with the case as that of a lunatic at large, so that the poor fellow might be properly cared for until his friends could be communicated with. For this he substituted a different plan of action with admirable readiness, and with an entire absence of pity or compunction. It was clear that there was money to be made out of the man by judicious handling; and Mr Blackford was of opinion that no one could be better qualified to make it, or more deserving of it when made, than himself.

He accordingly advised that the threats and accusations should for the present be treated with contempt. No doubt they were made for the purpose of extorting money; any sign that they were producing an effect would only cause the annoyance to be redoubled. In the meantime he, Blackford, would use his wide experience and not inconsiderable abilities in his client’s behalf, and had no doubt of the ultimate success of his endeavours to discover the offenders and bring them to justice. The poor madman, with tears in his eyes, thanked him for his kindness and attention, declared that a load had been lifted from his mind, and was about to withdraw, when the solicitor stopped him with an air of having suddenly recollected something.

‘By the way,’ said he, ‘it’s hardly worth mentioning—but cases of this nature involve considerable expense to begin with, in the way of inquiries and so forth. It is generally the custom—— Well, to put it plainly, I think I must ask you for a small present payment on account; say five pounds or so.’

‘Of course, of course—certainly,’ said the other, fumbling nervously in his pocket. ‘I am much obliged to you for mentioning it; this is my first experience of the kind, I am happy to say. I have not quite the sum you mention with me at this moment. Would three pounds ten be enough for the present? and I will send the rest by post.’

‘O yes, that will do very well; only a matter of form, you know,’ said the solicitor carelessly, but laying an eager grasp upon the coins. ‘I hope to write to you satisfactorily before long—till then, good-bye.’

So soon as his new client had left, Mr Blackford assumed his coat and hat and went off to keep his appointment with Mr Franklin, who lived in Camden Town with his married niece and her husband. As the solicitor strode rapidly along, he felt a different being from the man who, but a short half-hour before, had been reading his letters in so despondent a mood. The sudden and unwanted accession of business from two quarters at once on the same day gave him a feeling of importance; and the consciousness of the four unexpected gold coins in his pocket thrilled through him with a comforting glow, like that of a glass of old ale on a frosty day. Willoughby, if properly managed, might prove a small gold mine before his madness should develop itself to an extent incompatible with attention to legal matters; and visions arose before him of a possible inquiry _de lunatico_, with its expensive accompaniments of the appointment of a ‘committee’ and the administration of a nice little estate; all to be conducted, in the not distant future, to his great pecuniary profit, by that trustworthy and able man of law, James Blackford. His castle-building extended to an important family connection thence to arise; to the hiring of more commodious offices in a better situation, necessitated by a rapidly increasing business; and by the time that he found himself at the end of his walk, the unpaid rent and the uncompromised compensation action had faded in a glow of splendid possibilities.

Mr William Franklin was a tall and gaunt old man, with a red face, on which dwelt continually a savage and sardonic smile, framed in a bristling fringe of silvery-white hair. His character might almost be summed up in the expressive phrase of certain of his acquaintance—friends he had none—by whom it was predicated of him that he was ‘an ugly customer.’ He was, in fact, an evil-tempered and malicious bully, whose selfish and tyrannical disposition had been fostered by an undue consciousness of the twenty-five thousand pounds which he had made in business, and by the assiduous court which his wealth caused to be paid to him by expectant relatives, with all of whom he took pleasure in quarrelling in turn, enjoying with a fiendish glee their subsequent agonies of self-abasement.

‘So, it’s you at last!’ said this amiable old gentleman, when Mr Blackford was shown into his presence. ‘Thought you were never coming. What’s kept you?’

The solicitor, with great humility of manner, apologised for the unavoidable delay, and alluded to the overwhelming pressure of business and the constant calls upon his time.

‘Oh, I’m sure—I’m sorry to have put you about so,’ said Mr Franklin with vast politeness. ‘I couldn’t think of detaining you when you’re so busy. It’s a matter of no consequence, after all. Pray, don’t wait; I’ll send to Jones and Crowder; I daresay _they_ won’t be too much engaged to come at once.’

Greatly alarmed, Mr Blackford hastened to protest that his time was entirely at Mr Franklin’s disposal.

‘Then don’t tell me a pack of lies!’ roared the client with an instantaneous change of manner, facing round from the fireplace, poker in hand, with every apparent intention of committing a violent assault upon his solicitor. ‘Man alive! don’t I know that it’s just as much as you can do to keep body and soul together in that poky little hole of an office of yours?—_Business_, indeed! As if I wasn’t about the only decent client you have! And why I _am_ your client, goodness only knows. It’s compassion, I suppose. I always was too soft-hearted for this world.’

His visitor could have furnished him with a better reason—namely, that no other lawyer had ever been found capable of putting up with his insolence and tyranny. But Mr Blackford had plenty of self-control, and could bear a good deal where anything was to be got by doing so.

The soft-hearted gentleman smote the coals violently, fulminating subdued anathemas the while with a dreadful grin. The solicitor, knowing his man, remained perfectly quiet; and presently Mr Franklin spoke again, abruptly, but in a quieter tone.

‘Here! I want to make my will. I’m going to do it at last—in a fashion that will astonish some of ’em. They’ve been anxious enough about it these ten years and more. I hope it’ll please ’em when it’s done. A set of hungry hounds! Ready to lick the dirt off my boots for the money, and nothing too bad to say of me behind my back. I know it as well as if I heard it. Not a penny—not a penny for one of ’em! I’d rather take it into my grave with me—not but what they’d grub me up again, if I was in the middle of the earth.’

There was again a short silence. Mr Blackford awaited his instructions.

‘Then there’s this young Tom Wedlake been giving me his sauce, just because I spoke a word to that lazy young baggage of a wife of his—said he wasn’t going to stand it—_he_ wasn’t going to stand it—the beggar! and if I didn’t like it, I could go. _Will_ I! I’ll stay here, just to spite him. Besides, I’m a deal too comfortable to move. _She_ won’t let him turn me out—the artful minx. “Dear uncle—don’t be cross with me, dear uncle!”’ said Mr Franklin with an access of fury, and a ludicrous assumption of a feminine falsetto. “Leave all your money to your niece, dear uncle; that’s what you’ve got to do.” Not a brass farthing, by Jove! He doesn’t want my money, doesn’t he? and he has the impudence to tell me so! Very good, Mr Thomas Wedlake; I’ll take you at your word. I’ll pay you out, you—you—rapscallion!’

The furious monologue seemed to have spun itself out; so Mr Blackford ventured a word.

‘Then I gather, sir, that you do not intend to leave any portion of your property to your nephew and niece—and I have no doubt you are exercising a sound discretion, as always. But as you are justly offended with your other relations, what disposition do you think of making?’

‘Mind your own business!’ was the unexpected retort.

Mr Blackford felt rather aggrieved, as the matter _was_ clearly his business; but he said nothing. The old man continued his jerky discourse, addressed more to himself than to his visitor.

‘You’re right, though.—What shall I do with it? I’ve been asking myself the same question ever since I wrote to you last night; and now you’re here, I’m no nearer the answer. It’s a deal of money, hard got, and soon spent; and I don’t know who it’s to go to. Plaguy hard to leave it at all. No good grumbling about that, though. I won’t give it to an hospital, or build a church, or endow almshouses; I’ve no patience with that sort of humbug. As if a man hadn’t been robbed enough all these years, what with rates and what with taxes. I can’t keep the money myself, and there’s no one to give it to—no one.’

Perhaps, through that heart, all seared and scorched with evil passions, eaten through and through with corroding suspicion, there darted a momentary pang at the thought that there was not a human being from whom the gift of all his painfully acquired wealth would buy one tear of sorrow, or even one grateful remembrance of the giver.

He sat brooding with a gloomy brow; and this time the silence was so long that Mr Blackford was about to break it at the risk of another rebuke, when Mr Franklin smote his hand upon his thigh and laughed—a harsh and cackling laugh, devoid of mirth or geniality.

‘Blackford,’ said he, ‘I’ll leave it to you!’

Had the lawyer received a blow from the ready poker which stood in the nearest corner of the fireplace, he could hardly have been more thoroughly stunned. ‘To me!’ he managed to gasp out, after a moment’s astounded silence.

‘I’ll leave it to you!’ repeated Mr Franklin, nodding emphatically. ‘Ain’t you willing, that you stare like a stuck pig? It’s not because of any regard for you—don’t think it. I’ll leave it to you, just because it will be about the worst kind of sell for ’em all I could anyhow invent. I hate ’em—every one! and the thought of their faces when they come to hear the will read, will be about the only consolation I shall have for being obliged to part with it at all. And mind you, I shall make it a condition that they do hear it read. You are to call them all together for the purpose, and you’re not to breathe a word beforehand of the nice little surprise in store for ’em. Every man-Jack will think he’s been “remembered”—and so he has, I assure you! You’ll have a nice time of it with ’em, Blackford. D’ye quail at the thought of it—eh? If so, say the word, and we’ll think of something else.’

‘Not on my account, I beg,’ said the solicitor, recovering his senses. ‘I daresay I shall be equal to the occasion. But Mr Franklin, my _dear_ sir, how am I to thank you for such munifi’——

‘You’d better not thank me at all, if you’re wise,’ said the eccentric testator; ‘you may sicken me like the rest, and then I shall alter my mind. Bosh! I know you well enough. You’ll try to double the money as soon as you get it; and you’ll either lose it all and hang yourself, or you’ll get mixed up in some piece of rascality that will bring you to penal servitude. You have my instructions. Go and make the will; and bring it here to-morrow, and I’ll sign it. And look here! bring two witnesses with you; I don’t want any one in this house to know what I’ve been about. Here’s a list of the securities. Be off! Good-bye—get out!’ And with this unceremonious dismissal, the interview came to an end.

As he hurried back to his office, Mr Blackford was able at last to realise the immensity of the good luck which had befallen him in this extraordinary manner. Twenty-five thousand pounds, all invested in sound Stock Exchange securities! Good-bye to the strife for bread; to the trap-net of petty pecuniary embarrassments which meets and deadens effort at every struggle; to the haunting care which makes hard the nightly pillow and drives away slumber before the dawn; to the hand-to-mouth existence, and the thousand-and-one daily degradations of a struggling professional man. Good-bye to one and all—if Mr Franklin’s suddenly conceived purpose would but hold until he should in good time, the best of time, betake himself to a region where codicils are an impossibility. But one thought was present to the lawyer’s mind at that moment—to get the will drawn and signed with all possible expedition; but one hope was his—that his client might thereafter make an edifying end with as little delay as possible.

AVALANCHES.

The word avalanche carries with it a sound of terror and dismay, which may well appal any mind. Happily, avalanches are unknown in Great Britain; but in Switzerland they are sadly too frequent. They are known also under other names in some parts of Italy and Germany. Avalanches consist of large accumulations of snow, set free by some means, descending from an elevated region to the valley. Their action is more or less twofold: chiefly by the mass of the snow sweeping away or overwhelming everything which comes in its course; but also, sometimes, by so violently disturbing the air as to cause a hurricane, which in its destructive force kills men and cattle, and tears up trees and even houses from their solid foundations.

Avalanches have been divided into four classes. There are powdery avalanches, in which the snow and ice break up into powder, forming a kind of silver cloud, sparkling like quicksilver, and making a noise like distant thunder. This kind is more dangerous by reason of the commotion produced in the air, than by its weight or power to overwhelm. There are what are called creeping avalanches. The mass of snow, being disengaged, moves down a more gentle slope, as on an inclined plane, and so is sluggish in its course. Then there is the glacier avalanche, which consists of a large mass of ice detached from the glacier above, which descends to the valley. This is the least dangerous kind, and is more common in summer. Lastly, there is the avalanche proper, which is the most dangerous of all, and consists of vast accumulations of snow set free from above, which increase in force as they descend, overthrowing houses, tearing up trees, burying villages, and swallowing up forests, cattle, and human beings. Sometimes, however, an avalanche may change its character in its descent; as, for instance, a creeping avalanche may reach a steep declivity, and the mass of snow falling on the sharp angles of a rock, it may be shattered, and its mass dispersed in a cloud of powdery snow. Cases occur sometimes in which, instead of burying the objects with which they come in contact, they drive them into the valley, and deposit them at a considerable distance from their original position. A remarkable case of this kind occurred in 1806; an avalanche which fell in the Val Calanca, transferred an entire forest to the other side of the valley, and planted a fir-tree on the roof of the rector’s house!

An instance may be given of the effects of a powdery avalanche which occurred in the Oberland, in the canton of Berne. It was on the 12th of December 1808, about six o’clock, that the avalanche descended on the village of Shärmatt, sweeping away three houses, and carrying one of them fully three hundred yards, and some portions of it more than half a mile. In one house two persons were smothered by the snow, and five in the other. The third house contained six children and their uncle. Some of the children were in bed, and the rest were sitting at a table learning their catechism. All at once the light was put out, a thick darkness surrounded them, they felt themselves enveloped in snow, and whirled along they knew not whither. Presently a deep ditch stopped the progress of the house. The uncle, soon recovering his presence of mind, began to grope about the snow for the children. After a long search, he found them—all alive, and not seriously injured. He took them to a barn near by, where they were obliged to spend the remainder of the night, some of them almost naked, though the cold was intense. The father of the children was engaged with his cows at a shed at some distance, and was horror-struck, when he returned to where his house had stood, to find it gone—swallowed up, as he supposed, with the whole of his family. But his fears were soon exchanged for joy; and the sight of the meeting of the father and his children and brother affected the roughest of the bystanders to tears.