LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1474, 6 November 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

PROCTOR’S CASE.

Bv Mrs. Cashel Hoey. (Concluded.) Two hours later, Mr Nimmo and 1 were ushered into the room in which I had last seen Mr Proctor. It had the painfully orderly look with w T hich we are all acquainted on similar occasions ; the screen was folded ami placed in a corner, the armchair and writing-table were in their accustomed places, but there vere no papers, books, or signs of the ordinary occupations of life in the place that should know its former owner no more The early autumnal afternoon was chilly, a fire burned in the grate ; the servant set chairs for us near to the fireplace and withdrew. After a few moments, Bernard Proctor entered the room by the second door, which I have before described as opposite to the convex mirror upon the wall, and almost simultaneously Bichard came in by the other. After a few -words of course, Bernard Proctor sealed himself in his father’s armchair, in oxaotly the same place that Mr Proctor had occupied during my last interview with him, and Richard stood by the lire with his hand on the back of my chair.’

‘ We have sent for you gentlemen,’ said Bernard Proctor, abruptly, and not directing his glance towards either of us, ‘to inform you that, unless there be some mistake, and a will exists among the papers of our late father which are in your keeping, ho has died intestate. There is no will here.'’

‘No, indeed,’ said Bichard; ‘every part of the house has been searched, and there is not anything of the kind. My mother, too, is confident that my poor father never made a will.’

Though ho was careful not to look near me, I detected ; an irrepressible gleam of triumph in the face of Bernard Proctor. ‘As you know nothing about law,’ Richard went on, ‘my father, as you know, Mr Forest ’—he touched me light’y on the shoulder—‘kept all his business matters strictly between himself and yourseP, and not even my mother knows anything about them, we thought it bettor to have this matter cleared up at once ’

‘ls it peifectly certain that there is no will among the papers in your keeping '! It was Bernard who asked the question, and he addressed it to Mr Nimmo, wh<>, evidently annoyed by his tone, replied shortly ;

‘ It is quite certain, sir.’_ ‘No will can be found in this house. It is therefore plain that my father never made one, and nay brother arid I wish to ascertain the exact legal position in which we stand. My mother is provided for by settlement,’ A certain pomposity came into hig manner towards the ch sc of tins speech, which increased my distaste towards the young man. ‘I beg your pardou,’l said, forestalling

Mr Nimmo, who was about to speak, * but you go too fast- Mr Proctor did make a will, and I am acquainted with its contents; for I read the document in this room, at his request, ten days ago. It was duly signed and attested by two witnesses, who are no doubt forthcoming, and was dated less than a year ago.’ I looked straight at Bernard Proctor while I spoke those words, and saw him turn pale in spite of a strong effort * Indeed 1’ he said quickly, ‘ a very strange statement, Mr Forrest; but if you really saw the will, there’s nothing for it but to accept the fact, and to conclude that my father afterwards destroyed it.’ ‘ Who were the witnesses ?’ The question was Richard’s. ‘John Jenkins and Bartholomew Jenkins.’

4 The gardener and his son, who went to America in the spring 1’ exclaimed Richard ; “ great favourites with my poor father they were. The very two he would have selected if he did not want a thing talked about.’ ‘He had a objection to making a will,’ said I, ‘ and it cost him a great effort. If he destroyed the one which I read, some very powerful motive, produced by some extraordinary circumstance, must have induced him to do so. May I ask whether anything unusual occurred just before his seizure—within the three proceeding days, I mean ?’

‘Nothing at all,’answered Richard, ‘on the contrary, he seemed more cheerful than usual.’

‘ Excuse me, I ask a question which does not seem to be justified ; but this ie a serious matter. Was any communication made to him which could have changed his feelings towards you, or even made temporary annoyance ?’ ‘I know what you mean,’ Richard answered promptly, with his usual frankness; ‘and you are quite right to ask the question. We had said nothing to him respecting my hope of becoming Miss Hartletop’s husband, but my mother, finding him so well and so cheerful, had made up her mind to speak to him about it on the very day of his seizure.’ ‘Then it is very difficult to conceive what can have induced him to destroy his will. He had made it, to my knowledge, after long and mature deliberation, and was even unwilling to reperuse it, when I suggested that he should do so before sending it to our office to bs copied. However, I suppose it must be accepted, Mr Bernard, as you say so, that the will has been destroyed.' Again I spoke very slowly, and looked full at him.

‘lt must bo accepted that a will was in existence,’ he replied, with unbridled insolence, ‘as yon say so, Mr Forrest ’ ‘ Precisely so ; but I thiuk I can jog your memory sufficiently to induce it to recall something corroborative of my distinct recollection in this matter.’

‘My memory—l don’t know what you mean. I know nothing about it.’ ‘Oh yes, 1 think you do—l think you do. 1 was reading your father’s will, he sat opposite to me, where you are sitting now, and in the same chair, when you opened that door yonder—it’s capitally hung, and it makes no noise - and pushed it just sufficiently open to hear our voices, and to see, in the mirror —I pointed to it— ‘ what we were doing, I could see your face for a moment before you withdrew it, very discreetly, not to disburb a business interview in which you had not been asked to take part’ He was more than pale now; he was livid, and he gripped the arms of his chair with savage force. But he did not speak; I thick he could not.

‘ I looked after you, but you had withdrawn so quickly in your great discretion, that you were out of sight; there was no trace of you but this sprig of stephanotis lying on the carpet, I idly picked it up and put it in my pocket-book, as a little bit of circumstantial—shall I say evidence, or detail? Your brother will probably remember that, when I joined him and your mother in the hall, you were j ast coming in with a nosegay from the hot-house, chiefly of stephanotis.” “In heaven’s name, what does all this mean?” asked Richard, looking from me to his brother in amazement.

‘‘Mean, my dear Richard! It merely means that Mr Bernard had forgotten the little incident, which might have cleared up all doubt in his mind as to the existence of a will, but which, of course, does not aid us in the least in arriving at a conclusion as to what has become of the document.”

Richard made no reply; he turned his back on his brother, laid his arm on the chimney! iece, leaned his head on his hand, and kept silence during the remainder of the scene.

Bernard Proctor literally gasped with rage, as I turned the withered twig about in my fingers, and affected to look closely at it, Mr Nimmo looked at us both in bewilderment.

‘Go on, sir, go on!’ Bernard stammered ; ‘ I don’t know what you are driving at, but go on. If you know so much about this will, you know what it contained.’ ‘Perfectly,’ I replied, ‘but it is no part of my duty to tell what I know on that point. The knowledge was imparted to me in confidence; the document has been destroyed, presumably by the framer of it. His de-ires and intentions can therefore no longer be in question, the communication of them to me remains a confidential one, and I shall certainly not violate that trust.’

‘Enough of this, sir,’ said Bernard, violently ; he had rallied from his brief panic. ‘ We do not require to know any of your scruples, we demand from Mr Nimmo his professional opinion upon our legal position under the circumstances of my father’s having died intestate.’ ‘I am very sorry, gentlemen,’ said Mr Nimmo, with firmness, ‘ to be present on so painful an occasion. I should prefer to have a little time to think over the matter; I I could not answ such a question offhand.’

He rose while speaking, with an air of decided leave-taking. Still, Richard Proctor did not turn his head or make a sign. ‘lt ought not to be so difficult for an experienced lawyer,’ said Bernard, ‘and it is very unpleasant for us that there should be any delay.’ ‘ Thei’o need not be a moment’s,’ said I, ‘if Mr Nimmo will permit mo to answer your question for him.’ Mr Nimmo made a gesture of assent. Bernard Proctor rose, and took one step nearer to me; only Richard made no sign, ‘ Your position is a very painful and unfortunate one, Mr Bernard Proctor,’ I continued, ‘ you are absolutely deqrendent on your brother, being entitled to no share whatever in your father’s property, he having died intestate.’ ‘ What do you mean?' exclaimed Bernard, with an oath. Richard raised his head and listened, still standing with his back to us.

* Precisely what I say. Your father’s will made such a division of his property as he thought right; that will has been destroyed ; and, as he never would invest his money in securities, it is all in what is technically termed real property. Ho was not aware, and doubtless you are not aware, that the custom of borough-English prevails in Ipswich, as it does in many other towns In England. The meaning of that custom is that, on the death of an intestate, the real property gaos to the youngest son. You are much to ho pitied, Mr Bernard Proctor s it is very unfortunate that you? fathers will was destroyed.’

‘ It's false !’ ho gasped, almost inarticulate with rage ; ‘ it’s false ! There’s no ma 0 h hv. famous law, or if there is I’ll fight it in every Court in the kingdom ! It’s a vile plot between you and my brother; you were always confederates.’ For all reply I made him a how, and accompanied it by a slow and deliberate shrug of my shoulders My feeling at the moment was, that anything which might befall him would he a great deal too good for Bernard Proctor,

So saying, and without any reference to Richard, I was about to follow Mr Nimmo, who had gained the door by which we had entered, when Bernard Proctor, pushing away the arm-ohnir so that it spun round upon its castors, rushed out yf the room by

the other dor, thus leaving me alone with Eichard. The young man turned to me with a very pale and wobegone face. ‘ Did he destroy the will ?’ ‘ I fear he did. * Is all that you say true !’ ‘Quite true. All that your father died possessed of is yours by law.’ * But by right. By his wish ?’

‘ Come to me to-morrow, and I will talk to you about that. I will not stay longer now.’

Mr Nimmo and I walked a good way in silence. At length he broke it by saying : ‘ That’s a bad fellow.’

‘ A thoroughly bad fellow ; and his father knew it. He has defeated himself effectually, however.’ ‘Evidently; though I cannot judge of that as well as you, not knowing the particulars. Oddly enough, it is the first time I have seen borough - English in action within my own experience, and I must say I consider this an example of its wholesomeness.’

Bernard Proctor left Ipswich that same night, and was never again seen in the town. He did try to fight the case as ho had threatened, but he had an honester man for his adviser than the adviser had for his client, and the suit never saw the dubious daylight of a court of law. When Eichard pressed me for my advice as to what he ought to do for his brother, in spite of his ill conduct, I told him what had been the provision made for Bernard by his father before this latest development of his character, and Richard decided that he would carry out that intention. Tne first shock of the occurrence to Mrs Proctor was great; but I believe she was secretly relieved by Bernard’s absence, and had suffered much from the tyrannous greed of her eldest son. We do not speak of him to the family who live at Harbletop Hall, where Lady harteltop had her former rooms—very different now, and echoing to the sound of childish laughter, for her ladyship’s grandchildren are numerous and noisy—but we hear of him at Ipswich from time to time. He is a very prosperous man ; having induced Richard, five years after their father’s death, to give him a large lump sum in lieu of his annuity, and forthwith departed to the West Indies, where he engaged in trade and married the richest and ugliest heiress in the region. He is much more wealthy than Richard Proctor, and, as he is childless, has taken testamentary precaution against the possibility of his brother’s coining in for any portion of his property; a proceeding which exactly meets Richard’s views also. So there is some sort of harmony between the estranged brothers; and I think I have proved that there was more romance about money than about love, in one case within my knowledge, at all events.