THE WILL OF MRS ANNE BOWDEN.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

I called at the hospital twice or thrice, to see if any inquiry had been made for the mysterious and irritating parcel which I had so unwittingly appropriated on the 24th of February. I looked in the newspapers for advertisements of lost documents; I even myself advertised my possession of a sealed envelope, of which I gave as elaborate a description as so simple an object permitted. All in vain! Nobody seemed to want the packet, and it remained an unclaimed foundling on my hands.

We discussed the question of my duty in the matter in full conclave. (It was about this time that ‘full conclave’ began to mean, as it has now done for many years, the conference of Gerald, May, and myself.) We could come to no decision. Gerald thought I should insist on leaving the envelope at the hospital, and trusting to chance and the authorities there for its restoration to the owner; May, being of the true blood of Eve, was of opinion that I ought to open the packet, and, by study of the contents, find out what I should do; while, for my own part, I inclined to what is termed ‘masterly inactivity.’

The truth is that I have an exaggerated, almost superstitious idea of the sanctity of sealing-wax. No one, in these days of gummed envelopes, seals a letter without a special intention of keeping its contents secret; and the use of the elaborately engraved stamp seems to me not more of a safeguard against idle curiosity than an appeal to the honour of any one for whose perusal the packet is not intended to leave it inviolate. This was the argument I used to my dear fellow-judges; and, strange to say, support of it came from a very unexpected quarter.

May was in the habit of narrating to Mrs Bowden the incidents of Gerald’s life and mine. The harmless gossip seemed to give pleasure to the poor old lady, whose personal intercourse was limited almost wholly to what she held with greedy and self-seeking ‘connections’—‘not relatives,’ as she frequently wrung their hearts by telling them; and we had no reason for desiring secrecy. To her, then, was repeated the story of the mysterious packet; she was much interested in it; and May reported her advice to me next time we met at Gerald’s lodging. (It was strange with what frequency these meetings occurred; but it was stranger still, considering how often I visited Atherton, that I should occasionally have missed his sister. Soon after this, I managed to get apartments in the same house, so that I had as large a share of May’s society when she came to Camden Town as her brother had.) It was in these words, May said, that Mrs Bowden had given her adhesion to my opinion: ‘Tell Mr Langham that it is never safe, from however good a motive, to tamper with a sealed document. Whoever does so, is liable to be accused of having forged the paper which he presents as authentic.’

‘Surely not, if the document does not affect his interest in any way,’ said May. ‘A man commits forgery only to benefit himself; and it is quite impossible that the contents of this packet, whatever they are, can have anything to do with Mr Langham.’

‘Improbable, child; not more than that; nothing is impossible.’

‘Then I went on with the book I was reading to her,’ said May, in repeating the conversation to me; ‘but I don’t think she listened. At least her eyes were twinkling all the time, though it was quite a serious book, and in the middle of one very grave passage she laughed aloud. I stopped in surprise, and then she asked me if I was sure that I had described the seal correctly. I assured her that I had given your description of it word for word, at which she laughed again, and said, “Poor George.” I wonder if she meant Mr George Bowden; but I don’t see what he had to do with the matter. Then she repeated her warning about breaking seals, and bade me be sure to convey it to you.’

‘It is very considerate of Mrs Bowden,’ I said in some bewilderment; ‘but I cannot imagine why she should be so much interested in the matter. Is she at all—queer?’

‘She is eccentric, certainly; but not in the least mad, if that is what you mean. She has heart-disease, I believe; but her mind is all right, indeed particularly acute.’

‘Why, it’s simple enough,’ interposed Gerald. ‘Mrs Bowden hasn’t an amusement in the world except teasing her relatives, and she gets tired of that sometimes. But now chance informs her of a curious accident; and the little possibility of mystery and romance about it excites her, just because her own life happens to be free from either. It’s as good as a novel to her at present; but if the dénouement doesn’t come on quickly enough, she’ll lose interest in the matter, and soon forget all about it. She cares merely for the sensation.’

But Mrs Bowden’s interest in the unclaimed packet and in its unwilling possessor was curiously deep and persistent.

‘She asks far more questions about you than about Gerald,’ said May to me one fortunate half-hour when her brother had left me to be her escort to church. (Her employer managed very frequently to dispense with her attendance on Sundays, and thus made the day one of tenfold happiness to us.)

‘Then I hope you strain your conscience, and speak well of me in your replies?’

‘I say just what I think of you,’ she answered very demurely.

‘And that is——?’ I asked.

‘That you are Gerald’s friend.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Is it not enough?’

‘No—not nearly enough. Do you not like me for my own sake as well as for Gerald’s? It isn’t for his sake that I love you, May, and I shall not be content till you care for me for myself, independently of Gerald’s friendship.’

‘You want a great deal, Mr Langham,’ she said, keeping her eyes turned away from me.

‘Do I want too much—more than you can give me?’—Silence for a few moments.—‘Answer me, May. I must know the truth, whether it is good or bad. Do I ask for more than you can give me?’

Another pause, a short one; then came the sweetest whisper I had ever heard: ‘No;’ and I am afraid the vicar of St Barnabas had two very inattentive listeners that evening.

What days of planning and projecting followed! We meant to be very prudent and do nothing rashly. Marriage was impossible at present; but some day, in two or three years, when my salary should reach the princely sum of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, we would form a little home, and Gerald would live with us. Meanwhile, the most rigorous economy was to be observed; every penny saved brought that little home a shade nearer.

Mrs Bowden soon found out what was meant by the tiny pearl ring on May’s finger, and proved a most sympathetic confidant. ‘But I don’t mean to alter my will in your favour, remember,’ she said to my darling in her sharp abrupt way. ‘That would be too much bother; and besides, my property will fall into the hands of a good man who will not fail to provide for you.’

May thought of Mr George Bowden, and mentally doubted the accuracy of this last statement. She made no remark, but Mrs Bowden guessed the tenor of her thoughts.

‘You don’t agree with me, I see,’ she said; ‘but you’ll find out that I have said too little of his care for you.—But you must not leave me, child. I have grown to love you, and I shall not need your service long.’

‘You don’t feel worse, I hope, dear Mrs Bowden?’

‘Worse or better, little May, as you choose to read the meaning of the words, but assuredly not far from the end. And since it is so, you will, I think, gratify a caprice of mine. I want to see your lover. Ask him to come up some evening, and let me have a few minutes’ conversation with him.’

Of course I went. Gerald had occasionally gone to see his sister; but hitherto I had had no right to cross the portal of Mrs Bowden’s house, and I was not without some curiosity to see the amiable ogress who was May’s mistress. My first impression was a confused one of having seen her before—long ago, when she was younger and more gentle than now; but I could in nowise affix either date or place to the memory. It was vague, yet ineffaceable. Our conversation was eccentric to the point of discourtesy.

‘You seem interested in my appearance,’ Mrs Bowden said after a very curt greeting.

‘Your face is familiar to me,’ I replied; ‘I think I must have seen you before.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ she returned in a tone that forbade further assertion of the point.

After a pause, she said: ‘So you are going to make an imprudent marriage, like your father.’

I fired up at this. ‘If I win as good a wife as my father did, I shall consider myself guilty of no imprudence,’ I said.

‘You are young and foolish. Money is a good thing.’

‘Yes, but only one of many good things. If I can have the others, I’ll dispense with it.’

‘You’ll find it difficult. If your father had not been so great a fool as you, you would have been a rich man to-day.’

‘In that case, I might never have met May, so I’m better as I am.—But tell me, madam, did you know my father?’

‘Yes, before you were born.—Don’t question me on the subject. I am tired now; go away. I’ll see you again another time—perhaps—I don’t know.’

I was at the door, when Mrs Bowden spoke to me again. ‘You have not broken the seal of that packet, I hope?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t do so. It will be asked for some day, and it may be for your profit that the seal is intact.—You may go now. You’re a good lad, and I am pleased to think that you will be May’s husband.’

I felt strangely curious about the eccentric old lady, and hoped that she would again command in her imperious fashion that I should visit her. But it was not to be. Little more than a week had passed, when May came to Gerald’s rooms, weeping, and with all her little possessions. Mrs Bowden had been found dead in her bed that morning; and before noon, Mr George Bowden, in his self-assumed capacity of executor, had turned my poor little sweetheart out of the house.

I said some harsh things about this greedy and self-seeking man, and gave expression to some unkindly wishes about his inheritance of his sister-in-law’s property; but I did not guess what a strangely complete punishment his rapacity was to receive.

Ten days had passed since Mrs Bowden’s death. May was domiciled in my apartments, which I had vacated for her, and was trying to obtain daily teaching. I was accompanying my hurried dinner at a City restaurant by a yet more hurried study of the Daily Telegraph, when my eye was caught by the following advertisement: ‘Lost, on the 24th of February, by a gentleman since deceased, a sealed envelope containing the Will of Mrs Anne Bowden, of Well Walk, Hampstead. Any one bringing the same, or giving information by which it may be recovered, to Messrs Godding and Son, Solicitors, Bedford Row, E.C., will be rewarded.’

For a moment I perceived nothing more than that the will of May’s Mrs Bowden was missing; but immediately the conviction rushed upon me that this which was advertised for was my packet, the mysterious envelope, the possession of which had for four months—it was now June—been so irritating to me. Could it be possible that the two documents were the same? and that Mrs Bowden had been aware all the time that it was in my hands, yet had made no effort to regain possession of it, or to restore it to her solicitor, who had originally been destined to keep it till it was wanted? It seemed wholly unlikely; but the eccentricity of the dead lady’s character made it not impossible; and if so strange a coincidence really had happened, her oft repeated advice that I should not break the seal received a new importance. I could not delay investigating the matter. Instead of returning to the office of Messrs Hamley and Green, I rushed off to my lodging in Camden Town, took the packet from the desk in which it had been reposing so long, and hurried off to Bedford Row.

Mr Godding was engaged when I reached his office, and I was put into an anteroom to wait; but this was separated from the solicitor’s private room only by a not wholly closed door, and the voices of him and his client were raised to such loud altercation that I could not avoid hearing their words.

‘I tell you that you are making an unnecessary fuss about this matter,’ said one. ‘I have every reason to believe that my sister-in-law meant to leave her property to me; and in advertising for this missing will and postponing my entrance into my inheritance, you are simply wasting time, and, I have no doubt, lining your pockets with my money.’

‘Your last suggestion is too absurd to be annoying, sir,’ replied the other, evidently the lawyer. ‘Mrs Bowden did not, you admit, definitely state that you were to be her heir; she merely told you on the 24th of last February that she had signed a will and intrusted it to my father, who, as you know, was on that day seized with the illness which terminated in his death. You say that she “gave you to understand” that this will was in your favour. That is a phrase which may mean much or little. May I ask what, in this case, it does mean?’

‘It means that she gave me the seal—my brother’s seal—with which she had stamped the envelope containing the will, and said to me: “I wish you to keep this as a means of verifying any document brought forward after my death as my will. It will be genuine only if the impression of this seal is stamped upon the envelope in red wax.” You see she was very accurate in her phrases. This is the seal, attached to my watchchain; I have never let it go out of my possession for a moment, night or day, since it was given to me; and I consider Mrs Bowden’s words to be conclusive evidence that I am her heir.’

‘No evidence at all, Mr Bowden, not even strong presumption. As, however, this will is lost, my duty is plain—to make all possible search for it; and if, after all needful expenditure of time and trouble’ (‘And my money,’ came a growl from Mr Bowden), ‘it cannot be found, to try to obtain a decree dividing the estate between the nearest relatives of the deceased lady.’

‘Well, that’s me,’ cried Mr Bowden with ungrammatical emphasis.

‘Wait a moment. You are not a relative at all, only a connection by marriage. The first step would be to look for heirs of Mrs Bowden’s own family; and only failing the discovery of these could the property be divided between the next of kin of the late Mr Bowden, who are—not you alone—but you and your two sisters.’

Thereupon, the unhappy would-be inheritor gave vent to a despairing ejaculation.

Mr Godding was beginning to expound the law of the question, and the faint and expensive possibilities of obtaining a result favourable to his client’s wishes by appeals to various courts; while Mr Bowden soothed his ruffled nerves by a muttered indulgence in promiscuous profanity, when it struck me that it was in my power to end the scene by announcing my presence and my errand. I had listened first with surprise, then with interest, lastly with amusement, and these emotions had prevented my realising the influence I probably had over the discussion that was going on within. Now, however, without waiting till Mr Godding should think himself at leisure to receive me, I entered the room. I easily guessed that the hot and irascible-looking little man with the bald head was Mr George Bowden; while the quiet, young-looking gentleman, sitting in true legal attitude with his elbows leaning on the arms of his chair, and the tips of his fingers lightly pressed together, was the solicitor, Mr Godding. Each looked up in annoyance at my unexpected intrusion, but annoyance gave way to surprise and satisfaction as I said: ‘I bring what I believe to be the will of Mrs Anne Bowden.’

The sight of an elderly man excited, hopeful, and impatient, is interesting and unusual. I had ample opportunity for observing the spectacle as exemplified in Mr Bowden during the next few minutes. Passing by his outstretched hand, I gave the packet to Mr Godding, who examined the outside of it in leisurely fashion, while his client gazed at him with staring eyes, standing first on one leg, then on the other, and exhibiting a feverish anxiety that would not have disgraced a schoolboy.

‘Yes, this seal seems to correspond with that said to be on Mrs Bowden’s will,’ said the solicitor at last. ‘But as you have the seal with you, Mr Bowden, perhaps you will be so kind as to let us have an impression of it.’ And he lighted a taper, and pushed wax and paper towards the little gentleman, whose trembling fingers could scarcely detach the seal from his chain. The impression made proved to be identical with that on the envelope—the old English letters H. L. B., the mailed hand grasping the dagger, the motto, ‘What I hold, I hold fast,’ were unmistakably the same. Then, in reply to Mr Godding’s questions, I briefly stated now it had come into my possession.

‘You are sure that it was on the 24th of February that you picked it up?’

‘Quite sure,’ I replied, for I recalled that it was the birthday of Gerald and May, and the day on which I had first seen my darling.

‘Your account of the manner of finding it exactly tallies with what we know of the way in which it was lost. My father, having Mrs Bowden’s newly signed will in his possession, went to his stockbroker’s, where he heard some news about an investment in which he was interested, that affected him greatly. That evening, I received a message stating that he was at the London Hospital, and on going there, found him just recovering consciousness after an apoplectic fit. I was told that he had been brought there by a young man, who had seen him taken ill in the street.—This tends, I think, Mr Bowden, to prove the identity of this document brought by—you have not mentioned your name, sir—Langham, you say—by Mr Langham with the will we are in search of.’

‘My dear Mr Godding, nobody but yourself ever doubted that,’ cried the impatient Bowden. ‘Pray, make haste and open the will.’

‘Patience, Mr Bowden. For the sake of expectant legatees, who may have less reason to be satisfied with the provisions of the will than you expect to be, it may be well to set down every proof of its authenticity.—So, Mr Langham, I must ask you a few questions about yourself, in order to satisfy inquirers that the will has been found by a truthful and honest man.’

Thus thwarted, Mr Bowden tried to expedite the settlement of affairs by repeating my answers to Mr Godding’s questions, with critical comments.

‘Richard Langham, age twenty-four, clerk with Messrs Hamley and Green—good firm, Hamley and Green—must get them to raise your salary—took the late Mr Godding to the hospital—very Christian action—brought the packet to the hospital next day; found the patient removed, and could get no definite information about him; was told his name was Collins or Cotton—Cotton very like Godding; kept the packet unopened, that its authenticity might not be questioned if the owner was found—quite right—always best to restrain curiosity—besetting sin of youth; brought the packet here on seeing your advertisement—very sensible and honest. And now, Mr Godding, for any sake, open the will!’

The little man’s voice rose to a scream of entreaty as he uttered the last adjuration; but when the will was opened, there never were three men more surprised at its provisions than were the solicitor, Mr George Bowden, and myself.

Mr Godding looked over the will with that professional glance which takes in immediately all that is of moment in a document, avoiding the arabesques of legal phraseology, and then turning to me, asked: ‘What was your father’s name?’

I began to share Mr Bowden’s impatience. It was quite incredible that there was any necessity for stating my long-dead father’s name in order to identify me as the finder of Mrs Bowden’s will. Nevertheless, I hid my irritation, and answered quietly: ‘Richard Langham, like my own.’

‘And your mother’s maiden name?’

‘Marion Trench.’

‘Had your father any near relatives?’

‘A step-sister, Anne, about ten years older than himself.’

‘What became of her?’

‘I don’t know. About eight years ago, she married, and I have heard nothing of her since.’

‘You don’t know the name of her husband?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it was Henry Leigh Bowden.’

‘What!’ The exclamation came not from me, but from Mr Bowden, who began to suspect something sinister to his interests in the catechism I was undergoing.

‘Yes, Henry Leigh Bowden,’ repeated the lawyer. ‘The deceased Mrs Bowden, whose will you have been the means of restoring, was your aunt; and it is to you that she has left the bulk of her property.’

It was the howl of a wild beast, rather than any human cry, that came from George Bowden’s lips as he heard these words. ‘It’s a lie!’ he cried, rushing forward, and snatching the will from Mr Godding’s hands—‘a lie, a cheat, a plot, a swindle! The two of you are in league to keep me out of my rights. The will is in my favour; it must be.’

But he was wrong. There, in as plain English as the law can use, was the bequest by Mrs Bowden of all she might die possessed of to ‘her nephew, Richard Langham, son of her brother Richard Langham, who in the year 1850 married Marion Trench, and died at Lowborough in the year 1855.’ Mrs Bowden had made sure of the important dates in my father’s history, that there might be no difficulty in identifying her legatee.

Once assured that his eyes were not playing him false, Mr Bowden began to swear that the will was a forgery, of which I had been guilty in order to secure Mrs Bowden’s money for myself. In vain I protested my entire ignorance of the relationship between the dead lady and myself.

‘I don’t believe you are related; it’s all a fabrication. If you put these names in the will, of course you knew what to reply to Mr Godding’s questions.’

‘But,’ I exclaimed, ‘I couldn’t forge the impression of a seal which you had in your possession all the time.’

‘Hang the seal!’ cried the little man. ‘What’s a seal? A seal isn’t evidence. I swear that the thing’s a forgery, and I’ll contest it in every court in the kingdom.’

‘But if you do,’ interposed Mr Godding, ‘and though you should prove your case, you would not profit in the least. If this will is a forgery, we must assume that Mrs Bowden died intestate, for any disposition of her property she may have had drawn up would now, in all probability, be destroyed. In that case, all she possessed will descend to Mr Langham, as her next of kin.’

Mr Bowden glared from one to the other of us with the fiendish impotence of a caged hyena. ‘You’re both in the plot,’ he snarled; ‘but I’ll fight it out. I’ll have justice, though it should cost me my last penny; and I won’t grudge it, if only I see you both doing penal servitude before I die. I hope I shall!’ With this benevolent aspiration on his lips, Mr Bowden departed, leaving me alone with the lawyer, and too bewildered by the occurrences of the last half-hour to be elated by my sudden good fortune.

‘Do you think he will carry out his threat?’ I asked.

‘It is most unlikely. Twenty-four hours’ reflection will convince Mr Bowden how unwise it would be for him to spend his own money without the hope of getting anybody else’s. You may rely on being undisturbed in your good fortune.—And now, let me say how glad I am to make the acquaintance of the man for whose kindness to my poor father I have always felt grateful, and express my hope that I may enjoy the privilege of your friendship.’ Before my dull brain could furnish any reply to Mr Godding’s words, he spoke again: ‘By-the-bye, there is in the will, not a charge, but merely a recommendation that you should make some adequate provision for a Miss May Atherton, whom Mrs Bowden describes as her “beloved companion and adopted child.” I hope you have no objection to doing so?’

I blushed like a school-girl as I explained how I had already proposed to provide for Miss Atherton; and I think I may truthfully say that she has hitherto—and several years have passed since my aunt’s death—been satisfied with her share in Mrs Bowden’s property.

We live in the house at Hampstead, and often speak of the strange woman who dwelt there before us, and to whom we owe the comforts of our life.

‘Her heart was kinder and her conscience more acute than she would avow,’ May declares. ‘When she learned your history from me, Dick, she determined to atone to you for what your parents had suffered, and at the same time punish the Bowden family for their unscrupulous fortune-hunting. I have no doubt she found a grim pleasure in knowing, as she must have done, that her will was in your hands, ready to descend like a thunderbolt on the heirs-expectant; and I think it was this knowledge that made her so earnest in her insistence that you should not open the envelope which contained it.’

‘I think,’ adds Gerald, who, though he has lately taken a wife and a house of his own, is still emphatically one of us—‘I think the old lady must have got a great deal of satisfaction out of the anticipation of her brother-in-law’s disappointment. How she would have enjoyed being present at that interview in Godding’s office! Well, let who will grumble, we three have no cause to grieve over the contents of that wandering document—the Will of Mrs Anne Bowden.’