BLACKWOOD’S
Edinburgh
M A G A Z I N E
VOL. LXXXIX.
JANUARY—JUNE, 1861.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH;
AND
37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
———
1861.
| The Executor: Chapter I., II., III., IV. The Origin of Species. |
THE EXECUTOR.
CHAPTER I.
“The woman was certainly mad,” said John Brown.
It was the most extraordinary of speeches, considering the circumstancesand place in which it was spoken. A parlour of very grim and homelyaspect, furnished with dark mahogany and black haircloth, the blinds ofthe two windows solemnly drawn down, the shutters of one half-closed;two traditional decanters of wine standing reflected in the shininguncovered table; half-a-dozen people all in mourning, in variousattitudes of surprise, disappointment, and displeasure; and close by oneof the windows Mr Brown, the attorney, holding up to the light thatextraordinary scrap of paper, which had fallen upon them all like athunderbolt. Only half an hour ago he had attended her funeral withdecorum and perfect indifference, as was natural, and had come into thisparlour without the slightest idea of encountering anything which coulddisturb him. Fate, however, had been lying in wait for the unsuspectingman at the moment he feared it least. He had not been employed to drawout this extraordinary document, nor had he known anything about it. Itwas a thunderbolt enclosed in a simple envelope, very securely sealedup, and delivered to him with great solemnity by the next of kin, whichcarried him off his balance like a charge of artillery, and madeeverybody aghast around him. The sentiment and exclamation were alikenatural; but the woman was not mad.
By the side of the table, very pale and profoundly discomposed, sat thenext of kin; a woman, of appearance not unaccordant with that of thehouse, over fifty? dark-complexioned and full of wrinkles, with acertain cloud of habitual shabbiness, not to be cast aside, impairingthe perfection of her new mourning. Her new mourning, poor soul! goton the strength of that letter containing the will, which had beenplaced in her safe keeping. She was evidently doing everything she couldto command herself, and conceal her agitation. But it was not a veryeasy matter. Cherished visions of years, and hopes that this morning hadseemed on the point of settling into reality, were breaking up beforeher, each with its poignant circumstances of mortification andbitterness and dread disappointment. She looked at everybody in the roomwith a kind of agonised appeal—could it really be true, might not herears have deceived her?—and strained her troubled gaze upon that paper,not without an instinctive thought th