 | CHAPTER X. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
We leave Willoughby with the lady of his love,
and return to Bradshaw. After his political friends
had left him, he sat alone in his office, musing on
the disinheritance of Willoughby, when the peculiar-looking
personage, with the cough, of whom
we spoke in the last chapter, again entered.
“Ugh, ugh!” coughed he, “much business doing
in the legislature, Mr. Bradshaw?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bradshaw, offering him a chair,
“considerable.”
“This is the first time you have been to the legislature,—ugh,
ugh!—is it?” asked the stranger,
picking up a newspaper and casting his eye over it.
“The first time, sir,” answered Bradshaw, eyeing
the interrogator more closely. He was an attenuated,
dyspeptic person, with a suspicious glance, and a
hurried and abrupt manner. Bradshaw at once
discovered he was a character, and it struck him
that he wished to communicate something or other,
but did not well know how to begin. Half musingly
and half attentively, Bradshaw answered him
as he continued his interrogatories.
“Much talent there, sir?”
“Not any marked individual talent—there's rather
a democracy of it—it's pretty nearly equally
distributed.”
“A democracy of talent!—ugh, ugh!—you go
in for democracy, do you?”
“For a democracy of rights,” said Bradshaw,
smiling at the oddness of the stranger, “but—”
“Sir,” exclaimed the stranger, “you have the
notions of the—ugh!—of the French revolutionists
—sorry to know it, sir—sorry to know it.”
“You didn't hear me out; I was going to say,—
but I believed that nature was opposed to a democracy
of talent,—I'm not exactly a French revolutionist,
for I don't agree with him, who, when
some member of the national convention of France,
called Mirabeau, the `distinguished member,'
jumped up in a rage, and exclaimed—`they had
no distinguished members there, they were all
equal!”'
“Ha! ha!—ugh—I like that much—never saw
that before—must remember that—good many
young men of your profession here, I suppose, Mr.
Bradshaw?”
“Yes, sir, any quantity of them—if you have
professional business you can have your pick of
some dozens.”
“Some dozens, hey, ugh!—Fine place, I suppose,
to study the law.”
“That's problematical—there are too many
temptations here to allure one away from study.”
“Yes, I thought so. Most young men, who come
here from other states, disregard parents, guardians,
frolicking. Do you know, Mr. Bradshaw,—ugh!
ugh!—do you know—”
“Halloo, Bradshaw, I'm glad to see you back
again!” exclaimed Selman, throwing open the office-door.
“Ah! Mr. Benedict,” exclaimed Bradshaw—
“my respects to you.” And they shook each
other cordially by the hand.
“Bradshaw, you look a little thin. Have you
seen Kentuck? That's a pretty will, isn't it, of that
uncle of his. Bradshaw, what'll he do?”
“Do!—why, practise his profession—It will
be better than vegetating upon a fortune! Don't
you think so, Judge?” continued Bradshaw, addressing
Cavendish, who, at this moment, called to
welcome him home.
“Think what?” asked the Judge.
“Why, that Willoughby will do better without
a fortune, than with one.”
“Think!—by Jove!—I think the carcass of that
uncle should be hung as high as Haman's. Willoughby
is of a most respectable family—he is the
only living representative:—the old fool, I have no
doubt, was crazy. Willoughby always represented
him as a man of sense, with peculiarities, but
possessed of a strong mind. I have no doubt he was
crack-brained from the first—the will, I believe,
could be broken—I've a great mind just to slip out
to the west (I've long had a notion of going there
to see the country) and inquire into the business.
Willoughby says, the letter informing him of the
death, is from an intimate friend of his uncle, and
you what, that intimate friend may have been too
intimate! Do you doubt, he has been left a large
legacy. It's preposterous to believe that any uncle,
having his senses, would disinherit such a nephew
as Willoughby, his only blood relation in the world
—the only one of his family—an ancient family—
to endow a hospital for lunatics. He must have
been a lunatic himself.”
“I believe you're half right, Judge,” exclaimed
Selman. “What do you think, Bradshaw?”
“The Judge may be near the truth,” replied
Bradshaw—“his uncle's a poor devil. But if it be
as we fear, Willoughby has talents and energy;
and, making a fortune, and winning with it an honourable
name, will be better than stagnating with
a dukedom.”
“Stagnating with a devildom!” exclaimed Cavendish.
“Willoughby ought to have the inheritance.
This poverty is no such easy matter, Mr.
Bradshaw.”
“Why, Judge—I know it,” remarked Bradshaw;
and, after musing several minutes, he continued—“that
will ought to be looked into—
you're right—I have nothing particular to prevent
my taking a jaunt with you, if you go west
—what I meant to imply was, that Kentuck's
situation is not so bad, after all. He has talents
and a profession; and while he and his friends
should use every exertion to recover his fortune,
he nor they should not mope on the loss of it.
“Judge,” continued Bradshaw, with a peculiar
smile, “where is there a man with a large fortune
not bear away the honours of our land: luxuries
and superfluities, of course, it gives, but not the
luxuries and superfluities of renown—public estimation,
political power, or legal skill: these are the
luxuries of mental wealth. I have been cogitating,
ever since I saw Kentuck, upon his loss of fortune.
No man, that I have ever known, would do more
honour to a princely estate than Kentuck. Without
being the least prodigal, or living in enervating
luxuries, he would devote his income to the enjoyment
of those around him—and, in this, find much
of his own; he would be public-spirited and generous,
and would improve his mental gifts, without
devoting them to acquire fame or power: thus, he
would pass through life, respected and beloved.
But, believing, as I do, that Kentuck has great
natural talents; forcing his own way, as he will now
have to force it, I have no doubt (at least, I hope
—for Kentuck, to tell the truth, is not of a very
ambitious nature) that he will stand among the
first men in the country. I cherish these reflections
when I think of the conduct of the heartless
old fool—his uncle. If Kentuck had been a cringing,
time-serving Blifil of a fellow, he would have got
every cent of that old rascal's money. Yes, if he
had truckled to him, and watched his humours, like
a slave, and eschewed frankness and honour, and
nobility of character, he would now be the possessor
of a cool million.”
“He'll find out his true friends now,” said Cavendish.
“How some of the old mothers, who
have been courting him for their dear daughters,
a good-looking fellow, I fear the daughters will cool
too.”
“Come,” said Bradshaw, starting up; “Lyons has
a branch of his firm at —, in the west, and he
knows Kentuck's uncle. He can give us some information
that will be of service, perhaps. Kentuck
bears it like a man; he has such a sensitive
and high honour, and his feelings have been so
wounded, not by the loss of his fortune, but by the
neglect of his uncle, that he had better remain
here; for, were he to go, if there has been any
fraud in the will, the wrong-doers would be thrown
upon their guard by his presence, which might defeat
the ends of justice;—on the contrary, no one
would suspect any thing from our visit. I like
your thought, Judge; and we must put it in execution
at once.”
The young men had been so busied in Kentuck's
loss, that they did not remark the presence of the
stranger, who sat reading the newspaper.
Bradshaw, thinking of him for the first time since
the entrance of his friends, said:—“Keep your
seat, sir;—the paper is at your service. I will return
in a few minutes, and, if you have any business
with me, I will then attend to it. Come,” addressing
Cavendish, “let's go and see Lyons; we may
learn something from him, and if there is any thing
to strengthen your suspicions, Judge, why, Westward
Ho!”
The young men left the office together. They
were no sooner gone, than the old gentleman started
up, exclaiming—“Poor devil!—ugh! ugh!—of
only one that gives me a good character; put on
black for me, though he was disinherited! that hurt
me worse—ugh! ugh!—than if he had cursed me.
Yes, I am a poor devil; and I have been deceived,
like a poor devil:—but I'll make him amends. He's
popular, why, he's very popular; and this keen
eyed fellow thinks he has first rate talents,—so they
all thought at home. I'll leave him every cent I
have—yes, I'll deed it. He put—ugh! ugh!—on
black for me, though I did disinherit him: I'll deed
it, so that I can't alter my mind. I've been deceived
by Dodridge—that greasy, godly, Christless,
rascal. I must speak to this Bradshaw, and tell
him every thing—or he'll be out to the west, and
proclaim me a fool and a poor devil, through the
whole country.”
The old gentleman was interrupted in his train
of reflections by the entrance of Nancy Mulvany,
the apple woman.
“Where's Bradshaw?” she exclaimed, resting
her apple basket on the edge of the table. “I
thought he was in.”
“Be in presently, I expect, good woman. What's
the price of apples?”
“Two cents a-piece, and four for a fip. I'm
tired out!” and she threw herself into a chair.
“Two cents a-piece, and four for a fip—that's a
devil of a price!”
“Devil of a price!—they were as dear agin this
time last year.”
“They were, hey! I can get them in Kentucky
for a fip a peck,—what do you think of that, good
woman?”
“Don't good woman me; my name's Nancy
Mulvany. Ye're not in Kentucky now; and, if
you want apples at a fip a peck, ye must go to
Kentucky for 'em. I wouldn't, woman as I am,
carry 'em for that.”
“You wouldn't, hey!—ugh! ugh!—good woman
—ugh!”
“Don't good woman me, I tell ye.”
“Well, bad woman, then—ugh!”
“Man!” said Nancy, starting up, “I don't know
ye; and if ye want to pass an insult, say so. I
don't believe ye're from Kentucky, at all.”
“Why not, Mrs. Mul—what's your name?”
“Because I never knew a Kentuck, but what
was a gentleman. Young Willoughby—Kentuck
they call him—wouldn't own ye.”
“May be I wouldn't own him, Mrs. Mul. What
kind of a man may he be?”
“The right kind of a man!—true to the back
bone, and ginrous and just.”
“Let me have a fip's worth of your apples, if
you please, Mrs. Mul—ma'am.”
“I think ye'll like 'em,” said Nancy, softening
down, as she handed him the basket; “help yerself—ye're
from the far away state of Kentucky.
Did ye know Kentuck—I mean young Willoughby?”
“Why, yes—I believe, mayhap I did—ugh!
ugh!”
“Well, I hope to goodness gracious ye've come
to comfort him. His uncle, they say, what had a
large fortune, and was to leave it all to him, is
dead and gone, and not left him the first cent.—
and shame. His uncle must ha' bin a weak-minded
creatur.”
“Is young Willoughby—what kind of a man is
young Willoughby, ma'am—ugh! ugh!”
“What, Kentuck! why him and Bradshaw is,
among men, like them two big pippins there,
among my apples, the best of the whole on 'em.”
“I've heard of Bradshaw.”
“Heard of Bradshaw! every body what has ears
has heard of him—and may hear him, too, of a
court-day. It would do you good—he can beat
the best at this bar; and it isn't me only that says
it—every body says it. These apples came off of
his father's farm—and a fine farm it is; and they're
fine folks. His sister is the right kind of a young
lady, I tell ye. When two young men are thick,
and one has a sister—there's the reason—may
be,” said Nancy, knowingly.
“Ugh! ugh!—what's that, what's that! good woman?”
“It may be, and it mayn't be,” said Nancy, lifting
up her basket, “but I mus'n't stay on the gossip
all day. And ye're for seeing Bradshaw, are ye—
he'll do your lawing for you as good as airy one,
any where, ye may depend. I wish I could see
him; I've missed him mightily—but he'll be in the
court in the day. Ye'll find them good apples—I
must—there's Beck, now, gaping along, the lazy
varmint. Beck, ye hussy, take this basket to the
court;”—and Nancy hurried out—handed the basket
to her, and followed after.
As our readers have discovered, the letter to
and his disinheritance, was an artifice practised by
the uncle himself. The uncle was a suspicious,
wayward man; full of odd notions and inconsistencies.
One of his strong suspicions (in which there
was much more truth than in many other of his
whimsicalities,) was, that the attentions he received
were for his wealth; and though the world showed
him a respect on that account, which they else
would not have shown, yet he was wrong in attributing
the regard of his nephew to that score.—
This, to do him justice, he was slow to do; and, if
his nephew had remained in Kentucky, the suspicion,
if awakened in his mind, would only have
passed over it, like a cloud over the sunny face of
nature, without making any impression; but Dodridge,
a canting hypocrite, who lived near him,
anxious to displace the nephew in the uncle's regard,
in the hopes of being his heir, and knowing
he could not succeed while the nephew was daily
with his uncle, persuaded the old gentleman to
send him to an eastern law-school. Willoughby,
desirous of visiting the eastern states, and wholly
unsuspicious of the design of Dodridge, was delighted
with his uncle's proposition, and gladly
complied with his wishes. In his absence, the sly
and insidious knave, watchful of every favourable
opportunity in the gloomy and suspicious moods of
the uncle, undermined, by a process, too tedious
and contemptible to dwell upon, his belief in the
affection of his nephew. After he determined to
disinherit him, his conscience smote him; and he
got a friend to write the letter which the nephew
his character and conduct while away, and to discover,
in a disguise which he had assumed, the
state of his nephew's feelings towards him.
His name was Chesterton, (he was Willoughby's
maternal uncle,) and in the inquiries which he made,
on his arrival in the city, he heard Bradshaw
spoken of in the highest terms, and that he was
the most intimate friend of his nephew; his purpose,
therefore, in visiting him was to hear, by indirect
means, of Willoughby; but he did not know
well how to break the ice; for being of a suspicious
nature, as we have said, he feared he might be
suspected himself. When Willoughby entered
Bradshaw's office, while Mr. Chesterton was there,
and communicated to his friend his supposed loss of
fortune, he did not notice his uncle at all, nor would
he, in all probability, have known him, if he had,
as he supposed him dead. Mr. Chesterton felt a
deep humiliation, when he heard his nephew speak
of him as he did, and saw him in mourning for his
disinheritor; and, but for a sense of shame in the
presence of Bradshaw, he would have made himself
known to his nephew, and have explained to
him how he had been deceived by Dodridge; but,
as it was, he left the office, fearful that Willoughby
might recognise him. He called on Bradshaw
again, anxious to hear more of his nephew, and
then he heard what Willoughby's friends said, as
we have recorded. It had been his purpose to return
to Kentucky, without making himself known to
Willoughby, and, after deeding his property to him,
to explain the whole matter by letter; but when
going west, to inquire into the will, and saw them
leave the office in fartherance of that intention,
with many a cough, and much worriment of shame
—for such characters are very sensitive to ridicule
—he resolved to await the return of Bradshaw, and
confide in him. Accordingly, he remained until
Bradshaw returned, and narrated to him all of
what our readers have been informed. Bradshaw
listened in silent surprise: his first emotion was
heart-felt joy for Willoughby, and then he felt, in
no small degree provoked with himself, that his
sagacity should have been so completely asleep as
not in the least to have remarked the stranger, except
for a nervous old fellow, who had some molehill
of a matter to consult him upon, which, in his
own estimation, amounted to a mountain.
“And so you think I am a poor devil!” exclaimed
Mr. Chesterton, snappishly, after waiting
some moments for a remark from Bradshaw.
“O! no, Mr. Chesterton,” said Bradshaw,
blandly: “you remember you have not disinherited
your nephew—you are not dead, sir. You
mean to make your nephew your heir—and I hope
you may live long. I have no doubt you will outlive
every shadow of suspicion of the regard of
your nephew. A man of wealth, sir, is too apt to
be courted for his wealth; and it is proper and
rational that he should endeavour to find out who
are his real friends—who have a true affection for
him. You have found out your nephew, and you
have found out Dodridge.”
“Found out Dodridge!” exclaimed the old
“ugh! ugh!—Yes, sir, I have found him out, and
he'll find me out with a vengeance—the half-methodist,
half-quaker, whole-hog knave. To make
me, his best friend, act so like a fool, like a poor
devil—ugh! ugh!—Your phrase was proper, Mr.
Bradshaw—but, sir, I'll fix him. The first time
I catch him on my farm, I'll make a will, and
prove it on his non-combatant—ugh!—pious
back. I'll be witness, judge, and jury—my black
man Tom, shall be executioner. I'll inflict thirty-nine
on him, or my name's not Chesterton—
ugh!—he shall give a receipt for it—ugh!—that
it was well laid on. Let him go to law; I'll pay
the fine—ugh! ugh!—it will be in place of the
property I meant to have left him: that'll be his
legacy, Mr. Bradshaw; and he'll have to leg it
off of my farm, in double quick time, or—ugh!
ugh! ugh!—I'll double it—ugh! ugh! ugh.—
Where's Willy, I wonder—my nephew, Willy.
I want to see him, and I hate to see him, too.
The dog would put on mourning for me, though
I am a poor devil, and did disinherit him—but,
where is he?”
“I suspect he rode out to my father's, sir. If
you will ride with me—'tis but a few miles—I
have no doubt we will find him there.”
Mr. Chesterton readily assented; for he was
very quick and impulsive in all his feelings, as
we have said. On their way to the Purchase, he
asked Bradshaw innumerable questions of his family,
&c., which, aware as Bradshaw was of Willoughby's
attachment to his sister, he frankly answered,
old gentleman was in raptures with his free, easy,
and courteous manners; and, before they reached
the Purchase, Bradshaw had reconciled him to
himself, which, of course, prepared him to be
pleased.
Willoughby, and Mr. Bradshaw, sen., as we
have related, left old Pete to his reflections in the
carriage-house. They entered the dwelling, and
found Emily alone. Mr. Bradshaw placed Emily's
hand in Willoughby's, blessed them with a
fervent and holy blessing, and left the room to
find his wife. The lovers, left alone, strolled out
together,—for the spring was again coming,—
happy in themselves, and forgetful of all else.
“My dear Emily,” said Willoughby, as she
placed her arm in his, and gently and fondly
pressed it to him—“my dear Emily, you have,
indeed, made me happy. Out of what seemed
the greatest misfortune of my life, has arisen the
greatest blessing. Yet it is selfish in me, love, in
my poverty, to woo you—and O! how unselfish
in you to be thus won.”
“Selfish!—why selfish?” said Emily, clasping
her hands together, and thus, as it were, locking
herself to his arm while she looked up into his
face. How soon love, like theirs, when once
acknowledged, becomes confiding of its every
thought! “No!—I am the selfish one: for it
gives me more pleasure—more selfish pleasure—
to show the world I love you for yourself, than
your wealth could possibly have given me.”
I am, indeed, rich, in such a love—that gentle
heart of thine, this fairy little hand are mine—
mine—am I not rich? Do you know, Emily,”
continued he, smiling, “that my self-opinion has
grown beyond all bounds, to-day. If, hereafter, it
is remarked, that my vanity grew great, when I
grew poor, it will be your fault—and you know
your father tells us, and my father, love, that it is
a great sin—think what you have to answer for.”
“You grow a flatterer, like brother Clinton.—
How much you reminded me of him, then—O!
there he is now, in a gig! Who can that gentleman
be who has left him, and is advancing towards
us?”
Willoughby and Emily were walking in a path-way,
that led through an orchard in sight of the
lane. Bradshaw had pointed out Willoughby to
Mr. Chesterton, and the old gentleman immediately
declared he would join him; jumping from the gig,
almost before Bradshaw had time to check the
horse, he hurried towards him.
“Nephew!” exclaimed Mr. Chesterton, as he
drew near the lovers; “nephew! don't you know
me? It's all a d—d hoax—I'm not dead—ugh—
ugh—you're my heir—every cent, every cent—
ugh—Dodridge is a knave.”
In an instant, nephew and uncle were in each
other's arms.
“Willy, Willy—ugh—ugh—my noble boy, you
must forget and forgive—I'll make amends—every
cent—ugh—every cent—Dodridge's an infernal
scoundrel—In mourning for your old uncle—hey,
and the old man sobbed aloud.
“No matter, uncle,” said Willoughby; “you were
right to try me, if you thought my affection for you
was feigned. Uncle,” continued Willoughby, after
a pause, in which neither spoke, “you have been all
your life trying to find one who would love you for
yourself alone—You have advised me to seek such
a one. I have succeeded, uncle: I told this lady—
Miss Bradshaw, uncle—whom I have long loved—
I told her to-day, for the first time, of my love and
of my poverty, as I thought, and she told me she
loved me for myself—did you not, Emily?”
Miss Bradshaw would have been very much
embarrassed, not knowing how Mr. Chesterton,
who struck her, as he did every one else, as being
a very singular man, might regard her, had he not
instantly exclaimed, taking her hand at the same
time,
“Happy to see you, miss—I've heard of you.
And so the dog was determined to be happy in
spite of me, hey,—and you are content to be
happy with him, without a cent from his old uncle—
ugh! ugh!”
| CHAPTER X. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer | |