6. CHAPTER VI.
THE OPENING OF THE WILL.
An hour after the conversation with Saunders, Harley came in
sight of Oakhill.
He had been reflecting, as he rode along slowly, upon the eccentric
words of his uncle as he was dying. What possible meaning
could be attached to the summons he had received, and to those
last words? He, Justin Harley, would give all he possessed to know
something connected with the Blackwater Swamp!
What was that something? That his uncle had meant to convey
to him some distinct intimation was plain; but the dying lips had
not been able to utter it; the secret was buried with him in the
remote family graveyard, under the great cypresses.
More than once Harley asked himself whether it were possible
that his uncle had been laboring, at the moment of his death, under
mental aberration? But the testimony of Colonel Hartright upon
this point was perfectly distinct. There had been no evidence of
any such thing. The mind of the dying man had never wandered.
His eyes had preserved their clear, calm, shrewd expression to the
last. Of his complete possession of all his faculties there had been
no reason to entertain a rational doubt. He had spoken upon other
topics a few minutes before, in the most intelligent and matter-offact
manner; there could be no question, in a word, that his brain
was clear, and that he had a distinct, business-like message to send
Harley, in reference to something in, or connected with, the
“Blackwater Swamp,” the well-known morass on the Huntsdon
estate.
What was that something? Had Mr. Hartright taken up the
fancy—moulding the said fancy into a hobby—that untold wealth
for his nephew lay in this rich ooze if once it were drained? Had
he used that mysterious form of words in his letter to bring his
beloved nephew back to Virginia? All this was an absolute mystery
—all the more since Saunders had stated Mr. Hartright's utter contempt
for the theory of drainage. Lost thus in a maze of conjecture,
and unable to find the end of the thread and unravel the web,
Harley reached Oakhill, rode up to the door, gave his horse to a
servant and went in.
Colonel Hartright—richly dressed, his hair powdered, leaning
upon his cane, with an expression far from cheerful or amiable upon
his ruddy features—stood awaiting him in the large drawing-room.
No other persons were present but an aged lawyer, Mr. Barradale,
from Williamsburg, and the family physician, Dr. Wills, whom we
have seen arrive at Oakhill on the day of Mr. Hartright's death.
He had now come to attend the opening of the will, by request of
the owner of the mansion.
Colonel Hartright advanced one step, and making Harley a
ceremonious bow, said:
“I have requested your presence to-day, sir, as my note has informed
you, in order that you might witness the opening of the late
Mr. Hartright's will. I am not aware that any other relatives of
his live in Virginia, or they would have been summoned.”
Harley bowed, and sat down in the chair toward which his uncle
waved his hand in an august manner.
“I will state,” continued Colonel Hartright, who seemed to have
made up his mind to go through the scene with business-like coolness,
and to suppress his private emotions completely, “that on the
day after the death of the late Mr. George Hartright, I proceeded,
in presence of Dr. Wills, the friend and physician of the deceased,
to ascertain where he had deposited his will; and we had no difficulty
whatever in discovering it, as Mr. Hartright was wholly
methodical, and had placed the instrument in the desk of his
writing-table, the key of which was found in the pocket of the coat
which he wore when taken ill. I will state, before proceeding
further, that at the time of Mr. Hartright's death, he held in his
hand, unobserved by me, another key of small size, which Dr. Wills
took from his hand, and is under the impression he presented to
me at the time. Of this I have no recollection. The statement of
Dr. Wills is of course beyond question, but I only remember that
such a key was found in the hand of Mr. Hartright—at the time
dead. Beyond this I am unable to speak with distinctness, and
must content myself with saying that if the key was received by
me, it must have been dropped or mislaid; or, if placed in my
pocket, lost therefrom.”
“That is the most probable supposition,” said Dr. Wills. “You
received the key when it was handed to you, in an absent manner.
Whether it was placed in your pocket or not I cannot state.”
Colonel Hartright stiffly inclined his head.
“It may be—probably is—a matter of no importance. Still, I
have spoken of it. What door, drawer, or other receptacle was
opened by the key I do not know. If placed by me in my pocket,
it has been lost.”
While uttering these words, Colonel Hartright went to a table
standing by one of the windows; on this table was a stationary
desk, the key in the lock.
“Mr. Barradale,” he said, “be obliging enough to open this desk.
You will find in it a paper, marked `My last will,—George Hartright.'
The paper has not been touched. It lies where the late
Mr. Hartright placed it.”
The lawyer opened the desk, took out of it a paper, looked at it,
and unfolding it, said:
“This paper is marked as Colonel Hartright has stated. I will
proceed to read it.”
Mr. Barradale adjusted his spcetacles, held the paper at arm's
length, and read it aloud in a humdrum voice.
The last will and testament of George Hartright, Esq., was a brief
and perfectly explicit document. He had had no blood relations in
the world but his brother, the two sons of his sister, Mrs. Harley,
and a few very distant cousins in England, who were wholly indifferent
to him. The question lay, therefore, between his brother, to
whom he had been greatly devoted, and his two nephews; and his
will had evidently been framed with the view of gratifying all. He
left his whole property, consisting of his “Glenvale” estate, about
fifteen thousand acres, and his “Elmwood” estate, of about five
thousand—in all some twenty thousand acres—with the servants
and personal property on both, to his brother, Joshua Hartright.
There was but one qualifying clause, which was in these words:
“And I request my said beloved brother, Joshua Hartright, unless
he sees reason to act in a different manner, to leave the “Glenvale”
estate, with the personal property thereon, at his death, to my
nephew, Justin Harley; and the “Elmwood” estate, with personal
property, in like manner to my nephew, St. George Harley.”
Some valuable investments in London were disposed of in the
same manner. They were left to Colonel Hartright, to be divided
at his death, if he so willed, between Justin and St. George Harley.
Mr. Barradale folded up the paper. Colonel Hartright cleared
his throat, and said:
“I was not aware of my brother's intentions in the disposal of his
property. Will you be good enough, sir, to take charge of this, his
last will and testament, and have it admitted to probate?”
Colonel Hartright then rose, and added, in a ceremonious manner,
that dinner would be ready in an hour. This announcement was
received with evident approval by all but Harley. He rose, regretted
that he had business, bowed, and retired.
The disposition made by his uncle of his entire property had in
no degree disappointed Harley, who—indifferent by native bent of
character to money matters—had never built any air-castles upon
the probabilities of inheriting from his uncle. That the brother
should have the lands instead of the nephews seemed entirely
proper in his eyes; and he had not left Oakhill a mile behind him
when he dismissed the subject from his mind without an effort, and
began to ponder upon that other matter, which had now taken absolute
possession of him. What could have been the meaning of
his uncle George in sending him that message? To induce him to
drain the Swamp? But then his mind persistently reverted to the
conversation with Saunders. His uncle was bitterly opposed to
draining; then it was impossible that he could have had reference
to this as a source of wealth to be found by Harley “in the Blackwater
Swamp.” Was
money buried in the morass? The idea was
for many reasons quite preposterous and visionary. His uncle had
never possessed any ready money, having an eccentric aversion to
the sight of it. He had shipped his great crops to London, ordered
and paid for whatever he wished, having the articles re-shipped,
and invested the remainder in English securities. First it was
necessary to
have money; then to wish to
conceal money; lastly, to
hide it in a swamp ten miles off; all of which was an utter absurdity.
“My uncle was an eccentric person,” Harley muttered, “but very
far from a senseless one. This puzzle becomes more puzzling than
ever—any clue more hopeless, it seems, than at first. But I am
satisfied that there is a clue; he must have had a meaning, and a
distinct and rational one. I see nothing to do but to get on my
horse, and go and look around me in this same swamp—a humdrum
and commonplace morass, one would think. I shall find nothing;
but I shall kill the hours of daylight, which make me mope, mope!
Night and sleep will come sooner; and sleep means forgetting,
which I think is the luxury of life!”
These muttered words were replied to by a mutter from the
clouds overhead. Harley had not observed that a heavy storm had
gathered, and that he was still some miles from Huntsdon, near
the Blackwater Swamp.
