Leopold van Zonshoven to Mr. William Verheyst.

My dear Friend,—Whilst you are sailing down the Red Sea, I am entrusting to paper what I would not confide to any living mortal but yourself.

My fortune still hangs in the balance. Without doubt the worthy testatrix has done everything possible to insure her heritage to me; but there are moments when I feel so great a repugnance to it as to make me question whether it were not better to renounce it than to become the instrument of Miss Roselaer de Werve’s vengeance on this side the grave. The idea of having to drive a grey-headed old man from his manor-house, and to render a poor young lady, who has a family claim on her aunt’s inheritance, houseless, is too much for me, though a whimsical old woman and the law have done their utmost to set my conscience at ease.

But to commence my story. The day after you left me, I went over to Utrecht to call on the lawyer, Van Beek. Perhaps in the hurry of our parting I forgot to tell you this was my intention. At such times a man often forgets the most important things he has to say.

The worthy functionary is a short, thin personage, with a tuft of hair hanging over his forehead, sharp eyes, a long, thin nose, and thin lips always closed; in fact, a perfect type of the shrewd, clever, but inexorable lawyer.

He received me seated in an armchair, clad in a grey office coat, and with a solemn white neckcloth fastened round his neck so tightly that I really was afraid it would choke him.

When I entered the room he rose to salute me with a polite bow, and only when he had learnt my name and my resolve to carry out the intentions of the testatrix did a fine smile play about his mouth—a smile which seemed to say: “You’ve come round, then, at last, though you appeared to hesitate at first.”

After a few words as to the sudden death of his client, and her express wish to be buried as quietly as possible, without the attendance of any of her relations, he told me he had been the confidential adviser of Lady Roselaer for the last thirty years, and was consequently able to give me all necessary information with regard to her dealings with General von Zwenken, and her intentions in respect of his granddaughter.

I should only weary you if I attempted to relate all the pitiful stories of mischief-making and counter-mischief-making with which, long before the birth of Francis, the General and Aunt Sophia endeavoured to render each other’s life miserable. I now comprehend that she neither could nor would leave her fortune to such a man, and I approve of the course she has taken for Francis’ sake, who would have been the greatest sufferer if her aunt had not acted with so much foresight and prudence. The General is a spendthrift, or, to put it in the mildest terms, a bad financier. His affairs, the lawyer says—and the lawyer evidently knows more about them than the General does himself—are in such a state that, to use an expression of Macaulay’s, “the whole wealth of the East would not suffice to put them in order and keep them so.”

Still, does this justify my aunt’s inexorable hatred? I am sure, if you saw her portrait, you would scarcely believe her capable of it: a stately dame in a rich black silk gown, with silvery grey hair under a black lace cap, and a string of priceless pearls round her neck—so she appears in a painting done in the last year of her life. And this she has bequeathed to her legal adviser, because she believed none of her relations would be able to look upon it with pleasure. On this point, I fancy, she was not far deceived. I myself, her favoured heir, honestly confess that much must happen, much be cleared up, before I can regard it with any degree of cheerfulness and gratitude, seeing I know what a Shylock-spirit once breathed in that thin, slender figure of a woman. The lawyer bore testimony to her kindness to the poor, but said she was very singular in her ways of life and thought. Being strictly orthodox himself, he accounts for all her singularities by saying they are the outcome of her great admiration of the ideas prevalent in the eighteenth century; she was an admirer of Rousseau, and actually adorned her room with a statuette of Voltaire. In fact, she had herself painted holding a volume of Voltaire’s Correspondence in her hand, though she knew this would not be particularly pleasing to the future possessor of that portrait.

“Well, well, Jonker,” he continued, “since you ask me for the truth about the life and actions of your deceased aunt, I must tell you she seldom went to church, and when she did it was to the French church, though she was not a member of it.1 She gave large sums every year to all sorts of institutions; subscribed liberally to any fund for the benefit of the lower classes; but would never give a penny to the Church. If I sometimes tried to change her views on this point, she cut me short by saying it was a matter of conscience with her not to contribute to the increase of a race of hypocrites. You will understand that in my position I could not insist further on this subject. Besides, she did not make use of her riches for herself, except with the greatest economy. She occupied a small villa just outside the town of Utrecht, and her beautiful country-seat in Gelderland, as well as her magnificent house in town, were both let to strangers. She kept but one man-servant, an aged waiting-woman, and a cook. The gardener who rented her kitchen-garden supplied her with vegetables, and kept her flowers in order. She had no carriage, and sometimes did not go out for weeks together. Neither did she receive company, denying herself to all visitors except Dr. D., her old friend, who made a professional visit every day, and came regularly two evenings a week with his married sister to play cards. I saw her as often as business affairs rendered it necessary, and once a month she invited me, my wife and daughter, to dinner. On these occasions Dr. D. and his sister were also invited; but I never remember to have met any one else, except the painter who did this portrait, and to whom she has left a nice little legacy. He was a young man with roguish eyes, and beautiful mustachios; and I suspect he made love to her À la Voltaire, for she bought drawings of him which she never even looked at. He was, otherwise, a good young fellow, with a widowed mother to maintain; and the capital she has left is large enough to permit of such a freak of fancy——”

“Oh, certainly!” I interrupted, “I am glad that the latter days of her monotonous life were cheered by anybody. But what you have told me of her views with regard to the Church leads me to doubt whether I ought to accept her heritage, since, once in possession of it, I shall feel it my duty to make use of her money for purposes directly contrary to her wishes.”

“I don’t think you need have any scruples; for she was very well acquainted with the character of Jonker van Zonshoven, and what might be expected of him in such matters. Yet you see this did not deter her from entrusting her fortune to you. Besides, she was liberal enough with regard to the views of other people. Her maid is strictly orthodox, and yet every Sunday a carriage was placed at her service to convey her to church; and she is left well provided for during the rest of her life. It is probable Lady Roselaer considered you the person likely to make good what she had left undone either from false shame or obstinacy. Had this not been her intention, she was a woman who would have taken measures to prevent her will being ignored, even after her death.”