‘This is the last Will and Testament of me Timothy Forsyte of The Bower Bayswater Road London I appoint my nephew Soames Forsyte of The Shelter Mapledurham and Thomas Gradman of 159 Folly Road Highgate (hereinafter called my Trustees) to be the trustees and executors of this my Will. To the said Soames Forsyte I leave the sum of one thousand pounds free of legacy duty and to the said Thomas Gradman I leave the sum of five thousand pounds free of legacy duty.’
Soames paused. Old Gradman was leaning forward, convulsively gripping a stout black knee with each of his thick hands; his mouth had fallen open so that the gold fillings of three teeth gleamed; his eyes were blinking, two tears rolled slowly out of them. Soames read hastily on.
‘All the rest of my property of whatsoever description I bequeath to my Trustees upon Trust to convert and hold the same upon the following trusts namely. To pay thereout all my debts funeral expenses and outgoings of any kind in connexion with my Will and to hold the residue thereof in trust for that male lineal descendant of my father Jolyon Forsyte by his marriage with Ann Pierce who after the decease of all lineal descendants whether male or female of my said father by his said marriage in being at the time of my death shall last attain the age of twenty-one years absolutely it being my desire that my property shall be nursed to the extreme limit permitted by the laws of England for the benefit of such male lineal descendant as aforesaid.’
Soames read the investment and attestation clauses, and ceasing, looked at Gradman. The old fellow was wiping his brow with a large handkerchief, whose brilliant colour supplied a sudden festive tinge to the proceedings.
‘My word, Mr Soames!’ he said, and it was clear that the lawyer in him had utterly wiped out the man: ‘My word! Why, there are two babies now, and some quite young children – if one of them lives to be eighty – it’s not a great age – and add twenty-one – that’s a hundred years; and Mr Timothy worth a hundred and fifty thousand pound nett if he’s worth a penny. Compound interest at five per cent doubles you in fourteen years. In fourteen years three hundred thousand – six hundred thousand in twenty-eight – twelve hundred thousand in forty-two – twenty-four hundred thousand in fifty-six – four million eight hundred thousand in seventy – nine million six hundred thousand in eight-four – Why, in a hundred years it’ll be twenty million! And we shan’t live to see it! It is a Will!’
Soames said dryly: ‘Anything may happen. The State might take the lot; they’re capable of anything in these days.’
‘And carry five,’ said Gradman to himself. ‘I forgot – Mr Timothy’s in Consols; we shan’t get more than two per cent with this income tax. To be on the safe side, say eight million. Still, that’s a pretty penny.’
Soames rose and handed him the Will. ‘You’re going into the City. Take care of that, and do what’s necessary. Advertise; but there are no debts. When’s the sale?’
‘Tuesday week,’ said Gradman. ‘Life or lives in bein’ and twenty-one years afterward – it’s a long way off. But I’m glad he’s left it in the family.…’
The sale – not at Jobson’s, in view of the Victorian nature of the effects – was far more freely attended than the funeral, though not by Cook and Smither, for Soames had taken it on himself to give them their heart’s desire. Winifred was present, Euphemia, and Francie, and Eustace had come in his car. The miniatures, Barbizons, and J. R. drawings had been bought in by Soames; and relics of no marketable value were set aside in an off-room for members of the family who cared to have mementoes. These were the only restrictions upon bidding characterized by an almost tragic languor. Not one piece of furniture, no picture or porcelain figure appealed to modern taste. The humming-birds had fallen like autumn leaves when taken from where they had not hummed for sixty years. It was painful to Soames to see the chairs his aunts had sat on, the little grand piano they had practically never played, the books whose outsides they had gazed at, the china they had dusted, the curtains they had drawn, the hearth-rug which had warmed their feet; above all, the beds they had lain and died in – sold to little dealers, and the housewives of Fulham. And yet – what could he do? Buy them and stick them in a lumber-room? No; they had to go the way of all flesh and furniture, and be worn out. But when they put up Aunt Ann’s sofa and were going to knock it down for thirty shillings, he cried out, suddenly: ‘Five pounds!’ The sensation was considerable, and the sofa his.