# Wills and Will Making/5

Published in All the Year Round, New Series, Volume I (May 8, 1869).
MORE OF WILLS AND WILL MAKING.
THE COCLOUGH BATTLE. IN TWO PARTS.
Part II.
At last, as the war grew hotter, Mrs. Coclough carried her husband away out of the country to Cheltenham. Boteler House, where they now lived, became a sort of genteel prison—no one was admitted without giving the countersign, as it were. "She directed the avenue gates to be locked," said the relations—a custom they might be reminded that obtains a good deal. Servants were directed not to admit any one to see him without summoning her. Sometimes she made him do the housemaid's ​work; sometimes she sent him to the kitchen on menial errands, when he would address the servants there assembled in such a speech as this: "My wife, Jane, desires me to count the pots and pans, as you are all robbing us!" and, said the inflamed relations in a passionate protest against such treatment of their dear friend and patron, "It would appear from his manner and expressions on such occasions, that he acted as a mere instrument in the hands of a domineering and tyrannical woman; awed and used by her as she felt necessary, for accomplishing her design of totally depriving him of free agency of thought and independent action." If the poor man gave an order, she countermanded it, telling them to do as she told them. Once more, "her frequent and familiar expression" was, "by God it shall be so, and by God it shant be so"—and he was seen trembling before her. A sympathising builder said he seemed "as a child under a parent."
The instructions and "general orders" of those who managed the case are highly characteristic, and give an idea of the strategy by which great cases are carried. A gentleman with a "J.P." and "D.L.," hanging like decorations at the end of his name, was specially recommended to the judicious handling of counsel. " Mr. ——'s description of the complete subjugation of testator to the domineering will of his wife, is inimitable. His cowardice in her presence cannot be expressed in its true light, except by the production of Mr. —— on the witness table." But they bewailed the fact that he was suffering from "a personal and inconvenient complaint," which would prevent his attendance. This distinction of a "personal complaint" is rather good; and the writer may have been nearly related to another solicitor, who, when places of resort were being compared, protested that, as to natural charms of scenery, &c., "he gave his veto"—pronounced "vaito"—"for Switzerland." This witness was able to report conversations dramatically, and the House of Lords must have had great amusement reading over this odd chronicle:
Mr. Coclough. My dear fellow, what can I do? My wife says she won't remain; she will leave me.
Mr. ——. It is not to be expected she would remain in a rat-hole like this. You must build a proper house and make it comfortable, and then she will remain.
Mr. C. Why, my dear friend, I told her I would expend ten thousand pounds on a house if she would consent to live with me in it; but she would not on any terms. What am I to do?
Mr. ——. Never mind that. Build the house first, make the house suitable, and, having done your duty, you will know how to insist quietly that your wife shall do hers.
Mr. C. My motto is, "Peace before Prosperity."
At this point Mrs. Coclough entered the room unexpectedly. The husband at once repeated the good advice he had received.
Mrs. C. Mr. ——! Mr. ——! what can my husband do by residing with his tenantry? What good can he do? What good can he do?
She went over this question many times. Mr. Coclough was then prudently withdrawing, when she turned on him. "Mr. Coclough! Mr. Coclough! what good can you do?—what can you do?" &c. Mr. Coclough made her the next retort, that she might do good by letting him remain. But Mr. —— stated that "he then withdrew as quickly as possible." When Mr. —— was living in London as a bachelor, his old friend often came to see him, but never was permitted to go up-stairs without his wife.
At last it came to the year 1842, when the testator began to fail, and there seemed a chance that all his wife's schemes—if schemes they were—were to be crowned with success. He was busy with his chemicals and experiments when he felt sick. On the 4th of August the will-making began, perhaps the most unique series of these documents yet known. On that day it was settled that the wife should have the handsome jointure of five thousand a year, while the estates were to go to his heir-at-law. This document was put by carelessly in an open wardrobe. Then a doctor, acting, perhaps, in the interests of the future widow, suggested that the Cheltenham mansion, Boteler House, might be advantageously bequeathed to her. And on the next day, August 4, will number two was prepared and duly signed, in which the alteration was made.
Now came the most sudden change. Early the following morning the same solicitor was sent for. The night before, as the signature was affixed, it was remembered that he said to the solicitor that his wife was to have no more than her annuity. Perhaps some of her allies reported this speech to her; however this was, some bold course of action, some prompt coup de main, reversed all. The night before, the needy relations were secured a fine estate; the next morning, when the solicitor returned, the testator walked into the room and announced that he had made up his mind to leave everything to his wife. It was accordingly so done. Three weeks later he died. The lady kept strict guard over him lest a fourth will should come into existence, and though witnesses about his bed heard him utter faint wishes that his "own people" were with him, the vigilant lady was at hand to interpret these sounds as some of his old French speeches, and "as a request for his pocket-handkerchief." It was he who made a most dramatic sick-bed complaint "that it was dreadful when two burning pains meet." Finally, he gave up the ghost, and the baffled relatives had to pass through that terrible interval of suspense between the death and the opening of the will. It is far more intense and protracted than the time for the gambler between setting down his money, and the turning of the card. Then they learned the worst, and we may suppose, bowing their heads, uttered certain expressions, not loud, but deep.
The heir-at-law at first seemed to accept his ​condition. Meanwhile the triumphant lady entered on her hard-won property.
In four years time she married again; but within a month the new husband had to separate from her, owing, as her opponents were ungallant enough to inform the House of Lords in mixed legal and every-day vernacular, "to the violent and ungovernable temper of the said lady, and her desire and determination to rule the said gentleman in the same manner as she had ruled and governed the said Cæsar Coclough"—an unhandsome and needless aggravation. The same legal mind proceeds to relate how "an honourable but verbal agreement" was entered into between the separated parties, that he was to be guaranteed from all liability in any possible future litigation—a most characteristic specimen of a solicitor-like view of things, as though in their minds and experience, honour was not usually associated with any matters not in writing. And this theory was certainly fortified by their experience in this case, as they declared, that when her interest required it, the imperious lady tried to cast the whole responsibility on her separated husband.
However, after so long an interval as ten years, the relatives, who had been ingeniously kept from legal proceedings by certain arrangements of the estates, contrived by their clever enemy, determined to take the field. Long lists of counsel were enrolled; all the heavy howitzers and mortars of the Irish and English bars, and the light flying artillery were called out. Then began the usual edifying expenditure of clients' money. The disastrous litigation commenced, and in Hilary Term, 1852, the two great line-of-battle ships, heavily armed, and crowded with men, were successfully towed into the Irish Court of Chancery, and began the battle. The result of this first meeting was a putting off of the matter to another time, and to another tribunal, and an "issue was directed" to a local jury. Some months further on, all was ready again, and down went the howitzers and the artillery, every gun having splendidly "served out" to it handsome special fees, retainers, refreshers, and what not. The imperious lady was present during the whole trial, but quite disdained to appear, or to enter the witness-box. The jury found against her, that the last made will was not the "last will," and that it had been obtained by undue influence. This was no victory, but a mere repulse of the advanced guard, and notice was presently served of an application for a new trial. It was set down for hearing, when the counsel were "retained"—but was directed to stand over "until the judge furnished his notes."
Meanwhile the vigilant relatives discovered that the lady's agents were hard at work, tampering with their witnesses, "endeavouring to persuade them that their former evidence was untrue, and urging them to confess the same, which they refused to do," and regular affidavits were sworn to this effect. But at last, after motions, and no doubt consultations, the big vessels were again tugged into the Court of Chancery, about a year after they had been towed out for "the issue," and the Chancellor, having taken three months to brood over the matter, and having heard arguments for seven days, declared that the jury was right, and that he could not disturb their decision. Upon the next day the cause was further heard. An appeal was of course had to the House of Lords, who, after due time, reversed the verdict, and ordered a new trial. Here was good news for the profession: new refreshers, consultations, &c.
Meanwhile the untiring lady, exhausting every shape of strategy, had craftily instituted a little suit on English territory: an ejectment as to the house at Cheltenham.
The object of this was by a side wind, as it were, to obtain the prestige of a verdict from an English jury, and thus come over triumphantly, with drums beating and flags flying.
Hitherto everything might seem to have gone well with her. She had the authority of the highest tribunal in the land, and she had what certainly seemed a very good case. For what was more natural, than that a man, who cordially disliked all his relatives, who had fought a duel with one (after which they remained bitter foes—a duel being usually certain to reconcile even the most bitter Irish foes), who conceived that he had been badly and cruelly treated by them, should choose to leave his estates to the woman whom he had married for love, and who was latterly his only friend and companion. To the English jury at Cheltenham her case commended itself most reasonably, and it was noted that Lord Campbell, who tried it, treated her with the most scrupulous politeness, and even indulgence. It seemed a hard case: why should not the affectionate wife receive this testimonial of her husband's regard? Still there was one difficulty which seemed to press on the mind of the judge—the exclusion of the relatives. One of them, Sarsfield, had made his way to the gate, imploring to be allowed in. She explained this perfectly. This person had sent in a letter, which, when read by the dying man, had quite inflamed and excited him, and he had determined him not to admit him. She actually had it there and produced it. The other side made no appearance, and she of course obtained her verdict.
But they had taken the precaution to have a short-hand writer, sitting in a retired corner of the court, who was taking down every word; and when the Irish counsel read what was thus reported about the letter they were bewildered. She had made her case too symmetrical, and they did not forget that at the first trial it had been distinctly proved how Sarsfield Coclough came to the gate, had sent up his letter, and how it had been contemptuously sent out to him again, unopened, with threats. What could she have meant, or what letter was it? Whatever was the explanation, she had thus cured the weak portion of her case in the only part that seemed to support the charge of undue influence, and of keeping away his relations from his bedside. To solve this problem keen wits were set to work, wits of solicitors, brain and wisdom of the eloquent lawyer who ​is now the Chief Justice of Ireland. It was soon ferreted out. The man who had been turned away from the gate, or his son, applied for assistance to the new but temporary heir, asking for the modest sum of fifteen hundred pounds. The other protested it was out of his power, adding, reasonably enough, that his position was very uncertain; and that another trial might displace him. The other at once went over to the enemy, offering his services, and also placing at her disposal all their papers. Here was the clue. Among those papers she had found this returned and unopened letter, and had turned it to the clever use described. With such a woman, too much care and secrecy could not be observed. Not a whisper was breathed, and further investigations were made with a view to the last struggle.
Meanwhile, acting on the verdict of the Wexford jury, the Irish Chancellor had placed the heir-at-law in possession of the old abbey. It was now, indeed, a "rat-hole," for the dry rot of Chancery had set in. The intrepid widow, frustrated for the moment in her designs on the estate, had swept the house clear of every "stick," as the phrase goes, of furniture. The new owner had to patch here and there, fit up a room or two, and could at best but comfort himself with but a temporary tenancy. He had excellent advisers, skilful counsel, who were working hard; but all felt that here was the fatal blemish in the case. The late Cæsar, disliked his relatives; disliked the man whose very daughter was now heir-at-law, having fought a duel with him. What undue influence was there required to get him to leave away his estates from such persons? It was felt that victory would be with her: as the victory would assuredly have been, but for her own over finesse, and a strange incident, that seems to belong to Mr. Harrison Ainsworth. The temporary owner then, with a heavy heart, was cheaply papering up a room or two, when a workman noticed a sort of half open panel, much in shape like the slit of a letter-box. Into this he carelessly thrust his brush to "rack" out the dust accumulations, just as painters are fond of doing. Out dropped a bundle of old papers, which the painter brushed aside, and later pointed out to a servant. The servant brought them to his master, who brought them to the solicitor in the cause, who all but shouted with delight as he showed them to his counsel. The lady, "casting away" every stick of furniture, had forgotten to search this precious receptacle. The solicitor hurried with these priceless papers to London, went to a nameless printer, had them printed, and jealously hidden away, and when the counsel received his brief, it was a surprise to find a clasp-lock and key attached to the book.
Meanwhile the new trial began down at Wexford. It was felt that, even with the great prejudices of the jury against the lady, still her case was almost irresistible. Even if defeated by the Wexford jury, she would have "the Lords" to go to once more. Her leading counsel again put her case forward, restated the reasonableness of her influence, and, above all, the unanswerable argument that this branch of the testator's house could have no claim on him, simply because he detested them, and was never reconciled to them. This, again, seemed to settle the case. The lady herself was produced, boldly and defiantly told her story about the letter, and seemed to convince every one. But she was cross-examined vigorously and with amazing power, by Mr. Whiteside. Amid a tumult of anger, refusal to answer, denial, &c., the truth about the letter was wrung from her. Then came the counsel on the other side, restraining himself up to that time, and never had counsel so exquisite a moment of triumph. If there had, said the other counsel, been relations that he liked, or regarded, the influence would have been improper, and the will should go down. In a deliberate and restrained way, the other counsel had the satisfaction of answering this challenge. One by one, from the locked book, were read, not one, not a dozen, but a whole series of the most affectionate letters, between the two Cæsars, who had fought the duel; they had been reconciled, and no one could listen without being convinced that to the child of the Chief Justice the testator could have had no hostility. The feelings of the counsel on the other side, as this fatal shell burst among them, were too strong for even the well trained dissimulation of lawyers. Over those veteran faces was speedily spreading the most palpable confusion, disappointment, and mortification. Very rapidly the triumphant case broke up, and the lady, who but five minutes before was certain of her ten thousand a year, was glad to accept a compromise of some twenty thousand pounds cash which was lying in the bank.
On these trifling gains the lady retired from the contest, and has since, it is believed, married some foreign gentleman; but such a defeat on the eve of victory must have destroyed all future enjoyment. Thus did a second woman of determination figure as a heroine in a battle for an estate and power. Later on we shall follow the fortunes of a third.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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