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To Katherine, who was in her own room, the sound beneath came with a subdued force, and knowing Mr. Newton was with him, she thought it better to stay where she was, for it never struck her that Mr. Liddell had fallen.
When, therefore, Mrs. Knapp, with that eagerness to spread evil tidings peculiar to her class, rushed upstairs to announce breathlessly that she was going for the doctor, but that the poor old gentleman was quite dead, Katherine could not believe her.
She quickly descended to the parlor, where she found Mr. Newton standing by the fire, looking pale and anxious.
"Oh, Mr. Newton, he cannot be dead!" cried Katherine. "He seemed stronger this morning, and he has fainted more than once. Let me bathe his temples." She took a bottle of eau-de-Cologne from the sideboard as she spoke.
"My dear young lady, both your servant and I have done what we could to revive him, and I fear—I believe he has passed away. The start and the triumph of finding himself the last survivor of the Tontine association were too much for his weak heart. I would not go in if I were you: death is appalling to the young."
Katherine stopped, half frightened, yet ashamed of her fear. "Oh yes; I must satisfy myself that I can do nothing more for him. Can it be possible that he will never speak again—never search for news of that other poor old man?" She went softly into the next room, followed by Newton, and approaching the bed, laid her hand gently on his brow. "How awfully cold!" she whispered, shrinking back in spite of herself at the unutterable chill of death. "But he looks so peaceful, so different from what he did in life!" She stood gazing at him, silent, awe-struck.
"Come away," said Newton, kindly. "The doctor will be here, I trust, in a few minutes, and will be able to give a certificate which will save the worry of an inquest."
Katherine obeyed his gesture of entreaty, and went slowly into the front room, where she sat down, leaning her elbows on the table and covering her face with her hands, while Mr. Newton closed the door.
It was all over, then, her hopes and fears; the poor wasted life, as much wasted and useless as if spent in the wildest and most extravagant follies, was finished. What had it left behind? Nothing of good to any human being; no blessing of loving-kindness, of help and sympathy, to any suffering brother wayfarer on life's high-road; nothing but hard, naked gold—gold which, from what she had heard, would go to one already abundantly provided. Ah, she must not think of that gold so sorely needed, or bad, unseemly ideas would master her!
But Mr. Newton was speaking. "It is fortunate I was here to be some stay to you," he said; "the shock must be very great, and—" He interrupted himself hastily to exclaim, "Here is the doctor! I shall go with him into our poor friend's room; let me find you here when I come back." Katherine bent her head, and remained in the same attitude, thinking, thinking.
How long it was before the kind lawyer returned she did not know; but he came and stood by her, the doctor behind him.
"It is as I supposed," said Newton, in a low tone. "Life is quite extinct." Katherine rose and confronted them, looking very white.
"Yes," added the doctor; "death must have been instantaneous. Your uncle was in a condition which made him liable to succumb under the slightest shock. Can you give me paper and ink? I will write a certificate at once. Then, Miss Liddell, I shall look to you."
Katherine placed the writing materials before him silently, and watched him trace the lines; then he handed the paper to Mr. Newton, saying, "You will see to what is necessary I presume," and rising he took Katherine's hand and felt her pulse. "Very unsteady indeed; I would recommend a glass of wine now, and at night a composing draught, which I will send. If I can do nothing more I must go on my rounds. I shall be at home again about six, should you require my services in any way."
He went out, followed by Mr. Newton, and they spoke together for a few moments before the doctor entered his carriage and drove off.
"Now, my dear," said Mr. Newton, when he returned—the startling event of the morning seemed to have taken off the sharp edge of his precision—"what shall you do? I suppose you would like to go home. It would be rather trying for you to stay here."
"To go home!" returned Katherine, slowly. "Yes, I should, oh, very much! but I will not go. My uncle never was unkind to me, and I will stay in his house until he is laid in his last resting place. Yet I do not like to stay alone. May I have my mother with me?"
"Yes, by all means. I tell you what, I will drive over and break the news to her myself; then she can come to you at once. I have a very particular appointment in the city this afternoon, but I shall arrange to spend to-morrow forenoon here, and examine the contents of that bureau. I have thought it well to take possession of your uncle's keys."
"Yes, of course," said Katherine; "you ought to have them. And you will go and send my mother to me! I shall feel quite well and strong if she is near. How good of you to think of it!" and she raised her dark tearful eyes so gratefully to his that the worthy lawyer's heart kindled within him.
"My dear young lady, I have rarely, if ever, regretted anything so much as my unfortunate absence yesterday, though had I been able to answer my late client's first summons, I doubt if time would have permitted the completion of a new will. Now my best hope, though it is a very faint one, is that he may have destroyed his last will, and so died intestate."
"Why?" asked Katherine, indifferently. She felt very hopeless.
"It would be better for you. You would, I rather think, be the natural heir." Katherine only shook her head. "Of course it is not likely. Still, I have known him destroy one will before he made another. He has made four or five, to my knowledge. So it is wiser not to hope for anything. I shall always do what I can for you. Now you are quite cold and shivering. I would advise your going to your room, and keeping there out of the way. You can do no more for your uncle, and I will send your mother to you as soon as I can. I suppose you have the keys of the house?"
Katherine bowed her head. She seemed tongue-tied. Only when Mr. Newton took her hand to say good-by she burst out, "You will send my mother to me soon—soon!"
Then she went away to her own room. Locking the door, she sat down and buried her face in the cushions of the sofa. She felt her thoughts in the wildest confusion, as if some separate exterior self was exerting a strange power over her. It had said to her, "Be silent," when Mr. Newton spoke of the possibility of not finding the will, and she had obeyed without the smallest intention to do good or evil. Some force she could not resist—or rather she did not dream of resisting—imposed silence on her. To what had this silence committed her? To nothing. When Mr. Newton came and examined the bureau he would no doubt open the drawer of the writing-table also. She had locked it, and put the key in the little basket where the keys of her scantily supplied store closet and of the cellaret lay: there it stood on the round table near the window, with her ink-bottle and blotting-book. She sat up and looked at it fixedly. That little key was all that intervened between her and rest, freedom, enjoyment. The more she recalled her uncle's words and manner on the day he had dictated his first note to Mr. Newton, the more convinced she felt that he had intended to provide for her, and now his intentions would be frustrated, and the will the old man wished to suppress would be the instrument by which his possessions would be distributed.
It was too bad. She did not know how closely the hope of her mother's emancipation from the long hard struggle with poverty and its attendant evils by means of Uncle Liddell's possible bequest had twined itself round her heart. Now she could not give it up. It seemed to her that her mental grasp refused to relax.
She rose and began to make some little arrangement for her mother's comfort, and presently the servant came to ask if she would take some tea.
"I'm sure, miss, you must be faint for want of food, and we are just going to have some—the woman and me."
"What woman?"
"A very respectable person as Dr. Bilham sent in to—to attend to the poor old gentleman, miss."
"Ah! thank you. I could not take anything now. I expect my mother soon; then I shall be glad of some tea.
"Well, miss, you'll ring if you want me. And dear me! you ought to have a bit of fire. I'll light one up in a minnit."
"Not till you have had your tea. I am not cold."
"You look awful bad, miss!" With this comforting assurance Mrs. Knapp departed, leaving the door partially open.
A muffled sound, as if people were moving softly and cautiously, was wafted to Katherine as she sat and listened: then a door closed gently; voices murmuring in a subdued tone reached her ear, retreating as if the speakers had gone downstairs.
Katherine went to the window. It was a wretchedly dark, drizzling afternoon—cold too, with gusts of wind. She hoped Mr. Newton would make her mother take a cab. It was no weather for her to stand about waiting for an omnibus. Would the time ever come when they need not think of pennies?
Suddenly she turned, took a key from her basket, and walked composedly downstairs, unlocked the drawer of the writing-table, and took out her uncle's last will and testament. Then she closed the drawer, leaving the key in the lock, as it had always been, and returned to her room.
Having fastened her door, she applied herself to read the document. It was short and simple, and with the exception of a small legacy to Mr. Newton, left all the testator possessed to a man whose name was utterly unknown to her. Mr. Newton was the sole executor, and the will was dated nearly seven years back.
Katherine read it through a second time, and then very deliberately folded it up. "It shall not stand in my way," she murmured, her lips closing firmly, and she sat for a few minutes holding it tight in her hand, as she thought steadily what she should do. "Had my uncle lived a few hours more, this would have been destroyed or nullified. I will carry out his intentions. I wonder what is the legal penalty for the crime or felony I am going to commit? At all events I shall risk it. The only punishment I fear is my mother's condemnation. She must never know. It is a huge theft, whether the man I rob is rich or poor. I hope he is very rich. I know I am doing a great wrong; that if others acted as I am acting there would be small security for property—perhaps for life—but I'll do it. Shall I ever be able to hold up my head and look honest folk in the face! I will try. If I commit this robbery I must not falter nor repent. I must be consistently, boldly false, and I must get done with it before my dearest mother comes. How grieved and disappointed she would be if she knew! She believes so firmly in my truthfulness. Well, I have been true, and I will be, save in this. Here I will lie by silence. Where shall I hide it? for I will not destroy it—not yet at least. No elaborate concealment is necessary."
She rose up and took some thin brown paper—such as is used in shops to wrap up lace and ribbons—and folded the will in it neatly, tying it up with twine, and writing on it, "old MSS., to be destroy ed." Then she laid it in the bottom of her box. "If my mother sees it, the idea of old MS. will certainly deter her from looking at it." She put back the things she had taken out and closed the box; then she stood for a moment of thought. What would the result be? Who could tell? Some other unknown Liddells might start up to share the inheritance. Well, she would not mind that much; so long as she could secure some years of modest competence to her mother, some help for her little nephews, she would be content.
Now that she had accomplished what an hour ago was a scarcely entertained idea, she felt wonderfully calm, but curious as to how things would turn out, with the sort of curiosity she might have felt with regard to the action of another.
She did not want to be still any more, however; she went to and fro in her room, dusting it and putting it in order; she rearranged her own hair and dress, and then she went to the window to watch for her mother. Time had gone swiftly while her thoughts had been so intensely occupied, and to her great delight she soon saw a cab drive up, from which Mrs. Liddell descended.
Katherine flew to receive her, and in the joy of feeling her mother once more by her side she temporarily forgot the sense of a desperate deed which had oppressed her.
Mrs. Liddell had been much shocked by the sudden death of her brother-in-law, but her chief anxiety was to fly to Katie, to shorten the terrible hours of loneliness in the house of mourning.
She too honestly confessed her regret that the old man had been cut off before he could fulfil his intention of making a new will, "though," she said to her daughter as they talked together, "we cannot be sure that he would have remembered us—or rather you. But there is no use in thinking of what is past out of the range of possibilities. Let us only hope whoever is heir will not insist on immediate repayment of that loan. It is strange that you should have managed to make the poor old man's acquaintance, and to a certain degree succeed with him, only in his last days."
"Try and talk of something else, mother dear. It is all so ghastly and oppressive! Tell me about Ada and the boys."
"Ada was out when Mr. Newton came. I left a little note telling her of your uncle's awfully sudden death, and of my intention of remaining with you until after the funeral. What a state of excitement she will be in! I have no doubt she will be here to-morrow."
"Very likely," said Katherine, who was pouring out tea.
"Did Mr. Newton mention to you that your uncle had written to him to come and draw up a new will?"
"Why, I wrote the note, which my uncle signed."
"Yes, of course; I had forgotten. But did Mr. Newton say that he had a faint hope that he might have destroyed the other will?"
"He did; but it is not probable."
"It would make an immense difference to us if he had."
"Would it?" asked Kate, to extract an answer from her mother.
"Mr. Newton believes that if he died intestate you would inherit everything."
"What! would not the little boys share?"
"I am not sure. But to get away from the subject, which some how always draws me back to it, I have one bit of good news for you, my darling. I had a letter from Santley this morning. He will take my novel, and will give me a hundred and fifty pounds for it."
"Really? Oh, this is glorious news! I am so delighted! Then you will get more for the next; you will become known and appreciated."
"Do not be too sure; it may be a failure. And at present I do not feel as if I should ever have any ideas again. My brain seems so weary."
"Perhaps," whispered Katherine, "you may be able to rest. You are looking very tired and ill."
Somewhat to her own surprise, Katherine slept profoundly that night. The delicious sense of comfort and security which her mother's presence brought soothed her ineffably. It seemed as if no harm could touch her while she felt the clasp of those dear arms.
The early forenoon brought Mr. Newton, and after a little preliminary talk respecting the arrangements he had made for the funeral, he proposed to look for the will which he had drawn up some years before, and which, to the best of his recollection, Mr. Liddell had taken charge of himself.
"Might you not wait until the poor old man is laid in his last home? asked Mrs. Liddell.
"Perhaps it would be more seemly," said the lawyer; "but it is almost necessary to know who is the heir and who is the executor. Besides, it is quite possible that since he signed the will I drew up for him in '59, and to which I was executor, he may have made another, of which I know nothing, and I may have to communicate with some other executor. I will therefore begin the search at once. Would you and your daughter like to be present?"
"Thank you, no," returned Mrs. Liddell.
"I would rather not," said Katherine.
Mr. Newton proceeded on his search alone, while Mrs. Liddell and her daughter went to the latter's room, anxious to keep from meddling with what did not concern them.
Scarcely had the former settled herself to write a letter to an old friend in Florence with whom she kept up a steady though not a frequent correspondence, when she was interrupted by a tap at the door. Before she could say "Come in," it was opened to admit Mrs. Frederic Liddell, who came in briskly. She had taken out a black dress with crape on it, and retouched a mourning bonnet, so that she presented an appearance perfectly suited to the occasion.
"Oh dear!" she cried, "I have been in such a state ever since I had your note! I thought I should never get away this morning. The stupidity of those servants is beyond description. Now do tell all about everything." She sat down suddenly, then jumped up, kissed her mother-in-law on the brow, and shook hands with Katherine.
"There is very little more to tell beyond what I said in my note," returned Mrs. Liddell. "The poor old man never spoke or showed any symptom of life after he fell. Mr Newton, of course, will make all arrangements. The funeral will be on Friday, and Katherine and I will remain here till it is over."
"And the will?" whispered Mrs. Frederic, eagerly. "Have you found out anything about that?"
Mrs. Liddell shook her head. "I have not even asked, so sure am I that it will not affect us in any way. Mr. Newton is now examining the bureau where my brother-in-law appears to have kept all his papers, hoping to find the will."
"Is it not cruel to think of all this wealth passing away from us?" cried the little woman, in a tearful tone.
"I do not suppose that John Liddell was wealthy," said Mrs. Liddell. "He was very careful of what he had, but it does not follow that he had a great deal."
"Oh, nonsense! My dear Mrs. Liddell, you only say that to keep us quiet. Misers always have heaps of money. What do you say, Katherine?"
"That from all I saw I should say he was not rich. He never mentioned large sums of money, or—"
"I do not mind you," interrupted the young widow. "You always affect to despise money."
"Indeed I do not, Ada. I am only afraid of thinking too much of it." Katherine perceived that her mother had wisely abstained from telling the whole circumstances to this most impulsive young person.
"And do you mean to say," pursued Mrs. Frederic, who could hardly keep still, so great was her excitement, "that the horrid lawyer is rummaging through the old man's papers all alone? You ought to be present, Mrs. Liddell. You don't know what tricks he may play. He may put a will in his own favor in some drawer. It is very weak not to have insisted on being present, and shows such indifference to our interests!"
"I am not afraid of Mr. Newton forging a will," said Mrs. Liddell, smiling; "and I greatly fear that whoever may profit by the old man's last testament, we will not. But I assure you Mr. Newton did ask me to assist in the search, and I declined. Indeed I asked him not to search while the poor remains were unburied."
"Why, my goodness! you do not mean to say you are pretending to be sorry for this rude—miser!" cried Mrs. Frederic, with uplifted hand and eyes.
"Personally I did not care about him, but, Ada, death demands respect."
"Oh yes, of course. Then there is absolutely nothing to do or to hear."
"Nothing," said Katherine, rather shortly.
"Could I go out and buy anything for you? Surely the executors, whoever they may be, will give you some money for mourning?"
"I do not think it at all likely. I will tell you what you can do, Ada: go to my large cupboard and bring me," etc., etc.—sundry directions followed. "Katherine and I can quite well do all that is necessary ourselves to make a proper appearance on Friday."
"Very well; and I will come to the funeral too, and bring the boys. A little crape on their caps and sleeves will be quite enough. They will produce a great effect. I dare say if I speak to Mrs. Burnett's friend, that newspaper man, he will put an account into the Morning News , with all our names. Whatever comes, it would have a good effect."
"Of course you can come if you like, Ada, but I would not bring the boys. Children are out of place except at a parent's grave."
"Well, I do not agree with you, and I do not think you need grudge my poor children that much recognition."
"Poor darlings! Do you believe we could grudge them anything that was good for them?" cried Katherine.
"Oh, there is no knowing! Pray is there any plate in the house, Katherine, or diamonds? You know the nephew's wife ought to have the diamonds!"
"Do not make me laugh, Ada, while the poor man is lying dead!" exclaimed Katherine, smiling. "The idea of plate or diamonds in this house is too funny!"
"Then are the spoons and forks only Sheffield ware?" asked her sister-in-law. "How mean!"
After a good deal more cross-examination Mrs. Fred rose to depart, her pretty childish face clouded, not to say very cross.
"I might have saved myself the trouble of coming here," she said.
"We are very glad to see you, and it will be a great help if you can send or bring the things I want."
"Perhaps, if I wait a little longer, this admirable Mr. Newton may find something," resumed Mrs. Fred, pausing, and reluctant to move.
"If he does I will let you know immediately," said Katherine; "but there are numbers of little drawers in the bureau; it will take him a long time to look through them all."
"Have you seen the inside of it?" asked Mrs. Fred, greedily.
"I have seen my uncle writing at it," returned Katherine; "but I never had an opportunity of examining it."
"Well, I suppose I had better go. I am evidently not wanted here!" exclaimed Mrs. Frederic, longing to quarrel with some one, being in that condition of mind aptly described as "not knowing what to be at." Finding no help from her auditors, she went reluctantly away.
"I wish poor Ada would not allow her imagination to run away with her. It will be such a disappointment when she finds it is all much ado about nothing," said Mrs. Liddell, as she returned to her letter. "I am afraid, Katie dear, you have had a great shock; you do not look a bit like yourself."
"I feel dazed and stupid, but I dare say I shall be all right to-morrow." She took a book and pretended to read, while her mother's pen scratched lightly and quickly over the paper.
The light was beginning to change, when a message from Mr. Newton summoned both mother and daughter to the sitting-room, where they found him awaiting them.
"I have looked most carefully through the bureau, and can find no sign of the will. There are various papers and account-books, a very clear statement of his affairs, and about a hundred and fifteen pounds of ready money, but no will. I have also looked in his writing-table drawer, his wardrobe, and every possible and impossible place. It may be at my office, though I am under the impression he took charge of it himself. There is a possibility he may have deposited it at his banker's or his stock-broker's, though that is not probable."
"It is curious," remarked Mrs. Liddell, feeling she must say something.
"Pray," resumed Newton, addressing Katherine, "have you ever seen him tearing up or burning papers?"
She thought for a moment, and then said quietly, "No, I never have."
"I can do no more here, at least to-day," Newton went on. "I must bid you a good-afternoon. You may be sure I will leave nothing undone to discover the missing will, and I can only say I earnestly hope I may not be successful."