Brian Earle had not been gone more than two or three weeks when the
report suddenly spread through Scarborough that Mr. Singleton was very
ill. And for once report was true. One among the many chronic maladies
from which he suffered took a turn for the worse, and the doctors shook
their heads, saying the case was very critical.
Indeed it was more than critical. Those about the sick man knew that
his recovery--even his partial recovery--was impossible. Close to him
now was the dread Presence which care and skill had kept at bay so
long, and no one was more thoroughly aware of the fact than himself. He
met it with a grim philosophy, which is the only possible substitute
for Christian resignation. Of religious belief he had very little,
never having troubled himself to formulate the vague ideas which he had
received from a much attenuated Protestantism. But, such as they were,
they did not inspire him with terror. God would, no doubt, be merciful
to a man who was conscious of never having done anything dishonorable
in his life. This consciousness helped to support his philosophy, but
it is not likely that he gave it much thought. A subject which has not
occupied a place of importance in a man's consideration during life
will hardly do so even in the face of death.
Mr. Singleton was more interested in arranging his worldly affairs than
in preparing for the great change from time to eternity. His lawyer
was summoned, and a final and complete revision made of the important
document which would fulfill or blast the hopes of many people.
Concerning this document Mrs. Singleton was wild with curiosity; but
she could learn nothing, and her husband declined even to speculate
concerning their chances. "We shall know soon enough--perhaps too
soon," he said, with his usual philosophy, a little tinged by
despondency.
Another person who felt some curiosity, mingled with an indifference
which surprised herself, was Marion Lynde. Who would take in the will
that place which Brian Earle had forfeited? And what would the latter
think now of the fact that he had thrown away a fortune rather than
give a promise, the fulfillment of which, as it now chanced, would
never have been exacted? "He would have had the money and his freedom
besides," she thought. "Does he recognize his folly now? Will he
recognize it when he hears the news that soon must be told him?"
Of her own interest in this crisis, Marion did not take a great deal
of thought. She had no doubt that some legacy for herself would find a
place in Mr. Singleton's will, and no doubt also that in the time to
come she would be grateful for it. But she regarded the probability
just now with a dull indifference, which was the reaction from a
great disappointment. She had not only lost the only man who had ever
touched her heart, but also the fortune that might have been hers in
the entirety. And, after that great loss, could she rejoice over the
prospect of obtaining a small share of this fortune?
No: to rejoice was impossible; but she felt that whatever the old man's
generosity gave would be welcome, since it would mean emancipation from
absolute dependence on relations for whom she had no cordiality of
feeling. No doubt the time would come when she would be very glad of
this, but just now it was difficult--in fact, impossible--to be glad of
anything.
In this way the days, weighted with much pain for one and much
uncertainty of hope and fear for others, dragged their slow hours
away and the end came at last. Marion was still in the house--Mrs.
Singleton, who felt that her presence could no longer do any harm, had
begged her not to leave,--and she felt a thrill of awe and regret when
the words came from the sick chamber, "He is dying."
So the old man who had showed nothing but kindness to her was passing
away--and how? Without a single heart near him that throbbed with
affection, without a Sacrament or a word of prayer! Marion had
associated too much with Catholics not to feel the horror of this, but
she also knew too much of Protestants to expect anything different. Yet
she could not help saying to Mrs. Singleton, "Has no clergyman been
sent for?"
That lady looked surprised. "No," she answered. "Why should one be sent
for? No one would take the liberty of doing such a thing while Mr.
Singleton was conscious, and after unconsciousness had set in where
would be the good? Mr. Eustace would come and read prayers, no doubt,
if we asked him to do so; but what would be gained by it?"
"Nothing, I suppose," said Marion. She had heard those prayers--which
are all that Protestantism offers,--and shuddered at the recollection.
Yet for the dying man to go forth into eternity without a word of
appeal in his behalf, seemed to her so terrible that she stole away
to her own room, opened a prayer-book which had been given her at the
convent, and, kneeling down, said for the first time in her life the
prayers for the dying which she found therein.
And while she was saying them--those tender and infinitely touching
petitions, which call upon the Most High in solemn supplication for the
soul in its agony,--the soul for which she prayed passed away, and was
done with the things of earth forever.
A day or two followed, of that strange, hushed quietness, yet of much
coming and going,--of the sense of a suspension of ordinary life, which
prevails in a house where Death has for the time taken possession. The
living are generally impatient of this time, and shorten it as far as
possible, especially where no deep sense of real grief is felt. But
Mr. Singleton, in death as in life, was too important a person for
every due propriety not to be observed. There were arrangements to be
made, friends to be summoned, and details of funeral and burial to be
settled. These things required time; and when it was finally settled
that the funeral would take place in Scarborough, but the body would be
carried for burial to the home of the dead man, there was a sense of
relief in the minds of all concerned.
Marion accompanied Mrs. Singleton to the funeral in the Episcopal
church, which had so much pleased her taste on her first arrival
in Scarborough. It was as pretty as ever; but how little correct
architecture, stained glass or rich organ tones could give life to the
mockery of death which is called a burial-service, and which contains
no reference to the individual dead person whose body lies--one wonders
why--before a so-called "altar," where no sacrifice is offered, from
which no blessing is given! Even the glorious promises of St. Paul,
which the preacher reads with studied effect, fall upon the ear like
something infinitely distant; the heart instinctively longs for one
word of personal application, one cry for mercy and pardon on behalf of
the poor soul that, in mute helplessness, can no longer cry for itself.
But one listens in vain. There is not even an allusion to that soul.
The general hope of immortality--which can be applied in any way that
suits the listener--having been set forth, a hymn is sung, and, save
for a few formal prayers at the grave, all is over.
Perhaps it was because she had so little religious sentiment to supply
for herself what was lacking that, as Marion listened, she felt her
heart grow sick with pity and disgust. "What is the possible good of
this!" she exclaimed mentally, with indignation. "If no prayer is to
be said for the soul, no blessing given to the body, why is it brought
here? What meaning is there in such empty formalism? It is a mockery,
nothing less; and if one cannot have what the Catholics give, I, like
the materialists, who are the only logical Protestants, would have
nothing."
After the service, which impressed at least one observer in this
manner, the body was at once taken away. Mr. Singleton, of course,
accompanied it, but his wife remained behind; and it was understood
that immediately on his return the will would be read.
Eagerness on this score no doubt kept Mr. Singleton from the delay
with regard to his return in which he might else have indulged, being
a man who had a constitutional objection to haste. But for once he
accomplished a very quick journey. On the third day after the funeral
he returned, and the will was opened by the lawyer who had drawn it up
according to the dead man's last instructions.
There was a strain of intense curiosity and anxiety regarding this will
in the minds of all concerned. It was by this time generally known
that, toward the last, Brian Earle had fallen hopelessly out of his
uncle's favor; but no one felt able to conjecture with any certainty
who would take his place in the will, although every one cherished
a secret hope that it might be himself. There were several of these
would-be heirs--cousins more or less removed--of the dead man; but Tom
Singleton was, in the absence of Earle, the nearest relative, being
the son of a half-brother, while Earle was the son of Mr. Singleton's
only sister. The former, with all his easy-going quietness, felt that
it would be an outrage if he were not the heir; although, knowing his
uncle better than any one else, he knew also that he should not be
surprised by whatever grim caprice the will revealed.
And such a caprice it did reveal, to the amazement and rage of everyone
concerned. Mr. Singleton remembered with a legacy everyone whom it was
proper that he should remember--the largest of these legacies being
fifty thousand dollars to Tom Singleton,--and then he bequeathed the
remainder of his fortune to his "adopted daughter," Marion Lynde.
The disappointed heirs looked at one another with expressions that
baffle description. What! half a million to a girl who had no claim
upon it whatever, whose relationship to the old man was of the most
vague and distant description! They could hardly believe that he had
really been guilty of anything so infamous. They would have felt it
less an injury if he had endowed a college or a hospital.
But one reflection seemed to occur to all; for, after the expressive
pause which said more than any words, almost every voice spoke
simultaneously, "The will won't stand! His mind was weak when he made
it. It's evidently a case of undue influence."
The lawyer shook his head. "No, gentlemen," he said; "don't make a
mistake. This will can not be broken. My client took care of that, and
I took care also. As for his mind being weak, Mr. Singleton here knows
that up to the day of his death his mind was as clear and vigorous as
it ever had been."
Tom Singleton, thus directly appealed to, bent his head. He had not
been one of the speakers, and, but for the fact that he had grown very
pale, showed little sign of emotion.
"And, foreseeing of course that this disposition of his fortune would
cause disappointment," the lawyer went on, "Mr. Singleton was careful
to explain to me why he selected Miss Lynde for his heir. It seems that
she was for a time engaged to Mr. Brian Earle, whose name occupied in a
preceding will exactly the place which hers does here. The engagement
was broken in a manner which caused Mr. Singleton to blame his nephew
exceedingly, and the young lady not at all. So, as he told me, he
determined that she should lose nothing. The fortune which would have
been hers had she married Earle--should be hers in any event. This was
what he intended; and your disappointment, gentlemen, may be less if
you will remember that Mr. Brian Earle is the only person whom this
bequest to Miss Lynde deprives of anything."
But, naturally, this was not much comfort to the disappointed heirs.
Each one felt that _he_ should by right have taken Brian Earle's place,
and that a broken engagement hardly gave Marion Lynde a claim to the
fortune which had been bequeathed to her. There were many more angry
murmurs, and numerous threats of contesting the will; but the smile
with which the lawyer heard these was not very encouraging, nor yet his
calm assurance that they could find no better means of throwing away
the money which had been left to them.
Finally they all dispersed, and Tom Singleton slowly took his way to
the house, where his wife and the fortunate heiress were awaiting
him. Never had he been called upon before to perform a duty from
which he shrank so greatly. He dreaded the violence of his wife's
disappointment, and he felt a repugnance to the task of informing Miss
Lynde of her inheritance. The lawyer had asked him to do so, and as one
of the executors of the will he could not refuse; but it was a task
which did not please him. If this girl, this stranger, had not come
into their lives, would not he be in Earle's vacated place? He could
not but feel that it was most probable.
It would require a volume to do justice to the feelings which Mrs.
Singleton expressed when she heard the terrible news. She had not
only lost the fortune--_that_ might have been borne,--but it had
gone to Marion Lynde, the girl whom she had discovered and brought
to the notice of the infatuated old man who was dead! This was the
insupportable sting, and its effect was all that her husband had
feared. He had prepared himself for the storm, however; and he bore its
outburst with what philosophy he could until Mrs. Singleton declared
her intention of going to upbraid Marion with her great iniquity. Here
he firmly interposed.
"You will do nothing of the kind," he said. "Miss Lynde is not to blame
at all, and you will only make yourself ridiculous by charging her
with offenses of which she is not guilty. If she has schemed for this,
she concealed the scheming so successfully that it is too late now to
attempt to prove it. There is nothing to be done but to make the best
of a bad matter, and bear ourselves with dignity. I beg that you will
not see her until you feel able to do this. As for me, I must see her
at once."
And, in spite of his wife's protest, he did so. When a servant came
to Marion with the announcement that Mr. Singleton desired to see her
in the drawing-room, she went down without any thrill of excitement
whatever. It was as she had imagined, then: the old man had left her a
legacy. This was what she said to herself. And vaguely, half-formed in
her mind, were the words, "Perhaps ten thousand dollars." She had never
dreamed of more than this, and would not have thought of so much had
not Mr. Singleton been of a princely habit of giving.
Was it wonderful, then, that the shock of hearing what she had
inherited stunned her for a time? She could only gaze at the speaker
with eyes dilated by an amazement that proved her innocence of any
schemes for or expectations of this end. "Mr. Singleton," she gasped,
"it is impossible! There must be some great mistake."
Mr. Singleton faintly smiled. "There is no room for mistake, Miss
Lynde," he said. "My uncle has left his fortune to you."