PALLIDA MORS.
After his interview with the lawyer, Lewis took his way home; his heart
alternately cheered with hope, or disturbed by apprehension. On the
whole, however, hope predominated. It was based on the knowledge that
neither his uncle nor his cousin were men of business, and at this
moment both would have too many other things to think of to recur to
that which he dreaded.
As he opened the outer door, he met a servant in the hall.
“How is my uncle, now, Jane?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir; I haven’t been up stairs since you went away.”
“Is my—is the gentleman that came in a little while ago still here?” he
inquired, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, I think so; I haven’t seen him go out.”
“Have you heard any talking? I am afraid my uncle will be too much
excited by a visitor at this time.”
“I heard a faint murmur like as if they were talking awhile ago, but I
haven’t heard anything for a few minutes. May I be so bold as to ask if
the gentleman is a relation, sir?”
“Yes,” said Lewis, shortly. “You say you have heard no sound proceeding
from the room for a few minutes?”
“No, sir.”
“Perhaps he is dead,” thought Lewis, hopefully. “At any rate, I will go
up and see.”
“That will do,” he said to the servant, who was still in waiting. “I am
going up into my uncle’s room, and if I should want you I will ring.”
“I wonder who the gentleman is,” said the servant, to herself. “He said
Mr. Rand was his father. I never heard that he had a son, for my part.
If he is, I suppose he will inherit the property. I wonder how Mr. Lewis
will like that. Well, I don’t much care if he is disappointed, for I
don’t like him, and never did.”
The dictatorial manner of Lewis had not gained him friends among the
servants, and none of them could be expected to feel a very profound
sorrow for any reverses which fate might have in store for him.
Lewis Rand softly ascended the stairs, and entered his uncle’s
bed-chamber.
It needed only a glance to assure him that his wish was granted. His
heart leaped with exultation at the thought. This was the only thing
which could give him a perfect sense of security. Now, by the
substitution of the forged will, he felt that his interests were
secured. The estate was his beyond the possibility of a transfer.
Now that his cousin was no longer to be feared as a rival, he felt that
it would be both safe and politic, to treat him with a degree of
consideration. This course would be likely to mislead suspicion, if any
should be excited, when it was found, as it soon would be, that his
cousin shared no portion of his father’s princely estate.
“My uncle sleeps?” he said, inquiringly, as he entered the chamber.
“Yes,” said Robert, solemnly, lifting up a wan face from the bed-clothes
in which it was buried; “the sleep that knows no waking.”
Apparently much shocked at this intelligence, Lewis started back with an
ejaculation of sorrow.
“I ought not to feel surprised,” he said, in a low voice; “it is an
event which I have been expecting and fearing for many weeks. Yet its
actual coming finds me unprepared.”
With his mournful gaze intently fixed upon the old man’s face, Robert
paid little heed to his cousin’s words. Thoughts of the long weary years
that had intervened since he parted from his father, then in the
strength and pride of that manhood, upon which he himself was just
entering, and the changes that had since come over each, till the
present sad moment brought them together, crowded upon him with a force
which he could not resist, and he sat there, looking straight before
him, vainly endeavoring to reconcile the past with the present, till he
was tempted to think the past eighteen years but a dream, from which he
would ere long awake.
It did not take him long to recover from that delusion.
As he lifted his eyes he met his own reflection in the mirror opposite.
That was no young man’s face that met his gaze. The freshness of youth,
had given place to the grave careworn look of later years. The once dark
hair was threaded here and there with silver. The smooth brow was sown
with premature wrinkles. The cheek had lost its bloom, and was now thin
and sallow. In all this there was no deception. But even if this had not
been sufficient, he had but to look towards the bed, to realize how time
had passed. That thin, shrunken old man who lay there—was that his
father? No, there was no mistaking all this; these years of estrangement
were no vain imaginings; they were all too sad realities.
And there, but a few steps from him, sat, with a look of hypocritical
sorrow, the man who had lent his best efforts to widen the breach, of
which he had been the cause, and throw up a permanent wall of separation
between the father and the son. He had changed least of the three. There
was the same plausible smile, the same crafty look about the eyes that
seldom met your gaze. There were no wrinkles to be seen on his brow.
Neither had his heart changed. It was as full of subtlety and evil
thoughts and plans as ever.
Lewis Rand had changed least of the three, yet, of them all, he was
farthest removed from the freshness and simplicity of childhood, that
had never been his. He was one of those who seem never to have been
young.
“Cousin Robert,” said Lewis, with an air of grave courtesy, “although
our grief is so fresh that all other thoughts seem intrusive, yet there
are certain things that must be thought of. It is right and proper that
you should participate with me in paying the last offices of respect and
affection to our lamented relative. You were nearer to him than I. It is
fitting that, from you, should proceed the orders relative to the
funeral.”
“It is a right which I have no disposition to exercise. I would much
rather leave it entirely in your hands. My mind is not in a fit state to
enter upon such arrangements.”
“You have stated my own case,” said Lewis, in a voice of
well-counterfeited emotion. “The death of my dear uncle, for whom I
cherished so deep an affection, and to whom I am indebted for so many
acts of kindness, weighs most heavily upon my heart. Nothing but an
imperative sense of duty would enable me to bear up under it. But I
will, if you desire it, so far overcome my grief, as to give the
necessary directions.”
“I shall be glad to have you do so,” said Robert, briefly. There had
been a time when he would not have questioned his cousin’s sincerity,
but gratefully accepted his proffered sympathy,—when his own heart would
have been soothed by this companionship in grief. But the revelation of
his cousin’s perfidy had been too recent,—the memory of his wrongs was
too fresh. He might, in time, forgive, but he could not at once forget.
He did not look towards his cousin, but his eyes were fixed continually
upon the father from whom he had been separated for eighteen years,—from
whom the grave must soon separate him, till he too lay as still and
motionless as his father now lay, outstretched before him.
Lewis was about to leave the room, when he paused, as if struck by a
sudden thought.
“Pardon me,” he said, hesitatingly, “but this unhappy separation has
left us so much in ignorance of each other, that I am not informed
whether you have children.”
“I have one daughter.”
“And your wife?”
“Is no longer living.”
“Will you leave me your direction, that I may send a carriage?”
“It will not be necessary. We will take a carriage from here.”
“As you please. One thing more. Pardon me if I am wrong, for I know
nothing of your circumstances; you may require a sum of money to procure
proper mourning.”
“It is needless,” said Robert, briefly. “We are sufficiently provided.”
“Proud as ever!” muttered Lewis, to himself. “We’ll see how long that
continues. If I am not greatly mistaken, he will be glad enough to avail
himself of my offers before long.”
Meanwhile, Helen had reached home, and was wondering what had detained
her father so long. He had gone out with Mr. Sharp, not mentioning where
he was going.
She began to be afraid that, in one of his not unusual fits of
abstraction, he had met with some accident, perhaps been run over by
some passing vehicle, while crossing the street.
“Where can he be?” she was asking, anxiously, for the tenth time at
least, when, to her great joy, she at length heard his familiar step
upon the stairs.
She hastened to the door, exclaiming, “Why, papa, why have you been gone
so long?”
She looked into his face, and suddenly stopped short. She saw, by his
expression, that something had happened.
“What is the matter, papa?” she asked, apprehensively.
“We have met with a great misfortune, Helen,” said Mr. Ford, gravely.
“A great misfortune! Has your invention then failed?”
“It is not that, Helen. Did you ever hear me speak of your grandfather?”
“No.”
“I will tell you the reason now. There had been a long and unhappy
alienation between us,—longer, I have since found, than there need to
have been, if we could only have met and had a mutual understanding. I
married against my father’s wishes. If he had once seen your mother,
Helen, he would, I am sure, have withdrawn all his opposition. As it
was, we separated eighteen years ago, and to-day we met for the last
time.”
“But the misfortune, papa?”
“We met at his death-bed, Helen; but, thank Heaven, not too late for a
full reconciliation. An hour since, your grandfather died, with his hand
clasped in mine. The funeral takes place day after to-morrow. We must
procure fitting dresses. I do not understand such things, but you can
consult with Martha.”
Helen wished to learn more of her grandfather, of whom she now, for the
first time, heard; but she saw and respected her father’s grief, and
forebore to question him.