THE NEXT OF KIN.
The hunt for the lady, so faithfully recorded in the song called “The
Mistletoe Bough,” was a mere apology for a search in comparison to that
Ernest Ivraine forthwith instituted from garret to cellar of number 12,
Belerma Square; and the reason is obvious: in the first case, “only a
wife” was the article missing; in the last, an all-important document
was required to be found. Had the poor bride been a piece of parchment,
blackened over with legal hieroglyphics, rely upon it she would have
been discovered in a very brief period; for, in that event, no place,
likely or unlikely, no nook, cranny, box, hole, or spring chest, no
matter how long it might have “lain hid,” would have been neglected or
overlooked: the value of the thing absent, makes all the difference
possible in the zeal and activity and sharp-sightedness of the
searchers: and who on earth, possessed of half an ounce of common sense
or worldly prudence, would look with the same indefatigable industry
after a lost woman as for a lost will?
Malcolm was in far too unsettled a state of mind to be of any very great
assistance, but he did his best; whilst Mr. Ivraine laboured through
desks and papers and _secretoires_ with as much interest as though the
whole of his future welfare depended on the existence of a proper
testament—sealed, signed, and delivered. The sheet of foolscap that had
been discovered lying before John Merapie’s corpse, upon which the
merchant had probably been engaged, when death, so abruptly entering the
chamber, interrupted him in his labours, proved, on examination, to be
the commencement of an unfinished will; but it was merely the
commencement, for after a short preamble, in which a life annuity was
devised to his sister, payable quarterly, came the words, “and to my
beloved niece, Mina Frazer, I bequeath the sum of——”
Here the chill visitor had seized his hand, apparently with so firm and
sudden a grasp that the pen dropped from his lifeless fingers before
another syllable could be added; and he carried the knowledge of what he
had intended leaving his niece to the grave with him. He remembered her,
and tried to repair a fatal error whilst standing on death’s very
threshold; but that was all Mina or any one else ever knew about it—he
had died almost in the very act of writing her name. The girl wept
bitterly when she heard that; but she had still more cause to weep in
after years that he expired, before being able to carry the good thought
fully out—before the kind intention assumed the firm unchangeable
character of a deed.
Alfred Westwood, “prowling,” as Malcolm had stated, about the house,
perused the few brief lines the paper contained, and gathered from them,
before descending to the drawing-room, the certainty that John Merapie
had died intestate. Ernest Ivraine read it also, after hearing Mr.
Westwood’s words of “friendly” warning, and—he did not know himself
exactly why—but the fact of an incomplete will existing, made him feel
doubly anxious to find a perfect one; and, accordingly, he pored over
deeds and fitted keys to locks and searched and hunted through every
place, possible and impossible, where a deed of the kind could by any
accident have been mislaid or secreted.
But in vain; everything but the required document was forthcoming; and,
at length, fairly dispirited and disappointed, Ernest Ivraine came to
the conclusion that if no will could be discovered in the dining-room,
the key of which Dr. Richards had in his pocket, no such deed existed;
for Mr. Westwood had most considerately despatched a messenger from
Wapping to inform them that the late Mr. Merapie’s solicitors were not
in possession of the desired paper, and that not a vestige of any
testamentary disposition of property could be detected at the office,
though such exertions were used in prosecuting the search as must
inevitably have led to its discovery had it been forthcoming.
“We want the key of this apartment, if you please, doctor,” said Ernest,
addressing the little M.D., who, after listening to a detail of the
hints Mr. Westwood had thrown out some hours previously, reluctantly
unlocked the door of the dining-room, and gave the pair admission as
they desired.
Mina was lying back in the easy chair, just as they had left her, buried
in that profound stupor which more resembles death than sleep. There she
sate, her countenance pale as that of a corpse, her long dark hair
hanging in disordered masses over her face, neck, and shoulders; one
hand was flung carelessly over the arm of the chair, the other she
pressed tightly, even in slumber, upon her heart, as if some dreadful
pain abode there; her breathing was scarcely audible; and altogether she
looked so unlike a living being—she so resembled that which appals our
humanity—as to cause Ernest Ivraine to exclaim, turning a quick glance
on the doctor,
“Can you waken her?”
“All in good time,” he replied, calmly.
“Was it not rather a dangerous experiment?” persisted Ernest.
“I am sure it was,” here broke in Malcolm; “if I had been here she
should never have been so dosed: I wish Dr. Richards,” he added,
speaking passionately, like a wilful yet frightened child, “I wish you
had let her alone; I really do not know what right you had so to stupify
her, at a time when she could have been of such use too: she would have
been able to tell about this paper at once, as she used to arrange my
uncle’s books and desks for him; do try and rouse her.”
“I tell you what it is, young man,” retorted Dr. Richards, savagely, “if
you have no regard for your sister, I have, and, therefore, instead of
submitting to be ordered by you, I insist that you carry the girl to her
own room, and leave her there in peace; she will wake soon enough, poor
child, without your hurrying the process: remember, in any house where a
patient of mine resides, I am master for the time being, so do what I
desire; you are strong enough, surely, to bear so light a burden; and I
tell you it is necessary almost to her very existence that she should
sleep on for some time longer.”
Very sulkily Malcolm Frazer complied with the doctor’s command, and
then, spite of the little man’s pooh poohing, and speaking of their
pursuit as unfeeling, mercenary, and so forth, he and Ernest recommenced
their search, but all in vain: there was no will, and John Merapie had
died intestate.
For hours Ernest Ivraine sat by the dim firelight, striving one moment
to comfort Malcolm for the loss of a good, kind relative, and the next
endeavouring to persuade him the absence of a will was a matter of
little or no consequence, as—even supposing other relatives did present
themselves—there was surely sufficient property to give several
individuals handsome fortunes; but still—why, he did not know—Ernest’s
heart misgave him: Mr. Westwood’s face, more than his words, had
impressed him with the dread of impending evil; he distrusted the man
with his cold, polite, perfectly imperturbable manner, with his fixed
smile and sarcastic expression; and the malicious triumphant look he had
noticed in his countenance as he shoved Malcolm aside, had filled the
baronet’s son with more alarm than a volume of threatening sentences
from any other individual could have done. Still, however, he did his
best to console the youth just entering upon life, whom he who knew most
about John Merapie’s affairs had said _might_ be reduced to beggary; he
spoke soothingly, hopefully, strove to pacify his fears, calm his
excitement, and induce him to forget his sorrows even for an instant.
Ernest Ivraine had never talked so before, not even to Henry; but he
felt as if he were comforting a child, not a man,—a wayward, dependent,
half-formed creature, not one his equal in any way, in mind, character,
or experience.
At last he partially succeeded in his endeavour of diverting the
conversation from the events of the last twenty-four hours; the dead and
the missing deed had not been spoken of for some five minutes
previously, and Malcolm was looking with a calmer quieter expression of
face into the fire, when a loud ring of the house bell—a peal such as
might have sufficed to break even the repose of the “seven
sleepers”—caused him to start from his seat, nervously exclaiming,
“Good heavens! what is that?”
“Sit down,” said Ernest, thrusting him back into his chair and holding
him there; but the quick anxious ear caught a sound of hurried words and
rapid footsteps. The next instant the dining-room door was flung
violently open, and the servant announced, in a voice shrill with
surprise and excitement,
“_Mrs._ Merapie, sir.”
“Widow of the late Mr. John Merapie,” added a determined looking woman,
still handsome and, comparatively speaking, young, who advanced into the
dining-room and uttered the above sentence by way of a pleasant
explanatory introduction. Ernest Ivraine gazed for an instant curiously
on her, and, as he did so, unconsciously relaxed his hold of Malcolm,
who, making one resolute effort, released himself altogether, crossed
the room at a single bound, and darted up the staircase with the
rapidity of the wind.
“Mina,” he yelled rather than spoke, flinging himself down by the side
of the couch, “Mina, for God’s sake waken and speak to me; I shall go
mad if you don’t: uncle John has left no will and he has a wife, and
we—we are beggars!”
The way he screamed out the words thrilled every nerve of the girl’s
body. Like one roused from the dead by the powerful aid of galvanism she
started up, her large eyes distended, her body quivering with excessive
fear and horror.
“Speak to me,” he again cried out; “oh! Mina, Mina, we are beggars!”
A sort of convulsive throe shook her frame for a moment; then Mina
Frazer, burying her face in her hands, strove to realize the meaning of
the words she just had heard.
When she raised her head again she was calm and cold as stone, and she
rose and took her brother’s hand in hers and bade him tell her all; then
she put an arm round his neck and kissed him two or three times
over—why, she did not know—and she sat down and talked to him for a few
minutes.
She was composed now; the potion had done its work; she had awakened, as
Dr. Richards said she would, too soon,—ah! yes, too soon by far.