Marjory sate at the window pretending to be busy over laces and
ribbons, but in reality watching Dr. Kennedy's deft hands lit up by
the shaft of light from his microscope lamp, as, with the aid of a
tiny pair of tweezers, and a watchmaker's glass fixed in one eye, he
laid out the almost invisible film of some sea plant on a slide. For
they, that is to say, Marjory, Will, and the doctor, had spent the day
after the theatricals in dredging for oysters, as a relief to what the
latter called fishing for men; and something interesting had come up
in the dredger, which had to be set up despite the waning light. He
looked more natural when so employed, and yet, despite the grizzling
hair and the thin brown face, she seemed to trace in him as she had
never done before a hint of that figure on last night's stage, which
had opened her eyes to love in its passion, its unreason. And with
this fancy came the remembrance of Paul Macleod's swift resource, his
kindness, his courage. And both memories confused her, making her feel
as if the old landmarks had been removed, and she could not be certain
even of those she knew intimately; as if a man's ideals might yield no
clue to his actions. For Tom must surely have felt that storm and
stress before he could portray it so vividly? And then, even if this
were not so, his vast experience of things which she had been
accustomed to despise remained inexplicable.
"I had no idea that you were so frivolous, Tom," she said suddenly,
laying down even her pretence of work.
He wheeled round in his chair instantly, and let the glass fall from
his eye. "Are you aware that that is a very odd remark to make to a
man who believes he has found a new infusorian which may revolutionise
all our theories, especially when it is made by a young lady who is
busy, or ought to be busy, over her first ball-dress."
"Ought I?" She smiled back a little wearily. "I'm afraid I'm a bad
pupil, Tom. I was just wishing Lady George could have postponed it
till you had gone."
He gave a little grimace. "Thank you, my dear, I daresay it would be
pleasanter,----"
"Don't tease, Tom. You know what I mean, perfectly; it interrupts the
holiday."
"Which is perilously near its close, by the way. I have to go back
next Thursday."
"Yes, I know. But don't talk of it; let us enjoy it while it lasts!"
He turned back to his work again hurriedly. "Now, that is what I
should call truly frivolous. So be it. However, _Vogue la galère!_ It
is a very easy philosophy, at any rate."
They were silent again for a space, and then she began again. "What I
meant was, that you must have seen so much of the world; and then you
are so interested in it. Last night," she hesitated a little, "it
struck me, Tom, that for all I knew, you might have--have seen
something like it when you were through the Franco-Prussian war, for
instance. You--you were quite a boy then, weren't you?"
"A baby, so to speak. I remember nearly fainting over the first wound
I saw. Yes, Marjory, I've seen such romantic young fools many a time.
I see a good deal of that sort of thing necessarily in my profession.
It is human nature."
"I suppose so," she said curtly. "Well, I suppose I ought to go and
dress. Oh, Tom! why couldn't Lady George have put it off, and why
won't you let me stay at home?"
"Because, when, after infinite toil, you have caught a netful of
mankind for theatricals, you naturally choose the next day for a
dance. And because a girl ought to go to a ball. How can she tell her
_metier_ if she only keeps to one? Besides, it is your holiday."
"I shan't like it a bit, and I shall feel dowdy in this thing."
She held up a white stuff gown, with the oddest mixture of
self-complacency and disdain. "Of course, it will do quite well, and
it would have been recklessly extravagant of me to get another, seeing
that I shan't want evening dresses at a Board School; but I shall be a
dowdy all the same."
"I doubt it," remarked her guardian, busy adjusting his screws. "Now,
you really ought to go and dress, my dear. In my time girls----"
"In your time!" she flashed out. "Why? Why, you are quite up to date,
Tom, and I--I am hopelessly _arriérée_, especially in my dress! Oh,
dear f I suppose I must----"
A minute afterwards she came flying down the stairs, followed by Mrs.
Cameron, who had evidently been on the watch for the occasion in
Marjory's room, and was determined not to lose the scene downstairs.
It was rather a pretty one, though the first words were distinctly
sordid.
"Oh, Tom! what did it cost?"
"Now, that really is the rudest question! I'm surprised at you,"
returned Dr. Kennedy, trying to jest, though something in the girl's
face told him she was not far from tears.
"But it is dreadful," she began.
"Naethin' o' the sort," broke in Mrs. Cameron, breathlessly. "Just
don't belie the nature God gave to you. It's just beautiful, and the
doctor and me has been agog these three days lest it should not come
in time, for it is ill getting things to Gleneira from Paris."
"Paris!" echoed Marjory. "Yes, I thought it looked like Paris! How
foolish of you, Tom!"
"And so that is all the thanks you're giving him. Wait, my lass, till
you're as auld as I am, with no a soul in the wide world caring a
bawbee if you're clad in sackcloth and ashes, and then see if ye
woudna like to be made a lily o' the field. Just arrayed in glory
wi'out a toil or a spin."
"Quite right, Mrs. Cameron," put in Dr. Kennedy, with a laugh. "She
will have plenty of toiling and spinning by and bye; why shouldn't she
be a flower and do credit to us all for one evening?"
She looked at him from head to foot. "A flower for you to wear in your
buttonhole, apparently. Tom, are all men alike?"
"I am human, at any rate," he said quietly.
"Oh, come away, come away!" cried Mrs. Cameron, impatiently. "Come and
put it on, like a good lassie, and don't be chopping logic. It's time
enough to be an angel when you've done being a girl, and you'll have
more chance o' bein' one if ye make the best o' your gifts in this
world, I can tell you. So come away, my dear, there may be a stitch or
two a-wantin', and the time is none too long."
But Marjory stood her ground even after the old lady had bustled
upstairs again, and she looked so serious that Dr. Kennedy was driven
into suggesting that if she preferred it, she might wear her old gown.
"It is not that," she said slowly. "It is beautiful. I could see that,
at a glance; but--Tom, did Mrs. Vane choose it?"
His laugh had a certain content in it. "My dear child, I prefer people
to be dressed as I like, and I am generally supposed to have good
taste."
"Very, I should say," she remarked, with a curious accent of regret in
her voice.
But the fact was indubitable. When she came down again in a shimmer of
silver and white, set cunningly with frosted rowan berries showing a
glint of scarlet here and there, she knew so well that her dress was
perfect, that from a new bashfulness she turned the tables on him
swiftly.
"Tom," she cried, "I declare you have waxed the ends of your
moustache!"
"And if I had been in Italy, I should have curled my hair, too," he
replied imperturbably. "It is not a crime."
"And that coat! It is not your ordinary one."
"It is not. The one I use here--since you are so particular--is a
dress jacket; the correct thing, I assure you, for a shooting lodge.
But I have the misfortune to be honorary surgeon to a potentate
somewhere, who insists on brass buttons on state occasions, so I don't
happen to have the intermediate affair. Besides, there are to be
lord-lieutenants and generals hanging round this evening from the Oban
gathering. If that is satisfactory to your highness, we should be
going."
"And that red thing in your buttonhole?" she persisted, going close up
to him and touching the bit of ribbon with dainty curious finger. "It
is the Legion of Honour, I suppose."
"It is called so; you look as if that were a crime also."
"I did not know you had it, that was all," she said. And then, Will,
coming in full of fuss because his very occasional white tie had not
been folded properly in the wash, changed the _venue_ by declaring
that fine feathers make fine birds, and that he was half ashamed to
belong to them.
"Naethin' o' the sort, Will," snapped Mrs. Cameron. "It's the fine
birds that grows the fine feathers, as ye'd see ony day o' the week if
ye went to my hen yard."
"And it is always the male bird which attends most to personal
appearance," remarked Marjory, sedately. Yet, despite her pretended
disdain, as they passed down the drawing-room corridor at Gleneira
House, she paused involuntarily to look for a second at what she saw
reflected in a pier glass at the end.
"We do look nice, Tom," she said, with a faint laugh; "but I feel like
the old woman. I'm sure it isn't I. Now, you look as if you were born
to it."
He had not the heart to tell her that she looked it also, so took
refuge in claiming his right of the first waltz.
"But I can't dance. You seem to forget, Tom, that I have never even
seen a waltz danced."
His face fell. "What an ass I am, when I could have taught you in half
an hour. But you would pick it up in the first turn; let us try, at
any rate."
"Please don't ask me," she began. "I don't want to dance. In fact, I
didn't tell you--on purpose."
"That was unkind," he replied, and this plain statement of his
unvarnished opinion making the girl see her silence in the same light,
she added, hastily, "I will dance later on, if it will please you."
He laid his hand on hers as it rested on his arm and looked at her
with a kindly smile. "That is right! It always gives me pleasure when
Mademoiselle Grauds-serieux unbends a little. I want you to enjoy
yourself to-night. Why not? You are young, happy, and will probably
be--pardon my incurable frivolity--the best-dressed girl in the room.
But there is our hostess, and after that I had better go and find a
partner. It is a duty at the beginning of a ball. Shall we say number
four or six for ours?"
"Oh, six, please; something may have happened by that time."
She felt, to tell the truth, as if something must be going to happen,
as she sate watching the scene from the quiet corner where Dr. Kennedy
left her. The lights, the music, the buzz of conversation seemed to go
to her head, and the sight of him skimming past like a swallow made
her suddenly regret her refusal. It seemed easy and pleasant. Yes; it
must be pleasant, and there were four more dances to sit out before
her chance came.
"Is it one of the mortal sins, Miss Carmichael?" came Paul's voice
behind her. He had seen her enter with Dr. Kennedy, and, aided by Mrs.
Vane's one-syllabled verdict "Worth," had guessed the history of the
dress. And there he was looking very handsome, his arm still in a
sling so as to give him a pretext for laziness if he chose, and
meaning mischief out of sheer contrariety.
"I can't dance," she answered, flushing a little, "but I am going to
try number six with Tom. I am almost sorry now I didn't say four; I
think I should like it."
"Try four with me," he answered, seating himself beside her.
"But it will hurt your arm," she began.
"If it does we can sit down again; but I don't think it will. I find I
can generally do what I want to do without serious injury either to my
mind or my body." And then he added in a lower tone, "I should not ask
you if I was incapable; but if you would rather not trust me I must
submit."
"But Tom--Dr. Kennedy----" she began, doubtfully.
"Is dancing number four with Mrs. Vane. I heard them settle it just
now."
Why this information should have influenced her decision is not clear,
since she was perfectly prepared to see them dance not once but many
times together; yet it did, as Paul had guessed it would. Still, when
he had gone to play the part of host elsewhere, she began to regret
her promise, and the sight of him returning with the first bars of
number four to claim her made her attempt escape by pleading the risk
to his scorched arm. "It was surely," she said, "rash to have removed
the sling."
"I am always rash," he replied. "Come! you owe me some reward, and I
am quite capable of taking care of you."
His words brought back the remembrance of the night before, and sent a
thrill through her; the next instant it seemed to her that she was
alone with him again, despite the whirl of dancers around them. Alone
with him, and a bunch of red rowans which, for the first time, she
noticed he wore in his buttonhole, and to which he began drawing her
attention at once.
"We wear the same badge once more, you see, Miss Carmichael," he said
fluently. "It must be your welcome to a new world, as the white
heather was to me. Only, as usual, I am natural, and you are
artificially iced. Which is best? Well, if you will defend your
position, I will defend mine; for we must agree to differ since I
cannot freeze, and I sometimes wonder if you can thaw. Perhaps if I
had let you burn a little longer last night I might have found out and
been happy. I almost wish I had, only then--only then," he repeated in
a louder tone of triumph, "I shouldn't have had the pleasure of taking
you a whole turn round the room without your remembering that it _was_
your first turn--No! don't stop just because you do remember; another
turn will finish your lesson."
"That was very clever of you!" laughed Marjory, as they went on, she
gaining confidence at every step.
"I think it was," he replied; but he did not add that his art had
extended to exchanging the bouquet he had originally worn for some
rowan berries filched from the decorations.
But Mrs. Vane, who had been more or less responsible for the discarded
jasmine, noticed it at once, and her voice was hard as she remarked to
her partner, "Your pupil has preferred another professor, Dr. Kennedy;
the patient instead of the physician. It is really very foolish of
Paul, with his arm."
Tom Kennedy felt glad of the possibility of ignoring the first part of
her remark, for he was conscious of bitter disappointment, not to say
vexation. "He is not likely to hurt; it was the merest scorch." And
then his obstinacy made him add, as much for his own edification as
for hers, "She is lucky to begin so well; a tall man can steer better
as a rule."
Mrs. Vane smiled. "That is overdone, my friend; there is not a better
steerer in the room than you are."
"How can you tell; you need no guidance?" he began, when she stopped
him peremptorily.
"Don't, please; if you knew how sick of it I am. It comes, I know, as
part of the business with the lights, and the music, and the coffee,
and the ices; but you and I are such old friends." There was rather a
crush at the moment, and her partner being too busy to speak, she had
the conversation to herself for the time, and went on evenly, "How
well they dance! and her dress is simply perfection. I must get you to
choose mine. Yes! they look a charming couple; for he is wonderfully
handsome--handsomer than when he was younger--don't you think so?"
"I never met him before this summer," replied her victim; and, to
change the subject, added, "but I knew his brother Alick in Paris.
Very like him, but not so fine a fellow--rather--well! he got into a
very fast set, and that accounts for a great deal."
Mrs. Vane looked up in sudden interest. "Ah! I had almost forgotten.
Of course, he had a brother who died."
"Yes! quite suddenly. By all accounts none too soon for the estates.
He had half ruined them."
"And so the present laird has to marry money, if he will. But you
never can count on Paul Macleod doing the wise thing. A pretty face, a
dress from Worth's, a---- Is that the end? Then I should like a cup of
coffee, if you please."
And as they passed down the corridor she passed to other subjects,
leaving that barb to rankle. She was not often so cruel, but, to tell
truth, she was really angry with Paul, and told herself there was no
use in trying to keep him out of mischief. Doubtless, she had so far
startled him by her plain speaking as to prevent him from bringing
matters to a crisis with Alice; but here, at the slightest
provocation, he was flirting outrageously with Marjory, and
looking----
"A message for you, sir," said the butler, coming up to Dr. Kennedy,
as they were about to return to the ball-room. "A little boy, sir, to
say a Mrs. Duncan is ill, and wants to see you."
"Little Paul!" cried Mrs. Vane; "poor old woman! I am sorry. Where is
he, Grierson? In the housekeeper's room? Then don't let us disturb
you; I'll show Dr. Kennedy the way."
"Why should you trouble?" he began.
"'Tis no trouble, my friend, and you may need something to take with
you."
"I may need nothing," he answered. "I was round seeing her, as you
know, a few days ago; and she might die at any moment; her heart is
almost worn out."
Mrs. Vane's gave a sudden throb. What if she died, and carried the
secret with her, just when it was most needed? The thought became
insistent as she listened to the boy's frightened tale of how his
grandmother had looked so strange, and bidden him seek Dr. Kennedy,
and then seemed to fall asleep.
"You had better keep the lad here awhile," said the latter, in an
undertone. "He has been delayed by not knowing where to find me, and,
without stimulants at hand, a fainting fit might pass into death." He
turned to ask for some brandy, and was off into the still moonlit
night hastily.
She stood looking after him for a moment, and then made her way back
to the ball-room mechanically. Another waltz had begun, and she
hastily scanned the dancers for Paul's figure, but neither he nor
Marjory were to be seen. Without an instant's hesitation she went to
the conservatory, and found--what she knew she would find.
"Excuse my interrupting you," she said, "but I have a message from Dr.
Kennedy for Miss Carmichael. He has been called away for half an hour,
but will be back then; and he hopes, my dear," she laid her hand on
Marjory's arm affectionately, "that you will be ready for number ten.
Meanwhile, Paul, you ought either to continue the lesson, or find Miss
Carmichael another tutor. Ah! Major Bertie, have you found me! and I
have turned the heel of my slipper and must go and put on another
pair, but perhaps Miss Carmichael will console you."
She waited till they had moved out of sight, and then turned to Paul,
almost passionately:
"And you--you are engaged for this dance, I presume?"
"You presume a little too far, my dear Violet," he replied
dangerously. "I am a helpless cripple, and I cannot run in harness,
no matter how skilful the whip may be. If you are going back to the
ball-room may I give you my one arm?"
"No, thanks. I shall stay here."
Never in their lives before had they come so near a quarrel, and, even
though Mrs. Vane was wise enough to see the provocation which her own
loss of temper had given him, the fact decided her. The change of
slippers included other alterations in her toilette, and five minutes
afterwards she was following Dr. Kennedy to Peggy Duncan's cottage.
The walk was nothing on that warm September night, and the excuse of a
desire to help sufficiently reasonable, her kindness in such ways
being proverbial. Many a deathbed had been cheered by her cheerful
aid, and yet, nerved as she was by experience, she shrank back at the
sight which met her eyes as she lifted the latch of the cottage and
entered. For the deep box bed, whereon old Peggy had passed so many
years, had been inconvenient, and Dr. Kennedy had lifted her to the
table, where she lay unconscious, looking like death itself, in the
limp, powerless sinking into the pillow of her grey head. The old
woman's dreary prophecy came back to Mrs. Vane, though this was not
certain death, as yet; since, with his back towards her, his warm
hands clasping those cold ones, his face bent on the watch for some
sign of life, stood Dr. Kennedy, trying the last resource of
artificial respiration. There is nothing in the whole range of
experience more absorbing, more pathetic than this struggle of the
living for the dying, whether it be for the new-born babe doubtful of
existence, or, as here, for an old worn-out heart. And if it is so,
even among a crowd of eager helpers, what was it here in the little
circle of dim light hedged in by darkness? Those two alone, so
strangely contrasted. It had been a sharp, fierce transition, even to
his experience, from, the ball-room full of lights and laughter; for
Tom Kennedy was not of those whom use hardens. He was one of those to
whom ever-widening vision discloses no clear horizon of dogmatic
belief or unbelief, but a further distance fading away into the great,
inconceivable, infinite mystery between which and him lay Life--Life,
whose champion he was, whose colours he wore unflinchingly, counting
neither its evil or its good. Life--nothing else. It is a queer
mistress, taken so, but an absorbing one, and he scarcely slackened
the rhythmic sweep of his arms even in his surprise at the figure
which, after a moment's pause, stepped forward.
"You ought not to have come--it's no place for you; you had better go
back and send me help; though I fear it is no use," he said
authoritatively. For answer she slid her hands under the blanket he
had thrown over the old woman's limbs, and began to rub them with a
regularity matching his own.
"They would not help so well as I."
"You have done it before then?"
"Often--once all night long in cholera--a great friend--he died at
dawn." Yet the memory which had brought tears many a time failed to
touch her now, for her mind was intent on something else.
"Was she unconscious when you came?" she asked.
"Not quite. There were some letters on her mind, and after she had
given them to me she went off--one often finds it so."
Then they were given! and she was too late! Yet stay! where could they
be--in his coat, of course, which he had taken off and thrown aside on
a chair for the sake of greater ease. Doubtless in the coat, for he
must have had it on at first, when the old woman was still conscious.
"Perhaps hot water," she suggested, looking towards the kettle
swinging over the dying embers, but he shook his head, and she stayed
where she was. Ah! that was surely a change--a greyer tinge on the
worn, wrinkled old face, the faintest suspicion of a greater rest in
the slack limbs.
Dr. Kennedy paused, still holding the hands in his, and bent closer.
In the great silence, Mrs. Vane seemed to hear her heart beating at
the thought--not of rest, but unrest; for something would have to be
done soon, if done at all. Nay! done now, for with a half-impatient
sigh the doctor gave up the struggle, folded the old hands upon the
old breast, and walked away to stand for a moment or two looking
moodily into the dull fire.
"It is always a disappointment," he said, turning to her again, and
mechanically going over to the dresser, where in the interval,
calculating on habit, she had set a bowl of water and a towel. And she
calculated rightly. As with his back towards her he washed his hands,
hers were in the pocket of his coat, and two packets of letters lay on
the floor behind the chair, as if they had slipped out, before she
went forward, coat in hand.
"Thanks!" he said, still in the meshes of habit; but then he paused,
and for an instant her heart was in her mouth, even though she had her
excuse ready should he discover the absence of the letters. It was
only, however, a remembrance of her which came to him.
"I must call someone," he said; "and you should go home at once. It
was good of you to come."
"Yes! you had better call someone. I will stay till you return--I
would rather."
"You are not afraid?--Ah! I forgot you had lived your life in India. I
shall not be more than ten minutes if I go up the hill to the
shepherd's; that will be the quickest."
"Do not hurry on my account," she replied, quietly beginning to pile
some fresh peats on the fire. The doctor, as he turned for a last
look, his hand on the latch, told himself she was a plucky little soul
indeed; and yet, had he known it, her heart was melting within her at
the deed she was about to do, and her only strength lay in the thought
that it was for Paul's sake; for herself she would scorn such
meanness.
The candle flickering to an end gave her little time, however, for
consideration, and almost as the door closed the letters were in her
hands. One long, blue, red-sealed, intact, as she remembered it, the
other an open envelope yellow with age, tied round with thread, and
containing several papers. Her wits were quick, and even as she
looked, the certainty came to her that if the blue letter asked
questions the other might answer them; besides there was no necessity
for breaking a seal; she shrank from that as yet. Even now her hand
shook, so that as she drew out the contents of the smaller envelope,
something fell from it to the ground. She stooped to pick it up just
as the candle flared up in the socket, and by the sudden blaze of
light she saw on the fallen paper a signature, and a line or two of
print.
Great heavens! a marriage certificate--Ronald Alister Macleod! Who was
he?--Paul's brother, of course.
These thoughts flashing through her brain did not prevent her
starting, as the flickering light seemed to give a semblance of
movement to Peggy's folded hands. The next instant she was in
darkness, still holding the letters, and she knelt hastily to coax a
flame from the peats, for time was passing, and she must know--must
read. Then, in swift suggestion, came the thought of substituting
another packet; Dr. Kennedy would be none the wiser, and that would
give her time. There must be other letters or papers at hand if she
could find them. Oh for a light!--and yet people deemed such deeds to
be deeds of darkness!----
As if in answer to her thought, a tongue of bluish flame leapt through
the warmed peats, and by its light she found herself fumbling at the
old bureau. For it was, as it always is at such times, as if fate were
driving her against her will. Even as she acted, she felt that she had
not meant to act thus--to search and pry! The old woman's cherished
shroud, folded and frilled, made her shut one drawer hastily. And that
was a step--a step surely, and yet not an atom of paper was to be seen
anywhere! Ah! there was an old Bible on the shelf with blank pages.
She had torn some out, and slipped them into the envelope none too
soon, for Dr. Kennedy was at the door, breathless with running.
"I hurried all I could," he said; "for I felt I ought not to have left
you--it was not fair. But they are coming, and then I will take you
home." The words seemed to bring a remembrance, for he paused and
began to feel in his pocket.
"What is it?" she asked, with a catch in her voice.
"The letters. I had them, certainly----"
"Perhaps they dropped--ah! here they are on the floor."
"Thanks." Then he paused, looking curiously at them. "I wonder why I
fancied this one was tied with thread?"
Even in her anxiety she could not resist a smile at the keenness of
the man; and how dull _she_ had been, for there on the dresser stood
two candles in brass candlesticks. If she had only noticed them she
would have had time--would not, perhaps, have had this terror at her
heart.
"It may have been tied," she said coolly; "and something may have
dropped out when it fell. I'll light the candles and see." Then as she
came forward with them in her hand, the deadly anxiety in her would
brook no delay, and she asked, "Do you miss anything?"
"I do not know--I have not the least notion what it was supposed
to contain; but this seems only to be an entry of births,
marriages----Great heavens! are you ill?" For Mrs. Vane, who had
stooped down on pretence of searching the floor, but in reality to
hide her intense relief, was standing as if petrified, her face white
as death.
"Nothing," she gasped, with an attempt at composure--"the strain, I
suppose--it is foolish."
More than foolish, she told herself. It was perfectly insensate of her
not to have remembered the custom of entering such items in the family
Bible; and now she might unwittingly have given away the information
she was attempting to conceal. If so, it would be better for her to
know at once.
"Such registers contain many secrets," she began, when a look of
curiosity in Dr. Kennedy's eyes made her pause.
"Secrets," he echoed; "why should there be any? though there is one in
a way," he added, holding out the paper to her. It was the last entry
to which he pointed, and it ran thus: "Jeanie Duncan, born 17th April,
18--; married----; died 20th August, 18--." "A sad blank that," he
continued, adding, after a pause: "Perhaps the other letter may be
more important."
Perhaps it might be, and Mrs. Vane, as she waited, felt her breath
coming fast and short. It seemed an eternity of time until once more
he held something out for her to read, and turning silently to where
the dead woman lay, drew the sheet tenderly over the worn face. "The
irony of fate, indeed," he murmured as she read:--
"Dear Madam,--We have to advise you of the death of our esteemed
client, Mr. John Duncan, of Melbourne, Australia, and to inform you
that under his will you, as his widow, come into property amounting to
close on £100,000."
Mrs. Vane's hand holding the letter fell to her side, and Dr.
Kennedy's voice said gravely:
"Strange, isn't it, that the letter was never opened? All that money,
and a pauper's death----"
The voice was his, but it might have been the accusing angel's for the
effect it had on Violet Vane. She gave one step forward, her arms
outstretched as if for pity, and with a little cry sank to her knees.
Her head was pillowed on the old woman's breast when Dr. Kennedy,
catching her as she fell, found that she had fainted, and
anathematised himself as a consummate ass for taking her at her own
estimation. Plucky as she was, the contrast had been too sharp. Life
and Death--Poverty and Riches. The whole gamut of harmonies and
discords lay in these words.