He had on a voluminous dressing gown and his hands were hidden in its

folds in what I thought was an unnatural manner. But I soon forgot this

in watching his expression, which was more fixed and harder in its

aspect than I had supposed it could be, and again I felt ready to say,

“Something impends!”

Wealthy was present; consequently my visit was a brief one. It might

have been such had she not been there, for he showed very little desire

for my company and indeed virtually dismissed me in the following words:

“I may have need of you this evening and I may not. May I ask you to be

so good as to stay indoors till you receive a message from me?”

My answer was a cheerful acquiescence, but as I left, I cast one long,

lingering look at Orpha’s picture. Might it not be my last? The doubt

was in my mind, for Edgar’s foot was on the stair; there would be a

talk between him and Uncle, and if as a result of that talk Uncle

failed to send for me, my place at his bedside would be lost. He would

have no further use for my presence.

I had begun to understand his mind.

I have no doubt that I was helped to this conclusion by something I

saw in passing his bedside on my way out. Wealthy was rearranging the

pillows and in doing so gave me for the first time a full glimpse of

the usually half-hidden head-board. To my amazement I perceived that it

held a drawer, cunningly inserted by a master hand.

A drawer! Within his own reach--at all times--by night and day! It must

contain--

Well, I had no difficulty in deciding what. But the mystery of his

present action troubled me. A few hours might make it plain. A few

hours! If only they might be spent with Orpha!

With beating heart I went rapidly below, passing Edgar on my way. We

said nothing. He was in as tense a mood as I was. For him as well as

for myself the event was at hand. Ah! where was Orpha?

Not where I sought her. The living rooms as well as the court and halls

were all empty. For a half hour I waited in the library alone, then the

door opened and my uncle’s man showed himself:

“Am I wanted?” I asked, unable to control my impatience.

He answered with a respectful affirmative, but there was a lack of

warmth in his manner which brought a cynical smile to my lips. Nothing

would ever change the attitude of these old servants towards myself, or

make Edgar anything less in their eyes than the best, kindest and most

pleasing of masters. Should I allow this to disturb me or send me to

the fate awaiting me in the room above in any other frame of mind than

the one which would best prepare me for the dreaded ordeal?

No. I would be master of myself if not of my fate. By the time I

had reached my uncle’s door I was calm enough. Confident that some

experience awaited me there which would try me as it had tried Edgar, I

walked steadily in. He had not come out of his ordeal in full triumph,

or why the look I had seen on every face I had encountered in coming

up? Wealthy at the end of the long hall, with a newspaper falling

from her lap, had turned at my step. Her aspect as she did so I shall

not soon forget. The suspicious nods and whispers of the two maids I

had surprised peering at me from over the banisters, were all of a

character to warn me that I was at that moment less popular in the

house than I had ever been before. Was I to perceive the like in the

greeting I was about to receive from the one on whom my fortunes as

well as those of Orpha hung?

I trembled at the prospect, and it was not till I had crossed the floor

to where he was seated in his usual seat at the fire-place, that I

ventured to look up. When I did so it was to meet a countenance showing

neither pleasure nor pain.

When he spoke it was hurriedly as though he felt his time was short.

“Quenton, sit down and listen to what I have to say. I have put off

from day to day this hour of final understanding between us in the

hopes that my duty would become plain to me without any positive act

on my part. But it has failed to do so and I must ask your help in

a decision vital to the happiness of the two beings nearest if not

dearest to me in this world I am so soon to leave. I mean my daughter

and the man she is to marry.”

This took my breath away but he did not seem to notice either my

agitation or the effort I made to control it. He was too intent upon

what he had yet to say, to mark the effect of the words he had already

spoken.

“You know what my wishes are,--the wishes which have been expectations

since Edgar and Orpha stood no higher than my knee. The fortune I have

accumulated is too large to be given into the hands of a girl no older

than Orpha. I do not believe in a woman holding the reins when she has

a man beside her. I may be wrong, but that is the way I feel, as truly

to-day as when she was a wee tot babbling in my ear. The inheritor

of the millions I perhaps unfortunately possess must be a man. But

that man must marry my daughter, and to marry her he must love her,

sincerely and devotedly love her or my money will prove a curse to her,

to him and, God pardon the thought, to me in my grave, if the dead can

still feel and know.

“Until a little while ago,--until you came, in fact,--I was content,

thinking that all was well and everything going to my mind. But

presently a word was dropped in my ear,--from whose lips it does not

matter,--which shook my equanimity and made me look for the first time

with critical eyes on one I had hitherto felt to be above criticism;

and once my attention was called that way, I saw much that did not

quite satisfy me in the future dispenser of a fortune which in wise

hands could be made productive of great good but in indifferent ones of

incalculable mischief.

“But I thought he loved Orpha, and rating her, as we all must, as a

woman of generous nature with a mind bound to develop as her happiness

grows and her responsibilities increase, I rested in the hope that with

her for a wife, his easy-going nature would strengthen and the love he

universally inspires would soon have a firmer basis than his charming

smile and his invariable good nature.

“But one day something happened--do not ask me what, I cannot talk

about it; it has been the struggle of my life since that day to forget

it--which shook my trust even in this hope. The love capable of

accomplishing so much must be a disinterested one, and I saw--saw with

my own eyes--what gave me reason to doubt both the purity and depth of

his feeling for Orpha.

“You remember the day, the hour. The ball which was to have ended all

uncertainty by a public recognition of their engagement saw me a well

man at ten, and a broken down one at eleven. You know, for you were

here, and saw me while I was still suffering from the shock. I had to

speak to some one and I would not disturb Orpha, and so I thought of

you. You pleased me in that hour and the trust I then felt in your

honor I have never lost. For in whatever trial I have made of the

character of you two boys you have always stood the test better than

Edgar. I acknowledge it, but, whether from weakness or strength I leave

you to decide, I cannot forget the years in which Edgar shared with

Orpha my fatherly affection. You shall not be forgotten or ungenerously

dealt with--I owe you too much for that--but I ask you to release me

from the ill-considered promise I made to you that night of the ball.

I cannot cut him off from the great hopes I have always fostered in

him. I want you to--”

He did not conclude, but, shifting nervously in his seat, brought into

view the hands hidden from sight under the folds of his dressing-gown.

In each was a long envelope apparently enclosing a legal document.

He laid them, one on each knee and drooped his head a little as he

remarked, with a hasty glance first at one document and then at the

other:

“Here, Quenton, you see what a man who once thought very well of

himself has come to through physical weakness and mental suffering.

Here are two wills, one made largely in his favor and one equally

largely in yours. They were drawn up the same day by different men,

each ignorant of the other’s doing. One of these it is my wish to

destroy but I have not yet had the courage to do so; for my reason

battles with my affection and I dare not slight the one nor disappoint

the other.”

“And you ask me to aid you in your dilemma,” I prompted, for I saw that

he was greatly distressed. “I will do so, but first let me ask one

question. How does Orpha feel? Is she not the one to decide a matter

affecting her so deeply?”

“Oh! She is devoted to Edgar,” he made haste to assert. “I have never

doubted her feeling for _him_.”

“Uncle, have you _asked_ her to aid your decision?”

He shook his head and muttered sadly:

“I dare not show myself in such colors to my only child. She would lose

her respect for me, and that I could never endure.”

My heart was sad, my future lost in shadows, but there was only one

course for me to take. Pointing to the two documents lying in his lap,

I asked, with as little show of feeling as I could command:

“Which is the one in my favor? Give it to me and I will fling it into

the fire with my own hand. I cannot endure seeing your old age so

heavily saddened.”

He rose to his feet--rose suddenly and without any seeming effort,

letting the two wills fall unheeded to the floor.

“Quenton!” he cried, “_You are the man!_ If Orpha does not love you she

must learn to do so. And she will when she knows you.” This in a burst;

then as he saw me stumble back, dazed and uncomprehending like one

struck forcibly between the eyes, “This was my final test, boy, my last

effort to ascertain what lay at the root of your manhood. Edgar failed

me. You--”

His lip quivered, and grasping blindly at the high back of the chair

from which he had risen, he turned slightly aside in an effort to hide

his failing self-control. The sight affected me even in the midst

of the storm of personal feeling he had aroused within me by this

astounding change of front. Stooping for the two documents lying on

the floor between us, I handed them to him, then offered my arm to aid

him in reseating himself. But I said nothing. Silence and silence only

befitted such a moment.

* * * * *

He seemed to appreciate both the extent of my emotion and my reticence

under it. It gave him the opportunity to regain his own poise. When

I finally moved, as I involuntarily did at the loud striking of the

clock, he spoke in his own quiet way which nevertheless carried with it

so much authority.

“I have deceived you; not greatly, but to a certain necessary degree.

You must forgive this and forget.” He did not say how he had deceived

me and for months I did not know. “To-morrow we will talk as a present

master confers with a future one. I am tired now, but I will listen if

there is anything you want me to hear before you call in Clarke.”

Then I found voice. I must utter the one protest which the situation

called for or despise myself forever. Turning softly about, I looked up

at Orpha’s picture, never more beautiful in my eyes, never more potent

in its influence than at this critical instant in our two lives.

Then addressing him while pointing to the picture, I said:

“Your goodness to me, and the trust you have avowed in me, is beyond

all words. But Orpha! Still, Orpha! You say she must learn to love me.

What if she cannot? I am lacking in many things; perhaps in the very

thing she naturally would look for in the man she would accept as her

husband.”

His lips took a firm line; never had he shown himself more the master

of himself and of every one about him, than when he rejoined in a way

to end the conversation:

“We will not talk of that. You are free to sound her mind when

opportunity offers. But quietly, and with due consideration for Edgar,

who will lose enough without too great humiliation to his pride. Now

you may summon Clarke.”

I did so; and left thus for a little while to myself, strove to balance

the wild instinctive joy making havoc in my breast, with fears just

as instinctive that Orpha’s heart would never be won by me completely

enough for me to benefit by the present wishes of her father. It was

with the step of a guilty man I crept from the sight of Edgar’s door

down to the floor below. At Orpha’s I paused a moment. I could hear her

light step within, and listening, thought I heard her sigh.

“God bless my darling!” leaped from heart to lip in a whisper too low

for even my own ears to hear. And I believed--and left that door in

the belief--that I was willing it should be in His way, not mine, so

long as it was a blessing in very truth.

But once on the verandah below, whither I went for a cooling draught of

the keen night air, I stopped short in my even pacing as though caught

by a detaining hand.

A thought had come to me. He had two wills in his hand, yet he had

destroyed neither though the flames were leaping and beckoning on

the hearth-stone at his feet. Let him say this or let him say that,

the ordeal was not over. Under these circumstances dare I do as he

suggested and show my heart to Orpha?

Suppose he changed his mind again!

* * * * *

The mere suggestion of such a possibility was so unsettling that it

kept me below in an unquiet mood for hours. I walked the court, and

when Haines came to put out the lights, paced the library-floor till I

was exhausted. The house was still and well nigh dark when I finally

went upstairs, and after a little further wandering through the halls

entered my own room.

Three o’clock! and as wide awake as ever. Throwing myself into the

Morris chair which had been given me for my comfort, I shut my eyes in

the hope of becoming drowsy and was just feeling a lessening of the

tense activity which was keeping my brain in a whirl when there came a

quick knock at my door followed by the hurried word:

“Mr. Bartholomew is worse, come quickly.”

I was on my feet in an instant, my heart cold in my breast but every

sense alert. Had I feared such a summons? Had some premonition of

sudden disaster been the cause of the intolerable restlessness which

had kept my feet moving in the rooms below?

Useless to wonder; the sounds of hurrying steps all over the house

warned me to hasten also. Rushing from my room I encountered Wealthy

awaiting me at the turn of the hall. She was shaking from head to foot

and her voice broke as she said:

“A sudden change. Mr. Edgar and Orpha are coming. Mr. Bartholomew wants

to see you all, while he has the power to speak and embrace you for the

last time.”

I saw her eyes leave my face and pass rapidly over my person. I was

fully dressed.

“There they are,” she whispered, as Edgar emerged from his room far

down the hall just as Orpha, trembling and shaken with sobs, appeared

at the top of the staircase. Both were in hastily donned clothing. I

alone presented the same appearance as at dinner.

As we met, Edgar took the lead, supporting Orpha, weakened both by her

grief and sudden arousal from sleep. I followed after, never feeling

more lonely or more isolated from them all. And in this manner we

entered the room.

Then, as always on crossing this threshold my first glance was given to

the picture which held such sway over my heart. The living Orpha was

but a step ahead of me, but the Orpha most real to me, most in accord

with me, was the one in whose imaginary ear I had breathed my vows of

love and from whose imaginary lips I had sometimes heard with fond

self-deception those vows returned.

To-day, the picture was in shadow and my eyes turned quickly towards

the fireplace. Shadow there, too. No leaping flame or smouldering

coals. For the first time in months the fire had been allowed to die

out. The ominous fact struck like ice to my heart and a secret shudder

shook me. But it passed almost instantly, for on turning towards the

bed I saw preparations made which assured me that my uncle’s mind was

clear to the duty of the hour and that we had not been called to his

side simply for his final embrace.

He was lying high on his pillow, his eyes blazing as if the fire which

had gone out of the hearth had left its reflection on his blazing

eye-balls. He had not seen us come in and he did not see us now.

At his side was a table on which stood a large bowl and a lighted

candle. They told their own story. His hands were stretched out over

the coverlid. They held in feverish grasp the two documents I knew

so well, one in one hand and one in the other just as I had seen

them the evening before. Edgar recognized them too, as I saw by the

imperturbability of his look as his glance fell on them. But Orpha

stood amazed, the color leaving her cheeks till she was as pale as I

had ever seen a woman.

“What does that mean?” She whispered or rather uttered with throat half

closed in fear and trepidation.

“Shall we explain?” I asked, with a quick turn towards Edgar.

“Leave it to him,” was the low, undisturbed reply. “He has heard her

voice, and is going to speak.”

It was true. Slowly and with effort her father’s glance sought her out

and love again became animate in his features. “Come here, Orpha,” he

said and uttered murmuring words of affection as she knelt at his side.

“I am going to make you happy. You have been a good girl. Do you see

the two long envelopes I am holding, one in each hand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Look at them. No, do not take them, just look at them where they lie

and tell me if in the corner of one you see a cross drawn in red?”

“Yes, Father.”

“In which hand do you see it?”

“In this one,--the one nearest me.”

“You are sure?”

“Very sure. Edgar, look too, and tell him that I am right.”

“I will take your word, my darling child. Now pull that envelope,--the

one with the mark on it, from under my hand.”

“I have it, Father.”

A moment’s silence. Edgar’s breath stopped on his lips; mine had come

haltingly from my breast ever since I entered the room.

“Now, burn it.”

Instinctively she shrank back, but he repeated the command with a force

which startled us all and made Orpha’s hand shake as she thrust the

document into the flame and then, as it caught fire, dropped it into

the gaping bowl.

As it flared up and the scent of burning paper filled the room, he made

a mighty effort and sat almost erect, watching the flaming edges curl

and drop away till all was consumed.

“A will made a few weeks ago of which I have repented,” he declared

quite steadily. “It had a twin, drawn up on the same day. That is the

one I desire to stand. It is not in the envelope I hold in this other

hand. This envelope is empty but you will find the will itself in--”

A choke--a gasp. The exertion had been too much for him. With a look of

consummate fear distorting his features, he centered his gaze on his

child, then sought to turn it on--which of us? On Edgar, or on me?

We never knew. The light in his eye went out before his glance reached

its goal.

Edgar Quenton Bartholomew was dead, and we, his two namesakes--the

lesser and the greater--stood staring the one upon the other, not

knowing to which that term of _greater_ rightfully belonged.

_BOOK II_

HIDDEN

XVI

“_DEAD?_”

The word was spoken in such astonishment that it had almost the

emphasis of unbelief.

From whose lips had it come?

I turned to see. We were all still grouped near or about the bed, but

this voice was strange, or so it seemed to me at the moment.

But it was strange only from emotion. It was that of Dr. Cameron, who

had come quietly in, in response to the summons sent him at the first

sign of change seen in his patient.

“I did not anticipate this,” he was now saying. “Yesterday he had

strength enough for a fortnight or more of life. What was his trouble?

He must have excited himself.”

Looking round upon our faces as we failed to reply, he let his fingers

rest on the bowl from which little whiffs of smoke were still going

up. “This is an odd thing to have where disinfection is not necessary.

Something of a most unusual nature has taken place here. What was it?

Did I not tell you to keep him quiet?”

It was Edgar who answered.

“Doctor, you knew my uncle. Knew him in health and knew him in illness.

Do you think that any one could have kept him quiet if he had the will

to act even if it were to please simply a momentary whim? What then if

he felt himself called upon to risk his life in the performance of a

duty? Could you or I or even his well loved daughter have prevented

him?” And looking very noble, Edgar met the doctor’s eye unflinchingly.

“Ah, a duty!” The doctor’s voice had grown milder. “No, I do not think

that any of us could have stopped him in that case.”

Turning towards the bed, he stood a moment gazing at the rigid

countenance which but a few minutes before had been so expressive of

emotion. Then, raising his hand, he pointed directly at it, saying with

a gravity which shook every heart:

“The performance of duty brings relief to both mind and body. Then why

this look of alarm with which he met his end--”

“Because he felt it coming before that duty was fully accomplished. If

you must know, doctor, I am willing to tell you what occasioned this

sudden collapse. Shall I not, Orpha? Shall I not, Quenton? It is his

right, as our physician. We shall save ourselves nothing by silence.”

“Tell.”

That was all Orpha seemed to have power to utter, and I attempted

little more. I was willing the doctor should know--that all the world

should know--my part in this grievous tragedy. Even if I had wished for

silence, the sting of Edgar’s tone as he mentioned my name would have

been enough to make me speak.

“I have no wish to keep anything from the doctor,” I affirmed as

quickly and evenly as if the matter were of ordinary purport. “Only

tell him all; keep nothing back.”

And Edgar did so with a simplicity and fairness which did him credit.

If he had shown a tinge of sarcasm when he addressed me directly, it

was not heard in the relation he now gave of the drawing up of the two

wills and our uncle’s final act in destroying one. “He loved me--it

was a life-long affection--and when Quenton came, he loved him.” This

was said with a certain display of hardihood.--“Not wishing to divide

his fortune but to leave it largely in favor of one, he wavered for a

time between us, but finally, at the conscious approach of death, made

up his mind and acted as you have seen. Only,” he finished with naïveté

peculiar to his temperament and nature, “we do not know which of us

he has chosen to bless or curse with his great fortune. You see the

remains of one will. But of the other one or of its contents we have as

yet no knowledge.”

The doctor, who had followed Edgar’s words with great intentness,

opened his lips as though to address him, but failed to do so, turning

his attention towards me instead. Then, still without speaking, he

drew up the sheet over the face once so instinct with every generous

emotion, and quietly left our presence. As the door closed upon him

Orpha burst into sobs, and it was Edgar’s arm, not mine, which fell

about her shoulders.

XVII

No attempt was made during those first few grief-stricken hours to

settle the question alluded to above. Of course it would be an easy

matter to find the will which he from sheer physical weakness could

not have put very far away. But Edgar showed no anxiety to find it and

I studiously refrained from showing any; while Orpha seemed to have

forgotten everything but her loss.

But at nightfall Edgar came to where I was pacing the verandah and,

halting in the open French window, said without preamble and quite

brusquely for him:

“The will of which Uncle spoke as having been taken from the other

envelope and concealed in some drawer or other, cannot be found. It is

not in the cubby-hole at the back of his bed or in any of the drawers

or subdivisions of his desk. You were with him later than I last night.

Did he intimate to you in any way where he intended to put it?”

“I left him while the two wills, or at least the two envelopes, still

remained in his hands. But Clarke ought to be able to tell you. He is

the one most likely to have gone in immediately upon my departure.”

“Clarke says that he no sooner entered Uncle’s presence than he was

ordered out, with an injunction not to come back or to allow any one

else to approach the room for a full half hour. My uncle wished to be

alone.”

“And was he obeyed?”

“Clarke says that he was. Wealthy was sitting in her usual place in the

hall as he went by to his room; and answered with a quiet nod when he

told her what Uncle’s wishes were. She is the last person to disobey

them. Yet Uncle had been so emphatic that more than once he stole about

the corner to see if she were still sitting where he had left her.

And she was. Neither he nor she disturbed him until the time was up.

Then Clarke went in. Uncle was sitting in his great chair looking very

tired. The envelopes were in his hand but he allowed Clarke to add them

to a pile of other documents lying on the stand by his bed where they

still were when Wealthy came in. She says she was astonished to see so

many valuable papers lying there, for he usually kept everything of the

kind in the little cubby-hole let into the head of his bed. But when

she offered to put them there he said ‘No,’ and was very peremptory

indeed in his demand that she should go down to Orpha’s room on an

errand, which while of no especial moment, would keep her from the room

for fifteen minutes if not longer. She went and when she came back

the envelopes as well as all the other papers were still lying on the

stand. Later, at his request, she put them all back in the drawer.”

“Looking at them as she did so?”

“No.”

“Who got them out this morning? The two envelopes, I mean.”

“She, and it was not till then that she noticed that one of them

was empty. She says, and the plausibility of her surmise you must

acknowledge, that it was during the time she was below with Orpha, that

Uncle took out the will now missing from its envelope and hid it away.

Where, we cannot conceive.”

“What do you know of this woman?”

“Nothing but what is good. She has had the confidence of many people

for years.”

“It is an extraordinary situation in which we find ourselves,” I

commented, approaching him where he still stood in the open window.

“But there cannot be any real difficulty ahead of us. The hiding-places

which in his feeble state he could reach, are few. To-morrow will see

this necessary document in hand. Meanwhile, you are the master.”

I said it to try him. Though my tone was a matter-of-fact one he could

not but feel the sting of such a declaration from me.

And he did, and fully as much as I expected.

“You seem to think,” he said, with a dilation of the nostril and

a sudden straightening of his lips which while it lasted made him

look years older than his age, “that there is such a thing as the

possibility of some other person taking that place upon the finding and

probating of the remaining will.”

“I have reason to, Edgar.”

“How much reason, Quenton?”

“Only my uncle’s word.”

“Ah!” He was very still, but the shot went home. “And what did he say?”

he asked after a moment of silent communion with himself.

“That I was the man.”

I repeated these words with as little offense as possible. I felt that

no advantage should be taken of his ignorance if indeed he were as

ignorant as he seemed. Nor did I feel like wounding his feelings. I

simply wanted no misunderstandings to arise.

“You the man! He said that?”

“Those were his exact words.”

“The man to administer his wealth? To take his place in this community?

To--” his voice sank lower, there was even an air of apology in his

manner--“to wed his daughter?”

“Yes. And to my mind,”--I said it fervently--“this last honor

out-weighs all the rest. I love Orpha deeply and devotedly. I have

never told her so, but few women are loved as I love her.”

“You dare?” The word escaped him almost without his volition. “Didn’t

you know that there at least I have the precedence? That she and I are

engaged--”

“Truly, Edgar?”

He looked down at my hand which I had laid in honest appeal on his arm

and as he did so he flushed ever so slightly.

“I regard myself as engaged to her.”

“Yet you do not love her. Not as I do,” I hastened to add. “She is my

past, my present and my future; she is my whole life. Otherwise my

conduct would be inexcusable. There is no reason why I should take

precedence of you in other ways than that.”

He was taken aback. He had not expected any such an avowal from me. I

had kept my secret well. It had not escaped the father’s eye but it had

that of the lukewarm lover.

“You have some excuse for your presumption,” he admitted at last.

“There has been no public recognition of our intentions, nor have

we made any display of our affection. But you know it now, and must

eliminate from your program that hope which you say is your whole life.

As for the rest, I might as well tell you, now as later, that nothing

but the sight of the lost will, made out as you have the hardihood

to declare, will ever convince me that Uncle, even in the throes of

approaching dissolution, would so far forget the affection of years as

to give into the hands of my betrothed wife for public destruction

the will he had made while under the stress of that affection. The one

we all saw reduced to ashes was the one in which your name figured the

largest. That I shall always believe and act upon till you can show me

in black and white the absolute proof that I have made a mistake.”

He spoke with an air of dignity and yet with an air of detachment also,

not looking me in the eye. The sympathy I had felt for him in his

unfortunate position left me and I became boldly critical of everything

he said. In every matter in which we, creatures of an hour, are

concerned, there are depths which are never fully sounded. The present

one was not likely to prove an exception. But the time had not come for

me to show any positive distrust, so I let him go, with what I tried to

make a dispassionate parting.

“Neither of us wish to take advantage of the other. That is why we are

both disposed to be frank. I shall stand on my rights, too, Edgar, if

events prove that I am legally entitled to them. You cannot expect me

to do otherwise. I am a man like yourself and _I love Orpha_.”

Like a flash he wheeled at that and came hastily back.

“Do you mean that according to your ideas she goes absolutely with the

fortune, in these days of woman’s independence? You will have to change

your ideas. Uncle would never bind her to his wishes like that.”

He spoke with a conviction not observable in anything he had said

before. He was not surmising now but speaking from what looked very

much like knowledge.

“Then you saw those two wills--read them--became acquainted with their

contents before I knew of their existence?”

“Fortunately, yes,” he allowed.

“There you have the advantage of me. I have only a general knowledge of

the same. They were not unfolded before my eyes.”

He did not respond to this suggestion as I had some hope that he would,

but stood in silence, drumming nervously with his fingers on the

framework of the window standing open at his side. My heart, always

sensitive to changes of emotion, began pounding in my breast. He was

meditating some action or formulating some disclosure, the character

of which I could not even guess at. I saw resolution climaxing in the

expression of his eye.

“Quenton, there is something you don’t know.” These words came with

slow intensity; he was looking fairly at me now. “There is another

will, a former one, drawn up and attested to previous to those which

made a nightmare of our uncle’s final days. That one I have also seen,

and what is more to the point, I believe it to be still in existence,

either in some drawer of my uncle’s desk or in the hands of Mr. Dunn,

our legal adviser, and consequently producible at any time. I will

tell you on my honor that by the terms of this first will--the only

one which will stand--I am given everything, over and above certain

legacies, which were alike in all three wills.”

“No mention of Orpha?”

“Yes. He leaves her a stated sum and with such expressions of

confidence and affection that no one can doubt he did what he did from

a conception, mistaken perhaps but sincere, that he was taking the best

course to secure her happiness.”

“Was this will made previous to my coming or after?”

“Before.”

“How long before, Edgar? You cannot question my right to know.”

“I question nothing but the good taste of this conversation on the part

of both of us, while Uncle lies cold in the house!”

“You are right; we will defer it. Take my hand, Edgar. I have not from

the beginning to the end played you false in this matter. Nor have

I made any effort beyond being at all times responsive to Uncle’s

goodness, to influence him in any unfair way against you. We are

cousins and should be friends.”

He took a long breath, smiled faintly and reached out his hand to mine.

“You have the more solid virtues,” he laughed, “and I ought to envy

you. But I don’t. The lighter ones will win and when they do--not _if_

mind you, but _when_--then we will talk of friendship.”

Not the sort of harangue calculated to calm my spirits or to make this

day of mourning lose any of its gloom.

XVIII

That night I slept but little. I had much to grieve over; much to think

about. I had lost my best friend. Of that I was sure. His place would

never again be filled in my heart or in my imagination. Without him the

house seemed a barren shell save for the dim unseen corner where my

darling mourned in her own way the man we both loved.

Might we but have shared each other’s suffering!

But under the existing state of things, that could not be. Our

relations, one to the other, were too unsettled. Which thought brought

me at once face to face with the most hopeless of all my perplexities.

How were Orpha and I to know--and when, if ever--what Uncle’s wishes

were or what his final intentions? The will which would have made

everything plain, as well as fixed the status of everybody in the

house, had not been found; and among the disadvantages in which this

placed me was the fact that he, as the present acknowledged head of

the house, had rights which it would have been most unbecoming in me

to infringe upon. If he wished a door to be closed against me, I could

not, as a mere resident under his roof, ask to have it opened. For

days--possibly for weeks,--at all events until he saw fit to pursue the

search he had declared to be at present so hopeless, it was for me to

remain quiescent--a man apart--anxious for my rights but unable as a

gentleman and a guest to make a move towards obtaining them.

And unhappily for us, instantaneous action was what the conditions

called for. An immediate and exhaustive inquiry, conducted by Edgar in

the presence of every occupant of the house, offered the only hope of

arriving speedily at the truth of what it was not to the interests of

any of us to leave much longer in doubt.

For some one of the few persons admitted to Uncle’s presence after

Edgar and I had left it, must have aided him in the disposal of this

missing document. He was far too feeble to have taken it from the

room himself, nor could he, without a helping hand, have made any

extraordinary effort within it which would have necessitated the

displacing of furniture or the opening of drawers or other receptacles

not plainly in sight and within easy access.

If the will which his sudden death prevented him from definitely

locating was not found within twenty-four hours, it would never be

found. The one helping him will have suppressed it; and this is what

I believed had already occurred. For every servant in the house from

his man Clarke to a shy little sewing girl who from time to time

scurried on timid feet through the halls, favored Edgar to the point of

self-effacing devotion.

And Edgar knew it.

Recognizing this fact at its full value, but not as yet questioning his

probity, I asked myself who was the first person to enter my uncle’s

room immediately after my departure on the evening before.

I did not know.

Did Edgar? Had he taken any pains to find out?

Fruitless to conjecture. Impertinent to inquire.

I had left Uncle sitting by the fire. He had bidden me call Wealthy,

and it was just possible that in the interim elapsing between my going

out and the entrance of nurse or servant, he had found the nervous

strength to hide the missing paper where no one as yet had thought to

look for it.

It did not seem possible, and I gave but little credence to this

theory; yet such is the activity of the mind when once thoroughly

aroused, that all through the long night I was in fancy searching the

dark corners of my uncle’s room and tabulating the secret spots and

unsuspected crevices in which the document so important to myself might

lie hidden.

Beginning with the bed, I asked myself if there could be anywhere in

it an undiscovered hiding-place other than the drawer I have already

mentioned as having been let into the head-board. I decided to the

contrary since this piece of furniture upon which he had been found

lying, would have received the closest attention of the searchers. If

Edgar had called in the services of Wealthy, as it would be natural

for him to do, she would never have left the mattresses and pillows

unexamined; while he would have ransacked the little drawer and sounded

the wood of the bedstead for hollow posts or convenient slits. I could

safely trust that the bed could tell no tales beyond those associated

with our uncle’s sufferings. Leaving it, then, in my imaginary circuit

of the room, I followed the wall running parallel with the main hall,

till I came to the door opening at the southern end of the room into a

short passage-way communicating with that hall.

Here I paused a moment, for built into this passage-way was a cabinet

which during his illness had been used for the safe-guarding of

medicine bottles, etc. Could a folded paper of the size of the will

find any place among the boxes and phials with which every one of its

shelves were filled? I knew the place well enough to come to the quick

decision that I should lose nothing by passing them quickly by.

Turning the corner which had nothing to show but another shelf--this

time a hanging one--on which there was never anything kept but a jar

or two and a small photograph of Edgar, I concentrated my attention

on the south wall made beautiful by the full length portrait of Orpha

concerning which I have said so much.

It had not always hung there. It had been brought from the den, as you

will remember, when Uncle’s illness had become pronounced, taking the

place of a painting which had been hung elsewhere. Flanked by windows

on either side, it filled the wall-space up to where a table stood

of size sufficient to answer for the serving of a meal. There were

chairs here too and Orpha’s little basket standing on its three slender

legs. The document might have been put under her work. But no, the

woman would have found it there; or in the table drawer, or among the

cushions of the couch filling the space between this corner and the

fireplace. There were rugs all over the room but they must have been

lifted; and as for the fireplace itself, not having had the sifting of

the ashes, I must leave it unconsidered.

But not so the mantel or the winged chair dedicated solely to my

Uncle’s use and always kept near the hearth. This was where I had last

seen him, sitting in this chair close to the fire-dogs. The two wills

were in his hands. Could one have fallen from its envelope and so into

the flames,--the one he had meant to preserve,--the one which was not

marked with a hastily scrawled cross? Mad questions to which there was

no answer. Would that I might have been the man to sift those ashes! Or

that I might yet be given the opportunity of looking behind the ancient

painting which filled the large square above the mantel. I did not see

how anything like a folded paper could have been lodged there; but not

an inch from floor to ceiling would have escaped my inspection had I

been fortunate enough or my claims been considered important enough to

have entitled me to assist in the search.

Should I end this folly of a disturbed imagination? Forget the room for

to-night and the whole gruesome tragedy? Could I, in reality, do this

before I had only half circled the room? There was the desk,--the place

of all others where he would naturally lock up a paper of value. But

this was so obvious that probably not another article in the room had

been more thoroughly overhauled or its contents more rigidly examined.

If any of its drawers or compartments contained false backs or double

bottoms, Edgar would be likely to know it. Up to the night of the ball,

when in some way he forfeited a portion of our uncle’s regard, he had

been, according to his own story, in his benefactor’s full confidence,

even in matters connected with business and his most private

transactions. The desk was negligible, if, as I sincerely believed, he

had sought to conceal the will from Edgar, as temporarily from every

one else.

But back of the desk there was a book-case, and books offer an

excellent hiding-place. But that book-case was always locked, and the

key to it, linked with that of the desk, kept safely to hand in the

drawer inserted in his bed-head. The desk-key, of course, had come into

use at the first moment of the search, but had that of the book-case?

Possibly not.

I made a note of this doubt; and in my fancy moved on to the two rooms

which completed my uncle’s suite towards the north. The study and a

dressing closet! I say study and I say closet but both were large

enough to merit the name of rooms. The dressing-closet was under the

combined care of Wealthy and Clarke. They must be acquainted with every

nook and corner of it. Wealthy had undoubtedly been consulted as to its

contents, but had Clarke?

The study, since the time when Uncle’s condition became serious enough

to have a nurse within call, had been occupied by Wealthy. Certainly

he would have hidden nothing in her room which he wished kept from

Edgar.

The fourth corner was negligible; so was the wall between it and a

second passage-way which, like the one already described, led to a door

opening into the main hall. Only, this one, necessitated like the other

by the curious break between the old house and the new, held no cabinet

or any place of concealment. It was the way of entrance most used by

uncle when in health and by all the rest of us both then and later.

Had he made use of it that night, for reaching the hall and some place

beyond?

Hardly; but if he had, where would he have found a cubby-hole for the

will, short of Edgar’s room or mine?

The closet indicated in the diagram of this room as offering another

break in this eastern wall, was the next thing to engage my attention.

I had often seen it open and it held, according to my recollection,

nothing but clothes. He had always been very methodical in his ways and

each coat had its hook and every hat, not in constant use, its own box.

The hooks ran along the back and along one of the sides; the other side

was given up to shelves only wide enough to hold the boxes just alluded

to and the long row of shoes, the number and similarity of which I

found it hard to account for till I heard some one in speaking of petty

economies and of how we all have them, mentioned this peculiar one of

my uncle’s, which was to wear a different pair of shoes every day in

the week.

Had Edgar, or whoever conducted the search, gone through all the

pockets of the many suits lining these simple walls? Had they lifted

the shoes?

The only object to be seen between the door of this closet and the

alcove sunk in the wall for the accommodation of the bed-head, was

the small stand holding his night-lamp and the various articles for

use and ornament which one usually sees at an invalid’s bedside. I

remembered the whole collection. There was not a box there nor a book,

not even a tablet nor a dish large enough to hold the will folded as

I had seen it. Had the stand a drawer? Yes, but this drawer had no

lock. Its contents were open to all. Edgar must have handled them. I

had come back to my starting-point. And what had I gained in knowledge

or in hope by my foolish imaginary quest? Nothing. I had but proved to

myself that I was no more exempt than the next man from an insatiable,

if hitherto unrecognized desire for this world’s goods and this world’s

honors. Nothing less could have kept my thoughts so long in this

especial groove at a time of such loss and so much personal sorrow.

My shame was great and to its salutary effect upon my mind I attribute

a certain lessening of interest in things material which I date from

this day.

My hour of humiliation over, my thoughts reverted to Orpha. I had not

seen her all day nor had I any hope of seeing her on the morrow. She

had not shown herself at meals, nor were we to expect her to leave her

room--or so I was told--until the day of the funeral.

Whether this isolation of hers was to be complete, shutting out Edgar

as well as myself, I had no means of determining. Probably not, if what

uncle had told me was true and they were secretly engaged.

When I fell asleep at dawn it was with the resolution fixed in my mind,

that with the first opportunity which offered I would make a desperate

endeavor to explain myself to her. As my pride was such that I could

only do this in Edgar’s presence, the risk was great. So would be

the test made of her feelings by the story I had to relate. If she

listened, hope, shadowy but existent, might still be mine. If not,

then I must bear her displeasure as best I could. Possibly I should

suffer less under it than from the uncertainty which kept every nerve

quivering.

XIX

The next day was without incident save such as were connected with

the sad event which had thrown the house into mourning. Orpha did

not appear and Edgar was visible only momentarily and that at long

intervals.

When he did show himself it was with an air of quiet restraint which

caused me some thought. The suspicion he had shown--or was it just a

natural revulsion at my attitude and pretensions,--seemed to have left

him. He was friendly in aspect and when he spoke, as he did now and

then, there was apology in his tone, almost commiseration, which showed

how assured he felt that nothing I could do or say would ever alter

the position he was maintaining amongst us with so much grace and calm

determination.

Had he found the will and had it proved to be the one favorable to his

interests and not to mine? I doubted this and with cause, for the faces

of those about him did not reflect his composure, but wore a look of

anxious suspense quite distinct from that of sorrow, sincerely as my

uncle was mourned by every member of his devoted household. I noticed

this first in Clarke, who had taken his stand near his dead master’s

door and could not be induced to leave it. No sentinel on watch ever

showed a sadder or a more resolute countenance.

It was the same with Wealthy. Every time I passed through the hall I

found her hovering near one door or the other of her former master’s

room, the great tears rolling down her cheeks and her mouth set

with a firmness which altered her whole appearance. Usually mild of

countenance, she reminded me that day of some wild animal guarding

her den, especially when her eye met mine. If the will favoring Edgar

had been found, she would have faced me with a very different aspect

and cared little what I did or where I stayed. But no such will had

been found; and what was, perhaps, of almost equal importance, neither

had the original one--the one made before I came to C----, and which

Edgar had so confidently stated was still in the house. Both were

gone and--Here a thought struck me which stopped me short as I was

descending the stairs. If the original one had been destroyed--as would

have been natural upon or immediately after the signing of the other

two, and no other should ever come to light--in other words, if Uncle,

so far as all practical purposes went, had died intestate, then in the

course of time Orpha would inherit the whole estate (I knew enough of

law to be sure of that) and if engaged to Edgar, he would have little

in the end to complain of. Was this the source of his composure, so

unnatural to one of his temperament and headlong impulses?

I would not have it so. With every downward step which I took after

that I repeated to myself, “No! no!” and when I passed within sight of

Orpha’s door somehow the feeling rose within me that she was repeating

with me that same vigorous “No! no!”

A lover’s fancy founded on--well, on nothing. A dream, light as air,

to be dispelled the next time I saw her. For struggle against it as

I would, both reason and experience assured me only too plainly that

women of her age choose for their heart’s mate, not the man whose love

is the deepest and most sincere, but the one whose pleasing personality

has fired their imagination and filled their minds with dreams.

And Edgar, in spite of his irregular features possessed this appeal to

the imagination above and beyond any other man I have ever met.

I shall never forget this seemingly commonplace descent of mine down

these two flights of stairs. In those few minutes I seemed to myself

to run the whole gamut of human emotions; to exhaust the sorrows and

perplexities of a life-time.

And it was nothing; mere child’s play. Before another twenty-four hours

had passed how happy would I have been if this experience had expressed

the full sum of grief and trial I should be called upon to endure.

I had other experiences that day confirmatory of the conclusion I had

come to. Hostile glances everywhere except as I have said from Edgar.

Attention to my wants, respectful replies to my questions, which I

assure you were very limited, but no display of sympathy or kind

feeling from any one indoors or out. To each and all I was an unwelcome

stranger, with hand stretched out to steal the morsel from another

man’s dish.

I bore it. I stood the day out bravely, as was becoming in one

conscious of no evil intentions; and when evening came, retired to

my room, in the hope that sleep would soon bring me the relief my

exhausted condition demanded.

So little are we able to foresee one hour, nay, one minute into the

future.

I read a little, or tried to, then I sank into a reverie which did not

last long, for they had chosen this hour to carry down the casket into

the court.

My room, of which you will hear more later, was in the rear of the

house and consequently somewhat removed from the quarter where all

this was taking place. But imagination came to the aid of my hearing,

intensifying every sound. When I could stand no more I threw up my

window and leaned out into the night. There was consolation in the

darkness, and for a few fleeting minutes I felt a surcease of care and

a lightening of the load weighing upon my spirits. The face of heaven

was not unkind to me and I had one treasure of memory with which to

meet whatever humiliation the future might bring. My uncle had been his

full vigorous self at the moment he rose up before me and said, with an

air of triumph, “You are the man!” For that one thrilling instant I was

the man, however the people of his house chose to regard me.

Soothed by the remembrance, I drew in my head and softly closed the

window. God! how still it was! Not a sound to be heard anywhere.

My uncle’s body had been carried below and this whole upper floor

was desolate. So was his room! The room which had witnessed such

misery; the room from which I had felt myself excluded; where, if it

still existed, the missing will lay hidden; the will which I must

see--handle--show to the world--show to Orpha.

Was there any one there now,--watching as they had watched, at door or

bedside while his body still lay in the great bed and the mystery of

his last act was still a mystery unsolved?

A few steps and the question would be answered. But should I take those

steps? Brain and heart said no. But man is not always governed by his

brain or by his heart, or by both combined. Before I knew it and quite

without conscious volition I had my hand on the knob of my door. I had

no remembrance of having crossed the floor. I felt the knob of the

door turning in my hand and that was the sum of my consciousness. Thus

started on the way, I could not stop. The hall as I stepped into it lay

bare and quiet before me. So did the main one when I had circled the

bend and stood in sight of my uncle’s door. But nothing would have made

me believe at that moment that there was no sentinel behind it. Yet I

hurried on, listening and looking back like a guilty man, for brain

and heart were yet crying out “No.”

There was no one to mark my quickly moving figure, for the doors,

whichever way I looked, were all shut. Nor would any one near or far be

likely to hear my footsteps, for I was softly shod. But when I reached

his door, it was as impossible for me to touch it as if I had known

that the spirit of my uncle would meet me on the threshold.

Sick at heart, I staggered backwards. There should be no attempt made

by me to surprise, in any underhanded, way, the secrets of this room.

What I might yet be called upon to do, should be done openly and

with Orpha’s consent. She was the mistress of this home. However our

fortunes turned, she was now, and always would be, its moral head. This

was my one glad thought.

To waft her a good-night message I leaned over the balustrade and was

so leaning, when suddenly, sharply, frightfully, a cry rang up from

below rousing every echo in the wide, many-roomed house. It was from

a woman’s lips, but not from Orpha’s, thank God; and after that first

instant of dismay, I ran forward to the stair-head and was on the point

of plunging recklessly below, when the door of Uncle’s room opened and

the pale and alarmed face of Wealthy confronted me.

“What is it?” she cried. “What has happened?”

Before I could answer Clarke rushed by me, appearing from I never knew

where. He flew pell-mell down the stairs and I followed, scarcely less

heedless of my feet than he. As we reached the bottom, I almost on top

of him, a hardly audible click came from the hall above. I recognized

the sound, possibly because I was in a measure listening for it.

Wealthy was about to follow us, but not until she had locked the door

she was leaving without a watcher.

As we all crowded in line at the foot of the first flight, the door of

Orpha’s room opened and she stepped out and faced us.

“What is it? Who is hurt?” were her first words. “Somebody cried out.

The voice sounded like Martha’s.”

Martha was the name of one of the girls.

“We don’t know,” replied Clarke. “We are going to see.”

She made as if to follow us.

“Don’t,” I prayed, beseeching her with look and hand. “Let us find out

first whether it is anything but a woman’s hysterical outcry.”

She paused for a moment then pressed hastily on.

“I must see for myself,” she declared; and I forebore to urge her

further. Nor did I offer her my arm. For my heart was very sore. She

had not looked my way once, no, not even when I spoke.

So she too doubted me. Oh, God! my lot was indeed a hard one.

XX

The scene which met our view as we halted in one of the arches

overlooking the court was one for which we sought in vain for full

explanation.

The casket had been placed and a man stood near it, holding the lid

which he had evidently just taken off, probably at some one’s request.

But it was not upon the casket or the man that our glances became

instantly focused. Grief has its call but terror dominates grief, and

terror stood embodied before us in the figure of the girl Martha, who

with staring eyes and pointing finger bade us “Look! look!” crouching

as the words left her lips and edging fearfully away.

Look? look at what? She had appeared to indicate the silent form in

the casket. But that could not be. The death of the old is sad but not

terrible; she must have meant something else, something which we could

not perceive from where we stood.

Leaning further forward, I forced my gaze to follow hers and speedily

became aware that the others were doing the same and that it was inside

the casket itself that they were all peering and with much the same

appearance of consternation Martha herself had shown.

Something was wrong there; and alive to the effect which this scene

must have upon Orpha, I turned her way just in time to catch her as

she fell back from the marble balustrade she had been clutching in her

terror.

“Oh, what is it? what is it?” she moaned, her eyes meeting mine for the

first time in days.

“I will go and see, if you think you can stand alone.”

“Wealthy will take care of me,” she murmured, as another arm than mine

drew her forcibly away.

But I did not go on the instant for just then Martha spoke again and we

heard in tones which set every heart beating tumultuously:

“Spots! Black spots on his forehead and cheek! I have seen them

before--seen them on my dead brother’s face and he died from poison!”

“Wretch!” I shouted down from the gallery where I stood, in

irrepressible wrath and consternation, as Orpha, escaping from

Wealthy’s grasp, fell insensible at my feet. “Would you kill your young

mistress!” And I stooped to lift Orpha, but an arm thrust across her

pushed me inexorably back.

“Would you blame the girl for what you yourself have brought upon us?”

came in a hiss to my ear.

And staring into Wealthy’s face I saw with a chill as of the grave what

awaited me at the hands of Hate if no succor came from Love.

XXI

In another moment I had left the gallery. Whether it was from pride or

conscious innocence or just the daring of youth in the face of sudden

danger, the hot blood within me drove me to add myself to the group of

friends and relatives circling my uncle’s casket, where I belonged as

certainly and truly as Edgar did. Not for me to hide my head or hold

myself back at a crisis so momentous as this. Even the shudder which

passed from man to man at my sudden appearance did not repel me; and,

when after an instant of hesitation one person after another began to

sidle away till I was left there alone with the man still holding the

lid in his trembling fingers, I did not move from my position or lift

the hand which I had laid in reverent love upon the edge of the casket.

That every tongue was stilled and many a breath held in check I need

not say. It was a moment calling for a man’s utmost courage. For the

snake of suspicion whose hiss I had heard above was rearing its crest

against me here, and not a friendly eye did I meet.

But perhaps I should have, if Edgar’s face had been turned my way; but

it was not. Miss Colfax was one of the group watching us from the other

side of the fountain, and his eyes were on her and not on me. I stood

in silent observation of him for a minute, then I spoke.

“Edgar, if there is anything in the appearance of our uncle’s body

which suggests foul play though it be only to an ignorant servant, why

do you not send for the doctor?”

He started and, turning very slowly, gave me look for look.

“Do you advise that?” he asked.

With a glance at the dear features which were hardly recognizable, I

said:

“I not only advise it, but as one who believes himself entitled to full

authority here, I demand it.”

A murmur from every lip varying in tone but all hostile was followed

by a silence which bitterly tried my composure. It was broken by

a movement of the undertaker’s man. Stepping forward, he silently

replaced the lid he had been holding.

This forced a word from Edgar.

“We will not dispute authority in this presence or disagree as to the

action you propose. Let some one call Dr. Cameron.”

“It is not necessary,” announced a voice from the staircase. “That has

already been done.” And Orpha, erect, and showing none of the weakness

which had so nearly laid her at my feet a few minutes before, stepped

into our midst.

XXII

Such transformations are not common, and can only occur in strong

natures under the stress of a sudden emergency. With what rejoicing I

hailed this new Orpha, and marked the surprise on every face as she

bent over the casket and imprinted a kiss upon the cold wood which shut

in the heart which had so loved her. When she faced them again, not an

eye but showed a tear; only her own were dry. But ah, how steady!

Edgar, who had started forward, stopped stock-still as she raised her

hand. No statue of even-handed Justice could have shown a calmer front.

I could have worshiped her, and did in my inmost heart; for I saw with

a feeling of awe which I am sure was shared by many others there, that

she whom we had seen blossom from girl to womanhood in a moment, was to

be trusted, and that she would do what was right because it was right

and not from any less elevated motive.

That she was beautiful thus, with a beauty which put her girlhood’s

charms to blush, did not detract from her power.

Eagerly we waited for what she had to say. When it came it was very

simple.

“I can understand,” said she, “the shock you have all sustained. But I

ask you to wait before you accept the awful suggestion conveyed by my

poor Martha’s words. She had a dreadful experience once and naturally

was thrown off her balance by anything which brought it to mind. But

the phenomenon which she once witnessed in her brother--under very

different circumstances I am sure--is no proof that a like cause is

answerable for what we see disfiguring the face we so much love. Let

us hear what Dr. Cameron has to say before we associate evil with a

death which in itself is hard enough to bear. Edgar, will you bring me

a chair. I shall not leave my father’s side till Dr. Cameron bids me do

so.”

He did not hear her; that is, not attentively enough to do her bidding.

He was looking again at Miss Colfax, who was speaking in whispers to

the man she was engaged to; and in the pride of my devotion it was I

who brought a chair and saw my dear one seated.

Her “Thank you,” was even and not unkind but it held no warmth. Nor did

the same words afterwards addressed to Edgar at some trifling service

he showed her. She was holding the balance of her favor at rest between

us; and so she would continue to hold it till her duty became clear and

Providence itself tipped the scale.

Thus far it was given me to penetrate her mind. Was it through my love

for her or because the rectitude of her nature was so apparent in that

high hour?

Dr. Cameron not being able to come immediately upon call, the few

outsiders who were present took their leave after a voluntary promise

by each and all to preserve a rigid silence concerning the events of

the evening until released by official authority.

The grace with which Edgar accepted this token of friendship showed

him at his best. But when they were gone it was quite another Edgar

who faced us in the great court. With hasty glance, he took in all our

faces, then turned his attention upward to the gallery where Clarke and

Wealthy still stood.

“No one is to stir from his place while I am gone,” said he. “If the

doctor’s ring is heard, let him in. But I am in serious earnest when I

say that I expect to see on my return every man and woman now present

in the precise place in which I leave them.”

His voice was stern, his manner troubled. He was anything but his usual

self. Nor was it with his usual suavity he suddenly turned upon me and

said:

“Quenton, do you consent?”

“To remain here?” I asked. “Certainly.” Indeed, I had no other wish.

But Orpha was not of my mind. With a glance at Edgar as firm as it was

considerate, she quietly said:

“You should allow yourself no privilege which you deny to Quenton. If

for any reason you choose to leave us for purposes you do not wish to

communicate, you must take him with you.”

The flush which this brought to his cheek was the first hint of color I

had seen there since the evening began.

“This from you, Orpha?” he muttered. “You would place this stranger--”

“Where my father put him,--on a level with yourself. But why leave us,

Edgar? Why not wait till the doctor comes?”

They were standing near each other but they now stepped closer.

Instinctively I turned my back. I even walked away from them. When I

wheeled about again, I saw that they were both approaching me.

“_I_ am going up with Edgar,” said she. “Will you sit in my place till

I come back?”

“Gladly, Orpha.” But I wondered what took them above--something

important I knew--and watched them with jealous eyes as in their ascent

their bright heads came into view, now through one arch and now through

another, till they finally emerged, he leading, she following, upon the

gallery.

Here they paused to speak to Clarke and Wealthy. A word, and Clarke

stepped back, allowing Wealthy to slip up ahead of them to the third

floor.

They were going to Uncle’s room of which Wealthy had the key.

Deliberately I wheeled about; deliberately I forebore to follow their

movements any further, even in fancy. Prudence forbade such waste of

emotion. I would simply forget everything but my present duty, which

was to hold every lesser inmate of the house in view, till these two

had returned or the doctor arrived.

But when I heard them coming, no exercise of my own will was strong

enough to prevent me from concentrating my attention on the gallery

to which they must soon descend. They reached it as they had left it,

Edgar to the fore and Orpha and Wealthy following slowly after. A

momentary interchange of words and Wealthy rejoined Clarke, and Edgar

and Orpha came steadily down. There was nothing to be learned from

their countenances; but I had a feeling that their errand had brought

them no relief; that the situation had not been bettered and that what

we all needed was courage to meet the developments awaiting us.

I was agreeably disappointed therefore, when the doctor, having

arrived, met the first hasty words uttered by Edgar with an incredulous

shrug. Nor did he show alarm or even surprise when after lifting the

lid from the casket he took a prolonged look at the august countenance

thus exposed. It was not until he had replaced this lid and paused for

a moment in thoughtful silence that I experienced a fresh thrill of

doubt and alarm. This however passed when the doctor finally said:

“Discolorations such as you see here, however soon they appear, are in

themselves no proof that poison has entered the stomach. There are

other causes which might easily induce them. But, since the question

has been raised--since, in the course of my treatment poison in careful

doses has been administered to Mr. Bartholomew, of which poison there

probably remained sufficient to have hastened death, if inadvertently

given by an inexperienced hand, it might be well to look into the

matter. It would certainly be a comfort to you all to know that no such

accident has taken place.”

Here his eyes, which had been fixed upon the casket, suddenly rose. I

knew--perhaps others did--where his glance would fall first. Though an

excellent man and undoubtedly a just one, he could not fail to have

been influenced by what he must have heard in town of the two wills

and the part I had played in unsettling my uncle’s mind in regard

to his testamentary intentions. If under the doctor’s casual manner

there existed anything which might be called doubt, it would be--must

be--centered upon the man who was a stranger, unloved and evidently

distrusted by all in this house.

Convinced as I was of this, I could not prevent the cold perspiration

from starting out on my forehead, nor Orpha from seeing it, or, seeing

it, drawing a step or two further off. Fate and my temperament--the

susceptibility of which I had never realized till now,--were playing me

false. Physical weakness added to all the rest! I was in sorry case.

As I nerved myself to meet the strain awaiting me, it came. The

doctor’s gaze met mine, his keen with questioning, mine firm to meet

and defy his or any other man’s misjudgment.

No word was spoken nor was any attempt at greeting made by him or by

myself. But when I saw those honest eyes shift their glance from my

face to whomever it was who stood beside me, I breathed as a man

breathes who, submerged to the point of exhaustion, suddenly finds

himself tossed again into the light of day and God’s free air.

The relief I felt added to my self-scorn. Then I forgot my own

sensations in wondering how others would hold up against this ordeal

and what my thoughts would be--remembering how nearly I had come to

losing my own self-possession--if I beheld another man’s lids droop

under a soul search so earnest and so prolonged.

Shrinking from so stringent a test of my own generosity I turned aside,

not wishing to see anything further, only to hear.

Had I looked--looked in the right place, this story might never have

been written; but I only listened--held my breath and listened for a

break--any break--in the too heavy silence.

It came just as my endurance had reached the breaking-point. Dr.

Cameron spoke, addressing Edgar.

“The funeral I understand is to be held to-morrow. At what hour, may I

ask?”

“At eleven in the morning.”

“It will have to be postponed. Though there is little probability of

any change being necessary in the wording of the death-certificate; yet

it is possible and I must have time to consider.”

XXIII

It was just and proper. But only Orpha had the courage to speak--to

seek to probe his mind--to sound the depths of this household’s misery.

Orpha! whom to guard from the mere disagreeabilities of life were a

man’s coveted delight! _She_ our leader? The one to take her stand in

the breach yawning between the old life and the new?

“You mean,” she forced herself to say, “that what had happened to

Martha’s brother may have happened to my beloved father?”

“I doubt it, but we must make sure. A poison capable of producing death

was in this house. You know that; others knew it. I had warned you

all concerning it. I made it plain, I thought, that small doses taken

according to prescription were helpful, but that increased beyond a

certain point, they meant death. You remember, Orpha?”

She bowed her head.

“And you, Edgar and Quenton?”

We did, alas!

“And his nurses, and the man Clarke, all who were at liberty to enter

his room?”

“They knew.” It was Orpha who spoke. “I called their attention to what

you had said more than once.”

“Is the phial containing that poison still in the house? I have not

ordered it lately.”

“It is. Edgar and I have just been up to see. We found it among the

other bottles in the medicine cabinet.”

“When did he receive the last dose of it under my instructions?”

“Wealthy can tell you. She kept very close watch of that bottle.”

“Wealthy,” he called, with a glance towards the gallery, “come down. I

have a question or two to put to you.”

She obeyed him quickly, almost eagerly.

The other servants, Clarke alone excepted, came creeping from their

corner as they saw her enter amongst us and stand in her quiet

respectful way before the doctor.

He greeted her kindly; she had always been a favorite of his; then

spoke up quickly:

“Mr. Bartholomew died too soon, Wealthy. We should have had him with us

for another fortnight. What was the cause of it, do you know? A wrong

dose? A repeated dose? One bottle mistaken for another?”

Her eyes, filled with tears, rose slowly to his face.

“I cannot say. The last time I saw that bottle it was at the very back

of the shelf where I had pushed it after you had said he was to have no

more of it at present. It was in the same place when we went up just

now to see if it had been taken from the cabinet. It did not look as

though it had been moved.”

“Holding the same amount as when you saw it last?”

“To all _appearance_, yes, sir.”

What was there in her tone or in the little choke which followed these

few words which made the doctor stare a moment, then open his lips to

speak and then desist with a hasty glance at Edgar? I had myself felt

the shiver of some new fear at her manner and the unconscious emphasis

she had given to that word _appearance_. But was it the same fear which

held him back from pursuing his inquiries, and led him to say instead:

“I should like to see that bottle. No,” he remonstrated, as Orpha

started to accompany him. “You are a brave girl, but it is not for your

physician to abuse that bravery. Wealthy will go up with me. Meantime,

let Edgar take you away to some spot where you can rest till I come

back.”

It was kindly meant but oh, how hard I felt it to see these two draw

off like accepted lovers; and with what joy I beheld them stop,

evidently at a word from her, and seat themselves on one of the

leather-covered lounges drawn up against the wall well within the sight

of every one there.

I could rest, with these two sitting thus in full view--rest in the

present; the future must take care of itself.

The result of the doctor’s visit to the room above was evident in the

increased gravity he showed on his return. He had little to say beyond

enjoining upon Edgar and Orpha the necessity for a delay in the funeral

services and a suggestion that we separate at once for the night and

get what sleep we could. He would send a man to sit by the dead and if

we would control ourselves sufficiently not to discuss this unhappy

event all might yet be well.

The picture he made with Orpha as he took his leave of her at the door

remains warm in my memory. She had begun to droop and he saw it. To

comfort her he took her two hands in his and drew them to his breast

while he talked to her, softly but firmly. As I saw the confidence with

which she finally received his admonitions, I blessed him in my heart;

though with a man’s knowledge of men I perceived that his endeavor to

give comfort sprang from sympathy rather than conviction. Tragedy was

in the house, veiled and partially hidden, but waiting--waiting for the

full recognition which the morrow must bring. A shadow with a monstrous

substance behind it we would be called upon to face!

For one wild instant I wished that I had never left my native land;

never seen the great Bartholomew; never felt the welcoming touch of

Orpha’s little hand on mine. As I knelt again in my open window a half

hour later, the star which had shone in upon me two hours before had

vanished in clouds.

Darkness was in the sky, darkness was in the house, darkness was in my

own soul, and saddest of all, darkness was in that of our lovely and

innocent Orpha.

XXIV

The next day was one of almost unendurable apprehension. Edgar, Orpha

and myself could not face each other. The servants could not face us.

If we moved from our rooms and by chance met in any of the halls we

gazed at each other like specters and like specters flitted by without

a word.

Orpha had a friend with her or I could not have stood it. For a long

time I did not know who this friend was; then from some whisper I heard

echoing up my convenient little stairway I learned that it was Lucy

Colfax, Edgar’s real love and Dr. Hunter’s fiancée.

I did not like it. Such companionship was incongruous and unnatural;

an insult to Orpha, though the dear child did not know it; but if she

found relief in the presence of the one woman who, next to herself,

stood in the closest relation to him who was gone, why should I

complain so long as I myself could do nothing to comfort her or assuage

her intolerable grief and the suspense of this terrible day.

I did not fear that Edgar would make a third. Neither he nor Orpha were

ready for talk. None of us were till the doctor’s report was known and

the fearful question settled. I heard afterwards that Edgar had spent

most of the time in the great room upstairs staring into the corners

and seeming to ask from the walls the secret they refused to give.

I did the same in mine, only I paced the floor counting the slow hours

as they went by. I am always restless under suspense and movement was

my only solace.

What if the report should be one of which I dared not think--dared not

mention to myself. What then? What if the roof of the house in which

I stood should thunder in and the great stones of the walls fall to

the ground and desolation ravish the spot where life, light and beauty

reigned in such triumph. I would go down with it, that I knew; but

would others? Would that one other whom to save--

Was it coming? The whole house had been so still that the least sound

shook me. And it was a _least_ sound. A low but persistent knocking at

my door.

I was at the other end of the room and the distance from where I stood

to the door looked interminable. I must know--know instantly; I could

not wait another moment. Raising my voice, or endeavoring to, I called

out:

“Come in.”

It was a mere whisper; ghostly hands were about my throat. But that

whisper was heard. I saw the door open and a quiet appearing man,--a

complete stranger to me--stepped softly in.

I knew him for what he was before he spoke a word.

The police were in the house. There was no need to ask what the

doctor’s report had been.

XXV

It is not my intention, and I am sure it is not your wish, that I

should give all the details leading up to the inevitable inquest which

followed the discoveries of the physicians and the action of the police.

In the first place my pride, possibly my self-respect held me back

from any open attempt to acquaint myself with them. My interview with

the Inspector of which I have just made mention, added much to his

knowledge but very little to mine. To his questions I gave replies

as truthful as they were terse. When I could, I confined myself to

facts and never obtruded sentiment unless pressed as it were to the

wall. He was calm, reasonable and not without consideration; but he

got everything from me that he really wanted and at times forced me to

lay my soul bare. In return, I caught, as I thought, faint glimmers

now and then of how the mind of the police was working, only to find

myself very soon in a fog where I could see nothing distinctly. When he

left, the strongest impression which remained with me was that in the

terrible hours I saw before me my greatest need would be courage and my

best weapon under attack the truth as I knew it. In this conclusion I

rested.

But not without a feeling which was as new to me as it was disturbing.

I could not leave my room without sensing that somewhere, unseen and

unheard, there lingered a presence from whose watchfulness I could not

hope to escape. If in passing towards the main hall, I paused at the

little circular staircase outside my door for one look down at the

marble-floored pavement beneath, it was with the consciousness that an

ear was somewhere near which recognized the cessation of my steps and

waited to hear them recommence.

So in the big halls. Every door was closed, so slight the movement, so

unfrequent any passing to and fro in the great house during the two

days which elapsed before the funeral. But to heave a sigh or show in

any way the character or trend of my emotions was just as impossible to

me as though the walls were lined with spectators and every blank panel

I passed was a sounding-board to some listener beyond.

Once only did I allow myself the freedom natural to a mourner in

the house of the dead. Undeterred by an imaginary or even an actual

encounter with unsympathetic servant or interested police operative, I

left my room on the second day and went below; my goal, the court, my

purpose, to stand once more by the remains of all that was left to me

of my great-hearted uncle.

If I met any one on the way I have no memory of it. Had Orpha flitted

by, or Edgar stumbled upon me at the turn of a corner, I might have

stayed my step for an instant in outward deference to a grief which

I recognized though I was not supposed to share it. But of others I

took no account nor do I think I so much as lifted my eyes or glanced

to right or left, when having crossed the tessellated pavement of

the court, I paused by the huge mound of flowers beneath which lay

what I sought, and thrusting my hand among these tokens of love and

respect till I touched the wood beneath, swore that whatever the future

held for me of shame or its reverse, I would act according to what I

believed to be the will of him now dead but who for me was still a

living entity.

This done I returned as I had come, only with a lighter step, for some

portion of the peace for which I longed had fallen upon me with the

utterance of that solemn promise.

I shall give but one incident in connection with the funeral. To my

amazement I was allotted a seat in the carriage with Edgar. Orpha rode

with some relatives of her mother--people I had never seen.

Though there was every chance for Edgar and myself to talk, nothing

more than a nod passed between us. It was better so; I was glad to

be left to my own thoughts. In the church I noted no one; but at the

grave I became aware of an influence which caused me to turn my head

a trifle aside and meet the steady look of a middle-aged man who was

contemplating me very gravely.

Taking in his lineaments with a steady look of my own, I waited till

I had the opportunity to point him out to one of the undertaker’s men

when I learned that he was a well-known lawyer by the name of Jackson,

and instantly became assured that he was no other than the man who had

drawn up the second will--the will which I had been led to believe was

strongly in my favor.

As his interest in me was to all appearance of a kindly sort untinged

by suspicion, I felt that perhaps the odds after all, were not so

greatly against me. Here was a man ready to help me, and should I need

a friend, Providence had certainly shown me in what direction to look.

That night I slept the best of any night since the shock which had

unhinged the nerves of every one in the house. I had ascertained that

the full name of the lawyer who had been instrumental in drawing up the

second will was Frederick W. Jackson, and while uttering this name more

than once to myself, I fell into a dreamless slumber.

XXVI

You may recall that my first thought in contemplating the coil in

which we had all been caught by the alleged disappearance of the will

supposed to contain my uncle’s final instructions, was that an inquiry

including every person then in the house, should be made by some one

in authority--Edgar, for instance--for the purpose of determining

who was responsible for the same by a close investigation into the

circumstances which made this crime possible. Little did I foresee

at the time that such an inquiry, though shirked when it might have

resulted in good, lay before us backed by the law and presided over by

a public official.

But this fact was the first one to strike me, as convened in one of the

large rooms in the City Hall, we faced the Coroner, in ignorance, most

of us, of what such an inquiry portended and how much or how little of

the truth it would bring to light.

I knew what I had to fear from my own story. I had told it once before

and witnessed its effect. But how about Orpha’s? And Edgar’s? and that

of the long row of servants, uneasy in body and perplexed in mind, from

whose unwitting, if not unwilling lips some statement might fall which

would fix suspicion or so shift it as to lead us into new lines of

thought.

I had never been in a court-room before and though I knew that the

formality as well as the seriousness of a trial would be lacking in

a coroner’s inquest, I shivered at the prospect, for some one of the

witnesses soon to be heard had something to hide and whether the

discovery of the same or its successful suppression was most to be

desired who could tell.

The testimony of the doctors, as well as much of general interest in

connection with the case, fell on deaf ears so far as I was concerned.

Orpha, clad in her mourning garments and heavily veiled, held all my

thoughts. Even the elaborate questioning of the two lawyers who drew

up the wills, the similarity and dissimilarity of which undoubtedly

lay at the bottom of the dreadful crime we were assembled to inquire

into, left me cold. In a way I heard what had passed between each of

these men and the testator on the day of the signing. How Mr. Dunn,

who had attended to my uncle’s law business for years, had recognized

the desirability of his client making a new will under the changed

conditions brought about by the reception into his family of a second

nephew of whose claims upon a certain portion of his property he must

wish to make some acknowledgment, received the detailed instructions

sent him, with no surprise and followed them out to the letter,

bringing the document with him for signature on the day and at the hour

designated in the notes he had received from his client. The result

was so satisfactory that no delay was made in calling in the witnesses

to his signature and the signing of all three. What delay there was

was caused by a little controversy in regard to his former will whose

provisions differed in many respects from this one. Mr. Bartholomew

wished to retain it,--the lawyer advised its destruction, the lawyer

finally gaining the day. It being in Mr. Bartholomew’s possession at

the time, the witness expected it to be brought out and burned before

his eyes; but it was not, Mr. Bartholomew merely promising that this

should be done before the day ended. Whether or not he kept his word,

the lawyer could not say from any personal knowledge.

Mr. Jackson had much the same story to tell. He too had received a

letter from Mr. Bartholomew, asking his assistance in the making of

a new will, together with instructions for the same, scrupulously

written out in full detail by the testator’s own hand on bits of paper

carefully numbered. Asked to show these instructions, they were handed

over and laid side by side with those already passed up by Mr. Dunn. I

think they were both read; I hardly noticed; I only know that they were

found to be exactly similar, with the one notable exception I need not

mention. Of course the names of the witnesses differed.

What did reach my ear was a sentence uttered by Mr. Jackson as coming

from my uncle when the will brought for his signature was unfolded

before him. “You may be surprised,” Uncle had said, “at the tenor of

my bequests and the man I have chosen to bear the heavy burden of a

complicated heritage. I know what I am doing and all I ask of you and

the two witnesses you have been kind enough to bring here from your

office is silence till the hour comes when it will be your business to

speak.”

This created a small hubbub among the people assembled, to many of whom

it was probably the first word they had ever heard in my favor. During

it and the sounding of the gavel calling them to order, my attention

naturally was drawn in the direction of these men and women to whom

my affairs seemed to be of so much importance. Alas! egotist that I

was! They were not interested in me but in the case; and especially

in anything which suggested an undue influence on my part over an

enfeebled old man. Their antagonism to me was very evident, being

heightened rather than lessened by the words just heard.

But there was one face I encountered which told a different story. Mr.

Jackson had his own ideas and they were favorable to me. With a sigh

of relief I turned my attention back to the heavily veiled figure of

Orpha.

What was she thinking? How was she feeling? What interpretation might I

reasonably put upon her movements, seeing that I lacked the key to her

inmost mind. Witnesses came and went; but only as she swayed forward

in her interest, or sank back in disappointment, did I take heed of

their testimony or weigh in the scales of my own judgment the value or

non-value of what they said.

For truth to say, I had heard nothing so far that was really new to me;

nothing to solve certain points raised in my own mind; nothing that

vied in interest with the slightest gesture or the least turn of the

head of her who bore so patiently this marshalling before her in heavy

phalanx facts so hideous as to bar out all sweeter memories.

But when in the midst of a sudden silence I heard my own name called, I

started in dismay, all unprepared as I was to face this hostile throng.

But it was not I whom they wanted, but Edgar. No one had glanced my

way. To the people of C---- there was but one Edgar Quenton Bartholomew

now that their chief citizen was gone.

The moment was a bitter one to me and I fear I showed it. But my good

sense soon reasserted itself. Edgar was answering questions and I as

well as others was there to learn; and to learn, I must listen.

“Your father and mother?”

“Both dead before I was five years old. Uncle Edgar then took me into

his home.”

“Adopted you?”

“Not legally. But in every other respect he was a father to me, and I

hope I was a son to him. But no papers were ever drawn up.”

“Did he ever call you _Son_?”

“I have no remembrance of his ever having done so. His favorite way of

addressing me was Boy.”

A slight tremulousness in speaking this endearing name added to its

effect. I gripped at my heart beneath my coat. Our uncle had used the

same word in speaking to me--once.

“Did he ever talk to you of his intentions in regard to his property,

and if so when?”

“Often, before I became of age.”

“And not since?”

“Oh, yes, since. But not so often. It did not seem necessary, we

understood each other.”

“Mr. Bartholomew, did it never strike you as peculiar that your uncle,

having a daughter, should have chosen his brother’s son as his heir?”

“No, sir. You see, as I said before, we understood each other.”

“Understood? How?”

“We never meant, he nor I, that his daughter should lose anything by my

inheritance of his money.”

It was modestly, almost delicately said and had he loved her I could

not but have admired him at that moment. But he did not love her,

and to save my soul I could not help sending a glance her way. Would

her head rise in proud acknowledgment of his worth or would it fall

in shame at his hypocrisy? It fell, but then, I was honest enough to

realize that the shame this bespoke might be that of a loving woman

troubled at hearing her soul’s most sacred secrets thus bared before

the public.

Anxious for her as well as for myself, I turned my eyes upon the

crowd confronting us, and wondered at the softened looks I saw

there. He had touched a chord of fine emotion in the breasts of

these curiosity-mongers. It was no new story to them. It had been

common gossip for years that he was to marry Orpha and so make her

and himself equal heirs of this great fortune. But his bearing as he

spoke,--the magnetism which carried home his lightest word--gave to the

well-known romance a present charm which melted every heart.

I felt how impotent any words of mine would be to stem the tide of

sympathy that was bearing him on and soon would sweep me out of sight.

But as, overwhelmed by this prospect, I cowered low in my seat, the

thought came that these men and women whose dictum I feared were

not the arbiters of my destiny. And I took a look at the jury and

straightened in my seat. Surely I saw more than one honest face among

the twelve and two or three that were more than ordinarily intelligent.

I should stand some chance with _them_.

Meanwhile another question had been put.

“Did your uncle at any time ever suggest to you that under a change of

circumstances he might change his mind?”

“Never, till the day before he died.”

“There was no break between you? No quarrel?”

“We did not always agree. I am not perfect--” With a smile he said

this--“and it was only natural that he should express himself as not

always satisfied with my conduct. But _break_? No. He loved me better

than I deserved.”

“You have a cousin, a gentleman of the same name, now a resident in

your house. Did the difference of opinion between yourself and uncle to

which you acknowledge occur since or prior to this cousin’s entrance

into the family?”

“Oh, I have memories of childish escapades not always approved of by

my uncle. Nor have I always pleased him since I became a man. But

the differences of opinion to which you probably allude became more

frequent after the introduction amongst us of this second nephew; why,

I hardly know. I do not blame my cousin for them.”

The subtle inflection with which this last was said was worthy of

a master of innuendo. It may have been unconscious; it likely was,

for Edgar is naturally open in his attacks rather than subtle. But

conscious or unconscious it caused heads to wag and sly looks to pass

from one to another with many a knowing wink. The interloper was to

blame of course though young Mr. Bartholomew was too good to say so!

The Coroner probably had his own private opinions on this subject, for

taking no notice of these wordless suggestions he proceeded to ask:

“Was your cousin ever present when these not altogether agreeable

discussions occurred between yourself and uncle?”

“He was not. Uncle was not the kind of man to upbraid me in the

presence of a relative. He thought I showed a growing love of money

without much recognition of what it was really good for.”

“Ah! I see. Then that was the topic of these unfortunate conversations

between you, and not the virtues or vices of your cousin.”

“We had one, perhaps two conversations on that subject; but many, many

others on matters far from personal in which there was nothing but what

was agreeable and delightful to us both.”

“Doubtless; what I want to bring out is whether from anything your

uncle ever said to you, you had any reason to fear that you had been or

might be supplanted in your uncle’s regard by this other man of his and

your name. In other words whether your uncle ever intimated that he

and not you might be made the chief beneficiary in a new will.”

“He never said it previous to the time I have mentioned.” There was

a fiery look in Edgar’s eye as he emphasized this statement by a

sharpness of tone strangely in contrast to the one he had hitherto

used. “What he may have thought, I have no means of knowing. It was for

him to judge between us.”

“Then, there has always existed the possibility of such a change? You

must have known this even if you failed to talk on the subject.”

“Yes, I sometimes thought my uncle was moved by a passing impulse to

make such a change; but I never believed it to be more than a passing

impulse. He showed me too much affection. He spoke too frequently of

days when I studied under his eye and took my pleasure in his company.”

“You acknowledge, then, that lately you yourself began to doubt his

constancy to the old idea. Will you say what first led you to think

that what you had regarded as a momentary impulse was strengthening

into a positive determination?”

“Mr. Coroner, if you will pardon me I must take exception to that word

_positive_. He could never have been positive at any time as to what

he would finally do. Else why _two_ wills? It was what I heard the

servants say on my return from one of my absences which first made me

question whether I had given sufficient weight to the possibility of

my cousin’s influence over Uncle being strong and persistent enough to

drive him into active measures. I allude of course to the visit paid

him by his lawyer and the witnessing on the part of his man Clarke

and his nurse Wealthy to a document they felt sure was a will. As it

was well known throughout the house that one had already been drawn

up in full accordance with the promises so often made me, they showed

considerable feeling, and it was only natural that this should arouse

mine, especially as that whole day’s proceedings, the coming of a

second lawyer with two men whom nobody knew, was never explained or

even alluded to in any conversation I afterwards held with my uncle. I

thought it all slightly alarming but still I held to my faith in him.

He was a sick man and might have crotchets.”

“At what time and from whom did you definitely hear the truth about

that day’s proceedings--that two wills had been drawn up, alike in all

respects save that in one you were named as the chief beneficiary and

in the other your cousin from England?”

At this question, which evidently had power to trouble him, Edgar lost

for the first time his air of easy confidence. Did he fear that he was

about to incur some diminution of the good feeling which had hitherto

upheld him in any statement he chose to make? I watched him very

closely to see. But his answer hardly enlightened me.

The question, if you will remember, was when and where he received

definite confirmation of what had been told him concerning two wills.

“In my uncle’s room the night before he died,” was his reply, uttered

with a gloom wholly unnatural to him even in a time of trouble. “He

had wished to see me and we were talking pleasantly enough, when he

suddenly changed his tone and I heard what he had done and how my

future hung on the whim of a moment.”

“Can you repeat his words?”

“I cannot. The impression they made is all that is left me. I was too

agitated--too much taken aback--for my brain to work clearly or my

memory to take in more than the great fact. You see it was not only my

position as heir to an immense fortune I saw threatened; but the dearer

hope it involved and what was as precious as all the rest, the loss of

my past as I had conceived it, for I had truly believed that I stood

next to his daughter in my uncle’s affections; too close indeed for any

such tampering with my future prospects.”

He was himself again; shaken with feeling but winsome in voice, manner

and speech. And it was the sincerity of his feeling which made him so.

He had truly loved his uncle. No one could doubt that, not even myself

who had truly loved him also.

“On what terms did you leave him? Surely you can remember that?”

Edgar’s eye flashed. As I noted it and the resolution which was fast

overcoming the sadness which had distinguished his features up till

now, I held my breath in apprehension, for here was something to fear.

“When I left him it was with a mind much more at ease than when he

first showed me these two wills. For my faith in him had come back. He

would burn one of those wills before he died, but it would not be the

one which would put to shame by its destruction, him who had been as a

child to him from the day of his early orphanage.”

The Coroner himself was startled by the effect made by these words

upon the crowd, and probably blamed his own leniency in allowing this

engaging witness to express himself so fully.

In a tone which sounded sharp enough in contrast to the mellow one

which had preceded it, he said:

“That is what you _thought_. We had rather listen to facts.”

Edgar bowed, still gracious, still the darling of the men and women

ranged before him, many of whom remembered his boyhood; while I sat

rigid, realizing how fully I was at the mercy of his attractions and

would continue to be till I had an opportunity to speak, and possibly

afterwards, for prejudice raises a wall which nothing but time can

batter down.

And Orpha? What of her? How was she taking all this? In my anxiety, I

cast one look in her direction. To my astonishment she sat unveiled and

was gazing at Edgar with an intentness which slowly but surely forced

his head to turn and his eye to seek hers. An instant thus, then she

pulled down her veil, and the flush just rising to his cheek was lost

again in pallor.

Unconsciously the muscles of my hands relaxed; for some reason life had

lost some of the poignant terror it had held for me a moment before. A

drowning man will catch at straws; so will a lover; and I was both.

In the absorption which followed this glimpse of Orpha’s face so many

days denied me, I lost the trend of the next few questions, and only

realized that we were approaching the crux of the situation when I

heard:

“You did not visit him again?”

“No.”

“Where did you go?”

“To my room.”

“Will you state to the jury just where your room is located?”

“On the same floor as Uncle’s, only further front and on the opposite

side of the hall.”

“We have here a chart of that floor. Will you be good enough to step to

it and indicate the two rooms you mention?”

Here, at a gesture from the Coroner, an official drew a string attached

to a roll suspended on one of the walls and a rudely drawn diagram,

large enough to be seen from all parts of the court-room, fell into

view.[A]

[A] A reduced copy of the plan will be found facing the title page of

this book.

Edgar was handed a stick with which he pointed out the two doors of his

uncle’s room and those of his own.

What was coming?

“Mr. Bartholomew, will you now tell the jury what you did on returning

to your room?”

“Nothing. I threw myself into a chair and just waited.”

“Waited for what?”

“To hear my cousin enter my uncle’s room.”

The bitterness with which he said this was so deftly hidden under an

assumption of casual rejoinder, as only to be detected by one who was

acquainted with every modulation of his fine voice.

“And did you hear this?”

“Very soon; as soon as he could come up from the lower hall where

Clarke, my uncle’s man, had been sent to summon him.”

“If you heard this, you must also have heard when he left your uncle’s

room.”

“I did.”

“Was the interview a long one?”

“I was sitting in front of the clock on my mantel-piece. He was in

there just twenty minutes.”

I felt my breast heave, and straightening myself instinctively I met

the concentrated gaze of a hundred pair of eyes leveled like one

against me.

Did I smile? I felt like it; but if I did it must have expressed the

irony with which I felt the meshes of the net in which I was caught

tighten with every word which this man spoke.

The Coroner, who was the only person in the room who had not looked my

way, went undeviatingly on.

“In what part of the house does this gentleman of whom we are speaking

have his room?”

“On the same floor as mine; but further back at the end of a short

hall.”

“Will you take the pointer from the officer and show the location of

the second Mr. Bartholomew’s room?”

The witness did so.

“Did you hear in which direction your cousin went on leaving your

uncle? Did he go immediately to his room?”

“He may have done so, but if he did, he did not stay long, for very

soon I heard him return and proceed directly down stairs.”

“How long was he below?”

“A long time. I had moved from my seat and my eye was no longer on the

clock so I cannot say how long.”

“Did you hear him when he came up for a second time?”

“Yes; he is not a light stepper.”

“Where did he go? Directly to his room?”

“No, he stopped on the way.”

“How, stopped on the way?”

“When he reached the top of the stairs he paused like one hesitating.

But not for long. Soon I heard him coming in the direction of my

room, pass it by and proceed to our uncle’s door--the one in front

so little-used as to be negligible--where he lingered so long that I

finally got up and peered from my own doorway to see what he was doing?”

“Was the hall dark?”

“Very.”

“Darker than usual?”

“Yes, much.”

“How was that? What had happened?”

“The electric light usually kept burning at my end of the hall had been

switched off.”

“When? Before your cousin came up or after?”

“I do not know. It simply was not burning when I opened my door.”

“Will you say from which of the doors in your suite you were looking?”

“From the one marked C on the chart.”

“That, as the jury can see if they will look, is diagonally opposite

the one at which the witness had heard his cousin pause. Will the

witness now state if the hall was too dark at the time he looked out

for him to see whether or not any one stood at his uncle’s door?”

“No, it was not too dark for that, owing to the light which shone in

from the street through the large window you see there.”

“Enough, you say, to make your uncle’s door visible?”

“Quite enough.”

“And what did you see there? Your cousin standing?”

“No; he was gone.”

“How gone? Could he not have been in your uncle’s room?”

“Not then.”

“Why do you say ‘not then’?”

“Because while I looked I could hear his footsteps at the other end of

the house rounding the corner where the main hall meets the little one

in which his room is situated.”

My God! I had forgotten all this. I had been very anxious to know

how Uncle had fared since I left him in such a state of excitement;

whether he were sleeping or awake, and hoped by listening I should hear

Wealthy’s step and so judge how matters were within. But a meaning

sinister if not definite had been given to this natural impulse by the

way Edgar’s voice fell as he uttered that word _stopped_; and from

that moment I recognized him for my enemy, either believing in my guilt

or wishing others to; in which latter case, it was for me to fight my

battle with every weapon my need called for. But the conflict was not

yet and “Patience” must still be my watch-word. But I held my breath as

I waited for the next question.

“You say that you heard him moving down the hall. You did not see him

at your uncle’s door?”

“No, I did not.”

“But you are confident he was there, previous to your looking out?”

“I am very sure that he was; my ear seldom deceives me.”

“Mr. Bartholomew, will you think carefully before you answer the

following question. Was there any circumstance connected with this

matter which will enable you to locate the hour at which you heard your

cousin pass down the hall?”

He hesitated; he did not want to answer. Why? I would have given all

that I possessed to know; but he only said:

“I did not look at my watch; I did not need to. The clock was striking

three.”

“Three! The jury will note the hour.”

Why did he say that?--_the jury will note the hour?_ My action was

harmless. Everything I did that night was harmless. What did he mean

then by _the hour_? The mystery of it troubled me--a mystery he was

careful to leave for the present just where it was.

Returning to his direct investigation, the coroner led the witness back

to the time preceding his entrance into the hall. “You were listening

from your room; that room was dark, you were no longer watching the

clock which had not yet struck; yet perhaps you can give us some idea

of how long your cousin lingered at your uncle’s door before starting

down the hall.”

“No, I should not like to do that.”

“Five minutes?”

“I cannot say.”

“Long enough to have entered that room and come out again?”

“You ask too much. I am not ready to swear to that.”

“Very good; I will not press you!” But the suggestion had been made.

And for a purpose--a purpose linked with the mystery of which I have

just spoken. Glancing at Mr. Jackson, I saw him writing in his little

book. He had noted this too. I was not alone in my apprehension which,

like a giant shadow thrown from some unknown quarter, was reaching

slowly over to envelop me. When I was ready to listen again, it was to

hear:

“What did you do then?”

“I went to bed.”

“Did you see or hear anything more of your cousin that night?”

“No, not till the early morning when we were all roused by the news

which Wealthy brought to every door, that Uncle was very much worse and

that the doctor should be sent for.”

“Tell us where it was you met him then.”

“In the hall near Uncle’s door--the one marked 2 on the chart.”

“How did he look? Was there anything peculiar in his appearance or

manner?”

“He was fully dressed.”

“And you?”

“I had had no time to do more than wrap a dressing-gown about me.”

“At what time was this? You remember the hour no doubt?”

“Half past four in the morning; any one can tell you that.”

“And he was fully dressed. In morning clothes or evening?”

“In the ones he wore to dinner the night before.”

It was true; I had not gone to bed that night. There was too much on

my mind. But to them it would look as if I had sat up ready for the

expected alarm.

“Was he in these same clothes when you finally entered your uncle’s

room?”

“Certainly; there was no time then for changing.”

These questions might have been addressed to me instead of to him. They

would have been answered with as much truth; but the suggestiveness

would have been lacking and in this I recognized my second enemy. I now

knew that the Coroner was against me.

A few persons there may have recognized this fact also. But they were

all too much in sympathy with Edgar to resent it. I made no show of

doing so nor did I glance again at Orpha to see the effect on her

of these attacks leveled at me with so much subtlety. I felt, in

the humiliation of the moment, that unless I stood cleared of every

suspicion, I could never look her again in the face.

Meanwhile the inquiry had reached the event for which all were

waiting--the destruction of the one will and the acknowledgment by the

dying man that the envelope which held the other was empty.

“Were you near enough to see the red mark on the one he had ordered

burned?”

“Yes; I took note of it.”

“Had you seen it before?”

“Yes; when, in the interview of which I have spoken, my uncle showed

me the two envelopes and informed me of their several contents.”

“Did he tell you or did you learn in any way which will was in the one

marked with red?”

“No. I did not ask him and he did not say.”

“So when you saw it burning you did not know with certainty whether it

was the will making you or your cousin his chief heir?”

“I did not.”

He said it firmly, but he said it with effort. Again, why?

The time to consider this was not now, for at this reply, expected

though it was, a universal sigh swept through the house, carrying my

thoughts with it. Emotion must have its outlet. The echo in my own

breast was a silent one, springing from sources beyond the ken of the

simple onlooker. We were approaching a critical part of the inquiry.

The whereabouts of the missing document must soon come up. Should I be

obliged to listen to further insinuations such as had just been made?

Was it his plan to show that I was party to a fraud and knew where

the missing will lay secreted,--where it would always lie secreted

because it was in his favor and not in mine? It was possible; anything

was possible. If I were really wise I would prepare myself for the

unexpected; for the unexpected was what I probably should be called

upon to face.

Yet it was not so, or I did not think it so, in the beginning.

Asked to describe his uncle’s last moments he did so shortly, simply,

feelingly.

Then came the question for which I waited.

“Your uncle died, then, without a sign as to where the remaining will

was to be found?”