CHAPTER V.
Christmas had come and gone at Farley, without event of importance to the outward eye. William Shaw was feeble; it was easy to predicate, as his neighbours did, that he would not survive another attack such as he had had in the autumn. Mrs. Shaw certainly was more subdued—did not hunt this winter, and had not appeared at the great county ball. This was noticed with approval, and attributed partly to her husband's failing health, partly to the grief and disappointment consequent upon her niece's behaviour. People compared notes, and found they had all thought her a very odd girl. No one had ever quite succeeded in "making her out;" but it had never been suspected that she would prove so ungrateful to her devoted uncle and aunt. For, of course, the fiction of her staying with friends could not be kept up all these months against the persistent industry to discover where that was. It came at last to being "not quite sure exactly where she is—she so seldom writes." And then, of course, there could no longer be a doubt; she had absconded, and Heaven only knew where she had gone. Certainly Mr. and Mrs. Shaw did not.
The handsome hero of this inexplicable scandal naturally came in for a large share of female sympathy, until, in September, the Morning Post announced his engagement to Miss Krupp. Even then there were those who, encouraged in that belief by Mrs. Shaw's hints, held that he had only been driven to this step through "pique." This word held its own bravely against all—or nearly all comers. The good pastor tried to assail it; but, alas! he was but poorly armed, being forced to confess that the unhappy girl had herself confessed to him her engagement to Wybrowe, with every outward manifestation of happiness. He shook his head and sighed; he could not understand it, nor could any one else. But though the view taken of Elizabeth's turpitude varied, according to the charity of the speaker, the voice of public opinion was unanimously against her, and is so to the present day. In letting the truth be known, I conceive that I am but doing a simple act of justice, though there are those still living who will not thank me.
Wybrowe came to Farley, and went away, and came again about the New Year. People said how kind it was of the Shaws to have him; some wondered at his having the courage to return to the scene where his affections had been so wounded. He wore the same superfine air of lofty indifference which he had ever worn, and which was now thought to be the mask of a bleeding heart. What with the lions in Africa, and Elizabeth's shameful treatment of him, there is no doubt that at this time he inspired more admiration of a certain kind than any drawing-room hero going.
In the beginning of January something happened. What it was exactly has never been known, or, if known, never divulged. But Joshua Twisden one morning received a telegram, couched in these terms—
"Destroy second will at once. Bring first will with you to Farley to-day, if possible; if not, to-morrow.—William Shaw."
The old solicitor was fairly well again now; George was with him, and hard at work. He could leave all in his hands for a day or two; so after obeying the first injunction laid upon him in the telegram—which he did with great satisfaction—he started for Farley by an afternoon train, wiring the hour of his arrival at the station. There the Shaw brougham met him. On entering the house at Farley, his black bag in his hand, the first person he saw was Mrs. Shaw. She was standing in the hall, evidently waiting for him. The pretty little woman seamed strangely perturbed, all her brilliant chirpiness gone, a poor, draggled little bird, scared and songless.
"Did he telegraph to you?" she began at once. "I did not know———"
"Yes, Mr. Shaw telegraphed. Is he very ill?"
"I—I am afraid he is. I hardly think he is quite right in his mind; he has such strange fancies."
"Is the doctor now with him?"
"No; he was here this morning—is coming again to-night. He said there was nothing to be done but keep him very quiet. You—you will not let him talk much about business, Mr. Twisden?"
"I conclude he sent for me for that purpose," returned the old gentleman, "and I cannot prevent his doing so."
"Still, if his mind is not in its natural state, any excitement may——— Try and quiet him, will you? He may say, he may be prompted to do, things which—which———"
Her disconnected sentences, poured out in a flurried manner, were stopped short by the descent of Mr. Shaw's valet. He came rapidly down the stairs, to request that Mr. Twisden would not delay in going to his master, who had heard the brougham drive up. He brought a message, furthermore, to Mrs. Shaw, desiring that neither the doctor nor any one else should enter his room until Mr. Twisden had departed.
He lay, white and weak, propped up by pillows, his eyes riveted on the door by which the lawyer entered. The sick man motioned his valet to withdraw. Twisden approached and took his hand. A table, with pens, ink, and paper, were beside the bed, and an easy-chair, to which Shaw pointed.
"I've sent for you—in a hurry, Twisden," he breathed heavily between his phrases, which were broken, "because I've not long to be here, and—I want to alter things a bit. They're changed. Yes, all's changed, Twisden—from what it was—a while back. And yet I don't know—as they are changed—only———"
"Do not exhaust yourself unnecessarily by talking, my dear Shaw," cut in the old lawyer. "Tell me definitely and succinctly what you want. I am here to obey your instructions. I have already done so as regarded destroying your second will. The first will I have here in this bag."
"The second's destroyed? That's good, anyway." He gave a sigh of relief. "If I had listened to you, Twisden, I shouldn't ha' made it. Well, I know now why the poor lass left me. 'Twas out o' consideration for me she wouldn't speak; and I ain't goin' to tell you, Twisden. No, I'm goin' to die, and it ain't worth while. But I want—I want———"
Here his face grew redder, and the veins in his forehead swelled; his voice also shook; and the old lawyer leaning forward, said—
"I think I understand. Yon want your niece to inherit all you possess, after your wife's death?"
"No! After my death!" he cried. "Don't ye make—a mistake—after my death. Take out the will, and put in a—what d'ye call it?—just to upset what you wrote iu before—about letting my wife—enjoy all the money—for her life. It ain't necessary. Her jointure's about one-third of the income—that's good enough—for a single woman; and—and it ain't enough—to tempt a blackguard."
"Do you not wish to leave anything at Mrs. Shaw's disposal?"
He hesitated a moment. "No—not worth while—only tempting blackguards. She has got this house for her life, and nearly three thousand a year. It's Shaw money. I don't want a penny of it to go—to blackguards; it shall come back to Elizabeth."
He said this, in one form or another, over and over again. Then Twisden brought out the will from his black bag, and the next quarter of an hour was employed in reading it carefully over to the dying man, and seeing that he fully understood its provisions. He appended the codicil which gave to Elizabeth the whole of her uncle's property, at his demise, subject to a life-interest in the Farley estate, together with the jointure settled upon Mrs. Shaw, on her marriage.
The butler and valet were then summoned to witness their master's signature, which was clear enough, though written with a trembling hand. To this codicil he wished some explanation to be appended, the actual wording of which, after a little deliberation, was formulated by Twisden thus—
"I make this alteration in my will, being at the time of sound mind, in order that my wife may not fall a victim to designing persons, at my death; a precaution I am sure she will understand."
After that he seemed more tranquil, partly, no doubt, from exhaustion.
"You'll stay the night here, Twisden?" he asked feebly.
"As my business here is done, I shall be glad to return by the eight-o'clock train. I shall be home by eleven," said the lawyer, locking his bag.
William Shaw touched the bell."Some dinner for Mr. Twisden—at once—and the brougham round—in time for the eight-o'clock train."
The distincness of his instructions was especially mentioned afterwards, when the clearness of his brain at the time was called in question. He was told that the doctor had arrived.
"I suppose I must see him. It ain't any use, but I suppose I'd better see him. A few days more—or less; it's hardly worth while———"
"Oh yes, it is," returned the lawyer, as he held out his hand. "While there is life, there is hope. I've been very bad, nearly gone, myself more than once. And that reminds me. Would yon not like to see your niece? Shall I wire, to tell her so?"
"Nay," he said, almost in a whisper. "She wouldn't like to come here. I understand it all now. You'll tell her so—eh, Twisden? You'll tell her that I understood? She is a good lass; I always thought she was a good lass—and—and I'll give a good report of her to her father."
The two old men shook hands. Both knew that it was their last meeting on earth. But the one whose time was not yet come could not regret that the honest, simple-minded man who lay upon his death-bed should be taken from the treachery and deceit by which he had been surrounded for so long, and to which his eyes had now at last been opened.
The parrot talked shrilly to the lawyer while he ate his solitary meal, but his mistress had the grace not to intrude herself upon him. She could do no good now. Whatever had taken place in the bedroom upstairs was past recall. Mr. Twisden would say, virtually, like Pilate, "What I have written, I have written." He saw her for an instant before stepping into the brougham, when she looked wistfully into his face, and made as though she would say something. But the words died on her lips, incapable of utterance before the grave, unpitying politeness of the old lawyer.
Elizabeth received the news of her uncle's death by telegram the very morning of Melchior's last interview with Alaric Baring. She was genuinely grieved to think that she should never see his kind face again. The last link with the past—the past belonging to her dear father—was snapped. And yet she ought not to grieve that he was at rest, good honest soul!—for ever at rest from the troubles of this wicked world; that he had fallen asleep, in ignorance (as she then believed) of his wife's falsity, and only wounded through her—Elizabeth—whom he believed to be ungrateful. Sorely as she felt this, she said bravely to herself that it was better so. But she shed some bitter tears, nevertheless. It was the reopening of an old wound, rather than the infliction of a new one.
That evening was a perturbed one to all the three gathered together in the small upper chamber at Mentone. Elizabeth made no concealment of her sorrow; she had lost the last near relation she had upon earth. But she had another, and more present, cause for depression. She feared, though she could not feel sure, that her secret had been betrayed by Melchior. Alaric had said nothing to his sister, and was resolved that no hint of what he had learnt should escape him, as long as he could not alter his position of indebtedness. But, as is often the case, there was something in his manner—a change imperceptible to the casual observer—which did not elude the vigilant scrutiny of both his companions. Hatty, indeed, did not find it difficult to account for the shade more of softness in his tone, the additionally careworn look upon his dear face. She knew that he knew now how very short a time she would be with him. And after that, what then? She prayed, with all the fervour of narrowly restricted affections, that she might join together the hands of the only two beings she loved on earth, before she left it. But how? The time left her to accomplish this was short. She was not satisfied with the progress things had made. Indeed, for the last few weeks they seemed to have been at a standstill. It is true that she had no fear now of Alaric's misunderstanding Elizabeth; a very strong regard subsisted between them—of that she felt sure. As regarded her brother, she believed it to be something much more than this, but it was provoking that he would not speak openly, even to Hatty, of himself—of his own feelings. Never, since that conversation with her in Paris nearly three months before, had Hatty been able to get him to talk of Elizabeth. If she tried to do so, he changed the conversation instantly.
With her friend it was different. She never showed any disinclination to listen to the praises of poor Hatty's hero, to hear anecdotes of his nobility and self-sacrifice, his trenchant words to the ungodly whom he had morally knocked down, his kindly words to the humble whom he had lifted up; Elizabeth was not afraid to manifest frankly the interest she felt in the brother, when the sister and she were alone. But in his presence something of the daring which had characterized her utterances in the early pension days was gone. To-night, especially, her silence and her watchfulness of Alaric struck Hatty greatly. Her sorrow for her uncle, of which she had spoken quite naturally, might account for the first, but hardly for the second. Alaric, too, said very little. Neither of them seemed completely at ease. And yet Melchior's departure was felt by all to be a relief, though Hatty openly expressed her vexation that his commission had been refused. She lay upon her sofa, screwing up her short-sighted eyes first at one, and then at the other, trying to make each talk, and trying even more to divine the thoughts of each.
But in the secret watches of the night she made up her mind that the hours left to her were now too few, too precious, to remain longer silent. She would speak to her dear brother to-morrow—speak, as a mother to a son; for it was not to be endured that, when she was gone, these two should drift apart, if happiness was really within reach of both.