A Crooked Path Part 23

"Oh, Mr. Newton, he cannot be dead!" cried Katherine. "He seemed stronger this morning, and he has fainted more than once. Let me bathe his temples." She took a bottle of eau-de-Cologne from the sideboard as she spoke.

"My dear young lady, both your servant and I have done what we could to revive him, and I fear--I believe he has pa.s.sed away. The start and the triumph of finding himself the last survivor of the Tontine a.s.sociation were too much for his weak heart. I would not go in if I were you: death is appalling to the young."

Katherine stopped, half frightened, yet ashamed of her fear. "Oh yes; I must satisfy myself that I can do nothing more for him. Can it be possible that he will never speak again--never search for news of that other poor old man?" She went softly into the next room, followed by Newton, and approaching the bed, laid her hand gently on his brow. "How awfully cold!" she whispered, shrinking back in spite of herself at the unutterable chill of death. "But he looks so peaceful, so different from what he did in life!" She stood gazing at him, silent, awe-struck.

"Come away," said Newton, kindly. "The doctor will be here, I trust, in a few minutes, and will be able to give a certificate which will save the worry of an inquest."

Katherine obeyed his gesture of entreaty, and went slowly into the front room, where she sat down, leaning her elbows on the table and covering her face with her hands, while Mr. Newton closed the door.

It was all over, then, her hopes and fears; the poor wasted life, as much wasted and useless as if spent in the wildest and most extravagant follies, was finished. What had it left behind? Nothing of good to any human being; no blessing of loving-kindness, of help and sympathy, to any suffering brother wayfarer on life's high-road; nothing but hard, naked gold--gold which, from what she had heard, would go to one already abundantly provided. Ah, she must not think of that gold so sorely needed, or bad, unseemly ideas would master her!

But Mr. Newton was speaking. "It is fortunate I was here to be some stay to you," he said; "the shock must be very great, and--" He interrupted himself hastily to exclaim, "Here is the doctor! I shall go with him into our poor friend's room; let me find you here when I come back."

Katherine bent her head, and remained in the same att.i.tude, thinking, thinking.

How long it was before the kind lawyer returned she did not know; but he came and stood by her, the doctor behind him.

"It is as I supposed," said Newton, in a low tone. "Life is quite extinct." Katherine rose and confronted them, looking very white.

"Yes," added the doctor; "death must have been instantaneous. Your uncle was in a condition which made him liable to succ.u.mb under the slightest shock. Can you give me paper and ink? I will write a certificate at once. Then, Miss Liddell, I shall look to you."

Katherine placed the writing materials before him silently, and watched him trace the lines; then he handed the paper to Mr. Newton, saying, "You will see to what is necessary I presume," and rising he took Katherine's hand and felt her pulse. "Very unsteady indeed; I would recommend a gla.s.s of wine now, and at night a composing draught, which I will send. If I can do nothing more I must go on my rounds. I shall be at home again about six, should you require my services in any way."

He went out, followed by Mr. Newton, and they spoke together for a few moments before the doctor entered his carriage and drove off.

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Newton, when he returned--the startling event of the morning seemed to have taken off the sharp edge of his precision--"what shall you do? I suppose you would like to go home. It would be rather trying for you to stay here."

"To go home!" returned Katherine, slowly. "Yes, I should, oh, very much!

but I will not go. My uncle never was unkind to me, and I will stay in his house until he is laid in his last resting place. Yet I do not like to stay alone. May I have my mother with me?"

"Yes, by all means. I tell you what, I will drive over and break the news to her myself; then she can come to you at once. I have a very particular appointment in the city this afternoon, but I shall arrange to spend to-morrow forenoon here, and examine the contents of that bureau. I have thought it well to take possession of your uncle's keys."

"Yes, of course," said Katherine; "you ought to have them. And you will go and send my mother to me! I shall feel quite well and strong if she is near. How good of you to think of it!" and she raised her dark tearful eyes so gratefully to his that the worthy lawyer's heart kindled within him.

"My dear young lady, I have rarely, if ever, regretted anything so much as my unfortunate absence yesterday, though had I been able to answer my late client's first summons, I doubt if time would have permitted the completion of a new will. Now my best hope, though it is a very faint one, is that he may have destroyed his last will, and so died intestate."

"Why?" asked Katherine, indifferently. She felt very hopeless.

"It would be better for you. You would, I rather think, be the natural heir." Katherine only shook her head. "Of course it is not likely.

Still, I have known him destroy one will before he made another. He has made four or five, to my knowledge. So it is wiser not to hope for anything. I shall always do what I can for you. Now you are quite cold and s.h.i.+vering. I would advise your going to your room, and keeping there out of the way. You can do no more for your uncle, and I will send your mother to you as soon as I can. I suppose you have the keys of the house?"

Katherine bowed her head. She seemed tongue-tied. Only when Mr. Newton took her hand to say good-by she burst out, "You will send my mother to me soon--soon!"

Then she went away to her own room. Locking the door, she sat down and buried her face in the cus.h.i.+ons of the sofa. She felt her thoughts in the wildest confusion, as if some separate exterior self was exerting a strange power over her. It had said to her, "Be silent," when Mr. Newton spoke of the possibility of _not_ finding the will, and she had obeyed without the smallest intention to do good or evil. Some force she could not resist--or rather she did not dream of resisting--imposed silence on her. To what had this silence committed her? To nothing. When Mr. Newton came and examined the bureau he would no doubt open the drawer of the writing-table also. She had locked it, and put the key in the little basket where the keys of her scantily supplied store closet and of the cellaret lay: there it stood on the round table near the window, with her ink-bottle and blotting-book. She sat up and looked at it fixedly.

That little key was all that intervened between her and rest, freedom, enjoyment. The more she recalled her uncle's words and manner on the day he had dictated his first note to Mr. Newton, the more convinced she felt that he had intended to provide for her, and now his intentions would be frustrated, and the will the old man wished to suppress would be the instrument by which his possessions would be distributed.

It was too bad. She did not know how closely the hope of her mother's emanc.i.p.ation from the long hard struggle with poverty and its attendant evils by means of Uncle Liddell's possible bequest had twined itself round her heart. Now she could not give it up. It seemed to her that her mental grasp refused to relax.

She rose and began to make some little arrangement for her mother's comfort, and presently the servant came to ask if she would take some tea.

"I'm sure, miss, you must be faint for want of food, and we are just going to have some--the woman and me."

"What woman?"

"A very respectable person as Dr. Bilham sent in to--to attend to the poor old gentleman, miss."

"Ah! thank you. I could not take anything now. I expect my mother soon; then I shall be glad of some tea.

"Well, miss, you'll ring if you want me. And dear me! you ought to have a bit of fire. I'll light one up in a minnit."

"Not till you have had your tea. I am not cold."

"You look awful bad, miss!" With this comforting a.s.surance Mrs. Knapp departed, leaving the door partially open.

A m.u.f.fled sound, as if people were moving softly and cautiously, was wafted to Katherine as she sat and listened: then a door closed gently; voices murmuring in a subdued tone reached her ear, retreating as if the speakers had gone downstairs.

Katherine went to the window. It was a wretchedly dark, drizzling afternoon--cold too, with gusts of wind. She hoped Mr. Newton would make her mother take a cab. It was no weather for her to stand about waiting for an omnibus. Would the time ever come when they need not think of pennies?

Suddenly she turned, took a key from her basket, and walked composedly downstairs, unlocked the drawer of the writing-table, and took out her uncle's last will and testament. Then she closed the drawer, leaving the key in the lock, as it had always been, and returned to her room.

Having fastened her door, she applied herself to read the doc.u.ment. It was short and simple, and with the exception of a small legacy to Mr.

Newton, left all the testator possessed to a man whose name was utterly unknown to her. Mr. Newton was the sole executor, and the will was dated nearly seven years back.

Katherine read it through a second time, and then very deliberately folded it up. "It shall not stand in my way," she murmured, her lips closing firmly, and she sat for a few minutes holding it tight in her hand, as she thought steadily what she should do. "Had my uncle lived a few hours more, this would have been destroyed or nullified. I will carry out his intentions. I wonder what is the legal penalty for the crime or felony I am going to commit? At all events I shall risk it. The only punishment I fear is my mother's condemnation. She must never know.

It is a huge theft, whether the man I rob is rich or poor. I hope he is very rich. I know I am doing a great wrong; that if others acted as I am acting there would be small security for property--perhaps for life--but I'll do it. Shall I ever be able to hold up my head and look honest folk in the face! I will try. If I commit this robbery I must not falter nor repent. I must be consistently, boldly false, and I must get done with it before my dearest mother comes. How grieved and disappointed she would be if she knew! She believes so firmly in my truthfulness. Well, I have been true, and I _will_ be, save in this. Here I will lie by silence. Where shall I hide it? for I will not destroy it--not yet at least. No elaborate concealment is necessary."

She rose up and took some thin brown paper--such as is used in shops to wrap up lace and ribbons--and folded the will in it neatly, tying it up with twine, and writing on it, "old MSS., to be destroyed." Then she laid it in the bottom of her box. "If my mother sees it, the idea of old MS. will certainly deter her from looking at it." She put back the things she had taken out and closed the box; then she stood for a moment of thought. What would the result be? Who could tell? Some other unknown Liddells might start up to share the inheritance. Well, she would not mind that much; so long as she could secure some years of modest competence to her mother, some help for her little nephews, she would be content.

Now that she had accomplished what an hour ago was a scarcely entertained idea, she felt wonderfully calm, but curious as to how things would turn out, with the sort of curiosity she might have felt with regard to the action of another.

She did not want to be still any more, however; she went to and fro in her room, dusting it and putting it in order; she rearranged her own hair and dress, and then she went to the window to watch for her mother.

Time had gone swiftly while her thoughts had been so intensely occupied, and to her great delight she soon saw a cab drive up, from which Mrs.

Liddell descended.

Katherine flew to receive her, and in the joy of feeling her mother once more by her side she temporarily forgot the sense of a desperate deed which had oppressed her.

Mrs. Liddell had been much shocked by the sudden death of her brother-in-law, but her chief anxiety was to fly to Katie, to shorten the terrible hours of loneliness in the house of mourning.

She too honestly confessed her regret that the old man had been cut off before he could fulfil his intention of making a new will, "though," she said to her daughter as they talked together, "we cannot be sure that he would have remembered us--or rather you. But there is no use in thinking of what is past out of the range of possibilities. Let us only hope whoever is heir will not insist on immediate repayment of that loan. It is strange that you should have managed to make the poor old man's acquaintance, and to a certain degree succeed with him, only in his last days."

"Try and talk of something else, mother dear. It is all so ghastly and oppressive! Tell me about Ada and the boys."

"Ada was out when Mr. Newton came. I left a little note telling her of your uncle's awfully sudden death, and of my intention of remaining with you until after the funeral. What a state of excitement she will be in!

I have no doubt she will be here to-morrow."

"Very likely," said Katherine, who was pouring out tea.

"Did Mr. Newton mention to you that your uncle had written to him to come and draw up a new will?"

"Why, I wrote the note, which my uncle signed."