Life had passed out, and death entered the room, while that man slept on his post.
They laid my father on his bed, and then gathered in a group near the window, pallid and anxious, conversing together. At times whispers are more distinct than words. I heard all. The lawyer had a parchment roll still in his hand. Turner looked wistfully at it, then at me.
“No, it is of no more value than blank paper,” said the lawyer, answering the look; “and worse, the old will, which would have given Marston Court to young Morton, its rightful owner, was destroyed in anticipation of this. Lady Catherine sweeps every thing!”
“It was not that,” said Turner, “but his memory; let it be saved from idle gossip. It is only known to us that my lord left this room last night. Why make the manner or place of his death a wonder for people that have no right to inquire about it?”
“We can be silent,” answered the lawyer, looking at his clerk.
“Do, for the sake of all who loved him; and this parchment, it is useless; let us forget it. We know that his last wish was to provide for her poor, poor child.”
Turner beckoned that I should advance, as he spoke.
“Zana,” he said, taking the parchment, “he would have made you rich. In this will, he left a large property to you; had he lived only a few minutes longer, all would have been well. But God, who has made you an orphan, leaves you still with old Turner. In this will, and to me also, Lord Clare admits you to be his child. Shall it be so proclaimed? So far the secret rests with us. Shall we darken his memory with it?”
Oh, how thankful I was for this power to atone in a little for the cruelty of my acts! For the first time that day tears came to my eyes.
“Save his memory,” I said; “let me remain an outcast. No word or look of mine shall darken his name.”