“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.