"He is not at Buxton's Inn," answered Mrs. Billiter, "but at Morris's little cottage on Chandleigh-heath. You can take the horse if you like, but be quick about it for Heaven's sake. It is a clear, moonlight night, and you can gallop all the way."
"That I will," said the man, and ran down stairs.
Without calling any one else, Mrs. Billiter returned to the chamber of death, looked into the bed for a moment or two and saw that all was still. She knew he was dead right well, but yet it seemed strange to her that he had not moved. There was something awful in it, and she sat down upon a chair and wept. She had not loved him; she had not esteemed or respected him; she had known him to be harsh, cruel, and unkind, but yet there was something in seeing the life of the old man go out solitary, untended by kindred hands, without a friend, without a relation near, with bitterness in his spirit and enmity between him and his only child, that moved the secret sources of deep emotion in the woman's heart and opened the fountain of tears.
While she yet wept, she heard the horse's feet pass by towards Chandleigh-heath, and then for about an hour all was silent. Buried in deep sleep, the inhabitants of the little town knew not, cared not, thought not of all that was passing in the dwelling of their rich neighbour. At length a distant sound was heard of hoofs beating fast the hard road; it came nearer and nearer; and starting up, Mrs. Billiter ran down stairs with a light in her hand and opened the hall-door. The next moment she heard the garden-gate opened, and a figure came forward leading a horse.
Casting the rein over the beast's neck and giving it a cut with the whip to send it towards the stables, Harry Wittingham sprang forward, ran up the steps, and entered the house. His face was not pale but flushed, and his eyes fiery.
"Ah, Master Harry," said Mrs. Billiter, as soon as she saw him, "he is gone."
"Gone!" exclaimed Harry Wittingham, "do you mean he is dead?"
"Yes," answered the old woman; "but come up, Sir, come up, there is much to be thought of."
Without a word the young man stood beside her, whilst she closed and locked the door, and then followed her up stairs to his dead father's room. She suffered him to gaze into the bed for a minute or two, with haggard eyes and heavy brow, but then she touched his arm, saying,
"Master Harry, Master Harry, you had better think of other things just now; he was very hard upon you, and I can't help thinking tried to do you wrong. Four or five days ago he wrote a great deal one afternoon, and then told me afterwards 'he had remembered me in his will.' You had better see what that will is--he kept all the papers he cared most about in that table-drawer--the key hangs upon his watch-chain."