“Indeed, indeed, Septimus, I never knew it,” sobbed Mrs Hardon.
“It is of the past—let it rest,” said her nephew, who could not remove his eyes from his uncle, now smiling feebly and pointing to the chamber-door.
“Why would you provoke this painful scene?” he said in an injured tone. “You must have known, sir, that the interview would be most unfortunate. Pray go. My solicitors, Messrs Keening. Every arrangement has been made, and the funeral will take place to-morrow.”
Mrs Hardon started up, and stood clasping one of her husband’s hands as she looked aghast in his face, while he continued in the same feeble voice:
“No will, sir—illegitimate—pray leave—most painful,” and with his disengaged hand he still pointed towards the door. “My solicitors, sir, Messrs Keening.”
“Pray—pray go,” whispered Mrs Hardon. “He is worn out, and ill with anxiety. I’ll—I’ll write, Septimus,” and she hurried her visitor to the door. “But don’t—don’t punish us for what is past,” she said imploringly.
The look of Septimus Hardon was sufficient as he turned to the unhappy woman; and then he stepped into the passage with the intention of fetching medical assistance, for, as the door closed, he once more heard the doctor’s voice: “My solicitors, sir, Messrs Keening. Pray go.”