Sick and cold with the surprise and horror of this news, Miriam took the keys and went over to the old bureau. There, in the top drawer, lay a sheet of parchment—she knew little of law matters, but she saw that this had been written by a practised hand. She set it out on the table with pen and ink and blotting-paper—in silence.
"A lawyer chap in London town, as axed no questions, drew that there," murmured Tobias. "Wants naught but signing and witnessing and the date putting in. Why doesn't doctor come, and Jim Bream on the owd pony? Go to th' house door, lass, and see if ye can see 'em coming."
Miriam went out into the stone-paved porch, and, shading her aching eyes, looked across the garden. Eliza Kate had arrived with the baby, and sat nursing it beneath the lilac-trees. It caught sight of its mother, and stretched its arms and lifted its voice to her. Miriam gave no heed to it—her heart was heavy as the grey stones she stood on.
She waited some minutes—then two mounted figures came in sight far down the lane, and she turned back to the living-room. And on the threshold she stopped, and her hand went up to her bosom before she moved across to the old man's chair. But the first glance had told her what the second confirmed. Tobias was dead.
Miriam hesitated one moment. Then she strode across the living-room, and, snatching up the unsigned will, folded it into a smaller compass, and thrust it within the folds of her gown.
II
It was a matter of wonder to everybody, and to no one more so than her husband, that Miriam appeared to be so much affected by her father-in-law's death. It was not that she made any demonstrations of grief, but that an unusual gloom seemed to settle over her. Never gay in the girlish sense, she had always been light-hearted and full of smiles and laughter; during the first days which followed the demise of old Tobias she went about her duties with a knitted brow, as if some sudden care had settled upon her. Michael saw it, and wondered; he had respected his father and entertained a filial affection for him, but his death did not trouble him to the extent of spoiling his appetite or disturbing his sleep. He soon saw that Miriam ate little: he soon guessed that she was sleeping badly. And on the fourth day after his hurried return home—the eve of the funeral—he laid his great hand on her shoulder as she was stooping over the child's cradle and turned her round to face him.
"What's the matter, my lass?" he said kindly. "Is there aught amiss? You are as quiet as the grave, and you don't eat, nor get sleep. The old father's death can't make that difference. He was old—very old—and he's a deal better off."
"There is such a lot to think of just now," she replied evasively.
Michael, man-like, mistook her meaning.