“Well, that depends,” Mr. Turny said.
“I think we may as well go to bed,” said the other. “It’s not much of a journey, but the coming is always a bother, and we’ll have a heavy day to-morrow. I like to keep regular hours.”
“Nothing like ’em,” said Mr. Turny, rising too; “no man ever succeeds in business that doesn’t keep regular hours. I suppose you’ll have to find out to-morrow if there’s been any other solicitor employed.”
“Yes, I’ll see after that—funeral’s at two, I think?”
“At two,” said the other. They lit their candles with some solemnity, coming out one after the other into the lighted hall. The hall was lighted, but the large staircase and corridors above were dark. They separated at the head of the stairs and went one to the right and the other to the left, Mr. Turny’s bald head shining like a polished globe in the semi-darkness, and the solicitor, with his thin head and projecting spectacles, looking like some strange bird making its way through the night. Mr. Sturgeon passed the door within which his dead client was lying, and hesitated a moment as he did so. “If we only knew what was in that damned head of yours before the face was covered over,” he said to himself. He was not in an easy condition of mind. It was nothing to him; not a penny the poorer would he be for anything that might happen to the Tredgold girls. Bob Tredgold would be turned off into the workhouse, which was his proper place, and there would be an end of him. But it was an ugly trick for that old beast to play, to get some trumpery, country fellow, who no doubt would appear to-morrow, like the cock-o’-the-walk, with his new will and all the importance of the family solicitor. Family, indeed. They hadn’t a drop of blood in their veins that was better than mud, though that eldest one was a nice girl. It was something in her favour, too, that she would not have Fred Turny, that City Swell. But the great point of offence with Mr. Sturgeon was that the old beast should have called in some local man.
Bob Tredgold, the only brother, was escorted upstairs by one of the footmen a little later in the night. He was very affectionate with John Thomas, and assured him of his continued friendship when he should have come into his annuity. “Always promised to provide for me, don’t ye know, did my poor brother; not capital ’cause of this, don’t ye know,” and the unfortunate made the sign of lifting a glass to his mouth; “’nuity, very com-m-for-able, all the rest of my life. Stand a good glass to any man. Come and see me, any time you’re there, down Finsbury way.” John Thomas, who appreciated a joke, had a good laugh to himself after he had deposited this triste personage in the room which was so much too fine for him. And then the footman remembered what it was that was lying two or three doors off, locked in there with the lights burning, and went softly with a pale face to his own den, feeling as if Master’s bony hand might make a grab at his shoulder any moment as he hurried down the stairs.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Mr. Sturgeon had carried off the old will with him from Mr. Tredgold’s bureau, the document drawn up in his own office in its long blue envelope, with all its details rigorously correct. He put it into his own bag, the bag which Bob Tredgold had carried. Bob’s name was not in it; there were no gracious particulars of legacy or remembrance. Perhaps the one which he fully expected to be produced to-morrow would be more humane. And yet in the morning he took this document out again and read it all over carefully. There were one or two pencil-marks on it on the margin, as of things that were meant to be altered, but no change whatever, no scribbling even of other wishes or changed intentions. The cross in pencil opposite Stella’s name was the only indication of any altered sentiment, and that, of course, was of no consequence and meant nothing. The solicitor read it over and put it back again carefully. If by any chance there was no other will to propound! But that was a thing not to be contemplated. The old beast, he said to himself, was not surely such an old beast as that.
Old Mr. Tredgold was buried on a bright October day, when everything about was full of colour and sunshine. His own trees, the rare and beautiful shrubs and foliage which had made his grounds a sight for tourists, were all clad in gala robes, in tints of brown and yellow and crimson, with feathery seedpods and fruit, hips and haws and golden globes to protect the seed. As he was carried away from his own door a gust of playful wind scattered over the blackness of the vehicle which carried him a shower of those gay and fluttering leaves. If it had been any fair creature one would have said it was Nature’s own tribute to the dead, but in his case it looked more like a handful of coloured rags thrown in mockery upon the vulgar hearse.
And it was a curious group which gathered round the grave. The rector, stately in his white robes, with his measured tones, who had indeed sat at this man’s board and drank his wine, but had never been admitted to speak a word of spiritual admonition or consolation (if he had any to speak), and who still entertained in his heart a grudge against the other all wrapped in black, who stood alone, the only mourner, opposite to him, with the grave between them. Even at that moment, and while he read those solemn words, Mr. Stanley had half an eye for Katherine, half a thought for her loneliness, which even now he felt she had deserved. And behind her was the doctor, who had stood by her through every stage of her father’s lingering illness, certainly taking no personal vengeance on her—far, oh far from that!—yet never forgetting that she had dismissed him amid circumstances that made the dismissal specially bitter—encouraged him, drawn him on, led him to commit himself, and then tossed him away. He had been very kind to Katherine; he had omitted no one thing that the tenderest friend could have done, but he had never forgotten nor forgiven her for what she had done to him. Both of these men thought of her as perhaps triumphant in her good fortune, holding much power in her hands, able to act as a Providence to her sister and to others, really a great lady now so far as money goes. The feeling of both in their different way was hostile to Katherine. They both had something against her; they were angry at the position which it was now expected she would attain. They were not sorry for her loneliness, standing by that grave. Both of them were keenly aware that it was almost impossible for her to entertain any deep grief for her father. If she had, it would have softened them perhaps. But they did not know what profound depression was in her mind, or if they had known they would have both responded with a careless exclamation. Depression that would last for a day! Sadness, the effect of the circumstances, which would soon be shaken off in her triumph. They both expected Katherine to be triumphant, though I cannot tell why. Perhaps they both wished to think ill of her if they could now that she was out of their reach, though she had always been out of their reach, as much six years ago as to-day.