“It is true that I have deceived my uncle and every one who knew me. It has been heavy, heavy on my conscience, and a shame in my heart. I can look no one in the face!” cried Lily. “I meant to confess it to you to-day, as he says. Yes, it is true!”
Though the house was still the house of death, according to all etiquette, and the blinds not yet drawn up from the windows, Mr. Wallace, W. S., uttered, in spite of himself, a low whistle of astonishment. And then he coughed, and drew himself up that nobody should suspect him of such an impropriety. “This is a strange case, a very strange case! These gentlemen must understand that I had no inkling of it when I invited them here to-day.”
“What would it have mattered what inkling you had, Wallace?” said one of the most important of the strangers. “We cannot change what is done. Perhaps, indeed, there’s no occasion. It is a dreary moment for congratulations, Mrs.—Mrs. Lumsden, or I would wish you joy with a good heart.”
“You will let me thank you on my wife’s account,” said Ronald. “As you say, it’s a dreary moment—and we have had a dreary time of it; but that I hope is all over now.”
“Over by the death of the poor gentleman that suspected nothing; that has treated his niece like his own child,” said Mr. Wallace. “It is not a pretty thing, nor is it a pleasant consideration. I hope you will not think I am meaning any thing unkind to you, Miss Lily—I beg your pardon, the other name sticks in my throat. It was not with any thought of this that my old friend left all his money to his niece; and we are met here to mourn his death, not to give thanks with these young people that it’s over. He was a good friend to me, gentlemen. You’ll excuse me; it sticks in my throat—it sticks in my throat!”
“The feeling is very natural, and I’m sure we’re all with you, Wallace; but, as I was saying, what’s done cannot be undone,” said the first gentleman again.
“And no doubt it is a painful thing for the young people,” said another charitably, “to have to tell it at this moment, and to have it received in such a spirit. No doubt they would rather have put it off to another season. It’s honest of them, I will say for one, not to put it off.”
“And there’s the will, I suppose, to read,” said another, “and the days are short. My presence is certainly not indispensable, and I think I must be getting home.”
“You will not take it unkind, Mrs. Lumsden, if we all say the same. It’s enough to give the horses their deaths, standing about in the cold.”
“There’s no difficulty about the will,” said Mr. Wallace. “It is just leaving all to her, and no question about it. Scarcely any thing more but a legacy or two to the servants. He was a thoughtful man for all that were kind to him. You can see the will when you please at my office, and the business can be put into your hands, Lumsden, when you please. I suppose you’re not intending to remain here?”