“Add, too,” he said gruffly, “who has robbed you of the greater part of your inheritance! Don’t forget that!” He had been explaining the effect of John Audley’s will to her. It had been opened that morning.
His roughness helped her to recover herself. “I do not know what you mean by ‘inheritance,’” she said. “My uncle has left me the portion his wife brought to him. I am more than satisfied. I am very grateful. My only fear is that, had he known of my engagement, he would not have wished me to have this.”
“The will was made before you came to live here,” Basset said. “The eight thousand was left to you because you were his brother’s child. It was the least he could do for you, and had he made a new will he would doubtless have increased it. But,” breaking off, “I must be going.” Yet he still stood, and he still tapped the table with the end of his riding-crop. “When is Audley coming?” he asked suddenly. “To-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“Well he ought to,” he replied, without looking at her. “You should not be here a day longer by yourself. It is not fitting. I shall see you in the morning before we start for the church, but the lawyer will be here and I shall not be able to come again. But I must be sure that there is some one here.” He spoke almost harshly, partly to impress her, partly to hide his own feelings; and he did not suspect that she, too, was fighting for calmness; that she was praying that he would go, before she showed more clearly how much the parting tried her—before every kind word, every thoughtful act, every toilsome journey taken on her behalf, rose to her remembrance and swept away the remnants of her self-control.
She had not imagined that she would feel the leave-taking as she did. She could not speak, and she was thankful that it was too dark for him to see her face. Would he never go? And still the slow tap-tap of his whip on the table went on. It seemed to her that she would never forget the sound! And if he touched her——
But he had no thought of touching her.
“Good-night,” he said at last. He turned, moved away, lingered. At the door he looked back. “I am going into the library,” he said. “The coffin will be closed in the morning.”
“Yes, good-night,” she muttered, thankful that the thought of the dead man steadied her and gave her power to speak. “I shall see him in the morning.”
He closed the door, and she crept blindly to a chair, and covered by the darkness she gave way. She told herself that she was thinking of her uncle. But she knew that she deceived herself. She knew that her uncle had little to do with her tears, or with the feeling of loneliness that overcame her. Once more she had lost her friend—and a friend so good, so kind. Only now did she know his value!