"Would you like to have him sent for, sir?" suggested Mr. Dare.
"It is too late. He could not be here in time. I don't know, either, where he lives in London, or what his address may be. Do you?"—looking at his niece.
"Oh dear, no," she replied, with a slightly contemptuous gesture of the shoulders. As much as to imply that to know the address of her cousin Edgar was quite beneath her.
"No, he could not get here," repeated the dying man, whilst Mrs. Dare wiped the dews that had gathered on his pallid and wrinkled brow. "Julia! Anthony! Anthony Dare!"
"Sir, what is it?"
"I wish you both to listen to me. I cannot die with this injustice unrepaired. I have made my will in Julia's favour. It is all left to her, except a few trifles to my servants. When the property comes to be realised, there will be at least sixteen thousand pounds, and but for that late mad speculation I entered into there would have been nearly forty thousand."
He paused. But neither Mr. nor Mrs. Dare answered.
"You are a lawyer, Anthony, and could draw up a fresh will. But there's no time, I say. What is darkening the room?" he abruptly broke off to ask.
Mr. Dare looked hastily up. Nothing was darkening the room, except the gradually increasing gloom of evening.
"My sight is growing dim, then," said the invalid. "Listen to me, both of you. I charge you, Anthony and Julia Dare, that you divide this money with Edgar Halliburton. Give him his full share; the half, even to a farthing. Will you do so, Anthony Dare?"
"Yes, I will, sir."
"Be it so. I charge you both solemnly—do not fail. If you would lay up peace for the time when you shall come to be where I am—do not fail. There's no time legally to do what is right; I feel that there is not. Ere the deed could be drawn up I should be gone, and could not sign it. But I leave the charge upon you; the solemn charge. The half of my money belongs of right to Edgar Halliburton: Julia has claim only to the other half. Be careful how you divide it: you are sole executor, Anthony Dare. Have you your paper ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then dot down a few words, as I dictate, and I will sign them. 'I, Richard Cooper, do repent of my injustice to my dear nephew, Edgar Halliburton. And I desire, by this my last act on my death-bed, to bequeath to him the half of the money and property I shall die possessed of; and I charge Anthony Dare, the executor of my will, to carry out this act and wish as strictly as though it were a formal and legal one. I desire that whatever I shall die possessed of, save the bequests to my servants, may be equally divided between my nephew Edgar and my niece Julia.'"
The dying man paused. "I think that's all that need be said," he observed. "Have you finished writing it, Anthony Dare?"
Mr. Dare wrote fast and quickly, and was concluding the last words. "It is written, sir."
"Read it."
Mr. Dare proceeded to do so. Short as the time was which it took to accomplish this, the old man had fallen into a doze ere it was concluded; a doze or a partial stupor. They could not tell which; but, in leaning over him, he woke up with a start.
"I can't die with this injustice unrepaired!" he cried, his memory evidently ignoring what had just been done. "Anthony Dare, your wife has no right to all my money. I shall leave half of it to Edgar. I want you to write it down."
"It is done, sir. This is the paper."
"Where? where? Why don't you get light into the room? It's dark—dark. This? Is this it?"—as Mr. Dare put it into his hand. "Now, mind!" he added, his tone changing to one of solemn enjoinder; "mind you act upon it. Julia has no right to more than her half share; she must not take more: money kept by wrong, acquired by injustice, never prospers. It would not bring you good, it would not bring a blessing. Give Edgar his legal half; and give him his old uncle's love and contrition. Tell him, if the past could come over again there should be no estrangement between us."
He lay panting for a few minutes, and then spoke again, the paper having fallen unnoticed from his hand.
"Julia, when you see Edgar's wife—Did I sign that paper?" he broke off.
"No, sir," said Mr. Dare. "Will you sign it now?"
"Ay. But, signed or not signed, you'll equally act upon it. I don't put it forth as a legal document; I suppose it would not, in this informal state, stand good in law. It is only a reminder to you, Anthony Dare, that you may not forget my wishes. Hold me up in bed, and have lights brought in."
Anthony Dare drew the curtain back, and the rays of the lamp flashed upon the dying man. Mr. Dare looked round for a book on which to place the paper while it was signed.
"I want a light," came again from the bed, in a pleading tone. "Julia, why don't you tell them to bring in the lamp?"
"The lamp is here, uncle. It is close to you."
"Then there's no oil in it," he cried. "Julia, I will have lights here. Tell them to bring up the dining-room lamps. Don't ring; go and see that they are brought."
Unwilling to oppose him, and doubting lest his sight should really have gone, Mrs. Dare went out, and returned with one of the servants and more light. Mr. Cooper was then lying back on his pillow, dozing and unconscious.
"Has he signed the paper?" Mrs. Dare whispered to her husband.
He shook his head negatively, and pointed to it. It was lying on the bed, just as Mrs. Dare had left it. Mrs. Dare caught it up from any prying eyes that might be about, folded it, and held it securely in her hand.
"He will wake up again presently, and can sign it then," observed Mr. Dare, just as a gentle ring was heard at the house door.
"It's the doctor," said the servant; "I know his ring."
But the old man never did sign the paper, and never woke up again. He lay in a state of lethargy throughout the night. Mr. and Mrs. Dare watched by his bedside; the servants watched; and the doctors came in at intervals. But there was no change in his state; until the last great change. It occurred at daybreak; and when the neighbours opened their windows to the cold and the snow, the house of Richard Cooper remained closed. Death was within it.
CHAPTER XI.
HELSTONLEIGH
I believe that most of the readers of "The Channings" will not like this story less because its scene is laid in the same place, Helstonleigh.
I narrate to you, as you may have already discovered, a great deal of truth: of events that have actually happened, combined with fiction. I can only do this from my own personal experience, by taking you to the scenes and places where I have lived. Of this same town, Helstonleigh, I could relate to you volumes. No place in the world holds so green a spot in my memory. Do you remember Longfellow's poem—"My Lost Youth"?
"Often I think of the beautiful town,
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And