LITMIR.BIZ

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was impossible to foresee what would happen. Tom Craik’s nerves might weather the strain after all, and he might recover. Mr. Trimm folded the document neatly, wrapped it in a second sheet of paper and put it into his pocket. Then he prepared to take his leave. He touched the sick man’s hand gently.

      “Good-night, Tom,” he said, bending over his brother-in-law. “I will call in the morning and ask how you are.”

      Craik opened his eyes.

      “Tell nobody what I have done, till I’m dead,” he answered in a whisper. “Good-night.”

      Mr. Trimm felt no inclination to divulge the contents of the will. He was a very shrewd and keen man, who could certainly not be accused of having ever neglected his own interest, but he was also scrupulously honest, not only with that professional honesty which is both politic and lucrative, but in all his thoughts and reasonings with himself. At the present moment, his position was not an agreeable one. It is true that neither he nor his wife were in need of Craik’s money, for they had plenty of their own; but it is equally certain that during several years past they had confidently expected to inherit the old man’s fortune, if he died before them. Trimm had himself drawn up the will by which his wife was made the heir to almost everything Craik possessed. There had been a handsome legacy provided for this same George Winton Wood, but all the rest was to have been Totty’s. And now Trimm had seen the whole aspect of the future changed by a stroke of the pen, apparently during the last minutes of the old man’s life. He knew that the testator was in full possession of his senses, and that the document was as valid as any will could be. Conscientious as he was, if he had believed that Craik was no longer sane, he would have been quite ready to take advantage of the circumstance, and would have lost no time in consulting the physician with a view to obtaining evidence in the case that would arise. But it was evident that Craik’s mind was in no way affected by his illness. The thing was done, and if Craik died it was irrevocable. Sherry and Totty Trimm would never live in the magnificent house of which they had so often talked.

      “Not even the house!” he whispered to himself as he went down stairs. “Not even the house!”

      For a legacy he would not have cared. A few thousands were no object to him, and he was unlike his wife in that he did not care for money itself. The whole fortune, or half of it, added to what the couple already had, would have made in their lives the difference between luxury and splendour; the possession of the house alone, with what it contained, would have given them the keenest pleasure, but in Trimm’s opinion a paltry legacy of ten thousand dollars, or so, would not have been worth the trouble of taking. Of course it was possible that Tom Craik might recover, and make a third will. Trimm knew by experience that a man who will once change his mind completely, may change it a dozen times if he have time. But Craik was very ill and there seemed little likelihood of his ever getting upon his legs again.

      Trimm had known much of his brother-in-law’s affairs during the last twenty years, and he was far less surprised at the way in which he had now finally wound them up, before taking his departure from life, than most people would have been. He knew better than any one that Craik was not so utterly bad-hearted as he was generally believed to be, and he knew that as the man grew older he felt twinges of remorse when he thought of Jonah Wood. That he cordially detested the latter was not altogether astonishing, since he had so greatly injured him, but the natural contrariety of his nature forced him into an illogical situation. He hated Wood and yet he desired to make him some sort of restitution, not indeed out of principle or respect for any law, human or divine, but as a means of pacifying his half-nervous, half-superstitious conscience. He could not have done anything openly in the matter, for that would have been equivalent to acknowledging the unwritten debt, so that the only way out of his difficulty lay in the disposal of his fortune after his death. But although he suffered something very like remorse, he hated Jonah Wood too thoroughly to insert his name in his will. There was nothing to be done but to leave money to George. It had seemed to him that a legacy of a hundred thousand dollars would be enough to procure his own peace of mind, and having once made that arrangement he had dismissed the subject.

      But as he lay in this illness, which he believed was to be his last, further change had taken place in his view of the matter. He was naturally suspicious, as well as shrewd, and the extreme anxiety displayed by his sister had attracted his attention. They had always lived on excellent terms, and Totty was distinctly a woman of demonstrative temperament. It was assuredly not surprising that she should show much feeling for her brother and spend much time in taking care of him. It was quite right that she should be at his bedside in moments of danger, and that she should besiege the doctors with questions about Tom’s chances of recovery. But in Tom’s opinion there was a false note in her good behaviour and a false ring in her voice. There was something strained, something not quite natural, something he could hardly define, but which roused all the powers of opposition for which he had been famous throughout his life. It was a peculiarity of his malady that his mental faculties were wholly unimpaired, and were, if anything, sharpened by his bodily sufferings and by his anxiety about his own state. The consequence was that as soon as the doubt about Totty’s sincerity had entered his mind, he had concentrated his attention upon it, had studied it and had applied himself to accounting for her minutest actions and most careless words upon the theory that she was playing a part. In less than twenty-four hours the suspicion had become a conviction, and Craik felt sure that Totty was overdoing her show of sisterly affection in order to hide her delight at the prospect of her brother’s death. It is not too unjust to say that there was a proportion of truth in Mr. Craik’s suppositions, and that Mrs. Sherrington Trimm’s perturbation of spirits did not result so much from the dread of a great sorrow as from the prospect of a very great satisfaction when that sorrow should have spent itself. She was not in the least ashamed of her heartlessness, either. Was she not doing everything in her power to soothe her brother’s last days, sacrificing to his comfort the last taste of gaiety she could enjoy until the mourning for him should be over, submitting to a derangement of her comfortable existence which was nothing short of distracting? It was not her fault if Tom had not one of those lovable natures whose departure from this life leaves a great void in the place where they have dwelt.

      But from being convinced that Totty cared only for the money to the act of depriving her of it was a long distance for the old man’s mind to pass over. He was just enough to admit that in a similar position he would have felt very much as she did, though he would certainly have acted his part more skilfully and with less theatrical exaggeration. After all, money was a very good thing, and a very desirable thing, as Thomas Craik knew, better than most people. After all, too, Totty was his sister, his nearest relation, the only one of his connections with whom he had not quarrelled at one time or another. The world would think it very natural that she should have everything, and there was no reason why she should not, unless her anxiety to get it could be called one. He considered the case in all its bearings. If, for instance, that young fellow, George Wood, whom he had not seen since he had been a boy, were to be put in Totty’s place, what would he feel, and what would he do? He would undoubtedly wish that Tom Craik might die speedily, and his eyes would assuredly gleam when he thought of moving into the gorgeous house, a month after the funeral. That was only human nature, simple, unadorned, everyday human nature. But the boy supposed that he had no chance of getting anything, and did not even think it worth while to ring at the door and ask the news of his dying relation. Of course not; why should he? And yet, thought the sour old man, if George Wood could guess how near he was to being made a millionaire, how nimbly his feet would move in the appropriate direction, with what alacrity he would ring the bell, with what an accent of subdued sympathy he would question the servant! Truly, if by any chance he should take it into his head to make inquiries, there would be an instance of disinterested good feeling, indeed. He would never do that. Why then should the money be given to him rather than to Totty?

      But the idea had taken possession of the old man’s active brain, and would not be chased away. As he thought about it, too, it seemed as though he might die more easily if such full restitution were made. No one could tell anything about the future state of existence. Thomas Craik was no atheist, though he had never found time or inclination to look into the question of religion, and certain peculiarities in his past conduct had made any such meditations particularly distasteful to him. When once the end had come the money could

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