Katharine stared at him in surprise. He was sometimes a little absent-minded, but she could not understand his being so at that moment. She laid her left hand upon his arm with a gesture half of appeal, half of authority.
“Something must be done,” she said. “She’s really going mad. She mustn’t be left alone with it any longer.”
“I don’t think she’ll go mad,” Griggs answered. “But I shall,” he added, with an unnatural smile, which recalled Hester’s.
“You!” exclaimed Katharine, in a sudden astonishment which made her forget everything else for an instant. “Why? I know you liked him—”
“Liked him!” repeated Paul Griggs, in a voice that was almost loud, and the dull eyes flashed for a moment, and then became glassy again. “I can’t talk now,” he said, rapidly. “Forgive me — I can’t stop!”
Without waiting for her to go down, he sprang up the stairs. Katharine looked after him with wonder. A moment later she heard the door of the studio open and shut quickly, and she was sure that she heard one word, a name — Walter — spoken in the broken accent of a man’s despair.
Again she paused before she went downstairs, and hesitated, not as to what she should do, but as to what she should think. At least, she felt that her friend Griggs was not without heart, whatever the true ground of his extraordinary emotion might be. She had stumbled upon one of those mysteries which lie so near the dull surface of society around us, and had seen a human soul at that moment of all others when it would not have been seen. As she thought of it, she felt at the same moment the instinct to tell no one, not even Ralston, of the few words she had exchanged with Griggs on the stairs. The resolution formed itself in her mind unintentionally, as a natural prompting of honour against the betrayal of a secret accidentally learned. What the secret could be she could not guess, and it was long before she knew, but she did not break the promise which had formulated and pledged itself. Long afterwards, when she learned the strange story of Griggs’ life, which no one had ever suspected, she wondered that on that day he had not killed her with his hands rather than be delayed the smallest fraction of an instant on his way up those stairs. In his place, woman as she was, she would have been less merciful, and she would not have been courteous at all.
But she knew nothing of the wanderer’s existence, save that he had of late strayed into her own, and that he had seemed oddly attached to a man who was almost universally disliked without any well-defined reason. Her intuition told her that he had something to conceal, and her faith in him, such as it was, led her to believe that it was something not wrong, but sacred almost beyond anything imaginable.
She went quietly downstairs, and many things happened to her, good and bad, before she saw the face of Paul Griggs again. She found her mother and Mrs. Bright sitting side by side, and aunt Maggie was holding Mrs. Lauderdale’s hand, and admiring her bonnet. A death which does not come too near to them draws certain types of women together. As Katharine entered the room and saw the two together, she wondered whether the death of Walter Crowdie was to have the effect of reconciling the Lauderdales and the Brights.
“Well, child, have you seen her?” asked Katharine’s mother, with a considerable show of interest.
CHAPTER XXXV.
“PEOPLE DON’T OFTEN really go mad from grief,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, as she and Katharine walked slowly homeward in the bright spring afternoon. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Hester married again in a few years. Not very soon, of course — but in time. She’s very young yet. She’ll be very young still in five years — for a widow.”
“I don’t think she can ever get over it,” answered Katharine, rather coldly, being displeased at her mother’s careless way of speaking.
“It’s a mistake to take things too hard,” said the elder woman. “And it’s a great mistake to underrate time. A great many curious things can happen to one in five years.”
Katharine was not in search of unbelief, nor of encouragement in not believing that human nature could really feel. Her faith in it had been terribly undermined during the past winter, and she had just been with two persons, Hester Crowdie and Paul Griggs, whose behaviour had at least tended to restore it. She did not wish the recuperative effort of her charity towards mankind to be checked. So she did not argue the point, but walked on in silence.
She had not recovered, and could not recover for many days, from the impression produced upon her by the ghastly scene in the studio. Her young vitality abhorred death, and its contrary and hostile principle, and when she thought of what she had seen, she felt the same sickening, shrinking horror which had led her to hold back her skirt from any possible contact with the carpet on which Crowdie’s body had been lying. She might have been willing to admit that her mother, who had seen nothing, but had sat downstairs talking with the comfortable, fat and refined aunt Maggie, was not called upon to feel what she herself felt after going through such a strange experience. But since her mother felt nothing, her mother could not understand; and if she could not understand, it was better to walk on in silence and to make her hasten her indolent, graceful steps.
In reality, Mrs. Lauderdale was much more preoccupied about the possibilities of the second will turning out to be favourable to her husband or the contrary, and her preoccupation was not at all sordid, though it was by no means unselfish. She was anxious about him, in her unobtrusive, calm way. He talked of money in his sleep, as she had told Katharine, and he was growing nervous. She had even noticed once or twice of late that his hand shook a little as he held the morning paper after breakfast, during the ten minutes which he devoted to its perusal. That was a bad sign, she thought, for a man who had been famous for his good nerve, and who had been known all his life as an unerring shot. She did not like to think what consequences a great disappointment might have upon his temper, which had shown itself so frequently of late, after nearly a quarter of a century of comparative quiescence. Nor was it pleasant to contemplate the new means of economy which he would certainly introduce into his household if by any evil chance he got no share of the Lauderdale fortune. But that, she told herself, was impossible, as indeed it seemed to be.
It was of no use to be in a hurry, she told Katharine, as they had at least an hour to get rid of before the time at which Mr. Allen was to be expected. The Ralstons and Hamilton Bright would only come a few minutes earlier. Every one would understand how unpleasant it might be to be shut up together in such suspense for half an hour before the truth could be known — each hoping to get the other’s money, as Mrs. Lauderdale observed with a little laugh that had hardly any cruelty in it. But, of course, nobody would be late on such an occasion. There was no fear of that. And she laughed again, and stepped gracefully aside on the pavement to let a boy with a big bundle go by.
She had not been deceived in her calculations, for there was still plenty of time to spare when they reached the house in Clinton Place. Katharine disappeared to her room, glad to be alone at last. There was a hushed expectation in the air of the house, which reminded her of the place she had just left, but she herself felt not the smallest interest in the will. So far as she was concerned, she was perfectly well satisfied with the course taken by the law, independently of any will at all.
The Ralstons and Hamilton Bright came almost at the same moment, though not together, and Katharine had no chance of exchanging a word with John out of hearing of the rest. They all met in the library. The old philanthropist was there, and every one was secretly surprised to discover what a very fine-looking old man he was in a perfectly new frock coat with a great deal of silk in front. But his heavy, shapeless shoes betrayed his lingering attachment to the little Italian shoemaker in South Fifth Avenue, whose conscientiously durable works promised to outlast old Alexander’s need for them.
Alexander Junior stood before the empty fireplace, coldly nervous. He could not have sat still for five minutes just then. When he spoke of Crowdie’s death to Hamilton Bright, and immediately afterwards of the we
ather, his steel-trap mouth opened and closed mechanically, emitting metallic sounds — it could not be called speaking — and his glittering grey eyes went restlessly from the window to the door and back again, without even resting on Bright’s face.
Bright himself was grave, manly, quiet, as he generally was. He was eminently the man who could be reckoned with and counted upon. He would make no attempt to conceal his disappointment if he were disappointed, nor his satisfaction if he were pleased, but the expression of either would be simple, quiet and manly, with few words, if any.
Mrs. Ralston watched the two as they stood side by side. From her position on the sofa she could see Alexander Junior’s hands twitching nervously behind him. But she was talking with Mrs. Lauderdale at the same time. She made no pretence of being very sorry to hear of Crowdie’s sudden death. She rarely saw him and she had never liked him. To her, he was merely the husband of a very distant cousin — of a descendant of her great-grandfather through a female branch. It was too much to expect that she should be profoundly affected by what had happened. But her dark, clearly cut features were grave, and there was a certain expectancy in her look, which showed that she was not really indifferent to the nature of the events momentarily expected. She admitted frankly to herself that it would make an enormous difference in her future happiness to be very rich instead of being almost poor, and she had told her son so as they came to the house.
John was trying to talk to Katharine near the window, but he found it impossible to shake off Alexander Senior, whose fondness for his favourite granddaughter was proverbial in the family. The old gentleman stood by, approvingly, and insisted upon leading the conversation which, with old-fashioned grandfatherly wit — or what passed for wit in the families of our grandfathers — he constantly directed upon the subject of matrimony, with an elephantine sprightliness most irritating to John Ralston, though Katharine bore it with indifferent serenity, and smiled when the old man looked at her, her features growing grave again as soon as he turned to John. She could not shake off the terrible impression she had brought with her, and yet she longed to explain to John why she felt and looked so sad. She, also, glanced often at the door. The arrival of the family lawyer would put a stop to her grandfather’s playful persecution of her, and give her a chance to say three words to John without being overheard.
Ralston stood ready, knowing that she wished to speak to him alone, and he paid little attention to Alexander Senior’s jokes. He glanced about the room and said to himself that the members of the Lauderdale tribe were a very good-looking set, from first to last. He was proud of his family just then, for he had rarely seen so many of them assembled together without the presence of any stranger, and he was most proud of Katharine’s beauty. Pallor was becoming to her, for hers was fresh and clear and youthful. It ruined her mother’s looks to be pale, especially of late, since the imperceptible lines had been drawn into very fine but clearly discernible wrinkles. Mrs. Lauderdale had told herself with tears that they were really wrinkles, but she would have been sorry to know that John, or any one else, called them by that name.
At last the lawyer came, and there was a dead silence as he entered — a tall, lantern-jawed man, clean shaven, almost bald, with prominent yellow teeth, over which his mobile lips fitted as though they had been made of shrivelled pink indiarubber. He had very light blue eyes and bushy brows that stood out in contrast to his bald scalp and beardless face like a few shaggy firs that have survived the destruction of a forest.
He spoke in an impressive manner, for he was deaf, emphasizing almost every word in every sentence. He was a New Englander by birth, as keen and provincial in New York as ever was a Scotchman in London.
Having been duly welcomed, and provided with a seat in the midst of the assembled tribe, he leisurely produced a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and a handkerchief, and proceeded to the operation of polishing the one with the other. He was provokingly slow. His chair was placed so that he sat with his back to the window, facing Mrs. Lauderdale and Mrs. Ralston, who occupied the sofa on the right of the fireplace. The two Alexanders and Bright completed the circle, while Katharine and John placed themselves behind the lawyer. John could see over his shoulder.
Not a word was spoken while Mr. Allen made his careful preparations. It could hardly be supposed that he had any traditional remnant of the old-fashioned attorney’s vanity, which made him anxious to produce an effect by taking as long as possible in settling himself to his work. He was simply a leisurely man, who had been born before the days of hurry, and was living to see hurry considered as an obsolete affectation, no longer necessary, and no longer the fashion. There is haste in some things, still, in New York, but not the haste that we of the generation in middle age remember when we were young men. Mr. Allen, however, had never been hasty; and he found himself fashionable in his old age, as he had been in his youth, long before the civil war.
When his glasses were fairly pinching the lower part of his thin grey nose, he thrust one bony hand into his breast-pocket, leaning forward as he did so, and quietly scanning the faces of his audience, one after the other. He was so very slow that John and Katharine looked at one another and smiled. From his pocket he brought out a great bundle of papers and letters, and calmly proceeded to look through them from the beginning, in search of what he wanted. Of course, the big blue envelope was the last of a number of big blue envelopes, and the last but one of all the papers.
“This is it, I think,” said Mr. Allen, with dignity and caution.
The two elder women drew two short little breaths of expectation, sat forward a little, and then thoughtfully smoothed their frocks over their knees. Alexander Junior’s knuckles cracked audibly, as he silently twined his fingers round one another, and pulled at them in his anxiety. Hamilton Bright uncrossed his legs, and recrossed them in the opposite way. Katharine sighed. She was tired of it all, before it had begun.
“Yes,” said Mr. Allen, with even more dignity, but with less caution in making the assertion, “I believe this is it.”
“Thank the Lord!” exclaimed John Ralston from behind the lawyer, who was deaf.
Mrs. Ralston smiled a little, and avoided her son’s eyes. Hamilton Bright looked absolutely impassive.
“You all see what it is,” said Mr. Allen. “It is a large blue envelope, gummed without a seal, marked ‘Will,’ in a handwriting which may be that of the late Mr. Lauderdale, though I should not be prepared to swear to it, and dated ‘March’ of this year. It is reasonable to suppose that it contains a will made in that month, and therefore prior to the one of which we have knowledge. Mr. Lauderdale” — he turned to Alexander Senior— “and you, Mrs. Ralston — with your consent, I will open this document in your presence.”
“By all means — open it,” said Alexander Junior, with evident impatience.
“Certainly, certainly, Mr. Allen,” said his father. “That’s what we expect.”
Mrs. Ralston contented herself with nodding her assent, when the lawyer looked at her. He searched for a penknife in his pocket, found it, opened it, and with infinite care slit the envelope from end to end. After carefully shutting the knife, and returning it to his pocket again, he withdrew a thick, folded sheet of heavy foolscap. As he did so, a smaller piece of paper, folded only once, fluttered to the ground at his feet. It might have been a note of old Robert Lauderdale’s, expressing some particular last wish of such a nature as not to have found its proper place in a document of such importance as the will itself. The eyes of every one being intent upon the latter, as Mr. Allen opened it, no one paid any attention to the bit of paper.
Mr. Allen was old and formal, and he had no intention of bestowing a preliminary glance at the contents of the paper before reading it. He began at the beginning, for the first words proved it to be a will, and nothing else. It began, as many American wills do, with the words, “In the name of God. Amen.” Then followed the clause revoking all previous wills, each and every one of them; and then the other, rela
ting to the payment of just debts and funeral expenses. Then Mr. Allen paused, and drew breath.
The tension in the atmosphere of the room was high, at that moment of supreme anxiety.
“ ‘It is my purpose,’ “ Mr. Allen read, “ ‘to so distribute the wealth which has accumulated in my hands as to distribute it amongst those of my fellow creatures who stand most directly in need of such help—’”
There was a general movement in the circle. Everybody started. Alexander Junior’s hands dropped by his sides, and his steel-trap mouth relaxed and opened.
“Go on!” he said, breathlessly.
Mr. Allen went on, shaking his head from time to time, as his only expression of overwhelming stupefaction. It was by far the most extraordinary will he had ever seen; but it was legally and properly worded, with endlessly long, unpunctuated sentences, all of which tended to elucidate the already sufficiently clear meaning. In half-a-dozen words, it is sufficient to say that the will constituted the whole fortune, without legacies, and without mention of heirs or relatives, into a gigantic trust, to be managed, for the final extinction of poverty in the city of New York, by a board of trustees, to exist in perpetuity. Many conditions were imposed, and many possible cases foreseen. There were elaborate rules for filling vacancies in the trusteeship, and many other clauses necessary for the administration of such a vast charitable foundation, all carefully thought out and clearly stated. The perspiration stood upon the old lawyer’s astonished head, as he continued to read.
Alexander Junior seemed to be absolutely paralyzed, and stared like a man distracted, who sees nothing, with wide-open eyes. Even Mrs. Ralston bent her dark brows, and bit her even lips, in disappointment. Hamilton Bright bent down, leaning his elbows upon his knees, and looked at the fourth page of the vast sheet of closely written foolscap.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 755