“THOSE documents have a familiar look,” remarked Thurston with a smile as Nan placed the packet of wills on the table beside him in the Farley parlor. “Mr. Farley was hard to please; I’ve learned a lot about will-writing just from studying the different schemes he proposed from time to time.”
Nan described the manner in which she had found the wills on the night of Farley’s death.
“He was evidently troubled about them and got out of bed to look them over. This one, that I found lying open on the table, is torn across as though he had begun to destroy it when the end came.”
“Very likely that was his intention,” Thurston replied. “I had just written a new will for him, but it wasn’t signed—not unless he executed it that same afternoon. Perhaps you know about that?”
“No one was here, I’m sure,” said Nan, after a moment’s consideration. “The nurse was off duty; she left for the evening at four o’clock, and I’m sure the servants weren’t in his room. I carried up his dinner tray myself.”
“It’s hardly possible he had signed that last will. I was always present on such occasions and I got the witnesses. When I called now and then with a couple of his friends, or telephoned for them, there was a will to be signed. You probably understood that.”
He began opening the papers, glancing quickly at the last sheet of each will, and turning them face down on the table. The torn one he scrutinized more carefully, and returned to it for further examination when he had disposed of the others. Nan watched him nervously. He was a small, slight man of sixty, with a stiff gray mustache and a sharp, rasping voice. It would not have been easy to deceive Thurston if she had destroyed the wills; she could never have gone through with it!
She felt that she had touched with her finger-tips the far horizons and knew at last something of the meaning of life. She had subjected herself to pitiless self-analysis and stood convicted in her own conscience of vanity, selfishness, and hardness. The recollection of her gay adventures with the Kinneys and her affair with Copeland had become a hideous nightmare. Not only was she ashamed of her dallying with Billy, but she accused herself of having exerted a baneful influence upon him. In all likelihood he would never have sunk so low as to propose the destruction of Farley’s will but for his infatuation for her.
Farley’s death had in itself exercised a chastening effect upon her. She was conscious of trying to see herself with his eyes and fortify herself with something of the stern righteousness that made him, in the retrospect, a noble and inspiring figure. The upturned faces at the Settlement haunted her; there was a work for her to do in the world if only she could lay her hands upon it! In this new mood the life of ease which money would secure weighed little against self-dependence and service. Money had ceased to be an important integer in her calculations.
Having concluded his examination of the papers, the lawyer lifted his head with an impatient jerk, then sighed, and began smoothing the open sheets into a neat pile.
“Those wills are worthless, Miss Farley,—not one of them can be probated. The testator’s signatures and the names of the witnesses have been scratched out!”
In proof of his statement he extended one of the wills, pointing to the heavy cross-crosses at the bottom of the sheet.
“You have no idea when he did this—you weren’t present, I suppose?”
“No; he used to do his writing at the table where he hid the wills. He occasionally wrote a letter or a check there; but I never saw him open the table. I never knew of that inner compartment till the night he died.”
“Oh, I know that table very well; he had shown me the hidden drawer and explained how to open it. But this is most unfortunate, deplorable! I kept in touch with his doctor about his condition and feared something like this might happen. And he dreaded it himself—was afraid he might die some time without leaving just the will he had determined to make. I account for all the wills I wrote for him but the last. The last time I was here I brought a new will, which I don’t find among these. Are you sure you haven’t overlooked it?”
She was quite sure of it, but after she had described in minute detail the events of the last afternoon of Farley’s life, to confirm her statement that no one who could have acted as witness had visited Farley, she took the lawyer upstairs to examine the table for himself. They broadened the scope of the search, but without success.
“For the present I think it best for you not to read those wills,” he said, when they had returned to the parlor. “They represent Mr. Farley’s changes of feeling in regard to many things—including yourself. A little later I shall be glad to submit them to you. The important thing just now is the threat of this man Harlowe to attack your rights under the adoption. Mr. Eaton and I have already discussed that. Now that we’re pretty sure there’s no will, this may give us some trouble, but with characteristic thoroughness Mr. Eaton has prepared for just this emergency. His reasons for not telling me earlier about these things are sound enough—his fear of disturbing Mr. Farley unnecessarily. He would undoubtedly have wanted a proceeding brought to correct the adoption, but that could only have advertised the error, and Mr. Farley might have died before we finished it. Still, if I had known I should have taken care that he didn’t die intestate. But from what Mr. Eaton tells me, this man is all primed to attack any will that might have been left, on the ground of Mr. Farley’s mental incapacity—which is ludicrous, of course. There was never a saner man; and yet his eccentricities might be magnified before a jury—you never can tell. On the whole, Mr. Eaton’s silence was justified. But our next step must be carefully considered. In the mean time—”
He paced the floor, considering means of relieving her anxiety.
“Of course, while these things are pending we shall arrange for your maintenance, on the old basis, in this house. No one can pretend that Mr. Farley didn’t have every intention of providing for you generously. It’s only fair to tell you this, that even when he seemed to waver at times he never cut your legacy below a hundred thousand dollars; and I know he regretted the comparative meagerness of that—tripled the amount in the very next will he made! You need have no fears, Miss Farley,” he went on reassuringly. “But you are entitled to your own counsel; it’s only right that I should say this to you immediately; and I suggest that you ask Mr. Eaton to represent you. I hope you will confer with him at once.”
He bowed with old-fashioned formality. He was more troubled than he cared to have Nan know, and her silence disconcerted him. But her face expressed neither disappointment nor alarm. She stood erect by the table, an intent look in her eyes. Not wishing to leave her weighed down by the uncertainties of her future, he said briskly:—
“You mustn’t bother yourself about these matters, Miss Farley. In the end you will find yourself a rich woman. So—”
He waved his hand as the preliminary to a quick exit, but she called him back. He did not like being called back; now, he thought, there would be the tears he dreaded.
“You don’t understand,” she said quietly. “I ought to have made it clear in the first place, but I didn’t know just how—or when—to say it. I can’t—I will not take any of Mr. Farley’s money—not even if the law should give it to me.”
He looked at her with the mute appeal of the deaf when they fail to catch a meaning.
“Really, Miss Farley—”
“I won’t take one cent of Mr. Farley’s money,” Nan repeated firmly.
“I can’t blame you for being disappointed—for resenting what may appear to be a lack of consideration on his part for your comfort—”
“Oh, it isn’t that! I wouldn’t have you think that! I’m sure he meant to do what was right—what was generous! You don’t know how glad I am that our last day together was a happy one—we had never been on better terms. It’s not that I have any unkind feeling toward papa; it’s all myself. The Farleys were only too kind to me. I went my own way and it made me selfish—and pretty hard, too, I’m afraid. Papa knew it; and you know yourself how little he trusted me. And he was right about me: I didn’t deserve his confidence. But I’m going to begin all over again, as I couldn’t if I began fighting for this money. I can see now that money can’t make me happy. I’m going to work; I’m going to stop living, as I always have, just for myself: I’m going—I’m going to think about the rest of the folks a lot!”
“The folks?” repeated Thurston feebly. “What folks?”
“Oh, everybody! The down-and-outers—girls like me who get a bad start or make mistakes!”
Thurston’s brows worked convulsively. He had been prepared for anything but this.
“Do I—do I understand you to mean that, even if this estate could be turned over to you to-morrow, you’d decline to receive it? It can’t be possible—”
“Yes; that’s what I mean!” she cried eagerly. “I’ve thought it all out and have made up my mind about it. I don’t want to be considered in anything that has to do with papa’s property.”
“But, my dear child, you can’t—you can’t abandon your claims in any such fashion! It’s my duty—I owe it to my friend and client to see that his wishes are fulfilled. Why—”
“Well,” she persisted, “between all those wills you can’t tell what he wanted—only that I was a great problem to him. I caused him a great deal of unnecessary worry and heartache. I hope this isn’t going to cause you any trouble—” And she smiled in spite of herself at his consternation, as indicated by the twitching of his brows. And there was, she realized, something absurd to her cool statement to a hard-headed lawyer that she renounced claims whose validity he was in duty bound to support. The situation was too much for him; he must escape as quickly as possible from this young woman who brushed away a fairly tangible fortune as a waiter clears away bread crumbs.
“Really, Miss Farley—” he began; but, thinking of nothing further to say, he backed awkwardly into the hall.
She helped him into his coat and opened the street door. He hurried off without saying good-bye, clasping Timothy Farley’s wills tightly under his arm.
A light snow was falling; Nan stood on the steps and lifted her hot face to the fluttering flakes. She watched Thurston until he turned the corner and then went to the telephone.
In a moment she was connected with Mrs. Copeland at the farm. “I want a job,” she was saying in a cheerful tone; “yes, that’s it—a chance to work. You told me the other day you needed some one to look after your business at the market-house. I’m applying for the job. Oh, no! I’m not fooling; I want that place! Well, I want to see you, too; I’ll be out early in the morning!”