CHAPTER I

The room was very still except for the ticking of the little clock,
which stood on the table in the hall and seemed to Marion Warren to be
tolling out the seconds one by one.

She sat by her father’s bedside, where she had been all day, only rising
to give him his medicine, or to tiptoe into the hall to answer some
question of her sister-in-law’s, or to speak to the doctor before he
went out.

The doctor had been there three times since morning. He had come in the
last time without being sent for. Marion felt sure that he knew the end
was not far off although he had not definitely said so. As she looked at
the gray shadows in the beloved face her own heart told her that her
dear father had not much longer now to stay.

She would not call him back if she could to the suffering he had endured
for the last two years. She knew he desired to be through with it. He
had often spoken about how good it would be to feel that the suffering
was all over. Yet she had hoped against hope that he might be cured and
given back to her. She had nursed him so gladly, and loved her task,
even when sometimes her head ached and her back ached and her slender
arms ached, and her flesh fairly cried out for rest. Her father was
almost her idol. He and she had always understood one another and had
had the same dreams and ambitions. He had encouraged her in taking more
time for reading and study than her more practical mother had thought
wise. He had talked with her of life and what we were put on this earth
to do. He had hunted out books to please and interest her. She had read
aloud to him for hours at a time, and they had discussed what she read.
And after her mother died he had been both mother and father to her. How
was she going to live without her father?

She had known, of course, since he was first taken ill, that there was a
possibility that he might not get well. But he had been so cheery and
hopeful always, never complaining, never taking it as a foregone
conclusion that he was out of active life forever, and always saying at
night:

“Well, daughter, I feel a little better to-night, I think. Perhaps the
doctor will let me sit up in the morning. Wouldn’t that be great?”

Yet he had also lived and talked as if he might always be going to
heaven to-morrow. Once he had said:

“Well, I’m satisfied to live to be a very old man, if the Lord wills, or
to go right now whenever He calls.”

These memories went pacing before the thoughts of the girl like weird
shadows as she sat waiting in the darkened room, watching the dear white
face. She had had no sleep since the night before last when her father
had grown suddenly so very much worse. At intervals she wondered whether
she were not perhaps a little light-headed now.

Marion’s brother Tom was sitting at the foot of the bed by the open hall
door. He had been sitting there for an hour and a half. Occasionally he
cleared his throat with a rasping sound. She knew he must be suffering
of course, yet somehow she felt that she alone was the one that was
being bereaved. Tom was older, and was not what he called “sentimental.”
He had never understood the deep attachment between Marion and her
father. He sometimes had called it partiality, but the girl always knew
her father had not been partial. He loved Tom deeply. Yet he had never
been able to make a friend and comrade of his practical, cheery, and
somewhat impatient son. The son never had time to read and talk with his
father. He had always had some scheme on hand, to which he must rush
off. He was like his bustling, practical mother, who even in her last
illness had kept the details of the house and neighborhood in mind and
sent others on continual errands to see this and that carried out as she
planned. It was just a difference in temperament, perhaps. Marion
wondered idly if Tom was thinking now how he might have made his father
happier by being with him more. Tom loved their father, of course.

But Tom sat silently, dutifully, and now and then changed his position,
or cleared his throat. He seemed so self-possessed.

Marion was glad that he sat there. She would not have liked to have the
responsibility alone. Tom had always been kind when it occurred to him.
It did not always occur to him.

Jennie was there too, Tom’s wife. She did not sit down but hovered in
and out. Marion wished she would either go or stay. It somehow seemed
like an interruption to have her so uneasy. It was just another thing to
bear to hear her soft slipping around in felt slippers, calling Tom to
the door to ask about some matter of household need, asking in that
sepulchral whisper if there had been any change yet. Marion shuddered
inwardly. It seemed somehow as if Jennie would be eager for the change
to come. As if there were no sacredness to her in their father’s dying.
Yet that father had been exceedingly kind to Jennie. He had always
treated her as if she were his own.

It was during one of these visits of Jennie to the sickroom that there
seemed to come a change over the shadows on the white face. Jennie had
breathed a syllable emphasizing it as it came, as some people will
always make vocal a self-evident fact. Marion wanted to cry out: “Oh,
keep still, won’t you, _please_!” but she held her lips closed tight and
drew a deeper breath, trying to pray for strength.

The doctor was coming in. They could hear the street door open and close
softly. The latch had been left off that he might come in when he
wished. Marion looked up with relief. Ah! The doctor! Now, if there was
anything to do, it would be done!

The doctor noted the change instantly. Marion could understand by the
grave look on his face that it was serious business. He stepped silently
to the bedside, and laid practised fingers on the wasted wrist.

It was at that moment that the pale lips moved, and the eyelids opened,
and her father looked at her.

Her hands were in his cold one instantly, and she thought she felt a
faint pressure of the frail fingers.

“Bye, little girl!” he said faintly, “I have to leave you!” The eyelids
closed, and she thought that he was gone, but he roused again and spoke
in a clearer voice:

“You’ll have your home here, Tom will see to all that. He’ll
understand——” The voice trailed off into silence.

Tom roused himself huskily and tried to speak, as if he were talking to
one very far away:

“S’all right, Dad. I’ll look after Marion. Don’t you worry.”

The sick man smiled.

“Of course!” he gasped, his breath nearly gone, “Good-bye!” His eyes
searched the room.

“Jennie too, and the children!”

But Jennie had slipped away, suddenly.

Perhaps she was gone to her room to cry. Perhaps Jennie was fond of
Father in her way after all, thought Marion.

But Jennie had not gone to cry. Jennie was stealing stealthily down the
stairs, slipping like a wraith into the little den that had belonged to
her father-in-law, where his big roll-top desk stood and his old desk
chair, the walls lined with books. She closed the door carefully,
snapped on the light and pulled down the shade, then looked furtively
around. It was not the first time that Jennie had visited that room.

Since her father-in-law had been ill, and Marion closely held in his
service, she had managed to make herself thoroughly familiar with every
corner of the house. She was not going in search of something. She knew
exactly what she was after.

She took out a key from her pocket and went over to the desk. The key
had been in her pocket for a week. She had found it while putting away
things in her father-in-law’s closet. It had been on a key ring with
other keys. She had taken it off of the ring one day when Marion was
downstairs preparing some food for the invalid, while he was asleep.

Jennie opened the right-hand lower drawer of the desk and moved some
account books over. Then she took out a tin box from the back end of the
drawer. She fitted the key into the lock and opened the box.
Breathlessly she turned over the neat envelopes carefully labelled “Deed
of the House,” “Tax Receipts,” “Water Tax,” and the like, till she came
to the envelope labelled “My Will.”

Jennie took this out, quickly put the rest back, locked the box,
returned it to the drawer from which she had taken it, replaced the
books, and closed the drawer. Then she picked up the envelope and held
it in her hand for an instant, an almost frightened look in her eyes, as
if she were weighing the possibilities of what she was about to do. She
did not open the envelope and read the will for she had already done
that a week ago. Every word and syllable of the neatly written document
was graven on her soul, and she had spent nights of waking, going over
and over the brief paragraphs indignantly. The old man had no right to
make a difference in his children. He had no right to leave the house
entirely to Marion. If there _were_ no will—that is, if no will were
_found_, why the law would divide the property. Tom would look after
Marion, of course, in any case. But Tom should have the right to decide
things. He should not be hampered with a girl’s whims. She could not see
that what she was about to do was in any way wrong. No harm would come
to her sister-in-law. In any case she would be cared for. It would
simply smooth out things for Tom. And it was perfectly right.

Having shut her thin lips firmly over this decision she opened the upper
right-hand drawer, pulled it entirely out, and laid it on the desk. Then
she reached far in and laid the envelope containing the will carefully
at the back of the opening, replacing the drawer and shutting it firmly
again, even turning the key which was in the lock.

Having done this, she snapped out the light and groped her way to the
door, unlocking it and stealing back into the hall. She listened an
instant and then glided up the stairs as silently as she had come down,
a nervous satisfaction in her face.

She appeared in the doorway an instant too late to hear the last kindly
word from her father-in-law. The doctor had raised his head from bending
over to watch, and Marion was turning away with her hands to her throat
and a look of exalted sorrow on her face. Marion was so queer! Why
didn’t she cry? Jennie began to cry. It was hardly decent not to cry,
Jennie thought. And Marion pretended to think so much of her father!
Probably, though, she was worn out and really glad it was over. It was
perfectly natural for a girl not to enjoy taking care of an old sick man
for so long. Two years! It had been two years since Father took sick!
Well it was over, thank goodness, at last! Jennie buried her face in her
handkerchief and sobbed gently. Marion wished again that she would keep
still. These last minutes, and the precious spirit just taken its
flight! It seemed a desecration!

The doctor and Tom were talking in low tones in the hall now, and Marion
turned back for one last precious look. But even that look had to be
interrupted by Jennie, who came with an air of doing her duty and stood
at the other side of the bed.

“Poor old soul! He’s at rest at last!” she said with a sniff and a dab
at her eyes with her handkerchief. “And you, Marion, you haven’t any
call to blame yourself for anything. You certainly have been faithful!”
This by way of offering sympathy.

It was piously said, but somehow the unwonted praise from her
sister-in-law grated on her just now. It was as if she were putting it
in to exonerate herself as well.

“Oh, please, please keep still!” shouted Marion’s soul silently. But
Marion’s lips answered nothing. She still wore that exalted look. After
all, what did anything like this matter now? Let Jennie voice her
meaningless patter. She need not pay attention. She was trying to follow
the flight of the dear spirit who had gone from her. She had not yet
faced the life without him that was to be hers now that he was gone. She
still had the feeling upon her that for his sake she must be brave and
quiet. She must not desecrate the place by even a tear.

All through the trying days that followed until the worn-out body was
laid to rest beside the partner of his youth in the peaceful cemetery
outside the city, Marion had to endure the constant attentions of her
sister-in-law. Jennie was always bringing her a cup of tea, and begging
her to lie down. Jennie wanted to know if she wouldn’t like her to come
into her room and sleep lest she would be lonely. Jennie slapped the
children for making a noise and told them their Aunt Marion didn’t feel
well. Jennie became almost effusive in her vigilance until after the
funeral was over. Marion was glad beyond words to be allowed at last to
go to her own room alone and lock the door. To be alone with her sorrow
seemed the greatest luxury that could now be given her.

And while she knelt beside her bed in the room that had been hers during
her father’s illness because it was next to his, and she could leave the
door open and listen for his call in the night, her brother Tom was down
in the den going over his father’s papers.

Tom was a big pleasant-faced man with an easy-going nature. He would not
for the world hurt anybody, much less his own sister. He intended with
all his heart to take care of her all her life if that was her need and
her desire. He had not a thought otherwise. Yet when he began the search
among those papers of his father it could not be denied that he hoped
that matters were so left that he would have full charge of the property
without any complications. He had certain plans in the back of his head
that an untrammelled will would greatly facilitate. He and Jennie had
often talked about these plans, and Jennie had urged him to speak to his
father about it some day while there was time. But Tom did not like to
seem interested; and, too, there was something about his father, perhaps
a kind of dignity that he did not understand, that made Tom embarrassed
at the thought of broaching the subject of money. So Tom had never said
a word to his father about the property.

Once or twice Tom’s father had dropped a word to the effect that if
anything happened to him, Tom was to look after his sister, and Tom had
always agreed, but there had never been anything definite spoken
regarding the house, or what money was left, or even the life insurance.
And Tom had never broken through the silence.

During that last afternoon when he had sat in the sickroom, tilted back
against the wall in the shadows, clearing his throat now and then, he
had been thinking about this. He had been wondering if for all their
sakes he ought not to try and rouse his father and find out just what he
had done, how he had left things. But Marion had stayed so close to the
bedside, and somehow he could not bring himself to speak about it with
Marion there. There was something about Marion’s attitude that forbade
any such thing.

But after his father had spoken to them about the house and about
Marion, and said that he would understand, Tom had been uneasy. Perhaps
after all his father had complicated things by putting Marion into the
will in such a way that he would have continually to ask her advice and
get her to sign papers and be always consulting her. He hoped against
hope that his father had not been so foolish. Poor father! He had always
been so visionary. That was the word Tom could remember hearing his
mother call his father, visionary. She had said once that if father
hadn’t been so visionary they might all have been rich by this time, and
Tom had decided then and there that he would profit by his father’s
mistakes and not be visionary.

But although Tom was a little worried, and thought about it quite often,
he would not open the desk nor try to find out anything about matters
until his father was laid to rest. It did not seem fitting and right.
Tom had his own ideas of what was the decent thing to do.

He waited until his sister had gone to her room and had had time to get
to sleep, too, before he went to the den. It wasn’t in the least
necessary for Marion to have to worry about business. She was a woman.
To his way of thinking women should not be bothered about business
affairs, they only complicated matters. He always tried to make Jennie
understand that, too. Sometimes he talked things over with her, of
course, as she was his wife, but when it came to the actual business he
felt that he was the head of the family.

So he had told Jennie to go to bed, as he had some papers to look over
and might not go up for an hour or so yet, and he betook himself to the
father’s desk, armed with his father’s keys.

But Jennie was not so easily put off as Tom thought. Jennie crept to her
bed with an anxious heart. She had put the little key back on the bunch
with the other keys and felt that no one in the world would ever find
out that she had had it, but yet she could not sleep. She could not help
lying there and listening for Tom.

Jennie did not feel that she had done anything actually wrong. Of course
not, her queer little conscience told her briskly. Why, she might easily
have destroyed that will and nobody been any the wiser. But Jennie felt
most virtuous that she had not. Of course she would not do a thing like
that! It would have been a crime in a way, even though its destruction
was a good thing for all concerned. But to put it away carefully was
another thing. The will was there. It was like giving Providence one
more chance to save the day. If anything ever came up to make it
necessary it could be found of course. Why worry about it? It was safely
and innocently lying where there was little likelihood of its ever being
found, at least not till long after everything had been satisfactorily
settled. And Marion wouldn’t make a fuss after a thing was done anyway.
Suppose, for instance, Tom sold the old house and put the money into
another one out in the country. Jennie loved the country. But Marion was
queer sometimes. She took strong attachments and one of them was this
old house. She might make a lot of trouble when Tom tried to sell it, if
she owned it outright, as that will made her do. It was perfect idiocy
for Father ever to have done that anyway. It wasn’t right for a man to
make a distinction between his children, and when he did it he ought to
be overruled.

So Jennie lay awake two hours until Tom came to bed, wondering, anxious,
and beginning to be really troubled about what she had done. Suppose Tom
should somehow find it out! She would never hear the last of it. Tom was
so almost overconscientious! Well—but of course he wouldn’t find it
out!

And then Tom came tiptoeing in and knocked over a book that had been
left on the bedside table, and Jennie pretended to wake up and ask what
he had been doing. She yawned and tried to act indifferent but her hands
and feet were like ice and she felt that her voice was not natural.

Tom, however, did not notice. He was too much engrossed in his own
affairs.

“You awake, Jennie? Queer thing! I’ve been looking through Dad’s papers
and I can’t find a sign of a will. I was sure he made one. He always
spoke as if he had.”

“Mmmmm!” mumbled Jennie sleepily. “Will that make any trouble? Can’t you
get hold of the property?”

“Oh, yes, get the property all right. Sort of makes things easier. The
law divides things equally. But of course I’ll look after the whole
thing in any event. Marion doesn’t know anything about business. Gosh, I
didn’t know it was so late! Let’s get to sleep. I’m dead tired. Got a
hard day to-morrow, too!” and Tom turned over and was soon sound asleep.