XVI. THE WILL OF A MILLIONAIRE
“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.” All’s Well that Ends Well.
THE next morning’s _Tribune_ contained a synopsis of Mr. Leavenworth’swill. Its provisions were a surprise to me; for, while the bulk of hisimmense estate was, according to the general understanding, bequeathedto his niece, Mary, it appeared by a codicil, attached to his will somefive years before, that Eleanore was not entirely forgotten, she havingbeen made the recipient of a legacy which, if not large, was at leastsufficient to support her in comfort. After listening to the variouscomments of my associates on the subject, I proceeded to the houseof Mr. Gryce, in obedience to his request to call upon him as soon aspossible after the publication of the will.
“Good-morning,” he remarked as I entered, but whether addressing me orthe frowning top of the desk before which he was sitting it would bedifficult to say. “Won’t you sit?” nodding with a curious back movementof his head towards a chair in his rear.
I drew up the chair to his side. “I am curious to know,” I remarked,“what you have to say about this will, and its probable effect upon thematters we have in hand.”
“What is your own idea in regard to it?”
“Well, I think upon the whole it will make but little difference inpublic opinion. Those who thought Eleanore guilty before will feel thatthey possess now greater cause than ever to doubt her innocence; whilethose who have hitherto hesitated to suspect her will not considerthat the comparatively small amount bequeathed her would constitute anadequate motive for so great a crime.”
“You have heard men talk; what seems to be the general opinion amongthose you converse with?”
“That the motive of the tragedy will be found in the partiality shown inso singular a will, though how, they do not profess to know.”
Mr. Gryce suddenly became interested in one of the small drawers beforehim.
“And all this has not set you thinking?” said he.
“Thinking,” returned I. “I don’t know what you mean. I am sure I havedone nothing but think for the last three days. I----”
“Of course--of course,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to say anythingdisagreeable. And so you have seen Mr. Clavering?”
“Just seen him; no more.”
“And are you going to assist Mr. Harwell in finishing Mr. Leavenworth’sbook?”
“How did you learn that?”
He only smiled.
“Yes,” said I; “Miss Leavenworth has requested me to do her that littlefavor.”
“She is a queenly creature!” he exclaimed in a burst of enthusiasm.Then, with an instant return to his business-like tone: “You are goingto have opportunities, Mr. Raymond. Now there are two things I want youto find out; first, what is the connection between these ladies and Mr.Clavering----”
“There is a connection, then?”
“Undoubtedly. And secondly, what is the cause of the unfriendly feelingwhich evidently exists between the cousins.”
I drew back and pondered the position offered me. A spy in a fairwoman’s house! How could I reconcile it with my natural instincts as agentleman?
“Cannot you find some one better adapted to learn these secrets foryou?” I asked at length. “The part of a spy is anything but agreeable tomy feelings, I assure you.”
Mr. Gryce’s brows fell.
“I will assist Mr. Harwell in his efforts to arrange Mr. Leavenworth’smanuscript for the press,” I said; “I will give Mr. Clavering anopportunity to form my acquaintance; and I will listen, if MissLeavenworth chooses to make me her confidant in any way. But anyhearkening at doors, surprises, unworthy feints or ungentlemanlysubterfuges, I herewith disclaim as outside of my province; my taskbeing to find out what I can in an open way, and yours to search intothe nooks and corners of this wretched business.”
“In other words, you are to play the hound, and I the mole; just so, Iknow what belongs to a gentleman.”
“And now,” said I, “what news of Hannah?”
He shook both hands high in the air. “None.”
I cannot say I was greatly surprised, that evening, when, upondescending from an hour’s labor with Mr. Harwell, I encountered MissLeavenworth standing at the foot of the stairs. There had been somethingin her bearing, the night before, which prepared me for anotherinterview this evening, though her manner of commencing it was asurprise. “Mr. Raymond,” said she, with an air of marked embarrassment,“I want to ask you a question. I believe you to be a good man, and Iknow you will answer me conscientiously. As a brother would,” she added,lifting her eyes for a moment to my face. “I know it will sound strange;but remember, I have no adviser but you, and I must ask some one. Mr.Raymond, do you think a person could do something that was very wrong,and yet grow to be thoroughly good afterwards?”
“Certainly,” I replied; “if he were truly sorry for his fault.”
“But say it was more than a fault; say it was an actual harm; would notthe memory of that one evil hour cast a lasting shadow over one’s life?”
“That depends upon the nature of the harm and its effect upon others.If one had irreparably injured a fellow-being, it would be hard for aperson of sensitive nature to live a happy life afterwards; though thefact of not living a happy life ought to be no reason why one should notlive a good life.”
“But to live a good life would it be necessary to reveal the evil youhad done? Cannot one go on and do right without confessing to the worlda past wrong?”
“Yes, unless by its confession he can in some way make reparation.”
My answer seemed to trouble her. Drawing back, she stood for one momentin a thoughtful attitude before me, her beauty shining with almost astatuesque splendor in the glow of the porcelain-shaded lamp at herside. Nor, though she presently roused herself, leading the way into thedrawing-room with a gesture that was allurement itself, did she recur tothis topic again; but rather seemed to strive, in the conversation thatfollowed, to make me forget what had already passed between us. That shedid not succeed, was owing to my intense and unfailing interest in hercousin.
As I descended the stoop, I saw Thomas, the butler, leaning over thearea gate. Immediately I was seized with an impulse to interrogate himin regard to a matter which had more or less interested me ever sincethe inquest; and that was, who was the Mr. Robbins who had calledupon Eleanore the night of the murder? But Thomas was decidedlyuncommunicative. He remembered such a person called, but could notdescribe his looks any further than to say that he was not a small man.
I did not press the matter.