第 十六 章 · THE WILL OF A MILLIONAIRE

. 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’s will. Its provisions were a surprise to me; for,

while the bulk of his immense estate was, according to the general

understanding, bequeathed to his niece, Mary, it appeared by a

codicil, attached to his will some five years before, that Eleanore

was not entirely forgotten, she having been made the recipient of

a legacy which, if not large, was at least sufficient to support

her in comfort. After listening to the various comments of my

associates on the subject, I proceeded to the house of Mr. Gryce,

in obedience to his request to call upon him as soon as possible

after the publication of the will.

“Good-morning,” he remarked as I entered, but whether addressing

me or the frowning top of the desk before which he was sitting it

would be difficult to say. “Won’t you sit?” nodding with a curious

back movement of 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 the matters 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

in public opinion. Those who thought Eleanore guilty before will

feel that they possess now greater cause than ever to doubt her

innocence; while those who have hitherto hesitated to suspect her

will not consider that the comparatively small amount bequeathed

her would constitute an adequate motive for so great a crime.”

“You have heard men talk; what seems to be the general opinion

among those you converse with?”

“That the motive of the tragedy will be found in the partiality

shown in so singular a will, though how, they do not profess to

know.”

Mr. Gryce suddenly became interested in one of the small drawers

before him.

“And all this has not set you thinking?” said he.

“Thinking,” returned I. “I don’t know what you mean. I am sure I

have done nothing but think for the last three days. I----”

“Of course--of course,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to say anything

disagreeable. And so you have seen Mr. Clavering?”

“Just seen him; no more.”

“And are you going to assist Mr. Harwell in finishing Mr.

Leavenworth’s book?”

“How did you learn that?”

He only smiled.

“Yes,” said I; “Miss Leavenworth has requested me to do her that

little favor.”

“She is a queenly creature!” he exclaimed in a burst of enthusiasm.

Then, with an instant return to his business-like tone: “You are

going to have opportunities, Mr. Raymond. Now there are two things

I want you to 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

feeling which evidently exists between the cousins.”

I drew back and pondered the position offered me. A spy in a fair

woman’s house! How could I reconcile it with my natural instincts

as a gentleman?

“Cannot you find some one better adapted to learn these secrets

for you?” I asked at length. “The part of a spy is anything but

agreeable to my feelings, I assure you.”

Mr. Gryce’s brows fell.

“I will assist Mr. Harwell in his efforts to arrange Mr.

Leavenworth’s manuscript for the press,” I said; “I will give

Mr. Clavering an opportunity to form my acquaintance; and I will

listen, if Miss Leavenworth chooses to make me her confidant in

any way. But any hearkening at doors, surprises, unworthy feints

or ungentlemanly subterfuges, I herewith disclaim as outside of

my province; my task being to find out what I can in an open way,

and yours to search into the nooks and corners of this wretched

business.”

“In other words, you are to play the hound, and I the mole; just

so, I know 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, upon

descending from an hour’s labor with Mr. Harwell, I encountered

Miss Leavenworth standing at the foot of the stairs. There had been

something in her bearing, the night before, which prepared me for

another interview this evening, though her manner of commencing

it was a surprise. “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 I know 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

not the 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 a person of sensitive nature to live a happy life

afterwards; though the fact of not living a happy life ought to be

no reason why one should not live a good life.”

“But to live a good life would it be necessary to reveal the evil

you had done? Cannot one go on and do right without confessing to

the world a 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

moment in a thoughtful attitude before me, her beauty shining with

almost a statuesque splendor in the glow of the porcelain-shaded

lamp at her side. Nor, though she presently roused herself, leading

the way into the drawing-room with a gesture that was allurement

itself, did she recur to this topic again; but rather seemed to

strive, in the conversation that followed, to make me forget what

had already passed between us. That she did not succeed, was owing

to my intense and unfailing interest in her cousin.

As I descended the stoop, I saw Thomas, the butler, leaning

over the area gate. Immediately I was seized with an impulse to

interrogate him in regard to a matter which had more or less

interested me ever since the inquest; and that was, who was the Mr.

Robbins who had called upon Eleanore the night of the murder? But

Thomas was decidedly uncommunicative. He remembered such a person

called, but could not describe his looks any further than to say

that he was not a small man.

I did not press the matter.