CHAPTER SEVEN
AS I lay in that bed, in state, with the light very low, and the big doctor on one side of me and the trained nurse on the other, I began to feel about as important as the Queen of Sheba on fair-day in Ethiopia. It wasn't until later that the serious side of the whole thing came home to me.
It wasn't until I saw old Ezra Bartlett stand at the door, admitting the visitors one by one, with much the same apathetic resignation that Noah must have admitted the animals to the Ark, that the possibility of that situation having its darker side became plain to me. They may have been queer-looking people, that scattering of hungry-eyed relatives buzzing like wasps about a fallen pear. There may have been something ignominious in their stares of appraisal about that bewilderingly furnished house. But I was a bigger hypocrite than the rest of them. There was something more ignoble in my position than in any of theirs. I was an outsider, making profit from their grief. And I was the one who should first and last have been ashamed of myself. But I couldn't for the life of me keep from smiling at that motley array. First came Enoch Bartlett, with his shoulders hunched up and his wizened old face as alert and furtive and veiled as the weasel's. Then came Aunt Agatha Widdemer. She wore black, and was crying openly and audibly. She started for the bed, but the watchful Miss Ledwidge came between her and the hangings and steered her gently on toward where old Enoch Bartlett was making hypocritical dabs at his eyes with a huge linen handkerchief. Yet profuse as was Aunt Agatha's grief, I noticed that she suspended her tears long enough to sniff audibly and then ostentatiously withdraw her presence from the neighborhood of old Enoch. Practically all of the newcomers, in fact, betrayed an active spirit of hostility toward that solemn and solitary figure, who stood quite alone at the far side of the room, as black and sober as a crow, while the others gathered together protectively, like prairie-cattle before a storm, in the opposite corner of the shadowy room.
That group was made bigger by the advent of two gawky young girls with frightened eyes. Then came a dandified young man in yellow shoes and yellow gloves, and a prim-faced old maid with a mouth that looked as though it had been sucking lemon-drops. Then came other shadowy figures which I couldn't make out, for either the nurse or Doctor Klinger stood between them and me.
But I could hear them there in the vague light, whispering and stirring uneasily. And I could see that they were a group of aliens, unfamiliar with that house. I could also see that none of them nursed any love for the two old Bartlett brothers, who, fortified by the knowledge of their power, showed small concern in either the sniffs of resentment or the scowls of antagonism from that ill-assorted group.
The last to come in was a very stout woman of about forty-five. She had a red face, over-gaudy clothes, and a handful of the finest rings I'd seen in many a day. She was puffing, apparently from climbing the stairs, but she was not in any great distress of mind, for once she had crossed the room she promptly and loudly demanded a decent chair. This one of the gawky young girls, who giggled involuntarily, guiltily got for her. I could see her round red face, in the half-light, as she peered about in every corner, apparently sizing up each article of value in the room. She seemed to resent the sheep-like silence of the others, for she fanned herself in a sort of fury, and emitted a loud grunt of contempt at Agatha Widdemer's spasmodic outburst of tears.
The silence of the thing was beginning to get on my nerves and I wasn't sorry when old Theobald Scripps, the family lawyer, came sidling into the room. He fitted his name; there was no doubt of that. He was a thin-nosed, thin-haired old snipe of about sixty. A pair of glimmering glasses rode the end of his narrow nose like a jockey riding the thinnest of racers. His eyes were pale, his lips were pinched and blue, and his protruding Adam's apple had the trick of working up and down, as he spoke, in a most fascinating manner, so that you had to watch it, even though you wanted to or not.
I eyed him and his acrobatic Adam's apple from my cave of gloom as he tiptoed mincingly over to the doctor, whispered with him for a moment or two, and then looked solemnly about at that shadowy group at the far end of the room.
"This is painful, unspeakably painful," he said with a sigh, as he produced a bulky and legal-looking paper from his pocket. As he was unfolding this I noticed, for the first time, that the two gawky girls had politely anticipated my death by the use of two black-bordered handkerchiefs. And I had to bury a whoop in my pillow. I just couldn't help it. That brought the doctor down on me, like a hawk. He made a bluff at feeling my pulse, but his fingers sank into the flesh of my forearm until they left a mark. And the next moment the yellow-faced old lawyer was at his elbow. And on the far side of the room I could hear a woman crying.
"Will she be strong enough for the ordeal?" tearfully inquired the old snipe.
Doctor Klinger looked concerned.
"I'm afraid it must be hurried. As you see, her strength is going!"
"But her mind is quite clear?"
"Quite clear," the doctor replied.
"Your mind is quite clear?" the old rascal asked as he leaned over me. "Quite clear, my dear?"
That frog-chorus struck me as funny, but I could feel the doctor's grip tighten on my arm.
"Clear as a whistle!" I whispered back—and I had to chuckle at his involuntary wince. It was clearly no time for facetiousness, his face said, as plain as words.
"Ah, quite clear!" he cooingly reiterated as he backed away with his document. "Then I shall read what you dictated to me day before yesterday. And if there are any omissions, or any corrections, please make a sign for me to stop."
Then he sighed and wiped his eyes. "Poor child!" he cooed with a convulsive movement of the shoulders, plainly intended as an expression of inarticulate grief. I would have pinched him, I know, but his leg was beyond my reach. And the only people I felt sorry for was that group of anxious-eyed sheep at the far end of the room. They were, I knew, about to get the jolt of their life. They were going to see their fondest dreams of wealth suddenly go up in smoke. And all this intricate byplay, I remembered, was merely to impress on them that the smoke was genuine. Not one of them, probably, had done any more than I had to merit that wealth. But the shadow of seven million dollars is a far-reaching one. It could, I reminded myself, bring ease and affluence to hundreds. It should have poured like a great river of gold, I supposed, straight out to those hungry-eyed ones. But that mighty river was being turned from its course, was being diverted, was being sent sweeping down the other side of a great divide. And Little Me in my crêpe-de-chine nightie was the instrument that was to turn aside that colossal yellow current, by a mere scratch of the pen. It was no wonder I began to feel rather important.
I could hear old Theobald Scripps clear his throat and begin to speak. Even the woman who had been crying at the far end of the room suddenly grew silent.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in his smooth and oily tones, "all this is, in a way, somewhat irregular, and somewhat outside the usual procedure. But as you know, the case is extraordinary. This poor child, my client, has not long to be with us. But as the sole heir and possessor of the Bartlett estate the solemn duty devolves upon her of disposing of that estate as she sees fit. For that reason and toward that end I was two days ago called in to prepare this last will and testament of Clarissa Rhinelander Bartlett, And you have been called together to witness that signature and to testify to the regularity of the procedure in even its minutest details. Is that quite clear to you all?"
Nobody answered, but the woman at the far end of the room began to cry again, quite audibly. And old Ezra Bartlett made an impatient sign for the man of the law to get busy.
"Now, my dear, if you will listen," the old lawyer said, stepping closer to my side. Then he looked over the rim of his glasses at me. "Can you hear me, quite clearly?"
"Quite clearly," I whispered back.
Then he began to read.
"I, Clarissa Rhinelander Bartlett, of the City of New York, State of New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do make and publish this my last will and testament, hereby revoking all former wills, codicils and testamentary disposition by me at any time made.
"Item one: I hereby direct that my just debts, together with all expenses resulting from my final illness and funeral, be paid as expeditiously after my decease as may be convenient for my executors.
"Item two: I give, devise and bequeath to my beloved nurse, Alicia Ledwidge, of the City of New York, State of New York, as a token of my esteem and for services rendered, the sum of Five Thousand Dollars, to be free of all taxes.
"Item three: I give, devise and bequeath to my physician. Doctor Otto Klinger, as a slight token of his untiring and unsparing efforts on my behalf, the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars, to be free of all taxes."
At this precise point, I ventured a loud and lugubrious groan. But the vise-like clasp on my arm tightened threateningly, and the flat-voiced old man of law went on with his reading.
"Item four: I give, devise and bequeath all the rest and residue, and remainder of my estate equally to my two beloved Uncles, Ezra Tweedie Bartlett and Enoch Tweedie Bartlett, both of the City of New York, State of New York, the same to be had and holden by them, share and share alike.
"Item five: I hereby appoint my said two Uncles, Ezra Tweedie Bartlett and Enoch Tweedie Bartlett, as Executors of this, my last will and testament, and as such they shall have final and absolute disposal of the following described bonds, mortgages and securities, to-wit:
- "$178,000 International & Great Northern Railroad second Mortgage five per cent. Bonds.
- "$436,000 City of New York Gold exempts three and one-half per cent. Corporate Stock.
- "$1,118,000 City of New York Gold exempts three and one-half per cent. assessment Bonds of Nov. 1st, 1916."
I lay there listening to the singsong voice as it read on, going through a long list of names that sounded like the Wall Street page of an evening paper. There was no use trying to follow it. The whole thing only made my head swim. And the bleats of grief that broke from the sheep at the far end of the room only added to the confusion. I began to suspect that I wasn't going to be troubled by any too many and lingering farewells.
The one fact that targeted straight home to my brain, however, was the extent of the estate that snipe-nosed old lawyer was itemizing there as he stood beside me.
As I lay there with half-closed eyes I began to wake up to the enormity of the plot into which I had been dragged. It began to dawn on me that I was the leading lady in a coup that involved millions of dollars. I no longer felt vaguely sorry for the girl who should have been sleeping in that bed, who should be wearing my flimsy garment of crêpe-de-chine and directing this fortune, which must have been hers for so short a while, to the people she cared about, to the friends she was fond of. Her part in that drama, whatever it may have been, was over forever.
But as I lay there listening to that yellow-faced old lawyer while he went into detailed descriptions of sundry and divers blocks of stock and parcels of real estate, there was a rattle from that inevitable chain which drags at every one's heels, linking them to the past. And with that rattle an idea suddenly came to me. It seemed to start at the base of my brain, and scamper up to the top like a run in a stocking. If I was the instrument that was so airily tossing three and a half millions into the laps of each of those two old hypocrites in rusty black, why couldn't I just as easily toss a quarter of a million into my own lap? Why couldn't two play at that game? If old Ezra Tweedie Bartlett was to wallow in such easy money, why shouldn't he be ready to see me shave a paring or two off that fat cheese of his? Why, since they'd squeezed me into that menagerie, practically against my own will, couldn't I set up a little howl of my own?
Then I saw trouble ahead. I saw the foolishness of trying to will a quarter of a million to Miss Baddie Pretlow, address unknown, occupation—well, unfortunately, of such a nature that it would not bear too much official inquiry. The thing would have been easier, I remembered, if poor old Bud had only been alive. I could have trusted Bud. And he would have backed up my claim with a bunch of affidavits knee-high to the Statue of Liberty. He would have made me out a charity worker for the Scrubwomen's Reform Association, or something quite as respectable, and marshaled an army of solemn-eyed witnesses to prove it. And I couldn't help wondering, as I lay there, if this was the sort of four-poster Bud would have put me in, if those foolish old dreams of his had worked out, and having stolen about half the crown jewels of Western Europe, he'd retired from the gentle profession of ice-gathering and lived sedately somewhere on the outskirts of Morristown or along the upper fringe of Brookline.
I came to, just in time to hear the droning voice of that yellow-faced old lawyer saying:
… "In witness whereof I have hereunto subscribed my name and affixed my seal, this fifteenth day of September, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and sixteen."
From the far end of the room I could catch the sound of half-whispering voices, as angry and resentful as the hum from an overturned beehive. The red-faced woman in the chair was even snorting audibly and repeatedly. And the dandified young man in yellow shoes was pacing back and forth on an imported and priceless prayer-rug which he doubtless felt ought to have been his.
I looked up and craned my neck a little, to see how the enemy was accepting those demonstrations of hostility. Old Ezra Tweedie Bartlett, I noticed, stood blandly blinking into space, as placid and austere-eyed as an undertaker. That other old winter-apple, Enoch Tweedie Bartlett, stood there quite as serenely, with his hand cupped behind his ear and an expression of patient benevolence on his wrinkled face. And the snipe-nosed old lawyer at the bedside seemed equally unconscious of his surroundings, for, having quietly motioned Brother Enoch to advance toward the bed, he proceeded to take out a gold banded fountain-pen, fold back the document which he held, and address his professional attentions to me.
"Is that, my child, exactly as you wished?" he solemnly inquired.
Ezra and Enoch Bartlett stood on one side of the bed, Doctor Klinger and Theobald Scripps stood on the other. At the footboard was posted the trained nurse.
They made a pretty formidable-looking guard as they stood there, intent and motionless, fixing me with their five pairs of eyes. But I'd had a second idea suddenly come to me. And I'd decided on my next move.
"Yes, of course, exactly as you wished!" somewhat impatiently purred the man of law, stooping down and preparing to place the document where I could sign it.
"No, it's not!" I said.
I may have whispered it, but I said it with decision. And I could feel the sudden electric stir that crept through that shadowy room.
"It's not?" mildly challenged Theobald Scripps. He straightened up, regarding me over his spectacle-rims, with pained and sorrowful eyes. Then his look of melancholy bewilderment slowly merged into one of actual animosity. For he saw that he couldn't stare me down.
"No," I whispered up to him, meeting his threatening eye with all the pertness I could throw into that look. "There's another item that I'd like inserted."
"But this is most irregular," cut in the old lawyer.
"Is this my will, or yours?" I calmly whispered back to him.
"Your will, of course, my child," murmured the old scoundrel, with an appealing side-glance at old Ezra Bartlett, who'd pressed in a little closer to the bedside.
"And it's my dying request," I whispered up to them. I could see old Ezra's jaw clench. He leaned close in over the bed. His halo of silvery hair, under the circumstances, made him look funny. For I don't think I ever saw an uglier face, in all my life, than his was at that moment.
"Sign that will!" he whispered. It was not a loud whisper. But it vibrated against my ear-drum like the hiss of a snake.
"Woof! Woof!" I whispered back. For I intended to show him that he couldn't intimidate me.
"Sign that will!" he repeated.
I looked him square in the eye.
"Not on your life!" I whispered back.
He leaned over me again. His hands were shaking, his face was about the color of a well-ripened camembert. For a moment I thought he was going to fly off the handle and Desdemona the life out of me with a bed-pillow.
It was the calm-eyed Miss Ledwidge who gently but firmly drew him back.
"Are you feeling worse, dear?" she said out loud, to cover the maneuver. "Is it tiring you too much?" But as she fussed about me I could hear her whispering to the three old crows so close beside her. "Don't stop things now, or you will lose everything!"
I could see those three old conspirators confer together, eye to eye. They did so without speaking a word. But I knew that a silent debate was taking place there, close beside me. I witnessed the wordless and mysterious giving and taking of messages, the clash of unspoken question and answer, the final surrender to some mute argument which had to be faced. It was like a stage-wait, with the audience at the far end of that dimly-lighted room getting restless to understand the reason for it. But it ended in the snipe-nosed old man of law once more leaning solicitously in over his somewhat triumphant-eyed patient.
"What is it, my dear, you are asking of us?" he inquired, apparently with the forbearance of a long-suffering man being tried beyond his just deserts.
"Just about seven per cent. as a commission on the deal!" I whispered back. I said it quietly enough to carry to that little group about the bedside, but no farther. I could see old Enoch Bartlett's face working in the vague side-light. The expression of that face made me grateful for the pillar of Sheffield-plate that reposed on that bed so close beside me.
"So please add item six to that will," I whispered, in a slightly louder tone than before. For I was beginning to lose patience with that circle of dyed-in-the-wool hypocrites. And I intended to show them that their poor little half-wooled ewe-lamb wasn't the thing of meekness they had thought her.
"Now what is it, my dear, that you wish inserted?" inquired Theobald Scripps, with condoning wags of the head. And he stood with pen poised, as though ready for dictation.
I gave it to them, straight off the bat.
"I give and bequeath," I whispered, "give and bequeath to Wendy Gruger Washburn, of the City of New York, State of New York, the sum of Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Dollars"—here old Ezra Bartlett emitted a low but funereal groan—"to be paid to him in cash out of my estate prior to all other claims."