“I WISH YOU WOULD NOT LIE TO ME”
Zelda had carried in her heart for weeks the fear of some such
disclosure as that which she had just heard from her uncle. In her
ignorance of business, she had not even vaguely guessed what had taken
so strong a hold upon her father. He had acted strangely during the
long summer, but she had attributed his vagaries to the infirmity of
years. His curious conduct in the country the night she met him with
Pollock had troubled her greatly, but she had spoken of it to no one.
He had seemed himself again. He had, indeed, treated her with something
more than his habitual deference since their return to town.
Zelda went at once to the living-room where her father usually sat with
his newspaper at this hour, but he had not come home; and she went up
to her own room, glad of a respite. She had acted her part so long; she
had defended him in her own heart and by her own acts; she had even
sought to clothe him in her thoughts with something of the dignity, the
nobility even, of honorable age; but this was now at an end. It was
clear that a crisis had been reached; and while the purely business
aspect of the situation did not trouble her at all, she felt that her
relations with her father could never again be the same. She had been
shielding him, not only from the contempt of her kindred, but from her
own distrust as well; and now that this was at an end, she went slowly
to her room with a new feeling of isolation in her heart.
She made a light and put aside her hat and coat with the studied care
that we give to little things in our perplexities. Then she unlocked
the drawer of her desk in which she kept her mother’s book. It opened
at the page that had meant so much to her, that had been her guide and
her command, and she pondered the sentences anew. When she heard her
father come in she went down in her street dress, with the little book
in her pocket, slowly and with no plan formed.
Dameron was on his knees before the living-room fire, and he started
slightly when he heard her step.
“It’s much cooler, Zee. We came in from the country just in time.”
“Yes, it is chilly to-night. It must be nearly time for heavy frosts.”
“Frost? Yes; it is time for a great frost. Yes; a deadly frost is due.
I am watching it; I am watching it,”--and he seemed to forget himself
for a moment and she looked at him wonderingly, not knowing what he
meant.
He stood with his back to the flame, his hands behind him, and regarded
Zelda warily, in a way that had grown habitual of late.
“Where have you been, Zee?” he asked.
“I went down to Zimmer’s to look at some pictures they are showing
there; and on my way home I stopped at Uncle Rodney’s.”
“Ah, yes; your Uncle Rodney. I haven’t seen him since he came home. I
trust he’s quite well.”
“Yes; he’s always well.”
“I believe that is so; but the life he has led is conducive to a
tranquil old age. He has led a life of ease, with no responsibilities.”
This was Dameron’s usual attitude toward his brother-in-law; there
was nothing to be gained by defending her uncle, and Zelda turned the
conversation into other channels. She had enjoyed her summer in many
ways and to mention the farm was always to give her father pleasure. He
followed her talk with relief. He saw with satisfaction that she was
simply dressed; he was afraid of her when she came to the table arrayed
in splendor, as she sometimes did, quite unaccountably.
He did not seek the evening paper with his wonted eagerness when they
returned to the sitting-room after dinner, but continued talking.
“There are some business matters that I should like to speak of
to-night, Zee.”
“Very well, father.”
“I have deferred this as long as possible, feeling that you would not
care to be troubled about business--even your own. I fully sympathize
with a woman’s dislike of it.”
He had brought his fingers to their apex and was speaking in a
pleasant, conciliatory tone.
“I’m sure I have no wish to learn business, father.”
“Quite right; you are a wise girl, Zee. A home-keeping heart is best
for a woman. One of our ministers was asked, many years ago, what he
thought of the movement for the emancipation of women. And he said
that his answer would be the answer of Abraham when the Lord asked him
where Sara was,--‘Behold, in the tent.’”
“I suppose the tent may have been a little lonely at times,” suggested
Zelda; and Dameron smiled and rubbed his hands.
“As to your own affairs, the trusteeship established by your dear
mother is nearly at an end. It expires by the limitations of your
mother’s will on your twenty-first birthday, that is, to-morrow.”
“Yes; I believe that is so.”
He looked at her quickly; he found her composure disquieting. Perhaps
Rodney Merriam had been giving her counsel!
“As we have just said,--and I was glad to find you agreeing with me,--a
woman does well to let business alone. There is an immense amount of
detail connected with an estate,--even a comparatively small one, like
your mother’s. There are many accounts to keep. I have kept them for
years in my own way. I am not an expert accountant, but I hope that my
work is accurate. At any time that you would like to examine the books,
I should be glad to aid you,--”
“Thank you,--yes, of course,” said Zelda, hurriedly. She had been
thinking of other things; but she now fixed her attention upon what her
father was saying.
“I have thought, Zee, that perhaps you would like to continue this
trusteeship. No one else understands the nature of the property so well
as I. I have given the best years of my life to studying it. The burden
is a considerable one for my years. I am nearing seventy; nearing the
three-score and ten of the scriptural allotment,--but if you would
like to have me go on, I should be willing to do so. Your dear mother
gave me her entire confidence; it would please me if I could feel that
your own trust in me was equally great.”
His appeal to her mother’s memory sickened her. She must have a little
time to consider. She saw no reason for haste in perfecting this new
arrangement, and she resolved to do nothing without consulting her
uncle.
“I suppose there is no hurry about it, father. It would be just as well
for me to go over the whole matter at the time of the change.” She
spoke carelessly, but a bitterness had begun to creep into her heart.
The contempt that she had smothered for a year now ceased to be a
smoldering ember and leaped into flame.
“I wished to propose that myself,” he replied, smiling. “And I will
tell you now what I had expected to conceal until your birthday, of
a little gift I am making you. I have placed two thousand dollars to
your credit at the bank. It is subject to your check. It is from my
own estate, of course. I should hardly make you a present of your own
money.”
He rose and paused for a moment, smiling down on her, and she lifted
her eyes to his.
“You are very kind; it is a handsome gift; but I think we’d better
put it into the new trusteeship. Then I shall not be tempted into
extravagances.”
He had expected some exuberant expression of pleasure; but she had
spoken coldly, and her manner troubled him. He took from the table a
brown paper parcel and opened it, carefully untying the knot in the
tape which had fastened it.
“I think you have never seen a copy of your mother’s will, Zee,--unless
perhaps your Uncle Rodney has shown it to you.”
“No; I have never seen it,” she answered.
He unfolded a copy of the last will and testament of Margaret Dameron
carefully, and then refolded it lengthwise to remove the creases for
greater convenience in examining it. He proceeded with an exaggerated
deliberation. A man likes to mystify a woman about business matters;
his own wisdom grows refulgent in the dark recesses of her ignorance.
“You had better ask the maid to excuse you if any one calls.”
She went to the kitchen and spoke to Polly. The telephone was on the
second floor, and she pondered a moment as to whether she should not
call her uncle. She prolonged her visit to the kitchen, talking to the
colored woman to give herself time to think. She had grown fond of
Polly and felt a grateful security in the knowledge that the woman was
in the house.
Dameron read his wife’s will through, and Zelda listened attentively,
though few of the terms meant anything to her, and the numbers of
lots and the names of additions, divisions and subdivisions were only
rigmarole. Her father paused now and then to make some comment on an
item, explaining more fully what was meant.
Either her uncle had deceived her or her father was lying; and she
knew that her uncle had told the truth. The situation cleared for her
slowly. His request for a continuation of the trusteeship veiled his
wish to keep her affairs in his own hands, without a break. It was a
clever plan and in an impersonal way she admired his audacity.
“You understand,” her father continued, “that the personal
property--that means stocks, bonds and so on--was to be sold and the
proceeds reinvested as I saw fit. It was necessary to change most of
it--I had no option in the matter. Your grandfather, Zee, had been
one of the early railroad builders in this part of the country, and
the original small independent lines have all been merged into great
systems. It should be a matter of pride to you that your grandfather
was a man so far-seeing and progressive. But now, his children and
their children derive the benefit. I recall,”--he dropped his paper
and looked at Zelda with a reminiscential air--“I recall that a
representative in Congress from our state was defeated for reëlection
back in the forties for voting an appropriation to aid Morse in his
experiments with the telegraph. They charged him with wasting the
people’s money. But times change, and men change with them!”
He sighed, and the thin leaves of his copy of the will rustled in his
fingers as he sought the place where he had dropped his reading. He
lingered over the words that described the nature of the trust. They
were very sweet to him, because they were at once a justification of
himself and a refutation of the slanders of his wife’s family. He knew,
too, that they gave emphasis to the suggestion that he was now making
to Zelda, that she renew the trusteeship. He wished to put this as much
as possible in the light of a favor to the girl.
“I am very sorry that my friend and counsel, Mr. Carr, is absent, as I
should like to have him prepare the new deed of trust. He is a man of
the highest probity. He is the ablest lawyer at our bar. You understand
that.”
“Yes; I know that he is a very able man.”
His joy in the knowledge that Michael Carr was far away in Italy at
this moment did not compensate for his anxiety at Zelda’s seeming
indifference. But he must not falter; he could not afford to lose now.
He continued with increasing deliberation.
“In Mr. Carr’s absence I have not thought it wise to take another
attorney into our confidence. I have prepared a deed of trust myself.
I copied from some of the best models. Such deeds are rather common
nowadays and I have consulted a number, the work of sound lawyers,
that are on record in our county offices. I have enumerated all the
property that is set forth in your mother’s will, with the difference
that I have given proper designations to items that have changed in the
natural course of things. Shall I read the deed?”
“Yes, please,” said Zelda. “I should like to hear it.”
He had, as he said, copied the form of a trust deed that was well-known
among local lawyers. As a trust deed it was absolutely above reproach,
save only that neither the property as described nor any equivalent for
the bulk of it was any longer in existence as a part of the estate of
Margaret Merriam Dameron.
Zelda sat inert, listening to the recital, as her father read with
deliberation and with due regard for the sonorous legal phrases. He
even read through the notarial certificate; and then he drew off his
glasses and settled back in his chair with a satisfied air. He hoped
that Zelda would discuss some of the provisions, or ask questions, so
that he might be assured that she suspected nothing.
“No doubt it all sounds very tedious to you, Zee, dear. But these
things are necessary. I have carefully weighed every word in that deed.
Its provisions are wise,--very wise, and safeguard the interests of the
beneficiary very strongly. Yes; it is an excellent piece of work,--but
of course I take no credit for it. I have merely given you the benefit
of the work of others,--all very competent men.”
Zelda said nothing. He rose and fumbled with the pen and ink that lay
on the table by the inkstand, while he waited for her to speak. The
silence grew oppressive; the girl had always responded quickly in their
talk. He turned, holding the pen in his hand.
“I suggest that you look the paper over before signing, Zee.”
He held the paper toward her, but she shook her head.
“Very well. I have read it to you carefully; and you can, of course,
have a copy at any time. It is perfectly proper for you to sign
to-night,--the day before your birthday; you can acknowledge it before
a notary to-morrow.”
He was smiling, but he held the pen toward her with a hand that shook
perceptibly.
Repulsion and pity struggled for the mastery as she pondered, looking
away from him into the fire. She felt that she could never meet his
eyes again; but she seemed to see them in the flames, the small gray
eyes that were so full of cunning and avarice. It was his deceit, his
effort to play upon her credulity, that stung her now into a fierce
contempt. She rose and turned toward him.
“I wish you would not lie to me, Ezra Dameron,” she said quietly, with
even the suggestion of a caress upon the syllables of his name.