"If Terry worries you like this," suggested her brother kindly, "why
don't you forbid these pranks?"
She looked at him as if in surprise.
"Forbid Terry?" she echoed, and then smiled. Decidedly this was her first
tone, a soft tone that came from deep in her throat. Instinctively Vance
contrasted it with the way she had spoken to him. But it was always this
way when Terry was mentioned. For the first time he saw it clearly. It
was amazing how blind he had been. "Forbid Terence? Vance, that devil of
a horse is part of his life. He was on a hunting trip when he saw Le
Sangre--"
"Good Lord, did they call the horse that?"
"A French-Canadian was the first to discover him, and he gave the name.
And he's the color of blood, really. Well, Terence saw Le Sangre on a
hilltop against the sky. And he literally went mad. Actually, he struck
out on foot with his rifle and lived in the country and never stopped
walking until he wore down Le Sangre somehow and brought him back
hobbled--just skin and bones, and Terence not much more. Now Le Sangre is
himself again, and he and Terence have a fight--like that--every day. I
dream about it; the most horrible nightmares!"
"And you don't stop it?"
"My dear Vance, how little you know Terence! You couldn't tear that horse
out of his life without breaking his heart. I _know!_"
"So you suffer, day by day?"
"I've done very little else all my life," said Elizabeth gravely. "And
I've learned to bear pain."
He swallowed. Also, he was beginning to grow irritated. He had never
before had a talk with Elizabeth that contained so many reefs that
threatened shipwreck. He returned to the gist of their conversation
rather too bluntly.
"But to continue, Elizabeth, any banker would lend me money on my
prospects."
"You mean the property which will come to you when I die?"
He used all his power, but he could not meet her glance. "You know that's
a nasty way to put it, Elizabeth."
"Dear Vance," she sighed, "a great many people say that I'm a hard woman.
I suppose I am. And I like to look facts squarely in the face. Your
prospects begin with my death, of course."
He had no answer, but bit his lip nervously and wished the ordeal would
come to an end.
"Vance," she went on, "I'm glad to have this talk with you. It's
something you have to know. Of course I'll see that during my life or my
death you'll be provided for. But as for your main prospects, do you know
where they are?"
"Well?"
She was needlessly brutal about it, but as she had told him, her
education had been one of pain.
"Your prospects are down there by the river on the back of Le Sangre."
Vance Cornish gasped.
"I'll show you what I mean, Vance. Come along."
The moment she rose, some of her age fell from her. Her carriage was
erect. Her step was still full of spring and decision, as she led the way
into the house. It was a big, solid, two-story building which the
mightiest wind could not shake. Henry Cornish had merely founded the
house, just as he had founded the ranch; the main portion of the work had
been done by his daughter. And as they passed through, her stern old eye
rested peacefully on the deep, shadowy vistas, and her foot fell with
just pride on the splendid rising sweep of the staircase. They passed
into the roomy vault of the upper hall and went down to the end. She took
out a big key from her pocket and fitted it into the lock; then Vance
dropped his hand on her arm. His voice lowered.
"You've made a mistake, Elizabeth. This is Father's room."
Ever since his death it had been kept unchanged, and practically
unentered save for an occasional rare day of work to keep it in order.
Now she nodded and resolutely turned the key and swung the door open.
Vance went in with an exclamation of wonder. It was quite changed from
the solemn old room and the brown, varnished woodwork which he
remembered. Cream-tinted paint now made the walls cool and fresh. The
solemn engravings no longer hung above the bookcases. And the bookcases
themselves had been replaced with built-in shelves pleasantly filled with
rich bindings, black and red and deep yellow-browns. A tall cabinet stood
open at one side filled with rifles and shotguns of every description,
and another cabinet was loaded with fishing apparatus. The stiff-backed
chairs had given place to comfortable monsters of easy lines. Vance
Cornish, as one in a dream, peered here and there.
"God bless us!" he kept repeating. "God bless us! But where's there a
trace of Father?"
"I left it out," said Elizabeth huskily, "because this room is meant
for--but let's go back. Do you remember that day twenty-four years ago
when we took Jack Hollis's baby?"
"When _you_ took it," he corrected. "I disclaim all share in the idea."
"Thank you," she answered proudly. "At any rate, I took the boy and
called him Terence Colby."
"Why that name," muttered Vance, "I never could understand."
"Haven't I told you? No, and I hardly know whether to trust even you with
the secret, Vance. But you remember we argued about it, and you said that
blood would out; that the boy would turn out wrong; that before he was
twenty-five he would have shot a man?"
"I believe the talk ran like that."
"Well, Vance, I started out with a theory; but the moment I had that baby
in my arms, it became a matter of theory, plus, and chiefly plus. I kept
remembering what you had said, and I was afraid. That was why I worked up
the Colby idea."
"That's easy to see."
"It wasn't so easy to do. But I heard of the last of an old Virginia
family who had died of consumption in Arizona. I traced his family. He
was the last of it. Then it was easy to arrange a little story: Terence
Colby had married a girl in Arizona, died shortly after; the girl died
also, and I took the baby. Nobody can disprove what I say. There's not a
living soul who knows that Terence is the son of Jack Hollis--except you
and me."
"How about the woman I got the baby from?"
"I bought her silence until fifteen years ago. Then she died, and now
Terry is convinced that he is the last representative of the Colby
family."
She laughed with excitement and beckoned him out of the room and into
another--Terry's room, farther down the hall. She pointed to a large
photograph of a solemn-faced man on the wall. "You see that?"
"Who is it?"
"I got it when I took Terry to Virginia last winter--to see the old
family estate and go over the ground of the historic Colbys."
She laughed again happily.
"Terry was wild with enthusiasm. He read everything he could lay his
hands on about the Colbys. Discovered the year they landed in Virginia;
how they fought in the Revolution; how they fought and died in the Civil
War. Oh, he knows every landmark in the history of 'his' family. Of
course, I encouraged him."
"I know," chuckled Vance. "Whenever he gets in a pinch, I've heard you
say: 'Terry, what should a Colby do?'"
"And," cut in Elizabeth, "you must admit that it has worked. There isn't
a prouder, gentler, cleaner-minded boy in the world than Terry. Not
blood. It's the blood of Jack Hollis. But it's what he thinks himself to
be that counts. And now, Vance, admit that your theory is exploded."
He shook his head.
"Terry will do well enough. But wait till the pinch comes. You don't know
how he'll turn out when the rub comes. _Then_ blood will tell!"
She shrugged her shoulders angrily.
"You're simply being perverse now, Vance. At any rate, that picture is
one of Terry's old 'ancestors,' Colonel Vincent Colby, of prewar days.
Terry has discovered family resemblances, of course--same black hair,
same black eyes, and a great many other things."
"But suppose he should ever learn the truth?" murmured Vance.
She caught her breath.
"That would be ruinous, of course. But he'll never learn. Only you and I
know."
"A very hard blow, eh," said Vance, "if he were robbed of the Colby
illusion and had Black Jack put in its place as a cold fact? But of
course we'll never tell him."
Her color was never high. Now it became gray. Only her eyes remained
burning, vivid, young, blazing out through the mask of age.
"Remember you said his blood would tell before he was twenty-five; that
the blood of Black Jack would come to the surface; that he would have
shot a man?"
"Still harping on that, Elizabeth? What if he does?"
"I'd disown him, throw him out penniless on the world, never see him
again."
"You're a Spartan," said her brother in awe, as he looked on that thin,
stern face. "Terry is your theory. If he disappoints you, he'll be simply
a theory gone wrong. You'll cut him out of your life as if he were an
algebraic equation and never think of him again."
"But he's not going wrong, Vance. Because, in ten days, he'll be twenty-
five! And that's what all these changes mean. The moment it grows dark on
the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, I'm going to take him into my
father's room and turn it over to him."
He had listened to her patiently, a little wearied by her unusual flow of
words. Now he came out of his apathy with a jerk. He laid his hand on
Elizabeth's shoulder and turned her so that the light shone full in her
face. Then he studied her.
"What do you mean by that, Elizabeth?"
"Vance," she said steadily, but with a touch of pity in her voice, "I
have waited for a score of years, hoping that you'd settle down and try
to do a man's work either here or somewhere else. You haven't done it.
Yesterday Mr. Cornwall came here to draw up my will. By that will I leave
you an annuity, Vance, that will take care of you in comfort; but I leave
everything else to Terry Colby. That's why I've changed the room. The
moment it grows dark ten days from today, I'm going to take Terry by the
hand and lead him into the room and into the position of my father!"
The mask of youth which was Vance Cornish crumbled and fell away. A new
man looked down at her. The firm flesh of his face became loose. His
whole body was flabby. She had the feeling that if she pushed against his
chest with the weight of her arm, he would topple to the floor. That
weakness gradually passed. A peculiar strength of purpose grew in its
place.
"Of course, this is a very shrewd game, Elizabeth. You want to wake me
up. You're using the spur to make me work. I don't blame you for using
the bluff, even if it's a rather cruel one. But, of course, it's
impossible for you to be serious in what you say."
"Why impossible, Vance?"
"Because you know that I'm the last male representative of our family.
Because you know my father would turn in his grave if he knew that an
interloper, a foundling, the child of a murderer, a vagabond, had been
made the heir to his estate. But you aren't serious, Elizabeth; I
understand."
He swallowed his pride, for panic grew in him in proportion to the length
of time she maintained her silence.
"As a matter of fact, I don't blame you for giving me a scare, my dear
sister. I have been a shameless loafer. I'm going to reform and lift the
burden of business off your shoulders--let you rest the remainder of your
life."
It was the worst thing he could have said. He realized it the moment he
had spoken. This forced, cowardly surrender was worse than brazen
defiance, and he saw her lip curl. An idler is apt to be like a sullen
child, except that in a grown man the child's sulky spite becomes a dark
malice, all-embracing. For the very reason that Vance knew he was
receiving what he deserved, and that this was the just reward for his
thriftless years of idleness, he began to hate Elizabeth with a cold,
quiet hatred. There is something stimulating about any great passion. Now
Vance felt his nerves soothed and calmed. His self-possession returned
with a rush. He was suddenly able to smile into her face.
"After all," he said, "you're absolutely right. I've been a failure,
Elizabeth--a rank, disheartening failure. You'd be foolish to trust the
result of your life labors in my hands--entirely foolish. I admit that
it's a shrewd blow to see the estate go to--Terry."
He found it oddly difficult to name the boy.
"But why not? Why not Terry? He's a clean youngster, and he may turn out
very well--in spite of his blood. I hope so. The Lord knows you've given
him every chance and the best start in the world. I wish him luck!"
He reached out his hand, and her bloodless fingers closed strongly over
it.
"There's the old Vance talking," she said warmly, a mist across her eyes.
"I almost thought that part of you had died."
He writhed inwardly. "By Jove, Elizabeth, think of that boy, coming out
of nothing, everything poured into his hands--and now within ten days of
his goal! Rather exciting, isn't it? Suppose he should stumble at the
very threshold of his success? Eh?"
He pressed the point with singular insistence.
"Doesn't it make your heart beat, Elizabeth, when you think that he might
fall--that he might do what I prophesied so long ago--shoot a man before
he's twenty-five?"
She shrugged the supposition calmly away.
"My faith in him is based as strongly as the rocks, Vance. But if he
fell, after the schooling I've given him, I'd throw him out of my life--
forever."
He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar eagerness. Then he
shrugged in turn. "Tush! Of course, that's impossible. Let's go down."