The casket had been placed on its shelf in the Carteret vault and
wreaths and crosses piled to the roof. Mr. Donald conducted Gita to his
motor and they returned in silence to the manor. Gita drew a long
breath. Her grandmother had made her final exit. She might regret, but
she had mourned too deeply for her mother to confuse regret with grief.
And she was conscious of a thrill of expectation. She had seen plays
where wills were read by a solemn lawyer to a solemn family and thought
them highly dramatic. Now she was to be the central figure in such a
scene and that old library would be a proper setting.
Topper was standing in the hall. She gave him her first order.
“Please send all these flowers that are left to some hospital—at once.
And open every window in the house.”
Topper, who distrusted fresh air even by day, shook his head in protest,
but his eyes fell before the dark imperious gaze that had mastered his
will for seventy-odd years. He had never expected to have a young
mistress in his old age, and he and Andrew retired to the pantry and
wept into two generous glasses of old port.
Gita followed Mr. Donald into the library and opened its windows
herself. It was a very large room with books to the ceiling, galleries,
alcoves, flights of steps. Over the paneled oak mantel was a half-length
portrait of her grandfather, at which she had scowled more than once; it
bore a fatal resemblance to her father. The room, when closed, had that
subtle odor of death that comes from rotting calf, and, possibly, from
those silent emanations of brains long still. But when the sunlight
poured in and the salt winds from the Atlantic purified the air, it
looked less like a tomb of dead thought, merely a dignified old library
in a stately old manor house.
Gita took a chair close to one of the windows and Mr. Donald settled
himself with a sigh of relief in a large leather chair by the central
table.
“This has been a trying day,” he said, “and I am not as young as I was.
I shall miss my old friend, who was a remarkable woman, Miss Carteret, a
remarkable woman.”
“Yes,” said Gita sincerely, “she was. I wish I could have known her
longer—and that she could have been sixty instead of eighty.”
Mr. Donald looked at her approvingly. Proper sentiments, certainly.
Hardly to have been expected perhaps, brought up as she had been, and
with her boyish hardness. He had never before seen a Carteret who did
not look feminine, however imperious. He had met her twice before and
had anticipated impatience, slang, and a total lack of respect. But Gita
looked rather meek sitting there by the window and quite properly
subdued. She had laid aside her hat, and her rough cropped head, which
had excited her grandmother’s ire, and no less his own, was bent over a
honeysuckle bush, inhaling its delicate fragrance.
It was a beautiful head. Mr. Donald studied it against the light, and
with approval. Lines of face and head perfectly balanced. Set on a long
throat. Small high ears. A spirited profile and the magnificent black
eyes of the Carterets. It was something, at least, that this girl was a
Carteret in looks. But what was she inside that almost blasphemous
exterior? Had she any regard for tradition, or would she take the bit in
her teeth, laugh at his advice, sell the manor in spite of her promise
to her grandmother, and behave like a young colt generally? She looked
as if her next step would be to wear trousers, and Mr. Donald, who gave
the present generation of young people his unqualified disapproval,
wished she were more like them and less like an absent-minded compound
of Old Dame Nature. He was a mere sixty, but he had inherited the
Carterets from his father and known many of them, although none that
gave him a clew to this last of the line. However, he was used to
trouble and generally knew how to deal with it.
He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and opening his bag,
drew out a document.
“This is the last will and testament of your grandmother,” he said
solemnly, “and, as is customary, it is my duty to read it to the family
immediately after the final ceremonies.”
“Yes,” said Gita, smiling, “I always wanted to hear a will read. I know
what is in it, but it will be fu—interesting, all the same.”
Mr. Donald frowned. “This is not an occasion for levity, my dear Miss
Carteret.”
“Of course. Sorry. But I really do want to hear a will read.”
“Are you romantic?” asked Mr. Donald hopefully.
“Good lord, no! But I have a sense of drama.”
“Well, I shall not argue the point. But I think—first—may I ring for
Topper and order a glass of sherry? This really has been a very trying
day.”
“Indeed, yes!” There was no lack of Carteret hospitality at least.
Topper brought the sherry and retired. Mr. Donald filled two glasses,
handed one to Gita, and lifted his own gallantly. “Here’s to your very
good health, Miss Carteret, and a long and useful life.”
“Thanks,” said Gita dryly, but drinking the sherry, of which she
suddenly felt the need. “Same to you. But please call me Gita. Miss
Carteret doesn’t suit me at all.”
“Ah!—well, yes—I’ll call you Gita with pleasure. And now I shall read
this last testament of my dear old friend.”
He began to read in a dry legal voice. Gita, warmed by the sherry,
smiled at the lines beginning: “Being of sound mind,” etc. Nothing more
aptly could have described her grandmother.
Mrs. Carteret, after generous bequests to Topper and Andrew, left her
entire fortune to Gita, with instructions that she give her late
grandfather’s studs, cuff-links and scarf-pins to Mr. Donald, who was
named sole executor of the estate.
“It consists of this house and grounds, two farms, a house on States
Avenue, Atlantic City, and good securities,” Mr. Donald informed his
client. “There are no mortgages. The value of the estate after the
inheritance tax has been paid will be something under two hundred
thousand dollars. The rent of the house in Atlantic City just about pays
for itself these days, what with taxes and repairs. When the present
lease expires I should advise you to sell it. It was built for your
grand-uncle, Byllynge Carteret, who left it to your grandfather in
payment for moneys borrowed at various times. Most of those old homes
have been turned into boarding-houses, since fashion moved out to
Chelsea, and summer visitors come to Atlantic City in increasing
hordes—the great majority of whom cannot afford the hotels on the
Boardwalk. But——” He paused, coughed, and polished his spectacles. “I
hope, my dear Gita, that you do not contemplate selling or even renting
the manor.”
“I shall not sell it, but I certainly shall rent it if I should at any
time want a larger income.”
“That would be almost as bad,” grumbled Mr. Donald, who, however, was
relieved. “Of course it is rather a dismal home for a young girl, and I
can imagine you would prefer to live for a time in a large city; but I
feel sure that later in life you will be glad to know that you still
possess this historic old manor of your ancestors.”
“My ancestors are not worrying me. I’m glad I’ve no relations to
ding-dong about them. But I like the old place and I intend to hang on
to it.”
“Ah—yes—well, I’m glad to hear that. May I ask if you have any
immediate plans?”
“I intend to stay here for the present.”
“Couldn’t do better. Finest climate in the world.”
“Better say that to a Californian! Must you go?”
Mr. Donald had disposed of his spectacles and risen. “I am very grateful
to you,” added his young hostess with unexpected graciousness. “And to
my grandmother. If she hadn’t left me all this I’d have had to go to
work. I hate work, and all the insincere jargon about it. Nobody works
who doesn’t have to, even those who have great gifts that demand
expression. They merely go on mental jags and enjoy themselves.
Otherwise there’s no joy in work well done. The only joy is not having
to do it.”
Mr. Donald was returning to his office to prepare a case to be argued in
court next morning and felt no inclination to exhaust himself in debate
with a young woman who would probably fling one defiance after another
at his head under the impression that she was modern. He answered
suavely:
“Very creditable of you to think for yourself. And it certainly would be
unbecoming for one of the Carteret ladies to work for her living.”
“That isn’t worrying me, either. My objections to looking for a job and
holding it down are purely personal.”
“You are very modern.” Mr. Donald sighed.
“Oh, that’s rather old-fashioned.”
“I mean in your complete indifference to tradition. But that seems to be
one of the many phases of the present unrest. The war no doubt. Now, is
there anything else I can do for you?”
“Of course you will continue to take care of the estate? I am hopelessly
ignorant.”
“With the greatest pleasure!” Another apprehension was laid. In money
matters at least this young rebel did not purpose to take the bit
between her teeth. “And remember, if you need advice of any kind my
services are at your immediate disposal.”
“I’d like to sell the house in Atlantic City at once and renovate this.
I’ll keep the best of the furniture, of course, but the rest will go to
the stables. My grandmother’s room I shall keep intact—as a memorial to
the Carterets!”
“Well, I can’t blame you. But the lease of the house on States Avenue
has a year to run. After the inheritance tax has been disposed of I’ll
see what can be done.”
“Thanks. Sooner the better. Perhaps I could persuade the Pelhams to get
out. Topper says they left cards and that gives me an excuse to call on
them.”
Mr. Donald gave his smallest and tightest smile. “Try, by all means,” he
said. “And your luck seems to have changed. Now, I must really bid you
good-day. I shall be over again shortly with papers to sign.”