On my way to Jedfrey's office I could not shake off my unfavorable
impression of Miss Drainger. I assured myself again and again that the
oddity of their manner of life was sufficient reason for her
peculiarities, and yet the same picture of her kept recurring to my
mind--a vision of her flitting to and fro in that great house like a
monstrous evil moth. I imagined her pale face with its spots of rouge
and her lemon dress so unlike any costume I had ever seen. I pictured
her materializing, as I phrased it, out of the shadows; hovering
expectantly (I knew not why) over the gaunt form in the great chair by
the window; or peering out of the unopened shutters as she moved from
room to room. I positively grew ashamed of myself for my fancies.
The following morning a square, yellowed envelope (everything about that
place seemed to lack freshness), addressed in the fine, regular hand of
a generation ago, caught my eye in the heap of mail, and putting aside
more important matters, I at once opened it. The note was from Mrs.
Drainger, evidently written in her own hand, and contained the provision
I was to insert in the will. It was sufficiently queer. She desired that
upon her death no one should venture to see her face, which would be
covered, she wrote, by a thick veil, and she was particularly anxious
that her daughter Emily should respect her wishes. Otherwise her
property was to go elsewhere.
The energy and clarity exhibited by the old lady on the previous day
forbade any notion that this preposterous idea sprang from a mind
touched by the infirmities of age, and yet her stipulation was so
peculiar, so irrational that I pondered long over my duty in the case.
What Mrs. Drainger wanted was, in one sense, absurdly simple--merely the
revision of her will, scarcely more than the retyping of that simple
document; but I was conscious of a deeper demand; as though, to the
support of her desires, she had called in my person upon the assurance,
even the majesty of the law. I could not justify her breaking of what I
instinctively took to be a determined habit of seclusion except by
postulating deeper issues than I saw on the surface. There was no reason
why I should not revise the document and be done with it; queerer
provisions have been made in other wills. Yet, to make the inheritance
conditional upon so strange a request might be unfair to Miss Drainger.
It was true, I distrusted her; but that was not to the point, and this
provision was one that she would have every natural incentive to break.
A further thought occurred--there might be other children not known to
me who would expect some share in the modest estate; finding the
property willed to Emily upon so tenuous a provision, they might easily
charge that that provision had been broken, when proof and disproof
would be equally difficult, and Mrs. Drainger's wish that her companion
(despite her singular testament) be her sole heir would then not be met.
The will simply provided that, should Emily forfeit her right to the
property the estate should go to a local charity; no mention was made of
other children; but this silence did not disprove their existence.
I was too well aware of the ease with which so singular a document could
be attacked in court, not to be uneasy. I resolved finally again to
consult my client (if the name could attach to so imperious a lady) and
briefly announcing my absence to Mark Jedfrey, I sought the Drainger
residence.
The old house looked as deathlike as ever. It seemed incredible that
human existence could be possible within its sunless walls. Indeed, my
persistent efforts at the rusty bell-handle produced only a feeble echo,
and the round-eyed interest of a group of urchins, who volunteered,
after a time, that nobody lived there. I was beginning to agree with
them when a key was turned in the lock and the weatherbeaten door
yielded a few cautious inches. Miss Emily looked out at me.
"It's you," she said ungraciously, and seemed rather to hope that I
would disappear as at the uttering of a charm.
"I wish to see your mother," I said.
She hesitated. At length, opening the door scarcely enough to admit me,
she bade me enter, and disappeared. The house was as dismal as ever.
"Come in here," she said, appearing after her usual sudden fashion in a
dim doorway and looking more like a wraith than ever.
Her eyes burned me as I walked cautiously into the other room.
It was one I had not seen, but Mrs. Drainger was seated, as before, in
the obscurest corner, a blur of white in which her pale hands looked
like pallid lumps of flame. I faced my invisible client.
"I have come about the will," I began, and was immediately conscious of
Miss Emily's voracious interest. The opening was, as I recognized too
late, scarcely diplomatic.
"Will?" said the daughter in a harsh voice. "You are making a will?
You--you----"
She looked enormously tall and unpleasant as she spoke.
"Yes, my dear," responded Mrs. Drainger dryly.
"You? _You_?" continued the daughter rapidly. "After all these years? It
is incredible. It is incredible." She laughed unpleasantly with closed
eyes.
Then, conscious that she was betraying emotions not meant for me, she
turned to my chair. "You will understand that the information is
something of a shock for a daughter. My mother's condition----"
"Mrs. Drainger," I ventured to interrupt, "wishes merely to make certain
changes in an instrument already drawn up." I was conscious of a stir,
whether of gratitude or of resentment, from the darkened corner.
Emily seemed momentarily bewildered.
"You frightened me," she said at length with a frankness palpably false.
"I quite understand," I retorted, the sham being, I thought, tolerably
obvious. "And now if your mother and I----"
She took the hint.
"I will leave you," she said.
It was evident I had not won her gratitude.
As the door closed behind her I heard a low sound from Mrs. Drainger.
"I am afraid--afraid," she murmured weakly. I think forgetting my
presence; and then, as if suddenly conscious of a slip:
"Old women, Mr. Gillingham, have their fancies. Death seems at times
uncomfortably close."
I murmured some polite deprecation, but I was sure it was not death that
frightened her.
Drawing from my pocket her letter and the copy of the will I had
prepared I explained as best I could why I had come. I was tolerably
confused. I could not question her entire sanity, and as I did not wish
in any way to hint at what I felt concerning Emily I soon involved
myself in a veritable dust of legal pedantry. Finally I asked whether
there were other children.
Mrs. Drainger heard me out in ironic silence.
"I have no others," she admitted at length, and added after a second,
"Thank heaven!"
"There remains only one other matter," I said. "The provisions of your
will are such that unless she knows them in advance Miss Emily will
almost inevitably forfeit the inheritance."
"I am aware of that," said the voice, and the pale hands moved
imperceptibly. "I am quite well aware of what I am doing, Mr.
Gillingham, and I repeat, my daughter is not to ask impertinent
questions."
I bowed, somewhat ruffled. I added that it would be necessary to witness
her signature in the usual manner. She seemed surprised to learn that
two persons were necessary, and remained silent.
"Call Emily," she directed.
"Emily will not do," I objected, "since she is a possible beneficiary."
"I am aware," she responded coldly. "Call Emily."
Emily, being summoned, was directed to procure the presence of a Mrs.
Mueller, living near by, who occasionally helped with the work. She
seemed unusually tractable and departed on her errand without comment.
For some three or four minutes Mrs. Drainger did not speak. I could not,
of course, see her face; but once or twice her hands shifted in her lap,
and I thought she was perturbed. My own conversational efforts had been
so uniformly unfortunate that I concluded to remain silent.
"You will see an old, worn woman," she said musingly. "But it does not
matter."
The entrance of Miss Emily followed by that of a stout, comfortable
German woman prevented the necessity of a reply. I explained what was
wanted; Emily assisted me in making it clear to Mrs. Mueller, and then
withdrew to the door, where she assumed an attitude of
disinterestedness--too obviously assumed it, I thought.
It became necessary to have more light, and Emily went to the window
and opened the shutter. I turned to where Mrs. Drainger sat, the will in
my left hand, my fountain pen in the other, and in that attitude I
hesitated for a brief moment of incredulity. I thought I was looking at
a woman without a head.
A second's glance showed how mistaken I was. The thin, emaciated figure,
clad like her daughter's, in a fashion long forgotten, was, as I had
surmised, somewhat shrunken by age. Her strange hands, loosely held in
her lap, were wrinkled with a thousand wrinkles like crumpled parchment,
and yet, even in that crueler light, they conveyed the impression of
power. They seemed like antennae wherewith their owner touched and tested
the outer world. As I sought the reason for this impression I saw that
the face and head were entirely wrapped in the thick folds of a black
veil, which was so arranged that the eyes alone were visible. These
seemed to swim up faintly as from the bottom of a well.
My imperceptible pause of surprise drew from Emily that sudden in-taking
of breath I have before remarked, and I could not but feel that she
intended, as I felt, a subtle sarcasm in the sound. Accordingly I made
no comment, secured Mrs. Drainger's signature without difficulty, then
that of Mrs. Mueller (who, during the whole procedure, uttered no word),
and added my own with as natural an air as I could manage. Miss Emily
led Mrs. Mueller away and I offered the completed document to Mrs.
Drainger.
"Keep it," she said with some feebleness and then, more loudly,
"I will take care. Keep it. Make her call for it when it is time. Now
let her come to me."
My search for the daughter necessitated my going through the several
rooms, so that I had a tolerable notion of the house. Miss Emily's
inheritance would not be great, although the lot was itself valuable.
The furniture was all old and of just that antiquity which lacks value
without acquiring charm. I remarked a vast what-not in one corner; one
table promised well, and there were one or two really fine engravings;
but for the most part the upholstered chairs were shabby, the tables and
desks old and cracked, and the carpets of a faded elegance. The kitchen
into which I passed was notably bleak, and the decrepit wood-stove
seemed never to have held a fire.
Miss Drainger came in the back entrance as I entered the kitchen. Her
face was paler than I had ever seen it. She confronted me silently.
"If you are through," she said bitingly, "I will let you out the front
door."
I observed mildly that her mother wanted her and accompanied her into
the sitting room. I hesitated how best to broach the matter I had in
mind without giving offense and resolved, unfortunately, on a deliberate
lie.
"My fee has been paid," I said, awkwardly enough.
She searched my face. I affected to be busy with my hat.
"I see," she commented with a short, cynical laugh. "Sometimes it is
done that way, sometimes in ways less pleasant. We are quite used to it.
I suppose I had better thank you."