The death of Robert Lauderdale was the news of the day, and produced a profound impression everywhere. Even the city put on, here and there, an outward token of mourning, for on every building of the many which had belonged to him, the flag, if it were flying, was half-masted. New York is a city of many flags, and the eye is accustomed to attach meaning to their position.

And people spoke with respect of the dead man, which rarely happens when the very rich are suddenly gone. He had done well with his money, and every one said so. He had been more charitable than many had guessed until those who had been helped by him began to bemoan their loss. Stories went about of his having known, personally and by name, such men as the conductors on the Elevated Road, and of his having visited them in their homes—them and many others. His death made no difference to any one in Wall Street, and every one in Wall Street was therefore prepared to praise him.

Forthwith began the speculation and gossip in regard to the will. John Ralston heard much of it, and he observed a curious tendency amongst the men at the bank to treat him with greater deference than usual.

The Ralstons had been informed of the final catastrophe early in the morning. John had immediately gone to Robert Lauderdale’s house, rather to enquire about Katharine’s condition than for any other purpose, and had thence proceeded down town. There was no reason why he should not go to the bank as usual, he thought. The dead man had only been his great-uncle, and he had determined to make Mr. Beman change his mind, and to counteract the influence of Alexander Junior. The best way to do this was to go to work as though nothing had happened. Before he had been half an hour at his desk, his friend Hamilton Bright, the junior partner in the firm, came up to him.

Hamilton Bright was a sturdy, heavily built man, five and thirty years of age, with a prosperous air—what bankers call ‘a lucky face.’ He was fair as a Saxon, pink and white of complexion, with clear, honest eyes, and quiet, resolute features. In his early youth he had gone to the West, and driven cattle in the Nacimiento Valley, had made some fortunate investments with the small fortune he had inherited, had returned to New York, gone into Beman Brothers’ bank, and in the course of a few years had been taken into the partnership. He was an extremely normal man. His only peculiarity was a sort of almost fatherly attachment to John Ralston, about which he did not reason. The shadow in his life was his love for Katharine Lauderdale, of which, for John’s sake, he had never spoken, but which he was quite unable to conceal.

He came to John’s desk and spoke to him in a low voice.

“I say, Jack,” he began, “is it true that cousin Katharine has broken her arm?”

“Yes,” answered Ralston, bending his black brows. “How did you hear it?”

“It’s got about and into the papers. There’s a paragraph about it. They say she fell downstairs.”

“Some servant told, I suppose, and got a dollar for the item. It’s the small bone of her right arm—she was staying with poor uncle Robert, and she had a fall—somehow,” added Ralston, vaguely. “She must have been there when he died. It was awfully sudden at the end. I saw him yesterday afternoon. He seemed pretty strong. I went this morning to enquire about cousin Katharine—they say he died very peacefully. Failure of the heart, you know.”

Bright nodded thoughtfully, as he leaned one elbow upon Ralston’s desk.

“What sort of a will is it going to turn out?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” answered John, with perfect truth.

“It would be a good thing for you if he had died intestate. Your mother and old Alexander are the next of kin. They’d get something in the neighbourhood of thirty or forty millions apiece. You’d give up clerking, Jack.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. If I were ever to have much money, a year in a bank wouldn’t do me any harm. But I’m not likely to stay here. Cousin Alexander’s a good enemy to me. He’s been telling Mr. Beman that I drink, and that sort of thing, and Mr. Beman has requested me to leave on the first of the month.”

“You don’t mean that?” Hamilton Bright’s fair Saxon face reddened in sudden anger for his friend.

“Of course I do.”

Ralston told him exactly what had happened, and by the time he had finished, Alexander Lauderdale Junior had another enemy, and a dangerous one. Had Bright known all, and especially that Katharine owed her broken arm to her father’s violence, something unexpected might have happened. Bright had for Katharine all the Quixotic devotion which a pure and totally unrequited love can inspire in a perfectly simple disposition, which has been brought into rather close contact with the uncompromising code of such a region as the Nacimiento Valley.

“And you wish to stay in the bank?” asked Bright, quietly, at last.

“Yes. And you know very well, Ham, that I’m not as bad as I used to be. I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Beman to-day.”

“Don’t you bother,” answered Bright. “I’ll talk to him—now.”

Hamilton Bright’s broad shoulders swung round, and he went straight to the senior partner’s room. Mr. Beman was in his usual seat at his huge desk.

“I want to speak to you about Ralston, Mr. Beman,” he said, briefly, laying one of his broad hands upon the shelf of the desk. “You’ve told him to go on the first of the month, because Mr. Alexander Lauderdale informed you that he drank.”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Beman, “I have, though I don’t know how you heard that it was through Mr. Lauderdale.”

“Well—it’s a fact, or Ralston wouldn’t have said so, in the first place, and I see you admit it. But there isn’t a word of truth in the story. Ralston gave up wine altogether last winter.”

“Do you mean to say that Mr. Lauderdale has told me—a deliberate falsehood, Mr. Bright?” asked the old banker.

“Yes.”

Now Mr. Beman had a very high opinion of Hamilton Bright, but he looked long and earnestly into the clear blue eyes before he made up his mind what to say.

“I’d not considered the affair as of any importance,” he said, at last. “But you’ve made it very serious. Mr. Lauderdale is Ralston’s cousin, and might be supposed to know what he was talking about.”

“Yes. That doesn’t make it any better for him,” observed Bright. “I know what I’m talking about, too. Mr. Lauderdale is a sort of cousin of mine, and I know them all pretty well. I haven’t much opinion of Mr. Lauderdale, myself.”

Again Mr. Beman stared and met the calm blue eyes. He recalled Alexander Junior’s steely grey ones, and did not prefer them. But he said nothing. Bright continued.

“If you can get him to come here, Mr. Beman, I’d like to repeat what I’ve said in his presence. He’s a liar, he’s a sneak, and I’m inclined to think he’s a scoundrel, though I wouldn’t say more.”

But in this Bright did Alexander Junior an injustice. Mr. Beman, however, had not survived fifty years of banking in New York without knowing that just such men as Alexander are sometimes wrecked, morally and financially, after having inspired confidence for half a lifetime.

“You use pretty strong language, Mr. Bright. I’ve known Mr. Lauderdale a long time, but not intimately, though I’ve always considered him a valuable friend in business relations. I shall certainly not countenance any such proceedings as calling him to account for what he said. But if you are sure of Ralston, Mr. Bright, please ask him to step here for a moment. We’ll keep him. Not that he’s likely to stay long,” added Mr. Beman, with a smile. “His mother and Mr. Lauderdale’s father are next of kin to Mr. Robert Lauderdale, who died this morning, I’m told. I should certainly not wish to do an injustice to any near relation of my old acquaintance.”

Hamilton Bright, who rarely wasted words, merely nodded and left the room. He went immediately to Ralston again.

“It’s all right, Jack,” he said. “Mr. Beman wants you to stay, and wants to tell you so. Go right in.”

“Thank you, Ham,” said Ralston, rising.

A moment later he was standing before Mr. Beman. The old gentleman looked up over his glasses.

“Mr. Ralston,” he said, “I’ve reason to believe that I was hasty yesterday. I understand that my friend was mistaken in what he said of you. I regret what I said myself. I shall be very glad if you’ll stay with us. I learn from other sources that you’re very attentive to your work, and I must say—Mr. Ralston—” he smiled pleasantly—“it will be just as well for you to know something about our business, considering the position—the enviable position—which you’ll probably some day occupy.”

John Ralston, the son of one of the next of kin, was not quite the same person as Jack Ralston, the grand-nephew of a millionaire.

“I don’t know what position I’m to occupy,” he answered. “But I’m very glad to stay with you, Mr. Beman—and I’m much obliged to you for doing me this justice.”

“Not at all, not at all. I should be very sorry to do any one an injustice—especially a near relation of my old and valued acquaintance, Mr. Robert Lauderdale.”

Thereupon John Ralston withdrew, very well satisfied. He had a sort of premonition to the effect that things were to go better with him. It was clear, at least, that Alexander Junior could not prevail against him, since John had vanquished him twice within twenty-four hours. He wondered whether Alexander were sitting all alone in his office at the Trust Company, nervously tapping the table with his long, smooth fingers, and wondering how soon he was to know the contents of the will.

The morning wore on, and he could almost see in the faces of his fellow-clerks how the impression was growing that he would turn out to be one of the heirs. There was an indescribable something in their glances, a hardly perceptible change in their manner, of which he was aware in spite of himself. But no news came.

At half past twelve he went out and got his luncheon at Sutherland’s, as usual. When he came back, he found a note on his desk from his mother. He opened it in considerable excitement, for he could not deny that he hoped a very large share of the inheritance might come to Mrs. Ralston, if not to himself. But the note contained no final news. Mrs. Ralston said that, considering the enormous value of the estate, the lawyers desired to make the will public as soon as possible—a common measure in such cases, as the sudden demise of very rich men has a tendency to affect public confidence, until it is known who is to have the principal control of the fortune. Mrs. Ralston said that only she herself and old Mr. Alexander Lauderdale, as being the two next of kin, had been requested to hear the will read that afternoon. She advised him to come home and wait for her, as early as he could conveniently leave the bank.

That was all, and he had to possess his soul in patience during several hours more. His mother had not yet seen Katharine, and did not mention her. It was impossible to foresee what she would do, but it was clear enough that she would not, and could not, return to her father’s house at once.

Before the afternoon was far advanced, the wisdom of the lawyers’ advice about the reading of the will became apparent. Rumours were afloat that the whole fortune was to go to old Alexander, and rumour further stated that he was in his dotage, and would be capable of selling miles of real estate to found a refuge for escaped lunatics. Serious persons gave no credit to such talk, of course, but any one acquainted with New York knows how little, at a given moment, may upset the market and cause disaster. The reason of this appears to be that there are more undertakings unfinished yet, or just begun, in America, than there are elsewhere, which depend for their success altogether upon a period of comparative calm in financial affairs. To check them, though they might turn out well, is often to kill them, which means ruin to those who have backed them at the beginning.

But matters proceeded rapidly. Before Ralston left the bank, the newsboys were crying the evening papers, containing, as they avowed, ‘the extraordinary will of Robert Lauderdale.’ In five minutes every one in the bank had read the statement.

There was a paragraph in which, after giving the reasons for making the will public at once, its principal conditions were named. John, who knew nothing of what Katharine had heard, was neither surprised nor disappointed. The paragraph had evidently been written by one of the lawyers, and sent to all the papers for publication, and there was no account of any interview with any of the heirs. It was a plain account, as far as was possible.

Mr. Robert Lauderdale, it said, had never married; but he had numerous relations, who were all descended from the original Alexander Lauderdale, the grandfather of the deceased. In order to avoid all possible litigation after his death, Mr. Lauderdale had left his fortune as though it had been left by his grandfather, regularly distributed amongst all the heirs of the primeval Alexander, with no legacies whatsoever, excepting certain annuities to be bought of an insurance company before the distribution, for the benefit of the servants in his employ at the time of his death. The will, said the paragraph, bore a very recent date, and had been drawn up, strange to say, by a young lawyer of no particular standing. The names of the witnesses were also given, and, oddly enough, they were persons quite unknown to any one concerned. The paragraph went on to say that it was presumed that the will would not be contested by any one, and would be promptly admitted to probate. A list of the heirs followed. They were: Alexander Lauderdale Senior, Alexander Lauderdale Junior, Mrs. Benjamin Slayback, Robert Lauderdale Slayback, her infant son, Miss Katharine Lauderdale, Mrs. Admiral Ralston, John Ralston, Mrs. Richard Bright, Hamilton Bright, Mrs. Walter Crowdie. In all, there were ten living persons. The property was to be divided precisely as though the primeval Alexander had left it to his two sons, and as though they, in turn, had divided it amongst their children, down to the youngest living heir, who was Benjamin Slayback’s baby boy.

John Ralston pored over the paragraph till he knew it by heart. Then, as soon as he proceeded to apply the terms to actual circumstances, he saw that one-half of the whole fortune must go to Hamilton Bright, his mother, and his sister, Hester Crowdie. Of the remaining half, he and his mother would have half between them, or a quarter of the whole. The smallest share would go to those who actually bore the name of Lauderdale, for only the last quarter would remain to be distributed between the two Alexanders, Charlotte, Katharine, and Charlotte’s child. Robert Lauderdale had thus provided a little more liberally for Katharine and himself than for most of the members of the family, since they were to have, ultimately, more than a quarter of the whole. And Alexander Junior would get one of the smallest shares. But it seemed strange that the Brights should have so much, though it was just possible that the old gentleman might have thought it wise to place a large share in the hands of a trained man of business who would keep it together.

On his side, Hamilton Bright had made the same calculations, and was as near to losing his head with delight as his calm nature made possible. He came up to Jack, and proposed that they should walk up town together and discuss matters.

“I can’t,” answered Ralston. “I’ll go a bit of the way on foot, but my mother wants to see me as soon as possible.”

They went out, followed by the envious eyes of many who had read the paragraphs. In a few days they were both to have millions.

“Well,” said Ralston, when they were together on the pavement of Broad Street, “it’s a queer will, isn’t it? I suppose we ought to congratulate each other.”

“Wait till it’s all settled,” answered Bright, cautiously. “Not that there’s going to be any difficulty, as far as I can see,” he added. “It seems to be all right, and properly witnessed.”

“Oh—it’s all right enough. But if Alexander Junior can fight it, he will. He’s come out worse than he expected. The only odd thing, to my mind, is the name of the lawyer. Who is George W. Russell, anyway? Did you ever hear of him?”

“Oh, yes—I know who he is. He’s a young chap who’s lately set up for himself—real estate. I think I heard of his doing some work for uncle Robert last year. He’s all right. And he’d be careful about the witnessing and all that.”

“Yes—well—but why did uncle Robert go to him? Why didn’t he employ his own lawyer—his regular one, I mean—or Henry Brett, or somebody one’s heard of? I should think it would be more natural.”

“Probably he had made another will before, and didn’t like to tell his own lawyer that he was making a new one. I’ve heard it said that old men are queer about that. They don’t want any one to know that they’ve changed their minds. When they do, they’re capable of going to any shyster to get the papers drawn up. That’s probably what uncle Robert did.”

“It’s a very just will in principle,” said Ralston. “I don’t know what it will turn out in practice. I wonder what the estate is really worth.”

“Over eighty millions, anyhow. I know that, because Mr. Beman said he had reason to be sure of it some time ago.”

“That gives us two twenty and you forty amongst you three. You didn’t expect all that, Ham.”

“Expect it! I didn’t expect anything. The old gentleman never said a word to me about it. Of course you were in a different position, your mother being next of kin with old Alexander. But if Alexander Junior broke the will—he can’t though, I’m certain—I shouldn’t get anything. Of course—I think any will’s just that gives me a lot of money. And if Alexander fights, I’ll fight, too.”

“He will, if he has an inch of ground to stand on. By the bye, if all goes smoothly, I suppose you’ll retire from business, and I shall stop clerking, and Crowdie will give up painting.”

“I don’t know,” answered Bright. “As for me, I think I shall stick to the bank. There’ll be more interest in the thing when I’ve got a lot of money in it. Crowdie? Oh—he’ll go on painting as long as he can see. He likes it—and it isn’t hard work.”

They talked a little longer in the same strain, and then Ralston left his friend and went up town by the Elevated, pondering deeply on the situation. One thing seemed clear enough. However matters turned out, whether Alexander Junior fought the will or not, Ralston and Katharine would be free to declare their marriage as soon as they pleased. That consideration outweighed all others with him at the present moment, for he was tired of waiting. It was four months since he had been married, and in that time he had seldom had an opportunity of talking freely with his wife. The perpetual strain of secrecy was wearing upon his nervous nature. He would at any time have preferred to fight any one or anything, rather than have anything to conceal, and concealment had been forced upon him as a daily necessity.

He said to himself with truth that he might as well have struck Alexander for one reason as for another; that he might just as well have faced him about the marriage as about the calumny upon his own character which Alexander had uttered. But circumstances had been against his doing so. At no moment yet, until the present, had he felt himself quite free to take Katharine from her home and to bring her to his mother’s. Alexander’s own violence had made it possible. And he had intended, or he and his mother had agreed, to take the step at once, when suddenly Robert Lauderdale’s death had arrested everything. There were fifty reasons for not declaring the marriage now, or for several weeks to come—chief of all, perhaps, the mere question of good taste. To declare a marriage on the very morrow of a death in the family would surprise people; the world would find it easy to believe that the young couple had acted contrary to Robert Lauderdale’s wishes, and had waited for his death, in fear of losing any part of the inheritance by offending him. Such haste would not be decent.

But there would be no need to wait long, John thought, and in the meantime Katharine could surely not go back to Clinton Place.

Wherever else she might be, he should have plenty of opportunities of seeing her at his leisure. He reached his home and found his mother waiting for him in his study. She was pale and looked tired.

“I suppose you’ve heard?” she said, interrogatively, as he entered. “I see it’s in all the papers.”

“Yes,” answered John, gravely. “I’ve been talking with Ham Bright—we left the bank together.”

“I suppose he’s in the seventh heaven,” said Mrs. Ralston. “Who would ever have expected such a will?”

“I’m sure I didn’t. May I smoke, mother? I haven’t had a chance all day.”

“Of course—always smoke. I like it. Jack—I’ve been there most of the day, you know. I went in twice to look at him. What a grand old man he was! I wish you could see him lying there on white velvet like an old king.”

“I don’t like to see dead people,” answered Ralston, lighting a cigar. “Besides—I was fond of him.”

“So was I. Don’t think I wasn’t, my dear—very fond of him. But you and I don’t look at those things just in the same way, I know. I wish I could see them as you do—dream of something beyond, as you do. To me—feeling that it’s all over, and that he is there, dead on his bed, and nowhere else, all there is of him now, or ever will be—well, I was glad to see him as I did. I shall always remember him as I saw him to-day. I wish I believed something. To me—the only hope is the hope of memory for good things and forgetfulness for bad things, as long as life lasts. I’ve got another good memory of a good man I was fond of—so I’ve got something.”

“It’s a depressing sort of creed,” said Ralston, smoking thoughtfully. “Not that mine’s worth much, I suppose. Still—”

He let the word imply what it might, and puffed slowly at his cigar. Mrs. Ralston passed her hand over her eyes, and said nothing in answer.

“I don’t care!” exclaimed John, suddenly. “I can’t believe it all ends here. I can’t, and I won’t. There’s something—somewhere, I daresay I shall never get it, but there’s something. I know it, because I feel there is. It’s in me, and you, and everybody.”

Mrs. Ralston smiled sadly. She had heard her husband triumphantly refute the ontological argument many a time.

“I wish I felt it in me, then,” she answered, sincerely. “Jack—isn’t there something strange about this will, though? An unknown lawyer, servants for witnesses—all that, as though it had been done in a hurry. It seems odd to me.”

“Yes. Bright and I were talking about it.”

He went on to tell her what Bright thought.

“He says he knows the lawyer, though,” he concluded, “and that he’s a straight man, so it must be all right.”

“Mr. Allen said he’d only heard his name mentioned once or twice lately,” said Mrs. Ralston. “It was a long, long will. Then every servant was mentioned by name. I had no idea there could be so many in the house.”

“Who are the witnesses?” asked John.

“One was the secretary—you know? That nice young fellow who used to be about. I don’t know who the others were—I’ve forgotten their names. Mr. Allen didn’t seem to think there’d be any difficulty about finding them. He thought the property was all in this State—most of it’s in the city, so that the will could be proved immediately.”

“Well—I hope so. But I believe there’ll be some trouble. Alexander only comes in for a small share. He’ll do his best to break the will, so as to get the money divided between his father and you. The Brights would get nothing, in that case. We should get a lot more, of course—but then—I can’t realize what twenty millions mean, can you? What difference will it make in our lives, whether we have twenty or forty? Those sums are mythological, anyhow. The more a man has, above ten millions, the more care and bother and worry, and enemies he’s got for the rest of his life.”

“I’m glad to hear you talk in that way, Jack,” said Mrs. Ralston. “It’s just my feeling. But it’s not everybody who thinks so. Most men—well, you know!”

“I think you’re mistaken there, mother,” answered Ralston. “I’m talking of private individuals, of course—not of men who are in big things, like railways, or banks—but just private persons who want to live on their income and enjoy themselves, and who haven’t enormous families, of course. No reasonable being can spend more than five hundred thousand a year without trouble—at least, I don’t think so. Uncle Robert didn’t actually spend three hundred thousand, I’ve heard it said. He cared for nothing but white velvet and horses—of all things to go together! Of course he gave away a million a year or so. But that doesn’t count as expenses. All the rest just rolled up, and he had to spend hours and hours every day in taking care of it. Now, I just ask you, what possible satisfaction can there be in that? And everybody thinks just the same who’s not a born idiot—or a financier. Now Bright—he’s different. He’s a partner in Beman’s and finance amuses him. He’d like to be the Astors and the Vanderbilts and the Rothschilds and all the rest of them, rolled into one. He’d like to ride Wall Street like a pony and direct millions, as he owns cattle out in the Nacimiento Valley. I wouldn’t, for my part. Twenty thousand a year has always seemed wealth to me, though most people one knows say one can’t more than live on it. Did you see Katharine, mother?”

“Of course. We had a long talk.”

“You didn’t tell her anything, I suppose? I mean, what we were talking about last night?”

“No. I thought you’d rather tell her that you’d told me. Besides—just now! But she can’t stay there, Jack. It’s rather a ghastly situation—alone in the house with the dead man, and only the servants. That nurse has stayed, though, to take care of her arm. But it’s grim—all the shades down, and every one talking in whispers. She was in one of the back rooms, so that she could have the window open.”

“Oh—she was up, then, was she? Dressed, and all that?”

“Yes—it’s the small bone of the arm. She won’t have to stay in bed. You can go and see her if you like. That is, if she’s still there. I advised her to go and stay with the Crowdies. She looked at me as though she wondered whether I knew anything. I suppose she expected that I’d advise her to go home. But that’s impossible.”

“Of course—but she hates Crowdie. We all do, for that matter. I don’t believe she’ll go. Didn’t she say?”

“No. Why do we all hate Crowdie? We do—it’s quite true. By the bye, he’s distinguished himself to-day. You know that picture of Katharine?”

“Yes—he gave it to poor uncle Robert only yesterday.”

“Well—he came and took it away this morning before ten o’clock. Katharine told me.” Mrs. Ralston laughed without smiling.

“Upon my word! But it’s rather curious, though. I didn’t know he was mean. He never seemed to be, somehow.”

“No—I know. It struck me as strange, too. A new light on his character.”

“I fancy he has some object. I hate him—I loathe him! But that isn’t like him. I wonder whether Hester was angry because he gave it away. It was for her, you know, and she may not have liked his giving it away. I’ll go and see Katharine. Was it late when you left there?”

“About half past four. I stayed with her a long time after the lawyer had gone.”

“Mother,” said Ralston, suddenly, “why can’t we just face it out and bring her here? Would it look too strange, do you think?”

“Yes. People would say we’d waited for poor uncle Robert to die. You must have a little more patience, dear boy.”

“That’s just what I thought at first,” answered Ralston. “I’ll go and see her. If she hadn’t left at half past four, I don’t believe she’ll leave to-day. When is the funeral to be?”

“Day after to-morrow, I think.”

END OF VOL. I.