was a legal-looking document.
Vance knew instantly that it was the will she had made up in favor of Terence. He had been preparing himself for the worst, but at this his heart sank. He lowered himself into a chair. Terence had gone straight to Elizabeth.
“I know I've done a thing that will cut you deeply, Aunt Elizabeth,” he said. “I'm not going to ask you to see any justice on my side. I only want to ask you to forgive me, because—”
Elizabeth was staring straight at and through her protege.
“Are you done, Terence?”
This time Vance was shocked into wide-eyed attention. The voice of Elizabeth was hard as iron. It brought a corresponding stiffening of Terence.
“I'm done,” he said, with a certain ring to his voice that Vance was glad to hear.
It brought a flush into the pale cheeks of Elizabeth.
“It is easy to see that you're proud of what you have done, Terence.”
“Yes,” he answered with sudden defiance, “I am proud. It's the best thing I've ever done. I regret only one part of it.”
“And that?”
“That my bullet didn't kill him!”
Elizabeth looked down and tapped the folded paper against her fingertips. Whether it was mere thoughtfulness or a desire to veil a profound emotion from Terence, her brother could not tell. But he knew that something of importance was in the air. He scented it as clearly as the smoke of a forest fire.
“I thought,” she said in her new and icy manner, “that that would be your one regret.”
She looked suddenly up at Terence.
“Twenty-four years,” she said, “have passed since I took you into my life. At that time I was told that I was doing a rash thing, a dangerous thing—that before your twenty-fifth birthday the bad blood would out; that you would, in short, have shot a man. And the prophecy has come true. By an irony of chance it has happened on the very last day. And by another irony you picked your victim from among the guests under my roof!”
“Victim?” cried Terry hoarsely. “Victim, Aunt Elizabeth?”
“If you please,” she said quietly, “not that name again, Terence. I wish you to know exactly what I have done. Up to this time I have given you a place in my affections. I have tried to the best of my skill to bring you up with a fitting education. I have given you what little wisdom and advice I have to give. Today I had determined to do much more. I had a will made out—this is it in my hands—and by the terms of this will I made you my heir—the heir to the complete Cornish estate aside from a comfortable annuity to Vance.”
She looked him in the eye, ripped the will from end to end, and tossed the fragments into the fire. There was a sharp cry from Vance, who sprang to his feet. It was the thrill of an unexpected triumph, but his sister took it for protest.
“Vance, I haven't used you well, but from now on I'm going to change. As for you, Terence, I don't want you near me any longer than may be necessary. Understand that I expect to provide for you. I haven't raised you merely to cast you down suddenly. I'm going to establish you in business, see that you are comfortable, supply you with an income that's respectable, and then let you drift where you will.
“My own mind is made up about your end before you take a step across the threshold of my house. But I'm still going to give you every chance. I don't want to throw you out suddenly, however. Take your time. Make up your mind what you want to do and where you are going. Take all the time you wish for such a conclusion. It's important, and it needs time for such a decision. When that decision is made, go your way. I never wish to hear from you again. I want no letters, and I shall certainly refuse to see you.”
Every word she spoke seemed to be a heavier blow than the last, and Terence bowed under the accumulated weight. Vance could see the boy struggle, waver between fierce pride and desperate humiliation and sorrow. To Vance it was clear that the stiff pride of Elizabeth as she sat in the chair was a brittle strength, and one vital appeal would break her to tears. But the boy did not see. Presently he straightened, bowed to her in the best Colby fashion, and turned on his heel. He went out of the room and left Vance and his sister facing one another, but not meeting each other's glances.
“Elizabeth,” he said at last, faintly—he dared not persuade too much lest she take him at his word. “Elizabeth, you don't mean it. It was twenty-four years ago that you passed your word to do this if things turned out as they have. Forget your promise. My dear, you're still wrapped up in Terry, no matter what you have said. Let me go and call him back. Why should you torture yourself for the sake of your pride?”
He even rose, not too swiftly, and still with his eyes upon her. When she lifted her hand, he willingly sank back into his chair.
“You're a very kind soul, Vance. I never knew it before. I'm appreciating it now almost too late. But what I have done shall stand!”
“But, my dear, the pain—is it worth—”
“It means that my life is a wreck and a ruin, Vance. But I'll stand by what I've done. I won't give way to the extent of a single scruple.”
And the long, bitter silence which was to last so many days at the Cornish ranch began. And still they did not look into one another's eyes. As for Vance, he did not wish to. He was seeing a bright future. Not long to wait; after this blow she would go swiftly to her grave.
He had barely reached that conclusion when the door opened again. Terry stood before them in the old, loose, disreputable clothes of a cow- puncher. The big sombrero swung in his hand. The heavy Colt dragged down in its holster over his right hip. His tanned face was drawn and stern.
“I won't keep you more than a moment,” he said. “I'm leaving. And I'm leaving with nothing of yours. I've already taken too much. If I live to be a hundred, I'll never forgive myself for taking your charity these twenty-four years. For what you've spent maybe I can pay you back one of these days, in money. But for all the time and—
