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.
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.
