Nutty foregathered with Mr. Prescott and took the letters from him. Mr. Prescott disappeared. Nutty selected one of the letters and opened it. Then, having stood perfectly still for some moments, he suddenly turned and began to run toward the house.
The mere fact that her brother, whose usual mode of progression was a languid saunter, should be actually running, was enough to tell Elizabeth that the letter which Nutty had read was from the London lawyers. No other communication could have galvanized him into such energy. Whether the contents of the letter were good or bad it was impossible at that distance to say. But when she reached the open air, just as Nutty charged up, she saw by his face that it was anguish, not joy, that had spurred him on. He was gasping and he bubbled unintelligible words. His little eyes gleamed wildly.
“Nutty, darling, what is it?” cried Elizabeth, every maternal instinct in her aroused.
He was thrusting a sheet of paper at her, a sheet of paper that bore the superscription of Nichols, Nichols, Nichols and Nichols, with a London address.
“Uncle Ira—” Nutty choked. “A hundred dollars! He’s left me a hundred dollars, and all the rest to a—to a man named Dawlish!”
In silence Elizabeth took the letter. It was even as he had said. A few moments before Elizabeth had been regretting the imminent descent of wealth upon her brother. Now she was inconsistent enough to boil with rage at the shattering blow which had befallen him. That she, too, had lost her inheritance hardly occurred to her. Her thoughts were all for Nutty. It did not need the sight of him, gasping and gurgling before her, to tell her how overwhelming was his disappointment.
It was useless to be angry with the deceased Mr. Nutcombe. He was too shadowy a mark. Besides, he was dead. The whole current of her wrath turned upon the supplanter, this Lord Dawlish. She pictured him as a crafty adventurer, a wretched fortune hunter. For some reason or other she imagined him a sinister person with a black mustache, a face thin and hawklike, and unpleasant eyes. That was the sort of man who would be likely to fasten his talons into poor Uncle Ira.
She had never hated anyone in her life before, but as she stood there at that moment she felt that she loathed and detested William, Lord Dawlish—unhappy, well-meaning Bill, who only a few hours back had set foot on American soil in his desire to nose round and see if something couldn’t be arranged.
Nutty got the water. Life is like that. There is nothing clean cut about it, no sense of form. Instead of being permitted to concentrate his attention on his tragedy, Nutty had to trudge three-quarters of a mile in a hot sun, conciliate a temperamental bull terrier, and trudge back again carrying a heavy pail. It was as if one of the heroes of Greek drama, in the middle of his big scene, had been asked to run round the corner to a delicatessen store.
The exercise did not act as a restorative. The blow had been too sudden, too overwhelming. Nutty’s reason—such as it was—tottered on its throne. Who was Lord Dawlish? What had he done, the smooth crook, to ingratiate himself with Uncle Ira? By what insidious means, with what devilish cunning, had he wormed his way into the old man’s favor? These were the questions that vexed Nutty’s mind when he was able to think at all coherently.
Back at the farm Elizabeth cooked breakfast and awaited her brother’s return with a sinking heart. She was a softhearted girl, easily distressed by the sight of suffering; and she was aware that Nutty was scarcely of the type that masks its woe behind a brave and cheerful smile. Her heart bled for Nutty.
There was a weary step outside. Nutty entered, slopping water. One glance at his face was enough to tell Elizabeth that she had formed a too conservative estimate of his probable gloom. Without a word he coiled his long form in a chair. There was silence in the stricken house.
“What’s the time?”
Elizabeth glanced at her watch.
“Half-past nine.”
“About now,” said Nutty sepulchrally, “that pill is ringing for his man to prepare his bally bath and lay out his gold-leaf underwear. After that he will drive down to the bank and draw some of our money.”
The day passed wearily for Elizabeth. Nutty having the air of one who is still engaged in picking up the pieces, she had not the heart to ask him to play his customary part in the household duties, so she washed the dishes and made the beds herself. After that she attended to the bees. After that she cooked lunch.
Nutty was not chatty at lunch, Having observed, “About now the pill is cursing the waiter for bringing the wrong brand of champagne,” he relapsed into a silence which he did not again break.
Elizabeth was busy again in the afternoon. At four o’clock, feeling tired out, she went to her room to lie down until the next of her cycle of domestic duties should come round.
It was late when she came downstairs, for she
