Why, Alden was making a speech, thought Jane irreverently, as the Carvers about her moved and murmured their gratified approbation. But that was nice for Aunt Marie. She was a bedridden old lady, now, in a Cambridge flat. “I must remember,” thought Jane to herself, “to go to see her tomorrow.” But Alden was again speaking.
Jane listened, absently, to the elaborate phrases that rolled from his lips. He was reading from the document, now, and it was all frightfully legal. Jane caught the gist of it, however. It was quite as she had thought. A Carver would always leave his fortune to Carvers. The estate was large, but no larger than Jane had expected. It was a simple will. Jane automatically checked off the bequests in her mind as they were read.
One million dollars outright to Alden and one million dollars outright to Stephen. One million dollars left in trust with Alden and Stephen, the income of which was to be expended on Mrs. Carver for her lifetime and to be expended on Silly after her death. Poor old Silly! How like Mr. Carver to leave sixty-year-old Silly—not a nickel outright, but a deferred million in trust! Alden’s voice was rolling on.
It was the wish of the testator that Mrs. Carver should keep up the Beacon Street house and the place at Gull Rocks just as they had been kept in the testator’s lifetime, and that Silly should keep them up after her death. On the death of Silly, Alden, and Stephen, both houses were to go to young Steve, “the last perpetuator of the Carver name.” When all debts were paid and some minor bequests to the servants attended to, the residue of the estate, if any, was to be divided between Mr. Carver’s three grandchildren, Cicily, Jenny, and Steve.
A proper Carver will, thought Jane. And exactly like her father-in-law. One hundred thousand dollars to Harvard College and three million to Carvers. All debts paid, poor relations pensioned, old servants remembered, and Silly ignored. Exactly like her father-in-law. Jane hoped that Silly would come into the income of that million before she was seventy. She hoped she would make ducks and drakes of it when she did. But no—she would undoubtedly save it for Stephen’s children. For Silly was a Carver.
At all events, the will did not affect her life, thought Jane. She felt curiously indifferent to the possession of that added million. There was a little awkward pause when Alden had finished speaking. It was broken by Mrs. Carver.
“Thank you, Alden,” she said simply.
“I never realized,” said Silly—and her voice was slightly shaken—“I never realized that Father had so much money.”
“Why should you have realized it?” said Mrs. Carver sharply. “Money is not to be spoken of.” Mrs. Carver still talked to Silly as if she were a child. Her dignified reproof put a sudden quietus on further discussion of the will.
“I’m going to take a walk,” declared Steve abruptly.
Cicily’s and Jenny’s eyes met his. Cicily, Jane thought, looked a trifle downcast. The three children rose simultaneously to their feet.
“We’ll go with you,” said Jenny.
“Don’t be late for supper,” said Mrs. Carver. She smiled very kindly up at Silly, who had risen from the footstool and was standing patiently by her chair. “I think I’ll lie down now, but I don’t feel like sleeping, I wish you’d come up and read the Transcript to me, Silly.”
Mother and daughter left the room. The children turned toward the door.
“It’s all right for them to go, isn’t it, Stephen?” asked Jane. “I mean—it won’t create a scandal if anyone sees them carousing up Beacon Street?”
“Well—I shouldn’t advise them to carouse,” smiled Stephen.
“I should hope not!” put in Alden.
“We won’t carouse!” twinkled Jenny. “We’ll walk very discreetly.”
“We’ll walk lugubriously,” said Steve cheerfully, “if Uncle Alden thinks we’d better.”
Alden did not stoop to reply.
“Get along with you!” said Stephen, still smiling. When they had left the room, however, and he had turned to Alden, his face was very grave. Alden was folding up the document and putting it back into the inside pocket of his cutaway. Stephen walked over to him and stood for a moment at his side in silence. Then, “I’m sorry, Alden,” he said.
Caught by the gravity of his tone, Jane looked quickly up at him. Alden did not speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was thickened with emotion.
“Father—Father wasn’t quite himself these last years. If he had been he would have realized.”
“Of course he would,” said Stephen warmly.
“He would have changed it,” said Alden, still in that thickened voice.
“What are you talking about?” cried Jane sharply. She rose from her chair as she spoke and walked to Stephen’s side.
“We—we’ve rather walked off with the lion’s share, Jane,” said Stephen quietly. “We and ours.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jane.
Alden turned on her almost belligerently.
“Don’t you know what bank stocks have been doing in the last ten years?” he inquired angrily. “Since Father made that will the estate’s doubled. In nineteen-fifteen the residue was worth about fifty thousand dollars. And now your children are going to come into a cool three million—or nearly that.”
He stopped abruptly. He stared, astonished, at Jane’s horrified face.
“Stephen,” she said faintly, “Stephen—that’s not true, is it?”
Stephen nodded gravely.
“It’s rather rough on Alden—and on Silly, too, of course.”
Then he, too, stopped, for Jane had suddenly begun to cry.
“Oh, Stephen—Stephen—can’t anything be done?”
“I’m afraid not, darling.” His arms were around her. She was sobbing rather wildly.
“Don’t take it like that, Jane,” said Alden kindly. He pulled himself together. “It—it’s not so very important.”
“You
