John Marsh's Millions

The question seemed to embarrass him.

"Oh, I worked hard enough," he replied carelessly. "I got up at noon, had breakfast, played golf or took a spin in the machine, ran in to the club, dressed for dinner, ate, went to a show, back to clubs, played poker till three A. M., back home. Same old thing week in, week out, all through the season. Isn't that hard work?"

"Hard work—yes," she answered quietly. "I should think that very hard work if I had to do it. But I don't think it is exactly the kind of work a self-respecting man should do." Looking him straight in the face, she added: "At least, not the kind of man I would care to know——"

Tod shuffled his feet as if ill at ease. Under the scrutiny of her calm gaze he seemed to lose some of his self-assurance.

"You're dead right!" he stammered nervously. "But what can a fellow do? When one's in a certain set, one has to live as everyone else does." Summoning up courage, he demanded boldly: "If you lived in New York and knew everybody, wouldn't you like to have a jolly good time?"

She shook her head.

"I should live as I want to live," she answered calmly. "My happiness would consist in making others happy. If I were rich, I would go among the poor and try to lighten the burdens of those less fortunate than I."

He laughed scornfully.

"Oh, you're one of those freak suffragettes—a socialist!"

She smiled as she replied:

"I am a Christian—a socialist if you will." There was an amused expression on her face as she asked: "What do you know of socialism?"

"Oh, it's a lot of rot," he retorted. "We see 'em in New York—lazy, wild-eyed guys with dirty faces and long hair, blowing off hot air on Union Square, organizing strikes, throwing bombs, and raising Cain generally. They're usually bums out of a job. As long as they've no money they're rabid socialists; directly they make a little money, they become capitalists. They're fakirs, all right!"

Paula shook her head. Gravely she said:

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea altogether. Socialism is beautiful. It is the one thing that will save mankind from decadence and gradual extinction. I am a socialist because I am a Christian. Christ loved the poor and the lowly. I try to follow in His footsteps."

Tod looked at her in amazement. The kind of girls he was accustomed to associate with talked quite differently. Unconsciously his manner grew more respectful.

"So you're sailing on the Touraine! Say, isn't that a queer coincidence? Awfully nice, though. I'll see you on board, won't I? That'll be jolly." He stopped and hesitated. Then looking at her sheepishly, he said with a grin: "Now, I've told you my name, may I know yours? Rather informal introduction, what?"

Paula hesitated. Was it altogether proper to talk to a stranger in this way? But he seemed such a nice, ingenuous young man. Surely there could be no great harm in it. Before, however, she could reply, her ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps, and at the same instant she heard the big church clock outside striking the half hour. It was Mr. Ricaby returning to take her to lunch. In another moment the lawyer appeared. As he came up he stopped short, as if surprised to find her conversing with a total stranger. Puzzled, he stared from one to the other. Paula quickly explained:

"I had a little mishap. I fell from the stool and this gentleman very kindly came to my assistance." Introducing the two men, she said: "Mr. Leon Ricaby—Mr. Todhunter Chase."

Tod nodded and Mr. Ricaby bowed stiffly. Feeling that he was now in the way, the younger man turned to go. Removing his hat, he asked again:

"Since we're to be fellow passengers on the Touraine, may I not have the pleasure of knowing the name of the lady to whom I was able to be of some assistance?"

Mr. Ricaby frowned disapproval, but Paula, now safely chaperoned, hesitated no longer. Promptly she said:

"My name is Paula Marsh."

Tod could not suppress a start of surprise.

"Marsh!" he echoed. "By Jove! that's another odd coincidence! My stepfather's name is Marsh—Mr. James Marsh, of West Seventy-second Street."

It was now Mr. Ricaby's turn to be astonished.

"Then you are——?" he cried.

"I'm Tod Chase. My mother married Jimmy Marsh. I'm going back home to take part in a family jollification. You know his brother just died, and Jimmy has come in for a windfall."

Paula, who was busy packing her things, had not heard, but Mr. Ricaby quickly gave the young man a significant nudge.

"Hush!" he said. "You're speaking of her father!"

Tod gave a gasp.

"Her father!" he exclaimed.

"Yes—her father," said the lawyer quietly. "John Marsh married her mother—a Frenchwoman—twenty-two years ago. He kept the marriage secret."

Tod gave vent to a low but expressive whistle.

"Then his money——?" he gasped.

"Goes to his daughter, of course," answered the lawyer, with studied calmness.

"But the will——" exclaimed the other. "The will which Bascom Cooley, Jimmy's lawyer, has had in his possession all these years——?"

"Absolutely valueless," replied Mr. Ricaby coolly. "Before he died John Marsh made a new will. I have it safe in my own keeping. We are going to New York to offer it for probate."

This sudden and unexpected revelation was too much for Tod. Rendered speechless, he just stared at the lawyer. Mr. Ricaby continued amiably:

"We sail Saturday. I understand that you are going on the same boat. I'm very glad to have met you, Mr. Chase. It is likely that we shall see a good deal of each other in New York. Miss Marsh and I are just going out to get a bite of lunch. Won't you join us?"

The young man stammered his thanks.

"With pleasure—I——"

Paula went out with Mr. Ricaby close behind. As Tod followed he again whistled to himself significantly:

"Well, I'm d——d! What will Jimmy say to this?"

CHAPTER V.

The cablegram from Paris had effected a startling transformation in Jimmy Marsh. He was a changed man. No longer the cringing, furtive-eyed bankrupt, ever dodging his creditors, he arose masterfully to the new situation created by the sudden turn in his fortunes. From the hopeless depths of moral and financial ruin the news of his brother's death suddenly raised him to the dollar-marked heights of social prestige and great wealth. At last his long years of waiting were rewarded. John was dead! He was the possessor of millions! All the sweets and power which gold can buy were now his! It seemed too good to be true, and he pinched himself to make sure that it was not all a dream. The excitement and nervous strain proved more than he could bear. Locked in his own room he laughed hysterically and wept aloud—tears of gratitude and joy. His brother was dead! Now, for the first time he could begin to live. He was only fifty. He might still enjoy twenty years more.

The news rushed through the town like a Kansas cyclone. It was the one topic of conversation in clubs, brokers' offices, theatre lobbies, barrooms, and hotel corridors. Jimmy Marsh a millionaire, a power in Wall Street, a personage to be reckoned with! It sounded funny, yet there it was. Men suddenly remembered that Jimmy was not such a bad sort after all, and all day long Mrs. Marsh was kept busy at the telephone answering calls from officious acquaintances who suddenly became very friendly and interested.

Recognizing the propriety of not exhibiting too much joy in public and having little sense of proportion, Jimmy went to the other extreme in his anxiety to observe the conventions. He rushed into violent mourning, and, not content with attiring himself and wife in sombre hue, even to the ridiculous extent of having black borders on his handkerchiefs which he used conspicuously on every possible occasion, he gave peremptory orders that everyone in his household, his chauffeur, his footman, his cook and maids should all be decked in crape. The blinds of the West Seventy-second Street home were tightly drawn and the servants instructed to walk on tiptoe and talk in whispers as in a house of death. Pictures and statuary were covered with black drapery, and a large oil-painting of John Marsh, conspicuous over the mantelpiece in the reception room was likewise covered with crape. These certain outward signs comforted Jimmy. Every day and every hour they convinced him that the death of his brother was not a chimera of his disordered brain, but something very real indeed. This sensation, this assurance he needed to complete his happiness.

The funeral, which was a very quiet affair, took place unostentatiously with Mr. and Mrs. James Marsh as chief mourners. The only others who attended were some of John Marsh's business associates and the Jersey cousins who hurried respectively from Newark and Rahway in the eager expectation that the will would be read on the return from the cemetery. In this, however, they were sadly disappointed. The representative of Bascom Cooley, attorney for the Marsh estate, said that the box containing the will could not be opened until the return from Europe of Mr. Cooley. He had been cabled for and doubtless would return immediately. In any case, nothing could be done now as Mr. Marsh had expressly stipulated that the will should not be opened for three weeks after his death. Jimmy secretly fumed at this delay, but there was nothing to do but wait. He had waited so long that he could afford to wait a little longer.

The days went by with exasperating slowness. It was all Mr. and Mrs. Marsh could do to conceal their growing impatience, and, as the time approached for the formal reading of the will, they each grew more and more agitated. Mr. Cooley, full of importance, arrived from Europe a few days after the funeral. He at once went into prolonged secret sessions with Jimmy, and, when he emerged, his face wore an expression of satisfaction not seen there in a long time. Tod, he announced, was coming by the next steamer.

Jimmy decided to do things in as dramatic and ostentatious a way as possible. He arranged to have the will opened in the library in the presence of the entire family solemnly assembled. In a self-composed, dignified manner he would request Mr. Cooley to read his brother's testament while he, himself, bowed deep in grief in a chair would show proper sorrow by burying his face in his deep black-bordered handkerchief, and listen with thumping heart to the solemn message from the dead which was to make him one of the richest men in New York. The Jersey cousins were invited, of course. He had to invite them. He did not know to what extent, if at all, his brother had remembered them, but it was policy not to ignore them, especially after the little pecuniary services they had rendered. Besides, he did not wish to furnish his relations with any excuse to contest the will. He had nothing to hide. He wanted the whole world to know exactly what the will said and just how his brother had left him the money.

At length the great day arrived. Jimmy, so arrayed in black from head to foot that he looked like an animated raven, wandered from room to room, instructing the new butler, bossing the other servants, admonishing them to move about noiselessly, rehearsing Mrs. Marsh on the demeanor she must observe throughout the proceedings, arranging the mise-en-scène in the library where the will would be read. Bascom Cooley, he planned, would take his seat in a dignified manner at the end of the long library table. He and Mrs. Marsh, together with Tod, whose arrival was expected any moment, would take seats farther down the board. The Jersey cousins would be ushered to places slightly in the background. Overhead, dominating the scene, was the oil-painting of John Marsh, swathed in crape.

For the twentieth time, Jimmy, watch in hand, had gone to the front parlor window and drawn aside the blinds to see if Mr. Cooley was coming with the strong box containing the will.

"Tod ought to be here by this time," said Mrs. Marsh anxiously, her eye on the clock. "It is eleven o'clock. The Touraine docked at nine. I ought to have gone to meet him."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed her husband. "He's big enough to look after himself. I sent the motor to the French line dock. He'll be here any moment."

The front door bell rang violently.

"Here he is now!" cried Mrs. Marsh, hurrying forward.

There was the shuffle of many feet and the sound of strange voices in the hall. The next instant the curtains were thrown open by the butler, and a number of people, men and women, dressed in black, entered, smiling and bowing. They were the country cousins, with their sons and daughters, all come to hear the will read. They slouched in one after the other, sheepish-looking and awkward. James and his wife greeted them politely yet distantly. It was impolitic to be over cordial with people who could never be anything but undesirable relations.

The newcomers sat down gingerly on the heavy gilt chairs. Unaccustomed to such fine surroundings, they were visibly nervous and ill at ease. Their new clothes did not fit them, and they felt generally uncomfortable. They had thought it necessary to go into mourning. It was an expense they could ill afford, and the matter had furnished food for endless discussion. But it was finally decided that at least that much respect should be paid to the memory of a dear "uncle" who, they fervently prayed, had not forgotten them. The men wore new, cheap-looking black suits; the wives and daughters had on heavy crape veils.

The preacher from Newark, fat and asthmatic, was out of breath after the quick walk from the Subway.

"Phew!" he puffed, mopping his head with a colored handkerchief which contrasted violently with his sombre garments: "We're not late, are we?"

"Oh, dear no," said Jimmy, greeting everyone with forced politeness. "Mr. Cooley is not here yet. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable."

"I told Mathilda it wasn't no use hurryin'!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman peevishly. "She's always so afraid of missing something."

His wife, a shrewish little woman with a snappy manner, bridled up indignantly. Facing her clerical spouse, she exclaimed:

"Now, Peter, how do you come to talk that way? Wasn't you saying to me all the way along: 'Hurry up or when we gets there like as not we'll find they've done us out of what's comin' to us?'"

The preacher reddened and coughed uneasily:

"No—no—my dear—nothing of the kind. You misunderstood me——"

"I heard you, Dad," piped the falsetto voice of his daughter, a gawky girl of eighteen.

The situation was rapidly becoming strained, and it was a relief to Jimmy when his wife came to the rescue by offering the visitors some liquid refreshment. Mrs. Thomas Marsh, wife of the Newark haberdasher, a tall, angular woman with a shrill, masculine voice, accepted with alacrity:

"Thank m'm, I don't care if I does. You know I hate funerals, I'm that spooky. They allus gives me the creeps. Not that I ever seed nothin', but I'm just afeerd. Glass of brandy? Yes—thank you, m'm. I wouldn't have come to-day, but for Tom's coaxing. He worried and worried——"

"But my dear madam," interposed Mr. James Marsh, somewhat scandalized. "This is not a funeral. We've met here merely to listen to the reading of my lamented brother's will."

Mrs. Thomas chuckled, paying no attention to her husband, who kept nudging her to be quiet.

"Uncle John's will! Well—don't wills and death go together? There's no will readin' without a death, is there? That's why these meetings are spooky." Flopping down on one of the chairs, she demanded: "How long will we have to wait?"

"Directly my lawyer arrives," he replied, trying to control his temper. "He won't be long now."

An awkward silence followed. Each looked at the other while Jimmy, who was growing more and more nervous, paced restlessly from table to window. Mrs. Marsh, overheated from excitement, was busy giving final instructions to the servants to leave them undisturbed once the reading had begun. The country cousins and their offspring took advantage of the preoccupation of their hosts to glance furtively round the room, making muffled exclamations as they attracted each other's attention to the richness of the furnishings, watching open-mouthed the going and coming of the solemn-faced butler, who, together with his master, was on the alert for the arrival of the much-desired Mr. Cooley.

The reverend gentleman from Rahway nudged his wife.

"I wonder if there's goin' to be anythin' doin' in the eatin' line?" he whispered. "Buryin' people and business of this sort always puts my appetite on edge."

"Really, Peter—you surprise me!" exclaimed his wife with asperity. "What do you think this is—an Irish wake?"

She lapsed into a dignified silence and glued her eyes on the clock. In another corner of the room the haberdasher's wife, with whom Mrs. Peter was not on speaking terms, was cogitating thoughtfully on what the will might and might not contain. Turning to the haberdasher, she said in a low tone:

"We'll look sweet if he hasn't left us anything."

Her husband put on an injured expression.

"Say, Mary," he grumbled, "can't you be a little more cheerful?"

This playful badinage between the cousins might have been kept up for some time, only, suddenly, there came two sharp rings at the front entrance. There was no mistaking that ring. The mark of the lawyer was written all over it. The cousins, as if detected in some impropriety, sat up with a start. Jimmy, thrusting aside the heavy tapestry curtains, rushed out into the hall and a moment later reappeared, escorting triumphantly Mr. Bascom Cooley, who held in his right hand a small tin security box.

The collective gaze of the country cousins was at once concentrated on the tin box. Instinctively they guessed that it contained the one all important document—the last instructions of their dear lamented uncle, the late John Marsh, regarding the disposition of his fortune.

Mr. Cooley, full of his usual bluster, advanced briskly into the room. Barely deigning to notice those present and ignoring utterly Jimmy's formal introductions, he proceeded at once to the place prepared for him at the head of the table, and banged the tin box down in front of him. Then with a patronizing gesture, meant to be amiable, he invited the others to take their places. When the shuffling of feet had ceased and everything was perfectly still he turned to his host and began pompously:

"My dear friend and client, we have met here to-day for the performance of a painful but very necessary duty—to ascertain your late brother's wishes in regard to the disposition of his estate——"

Deeming this a proper moment to display brotherly feeling, Jimmy drew from his pocket the black-bordered handkerchief and buried his face in its more or less soiled folds. The cousins, not knowing what was expected of them, began to study closely the pattern of the green cloth which covered the table. Clearing his throat as a preliminary to further oratorical flights, Mr. Cooley went on:

"Yes—I know what you feel at this solemn moment, friend. You feel that if the dead could only be called back to life, you would cheerfully relinquish the wealth to which the grim Reaper has made you heir. But that cannot be. We must accept without question the decree of an inscrutable Providence. Your brother loved you, James—for that I can vouch. He was a silent, reserved man and kept strangely aloof from the world, but his heart was in the right place. On the few occasions when he took me into his confidence, he spoke most affectionately of you—his only brother. You alone were in his thoughts when he had under consideration the important duty of making his will——"

The cousins looked at each other blankly and shifted uneasily on their seats. The lawyer went on:

"One day—now some twenty-five years ago—John Marsh sent for me to go to Pittsburg. When I arrived he handed me a sheet of note paper with some lines hurriedly scribbled on it—the draft for his will. 'Cooley,' he said, 'this is the way I want to leave my money.' Two days later the will was signed." Tapping the box in front of him, he added impressively: "It has been in this box ever since. Mr. Marsh, with your permission, I shall now open the box and read the will."

Jimmy, his heart pumping so furiously that he feared his neighbors must notice it, gave a quick gesture of assent. Mrs. Marsh grew a shade paler under her cosmetics. The cousins shuffled closer to the table. The psychological moment had arrived.

"One moment!" cried Jimmy. Rising quickly and going to the door, he called the butler:

"Wilson, I don't wish to be disturbed on any pretext whatever. Keep this door shut, and don't allow any one to enter no matter who it is."

Returning to his seat, he gave the lawyer a sign to proceed.

Calmly, deliberately, Mr. Cooley inserted a key in the lock. The lid flew open, revealing a number of papers within. The lawyer picked out a formidable-looking folded document, yellow with age. The cousins gasped. Instinctively every one knew that it was the will. Unfolding it slowly, Mr. Cooley looked up to see if all were paying attention. Then, clearing his husky throat, he began to read in impressive, ministerial style:

Crash! Bang! In the hall outside there was the sound of shattered glass and the angry slamming of doors. Mr. Cooley stopped reading and, looking up, glared at the others in indignant surprise. This was rank sacrilege! He wondered if he couldn't get some one committed for contempt of court. The cousins, not sure whether they should be satisfied or not with Uncle John's remembrance of them, gazed at each other in consternation. Jimmy, wrathful at this flagrant disregard of his explicit orders, rose to investigate. Outside in the hall could be heard the voice of the new butler raised in loud altercation with someone whose entrance into the library he was trying to prevent.

"Get out of my way! I tell you I will go in!" exclaimed an angry voice.

"It's Tod!" cried Mrs. Marsh, rising.

The library door was flung unceremoniously open and in walked Tod, trying to staunch with his handkerchief the blood which flowed freely from a cut finger. He was somewhat dishevelled after a lively scrimmage with the butler who, not recognizing him as a member of the family, had literally obeyed his master's instructions and attempted to bar the way. It was a poor welcome home, but he was cheery and good natured as ever. Kissing his mother boisterously, he said:

"Hallo, mater! How are you? Say—that new butler of yours is a bird—tried to keep me from coming in here to see you. Just think of it! So I smashed him against the glass door and cut my finger." Looking around, a broad grin spread over his face. With well acted surprise, he exclaimed: "Why, what's going on here? Looks like a prayer meeting!" Nodding familiarly to the lawyer and Mr. Marsh, he called out: "Hello—Cooley! Hello Jimmy!"

James Marsh, his face pale with suppressed irritation, snapped impatiently:

"We waited for you all morning. I told the butler to let no one come in. A disturbance of this kind is most annoying." Turning to the lawyer, he added: "Now, Mr. Cooley, will you please continue——"

"What are you all doing?" grinned Tod.

"Please be quiet, Tod," said his mother, pulling him by the sleeve. "Take a chair and listen. Mr. Cooley is reading the will."

"Not the will!" exclaimed the cousins, aghast.

"Not my brother's will!" cried Jimmy, his face blanching.

"Not the will—what do you mean, sir?" roared Bascom Cooley.

"Just what I say!" replied Tod doggedly. "That scrap of yellow parchment is only good for the waste-paper basket. John Marsh was married, and has a daughter living. Before he died he made a new will, leaving every cent to her!"

CHAPTER VI.

"Do you call that dusting? What have you been doing all day? It's always the same—nothing done. I don't know what we're coming to—having to run a respectable house with such help. All you girls think about nowadays is gadding about, getting as much wages as you can, and doing as little work as possible. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Mrs. Parkes stopped her tirade for sheer want of breath. Hilda threw back her head defiantly.

"Maybe I ain't as good as some as think they're my betters, and maybe I am. If I don't suit, yer can get someone else. My month's up to-day. I'll go at once."

Throwing down broom and dust pan, she bounced out of the room.

Mrs. Parkes looked after the disappearing form of her housemaid in consternation. She was sorry now that she had lost her temper. Servants were so hard to keep that it seemed the height of folly to deliberately send them away. It would have been better to put up with any insolence rather than expose herself to be left alone. How was it possible to run a boarding house without domestic help? Certainly things were coming to a pretty pass if a mistress couldn't say a few plain words of truth. With a weary sigh of discouragement, she picked up the broom and started to do, herself, the work which Hilda had neglected.

The servant problem had bothered Mrs. Parkes for nearly twenty-three years, since the day when she first took upon herself the task of letting "nice rooms with board for select ladies and gentlemen." Left a widow in straitened circumstances after a none too happy married life, and faced with the urgent necessity of doing something for a living, it occurred to her that the best way to provide herself and boy with a home and income was to open a boarding house. She leased an old four-story residence on West Fourteenth Street, and, furnishing it as neatly as possible with the capital at her disposal, she hung out her shingle. Lodgers knocked at the door to inquire, were attracted by the clean rooms, and remained for years. It was hard work catering for the table and looking after the wants of the guests, but Mrs. Parkes toiled uncomplainingly. It would not be forever, she promised herself. When her boy grew up, she could take a rest. He would provide for everything, and they would no longer be under the necessity of taking boarders.

Her boy was Mrs. Parkes' one weakness. There were just three things in which she took special pride—cleanliness of her house, the respectability of her boarders, and her son Harry. Not that there existed any good reason for feeling particular satisfaction over her offspring. Harry grew up as other boys do, but his earning capacity did not grow with him. Like other boys who are made too comfortable at home, he saw no necessity to exert himself, and at the age of thirty he was still living at home, more of a hindrance than a help in the domestic economy, his usefulness being limited to doing odd jobs around the house and keeping tab on the lodgers' accounts. Recently he had found employment in an architect's office, and then he became intolerable. There was nothing that he could not do; no heights to which he could not climb. A good deal of a poseur he wore gold-rimmed glasses, aped the absent-minded manner of the student, and spoke in vague terms of big things he was about to accomplish. That nothing came of them surprised nobody but his credulous and indulgent mother, who lived on year after year in the blissful conviction that one day Harry would astonish the world. If she had any secret worries about her son at all, it was that he might commit some folly with the other sex and marry below his station. Mrs. Parkes was only a boarding house keeper, but she was proud. She did not forget the fact that on her maternal side she was descended from one of the best families in the South. Not that she had any cause to complain of Harry in this respect, but she recalled certain anxieties which her dead husband had caused her in this respect, and she sometimes feared that her son might have inherited some of the paternal traits. For this reason alone she was glad Hilda was leaving. There was no telling what mischief might happen with such a bold creature around the house.

Mrs. Parkes was absorbed in her reflections when the sound of a well-known voice made her look up.

"Hallo, ma! Whatever are you doing that for? Where's Hilda?"

An oldish-looking young man, a pipe in his mouth, newspaper in his hand, stood in the doorway looking at her.

Mrs. Parkes smiled at her son:

"There's no one else to do it, Harry. Hilda is going."

The young man was so surprised that he took the pipe from his mouth, gave an expressive whistle, and came into the room.

"Hilda leaving? I just met her coming down stairs with all her things on. She looks deuced pretty in her street clothes. What are you sending her for?"

"She gave me insolence. I scolded her for neglecting her work. She said she would go. That's all." Looking at her son searchingly, she added: "Why are you so interested?"

The young man laughed, and, throwing himself into an armchair, proceeded to make himself comfortable.

"Interested? I'm not particularly interested that I know of. I'm sorry if you have to do all the work, that's all."

Mrs. Parkes shook her head ominously as she said:

"Harry, you're your father over again."

Absorbed in reading his newspaper, the young man at first made no answer. Then looking up, he chuckled lightly:

"Mother—you're over-anxious—and like most over-anxious mothers, you're mistaken."

Mrs. Parkes looked at him fondly as she answered slowly:

"My dear boy—I know human nature——"

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently:

"You knew father, that's all," he said testily. "I wish to goodness he'd been a better husband, then you wouldn't make my life miserable by always suspecting the worst. I can't speak to a girl—I can't even look at one—that you don't jump to the ridiculous conclusion that I'm falling in love with her, or that I'm like my father. Why don't you hire Japs?"

His mother could not suppress a smile:

"They're too expensive for a boarding house. Besides, some of my lady guests might object to having them around. No—it's not you, my boy. It's our designing sex I'm afraid of. I know I'm anxious, but I don't want to lose you as I lost your father."

"You're always throwing my father at me," he answered. "Can I help it if he was a little wild? He's dead now. Why can't you let him alone?"

Rising and flinging down his newspaper with a gesture of impatience, the young man crossed the room, and, pausing at a door near the window, he leaned his head forward and listened. His mother watched him in silence. Disapproval at his behavior was plainly written on her face.

"What are you doing at that door, sir?" she demanded sharply.

Harry grinned. He knew his mother's weakness too well to be much impressed with her affected tone of severity.

"Is Miss Marsh in?" he asked, in a low tone.

A new suspicion crossed Mrs. Parkes' mind. Hilda was safe out of the way, but here was a new peril. Before this she had noticed her son staring at her young lady lodger. Dear—dear—how like his father he was!

"Why do you want to know?" she demanded. "What concern is it of yours?"

"I want to see her on important business," he said doggedly.

Mrs. Parkes held up her finger warningly.

"Now, Harry—don't make a fool of yourself. Remember—this Miss Marsh is a boarder—under my roof. She seems a nice girl—even if she does owe me three weeks' rent. But she's nothing for you to waste your time on."

Harry held up his hand in protest.

"Mother," he cried. "I'm thirty years old—I'm earning fifteen hundred a year as assistant draughtsman in the office of the biggest firm of architects in New York City. I'm a free, separate entity, an independent individual, a somebody, and I warn you—if you try to pick out my company for me—as you did for my father, you'll lose me as you did him. You'll not only be a grass widow, but a grass mother. I want to see Miss Marsh because—well, I want to see her——"

"She owes me three weeks' board," repeated Mrs. Parkes doggedly.

"What of it?" he laughed. "I don't want to see her about that."

"I don't trust a girl who owes me three weeks' lodging——"

"You do trust her, or she wouldn't owe you. You trust her because she's a lady, because you like her—yes, you do! She's in trouble, mother—and you're never hard on anyone that's in trouble, you dear old bundle of inconsistencies!"

Going up to his mother, he put his arm round her neck. Kissing her, he added:

"She'll pay you as soon as she gets the money her father left her. You know she's won her lawsuit."

Fumbling in her pocket, Mrs. Parkes drew out an envelope.

"Yes, so I heard," she said dryly, "but this is a little reminder—just to let her know how much it is. I never knew you took such an interest in her affairs."

"An interest?" exclaimed Harry, with mock surprise. "What nonsense. Come here, mother—sit down. I want to talk seriously with you."

Drawing up a chair, he made her take a seat. Taking a seat opposite, he asked:

"Mother, was my father a serious man?"

"Never—except when he was broke."

"Well—I am serious. I love Paula Marsh. Now, don't faint. Last night I asked her to be my wife——"

Mrs. Parkes gasped.

"Not one word against her," he went on anxiously. "I know your first impulses are never friendly."

Mrs. Parkes nodded her head sagaciously.

"If—if she inherits all her father's money—you might do worse."

"No—no, mother," replied her son, shrugging his shoulders. "You're mistaken. I love her for herself—not for her money. Besides, she may not get the money after all. Mr. Ricaby, her lawyer, telephoned last night that there is a new move now against her. You see her father made a will leaving her all his money. Her Uncle James is contesting the will and the estate is tied up and she can't get any of it. She hasn't money enough even to get good lawyers. I think Ricaby's an old fluff. It's a shame the way her relations are trying to do her out of it. How I do hate relations!"

"How can they deprive her of her property if it's hers?" inquired Mrs. Parkes incredulously.

"I don't know," said Harry, scratching his head. "They're doing it, that's all. Last night after talking to her lawyer over the 'phone she broke down and burst into tears. Said she was all alone in the world—had no one to protect her—and I—mother—human nature couldn't stand it. I—offered to protect her——"

Mrs. Parkes sighed.

"Your father would have done the same," she said.

"Kindly refrain from associating my father's name with this matter," he cried impatiently.

Mrs. Parkes seemed lost in thought. Her eyes filled with tears.

"At a time like this I can't forget him—bad as he was—I can't help thinking of him." With a deep sigh, she added: "Well, what did—what did she say——?"

"Nothing," rejoined Harry carelessly, "she looked haughtily at me and walked out of the room. Perhaps I was wrong, mother. I had no right to take advantage of her distressed condition of mind. I'm going to apologize to her. I came away from business early to-day on purpose to do so. It was too soon for a proposal—she doesn't know me well enough——"

Mrs. Parkes tossed back her head indignantly.

"I don't see why you should apologize," she said; "you're as good as she is—and maybe better. If I remember rightly there was some question as to her mother being legally married to the father."

"That's a damnable lie invented by her relations so as to deprive her of her rights to her father's estate!" broke in Harry hotly.

"And her father——" went on his mother, "they say he was crazy when he made his will."

"Another lie!" he cried indignantly. "Don't you know that's what lawyers always say about a man who doesn't leave his estate to their clients. And they can get any number of people to prove it, too—if the estate is large enough."

His mother was silent for a moment; then, with an air of unconcern, she asked:

"How much money is there?"

"I don't know—a whole pile. If there wasn't, Bascom Cooley wouldn't be the lawyer for the other side—you can bet on that."

"It's very strange," mused Mrs. Parkes; "she promised me three weeks ago that she'd pay me what was owing."

Harry put his hand in his pocket and brought out a roll of bank notes.

"Here, mother, I'm going to pay that bill. When she gives you the money you can pay me back. I don't want you to mention it to her. Will you promise me?"

Mrs. Parkes looked fondly at her son.

"Is it as bad as all that?" she said.

Harry looked sheepishly down at the carpet.

"Yes—I'm—I'm a goner this time——" he murmured.

"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Parkes, with a laugh, "your father never would have done that. No, Harry, I won't take your money. I can wait. Food is dear, rent is high, and times are hard, but I can wait——"

The young man bounded forward and again threw his arms around her.

"You know, mother, that's what I like about you. You're barking all the time, but you never bite."

Mrs. Parkes, overcome at this unusual display of filial affection, put her handkerchief to her eyes. Whimpering, she said:

"You know, Harry, I always did like that girl. There's something about her one can't help liking. She came here from the swellest hotel on Fifth Avenue and took what we gave her without a murmur. At first I thought she was a leading lady out of an engagement, until I found that she went down to the slums every day and worked among the poor. I tell you I was kinder scared when she told me about her lawsuit. Two years ago I had a young lady who occupied the front parlor and back—and private bath, too. She was a show girl, and she ran up five hundred dollars on the strength of a lawsuit she had against a Wall Street man for breach of promise. She lost the case and I lost my money." With a sigh she went on: "It was your father's fault. He advised me to trust her, but this one's different. Yes, quite different." She stopped and burst into tears: "Harry, my boy, you're all I have. I don't want to lose you—I don't——"

Harry looked distressed.

"Now—now—don't cry," he said. "You won't lose me. You'll get a daughter—that's all."

"God knows I've always wanted a daughter!"

"Well, let me pick one out for you. I think my judgment is better than yours."

The little door opposite which Harry had been watching so eagerly suddenly opened, and a young woman quietly entered the sitting room. It was Paula Marsh, dressed in her street clothes.

She nodded to mother and son in a friendly but reserved manner, and was about to pass out through another door into the outer hall without speaking when she seemed to remember something. Opening a small bag, she said amiably:

"Oh, Mrs. Parkes, I was looking for you. I've just come in. Here is what I owe you. I am sorry——"

Mrs. Parkes, all flustered, rose from the chair.

"Oh, please—not now—there's no hurry—not just now. You look so tired—sit down a moment and rest yourself."

Paula smiled at her landlady's solicitude, and, taking off her hat and coat, thrust some money in the elder woman's hand.

"Yes—yes—I insist," she said. "I've been downtown all morning, waiting for my lawyer in a stuffy little office—and even then I didn't succeed in seeing Mr. Ricaby. Nothing makes one so tired as failing to do what one starts out to do."

"Sit down, dear, and rest yourself," said Mrs. Parkes, proceeding to bustle about. "Let me get you a cup of tea—now, do—you look so tired!"

"Don't say that, please," protested the young girl. "It makes me feel ten times more tired than I really am."

"But I insist. The water is boiling," said the landlady, hurrying out of the room. "I won't be a moment. A nice cup of tea is just the thing. Harry will keep you company while I'm gone." With a mischievous wink at her son, she added, as she disappeared: "Won't you, Harry—like a good boy?"

CHAPTER VII.

Tod's startling revelation in his stepfather's library, the morning the will was being read, regarding John Marsh's secret marriage, came as a terrible shock to Jimmy. At first he loudly denounced it as a damnable lie, a blackmailing scheme, the invention of some hidden enemy. Then, as he grew calmer and learned more details, he began to realize that the elaborate structure which he had built up so carefully for years was about to topple and in his disappointment he grew almost hysterical. He stormed and raved, working himself into such a frenzy that it was dangerous to go near him. But for Bascom Cooley, who still held out hope, he would have shot himself. But Cooley, the resourceful, cunning Cooley advised patience. All might be well. The money was not yet lost by any means. What were the courts for if not to see that justice was done? And Mr. Cooley was honest in his belief that a very serious injustice would be done if the money went anywhere else than into his own pockets. The new will must be contested. Some way must be devised to have it declared invalid. It must be shown that John Marsh was insane at the time he made the will and that the Frenchwoman he lived with was not his wife. If this were true the girl Paula Marsh was not his legitimate daughter. The truth of these statements would not be in question for a moment, for reliable witnesses would go on the stand and solemnly swear to them. Mr. Cooley knew where such witnesses could be found. It was only a question of money. The longest purse secured the greatest number of witnesses, for, strangely enough, very few people are willing to commit perjury gratis. Cooley attended to everything, and well, he might. He himself had as much at stake as Jimmy. So, going among his influential friends, the "men higher up," he set the wheels of justice moving—in his own direction.

The first gun in the long and bitterly contested legal battle, which was to follow, was fired directly Leon Ricaby offered the new will to the Surrogate for probate. Mr. Cooley replied promptly by offering the first will. An administrator was then appointed by the Surrogate to conserve the estate during the litigation, and thus the Marsh estate was tied up into a complicated legal knot which only the Surrogate or a decree of a competent court could disentangle.

Then began for Paula a long, drawn-out period of mental distress and physical discomfort, which taxed her patience and powers of endurance to the utmost. On first arriving in New York, she had taken a modest suite of rooms in one of Manhattan's luxurious hostelries, but this she soon found too expensive for her slender purse. Until it was proved that she was legally entitled to the fortune her father had left, she could not touch a cent of it. Meantime, her means were limited. Practically all the available cash she had was a few hundred dollars left from her Paris allowance. Mr. Ricaby offered to advance her any amount, but she gratefully declined his assistance, preferring to husband her resources by the practice of strict economy. The first step was to move into cheaper quarters. After a long search she found comfortable rooms at Mrs. Parkes' genteel boarding house on West Fourteenth Street. The neighborhood was far from fashionable, but Paula did not mind that. Indeed, she thought it an advantage, preferring to be quiet and secluded, hidden away, as it were, from the world until the legal fight was over and she could take her proper place in the world. Besides, she was nearer now to the poorer districts to which her daily duties called her, almost next door to the slums where her youthful enthusiasm, tireless energy, fine humanitarianism were devoted daily to the noble work of rescuing the needy and unfortunate. This Settlement work, far from weighing heavily upon her, she regarded as a blessing. It not only enabled her to do some good in the world, but it kept her mind occupied while the lawyers were squabbling in the courts.

Of Mr. Ricaby she saw very little. He was busy, working constantly in her interests, preparing for the trial. The case, he told her, was already on the calendar and would come up very soon. Victory, for their side, was, of course, a foregone conclusion. The other side had virtually not a leg to stand upon. They must be prepared, however, for any emergency. Bascom Cooley was known to be unscrupulous, a man who would stop at nothing to gain his ends. Through trickery and his political pull he had already scored an important point. The judge before whom the case would come was an intimate friend of his. They played poker together and belonged to the same political organization. Was it not possible that he might be tempted to let his sympathies lean in his crony's favor? Yet even judges dare not betray their trust too openly. If right were on Paula's side, the Court would be forced to render a decision in her favor.

Notwithstanding this legal unpleasantness, Paula thought she ought to call on her uncle, and in this Mr. Ricaby agreed with her. So one afternoon she dressed herself smartly and rode up Broadway to West Seventy-second Street. The reception she received was not such as to encourage her to repeat the visit. Her uncle was out, but Mrs. Marsh greeted her with frigid politeness and asked her to have tea. While the two women were taking mental inventory of each other Mr. Marsh came in, and the situation became more strained.

Jimmy had expected this visit and had prepared himself for it. He had intended to call the girl an impostor to her face, to drive her from the house, but now she had come, he did neither. He saw a tall, pale, aristocratic-looking girl who vaguely, despite the difference of sex, reminded him of his brother. Yes, now he saw her he knew it was the truth, but no matter, he would fight just the same. She was his brother's child, the girl who had come between him and his rightful inheritance. She was the enemy. But he would fight her and he would win. Cooley had promised him that. These thoughts were passing through his mind as he sat in silence, staring gloomily at her. Then he asked questions about her father and the way they lived in Paris. It seemed to her that he was most interested in her answers regarding her mother, and it suddenly occurred to her that he was cross-examining her for the purpose of the trial. Disconcerted she relapsed into monosyllables and the atmosphere grew more chilly. There was no hint of legal difficulties. He merely inquired if she intended to reside permanently in New York, and expressed the hope that she would always consider their house her home. Paula silently bowed her thanks, and the ceremonious call was at an end.

Of Tod Chase she had seen a good deal since the voyage home. He had asked for permission to call and she assented gladly. The young man belonged in a way to the enemy's camp, but she did not mind that. On the ship they had been thrown a good deal in each other's company, and she had taken a fancy to him. He was always in such good humor, always so full of animal spirits that his mere presence relieved the general gloom and cheered her up. He brought her books and magazines and chatted to her by the hour of a world she did not know and did not care to know. He talked freely of the coming trial; denounced the whole thing as an outrage and hotly berated his stepfather and Bascom Cooley as two scoundrels. He got so worked up over the case that Paula had to laugh. Only one person was not convinced of his sincerity and that was Mr. Ricaby. The lawyer was not blind to the fact that the young man was paying Paula a good deal of attention, and he would have been more than human had he not resented it.

Thus in a way Paula was happy. In the day time she had her work among her poor, and the evening she gave up to reading or music. Sometimes Tod would drop in, and, with Mr. Ricaby, they would have an enjoyable evening. On rare occasions Harry and Mrs. Parkes would be invited to join the little circle.

Then came the trial with all its annoyances, all its brutalities. It was a terrible ordeal for the young girl, and there were times when, utterly worn out and discouraged, she felt it was beyond her strength to go on. The opposite side had no mercy on her. Bascom Cooley was not the kind of man to spare anyone, woman or child. There were no lies and calumnies that a devilish ingenuity and brazen impudence could invent that he did not concoct in order to attack the new will. To discredit the new claimant, he grossly insulted her; to belittle the will, he calumniated the dead man. He produced witnesses who swore on the stand that John Marsh, of late years, was an entirely changed man, irresponsible for his actions. They testified that he not only drank himself to death, but that he acted irrationally and was clean out of his mind. Physicians in Cooley's employ gave corroborative evidence, with some modifications. Mr. Cooley, triumphant, argued that his client, Mr. James Marsh, had amply proved his claim. He alone was entitled to the estate under the original will which was executed at a time when the deceased was in possession of all his faculties. If, thundered the lawyer, the second will was not a damnable forgery—and significantly he added, they had not yet had time to go into that phase of it—it was the work of a crazy man. He would go still further——

Now he did a horrible thing. Not content with vilifying the father, he besmirched the character of Paula's mother. Granted, he shouted, that John Marsh was not crazy—even then the girl had no legal claim to the estate, for she was illegitimate. John Marsh never married her mother!

Instantly Mr. Ricaby was on his feet with an indignant protest. Was it not scandal enough, he cried hotly, that members of the bar should prostitute their profession by putting perjured witnesses on the stand without further disgracing themselves by wantonly insulting a defenseless girl? The insinuation of illegitimacy was a cowardly and venomous lie, an outrageous falsehood which could be nailed on the spot, for, luckily, his client, Miss Marsh, had safe in her possession her mother's marriage certificate. As to the other statements made under oath regarding John Marsh's mental condition, they were equally reckless and fabricated solely for the purpose of influencing the court's decision. The witnesses he would call would refute the allegations entirely.

Long before the trial closed, it was apparent that Mr. Ricaby had by far the best of it. But the fight was not yet won. There were delays and more delays. Mr. Cooley, feeling he was losing ground, changed his tactics. Instead of pushing the case, he sought to gain time. Finally when the evidence was all in, and counsel for either party had exhausted their arguments and powers of vituperation, the Court calmly reserved its decision, and the long, tedious wait and suspense began all over again.

Paula was glad it was over, and at heart was not really concerned about the outcome. Of course, the money would be welcome. It was hers, and it was her duty to claim it. When it was in her possession, she saw in her mind's eye a thousand miracles that might be worked with it to bring comfort and joy into many a desolate home. But if she lost—well, then she would go cheerfully to work and support herself. There were times when she wondered if she would ever marry. Perhaps she would, but whom? There was no one she cared particularly about. At one time she thought a good deal of Mr. Chase, but since the beginning of the trial she had seen less of him. His visits to the boarding house were less frequent, and it seemed to her that his attitude was more distant. After all, it was only natural. No matter how much he might sympathize with her, he must realize that a victory for her would mean a terrible blow to his own mother. She could not blame him if he stood aloof. Mr. Ricaby had never liked him. Perhaps she herself was mistaken in him. His profession of friendship might be only a blind in order to pry into her movements.

She smiled to herself as she reflected that she certainly would not care to marry Harry Parkes. Yet her landlady's son was the only male who, thus far had ventured to pay court to her. Always solicitous for the welfare of everybody around her, she was sorry for Harry Parkes. That he had faults, she overlooked. He had some good traits—therefore she concluded that there was still hope for him. She tried to get him interested in her Settlement work and offered to find for him duties which he would find congenial. But Harry, his faith in himself unshaken, received all such suggestions with a grimace. As was to be expected, he put a wrong construction on her sympathetic attitude, mistaking kindly interest for adoration of his manly charms, and last evening when they were alone in the parlor he had attempted liberties which she indignantly resented. She let him plainly understand that if it happened again she would be forced to leave the house. That is why she was not particularly grateful to Mrs. Parkes for leaving them alone now. Her mind was too preoccupied for small talk. At any moment, Mr. Ricaby had telephoned her, the Court might be expected to hand down its decision. Still, not wishing to appear curt, she said:

"Your mother is remarkably amiable this afternoon, Mr. Parkes."

Harry woke up with a start.

"Yes—yes—she is—she is!" he stammered. There was a short silence, and then he said:

"Miss Marsh—I want to apologize for—for—for my—my—conduct the other night——"

"Apologize!" she exclaimed, as if not understanding.

"Yes," he stammered. "I'm very sorry—very sorry——"

"Sorry—why, what did you do?" she demanded.

Harry looked at her in surprise.

"It isn't what I did so much," he said hesitatingly, "as what I said—I—want—you to forgive me——"

Paula smiled.

"There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Parkes. The fact is, you won't think I—I'm rude, will you—but—I hardly remember what happened last night. I was very weak and foolish, and I'm afraid I gave way to—to tears. I don't believe in tears—it seems you're sorry for yourself—and I'm not sorry for myself—I'm angry with my relations—I'm angry because they make me angry. I love peace and happiness and a calm, quiet life—and they make my existence a hell on earth—with their attacks on my father and mother and their lawsuits. My heart is always in my mouth—I'm always afraid that something dreadful is going to happen—any moment I may hear the Court's decision. I'm unhappy, Mr. Parkes—and I've no right to be unhappy. I'm young and I have a happy disposition—every capacity to enjoy my life but——" Shaking her head, she added: "But there, I'm not going to bother you with my troubles. You're home early——"

"You're sure that you're not angry with me?"

"Why, no—what for—whatever did you say or do?"

He hesitated and looked at her, trying to read her mind. Her self-possession disconcerted him.

"Never mind," he said finally, "I was very foolish——"

"Were you?" she replied calmly. "I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary."

He advanced a step nearer and his voice was agitated, as he burst out:

"You see, Miss Marsh, I——"

"Do you mind calling me Paula," she said in the most matter-of-fact tone. "I hate the name of Marsh—it's my Uncle James' name—and it's always on those horrid law papers—'Marsh versus Marsh.' It's always connected with defendants and plaintiffs and—affidavits—and other horrible instruments of torture. My heart beats every time I see the dreadful words. Marsh versus Marsh! I dream of Marsh versus Marsh—and when I wake up in the morning—the first thing that greets me in the morning paper is Marsh versus Marsh. I hate the name—I hate it!"

Was this the opportunity? Harry did not know but he seized it.

"Why—why not change it?" he murmured.

Paula smiled.

"That idea has occurred to me dozens of times," she said gaily. "I will when this horrible lawsuit is settled."

His companion grew a shade paler.

"Is that a—a bargain——" he asked seriously.

"Yes," she laughed.

"And may I—pick—pick out a suitable name for you——?"

"If you like," she said lightly; "any old name will do—Smith—Jones—Billikins——"

"Even Par—Parkes?" he suggested.

"Yes—even Parkes," she laughed. "Anything but Marsh——"

The door opened and Mrs. Parkes entered, carrying a tray with tea.

"Here we are—here we are," she said cheerily, "a fresh cup of tea—I opened a new packet of Lipton on purpose. Say, that Lipton makes elegant tea! Oh, I've forgotten the toast. Harry, run down and get it, there's a dear boy." Turning to Paula, she added: "He is a dear boy, isn't he?"

"Just like his father, I think you once told me," rejoined Paula, with a covert smile.

"Did I? Well, he is in some ways—and in some ways he isn't."

"Mother, please!" exclaimed Harry. "I'm afraid I'm like you, Miss Paula—I don't like to be reminded of my relations— I'll get the toast, mother."

He left the room to go foraging for toast, while Mrs. Parkes began pouring out tea.

"Did the dear boy tell you?" she asked. "He said he was going to apologize but——"

"Will you kindly tell me what the dear boy did that needs so much apology?" said Paula.

"He's so impulsive," said Mrs. Parkes, with a sigh. "To that extent he is like his father—but—he feels as I do that until your lawsuit is settled one way or the other, he should not have asked you to be his wife. One lump or two?"

Paula opened wide her eyes.

"Be his wife?" she exclaimed. "One lump? No, two. Did he ask me to marry him?"

"Yes. Didn't he? He said he did——"

"So that's what it was—great Heavens! I've been proposed to—and I didn't know it——"

"Of course, he has my consent," went on Mrs Parkes, in a patronizing tone.

"Of course, I mean—thank you—that's rather nice," rejoined Paula, trying to conceal a laugh. "You're awfully good—but—this is nice tea, isn't it?"

"Why, you haven't tasted it yet," protested the landlady.

"No—I'm just going to. The aroma—is——" Gulping the tea down she scalded herself. "It's hot, isn't it?"

The door reopened and Harry reappeared with the toast.

"Mr. Ricaby has just come in," he blurted out. "He wants to see you at once—says it is most important. I told him to come right up. Why, Miss Marsh, what's the matter——?"

Paula had turned pale. The teacup almost fell from her trembling hand. Perhaps her attorney had brought the message which she had been so anxiously expecting. Had he brought good news?

"You look frightened to death, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Parkes.

Paula rose.

"May I ask you to excuse me?" she said. "Mr. Ricaby wants to see me on most important business connected with my lawsuit. I would like to see him alone."

"Certainly, my dear," said Mrs. Parkes, rising. "We'll take the tea in my room. Come, Harry, help me with the tray."

The young man frowned disapproval at this most untimely interruption, but there was no help for it. With a glance at Paula that received no response, he rebelliously picked up the tray and followed his mother out.