Black Jack, Max Brand [snow like ashes .txt] 📗

CHAPTER 16

Vance went gloomily to the room of Terry and called him out. The boy was

pale, but perfectly calm, and he looked older, much older.

 

“There was a great deal of talk,” said Vance—he must make doubly sure of

Terence now. “And they even started a little lynching party. But we

stopped all that. Gainor made a very nice little speech about you. And

now Elizabeth is waiting for you in the library.”

 

Terry bit his lip.

 

“And she?” he asked anxiously.

 

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Vance assured him.

 

“She’ll probably read you a curtain lecture. But at heart she’s proud of

you because of the way Gainor talked. You can’t do anything wrong in my

sister’s eyes.”

 

Terry breathed a great sigh of relief.

 

“But I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done. I’m really not, Uncle Vance. I’m

afraid that I’d do it over again, under the same circumstances.”

 

“Of course you would. Of course you would, my boy. But you don’t have to

blurt that out to Elizabeth, do you? Let her think it was the

overwhelming passion of the moment; something like that. A woman likes to

be appealed to, not defied. Particularly Elizabeth. Take my advice.

She’ll open her arms to you after she’s been stern as the devil for a

moment.”

 

The boy caught his hand and wrung it.

 

“By the Lord, Uncle Vance,” he said, “I certainly appreciate this!”

 

“Tush, Terry, tush!” said Vance. “You’ll find that I’m with you and

behind you in more ways than you’d ever guess.”

 

He received a grateful glance as they went down the broad stairs

together. At the door to the library Vance turned away, but Elizabeth

called to him and asked him in. He entered behind Terence Hollis, and

found Elizabeth sitting in her father’s big chair under the window,

looking extremely fragile and very erect and proud. Across her lap 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—patience—you’ve spent on

me I can never repay you. I know that. At least, here’s where I stop

piling up a debt. These clothes and this gun come out of the money I made

punching cows last year. Outside I’ve got El Sangre saddled with a saddle

I bought out of the same money. They’re my start in life, the clothes

I’ve got on and the gun and the horse and the saddle. So I’m starting

clean—Miss Cornish!”

 

Vance saw his sister wince under that name from the lips of Terry. But

she did not speak.

 

“There’ll be no return,” said Terence sadly. “My trail is an out trail.

Good-by again.” And so he was gone.