"Semple," Richard De Jarnette said abruptly as he and his friend sat together that night—a long silence had fallen between them—"could a wound like that be self-inflicted? In God's name, tell me the truth!"
It was the question Dr. Semple had been dreading for three days. He had thought of several ways to evade it. When it came, there was something in the haggard face of the man before him that would not be denied.
"No," he said, simply. "It would be a physical impossibility."
CHAPTER XI
THE WILL
It was two weeks or more after the burial of Victor De Jarnette before his will was read. Mr. Jarvis, the attorney in whose charge it had been left, had been absent from the city at the time of the unfortunate affair, and the hearing of the will had of necessity been postponed until his return. This was a matter of very little concern to Margaret. It seemed to her rather a useless formality anyway, this coming together to hear the provisions of a legal instrument that could have but one outcome. The money would go to Philip, of course. Judge Kirtley had talked to her about her "dower rights," and a "child's part," and several other things that she did not in the least understand, but she only shook her head. She had a great abundance of money, she told him, for her own needs and Philip's, too, for that matter, and she had determined to turn over to her child at once whatever legally came to her. She had a shuddering feeling that she did not want to use Victor's money. Let it all go to Philip. In fact, Margaret had always been so far removed from any care in regard to money except the spending of it that her ideas on the subject were very vague and impractical. She had always had all the money she wanted or could possibly use, and what would anybody want with more than that? Avarice is the vice of age rather than of youth, and Margaret certainly was not avaricious.
She had spent this fortnight in adjusting herself to new conditions. When the first horror of it all passed she became aware that a great load was lifted from her heart. There was nothing to do; there was no choice pressing upon her; everything was settled, and that by no act of hers; there was no danger now of trouble about Philip, and the sharp relief she experienced at this thought made her aware of what a steadily-growing fear that had begun to be. No, that was over now, thank God! and she caught up the child in a passion of relief.
There was something infinitely touching about the girl in these days when she stood looking at the wreck of her life. It was so different from what she had thought it would be—so different! She wondered vaguely if other people—most people—saw their ships go down like this.
The sea around her was filled with wreckage. There was nothing now but to gather up the scattered bits and with such courage as she could summon, piece out another life. A very quiet subdued one this would be, with Philip as its center. It would be colorless perhaps—she shivered slightly,—she was not quite twenty-one, and color had not lost its charm,—but it would, at least, be peaceful.