The lawyer paused as if this were the end, though he still held the paper—a little unsteadily—before him. It seemed to Judge Kirtley, watching from the depths of his leather-covered chair, that the paper shook.
Margaret's voice broke the stillness that followed the reading of the will.
"I do not know that this is the time or place to do this," she began with hesitation, "but—when this will was written there was no child. Now that there is, I wish to transfer this property to him. I have enough—"
"Margaret," the Judge interrupted, "the law takes care of that. Though there is no mention of a child, he would share with you."
"I want him to have it all," she said. "I—I could not keep this money for myself. I would not wish to use it."
She turned to look at Judge Kirtley, who was at her right, and as she did so met Richard De Jarnette's steady gaze. There was something so intent, so inexplicable in his eyes,—a look so like hate or scorn or distrust,—something at least that she had never seen there before,—that involuntarily she dropped her eyes. What had she said? What made him look like that? There was something in that look that froze her blood.
Judge Kirtley as her lawyer spoke authoritatively. "There is time enough to attend to all that later. These things should never be done with precipitation."
And Margaret, who had not yet recovered from that startling look into Richard De Jarnette's heart, and was moreover oppressed with the fear that she had done a thing Judge Kirtley disapproved, subsided into silence.
The voice of Mr. Jarvis was heard.
"I regret to say," he remarked slowly and with his eyes bent religiously on the paper, "that there is a codicil to this will, bearing date of April 30th of the following year. No one can deprecate more than I the painful duty that devolves upon me of reading it in this presence."