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."