Baird had been thrown upon his own resources, as he had been when he had struggled for Ann's life. He had succeeded then in infusing her with his vitality, why could he not infuse love into her now? Those letters of Baird's to Ann were vividly honest self-expressions; the best in him went hand in hand with acute physical craving.
Then, in September, he had received a staggering blow. Ben wrote:
"Something has happened you'll want to know about. Edward Westmore's will has been made known and it's sure that he's left Ann a considerable sum of money. Westmore and one-fourth of his money he left to Judith, and the other three-fourths to be divided equal between Garvin and Sarah and Ann, Sarah's to be held in trust. In case either Garvin or Sarah should die, their portion was to be divided equal between Judith and Ann, so Ann gets half of Garvin's money right now, as well as her own. Edward's will states distinct that he is giving a Penniman this money because of wrongs done the Penniman family by the Westmore family in the past.
"There's great talk on the Ridge about it, and there's those who says that Judith sure will try to break the will on the ground that Edward couldn't have been of sound mind—that the way he did for hisself showed that, and that the will were made just before he died. But I know that Ann will get her money. It's a big thing for Ann, and I thought you'd want to know about it."
Ben had also told Baird that, a few days before, Coats and Sue had been married. "Seems like a little happiness has come to the Penniman family at last," Ben wrote.
Nickolas Baird was a thoroughgoing modern with a high appreciation of the value of money. He came of a money-winning and money-worshiping race. However, he was sturdy in his ambitions, for he had never considered marrying money, and had no particular desire to have it given to him. It was making money that fascinated him.
Ben's news had cut the ground from beneath Baird, for Ann Penniman, penniless and tied to the farm, had been a possibility; Ann, independent and with the world of men from which to choose, was another matter. Baird had been unable to write to Ann after that. He was handicapped by as complete a depression as had overtaken him after he had won her back to life. He had been straining to get a hearing; suddenly it seemed futile to attempt anything at all; she was beyond him.
But he wrote to Ben: "Thank you for telling me of Ann's good fortune. I suppose I ought to be glad, but I'm not. I feel more as if I'd had a blow on the head. I can't write to Ann or do anything—she's passed beyond my reach. I've nothing to offer her now—to save my neck, I couldn't clean up more than about twenty thousand—that and my salary. When I make my pile, I suppose I'll have courage to try again—if somebody doesn't get ahead of me, or if in the meantime I don't fall for some woman whose love is big enough for both of us."
Baird was in exactly this frame of mind as he rode up to Westmore under the October sunshine. He had fallen hard, down upon the worldly earth; upon old and familiar thoughts, trite aspirations and desires, cast there by the vision of Ann buttressed by money. The sweet thing that had permeated him had grown sick when frowned upon by cold cash. There was an ugly vacant ache in him.
"Why not?" he asked himself, as he looked at Westmore, its stuccoed length mottled by splashes of red and yellow, clinging vines and low-hung branches. Judith had never failed him. All that long summer her letters had come regularly, warmed by interest, asking nothing of him, simply giving, giving—all she felt she would be allowed to give. He had not told her that he was going to Europe. He had not even told her that he was coming out to the Ridge, for he had decided to keep away from Ann.
Then, suddenly, he had changed his mind. He would go to New York by the southern route; give himself the comfort of seeing Judith. But he would not see Ann.