“No, indeed! How could it be your duty? Everybody knows that uncle Robert had made a previous will. Mr. Allen drew it up, though of course he’s bound to say nothing about what was in it. It is always taken for granted that when a man makes a new will he burns his old one. That’s probably what uncle Robert did, like a sensible man. What’s the use of telling anybody about it? Besides—frankly—I wouldn’t trust your father, if he knew what was in it. He’d go out of his mind and do something foolish.”
“What, for instance? What could he do?”
“Well—it might fall into his hands by accident. One never knows. And he might say nothing about it. Of course, I don’t mean to say exactly that he would—”
“No, dear—please don’t say it. He’s my father, you know—and I don’t think you understand him as I do. He never would do anything like that—never! I don’t think it’s quite fair even to suggest such a thing.”
“I’m sorry I spoke,” answered Ralston, in a contrite voice, for he saw that she was really hurt. “You know what I mean—”
“Yes—” she replied in a doubtful tone. “But you don’t understand him, quite. It’s the view of right and wrong, it isn’t the real right and wrong. He’s violent, and he’s been cruelly unkind to me, and—well—he loves money. I can’t deny it.”
“Hardly!” exclaimed Ralston, feeling that she was justifying him with every word.
“No. It’s much too clear. Nobody could deny it. But you’re very much mistaken if you think that papa would do anything which he knew to be dishonest. With all his faults he’s got that good point. He’s honest in the letter, and I think he means to be in the spirit.”
“How awfully charitable women are!” Ralston laughed rather scornfully.
“No,” answered Katharine. “I don’t go in for being charitable. I’m not telling you that I love him, nor that I can ever forgive some of the things he’s said and done. I suppose I ought to. But I’m just as human as other people. I can’t turn the other cheek, and that sort of thing, you know. I never mean to give him another chance of hurting me, if I can help it, because I don’t know what he might do. We’re very different, he and I, though we’re so much alike in some ways. But all the same, I say that papa’s not a bad man, and I won’t let any one else say it—not even you. He’s very limited. He’s fond of money. He’s got a cruel streak—I believe it’s his New England blood, for none of the other Lauderdales have it—”