“Yes. I’ve seen it.”
“What—the money? I don’t understand.”
“I’ve seen the value of a million of money in United States Bonds, which were the property of your father,” answered the old man. “I won’t tell you how it happened, because a banker accidentally betrayed your father’s confidence. It was at the time of a conversion of bonds, two years ago. For some reason or other, Alexander—your father—couldn’t attend to it, or do it all himself. I don’t know why. Anyhow, he employed a banker confidentially, and I came to know the fact, and I saw the bonds. So that settles it. He’s not squandered a million on your clothes in the last two years, has he, little girl?”
“Hardly!” Katharine laughed. “But mightn’t it have been trust money, or something like that?”
“No. His name was there. He’s a careful man—your father. So it couldn’t have been a trust. Well—I was going through the list, wasn’t I? I haven’t half finished. There’s your grandfather. Sandy never had much sense when he was a boy. He was all heart. I suppose he knows I’m dying, and wants me to give my soul a lift in the shape of some liberal contributions to his charities. I wish you could see the piles of reports he sends, and letters without end—in his queer, shaky hand. ‘Dear old Bob; what’s a million, more or less, to you, and it would make ten thousand homes happy.’ That’s the sort of thing. Ten thousand idiots! Give them all a hundred dollars apiece—of course they’d be happy, for a week or two. Sandy forgets the headaches they’d have afterwards. He believes everything’s good, and everybody’s an angel, more or less disguised, but recognizable. Well—I suppose it’s better to be an optimist. They’re the happy people, after all.”
“Do you think so? I don’t know. People who are always happy can’t ever feel how happy they are sometimes, as unhappy people do. That’s what’s so nice about being sad—now and then, when one feels gay, the world’s a ball of sunshine. Haven’t you felt like that sometimes? I do.”
“Sometimes—sometimes,” repeated the old man, with a faint smile. “Not lately. I’ve had so many cares. Great wealth complicates the end of life, Katharine. You’ll be very rich. Remember that. Have your fortune settled so that it can be easily handled when you’re old. That’s what I’ve done, and it’s something, at all events. If I had to be picking up odds and ends and loose threads now, it would be harder than it is. And perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps it’s better to tell people just what they have to expect. People worry so! Now there are all the Miners’ rich relations, you know—the Thirlwalls and the Van De Waters, and all that set. I don’t know what they think, I’m sure. They’ve got heaps of money, and there’s no reason on earth why I should leave them a dollar. But they worry. Ruth Van De Water comes and brings flowers—always flowers—I make Leek take them away—I suppose he decorates the pantry with them—and she says her mother would so much like to take me to drive when it’s warmer. Why? What for? And one of the Thirlwalls sent me some cigars he’d brought from Havana with him, and old Mrs. Trehearne—the one who’s ‘old’ Mrs. Trehearne now, since her sister-in-law died—didn’t she toddle in the other day and say she wanted to talk about old times!—she’s another of those holy scarecrows that hang round death-beds. Now, she’s nothing on earth to expect of me. It’s sheer love of worry, I believe.”
“People may be fond of you for your own sake,” suggested Katharine. “You don’t know how nice you are! That is—when you like!”
“Well—I don’t know. It may be—but I doubt it. You see, I’ve had a good deal of experience in the way of being liked.”
“Has it been all a bad experience? You can’t tell me that nobody ever liked you for your own sake—never, at all. I shouldn’t believe it. The world can’t be all bad, right through.”