“‘Red Jacket’ is mortgaged to the limit, and the interest is long overdue; I have been borrowing for twenty years, and I don’t know how many thousands I owe,” she remarked simply, as casually as if she had invited him to enjoy the view.
The unexpected information shocked him, although certainly George Alexander had given him ample clues. He began a speech about the uselessness of money—one of his favourite poetic theories—but it did not ring true. For the first time in his life he found that Thoreauean point of view distasteful.
“Does Jerry know?” he interrupted himself.
“She’ll know if she can ever make head or tail out of the books,” she answered serenely. “Well!” she gave a tremendous sigh of relief and actually smiled. “I’m glad I don’t have to do the juggling any longer. I’ve thrown it all on Jerry now. She’s young and able, I guess. She’ll find a way out, never fear.”
And so she talked complacently, meanwhile with every other sentence giving ugly details which showed plainly enough, even to Richard’s non-commercial experience, that Jerry would have to be a financial magician to find any way out except via bankruptcy. He tried to quiz her, but she put him off with the plea that the business of managing the estate was no longer her affair. She was too happy with her perennials to spoil it all with figures that would not come out right. She joked about it, too; showing all too clearly that if bossing things in the gardens had given her the appearance of her old masterful self, it was an appearance only. A bit of her mind, seemingly, had become atrophied without in the least harming the remainder. Heretofore she had been both a dominating manager of a complicated estate and a clever gardener; at present the dominating manager had vanished, leaving only the clever gardener.
Richard rose precipitately. He must see Jerry at once. She had seemed particularly worried lately; and he remembered with a pang that he and Jawn had been trying to joke her into good spirits. With this calamity hanging over her—already she must have got an inkling of the state of affairs—they had been unforgivably cruel. He must go to her instantly.
“Who is your lawyer?” he asked Mrs. Wells; his tone was almost crisp.
“My lawyer?” she inquired in turn. “I never had any.”
“You speak of mortgages and bonds and transfers of property,” he followed up quickly. “Whom do you consult about such matters?”
“Oh,” she smiled sweetly; “you mean Mitchell Lear, I suppose. Of course, he’s a lawyer; but I never go to him about law matters—only as a friend.”