Frederick Bartlett - The Wall Street Girl

Before beginning to read the interesting document in front of him, Jonas Barton, senior member of Barton & Saltonstall, paused to clean his glasses rather carefully, in order to gain sufficient time to study for a moment the tall, good-looking young man who waited indifferently on the other side of the desk. He had not seen his late client’s son since the latter had entered college–a black-haired, black-eyed lad of seventeen, impulsive in manner and speech. The intervening four years had tempered him a good deal. Yet, the Pendleton characteristics were all there–the square jaw, the rather large, firm mouth, the thin nose, the keen eyes. They were all there, but each a trifle subdued: the square jaw not quite so square as the father’s, the mouth not quite so large, the nose so sharp, or the eyes so keen. On the other hand, there was a certain fineness that the father had lacked.

In height Don fairly matched his father’s six feet, although he still lacked the Pendleton breadth of shoulder.

The son was lean, and his cigarette–a dilettante variation of honest tobacco-smoking that had always been a source of irritation to his father–did not look at all out of place between his long, thin fingers; in fact, nothing else would have seemed quite suitable. Barton was also forced to admit to himself that the young man, in some miraculous way, managed to triumph over his rather curious choice of raiment, based presumably on current styles. In and of themselves the garments were not beautiful. From Barton’s point of view, Don’s straw hat was too large and too high in the crown. His black-and-white check suit was too conspicuous and cut close to the figure in too feminine a fashion. His lavender socks, which matched a lavender tie, went well enough with the light stick he carried; but, in Barton’s opinion, a young man of twenty-two had no business to carry a light stick. By no stretch of the imagination could one picture the elder Pendleton in such garb, even in his jauntiest days. And yet, as worn by Don, it seemed as if he could not very well have worn anything else. Even the mourning-band about his left arm, instead of adding a somber touch, afforded an effective bit of contrast. This, however, was no fault of his. That mourning has artistic possibilities is a happy fact that has brought gentle solace to many a widow.

On the whole, Barton could not escape the deduction that the son reflected the present rather than the past. Try as he might, it was difficult for him to connect this young man with Grandfather Pendleton, shipbuilder of New Bedford, or with the father who in his youth commanded the Nancy R. But that was by no means his duty–as Don faintly suggested when he uncrossed his knees and hitched forward impatiently.

“Your father’s will is dated three years ago last June,” began Barton.

“At the end of my freshman year,” Don observed.

Jonas Barton adjusted his spectacles and began to read. He read slowly and very distinctly, as if anxious to give full value to each syllable:

“New York City, borough of Manhattan, State of New York. I, Donald Joshua Pendleton, being of sound mind and–”

Donald Pendleton, Jr., waved an objection with his cigarette.

“Can’t you cut out all the legal stuff and just give me the gist of it? There’s no doubt about father having been of sound mind and so forth.”

“It is customary–” began the attorney.

“Well, we’ll break the custom,” Don cut in sharply.

Barton glanced up. It might have been his late client speaking; it gave him a start.

“As you wish,” he assented. “Perhaps, however, I may be allowed to observe that in many ways your father’s will is peculiar.”

“It wouldn’t be father’s will if it wasn’t peculiar,” declared Don.

Barton pushed the papers away from him.

“Briefly, then,” he said, “your father leaves his entire estate to you–in trust.”

Don leaned forward, his stick grasped in his gloved hands.

“I don’t get that last.”

“In trust,” repeated Barton with emphasis. “He has honored our firm with the commission of serving as a board of trustees for carrying out the terms of the will.”

“You mean to fix my allowance?”

“To carry out the terms of the will, which are as follows: namely, to turn over to you, but without power of conveyance, the paternal domicile on West Sixtieth Street with all its contents.”

Don frowned.

“Paternal domicile–I can translate that all right. I suppose you mean the house. But what’s that line ‘without power of conveyance’?”

“It means that you are at liberty to occupy the premises, but that you are to have no power to sell, to rent, or to dispose of the property in any way whatsoever.”

Don appeared puzzled.

“That’s a bit queer. What do you suppose Dad thought I wanted of a place that size to live in?”

“I think your father was a man of considerable sentiment.”

“Eh?”

“Sentiment,” Barton repeated. “It was there you were born, and there your mother died.”

“Yes, that’s all correct; but–well, go on.”

“The rest of the document, if you insist upon a digest, consists principally of directions to the trustees. Briefly, it provides that we invest the remainder of the property in safe bonds and apply the interest to meet taxes on the aforesaid paternal domicile, to retain and pay the wages of the necessary servants, to furnish fuel and water, and to maintain the house in proper repair.”

“Well, go on.”

“In case of your demise–”

“You may skip my demise; I’m not especially interested in that.”

“Then I think we have covered all the more important provisions,” Barton concluded.

“All?” exclaimed Don. “What do you think I’m going to live on?”

Here was the clash for which Barton had been waiting. His face hardened, and he shoved back his chair a little.

“I am not able to find any provision in the will relating to that,” he answered.

“Eh? But what the deuce–”

For a moment Don stared open-mouthed at the lawyer. Then he reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, selected one with some deliberation, and tapped an end upon the case.

“You said Dad had considerable sentiment,” he observed. “It strikes me he has shown more humor than sentiment.”

Barton was still aggressive. To tell the truth, he expected some suggestion as to the possibility of breaking the will; but if ever he had drawn a paper all snug and tight, it was the one in question.

“Damme,” Pendleton, Sr., had said. “Damme, Barton, if the lad is able to break the will, I’ll rise in my grave and haunt you the rest of your days.”

If the boy wished to test the issue, Barton was ready for him. But the boy’s thoughts seemed to be on other things.

“I suppose,” mused Pendleton, Jr., “I suppose it was that freshman scrape that worried him.”

“I was not informed of that,” replied Barton.

“It made good reading,” the young man confided. “But, honest, it was not so bad as the papers made it out. Dad was a good sport about it, anyhow. He cleared it up and let me go on.”

“If you will allow me to advance an opinion,–a strictly personal opinion,–it is that Mr. Pendleton devised the entire will with nothing else but your welfare in mind. He had a good deal of pride, and desired above all things to have you retain the family home. If I remember correctly, he said you were the last lineal descendant.”

Don nodded pleasantly.

“The last. Kind of looks as if he wanted me to remain the last.”

“On the contrary,” ventured Barton, “I think he hoped you might marry and–”