The Price She Paid [5]
there's his share of the unsettled and unfinished business of the firm,'' admitted Frank.
``How much will that be?'' persisted Mildred.
``I can't tell, offhand,'' said Frank, with virtuous reproach. ``My mind's been on--other things.''
Henry Gower's widow was not without her share of instinctive shrewdness. Neither had she, unobservant though she was, been within sight of her son's character for twenty-eight years without having unconfessed, unformed misgivings concerning it. ``You mustn't bother about these things now, Frank dear,'' said she. ``I'll get my brother to look into it.''
``That won't be necessary,'' hastily said Frank. ``I don't want any rival lawyer peeping into our firm's affairs.''
``My brother Wharton is the soul of honor,'' said Mrs. Gower, the elder, with dignity. ``You are too young to take all the responsibility of settling the estate. Yes, I'll send for Wharton to-morrow.''
``It'll look as though you didn't trust me,'' said Frank sourly.
``We mustn't do anything to start the gossips in this town,'' said his wife, assisting.
``Then send for him yourself, Frank,'' said Mildred, ``and give him charge of the whole matter.''
Frank eyed her furiously. ``How ashamed father would be!'' exclaimed he.
But this solemn invoking of the dead man's spirit was uneffectual. The specter of poverty was too insistent, too terrible. Said the widow:
``I'm sure, in the circumstances, my dear dead husband would want me to get help from someone older and more experienced.''
And Frank, guilty of conscience and an expert in the ways of conventional and highly moral rascality, ceased to resist. His wife, scenting danger to their getting the share that ``rightfully belongs to the son, especially when he has been the brains of the firm for several years,'' made angry and indiscreet battle for no outside interference. The longer she talked the firmer the widow and the daughter became, not only because she clarified suspicions that had been too hazy to take form, but also because they disliked her intensely. The following day Wharton Conover became unofficial administrator. He had no difficulty in baffling Frank Gower's half-hearted and clumsy efforts to hide two large fees due the dead man's estate. He discovered clear assets amounting in all to sixty- three thousand dollars, most of it available within a few months.
``As you have the good-will of the firm and as your mother and sister have only what can be realized in cash,'' said he to Frank, ``no doubt you won't insist on your third.''
``I've got to consider my wife,'' said Frank. ``I can't do as I'd like.''
``You are going to insist on your third?'' said Conover, with an accent that made Frank quiver.
``I can't do otherwise,'' said he in a dogged, shamed way.
``Um,'' said Conover. ``Then, on behalf of my sister and her daughter I'll have to insist on a more detailed accounting than you have been willing to give --and on the production of that small book bound in red leather which disappeared from my brother-in-law's desk the afternoon of his death.''
A wave of rage and fear surged up within Frank Gower and crashed against the seat of his life. For days thereafter he was from time to time seized with violent spasms of trembling; years afterward he was attributing premature weaknesses of old age to the effects of that moment of horror. His uncle's words came as a sudden, high shot climax to weeks of exasperating peeping and prying and questioning, of sneer and insinuation. Conover had been only moderately successful at the law, had lost clients to Frank's father, had been beaten when they were on opposite sides. He hated the father with the secret, hypocritical hatred of the highly moral and religious man. He de- spised the son. It is not often that a Christian gentleman has such an opportunity to combine justice and revenge, to feed to bursting an ancient grudge, the while conscious that he is but doing his duty.
Said Frank, when he was able to speak: ``You have been listening to the lies of some treacherous
``How much will that be?'' persisted Mildred.
``I can't tell, offhand,'' said Frank, with virtuous reproach. ``My mind's been on--other things.''
Henry Gower's widow was not without her share of instinctive shrewdness. Neither had she, unobservant though she was, been within sight of her son's character for twenty-eight years without having unconfessed, unformed misgivings concerning it. ``You mustn't bother about these things now, Frank dear,'' said she. ``I'll get my brother to look into it.''
``That won't be necessary,'' hastily said Frank. ``I don't want any rival lawyer peeping into our firm's affairs.''
``My brother Wharton is the soul of honor,'' said Mrs. Gower, the elder, with dignity. ``You are too young to take all the responsibility of settling the estate. Yes, I'll send for Wharton to-morrow.''
``It'll look as though you didn't trust me,'' said Frank sourly.
``We mustn't do anything to start the gossips in this town,'' said his wife, assisting.
``Then send for him yourself, Frank,'' said Mildred, ``and give him charge of the whole matter.''
Frank eyed her furiously. ``How ashamed father would be!'' exclaimed he.
But this solemn invoking of the dead man's spirit was uneffectual. The specter of poverty was too insistent, too terrible. Said the widow:
``I'm sure, in the circumstances, my dear dead husband would want me to get help from someone older and more experienced.''
And Frank, guilty of conscience and an expert in the ways of conventional and highly moral rascality, ceased to resist. His wife, scenting danger to their getting the share that ``rightfully belongs to the son, especially when he has been the brains of the firm for several years,'' made angry and indiscreet battle for no outside interference. The longer she talked the firmer the widow and the daughter became, not only because she clarified suspicions that had been too hazy to take form, but also because they disliked her intensely. The following day Wharton Conover became unofficial administrator. He had no difficulty in baffling Frank Gower's half-hearted and clumsy efforts to hide two large fees due the dead man's estate. He discovered clear assets amounting in all to sixty- three thousand dollars, most of it available within a few months.
``As you have the good-will of the firm and as your mother and sister have only what can be realized in cash,'' said he to Frank, ``no doubt you won't insist on your third.''
``I've got to consider my wife,'' said Frank. ``I can't do as I'd like.''
``You are going to insist on your third?'' said Conover, with an accent that made Frank quiver.
``I can't do otherwise,'' said he in a dogged, shamed way.
``Um,'' said Conover. ``Then, on behalf of my sister and her daughter I'll have to insist on a more detailed accounting than you have been willing to give --and on the production of that small book bound in red leather which disappeared from my brother-in-law's desk the afternoon of his death.''
A wave of rage and fear surged up within Frank Gower and crashed against the seat of his life. For days thereafter he was from time to time seized with violent spasms of trembling; years afterward he was attributing premature weaknesses of old age to the effects of that moment of horror. His uncle's words came as a sudden, high shot climax to weeks of exasperating peeping and prying and questioning, of sneer and insinuation. Conover had been only moderately successful at the law, had lost clients to Frank's father, had been beaten when they were on opposite sides. He hated the father with the secret, hypocritical hatred of the highly moral and religious man. He de- spised the son. It is not often that a Christian gentleman has such an opportunity to combine justice and revenge, to feed to bursting an ancient grudge, the while conscious that he is but doing his duty.
Said Frank, when he was able to speak: ``You have been listening to the lies of some treacherous