There was another silence. The husband and wife were pale, with
mouths agape like fishes. So little prosperity had come into their
lives that they were rendered almost idiotic by its approach.
"Us?" said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp.
"Us?" said Henry.
"Yes, you," said Sidney Meeks.
"What about Rose Fletcher, Abrahama's sister Susy's daughter?" asked
Sylvia, presently. "She is her own niece."
"You know Abrahama never had anything to do with Susy after she
married John Fletcher," replied the lawyer. "She made her will soon
afterward, and cut her off."
"I remember what they said at the time," returned Sylvia. "They all
thought John Fletcher was going to marry Abrahama instead of Susy.
She was enough sight more suitable age for him. He was too old for
Susy, and Abrahama, even if she wasn't young, was a beautiful woman,
and smarter than Susy ever thought of being."
"Susy had the kind of smartness that catches men," said the lawyer,
with a slight laugh.
"I always wondered if John Fletcher hadn't really done a good deal to
make Abrahama think he did want her," said Sylvia. "He was just that
kind of man. I never did think much of him. He was handsome and glib,
but he was all surface. I guess poor Abrahama had some reason to cut
off Susy. I guess there was some double-dealing. I thought so at the
time, and now this will makes me think so even more."
Again there was a silence, and again that expression of bewilderment,
almost amounting to idiocy, reigned in the faces of the husband and
wife.
"I never thought old Abraham White should have made the will he did,"
said Henry, articulating with difficulty. "Susy had just as much
right to the property, and there she was cut off with five hundred
dollars, to be paid when she came of age."
"I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding fix," said Sylvia.
"It was a queer will," stammered Henry.
"I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son and heir,"
said the lawyer. "She was named for him, and his father before him,
you know. I always thought the poor old girl deserved the lion's
share for being saddled with such a name, anyhow."
"It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl and
woman," said Sylvia. She already spoke of Abrahama in the past tense.
"I wonder where the niece is," she added.
"The last I heard of her she was living with some rich people in New
York," replied Meeks. "I think they took her in some capacity after
her father and mother died."
"I hope she didn't go out to work as hired girl," said Sylvia. "It
would have been awful for a granddaughter of Abraham White's to do
that. I wonder if Abrahama never wrote to her, nor did anything for
her."
"I don't think she ever had the slightest communication with Susy
after she married, or her husband, or the daughter," replied Meeks.
"In fact, I practically know she did not."
"If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal to answer
for," said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked worried. Then again that
expression of almost idiotic joy overspread her face. "That old White
homestead is beautiful--the best house in town," she said.
"There's fifty acres of land with it, too," said Meeks.
Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated. Then Henry
spoke, stammeringly:
"I--never knew--just how much of an income Abrahama had," he said.
"Well," replied the lawyer, "I must say not much--not as much as I
wish, for your sakes. You see, old Abraham had a lot of that railroad
stock that went to smash ten years ago, and Abrahama lost a good
deal. She was a smart woman; she could work and save; but she didn't
know any more about business than other women. There's an income of
about--well, about six hundred dollars and some odd cents after the
taxes and insurance are paid. And she has enough extra in the Alford
Bank to pay for her last expenses without touching the principal. And
the house is in good repair. She has kept it up well. There won't be
any need to spend a cent on repairs for some years."
"Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid!" said
Sylvia. She gaped horribly. Her expression of delight was at once
mean and infantile.
"Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid, and all
that land, and that great house!" repeated Henry, with precisely the
same expression.
"Not much, but enough to keep things going if you're careful," said
Meeks. He spoke deprecatingly, but in reality the sum seemed large to
him also. "You know there's an income besides from that fine
grass-land," said he. "There's more than enough hay for a cow and
horse, if you keep one. You can count on something besides in good
hay-years."
Henry looked reflective. Then his face seemed to expand with an
enormous idea. "I wonder--" he began.
"You wonder what?" asked Sylvia.
"I wonder--if it wouldn't be cheaper in the end to keep
an--automobile and sell all the hay."
Sylvia gasped, and Meeks burst into a roar of laughter.
"I rather guess you don't get me into one of those things, butting
into stone walls, and running over children, and scaring horses, with
you underneath most of the time, either getting blown up with
gasolene or covering your clothes with mud and grease for me to clean
off," said Sylvia.
"I thought automobiles were against your principles," said Meeks,
still chuckling.
"So they be, the way other folks run 'em," said Henry; "but not the
way I'd run 'em."
"We'll have a good, steady horse that won't shy at one, if we have
anything," said Sylvia, and her voice had weight.
"There's a good buggy in Abrahama's barn," said Meeks.
Sylvia made an unexpected start. "I think we are wicked as we can
be!" she declared, violently. "Here we are talking about that poor
woman's things before she's done with them. I'm going right over
there to see if I can't be of some use."
"Sit down, Sylvia," said Henry, soothingly, but he, too, looked both
angry and ashamed.
"You had better keep still where you are to-night," said Meeks. "Miss
Babcock is doing all that anybody can. There isn't much to be done,
Dr. Wallace says. To-morrow you can go over there and sit with her,
and let Miss Babcock take a nap." Meeks rose as he spoke. "I must be
going," he said. "I needn't charge you again not to let anybody know
what I've told you before the will is read. It is irregular, but I
thought I'd cheer up Henry here a bit."
"No, we won't speak of it," declared the husband and wife, almost in
unison.
After Meeks had gone they looked at each other. Both looked
disagreeable to the other. Both felt an unworthy suspicion of the
other.
"I hope she will get well," Sylvia said, defiantly. "Maybe she will.
This is her first shock."
"God knows I hope she will," returned Henry, with equal defiance.
Each of the two was perfectly good and ungrasping, but each accused
themselves and each other unjustly because of the possibilities of
wrong feeling which they realized. Sylvia did not understand how, in
the face of such prosperity, she could wish Abrahama to get well, and
she did not understand how her husband could, and Henry's mental
attitude was the same.
Sylvia sat down and took some mending. Henry seated himself opposite,
and stared at her with gloomy eyes, which yet held latent sparks of
joy. "I wish Meeks hadn't told us," he said, angrily.
"So do I," said Sylvia. "I keep telling myself I don't want that poor
old woman to die, and I keep telling myself that you don't; but I'm
dreadful suspicious of us both. It means so much."
"Just the way I feel," said Henry. "I wish he'd kept his news to
himself. It wasn't legal, anyhow."
"You don't suppose it will make the will not stand!" cried Sylvia,
with involuntary eagerness. Then she quailed before her husband's
stern gaze. "Of course I know it won't make any difference," she
said, feebly, and drew her darning-needle through the sock she was
mending.
Henry took up a copy of the East Westland Gazette. The first thing he
saw was the list of deaths, and he seemed to see, quite plainly,
Abrahama White's among them, although she was still quick, and he
loathed himself. He turned the paper with a rattling jerk to an
account of a crime in New York, and the difficulty the police had
experienced in taking the guilty man in safety to the police station.
He read the account aloud.
"Seems to me the principal thing the New York police protect is the
criminals," he said, bitterly. "If they would turn a little of their
attention to protecting the helpless women and children, seems to me
it would be more to the purpose. They're awful careful of the
criminals."
Sylvia did not hear. She assented absently. She thought, in spite of
herself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them. She imagined
herself mistress of the old White homestead. They would, of course,
rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big house. She
imagined herself looking through the treasures which Abrahama would
leave behind her--then a monstrous loathing of herself seized her.
She resolved that the very next morning she would go over and help
Miss Babcock, that she would put all consideration of material
benefits from her mind. She brought her thoughts with an effort to
the article which Henry had just read. She could recall his last
words.
"Yes, I think you are right," said she. "I think criminals ought not
to be protected. You are right, Henry. I think myself we ought to
have a doctor called from Alford to-morrow, if she is no better, and
have a consultation. Dr. Wallace is good, but he is only one, and
sometimes another doctor has different ideas, and she may get help."
"Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation," said Henry. "I will
see about it to-morrow. I will go over there with you myself
to-morrow morning. I think the police ought not to protect the
criminals, but the people who are injured by them."
"Then there would be no criminals. They would have no chance," said
Sylvia, sagely. "Yes, I agree with you, Henry, there ought to be a
consultation."
She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other's face
that same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of it.
Neither slept that night. They were up early the next morning. Sylvia
was getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in the yard.
Presently he came stumbling in. "Come out here," he said. Sylvia
followed him to the door. They stepped out in the dewy yard and stood
listening. Beneath their feet was soft, green grass strewn with tiny
spheres which reflected rainbows. Over their heads was a wonderful
sky of the clearest angelic blue. This sky seemed to sing with
bell-notes.
"The bell is tolling," whispered Henry. They counted from that
instant. When the bell stopped they looked at each other.
"That's her age," said Sylvia.
"Yes," said Henry.