"I DO GIVE AND BEQUEATH"
When Jack Barrow called again, which happened to be that very evening,
Hazel told him simply that she had left Harrington & Bush, without
entering into any explanation except the general one that she had found
it impossible to get on with Mr. Bush in her new position. And Jack,
being more concerned with her than with her work, gave the matter scant
consideration.
This was on a Friday. The next forenoon Hazel went downtown. When she
returned, a little before eleven, the maid of all work was putting the
last touches to her room. The girl pointed to an oblong package on a
chair.
"That came for you a little while ago, Miss Weir," she said. "Mr.
Bush's carriage brought it."
"Mr. Bush's carriage!" Hazel echoed.
"Yes'm. Regular swell turnout, with a footman in brown livery. My,
you could see the girls peeking all along the square when it stopped at
our door. It quite flustered the missus."
The girl lingered a second, curiosity writ large on her countenance.
Plainly she wished to discover what Miss Hazel Weir would be getting in
a package that was delivered in so aristocratic a manner. But Hazel
was in no mood to gratify any one's curiosity. She was angry at the
presumption of Mr. Andrew Bush. It was an excellent way of subjecting
her to remark. And it did not soothe her to recollect that he had
threatened that very thing.
She drew off her gloves, and, laying aside her hat, picked up a
newspaper, and began to read. The girl, with no excuse for lingering,
reluctantly gathered up her broom and dustpan, and departed. When she
was gone, and not till then, Miss Weir investigated the parcel.
Roses--two dozen long-stemmed La Frances--filled the room with their
delicate odor when she removed the pasteboard cover. And set edgewise
among the stems she found his card. Miss Weir turned up her small nose.
"I wonder if he sends these as a sort of peace offering?" she snorted.
"I wonder if a few hours of reflection has made him realize just how
exceedingly caddish he acted? Well, Mr. Bush, I'll return your
unwelcome gift--though they are beautiful flowers."
And she did forthwith, squandering forty cents on a messenger boy to
deliver them to Mr. Bush at his office. She wished him to labor under
no misapprehension as to her attitude.
The next day--Sunday--she spent with Jack Barrow on a visit to his
cousin in a near-by town. They parted, as was their custom, at the
door. It was still early in the evening--eight-thirty, or
thereabout--and Hazel went into the parlor on the first floor. Mr.
Stout and one of her boarders sat there chatting, and at Hazel's
entrance the landlady greeted her with a startling bit of news:
"Evenin', Miss Weir. 'Ave you 'eard about Mr. Bush, pore gentleman?"
Mrs. Stout was very English.
"Mr. Bush? No. What about him?" Hazel resented Mr. Bush, his name,
and his affairs being brought to her attention at every turn. She
desired nothing so much since that scene in the office as to ignore his
existence.
"'E was 'urt shockin' bad this awft'noon," Mrs. Stout related. "Out
'orseback ridin', and 'is 'orse ran away with 'im, and fell on 'im.
Fell all of a 'eap, they say. Terrible--terrible! The pore man isn't
expected to live. 'Is back's broke, they say. W'at a pity! Shockin'
accident, indeed."
Miss Weir voiced perfunctory sympathy, as was expected of her, seeing
that she was an employee of the firm--or had been lately. But close
upon that she escaped to her own room. She did not relish sitting
there discussing Mr. Andrew Bush. Hazel lacked nothing of womanly
sympathy, but he had forfeited that from her.
Nevertheless she kept thinking of him long after she went to bed. She
was not at all vindictive, and his misfortune, the fact--if the report
were true--that he was facing his end, stirred her pity. She could
guess that he would suffer more than some men; he would rebel bitterly
against anything savoring of extinction. And she reflected that his
love for her was very likely gone by the board now that he was elected
to go the way of all flesh.
The report of his injury was verified in the morning papers. By
evening it had pretty well passed out of Hazel's mind. She had more
pleasant concerns. Jack Barrow dropped in about six-thirty to ask if
she wanted to go with him to a concert during the week. They were
sitting in the parlor, by a front window, chattering to each other, but
not so engrossed that they failed to notice a carriage drawn by two
splendid grays pull up at the front gate. The footman, in brown
livery, got down and came to the door. Hazel knew the carriage. She
had seen Mr. Andrew Bush abroad in it many a time. She wondered if
there was some further annoyance in store for her, and frowned at the
prospect.
She heard Mrs. Stout answer the bell in person. There was a low mumble
of voices. Then the landlady appeared in the parlor doorway, the
footman behind her.
"This is the lady." Mrs. Stout indicated Hazel. "A message for you,
Miss Weir."
The liveried person bowed and extended an envelope. "I was instructed
to deliver this to you personally," he said, and lingered as if he
looked for further instructions.
Hazel looked at the envelope. She could not understand why, under the
circumstances, any message should come to her through such a medium.
But there was her name inscribed. She glanced up. Mrs. Stout gazed
past the footman with an air of frank anticipation. Jack also was
looking. But the landlady caught Hazel's glance and backed out the
door, and Hazel opened the letter.
The note was brief and to the point:
MISS WEIR: Mr. Bush, being seriously injured and unable to write, bids
me say that he is very anxious to see you. He sends his carriage to
convey you here. His physicians fear that he will not survive the
night, hence he begs of you to come. Very truly,
ETHEL B. WATSON, Nurse in Waiting.
"The idea! Of course I won't! I wouldn't think of such a thing!"
Hazel exclaimed.
"Just a second," she said to the footman.
Over on the parlor mantel lay some sheets of paper and envelopes. She
borrowed a pencil from Barrow and scribbled a brief refusal. The
footman departed with her answer. Hazel turned to find Jack staring
his puzzlement.
"What did he want?" Barrow asked bluntly. "That was the Bush turnout,
wasn't it?"
"You heard about Mr. Bush getting hurt, didn't you?" she inquired.
"Saw it in the paper. Why?"
"Nothing, except that he is supposed to be dying--and he wanted to see
me. At least--well, read the note," Hazel answered.
Barrow glanced over the missive and frowned.
"What do you suppose he wanted to see you for?" he asked.
"How should I know?" Hazel evaded.
She felt a reluctance to enter into any explanations. That would
necessitate telling the whole story, and she felt some delicacy about
relating it when the man involved lay near to death. Furthermore, Jack
might misunderstand, might blame her. He was inclined to jealousy on
slight grounds, she had discovered before now. Perhaps that, the
natural desire to avoid anything disagreeable coming up between them,
helped constrain her to silence.
"Seems funny," he remarked slowly.
"Oh, let's forget it." Hazel came and sat down on the couch by him.
"I don't know of any reason why he should want to see me. I wouldn't
go merely out of curiosity to find out. It was certainly a peculiar
request for him to make. But that's no reason why we should let it
bother us. If he's really so badly hurt, the chances are he's out of
his head. Don't scowl at that bit of paper so, Johnnie-boy."
Barrow laughed and kissed her, and the subject was dropped forthwith.
Later they went out for a short walk. In an hour or so Barrow left for
home, promising to have the concert tickets for Thursday night.
Hazel took the note out of her belt and read it again when she reached
her room. Why should he want to see her? She wondered at the man's
persistence. He had insulted her, according to her view of it--doubly
insulted her with threats and an enforced caress. Perhaps he merely
wanted to beg her pardon; she had heard of men doing such things in
their last moments. But she could not conceive of Mr. Andrew Bush
being sorry for anything he did. Her estimate of him was that his only
regret would be over failure to achieve his own ends. He struck her as
being an individual whose own personal desires were paramount. She had
heard vague stories of his tenacity of purpose, his disregard of
anything and everybody but himself. The gossip she had heard and half
forgotten had been recalled and confirmed by her own recent experience
with him.
Nevertheless, she considered that particular episode closed. She
believed that she had convinced him of that. And so she could not
grasp the reason for that eleventh-hour summons. But she could see
that a repetition of such incidents might put her in a queer light.
Other folk might begin to wonder and inquire why Mr. Andrew Bush took
such an "interest" in her--a mere stenographer. Well, she told
herself, she did not care--so long as Jack Barrow's ears were not
assailed by talk. She smiled at that, for she could picture the
reception any scandal peddler would get from _him_.
The next day's papers contained the obituary of Mr. Andrew Bush. He
had died shortly after midnight. And despite the fact that she held no
grudge, Hazel felt a sense of relief. He was powerless to annoy or
persecute her, and she could not escape the conviction that he would
have attempted both had he lived.
She had now been idle a matter of days. Nearly three months were yet
to elapse before her wedding. She and Barrow had compromised on that
after a deal of discussion. Manlike, he had wished to be married as
soon as she accepted him, and she had held out far a date that would
permit her to accumulate a trousseau according to her means.
"A girl only gets married once, Johnnie-boy," she had declared. "I
don't want to get married so--so offhand, like going out and buying a
pair of gloves or something. Even if I do love you ever so much."
She had gained her point after a lot of argument. There had been no
thought then of her leaving Harrington & Bush so abruptly. Jack had
wanted to get the license as soon as he learned that she had thrown up
her job. But she refused to reset the date. They had made plans for
October. There was so sense in altering those plans.
It seemed scarcely worth while to look for another position. She had
enough money saved to do everything she wanted to do. It was not so
much lack of money, the need to earn, as the monotony of idleness that
irked her. She had acquired the habit of work, and that is a thing not
lightly shaken off. But during that day she gathered together the
different Granville papers, and went carefully over the "want" columns.
Knowing the town as she did, she was enabled to eliminate the unlikely,
undesirable places. Thus by evening she was armed with a list of firms
and individuals requiring a stenographer. And in the morning she
sallied forth.
Her quest ended with the first place she sought. The fact of two
years' service with the biggest firm in Granville was ample
recommendation; in addition to which the office manager, it developed
in their conversation, had known her father in years gone by. So
before ten o'clock Miss Hazel Weir was entered on the pay-roll of a
furniture-manufacturing house. It was not a permanent position; one of
their girls had been taken ill and was likely to take up her duties
again in six weeks or two months. But that suited Hazel all the
better. She could put in the time usefully, and have a breathing spell
before her wedding.
At noon she telephoned Jack Barrow that she was at work again, and she
went straight from lunch to the office grind.
Three days went by. Hazel attended the concert with Jack the evening
of the day Mr. Andrew Bush received ostentatious burial. At ten the
next morning the telephone girl called her.
"Some one wants you on the phone, Miss Weir," she said.
Hazel took up the dangling receiver.
"Hello!"
"That you, Hazel?"
She recognized the voice, half guessing it would be he, since no one
but Jack Barrow would be likely to ring her up.
"Surely. Doesn't it sound like me?"
"Have you seen the morning papers?"
"No. What--"
"Look 'em over. Particularly the _Gazette_."
The harsh rattle of a receiver slammed back on its hook without even a
"good-by" from him struck her like a slap in the face. She hung up
slowly, and went back to her work. Never since their first meeting,
and they had not been exempt from lovers' quarrels, had Jack Barrow
ever spoken to her like that. Even through the telephone the resentful
note in his voice grated on her and mystified her.
Something in the papers lay at the bottom of it, but she could
comprehend nothing, absolutely nothing, she told herself hotly, that
should make Jack snarl at her like that. His very manner of conveying
the message was maddening, put her up in arms.
She was chained to her work--which, despite her agitation, she managed
to wade through without any radical errors--until noon. The
twelve-to-one intermission gave her opportunity to hurry up the street
and buy a _Gazette_. Then, instead of going home to her luncheon, she
entered the nearest restaurant. She wanted a chance to read, more than
food. She did not unfold the paper until she was seated.
A column heading on the front page caught her eye. The caption ran:
"Andrew Bush Leaves Money to Stenographer." And under it the subhead:
"Wealthy Manufacturer Makes Peculiar Bequest to Miss Hazel Weir."
The story ran a full column, and had to do with the contents of the
will, made public following his interment. There was a great deal of
matter anent the principal beneficiaries. But that which formed the
basis of the heading was a codicil appended to the will a few hours
before his death, in which he did "give and bequeath to Hazel Weir,
until lately in my employ, the sum of five thousand dollars in
reparation for any wrong I may have done her."
The _Gazette_ had copied that portion verbatim, and used it as a peg
upon which to hang some adroitly worded speculation as to what manner
of wrong Mr. Andrew Bush could have done Miss Hazel Weir. Mr. Bush was
a widower of ten years' standing. He had no children. There was
plenty of room in his life for romance. And wealthy business men who
wrong pretty stenographers are not such an unfamiliar type. The
_Gazette_ inclined to the yellow side of journalism, and it overlooked
nothing that promised a sensation.
Hazel stared at the sheet, and her face burned. She could understand
now why Jack Barrow had hung up his receiver with a slam. She could
picture him reading that suggestive article and gritting his teeth.
Her hands clenched till the knuckles stood white under the smooth skin,
and then quite abruptly she got up and left the restaurant even while a
waiter hurried to take her order. If she had been a man, and versed in
profanity, she could have cursed Andrew Bush till his soul shuddered on
its journey through infinite space. Being a woman, she wished only a
quiet place to cry.