UNCLE PETER’S WILL
Tess and Dot were greatly excited. As they climbed up the long and
semi-dark flights to the little flat at the top of the house, they
clung tightly to each other’s hands and stared, round-eyed, at each
other on the landings.
Behind them labored the tall, gray gentleman. They could hear him
puffing heavily on the last flight.
Dot had breath left to burst open the kitchen door and run to tell
Ruth of the visitor.
“Oh! oh! Ruthie!” gasped the little girl. “There’s a man dead out here
and Uncle Peter’s come to tell you all about it!”
“Why, Dot Kenway!” cried Tess, as the elder sister turned in amazement
at the first wild announcement of the visitor’s coming. “Can’t you get
anything straight? It isn’t Uncle Peter who wants to see you, Ruth.
Uncle Peter is dead.”
“Uncle Peter Stower!” exclaimed Aggie, in awe.
He was the Kenway girls’ single wealthy relative. He was considered
eccentric. He was—or had been—a bachelor and lived in Milton, an
upstate town some distance from Bloomingsburg, and had occupied,
almost alone, the old Stower homestead on the corner of Main and
Willow Streets—locally known as “the Old Corner House.”
“Do take the gentleman to the parlor door,” said Ruth, hastily,
hearing the footstep of the visitor at the top of the stairs. “Dot, go
unlock that door, dear.”
“Aunt Sarah’s sitting in there, Ruth,” whispered Aggie, hastily.
“Well, but Aunt Sarah won’t bite him,” said Ruth, hurriedly removing
her apron and smoothing her hair.
“Just think of Uncle Peter being dead,” repeated Aggie, in a daze.
“And he was Aunt Sarah’s half brother, you know. Of course, neither
her father nor mother was Uncle Peter’s father or mother—their
parents were all married twice. And——”
“Oh, don’t!” gasped the plump sister. “We never _can_ figure out the
relationship—you know we can’t, Ruth. Really, Aunt Sarah isn’t
blood-kin to us at all.”
“Uncle Peter never would admit it,” said Ruth, slowly. “He was old
enough to object, mother said, when our grandfather married a second
time.”
“Of course. I know,” acknowledged Aggie. “Aunt Sarah isn’t really a
Stower at all!”
“But Aunt Sarah’s always said the property ought to come to her, when
Uncle Peter died.”
“I hope he _has_ left her something—I do hope so. It would help out a
lot,” said Aggie, serious for the moment.
“Why—yes. It would be easier for us to get along, if she had her own
support,” admitted Ruth.
“And we’d save five cents a week for peppermints!” giggled Aggie
suddenly, seeing the little white bag of candy on the table.
“How you do talk, Ag,” said Ruth, admonishingly, and considering
herself presentable, she went through the bedroom into the front room,
or “parlor,” of the flat. Aggie had to stay to watch the cake, which
was now turning a lovely golden brown in the oven.
The tall, gray gentleman with the sharp eyes and beak-like nose, had
been ushered in by the two little girls and had thankfully taken a
seat. He was wiping his perspiring forehead with a checked silk
handkerchief, and had set the high hat down by his chair.
Those quick, gray eyes of his had taken in all the neat poverty of the
room. A careful and tasteful young housekeeper was Ruth Kenway.
Everything was in its place; the pictures on the wall were hung
straight; there was no dust.
In one of the two rockers sat Aunt Sarah. It was the most comfortable
rocker, and it was drawn to the window where the sun came in. Aunt
Sarah had barely looked up when the visitor entered, and of course she
had not spoken. Her knitting needles continued to flash in the
sunlight.
She was a withered wisp of a woman, with bright brown eyes under
rather heavy brows. There were three deep wrinkles between those eyes.
Otherwise, Aunt Sarah did not show in her countenance many of the
ravages of time.
Her hair was but slightly grayed; she wore it “crimped” on the sides,
doing it up carefully in cunning little “pigtails” every night before
she retired. She was scrupulous in the care of her hands; her plain
gingham dress was neat in every particular.
Indeed, she was as prim and “old-maidish” as any spinster lady
possibly could be. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle Aunt Sarah. She lived
sort of a detached life in the Kenway family. Nothing went on that she
was not aware of, and often—as even Ruth admitted—she “had a finger
in the pie” which was not exactly needed!
“I am Mr. Howbridge,” said the visitor, rising and putting out his
hand to the oldest Kenway girl, and taking in her bright appearance in
a single shrewd glance.
On her part, Aunt Sarah nodded, and pressed her lips together firmly,
flashing him another birdlike look, as one who would say: “That is
what I expected. You could not hide your identity from me.”
“I am—or was,” said the gentleman, clearing his throat and sitting
down again, but still addressing himself directly to Ruth, “Mr. Peter
Stower’s attorney and confidant in business—if he could be said to be
confidential with anybody. Mr. Stower was a very secretive man, young
lady.”
Aunt Sarah pursed her lips and tossed her head, as though mentally
saying: “You can’t tell me anything about _that_.”
Ruth said: “I have heard he was peculiar, sir. But I do not remember
of ever seeing him.”
“You did see him, however,” said Mr. Howbridge. “That was when you
were a very little girl. If I am not mistaken, it was when this lady,”
and he bowed to the silent, knitting figure in the rocking-chair, “who
is known as your Aunt Sarah, came to live with your mother and
father.”
“Possibly,” said Ruth, hastily. “I do not know.”
“It was one of few events of his life, connected in any way with his
relatives, of which Mr. Stower spoke to me,” Mr. Howbridge said. “This
lady expressed a wish to live with your mother, and your Uncle Peter
brought her. I believe he never contributed to her support?” he added,
slowly.
Aunt Sarah might have been a graven image, as far as expressing
herself upon _this_ point went. Her needles merely flashed in the
sunlight. Ruth felt troubled and somewhat diffident in speaking of the
matter.
“I do not think either father or mother ever minded _that_,” she said.
“Ah?” returned Mr. Howbridge. “And your mother has been dead how long,
my dear?” Ruth told him, and he nodded. “Your income was not increased
by her death? There was no insurance?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
He looked at her for a moment with some embarrassment, and cleared his
throat again before asking his next question.
“Do you realize, my dear, that you and your sisters are the only
living, and direct, relatives of Mr. Peter Stower?”
Ruth stared at him. She felt that her throat was dry, and she could
not bring her tongue into play. She merely shook her head slowly.
“Through your mother, my dear, you and your sisters will inherit your
Great Uncle Peter’s property. It is considerable. With the old Corner
House and the tenement property in Milton, bonds and cash in bank, it
amounts to—approximately—a hundred thousand dollars.”
“But—but——Aunt Sarah!” gasped Ruth, in surprise.
“Ahem! your Aunt Sarah was really no relative of the deceased.”
Here Aunt Sarah spoke up for the first time, her knitting needles
clicking. “I thank goodness I was not,” she said. “My father was a
Maltby, but Mr. Stower, Peter’s father, always wished me to be called
by his name. He always told my mother he should provide for me. I
have, therefore, looked to the Stower family for my support. It was
and is my right.”
She tossed her head and pursed her lips again.
“Yes,” said Mr. Howbridge. “I understand that the elder Mr. Stower
died intestate—without making a will, my dear,” he added, speaking
again to Ruth. “If he ever expressed his intention of remembering your
Aunt Sarah with a legacy, Mr. Peter Stower did not consider it
mandatory upon him.”
“But of course Uncle Peter has remembered Aunt Sarah in _his_ will?”
questioned the dazed Ruth.
“He most certainly did,” said Mr. Howbridge, more briskly. “His will
was fully and completely drawn. I drew it myself, and I still have the
notes in the old man’s handwriting, relating to the bequests.
Unfortunately,” added the lawyer, with a return to a grave manner,
“the actual will of Mr. Peter Stower cannot be found.”
Aunt Sarah’s needles clicked sharply, but she did not look up. Ruth
stared, wide-eyed, at Mr. Howbridge.
“As was his custom with important papers, Mr. Stower would not trust
even a safety deposit box with the custody of his will. He was
secretive, as I have said,” began the lawyer again.
Then Aunt Sarah interrupted: “Just like a magpie,” she snapped. “I
know ’em—the Stowers. Peter was always doing it when he was a young
man—hidin’ things away—’fraid a body would see something, or know
something. That’s why he wanted to get _me_ out of the house. Oh, I
knew his doin’s and his goin’s-on!”
“Miss Maltby has stated the case,” said Mr. Howbridge, bowing
politely. “Somewhere in the old house, of course, Mr. Stower hid the
will—and probably other papers of value. They will be found in time,
we hope. Meanwhile——”
“Yes, sir?” queried Ruth, breathlessly, as the lawyer stopped.
“Mr. Stower has been dead a fortnight,” explained the lawyer, quietly.
“Nobody knew as much about his affairs as myself. I have presented the
notes of his last will and testament—made quite a year ago—to the
Probate Court, and although they have no legal significance, the Court
agrees with me that the natural heirs of the deceased should enter
upon possession of the property and hold it until the complications
arising from the circumstances can be made straight.”
“Oh, Aunt Sarah! I am so glad for you!” cried Ruth, clasping her hands
and smiling one of her wonderful smiles at the little old lady.
Aunt Sarah tossed her head and pursed her lips, just as though she
said, “I have always told you so.”
Mr. Howbridge cleared his throat again and spoke hastily: “You do not
understand, Miss Kenway. You and your sisters are the heirs at law. At
the best, Miss Maltby would receive only a small legacy under Mr.
Stower’s will. The residue of the estate reverts to you through your
mother, and I am nominally your guardian and the executor.”
Ruth stared at him, open mouthed. The two little girls had listened
without clearly understanding all the particulars. Aggie had crept to
the doorway (the cake now being on the table and off her mind), and
she was the only one who uttered a sound. She said “Oh!”
“You children—you four girls—are the heirs in question. I want you
to get ready to go to Milton as soon as possible. You will live in the
old Corner House and I shall see, with the Probate Court, that all
your rights are guarded,” Mr. Howbridge said.
It was Dorothy, the youngest, who seemed first to appreciate the
significance of this great piece of news. She said, quite composedly:
“Then we _can_ buy some candy ’sides those pep’mint drops for Aunt
Sarah, on Saturdays.”