L. Frank Baum_Aunt Jane 01 (16 page)

"Mr. Watson is going to read it, after the funeral," replied the girl,
"and then you will know as much about it as I do. I mustn't tell
secrets, my dear."

So Louise and Beth waited in much nervous excitement for the final
realization of their hopes or fears, and during the drive to the
cemetery there was little conversation in the state carriage.
Kenneth's sensitive nature was greatly affected by the death of the
woman who had played so important a part in the brief story of his
life, and the awe it inspired rendered him gloomy and silent. Lawyer
Watson had once warned him that Miss Merrick's death might make him an
outcast, and he felt the insecurity of his present position.

But Patsy, believing he would soon know of his good fortune, watched
him curiously during the ride, and beamed upon him as frequently as
her own low spirits would permit.

"You know, Ken," she reminded him, "that whatever happens we are
always to remain friends."

"Of course," replied the boy, briefly.

The girl had thrown aside her crutches, by this time, and planned to
return to her work immediately after the funeral.

The brief services at the cemetery being concluded, the little
cavalcade returned to Elmhurst, where luncheon was awaiting them.

Then Mr. Watson brought into the drawing room the tin box containing
the important Elmhurst papers in his possession, and having requested
all present to be seated he said:

"In order to clear up the uncertainty that at present exists
concerning Miss Merrick's last will and testament, I will now proceed
to read to you the document, which will afterward be properly probated
according to law."

There was no need to request their attention. An intense stillness
pervaded the room.

The lawyer calmly unlocked the tin box and drew out the sealed yellow
envelope which Miss Merrick had recently given him. Patsy's heart was
beating with eager expectancy. She watched the lawyer break the seal,
draw out the paper and then turn red and angry. He hesitated a moment,
and then thrust the useless document into its enclosure and cast it
aside.

"Is anything wrong?" asked the girl in a low whisper, which was yet
distinctly heard by all.

Mr. Watson seemed amazed. Jane Merrick's deceitful trickery,
discovered so soon after her death, was almost horrible for him to
contemplate. He had borne much from this erratic woman, but had never
believed her capable of such an act.

So he said, in irritable tones:

"Miss Merrick gave me this document a few days ago, leading me to
believe it was her last will. I had prepared it under her instruction
and understood that it was properly signed. But she has herself torn
off and destroyed the signature and marked the paper 'void,' so that
the will previously made is the only one that is valid."

"What do you mean?" cried Patsy, in amazement. "Isn't Kenneth to
inherit Elmhurst, after all?"

"Me! Me inherit?" exclaimed the boy.

"That is what she promised me," declared Patsy, while tears of
indignation stood in her eyes, "I saw her sign it, myself, and if she
has fooled me and destroyed the signature she's nothing but an old
fraud—and I'm glad she's dead!"

With this she threw herself, sobbing, upon a sofa, and Louise and
Beth, shocked to learn that after all their cousin had conspired
against them, forebore any attempt to comfort her.

But Uncle John, fully as indignant as Patricia, came to her side and
laid a hand tenderly on the girl's head.

"Never mind, little one." he said. "Jane was always cruel and
treacherous by nature, and we might have expected she'd deceive her
friends even in death. But you did the best you could, Patsy, dear,
and it can't be helped now."

Meantime the lawyer had been fumbling in the box, and now drew out the
genuine will.

"Give me your attention, please," said he.

Patsy sat up and glared at him.

"I won't take a cent of it!" she exclaimed.

"Be silent!" demanded the lawyer, sternly. "You have all, I believe,
been told by Miss Merrick of the terms of this will, which is properly
signed and attested. But it is my duty to read it again, from
beginning to end, and I will do so."

Uncle John smiled when his bequest was mentioned, and Beth frowned.
Louise, however, showed no sign of disappointment. There had been a
miserable scramble for this inheritance, she reflected, and she was
glad the struggle was over. The five thousand dollars would come in
handy, after all, and it was that much more than she had expected to
have before she received Aunt Jane's invitation. Perhaps she and her
mother would use part of it for a European trip, if their future plans
seemed to warrant it.

"As far as I am concerned," said Patsy, defiantly, "you may as well
tear up this will, too. I won't have that shameful old woman's money."

"That is a matter the law does not allow you to decide," returned the
lawyer, calmly. "You will note the fact that I am the sole executor of
the estate, and must care for it in your interests until you are of
age. Then it will he turned over to you to do as you please with."

"Can I give it away, if I want to?"

"Certainly. It is now yours without recourse, and although you cannot
dispose of it until you are of legal age, there will be nothing then
to prevent your transfering it to whomsoever you please. I called
Miss Merrick's attention to this fact when you refused to accept the
legacy."

"What did she say?"

"That you would be more wise then, and would probably decide to keep
it."

Patsy turned impulsively to the boy.

"Kenneth," she said, "I faithfully promise, in the presence of these
witnesses, to give you Elmhurst and all Aunt Jane's money as soon as I
am of age."

"Good for you, Patsy," said Uncle John.

The boy seemed bewildered.

"I don't want the money—really I don't!" he protested. "The five
thousand she left me will be enough. But I'd like to live here at
Elmhurst for a time, until it's sold or some one else comes to live in
the house!"

"It's yours," said Patsy, with a grand air. "You can live here
forever."

Mr. Watson seemed puzzled.

"If that is your wish, Miss Patricia," bowing gravely in her
direction, "I will see that it is carried out. Although I am, in
this matter, your executor, I shall defer to your wishes as much as
possible."

"Thank you," she said and then, after a moment's reflection, she
added: "Can't you give to Louise and Beth the ten thousand dollars
they were to have under the other will, instead of the five thousand
each that this one gives them?"

"I will consider that matter," he replied; "perhaps it can be
arranged."

Patsy's cousins opened their eyes at this, and began to regard her
with more friendly glances. To have ten thousand each instead of
five would be a very nice thing, indeed, and Miss Patricia Doyle
had evidently become a young lady whose friendship it would pay to
cultivate. If she intended to throw away the inheritance, a portion of
it might fall to their share.

They were expressing to Patsy their gratitude when old Donald suddenly
appeared in the doorway and beckoned to Uncle John.

"Will you please come to see James, sir?" he asked. "The poor fellow's
dying."

Uncle John followed the coachman up the stairs to the little room
above the tool-house, where the old man had managed to crawl after old
Sam had given him a vicious kick in the chest.

"Is he dead?" he asked.

"No, sir; but mortally hurt, I'm thinkin'. It must have happened while
we were at the funeral."

He opened the door, outside which Susan and Oscar watched with
frightened faces, and led John Merrick into the room.

James lay upon his bed with closed eyes. His shirt, above the breast,
was reeking with blood.

"The doctor should be sent for," said Uncle John.

"He'll be here soon, for one of the stable boys rode to fetch him. But
I thought you ought to know at once, sir."

"Quite right, Donald."

As they stood there the wounded man moved and opened his eyes, looking
from one to the other of them wonderingly. Finally he smiled.

"Ah, it's Donald," he said.

"Yes, old friend," answered the coachman. "And this is Mr. John."

"Mr. John? Mr. John? I don't quite remember you, sir," with a slight
shake of the gray head. "And Donald, lad, you've grown wonderful old,
somehow."

"It's the years, Jeemes," was the reply. "The years make us all old,
sooner or later."

The gardener seemed puzzled, and examined his companions more
carefully. He did not seem to be suffering any pain. Finally he
sighed.

"The dreams confuse me," he said, as if to explain something. "I can't
always separate them, the dreams from the real. Have I been sick,
Donald?"

"Yes, lad. You're sick now."

The gardener closed his eyes, and lay silent.

"Do you think he's sane?" whispered Uncle John.

"I do, sir. He's sane for the first time in years."

James looked at them again, and slowly raised his hand to wipe the
damp from his forehead.

"About Master Tom," he said, falteringly. "Master Tom's dead, ain't
he?"

"Yes, Jeemes."

"That was real, then, an' no dream. I mind it all, now—the shriek of
the whistle, the crash, and the screams of the dying. Have I told you
about it, Donald?"

"No, lad."

"It all happened before we knew it. I was on one side the car and
Master Tom on the other. My side was on top, when I came to myself,
and Master Tom was buried in the rubbish. God knows how I got him out,
but I did. Donald, the poor master's side was crushed in, and both
legs splintered. I knew at once he was dying, when I carried him to
the grass and laid him down; and he knew it, too. Yes, the master knew
he was done; and him so young and happy, and just about to be married
to—to—the name escapes me, lad!"

His voice sank to a low mumble, and he closed his eyes wearily.

The watchers at his side stood still and waited. It might be that
death had overtaken the poor fellow. But no; he moved again, and
opened his eyes, continuing his speech in a stronger tone.

"It was hard work to get the paper for Master Tom," he said; "but he
swore he must have it before he died. I ran all the way to the station
house and back—a mile or more—and brought the paper and a pen and
ink, besides. It was but a telegraph blank—all I could find. Naught
but a telegraph blank, lad."

Again his voice trailed away into a mumbling whisper, but now Uncle
John and Donald looked into one another's eyes with sudden interest.

"He mustn't die yet!" said the little man; and the coachman leaned
over the wounded form and said, distinctly:

"Yes, lad; I'm listening."

"To be sure," said James, brightening a bit. "So I held the paper for
him, and the brakeman supported Master Tom's poor body, and he wrote
out the will as clear as may be."

"The will!"

"Sure enough; Master Tom's last will. Isn't my name on it, too, where
I signed it? And the conductor's beside it, for the poor brakeman
didn't dare let him go? Of course. Who should sign the will with
Master Tom but me—his old servant and friend? Am I right, Donald?"

"Yes, lad."

"'Now,' says Master Tom, 'take it to Lawyer Watson, James, and bid him
care for it. And give my love to Jane—that's the name, Donald; the
one I thought I'd forgot—'and now lay me back and let me die.' His
very words, Donald. And we laid him back and he died. And he died.
Poor Master Tom. Poor, poor young Master. And him to—be married—in
a—"

"The paper, James!" cried Uncle John, recalling the dying man to the
present. "What became of it?"

"Sir, I do not know you," answered James, suspiciously. "The paper's
for Lawyer Watson. It's he alone shall have it."

"Here I am, James," cried the lawyer, thrusting the others aside and
advancing to the bed. "Give me the paper. Where is it? I am Lawyer
Watson!"

The gardener laughed—a horrible, croaking laugh that ended with a
gasp of pain.

"
You
Lawyer Watson?" he cried, a moment later, in taunting tones.
"Why, you old fool, Si Watson's as young as Master Tom—as young as I
am! You—
you
Lawyer Watson! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Where is the paper?" demanded the lawyer fiercely.

James stared at him an instant, and then suddenly collapsed and fell
back inert upon the bed.

"Have you heard all?" asked John Merrick, laying his hand on the
lawyer's shoulder.

"Yes; I followed you here as soon as I could. Tom Bradley made another
will, as he lay dying. I must have it, Mr. Merrick."

"Then you must find it yourself," said Donald gravely, "for James is
dead."

The doctor, arriving a few minutes later, verified the statement.
It was evident that the old gardener, for years insane, had been so
influenced by Miss Merrick's death that he had wandered into
the stables where he received his death blow. When he regained
consciousness the mania had vanished, and in a shadowy way he could
remember and repeat that last scene of the tragedy that had deprived
him of his reason. The story was logical enough, and both Mr. Watson
and John Merrick believed it.

"Tom Bradley was a level-headed fellow until he fell in love with your
sister," said the lawyer to his companion. "But after that he would
not listen to reason, and perhaps he had a premonition of his own
sudden death, for he made a will bequeathing all he possessed to his
sweetheart. I drew up the will myself, and argued against the folly of
it; but he had his own way. Afterward, in the face of death, I believe
he became more sensible, and altered his will."

"Yet James' story may all be the effect of a disordered mind," said
Uncle John.