The Bondboy Part 28

Sol Greening was in the kitchen with his wife and his son's wife and two of the more distant neighbor women who had remained overnight. The other men who had watched with Sol around Isom's bier had gone off to dig a grave for the dead, after the neighborly custom there. As quick as her thought, Ollie's eyes sought the spot where Isom's blood had stood in the worn plank beside the table. The stain was gone. She drew her breath with freedom, seeing it so, yet wondering how they had done it, for she had heard all her life that the stain of human blood upon a floor could not be scoured away.

"We was just gettin' a bite of breakfast together," said Mrs. Greening, her red face shining, and brighter for its big, friendly smile.

"I was afraid you might not be able to find everything," explained Ollie, "and so I came down."

"No need for you to do that, bless your heart!" Mrs. Greening said. "But we was just talkin' of callin' you. Sol, he run across something last night that we thought you might want to see as soon as you could."

Ollie looked from one to the other of them with a question in her eyes.

"Something--something of mine?" she asked.

Mrs. Greening nodded.

"Something Isom left. Fetch it to her, Sol."

Sol disappeared into the dread parlor where Isom lay, and came back with a large envelope tied about with a blue string, and sealed at the back with wax over the knotted cord.

"It's Isom's will," said Sol, giving it to Ollie. "When we was makin'

room to fetch in the coffin and lay Isom out in it last night, we had to move the center table, and the drawer fell out of it. This paper was in there along with a bundle of old tax receipts. As soon as we seen what was on it, we decided it orto be put in your hands as soon as you woke up."

"I didn't know he had a will," said Ollie, turning the envelope in her hands, not knowing what to make of it, or what to do with it, at all.

"Read what's on the in-vellup," advised Sol, standing by importantly, his hands on his hips, his big legs spread out.

Outside the sun was shining, tenderly yellow like a new plant. Ollie marked it with a lifting of relief. There would be no rain on the coffin. It was light enough to read the writing on the envelope where she stood, but she moved over to the window, wondering on the way.

What was a will for but to leave property, and what need had Isom for making one?

It was an old envelope, its edges browned by time, and the ink upon it was gray.

My last Will and Testament. Isom Chase.

N. B.--To be opened by John B. Little, in case he is living at the time of my death. If he is not, then this is to be filed by the finder, unopened, in the probate court.

That was the superscription in Isom's writing, correctly spelled, correctly punctuated, after his precise way in all business affairs.

"Who is John B. Little?" asked Ollie, her heart seeming to grow small, shrinking from some undefined dread.

"He's Judge Little, of the county court now," said Sol. "I'll go over after him, if you say so."

"After breakfast will do," said Ollie.

She put the envelope on the shelf beside the clock, as if it did not concern her greatly. Yet, under her placid surface she was deeply moved.

What need had Isom for making a will?

"It saves a lot of lawin' and wastin' money on costs," said Sol, as if reading her mind and making answer to her thought. "You'll have a right smart of property on your hands to look after for a young girl like you."

Of course, to her. Who else was there for him to will his property to? A right smart, indeed. Sol's words were wise; they quieted her sudden, sharp pain of fear.

Judge Little lived less than a mile away. Before nine o'clock he was there, his black coat down to his knees, for he was a short man and bowed of the legs, his long ends of hair combed over his bald crown.

The judge was at that state of shrinkage when the veins can be counted in the hands of a thin man of his kind. His smoothly shaved face was purple from congestion, the bald place on his small head was red. He was a man who walked about as if wrapped in meditation, and on him rested a notarial air. His arms were almost as long as his legs, his hands were extremely large, lending the impression that they had belonged originally to another and larger man, and that Judge Little must have become possessed of them by some process of delinquency against a debtor. As he walked along his way those immense hands hovered near the skirts of his long coat, the fingers bent, as if to lay hold of that impressive garment and part it. This, together with the judge's meditative appearance, lent him the aspect of always being on the point of sitting down.

"Well, well," said he, sliding his spectacles down his nose to get the reading focus, advancing the sealed envelope, drawing it away again, "so Isom left a will? Not surprising, not surprising. Isom was a careful man, a man of business. I suppose we might as well proceed to open the doc.u.ment?"

The judge was sitting with his thin legs crossed. They hung as close and limp as empty trousers. Around the room he roved his eyes, red, watery, plagued by dust and wind. Greening was there, and his wife. The daughter-in-law had gone home to get ready for the funeral. The other two neighbor women reposed easily on the kitchen chairs, arms tightly folded, backs against the wall.

"You, Mrs. Chase, being the only living person who is likely to have an interest in the will as legatee, are fully aware of the circ.u.mstances under which it was found, and so forth and so forth?"

Ollie nodded. There was something in her throat, dry and impeding. She felt that she could not speak.

Judge Little took the envelope by the end, holding it up to the light.

He took out his jack-knife and cut the cord.

It was a thin paper that he drew forth, and with little writing on it.

Soon Judge Little had made himself master of its contents, with an _Um-m-m_, as he started, and with an _A-h-h_! when he concluded, and a sucking-in of his thin cheeks.

He looked around again, a new brightness in his eyes. But he said nothing. He merely handed the paper to Ollie.

"Read it out loud," she requested, giving it back.

Judge Little fiddled with his gla.s.ses again. Then he adjusted the paper before his eyes like a target, and read:

I hereby will and bequeath to my beloved son, Isom Walker Chase, all of my property, personal and real; and I hereby appoint my friend, John B. Little, administrator of my estate, to serve without bond, until my son shall attain his majority, in case that I should die before that time. This is my last will, and I am in sound mind and bodily health.

That was all.

CHAPTER X

LET HIM HANG

The will was duly signed and witnessed, and bore a notarial seal. It was dated in the hand of the testator, in addition to the acknowledgment of the notary, all regular, and unquestionably done.

"His son!" said Sol, amazed, looking around with big eyes. "Why, Isom he never had no son!"

"Do we know that?" asked Judge Little, as if to raise the question of reasonable doubt.

Son or no son, until that point should be determined he would have the administration of the estate, with large and comfortable fees.

"Well, I've lived right there acrost the road from him all my life, and all of his, too; and I reckon I'd purty near know if anybody knowed!"

declared Sol. "I went to school with Isom, I was one of the little fellers when he was a big one, and I was at his weddin'. My wife she laid out his first wife, and I dug her grave. She never had no children, judge; you know that as well as anybody."

Judge Little coughed dryly, thoughtfully, his customary aspect of deep meditation more impressive than ever.

"Sometimes the people we believe we know best turn out to be the ones we know least," said he. "Maybe we knew only one side of Isom's life. Every man has his secrets."