The Wall Between Part 34

It was not until both of them were safely on the road to the village, and the house had a.s.sumed its customary calm that Lucy arrived, her hair tumbled by the wind and her eyes glowing like stars.

"I've got your berries, Aunt Ellen," she said, holding aloft a pail heaped with fruit. "See what beauties they are! You shall have a royal shortcake."

Ellen's appreciation for some reason was, however, scanty and confused.

She averted her glance from her niece's face, and even at noontime when the girl appeared bearing a marvelously baked and yet more marvelously decorated masterpiece of culinary art, she had not regained sufficient poise to partake of the delicacy in any mood save that of furtive and guilty silence.

Lucy, ever sympathetic, ventured the fear that the invalid was over-tired, and after the meal drew the shades that her aunt might rest.

In the dim light Ellen seemed more at ease and presently fell into a deep slumber that lasted until midnight and was broken only by some phantasy of her dreams which intermittently brought from her lips a series of muttered execrations and bitter, insinuating laughs.

Toward morning she roused herself and gave a feeble cry of pain. Instantly alert, Melvina hastened to her bedside. But by the time a candle was lighted all human aid was vain. Ellen Webster was dead.

CHAPTER XV

ELLEN'S VENGEANCE

It was useless to pretend that Ellen's death did not bring to Lucy Webster a sense of relief and freedom. It was as if some sinister, menacing power that had suppressed every spontaneous impulse of her nature had suddenly been removed and left her free at last to be herself. Until now she had not realized how tired she was,--not alone physically tired but tired of groping her way to avoid the constant friction which life with her aunt engendered.

For the first few days after the funeral she kept Melvina with her and did nothing but rest. Then returning energy brought back her normal desire for action, and she began to readjust her plans. Together the two women cleaned the house from top to bottom, rooting into trunks, chests, and cupboards, and disposing of much of the litter that Ellen had acc.u.mulated.

Afterward Melvina took her leave, and Lucy turned her mind to renovations.

She would have new paper and fresh paint, she decided; also the long-coveted chintz hangings; and to this end she would make an expedition to the village to see what could be procured there in the way of artistic materials. It might be necessary for her to go to Concord, or even to Boston for the things she wanted.

In the meantime, since she was driving to town, perhaps she had better take along her aunt's will. There must be formalities to be observed regarding it, and although she was not at all sure what they were, Mr.

Benton would of course know.

But search as she would, the white envelope with its imposing red seal was nowhere to be found. She went through every drawer in her bureau, every pigeonhole in her desk; she ransacked closet and bookshelf; she even emptied all her belongings upon the bed and examined each article carefully to see if the missing doc.u.ment had by any chance strayed into a fantastic hiding place; but the paper failed to come to light.

What could have become of it? The envelope had been there, that she knew.

Only a week ago she had seen it in the top drawer of her desk. She would stake her oath that she had not removed it. Vague disquietude took possession of her. Tony had always been honest, and of Melvina's integrity there could be no question. As for Ellen, had she not herself put the will into the girl's keeping--as a weapon with which to meet this very emergency? It was incredible, preposterous to a.s.sume that she had taken it back, especially when one considered her helplessness to do so unaided.

That solution might as well be dismissed as ridiculous.

The paper was lost, that was all there was to it. Lost!

In her own absent-mindedness, or in a moment of confusion and weariness, she had either accidentally destroyed it, or she had removed it from its customary place to a safer spot and forgotten where she had put it.

Yet, after all, how foolish it was of her to worry. Doubtless Mr. Benton had a copy of the doc.u.ment, and if she made full confession of her stupidity he would know what to do. Didn't lawyers always keep copies of every legal paper they drew up? They must of course do so.

Therefore without breathing a word of her troubles to the Howes--not even to Martin--she set forth to the village, her dreams of redecorating the house being thrust, for the time being, entirely into the background by this disquieting happening.

Mr. Benton was alone in his stuffy little office when she arrived.

Evidently his professional duties were not pressing, for he was hunched up over a small air-tight stove and amid a smudge of tobacco smoke was reading "Pickwick Papers." At the entrance of a client, however, and this client in particular, he rose in haste, and slipping simultaneously into his alpaca coat and his legal manner--the two seemed to be a one-piece garment--held out his hand with a mixture of solicitude and pleasure.

"My dear Miss Webster," he began. "I hope you are well. You have sustained a great loss since I last beheld you, a great loss."

He drew forward a second armchair similar to the one in which he had been sitting and motioned Lucy to accept it.

"Your aunt was a worthy woman who will be profoundly missed in the community," he continued in a droning voice.

Lucy did not answer. In fact the lawyer did not seem to expect she would.

He was apparently delivering himself of a series of observations which came one after the other in habitual sequence, and which he preferred should not be interrupted.

"Death, however, is the common lot of mankind and must come to us all," he went on in the same singsong tone, "and I hope that in the thought of your devotion to the deceased you will find comfort."

Having now terminated the introduction with which he was accustomed to preface his remarks on all such occasions, he regarded the girl in the chair opposite him benignly.

"I was intending to come to see you," he went on more cheerfully, and yet being careful to modulate his words so that they might still retain the bereavement vibration, "but you have forestalled me, I see. I did not wish to hurry you unduly."

"I have been tired," Lucy replied simply, "but I am rested now and quite ready to do whatever is necessary."

"I am glad to hear that, very glad," Mr. Benton returned. "Of course there is no immediate haste; nevertheless it is well to straighten out such matters as soon as it can conveniently be done. When do you contemplate leaving town?"

Lucy met the question with a smile.

"Oh, I don't intend to leave Sefton Falls," she said quickly. "I have grown very fond of the place and mean to remain here."

"Indeed," nodded Mr. Benton. "That is interesting. I am glad to hear we are not to lose you from the village."

He rubbed his hands and continued to nod thoughtfully.

"About how soon, if I might ask so personal a question, do you think you could be ready to hand over the house to the new tenant?" he at last ventured with hesitation.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you."

The lawyer seemed surprised.

"You knew of your aunt's will?"

"I knew she had made a will, yes, sir. She gave it to me to keep for her."

"You were familiar with the contents of it?"

"Not entirely so," Lucy answered. "I knew she had left me the house and some money. She told me that much."

"U--u--m!" observed Mr. Benton. "But the second will--she spoke to you of that also?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You were not cognizant that a few days before the deceased pa.s.sed--shall we say, away"--he paused mournfully,--"that she made a new will and revoked the previous one?"

"No."

"No one told you that?"