CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE GET HOME
She had guessed the truth first, but they knew it, all of them, in a fewdays more. They knew that Ruel Saxon's feet were set on the downwardpath to the valley from which there is no return.
They did not send for Stella. She had her work, and there were enough inthe home to do all that could be done for him. Still there was littlepain, a growing weakness, and the mind wandering more and more often,but always peacefully, and oftenest over the years that lay far, farbehind him. Of Esther he seemed almost to have lost knowledge. He calledher Lucia constantly now, and liked no one so much at his bedside.
And she kept her place, with no regret for any employment she might havehad in its stead. There came a letter from Mr. Philip Hadley, withmessages for her grandfather, and though the latter but half understoodas she read them, he seemed touched and pleased. The young man hadlearned, through a call on Stella, of the old gentleman's illness andthe consequent delay in the carrying out of Esther's plan, and he wrote,earnestly hoping it might not be for long, with kindest expressions ofsympathy for his aged friend.
And then there came another, but this Esther did not read aloud. Thereading to herself alone left a troubled look in her eyes as she laid itdown. It seemed that Mr. Hadley's plans had suffered change, too. Hisfather was not bearing the Boston November well, and California for thewinter was the doctor's prescription. He must go with them, the youngman wrote, to see his father and mother well settled, but it would beonly for a few weeks, and by the time he returned surely Esther herselfwould be in Boston. "I confess," he added, "that anxious as I am to dowhat I can for my father, I could hardly bear it to be away from Bostonif you were here now."
They objected to her sitting up with her grandfather that night on theground that she was not looking as well as usual, but Esther protested.It was her turn, she pleaded. She had had the promise of staying withhim till midnight, and indeed, she was perfectly able. So they let herhave her way, and left her alone with him in the dear, familiar room,with the lamp burning low on the table, and everything ready to herhand. She could call the others in a moment if she needed them. He hadbeen easier than usual during the day, sleeping most of the time, andagain at moments seeming so like himself that, in spite of them all, shecould not believe he was going away soon. Why should he? Life was sweetto him still, and his body, till now, had seemed strong and active. Whatwas that length of years which people named with a shake of the head asthey mentioned his illness? It was not years that counted in making menold. It was labor and loss and heartache. The labor was joy to one wholoved it as he did, the simple labor of the fields, and of friendlyservice among his fellows. And of loss and heartache there could be noneto sap the springs of life for one whose cheerful faith laid hold of theeternities like his. It was not time, surely it was not time yet, forthe silver cord to be loosed which bound Ruel Saxon to his work and hisfriends.
So she said to herself with the easy hopefulness of youth, as shewatched the old man lying there with his face on the pillow. He grewmore restless as the hours went on. Memory, while all the otherfaculties lay sleeping, seemed to bestir itself with unwonted vigor.Hymns, quaint and long-forgotten in the churches, rolled one afteranother from his lips, and Psalms, so many and with such unhesitatingsureness, that the girl listened marvelling, and wondered if he knewthem all.
Then there came a change in his voice, and his tone grew more appealing.It was not recitation now, it was exhortation. He seemed to be warningsinners, pleading with fellow-Christians. Ah, she caught the meaning. Hethought he was in prayer-meeting again, and the zeal of the place hadeaten him up with its old delight and fervor. She smiled, rememberingthat last meeting, and bent her head closer to catch the words.
A strain of tenderness crept through them now. Solemnly and very slowlyhe repeated, "Behold, I lay in Zion for a foundation a stone, a triedstone, a precious corner-stone, a sure foundation." He paused for amoment, then, in a voice that was low but strangely clear, went on, "Oh,my friends, do you mark the word? That precious stone, that head of thecorner, is a _tried_ stone, tried through all the years and proven sure._Tried_"--he lingered on the word with unspeakable earnestness--"by whom?By Abraham, by Moses, and by all the prophets, men who heard the voiceof God and followed where it led them; tried by Peter, by James, andJohn, men who saw his face in the face of his Son, and leaned upon hisbreast and loved him; tried by all the host of martyrs, who laid downtheir lives for his sake, counting it gain for the joy that was setbefore them; tried by"--the voice sank almost to a whisper, and the namesof old neighbors and friends fell lovingly one after another, the namesof fellow-farers with him in the journey of life who had passed to theirrest before him. Listening intently, the girl knew them at the last forsome of her own kindred, as he murmured softly, "by Caleb Saxon, by Joeland Mary, by Rachel my wife," and then, after longer pause, with hiseyes opening wide and a tremor of unutterable joy and humility in thelow glad murmur, "_tried--by--me_."
A smile flitted over his face, and the eyelids dropped. She thought hewas asleep, and moved noiselessly away lest even her breathing shoulddisturb him. It was almost an hour later, and the watch on the tabletold her it was time for his medicine, when she went again to his side.
"Grandfather," she said, bending over him; but he did not stir. She laidher hand on his, and the chill struck to her heart. She started back,and for a moment stood in her place, almost as white and motionless ashe. Then, with a cry, she flew out of the room, calling to the others tocome, the others who, with all their haste, could never again in the oldway catch word or look of his.
For he was gone. With that last word, the spirit so bright and eager--ah,yes! so impatient at moments, so prone to the hasty word, so open to thelittle vanities, but sound at the core, and steadfast to bear its partin sun and storm as any oak on the hills--had stolen away. It was ofhimself he had spoken last. They mused on it a little as she told them;but they knew it was of himself as the humble, the rich recipient ofgrace unspeakable, and in that great gladness had passed on to theGiver.
They bent around him weeping, the older women, but Esther was toostunned for tears. She had been alone with Death and had caught no hintof his presence. She had never guessed that he could come and go asstealthily as this. There was nothing more that she could do, and theysent her away, not letting her reproach herself that she had not known."It was not strange," they said; and Aunt Elsie added, steadying hervoice for the girl's sake, "It was better so; the kindest way it couldhave come."
It was a wonderful night. The first snow of the season had fallen whilethe old man lay dying, and now the moon shone out with a still, whiteglory, in which all the world lay new and clean. In the orchard beyondher window some boughs of trees, cut by the saw of the pruner and notyet gathered from the ground, lay glistening like great branches ofcoral; and the old stone wall had been builded anew, touched withmasonry of silver. Strange how every detail of the scene swept in uponthe girl, as she stood there looking out upon it, wide-eyed and silent!
It was a picture in which her thoughts would frame themselves again andagain in the years that were coming, when the solemn moods of lifeshould bring her face to face with the things of the soul. And in thatclearness and stillness, things which had puzzled her grew plain, andshe knew her own heart as she had not known it before. She could nothave explained how it came; but before that great reality of death, theunrealities of life slipped noiselessly away. The things which had beenof the surface fell off, and the needs, the loves, that were deepestonly were left. To have seen them once in that clear light was to knowthem for what they were, and she could not afterward forget.
They sent word to Stella in the morning, and late that night Tom broughther from the station. She had not loved her grandfather as Estherhad--she had not so enjoyed his companionship; but the knowledge that hewas gone brought tears and genuine sorrow.
"Dear old grandfather!" she said, looking down at the still face. "Howwe shall miss hi
m! It won't seem like home with him gone." And then shedrew her mother away to talk over the details of the event that wascoming. There must be no flowers about his coffin, only one longbeautiful sheaf of wheat; and she would have no crape on the door, onlya branch of evergreen from the woods he had planted, with a sprig ofmyrtle.
It was at the church that the last services were held. The rooms at theold house could not have contained the throng that gathered to do himhonor. He had been a diligent attendant at funerals himself, and hadbeen frankly in favor of extended remarks on the character of thedeceased, even though the custom put the preacher to sore straitssometimes, when the virtues of the departed were not too many orluminous.
Indeed, he had been known to excuse the preacher under suchcircumstances for blinking the facts a little. At least he had calledthe attention of captious critics to that funeral lament of David's, inwhich he distinctly alluded to a very persistent persecutor of his as"lovely and pleasant,"--language which, to tell the truth, had reallyseemed to Ruel Saxon a little excessive, and had led him to wonder attimes what the generous psalmist would have done if he had not been ableto couple Saul's name with Jonathan's.
There was no lack of words at his own funeral, words spoken withimpressive earnestness and warmth, and it was a tribute to the wideregard in which Ruel Saxon was held that not only the minister of hisown church, but others from towns around, begged the privilege of a partin the service.
"He would have liked it if he had been there; it was a funeral after hisown heart," Stella said, talking it over that evening with Esther. Shedrew a long soft sigh, and added, "I declare I can't realize yet that itwas actually grandfather himself. He was trying sometimes, but nevertiresome; and life will lose part of its spice here at home, with himgone out of it."
Esther did not reply. Somehow she could not talk about things which wereclose to her heart in the cool way Stella could. After a little silencethe latter said: "You'll go to Boston with me, of course, when I goback. I shall stay at home long enough to get things settled for mother,and there'll be no need of either of us staying after that."
"Stella," said Esther, speaking very quietly, "I suppose you'll thinkit's strange, but I've decided not to go to Boston." The other started,and she went on hurriedly, "I should like to be with _you_, and I knowthere'd be a great deal to enjoy, but grandfather's dying has changedeverything for the present, and honestly, there's nothing I want now somuch as to be at home."
For a minute Stella seemed too much surprised to speak. Then she said,with a peculiar look at her cousin, "There's somebody besides me who'llbe dreadfully disappointed if you don't come."
Esther returned the look without flinching, though her color rose alittle. "If you mean Mr. Hadley," she said, "I should be very sorry tothink he'd care much, and truly I don't think he would; at least notafter the very first. I shall write to him. I must; for he sent suchkind messages to grandfather, and he'd want to know how it all was atthe last. I think he'll understand how I feel. I can't quite explain it,but it's home and the home people I want. There's nothing here now thatI care for as I care for them."
Stella's eyes were on the floor, and she did not raise them as she said,after a long pause, "I don't quite make you out, Esther, but you are anawfully nice girl. I wish it wasn't so far between here and Indiana."
"I shall never think it's far after this," said Esther, giving hercousin's hand a little squeeze. And then she added cheerfully, "Don'tyou think it would be nice to give Mr. Hadley one of grandfather's oldbooks? There are some of them, you know, that are really very curious,and he's so fond of those rare old things. I'll tell him that you'vetaken one for him; I believe it would please him."
She had more misgiving as to how Aunt Katharine would receive the newsof her changed intention, but not from her either did she meet anyentreaties. The old woman seemed strangely broken by her brother'sdeath. It was she beyond all others who had been stricken. An apathywhich was wholly new had settled upon her, and was only shaken off atmoments when she talked of him.
"I thought he'd outlive me by years," she said to Esther. "I alwaystwitted him with thinking that he was so much smarter than the rest ofus; but he was, and I used to think, as he did, that he might live tosee his hundred years. I don't know why he shouldn't have had 'em." Andthen she added, with a quaver in her voice: "I wish I'd spoke up when hesaid what he did the day I came in. I've riled him too, sometimes, whenI needn't, but it took me so by surprise that I couldn't answer then.All I could think of was that he was going to die." She drew a longsigh, and ended, "You must do as you think best, child, about goinghome. I don't blame you any for changing your plans."
She went back to her own house the day after the funeral, in spite ofAunt Elsie's entreaty that she should stay. "It's good of you, Elsie,"she said, with a shake of her head, "and I guess I could live with youas easy as I could with anybody; but I should miss him more here than Ishould anywhere else, and I'd rather be in my own place."
They let her go, but Aunt Elsie said the last word with affectionateearnestness, as she passed out at the door: "Don't be sick or in anykind of trouble without letting us know. I'll do for you there just aswillingly as here if you should happen to need me."
Three days later Esther was gone too. She took a silent farewell of hergrandfather's room, looked long from the windows at the hills she hadcome to love so much and stepped out of the family circle like adaughter of the house whose place no one else would ever quite fill.Stella went with her to the depot, and their hands unclasped reluctantlywhen the last moment came. There were thoughts which neither whisperedto the other, and they wondered as they looked in each other's eyeswhether the time would ever come when they could fully tell them, butEsther understood best what the silence held.
It was that other day over again when she came home to her own, but thewelcome lacked something of the boisterous gladness which had greetedKate, and the mother's smile was full of tears as she clasped the girlin her arms. No one, not even Mrs. Northmore, understood exactly why shehad given up the Boston plan. The grandfather's going away, in thefullness of his ripe old age, hardly seemed a reason why she shouldrelinquish pleasures which had looked so bright, and an opportunitywhich had meant so much to her. However, they were all most heartilyglad to have her at home again, especially Kate, and the latter felt alittle foolish, remembering that morning at Aunt Katharine's, when itappeared from Esther's report that the old woman had not objected at allto her giving up the engagement which she had believed to be plannedwith such deep and deadly designs. Really, it seemed that she had lashedherself up to that affair and been disagreeable on quite gratuitousgrounds. She admitted it, to herself, with her usual frankness, andthanked her stars, in a strictly private manner, that no one but AuntKatharine and herself knew it, save Tom.
To Mrs. Northmore, watching Esther thoughtfully by the steady light ofmother-love, it seemed that the girl had found real value in the summer.She seemed somehow older, looking at things more quietly, and with aleisure from herself which, in spite of her ready sympathy for others,had too often been wanting in the past. It was an aid against therestlessness which might have come when a sudden vacancy in one of theRushmore schools brought her at Christmas an unexpected offer of theposition. She accepted it with her mother's quick consent, doing goodwork and enjoying it, as well as the pay that came with it. Indeed, asshe carried home her check at the end of each month, she was impressedmore than ever with the soundness of certain views of Aunt Katharine'son the moral value of earning and owning. She wrote to the latterrepeatedly, and once Aunt Katharine replied; but she was not fond of herpen, and the letter, though affectionate, was brief.
There were longer letters from Stella, letters of the chatty, personalsort, with a generous sprinkling of family news. Mr. Hadley was callingoften. If he had sustained any disappointment that the cousins were notin Boston together, he was apparently consoling himself with the companyof the one who was left. They were going to art lectures and symphonyconcerts together, an
d the married sister had called.
"It's precisely what ought to happen," Esther said to herself more thanonce; and the smile in her eyes as she said it suggested that there wasno vagueness in her mind as to what the happening should be. Sometimeswhen the smile was gone a wistful look came in its place, but if she hadany regrets or longings of her own, she told them to no one.
The spring vacation in the schools came with the Easter, early thatyear. Esther laid plans valiantly at the outset for work to beaccomplished in the space between terms, but she had grown thoroughlytired of her needle on the afternoon of the second day, when her fatherannounced suddenly that he was going to drive out to the farm. Therewere matters connected with the spring planting to be talked over withJake Erlock.
"What do you say to my going with you?" she exclaimed, dropping herwork. "It's ever so long since I went out there, and I feel just likeit."
There was nothing Dr. Northmore enjoyed more than having one of hisdaughters with him when he took a long drive. "That's a capital idea,"he said. "Get your things on quick."
Spring was coming along the track of the wide straight road by whichthey took their way to the pretty uplands which were the doctor's prideand care.
Here and there broad fields of wheat were already showing a tender greenfrom the springing of the grain which had lain all winter under frostand snow, and between them new-ploughed fields sent up a pleasant smell,the wholesome smell of the kindly earth turning itself again to the sunand the rain.
The little gray house, set back from the road, wore its old shy look,and the occupant, who greeted them as they drove up to the door, seemedlike one who, in his solitary wintering, might have sat asleep on hishearth, coming out half timidly now to greet the warmth and stir of theworld. He lost his air of uncertainty as he saw his callers, andwelcomed them to his kitchen, which was orderly as ever, setting chairsfor them about his fire with a bustling hospitality. Esther did not keepher place long. A few kindly inquiries, a polite listening to his reportof the winter, and then she left the two men together, and slipped awayfor a stroll by herself through the orchard and along the edge of thefield where the threshing had gone on so blithely in the summer past.
The straw-stack was there to remind of it still, not fair and goldennow, but gray and weather-beaten from the winter storms. It had grownsmaller with the passing months, and a great hollow had been worn in itsside by the browsing cattle. On the soft matted floor of this innershelter lay two calves, one with its pretty, fawn-like head resting onthe dark red neck of the other. They turned soft wondering eyes to thegirl as she looked in upon them, and a sitting hen, so near the color ofthe straw that at first she did not see her, ruffled warningly from hernest in the side.
She did not disturb them in their quiet retreat, but sat down for alittle while in the warm friendliness beside their open door, andthought half-dreamily of that day that was gone. What a bustle of workhad filled the place! She could see the puffing engine sending up itsquick black breath against the sky, and the great crimson machine, likea chariot, at its back, with Morton Elwell at the front, a charioteerholding the car of plenty on its way, amid a score of sunburntoutriders. How confident he had looked as he stood there in hisworkman's dress, bare-armed and bare-throated, how strong and steady!
She smiled at her own fancy. And then the rest of the picture faded,leaving the one figure alone; but it was not at the threshing she sawhim now, it was at home, at school, on the playground, and everywhereher comrade, her champion, her friend. Had he been something more inthose old days, and was he still? Ah, if she could be sure of _that_!The letters had lost the old boyish freedom in these last months. Shehad complained once that Morton Elwell took too much for granted. He wastaking nothing now.
Her father's voice calling from the house roused her at last from herrevery, and they were off again for home. He was thinking too busily ofhis summer plans to talk, and she, wrapped in her own thoughts, was gladof the silence. But she broke it suddenly as they drew near thesubstantial brick house which belonged to the Elwells, almost at the endof the ride.
"Suppose you let me out here, father," she said. "I haven't been in tosee Mrs. Elwell for weeks, and I've been thinking all the afternoon howgood she was to us last summer at the threshing. I want to go in andthank her for it over again. I'll come home by myself in a littlewhile."
She hesitated a moment whether or not to go in by the back way in theold familiar fashion, then, for some reason, walked to the front doorand rang the bell. The mistress herself opened it, her hands a littlefloury, and a clean gingham apron over her afternoon dress.
"Well, upon my word!" she exclaimed, starting at the sight of hercaller. "If we weren't talking about you, Esther Northmore, this blessedminute! Come in, come in. Who do you think is here?"
She had not time to guess. She had not time to speak the name which rosewith wondering incredulity to her lips when the owner of it himself camehurrying through the hall to meet her.
"You!" she cried, fairly springing to meet Morton Elwell. "Why, how doesthis happen?"
"It's vacation for me too," he said, beaming at her in the most radiantmanner. "And--yes, I'll own it. It was a genuine fit of homesickness thatbrought me. I've been struggling with it all winter, but it was simplytoo much for me when there actually came a halt in the school work. I_had_ to come. There was no other way."
"Think of it," said Mrs. Elwell, who looked so happy that there wasalmost a halo round her head; "think of his taking that journey andcoming home for a week's vacation, when he could hardly afford a day offfor us all last summer."
"It does seem as if I'd grown to be something of a spendthrift, doesn'tit?" said the young man. "But you can't hold yourself down all the time.You have to break loose now and then. And let me tell you,"--they hadreached the sitting room now, and he was sitting between them, lookingfrom one to the other like a happy child--"let me tell you that I'vetaken the Lisper scholarship, and that means my tuition all the rest ofmy course. Don't you think I could afford to give myself a glimpse ofhome when I wanted it so desperately?"
They cried, "Oh!" in concert, Mrs. Elwell, whose ideas were a littlevague in regard to scholarships, prolonging hers as if to cover thecomments she ought to make, and Esther adding, with the color sweepingover her face, "Why, that is splendid, perfectly splendid! I can't tellyou how glad I am."
"And won't you have to work your way any more?" asked Mrs. Elwell, whenshe could get her breath.
"Oh, yes. I shall have to turn an honest penny for myself now and then,"said her nephew, smiling. "Tuition doesn't cover all the expenses by agood deal, but it's a big help. Why, I feel quite like a nabob."
The name, with its sudden reminder of the one to whom Tom Saxon hadmockingly given it in the summer, made Esther laugh. Morton Elwell, withhis brown hands and common suit of clothes, did not look the characterin the least.
"Well, I'm glad you are _not_ a nabob," she said, meeting his eyes, andthen demurely dropping her own. "Please don't go on to be one so fastthat we can't keep up with you. There are some of us that like the oldways and have to go slow."
His face kindled, and he was on the point of saying something, when hisaunt spoke. "Now you children just make yourselves at home," she said,rising, "and I'll go on and get the supper. I was just fixing to makesome biscuits when you came, Esther. You'll stay to supper, of course."
"Oh, I must go home in a minute," said the girl. For the first time inher life she felt a sudden timidity in the thought of a _tete-a-tete_with Morton Elwell. "Mother'll expect me."
"Now what makes you talk like that?" said Mrs. Elwell, in an injuredtone. "Doesn't she know where you are? Of course she won't expect you.She knows I wouldn't let you go home before supper. Why, you never usedto do that way, and it's ever so long since you were here."
The logic was unanswerable, and Esther settled back in the chair fromwhich she had half risen. "She'll stay, Aunt Jenny," said Morton, and headded, smiling at Esther, "weren't you just saying that some of us
likedthe old ways?"
She took refuge in them swiftly when they were left alone. He must tellher all about himself, about college, what he had done to gain thatscholarship, and what else he had done. She was all sympathy, allinterest, with all the old responsiveness in her face, and he yieldedhimself to the warmth and joy of it as one yields to spring sunshineafter the cold. She grew easier after the first, and presently there wasno chance for embarrassment nor for confidences left; for the seniorElwell, with Morton's young cousins, came into the room, and then thetalk grew general, though with Morton still at the centre, as was thenewcomer's right, and indeed his necessity with Esther leading him on.
She was at her best--winsome, adroit, and determined if there was familypride in this uncle of his, it should bestir itself now. She had growneven prettier than she used to be, her manners even more charming, theyoung man said to himself, and the bounding happiness in her heart mightwell have made it true. For there had been a moment, just that momentbefore the others came into the room, when she had caught sure knowledgeof the thing she had longed to know.
He had been telling her of an oratorical contest in which he had borne apart, and, with a sudden tenderness in his voice, had said, "I wished ahundred times, while I was preparing my speech, that I could go over itwith you. Do you remember how you always used to let me orate to youwhen I had anything on hand for the rhetoricals? It must have been anawful bore, but somehow I never felt as if I could go on the stagewithout your help."
"And you see you didn't need it after all," she said, looking away. "Youwon the medal without me."
"Oh, but it wasn't without you," he said, leaning toward her andspeaking low, "for I was thinking all the time what you would say if Iwon."
Ah, he could not have said a word like that if some other girl hadstolen her place away!
The talk was over at last, and the supper too, the good substantialsupper which was always spread at the Elwells'. She could go now. Therewas no formality to insist that having eaten she must stay still longer,and she wanted Morton to herself. She was quite ready for it now, and hewould go home with her of course.
They had come back, with all the new meaning of it for each, to the oldfrankness and freedom, and yet as they took the familiar path across thefields, in the gathering dusk, it was not easy to speak the thought thatfilled both their hearts. They talked for a little while of indifferentthings--of the lengthening days, of the buds swelling on the willows, ofthe new buildings rising on a neighbor's place. Then, all at once themoon, the friendly moon, so kind in all its wanderings to the needs oflovers, rose up in the sky. It was a new moon, and they saw it at thesame moment over their right shoulders.
"We must wish a wish, as we used to when we were children," said Esther,gayly.
There could never be another moment like this. He stood suddenly still,and his eyes looked into hers. "Esther," he said, "it seems to me I haveonly one wish in the world, it is so much dearer than all the others. IfI could know, if I could surely know--" and then he stopped. Thatswelling at his throat which had choked him once before mastered hisvoice again, not from fear now, but hope.
She waited an instant, then, as her hand slipped into his, whispered,"Do you mean me, Mort? Oh, _do_ you mean me?"
It had never taken any one so long to cross that field as it did thosetwo to cross the little space that was left. There was no bar to speechnow, and there was so much to say! He said to her presently, with a noteof perplexity in his voice, "Esther, I have never understood why yougave up going to Boston this winter. You certainly wanted very much togo at first."
"Things changed after grandfather died," she said. She hesitated amoment, then took refuge in the formula she had used so often to theothers, but with a clause she had not whispered before, as she added,"Somehow I knew there was nothing I really wanted except to comehome--and have _you_ come too."
He murmured something rapturous. But he was not quite satisfied yet.After a little he said, "Esther, do you remember telling me once that ifyou had half a chance you'd live a different life from the commonworkaday sort; you'd have culture, and leisure, and travel, and allthose things? You did have a chance, didn't you?"
She flushed. "No one offered it to me," she said. "Perhaps no one everwould. At any rate--" her voice sounded nervous but happy--"if 'twas 'halfa chance,' I ran away from the other half. I didn't want anything butyou, Mort. I shall have whatever you have, and that's enough."
He threw back his head and drew a long breath. "Oh, I mean to do so muchfor you," he said. "It seems to me I can accomplish anything now."
There was the murmur of excited talking in the sitting room at theNorthmores' when they opened the door at last. "Well, of all the strangethings she ever did, I call that the strangest," the doctor was sayingin the tone of one grappling with a mystery.
The two young people looked at each other wondering. Then Esther said,in a merry whisper, "He doesn't mean me. He'll think I've done the mostsensible thing in the world."
They walked toward the room, and the next moment Kate was in the hall tomeet them. She was quite pale, and an unusual excitement showed in hermanner. Even the sight of Morton Elwell seemed hardly to divert herpreoccupation. "We heard you had come, and I'm so glad," she said. Then,turning to her sister, she exclaimed: "Esther, the strangest thing youever knew has happened. Aunt Katharine is dead. Mother got a letter justnow."
"Dead!" repeated Esther. It did not cross her mind to wonder why theythought this thing so strange. The fact itself filled her with a greatand sudden sadness. "Poor dear Aunt Katharine!" she said, and in thelight of what the last hour had brought to herself the thought of allthe brave old heart had missed, and how stanchly she had borne it,filled her with a new love and pity. "How did it happen?"
"She died suddenly," said Kate. "Aunt Elsie wrote about it. But it isn'tthat. It's her will! Oh, you can't think how she's left her money. Itseems as if she couldn't have meant it."
An unmistakable alarm leaped into Esther Northmore's eyes, and sheturned suddenly to Morton Elwell. "We were great friends," shewhispered, in a low hurried tone, "but nothing, nothing could make anydifference now."
Low as the words were spoken, Kate caught them. "Oh, you darlings! youdarlings!" she cried, throwing an arm round the neck of each. Then,between laughing and crying, she said hysterically, "But it isn't _you_,Esther, that she's left her money to. It's _me_! Think of it, _me_!"
"You!" ejaculated Esther, dropping with a sudden limpness againstMorton's shoulder. "Did she think--"
Kate pulled her toward the door. The preponderating note in her voicewas laughter now. "Come and hear what she thinks."
Even Esther could not wait for the details of the letter after this.Aunt Katharine had gone suddenly, as she always hoped she might, but herwill, which she had directed to be read at once upon her decease, was afar greater surprise to her relatives. After giving careful directionsfor her funeral, she had made her bequests. The document had been drawnup before her brother's death (by date in the early fall), and her farm,which joined his, had been left to him, as a permanent part of the Saxonhomestead. To certain persons, who had been in a way dependent on herkindness, she had left small sums, among them Solomon Ridgeway, to beused for his support and comfort, "at such times as he may see fit to beabsent from his present residence." (So ran the wording.) To a certaincharitable institution she had left five thousand dollars. To EstherNorthmore, with her love, some personal belongings, and these, as thegirl recognized with a throb at her heart, were those which she hadvalued most, and then followed this singular passage.
"As to the bulk of my property, it has sometimes crossed my mind thatcould I know some young woman intelligently devoted to the securing ofthose rights which I believe must be accorded to women before theconditions of society can become true and sane, and willing for the sakeof these, and for the sake of her own independence, to refrain frommarriage, that I would make such young woman my heir. Circumstanceshave, however, led me to doubt the probability of
finding such a one, aswell as the expediency of the measure. I, therefore, being in my rightmind and of disposing memory, do give and bequeath the residue of myproperty, valued at thirty-five thousand dollars, to my grandniece andnamesake, Katharine Saxon Northmore, who, I believe, has will enough ofher own to pursue whatever courses she may see fit, in spite of any manwho might be bold enough to marry her. And to the gift I add thisrequest, that she will take the trouble to look candidly into thoseviews which I have maintained. I am confident that her sister Estherwill not misstate them."
A minute of dead silence followed the reading. Then the doctor burstforth again: "The idea of leaving a legacy to anybody with a dig likethat! Why couldn't she have been civil about it if she wanted to do it?Perhaps her notion was to scare the young men off and keep Kate singleafter all."
But Morton Elwell burst out laughing. "Not a bit of it," he said. "Afellow who didn't think he was mighty lucky to get Kate on any termswouldn't deserve to have her, and the old lady knew it. Kate, I callthis glorious!" and he caught her and whirled her around the room at arate which left them both breathless.
"I'll tell you what 'tis, father," she began, with a gasp, when they hadfairly stopped. "I don't intend to have the name without the game, and Imean to begin to use that money as I please, right away. We'll pay offthat mortgage that has bothered you so, the very first thing."
"Nonsense," said the doctor; but she went on:--
"And maybe, when I get through the rest of my schooling, I'll take acourse in medicine. I always thought I should like to be a doctor. Don'tyou think 'Northmore and Northmore' would look well over your office?"
"Nonsense," he said again, this time more sternly. But he had been knownto say "nonsense" before to some plans which his girls carried out.
And after a while--"How far do thirty-five thousand dollars go? I _might_do something handsome by Mort and Esther," she added, sending a sly lookat the two young people.
Their sudden blushes told the rest of the story.
"Well, well!" said the doctor, laying down the paper, "how things areheaping up to-night!" He sent a glance at his wife, and the look in hereyes made his own grow moist. "My dear," he said, "this is a pretty goodworld of ours, after all. I don't pretend to understand what the cranksare driving at, but I rather think there are some of the old waysthat'll keep it sweet yet."