The Will of Widow Peevey

by Hugh Pendexter

THE WILL OF WIDOW PEEVY

By HUGH PENDEXTER

HIRAM BASCOM had lived on borrowed time for several years; therefore, his death in the lonely Otisviile farmhouse surprised no one across the line in District No. 6. Nor did the fact that he had executed a will in favor of his sister, Mrs. Melly Peevy, cause any radical comment, as she was his only next of kin. But each nimble tongue was set awagging when it was known he had designated the old squire as executor. For the older generation could easily remember how Hiram and the squire came to the parting of political ways at the threshold of manhood and how they had passed and repassed each other almost daily for many years with no show of recognition. And even the younger folks could appreciate that, while the squire's genial nature had expanded and ripened under the sun of success, his defeated rival had become gloomy of temperament and finally went in for the life of a recluse in the neighboring town.

Now he was dead, and Mrs. Peevy was an heir, and the old squire had dual cause for wonderment. First, he was amazed at being named executor; secondly, he was deeply surprised to learn Hiram Bascom had accumulated any property to bequeath. He had always believed the small farm was mortgaged to the maximum, and his usually shrewd mind failed to figure out the source of any assets whatever.

No such pessimistic speculations disturbed his neighbors, however. By some subtle process of reasoning they quickly decided hermits and misers to be synonymic, in that both possessed nothing but secret hoards of gold. Else why be a hermit? Thus to the neighborhood at large it was sufficient to know Hiram had led a life of seclusion and had executed a will, and Mrs. Peevy was an heir and a person of importance in the district. So through all the web and woof of accredited rumor ran only one unusual thread: the designation of the executor, with some doubt as to the possibility of the squire's serving.

"They was enemies for a lifetime," sighed Aaron Jessup, the general storekeeper, as the circle about the stove paused for a second. "If the squire don't want to act, it would do him credit to say so. Probably some disinterested person could be found."

"Mebbe he don't care to give up th' fees he'll git for settlin' th' estate," suggested Highway Commissioner Phillpot, who had come an hour before in great haste for a pound of nails.

Head Selectman Currier distorted his hard face in a dry smile as he leaned over the counter and followed the storekeeper's tally of a basket of eggs. He now observed, "I don't believe he'll be hard on her."

"Kindly remember he wa'n't no friend of Hiram's," reminded Mr. Phillpot.

"I always said you was a keen student of human natur', Philly," admired the storekeeper. "You know, it surprised me Hiram didn't pick Currier as executor. But the squire! Lawd, how they use to fight!"

"It was all so long ago an' Hiram has forgiven him," protest Mr. Currier suspiciously scrutinizing a mutilated nickel in his money and finally pushing it back for a box of matches.

"Some men have long mem'ries," remarked old man Jameson as he appropriated a checkerberry wafer with a deftness not to be expected in one so rheumatic.

"Wal, Melly ought to git something," insisted Mr. Currier. "There ought to be three hundred dollars at least."

"Ye hew too close to th' line, Currier," corrected the commissioner gravely, "I figger it at four hundred clear above th' mortgage that they say is on th' farm."

"Still it's queer Hiram couldn't pick a different executor," remonstrated the storekeeper, reaching for the Jameson account book as his nostrils caught the aroma of checkerberry.

"I guess everybody had expected he'd name you, Aaron," declared Mr. Jameson, edging slowly toward the door.

"Oh, I wouldn't be bothered with it," protested the storekeeper. "That is, except as a favor to Melly, I vum! I'm glad that woman has at last met a little good luck."

"Wal," informed Mr. Currier slowly, "I guess it won't make no difference to poor Melly. She's sick abed at my house. Come over to help with th' fall sewin'. An' th' doctor said this mornin' there wa'n't no help for her. She's awful unlucky. Mebbe she'd have lived if she hadn't been a heir."

"You don't say so?" gasped Jessup, now leaning over the counter, intensely interested. "And who gits the property if she dies? She ain't got a single relation,"

"I swan!" cried Mr, Jameson from the door; "if I was her I should leave it to th' man who had trusted me for groceries an' was always ready to give cash for my produce, an' who never pressed me for money on my little account. Ye needn't shake your head, Aaron. Why, it wouldn't be more'n common justice."

The account book was tossed back into its old resting place, as with a little gesture of deprecation the storekeeper elevated his bushy brows and declared, "Lord knows Melly was welcome to all the many little favors I ever done her. And I'll admit they was quite a few. If I was a married man she could have had a home with me and my wife."

Mr. Currier's eyes narrowed as he met the storekeeper's gaze and he drawled, "Why, I guess she's got a good home at my place, ain't she? I don't know of any place in No. 6 where she is more welcome, or where she has come more often, even before she was a heir. I agree with Jameson. It's only nat'ral she should will what she can't live to enjoy to her best friends." And buttoning his coat he walked stiffly to the door.

"There goes a man," bitterly sneered the storekeeper, "that would bite the hand that feeds him. Don't see how he gits any pleasure out of life. Always gunning for the dollars and cents."

"Shouldn't want him to manage my property," declared the penniless Mr. Jameson.

The highway commissioner, who had been smoking furiously, now laid aside his pipe and eyed the nails with loathing as he compared his hard lot with the prospective riches awaiting the selectman, and he sighed, "Wal, I guess Currier will git it."

"Why should he?" demanded the storekeeper angrily.

"Lawd, Philly, ye talk crazy," reminded Mr. Jameson.

"I was only foolin'," protested the commissioner weakly.

None of these utterances of the stove found room for consideration in the squire's thoughts as he drove into the Currier yard on his way to Otisville. He was only anxious that Mrs. Peevy should recuperate, with the estate crystallizing into a modest reality. Yet in one respect he could not entertain the optimism of the store. His knowledge of Hiram's affairs, coupled to an appreciation of Otisville farm values, operated to instill suspicion, even while his kind heart cried out for the best. But the first distrust remained, and he shook his white head mournfully as he clambered from the carriage. Her illness, too, accentuated his regret. He had known her from early youth and realized more than another could how weakly her nature could withstand disappointment. Despite the rivalry between him and her brother, he had always endeavored to be her friend. For years he had smiled whimsically over her vagaries and in moments of real trouble had always been the first to extend a helping hand. Well along in years himself, with a disposition capable of assuming the tribulations of the entire district had his purse been less meager in depth, it pained him when an old neighbor was removed from the routine of his life. He could even sorrow for Hiram and his fighting ways. In short, it was his one wish that the old order of things should last out his day; the trees be allowed to stand, the roads to lead the same, and the old friends remain.

He had been informed by Mr. Currier that morning that the doctor could hold out no hopes for her recovery. She had walked home from the village in a drenching rain and had immediately taken to her bed in a state of utter collapse, the selectman had said.

"How is Melly?" he asked, tiptoeing his squeaking boots into the kitchen.

"Bad," whispered Mr. Currier. "I s'pose ye called to see about her estate."

"I called to see about her," returned the squire shortly, eying with dismay the platoons of bottles left by the doctor. "Can I see her?"

He was shocked to note the expression of hopelessness on her fat face as he entered the sick room. Yet as he studied her for a few moments her condition puzzled him. She displayed no symptoms he was familiar with, although a visitor at many a sick bedside. She seemed as one who, tired unto death, would hail with relief the last rest.

"How be ye, Melly?" he asked gently to attract her attention.

She turned her head slowly and her eyes rolled in mute rejoinder before she groaned, "Squire, some folks hanker to have their walls covered with costly traversties, but I'd be content to live and be a modest heir. I'd shake hands only I'm too pesky weary. To think, after losing Caleb in the war and having a mortal hard time of it on twelve dollars a month pension ever since, I've got to die jest as I'm made a heir."

"Don't talk that way, Melly. Why think of dyin'? Why not make an effort to live?" he soothed, patting her ample palm. "Don't give up. Think of the many disappointments ye've lived through——"

"I know," she interrupted with a sigh; "but the doctor says I must die. He ought to know. I'm collapsed inside, you know. I wouldn't find no fault, mind you, as I s'pose I must knuckle under some time. But it's pesky hard jest as I'm made a heir. But the doctor told me this morning there wa'n't no hope, as he couldn't understand my case, it is so rare." Then in irritation, "But why must rare cases be deadly? Well, after he told me the worst, I jest whispered to myself, 'Melly, what's the use?' Jest whispered it, you know; for after what he said—I lost all gimp. 'Why not let go?' says I, still in a whisper. And I did, and it seemed as if I was slipping away in a second. Since then I've slipped mighty far, I guess."

"Tut, tut," chided the squire weakly. "Why can't ye rally? Better times are in store for ye."

"I know," she whimpered; "you mean the legacy. Everyone that's been in to see me has been talking about it. Lawd! if I could have had it last week I wouldn't have been took this way. I went over to the village to see if they'd let a old veteran's widder into a 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' show at half price. They wouldn't, and I stayed to the open-air concert and got caught in the rain. If I'd had my legacy I'd paid full fare and got a chance to ride home. But, no; it wa'n't enough for Caleb to die a-freeing the slaves, but I must be denied a chance to see that show and git mortally sick in the bargain. Well, I hope the good Lawd and the Government will decide Caleb and me has done our share of suffering for freedom's cause. How much is the legacy?"

"Wal, it's——"

"No," she shuddered, "don't tell me. It might be so much it would make it harder for me to pass out. I want to quit as easy as I can."

He heeded no questions from the household as he sorrowfully entered the carriage and turned his horse toward Otisville. As she had wailed, fate was surely against her. If the little legacy—he knew it couldn't be much—had come a week earlier, she now would be rejoicing in one triumph at least. That she had spoken no word of lament over her brother's death had surprised him none. Probably the two had not met in years, despite their proximity. Besides, to his simple mind, it was very natural she should lament only those she was about to leave behind.

But once arrived in Otisville his thoughts were recalled to matters of fact, and from a dreaming, sorrowing old man he was transformed into the man of business, incisive, shrewd, and observant. For several hours he canvassed his acquaintances carefully and then drove to the nearest savings bank and interviewed the officials. When he had finished the day's errand his face was creased with chagrin and regret. For he was compelled to realize that Hiram Bascom in executing a will had neglected to accumulate any gear to accompany it,

That night Mrs, Peevy's inheritance was the sole topic of interest in Jessup's store.

"I tell you Hiram Bascom was one of the shrewdest business heads in the county," declared the storekeeper, ostentatiously snapping shut the cheese-box cover as he detected old man Jameson fondling a cracker.

"Guess everything he touched turned to money," suggested Mr. Phillpot. "Even if th' farm is mortgaged there's probably considerable free and clear."

"I should say three hundred dollars," mused the storekeeper slowly.

"Five," firmly insisted Mr. Phillpot, whose imagination was cumulative.

"I had kinder figgered on three hundred," said Mr. Jameson mildly.

"I wish Currier was here to tell us how she's gitting along," said the storekeeper.

"I guess he's too busy tryin' to find out how she's goin' to will it," laughed Mr. Phillpot.

The storekeeper paused in placing a box of canned goods on the raisins and declared, "Philly, you certainly are a shrewd one."

"Of course she's got to leave it to some one, an' she's stoppin' at his home, an' that's th' answer," continued Mr. Phillpot with complacent modesty.

"How you do run on," protested the storekeeper, his jaw sagging petulantly. "It don't follow she'll leave it to him."

"Ye have some of th' queerest notions, Phillpot," sneered Mr. Jameson, winking slyly at the storekeeper. "It would be more nat'ral for her to leave it to th' school, or th' church."

"By Judas!" growled the storekeeper, caressing his square chin nervously, "you two fellers can git off the most fool sentiments ever let loose in one store. Why in sin should she leave it to any of 'em?"

"It ought to be left to some benefactor," hazarded Mr. Phillpot, keeping the tail of his eye on Jessup. "There ain't no more reason why she should leave it to Currier than that she should leave it to me, or Jameson, or you, Aaron."

Mr. Jameson's aged eyes twinkled as he experimented in painting the lily by observing, "She ain't no call to remember me, although I've tried to be a good friend to her. Worked like a dog to help her git her pension, ye know. But if she ain't goin' to divide it, I should say Jessup is th' only man who stands any show or right to git it, an' I don't care a cuss what Currier expects."

"I wish she could live to enjoy it," sighed the storekeeper, smiling sadly on the old man. "She's a good woman and the three——"

"Five," insisted Mr. Phillpot, "an' mebbe goin' on to six."

"Well, five then. But why should Currier git it? Is it because he's running for head selectman again next spring and counts on our votes?"

"I'll warrant ye there's a few votes, not more'n a hundred miles from here, he won't git," cried Mr. Jameson warmly.

The storekeeper pursed his thin lips and whistled softly, and then conceded, "Of course if you fellers are out to down him, why, down he goes. I can't help him alone."

"Hush!" warned Mr. Phillpot behind a cough. "Here he comes now."

Mr. Currier on entering did not fail to surmise the drift of the conversation, but the knowledge seemed to disturb his sad complacency in no degree. His gaze was steady as he faced the storekeeper and his eyes blinked none when they wandered to the stove.

"Hullo, Mr. Currier!" cried the storekeeper genially, as the others smoked in silence; "I was jest saying I wished you'd happen in and tell us how Melly is."

The head selectman shook his head dolefully as he replied, "I guess she's got to go. Doctor says she's sinkin' fast. Thinks it's her heart." Then after a little pause and as if recalling it by accident, he added, "She had a lawyer over to-day."

This bit of news caused the group to stiffen and exchange questioning glances, while Jessup turned and nervously began dusting the cover of the bean bin. But when he wheeled to the stove again his face was devoid of expression, and he murmured several times, "Poor Melly! Too bad!" Then listlessly, "And who will be poor Melly's heir?"

Mr. Currier, not a bit deceived by the other's seeming indifference in putting the query, scratched a match slowly on the rusty stovepipe, and when assured the tobacco was evenly lighted, returned, "When it comes to a sartainty, I don't know. Of course, I don't hang around a sick room when a person is making a will. I don't want her property."

All scrutinized him curiously, and Mr. Phillpot choked over a cracker. The selectman, however, refused to notice these evidences of skepticism, and continued stoutly, "No, sirree! I don't want it, an' wha's more, I won't have it. I'm no fortune hunter. Why, I even went so far as to tell her, right before th' lawyer, mind ye, that she mustn't leave it to me. I made her promise she wouldn't."

The silence that followed this surprising assertion was so deep that even the scampering of a mouse in the back room was audible to all. Then Mr. Jameson gave a reedy, mechanical whistle, while the storekeeper stuttered, "Have a seegar, old neighbor."

"Thanks," said Mr. Currier gently, as one confessing to a virtuous act; "I'll smoke it after I git home."

"But who d'ye s'pose will git it?" whispered the storekeeper behind a confidential palm, now inclined to ignore the stove.

"Wal," drawled Mr. Currier, spreading his feet as if bracing himself, "ye see, while I can't accept it, I have no right to stand in my famly's way, an' I was honest enough to tell her so. An' although I didn't ask th' lawyer, I have a pretty strong suspicion that either my wife or daughter will be her heir."

Mr. Phillpot's stubby finger numbly kept time with the ponderous ticking of the big clock for several seconds, and the hiatus might have been prolonged to a minute had not the door creaked open to admit the old squire. He found the storekeeper gazing moodily into the sugar scoop and the men at the stove sitting stiff and formal, as if posing for the camera. Mr. Currier, who had assumed a defiant attitude, lost in rigidity a bit as the newcomer's presence relieved the situation, but he did not linger to make conversation and only nodded to the squire in retreating to the door.

"Currier's going early, ain't he?" murmured the squire wearily, his thoughts still busy with Hiram's vital omission.

The storekeeper gave a short, hard laugh, more expressive than any words, while Mr. Phillpot rose and snapped, "Yas, danged early. So be I. But It's different in my case. I have to work for a livin' an' can't expect no help from nobody."

"I guess home is the best place for me," sighed the squire, turning. "I dropped in to see Sweens. He has a mortgage on the Bascom farm. Tell him I was looking for him if he comes in."

"Jest a jiffy, squire," cried Mr, Jessup, now galvanized into curiosity. "How much does that Bascom property amount to, free and clear?"

The shadows by the door caused the squire's face to look drawn and haggard as he paused and gazed reflectively at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then he replied, "I ain't filed no report with the court yet."

It was late the next afternoon and the squire was preparing to walk over to Currier's to inquire after the patient when the selectman ran hurriedly into the yard, breathing heavily.

"Not dead?" cried the squire.

"No; not yet," panted Mr. Currier. "That is, she wasn't when I left th' house. She was taken worse at noon. Aaron Jessup, dang him! called to see her an' told her he'd been over to Otisville this morning an' found that her brother didn't leave no property."

"Huh!" ejaculated the squire, striding toward the gate.

"Yas," wheezed Mr. Currier, "an' she jest began to fade away. I bustled Jessup after th' doctor, an' th' doctor says she's goin' fast. But she wanted to see you once more."

Few words were spoken beyond this, except as the old squire muttered, "Dear me! dear me!" until the house was reached. At the door they met the doctor.

"How is she?" whispered the squire.

The doctor drew down bis mouth and shook his head decisively.

"Just hanging on by will power. I guess Jessup said something to her about her property and it upset her. He's inside now. There's no hope. You'd better hurry in."

"Can't nothing be done?" begged the squire.

"Nothing," discouraged the doctor. "All we can do is to make her last moments easy."

"I'll do anything," whispered the squire.

"All you can do is to say whatever will please her, so she can die in peace," explained the doctor.

With soft tread the squire entered the sitting room, where Jessup sat ruefully in the corner, and without heeding the storekeeper passed to the sick room.

Mrs. Peevy was moaning faintly. As he entered she smiled sadly.

"Why, Melly," he whispered, "I thought ye was going to try and git well."

"No," she murmured; "I might have hung on a day longer, but when Jessup said there wasn't any estate I seemed to sink mighty fast. I was reconciled to go when I believed I was a heir, as it ain't so bad to die and leave property. But to be fooled like this and to die and leave nothing is too much. If I'd only passed out yesterday when I believed I was really a heir."

"Er—why, ye be, ain't ye, Melly?" stammered the squire brokenly, vaguely remembering the doctor's admonition. "I'm—I'm the executor. I guess I ought to know."

"Oh, squire," she whispered joyously; "then there is an estate and I can die happy! How much is it?"

He averted his honest old eyes. To lie at that moment was sacrilege.

"How much am I worth, squire?" she insisted, plucking at his sleeve.

But it would make her last moments happy, and to gain time in which to determine the total he asked, shamefaced, "Guess."

"As much as three hundred dollars?" she pleaded.

"Four hundred," he replied firmly.

"Four hundred!" she gasped. "Now I am at peace. I can pass out calm and contented." And her hands were folded in resignation.

The squire motioned for the doctor.

"She's going," whispered the doctor.

Mrs. Peevy slowly closed her eyes and then opened them quickly and settled her fat chin in determination.

"I'm going to git well," she declared, and there was new strength in her tone. "I ought to be up and well with such a legacy to live on. I owe it to you, squire, to live."

 

"She is going to git well," cried the squire softly to those in the outer room. "Her pulse is stronger and the doctor says she will recover. I feel like a two-year-old."

Jessup breathed deep in relief and observed, "Then my blurting out the truth about her legacy didn't hurt her any?"

The squire desisted from his lively manners and rubbed his forehead in perplexity, and the lines about his mouth lengthened. For the first time he was recalling what he had said to ease her last moments. He had told her the value of the estate and he was one who never changed his words. As he reviewed it quickly his jaw set and turning to Jessup he growled, "Ye came near killing her with a mess of lies. She's worth four hundred dollars and will live to enjoy it."

"Great Scott!" mumbled Mr. Currier. "Then her calling in a lawyer to make her will was well thought of."

"Lawyer? Will?" gasped the squire, "I know nothing of all this."

"Yas," explained Mr. Currier gravely; "I believe she had willed her property to a member of my fambly. She'll probably let it stand. But whether she does or don't, she'll always have a home here."

The storekeeper grinned maliciously as he informed, "You're mistook, old neighbor. I talked with her lawyer this morning. If she'd passed out her property would have gone to the squire."

The old squire turned in the doorway in amaze. Then his eyes grew tender as he faced the sick room. A sacrifice was a sacrifice and four hundred dollars would be sadly missed. But she had remembered the friend of her youth, and her gift had been planned in all sincerity. He straightened his sturdy shoulders as if to shake clear the seventy-odd years and blew his nose loudly. Then motioning the storekeeper into the yard he brusquely demanded, "How much will you give for those two hosses?"

"What I've always been willing to give," returned the storekeeper eagerly. "Five hundred dollers."

"Have the money ready to-morrow."

"I certainly will. Probably I shan't git much good out of 'em this winter. Looks as if we was going to have a hard one."

"Yas," sighed the squire mechanically; "it'll be tough sleddin' this winter."