came back, and in the midst of her apparent grief the question forced
itself upon her consideration, "Did my husband make a will?"

Of course, she did not give utterance to this query. She knew what was
expected of her, and she was prudent enough to keep up appearances
before the neighbors, who poured into the house to offer their
sympathy. She received them with her cambric handkerchief pressed to
her eyes, from which, by dint of effort, she succeeded in squeezing a
few formal tears, and, while her bosom appeared to heave with emotion,
she was mentally calculating how much Colonel Preston had probably
left.

"Shan't I stay with you, my dear Mrs. Preston?" said worthy Mrs.
Cameron, in a tone full of warm interest and sympathy.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Preston, in a low voice; "you are very kind,
but I would rather be left alone."

"But it must be so sad for you to be alone in your sorrow," said her
neighbor.

"No. I can bear sorrow better alone," said the newly made widow.
"Perhaps I am peculiar, but I would prefer it."

"If you really wish it," said the other, reluctantly.

"Yes, I wish it. Thank you for your kind offer, but I know my own
feelings, and the presence of others would only increase my pain."

This was what she said to others who made the same offer. It did not
excite great surprise, for Mrs. Preston had never leaned upon anyone
for sympathy, nor was she ready with her sympathy when others were in
trouble. She was self-poised and self-contained, and, in fact, for
this reason was not popular with her neighbors. Still, in this her
distress they were ready to forget all this and extend the same
cordial sympathy which they would have done in other cases. There was
but one person whose company she did crave at this time and this was
her son, Godfrey. So, when Alfred Turner offered to go for him the
next morning, she accepted his offer with thanks.

At last she was left alone. The servant had gone to bed, and there was
no one but herself and her dead husband in the lower part of the
house. She no longer sat with her handkerchief pressed before her
eyes. Her face wore its usual look of calm composure. She was busily
thinking, not of her husband's fate, but of her own future.

"Did he leave a will? And, if so, how much did he leave me?" she
thought.

If there was a will, it was probably in the house, and Mrs. Preston
determined to find it, if possible.

"Of course, all ought to come to me and Godfrey," she soliloquized. "I
don't think it is right to leave money to charitable institutions as
long as a wife and child are living. Fortunately, my husband had no
brothers or sisters, or perhaps he would have divided the property. If
there is no will, I shall have my thirds, and shall have the control
of Godfrey's property till he comes of age. I think I will go to
Boston to live. My friend, Mrs. Boynton, has a very pleasant house on
Worcester Street. I should like to settle down somewhere near her. I
don't know how much Mr. Preston was worth, but I am sure we shall have
enough for that. I always wanted to live in the city. This village is
intolerably stupid, and so are the people. I shall be glad to get
away."

Could the good women, whose kind hearts had prompted them to proffer
their sympathy, have heard these words they would not have been likely
to obtrude any more on the hard, cold woman who held them in such low
estimation.

Mrs. Preston took the lamp in her hand, and began to explore her
husband's desk. She had often thought of doing so, but, as his death
was not supposed to be so near, she had not thought that there was any
immediate cause of doing so. Besides, it had almost been her belief
that he had made no will. Now she began to open drawers and untie
parcels of papers, but it was some time before she came to what she
sought. At length, however, her diligence was rewarded. In the middle
of a pile of papers, she found one labeled on the outside:


MY WILL.


Her heart beat as she opened it, and, though there was no need, for it
was now past ten o'clock, and there was not likely to be a caller at
that late hour, she looked cautiously about her, and even peered out
of the window into the darkness, but could find no one whose
observation she might fear.

I am not about to recite at length the items in the will, which
covered a page of foolscap. It is enough to quote two items, which
Mrs. Preston read with anger and dissatisfaction. They are as follows:


"Item.--To my young friend, Andy Burke, son of the widow
Burke, of this village, in consideration of a valuable
service rendered to me on one occasion, and as a mark of my
regard and interest, I give and bequeath the sum of five
thousand dollars; and to his mother, as a token of gratitude
for her faithful nursing when I was dangerously sick with the
smallpox, I give and bequeath, free of all incumbrance, the
cottage in which she at present resides.

"Item.--To the town I give five thousand dollars, the
interest to be annually appropriated to the purchase of books
for a public library, for the benefit of all the citizens,
provided the town will provide some suitable place in which
to keep them."


All the balance of the property was left to his wife and son, in equal
proportions, his wife to be the guardian of Godfrey till he should
have attained his majority. As Colonel Preston was well known to be
rich, this seemed to be an adequate provision, but Mrs. Preston did
not look upon it in that light. On the contrary, she was deeply
incensed at the two legacies of which mention has been made above.

"Was ever anything more absurd than to waste five thousand dollars and
a house upon that Irish boy and his mother?" she said to herself. "I
don't suppose it was so much my husband's fault. That artful woman got
around him, and wheedled him into it. I know now why she was so
willing to come here and take care of him when he was sick. She wanted
to wheedle him into leaving money to her low-lived boy. She is an
artful and designing hussy, and I should like to tell her so to her
face."

The cold and usually impassible woman was deeply excited. Her selfish
nature made her grudge any of her husband's estate to others, except,
indeed, to Godfrey, who was the only person she cared for. As she
thought over the unjust disposition, as she regarded it, which her
husband had made of his property, a red spot glowed in her usually
pale cheek.

Then it was another grievance that money should have been left to the
town.

"What claim had the town on my husband," she thought, "that he should
give it five thousand dollars? In doing it, he was robbing Godfrey and
me. It was wrong. He had no right to do it. What do I care for these
people? They are a set of common farmers and mechanics, with whom I
condescend to associate because I have no one else here, except the
minister's and the doctor's family, to speak to. Soon I shall be in
the city, and then I don't care if I never set eyes on any of them
again. In Boston I can find suitable society."

The more Mrs. Preston thought of it, the more she felt aggravated by
the thought that so large a share of her husband's property was to go
to others. She fixed her eyes thoughtfully on the document which she
held in her hand, and a strong temptation came to her.

"If this should disappear," she said to herself, "the money would be
all mine and Godfrey's, and no one would be the wiser. That Irish boy
and his mother would stay where they belonged, and my Godfrey would
have his own. Why should I not burn it? It would only be just."

Deluding herself by this false view, she persuaded herself that it was
right to suppress the will. With steady hand she held it to the flame
of the lamp, and watched it as it was slowly consumed. Then, gathering
up the fragments, she threw them away.

"It is all ours now," she whispered, triumphantly, as she prepared to
go to bed. "It was lucky I found the will."




CHAPTER XXXI
MRS. PRESTON'S INTENTIONS


Godfrey returned home on the day after his father's death. He had
never witnessed death before, and it frightened him, for the time,
into propriety. He exhibited none of the stormy and impetuous grief
which a warm-hearted and affectionate boy would have been likely to
exhibit. It was not in his nature.

When he and his mother were left alone, he showed his resemblance to
her, by asking:

"Do you know how much property father left?"

"I don't know. He never told me about his affairs as he ought. I think
he must have left near a hundred thousand dollars."

Godfrey's eyes sparkled.

"That's a pile of money," he said. "It goes to me, don't it?"

"To us," said Mrs. Preston.

"A woman doesn't need so much money as a man," said Godfrey,
selfishly.

"You are not a man yet," said his mother, dryly. "Your father may have
left a will. In that case, he may have left a part of his property to
others."

"Do you think he has?" inquired Godfrey, in alarm.

"I don't think any will will be found," said his mother, quietly. "He
never spoke to me of making one."

"Of course not. That wouldn't be fair, would it?"

"It is fitting that the property should all go to us."

"When shall I get mine?"

"When you are twenty-one."

"That's a long time to wait," said Godfrey, grumblingly.

"You are only a boy yet. I shall probably be your guardian."

"I hope you'll give me a larger allowance than father did."

"I will."

"Must I go back to boarding school? I don't want to."

"If I go to Boston to live, as I think I shall, I will take you with
me, and you can go to school there."

"That'll be jolly," said Godfrey, his eyes sparkling with
anticipation. "I've got tired of this miserable town."

"So have I," said his mother. "We shall have more privileges in
Boston."

"I can go to the theater as often as I please there, can't I?"

"We will see about that."

"How soon shall we move to the city?"

"As soon as business will allow. I must settle up your father's
affairs here."

"Can't I go beforehand?"

"Would you leave me alone?" asked his mother, with a little touch of
wounded affection, for she did feel attached to her son. He was the
only one, indeed, for whom she felt any affection.

"You won't miss me, mother. It'll be awfully stupid here, and you know
you'll be coming to the city as soon as you get through with the
business."

Mrs. Preston was disappointed, but she should not have been surprised.
Her only son reflected her own selfishness.

"It would not look well for you to go to the theater just at the
present," she said.

"Why not?"

"So soon after your father's death."

Godfrey said nothing, but looked discontented. It was early to think
of amusement, while his father lay yet unburied in the next room. He
left the room, whistling. He could not gainsay his mother's
objections, but he thought it hard luck.

A funeral in a country village is a public occasion. Friends and
neighbors are expected to be present without invitation. Among those
who assembled at the house were Mrs. Burke and Andy. They felt truly
sorry for the death of Colonel Preston, who had been a friend to both.
Mrs. Preston saw them enter, and, notwithstanding the solemnity of the
occasion, the thought intruded: "They're after the legacy, but they
will be disappointed. I've taken good care of that."

Godfrey saw them, also, and his thought was a characteristic one:

"What business has that Irish boy at my father's funeral? He ought to
know better than to poke himself in where he is not wanted."

Even Godfrey, however, had the decency to let this thought remain
unspoken. The services proceeded, and among those who followed on foot
in the funeral procession were Andy and his mother. It never occurred
to them that they were intruding. They wanted to show respect for the
memory of one who had been a friend to them.

On the day after the funeral Squire Tisdale called at the house,
invited by Mrs. Preston. The squire had a smattering of law, and often
acted as executor in settling estates.

"I invited you to come here, Squire Tisdale," said Mrs. Preston, "to
speak about my affairs. Of course, it is very trying to me to think of
business so soon after the death of my dear husband"--here she
pressed her handkerchief to her tearless eyes--"but I feel it to be my
duty to myself and my boy."

"Of course," said the squire, soothingly. "We can't give way to our
feelings, however much we want to."

"That is my feeling," said Mrs. Preston, whose manner was wonderfully
cool and collected, considering the grief which she desired to have it
thought she experienced for her husband.

"Did Colonel Preston leave a will?" asked the squire.

"I don't think he did. He never mentioned making one to me. Did you
ever hear of his making any?"

"I can't say that I ever did. I suppose it will be best to search."

"Won't it be more proper for you to make the search, Squire Tisdale?"
said the widow. "I am an interested party."

"Suppose we search together. You can tell me where your husband kept
his private papers."

"Certainly. He kept them in his desk. I locked it as soon as he died;
but here is the key. If there is a will, it is probably there."

"Very probably. We shall soon ascertain, then."

Squire Tisdale took the key, and Mrs. Preston led the way to her late
husband's desk. A momentary fear seized her.

"What if there was an earlier will, or two copies of the last?" she
thought. "I ought to have made sure by looking over the other papers."

But it was too late now. Besides, it seemed very improbable that there
should be another will. Had there been an earlier one, it would,
doubtless, have been destroyed on the drafting of the one she had
found. She reassured herself, therefore, and awaited with tranquillity
the result of the search.

The search was careful and thorough. Mrs. Preston desired that it
should be so. Knowing the wrong she had done to Andy and his mother,
as well as the town, she was unnecessarily anxious to appear perfectly
fair, and assured Squire Tisdale that, had there been a will, its
provisions should have been carried out to the letter.

"There is no will here," said the squire, after a careful search.

"I did not expect you would find one," said the widow; "but it was
necessary to make sure."

"Is there any other place where your husband kept papers?"

"We will look in the drawers and trunks," said Mrs. Preston; "but I
don't think any will be found."

None was found.

"Can I do anything more for you, Mrs. Preston?" asked the squire.

"I should like your advice, Squire Tisdale. I am not used to business,
and I would like the aid of your experience."

"Willingly," said the squire, who felt flattered.

"As my husband left no will, I suppose the estate goes to my son and
myself?"

"Undoubtedly."

"How ought I to proceed?"

"You should apply for letters of administration, which will enable you
to settle up the property."

"Will you help me to take the necessary steps?"

"Certainly."

"I should like to settle the estate as rapidly as possible, as I
intend to remove to Boston."

"Indeed? We shall be sorry to lose you. Can you not content yourself
here?"

"Everything will remind me of my poor husband," said Mrs. Preston,
with another application of the handkerchief to her still tearless
eyes.

Squire Tisdale was impressed with the idea that she had more feeling
than he had thought.

"I didn't think of that," he said, sympathetically. "No doubt you are
right."

Mrs. Preston lost no time in applying for letters of administration.

"As soon as I get them," she said to herself, "I will lose no time in
ejecting that Irishwoman from the house my husband bought for her.
I'll make her pay rent, too, for the time she has been in it."




CHAPTER XXXII
MRS. PRESTON'S REVENGE


Andy Burke was passing the house of Mrs. Preston, within a month after
Colonel Preston's death, when Godfrey, who had not gone back to
boarding school, showed himself at the front door.

"Come here!" said Godfrey, in an imperious tone.

Andy turned his head, and paused.

"Who are you talking to?" he asked.

"To you, to be sure."

"What's wanted?"

"My mother wants to see you."

"All right; I'll come in."

"You can go around to the back door," said Godfrey, who seemed to find
pleasure in making himself disagreeable.

"I know I can, but I don't mean to," said Andy, walking up to the
front entrance, where Godfrey was standing.

"The back door is good enough for you," said the other, offensively.

"I shouldn't mind going to it if you hadn't asked me," said Andy.
"Just move away, will you?"

Godfrey did not stir.

"Very well," said Andy, turning; "tell your mother you would not let
me in."

"Come in, if you want to," said Godfrey, at length, moving aside.

"I don't care much about it. I only came to oblige your mother."

"Maybe you won't like what she has to say," said Godfrey, with a
disagreeable smile.

"I'll soon know," said Andy.

He entered the house, and Godfrey called upstairs: "Mother, the Burke
boy is here."

"I'll be down directly," was the answer. "He can sit down."

Andy sat down on a chair in the hall, not receiving an invitation to
enter the sitting-room, and waited for Mrs. Preston to appear. He
wondered a little what she wanted with him, but thought it likely that
she had some errand or service in which she wished to employ him. He
did not know the extent of her dislike for him and his mother.

After a while Mrs. Preston came downstairs. She was dressed in black,
but showed no other mark of sorrow for the loss of her husband.
Indeed, she was looking in better health than usual.

"You can come into the sitting-room," she said, coldly.

Andy followed her, and so did Godfrey, who felt a malicious pleasure
in hearing what he knew beforehand his mother intended to say.

"I believe your name is Andrew?" she commenced.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Your mother occupies a house belonging to my late husband."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Andy, who now began to guess at the object of
the interview.

"I find, by examining my husband's papers, that she has paid no rent
for the last six months."

"That's true," said Andy. "She offered to pay it, but Colonel Preston
told her he didn't want no rent from her. He said she could have it
for nothing."

"That's a likely story," said Godfrey, with a sneer.

"It's a true story," said Andy, in a firm voice, steadily eying his
young antagonist.

"This may be true, or it may not be true," said Mrs. Preston, coldly.
"If true, I suppose my husband gave your mother a paper of some kind,
agreeing to let her have the house rent-free."

"She hasn't got any paper," said Andy.

"I thought not," said Godfrey, sneering. "You forgot to write her
one."

"Be quiet, Godfrey," said his mother. "I prefer to manage this matter
myself. Then, your mother has no paper to show in proof of what you
assert?"

"No, ma'am. The colonel didn't think it was necessary. He just told my
mother, when she first came with the rent, that she needn't trouble
herself to come again on that errand. He said that she had nursed him
when he was sick with the smallpox, and he'd never forget it, and that
he'd bought the house expressly for her."

"I am aware that your mother nursed my husband in his sickness," said
Mrs. Preston, coldly. "I also know that my husband paid her very
handsomely for her services."

"That's true, ma'am," said Andy. "He was a fine, generous man, the
colonel was, and I'll always say it."

"There really seems no reason why, in addition to this compensation,
your mother should receive a present of her rent. How much rent did
she pay before my husband bought the house?"

"Fifteen dollars a quarter."

"Then she has not paid rent for six months. I find she owes my
husband's estate thirty dollars."

"Colonel Preston told her she wasn't to pay it."

"How do I know that?"

"My mother says it, and she wouldn't tell a lie," said Andy,
indignantly.

"I have nothing to say as to that," said Mrs. Preston. "I am now
managing the estate, and the question rests with me. I decide that
your mother has been sufficiently paid for her services, and I shall
claim rent for the last six months."

Andy was silent for a moment. Then he spoke:

"It may be so, Mrs. Preston. I'll speak to the doctor, and I'll do as
he says."

"I don't know what the doctor has to do with the matter," said Mrs.
Preston, haughtily.

"He wants to get an excuse for not paying," said Godfrey, with a
sneer.

"Mind your business," said Andy, excusably provoked.

"Do you hear that, mother?" said Godfrey. "Are you going to let that
beggar insult me before your very face?"

"You have spoken very improperly to my son," said Mrs. Preston.

"He spoke very improperly to me at first," said Andy, sturdily.

"You do not appear to understand the respect due to me," said Mrs.
Preston, with emphasis.

"If I've treated you disrespectfully, I'm sorry," said Andy; "but
Godfrey mustn't insult me, and call me names."

"We have had enough of this," said Mrs. Preston. "I have only to
repeat that your mother is indebted to me for six months' rent--thirty
dollars--which I desire she will pay as soon as possible. One thing
more: I must request her to find another home, as I have other plans
for the house she occupies."

"You're not goin' to turn her out of her house, sure?" said Andy, in
some dismay.

"It is not her house," said Mrs. Preston; though it occurred to her
that it might have been, if she had not suppressed the will. But, of
course, Andy knew nothing of this, nor did he suspect anything, since
neither he nor his mother had the faintest idea of being remembered in
Colonel Preston's will, kind though he had been to them both in his
life.

"I know it isn't," said Andy; "but she's got used to it. I don't know
any other place we can get."

"That is your lookout," said Mrs. Preston. "I have no doubt you can
get in somewhere. As I said, the house is mine, and I have other views
for it."

"Can't we stay till the end of the quarter, ma'am?"

"No; I wish to finish my business here as soon as possible, and then
shall go to Boston."

"How long can we stay, then?"

"Till the first of the month."

"That's only three days."

"It is long enough to find another place. That is all I have to say,"
and Mrs. Preston turned to go.

Andy rose, and followed her, without a word. He saw that it would be
of no use to appeal for more time. Her tone was so firm and determined
that there evidently was no moving her.

"What will we do?" thought Andy, as he walked slowly and silently
along the road.

He felt the need of consulting somebody older and more experienced
than himself. Just in the nick of time he met Dr. Townley, in whose
friendship he felt confidence.

"Can you stop a minute, Dr. Townley?" he said. "I want to speak to you
about something."

"I can spare two minutes, if you like, Andy," said the doctor,
smiling.

Andy explained the case.