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 accumulated. Afterward Melvina took her 247 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 document 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 248 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 assume 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 document, 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. 249

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. 250

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 251 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.” 252

“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 passed—shall we say, away”—he paused mournfully,—“that she made a new will and revoked the previous one?”

“No.”

“No one told you that?”

“No, sir.”

The lawyer straightened himself. Matters were becoming interesting.

“There was a second will,” he declared with deliberation. “It was drawn up one morning in your aunt’s room, with Miss Melvina Grey, Mr. Caleb Saunders, and the boy Tony as witnesses.”

Lucy waited breathlessly.

“This will,” went on Mr. Benton, “provides for quite a different disposition of the property. I must beg you to prepare yourself for a disappointment.”

The girl threw back her head.

“Go on, please,” she commanded.

“Quite a different disposition of the 253 property,” repeated Mr. Benton, dwelling on the cadence of the phrase.

“What is it?”

The man delayed.

“Have you any reason to suppose, Miss Webster, that your aunt was—shall we say annoyed, with you?”

“I knew she did not like the way I felt about some things,” admitted Lucy.

“But did not some vital difference of opinion arise between you recently?” Mr. Benton persisted.

“I spoke my mind to Aunt Ellen the other day,” confessed the girl. “I had to.”

“Ah! Then that explains matters!”

“What matters?”

“The somewhat strange conditions of the will.”

Having untangled the enigma to his own satisfaction, Mr. Benton proceeded to sit back and enjoy its solution all by himself.

“Can’t you tell me what they are?” Lucy at last inquired impatiently.

“I can enlighten you, yes. In fact, it is my duty to do so.”

Rising, he went to the desk drawer and made a pretense of fumbling through his papers; but 254 it was easy to see that the document he sought had been carefully placed on the top of the sparse, untidy pile that cluttered the interior of the rickety piece of furniture.

“Perhaps,” he remarked, “there is no real need to burden your mind with legal formalities; nevertheless——”

“Oh, don’t bother to read me the whole will,” broke out Lucy sharply. “Just tell me in plain terms what Aunt Ellen has done.”

It was obvious that Mr. Benton did not at all relish the off-handedness of the request.

He depended not a little on his professional pomposity to bolster up a certain lack of confidence in himself, and stripped of this legal regalia he shriveled to a very ordinary person indeed.

“Your aunt,” he began in quite a different tone, “has left her property to Mr. Martin Howe.”

Lucy recoiled.

“To whom?”

“To Martin Howe.”

There was an oppressive pause.

“To Martin Howe?” the girl stammered at length. “But there must be some mistake.”

Mr. Benton met her gaze kindly. 255

“I fear there is no mistake, my dear young lady,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t mean because my aunt has cut me off,” Lucy explained with pride. “She of course had a right to do what she pleased. But to leave the property to Martin Howe! Why, she would scarcely speak to him.”

“So I have gathered,” the lawyer said. “That is what makes the will so remarkable.”

“It is preposterous! Martin will never accept it in the world.”

“That contingency is also provided for,” put in Mr. Benton.

“How?”

“The property is willed to the legatee—house, land, and money—to be personally occupied by said beneficiary and not sold, deeded, or given away on the conditions—a very unusual condition this second one——” Again Mr. Benton stopped, his thumbs and finger neatly pyramided into a miniature squirrel cage, over the top of which he regarded his client meditatively. His reverie appeared to be intensely interesting.

“Very unusual indeed,” he presently concluded absently.

“Well?” demanded Lucy. 256

“Ah, yes, Miss Webster,” he continued, starting at the interrogation. “As I was saying, the conditions made by the deceased are unusual—peculiar, in fact, if I may be permitted to say so. The property goes to Mr. Martin Howe on the condition that in six months’ time he personally rebuilds the wall lying between the Howe and Webster estates and now in a state of dilapidation.”

“He will never do it,” burst out Lucy indignantly, springing to her feet.

“In that case the property goes unreservedly to the town of Sefton Falls,” went on Mr. Benton in an even tone, “to be used as a home for the destitute of the county.”

The girl clinched her hands. It was a trap,—a last, revengeful, defiant act of hatred.

The pity that any one should go down into the grave with such bitterness of heart was the girl’s first thought.

Then the cleverness of the old woman’s plot began to seep into her mind. All unwittingly Martin Howe was made a party in a diabolical scheme to defraud her—the woman who loved him—of her birthright, of the home that should have been hers.

The only way he could restore to her what 257 was her own was to marry her, and to do that he must perform the one deed he had pledged himself never to be tempted into: he must rebuild the wall. Otherwise the property would pass into other hands.

Nothing could so injure the Howe estate as to have a poor farm next door. Ellen of course knew that. Ah, it was a vicious document—that last Will and Testament of Ellen Webster.

Mr. Benton’s voice broke in upon Lucy’s musings.

“The deceased,” he added with a final grin of appreciation, “appoints Mr. Elias Barnes as executor, he being,” the lawyer quoted from the written page, “the meanest man I know.”

Thus did the voice of the dead speak from the confines of the grave! Death had neither transformed nor weakened the intrepid hater. From her aunt’s coffin Lucy could seem to hear vindictive chuckles of revenge and hatred, and a mist gathered before her eyes.

She had had no regrets for the loss of Ellen’s body; but she could not but lament with genuine grief the loss of her soul.