Alger Horatio Jr.
Only an Irish Boy; Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes
CHAPTER XXIX A STARTLING EVENT
Sometimes, the mere presence of a person in the room is sufficient to interrupt even sound repose. At all events, whether it was the entrance of Fairfax, acting in some mysterious way upon Andy, or the light that streamed into the room, his slumber was disturbed, and his eyes opened just as the adventurer was retiring, with his supposed booty.
Our hero did not immediately take in the situation. He was naturally a little bewildered, being just aroused from sleep, but in a short time the real state of the case dawned upon him.
"By the powers!" he said to himself, "it's that man that went to the museum with me! He saw my money, and he came in for it! I'll get up and see."
Quietly and noiselessly he got out of bed, and, going to the chair, felt in his pockets, and so discovered the loss of the stuffed pocketbook.
Andy wanted to laugh, but forbore, lest the sound should be heard in the next room.
"It's a good joke on the dirty thafe!" said Andy, to himself. "He's welcome to all the money, he's got—it won't carry him far, I'm thinkin'."
Prudence suggested another thought. When Fairfax found out the worthlessness of his booty, would he not come back and search for the real treasure?
"If he does, I'll fight him," thought Andy.
Still, he knew the conflict would be unequal, since the other was considerably his superior in strength. However, Andy determined that, come what might, he would defend his trust, "or perish in the attempt." But, while he was coming to this determination, he heard the door of the adjoining chamber open softly, and then he could hear steps along the corridor. Evidently, the thief had not found out the actual character of his booty, but was going off under the impression that it was valuable.
"Maybe he'll come back," thought Andy. "I guess I'd better go down and give notice at the desk. Then, if he comes back, he'll get into hot water."
He hastily dressed himself, and, locking his door, went downstairs. First, however, he removed the money from under his pillow, and put it into his pocket. He found the clerk at the desk.
"Has the man that came in with me gone out?" asked Andy.
"Mr. Marvin?"
"Yes."
"He went out about five minutes ago."
"Did he say anything about coming back?"
"He said it would be late when he returned. He asked me if we kept open after twelve. Did you want to find him?"
"I should like to have the police find him," said Andy.
"How is that?" asked the clerk, surprised.
"He has robbed me."
"Did you leave your door unlocked?"
"No; but there was a door between our rooms. He opened it, and stole a pocketbook from the pocket of my coat."
"While you were asleep?"
"Yes; but I awoke just in time to see him go through the door."
"How much money was there in it?"
"That's the joke of it," said Andy, laughing; "there was no money at all, only some folds of paper. He got hold of the wrong pocketbook."
Thereupon, he told the story of the "drop game," of which he came near being a victim, and what a useful turn the bogus treasure had done him.
"There's the right pocketbook," he said, in conclusion. "I wish you would take care of it for me till to-morrow. The money isn't mine, and I don't want to run any more risk with it."
"I'll lock it up in the safe for you," said the clerk. "Is there much?"
"Several hundred dollars."
"You were very fortunate in escaping as you did," said the clerk.
"True for you," said Andy. "He may come back when he finds out how he has been fooled."
"If he does, I'll call a policeman. We'll make short work with him."
The reader has already heard how Fairfax (or Marvin) did return, and how he met with a reception he had not calculated upon. Andy was informed in the morning that it would be necessary for him to appear as a witness against him in order to secure his conviction. This he did the next day, but the judge delayed sentence, on being informed that the accused was charged with a more serious offense, that of stopping a traveler on the highway. His trial on this count must come before a higher court, and he was remanded to prison till his case was called in the calendar. Andy was informed that he would be summoned as a witness in that case also, as well as Colonel Preston, and answered that he would be ready when called upon.
We will so far anticipate events as to say that the testimony of Andy and the colonel was considered conclusive by the court, and, on the strength of it, Mr. Fairfax, alias Marvin, was sentenced to several years' imprisonment at hard labor.
Andy met with no further adventures in his present visit, but had the satisfaction of delivering the money he had been sent to collect to Miss Priscilla Grant.
Now, advancing our story some three months, we come to an afternoon when Miss Sophia Grant, returning from a walk, with visible marks of excitement, rushed, breathless and panting, into her sister's presence.
"What's the matter, Sophia?" asked Priscilla.
"Such an awful thing!" she gasped.
"What is it?"
"You won't believe it."
"Tell me at once what it is!"
"It seems so sudden!"
"Good heavens! Sophia, why do you tantalize me so?"
"Just so!" gasped Sophia.
"If you don't tell me, I'll shake you!"
"Colonel Preston's dead—dropped dead in the store ten minutes ago. I was there, and saw him."
This startling intelligence was only too true. Suddenly, without an instant's warning, the colonel had been summoned from life—succumbing to a fit of apoplexy. This event, of course, made a great sensation in the village, but it is of most interest to us as it affects the fortunes of our young hero.
CHAPTER XXX COLONEL PRESTON'S WILL
Mrs. Preston was a cold woman, and was far from being a devoted wife. She was too selfish for that supreme love which some women bestow upon their husbands. Still, when Colonel Preston's lifeless form was brought into the house, she did experience a violent shock. To have the companion of nearly twenty years so unexpectedly taken away might well touch the most callous, and so, for a few minutes, Mrs. Preston forgot herself and thought of her husband.
But this was not for long. The thought of her own selfish interests 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."
