Kitabı oku: «Mary Erskine», sayfa 4

Mary Erskine was entirely overwhelmed with grief, when she found that all was over. In a few hours, however, she became comparatively calm, and the next day she began to help Mrs. Bell in making preparations for the funeral. She sent for Bella to come home immediately. Mrs. Bell urged her very earnestly to take both the children, and go with her to her house, after the funeral, and stay there for a few days at least, till she could determine what to do.

"No," said Mary Erskine. "It will be better for me to come back here."

"What do you think you shall do?" said Mrs. Bell.

"I don't know," said Mary Erskine. "I can't even begin to think now. I am going to wait a week before I try to think about it at all."

"And in the mean time you are going to stay in this house."

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I think that is best."

"But you must not stay here alone," said Mrs. Bell. "I will come back with you and stay with you, at least one night."

"No," said Mary Erskine. "I have got to learn to be alone now, and I may as well begin at once. I am very much obliged to you for all your—"

Here Mary Erskine's voice faltered, and she suddenly stopped. Mrs. Bell pitied her with all her heart, but she said no more. She remained at the house while the funeral procession was gone to the grave; and some friends came back with Mary Erskine, after the funeral. They all, however, went away about sunset, leaving Mary Erskine alone with her children.

As soon as her friends had gone, Mary Erskine took the children and sat down in a rocking-chair, before the fire, holding them both in her lap, the baby upon one side and Bella upon the other, and began to rock back and forth with great rapidity. She kissed the children again and again, with many tears, and sometimes she groaned aloud, in the excess of her anguish. She remained sitting thus for half an hour. The twilight gradually faded away. The flickering flame, which rose from the fire in the fire-place, seemed to grow brighter as the daylight disappeared, and to illuminate the whole interior of the room, so as to give it a genial and cheerful expression. Mary Erskine gradually became calm. The children, first the baby, and then Bella, fell asleep. Finally Mary Erskine herself, who was by this time entirely exhausted with watching, care, and sorrow, fell asleep too. Mary Erskine slept sweetly for two full hours, and then was awaked by the nestling of the baby.

When Mary Erskine awoke she was astonished to find her mind perfectly calm, tranquil, and happy. She looked down upon her children—Bella asleep and the baby just awaking—with a heart full of maternal joy and pleasure. Her room, it seemed to her, never appeared so bright and cheerful and happy as then. She carried Bella to the bed and laid her gently down in Albert's place, and then, going back to the fire, she gave the baby the food which it required, and rocked it to sleep. Her heart was resigned, and tranquil, and happy, She put the baby, at length, into the cradle, and then, kneeling down, she thanked God with her whole soul for having heard her prayer, and granted her the spirit of resignation and peace. She then pushed open the curtains, and reclined herself upon the bed, where she lay for some time, with a peaceful smile upon her countenance, watching the flashing of a little tongue, of flame, which broke out at intervals from the end of a brand in the fire. After lying quietly thus, for a little while, she closed her eyes, and gradually fell asleep again.

She slept very profoundly. It was a summer night, although, as usual, Mary Erskine had a fire. Clouds rose in the west, bringing with them gusts of wind and rain. The wind and the rain beat against the window, but they did not wake her. It thundered. The thunder did not wake her. The shower passed over, and the sky became, serene again, while Mary Erskine slept tranquilly on. At length the baby began to move in the cradle. Mary Erskine heard the first sound that its nestling made, and raised herself up suddenly. The fire had nearly gone out. There was no flame, and the room was lighted only by the glow of the burning embers. Mary Erskine was frightened to find herself alone. The tranquillity and happiness which she had experienced a few hours ago were all gone, and her mind was filled, instead, with an undefined and mysterious distress and terror. She went to the fire-place and built a new fire, for the sake of its company. She took the baby from the cradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go to bed again till morning. She went to the window and looked out at the stars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be before the morning would come. She felt afraid, though she knew not why, and holding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, she walked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish, longing for the morning to come. Such is the capriciousness of grief.

CHAPTER V.
CONSULTATIONS

Mrs. Bell went home on the evening of the funeral, very much exhausted and fatigued under the combined effects of watching, anxiety, and exertion. She went to bed, and slept very soundly until nearly midnight. The thunder awaked her.

She felt solitary and afraid. Mary Bell, who was then about nine years old, was asleep in a crib, in a corner of the room. There was a little night lamp, burning dimly on the table, and it shed a faint and dismal gleam upon the objects around it. Every few minutes, however, the lightning would flash into the windows and glare a moment upon the walls, and then leave the room in deeper darkness than ever. The little night lamp, whose feeble beam had been for the moment entirely overpowered, would then gradually come out to view again, to diffuse once more its faint illumination, until another flash of lightning came to extinguish it as before.

Mrs. Bell rose from her bed, and went to the crib to see if Mary Bell was safe. She found her sleeping quietly. Mrs. Bell drew the crib out a little way from the wall, supposing that she should thus put it into a somewhat safer position. Then she lighted a large lamp. Then she closed all the shutters of the room, in order to shut out the lightning. Then she went to bed again, and tried to go to sleep. But she could not. She was thinking of Mary Erskine, and endeavoring to form some plan for her future life. She could not, however, determine what it was best for her to do.

In the morning, after breakfast, she sat down at the window, with her knitting work in her hand, looking very thoughtful and sad. Presently she laid her work down in her lap, and seemed lost in some melancholy reverie.

Mary Bell, who had been playing about the floor for some time, came up to her mother, and seeing her look so thoughtful and sorrowful, she said,

"Mother, what is the matter with you?"

"Why, Mary," said Mrs. Bell, in a melancholy tone, "I was thinking of poor Mary Erskine."

"Well, mother," said Mary Bell, "could not you give her a little money, if she is poor? I will give her my ten cents."

Mary Bell had a silver piece of ten cents, which she kept in a little box, in her mother's room up stairs.

"Oh, she is not poor for want of money," said Mrs. Bell. "Her husband made his will, before he died, and left her all his property."

"Though I told Mr. Keep about it last night," continued Mrs. Bell, talking half to herself and half to Mary, "and he said the will was not good."

"Not good," said Mary. "I think it is a very good will indeed. I am sure Mary Erskine ought to have it all. Who should have it, if not she?"

"The children, I suppose," said her mother.

"The children!" exclaimed Mary Bell. "Hoh! They are not half big enough. They are only two babies; a great baby and a little one."

Mrs. Bell did not answer this, nor did she seem to take much notice of it, but took up her knitting again, and went on musing as before. Mary Bell did not understand very well about the will. The case was this:

The law, in the state where Mary Erskine lived, provided that when a man died, as Albert had done, leaving a wife and children, and a farm, and also stock, and furniture, and other such movable property, if he made no will, the wife was to have a part of the property, and the rest must be saved for the children, in order to be delivered to them, when they should grow up, and be ready to receive it and use it. The farm, when there was a farm, was to be kept until the children should grow up, only their mother was to have one third of the benefit of it,—that is, one third of the rent of it, if they could let it—until the children became of age. The amount of the other two thirds was to be kept for them. In respect to all movable property, such as stock and tools, and furniture, and other things of that kind, since they could not very conveniently be kept till the children were old enough to use them, they were to be sold, and the wife was to have half the value, and the children the other half.

In respect to the children's part of all the property, they were not, themselves, to have the care of it, but some person was to be appointed to be their guardian. This guardian was to have the care of all their share of the property, until they were of age, when it was to be paid over into their hands.

If, however, the husband, before his death, was disposed to do so, he might make a will, and give all the property to whomsoever he pleased. If he decided, as Albert had done, to give it all to his wife, then it would come wholly under her control, at once. She would be under no obligation to keep any separate account of the children's share, but might expend it all herself, or if she were so inclined, she might keep it safely, and perhaps add to it by the proceeds of her own industry, and then, when the children should grow up, she might give them as much as her maternal affection should dictate.

In order that the property of men who die, should be disposed of properly, according to law, or according to the will, if any will be made, it is required that soon after the death of any person takes place, the state of the case should be reported at a certain public office, instituted to attend to this business. There is such an office in every county in the New England states. It is called the Probate office. The officer, who has this business in charge, is called the Judge of Probate. There is a similar system in force, in all the other states of the Union, though the officers are sometimes called by different names from those which they receive in New England.

Now, while Albert was lying sick upon his bed, he was occupied a great deal of the time, while they thought that he was asleep, in thinking what was to become of his wife and children in case he should die. He knew very well that in case he died without making any will, his property must be divided, under the direction of the Judge of Probate, and one part of it be kept for the children, while Mary Erskine would have the control only of the other part. This is a very excellent arrangement in all ordinary cases, so that the law, in itself, is a very good law. There are, however, some cases, which are exceptions, and Albert thought that Mary Erskine's case was one. It was owing, in a great measure, to her prudence and economy, to her efficient industry, and to her contented and happy disposition, that he had been able to acquire any property, instead of spending all that he earned, like Mr. Gordon, as fast as he earned it. Then, besides, he knew that Mary Erskine would act as conscientiously and faithfully for the benefit of the children, if the property was all her own, as she would if a part of it was theirs, and only held by herself, for safe keeping, as their guardian. Whereas, if this last arrangement went into effect, he feared that it would make her great trouble to keep the accounts, as she could not write, not even to sign her name. He determined, therefore, to make a will, and give all his property, of every kind, absolutely to her. This he did, in the manner described in the last chapter.

The law invests every man with a very absolute power in respect to his property, authorizing him to make any disposition of it whatever, and carrying faithfully into effect, after his death, any wish that he may have expressed in regard to it, as his deliberate and final intention. It insists, however, that there should be evidence that the wish, so expressed, is really a deliberate and final act. It is not enough that the man should say in words what his wishes are. The will must be in writing, and it must be signed; or if the sick man can not write, he must make some mark with the pen, at the bottom of the paper, to stand instead of a signature, and to show that he considers the act, which he is performing, as a solemn and binding transaction. Nor will it do to have the will executed in the presence of only one witness; for if that were allowed, designing persons would sometimes persuade a sick man, who was rich, to sign a will which they themselves had written, telling him, perhaps, that it was only a receipt, or some other unimportant paper, and thus inducing him to convey his property in a way that he did not intend. The truth is, that there is necessity for a much greater degree of precautionary form, in the execution of a will, than in almost any other transaction; for as the man himself will be dead and gone when the time comes for carrying the will into effect,—and so can not give any explanation of his designs, it is necessary to make them absolutely clear and certain, independently of him. It was, accordingly, the law, in the state where Mary Erskine lived, that there should be three witnesses present, when any person signed a will; and also that when signing the paper, the man should say that he knew that it was his will. If three credible persons thus attested the reality and honesty of the transaction, it was thought sufficient, in all ordinary cases, to make it sure.

Albert, it seems, was not aware how many witnesses were required. When he requested Mrs. Bell to sign his will, as witness, he thought that he was doing all that was necessary to make it valid. When, however, Mrs. Bell, afterwards, in going home, met Mr. Keep and related to him the transaction, he said that he was afraid that the will was not good, meaning that it would not stand in law.

The thought that the will was probably not valid, caused Mrs. Bell a considerable degree of anxiety and concern, as she imagined that its failure would probably cause Mary Erskine a considerable degree of trouble and embarrassment, though she did not know precisely how. She supposed that the children's share of the property must necessarily be kept separate and untouched until they grew up, and that in the mean time their mother would have to work very hard in order to maintain herself and them too. But this is not the law. The guardian of children, in such cases, is authorized to expend, from the children's share of property, as much as is necessary for their maintenance while they are children; and it is only the surplus, if there is any, which it is required of her to pay over to them, when they come of age. It would be obviously unjust, in cases where children themselves have property left them by legacy, or falling to them by inheritance, to compel their father or mother to toil ten or twenty years to feed and clothe them, in order that they might have their property, whole and untouched, when they come of age. All that the law requires is that the property bequeathed to children, or falling to them by inheritance, shall always be exactly ascertained, and an account of it put upon record in the Probate office: and then, that a guardian shall be appointed, who shall expend only so much of it, while the children are young, as is necessary for their comfortable support and proper education; and then, when they come of age, if there is any surplus left, that it shall be paid over to them. In Mary Erskine's case, these accounts would, of course, cause her some trouble, but it would make but little difference in the end.

Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time, during the day, in trying to think what it would be best for Mary Erskine to do, and also in trying to think what she could herself do for her. She, however, made very little progress in respect to either of those points. It seemed to her that Mary Erskine could not move into the new house, and attempt to carry on the farm, and, on the other hand, it appeared equally out of the question for her to remain where she was, in her lonesome log cabin. She might move into the village, or to some house nearer the village, but what should she do in that case for a livelihood. In a word, the more that Mrs. Bell reflected upon the subject, the more at a loss she was.

She determined to go and see Mary Erskine after dinner, again, as the visit would at least be a token of kindness and sympathy, even if it should do no other good. She arrived at the house about the middle of the afternoon. She found Mary Erskine busily at work, putting the house in order, and rectifying the many derangements which sickness and death always occasion. Mary Erskine received Mrs. Bell at first with a cheerful smile, and seemed, to all appearance, as contented and happy as usual. The sight of Mrs. Bell, however, recalled forcibly to her mind her irremediable loss, and overwhelmed her heart, again, with bitter grief. She went to the window, where her little work-table had been placed, and throwing herself down in a chair before it, she crossed her arms upon the table, laid her forehead down upon them in an attitude of despair, and burst into tears.

Mrs. Bell drew up toward her and stood by her side in silence. She pitied her with all her heart, but she did not know what to say to comfort her.

Just then little Bella came climbing up the steps, from the stoop, with some flowers in her hand, which she had gathered in the yard. As soon as she had got up into the room she stood upon her feet and went dancing along toward the baby, who was playing upon the floor, singing as she danced. She gave the baby the flowers, and then, seeing that her mother was in trouble, she came up toward the place and stood still a moment, with a countenance expressive of great concern. She put her arm around her mother's neck, saying in a very gentle and soothing tone,

"Mother! what is the matter, mother?"

Mary Erskine liberated one of her arms, and clasped Bella with it fondly, but did not raise her head, or answer.

"Go and get some flowers for your mother," said Mrs. Bell, "like those which you got for the baby."

"Well," said Bella, "I will." So she turned away, and went singing and dancing out of the room.

"Mary," said Mrs. Bell. "I wish that you would shut up this house and take the children and come to my house, at least for a while, until you can determine what to do."

Mary Erskine shook her head, but did not reply. She seemed, however, to be regaining her composure. Presently she raised her head, smoothed down her hair, which was very soft and beautiful, readjusted her dress, and sat up, looking out at the window.

"If you stay here," continued Mrs. Bell, "you will only spend your time in useless and hopeless grief."

"No," said Mary Erskine, "I am not going to do any such a thing."

"Have you begun to think at all what you shall do?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"No," said Mary Erskine. "When any great thing happens, I always have to wait a little while till I get accustomed to knowing that it has happened, before I can determine what to do about it. It seems as if I did not more than half know yet, that Albert is dead. Every time the door opens I almost expect to see him come in."

"Do you think that you shall move to the new house?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"No," said Mary Erskine, "I see that I can't do that. I don't wish to move there, either, now."

"There's one thing," continued Mrs. Bell after a moment's pause, "that perhaps I ought to tell you, though it is rather bad news for you. Mr. Keep says that he is afraid that the will, which Albert made, is not good in law."

"Not good! Why not?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why because there is only one witness The law requires that there should be three witnesses, so as to be sure that Albert really signed the will."

"Oh no," said Mary Erskine. "One witness is enough, I am sure. The Judge of Probate knows you, and he will believe you as certainly as he would a dozen witnesses."

"But I suppose," said Mrs. Bell, "that it does not depend upon the Judge of Probate. It depends upon the law."

Mary Erskine was silent. Presently she opened her drawer and took out the will and looked at it mysteriously. She could not read a word of it.

"Read it to me, Mrs. Bell," said she, handing the paper to Mrs. Bell.

Mrs. Bell read as follows:

"I bequeath all my property to my wife, Mary Erskine. Albert Forester. Witness, Mary Bell."

"I am sure that is all right," said Mary Erskine. "It is very plain, and one witness is enough. Besides, Albert would know how it ought to be done."

"But then," she continued after a moment's pause, "he was very sick and feeble. Perhaps he did not think. I am sure I shall be very sorry if it is not a good will, for if I do not have the farm and the stock, I don't know what I shall do with my poor children."

Mary Erskine had a vague idea that if the will should prove invalid, she and her children would lose the property, in some way or other, entirely,—though she did not know precisely how. After musing upon this melancholy prospect a moment she asked,

"Should not I have any of the property, if the will proves not to be good?"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Bell, "you will have a considerable part of it, at any rate."

"How much?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why about half, I believe," replied Mrs. Bell.

"Oh," said Mary Erskine, apparently very much relieved. "That will do very well. Half will be enough. There is a great deal of property. Albert told me that the farm and the new house are worth five hundred dollars, and the stock is worth full three hundred more. And Albert does not owe any thing at all."

"Well," said Mrs. Bell. "You will have half. Either half or a third, I forget exactly which."

"And what becomes of the rest?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why the rest goes to the children," said Mrs. Bell.

"To the children!" repeated Mary Erskine.

"Yes," said she, "you will have to be appointed guardian, and take care of it for them, and carry in your account, now and then, to the Judge of Probate."

"Oh," said Mary Erskine, her countenance brightening up with an expression of great relief and satisfaction. "That is just the same thing. If it is to go to the children, and I am to take care of it for them, it is just the same thing. I don't care any thing about the will at all."

So saying, she threw the paper down upon the table, as if it was of no value whatever.

"But there's one thing," she said again, after pausing a few minutes. "I can't keep any accounts. I can not even write my name."

"That is no matter," said Mrs. Bell. "There will be but little to do about the accounts, and it is easy to get somebody to do that for you."

"I wish I had learned to write," said Mary Erskine.

Mrs. Bell said nothing, but in her heart she wished so too.

"Do you think that I could possibly learn now?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why,—I don't know,—perhaps, if you had any one to teach you."

"Thomas might teach me, perhaps," said Mary Erskine, doubtfully. Then, in a moment she added again, in a desponding tone,—"but I don't know how long he will stay here."

"Then you don't know at all yet," said Mrs. Bell, after a short pause, "what you shall conclude to do."

"No," replied Mary Erskine, "not at all. I am going on, just as I am now, for some days, without perplexing myself at all about it. And I am not going to mourn and make myself miserable. I am going to make myself as contented and happy as I can, with my work and my children."

Here Mary Erskine suddenly laid her head down upon her arms again, on the little work-table before her, and burst into tears. After sobbing convulsively a few minutes she rose, hastily brushed the tears away with her handkerchief, and went toward the door. She then took the water pail, which stood upon a bench near the door, and said that she was going to get some water, at the spring, for tea, and that she would be back in a moment. She returned very soon, with a countenance entirely serene.

"I have been trying all day," said Mrs. Bell, "to think of something that I could do for you, to help you or to relieve you in some way or other; but I can not think of any thing at all that I can do."

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "there is one thing that you could do for me, that would be a very great kindness, a very great kindness indeed."

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"I am afraid that you will think it is too much for me to ask."

"No," said Mrs. Bell, "what is it?"

Mary Erskine hesitated a moment, and then said,

"To let Mary Bell come and stay here with me, a few days."

"Do you mean all night, too?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "all the time."

"Why, you have got two children to take care of now," replied Mrs. Bell, "and nobody to help you. I should have thought that you would have sooner asked me to take Bella home with me."

"No," said Mary Erskine. "I should like to have Mary Bell here, very much, for a few days."

"Well," said Mrs. Bell, "she shall certainly come. I will send her, to-morrow morning."