The Wall Between Part 38

The dynamic shock behind the words sent the man to his feet.

Mr. Benton nodded calmly.

"Yes," he reiterated, "Miss Webster has made you her sole legatee."

Martin regarded his visitor stupidly.

"I reckon there's some mistake, sir," he contrived to stammer.

"No, there isn't--there's no mistake. The will was legally drawn up only a few days before the death of the deceased. No possible question can be raised as to her sanity, or the clearness of her wishes concerning her property. She desired everything to come to you."

"Let me see the paper!" cried Martin.

"I should prefer to read it to you."

Slowly Mr. Benton took out his spectacles, polished, and adjusted them.

Then with impressive deliberation he drew forth and unfolded with a mighty rustling the last will and testament of Ellen Webster, spinster. Many a time he had mentally rehea.r.s.ed this scene, and now he presented it with a dignity that amazed and awed. Every _whereas_ and _aforesaid_ rolled out with due majesty, its resonance echoing to the ceiling of the chilly little parlor.

As Martin listened, curiosity gave place to wonder, wonder to indignation.

But when at last the concluding condition of the bequest was reached, the rebuilding of the wall, an oath burst from his lips.

"The harpy!" he shouted. "The insolent h.e.l.l hag!"

"Softly, my dear sir, softly!" pleaded Mr. Benton in soothing tones.

"I'll have nothin' to do with it--nothin'!" stormed Martin. "You can bundle your paper right out of here, Benton. Rebuild that wall! Good G.o.d!

Why, I wouldn't do it if I was to be flayed alive. Ellen Webster knew that well enough. She was perfectly safe when she left me her property with that tag hitched to it. She did it as a joke--a cussed joke--out of pure deviltry. 'Twas like her, too. She couldn't resist giving me one last jab, even if she had to wait till she was dead and gone to do it."

Like an infuriated beast Martin tramped the floor. Mr. Benton did not speak for a few moments; then he observed mildly:

"You understand that if you refuse to accept the property it will be turned over to the county for a poor farm."

"I don't care who it's turned over to, or what becomes of it," bl.u.s.tered Martin.

The attorney rubbed his hands. Ah, it was a spirited drama,--quite as spirited as he had antic.i.p.ated, and as interesting too.

"It's pretty rough on the girl," he at last remarked casually.

"The girl?"

"Miss Webster."

Violently Martin came to himself. The fury of his anger had until now swept every other consideration from his mind.

"It will mean turning Miss Webster out of doors, of course," continued Mr.

Benton impa.s.sively. "Still she's a thoroughbred, and I fancy nothing her aunt could do would surprise her. In fact, she as good as told me that, when she was at my office this morning."

"She knows, then?"

"Yes, I had to tell her, poor thing. I imagine, too, it hit her pretty hard, for she had been given to understand that everything was to be hers.

She hasn't much in her own right; her aunt told me that."

An icy hand suddenly gripped Martin's heart. He stood immovable, as if stunned. Lucy! Lucy penniless and homeless because of him!

Little by little Ellen's evil scheme unfolded itself before his consciousness. He saw the cunning of the intrigue which the initial outburst of his wrath had obscured. There was more involved in his decision than his own inclinations. He was not free simply to flout the legacy and toss it angrily aside. Ellen, a Richelieu to the last, had him in a trap that wrenched and wrecked every sensibility of his nature. The more he thought about the matter, the more chaotic his impulses became.

Justice battled against will; pity against vengeance; love against hate; and as the warring factors strove and tore at one another, and grappled in an anguish of suffering, from out the turmoil two forces rose unconquerable and stubbornly confronted one another,--the opposing forces of Love and Pride. There they stood, neither of them willing to yield.

While Love pleaded for mercy, Pride urged the destruction of every gentler emotion and clamored for revenge.

Mr. Benton was not a subtle interpreter of human nature, but in the face of the man before him he saw enough to realize the fierceness of the spiritual conflict that raged within Martin Howe's soul. It was like witnessing the writhings of a creature in torture.

He did not attempt to precipitate a decision by interfering. When, however, he had been a silent spectator of the struggle so long that he perceived Martin had forgotten his very existence, he ventured to speak.

"Maybe I'd better leave you to reconsider your resolution, Howe," he remarked.

"I--yes--it might be better."

"Perhaps after you've thought things out, you'll change your mind."

Martin did not reply. The lawyer rose and took up his hat.

"How long before you've got to know?" inquired Martin hoa.r.s.ely.

"Oh, I can give you time," answered Mr. Benton easily. "A week, say--how will that do?"

"I shan't need as long as that," Martin replied, looking before him with set face. "I shall know by to-morrow what I am going to do."

"There's no such hurry as all that."

"I shall know by to-morrow," repeated the younger man in the same dull voice. "All the time in the universe won't change things after that."

Mr. Benton made no response. When in his imaginings he had pictured the scene, he had thought that after the first shock of surprise was over, he and Martin would sit down together sociably and discuss each petty detail of the remarkable comedy. But comedy had suddenly become tragedy--a tragedy very real and grim--and all desire to discuss it had ebbed away.

As he moved toward the door, he did not even put out his hand; on the contrary, whispering a hushed good night and receiving no reply to it, he softly let himself out and disappeared through the afternoon shadows.

If Martin were conscious of his departure, he at least gave no sign of being so, but continued to stand motionless in the same spot where Mr.

Benton had left him, his hands gripped tightly behind his back, and his head thrust forward in thought.

Silently the hours pa.s.sed. The sun sank behind the hills, tinting the ridge of pines to copper and leaving the sky a sweep of palest blue in which a single star trembled.

Still Martin did not move. Once he broke into a smothered cry:

"I cannot! My G.o.d! I cannot!"

The words brought Jane to the door.

"Martin!" she called.

There was no answer and, turning the k.n.o.b timidly, she came in.