The Greatest Works of Arthur Cheney Train (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Cheney Train
The next time he came to himself, Doctor Blake was sitting by the window.
“You old rascal!” he grunted. “Think twice before you go salmon fishing again in winter!”
“I’ll think twice about who I take with me! That damned Mack——”
“He told everyone you sent him back!”
“He lies! By the way”—Mr. Tutt sat up—“I heard him plotting something the night I got here. He and some other men were in the next room, drinking and talking about witnesses. It may have been an illusion.”
Doctor Blake shook his head.
“It was no illusion. They got into old John’s house while his attendant was out and induced him to make a will leaving everything he had to Lem. The irony of it is that he passed out of that phase of his illness soon after, regretted what he’d done and sent for Martha to return. That’s why she isn’t here.”
“But she still has the life insurance?”
“No. He reappointed it to Lem by the will, which is safely locked up in Lawyer Quinlan’s deposit vault.”
Mr. Tutt started to get out of bed.
“No, you don’t!” Doctor Blake forced him back. “There’s nothing to be done—old John is dying. The will can’t be obtained for cancellation by destruction. He’s too feeble to make a new one and, if he did, there’d be a serious question as to his competency—a contest anyway—and Martha has no money to litigate.”
“How long have I got to stay here, doctor?”
“You shan’t put your foot to the floor for a couple of days at least.”
“How long can old John last?”
“Perhaps a week.”
“Where’s the nearest law library?”
“Across the street, at Weld and Potter’s.”
Mr. Tutt turned to Miss Wiggin.
“Minerva,” he ordered. “Go get me the Revised Statutes of New Brunswick.”
Mr. Tutt proved a refractory patient. He spent the first day of his convalescence in bed, smoking innumerable stogies and perusing the volumes procured for him by Miss Wiggin; but on the second, in defiance of the doctor’s orders, he insisted on getting dressed and sending for Martha.
“If you weren’t so tough, you’d have been dead long ago,” grinned Doctor Blake the next morning. “Imagine your talking to that old woman for three hours when you ought to have been resting quietly in bed.”
“I’m going to return her call this afternoon.”
“Over my dead body!”
“How long is old John likely to live?”
“He’s going fast. His mind is perfectly clear, but he has no strength. He won’t last over forty-eight hours.”
“That settles it,” declared Mr. Tutt. “I must see him this afternoon.”
Muffled from head to foot, and assisted by Doctor Blake and Miss Wiggin, Mr. Tutt tottered over to John Mack’s little house. Martha opened the door for them, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. The fine white texture of her arms was in curious contrast to the cracked hands and rough nails. For the first time she seemed depressed in spite of her attempt to smile.
Martha went back to the kitchen and Doctor Blake led the way upstairs to John Mack’s bedroom. The sunlight fell full upon the emaciated form of the dying riverman and turned his waxen cheeks to alabaster. His hands lay folded upon his bosom and the white hair surrounding his sunken features upon the pillow gave him an almost saint-like appearance.
“I’ve brought a visitor to see you, John,” said Blake. “This is Mr. Tutt, an old friend of mine. He wants to talk to you about Martha.”
The thin blue lips quivered, the faded eyes lighted.
“Yes,” came in a whisper. “Martha.”
Mr. Tutt sat down by the bed.
“Martha is a very fine woman,” he said gently. “She has served you for over thirty years. She is devoted to you.”
“Yes. Yes.”
Mr. Tutt bent closer.
“I understand you tried to reward her, but that something has happened to interfere with your plans.”
Tears gathered in the old man’s eyes.
“Has it occurred to you that one way to show your gratitude would be to give her your name—to marry her?”
The magazine in Doctor Blake’s hand dropped to the floor. Miss Wiggin gasped.
The look of surprise that fluttered over the lumberman’s face was succeeded by one of deeply realized satisfaction.
“I’d—like—to—marry—Martha.”
“Very well!” exclaimed Mr. Tutt. “The Reverend McCook is waiting across the street. Doctor Blake can act as your best man.... Minerva, ask Martha to come upstairs!”
Ten minutes later, John Mack and Martha MacDonald having been made man and wife, the little party returned to the hotel. A first-class fight was in progress outside. Angus Ogilvy was engaged in knocking the lights out of Lem Mack, as promised, and he was doing it not only to the Queen’s taste but to that of most of the male population of Durban. Strangely enough, the sheriff, who was among the gallery of spectators, made no effort to separate the combatants. A final hook to the jaw sent Mack spinning against a pile of coal, where he remained, prostrate and bleeding.
“Well, that’s something!” said Mr. Tutt, and he allowed himself to be put to bed.
John Mack died forty-eight hours later. When Lawyer Quinlan appeared at the office of the registrar to file an application for the probate of the will, he was astounded to find that a caveat had been lodged, requiring the testament to be proved “in solemn form,” together with notice that the contestants were prepared to appear on twenty-four hours’ notice. He was even more disgruntled when, having secured an appointment from the probate judge to make his proof the following morning, he discovered Mr. Tutt, together with Doctor Blake, Martha, now neatly dressed in black, and Mr. Montrose, a distinguished local K. C., gathered before the bench in the adjoining courtroom.
Lawyer Quinlan, knowing that, for once at least in his professional existence, everything had been clean and aboveboard, felt the strength of ten because his heart was pure, and for the moment was undismayed. The probate judge, a kindly looking grayhead, entered and took his seat under a wooden canopy bearing the British coat of arms. There were no other cases, and Quinlan, as solicitor for the executors, promptly offered the will of John Mack for probate.
“I see that a caveat has been filed, Mr. Quinlan,” remarked the judge, lifting a paper.... “Do you represent the contestants, Mr. Montrose?”
“I do, Your Honor,” answered the K. C., arising.
“What does the estate consist of, Mr. Quinlan?”
“A house, here in Durban, assessed at thirty-five hundred dollars and mortgaged for three thousand, a few pieces of furniture, and a paid-up life-insurance policy for ten thousand dollars. The equity in the realty isn’t worth more than five hundred dollars and there are debts of at least four hundred.”
The judge nodded.
“So Mr. Mack’s life insurance is practically all there is?”
“Exactly, Your Honor.”
“Is there any question as to testamentary capacity, Mr. Montrose?” asked the judge.
The K. C. looked at Mr. Tutt.
“None whatever, Your Honor.”
“Or