The Residuary Legatee

WORKS OF FICTION

BY F. J. STIMSON (J. S. of Dale)

The Residuary Legatee

Or, The Posthumous Jest of the late John Austin

BY F. J. STIMSON (J. S. OF DALE)

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 1888

Copyright, 1887, 1888, by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS TROW’S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK.

Scene First THE WILL

[2]

I. ULYSSES AND PENELOPE.

On the morning of August 14th, in this last summer, Mr. Austin May alighted at the little Cypress Street station of the Boston & Albany Railroad, and, accompanied only by a swarthy and adroit valet, and a very handsome St. Bernard dog, got into the somewhat antiquated family “carryall” which awaited him, and drove away. May was a stranger to the man in charge of the station, as well as to the wide-awake trio of boys who made it a sort of club, their exchange of gossip, and pleasure resort; and thus his arrival was unnoticed and unrecorded, though his last absence had extended over a period of several years. It was a most oppressive day; and what few human beings were dressed and stirring made haste to get beneath the dense foliage, or to plunge into the numerous private-paths and shortcuts,[4] with which the suburb of Brookline is provided; leaving the roads and their dust undisturbed, except by the sedate progress of the old carryall, which left behind it, suspended in the air, an amazing quantity of the same considering its speed, and quite

obscured the morning sun with its golden cloud. Austin May might have been an entering circus procession, and no one would have found it out. Even the boys at the station were sluggish, and indisposed to “catch on” behind every train, much less to give their particular attention to one undistinguished stranger, with or without a dog.

May lit a cigar, and the carryall and its occupants lumbered along unheeded. The road was walled in and roofed over by a dense canopy of foliage borne by arching American elms; and through its green walls, dense as a lane in Jersey, only momentary glimpses were to be had of shaven lawns and quiet country-houses. When they came to a gate, with high stone posts, topped by an ancient pair of cannon-balls, the carryall turned slowly in. A moment after they had passed the screen of border[5] foliage, May found himself in the midst of a wide lawn and garden, open to the sunlight, but rimmed upon all points of the compass by a distant hedge of trees, so that no roads, houses, thoroughfares, or other fields, were visible. In the centre of this stood, with much dignity, an elderly brick house, its southern wall quite green with ivy. In front of it was a large pavilion, some hundred yards removed, low and stone-built, rising without apparent purpose from the side of an artificial pool of water, rimmed with rich bands of lilies. May looked anxiously for the pavilion, and, when he saw it,

sank back in his seat with a sigh of relief.

The carryall stopped before a broad, white marble step at the front door; and the Charon of the conveyance, known locally as the “dépôt-man,” having dumped the one leather trunk upon the step, stood looking at the stranger contemplatively, as if his own duties in this world were all fulfilled.

“How much?” said May.

“Twenty-five cents,” said the dépôt-man.

May pulled out a half-dollar. “No matter about the change,” he added, as the dépôt-man hitched up his vest, preparatory to[6] fishing in his cavernous trousers for the requisite quarter.

The dépôt-man changed his quid of tobacco, and drove off without a word, the downward lines from the corners of his mouth a shade deeper, as if he profited unwillingly by such unnecessary prodigality, which aroused rather contempt than gratitude. May waited until the carryall had quite disappeared in the elm-trees, and then rang the bell. Apparently, he expected no prompt answer; for he sat down upon one of the old china garden-seats, which flanked the door, and rolled and lit a cigarette. After a few minutes he rang again, louder; the unwonted tinkle reverberated through the closed house, and an imaginative man, putting his ear to the key-hole, might have heard the scuffle of the family ghosts as they scurried back to their hiding-places. At last an uncertain step was heard in the hall, and after much turning of keys and rattling of chains, the door was slowly opened by an old woman, who blinked at the flood of sudden light which poured in, rebounded, eddied, and at last filled each corner of the fine old hall.

[7]“Mrs. Eastman, I suppose?”

“That’s my name,” said the woman, in a strong down-east accent.

“I am Mr. May,” said he.

The woman glared at him as before, and did not compromise her dignity by a courtesy. “Mr. Eastman got your letter,” said she, “and I have got your room ready. Will you go there now? I don’t know who’s to carry up your trunk.”

May’s valet solved that difficulty by shouldering the leather receptacle and carrying it up himself. The room was large, airy, and neatly kept. A straw matting was on the floor, covered here and there with well-worn rugs; and from about the windows came a twittering of birds. All in it indicated, not a new and modern house, but the well-worn nest of a family that had been born, had cried, laughed, played, made love, and died, in every room. Yet there was no evidence of recent occupation; the room was innocent of those last touches which are the pride of the feminine housekeeper; curtains, splashers, anti-macassars, were few; and no twilled, frilled, or pleated things infested the windows, and impeded the entry[8] of the outer air. May opened the door of a large closet; it was empty, save for a broad, white, chip hat of prehistoric fashion, and ribbons of faded rose-color; but, if it had belonged to a daughter of the house, it was evident that its owner was either dead or married, and her womanly activity was exercised in other locuses and focuses. No other manifestation of what

Goethe (impatiently) calls the “eternal woman” was present; and May’s expression almost approached to a smile as he opened the door of the spacious bath-room, and noted the naked mantels and marble slabs, unencumbered by china dogs, translated vases, and other traps for the unwary. On the shelf was a noble pile of rough and manly towels, and as he turned the faucet, he found that the water was copious and cold. From all this you may infer that Mr. Austin May was a bachelor. I have committed myself to no such statement as yet, and May himself would have been the first to term your curiosity—at the present stage of your acquaintance with him—an impertinence. As he turned away from the bath-room the smile of satisfaction died away[9] upon his lips. Mrs. Eastman was still standing at the door, the incarnation of the custodian, in iron-gray rigidity of dress, and equilateral triangularity of white fichu.

“Everything seems to be all right, Mrs. Eastman,” said he, graciously. (Behold how simple are the needs of man—give them but fresh water, space, and peace, and their desires are filled; while womankind—are otherwise.)

“Everything is all right,” broke in Mrs. Eastman, like the offended Vestal deity, at a statement implying contrary possibilities. Then again she congealed.

May looked at her more closely, with a slight shade of annoyance. How was he to get rid of this woman?

“You must have had a sadly lonely life here, Mrs. Eastman,” said he, by way of placation. And lo! the flood-gates were loosened and the tide poured forth. Who ever could have suspected Mrs. Eastman of gregarious instinct? As well have fancied her loquacious. As Moses’s wand upon the rock of Horeb, so an adroit phrase addressed to womankind.

“I have not complained, Mr. May; and[10] nobody can say that I haven’t done by you as if it were my own house that I was living in, and the water-back out of order all the time, and the pipes freezing all the winter; and Mr. Eastman, says he, we must have a furnace fire, and I say no, it ain’t of enough account for us two old people, and so we sit by the kitchen stove, and my sister, Mrs. Tarbox, with her four children and the scarlet fever, over at Roxbury, and nobody to provide for ’em, for John Tarbox—says I to Cynthia when he come up to Augusta from the Provinces (I come from Augusta, Maine, Mr. May), he ain’t but a shiftless fellow, you mark my words, says I; and says she, you let me alone, Miranda, and I’ll do as much by you, s’ she; an’ so it turned out, an’ many’s the time I’ve said to Mr. Eastman, Mr. Eastman, I must go an’ see Cynthia, s’s I, for there she is on her back, with her hands full of children, an’ no one to do for ’em but just John Tarbox; an’ s’s he, Miranda, it would be tempting Providence for

you to go with your rheumatism, an’ s’s I, I can’t help that, Mr. Eastman (he’s a member o’ the church, Mr. Eastman), I guess Providence ain’t got no more to say about[11] it than my horse-chestnuts in my dress pocket, an’ I always wear flannel next my skin; an’ s’s I, I’d go, come what may, but for Mr. May’s silver, s’s I (I keep it under my bed, Mr. May, and have slept upon it every mortal night since I took this house), an’ I know I saw a moth in the best parlor last week, an’ the furniture not beaten since April; an’ so six weeks gone since I saw my sister; an’ since there’s a foreigner in the kitchen, s’ I to Mr. Eastman, Mr. Eastman——”

“My dear Mrs. Eastman,” interposed May, gently, “I had no idea you thought it necessary to stick so close to the house. Now I beg that you will go at once. My servant will get all I want for dinner. You and Mr. Eastman must both go, and don’t think of coming back before to-morrow—haven’t you any other visits to pay?”

Mrs. Eastman, who had started at the “my dear Mrs. Eastman” as if May had offered to kiss her, admitted, ungraciously, that her husband’s sister lived in Jamaica Plain. But the foreign valet was, evidently, still in her mind; and, after sundry prognostications as to the domestic evils to result[12] from “that man’s” presence in the kitchen, she finally removed herself, with some precipitation, only when May, in desperation, began to take off his coat. Left to himself, May resumed his coat, drew a chair to the window, sighed, and lit a cigarette. Mrs. Eastman’s disappearance was followed by a distant shriek; and shortly afterward there was a slight scratching at the door. May opened it, and the St. Bernard dog walked gravely in and stretched himself by the chair; a certain humorous expression about his square jowl indicating that he had been the cause of the shriek in question. It was a bad quarter of an hour for Mrs. Eastman’s nerves. Fides was the dog’s name, and his master patted his head approvingly.

May sat down again, and his eye roamed over the stretch of green turf, a view broken above by the huge arms of button-wood, and canopies of English elm. Shortly afterward he saw the valet emerge from a side entrance, and step hastily across the lawn into the shade of a great hemlock, where he stood, gesticulating wildly. A minute or two later Mrs. Eastman, in an[13] Indian shawl and purple bonnet, appeared in progress down the carriage-road, limply accompanied by her lord and master. When she disappeared, with her husband and a red and roomy carpet-bag, behind the avenue of elms, the sinuous oriental emerged from the hemlock, and shook his fist. Silence supervened. The prospect of peace emboldened May to light a large cigar. The valet returned to the house, and no sound was audible but the chirping of the birds, the rustle of leaves, and the dignified and heavy breathing of the hound of St. Bernard.

II. THE PAVILION BY THE LILIES.

As May was knocking off the last white ash from his cabaña, his servant knocked softly, entered, and bowed. Rising, May, followed by the St. Bernard, descended and entered the dining-room. Upon the walls were six pictures, four of which were portraits of persons, and two of indigestible fruit. The persons seemed to have been eating the fruit. The portraits were all Copleys, and comprised, first, a gentleman in a red coat and a bag-wig; second, a young lady with a sallow complexion and a lilac satin dress cut so low that only a profusion of lace concealed her deficiencies of figure; third, an elderly scholar with long transparent fingers and sinister expression; fourth, a nice old lady with a benignant grin. The eyes of the old lady beamed[15] amiably down upon the table, where lay a snowy cloth and a glorious breakfast, consisting of a fish, a bird, a peach, and a pint of claret. The genius who had wrought this miracle disappeared, and May was left undisturbed.

The fish had gone the way of all flesh, and the bird had gone the way of the fish, and the first glass of Léoville was awaiting translation to the sky of human reveries, when there was a sound of carriage-wheels upon the gravel. May started. The glass of claret crashed untasted to the floor, and its owner sprang upon his feet and fled precipitately. Just as the door-bell rang, he escaped from the garden door of the hall and plunged into a maze of shrubbery; with a hurried sign to the silent servant as he passed. Rapidly and circuitously, he circled back behind the hedges until a successful flank movement brought him to the main driveway at the point where he remembered Mrs. Eastman had disappeared; here, by a bold dash he secured the front lawn; and a few cautious steps brought him to the side-door of the large, low stone pavilion aforementioned. Drawing a brass[16] key from his pocket, he managed to turn a grating lock and entered. The door closed behind him and was carefully bolted on the inside. The interior was quite dark; but May cautiously felt his way to one of

the front windows, and opening the sash, turned the slats of the blind to a horizontal position. Through this he peered, breathless with his run. At the front door of the house was the same carryall that had brought him from the station; but its occupants were not visible. May saw the St. Bernard dog silently threading his way through the bushes, his nose upon the trail; a minute later, and he scratched upon the door of the pavilion.

“Hush,” hissed May, angrily.

The dog scratched, softly. With an impatient imprecation, May opened it; the dog had a bit of paper in his mouth. May snatched it eagerly.

“Madame d’Arrebocques” was written upon it, in the hand of Schmidt, his valet. “Elle doit attendre.”

Madame d’Arrebocques? May knew no such person. Madame d’Arrebocques? Why should she write? Why had she not[17] sent her card? Had Schmidt spelled the name right? Ah! at last he had it, thanks to Mrs. Eastman’s garrulity. This could be no other than Cynthia Tarbox, the ill-married sister of Miranda, his châtelaine. And ill-mannered fortune! they had missed each other on the way. Mrs. Eastman might return at any moment. As he pondered, the carryall moved slowly off; but as it passed the window, he noted that it contained no other figure than the station-master. The woman, then, was left behind.

May tore out a card and wrote upon it, in German, Sie muss fort! and handed it to Fides, the dog, who trotted silently off. What means Schmidt used, May never knew; but some ten minutes later, four children came screaming down the avenue, running and gasping for breath, followed by a thin and wiry woman, robed in a flapping whitey-brown duster, whose haste and streaming bonnet-ribbons bore every evidence of extreme mental perturbation.

Shortly afterward Schmidt himself appeared, in his hands a glass and another[18] bottle of the same claret. By a refinement of delicacy, the glass was full. “Monsieur n’a pas fini son dejeúner,” said he; and May took the glass with trembling fingers, but put it down untasted.

“Schmidt,” said he, in French, “it is nearly midday. You must bring everything here. I dare not go back to the house.”

The valet evinced no surprise, but nodded and disappeared. Left to himself, May opened the shutters of several of the windows and looked out. The side of the pavilion that was farthest from the house rose directly out of the broad pond or ornamental lake already referred to. This was to the west; the northern was screened by a dense growth of pines, the southern contained the entrance door before mentioned, and the eastern façade commanded the house, which was some two hundred yards distant across the avenue. May looked out across the water, which was an ornamental piece fringed with reeds and water-flowers. In the centre of the little lake rose a low round island, which had a comfortable rustic seat and a soft and[19] grassy surface. May pressed a small knob in the wall near the window, and coming back from it, took a heavy book from one of the dwarf bookcases that lined the large room. The book was a quarto edition of Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy;” and immediately afterward the adjoining section of bookcase swung slowly forward

from the wall, revealing a descending passageway. Through this May disappeared, and the bookcase swung itself back into place.

Some minutes later, Schmidt entered, after several knocks, with a large japanned tray. Upon this tray was a small paper of bromide of potassium, two boxes of cigars, strong and mild, a carafe of cognac, seltzer, a large opera-glass, a powerful dark-lantern, and a six-barrelled silver-mounted revolver. Fides lay on a mat on the floor; but his master was nowhere visible in the room. Schmidt set the tray upon the table and looked about him. Being alone, it must be confessed that his cosmopolitan face showed traces of surprise.

The whole interior of the pavilion obviously contained but one room; and in[20] that room Austin May was nowhere to be seen. In the centre was a huge long centre-table of carven oak; it was covered with dust, and upon it was but one large book—Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy.” All the four walls were lined with filled bookcases, and, above them were serried ranks of engravings, etchings, drawings, but nothing that was not in black and white. Most of these had woman for a subject, but woman always either in her least agreeable or most unspiritual aspect—Katherines with Petruchio, Madame de Staels, Harriet Martineaus, Manon Lescauts, Cressidas, and Marneffes; Messalinas, Hecubas, Danaës, Judiths, daughters of Herodias; an engraving of the Appalachian Women’s Rights Association, and a charcoal sketch of Daudet’s Sappho. And of such as were not real persons or historical characters, there was but one common characteristic, namely, that all were shamelessly naked of body and unspiritual of face. The sole exception to this rule stood at the farther end of the room

from Schmidt; it was a full-sized and marvellously perfect reproduction of the Venus of Milo; having the cynical inscription[21] upon its pedestal, “A woman without rights.”

Schmidt gave a long low whistle, as he went about the room to examine these engravings; then he returned to the centre-table, wholly at a loss. May surely had not left the pavilion; but where was he? He looked out of the windows, and saw only the pine-grove, the house, the lawn, and the lake. In the centre of the lake was a large fountain, plashing merrily, and shaped like the coronal of some huge lily. As he was watching this, the fountain suddenly stopped; the water-petals wavered and fell, revealing a small grass island that had been screened by the circlet of playing water. A moment after, he started at his master’s voice; May was immediately behind him, calmly putting a book back in the bookcase. It was the Burton’s “Anatomy.”