Driven from Home: Carl Crawford's Experience

MAKING A will.

In Edgewood Center events moved slowly.  In Carl Crawford’s home dullness reigned supreme.  He had been the life of the house, and his absence, though welcome to his stepmother, was seriously felt by his father, who day by day became thinner and weaker, while his step grew listless and his face seldom brightened with a smile.  He was anxious to have Carl at home again, and the desire became so strong that he finally broached the subject.

“My dear,” he said one day at the breakfast table, “I have been thinking of Carl considerably of late.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Crawford, coldly.

“I think I should like to have him at home once more.”

Mrs. Crawford smiled ominously.

“He is better off where he is,” she said, softly.

“But he is my only son, and I never see him,” pleaded her husband.

“You know very well, Dr. Crawford,” rejoined his wife, “that your son only made trouble in the house while he was here.”

“Yet it seems hard that he should be driven from his father’s home, and forced to take refuge among strangers.”

“I don’t know what you mean by his being driven from home,” said Mrs. Crawford, tossing her head.  “He made himself disagreeable, and, not being able to have his own way, he took French leave.”

“The house seems very lonely without him,” went on Dr. Crawford, who was too wise to get into an argument with his wife.

“It certainly is more quiet.  As for company, Peter is still here, and would at any time stay with you.”

Peter did not relish this suggestion, and did not indorse it.

“I should not care to confine him to the house,” said Dr. Crawford, as his glance rested on the plain and by no means agreeable face of his stepson.

“I suppose I need not speak of myself.  You know that you can always call upon me.”

If Dr. Crawford had been warmly attached to his second wife, this proposal would have cheered him, but the time had gone by when he found any pleasure in her society.  There was a feeling of almost repulsion which he tried to conceal, and he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that the presence of his wife gave him rather uneasiness than comfort.

“Carl is very well off where he is,” resumed Mrs. Crawford.  “He is filling a business position, humble, perhaps, but still one that gives him his living and keeps him out of mischief.  Let well enough alone, doctor, and don’t interrupt his plans.”

“I—­I may be foolish,” said the doctor, hesitating, “but I have not been feeling as well as usual lately, and if anything should happen to me while Carl was absent I should die very unhappy.”

Mrs. Crawford regarded her husband with uneasiness.

“Do you mean that you think you are in any danger?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  I am not an old man, but, on the other hand, I am an invalid.  My father died when he was only a year older than I am at present.”

Mrs. Crawford drew out her handkerchief, and proceeded to wipe her tearless eyes.

“You distress me beyond measure by your words, my dear husband.  How can I think of your death without emotion?  What should I do without you?”

“My dear, you must expect to survive me.  You are younger than I, and much stronger.”

“Besides,” and Mrs. Crawford made an artful pause, “I hardly like to mention it, but Peter and I are poor, and by your death might be left to the cold mercies of the world.”

“Surely I would not fail to provide for you.”

Mrs. Crawford shook her head.

“I am sure of your kind intentions, my husband,” she said, “but they will not avail unless you provide for me in your will.”

“Yes, it’s only right that I should do so.  As soon as I feel equal to the effort I will draw up a will.”

“I hope you will, for I should not care to be dependent on Carl, who does not like me.  I hope you will not think me mercenary, but to Peter and myself this is of vital importance.”

“No, I don’t misjudge you.  I ought to have thought of it before.”

“I don’t care so much about myself,” said Mrs. Crawford, in a tone of self-sacrifice, “but I should not like to have Peter thrown upon the world without means.”

“All that you say is wise and reasonable,” answered her husband, wearily.  “I will attend to the matter to-morrow.”

The next day Mrs. Crawford came into her husband’s presence with a sheet of legal cap.

“My dear husband,” she said, in a soft, insinuating tone, “I wished to spare you trouble, and I have accordingly drawn up a will to submit to you, and receive your signature, if you approve it.”

Dr. Crawford looked surprised.

“Where did you learn to write a will?” he asked.

“I used in my days of poverty to copy documents for a lawyer,” she replied.  “In this way I became something of a lawyer myself.”

“I see.  Will you read what you have prepared?”

Mrs. Crawford read the document in her hand.  It provided in the proper legal phraseology for an equal division of the testator’s estate between the widow and Carl.

“I didn’t know, of course, what provision you intended to make for me,” she said, meekly.  “Perhaps you do not care to leave me half the estate.”

“Yes, that seems only fair.  You do not mention Peter.  I ought to do something for him.”

“Your kindness touches me, my dear husband, but I shall be able to provide for him out of my liberal bequest.  I do not wish to rob your son, Carl.  I admit that I do not like him, but that shall not hinder me from being just.”

Dr. Crawford was pleased with this unexpected concession from his wife.  He felt that he should be more at ease if Carl’s future was assured.

“Very well, my dear,” he said, cheerfully.  “I approve of the will as you have drawn it up, and I will affix my signature at once.”  “Then, shall I send for two of the neighbors to witness it?”

“It will be well.”

Two near neighbors were sent for and witnessed Dr. Crawford’s signature to the will.

There was a strangely triumphant look in Mrs. Crawford’s eyes as she took the document after it had been duly executed.

“You will let me keep this, doctor?” she asked.  “It will be important for your son as well as myself, that it should be in safe hands.”

“Yes; I shall be glad to have you do so.  I rejoice that it is off my mind.”

“You won’t think me mercenary, my dear husband, or indifferent to your life?”

“No; why should I?”

“Then I am satisfied.”

Mrs. Crawford took the will, and carrying it upstairs, opened her trunk, removed the false bottom, and deposited under it the last will and testament of Dr. Paul Crawford.

“At last!” she said to herself.  “I am secure, and have compassed what I have labored for so long.”

Dr. Crawford had not noticed that the will to which he affixed his signature was not the same that had been read to him.  Mrs. Crawford had artfully substituted another paper of quite different tenor.  By the will actually executed, the entire estate was left to Mrs. Crawford, who was left guardian of her son and Carl, and authorized to make such provision for each as she might deem suitable.  This, of course, made Carl entirely dependent on a woman who hated him.

“Now, Dr. Paul Crawford,” said Mrs. Crawford to herself, with a cold smile, “you may die as soon as you please.  Peter and I are provided for.  Your father died when a year older than you are now, you tell me.  It is hardly likely that you will live to a greater age than he.”

She called the next day on the family physician, and with apparent solicitude asked his opinion of Dr. Crawford’s health.

“He is all I have,” she said, pathetically, “all except my dear Peter.  Tell me what you think of his chances of continued life.”

“Your husband,” replied the physician, “has one weak organ.  It is his heart.  He may live for fifteen or twenty years, but a sudden excitement might carry him off in a moment.  The best thing you can do for him is to keep him tranquil and free from any sudden shock.”

Mrs. Crawford listened attentively.

“I will do my best,” she said, “since so much depends on it.”

When she returned home it was with a settled purpose in her heart.