I had been burned worse than I knew, and had to stay in bed for two weeks while Dr. Winslow from Ripley took over my patients. I developed a high fever and was unconscious for two or three days. During my delirium I dreamed the dreadful scene over and over a hundred times, and I could faintly hear myself screaming And I heard Livy’s voice, calm and gentle, soothing and tender.
Luckily most of my burns were first-degree, with only a few second-degree. My hands had suffered most. To this day my righ hand is stiff and scarred, and I can no longer perform delicate operations. But I do not regret it; I can look at that hand and feel a deep content. It is the only thing in my life that has given me such soul-quietness.
Fortunately, I could feel nothing for a long time, until I was out of bed and getting around feebly again. I could think nothing clearly nor acutely. For this I was thankful. I knew a day was coming when I would feel again, and dreaded it. Livy told me gently one day that they had buried Dan beside Sarah Faire; Beatrice lay on her other side. I felt comforted even in my grief.
Livy gave me a letter that had come for me from Mr. John Semple president of the Ripley National Bank, in which he expressed regret for my injuries and asked me to call upon him as soon as I could. I put down the letter and looked at Livy. She seemed ill, worn out, and piteously white. I leaned towards her and put my bandaged hand on hers.
“Livy,” I began painfully. “Livy. Is it all right now?”
She smiled at me. Her smile did not waver, though tears ran down her cheeks.
“All right. Jim. Perfectly all right.”
Again. I was content. She put her arms around me and pressed her lips into my neck.
One day I told her what Dan had said, about not burdening me, and wondered aloud what it was he had started to tell me. But Livy put her hand on my mouth as though in fright.
“Let it go, Jim. He wanted to let it go. Don’t think about it anymore.”
But I did think about it. I shall always think about it. I have an idea—
Six weeks after Dan’s death I went over to Ripley to see Mr. John Semple of the First National Bank. He was a wizened, gold-hespectacled old man with a dry and pompous air. He received me in his private office and immediately got down to business. He importantly removed a thin sheet of paper from a blue envelope. I looked at it impatiently. He cleared his throat.
“You know, of course, Dr. Marcy, that Mr. Hendricks left quite an estate. Yes, if I may say so, quite an estate. His needs were small; he didn’t use up his income from the wells.”
“Yes. Yes,” I replied.
He cleared his throat again. “I have here the last will and testament of Mr. Daniel Hendricks. I will read it to you. It was made out three years ago. December eleventh, 1904, to be exact.”
He began to read. I listened dully for a few moments, then with intensity.
“I hereby will to my friend, Dr. James Marcy, of South Kenton, New York, the sum of ten thousand dollars outright, for his own personal use.”
“My God!” I whispered. Mr. Semple, unmoved, read on.
His property, containing the oil wells, was to be sold outright to the Ripley Gas Company, and the proceeds, which would amount to more than twenty thousand dollars, was to be given to our little free hospital. Dr. James Marcy was to be sole director as to how the money was to be used.
The gay and desolate house where he had lived with his wife, Beatrice, was to be torn down, and the land was left to the town of South Kenton on condition that upon the site was to be built a free circulating library. The sum of twelve thousand dollars was willed towards the building and stocking of the library.
He had left two thousand dollars and the farm to old Martha.
I was named sole executor of his estate.
I sat there, dumb and shaken, drawing my hand down over my face, and trembling. Mr. Semple, coughing, meticulously folded up the will. He tapped an arid finger on his desk.
“A very good will. A very kind will. Seems to me, Doctor, that you folks in South Kenton didn’t—er—appreciate Mr. Daniel Hendricks. A very good man. Very fond of him, myself.”
“We can’t take it!” I cried wildly, starting to my feet. “They hounded him—they tried to kill him! Somehow, I feel they did kill him!”
Mr. Semple clucked. No doubt he found me hysterical and childish. He shook his head.
“Well, that’s what the will says, Doctor. It isn’t in your hands. The property and money was left to the town of South Kenton, and I doubt, I very much doubt, that they will refuse it. Of course,” he smiled, “you are at liberty yourself to refuse your own specific legacy.” He seemed to find me absurd.
I called a meeting a few nights later in the town hall. I looked over the crowded room, experiencing in advance a bitter satisfaction. I read a copy of the will to them all. For a long time they sat motionless, dumbfounded, then gradually eye sought eye and looked away again. There was no cheer from the enemies of Dan Hendricks, no stereotyped motion of gratitude and thanks to the dead man. They filed out in silence. But I had the acrid pleasure of seeing that many an eye was dim, and that many men coughed and went away in subdued groups. I hated them all passionately.