CHAPTER XIV
Matilda’s coal-black cat was the first to hear it.
She had slipped up from the kitchen to the top-floor landing unseen, and had chosen a spot on the faded carpet to complete her morning toilet, warmed by a sunbeam that pierced the paint and dust of a diamond-checkered skylight—color of chocolate and clothes bluing.
She sat undisturbed at her ease, her tail curled snugly about her, while she diligently nibbled between the toes of her velvety paws. This done, she licked her strong black chest with her clean pink tongue until it shone as glossy as sable; thoroughly licked her sleek flanks, passed a moistened paw over and over her ears, scrubbing them well, reclined with exquisite grace, stretched to her full, sinuous length, her paws spread, yawned, and was busily licking and nibbling the extreme tip of her tail, when she suddenly sat upright, motionless, her ears shot forward, listening, the depths of her yellow eyes as clear as topaz.
A door had brusquely opened below, and over its threshold poured forth, rose, and reverberated up the stairs the angry voices of two men.
Crouching, her tail swishing nervously from side to ride, she craned her head with slow caution between the banisters and peered down. Back in her street-catdays she would scarcely have given the incident a second thought. Besides, in the street there was always an area gate to slip under out of danger. In the house it was different. Experienced as she was in the art of eluding her enemies, she had a horror of being cornered. She knew the exit to the roof to be closed as tight as a blind alley. In the event of pursuit she would be obliged to pass her enemy in her flight back to the kitchen. There was the pot-closet with its comforting barricade of old brooms and singed ironing-boards, and safer refuges under the damp coal-hole, and unfathomable depths in the cavernous cellar, veiled by cobwebs—but of all these she preferred Matilda’s aproned lap for safety.
The row four flights below continued, punctuated with sharp retorts, vehement denials, curt threats—all unintelligible to her, save that their savage tone kept her where she was, and on thequi vive.
She was not the only one listening now. The hubbub below had brought Miss Ann Moulton out to her landing. She, too, was listening, fearing to be seen, peering cautiously over the banisters.
“No, sir! I tell you my client declines to settle on any such basis,” declared a stranger below—a big-shouldered man with a thunderous voice. But the cat could only see his heels and the muddy rims of his trousers, and now and then his big clenched hand as he swung it angrily toward the banisters in speaking. Miss Ann could see more. She could see the breadth of his great shoulders and a fringe of curly red hairshadowed by the brim of a brown derby with a mourning band.
“We’ve given you more than ample time to settle this matter, Mr. Ford,” continued the stranger; “for cash, do you understand! You promised to settle up on the twentieth. That’s a week ago.”
“Didn’t say no such thing,” retorted Ebner Ford, out of view of his listeners. “What I said was I’d see she got half by the first——”
“The first, eh? We’ve no record of that.”
“Hold on now, my friend—no use of us both talkin’ at once. I said half by the first, and the other half six months from date. That’s what I told her—I guess I know what I told her.”
Miss Ann leaned forward with bated breath.
“See here. There’s no use of your arguing this matter further,” returned the other. “Unless you settle by to-morrow noon——”
“Serve me with a summons, eh? Is that it? Ain’t I give you enough guarantee of good faith?”
“We do not consider your good faith a guarantee,” retorted the stranger. “What my client wants is her money—all of it. I give you fair warning. You’ll settle by to-morrow noon with a certified check or we’ll bring the matter to court.”
Ebner Ford strode forward into the hall, slamming his door shut back of him.
“You tell Mrs. Miggs,” he cried, “she’ll get her money all right. You tell her she’ll get it on the dates I promised her, and not before. You can’t bulldozeme. You ain’t the only lawyer in this here town. I’ve got one as smart as you, and when you come to settle up this matter you’ll find it’ll cost you a damned sight more’n you bargained for. You tell her that. Don’t you dare insinuate I ain’t treated her fairly.”
A strange numbness seized Miss Ann.
“You sold my client stock,” shouted back the lawyer, as he turned down the stairs, “that is worthless; that you knew at the time wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. We’ve got a case of embezzlement against you that’s as plain as daylight. There isn’t a judge on the bench that would take four minutes to decide it. Good morning.”
The floor upon which the little spinster stood seemed to rise and fall beneath her trembling knees. Her frail hands gripping the railing for support grew cold. She heard the heavy tread of Mrs. Miggs’s legal adviser descending the stairs; almost simultaneously the front door and Ebner Ford’s closed with a slam.
For a long moment Miss Ann stood there trembling—sick and faint.
“Oh!” she gasped feebly. “Oh! Oh!” With an effort she reached her door, entered her room, and closed it.
The cat cautiously withdrew her head between the banisters. The sunbeam had vanished, a sickly chocolate-and-blue light filtered through the dusty skylight. Close to Enoch’s door-mat she found a fly crawling with a broken wing. She played with it for a while, coaxed it half dead twice back to life, and, finally tiringof it as a plaything, killed it with one quick stroke of her paw. Then she fell slowly asleep—a double purr in her throat, her topaz yellow eyes half closed, one white tooth showing, drowsily conscious that two fat little sparrows were chirping cheerfully on the roof.
Fear overwhelmed Miss Ann. Fear led her tottering to the nearest armchair, until she fell weak and trembling into it, pressing her cold hands to her throbbing temples. Fear stood by while she fought to control herself, to think, to reason, to catch at the smallest glimmer of hope as to Ebner Ford’s honesty. The lawyer’s denunciation had overweighed any vestige of doubt. It was convincing, terrible in its briefness and truth.
Ebner Ford had swindled old Mrs. Miggs!
The very tone in his voice had belied his guilt. The lawyer’s thunderous denouncement still rang in her ears. “You sold my client stock that you knew at the time wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.... We’ve got a case of embezzlement against you that’s as plain as daylight.” Embezzlement! No man would have dared say that to another unless he had proof. Her money—their money—Jane’s—half of all they possessed in the world.
She fell to weeping, her flushed, drawn cheeks buried in her hands—a sense of utter helplessness and loneliness swept over her. “Oh, Jane!” she moaned. She thanked God she was out, that she had not heard—and in the next breath prayed for her return. Could she tell her? Was it wise to tell her? Andyet she felt she must. It was their money. She must know the truth, ill as she was. Why had she been weak enough, fool enough to have believed him? Why had she not waited, thought the matter over, gone to some one for advice? There were moments when she thought she would go mad, and during these she paced up and down the room, wringing her poor, weak hands. Once or twice she felt like rushing frantically to Ebner Ford and demanding an explanation—of appealing to his sense of pity—of begging him to give her back her money. Twice she rushed to her door, but fear held her back—a dread now of him whom she had believed in. True, there have been some magnanimous and tender-hearted thieves in the world who have been known to restore certain cherished keepsakes to their victims—a watch, a ring. Ebner Ford was not one of these. He lacked even the “honor” of the professional. He belonged to that class of suave scoundrels who dare not rob men, but who confine their talent to preying upon the confidence and ignorance of helpless women, of inveigling them into their confidence, bullying them, if needs be, and railroading them to disaster.
A healthy, determined girl would have gone down and had it out with him, and failing to get satisfaction would have gone in search of a lawyer, a detective bureau, or even a policeman. Miss Ann was too timid for that. Like the cat, she had even been afraid to descend the stairs during its occupation by the enemy. There was also something else that had checked her. Eavesdropping to a woman of Miss Ann’s delicatesensibilities was dishonest, ill-bred, and vulgar. To be obliged to confess to Ebner Ford she had been listening to words not intended for her ears—a common eavesdropper—she shrank from the thought.
Neither anger nor the craving for revenge had ever entered her heart. She was capable of neither; all she was capable of was bravely living through her daily share of anxiety and patient suffering. She thought of wiring her brother to come at once; then she reasoned how undependable and useless he was; how he had mismanaged most of her affairs; how time and time again it was she who had helped him when in trouble—and Jim Moulton was always in trouble, having an inordinate distaste for real work. He still preserved, however, the remnants of a gentleman, both in his manners and his pleasant voice, though his dress was somewhat seedy; even to-day his language bespoke a man who had once been a scholar. He reduced his plain rye with plain water, which reduced him in turn to the society of the men who sold it. Out in his small Western town he dabbled along lazily in piano, real estate, and sewing-machine rentals, all under the same ceiling, next door to the best saloon in town. He was one of those who, convinced he was stronger than the rest of humanity, have tried to make a boon companion of alcohol, and survive—a feat of strength which no man yet has accomplished. Any old bartender could have told him that. No; there was no use in wiring Jim.
Now that the first effects of her shock were over,Miss Ann grew visibly calmer. At least she ceased wringing her hands, and returned wearily to the armchair, where she tried to decide what must be done, what could be done. Her sister had not returned, and not a sound had broken the stillness of the house since Ebner Ford had slammed his door shut.
Suddenly a firm, rapid step on the stairs made her start. It was Enoch’s. He passed her door and ascended to his own, stopping to stroke the sleepy cat on his landing, a caress which awakened her and started her purring. She had never been afraid of Enoch.
During that swift moment when Mr. Crane had passed her door, a desire had seized Miss Ann to intercept him, to pour out to him the whole story of her misery and despair, and ask his advice; and yet from sheer timidity she hesitated. She had let him pass. She felt all the more keenly this lost opportunity as she heard his door close above. He was in his room now, and if she would see him, she must go up and rap, a thing she had never done unbidden in her life. She thought of ringing for Moses, of telling him to “ask Mr. Crane if he would mind calling on Miss Moulton over a matter of immediate importance,” but a haggard glance at herself in the old-fashioned mirror above her mantel wisely checked her. Had Moses seen her, he would more likely have rushed down for Matilda, telling her that Miss Ann was ill.
For another long moment she struggled with herself; then mustering up all her courage, she quickly opened her door and climbed Enoch’s stairs.
“Mr. Crane,” she called feebly, and knocked; at that instant she felt like running away. In reply to his sharp “Come in,” she tried to turn the knob, but her courage failed her. Enoch flung open his door wide and stood staring at her haggard face.
“My dear Miss Moulton,” he exclaimed, “what has happened?”
She tried to speak.
He strode across his threshold and laid his hand tenderly on her frail shoulder, and without a word gently led her into his room.
“Mr. Crane,” she faltered, fighting to control herself, “I—I am in great trouble.”
Enoch led her to his chair, went back, closed his door, and waited for her to grow calmer.
“You would not have come to me unless youwerein great trouble,” he ventured at length, in a kindly way, breaking the silence. “Your—your sister is—er—is not worse?” he asked.
Miss Ann shook her head.
“What, then?” he insisted firmly, seating himself quietly beside her. “You’ve had a shock, Miss Moulton. Won’t you be frank with me?”
For a moment she buried her face in her hands and a low moan escaped her trembling lips. Then in a voice so hesitating, so painful, that he dared not interrupt her, she told him the whole pitiful story—of Ebner Ford’s visit, of his persuading her to invest half of all she and her sister possessed in the world in his wringer stock, of his glowing eulogy over the HouseholdGem’s selling qualities, and old Mrs. Miggs’s good fortune, of those tragic moments when she had listened on the stairs to the lawyer’s denunciation, and of her fears for her money in the hands of a man she had trusted implicitly, and who had been openly denounced as an embezzler.
Through all this painful, halting confession, Enoch did not open his lips, his keen sense as a lawyer keeping him silent until her final words, “WhatamI to do?” left her mute and trembling, with a look in her eyes of positive terror.
Enoch rose with a deep sigh, a strange, hard glitter in his eyes, and stood before her, his strong hands clasped behind his back.
“The old game,” he muttered tensely, gazing at the floor with a knitted brow. “Always a woman,” he exclaimed, his voice rising, “a helpless, trusting woman!” he cried, with slow-gathering rage while she sat before him, the picture of desolation. “Just what I might have expected. Despicable hound! And as long as there are trusting, innocent women in this world there will always be scoundrels to rob them.”
“Oh! why did I not wait—why did I not consider the matter?” she moaned.
“Such hopeful safeguards as wait and consider never enter these cases,” came his brief reply. “Under the clever, steady persuasion of these scoundrels a woman of your trustful nature never waits or considers. What did you give him?”
“A check,” she faltered.
“For how much?”
“My check for seven thousand five hundred dollars,” she confessed faintly.
Enoch’s under lip shot forward. “Ah! my poor lady!” he sighed.
“Which he informed me he deposited,” she added painfully.
Enoch brightened. “Then hehasa bank-account, has he? A bank at least. That’s one favorable vestige of hope. Seven thousand five hundred, you say?”
She bent her head, twining and untwining her fingers nervously.
“Mr. Crane, whatamI to do? My sister’s welfare—her very life depends on this money.”
“Do!” cried Enoch savagely. “Do!My dear lady, you are to leave this matter entirely in my hands. That’s what you are to do.”
She looked up at him breathlessly.
“Entirely!” The word rang out convincingly. “You leave Mr. Ebner Ford to me. I’ll attend to that individual.”
So far the thought of Sue had never entered his head; of what her stepfather’s ruin and disgrace would mean to her; his one dominating interest being absorbed in the pitiful facts before him, his sense of justice to Miss Ann obliterating everything else.
“It is safe to say he cannot have spent all of your money,” he went on vibrantly. “What he’s got left of it he’ll return to you. That I promise you.”
Miss Ann drew a sharp breath of relief.
“And the rest he’ll make good,” cried Enoch.
“But suppose,” ventured the little spinster timidly, “that he—he has not got it, Mr. Crane?”
“He’ll get it,” came Enoch’s sharp reply.
She met the savage gleam in his eyes wonderingly—two grateful tears blurring the vision of him whom she had feared to come to, and who now seemed to be a pillar of hope.
“You tell me you feel in duty bound to tell your sister,” he continued again, seating himself beside her. “Why? It would only worry her—uselessly.”
“She has been too happy over our coming great good fortune,” she explained. “We’ve made plans for the summer. These must be changed, you see. Even if I do regain the money—things will be no better for us than before.”
“Better wait,” replied Enoch. “I shall get at this matter at once. One thing—you are not to worry. No; I wouldn’t tell your sister if I were you. Promise me you won’t.”
For the first time the vestige of a smile lightened her anxious face. “Then I won’t tell Jane. Do you know it is the first thing I have ever kept from her in my whole life, Mr. Crane? We have never had a secret we have not shared.”
He took her frail hand comfortingly in his own.
“This is no longeryoursecret,” he declared. “It is mine.”
For some moments she was silent.
“Mr. Crane, if you only knew how grateful I amto you,” she tried to say and keep back the tears, “how my whole heart goes out in gratefulness to you——”
“If there is any one who ought to be grateful,” he returned, with a slow smile, “it is I—for your having come to me in time,” he added reassuringly. “One thing,” he continued seriously, “you must be extremely careful of—not to give him, should you meet him, the slightest suspicion that you know anything—that you doubt his honesty. What I intend to do is to interview this individual to-morrow; by to-morrow night I should have better news for you. There! now you are to think no more about it. Go to your room, my dear lady, and try and meet your sister as if nothing had happened. If you have to tell her a fib—do so. I’ll be responsible for it.”
Again he smiled, and this time he pressed her frail little hand warmly, and helped her gently to her feet.
“Oh, Mr. Crane!” she breathed. “With that lovely stepdaughter—and his poor wife—how my heart goes out to them!”
“Only two more of his victims,” was Enoch’s grim reply. “That dear child, and worse, that poor mother who is married to him, believing in him—um!—a difficult question.”
Again he laid his hand tenderly on her frail shoulder as he opened his door.
“You are not to worry,” he repeated, as she went down the stairs.
Miss Ann smiled back at him bravely. Enochwaited until he saw her reach her door, and for some moments stood listening. Having made up his mind that Miss Jane was still out, he returned to his room, wrote a brief note, and rang for Moses.
There were but five lines in the missive, but they said much to Ebner Ford. They informed him that Enoch might be exceedingly interested in his laundry stock, and that if it was still at par, he would be pleased to see him without fail at his office in South Street the following morning at ten o’clock.
Ebner Ford had passed a bad quarter of an hour with himself after the lawyer’s departure. Finally he had sat himself down at that roll-top desk of his with its worthless contents, and began drumming with his long fingers, trying to sharpen his wits as to the best way out of the matter, and reluctantly coming to the conclusion that the only means of silencing old Mrs. Miggs and her attorney was to settle the eighteen hundred dollars she claimed, and to do this he would be obliged to pay her out of his lucky nest-egg—Miss Ann’s money. He was turning over in his mind this unfortunate turn in his affairs, when Moses rapped and handed him Enoch’s note.
“Well, say!” he exclaimed, brightening into a broad grin as he read it. “Interested at last, is he? That saves my bacon. He’ll pay for Mrs. Miggs.”