It was the day after the events just recorded that Keith's deal was concluded. The attack on him and the attempt made by Wickersham and Kestrel to break up his deal had failed, and the deeds and money were passed.
Keith was on his way back to his office from his final interview with the representative of the syndicate that had bought the properties. He was conscious of a curious sensation, partly of exhilaration, partly of almost awe, as he walked through the crowded streets, where every one was bent on the same quest: gold. At last he had won. He was rich. He wondered, as he walked along, if any of the men he shouldered were as rich as he. Norman and Ferdy Wickersham recurred to him. Both had been much wealthier; but Wickersham, he knew, was in straits, and Norman was in some trouble. He was unfeignedly glad about Wickersham; but the recollection of Norman clouded his face.
It was with a pang that he recalled Norman's recent conduct to him--a pang that one who had always been his friend should have changed so; but that was the way of the world. This reflection, however, was not consoling.
He reached his office and seated himself at his desk, to take another look at his papers. Before he opened them he rose and locked the door, and opening a large envelope, spread the papers out on the desk before him.
He thought of his father. He must write and tell him of his success. Then he thought of his old home. He remembered his resolution to restore it and make it what it used to be. But how much he could do with the money it would take to fit up the old place in the manner he had contemplated! By investing it judiciously he could double it.
Suddenly there was a step outside and a knock at his door, followed by voices in the outer office. Keith rose, and putting his papers back in his pocket, opened the door. For a second he had a mingled sensation of pleasure and surprise. His father stood there, his bag clutched in his hand. He looked tired, and had aged some since Keith saw him last; but his face wore the old smile that always illumined it when it rested on his son.
Keith greeted him warmly and drew him inside. "I was just thinking of you, sir."
"You would not come to see me, so I have come to see you. I have heard from you so rarely that I was afraid you were sick." His eyes rested fondly on Gordon's face.
"No; I have been so busy; that is all. Well, sir, I have won." His eyes were sparkling.
The old gentleman's face lit up.
"You have? Found Phrony, have you? I am so glad. It will give old Rawson a new lease of life. I saw him after he got back. He has failed a good deal lately."
"No, sir. I have found her, too; but I mean I have won out at last."
"Ah, you have won her? I congratulate you. I hope she will make you happy."
Keith laughed.
"I don't mean that. I mean I have sold my lands at last. I closed this morning with the Englishmen, and received the money."
The General smiled.
"Ah, you have, have you? That's very good. I am glad for old Adam Rawson's sake."
"I was afraid he would die before the deeds passed," said Keith. "But see, here are the drafts to my order." He spread them out. "This one is my commission. And I have the same amount of common stock."
His father made no comment on this, but presently said: "You will have enough to restore the old place a little."
"How much would it cost to fix up the place as you think it ought to be fixed up?"
"Oh, some thousands of dollars. You see, the house is much out of repair, and the quarters ought really all to be rebuilt. Old Charlotte's house I have kept in repair, and Richard now sleeps in the house, as he has gotten so rheumatic. I should think five or six thousand dollars might do it."
"I can certainly spare that much," said Keith, laughing.
"How is Norman?" asked the General.
Keith was conscious of a feeling of discontent. His countenance fell.
"Why, I don't know. I don't see much of him these days."
"Ah! I want to go to see him."
"The fact is, we have--er--had--. There has been an unfortunate misunderstanding between us. No one regrets it more than I; but I think I can say it was not at all my fault, and I have done all and more than was required of me."
"Ah, I am very sorry for that. It's a pity--a pity!" said the old General. "What was it about?"
"Well, I don't care to talk about it, sir. But I can assure you, I was not in the least to blame. It was caused mainly, I believe, by that fellow, Wickersham."
"He's a scoundrel!" said the General, with sudden vehemence.
"He is, sir!"
"I will go and see Norman. I see by the papers he is in some trouble."
"I fear he is, sir. His bank has been declining."
"Perhaps you can help him?" His face lit up. "You remember, he once wrote you--a long time ago?"
"I remember; I have repaid that," said Keith, quickly. "He has treated me very badly." He gave a brief account of the trouble between them.
The old General leant back and looked at his son intently. His face was very grave and showed that he was reflecting deeply.
"Gordon," he said presently, "the Devil is standing very close to you. A real misunderstanding should always be cleared up. You must go to him."
"What do you mean, sir?" asked his son, in some confusion.
"You are at the parting of the ways. A gentleman cannot hesitate. Such a debt never can be paid by a gentleman," he said calmly. "You must help him, even if you cannot restore the old place. Elphinstone has gone for a debt before." He rose as if there was nothing more to be said. "Well, I will go and wait for you at your rooms." He walked out.
Keith sat and reflected. How different he was from his father! How different from what he had been years ago! Then he had had an affection for the old home and all that it represented. He had worked with the idea of winning it back some day. It had been an inspiration to him. But now it was wealth that he had begun to seek.
It came to him clearly how much he had changed. The process all lay before him. It had grown with his success, and had kept pace with it in an almost steady ratio since he had set success before him as a goal. He was angry with himself to find that he was thinking now of success merely as Wealth. Once he had thought of Honor and Achievement, even of Duty. He remembered when he had not hesitated to descend into what appeared the very jaws of death, because it seemed to him his duty. He wondered if he would do the same now.
He felt that this was a practical view which he was now taking of life. He was now a practical man; yes, practical like old Kestrel, said his better self. He felt that he was not as much of a gentleman as he used to be. He was further from his father; further from what Norman was. This again brought Norman to his mind. If the rumors which he had heard were true, Norman was now in a tight place.
As his father had said, perhaps he might be able to help him. But why should he do it? If Norman had helped him in the past, had he not already paid him back? And had not Norman treated him badly of late without the least cause--met his advances with a rebuff? No; he would show him that he was not to be treated so. He still had a small account in Norman's bank, which he had not drawn out because he had not wished to let Norman see that he thought enough of his coldness to make any change; but he would put his money now into old Creamer's bank. After looking at his drafts again, he unlocked his door and went out on the street.
There was more commotion on the street than he had seen in some days. Men were hurrying at a quicker pace than the rapid gait which was always noticeable in that thoroughfare. Groups occasionally formed and, after a word or two, dispersed. Newsboys were crying extras and announcing some important news in an unintelligible jargon. Messengers were dashing about, rushing in and out of the big buildings. Something unusual was evidently going on. As Keith, on his way to the bank of which Mr. Creamer was president, passed the mouth of the street in which Norman's office was situated, he looked down and saw quite a crowd assembled. The street was full. He passed on, however, and went into the big building, on the first floor of which Creamer's bank had its offices. He walked through to the rear of the office, to the door of Mr. Creamer's private office, and casually asked the nearest clerk for Mr. Creamer. The young man said he was engaged. Keith, however, walked up to the door, and was about to knock, when, at a word spoken by his informant, another clerk came hastily forward and said that Mr. Creamer was very busily engaged and could see no one.
"Well, he will see me," said Keith, feeling suddenly the courage that the possession of over a quarter of a million dollars gave, and he boldly knocked on the door, and, without waiting to be invited in, opened it.
Mr. Creamer was sitting at his desk, and two or three other men, one or two of whom Keith had seen before, were seated in front of him in close conference. They stared at the intruder.
"Mr. Keith." Mr. Creamer's tone conveyed not the least feeling, gave no idea either of welcome or surprise.
"Excuse me for interrupting you for a moment," said Keith. "I want to open an account here. I have a draft on London, which I should like to deposit and have you collect for me."
The effect was immediate; indeed, one might almost say magical. The atmosphere of the room as suddenly changed as if May should be dropped into the lap of December. The old banker's face relaxed. He touched a bell under the lid of his desk, and at the same moment pushed back his chair.
"Gentlemen, let me introduce my friend, Mr. Keith." He presented Keith in turn to each of his companions, who greeted him with that degree of mingled reserve and civility which is due to a man who has placed a paper capable of effecting such a marked change in the hands of the most self-contained banker in Bankers' Row.
A tap at the door announced an answer to the bell, and the next moment a clerk came in.
"Ask Mr. Penwell to come here," said Mr. Creamer. "Mr. Penwell is the head of our foreign department," he added in gracious explanation to Keith.
"Mr. Keith, gentlemen, is largely interested in some of those Southern mining properties that you have heard me speak of; and has just put through a very fine deal with an English syndicate."
The door opened, and a cool-looking, slender man of fifty-odd, with a thin gray face, thin gray hair very smoothly brushed, and keen gray eyes, entered. He was introduced to Mr. Keith. After Mr. Creamer had stated the purpose of Keith's visit and had placed the drafts in Mr. Penwell's hands, the latter stated, as an interesting item just off the ticker, that he understood Wentworth was in trouble. Some one had just come and said that there was a run on his bank.
"Those attacks on him in the newspapers must have hurt him considerably," observed one of the visitors.
"Yes, he has been a good deal hurt," said Mr. Creamer. "We are all right, Penwell?" He glanced at his subordinate.
Mr. Penwell nodded with deep satisfaction.
"So are we," said one of the visitors. "This is the end of Wentworth & Son. He will go down."
"He has been going down for some time. Wife too extravagant."
This appeared to be the general opinion. But Keith scarcely heard the speakers. He stood in a maze.
The announcement of Norman's trouble had come to him like a thunder-clap. And he was standing now as in a dream. Could it be possible that Norman was going to fail? And if he failed, would this be all it meant to these men who had known him always?
The vision of an old gentleman sitting in his home, which he had lost, came back to him across the years.
"That young man is a gentleman," he heard him say. "It takes a gentleman to write such a letter to a friend in misfortune. Write to him and say we will never forget his kindness." He heard the same old gentleman say, after years of poverty, "You must pay your debt though I give up Elphinstone."
Was he not now forgetting Norman's kindness? But was it not too late? Could he save him? Would he not simply be throwing away his money to offer it to him? Suddenly again, he seemed to hear his father's voice:
"The Devil is standing close behind you. You are at the parting of the ways. A gentleman cannot hesitate."
"Mr. Creamer," he said suddenly, "why don't Norman Wentworth's friends come to his rescue and help him out of his difficulties?"
The question might have come from the sky, it was so unexpected. It evidently caught the others unprepared with an answer. They simply smiled vaguely. Mr. Creamer said presently, rubbing his chin:
"Why, I don't suppose they know the extent of his difficulties."
"And I guess he has no collateral to offer?" said another.
"Collateral! No; everything he has is pledged."
"But I mean, why don't they lend him money without collateral, if necessary, to tide him over his trouble? He is a man of probity. He has lived here all his life. He must have many friends able to help him. They know that if he had time to realize on his properties he would probably pull through."
With one accord the other occupants of the room turned and looked at Keith.
"Did you say you had made a fortune in mining deals?" asked one of the gentlemen across the table, gazing at Keith through his gold-rimmed glasses with a wintry little smile.
"No, I did not. Whatever was said on that subject Mr. Creamer said."
"Oh! That's so. He did. Well, you are the sort of a man we want about here."
This remark was received with some amusement by the others; but Keith passed it by, and turned to Mr. Creamer.
"Mr. Creamer, how much money will you give me on this draft? This is mine. The other I wish to deposit here."
"Why, I don't know just what the exchange would be. What is the exchange on this, Penwell?"
"Will you cash this draft for me?" asked Keith.
"Certainly."
"Well, will you do me a further favor? It might make very little difference if I were to make a deposit in Norman's bank; but if you were to make such a deposit there, it would probably reassure people, and the run might be stopped. I have known of one or two instances."
Mr. Creamer agreed, and the result was a sort of reaction in Norman's favor, in sentiment if not in action. It was arranged that Keith should go and make a deposit, and that Mr. Creamer should send a man to make a further one and offer Wentworth aid.
When Gordon Keith reached the block on which stood Norman's bank, the street was already filled with a dense crowd, pushing, growling, complaining, swearing, threatening. It was evidently a serious affair, and Keith, trying to make his way through the mob, heard many things about Norman which he never could have believed it would have been possible to hear. The crowd was in an ugly mood, and was growing uglier. A number of policemen were trying to keep the people in line so that they could take their turn. Keith found it impossible to make his way to the front. His explanation that he wished to make a deposit was greeted with shouts of derision.
"Stand back there, young man. We've heard that before; you can't work that on us. We would all like to make deposits--somewhere else."
"Except them what's already made 'em," some one added, at which there was a laugh.
Keith applied to a policeman with hardly more success, until he opened the satchel he carried, and mentioned the name of the banker who was to follow him. On this the officer called another, and after a hurried word the two began to force their way through the crowd, with Keith between them. By dint of commanding, pushing, and explaining, they at length reached the entrance to the bank, and finally made their way, hot and perspiring, to the counter. A clerk was at work at every window counting out money as fast as checks were presented.
Just before Keith reached the counter, on glancing through an open door, he saw Norman sitting at his desk, white and grim. His burning eyes seemed deeper than ever. He glanced up, and Keith thought he caught his gaze on him, but he was not sure, for he looked away so quickly. The next moment he walked around inside the counter and spoke to a clerk, who opened a ledger and gave him a memorandum. Then he came forward and spoke to a teller at the receiving-window.
"Do you know that man with the two policemen? That is Mr. Gordon Keith. Here is his balance; pay it to him as soon as he reaches the window."
The teller, bending forward, gazed earnestly out of the small grated window over the heads of those nearest him. Keith met his gaze, and the teller nodded. Norman turned away without looking, and seated himself on a chair in the rear of the bank.
When Keith reached the window, the white-faced teller said immediately:
"Your balance, Mr. Keith, is so much; you have a check?" He extended his hand to take it.
"No," said Keith; "I have not come to draw out any money. I have come to make a deposit."
The teller was so much astonished that he simply ejaculated:
"Sir--?"
"I wish to make a deposit," said Keith, raising his voice a little, and speaking with great distinctness.
His voice had the quality of carrying, and a silence settled on the crowd,--one of those silences that sometimes fall, even on a mob, when the wholly unexpected happens,--so that every word that was spoken was heard distinctly.
"Ah--we are not taking deposits to-day," said the astonished teller, doubtfully.
Keith smiled.
"Well, I suppose there is no objection to doing so? I have an account in this bank, and I wish to add to it. I am not afraid of it."
The teller gazed at him in blank amazement; he evidently thought that Keith was a little mad. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing from sheer astonishment.
"I have confidence enough in this bank," pursued Keith, "to put my money here, and here I propose to put it, and I am not the only one; there will be others here in a little while."
"I shall--really, I shall have to ask Mr. Wentworth," faltered the clerk.
"Mr. Wentworth has nothing to do with it," said Keith, positively, and to close the discussion, he lifted his satchel through the window, and, turning it upside down, emptied before the astonished teller a pile of bills which made him gasp. "Enter that to my credit," said Keith.
"How much is it?"
The sum that Keith mentioned made him gasp yet more. It was up in the hundreds of thousands.
"There will be more here in a little while." He turned his head and glanced toward the door. "Ah, here comes some one now," he said, as he recognized one of the men whom he had recently left at the council board, who was then pushing his way forward, under the guidance of several policemen.
The amount deposited by the banker was much larger than Keith had expected, and a few well-timed words to those about him had a marked effect upon the depositors. He said their apprehension was simply absurd. They, of course, had the right to draw out their money, if they wished it, and they would get it, but he advised them to go home and wait to do so until the crowd dispersed. The bank was perfectly sound, and they could not break it unless they could also break its friends.
A few of the struggling depositors dropped out of line, some of the others saying that, as they had waited so long, they guessed they would get their money now.
The advice given, perhaps, had an added effect, as at that moment a shriek arose from a woman near the door, who declared that her pocket had been picked of the money she had just drawn.
The arrival of the new depositors, and the spreading through the crowd of the information that they represented several of the strongest banks in the city, quieted the apprehensions of the depositors, and a considerable number of them abandoned the idea of drawing out their money and went off. Though many of them remained, it was evident that the dangerous run had subsided. A notice was posted on the front door of the bank that the bank would remain open until eight o'clock and would be open the following morning at eight, which had something to do with allaying the excitement of the depositors.
That afternoon Keith went back to the bank. Though depositors were still drawing out their money, the scene outside was very different from that which he had witnessed earlier in the day. Keith asked for Mr. Wentworth, and was shown to his room. When Keith entered, Norman was sitting at his desk figuring busily. Keith closed the door behind him and waited. The lines were deep on Norman's face; but the hunted look it had borne in the morning had passed away, and grim resolution had taken its place. When at length he glanced up, his already white face grew yet whiter. The next second a flush sprang to his cheeks; he pushed back his chair and rose, and, taking one step forward, stretched out his hand.
"Keith!"
Keith took his hand with a grip that drove the blood from the ends of Norman's fingers.
"Norman!"
Norman drew a chair close to his desk, and Keith sat down. Norman sank into his, looked down on the floor for a second, then, raising his eyes, looked full into Keith's eyes.
"Keith--?" His voice failed him; he glanced away, reached over, and took up a paper lying near, and the next instant leant forward, and folding his arms on the desk, dropped his head on them, shaken with emotion.
Keith rose from his chair, and bending over him, laid his hand on his head, as he might have done to a younger brother.
"Don't, Norman," he said helplessly; "it is all right." He moved his hand down Norman's arm with a touch as caressing as if he had been a little child, but all he said was: "Don't, Norman; it is all right."
Suddenly Norman sat up.
"It is all wrong!" he said bitterly. "I have been a fool. I had no right--. But I was mad! I have wrecked my life. But I was insane. I was deceived. I do not know even now how it happened. I ought to have known, but--I learned only just now. I can never explain. I ask your pardon humbly."
Keith leant forward and laid his hand upon him affectionately.
"There, there! You owe me no apology, and I ask no explanation; it was all a great mistake."
"Yes, and all my fault. She was not to blame; it was my folly. I drove her to--desperation."
"I want to ask just one thing. Was it Ferdy Wickersham who made you believe I had deceived you?" asked Keith, standing straight above him.
"In part--mainly. But I was mad." He drew his hand across his forehead, sat back in his chair, and, with eyes averted, sighed deeply. His thoughts were evidently far from Keith. Keith's eyes rested on him, and his face paled a little with growing resolution.
"One question, Norman. Pardon me for asking it. My only reason is that I would give my life, a worthless life you once saved, to see you as you once were. I know more than you think I know. You love her still? I know you must."
Norman turned his eyes and let them rest on Keith's face. They were filled with anguish.
"Better than my life. I adore her."
Keith drew in his breath with a long sigh of relief and of content.
"Oh, I have no hope," Norman went on despairingly. "I gave her every right to doubt it. I killed her love. I do not blame her. It was all my fault. I know it now, when it is too late."
"It is not too late."
Norman shook his head, without even looking at Keith.
"Too late," he said, speaking to himself.
Keith rose to his feet.
"It is not too late," he declared, with a sudden ring in his voice; "she loves you."
Norman shook his head.
"She hates me; I deserve it."
"In her heart she adores you," said Keith, in a tone of conviction.
Norman turned away with a half-bitter laugh.
"You don't know."
"I do know, and you will know it, too. How long shall you be here?"
"I shall spend the night here," said Norman. "I must be ready for whatever may happen to-morrow morning.--I have not thanked you yet." He extended his hand to Keith. "You stemmed the tide for me to-day. I know what it must have cost you. I cannot regret it, and I know you never will; and I beg you to believe that, though I go down to-morrow, I shall never forget it, and if God spares me, I will repay you."
Keith's eyes rested on him calmly.
"You paid me long ago, Norman. I was paying a debt to-day, or trying to pay one, in a small way. It was not I who made that deposit to-day, but a better man and a finer gentleman than I can ever hope to be--my father. It was he who inspired me to do that; he paid that debt."
From what Keith had heard, he felt that he was justified in going to see Mrs. Wentworth. Possibly, it was not too late; possibly, he might be able to do something to clear away the misapprehension under which she labored, and to make up the trouble between her and Norman. Norman still loved her dearly, and Keith believed that she cared for him. Lois Huntington always declared that she did, and she could not have been deceived.
That she had been foolish Keith knew; that she had been wicked he did not believe. She was self-willed, vain, extravagant; but deep under her cold exterior burned fires of which she had once or twice given him a glimpse; and he believed that her deepest feeling was ever for Norman.
When he reached Mrs. Wentworth's house he was fortunate enough to find her at home. He was shown into the drawing-room.
When Mrs. Wentworth entered the room, Keith was conscious of a change in her since he had seen her last. She, too, had heard the clangor of the evil tongues that had connected their names. She greeted him with cordial words, but her manner was constrained, and her expression was almost suspicious.
She changed, however, under Keith's imperturbable and unfeigned friendliness, and suddenly asked him if he had seen Norman. For the first time real interest spoke in her voice and shone in her face. Keith said he had seen him.
"I have come to see if I could not help you. Perhaps, I may be able to do something to set things right."
"No--it is too late. Things have gone too far. We have just drifted--drifted!" She flung up her hands and tossed them apart with a gesture of despair. "Drifted!" she repeated. She put her handkerchief to her eyes.
Keith watched her in silence for a moment, and then rising, he seated himself beside her.
"Come--this is all wrong--all wrong!" He caught her by the wrist and firmly took her hand down from her eyes, much as an older brother might have done. "I want to talk to you. Perhaps, I can help you--I may have been sent here for the purpose--who knows? At least, I want to help you. Now tell me." He looked into her face with grave, kind eyes. "You do not care for Ferdy Wickersham? That would be impossible."
"No, of course not,--except as a friend,--and Norman liked another woman--your friend!" Her eyes flashed a sudden flame.
"Never! never!" repeated Keith, after a pause. "Norman is not that sort."
His absolute certainty daunted her.
"He did. I have reason to think--" she began. But Keith put her down.
"Never! I would stake my salvation on it."
"He is going to get a--try to get a divorce. He is willing to blacken my name."
"What! Never."
"But you do not know the reasons I have for saying so," she protested. "If I could tell you--"
"No, and I do not care. Doubt your own senses rather than believe that. Ferdy Wickersham is your authority for that."
"No, he is not--not my only authority. You are all so hard on Ferdy. He is a good friend of mine."
"He is not," asserted Keith. "He is your worst enemy--your very worst. He is incapable of being a friend."
"What have you against him?" she demanded. "I know you and he don't like each other, but--"
"Well, for one thing, he deceived a poor girl, and then abandoned her--and--"
"Perhaps, your information is incorrect? You know how easy it is to get up a slander, and such women are--not to be believed. They always pretend that they have been deceived."
"She was not one of 'such women,'" said Keith, calmly. "She was a perfectly respectable woman, and the granddaughter of an old friend of mine."
"Well, perhaps, you may have been misinformed?"
"No; I have the evidence that Wickersham married her--and--"
"Oh, come now--that is absurd! Ferdy married! Why, Ferdy never cared enough for any one to marry her--unless she had money. He has paid attention to a rich woman, but--You must not strain my credulity too far. I really thought you had something to show against him. Of course, I know he is not a saint,--in fact, very far from it,--but he does not pretend to be. But, at least, he is not a hypocrite."
"He is a hypocrite and a scoundrel," declared Keith, firmly. "He is married, and his wife is living now. He abandoned her, and she is insane. I know her."
"You know her! Ferdy married!" She paused in wonder. His certainty carried conviction with it.
"I have his marriage certificate."
"You have?" A sort of amaze passed over her face.
He took out the paper and gave it to her. She gazed at it with staring eyes. "That is his hand." She rose with a blank face, and walked to the window; then, after a moment, came back and sat down. She had the expression of a person lost. "Tell me about it."
Keith told her. He also told her of Norman's losses.
Again that look of amazement crossed her face; her eyes became almost blank.
"Norman's fortune impaired! I cannot understand it--hetold me--Oh, there must be some mistake!" she broke out vehemently. "You are deceiving me. No! I don't mean that, of course,--I know you would not,--but you have been deceived yourself." Her face was a sudden white.
Keith shook his head. "No!"
"Why, look here. He cannot be hard up. He has kept up my allowance and met every demand--almost every demand--I have made on him." She was grasping at straws.
"And Ferdy Wickersham has spent it in Wall Street."
"What! No, he has not! There, at least, you do him an injustice. What he has got from me he has invested securely. I have all the papers--at least, some of them."
"How has he invested it?"
"Partly in a mine called the 'Great Gun Mine,' in New Leeds. Partly in Colorado.--I can help Norman with it." Her face brightened as the thought came to her.
Keith shook his head.
"The Great Gun Mine is a fraud--at least, it is worthless, not worth five cents on the dollar of what has been put in it. It was flooded years ago. Wickersham has used it as a mask for his gambling operations in Wall Street, but has not put a dollar into it for years; and now he does not even own it. His creditors have it."
Her face had turned perfectly white.
A look, partly of pity for her, partly of scorn for Wickersham, crossed Keith's face. He rose and strode up and down the room in perplexity.
"He is a common thief," he said sternly--"beneath contempt!"
His conviction suddenly extended to her. When he looked at her, she showed in her face that she believed him. Her last prop had fallen. The calamity had made her quiet.
"What shall I do?" she asked hopelessly.
"You must tell Norman."
"Oh!"
"Make a clean breast of it."
"You do not know Norman! How can I? He would despise me so! You do not know how proud he is. He--!" Words failed her, and she stared at Keith helplessly.
"If I do not know Norman, I know no one on earth. Go to him and tell him everything. It will be the happiest day of his life--your salvation and his."
"You think so?"
"I know it."
She relapsed into thought, and Keith waited.
"I was to see Fer--Mr. Wickersham to-night," she began presently. "He asked me to supper to meet some friends--the Count and Countess Torelli."
Keith smiled. A fine scorn came into his eyes.
"Where does he give the dinner? At what hour?"
She named the place--a fashionable restaurant up-town. The time was still several hours away.
"You must go to Norman."
She sat in deep reflection.
"It is your only chance--your only hope. Give me authority to act for you, and go to him. He needs you."
"If I thought he would forgive me?" she said in a low tone.
"He will. I have just come from him. Write me the authority and go at once."
A light appeared to dawn in her face.
She rose suddenly.
"What shall I write?"
"Write simply that I have full authority to act for you--and that you have gone to Norman."
She walked into the next room, and seating herself at an escritoire, she wrote for a short time. When she handed the paper to Keith it contained just what he had requested: a simple statement to F.C. Wickersham that Mr. Keith had full authority to represent her and act for her as he deemed best.
"Will that do?" she asked.
"I think so," said Keith. "Now go. Norman is waiting."
For some time after Keith left her Mrs. Wentworth sat absolutely motionless, her eyes half closed, her lips drawn tight, in deep reflection. Presently she changed her seat and ensconced herself in the corner of a divan, leaning her head on her hand; but her expression did not change. Her mind was evidently working in the same channel. A tumult raged within her breast, but her face was set sphinx-like, inscrutable. Just then there was a scurry up-stairs; a boy's voice was heard shouting:
"See here, what papa sent us."
There was an answering shout, and then an uproar of childish delight. A sudden change swept over her. Light appeared to break upon her. Something like courage came into her face, not unmingled with tenderness, softening it and dispelling the gloom which had clouded it. She rose suddenly and walked with a swift, decisive step out of the room and up the richly carpeted stairs. To a maid on the upper floor she said hurriedly: "Tell Fenderson to order the brougham--at once," and passed into her chamber.
Closing the door, she locked it. She opened a safe built in the wall; a package of letters fell out into the room. A spasm almost of loathing crossed her face. She picked up the letters and began to tear them up with almost violence, throwing the fragments into the grate as though they soiled her hands. Going back to the safe, she took out box after box of jewelry, opening them to glance in and see that the jewels were there. Yes, they were there: a pearl necklace; bracelets which had been the wonder of her set, and which her pretended friend and admirer had once said were worth as much as her home. She put them all into a bag, together with several large envelopes containing papers.
Then she went to a dress-closet, and began to search through it, choosing, finally, a simple, dark street dress, by no means one of the newest. A gorgeous robe, which had been laid out for her to wear, she picked up and flung on the floor with sudden loathing. It was the gown she had intended to wear that night.
A tap at the door, and the maid's mild voice announced the carriage; and a few minutes later Mrs. Wentworth descended the stairs.
"Tell Mademoiselle Clarisse that Mr. Wentworth will be here this evening to see the children."
"Yes, madam." The maid's quiet voice was too well trained to express the slightest surprise, but as soon as the outer door had closed on her mistress, and she had heard the carriage drive away, she rushed down to the lower storey to convey the astounding intelligence, and to gossip over it for half an hour before she deemed it necessary to give the message to the governess who had succeeded Lois when the latter went home.
It was just eight o'clock that evening when the carriage drove up to the door of Norman Wentworth's bank, and a lady enveloped in a long wrap, her dark veil pulled down over her face, sprang out and ran up the steps. The crowd had long ago dispersed, though now and then a few timid depositors still made their way into the bank, to be on the safe side.
The intervention of the banks and the loans they had made that afternoon had stayed the run and saved the bank from closing; but Norman Wentworth knew that if he was not ruined, his bank had received a shock from which it would not recover in a long time, and his fortune was crippled, he feared, almost beyond repair. The tired clerks looked up as the lady entered the bank, and, with glances at the clock, muttered a few words to each other about her right to draw money after the closing-hour had passed. When, however, she walked past their windows and went straight to Mr. Wentworth's door, their interest increased.
Norman, with his books before him, was sitting back in his chair, his head leaning back and resting in his clasped hands, deep in thought upon the gloom of the present and the perplexities of the future, when there was a tap at the door.
With some impatience he called to the person to enter.
The door opened, and Norman could scarcely believe his senses. For a second he did not even sit forward. He did not stir; he simply remained sitting back in his chair, his face turned to the door, his eyes resting on the figure before him in vague amazement. The next second, with a half-cry, his wife was on her knees beside him, her arms about him, her form shaken with sobs. He sat forward slowly, and his arm rested on her shoulders.
"There! don't cry," he said slowly; "it might be worse."
But all she said was:
"Oh, Norman! Norman!"
He tried to raise her, with grave words to calm her; but she resisted, and clung to him closer.
"It is not so bad; it might be worse," he repeated.
She rose suddenly to her feet and flung back her veil.
"Can you forgive me? I have come to beg your forgiveness on my knees. I have been mad--mad. I was deceived. No! I will not say that--I was crazy--a fool! But I loved you always, you only. You will forgive me? Say you will."
"There, there! Of course I will--I do. I have been to blame quite as much--more than you. I was a fool."
"Oh, no, no! You shall not say that; but you will believe that I loved you--you only--always! You will believe this? I was mad."
He raised her up gently, and with earnest words reassured her, blaming himself for his harshness and folly.
She suddenly opened her bag and emptied the contents out on his desk.
"There! I have brought you these."
Her husband gazed in silent astonishment.
"I don't understand."
"They are for you," she said--"for us. To payourdebts. To help you." She pulled off her glove and began to take off her diamond rings.
"They will not go a great way," said Norman, with a smile of indulgence.
"Well, as far as they will go they shall go. Do you think I will keep anything I have when you are in trouble--when your good name is at stake? The house--everything shall go. It is all my fault. I have been a wicked, silly fool; but I did not know--I ought to have known; but I did not. I do not see how I could have been so blind and selfish."
"Oh, don't blame yourself. I have not blamed you," said Norman, soothingly. "Of course, you did not know. How could you? Women are not expected to know about those things."
"Yes, they are," insisted Mrs. Wentworth. "If I had not been such a fool I might have seen. It is all plain to me now. Your harassment--my folly--it came to me like a stroke of lightning."
Norman's eyes were on her with a strange inquiring look in them.
"How did you hear?" he asked.
"Mr. Keith--he came to me and told me."
"I wish he had not done it. I mean, I did not want you troubled. You were not to blame. You were deceived."
"Oh, don't say that! I shall never cease to thank him. He tore the veil away, and I saw what a heartless, vain, silly fool I have been." Norman put his hand on her soothingly. "But I have never forgotten that I was your wife, nor ceased to love you," she went on vehemently.
"I believe it."
"I have come to confess everything to you--all my folly--all my extravagance--my insane folly. But what I said just now is true: I have never forgotten that I was your wife."
Norman, with his arm supporting her, reassured her with comforting words, and, sustained by his confidence, she told him of her folly in trusting Ferdy Wickersham: of her giving him her money--of everything.
"Can you forgive me?" she asked after her shamefaced recital.
"I will never think of that again," said Norman, "and if I do, it will be with gratitude that they have played their part in doing away with the one great sorrow of my life and bringing back the happiness of my youth, the one great blessing that life holds for me."
"I have come to take you home," she said; "to ask you to come back, if you will but forgive me." She spoke humbly.
Norman's face gave answer even before he could master himself to speak. He stretched out his hand, and drew her to him. "I am at home now. Wherever you are is my home."
When Norman came out of his private office, there was such a change in him that the clerks who had remained at the bank thought that he must have received some great aid from the lady who had been closeted with him so long. He had a few brief words with the cashier, explaining that he would be back at the bank before eight o'clock in the morning, and saying good night, hurried to the door after Mrs. Wentworth. Handing her into the carriage, he ordered the coachman to drive home, and, springing in after her, he closed the door behind him, and they drove off.
Keith, meantime, had not been idle. After leaving Mrs. Wentworth, he drove straight to a detective agency. Fortunately the chief was in, and Keith was ushered into his private office immediately. He was a quiet-looking, stout man, with a gray moustache and keen dark eyes. He might have been a moderately successful merchant or official, but for the calmness of his manner and the low tones of his voice. Keith came immediately to the point.
"I have a piece of important work on hand this evening," he said, "of a private and delicate nature." The detective's look was acquiescent. "Could I get Dennison?"
"I think so."
Keith stated his case. At the mention of Wickersham's name a slight change--the very slightest--flickered across the detective's calm face. Keith could not tell whether it was mere surprise or whether it was gratification.
"Now you see precisely what I wish," he said, as he finished stating the case and unfolding his plan. "It may not be necessary for him even to appear, but I wish him to be on hand in case I should need his service. If Wickersham does not accede to my demand, I shall arrest him for the fraud I have mentioned. If he does accede, I wish Dennison to accompany him to the boat of the South American Line that sails to-morrow morning, and not leave him until the pilot comes off. I do not apprehend that he will refuse when he knows the hand that I hold."
"No, he will not. He knows what would happen if proceedings were started," said the detective. "Excuse me a moment." He walked out of the office, closing the door behind him, and a few minutes later returned with David Dennison.
"Mr. Keith, this is Mr. John Dimm. I have explained to him the nature of the service you require of him." He looked at Mr. Dimm, who simply nodded his acquiescence. "You will take your orders from Mr. Keith, should anything arise to change his plans, and act accordingly."
"I know him," said Keith, amused at the cool professional air with which his old friend greeted him in the presence of his principal.
Dave simply blinked; but his eyes had a fire in them.
It was arranged that Dennison should precede Keith to the place he had mentioned and order a supper there, while Keith should get the ticket at the steamship office and then follow him. So when Keith had completed his arrangements, he found Dennison at supper at a table near the ladies' entrance, a view of which he commanded in a mirror just before him. Mr. Dimm's manner had entirely changed. He was a man of the world and a host as he handed Keith to his seat.
"A supper for two has been ordered in private dining-room 21, for 9:45," he said in an undertone as the waiter moved off. "They do not know whether it is for a gentleman and a lady, or two gentlemen; but I suppose it is for a lady, as he has been here a number of times with ladies. If you are sure that the lady will not come, you might wait for him there. I will remain here until he comes, and follow him up, in case you need me."
Keith feared that the waiter might mention his presence.
"Oh, no; he knows us," said Dave, with a faint smile at the bare suggestion.
Mr. Dimm called the head-waiter and spoke to him in an undertone. The waiter himself showed Keith up to the room, where he found a table daintily set with two covers.
The champagne-cooler, filled with ice, was already on the floor beside the table. Keith looked at it grimly. The curtains of the window were down, and Keith walked over to see on what street the window looked. It was a deep embrasure. The shade was drawn down, and he raised it, to find that the window faced on a dead-wall. At the moment the door opened and he heard Wickersham's voice.
"No one has come yet?"
"No, sir, not as I knows of," stammered the waiter. "I have just come on."
"Where is Jacques, the man who usually waits on me?" demanded Wickersham, half angrily.
"Jacques est souffrant. Il est très malade."
Wickersham grunted. "Well, take this," he said, "and remember that if you serve me properly there will be a good deal more to follow."
The waiter thanked him profusely.
"Now, get down and be on the lookout, and when a lady comes and asks for 21, show her up immediately. If she asks who is here, tell her two gentlemen and a lady. You understand?"
The waiter bowed his assent and retired. Wickersham came in and closed the door behind him.
He had just thrown his coat on a chair, laid his hat on the mantelpiece, and was twirling his moustache at the mirror above it, when he caught sight in the mirror of Keith. Keith had stepped out behind him from the recess, and was standing by the table, quietly looking at him. He gave an exclamation and turned quickly.
"Hah! What is this? You here! What are you doing here? There is some mistake." He glanced at the door.
"No, there is no mistake," said Keith, advancing; "I am waiting for you."
"For me! Waiting for me?" he demanded, mystified.
"Yes. Did you not tell the waiter just now a gentleman was here? I confess you do not seem very pleased to see me."
"You have read my looks correctly," said Wickersham, who was beginning to recover himself, and with it his scornful manner. "You are the last person on earth I wish to see--ever. I do not know that I should weep if I never had that pleasure again."
Keith bowed.
"I think it probable. You may, hereafter, have even less cause for joy at meeting me."
"Impossible," said Wickersham.
Keith put his hand on a chair, and prepared to sit down, motioning Wickersham to take the other seat.
"The lady you are waiting for will not be here this evening," he said, "and it may be that our interview will be protracted."
Wickersham passed by the last words.
"What lady? Who says I am waiting for a lady?"
"You said so at the door just now. Besides, I say so."
"Oh! You were listening, were you?" he sneered.
"Yes; I heard it."
"How do you know she will not be here? What do you know about it?"
"I know that she will no more be here than the Countess Torelli will," said Keith. He was looking Wickersham full in the face and saw that the shot went home.
"What do you want?" demanded Wickersham. "Why are you here? Are you after money or a row?"
"I want you--I want you, first, to secure all of Mrs. Wentworth's money that you have had, or as much as you can."
Wickersham was so taken aback that his dark face turned almost white, but he recovered himself quickly.
"You are a madman, or some one has been deceiving you. You are the victim of a delusion."
Keith, with his eyes fastened on him, shook his head.
"Oh, no; I am not."
A look of perplexed innocence came over Wickersham's face.
"Yes, you are," he said, in an almost friendly tone. "You are the victim of some hallucination. I give you my word, I do not know even what you are talking about. I should say you were engaged in blackmail--" The expression in his eyes changed like a flash, but something in Keith's eyes, as they met his, caused him to add, "if I did not know that you were a man of character. I, too, am a man of character, Mr. Keith. I want you to know it." Keith's eyes remained calm and cold as steel. Wickersham faltered. "I am a man of means--of large means. I am worth--. My balance in bank this moment is--is more than you will ever be worth. Now I want to ask you why, in the name of Heaven, should I want anything to do with Mrs. Wentworth's money?"
"If you have such a balance in bank," said Keith, "it will simplify my mission, for you will doubtless be glad to return Mr. Wentworth's money that you have had from Mrs. Wentworth. I happen to know that his money will come in very conveniently for Norman just now."
"Oh, you come from Wentworth, do you?" demanded Wickersham.
"No; from Mrs. Wentworth," returned Keith.
"Did she send you?" Wickersham shot at Keith a level glance from under his half-closed lids.
"I offered to come. She knows I am here."
"What proof have I of that?"
"My statement."
"And suppose I do not please to accept your statement?"
Keith leant a little toward him over the table.
"You will accept it."
"He must hold a strong hand," thought Wickersham. He shifted his ground suddenly. "What, in the name of Heaven, are you driving at, Keith? What are you after? Come to the point."
"I will," said Keith, rising. "Let us drop our masks; they are not becoming to you, and I am not accustomed to them. I have come for several things: one of them is Mrs. Wentworth's money, which you got from her under false pretences." He spoke slowly, and his eyes were looking in the other's eyes.
Wickersham sprang to his feet.
"What do you mean, sir?" he demanded, with an oath. "I have already told you--! I will let no man speak to me in that way."
Keith did not stir. Wickersham paused to get his breath.
"You would not dare to speak so if a lady's name were not involved, and you did not know that I cannot act as I would, for fear of compromising her."
An expression of contempt swept across Keith's face.
"Sit down," he said. "I will relieve your mind. Mrs. Wentworth is quite ready to meet any disclosures that may come. I have her power of attorney. She has gone to her husband and told him everything."
Wickersham's face whitened, and he could not repress the look of mingled astonishment and fear that stole into his eyes.
"Now, having given you that information," continued Keith, "I say that you stole Mrs. Wentworth's money, and I have come to recover it, if possible."
Wickersham rose to his feet. With a furious oath he sprang for his overcoat, and, snatching it up, began to feel for the pocket.
"I'll blow your brains out."
"No, you will not," said Keith, "and I advise you to make less noise. An officer is outside, and I have but to whistle to place you where nothing will help you. A warrant is out for your arrest, and I have the proof to convict you."
Wickersham, with his coat still held in one hand, and the other in the pocket, shot a glance at Keith. He was daunted by his coolness.
"You must think you hold a strong hand," he said. "But I have known them to fail."
Keith bowed.
"No doubt. This one will not fail. I have taken pains that it shall not, and I have other cards which I have not shown you. Sit down and listen to me, and you shall judge for yourself."
With a muttered oath, Wickersham walked back to his seat; but before he did so, he slipped quietly into his pocket a pistol which he took from his overcoat.
Quickly as the act was done, Keith saw it.
"Don't you think you had better put your pistol back?" he said quietly. "An officer is waiting just outside that door, a man that can neither be bullied nor bought. Perhaps, you will agree with me when I tell you that, though called Dimm, his real name is David Dennison. He has orders at the least disturbance to place you under arrest. Judge for yourself what chance you will have."
"What do you wish me to do?" asked Wickersham, sullenly.
"I wish you, first, to execute some papers which will secure to Norman Wentworth, as far as can possibly be done, the amount of money that you have gotten from Mrs. Wentworth under the pretence of investing it for her in mines. Mrs. Wentworth's name will not be mentioned in this instrument. The money was her husband's, and you knew it, and you knew it was impairing his estate to furnish it. Secondly, I require that you shall leave the country to-morrow morning. I have arranged for passage for you, on a steamer sailing before sunrise."
"Thank you," sneered Wickersham. "Really, you are very kind."
"Thirdly, you will sign a paper which contains only a few of the facts, but enough, perhaps, to prevent your returning to this country for some years to come."
Wickersham leant across the table and burst out laughing.
"And you really think I will do that? How old do you think I am? Why did you not bring me a milk-bottle and a rattle? You do my intellect a great deal of honor."
For answer Keith tapped twice on a glass with the back of a knife. The next second the door opened, and Dave Dennison entered, impassive, but calmly observant, and with a face set like rock.
At sight of him Wickersham's face whitened.
"One moment, Dave," said Keith; "wait outside a moment more."
Dennison bowed and closed the door. The latch clicked, but the knob did not settle back.
"I will give you one minute in which to decide," said Keith. He drew from his pocket and threw on the table two papers. "There are the papers." He took out his watch and waited.
Wickersham picked up the papers mechanically and glanced over them. His face settled. Gambler that he was with the fortunes of men and the reputations of women, he knew that he had lost. He tried one more card--it was a poor one.
"Why are you so hard on me?" he asked, with something like a whine--a faint whine--in his voice. "You, who I used to think--whom I have known from boyhood, you have always been so hard on me! What did I ever do to you that you should have hounded me so?"
Keith's face showed that the charge had reached him, but it failed of the effect that Wickersham had hoped for. His lip curled slightly.
"I am not hard on you; I am easy on you--but not for your sake," he added vehemently. "You have betrayed every trust reposed in you. You have deceived men and betrayed women. No vow has been sacred enough to restrain you; no tie strong enough to hold you. Affection, friendship, faith, have all been trampled under your feet. You have deliberately attempted to destroy the happiness of one of the best friends you have ever had; have betrayed his trust and tried to ruin his life. If I served you right I would place you beyond the power to injure any one, forever. The reason I do not is not on your account, but because I played with you when we were boys, and because I do not know how far my personal feeling might influence me in carrying out what I still recognize as mere justice." He closed his watch. "Your time is up. Do you agree?"
"I will sign the papers," said Wickersham, sullenly.
Keith drew out a pen and handed it to him. Wickersham signed the papers slowly and deliberately.
"When did you take to writing backhand?" asked Keith.
"I have done it for several years," declared Wickersham. "I had writer's cramp once."
The expression on Keith's face was very like a sneer, but he tried to suppress it.
"It will do," he said, as he folded the papers and took another envelope from his pocket. "This is your ticket for the steamer for Buenos Ayres, which sails to-morrow morning at high tide. Dennison will go with you to a notary to acknowledge these papers, and then will show you aboard of her and will see that you remain aboard until the pilot leaves her. To-morrow a warrant will be put in the hands of an officer and an application will be made for a receiver for your property."
Wickersham leant back in his chair, with hate speaking from every line of his face.
"You will administer on my effects? I suppose you are also going to be administrator,de bonis non, of the lady in whose behalf you have exhibited such sudden interest?"
Keith's face paled and his nostrils dilated for a moment. He leant slightly forward and spoke slowly, his burning eyes fastened on Wickersham's face.
"Your statement would be equally infamous whether it were true or false. You know that it is a lie, and you know that I know it is a lie. I will let that suffice. I have nothing further to say to you." He tapped on the edge of the glass again, and Dennison walked in. "Dennison," he said, "Mr. Wickersham has agreed to my plans. He will go aboard the Buenos Ayres boat to-night. You will go with him to the office I spoke of, where he will acknowledge these papers; then you will accompany him to his home and get whatever clothes he may require, and you will not lose sight of him until you come off with the pilot."
Dennison bowed without a word; but his eyes snapped.
"If he makes any attempt to evade, or gives you any cause to think he is trying to evade, his agreement, you have your instructions."
Dennison bowed again, silently.
"I now leave you." Keith rose and inclined his head slightly toward Wickersham.
As he turned, Wickersham shot at him a Parthian arrow:
"I hope you understand, Mr. Keith, that the obligations I have signed are not the only obligations I recognize. I owe you a personal debt, and I mean to live to pay it. I shall pay it, somehow."
Keith turned and looked at him steadily.
"I understand perfectly. It is the only kind of debt, as far as I know, that you recognize. Your statement has added nothing to what I knew. It matters little what you do to me. I have, at least, saved two friends from you."
He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
As Wickersham pulled on his gloves, he glanced at Dave Dennison. But what he saw in his face deterred him from speaking. His eyes were like coals of fire.
"I am waiting," he said. "Hurry."
Wickersham walked out in silence.
The following afternoon, when Dave Dennison reported that he had left his charge on board the outgoing steamer, bound for a far South American port, Keith felt as if the atmosphere had in some sort cleared.
A few days later Phrony's worn spirit found rest. Keith, as he had already arranged, telegraphed Dr. Balsam of her death, and the Doctor went over and told Squire Rawson, at the same time, that she had been found and lost.
The next day Keith and Dave Dennison took back to the South all that remained of the poor creature who had left there a few years before in such high hopes.
One lady, closely veiled, attended the little service that old Dr. Templeton conducted in the chapel of the hospital where Phrony had passed away, before the body was taken South. Alice Lancaster had been faithful to the end in looking after her.
Phrony was buried in the Rawson lot in the little burying-ground at Ridgely, not far from the spot where lay the body of General Huntington. As Keith passed this grave he saw that flowers had been laid on it recently, but they had withered.
All the Ridge-neighborhood gathered to do honor to Phrony and to testify their sympathy for her grandfather. It was an exhibition of feeling such as Keith had not seen since he left the country. The old man appeared stronger than he had seemed for some time. He took charge and gave directions in a clear and steady voice.
When the services were over and the last word had been said, he stepped forward and raised his hand.
"I've got her back," he said. "I've got her back where nobody can take her from me again. I was mighty harsh on her; but I've done forgive her long ago--and I hope she knows it now. I heard once that the man that took her away said he didn't marry her. But--". He paused for a moment, then went on: "He was a liar. I've got the proof.--But I want you all to witness that if I ever meet him, in this world or the next, the Lord do so to me, and more also! if I don't kill him!" He paused again, and his breathing was the only sound that was heard in the deathly stillness that had fallen on the listening crowd.
"--And if any man interferes and balks me in my right," he continued slowly, "I'll have his blood. Good-by. I thank you for her." He turned back to the grave and began to smooth the sides.
Keith's eyes fell on Dave Dennison, where he stood on the outer edge of the crowd. His face was sphinx-like; but his bosom heaved twice, and Keith knew that two men waited to meet Wickersham.
As the crowd melted away, whispering among themselves, Keith crossed over and laid a rose on General Huntington's grave.