“But I don’t know,” he protested, “that is why I called on you. I want to go into the next world, Kate,” he pleaded, “with clean hands!”
“You cannot bribe your way into the next world,” intoned the voice. “If you pity the poor, you must help the poor, not that you may cheat your way into heaven, but that they may suffer less. Search your conscience. Have the courage of your conscience.”
“I don’t want to consult my conscience,” cried the old man. “I want you to tell me.” He paused, hesitating. Eager to press his question, his awe of the apparition still restrained him.
“What do you mean, Kate?” he begged. “Am I to give the money where it will do the most good—to the Hallowell Institute, or am I to give it to Helen? Which am I to do?”
There was another long silence, and then the voice stammered; “If—if you have wronged me, or my daughter, or the poor, you must make restitution.”
The hand of the old man was heard to fall heavily upon the arm of his chair. His voice rose unhappily.
“That is no answer, Kate!” he cried. “Did you come from the dead to preach to me? Tell me—what am I to do—leave my money to Helen, or to the Institute?”
The cry of the old man vibrated in the air. No voice rose to answer. “Kate!” he entreated. Still there was silence. “Speak to me!” he commanded. The silence became eloquent with momentous possibilities. So long did it endure, that the pain of the suspense was actual. The voice of Rainey, choked and hoarse with fear, broke it with an exclamation that held the sound of an oath. He muttered thickly, “What in the name of—”
He was hushed by a swift chorus of hisses. The voice of Hallowell was again uplifted.
“Why won’t she answer me?” he begged hysterically of Vance. “Can’t you—can’t the medium make her speak?”
During the last few moments the music from the organ had come brokenly. The hands upon the keys moved unsteadily, drunkenly. Now they halted altogether and in the middle of a chord the music sank and died. Upon the now absolute silence the voice of Vance, when he spoke, sounded strangely unfamiliar. It had lost the priest-like intonation. Its confidence had departed. It showed bewilderment and alarm.
“I—I don’t understand,” stammered the showman. “Ask her again. Put your question differently.”
Carefully, slowly, giving each word its value, Mr. Hallowell raised his voice in entreaty.
“Kate,” he cried, “I have made a new will, leaving the money to the poor. The old will gives it to Helen. Shall I sign the new will or not? Shall I give the money to Helen, or the Institute? Answer me! Yes or no.”
Before the eyes of all, the apparition, as though retreating to the cabinet, swayed backward, then staggered forward. There was a sob, human, heart-broken, a cry, thrilling with distress; a tumult of weeping, fierce and uncontrollable.
They saw the figure tear away the white kerchief and cap, and trample them upon the floor. They saw the figure hold itself erect. From it, the voice of Vera cried aloud, in despair.
“I can’t! I can’t!” she sobbed. “It’s a lie! I am not your sister! Turn on the lights,” the girl cried. “Turn on the lights!”
There was a crash of upturned chairs, the sound of men struggling, and the room was swept with light. In the doorway Winthrop was holding apart Vance and the reporter.
In the centre of the room stood Vera, her head bent in shame, her body shaken and trembling, her hair streaming to her waist.
As though to punish herself, by putting a climax to her humiliation, she held out her arms to Helen Coates. “You see,” she cried, “I am a cheat. I am a fraud!” She sank suddenly to her knees in front of Mr. Hallowell. “Forgive me,” she sobbed, “forgive me!”
With a cry of angry protest, Winthrop ran to her and lifted her to her feet. His eyes were filled with pity. But in the eyes of Mr. Hallowell there was no promise of pardon. With sudden strength he struggled to his feet and stood swaying, challenging those before him. His face was white with anger, his jaw closed against mercy.
“You’ve lied to me!” he cried. “You’ve tried to rob me!” He swept the room with his eyes. With a flash of intuition, he saw the trap they had laid for him. “All of you!” he screamed. “It’s a plot!” He shook his fist at the weeping girl. “And you!” he shouted hysterically, “the law shall punish you!”
Winthrop drew the girl to him and put his arm about her.
“I’ll do the punishing here,” he said.
With a glad, welcoming cry, the old man turned to him appealingly, wildly.
“Yes, you!” he shouted, “you punish them! She plotted to get my money.”
The girl at Winthrop’s side shivered, and shrank from him. He drew her back roughly and held her close. The sobs that shook her tore at his heart; the touch of the sinking, trembling body in his arms filled him with fierce, jubilant thoughts of keeping the girl there always, of giving battle for her, of sheltering her against the world. In what she had done he saw only a sacrifice. In her he beheld only a penitent, who was self-accused and self-convicted.
He heard the voice of the old man screaming vindictively, “She plotted to get my money!”
Winthrop turned upon him savagely.
“How did she plot to get it?” he retorted fiercely. “You know, and I know. I know how your lawyer, your doctor, your servant plotted to get it!” His voice rose and rang with indignation. “You all plotted, and you all schemed—and to what end—what was the result?”—he held before them the fainting figure of the girl—“That one poor child could prove she was honest!”
With his arms still about her, and her hands clinging to him, he moved with her quickly to the door. When they had reached the silence of the hall, he took her hands in his, and looked into her eyes. “Now,” he commanded, “you shall come to my sisters!”
The waiting car carried them swiftly up the avenue. Their way lay through the park, and the warm, mid-summer air was heavy with the odor of plants and shrubs. Above them the trees drooped deep with leaves. Vera, crouched in a corner, had not spoken. Her eyes were hidden in her hands. But when they had entered the silent reaches of the park she lowered them and the face she lifted to Winthrop was pale and wet with tears. The man thought never before had he seen it more lovely or more lovable. Vera shook her head dumbly and looked up at him with a troubled smile.
“I told you,” she murmured remorsefully, “you’d be sorry.”
“We don’t know that yet,” said Winthrop gently, “we’ll have all the rest of our lives to find that out.”
Startled, the girl drew back. In her face was wonder, amazement, a dawning happiness.
Without speaking, Winthrop looked at her, entreatingly, pitifully, beseeching her with his eyes.
Slowly the girl bent forward and, as he threw out his arms, with a little sigh of rest and content she crept into them and pressed her face to his.