When they had passed the edge of the village the Banker said: “I doubt
if you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew--I mean,
he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he is
practically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank.
In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stole
it.”
“I do know of this terrible thing,” she answered. “I shook hands with
him because I believe him innocent.”
“You know more than we do?” It was not a sneer; if so, too delicately
veiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopeful
inquiry.
“Mr. Mortimer could not steal--it is impossible.”
“Have you sufficient grounds for your faith--do you happen to know who
took the money, for it was stolen?”
The girl did not answer at once. At first her stand had simply been one
of implicit faith in the man she had conjured into a hero of all that
was good and noble. She had not cast about for extenuating evidence; she
had not asked herself who the guilty man was; her faith told her it
was morally impossible for Mortimer to become a thief. Now Crane's
questions, more material than the first deadening effects of Alan's
accusation, started her mind on a train of thought dealing with motive
possibilities.
She knitted her small brows, and tapping the jogging horse's quarter
with the whip sat for many minutes silently absorbed.
Her companion waited for an answer with his usual well-bred patience.
Perhaps the girl had not heard him. Perhaps she did not wish to answer a
question so unanswerable. He waited.
Mortimer, being innocent, replaced the stolen money, Allis's mind
tabulated--she tickled this thought off on the horse with her whip--it
was to shield some one. Her heart told her, his eyes had told her, that
he would have taken upon himself this great risk but for one person,
her brother. Yes, Mortimer was a hero! The horse, lazily going, jumped
a little in the traces; she had struck him a harder tap with the whip.
Allis continued her mental summing up. Why did Mortimer go to Gravesend?
It must have been to see Alan--the boy was there. If he had discovered
that the money was missing, and thought Alan had taken it, he would
do this; if he had suspected some other person he would have made the
matter known to the cashier. He did not replace the money at once,
because he hadn't it. She knew that Mortimer was poor. He had failed to
find Alan until after Lauzanne's victory; her brother had told her this
much, and that Mortimer had won a lot of money over the horse. Why he
had bet on Lauzanne she knew not; perhaps Providence had guided, had
helped him that much. But surely that was the money, his winnings, with
which he had replaced the thousand dollars.
The girl's mind had worked methodically, following sequence of action
to sequence, until finally the conviction that Mortimer had sought to
shield her brother, and chance or Providence working through herself
and Lauzanne had placed in his hands the necessary funds, came to her as
fixedly as though the whole past panorama of events lay pictured before
her eyes.
She saw all this mentally; but would it avail anything in actuality? If
the boy disclaimed guilt, as he had; if Mortimer limited his defense to
a simple denial, refusing to implicate her brother, what could she do
except give her moral support? To her it seemed such a small reward for
his heroism; her faith would not save him from the brand of felony, and
to follow out her convictions publicly she must denounce her brother,
cast upon him the odium of theft. Truly her position was one of extreme
hopelessness. Two men she loved stood before her mentally, one accused
of others as a thief, and one--her own brother--charged by her reason
with the crime.
Under the continued silence Crane grew restless; the girl, almost
oblivious of his presence, deep in the intricacies of the crime, gave no
sign of a desire to pursue the discussion.
“Of course I am anxious to clear the young man if he is innocent,”
hazarded the banker, to draw her gently back into the influence that he
felt must be of profit to himself. This assertion of Crane's was only
assimilatively truthful. As president of the bank, naturally he should
wish to punish none other than the guilty man; as a rival to Mortimer
for the girl's affection, he could not but be pleased to see the younger
man removed from his path, and in a way which would forever preclude his
aspiring to Allis's hand. Believe in Mortimer as she might, he felt sure
that she would not run counter to the inevitable wishes of her mother
and marry a man who stood publicly branded as a thief.
Allis answered his observation--he distinctly felt the vibration of pain
in her voice--with a startling depth of analytical discernment:--
“While I believe in Mortimer's innocence, and will always believe in
it, I am afraid that he has drawn such a web of circumstantial evidence
about him, trying to shield some one else, that--that--it is too
terrible!” she broke off, passionately--“he is innocent. For God's sake,
Mr. Crane”--she took the reins in her whip hand, and put her left on his
arm, pleadingly--“for God's sake, for his mother's sake, save him. You
can do it--you can believe that he is innocent, and stop everything. The
money has been paid back.”
“It isn't that, Miss Allis”--his voice was so cuttingly even after
the erratic pump of her own--“in a bank one must not have a dishonest
person. We must investigate to the end, and if Mortimer can clear
himself by fastening the crime upon the perpetrator--”
“He will never do that; he cannot if he would.”
“What can I do then, Miss Allis? But why shouldn't he?”
“Can't you see--don't you understand the man? He commenced by shielding
some one, and he will carry it through to the bitter end.”
“I am afraid there was no one to shield but himself--everything points
to this conclusion. The money was locked up, he had the keys, no one
touched them--except your brother, and that but for a minute--but if
any suspicion could attach to your brother it is all dissipated by
Mortimer's subsequent actions. It's unpleasant to even hint at such a
contingency, but if Mortimer is innocent, then your brother must be the
guilty one.”
He expected the girl to denounce indignantly such a possibility; he was
surprised that she remained silent. Her non-refutation of this deduction
told him as conclusively as though she had uttered the accusation that
she thought Alan had taken the money and Mortimer was shielding him. It
was but a phase of blind love; it was the faith women place in men they
love, of which he had read and scoffed at.
Against all evidence she was holding this man honest, believing her
brother the thief.
Surely a love like that was worth winning; no price was too great to
pay. Her very faith in Mortimer, through which she sought to save him
by inspiring Crane, determined the latter to crush utterly the man who
stood between him and this great love. Intensity of hate, or love, or
cupidity, never drew Crane out of his inherent diplomacy; he took refuge
behind the brother of Allis.
“You see,” he said, and his voice was modulated with kindness, “I can't
save Mortimer except at the expense of Alan; you would not have me
do that. Besides, it is impossible--the evidence shines as clear as
noonday.”
“If you bring this home to Mr. Mortimer you will punish him, arrest
him?”
“That would be the usual course.”
She had taken her hand off his arm; now she replaced it, and he could
feel the strong fingers press as though she would hold him to her
wishes.
“You will not do this,” she said, “for my sake you will not.”
“You ask this of me, and it is for your sake?”
“Yes, if there is no other way; if Mr. Mortimer, innocent, must take
upon himself this crime, then for my sake you will not punish him.”
The gray eyes were violet-black in their intensity.
“If I promise--” He had been going to ask for reward, but she broke in,
saying: “You will keep your word, and I will bless you.”
“Nothing more--is that all?”
The magnetism of the intense eyes broke down his reserve; he slipped
back twenty years in a second. Love touched him with a fire-wand, and
his soul ignited. Cold, passionless Philip Crane spoke in a tongue,
unfamiliar as it was to him, that carried conviction to the girl--just
the conviction that he was in earnest, that he was possessed of a
humanizing love. She listened patiently while he pleaded his cause with
much mastery. It was beyond her understanding, that, though Mortimer
through all time had spoken not at all of love to her--at least not in
the passionate words that came from this man's lips--yet she now
heard as though it were his voice and not Crane's. Love was a glorious
thing--with Mortimer.
Crane's intensity availed nothing. When he asked why she held faith to a
man who must be known for all time as a thief, her soul answered, “It is
nothing--because he is innocent.”
Because of her Crane would do anything; the matter should be dropped as
though it were all a hideous mistake. Mortimer might remain in the bank;
his employer would even try to believe him innocent, taking the girl's
protestation m conclusive proof. Her mother, her father, everyone
would demand of her, however, that she give the dishonest one up as a
possibility. Even in his vehemence he lost no delicacy of touch. Why
should she chain herself to an impossibility? It would but ruin the man
she professed to regard.
The banker made no threat, but Allis shuddered. She knew. The
narrow-lidded eyes had closed perceptibly when their owner talked of the
alternative. He, Crane, loved her--she felt that was true. He was rich;
for her father, for her brother, for herself, even for Mortimer, he
would use his wealth. He pleaded his cause like a strong man, and when
he spoke of failure because of her preference for Mortimer, an acridity
crept into his voice that meant relentless prosecution.
She could not hold this full power over Crane without feeling its value.
To pledge herself to him as wife was impossible; she could not do it;
she would not. Fate played into his hands without doubt, but Fate was
not Providence. A decree of this sort, iniquitous, was not a higher
command, else she would not feel utter abhorrence of the alliance.
Paradoxically the more vehemently Crane's love obtruded itself the more
obnoxious it became; it was something quite distinct from the man's own
personality. She did not detest him individually, for the honesty of
his love impressed her; mentally she separated Crane from his affection,
anal while rejecting his love absolutely as a compelling factor,
appealed to him as a man having regard for her, a woman he believed in.
It was a most delicate cleavage, yet unerringly she attained to its
utmost point of discrimination. Perhaps it was the strength of her
love for Mortimer that enabled her to view so calmly this passionate
declaration. A year before, unsophisticated as she had been, it would
have thrown her into an agitated confusion, but she was developing
rapidly; responsibility had tempered fine the great will power which was
hers in such a marked degree.
“I am sorry, Mr. Crane,” she began, conventionally enough, “I am, sorry;
I couldn't marry a man without loving him. What you have just told me
must win regard for you, because I know that you feel strongly, and I
think any woman should take an offer of honest love as the greatest of
all compliments.”
“But I don't even ask for your love now,” he interrupted.
“Ah, but you should. You shouldn't marry a woman unless she loves you.
At any rate I feel that way about it. Of course, if there were a chance
of my coming to care for you in that way we could wait, but it would be
deceiving you to give hope.”
“Is it because you care for--Mortimer?” he asked.
“I think it is. I suppose if I am to help him I must be quite honest
with you. I do not want to talk about it--it seems too sacred. I have
even spoken less to Mr. Mortimer of love,” she added, with a painful
attempt at a smile. “You have said that you care for me, Mr. Crane, and
I believe you; you have been generous to my father, also. Now won't you
promise me something, just for the sake of this regard? I suppose it
is impossible to prove Mr. Mortimer's innocence”--she felt her own
helplessness, and who else could or would care to accomplish it “but it
is in your power to lessen the evil. Won't you take my word that he
is innocent and stop everything? As you say, either he or Alan must be
suspected, and if it were brought home to my brother it would crush me,
and my mother and father.”
“What can I do?--”
“Just nothing. I know Mr. Mortimer has determined to accept the
disgrace, and he will go away. You can make his load as light as
possible, for my sake.”
The small hand on his arm was drawing him to acquiesence. He did not
answer at once, but sat moodily diagnosing his position. If he refused
and prosecuted Mortimer, the girl, more determined than many men, would
change from a state of possibility, from simply not loving him, to a
vigorous hate. If he hushed the matter up Mortimer would go away under a
cloud, and his removal from the presence of Allis might effect a change
in her regard. He would accelerate this wished-for elision of love by
procuring absolutely indisputable proof of Mortimer's dishonesty. He saw
his opening to that end; he could do it under the guise of clearing the
innocent one of the suspected two; for Allis alone this would be. To
him there was not the slightest ground for supposing Alan had taken the
money, but blinded by her love, evidently Allis thought Mortimer was
shielding her brother. Though it was to Crane's best interests, he
pretended to consent out of pure chivalry. “What you ask,” he said, “is
very little; I would do a thousand times more for you. There is nothing
you could ask of me that would not give me more pleasure than anything
else in my barren life. But I could not bear to see you wedded to
Mortimer; he is not worthy--you are too good for him. I don't say this
because he is more fortunate, but I love you and want to see you happy.”
The girl was like a slim poplar. The strong wind of Crane's clever
pleading and seeming generosity swayed her from her rigid attitude only
to spring back again, to stand straight and beautiful, true to her love
and faith in Mortimer.
“You are kind to me,” she said, simply; “I wish I could repay you.”
“Perhaps some day I may get a reward out of all proportion to this small
service.”
She looked fair into his eyes, and on her lips hovered a weak,
plaintive, wistful smile, as though she were wishing he could accept the
inevitable and take her regard, her gratitude, her good opinion of him
and not wed himself to a chimera which would bring only weariness of
spirit in return for his goodness.
“You will be repaid some day,” she answered, “for I feel that Mr.
Mortimer's name will be cleared, and you will be glad that you acted
generously.”
“Well, this will give him a better chance,” he said, evasively; “it's
not good to crush a man when he's down. I will see that no one connected
with the bank shows him the slightest disrespect. Of course he'll have
to go, he couldn't remain under the circumstances--he wouldn't.”
The horse had jogged slowly. Allis had purposely allowed the old Bay to
take his time. Unused to such a tolerance he had scandalously abused the
privilege; once or twice he had even cast longing glances at a succulent
bunch of grass growing by the roadside, as though it were a pure waste
of opportunity to neglect the delicacy for work when he had to do with
such indifferent overseers. But now Ringwood was in sight, and there was
still the matter of the money that had been paid on her father's note to
speak of. She asked Crane where it had come from.
“You won it over Diablo in the Brooklyn Handicap,” he answered, bluntly.
“You won it,” she corrected him; “I refused to accept it.”
“I remember that eccentricity,” he replied. “I'm a busy man, and
having the money thrown back on my hands, as it was not mine, caused me
considerable inconvenience. I deposited three thousand of it against the
note to save both your father and myself needless worry. There are still
some hundreds due you, and I wish you would please tell me what I am to
do with it.”
“I'd rather pay you back the three thousand now.”
“I can't accept it. I have enough money of my own to worry along on.”
“Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. When father gets stronger he
must settle it.”
They had turned into the drive to Ringwood House.
“We are home now,” she added, “and I want to say again that I'll never
forget your kind promise. I know you will not repent of your goodness.”
Mrs. Porter saw Allis and Crane together in the buggy; it pleased the
good woman vastly. Allis's success with Lauzanne had taken a load from
her spirits. She was not mercenary, but there had been so much at stake.
Now in one day Providence had averted disaster, and she had awakened
from a terrible nightmare of debt. The sunshine of success had warmed
her husband's being into hopeful activity, a brightness was over his
spirits that had not been there for months. It was like an augury of
completed desire that Crane should come the day of their good fortune
with Allis. If she would but marry him there would be little left to
worry about. So it was that Crane, perplexed by his recent love check,
and Allis, mired in gloom over her hero's misfortune, stepped into a
radiancy of exotic cheerfulness.
The girl bravely sought to shake off her gloom, chiding her heavy
heart for its unfilial lack of response. Crane, accustomed to mental
athletics, tutored his mind into a seeming exuberance, and playfully
alluded to his own defeat at the hands of Allis and the erratic
Lausanne. There was no word of the bank episode, nothing but a paean of
victory.
Crane's statement to Allis that he was going out to Ringwood to see
her father was only an excuse. He soon took his departure, a stableboy
driving him back to the village. There he had a talk with the cashier.
Mortimer was to be asked to resign his position as soon as his place in
the bank could be filled. No further prosecution was to be taken against
him unless Crane decided upon such a course, “In the meantime you can
investigate cautiously,” he said, “and keep quite to yourself any new
evidence that may turn up. So far as Mr. Mortimer is concerned, the
matter is quite closed.”
The cashier had always considered his employer a hard man, and, in
truth, who hadn't? He could scarcely understand this leniency; he had
expected a vigorous prosecution of Mortimer; had almost dreaded its
severity. Personally he had no taste for it; still, he would feel
insecure if the suspected man, undeniably guilty, were to remain
permanently in the bank. His dismissal from the staff was a wise move,
tempered by unexpected clemency. If there were not something behind
it all--this contingency always attached itself to Crane's acts--his
employer had acted with fine, wise discrimination.