THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
“I’ll give you a description of Tom Drake first, so you will not fail to
know him if you should ever see him,” John Loker said, when Editha
motioned him to begin.
“He’s a scamp, if there ever was one abroad in the world, and it would
be a good thing for the public if he should yet have to serve a term of
years somewhere.
“He is a tall, broad-shouldered, burly-looking man, with an ugly face on
him, square, heavy jaws, and fierce black eyes.
“His hair is red, too—something you don’t often see with black eyes.
There is a piece gone, too, from the lobe of his left ear, where he was
once shot by a policeman, and came near losing his life. He has a scar
under his right eye, and the little finger on his left hand is missing;
that was done in blowing open a safe at one time.”
Editha did not think she could fail to know him after this description,
and she already felt a sort of creeping horror in her veins as in her
mind’s eye she saw this dreadful man.
“Well, miss,” the invalid continued, “about that robbery; we’d planned
to do the thing—or, rather, he’d planned it all, and I was to help do
the dirty work, a long, long time before we found a chance to carry it
out. We’d got all the bearings, and knew just how every room in the
house lay before we ever entered it.
“On that night—it was cloudy and dark, if you remember—Tom cut out a
pane of glass from one of the area windows with a diamond he has on
purpose, while I watched to see that no one was around.
“We then easily entered by that window, and made as short work as
possible of clearing out everything of value that we could lay our hands
on in the house.
“It was about the neatest and most profitable job that was ever done in
a private house, and not a soul awoke through it all.
“There were the silver spoons and gold-lined salt-cellars, and a lot of
other stuff in the china closet out of the dining-room, all clean, solid
silver, too. We cracked the safe in the library, and, though we did not
get much money, we got a lot of diamonds belonging to your mother, miss,
like enough, and then we went upstairs to see what we could find there.
“I didn’t much mind taking the things we found below; I’d got hardened
to stealing a good while before that; but when we came to your room
where you lay asleep, looking so innocent and pretty, with all that soft
stuff ruffled round your neck and wrists, my heart failed me, for I
thought of Milly here, whom I suppose I love just as well as rich folks
love their children, and I knew just how she’d have loved all the pretty
things we saw laying about you. I begged Tom to leave your rings and
trinkets, and knick-knacks, but he growled at my nonsense and grabbed
everything he could lay his hands upon, holding the lantern and revolver
all the while.
“Once I thought what should I do if you awoke and found us there. And,
miss, I’d have shot him, bad as I was myself, and about as much to blame
for that dirty business, before I would have let him lay so much as a
finger upon you.”
The sick man was here seized with a violent fit of coughing, which so
exhausted him that it was some time before he could resume his
confession again.
Editha beckoned Milly to bring him some more of the warm broth, which
she did, and this appearing to revive him, he was soon able to go on.
“Have you got all I have told you written down?” he asked, glancing at
the paper in her lap.
“Yes, everything,” Editha answered.
She had had ample time to do so, for he was obliged to stop every little
while to rest and recover his breath.
“That is right,” he said; “don’t leave out anything, for I must make a
clean breast of it all, now that I have begun; and, miss, if the thing
can be done, I want that handsome young chap—and he’s a lawyer, I
hear—to bring Tom Drake to justice, for a bigger rascal does not walk
the earth. Why, miss, if you will believe me, he pocketed all the swag,
and I never got so much as a penny’s worth of it for my share in that
night’s job.”
“But I thought you told me that you wore it concealed upon your person
at the time of Mr. Wayne’s trial?” Editha said, regarding him in
surprise, and thinking his statements did not correspond very well.
“And so we did, miss—the diamonds—we didn’t dare hide them with the
other stuff, for fear they might happen to be found, and so they were
sewed into the lining of our vests; but after awhile Tom said he’d found
a chance to send them off and turn them into money, and took those I had
away from me. I’ve never seen anything of them since—he never would tell
me whether he had sold them or not, and I’ve never had a dollar for my
share in that job. I was raving mad over it, until I had that fall, and
then since I’ve been sick and had a chance to think it all over, I’ve
been glad that I didn’t get anything.”
The invalid was here interrupted by another coughing turn, and, while
Editha was waiting for it to pass, she happened to cast her eye toward
the window back of the bed, and there a sight greeted her that seemed to
stop the beating of her heart, and freeze the blood in her veins, and a
numbness seized her limbs, rendering her powerless to move for the time
being. It was the face of a man—and _such_ a face!—pressed close against
the pane, and his ear—_an ear with part of the lobe gone_—covering a
small hole in the glass.
He was a “burly-looking man,” with an “ugly face” on him, “heavy jaws,”
and “fierce,” restless “black eyes.”
His hair, too, was red, and—there could be but one person in the world
answering to that description.
In an instant—in that one flash of her eyes, Editha had recognized Tom
Drake, the burglar and midnight robber!
How long had he been there? How much had he heard, and did he recognize
her as John Loker had done? were the thoughts that flashed through her
brain during that brief moment that her quick, startled glance rested
upon that appalling sight. Her first impulse was to cry out with fright,
but with an effort she controlled it, and glanced hastily at the other
occupant of her room, to see whether they were in any danger of also
discovering the presence of the listener.
She was glad to find that she alone was conscious of it.
Milly, overcome by the genial warmth after her exposure to the cold, and
also by the effective quietus of a full stomach, had fallen asleep by
the stove, her head resting against the side of the house, while Mrs.
Loker still kept her motionless position by the bedside, her head buried
in the clothes; whether she also was asleep or not, Editha could not
tell, but she earnestly hoped she was, for she feared, she knew not
what, if the man at the window should become aware that his presence was
discovered.
The window was at the head of the bed; so, of course, the invalid was
wholly unconscious of, and in no danger of knowing, that he had another
listener to his confession. The man himself, Editha thought, had not
seen her glance that way, for his ear had been laid against the hole in
the glass, and he appeared to be listening intently.
After the first excess of fright had passed the stagnated blood rushed
through her veins in a swift torrent, sending sharp, tingling pains
throughout her whole body, until it seemed as if she was literally
swathed in nettles.
But she gave no outward sign. Her thoughts flew to Earle, her manly
lover across the sea.
She held in her hands the evidence which, a little more complete, and
signed by the man before her, would vindicate his honor and restore him
the respect and confidence of all who knew him.
So she resolved to sit quietly there until this was accomplished, though
she wondered if her weak and trembling fingers would be able to hold the
pencil and trace the words that yet remained to be spoken.
She did not even dare to consider how she was to get home in the fast
gathering gloom with that precious paper in her possession; she did not
dare to think whether that dreadful creature outside would allow her to
leave that place and carry with her the evidence that would serve to
doom him to a felon’s cell for a long and tedious term of years.
She only found herself wondering how he had attained his position at
that window, for she knew they were in the second story of the building,
and it seemed a marvel to her that he should be there at all.
Had he seen and recognized her while she was talking with Milly outside,
and then, fearing what would follow, obtained a ladder and climbed to
the window?
It was a puzzle to her, but she did not know of the low building
attached to the house, and which rendered it very easy for any one to
climb and look in upon that poverty-stricken family within.
Neither could she know that it had of late been a custom with that
wicked man to go there every few nights to see how fast the only person
in the world who knew his dread secrets was dying.
Tom Drake longed to be rid of the accomplice who knew so much of his
evil course, and whom he constantly feared would turn against him.
He had heard that day that John Loker was dying, and, determined to see
for himself how near he was to his end, he had, as soon as the darkness
favored him, climbed to his usual post.
His consternation can be better imagined than described as he beheld and
recognized Editha Dalton, of all persons in the world the last one he
expected to find there, sitting by the dying man’s bedside, writing the
confession that branded him the thief and robber that he was.
And Editha, notwithstanding that every nerve in her body was vibrating
with pain from her startling discovery still sat there, apparently calm
and unmoved, waiting to hear the rest.
She even turned in her chair a little at last, as if carelessly changing
her position.
But it was done with a purpose.
She was afraid if she sat directly opposite that window the magnetism
and fascination, horrible though it was, of that terrible face and those
fierce eyes, which affected her as face and eyes had never done before,
would irresistibly draw her glance in that direction and betray her
knowledge of the presence there.
“Well, miss,” the sick man resumed at length—and the sound of his voice
breaking the silence that had been so fraught with horror to her sent a
painful shock through her whole being—“we got out of the house with our
booty, which we carried in a bag, without disturbing any one, and we
were congratulating ourselves that we had done a wonderful, neat and
profitable job, when, just as we came around the corner by the front
entrance, a young chap pounced out upon us and felled Tom to the ground
with a swinging, unexpected blow.
“He then came for me as brave as a young giant, and I grappled with him.
He gave me a tough struggle of it, I can tell you; but, I knew the
boxing game better than he, and it wasn’t long before I had him laid out
as flat as a flounder.
“I did it just in the nick of time, too, for a ‘cop’ having got wind
that something wrong was up, came running down the street; so I just
dropped a bracelet, which Tom had made me stuff in my pocket, down
beside the fallen hero, to turn the scent upon him, and took to my
heels.
“Tom served me a mean trick, though,” the man went on, with a scowl,
“for he had only been slightly stunned by his fall, and while I was
fighting with the young chap, instead of coming to my help, he picked up
the bag, cleared out and hid it, and it was only a piece of good luck
that I got off at all. He said afterwards he thought I was able to take
care of myself, and he was afraid if he did not slip off with the booty
the noise of the rumpus would bring a cop along, and we’d lose it all.
But he’d got it hid before I found him, and I never saw anything of it
afterward, excepting the diamonds.
“I coaxed, begged and threatened, but he kept putting me off with
excuses; and, of course, I’d been with him so much in his dirty work
that he knew I would not dare turn against him, for I should only get as
deep into the mire as he would.
“As long as I was well, and able to help him in his plots, I managed to
squeezed enough out of him to keep us tolerably comfortable; but after I
got sick we all began to suffer.
“Miss Dalton,” the man said, excitedly, “Tom Drake is a rich man; he’s
got money and swag enough hid up to keep a dozen families handsome all
their lives. Why, those diamonds o’ your mother’s were a fortune in
themselves, and we’ve been starving and freezing here for the last two
months; _he’s known it, too_, and wouldn’t give us a dime to buy a loaf
of bread with.
“But I am dying now; _he_ can’t harm me, and the _law_ can’t touch me,
and I’ve outwitted him at last; his meanness is half that’s made me want
to show him up, and if you will only bring him to justice, you’ll do the
world a favor, besides clearing that fine young chap, who was as brave
as a lion, from disgrace; for I tell you Tom Drake is one of the worst
robbers in the United States.”
He paused, and Editha thought he had got through. She hoped he had, for
she felt she could not sit there much longer; it was as much as she
could do to keep in her chair and feel that that fearful face, with
those fierce, restless black eyes, was looking down upon her, watching
her every movement.
But the invalid resumed, after resting a moment:
“We, Tom and me, went to court every day while the youngster was being
tried for the robbery we had committed; and we thought it fine fun that
the scent had been so completely turned from us to him. It was as clear
a case of circumstantial evidence as I ever heard of, and many’s the
joke we’ve cracked at that poor fellow’s expense. But, miss, I must
confess I’ve had mighty uncomfortable dreams over it since lying here
sick, and thinking of him locked in behind those bolts and bars for
three long years, and he as innocent as a baby all the time, and we
abroad doing more of the devil’s work.”
He really appeared deeply moved, and Editha knew that he must have
suffered on account of it.
“I’ve been a bad man,” he continued with a sigh of regret, “and I
suppose I’ll get my deserts where I’m going; but I know I shall deserve
it all, whatever it may be.
“Have you written everything just as I’ve told you?” he asked again,
anxiously, turning his sunken eyes upon the closely written sheets in
her lap.
“Yes; I have everything correct, I think,” Editha answered, longing to
know if that dreadful face was still glaring upon them, yet not daring
to look.
“Then give me the pencil and hold the paper while I sign it. I want this
business off my mind; then perhaps I’ll feel easier,” he said, eagerly,
and holding out his thin hand for the pencil.
Editha placed it between his fingers, and then holding her books with
the paper laid on them so that he could write, he laboriously scrawled
beneath what she had already written:
“I swear that this is the living truth. JOHN LOKER.”
“Thank you,” Editha said, with a breath of relief, hastily folding the
paper, and wondering where and how she should hide it from those fierce,
restless eyes above her.
She ventured to flash one swift glance out of the corners of her eyes
toward the window, and, to her intense relief, she found that there was
nothing there.
Tom Drake had disappeared as silently and as suddenly as he had come.
But her heart instinctively told her that that was not the last of him.
Perhaps he was even now hiding somewhere near, waiting to pounce upon
her when she should go out of that wretched place, and wrest that
precious confession from her.
But he should not have it—he _must not_ have it; she would make a bold
fight, frail woman though she was, before she would yield up the only
thing in the world that would clear her betrothed lover’s name from
dishonor.
She had one hope, else her courage would have failed her utterly—the
policeman whom she had asked to have a care for her safety and who had
been so civil to her.
But she had been gone much longer than she had told him she would be,
and possibly he had become tired of waiting for her and gone away.
A tumult of thoughts like these filled her mind and nearly bewildered
her, but above and over all was a stern determination never to part with
that paper until all the world should know of its contents.
Convinced that the face no longer glared upon her, she slipped it within
her bosom and buttoned her dress close over it. Then she arose to go.
Yes, she could not bear to leave that dying man, perhaps never to see
him alive again, without a few comforting words. His own last words had
told her that he feared the future—that he dreaded to go forth into the
great and mysterious eternity, and she longed to give him a little
cheer, even though she knew that every moment’s delay but increased her
own danger.
“I must leave you now,” she said, gently, and bending nearer to him, a
great pity shining in her lovely face; “and I thank you more than I can
tell you for the act of justice that you have at last done.”
“I thank _you_, miss,” he said, feebly, and with quivering lips, “for
being so kind and gentle to me, and I hope you’ll forgive me as well for
my share in that night’s business,” he concluded, humbly.
_Could_ she forgive it?
Editha’s heart gave a little startled leap at the humble request. She
could readily forgive the robbery, and the loss of so much that was
valuable; but could she forgive the wrong done to Earle? Could she ever
overlook those long, weary days of suffering which he had borne—the
scorn, insult, and abuse heaped upon him, and the disgrace which had
followed him ever since?
But he was to be free from it all at last. To be sure, those years could
not be given back to him, but all other fetters were to drop from him.
She held the key that was to unlock them, and John Loker, the man now
asking so meekly for pardon, had given it to her.
“Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”
The divine words came to her like a message of light.
“Yes, I do forgive you,” she said, sweetly; “and God will forgive you
even more freely, and take away all the dread you have of the future, if
you ask Him.”
“Thank you _again_, miss; those are _good_ words,” he said, with a sigh
of relief and thankfulness that she had forgiven him.
“And cannot you believe them,” she asked—“that God will forgive you,
too?”
He shook his head wearily.
“My mother used to teach me about God when I was a boy, but I’ve
forgotten Him, and been bad for so long, that I guess I ain’t of much
account to Him now.”
The pathos with which he said it, and the look of stony despair in his
eyes, made Editha’s heart ache for him.
“Do you not regret that your life has been so full of wrong, and such a
failure?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed, miss,” he replied, earnestly; “I’m bitter sorry, and I’ve
thought it all over and over again the long nights I’ve had to lie awake
here with the cough, but I couldn’t see any way out of it.”
“_Jesus_ is the way, the truth, and the light,” came involuntarily from
Editha’s lips.
“Yes, I’ve heard that more times than I can count, but I can’t
understand it, some way,” he said, with a perplexed look.
Editha sighed.
What could she say to comfort him? And the thought came to her that,
after all, she would rather be in Earle’s place, who had patiently and
innocently suffered a great wrong, even though the cloud which now
overshadowed him should never be dissipated until that day when all
things shall be revealed, than to be lying here like this guilty one,
upon the borders of eternity, with no hope beyond, even though his life
of sin had escaped all worldly chastisement.
“If you were in some dark and dangerous place,” she said again, and
speaking very slowly and earnestly, “and I should tell you to take my
hand, for I knew the way, and would lead you safely out, would you
refuse to do as I asked you?”
“Truth, no, miss; and you would not have to ask me more than once,
either. But the future is mighty dark to me, and _you_ can’t lead me
through _that_.”
“No; but the Friend of sinners can.”
“_Friend_ of sinners!” he repeated, feebly. “That sounds pleasant.”
“That is just what Jesus Christ is,” Editha answered, eagerly. “Put your
hand in His; it is always held out to all who _need_ help; and He will
lead you safely out of all danger.”
Another deep-drawn sigh was all the reply she received to this; and,
after waiting a moment, she said again:
“I must not stay longer now, but I will come and see you again soon.”
“You’ll not find me here, miss, I fear,” he said, with a wistful look at
her, as if to see her again would do him good; “but _they’ll_ be here,
and you have said you’ll be good to them,” indicating by a glance his
wife and child, who were both now heavily sleeping.
“Yes; I will see that they are made comfortable, and I will leave this,
so that if you need anything you can send Milly for it.”
Editha put a five-dollar note in his wasted hand as she spoke, and then,
with a kind good-night to him, she aroused his wife, after which she
went away alone into the dark and dismal night.