DISCLOSURE.
“I am certain,” reflected Isa Gritton, as she retired to rest on that
night, “that Lottie Stone bears a clear conscience, whatever her reason
for silence may be. How her poor face, worn and anxious as it looked at
first, brightened when she heard of the support which God gives to the
faith of His people in time of need. I wish that I had had an opportunity
of speaking to her after the service was ended, but when I rose from my
knees and looked for her, she was gone. I trust her—yes, I will trust
her. Is there not a certain degree of faith which Christians should
extend one to another, as it is the property of charity that it _thinketh
no evil_?”
Lottie and her strange conduct had been much on the mind of Isa, and when
she came to breakfast on the following morning it was with the intention
of proposing again to drive over to Axe for a second interview with her
truant little maid. But thoughts of Lottie were driven away for the time
by a subject of closer personal interest.
When Isa entered the breakfast-room a little later than usual, she found
Gaspar there already, pacing up and down the apartment with a letter in
his hand, which had come by the early post. He looked restless, excited,
and angry, and Isa saw that no light cause of annoyance disturbed him,
before he broke forth with the angry question, “Is this your doing, Isa;
have I to thank you for this?” and thrust into the hand of his sister the
note which he had just received.
The epistle did not look at all formidable; it was brief, written on
tinted paper, and in a lady’s handwriting. It was no formal law document,
yet had it been read with much the same emotions as a summons to the bar
of justice might have been. With anxiety, mingled with interest, Miss
Gritton read as follows:—
LONDON, _May 1_.
SIR,—I have just received information which has greatly
surprised me, to the effect that the £4000 which I had been led
to believe had been invested in property lost in the _Orissa_
was actually invested in the cargo of the _St. Christopher_,
which safely arrived at its destination, and, as I am given
to understand, realized a profit of fifty per cent. I shall
place the affair in the hands of my lawyer unless I receive
a satisfactory explanation from yourself. As a personal
interview is desirable, I shall go immediately to Axe, which
is, I understand, in your neighbourhood, and either appoint
an hour for meeting you at the hotel, or, as I am acquainted
with your sister, call on Miss Gritton and see you in her
presence.—I have the honour to be, &c.,
CORA MADDEN.
“Gaspar, I had nothing to do with this; Cora has learned nothing from
me,” said Isa, as she returned the note to her brother.
He looked at her with a keen, suspicious gaze; but she met it with that
frank, open glance which carries conviction of truthfulness even to the
sceptical mind.
Gaspar pressed his hand to his brow, which was furrowed with deep lines
of perplexity and care. “It must have been through the captain,” he
muttered to himself; “and yet I thought—but no matter, she’s on the scent
now, wherever she took it up. Isa, you must stand by me,” nervously added
Mr. Gritton; “you must help me through this difficulty.”
“How can I help you?—I do not fully understand even the nature of the
difficulty,” said Isa. She paused to give her brother an opportunity for
explanation, but he only had recourse to his snuff-box. Isa pressed him
no further; she had a painful conviction, as she looked upon her unhappy
brother, that he was unable to give any explanation which would satisfy
her own sense of honour.
[Illustration: GASPAR’S ALARM.]
The state of the case may be briefly laid before the reader. Gaspar had
already invested largely himself in the cargo of the _Orissa_, when he
had received directions in regard to the money of Miss Madden. Unwilling
that her interests should clash with his own, the _Orissa_ being the
fastest sailer on the line, and the hope of large profits depending much
on being first in the market, Gaspar had placed the property of his
client in the _St. Christopher_, intending to apprise the lady that he
had been unable to ship in the vessel which had first started. While yet
in the Channel, the _Orissa_ had foundered in a storm, with Gaspar’s
investment in her hold. The loss of so much property had been a great
shock to one whose soul was bent upon gain; Gaspar had been overwhelmed
by the unexpected misfortune, when the Tempter had suggested to him a
means by which the loss might actually be converted into profit. Few
knowing anything of the circumstances of Cora’s investment, still fewer
having any interest in the subject, it might be possible, by an exercise
of craft, to make it appear that the lady’s property had been in the
_Orissa_, and that Gaspar’s own had been embarked in the ship which had
safely arrived.
Gaspar had at first shrunk from the wicked suggestion. Though he was
not a very scrupulous man, there was yet a sufficient sense of honour
left within his breast to make him aware of the enormity of the crime to
which he was tempted. But _the love of money is the root of all evil_,
and with Gaspar it had become an absorbing passion; he was also proud
of the possession of that miserable cunning which some deem cleverness,
but which is foolishness indeed in the sight of a holy God. Conscience
and a feeling of honour,—these were the barriers which, for a short
time, had resisted the pressure of strong temptation; for Gaspar _had_
a conscience, though by covetousness long-indulged its power had been
greatly weakened. But the barriers had given way, and Gaspar having once
grasped unlawful gain, and added to his stores the gold which rightfully
belonged to another, soon experienced the natural consequence of
yielding to sin. His heart had become hardened, his nature debased, and
he had fallen more and more completely under the dominion of the vice
of covetousness which he had once suffered to subdue him. A hard and
merciless task-master he had found it! While haunted with a perpetual
dread of disgrace, and fear of losing his ill-gotten wealth, Gaspar
could not enjoy it. He was poor in the midst of riches, miserable in the
possession of that for which he had sold his conscience. Notwithstanding
every precaution, Gaspar’s secret had oozed out, and fears of
exposure—ruin—shame—rose up before him like phantoms.
“She may be here this very day,” were the first words from the miserable
man which broke the oppressive silence. “Isa, you must not quit the
house—you must remain beside me—you know Miss Madden, and may influence
her mind.”
“I influence Cora!” exclaimed Isa; “I know her, indeed—perhaps too
well—but ours was never the intimacy of friendship!” The young lady
spoke with some emotion, for every recollection connected with Cora
was bitter. It is true that Isa no longer regarded her separation from
Lionel as a misfortune. Since she had come so near to the place of his
former sojourn, light had been thrown on his character which had revealed
something of its selfishness and hollowness, and upon the young maiden
purer hopes were dawning than even those of first love; but still, of
all beings upon earth, Cora Madden was the one whom Isa regarded with
most fear and aversion. She looked upon Cora as an impersonification of
malice; as a dangerous woman; the bearer of the apple of discord; one who
delighted to turn into ridicule all whose standard of duty was higher
than her own. Isa had struggled to keep down the feelings of restraint
which swelled in her heart, and, like Edith, never to speak of her enemy
save to her God; she had tried to banish Cora even from her memory; but
now it appeared that she might be brought into close contact with Miss
Madden, and in a way most painful. Isa could not close her eyes to the
fact that her brother stood in a humiliating position, and innocent
as she herself was, she must yet share his humiliation. She must see
scorn—just scorn—on that haughty lip whose sneer had already stung her
like a scorpion; she might have to ask indulgence from one to whom she
could with difficulty accord forgiveness. All Isa’s natural pride rose
up in arms against this. Why should she endure the shame when innocent
of the guilt? Let Gaspar abide the consequences of his own conduct,
whatever that conduct might have been; she would leave him to make what
explanation, arrange what compromise he could; she would go to the
Castle, where no word of reproach, no glance of scorn would ever reach
her, where she would be welcomed by relatives whose behaviour had never
brought a blush to her cheek. This was Isa’s thought for a moment, but it
was instantly put aside as selfish, ungenerous, unkind. Her brother, at
this time of all others, had need of her sympathy, counsel, and support.
She might help him to struggle not only against outward difficulties,
but the inward enemies—the Midianites—that had brought him into this
strait—that had struck at his honour, and destroyed his peace. Might not
the disclosure which had covered him with shame be a means of loosening
his fetters? The social worship of the preceding evening, the prayers
which she had heard uttered by one whom, of all men, she most honoured,
had braced the spirit of Isa. The whole history of Gideon was to her as a
commentary on the text, _Be strong in the Lord, and in the power of His
might_. She would, in her maiden meekness, stand at the post where God
had placed her, stand against the spiritual foes of her soul; she would
not sink under disappointment, yield to discontent, or harbour distrust
of her Lord. She would ask for strength, and look for strength, and
believe that strength would be given.
Isa’s first struggle was against the feeling of contempt inspired by the
conduct of Gaspar. If it were wrong to desert her brother, was it not
also wrong to despise him; and yet how closely did her very pity seem to
be allied with scorn! Now that for the first time Gaspar turned to her
for sympathy, he must find it; not sympathy with his wretched grasping
at gain, but with him in the pain and perplexity into which that grasping
had brought him. Mr. Gritton was in a miserable state of indecision,
and Isa was the sole confidante of his troubles; as she already knew so
much, he almost unconsciously let her know all. Now he clung to the hope
that what Cora suspected she would find it impossible to prove, that he
might safely abide even the issue of a lawsuit: then all his thoughts
were turned towards a compromise which might save his honour without
too far trenching on his interests; much might be done in a personal
interview; an inexperienced woman might easily be induced to compound
for the restoration of part of her property, by yielding up her claim to
the residue. After long, restless pacing up and down the room, revolving
various plans and expedients, Gaspar threw himself on a chair by his
sister, and nervously opened to her his views, concluding by saying in an
embarrassed tone, “You will explain—you will soften—you will induce Miss
Madden to listen to reason.”
“Gaspar, dear Gaspar, suffer me to speak freely and openly to you,” said
Isa, whose mind had been as actively engaged as that of her brother as
she had sat silent by the casement, with her untouched work lying on her
knee. “When we have gone out of the straight way, surely, surely our
first care should be to retrace our steps; if any wrong has been done,
should it not be set right without further delay?”
“I want your help, and not your advice,” muttered Gaspar.
“Yet hear me,” said Isa earnestly, for she felt that something more
precious than her brother’s interests, more dear than even his
reputation, was at stake. “I know that you have been unhappy—I have seen
it; your better, your nobler nature, has been oppressed by a burden
which—which you may now throw off and for ever. Oh, deal frankly and
fairly by Cora Madden! Give her what is her due, principal and interest,
even to the utmost farthing: poverty is no evil, want itself is no evil,
compared with the gnawing consciousness of possessing that which cannot
have God’s blessing upon it.”
Gaspar pressed his thin bloodless lips together, as if suppressing a
groan. He felt his sister’s fervent appeal—it found an echo in his own
conscience; but he was not yet prepared to throw down his idol, to burst
from the yoke which galled. Mr. Gritton rose hastily, without replying,
and resumed his restless walk. Isa could but guess the nature of the
struggle going on within, and silently pray that God might strengthen the
faith of the tempted one, and give victory to the right.
If not the most painful, that was certainly one of the most tedious
days that had ever been passed by Isa Gritton. Gaspar was irritable,
nervous, wretched; vacillating as a pendulum, never in the same mind for
twenty minutes together. He appeared to be constantly on the watch;
never left the house, stood often gazing forth from the window, and
nervously started at every unusual sound. There seemed to Isa to be a
spell on the hands of her watch, they moved so slowly; she could not
pursue her accustomed occupations, for Gaspar was unwilling to have her
out of his sight, and was perpetually interrupting her with snatches of
conversation. But the long day closed at last—closed in mist and rain;
a dull white fog blotted out the landscape, and ere the hour of sunset,
twilight closed in. Isa tried to beguile the evening by reading aloud,
but even the work on commercial statistics entirely failed to interest
Gaspar. His mind was abstracted, his ear painfully on the strain for
other sounds than those of his sister’s melodious voice. Glad was Isa
when the hour at length arrived when she could retire, and prepare
herself, by devotional reading, prayer, and then rest, for whatever the
morrow might bring.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]