“Miss Tresilian accused of theft! There is--there must be some terrible
mistake!” ejaculated Chester St. John, while Grace clung to his arm,
pale and shivering, and Isabel, after the first shock of surprise was
over, actually rejoiced in the new disgrace that had fallen on her
rival, since it must serve to place Iris beyond the pale of Chester’s
forgiveness.
“I shall send upstairs for Iris, that these men may see their mistake,”
she said confidently, and Grace, taking courage from her firm and
determined manner, now ventured to speak, begging Isabel to break the
news to Iris gently, lest the shock should be too much for her. But the
caution came just too late; for even while Grace was speaking, Iris was
descending the stairs, her light footfall making no sound on the soft
velvet pile of the carpet, and the sound of Grace’s low-toned voice
coming distinctly to her ears.
“What is it?” she cried breathlessly, and one of the men whose business
it was to arrest her stepped forward and answered:
“We have a painful duty to perform, young lady, and the quicker it is
over the better for all parties. The name by which you have been known
of late is Maggie Gordon, is it not? You are certainly the original of
this portrait.”
The speaker here exhibited a penciled sketch of the beautiful working
girl, executed by the sister of Madam Ward, an amateur artist of no
mean ability. At sight of this drawing St. John could not repress a
groan, while Grace bowed her head and wept, and Isabel turned a shade
paler. Iris herself was outwardly calm, but her eyes had the wild,
scared look of a hunted animal, and fixed themselves for one brief
second on the face of Chester St. John, as if mutely appealing to him
for aid.
The look went straight to his heart, and, leaving his place by the side
of Isabel, he spoke to Iris in a tone that was tremulous with deep
feeling:
“Depend on me, Iris; I shall do everything in my power to clear you of
this cruel charge. There must be some bitter enemy plotting against
your peace and happiness, some bold and daring enemy, since they dare
accuse you of theft! Oh, child, if you would only tell me everything I
might save you this indignity----”
“Hush! Do not speak to me so; I--I cannot bear it,” she cried
passionately, for the struggle to keep silent in the face of this
appeal was almost killing her. She dared not speak. She dared not utter
one word that might betray the author of her sufferings and her shame,
lest all the shameful story of the past should be revealed and disgrace
and dishonor fall on her dying mother.
It was the opinion of the doctors that life might linger in the poor,
worn frame of Evelyn Hilton for many days, although they had believed
at the time of her attack that her very minutes were numbered. While
her mother still lived, Iris’ lips were effectually sealed, and,
recovering at last from the emotion into which St. John’s words had
thrown her, she turned to him with the light of desperation in her
wide, dilated eyes, and a reckless defiance on her face that filled him
with horror and alarm.
“I have nothing to tell you, Mr. St. John. I cannot explain the loss
of madam’s two hundred dollars, and I must expect to suffer the
consequences. If these men will allow me to get my hat and cloak, and
will wait just one moment while I bid my mother a last farewell, I
shall be ready to accompany them.”
She avoided meeting St. John’s eyes as she spoke thus, and turned
abruptly from him to the officers in the doorway. “You will not refuse
me one moment with my mother, gentlemen, for, oh, sirs, she is dying;
we shall meet no more on earth.”
There was not a break or a quiver in the girl’s voice now, but the
look of dumb agony on her ashen face would have melted a heart of
oak, and the men readily agreed to wait until she joined them, first
ascertaining, however, that there was no back exit by which she might
effect an escape. When she had disappeared up the broad staircase, St.
John turned to Isabel, inquiring the whereabouts of her father, with
the vague idea that Mr. Hilton would in some manner be able to save
Iris--a hope that died again instantly as he remembered Iris’ avowal,
which had amounted almost to a confession of guilt.
Isabel explained that her father had gone to Riverdale, the residence
of an eminent physician, said to be skilled in the treatment of the
disease of which Mrs. Hilton was dying, and might not be at home before
evening.
“What is to be done? I would give half my fortune to spare her
this awful ordeal,” cried Chester, in despair. “Oh, men,” turning
desperately to the officers, “can any amount of money tempt you to go
away and leave Iris Tresilian in peace? I will go at once to this woman
to whom the lost money belonged, and repay it, aye, with interest, if
she will withdraw her charge, and----”
“It is no use, sir,” interrupted one of the officers; “the charge has
been made, and it is our duty to take the young lady into custody. I am
truly sorry, sir, but I assure you there is no help for it.”
St. John realized the truth of this assertion, and knew he could do
nothing at present for the unfortunate Iris.
“Come, Grace,” he said, gently addressing his weeping sister in a voice
that one would scarcely have recognized as his own, “let me take you to
the machine. Go home at once, dear, and leave me to see what steps may
be taken in this dreadful affair. Your loyalty to Iris has taught me a
lesson, Gracie, and from this hour she shall find in me as faithful a
brother as you have been a sister to her.”
Grace allowed him to lead her to the car, saying, as he was closing the
door upon her:
“She is innocent, brother; there is some enemy trying to work her
ruin. Be a friend to her in her hour of need, for she seems to stand
alone--even Isabel----”
“Hush, darling; not a word of Isabel. I have asked her to be my wife,”
interrupted St. John, adding, in a tone of ineffable tenderness: “God
bless you for your faith in Iris, little sister, and God forgive me
for the wrong I have done her by my cruel doubts.”
As St. John’s car drove away a taxicab was passing along, and the
gentleman hailed it and placed it at the disposal of the officers to
convey Iris to prison.
In the meantime Iris had stolen softly into her mother’s chamber, and
fallen on her knees by her bedside. Mrs. Hilton was still sleeping, and
could not hear the girl’s low sobbing, nor the broken, inarticulate
words that fell from her lips.
“Oh, mother, my mother, if you could speak one kind, pitying word to
me it would not be so hard to suffer for your sake. If you could hear
me when I pray for you, if you could join me in asking God to forgive
your sin. Oh, dear Saviour! Thou hearest me. Wilt Thou let my suffering
atone for this dying mother’s sin?”
As if the Divine Comforter had lifted some portion of the burden from
her well-nigh broken heart, Iris arose from her knees and bent closely
over the sleeper.
“This is our last earthly parting,” she whispered, as she touched her
lips softly to those of the unconscious sufferer. “Your child will see
your face on earth no more. Good-by--good-by--my poor, poor mother; I
leave you in God’s keeping--good-by, good-by.”
Iris now hurried from the room, lest the sound of her choking sobs
might arouse the sleeper, and a few moments later she left the house,
going forth with the calmness of utter despair to meet her fate.