Jack Selden only half suppressed an exclamation of angry despair by a
simulated fit of coughing, as he read at breakfast the solitary letter
that had fallen to his share from the mail-bag. It was not pleasant
reading: it was a thinly-veiled command to pay, within three days, a
card and betting debt to the tune of two hundred pounds.
He raised his face, from which the colour had fled, and glanced
furtively round at the other occupants of the table, as he crushed the
letter into his pocket.
His father, Dr. Selden, a tall, grey, ascetic-looking man--blind for
some years through a disease of the optic nerve--had not noticed the
exclamation; neither had Madge Westbrook, his _fiancée_, a handsome
girl, who chanced to be too deeply occupied with her duties of hostess,
in the absence of Miss Selden, the doctor's sister. Cyril Wayne,
a fair, resolute-looking young fellow of Jack's age, the doctor's
amanuensis, was the only one of the trio who had perceived the trouble.
Jack dropped his eyes guiltily, and made a show of continuing his meal
while he mentally reviewed the situation. It seemed to be a desperate
one, and he cursed his fate. He could expect no assistance from his
father. A college career that had resulted in nothing but heavy debts
was too fresh in his memory for that. Jack had been told by his
exasperated parent that never again would he receive assistance beyond
his ample allowance; and, further, that the bulk of the property would
go to Madge, the doctor's niece. Jack could only, in a sense, become
his father's heir by marrying his cousin when she came of age.
At the time this arrangement had been made Madge had acquiesced to her
share in it without any effort and, indeed, without much thought. It
pleased her uncle, and that had been enough to decide her. As for Jack,
he would have preferred a free hand; but since he was not to have it
he consoled himself with the thought that Madge was a very presentable
encumbrance.
But the arrival of Cyril Wayne at Highbank--the country residence which
the doctor had occupied since his blindness--had opened a new chapter
in Madge's uneventful life. The new-comer, intelligent, accomplished,
masterful, made a startling contrast to the weak-willed, illiterate
Jack, who was intellectually lost when he ventured outside the
precincts of the stable.
The result of the companionship into which Madge and Cyril insensibly
drifted was as inevitable as the course of time. There was no one to
warn them of the danger. The doctor could not see it; Miss Selden was
too deeply engrossed in her charities, and Jack in his own affairs.
There came a moment then when the pair found out for themselves how
imperceptible is the boundary sometimes that separates friendship and
love. Madge discovered with horror that her thoughtless promise was
repugnant to her, and Cyril that he was in love with another man's
betrothed! The pleasant intercourse was broken from that moment,
without a word of explanation on either side.
With Cyril Wayne this discovery could only have one result: he
immediately commenced his preparations for leaving Highbank, sore in
heart and self-respect.
This morning at breakfast Jack's stifled exclamation had warned him
that some mischief was afoot, and he was anxious to know what it was.
What concerned Jack concerned Madge, alas! When the meal was concluded,
instead of at once following the doctor to his study he stepped through
the open French window on to the terrace, where the _enfant prodigue_
had already preceded him.
He was standing at the stone balustrade reperusing his letter. When he
heard Cyril's footsteps on the flags behind him he started, crushed the
paper in his hand, and turned round.
"Jack, I want to speak to you for a few moments," said Cyril, as he
advanced.
"What's up?" asked Jack, shortly. He thrust the letter into his pocket
and took out his pipe.
"Well----" Cyril hesitated a moment to ransack his brain for some
reasonable pretext; then it occurred to him that it was nearly a
certainty his listener's trouble was a pecuniary one. To feign a like
predicament for himself might evoke Jack's confidence.
"Well," said he, "I want you to lend me twenty-five pounds. I'm hard
pressed for it at this moment."
Madge had approached the window to speak to Jack. She caught Cyril
Wayne's remark, and, drawing back at once, turned away unperceived by
both of the young men.
Jack fell an easy prey to the trap that had been laid for him. He gazed
at Cyril in astonishment and let the match he had lighted die out in
his hand.
[Illustration: "HE GAZED AT CYRIL IN ASTONISHMENT."]
"Lend you twenty-five pounds? Great Scot!" he exclaimed.
"Yes."
"Twenty-five pounds! You've come to the wrong shop this time, old
man!" Then he suddenly lowered his voice and bent his head forward,
anxiously. "Can you tell me where I can get just eight times that
amount?" he asked. "I want it badly."
"Oh! So that is the reason for the letter you received just now?"
Jack nodded his head and flushed.
"Two hundred pounds!" exclaimed Cyril, aghast. "Let me hear the whole
business," he continued. "I can't lend you the money, but I may be able
to suggest something."
It was the same old story of betting and cards. Cyril had heard it
all before, in the same stumbling phraseology of contrition. "And the
brute gives me only three days--three days, or he will write to the
governor," concluded Jack, turning suddenly savage.
"Then forestall him," replied Cyril, "for as far as I can see there is
no remedy but to ask your father to help you out of the mire once more."
"Ask the governor? You can just bet I sha'n't do that," said Jack,
sullenly. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared hard at
the ground.
"Then, no money-lenders," replied Cyril. "It will only make bad worse.
Come!" He caught Jack by the arm. "Make a clean breast of it to your
father. He has much more than the sum you require in the house at
present, and you may not find him so difficult as you imagine."
Jack started. More money than he required for his wants in the house!
So near him! Oh, if he only had it! He shook his arm free with
impatience.
"No, no, I sha'n't do that," said he.
"Very well," said Cyril. "But you will do nothing without consulting
me? Is that understood?"
Jack nodded his head and, turning quickly, stared blindly across the
fields that sloped and stretched from the terrace. He didn't see them.
His brain was working just then as it had never worked before. Cyril's
words about the money had raised a sudden storm of temptation in him
which seemed to carry him out of himself. He must try to think--to
decide.
At midnight Cyril turned in, but could not sleep; his thoughts were
too busily occupied with Madge, Jack, and the present uncertainty of
his own future. He had heard the clock in the little sitting-room
adjoining chime every hour from midnight to three. Then a strange thing
happened. As he lay broad awake in the dark, a slender pencil of
yellow light stole across the carpet from his door. Jack's room was
next to his. He heard no sound in the corridor, though he sat up in his
bed and listened intently. The pencil of light remained stationary a
few moments, then wavered, and finally, sweeping slowly round the room,
disappeared.
Something prompted Cyril to rise and investigate. Putting on his
dressing-gown and slippers, he noiselessly crossed his room and
looked out. The feeble yellow light was dancing on the ceiling of the
corridor, but the bearer of it, unseen, was already descending the
broad oak staircase.
Cyril hurried quietly along the corridor and, looking over the
balustrade, saw Jack. He was at the foot of the stairs, and about to
enter the lower corridor.
Cyril remained where he was in the darkness a few moments, when the
light began to reappear and a cool breath of air swept up the stair.
Jack must have opened the French window which gave access to the
garden. He now approached the foot of the stair with stealthy tread;
but, instead of mounting it, he passed on in the direction of the other
wing.
Cyril felt instinctively that something was wrong, and descending the
stairs he followed in Jack's wake. Turning the corner of the corridor
he was just in time to see the young man insert a key in the lock of
the study door, and then enter.
By the time Cyril had arrived Jack had placed his candle on the
writing-table and was stooping, with his back to the door, in front of
his father's safe, which he had just opened.
This safe was of peculiar construction. For the convenience of the
doctor it opened by means of the simple pressure of a small button in
the wainscot. But the room in itself was a safe, for the door was of
steel with a powerful lock, and the one window was heavily shuttered
within and barred without.
All unconscious of a watcher, Jack was cautiously engaged in
disconnecting the wires switched on to an alarm in the doctor's room
above, when Cyril, unable to contain his feelings any longer, stepped
forward.
[Illustration: "JACK WAS CAUTIOUSLY ENGAGED IN DISCONNECTING THE
WIRES."]
"Jack!" he exclaimed, sternly, "what is the meaning of this?"
Jack bounded to his feet in horror. His hand fell nervelessly from the
stud he had been manipulating, and, catching in one of the drawers,
drew it partially open. It was sufficient to actuate the mechanism. A
faint whirr in the room above responded to the movement of the drawer;
and at the same time the study door, as if impelled by an invisible
hand, swung quickly to and closed with a faint click.
The two young men were prisoners. There was no means of egress except
by the door, and that could only be opened now from the outside. The
doctor's burglar trap had fulfilled its purpose admirably.
For the space of two or three moments the pair stood motionless facing
each other, Jack had gripped the back of the doctor's study chair and
was staring with haggard eyes at the door. Then suddenly, with a
half-frenzied exclamation, he threw himself at it and tore desperately
with his fingers at its smooth, hard surface. It was of no use. He
fell back with a groan of despair and, dropping heavily into a chair,
covered his face with his hands.
"Good Heaven! My father!--Madge! What will they think of me?" said he,
hoarsely, as he passed his hand over his damp forehead. "Oh, I must
have been mad--mad!"
Cyril Wayne looked down at the wretched Jack, half pitying, half
despising him. Was this crouching, would-be thief to become Madge's
husband? What a match! Was it not for the best that the innocent girl
should be undeceived before it was too late? But the cruelty of it! He
shrank involuntarily from the idea of witnessing the death-blow that
was to be dealt at her affection. He pictured to himself a misery, an
anguish, a hundred-fold greater than this cowering wretch was capable
of feeling. Oh, it was impossible!
"Jack!" said he, stooping suddenly and shaking the abject figure by the
shoulder. "Look up, man! Do you hear?"
Jack lifted his head and stared at Cyril stupidly.
"Just collect your wits and listen to me," said Cyril, imperiously,
as he fixed Jack's gaze with his own. "If you get out of this scrape
scot-free--you understand?"--Jack nodded hungrily--"will you swear
never to touch a card or back a horse again?"
"Get out of it? Oh, Wayne--Cyril, old man, how? How?" implored Jack,
with trembling lips, half rising from his seat.
Cyril pushed him back impatiently. "That is not the answer I want,"
said he. He repeated his question. "Do you swear?" he asked. "Quick!
Quick, man! I can hear footsteps. A moment more and it won't matter
what you say."
"Yes, yes, I swear, I swear!" repeated Jack, fervently, as he gulped
down something that had risen in his throat.
"Very good!" Cyril's grasp closed like a steel vice on his shoulder.
"Jack Selden," continued the young man, sternly, "what I am going to do
I shall do for Madge's--your cousin's--sake; but if you fail to keep
that oath you have just made, do you know that you will be the meanest,
pitifullest hound that ever walked God's earth? If you _do_ fail--" he
paused, "well, never cross my path, that's all. Now rouse up. Look like
yourself, man; they are here."
It was true. There was a sound of slippered feet outside the study
door. Jack rose from his chair and stood behind it, his face drawn, his
eyes roving. He felt sick with the fear clutching at his heart.
"Not a word from you," whispered Cyril, rapidly; "leave everything to
me."
There was the sharp click of a pistol-trigger outside; a pause; and
then the study door was flung wide open. In the corridor stood the
doctor and Madge alone. The latter was holding a candle above her head
in her left hand; with her right she pointed a revolver.
[Illustration: "IN THE CORRIDOR STOOD THE DOCTOR AND MADGE ALONE."]
"You may give up. There is no escape. If you move you will be shot down
without mercy," said the doctor, rapidly. "How many, Madge?"' he added,
in a lower tone.
Madge had with great difficulty checked the exclamation that had risen
to her lips as her glance fell on Cyril and Jack. Both arms dropped to
her side. What did this mean? Her startled, questioning glance dwelt on
each of the young men alternately, but no explanation came. They stood
before her like two statues. Jack hung his head; he could not even face
his father's sightless eyes. Cyril looked at her, silent, calm, and
speechless.
"How many, Madge?" repeated the doctor, impatiently.
"Two," she gasped, with a great effort.
"Do you recognise them?"
There was a momentary pause. Jack trembled so violently that his grasp
shook the chair he held. He felt that his fate hung on Madge's lips,
and his torture was exquisite. Cyril did not blench.
Again Madge swept the faces of the two young men with her keen,
questioning glance. Still no attempt at explanation! Oh, this
obstinate silence! Jack's shrinking figure, Cyril's cool hardihood,
were convincing proofs of guilt. Know them! Know _them_! The cowardly
thieves! She coloured hotly; her eyes flashed, and her lips curled with
the intensest scorn.
"No, I do not," she replied.
With a sudden and unexpected movement the doctor closed the door with
a crash. He rubbed his hands excitedly.
"We have them, Madge; we have them safe, the scoundrels," said he.
"Like rats in a trap! Now to get Wayne and Jack, at once, to secure
them."
There was a choking sob at his side. Madge had turned and laid her
forehead against the wall; the hot tears were coursing down her cheeks.
The doctor heard her, and reaching forward caught a hand that was
hanging limply down.
"Why, why, my dear!" said he, with sudden compunction, as he felt
Madge's fingers trembling in his grasp. "It was too bad of me to put
you to such a trial. I ought to have waited for Wayne and Jack. I
didn't stop to think. Your nerves are shaken, and no wonder. There!
there!"
No wonder, indeed! They went upstairs side by side, Madge scarcely
hearing, and still less heeding, the doctor's flow of exculpation.
When they reached the doctor's room the old man wished Madge to rest
there while he went to call his son and secretary and alarm the house
generally. But to this proposal Madge objected with astonishing energy.
She herself would go and no one else. She was quite recovered now and
did not feel the slightest fear. Would he promise her to remain quietly
in his room until she returned with the others?
The doctor reluctantly yielded his consent, and then Madge slipped from
the room with a wildly beating heart. Instead, however, of turning
along the corridor towards the rooms occupied by Cyril, Wayne and Jack,
she swiftly descended the stairs, and reaching the study door flung it
wide open.
"Come!" said she, addressing Jack--she did not look at Cyril--"your
father sent me to your room to call you--to your _room_!" She paused a
moment, and then continued, with flashing eyes and a bitter emphasis:
"Oh, deceive him still, if you can! If you can keep him from learning
to what you have fallen, do so! You need expect no opposition from
me--for his sake, but never, never, dare to speak to me again!"
"Jack is not to blame in the least," said Cyril, quietly. "I am the
culprit; he is as innocent as you are, Miss Westbrook."
Madge started and blanched; that coolly-worded confession seemed to
stab her like a knife. Then like lightning there flashed across her
brain the request she had overheard for a loan of twenty-five pounds.
Oh, this was all so horrible--so incomprehensible! Jack had lifted his
head as Cyril spoke, but had quickly let it fall again.
"Jack followed me, only to watch me," continued Cyril, in the same even
tones. "He was caught by the closing of the door when I opened the
drawer--you know how it works--that is all as far as he is concerned. I
throw myself on your mercy, Miss Westbrook. I offer no useless excuses.
If I dared ask a favour of you I would say, keep my secret--at least
until I am free of Highbank."
Madge paused a moment, overwhelmed; then she turned on him with
passionate scorn. "Oh, how you have deceived us! Then all the time
you have been here you were only a thief--a common thief, at heart.
Oh!"--she waved her hand with a gesture of horror--"you acted well as
a pretender, a masquerader, a specious, lying counterfeit of honesty."
She turned to her cousin: "Jack! Jack! speak!"
"For Heaven's sake, Madge, don't go on so. I--I can't stand it, I tell
you," exclaimed Jack, violently. "I--I----"
[Illustration: "SHE TURNED ON HIM WITH PASSIONATE SCORN."]
"Hush! hush! There is no need to say anything further," broke in Cyril,
hastily. "Miss Westbrook will keep silence, I am sure. I only ask for
a few hours' grace."
Madge swept out of the study without another word. Cyril pushed the
reluctant Jack and then followed him. At the doctor's door Madge
left them and, her heart broken with passion, sought her room. The
old man had been awaiting the arrival of the young men in a fever of
impatience. The first excitement consequent on the capture of the
burglars having subsided somewhat, he had had time to reflect. It had
occurred to him then that the thieves must have effected their entrance
by the study door; they could scarcely have done so by the window. In
this case they had, he thought, probably entered by means of a skeleton
key and had escaped in the same manner.
It was a pitiful, distasteful farce to Cyril, but it had to be acted
through to the finale. The birds had flown, of course, and equally of
course by the French window found open in the corridor.
Search parties were sent out, and Cyril wondered with a pang what could
be Madge's feelings as the flickering lights wandered to and fro in the
garden on their wild-goose chase.
The next day Madge did not leave her room, and Cyril Wayne, feeling
that he was the cause, hastened his departure. One more lie, he
bitterly told himself, and his career of deception was concluded. It
was an intense relief, sore as his heart might be, to get away as far
as possible from Highbank. He had spent there the happiest and the most
painful hours of his existence.
* * * * *
In less than a fortnight after Cyril's departure Jack Selden was
watching, with a feeling of considerable satisfaction, from the deck of
a "liner," the English coast-line fading in the distance. His debts had
been paid and a hardly-won consent obtained to try the experiment of
sheep-farming in Australia. His father, aunt and Madge had accompanied
him to Tilbury Docks; and Jack was wondering vaguely, as he puffed
his cigar and the summer night gathered round, what Madge was at that
precise moment thinking of him.
Before leaving he had written a letter for Madge, which she would have
received on her return to the hotel from the docks. In it Jack had done
full justice to Cyril Wayne. He had concealed nothing relating to the
crime which he had so nearly committed, and which Cyril, to shield him,
had so quixotically taken upon his own shoulders. In conclusion he had
begged Madge to keep his secret from his father, and to consider that
as far as he, Jack, was concerned she was free.
Madge had found Jack's letter on her dressing-table, and had read its
frank out-pouring with quickened pulse, flushed cheeks, and sparkling
eyes. What a dull, crushing weight it had suddenly lifted from her
heart! She did not attempt to analyze her feelings, but the crime
seemed nearly trivial now that she knew it was Jack's. And then an
uncontrollable desire seized her to make amends to Cyril. Jack had
evidently anticipated this; for, with wonderful thoughtfulness, he had
supplied the address, and Madge recognised with a thrill that it was
not distant more than five minutes' walk from the spot where she was at
that moment standing.
Should she write to Cyril or should she go to him? A moment's thought
decided that question. The cruel words she had used could only be
withdrawn personally; so, without bestowing a moment's reflection on
the proprieties, she crushed Jack's precious epistle in her hand and,
hurrying down the stairs, left the hotel.
It was with a beating heart that she presently found herself at the
house where Cyril was living. He was acting as _locum tenens_ for a
friend who was enjoying his holiday abroad. The servant, thinking
she was a late patient, ushered her into a little waiting-room, and
from there, a few moments later, into the consulting-room. Cyril, who
was standing at the window, turned and started in astonishment as he
recognised her.
"What! Miss Westbrook!" he exclaimed, as he hurried forward. "The
doctor----?"
Madge held out her hand impulsively.
"No," said she; and then, without further preamble, she plunged
tumultuously into the reason that had brought her there.
"I have come to beg your pardon. Oh, you must forgive me for what--what
I said. I'm so sorry--oh, so sorry; but I couldn't help it. Please read
this before you say anything."
She thrust Jack's letter into Cyril's hand. The young man took it,
glanced at the super-scription, and flushed.
"Ah! so Jack has betrayed me!" said he, as he commenced to read. "And
you are not angry at my deception?" He looked into her eager, appealing
face. "It is I who must ask forgiveness, but----"
"But you hurt me very much indeed," broke in Madge. "You should not
have done it; no, you should not. I said things--I misjudged you,
because you--oh, you had disappointed me--wounded me so much." Her eyes
grew humid and her last words faltered and fell almost to a whisper.
"I--I thought the end justified the means," stammered Cyril. He
scarcely knew what to say. He turned to the letter again.
There followed a momentary silence while Cyril read on. Suddenly his
heart bounded wildly, and the writing swam before his eyes as he came
to Jack's declaration of freedom. He dropped the letter and turned to
her.
"Miss Westbrook--Madge--tell me--you must! Did you love him?"
"I--I had promised," she whispered, with drooping eyelids.
"Promised! Promised! Only promised? I always thought you loved him,"
exclaimed Cyril.
Madge did not reply, but the colour surged sudden and warm into her
half-averted cheek.
"My dear! my dear!" said he, passionately, as he caught both her hands
in his. "It was I that loved you after all--not Jack. I deceived you
for your sake, not for his. What could I do? Could I see you suffer? I
have loved you from the first, but I never thought to tell you this. Is
it useless for me to do so now? Madge, dear, is it? Is it?"
[Illustration: "HE CAUGHT BOTH HER HANDS IN HIS."]
There was no reply, but as he drew her unresisting form towards him he
read his answer in her uplifted, happy eyes.
[Illustration: CHILDHOOD IN PICTURES]
By S. K. LUDOVIC.
[Illustration: "ASLEEP."
_From the Painting by F. Charderon._