IV

The morning’s drizzle had settled into a steady downpour when, after

concluding her notes upon the fashionable world as seen at Mrs.

Hathaway’s reception, Miss Carmichael, of the _Epoch_, put on her

rubber overshoes, extinguished her smartest gown under a waterproof

cloak, and unfurling her faithful umbrella, slipped down the steps

and under the awning at the front door to take an east-side car for

down town.

Her destination was not unfamiliar, for the car stopped at a crossing

very near the house in which she previously visited her brother,

Ashton. But as she rang the bell of his lodgings and awaited the

coming of the maid, Alice’s heart beat with fierce excitement. To do

what she now purposed to accomplish would put into requisition her

best courage, tact, and persistence.

She had written to her brother asking an interview with him at the

moment when her suspicions first fell upon his complicity with the

much-talked-of newspaper articles about the loss of the emerald at

Mrs. Ellison’s dinner. Upon his churlish refusal to receive her on

any terms she had set her wits to trace out and discover the tool

whom he had doubtless employed to do his noxious work.

This for a time she could not accomplish. But chance finally threw

into her way the knowledge that on some previous occasion Carmichael

had had so-called literary dealings with a man named Lance, a

hack-writer of ability, whose bad habits were fast bringing his

usefulness to an end. Now, indeed, fate played into her hands. The

year before she had nursed Lance’s child through an illness ending in

the girl’s death in her arms in the boarding-house where they were

both living. For Alice, Lance would hazard his last hope of earthly

happiness. She was to him a thing sacred and apart from his sordid

world. When she sought him out, and asked him point-blank whether he

had not been employed by her brother, Ashton Carmichael, to transmit

certain information to a certain newspaper, the man was fairly

staggered.

“Your brother!” he exclaimed. “That poor sycophant, whose pay even I

blush to take? He whom we call among ourselves the ‘Little Brother of

the Rich.’ Good Lord! You are as far asunder as the poles.”

So Ashton thought, but with a difference!

When Lance understood the case he hastened with almost pathetic

eagerness to bring his finished material and lay it in her hands.

“Is this little all I can do for you?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Lance. You might promise me never to put your hand to such

vile stuff again,” she said, looking him fearlessly in the face.

“The wording only is my own. He gave me the ideas. He said it would

be a stinger to the man he hated most. As for the morality involved,

I am past distinguishing between the grades of principle--since _she_

left me, and I see no more of you!”

“There _is_ something in which you might help me,” she added, after

revolving matters in her mind. “I need to see my brother--to talk

with him alone. He has positively refused to receive me in his rooms.

I cannot push my way there in the face of servants. Could you bring

us together, do you think?”

Lance brightened.

“Why not? I have an appointment to wait for him at six on Friday. The

people of the house are used to seeing me come and go, sometimes with

a stenographer. I don’t know if you are aware that he does a steady

business contributing ‘society personals’ to our paper and to others.

His terms are high, but they like to have him, because he’s a sure

thing. Will you prefer to go with me or to meet me there?”

“I shall be there at a quarter before six,” Alice had said, drawing a

long breath.

She found Lance sitting in the hall.

“This is the lady I told you was coming to take my place, Bridget,”

said Lance to the servant, pleasantly. Despite his shabby looks

the maids of the boarding-house liked him, whom they called “Mr.

Carmichael’s clerk.” The woman answered him in a jovial tone:

“All right, Mr. Lance. The young lady can go on up and sit in the

sittin’-room.” As Lance said good evening and went out she added,

sociably: “You run right up, miss. Second story front. But, laws, I

remember you was here before! Our Mr. Carmichael do be mightily run

after by the newspaper folks. He’s such a high-flyer in society. But

he ain’t well, I’m thinking; he looks like a sheet o’ paper nowadays.”

The winter’s day had closed in as Alice entered her brother’s room,

and sat down by the window, listening to the drip, drip of the rain

upon the sills. She wanted time to think before he should come in.

He would resent her intrusion angrily, of course; but that would be

nothing in comparison with his wrath when he should know for what

she came.

For days she had carried fear around with her, and slept with it at

night. Putting together one thing and another that had come to her

about the unlucky dinner at Mrs. Ellison’s, she had conceived the

horrible suspicion that her brother was the thief of the ring. Since

convicting him as the source of the slanderous article inculpating

Tom, this suspicion had been growing into assurance. Until that

morning her chief yearning desire had been to put Lance’s article

safely into Mr. Farnsworth’s hands. That accomplished, she had for

a moment breathed freer. Then the blacker weight had settled down

again. A desperate resolve possessed her. She must recover the ring

from Ashton, and restore it to its owner!

Did she not accomplish this, how could she answer to her dead mother,

who with her last breath had prayed Alice to watch over the weakling

of her fold, and to forgive him until seventy times seven?

Behind Alice was a line of Puritan ancestors who had lived and died

strong in the faith and fear of a just God. Surely He would not

permit her to fail now upon the threshold of such an endeavor. But

how could she set about it? How induce Ashton to confess his crime

unless he were sure he was found out?

As the moments elapsed that were to bring the sound of his foot upon

the stair the ticking of his costly traveling clock over the mantel

beat louder and louder on her ear. Her brow and hands were bathed in

sweat, yet she was clammy cold.

Six o’clock! He could not be long now.

Oh! she could never bring him to own the truth. At the first hint of

her mission he would not hesitate to turn her with ignominy from the

house--to brand her as an impudent interloper.

If the ring were here on the table before her she would even dare to

take it, and escape, flying till she had laid it in the right hands,

risking anything to save her brother from the consequences of his sin

and crime.

A single jet of gas burned low under a shade of crimson silk above

the writing-table, littered with fantastic trifles in gold and

silver, spoils of his cotillons, gifts of his admirers. With fervid

fingers she turned on the full light, drew down the window-shades and

looked about her. There was no desk, casket, or piece of furniture

that seemed a likely hiding place for so rare a treasure. He would

never dare to carry it about his person. Nor, so long as the clamor

concerning it lasted, would he venture to dispose of the Carcellini

emerald!

Her face burning with another’s shame, Alice went into the smaller

hall-room, where his bed was and his dressing things were kept. Still

the same commonplace furnishings, with a litter of clothes and boots

and trinkets of the toilet. Here, too, she turned up the gas and lit

it, terrified lest interruption should find her without excuse.

“For _her_ sake,” she repeated, to give herself courage in the

search. Nothing was locked; all was at the mercy of the maid who

arranged and dusted Ashton’s rooms. With her old instinct of

making his belongings tidy, as she had been used to do when they

lived together, Alice began straightening the ties, laying the

handkerchiefs in piles, and putting the gloves in pairs.

Forgetting her real intent, she smiled as of old to find behind

a lot of other things a box filled with a hodgepodge of buttons,

sleeve-links, cigar-cutters, scarf-pins, tangled with shoe-strings,

rubber bands, and other flotsam of a crowded chest of drawers. This

was Ashton all over, careless fellow! For the hundredth time his

loving sister would extract the rubbish from things of value, and set

the whole to rights.

Out of the confusion of this receptacle she rolled a quaint curio

in the shape of a thimble-case made from a carved Indian nut, with

silver frame and settings tarnished for a long want of cleaning. The

trifle was too old and shabby now to tempt anybody’s cupidity, but

it aroused in Alice Carmichael a swelling tide of sentiment that

overflowed her eyes and softened her heart to childlike tenderness.

For it had been a gift to their mother long ago; had lain in her

work-basket, and was once scrambled for by her children with

eagerness proportioned to her withdrawal of it from their grasp.

Later on it had been given to Ashton, because he had first discovered

the trick of opening it by pressing a hidden spring. By some freak of

chance it had knocked about among his belongings ever since.

Alice took the poor little blackened relic in her hand and went

back with it into the sitting-room, where she dropped upon a chair,

abandoning herself to retrospect. Away flew the hideous nightmare

of her present quest. Ashton and she were children together, she

loving him, sheltering him, proud of his beauty and accomplishments,

following his lead with blind idolatry.

With this amulet in her grasp she longed to clasp him again in her

arms, to talk with him of their mother, their old home; to laugh and

chaff with him about the things of every day.

Mechanically her fingers fumbled with the thimble-case, turning it

over and over to feel for the point of the carving that concealed its

mystery. Smiling, she discovered at last the spring--touched it--the

nut flew open--something dropped into her lap that she reached down

to regain. She was astounded to find her fingers close upon a gem

that at the gleam of gas-light falling full upon its lustrous surface

sent up a bubbling, dazzling fount of greenish flame! She started

with a convulsive movement of dismay. There could be no doubt that

she held in her hand the Carcellini emerald!

Then flowed upon her soul a torrent of deepest misery. Once before

her brother had been guilty of a theft--of moneys laid to Tom

Oliver’s account as treasurer of a college fund. But she had paid

that out of her poor earnings, and Tom, for her sake, had offered to

hush the matter up, and give Ashton “another chance.”

And thus he had used his chance! The flaring radiance of the jewel

seemed to taunt her anguish.

What should she do? Whither should she turn to save him once again?

Rising, her feet refused to sustain her. As she stood dizzy,

trembling, aghast, holding the precious jewel as she looked at it,

the door opened and her brother came into the room. His eyes flashed

anger at sight of her, but something more devilish inspired him when

he saw what she had in her hand.

In two bounds he was across the room and had seized her. She shut

her eyes, and uttered a prayer to God for strength. She was wiry and

vigorous, and did not mean to let Ashton take the emerald from her if

she could help it. At all costs she would save him from himself. He

said not a word, nor did she. Each was fiercely determined to conquer

in the struggle. Too well he knew that if he could regain his stolen

prize, and turn her from his room, her lips would be sealed as before.

But he was not prepared for her physical resistance. At his approach

she had slipped the gem into hiding in her dress, keeping her right

hand clenched as if she still held it in her grasp.

Without mercy he bent her arm back and forth, hurting her cruelly,

and at last, forcing her bruised fingers apart, saw that she held

nothing between them. Then with a savage oath he struck her full

across the face!

Alice staggered back, stunned and dismayed. But she did not waver in

her intention to get by him to the door, and thence make her escape

into the street. Once free of Ashton she would carry the jewel to

Mr. Farnsworth or Tom Oliver if she could not reach its owner.

Ashton divined her scheme. His only hope lay in keeping her prisoner

till he could force her to give up the gem. With more brutal words he

started to cut off her retreat by putting his back against the door.

His whole appearance was transformed by furious passion.

At that moment help came to her from a quarter on which she had

not counted. She saw her brother shiver all over, and grow deadly

pale. His left hand made a clutching movement toward his heart; he

staggered forward, and fell--into her arms.

Alice had seen this once before--an occasion never to be forgotten.

She knew the terror-stricken eyes, the awful, helpless appeal for

relief from sudden oppression. His livid features brought back to

her with agonizing force the face of their dying mother under like

conditions. Exerting all her powers she dragged him to a sofa, laid

him down, and flew to ring the bell, peal upon peal.

The maid who ran up to answer it gave one frightened glance into

the room and rushed back to the landing to summon help from any one

who might be passing on the stairs. Her call brought among others

a gentleman just admitted into the hall below. In the maze of her

feelings Alice hardly felt surprised to see Tom Oliver entering her

brother’s room. She begged him, pathetically, to explain to the

proprietors of the house her right to be there, then went on her

knees again beside the prostrate form upon the lounge. In a very few

moments a physician came, and Alice, giving place to him, let Tom

lead her over to a window, where he left her looking out into the

night.

Returning presently he told her that all was over. Ashton had died

without coming back to consciousness.

“You will let me take charge of everything,” he added, with deep

feeling in his voice. “When I stood with the doctor looking down at

him I forgot what I came here to say--everything, in fact, but that I

once loved him like a brother.”

“I think I know what you came for,” she answered, wistfully. “You

meant to silence him for the future, and now death has done it--oh,

how awfully!”

She shuddered. The pain of her body was beginning to make itself

severely felt. It recalled to her the prize for which she had risked

so much, that lay close to the tumultuous beatings of her heart.

Above all things she longed for advice from Tom concerning it, but

could not bring herself to speak the words that would incriminate the

dead.

* * * * *

When, some months later Tom Oliver asked Alice Carmichael to be his

wife she tried to make him understand that in addition to other

reasons why she could not accept his “generous sacrifice,” there was

one supreme obstacle between them.

“Do not tell me,” he said, with authority, “what you conceive this

to be. I know all that I care to know of what has kept us apart till

now. It is the future, not the past, that you and I have to deal

with. I shall take you to live far away from the scenes of your

sorrowful memories--and for the rest trust me!”

* * * * *

But no man, however thoughtful, however loving, can extinguish in a

faithful woman’s heart the flame of her earliest tenderness. Often

and again Alice Oliver thinks of the lonely, unhonored grave in which

lies one who is never mentioned in her little family. Less often--but

now always kindly--Eunice Farnsworth thinks of him, too.

* * * * *

The restoration to its owner of the great Carcellini emerald--without

the ring--is well known to have occurred directly upon Mrs.

Ellison’s return to town from her Southern journey. It was sent back

to her as mysteriously as it had vanished. No clew was ever found

that informed the public of the author of either its disappearance or

its reappearance.