THE TORN LETTER.
Henry Cross walked on until the edge of the lake was reached and the
greater number of private cottages and hotels were left behind. He
was in a turmoil of conflicting emotions, and it appeared to ease him
somewhat to move along rapidly in the open air. He traversed a long
stretch of sandy beach, gazed vacantly out upon the clear waters, which
sparkled in the bright sunlight, and then suddenly seated himself upon
a flat rock.
“I wouldn’t do it out of regard for him,” he muttered. “Why should I?
He was no friend of mine; I believe he actually hated me as much as a
man of his easy-going nature could hate anybody. But for Maud’s sake,
poor girl! It’s a shame.”
He arose, as if unable to bear his thoughts just then, and continued on
his way. A hundred steps farther, and he came to a deep gully, where
a mountain brook had cut its way down through brush and stones to the
lake.
There was a bridge across the gully, but a man stood leaning on the
hand rail; a sporty-looking city chap. Henry Cross at that moment was
in no mood to encounter him, and he turned up the gully, and along
a well-worn footpath which led to a country road, where there was a
second bridge. He did not know that the eyes of the sporty-looking chap
were on him until he was out of sight.
By the time Cross reached the second bridge his thoughts had taken a
new turn. He wondered how Maud Willowby was faring, how she would get
along in the future, and what the outcome of the whole miserable affair
would be.
“I will stop at the door, send in my message of sympathy, and ask for
news. Perhaps old Aunty Motley can tell me something. The old colored
woman has the whole run of the house, and she is very friendly to me.”
He turned away from the gully, and now hurried along the road in the
direction of the town. He passed several farmhouses, then half a dozen
newly built country mansions, and finally came to a halt before the
tall iron gate leading into the spacious grounds of the Willowby estate.
As if afraid to make a noise that might disturb the repose of the young
lady who had but a few short hours before been so sorely afflicted,
Henry Cross did not attempt to open the creaky iron gate. Instead he
passed around to the drive-way, which stood open, and hurried up the
gravel path to the side door of the great house, every blind of which
was now tightly closed.
“Cross!”
The young man started slightly at being so unexpectedly addressed. He
had hesitated at the side door, debating if he had not better, after
all, go around to the front entrance, and make the call a formal one.
He turned and beheld the colonel standing behind him. He had come up
from the heart of the town by a short cut, which led to the rear garden.
“Colonel Willowby!” The young man took his hand. “I trust you have
somewhat recovered from the fearful shock you have sustained. I called
to make inquiries concerning Miss Maud. If I can be of any assistance
in this matter----”
The colonel uttered a groan, and followed it with a long, deep breath.
He looked more bent and haggard than ever. Turning suddenly, he
clutched Henry Cross’ arm convulsively.
“Come into the library, Cross. Perhaps you can do something for me, if
you will. I am fearfully upset. Come!”
The colonel staggered up the steps, unlocked a door, and led the way
through a richly furnished hallway into his library. He motioned the
young man to a chair and dropped wearily into another. He rang a bell,
and presently an old colored woman appeared.
“Has the doctor come, Nancy?” he asked.
“Yes, sah. He’s upstairs wid Miss Maud now.”
“Thank Heaven. He understands her condition, and ought to be able to do
something. I am helpless--I can do nothing. You may go.”
The colored woman had glanced toward Henry Cross in some surprise. It
had been many a day since she had seen him in that house. She bowed
politely, and then withdrew.
“What doctor have you? Not the one at inquest?”
“Oh, no, no! We have Spriglehem, an old friend of the family. No,
Maud must not speak with any one who has seen that ghastly sight. A
description of the unfortunate man, lying lifeless in his own gore,
might drive her mad.”
A dull pain filled Henry Cross’ heart. She was suffering--and because
of her love for another. But he closed his lips and made no sign.
He had borne defeat and bitter agony of heart before; he would bear
whatever came now.
“Yes, it is fearful!” went on the colonel, after a short silence. “I
cannot as yet realize the sad blow myself.”
“I imagine the best thing you can do is to take Maud on a long trip--to
California or South America, for instance. It will do you both good.”
“I cannot do it, Cross; that is one of the bad features of the case. I
must remain here, and in New York.”
“Surely your business can be placed in other hands, colonel. I know how
attentive you usually are in such matters, but you owe it to yourself
as well as to your daughter to try a change of scene.”
Again Colonel Willowby groaned, deeper than before. He sprang up, his
face livid with agony. He took a turn up and down the room and then
faced Cross.
“I might as well tell you all, since it will be common property in a
day or two,” he said brokenly. “The death of Allen Chesterbrook has
ruined me. I am a beggar.”
“What!” and in his intense surprise Henry Cross leaped to his feet.
“You surely do not mean that.”
“I mean just that, nothing less. I am a beggar. All is gone--this house
and grounds, my other real estate, my bonds, my honor.” The colonel’s
voice sank into a whisper. “I almost wish that I, too, were dead!”
Henry Cross stared at the man. Was he in a dream? What was the colonel
saying? “A beggar!” he faltered.
“That word expresses my condition. Yes, a beggar!”
“But, but--how is this--how has Allen Chesterbrook brought you to this
state?”
“I did not say he brought me to it. It is his death that has wrought
all this woe, this misery that cannot be escaped. I will tell you all,
but, perhaps, you do not care to hear. You cannot be interested in my
private affairs.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I am very much interested. And let me add, if I
can help you in any way, I am at your service. I would certainly not
see you and Maud in distress.”
“But you--you are not like other men, Cross; I mean, you do not stand
in the same relationship here as others would. I know something of the
past--of your hopes--and of how they were shattered.”
The young man straightened up with a flushed face.
“Let the past take care of itself, Colonel Willowby. I am speaking of
the present. I am your friend and the friend of your daughter, and I am
willing, nay, anxious, to assist you in your trouble, as far as lies in
my power.”
“Thank you for that assurance!” The colonel grasped his visitor’s hand
feverishly. “I wish----” he broke off. “Sit down and I will tell you
all.”
The two took seats close together. For a few seconds only the sound
of the clock on the old secretary in the corner could be heard. Then
Colonel Willowby’s voice arose in a half whisper, broken more than once
by intense emotion.
“I do not know if you are aware that for some time past, for six months
or more, I have been backing up the Lakeview Land Improvement Company.
President Bixby is an old friend, and when he showed me the scheme by
which it looked as if millions could easily be made, I went into it.
At first I took only one-fifth of the shares, the par value of which
amounted to fifty thousand dollars. Then I bought more of the shares
from the Cresson estate, and, finally, Bixby and myself virtually
carried the entire enterprise upon our shoulders alone.
“We made a number of improvements to Burr Point and around the cove,
at a cost of quite a large sum. Then the Branders estate and the
Cheeseborough were put in the market and we took them up, and also
bought out the Snow Improvement Company, giving notes for all, for
ninety days and six months. I indorsed the notes individually, thinking
all would go well.
“Hardly had the notes been issued when suit was brought against us by
the old Lakeview Real Estate Company, and all the property was involved
in litigation. The matters have been in the courts for two months----”
“Yes, I know of this,” interrupted Henry Cross. “It has bothered us
slightly in buying up the right of way for the Riverhead Railroad.”
“I suppose so. Well, to cut the story short, so long as the matter
is in litigation we can do nothing with the land. Yet the notes first
issued have matured, and others will soon be due. Bixby has no cash,
and every effort to raise the sum has proven a failure. I have used up
every dollar in lawyers’ fees and in paying off the back debts.
“But up to ten o’clock this morning I was not alarmed. Allen had
promised to help me; he was to indorse the new notes of the company
before he and Maud started off on their wedding tour. He was willing
to take any risk that was attached to the deal, feeling as Bixby and I
do, that all would result well. Now the new notes will not be indorsed,
the old company will push us to the wall--they have been hungry for a
chance to get in on us--and the end is that we will be squeezed out of
everything.” The colonel gave a deep sigh. “Ah, it is hard, after one
has worked so many years. I am no longer young----”
He broke off, and again silence fell, which Henry Cross interrupted by
asking:
“For what amount are the new notes?”
“Sixty thousand dollars. That sum would tide us over, and extricate us
from all permanent difficulties. I feel certain of it.”
The young man’s face fell. “Sixty thousand dollars! Could it not be
made less?”
“I wanted to make it forty, but Allen said to make it sixty, and be
sure. But even forty thousand, when a thing is in litigation----”
“If thirty thousand can help you, Colonel Willowby, the sum is at your
service.”
The old man stared at the speaker as if he had not heard aright. The
face of Henry Cross betrayed no excitement; indeed, he acted as if he
had made but the commonest kind of a proposition.
“You will lend me thirty thousand--you!”
“Yes, colonel, gladly, if you think it will pull you through.”
“But I did not know you had so much--that is, at command.”
“By my uncle’s death, last month, I received eighteen thousand dollars.
I can raise the balance in various ways.”
He did not state that he would be compelled to sell out almost his
entire stock in the new Riverhead Railroad, something that was expected
to pay big when once in operation.
“You are indeed a friend, Cross. Thirty thousand might do it; Bixby and
I could, I think, manage to scrape up the rest somewhere. And we would
be saved.” Colonel Willowby breathed a sigh of relief as a drowning man
might when drawn from the water. “But I did not expect it of you. No,
not of you.”
“That shows you did not know me,” returned the young man, with a faint
smile of pleasure.
“That is true, I did not know your worthiness, your generosity. Nor did
Maud.”
Henry Cross paled a trifle. He turned toward the window, where the
light came in faintly through the closed shutters.
“Colonel,” he said, turning back, “I wish to have your promise on one
point, if I do this favor for you.”
“I grant it, Cross. I know you will not exact too much.”
“Your daughter must not know of what I do.”
“What, Maud! But--but----”
“I do not wish her to think I am currying favor--that I--I----”
“I understand you now, Cross. I would have understood before, but was
thinking of my own affairs. But she ought to know what a noble young
man you are.”
“It is my wish that this matter shall not be mentioned to your
daughter.”
“Well, then, it shall be as you say. You do not know how you have
relieved me! It was bad enough to have Allen murdered without having my
poor daughter and myself turned out of our home as beggars.”
Henry Cross caught at the word “murdered” and once again the color left
his cheeks. He walked to the windows to make sure they were tightly
closed, then to the door, which he opened to gaze out into the empty
hallway.
“Colonel Willowby,” he said, in a half whisper, “I have a secret on my
mind that I must tell some one--tell you. Promise me that you will not
disclose--or, no, you need promise nothing; you may do as you think
best.”
“I am willing to keep any secret you may intrust to me, Cross.”
“It is not my secret, it is a dead man’s--Allen Chesterbrook’s.”
“Allen’s! What do you mean?”
“Hush; not so loud, or some one may overhear you. It is a secret that
must be kept, for your sake and for Maud’s. The world must not know of
this disgrace.”
“But you talk in riddles. What is the secret? Out with it.”
The colonel was all attention at once.
“Allen Chesterbrook was not the man you took him to be--honest,
conscientious, willing to keep his word at any risk. He was a reckless
trifler.”
“Cross, what strange disclosure is this?”
“It is true, sir. And he was not murdered,” the young man’s voice sank
still lower. “He committed suicide.”
The secret that had been locked in Henry Cross’ breast ever since he
had picked up that bit of paper in front of the desk was out at last.
No longer was the responsibility of keeping silent his alone.
“A suicide!” The colonel fairly choked over the word. “Never!”
“It is true, sir.”
“You lie, you young----But, excuse me, Cross. No, no, not that!”
“It is a sad state of affairs, but, nevertheless, true. At the last
moment he discovered that he had made a mistake in becoming engaged to
your daughter, and rather than marry her, the coward--I can express it
in no other term--took his own life.”
“But the proof, man! Where is the proof?”
“I have it here. There is a slip of paper I found in his room. It is
part of a letter he started to write to your daughter, and then tore
up. It betrays the condition of his mind; it shows under what emotions
he was laboring.”
“Give me the slip. Oh, if this is really true! But I remember now how
cold he was when last I saw him. I fancied he had regretted his offer
to aid me. Turn on the lights, my eyesight is none of the best now. Ah,
it is his handwriting--I know that well! That will do; I can see it
now.”