A GUESS AT A TRUTH.
Four days after he had been found dead in his rooms, Allen Chesterbrook
was buried. The funeral ceremony was conducted at the very church where
he was to have been married to Maud Willowby; and while the church had
been crowded on that beautiful morning, it was now, despite the cold
rain that had set in, literally packed. People are fond of a sensation,
especially when it contains a dash of tragedy. Most of them came; not
out of respect for the dead, but to see what would take place and how
Maud Willowby would carry herself.
But the sightseers were disappointed, so far as Maud was concerned.
She did not appear, and it was whispered about that she was too ill to
leave her bed. The colonel came alone, grave and dignified. His face
was pale, and during the service, which was most impressive, it grew
paler, but otherwise he exhibited no emotion. When it was announced
that those present might advance to the front and take a last look at
the departed one, he did not stir from his seat.
“He feels it too deeply--he doesn’t dare to trust himself--he’s that
proud about manifesting any weakness,” was the way most of the Lakeview
folks judged him, and he was willing to allow them this belief.
When the final words were said some few pressed forward to give him
their sympathy and to send a kind word to his daughter. He listened in
almost absolute silence, and at the first opportunity broke away and
hurried to his conveyance, and that was the last seen of him for the
day.
From the church the coffin, after being boxed, was taken to the boat
landing, there to be shipped by water and rail to New York, for
interment in Greenwood Cemetery. A host of relatives accompanied the
remains, and as the boat sailed down the lake it could truly be said
that the passing of Allen Chesterbrook was completed so far as Lakeview
in general was concerned.
Of course, people continued to talk of his death, and wondered who had
killed him, and a very few asked themselves if it was possible he had
committed suicide; but other matters came up shortly after--a serious
runaway and a fire at one of the hotels--and the nine days’ wonder
became merely a horrible shadow of the past.
For some reason, hardly perhaps known to himself, Henry Cross breathed
easier when the body was removed from the bachelor apartment below his
own rooms. On the day following, a relative who had been left behind
packed up Chesterbrook’s effects and had them sent away, and then the
two rooms were aired by Jackson and locked up. It was likely no one
would want them for some time to come; but as the rent was paid for
the balance of the leased term, neither the owner nor the janitor was
disturbed because the apartment was without a tenant.
The only man who seemed entirely forgotten during the changes that
were taking place was Jimmie Neirney, Chesterbrook’s former valet. Not
one of the rich man’s relatives remembered his faithful services. He
was paid what was due him, no more, and was told he might immediately
look for a position elsewhere. It is barely possible that some of the
relatives thought Chesterbrook’s death would not have occurred had
Jimmie paid more attention to his master’s interests.
But Jimmie was too industrious a fellow to grieve over the way he had
been treated. He wrote another letter to his sweetheart, telling her of
what had happened and that the expected vacation could not be taken,
and then hunted up a position with a gentleman who lived at Oakdale,
another summer resort five miles up an arm of the lake. The change kept
Jimmie busy, and he had no time to think of what had occurred or to
remember the veiled woman he had seen pass out of the back door under
the wash hung up to dry.
True to his promise, Henry Cross indorsed the notes, as per his
agreement with Colonel Willowby. The transaction took place at the
office of the Land Improvement Company, on the day after the funeral.
Mr. Bixby, the president of the company, was present, as was also
Violet Harding. In the presence of the outsiders the transaction was a
formal one, and at its conclusion the colonel and the young man rode
away together in the former’s turnout.
“Bixby has succeeded in fixing up the other notes, so we are safe,”
said the colonel, as soon as they had started. “You cannot imagine what
a load has been lifted from my heart, Cross.”
“I am glad to be of service, sir, as I said before. You have enough
trouble otherwise. How is your daughter this morning?”
“I believe she is better. She came down and took breakfast with me, and
that’s a good sign.”
“Did you----” The young man broke off suddenly.
“No, I have not yet told her, I am waiting for a favorable chance. It
is not a pleasant theme to discuss with her in her present condition.”
“Then perhaps you had better not say anything. Let matters take their
own course. In time the whole miserable business will be forgotten.”
“Perhaps you are right. I will wait and think it over. But I am curious
to know more of that Miss Harding. Were you at the funeral yesterday?”
“No.”
“Then you cannot say if she was there or not. Bixby told me she asked
for permission to be absent from her duties on the wedding morning.”
“Then it’s more than likely she attended the funeral.”
“Very probable. Her conduct is exceedingly strange. If I were sure she
had helped Allen to deceive us I would pack her off at once.”
“It may be she was herself deceived. I would not throw the poor girl
out of work on suspicion.”
“Oh, she can stay--for the present. But I am not as forgiving as you,
Cross; I cannot so readily forget harm done.”
“I am no saint.” The young man uttered a short laugh. “I did not
forget my quarrel with Chesterbrook on the night of the Charity Ball.”
“And what was that quarrel about, if I may ask? I understand you
refused to speak of it at the inquest.”
“It was not much. I had my name down for a dance with Maud, and he
rubbed my name from her card and substituted his own. He claimed it was
a mistake, and we had a few hot words down in the gentlemen’s room,
that was all. I merely refused to speak of this quarrel so that her
name might not be dragged into the evidence before the coroner.”
“I see. Chesterbrook was just reckless enough to do that and call it a
joke.”
“Well, some might have called it a joke; but--but----”
“I understand, perfectly. Between you two--at that time--it could be no
joke; matters were too serious, eh?”
“Exactly, sir. By the way, what particular bit of land here is to be
improved first?”
Henry Cross shifted the subject, thus showing that the discussion of
what had occurred in the past was distasteful to him. The colonel took
the hint and soon both were busy talking over future prospects in
Lakeview realty.
Colonel Willowby took the young man around to various plots of ground,
and grew enthusiastic as he spoke of what was to be accomplished; and
the drive in the keen morning air did both men good. Shortly before
noon the young man was dropped at the door of the hotel at which he
was in the habit of dining.
Colonel Willowby found his daughter in the library, reading the local
morning paper, which contained a long account of the funeral and the
events in connection with it. She wore a loose morning gown of deepest
purple, and her golden hair was done up in a single large twist at the
back. Her face was white and somewhat haggard, but she showed no signs
of recent weeping.
The colonel came in quietly, and for the instant she did not notice
him as he stood near the doorway, looking at her. Then she glanced up
quickly, folded the paper, and put it away.
“You have been out riding, papa?” she asked.
“Yes, I had to go down to the Land Improvement office, Maud. And what
has my girl been doing while I was away?” he went on, with an attempt
at cheerfulness.
“I have been putting things away, and reading.”
She did not say what things she had placed away, or what she had been
reading; but he knew she meant her magnificent trousseau, and the
article in the paper. A sigh struggled for utterance but he suppressed
it.
“Don’t you want to go out driving with me this afternoon? You can veil
yourself, and we can take one of the country roads----”
“I will go gladly!” she cried. “That is just what I want--to get
out--out in the open air, away from the house and people!”
“Then we will order luncheon at once. It is a trifle cold after the
rain, but I think we can stand it.”
The order was immediately sent to the kitchen, and soon luncheon
was served. She scarcely touched the food, but drank a cup of hot
chocolate. He ate several chicken sandwiches and drank his coffee and
wine, and then they were ready to go--in a buggy which the old colonel
strongly refused to sacrifice for the “new-fangled” motor car.
Scarcely a word was spoken until the last of the houses on the road was
left behind; then he turned to her.
“Which way shall it be, Maud? On toward Oakdale?”
“No, no, papa; let us go the other way. You know I don’t like the
scenery in that vicinity.”
Without a word, he turned the head of the horse up a side road. It was
a curious whim of Maud’s, this never wishing to drive out to Oakdale;
but he had always humored her in it and he humored her now. Never once
did he imagine that there was any real reason behind that whim.
“You said before luncheon that you had been down to the Land
Improvement office,” she went on presently. “What are you going to do
now, papa? Find some one else to indorse those horrid notes?”
“I have already found some one else--that is, for part of them; and
Bixby is going to take care of the rest.”
“I am glad, for your sake. You were worried, weren’t you? I thought you
were, by your face.”
“Yes, Maud, I was very much worried, for there was so much at stake.”
The girl sat silent, and then shivered. He fancied he knew what was in
her mind. Should he tell her the truth about Chesterbrook? He took a
deep breath, but before he could speak she asked:
“Who indorsed the notes, papa? They were quite large, weren’t they?”
He had hoped she would not refer to them again. His face flushed and he
pretended to be busy with the horse, taking a new hold on the reins,
and tapping the animal with the whip.
“A gentleman who did not wish his name mentioned in the transaction
signed for me, and Bixby is going to get Dichter to sign the others.
Gently, Tom, gently! Now go along steadily, that’s a good fellow!”
He pretended to be busier than ever, but she was not to be put off. She
waited a moment, and then asked:
“Was it Mr. Cross?”
“Why, what makes you think it was he?” he cried, in astonishment.
“I saw him call on you right after the--the--you know what I mean,
papa.”
“Do you think Mr. Cross such a rich man?”
“I know he inherited quite a sum from a relative some time ago. Am I
right, papa?”
He did not answer directly. “The gentleman did not wish his name
mentioned,” he returned evasively. “I gave my promise.”
She looked at his face and saw that she had struck the truth. She said
no more on the subject.
On they went over the hilly roads, through patches of woods and past
well-tilled fields, crossing half a dozen tiny brooks, with their
picturesque rustic bridges. The ride seemed to be doing her good, for
some of the color came back to her cheeks.
All too soon, for her, it was time to return. She wished she could go
on and on and on without ever stopping. But the evening shadows were
creeping up, and the atmosphere had become almost too cool for comfort.
The colonel tucked her in afresh and turned the horse’s head homeward.
When they had started, he had had a faint idea that the chance might
present itself to tell her the truth concerning Chesterbrook. But as he
contemplated her pale face and sad expression, he had not the heart to
do so. He thought, after all, that Henry Cross might be right; that it
would be better to let matters rest as they were.