CONFESSION AND EXPIATION.
“And now you know the whole truth, papa--everything! Do you not hate
me--despise me?”
It was Maud Willowby who spoke. She sat up in bed, propped by numerous
pillows, her thin, white hands clasped together and a strange, exciting
fire burning in her sunken eyes. It was several days after she had
fallen almost lifeless at the top of the stairs, and she had been
hovering between life and death ever since, and sometimes praying that
the latter might be her portion.
The colonel did not answer immediately. It had been a keen blow to him,
a stab to the very heart, and nature was rebelling against it.
For nearly an hour he had listened, suppressing his wrath from time
to time, and occasionally pacing the floor in a spasmodic way that
told only too well of the rage that filled his breast. But she had not
faltered; in a dull monotone she had told her dreadful secret, not,
however, daring to look at him until now, when the last word was spoken.
Outside the ground was covered with snow, and even yet the wind dashed
the little particles against the windows, as if seeking for some
crevice by which to enter. Father and daughter were utterly alone. She
had ordered it so.
“Maud!” his voice trembled so that he could hardly speak. He was going
to say that he would rather have seen her in the grave than have
listened to that tale of deceit and misery. But a look at her aroused
his pity, and the latter words were unsaid. Again he restlessly paced
the silent chamber.
“And he--your husband--is the man who killed Allen Chesterbrook?” he
said slowly.
“Yes.”
Again there was a silence, broken only by the shriek of the rising wind
and then the slamming of a door below. She hid her face in the pillows,
and began to sob.
“Then you have been punished enough, my child,” he said softly, at
last. “There is no need for me to--to----”
His voice died out in a breath of tenderness. He bent over her and
stroked her golden hair. This sudden act of kindness, of sympathy, made
her sob the louder, and he had hard work to soothe her.
“Oh, it is fearful, papa. Think of it! I do not believe you can fully
realize it. We are married, and he is a murderer. And then think of
Roy, papa--my Roy--such a manly little lad--the son of a murderer. Oh,
I could bear my own trouble and disgrace--at least, I would try--but
think of the disgrace for him!”
“He does not know his father; he never must know him,” interposed the
colonel hastily. “You must keep the boy out of the way. Send him to
some asylum.”
“And I must part with him--my own flesh and blood?” Her head quivered
in agony, as the tears started afresh.
“Yes, you must part with him. And we must get that old woman out of the
way, too. Money will do it.” He began to pace up and down again. “Yes,
money will do it--it must do it.”
“And then, papa?”
“The wretch must be found. The detectives must be set on his track. Not
such blockheads as that Hull, but men who know their business. They
will soon track him down--and Henry Cross will be vindicated.”
Ah, yes, Henry Cross would be vindicated--that was true. But what of
herself--what would the cold, cruel world say and think about her?
“You must be strong, Maud; you must do your duty, no matter how
humiliating. You owe it to the law, to Cross, to yourself. You must do
your duty, be the consequences what they may.”
“Oh, papa, I would rather die!” She leaped from the bed and threw
herself at his feet. “Think of the everlasting disgrace. I will be the
widow of a murderer, of a man who closed his career in the electric
chair. No one will speak to me. I shall be shunned. The girl who was
once the belle of Lakeview will be ostracized, despised.”
He took her hands and embraced her. “We will go away. We can go to
South America; and the boy----”
A tap at the door interrupted the conversation. It was one of the
servants.
“A message for Miss Maud. The man as brought it said it wasn’t to be
delayed under any circumstances, and was sorry it couldn’t have been
delivered late last night, as it should have been but for the storm.”
The colonel took the envelope from the servant’s hand.
“Is the man waiting for the answer?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Go and make him comfortable. This is not a nice storm for
any one to be exposed to.”
The servant departed, and Colonel Willowby turned toward his daughter.
“Give it to me--quick, papa; it may be from him.”
“Not likely, Maud. Here, I will open it for you.” He tore open the
envelope and handed her the single sheet folded within. She glanced
hastily at it. “I have had an accident and am dying. Come to me
at once, or it may be too late. Am at twenty-seven Mill Street,
Factorytown.”
That was all, but it was enough. “Look, papa! What strange act of
Providence is this? We must go at once.”
She sprang toward her dressing-room closet, while he took the note over
to the window.
“Humph! An accident, and dying!” The colonel looked out of the window.
“It is a fearful day, Maud----”
“What of that, papa? I would go, no matter what the weather. Will you
send Nancy up to me and order the machine? How can I get to the place
the quickest?”
She flew around in a frenzy of haste. He looked at her, and realized
that it would be useless to argue with her. But she should not go alone.
“That place is a hundred miles from here by boat and rail. I will go
with you,” he said.
She murmured her thanks, but that was all; she was too busy arranging
her toilet. He went below to send the messenger away and to order the
big touring car.
A quarter of an hour later they were plunging at top speed through the
snow, sending the machine rocking from side to side. It was just a few
minutes to boat time, and the colonel had given orders that the boat
must be caught.
And they did catch it, although they were the last passengers on board.
Soon the craft was puffing along down the lake on her way to Mackanack
Junction.
Together the father and daughter consulted a time-table, and learned
that at the Junction they could make close connection with a train that
would take them to their destination.
“I am glad of it,” said Maud; “I--I must see him before he dies.”
The journey took nearly four hours, and it was dusk when the train
came to a halt, and they got out. The messenger was in sight, and he
volunteered to show them the way to the house where the dying man lay.
No coach was in view, and they tramped the distance, Maud clinging
to her father’s arm. When they reached the place the landlady, Mrs.
Canberry, admitted them.
“If you are the lady he is waiting to see go right up, ma’am. The room
in the back. The other lady----”
The woman did not finish. A door above had opened, and now Violet
Harding came out on the landing above. She was weeping bitterly.
“Go to him, Miss Willowby,” she said, in a low voice. “He is waiting
for you. And be kind to him--for my sake.”
Maud started back in astonishment. Who was this woman--what did she
mean by that strange speech? She was about to ask some question, when
Violet brushed past her, went out of the front door, and hurried down
the street, out of sight in the snowy twilight.
“No time to spare, ma’am--he’s sinking fast, the doctor says.” It was
the voice of the woman who had let them in; and Maud turned and sped up
the stairs, followed by her father.
The sufferer lay on a low bed between the door and a window. His
forehead was bandaged, and his face looked pale and haggard. Maud ran
to his side, but he motioned her off.
“Don’t come near me--it wouldn’t be right,” he muttered, in a voice so
weak they could scarcely hear him. “Sit down over there. That’s your
father, I suppose.”
“Yes, I am Colonel Willowby.” Conflicting feelings kept the old man
from saying more.
“I am dying. The doctor says I can’t live the night out,” went on the
sufferer. “I--I fell from a bridge, and went over the dam, and it has
finished me. I’ve been waiting for you, Maud, and I know just what I
want to tell you. Does your father----”
“He knows all, Dick!” The young woman was crying. “Are you not
sorry----”
“Yes, I am sorry. But I am more sorry for something else--something
that made me send for you. I didn’t want to die with two great crimes
on my soul, hardened as I am. Did you see Violet? She just went out.”
“Yes; we saw the young lady that just left you.”
The sufferer gave a long sigh. “She is my sister. There! don’t start,
Maud--you don’t know it all yet. She is one of the best and purest
girls in the world. She is all alone, and I want you to promise that
you will be her friend henceforth. Don’t think because I’m bad that she
is. She is broken-hearted, I know; she has tried to forgive me, bless
her. Now--a drink, quick!”
The sufferer gave a short gasp for breath. Maud could not move, so
overcome was she by what she had heard. The colonel seized a glass of
water which stood on a table and pressed it to the dying man’s lips.
The cooling beverage revived him somewhat.
“Violet has gone out for a lawyer, who is to take down my confession. I
shan’t involve any one in it but myself, so no one shall suffer but me.
And now listen closely: I can’t say much, and I want to tell you before
that lawyer comes. I have been a thorough villain from the start. I was
never your husband; my name is not Dick Harley; it is Dick Harding, and
Dick Harley and I were first cousins. We always looked alike, and but
for the same Christian name would have passed for twins.
“I did not kill Allen Chesterbrook because of you, but solely on my own
account; we differed about a money matter. Anyway, he was not as good
as you thought him. I followed him to Lakeview; I had been drinking,
and was in desperate circumstances, and I thought he ought to give me
a roll of money, just to keep quiet about certain things I knew. I
watched my chance, and, entering his room on that wedding morning, I
asked him for money. He wouldn’t give me any; then I told him I was
your husband. That angered him more; we fought, and, in the struggle, I
killed him. Water, more water--quick!”
Again the colonel, upon whose face now rested a calmer look, placed the
glass to his lips. Maud had advanced, and was close beside them both.
“Before I killed him, I overheard all that passed between Chesterbrook
and you.” His eyes rested on the young woman. “I knew you were talking
of poor Dick, who was dead, and I learned of Chesterbrook’s doubts.
That talk and the scene in the courtroom, gave me an idea. I determined
to palm myself off as my Cousin Dick, and, if I got no money out of
him, I thought I might squeeze some money out of you in some way, even
if I had to play the rôle of husband, and then clear out. Now you know
it all. Your forgiveness is all I ask.”
Maud caught his hand and tried to speak. There were footsteps on the
stairs. She pressed his hand warmly. “For poor Dick’s sake, I forgive
you,” she murmured, with an effort. She could say no more. The
revelation had stunned her.
An elderly gentleman entered, carrying a roll of legal cap and writing
materials, all in readiness. “I am wanted to take a confession----” he
began.
“Yes; sit down, and write quickly.” It was Dick Harding who spoke. The
lawyer seated himself, while a sudden hush fell on the little group.
“Write this.” The sufferer’s voice could scarcely be heard. “Being
about to die, as the doctor tells me, I hereby confess and swear, as
I hope for pardon from God in the world to come, that I killed Allen
Chesterbrook, of Lakeview, this State.” The lawyer started, but his pen
kept scratching away. “I killed him in self-defense, for he had struck
me several times--although not without cause. I entered his room by
the door. We quarreled, and I stabbed him with a dagger that was lying
on his bureau. I escaped through a window to an adjoining room. I make
this confession to clear my soul and save an innocent man, Henry Cross,
from the chair.”
The sufferer’s voice died out utterly. “Water, water! and raise me up
so I can sign it. I--I--can’t see! Give me--me--the--the pen. Violet,
where are you? Violet!”
A form by the doorway, a form shaking with sobs, came over to his side
and caught his arm, that almost lifeless arm, the hand of which now
held the pen.
“Put my hand on the paper where I am to sign. The room is so dark--I
can’t see anything.” The pen made a big blot on the sheet, but that
was all. “I can’t do it--I can’t! God have mercy on me, a poor sinner.
Oh, Violet, Violet! Forgive!”
He clung to her convulsively, the pen still in his hand. She looked
into his face.
“Try to sign, Dick--for the sake of that innocent man. And, remember, I
love and forgive you.”
The dying man took a new grip on the pen. The hand sought the paper;
the trembling fingers scrawled the name--Richard Harding. A shudder
convulsed his frame; the pen dropped; there was a rattle in the
sufferer’s throat, and the murderer of Allen Chesterbrook was dead.