THE BANK ON SUNDAY MORNING.
Allison had come into the room where Gerald and her father were
conversing so earnestly just in season to catch the words of
commendation uttered by the latter.
“I am sure you have not, Gerald,” he had said; “I would stake my
fortune upon your integrity and upon your unswerving faithfulness
to my interests.”
She had noted, with the keen perception of a loving heart, the
troubled look in Gerald’s eyes, the anxious expression upon his
brow, and she instantly knew that something had gone amiss with
him, in spite of the fact that he seemed in perfect health, and was
handsomer and more manly than ever.
But in the excitement of greeting him--when she saw his face light
up with joy in her presence, when she felt the warm, lingering
clasp of his hand, and detected the old-time thrill in his
voice--she forgot all about it, for the time, and thought only of
the pleasures of this unexpected meeting.
When Gerald finally left the house it was with a very much lighter
heart than when he entered. His employer’s hearty and unqualified
assurance of confidence was like balm to his wounded spirit; while
his little interview with Allison had set all his pulses vibrating
afresh with his deep and abiding love for her.
He had not seen her for many months, and she seemed to have grown a
hundredfold more lovely than when he had bidden her adieu on that
bright Sunday morning so long ago.
He wondered if she had forgotten the evening previous--their
interview upon the veranda, where, with the moonlight streaming
upon them in its soft effulgence, they had been conscious only of
each other’s presence and the happiness that had thrilled every
fiber of their being. Did she remember their parting when the
clock struck ten? That blissful moment when their lips met in
that involuntary caress? That look into each other’s eyes, that
low-breathed “Allison!” “Gerald!” which had expressed so much?
She seemed a trifle more mature; she had acquired a little air of
dignity which, on the whole, he decided only added to her charms,
although at first it had chilled him slightly--at least, until he
found himself looking down into the expressive eyes.
He hoped he should see her again on the morrow, when he returned
with the boxes which Mr. Brewster had commissioned him to get from
the secret vault.
He smiled and uttered a sigh of content, as he passed his hand over
the pocket which held the keys the banker had given to him, and
realized that he never would have been entrusted with them if he
had not possessed the entire confidence of the man.
He hurried back to his lodging, where, in this happy frame of mind,
he settled down to the preparation of some lessons which were to be
recited that evening to a certain professor with whom he had been
studying for three years.
As we know, Gerald, at the time of his aunt’s death, had been in
the second year of the high school, but for a time after that his
studies were interrupted, as he found that his daily duties taxed
his strength to the utmost.
But as he became accustomed to his work, he began to get hungry for
his books again, and for a while attended evening school, although
his progress was thus necessarily slow.
Then he made the acquaintance of a professor by the name of
Emerson, who, becoming interested in the bright, ambitious lad,
offered to help him perfect his education and arranged for Gerald
to recite three times a week to him.
He was now in his twenty-first year, and expected by the coming
June to complete the studies of the second year of a regular
college course.
After partaking of a light supper, he repaired to the house of
his friend, Professor Emerson, where he acquitted himself most
creditably in his recitations.
The gentleman had become quite fond of his enterprising pupil, and
it was a great delight to him to teach one who was so eager for
knowledge and so quick to comprehend.
“By the way, Gerald, what do you intend to make of yourself when
you get through with your course?” he inquired to-night, as he
closed his book after the last recitation, and bent an inquiring
look on the handsome face before him.
“I think--since I am so well started in the banking business, I
shall stick to it, learn it thoroughly, and, if fortune favors
me, perhaps become a banker myself, by and by,” he replied, but
with a smile at his egotism in aspiring to a position such as Adam
Brewster occupied.
Professor Emerson eyed him curiously for a moment, then remarked:
“You’ll achieve it, if you undertake it, and, rightly conducted,
banking is a good business; still, I wish you might go a little
higher, intellectually--you would make a fine lawyer, your mental
grasp is so keen and accurate.”
“Thank you,” said Gerald, flushing at the compliment, “but it would
take me several years to prepare for the bar, after completing my
college course, and, since I have my own canoe to paddle, I think
I will adhere to what I have begun. I wish, though,” he added
gravely, as his mind suddenly reverted to John Hubbard, “I have
time to become thoroughly posted in law, and could combine the two,
for then I should always be sure of the faithfulness of my legal
adviser.”
“Why, Winchester! I did not suppose you possessed so suspicious a
nature!” said his friend, smiling, but with a note of surprise in
his tones. “If every one was governed by such distrust I fear the
lawyers would fare hard.”
“I am not naturally suspicious,” replied Gerald, reddening, “and
my remark must seem narrow and intolerant to you; it was prompted
by the fact that one lawyer whom I know is anything but an honest
and conscientious man.”
“But, ‘one swallow does not make a summer,’ my boy,” retorted his
friend, laughing.
“I know it, sir, and I have no business to be suspicious of all men
because of one man’s failings. I will try to be more charitable
toward lawyers in the future,” said the young man, as he rose to
leave.
He felt half-ashamed of having allowed himself to be so swayed by
his antipathy against John Hubbard, but all the way back to his
lodgings he was haunted by the face of the man and the malignant
scowl which had distorted it when he accused him of unfaithfulness
and dishonesty in his work.
Even in his sleep during the night he could not divest himself of
the consciousness of his vicious individuality--he seemed to be
continually pursuing and persecuting him until his visions became
so real that they finally drove him from his bed long before his
usual hour for rising on Sunday morning.
It was not yet dawn when he arose on Sunday morning, and, upon
looking from his window, Gerald saw that it was snowing.
He dressed himself with unusual care, for he hoped to see Allison
again, and, loverlike, desired to make as good an appearance in
her sight as possible. Then he hurried out for his morning meal,
after which he wended his way to the bank, where he arrived about
half-past eight.
The steps leading up to the door were covered with snow, and,
strangely enough, as he mounted them, leaving a footprint upon
every one, an uncomfortable sensation which was akin to guilt,
began to creep over him, causing his errand to become suddenly
repulsive to him, and making him long to go back to his room and
remain there.
But, throwing back his head with an air of conscious rectitude--for
was he not there at his employer’s command?--he quickly let himself
into the building, removing the key and relocking the door on the
inside to make sure that no one would follow him.
Passing through the inner door, he carefully wiped his feet upon
the mat, and removed his overshoes lest they should leave tracks
upon the floor--that same uncanny feeling which he had experienced
outside still pursuing him.
The bank was so still every footfall echoed noisily through it, and
sent a nervous shiver creeping down his spine.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed, with an impatient shrug of his
shoulders, “I am no thief stealing in here to rob the place! Why on
earth should I feel like one? It is positively absurd!”
Proceeding directly to the vault, he drew the heavy bolts, unlocked
and swung open the massive iron-plated door. The place was cold
and gloomy, and again Gerald shivered with a nervous chill as he
stepped within those solid walls which so securely guarded their
hoarded treasure.
Proceeding directly to Mr. Brewster’s private drawer, the number of
which he had long known, he unlocked and drew it out, setting it
upon the floor.
It contained several packages of papers. But these held no interest
for him; he merely gave them a passing glance, then began to look
for the slot in the iron panel at the back of the aperture.
It required close searching to find it, but his efforts were
finally rewarded, whereupon he inserted the last of his keys,
turned it half-around, when the panel sprang outward, as Mr.
Brewster had described.
It appeared to be swung upon hinges, and, lifting it up, Gerald
could distinguish within the little vault thus disclosed a box of
some description.
He drew it from its place of concealment.
It proved to be a beautiful Japanese affair, inlaid with gold and
mother-of-pearl in an intricate pattern. There was a tiny key in
its lock, and for fear that it might drop out and be lost, Gerald
removed it and transferred it to a pocket in his vest, without once
thinking that he had it in his power to inspect the contents of the
casket, if he chose to do so.
Putting it carefully down upon the floor, he looked for the
other. He found it shoved away back in the secret vault. It was
much larger than the other--a common, though strong, wooden
receptacle--and it was also locked, while there was no key with it.
Gerald felt quite sure that the Japanese casket must contain the
jewels of which Mr. Brewster had spoken, and which were to be given
to Allison. Doubtless they were very valuable, and would be doubly
precious to her because they had once belonged to and been worn by
her mother.
He would probably see them upon her person some day; but, strange
to say, he did not feel half so curious about them as he did
regarding the contents of the larger box, for he had been
impressed by Mr. Brewster’s manner and expression when he had said
that it contained “nothing of special value to any one--except
myself.”
However, he felt that it was no business of his what either held;
his duty lay simply in conveying them safely to his employer.
Putting the drawer back in its place, he relocked it, when,
gathering the boxes from the floor, he turned to leave the vault.
At that instant a shadow obscured the light admitted by the open
door.
Gerald started forward with a sudden and terrible heart-throb.
His face flushed hotly, then paled to the hue of marble as he was
confronted by John Hubbard, who was standing upon the threshold, a
sardonic grin distorting his sinister countenance.
“Aha! my young burglar,” the man exclaimed, in a tone of fiendish
triumph, “is this the way you are in the habit of spending your
Sundays?”
The sound of the expert’s voice at once restored Gerald’s
composure, although every nerve in his body was tingling with anger
at his manner of addressing him.
“I am no burglar, Mr. Hubbard, and you know it,” he coldly
returned. “I am not in the habit of coming here--I have never been
in the bank on Sunday before this; but----”
“What have you there?” sternly interposed his companion, and
indicating by a gesture the boxes in Gerald’s hands.
“Some things belonging to Mr. Brewster.”
“So I judged. How came you here?”
“By his orders,” the young man briefly replied, and then wondered
at the almost satanic leer which swept over the features of the man
before him.
“Indeed! but how did you pass all these barriers?” with a nod
backward over his shoulder.
“Why, by means of these keys, which Mr. Brewster himself gave to
me, when he asked me to perform this errand for him,” the young
man responded, as he held up the bunch by the ring, and which Mr.
Hubbard instantly recognized as belonging to the banker.
“When did you see Mr. Brewster?” he questioned, a look of
perplexity flashing over his face.
“Yesterday afternoon--he sent for me to go to him,” Gerald
explained.
“H’m!” ejaculated the expert, with a frown. Then, after a moment of
thought, he added: “What is in those boxes?”
Again Gerald flushed. Then he threw back his handsome head
haughtily.
“Excuse me,” he said freezingly, “but that is a question which Mr.
Brewster alone is qualified to answer.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed his companion, but with so weird a note in the
sound, which echoed and re-echoed mockingly through the vault, that
Gerald’s blood almost seemed to congeal in his veins. “You are very
non-committal, my fine fellow,” he continued, with a snarl, “but do
you dare to tell me that you don’t know what either of those boxes
contains?”
“I must decline to discuss the matter with you, Mr. Hubbard,” was
the terse reply.
“Indeed!” sneered his companion. Then he observed, served,
authoritatively, as he went a step nearer Gerald. “Very well, we
won’t discuss it; but since I am Mr. Brewster’s attorney, I will
relieve you of all further care of them. Give them to me.”
“No, sir!” said Gerald resolutely, and retreating from him.
“Give them to me, I tell you!” commanded the man angrily.
“I cannot do that, Mr. Hubbard,” Gerald calmly returned. “Mr.
Brewster requested me to come here for them, and then bring them
directly to him. I shall deliver them to no other hands.”
Once more that strange laugh echoed through the dismal vault.
“You will have to go a long journey to do that, young man,” said
John Hubbard, showing his white teeth in a horrible grin.
“How so?” queried Gerald, in surprise, but with a strange numbness
stealing over him, “I--I do not understand you.”
“Adam Brewster is dead!” said John Hubbard.