IN WHICH MR. BELCHER EXPRESSES HIS DETERMINATION TO BECOME A "FOUNDER,"
BUT DROPS HIS NOUN IN FEAR OF A LITTLE VERB OF THE SAME NAME.
Mrs. Dillingham had a difficult role to play. She could not break with
Mr. Belcher without exposing her motives and bringing herself under
unpleasant suspicion and surveillance. She felt that the safety of her
protege and his father would be best consulted by keeping peace with
their enemy; yet every approach of the great scoundrel disgusted and
humiliated her. That side of her nature which had attracted and
encouraged him was sleeping, and, under the new motives which were at
work within her, she hoped that it would never wake. She looked down the
devious track of her past, counted over its unworthy and most unwomanly
satisfactions, and wondered. She looked back to a great wrong which she
had once inflicted on an innocent man, with a self-condemnation so deep
that all the womanhood within her rose into the purpose of reparation.
The boy whom she had called to her side, and fastened by an impassioned
tenderness more powerful even than her wonderful art, had become to her
a fountain of pure motives. She had a right to love this child. She owed
a duty to him beyond any woman living. Grasping her right, and
acknowledging her duty--a right and duty accorded to her by his nominal
protector--she would not have forfeited them for the world. They soon
became all that gave significance to her existence, and to them she
determined that her life should be devoted. To stand well with this
boy, to be loved, admired and respected by him, to be to him all that a
mother could be, to be guided by his pure and tender conscience toward
her own reformation, to waken into something like life and nourish into
something like strength the starved motherhood within her--these became
her dominant motives.
Mr. Belcher saw the change in her, but was too gross in his nature, too
blind in his passion, and too vain in his imagined power, to comprehend
it. She was a woman, and had her whims, he thought. Whims were
evanescent, and this particular whim would pass away. He was vexed by
seeing the boy so constantly with her. He met them walking together in
the street, or straying in the park, hand in hand, or caught the lad
looking at him from her window. He could not doubt that all this
intimacy was approved by Mr. Balfour. Was she playing a deep game? Could
she play it for anybody but himself--the man who had taken her heart by
storm? Her actions, however, even when interpreted by his self-conceit,
gave him uneasiness. She had grown to be very kind and considerate
toward Mrs. Belcher. Had this friendship moved her to crush the passion
for her husband? Ah! if she could only know how true he was to her in
his untruthfulness!--how faithful he was to her in his perjury!--how he
had saved himself for the ever-vanishing opportunity!
Many a time the old self-pity came back to the successful scoundrel.
Many a time he wondered why the fate which had been so kind to him in
other things would not open the door to his wishes in this. With this
unrewarded passion gnawing at his heart, and with the necessity of
treating the wife of his youth with constantly increasing consideration,
in order to cover it from her sight, the General was anything but a
satisfied and happy man. The more he thought upon it, the more morbid he
grew, until it seemed to him that his wife must look through his
hypocritical eyes into his guilty heart. He grew more and more guarded
in his speech. If he mentioned Mrs. Dillingham's name, he always did it
incidentally, and then only for the purpose of showing that he had no
reason to avoid the mention of it.
There was another thought that preyed upon him. He was consciously a
forger. He had not used the document he had forged, but he had
determined to do so. Law had not laid its finger upon him, but its
finger was over him. He had not yet crossed the line that made him
legally a criminal, but the line was drawn before him, and only another
step would be necessary to place him beyond it. A brood of fears was
gathering around him. They stood back, glaring upon him from the
distance; but they only waited another act in his career of dishonor to
crowd in and surround him with menace. Sometimes he shrank from his
purpose, but the shame of being impoverished and beaten spurred him
renewedly to determination. He became conscious that what there was of
bravery in him was sinking into bravado. His self-conceit, and what
little he possessed of self-respect, were suffering. He dimly
apprehended the fact that he was a rascal, and it made him
uncomfortable. It ceased to be enough for him to assure himself that he
was no more a rascal than those around him. He reached out on every side
for means to maintain his self-respect. What good thing could he do to
counterbalance his bad deeds? How could he shore himself up by public
praise, by respectable associations, by the obligations of the public
for deeds of beneficence? It is the most natural thing in the world for
the dishonest steward, who cheats his lord, to undertake to win
consideration against contingencies with his lord's money.
On the same evening in which the gathering at the Sevenoaks tavern
occurred, preceding Jim's wedding, Mr. Belcher sat in his library,
looking over the document which nominally conveyed to him the right and
title of Paul Benedict to his inventions. He had done this many times
since he had forged three of the signatures, and secured a fraudulent
addition to the number from the hand of Phipps. He had brought himself
to believe, to a certain extent, in their genuineness, and was wholly
sure that they were employed on behalf of justice. The inventions had
cost Benedict little or no money, and he, Mr. Belcher, had developed
them at his own risk. Without his money and his enterprise they would
have amounted to nothing. If Benedict had not lost his reason, the
document would have been legally signed. The cause of Benedict's lapse
from sanity did not occur to him. He only knew that if the inventor had
not become insane, he should have secured his signature at some wretched
price, and out of this conviction he reared his self-justification.
"It's right!" said Mr. Belcher. "The State prison may be in it, but it's
right!"
And then, confirming his foul determination by an oath, he added:
"I'll stand by it."
Then he rang his bell, and called for Phipps.
"Phipps," said he, as his faithful and plastic servitor appeared, "come
in, and close the door."
When Phipps, with a question in his face, walked up to where Mr. Belcher
was sitting at his desk, with the forged document before him, the latter
said:
"Phipps, did you ever see this paper before?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, think hard--don't be in a hurry--and tell me when you saw it
before. Take it in your hand, and look it all over, and be sure."
"I can't tell, exactly," responded Phipps, scratching his had; "but I
should think it might have been six years ago, or more. It was a long
time before we came from Sevenoaks."
"Very well; is that your signature?"
"It is, sir."
"Did you see Benedict write his name? Did you see Johnson and Ramsey
write their names?"
"I did, sir."
"Do you remember all the circumstances--what I said to you, and what you
said to me--why you were in the room?"
"Yes, sir."
"Phipps, do you know that if it is ever found out that you have signed
that paper within a few weeks, you are as good as a dead man?"
"I don't know what you mean, sir," replied Phipps, in evident alarm.
"Do you know that that signature is enough to send you to the State
prison?"
"No, sir."
"Well, Phipps, it is just that, provided it isn't stuck to. You will
have to swear to it, and stand by it. I know the thing is coming. I can
feel it in my bones. Why it hasn't come before, the Lord only knows."
Phipps had great faith in the might of money, and entire faith in Mr.
Belcher's power to save him from any calamity. His master, during all
his residence with and devotion to him, had shown himself able to secure
every end he had sought, and he believed in him, or believed in his
power, wholly.
"Couldn't you save me, sir, if I were to get into trouble?" he inquired,
anxiously.
"That depends upon whether you stand by me, Phipps. It's just here, my
boy. If you swear, through thick and thin, that you saw these men sign
this paper, six years ago or more, that you signed it at the same time,
and stand by your own signature, you will sail through all right, and do
me a devilish good turn. If you balk, or get twisted up in your own
reins, or thrown off your seat, down goes your house. If you stand by
me, I shall stand by you. The thing is all right, and just as it ought
to be, but it's a little irregular. It gives me what belongs to me, but
the law happens to be against it."
Phipps hesitated, and glanced suspiciously, and even menacingly, at the
paper. Mr. Belcher knew that he would like to tear it in pieces, and so,
without unseemly haste, he picked it up, placed it in its drawer, locked
it in, and put the key in his pocket.
"I don't want to get into trouble," said Phipps.
"Phipps," said Mr. Belcher, in a conciliatory tone, "I don't intend
that you shall get into trouble."
Then, rising, and patting his servant on the shoulder, he added:
"But it all depends on your standing by me, and standing by yourself.
You know that you will lose nothing by standing by the General, Phipps;
you know me."
Phipps was not afraid of crime; he was only afraid of its possible
consequences; and Mr. Belcher's assurance of safety, provided he should
remember his story and adhere to it, was all that he needed to confirm
him in the determination to do what Mr. Belcher wished him to do.
After Phipps retired, Mr. Belcher took out his document again, and
looked it over for the hundredth time. He recompared the signatures
which he had forged with their originals. Consciously a villain, he
regarded himself still as a man who was struggling for his rights. But
something of his old, self-reliant courage was gone. He recognized the
fact that there was one thing in the world more powerful than himself.
The law was against him. Single-handed, he could meet men; but the great
power which embodied the justice and strength of the State awed him, and
compelled him into a realization of his weakness.
The next morning Mr. Belcher received his brokers and operators in bed
in accordance with his custom. He was not good-natured. His operations
in Wall street had not been prosperous for several weeks. In some way,
impossible to be foreseen by himself or his agents, everything had
worked against him He knew that if he did not rally from this passage of
ill-luck, he would, in addition to his loss of money, lose something of
his prestige. He had a stormy time with his advisers and tools, swore a
great deal, and sent them off in anything but a pleasant frame of mind.
Talbot was waiting in the drawing-room when the brokers retired, and
followed his card upstairs, where he found his principal with an ugly
frown upon his face.
"Toll," he whimpered, "I'm glad to see you. You're the best of 'em all,
and in the long run, you bring me the most money."
"Thank you," responded the factor, showing his white teeth in a
gratified smile.
"Toll, I'm not exactly ill, but I'm not quite myself. How long it will
last I don't know, but just this minute the General is devilish unhappy,
and would sell himself cheap. Things are not going right. I don't sleep
well."
"You've got too much money," suggested Mr. Talbot.
"Well, what shall I do with it?"
"Give it to me."
"No, I thank you; I can do better. Besides, you are getting more than
your share of it now."
"Well, I don't ask it of you," said Talbot, "but if you wish to get rid
of it, I could manage a little more of it without trouble."
"Toll, look here! The General wants to place a little money where it
will bring him some reputation with the highly respectable old
dons,--our spiritual fathers, you know--and the brethren. Understand?"
"General, you are deep; you'll have to explain."
"Well, all our sort of fellows patronize something or other. They cheat
a man out of his eye-teeth one day, and the next, you hear of them
endowing something or other, or making a speech to a band of old women,
or figuring on a top-lofty list of directors. That's the kind of thing I
want."
"You can get any amount of it, General, by paying for it. All they want
is money; they don't care where it comes from."
"Toll, shut up. I behold a vision. Close your eyes now, and let me paint
it for you. I see the General--General Robert Belcher, the
millionaire--in the aspect of a great public benefactor. He is dressed
in black, and sits upon a platform, in the midst of a lot of seedy men
in white chokers. They hand him a programme. There is speech-making
going on, and every speech makes an allusion to 'our benefactor,' and
the brethren and sisters cheer. The General bows. High old doctors of
divinity press up to be introduced. They are all after more. They
flatter the General; they coddle him. They give him the highest seat.
They pretend to respect him. They defend him from all slanders. They are
proud of the General. He is their man. I look into the religious
newspapers, and in one column I behold a curse on the stock-jobbing of
Wall street, and in the next, the praise of the beneficence of General
Robert Belcher. I see the General passing down Wall street the next day.
I see him laughing out of the corner of his left eye, while his friends
punch him in the ribs. Oh, Toll! it's delicious! Where are your
feelings, my boy? Why don't you cry?"
"Charming picture, General! Charming! but my handkerchief is fresh, and
I must save it. I may have a cold before night."
"Well, now, Toll, what's the thing to be done?"
"What do you say to soup-kitchens for the poor? They don't cost so very
much, and you get your name in the papers."
"Soup-kitchens be hanged! That's Mrs. Belcher's job. Besides, I don't
want to get up a reputation for helping the poor. They're a troublesome
lot and full of bother; I don't believe in 'em. They don't associate you
with anybody but themselves. What I want is to be in the right sort of a
crowd."
"Have you thought of a hospital?"
"Yes, I've thought of a hospital, but I don't seem to hanker after it.
To tell the truth, the hospitals are pretty well taken up already. I
might work into a board of directors by paying enough, I suppose, but it
is too much the regular thing. What I want is ministers--something
religious, you know."
"You might run a church-choir," suggested Talbot, "or, better than that,
buy a church, and turn the crank."
"Yes, but they are not quite large enough. I tell you what it is, Toll,
I believe I'm pining for a theological seminary. Ah, my heart! my heart!
If I could only tell you, Toll, how it yearns over the American people!
Can't you see, my boy, that the hope of the nation is in educated and
devoted young men? Don't you see that we are going to the devil with our
thirst for filthy lucre? Don't you understand how noble a thing it would
be for one of fortune's favorites to found an institution with his
wealth, that would bear down its blessings to unborn millions? What if
that institution should also bear his name? What if that name should be
forever associated with that which is most hallowed in our national
history? Wouldn't it pay? Eh, Toll?"
Mr. Talbot laughed.
"General, your imagination will be the death of you, but there is really
nothing impracticable in your plan. All these fellows want is your
money. They will give you everything you want for it in the way of
glory."
"I believe you; and wouldn't it be fun for the General? I vow I must
indulge. I'm getting tired of horses; and these confounded suppers don't
agree with me. It's a theological seminary or nothing. The tides of my
destiny, Toll--you understand--the tides of my destiny tend in that
direction, and I resign my bark to their sway. I'm going to be a
founder, and I feel better already."
It was well that he did, for at this moment a dispatch was handed in
which gave him a shock, and compelled him to ask Talbot to retire while
he dressed.
"Don't go away, Toll," he said; "I want to see you again."
The dispatch that roused the General from his dream of beneficence was
from his agent at Sevenoaks, and read thus: "Jim Fenton's wedding
occurred this morning. He was accompanied by a man whom several old
citizens firmly believe to be Paul Benedict, though he passed under
another name. Balfour and Benedict's boy were here, and all are gone up
to Number Nine. Will write particulars."
The theological seminary passed at once into the realm of dimly
remembered dreams, to be recalled or forgotten as circumstances should
determine. At present, there was some thing else to occupy the General's
mind.
Before he had completed his toilet, he called for Talbot.
"Toll," said he, "if you were in need of legal advice of the best kind,
and wanted to be put through a thing straight, whether it were right or
not, to whom would you apply? Now mind, I don't want any milksops."
"I know two or three lawyers here who have been through a theological
seminary," Talbot responded, with a knowing smile.
"Oh, get out! There's no joke about this. I mean business now."
"Well, I took pains to show you your man, at my house, once. Don't you
remember him?"
"Cavendish?"
"Yes."
"I don't like him."
"Nor do I. He'll bleed you; but he's your man."
"All right; I want to see him."
"Get into my coupe, and I'll take you to his office."
Mr. Belcher went to the drawer that contained his forged document. Then
he went back to Talbot, and said:
"Would Cavendish come here?"
"Not he! If you want to see him, you must go where he is. He wouldn't
walk into your door to accommodate you if he knew it."
Mr. Belcher was afraid of Cavendish, as far as he could be afraid of any
man. The lawyer had bluffed everybody at the dinner-party, and, in his
way, scoffed at everybody. He had felt in the lawyer's presence the
contact of a nature which possessed more self-assertion and
self-assurance than his own. He had felt that Cavendish could read him,
could handle him, could see through his schemes. He shrank from exposing
himself, even to the scrutiny of this sharp man, whom he could hire for
any service. But he went again to the drawer, and, with an excited and
trembling hand, drew forth the accursed document. With this he took the
autographs on which his forgeries were based. Then he sat down by
himself, and thought the matter all over, while Talbot waited in another
room. It was only by a desperate determination that he started at last,
called Talbot down stairs, put on his hat, and went out.
It seemed to the proprietor, as he emerged from his house, that there
was something weird in the morning light. He looked up, and saw that the
sky was clear. He looked down, and the street was veiled in a strange
shadow. The boys looked at him as if they were half startled.
Inquisitive faces peered at him from a passing omnibus. A beggar laughed
as he held out his greasy hat. Passengers paused to observe him. All
this attention, which he once courted and accepted as flattery and fame,
was disagreeable to him.
"Good God! Toll, what has happened since last night?" he said, as he
sank back upon the satin cushions of the coupe.
"General, I don't think you're quite well. Don't die now. We can't spare
you yet."
"Die? Do I look like it?" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, slapping his broad
chest. "Don't talk to me about dying. I haven't thought about that yet."
"I beg your pardon. You know I didn't mean to distress you."
Then the conversation dropped, and the carriage wheeled on. The roll of
vehicles, the shouting of drivers, the panoramic scenes, the flags
swaying in the morning sky, the busy throngs that went up and down
Broadway, were but the sights and sounds of a dimly apprehended dream.
He was journeying toward guilt. What would be its end? Would he not be
detected in it at the first step? How could he sit before the hawk-eyed
man whom he was about to meet without in some way betraying his secret?
When the coupe stopped, Talbot roused his companion with difficulty.
"This can't be the place, Toll. We haven't come half a mile."
"On the contrary, we have come three miles."
"It can't be possible, Toll. I must look at your horse. I'd no idea you
had such an animal."
Then Mr. Belcher got out, and looked the horse over. He was a
connoisseur, and he stood five minutes on the curb-stone, expatiating
upon those points of the animal that pleased him.
"I believe you came to see Mr. Cavendish," suggested Talbot with a
laugh.
"Yes, I suppose I must go up. I hate lawyers, anyway."
They climbed the stairway. They knocked at Mr. Cavendish's door. A boy
opened it, and took in their cards. Mr. Cavendish was busy, but would
see them in fifteen minutes. Mr. Belcher sat down in the ante-room, took
a newspaper from his pocket, and began to read. Then he took a pen and
scribbled, writing his own name with three other names, across which he
nervously drew his pen. Then he drew forth his knife, and tremblingly
dressed his finger-nails. Having completed this task, he took out a
large pocket-book, withdrew a blank check, filled and signed it, and put
it back. Realizing, at last, that Talbot was waiting to go in with him,
he said:
"By the way, Toll, this business of mine is private."
"Oh, I understand," said Talbot; "I'm only going in to make sure that
Cavendish remembers you."
What Talbot really wished to make sure of was, that Cavendish should
know that he had brought him his client.
At last they heard a little bell which summoned the boy, who soon
returned to say that Mr. Cavendish would see them. Mr. Belcher looked
around for a mirror, but discovering none, said:
"Toll, look at me! Am I all right? Do you see anything out of the way?"
Talbot having looked him over, and reported favorably they followed the
boy into the penetralia of the great office, and into the presence of
the great man. Mr. Cavendish did not rise, but leaned back in his huge,
carved chair, and rubbed his hands, pale in their morning whiteness, and
said, coldly:
"Good morning, gentlemen; sit down."
Mr. Talbot declined. He had simply brought to him his friend, General
Belcher, who, he believed, had a matter of business to propose. Then,
telling Mr. Belcher that he should leave the coupe at his service, he
retired.
Mr. Belcher felt that he was already in court. Mr. Cavendish sat behind
his desk in a judicial attitude, with his new client fronting him. The
latter fell, or tried to force himself, into a jocular mood and bearing,
according to his custom on serious occasions.
"I am likely to have a little scrimmage," said he, "and I shall want
your help, Mr. Cavendish."
Saying this, he drew forth a check for a thousand dollars, which he had
drawn in the ante-room, and passed it over to the lawyer. Mr. Cavendish
took it up listlessly, held it by its two ends, read its face, examined
its back, and tossed it into a drawer, as if it were a suspicious
sixpence.
"It's a thousand dollars," said Mr. Belcher, surprised that the sum had
apparently made no impression.
"I see--a retainer--thanks!"
All the time the hawk-eyes were looking into Mr. Belcher. All the time
the scalp was moving backward and forward, as if he had just procured a
new one, that might be filled up before night, but for the moment was a
trifle large. All the time there was a subtle scorn upon the lips, the
flavor of which the finely curved nose apprehended with approval.
"What's the case, General?"
The General drew from his pocket his forged assignment, and passed it
into the hand of Mr. Cavendish.
"Is that a legally constructed document?" he inquired.
Mr. Cavendish read it carefully, every word. He looked at the
signatures. He looked at the blank page on the back. He looked at the
tape with which it was bound. He fingered the knot with which it was
tied. He folded it carefully, and handed it back.
"Yes--absolutely perfect," he said. "Of course I know nothing about the
signatures. Is the assignor living?"
"That is precisely what I don't know," replied Mr. Belcher. "I supposed
him to be dead for years. I have now reason to suspect that he is
living."
"Have you been using these patents?
"Yes, and I've made piles of money on them."
"Is your right contested?"
"No; but I have reason to believe that it will be."
"What reason?" inquired Mr. Cavendish, sharply.
Mr. Belcher was puzzled.
"Well, the man has been insane, and has forgotten, very likely, what he
did before his insanity. I have reason to believe that such is the case,
and that he intends to contest my right to the inventions which this
paper conveys to me."
"What reason, now?"
Mr. Belcher's broad expanse of face crimsoned into a blush, and he
simply answered:
"I know the man."
"Who is his lawyer?"
"Balfour."
Mr. Cavendish gave a little start.
"Let me see that paper again," said he.
After looking it through again, he said, dryly:
"I know Balfour. He is a shrewd man, and a good lawyer: and unless he
has a case, or thinks he has one, he will not fight this document. What
deviltry there is in it, I don't know, and I don't want you to tell me.
I can tell you that you have a hard man to fight. Where are these
witnesses?"
"Two of them are dead. One of them is living, and is now in the city."
"What can he swear to?"
"He can swear to his own signature, and to all the rest. He can relate
and swear to all the circumstances attending the execution of the
paper."
"And you know that these rights were never previously conveyed."
"Yes, I know they never were."
"Then, mark you, General, Balfour has no case at all--provided this
isn't a dirty paper. If it is a dirty paper, and you want me to serve
you, keep your tongue to yourself. You've recorded it, of course."
"Recorded it?" inquired Mr. Belcher in an alarm which he did not attempt
to disguise.
"You don't mean to tell me that this paper has been in existence more
than six years, and has not been recorded?"
"I didn't know it was necessary."
Mr. Cavendish tossed the paper back to the owner of it with a sniff of
contempt.
"It isn't worth that!" said he, snapping his fingers.
Then he drew out the check from his drawer, and handed it back to Mr.
Belcher.
"There's no case, and I don't want your money," said he.
"But there is a case!" said Mr. Belcher, fiercely, scared out of his
fear. "Do you suppose I am going to be cheated out of my rights without
a fight? I'm no chicken, and I'll spend half a million before I'll give
up my rights."
Mr. Cavendish laughed.
"Well, go to Washington," said he, "and if you don't find that Balfour
or somebody else has been there before you, I shall be mistaken. Balfour
isn't very much of a chicken, and he knows enough to know that the first
assignment recorded there holds. Why has he not been down upon you
before this? Simply because he saw that you were making money for his
client, and he preferred to take it all out of you in a single slice. I
know Balfour, and he carries a long head. Chicken!"
Mr. Belcher was in distress. The whole game was as obvious and real to
him as if he had assured himself of its truth. He staggered to his feet.
He felt the hand of ruin upon him. He believed that while he had been
perfecting his crime he had been quietly overreached. He lost his
self-command, and gave himself up to profanity and bluster, at which Mr.
Cavendish laughed.
"There's no use in that sort of thing, General," said he. "Go to
Washington. Ascertain for yourself about it, and if you find it as I
predict, make the best of it. You can make a compromise of some sort. Do
the best you can."
There was one thing that Mr. Cavendish had noticed. Mr. Belcher had made
no response to him when he told him that if the paper was a dirty one he
did not wish to know it. He had made up his mind that there was mischief
in it, somewhere. Either the consideration had never been paid, or the
signatures were fraudulent, or perhaps the paper had been executed when
the assignor was demonstrably of unsound mind. Somewhere, he was
perfectly sure, there was fraud.
"General," said he, "I have my doubts about this paper. I'm not going to
tell you why. I understand that there is one witness living who will
swear to all these signatures."
"There is."
"Is he a credible witness? Has he ever committed a crime? Can anything
wrong be proved against him?"
"The witness," responded Mr. Belcher, "is my man Phipps; and a more
faithful fellow never lived. I've known him for years, and he was never
in an ugly scrape in his life."
"Well, if you find that no one is before you on the records, come back;
and when you come you may as well multiply that check by ten. When I
undertake a thing of this kind, I like to provide myself against all
contingencies."
Mr. Belcher groaned, and tore up the little check that seemed so large
when he drew it, and had shrunk to such contemptible dimensions in the
hands of the lawyer.
"You lawyers put the lancet in pretty deep."
"Our clients never do!" said Mr. Cavendish through his sneering lips.
Then the boy knocked, and came in. There was another gentleman who
wished to see the lawyer.
"I shall go to Washington to-day, and see you on my return," said Mr.
Belcher.
Then, bidding the lawyer a good-morning, he went out, ran down the
stairs, jumped into Mr. Talbot's waiting coupe, and ordered himself
driven home. Arriving there, he hurriedly packed a satchel, and,
announcing to Mrs. Belcher that he had been unexpectedly called to
Washington, went out, and made the quickest passage possible to Jersey
City. As he had Government contracts on hand, his wife asked no
questions, and gave the matter no thought.
The moment Mr. Belcher found himself on the train, and in motion, he
became feverishly excited. He cursed himself that he had not attended to
this matter before. He had wondered why Balfour was so quiet. With
Benedict alive and in communication, or with Benedict dead, and his heir
in charge, why had he made no claim upon rights which were the basis of
his own fortune? There could be but one answer to these questions, and
Cavendish had given it!
He talked to himself, and attracted the attention of those around him.
He walked the platforms at all the stations where the train stopped. He
asked the conductor a dozen times at what hour the train would arrive in
Washington, apparently forgetting that he had already received his
information. He did not reach his destination until evening, and then,
of course, all the public offices were closed. He met men whom he knew,
but he would not be tempted by them into a debauch. He went to bed
early, and, after a weary night of sleeplessness, found himself at the
Patent Office before a clerk was in his place.
When the offices were opened, he sought his man, and revealed his
business. He prepared a list of the patents in which he was interested,
and secured a search of the records of assignment. It was a long time
since the patents had been issued, and the inquisition was a tedious
one; but it resulted, to his unspeakable relief, in the official
statement that no one of them had ever been assigned. Then he brought
out his paper, and, with a blushing declaration that he had not known
the necessity of its record until the previous day, saw the assignment
placed upon the books.
Then he was suddenly at ease. Then he could look about him. A great
burden was rolled from his shoulders, and he knew that he ought to be
jolly; but somehow his spirits did not rise. As he emerged from the
Patent Office, there was the same weird light in the sky that he had
noticed the day before, on leaving his house with Talbot. The great dome
of the Capitol swelled in the air like a bubble, which seemed as if it
would burst. The broad, hot streets glimmered as if a volcano were
breeding under them. Everything looked unsubstantial. He found himself
watching for Balfour, and expecting to meet him at every corner. He was
in a new world, and had not become wonted to it--the world of conscious
crime--the world of outlawry. It had a sun of its own, fears of its own,
figures and aspects of its own. There was a new man growing up within
him, whom he wished to hide. To this man's needs his face had not yet
become hardened, his words had not yet been trained beyond the danger of
betrayal, his eyes had not adjusted their pupils for vision and
self-suppression.
He took the night train home, breakfasted at the Astor, and was the
first man to greet Mr. Cavendish when that gentleman entered his
chambers. Mr. Cavendish sat listlessly, and heard his story. The
lawyer's hands were as pale, his scalp as uneasy, and his lips as
redolent of scorn as they were two days before, while his nose bent to
sniff the scorn with more evident approval than then. He apprehended
more thoroughly the character of the man before him, saw more clearly
the nature of his business, and wondered with contemptuous incredulity
that Balfour had not been sharper and quicker.
After Mr. Belcher had stated the facts touching the Washington records,
Mr. Cavendish said:
"Well, General, as far as appearances go, you have the lead. Nothing but
the overthrow of your assignment can damage you, and, as I told you the
day before yesterday, if the paper is dirty, don't tell me of it--that
is, if you want me to do anything for you. Go about your business, say
nothing to anybody, and if you are prosecuted, come to me."
Still Mr. Belcher made no response to the lawyer's suggestion touching
the fraudulent nature of the paper; and the latter was thoroughly
confirmed in his original impression that there was something wrong
about it.
Then Mr. Belcher went out upon Wall street, among his brokers, visited
the Exchange, visited the Gold Room, jested with his friends, concocted
schemes, called upon Talbot, wrote letters, and filled up his day. Going
home to dinner, he found a letter from his agent at Sevenoaks, giving in
detail his reasons for supposing not only that Benedict had been in the
village, but that, from the time of his disappearance from the Sevenoaks
poor-house, he had been living at Number Nine with Jim Fenton. Balfour
had undoubtedly found him there, as he was in the habit of visiting the
woods. Mike Conlin must also have found him there, and worst of all, Sam
Yates must have discovered him. The instruments that he had employed, at
a considerable cost, to ascertain whether Benedict were alive or dead
had proved false to him. The discovery that Sam Yates was a traitor made
him tremble. It was from him that he had procured the autographs on
which two of his forgeries were based. He sat down immediately, and
wrote a friendly letter to Yates, putting some business into his hands,
and promising more. Then he wrote to his agent, telling him of his
interest in Yates, and of his faithful service, and directing him to
take the reformed man under his wing, and, as far as possible, to
attach him to the interests of the concern.
Two days afterward, he looked out of his window and saw Mr. Balfour
descending the steps of his house with a traveling satchel in his hand.
Calling Phipps, he directed him to jump into the first cab, or carriage,
pay double price, and make his way to the ferry that led to the
Washington cars, see if Balfour crossed at that point, and learn, if
possible, his destination. Phipps returned in an hour and a half with
the information that the lawyer had bought a ticket for Washington.
Then Mr. Belcher knew that trouble was brewing, and braced himself to
meet it. In less than forty-eight hours, Balfour would know, either that
he had been deceived by Benedict, or that a forgery had been committed.
Balfour was cautious, and would take time to settle this question in his
own mind.