A REVELATION
The sun had just dipped, leaving a rim of flaring color on the edge of
the vast plain, when Prescott sat smoking on the stoop of the Leslie
homestead a week after his evening walk with Gertrude. Leslie and his
wife were simple people from Ontario, who had prospered in the last few
years. Their crops had escaped rust and hail and autumn frost, and as a
result of this, the rancher had replaced his rude frame dwelling with a
commodious house, built, with lower walls of brick and wood above, in a
somewhat ornate style copied from the small villas which are springing up
on the outskirts of the western towns.
Leslie, an elderly, brown-faced man, sat near Prescott; the Jernynghams,
who had driven over to welcome his friends, were inside, talking to Mrs.
Leslie.
"Guess you don't know much about the English people we're expecting?"
Leslie asked.
"No," said Prescott; "only that they're friends of the Jernynghams. I
don't think I've even heard their names yet."
"Mrs. Leslie knows," rejoined the farmer; "I forget it. I feel kind of
sorry now that she agreed to take them in, but you made a point of it,
and if the man's not so blamed stand-offish, I'll have somebody to talk
to."
"I wouldn't talk too much about Cyril Jernyngham."
Leslie looked hard at him.
"There's one point, Jack, where I can't agree with you--you're the only
man in this district who doesn't believe Jernyngham's dead. It strikes me
that you know more about the thing than you have told anybody yet."
"Let it go at that," said Prescott awkwardly, "All I could say would only
bring more trouble on his people, and they've had quite enough."
"Sure," agreed Leslie, raising his hand in warning. "Sh-h! They're coming
out."
The next moment Gertrude and her father joined the men, and after a few
words with them stood still, listening. A long bluff, through which the
trail from the settlement led, ran close up to the homestead, cutting
against the pale green glow of the sky. For a few minutes there was a
deep silence, intensified by the musical clash of cowbells in the
distance, and then a measured, drumming sound rose softly from behind the
trees.
"Guess that's your friends," Leslie said to Jernyngham. "Jim's made
pretty good time."
The beat of hoofs grew nearer until the listeners could hear the rattle
of wheels. Then a light, four-wheeled vehicle came lurching out of the
bluff and Jernyngham hurried down the steps. Prescott had entered the
house to tell Mrs. Leslie, and he came out as the driver pulled up his
team. The occupants of the wagon, which had run a little past the door,
had their backs to him, but seeing a girl about to alight he sprang
forward. Her head was turned away from him at first, but she glanced
round when he offered to assist her; and he forgot what the consequences
of the meeting must be as he looked into the eyes of Muriel Hurst. He was
conscious of an overwhelming delight, which showed itself in his shining
eyes and the warm color that suddenly flushed his face; Gertrude
Jernyngham, standing beside him, read what was in his heart.
The effect on Muriel was as marked. He had seized her hand and as she was
standing precariously poised, ready to descend, he swung her down. Then
she recoiled from him, startled, but with strong relief in her
expression.
"Cyril!" she cried in a strained voice. "Why didn't you write and tell us
that it was all a mistake? We heard that you were dead!"
Then Prescott remembered and his heart sank, but he strove to gather his
courage, for there was a crisis to be faced. He stood silent, with one
hand clenched tight, while Gertrude watched him with hard, unwavering
eyes. Jernyngham, however, had heard Muriel's startled exclamation and
hurried toward her.
"What's this?" he asked harshly. "You called my son's name!"
The girl looked at Prescott; troubled and surprised by the confused
emotions his face betrayed. There was obviously something wrong, but she
could not imagine what it was.
"Yes," she said, "I called him Cyril. Why shouldn't I?"
Colston and his wife joined the group, while the driver looked on from
the wagon and the Leslies from the stoop. Prescott and the girl stood a
little distance apart and Muriel was sensible of a nervous shiver. When
Prescott had first held up his hand to her, she had seen his keen
pleasure and her heart had responded to it; now, however, she was filled
with dismay.
Jernyngham answered her in curt, stern tones:
"There's one very good reason--this is not my son!"
"Not Cyril!" Colston broke in. "But he made us believe he was; he's the
man we stayed with!" He made a puzzled gesture. "I can't understand the
thing."
"Nor I," replied Jernyngham. "Is this the man you wrote to us about?"
"Of course!" said Colston stupidly. "I thought he was Cyril; so did we
all. We had no cause to doubt it."
Jernyngham turned in fury to the Leslies.
"Who is the fellow?" he demanded.
Prescott braced himself.
"I'll answer that--Jack Prescott. Mr. Colston stayed at my homestead."
"And you personated my son? I suppose you had some motive for doing so
and must see that we are entitled to an explanation?"
"Yes," Prescott returned quietly. "This isn't the place to make it.
Hadn't you better take your friends in?"
They entered the house, which was getting dark, and while the hired man
carried in the baggage Leslie lighted a lamp in his sitting-room. It was
spacious, roughly paneled in cedar, with an uncovered floor. There were a
few chairs scattered about and a plain pine table. Jernyngham sat by the
table and the others found seats here and there, except Prescott, who
stood quietly opposite the old man. At a curt sign from Jernyngham,
Leslie and his wife left the room.
"Mr. Prescott," Jernyngham began, "you have deceived my friends here and
I think they should remain to hear what you have to say, but I will
dismiss them if you prefer it. You are responsible to me and I must ask
for a full account of your conduct."
Prescott glanced round the room, which reminded him of a court. Gertrude
Jernyngham's eyes were fixed on him, and there was a hardness that hinted
at cruelty in them; she looked very dignified and cold. Mrs. Colston he
could not see, but her husband seemed disturbed and uneasy. Muriel leaned
forward in her chair, with wonder, apprehension, and pity curiously
mingled in her expression. All of them were very still, the silence was
disconcerting, but Prescott roused himself to make what defense he could.
"I passed for Cyril Jernyngham at his request," he said.
"An extraordinary statement!" Jernyngham remarked with ironical
incredulity. "May one ask if he gave any reasons for wishing you to do
so?"
Prescott hesitated, which counted against him.
"Well," he said, "Cyril had got hurt in a row at the settlement a few
hours before Mr. Colston's arrival. His head was badly cut; he thought it
might make a bad impression."
"That doesn't sound very convincing. Had he no better reason?"
The rancher paused to think. He would not explain that his friend's mode
of life would not have borne a critical examination, but he had a duty to
himself and something must be urged.
"I think he meant to hide the fact that he was married. He did not wish
your friends to meet his wife."
Colston started and it was obvious that the others were keenly
interested, but Jernyngham's face grew darker and marked by signs of
pain, for he had learned a little about Ellice. He was struggling with an
overwhelming humiliation.
"We'll let that pass," he said. "It's a matter that cannot be discussed.
Was Mr. Colston's visit the only time you personated my son?"
"Certainly! Nothing would induce me to play the part again."
"Then you will be surprised to hear that shortly after Cyril's
disappearance a man sold some land of his at a town farther along the
line?"
"I am surprised, but I believe it must have been Cyril."
"Then his handwriting must have totally changed, which I believe is a
very unusual thing," Jernyngham rejoined sarcastically. "I have been
shown some documents which he is supposed to have filled in."
Prescott began to realize that appearances were very strongly against
him. He had admitted having once impersonated his friend and it would be
difficult to convince those who had heard his confession that he had not
done so again, when there was a strong motive for it in the price of the
land.
"Well," he said firmly; "if the handwriting wasn't Cyril's, I can't tell
whose it was; it certainly wasn't mine. There's one thing I'm convinced
of--your son is not dead."
Jernyngham looked at him; with the veins on his forehead swollen and his
face tense with anger, but he held himself in hand.
"You have said so often. I did not believe you; I do not believe you now;
but your object in making the statement is easy to understand. I've no
doubt you realize that you lie open to a very ugly suspicion."
"No!" a strained voice broke in. "That is not just!"
Looking up, Prescott saw that it was Muriel who had spoken. Her eyes were
bright with indignation and her face was hot, but none of the others
showed him any sympathy. Colston's face was grave and troubled, his
wife's expressionless; Gertrude Jernyngham looked more determined and
more merciless than her father. She sat very still, coldly watching him.
"Thank you," he said to Muriel. "It's comforting to find one person who
does not think the worst of me."
"Silence, sir!" Jernyngham exclaimed with the air of a judge rebuking a
prisoner of whose guilt he is convinced. "You cannot be permitted to
speak to this lady."
"I think that is a point for Mrs. Colston to decide, but we'll let it
drop. Out of consideration for you, I've answered your questions; but you
have gone too far, and this must end." Prescott's expression grew as
stern as the old man's and he looked about with pride. "I tell you it
must stop! What right have you to fling these infamous hints at me?"
Jernyngham broke into a harsh laugh.
"The part of an innocent man is too much for you to play; we won't force
you into it. It will be a favor if you will have our baggage sent across
here; needless to say, neither my daughter nor I can re-enter your
house." Then his self-control deserted him and he broke out in hot fury:
"I firmly believe you are the man who killed my son, and you shall not
escape!"
"I think," said Colston quietly, "that is going too far."
Making no answer, Prescott left them; and he was harnessing his horse
outside when, somewhat to his astonishment, Muriel came toward him. A
half-moon hung low above the bluff and the silvery light shone into her
face, showing her warmth of color and the sparkle in her eyes. He thought
she looked wonderfully attractive and his heart throbbed faster, but he
knew he must hold himself in hand.
"Hadn't you better go back?" he asked. "You have heard what your friends
think of me."
"What does that matter?" she exclaimed with feeling. "I'm very angry with
them. I can't let you go without saying that I know you could not have
done what you have been wickedly accused of."
"I'm glad. Thank you. It's a big relief to feel that you believe in me.
So long as I have that assurance nothing else counts."
"Harry Colston's not convinced; I believe he's trying to keep an open
mind."
"Is that so?" said Prescott. "I don't expect much from him. He's the kind
of man who's guided by appearances and seldom does anything out of the
common."
Muriel disregarded this.
"But you were very foolish in deceiving us. I can't understand yet why
you did so."
"I can only tell you that it was for Cyril's sake."
"Oh," she cried, "it could not have been because of any benefit that you
would get! That would never have tempted you."
He read unshaken confidence in her eyes and it cost him a stern effort to
refrain from reckless speech. Muriel was beautiful, but that was not all:
she was generous and fearless, a loyal friend and a staunch partizan.
"Well," Prescott confessed, "when I explained, I was more afraid of you
than of Jernyngham. I wanted to keep your good opinion, and I wondered
whether you had only given it to me because you thought I was Cyril
Jernyngham. From your friends' point of view Jack Prescott is a very
different kind of person."
Muriel blushed.
"Is it unpardonable that I was angry when I first found out the mistake?
Try to imagine with what ideas I have been brought up. But the feeling
left me when I saw how merciless Jernyngham was; his hard words turned it
into sympathy."
"That is something to be thankful for, though it doesn't content me. I
think you would be sorry for any one, even an enemy, who was in trouble
and getting hurt."
She grasped his meaning and looked at him steadily with an air of pride.
"Then must I tell you that I have as much faith in Jack Prescott as I had
in the man whom I supposed to be Cyril Jernyngham? But you must justify
my confidence. You have been wrongly and cruelly accused; don't you see
the duty that lies on you?"
"Yes," Prescott answered gravely; "I have to clear myself. If there were
no other reason than the one you have given, it would have to be done.
It's going to be a tough proposition, but I'll get about it very soon."
"You know that I wish you all success," she told him softly.
Then she held out her hand and turned away. When she had gone Prescott
went on with his work and after buckling the last strap he found that he
had forgotten a parcel Mrs. Leslie had asked him to deliver. Hurrying
back to the house for it, he met Gertrude Jernyngham in the hall and she
stopped where the light fell on her, instead of avoiding him as he had
expected. There was suspicion in her eyes.
"I see you agree with your father," he said boldly.
"Yes," she replied in a scornful tone. "You can pose rather cleverly--you
tricked me into trusting you, but your ability is limited, after all.
When the strain comes, you break down. Could anything have been feebler
than the defense you made?"
"It was pretty lame, but every word was true."
"Oh," she cried with disgust and impatience, "one wouldn't expect you to
say it was false! You don't seem to have anything more convincing to
add."
"I'm going to add nothing. It isn't very long since you were willing to
take my word."
"I'm afraid I was easily deceived," Gertrude said bitterly. "I didn't
know you had twice passed yourself off as my brother, and you can't
complain if we see an obvious motive for your doing so the second time."
"You mean that I stole the price of Cyril's land?" Prescott asked
sternly.
"Yes," she said, watching him with cruel eyes. "That, however, is not the
worst." She struggled with rising passion before she resumed: "I
believe----"
Prescott raised his hand commandingly.
"Stop! I'm going away to find your brother."
"One can understand your going away!" she flung back at him as she passed
on down the hall.
Prescott drove home at a reckless pace. Facing the situation boldly, he
recognized that the outlook was very dark.