A SISTER’S LOVE
Phil looked up and down the dark, deserted street. Eric had made off so
quietly that not a footfall had been heard. But no one was abroad to
see him, however much noise he might have made.
The back room of Spaythe’s Bank was witnessing a succession of curious
scenes this eventful night. Phil had opened the safe again and was
counting the money. It was a long count, and must needs be accurate;
but Phœbe, now cool as ice, helped him in her methodical way and it
was not necessary to inspect more of the currency than the packets of
bank notes and the gold.
“Whew!” whistled Phil, when the final figures had been made. “Eric
wasn’t at all bashful, was he? He grabbed more than three thousand
dollars!”
“Three thousand, three hundred and ninety,” repeated Phœbe, jotting
down the exact amount on a slip of paper. “All right, Phil; that is
what we wanted to know. Now, put this dreadful stuff away.”
He complied. There was a queer feeling in the young fellow’s chest,
as if iron fingers were gripping his heart. His worst fears had been
realized and he had become the innocent victim of his former friend’s
diabolical scheming.
As the Daring twins walked home together through the still night, arm
in arm, they exchanged few words. Phil reflected that his business
career was practically ruined. Here in Riverdale, his old home, he
would be scorned and reviled as a common thief, and wherever he might
go in the big outside world his disgrace would be sure to follow him.
And what of Eric Spaythe, the false friend who had planned his downfall
and would profit by it? With means to pay his debts, and so prevent his
father’s knowledge of his past extravagance, Eric would doubtless be
more cautious in the future. In time he might become the proprietor of
the bank he had to-night so cleverly robbed. As for the false entries
on the books, made to cover the minor thefts that had preceded this
coup, all evidence would point conclusively to Phil Daring as the
culprit. That poor and struggling youth was to become the scapegoat to
shield Eric Spaythe, the rich banker’s son.
Phil groaned in spirit, but believed himself to be absolutely helpless.
Phœbe, on the contrary, had recovered her cheerfulness, and as she
kissed her twin good night in the hall she whispered:
“Forget about Eric, dear. There’s nothing to worry about, so try to get
some sleep. Now that we know the truth, and just what to expect, it
will be easy to save you from this contemptible plot.”
Phil clasped the girl close in his arms. It was good to feel that
Phœbe, the one person he loved most in all the world, knew his
innocence and believed in him. He must be brave and face the future
calmly, for her sweet sake.
In his room he looked at his watch. Two o’clock. By this time Eric was
well on his way to St. Louis. Phil sighed, went to bed, and having a
clear conscience was presently sound asleep.
Phœbe pleaded a headache next morning and did not go to church with
the others. Phil, solemn eyed and with careworn features, accompanied
Cousin Judith and the children and did his best to keep his thoughts on
the sermon.
From her window Phœbe endeavored to watch the movements of old
Miss Halliday, but found the woman keeping close to the room in which
Gran’pa Eliot was confined. Perhaps she was engaged in her morning’s
work, but strangely enough the chickens had been neglected and were
plainly calling for food and water.
In order to ease the nervous strain of waiting Phœbe moved softly
around the rooms occupied by the Darings and removed all the keys she
found in the locks. Having carried these to her room she began trying
them in the lock of the door that connected old Elaine’s chamber with
her own. She moved carefully and silently, but to her despair none
of the keys would fit. A second time she tried them, with no better
success. While engaged in replacing the borrowed keys she happened to
think of a big bunch of old keys hanging in the closet of the room
occupied by Sue and Becky. She readily found this bunch, and with
it hurried back to her chamber. One by one the keys were tried and
gradually her heart sank as they proved to be too large or too small.
There were now but three left on the bunch and she was crouching on her
knees before the door when suddenly she heard Elaine enter the other
room.
To her astonishment the woman was sobbing and muttering in the same
breath, and seemed to be laboring under great excitement.
“It can’t be!” Phœbe heard her say again and again. “It can’t be.
No, no, no!--it can’t be.”
Up and down she paced, and finally the girl heard her throw herself
upon the bed and give way to a violent outburst of sobbing.
Phœbe dared not move. Her limbs were cramped and numb, but she sat
crouching beside the door until gradually Miss Halliday became more
quiet and rose from the bed.
“One thing is certain,” muttered the woman in a firmer tone. “No one
shall know!”
Again she paced the floor, by degrees recovering her wonted composure.
The sobs and mutterings ceased. At last she left the room, and Phœbe
breathed freely once more. Then the girl glanced at the bunch of keys
she held. With those three that still remained untried lay her sole
chance of saving Phil’s honor.
The first was rusty and too big for the lock. The second turned easily,
and with a sharp click the bolt flew back. Then Phœbe dropped her
head in her hands and began to cry. The transition from despair to joy
had been so sharp that it unnerved her; but now she was free to carry
out her plans.
Wiping the tears from her eyes she sighed deeply and rose to her feet.
On turning the handle of the door, very softly, she found that it
would open with perfect freedom. She put her head within the room a
moment--just long enough to note that Elaine had left it in perfect
order--and then she closed the door again.
Would it be wiser to act at once, or to wait?
Her own anxiety and excitement had, until now, prevented her from
appreciating the evident fact that something unusual had occurred in
the other part of the house which the old woman regarded as serious.
The housekeeper was not prone to give way to violent outbursts of
grief. “It can’t be!” she had exclaimed. What couldn’t be? “No one
shall know!” Elaine had cried. What could have happened that must be
kept a secret? The girl’s first thought was that in some way Elaine had
been robbed of the treasure, and Phœbe’s heart stood still as she
contemplated that awful suggestion. But perhaps it was some personal
matter not connected with Gran’pa Eliot’s hidden hoard.
Going to her window she watched in vain for the housekeeper to appear
in the garden; then, unable to restrain her impatience, she ran
downstairs and around the corner until she came to the lane at the
back. Pausing beside the big maple she looked around at the house and
from her position saw Gran’pa Eliot propped up in his chair before the
window, his lusterless eyes fixedly regarding the landscape spread out
before him.
The window of the next room, where he slept, was open, too. Phœbe
could see the housekeeper making the bed and straightening the
furniture.
Presently, Elaine came to the window and stood motionless, staring
across the fields as if in deep thought. Phœbe shrank back into the
shade of the maple.
Now the woman left the window, emerged from the door at the head of the
outside stairs, and quietly descended to the yard. Phœbe quitted her
post at once and fairly flew back to the house, never pausing until she
had regained her own room. Breathless from her run, she paused to peer
from the window. Elaine was mixing food for her chickens.
In a moment Phœbe was in the forbidden room. She went straight to
the mantel and tried to pull it outward, as she had seen Elaine do;
but it refused to move. With a growing fear at her heart she examined
closely the framework and finally noticed that one part of the carving
was discolored more deeply than the rest, as if with constant handling.
Pressing hard against this place, Phœbe desperately dragged the
mantel toward her, and this time it swung free of the wall and
disclosed the secret cupboard.
Elaine had not been robbed. There were the neat piles of money, just as
she had seen them from her peephole.
Phœbe hesitated a moment. She wanted a certain sum in bills, and
another in gold, but it would be dangerous to count the money there.
So she took several packets of bills and ran with them to her room.
Returning quickly, she pushed the mantel into place and proceeded to
pull up a section of the rag carpet. A small iron ring enabled her
to lift the trap, and a moment later she had carried a sack of gold
through the connecting doorway and dumped it upon her bed.
A swift look through the window showed that Elaine was preparing
to ascend the stairs again; so Phœbe ran into the housekeeper’s
chamber, let down the trap and rearranged the carpet. Then she softly
retreated and closed the door after her.
She breathed more freely now, but her task was not yet accomplished and
the family might return from church at any moment.
Opening the packets of bills she began carefully counting them. The
first lot proved of small denominations and totalled so insignificant a
sum that the girl was panic-stricken for fear there would not be enough
paper money for her purpose. But the next packet proved to be all
fifties and one-hundreds, and less than half its bulk sufficed to make
up the amount of bills that Eric had abstracted from the safe.
She counted out the gold next, and as this sack chanced to contain only
pieces of twenty dollars each there was much more than she required. At
the bank, while Phil was discovering the extent of Eric’s theft--when
the vague idea of saving him first began to dawn in her mind--Phœbe
had seen a pile of canvas bags, used to contain gold, lying upon a
shelf. One of these she had quietly abstracted, for on it was printed
in black letters: “Spaythe’s Bank of Riverdale.” It was a similarly
marked sack which Eric had taken, and now the girl brought out the bag,
placed the proper amount of gold in it, and neatly tied it up. Then she
made a package containing both the gold and the bills and after winding
it securely with cord placed it in a drawer of her bureau.
This much being accomplished she breathed easier; but it was necessary
to replace the surplus gold and bills in the hiding places from whence
she had taken it. She felt no hesitation in employing a portion of
Gran’pa Eliot’s hoarded wealth to save her brother from an unjust
accusation. It seemed to her quite a proper thing to do, for the
family honor was at stake. Gran’pa could never use the money, and his
granddaughter was defiant of old Elaine’s self imposed watch upon
the treasure. Yet Phœbe would not touch a penny more than stern
necessity compelled her to.
Her heart bounded and then stopped beating as the housekeeper was heard
to enter the next room and renew her nervous pacing up and down--up and
down. Elaine was not likely to discover her loss, just yet; only at
dead of night was she accustomed to pander to her miserly instincts by
counting over the money. So Phœbe took courage.
A long time the girl sat silently awaiting an opportunity to restore
the balance of the treasure. Meantime, she wondered again what had come
over the usually methodical, self-possessed housekeeper to make her act
in so queer a manner. No doubt some important event had occurred in her
life; but what could it be?
A chorus of merry voices announced the return of Cousin Judith with
her brothers and sisters. She hesitated, half expecting Elaine would
now leave her room, but the woman wholly disregarded the Darings and
continued her monotonous pacing. So Phœbe concealed the money under
her pillows and noiselessly quitting the room went down to meet the
family.
The sense of triumph now experienced by the girl made her regard Phil’s
gloomy looks with complacency, if not with cheerfulness. She bustled
about, helping Auntie to set the table for dinner and listening to the
chatter of the children, and all the time the warm glow in her heart
was reflected in her sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks.
Phil looked at his sister astonished and somewhat reproachful. Her
glad laughter and flippant remarks made him feel that his twin was
forgetting the terrible fate that menaced him. Over the boy’s devoted
head hung a veritable Sword of Damocles, and it was destined to fall
as soon as the bank was opened Monday morning. Yet here was Phœbe,
merry and eager, joking with Becky and Don as she flitted through the
rooms, and seemingly as unconscious of trouble as a dancing sunbeam.
Judith, a little surprised at the girl’s high spirits, kissed her
affectionately as she came in to dinner. She thought Phœbe had
never looked more lovely than she did to-day. Phil remarked that fact,
too. “The Belle of Riverdale,” as she was often called, was really a
beautiful girl; yet, those who knew Phœbe best recognized the fact
that her chief charm lay not in her fascinating smile, her dainty
complexion, nor her magnificent eyes, but in the kindly, sympathetic
heart that had never yet failed to respond to the demands of friendship.
After dinner they were all seated on the front lawn in the shade of the
big oaks, when Phœbe noticed old Elaine standing motionless in the
back yard, grimly watching the group. The girl seized the opportunity
to run to her room, grab the money from beneath her pillows and replace
the bills in the cupboard back of the mantel and the remainder of
the gold beneath the trap in the floor. She acted with breathless
haste, not knowing how much time would be allowed her; but she soon
found there was no need of hurry. Returning to the lawn she saw that
Cousin Judith had gone to the housekeeper and was engaging Elaine in
conversation.
“My uncle is better, you say?” asked Miss Eliot.
“I did not say that,” retorted the woman. “I merely stated that he
suffers no pain.”
“Is his mind still befogged, as when I last saw him?” continued Judith.
“His mind has never been befogged,” said Elaine, with unnecessary
anger. “You will find he is clear-headed enough to defend himself from
annoyances, if intruded upon.”
Judith sighed. This creature was absolutely impossible to conciliate.
She turned away without further remark and preferred not to see the
half sneering, half triumphant leer on Elaine’s pinched features.
Phœbe put her arms around the Little Mother and said:
“Never mind, dear. She’s old and unreasonable; but she takes good care
of gran’pa, so we needn’t mind her uncivil ways.”
“Koots! I’m half afraid of her,” remarked Becky, making a face at the
thin figure of the housekeeper.
“I’m not,” declared Phœbe, laughing at the recollection of her late
audacity. “Miss Halliday is nothing more than a favored servant, who
has forgotten her proper place. There’s nothing fearsome about her, I’m
sure.”
Toward evening the girl’s high spirits began to falter and she wandered
about the house in an uneasy mood. Perhaps Phil’s dismal looks--for he
could not force his countenance to seem pleasant while his heart was
breaking--had something to do with his twin’s growing depression. Even
Sue accused Phœbe of being cross when she sent her small sister to
bed somewhat earlier than usual.
When all the household had retired except the twins and Judith, they
sat on the porch conversing until Miss Eliot noticed for the first
time an air of restraint that was unusual. Fearing she might herself
be responsible for this she pleaded some letters to be written as an
excuse to go to her room, and bade them good night.
“Cheer up, dear,” said Phœbe, when their cousin had gone in. “Didn’t
I promise to save you?”
“Yes; but you can’t do that, little sister. No one can save me.”
“There is one way,” announced the girl, decidedly.
Phil sat thinking.
“Yes,” he said; “if Eric would confess, that would end it all. Do you
imagine he will?”
“No, indeed.”
“Nor I. I have thought of everything; but the snare is too strong to be
broken.”
Phœbe did not reply at once. She sat looking out into the night,
lost in thought. Presently she roused herself and whispered:
“Phil, will you take a little walk with me?”
“I don’t mind. I’m not liable to sleep much to-night, so there’s little
use in going to bed.”
“Wait for me a moment,” she said.
Phil waited. She soon returned with a bulky newspaper packet partly
concealed beneath her cloak.
Together they strolled down the street toward the town. It was after
ten o’clock, and on Sunday evening Riverdale was like a deserted
village.
“We’re getting to be regular night owls, aren’t we?” asked Phœbe,
with a nervous tremor in her voice.
“Yes, indeed. But why are we prowling around town to-night? Wouldn’t it
be more pleasant to walk in the lanes?”
“We’re going to the bank,” said the girl.
Phil stopped short to look at her, but the overhanging branches of a
tree hid her face. With a sigh he walked on, deciding to let her have
her way. But he could think of no good reason for this absurd whim.
When they reached the bank Phœbe said:
“We will go in, Phil. Unlock the door.”
Mechanically he obeyed. Dully be wondered what she was going to do. But
it did not matter, and he would soon know.
“Now,” continued the girl, when they were inside, “open the safe.”
“Why, Phœbe!” he gasped, glancing at her fearfully. “You’re not
going to--”
“No; I’m not going to rob Mr. Spaythe. Open the safe, Phil--quick!”
He leaned over and set the combination. Then slowly the heavy door
swung open.
Phœbe breathed a sigh of relief. Hastily unwrapping her bundle she
placed a bag of gold on one shelf and a thick packet of bank bills on
another--in just the places from whence Eric had abstracted the money
the night before.
“All right, dear; you may lock the safe now.”
Phil was bewildered. His eyes roamed from his sister’s smiling face to
the safe, and back again.
“Wha--what have you done?” he stammered.
“I’ve restored the missing cash. Lock the safe, Phil, before it’s
robbed again.”
“Phœbe!”
“Don’t look so wild, dear. Can’t you understand you are saved--that
there will be no exposure of a theft to-morrow morning? Lock the safe,
and let us go home.”
He could not realize it, even yet. Still dazed and wondering he locked
the safe and followed Phœbe into the street. They were halfway home
before he asked:
“Where did you find Eric?”
“I haven’t seen Eric,” she replied.
“Then where did the money come from?”
“It’s my secret, Phil; you mustn’t ask.”
“But I must know, Phœbe. Why, it’s--it’s amazing!”
“Seems so, doesn’t it?”
“It’s impossible! Three thousand--”
“--Three hundred and ninety dollars,” she interrupted, with a laugh.
“It’s all there, dear; all back in the safe.”
“It’s a fortune! Where did you get it?” he persisted.
“Now, Phil, I’ve forbidden you to ask questions, and I mean it,” she
declared, very seriously. “It is a secret which I can’t reveal. Not
now, anyway.”
“Did Cousin Judith--”
“It’s no use, dear; I won’t tell.”
He strode along in silence, wondering if it were really true. They were
dreadfully poor, he knew, and Cousin Judith’s money was tied up in an
annuity. Where could Phœbe obtain three thousand, three hundred and
ninety dollars in currency?--and on Sunday, too! Suddenly a thought
caused him to start.
“You haven’t borrowed it of the Randolphs?” he demanded in a horrified
tone.
The suggestion made Phœbe laugh again.
“Guess away!” she said, lightly.
“We would never be able to repay such a loan--not for years and years,
if at all,” he said miserably.
“That need not worry you,” she observed. “Why don’t you give it up,
Phil? Be content until the time comes when I can tell you everything.
It’s the best way. Can’t you trust me--Phœbe--your twin?”
He caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, while the first
sense of freedom he had experienced since the robbery swept over him.
“Trust you? Of course I can, my darling!” he said.