ACCUSED
Phœbe had been watching impatiently for her brother’s return and
ran to meet him. He told her of the scene at the bank--of Eric’s
astonishment and terror, and how Mr. Spaythe had raised Phil’s salary
quite materially. Then he related the manner in which he had worked
upon the culprit’s fears and induced him to apply a part of the stolen
money to replacing his former embezzlements, thus saving Phil from the
possibilities of future complications.
Tears stood in Phœbe’s eyes as she murmured: “I’m so glad. Oh, I’m
so glad!”
“But the greatest mystery is not yet cleared up,” said her brother.
“I’m as much as ever in the dark concerning your own share in this
puzzling affair. Phœbe, where did that money come from?”
She shook her head, smiling through her tears, and accompanied him
to dinner. But afterward, when Phil had gone back to work, the girl
sat in her room facing the consequences of her act. Conscience
stirred at last and gained control of her and its vivid accusations
made her cringe. Her dearly beloved brother, her twin, had been saved
from impending disgrace, but in saving him Phœbe had herself been
guilty of a theft equal to that of Eric Spaythe. She had robbed her
grandfather in exactly the same way that he had robbed his father, and
if Eric had earned such bitter condemnation, Phœbe could not expect
to escape censure. True, their motives were different. Eric stole for
selfish reasons; Phœbe, to save her twin from unmerited obloquy.
Searching her heart with candid inquiry, she wondered if she were
really guilty of a crime. Civil laws might condemn her, but would not
the great moral laws of humanity uphold her for what she had done?
“I’m not wicked, I know,” she told herself, positively. “I have wronged
no one by my act. There is more than enough of Gran’pa Eliot’s hoard
remaining to last him during his brief lifetime. And what better use
could a share of that idle money be put to than saving his grandson
from humiliation and shame?”
But, Phœbe’s obdurate conscience was not to be appeased by such
sophistry as this. “What right had you to take that money?--what right
had you?” the small voice constantly asked, and at last she grew
distressed by the vague, yet persistent fear that she had done an evil
deed that good might come of it. Was that a sufficient excuse? she
asked herself, and feared it was not.
“But, I’d do it again!” she declared, pressing her lips firmly together
as she thought of Phil. “I’d do it again this moment, if it were
necessary.”
While the girl thus fought with an accusing conscience she heard
Elaine come into her room. At once the spirit of antagonism toward
this dragon, who guarded Gran’pa Eliot’s treasure, hardened her into a
belief that she was fully justified in what she had done.
Drawing her darning basket toward her she began mending some of the
family stockings, and from her seat by the window listened to the
sounds made by the old housekeeper, as she moved about in the next room.
Suddenly there was a sharp cry, followed by a fall. Phœbe was
startled for a moment. Then she realized it was not Elaine who had
fallen, but that the trap door in the floor had been carelessly dropped
into place. Her heart beat a little faster then, but she kept her seat
and even attempted to thread a needle. Her alert ears heard Elaine run
to the mantel. There was a long pause; then a wailing cry of distress.
[Illustration: PHŒBE GLANCED AT HER CALMLY.]
Phœbe smiled grimly and went on with her work. The discovery had
come a little sooner than she had expected. What curious whim could
have urged Elaine to examine the treasure now, in the middle of the
afternoon? She had never done this before, reflected Phœbe.
In the adjoining room a dead silence prevailed. “She’s counting,” mused
the girl. “She’s trying to find out how much is gone, and who took it.
Perhaps she’ll lay it to ghosts. Anyhow, she won’t have the slightest
idea that I know her secret.”
Then something happened that gave her a shock. Without warning the
handle of the connecting door turned and the next moment Elaine stood
on the threshold confronting her.
The woman’s face was dark and contorted with rage. She clasped and
unclasped her talon-like fingers spasmodically, as if longing to take
the girl by the throat and strangle her then and there.
Phœbe glanced at her, frowned, and calmly bit off her thread of
darning cotton.
“What are you doing in this room, Miss Halliday?” she asked, not even a
tremor in her voice.
For a moment Elaine was daunted. Then she recovered, and advancing a
pace toward Phœbe cried in tones of concentrated fury:
“I want my money!”
“Do I owe you anything?” was the stern demand.
The woman’s glaring eyes were fixed upon Phœbe’s upturned face,
trying to read her inmost thoughts. The girl dropped her lashes a bit,
examining her work, and a slight flush stole into her cheeks in spite
of her efforts to appear composed. In a flash the woman detected these
signs, and her confidence was instantly restored.
“You can’t fool me, Phœbe Daring!” she exclaimed harshly. “You
unlocked that door--the door I had forbidden you to open.”
“Miss Halliday! you forget yourself. My grandfather’s servant has no
right to dictate in this house,” said the girl, haughtily.
Elaine gave a short laugh, full of venom and disdain.
“Servant, eh?” she retorted. “And whose house do you suppose this is?”
The challenge roused Phoebe to anger and swept away the last vestige of
her composure.
“It belongs to Jonathan Eliot, my grandfather; and everything in
it--money and all--belongs to him!” she asserted with pride. “As for
you, Elaine Halliday, we have submitted to your insufferable insolence
long enough--but only because you understood gran’pa, and were good to
him, were you allowed to remain. Your temper and your airs have become
unbearable, however, and we will at once secure another servant to take
your place.”
The housekeeper stared at her as if she could not believe the evidence
of her own ears. Then she laughed--a hard, cackling laugh that was
horrible to hear.
“I’ll not be turned out, my girl,” she said scornfully; “but you
Darings will get out of here, neck and crop, or I’ll call in the law to
help me.”
“The law, Elaine?”
“Yes; the law! This house is mine. It does not belong to Jonathan
Eliot. And all its contents are mine, deeded to me in black and white
as the reward of my faithful services. The money you have stolen, thief
that you are, is mine, too, and unless you return every penny of it
you’ll go to jail, Phœbe Daring.”
It was Phœbe’s turn to stare. Could the woman be speaking the truth?
“Where is the proof of your statement?” she asked.
Without a word Elaine turned and reëntered her room. A few minutes
later she came back with a paper--a dreadful, legal-looking
document--which she unfolded and held before Phœbe’s face for her to
read, grasping it tightly the while and prepared to snatch it away if
the girl made any movement to secure it.
Phœbe, frightened and horrified, made an effort to read the writing.
It was not very distinct, but seemed to state in legal jargon that
Jonathan Eliot, being of sound mind and owing no person a debt of any
sort, did of his own free will and accord give and transfer to Elaine
Halliday all his worldly possessions, including his residence in
Riverdale and all its contents of whatsoever kind or description, in
return for faithful service rendered him and duly acknowledged.
“Have you read it?” asked the woman, hoarsely.
“I--I think so!” gasped Phœbe.
“Look at the signature.”
Phœbe looked. The paper was signed “Jonathan Eliot” in a crabbed,
stiff hand. She could not tell whether it was her grandfather’s writing
or not; she was not familiar with it. But, the dreadful truth was
forced upon her at last, and Elaine’s scornful assurance was fully
explained. She owned the house; she owned that secret hoard. Phœbe
had not stolen from her grandfather, as she had supposed, but from
Elaine Halliday!
The old woman noted her blanched cheeks and smiled with ruthless joy.
Carefully refolding the paper she said:
“I’ve been robbed, and by you. There’s no use denying it, for I’ve got
proof in that unlocked door. But I don’t care to send you to prison.
I’d rather get my money back.”
“I haven’t it,” murmured Phœbe, staring fearfully into the other’s
pitiless face.
Elaine scowled and shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s all nonsense, girl! Give it up,” she advised.
“I can’t; I haven’t it.”
“You’re lying. You took the money yesterday. You can’t have spent it
already. Give it up!”
Phœbe was silent. She sat staring helplessly at her tormentor.
“A liar and a thief! You’ll spend your life in prison for this,
Phœbe Daring, unless you come to your senses and return my money.”
Phœbe answered not a word. There was nothing to be said. Elaine
waited impatiently. Don was calling loudly for Phœbe from some of
the lower rooms. Perhaps he would come here in a few minutes.
“See here,” said the housekeeper, suddenly, “I’ll give you till
to-morrow--at noon--to bring me that money. Unless I get it--every
penny, mind you--I’ll send the constable for you and have you arrested
and jailed.”
With this threat she walked into her own room, closing and securing the
door after her. Phœbe sat in a stupor. Her mind refused to dwell
upon this amazing discovery. She was glad Don had ceased calling to her
and vaguely wondered what he had wanted. The stockings must be darned;
but really there was no hurry about it; they would not be needed for a
day or two.
A sharp blow upon the door startled her out of this rambling reverie.
Elaine was driving nails. Viciously she pounded them into the door with
her hammer, utterly regardless of the certainty of disturbing Gran’pa
Eliot. She intended to assure herself that Phœbe would be unable to
get at the hidden treasure again.
And now the full horror of the situation burst upon the girl’s mental
vision, making her cringe and wince as if in bodily pain. Jail! Jail
for helping Phil! Well, it was far better that she should suffer than
her twin--a boy whose honor was all in all to him. She would try to be
brave and pay the penalty for Phil’s salvation unflinchingly.
For a while the poor girl sat cowering in the depths of despair. What
could she do? where could she turn for help? Then a sudden thought came
to her like an inspiration. Judge Ferguson had once made her promise
to come to him if she was in any trouble. Of course. Judge Ferguson
was her father’s old friend. She would see him at once, and perhaps he
would be able to advise her in this grave emergency.