I was too much overwhelmed by all these events to close my eyes that
night. The revelation of Mr. Steele’s further duplicity, coming so
immediately upon the first, roused fresh surmises and awakened
thoughts which soon set my wits working in a direction as new as it was
unexpected. I had believed my work over in this house, but as I recalled
all the occurrences of the evening and turned the situation, as it now
confronted me, over and over in my mind, I felt that it had just begun.
There must be something in this latest development to help us in the
struggle which lay before us. The rage which sprang up in him as he
confronted his old aunt at this moment of his triumphant revenge argued
a weakness in his armor which it might yet be my part to discover and
reveal. I knew Mrs. Packard well enough to realize that the serenity
into which she had fallen was a fictitious serenity, and must remain so
as long as any doubt remained of the legality of the tie uniting her to
this handsome fiend. Were the means suggested by the mayor of promising
enough character to accomplish the looked-for end?
I remembered the man’s eyes as the mayor let fall his word of powerful
threat, and doubted it. Once recovered from the indisposition which now
weakened him, he would find means to thwart any attempts made by Mayor
Packard to undermine the position he had taken as the legal husband of
Olympia--sufficiently so, at least, to hinder happiness between the pair
whose wedded life he not only envied but was determined to break
up, unless some flaw in his past could be discovered through Miss
Quinlan--the aunt whose goodness he had slighted and who now seemed to
be in a frame of mind to help our cause if its pitiful aspects were once
presented to her. I resolved to present the case without delay. Morning
came at last, and I refreshed myself as well as I could, and, after a
short visit to Mrs. Packard’s bedside during which my purpose grew with
every moment I gazed down on her brave but pitiful face, put on my hat
and jacket and went next door.
I found the two old ladies seated in their state apartment making
calculations. At sight of my face they both rose and the “O my dear”
from Miss Charity and the “God bless you, child,” from Miss Thankful
showed that both hearts were yet warm. Gradually I introduced the
topic of their nephew; gradually I approached the vital question of the
disgrace.
The result upset all my growing hopes. He had never told them just what
the disgrace was. They really knew nothing about his life after his
early boyhood. He had come home that one time when fortune so suddenly
smiled upon them and they thought then that he would tell them
something; but the disappointment which had followed effectually closed
his lips, and he went away after a few days of fruitless search, not
to approach them again till just before he took up the position of
secretary to their great neighbor. Then he paid them one short and
peremptory visit, during which he was able to impress upon them his
importance, his reasons for changing his name, which they could not now
remember, and the great necessity which this made for them not to come
near him as their nephew. They had tried to do what he asked, but it
had been hard. “Charity,” Miss Thankful proceeded to bewail with a
forgetfulness of her own share in the matter, “had not been able to
keep her eyes long off the house which held, as she supposed, our double
treasure.” So this was all! Nothing to aid me; nothing to aid Mayor
Packard. Rising in my disappointment, I prepared to leave. I had
sufficient self-control and I hope good feeling not to add to their
distress at this time by any unnecessary revelations of a past they were
ignorant of, or the part this unhappy nephew of theirs had played and
still promised to play in the lives of their immediate neighbors.
Miss Thankful squeezed my hand and Miss Charity gave me a kiss; then as
she saw her sister looking aside, whispered in my ear “I want to show
you something, all of Johnnie’s little toys and the keepsakes he sent us
when he was a good boy and loved his aunts. You will not think so badly
of him then.”
I let Miss Charity lead me away. A drawer held all these treasures. I
looked and felt to a degree the pathos of the scene; but did not give
special attention to what she thrust under my eyes till she gave me a
little old letter to read, soiled and torn with the handling of many
years and signed John Silverthorn Brainard. Then something in me woke
and I stared at this signature, growing more and more excited as I
realized that this was not the first time I had seen it, that somewhere
and in circumstances which brought a nameless thrill I had looked upon
it before and that--it was not one remembrance but many which came to
me. What the spoken name had not recalled came at the sight of this
written one. Bess! there was her long and continued watch over the house
once entered by her on any and every pretext, but now shunned by her
with a secret terror which could not disguise her longing and its
secret attraction; her certificate of marriage; the name on this
certificate--the very one I was now staring at--John Silverthorn
Brainard! Had I struck an invaluable clue? Had I, through the weakness
and doting fondness of this poor woman, come upon the one link which
would yet lead us to identify this hollow-hearted, false and most
vindictive man of great affairs with the wandering and worthless husband
of the nondescript Bess, whose hand I had touched and whose errand I had
done, little realizing its purport or the influence it would have upon
our lives? I dared not believe myself so fortunate; it was much too like
a fairy dream for me to rely on it for a moment; yet the possibility
was enough to rouse me to renewed effort. After we had returned to
Miss Thankful’s side, I asked her, with an apology for my inexhaustible
curiosity, if she still felt afraid of the thread and needle woman
across the way.
The answer was a little sharp.
“It is Charity who is afraid of her,” said she. She had evidently
forgotten her own extravagant words to me on this subject. “Charity is
timid; she thinks because this woman once hung over our brother, night
and day, that she knew about this money and had persuaded herself that
she has some right to it. Charity is sometimes mistaken, but she has
some reason, if it is inadequate, for this notion of hers. That woman,
since her dismissal after my brother’s death, has never really quit this
neighborhood. She worked next door in any capacity she could, whenever
any of the tenants would take her; and when they would not, sewed or
served in the houses near by till finally she set up a shop directly
opposite its very door. But she’ll never get these bonds; we shall pay
her what is her due, but she’ll never get any more.”
“That would make her out a thief,” I cried, “or--” but I thought better
of uttering what was in my mind. Instead I asked how they first came to
hear of her.
Miss Charity showed some flustration at this and cast her sister
an appealing look; but Miss Thankful, eying her with some severity,
answered me with becoming candor:
“She was a lodger in this house. We kept a few lodgers in those days--be
still, Charity! Just thank God those days are over.”
“A lodger?” I repeated. “Did she ever tell you where she came from?”
“Yes, she mentioned the place,--it was some town farther west. That was
when we were in such trouble about our brother and how we should care
for him. She could nurse him, she said, and indeed seemed very eager to
do so, and we were glad to let her,--very glad, till my brother showed
such fear of her and of what she might do if she once got hold of his
wallet.”
“You possibly did her injustice,” I said. “A sick man’s fancies are not
always to be relied on. What did your nephew think of her? Did he share
your distrust of her?”
“John? Oh, yes, I believe so. Why do we always come back to the subject
of John? I want to forget him; I mean to forget him; I mean that Charity
shall forget him.”
“Let us begin then from this moment,” I smiled; then quickly: “You knew
that Bess was a married woman.”
“No, we knew nothing about her.”
“Not even the name she went by?”
“Oh, that was Brown.”
“Brown,” I muttered, turning for a second time to go. “You must think
me inquisitive, but if I had not been,” I added with a merry laugh, “I
should never have found your bonds for you.” Pressing both their hands
in mine I ran hastily out of the room.
At once I crossed the street to Bess’ little shop.