A DEBT OF HONOR.
“WHAT do you think of that letter, Gerald?” asked his father, when the
boy had perused the epistle which had been handed to him.
Gerald’s look of disgust answered for him.
“I think it is thoroughly contemptible,” he said. “It is the worst case
of ingratitude I have heard of. Is Bradley Wentworth yet living?”
“Yes; he is rich and prosperous.”
“What did you do when you received his letter?”
“I wrote him in scathing terms, declining his proposal to surrender the
paper for the paltry sum he offered. I reminded him of the good service
I had rendered him. I had undoubtedly saved him the estate. I had also
sacrificed more than I originally supposed, for I had learned two years
after my departure that Mr. Wentworth had intended to give me a small
interest in his business, which by this time would have made me a rich
man. Of course when he came to look upon me as a forger my chance was
lost.”
“Did Bradley Wentworth know this also?”
“Certainly he did. He knew better than any one the extent of the
sacrifice I had made for him, but when his uncle was dead and the
estate was securely his, he took advantage of this fact and treated me
as I have told you.”
“Did you receive any answer to your second letter?”
“Yes, but it only renewed the proposal contained in the first. He
requested me bluntly not to be a fool and declared that the papers were
not really worth even the small sum he offered for them.”
“And what followed?”
“I was at a loss what further steps to take. Then came the death of
your mother after a brief illness, and this quite broke me down. I
became sick, my business suffered, and finally I came to regard myself
as born to misfortune. Three years since I moved out here, and here we
have lived, if it can be called living, cut off from the advantages
of civilization. I begin to understand now that I acted a selfish and
unmanly part, and cut you off from the advantages of an education.”
“I have studied by myself, father.”
“Yes, but it would have been better to attend a school or academy.”
“Your health has been better here.”
“Yes; the pure air has been favorable to my pulmonary difficulties.
Probably I should have died a year since if I had not come out here.”
“Then you were justified in coming.”
“So far as my own interests are concerned; but I ought not have buried
you in this lonely and obscure place.”
“Don’t think of me, father. Whatever I have lost I can make up in the
years to come, and it is a great deal to have you spared to me a little
longer.”
“Dear Gerald!” said his father, regarding his son with affection. “You
are indeed a true and loyal son. I feel all the more under obligations
to secure your future. An unexpected hemorrhage may terminate my life
at any moment. Let me then attend at once to an imperative duty.”
He drew from his pocket an envelope and extended it to Gerald.
“This envelope,” he said, “contains two important documents—the
written confession of Bradley Wentworth, that it was he, not I, who
forged the check upon his uncle, and the last letter in which he
repudiates my claim upon him for the sum he agreed to pay me.”
“You wish me to keep these, father?” said Gerald, as he took the
envelope containing the letter.
“Yes. I wish you to guard them carefully. They give you a hold on
Bradley Wentworth. I leave you nothing but this debt of honor, but it
should bring you twenty thousand dollars. He can well afford to pay it,
for it brought him a fortune.”
“What steps am I to take, father?”
“I cannot tell. It may be well for you to consult some good lawyer. You
are young, but you have unusual judgment for your years. I must warn
you that an effort will probably be made by Bradley Wentworth, perhaps
through an agent, to get possession of these papers, which he knows are
in existence. Ten days since I wrote to him, and in such terms that I
should not be surprised if he would seek me out even here. If he comes,
it will be in the hope of securing the papers which I have placed in
your hands. Should you meet him here, don’t let him know that they are
in your possession.”
Half an hour later Gerald set out slowly in the direction of a small
mountain lake a mile distant, with fishing tackle in hand.
It was not so much that he wished to fish as to get a chance to think
over the important communication which had been made to him within the
last hour. He had often wondered why his father had buried himself
among the mountains, and had always concluded that it was wholly on
account of his health. Now he understood what it was that had darkened
his life and made him a melancholy recluse. The selfish greed of
one man had wrought this evil. To him, Gerald, was left the task of
obtaining redress for a great wrong. It was not so much the money
that influenced him, for youth is apt to be indifferent to worldly
considerations, but his heart was filled with resentment against this
man who had profited by his father’s sacrifice, and then deliberately
refused to fulfil the contract he had made.
“It is only through his pocket he can suffer,” thought Gerald. “If it
is possible he shall be made to pay the last dollar that is rightfully
due my poor father.”
He reached the shore of the lake, and, unfastening a boat which he
kept there for his own use, he pushed it out from the shore, and then
suffered it to float lazily over the smooth surface of the lake while
he prepared his fishing tackle. In the course of a couple of hours he
caught four beautiful lake trout, and with them as a trophy of his
skill he started for home, first securely fastening his boat.
“Perhaps father will relish these,” he soliloquized. “I will cook them
as soon as I get home, and try to tempt his appetite.”
Gerald had walked but a few rods, when he was hailed by a stranger.
“Hallo, boy, do you live about here?”
Gerald turned, and his glance rested upon a man of about his father’s
age, but shorter and more thick-set. He was well dressed, in city
rather than in country style, but his face wore an expression of
discontent and vexation.
“Yes,” answered Gerald, “I live in this neighborhood.”
“Then perhaps you can help me. I have lost my way. It serves me right
for venturing into such a wild country.”
“Is there any particular place to which you wish to be guided, sir?”
“If you mean towns, there don’t seem to be any. I wish to find a
man named Warren Lane, who I believe lives somewhere among these
mountains.”
Gerald started, and looked intently at the stranger. He connected him
at once with his father’s story, and felt that he must be Bradley
Wentworth, the man who had ruined his father’s life. A natural feeling
of dislike sprang up in his breast, and he delayed replying.
“Well,” said Wentworth irritably, “what are you staring at? Did you
never see a stranger before? How long are you going to keep me waiting?
Do you know such a man?”
“Pardon me,” replied Gerald coldly; “but your question surprised me.”
“Why should it?”
“Because Warren Lane is my father.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the other, eying the boy sharply. “You don’t look like
him.”
“I am thought to resemble my mother’s family.”
“Do you live near by?”
“Yes, sir. Fifteen or twenty minutes will bring us to my father’s
house.”
“Then I should like to go there at once. I want to get out of this
country as soon as possible.”
“You have only to follow me,” and without another word Gerald started
off.