CONCLUSION.
ON his way back from Colorado Gerald stopped at Kansas City and
ascertained that Victor Wentworth had recovered from his sickness and
was intending to go to work on the following Monday.
“Mrs. Ferguson has agreed to take me back,” he said. “She has had
another boy, but she does not like him.”
“You can’t make any arrangements without the consent of your guardian,”
said Gerald smiling. “I have other views for you.”
“You can’t be any older than I,” said Victor, “but I feel like a small
boy beside you. I wish I was as strong and self-reliant as you.”
“We were brought up differently, Victor. You are the son of a rich man,
while my father was very poor.”
“My father’s wealth doesn’t seem to do me any good,” said Victor sadly.
“He leaves me to myself, and if it had not been for you I don’t know
what would have become of me.”
“It will be different soon. I want you to take the next train for St.
Louis with me.”
“That is on the way home,” said Victor, brightening.
“And I am going to take you home. I have some business with your
father.”
“But if father will not receive me?” suggested Victor apprehensively.
“Then I will take care of you. You will in that case have to call me
papa.”
Victor laughed aloud. Gerald’s bright humor was infectious.
“I will if you ask me to,” he said.
Gerald’s plans were already laid. He wrote to Thomas Hastings to come
at once to St. Louis, and three days later all three started for
Chicago. There Gerald called upon Stephen Cochrane, the lawyer, who had
in his possession the agreement signed by Mr. Wentworth to pay Warren
Lane twenty thousand dollars in a certain contingency.
“The promise is outlawed,” said the lawyer, “but with the collateral
evidence which you have in your possession I don’t think that Bradley
Wentworth will feel like setting this up as a bar to the payment.”
We must now precede Gerald to the town of Seneca, which was his
ultimate destination.
A change had come over Bradley Wentworth. He was a man of iron
constitution and had never had a sick day in his life. Yet a few weeks
previous the grip, which had recently ravaged the country from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, attacked him, and though he had recovered from
it the languor which usually follows had come upon him in an aggravated
form. He found it difficult to attend to his business, and was obliged
to spend half of his time reclining upon a lounge in his office.
Those who are seldom sick feel the effects of illness much more keenly
than those who are frequently indisposed. Bradley Wentworth found
himself depressed in an unaccountable manner. He became alarmed about
himself, and feared that he would never regain his strength. What then
would become of his property? Where was the boy for whom he had been
laboring these many years, and whom he had fondly looked upon as his
heir? He was an exile from home, suffering perhaps. Why was he an exile
from his father’s house? Because, as he was compelled to acknowledge,
he had been harsh and stern, unnaturally severe. For, after all, what
had the boy done? He had not committed a crime. He had committed an
act of youthful indiscretion, for which he was heartily sorry, yet to
save his own pride and gratify his vindictive disposition the father
had left the boy to the cold mercies of the world. Suppose Victor
should die? What lay before him but a cold and solitary life, without
object and without sympathy? Too late Bradley Wentworth lamented his
refusal to send Victor money when he wrote for it.
“I must have him back,” he said to himself in feverish impatience, and
began to institute a search for the lost boy. But he was without a
clew. He despatched a messenger to Kansas City, but he returned without
information.
It was while he was suffering from this disappointment, and anxiously
considering what to do next, that a servant entered the room where he
was resting after supper and presented a card.
“A young gentleman who wishes to see you,” she explained.
Mechanically Bradley Wentworth scanned the card and read the name,
GERALD LANE.
“Bring him in,” he said quickly.
“Probably,” he thought, “Gerald has repented his refusal and is ready
to enter into negotiations for the sale of his small patrimony in
Colorado.”
Gerald entered the room with an easy grace, and bowed to Mr. Wentworth.
The merchant could see that he was no longer the unsophisticated boy
whom he had met in the Colorado mountains. Still he did not give Gerald
credit for the full change which had passed over him.
“Be seated,” he said. “I suppose you have come about the land your
father left you in Colorado.”
“No, Mr. Wentworth, I have sold this land, or at least four-fifths of
it.”
Wentworth looked disappointed.
“You should have accepted my offer,” he said harshly.
“I should have made a very great mistake if I had,” replied Gerald
calmly.
“How much did you sell it for?”
“I sold four-fifths of it for six thousand dollars.”
Mr. Wentworth was amazed, but he gathered strength to say, “Probably
you will never get your money.”
“It was paid me in cash, and I have it invested in good dividend-paying
bank stock in St. Louis.”
“Then,” said Wentworth after a pause, “I don’t understand what has
brought you here.”
“I have some very important business with you, Mr. Wentworth. I have
come to ask you to redeem the solemn promise made to my father to pay
him twenty thousand dollars.”
“This is all nonsense,” said Wentworth, knitting his brows. “No such
promise was ever made.”
“I beg your pardon, but I can prove to the contrary.”
“Perhaps you will tell me how,” sneered Wentworth.
“My lawyer, Stephen Cochrane of Chicago, is at the hotel. He has in his
hands the written promise.”
“It is a forgery. There could be no reason for my making such an
extraordinary promise.”
“Do you deny, Mr. Wentworth, that you forged a check on your uncle and
that my father screened you?”
“Young man, you are impudent. The check was forged by your father.”
“That is untrue. The letters written by you to my father disprove that.”
“Can you produce those letters?” asked Wentworth with another sneer.
“Yes, I can.”
Bradley Wentworth looked amazed.
“I don’t believe it,” he ejaculated.
“Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald calmly, “the letters which your agent
stole from me in St. Louis were copies. The originals are in a safe
deposit vault in St. Louis, or rather they were there at the time of
the robbery. Now they are in Mr. Cochrane’s hands.”
“This is a bold game you are playing, Gerald Lane, but it won’t work.
No one can connect me with the forged check.”
“There is one who can. Thomas Hastings, who was paying teller at the
bank when it was offered.”
“He is dead!” said Wentworth hastily.
“I think you are mistaken.”
“Then where is he?”
“He was at Brentwood, Minnesota, till recently. It was there that I met
him a few weeks since.”
“I doubt if you will find him there now,” answered Wentworth,
registering a resolve to send a special telegram to him to change his
residence in consideration of a handsome check.
“You are right, Mr. Wentworth,” was Gerald’s unexpected reply. “He is
in this town.”
“What!” ejaculated Wentworth in dismay.
“It is as I say. He is prepared to testify that he paid you personally
the money on the forged check, and that you have from time to time paid
him money to keep this secret.”
“No one will believe him,” said Wentworth, very much perturbed.
“You can discuss that question with Mr. Cochrane. I have merely wished
to let you know the strength of our case. But before I go I ought to
tell you that there is another person who has come with me from the
West.”
“Who is it in Heaven’s name?”
“It is your son Victor.”
“Victor!” exclaimed Bradley Wentworth, his face radiant with joy. “Is
he well? Where is he?”
“At the hotel.”
“Where did you find him?”
“In Kansas City some weeks since. The poor boy was sick and unable to
work. I had him leave the store where he was employed, though hardly
able to stand, and I paid the expenses of his sickness. He is now well
and anxious to see his father.”
Bradley Wentworth’s face worked convulsively. His hard heart was
touched at last.
“God bless you, boy,” he said; “you have restored my son to me. I shall
not forget it. You can send your lawyer to me. I will do what is fair
and right; I begin to think that I have been wrong all these years.”
“Will you consent to authorize a statement clearing my father from any
connection with the forged check?”
“Yes, as long as I am not personally implicated.”
“Mr. Cochrane tells me that this can be arranged——”
“If Victor is at the hotel I will go over at once.”
Victor, uneasy and anxious, saw his father coming across the street.
He did not know how he would be received, but he was not left long in
suspense. The father’s hard heart was softened, and he felt sincerely
grateful that his only child had been restored to him.
The next week the Seneca weekly published a card from Mr. Wentworth
stating that a discovery had been made exonerating the late Warren
Lane from the charge which had so long been laid at his door. “The
guilt lies elsewhere,” so the card read, “but at this late day it is
unnecessary to mention the name of the actual delinquent.”
The debt of honor was paid, and Warren Lane’s memory was vindicated.
Gerald felt that the task to which he had consecrated his energies
was accomplished, and he could rest content. He is already rich for a
young man, but he cares little for money compared with his father’s
vindication.
THE END.